“This edition features early drafts of the new cover art, which have been included periodically throughout the book. These images give a small insight into the process of creating the new cover from artists within 343 Industries.“
AN: Happy almost New Year,
everyone! And happy Thirst Party Saturday! I give you, my first
attempt at an A/B/O installment, involving wrestlers who played
football and looked damn nice doing so. Tagging the usual
suspects, @tox-moxley, @hardcorewwetrash and @oraclegazes! Enjoy!
You bet your fucking buttons that Falcs TV does a special video on Jack at home called “Bachelor of Arts”.
After a montage about his hockey prowess we see Jack in his apartment kitchen. He’s fresh out of his morning shower, rolling out pie dough on his kitchen counter, ladling beef stew from his crockpot into pot pie shells. “I learned to make pastry for a class in my senior year,” he explains, sucking gravy off his thumb with a boyish grin. “Now I make it all the time. I’ll freeze these for the week ahead.”
(Then he cuts little hockey sticks out of the pastry scraps and presses them on top of the pies, looking inordinately pleased with his little bit of decoration. Did we mention his shirtsleeves are rolled up to bare his forearms?)
His back muscles flex as he pulls binder labelled SAMWELL 13-14 off one of his library shelves and flips through the tabbed assortment of notes and assignments. “I worked really hard for this A-,” he says, his fingers hovering over the mark written on the essay’s cover page. The typewritten title says Development of the Metric System in Early Modern France, Jack L. Zimmermann, HIST 247: The Industrial Revolution in Europe, and the professor’s scribbled comments begin Good analysis of the standardization of before wandering out of the camera’s frame.
“This is a Halifax Bomber,” he says, holding a model plane up to give a good look at the markings on the fuselage.
The camera shifts focus from the airplane to show how his chiseled jaw is very faintly stubbled and he smiles a little sheepishly at his own enthusiasm.
“I painted this with the markings from RCAF 408 Squadron, but there’s nothing to uh, really tell you that it’s a Canadian plane, not until after the Second World War, but there’s historical reasons we weren’t really, um, differentiated, as a really distinct military force then. But I know what it is.”
His blue eyes light with fondness when he looks at the pictures on the walls of his apartment. “The house I lived in, you could open my window and climb out onto the roof and just sit there. We called it the Samwell Men’s Hockey Reading Room. I spent a lot of time out there with Bittle and, uh, Knight.” He gestures to the two figures in the professionally-mounted photograph–one talking and gesturing with his hands, another leaning forward to listen, haloed by the setting sun. “I took this picture so when I walk by it I remember and I can feel like I’m still there with them.”
The person behind the camera asks, “What kind of thing would you talk about?”
“Oh, everything,” Jack reminisces. “Politics, feminism, hockey. Expectations you grow up with. What we wanted to do for the future.”
Jack reaches out to gently touch another photograph in a frame, an empty rink with the sun rising through the enormous windows at its far end. “You still visit them?” the other person asks.
“Oh, all the time,” he says. In the library there’s a printout of the Samwell 2015-16 game schedule pinned to a corkboard, the home opener circled with pen. There’s a small framed portrait of Bob and Alicia with a dog, a flyer for an upcoming history conference. Jack is in a Samwell hoodie in his living room, bouncing a puck off a hockey stick. “I feel like there’s still a lot to learn.”
A completely self-indulgent
thing I wanted to write, basically how a meeting between Anders and my
Inquisitor (Dian Adaar) would go down. (Though if somebody decided to make
their own Sit In Judgment with their own Inquisitors, hey, go for it.)
As they approached
the front of the hall, clanking in chains, his guards tried to sweep his legs out
from under him, force him to kneel or at least to bow his head. Though he had
willingly allowed himself to be led this far, at this Anders resisted – even
calling on the strength of Justice to steady him on his feet. Maybe it was
petty, or vain, but the hall was full of people, and Anders had no intention of
letting them see him bow. He would bow to no tyrant, never again. They could see him bloodied, beaten, and before the day was out they may see him dead, but they would never see him bow.
This was a moment
that would be remembered for centuries, one way or another. The symbolism of
it, Anders decided, was worth the indulgence.