The creature shook uncontrollably, the ground beneath it glowing faintly as though reacting to its fear.
Images hit Jones again—men in dark suits stepping out of trucks, equipment humming with unnatural frequency, cages made of shimmering metal. A symbol on their uniforms: a triangular shape with three interlocking rings.
Jones didn’t recognize it.
But the creature’s terror was real. And contagious.
He heard footsteps behind him—several sets, heavy, coordinated.
Flashlights.
Voices.
Men.
“Over this way!” someone shouted.
The creature convulsed.
Jones made a split-second decision that made no earthly sense but felt absolutely right.
“Come on,” he whispered. “I’ll get you out of here.”
He scooped it carefully into his arms. It weighed almost nothing—like lifting a bundle of leaves.
Then he ran.
4. The Chase
Jones wasn’t sure how long he sprinted through the trees, branches whipping his arms, leaves cracking underfoot. The creature clung weakly to his chest, its iridescent colors dimming with every second.
Shouts echoed behind him.
“Tracks here!”
“Thermal scanner’s picking something up!”
“Don’t lose it again!”
Jones pushed harder.
This was insane. Impossible. Unreal.
And yet—
It also felt familiar.
Not the creature. Not the chase.
But the instinct: protect the one who couldn’t protect himself.
That was the same instinct that had driven him to defend Darnold. The same instinct that had made him walk into the press conference ready to fight every reporter in the room. The same instinct that had shaped his entire career.
He didn’t understand the creature.
But he understood fear.
And loyalty.
And what it meant to be hunted by something stronger.
When he finally reached the far end of the forest, he didn’t stop. He ducked behind an old maintenance shed near the stadium’s secondary lot, chest heaving. The creature curled tighter against him.
“You okay?” he whispered.
Its response was faint.
“You… shielded me.”
“Yeah,” Jones muttered. “I guess I did.”
5. The Creature’s Gift
For a moment, neither moved.
Then the creature raised one trembling hand—three slender fingers ending in soft luminescent tips—and placed it on Jones’s forehead.
A sharp jolt—like a cold spark—shot through him.
He tried to pull back but couldn’t.
Images flooded his mind in a violent flash:
A lake beneath three moons.
Shapes like floating lanterns drifting in the sky.
A sense of belonging so deep it felt like falling into warm water.
A world built not on dominance, but connection—each being holding a thread to another.
Then it changed.
Sam Darnold.
Alone in the locker room.
Head in his hands.
Shoulders shaking.
A whisper: What if I’m the problem? What if I’m done?
Jones gasped and stumbled backward as the images vanished.
The creature’s voice echoed faintly:
“He breaks. But not beyond repair.”
Jones’s throat tightened. “You showed me that why?”
“Because you carry his burden too.”
A rustle of leaves. Boots crunching nearby.
The men were close again.
The creature touched Jones’s arm.
“You must release me.”
“What? No. They’ll catch you.”
Its eyes softened, turning a pale, trembling silver.
“Not where I go.”
Before Jones could speak, the creature pressed its hand to the ground. Light burst outward in a silent ripple—white, blue, shimmering like fractured glass. The air vibrated. Space seemed to bend.
A tear opened in the darkness—not a portal exactly, more like the forest itself was peeling apart to reveal a glowing void behind it.
The creature crawled toward it.
Stopped.
Turned back to Jones.
“Defend the broken one.”
Then it disappeared into the light.
The forest snapped back into silence.
And the men arrived too late, their flashlights cutting only empty trees.
6. Aftermath: The Weight of Two Worlds
Back in the parking lot, Jones sat against the wall of the maintenance shed, trying to process everything:
A creature from another world.
A chase in the dark.
A portal opened with a touch.
A message he couldn’t shake: Defend the broken one.
And Sam Darnold—alone—slowly collapsing under the weight of public anger.
Jones wasn’t a scientist. He wasn’t a philosopher. He wasn’t even sure he believed what had happened.
But the creature’s fear had been real.
Its warning had been real.
And the glimpse into Sam’s private despair—that had been painfully, humanly real.
Jones stood. His hands still trembled.
If the creature trusted him—if something not of this world saw value in his loyalty—he needed to do something with that responsibility.
That night, long after the media had gone home, he found Darnold sitting in the players’ parking lot, helmet still in his lap. The man looked like someone balancing on the edge of a quiet personal collapse.
Jones sat beside him. No speeches. No clichés.
Just presence.
Sam finally whispered, “I let everyone down.”
Jones shook his head. “Nah. You’re allowed to fall. You’re allowed to hurt. But you’re not alone.”
Sam didn’t ask how Jones knew that.
And Jones didn’t try explaining the impossible.
7. The Mysterious Return
Three days later, something even stranger happened.
Jones found a symbol scratched into the dirt outside his home—a glowing shape that slowly faded as he approached: three interlocking rings forming a triangle.
The same symbol worn by the men hunting the creature.
He wasn’t sure if it was a warning or a promise.
But he felt watched.
Protected.
Or both.
That week, Darnold had one of the best practices of his season. His throws sharpened. His confidence returned. Teammates noticed the change.
When asked what shifted, Darnold only said:
“Someone believed in me when I couldn’t.”
Jones didn’t take credit.
But he thought of the creature’s final words.
Defend the broken one.
Maybe, in some strange way, he already had.
8. The Forest Calls Again
A month later—after a game Seattle won in thrilling fashion—Jones walked past the same greenbelt. The moon sat low, the same pale color as the creature’s eyes.
He felt a vibration under his feet.
Soft.
Familiar.
Not a call.
Not a warning.
More like a goodbye.
The trees rustled, though there was no wind.
Jones exhaled.
Some encounters never get explained.
Some responsibilities never get acknowledged.
Some bonds—however brief—reshape you anyway.
9. Closing Reflection
In the weeks that followed, fans kept replaying Jones’s explosive defense of Sam Darnold, praising his loyalty, his fire, his leadership. Headlines framed him as the emotional core of the Seahawks defense. Analysts said he rejuvenated the locker room. Teammates said he gave them backbone.
But Jones knew something the world didn’t:
That his outburst that night wasn’t just about football.
It was about recognizing vulnerability—whether in a quarterback drowning in criticism or a trembling creature lost in a foreign forest.
It was about choosing empathy over fear.
And loyalty over convenience.
Only one other being knew the truth of that long, strange night. And it was now somewhere far beyond the reach of men and stadiums and the roar of Sunday crowds.
Somewhere beneath three moons.
Somewhere glowing blue.
Jones didn’t need to see it again.
He just needed to honor the message left behind.
Defend the broken one.
And in doing so, he carried not only his team’s hopes into the future—but the silent legacy of something wondrous, terrified, and utterly extraordinary that had trusted him in the dark.
Does This Change Anything About Darnold’s Future?
Externally, the natural question is whether Seattle should worry about Darnold’s long-term viability after a loss this big.
Internally, there is no such discussion.
Sources inside the Seahawks organization insist there is zero quarterback controversy. Macdonald didn’t waver during the game. He didn’t hesitate in his postgame comments. And Jones’ emotional defense only reinforced the message:
Sam Darnold is the quarterback of this football team. Period.
The Seahawks believe the film will show a mix of misreads, tipped passes, protection breakdowns, and miscommunication — not a quarterback falling apart.
They also know Darnold’s response in practice this week will matter far more than anything he said at the podium.
A Defining Stretch Ahead
The Seahawks don’t get much time to recover emotionally or physically.
Their next three weeks could define their season:
-
Week 12: at Tennessee Titans
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Week 13: vs. Minnesota Vikings (Darnold’s former team)
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Week 14: at Atlanta Falcons
Two playoff contenders. Three physical defenses. No margin for error.
This stretch will determine whether the loss in Los Angeles is merely a stumble or the beginning of a slide.
And it’s clear that Jones intends to make sure it’s the former.
A Locker Room That Refused to Break
In the end, Sunday’s postgame moment may be remembered more for Jones’ message than the loss itself.
It was raw. It was blunt. It was emotional. It was real.
But above all, it was a glimpse into a locker room that isn’t fracturing under pressure — it’s tightening.
Jones didn’t defend Darnold because he had to.
He defended him because the team believes in him.
Because Darnold has earned that trust.
Because leadership is loudest when a teammate is at his lowest.
And because football, at its core, is still a human game where one man refuses to let another stand alone.
“He’s our quarterback.”
That sentence — more than the f-bombs, more than the anger — is what defines Seattle today.
