#we might be in horse camp but that doesn’t make us any more sane

[daffodil-hill]

(tags by @deovious)

this year was actually our third year saying it! we love stupid things like that. another highlight of this last week was “what the fart” lol

another three bullet points for another week at camp

the lifeguard lowkey bullying us (it's okay we're her favorites! we made her art and she gossiped with us!)

"smokey has worms" "what the fortnite"

riding literally everywhere. like we genuinely only walked to/from the barn for one day

[boffeeceans]

Arthur Morgan and female reader one shot

Word Count: 2189

I could tell Arthur wasn't doing very well these past few weeks. He had just been coughing a bit at first, nothing too bad so i didn't think much of it, but it became worse and worse as the weeks went on. He always acted like nothing was wrong when I asked him if he was okay not knowing how much he worried me, to me he was like a big brother or a father figure even and I didn't want to lose him. I decided that I  was gonna talk to him and basically force him to tell what was going on as soon as he came back to camp.

---

Night came around and Arthur slowly rode into camp, I watched how he struggled to dismount his horse from my spot at the campfire. It hurt me to see him struggle like that. He used to be able to swing his leg over the horses like it was nothing. I watched him walk over to his tent not taking his eyes off the ground, he sat down on his cot with his head in his hands. I had never seen him this broken and it hurt more than anything else.

I took a deep breath, stood up and made my way towards Arthur. "Hey there big guy." Arthur looked up at the sound of my voice, his eyes were glassy and bloodshot, he gave me a weak smile as I sat down next to him. "How are you doing?"

Arthur looked back at the ground. "I'm fine." His voice was weak and breathy, he clearly wasn't fine.

"you're not, I can tell. hell I think everyone can tell." My voice was firm, my eyes never leaving him.

A sigh left him "Don't worry about it, okay?" He looked back at me and gave me another weak smile.

"How the hell could I not worry about it," I raised my voice. "when I can hear you coughing all night? or see you struggle to get on and off you horse?" My voice was brittle and my eyes started to fill with tears. Arthur gave me the softest look, worrying me was the last thing he wanted to do, but not telling me anything was only going to make it worse.

Arthur grabbed my hand and gave it a weak squeeze, he looked me in the eyes before he spoke, "I'm sick, (Y/N)" It felt like someone was squeezing my throat shut when he said that. I knew as much, but hearing it made it all the more real.

My breath was shaking and I was trying my best to hold my tears back. "What is it?" my voice was barely above a whisper.

My heart sank at the next word that came out of his mouth.

"Tuberculosis."

My entire body started shaking. This couldn't be happening, i was going to lose the person I cared most about, the person that could always cheer me up no matter what, my shoulder to cry on. My father figure. I couldn't hold back anymore, the tears started crashing down like waterfalls.

Arthur wrapped his arms around me and let me cry in to his chest. He ran his fingers through my (H/C) hair like he did all those other times when he tried to calm me down, but how could i calm down knowing he was going to die? "I don't want to lose you Arthur." My voice was muffled and broken.

"I know..." I could hear in his voice that it hurt, hurt to speak but also hurt to see me like this. He moved me so he could look me in the eye and wiped the tears from my cheeks. "You're going to be alright."

"How the hell am I going to be alright without you here?" I couldn't live without him, he was the only person left that truly cared about me.

Arthur grabbed my shoulders. "You're not that fragile 12 year old girl that wouldn't leave my side anymore, you're a grown woman and you can take care of yourself now."

I thought back to when I first met Arthur. I had barely touched his satchel when we he turned around and tightly grabbed my wrist. He looked at me like he was going to kill me then and there. I was scared for my life and immediately started crying, but his looked softened and he asked me if i had any family or somewhere to stay. the answer was no, so he took me to camp and has treated me like I was his own kid since then. 10 years has passed and I was gonna lose the only person that really cared about me.

I hugged him tightly, resting my face on his shoulder and once again staining his shirt with my tears. "i just-" I was struggling to talk between the sobs. "I just don't want you to die, I'm scared Arthur."

"I know kid, so am I." His response caught me off guard, he was the guy that would run straight into gunfire without a second thought. He ran his fingers through my hair as I listened to his breathing and slowly started to doze off.

---

A couple weeks have past, the gang was completely falling apart and Arthur's condition kept getting worse. We rode back to camp from the train robbery, John got shot and Dutch had said that they couldn't save him. I wouldn't be surprised if he just left him to die like he did with Arthur, Dutch always said that Arthur was like a son to him. No sane person would leave their son to die like that. my thoughts were cut short by Tilly, she told us that agent Milton and his men took Abigail to Van Horn. Dutch always told me that we never left anyone behind, but that was exactly what he did leaving Tilly, Mrs. Adler, Arthur, jack and me behind. 

Arthur gave Tilly his money. "Take Jack and (Y/N) and you wait at Copperhead Landing for Abigail and Mrs, Adler." 

"No, I'm coming with you guys." I could tell that Arthur didn't have much time left and i wasn't leaving him now.

"(Y/N)-"

I didn't let him finish. "I'm coming with you and there is nothing you can do to stop me." My voice was firm, I was dead set on my decision. 

"Fine then." Arthur turned his attention back to Tilly and Jack and said his goodbyes. He mounted his horse and looked back at Sadie and me. "Mrs. Adler, Ms. (L/N). Ride with me!"

 And so we did. We rode most of the way in silence the only sound being the hooves of the horses hitting the ground.

"I think you should cover us and we'll go in there and get her" Mrs. Adler told Arthur holding the rifle out to him. Arthur gave her a 'Are you kidding me' look. "'Cause you're the better shot I mean."

"That ain't what you mean. I can still fight!" I didn't believe her either but that doesn't mean that I didn't agree.

"I know, Arthur. But, just... do it my way honey. it's for the best" Arthur looked in my direction hoping I would take his side.

"Just listen to her Arthur. Get up in the lighthouse and cover us." 

Arthur thought it over for a second, but eventually grabbed the rifle from Mrs. Adler and took his position up in the lighthouse.

Mrs. Adler and I got in cover and waited for Arthur to make the first shot, bullets went flying by once he did.

We took down the pinkertons one by one until we got to Abigail, Mrs. Adler went in first and I followed shortly after. Two Pinkertons were tying Mrs. Adler up, I was ready to shoot them, but someone grabbed me from behind and put a gun to my head. "Wasn't expecting for you to be here Ms. (L/N)." I could tell it was agent Milton form his voice.

I kept my mouth shut and listened to the gunshots that came closer and closer, hoping that Arthur would arrive soon. Agent Milton also heard it and started moving backwards, out of sight from the door. I once again needed Arthur to save my life, proving that i couldn't live without him.

The gunfire died down. The door got kicked down, I heard two gunshots and bodies falling on the ground. "Okay ladies, let's get out of here." Arthur paused. "Where's (Y/N)?"

Agent Milton pushed me forward back into view, still holding me close to him with a gun against my head. "Right here." He said as he pulled down the hammer. Arthur turned around while coughing. "That's quite a cough."

Arthur's eyes met mine then agent Milton's. "Sure. Tuberculosis. I'll be dead soon... and you with me, Mr. Milton."

"You'll be dead, sure... but I'm gonna be just fine" 

I had to think quick, there had be something i could do.

My knife.

My hand brushed against the handle of my knife. Arthur continued coughing, he bend over and rested his hands on his knees.

"We offered you a deal, Mr. Morgan... you should've taken it"

Arthur saw what I was trying to do, he looked back up and gave me a small nod while saying: "I'm a fool, Mr. Milton."

Agent Milton told Arthur about Micah. Micah, I should've known, but I could worry about that later. I finally got a hold on my knife, I thought quick and stabbed Milton it the leg. He could barely hear his scream because of a bullet flying by my head, I fell to the ground, the ringing in my ear was unbearable. I held my hand to the side of my head and felt that the bullet scraped my ear. My heart started racing when I heard another gunshot, I turned around fearing the worst, but calmed down when I saw Abigail helping Arthur to stand up and a very much dead Agent Milton on the ground. Arthur held his hand out to me, but I got up myself fearing I might bring him down with me if i took his hand.

We left the building and got on our horses, shooting our way through the remaining pinktetons until we were in the clear.

"Hold up a moment." We came to a stop at Arthur's words. He dismounted and started talking to Abigail, He told her about John and she looked about ready to collapse. Abigail and I had our agreements, but it pained me to see her like this. He walked over to me and gestured me to dismounted. I stood in front of him and looked him straight in the eyes, he put his hands on my shoulders.

"You go with them and take good care of yourself, you hear?"

"I'm letting you go back there alone." 

"Not gonna happen."

"But-"

"But nothing, I'm gonna let you get killed out there just because you're stubborn." 

I pulled Arthur into a hug, tears streaming down my cheeks. "I love you, Arthur. I can't go on without you!"

Arthur pressed a kiss on top of my head.  "I love you too, kid, but like I said you can take care of yourself now." I didn't want to let him go, but I had to. Arthur urged all of us back on our horses. "You're good women... good people. The best. Go get that boy, there'll be time for sorrow later." Abigail gave him the key to the chest with all the money, she was a good thief i had to hand it to her. "Go on, get out of here" Arthur gave me one last weak smile and a nod before we rode off.

---

I had no idea how much time had passed. We made it to Copperhead Landing without any trouble, I had convinced the others to not take off immediately, but wait just in case. I was standing alone, my eyes fixated on the road, hoping that Arthur would ride up any second. My hopes were contently bought down though, multiple people rode by, but not one of them was Arthur.

I could hear a horse approaching from the distance, I was ready to be disappointed until the moonlight shone on their hat. That was Arthur's hat no doubt, I could recognize that hat anywhere. I smiled and was about to call out his name when their face came into view.

It was John.

I looked around, hoping that Arthur was riding behind him. He wasn't. Tears started to form in my eyes again. John came to a stop in front if me and dismounted. "Where's Arthur?" John didn't say anything, he just looked to the side. "Tell me john! Just tell me..."

"He didn't make it..."

My whole world came crashing down, I shook my head. "It's not true. tell me you're lying! please..." John wrapped his arm around me in an attempt to calm me down. grabbed his shirt and kept telling him to tell me that it wasn't true until my voice gave out. My knees buckled and collapsed to the ground taking john with me as I sobbed into his shirt, unaware of the others gathering around us.

From that moment on I decided that I was never getting close with anyone ever again.

[jimlingss]

Request for one of my favorite writers~ An apocalypse au with any member of your choice that you think would fit the best! Maybe the mc needs to make a choice to either save the person they love or an important person they hate (up to you really!). A story about the end of the world is always a great medium for angst haha

↳ The Crumbling World of You and I

1.9k words || 99% Angst, 1% Fluff || Apocalypse!AU || Park Jimin

Warning: Mention of suicide

It’s better to pretend that you’re dead. 

Even if you’re not, the game of imitation is the only means of survival. Try not to not be seen by others. Try not to breathe too loudly. Try to not eat too much. Try not to make too much noise. Sometimes you’d like to think that you’d be better off being actually dead. The contemplation of ending this misery is appealing on dark nights cowering in the shadows with your stomach gurgling from starvation. But your stubbornness won’t let you. You’ve made it this far — while there’s no end in sight, all your efforts and every sacrifice would be a waste if you took a bullet to your head. Not yet, at least. You can’t die just yet. You can’t die until you see him die. “There’s no food, but I found this.” He tosses you a box that you catch instinctively. It’s torn and muddy, but you find three bandages inside that your pocket with a hum. “We might starve again tonight.” Your boots are silent against the floor and you grasp your knife tightly as you round the corner, peeking over the counter. When you find nothing there, you release your held breath. “We could head to the forest. Kill a bird.” “They’ll see the smoke from the fire. It’s too risky to go back.” You turn on your heel. “So you think staying in the city is any better, Jimin? Who’s fucking fault is it anyways that they’re looking for us?! I told you that I didn’t trust them, but you didn’t listen.” “What’s done is done.” “We could’ve died.” “Well we didn’t,” he counters. “I’m sorry to say that. So what do you want to do?” There’s a drawn silence and your teeth grits. “There’s a preschool down the street I saw on our way here. There might be something there. If not, we can camp out there. It looked relatively untouched.” Jimin follows closely behind you. “Nothing’s untouched.” “Yeah, well it’s our fucking best bet, so shut your mouth.” The two of you leave through the backdoor of the pharmacy, quiet and slinking down behind fences and bushes. You’re not afraid of the dead as you are of the living. Those that pillage and steal, who serve their self-interest and would happily hold a gun to your skull and enjoy hearing your screams as they’d rip your limbs from your sockets and cook them for you to eat.  There’s a lot of sick fucks left in this world. Those that were sane have turned crazy. That includes you. After so many years of chaos and destruction, your thoughts have turned to dark places. Especially when you have to look at Jimin. And those places have taken permanent residences in your mind. You’re huddled down, about to run over to the next car to shield yourself from the light, but Jimin extends his arm. He holds you back. “What the hell do you think—” “Shush.” He puts a finger to his mouth. Jimin grabs a pebble by his foot and chucks it in the opposite direction. A zombie you didn’t see cranes his neck around and begins to lurch towards the noise. The boy nods to you, and you swallow hard, continuing. It’s not difficult to get down the block, and you take a moment to look at the graffiti on the walls, the last messages of people begging for help. Cars have been abandoned, windows broken, ivy and moss beginning to grow all over the walls. The city is decaying, but it’s not a new sight to you. The pink walls of the preschool have turned into a muddy shade, playground abandoned and filled with the ghost of children. You don’t dwell, easily prying open the barricaded door. The hallway is dark, but with the little light coming in, you’re able to notice the school pictures framed in a row on the wall. They’re of kids gathered together in front of the school before the war, three to five year olds with pink, cherub cheeks and mischievous smiles, grinning and unaware. They’re probably all dead. Jimin notices that you’re staring at the photographs and hesitates. “Are you okay?” “I’m fine,” you answer sharply, turning away. He nods. “I’ll check the staff room then.” You enter a classroom nearby, making sure to throw another pebble that you have in your pocket to the center of the room. When nothing comes crawling out, you take a sigh of relief. The windows are covered with planks, desks fallen over, papers sprawled all over the ground. Contrastingly, the white board has scribbles of flowers and happy faces. The drawings are sloppy to show the inexperience of holding markers.  You walk to the teacher’s desk as you slot your knife onto your belt, shifting to open the drawers. They’re empty, except for a small pair of scissors that you keep in your hands. But as you open the bottom drawer, you find a wooden frame. It’s another picture. This time of a woman and her child — a four year old that reminds you of someone. Someone with rounded eyes and lopsided lips, that held your hand with their small fingers. It’s been a year, but it still hurts like a bitch. You release a staggering exhale, feeling your eyes sting before you put the photo face down where it belongs and close the drawer as if noting happened. There’s the sound of footsteps that follow, but it doesn’t put you on alert. It’s familiar and constant. Jimin appears with a can in his hand. “It’s beans. Past the expiration, but still looks good.” It remains quiet and he reads the expression on your face. “What’s wrong?” “There’s a lot of fucking shit wrong.” You brush past him, but he grabs your wrist. “Well then tell me. We’re a team.” As if his touch burns, you shove his hands off of you. “Let me make this perfectly clear with you, we’re not a fucking team.” “Then what are we?” “I don’t fucking know. It doesn’t even fucking matter, alright? We just so happen to be together.” You step closer to him. “But believe me, the chance I get, I’ll leave you behind. Don’t think for a second that I have your back and that I’ll protect you, Jimin. You’re on your own.” “Is this because of your sister?” Your blood runs cold. “Don’t fucking talk about her.” “You know I didn’t mean to.” He moves to face you again. “I didn’t mean…” “I told you not to fucking talk about it! What don’t you understand?!” You grab the collar of his jacket, shaking him with your trembling fists. Jimin puts his hands over yours, searching your expression desperately and he whispers— “I’m sorry, Y/N.” “Well sorry doesn’t bring her back, does it?!” you scream until blood curdles at the back of your throat. You punch his chest hard with your fists, like beating a dead horse. “You let her die. You left my sister to die. A fucking four year old. I told you to watch her and you knew she couldn’t run with her fucked leg and you left her behind! You cold — hearted — bastard.”  You’re hyperventilating, jaw clenched, knuckles turned white. The fucked world didn’t harden you. It taught you how to savour your anger and sadness, and use it to find the will to live.  “You killed her.” There’s thumping. Growling. Broken feet sprinting. You let Jimin go, stumbling back. One of them comes through the door, maggots on its face, eyes bulging, thrashing at him. Jimin turns around and with his body weight, stabs his knife through its skull. But he’s unable to pull the dull blade back out. It’s stuck in the crevices and he’s shoved down as its arms try to maul his own face.  Jimin kicks it back. “Y/N!” You cup your ears, close your eyes, curl up in the corner. Please. If there’s a god out there — you pray for the first time in a long time — let him die. Jimin grabs a ruler on the ground, right in fingertips’ reach and he slams it at the zombie’s skull, hard enough that it’s stick through. The creature shrieks horrifically, and he takes the chance to tackle it down, getting a grip on the handle of his knife again. He pulls out and stabs once more, blood splattering all over his clothes like it’s just paint.  But another creature follows the noise and comes through the door — the size of a small child sprinting in bloodlust. Jimin’s still on the ground, vulnerable as he finishes off the other. And he’s brought the floor again by the child turned dead, his knife once again stuck in the other one’s brain.  He scrambles, tries to push it off as it crawls up his body. But the zombie’s nails have sunk itself into his jacket. “Y/N!” Jimin screams. And then it’s silent. The zombie stops shrieking. Blood sprays across his cheeks. His eyes are blinded, catching the sunlight that bleeds through the wooden planks of the window and reflects against the scissor’s blades. With both hands, you stab through the back of the child’s skull, again and again. It rolls off of him and you continue to spear the small scissors at its head. Ramming it until your arms are aching. Until the blade feels dull. Piercing until the bones and brain tissue feels like minced meat. “Where’s mom and dad?” — “I want to go home.” — “Y/N, I’m scared. I don’t want to die.” It was your fault. It was your fault. It was your fault.  She was only four years old. She only had you. She was your own family left. And yet, you left her behind — you dared to entrust her to a stranger. She thought you were going to save her and she waited. She waited for you to come back, but you didn’t.  You were the one to leave her behind. Jimin gets up, watching sobs break through your frame. You can hear the child’s shrieks, your sister’s, and you try to kill it. Try to get it to be quiet. Try to make it return to its grave. “Stop. Y/N.” You scream through gritted teeth, only shocked out of it when you feel arms wrap around your body. The bloodied scissors are taken from your grasp and you collapse next to the corpse. Jimin quickly embraces you, something he usually wouldn’t have the audacity to do, but he’s still a warm body that feels nice against your dirty skin. “Why can’t you just die?” The real question is why you can’t let Jimin die. “I’m sorry,” Jimin murmurs. The two of you are bloody and disgusting, but you’ve gotten used to the iron scent. It’s comforting. It means that you killed it, and that you’ve lived. “I hate you,” you tell him, having never felt hatred so deep in your stomach before. “So much.” “I know,” he tries to comfort you and it’s a futile attempt. “When the time comes, I’ll let you kill me.” But despite his promise, you know you wouldn’t feel better even after his death. Maybe Jimin knows that too. No amount of retribution can make you feel better, can make it easier to sleep at night. You can’t let him die. You only have each other now.

[imaginexhobbit]

Con Amore

Author | Imagine | AO3 Link

AN: In case anyone was wondering Con Amore is Italian (aka the language of music) for With Love. Some slight angst ahead, but I hope you enjoy!

     Falling into Middle Earth had been, well…

     Unexpected was probably the understatement of the century. Or Age. If you remembered right, Lord of the Rings lore had always been told regarding different Ages.

     Falling, on the other hand, was probably a bit of an over-exaggeration. It was less a fall and more…random transportation. Not that you were complaining! You’d been taking a walk in the woods around your home town, violin case strapped over your shoulder as you searched for a quiet place to practice. Idyllic bliss had been what you were going for, but then all of a sudden, instead you’d gotten a company of thirteen dwarves, a hobbit, and a wizard all surrounding you, a particularly broody Thorin Oakenshield glaring at your sudden appearance. Honestly, it was probably just a lucky thing he hadn’t decided to kill you for your unexplained presence. Even luckier when Gandalf decided to let you tag along (apparently visitors from another dimension were of interest to wizards. Who would’ve guessed?)

     On one hand, it was actually nice, in a way. Middle Earth was pretty damn idyllic, especially by the time you didn’t have to keep looking over your shoulder in fear of more death glares. But on the other, you really did miss home. You’d been in rehearsals for a musical, and it was never far from your mind now, snippets of songs constantly flitting through your head to the beat of the horses’ hooves.

     “I don’t mean to be rude, but,” Kili appeared at your side, practically out of nowhere. How lost had you gotten in your own head? “What is that you’re singing? I’ve never heard it before.”

     “Come now, lad,” Bofur was suddenly at your other side. Were dwarves normally this stealthy? You never would’ve guessed. “Our songs are different than those of men. I would be surprised if any of our number could recognize their songs.”

     “I’d be surprised, too,” you interrupted, “but, probably not for the same reasons you’re thinking of.” Really, the only songs you could remember from Middle Earth were the one sung by Tom Bombadil. And Pippin’s song. The movies really didn’t do justice to all the song writing in the books. “The thing I’m singing – it’s comes from the same place I do. Not from here. Actually,” you laughed a little, “you might catch me doing this a lot. All of them come from my world.”

     “Oh!” Kili’s eyes brightened, a smile on his lips. “Could you perhaps sing them to us? I’m certain you have an incredible voice.”

     “Yeah…I’m gonna have to take a pass on that. Trust me, my singing voice is passable, at best.” Quite literally. You were decent enough to hold a tune and pass your college singing class (required for your degree) but that was about it. In tune – mostly – but hardly beautiful.

     “Y/N…” Kili whined, dark eyes wide with the most pitiful puppy-dog expression you had ever seen. “Please? Even if, by chance, you are terrible, I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

     “Cause that’s so encouraging to hear.” You shot him a friendly smirk. “How about you wait until we set up camp for the night? I’ll play it on my violin and teach you the words.” You patted your case fondly. “You can tell me if I’m wrong, but don’t you play, too?” It was one of the details you remembered clearly from the Hobbit. For probably obvious reasons.

     “Yes! And so does my brother!” Kili gestured up ahead to where Fili rode near Gandalf, discussing…something. Before turning back to you, head tilted to the side and eyebrows furrowed. “How did you know that?”

     “Little birdie told me.” You grinned and explained further, Kili just as confused as before, if not more so. “I think I heard it from one of the Company. Can’t remember who it was.”

     “Did Uncle tell you?”

     You actually laughed at that. “Pretty sure I’m not on speaking terms with your uncle. Am I even on speaking terms with your brother? I can’t really tell.”

     “I wouldn’t worry about that. Fili likes you, just had a bit too much on his mind, I suppose. In fact,” Kili’s eyes shone again; you were pretty sure that was his default setting, “he can hear you play tonight! He was far better than I ever was. Perhaps you two have more in common than you know.”

     With that somewhat cryptic statement, Kili was off again, heading to check on Bilbo, who was faring arguably worse than even you were. Come nightfall, Kili was back at your side, his older brother in tow, basically demanding that you teach them the song you’d been singing earlier that day. Which was how you ended up surrounded by a group of rowdy dwarves belting out Do You Hear the People Sing? by the light of a campfire as you giggled with your violin hooked beneath your chin. Apparently the dwarves were into musical theatre pieces about the mess that history books called France. To think, a production of Les Mis put on by dwarves. You would pay an arm and a leg (maybe even a kidney) to see that.

     When it came to other music, well, the dwarves’ enthusiasm made up for any lack of skill. By which you meant that Hamilton wasn’t really something in their repertoire. Rapping just wasn’t really a thing in Middle Earth (unsurprisingly) and probably went slightly over their heads. But they tried, and you ended up with quite possibly the most energetic rendition of Yorktown you’d ever heard, which was all you could really ask for. At some point in the evening, the requests began to change, Ori asking if you knew other types of songs, too. After all, Do You Hear the People Sing? and a decent amount of Hamilton were exciting songs, and sunset called for a new kind of music. A few selections out of Into the Woods, Allegiance, and even some Hit List had the Company’s ear for quite a while; eventually, you and Fili randomly held each other’s gaze, him giving you a small smile that had you immediately looking away, Kili’s earlier words in your head. You were being ridiculous. For real, what was wrong with you? The embarrassingly flustered part of your brain was probably what was responsible for eventually choosing to fall back onto Phantom, the upper octaves of some of the melodies getting more than a few impressed stares from the rest of the Company. Which, unsurprisingly, ended with Bofur requesting you teach him the lyrics.

     The completely mortification melted away at that, and you laughed through your response. “Tomorrow, okay? But maybe not the last one. I don’t really think you’ll be able to hit those notes. Unless you know something I don’t?”

     Unfortunately, the universe on the whole seemed to know something you didn’t, or else you wouldn’t have been caught off guard when Thorin approached, clearly not in the mood, ordering the other dwarves to set up camp for the night. While ordering you to stay out of the way. Clear enough he didn’t trust you. Not that you minded too much, wandering off with your violin, listening to the way the notes echoed across the open land. Run Away with Me sounded particularly beautiful in this setting, if sorta nonsensical to the situation. Not like you could really run away without probably getting slaughtered by orcs or mauled by wargs, and who would that even be with? Every person you were close with was worlds away, literally, and you didn’t have the slightest clue how to get back to them. You would run back to them if you could’ve had the chance. Although, even back home, there wasn’t really anyone who would be able to sing that to you, or anyone you could sing that to, either. You’d hoped, but, well, what was really the use now?

     “Y/N?”

     You spun in place, the older of the princes watching you from across the clearing you’d meandered into. “Fili! Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

     He smiled, glancing downward. “You have nothing to apologize for. I’m the one who should be apologizing for forgetting to introduce myself, and for sneaking up on you.”

     “No, no it’s totally fine. I was just lost in my head anyway. I thought Thorin wanted all of you setting up camp?”

     “We have. I was sent to look for you.”

     “You…shit, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done this. I mean, I have a decent sense of direction, but I’d probably never have been able to find my way back alone.”

     “Trust me, it’s perfectly alright.” He signaled for you to follow him back to camp before speaking again as you walked. “You play beautifully. Another song from one of your musicals?”

     “Yeah, yeah, it’s one of my favorites actually. But that’s probably ‘cause I’m not a pianist and had to accompany all the singers who audition with it.” You were rambling. Why were you rambling?

     Thankfully, Fili didn’t comment on it, actually holding a sane conversation, unlike you, apparently. “What’s it about? The song. I’m curious.”

     “Love. And…doing anything for that love. Even when the world doesn’t want you to.”

     Fili hummed slightly, in thought. “Perhaps you could teach it to me tomorrow. After you teach Bofur your other songs, of course.” The last part was said with just a bit of mischievousness, enough to make you laugh.

     “I think you mean after I try. If you’re all woken up by ungodly screeching, blame him, not me. I’m still sure agreeing to that was the worst decision I’ve ever made.”

     The days and few weeks to come passed by surprisingly quietly. No imminent fear of death (well, at least from anywhere other than Thorin), and a bunch of peaceful nights during which you could bond with the Company. There were still occasional requests to hear songs from your world that usually did turn into the dwarf version of campfire sing-alongs, and those always lifted your spirits. Aside from that, you got the chance to actually learn more about each of the dwarves; Peter Jackson and Tolkien both had done most of them an injustice, really.

     Especially Fili.

     Kili hadn’t been exactly right about how much the two of you actually had in common, but after he’d been sent to find you that one night, you did spend much more time together. Usually it was just talking, or sometimes finding a quiet corner and gazing at stars that were different than the ones you knew, dotted across the skies, bright without the lights of big cities. Pretty soon, you both knew more about each other than you’d really figured was possible, considering the whole alternate universe thing. He told you tales of his childhood, growing up in Ered Luin with his mother and uncle, never really understanding their history until he’d come of age. He and Kili had been told stories about dragons and kingdoms and warriors, of course (really, like a lot of the stories you’d heard, too, as a kid) but the dragon that had taken their home was another matter entirely. The weight of being a prince, being responsible for getting their people back home and the consequences should they actually succeed – all when Erebor had never really felt like his home, when a future in which they succeeded never felt like the life he wanted. He did care about the mission, their people, but his first priority would always be the ones he loved; he’d never bring it up to Thorin, but there were plenty of times when he didn’t agree with his uncle about this entire journey.

     Maybe (or obviously) you couldn’t exactly relate to that, but that didn’t end up mattering. Not when you would talk on other nights about all the things running through your own head. How much you missed home, all the things you’d left behind – all the dwarves knew about that. But then also the conflict there now. Because, somehow, you didn’t really want to leave anymore. Home meant everything you knew, but also everything you knew you didn’t really know yet. The future, family, career, relationships – balancing all of those when just really figuring out one seemed impossible enough, but being expected to get it all right just the same. Middle Earth felt like a fairy tale, in comparison, because there weren’t any masks to wear, trying to please all the right people in all the right places. You were just you, and you liked that.

     Among other things that made you wanna stick around. Things you didn’t tell anyone for a million other reasons.

     But then the orc attack happened, bringing you all to Rivendell, and it seemed like things had changed somehow.

     Not that most of the Company really seemed to notice, having too much fun antagonizing the elves. Kili basically demanded that you take your violin out again and accompany their more raucous drinking songs. Eventually, the excitement did wear down, though, pretty much in line with when the elves stopped shooting their group skeptical side-eye glances (apparently the elves giving up on them made things less fun). At that point, most of the Company – save Thorin, Balin, Bilbo, and Gandalf – began to drop off to sleep, and your muscle memory took over, the melody of Story of Tonight being carried out across the hidden valley.

     It seemed weirdly fitting.

     By the time the super-secret meeting with Elrond finished, you stashed away your instrument for a private word with the lord of Rivendell, before finding a secluded balcony and reclining against a pillar, breathing in the night air, not paying much attention to the rest of the world.

     “Y/N?”

     “Fili?” You turned toward your friend, his blue eyes soft and eyebrows furrowed slightly. He wasn’t stupid; he knew something was wrong. “You okay?” Easy deflection.

     “Yes, I’m fine, I just…I realized you were gone, and…” he trailed off, looking away.

     “Well you found me.” You patted the ground at your side. “You’re welcome to join.”

     He did, looking ready to ask you what was wrong. Except… “What was that?”

     You were completely caught off guard. “What?”

     “With your hands. You were doing it just now, before you saw me, and I’ve seen you do it while we were riding, too. The same motions.” He held out his hand, thumb and pinky finger stuck out, gently raising and lowering it.

     “Oh!” The sign language. Sometimes you didn’t even notice it at this point. “It’s…the lyrics to another song, actually. People who can’t hear, they talk with their hands, and there’s a group that does musicals with that language, too. I’m a bit of a fan,” you finished with forced lightness.

     Fili nodded, quiet. “Y/N…I won’t mind if you don’t want to talk about it, but…what’s wrong? You disappeared, and…”

     “No, it’s…it’s fine.” Really, it was. He deserved to know, if you were being honest. “I…talked to Elrond. About…staying here. Just for a while, until I figure out what to do.”

     “What? No…no you can’t.”

     “Fili, you and I both know I’m not a fighter. I’m gonna get myself killed at worst, or just hold you all back at best. Well, that and…” Oh, shit.

     “And what?”

     “You,” came your answer, breathed out and at length. “I just…I can’t.”

     “Why not? I care about you, too, Y/N. I was afraid to tell you, afraid you might not feel the same, but if you do –“

     “No, Fili, that’s not it.”

     “Then what?”

     “It’s…it’s what the song is about. The one you keep seeing me signing. Love that isn’t gonna work ‘cause it just hurts in the end instead.”

     “But you can’t know that.”

     “You’re right, and that’s why I can’t risk it. I’m not from this world, and I still can’t promise what that’s gonna end up meaning.”

     “You said you like it here. I don’t mean to take you from your family, but…”

     “It’s not just that. It’s…” the fact that, if this played out the way you’d read and seen, then he wouldn’t make it out alive. You didn’t know if there was anything you could do about that. “Just trust me. Please.”

     He sighed, but didn’t push. “So then, this might be the last time I see you?”

     “Aside from tomorrow morning, possibly.”

     “Will you show me the song? All of it, just for something to remember you by.”

     You smiled, even though it felt forced. “Sure.” Signing and singing at once, you mirrored the performance you’d seen so many times online, except that there was no slick piano to slide across to deliver that kiss. And maybe that was all for the best, really. Although the shared signs brought the two of you closer, hugging tightly as you trailed out of the chorus, both of your breaths labored.

     “Be safe, okay?”

     “I promise.”

     A whole year passed, and very little seemed to ever change. You spent your days in Rivendell, Elrond always off to chat with either Saruman or Galadriel or a different powerful someone every day. About Sauron, no doubt, not that you could tell them that without raising suspicion. Aside from that – the slowly rising tension over the darkness on the horizon – you wouldn’t have known the days passed at all. The elves couldn’t find any way for you to return to your world (interdimensional travel wasn’t really understood, big surprise there) and you couldn’t decide if that was a good or a bad thing. You did miss your family, your home, everything you’d grown up with. But you’d be lying if you said your mind wasn’t on Fili way too often. Technically, you knew he made it to Erebor without any harm coming to him, but that didn’t exactly make the waiting game any easier. Especially when you knew what you were waiting for, ultimately.

     Maybe it would be better to go home. Not like you wanted to hear that he’d died in person. The movie was bad enough, even with how little importance it actually gave that. The book, too, honestly. He deserved so much better than that, than just…dying and…and…

     You missed him. So damn much.

     By the time the year had passed, you honestly hadn’t even noticed it. You only became aware of it when word came to Rivendell that the battle at Erebor had been won. That word…and a letter for you. The dread of opening that letter sent you back to that secluded balcony you’d last seen him, and your breath caught as you opened the page.

     A letter from him, asking you to come to Erebor, hoping beyond hope that you hadn’t left, because all he wanted was to be able to see you again. Thorin had survived – injured, but ultimately alright – and he’d been hurt too, but not badly. Kili was in his usual high spirits, spending most of his days with a female elf they’d met along the way.

     Somehow, things had changed. You had no clue how that was even possible, but it wasn’t like you cared, packing all your things to see him again and basically demanding that you be given a way to get to Erebor. Maybe this wasn’t destined to turn out badly, and like hell you were about to give that up.

     Someday, you would find a way to get back, to tell your family what had happened, but, given the thundering beat of your heart in your chest as you rode toward Erebor, that wasn’t home anymore. No, home was where you could see your golden prince again, because now? It was time to teach him a happier love song.

AN: If any of you were wondering, the last song I’m referencing is The Word of Your Body (Reprise) from Deaf West's Spring Awakening. It’s honestly my favorite thing ever.

[privateplates4u]

Choosing the 2017 Motor Trend Best Driver’s Car

Patron saint of literary cool Joan Didion—who stalked the steamy, smoggy canyons of Los Angeles in a Daytona Yellow 1969 Corvette Stingray—once said, “Rationality, reasonableness bewilder me.” If only Didion were along for this year’s Best Driver’s Car competition. There is nothing rational or reasonable about holding the keys to $1.9 million worth of the world’s dreamiest sports cars, exotics, grand tourers, and supercars. It’s one thing to parse the packaging of family-friendly compact SUVs. That’s our day job. Best Driver’s Car is about the way a car makes you feel. It’s about the bees in your belly as you clip an apex, the giggles induced by the slingshot launch of barely restrained acceleration, and the sense of satisfaction that comes from the melding of man and machine. Where’s the cupholder for my latte in the McLaren? Can you fit anyone in that back seat of a 911? How much does that Ferrari 488 really cost? Don’t know. Don’t care. Our Highway Patrol–assisted closure of California State Route 198 and subsequent invasion of Mazda Raceway Laguna Seca are the highlights of this event. But the Best Driver’s Car format actually began two weeks prior at Auto Club Speedway, when our testing trio of Kim Reynolds, Chris Walton, and Erick Ayapana took their first crack at our contenders with our battery of standardized instrumented testing. To earn the title of Best Driver’s Car, a vehicle must deliver a balance of usable performance, intuitive handling, and driver-friendly design. The winner should be a vehicle with a multidimensional personality, a car that will delight and reward the enthusiast driver on any road at any time, regardless of weather and traffic conditions. We had quite the field this year, with representation from Italy, Germany, Japan, England, and the V-8 thunder of American freedom. But as the test team crunched the test results, there was no clear leader. A storm was brewing. Highway 198 Revisited A four-hour drive along I-5’s trackless wastes brings us to our hotel in King City, California. Most of the other judges had convoyed up together around noon. But with most of California tucked into bed, associate editor Scott Evans and I made great time in the Aston Martin and Corvette. We rolled into the King City Days Inn a tick past midnight. We were the last to arrive, but our hotel clerk couldn’t have been happier. It isn’t every day you get to meet a YouTube hero, a certain “Mr. Lieberman,” who earlier had given an impromptu car show to our host. His fan club is everywhere. Highway 198 is a magical place, an undulating public two-lane roadway filled with tight switchbacks, sweeping curves, midcorner bumps, long straights, and panoramic views. It’s a gorgeous 4.2-mile stretch of roadway that climbs about 1,000 feet, allowing Motor Trend judges to test each contender at its (and their own) limits. Any shortcomings of either car or driver will be quickly identified on this passage. It is the mill that grinds the grist. Just past daybreak, the ground fog still clearing, we pulled to the side of the road to set up camp, clean cars, and wait for the California Highway Patrol’s black and white Ford Explorers to close the road so we could begin. After a team meeting, we fired up all 86 cylinders and commenced our first runs up the beckoning hills—each of us starting in the familiar car we had driven from L.A. That meant the Chevrolet Corvette Grand Sport, intimidating in looks and sound, for me. The ’Vette is really a sweetheart once set up properly—Driver Mode Select in Sport and the steering wheel set to Tour. In those modes, the throttle response is linear and quick, and the suspension is dialed in to maximize the car’s speed around corners. The steering is light and direct, though you need to make a conscious effort to slow yourself down because turn-in is still very quick. That doesn’t mean there isn’t room for improvement. “Needs 100 extra horsepower! Felt slow!” Jonny shouted after his turn behind the wheel. Also, the crowded seven-speed manual gearbox has rubbery, ropey throws and doesn’t like to be rushed, and the gear ratios felt too tall for the track-oriented Grand Sport. Said executive editor Mark Rechtin: “It seems like there was a big gap between the powerbands in third and fourth gear.” Chevy used to sandbag the Camaro to avoid stepping on the Corvette’s toes, but those days are gone. The Camaro ZL1 1LE is an uncaged race car. As he pulled into our makeshift pit lane, Jonny could be heard screaming, “Yeaaaah!” and clapping his hands. You’d think power would be why the Camaro works so well, but it’s actually grip that’s the key to this muscle car. Those steamroller-wide, superglue-sticky Goodyear tires work hand in hand with the DSSV dampers and the added aero aids to ensure that the Camaro can use each and every one of its 650 horses. “You quickly learn you can trust the tires as you unleash the power,” Detroit editor Alisa Priddle said. Scott added: “There’s a lot of vertical movement in the cabin, but the car never jumps sideways a foot when it hits a midcorner bump; it never moves around laterally at all.” The downside to the Camaro’s grip is its ride quality—basically there is none. “I’ve encountered smoother paint mixers,” guest judge Derek Powell said. “The bouncing was so bad that I found myself reacting to that instead of focusing on the sheer act of driving. The nuclear-waste green Mercedes-AMG GT R  provoked whoops and hollers from all of the drivers. A brutal supercar that rewards fortitude, the AMG needs to be driven flat out in order to properly enjoy it. Dig deep into the 577-hp twin-turbo V-8, and you’re compensated by a violent surge of power and the soundtrack “of a small arms factory exploding behind your hips every time you come off the throttle,” as Jonny put it. “Let it rip,” Alisa added. “The AMG has the power to get unruly, but it holds the road incredibly well.” Although the Mercedes’ nose bites with ferocity—only fighting back once you approach its limits—the rear end wasn’t as well behaved even at sane speeds. “There were several times when the rear would hop side to side or even produce drop-throttle oversteer or on-power oversteer,” Chris said. Unlike the Merc, it’s hard to get into trouble in the Mazda Miata RF. Like any good naturally aspirated engine, the Miata is happy to rev its way to redline, growling sweetly as you stab the clutch and flick the six-speed manual into its next gear. The Miata is not fast, but it rewards a driver’s skill. Entering corners, the Miata RF is surprisingly tail-happy. Mazda rehashed the ragtop’s suspension for 2017, but the RF is unsettled. “It’s always dancing on the top of its springs and edge of its tires,” Scott said. With traction control on, the Mazda’s electronic systems are constantly grabbing at the brakes to keep the Miata’s tail in line—sapping the little power the RF has to give. A better beginner sports car to explore one’s limits might be the Porsche 718 Cayman S. “The chassis is so beautifully balanced, the handling so predictable,” Derek said. “Each movement is connected directly to the brain’s synapses.” Scott agreed, adding: “Steering is among the best here—talkative and light, quick enough but not too much. I wish the Miata handled like this.” The 718’s 350-hp mid-mounted turbo flat-four is a good match for the platform, too–even if some of our judges wish it sounded less like a garbage disposal eating a fork. Alisa silenced those critics: “There are those who miss the sound of the old throaty engine, but the trade-off for a nice, wide powerband is worth it.” There isn’t much room for improvement in the 718, but the Aston Martin DB11 could use some help in the braking department. Its 600-hp V-12 is more than capable of getting its nearly 4,200 pounds of British aluminium going (and quickly at that), but it lacks the brakes or suspension to handle that heft on a twisty road. The DB11 has three suspension settings, but all feel inadequate for spirited performance. Its body control was subpar, the car displaying a tendency to porpoise through corners and over bumps. “It’s a wonderful GT car and is happy at high speeds, as long as the road doesn’t twist too much,” Scott said. Upsides: The V-12 provides epic thrust, and the steering is beautifully weighted, light, and linear—just as a British GT car should be. As the Aston’s counterpoint in the grand touring department, the Lexus LC 500 was a revelation, having done its homework on chassis and suspension tuning. “The fundamentals are all there,” Jonny said. Scott provided further details: “Weight transfer is nicely handled, and the car sits in a turn nicely.” The Lexus provides light, progressive feedback from the wheel, and its four-wheel-steering system helps make the LC feel smaller than it is. The LC’s 5.0-liter V-8 makes a good match for the 10-speed auto, though the gearbox was frustrating for its abundance of overdrive gears. “How can this car have 10 gears and never, ever be in the right one?” Chris asked. “There were at least a dozen rejected downshifts.” You’d expect the lone four-door sedan in our group to be soft, but it’s clear the Alfa Romeo Giulia Quadrifoglio “is a sports car regardless of how many doors it has,” Derek said. The Alfa’s sportiness is baked into its chassis; it’s a car that rewards smooth inputs yet begs to be driven hard. “This might be the best-handling sedan I have driven in 25 years of automotive journalism,” Mark said. “And yes, that includes the W124 and E39.” The 2.9-liter twin-turbo V-6 is laggy down low, but it hits you in the face with a sledgehammer once you’re above 2,000 rpm. Its eight-speed auto rattles off shifts as if it were a dual-clutch transmission. Complaints? A few. The engine, for all its power, doesn’t communicate what it’s doing at redline, making shifting by ear difficult. Some also found the Alfa’s Italian electrics a little buggy, with inconsistent brake-by-wire feel and a seemingly overeager overheat protection mode that would impose a 5,000-rpm rev limiter on the engine and limit torque vectoring at the rear axle. The other Italian in our group, the Ferrari 488 GTB, delivered thrills on an epiphanic level. After piling out of the Ferrari babbling a red-mist rant, Mark calmed down enough to say, “This delivers every teenager’s fantasy when they think of Ferrari.” The Ferrari 488 is one of those rare cars that makes you feel immediately at home despite its exotic appearance. The cabin is open and airy with a driver-focused interface. There are no distractions. Your hands hold a flat-bottomed, carbon-fiber and leather steering wheel, and all the needed controls are a finger’s reach away. Not only does the 488 GTB feel magical merely sitting still, but it’s also glorious to drive. The Ferrari’s small twin-turbocharged engine makes 661 horsepower. “It’s a force of nature, like being picked up by a tornado,” Scott said. The 488 also carries tenacious grip “with a flat attitude and fingertip control while cornering at speeds 10 to 15 mph faster than other vehicles—with the same if not greater confidence heading down 198 as up,” editor-in-chief Ed Loh said. The Achilles’ heel for the Ferrari is its brakes—the carbon ceramics have a slightly wooden feel and squeak like the midnight subway to Coney Island. If on the emotional scale the Ferrari is an embrace from a Victoria’s Secret model, the McLaren 570GT is a polite but firm handshake from gritty Bruce himself. Last year’s winning 570S was a highly rewarding and technical car, but in softening the 570 for grand touring duty, McLaren seemed to scrape away some of the special sauce. “It’s not what I would have expected,” Chris said. “This one feels far more ass-happy and less balanced and composed.” The 570GT feels stuck between sledgehammer and rubber mallet—it no longer drives like a supercar, but it’s not soft enough to drive like a proper GT. The issue is especially apparent if you’ve forgotten to press the “Active” button. Turn on the Active Panel, and dig into the 30-some-odd possible drivetrain configurations, and that sharpens steering and throttle response. But then the handling becomes unpredictable. “There were times when I’d exit a corner and the engine and transmission would be ready for it, and I’d rocket out onto the straight at full boost,” Derek said. “Other times it felt like I caught the car unaware.” When the McLaren is awake, there’s a hint of that 570S magic in its fingertip-light steering, supple ride, and peaky but powerful little engine, but the 570GT’s inconsistency hurt its credibility. If you want instant confidence bordering on immortality, the Porsche 911 Turbo S is your machine. Despite the PDK seven-speed dual-clutch doing the shifting, despite the torque-vectoring all-wheel-drive system constantly shuffling around the twin-turbo flat-six’s 580 hp, and despite the four-wheel steering making the 911 feel smaller than it is, the Porsche makes its driver feel responsible for it all. “Right out of the box, the 911 Turbo S lets you drive as fast as you dare, brake as hard as you can, and turn as much as you wish,” Derek said. “It doesn’t just inspire confidence. It inspires a relationship with the driver.” Still, some, like Jonny, thought the 911 made things too easy. “This thing is weaponized speed,” he said. “It’s maniacally capable but not the most engaging car, let alone 911, I’ve ever driven.” Added Ed: “It is a focused tool intended for one purpose: going very fast. Really hard to find a flaw here; if I’m being really critical, it’s a bit anodyne.” He quickly followed with: “I take it back about it being boring.” Now eight years since it made its debut, the latest Nissan GT-R NISMO still remains very proficient at hauling ass. Defined by what should be physically impossible levels of grip, it’s a car that you chuck into corners, mash the gas, and let the all-wheel-drive system sort things out. Godzilla’s 3.8-liter twin-turbo V-6 is indeed a monster worthy of the name—boost hits strong, and the power keeps coming. “This engine pulls and surges effortlessly,” Erick said. Ed said it was “noticeably sharper, like they ran the GT-R over a Japanese whetstone.” But some things don’t change. The programming on the GT-R’s six-speed dual-clutch is lacking, making manual shifting a must for performance driving. The ride is literally a sore spot. And then there’s the steering—it broke. Nearly every judge had a bizarre issue after hitting a midcorner bump, where the steering wheel would go cockeyed at a 20-degree angle, yet the car would be going straight down the road. Then the steering wheel would correct itself as if nothing had happened. Chris had it happen multiple times, with GT-R chief engineer Hiroshi Tamura riding shotgun. “It was an unusual electro-mechanical anomaly,” Chris said. “Tamura-san was as curious about it as I was.” As Motor Trend en Español editor Miguel Cortina nursed the NISMO back to our makeshift Highway 198 paddock, he handed the keys to Tamura-san and the Nissan team for repairs. The question as we pointed our field north toward Mazda Raceway Laguna Seca was whether the GT-R would be fixed in time for our staff champion racer Randy Pobst’s hot laps around the track. Hot Shoes, Cool Fog Monterey, let alone Mazda Raceway, has its own microclimate. Monterey proper was warm and clear, but the track was cool and foggy. It would be lousy for visibility but great for the turbocharged cars that Randy would run that day. After a quick sighting lap in our long-term Honda Civic to scout the conditions, Randy, Ed, and the test team determined which six cars to run on day one. 718. Corvette. Ferrari. McLaren. Camaro. 911. The assembled teams scrambled off to start prepping the cars. Meanwhile, a local Nissan dealer was attempting to bandage Godzilla. The Cayman was ready first. Randy hopped in, fired up the rumbly little four-pot, and set off for his hot laps. Not long after—1:40.22 to be exact—Randy pulled the ticking 718 into the pit with a huge smile on his face: “People! Marry this car! This is not like the crazy, scary girlfriend who will give you the time of your life and then boil your rabbit in the morning. The Cayman S has such beautiful balance; it’s so good that I felt like I could push it harder and harder.” Not long after, Randy set out in the red, white, and blue Corvette. But when he came back, Randy’s smile had been replaced with a scowl: “It wasn’t until the second timed lap that the tires started to get some temperature, but the car still wanted to power oversteer at throttle tip in. The front is ready to turn full blast, and the rear isn’t. Or the rear is ready to accelerate, and the front’s not too happy.” Going out in the Ferrari 488 GTB seemed to cheer Randy up before he was flagged for breaking Monterey’s punitive noise regulations: “I talked about marrying the Cayman, but this car is your mistress! This car accelerates so quickly that I needed to apex a lot later. The turbos on that Ferrari V-8 give it a big, fat torque curve. The transmission is such a beautiful match for that engine.” He did caution that the brakes did not provide a solid initial bite and that pedal pressure and brake force were not in cahoots. And like that, Randy was off in the McLaren 570GT, choosing to leave the stability control on because it felt fairly easy to break the rear end loose. “Track mode gets into a nice place where it allows some drift,” Randy said. “But it’s controlling the throttle a bit for me, and it’s less satisfying because I’m not the one driving. I could even feel the stability control activating significantly in Turn 1. The McLaren is fast enough that we’re arriving there at over 140 mph, and the car gets light and a bit oversteery.” You’d think the Camaro ZL1 1LE that Randy lapped next would be as oversteery as the Brit, but its claws stuck into the track. “This thing handles so well,” he said. “For a front-engine, rear-drive car with 650 horsepower, the traction was incredible. It put power down extremely well. Stability controls aren’t necessary for the average good driver.” The same rules applied for Randy’s last car of the day, the 911 Turbo S. “I don’t want to get out,” he said. “This car is the one you married, and it’s your mistress. It’s the whole package. I’m so utterly blown away by its capability. It was incredibly rewarding to drive. I was driving that car hard because I could.” As we wound down for the day, the Nissan GT-R arrived—but after a quick spin, Chris and Tamura-san quickly shut it down. Not ready. Nissan PR called for an identical white GT-R NISMO to be shuttled up from L.A. the next morning. It needed to arrive before the track went cold at 5:30 p.m. The Final Countdown As the clock started ticking for the NISMO on day two, we turned our attention to the remaining cars’ hot laps. Or warm laps in the case of the Miata RF. Its lap around its namesake track is not surprisingly the slowest of our 12, but it’s probably one of the most fun. “The MX-5 makes every trip to the grocery store feel like a Grand Prix at 34 mph,” Randy said. “I have to really slow my hands down because it leans over a lot. I like to trail-brake into a corner, and the Miata does not like that. But you can go around screaming at redline all day and not end up in jail.” By comparison, the Mercedes-AMG GT R is a go-directly-to-jail card. “This AMG really has personality in its engine,” Randy said. “It’s satisfying to pull all the way to redline. The fat torque curve makes it easier to drive, too, because it’s more controllable.” But the brakes started exhibiting signs of heat soak by the time Randy was on his final lap. Although the Lexus LC 500 might not spring to mind as a track car, Randy found it to be a delightful experience. But he also had some caution. “When attacking the corners, the Lexus is reluctant to change direction,” he said. “But once it finally comes down the apex and I go back to power, it’s beautiful from then on.” Randy was pleasantly surprised with the other front-engine GT car in our group, the Aston Martin DB11: “My expectations were low. I thought it would be a boat, but I was wrong. Well behaved on the track. Surprisingly good handler. Responsive and well damped in the Sport Plus suspension setting.” But the Aston’s brakes were shot midway through its second hot lap. With still no sign of our missing NISMO, Randy hit the track in the Giulia Quadrifoglio, returning with queries about cornering inconsistency: “I think there are electronic variations with the torque-vectoring differential. When I started at a quick pace, small steering changes really brought the car into the corner. Then when I go flat out, I get a lot of understeer in the middle of the corner under some circumstances but not others. I noticed the brake pedal doing something similar, too. It’s a lot of fun, it’s fast, it’s quick handing, but I’m not a fan of variation.” The Return of Godzilla All available cars having run, there was still no NISMO. Ed called a meeting; the manufacturers who wanted another lap would get one. Porsche wanted the Cayman to run again, citing the fog on day one. Ferrari wanted a run with flushed brake lines and new calipers and pads. The Corvette would run in Sport mode. And why not? The AMG GT R and McLaren 570GT could rerun, too. But if the GT-R showed up, bonus laps would cease. The Cayman, Corvette, McLaren, and Ferrari improved their times—the Italian by nearly a full second, leading some to suspect Ferrari’s mechanics did far more than change the brakes. But the AMG was actually 0.2 second slower. With 45 minutes on the clock, our replacement NISMO rolled into the paddock. The garage buzzed around the NISMO. The test team hooked up our data-logging gear, replaced wheels and tires, torqued lug nuts, and checked pressures. Video mounted and prepped cameras. Sound strapped down microphones. Everyone else stayed the hell out of the way. Some Formula 1 pit crews aren’t this in sync. At 5:15, Randy hopped in the GT-R and blazed a 1:35.01 lap. “The GT-R has been around for a long time,” he said. “It has gotten better and better, and the NISMO is the best version, but after it brakes pretty well once or twice, it starts getting hot. And when you first tip into this thing, it gives you full power and throws the car completely off balance. All-wheel drive or not, it suddenly makes the car run wide.” It was 5:30 on the dot. Time to hash out the winner. Final Tally When you have such a closely contested field, it is almost harder to pick the last-place car than the winner. Someone has to come last even if we really truly love our cellar dweller. And love, love we do, the 12th-place Aston Martin DB11. The DB11 is a great car to drive, but it’s not a good driver’s car. It’s a little too heavy, a little soft. There’s still plenty to like, though. “It’s beautiful inside and out,” Miguel said. It has a killer engine, too. Derek described the sound of the starter as “God Himself wound a pull cord around the flywheel and gave it a wondrous yank.”   Coming in 11th place is a car that was minutes away from earning a DNF: the Nissan GT-R NISMO. Mechanical issues aside, the Nissan’s 11th-place finish is a testament to how competitive this year’s field was. Yeah, it’s a bit heavy and a bit vague through corners, and it isn’t as fast as some of the new kids on the block. “It’s impressive that there are still improvements to be made,” Ed said. Godzilla might be old, but he sure as hell can still breathe fire. Tenth place goes to the Mazda MX-5 Miata RF Club. Miatas are the go-to for entry-level racers, and that ain’t just because of its price point—it’s because it is an exceptionally well-composed sports car with approachable, unintimidating limits. But although the Miata ragtop finished in third a few years back, the package isn’t improved by adding 125 pounds worth of complicated hardtop, which doesn’t accommodate a helmeted driver. Also, Mazda’s suspension tweaks fell out of favor of our judges. Oh how the mighty have fallen. After winning it all with the 570S last year, McLaren comes in ninth place this year. The 570GT is unsure of its place on the road. There are moments of brilliance in the delicacy of its steering, its surgical precision, and its tremendous brake feel, but the 570GT never gives you the confidence to go for more. “Somehow the magic of the 570S didn’t translate into the 570GT,” Chris said. “It’s a brilliant car, but it’s no winner.” Jonny had argued against bringing the Lexus LC 500 because it’s so big and heavy. But chastened, following its respectable eighth-place finish, he said: “Folks, we have an athlete on our hands.” We were all impressed with the Lexus’ sonorous V-8, quick-shifting automatic, and crisp steering feel—even if the LC was too eager to default to understeer at its limit. “Tighten this thing up, cut some weight, add some power, and you’ve got a really good GT car here,” Scott said. It seems that the Chevrolet Corvette is always this close to perfection, and that remains the folly of the seventh-place Corvette Grand Sport Z07. First the good: Its 6.2-liter V-8 is fantastic. It’s got a big, meaty powerband, and although it could probably benefit from an extra 100 horsepower, it’s tremendously rewarding to drive. The Corvette’s biggest issue is its transmission—its gearbox doesn’t like to be rushed, and its gear ratios are ultimately too tall and too widely spaced for performance driving. Sixth place goes to the Alfa Romeo Giulia Quadrifoglio. The Alfa is high strung, but that’s part of the fun—the engine is laggy down low and peaky up high, and the steering is so quick off-center that you’re liable to drive off the road if you so much as sneeze. “LOL-fast steering, short gearing mixed with a turbo-tickled powertrain,” Ed said. This is where things get real close; any of our top five could have justifiably won the whole shebang. Finishing a few points shy of fourth place, the Mercedes-AMG GT R is a helluva car. “The harder you drive this thing, the better it gets,” Erick said. But it needs to be driven at ten-tenths to get the most enjoyment out of it. Wring it out for all it’s worth, and it rewards you with endless grip and lightning-quick shifts. But it isn’t as gratifying at five-tenths as it is flat-out. The Chevrolet Camaro ZL1 1LE’s fourth-place finish was a contentious one. We could agree on power and grip. The fact that all 650 of the Camaro’s horsepower is usable without instantly vaporizing the rear rubber is an engineering feat. But some of us maintained that a car couldn’t win Best Driver’s Car if you didn’t want to drive it every day. “I’ve probably lost all my fillings, and my kidneys are bruised,” Derek lamented, to which Jonny retorted: “Some judges thought the ride was too harsh on their way to Pilates class, but who cares? Finishing fourth is a failure of democracy.” One vote is all that separates our second- and third-place finishers. One. Earning the bronze is the technological tour de force that is the 911 Turbo S. It never seems to run out of grip, power, or brakes. “The 911 Turbo S is so amazingly competent on every level—without having any visible compromises—that it’s easy to forget how high its limits are,” Derek said. “Some might be tempted to punish the Porsche for its unflappable greatness. Big mistake.” Life’s funny. The Porsche 718 Cayman S wasn’t supposed to be here. We didn’t invite it until a last-second dropout had us scrambling to fill a hole in our lineup. Now the 718 Cayman S is tootling away with a silver medal. “There is something really spirited and sweet about this car,” Alisa said. “It’s so well balanced and smooth, so seamless in its power delivery and responsive to the slightest steering input.” Mark agreed: “It’s an exacting corner-carving machine that entices you to push your limits even more.” Erick, who did his best to hog the Cayman most of the week, called it “lovely,” adding that it “felt impossible to do wrong in this car.” Simply put, the 718 is a phenom. Deus ex Machina You’d think a mid-engine supercar would be a one-trick pony, but our 2017 Best Driver’s Car proves that wrong. First place goes to the Ferrari 488 GTB. This Ferrari makes you your best self behind the wheel. It grabs your attention, it focuses you, and it helps you improve. The 488 GTB lets you know when you screw up and pushes and prods you to do better next time around. The Ferrari 488 GTB’s powertrain is an endless assault on your senses, with wave after wave of devastating power. The engine pulls all the way to 8,000 rpm and then, bam, the seven-speed gearbox upshifts, and the engine digs deep for more. The powertrain is happy lugging around, too. “This car is amazing even loafing along I-5,” Mark said. Derek agreed about its cruising manners: “Very little engine noise makes it into the cabin despite it being inches away from the back of my head.” Chassis, steering, and suspension tuning are equally impressive. “The steering is very lively and requires constant attention—this car needs me,” Chris said. The 488 GTB does it all. “The Ferrari fulfills the complete list of needs, from extreme exotic to dauntless touring car,” Mark said. It’s memorable, too. “This is one of those cars, one of those drives, one of those moments that will forever be seared into my synapses as an epic moment,” Chris said, “a true deus ex machina experience in my life.” Joan Didion once described driving in Los Angeles as requiring “a concentration so intense as to seem a kind of narcosis, a rapture-of-the-freeway. The mind goes clean. The rhythm takes over.” The Ferrari 488 GTB is that rapture. It is that rhythm. It is our 2017 Best Driver’s Car. Read more about 2017 Best Driver’s Car contenders: Ferrari 488 GTB Porsche 911 Turbo S Chevrolet Camaro ZL1 1LE Porsche 718 Cayman S Lexus LC 500 Mercedes-AMG GT R Alfa Romeo Giulia Quadrifoglio Chevrolet Corvette Grand Sport Aston Martin DB11 Nissan GT-R NISMO Mazda MX-5 Miata RF McLaren 570GT The post Choosing the 2017 Motor Trend Best Driver’s Car appeared first on Motor Trend.

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[afterspark-podcast]

G1 Episode 20: Transcript

Episode Show Notes

[This can also be found on AO3!]

[Stinger]

O: Fist bump! Oh man, it was great!

[Intro Music]

O: Hello, and welcome to the Afterspark Podcast.  An episode by episode recap of the generation 1 Transformers cartoon.  I'm Owls!

S: And I'm Specs.

O: And today we're gonna be talking about episode number 20: Dinobot Island, part 2. Let's talk about giant robots today, shall we?

S: Sure.

O: Last time on the Transformers, according to the narrator, the Dinobots were exiled to Dinobot Island.

S: According to, to Specs, to me, um, it was summer camp. Is this supposed to tell us something about the Autobot thought process, maybe?

O: Maybe just Optimus’s thought process?

S: Are they supposed to be in timeout until they learn to get- have more finesse?

O: [Laughter] Maybe? I don’t know, but Wheeljack and Ratchet seemed too supportive for me to think they were exiled, okay?

S: Yeah. [drawn out]

O: Anyway, the Decepticons showed up, gathered a whole fuck-ton of energy on the- well-

S: Island.

O: The- Dinobot Island, and dumped the Dinobots into a tar pit.

S: And now, on today's episode, Megatron is glad to be rid of those, “Dull-witted Dinobots.”

O: At least he's honest about his loathing for them.

S: I guess that is the thing, yeah.

O: Just saying, it may not be nicer than the Autobots per se but at least he's honest about it.

S: Yeah. Megatron turns back to the rest of the Decepticons ordering them to “drain the island of its energy,” like, drain it dry for something.

O: Yeah, yeah, like, gather all the energy and Starscream says they, “Might upset the chronological balance of this island!”

S: Yeah, you know, due to its precarious placement in the timestream. What with, you know, the dinosaurs and all that shit.

O: I got to hear Megatron say the phrase “scientific gobbledy-gook” and it was wonderful.

S: Little did we know that Starscream and Soundwave can summon the Energon from lava just by holding a cube over it and, I mean, apparently, all the other Decepticons can do that too.

O: Which we'll see two seconds later because Ramjet and Thrust do the exact same thing by holding the Energon cubes over a crevasse where some steam us coming up.

S: It's weird, man.

O: It is weird.

S: After the Energon is collected, the island begins to quake and the volcano threatens an impending eruption. Starscream responds to this rather cheerfully, wondering if this is the mistake that will make him the Decepticon leader.

O: While still standing on the rim of that active volcano and the impending eruption. Uh maybe move out of the volcano splash zone before you start, you know, planning your future there, buddy.

S: I guess he doesn't have much experience with volcanoes erupting.

O: I guess, yeah.

S: He'd find himself probably inconvenienced by the ash cloud.

O: [Laughter] Indeed.

S: And at the Ark, Ratchet has finished repairing Teletraan I because you- if you remember from last episode, the Dinobots did a bit of a number on it.

O: The Dinobots trashed everything. Of course, that was on accident because they're sweet dumb babies.

S: Mm-hmm.

O: Ratchet thanks Sparkplug for his help and Sparkplug wonders where Spike has wandered off too and, if you'll remember- um, according to the end of last episode he's a dead, buried under building, we’ll mourn his loss.

S: Teletraan I proceeds to pick up a weird signal that Wheeljack interprets as a [singing] time warp.

O: It's just a jump to the left!

S: And a skip to the right!

O: [Laughter]

S: Apparently, Wheeljack is able to pinpoint at the time warp is near the library.

O: Yes, yes- the library, you know, where Spike and Bumblebee were last episode.

S: Mm-hmm. The Autobots leave to investigate.

O: Showing up in the city, the group digs up Spike and Bumblebee, Sideswipe doing the bulk of the work with his piledrivers.

S: He's a good heavy hitter.

O: He is.

S: Spike is fine, Bumblebee apparently protected him with his body.

O: [Coughs, and continues with a (bad) Southern accent] “Say, Mr. Bee, what exactly is your relationship to that boy?” [Laughter]

S: [Laughter-Groaning] The Autobots come face-to-face with the rampaging mammoths and their accompanying, weirdly stylish, barbarians.

O: I think the VA doing the barbarian gibberish might be Ratchet’s voice actor. I cannot substantiate this in the slightest but, I mean, come on we know the guy can do some first-class gibberish. Ironhide then moves to wrangle the mammoths but not before Optimus says what quite possibly, in my opinion, might be the dumbest line in the entire series, “Remember, those creatures are flesh and blood, not unfeeling machines like the Decepticons.”

S: Keep telling yourself that, Optimus. Buddy, pal.

O: Friend of mine. Okay but I just don't understand how anyone can look at any of the Decepticons, but especially fucking Starscream, and say that is an unfeeling machine. He has many feelings, most of them are varying degrees of screech but they're still feelings.

S: Self-entitlement.

O: Self-entitlement! Um, anger- all of the cons are quite good at anger, except maybe Soundwave. Soundwave is about the only one I'm gonna not call you out on even though I'm pretty sure he's got feelings.

S: And a lot of whine thrown in there.

O: Yeah, yeah, yeah- Sideswipe- or not Sideswipe- Starscream is excellent at whine.

S: Sideswipe is very excited to beat up some mammoths because he's not taking what Optimus said into account at all.

O: No no, he’s gonna beat shit up. We also see Huffer lift an entire mammoth over his head and for an Autobot Huffer’s pretty small, so this is pretty funny.

S: Apparently he's just a pint-sized powerhouse.

O: Apparently. Ironhide then confronts the barbarians- shooting glue at them to keep them all in one place.

S: What's this? Continuity? A character using the same ability in more than one episode?

O: No, never!

S: Sunstreaker also gets into the mammoth lifting shenanigans [sighs] but some of the barbarians proceed to court death and start beating on Sunstreaker.

O: He's very vain, if you don't know this already. You do not want to mess with his paint job, he will literally kill you.

S: Yeah, he then points and generates electricity, and the barbarians get shocked and run off.

O: In order to corral the still rampaging mammoths, Optimus calls his trailer into existence and the other Autobots shove a bunch of elephants into his trailer.

S: He's got a lot of junk in that trunk.

O: Oh Lord, not again.

S: I will use that line anytime I can.

O: [Laughter]

S: Ironhide walks on screen holding a mammoth in an incredibly awkward way.

O: Is his face like at it’s butt? [Laughter]

S: It is, unfortunately.

O: It does not look comfortable for anyone involved but, oh nos!! The time warp is closing.

S: I have some concerns about those barbarians that got glued in place but I don't think it's gonna be addressed, um. Sunstreaker and Hound keep the time warp from, you know, closing by shooting at it and keeping it open with these weird octagon things?

O: I don't think- I don’t know what's going on there and, like, at all.

S: Yeah.

O: But immediately because, remember, they have just shoved all those mammoths into Optimus Prime's trailer. They let them out and then herd them through the time warp. So this lasted all of like, what, five fucking seconds?

S: Apparently they needed something to do, but honestly they could have just had not Autobot circus. I don’t know. Ironhide proceeds to direct the mammoths like he's a traffic cop directing traffic.

O: It is amazing.

S: Yeah.

O: Sideswipe herds the barbarians far less gently. With fire.

S: I mean, yeah, how did they get the ones Ironhide glued down? I mean, did they?

O: I think it's obvious they probably didn’t. [Laughter]

S: I have many concerns.

O: Don't worry, back at the Ark, it's the return of Chip!

S: Our boy!

O: Our boy!

S: And some of the new guys introduce themselves because toy lineup.

O: New season.

S: Gotta get those toys, parents.

O: Yep.

S: Beachcomber and Perceptor are, like, the main ones here.

O: That actually say their names, of which I can only say, Percy? Oh thank fucking God, a sane Autobot! There's just so few of those!

S: Yep. And then Teletraan I and Chip proceed to track down two new time warps. The first one is out on the ocean with a pirate ship sailing through to harass a yacht.

O: They want their wenches. Literally.

S: Yeah. “We want your money and your wenches!”

O: Pretty much.

S: And on the second, dumps a group of Old West outlaws near a group of bikers- presumably somewhere in the American Southwest.

O:The outlaws decide to steal the motorcycles because they will be able to escape faster.

S: Well, they call them, “Newfangled mechanical horses.”

O: Yes.

S: And I feel like this is not how people from the Old West should react to seeing motorcycles.

O: We-we both know that the show has many, many historical accuracies, um, and doesn’t know what science is.

S: [Laughter] Inaccuracies.

O: Oh, what did I say?

S: You said accuracies. [Laughter]

O: Oh, I meant inaccuracies.

S: [Laughter] You said, “Many historical accuracies.”

O: NO! No!

S: It makes you sound sarcastic!

O: [Laughter] OK, I guess as long as I sound sarcastic it works well. Um, we then cut to Cliffjumper who's waterskiing in car mode. Again. While being accompanied by two new characters, Seaspray and Tracks.

S: Seaspray can turn into a hovercraft.

O: He's voiced by the guy who does Skeletor and, like, you go on the wiki and it'll say how he did the voice and it, honestly, was hilarious and I was doing it while we were watching the episode because I'm horrible. [Laughter]

S: It was great. And then Tracks, who turns into the hottest Corvette Stingray. Specifically, a flying Corvette Stingray. You know that's one of the features that you were never able to get in a Corvette Stingray. He's one of our favorite characters in the series.

O: And he only shows up in a couple of episodes. Boo!

S: Tracks is also the sexiest Autobot, or at least he thinks he is. He's thinks he’s the sexiest Autobot.

O: You think Sunstreaker is vain? He's got nothing on this guy.

S: Tracks blinds the pirates and frees the yacht from their grappling hooks before helping Seaspray and Cliffjumper push the pirates back towards the time warp.

O: And now that the showdown between the bikers and cowboys.

S: The bikers all get their butts kicked, surprisingly, considering motorcycles are fucking faster than horses.

O: Yes. Some highlights from this fight include: A biker pulling out a chain all threateningly, but then one of the outlaws just jumps off his horse and tackles him. And then an outlaw tries to drive a motorcycle but runs into the one tree in a ten-mile radius and wipes out. [Laughter]

S: I got some really funny photos of this.

O: They're so dumb and wonderful.

S: Yeah, I don't think the cowboy would actually be able to successfully do this because I don't think he'd be able to balance on the fucking motorcycle.

O: I don't think he would either and I think that's supposed to be why he wiped out, but still it was pretty damn funny to watch.

S: Yes, but it would make more sense for the thing to just fall over when he tries to-

O: They wanted him to run into a tree!

S: The Autobots show up or, as an outlaw calls, “And talking horseless carriages! What’s next?”

O: Then our charming, intelligent outlaws get the brilliant idea shooting at the giant, metal men.

S: Prowl disarms them by melting all their guns with his acid pellets and Jazz proceeds to scare them away with loud, modern music.

O: As-as all is right with the world. Red Alert seems to take a leaf from Sideswipe’s book and herds them into the time portal with fire.

S: Yeah, like, he's sort of chastises Inferno who then joins in, shooting at the outlaws with water.

O: I'm rapidly becoming convinced that Red Alert and inferno are dating because Red Alert always seems like he's really clingy with inferno but I kind of like it.

S: I think that's been the common interpretation for a very long time.

O: Probably, I just haven't read any fic on this one.

S: Those two time warps taken care of, we go back to Chip who's been able to figure out that the energy disruptions coming from Dinobot Island are causing all the time disturbances, which kind of makes me wonder if they were reading all of these energy disruptions and just not giving a shit.

O: Possibly. I mean, do-do the Cons just do shit like this on a daily basis? But no, no the dumbest thing here is that the time disturbances are also causing Mount Saint Hillary to become active. AGAIN.

S: I mean- wasn't it, like, active three months ago?

O: Yes. Yes, when, uh, Megatron was trying to pull Cybertron close to Earth, yeah.

S: Yeah, and I mean when the volcano erupted, too, waking everyone up.

O: Yeah, I don’t think this is a dormant volcano. That's my personal opinion at this point.

S: I don’t know, it’s weird. They can't- they can't get their, you know, volcanism or geology, you know, solid. Optimus Prime orders Warpath, Beachcomber, Perceptor, Ironhide, smokescreen, and Trailbreaker to put on jetpacks and go to Dinobot Island in order to restore the timestream.

O: Meanwhile, back on Dinobot Island, Megatron wants more energon.

S: When doesn't he want more? But touche. Starscream tells him they’re fucking shit up and that they need to leave before the island explodes. Megatron, however, does not give a shit about exploding Islands.

O: Uh, Megs, honey, baby, how are you gonna carry all that energon off the island if it's destroyed. It's not like you came here with the ship and I am pretty damn sure you cannot shove all of that giant pyramid of Energon into subspace.

S: Well, between all the Decepticons that they do have, they might be able to at least get a chunk of it.

O: They could get a chunk but if it just explodes, they don't have time and he's not taking this seriously. He's just gonna get none of it!

S: Yeah.

O: Which honestly sounds like a gamble the idiot would do, yes.

S: Yeah.

O: The Dinobots are able to escape their tarry prison rather suddenly when all the tar evaporates, presumably due to all the crazy shit that's happening on Dinobot Island?

S: Can tar even do that? I don’t know.

O: [Laughter]

S: The Dinobots shoot the remnants of the tar off each other with, like, their fire laser breath or whatever and, uh, before turning, you know, returning to their robot modes. They're all super fucking pissed at the Decepticons and proceeded to fly off.

O: Why didn’t you do that the last episode you nimrods?

S: The Autobots arrive, landing near Megatron and his energon pile.

O: Optimus has somehow reached the conclusion that if they remove the energy from this area then the entire galaxy may crumble and unless Percy came up with that theory on the jaunt over here, you're full of shit, sir.

S: [Indistinct] Megatron knocks Optimus on his ass with a well-placed shot from his fusion cannon.

O: Megatron then orders an attack, with Starscream shouting in order to attack from the air causing, you know, the Seekers and the Coneheads to all attack.

S: Yeah. Warpath hits several of the attacking seekers before he and Percy are knocked down.

O: Megatron and Optimus continue to fight, as you do.

S: Megs proceeds to tell Soundwave to, “Prepare to receive,” before turning, you know, transforming into gun mode.

O: Well, is that what we're calling it nowadays?

S: Apparently.

O: [Laughter]

S: Soundwave fires on Optimus with Megs, causing a huge fissure to open up in the ground.

O: Soundwave then drops Megs, who sort of bounces on the ground returning to robot mode. I don't know why I was amused by this, but I was.

S: Eh, it’s just a cute little bounce. Got to make your warlord who's a gun bounce.

O: It's not as cute as the Ravage bounce.

B: [Laughter]

O: Ravage bouncing was adorable!

S: Yeah. Meanwhile, we see the dorkiest transformation we've ever seen. Blitzwing transforms into a tank- he's a triple changer, for the record- however, his head is still visible in the tank mode and it looks super goofy because he's, like, his face-face down.

O: Yeah, like, it's still obviously his face and then he just drives off.

S: Yeah, I think the next time we see him that doesn't look like it's his face.

O: Yeah, like, it looks like it's probably back to more what it looks like on the toy or what he normally looks like in tank mode.

S: Yeah.

O: And then we have Beachcomber, a known pacifist, who is firing at someone off screen with his hand lasers until Blitzwing catches up with him.

S: Now it's time for the showdown between the tank and dune buggy we've all been waiting for, who will win?

O: I don't know! [Laughter] Beachcomber’s able to escape as Warpath and Blitzwing have a throwdown.

S: The Dinobots arrive on scene with Grimlock rallying the actual dinosaurs to fight for them.

O: His name is Grimlock and he speaks for the dinos.

S: The Autobots appear to be losing badly as everyone is pinned to the ground, getting shot at.

O: Megatron, we all know that you're the one shooting Optimus repeatedly in the crotch during this shot.

B: [Laughter]

S: The dinosaurs arrive and they absolutely wrecked the Decepticon’s shit.

O: It's amazing.

S: The triceratops mows Megatron down as the stegosaurus simultaneously takes out Soundwave, Blitzwing, and Starscream.

O: Dirge is then picked up in a t-rex’s mouth and tossed, as the other two Coneheads are trampled on by multiple dinosaurs.

S: Skywarp and Thundercracker are jumped on by another t-rex-looking dino before also being trampled on by multiple dinosaurs.

O: Megatron decides to get the hell out of dodge, because he's gonna survive this even if his army doesn't.

S: I think all the Decepticons are going to have phobias about reptiles.

O: I don't think I blame them.

S: Yeah. The Autobots decide to release the energy back to the island in an effort to restore the time stream. By shooting at the pile of Energon.

O: Didn't we establish this shit's explosive?

S: We did, because it explodes and everything's fine, somehow.

O: Of course!

S: The Dinobots are then allowed to come back home.

O: Gee, thanks, Optimus.

S: And then, for some inexplicable reason, the Dinobots are all wearing jetpacks when they fly off??

O: Keeping shit straight, we don't do that here. And join us next time for episode 21: Traitor. Watch as Cliffjumper repeatedly makes the wrong assumptions about poor Mirage.

S: Poor Mirage.

O: Poor Mirage. And I believe we have some fanfic for today.

S: Yes, we do. We have two fanfiction recommendations for you. The first is, “Really Bad Eggs,” by JazzBot. It's, uh, continuity wise it's set in the G1 cartoon, but it's a crossover with Pirates of the Caribbean or the Caribbean cuz I don't think I pronounce.

O: Pirates of the Caribbean.

S: It's a crossover with Pirates of the Caribbean, specifically the first one, I think.

O: Yeah, I think it- I think it is pretty specifically, it seems like it's the first one.

S: Yeah, because I think it was written before any of the sequels came out.

O: Probably.

S: Uh, so it's rated K. It's Gen, there's no pairings, and our characters here are Bluestreak, Prowl, and Skywarp. And in summary: “Bluestreak, Prowl, and Skywarp are involved in a little teleportation accident. Hmm. Wonder where they ended up?”

O: Where indeed.

S: And our theme here is a deserted island, and also pirates. And it's a one-shot. And our second recommendation is, “Jailbreak,” by eerian_sadow. Its G1 cartoon with influence from Transformers Legends, which we might have mentioned before but it is a short story collection that's officially licensed by Hasbro but none of the stuff in it is canon so it's basically officially licensed fan fiction.

O: Yes.

S: More or less. It's- it's fun and it's cute and I'd recommend it, but you might have some issues getting it because it was only available on the print run.

O: I want to say it's actually easier to find now but I might be wrong.

S: Maybe. I don't know if it was reissued.

O: I'll post a link if I think- if I remember, when we post this.

S: Yeah, thank you. So, it's rated K, its Gen, there's no pairings, and characters here are Paddles, Seaspray, and Swoop. And, for the record, Paddles is a character from Transformers Legends.

O: He is another Dinobot.

S: Yes.

O: But he is, he- he is an aquatic one. That's the word I’m looking for.

S: I could remember what the heck he was but now I don't. [groans]

O: Just know he's an aquatic dinosaur. That's probably the only thing that's truly relevant here.

S: Yeah, and this one didn't actually have a set summary, so the only thing I can really like I came up with for it was, “It's a short cute thing about a rescue.” Because that's what it is. It's less than a thousand words long and I'd recommend it and this- it's nice to see Paddles featured in something.

O: Mm-hmm.

S: And this one is the theme for it was Dinobots, featuring Paddles and Swoop.

O: Good Swoop.

S: Yep and it's a one shot. Thank you, and that just about wraps it up for us today. Remember to check us out on Tumblr or Pillowfort as Afterspark-Podcast for any additional information, show notes, or links we may have mentioned. You can also find us on Facebook and Twitter @Aftersparkpod (all one word) and various other locations by searching for Afterspark Podcast, such as AO3, iTunes, Google Podcasts, Stitcher, and Youtube, just to name a few.

S: Till next time! I'm Specs!

O: And I'm Owls!

S: Toodles!

[Outro Music]

[robertkstone]

Choosing the 2017 Motor Trend Best Driver’s Car

Patron saint of literary cool Joan Didion—who stalked the steamy, smoggy canyons of Los Angeles in a Daytona Yellow 1969 Corvette Stingray—once said, “Rationality, reasonableness bewilder me.”

If only Didion were along for this year’s Best Driver’s Car competition.

There is nothing rational or reasonable about holding the keys to $1.9 million worth of the world’s dreamiest sports cars, exotics, grand tourers, and supercars.

It’s one thing to parse the packaging of family-friendly compact SUVs. That’s our day job. Best Driver’s Car is about the way a car makes you feel. It’s about the bees in your belly as you clip an apex, the giggles induced by the slingshot launch of barely restrained acceleration, and the sense of satisfaction that comes from the melding of man and machine. Where’s the cupholder for my latte in the McLaren? Can you fit anyone in that back seat of a 911? How much does that Ferrari 488 really cost? Don’t know. Don’t care.

Our Highway Patrol–assisted closure of California State Route 198 and subsequent invasion of Mazda Raceway Laguna Seca are the highlights of this event. But the Best Driver’s Car format actually began two weeks prior at Auto Club Speedway, when our testing trio of Kim Reynolds, Chris Walton, and Erick Ayapana took their first crack at our contenders with our battery of standardized instrumented testing.

To earn the title of Best Driver’s Car, a vehicle must deliver a balance of usable performance, intuitive handling, and driver-friendly design. The winner should be a vehicle with a multidimensional personality, a car that will delight and reward the enthusiast driver on any road at any time, regardless of weather and traffic conditions.

We had quite the field this year, with representation from Italy, Germany, Japan, England, and the V-8 thunder of American freedom. But as the test team crunched the test results, there was no clear leader. A storm was brewing.

Highway 198 Revisited

A four-hour drive along I-5’s trackless wastes brings us to our hotel in King City, California. Most of the other judges had convoyed up together around noon. But with most of California tucked into bed, associate editor Scott Evans and I made great time in the Aston Martin and Corvette. We rolled into the King City Days Inn a tick past midnight.

We were the last to arrive, but our hotel clerk couldn’t have been happier. It isn’t every day you get to meet a YouTube hero, a certain “Mr. Lieberman,” who earlier had given an impromptu car show to our host. His fan club is everywhere.

Highway 198 is a magical place, an undulating public two-lane roadway filled with tight switchbacks, sweeping curves, midcorner bumps, long straights, and panoramic views. It’s a gorgeous 4.2-mile stretch of roadway that climbs about 1,000 feet, allowing Motor Trend judges to test each contender at its (and their own) limits. Any shortcomings of either car or driver will be quickly identified on this passage. It is the mill that grinds the grist.

Just past daybreak, the ground fog still clearing, we pulled to the side of the road to set up camp, clean cars, and wait for the California Highway Patrol’s black and white Ford Explorers to close the road so we could begin.

After a team meeting, we fired up all 86 cylinders and commenced our first runs up the beckoning hills—each of us starting in the familiar car we had driven from L.A.

That meant the Chevrolet Corvette Grand Sport, intimidating in looks and sound, for me.

The ’Vette is really a sweetheart once set up properly—Driver Mode Select in Sport and the steering wheel set to Tour. In those modes, the throttle response is linear and quick, and the suspension is dialed in to maximize the car’s speed around corners. The steering is light and direct, though you need to make a conscious effort to slow yourself down because turn-in is still very quick. That doesn’t mean there isn’t room for improvement. “Needs 100 extra horsepower! Felt slow!” Jonny shouted after his turn behind the wheel. Also, the crowded seven-speed manual gearbox has rubbery, ropey throws and doesn’t like to be rushed, and the gear ratios felt too tall for the track-oriented Grand Sport. Said executive editor Mark Rechtin: “It seems like there was a big gap between the powerbands in third and fourth gear.”

Chevy used to sandbag the Camaro to avoid stepping on the Corvette’s toes, but those days are gone. The Camaro ZL1 1LE is an uncaged race car. As he pulled into our makeshift pit lane, Jonny could be heard screaming, “Yeaaaah!” and clapping his hands.

You’d think power would be why the Camaro works so well, but it’s actually grip that’s the key to this muscle car. Those steamroller-wide, superglue-sticky Goodyear tires work hand in hand with the DSSV dampers and the added aero aids to ensure that the Camaro can use each and every one of its 650 horses. “You quickly learn you can trust the tires as you unleash the power,” Detroit editor Alisa Priddle said. Scott added: “There’s a lot of vertical movement in the cabin, but the car never jumps sideways a foot when it hits a midcorner bump; it never moves around laterally at all.”

The downside to the Camaro’s grip is its ride quality—basically there is none. “I’ve encountered smoother paint mixers,” guest judge Derek Powell said. “The bouncing was so bad that I found myself reacting to that instead of focusing on the sheer act of driving.

The nuclear-waste green Mercedes-AMG GT R  provoked whoops and hollers from all of the drivers. A brutal supercar that rewards fortitude, the AMG needs to be driven flat out in order to properly enjoy it. Dig deep into the 577-hp twin-turbo V-8, and you’re compensated by a violent surge of power and the soundtrack “of a small arms factory exploding behind your hips every time you come off the throttle,” as Jonny put it. “Let it rip,” Alisa added. “The AMG has the power to get unruly, but it holds the road incredibly well.”

Although the Mercedes’ nose bites with ferocity—only fighting back once you approach its limits—the rear end wasn’t as well behaved even at sane speeds. “There were several times when the rear would hop side to side or even produce drop-throttle oversteer or on-power oversteer,” Chris said.

Unlike the Merc, it’s hard to get into trouble in the Mazda Miata RF. Like any good naturally aspirated engine, the Miata is happy to rev its way to redline, growling sweetly as you stab the clutch and flick the six-speed manual into its next gear. The Miata is not fast, but it rewards a driver’s skill.

Entering corners, the Miata RF is surprisingly tail-happy. Mazda rehashed the ragtop’s suspension for 2017, but the RF is unsettled. “It’s always dancing on the top of its springs and edge of its tires,” Scott said. With traction control on, the Mazda’s electronic systems are constantly grabbing at the brakes to keep the Miata’s tail in line—sapping the little power the RF has to give.

A better beginner sports car to explore one’s limits might be the Porsche 718 Cayman S. “The chassis is so beautifully balanced, the handling so predictable,” Derek said. “Each movement is connected directly to the brain’s synapses.” Scott agreed, adding: “Steering is among the best here—talkative and light, quick enough but not too much. I wish the Miata handled like this.”

The 718’s 350-hp mid-mounted turbo flat-four is a good match for the platform, too–even if some of our judges wish it sounded less like a garbage disposal eating a fork. Alisa silenced those critics: “There are those who miss the sound of the old throaty engine, but the trade-off for a nice, wide powerband is worth it.”

There isn’t much room for improvement in the 718, but the Aston Martin DB11 could use some help in the braking department. Its 600-hp V-12 is more than capable of getting its nearly 4,200 pounds of British aluminium going (and quickly at that), but it lacks the brakes or suspension to handle that heft on a twisty road.

The DB11 has three suspension settings, but all feel inadequate for spirited performance. Its body control was subpar, the car displaying a tendency to porpoise through corners and over bumps. “It’s a wonderful GT car and is happy at high speeds, as long as the road doesn’t twist too much,” Scott said. Upsides: The V-12 provides epic thrust, and the steering is beautifully weighted, light, and linear—just as a British GT car should be.

As the Aston’s counterpoint in the grand touring department, the Lexus LC 500 was a revelation, having done its homework on chassis and suspension tuning. “The fundamentals are all there,” Jonny said. Scott provided further details: “Weight transfer is nicely handled, and the car sits in a turn nicely.” The Lexus provides light, progressive feedback from the wheel, and its four-wheel-steering system helps make the LC feel smaller than it is.

The LC’s 5.0-liter V-8 makes a good match for the 10-speed auto, though the gearbox was frustrating for its abundance of overdrive gears. “How can this car have 10 gears and never, ever be in the right one?” Chris asked. “There were at least a dozen rejected downshifts.”

You’d expect the lone four-door sedan in our group to be soft, but it’s clear the Alfa Romeo Giulia Quadrifoglio “is a sports car regardless of how many doors it has,” Derek said. The Alfa’s sportiness is baked into its chassis; it’s a car that rewards smooth inputs yet begs to be driven hard. “This might be the best-handling sedan I have driven in 25 years of automotive journalism,” Mark said. “And yes, that includes the W124 and E39.” The 2.9-liter twin-turbo V-6 is laggy down low, but it hits you in the face with a sledgehammer once you’re above 2,000 rpm. Its eight-speed auto rattles off shifts as if it were a dual-clutch transmission.

Complaints? A few. The engine, for all its power, doesn’t communicate what it’s doing at redline, making shifting by ear difficult. Some also found the Alfa’s Italian electrics a little buggy, with inconsistent brake-by-wire feel and a seemingly overeager overheat protection mode that would impose a 5,000-rpm rev limiter on the engine and limit torque vectoring at the rear axle.

The other Italian in our group, the Ferrari 488 GTB, delivered thrills on an epiphanic level.

After piling out of the Ferrari babbling a red-mist rant, Mark calmed down enough to say, “This delivers every teenager’s fantasy when they think of Ferrari.”

The Ferrari 488 is one of those rare cars that makes you feel immediately at home despite its exotic appearance. The cabin is open and airy with a driver-focused interface. There are no distractions. Your hands hold a flat-bottomed, carbon-fiber and leather steering wheel, and all the needed controls are a finger’s reach away.

Not only does the 488 GTB feel magical merely sitting still, but it’s also glorious to drive. The Ferrari’s small twin-turbocharged engine makes 661 horsepower. “It’s a force of nature, like being picked up by a tornado,” Scott said. The 488 also carries tenacious grip “with a flat attitude and fingertip control while cornering at speeds 10 to 15 mph faster than other vehicles—with the same if not greater confidence heading down 198 as up,” editor-in-chief Ed Loh said. The Achilles’ heel for the Ferrari is its brakes—the carbon ceramics have a slightly wooden feel and squeak like the midnight subway to Coney Island.

If on the emotional scale the Ferrari is an embrace from a Victoria’s Secret model, the McLaren 570GT is a polite but firm handshake from gritty Bruce himself. Last year’s winning 570S was a highly rewarding and technical car, but in softening the 570 for grand touring duty, McLaren seemed to scrape away some of the special sauce. “It’s not what I would have expected,” Chris said. “This one feels far more ass-happy and less balanced and composed.” The 570GT feels stuck between sledgehammer and rubber mallet—it no longer drives like a supercar, but it’s not soft enough to drive like a proper GT.

The issue is especially apparent if you’ve forgotten to press the “Active” button. Turn on the Active Panel, and dig into the 30-some-odd possible drivetrain configurations, and that sharpens steering and throttle response. But then the handling becomes unpredictable. “There were times when I’d exit a corner and the engine and transmission would be ready for it, and I’d rocket out onto the straight at full boost,” Derek said. “Other times it felt like I caught the car unaware.” When the McLaren is awake, there’s a hint of that 570S magic in its fingertip-light steering, supple ride, and peaky but powerful little engine, but the 570GT’s inconsistency hurt its credibility.

If you want instant confidence bordering on immortality, the Porsche 911 T from PerformanceJunk WP Feed 3 http://ift.tt/2fimEW0 via IFTTT

[readbookywooks]

AS soon as Ben Gunn saw the colours he came to a halt, stopped me by the arm, and sat down. "Now," said he, "there's your friends, sure enough." "Far more likely it's the mutineers," I answered. "That!" he cried. "Why, in a place like this, where nobody puts in but gen'lemen of fortune, Silver would fly the Jolly Roger, you don't make no doubt of that. No, that's your friends. There's been blows too, and I reckon your friends has had the best of it; and here they are ashore in the old stockade, as was made years and years ago by Flint. Ah, he was the man to have a headpiece, was Flint! Barring rum, his match were never seen. He were afraid of none, not he; on'y Silver - Silver was that genteel." "Well," said I, "that may be so, and so be it; all the more reason that I should hurry on and join my friends." "Nay, mate," returned Ben, "not you. You're a good boy, or I'm mistook; but you're on'y a boy, all told. Now, Ben Gunn is fly. Rum wouldn't bring me there, where you're going - not rum wouldn't, till I see your born gen'leman and gets it on his word of honour. And you won't forget my words; 'A precious sight (that's what you'll say), a precious sight more confidence'-and then nips him. And he pinched me the third time with the same air of cleverness. "And when Ben Gunn is wanted, you know where to find him, Jim. Just wheer you found him today. And him that comes is to have a white thing in his hand, and he's to come alone. Oh! And you'll say this: 'Ben Gunn,' says you, 'has reasons of his own.'" "Well," said I, "I believe I understand. You have something to propose, and you wish to see the squire or the doctor, and you're to be found where I found you. Is that all?" "And when? says you," he added. "Why, from about noon observation to about six bells." "Good," said I, "and now may I go?" "You won't forget?" he inquired anxiously. "Precious sight, and reasons of his own, says you. Reasons of his own; that's the mainstay; as between man and man. Well, then" - still holding me - "I reckon you can go, Jim. And, Jim, if you was to see Silver, you wouldn't go for to sell Ben Gunn? Wild horses wouldn't draw it from you? No, says you. And if them pirates camp ashore, Jim, what would you say but there'd be widders in the morning?" Here he was interrupted by a loud report, and a cannonball came tearing through the trees and pitched in the sand not a hundred yards from where we two were talking. The next moment each of us had taken to his heels in a different direction. For a good hour to come frequent reports shook the island, and balls kept crashing through the woods. I moved from hiding-place to hiding-place, always pursued, or so it seemed to me, by these terrifying missiles. But towards the end of the bombardment, though still I durst not venture in the direction of the stockade, where the balls fell oftenest, I had begun, in a manner, to pluck up my heart again, and after a long detour to the east, crept down among the shore-side trees. The sun had just set, the sea breeze was rustling and tumbling in the woods and ruffling the grey surface of the anchorage; the tide, too, was far out, and great tracts of sand lay uncovered; the air, after the heat of the day, chilled me through my jacket. The HISPANIOLA still lay where she had anchored; but, sure enough, there was the Jolly Roger - the black flag of piracy - flying from her peak. Even as I looked, there came another red flash and another report that sent the echoes clattering, and one more round-shot whistled through the air. It was the last of the cannonade. I lay for some time watching the bustle which succeeded the attack. Men were demolishing something with axes on the beach near the stockade - the poor jolly-boat, I afterwards discovered. Away, near the mouth of the river, a great fire was glowing among the trees, and between that point and the ship one of the gigs kept coming and going, the men, whom I had seen so gloomy, shouting at the oars like children. But there was a sound in their voices which suggested rum. At length I thought I might return towards the stockade. I was pretty far down on the low, sandy spit that encloses the anchorage to the east, and is joined at half-water to Skeleton Island; and now, as I rose to my feet, I saw, some distance further down the spit and rising from among low bushes, an isolated rock, pretty high, and peculiarly white in colour. It occurred to me that this might be the white rock of which Ben Gunn had spoken and that some day or other a boat might be wanted and I should know where to look for one. Then I skirted among the woods until I had regained the rear, or shoreward side, of the stockade, and was soon warmly welcomed by the faithful party. I had soon told my story and began to look about me. The log-house was made of unsquared trunks of pine-roof, walls, and floor. The latter stood in several places as much as a foot or a foot and a half above the surface of the sand. There was a porch at the door, and under this porch the little spring welled up into an artificial basin of a rather odd kind - no other than a great ship's kettle of iron, with the bottom knocked out, and sunk "to her bearings," as the captain said, among the sand. Little had been left besides the framework of the house, but in one corner there was a stone slab laid down by way of hearth and an old rusty iron basket to contain the fire. The slopes of the knoll and all the inside of the stockade had been cleared of timber to build the house, and we could see by the stumps what a fine and lofty grove had been destroyed. Most of the soil had been washed away or buried in drift after the removal of the trees; only where the streamlet ran down from the kettle a thick bed of moss and some ferns and little creeping bushes were still green among the sand. Very close around the stockade - too close for defence, they said - the wood still flourished high and dense, all of fir on the land side, but towards the sea with a large admixture of live-oaks. The cold evening breeze, of which I have spoken, whistled through every chink of the rude building and sprinkled the floor with a continual rain of fine sand. There was sand in our eyes, sand in our teeth, sand in our suppers, sand dancing in the spring at the bottom of the kettle, for all the world like porridge beginning to boil. Our chimney was a square hole in the roof; it was but a little part of the smoke that found its way out, and the rest eddied about the house and kept us coughing and piping the eye. Add to this that Gray, the new man, had his face tied up in a bandage for a cut he had got in breaking away from the mutineers and that poor old Tom Redruth, still unburied, lay along the wall, stiff and stark, under the Union Jack. If we had been allowed to sit idle, we should all have fallen in the blues, but Captain Smollett was never the man for that. All hands were called up before him, and he divided us into watches. The doctor and Gray and I for one; the squire, Hunter, and Joyce upon the other. Tired though we all were, two were sent out for firewood; two more were set to dig a grave for Redruth; the doctor was named cook; I was put sentry at the door; and the captain himself went from one to another, keeping up our spirits and lending a hand wherever it was wanted. From time to time the doctor came to the door for a little air and to rest his eyes, which were almost smoked out of his head, and whenever he did so, he had a word for me. "That man Smollett," he said once, "is a better man than I am. And when I say that it means a deal, Jim." Another time he came and was silent for a while. Then he put his head on one side, and looked at me. "Is this Ben Gunn a man?" he asked. "I do not know, sir," said I. "I am not very sure whether he's sane." "If there's any doubt about the matter, he is," returned the doctor. "A man who has been three years biting his nails on a desert island, Jim, can't expect to appear as sane as you or me. It doesn't lie in human nature. Was it cheese you said he had a fancy for?" "Yes, sir, cheese," I answered. "Well, Jim," says he, "just see the good that comes of being dainty in your food. You've seen my snuff-box, haven't you? And you never saw me take snuff, the reason being that in my snuff-box I carry a piece of Parmesan cheese - a cheese made in Italy, very nutritious. Well, that's for Ben Gunn!" Before supper was eaten we buried old Tom in the sand and stood round him for a while bare-headed in the breeze. A good deal of firewood had been got in, but not enough for the captain's fancy, and he shook his head over it and told us we "must get back to this tomorrow rather livelier." Then, when we had eaten our pork and each had a good stiff glass of brandy grog, the three chiefs got together in a corner to discuss our prospects. It appears they were at their wits' end what to do, the stores being so low that we must have been starved into surrender long before help came. But our best hope, it was decided, was to kill off the buccaneers until they either hauled down their flag or ran away with the HISPANIOLA. From nineteen they were already reduced to fifteen, two others were wounded, and one at least-the man shot beside the gun - severely wounded, if he were not dead. Every time we had a crack at them, we were to take it, saving our own lives, with the extremest care. And besides that, we had two able allies - rum and the climate. As for the first, though we were about half a mile away, we could hear them roaring and singing late into the night; and as for the second, the doctor staked his wig that, camped where they were in the marsh and unprovided with remedies, the half of them would be on their backs before a week. "So," he added, "if we are not all shot down first they'll be glad to be packing in the schooner. It's always a ship, and they can get to buccaneering again, I suppose." "First ship that ever I lost," said Captain Smollett. I was dead tired, as you may fancy; and when I got to sleep, which was not till after a great deal of tossing, I slept like a log of wood. The rest had long been up and had already breakfasted and increased the pile of firewood by about half as much again when I was wakened by a bustle and the sound of voices. "Flag of truce!" I heard someone say; and then, immediately after, with a cry of surprise, "Silver himself!" And at that, up I jumped, and rubbing my eyes, ran to a loophole in the wall.