#constant hustle comics

[fruitsofhell]

Yall, its time to ramble about visual/environmental storytelling cause this is silly article is driving me insane.

I won't argue for if the game should have had more constant and involved cutscenes like Robobot or Star Allies, but what I will say is that this game is VERY rich in story through the world design. The Forgotten Land as opposed to say the Land of the Sky in TD or the entire galaxy of Star Allies is like, DROWNING in writing and narrative. It builds so much mystery and intrigue through the theming of every world and even individual levels, with exploring both how the people of the land originally lived and how it's being reclaimed by nature and the animals.

I think the closest things maybe is Robobot and Halcandra in RTDL, the former having great little designs that key you into WHAT Haltmann is doing and what makes it so toxic. Halcandra though is the ultimate grand-daddy, the contrast between it and the Lor, and Egg Engines and Dangerous Dinner is full of theming and clues about the nature and history of the planet. AND THAT IS STORY, THAT IS WRITING! Especially when compared to say Star Allies, where most of the levels of the levels are just ye average Kirby themed fluff with little to say about the Jamba or the state they've left the galaxy in. But when you play through the casino levels of Robobot, as well as delightful theming and level design, you see that Haltmann is erecting literally the most predatory entertainment centers imaginable. When you step off the sleek futuristic Lor into the scrapyards and wastes of Halcandra, you get fun intimidating final worlds, and a good grasp on *why* the people who made the Lor aren't around anymore, and may even start questioning why Magolor made such a great fuss of dragging you to this horrible place. Music is also deeply important to this storytelling. Each of the factories/towers erected in ever world of Robobot's theme is a remix usually of themes related to older mechanical levels, subtly clueing you into where Haltmann go their technology from. Outside the Lor rather than the comfortable motif of Green Greens is this almost comically suspicious and disoriented theme once you're stuck on Halcandra and returning to Magolor with more doubts about his words. The final level inside of the volcano house a theme that is teasing the twist to come, and the theme for fighting Landia before the big reveal is less triumphant, and more majestic and pensive. Possibly trying to evoke more hesitance than confidence, even if most people wouldn't catch on to that on a first run.

But the cooler thing, is that while Robobot has this cool theming at key levels, and RtDL does at the end, this type of shit is pervasive ALL throughout Forgotten Land. Every world and nearly every level is a unique, well thought-out set piece! You get to see abandoned towns, cities, malls, stores, factories, resorts, and an amusement park, each which serves as more than just a fun location, but a clear picture of the world and the state its in. This intent is made clearer through the music and tone that goes out of its way to not highlight the destruction of these areas but their beauty, wonder, and mystery through the eyes of an clueless animals and our favorite pink alien. The abandoned Alivel Malls theme is a track as upbeat and peppy as what must've played over it's speakers in it's hayday, because the hustle and bustle breathed back into it by the animals and Kirby just exploring this mysterious complex is just as lively. The theme of the Everbay Coast is peaceful and sunny despite the Holine ruins because it's as part of the scenery to the animals and Kirby as the picturesque palms and sands. And Wondaria!!!!!!!!! OMG WONDARIA WHERE TO EVEN BEGIN WITH EVERY FUCKING LEVEL AND THEME IN WONDARIA!!! THIS IS WHY I CAN'T TAKE THAT CLAIM SERIOUSLY - y'know when I cried at Forgotten Land? In world 3. Not because of a cutscene or a line of dialogue, but just from the sheer emotion the setting evoked in me. The sweet, laid-back, starry-eyed wonder that it expressed from Kirby mixed with my own sense of nostalgia being aware of what that place was, and how beautiful it was to see it rediscovered and adored by Kirby and the animals of the Forgotten Land. It evokes such a strong feeling of bittersweetness, of existential dread comforted by the knowledge that the simple joys and memories we create places like amusement parks to share will continue on as long as there is life in the world. And unlike some of my musings about past games, this was explicitly intentional. What truly brought the tears to my eyes was remembering an interview where the devs were explaining how they were trying to keep the tone light and Kumazaki said specifically they wanted to evoke peace and beauty rather than loss.

LIKE THIS IS WRITING! This is storytelling, this is intention. It's just subtle, but not at all unimportant, and it ties into the more overarching plot. It raises the question constantly of where the people went that is answered by Forgo, and expresses the dichotomy between the simple innocence of the animals compared to the ambitions of the people who abandoned them and that is now possessing their leader. It creates stakes for Elfilis and Forgo's intentions to destroy everything so beautiful and pure about the current world, but as it absolves the current world of guilt, it puts into perspective JUST HOW LONG Forgo must have been locked away that things changed so much. And as softly as the exploits of the original people are portrayed by the game, knowing their treatment of Eliflis and Forgo as a thing of entertainment and tool for innovation is sickening placed in contrast with it. Like back to Wondaria, the way it shows how much space travel must have pervaded the imagination and escapism of the people either before or after Forgo's arrival is insanely smart. And it gives me chills in the best way seeing Kirby run around images of cartoon aliens from a civilization who would never meet him. Of Kirby, Elfilin, and Bandana sticking their head into a cardboard cutout of an astronaut meeting an alien, with the text "wish you were here" above in a script they don't even understand. A SCRIPT THE WRITERS MADE FOR THIS GAME SO THAT THEY COULD ADD MESSAGES LIKE THAT INTO THE WORLD FOR KEEN PLAYERS TO NOTICE AND MAKE CONNECTIONS. Like it's insane. The dedication the Hal Labs has to stuff like this is maddening! It's so sweet and heartfelt and crafty, I'm so pissed off how little respect it gets because people don't understand visual storytelling!!!!! Saying Forgotten Land is light on story is preposterous, it might just be one of the most finely crafted stories the series has had to date, and is just a really solid piece of science fantasy writing in general honestly. It is packed with environmental storytelling that drives me Up The Fucking Wall, Man.

#kirby #kirby and the forgotten land #katfl #elfilis #forgo #kirby lore #shut the heck up #media analysis #GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH (i love kirby) #im in my “writing is more than text” essay warrior era #this is part of me collecting stuff for a bigger essay though :3c i just got so distracted by this take #also i started this cause i though this article was from a bigger outlet than it was #so now i feel like my intensity is unjustified but idrc cause as i said: warrior essay era #OO ALSO I MISSED TALKING ABOUT THE LATER WORLDS #THE CITY IN WINTER HORNS FEELS LIKE A BIOME THE DELAPADATED RESORTS OF WASTES ARE NOW OASES IN A DRIED UP TROPICS- #-AND THE FUCKING CITYSCAPE OF REDGAR FLOODED WITH LAVA IS LIKE ITS OWN PART OF THE MOUNTAIN ITS SO BEAUTIFUL #its a fun twist on the typical final lava world that also gets to do double duty with evil industrial looking shit ARGFDSH so cool #tag talking

[angelkissiies]

open hand or closed fist

joker x reader x bruce

TW : trauma, healing, needles, anxiety, slight betrayal, paranoia, stalking, mention of blood and bruises.

word count : 3060

part 2/?

find part one here

The lights above your bed blinded you as you attempted to focus your vision. It was as if you’d gone blind, the cloudiness persisting despite your efforts. Your body felt heavy as you sat up, wires and tubes twisting up and catching as you finally gained some clarity. It was a hospital room, the sterile smell wafting as you moved around in bed. It was quiet, despite the hustle and bustle of hospital staff from outside.

You glanced around, trying to wrap your head around what was going on. The last thing you could remember was pain, so much of it. Your hand automatically shot to your jaw, which now sat as it did before The Joker had maimed it. You could only assume the doctor had fixed it while you were out, which was refreshing. Your memory had begun to piece together, tracing back to fit in all the pieces of the puzzle which was last night.

“Ah, nice to see you awake!” A chipper voice called from across the room, and as you turned to see who it was- you were met with a familiar face. Angela, your coworker. During the shock of it all, you just happened to forget you worked at gotham general. It was almost comical, until you saw the brief look of disgust cross her face. ”How are you feeling?”

A pang of embarrassment shot through you as you moved your hand to cover your face, playing it off as messing with a few loose strands of hair. “I-im okay.” You mumbled, your jaw preventing you from opening your mouth all the way. Your words were barely audible, but she still seemed to understand as she began to move closer to get a better view of you.

She sat the clipboard down, the table having barely enough room for it. You hadn’t noticed before but there were a couple vases filled with beautiful flowers sitting just about a foot from your bed, as you squinted to get a better view of them- one in particular caught your attention. It was filled with white lilies, which was odd. Yes, they were your favorite flower but nobody knew that. At least you didn't think anyone knew that. You brushed it off as just simply a slip up that you’d forgotten about. Angela was focused on the bags of medicine that hung by your bed, slowly dripping into the IV’s that were connected to every available vein. Both arms and both wrists had needles jammed in, making a rather uncomfortable situation as you attempted to move around.

“Can we take these out?” You asked, holding up both wrists as you took a short glance at the medications being pumped into your body, they weren’t necessary. Painkillers and saline you could live without. As you held out your arms towards the woman, you took note of the bruises bracelting your wrists. They were dark purple and black, the edges having begun to turn a sickly green as you slept. “They’re really uncomfortable.”

Angela nodded, turning the knob on the tubes to stop the medication. She moved to turn off the others before her nimble hands hesitantly reached out for your wrist, her eyes shot a nervous glance your way before gently pulling the needle out. She sat it down on the tray attached to the side of your bed, a couple drops of blood escaped the small wound before she could press a cotton round to it. It barely registered as your mind clouded, every detail from your encounter with The Joker surfacing. It was like a constant reminder of your job, the one thing he had asked you to do. The one thing that would ensure he didn’t kill you next time he summoned an audience with you, in the moment you didn’t realize it, but the way he looked at you made you want to dig your own grave. It wasn’t something you couldn’t describe very well, but there was something behind his eyes that chilled you to the core. It made you think back to the stories you’d been told as a child, the ones where the boogeyman would eat little girls up as they slept unaware in their beds. It all felt too familiar.

“There’s someone here to speak to you,” Angela spoke, snapping you from your thoughts. Her hands had small blood stains on her fingers from touching the needles which were all now sitting grotesquely on the side table. She hugged the clipboard to her body tightly, sparing a sympathetic glance before heading towards the door. “May I send them in?”

You nodded curtly, stretching your wrists out to release the tension they’d gathered. Your entire body felt ridgid, like you’d been frozen and had just begun to defrost. As you waited for your visitor to enter, your eyes settled on the vase of lilies. It stood proudly in the center of the others, no card or indication of where it came from. The other two bouquets held small message cards on sticks woven into their intricate designs, evident that someone had cared enough to go to those lengths to show their support.

“(Y/n)?” It was Bruce. He’d come all this way and it seemed he wasn’t alone. Behind him was Jim Gordon, a lieutenant with the GCPD. You’d met him before, seeing as he frequented the hospital. He usually bit off more than he could chew with some thugs and landed himself in the waiting room with a broken nose. The amount of times you’d stitched the man up evaded you, though it had now bypassed ten. “My god, are you okay?” Bruce looked beyond stressed, his eyes carrying bags that rivaled yours. You could only imagine the anxiety you’d put him through.

“I’m alright.” You spoke, attempting a smile though it didn’t quite register on your face. The air was thick as you looked for the right words to say, there was nothing you could do to comfort his worries as you didn’t even know exactly what he was looking at. You hadn’t had the opportunity to look in a mirror yet, to see the injuries you had sustained. Your imagination went wild with the horrendous possibilities of how maimed you'd become. A monstrous anxiety loomed over you as your hands clenched onto the hospital blankets. You’d become well acquainted with the man over the past few months, to see how you’d caused him such disarray was comforting. He cared, you could see that.

Bruce furrowed his brows, pulling a chair from the table a little ways away. He positioned right next to your bed, sitting down to rest his hands on the edge of the thin mattress. “What happened, (Y/n)? Who did this to you?” He questioned, behind him, Gordon had pulled a small notepad from his pocket. As much as you liked to think this whole visit was out of concern, it seemed to just be an interrogation.

“It's all fuzzy..” You began, glancing over at Gordon. His eyes seemed to be trained on your chest, more specifically the area right under your breast where The Joker had carved his brand into you. He knew, the doctors must have told him. What did he know? You looked away from him, meeting Bruce’s gaze. There was so much to unpack in his stare, it added so much weight to the growing burden on your shoulders. If you told them anything important, you'd end up dead. Surely, they would too. Their lives were sitting in the palm of your hand and every word you spoke could be the death sentence. You wanted to tell them everything, to spare no detail and go into hiding somewhere he could never find you- but it wasn't possible. No matter how far you ran, no matter what desolate corner of the earth you hid away in, he would always find you. There was no escape. “All I really remember was how bad it hurt. When I thought it was over, it just kept going. Like they were having too much fun to remember I was a person. A living, breathing person who could feel everything they were doing.” The words brought tears to your eyes, the pressure in your chest building as you sought out a distraction. Something to keep you grounded.

Gordon spoke first, stepping towards the bed slightly before Bruce halted him. “So wait, you’re saying there were two attackers?” He asked, using a thumb to swipe his notepad onto the next page. He seemed intrigued but not surprised, scribbling down whatever he was thinking at the moment.

You nodded gently, turning away from Bruce’s stare. You looked for anything that might serve as a beacon for your thoughts. A large window sat on the wall looking into the hallway, you could see doctors and nurses rushing back and forth. It made your chest ache, you were supposed to be doing that. You shouldn’t be stuck here, lying in the most uncomfortable bed in all of Gotham, picking up the pieces of your life because of one night. A moment passed and as you went to turn away from the window, someone caught your eye. He was familiar, though you could’ve sworn that you’d never seen him here before. You knew almost every nurse on the staff roster, though as you tried to get a better look- you realized he was staring. His eyes bore holes into you as the pieces clicked together.

It was one of The Joker's men. The same one from that night, his face was familiar because it was the last thing you saw before being drugged.

Bruce’s hand moved to rest on yours, giving you a reassuring squeeze. “I know this is hard, we’re going to do whatever we can to help you though. Okay?” His voice felt like a warm breeze, the type that envelops you in a blanket of comfort as summer turns to fall. As much as your mind screamed at you to trust him, you couldn’t. He was one of the last good people left in Gotham, you couldn’t knowingly put him in danger.

“Thank you, Mr. Wayne. It means alot that you came at all.” A smile graced your tense lips,now that you knew you were being watched- this all became much more deadly. If The Joker thought for even a second you were going to betray him, you wouldn’t be leaving the hospital at all. You’d stay right here, only just a couple floors down in the morgue. you needed to figure out a way to infiltrate his home full-time. When you were called over it was only for an hour at a time, it wasn’t enough to pull off Joker's plan. You needed something more permanent.

The older man sighed loudly, tucking his notepad away in his jacket pocket. His face was contorted in an anxious contemplation as he stepped towards the door. “If you happen to remember anything that will help us, please don’t hesitate to call. Bruce has my number, he can give it to you.” He seemed frustrated, seeing as he knew that you knew more than you were letting on. Never once did you touch on the ache in your ribs, the deeply carved ‘J’ that marked you as his. Something you’d never be able to get rid of.

“I will, thank you, JIm.”

With that, he exited. Leaving you and Bruce in silence. Did Bruce know anything? How much did he know about what happened, was he also waiting for you to slip up- to reveal something he already knew? It made you tense up, how could you figure out who was really trying to help and who was trying to get something from you? If Bruce knew, he was waiting for you to slip up with more information. He could tell Jim and then Jim would tell Batman. It was always the same story, and if the word got around to Batman- you were a dead woman walking. It would be like putting a target on your forehead. There was nothing The Joker hated more than the masked vigilante.

“I’m so sorry this happened to you. Is there anything I can do to help?” Bruce asked, eyes focused on the black that surrounded your eye. It was still swollen, lessened only enough to allow it to squint open. It made him sick to his stomach, the sight of you was enough to bring him to his knees. Through the past few months, he’d grown attached to you. Every night when he’d come home from fighting the scum of Gotham, he had you on speed dial. He could always count on you to show up and patch up his wounds without a second thought. You never asked too many questions, but instead, asked him questions about his day and things he liked. Nobody ever really asked those things, it made him feel special. He hated to admit it but he was more attached to you than he’d like to admit. To know that the one day he didn’t call you from work early-this happened, caused an ache to form in his chest.

You smiled at him softly, you had tried these past few months to distance yourself from him. As they all said, he was a playboy- he turned on his charm for any lady he set eyes on. Not to mention you were only there to steal from him. It did you no good to get close to him, to catch feelings. It would only make your job harder in the long run, and that had come true. You had allowed yourself to feel for him, become friends with the billionaire. “I-I don’t know, honestly. I’m just scared to go home, what if they come back?” The air caught in your chest, your eyes cast downward as you awaited him to take the bait. This was your chance, all you needed him to do was invite you into his home.

His face fell and he squeezed your hand once more, shaking his head. “I won’t let that happen. I can protect you, (Y/n). Do you have anything specific you need from your apartment, I can have it picked up.”

The words were enough to send your plan into motion. “I can write out a list,” You began, forming a frown as you averted your eyes from his. The conflicting feelings were bubbling up, you didn’t want to do this to him but on the other hand- you had no choice. If he ever found out, which he definitely would, could he ever find it within himself to forgive you? You wanted the answer to be yes, for all of this to melt away once you did your job and got the information to Joker. That was a fantasy though, as with all of The Jokers plans- there was a catch. The thought had been brewing in the back of your mind for awhile, piecing together a survival plan once this was all over, until you realized it would never be over. Using the interface would give The Joker a backdoor to any building that used WayneTech, meaning that every single building in Gotham would be in his control. You’d have nowhere to hide and that meant neither would Batman. He’d use the tech keeping Gothamites safe to expel the vigilante, no matter what the cost might be. It made you sick, to have to keep this charade up for the sake of staying alive another day. “But where will I go, Bruce? I don’t have any family and even with as much as you pay me- i can’t afford to leave Gotham.” There was a quake in your voice, a telltale sign of a false truth, something that Bruce had caught on without your knowledge.

The man tensed slightly, suspicion raising in his chest as he took you in. His first idea was to have you take up residence at Wayne Manor, seeing as it was the safest place in the entire city. Now, as he considered the odds of the situation- his faith in you wavered. He knew from the beginning there was more to the story, from the far off look in your eyes and the initial branding you- he knew what was behind this. Who was behind this. He couldn’t help but wonder if you were in with him. It felt cruel to even consider it, seeing as the woman he’d grown so fond of was sitting in front of him barely holding herself together. Despite the nagging feeling in his chest, he still wanted- no, needed- to protect you. “You can come stay with me,” He began, choosing his next words wisely. “I have another house on the island, I used to stay there when crime got bad in Gotham.” That wasn’t a lie, he did stay there when crime got bad- but only because he hated the commute back and forth off the island when delivering criminals.

Your mouth opened and closed, no noise coming out as you looked for the right words. The idea sent chills down your spine, as the last time you were there- you’d left looking like this. Not even considering how much easier The Joker would be able to get to you, seeing as he had taken up residence in the old asylum. Bruce had no idea the perial he’d be putting you in. Joker would love this. “Really? You’d do that for me?” You asked, hands clasping his gently. “That’s too much, I don’t think I can accept it. I don’t want to intrude in your home.”

Bruce shook his head firmly, a smile pulling at his lips. “Trust me, it’s more than okay. We can stay there until the man who did this to you is found. Until then, it’s you and me, roomie.” He joked, nudging you slightly. He couldn’t let you know that he had caught on, that there was something more beneath the surface. He saw the way his offer affected you, the life seemed to drain from your body. It was fear and something else, something more primal. Whatever happened to you was somehow tied to Arkham Island.

“I don’t know how to thank you, Mr. Wayne.”

“You can start by calling me Bruce.”

#the joker x reader #joker x reader x bruce #reader x bruce wayne #the batman 2022 #dcu x reader #dcu fanfic #heath ledger #robert pattinson #this fic will be the death of me #fanfic #dc universe

[tinseltine]

I realized this is JLaw‘s first official comedy – “Silver Linings Playbook” and “Joy” are each a dramedy. “Don’t Look Up” is funny, but its genre would be cautionary/Scifi. Lawrence was the comic relief in “American Hustle”, but again, a satire, not a broad comedy.  I’m glad she finally found herself here. 

The Blackening’s got the feel of Bodies Bodies Bodies, just not as clever.  You can see the twist ending coming from a mile away. But as someone whose black card is always in threat of being revoked, due to having grown up on a constant diet of corny, white fare; I liked the irony of a board game of actual black cards, where each character has to answer culturally black trivia in order to stay alive!  And yup, if I were playing, my black card would once again have been in jeopardy, cause for a number of the questions, I’d have been about as much help as I’d be in an escape room requiring math. 

Overall I enjoyed the film and thought this fresh take on the Flashpoint event was creative. Just not as creative as the 2013 film, which still had meta-humans and heroes, with each of them in different roles than what they are in the traditional DC’s Earth-Prime version. For instance, Bruce Wayne was killed in the alley that famous night instead of his parents; turning his father into Batman and his mother into the Joker. Superman is captured and nowhere to be found. Cyborg is a resistance leader, giving America a fighting chance within a war between Aquaman’s Atlanteans and Wonder Woman’s Amazonians. Aquaman cheated on his wife Mera with Diana and it led to this major war.

Vibrant all the way around, story, visuals, characters! Although, I’ll admit, I got a little sleepy a few moments before we meet the super cool Spider-man named Hobie Brown, aka Spider-Punk voiced by Daniel Kaluuya, but that could have been due to the heaping portion of Chinese food I ate at the beginning of the movie. This Spider-Punk was my favorite spidey. Kauuya says he: put a lot of emphasis on what matters to the fans when it came to finding his superhero’s voice, so much so that when he first took on the role of Spider-Punk he listened to fan-made playlists dedicated to the character to understand how they saw him rather than choose to base him on any punk rock icons of the past.

Me and my sister came out of Disney’s Live Action The Little Mermaid smiling from ear to ear feeling as though it managed to capture and hold true to everything we loved about the animated original and at the same time, embracing the world of today with beautiful diversity. But then I read The New York Times review by Wesley Morris and he just makes me feel stupid for enjoying the movie. I suppose he has some salient points like “This new flesh-and-blood version is about a girl who’d like to withdraw her color from the family rainbow and sail off into “uncharted waters” with her white prince.” Also, although I loved Halle Bailey’s interpretation of Ariel, his review now makes me question, does she imbue varied enough facial expressions while mute?

The Mother explores themes of family, redemption and identity, as Lopez’s character (with no name) struggles to reconcile her past and present. It’s not a groundbreaking or original movie by any means. It borrows heavily from other action movies like “Taken”, “Salt” and “Atomic Blonde”. The plot is predictable, the villains are one-dimensional and the moments of warmth aren’t very moving. But it’s entertaining, and it’s JLo, so stream it!

I definitely feel GOTG3 has stronger beats than Ant-man Quantumania, but it’s still a little long and lacking a certain spark had by the prior 2 movies of this MCU franchise. I think we need to go back to keeping the films just under 2 hours. Infinity War and End Game each needed to be nearly 3 hours because of so many characters and major story arcs, but with these sequels, no matter how beloved the characters, there’s not enough to fill them. I love superhero movies and particularly the MCU, but lately I can always feel the point in which they should be wrapping up, yet there’s 40-45 minutes still to go. 

THIS WAS TINSEL & TINE'S #MINIMOVIEREVIEW EXTRAVAGANZA #14 for complete content - https://tinseltine.com/minimoviereviewextravaganza14/

#movie reviews #superheroes #movie site #red carpet #guardians 3 #jennifer lopez #the blackening #the flash #disney #the little mermaid #film talk #movie lover #spider punk #no hard feelings #jennifer lawrence #MCU #DCEU

[blubushie]

Rescue

so i wrote a short fic. quite a bit of angst and pining between RED sniper and BLU scout.

it’s 12.5k words so it’s under the break lmao

btw the working title for this before it was finished was “emotions are hard and shouldn’t exist” which gives you an idea of what this entails

summary: jesse, the BLU scout, gets kidnapped for the second time and can’t get ahold her father charles, the BLU spy. she has to resort to contacting the only other person she knows with a vehicle: the RED sniper, mundy, who coincidentally was the first person to kidnap her a few months prior after charles really pissed him off. mundy still feels bad about it. very bad.

The team had long since settled down for the night by the time Mundy found himself alone in his sniper’s nest.

Pyro had spent the past hour making s’mores and affectionately mumbling praises as Archimedes taste-tested the graham crackers, up until Medic—no, Ludwig, he had to get used to using their names eventually—shooed him off. Spy had spent his evening drinking wine and silently judging everyone else, as he always did. Tavish was off his face before Dell even served up dinner, and Jeremy had spent the whole evening rambling on about the events in the newest edition of the comic he’d bought a few days earlier. Mundy surprisingly didn’t mind his non-stop speech. He’d be the last bloke to admit that he’d grown accustomed to the constant noise of Jeremy big-noting himself (alright, maybe he was tied with Spy in that regard) but he’d decided some time ago that he much preferred the hustle-and-bustle over the silent treatment he’d spent three months enduring.

For what you did to the BLU Scout, the voice in his head provided, but he made an effort to tune it out. She’d said she’d forgiven him—insisted, really. Sure, there were still days where every time he closed his eyes all he could see was her bloodied face, and he still had moments where the muzzle of his SMG looked mighty attractive, but they were getting fewer and further between as time moved on. Whatever Ludwig had given him seemed to be working, so long as he remembered to take the damn things.

Spy was the first to retire to his room for the night, no doubt aggravated by Jeremy’s yabbering. Tavish followed soon after, except he’d decided the couch seemed like a bloody fine spot for a nana’s. Dell finished loading the dishes and bid everyone goodnight, Doe was content to pass out in a chair next to his best mate, and Mikhail and Ludwig both retired at the same time. By the end of the night Mundy was sitting outside with a beer as he supervised Pyro and Jeremy. They were quiet, for the most part, and he couldn’t say he minded all that much.

After the pair of them must’ve downed nearly twenty s’mores between them, they finally decided to call it a night. Pyro put away their lighter and Mundy could’ve sworn he’d heard a sad sound of disapproval from the little mute as Jeremy kicked out the fire. The pair headed back in together, and Mundy—ever the lone wolf—returned to his nest after skulling what was left of his beer.

He wasn’t sure how long it’d been since he settled in, but the moon had risen high into the sky and he supposed he must’ve begun dozing off, because the moment his radio erupted into static he practically launched off the crate he’d found himself slumped against and scrambled for the device.

Every inch of his body froze when he heard her sheepish voice—with the exception of his heart, which promptly plummeted into his stomach.

The BLU Scout must’ve repeated herself a few times by the time he worked up the nerve to answer her, and his hands felt strangely clammy as he clicked on the talk button of the radio. “Yeah?”

“Oh, thank God, ya awake.” She sounded out of breath, and maybe a little panicked.

Mundy sighed and scratched his jaw, trying to calm his nerves. “Am now. What is it, kid?”

There was silence for a moment, and briefly he wondered if she’d let him sleep after all. His hopes were crushed with her reply. “Listen, uh, I—I need a favor.”

“Scout, it’s–” He fished through his pockets, pulling out his lighter and checking his watch. “It’s one in the mornin’, mate.”

“I, uh… I kinda got kidnapped.”

He swore he felt his stomach flip with his heart still inside. “Bloody hell, didn’t ya learn the first damn time?”

“The first time was you, might I add!”

He wanted to say that that wasn’t much of a point, but he supposed it was intended to be a dig at him. Her way of saying You owe me. He also supposed that was… not untrue. He’d sooner pick her up himself than go to BLU and tell her father, but he also realized that if she was calling him then she must not have been able to reach the BLU Spy to begin with. “Whatcha expect me to do ‘bout it?”

“…Can ya come n’ get me?”

There it was. He sighed and flicked on his lighter again, checking his watch. 1:34am. He reckoned it’d take a few hours to find her, assuming she didn’t know where she was. He likely wouldn’t be back until dawn, maybe later…

Been a while since you tracked something, his mind provided. He agreed. And you’d be settling a debt. He agreed with that too.

He sighed.

“Alright. Where ya at?”

“Uh… near, uh, near Bernalillo, I think.”

Bloody hell, that’s a two-hour drive.

He sighed again. “Ya’ll be apples. Gimme a few hours, n’ I’ll see if I can find ya. Any tips?”

“I—I think I’m near the lake. I can hear the water from the dam.”

Jemez Canyon. He’d been there before—usually to dump the bodies of targets. There was an old two-story building on the east end of the reservoir, scuttled by time and lack of upkeep. If she was anywhere, she’d be there.

“Righto. Stay on the line, roo.”

He’d scold himself later for calling her that, once she was home safe, when he had time to contemplate it all. For the time being he wasn’t even aware he’d said it. He busied himself with gathering his weapons and descended the ladder of the nest. Find Scout, get her home, go to sleep. Worry about the rest later. He could do that.

He could do that.

***************************

He shouldered up against the wall as the last man went down. Checked his quiver and counted. Fourteen arrows left. He slung the bow onto his shoulder and released the clip strapping his SMG in place. She’d be in one of the rooms on the floor above, most likely guarded—he’d need something that fires fast. He took a breath and ascended the stairs.

He didn’t expect an empty hallway—in fact it outright surprised him. Then again, these blokes were hardly professional. They were too loud, too obvious, too flashy, too… familiar. He recalled the events of the previous year, when they’d all fought a desert gang under the leadership of a woman with a thick Southern drawl. He couldn’t quite place the name. He supposed it wasn’t a priority.

He flicked on his radio. “’M here. Tell me when ya see my shadow.” With that, he began walking down the hall. The moon was to his left and the doors to his right, with enough gap underneath to see someone walking by. It shouldn’t take long to find out which–

“This one.”

He clicked off the radio, hanging it on his belt, and tried the doorknob. It didn’t budge. Half of him was amused at how things were never easy, the other half was just annoyed. He let the annoyed half win over and tested the give of the door. Half a centimetre. Enough to kick it down, especially given how old the building was. He steadied himself on one leg.

Jesse shrieked as the frame gave way, freeing the bolt from its lock and sending the door flying open. Her body remained still for a moment before her shoulders finally sagged forward as a grin played across her face. “Oh, thank God.”

Mundy stepped into the dingy room with a quiet sigh, pulling his gutting knife from his belt and kneeling behind her to carefully cut at the ropes binding her wrists to the chair. “Relax, roo. Let’s getcha outta here.”

“Man, am I glad to see ya, red,” she said, with no hint of malice or hesitation.

He sawed at the ropes and found himself frowning when he noticed the rope rash at the base of her palms. She must’ve been trying to free herself for however long she’d been there. Foolhardy, but admirable.

“Why didn’t ya ring yer ol’ man?” he asked, if only to distract himself for a moment. He knew the answer—she either wanted to avoid a scolding, or she couldn’t get ahold of him.

“Wouldn’t pick up. Ya come ‘ere alone?”

He cut through the last loop of rope and grasped her arm, pulling her to her feet. Something in him clicked at the way she clung to his wrist—it was familiar, except this time he didn’t have a blade to her neck. He decided not to try naming it. “Yeah. Everyone else was dead asleep.”

She followed him as he led her out of the room, keeping close on his heels. He told himself that the hand resting on her back was only for her security, just in case he had to speed her away to Matilda. He ignored the nagging voice in his head telling him she’d beat him there by leagues even without his help.

“Thanks for comin’ to get me, by the way.”

Of course, he wanted to say, but chose against it. He thought over his response and decided on something less personal. “No worries,” he answered, adding quietly, “Couldn’t just leave ya here.”

“Uh… yeah, ya could,” she mumbled, and he couldn’t name the feeling that response gave him. She said it like it wasn’t the first time she’d been left in dire straights. He sighed. He supposed it wasn’t.

As he typically did when uncomfortable—a habit he never managed to kick—he scratched his jaw. “Yeah, I could, but didn’t want to. Better?”

She muttered something in agreement as he descended down the steps, briefly stopping to pull an arrow from a man’s eye socket as they passed by and slid it back into his quiver. The first floor had a large window and as they approached it, Mundy got a good look at her for the first time that night. Her lip was split and a red stain traveled from her chin down to her neck, finally stopping at the neckline of her grey sweater. When she grinned up at him, he noticed she had a chipped tooth.

“Ya alright, kid?”

As if sensing his thoughts, she lifted a hand and wiped her mouth on her sleeve, shaking her head. “Yeah, I’m cool.”

She’s gotta be in pain, he thought, but decided that if she wanted to be stoic, he’d allow it. “Yer missin’ a tooth.”

Jesse laughed—an actual, earnest laugh.

He suddenly felt lightheaded.

“Yeah, I noticed. Doc’ll fix it. Ain’t nothin’.”

Admirable, he thought again, and led her outside. Jesse scratched her neck as they stepped out into the moonlight, and he wondered if it was some form of nervous tic. She only ever seemed to do it when she was uncomfortable.

For a moment Mundy wondered when he’d begun noticing that.

He walked over to the camper and unlocked the cabin door. Jesse stood by, quietly watching him head inside and hang up his shortbow and quiver. By the time he came out and locked the door, she was leaning against the side of the camper, head dipped forward. He realized she must’ve been exhausted. Snapping his fingers, he gestured to the passenger door with a nod of his head. “Hop in.”

She immediately obeyed, heading upfront and waiting for him to unlock the door before climbing up, swinging her messenger bag off her shoulder and pushing it down by her feet. Mundy walked around the front and opened his door, sliding into the driver’s seat. As he started the van, he looked at her. “So, how’d it happen this time?” That seemed to catch her off guard, as she immediately turned to look at him, confusion written across her face. “Went fer another run?”

“O-oh, uh, nah,” she said, voice low as Mundy brought the camper around and set off down the road. “I went out to town n’ I was headin’ to the movies. Some guys jus’ drove up n’ grabbed me n’ threw me in the back a’ the car, n’… Next thing I knew I was here.”

“Shithouse,” he said, and it was true. He didn’t know what was worse—the fact that’d happened, or the fact it didn’t seem to bother her that much. That amount of desensitization at such a young age unsettled him. At least, he thought it was a young age. Maybe she was actually going on thirty like himself, or like Jeremy, and she just didn’t show it. Maybe. He supposed that her father had to be somewhere around fifty, and he certainly didn’t show it. Maybe she just had good genes.

It took him a moment to realize she’d been talking. He caught something about being “popped in the mouth,” and he’s fairly sure he heard her mention biting some bloke beforehand. With a sigh, he opened his vest pocket and fished out a pack of cigarettes, popping open the top with his thumb and offering them to her. “Durry?”

She ceased her speech and looked at him. “Huh?” Mundy nodded to the pack of cigarettes, and she paused, seemingly warring with herself. Finally, after a few moments, she shook her head. “N-nah, I—I ain’t allowed to smoke.”

He supposed he should’ve expected that. “Right, the whole… runnin’ ‘round thing.” He contemplated for a moment as they reached the end of the gravel road that joined the highway. Be polite, Mundy reminded himself, and glanced over at her. “Y’mind?”

She blinked at him, eyes flitting between him and the ashtray on the dash, and immediately shook her head once more. “Oh, nah, ‘s fine.”

Wordlessly he pulled one of the cigarettes and slipped it between his lips, then fished for his lighter. He seemed to relax a little after that first puff, and Jesse wondered if he was possibly as addicted to cigarettes as her father was. She decided against it—she’d only ever seen him smoke once or twice before, a stark contrast to Charles who wouldn’t be caught dead without a cigarette in his hand.

“You, uh… Ya use up all the Rothmans?”

“Hm?” he asked, a confused expression on his face. He took a moment to focus on the road, checking to make sure there were no cars coming before taking a right onto the highway. Jesse then gestured to the cigarettes, and he recalled the last time they’d been alone like this, when she’d given him a pack of her father’s fancy durries. “Nah, yeah, they were gone by the end a’ the week. Good brand. Smooth smoke.”

Maybe he is as addicted as dad, Jesse thought. “Those definitely don’t smell like Rothmans.”

He chuckled and she felt her cheeks warm. She looked away before he spoke. “Righto. Winfields.”

“Aussie?”

“Mm.”

She turned back to watch him for a moment, noticing how he seemed to be trying to breathe the smoke out of the window instead of toward her. Still she picked up the smell of the cigarettes, an almost dusty aroma and a heavy contrast to the sweet-smelling smokes her father buys.

She wondered if that was what Australia smelled like—dust and dirt and heady grassfires.

Without a word, Mundy reached over, grabbing the window crank and rolling it down for her. Jesse immediately made a point to look out at the night landscape, sagging forward to rest her arms on the windowsill and allowing the breeze to cool the spreading heat on her cheeks.

It felt nice.

Mundy cleared his throat from beside her. “Feel free to have a nana’s,” he said, the softness of his own voice surprising him. “Be a bit of a drive.”

“Have a what?”

“Nap, roo.”

For a long moment she wondered when he’d started callng her “roo.” Sure, she called him “red” all the time, and it fit—he was on RED team, and he was as tall a redwood, at least compared to her. She couldn’t quite decipher roo though—maybe it’s because she jumped around a lot?

Her thoughts were interrupted when he spoke. “Ya gonna tell yer ol’ man when ya see him?”

“Tell ‘im what?” she mumbled, and he noticed there was a hint of irritation in her voice, or maybe anger. He decided she had a right to be cranky—she couldn’t get ahold of her father and had to rely on him of all people to get her out of a tight spot. She can’t have been fine with it all, and any frustration would’ve been earned. That was fair.

“Thatcha got Shanghai’d.”

She released a groan not unlike Jeremy’s when he’s told to do the dishes. “…Do I hafta?”

Mundy chuckled. “Rather ‘im know the truth than have ‘im thinkin’ I did it.”

She sighed, then, one of defeat but not annoyance. “Yeah, okay…”

For once in his life, he decided he’d take the risk of prying. “Scared he’ll be mad atcha?”

“…Yeah. ‘Specially since this happened before.”

He immediately regretted prying. For all the talk she did of forgiveness, she sure had a mean habit of reminding him of his faults. He felt his jaw tighten and made a conscious effort to release it. “Zigged when ya shoulda zagged?”

“Nah, that was the first time. This time I jus’ got grabbed.”

“Aces,” he said, and didn’t mean it.

She didn’t pick up on the sarcasm. “Uh, no, like, total opposite a’ aces.”

He sighed. “It was a joke, kid.”

“Didn’t know ya was capable a’ jokes,” she muttered, and for a moment he realized she was right. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cracked a joke, much less when someone laughed at it. He supposed that wasn’t going to change now.

“Ya hurt me, roo.”

There it was again. Fine, time to call him out on it.

“Why d’ya call me ‘roo?’”

Bugger.

He hadn’t even realized he’d been saying it until she pointed it out. He’d resigned it to teasing—it had to be, as it definitely wasn’t a term of endearment. It wasn’t a nickname. It was a term for a pain in the arse. Everyone called her something, usually some variant of a rabbit. Hell, he recalled calling her a rabbit a few times himself. He decided to go with that.

“Shorter ‘n rabbit, easier to say–”

“Yeah, but why roo?”

He sighed. He wasn’t sure why he’d chosen roo exactly—in fact he wasn’t even sure if he made a choice at all. It was just the first thing that came to mind. Still, he doubted she would accept that as an explanation, so he thought for a moment.

He realized deciphering himself was far harder than deciphering other people.

“Ya… hop ‘round the battlefield like a bloody roo, n’ ya’ve got attitude like a roo.”

“Hey!” she snapped, but there was a hint of playfulness in her voice. “I ain’t got attitude!” He gave her a look—deadpan, but one he hoped conveyed some semblance of amusement. She seemed to understand, as she sat back in her seat and looked at him with a lopsided smile. “So… is everybody a roo to ya?”

Whatever the feeling in his chest was when she smiled at him like that, Jesse didn’t need to know about it, and Mundy was content leave it ignored and unnamed.

“Nah, just Scouts like you,” he said, and left it at that. Jesse didn’t need to know that he had never called Jeremy “roo,” and no one needed to know he’d been calling her “roo.” A little secret, just between the two of them.

Add it to the list, his mind added.

He tuned himself out.

Jesse sat there in silence for a few minutes as they carried on down the highway. The passenger seat was much less worn than the driver’s, to the point of nearly being brand new, and she couldn’t help but wonder when was the last time he’d had someone riding with him. There was a faint scent to the leather that made her think of cotton candy and the summer faire in Teufort, the one she’d been kicked out of because she kept knocking the guys into the water at the dunk tank. Sighing quietly, she watched the landscape pass by, illuminated only by the headlights of the camper and the full moon shining above.

“How’d ya end up a sniper?”

Mundy immediately looked over at her, brows shooting up into his hat. “Ain’t that outta the blue,” he muttered, but she only looked at him. With a sigh, he pulled the cigarette from his lips and stamped it out in the ashtray. He had a million rules about discussing his past, home, family. Time and experience had taught him that any scrap of information was a risk, and he had people to protect.

Had people to protect.

He supposed it wouldn’t matter now.

“My ol’ man was a sharpshooter in the war,” he started. His fingers gripped the tiller tightly. “Folks had a sheep station in West Oz, at the edge a’ the Gibson.”

“What’s a sheep station?” she asks, all curiosity and understanding.

He wondered if she understood the gravity of what he was telling her, and he decided that maybe she did—she was quiet, and he could tell he had her full attention for once. “It’s a sheep ranch,” he said. “Dad taught me to shoot to protect the livestock, mostly from dingoes.”

“Them’s the wild dogs, right?”

Mundy gave a half-nod, trying to think of how to continue. “Ended up real good at it. Started takin’ jobs fer other squatters. Made a name fer meself. Folks started wantin’ me to hunt game, so I did. Made good quid on it, too. Took me all ‘round the country. Hell, booked meself to Africa n’ Asia a few times.”

Jesse recalled one of the times she’d gone toe-to-toe with him, and his parting words to her as she bled out on the floor of his sniper’s nest: “I’ve slept in the corpse of a water buffalo tougher ‘n you.” Maybe it wasn’t so far from the truth.

“Spent a lotta time out in the bush,” he continued, seemingly focused on the road. She noticed his grip on the steering wheel had loosened, and he seemed to be more relaxed. “Became a real bushie fer a time. Guess I still am. Anyway, one day I head to this bottle-o–”She felt bad about interrupting, but she had no idea what a bottle-o was. “It’s a bottle shop,” he answered, “A place to buy booze.”

That seemed to appease her.

“Asked the checkout chick if there’s any boozers–” He caught himself that time, and corrected before she had a chance to interrupt. “Sorry, bars—nearby. Tells me there’s one just down the road, ‘bout two clicks out. Hop in me ute, get there, headin’ out the carpark–”

“What’s a carpark?”

“Parkin’ lot. So’s I head into the boozer, some bogan walks up to me, real thick drawl, says he saw me rifle. Asks me how much to kill a man.” He looked over at her, then—whether to gauge her response or invite her to ask questions, Jesse wasn’t sure. She decided on the latter.

“What’d ya say?”

It seemed to be the right response, as Mundy continued on. “Told ‘im five, ‘bout how much it costs to buy two cases a’ booze. Meant it as a joke. ‘S yobbo looks at me, says, ‘Aye, five thousand, I can do that.’ ‘Bout choked on me own tongue.”

For a moment Jesse looked like she was judging him, but then she just turned to gaze out the windscreen, watching the road pass beneath them. “Jesus,” she whispered, less scared and more… intrigued. “Ya take the job?”

Mundy couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him as he looked at her, a faint smile playing at his lips. “Whaddya think, roo?”

She looked away again, trying to hide the flush on her cheeks. This ain’t the kinda guy you wanna be crushing on, she told herself. He kills people for a living.

She ignored the voice in her head that told her she was no better.

“Was it hard?” she settles on asking, once her nerves calmed enough that she felt she could speak with stuttering.

“Nah,” he said, with no hint of deception or playfulness. That, admittedly, made her a little nervous. He didn’t notice. “No harder ‘n shootin’ a dingo. Easier, really. Didn’t have to bait ‘im. Sat nice n’ still.” She gave him a look, an odd mix between concern and fear, and he scratched his jaw. It sounded normal in his head, but now that he’d said it aloud… “Makes me sound like a psychopath, don’t it?”

“A little,” Jesse replied. It was a half-truth—he still didn’t sound nearly as disturbed as Suki, and that woman was a “diagnosed” psychopath despite supposedly not fitting all of the criteria. After a few moments she realized that it wasn’t exactly that far off from herself, either—she’d killed Craig Donovan and it hadn’t bothered her at all. Her only genuine distress in response to that was what her mother would think. “That the first time ya ever kill somebody?” she asked, wondering if maybe he was so apathetic to it all for a reason.

The way he paused and the subtle shift of his jaw tightening immediately told her that yes, he was. He looked… angry, enough so that Jesse immediately swallowed and looked away from him.

“No,” he finally said after a minute or so of silence, voice low. “Got picked on a lot as a kid. Didn’t look like them. Didn’t act like them.” He rapped his fingers on the tiller with a sigh. “There was this billabong near the ewe pasture. We’d walk by it on the way to school. Some ratbag bailed me up near the fence line. Turned into a brawl. He was bigger ‘n me, a’course, everyone was. Mum yelled at me fer havin’ a blue with the bloke but I was… seein’ red.”

When he looked at Jesse again, he noticed that the fear in her eyes was gone. Instead it was replaced with an odd look of sympathy and understanding. He wondered if she’d had similar experiences wherever she was from—he’d heard from Jeremy that big cities weren’t kind, and the bloke had more than enough tales of the times he’d been attacked out of the blue. Mundy wondered if New York was any different. He supposed it wasn’t, if Jesse’s fighting capability was anything to go by.

“Anyway, the billabong was fed by this real deep creek. Dried up in the summer, but durin’ the spring it’d flood n’ fill back up again, n’ that water would turn to rapids. I was… bugger, sixteen, seventeen? Walkin’ along that bridge over the water, n’ here that bastard comes. Bails me up again. We brawl, he got a few swings in, I got a few more, he lost his balance n’ just… went over the edge.”

“…And drowned, huh?” she added, voice oddly absent of any teasing.

“Mm.”

“Musta been hard. ‘M sorry.”

They sat there in silence for a long moment, and Mundy noticed by the way that she picked at the tape wrapping her hands that there had to be something on her mind. Clearing his throat, he glanced over at her. “How ‘boutcha, roo? This job yer first time?”

“…Nah,” she said, voice low, almost sheepish. “Paulin’, she—she actually busted me outta jail for killin’ a guy. Craig Donovan. ‘S how I ended up here.”

“Bastard musta hurtcha bad if ya remember his name,” he replied, and it was true. He couldn’t recall the name of the bloke he’d killed, and Mundy prided himself on his good memory. To him it was just another survival tool.

“I, uh—I was at the ballpark,” she said. The sheepishness hadn’t left her voice, but she continued on anyhow. “Seventeen at the time. Had, uh—a blue with my ma, so to speak, n’–” Mundy couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him. “What’s so funny?” she asked, brows furrowed.

“Just you,” he chuckled again, glancing over at her with a half-smile, “usin’ Aussie jargon.”

She huffed and continued on. “We had a big argument, so I went to practice n’ cool off in the middle a’ the night. Donovan shows up, starts runnin’ his friggin’ mouth. That kid always hated me, ever since we was in gradeschool. Talkin’ shit ‘bout my ma, my family, my house, said my brothers–” She cut herself off with something that sounded almost like a hiccup, and when he glanced over he found her shaking her head. “He said it was my fault dad left. So I jus’… I lost it.”

At that, between the tension in her body and the fragility of her voice, he breathed a deep sigh. He realized she did understand, and on a deeply personal level at that. He wondered how long she’d endured this Donovan’s tormenting. “I’m… sorry, roo,” he finally said, quietly. As if saying it any louder would make it insincere.

She shrugged. “I got mad, so I killed him.”

He wonders just how close their experiences were. His victim—if he could be called that—had drowned. Jesse always seemed to be an open book, unlike himself, so he figured she wouldn’t mind more questions. “Beat him up?”

“Bashed his brains in with a friggin’ baseball bat’s what I did.”

“Bloody hell, kid.” He certainly hadn’t been expecting that, but maybe he should have—the first time he’d seen her make a melee kill through this scope, the unfortunate victim had been Spy. He’d practically had a front row seat to her bouncing his head off the windowsill like she was born with a club in her hands, and he couldn’t say he didn’t enjoy seeing Spy getting his arse handed to him on a silver platter. “So, Paulin’ gotcha outta there, huh?”

“Yeah. Picked me up, drove me to the airport, ended up Albuquerque. She drove me to base.”

Mundy looked around, laying off the gas as they entered the town of Cuba. About halfway home now. He recalled there being a grill somewhere nearby, and took the minute they were stopped at the red light to look over at her. “Hungry, roo?”

Jesse looked at him, immediately sinking back into her seat, feigning relaxation. “N-nah, ‘m good. Got food at home anyway.”

Jeremy would never turn down food, and Mundy was willing to bet that Jesse was no better. Still, he suspected she was being polite and likely didn’t want to burden him. The clock on the dash read 4:02am. “Sure? We could get a quick brekkie at the diner. They’re open twenty-four-seven.”

“N-nah, it’s fine, really. ‘Sides, I didn’t bring my wallet.” The fact she thought he’d make her split the bill was more amusing than the flushed look on her face, but he decided to let it drop. Jesse, however, seemed distracted, and when the light turned green she spoke up. “Why d’ya wear sunglasses at night?”

He paused, lifting a hand to touch the bridge of the glasses. “I’ll be honest with ya… I wear ‘em to keep the glare out when I’m lookin’ down me scope, n’ half the time I forget they’re still there.”

That seemed to surprise her. “What, so ya jus’… wear ‘em constantly?”

“Yeah, like me hat.”

She giggled, and under no circumstances would he ever admit that it made his stomach flutter. “Betcha got some nasty hat hair.”

He looked over at her with a smirk, keen on turning the tables. The look on her face told him he succeeded. “No worse ‘n yer cap.”

“Excuse you, I wear a ponytail so it ain’t an issue!” Mundy chuckled then and shook his head. Jesse decided she liked the sound of his laugh. “How d’ya do it, anyway?” she asked, tilting her head to one side. “Jus’, sittin’ in one spot for friggin’ hours at a time?”

He dwelled on that for a few moments. For him, it wasn’t hard at all—it was the easiest part of his day, and often the most relaxing. “Don’t need much, roo,” he said, voice carrying a hint of playfulness. “Good eye, steady hand, perfect bloody aim–” Mundy glanced over at her, and Jesse only blinked at him. He cleared his throat with a chuckle. “Might, ah… might be a bit difficult fer ya, though, since–”

“I can’t sit still longer ‘n five minutes?”

“Recall yer record bein’ twenty-seven days.” He almost regretted his comment immediately, but the giggle that escaped her told him she found it just as amusing as he did.

“Doc, uh—doc says I got some kinda… disorder where my brain’s jus’ kinda goin’-all-the-time-always.”

Mundy chuckled, glancing over at her and briefly watching the lights of the town play across her face. “Think our Scout’s got that too.”

She looked at him and flashed a smile, all playful and white teeth. Mundy wondered when the van had started getting so warm. “Think, uh—think dad’s got it too. He… he bounces his leg, n’ doc says the—the chainsmokin’s a sign of it, since it gives ‘im somethin’ to do, n’ apparently whatever I got is, uh, it runs in families–”

“Everyone runs in your family,” he chimed in, with no ill intent.

She seemed to agree, and continued. “Heard dad used to be a scout, y’know, in the war. Guess we’re, uh, both followin’ in our dad’s footsteps? Much as… they don’t want us to.”

That earned him pause. He glanced over at her as they finally left the outskirts of town, heading back onto the highway. Her face read honesty, and not the brutal kind. Gentle honestly. Mundy nodded. “I’ll be honest with ya, my dad did not care fer it.”

“You bein’ a sniper, y’mean?”

“Yeah,” he said, and thought of every argument he’d had with his parents over the phone. Mum was always understanding—“He takes after ya, Jon,” she’d tell dad, and would always be the one to smooth things over between them. He wondered if there was ever a time that his father didn’t think of him as a crazed gunman. At one point he’d even written his mum, asking her to tell dad that he made more than a doctor, and when dad didn’t buy it he just asked that she tell him he was a doctor. It didn’t work, obviously, and dad was mad as a cut snake when he called that weekend, but Mundy figured it was worth a shot anyway. The thought that he’d never go home to that little red house on Adelaide Street and smell mum’s plum pie again–

Jesse interrupted his thoughts as she leaned against the windowsill, voice low when she spoke. “My ma don’t know I’m a merc.”

That shot him out of his funk, and he turned to look at her, a confused expression on his face. “Bloody hell, kid, it’s been three years, innit? Ya ain’t told her?”

“I can’t,” Jesse said, voice laced with an odd mix of concern and sadness. “It’d break her heart.”

Mundy couldn’t help but remember when he’d first begun his work. Strangely, he was more afraid of disappointing his father than worrying his mum, but he also remembered how much the secret ate at him until he finally came clean. “Yer gonna hafta tell her sooner or later,” he said, giving her a look.

That seemed to set her off. “Jesus, man,” she snapped, irritation edging its way into her voice, “Whaddya expect me to do? Call her up? Hey ma, one a’ my coworkers insists on me lettin’ ya know what’s goin’ on, so, uh, here goes. I killed a guy n’ been a merc the past three years! I get shot at daily! Nah, ma, it ain’t nothin’ to worry ‘bout! Ain’t like—like I’m ya youngest or nothin’! I’ll be fine! Did I mention I got shot two months ago? Yeah, I died twice, man! It was awesome! No reason to worry yaself back into bein’ a drunk!”

Admittedly, he didn’t know how to respond to that.

At all.

He sighed, focusing on the road ahead and trying to avoid looking at her as he let her cool off. Finally, after a few moments of silence, he spoke up again. “Ya mentioned before that ya… had brothers. Few of ‘em died.”

Jesse’s shoulders immediately sagged with a little sigh. “Yeah. I’m the youngest a’ five. Only one still alive is Tommie.”

“Does he know?”

She seemed to contemplate that for a moment. “I… told him when I went home for Christmas.”

Mundy sighed. “Least somebody’s aware of what’s goin’ on.”

That seemed to kindle her annoyance back to life. “Why d’ya care anyway?”

For a moment, he was caught off guard. He wasn’t too sure himself why it mattered to him. For all his talk of being in control of his emotions, they sure had a way of rearing their head when they really wanted to. He decided to go with the observative route. “I spent an hour watchin’ yer ol’ man wear out his shoes on that plane. Y’know how bloody scared he musta been?”

Mundy desperately hoped Jesse wouldn’t say something like “You don’t even like him,” and thankfully she didn’t—in fact, she didn’t say a word at all. She just sat there as they continued down the road, wind brushing her blonde hair. Dead silent. Mundy sighed. “He’d a’ been the one to call, kid. Anythin’ happens to you, he’s the one who’s gotta tell yer mum.”

“I don’t wanna talk about this anymore–” she finally said, voice cracking just enough to show him how distressed she was feeling.

He didn’t let up.

“Too bad. We’re discussin’ it.”

It came out harsher than he intended, more scolding, but it worked. She fell silent once more, respectfully listening.

“Ya got good folks that care ‘boutcha, roo.” Mundy sighed and looked over at her. His voice softened without effort. “Y’know what’s gonna break yer mum’s heart? Yer ol’ man havin’ to explain to her how their daughter got ‘erself killed.” She didn’t respond. He continued. “Yer a merc, kid. Ya can’t slack. There’s gonna be people out there that want ya dead, n’ ya gotta keep on ya toes, ‘specially if yer gonna be a spy like yer dad. If ya can’t handle that, get outta the business.”

Jesse whirled on him, a wild fire in her eyes, and he was instantly reminded of the look a magpie gives you right before it tries to claw your eyes out. “What’s it matter to ya, anyway?! Ya tried to kill me!”

It was my job, he wanted to say, but he knew that wasn’t what she meant. He sighed, looked ahead, let his body relax. Slow and steady. His voice was calm when he spoke. “If I wanted ya dead, roo, ya’d be in a grave already.”

That seemed to kick out the fire in her belly and she sagged, crossing her arms and sighing quietly. “They… they said somethin’ ‘bout dad,” she amended, finally.

Mundy supposed he should’ve expected that. He couldn’t imagine Jesse making very many enemies. She was too young, too outgoing and friendly, too forgiving, too kind—especially for this line of work. He gripped the tiller tighter with a sigh. “This is the life, kid. Ya wanna be a merc like us, it’s gonna put a target on yer back n’ the back a’ everybody ya know. Ain’t no avoidin’ it.”

“…How’d your parents die, Sniper?”

He slammed the breaks.

Jesse threw her arms out, bracing herself against the dash as the camper skidded to a halt. She chanced a look at Mundy and found him staring at the road in silence, his entire body stiff as a board. Her eyes were wide as she watched him, and she found herself shrinking back when he turned his head to look at her. Hurt mingled with rage in his expression, and she couldn’t help the sudden sense of danger she felt radiating off of him.

Silently, Mundy deflated and turned his attention back to the road, easing on the gas. They continued down the highway for a mile or so in silence before he finally spoke, the sound of him clearing his throat nearly making her jump out of her skin. “‘Member when them mercs came fer RED? The ol’ team?”

Jesse recalled two years earlier, when Gray Mann had first reared his ugly head and began to attack the mercs. It was different from her usual routine—she was used to killing people, not robots—but she enjoyed it. Up until a month ago, it was the only time when BLU’d had the opportunity to fight side-by-side with RED as allies instead of enemies. It hadn’t lasted long, maybe six months or so, if that, before Gray Mann somehow managed to seize control of Mann CO and oust Saxton Hale as CEO. He laid off both teams. For reasons Jesse still didn’t know, BLU team was kept in check by the Administrator and tasked with guarding a small cache of... something in the mines. RED team hadn’t been so lucky, and were let go from the company.

She nodded. “That was when ya team broke up, right?”

Mundy glanced at her, then looked back to the road. “There was this bastard, a sniper.” He sighed and scratched his chin. “This don’t leave this van, ya hear?”

“I can keep a secret,” she whispered, and despite her tendency to over-talk, he knew it was true.

Mundy squared his shoulders, tightly gripping the tiller. “I went home. Straya. Found out from one a’ the neighbors my folks’d been murdered. I’d been here, n’ nobody could ahold a’ me. Shoulda bloody known, they’d never gone that long without callin’.” There was a genuine regret in his voice. Jesse recognized it. She just watched him as he breathed a heavy sigh and continued. “Did some snoopin’. Point is, they died ‘cause a’ me. The ol’ team wanted to draw me out. Get me mad.”

Jesse had her fair share of experience with Mundy’s rage and the brutality that feeds off it. She pondered for a moment. “Butcha didn’t.”

“I got mad, alright,” he said, sighing. “But I’m not a fool. Went off the grid fer half a year. That whole business, me gettin’ killed? It was payback fer makin’ ‘em work to find me.”

“…Why you?” she asked.

“I’m a Kiwi.” To him that made sense, but the look on her face told him she wasn’t connecting the dots just yet. He amended, “Killed my folks over some fuckin’ rocks.”

“…I’m sorry,” she said after a few moments. It wasn’t an empty apology, but it was obvious she didn’t know what else to say.

Mundy sighed. “Merc’s life, kid.”

“I know that.”

“No, I don’t think ya–”

“I know that,” she insisted, a bit defensively. “It’s why my dad left. Course, I mean, he wasn’t a merc at the time, but… still. He thought it was safer for us.”

He remembered taunting her about it multiple times during that month he’d held her prisoner. A normal person would apologize, but it was obvious at this point that neither of them were normal, and an apology would just open himself up for more prodding. Mundy sighed. “Life’s anythin’ but fair, n’… sometimes parents gotta do hard things for their kids, roo. Sometimes that means not givin’ up nothin’ ‘bout ‘em even if you’re killed, n’… sometimes it means havin’ to step away, even when they need ya most.”

“I’m—I’m tired of everybody sayin’ it was for my own good!” Jesse snapped, loudly enough to catch him off guard. Mundy looked at her, eyebrows shooting up into his hat. “’M sick of it. Jus’ ‘cause it was for my own good don’t mean it didn’t—didn’t fuck me up growin’ up, don’t mean it didn’t break my mama’s heart, I—sometimes I wonder if things’d been better if I… I’d never…”

Mundy sighed and slowed Matilda, pulling over on the roadside. Jesse just sat there, shoulders sagged forward, looking out the window in complete silence. He saw the way her shoulders trembled and noticed the glint of moonlight off the moisture welling in her eyes.

“Scout,” he said, quietly, softly. The same voice he’d have used a decade ago to calm a frightened lamb. He hoped it worked, or at the very least got his intentions across. “Ya… ya know it wasn’t yer fault, right?”

“H-huh?” she asked him, voice cracking. The tears in her eyes began to pool, threatening to spill over. He really hoped they wouldn’t.

“’Bout yer dad. It wasn’t your fault. Ya ain’t to blame fer what he did.” He sighed quietly, turning in his seat to face her, resting his elbows on his knees. “Ya ain’t to blame fer nothin’ he did, roo.” She sniffled once, twice, then reached up and wiped her eyes with the heel of her taped palm. “Ya’ve got him back now, but it ain’t gonna erase the pain ya’ve felt. God knows, it won’t. What you’re feelin’, it’s—it’s okay, kid. It’s okay to feel that way. It’s okay to be mad. But ya gotta remember that it’s not on you. Ya ain’t the reason yer dad left, kid. It's not yer fault.”

Jesse just stared at him.

There was an odd sense of shock emanating from her. For a long moment they sat there in silence, nothing but Matilda’s humming and the whistle of the breeze to break the dreary quiet, and Mundy found himself wondering if she’d never heard that before. For some reason he’d rather not place, the idea of Jesse growing up blaming herself for the sins of a man she’d never met didn’t sit right with him. Mundy looked at her. She stared back.

He frowned, hoping he wouldn’t have to say more, willing her to understand. The confusion written across her face told him she didn’t. He recalled the night this whole mess started—driving along a night landscape as he was now, a glimpse of blue and the reflection of metal through the windscreen. A victim of opportunity. Here they were again, except now she was a quiet and willing passenger instead of bound and unconscious next to the sink. Mundy sighed.

“Nothin’ that’s been dealt to ya in life is yer fault.”

Jesse sniffled and quickly wiped her eyes again. Wordlessly, Mundy reached up and took off his hat, setting it in his lap. “N’ what I did to ya… That wasn’t yer fault either. I’m sorry fer it, roo, I really am–”

“Listen,” she interrupted, voice quiet and strangely soft. “I—I know we talked ‘bout this before, but I—I don’t blame ya, Mundy, really, I–”

That caught him off guard. He froze, looked at her, eyes narrowing just enough to project a hint of danger, and Jesse clamped her mouth shut. “Who the hell told ya my name?”

Jesse shrunk into the passenger seat, watching him with wide eyes. “Y-you—you did,” she whispered, “when—when you were drunk.”

He didn’t recall being that pissed.

Mundy sighed and turned around in his seat, running a hand through his hair before putting the van back in drive and pulling back onto the road. He fixed his hat back into place. They both were quiet for a minute or so. Finally Mundy broke the ice. “’M sorry,” he said, voice genuinely apologetic. “Didn’t mean to snap atcha like that.”

“It’s… it’s okay,” she said, voice soft. Understanding. All too forgiving.

“Nah, mate, it wasn’t.” He glanced at her as she leaned back into the windowsill, resting her head on her arms. “Listen, roo, ya don’t tell nobody my name. Not ya mum, not ya dad, not ya brother, not ya team, hell, not even my team.”

He saw her nod.

“It’s one a’ our lil’ secrets, yeah?”

“…Like the others?” she asked, a hint of playfulness in her voice.

He paused, glancing over at her, then turned his attention back to the road. He didn’t recall telling her many secrets, but maybe she just meant what he’d told her that night. He nodded. “Yeah. Like the others.”

“…Yeah. Okay,” she whispered.

“Aces.”

She had a thoughtful look on her face, quietly watching him, eyes flitting between his face and his hands as they grasped the steering wheel. “Can… can I still call ya Mundy?”

Mundy swallowed. He gripped the tiller tighter. “Yeah. Yeah, when we’re alone like this, call me that all ya like. But in public, ‘round other folks–”

“Ya Snipes,” she said proudly, as if boasting about her deduction skills.

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Yeah,” he said, looking over and flashing her a smile. “Snipes.”

They sat there in silence for what must’ve been at least five minutes—or maybe it was only half that time. Maybe it just felt like longer because he’d become used to her talking. The longer the silence the carried on, the more he realized that was likely the truth. He heard nothing but Matilda’s purring and the whistle of the wind. Every second dragged on.

It felt like torture.

Finally, Jesse spoke up. Her voice was soft, nervous even. “So, uh… I know Mundy’s your last name, but… What’s your first name?”

Mundy’s grip on the tiller tightened. He sat up straighter. Squared his shoulders. Tried his damnedest to mask whatever emotion was threatening to claw its way to the surface. The last time he’d heard his name spoken was over the phone, in—he thinks for a moment. He can’t remember. Mum had said something about him returning home for the holidays, so he supposed it must’ve been around Christmas of ’70. It was the last time he’d called home and gotten an answer. The last time he’d spoken to his parents.

“Won’tcha come on home, dear?” his mother had said, in her old, tired voice. “Yer father misses ya. He’d like to take his boy fishin’. Help clear yer head. It’d be good fer ya.”

He used to call home every week. He wondered if the girl sitting next to him does it as often as he did.

He still does, sometimes, just to hear that answering machine. Just to hear their voices again. To hear that name one more time, lest he forget.

He blinked the blur away from his vision. Cleared his throat. Steeled himself.

“Listen, roo,” he started, quietly, not allowing his nerves to edge their way into his voice. “We don’t use names. Alright? No one knew nobody’s name, n’ we liked it that way. Sniper ain’t the same bloke as Mundy—one was raised on a bloody sheep station, with a good family, n’ fer all anybody knows he’s still a bushie makin’ good quid as a trophy hunter. Other one’s a killer what blows folk’s brains out fer cash. ‘S two different people.”

“Ya look like the same person from where I’m sittin’,” Jesse whispered in reply, voice soft. Pushy, but gentle. He didn’t know how to respond to that.

It made him wonder if there was a difference between Scout and whoever she was when she wasn’t… Scout.

“That’s just how it is,” he said finally, with a sigh that almost sounded like defeat. “How it was. We had a good go at it, then you n’ yer team came along n’ buggered it all to hell.”

“How’s this BLU’s fault?” she asked, a hint of annoyance in her voice, but there was an edge of curiously to it instead of anger.

“’Cause yer Medic’s the one who insisted we use our bloody names,” he snapped, a bit more harsh than he’d intended. Still, he felt an odd anger begin to burn in his veins. Felt his heartrate thrum in his chest, as if gearing up for a fight. He pressed on. “We never did that before. Never had to. We were bloody professionals, not mates gatherin’ ‘round to shoot the breeze. Names’re fer—fer friends, not coworkers.” He shook his head. “Not in this line a’ work.”

When Jesse spoke again, there was an obvious confusion in her voice, as if she couldn’t possibly wrap her head around what he’d just said. “So… all the years ya been ‘ere, n’ ya’ve never considered any of ‘em friends?”

“No,” he hissed, willing her to just drop the subject. He didn’t want to talk about the silent treatment Jeremy had given him for three months. He didn’t want to talk about how he’d lost the one person he could possibly consider a friend. He wanted to sit in silence for the rest of the drive and drop her off and never look back. He wanted to take a nap. But he felt his pulse in his throat. Felt his fingers twitch in anticipation the same the way they do when he’s gripping his kukri. He’s a dinkum Aussie, regardless of bloodline—he didn’t back down from a fight. “’Cause that means gettin’ close,” he muttered, “n’ gettin’ that close to anybody only puts a knife in yer back. ‘S a bloody liability’s what it is. It makes things personal.”

Jesse considered that. She sighed. “And ya don’t do personal.”

“No,” he said, after a moment of contemplation. “I do professional.”

Jesse fell silent for a time. He could practically hear the gears turning in her head, knew she was scrounging up something to use as ammo against him. The question was what.

His pulse didn’t slow. In fact, it quickened.

“But… we’re supposed to be enemies,” she finally said. That sheepish tone was back, but it was missing its charm from earlier. She sounded nervous—scared, even. She had a look in her eyes that reminded him of the feral cats he’d tried to befriend as a kid. Wearily observing, weighing the possible threat ahead against their empty stomach. Ready to bolt at the slightest hint of something afoot, meal be damned. She looked afraid of him.

He decided that was fair.

“Professionally, I mean,” she amended finally. “But ya said it’s okay if I use ya name, so long as we’s alone like this.”

Mundy didn’t risk looking at her, however badly he wanted to. He stared straight ahead, focused his eyes on the road, gripped the tiller until his knuckles were white. He knew where she was going with this. He hoped his face was unreadable. He hoped she couldn’t see the flush that was undoubtedly spreading across his cheeks.

“Where’s this goin’, roo?” he asked, feigning ignorance. He immediately chastised himself for the last part.

“…N’ enemies don’t got nicknames for each other. They don’t call each other ‘red,’ or ‘roo.’ That’s somethin’ friends do, innit?” Mundy was silent. That in itself didn’t surprise her—he never was particularly talkative. The fact he hadn’t clapped back with some remark, however, only fed the unease she was feeling. The obvious conflict written across his face didn’t help any.

Still, she pressed on.

“N’ enemies don’t give each other gifts like cigarettes,” she whispered, as if to imply that she didn’t consider him an enemy either. “Or save ‘em when they’s kidnapped, or offer to buy ‘em food. Or… calm ‘em down when they talk ‘bout their dead parents n’ shitty dads. That’s somethin’ friends do.”

We aren’t friends, the voice in his head said, in denial of all evidence to the contrary. We aren’t friends. We can never be friends.

“So…” she continued, and this time she turned her head just enough to look at him. Her features were soft. Gentle. The tone of her voice reminded him of the same tone his mum would use when he’d come home bruised after getting ganged up on by the other kids. Comforting. “That makes us friends, don’t it?”

Mundy contemplated it. Maybe they could be friends. Maybe in another life, if things hadn’t gone so pear-shaped. If things had turned out differently.

Or maybe now.

He wondered what his team would think.

Another secret, that flip-flopping voice in his head provided. No one has to know.

“…Mick.”

Dead silence.

“…What?”

“My name,” he amended, sheepishly. He couldn’t recall his voice ever sounding so fragile before. Not since he walked into that empty house on Adelaide Street, calling for mum and dad. “It’s Mick.”

For once, Jesse was still. Completely still, that was—she looked away from him and back to the road. Her hands stopped fidgeting in her lap. She didn’t tap her foot, or fiddle with the hem of her shirt, or adjust the tape wrapping her hands, or touch her dogtags. She just sat still.

They both did.

“Mick,” she repeated, tasting it on her tongue. He’d never admit that he liked the way she said it, putting an emphasis on the hard ck sound at the end. “That’s a weird name,” she finally added.

It was a dumb thing to say, she was sure, but he was thankful for it. It cut the tension that’d been threatening to strangle him. “Is not,” he said in reply. He glanced over at her once he was sure the flush had left his cheeks. She was smiling at him.

“Is too. Ain’t never heard that name before in my life.”

“Righto,” he said, feeling his shoulders relax. “That’s whatcha say if anybody asks.”

She gave him a look. By that point, it was one he was able to decipher—a request for more information. I’m already in this deep, he thought. He sighed. “Michael.” When she said nothing, even more confused than she was a few minutes before, he elaborated. “Mick. It’s short for Michael.”

“Wait,” she said, as if stumbling on some life-altering revelation. “Ya name’s Michael?”

It sounded weird when she said it.

“Only one’s call me by that name is me mum.”

“Well, um–” she mumbled, and he found her leaning toward him, as if sharing a secret. Maybe it was. “I actually got a brother named Michael, but only one calls ‘im by his name is ma. We jus’ call ‘im Mikey.”

He hummed in acknowledgement, and recalled what she’d told him earlier—"I’m the youngest a’ five. Only one still alive is Tommie.” He supposed that must mean that this Mikey had died as well. He couldn’t help but wonder how her brothers had died, which lead him to wonder what it was like having a sibling.

He decided he’d sooner run away than live in a house with five other Jeremys.

“Jesse,” she muttered, almost under her breath.

She sounded tired, and he found himself checking the clock on the dash before realizing that she’d just told him a name. “What?” he asked, looking over at her with raised brows.

“My name’s Jesse,” she said softly, and briefly met his eyes before looking away again. “Well, it’s—it’s Jessica, but nobody calls me that ‘cept for ma n’ dad.”

“…Jesse,” he whispered. Her name felt strange on his tongue, but… not unwelcome. He thought that maybe he’d heard Jeremy say it once or twice, back when they had that big blowout and stopped talking to each other. Still, it felt familiar in a way he couldn’t place. For a moment he could’ve sworn that they’d had this conversation before, that he’d said her name once himself–

The memory hit him like a brick.

He slammed the brakes again.

For the second time that night, Jesse braced her hands against the dash. In confusion, she looked at him, then to the road. “W-what?” she gasped, squinting her eyes as if searching for something ahead. “What is it? Somethin’ in the road?”

“I—I was pissed,” he said, the words muttered under his breath. “Munted.”

He remembered the weight of the stubby in his hand. Remembered the brief talk they’d had, or parts of it, at least. Remembered telling her his name, remembered her describing someone that could’ve only been Jeremy, remembered going into that cell and cutting her free.

“What’re you doin’?” she’d asked him.

He remembered the regret he felt.

“Makin’ a real bad decision,” he’d replied. He’d been right.

More than anything, he remembered the feel of her lips.

You bloody fucking fool, he thought. He was right.

He sat there in that driver’s seat, Matilda idling in the middle of the road. He was silent. So was Jesse. He noticed the expression on her face as she shrunk back against her own seat. It was confusion, and maybe a little fear.

He had to know.

“Scout,” he whispered. When she didn’t respond, he tried another tactic. “Jesse.”

Her eyes darted to him. They turned to each other at the same time, both hanging in an odd limbo, waiting for a response from the other. After a few moments of silence, Mundy spoke first.

“That night I told ya me name,” he said, sounding a little out of breath. She noticed how his chest rose and fell in short bursts. She felt like a goat in a lion’s den. “How much a’ that night ya remember?”

“Unlike you, I was sober,” she whispered. “So more ‘n you, that’s for sure. All of it, I’d say.”

He dwelled on that for a few moments.

All of it.

“Spy came down,” he pressed, quietly. “N’ I went to bed. Right?”

He had to know. He had to be sure that that the kiss was all that had happened. That his hazy memory of that night was reliable.

“Well, ya left, so yeah, I guess.” Jesse’s eyes followed his hands as they left the steering wheel and he clasped them together. She noticed they were shaking. “Mick?” she whispered.

Where before he’d enjoyed the sound of it, now it felt like nails on a blackboard. The van was too bloody hot.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, voice genuine. There was no hiding the shame in his voice. He turned away from her and rested his trembling hands back on the tiller. He eased on the gas. Driving helped clear his mind, but he wasn’t sure it would work this time.

“It’s okay,” she said, voice just as genuine as his. There was an underlying sense of fear there, one that had nothing to do with the physical distance between them. He couldn’t figure it out.

“’S not fuckin’ okay, roo,” he snapped, tension clear in his voice, and looked over at her to emphasize his point.

Jesse bloody well looked like she was about to cry. There weren’t tears in her eyes, no, but she had that scrunched and squinted expression somebody makes when they’re desperately trying to hold it in. Mundy suddenly felt like the biggest arsehole to ever step foot on God’s green earth.

In that moment, he desperately wished he was anywhere but there.

Finally, Jesse seemed to gather enough courage to speak up. She still wasn’t looking at him, instead diverting her attention out the passenger window and watching Matilda’s headlights reflect off the sand at the roadside, but there was an odd confidence in her voice. “If ya remember,” she said, voice low and sheepish once more, “I said I wasn’t scared.”

Admirable, he thought, for what must’ve been the fifth time that night.

“…N’ were you?”

“No,” she responded, without a second of hesitation. “I wasn’t. ‘M still not.” He began wondering where her bravery ended and her stupidity began. “But… I know how ya are, too,” she amended finally. “N’ I know this’s gotta be… hard. But I ain’t never told nobody ‘bout what happened. Not even the doc.”

One of our little secrets, the voice in his head provided, and he suddenly understood what she’d meant. It felt like the piece of a puzzle clicked into place.

“I won’t tell nobody if you don’t,” she added, quietly. She folded her arms over her middle, breathed a little sigh, leaned against the frame of the door. “N’ we can jus’ pretend it never happened.”

No, we can’t, he thought to himself, but he didn’t say it. More memories began to surface, from before Spy had come down those steps and threatened to make his face symmetrical. Mundy had asked her if she wanted him to stop—she’d said no. Can’t skip around that.

But he kept that to himself.

“Alright,” he breathed, and didn’t look at her. “It didn’t happen. That means no throwin’ it back in my face if we have a blue, alright?”

“Okay,” she hummed in agreement.

With that settled, he checked the clock again. 4:23am. Jesse would be home in less than twenty minutes, and Mundy could finally get some much-needed rest.

Sighing, he glanced over at her. He desperately wanted to change the conversation to something else, preferably something that focused on her so he could do as little talking as possible. If Jeremy was anything to go by…

“What’s yer favorite baseball team?” he asked.

That immediately seemed to brighten her mood. Jesse reached up, pointing to the strange insignia on her navy blue cap with a grin. “Yankees,” she stated proudly, as though the answer was obvious. “C’mon, ya kiddin’ me? Born n’ raised in the Bronx, baby! ‘Course it’s the Yankees!”

Mundy sat there, listening to her yabber on about these “Yankees.” She recited stats to him, followed by how many World Series they had, elaborated on their rivalry with the Boston Red Sox when he’d asked, and the conversation soon drifted to her own abilities in baseball.

“They called me Iron Horse,” she said proudly, a wide grin playing across her face. “Y’know–” He didn’t know. “–After Lou Gehring. He was the best cleanup hitter a’ all time. Fifteen-hundred-n’-fifteen runs batted in, that guy. Most grand slams ever, too—twenty-three. Can ya believe that? But, uh, he ended up… havin’ this disease, n’ it made ‘im leave baseball. He died in ’41 from it. They call it ‘Lou Gehrig disease’ now. Nasty shit.”

From the way Jesse spoke of him, the man sounded like her hero. If he hadn’t died so young he wondered if Jesse would’ve insisted that he was somehow her father the same way Jeremy had insisted that Tom Jones was his. It was an amusing thought.

“Oh, but man,” she whispered, and a dreamy looked crossed her face. “I friggin’ loved baseball. Still do, obviously, but I don’t get to play no more on account a’ havin’ nobody to play with. My favorite thing they called me was the ‘Bronx Bullet.’ I earned that name for myself. Not inspired by nobody. All mine.”

The strangest part was that Mundy could see it. He swore that if he only closed his eyes, he’d be able to see her there—speeding through the bases, a grin plastered on her face, wind whipping her blonde hair out behind her. She was a bit rougher around the edges in his thoughts—wearing a proper baseball uniform, white with blue stripes, like he’d see the men wearing whenever Jeremy would get the chance to hog the TV for an evening. The hems would likely be stained and smeared with dirt from sliding home like she said she loved doing. He could even imagine her playing footbag with a baseball in the dugout if she were bored, or pulling pranks on her teammates.

As he listened to her yabber on, he saw one of the towers of BLU’s base come into view. For some reason that he couldn’t explain, he felt a twinge of disappointment.

Five minutes later, Jesse fell silent as he guided Matilda down that dirt road. When he pulled over to park, he noticed a light flicker on from somewhere on the ground floor of the base. If RED was anything to go by, then that was likely the location of the BLU infirmary. Jesse, heaving a quiet sigh, opened her door and climbed out. She stretched, arms reaching above her head, and Mundy darted his eyes away when he saw a glimpse of pale skin peeking out from under where her shirt lifted up. Sighing, she grabbed her messenger bag from the floor and swung it onto her shoulder.

Then she looked at him.

He stared back.

She looked like she wanted to say something, but just then Mundy saw the door open, and a figure stood in the doorway. Not as tall as him, but tall enough. The silhouette hinted at a perfectly-tailored suit, and he saw the faint glow of a cigarette between two fingers. Mundy felt his mouth run dry. Jesse was looking back over her shoulder when he cleared his throat, and she immediately turned her attention toward him once more. Her faintly concerned expression immediately changed to one of… well, he couldn’t quite place it. Happiness, he supposed.

The smile she wore was genuine.

“Thanks, Mick,” she said, softly, and flashed him a chipped-toothed smile.

Mundy couldn’t help but smile back.

Before the BLU Spy could come out and threaten him, Jesse bounded off towards her father, moonlight reflecting off her blonde hair. Mundy could’ve sworn he felt his heart still in his chest, if just for a moment. By the time he made a yewy and came back down the road, Jesse and the BLU Spy were gone. The light was still on in the clinic, and Mundy recalled how she had said that their medic could fix her tooth.

He hoped it was true.

Meanwhile, inside the BLU infirmary, Jesse was silently swinging her legs back and forth on the exam table. Suki had been waiting up all night for her to return, and had apparently been the one to wake Charles when Jesse hadn’t come home by three in the morning.

It had only taken a few moments to mend her split lip and repair her chipped tooth, and then Suki did that mom thing she always did where she tried to wipe away the blood with a disinfectant wipe, and Jesse only swatted her hand away and took the piece of material from her, telling her that she could do it herself, and then Suki was gone without another word, lab coat fluttering behind her as she left through the swinging doors to undoubtedly take a nap.

Meanwhile, Charles stood there, silently glaring at Jesse. She shifted uncomfortably under his critical gaze. His expression told her she was about to be scolded. She recalled the time they’d stolen that ice cream van and she’d had to drive it, and when she inevitably crashed the damn thing and gotten them all arrested and forced to do community service at the stupid mall in town—which, by the way, wasn’t her fault. Absolutely not. If anyone was to blame, it was Liem for firing a grenade so close to the back tires. Or maybe it was Dougal’s fault for orchestrating the whole deal and then screwing her over as her lawyer. Whoever was to blame, it certainly wasn’t Jesse.

She wasn’t allowed to drive after that.

Whatever. Jesse didn’t care about the stupid ice cream van, or the mall Santa training facility, or being stuck in jail, or really anything in that moment. All she cared about was the expression of utter disapproval—and perhaps a twinge of disappointment—written across her father’s features.

“Did he do that to you?” Charles finally asked, his posh British accent breaking the uncomfortable silence.

“C’mon,” Jesse muttered incredulously. “I know I’m not the sharpest lightbulb or whatever, but y’really think I’d get grabbed by that guy twice?”

“Then explain the broken tooth and split lip,” her father snapped.

Jesse clammed up. Apparently she’d been right to fear a scolding.

“I… I got kidnapped, alright?”

If Charles had been disappointed before, now he was just outright furious.

“What?” he gasped, brown brows knitting together in an odd mix of rage and concern. The wrinkle traveled halfway up to his hairline. “Again?!”

“Y’know, ya the second guy to say that tonight.”

Charles pinched the bridge of his nose. Steadied his breathing. Forced the fatherly protectiveness he was feeling to settle down. Getting angry at her would only make things worse—it would make her feel as though she couldn’t come to him in the future. No parenting book in existence could’ve prepared him for this.

“Tell me what happened,” he ordered.

So she did. Jesse relayed the events of that night—going out to town for some chicken, as was typical for her on a Saturday night. She’d gone to see some action movie starring Steve McQueen and had been making her way down the street toward the theater when someone had attacked her from behind. She was pulled into a car, bit a man when he put his hand over her mouth, and he’d promptly punched her.

Charles swore he could feel his blood boil.

Jesse told him that the men all had a fairly recognizable Southern accent, one that she likened to Liem, or maybe RED’s Engineer. Charles immediately had an idea of who was responsible, and was sure that he was right. It seemed RED hadn’t run that gang out of Teufort as successfully as they’d believed.

Then she said something that surprised him, even though it probably shouldn’t have. “They mentioned you,” she muttered. “Said somethin’ ‘bout a ransom.”

Charles bit back a positively paternal joke about how she should’ve just started talking about baseball until they paid him to take her back. “I don’t want you around that man,” he said instead. “I don’t want to see you with him again. Why didn’t you call me? I gave you that watch for a reason.”

“I couldn’t get ahold a’ you!” Jesse snapped back, all fire and fury. She was defensive, and obviously a bit angry. “I tried callin’ ya I dunno how many times, n’ ya didn’t pick up! He was the only one I could reach!”

Charles fell silent for a long moment. He felt… well, he didn’t really know how to describe it. Guilty, he supposed. Guilty that he hadn’t been there to protect her first of all, and even more guilty that he hadn’t been the one to get her out. Again.

With a sigh, he pushed off the wall and walked over to her. Ever the gentleman, he offered his hand. Jesse took it, leather glove crinkling in her grip as she hopped down from the exam table.

“Are you alright?” he asked, with no hint of mockery or venom. There was a deep fatherly concern in his voice.

Jesse nodded. “Yeah,” she said, and offered a second smaller nod, as if to confirm it to herself. “I’ll be fine.”

“Let’s get you to bed,” Charles sighed, and checked his watch. 4:54am. The sun would be up in an hour or so. He’d have to remind the team to keep the noise down in the morning, for Jesse’s sake.

Jesse strode out the infirmary doors, and Charles followed close behind, ever watchful.

***************************

It was 5:06am by the time Mundy reached RED base. As always, he parked on the outskirts near his tower. He went through his nightly routine—changing into a pair of trackie daks, checking over his weapons and equipment, finishing up with a quick smoke. He noticed the radio sitting on the table where he’d left it. Silently, he reached out and picked it up, carrying it with him to the sleeping nook and ascending the ladder.

Just in case she rings, he told himself, setting it nearby as he laid down. In case she needs help.

It felt strangely stuffy in his sleeping nook, in a way he couldn’t place, and his hands still felt clammy.

That night he dreamed of her lips.

They didn’t taste like blood.

#tf2 #scout tf2 #sniper tf2 #spy tf2 #team fortress 2 #femscout #blu scout #red sniper #speeding bullet

[minthe-lover]

Am I reading this right? Is there really NO break in between s2 and s3 according to Rachel? and there will only be ONE two-week break in August? Yeah, great she gets money and awards off of this, but she is not doing the bulk of the work, her team is, so how is that fair to them? they don't get a cut of the book or merch sales or get to share in the award status or fame, only SHE does. These are horrible working conditions for them, all while Rachel profits off it.

Hell, the Suitor Armor creator (who by all accounts is also a big Webtoon creator, it's consistently one of their most popular series) said a few months ago how creators are terrified to take breaks because Webtoons will see them as "unreliable" and thus stop supporting them, so how is Rachel not, intentionally or not, playing right into that toxic attitude by not letting her team never take breaks? She's one of their top creators, look how successful she is because she never stops working! Unless you work like that, we don't see a reason to support you!

Because she doesn't need a break, she doesn't do the art and only has to write up one episode a week and do very rough sketches that can all be done in one night and then have the rest of the week off while the art team works those long hours for Saturday and she gets all the credit, but it doesn't matter if the whole team leaves, now does it? She can just send out a tweet she needs work fast and have thousands of fans begging to work for her on the cheap and fast, so she can easily keep up the high turnover rate and constant work because she has a giant pool of resources that reinforces Webtoons' toxic attitude for creators. She has a built-in system of eager workers to take the load off of her so she doesn't need to go on constant hiatuses to recharge, because really, what is she recharging from? It's easy for her to not need a break when she isn't doing the actual work, but the other creators DON'T have these massive teams or a marketing team dedicated to only pushing them, so it's just wildly unfair to have them have to work twice as hard if not more for even a fraction of the support Webtoons gives her, which overwhelmingly, they won't get even if they're perfect, constantly producing creators like they want.

I'm sorry to rant here, but I'm just really upset how Webtoons and even Rachel herself play her up as some rags to riches story of a one-woman mega talent who works so hard over the rest of them (my god, Webtoons Eisner post really acts like she's the ONLY person working on it? in 2022? They're joking, right?) instead of an incredibly lucky woman who posted on Discover at the right time and has a massive team doing all the hard work for her and a company pouring millions into pushing her comic as The Comic You Need to Spend Money On™️, then demanding their creators with none of the same support or resources to do the work of a five+ person team or else they don't "deserve" their support. It's just not fair and frankly manipulative on Webtoons' behalf, and I get why Rachel won' bite the hand that feeds her, but it sucks she stays silent as she benefits from a system that really is only designed for her and a select few other while the rest struggle.

I agree, it's sad that western is often such a clearly money focused company with generally toxic environment.

It's sort of reminds me of like how mlms market themselves. Showing only the few people that make a ton of money, marketing it as something anyone could succussed at while also it being a side hustle.

Not saying that webtoon is anywhere near mlms but still it's a generally toxic culture of productivity over creativity

#anti lo #lo critical

[screentonescast]

Screen Tones, a Webcomic Podcast

Show Notes

Hiatuses

Release Date: November 9, 2022

Featuring

Renie Jesanis - She/They , www.kateblast.com

Ally Rom Colthoff (Varethane) - She/They http://chirault.sevensmith.net/ http://wychwoodcomic.com/

Kristen Lee (Krispy) She/They https://www.ghostjunksickness.com/

Christina Major (Delphina) - She/Her, www.sombulus.com

In This Episode:

If you’ve been making or reading webcomics for any length of time, you’re probably familiar with the term ‘hiatus’. Webcomics go on hiatus when things come up for the creator, either on or offline, that impact their ability to keep updating the story. 

Sometimes a hiatus is a short, planned break, and afterwards the comic comes back! Sometimes, they last a little longer, and unfortunately, sometimes comics never return to updating afterwards– which has given the term ‘hiatus’ a bit of a bad rap among webcomic readers. 

But it doesn’t have to be! And today we’re going to talk about it!

2:27 Have you had to put your comic on hiatus, or taken a scheduled break? Tell us a bit about why, what your thought process was, and how you approached it!

Some common reasons for hiatus:

Content upload is faster than production and creator is not able to keep up so takes a break to build up a buffer.

Burnout from simply pushing too hard

Planned break at the end of a chapter or season

Physical injury to recover

21:16 Did you post any kind of filler content during the break? A side story, guest art, or other comic-related art? How did you go about choosing or soliciting that?

Fan art/call for guest art, have a scheduled interlude of art/mini comic that takes the pressure off of the main project (maybe it has a lessened update schedule) post behind the scenes stuff, link to other places you’re hosting work. Planning is essential for something like this. Make sure you ask in advance so you have time to gather submissions.

32:45 What would you like other creators or comic readers to know/understand about hiatuses?

Remember this is for you. So let it be a positive experience for you and do what you need to do to keep it that way.

There’s a mindset to it, associated with the hustle, that creators shouldn't take breaks when they have time to create. A lot of creators get stuck in this, thinking that free time isn’t to be ‘wasted’ on breaks, but on the constant productivity to get the project done. Breaks are part of working and as creators, it’s essential to have this in our work life too.

DO NOT FEAR THE HIATUS. It is your friend and a tool in your ever-growing toolbox.

And don't forget: buffers are friends. Not food.

Have a comment? Question? Concern?

Contact us via Twitter @ScreenTonesCast or email [email protected]

Screen Tones Cast:

Ally Rom Colthoff (Varethane) - She/They http://chirault.sevensmith.net/ http://wychwoodcomic.com/

Christina Major (Delphina) - She/Her, www.sombulus.com

Claire Niebergall (Clam) - She/Her, www.phantomarine.com

Kristen Lee (Krispy) She/They https://www.ghostjunksickness.com/

Megan Davison - She/Her, https://www.webtoons.com/en/search?keyword=megasketch

Miranda Reoch - She/Her, mirandacakes.art 

Phineas Klier - They/Them, http://heirsoftheveil.fervorcraft.de

Rae Baade(Rae) - they/them, https://www.empyreancomic.com 

Renie Jesanis - She/They , www.kateblast.com

#show notes

[daveturbittcomics]

The Grind/Side Hustle/TikTok/Celeb-lit vs Comics

Hi everyone I've just been reading these two articles, one via bluesky and one via Neill Cameron on twitter (you probably already know Neill's comics work, if not go and find it because he is really very very very good). It's interesting where artists and creative people are right now in terms of trying to make a living from their art. The Vox article, about the hugely pressured "Personal Brand/Constant TikTokker" phenomenon, talks mainly about music but a lot of visual artists are hitting the same walls, but concluding that this is just "a thing we need to do to get paid. Get hip to it, grandad!"

Neill Cameron's piece (paywalled but you get 1 free article per month) talks about Graphic Novels/kids comics being a new feeding ground for celebrity dilettante children's authors, as he refers to them - Celebrity-Author Apex Predator. And how actually kids comics made by people who have spent decades making comics are doing pretty well thanks to publications like The Phoenix. (Full disclosure, Neill Cameron is employed by The Phoenix).

I found both of these quite thought provoking and hope they're conversation starters . It's never a popular thing to ask out loud in a public space or on an in invite only server, but there is a big unspoken truth at comic cons and meetups around the country, we seldom talk about it because it would possibly, momentarily, break the magic spell of those Artistic Community Spaces if we acknowledged it, but I suspect many of us in the comics making sphere do not make all of our income from our art. My own distant hope is to one day have a fair chunk of income at least come from comics. Currently I make a decent living as a Product and Design Manager for a kids entertainment company, so there are time pressures in my life that reduce the time I can spend drawing.

But looking at these two articles I do wonder, how possible is it?

#comic book art #comics #indiecomics #kidlitart #kidlitillustration

[thevoyageurmoteplass-writing]

The little bookshop was one of Alia’s favourite places. Away from the hustle and bustle of school, the constant barrage of noise of London streets, it was a kind of sanctuary in the middle of it all that she was pretty proud to have found. That, and the fact here always seemed to be at least one old magic book somewhere for her to rifle through.

She’d barely stepped through the door when she heard the ever familiar voice of Marty ask, ‘Alia?’ Oddly, there was a kind of harassed irritation behind it.

As she stepped further into the shop she spotted him, or at least, spotted a pile of books instead of his face.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked, peering around the stack at him; his glasses were sliding down his nose with almost comical slowness. Not that she actually waited for an answer; instead, she grabbed half the stack. She stumbled slightly as the weight of them shifted in her arms, but she didn’t complain.

‘Mrs Docherty wanted the whole collection boxed today,’ he offered as way of an explanation, using the corner of a book to push his glasses up.

‘And you thought carrying all of them –?’

‘I needed to be at the counter too,’ he defended, putting his pile down and taking back the ones in Alia’s arms.

Alia rubbed the marks they’d left as she lowered her voice conspiratorially. ‘You know there’s a spell for that.’

‘Oh!’ Marty said, hitting his forehead with the heel of his hand. ‘This just came in.’ He was talking as he walked, wound his way through the alleys carved by bookshelves, her joke dismissed in an instant in favour of whatever thought had popped into his head. ‘I put this aside the other day when I saw it. Didn’t know if it might be useful but thought I’d hold it just in case.’

‘Has anyone come looking for it?’ Alia asked, leaning on the counter and really hoping at least Marty might be spared all the weirdness that was going on at school.

‘Why, might it be important?’ he asked, popping out from a different alley and placing the book on the counter reverently.

Alia surveyed the cover, looking for any hint about what kinds of spells might be inside. But of course, there was no way of knowing without a couple of additional spells to make sure it wasn’t hiding any horrible curses.

‘No idea, but I’ll find out and –’

‘Wait.’ Marty put his hand on the cover before Alia could slip the book off the counter. She looked up at him sharply. ‘Are you sure about this?’

She shot him her best smile as she eased the book off the counter and swept it into her bag. ‘Would you rather I let it sit in the back room and maybe curse some customers?’

For a moment, Marty looked as though he were actually contemplating that course of action before he shook the thought clear. ‘Just… be careful.’

‘You sound exactly like Freddy,’ she commented, slinging the bag strap over her shoulder. ‘I’ll bring it back before the end of lunch.’ And, with that, she darted back out of the shop, really hoping that this wasn’t going to be anything too serious, but honestly beginning to doubt that that was the case.

#Repost #Made By Me #Drabble #Magical Entrepreneur Story #Alia Underwood #Martin Carter #Marty Carter #Alia Underwood & Marty Carter

[sports-movies]

Hustle Movie Review: Adam Sandler Has All the Right Moves in Netflix’s Solid Sports Film

Review of the movie Hustle: Adam Sandler shows that everyone would be much better off if he stopped making the kind of rubbish that he is typically known for and switched his attention to more dramatic films.

Adam Sandler previously served as a warning about what streaming could develop into. His early work for Netflix, which included unwatchable flops like The Ridiculous 6, The Do-Over, and Sandy Wexler, accurately predicted the future of the streaming service, which would be characterised by a McDonald's-style approach to filmmaking. But in typical Sandler form, he also kept up an almost constant stream of highly regarded masterpieces. Consider it his secondary business.

An early adopter of online entertainment, Sandler was one of the first well-known Hollywood figures to switch to streaming services after realising that his fans preferred to watch his fart joke-heavy films at home. The actor has a lengthy history of appearing in mediocre "comedies" that are frequently harder to sit through than tutorials on the inner workings of conveyor belts.

The overriding impression was that Sandler's whole comedy filmography, spanning three decades, was a sophisticated practical joke intended to highlight the film industry's demand for hits, the audience's appetite for trash, and how readily both can be abused.

He did, however, occasionally astound audiences with his emotional range in movies like Punch-Drunk Love, Reign Over Me, and, ironically, Funny People. After The Meyerowitz Stories and Uncut Gems, Sandler's most recent entry in a new wave of serious films is the aptly named Hustle, a Netflix sports drama in which he proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that he is not only one of the most talented American leading men of the last two decades—comic or otherwise—but also that he is probably one of the most accomplished filmmakers the film industry has ever seen. All those Happy Madison comedies had to have been a satirical ruse, didn't they?

He plays Stanley Sugerman in the movie Hustle, a famed fictitious basketball scout for the Philadelphia 76ers who has spent each of his daughter's previous nine birthdays travelling, staying in five-star hotels, and working tirelessly to keep the fast food industry alive. But he wants out since he's at his wits' end and has aspirations of switching to a coaching career.

Ben Foster, who is consistently dependable and gives particularly scene-chewing performances as his new employer, has other ideas. In order to save his career, he sends Stanley on a last-ditch effort to find and hire the game's next major star.

Stanley resembles the High Lamas who embarked on journeys around Tibet in search of the next Dalai Lama reincarnation in certain ways. Even while the real process of finding the next big thing in basketball is dominated by mind-numbing labour, there is undoubtedly a spiritual component to Stanley's unwavering devotion to the cause. His desperate search leads him to Spain, where he sees Juancho Hernández, an NBA player who portrays the lanky street baller Bo Cruz.

Bo works as a construction worker during the day and hustles upstarts for quick cash on the basketball courts at night. He resides with his mother and little daughter. Both Stanley's and Bo's hero's journeys are equally important in this story.

Hustle hits all the right notes, but it goes further than necessary in breaking clichés associated with sports movies. There are unending training scenes and thrilling fight scenes, and there is even an Adonis Creed-like "enemy" who consistently places obstacles in Bo's way. However, filmmaker Jeremiah Zagar keeps things going quickly, deftly setting up conflict when it is necessary, and finishing with the psychological slam dunk that only emotional relief can deliver.

This is, first and foremost, polished entertainment. Despite how strong the film is, it can't help but indulge in some shaky fish-out-of-water humor at Bo's expense (albeit ironically, it’s Bo who burns a hole in Stanley’s pocket with his unchecked spending on room service).

The supporting cast is portrayed in broad strokes in the screenplay by Will Fetters and Taylor Materne aside from the two of them. You can always tell who has it in for Stanley and his protege and who is just a friend. For instance, Foster's sole responsibility is to mock Bo every ten seconds. Additionally, the actor gives the performance exactly as needed, acting as though cancellation is staring him in the face.

Speaking about excellent acting, Sandler does a wonderful job here. Take note of his wordless portrayal in a crucial early scene when he is informed of the passing of a mentor figure. Zagar keeps his hand on Sandler's face as realization strikes, followed by shock, shock at the realization, and then sheer despair. It’s a real showcase for his talents and our semi-annual reminder that this is the kind of creative energy that Sandler should really be expending.

Read More About The Top 10 Sports Films of 2022 to Watch for a Motivational Boost

Read More About Rise: Release Date, Cast, Trailer, and Everything We Know About the Antetokounmpo Family Film

Read More About The Phantom of the Open

[ftonews]

I mean, come on @dccomics. You can make this happen. You and #Milestonecomics are best buds again and with #dccomics doing so much with the #Multiverse, let's see this duo. 🙌🏾❤️🙌🏾

Artist • @marcusthevisual Nubia & Icon

#dc comics #comic books #comics #me #dc universe #blackout #black people #black metal #death metal #black women #milestone comics #Nubia #wonder woman comics #indie comics #marvel comics #constant hustle comics #batman flash shazam 2 new release date 2021 2022 delay coronavirus warner bros dc comics #icon #black artist #black art #black lives are human lives #black lives are precious #black lives fucking matter #all black lives matter #black lives movement #black lives are important #black creators #black drawing #v black superheroes

[dropintomanga]

“Look Back” - 140 Pages of Raw Emotion

Koyoharu Gotoge gets all the attention right now, but the real manga superstar of the future (or soon-to-be) is Tatsuki Fujimoto. His previous known works, Fire Punch and Chainsaw Man, have developed passionate followings. But his one-shot about creativity and the bonds that form as a result, Look Back, solidifies Fujimoto as one of the very best in depicting real human emotions during terrible moments.

Look Back focuses on the artistic journey of Ayumu Fujino, a 4th grader who loves to draw manga. She draws comic strips for her school newspaper. However, Fujino sees that a fellow peer of hers, Kyomoto, draws even better than her. Fujino becomes more determined to be better than Kyomoto. However, family and peer pressure causes Fujino to change her priorities during 6th grade. It isn’t until she is asked by school staff to deliver Kyomoto’s elementary school graduation diploma to the latter’s house that she gets back into drawing manga again. Fujino draws something on a blank 4-panel strip she finds at Kyomoto’s place. Kyomoto, who’s a shut-in, sees the strip and tells Fujino that she’s been a fan of her art since 4th grade. Fujino becomes ecstatic in seeing her work recognized after constant criticism from her peers. Fujino and Kyomoto begin to work together on manga since then. Both got recognized by Shueisha multiple times over the years to the point of having one of their works becoming an anime series.

Shortly after the anime announcement of one of their works, a rift between the two starts to happen when Kyomoto tells Fujino that she wants to go to art school to get better at drawing. Fujino argues that Kyomoto’s social aloofness is too much for the rest of the world and that it’s better for Kyomoto to stick by her. Kyotomo still goes to art school regardless. Years after their separation, Fujino watches the news one day and finds out that someone attacked the art school Kyomoto attended with multiple dead victims. Kyomoto was one of them. Fujino begins to criticize herself for Kyomoto’s death, but after visiting Kyomoto’s drawing space and seeing how much Kyomoto loved her, Fujino continues to draw as a way to move forward.

I can’t speak on the creative process of a mangaka and mangaka relationships (though I know several mangaka have commented on Look Back for its honest take of being a creator), but I can definitely comment on Fujino blaming herself for Kyomoto’s death. “Drawing is useless,” she says. Fujino imagines a scenario where she saves Kyomoto from her attacker. Fujino was once told by her older sister to practice karate and she feels that maybe she should’ve taken it more seriously. What if she didn’t draw that strip back in 6th grade? What if Fujino and Kyomoto actually met during the art school incident instead of 6th grade?

Those “What ifs?” get shown in vivid detail. And it’s heart-wrenching. There’s always constant reminders to treasure those around you because you never know what will happen. It’s hard to do that sometimes when certain cultures always avoid issues like death and the inevitability of it all like they’re not worth talking about. Also, I think we’re always told that we can save someone if we tried hard enough. If they never get better, society will say that it’s our fault. No one wants to talk about how random life gets. That’s because no one wants to admit that they can’t control everything.

The most powerful moment was Fujino realizing that drawing isn’t useless. She notices a small strip at Kyomoto’s place while in grief. This panel says it all.

It’s nice to have someone with the same interests as you be your friend. But more importantly, it’s even nicer to have someone who literally gives a shit about you. Someone’s who willing to guide you, take in your pain, and be vulnerable with. Fujino exposed Kyomoto to the outside world during their early mangaka days and Kyomoto expressed her gratitude for that. It’s so hard to find people like that. I mean, if you know you’re about to die, it’s worth knowing that at the very least, you met someone that loved you and got you to feel life was worth it, right? I often hear there are many people who don’t feel they’re truly being heard among their relationship circles. Their connections aren’t as deep as they would like.

What this also says is that if you’re working on something that almost always feels undervalued, there’s always someone out there who will tell you that they are inspired by your work. Maybe I can speak on this a bit. I sometimes feel that blogging is a drag given all the mass attention is going to other outlets. Like why write? Especially on a platform that’s been crapped on the past few years. I realize that this isn’t the case. There’s people who dislike “hot takes/clickbait tiles/news promoting discourse.” I think about what Roland Kelts said about anime discussion in this interview.

“What sucks is that the discourse on social media is so coarse. When you go back and read exchanges between diehard anime fans on Usenet and old chatrooms and forums from the mid-2000s, they read like middlebrow literature compared to what you see on Twitter, Reddit, and Discord. So many social media posts are made just to get hits, not to communicate or share ideas, and the most provocative, cruel, or just plain daft stuff gets liked and retweeted a thousand times.”

I feel that there’s still a place for me and if I can still communicate ideas worth thinking about, I’ll keep going as long as I can. Plus, trying to appeal to everyone feels like a trap because it sometimes requires sacrificing certain core values that you might hold dear. When I look at Fujino and Kyomoto, they held on to their core values and found solace in one another. Just find “good enough” people who are willing to love and respect you. I’m glad Look Back got published because finding bonds with other like-minded folks and developing very close relationships with them is sadly a rarity during these times. You also can’t put monetary worth on creativity that inspires people to do what they want to do and/or find reasons for living. Hobbies and creative ventures aren’t “side hustles/distractions” - they’re part of a universal cry to be human.

I think it’s safe to to say that we will really look back on this one-shot for years to come.

#Look Back #Tatsuki Fujimoto #manga #mental health #friendship #psychology #coming of age #connection

[gigasonickickflip]

talk abt oscar-winning dave strider

someone out there is patting themselves on the back for this bit huh

alright, you wanna hear about the oscar-winning screenwriter and up-and-coming director? lets play

folks usually notice my whole aesthetic first, since im pretty much the most popular user of the y2k pixeltrash aesthetic since ive been honing it over 20 years of producing web content, yknow the hyper compressed jpeg shit that i started doing as a riff on how everyone and their mother tried to make webcomics back in the day with no idea how to actually format the files. but not gonna lie its a look that started to resonate heavily with people as a reminder of less refined days of less profitable art, back when people just drew comics of mario kicking links ass for love of the game

going a layer deeper, it usually takes a bigger fan to notice the political undercurrents, my background studying polisci and econ, that sort of real world tinge to all the absurdist work to keep it grounded. always had a big interest in games and systems, especially as a brokeass kid trying to work smarter not harder, so ive always had a big interest in the whole political machine and all the cogs that work in it, and i usually end up either discussing that shit in my work in bitesized chunks that a comedys audience is able to pick apart, or just lampoon that shit straight-on to give the jokes a more real world edge

another layer down, and if you squint really hard you, kinda start to notice the constant riffing on americana (the classic american symbols of a house, a wife, 2.5 kids, and a backyard barbecue) that i end up doing as a guy that came from a background with an incredibly nonnuclear family and no real connection to "the dream" of success or happiness in a consumerist society. i was broke as fuck, pretty much had no academic success to get me out of it, and so i was focusing hard on that hustle culture of it all, trying to find a get-rich-quick scheme in the woods of it all, which is something thats always been a mainstay of the comedy protag: a bumbling oaf trying to take shortcuts to the top, difference is that i usually use the fool as a mouthpiece to show how inherently ridiculous the capitalistic systems and expectations of late western society are that just some idiot could succeed entirely off of bumbling his way to the top while everyone else has to scavenge for their piece of the american pie

go one more layer down and you realize that i was raised in the early 2000s and think that skateboards are really fuckin sick bro

#fanmail #this felt like i was back in english class doing a self critique

[harcourtholmesii]

In This Here, Beautiful World (Part 2)

Fandoms: Team Fortress 2

Pairings: Medic X Heavy / Scout X Miss Pauling / Scout’s Ma X Spy / Soldier X Zhanna / Engineer X Original Character / Saxton Hale X Maggie

Warnings: - Threats of Violence - Violence - Gore

Words: 1849

Summary: When the world goes to shit, in order to survive, you need to be ruthless, and you need to be prepared to do whatever it takes. When nine strangers and their families come together to fight back the zombie plague, tensions will rise between them all, threatening to pull them apart and kill them from the inside-out. It’s a shitty summary, I know. ^^

Enjoy!

The afternoon lecture had always been a slow trek to the day’s end. By this time, most students were far too exhausted and unmotivated to continue their work. Majority of them just wanted to return to their dorms or go out with friends; have some time to relax and recuperate from a long day of studying.

 Mikhail didn’t often sympathise with his class, but the sluggish pace of the day had weighed him down over the hours. He felt just as tired as his class appeared to be, and beneath his eyes, he could feel the stress sinking his expression and morphing his voice to a deep mutter. He was thankful none of the class seemed to care, as it would have been an embarrassing moment of weakness.

 He cleared his throat; only a few heads turning to pay attention.

 ‘Well, it seems the day has left us behind.’ A few of the students seemed sheepish, hiding their red faces behind their books or hands. ‘Perhaps, we will end this session early, and we can pick this up tomorrow.’ He offered the way out to his students with a tired smile.

 Those that were awake, eagerly accepted.

 Students hurried to gather their notes and books, tucking them away in their bags and beginning to dart with newfound energy to the exit. They offered Mikhail a hurried ‘thank you’ as they took off, or a wave if they were too lazy to speak.

 The Russian stood up and rounded his own desk, heading up the line of pitched desks, beginning to awaken those that had crashed. A few leapt up, fuelled by the fear or worry of being scolded, but were relieved when he allowed them leave. Others took their time to awaken, dragging their whole weight out the door with his prompting.

 It wasn’t long before the lecture hall was quiet and empty, save for Mikhail himself.

 He had some paperwork he needed to complete, but he could just as easily take it home with him. He glanced up at the clock on the wall, the one that had ticked by at a snail’s pace for the last hour at least. The hour alone had felt like 12; glaringly cruel whenever one had sought comfort that the day’s end was approaching.

 The time read 3:37pm.

 He still had plenty of time before his engagement with a friend.

 He pulled his phone out of his breast pocket; the electronic seemed frighteningly fragile in his hands. It reminded him of how his students had stared at him when they first attended his classes. His size, stature and gruff, accented voice seemed to intimidate most of them when they first met him. Many had stared at his hands in particular; scarred and calloused from Mikhail’s years of work and abuse.

 Despite being a professor of literature, Mikhail seemed more the part of a hardened war veteran. It had been commented on many a time, mostly behind his back when they thought he couldn’t hear. Apparently, he scared people. Mikhail didn’t necessarily mind the thought, as being feared meant he had a modicum of respect from his students and fellow staff members.

 He tapped carefully at the little buttons on his phone, watching as the screen was lit up with numbers. Finally, he pressed the call button and brought it to his ear. He waited.

 One ring…

 Two rings…

 ‘Misha!’ He felt the air in his lungs release with his relief. He was always scared of the potential that his mother or sisters would not answer the phone. Too much had happened in their family history that he was relieved when another day went by without hassle.

 ‘мама.’

 ‘It is so good to hear from you, and so soon!’ She seemed happy. That was good. ‘You don’t normally call until you are on your way home.’

 ‘да, well, I ended class early. Students too tired to continue.’

 ‘That is a shame.’ He could almost hear the pout from the other end of the line. ‘You are very smart, Misha, and I know how you love to discuss your passion.’

 ‘I am not upset, мама. Just frustrated. Day has been going on for far too long.’ He said, running two, thick fingers across his eyes. He could feel the dry tears in the corners of his eyes, and felt an itch as he attempted to rub the sleep away.

 ‘Hm… I can agree with that. Yana and Bronislava have been out all day and…’ She trailed off, his mother seemed hesitant to speak. He felt concern rise and clench deeply at his heart.

 ‘What happened?’

 ‘It’s Zhanna…’

 ‘Is she hurt?!’ He felt panic rising, not bothering to grab his classwork but making a move to the door so he might hurry home. Or to the hospital. Or to wherever his sister might be.

 ‘нет, she claims she is not hurt, my son. Not physically.’ He slowed a little, felt the panic lessening, but he kept moving. He didn’t bother to lock the lecture hall behind him, as he expected the janitors would notice in their nightly routine.

 ‘I’ll come home.’

 ‘нет. Misha… I don’t think she wants to see anyone right now.’ He stopped, and instead of worry, he felt fury beginning to boil his blood. He kept his voice low so he couldn’t be heard.

 ‘I will crush him.’

 ‘Ah, Misha, you know we cannot be doing that.’

 ‘He broke Zhanna’s heart.’ His eyes glanced about for any other sign of life. Apart from his own class, that he had released early, all other classrooms were still shut tight and not a soul was in the halls. ‘Little man will pay.’

 ‘да, he will. However, we cannot be the ones to make him pay. Zhanna loved him, and this is more than just him breaking it off with her. Mikhail…’

 When she used his full name, it never meant anything good was going to be said next. He prepared himself, expecting to hear what he had heard before. The man Zhanna had taken an interest in thought her too loud, perhaps too overbearing. Maybe he was intimidated by a woman just as strong as he was and potentially taller too. Maybe an insult had been hurled her way; not uncommon but still unforgivable.

 Zhanna had always been a hopeless romantic, and had sought out someone that suited her well. Instead, she tended to scare even the kindest men away, and Mikhail just didn’t understand it. She was beautiful, strong-willed and loyal to a fault.

 ‘She told me Peter had been feeling unwell. She had gone to see him, taking some borscht with her to liven him up.’ Always a good choice. ‘Oh Misha…’

 ‘What happened?’ He repeated again.

 ‘He hurt her… He attacked her, Misha.’

 ‘что?!’ He felt himself seething, clenching his free hand in rapid succession, as if squeezing an invisible stress toy. ‘He dare hurt sister?!’

 ‘He didn’t do much, but she came home with bruises on her arms. He even bit her hard on the hand when he grabbed her.’

 CRUNCH!

 He didn’t mean to break the phone in his grip, but how dare someone do something so cruel to Zhanna! She who wore her heart open, on her sleeve for all to see. She was a sensitive soul who didn’t deserve the cruelty that wicked men had lashed out with.

 He didn’t have the time, or the ability, to call Dell and let him know their afternoon coffee was off. Dell knew not to worry if Mikhail was unable to come, the Texan always patient with the ups and downs the Garin family had faced over the years. He was a constant kindness in Mikhail’s life, always polite enough to just sit and listen when he could afford it.

 Dell would have to wait.

 He stormed quickly and with purpose through the halls towards the exit; those rare students and staff that he passed parted ways for him quickly when they noticed the oxen man move towards them. By the time he was in the parking lot, he nearly tore the door off the car itself, taking a seat within the tiny vehicle.

 It creased his body and forced his spine into a hunched position. He filled up the front window almost comically, but the deathly glare in his eyes shut up any laughs from onlookers. He reversed, peeling out and into the middle of the lot, and then begun his drive home.

 Through it all, the radio was tuned to the classical station; the fine sound of an orchestra helped to soothe his anger, but not deplete it entirely. The violins, by far his favourite of the instruments, almost massaged the pulsing, burning ache in his head with their lulling choir. It helped, if only a little, and if only for a short time.

 As Mikhail continued his drive deeper and deeper into city streets, he started to notice an unusual hustle amongst the pedestrians. There was an unending ring of sirens as police cars and ambulances cut through the traffic, and officers attempted to redirect it down different streets.

 Through it all, there was a sudden cacophony of gunshots, and screams ripped through the pedestrians as they took to the road. They hurried between the crawling automobiles, banging on windows and attempting to open doors in their haste to escape whatever was happening. One woman had latched onto Mikhail’s own car, a large, red gash across her cheek. Her lip was bleeding and her hands were scratching at his passenger door desperately, creating a fine line of white scratches across the metal.

 He went to unlock the door, to allow her safety, when another person (man or woman, Mikhail couldn’t tell) half tackled her to the floor. He opened his own door, about to pull the figure off of her. That was, until they turned their head, revealing their chin and mouth stained with blood, teeth tight around a piece of flesh. The woman was still gasping, reaching out to him, eyes half-lidded as sleep threatened to take her.

 ‘Help…’ He could hardly hear her, especially after that creature suddenly turned on him. He leapt back, in time for the creature to miss planting its own teeth in his arm. He gripped the back of its head, large fingers tangled through its mess of hair, and planted its face to the concrete with as much force as he could muster. It was like a watermelon was crushed under his weight, as the head came apart with ease.

 Blood ran down his hand and wrist. He looked down at the woman, who now laid there, unmoving. Beyond the traffic, a crowd had formed of people racing to escape the chaos. More gunshots. More screaming.

 Mikhail didn’t return to his car. At the rate the traffic was moving, he wouldn’t be able to get out in time before more of those creatures came. He abandoned his vehicle, and turned to follow the road out of the city.

 He had to get home.

 And he had to get there soon!

#Team Fortress 2 #TF2 #TF2 Fanfiction #Heavy X Medic #Scout X Miss Pauling #Spy X Scout's Ma #Saxton Hale X Maggie #Engineer X OC #Soldier X Zhanna #Fanfiction #TF2 Fanfic #HarcourtHolmesII

[akookminsupporter]

Hi I'm the Harry Style and JK comparison anon again. I'm not trying to invalidate anyone's experience but since we are talking tangible markers/actions/sayings, I want to give my opinion on them. I want to start by saying that JK is multifaceted, everyone is. We can't pick and choose what facet to emphasize depending on what we want to show. I mean we can't choose a facet, and ignore the rest when we're talking markers of lgbtq.. "he constantly showed disinterest in girls ever since debut," I'm only aware of him ONCE saying he wasn't interested in dating on American Hustle, but besides that every member in BTS have said every time they were asked about dating. It's not far fetched to believe it has to do with their jobs, "selling availability" like one anon put it, and so they were instructed since the beginning to steer away from dating conversations. Let's keep in mind that we're taking the words of a 16 year old just debuted after 3 years in training, shipped to a completely foreign environment to film a reality show with the pressure of having to make it as an idol. He isn't one of us regular people in highschool with the same society and family pressures. "he covered/made multiple songs directed at men (fools, i know, we dont talk anymore pt2)" He is a big fan of Troy, like he is a big fan of Charlie Puth. Does this mean only lgbtq people can be fans of and cover other lgbtq artists? That's why I brought up Taehyung who is also fan of lgbtq artists (something grey I can't remember). Also, RM covered 2 of those songs with JK, why does the lgbtq reading apply to JK but not RM? "his constant praise of troye, and the speech that imagine dragon made about conversion therapy comes to mind, he was one of the members that reacted the most" Exactly, one of the members. A Korean Jikook translators have said they likely did not understand the speech, unless someone was there interpreting for them which there wasn't. I'm inclinded not to take this as telling of anything since I know they're not fluent. I didn't take it as a tell for Jimin either, whome I'm a major believer in his queerness. "also, i disagree with their assessment that JK, if LGBT, would be non-stereotypical???" What I meant by non-stereotypical is that we cannot say Jungkook is similar to someone like Frankie Grande. That's the "stereotypical" gay man in media that people are used to/think of. The other thing I meant is that he is desirable by everyone, including & mostly by straight women and is liked and admired by het cis men, with an image of one of the guys; he is good in sports, he works out, he is competitive, he is strong, he has cool tattoos, he's into E-boy/grung style, comic books, gaming, Marvel - all things that define conventional masculinity in today's popculture and society, and that makes him attractive to straight women and liked by men. And yes Jungkook is more than these things but those are still dominant facets of who he is (at least on camera). He is also gentle and soft and caring and he cries - watching Iron Man I might point out. But to say these things makes him more likely to be LGBTQ kind of say that straight cis men are less likely to have those facets of them? It's veering into toxic masculinity. "people dont generally notice because hes a big guy who likes working out, but hes actually. very feminine. he has feminine mannerisms, loves makeup, wears a lot of gender neutral clothes, plus hes very sensitive and in touch with his emotions." This is like 4/7 of BTS anon. Have we seen him wear makeup that's not typical of every kpop idol on stage? while off the stage he has a base on and brow product, also typical of anyone who is on camera. The feminine mannerism especially is something people notice on most Korean idols, which makes me think we need to take into consideration cultural differences in mannerism, especially when seeing that Jungkook isn't more feminine in his mannerism than say, Jin or J-hope or especially Jimin. The gender neutral clothes - actually all of them have worn women clothes at one point or another

which I'm sure were picked by a stylist. Jimin is the only member who still wore women clothes on his own accord. Aside from the two gender neutral outfits, that are decidedly more masculine than feminine, like the one JK had on in his Bday live, all his personal clothes have been men's wear. I fail to see what wearing gender neutral clothes have to do with sexuality :/

I think anon is responding to another anon who commented on their original post?

Yesterday I posted a considerable amount of asks so maybe if you guys are going to refer to one of them could you post the link? So I know exactly which one you are referring to.

#anon #ask #serious conversation #JKJM

[barbieburnanator]

for the artist ask meme: 1, 5, and 17!

Thanks for the asks! I may have gone a little overboard on my answers, but I love details. (both in my art and answers.)

1. When did you start drawing?

I've been drawing and coloring since I could hold a crayon. I have a vivid memory of coloring in Ariel from the Little Mermaid on my dining room floor when I was 6 or 7. I started drawing more when I got into anime, around 12, and even more so when I entered high school. But I'd say I serious on drawing and anatomy, color, environments, etc., about 1.5~2 years ago. For now it's a hobby, but I would like to make a career out of it, or at least a side hustle, one day. Here's the earliest drawing that I still have. I was maybe around 6 or 7 drawing this and it's hanging on my wall in my studio as constant inspiration to keep going!

5. UR proudest artwork.

Oh, this is hard. Mainly because I'll feel proud of a piece I finish, then by next week it's old news. I don't think I could pick just one, there are a few pieces I feel proud of, even if they're old.

I was really proud of how these three came out looking, especially since I was still getting used to digital art back then. I remember spending days (even weeks) on them, but I was so happy with how they turned out.

More recently I feel pretty proud of my landscapes and face portraits from this year -

I've been trying new techniques for coloring and shading left and right this year. Finding new ways to get coloring and ideas down faster. All three of these pictures are something I wouldn't haven been able to do 6 years ago like the previous pictures, and they all took way less time to boot! There's a lot that I would already like to fix or change, but I'm still pretty proud of how they came out.

17. UR inspiration?

Another long answer! (Sorry, not sorry.)

I gain a lot of inspiration from artist, but also from nature. When I go out for walks I'll snap tons of pictures of what I find interesting. (My two recent landscape painting are from pictures I took.) Movies, TV shows, videogames, and books are all things I draw inspiration from. Such examples being Ghibli movies like Castle in the Sky, Spirited Away, Whisper of the Heart (go watch if you're feeling down about your art!) Tv shows like The Promised Neverland, Clone Wars, Final Space, Cowboy Bebop, Full Metal Alchemist Brotherhood, Bleach, Gurren Lagann (I rewatch every year), Yu Yu Hakusho, Tigun, the list goes on.

As for other artist, the list gets pretty long here too, so I'll mention my top 5 -

Loish - Been following her since my high school years and when digital art was making it big in the media. I continue to follow her and love her tutorials. Her style and movement in her work is what drives me to give my own characters movement. She was also my main inspiration for when I started painting digitally.

Steven Zapata - This is guy is the best. Not only as art but at the philosophy of art. Why do you draw? What keeps you drawing? I will listen to his videos as I draw and it always makes me smile. I think he's helped in a big way, not so much when it comes to drawing, but rather the mindset that we have while creating art. I could talk for hours about this guy so go check him out on Youtube!

Trent Kaniuga - Awesome artist and painter! This guy made his own way in the art field, creating a comic that sold in stores when he was in high school. He never went to college but he made his own way as a self taught artist. That alone has always been a big inspiration for me as I can afford a university and have been teaching myself. The way he uses colors and paints has given me ideas of how to do it in my own work.

Adam Duff LUCIDPIXUL - Another artist you'll find on Youtube. I've been watching this guy for almost two years and he's so warm and heartfelt in his videos. I love putting him in the background as I work and he's very down to earth when talking about art and the world around us. His art isn't my style but it does give me interesting ideas.

Dave Greco - An amazing artist in rendering and color. I've been following him for a while and I love how he paints hair and uses color. Though I think it's the way he uses lighting and paints faces that I love the most. (I uses a few of his brushes too for painting faces.)

Phew! I know I probably answered way more than you expected but I love getting these questions! It gives me a chance to think more about my own art and how I think about it as well. If you have any others questions, from the list or in general, just send it in. And thanks again for the asks! :)

#asks #asks barbieburnanator

[emad-internship]

Surprise Surprise - Week 11

Week of 11/2

This week was another week of thumbnails and another animatics sequence, but the highlight of the week is that I can finally reveal the superhero that I introduced in Week 1: Avery the Astonishing. They’re a non-binary superhero created by Constant Hustle who has teamed up with our organization so we can help give them more recognition. Avery was one of the topics during episode 76 of The Daily Hero, pictured here:

This was also a portion of the comic that I used to organize a storyboard in Week 2:

Side note: Avery was on the back of last weeks flyer as well.

I’ve been working on animatics for Avery’s story and I’m looking forward to finally sharing more about Avery the Astonishing.

Total Hours: 160