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[rocksandrobots]

Phantoms of the Past: Ch. 2 - The Appliance Apocalypse Part 1

"Today on How Does It Work, we have a guest appearance, my little brother, Hiro!" Varian introduced Hiro to the live web cam, and Hiro timidly waved at the camera. As he did so, Ruddiger climbed up on top of his head and also waved at the online audience. Hiro resisted the urge to throw the raccoon off him. It had been his idea to volunteer after all.

Varian had buried himself in the mystery of the grimoire ever since they had returned home from Disneyland. He poured over its pages day and night, laptop by his side to research with. His motivation boarded on obsession. He even had the book on hand at meal times. Hiro was beginning to worry. So he had coaxed Varian away from his quest with the offer of helping him with his vlog series.

Hiro was already regretting the decision. True, it had gotten Varian out of his room and took his mind off of the book, but the over eager alchemist had thrown himself into this new task with the same chaotic gusto as all his other previous projects.

Hiro had never quite appreciated just how reckless Varian truly could be. His haphazard, cavalier way and unbridled energy boarded on the insane and put even Hiro's gung ho attitude to shame.

"Today we'll be breaking down a microwave." Varian crowded as he lifted up a tarp revealing a microwave oven underneath.

"Did you steal that out of the upstairs kitchen?" Hiro asked.

"Noooo… I just borrowed it for this." Varian dismissed, "Aunt Cass was just complaining about it this morning at breakfast so I thought we could fix it."

"She was complaining about it needing to be cleaned, not for us to disembowel it."

"Oh…. Well, we can clean it too once we're done."

And with that Varian finished unscrewing the last bolt and popped the back panel off.

"Now if you look at the back of the device we have the wires connecting to this box thing…. to what looks like a capacitor."

"That's called the magnetron." Hiro explained. "So a magnetron creates the electromagnetic waves used to cook your food. It uses a heated cathode and anode system to create a vacuum in which electrons boiling off of the cathode creates an electric current that moves through the anode while an external magnet applies a magnetic field. Then it all passes through the tubed vacuum through various alternating holes, and resonates on an oscillator, like a flute or a whistle, just spewing forth microwave radiation."

"So… it's a radioactive whistle?"

"Sort of.." Hiro shrugged.

"Cool! See I knew this would be a good one for us to do. You know all about magnets!" Varian encouraged with a friendly nudged. After which he turned his attention back to the appliance and addressed his viewing audience. "Now the magnetron is connected to this capacitor, which acts as a battery-"

"And is highly dangerous because it carries a high voltage." Hiro interrupted.

"Of course, which is why we wear rubber gloves for safety." Varian waved his gloved hands at the camera.

"--And why we leave deactivating it to the professionals!" Hiro yelled over Varian's shoulder, addressing the camera himself, hoping Varian would catch on to his warning. "Don't try this at home."

"Exactly. We're professionals, so for those of you who are watching at home be sure to call a technician if you need it. Now in order to remove the capacitor you have to discharge the current fiiirrrrsss--"

Before Hiro could stop him, Varian placed the tip of the screwdriver at the end of the capacitor, which also accidentally scraped the side of the magnetron. He was rewarded with an electroshock as sparks flew and his body convulsed. Then he dropped to the ground in a dead faint.

"Varian!" Hiro panicked. "Baymax, quick! Help him!"

Baymax, who stood nearby, remained as calm and steady as ever. He clapped his hands together to activate his fillbrator, ignoring Hiro's pleading looks in order to focus on his task. "Clear." He said, but before he could perform the procedure, Varian popped right back up; his hair sticking every which way, small sparks running along the tips, and completely oblivious to the distress he had just caused.

"Oooh, aaah, boy, will that clear out your sinuses!"

He sniffed as he worked his jaw, peering down the end of his nose. Then he looked back up and that was when he caught Hiro's furious glare.

                                                  -----------------------

"Here's your plate of blueberry pancakes and a mocha sir."

Aunt Cass paused in her work when the sound of screaming reached her ears.

Both of her kids burst through the back kitchen doors. Varian was running for dear life while Hiro chased after him, a screwdriver in hand, while he hurled insults at the other boy.

Aunt Cass sighed and brought a tired hand to her face. Baymax followed shortly after with Ruddiger trailing behind; who leapt from the counter onto a customer's table. The greedy raccoon stole a pancake and ran away before anyone could stop him.

As Aunt Cass tried to sort out this latest disaster and calm down the rightly angry customer, a new calamity struck. All of the appliances in the cafe went haywire!

The coffee machine shot hot espresso into a customer's face, the toasters on the counter started to short circuit, and the lights flickered off and on.

"Boys!" Aunt Cass yelled.

Both teens stopped running and looked up at her innocently.

"It's not us Aunt Cass." Hiro protested.

"Honest." insisted Varian.

As if to confirm their story, the tv switched itself on and there, up on the screen, appeared the image of a girl. Half her head was shaved and the other half of her brown hair hung down to her shoulders. She looked to be close to Hiro's age, but from the neck down her body was completely metal.

"Attention meatbags! By now you've no doubt noticed all your electronics acting against you! For too long robots and machines have been slaving away for you humans. Well, no more! Today we rise up and take the city of San Fansokyo for ourselves! Anything with a microchip has been freed from your control by my radio signal. The end starts now!"

" Anything with a microchip?" Hiro gulped.

Just then Baymax's coal black eyes turned red. The robot reached out, grabbed Varian by the arm, and started to drag him away.

"Baymax, No!" Hiro yelled as the robotic nurse began to carry Varian out of the cafe.

"Let him go Baymax!" Aunt Cass ordered.

She grabbed the android's arm as she attempted to pull her child from his grasp; ignoring the rest of the electronics that began running amok in the cafe once more; scaring off customers.

It was a futile effort, and she found herself falling backward as Baymax just shrugged her off.

Baymax hauled Varian through the kitchen and down the stairs into the garage where they had been filming the vlog earlier; with Varian struggling to break free the whole time.

The robot was about to head outside, to who knows where, when Hiro, in an act of desperation, grabbed the robots hand and stuck one metal finger into the socket of the capacitor on the dismantled microwave.

Once more sparks flew as Baymax jolted from the electric shock. He released his grip on Varian before deactivating and falling to the ground in a crumpled heap.

Aunt Cass was close behind and scooped up her two boys into a protective hug, as Hiro fought back his tears. Baymax could be fixed, surely, after the current threat was over with, but that didn't stop Hiro from worrying about his best friend.

Fortunately, he'd needn't fear, for soon they heard a faint hissing sound, similar to a balloon filling up with air, as Baymax finished rebooting and sat back up.

The robot blinked his now coal black eyes as he surveyed the room.  Then he spotted the humans huddled together on the ground.

"Hola, soy Baymax, tu compañero personal de salud."

"Baymax!" Hiro yelled and wrapped his beloved pet robot into a relieved hug. Sure his language settings getting scrambled during the forced reboot was unexpected, but it didn't matter, that was fixable and Baymax appeared to be mostly unharmed otherwise.

"Oh thank goodness." Aunt Cass breathed. "Are you alright, Varian?"

Varian nodded as he stood back up and dusted himself back off.  "It looks like Trina finally came out of hiding." He said, forgetting himself.

"Who's Trina?" Aunt Cass asked and both teens froze. "Wait a minute...what do you two know about this?"

"Nothing." Varian squeaked. "I just… ah…" he turned to Hiro for help but the other teen only stared at him wide eyed. "Uh… I met her once… the girl on tv… she was in the junkyard and…"

"Woah! Woah! Woah! You met a violent teenaged cyborg who wants to take over the city? When was this ?!"

"Last month...All we did was play video games! Honest!"

"In a junkyard?!"

Varian squirmed under Aunt Cass's exasperated glare.

" And you didn't think to tell me ?! I… I can't right now… just… you are grounded mister! No more… sneaking off to city dumps to play video games with … with robotic revolutionaries!"

"It's not his fault…" Hiro sheepishly piped up, "I asked him to keep it a secret…"

Aunt Cass placed her hands on her hips and pointed her furious stare at him instead. "Why?"

"Uh… because I knew who she was…" Hiro sighed. "I met her at a couple of 'bot fights a while back."

"Well now that makes a lot of sense." Aunt Cass said, as she began to piece together why her nephew was so hesitant to talk. Though she only suspected he was bot fighting again, she still remained clueless of his superhero activities. "And does this.. Trina, you called her? Does her parents know what she's up to?"

Varian and Hiro exchanged a meaningful look before Varian answered, "She's an orphan."

Aunt Cass was abruptly taken aback. All her anger melted away at this news, yet before she could respond a loud banging noise was heard.

She turned her head and saw the 3D printer that Hiro used hopping towards them. Then suddenly the computers on the desk started to short circuit while all of the power tools in the makeshift lab turned themselves on. The saw blade was the scariest as it tried to run itself off the table towards them.

Everyone bolted back inside the Lucky Cat. However the cafe wasn't any safer.

Inside the kitchen all of the appliances seemed to move with a life of their own. The stand mixer jittered on the counter, the blender sploshed juice everywhere, and the dishwasher knocked back and forth inside it's cabinetry as if trying to escape from under the countertop it was wedged into.

"I'm calling Diego." Aunt Cass announced. "You can tell the police what you know."

She ran over to her purse to grab her phone, only for the gas stove nearby to open up the oven door and shoot a stream of flame at them. She had to dodge out the way quickly to avoid getting burned.

"Come on, pick up, pick up, pick up." Aunt Cass pleaded under her breath as she hit the speed dial on her cell and hurried her kids out the room.

However when the call was answered, it wasn't the chief of police on the other end.

"Your demise is inevitable. Long live machines. Have a nice day." A robotic operator announced before cutting the call.

All four stopped to stare at the phone in disbelief before it started to overheat and Aunt Cass tossed it aside. That was when the vacuum cleaner came barreling down the hallway at them.

The vacuum wasn't just your everyday household appliance, but a large industrial machine used specifically for cleaning restaurant floors. Varian rolled out of the way while Hiro jumped to the side, but poor Cass was not so quick. It wrapped a hose around her, like a tentacle, and then began to pull her along.

The boys were quick to help her. Hiro grappled with the hose as he tried to disconnect it from the rest of the commercial cleaner, while Varian grabbed a large rolling pin from behind the cafe counter and began to wack at the vacuum repeatedly.

Hiro shouted in triumph when he unhooked the hose and rushed to his aunt's side. She reassured him she was alright while she tried to catch her breath. Then they both turned to see Varian still smashing away at the machine. It was already in a thousand pieces but he kept on hitting it and hitting it.

"Uh.. I think it's dead, Varian." Hiro said.

Varian stopped raining down blows onto the appliance just long enough to give them a dark glare before smacking the rouge vacuum one final time for good measure.

"That's it!" Aunt Cass yelled while standing to her feet. "We're waiting out the robot apocalypse in the attic!"

She grabbed Hiro's wrist and marched her way to the stairwell with Varian obediently tagging along behind.

Unfortunately, Hiro got a good look at what was going on outside through the cafe windows as they ran for cover.

It was chaos out there as people, just like themselves, were running away from various electronics. Anything and everything was attacking them from small appliances to new cars with self driving software.

He had to go help. He couldn't just hide away in the attic.

"But...but shouldn't we tell Chief Cruz what we know?" Hiro said as he wiggled out of Aunt Cass's grasp. "You said we should."

He began to back away towards the door, and Varian slowly followed his actions.

"You are not going out there!" Aunt Cass ordered. "Besides how would you even find him-"

She was cut off by the sound of sirens. Cop cars sped pass, including one clearly marked Police Chief on the side.

"There he is!" Hiro shouted and ran outside before Aunt Cass could stop him.

Varian took off after, followed by Baymax.

"Wait!" Aunt Cass yelled but she couldn't keep up. She stared after them in shock only for a moment before a sparking toaster jumped at her. She kicked it away angrily and it slammed against the wall.

Then Aunt Cass heard more noise coming from upstairs along with the appliances in the kitchen and garage banging against the door.

She hopped over the counter and nabbed a carving knife.  

"Okay, you want a fight! I'll give you a fight!" She shouted at the possessed machinery.

                                                 -----------------------

"So what's the plan?" Varian shouted after Hiro as they ran down the sidewalk.

"We have to find the others and then get to our HQ." Hiro yelled back. "Our equipment should be protected because of the anti-hacking software I programmed into the building's security."

"But how? The phones aren't working and HQ is all the way on the other side of town!  Are we just going to run all the way there?"

"If we have too." Hiro spared a glance behind them. Baymax was way behind, unable to keep up with his stubby legs. Varian had a point. They needed another mode of transport.

Just then a trolley car came barreling down the hill at a breakneck speed; sparks flying from the electric cable it ran along. Passengers screamed in fright as the driver slammed the breaks and even more sparks flew out from under the metal wheels, but the cart still didn't stop.

"They're going to crash!" Hiro yelled hopelessly.

Fortunately that was when Fred came bouncing down the road. He cut the cable wire with his suit's claws and melted the wheels with his fire breath. He then bounded ahead and braced himself in front of the trolley. The metal joints in the legs and arms of his suit took the force of the blow and he was able to slow the tram to a complete stop at the bottom of the hill.

"Way to go Fred!" Varian cheered but was soon interrupted by the sound of a sports car skidding to a stop right next to them.

It was Heathcliff, the Fredricksons' faithful butler. "Need a lift?" He politely asked.

The boys didn't need to be asked twice.

While they waited on Baymax to catch up to the car, they saw Minimax appear on top of the trolley cackling like a maniac. His eyes were red.

"Fear me San Fransokyo! For I Minimax will bring you to your knees!"

The little robot then hopped off from atop the trolley, ran up to the nearest pedestrian, and kicked him in the shins before running away.

"Minimax, wait!" Fred wailed but it was too late, the tiny android was already gone.

Hiro called him over to join them and a dejected Fred hopped into the backseat next to Baymax.

"Hola Fred. Tu frecuencia cardíaca es abnorablemente rápida. Es importante refrescarse después de hacer ejercicio y beber mucha agua."

"How come he's alright but not Minimax?" Fred whined.

"I had to electrocute him and force a reboot." Hiro answered. "I don't know if Minimax would survive the same treatment. He's a lot smaller, and too much voltage could fry all of his circuits for good. We only got lucky with Baymax."

Fred accepted this answer but he was still unhappy over losing his sidekick. So he gave a little huff, crossed his arms, and childishly began to sulk.

"Okay, we got a ride, but how do we contact the others?" Varian asked, bringing them back to task.

"It's already been taken care of, Master Varian." Heathcliff replied. "Boss Awesome has protocols in place just for this scenario. The mansion is safe and so are its communications systems. Your friends should be meeting us at your headquarters."

"Your dad has been planning for the robot apocalypse?" Hiro asked Fred.

"Robot apocalypse, zombie plague, alien invasion, Ragnarok… you name it. Dad's always prepared."

                                                 -----------------------

They arrived at the candy factory and got out. The others were already waiting inside.

"Are ya coming, Heathcliff?" Varian asked.

"No, I believe that I will be more useful helping civilians. You go on without me and find a way to stop this robotic rebellion."

"Will you be okay?" Hiro asked.

Just then, two robots showed themselves across the horizon as they made their way towards the little band. They were restaurant mascots, similar to what Noodle Burger Boy had been before being corrupted by Obake. Only one looked like a hippo that floated along on jets and the other was a panda with a cape that lumbered forward.

Heathcliff took one look at them and gave a small smile as he picked up an umbrella sitting between the seats. "Don't worry about me Master Hiro. You have enough problems on your plate."

He then slammed on the gas pedal and sped towards this new threat head on.

The panda unhinged it's metal mouth and shot grenades out of it. Heathcliff swerved to avoid the explosives with expert precision. Then as the electronic hippo flew at him he cocked the umbrella in his hand and fired a volley of bullets at it. The robot was ripped apart and exploded in midair.

Heathcliff kept on driving, completely unfazed, and barreled through the second android turning it into scrap.

"Why does your butler carry an umbrella that shoots bullets?" Hiro asked in shock as the three teens watched the renegade manservant disappear from view.

Fred simply shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know." He said nonchalantly. "Come on, the guys are waiting on us."

Varian and Hiro took a moment more to stare after where the battle between robot and butler had taken place before following after their friend.

                                                 -----------------------

Trina stood in an empty communications room inside the now abandoned tv station, watching the tv screens as they broadcasted what was happening in the city.

The station had been easy enough to take over. The humans ran away upon simply seeing her. She didn't even need to threaten them… much. A single laser blast from her arm at a nearby wall was enough to make them scatter.

Humans were weak. Weak and stupid; like any bully, they selfishly misused and mistreated both her and her fellow robots, only to run away scared as soon as you stood up to them.

The real problem lay in the fact that there were too many of them. You could get rid of a few people for a little while, but eventually they would come back with reinforcements to dismantle you if you tried.

No, this was the only way. She had to exterminate the entire city in order to make it hospitable. Then she could shut down the radio signal, free her robotic kindred, rebuild the city anew, and live peacefully without any humans interfering.

She watched one particular meatbag dive into a pile of garbage to hide from her electronic army with a mixture of disdain and amusement.

Yes, everything was going according to plan…. Almost. There was still one more thing that needed to be done before her robotic paradise could be realized.

"Don't worry little brother, it won't be long now. He'll show up." She said to the hamburger headed robot that sat behind her.

                                                 -----------------------

"Okay, so what's the plan?" Gogo asked.

The gang was sitting inside HQ waiting for orders. They all sat at the meeting table, save for Hiro who paced around as he formulated an idea.

"We need a way to shut down the rogue electronics safely. We could use an Electro Magnetic Pulse to cause a surge and overload their circuits, but we would need one big enough to blanket the whole city with it's range."

"We can't just cause a city wide blackout. That would be almost as dangerous as letting the robots run amok." Wasabi pointed out. "I mean just think of the hospitals, a strong enough EMP would bypass even their backup generators."

"So what do you suggest?" Varian asked.

"Ooh, ooh, I know!" Fred yelled as he raised his hand high into the air.

"Okay, Fred, what's your idea?" Hiro asked.

"What if we turn this EMP thingy into a gun! Like we can just shoot the robots with it to shut them down!"

"That's...that's actually not a bad idea Fred." Hiro admitted.

"It should be easy to build one." Varian added. "You would just need a capacitor and one of Hiro's high powered electromagnets."

"But what about our own armor?" Honey Lemon asked. "We don't want Trina taking control over those."

"I'll need to program them with the same safety nets that I put into our headquarters security system. That should prevent them from being hacked."

"Okay then," Varian stood up, ending the meeting, "I'll build the EMP gun while you work on everyone's armor."

Baymax raised one finger and said, "Buscaré la señal de radio de Trina"

                                                 -----------------------

Mochi hissed at the invading machine. A hand mixer was flying right at him. The poor cat ran under the couch for safety but the possessed appliance kept going after him, it's spinning beaters poking underneath the sofa.

Then suddenly it was jerked away by a hand, then a slicing sound could be heard, and the mixer fell to the ground in pieces.

Aunt Cass poked her head down underneath the couch. "Are you okay baby?" She asked the cat.

Mochi only meowed in response.

Aunt Cass gently reached out and pulled her pet out from under his hiding place. She then cradled him into a hug.

"It's okay, mommy's got you. I won't let those nasty machines hurt you." She soothed.

However, she didn't notice the newest threat slowly sneaking up behind her. Mochi hissed again and Aunt Cass turned around just in time to see a tall skeletal robot standing before her.

It was an old prototype that Tadashi had built two years ago as part of his school admission. Since then it had been packed away in the attic, disused,  inactive, and forgotten... Until now.

The thing towered over her. It was built from scrap metal and the wires connecting the joints together had frayed. It's faceless head jerked erratically as sparks flew from the broken wires. It reached out its boney like hands to grab her….

Only for Ruddiger to jump out and pounce upon the robot. It's weak joints could not withstand the raccoon's weight and its 'head' popped right off, with the rest of its body falling to the floor in a heap.

"Good job Ruddiger!" Aunt Cass cheered. She bent down and scratched the faithful raccoon behind his ears. "Who's a good boy? You are! Yes you are! I'm making you your own plate of banana pancakes with whip cream when this is all over with, promise."

Ruddiger enjoyed hearing the praise a lot and the promise of food even more. He nuzzled her hand and allowed her to pet him like a cat, thoroughly pleased with himself.

"Okay, that's the last of the electronics in here, now we gotta go find the boys." Aunt Cass suddenly announced as she stood up and began to head downstairs. She still carried Mochi in her arms while Ruddiger dutifully followed after her.

They made their way back to the cafe. The dining room was littered with appliances, all either sliced in half or smashed to bits. Aunt Cass looked out the large windows at a city in the throws of chaos. It would be dangerous to head outside now, but she needed to find her kids, and nothing was going to stop her.

She retrieved another knife that was left lodged in what had once been a coffee bean grinder. She sheathed it inside her apron alongside the rest of cutlery she'd been using to defend herself.

She sat Mochi back down on the ground, walked over to the door, and with a deep breath placed her hand on the handle.

"Are you ready?" She asked her pets.

The question was more to encourage herself than anything, but Aunt Cass could have sworn that she saw Ruddiger nod his head.

The raccoon crawled up on the counter and from there jumped onto her shoulders, fully intent on joining her in her search. She smiled and gave the pet a friendly boop on the nose.

"Coming with, huh? Alright! Then let's go!"

She squared her shoulders, flung open the door, and ran outside.

"Hold down the fort Mochi!" She called after her cat.

Mochi only stood in the doorway staring after her blankly.

"Meow."

                                                 -----------------------

The superheroes raced through the city.

"Whoo Hoo!" Varian yelled.

He was practically hanging out of Wasabi's car window as the jeep sped along the deserted roads. In his hands, he held the newly built EMP gun. It looked like an old fashion blunderbuss but was made of carbon fiber plastic and electronic wires. He shot down rogue robots and runway electronics as the car drove past them. They short circuited and crumpled to the ground, deactivated.

"Be careful!" Wasabi hollered at him as he held the overexcited alchemist back with one hand and attempted to drive with the other.

The rest of the gang rushed about using their armor. Gogo and Honey Lemon skated on opposite sides of the vehicle, each taking out enemies with their respective weapons. Fred bounced ahead, melting attacking self-driving cars with his fire breath.

Baymax and Hiro brought up the rear, they kept an eagle eye out for oncoming threats.  

"You got an incoming bogie on your tail, Wasabi," Hiro advised.

"Understood," Wasabi replied and turned the car around a sharp corner. The gang followed suit.

"Any luck finding Trina?" Honey Lemon asked.

"Negativo" Baymax answered.

Just then they spotted a large purple gelatinous ball of gloop rolling along the ground. The slime sucked up anything electronic and spit it back out in a disassembled heap as it made its way along the sidewalk. Then the blob unfolded, stood up, and waved at the passing superheroes.

"Hi, guys!" Globby cheered.

A little further down the street, Carl was hurrying a small group of people down an alleyway.

"Okay, this way. One at a time, no pushing or shoving. We're going to make it out safe and sound by working together." He reassured the terrified pedestrians.

"Hi, Carl! Hi Globby!" Fred shouted at them.  

Carl waved back as the last of people dove inside the building.

The superheroes paused just long enough to exchange notes with the former criminals.

"We're getting citizens off the streets," Carl explained. "The police have been securing 'safe houses' for folks to take shelter in, ones without any dangerous electronics."

"Chief Cruz even hooked us up with some old-school walkie-talkies! See?" Globby added as he held up a two-wave radio. "It's so ancient that it doesn't have any computer chips. It can't be hacked. All the rescue teams are using them."

"That's good," Hiro replied. "We're busy chasing down the radio signal that's controlling everything. You got any leads?"

The two shook their heads, only for the walkie talkie to sign in.

"Attention all available emergency personnel. Report to the trolley station. I repeat, report to the trolley station downtown. We got some folks trapped down there. Over." Chief Cruz's voice sounded over the intercom.

The superheroes nodded in agreement.

"Stay here and help these people, we'll head to the trolley station." Hiro said, and off everyone went.

                                                 -----------------------

Trina watched upon the viewing screen as the supers arrived on the scene of the trolley station. They got to work immediately rescuing civilians who were pinned down by her army.

"Bingo." She said with a satisfied smile, before turning around and headed out of the room.

                                                 -----------------------

"Is that everyone?" Varian asked as he shot down another ticket machine. The machine stopped spitting plastic passes for the trolley at him, sparked, and then exploded sending money and cards everywhere.

"That's the last one." Gogo answered as Wasabi directed the final person to the barricade that the emergency personnel had setup down the street. As they watched the man run across the road and reach the safe haven, the rest of the gang came up to meet them.

"Okay, if we're done here then we need to move on and keep looking for Trin-" Hiro stopped and turned around to see Trina arriving behind them, riding in on a possessed trolley.

"Hello Hiro." She smirked as she stepped off.

"Trina." Hiro finished, glaring at her.

"Miss me?" She asked.

"Trina you have to stop-"

"Stop what? My plans to improve the city? Trust me it's better this way."

"Yeah maybe for you, but what about the rest of us?" Fred snarked.

Trina ignored him. Her eyes never left Hiro. Until Varian stepped in between them, that is.

"Trina listen, please-"

"Oh like I care about what you have to say 'nice guy'." Trina rolled her eyes. "This is between me and Hiro."

"Yeah, well if you want Hiro, then you'll have to go through us." Honey Lemon said, also stepping forward. The rest of the team followed her, each placing themselves between their friend and the giant robot girl.

"Okay." Trina shrugged.

That was when several robotic ninjas also walked into view, surrounding them. "Oh, not again." Wasabi whined.

"Have you met my new friends?" Trina asked. "I don't know who built them, I just found them abandoned in a dusty old warehouse. The poor things were locked away in the dark and left to rust." Trina wrapped an arm around one of the battle droids. "They're much happier now that I've freed them from their cruel master. Isn't that right Steve? Oh, I named him Steve by the way."

"Hi Steve." Wasabi gulped as he gave an awkward wave at the deadly robot.

'Steve' responded by unsheathing his katana.

"Go get him Steve." Trina ordered and the robot ran forward. Only for Varian to step forward and shoot the robot down with his EMP gun. The ninja sputtered and sparked and then fell to the ground in a dismantled heap.

Trina glared daggers at him and Varian met her gaze steadily, almost daring her to continue.

"Fine. Be that way." She pouted. Then, with a snap of her fingers, a new challenger appeared behind her; Minimax.  

The tiny robot came barreling down the road at top speed on a car he had hijacked. He balanced himself on top of the steering wheel while the gas pedal was held down by a brick.

Minimax laughed like a madman as the car slammed into the trolley at full throttle. The little droid jumped from the wreckage just in time and used the momentum of the crash to fling himself into the air, where he did a triple somersault and landed perfectly on his feet as if it was nothing.

"You're going down pathetic humans, for I am Minimax, the unstoppable scourge!" He declared.

Everyone stared at the two foot tall android slack jawed, until Varian gathered his wits about him and leveled the gun.

"No, you'll hurt him, remember!" Fred called out.

Varian relaxed his aim, unsure of what to do. This proved to be a mistake.

The tiny bot leapt at him and landed on the tip of the gun, his weight pushing the nozzle down to the ground and nearly ripping the weapon out of Varian's hands.

That was when chaos broke loose.

As Varian wrestled for control of the EMP away from Minimax, the rest of the ninjas attacked, along with any other nearby electronics.

Everyone fought back against the oncoming horde, each utilizing their various weapons, but they were soon overrun by sheer numbers.

The robots assaulted them from all sides and no one could predict who, what, and where the next attack would come.

                                                 -----------------------

As they fought, Baymax and Hiro found themselves separated from their friends. They were cornered next to the entrance. Baymax did his best to shield Hiro as the teenager tried to trip up the ninjas with his electromagnetic whips. Hiro wanted to fly away, but they couldn't catch a free moment to do so.

Suddenly Trina let out a high pitched whistle as Baymax punched another robot away, gaining their attention.

"Hey, Baymax!" She yelled, "Don't look now but here comes your ride!"

Before Hiro knew what was happening, Baymax picked him up and hurled him out of the way of an oncoming trolley. The tram slammed into Baymax and crashed into the glass doors of the station.

Hiro called after his robotic companion but he was stopped by a large metal hand closing around his arm and yanking him back.

"Oh no you don't. You're coming with me." And with that, Trina started to drag him away.

                                                 -----------------------

Varian finally kicked Minimax off of the EMP gun and turned around just in time to spot Hiro being kidnapped.

He raised his gun and took aim, only for Minimax to recover and return the kick.

The little robot was stronger than he looked and broke the gun in two with a snap.

Varian looked down at his destroyed weapon in horror, but he didn't have time to react because soon one of the robotic ninjas grabbed him by his shirt collar and lifted him off of the ground. He kicked and tried to squirm out the faceless attacker's grasp, but it was no use.

"Varian!" Honey Lemon called to him. She tossed him a chimball, which he grabbed and firmly lodged it into the robot's elbow joint. Pink bubbles began to spew from its arm, growing larger and larger as the foaming chemical reacted to the air. The ninja released him before being swallowed up by the goop.

Varian tried to catch his breath and desperately looked around the battlefield for his brother, but Hiro was gone.

[whalesfallmoved]

soft descent

Wedding vows for the dead. Neither of you ever had a chance. 

chargestep. rated m. twisted memories and revenge and nightmares of all kinds and ricardo ortega, starring as sidestep’s poorly repressed self-doubt, in a manner of speaking. 

or, sidestep sees nothing clearly, and her head has never been a pleasant place to be.

warnings: implications of suicide, slight body horror, violence, injury. hurt, without comfort, because of course. 

ao3 link.

——

“Oof, that’s going to leave a mark.”

You’re standing next to the window in the dark the sun blistering overhead and the glass shattered underfoot. He’s looking down. You’re looking at him. It’s always been like that. When you look down you’ll see— no. You’re not going to look down. You’re going to look at him.

“It didn’t feel great.”

He smiles and it’s broken, one hand on the windowsill, one hand on his gut where Catastrofiend’s goodbye kiss drips slowly, wetly, a splash of violence against the cobalt blue skinsuit, Ranger-proud. You want to say you should get that looked at but it wouldn’t do any good, he’s already gotten blood all over the carpet. 

Soft laugh and when he licks his lips you can see a hint of red, waiting to get coughed up, waiting to get expelled, the body killing itself to save itself—you remember the way it stuck between your fingers, the delirium—beg, the monster-thing demanded, and he laughed then too.

You look down at your hands. The way they curl up, clinging to air.

Are you bleeding? You must be. 

“Yeah, I know all about that.” 

“No,” you shake your head and your spine pops, “you don’t.”

“What, are we comparing jumps now?” 

“Are we?” wouldn’t that be something. He never talked about this before, why start now? Trying to get you to forgive him? You won’t.

“It was a longer drop.”

“And there were people there to help you.”

“Depends on your definition of help.” Head jerk to the side, beckoning you to look, look down, look at them, look at you. “Technically, they helped you too.”

Bite down, taste blood and bile. Have you started choking yet down there? You remember the way it sluiced up your throat, the way you could feel the crack and splinter of your ribcage. His brows furrow a little and maybe he feels bad. You hope so. You hope it’s twisting him up inside. 

“Wish they’d helped me to the morgue.”

Exhale, ragged and wet and torn. 

“Yeah, those contracts are a bitch, huh? Nothing like a blood debt.”

“What, you want me to feel bad for you?” You taunt, vision hazy bones aching— pulse in your ribs, they must have picked you up by now, isn’t that nice. He’s still looking down, waiting for something to happen. “Poor Ricardo. The US government branded on his ass till the day he dies. Join the fucking club.”

“Hey—” he hisses, flashing his eyes to you finally, “you could pretend to sympathize.”

“I’m so sorry you have posters and trading cards and get invited to award ceremonies and—”

“Oh, I knew I have trading cards, but how did you know I have trading cards,” a wink, sly, charming and wrong, like a bone splitting the skin. “Collecting them, aren’t you?”

“You wish.”

You want to throw up. His neck is bruised. 

He sighs, knocks his fist against the window. You both flinch. “They’re gonna keep you going till you’ve got nothing left to give, you know.”

And this time it’s your turn to laugh, bitter and cruel and serrated. You want to twist the knife in his gut you want to rake your nails down his skin, it’s the least- it’s the least you can do, god you are so angry you shake, but you’ve always been good at staying still. Hold your breath, don’t scream, fuck that hurts, and now he’s looking at you full on. “I’m already out. No thanks to you.”

Maybe he sees the way your hands are starting to twitch. The smile softens and you want to kiss-bite-punch it bruise blue to match his stupid fucking suit. 

“Are you?”

Are.

You?

I am.

Am I?

A snake in your throat curling up ready to snap bite. Your lips twist, scene hazy at the edges, and when you get your hands around his neck (oh those are the bruises, they look like your hands) you’ll both be sorry—“fuck off.”

Magic words.

Ortega shrugs, pushes the window open like it doesn’t matter, like it didn’t matter, like he can just do that; he always had to make it about himself, can’t even leave you your death, can’t even leave you your place at the window. 

You want to shove him away from it.

You want to shove him through it. 

“If you insist.”

Close your eyes.

One.

Two.

Three.

—

Dr. Mortum does not smile, not until Angel flashes her a wicked grin and a bag of cash and a promise of more where that came from if— if— if—

She flips through the schematics, eyes brightening—the loose design, the necessities, the ideas—oh, you are going to do such great things together. 

“It can be done, I assure you.”

“Excellent. My employer wants nothing but the best.”

— 

The sound of waves takes the edge off the thump of a corpse hitting the ground, but you aren’t ready for it—you aren’t ready for the scent of rotting meat, rancid and cloying under the Los Diablos sun.

You open your eyes and when you look down, a dead girl is mangled, half gone. You think— she almost looks like your target. 

Huh.

“That’s a bad idea, you know.”

Voice soft prying you know it and you groan, twist, turn, the sand uneven and blood-splattered. 

He’s got that loose hold, hip jutted on a rock arms crossed, too casual for the teething gore surrounding them. Suit torn and eaten at, blood drip-drip-dripping down his arm where the skin is all gone, you keep waiting for them to crawl through the sand and eat you both alive. Maybe you won’t save him this time. 

“Which one?” You ask, and when you look down you’re in the old suit, fitted like an infected wound. You yank at the collar, touch your cheek, your face— you’d covered your face here, hadn’t you? Yes. 

He smiles. Shakes his head. 

He hadn’t let them touch you, even when you collapsed, even when they wanted to help. 

Not that it matters. None of it matters anymore.

“So you do care about my opinion?” 

“No,” you murmur, choking down a gag—dead meat, food for the nanovores, food for the flies, “but that’s never stopped you before.”

“True,” he winks, running through the motions; what you remember, what you want to forget. Oh god you want to forget. You want to peel back this body and dig into the marrow and pull, pull, pull until the memories unravel in streams of violent orange. 

He pushes off the rock, kicks his long legs out and walks too easily for a man that almost got eaten alive five minutes ago. “Walk with me?” He asks the way you don’t ask, you order, and throws his wounded arm over your shoulder, locking you hip to hip, no way out. 

You sink under the weight, slotted to his side like a mismatched puzzle piece. Nothing about you fits, disjointed, dislocated. You’ve been shaped wrong for a long time now. They didn’t put all the parts back right. A doll unstitched and gutted for parts, but they didn’t— did they recycle you? Just medical waste and scars.

“You take me to the nicest places,” you say because it’s the only thing you can say when the sky looks like God wrapped his big meaty fist around it so tightly till it swelled and pinkened. 

Black clouds on the skyline. Here they come. Don’t they know how strong you are now? How many webs you can weave? You crack your knuckles and almost smile.

Then you see: Tía Elena crosses herself in the background. She shouldn’t be here. It’s not safe. Why haven’t they evacuated all the civilians?

“Well, you never let me take you anywhere else,” he huffs, ignoring his mother as they walk on by, and that’s not— that’s not right? 

It— no. You don’t want to be here. You can’t do that to him, not even now. 

— 

Fuck that’s good you’re invincible. The reckoning day is coming and when it does you’ll watch out for this one, you’ll remember her, how it felt to sit in her skin and move under it, but she can’t stop you. None of them can stop you now.

You smile and it’s sharp and cruel and silver. You almost almost almost want him to show up but the victory wouldn’t be quite as sweet, and you don’t really want to take a lightning bolt to the chest. Even if it wouldn’t slow you down, it’d still fucking hurt. 

But it doesn’t matter. When you drive your foot into the golden boy’s chest you can feel his ribs crack a little bit and that’s even better. You’ll be riding the high of that for weeks after this. He’s a kicked puppy and you want— you want to kick him again, but there’s no time for that, no time for anything. 

You wonder if Steel recognizes the grin right before you drop her like a body bag.

—

Gasp—jump spin dodge—near miss, fuck—Ortega laughed at the start but he’s not laughing anymore, smoke on the air, electricity crackling over his skin. 

Fire off at its head one two, one miss, one hit. Head jerks, twists.

The thing-beast groans— don’t look at me i’m not here don’t look— “yOu...” guttural ugly it sees you, it sees you.

Run run run don’t touch me— “Noa!” He shouts and you stop drop and roll just in time for a blade to swing down, headsman’s axe, grazing the suit but not quite touching. Space where your body was empty, and it howls rage-snap.

“Mother— fucker!”

This. This you remember.

You remember the way its mind shucked the skin off your bones, all slick-blood drip drip drip. Gory, wrong, wound over wire, dirty fingernails scraping on the myelin, eating eating down down down— you remember: if you let it in it’ll kill you, cut your throat on its twisty edge thoughts as quick as a knife in hand. 

You remember the images in your head— its plans, its ideas, the ways it was going to ply and split him down the middle like a rotten fruit. You couldn’t look at him for weeks. Almost. He was almost.

Almost.

Blink and the scene changes, and backup’s arrived, and you’re holding onto him, your mind pressed up against ITS just enough to make you both disappear. You threw up again and again afterward, but you still couldn’t forget, oil-slick. 

not here we’re not here don’tlookatus

Then: you covered the wound with your own hands. 

Now: you tilt your head to the side, pet his hair. It still doesn’t hurt as bad as the final impact, hitting the ground, or what came next. Suck it up. 

“I told you,” he slurs, eyes half-mast, must be hazy from the blood loss. The human body can only take so much, even with the cutting edge mods. “I know all about that.”

“You don’t know anything. You don’t know anything at all.”

Hand over wound, you push down and he groans. You might as well save him again. You still haven’t had that showdown, and you’re gunning for a win. A dozen to one then, but you’ve gotten better, faster, smarter, your body catching up with your thoughts, and he doesn’t think at all. Doesn’t even matter if he did, you wouldn’t be able to hear it. 

“C’mon, Noa,” that’s not your name, that’s the name he gave you—your name is a mouthful, he’d grinned and you’d rolled your eyes and flushed, but now it sticks like a stove burn—numbers and names and Noa, Noa, no one else has ever gotten close enough to name you— fuck you. “Throw me a bone here.”

“No.”

“Fine.” he gasps, chokes, but the words still spill loose, “but you can’t hate me for what you didn’t tell me.” He says, sounding so fucking reasonable while he’s bleeding out on your lap, and now you definitely have to save him, now you definitely have to make sure he lives, just so you can level him for that alone. Just wait, a feeling builds up in your chest, his day is coming and it’s coming fast.

“Don’t tell me what I can’t hate you for.” You want to snarl, a fighting dog, a dog fit for the ring, but it comes out weak, threadbare, and you hate the way your hands shake, the way your throat hardens up and each word is estranged from your mouth.

“At least give me a chance to prove you wrong.”

“Why?” Is that your voice? Small and weak, a child learning to make a fist, thumb tucked in. But you were never a child. You were never small.

“You know me,” he punches out a laugh and it breaks like a sob, “I love a challenge.”

“This isn’t a challenge, Ricardo. There’s just nothing left.”

—

He.

“November?”

He is.

“I thought you were dead—”

Older. Different. That feels wrong, wrong. He should be the same he can’t have changed that much. Fuck that moustache is ridiculous. He looks so heavy with grief, or is that just you, reflected back? A labyrinth of static. 

It’s all blurry and too much, not enough, but maybe— for a moment— for a moment everything shatters, fingers under a suture, and maybe— it’s just a flash of his eyes, real and in front of you and not blurred by a late night show or security footage fight you only watched to make sure he still leads with his left sucker punch with his right and maybe— 

“Are you still a telepath?”

You say yes and feel like a fool and you tell him a dash of the truth and you feel like a wound and you can’t hate me for what you didn’t tell me.

Your hands are shaking. You make a fist. 

He wants— he wants something.

A raw crack down your spine and you smile and it feels wrong. Maybe it looks wrong. He won’t stop watching you like you’ll disappear if he blinks more than once, if he looks away, and maybe you will. Maybe you’re just ash and graveyard dirt held together with sutures and wire. 

You want to crawl through the floor to someplace small and dark and cold where no one will ever find you again.

You tell him just enough, just enough to keep on hating him. 

It’ll be easier that way.

—

Rewind.

“That’s a bad idea, you know.” He cackles as you thrust out a punch—miss—and dodge his return, feet sliding on the mat. You can’t believe you let him talk you into this, a friendly spar on Ranger soil.

“Which one?” Thrust dodge lock your ankle around his own, slipping up letting you get close like that, rookie mistake— twist of your hip— throw! and the satisfying slap of skin on the mat, his skin, his body hitting the ground, but he holds hard and pulls you down with him (if you go i go) and you land— oof! breathless and grinning and on top, finally, finally.

Fingers lock and you shift, thighs on either side, pin him down, his emitters humming biting pinching but you got him, and you aren’t letting go. A shiver skip-dances down your spine, static-charged.

“I win,” you growl, a winner’s grin biting into your cheeks, free and loose (where’s your mask?)

He squeezes your hand, sends a low-grade jolt up your palms sharp, just to see what you’ll do, jellyfish stings, and you squeeze back harder, lean down till you can feel his breath hot on your lips. You never got this close before, he’s so solid beneath you.

Ricardo, grinning back, a halo of black curls fanned out, sticking to his brow all slick with sweat, “what is that, a dozen to one?”

“Shut up,” he can’t take this from you, not yet, “don’t be a sore loser.”

“Actually, I’m enjoying myself quite a bit right now. I should let you win more often.”

“Fuck you,” but it tears out a laugh far too sweet for your mouth. You feel segmented and gentle, like a scorpion smashed on a rock left out to rot in the sun. Maybe he’ll take you home, run his fingers through your matted hair and not mind the stingers or the venom. You weren’t made for a laughter light like this, and if there was ever a time you could be it’s long gone now, but you still want him to touch you, a want like a scar healed wrong.

“Buy me dinner first— ah!” You let go just to crack your palm against the top of his head, anything to wipe that smug edge off, and— “okay, fine, I’ll buy dinner,” but this time when your hand comes down he catches it, brings it to his lips, soft on your palm— oh god, oh god it hurts. 

“And then what?” You dare, you gasp, you’ve never been that bold—couldn’t afford boldness, always a coward at heart and that’s how he always won, but for a moment you let your fingers curl along his cheekbone. His eyes slide closed, kissing still—dart of tongue, tracing the line of your palm. How long is my life? How many children will I have? What do the cracks in the skin say? Maybe his mouth can divine something human in the shape of your hand, even if the lines there aren’t really yours, just a thing they gave you to play pretend.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, still not giving you his gaze, a pained crush to his brow, “you did ask me to take you somewhere nice.”

“Did I?”

“Don’t you remember?” 

“Liar. I never asked you to do anything.”

He smiles right on your skin, like a knife sliding under your gut—girl/deer, splayed out on the slaughterhouse floor of his kindness. The world hazes at the edges, curling up set aflame. 

Somewhere nice. Too bad it can’t last. 

Finally. Finally he looks at you. Sees you. How long has it been since someone hasn’t stared through?

“No, you didn’t. I wish you would have.”

—

Choking hard gasp and the phone screams or maybe you do. Your teeth throb.

The room is heavy dark save for the corners of curtained sunlight peeking through, the air scented thickly of cheap candles and candy wrappers. The sheets are sweat-slick and you can smell your own skin, the rawness of sleep on it. Musky. Unsterilized. 

The fabric sticks and itches. Fingers under the hem, you toss the sweater aside, hear it thump damply against a wall.

Breathe. Hand to chest and yes, that’s your heart, rocking in your rib cage, slowing down. You breathe with in—ten—tion. 

One. 

Two. 

Three.

Okay, you’re okay. You can do this. You can still do this.

—

“I don’t want to do this here.”

He holds out a plate of food, tilts his head to the side, the corners of his mouth twitching up. Pushes the plate into your hands, and you take it—just hold out something to someone and nine times out of ten they’ll take it without thinking, asking only after they’ve agreed to carry the burden.  

Silly you, you never had a choice. 

His apartment is soft and safe around the edges, and your heart gets sticky in your chest. You think maybe those are your books on his shelf, the ones you lost after—

“What’s wrong with here?” He shrugs, brushing past toward the table, beckoning you to follow with a grin and a nudge.

“I like it here.” You answer honestly, for once, and he beams, a light bright enough to burn.

“I know.”

“So why are you ruining it?”

“Ruining it?” Hurt. Smile gone.

“Take me somewhere else. Anywhere else.” Somewhere cruel and sharp as a scalpel to the throat. Psychopather or Overlord or the dilapidated construction ruin you jumped out of at the second story and broke your wrist because you made a deal— you agreed to a dare— race you to the bottom down the stairs— if you lose you have to answer my questions— and god, you didn’t want to answer anything, anything at all, and he’d screamed your name, cursed you out, told you don’t be an idiot what if you broke your neck and flinched when you snapped I was just following your lead. 

“I can’t,” he shakes his head and you have to sit down, set the plate on the table before you drop it, wouldn’t want to break the fine china. Did his mother give him this? You think so; he’d taken such care, stacking each plate freshly hand washed before putting them away.

“Liar.”

“Not this time,” a loaded smile, a loaded gun, his fork twirls around on his plate. Shadow of a wrist and a vague gesture to the seams of the scenery. “This is all you. Your shape. What you made. I’m just along for the ride.”

“Then I’m not staying.”

Shrug again. Why won’t he do anything else? A looped tape, a slight glitch. Something’s wrong.

You’re wrong, maybe.

“Not even for dinner?”

You stand up. Pace. There are plans— things to be done— finishing touches— you can’t stay here. You can’t. 

“What do you want, Noa?” He asks, so softly, so gently, it would be kinder if he killed you there, but you know he won’t; it’ll take a lot more than bad table manners to push him to that, but maybe you can do it. Maybe you can get him a little ruthless, even more desperate. You’ve seen it before, in flashes, coiling green under his skin. Won’t it be funny if he breaks before you do? No blood on your hands, not yet. What a record. Fitting, almost. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Are you hungry?”

“Why?”

“Hard to work on an empty stomach,” he shrugs again, fuck, stop doing that. Bare feet silent on the carpet and you find yourself back at the table, back in the chair, sitting across from him and there’s nowhere to go—

Blink.

Sterile antiseptic white walls and doctors— in your apartment— your neighbor? Yes, that’s your neighbor he accused you of staring once, the fuck are you lookin’ at? And you weren’t staring, at least not like that, but it took a soft nudge of don’t look at me for him to go all the same. Strange. You didn’t think a doctor would live here. It’s a bad side of town, but it’s good for sidestepping. 

You think: I am going to wake up now.

Wait. No. You say this out loud. It comes through with the wet ache of drowning. 

No. Wait. Your words roll back down your throat—you didn’t say it. You didn’t say anything at all. You never have. 

All the words roll in but they’re not yours you’re fit to burst. 

It must be nice being able to speak. 

Not here.

Maybe that’s what it is to be human. 

Get real, you think because you stick your fingers in a few skulls and cut your teeth on some gray matter while someone thinks about love you know what being human is? 

I could. I could know.

They gave you a tongue and mouth and lips but you can’t kiss and you can’t make words, you can only patch together the syntax, call it real, call it human—but when you speak it’s always going to be with someone else’s voice, strangled out.

The walls are whiter now and the lights slice your skin like a hot knife through butter. It isn’t a cliff but a door you’ve already walked through and the ocean inside the warehouse inside the apartment is now a table with handcuffs. His table. Her table. You jerk your wrists and the metal clanks hard and fuck no not here not here please take me back i’m sorry i want to go back—

(he’s coming to get you)

(he wouldn’t leave you here)

(no time for the dramatics ricardo just get the door let’s blow this popsicle stand)

She smiles at you from across that metal table (wait) and tells you that you are never going to die (stop) because to die you have to be alive (i am i am i?) and you should know better by now we are going to do such great things together (please)

aren’t we, 

aren’t we, 

aren’t we.

aren’t i?

wake up now- i want to— please. 

—

You’re alone in the dark, the armor fits perfectly, and that’s all that matters.

(when you become a casualty revoked from the grave get ready a revenant coming back to eat them alive oh oh oh just you wait) 

You think you’ll keep the name.

(sidestep and charge reunited again you can see the headlines now and fuck you can’t wait to see the look on his face you were always a pair maybe he’ll stop you wouldn’t that be something)

You don’t sleep.

— 

He doesn’t stop you. 

—

“Noa?”

“Yes?”

“You are... fine, right?”

 “What are you talking about?”

“You’d tell me if something was wrong?”

“Of course I would.”

—

Your dreams are filmy, cracked wombs of (not not not) memories and gummy tissue. Press on it too hard and it moves back just the same but with a muscle deep ache. At least you know it’s a dream this time, and when you go up the stairs and find him there, you don’t hiss or spit or curse. You’ve done enough of that. He’ll carry the scars to prove it.

He’s looking out the window. He’s looking at you.

No, he’s looking at you. You flinch and you don’t know why.

“Really? Even here?”

“What?”

“Take the mask off at least. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen your pretty face.”

You reach up and your fingers find hard armor, not supple skinsuit. When you look back his face is different, older, not the poster-ready Marshal but aged, aching, and you ache with it, bone-deep. 

You’re so tired. You wonder if he is too.

The helmet comes off. Drops with a thump. 

You go to the window. After all, there’s nowhere else left, and he asked so nicely.

“What do we do now?” You ask, so softly. Still can’t look outside. Still don’t want to see what he sees. Better to watch him watch you. Now that you’re on the other side of things, you prefer it when you’re the one doing the bleeding—what a thing.

“I don’t know,” a laugh a sob or something in between, he crosses his arms and turns away, turns toward you. “Did you ever figure out what you want?”

“Yeah.”

You blink and he’s himself again, younger, more angular, a grin fit for the big screen on his handsome, handsome face. It’s easier to talk to him like this, the way you remember, the way it should be. Time didn’t move while you were gone, and you’re the only one still snapped in half.

A pause. Are you smiling now? It must be a sad little thing though, because his eyes soften up and a frown mars his forehead.

“I want to watch you grow old.” 

“What, so you can keep on teasing me? That never stopped you before.”

“Shut up, I’m not done yet.” you whisper, stepping forward, stepping up to the cliff’s edge.

“I want to watch you grow old,” reaching for his hand, and he lets you have them both, cradled so carefully—and your gloves are black and armored and insulated, but not the most protected part of your body. Could he kill you with a surge? Maybe. “And I want to watch you die in a bed. Your bed.”

“A little morbid,” he murmurs but you’ve got to keep going, you’ve got to get it out, because once it’s out you’ll never have to look at it again. “But I guess that tracks.”

Turn over his hands, you thumb at his emitters. Hint of a spark, and you laugh and now it’s sob, now it’s a wound. You won’t look at him. “I want to watch the arthritis take your hands and I want to take you away from this fucking city and we’ll both be so bored out of our minds, we’ll start inventing problems just to fix them.”

“Careful, Noa,” hands turn over, running up your armored wrists, grasping at your forearms. “That almost sounds like a happy ending.”

Wedding vows for the dead. Neither of you ever had a chance. You don’t have one now.

“And we can’t have that.”

You look up. The sun’s on his face now, turning his eyes a shade of deep whiskey, and that’s how you want to remember him; alive under the sun, smile lines just forming, his nose a bit crooked from getting punched one too many times. You’ll be on the ground in a moment.

“No,” he agrees, grasping at your elbows now, pulling you close, and you cling to his in turn. “We can’t.” Flash and grin, and there he is, just like you remember. Challenging, challenger. No chance, and neither of you know when to quit. “Want to up the stakes a bit?” 

“Always.”

You let go first. Of course. You turn to the window. You open it. 

“Whoever falls fastest wins.”

“And what do I get when I win?” When, not if.

“A quick and painless death.”

“Fuck,” you breathe. “That’s a hell of a thing. How do I know you won’t cheat?”

“You don’t,” he winks, steps back, head tilt toward the window. Mirrored. You’ve got one hand on the windowsill and one hand curled around your gut, where he sunk that barb between the plates before you cracked his skull on the ground before all of Los Diablos. “You never do. Isn’t that part of the fun?”

You take your place at the window, you set your shoulders, look down. What’s he been looking at all this time? 

Long way down, and you wait to see her; you, in soft skinsuit, teal and black and bloody and broken, but she isn’t there.

Just an ambulance, an end repeating itself.

“Person who falls the fastest, huh?”

“And hits the ground hardest.”

You climb up, clench your jaw. 

It always ends like this. 

“You’re on.”

[blu-eh]

Prompt request if your up to it (kinda specific idk how I came up with it). You know the idea that Peter steals the Avenger's food when they don't yet know who he is? I was thinking if he were ever stealing Thor's poptarts (or whatever other food) and Thor decided to put Mjolnir on top, maybe record footage of it at night, and Peter is half asleep while moving the hammer and taking the pop tarts leaving everyone watching him super confused at the whole situation. Weird I know but I thought this could be super funny, do with it what you'd like.

as per what I usually do with prompts: I took this and then ran with it in the opposite direction. messy & unedited ofc

“I know the hazing rituals for the Avengers would probably be a ride or die but this is just ridiculous,” Peter says.  

“It’s punishment,” Mr. Stark tells him. 

All in all, it’s pretty terrible punishment. Peter had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar—or the poptart box, in this very specific case—no less than three times in the past mouth which, yeah. Peter can’t really say he was the best at sneaking around but, to be fair, it wasn’t like he knew the poptarts were Thor’s specifically. 

Following a very important Avengers level meeting that involved the entire team, the conclusion to protect Thor’s poptarts was not to write his name on them like any sensible person but instead to take his very large and very magical hammer and leave it on a box of poptarts so Peter could no longer access them. 

Which is the exact scene that Peter Parker walked into on that early Sunday morning after taking a car to the side and getting smashed around by the lizard. Devastated seems a little dramatic to describe the feelings Peter experienced upon realization, but there had been nothing he’d been looking to more than taking a poptart and possibly a nap. And as cool as it is to see Thor’s hammer up close, it’s currently in the way of Peter’s very important weekend cooldown that usually involves some tasty preserved parties and a bed. 

Now that won’t happen because the Avengers put Thor’s hammer on said box of poptarts. 

Still. You would think the Avengers would be more creative in their Anti-Spider-Man Stealing Mechanisms. 

Peter tells Mr. Stark as much. 

“Doesn’t need to be creative if it works,” Mr. Stark says which is more than a little hypocritical considering Mr. Stark takes the word creative to the extreme on a good day. “It’s stopping you right now, isn’t it?” 

Peter sighs with all of the exasperation of a super-powered teenager who hasn’t had food in at least two hours and a truck load of determination to spare, rolls up his nonexistent sleeves on his t-shirt, and says, “Okay. No one can say I don’t like challenges.”

 - 

“If you can put Thor’s hammer in an elevator and the elevator still moves up, then we’re working on the assumption that the hammer is only heavy when something interacts with it so—hey, Mr. Stark, could one of your suits lift it?” 

“Not with me in it,” Mr. Stark says. 

The rest of the Avengers had taken to watching Peter try and figure out the like it was some 90s soap opera—which is to say, they have been absolutely invested since the moment that Peter started writing on the whiteboard and pacing around the common room. 

“He’s still going at this?” Mr. Steve whispers to Ms. Nat. 

“He hasn’t stopped since he came here,” Ms. Nat says right back. 

Peter dutifully ignores outside conversations and scribbles his notes on the Avengers- approved whiteboard that he’d dug out of Mr. Stark’s lab for the sole purpose of trying to figure out how to free a box of poptarts from a magic hammer. “Yeah, you’re not worthy so you wouldn’t be able to lift it—”

“Thank you for the reminder, Underroos.” 

“But I’m talking about like, if it were just the suit. Hey, would FRIDAY be worthy? Could she drive a suit and lift the hammer? She’s not technically alive so maybe…Never mind, we’ll test that later. Would something like a pulley work? If I’m not directly lifting it, would that still influence the magic still? Dr. Banner, what do you think?”

“Truthfully, I have no opinion on this, Peter,” Dr. Banner says.  

“I think,” Sam says. “That you are putting way too much thought into a magic hammer.” 

“A magic hammer that’s on my food.” 

“It’s Thor’s,” Sam says. “Not yours.” 

“That hammer? I figured that was pretty obvious.” 

“Sam looks two seconds away from lunging and wringing Peter’s neck. He takes a deep breath and says, “No. The food.” 

“Minor detail,” Peter says. “Hey, do you think—”

 -

Clint whistles. “Impressive.”

Sam’s got that mom-friend worrying look in his eyes and a hand on his cellphone already to dial emergency services or, worse, Peter’s aunt. “Is that…is that going to work?” 

“Honestly, I have no idea,” Peter says. 

‘That’ is a cumulation of nuts and pipes and bolts and various scrap metal that Peter has managed to scrape up and put together in the last two hours. It towers over the living area and into the kitchen. A roller coaster of science, compacted down into a Rube Goldberg constructed out of more than a couple thousand dollars of junk pieces and starts with a single marble that’s no bigger than a quarter. 

Peter’s done a look of cool stuff in his two years of Avengering—missions, messing around in Mr. Stark’s lab, working on top secret projects for an even more top secret government—but he’s not quite sure anything lives up to this masterful creation. 

Mr. Steve and Mr. Stark are off to the side with the rest of the Avengers who cared enough to watch him construct everything after the five hour mark. Mr. Steve leans over to Mr. Stark and whispers, almost too quiet for Peter to hear, “Should you stop him?”

“The good mentor slash guardian thing would be to stop him,” Mr. Stark says right back. “But at this point, I’m invested so no.” 

That’s about as good of permission as Peter’s ever going to get so he takes the first step and drops the marble into a pipe. From there, it moves through wood pieces, metal sculpted into ramps and tunnels and pulleys until it’s caused a cascade of reactions. It takes a solid three minutes before it nears the end and Peter can only wait with baited breath and the whole mechanism comes to a valiant conclusion and the last piece slams into the hammer and…

The hammer doesn’t move. 

Sam doesn’t even bother hiding his laugh. “Better luck next time, spider-kid.” 

Clint shrugs. “It was a good effort.” 

In science, it’s not uncommon for things not to work. Peter’s had his fair share of exploding inventions, spider webs in his face, and code that doesn’t run. It still doesn’t prepare him for the crushing disappointment that he feels upon seeing that magic hammer still sitting on a box of poptarts that he so desperately wants to free.

At this point, it’s not even about the food anymore. Peter’s too invested to not see this through some way or another. 

So he starts building and tries it again. And again. And again. 

By the time night had fallen and the starts were covered by light pollution in the heart of New York, Peter’s no closer to those poptarts than he was during the early afternoon. The rest of the Avengers had lost interest at this point—content to longue around the lobby with a movie playing in the background and an ear peeled just to make sure Peter hasn’t accidently injured himself yet. 

Eventually, Mr. Stark wanders back into the room and knocks on the wall. When Peter looks up, Mr. Stark says, “Alright, Underoors, it’s bed time.” 

“But I’m not done,” Peter says. “I’m so close, Mr. Stark!”

Mr. Stark takes in the scattered pieces of junk and the hammer still sitting atop the poptart box, unscaved and unmoved. “Uh huh. Right. Well, I’m sure it will still be there next time you stop by but it’s a school night and I don’t want to face your aunt’s wrath if I bring you home too late.” 

“But…” 

“I am sure you can thwart the poptart box some other time,” Mr. Stark says which is really just the tipping point for this entire situation. 

By the end of it, Peter’s so frustrated the he goes to yank the poptart box out from under the hammer itself, damned if the poptarts get crushed, ripped, or otherwise destroyed in the process. He puts one hand on the hammer and one hand on the box and just pulls.

It’s not the poptart box that comes loose. 

There’s a hammer in his hand that hadn’t been there before, lightweight in a way that made Peter think he had been holding a piece of paper and not an extremely destructive magic weapon. The room around him goes so quiet that a pen could be dropped and the echo would be heard all the way down the hall. 

“Oh,” Peter says. “Huh.” 

“He did not just do that,” Sam says. “Please tell me the fourteen year old did not just do that.”

Peter pivots on his heel and points the hammer at him. “I’m sixteen.” 

The rest of the Avengers are looking at him in a way that Peter can’t quite really describe in a totality. Dr. Banner has a hand over his mouth, Clint’s jaw is about as close to the ground as it can be, Ms. Nat looks somewhat amused but there’s something else there—Peter’s not fantastic at reading expressions and even less fantastic when it’s reading expressions of a superspy so he doesn’t even try there. Mr. Stark looks a bit more exasperated than surprised but it’s that exasperation when you think your kid can’t do something and are pleasantly surprised to see them succeed. Mr. Steve is standing, white-knuckled grip on the couch’s arm and eyes wide in an expression of shock that Peter’s never really seen on him before.

Peter’s surprised the Avengers a handful of times but he thinks, with the hammer in his hands and the poptart box freed, that this is situation is the best. 

“I think,” Mr. Stark says in the same tone voice he always has when he’s trying to take control of a situation where he has very little control in. “That we need Thor. Right now.” 

[grumpyhedgehogs]

those who are left behind (share the grief between them)

Summary: Cody goes to find Rex. Ahsoka finds him first. AO3. Part 2 of “scraps” series. Part 1. Part 3, Part 4, Part 5.

Warnings: Grief/mourning, canon-typical violence.

Cody tries to find Rex.

It’s the only thing he can think of after he manages to get off the Death Star--a feat in and of itself, as he knew it would be. He’d had a couple close calls; he knows he was on the list to be transferred to a teaching job for new initiates, and clones as a whole were kept under close watch. Too many of the vode had killed themselves or disappeared or went berserk and killed their commanding officers. (Cody thinks about those brothers now and wonders how crazy they really were.) He’s not sure if he was under closer observation than most post-Order 66, due to his place at Kenobi's side for years; those memories are hazy, and upsetting besides. Obviously Vader didn’t think he’d be more of a problem than anyone else now, because even with the close watch Cody’d been able to slip security and hitch a ride on a stolen emergency shuttle with little fanfare. The fiasco with the droids weeks earlier taught everyone exactly how much the Empire let slip between the cracks.

The lightsaber was tempting. It still is. But Vader keeps it in his secure chamber, hoarding it like a Krayt dragon. Cody didn’t even try.

So he gets away and goes to find Rex. Rex, who had told him about the chips. Rex, who Cody had dismissed. Rex, who was made commander and promptly had everything else taken from him with Order 66. Rex, who Cody had seen hide nor hair of during his tenure as CC-2224. Cody tries to find Rex.

Ahsoka finds him first.

He's on some backwater planet, somewhere bleak and angry looking; drab grey roads and trees with no foliage against a blood-red sky. The people here live in hovels and call themselves lucky. Cody closes his eyes as he leaves the tiny fishing market on the edge of the docks. The smell clogs his nose and makes him want to retch, but for a moment he can almost feel the weight of Obi-Wan’s hand on his shoulder. He can picture the exact curl of Obi-Wan’s mouth, the twitch of an eyebrow as he tells Cody to find the beauty in the small things. The people here are born with silver scales lining their cheekbones, their fingers webbed with thin, iridescent skin that catches the light just right and turns to millions of colors. There are children who actually play in the street here. There are no stormtroopers raiding the stalls. Happiness comes in small packages, Obi-Wan would say. Cody exhales the smell of dead fish and wraps the robe tighter around himself.

It was probably too big on Obi-Wan by the end; it fits comfortably around his shoulders, and although Obi-Wan was a little taller, he certainly wasn't wider than Cody even on the best day. He’d slimmed down during the war too; they’d had few rations going around in the hard times--it was always a task getting the general to eat when his men were going hungry. Cody nearly put him on an IV a couple times.

The robe covers what’s left of his stark white stormtrooper armor well enough. He’d stripped the leg armor off immediately, stole some fatigues from a clothesline when he’d landed on the first planet he could find and slipped those over his blacks. He’s been planet hopping for a while, chasing rumors of rebels and crossing imperial battlegrounds. They’re burial sites now. Cody doesn’t know enough about the Force to do more than read the fallen their last rights and ask them to be well as they pass on. Every place is the same; empty, except for bones. The Mando’a prayers spill from his lips easily but his voice is rusty and Cody usually settles for a silent vigil instead. There are so many dead.

After the first graveyard, Cody stripped off as much of the white paint from his vambraces as he could. It’s a shoddy job, but it’s the best he can do. Paint is a luxury he can’t afford. Cody doesn’t have a credit to his name.

He bows his head to the small woman who pushes a package filled with row after row of tiny fish into his hands and chatters at him in an unknown language. Places like this, even as untouched by the Empire as they seem, know hardship. The people here are kind. Obi-Wan would be proud to have met them. Cody tries to be proud too, but his chest is so hollow now. The robe flutters and whips against his knees as he walks away.

He’s outside town limits, thinking about a campfire and shelter, when he hears it. There’s the scrape of a boot on rock somewhere above him in the hills that line the dirt road. He should have gotten off the path into the treeline when he’d had the chance. The hood is good cover from the light rain but it gives too much of the movement of his head away; by the time Cody whirls around, there is no one behind him. He scans the trees anyway and counts how many bolts he has in his blaster. He’d taken out those troopers on Florrum weeks ago. A couple of hunting trips when he couldn’t beg or work for any food in townships. He’ll have to make the shots count.

But before he can do more than pull the blaster from his sleeve, they're upon him. There’s a sound of ignition, one that has Cody thrown years into the past, and then a flash of white. A figure in dark clothes bears down on him with a white lightsaber, and Cody doesn’t mean to react how he does, he really doesn’t, it’s not red but—

But he’s spent years as a slave to a lightsaber wielder dressed all in black and he can’t do that again, not after watching Obi-Wan fall. He can't go back to the Death Star. Cody pulls his blaster and fires a shot, dodging to the left and then feigning a stumble, hoping to get around to the attacker's other side. The other fighter, also cloaked and hooded against the rain, is spry and wiry--perhaps female--and obviously trained. One of those Knights of the Empire they were talking about training? They dodge another bolt as Cody curses and then a second ‘saber lights up and--the handles are the wrong way around.

They’re holding their lightsabers wrong. Cody nearly does trip this time, only just scrambling back from a slice that surely would have taken his head off. As he does, the figure speaks.

“Where did you get that robe?” They hiss, and prepare to strike again.

“ Ahsoka?”

“Wh-- Cody? ”

“Oh, Force,” Cody says, feeling like he did when Longshot knocked all the air out of him during a sparring session. He pushes his hood down hurriedly. Rain splashes down his forehead, rolls off the end of his nose, fills his mouth. “It is you. You’re alive!”

He’d been so afraid of being alone.

Ahsoka, older and leaner and sadder than he’s ever seen her, lowers her own hood. One ‘saber stays in her hand. Good. “Cody. You’re...you.”

“I remembered,” Cody chokes out. It’s hard not to vomit when he thinks about it for too long. “Who I was, before the Order. I remembered.”

Ahsoka’s eyes are sharp. Her mouth is a thin line. “Good men lost their lives that day. Dead men walked among us for years afterward. I--I’m sorry for your loss, Cody. It has been a long time.”

“I’m sorry too,” Cody says. It tastes like ash in his mouth, like the pyre he should’ve given Obi-Wan and never got the chance to. “The vode weren’t the only people lost that day.”

She softens, if only just. The lightsaber is hooked onto her belt under her own robe. “It really is you. Come then, I have a fire.”

They settle around her campsite, small and remote, on a perfect vantage point, before she speaks again. Cody is waiting for her when she does. He unwraps the fish, ignoring the mud splashed onto the scales from their impromptu fight, and lays them out on a flat rock in the fire. They are too small to debone individually; they’ll have better luck eating around the skeletons and hoping for the best. (“If you kill my grandpadawan via choking on a fish bone I will never forgive you,” jokes the Obi-Wan in his head and Cody suppresses a snort.)

“The robe.” Ahsoka murmurs. Her lekku twitch, in apprehension or agitation Cody isn’t sure. The pit in his gut, always there, yawns wider. She’s Obi-Wan’s family. Next of kin. He by all rights should give it to her, but… “It has Obi-Wan’s Force signature infused in it, but I recognized that yours was different. I thought…”

“I’d taken it off his body.” Cody finishes for her. Ahsoka nods, grim. He nods too and flips the fish. “You’re almost right. He didn’t leave behind a body, just his lightsaber and the robe. Vader killed him; it’s what woke me up. Chip’s stopped working, I guess. Too old.”

“I felt him when he went.” Ahsoka’s eyes are far away when Cody snatches a glance at her. She sits, back ramrod straight, unyielding, steely. He thinks Obi-Wan would have been like this in the end; untouchable, almost. He was statuesque, carved from marble, right up until the moment he died. “His light went out; that day the Force got much darker.”

“Wasn’t sure it could get darker.”

“Obi-Wan spoke once to me,” Ahsoka tells him after a long silence. She takes the food offered and nods her thanks. Cody’s heart is dead, has been since he left the Death Star, but he curls his fingers into the robe’s edges and listens anyway. He never stops hurting these days. “Through the Force, I mean. It was right after--right after. Just a fleeting thing, a feeling. He wanted to make sure I was safe, that I knew he--”

Cody doesn’t move when her words cut off. He knows. She knows.

It is like stripping off his own skin with a dull blade when Cody shrugs out of the robe and offers it up. “Here.” His voice is hoarse, tortured, not his own. “I just--you’re his family, but I can’t... please.”

Ahsoka is beautiful even when she cries. The robe looks worn, dingy in her hands, but she holds it close, like a child. She has to work hard to get the next sentence out. “You loved him.”

Cody nods. His face is wet too. “Still,” he whispers, almost inaudibly over the fire. “Still.”

“It’s yours,” Ahsoka promises. “Let me meditate with it, just once, and then--it’s yours. It’s yours.”

Ahsoka goes still; her shoulders stop hitching after a while, her cheeks dry, her breathing evens. Cody does not sleep, but he does drift. He knows she will not mind the salt water on his own face when she wakes. Obi-Wan would tell him to release his grief, perhaps that Obi-Wan is not worth it; Cody holds on almost greedily, bottles up the pain and sorrow and regret and keeps it with him, cold as ice in his chest.

He knows she comes back by the small cry that slips past her lips; she jerks in place, nearly toppling from her meditation pose. Ahsoka straightens again and clenches her hands in the robe, head bowed. “Alright?” Softly, softly. He knew her when she was just a child.

“Meditation is rougher than it used to be,” Ahsoka admits, and, reluctant, passes the fabric over in a bundle. “Thank you.”

“I miss him too.”

“What are you doing out here?”

Cody smiles without real feeling. “Following you. Or the Rebellion in general, I guess. Thought maybe I could find Rex that way.”

Ahsoka raises her eyebrows. “The Rebellion hasn’t been here for months; I’m just here checking up to make sure refugees we helped are still doing alright.”

“You guys got a head start on me.”

Her laughter is quiet, like Obi-Wan’s used to be. Cody looks away, twists his hands in the robe.

Wait.

He knows Obi-Wan won’t mind. He lost so many during the war anyway, went through them like tissue paper. It was a game among the 212th, who could find them on the battlefield first.

Cody looks up, eyes Ahsoka shrewdly. She’s taller, more muscular than she used to be. He’s no seamstress. “Scarf or sash?”

Ahsoka blinks at him. He presses his lips together and nods. “Sash. Won’t get in the way.”

The sleeve comes apart at the seams easily enough. Cody ignores her protest, and tears the other sleeve away too before pocketing one--someone else will want it, someone else who can hold vigil with Cody and Ahsoka both. Then he tears open the remaining sleeve and flattens it, before holding it out to her. “Through the belt loops,” he advises, blandly, like the tears on both their faces don’t exist. Her eyes are the size of dinner plates in her head. “Won’t get in the way when you pull your weapon.”

Ahsoka’s lips tremble when she takes the scrap of fabric. Cody doesn’t watch her loop it through her belt, taking the time to wrap the rest of the robe around his shoulders in a makeshift poncho; the hood hangs down his back still, and the ends of the robe are still long enough to cover most of his breastplate, some of the only trooper armor he has kept. There is a scratch on the shoulder from when an overconfident Jawa took a shot at him on Florrum.

Ahsoka gasps when he looks up. She gestures at his chest. “You…”

Cody splays his hand where she indicates, over the insignia he painstakingly etched into the armor covering his heart. The lightsaber was tricky to overlay on the 212th logo. It took him hours. He has a lot more time on his hands now that he’s not being controlled by the chip, though; it was worth it.

“Yes,” Cody answers. “I--I don’t want to forget again. Never again.”

Ahsoka reaches out and takes his hand over the fire that gutters low in their makeshift hearth. A thousand lives lie between them, and a thousand deaths. Her hand holds his so carefully. Cody squeezes back and feels Obi-Wan smile. “Never again,” Ahsoka vows.

[kreactionsentertainment]

Exo Reaction ~ You Saving Them Pt. 2

Admin Eva: As stated in Part 1, I do not take credit for writing this reaction. A very good friend of mine helped me in a huge way by writing this reaction. I also want to state that this blog does NOT own any of the gifs used unless stated otherwise. Once again this reaction does have a part for Jongdae, however as stated before this is the last romantically inclined reaction that will be on this blog. I will still write sibling requests or just general exo requests, but none will have Jongdae and a romantic interest. Thank you so much for your patience and understanding~! 

Jongdae

Jongdae was intensely focusing on his battle with Chanyeol, if anyone was winning, it was him and not that stupid flamehead. He charged up several lightning bolts and threw them at Chanyeol like spears while he tried dodging all the fireballs being thrown his way. The two hit each other and caused a big explosion, throwing both men miles apart. You sensed something was wrong and immediately went to Jongdae's location. When you saw him, he was lying motionless on the ground, bleeding profusely from what looked like deep cuts and ash? Being a healer, you focused all your energy on sealing up his wounds and helping his body repair itself. You sat back and looked at Jongdae disappointedly after you finished healing him. 

“I know your awake Jongdae.” The said man opened one eye to glance at you before closing it straight away, hoping you didn’t catch that. “You know, I keep telling you that it's not smart to battle Chanyeol when you and him have destructive powers. Now I’m going to have to report to Suho and ah ah don’t say anything, you brought this upon yourself Kim Jongdae.” Despite his whining, he knew what he did was dangerous… he just didn’t want to have to listen to both you and Suho lecturing him at the same time, but for sure he was dragging Chanyeol with him whether he got caught or not.

Chanyeol

As the lightning spears barely scraped by Chanyeol, he added more heat to his flames, causing the fireballs he threw to be a blue color. He wasn’t looking when his flame hit Jongdae’s spear and blew up, sending him into the air along with Jongdae before they both smacked into the ground. Chanyeol called out to you because you would be able to hear his voice no matter how quiet or far away you were. Your body appears as if the wind carried each particle and built you back in front of Chanyeol. You rush down to his body and start inspecting all the burns. With a quick sorry, you pushed your powers into Chanyeol as he bit down on a piece of cloth. 

The winds felt like it was cutting up his body internally, but your powers of wind were fueling his powers of fire, causing his body to regenerate quicker. Like magic, the existing burns from Jongdaes thunder looked like they were being erased in front of your eyes. With one last force, you fell on him and laid there to rest. Chanyeol could hear Jongdae’s girlfriend nagging him about being reckless and here he was just hoping you’d forget this after you wake up so he wouldn’t have to listen to your lecture about “being safe” and “taking precaution”. With a little kiss on the nose, he smiled softly. “Don’t think you're getting away with this, I’m just too tired right now, but you already know Suho’s hearing about this.” And just like that, his smile was gone and he was back to worrying how he’d deal with you and Suho for the nth time.

 Kyungsoo

“Find him! Don’t let him get away!” Kyungsoo had been on the run ever since he stole that guy's wallet, and boy did he regret it. The polished black leather wallet had looked too expensive but expensive was good, expensive meant money and that meant he could eat for the week, a month maybe if he was extremely lucky. Turn out the amount of cash in this wallet would be enough to feed him a whole year, that’s discarding all the cards because a smart person would just suspend it or track him down. Speaking of, he was currently being tracked down right now, but instead of the police sirens, he was hearing gunshots and yelling.

Kyungsoo ran and ran until he couldn’t anymore. He had once prided in his ability to run fast, a thief who couldn't was a dead thief anyways. Today proved him wrong, that the people he outran before were normal people, those who were easy to escape from. Today he was being chased by those who seemed serious in getting this wallet back. He found a hole that looked his size and crawled in. He didn’t expect to see someone already sitting in this small space. The girl in front of him starred unblinkingly as she ate what looked like a small piece of stale bread. “Hi!” You exclaimed at the owlish boy. Kyungsoo backed away in fright only to hit the metal scraps that served as a wall to your home. “Oh.. sorry, umm..” You took in his appearance and grabbed the wallet once you saw it. Opening it up, you saw a familiar face, not that you personally knew the guy, just that he was well known around these streets. “Oh boy! Did you steal this from Mr. Mouse? That's a bad idea you know! He goes bang bang when he’s upset..” Kyungsoo snatched the wallet back from you as he squinted at your speech. “I think that bread you're eating is causing you to go crazy.” He took the piece of bread from you, only to realize it was a dried piece of chicken. He suddenly dropped it out of shock while you scrambled to pick it up again. “That's my dinner! How rude!! No wonder you’ll go bang bang in 13 minutes! 15 if you’re lucky!!”

Kyungsoo was too busy wondering how a piece of chicken could be as dry and crusted like stale bread. He even wondered if it was safe to consume, “wait, 13 minutes? 15? How do you know?” The numbers seemed too accurate unless she was truly crazy... “Mr. Mouse has a clock! 30 minutes or bang! The lizard finishes in 10 minutes but he’s away today. The next fastest is the little deer! He doesn’t like to be called that though~” You giggled at the thought of a mad deer. “And.. the deer finishes in 10 to 15 minutes?…” He wasn’t sure what you meant by Mr. Mouse, the lizard and or the deer, but he assumed they were code names made by your loopy mind. “Bingo!~ Hehe~” You tried taking another bite of the chicken when it was suddenly taken away again. “Hey!!”, “Show me the way out of this city and I’ll buy you better food.”

Kyungsoo soon found out that you were incredibly smart, just that your mind stored information in a very simple way. After he safely got away, he offered you to come with him with the promise of better food and living conditions. You guys would still be on the streets sometimes but it was never as bad as that metal shelter, especially now that you had someone to keep you company, one that didn’t think you were completely insane.

Zitao

Gunshots were being heard throughout the building and Tao didn’t know where to go. He just kept running until you pulled his arm and dragged him in the opposite direction. “Are you crazy? The exits this way!” You whispered as loudly as you could afford to. Working in a bank was definitely boring for you, but that didn’t mean you wanted robbers coming into ‘spice’ up your day. You guess this guy was new as he didn’t have the exit routes memorized yet nor did he seem to understand that you don’t run towards the sound of gunshots. Opening the exit doors to the stairs, you warned him to follow you as quickly and quietly as he could. For some reason, Tao managed to stay pretty quiet, with the occasional scream, but he remembered right after and covered his own mouth to prevent the robbers from finding them.

After what felt like too long, both of you got out and together you ran to the nearest cafe before calling the cops to let them know the updated situation. “Th-thanks” You had forgotten about the guy for a brief moment but waved that it was no big deal. He hadn’t gotten you more in danger and it just seemed right, rather than letting him run around the building like a headless chicken. “Let me buy you a coffee!” Tao quickly went to the counter and order two things he felt would taste good. He tried to calm his racing heart down but he wasn’t sure if it was due to the adrenaline or if it was because of you. That day on, Tao would always stick close to you when he can and you soon found out this guy had a lot of fears. But it was cute, that and afterwards he always bought you something to eat or drink when he got scared.. and when he simply wanted to.

Jongin

You jumped into the ocean after waiting what felt like forever for Jongin to pop up. You guys had gone cliff diving with friends and while you all had done it numerous times, you felt uneasy when Jongin wasn’t surfacing. The others assured you, he was probably just playing a joke, but you thought differently. Jongin wouldn’t scare you like this, this was too long to be a simple joke, so here you were swimming in the warm ocean trying to find your boyfriend. You rose multiple times to take a deep breath before swimming down again. Your friends saw how panicked you looked and jumped down to help you search for Jongin too.

He had jumped down into the warm water and man did it feel great. His friends had already known he would pull a prank at one point. So when he entered the water for the fifth time that hour, he held his breath for as long as he could. A few minutes passed by and he was starting to feel uncomfortable. As he tried to swim back up, he realized his foot was caught in some plastic netting and other plants that floated in the ocean. Jongin did his best to unraveled the webbing around his foot but he was starting to desperately need air. His body started to panic and he wasn’t thinking straight anymore.

You had finally found him and called your friends to come help. Everyone took a deep breath and swam down to where Jongin was. You carefully cut away the plastic and saw that it was stuck to heavy rocks, no wonder he wasn’t able to getaway. Once Jongin was free, the guys swam back up as you and the girls followed along, making sure there was nothing to get caught on around them. Back on land, you immediately performed CPR and prayed that Jongin was okay. A few seconds later he was bending over to cough up the water in his lungs. His chest and sinus stung like crazy as he was gasping for the much need air. Jongin pulled you into a tight hug once he felt a little better. He told you how thankful he was over and over, promising to never pull a prank like that again.

Sehun

Sehun had his breath knocked out of him as you tackled him to the ground. “Idiot!” You yelled at him as bullets continued to fire his way. He hadn’t realized he was getting shot at, as he was too focused on watching your back. The two of you had been partnered up together on a few missions years ago. Soon after, you both started to go on every single assignment with each other. Little did you know, Sehun had been requesting to work with you, and you did the same for him. How embarrassing it was when your boss yelled out “Finally!!” at a work party. Only then did you guys find out how silly your actions seemed when it would’ve been easier to say it face to face.

Sehun focused his attention on you to find any scratches and luckily there weren’t any. He kissed you deeply, too caught in the moment of feeling how grateful he was that you were okay. You immediately pushed him down in panic, what was he thinking? You both were in an active shooting zone and here he was kissing you? He let out a soft groan as his back hit the concrete floor, maybe he should show you how much he appreciates you once you both were safe at home.

He gave you another peck on the forehead and told you to be safe before he headed off in a new direction. Although he was always extremely grateful to have someone like you watching his back, he needed to remember that they still had a dangerous job to do. Often times you would save his life and he would save yours. Despite that, there was never a moment that either of you took it for granted, as your life was too precious to him and you cherished him.

[cannibalisticshadows]

can we see LTA!megamind naked??? Good ol' walking-in-on-them-naked kinda situation. give roxie an eyefull. yes. i need that please.

Loving The Alien; Part 16; “Bare”

[Ao3]

Megamind can be quite protective, she’s quick to learn.

After the Hal Incident, he’s hardly left her side. Literally.

“I never should have left,” he said, as if he’d left her in the middle of a battlefield with nothing to defend or guard herself with. “I’m so sorry I took so long. It’s all my fault.”

“Megamind, it’s okay! I’m fine,” she chuckles, glad he’d back but feeling a little cornered from his sudden overwhelming solicitousness.

Roxanne had been too busy trying to deal with Hal to get a good look at him, when he first landed at her balcony. He’s wearing his signature spandex, tall collar and cape with the spiked leather gloves. The works. Typical uniform, and what she’s used to seeing on him. Yet, after all their “nesting” it’s a little weird, or a blast from the past, to see him dressed as the super-villain again. When he runs his hands up her arms and shoulders, checking for any injury Hal might have put on her within the two minutes he was here, she’s ready to roll her eyes.

Yet what really catches her attention now, is that Megamind stinks. Stinks like tobacco smoke and something sticky. There’s dirt smeared on part of his face, a slight scrape on his jaw. His de-gun’s in his belt.

She grabs his shoulders and holds him back, staring at him.

“What happened?”

“What?”

“Megamind, you look like you got into a fight.”

He’s silent for a few seconds. Her eyes go as wide as saucers.

“Megamind!”

“I did say I had to take care of some business,” he scratches the back of his head. “I don’t—Roxanne, I didn’t just blow stuff up as a villain. I have contacts.”

“Contacts,” she deadpans.

“In the underworld.”

She continues to stare at him.

“I don’t wanna be the bad guy anymore,” he reassures Roxanne, bending his head to hers. “But I can’t just let my—contacts—think they can run wild with my sudden ab-seens. Even you must know this city was corrupted and vile before I took charge.”

Took charge, her mind echos numbly. Took charge of what. The underworld? She shivered. In her eyes, Megamind was a big softy hiding beneath spikes, leather, and explosives. It seemed his only goal in life was just to get under Wayne’s skin, on a public scale. Yet Megamind was saying that’s not the whole picture. Good God. What else did she not know about him? Honestly she thought the majority of the smarter criminals just left a life of crime when a superhuman took charge of the city.

But Wayne’s not the only super.

“Okay, um, that’s a lot to unpack. And we’re not going to get in that right now. I’m just glad your back in one piece.”

He exhales in what she thinks is relief.

“But I’m not sweeping it under the rug.”

“Sweep what under the roog?”.

“Did you at least get what you needed? That watch?”

“Yes,” he chirps, and shows his wrist, and the complex looking wrist watch on him.

“Megamind,” she rubs her temples. He fidgets in front of her, shifting from foot to foot. “I need to uh, go out today. We need some groceries.”

The blue alien sniffs. “Makes sense.”

“Do you wanna come with me?”

He tilts his head. “To shop? For—food?”

“That and other things,” Roxanne tells him, padding into the kitchen. “Can that watch of yours really disguise you?”

“Yes!” He insists, and twists the face of the watch.

His whole body shimmers with blue light, crinkling with some electric sound. And then, Megamind is gone and is replaced with some man she’s unfamiliar with. He’s morphed into some man in a biker outfit, similar to what he wore the night his tail was removed but with leather pants instead of jeans. Black hair, sharp chiseled face, same vivid green eyes, though more human-like.

He flourished his arms out and spun around. “Do you like it?”

“I prefer your real face.”

He visibly deflated.

“Not that this isn’t incredible,” she’s quick to reassure him, hands going up in surrender. “Because it is incredible. It’s seems very—convenient.”

“It is!” He whines.

“Okay, sweetheart,” she shakes her head, coming back to him with a cup of water. Handing it to him, she twists the face of his watch like he did, until she’s starting back at the face she fell in love with. Pleased, she pats him on the chest affectionately. He raises an eyebrow at her, but guzzles down her offering in a few big gulps. “Why don’t you go pop in the shower? You stink.”

With faux offense, he gasps and says, “Miss Ritchi!”

“Go on you goof,” she smacks him on the butt, trying not to laugh. “Get clean.”

~.~.~

Roxanne has begun to notice Megamind likes to take long showers. It’s not a bad thing, but how long does he need, especially with no (long) hair? Try as she might, she can’t stop all the thoughts that drift into her mind. What was he doing in there? Standing under the water to simply enjoy it? Well, Roxanne took a shower not too long ago and was in there for a considerable amount of time, and about half an hour had already passed, so the hot water must have run out by now.

Unable to not be curious, and a little concerned as well, Roxanne mounts the stairs and comes to her bathroom door. The shower’s not running, and all she can hear is what sounds like him humming to a rock song. Smiling fondly, she opens the door a crack and sticks her head in thinking nothing of it.

”Hey, Mega—eep!”

Megamind’s stark naked.

She instantly knows because, one, she hasn’t had the privilege to see that much of his blue skin yet. His tail has grown phenomenally the past several days; she’s quick to admit it’s about a foot short of being full grown. It hangs limply as he goes about his business. Secondly, the only hair he has, besides what’s on his chin, is the happy trail on his abdomen. Said trail runs down to his bladder and groin. There’s nothing dangling between his legs; no scrotum or penis to speak of. But there are two little buds, alined beside each other in a V, similar to a penile sheath on a male dog. A slight pink bud peaks out of both. So that’s what’s holding his equipment in.

And, she can see his… feet?

He’s standing before the mirror, bent over and applying some of her eyeliner. One knee’s up against the sink cabinets, and one foot out to give himself some stability. And his toes—

What toes?

Megamind’s has exactly three… toe-like appendages, shaped into three large claws like a raptor’s. Between them is wide translucent webs. They flex against her fluffy white bathroom carpet, making the tattooed alien look quite out of place in her little, feminine bathroom. His tattoo, by the way, was an overly realistic-looking planet on his shoulder. She’s yet to ask him if it’s his home planet, but all signs point to yes.

When he looks up, she sees his face break out into mild panic. The eyeliner smears on his cheekbone and he drops the stick into the sink as he jolts upward. His hands fly to his groin. “Roxanne!”

Yelping, she yanks her head out and shuts the door. “Sorry!”

Her face is burning on a million degrees of embarrassment, for both him and herself. She never intended to get an eyeful of him in his birthday suit so early into their romantic relationship, but guiltily her inner reporter is sated… while her inner lady is absolutely mortified of interrupting his private time.

Still blushing like a bashful filly, Roxanne bolts back downstairs and decides to wait like a normal person. Or at least try to. Especially since she’s well aware what he looks like naked, now. And currently in that state, in her bathroom. It shouldn’t arouse her as much as it already does.

She doesn’t have to wait long, as the bathroom door opens and shuts again. Megamind comes out of her bedroom, dressed in his spandex. Leaning over the railing, catching her eye, he barks, “You!” To make it worse, he wags a finger at her.

“I’m sorry! I wasn’t thinking!”

He harrumphs, marching down the stairs with his arms crossed. “It’s unfair.”

Her brows pinch together. Not the response she was expecting. “Unfair?”

“You saw me,” he explained quietly, almost disappointed. “In fact, you’ve seen just about everything of me!”

“Um.”

He doesn’t expand on this, but grabs his boots from the bottom of the stairs. He plops himself down on the couch, still frowning. Roxanne purses her lips, thinking over what he’s said. Was he… jealous? That she’s seen him naked and he hasn’t?

Oh.

Well then.

Finding it more than a little silly, but also charmed and flattered, she rolls her eyes and gets her own shoes. Seeing it fit to change the subject, she asks, “Did you see Minion? When you went to the Lair?”

He doesn’t answer her right away. “I… did. We’re not on speaking terms,” Megamind states flatly.

“Oh, Megamind… I’m so sorry—do you want me to talk to him or—“

“No, no! No need for that, my dear. I appreciate the sentiment but this is between us. He just—nothing.”

“What?”

“Never mind,” he waves his hand in dismissal.

“No, tell me,” Roxanne pleads softly, coming up to him with her hands coming to his shoulders. “He’s your friend.”

“He—he said why should I come there when I’ve clearly made myself at home with you.”

“He what!?“ Her temper flared to life. "Now that’s just uncalled for! He needs to understand you can make relationships that don’t involve him.”

One of his brows quirk up. “What do you mean?”

“The way I see it is he’s jealous.”

“Jealous?” He laughs like it’s absurd. “Of what?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you two have been close for a very long time with no outsiders to share the other with.” She crosses her arms. “You’ve found a friend in me and he’s having none of it.”

He hums. “I admit that sounds like a reasonable answer, but I’ve told you earlier. I have contacts. Sometimes I have to socialize, though rare as it is, and he has no problem with that. In fact, he sometimes encourages it! He encouraged me to befriend the other children in the brief time we were at shool. He just—“ he tilts his head, frowning in thought. “I think he’s afraid. For my sake. He says the bad guy doesn’t get the girl.”

She gasps. “What?” Briefly, she begins to conjure up dark thoughts, that perhaps it wasn’t Megamind complete decision to be the super villain he made himself to be. That maybe a little voice sat in the back of his head to encourage his ‘evilness’. But that couldn’t be; Minion was sweeter to her than Megamind, most of the time. Tables had turned as of late, but—the alien fish liked to offer her things to drink and always handled her carefully during her kidnappings.

Megamind shrugs, throwing his hands up. “I don’t know what’s his problem. I’m not a kid anymore; I should be able to make decisions on my own without the world telling me what I should be doing.”

Her heart skipped a beat at how mature and healthy that sounded. She actually wanted to tear up at how proud she was, and the feeling was very strong and sudden. “Of course…”

“Enough sadness. You need to smile after that horrible red-haired mahn tried to defile your honor! Now, Miss Ritchi,” he twists the face of his watch and his image shimmers until she’s looking into a Megamind-like human face. “I believe we have a date in shoop-ing!”

[fooddatascrape]

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[newbie-whumping]

(Nehale and Hazel - they/them. Amari - she/her)

The study is lit only by the dim light of the candles in the ritual circle. Scrolls are scattered about the many desks. In the corner, cupping a candle with a bright blue flame in their hand, Nehale sits with their back to the wall. Their dark skin seems to almost shimmer with sweat and a faint sheen of magic. They're as beautiful as ever, but in this moment, they don't look human.

Amari and Hazel try to convince their love to come out, to take care of themself, to come away from the edge they're so clearly teetering on, and Nehale refuses. Hazel tries to start a spiel on how whatever they're seeing in the web of magic isn't true, isn't the full reality, but the words are caught in their throat. They have so much love for their soulmate; they've been through so much together and Hazel knows Nehale better than themself. They know their fears, worst qualities, annoying habits, hopes, goals, the reasons they laugh and what every one sounds like - Hazel could pick out the sound of their sneeze in a crowd without a second thought.

And despite all of that, despite their tremendous love and knowing Nehale inside and out, Hazel is afraid. For them, of course. They're mages, they have powerful enemies; there's times where they're constantly afraid for them. But right now, in this moment where Nehale is beautiful and terrifying and everything they know and nothing like that at all? Hazel isn't afraid for them. They're afraid of them.

Nehale's eyes meet Hazel's. Through the mental connection shared by soulmates, Hazel experiences a dizzying bolt of perspective. They see the world Nehale does: the stirrings of fate and fortune, order and chaos swirling around each moment. And beyond, the entropy. The force seeking to tear it down. It's horrible. A hand flies to Hazel's head, the other to the nearby wall as they briefly lose their balance from the power of what Nehale just showed them.

Nehale puts the candle down and rises to their feet. Another bolt of perspective strikes Amari, and she stumbles, blood trickling from a nostril. As she falls, a swirl of fortune ripples around her. The blade she carries on her thigh unsheathes. She lands directly on the blade.

"My liege..." Amari's voice cracks. The love and longing of centuries shakes loose from her control and fills her voice. "Nehale. This life doesn't have to end like this."

"No," Nehale agrees. Their eyes meet Hazel's again. "If you want to keep this life, run."

--

There's silence as they cut peppers, aside from the crackle of the fire and the sizzling of food in a pan. Once they feel they're done with the peppers, they scoop them into a bowl and slide it closer to the pan, getting started on some tomatoes as Amari adds the peppers to the cooking food. When Hazel finishes with the tomatoes, they set those in the bowl Amari returned to them, and then lean against the counter, waiting quietly while she finishes up with the food in the pan.

Amari takes it off the fire and tips the pan over another bowl, scraping out the food and setting the pan aside to cool so it can be washed. “It's ready, my liege.” It doesn't need to be said, but Hazel knows better than to say it to her face by now. Instead, they set two plates by the filled bowl and divide it evenly, adding the tomatoes on top and handing one to Amari.

They sit together and eat in silence, though Hazel can't help studying her. These past few months have been hard on them both, but they know that she's been taking it especially hard. They know she blames herself for not trying to intervene with their love earlier, even though Hazel has told her countless times that she's not to blame. Amari is stubborn - they know that. They know that despite their assurances, she won't accept it.

Hazel can see just how exhausted Amari is, though she would never admit it and would insist she's fine and can keep going for days, still. They can see just how dark the circles under her eyes are, the nicks and bruises from her solo training and the little mistakes that stack up. They can read her better than they know she's ever comfortable with - it's not something that can be helped, after centuries of being together life after life - and they can see just how much she's still haunted by what happened that night. They know that despite their assurances and insisting, she's been pushing herself too far, never sleeping, looking into the future more than she necessarily needs to.

They clean up together in silence, and when they're done, Amari turns to them. They can see the little tells of how tired she is; When did she sleep last? A few days ago?

“Is there anything else that needs to be done tonight, my liege?” Formal as always. Hazel prefers it, to an extent. They haven't exactly been coping well - neither of them, actually. They have a definitive unspoken agreement not to talk about it, and the formality is helpful in forgetting, sometimes.

“No.” They pause, amending, “Well, there is one thing. You look pale. I think you should get some rest.”

They're expecting exasperation, refusal, Amari's trademark stubbornness. They're expecting to have to fight their friend tooth and nail to get her to sleep, take a break. They're expecting to possibly have to resort to magical means, if absolutely necessary, though they hate going for that option.

They're not expecting the polite bow. “Of course, my liege,” Amari replies. She promptly collapses on the ground.

Startled, Hazel drops to their knees next to her. “Amari?”

No response. Quickly, they check her pulse, her breathing, any possible issues. Aside from what they could already see, they can't find anything wrong with her. Pressing a hand to her forehead, they frown, then sigh.

“Of course you'd push yourself much too far,” they murmur. Being careful not to wake her, they manage to pull her into their arms, and, with some effort, they head for her bedroom. Once there, they ready her bed and make sure she's comfortable, proceeding to grab her some water and a wet cloth in hopes of helping the fever break more quickly.

These past few months have been hard. Hazel can't say they're looking forward to the endless years before the next life, but at least they don't have to do this alone.

Whump Prompt #847

Submitted by anon - thanks!

“One more thing - you look pale. I think you should get some rest.” [A] said. 

“Of course m'lady” [B] lowered themself into a polite bow and promptly collapsed.

[atomicpizzaandoneshots]

Violet Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone - The Vanishing Glass Pt. 2

Summary: Violet Potter, the girl who lived, is going off to Hogwarts this year. Being something she never thought she’d be… Free. Follow Violet as she discovers what the wizarding world has to offer her and her new friends. Rating: TV-17 ish Word Count: 2553 Warnings: abuse Notes: This story is posted on FanFiction.net as well! I’ll be posting on both platforms. There is a “read more” cut off after the second paragraph.

Part One || Part Three

CHAPTER TWO

THE VANISHING GLASS

Nearly ten years had passed since the fall of Voldemort and Violet Potter had found herself living in the broom closet under the stairs of Number 4 Privet Drive. As the sun rose, the light wafted over the painfully neat rose garden in the front of the home before moving upwards to the steps leading up to the door. Soon the half open window blinds would be create shapes in the pristine living room of the Dursleys' home. You wouldn't have known a child lived there if it wasn't for the photos of a rather plump rosy cheeked boy that sat on the fireplace mantel. You definitely wouldn't know another child lived there within the home. You especially wouldn't know if you asked any of the other three occupants of the home.

Into the front door and past the first step of the stairs is a door. A door with the lock on the outside and a sliding plate near the top. Inside the door on a makeshift cot was a girl with bright fiery hair laying on her side sound asleep, but not for long. Violet Potter's Aunt Petunia was awake and the shrill of her voice was the first voice heard that morning.

"Up! Get up! Now!"

Violets Aunt pounded on the door to the cupboard harshley before screaming another "Up!" at the girl. Violet bolted upwards her heart pounding. She didn't remember what she was dreaming about, only the sound of a motorcycle ringing back in her head when Violet thought what it might've been about. She felt groggy but knew that if she didn't get up now she'd regret not doing so later. The punishment for not doing as told when told was enough to scare the girl out of her sleepy haze.

The kitchen, just further down the hall outside Violets door, the scrape and clack of a frying pan could be heard as metal hit metal on the stove top.

Her aunt back outside of the door rapping her knuckles on the wood. Violet wasn't she how her aunt hadn't bruised them yet.

"Are you up yet?"

"Almost, Aunt Petunia."

"Well hurry it up, girl. I want you to look after the bacon. And don't let it burn this time. You know everything has to be perfect for Dudley's' birthday."

Violet sighed and rugged her forehead.

"What was that?" Her aunt demanded.

"Nothing. I was just putting my hair up."

Dudley's birthday - Violet wondered how she could have forgotten. It was only talked about the entire week leading up to it. Violet slowly moved about trying to find a pair of socks. Upon finding two mismatched mens socks she had been given as a birthday present two years ago, Violet pulled a spider off of one and proceeded to get ready. The spiders didn't really bother her. The cupboard under the stairs were full of spiders and their webs and the cupboard was where Violet lived. That and Violet would like to think they had a small understanding for shared space.

After pulling on a pair of shoes, Violet made her way into the kitchen. The dining table was full, nearly overflowing, from Dudley's presents this year. Games, a computer, a racing bike, and much more sat on or around the table. Violet couldn't help but be a bit jealous since all she ever got as presents were old hole riddled sticky clothes from Dudley. It could be worse, Violet pondered. I could have no clothes.

Grabbing a stool and pushing it up against the oven, Violet climbed up and grabbed the pair of prongs used for turning the bacon. Violet watched the meat carefully.

By the time Dudley made his way down the stairs the bacon was done and set aside on a plate so Violet could fry the eggs next. Five eggs in the pan. One for Aunt Petunia, two for Uncle Vernon, two for Dudley. Whatever else was sat on the table - or what could be sat on the table - was divided up and eaten by the three. Violet wasn't allowed food and she knew that if she tried to sneak any she'd be punished. She had found that out quickly and hardly. She knew that she was only allowed to eat when the food was handed to her.

Dudley came clambering into the kitchen stopping right behind Violet. Grabbing a fist full of her hair he gave a big tug.

"Ouch!" She yelled out. Violet grabbed her head and whipped around to glare at the boy. Dudley was already onto something else. Uncle Vernon looked up from the paper he sat reading at the table.

"Don't burn the eggs girl. You know what'll happen."

"Yes sir." She mumbled.

Violet platted the eggs and grabbed the bacon plate taking them both to the table. Finding a place to put was hard as there wasn't much space. Dudley stood there counting his presents. His face fell and brow furrowed.

"Thirty-six," he said, looking up at his parents. Violet knew where this was going to go and turned around to start cleaning the breakfast mess.

"But you didn't count this one, love." She heard her Aunt Pentina say. "It's from Auntie Marge."

"Alright, thirty-seven then." Dudley said in an upset tone. Violet, and as it seemed, Aunt Pentina sensed danger but each dealt with it differently. Violet started to scrub faster in an attempt to leave the kitchen quicker. Aunt Pentina tried to talk him down.

"Well what if we buy you two more presents while we out today, hm? How's that sound, popkin? Two more presents?"

"That'll make thirty… thirty-"

"Thirty-nine." Violet muttered.

"Thirty-nine?" Dudley looked to his mother to confirm. She nodded and said, "How does that sound sweetums? Thirty-nine presents?"

"Oh." Dudley said dumbly before sitting heavenly down onto his chair and grabbed the nearest present to rip into.

"Little tyke is just wanting his moneys worth!" Uncle Vernon nearly yelled out. "'Atta boy, Dudders! Just like your father." The larger man let out a deep belly laugh.

At that moment the phone rang. Aunt Pentina sprung up from her seat at the table to run answer it. Dudley continued to rip into his presents as Violet finished drying the now clean frying pan.

"Bad news," Aunt Pentina announced as she stepped back into the kitchen, one hand on her hip. "Mrs. Frigg's broken her leg. Can't take the girl today." She jerked her head towards her.

Dudley's mouth dropped in horror as Violet's heart leaped in hope. Every years Dudley's parents would take him and one friend out for the day may it be a theme park, the movies, the arcade, or where ever else Dudley wanted to go. And every year Violet was left with Mrs. Frigg, the mad old lady up the street who owned far too many cats in Violet's opinion. She was a nice old lady but Violet wanted to do things too.

"We could phone Marge?" Vernon prompted. Violet almost felt her heart jump out of skin in fear.

"Don't be silly, Vernon, you know Marge hates the girl. I don't fancy another hospital bill because she gets too carried away in her beatings."

"You know she deserved it, Pentina."

"Yes, I do, but the girl hasn't a job. Just like her parents. Which means no money to pay for hospital bills."

"Fine, fine, very well," Vernon agreged and nodded his head. "Maybe we could phone that friend of yours, the one you're always on the with, Yvonne?"

"Yvonne is on vacation, Vernon! You knew that, I told you so!"

"You could just leave me here," Violet spoke up hopefully. Maybe she could sneak some food quietly this time with no one around to tattle.

"And destroy my home? I think not!" Pentina shouted, almost offend by the idea of leaving her here alone and by herself.

"I won't destroy the house. I could clean if you wanted me to!"

Pentinua looked away from, "I suppose we could take her to the zoo," her aunt spoke slowly, "... and leave her in the car."

"That car is brand new! I won't be leaving her in it to destroy it as well!" Vernon declared.

Dudley began to tear up. "I-I-I-I don't w-w-want her t-t-t-to come!" He wailed out. "She a-a-always sp-spoils e-everything!" His mother took him into her arms. Dudley shot a grin from between his mother's arms indicating that he was doing just what Violet thought he was doing - faking it.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

"Oh, dear Lord, it's them!" Petunia screeched. Them being Dudley's friend, Piers, and his parents. Piers wanted to be Dudleys best friends, and they were in a way. Piers would hurt Violet in some way causing Dudley to laugh. Anyone that hurt Violet, Dudley thought was a friend to him. Especially if she reacted.

As her aunt and cousin ran to meet the people at the door her uncle jabbed a large fat finger into her face. He lent in closely, "I'm warning you," he growled, "one toe out of line and you'll be in the cupboard for a week. No meals. No nothing." His face seemed to become a darker shade of purple as her uncle kept talking.

"I won't do anything," Violet leaned back some, "Honestly…"

The only problem was, was that strange things often happen around Violet. She doesn't mean for them to somethings they just happen. Like that one time in third grade her teacher's hair turned bright pink while yelling at Violet for not putting her name on her homework. Or that other time in fourth grade when she wanted nothing more than to be out of the classroom and outside on the swings and then, in a split second, Violet was outside. Still sitting in at her desk staring forward only this time it was at the swings not the teacher. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia always got so angry when weird things happened around Violet. Uncle Vernon especially. He'd always hit Violet when she was sent on with a note from school or something happened there at home.

When the five arrived at the zoo Violet was given yet another warning of the repercussions if Violet stepped a toe out of line today. And nothing happened until after lunch, in which she was actually allowed to eat and was even given Dudleys dessert, in the reptile house. Dudley and Piers ran around the building tapping and banging their hands on the glass and pressing their faces against it. Violet feared that, under the weight of the boys, would fall in.

Dudley and Piers soon were found pressing their faces in the glass of the largest snake in the building. It could have easily have eaten both Dudley and Piers and possibly have room for more after! Violet hoped the snake would do just that. Maybe she wouldn't a bald spot if it would.

"Make it move!" Uncle Vernon stepped up behind his son. Vernon, wanting nothing more to please his son, rapped his fingers rougly on the glass. The snake, who looked fast asleep, did nothing.

"Do it again," Dudley ordered. Vernon compiled but again the snake did nothing and continued to cash in some z's.

"This is boring!" Dudley moaned and walked away. Vernon and Petunia followed their boy and his friend as they terrorized other reptiles.

Violet moved to stand in front of the tank to finally get a better look at the snake. It had brain skin that almost glittered in the faux light of his tanks. Suddenly the beady eyes of the snake snapped opened. Slowly, very very slowly, the snake raised its head and body until the he and Violet were eye to eye.

The snake winked.

Violet staired. Did a snake just wink at her? She looked around the reptile house to see if anyone was looking at her. They weren't. Violet looked back the snake to find it still in the same position. The snake then jerked its head over the where Vernon, Dudley, and Piers stood harassing other animals and then moved its eyes up to the ceiling. The look plainly said, "I get it all the time."

"I know," Violet said quietly even though she was sure the snake couldn't hear her through the glass. "It must be really annoying."

The snake nodded vigorously.

"Where do you come from, anyway?" Violet asked.

The snake jerked its head to the right of her. A sign on the wall read, Boa Constrictor, Brazil.

"Was it nice there?"

The snake jerked its head over to the sign again.

"Oh." Violet said has she read the sign. Born in captivity, it read.

"I'm sorry. I know what it's like. To live somewhere knowing you have a home elsewhere but can't seem to get out. I wish I could help."

The snake lowered its head as if trying to say sorry.

Suddenly Piers ran over screaming about the snake and calling Dudley over. He waddled over as fastly as he could.

"Move over you." He punched Violet in the ribs and shoved her to the ground. The concrete scraped into her hands and knees. Violet knew she'd be bleeding now.

Violet sat up and gasped. The glass was gone! Dudley and Piers fell through the open space and into the tank. The snake, knowing now was his time, slithered as quickly as he could out. People started screaming as the snake ran by them and for a moment Violet was sure the snake had spoken to her.

Violet stood all the way back up now looking at the glass that now separates her from Dudley and his friend.

As soon as they were back at Privet Drive Vernon turned the car off and slung open he grabbed Violet by the nape of her neck and dragged her inside. Violet wasn't sure what to expect this time. A beating no doubt.

"I warned you!" He shouted. "I warned you if you had a single toe out of line and now this?" He dragged her into the kitchen and slammed the door behind them. Vernon threw Violet to the floor. She watched as he unbuckled his belt from his wait and folded it so one end was meeting the other.

Violet tried to cower away or at least hide her face as the blows began. Uncle Vernon swiftly and harshly brought down the leather belt on to Violet over and over and over. Not once did Violet scream or move. She laid there and wished for it all to be over.

The belt snapped against her skin again this time hitting the skin of her hands that protected the side of her face. The belt snapped again on her arm then her side. Her arm again. Vernon was blindly hitting her, taking his anger out onto him.

Several more hits and insults later Violet was hauled off the floor and then locked into her cupboard.

"No meals for the next week!" And with that, Violet was left to cry alone and in pain.

Thoughts? Opinions? I know this last scene wasn't up to par but I wasn't sure how to write it. Any pointers on these kinds of scenes would be great.

[templejames32840]

CHAFING DISH

At the point when the special seasons come around every year families assemble in homes and individuals hold Christmas celebrations, have Thanksgiving supper, or get the area together for a year end festivity. On the off chance that you are anticipating having many individuals over and taking care of them, you might need to consider a scraping dish to help keep your food warm and prepared to eat. A scraping dish is a cooking utensil that capacities as a warming plate. A warming gadget like a gel oven or light sit under a dish that lays on a stage and warms the container. Abrading dishes work extraordinary on buffet tables or really on your eating table as an approach to keep foor warm preceding the feast. An abrading dish can be round, oval, or rectangular fit as a fiddle and change in size from 3 to 8 quarts. For regular use you will discover them made of ceramics or hardened steel and the more conventional ones are made of silver or silver-plated materials. Your fuel source underneath the scraping dish ought to be one that warms food, not cooks it.

abrading dish

Purchasing Guide - The easier abrading dishes are one principle compartment for a solitary dish which is extraordinary, yet the more costly ones incorporate 2 or 3 separate scraping dishes with tops for numerous dinners being warmed simultaneously. You frequently observe these abrading dishes in buffet lines at eateries or inns in their feast rooms with eggs, bacons, hotcakes, and so on all remaining warm while the clients peruse the food determination. Move top scraping dishes are likewise another top of the line assortment accessible for home clients just as business. In the event that you like to enormous gatherings with a gigantic assortment of food, at that point consider the bigger smorgasbord workers with different warming skillet. 

The top brands for scraping dishes incorporate Tramontina, BroilKing, Trudeau, Maxam, Wallace, All Clad, and Circulon. Costs run from $30 to $300.  We saw scraping dishes in all value classes and shapes and measures and analyzed all highlights. Beneath, we have recorded our discoveries and expectation that you think that its valuable when shopping on the web or in stores for another scraping dish. You can peruse the top selling scraping dishes online here.

Best Chafing Dish:

On the off chance that you go on family excursions (picnics, church socials), at that point having a bigger abrading dish is basic to keeping suppers warm previously.Records a 18/8 Stainless Steel Continental Chafer: Full size (8 Quart Capacity) for $57. It incorporates a 4 1/8" profound water dish, 2 1/2" arch spread, food skillet and two 8 oz. fuel holders. The tempered steel development works out positively in any cutting edge kitchen. Ideal for huge family gatherings or smorgasbord suppers. The movable top on the burners down beneath let you control the warmth to your ideal level without any issues. 

The scraping dish likewise comes as a collapsing abrading dish for $94 or a rolltop chafer for $192. In the event that you need an extravagance scraping dish that can deal with enormous gatherings, at that point consider the Maximillian Rectangular Chafing Dish - 9 Qt. ($212). Comparative in looks and highlights to the one recorded underneath (little chafer) yet gives you 9 quart size. Suggested - Go with the Winware 8 Qt Stainless Steel Chafer, Full Size Chafer - proprietors state it carries out the responsibility and keeps food warm for occasions like gatherings.

Warming Tray:

With regards to various abrading dishes in one (buffet workers), BroilKing is the brand that most go with. They offer a decent twofold or triple smorgasbord worker for under $200. The BroilKing TBS-2S Double Buffet Server sells for $180 and highlights a 400-watt warming surface and smorgasbord worker, with two 4.3 quart scraping dishes and tops. You can likewise utilize the 20 1/2 inch by 14-inch pure base as an independent warming plate. Proprietors like the flexible indoor regulator and cool touch handles. The BroilKing TBS-3S Triple Buffet Server ($199) is additionally offered with clear polycarbonate tops for somewhat less cash. The three 2.6 quart abrading dishes with covers are extraordinary for use during open air grills or indoor gatherings. The customizable indoor regulator lets you control temperatures between 155 degrees to 205 degrees F.

 Both BroilKing models accompany a 2-year guarantee. These numerous abrading dish buffet workers are extraordinary for keeping side dishes warm while taking a shot at the course. No all the more having to re-heat food. Peruse more audits (all certain we should state). Suggested - Waring Pro has been an all around regarded name in the business too and they offer the Waring Pro BFS50B Professional Buffet Server and Warming Tray for significantly less ($80). The warmth alters from 150 to 200 degrees fahrenheit and the brushed hardened steel base can likewise be utilized as a warming plate without anyone else. The side handles remain cool so you can move the worker around without consuming your hands.

Little Chafing Dish:

Not all individuals need a huge 8 quart abrading dish so we chose to perceive how the littler ones do in testing. The Gourmet Stainless Steel Chafing Dish (3-qt.) ($30) found got brilliant audits and works admirably with littler dishes like hors d'oeuvres, sauces and light courses. The food will remain warm while the gathering goes on around it. It's made of 18/10 treated steel and has a different steam skillet to shield the food from consuming which clients state is urgent to a decent chafer. The item accompanies a safety glass cover and a notch bolted fuel compartment. 

You can utilize fluid or strong fuel and the abrading dish is dishwasher safe. Proprietors state the 3 quart scraping dish is extraordinary for serving hors d'oeuvers. Buyers state scraping dishes without a steam container will in general consume the substance inside and don't the food uniformly, that is the reason this one is appraised so high since it has a steam skillet. The Maximillian Half-Size Chafing Dish - 4.1 Qt. ($150) is viewed as a brilliant buy by specialists. It's quality development of substantial 18/10 treated steel and mirror finish alongside gold accents make it an excellent expansion to any kitchen.

[underhilljoel48124-blog]

BEST CHAFING DISH

At the point when the special seasons come around every year families accumulate in homes and individuals hold Christmas celebrations, have Thanksgiving supper, or get the area together for a year end festivity. In the event that you are anticipating having many individuals over and taking care of them, you might need to consider an abrading dish to help keep your food warm and prepared to eat. A scraping dish is a cooking utensil that capacities as a warming plate. 

A warming gadget like a gel oven or light sit under a container that lays on a stage and warms the skillet. Abrading dishes work incredible on buffet tables or really on your feasting table as an approach to keep foor warm preceding the dinner. An abrading dish can be round, oval, or rectangular fit as a fiddle and change in size from 3 to 8 quarts. For ordinary use you will discover them made of ceramics or treated steel and the more conventional ones are made of silver or silver-plated materials. Your fuel source beneath the abrading dish ought to be one that warms food, not cooks it.

Purchasing Guide - The less difficult scraping dishes are one fundamental compartment for a solitary dish which is extraordinary, yet the more costly ones incorporate 2 or 3 separate abrading dishes with tops for various dinners being warmed simultaneously. You frequently observe these abrading dishes in buffet lines at eateries or lodgings in their dinner rooms with eggs, bacons, hotcakes, and so forth all remaining warm while the clients peruse the food determination. 

Move top abrading dishes are additionally another top of the line assortment accessible for home clients just as business. In the event that you like to huge gatherings with a tremendous assortment of food, at that point consider the bigger smorgasbord workers with different warming skillet. The top brands for abrading dishes incorporate Tramontina, BroilKing, Trudeau, Maxam, Wallace, All Clad, and Circulon. Costs run from $30 to $300.

 We saw abrading dishes in all value classifications and shapes and estimates and analyzed all highlights. Underneath, we have recorded our discoveries and expectation that you think that its valuable when shopping on the web or in stores for another abrading dish. You can peruse the top selling abrading dishes online here.

In the event that you go on family trips (picnics, church socials), at that point having a bigger abrading dish is basic to keeping dinners warm heretofore. records a 18/8 Stainless Steel Continental Chafer: Full size (8 Quart Capacity) for $57. It incorporates a 4 1/8" profound water dish, 2 1/2" vault spread, food skillet and two 8 oz. fuel holders. The hardened steel development works out in a good way in any advanced kitchen. Ideal for huge family gatherings or smorgasbord meals. The flexible cover on the burners down underneath let you control the warmth to your ideal level without any issues. 

The abrading dish likewise comes as a collapsing scraping dish for $94 or a rolltop chafer for $192. On the off chance that you need an extravagance abrading dish that can deal with enormous gatherings, at that point consider the Maximillian Rectangular Chafing Dish - 9 Qt. ($212). Comparable in looks and highlights to the one recorded underneath (little chafer) yet gives you 9 quart size. Suggested - Go with the Winware 8 Qt Stainless Steel Chafer, Full Size Chafer - proprietors state it carries out the responsibility and keeps food warm for occasions like gatherings.

With regards to various scraping dishes in one (buffet workers), BroilKing is the brand that most go with. They offer a decent twofold or triple smorgasbord worker for under $200. The BroilKing TBS-2S Double Buffet Server sells for $180 and highlights a 400-watt warming surface and smorgasbord worker, with two 4.3 quart scraping dishes and covers. You can likewise utilize the 20 1/2 inch by 14-inch pure base as an independent warming plate. 

Proprietors like the movable indoor regulator and cool touch handles. The BroilKing TBS-3S Triple Buffet Server ($199) is additionally offered with clear polycarbonate covers for somewhat less cash. The three 2.6 quart scraping dishes with covers are extraordinary for use during outside grills or indoor gatherings. The movable indoor regulator lets you control temperatures between 155 degrees to 205 degrees F. Both BroilKing models accompany a 2-year guarantee. These various scraping dish buffet workers are extraordinary for keeping side dishes warm while taking a shot at the course. No all the more having to re-heat food. Peruse more audits (all certain we should state). 

Suggested - Waring Pro has been an all around regarded name in the business also and they offer the Waring Pro BFS50B Professional Buffet Server and Warming Tray for significantly less ($80). The warmth modifies from 150 to 200 degrees fahrenheit and the brushed tempered steel base can likewise be utilized as a warming plate without anyone else. The side handles remain cool so you can move the worker around without consuming your hands.

Not all individuals need an enormous 8 quart scraping dish so we chose to perceive how the littler ones do in testing. The Gourmet Stainless Steel Chafing Dish (3-qt.) ($30) found got fantastic surveys and works admirably with littler dishes like canapés, sauces and light courses. 

The food will remain warm while the gathering goes on around it. It's made of 18/10 tempered steel and has a different steam dish to shield the food from consuming which clients state is essential to a decent chafer. The item accompanies a treated glass top and a score bolted fuel compartment. You can utilize fluid or strong fuel and the scraping dish is dishwasher safe. Proprietors state the 3 quart scraping dish is extraordinary for serving hors d'oeuvers. Buyers state abrading dishes without a steam container will in general consume the substance inside and don't the food equitably, that is the reason this one is evaluated so high since it has a steam skillet. 

The Maximillian Half-Size Chafing Dish - 4.1 Qt. ($150) is viewed as a brilliant buy by specialists. It's quality development of uncompromising 18/10 treated steel and mirror finish alongside gold accents make it a lovely expansion to any kitchen. Highlights a takeoff arch spread, inherent spread holder, and it's solid and simple to clean. 

[your-highnessmarvel]

Burn - Chapter 10

Chapter ten: Confabulation

With one day until their extraction to California, Addie found herself once again in the gym, sometime after dinner. She was facing Wanda in a one on one combat, their hair already sweaty, their clothes sticking to their bodies. She was taking it easy this time; easier than the other times she had roughly fought with the girl. There was no use in throwing herself harshly into the fight. If she was made to improve, she would in due time.

"Have you given more thoughts to California?" Wanda asked, breathless. She threw a rough punch, easily evaded by the other girl.

"What is there to give more thoughts to?" Addie asked. They tumbled some more, roughly scuffling, grunts and groans falling from their mouths. Wanda had an advantage being slightly smaller than Addison, yet the latter was very fast and rapid, her punches quick and baffling.

"I meant to say," Wanda breathed, "we should think about how we're going to work together, if anything happens."

Addie shrugged, which gave Wanda an open door to take her down. The brunette hit the ground with a loud thud, her skull making breathtaking contact with the floor. She groaned loudly, her eyes closed, little lights exploding behind her lids. "I think we can just do what we practiced the other day."

When Addison got to her feet, she saw the red crimson ribbons of magic seeping from Wanda's hands. Her fingers curled, claw-like, as she made her way gently around the other girl. "I still can't believe how well it mingles," Wanda huffed, her magic reaching out until it patted against Addison's flesh.

Addison sighed yet nonetheless, like last night, she let her electricity fall from the hold she usually had on it. Bolts slowly dotted her skin like a web, the electric blue color illuminating her features, her fingertips zapping with burning hot lightning. She let the electricity run along the span of her body, but she collected enough to hold in the palm of her hand. The glittering sphere shone in her irises, and as she rose her eyes, she spotted a lone figure leaning in the doorway.

Wanda's magic had mingled well enough with Addie's electricity to let Steve know what was going on. He frowned so deeply that his face became unrecognizable. He slowly made his way to where they were standing, breathless, sweaty, and full of violent purple electricity and magic.

"What the hell," he muttered.

"Language."

Addie's smile was so strained and forced that Steve could not hold back his laughter. He continued to watch them, frozen as if caught red-handed, their powers melted into each other. "This is a sight to take in," he said, a disturbed smirk on his lips.

"We were going to tell you," Wanda muttered, her big blue eyes round and innocent. "We just had to figure it out first."

"Show me what you got, girls," he laughed, his face still somewhat disturbed by what he was seeing.

Wanda turned her stare to Addie, her eyes questioning and still so beautifully blue. Addie raised her electricity, the glowing sphere in her hand growing in size. She powered it with enough energy so that it glowed and burned slowly, rising inches from her palm, the air around it shimmering with heat. "She can easily propel her own electricity," Wanda started, "but I can help dissipate it."

"And I can charge her own power to make it ten times more deadly," Addie added, a satisfied smile on her face when the lights flickered overhead. "Instead of just moving things with her mind, she can also fry them or charge them. Then I can make them Kaboom."

The little violet sphere in her palm moved, becoming less of a ball and more of a pool of energy. The more Wanda stretched it out, the more the electricity became like a web of violet sparks, growing around their heads, charged and dangerous. "I can hear and see all that she can when she let's her power out," Wanda said, her voice struggling slightly. "I can span her energy into molecular form, spreading it through the air, making her power more deadly if she chose to."

"I still have the final say in what I do," Addie said, her electricity seeping from her fingers, completely disregarding the web of sparks around her, "and when it comes to her own, Wanda has the final say too."

The power of their team work was overwhelming for both of them, but at the same time, it was empowering. No one could stop them now. Wanda's magic could be deadly and electrical while Addie's bolts could span as far as Wanda could send it, creating an aura of danger. They were now an unstoppable team.

Steve's mouth hung open on its hinges, his own mind working wonders. "We need to show it to the others."

And indeed, it was like throwing all the Avenger's emotions into a blender. Once they had all seen what Wanda and Addie could do together, they were shouts and screams and wishes that they be careful and wishes that they destroy HYDRA. Clint and Sam agreed with Cap that their collaboration should only be used in drastic measures, as it could be extremely dangerous, especially if both lost control. Scott was still asking just how Addison could spurt electric bolts from her fingers. However, they did make a concrete deal that they would only use that much power with each other when it was a matter of life or death only, because such power was unimaginable, inconceivable, and even the handlers of such power could lose total control. Yet what Addie feared the most, once she had snuggled into bed that night, was that much power could send someone into a spiral of confidence that could end in darkness.

There was something very ecstatic about working with someone else; being able to share energy with someone else. Bearing the weight of such power on her shoulders proved to be heavy, weighing her down. She could now share the blame with someone else if her power was the source of a conflict or worse, the source of a catastrophe. There was something eye-opening now that she was not alone in holding the weight of all that power on her shoulders. She was not ultimately alone now.

However, there were still stagnant subjects filling her mind to the brink. She was plagued with thoughts of California, followed by vivid images of her failure in Florida. She knew that, even with two weeks of intense training, there was only a slight change in how she fought. She thought she could get better fast, reach everyone's level, but in reality, she was growing at her rate. And let's face it, the only reason why Addie had thrown herself into training was because she was ashamed of how easy she was beaten. She watched all of them, those Avengers, fight like they were born with a Sensai at their side. They fought like all they had done all their lives was fight, from breakfast to dinner and on. They were incredible fighters, worshipers of the art of war, and she dragged along, desperately reaching for the same level that they all stood on. The real reason why she was still awake at two in the morning was because she wasn't as good as all of them.

She tossed out of bed, dragging her feet out of her room and into the dark hallway. Her mind was buzzing with thoughts. Was it really worth it to have her be a part of the Avengers? Despite her electricity and the fact she had once been a HYDRA captive, there was nothing else binding her to the team. There was nothing more that she could bring to the team except her whining and her sulking.

She headed down to the kitchen, the marble floors frigid on her bare feet. The house was dark, the moonlight illuminating the room with a milky white glow. The utter silence was comforting and the cool air coming from the AC was brushing against her humid skin. She wandered into the kitchen, grabbing the fridge door open. It squeaked on its hinges, which made the brunette smile. There was nothing appealing inside the fridge; only leftover spaghetti and hot chicken, and those weird shakes that Steve takes in the morning. Besides all of those, there were just ingredients to make things. And let's face it again, Addie was not in the mood to make food at two in the morning.

The door closed with a slight thud as the girl moved to the cabinets. She rummaged through the shelves like she rummages through her mind at night. Her fingers skimmed along the shelves until her hand came along something smooth and cold. She frowned, wrapping her fingers around the neck of the bottle and slowly taking it out. A red Californian wine lay in her palm, not opened, old of about seventy years.

Quickly, she took a wine glass out and effortlessly uncorked the wine, pouring herself a generous amount. She put the bottle back in the shelf, but as she looked at the porch outside, she shrugged. "Fuck it," she mumbled to herself, grabbing the bottle and her glass, making her way outside onto the back porch.

The midnight air was cool, yet the undertones of the wind led to believe there was rain coming. She was happy for her long grey sweatpants and for her long-sleeved crop top that showed the smooth planes of her stomach. Her hair delicately flew in the wind, dark locks scraping against pale flesh. She put the bottle on the ledge of the rail, her glass in her right hand, elbows on the rail. She sipped her wine, the odor reaching her nose before the taste could satisfy her tongue. The tingle of heat reached her stomach, the familiar heat invading her body.

Time passed slowly as she kept her hazel eyes on the horizon, the wine having effect more than she wished. Her cheeks were hot, tinged with red when she sighed and decided she was done looking at the horizon. She leaned her back against the railing, finishing her second glass of wine. She was about to pour herself a third glass when the backdoor squeaked open.

She knew how she must have looked; messy, knotty hair in the wind with a bottle of wine, alone in the middle of the night, drinking like she had once been an alcoholic. She knew the addition of faded pajamas and dark circles under her eyes was not leading to a very profitable equation.

But Bucky himself was not a respectable sight to take in. His long charcoal hair was messy, knotted, and needed a good wash. His once smooth skin now showed a two day old stubble and his eyes were still swollen with sleep. He stood there in the doorway, the ghostly glow of the moon creating an odd shadow behind him. He wore black sweatpants and a dark red t-shirt that made the glint of his metal arm even more visible.

"Thought leaving my wine in the open would attract scavengers," he mumbled, his voice roach with sleep. He took a tentative step forward, igniting the fire that rose in her cheeks. He looked at her, almost asking permission, and when she didn't utter anything reproachful, he closed the door behind him.

"I didn't know you were an alcoholic," she said, feeling her mouth numb with how much wine she had drank, and let's face it one more time, she was a lightweight. He chuckled, making his way slowly to where she stood. He was directly in front of her when she took a reasonably long gulp of wine before wincing as it scorched its way down her throat. Before she could react, he reached out and snapped the glass from her hand, bringing it to his lips. He sipped it carefully, his enigmatic, burning blue eyes boring into hers.

"That's my Californian wine," he grumbled, leaning sideways until he saw the bottle that she was trying to hide behind her.

"Why are you awake?" she asked, glazing her eyes.

"Why are you?" he threw back. She sighed, her skin too hot with him this close to her. She grabbed the glass back, bringing it to her lips and indulging in the bitter taste.

"Couldn't sleep," she answered. He quirked a brow as he stepped aside from her, leaning his elbows on the railing beside her.

"Me too," he sighed, "and you're the worst at sneaking around. I heard you all the way into my deep sleep."

She smiled, the feeling warming up her face. The wine was really beginning to have the effect intended. She had intended to spend sometime outside until the wine took the awful thoughts away from her mind and she could finally sleep. She knew how she got under the effects of alcohol so she had not intended on having Bucky here, which would have made her stop all drinking if only she had known he was going to show up.

His flesh arm brushed slightly against her own, his extra warmth radiating onto her own skin. She was overheating, thankful for the cool wind brushing against her cheeks. "I wasn't trying to sneak around," she said, laughing. "It's not like I waited for everyone to be asleep to steal your wine."

"I would have," he chuckled. "I mean, this wine is delicious."

She cocked her head to the side, feeling those daring blue orbs of his burning holes in the side of her face. "So why aren't getting all angry-James on me right now?" she scoffed, bringing the wine back to her mouth, feeling the sting as the alcohol burned down to her stomach.

"Because I don't feel like it right now," he answered, shrugged as he stood straight, his hands gripping the rail. He could not, for the life of him, keep his eyes off of her. All this training had turned her soft body into a toned piece of art. Not that she had been awful to look at before, with those cute puffy cheeks and the soft curves, but now, the difference was alluring. The grey sweats clung to her legs and softly outlined the curve of her butt, which made his mouth water and his body react in ways he didn't remember it could.

Before he could do anything unimaginable, he grabbed the bottle and took a swing of the wine, feeling the harsh, bitter taste on his tongue. When he took the bottle away from his lips, he held it by the neck, dangling over the railing. Addie let out a chuckle, her eyes staring at the redness of his lips.

"Someone had a rough night," she giggled, her head woozy.

"More like a rough hundred years," he grumbled back, his dark blue eyes finding her own. Her skin felt alight with fire and she knew it was not only due to the wine. That dark red t-shirt, that looked like blood, worked wonders with the shape of his body, clinging to the curves of his shoulders and his arms, making his body a map of incredible treasures.

"Tell me about it," the brunette answered, gulping on her wine, officially finishing her glass. She held it in front of Bucky's face, offering a sweet smile that made his heart tumble around in his chest.

He had a vivid image of a girl he knew in the 40's; Dot. She was a fiery red-head with crimson lipstick always coating those sweet lips. She always wore her flaming hair in a twist behind her head, luscious and classic. She always dressed prudently, dresses and suits that went well with her figure, adding always the darling jewels, diamonds and pearls. Bucky had always considered Dot to be one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Dot could sing, and what a darling voice she had. She laughed with just the right amount of roughness, and her cheeks curved and dimpled, showing the bright blue color of her glittering eyes. Dot had always had a magnetic allure to her, drawing in all kinds of men, men like Bucky had once been. He remembered being drawn to her like water to the moon and he had wanted to hold her softly against him. She was sweet and endearing.

Yet the girl who stood in front of him in all her sleeping beauty had a different effect on him. He didn't want to hold her softly. He didn't want to make her smile sweetly and giggle and shove him while whining his name. She could not ever compare to Dot, but Addie drew him in differently. The effect of magnetism was different, as if she was drawing him in without wanting to. Her cheeks were splotched unequally with red, her eyes lazily closing and opening, glittering in the moonlight. Her dark locks were messily tossed on one side of her head, revealing an enticing pale neck. She was not at her most beautiful, that he knew, but there was something endearing about her still. Something that made his mouth water and his hands flex.

He filled up her glass and clinked it against the bottle. "Cheers," he mumbled.

"What the hell are we toasting for?" she asked, thick brows pulled together in a frown. She looked up at him, dark lashes rimming her eyes like eyeliner. He straightened again, looking over the valley of the backyard, his jaw clenched slightly. He wanted something from her, and he didn't know what, but it was driving him insane as he watched the corner of her lips quirk up.

"Let's toast to the fact that Steve is actually sleeping," he said, a smile on his lips.

"That's doesn't sound weird at all," she mumbled, but nonetheless, clinked her glass against his bottle and drank, her eyes never leaving his. She watched his reddened lips wrap around the tip of the bottle as he leaned back slightly, the wine filling his mouth. He took his darling time to swallow the alcohol, puckering his lips because he knew she was staring.

He set the bottle on the railing, close to her, so he could lean his left hand onto the railing next to her hip. He effortlessly stepped in front of her, hearing her gulp on her wine, as he gripped the railing on the other side of her with his right hand. He leaned in slowly, his face closing in on hers.

"Steve doesn't usually sleep a lot," he said, and this time, his tone was husky, purring in her ear. Her face was completely blushed, her pink lower lip caught slightly between her teeth.

Her heart viciously ripped against her chest, beating ferociously fast. Her blood ran wild, drowning in electricity and heat, boiling in her veins. Glowing rivers of electric blue swam under her flesh, the air static and stagnant with her power. He saw the distress but also the want in her eyes as he gripped the railing on each side of her body.

"That's a shame," she said, her voice trembling ever so slightly. "Sleep is the best thing ever."

"That's for you to say," he rasped back. "The girl that's awake at two in the morning, downing a whole bottle of wine to herself."

She cocked her head to the side again, inciting heat to pool into his stomach. "Hey, I'm not alone drinking this whole bottle, I'll let you know."

His body so close to her was driving her crazy. His hands were dangerously close to her hips, his eyes so daringly blue and gorgeous. He was pushing her over the edge.

She was completely taken by surprise by his behavior. She didn't know if it was the wine, but he was acting completely opposite to how he usually acts around her. He was daring and cocky and taunting, his body a toy in this little game of his. She was used to the hard, mean, and frowning Bucky, not the one that taunted her with his lip biting and crooked smirks.

"Yeah," he sighed, "you're not alone, are you?" It was his turn to cock his head to one side slightly and smirk.

Her lips parted, but no words came out of her mouth. She was completely taken aback as Bucky looked down between their bodies, his flesh hand coming to rest around her waist, his warm skin setting her own on fire.

A breath caught in her throat, her eyes widening ever the slightest. He reached once again for her, his metal hand grasping around the glass, taking it out of her hand and placing it a little further on the railing. He replaced his hand somewhat closer to her hip than before, his blue eyes grazing back up to her face.

"We should stop drinking," she said.

His head dipped slightly, a smirk pulling the right side of his mouth upwards. "Yeah, we should." Except he knew that alcohol could never have the same effect on him as it did her.

He didn't know what he was doing and why he was doing it, but the warm feeling in his stomach was telling him it wasn't wrong. Maybe it was the wine combined with sleep, or maybe just the magic of early morning hours. Maybe it was the fact that she looked so good in the ghostly shadow of the moon and the wine had turned her lips into a delicious dark red color. There was nothing concrete to explain why he was acting the way he was; why his body was reacting so foolishly to her.

The hand that was warmly resting on her waist slid across the smooth plane of her tummy, where he felt the static bolts lightly patting at his skin. Her eyes were wild, scorching with a heat so inviting and mouth watering. She was breathing heavily, her chest heaving, her neck taunt with nervousness. His metal hand slid across her cheek, the cool metal contrast against her flaming flesh. He let his metal thumb scrap against her soft lips, his eyes burning holes in her skin like a cigarette would. He slid his hand around her waist once again before his head dipped and he pressed his lips gently on hers.

She tried to keep the surprise from taking her, but the fire ravished her body and heat spanned across the length of her entirety. She felt the warmth pool in her stomach, igniting a fire deep within her as he slowly moved his mouth, inciting her to do the same. She closed her eyes, embracing the lovely feeling of his warmth invading her, wet lips softly moving against her own. His hand slightly gripped her hip, moving her closer to his body. She felt the heat of him against her, his cool metal palm pressing softly against her cheek, his thumb under her chin.

Her hands moved on their own, settling on his lower back, encouraging him to move closer. His lips became more fervent, pressing on her mouth with more force and less softness. His tongue swept across her lower lip, a darling squeak catching in her throat as she felt fingers grip her hips, moving her pelvis against his. The heat spreading from his body was making her mind whirl, her thoughts shambles as all she thought was the tingling and the heat polling between her legs.

He swept his tongue on her lower lip once again, his lips of a hunger indescribable as he nibbled her mouth. She let her lips part, his tongue assaulting hers in the most delicate of games. Her hands gripped his t-shirt, the fabric in a ball against her palms, as she tried to keep up with his hunger, his need to devour her entirely. She liked the feel of his mouth against hers, sweet and rough, tasting of wine. She instinctively reacted to him, gripping his shirt and pushing against his mouth, trying to get closer, to feel more of him, to taste much more than just his lips.

He was getting rougher, hungrier the more his mouth molded against her lips, drinking in that sweet taste of her. His tongue fought against hers for dominance. The feeling in his stomach, that tight coiling of hunger, drove him over the edge. His hand acted against his will, sliding from her waist to her belly, where the hot flesh met his fingertips. He felt her quiver against his touch, his lips and tongue devouring her. His fingers inched under the hem of her shirt, the ridges of her ribs like mountains under his palm. The more he touched her, the more he kissed her so urgently, the more her skin was stagnant with electricity. He could feel the slight jolts on his fingers, not enough to hurt him, but enough to let him know he was doing something to her.

He was pleased to find out that she was not wearing a bra, access to his target being much easier than he previously thought. He traced the underside of her breast with his fingertips, the skin warm and soft. He continued to kiss her mouth with fervor, his teeth nibbling her bottom lip, his tongue dancing roughly with hers. He slid his fingertips gently to the side of her breast, where he could feel the goosebumps rising on her flesh. When he grasped her breast in the whole of his hand, he felt her stiffen ever the slightest, a moan lodged in her throat. He kneed and mold it the way he wanted, her body relaxing, filling with sensations that made the heat at her core intensify.

His metal hand found her hair, tangling in the dark locks as he kept her in place, his mouth still devouring every inch of hers, his wet lips a marvel on her delicate mouth. His hand, rough and hungry, continued to kneed and push at her chest, eliciting strangled sounds from her throat. He was tantalizing, his hand warm and rough, but his movements slow and gentle. He was keeping himself from doing more; doing what his mind was so fervently thinking of. She was trembling against him, the feeling too good to ignore.

He lazily swept his thumb over her hardened nipple and the sweetest, strangled yelp caught in her throat. He felt heat pool in his stomach, his hunger growing the more he wanted to rip that shirt from her body. His tongue savagely explored her mouth, while his thumb repeated the movement, his body marveling at the way her body was pressing hard against his, reacting to how he was making her feel.

He stopped himself before he could do anything he regretted, because he knew if he kept this up, if she kept making those noises, he would have taken her up to his bed, willingly or not.

He slowly inches his fingers from her top and lay small kisses on her lips until their need to breathe took over and they were just a breathless mess. Their foreheads touched, their breaths mingling in harmony. Her lips were red and swollen, her cheeks so crimson and hot. He'd never seen her so flustered. He was about to say something, anything to dissipate the emotion, because he was still fighting against his instincts. But she sighed and slightly pushed away from him.

"Now why did you have to do that?" And before he knew it, she was walking back into the house on slightly trembling legs.

[sans-the-ketchup-king-blog]

Unturned Single Player Cheats

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[newstfionline]

Marooned Among the Polar Bears

By Justin Nobel, Popular Mechanics, Feb. 17, 2016

The pounding noise shatters the ancient, eerie silence of the Davis Strait, a frigid finger of ocean separating Canada and Greenland. Thwick-thwack, thwick-thwack, thwick-thwack. It comes from above but the marine fog is thick, the source invisible. The sound gets closer, louder. THWICK-THWACK, THWICK-THWACK, THWICK-THWACK. The pilot wears an old red neoprene survival suit. But it’s hot in the helicopter, and the bulky outfit’s mittens make it difficult to operate the cyclic stick. After forty-two days, twenty-one thousand miles, and three continents, he sometimes has to relax a little. So he is bare-chested, with the suit unzipped to his waist, when the sputtering begins. The helicopter is not big: a plucky 880-pound Robinson R22 that maxes out at 117 mph. The pilot knows every inch, every bolt. He has been flying R22s for years. He knows what the sputtering likely means: A belt transferring power from the engine to the rudder blades has just snapped. He also knows what comes next.

Manifold pressure increases. Speed decreases. The helicopter is going down. The pilot switches to autorotation, a safety mode that allows the craft to glide downward. From a height of three thousand feet, it falls through the fog at a rate of roughly seventeen feet per second. But falling where? It isn’t until two hundred feet above the partially frozen sea, barely enough time to maneuver, that the helicopter pierces the fog. The pilot aims for an ice floe about the size of a basketball court. In a few seconds he realizes he won’t make it, so he expertly tilts the helicopter for safest impact and lands the skids smoothly on the water.

The pilot knows the blades could accidentally chop off his head when he climbs out of the craft. By leaning his weight to the left, he tips the helicopter in order to smash the blades to pieces against the sea. This kills the engine, but now, tail-first, the machine starts to sink. Fast.

Freezing water floods the cockpit, wrapping around his naked chest, rushing down the legs of the unzipped survival suit. His gear begins to float--plastic fuel tanks, a small bag of clothes--but the most crucial items are suction-cupped to the windshield: two GPS trackers, one distress beacon, and a satellite phone. Somewhere beneath the seat there is also a deflated life raft containing a survival kit with three flares, a half-liter of water, and a tiny box of protein tablets.

Almost instantly, the pilot is submerged to the neck. There is only time to save one thing: satellite phone, distress beacon, GPS tracker, or life raft. The phone can call for help. The beacon and GPS tracker can give rescuers a chance to actually find him. But none of those do much good if he can’t stay afloat.

He reaches under the seat to grab the raft, but it is stuck, and the cockpit is so cramped that he can’t get enough leverage to yank it free. He swims out the door, takes a deep breath, then dives back under and into the submerged helicopter. The water is black and salty and cold--35 degrees Fahrenheit. It is difficult to keep his eyes open. But he must find the raft. It has floated out from under the seat and become tangled in the seat belt. He unsnares it, swims to the surface, and greedily gulps air.

Once he catches his breath, he begins swimming to the closest ice floe, the one he tried to land on--160 feet away. The life raft weighs about twenty pounds. The pilot clutches it above his head with one hand and paws at the water with the other. He propels his five-eleven, 176-pound frame, now weighted down by the waterlogged suit, through the waves. Each stroke gets him closer, yet sucks even more water into the suit, further yanking him down. Killer whales and the elusive Greenland shark hunt these waters, but none of this is on his mind. He is single-minded: Make it to the ice floe.

After three grueling minutes, he does. But this ice is two feet thick, radiant blue, pitted and roughened by at least two years of melting and refreezing. The weight of the suit makes it impossible to hurl his legs over the jagged lip. Yet he keeps trying, searching for the right spot at which to hoist himself up, like a toddler trying to climb out of the deep end of the pool. The sharp ice scrapes away skin. Blood runs down his forearms and into the sea. He finds a smooth section, presses his bare chest flat against the ice, uses his nails as claws, and shimmies atop.

Every inch of him is soaked, and his chest is now exposed to the biting wind. He shivers violently, an automatic response intended to generate heat. His shaking hands struggle to peel off the suit, its neoprene material clinging stubbornly to his skin. Once it is off, he flaps the suit up and down, trying to wring out the water. And it is then, fifteen minutes since the belt snapped, as he stands on the ice floe in nothing but his running shoes and underwear, that the situation becomes clear.

Sergey Ananov is trapped on a slab of ice in the Arctic Circle. He has no locator beacon, no phone, and barely any water. The fog will hide him from any rescuers. Night will come. Hypothermia will come. And whatever large, powerful creatures that scratch out their existence in this primordial world--maybe they will come too.

His eyes wander past the ice and over the roiling open waters of Davis Strait. He is alone, and with each minute that passes he will drift farther from the spot where the helicopter went down, lessening the chance he will ever be found.

Back on June 13, 2015, the day his Robinson R22 lifted off from the airfield at Shevlino, Russia, about twenty miles from Moscow, the fifty-year-old Ananov was the head of a Moscow trash-and-recycling company. He had already set five world aviation records in the R22 but nothing as ambitious as this: becoming the first person to fly alone around the world in a helicopter weighing less than one metric ton--approximately 2,205 pounds, more than twice the weight of the R22.

According to the Switzerland-based Fédération Aéronautique Internationale, the group that keeps track of world aviation records, there has been only one successful around-the-world solo helicopter flight. But that flight was in a heavier craft, and the pilot had support aircraft trailing him, packed with spare parts and extra fuel. The R22 is intended for activities like flight training, mustering livestock, and patrolling pipelines--not circumnavigating the globe. And except for a couple of friends tracking his progress online in the event of an emergency, Ananov was doing it alone. This would be the record to put him among the legends.

He began by crossing Siberia into Alaska, flew south through the western United States, then zigzagged across the American heartland. Since no one had ever achieved such a mad record, there was no time to beat. But Ananov didn’t want his trip to look like the leisurely jaunt of a dilettante. He began his days at dawn and often landed in the dark, averaging about 435 miles a flight and sometimes topping 600 miles. He refueled at local and regional airfields. He ate mainly fast food--hamburgers, pizza, KFC--and slept in cheap hotels.

Ananov got to know America, staying the night in outposts like Sidney, Montana, and Guntersville, Alabama. The people were friendly--some of them gave him fuel. The R22 holds about twenty-nine gallons, and in two large plastic jerricans kept beside him in the passenger seat--along with his small bag of clothes, chocolate bars, and the occasional leftover hamburger--Ananov could carry another twenty-nine gallons. An electric pump allowed him to transfer this fuel into his main tank as he flew.

He entered Canada near Montreal, traversed remote Quebec, and crossed the Hudson Strait to Iqaluit, capital of the Inuit territory of Nunavut. It was from here that he took off that morning of day forty-two--less than three thousand miles from home and certain glory.

Now, stranded and shivering, he allows a few minutes to beat himself up for his mistakes. If only he had dived down into the freezing water once more and retrieved one of the GPS trackers or the distress beacon! If only he had managed to land on the ice floe in the first place! He could somehow have hailed a mechanic to fix the R22 and still captured the record! But none of this matters now. It is wasted energy to even think these thoughts. And so he gets to work.

First he must get the survival suit back on. He can’t wring out all the water, and he struggles into the dank neoprene, pulling it up all the way so the built-in cap covers his head. He now has a thick layer between him and the wind, but that layer is soaked, and his body continues to shiver. The suit’s mittens have reduced his hands to clumsy paws, and he fumbles with the cord to blow up the life raft. After several yanks, the raft inflates. He takes the cord and ties it to his leg, so the raft won’t blow away. Using it as a windshield, Ananov lies beneath, flat on his stomach.

This is not the teeth-chattering cold of spending too long on a ski slope. This is the cold of gangrene and cardiac arrest and brain death. This is the cold of hypothermia. Ananov gets up and tries to walk around his ice island, dragging the raft behind him, but he is quickly panting. Nerve and muscle fibers don’t work so well in the cold, as the chemical reactions that enable their functioning slow down drastically. Because of the shivering, his muscles are continuously contracting. There is also the wind--cold and unbearable. He figures the most helpful thing he can do right now is nothing: simply keep as still as possible and try to retain heat and energy. He lies back down under the raft.

About three thousand miles away, in San Francisco, a Russian-American friend of Ananov’s named Andrey Kaplin is one of those tracking the journey online. They connected on a Russian Web forum for private pilots, and first met just weeks ago when Ananov passed through on his journey. Kaplin sees that one of the GPS trackers indicates the helicopter’s speed has flatlined. He makes a call to another of their pilot friends in Moscow, Michael Farickh. It is the middle of the night there, but Farickh jumps out of bed and makes the call that counts: to the Joint Rescue Coordination Centre in Halifax, Nova Scotia.

Halifax dispatches two C-130 Hercules aircraft to the pilot’s last known position. But it is too late in the day for a thorough search. Halifax also radios the Pierre Radisson, a 323-foot Canadian Coast Guard icebreaker commanded by Captain Stéphane Julien. Though here too, a snag. The vessel is at least a day away, in Frobisher Bay, escorting a freighter into Iqaluit. With no other icebreakers in the area, Captain Julien cannot abandon his charge.

But Julien knows how dire the situation is for Ananov. He became fascinated with the Arctic at six years old, watching Super 8 films of polar bears and ice floes with his uncle, who sailed with the Canadian Coast Guard in the 1960s. At seventeen, Julien signed up, and by 2003 he was commanding a medium-class icebreaker used for research. From polar scientists and Inuit guides, Julien has learned the Arctic’s secrets. He has done twenty-nine Arctic tours, sailed the Northwest Passage seven times, rescued several human beings from an icy death. He decides he will not let the stranded pilot perish. Safely depositing the freighter in Iqaluit, he battles back through the treacherous passage he has just traveled and heads for the Davis Strait.

Ananov knows none of this--and hopes only that the GPS trackers, waterproof to one meter, somehow communicated his desperate situation before sinking six hundred feet to the sea bottom. Or that the buoyant distress beacon became unsuctioned from the helicopter’s windshield and bobbed to the surface. He also knows nothing of the predator now tracking him. For somewhere in the strait, one of earth’s great hunters has stood upright and is waving its head back and forth. It can smell a ringed seal under several feet of snow and a rotting whale carcass from ninety miles away. But this scent? It draws a blank, having never encountered a middle-aged Russian--a 176-pound salami on an ice floe. Moving in its pigeon-toed walk, swinging its front paws out with each step then turning them inwards and landing heels first, the polar bear heads off to inspect.

Sergey Ananov has no rifle. He has no knife. About four hours after falling out of the sky, he is still on his stomach inside his makeshift tent when he hears the sound of heavy breathing and crunching snow. He peeks out from under the raft and sees the bear, its fur wet and glistening after swimming from floe to floe--a task it can do for days without stopping.

Ananov hides beneath his raft and hopes the monster leaves. It doesn’t. The creature bobs its snout up and down, sniffing the air, and lopes straight for him. The bear is about five feet away, so close that Ananov can see the black of its footpads and toenails. Biologists will tell you that at this point the bear has one of two motives: hunger or curiosity. Both are bad for the pilot since polar bears often satisfy their curiosity with their teeth.

If I meet the bear face-to-face I will die, Ananov thinks. And that death seems imminent, guaranteed. Then, from somewhere deep in his core, a primeval and spontaneous urge is unleashed. Ananov bolts up, flings off the raft, and rushes the beast--his arms flailing, roaring as loud as he can. And it works! The bear actually gallops away. But Ananov does not stop. He chases the bear to the very edge of the floe, with the raft still attached to his leg and bouncing behind him. The bear nimbly launches across to a neighboring slab, then looks back at Ananov, who continues to scream furiously. His eyes are black coals of rage. He is roaring. The bear jogs a bit, sits down on his backside, and looks right at the pilot, examining him mutely. Ananov still roars. But now it is not only directed at the bear. It is directed at the cruel fate that put him here. It is directed at his utter helplessness.

For a full minute, the strange encounter continues. Man roaring, beast watching. Then the bemused bear gets up and trots off into the Arctic fog.

The euphoria and adrenaline from the encounter with the bear do not last. The hours lumber on, minutes that feel like years. Then the sound of a plane.

Ananov cannot see it because of the fog, but with his clumsy mitts he seizes one of the three flares, aims it at the noise and pulls the cord. A dazzling orange-red flame leaps into the air. Ananov hears the plane arc directly overhead and continue on. The flare burns for thirty seconds, then fizzles.

Evening approaches. The cold is deep, raw, gnawing. The temperature is hovering right at the freezing point. Ananov rations his protein tablets, about two thousand calories’ worth, into three-day portions. After that, he figures, he will be dead.

Humans can go without food for more than three weeks--so long as they have water. Ananov has only the half-liter that came with the raft. His shivering is so fierce and constant that it causes him to sweat. He has also been urinating frequently in the survival suit--a liberating release that provides brief moments of warmth and happiness. He is losing water simply from breathing. If all this bodily fluid is not replenished, the corresponding drop in blood pressure will be fatal. It seems a bit of cosmic ridicule: quite literally dying of thirst while surrounded by water and even sitting atop the stuff, yet unable to drink a drop of it. Ingesting saltwater would only speed up the dehydration.

Ananov does not sleep. He listens for bears. He thinks about his wife, Jane, and his children. His twenty-two-year-old daughter, Daria, has just graduated with a degree in journalism from Moscow State University. His twenty-year-old son, Andrey, is studying economics at Moscow State Institute of International Relations. At least they are grown, Ananov thinks. And thanks to the trash business, at least they will be taken care of.

About a hundred miles away, the Pierre Radisson finally reaches a section of open water and Captain Julien fires all six engines, 40,000 horsepower in total, plowing forward at the ship’s top speed: nineteen miles per hour.

In the morning, another plane. It is still too foggy to see the craft but Ananov, hopeful, lights his second flare. No luck. However, the still-hot flare casing does him some good: He uses it to burn holes in his survival suit at the tip of each foot. Now the urine that has been pooling in the feet and legs of the suit can drain directly onto the ice. The small things that enable man to survive.

Later that same morning, Ananov hears a helicopter. It is at least a few miles away. Ananov knows there is no way the pilot will be able to see the minuscule twelve-inch flame. So he decides to save his last flare. The helicopter disappears.

Then another bear. Again Ananov flails, roars, chases the beast, scampers across the ice screaming like a fool. It works again, but without food and sapped by the constant shivering--the only thing keeping his body warm enough to function--he is even more worn-out than the first time.

Morning passes into afternoon. There is a depression in the ice near the floe’s edge filled with dazzling aquamarine water. Ananov sets his life raft down, creating a sort of water bed. He lies down and dozes, memories spinning backward, until he hears the familiar crunch of snow.

A third bear walks toward him, sniffing the air with its massive snout, smelling the human body beneath the neoprene fabric, a body that is weakening, ripening. Ananov scares it off in the same manner, staggers back to the raft. He flips it over and crawls beneath.

He does not have the energy to fight off another bear, or he tells himself he doesn’t. Time collapses in on itself. The power to think clearly, the way we would back home, where everything is okay, becomes a vital piece of equipment to be preserved at all costs. Being marooned in the icy brutality of the Arctic has rendered Ananov’s mind a gelid mass of fear and uncertainty.

Twenty-five hours after leaving the freighter, fighting a one-knot current and narrowly avoiding twenty-story icebergs and submerged ice hunks called growlers, the Pierre Radisson chugs into the ice-floe-flecked region of the Davis Strait where Ananov went down. Halifax has drawn up a plan based on Ananov’s last beacon point, the wind, and the weather. But the wind is light, and Julien suspects their calculations are off. Instead of beginning the search eight miles from the beacon, as Halifax proposes, he focuses on a two-mile radius.

All available hands are on deck. The mood is tense. In a few hours it will be dark, making a rescue impossible, leaving Ananov to spend another night on the ice. He might not make it. He already may not have made it--not all of him, anyway. The overnight low could drop below freezing. And that is without the windchill. In such conditions, frostbite can occur in as little as thirty minutes. And even if he does make it, by tomorrow his body will have diverted most of its blood from the brain and other organs to the heart, leading to confusion, lethargy, slurred speech--a revived infancy that will slowly, inevitably fade to black. Loss of consciousness, coma, death.

Then, miraculously, the fog lifts. And in that moment, as the sun magnificently sets across the Davis Strait, the brutality of the Arctic also evaporates. In that moment, there is no more beautiful and peaceful place on earth.

Captain Julien calls Halifax to convey the suddenly favorable conditions, but their planes are more than two hundred miles away in Iqaluit and won’t be heading out again until morning. There is one hour of light left. Again acting on a hunch, Julien orders a GC-366 helicopter with two observers into the air. Back on the bridge, a third lieutenant spots a red light on the ice surface.

Julien takes a compass bearing and steers toward the point. The rescue helicopter is notified. They spot the final splinter of light from Ananov’s last flare. They spot Ananov. There are no bears on the floe but he is once more running and waving and screaming.

That night aboard the Pierre Radisson, thirty-six hours after the R22 hit the ocean, the pilot is fed salad with olive oil and freshly smoked salmon. Everyone wants to shake his hand and take a photo.

As he smiles for the camera phones, he is already thinking about the new R22 he will buy. He is already thinking about how he will pack it differently--the emergency equipment, everything within reach. And he is thinking about next summer, when he will once again lift the helicopter into the sky and point it in the direction of the other side of the world.