Wrangling teenage emotions is hard enough on good days, but what if on bad days they could manifest as giant flesh and blood monsters?
Pacific Rim meets Friday Night Lights as knee-jerk rebel Sage Sawyer is forced to join her high school "tourneytub...
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Talia hated losing when she was the Jackalopes' starting thaumaturge.
Now that she's basically chained to the benchpen, she hates losing even more.
At least her head isn't pounding like it was even a week ago, though.
Right after the Dulcet game, the other Jackalope jockeys are all busy loading up their tubs into several burgundy eighteen wheelers, which will transport them back to Jupiter. Talia tries to pat her little brother on the back, but he barely seems to notice. He trundles over to Excalibur, shaking his head resignedly.
"I told Coach I'm no jockey." He says.
"You did your best." Talia says.
"My best is never good enough though, is it?" Artie shrugs, rolling off to load himself aboard the accessible ramp on their bus.
Talia doesn't really have a good answer for this.
She knows exactly how he feels.
Talia wanders off around Percival Moon Memorial Court. Slowly, as the night deepens, the Dulcet ground crew shuts off the floodlights, one by one, leaving the now strangely placid pool at the center of it all dark and abandoned.
But Talia isn't really interested in hobbling around in her crutches by the pool. No, she's more interested in exploring the outside structures of the court. She may hate the Dulcet Octopi with the fire of a thousand suns, which is almost a requirement for every Jackalope jockey, but she can't help loving parts of this place, particularly the open air Percival Moon Memorial Museum.
Tourneytub was partly invented here, after all.
Talia reaches the museum, which is essentially made up of a few tall stone blocks. This area has always reminded her a little bit of Stonehenge, but cleaner. More formal. Straighter angles. With the moon bouncing over the stone, filling the whole space with an eerie luminescence; nature's own floodlight. And on the blocks are pictures with little paragraphs beside them, outlining the development of the sport Talia loves so much. The sport that, now she can't play it, leaves what feels like a gigantic spear permanently stuck through her side.
Still, Talia keeps swinging her crutches along the pathway winding through the museum. All she hears is the click click click of her metal supports striking the carefully planned paving stones beneath her feet. Talia passes a block outlining the formation of the American Humor Pacification Brigade Alliance, featuring a faded picture of FDR signing the bill into law as part of the New Deal. She ignores this one, but a smooth block a few hundred paces away catches her eye.
It always manages to catch her eye. It's designed this way.
She hopes it will give her some inspiration. She could really use some right about now.
