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Description
This is the finished color version of the sketch I threw in Scraps several days ago. I've refined the lines, repositioned a few body parts and colored with standard color pencils. And *sheeeesh* did these guys give me slag! I no longer wonder why I don't do visual art more often. I think I'll stick to my writer's block.

So, this is the scene I conjured, very short, but explanatory...

Nine seconds lost, and as yet nothing gained. The Blaze were down by four and the close of the fourth quarter was fast approaching. Jazz glared at the shot clock and its big digital '15' before sliding his view over to Sideswipe on the Trailers' side of the court. The center was defiant to the last, even now refusing to sit. Jazz felt his presence still on the court, in the air, and knew it was alive in his team, and he sighed sharply while Hot Spot shouted directions in the huddle to the rest of the team.

Sideswipe's steal attempt had landed him out of bounds with the ball and with his sixth foul, which landed him on the bench permanently. A key force had been taken from the Trailers. But it meant they would be going with a bigger line-up now, with Prime coming in to replace Sides at center, and with Ultra Magnus and Ironhide both in foul trouble, Hot Spot had no choice but to keep Sunstreaker in the game and reserve his other big men for any upcoming defensive plays.

With the great height disadvantage - a total reversal from the start of the game - the Blaze took to the court, pairing up as well suited as possible against their respective Trailers counterparts to prepare for the inbounds pass at half court. Since the ball was off of Sideswipe, the Blaze retained possession, and Bluestreak took his place at the sideline, scanning through the scattering of bodies and wondering...

The whistle blew.

Like a collective jumpstart, nine mechs jerked into motion. Hotrod was a determined windmill, his arms flailing every which way to hinder Bluestreak's inpass. In the foreground, Groove and Wheeljack jostled for position against Jazz and Springer. Blue grimaced in frustration, the seconds ticking away. He had to get the ball in quickly to avoid a 'delay of game' violation.

There. Smokescreen zipped in from the far side underneath the basket, Mirage hot on his heels. He dashed tightly past the tangle of Jazz and Groove, losing his defender on the other side of the jumble and coming into the clear near half-court beyond Hotrod's extensive reach. Bluestreak fired the ball his way in a low arc and took to the court.

Smokescreen pulled up at the top of the key and paused, checking the shot clock as Mirage caught up. Both hands on the ball, Smoke swung it to his side for protection, pulling it snug into his right hip and presenting his left shoulder. Mirage was creeping in with hands ready to grab anything stray, optics locked with his, and he wasn't about to risk another steal attempt. Seconds were ticking, though, and he had to act.

The ball went to the floor, his feet went into motion, cautious, deliberate. The space between he and Mirage deminished and their shoulders connected briefly. Mirage had one hand poised between them, just waiting for the split second chance, his stance low for the awaiting launch down the court for a fast break.

Beyond the blue mech, Smokescreen caught a white blur emerge from the mass to the left of the basket. Jazz had broken free of Groove and charged diagonally through the paint to the right side. His visor kept vigil the whole transition as he waited for a possible pass. And it came. But the defensive rotation was tight, and no sooner had Jazz received the pass and spun around did he find not Groove, but solid red, white and blue blocking his path to the basket. Optimus Prime had slid off from Sunstreaker to guard him.

Eight seconds left on the shot clock. Jazz could barely see the danged thing from over Prime's shoulder! This was certainly the biggest mismatch he'd been a part of all night, giving up nearly nine feet and close to a ton and a half. He wished he'd played against Optimus more during practice to get a better feel for this particular scenario. Too late, now. Prime had four fouls, Jazz knew. He decided to bring the play into close quarters, hoping Prime would play with some restriction to keep from getting his fifth.

It was, as the quip went, 'crunch time'. Jazz mused briefly just how accurate that could be as he crouched and began to move...

Description
This is the finished color version of the sketch I threw in Scraps several days ago. I've refined the lines, repositioned a few body parts and colored with standard color pencils. And *sheeeesh* did these guys give me slag! I no longer wonder why I don't do visual art more often. I think I'll stick to my writer's block.

So, this is the scene I conjured, very short, but explanatory...

Nine seconds lost, and as yet nothing gained. The Blaze were down by four and the close of the fourth quarter was fast approaching. Jazz glared at the shot clock and its big digital '15' before sliding his view over to Sideswipe on the Trailers' side of the court. The center was defiant to the last, even now refusing to sit. Jazz felt his presence still on the court, in the air, and knew it was alive in his team, and he sighed sharply while Hot Spot shouted directions in the huddle to the rest of the team.

Sideswipe's steal attempt had landed him out of bounds with the ball and with his sixth foul, which landed him on the bench permanently. A key force had been taken from the Trailers. But it meant they would be going with a bigger line-up now, with Prime coming in to replace Sides at center, and with Ultra Magnus and Ironhide both in foul trouble, Hot Spot had no choice but to keep Sunstreaker in the game and reserve his other big men for any upcoming defensive plays.

With the great height disadvantage - a total reversal from the start of the game - the Blaze took to the court, pairing up as well suited as possible against their respective Trailers counterparts to prepare for the inbounds pass at half court. Since the ball was off of Sideswipe, the Blaze retained possession, and Bluestreak took his place at the sideline, scanning through the scattering of bodies and wondering...

The whistle blew.

Like a collective jumpstart, nine mechs jerked into motion. Hotrod was a determined windmill, his arms flailing every which way to hinder Bluestreak's inpass. In the foreground, Groove and Wheeljack jostled for position against Jazz and Springer. Blue grimaced in frustration, the seconds ticking away. He had to get the ball in quickly to avoid a 'delay of game' violation.

There. Smokescreen zipped in from the far side underneath the basket, Mirage hot on his heels. He dashed tightly past the tangle of Jazz and Groove, losing his defender on the other side of the jumble and coming into the clear near half-court beyond Hotrod's extensive reach. Bluestreak fired the ball his way in a low arc and took to the court.

Smokescreen pulled up at the top of the key and paused, checking the shot clock as Mirage caught up. Both hands on the ball, Smoke swung it to his side for protection, pulling it snug into his right hip and presenting his left shoulder. Mirage was creeping in with hands ready to grab anything stray, optics locked with his, and he wasn't about to risk another steal attempt. Seconds were ticking, though, and he had to act.

The ball went to the floor, his feet went into motion, cautious, deliberate. The space between he and Mirage deminished and their shoulders connected briefly. Mirage had one hand poised between them, just waiting for the split second chance, his stance low for the awaiting launch down the court for a fast break.

Beyond the blue mech, Smokescreen caught a white blur emerge from the mass to the left of the basket. Jazz had broken free of Groove and charged diagonally through the paint to the right side. His visor kept vigil the whole transition as he waited for a possible pass. And it came. But the defensive rotation was tight, and no sooner had Jazz received the pass and spun around did he find not Groove, but solid red, white and blue blocking his path to the basket. Optimus Prime had slid off from Sunstreaker to guard him.

Eight seconds left on the shot clock. Jazz could barely see the danged thing from over Prime's shoulder! This was certainly the biggest mismatch he'd been a part of all night, giving up nearly nine feet and close to a ton and a half. He wished he'd played against Optimus more during practice to get a better feel for this particular scenario. Too late, now. Prime had four fouls, Jazz knew. He decided to bring the play into close quarters, hoping Prime would play with some restriction to keep from getting his fifth.

It was, as the quip went, 'crunch time'. Jazz mused briefly just how accurate that could be as he crouched and began to move...