#Just focus on how precious our vice commander can be

[hanashiz]

Old art of him👀

#Gintama #hijikata toushirou #Hana fanartz #Y'all look he's LAUGHING #Aren't he precious?❤️ #Pls ignore the mess in this art #Just focus on how precious our vice commander can be

[moodyblues93]

Dear LGBTQ Community

I am so incredibly sorry is the only right way to start. This post comes from a lifelong conservative, homeschooled Christian. I never stood on a street corner with a sign that said ugly things about you, and whenever I met someone who was gay (or I suspected they were), I tried very hard to treat them the same as anyone else and not hold them at arm’s length; nevertheless, I made some disparaging remarks within my circle of likeminded people, and I most definitely saw you as being in the wrong. I didn’t hate you- I felt sorry for you, and found myself wistfully thinking how nice it would be if being gay wasn’t a sin, and we could all just get along then…but ultimately I had to shake my head and say, “well, the Bible says it’s a sin, so that’s the end of the debate.”

Having now been out of my (incredibly controlling and right-wing extremist) parents’ house for seven years now, I’ve made a lot of progress in finding what I believe is a proper middle ground for my beliefs and overall worldview. Every New Year’s Day, rather than make a resolution, I have a long talk with the Lord and ask Him to please make me more like Him in the coming year and draw me closer to His heart; I can honestly say that every year this prayer is answered, and I continue to become a more loving and understanding person (though I am far, far from perfect). This year I have become increasingly aware of how ugly a lot of my conservative, supposedly Christian friends behave at their cores, and how so many of the things they claim they’re saying in love sound a lot more akin to hate, pride, and bigotry. By May, I was so disgusted by their words and actions, I came back for a Part 2 to my prayer. I asked God to reveal to me the things in my beliefs that I had accepted as truths that are in fact lies- whether in part or in whole -and vice versa; I asked that He help me be willing to reconsider my stance on any and all issues where I was wrong, and to give me the courage to take the steps necessary to change.

I kid you not: within two weeks of praying that, I was struck out of the blue by a thought I had never dared even entertain in jest in my entire life. Why is being gay a sin? I froze in my tracks and my heart stopped. Having thought this forbidden sentence, my mind raced ahead before I could catch it.

Why should it be a sin?

I understand that the very first couple was a man and a woman, but they HAD to be in order to continue the human race.

If there’s one thing I’ve known from an early age, it’s that God is a God of logic. He has a reason for every commandment/rule, and usually that reason is very self-evident. Adultery is breaking a promise and brings devastating hurt to others and yourself. Stealing is taking something that you have no right to take, and again, you’re harming someone else one way or another. I already know AIDS isn’t the exclusively “gay cancer” televangelists claimed it was in the ‘80s, so I can’t even use that as the reason behind why gay relationships are forbidden.

I stood there in the kitchen, stumped. I could not think of a single actual reason why being gay could be considered a sin, aside from citing “because God said so,” which is not an actual argument; God never lays down arbitrary rules like that, and even the passages about “it is an abomination” suddenly didn’t make sense to me. Okay, but WHY is it an abomination? Circular reasoning didn’t sound like the God I’ve come to know so well over the years. The notion gnawed at me all day, and I could hardly focus on anything else. I prayed almost continually for the next two days on the matter: I asked that if my heart was deceiving me and I was being sucked into the “liberal Christian” mindset after too long away from the influence of a super strict church, that God would save me from my error and show me the why behind this commandment so I wouldn't stray. I also asked in no uncertain terms that if the church is in fact wrong and being gay is NOT a sin that God would give me peace about the whole matter and help me to find good, thorough resources that could dismantle the arguments I’d been supportive of all these years.

None of this stemmed from a guilty conscience needing to find justification for a beloved family member’s lifestyle, or even my own: as far as I know, everyone in my immediate family is hetero, and I myself am ace. Nor did this come from the desire to be as opposite of my strict parents as possible, to rebel and go nuts now that they no longer control my life. I am a person who always wants to know the why and how behind every rule and process, to understand as much about my surroundings as a human can, and to champion the truth in all things- even when that truth makes me uncomfortable.

I spent copious amount of time over several months researching this subject from multiple viewpoints, devouring articles and lectures, and praying for guidance with every new piece of information I uncovered. By the time I’d finished, I was left with a deep conviction that we have been wrong all this time; the arguments the church has used are based on a mix of mistranslations and cultural practices that are irrelevant to our society today (for anyone who wants to know more on this, I cannot recommend enough Walking The Bridgeless Canyon by Kathy Baldock, and God and the Gay Christian by Matthew Vines, because there isn’t room in this post to explain it all. You need to read both books for the full picture).

I’m sorry for how long this post is, but since you don’t know me, I’m trying to convey to you just how significant it is for someone like me to have come to this conclusion. I’ve been a dyed-in-the-wool conservative Christian my entire life; I literally don’t even remember my conversion because of how young I was when I came to faith. For those who are skeptics concerning if homosexuality and the like is a sin, I hope this has prodded at your conscience and will push you to start looking into this for yourself.

But my main purpose of this post is to address you, the LGBTQ community. One person’s apologies, no matter how sincere, cannot begin to make up for or repair the damage done to you. As I was studying all this, the more horrified I became as it hit me that there are countless souls the church turned away because they were told Jesus wasn’t interested in a relationship with them, and consequently, most of those people likely then didn’t want to have anything to do with a Jesus like that. The thought completely broke my heart for you, and all I want to tell you now is that regardless if someone has said to you that you cannot enter the kingdom of Heaven as long as you are a practicing homosexual/bisexual/etc. or anything else along those lines…PLEASE listen to me instead.

I love you. I accept you as you are and I am not going to ask you to change this aspect of your life. Far more importantly, Jesus loves you as you are and He wants to have a relationship with you. If the only thing that’s ever held you back from looking into Christianity is believing your sexuality won’t be accepted, know that there are churches out there who will gladly welcome you (Google ‘open and affirming church near me’).

I’m making an iron promise to you that I’m going to attend my local rally every June from now on; I’m going to hug you and remind you that it’s okay to be who you are without having to fear eternal damnation for it. I can’t say enough how sorry I am for everything that has been said and done to you, all supposedly in the name of love- a love that has been hideously misunderstood and twisted to fit a human agenda of our own making. Please give God another chance. Let Him show you just what love really and truly is, and I guarantee you will find it’s nothing like what you’ve been told.

I know you don’t know me, and you have no reason to believe me, but please take this as a hopeful sign for the future. If I can come to this conclusion, then surely the rest of the world can’t be far behind me. We will make this a safe and accepting place for you, where contemptuous glances and ugly words are no longer slung across the dividing line, because there will no longer be a line- it will no longer be an Us vs. Them, because there will only be Us. Thank you for your persistence through the decades to not deny who you are, because your endurance will help keep the door open for this and future generations to come to a true understanding.

I hope a lot of people see this. I don't know much about how Tumblr works, I'm hardly ever on here, but I sincerely wish for many people to see this and smile by the time they're finished.

Red and orange, yellow and green, blue and purple, black and white, we are precious in His sight.

#lgbtq #lgbt pride #apology #love is love #god is love #true christianity #change the world #can i get an amen

[judgmentofcorruption]

Episode 6–The Sinking Story; Scene 1

Judgment of Corruption, pages 172-181

Yo, long time no see!

…Yes. It has been quite a long time.

Because over fourteen years have passed since then.

.

Gallerian was doing alright.

He had finally managed to reach the top.

This was the birth of USE Dark Star Bureau Director Gallerian Marlon.

.

At the same time as he was inaugurated into the position, he announced the formation of a new special organization within the bureau.

Given the antagonistic relationship that they’d had with the world police that was a concern before, and the people’s dissatisfaction with them—

This organization was created as a result of that.

Its name was “Police Neutrality”—meaning a neutral police force, in essence. It was a name loaded with cynicism towards the World Police. It went by “PN” for short.

The position of its leader was taken by a commissioned officer of the USE allied forces.

Shiro Netsuma…The white-haired woman who had once shot Gallerian, and delivered the killing blow to Loki. She had not retired from her role in the USE united army, and held her post there concurrently with her position as PN’s leader.

Only, Shiro had the weakness of being poor in normal communication. In order to combat this, Hel Jaakko was appointed her vice-commander, as someone who could be well-versed in the internal state of affairs within the Dark Star Bureau.

Part of the Yarera Zusco Conglomerate’s private army was dispatched to make up PN’s forces. They already had a strong relationship with Gallerian, and on top of that had no connection to the World Police at all.

Leading these forces was Feng Li. Having worked for a long time as Gusuma Yarera’s bodyguard, he was not one to be treated like a simple tiger. He was a fine human being, and had a great deal of respect among his unit as their commander.

.

The fact remained that the Freezis Conglomerate was a massively powerful trade organization, but its power had begun to weaken compared to how it had once been.

A war had started in the Republic of Maistia over liberation of its slaves—and thanks to that, the conglomerate had lost their footing in the continent.

One could argue that, now, the position of top organization in the Evillious region had shifted from the Freezises to the Yarera Zusco Conglomerate.

.

Contrary to the enrichment of Gallerian’s professional self, his private life wasn’t especially satisfactory for him.

He made sure that no one could tell from the surface, but his marriage with Mira had completely fallen apart. They hardly ever talked in the house anymore. They had added three more servants to their staff outside of Bruno, and Gallerian’s estate was fairly bustling, but with Gallerian and Mira there was always a cold atmosphere between them.

Gallerian devoted all of that affection to his one daughter, Michelle. It was a level of doting that exceeded words like “spoiling” and “over-fond parent”, to where even Bruno would be amazed at times.

At sixteen years old, Michelle had grown into a beautiful girl, with the same pretty green hair as her mother and the graceful features of her father.

There were times when one of Bruno’s fellow servants, Rennert, would idly grumble, “I shudder to think about what’ll happen when she gets a boyfriend.”

That was because Gallerian was liable to go half-mad no matter what kind of man it was.

Michelle herself always seemed to be worrying about the poor relationship between her parents, but she never let those feelings come forth publicly. For she knew that could be scandalous to her father as the director of the Dark Star Bureau. She was a kind, intelligent girl. And she was slated to enroll in Levin University that upcoming spring.

.

The doorbell rang through Gallerian’s home.

“Just a secooond,” replied Larisa, one of Gallerian’s servants.

But at that moment she was in the middle of roasting a Rollam bird in the oven, so she couldn’t leave to answer the door.

“Could someone get that for me! Katerina! …Wait, I think she’s out shopping. Rennert! Bruno!”

But she received no reply from the other two servants who should have been in the house.

“Good grief. Those men are as unthoughtful as always.”

Just as Larisa was growing more flummoxed, Michelle appeared, cheery as can be.

“I’ll go get the door for you, Larisa.”

“Miss Michelle! …No, it would be a disgrace for a servant to make the young woman of the house do such a thing. Just get Rennert or Bruno to—”

“They both seem busy--Rennert is trimming the grass in the back garden and Bruno is helping Papa with his work in the study—Don’t worry, you just focus on cooking the Rollam bird, ha ha.”

“Thank you kindly, young miss. Well then, with my apologies, I leave it to you.”

The doorbell rang again.

“Got it, I’m coming!”

Michelle lifted up the ends of her skirt and delightedly ran to the foyer.

When she opened the door, she saw a tall, thin man standing there next to a white-haired woman. Both of them were wearing USE army uniforms.

“Hey, Uncle Tony! And you have Miss Shiro with you.”

“My my, as precious as ever, little Michelle.”

Gallerian’s friend Tony Ausdin smiled as he greeted her.

Shiro Netsuma silently bobbed her head, a shy smile on her face.

“Is Gallerian in?”

“Papa’s with Bruno in the study right now…Papa! Uncle Tony and Miss Shiro are here!” Michelle yelled, racing further down the hall.

Tony gave a sarcastic laugh as he watched her go. “…She’s healthy, that one!” Then he glanced over at Shiro, standing beside him. “—You could stand to be a little bit more like that.”

“Um…Uh…Sorry.”

“…Well, whatever.”

The two of them stepped inside and headed for the study.

.

After managing to graduate without much trouble from university, Tony Ausdin enlisted into the USE allied forces as planned.

Though at first he had merely seemed a poor student, he had come to show more alert, active behavior, as though having awakened since gaining some experience in small-scale warfare.

He had offered up great military gains such as in the suppression war against the Asmodean guerillas and in the sixteenth search and destroy operation against the dead soldiers, and was soundly promoted through the ranks as a result of that—

Currently, he had somehow managed to achieve the rank of major general in the USE army.

“That you could achieve such distinction despite your youth…Frankly I could never have imagined it when we were students,” Gallerian said in honest praise of Tony.

“Hey now. Didn’t you say that I was a ‘future general’ and all that nonsense? Was that a lie?”

“Did I? …I must have been trying to spare your feelings back then or something.”

“Ha ha ha—Well, we’ve both moved up in the world, Mister Dark Star Bureau Director.”

Gallerian and Tony had seen each other frequently over the past few years.

There was the fact that they were childhood friends. But more than that--there was a great deal of meaning in a companionship between two people who stood at the core of two components so essential to the USE as law and military. The foundation of PN by Gallerian likely wouldn’t have been possible without Tony’s cooperation.

“By the by…What business do you have here today that Shiro would bring you along for?” Gallerian asked Tony, getting down to business.

“Ah, well there is an issue. We have a favor to ask of you. And given Shiro’s personality she’s not liable to get to the point.”

“…?”

“—It’s ‘Ma’. I…or rather, the USE allied forces, requires her aid now.”

“…”

Upon hearing that name Gallerian’s expression clouded, as well as Bruno’s beside him.

“Ma, huh…As I remember she was a collaborator of mine. Not just me, but for Bruno and Shiro here as well. But nowadays I have no idea where she is or what she’s doing. One day she just up and disappeared. Around the same time as Hanma Baldured went missing.”

Gallerian looked to Shiro. She shook her head, as though to say that she didn’t know either.

“Bruno…What about you? Do you know anything of her whereabouts?”

“No—It’s been fourteen years since she vanished. During that time I have not heard so much as a rumor of her. I don’t even know if she’s still alive…” Bruno replied somewhat uncomfortably.

He had not told Gallerian that he was the one to drive Ma away.

“Sigh…So even you don’t know…”

Tony’s shoulders drooped in disappointment.

“Tony. Why are the USE allied forces searching for Ma?”

“…It’s the ‘dead soldiers’.”

“You mean those corpses that have risen from their graves to attack people. That’s one of the more dangerous occurrences amidst all the changes in the world.”

“They’ve been carrying on their activity for a while now, and each time the army has suppressed them. …But they aren’t decreasing in number. After all is said and done, they were originally human corpses. And as long as humans aren’t immortal, as long as there’s still corpses being made, then the dead soldiers will continue to increase without end.”

Hearing that, Bruno’s brow furrowed.

“You can’t mean…you intend to get the secret of immortality from Ma?”

“If she knows such a secret I would certainly want to ask her, true. But that’s not it. Though they’re called dead soldiers, their battle potential is frankly not all that impressive. Their movements are sluggish, and it’s not all that difficult to fell them just by sustained attacks—Until now.”

“So then…you’re saying that’s no longer the case?”

“We now have ‘dead soldier mutants’. These creatures have begun to appear lately that have different powers from the rest. Some are excessively strong, some are fast like a monkey—Fortunately they are few in number at present, but whenever they show up on the battlefield our casualties go up immediately.”

“That—sounds dangerous.”

“The worst of the lot is a variety that we’ve come to call the ‘Worldeater’. We’ve only seen it once, on the eastern front, but according to reports its height is estimated to be over four meters tall…There are some people saying it was larger than that. At such a height, it’s doubtful that it was ever originally a human being. This one was able to drive back the entire battalion before it could be destroyed.”

“…This sounds like something out of a fairytale.” Gallerian leaned forward with great interest. “Then—how did you repel that one?”

“We didn’t. It returned to wherever it had come from on its own. Under the persuasion of another variety of mutant that’s appeared.”

“Persuasion? But I’d always heard the dead soldiers had no intelligence.”

“That’s right. But this one is different. Its body isn’t all that big, but this dead soldier—it can speak like a person. Among the top brass there’s murmurs that this may in fact be the leader of the dead soldiers…. At any rate, thanks to the existence of these mutants the USE allied forces are stuck in a hard fight. And so we want to borrow Lady Ma’s wisdom, given she distinguished herself during the witch trial reforms.”

Gallerian folded his arms and thought.

“Hmm…It’s true that Ma has a great deal of magical knowledge. But what would she know about dead soldiers?”

“There’s documents that claim that dead soldiers appeared in the Beelzenian Empire centuries ago, around the time of the Retasan Coup. Legends says that the woman named Gumillia who opposed them was actually a sorceress.”

“And so you think Ma could have that power too…I see. That’s a very vague prospect. There was a theory long ago that the dead soldiers were being controlled by magic, but that’s been definitively disproven nowadays—by none other than Ma herself.”

“Even so, there’s still a slight possibility. As we have no other options, we have to pursue that slim chance that it can be done.”

“…Whatever the case may be, you still don’t know where she…”

At that moment, someone knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

The person who entered then was one of the servants, Katerina.

“Ah, Katerina. Have you finished shopping?”

“I have—and at the entrance I met with our mail carrier. Though they weren’t the normal person who brings it over. They gave me a letter for you, Sir.”

Katerina held out a letter for him. Gallerian took it and cut the seal with a pair of scissors.

“This is…” After looking at the contents, Gallerian’s expression turned to one of mute amazement. “Speak of the devil—what excellent timing.”

The letter was from Ma.

<<prev------directory------next>>

[ourladytamara]

Home Chronology

Home Chronology

Tamara - 2020

Content warnings: breathplay/asphyxiation, torture, consensual non-consent, electrocution, and implied murder.

Time’s an odd thing, when you break it down. It’s hard to explain without referencing itself and muddying your own explanation. We run our lives by time. Minutes, hours, days, months, years. And yet, humans are the only beings which crawl upon the Earth’s magnificent surface to burden themselves with time’s passage. Isn’t that strange? For all our worries with deadlines, dates, schedules, and the ever-forward tick of the clock, we have only ourselves to blame. If we decided tomorrow to ignore time entirely, returning to a sunlight-based way of living, we’d be free to live without chronology’s unnecessary burden - and, clearly, be all the better off for it.

But is that entirely true? Without a rigid system of dates and hours, we’d have a far more free-floating society, that’s undeniable - but we’d simply stop measuring time, not the flow of time itself - a delightfully regular thing, as it turns out; each day is only so long, of a generally standard length, and it is also only so long until the Earth, all of its worried little people aboard, goes a full revolution around the Sun.

For the sake of argument, let’s continue to use time. Additionally, for the sake of argument, of course, let’s take a girl. She had a name, but I might’ve forgotten to take it down before shutting her up; I’ll call her Jane Doe, since I imagine the police are soon to follow suit. Five foot four, a hundred and sixty pounds, give or take whatever her hair weighed. Decently curvy, I suppose, a nice body regardless. She’s raven-haired, (what remains of it, anyways) quite shy, kind of the nerdy type - still a virgin, I checked. In another life she might’ve found my study interesting, based on her apparent interest in psychology. Not this one, though - in this life, for the sake of argument, she’s strapped to a chair. Nude, shivering, terrified; the waterboarding was a bit overkill, I will admit, but fun nevertheless.

Impatience is one of my many vices. It’s difficult not to see my time as a precious resource, after all, and with so much to do I knew I had to work with Jane quickly. Getting back to my place from here would be another several hours, only so many of which before her coworkers began to look for her.

I took her from her cheap studio half past two in the morning. With some gentle coaxing I was able to silently wiggle open her half-latched window in only six minutes, and within thirty seconds I had her mouth in my hand and a syringe of propofol in her pretty pink vein. God, her smile - I knew it was more impulse than bliss, a flinch of her facial nerves, but I still wanted so badly to kiss her...

The basement took three hours and sixteen minutes to get ready. Plastic sheets cover every surface, tacked down to prevent even a single drop of fluid spilling. Our little Jane Doe’s chair is in the center of the room, just opposite the curtained-off stairwell. Harsh fluorescent light bathes her skin in burning alabaster - maybe she ought to thank me for the blindfold; they shine eight hours a day in total, but not all at once. Beneath the plastic on the ceiling is a layer of soundproofing foam to absorb what the house itself won’t, the concrete walls and soil will do the rest. By my estimates - and based on how dilated her pretty pupils were - it was probably around four when the propofol started to wear off, consciousness returning to her utterly bound and helpless form in waves of throbbing pain. No time had passed in her mind, yet her body ached with the strain of countless lost hours. She’d stopped measuring - the world hadn’t.

At around 6:30 in the evening I took the black rag around her eyes off and spat in her face. It’s the first thing she’s felt in over two days beyond the sticky crinkle of plastic beneath her bare feet and the cold, stale air. For an instant it’s terrifying - the second after it gets worse, once her eyes start to adjust. By my guess the lights have been off for the past hour and a half, or so; I didn’t notice if she was sleeping or not and I truly didn’t care.

A frantic “What are you doing with me?” formed in her throat before her eyes lept to the IV in her arm, then again to the plastic bag and roll of tape in my hand, silencing what little sound she’s able to choke out around the ball gag. Eyes wide like exhaustion-pink dinner plates, a scream leaked spitlike from the corners of her mouth, coating her hefty breasts in reflective shame. Disappointing. I was hoping it’d be a while before she noticed it, giving me enough time to interrogate her a bit more in her last few hours of relative sanity.

Like I was saying, time’s a funny thing. A lot of things in Jane’s life were about to be really, really funny - to me, at least - and time was possibly chief amongst them. Remember that disconnect between the measurement of time and its true flow I mentioned earlier?

Now we’re getting somewhere.

The clock’s catching up. It’s seven in the evening and she’s been crying for the last half-hour, in and out of lucidity depending on whatever I’ve been rambling to her about. My life, her life, things I want to do to her - I like to monologue for a bit before really getting to know my victims. Our culture kind of trains you to expect a villain monologue, doesn’t it? After all, without it, there’s so little to fill that precious length of time between the wake-up and the torture itself. Something about that humanizing little pause seems necessary if I don’t want to rush, and it gives me an easy outlet to let off some steam. It’s what I do instead of therapy - I guess I do a lot of things I shouldn’t do, instead of therapy.

“And that’s why I needed you to help me test it. Time itself is relative - hm, the bags? Oh, the plastic bags are important, too, but those aren’t as directly related as my relationship with my mother…”

Jane thrashes around in her bondage before giving out limply. Clearly she’s tired of listening; I wrinkle the bag in my hand and snap her focus back to me.

“Hmph. You spend all that time in the dark and yet it’s almost like you’re ready to go back in!” I say, ignoring her whines as I step closer, plastic in hand. Truthfully I was getting bored of my one-sided therapy appointment - I’ve been over it countless times with countless other girls just like Jane, of course, but it often helps to repeat what I already know. “And here I was, about to tell you your plans for the evening! You really make bad company, you know - no wonder nobody’s looking for you yet…”

Tears well up in her eyes, which I quickly lick clean from the source; the saltiness of dehydration gives me an indication of how marinated her misery really is. They’re salty, coppery, almost acidic. I’ll have to adjust her intravenous drip to give her a bit more water, but for now she’s ready.

“How long’s it been?” I ask, my voice a layer of soft buttercream atop knives and needles. “Not in a cosmic sense, this time, I’m asking you literally - how long do you think it’s been since you got here?”

I slide a finger between her lips and gag and separate them just enough to allow her to whisper.

“W-why are you doing this to me?”

I pull it out and strike her across the face with a loud, fiery clap.

“How long has it been since you got here?”

“Ten hours!?”

“Wrong.”

Another slap.

“But that’s good.”

I need a subject as divorced from any concept of the current, measured time as possible. To Jane she may as well be, and have been, here forever, been born here and died here, her fifty-odd year lifespan compressed into the 72-odd hours she’s been in my captivity. Ideally I’d let her stew longer until she’s a bit more unresponsive, but I’m unfortunately short on time.

On average, human beings can go two minutes or so without oxygen. That’s a tiny, precious sliver of time which could separate life from death, a desperate gasp from the cold and twitching grip of Hell. Little enough time to prove my hypothesis, I hope.

See, even though our concept of how long things are - 24-hour days, 7-day weeks, and so on - is pretty much entirely bullshit, I’m curious to see how closely it matches the linear march towards entropy, the metronome of the universe to which everything’s set. If a mind completely divorced from outside bias is able to accurately guess a physically-measured length of time, it means time is innate - and probably a whole lot less bullshit than we might think.

That’s a lot of flowery language to tell you that I’m going to put a plastic bag on this girl’s head until she stops breathing. Basically, I need Jane’s sleep-deprived estimate of her own breath to match as closely as possible to the time on my stopwatch. If I’m right, and time turns out to be bullshit, she should be way off. I’ll give her a margin of twenty seconds or so.

If she’s further off, well, I have some other things in my bag for that, but those’re for later.

I unfurl the staticky, filmy plastic bag, a red ‘THANK YOU’ design emblazoned across the front, adding a tiny pop of color to my black getup and the monochrome walls. Jane starts sobbing again, trying to spit her gag out and succeeding only in covering herself in more slobber. Poor bitch; out of pity I wipe it up before striking her again. Obviously she knows what’s coming, but I have yet to explain myself.

“You need to tell me how long I have you in the bag once I cut you out, okay?” I command, my tone unwaveringly firm. “If you’re close I might even let you go. Try to be as accurate as you can - down to the second, if possible.”

Unfortunately this doesn’t do much to assuage her fears, and so with a tightening cinch of her leather bondage I get to work. Seconds pass, and still she refuses to acknowledge my terms.

“I’m doing this regardless of your agreement, so it’s only better for you if you just listen to me, honey; all I need you to do is keep time.”

She tries to pull against the newly-strengthened leather as I pull the limp plastic bag over her head. Ignoring her movements, I twist the mouth of the bag around her throat and pull it off, tightening the seal and utterly depriving her of air. In my secondary hand I have a stopwatch, now ticking up from zero. One. Two.

“Remember, doll, get as close as you can and I’ll consider letting you go. Alright?”

In response she simply screams futilely into her gag and throws her head back against the chair. It’s like she’s not even trying, I think as I grip her by the shoulder to prevent the worst of her seizing. Fuck, if I knew she’d be so uncooperative I would’ve just gone with the backup girl - currently tied up beneath the floorboards, for easier storage - instead of wasting my time with this one. Fifteen seconds, now, and she’s about to run out of air in the bag.

...hm. A wicked thought crosses my mind as I tie off the bag and leave it, stopwatch still ticking, and reach into my bag of tricks. I was saving this for her second try, of course, but if the bitch is putting up this much of a fight I may as well skip a step. Out comes a vibrator wand, the white shaft wrapped in the power cord; it’s clearly well-used, visibly beaten up in many places that a vibrator really, really has no right to. Beside it, a stun gun, the two-pronged kind you slam into would-be attackers. Fully charged, it emits a high-pitched crackle as I test out the trigger, much to Jane’s onlooking horror.

Data is important, but sometimes reinforcing the hierarchy is a bit more important, and Jane clearly needs some reinforcement. Despite my repeated efforts to persuade her through kindness, she refuses to take to my commands, threatening everything I went through to procure her by giving me an ultimately-disobedient subject. That won’t do; while it pains me to introduce… outside variables into my experiment, it’s a safeguard for my work’s future if I nip this rebellious attitude in the bud.

A buzz as I fire up the twin prongs of the handheld taser, lightly jabbing it into Jane’s tender inner thigh. That seems to work; five seconds of pained sputtering later, she relents, finally nodding to my request.

“Good! I was starting to worry that I’d need your replacement sooner than expected,” I declare, keeping it vague to scare her, “but I’m glad you’ve decided to come around.”

Another jab snaps her back into position. 45 seconds pass, and Jane’s starting to get red in the face. Sweat drips down her chest and cascades off her tits, prompting me to lick it up before it spills onto the less-than-cleanly chair beneath her. At this point I can tell she’s struggling to decide if the taser or the bag is worse; it’s a struggle I can taste in every shallow breath as I work my tongue up her naked body. Zap, again - this time to her lower stomach, just above her crotch. Never at her heart, of course - this is as high as I’ll go, as I have… prior reservations at the morgue with a woman and a chest-bound taser.

Of course, that lucky lady isn’t getting the vibrator. Taser in hand and eye on the stopwatch, I dart to the wall outlet, five seconds passing as I plug the extension cord in. White plastic trails across the dirty concrete as I hurry back to my position above Jane. Click - a different buzzing. I push the white plastic tip into my subject’s clit and hold it there. Seconds pass in a fugue of revulsion and pleasure.

By the first minute she’s entirely cherry-red. Every inch of flesh is a magnesium flare of color in the drab, plasticine basement; wherever I place a finger, flesh or electric steel, lights up bright, bloodless white. She’s like a doll, porcelain cast in the colors of twilight; sometimes you can’t help but wax poetic, can you? A minute and ten, and finally I feel her drop limp in my arms, eyes drooping closed as she runs out of air.

In short seconds I grab the scissors and snip away at the now saliva and tear-soaked plastic film, ripping it where the blades fail to give sufficient air. I snap the stopwatch and glance down at the final time - 0:01:09:29 - before moving to hold her mouth open to breathe.

“And I didn’t even have to snap at you! How nice of you, my darling - I had a feeling you’d come around.” I coo, keeping my voice low to comfort her. “How long do you think that was?”

Jane stares at me with anger in her puffy, red eyes. She’s clearly fixing to spit at me, to scream and writhe with every ounce of adrenaline she has; despite the fire in her, she still remains limp beneath my touch. Beneath her sits a patch of wetness distinct from her tears and slobber. Panting, breathless, she motions to speak.

“45 seconds,” she begins with a gasp, “and… f-fuck, uh, 50 miliseconds...”

A wide smile spreads across my face. I hold the stopwatch in front of her and give a long, intimate look at the extent of her failure. My wrist digs the vibrator in a bit, eager to try and make her cum at the peak of her despair - yet, sadly, she simply slumps in her chair, tears welling in her eyes as she starts to silently sob.

“You do remember what I told you, right? You have to get it as close as possible.”

Jane sobs, convulses, and drops unconscious in the seat before me.

“Disappointing.”

I click the vibrator off and crack my neck.

An inconclusive result, I’m afraid. That’s one of the funny things about time, I suppose; I spend so long preparing for such a quick experiment, only to walk away empty-handed. It’s likely I owe it to my own tainting of the results, I will admit. Impatience is, after all, one of my many vices, but not one nearly as intense as my disdain for insubordination.

Jane and I will try again tomorrow, I think. For now, I’ll let her get a few minutes of rest in, lights still blinking and feet still cold and grimy. She’ll need the rest if I’m to get any further in my experimentation - and maybe, it’ll go a ways to showing her how very, very precious her time is, indeed.

[sky-scribbles]

I’m not sure if this counts as soft but it’s as close as Argentstep gets :’D Retribution spoilers, f!Sidestep x Argent, ~1700 words.

You’ve told yourself a thousand times: you don’t miss being Sidestep.

You don’t. You don’t miss the media, the million eyes trying to get the measure of you. You don’t miss Steel’s glares, the mutters about background checks. You don’t miss your own naivety. How you let your shields slip, and paid the price.

But right now, it’s hard to remember that. Because you’re sitting in the Rangers’ break room waiting for Argent, earphones in, tapping your foot to the music. And there’s no one to dance with you.

Shit. That has to be the most pathetic thought you’ve ever entertained.

All the same, if this were ten years ago, you wouldn’t be leaning against the wall alone. Neither would you have your earphones in. You’d be blasting the music to the whole room, ignoring Steel’s complaints. And then you’d catch someone’s eye, grin, and lunge forward to drag them to their feet. Dance.

Usually it was Themmy, laughing and making up the moves as she went along. Ortega was more practiced – all those parties, all those girls on his arm – but with you, he’d let himself trip on his own feet, grin when you laughed at him. Sometimes Sentinel, and he’d spend most of the dance in the air.

You’re not sure how you did it. Snatch up your friends and be dumb with them. Dance like you had nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to fear.

You guess you were happy.

You wrench your phone from your pocket and stab the skip button. You need a new song, once with a rhythm you can dance to, because why the hell shouldn’t you? You shouldn’t be like this, numbly tapping a foot to music no one else can hear. You have no one to dance with because you were an idiot, because you let your guard down, let those bastards at the Farm tie their strings around you. But you’re stronger now. You’ve cut your strings. You won’t dance to their tune anymore, just to yours.

And you’ll dance alone if you must.

According to the receptionist, Ortega and Herald are out on duty. You came here to talk to Argent about the regenerator, but she won’t be back for a while. Steel won’t bother to visit you. No one will see. You can relax. Let go.

Think of nothing but the pulse of the music and the way your body flows along with it. Feet firm when they hit the ground and light when they leave it. Nothing exists beyond the edges of your skin. No strings. No walls around you. Just music and breath and movement.

The song ends, and you finish your dance with one last spin. Switch your mind back on, emerge from your body. And then your senses reactivate.

You’re not alone anymore.

A familiar presence is lingering in the doorway and at the edge of your mind. The cool of liquid metal and the warmth of confident strength. A hint of something dizzying, the vaguest feel of something huge and magnificent lurking inside a human shape.

You should be embarrassed. But you’d be lying if you said you don’t get a kick out of it, knowing that Argent has seen how perfectly you can control your body. She knows your power and precision already from her fights with Aftershock, but this is something more. This is grace.

‘Enjoying the show?’ You don’t look at her, keeping your eyes on your phone as you pause your playlist.

A pause. Then she steps inside and lets the door slam shut. ‘What are you doing?’

Ignore the challenge. Issue your own. ‘How long were you spying on me?’

‘Long enough to get a good look. I should have known this would be your kind of thing. You always did enjoy our dances.’

You hop up to sit on the nearest table, facing her. ‘Well, it’s the same thing, isn’t it? Fighting. Dancing. It’s about knowing your body. Controlling where it moves, and how your dance partner responds.’

‘Dance partner?’ The words are a snort. ‘Is that what you call it?’

‘Why shouldn’t I? It’s what we’ve been doing. When we fight, you watch how I move, you learn how my body works. You move with the momentum. You try to be the one in control. I do the same. Whoever’s best at it is the one who ends up leading the dance.’

Her eyes narrow, and you prepare for a barb, a challenge. Then you look closer, and you notice the looseness in her stance, the ease of her grin. That look on her face isn’t anger or suspicion. It’s interest. Curiosity.

Something inside you jolts. Lady Argent is standing there, looking nearer to casual than you’ve ever seen her, and she’s curious about you. Not about Aftershock, who’s a threat, who’s strong, who holds the strings of the city. You. Iris Malory, the washed-up vigilante who couldn’t even keep herself safe, who runs on anger because fury is the only way to stay focused, to avoid thinking about –

You shove that thought away, and focus on Argent. On her words. Ximena’s words. ‘Dancing makes you feel in control?’ she's saying. ‘That's why you do it?’

‘That’s why I do anything.’

Which is ironic, because you weren’t in control of those words. And now Argent’s frowning at you, like she’s expecting an explanation. And you don’t know how to do this, you don’t know how to share, how to explain yourself, expose yourself. You definitely can’t tell her that you can never have cold, hungry claws in your head again, that you can never be strapped to a table or locked in a cell –

Don’t think about that. Focus on her.

‘When I’m dancing, I’m taking my… my energy. Giving it precision. Nothing happens in my body that I’m not in command of. What I’m doing as Aftershock…’ You shrug. ‘It’s the same thing. Take what’s inside me and give it focus, make the city respond to me. And they can meet that energy, they can try to redirect it, but in the end… all they’re doing is reacting to it. To me. I need that.’

Her jaw goes rigid. ‘Controlling people?’

And that’s a sore spot for her, one you made yourself. Maybe this is why you’re being honest. You owe her that much. Debts are acceptable when they’re the natural result of actions you planned and chose.

‘I’m just making sure no one owns me.’ You meet her gaze; metallic, alien. Beautiful. ‘Making my life mine. Not a response to anyone else, or to… circumstances outside my control.’ And then, because you’ve been reckless enough already, ‘You get that, don’t you? Otherwise you wouldn’t be after that regenerator. You’re taking yourself back.’

You wait for her to snap that you don’t know anything about her, that you should stay out of her business, that her reasons are her own. But instead, she jerks her head. Not quite a nod, but something close to it.

A short pause. A silence that’s almost comfortable. Then she smirks again, gesturing towards your torn lip. ‘And you think you’re the one leading this dance?’

That’s the question, isn’t it? You made the first move when you exploded into the world as Aftershock. The next was hers, a kiss to your helmet, and you answered with a hand through her arm at the auction, your helmet lifted from your face. Then she took the next step. Gave you her name.

(Ximena. You don’t know why that part means so much to you, but it does. It feels unearned. Gifted. Precious.)

Then another move from her, mouths crushed together, teeth on your lip. And now it feels like it’s your turn, and maybe you’ll regret this, but you swing yourself down from the table, unplug the headphones from your phone, and set the music playing. Hold out your hand. ‘Want to find out?’

She stares, of course. So you grin, making it clear that this is a challenge. You know she won’t back down.

Her hand closes around yours, pulling you in rather than letting you guide her, but you’ve done this a thousand times. Redirect her force. Make sure you’re the one who ends up holding her, pulling her into the first few steps.

‘Stop focusing on where your feet need to go,’ you tell her, as she nearly stumbles. ‘Concentrate on what I’m doing, then respond. Then make me respond to you.’ You twist your head to flash a grin at her. ‘You know how this works.’

‘I do.’ Almost a growl, but there’s something intimate about it, the way you’re close enough to feel the word form in her chest.

A few more steps. Bodies matching the beat. Silver skin against your own. The music plays, and suddenly this isn’t a contest anymore, isn’t a fight for control. It’s a joint effort. Each of you catching the other’s energy, holding onto it, then returning it. Give and take, watch and respond.

Putting your weight into her hands, letting her guide you for a few seconds at a time. And you don’t feel controlled or exposed or owned. You feel like you’re in balance. The two of you, figuring out a rhythm together.

Of course, it ends with her throwing her weight against you. And you answer it, like you have a million times before. Sense where her energy is going, choose to let your body move with it, a few measured steps back. Let her press you against the wall, hands like vices around your upper arms. Dive in to meet the silver lips as they close hard over your own.

And it’s all right. It’s safe. Not a word you ever thought you’d apply to Lady Argent, but this is a woman who doesn’t believe in shackles or strings. Maybe being chained hurts her as much as it always hurt you. And something ferocious is pulsing in your gut now, a conviction, a certainty that if there are strings on her you’ll shred them with your own hands. You’ll make that damned regenerator work if it’s the last thing you do. Put her life back in balance, end her war for control over her own life and flesh.

After all, she’s doing the same for you.

You’re not dancing alone anymore.

#fallen hero #fallen hero: retribution #lady argent #f!sidestep #argentstep #oc: iris malory #otp: let's dance #a moment later they turn around to see steel staring from the door

[bloodsworn-marshal]

The Investigation

The Seventh Umbral Calamity.

 An eye opener for all. Each nation afflicted by the aftereffects of Bahamut’s brief bout of freedom in some shape or form. The land had been scarred by the dragon’s prison, broken up into shards—countless souls lost in the tragedy that was Carteneau and what little remained of the grounds. Ul’dah arguably suffered the most, as they were both invaded by monsters and imperials alike… as well as rife with riots in its wake. What peace they had was all but lost.

 And yet, the Sultana herself would stay the people’s fears and put a swift end to those riots. With only the help of seven willing, they busied themselves onto the streets and calmed the masses. Ended their turmoil for the time being and brought an end to a bloody night. Thus would they put themselves on the right track for recovery and restoration.

 During the chaos of the Calamity however, a few particular faces put on display their true colors. Such as the High Priest of the Order of Nald’thal and current Master of the Thaumaturgy Guild, Mumuepo. He who cared not for the people of his nation by locking them out of the Ossuary and threatening to bring harm to any who neared.

 Under the Sultana’s command and permission… would Pipin Tarupin carry out an investigation to rid themselves of Mumuepo after seeing as much. And where better to start than by speaking with the other members of the thaumaturgy guild who happened to stand side by side with the Sultana on that day?

“Cocobuki Lolobuki.”

“Vice Marshal. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

 It was at this time that Pipin had called Cocobuki into an office of privacy where they might speak freely. Plenty of space to go around as the troops had yet to return homeward. The two had never exchanged words up to this point beyond working together during the riots, only now getting the opportunity to speak casually.

 “I presume you already have any idea as to why I called you here.” Pipin went on to say, regardless of how obvious the reason. “That I would have your account of High Priest Mumuepo and what you know of him… as well as cooperation, should you be willing.”

 Cocobuki already had a sneaky suspicion for Pipin’s approach of course. But was by all means prepared to lend his assistance. Beneath his bandages, it was difficult to make out what expressions might lie beneath. Though eventually he offered an understanding nod.

 “By all means. You know well my merits and those of my brothers. More than glad are we to further throw our lot by the Sultana’s side… and long have we known that our High Priest is not all that those outside the Ossuary think him to be. His actions during the riots told you as much.”

 “That it did.” Pipin agreed. “And for that, I will go the lengths to find out what exactly he hides behind his shelves that are so precious to his person.”

 Cocobuki was surprisingly very cooperative indeed. For he went about detailing the strange occurrences that not only he and his brothers have witnessed as of late, but also what many other servants of the Ossuary have noted to him. The man had begun to take on some lucrative orders in the guise that it would help fund the order in procurement of much sought after texts. He was spending more time keeping himself locked to his studies, or meeting with influential leaders like the Monetarists in secret. As to the contents of these meetings and just how much the High Priest was pocketing, one could only guess.

 Most importantly… Mumuepo had yet to take notice that he was being investigated for any wrongdoing, so time was of the essence that they took advantage. Having expected someone or another would have approached eventually, Cocobuki had already surmised a little evidence in advance… but could only go so far without official help for further digging around.

 “If we are to find what you seek, it will be in Mumuepo’s private studies.” Cocobuki crossed his arms, lightly tapping his fingers against them. “I will be able to procure a short amount of time for us to investigate, and only that. The High Priest will be called away on the morrow with Prelate Yayake in tow… there in lies our opportunity.”

 “A small window of time.” Pipin mused, nodding along. “I have an idea as to what I’m looking for, but with your person present I will be able to investigate with swift precision.”

 After all… he could only assume a thaumaturge’s study to be swarmed with countless books. And if Cocobuki was there to narrow down the possibilities, then by all means.

 “If either Mumuepo or the Prelate return early, I will have my brothers keeping tabs on their whereabouts. We will know full well in advance when to make our leave.” Cocobuki went on to add. “By then… one hopes you will find what you’re searching for.”

 “I’ll find any and all evidence. That I can promise you.” Pipin assured the other in a determined tone. “Tomorrow then. Call me the moment they take their leave and I will be on my way.”

…

…

…

 Such words were typically easier said than done. But regardless of Cocobuki’s expected call or not, Pipin prepared himself early. Disguising himself in a dark cowl much like any other thaumaturge’s where only the tiniest sliver of his face was easy to see upon close inspection. And beneath his robe was a bag for him to stash whatever he may find.

 The moment the call came, Pipin was swift to move out and make way for the Ossuary. Very quietly entering with a book in hand so as not to draw any eyes as he hurried towards the back area. Occasionally he did catch a cursory glance or two, but most assumed him to be a simple adventurer or another.

 Before long he found Cocobuki, who merely waved him over wordlessly. Pipin joined beside him as the thaumaturge led him down numerous narrow corridors. Many rooms were labeled with terms that had to do with the magics, each filled to the brim with books and tables for study work. The deeper they went in, the more forbidden and locked away the rooms seemed to be.

 Cocobuki came to an abrupt stop eventually before yet another locked door. Silently staring at it for a few seconds before turning to Pipin, pulling his sleeve down to reveal a key in hand… and a smug smile besides.

 “Hopefully I’ll have the pleasure of returning this before any take notice. Only one extra key of this after all resides in Yayake’s desk… which means we must finish before their return.”

Pipin grinned at the other before nodding dully.

“Lets make sure this isn’t all for naught then.”

 Once the two had entered and closed the door behind themselves, they had set to work. Cocobuki’s eyes were immediately on the bookshelves as well as any books on the floor that might catch his attention, on the lookout for loose bits of paper or another. Pipin had gone for the desk where he hoped to find documents or another, sifting through the drawers and the folders already present. Mumuepo was a messy man when it came to his files, but his books however were in the neatest of orders… Those he was currently in the process of reading stacked on top of one another.

 “He certainly does respect his work, I take it.” Pipin noted the books briefly, still in the midst of his search.

 “Aye. If there’s one thing that is true of the High Priest, is that he values knowledge of our magics before anything else. Before any other person or life… his focus has always been on that of the depths of thaumaturgy and black magic.” Cocobuki sighed as he continued. “A highly respectable teacher of the arts and with great wisdom… yet he has dipped too far by other means.”

“I see…”

 As they continued in their long minutes of searching, Pipin eventually came across a suspicious document after much digging. Recent transcriptions and other damning information that could be sourced back to a Monetarist’s hands. The selling of priceless antiques, exchanges of favors, money exchanging hands for other means not related to the guild… he had managed to find it all.

 “This is it.” He called to Cocobuki as he arranged it together in one neat package. His eyes narrowing in on the papers in disgust. “One dared to hope otherwise, but…”

 “It is to be expected.” Cocobuki shrugged, inspecting the papers over Pipin’s shoulder. “Some of us were already catching on. Eventually this was going to happen… luckily sooner than later.”

 “You have no qualms about turning in your master and mentor to the authorities?”

 “None whatsoever. We of the guild are simply devoted to our arts and study. Anything outside of that should not be allowed in these halls. Much less consorting around with those of ill-begotten gains. Or showing preference to the texts over the lives in front of our very eyes…”

 Pipin silently regarded the thaumaturge’s words as he took one last look at the papers. High Priest or not, the brothers had fully obliged in lending a hand to Her Grace in this endeavor. One that so few would take up without the promise of a reward in return. They were simply doing as what their morals dictated. To that end, upstanding citizens doing what they thought needed to be done.

 “Well, I believe we have everything we’ve been looking for.” Pipin hurried to stuff the documents into his hidden bag. “Closer inspection will be needed for further proof of course, but with this I’ll be able to put together a case for Her Grace. Should it be enough, chances are the head priest will need to be replaced.”

 “Which means next in line would be the Prelate… although she is also Mumuepo’s close disciple. Once word comes out, few in the order might be willing to allow her stand in his stead. Leaving little to no choices…”

 Cocobuki spoke those words mostly to himself as he contemplated the repercussions. It wouldn’t be easy, whatever might have to the order. Internal strife over having to lose their high priest, to a scandal of embezzlement no less. Who would next be chosen… indeed it would have to be someone of great standing.

 “After all is said and done, I’ll be certain to make mention of your contributions to Her Grace.” Pipin smiled. “Who knows what may come of it... but I wager you would make a grand guild leader should it come down to it.”

 “Mayhaps.” Cocobuki chuckled. “Not that I’ve sought out to unseat Mumuepo, but I wouldn’t be against taking up the position should it open either.”

 A short pause. Followed by Cocobuki raising a hand to his ear as he received a short link pearl message. Suddenly his expression turned to one of urgency as he gestured towards the door.

 “Cocobani reports that they are on their way back. Let us away before they discover our ploy.”

 Pipin nodded without any further prodding and hurried on after Cocobuki once the place was locked and left as it was… aside from missing a few papers. From there they hurried down the halls and back to the Ossuary’s main entrance. Luckily, the duo had yet to arrive… leaving the vice marshal a moment to steal away before anyone truly took note of his presence.

 Without so much as a farewell, even if he would eventually contact Cocobuki in the later future…

…

…

…

  Thus was the issue decreed shortly afterward that Mumuepo be stripped of all official titles and privileges by the Sultana herself. The evidence of corruption and embezzlement found damning enough for the harsh charge, where none could argue against her words. All thanks to Pipin’s clever investigation… along with a helping hand from the newly instated guild leaders, Cocobuki and four of his brothers taking the stand.

-----------

[[ This drabble ended up pretty long... oops. But! This is hopefully the start of many drabbles, as I further want to expand on Pipin’s relationship with Cocobuki and the thaumaturge guild in general. Please look forward to it~ ]]

#ffxiv #writing #drabble #pipin tarupin #cocobuki

[lyricalafrica2]

‘Emergence’ National Gallery of Zimbabwe, Bulawayo September 6th - 19th October 2019 A few pics that I’ve finally managed to upload and a summary of my processes and review of the show and how I felt it went. In my usual way, fairly personal in places. I wrote it immediately after the show and views are always going to change within time. It’s been a few weeks now and I’ve made the transition from Zimbabwe to Botswana, I’ve had time to recover and chill for a little while. Not much drawing going on, but a whole load of sweating as the the season heats up! I feel at this point to write a review of the creative processes of my show may be a little warped in light of the fatigue I’m feeling, however my intention is to do one again come the end of the month when the dust settles to see how my opinions change. Given the subject matter, I’m also curious as to the impact on my own sense of self, immediately after and going forward. I found it strange that immediately afterwards, my focus was drawn to myself, how I looked in publicity photos and not the actual way the show went. Vanity you may think, though that old devil of self-consciousness. This hit me within a couple of hours of the show ending. Going from the heights of adrenaline and excitement, swiftly to over tired and self-critical. I questioned why more artists didn’t attend, berated myself for looking fat, my habit of nervously over gesticulating and the over animation of my facial expressions. Being struck with all of this just after midnight after two hours sleep if that and venturing onto social media in an attempt to quell my restless mind. Before bed, I’d bounced around the cottage in a fir of sheer delight, like an excited child might, amazed and happy that I’d successfully made it to completion. This midnight hour saw me overanalysing everyone and everything, even down to a known artist who turned up, said nothing to me and shuffled off into a corner to eat popcorn and nuts on his own. Not a well done, nor a comment on the content, just nothing, perhaps a slight look of disdain though. Was I just imagining this? Was this silence comment enough on what lay before him? These thoughts are just as responsible for limiting behaviours and in voicing them honestly, I’m hoping they simply release into the ether and just disappear. So, the exhibition was divided into three rooms, for which I wanted to take people on a journey, from conception. Not to say I incorporated every bit of work that I produced. I tried to curate carefully, it was interspersed with pieces that were a bit more literal, leading to much more abstracted concepts. Wording and symbolism, not just because; but because they are a powerful means to switch on the brain and indeed the heart. Positive and powerful. If you think positive, positivity will perpetuate, and vice versa with negativity. You don’t make it anywhere telling yourself that you’re wrong and a terrible person. For this reason, I was pleased that there were a number of children attended. I think instilling in children how important it is to love and respect themselves properly, allowing those little flames of excitement to become brightly burning and sincere passions are important. Most realise only too late where they went wrong and how detrimental it can be in trying to adhere to societal norms. Be yourself, they’re the most important person you will ever encounter. I tried to covey through my mixed media approach, the fragility, but also the resilience of the human spirit. How it could be quashed when handled wrongly, we’ve all had our wings burnt so to speak, we’ve no doubt all had our wings clipped too. Been told to be too cautious, know our limits, not been supported properly at the mercy of someone else’s ego. It can be hard not to absorb these things as we make our way through life, we are constantly in awe of someone else, rather than looking within for the amazing facets we already have. I hold my hands up and confess I am absolutely guilty of this, but in also being a therapist, it becomes so clear how things invariably work. It can be heart breaking to watch someone go through life, never realising there potential, thinking they have to conform to x, y or z, just to be accepted, so they can consider themselves a worthy human being. Whatever happened to simply being a good person and just allowing yourself to shine? Doing your thing, being encouraged to discover all that you are? I have that philosophy of, if we all learnt how to truly accept and love ourselves, our lives would be far easier. We would be able to perpetuate that to our neighbour, to the animals that surround us, to our environment. Can you imagine if we all lived consciously taking a little more care like that? The recurring themes of fragility, fractured, bound and freedom were used throughout the exhibition, never asking people to see the point, but encouraging them to come to their own conclusions. Flashes of mirror, captured people in the moment and very much made them a part of the exhibition pieces. Veining, flight paths, patterning and themes which were very much more emotive were all explored in different ways. Liberal and freeform use of diluted oils on damp surfaces allowed mixed colours to merge and bleed, blown, feathered allowed to run and bloom. Free to behave how they needed to behave. Added texture and collage offered additional light, movement and the suggestion of dynamism to these much more abstract pieces. I’ve never used oils in this way before, but I enjoyed it and would explore it further in the future, potentially with more colour in the background. The mainly white backdrop was an attempt to maintain some form of purity, as in the essence of just being. Smaller pieces formed a panel, with suggestion of cuts and scarring that can be recovered from. It’s never too late to learn to use your wings and take flight! Again the use of the wording ”Public Notice”, I wanted these pieces to be vital in drawing people in, in for introspection, an invitation to look for their own potential. To untangle themselves from societal norms and controlling hierarchies, to find what they were really about and to love and accept that. I wanted people to walk away with a sense of wholeness, or at least an impetus to do some self-exploration. A deeper sense of knowing that they are about so much more than the façade they present to the world every day. The façade that they have built in in reaction to the rules and regulations laid down to keep us all in line. The final room was a room I set aside to be filled by my installation pieces. The recurring symbolism of the eyes, the distorted, obstructed retinas, the colours that represented the opportunity to discover potential. The gaze, from one eye to the other, connected by the knowing, the denial, one an authoritarian with the same infinite potential as the next. Likely undergoing their own demons and using that control to supress and satiate their own need. But what if they found themselves a little more, looked at themselves a little kinder, would there action on the rest of the world still have to be so outwardly commanding? Is all this required because we can’t validate ourselves, we seek to control others, because we can’t control or accept ourselves? Paper bark, shards of blunt glass, fishing wire and chicken wire were all used to create a somewhat ethereal, spiritual effect, because well this was a fairly spiritual topic, but not in the head in the clouds kind of way, more a put yourself up there with the best kind of way. Take accountability for your own height, don’t accept that ceiling just because. It’s usually glass and if someone has led you to reinforce it, it’s about time you smashed it down yourself! So why leave the comments on the butterfly till now? Aside from the very free nature of the butterfly and the way it emerges from the cocoon to reveal its true identity, I wanted that sense of liberation. Detachment from what had come to be expected of it. The Commodore butterfly really did bring it home and in that sense, never accept that you have to be second in command. Be the captain of your own ship. Know that you are precious and that you deserve to be the best version of you, which can only be granted by you and only ever you! The fractured painted mirror adorned with glimpses of butterfly and glass again, was there to suggest that we can all be a bit broken, but we’re still beautiful. Use you power to transform that power into something positive, let it make you strong, don’t let it drown you. Life is tough yes, but it’s also sweet and beautiful. And in that, my final piece invited people into a little box, through the abstracted eye, to see what they could see. I see you, what do you see? It seemed an appropriate if more abstracted carry on from my oil portraiture collection, “Who Am I?”. After having seen my exhibition for the first time alone since Friday need to summarise my feelings here. Am I happy? Yes, after feeling so out of sorts over the weekend. Could there be improvement made on the way that I broach the subject? Of course, but isn’t that the meaning of life? To live and keep learning and to try and improve oneself and approach daily? I really enjoyed the installation and sculptural work. It’s not something that I generally do due to constraints on space, tools and materials aren’t so hard to source back home, but I tend to simply get caught up in painting. It was good to be able to combine that and be able to produce such a multifaceted body of work. I’d very much like to continue exploring this. Feedback from the audience was positive and most people pointed out at least two favourite pieces. The large bright eye and butterfly, the fractured mirror piece and the other sculptural pieces went down well and were said to be a quite unexpected addition to the exhibition. In this sense I was pleased I managed to offer something that was different to the usual standards of exhibition. If I were to do it again, what would I do differently? I’d perhaps pay more attention to the interactive element, maybe think it through for longer, use ribbon instead of thread as it is fiddly and time consuming to tie onto the chicken wire backing. I’d also likely do more sculptural elements. That for me has to have been the highlight, besides the different and at times intoxicating use of the oil paints. Of course the invitations went out rather too late and the carefully selected soundtrack went virtually un noted, the aromatherapy oils that I had infused the room with evaporated and disappeared off into the ether through the open doors. All things that need tweaking, but as they say, not bad for a first attempt at a National Gallery.

#female artist #fine artist #art exhibition #a life less ordinary #contemporary art #africa #travel #artists adventures #art blogger #fine art #National Gallery #my amazing life #beautiful life #inspirations #artists on tumblr #life as an artist #visual arts

[incorrectdeceptionquotes]

A Bundle of Secrets Chapter 29

Chapter 29

Cameron woke up before his alarm. He was wide awake. His brain just hadn’t been able to shut off. He then heard a little voice whining. He walked over to the crib where Farrah was sitting up, clutching her woolen blanket. She looked up at her uncle with tears silently streaming down her cheeks. Cameron felt his heart split in two. He gently stroked her curly hair, “Hey... what’s wrong Farrah?”

Cameron almost didn’t hear the little girl’s babbles. “Mama... Mama...” She held the blanket closer to herself, “Mama...”

“Hey... come here.” He picked her up with the blanket still in her arms.

She lifted the blanket up and hit it slightly against his chest as the tears continued to fall down her cheeks, “Mama...”

Did she... did she know what was happening today? Cameron sighed as he held his niece close to just let her get it out. Farrah rubbed her eyes with her tiny fist. “I know...” She rested her tired head on his shoulder, “I know you miss your mama... I’m so sorry. I wish that I could bring her back...” He knew that Farrah couldn’t quite understand what he was saying but she seemed to be calming down. She snuggled closer to him as she gripped her blanket.

About an hour later, Jonathan woke up and found Cameron and Farrah in the kitchen. Cameron was slowing walking back and forth as he tried to sooth the baby in his arms but she was just upset. “Cam?” Cameron turned at the sound of his brother’s voice, “What’s wrong?”

Cameron sighed, “I don’t know what it is. Farrah’s just upset.” Farrah clutched her blanket closer to herself and let out another tiny whine, “I wish I knew what it was. I mean, I’ve changed her, I’ve fed her... I think she knows what’s going on today.”

“Cam, she’s just a baby.”

“Well, it seems she can tell that there is something wrong about today.” He kissed her messy curls, “You should have heard her earlier. She kept calling for Fiona.” Jonathan’s eyes glazed over. Cameron sighed, “We gotta be strong today. Not just for show but for Farrah.”

“You go get dressed and I can get Farrah ready.” Jonathan said as he walked over to his brother and niece.

“You sure?” Cameron asked but Jonathan was already taking Farrah in his arms.

“Positive. Just don’t spend three hours on your hair.” The older twin joked.

Cameron cracked a tiny smile, “Now you know that that is impossible.”

Two hours later, Cameron and Jonathan were both dressed in simple black suits and black ties. Farrah had been dressed in a black dress with long sleeves but with dark coat overtop. She also had her woolen blanket with her. As they stepped out of the apartment and were placing Farrah in her stroller, they were suddenly surrounded by a hoard of paparazzi.

“Cameron! Jonathan! What is it like to finally have your name cleared?”

“What is your relationship with Bennett Blanc?”

“Jonathan, what are you going to do now that you no longer live in your brother’s shadow?”

“Cameron Black, who is the child? Is this another family member you’ve been keeping secret?”

Now usually, Cameron and Jonathan didn’t have much problem with the press but when they tried to get close to their niece, that’s where the line was crossed. “If you all would be so kind as to step aside from the stroller.” Jonathan said in a calm but commanding voice, “Cameron and I have no problems with your questions but you’ll have to understand if our niece doesn’t feel the same way.”

“If you’ll excuse us ladies and gentlemen,” Cameron added as he and Jonathan moved Farrah’s stroller out of the crowd, “We’ll have to talk another time. Have a nice day.”

They got to the archive where the others were already there with everything set up for the wake. Despite the somber tone, the group gave the twins sympathetic smiles. Cameron picked up Farrah and walked over to Kay who was dressed in a long and loose fitted black dress. “Hey.” He greeted as he kissed her cheek, “How are you?”

Kay shook her head, “I’m fine. I should be asking you that.” She noticed faded dark circles under his eyes, “Did you get any sleep?”

“Not really.” He admitted, “But it’s fine. I’m really not that tired.”

She nodded, still not convinced. “How’s Farrah?” The baby blinked her eyes and turned her head at the sound of her name.

“I’m honestly not sure. She’s just upset...” Farrah started chewing on her blanket but when Kay took a closer look, she saw that her eyes were slightly red and glazed over. “I think she’s realizing that... they’re not coming back.” Kay felt her heart break for the little girl and she couldn’t help but kiss the baby’s forehead. Farrah’s mouth turned upwards into a smile as she looked to Kay. Cameron felt his own smile form, “Hey... that’s the first time I’ve seen her smile today.” Cameron and Kay walked back over to the others. “Okay, so people should be starting to come for the wake by twelve.”

“Marigold said she would be here a half hour early so Gunter and I could help her set up.” Jordan explained. “She’s pretty cool for an older lady”

“Mike and I are in charge of the refreshments.” Dina announced. “I’m also vice girl. Anything you might need... or want,” She lifted up a black leather bag, “Is in here.”

Jonathan raised an eyebrow, “Seriously?”

Dina nodded. “Alright... ” Mike challenged, “Do you have those flavour changing Tic-Tacs?” She pulled out the box of the Tic-Tacs he asked for.

Jonathan smirked, “A charger?”

Dina just grinned, “Outlet or USB?”

“Outlet.”

She pulled out an outlet charger from her bag and handed it to the older twin, “Anything else?”

Jonathan’s smirk only grew as he took the charger, “You still got it.”

Soon people began making their way for the wake after twelve o’clock. Most were customers from Marigold’s cafe who had known Fiona and befriended her. Others had been Shawn’s coworkers and while they hadn’t known the young doctor for very long, his absence had been very much noticed in their office.

When the clock struck one o’clock, Cameron and Jonathan gave Marigold the floor.

“I met Fiona eight years ago. She... she was one of the most wonderful people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.” Marigold cleared her throat, “I don’t know what came over me when I had offered Fiona a job and a place to stay but I thank God everyday that I did. Never once did she complain about work or the fact that we were living in a tiny apartment above the cafe.” A picture of Fiona and Marigold was shown on the screen behind her. It was clearly from a few years ago. Fiona’s hair had been longer and braided and Marigold’s short hair had a very 2000s vibe to it. “Fiona soon became like the daughter I never had. She always had a smile on her face. She always treated people with kindness, even when they might not have made the best first impression... which brings me to Shawn.”

That comment made everyone let out a chuckle.

“Shawn was a very fine young man. As someone who was lucky enough to see their love story unfold, I can attest that it didn’t get off to the smoothest start.” The image behind her changed to a picture of Shawn and Fiona on their wedding day.

“Mama! Dada!” Farrah called out holding out her arms when she saw her parents on the screen. Cameron held her closer but she was trying to wiggle out of his hold. She wanted her parents.

Marigold felt her eyes well up. She cleared her throat again, “He loved Fiona and he loved Farrah so much. He was a good man. He would have been one of the better doctors this world could have had. I remember Fiona telling me how protective he had become by the end of her pregnancy. She would joke by saying that judging by all the parenting books he was reading, it was almost like he was trying to be the better parent.” She paused for a moment as Jordan changed the picture to the one of the day Farrah was born. Shawn had had his arm around Fiona and Fiona had Farrah in her arms, wrapped in a light pink blanket with little pink hat on her tiny head. “They loved this little girl more than anything in the world.”

The pictures changed to Shawn holding Farrah in his arms who must have been less than six months old at the time. It was clear that in his eyes, Farrah was the most precious child in the world to him. The picture changes to another of Fiona holding a month old Farrah while standing next to a Christmas tree. It then changed to Fiona and Shawn during Fiona’s pregnancy holding up a pink piece of paper that had “IT’S A GIRL!” written on it.

“I could go on about how much these two loved each other and how much they loved their daughter but I thought the best way to end my speech was to simply show you.”

Marigold nodded to Jordan who presented a video that the two of them had put together. “Shawn! Get that camera away!” Fiona’s playful voice could be heard as she pushed the one taking the film. Farrah’s eyes lit up at the sound of her mother’s voice.

“But Fifi, you look great!”

“Right...” She rolled her blue eyes. Except for her brown eyes, Farrah seemed to have gotten most of her appearance from Fiona. “I look like beached whale.” She wore a blue maternity dress that clearly showed off her baby belly.

“All right, that’s it.”

Fiona furrowed her brows, making everyone, except for Cameron and Jonathan who were watching with intense focus and tiny smiles on their face, notice just how much she looked like them. “What do you mean?” The camera suddenly shook as Shawn flipped it to show him running over to Fiona and wrapping his other arm around her and attacking her face with kisses. “Shawn, what are you doing?” She shrieked with laughter.

“This is your punishment until you say something nice about yourself!” He said as he continued to kiss her laughing face. “Say you’re a beautiful person!”

“What? No!” She laughed.

“Say it.”

“Shawn-”

“I’m going to keep grossing out our daughter with this footage of us kissing if you don’t say it.”

Fiona let out another laugh, “Alright, alright! I’m a beautiful person!” She then turned and kissed his cheek, “But so are you.”

“I am.” He grinned smugly.

Fiona raised an eyebrow, “Oh stop, you’re too modest.” She turned her face to the camera and took it from Shawn, “If your father is still like this in twenty years, remind me to get a divorce.” She chuckled.

“You wound me Fiona.”

She rolled her eyes, “You make it too easy.”

“Your mother’s lucky I love her.” He said to the camera, “It won’t be long now Princess, we’re meeting you in less than a month.”

“And given by the way you’ve been sitting on my bladder, you better be real freaking cute.” She grinned.

“Fifi, it’s us, of course, she’s going to be cute.” Shawn said before Fiona stopped the video.

Farrah tried wiggling her way out of Cameron’s grasp again. When he held her back bringing her closer to him, tears started to form in her big brown eyes. In her mind, her parents were right there. Why wasn’t she allowed to go to them?

Marigold spoke one last time, “Fiona and Shawn were two genuinely kind and decent people. What hurts most is that their lives were cut so short that they didn’t even get the chance to see their daughter turn a year old. I have not known Fiona’s brothers for very long but they seem to care for Farrah just as much as Shawn and Fiona did. They will be missed. I will miss them. Thank you for listening.” Everyone clapped quietly as Marigold made her way back to her seat

The rest of the wake went relatively smoothly. Kay noticed Cameron in a corner of the archive, slowly pacing back and forth with Farrah in his arms, trying to calm the fussing baby down. Farrah was holding back her cries but tears where streaming down her face. Cameron was whispering something to her as he tried to gently wipe away her tears. Kay walked over to them. “Hey.” She whispered, not wanting to draw attention.

“Hey.” He replied.

“Do you need anything?” She asked

Cameron shook his head, “I don’t know what it is. Farrah’s just been so upset today.” He pressed his mouth together, “Is it bad that a part of me was hoping she wouldn’t realize that today was going to be different?”

Kay shook her head, “She can recognize them as her parents... no matter how happy she usually is,” She stroked Farrah’s cheek with the back of her finger, “She’s still a baby who’s lost her parents and she doesn’t realize they’re gone yet. She misses them.” Cameron nodded. He had a somber expression, “But hey.” He looked at her, “You’re doing everything you can to make sure Farrah has a good life.”

“I guess.”

“I’m serious. You may not realize it but not everyone would do what you’re doing. You didn’t even have to think about taking her in.”

Cameron felt his lips twitch upwards, “Would you stop making me sound like such a saint?”

Kay let out a light chuckle, “Oh, you are no saint Cameron... but you are a good person.” She leaned in and placed a light kiss on his cheek, “You sure I can’t get you anything?”

He shook his head, “I’ll be fine.”

“Have you eaten anything yet?” Cameron furrowed his brows at the question. “You haven’t, have you?”

“I guess I haven’t.”

“Let me get you something.”

“Kay, you don’t have to-”

“It’s fine.” She smiled, “Let’s get you something.” Cameron nodded as he followed her.

Jonathan met him halfway, “Hey, do you want me to take Farrah for a little while? You’ve had her all day.”

Cameron sighed, “Yeah... thanks Johnny.”

Cameron handed her over to his brother. “Hey there Farrah. You’re gonna hang out with Uncle Johnny for a bit.” Farrah wrapped her tiny arms around Jonathan’s neck as her fussing continued. “I got her Cam.” He said as he stroked his niece’s back, trying to calm her.

Cameron went back over to Kay and wrapped his arms around her, “Cam?” She whispered as she reciprocated the hug with her good arm. He didn’t say anything, he just held her tight, “Cameron, are you okay?”

“I’m fine... I just...” He let out another sigh, “I just need a minute.” She gave a somber look as she just held him. He pulled back but kept his arms around her, “I didn’t think today would be so hard...”

“It just means you care Cam.” She said, attempting to fix his tie.

He took her hand in both of his, “Thank you for being here.”

“Of course,” She said incredulously, “I wouldn’t have missed this.” He kissed her hand. She noticed his eyes start to water. She moved her hand from out of his hands and placed it on his cheek, “Hey... it’s okay if you’re upset...”

“How... how am I missing someone I never got to know?”

“Because you did know her.” He gave her curious look, “Because you know Farrah.” He let out a broken chuckle, “I’m serious. I bet that the older that little girl gets and the more you learn about her... the more you might learn about Fiona.”

He pulled Kay in for another hug and gently rested his head on her right shoulder, “I hope you’re right.”

We’re in the homestretch people! There is one chapter left of ‘A Bundle of Secrets’! Can you believe it’s actually happening? I honestly can’t! This is going to be the first time I’ve ever finished something in terms of writing!

Don’t worry! I haven’t forgotten about ‘A Coffee Connection’ but I just got this surge of inspiration for this chapter and I just had to write it down and before I knew it, the chapter was written!

Hope you guys liked it! The sequel is coming along soon; I just need to name it! XD

#deception #deception fanfiction #cameron black #jonathan black #kay daniels #dina clark #jordan kwon #mike alvarez #gunter gustafsen #kaymeron #a bundle of secrets #renewdeception #savedeception #deception abc

[halloweennut]

Pas de Deux

During a Musical Charity Auction, Felicity gets roped into wearing one of the items for charity, then literally roped onto a pirate airship and hauled miles into the air, where she meets the one and only Don Karnage. Some veritable dime-store pirate romance novel shenanigans happen from here out. 

lmao so i didn’t plan on shipping them, but here we are. first part of a three part ship story with Felicity (my oc) and Don Karnage. I just hope I wrote him well. I have no impulse control. @musekicker thank you for the encouragement bb. 

The charity musical revue had been going splendidly for the first hour and a half. A good quarter of the donation goal had been reached, and the higher ranked items hadn’t been presented or seen by most of the elite crowd of benefactors. One of those higher ranked items was a set of jewelry, dated to the 15th century, made of pure gold and precious gems. An early viewing resulted in the request to see them worn by one of the musical performers, just to see how they shone, despite them being more apt for a museum than regular party wear.

Felicity agreed to wear it during her aria, glad that it didn’t look too gaudy on her. The rings fit well, the bracelets were a little snug due to the internal clasping mechanism, and the hairpieces were easily woven into her updo. The necklace sat high and heavy on her like a collar, and it locked behind her neck via pinhole lock. While she wasn’t much of a fan of wearing so much jewelry, especially with how priceless it was, Felicity liked how it complimented her feathers and neck, as well as how the jewels shone when she moved.

Of course, the pricelessness of  the gems around her neck and everything else sitting around the opera house was bound to draw unwanted attention. Soon enough, not even 15 minutes after she belted her last note, Felicity found herself bound in rope, tossed unceremoniously unto to a flying pirate ship. After she had bitten two of the crew, Felicity found her beak tied shut with a handkerchief. She cursed whoever made the jewelry for making the rings the only easy pieces to get off of her - the necklace, bracelets and hair pieces were to slow going to remove, so for the pirates it was far easier to bring all of her along.  Her being tied up also made the process easier for them at least, not to mention the skirt she was in tangled up her legs, until they got to the necklace and the mystery of how to unclasp it.

“Captain, this bauble don’t have a clasp!” one of the pirates said from behind her. “What should I do?”

She struggled and twisted her shoulders and arms as she attempted to get loose while they were distracted, hearing the tap of leather boots storm up behind her.  Felicity hadn’t really gotten a look at the captain during the raid,  but she had hear him, of all things, sing and bark orders, the freshest being to grab her and go.

“Necklaces have clasps, you idiot,” she heard him snap. “Must the great Don Karnage  do everything?”

Felicity felt a gloved hand clap onto her shoulder and push her forward, and she let out a noise of protest. There was a pause, and she felt another hand prod and pull at the necklace.

“What in the skies…,” he sounded confused and she felt a little smug. “Ah! There is a pin keyhole. You! Bring me the key!”

“Beggin’ your pardon, captain, but we never grabbed any kind of key.”

“You never grabbed - we grab everything, you idiots! Now we have no way of getting that off of her,” the captain stomped around her, angrily gesturing at his crew who shied away. “Except…”

Don Karnage spun around to face Felicity, and she finally got a look at him. He stared at her with intense expectation, she stared back with anger. Don Karnage blinked, shifting into something smug and almost charming as he began to lightly and dancingly step towards the swan. Felicity scowled the best she could with her beak tied together and shuffled back, only to run into the legs of some crew members. They grabbed her by her sides, lifting her up so she was standing, but held her as she twisted her shoulders to get out of their strong grips. He strolled up to her, and tilted up her beak with a finger to look her in the eye.

“Maybe, songbird, you can tell Don Karnage where that little key is?” he crooned, and untied her beak.

“I refuse to tell you, you pirate,” she hissed, and tried to lunge at his hand, but was held back, her beak closing with a loud ‘clack.’ He snapped his hand back sharply and snarled, revealing rows of very sharp teeth.

“Then the less than patient Don Karnage will have an extended guest on his ship!” he hissed.

“Why don’t we throw her overboard? Or threaten her with it at least?” A peg legged crew member asked. Don Karnage groaned.

“She’ll obviously call our bluff, because if we lose her, we lose the necklace!” Don Karnage snapped, hooking a finger around the collar to pull it, and Felicity, forward, showing the large diamonds and precious jewels. “This necklace is worth more than this plane. And obviously more than you lot!”

He dropped the jewelry, hitting her hard on the chest. She let out an “oof” of shock at the weight, snapping Don Karnage’s attention back to her as if he had forgotten she was attached to the collar. He smirked, snapping his fingers. The crew members holding her let go, dropping her with a yelp of surprise and a thud as she hit the cold metal floor of the cargo hold, skirt pillowing around her legs. She stared up at him with a scowl as he he stood in front of her.

“A good, handsome, and daring pirate has ways of getting information, songbird,” he said smugly, leaning down to be in her face.

“Maybe the first thing you should learn is my name,” Felicity managed to say before he grabbed her sides, hefting her over his shoulder like a bag of loot. “Hey! Put me down!”

“Your name won’t matter once I have your necklace,” he replied as he began to walk out of the cargo hold and into the ship. Felicity watched as the crew members continued on like this wasn’t happening and the cargo hold disappeared behind a bay door.

“Put me down!” she commanded again, hoping that she didn’t sound scared. This was distressingly becoming a dime-store romance novel and she could barely refuse the role she was playing in it. She couldn’t bite any part of him, her arms were tied and from this position, he had her legs in a vice-like grip.

They entered another room off the large, cavernous hallway with the woosh of a mechanized door. When it closed behind them, Felicity closed her eyes shut tight. Whether it was fear or trying to focus her mind on figuring out some way to escape or fight someone larger than her with a sword, she didn’t know. They didn’t open when she felt him shift her in his arms, holding her bridal style for a moment before she was set down on what felt like a chair. Felicity opened her eyes and looked around. They were in what looked to be the captain’s quarters, based on the grand decor and large space. She was sitting on a chair next to a table with a half empty bottle of liquor on it. Posters of musicals, mostly featuring pirates, and pictures of the captain,  lined the walls. Against the back wall was a large canopy bed covered in dark blue velvet. Across from her, Don Karnage stood at a hutched desk covered in papers and maps, cooly removing his gloves like he hadn’t brought her in.

“Wha-,” she managed to gasp out. “What are you going to do?”

“Simply enough,” he replied, placing the gloves on the desk, replacing them in his hands with a small dagger. “The persuasive Don Karnage will persuade you into telling me where the key is.”

Felicity felt herself freeze at the sight of the knife, going stick straight as he approached. In a flash the

dagger sliced through the air...and through her binds, landing on the floor. She harshly inhaled, not realizing that she hadn’t breathed. He drove the dagger into the wood of the table, and dragged another chair over to fling himself onto with dramatic flair.  

“You really thought I would attempt to kill you? You’re worth more alive right now,” he said, leaning casually in the chair.

“And how do you know I won’t try to escape?” she asked, gently moving her arms to fix her feathers and sooth her sore muscles from the ropes. Don Karnage laughed.

“No one but my crew and I know this ship,” he said, leaning forward on his hands, elbows on the table. “Even if you managed to escape my room, navigate to the cargo hold, do you really think you could take on a crew of twenty pirates? The knowledgeable Don Karnage know swans can be feisty, but for how long?”  

“For as long as I have to be,” she snapped, standing up to her full height, leaning over him in an attempt to assert some dominance. “You shouldn’t have untied me.”

With a swish of her skirts, Felicity hurried towards the door. Before the door could even register her and open up to the hall, she felt a hand wrap around her arm and she found herself spinning on her toes, coming to the hard stop of Don Karnage’s chest. Felicity tried to pull away, hit his chest, but he gripped her wrists and if anything pulled her closer. She gasped as suddenly she found herself horizontal in a sudden dip, heading spinning from the sudden change. Don Karnage stood above her, smug.

“Truth to be told,” he said, “I enjoyed your performance at that little party we crashed.”

“Really?” Felicity replied incredulously. If he sensed her cynicism, he either ignored it or didn’t care, given he picked up on it. From what she had seen so far, the captain was full of himself.

“Oh yes,” Don Karnage replied, leaning back to bring both of them to a standing position and uncomfortably for her at least, changed their arms to dancing positions. “Don Karnage is well versed in the musical arts, knowing a good aria well sung is child’s play to someone as talented.”  

“Captain, if you think flattery -,” Felicity began, only to be cut off.

“Please, Don Karnage.”

“Captain, if you think flattery will make me tell you anything about how to get this necklace off my neck,” she stared hard into his eyes. “I’m afraid you are mistaken.”

He barked out a laugh, making her recoil. “Haha! No, Miss Columbia, the talented Don Karnage has something better!”

“Might just what-,” she stopped. How did he know her last name? “How do you know my name? You said it didn’t matter.”

“Like I said,” he repeated. “I know the musical arts, and just as importantly those who participate in them.”

He leaned close to the side of her head, and Felicity thought she felt fang brush feather. “You are very talented, talented enough to have impressed me, and I have extremely high standards. You being at that show was a treat. And now I have not only priceless jewels, but a priceless little songbird, no?”

He didn’t move for a moment, so she quickly cut in. “So what? Are you going to keep me here, regardless of the necklace? And for what? You are talented enough, surely you can perform for yourself. Mirrors work wonders.”

Don Karnage laughed again, throwing his head back in a row of laughter. “Sweet, foolish songbird. No. Having you here until you tell me how to get these trinket off you will take time. You are awfully stubborn, aren’t you? But I have ways better than flattery to get what I want.”

He swept her off her feet in a ballroom turn, despite her protests and promptly placed her back into a chair. Confused, she watched him pull an arabesque, kicking a small record player into starting. In a few seconds, she recognized the piece. It was the music from the ballroom dance scene in the last production she was in. Felicity and her co-star had worked tirelessly on it for weeks until it was seamless, and they had the bruised receipts to show how much they paid for their success. But it was weeks ago and well executed then, what was the purpose of playing it now?

“And that better way is pointers!”

“Pointers.” Felicity stared at him in disbelief as he nodded, moving to the first position that her partner started in.

“Now, I am not sure if they are for your inadequacies or that of your partner, but they are good for you to take note of for your next rehearsal,” he began, and Felicity felt her eye twitch as he began to dance.

She watched as he continued, pointing out how her partner should be or how the move should be performed correctly, and all the while her jaw tightened and Felicity could not believe what exactly was going on. First he kidnapped her, scared her to death, and now he was nitpicking her dance routine? She felt annoyance, anger, fear, and the overwhelming urge to both escape and prove him wrong. Felicity watched as he danced, moving from position to position with a fake partner.

A fake partner!

If Felicity was anything, she was an actress, she could adapt to roles, and if this mess of a show called for a heroine on a pirate ship, by god she would play the part. Now, at least, she felt she had a little more control. While he was turned away, she stood and made her way to the record player, and lifted up the needle with a finger. Could she have just run while he was distracted? Yes, but the drama and comeuppance wouldn’t have had the pay off.

Don Karnage stumbled to a stop, the next pointer on his tongue dying as he turned to face her. Felicity slowly turned to look at him over her shoulder, and held him for a second in his confusion before turning all the way. She softly smiled, bowing her head demurely to look up at him through her lashes - falsies but he probably couldn’t tell -  and slowly made her way to him.

“You know, Captain,” she said slowly coming to stand right in front of him, “I mean, Don Karnage...I’m not the most visual learner. “

Whether or not he caught on she couldn’t tell, but she watched him smile confidently. “Is that so? How you propose we change that?”

“Perhaps,” she continued, sidling up close and placing one hand in position on his shoulder, the other lacing with his. “Something more personal so I can...learn better. You could use a partner for this.”

Using him for support, she kicked out her leg, hitting the record and starting the song over again.  “Don’t you agree?”

He stared at her in surprise for a moment, before grinning and moving into position, placing his hand on her waist and raising their interlocked hands. He really thought she was falling for his ‘persuasion’ and his technically speaking legitimate but ultimately nitpick pointers as they swept around the room in their pas de deux. He continued with them, and she decided to smile and nod with the occasional “oops! my bad” when she “accidentally” stepped on his foot. But all the while she was trying to figure out how to get the two of them out into the cargo hold.

The music slowed down to a stop and slipped into the next track - a faster paced waltz that Felicity couldn’t place from anywhere but into her escape plan. So instead of stopping, she started to pull him into another dance, and she hoped it was a long one for her plan to work. Felicity fluttered her lashes in a fake plea to continue, and Don Karnage smiled, all too happy to oblige a chance to show off and dance with a pretty songbird that he thought could just keep up with him. He quickly stepped in line with her in a folie a deux, going for more difficult moves than before. Part of Felicity’s mind was thrilled by the improvisation they were doing, another thrilled it was working, and the last part wondering how long she could continue. But the song continued and so did their dance.

“You’re quite good,” he murmured at one point. Her back was pressed to his chest and her arms with aloft to just brush the back of his head, and he held one of her legs at the thigh, the two of them ever so slightly  bending forward, before snapping back up. He spun her back to face him.

“You’re not bad yourself, captain,” Felicity replied, leaning close to his muzzle before spinning away, just barely out of arm's’ reach. “But can you keep up?”  

“Bold of you to assume I couldn’t,” Karnage said stepping closer to grab her waist, leading her into the next few steps. Felicity grinned, almost smug as she slowly but surely lead him across the room and out into the hallway. Then began the next little step in her plan. She would dance a few feet out of reach, he’d catch her in another dance move,  and they repeated it all the way into the cargo hold. The crew watched on as they danced, Felicity playing coy and teasing, provoking him to continue and show off until he finally caught her with a triumphant laugh.

“How’s that for keeping up? It seems like I’ve finally caught you, songbird,” he boasted, pulling her close. Felicity smiled - this was all going to plan! She pressed herself closer, resting her hands on his chest.

“It seems you have. But I’m afraid that this is our last dance,” Felicity said, suddenly spinning away. Don Karnage felt a tug at his waist, and when she stopped, he saw why. Felicity had his sword and now it was pointed directly at his throat. “Now it’s been lovely, but I’ll be taking my jewelry and my leave, if you please.”

Don Karnage glanced between her face and the sword in disbelief before snarling, rows of sharp teeth bared. He stepped forward menacingly, trying to get her scared or to back down, but the sword stayed out at his throat, now the point was pressed into his jacket. He glared at the swan staring at him in triumph and expectation. “You little snake! You tricked me!”

“Aw, I’m no longer songbird?” Felicity asked. “But yes, I did. It was a lovely dance we did, mind you, and I’m honest there, but I’m going to need my jewelry. Or am I going to ruin your jacket, pirate?”

To drive her point home, she pressed the sword point harder. Not enough to tear the fabric or cause pain, but enough to convince that she was willing to go that length. With a growl, Karnage snapped his fingers, and a few crew members scrambled to find the pieces they had taken from her, and shoved them in a bag. Felicity extended her free hand out, and they tossed it over to her.

“Thank you kindly,” she said, slowly backing up to the cargo door switch, over the roar of the plane’s engines, she heard a plane in the distance, and hoped it was Scrooge McDuck’s. “Thank you for the performances, but I wouldn’t count on this show getting out of previews.”

Felicity slammed the hilt of the sword onto the ‘up button’, and the cargo bay opened with a groan and a hiss. The wind whipped at her hair and her skirt as she stared down Don Karnage. In that moment, Felicity knew she looked like the heroine out of a novel. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the glint of a bright red plane getting closer and she grinned.  Don saw it as well and let out a shout, one of the crew members throwing him a new sword as he rushed forward, swinging. Quickly, Felicity blocked the blow, stumbling back onto the the ledge of the port. He stepped back and thrust forward, stepping lightly as he pushed her back, grabbing at either her or the bag of jewelry in her other hand.

“You! Overrated! Little! Showgirl!” he snapped, punctuating each word with a swing. She balanced on the ledge, staring him down, the roar of the Sunchaser buffeting her ears.

“At least I am a showgirl! Go back to dinner theatre where you belong!” Felicity  shouted back before jumping onto the nearby nose of the Sunchaser, using the sword blade to catch onto the hull and pull herself up. The plane sped backwards and away from Don Karnage. As Felicity clung to the sword hilt, she blew a mocking kiss goodbye, watching as he shook a fist at her and cursed her name in vengeance. That was going to be fun to deal with.  Until then, she was content to be carefully led through the pilot window from the nose, and into the safety of the ship’s hull as it sped back home to Duckburg.

If the jewelry didn’t catch top dollar now she was going to riot.

#ducktales oc #felicity columbia #don karnage #yes that is a rpdr reference at the end like i could resist y'all #don karnage x oc #is that the tag? why not

[stereden]

Buggy is many things. Selfish. Greedy. Cowardly. To name only a few of them. He knows he’s not the smartest knife in the bunch, but he makes do, and he’s not a half-bad captain, all things told (he hopes).

Landing himself in Impel Down had not been in his plans, neither had been running into the damn Strawhat again, but he uses the boy’s escape to make his own anyway, as terrifying as the experience is, and he still does not understand what all the fuss about Firefist is, him being old man Whitebeard’s commander should not warrant such a spectacle, but it’s not like he can leave, so he’s along for the ride.

His goals definitely do not include involving himself into any fighting, but getting his five minutes of denden-fame while commenting the damn thing, and then getting the fuck away while everyone is distracted, preferably before Whitebeard sends Marineford six feet under seabed.

Simple enough, right?

At least it is until Sengoku announces that Firefist is Gol D Roger’s son, and Buggy freezes.

Captain had a son? He knows about the Batterilla purges, Davy Jones knows Shanks had cursed the Marines high and low at the time, actually going up to Edward Newgate to try and intervene, because any of the Rogers Kaizoku showing their faces there to try and get people out would only have brought a buster call, but by the time Whitebeard got there it was over. To hear that the child had survived?

(And somehow ended up with Strawhat as a brother, but Buggy will deal with that particular mindfuck when he’s not floored by the realisation that his Captain actually reproduced, thank you very much).

He steals a denden, makes a grand display of it and makes sure the world will see what is happening here.

Everyone believes he’s an idiot and a coward, only after fame and glory, and usually they would be right.

But this not for him. This is for his former nakamas, for the Roger Kaizoku, so that they will know that their Captain left behind a legacy.

It’s highly unlikely that any of them will be able to do something to help, Buggy knows it all too well. Where are they right now, he wonders. Crocus is probably still at his stupid lighthouse, babysitting Laboon, and Rayleigh is either gambling or sold into slavery AGAIN back on Sabaody, but what about the others? Scopper Gaban? Seagull? He hasn’t heard from any of them since the crew disbanded, hasn’t dared to ask Rayleigh about them the few times he’s dared to approach the former first mate, not sure of his welcome, and while Shanks is a pain in the ass, he’s the only one who bothered to stay somewhat in touch with Buggy, even if he does so by regularly highjacking his denden.

They had been nakama, once upon a time, and this is about their Captain’s legacy, their Captain’s child, and while Buggy is too much of a coward to enter this particular battlefield, the less he can do is bear witness to what will happen and make sure the others will know.

At first, it looks like everything might end well for Firefist. Strawhat manages to get to him and free him with Mr 3’s help while Whitebeard and his allies demolish the opposition, and captain’s son is as much a reckless loyal idiot as his father had been, and they’re running towards the ships on Whitebeard’s orders when everything goes to hell.

Akainu provokes Firefist, who reacts about as well as Buggy himself would have to someone insulting his captain and stops running. To face a bloody admiral.

And if that were not enough, Strawhat collapses and Akainu hones in on his weakness.

Buggy doesn’t know what the trigger is. Maybe it’s the familiar strawhat on a boy who smiled when he tried (not that hard) to execute him. Maybe it’s Shanks voice, yammering on the denden he keeps hacking about the boy who is going to be the pirate King. Maybe it’s Captain’s boy’s devastated face when he realises what is happening, the grim determination not to let his brother die.

Maybe it’s a memory of sitting on the floor in Captain Roger’s cabin as a kid, no older than ten, still shaking from their last battle and tears streaming down his face because he had been terrified, had hid away, and he was a coward unfit to serve under Captain Roger’s banner, and Captain’s hand on his shoulder as he tells him that it’s okay to be afraid, to want to protect oneself, that Roger doesn’t mind if Buggy keeps away from danger more often than not, as long as Buggy remembers that there are things worth fighting for and that in Captain’s eyes, Buggy was one of these things.

Maybe it’s that Buggy remembers that he once sailed with Gol D Roger, that the man had once been the closest thing Buggy had had to a father, and maybe it’s the fact that he remembers all too well the day his Captain knelt on the execution platform while Buggy could do nothing but watch.

Maybe it’s all of these at once, but Buggy is moving before he registers it, limbs darkening with armament haki drilled into his head by Rayleigh years before he ate his devil fruit.

Not again. Not on his watch.

Buggy’s dark and shiny fists collide with Akainu’s attack and stop it in its track, less than a meter away from Firefist’s unprotected back as the boy had thrown himself over Strawhat in a vain attempt to protect him.

“Don’t. You. Dare.” Buggy growls out in the sudden silence of the battlefield. “Touch Captain Roger’s son.”

He’s standing between the Mad Dog of the Marine and his prey, magma fists blocked bare handed even as his entire frame shakes ( fear, adrenaline, pure unadulterated terror, what the fuck is he doing what the fuck was he thinking) , still clad in his prison uniform, two pistols and three knives he’d scavenged somewhere as his only weapons, and the Universe blinks.

“Firefist. Take the moron and get out of here” He hisses even as he gathers Haki into his lower body.

Said lower half rockets away from him and collides with the Admiral’s crotch with enough force to send him flying to another part of the battlefield.

“Are you deaf?” He barks at Firefist. “Get the fuck out of here! Do you have any idea how fucking annoying Shanks will be if something happens to the brat?”

Focus on Shanks. Being angry at the damn red-head is good, is familiar, and will keep the freak-out at bay once he realizes fully just what he has done.

Behind him, Firefist finally unfreezes, and Jinbei and Ivankov are rushing towards them too, but Buggy ignores them, keeping an eye out for his surrounding. Observation Haki, rough with disuse, tries to make sense of the damn battlefield.

Whitebeard’s commanders are mobilizing again, half remaining to guard their siblings’ backs while they retreat to their ships following Newgate’s last order, while the rest, led by a livid Phoenix, engages the remaining Admirals and Vice-Admirals. Whitebeard himself is still standing tall, an immovable wall between the marines and his precious children. Buggy’s merry band of prisoners is still gaping at him, but the smarter ones have started to regroup by the ships.

Buggy inhales.

Whitebeard is going to die on this battlefield. He knows it, his crew knows it, the marines know it.

Buggy had never liked the man. Respected his strength, yes, he would have to be the highest moron not to, but he had never understood his disregard for treasure and fame.

(Whitebeard also kept making fun of his nose, the asshole!)

But Buggy had also never understood Captain Roger’s love of adventure, and Newgate had been Roger’s friend and Rival, the last great captain of that Era, and his death would cause a great ripple around the oceans.

Behind him, Firefist is running, Strawhat in his arms, protected by Jinbei, Vista and Ivankov.

Buggy exhales. His lower half finally rejoins his upper half. Sengoku is sitting on Garp, who looks ready to join the Phoenix and the others in trying to separate Akainu’s head from his shoulders.

“Red-Nose.”

“What do you want, old bastard?” He retorts angrily, glaring at the strongest man in the world.

“You saved my precious son. Thank you.”

“I didn’t do it for you!” Buggy bristles, and it’s true. “I didn’t want to have to deal with stupid Shanks’ reaction if something happened to his damn Strawhat!”

And maybe that’s part of it, but Buggy remembers Roger standing between him and Shiki when the other pirate had been about to cut him in two, long before he got his devil fruit. And maybe Firefist hates Captain Roger, maybe he truly considers Whitebeard his father, but the boy is Captain’s son and while Buggy is many things (a liar a coward a greedy fool a doublecrosser) he is still a Roger Kaizoku, and always will be, no matter how long it has been since the Oro Jackson last took to the seas, no matter how much he used to disagree with Captain Roger’s ideals.

When Shanks shows up after everything is said and done, after Whitebeard dies standing and Blackbeard the backstabber somehow manages to steal his power, and stops the war in its track, forcing the marines to allow the pirates to collect their dead, Buggy punches him in the face with a haki reinforced punch.

Where the fuck were you? He wants to yell. Any of you? What happened to the great crew of the pirate King, to those who traveled the world and reached Raftel? What happened to those who once held the same dream as Captain Roger, that they fell apart after his death?

“You’re late, you red-headed menace!” He yells instead. “And your protégé is a bloody lunatic!”

“Maa, maa Buggy, I had to put little Kaido back in his place before he plundered Newgate’s territory, and he’s a persistent little brat, I’ll give him that. Besides,” he adds, giving him a knowing look “I knew you had things well in hand. Quite literally, or so I heard. Old Man Rayleigh will be proud to know that his teachings held true despite the years.”

“Old man Rayleigh can kiss my ass!” Buggy snarls, and Shanks’ eyes widen as he notices that, for the first time since their captain’s execution was announced, Buggy is more than just angry. He is furious, a cold and contained fury that few would believe him capable of.

“The Law brat tok your brat and Captain’s brat on his sub, I’ve got no clue where they’ll be going.” Buggy says calmly, too calmly. “And I’ll be going now. Have fun dealing with this mess.”

He turns around to leave, to join his fellow prisoners on the battleship that they’ve commandeered in the chaos following Newgate’s death and Shanks’s arrival.

“Buggy.”

It’s Shanks, and he sounds… tired, and sad, and more serious than Buggy wants to remember him ever being.

“Thank you.” He says quietly, so quietly that Buggy is the only one to hear it. “Same place as last time, three weeks from now? I’ll bring the booze.”

Buggy pauses.

“Alright. Fair warning, Shanks. Any of the others show up, I’ll be asking for answers.”

“As will I.”

Three weeks later, Buggy makes his way to a small, anonymous island in East Blue, not too far away from Loguetown, an island he hasn’t set foot on in over twenty years, ever since the Roger Kaizoku had gathered there for one last send-off.

They hadn’t even gotten to give their captain’s body the farewell he’d deserved. The marines had destroyed it, scattering even his ashes to prevent anyone from finding them.

Buggy knows very well that this is why Shanks insisted on allowing Whitebeard’s people to take the old man’s body with them.

When he arrives on the island, Shanks is already there waiting for him, early for the first time in his entire life. They’re a day early, both of them, but odds are the others might show up before the night is over. Or they might not. Buggy doesn’t even pretend to know how they think anymore. And he isn’t quite sure how he feels about that.

“Buggy.”

“Shanks.”

He’s too tired, too weary to play their usual game of cat and mouse, and he takes a long gulp from the offered bottle before sitting down on the cliff’s edge, next to the redhead.

“How have you been?” Shanks asks, and Buggy wants to snort, because really? but doesn’t.

He shrugs instead. “Busy. My crew basically decupled, even after most of the former prisoners went their own way. I expect at least half of the remaining ones to leave before the month is up - the marines have been on our asses like hemoroïds.”

“That’s what happen when you prevent the execution of the Pirate King’s son on live TV.”

Buggy groans. “Don’t remind me. Have you seen these blasted articles? Half of them are accusing me of playing the fool until now, and the rest of only saving the kid because he might have some intel about Raftel! Raftel! Morons! Does no one remembers that we were there when Captain set found on bloody Raftel?!”

“Captain did his best to keep us cabin-boys from the limelight, remember?” Shanks reminded him.

“Yeah, and he was a moron too!”

“And that’s the other reason many have trouble understanding why you stood up for Ace. You never made it a secret that you didn’t have a very high opinion of Captain Roger’s goals.”

These words, coming from Shanks , hurt a lot more than expected, and Buggy gulps down the ret of his bottle before grabbing the next.

“Captain and I had our differences of opinions” He says flatly, trying to keep the hurt and betrayal out of his voice. “But he was still my Captain. Ore wa Roger Kaizokudesu , Shanks. That used to mean something, once. Didn’t it? Is it so hard to believe that it still means something to me?”

Buggy…”

“No!” Buggy’s voice does not stutter as he interrupts the Yonko. “You do not get to accuse me of betraying my Captain and then brush it off as a joke, Akagami no Shanks. My goals have always differed from his, but he was my Captain, and as long as he was that didn’t matter. He knew I wasn’t in it for the same reasons as he was, and he accepted me in his crew nonetheless. I may not have shared his ideals and his dreams, but I respected them, admired them despite that. I used to wish that I could believe like he did, that adventures and nakamas were all we needed in this world. But just as I started to see things his way, he disbanded the crew, disappeared for two months, then gave himself up to the marines. And everything fell apart. Everyone left, went their own way, and maybe it was naïve of me to believe that they would at least try to stay in touch, to reach out, but I did. And they never did. We were still kids, still fucking kids, and he was the closest thing either of us had to a fucking parent, and they left us hanging.”

He takes a swig of the bottle by his side, still facing the sea rather than the man beside him.

“So no, I’m never going to put my dreams in adventures and friends and family. I’ve learned my lesson. At least treasures and money have never betrayed me when I needed them the most. Do you remember how it felt, Shanks? Not even fourteen years old, barely even fifteen in your case, being thrust into the world on your own after losing the center of your universe? Of course you do. That’s why you never took that Strawhat kid of yours on the Red Force. Becaue he was just a kid and had no idea what he was really getting himself into. He still doesn’t, though I hope Marineford was a wake-up call for him.”

“You tried to kill him in Loguetown. On the same platform they killed Captain Roger on.”

Buggy laughs. It sounds hollow in the increasing darkness.

“Did I? Tell me, Akagami no Shanks, Emperor of the New World. Have I ever deliberately killed anyone younger than twenty-five?”

Shanks freezes, and Buggy laughs again. Even Shanks hadn’t bothered to look beneath Buggy’s surface, and it hurts more than it should.

“The one they call the Supernova? I met them all at some point, when they started out. I ‘tried’ to kill them. Them and all the others. Some gave up, some didn’t. Some won, and some I let go. All of them learned a valuable lesson. Someone had to make sure they knew what they were getting themselves into before they got themselves killed. And damned if I was going to let them find out the same way I did.”

He takes another swig, frowns at the empty bottle and grabs another.

“You want to know why I mostly stayed in East Blue, Shanks? I stayed there because I learned the hard way that I’m not like the rest of you. I’m not strong enough to keep my crew alive out there. So I’m not going to risk it. I might not believe in that ‘nakama are family’ crap, but they’re my responsibility. And contrary to others, I’m not going to abandon them.”

He stands up, turns around and starts to walk away.

“It was nice to see you, Akagami, but I’ve got to get back to my crew and make sure they’re going to survive the shit-fest I landed them into. Give my greetings to the others when they have the decency to show themselves instead of eavesdropping like naughty cabin-boys.”

He leaves with these words, ignoring the wince that shot through his fellow former cabin brat at the iting tone. Shanks doesn’t try to stop him, though, and neither do the others he can sense hidden in the trees.

#stereden writes #one piece #fanfiction #buggy the clown #marineford AU #Roger Kaizoku #competent!Buggy the clown #bitter!Buggy #with good reasons #Shanks #akagami no shanks

[furederiko]

Time is of the essence here! That's why we shouldn't waste another day, and hurry ourselves for the recap-view of Kyuranger episode 25!!!

- Why is the Horologium Kyu Globe so important? According to Tsurugi, it governs TIME throughout the Kyuranger's universe. With said ability, it will enable the team to travel back in time and figure out what truly happened in the previous fight against Don Armage. Basically, it's the most powerful Kyu Globe of all, right? - As shown in the preview, this episode also serves as a Kotarou focus episode. And it doesn't waste time to get into that side as well, as the young boy immediately shares to his big bro Stinger about his desire to see a special person from the past: his mother Akemi Sakuma (played by Mizuho Hata, who previously portrayed Mugi Grafton... a.k.a. the third former yellow in this show!). He reveals that she had passed away not long after his little brother Jirou was born... Aaaaaaaw -_-. Dang it, do we really have to start an episode in such a melancholic way? Even Stinger is on the verge of breaking down... NOTE: For the record, Kotarou's mother is never addressed by her actual name throughout the episode. Her name Akemi is featured in the credit, thus I'll be using that for convenience purposes. - Remember the closing bit of episode 24, with Spada and Raptor alerting the ORION to follow them to Planet Tocky as soon as possible? Is it because Tecchu has already arrived and is attacking them? Not really. The 'distress call' was more about solving the planet's peculiar 'system'. Which is where this episode gets really NEAT. NOTE: Starting this episode, I'll be writing the name of the Rebellion spaceship in all capitals. Just to further separate it from Tsurugi's comrade Olion, the other survivor of the legendary battle in the past. Beside, I just found out that 'ORION' actually stands for 'Offensive Resistance Interstellar Orbiter of RebellioN'. Yes, took me 25 episodes to land on that information! LOL. - Apparently, the flat-shaped planet contains 12 keys placed in 12 different, clock-wise locations. Basically, it's a giant CLOCK when observed directly from above the ground. These levers need to be activated within 30 minutes from one another, in order to make it work and bring out the hidden Horologium Kyu Globe. Failing to set them up on time, means restarting from scratch. Yes, as if borrowing that pesky time-based puzzles from the "Tomb Raider" rule book! Clearly Spada and Raptor alone are TOO shorthanded to get this job done. No way they can each trigger 6 keys in time. Hence they have no choice but to call on the other members! Fun fact: Horologium is the Pendulum Constellation, which is usually depicted in form of a giant clock. The planet's name Tocky/Toki, is clearly derived from the Japanese word 'Toki', that literally means 'Time/Hour'. As a verb, the word 'Toku' also means 'To Solve/Untie', which itself plays out as a nice pun for this episode's clock-themed contraption. Over-Time might be using Tocky as their choice of translation, as a reference to 'Tick-Tock', the onomatopoeia or sound produced by a pendulum clock. - Each Kyuranger departs towards their respective hand number, which is a truly neat little touch. So Lucky goes to #1, Stinger to #2, Spada to #9, Kotarou to #11, and so on. Unfortunately, things might not be as easy as it seems. How so? Because specters from their past/memory begin materializing to confront/distract them from their goal. Sort of like mini-bosses, if you prefer to compare it to video games. - And they are? In order of appearances: Eridrone for Lucky, Scorpio for Stinger, Gonessy for Hammy, original Madako for Spada, Kuervo for Tsurugi, Supreme Commander Big Bear for Commander Xiao, Virgo-Garu for Garu, Naga for Balance, Professor Anton for Champ, Otome game-esque Suitors for Raptor (nope, NOT kidding XD), and last but not least... Akemi for Kotarou. The last one shouldn't be a surprise, considering the boy was indeed thinking about her just before they arrived on the planet. - Before we proceed, let's do a quick analysis. There are THREE type of 'Memories' that come into play in these scenes. Pure comic-reliefs, in the case of Garu and Raptor. Clear cut antagonists, like the case of Lucky and Stinger. And the third is important/precious people of the past, like what's happening with Xiao and Kotarou. Some intersect one another. Intriguingly, there are TWO specters that are acting... somewhat oddly out of character: Prof. Anton, and also Kuervo! We know that both should've been allies, yet they end up attacking Champ and Tsurugi as if... they are antagonists. I know this might not mean much, and it can very well be a plot inconsistency at best. On the other hand, I also can't help but wonder if it's actually... foreshadowing about future developments? Just think about it. Perhaps, one of them (particularly the latter) might have been the true face of Don Armage all along? Hmmmm.... - Leo Red, Scorpius Orange, and Chamaeleon Green are the first to eliminate their obstacles. The others begin to follow suit one by one, through various kind of difficulties. For example, while Balance pretty much gets to his key without ANY resistance, Dorado Yellow is having tough luck due to Madako's regenerating ability. Ouch!!! To make things worse, Tecchu sends out another actual clone of the Octopus assassin. Precisely, Otaku-Madako (the version that I think is everyone's instant favorite... LOL) to basically 'annoy' the team with her... devoted love for Moe-Hammy (and later the whole team). How on Earth Tecchu was able to obtain her body part, is beyond me. But that can't even be compared to Naga, when it is revealed that NOBODY showed up in front of him. It's a personal heart-breaking situation for him, who immediately wonders if his lack of heart is the cause to that. This one's clearly foreshadowing to what's going to happen to him... soon. Which once again... brings the case of Prof. Anton and Kuervo into question. - Kotarou is having a different kind of dilemma on his own. He can't turn on the key, because that means his mother is going to be gone again! Aaaaawww. I think anyone who has a heart, would have no trouble relating to this situation. I mean, what will you do if you're given another opportunity to spend a second chance with the loved ones you've lost, right? Tsurugi notices this, and his response is admirable. He's leaving the decision in Kotarou's hands. And boy oh boy, not only Kotarou steps it up by fully understanding what he must do, he also proves his strong resolution for it. Seriously, Kotarou might be the youngest member of the team, but he is certainly one of the stronger (if not THE strongest) character in this show. He might be small, but what a big heart indeed! And it helps that his actor truly sells it organically. As I've said over and over again, this boy is going to be HUGE moving forward! - Time for a 12-members transformation and roll call scene then! Yep... it might be a tad long (from 14:25 to 15:29), but also as grandiose and thrilling as one would expect. I personally love how it shows a close up shot from both side of Reds. Really stylish! Moreso, to think that it's already happening in episode 25 when previous seasons saved it for the last few episodes, only makes me wonder: what else will Kyuranger have in store for its second half?!! NOTE: For comparison sake, Kyoryuger waited until episode 39 to debut their glorious all 10-members transformation scene. While Zyuohger saved its 7-members transformation until episode 45. - The team is then separated into two. First half (Reds, Orange, Black, Green, and SkyBlue) deals with Tecchu. While the second (Commander, Blue, BN Thieves, Pink, and Yellow) sends Otaku-Madako back to where she truly belongs... the Comicket. Ahahahaha. And then everyone join hands to put down Tecchu for good, with their "Ultimate All Star Crash!". WHAT. A. COOL. FINISHER! All the while, Akemi watches as her son gallantly fights as savior for the universe. She might not be real, but I'm sure she's feeling really proud nonetheless. - Of course, why stop right there, eh? The great Kyutamajin is summoned, and this time around, EVERYONE gets to be brought onboard. Yes... just the way it's supposed to. And yes, it's undoubtedly a glorious and exciting sequence that would make any Super Sentai fans geek out and lose all sense of sanity. Just look at how those Kyu Globes light up, while their pilots can be seen behind them. STUNNING! The formation is 'effective' now, as different limbs can perform even stronger feat thanks to each cluster governing them. The Kyu Globes can also detach to their own Voyagers to give air support. Don't forget its over-powered "Ultimate Meteor Break! Super Galaxy!" finisher move. Suffice to say, this is one great mecha battle! Definitely the best one that the show has delivered so far. Farewell Tecchu, we barely knew ye... - We got our thrills, and a heavy share of amazing action... so it's time to end the episode, in a sentimental note. Yes, Kotarou needs to turn his key as the last piece of the contraption. Which means... it's goodbye time. His mom entrusts her eldest son to the team, asking them to watch over him. At this moment, I'm sure all the mellow-hearted audience (like yours truly) is beginning to lose their ability to hold back the tears. Rightfully so, because it's nothing short of a moving scene. Dang it, first Stinger and now Kotarou. Why does this season keep on giving us all these feels? - Horologium Kyu Globe is finally obtained, so what's next? Discovering the truth. It won't be easy though, because Don Armage has decided to send out... not one, but BOTH of his remaining Vice-Shoguns, Kukuruga and Akenba. Looks like dark times are about to loom over the Kyurangers fairly soon...

Overall: This was the kind of episode that made Kyuranger such a fun show to follow. It had great action, thrilling spectacle, the right amount of humor, but more importantly, it had heart. It boldly showed why a large set of characters just simply works. But at the same time, it still managed to include a powerful heart-tugging moment for the youngest member of the team. Whom, in case you forget, also serves as the surrogate for its intended audience. I came expecting this episode to be a total tearjerker fest, but I got a rollercoaster of emotion instead. That's wonderful! Also, this episode was all kind of smart. Debuting a Clock-themed Kyu Globe as some kind of celebration to having 12-members (who can represent each number)... was undeniably brilliant. Yes, it could've been more 'perfect' had it took place in episode 24 (get it? 24 hours?), but we know the circumstances that prevented one (remember those Golf delays that happened twice?). So it's an amazing feat nonetheless! Interestingly, and I've repeatedly said this before: we're only at the halfway point of the show (coincidentally, only around 48 out of 90-plus Kyu Globes -around half- have been used in the show/movie until now). Yet it feels like so many things have happened! Naturally, the major question would be: what more can we expect from this show? I guess we'll just have to continue tuning in and find out... Next week: Is having emotions truly a good thing? Go ask Naga about it...

Episode 25 Score: 8,3 out of 10

Visit THIS LINK to view a continuously updated listing of the Kyutama / Kyu Globes. Last Updated: August 15th, 2017 - Version 2.10. (WARNING: It might contain spoilers for future episodes)

All images are screencaptured from the series, provided by the FanSubber Over-Time. "Uchu Sentai Kyuranger" is produced by TOEI, and airs every Sunday on TV-Asahi. Credits and copyrights belong to their respective owners.

#tokusatsu #SuperSentai #kyuranger #uchu sentai kyuranger #uchuu sentai kyuranger #review #melancholymoments #inspiration #awesome

[iris-sistibly]

4R’s: Encantadia Season 2 (April 10, 2017 episode review)

Iris-message: As announced by GMA Encantadia on Twitter, we’re only going to have three episodes this week, so the week-ender episode will definitely be on Wednesday, as you all know it’s lenten, and Holy Thursday, Good Friday and Black Saturday will be our time to reflect and re-connect with our own Emre, our beloved God. Fam bam and I are prolly gonna do the usual stuff, Visita Iglesia, Station of the cross, the usual stuff, and I would most probably re-watch the Ten Commandments because I love that movie so much or the Prince of Egypt maybe. So in advance, may our long weekend be a meaningful one!

Episode 191

Recap:

How to fake it

Ybrahim started to throw a shade at Avria, Hagorn and Asval, but before this turns into a nasty, deadly match, Alena “humbled” herself and apologized on Ybrahim’s behalf. The peace talk continued, with Danaya trying to convince Avria that they have really come for peace. To be able to do that, Avria demanded to surrender all of the gems in their possession to her. Danaya assured that they aren’t going to use the gems against them, but Avria did not believe, she is fully aware that the diwatas do not trust her and vice versa. Avria ended the talk and told them to meet her in the battle field but Danaya stopped her and finally gave her what she wanted—the brilyante ng lupa. Ybrahim strongly opposed but Danaya stood firm on her decision and handed the gem over to Avria, but the latter also demanded for the remaining gems, Alena was ready to surrender hers if Avria vows not to hurt any encantado, and stop their evil schemes against Lireo in general, Avria told her she will think it over and did not get the water gem, at this point, Avria was convinced that Danaya was “sincere” of her desire for peace, the talk ended successfully.

Hearing the news about Alena, Danaya and Ybrahim going to Etheria to bargain made Pao Pao, Muyak and Ariana worried. Pao Pao knew Avria won’t settle for peace unless the sang’gres hand over the gems to her. The monarchs returned to Lireo, everyone was waiting for Danaya to spread the news. Rehav Manik assured that the Punjabwes are going to fight on their side, but Danaya told everyone that no war is going to take place, for she has surrendered the earth gem to Avria and this made the Etherian queen agree for a ceasefire. Though the talk was a success, Ybrahim was still worried, everyone knows that Etherians will never keep their promise and feared for that day when they will all be mercilessly killed. This had everyone worried as well, Alena shut Ybrahim and everyone up and asked the rest except the monarchs to leave them for awhile. Now that only Danaya, Alena, Imaw and Ybrahim were left, it was now time to tell the truth, Alena made a shield out of her water gem to make sure no one else will hear, Danaya revealed that she created an exact replica of her earth gem and the fake one was handed over to Avria, she also made sure that the replica works just like the real earth gem to make Avria believe that it is really Danaya’s brilyante. Ybrahim apologized and commended Danaya for coming up with that scheme, but he knew Avria is going to discover the truth eventually, Danaya could only hope by the time it happens, Emre and Cassiopeia has already succeeded with their mission.

To make him smile again

Ybrahim was studying the map of Encantadia, apparently he still wanted to seek revenge on Etheria, Ariana found him and told him how relieved she was that he made it back safely, Ybrahim asked her why, Ariana bluffed and told him that she doesn’t want him to get hurt but it only made Ybrahim ask more questions, Ariana and Ybrahim would have been placed in another awkward moment if Alena didn’t come, Ybrahim excused himself and told Ariana to call it a night. Alena had the chance to talk to Ariana, she had been listening to her conversation with Ybrahim and decided to confront the Punjabwe-a, Alena asked Ariana if she was in-love with Ybrahim, and although Ariana gave her an indirect answer, Alena knew she harbors feelings for the king. Alena is the most sensitive and observant among the sisters thus she knew that Ariana feels something for Ybrahim from the way she looks at him, to the way she acts towards him. Ariana apologized and made it clear that she doesn’t have any plans on stealing him from Alena, but Alena told her that everything between her and Ybrahim has long been ended, and all she ever wants is for him to be happy, thus Alena asked Ariana to make him fall in-love with her, Ybrahim has been through so much pain and Alena wants to see the man she once loved smile again, and the key she believes is Ariana.

The golden hourglass

Amarro and Lila Sari did not hesitate to reveal where Avria got her powers from, but Pirena already knew that and wanted to know where her army came from instead. Amarro and Lila Sari told her about the golden hourglass that Avria used along with the gems to help Etherians travel to the present time. The hourglass is a powerful tool that makes anyone travel from one timeline to another (or turn back time), Pirena became interested at this in hopes to turn back to the time when Mira needed her help the most, unfortunately, only Avria knows where it is. Pirena immediately came up with a plan but before leaving, she told Lila Sari and Amarro that Deshna is in Adjantao, a place Hagorn chose to hide the child. It was a lie, and Pirena had to do it because she’s still going to use her sister against Hagorn.

Meanwhile in Etheria, Hagorn suspected something about Danaya surrendering the earth gem wasn’t right, Asval set those thoughts aside but Hagorn has a point, the sang’gres aren’t stupid to hand over the gems without coming up with a plan. Asval’s suspicions rose, a Hathor came and whispered something to Hagorn, he left Asval who was still pondering over Hagorn’s words. Asval went to Avria and told her his doubts, to be able to confirm, Avria tested the gem out, it unleashed power, something that fake ones can’t. Avria was very certain she has the real earth gem.

The former king of Hathoria found out that Pirena was outside the Etherian palace, Pirena immediately asked Hagorn a favor to help her, Pirena wanted to enter the palace without anyone noticing. At first, Hagorn did not want to but Pirena threatened to tell Lila Sari where Deshna is which forced Hagorn to grant her request. Pirena made it inside, Hagorn warned her that he will be the one to punish her in case she gets caught. Pirena thanked her father and proceeded with her plan.

Rave/s:

💚 YES ALENA! Out of everything she has done, I think that one thing that makes me really proud of her character is that she has finally moved on (take note of the word, “MINSAN”) she has been through a lot of pain, she made mistakes in the past but in the end, she did not let her anger take control of her, she has grown so much from being a pabebe sang’gre, to a vengeful mother, to a confidently beautiful woman with a heart, and I couldn’t be more proud as an encantadik, I think she has the most beautiful character transition out of all other characters, her heart was once her Achilles’ heel, but look at her now! And I love how Gabbi is portraying the character these past few weeks, although it took a really long time, but I really have to say that she succeeded on merging her own personality with Alena’s. She has finally connected with her character, she herself witnessed everything Alena went through and this led her to finally understand and dig deeper into the character, and for that I am truly, genuinely proud of Gabbi. If I could hug Alena right now I swear I will do it and I’ll tell her how she makes me proud every single day, I hope everyone feels the same, every Alena fan, every AleBarro/YbraLena fan, every GabRu fan, let Alena be, because nothing is more satisfying than knowing your self-worth. Nothing is more awesome than to finally tell yourself that, “Finally, it’s over.” She chose to be free and she got it, now all I want is for her to find that true happiness and get that one precious thing she always wanted, someone who can give her the love she has been searching. Kebs na kung beauty and the Beast ang peg, let’s give AleMemfes a chance. Let’s give Gabbi a chance to prove that she is the next ultimate leading lady! Wish you luck Gab and Lance!

💛 DAYUM DANAYA YOU DA QUEEN! I love how this show redeemed itself from their “unacceptable” episodes for the past two weeks, the battle of who’s smarter, who’s better is definitely on! Love you queen, this show is finally telling everyone that it is not only Pirena who knows how to think.

🌷 Because I love this week-starter in general, I’m not gonna rant about anything. Y’all probably know that I’m still gonna shoot fires at Arra’s performance, BUT, I decided not to do that because I don’t wanna break my own bubble and lash out at Arra [again], I felt like I’m already getting used to her shitty performance, or maybe I’m not in the mood? Whatever!  Acting-wise I am still uncertain and unconvinced that Arra deserves the role, but narrative-wise this is how it should be. Set aside all of your anger towards Ariana and focus on the story itself, remember Amihan’s sarkosi is inside Ariana’s body so technically Ariana is still Amihan, although her characterization is inconsistent as fuck, I would still go for this route but I do NOT agree with the making Ybrahim fall for Ariana part, I mean sure they feel some sort of connection with each other, but I would rather let them discover and realize their feelings for each other in a slow-burn kind of way than “forcing themselves to each other,” god! Amihan will never do such thing even if she loves her man so much. Duh. So you know, I’ve been really, really ranting about Arra and Ariana lately, and it’s no surprise to you guys, but you see, I’m already fed up at making the same old comments all over again, I feel like it’s pathetic how I’m stressing myself over an actress whom I’m not sure if she can really act. I had the chance to go over my previous reviews from last week and last, last week, and I just realized that rooting for Arra is just…pointless, and me ranting endlessly about her wouldn’t change the fact that they chose her to play the character, I mean they already chose her so they gotta stand up on their decision, panindigan nila ‘yan. Now before you react, let me just make myself clear, I’M TIRED AT HATING ON ARIANA, I’m sick at blabbing shits about Arra, and I’m so done at lambasting her story, telling everyone her story should be like this and that. I’VE HAD ENOUGH OKAY? I wanna stop because I have to, I hate being stressed, and Arra is my source of stress, so I have to get her out of my nerves dude, it’s bad for my health! I have come to this point where I am already starting to “accept” that Ruru’s going to do all the hard work for the rest of this whole Ybriana “romance”, and the only thing that’s gonna save Arra’s face in the show is the Amihan/Kylie flash backs, okay, noted. I’m just going to give all the hopeless chances on her, and take note, I repeat, those are “HOPELESS chances,” that means I no longer care, let her do her thing, I’m not expecting anything, period. If she does impress, good, I’ll rave about her, and if not, then I guess I’m just gonna sarcastically thank her forever for annihilating what would have been Amihan’s second shot at life, and until Arra proves me wrong, I am not going to see Ariana and Amihan as one character.

Rant/s:

No rants so far.

I’m really happy at Alena and Danaya’s progresses and I’m not gonna let a few minutes of crap ruin it! Nuh-uh.

Best performer/s for this episode: Gabbi Garcia 🌊

Rating: 9 out of 10💎s

Photo credits: From Twitter: @GMAEncantadia (Encantadia 2016-2017 official twitter acct) @gmanetwork (GMA Network); official website: gmanetwork.com @GMADrama (GMA Drama)

From Facebook: Encantadia 2016; official website: encantadia.com.ph

Video credits: GMA Network via YouTube & dailymotion

#tv series #encantadia #encantadiapanalangin #pirena #ybrahim #ybriana #ybramihan #4Rs

[seanmalatesta]

How Did We End Up with So Many Meetings?

A History of Distrust and Micromanagement

Meetings are a necessity. Meetings also often stink. Typically, they are a waste of time. There are too many meetings—and most of them are often poorly-organized, lack coherent agendas, serve to do little more than reaffirm hierarchies than achieve results. As a result, poorly-run meetings cost companies $37 billion a year in lost productivity. Employees (including 65 percent of managers) say meetings keep them from getting work done, and job dissatisfaction increases exponentially.

Yet we spend more time than ever holding and attending meetings. The average executive spends 23 hours a week in meetings, more than double the time spent in the 1960s, according to University of North Carolina Charlotte Professor Cliff W. Scott. Thanks to the slow-but-steady embrace of telecommuting, advancements in technology that make it easier to hold meetings anywhere, and our nation’s longstanding myth that working harder and longer yields better results, we continue to drown in meetings.

So why do we have so many meetings? Thank the legacy of management scientists whose efforts did more to foster micromanagement and distrust than make workplaces more efficient. Add in the reality that workplaces are poorly-structured to achieve results, and there is little wonder why meetings rarely get the job done.

A legacy of distrust

Until the early 20th century, few Americans ever attended a work meeting. Sure, you would have attended a town hall or school board meeting if you lived in a small town. But in general, the only people attending meetings on any regular basis were politicians and the men who owned and ran corporations. Even for the latter, those were likely rare.

Then came Frederick Winslow Taylor and his concept of scientific management. Driven as much by distrust of workers and disdain for expertise and specialization as by the legitimate need to make it easier to bring millions of unskilled men to efficiently pump out more products, Taylor and his disciples thought micromanaging employees (and the underlying belief in centralized planning) was as critical to making workplaces efficient as the motion studies they used to set production quotas.

This meant requiring workers to punch time clocks in order to track how long they worked, and corporate bureaucracies that included workers reporting to several supervisors who tracked the assembly line (as well as each other). By the mid-20th century, this micromanagement spread into white-collar fields such as law through practices such as billable hours, under which partners and associates jot down every little thing they do during the workday.

“ Meetings are a necessity. Meetings also often stink.

—RISHAWN BIDDLE

Meetings became part of that micromanagement impulse. How can you trust your staff to do their jobs if you aren’t regularly conferring with them? Thus came the shop floor meetings where foremen grunted out orders, meetings up on the floors above where vice presidents dictated to mid-level managers, and meetings in the corporate suite where CEOs checked on everyone while crafting five-year plans. Over time, even more meetings, from those for crafting vision statements to those dreaded performance reviews, became the norm.

As the Soviet Union and many a once-powerful industrial giant found out, the micromanaging turned out to be ineffective and wasteful, especially as knowledge-based work with an emphasis in expertise and specialization became the norm. As gurus such as Peter Drucker and Nan Russell point out, trust is critical to the success of institutions.

Yet the distrust promoted by Taylor remains a specter in many workplaces – especially in the form of the endless meetings that remain the norm. As with cubicles and open floor plans, scheduling meetings often end up being more about command and control than about getting work done.

When meetings don’t work

But it isn’t just about the glut of meetings. It is also about how they are structured. As with the drive-bys and interruptions that make it difficult for you and your colleagues to do your best work, poorly-organized meetings are another way in which workplaces are structured to make innovation, creativity, and teamwork illusory.

Just 17 percent of executives said meetings were productive, according to a survey led by Harvard Business School Professor Leslie A. Perlow. They aren’t alone. Few people think that meetings foster productive teamwork or help them in their individual efforts. The disdain for them often shows up in colleagues showing up late for meetings as well as in those references to Dilbert comic strips about how meetings waste time.

“ As with cubicles and open floor plans, scheduling meetings often end up being more about command and control than about getting work done.

—RISHAWN BIDDLE

Legendary management consultant Williams R. Daniels declared 22 years ago that poorly-structured meetings are signs of bad workplaces. This makes sense. After all, how can teams and colleagues trust each other if something as simple as a meeting agenda cannot be developed beforehand? Poorly-structured meetings waste the precious time you and your colleagues need to do the best work as well as help your institutions succeed in their missions.

A well-structured meeting is actually quite simple to put together. Michael Hyatt has a new book called No Fail Meetings, released today, that packed with ideas how to make meetings more focused, fewer, and shorter. (Buy your copy without delay.) But as with developing Focus Thursdays for uninterrupted work, making sure that meetings are well-structured takes intentional effort. This, of course, starts from the corporate suite and filters all the way down through the enterprise. But each one of us can take steps to both have better meetings when necessary—and fewer of them in the first place.

Why stop at Thursday?

In fact, in a sort of inverse Focus Thursday, Education technology entrepreneur Mattan Griffel suggests that meetings should be limited to one day during the week. That move would not only allow for you and your colleagues to gain uninterrupted time for work, it would even force people to decide whether a meeting is necessary in the first place. In the age of email, Slack, and other forms of communication, not every issue requires a face-to-face or teleconference.

While many organizations couldn’t implement this advice right away, moving toward it would help. More focus time and fewer meetings is a step in the direction of greater productivity and greater job satisfaction.

We will never totally get away from meetings. But we can do a whole lot more with fewer of them, done right.

from Michael Hyatt, Your Virtual Mentor https://ift.tt/2IBB5RV via IFTTT

#IFTTT #Michael Hyatt #Your Virtual Mentor

[flauntpage]

Meet Your 2022 NBA Champions, the Philadelphia 76ers

For our 2017-18 NBA Season Preview, we're doing deep dives on five teams who can beat the Warriors in the next five years—and the players who can push them over the top.

Thanks to Dario Saric, coffee dates are now a game-day ritual among several members of the Philadelphia 76ers. The relatively overlooked sophomore initiated the custom during his rookie season as a way to learn about his new teammates, stay comfortable in a foreign land, and, most importantly, relax.

The 23-year-old was mystified when he first saw to-go cups, a symbol of the behavioral chasm that exists between the United States and Europe. "In Croatia, we have special bars for coffee. We sit there for three, four hours, read the newspaper, talk with each other," Saric tells VICE Sports. "It's not like here where you take your coffee and continue to do your work."

So they'll sit for 45 minutes or an hour and chat about life, women, NBA gossip, and general basketball matters. The American players debate the NFL while soccer is a topic of discussion among those who grew up in other parts of the world. Saric will tease Sixers point guard T.J. McConnell for downing lattes (American milk shakes) instead of a strong cappuccino. Joel Embiid often tags along, more in search of conversation than caffeine.

These excursions won't lead the Sixers to the playoffs, boost their collective three-point percentage, or formulate a scheme that'll eventually help them reign over the NBA. But for a young core that's endured unprecedented failure and numerous setbacks over the past few years, simply setting aside time to have positive bonding experiences may have unquantifiable long-term implications.

"It's one part of growing up in this process," Saric says. "Everything is easier on the court because of that."

On the floor, few players in the NBA possess Saric's size, intelligence, skill, and maniacal work ethi—not just a product of all the cappuccinos. The Sixers have, at times, semi-seriously banned him from the gym to keep him off his legs.

He entered the NBA last season with over half a decade of professional experience already under his belt, where he racked up numerous EuroLeague accolades. A boy surrounded by men, outplaying them at every turn. Chris Babcock, a player development coach for the Sixers since 2013, remembers flying overseas a few years ago to watch Saric play. They were in Belgrade, competing in an environment that can politely be described as psychotic—particularly if you were born in Croatia.

"I was sitting next to one of our Serbian guys and I had no idea what the fans were saying," Babcock says. "He goes 'You don't want to know, but it's not nice to Dario.' The kid was incredibly tough. They lost the game but he played so hard; didn't get distracted by everything that was going on."

On an injury-plagued team that was essentially trying to lose as many games as it could, Saric's initial adjustment to the NBA was bitter. He came over just a few weeks before training camp started and had very little time to get mentally or physically accustomed to the best players in the world. He struggled to finish around the basket, couldn't knock down threes, and was inconsistent when switching onto smaller guards on defense.

It was a chaotic, exhausting experience. Saric's legs weren't there, and his teammates didn't have enough talent and/or experience to lift some of the responsibility that eventually sagged on his shoulders. Saric recorded one of the 50 highest usage percentages in league history among rookies who played at least 2000 minutes (same as Kristaps Porzingis; higher than Karl Malone, Stephon Marbury, and Damian Lillard), and came around to win Rookie of the Month in February and March, when he averaged 18.4 points, 7.0 rebounds, and 3.4 assists per game.

Before the All-Star break, he shot a putrid 52 percent in the restricted area. "Unfortunately, he had to learn through playing," Babcock says. "But really that ended up turning into a strength of his. He got better at quick-ups, pivoting, finishing around the rim both through drives and through his post game."

After the All-Star break, when he became a full-time starter, Saric's field goal percentage in the restricted area jumped up to a far more respectable 60.3 percent, but he still struggled beyond the arc. His three-point percentage sunk below 30 percent, even though most attempts were uncontested and off the catch. Still, there are several reasons to believe this weakness can be corrected.

"It seems like a small distance, but the change from the international three to the NBA three is a pretty hard adjustment, especially in a short amount of time," Babcock says. "He has a good looking shot."

For the most part, the team hasn't tinkered with Saric's form—though they'd still like him to shorten how far he brings the ball back and focus on keeping his arc high—so much as they've instructed him to familiarize himself with the extended distance. It was his primary concern over the summer.

These fans get it. Photo: Bill Streicher-USA TODAY Sports.

Saric will enter his second NBA season in a dramatically different role, and with a useful influx of talent and knowledge around him. If they are healthy, Embiid and Ben Simmons will be Philadelphia's two highest usage options, creating better looks for Saric than he had for most of last year. J.J. Redick can space the floor and Amir Johnson can anchor a bench unit. Rookie guard Markelle Fultz knows how to put the ball in the basket in countless ways. Saric won't be asked to make plays as a primary option. His looks will be more choreographed than random, and a higher percentage of his outside shots will likely come from the corner. His usage will shrink, his efficiency will rise.

But even if Saric makes noticeable strides in year two, Philadelphia isn't even promised a playoff spot, let alone championship contention. Cracking the league's upper crust is more of a long term goal. But if it happens, and Saric is able to transform into an exemplary complement to Simmons and Embiid, the 76ers could ultimately string together a dynastic run of their own, as pioneers of the NBA's next frontier—staying versatile without forfeiting size.

As teams all across the NBA hoard athletic wings who can shoot, defend, and maybe do a little something creative off the bounce, the Sixers are quietly defying convention. Simmons, Saric, and Embiid are all at least 6'10", and each channels several precious qualities that are unusual in players that size. If they can manage to stay on the court without constricting each other's space, and remain stout on the defensive end, the NBA will have never seen a trio quite like it before.

"Embiid can be one of the best guys in the NBA," Saric says. "And for me it's easier when I have Ben, who can share the ball, who can pass [to] me outside for my three pointers. Who can feed me in the low post. With Joel, I can play pick-and-roll. I can pop and he can roll. I can roll and he can pop. There are so many options in the game and I hope I can be an important part. They make it easier to play."

If all goes according to plan, Philly's collective ceiling is a contemporary iteration of the 1986 Boston Celtics, with a gigantic frontcourt that intuitively understands how valuable the pass that leads to an assist truly is. Nobody could stop that, including the Warriors. Unleashing three legitimate post presences that can function simultaneously without stepping on each other's toes? Who force double teams, shoot threes, and guard multiple positions?

Instead of trying to conquer Golden State by using its playing style against them, the Sixers could stay extremely large and subdue them with a contrasting strategy. They could bully them in a slower environment, exert control on the boards, and not feel any pressure to downsize thanks to the rare skill-sets found in their bigs.

Saric epitomizes the advantage. He's a walking mismatch in those jumbo lineups and as a small-ball five. For example, picture him at center, operating in space, with Robert Covington as a stretch four. (According to NBAWowy, last year those lineups outscored opponents by nearly 24 points per 100 possessions in 38 minutes.)

Of course, for it all to work, Saric's aforementioned three-point shot must rise to a respectable level. He has to cut out his sloppy turnovers and become more of an impact defender, particularly on the perimeter.

According to Synergy Sports, Saric allowed opponents to score 1.45 points per possession whenever he switched screens. That number is abysmal—nearly twice as poor as Tristan Thompson, Draymond Green, and Blake Griffin—and ranked dead last among all players who logged at least 25 such possessions.

"He was thrown into our league really quickly without much prep, so as much of it is a physical thing, he's spent a lot of time with our defensive coach Lloyd Pierce, learning different angles, keeping a hand up against guards that can shoot," Babcock says. "We feel that he can guard multiple positions. He did it last year a little bit inconsistently, but he moves his feet well, he's strong and he's smart. With more experience, I think he'll just keep getting better and better."

The Sixers aren't discouraged by any issues Saric had on defense last year, in part because they allowed just 98.7 points per 100 possessions whenever he shared the floor with Embiid, who's essentially a parachute for teammates on the defensive end.

"Sometimes I can try to steal the ball and know I have Joel behind me," Saric says. "And know he can block the shots easy."

Keeping Embiid, Simmons, Fultz, and Saric together for the next five years won't be easy. The 2021-22 season would be the first of Fultz's second contract and the fourth of Embiid's max deal. Saric, Simmons, and Timothé Luwawu-Cabarrot are all extension eligible heading into 2020-21, and the former two could potentially command max deals. (Covington should also be on the books earning significant money.)

Philadelphia has its own first-round pick in the 2018 draft, plus the Los Angeles Lakers selection so long as it doesn't land second, third, fourth, or fifth. These picks will not be cheap. There are worse problems to have, but the Sixers could find themselves making some very difficult financial decisions down the line.

But if they let this core grow together, over coffee and on the court, and use the next few seasons to study the various ways they can play on both ends when Saric shares the floor with Embiid and Simmons, it'll be a revolutionary collection of talent—one that an aging Golden State Warriors squad would struggle to slow down.

Meet Your 2022 NBA Champions, the Philadelphia 76ers published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

[amtushinfosolutionspage]

Meet Your 2022 NBA Champions, the Philadelphia 76ers

For our 2017-18 NBA Season Preview, we’re doing deep dives on five teams who can beat the Warriors in the next five years—and the players who can push them over the top.

Thanks to Dario Saric, coffee dates are now a game-day ritual among several members of the Philadelphia 76ers. The relatively overlooked sophomore initiated the custom during his rookie season as a way to learn about his new teammates, stay comfortable in a foreign land, and, most importantly, relax.

The 23-year-old was mystified when he first saw to-go cups, a symbol of the behavioral chasm that exists between the United States and Europe. “In Croatia, we have special bars for coffee. We sit there for three, four hours, read the newspaper, talk with each other,” Saric tells VICE Sports. “It’s not like here where you take your coffee and continue to do your work.”

So they’ll sit for 45 minutes or an hour and chat about life, women, NBA gossip, and general basketball matters. The American players debate the NFL while soccer is a topic of discussion among those who grew up in other parts of the world. Saric will tease Sixers point guard T.J. McConnell for downing lattes (American milk shakes) instead of a strong cappuccino. Joel Embiid often tags along, more in search of conversation than caffeine.

These excursions won’t lead the Sixers to the playoffs, boost their collective three-point percentage, or formulate a scheme that’ll eventually help them reign over the NBA. But for a young core that’s endured unprecedented failure and numerous setbacks over the past few years, simply setting aside time to have positive bonding experiences may have unquantifiable long-term implications.

“It’s one part of growing up in this process,” Saric says. “Everything is easier on the court because of that.”

On the floor, few players in the NBA possess Saric’s size, intelligence, skill, and maniacal work ethi—not just a product of all the cappuccinos. The Sixers have, at times, semi-seriously banned him from the gym to keep him off his legs.

He entered the NBA last season with over half a decade of professional experience already under his belt, where he racked up numerous EuroLeague accolades. A boy surrounded by men, outplaying them at every turn. Chris Babcock, a player development coach for the Sixers since 2013, remembers flying overseas a few years ago to watch Saric play. They were in Belgrade, competing in an environment that can politely be described as psychotic—particularly if you were born in Croatia.

“I was sitting next to one of our Serbian guys and I had no idea what the fans were saying,” Babcock says. “He goes ‘You don’t want to know, but it’s not nice to Dario.’ The kid was incredibly tough. They lost the game but he played so hard; didn’t get distracted by everything that was going on.”

On an injury-plagued team that was essentially trying to lose as many games as it could, Saric’s initial adjustment to the NBA was bitter. He came over just a few weeks before training camp started and had very little time to get mentally or physically accustomed to the best players in the world. He struggled to finish around the basket, couldn’t knock down threes, and was inconsistent when switching onto smaller guards on defense.

It was a chaotic, exhausting experience. Saric’s legs weren’t there, and his teammates didn’t have enough talent and/or experience to lift some of the responsibility that eventually sagged on his shoulders. Saric recorded one of the 50 highest usage percentages in league history among rookies who played at least 2000 minutes (same as Kristaps Porzingis; higher than Karl Malone, Stephon Marbury, and Damian Lillard), and came around to win Rookie of the Month in February and March, when he averaged 18.4 points, 7.0 rebounds, and 3.4 assists per game.

Before the All-Star break, he shot a putrid 52 percent in the restricted area. “Unfortunately, he had to learn through playing,” Babcock says. “But really that ended up turning into a strength of his. He got better at quick-ups, pivoting, finishing around the rim both through drives and through his post game.”

After the All-Star break, when he became a full-time starter, Saric’s field goal percentage in the restricted area jumped up to a far more respectable 60.3 percent, but he still struggled beyond the arc. His three-point percentage sunk below 30 percent, even though most attempts were uncontested and off the catch. Still, there are several reasons to believe this weakness can be corrected.

“It seems like a small distance, but the change from the international three to the NBA three is a pretty hard adjustment, especially in a short amount of time,” Babcock says. “He has a good looking shot.”

For the most part, the team hasn’t tinkered with Saric’s form—though they’d still like him to shorten how far he brings the ball back and focus on keeping his arc high—so much as they’ve instructed him to familiarize himself with the extended distance. It was his primary concern over the summer.

These fans get it. Photo: Bill Streicher-USA TODAY Sports.

Saric will enter his second NBA season in a dramatically different role, and with a useful influx of talent and knowledge around him. If they are healthy, Embiid and Ben Simmons will be Philadelphia’s two highest usage options, creating better looks for Saric than he had for most of last year. J.J. Redick can space the floor and Amir Johnson can anchor a bench unit. Rookie guard Markelle Fultz knows how to put the ball in the basket in countless ways. Saric won’t be asked to make plays as a primary option. His looks will be more choreographed than random, and a higher percentage of his outside shots will likely come from the corner. His usage will shrink, his efficiency will rise.

But even if Saric makes noticeable strides in year two, Philadelphia isn’t even promised a playoff spot, let alone championship contention. Cracking the league’s upper crust is more of a long term goal. But if it happens, and Saric is able to transform into an exemplary complement to Simmons and Embiid, the 76ers could ultimately string together a dynastic run of their own, as pioneers of the NBA’s next frontier—staying versatile without forfeiting size.

As teams all across the NBA hoard athletic wings who can shoot, defend, and maybe do a little something creative off the bounce, the Sixers are quietly defying convention. Simmons, Saric, and Embiid are all at least 6’10”, and each channels several precious qualities that are unusual in players that size. If they can manage to stay on the court without constricting each other’s space, and remain stout on the defensive end, the NBA will have never seen a trio quite like it before.

“Embiid can be one of the best guys in the NBA,” Saric says. “And for me it’s easier when I have Ben, who can share the ball, who can pass [to] me outside for my three pointers. Who can feed me in the low post. With Joel, I can play pick-and-roll. I can pop and he can roll. I can roll and he can pop. There are so many options in the game and I hope I can be an important part. They make it easier to play.”

If all goes according to plan, Philly’s collective ceiling is a contemporary iteration of the 1986 Boston Celtics, with a gigantic frontcourt that intuitively understands how valuable the pass that leads to an assist truly is. Nobody could stop that, including the Warriors. Unleashing three legitimate post presences that can function simultaneously without stepping on each other’s toes? Who force double teams, shoot threes, and guard multiple positions?

Instead of trying to conquer Golden State by using its playing style against them, the Sixers could stay extremely large and subdue them with a contrasting strategy. They could bully them in a slower environment, exert control on the boards, and not feel any pressure to downsize thanks to the rare skill-sets found in their bigs.

Saric epitomizes the advantage. He’s a walking mismatch in those jumbo lineups and as a small-ball five. For example, picture him at center, operating in space, with Robert Covington as a stretch four. (According to NBAWowy, last year those lineups outscored opponents by nearly 24 points per 100 possessions in 38 minutes.)

Of course, for it all to work, Saric’s aforementioned three-point shot must rise to a respectable level. He has to cut out his sloppy turnovers and become more of an impact defender, particularly on the perimeter.

According to Synergy Sports, Saric allowed opponents to score 1.45 points per possession whenever he switched screens. That number is abysmal—nearly twice as poor as Tristan Thompson, Draymond Green, and Blake Griffin—and ranked dead last among all players who logged at least 25 such possessions.

“He was thrown into our league really quickly without much prep, so as much of it is a physical thing, he’s spent a lot of time with our defensive coach Lloyd Pierce, learning different angles, keeping a hand up against guards that can shoot,” Babcock says. “We feel that he can guard multiple positions. He did it last year a little bit inconsistently, but he moves his feet well, he’s strong and he’s smart. With more experience, I think he’ll just keep getting better and better.”

The Sixers aren’t discouraged by any issues Saric had on defense last year, in part because they allowed just 98.7 points per 100 possessions whenever he shared the floor with Embiid, who’s essentially a parachute for teammates on the defensive end.

“Sometimes I can try to steal the ball and know I have Joel behind me,” Saric says. “And know he can block the shots easy.”

Keeping Embiid, Simmons, Fultz, and Saric together for the next five years won’t be easy. The 2021-22 season would be the first of Fultz’s second contract and the fourth of Embiid’s max deal. Saric, Simmons, and Timothé Luwawu-Cabarrot are all extension eligible heading into 2020-21, and the former two could potentially command max deals. (Covington should also be on the books earning significant money.)

Philadelphia has its own first-round pick in the 2018 draft, plus the Los Angeles Lakers selection so long as it doesn’t land second, third, fourth, or fifth. These picks will not be cheap. There are worse problems to have, but the Sixers could find themselves making some very difficult financial decisions down the line.

But if they let this core grow together, over coffee and on the court, and use the next few seasons to study the various ways they can play on both ends when Saric shares the floor with Embiid and Simmons, it’ll be a revolutionary collection of talent—one that an aging Golden State Warriors squad would struggle to slow down.

Meet Your 2022 NBA Champions, the Philadelphia 76ers syndicated from http://ift.tt/2ug2Ns6

[flauntpage]

Meet Your 2022 NBA Champions, the Philadelphia 76ers

For our 2017-18 NBA Season Preview, we're doing deep dives on five teams who can beat the Warriors in the next five years—and the players who can push them over the top.

Thanks to Dario Saric, coffee dates are now a game-day ritual among several members of the Philadelphia 76ers. The relatively overlooked sophomore initiated the custom during his rookie season as a way to learn about his new teammates, stay comfortable in a foreign land, and, most importantly, relax.

The 23-year-old was mystified when he first saw to-go cups, a symbol of the behavioral chasm that exists between the United States and Europe. "In Croatia, we have special bars for coffee. We sit there for three, four hours, read the newspaper, talk with each other," Saric tells VICE Sports. "It's not like here where you take your coffee and continue to do your work."

So they'll sit for 45 minutes or an hour and chat about life, women, NBA gossip, and general basketball matters. The American players debate the NFL while soccer is a topic of discussion among those who grew up in other parts of the world. Saric will tease Sixers point guard T.J. McConnell for downing lattes (American milk shakes) instead of a strong cappuccino. Joel Embiid often tags along, more in search of conversation than caffeine.

These excursions won't lead the Sixers to the playoffs, boost their collective three-point percentage, or formulate a scheme that'll eventually help them reign over the NBA. But for a young core that's endured unprecedented failure and numerous setbacks over the past few years, simply setting aside time to have positive bonding experiences may have unquantifiable long-term implications.

"It's one part of growing up in this process," Saric says. "Everything is easier on the court because of that."

On the floor, few players in the NBA possess Saric's size, intelligence, skill, and maniacal work ethi—not just a product of all the cappuccinos. The Sixers have, at times, semi-seriously banned him from the gym to keep him off his legs.

He entered the NBA last season with over half a decade of professional experience already under his belt, where he racked up numerous EuroLeague accolades. A boy surrounded by men, outplaying them at every turn. Chris Babcock, a player development coach for the Sixers since 2013, remembers flying overseas a few years ago to watch Saric play. They were in Belgrade, competing in an environment that can politely be described as psychotic—particularly if you were born in Croatia.

"I was sitting next to one of our Serbian guys and I had no idea what the fans were saying," Babcock says. "He goes 'You don't want to know, but it's not nice to Dario.' The kid was incredibly tough. They lost the game but he played so hard; didn't get distracted by everything that was going on."

On an injury-plagued team that was essentially trying to lose as many games as it could, Saric's initial adjustment to the NBA was bitter. He came over just a few weeks before training camp started and had very little time to get mentally or physically accustomed to the best players in the world. He struggled to finish around the basket, couldn't knock down threes, and was inconsistent when switching onto smaller guards on defense.

It was a chaotic, exhausting experience. Saric's legs weren't there, and his teammates didn't have enough talent and/or experience to lift some of the responsibility that eventually sagged on his shoulders. Saric recorded one of the 50 highest usage percentages in league history among rookies who played at least 2000 minutes (same as Kristaps Porzingis; higher than Karl Malone, Stephon Marbury, and Damian Lillard), and came around to win Rookie of the Month in February and March, when he averaged 18.4 points, 7.0 rebounds, and 3.4 assists per game.

Before the All-Star break, he shot a putrid 52 percent in the restricted area. "Unfortunately, he had to learn through playing," Babcock says. "But really that ended up turning into a strength of his. He got better at quick-ups, pivoting, finishing around the rim both through drives and through his post game."

After the All-Star break, when he became a full-time starter, Saric's field goal percentage in the restricted area jumped up to a far more respectable 60.3 percent, but he still struggled beyond the arc. His three-point percentage sunk below 30 percent, even though most attempts were uncontested and off the catch. Still, there are several reasons to believe this weakness can be corrected.

"It seems like a small distance, but the change from the international three to the NBA three is a pretty hard adjustment, especially in a short amount of time," Babcock says. "He has a good looking shot."

For the most part, the team hasn't tinkered with Saric's form—though they'd still like him to shorten how far he brings the ball back and focus on keeping his arc high—so much as they've instructed him to familiarize himself with the extended distance. It was his primary concern over the summer.

These fans get it. Photo: Bill Streicher-USA TODAY Sports.

Saric will enter his second NBA season in a dramatically different role, and with a useful influx of talent and knowledge around him. If they are healthy, Embiid and Ben Simmons will be Philadelphia's two highest usage options, creating better looks for Saric than he had for most of last year. J.J. Redick can space the floor and Amir Johnson can anchor a bench unit. Rookie guard Markelle Fultz knows how to put the ball in the basket in countless ways. Saric won't be asked to make plays as a primary option. His looks will be more choreographed than random, and a higher percentage of his outside shots will likely come from the corner. His usage will shrink, his efficiency will rise.

But even if Saric makes noticeable strides in year two, Philadelphia isn't even promised a playoff spot, let alone championship contention. Cracking the league's upper crust is more of a long term goal. But if it happens, and Saric is able to transform into an exemplary complement to Simmons and Embiid, the 76ers could ultimately string together a dynastic run of their own, as pioneers of the NBA's next frontier—staying versatile without forfeiting size.

As teams all across the NBA hoard athletic wings who can shoot, defend, and maybe do a little something creative off the bounce, the Sixers are quietly defying convention. Simmons, Saric, and Embiid are all at least 6'10", and each channels several precious qualities that are unusual in players that size. If they can manage to stay on the court without constricting each other's space, and remain stout on the defensive end, the NBA will have never seen a trio quite like it before.

"Embiid can be one of the best guys in the NBA," Saric says. "And for me it's easier when I have Ben, who can share the ball, who can pass [to] me outside for my three pointers. Who can feed me in the low post. With Joel, I can play pick-and-roll. I can pop and he can roll. I can roll and he can pop. There are so many options in the game and I hope I can be an important part. They make it easier to play."

If all goes according to plan, Philly's collective ceiling is a contemporary iteration of the 1986 Boston Celtics, with a gigantic frontcourt that intuitively understands how valuable the pass that leads to an assist truly is. Nobody could stop that, including the Warriors. Unleashing three legitimate post presences that can function simultaneously without stepping on each other's toes? Who force double teams, shoot threes, and guard multiple positions?

Instead of trying to conquer Golden State by using its playing style against them, the Sixers could stay extremely large and subdue them with a contrasting strategy. They could bully them in a slower environment, exert control on the boards, and not feel any pressure to downsize thanks to the rare skill-sets found in their bigs.

Saric epitomizes the advantage. He's a walking mismatch in those jumbo lineups and as a small-ball five. For example, picture him at center, operating in space, with Robert Covington as a stretch four. (According to NBAWowy, last year those lineups outscored opponents by nearly 24 points per 100 possessions in 38 minutes.)

Of course, for it all to work, Saric's aforementioned three-point shot must rise to a respectable level. He has to cut out his sloppy turnovers and become more of an impact defender, particularly on the perimeter.

According to Synergy Sports, Saric allowed opponents to score 1.45 points per possession whenever he switched screens. That number is abysmal—nearly twice as poor as Tristan Thompson, Draymond Green, and Blake Griffin—and ranked dead last among all players who logged at least 25 such possessions.

"He was thrown into our league really quickly without much prep, so as much of it is a physical thing, he's spent a lot of time with our defensive coach Lloyd Pierce, learning different angles, keeping a hand up against guards that can shoot," Babcock says. "We feel that he can guard multiple positions. He did it last year a little bit inconsistently, but he moves his feet well, he's strong and he's smart. With more experience, I think he'll just keep getting better and better."

The Sixers aren't discouraged by any issues Saric had on defense last year, in part because they allowed just 98.7 points per 100 possessions whenever he shared the floor with Embiid, who's essentially a parachute for teammates on the defensive end.

"Sometimes I can try to steal the ball and know I have Joel behind me," Saric says. "And know he can block the shots easy."

Keeping Embiid, Simmons, Fultz, and Saric together for the next five years won't be easy. The 2021-22 season would be the first of Fultz's second contract and the fourth of Embiid's max deal. Saric, Simmons, and Timothé Luwawu-Cabarrot are all extension eligible heading into 2020-21, and the former two could potentially command max deals. (Covington should also be on the books earning significant money.)

Philadelphia has its own first-round pick in the 2018 draft, plus the Los Angeles Lakers selection so long as it doesn't land second, third, fourth, or fifth. These picks will not be cheap. There are worse problems to have, but the Sixers could find themselves making some very difficult financial decisions down the line.

But if they let this core grow together, over coffee and on the court, and use the next few seasons to study the various ways they can play on both ends when Saric shares the floor with Embiid and Simmons, it'll be a revolutionary collection of talent—one that an aging Golden State Warriors squad would struggle to slow down.

Meet Your 2022 NBA Champions, the Philadelphia 76ers published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv