#probably shooting at a hornet's nest here but whatever

[iam93percentstardust]

so one of the things that i think is happening in the likes vs reblogs debate is that when people who support reblogging over liking say things like "likes don't do anything," they don't mean they literally don't do anything. what they mean is that in the grand scheme of how this site works--as a blogging platform--a like doesn't share the post any further than your own blog. no one else is ever going to see the post; it's going to end right there.

but, for whatever reason, whether it's in bad faith or just misunderstanding, people who support liking over reblogging seem to consistently take this as the other side does mean that liking literally doesn't do anything, which they then meet with the argument that of course it does something. it, as i saw someone put it today, gives my internet friend a boost of serotonin.

the thing is, a lot of these people who are against "likescolding" seem to have this idea that they're fighting against the all-terrible algorithm, and what they're forgetting is that in the process, they're hurting the very real people on the other side of the computer screen. going back to the serotonin argument, yeah, i do get a boost of serotonin from receiving a like, or i did back when i was still bothering to post here. so it would follow, therefore, that i get more serotonin from more likes. but in order to get more, someone is going to have to suck it up and reblog the post so that other people can see it, because my reach on its own only goes so far. if the entire argument rests on giving me serotonin, then shouldn't a reblog give me serotonin as well? why are likes the only form of acceptable serotonin givers?

which leads me into my next point, that by demanding reblogs, i'm supposedly just a greedy numbers counter who can't be satisfied with what i have. and frankly, at this point, after watching this argument go round and round in circles for literal years, i don't think that anything i say is going to change anyone's minds. the people who say i should be satisfied with likes are going to say that i'm greedy and want more attention no matter what argument i present. it doesn't seem to matter to them that i have activity muted on tumblr and statistics muted on ao3 and therefore can't even see the numbers. but i'm hopeful that some of the newer people on this site will see this and understand why i'm arguing for the value of reblogging, so i'm going to say it anyway.

let me paint a picture for you: i joined my current fandom on tumblr almost exactly five years ago. the biggest movie to date had just been released, the fandom was thriving, and i vividly remember seeing artwork after fanfic after gifset on my dash. if i tried to scroll back through my dash in the morning to where i'd left off the previous night, it would take me hours because so many fanworks were being created and posted and shared while i was asleep. the very first fanfic i posted to tumblr for this fandom got more than a thousand notes literally overnight. i'd only been a part of the fandom for a few months at that point and had very few fandom followers, but the field was more than welcoming to a new writer.

but then the landscape changed.

within two years, i'd started to notice a drop in reblogs. i can't tell you for certain what the reason was. maybe it was covid fatigue, maybe it was purity and anti-culture being driven to an all-time fever pitch, maybe it was that people were leaving my fandom, once one of the biggest on the site, for other, more diverse media. i really can't tell you what the reason was, but as the reblogs started to drop, fan creators started begging. and as the creators begged, i suddenly started seeing these posts circulating about how creators should be grateful for the likes and lurkers, and asking for anything more was just being greedy.

slowly, the number of fanworks on my dash started to drop. the fanfics went first. for whatever reason, maybe because reading a fic is more time-consuming, people were particularly hateful towards fanwriters wanting more reblogs. writers tried various tricks, writing shorter fics, putting things under read mores, posting in the form of bulleted headcanons, but nothing really worked. and so they stopped posting. and then they left tumblr altogether. i see a lot of them on discord, and occasionally, twitter now, but i don't see them on tumblr.

the art was next. see, a lot of the artists in my fandom make money off their art, which meant they relied on those reblogs as a way to get their name out there. and if those reblogs aren't happening, and if people are deriding commissions because they think fanworks should be free and available to everyone, then no one is seeing their commission posts. and if the site is already hostile to artists, which it has been since the tumblr purge of 2018, then why are they still on this site when they can be on twitter and instagram?

now i'm watching it happen again with gifmakers. that old resentment is building back up, this time around reposting gifsets and claiming them as their own creation. people claim to be unable to make cool gifsets so they have to steal them, and in the process, other people stop reblogging the original gifmaker. as of writing this, i haven't seen us reach the point where the gifmakers start to leave, but i'm betting it'll happen soon.

you know how many new fics i've seen this last week on my dash? three.

you know how many new artworks? eight.

you know how many shitposts i've seen? political posts? posts lamenting the deaths of whatever current fandom op is in? too many to count.

i'm one of the people who doesn't post my fics on tumblr anymore. i don't see the point. i'll get a much bigger reception talking about them on twitter. and i feel bad for all the newcomers arriving here because their dashes are going to be full of shitposts and politics and misinformation and reposts from tiktok where they once would have been full of stories and art.

but i wonder. if people keep on this reblogging hate train, will we lose the shitposts and politics and reposts from tiktok too? you're not obligated to reblog everything, i'm not even saying that you're obligated to reblog anything, but if we keep going the way we're going, if more and more people drop a like and keep scrolling, will we soon reach a point where there's nothing on our dashboards at all?

fandom is a community, and i think that that's something that people tend to forget. creators create for themselves, but they share for everyone else. i see a lot of posts talking about how creators will stop sharing if all they receive is silence, but most of those are old posts that miss that creators have already received silence. they've already stopped sharing. they've already left.

the thing is, before i gave up on posting to this site, i used to remind myself that if ten people were sitting in my apartment, listening to me read my fics, i would think that's a lot of people and be very honored in the hopes that it would make me feel less sad about the fact that in just a few years, people stopped reading what i wrote. and it isn't that it's wrong, but five years ago, even as a new writer, i was reading my fics to packed auditoriums with standing room only.

and there's a big difference between speaking to an auditorium and speaking to my living room.

no one is obligated to reblog. no one is owed a reblog. and likes do actually do something. but sharing does something too, and it doesn't hurt anyone to reblog it. truth be told, i think we're already past the point of no return; i don't think we'll ever see the creators who've already left come back. but that doesn't mean we can't make this a welcoming space for new creators or that we have to make them feel bad for wishing that more people would share their fanworks. i see a lot of those posts railing against likescolding talking about how it's not okay that likescolding makes them feel bad, so i guess my question to those posters is this:

why is it okay to make the creators feel bad instead?

[hunnybadgerv]

Pear-Shaped | Far Cry 5 | Tayen Quick

Summary: Deputy Tayen Quick finds herself thrust into the middle of a cult uprising and at a crossroads of conscience and self-preservation. It turns out to be a defining moment for her and the citizens of this picturesque part of Montana.

a/n: The first in a series of one-shots that piece together Deputy Tayen Quick’s responses and adventures in Hope County and the Holland Valley—before, during, and after the Reaping by the Project of Eden’s Gate and the Seed Family. It is fairly canon-typical, but knowing how I tend to do things, it is not unlikely for there to be canon divergence and rewriting.

AO3 LINK

Pear-Shaped

-1-

Warrant service. Helicopter crash. Shoot outs and a car chase. Driving off a bridge into the river. Deputy Tayen Quick’s head was still spinning even though the adrenaline had stopped pumping and the world seemed not to be gunning specifically for her for a few seconds. A radio broadcast told her she was still on the minds of the group from Eden’s Gate—after all their preacher, Joseph Seed, had started the Reaping, whatever that was, and now he had them looking for her, presumably to add her to his collection of law enforcement prisoners. It made her head pound worse.

Dutch had proved convincing enough to trust, but it was more than that. She couldn’t get it out of her head. That voice, Joseph’s singing. Even as she stripped out of her uniform, the glint of the star she’d worn on her chest gleaming in the low light of the bunker caught her eye. Her thumb ran over the flag on the shoulder. She’d been wearing that for nearly 15 years before she took this job—12 years in the service and 3 on the force back home.

Sinking to the floor, she leaned against the cold lockers. The sensation grounded her. She laid her head back against the metal and closed her eyes. “You came out here because it was supposed to be quiet.”

Dutch’s voice carried down the hall. “This place was never quiet.”

Her head snapped toward the sound, but he wasn’t anywhere near her. She sat and listened.

“That’s just an illusion city folk have about the country. They think all this space, big sky, mountains, and wilderness makes for a quiet, pastoral existence. It’s not really true. On the surface, it might look like that. But most of the time, the only difference is that people are just too far away to see the real shit.”

He sighed. “That’s what happened with those Eden Gate people. No one batted an eye when they built their church. Or their commune. They kept to themselves mostly. Sure, they held their revivals, but there’s not a church in 300 miles that doesn’t do that. No one realized anything was askew until it was too late.”

“Then the marshal came in with his warrant and we kicked the shit out of the hornet’s nest,” she added.

“Yeah,” he said. There was accusation in the tone of his voice, but that wasn’t all. She couldn’t put her finger on what else she thought she heard.

“Yeah, well. I told you I’d help as best I can.”

“And if that’s not enough?” he asked.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She didn’t get an answer. His boot falls moved down the hall, leaving her to imagine all on her own.

His bunker reminded her too much of her own place—bare, sparse furnishings, pictures of old friends all in uniform, a few plaques and commendations. It was almost like looking into her own future, and it gave Tayen the chills. Turning her back on the decor, she stared into the locker. She stripped down and traded her uniform pants for a pair of standard issue camo trousers. Of course, they were not her size, but she used her own belt to cinch them up. She pulled on a black tank top and slid into a red and black flannel shirt which she left unbuttoned and untucked.

Stepping back into her boots, Deputy Quick shuffled down the hall, leaving behind the trappings of her position—for now. Dutch was right, wandering around the county in her uniform was going to paint a bigger bolder target on her back, and she didn’t need that. Not if she was going to get help.

“Hey,” Tayen said, as she stopped in the doorway. Her eyes darted around the room, taking it all in. The bank of ham and CB radios, the map with photos and pins galore, sparsely populated shelves, a gun safe—this guy was prepared for some next level shit to go down. She’d heard of prepper types, but this felt extreme. “Um,” she said when he didn’t answer, “you got anything down here to eat.”

Dutch, staring at the radios that only belched out static, turned his head and sighed. “Next door down. Start with the cans first.”

She gave him a nod, pushing a hand through her chin length inky black hair before she moved. The events of the night before drained her, physically and emotionally. In the kitchen/living area, she found a can of stew easy enough and a can opener. Once the smell hit her, her stomach rumbled and twisted into knots at the same time as a dilemma formed in her addled mind—eat it cold or warm it up.

“You can wait two fricken minutes, Tayen,” she told herself, opting for a bowl and sticking it in the microwave. Dutch checked on her a little later, as she was inhaling the calories needed to refuel her.

He said nothing and just walked over and tapped the button under a blinking light on his answering machine. A woman’s voice, frantic and afraid filled the room. It stopped the deputy’s scarfing and she stared at the device, clearly affected by what she was hearing. She might not know Rae-Rae, but it was clear by that message that something was off.

“People here could use your help here, deputy.”

She let go of her spoon and leaned back against the counter. “Don’t you think the best way I can help them is to let people know what’s going on?”

“Before the radio signals went to shit, I heard dozens of calls saying that the tunnel out of the valley was blocked. And three maydays from local pilots saying they’d been shot at and were going down.”

The bowl rested against the side of her thigh, as she pressed her fingers over her forehead.

“You know what I’m saying, girl.” His eyes flicked from her face to the black ink peeking out from beneath her rolled up sleeve. “You’ve been there before.”

“Yeah, I have, old man.” She straightened, tension rolling her shoulders back. “That part of my life is over.” Her feet carried her to the sink where she deposited the half-eaten bowl of stew. Both her palms pressed against the counter as she leaned there. “And I got no intention of going back into hell,” she muttered.

“Might be too late for that.”

Deep down, she knew he was right. She’d seen that compound, seen Joseph riling his forces and setting them loose. She’d been shot at and nearly killed a dozen times the night before. Somehow, she managed to not wind up captured or dead. Yeah, this was as deep as any other hell she had ever known.

She let out a long exhale and leaned on her elbows. Dutch just patted her on the shoulder and left her with her thoughts. Time seemed to stand still as she stared at the rust gathering at the edge of the sink where it met the countertop. It took her longer than she would ever own up to, but eventually, she came around, but she was determined to do it right.

Whatever that meant. She was an officer of the peace, not a soldier under orders. Her job was to protect these people. Of course, she didn’t know precisely what that meant or how it would have to look. With her decision made, Tayen grabbed her bowl and wandered down the hall back to Dutch’s control room, as she deemed it.

“All right. Fill me in.”

Dutch turned and gave her a grim nod. “This is what I’ve been able to piece together so far,” he began.

The deputy listened intently, occasionally jotting notes on the pad she always carried when she was on shift. Something told her this was going to be the never-ending shift from hell.

 -2-

Less than 300 yards from the door of Dutch’s bunker, Tayen got to see traces of the Peggie’s Reaping.

“No, don’t!”

She froze at the scream. It was followed by the telltale sound of flesh on flesh, a punch more likely. The groaning resounded through the trees. She crept forward as quietly as she could manage.

“You will repent,” a wild haired, bearded man told a captive who was kneeling in the mud with his hands behind his back.

“I didn’t do anything to deserve this,” the man replied.

Her hand went to her sidearm, well, Dutch’s pistol really. Her teeth ground together as she considered it. The cult members were both armed. Even if she shot first, one of them could still get lucky and get a shot off. With a slow exhale, she looked around her on the ground. Finding a weighty limb with a good bit of heft to it, she moved through the brush as the man and his prisoner continued to argue.

She knew she would have to move fast. At the edge of the high grass, she darted at the woman, whose back was to her and bashed her with a two-handed swing of the branch she’d found. Then she took two steps and sprang at the man. He dropped his pistol when she got her arm around his neck.

The captive threw himself backward to avoid the pair.

Using her body against his in a way to facilitate leverage on her hold, his clawing soon turned toward patting. Then his hands slid away from her arm as his knees buckled. Tayen Quick didn’t release him until they were both on the ground. Once the man was down, she finally loosened her grip and checked his pulse. The slow thud under her fingertips was a relief.

“Is he—?” the captive asked.

“Breathing,” she replied.

“Christ.”

Her hands frisked over the man’s back, pulling extra clips from a pocket of his cargo pants. She also stripped him of a pocketknife and a pair of flex cuffs, which she tightened around the unconscious man’s wrists before flipping him over. She inspected the knife; it was rusty and dull and probably couldn’t cut through room temperature butter. “Who the hell goes into the woods without a knife?” she muttered at his complete ridiculousness.

She moved to the man in khaki and sawed at the duct tape around his wrists with the shitty pocketknife she’d found on the captor.

“Thank God you were out here,” the captive said. He rubbed at his wrists once she finally got him free. He just stared at her as she moved away from him.

“Yeah.”

“Thanks.”

“Where’d you come from?” she asked.

“Working at the park observatory up on the hill. They just came out of nowhere.”

“How many?” Her questions and her tone were curt as she moved to the other cult member. Her fingers searched for a pulse first. Her shoulders shrank when she didn’t find one. This wasn’t what her job was supposed to look like, she recalled as she crouched over the body. Her gaze flicked back to the unconscious one. She couldn’t leave him anything he could use to hurt anyone.

“Dozen. They were just suddenly there. I never saw them coming.” The man shook his head and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Not that I ever thought to look,” he muttered.

“And why would you?” she asked, glancing up at him with her hands in the dead woman’s pockets.

He huffed, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“Look, I have … well, had some supplies up there. You’re welcome to anything you might need. Anything the Peggies didn’t already take.”

“Appreciate it,” Tayen said with a genuine smile.

“Least I could do,” he replied.

She laughed wryly. “Don’t worry about it. It’s my job.”

Grabbing the pistols, the two had been carrying, she offered one to the ranger as they hiked up the hill. “You know how to use one of these?” she asked.

“C’mon, miss. I’m from these parts. Grew up shooting.”

“Well, then here you go, but try to keep your head down.”

He nodded. “For sure.” They continued on in silence. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Why’d you leave that guy tied up back there?”

Tayen’s smooth gait stuttered. And the first answer that came to mind, because I’m not a murderer, was immediately countered by the realization that she had, not seconds before choking that guy out, killed his backup. “I just …” She searched her mind for a reasonable response. “I’m with the Sheriff’s office,” she finally said like it was a perfectly valid explanation.

While he nodded, the knit of his brow told her it didn’t really make sense to him either.

“I’m supposed to protect and serve, not kill with impunity,” she added.

“Don’t think I’m not grateful, because I am. Really. I’d be dead or who knows where if you hadn’t come along. I was just … curious.”

Quick nodded. “Yeah, I get it.” And while she understood the impetus for the question; her answer to it still left her a little stumped, even if it felt right. She wasn’t an executioner, wasn’t a soldier anymore, she was a cop—meant to protect the people not be their executioner. She rubbed at the back of her neck and mounted the stairs once they reached the station.

[perfectedingbadideas]

@theprinceof-gothamcity​ Because we plotted another thing!

There had been a few complaints about the plan. Lex wanted to make a deal while Flash seemed to have an issue with the idea of starting this war. John was actually siding with the Flash on this. Might not have anything to do with whatever visions of the speedster had but the idea that the people of Earth couldn’t fight in this war. If they went to kick the hornet’s nest then they had to be ready for the fall out. They needed time to make sure they had the right defenses for the planet they were leaving behind. He knew they couldn’t let him continue. Couldn’t let him do what he had done to other planets to Earth. But they were the ones starting it. 

Something didn’t sit right about this with him. John heard Zatanna try and pull him back. She seemed to be willing to go along with this. Fine he’d still go if she was but he was still voicing concerns. That was how a team was supposed to work right? Shifting his eyes towards Batman. He had shared some information but was still oddly quiet during this meeting.  Was this plan sitting right with Bats? Seeing how quiet he was being John figured he had his own concerns. Probably overruled by a rather emotional Superman.

So they decided to go ahead with this plan anyway despite the few concerns raised. The biggest concern besides the big man himself was the parademons. Something they had faced and beaten before. No one seemed concerned about those things. So John figured they should be able to take them no problem. However when they got there everything went to shit. The parademons weren’t what they were supposed to be. They had been changed into something totally horrifying. John watched as the things came at them. Forced their plane to nearly crash land before they were ready to. 

All hell broke loose after that. The sounds of bones breaking and some of the heroes screaming as they things ripped them apart filled the air. John thought that he would have been able to handle himself well enough until seeing Zatanna surrounded by those things. Yelling for him. John had thought he would have moved to help. Instead he was staring at a different surrounding. 

Earth? He was back home? How did that... ? He didn’t remember turning to run, didn’t remember opening the way to take him back home. Staring at the wall ahead of him like he wasn’t sure what he was looking at. He hadn’t even realized that there was someone else with him. That he hadn’t been transported alone. 

It was almost like everything came crashing down on top of him all at once. He left. He didn’t realize he was doing it. But how else was he here? Shit Zatanna… She was, fuck she was dead wasn’t she? Torn apart while he ran away, too scared to actually help her.

That realization had a hand shooting out to grab hold of something to steady himself, feeling like he was about to empty whatever was left in his stomach. The fuck did he just do?

[bunker-verse]

Drabble: Into the Fire ( welcome, Jedi Collins )

                “I dunno, Sam,” Buffy’s sunny, these days. Lots of yellow, a re-appearance of spring butterflies here and there in her hair. Like she’s trying to use color to pull herself out of whatever funk she’s been in lately. Shades of morning and summer to offset her gloomy demeanor. Her eyes cast down to her half-eaten yogurt, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with an equally tired, equally glum Caroline who hasn’t taken her eyes off Stefan since he walked into the room. It’s late, somewhere in the midst of twilight that sees these overworked, underpaid Avengers finally up and at ’em. Sitting down to the world’s most depressing breakfast before heading out for nightly patrols.

Buffy sighs without making a sound and doesn’t lift her gaze until she absolutely has to, “I mean, I don’t have context, I’ll grant you — I only faced Katherine once. And I know you guys have history,” which is the nicest way, ever, of saying Sam has a thing about bad girls that gets him into an awful lot of trouble, “It’s just, after everything she’s done. Sam. After everyone she’s hurt…”

         Sam half-smiles, flinches, that annoyed little tick that rears it’s ugly head when someone’s listening, but they’re not hearing him. He’s frazzled, has to get his hair out of his face, so he brushes it back with both hands, “You know, I get it. I do, I get why you’ve got reservations and, you should. Katherine’s done a lot of damage but if we’re saying that makes her damaged goods? That she’s not worth saving? I’m sorry, I just don’t accept that.”

                  That would be catnip to Faith if she hadn’t checked out the minute Katherine’s name was brought up. She’s vaguely aware of what’s going on, and about how much of Sam’s ass will get kicked later on for this weird obsession with a former slice that was, by all accounts, a cheap placeholder for Faith in his life. Right now, though? By the grace of God, it’s none of her business. 

She’s sliding in her earpods, intent on ignoring this all in favor of every Smashing Pumpkins song she’s ever heard, when one of them is suddenly yanked out of her ear. She turns her head a bit, just in time to see Damon plop down on the seat between Ric and herself with a smirk and the most wicked eyebrows you’ve ever seen. 

    He wants something, and it’s distracting to Sam to watch Damon sweep glossy curls off Faith’s neck as a dramatic prelude to whispering something in her ear, cheek to cheek, that tickles her enough to crack a pirate grin across her face — distracting, but not for the reason you’re thinking. Damon’s too touchy-feely. Especially here lately, walking around cocooned in the glow of eternal honeymoon. Pulling a Joe Biden with anyone who doesn’t flinch. It’s just how he is and they all know he doesn’t mean anything by it. Ric doesn’t even look up from his book for anything but a bite of his sandwich. He doesn’t really need to. For all their bullshit, there’s a trust building there that’s a beautiful thing to behold — or, it would be, if anyone noticed. So long as Damon’s not leering at Sam, Ric can deal.

Sam’s still not happy, about to lay the whole situation out because Buffy’s about as wrong as you get without being Bizarro Superman. When someone finally busts in, it’s Dean. Both elbows on the giant table, forehead in his hands. Frustrated by a replay of fluffy-headed nonsense from the original Ruby Apologist, “Alright, alright, alright,” he uses his patented shushing hand to quiet his brother before he can do more damage, eyes still shut for another blissful moment before he’s got to join the conversation, “Look, Dude. I get you have some fond memories there, who wouldn’t? But Buffy’s right. What’s Katherine ever done but go full-on Cujo on us? Huh? No. No, Sammy, we got our own problems now. Long as she doesn’t go floatin’ around, making noise, we got no reason to cross her path, but fat-ass chance of her staying quiet.”

                   Sam’s complaint catches in his throat and he’s on his feet, pacing away towards the telescope with both fists in his hair. He sighs, turns back to the group and tries not to look like a toddler with his arms folded, “Fine. You’re right, she’s not trustworthy… and I’m not saying she is but she came to me for help. I think. Maybe she just needs to feel like she can come to us if she’s in trouble?”

Caroline sighs, obviously tired. Of the conversation, mostly. She definitely got more sleep when she was human. Her cheek’s resting hard on the edge of her balled-up fist and when she speaks, it’s weakly through a set jaw, “Okay. I don’t love it, but if you think she’s being genuine? We trust your judgement.” she glances around the rest of the group, hoping for some show of support to put an end to a conversation she doesn’t really want to be having, “Don’t we?”

      The room falls almost silent at that, no one really wanting to be the first to agree that Katherine Pierce should get the benefit of any doubt. What sounds there are seem nervous. The squeak of the cloth against Giles already clean glasses. Dean loudly clearing his throat. A ‘since when’ look on Castiel’s face that’s almost audible. Sam’s pissy, “Yeah.” is the cherry on top of the silence. He’s not getting anywhere with this group, and he knows it.

               “Never fear,” if there’s one thing Xander Harris is good at, it’s putting himself in a situation that might end in a kicking of his ass. It’s a good thing the group in front of him is used to crappy surprises, because in other circumstances? Announcing his presence like a jump scare to a group of tired, jittery superheroes might have ended badly. As it is, the tension and exhaustion is obvious as he makes his way into the middle of the War Room with a clearly unwanted junior Slayer and a pretty little red-headed thing no one’s ever seen before,  “Xander’s…” he’s barely acknowledged. He slows, looks around at a crowd that’s definitely not happy to see them, “… here?” then glances back at his posse with an uninspired, sarcastic shrug, “And you guys were worried we were interrupting something.”

Kennedy, who looks less than enthusiastic to be part of an entourage lead by Xander Harris, shoots the room a look and puts one hand on her hip and a friendly arm around the new girl’s shoulders, “See, Jedi? I told you the Men of Letters were total adults,” it’s sarcasm, but at least it’s a chipper sarcasm.

          If confusion could manifest as a person, it would be the new girl in the room. With her huge, innocent eyes and miles of ginger mane, Jedi definitely stands out in the crowd of exhausted hunters. She’s taking things in as calmly as she can, but being in the Men of Letters bunker, for someone with a heightened olfactory sense, is like being in a candle shop. A gross, disgusting candle shop that sells trash-scented candles. It’s sensory overload for someone not used to it. The Slayers smell human, mostly. Like a fight, the dirt in a wet cemetery all being masked by expensive perfume and cigarettes. The hunters, more like booze and gunpowder — all familiar to her. 

                       What’s not familiar? There are corpses in this room. They walk, they talk. They spend too much time on their hair. The group’s vampire-to-everyone-else ratio is actually ridiculously high, and if it weren’t for the fact that there were more than one species of vampire in this room, they’d be easy to pick out just from the scent.

        And there’s a demon in there. Sulfur, whiskey and fear. At least one, but demons aren’t something Jedi’s run into, much, and pinpointing exactly what that scent is will likely keep her up, tonight. Xander glances back at her, “You okay, Jed?” she nods, and he goes back to addressing the group, “I’m gonna go out on a limb and say this isn’t great timing, but we kinda have a fire to put out, here.”

                       If Damon smells a werewolf, he’s not saying anything. Just finds a way to sit closer to Ric and gently elbow his ribs to get him into the game. It works, and when Ric looks up he finds that Caroline and Stefan are sharing a concerned glance, one that makes it’s way towards Dalaric. The vampires look to Angel, standing as far off from the group as he physically can manage without technically being in another room. There seems to be a consensus among the undead — vampires and werewolves aren’t a great mix on a good day, but with everything going on with Katherine and the Hellmouth, now’s not really the time for a strange wolf in the mix.

           Dean closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose and winces as Sam tosses him a beer from the other side of the table. He catches it in mid-air, twists it open and motions with it to the newbies in the group, “Who the hell gave him a key?” not that Dean has an issue with Xander, besides hating his guts, but lately it’s starting to feel like they’re running a hotel for the Shadow World.

                      Heavily, Sam takes the empty seat beside Faith and absently drapes an arm across her back, coupling easily in a way that makes Dean’s stomach turn. She’s not even paying attention, reacts by resting comfortably back against him and finally opening her mouth on the subject, “What are you guys even doing here, anyway? Don’t take this the wrong way, but if you’re lookin’ to get a room for the night? We’re all booked up on crazy, here.”

         “See? I told you this was a waste of time – ” Kennedy starts, but Xander’s not having it.

        “Look,” he interrupts, folding his arms, “I’m getting we walked into a hornet’s nest, here, but we’ve pretty much got bad coming out the wah-zoo. As the Undead Americans probably already figured out, Jedi’s a werewolf. Thing is, she’s trying to outrun a bigger wolf and we need a place to lay low while we figure out how to take him on.”

                         Jedi’s attention is taken by Kennedy, who’s still leaning on her, arm around her like they’re friends. If Kennedy seems too calm, it’s because she is. This doesn’t affect her like it affects everyone else and, frankly, she thinks she should get brownie points for bothering to show up. Kennedy rolls her eyes, looks from Dean to Sam, “I seem to remember someone telling us if we ever needed help?”

         “Yeah,” Dean’s the one who responds, pushing out of his chair and making his way towards Xander’s group. He’s looking down his nose at them, literally. Chest puffed out. Fucking werewolf. He knew he didn’t like the smell of this whole thing, “Well, that means the Slayers, Buddy. Not you, and not just any old rando demon off the street. How do we know this thing’s even house broken?”

“She’s not a ‘thing‘.” as if Dean doesn’t infuriate Xander on the regular, as it is, “Hey, she’s innocent, okay? She needs help. We do still help people, right?”

                        “Right,” it’s back to Dean, standing taller in his boots. Shoulders back, in no mood, “People. We help people, Harris. Oh man, do you ever have bad timing.”

          “We just lost people,” Buffy slowly makes her way towards the group, Caroline and Willow not far behind. She crosses her arms stiffly and glances over at Willow before continuing, “A Slayer. A couple of hunters. It was wolves, Xand. We were ambushed. I- I know she had nothing to do with it, but this? It’s just a little hard to take right now.”

“I mean, we wanna help?” when Willow finally speaks, there’s a weakness to it. The weight of that loss on her heart is audible in her voice, “We will help, just…”

     Sam takes his time standing, prompting Faith with him. It takes them both a few long moments to crowd around the newcomers, shoulder to shoulder. He sighs, “She’s right, we’ll help if we can but Xand, we’re at war right now. I mean, another Hellmouth went active just three hours from here and KC’s rumbling. Now the Clave is pushing us to put up the Lightwoods for a couple of weeks to learn how to control dimensional disruption because Brooklyn’s a full-blown Hellmouth. It’ll be a tight squeeze, but we’ll do what we can do. We just need to be sure having her here’s not putting everyone else in danger.”

                “Dude,” Dean sighs it out, “We’re not set up to deal with a werewolf here, okay? Full moon in three days, Sammy! Use your head. You really wanna risk that thing tearing into somebody, huh? Having to put it down?”

     She.” Xander’s about in Dean’s face, now. He knows. He knows what’ll happen to him if he throws a punch, but he’s not thinking straight, “Not ‘it’, she and she’s got a name. Jedi.”

                 Dean sneers, starts advancing on Xander in a way menacing enough that Jedi finally wrestles herself away from Kennedy and practically lunges at Dean, baring human teeth the way you’d expect a wolf to bare theirs. Surprisingly, it’s Faith who slides between the wolf and her brother-in-law, takes one of Jed’s shoulders and spins her back into Xander so hard it almost topples them both, “Whoa! Watch it, Jojo! Anybody’s gonna tear his throat out? Gonna be me.” Faith starts to step back, cautiously, reclaim her place beside Sam like it’s her birthright or something, “You best leash that dog, Harris. Somebody’s gonna get hurt.”

        For Jedi, though, it’s not over and as soon as she gets her balance again, she’s headed for Dean. Slow, angry. Out to protect the man who saved her life. Dean’s calm about it, when he reaches for his gun. It’s almost casual if there is such a thing. Before she’s anywhere near him, he raises the weapon, aims it and squeezes off a round – grazes her cheek, “Warning shot, Mama. Next time I don’t miss.” he up-nods in her direction, “Back off, Bitch.”

                       When the bullet whizzes by, Jedi’s head turns with it. She snaps back, slow and angry, glaring at Dean. She’s bleeding. Long, thin cut on her cheekbone. And her eyes, usually that pale, grey-blue that nobody seems to notice but Xander? Are steeled, angry wolf eyes glowing an intense punch of blue that startles the group and makes everyone take a step back, “I will rip your testicles off,” and there’s a pause, a long beat before Jedi sneers, echoing Dean, “Bitch.” Her claws are out, and that’s werewolf speak for ‘put up or shut up’.

Except, no one’s listening to that warning. Definitely not heeding it because everyone in the room packing heat has their weapon out, sight trained on the new girl.

        Sam reaches out to gently touch the back of Faith’s arm like it might calm her down, gun still aimed in the other. He’s about to say something that’ll probably make this a thousand times worse, when Ric pushes through the group and gets between Dean’s gun and Jedi. He puts his hands up, reality suddenly dawning on him and forcing him to realize that Dean might actually shoot him. As if on cue, Damon slithers in between Ric and Dean with a smirk on his face that’s begging his least favorite Winchester to give him a reason to vamp out. Alaric sighs, rests his hand on Damon’s shoulder in hopes of calming the situation, and addresses the crowd, “Okay! Okay, everybody just calm down. She came to us for help. We’ve got food and we’ve got rooms. If someone pulls their trigger, this won’t end well. No one needs to die tonight.”

                  It’s tense, though. The standoff drags on for another long few seconds until Dean grunts and lowers his gun, a cue for the rest of the group to do the same. Alaric’s clearly relieved, lets out a breath he’d been holding in as Dean stalks off, angrily exiting the room and hell bound for the kitchen.

              While the room cools down, Willow tries to smile at Xander, “Well, at least nobody got shot this time? I mean, that’s progress?

@jedicollins @professional-brat @strangeandoffputting @samattheend @choosingtogodownswinging @thatslayer @ricsidiotbestfriend @allroundlostcause @iwannadogirlystuff @unicornsrequired @optimisticyellowcrayon

[khaosgaming22]

Blackout - A Destiny Story

“Eyes up Guardian!”

Chase flashed and hovered over his guardians bunk, attempting to wake up a half asleep Kenton. Or Ken, as he was called by his friends, a titan exo named CHAO-5 and awoken warlock named Draeko. However like Ken, he gave them nicknames because they felt they worked better in combat. Respectively, Chao and Drake.

“Wake up!”

Ken tossed a pillow at his ghost, but Chase was able to avoid the fluffy projectile. Defeated, Chase sighed and went to get Chao and Drake to have them try.

“Won’t get up eh?”, said Chao oiling his upper section of his arm. Last time he went into the crucible, he fell and hit it, ever since it’s locked up in missions. He found oiling it has helped but has refused to ask for a new arm. Usually these three stay in their ships but they were all tired and decided to crash in the bunks room at the tower. They were out running a strike on Io and it took them a while to get back to earth.

“No, I’ve been trying for 10 minutes, he’s determined.”, Chase blinked.

“Or Hungover”, lamented Chao.

“Sigh... he was drinking again?”

“Yes, I know we got some great loot last night but he needs to lay off.”, Chao replied.”

At this, Drake walked into the breakfast room, he grabbed a bagel and looked puzzled at it. “Curious, it appears to be a donut without a dough or glaze? What’s the point of eating an inferior version?”

“Good point, why would you eat it?”, Chao agreed.

“Because we wanted to eat healthily pre-traveler era.”, said Ken stumbling out.

“Look who’s up, sleeping beauty!”, Chase chided. “You need to stop drinking alcoholic beverages after every mission!”

“Shut up Alexa”

“That’s.. not my name... I don’t understand?”

“Never mind, I’m getting a waffle.”, Ken said trodding off toward the iron.

“So, what are we doing today?”, Drake said sitting down, uncomfortably on the bench attached to the table. Drake, as an awoken had been away from earths people for a while and was still adjusting to things.

“Well, i still have yet to do that quest Ada gave me, Servo, what’s my average LL?”

“You’re sitting around 597, she recommended 610”, Servo answered.

“But, we’re all at 590-600. If we all go we might be able to do it. I got the same task.”, interrupted Ken drowning his waffle in maple syrup.

Drake contemplated this, munching on his discount donut. He had the highest Light Level out of the three and though he still had to do the quest as well, he was worried at how tough it could be. Eventually he got up, stuffed the rest of the bagel in his mouth then started toward the elevator to the armory. Not that Ken or Chao noticed, they were too busy arguing about which exotic of theirs was better, Ace of Spades or Sleeper Simulant.

Drake pressed the button and the elevator door closed and whirred as it ascended. Eventually the elevator stopped and arrived at the armory, Drake stepped out and noticed someone moving crates of weapons around.

“Good morning.”, called the warlock.

“Ah, good morning, you’re here early. Pardon the dust just organizing some boxes of rifles!”

It was Shaxx, overseer of the crucible, awoken can get pretty tall, but even standing several feet apart, Drake seemed tiny compared to the boisterous titan.

“Just checking out my weapons.”, Drake explained.

“Going on another mission?”, Shaxx said putting down a crate.

“Depends, I want to check my gear to make sure I can carry my team if I need to.”, Drake replied. “My Well of Radiance can only do so much, I want to see what my new weapons have in the way of perks. Eve?”

“Yes?”, the ghost said blinking into existence.

“Can you check what the stats on these weapons are?”

“Certainly.”, the ghost replied.

“You have the primary Assault rifle, Breakneck, the Shotgun, Retold Tale and the Sniper Rifle,Whisper of the Worm. All in the 590-605 range.”, Eve counted.

“As for my Gear, I have some good stuff, it seems and the Sunbracers for gloves.”

“Seems like I should get ready and tell them.”, said Drake returning his ghost.

<========================>

“All right, ready to go?, said Chao getting in his ship. Drake and Ken replied with a thumbs up from their cockpits and the sound of their engines filled the hangar.

After a while the three of them are on there way to the EDZ and start up a conversation about their favorite weapons. The three may be very different in origin and history but the one thing they have in common is their love of rare weapons and other personal items. Ken asks what Drake’s is “being a warlock”.

“What’s that supposed to mean Cowboy?”, says Drake alluding to the hunters choice of subclass Gunslinger.

“Nothin’ but we both agree that we have very different styles when it comes to fighting.”, the hunter replied with a smirk.

“I probably would go with Prometheus Lens, it goes well with my solar subclass and it’s great for add clearing.”

“Yeah”, interjected Ken, “It used to be even better, but it was such a problem the Vanguard had to tell Banshee to mod them so people couldn’t take advantage of it!”

“Oh yeah, Banshee had a lot of work to do that week!”

“What about you, Chao?, what’s your favorite exotic?”, asked Ken slowly moving his hand toward the throttle.

“That’s a tough one, I think if I had to pick one it would we my...”

“Yeah whatever, RACE YOU TO THE EDZ!!!”, Ken yelled into his com, shut it off then pulled on the throttle sending his ship into a nosedive.

“YOU SON OF A!”-

“That little...”

The three ships raced toward the landing zone north of Trostland and the warlock, titan and hunter appeared on the surface transmatting from thin air.

“I totally beat all of you!”

No you didn’t, I clearly won that!”

“WOULD YOU TWO STOP ARGUING!”, Drake shouted.

“Let’s just get to the location on the map.”

“Fine”

“Okay”

<========================>

“Well, here’s the spot.”

“A cave...at the edge of the EDZ...what’s the point here cause I’m sure missing it?”, Ken said shouldering his rocket launcher.

“What’s that in the center?”

“I think that’s what we’re here for, hey Ada?”

“HOW DID YOU GET ACCESS TO...oh it’s you 3..sorry, reflex. Ahem, that is a forge, your job now that you have that frame, is to forge the Machine Gun.”

“You need to collect charges and put them into the forge before time runs out, otherwise the forge won’t complete.”

“Sounds simple enough, just chuck some balls at the thing in the center and BAM! free loot!”, said an excited Ken racing toward the forge.

“WAIT!”, Ada shouted.

It was too late, the forge turned on and Cabal came charging through the caves for the 3 of them.

“YOU IDIOT!”, shouted the angry Awoken, “She was about to mention the danger!”

“You guys we’re taking too long we’ll be fi-

SMACK!, a gladiator Cabal smashed the frail hunter into an adjacent cave wall.

“Ugh what did he do now?”, lamented Chase reviving his dead guardian.

“He poked a hornets nest, he rushed in without a plan what do you think he did?!”

“-ne, what happened? Did we win?

“NO, you rushed in without a plan and died to a Space Turtle. Stop doing that!”

“You guys worry too much, I’m fine as long as I have Chase!”

“AND WHAT IF IM NOT?!”, yelled Chase at his guardian shotgunning a Cabal.

“What?”

“What if I’m not able to revive you? What if im not there to? What then?!”

“I’ll be fine.”, Ken replied reloading his Handcannon.

“I always think of a way out of things-

“No...your friends do...I do.”, Chase said sulking away.

“I’ll be fine without him...”

————————————————

“Good thing you have that Well of Radiance D! This is getting rough!”

“Im also 5 levels above you!”, the warlock responded taking a shot at the centurion.

“Hey, is...where’s Chase going?”, asked Drake.

“Huh?”

“Chase! Wait!”

“Leave me alone...”, Chase called turning away.

“What’s wrong?”, Chao pryed shooting a psion.

“What’s wrong is my guardian is an incompetent buffoon who insists on getting himself killed and never thanking the person that revives him over and-“

“Guardian down!”, said Servo announcing his Titan’s death.

“Anyway, he clearly doesn’t need me, so I’m just gonna watch you two.”, Chase declared, if he had arms, they would be crossed.

“Jeez, that hurt, hey, my super’s almost ready!”, said Chao.

“I’ve got a while before mines ready, what about yours Ken?”, Drake asked over comms.

Ken was busy lining up shots with his hand cannon as its bullets made contact with the hard skulls of Cabal. Then he was struck with a blast from a Cabal gun and fell to the ground losing his grip on his revolver.

“Ken!”, said Chao rushing over to help.

Chao slammed the Centurion with a shoulder charge and rushed over to put up his barrier.

“Servo! Can you help him?”

“I just revived you, it’ll be a while before I can.”, replied his ghost.

“and Drake just got revived by Eve...”

The titan looked at the angry ghost in the corner of the cave.

“What?...No, NO! N-O, NO!”

“Come on Chase he’s your guardian!”

“Not until he apologizes, oh wait he can’t..HE’S DEAD!”

“Sigh...we need him for this man! You’re the only one who can do it!”

Chase looked at the cloak being stomped on by Cabal. Then his guardians cloak moved just enough to reveal his handcannon. He could see the engravings of crashing waves making up the texture of the grip on the weapon. He stopped and looked around then finally replied with, “You cover me while I bring him back.”

Soon the hunter was back, he looked at his ghost and started to apologize.

“Listen, I’m sorry for acting like an idiot... Sometimes I just get distracted or pissed off, but...thank you for bringing me back..”

“Alright, I’m sorry too... I know you can’t help it it’s in your nature to rush into things, always has been-

“Always will be, but I’ll try to not get myself killed as much from now on okay?”

“Thank you”

“Now let’s kick some Cabal a**!”

————————————————

The three were on the final part of the forge and were having trouble killing the Warden, putting as many shells and rounds into it as they could but to no avail.

“I think this is why Ada told us to be at 610!”, Chao said putting up his barrier.

“Hey! Let’s pool our supers together and take this guy down, we got this!”, Ken replied.

“Sounds good to me, any objections?...no...okay!”

The Warlock summoned his Dawnblade engulfed in solar light hot as Sol itself as the Titan rushed over and put up his Ward of Dawn. The blade slammed into the cave floor, creating a spiraling Well of light as the purple tint of the Titans shield encased the two blocking shots from the Centurion. Finally the Hunter slid in front of the bubble and called his Golden Gun. After firing 6 shots from the Revolver encased in light empowered by the Well, the Warden was almost down. The three took out their power weapons and blasted what was left of the armor off the Cabal as it fell to the cavern floor.

[clarste]

In general, there seems to be a lot of confusion over the plot of LoLK, so I figured I’d sum it up in far too much detail.

Junko is a historical/mythological figure from ancient Chinese history. Like, really ancient: ~2000-1500 BCE, making her around 4000 years old. Obviously there aren’t any good records from back then, so all we know about that era comes from stories about it written hundreds of years after-the-fact. Anyway, she’s described as a famously beautiful woman of the time whose beauty hid an evil heart because she plotted to murder her husband. Although given that her “husband” was just the guy who conquered her country, and who killed her previous husband and also her son, from a modern perspective you might see it as her being in an abusive relationship with her rapist. For the record, “Junko” is literally just the historical figure’s actual name, pronounced in Japanese. It’s not an oblique reference.

Anyway, in Touhou her murdered husband (Houyi) has been conflated with another Houyi from a different story who was married to Chang’e. The Touhou Junko therefore extended the scope of her revenge to Chang’e, who maybe we could assume was also involved in the death of her son. Or maybe not, and Junko was just mad with grief and lashing out at anyone nearby. It’s open to interpretation, but we’ll probably never know since Junko purified herself of her past, and therefore her memories. All she knows now is that she wants to kill Chang’e, and doesn’t need anything so petty as a reason to do so. As a divine spirit Junko can be assumed to have been formerly human: she was literally just an ordinary Chinese woman at first.

Chang’e is imprisoned in the Lunar Capital. The moon rabbits seem to feel a sense of loyalty to her, above any other Lunarian. She’s immortal. We really don’t know all that much about her, but it probably couldn’t hurt to think of her as Moon Kaguya. Anyway, since Chang’e is kept under guard in the Lunar Capital, Junko’s been trying to get at her for a while now. Probably centuries, at least. The Lunarians know who she is and consider her a persistent threat.

Hecatia hates Lunarians and was more or less sympathetic to Junko. There’s a bit about Apollo mentioned in her profile (Houyi is also known for shooting down a bunch of redundant suns, which Hecatia has conflated with shooting down Apollo), but that seems to be mostly an excuse. Visionary Fairies in Shrine also mentions that perhaps she only cooperated with Junko to smuggle Clownpiece into Gensokyo during the confusion. Either way, Hecatia hates Lunarians and worked with Junko to siege the Lunar Capital. It’s worth noting that unlike Junko, Hecatia is powerful enough to fight the Lunarians directly, but chooses not to for whatever reason.

The “siege” was done by purifying Hell Fairies, including Clownpiece, and letting them frolic on the moon. This created an ever growing pool of pure lifeforce (kegare) which brought both life and death to the moon, to the horror of the Lunarians. The Lunarians weren’t able to enter such a death field to fight back, and since it was slowly growing it would eventually consume the entire Lunar Capital. Note that while no Lunarians were able to fight back, it’s certainly possible they sent some moon rabbits on unsuccessful suicide missions. This is unclear.

To resolve this catastrophe, Sagume came up with a radical plan: move the Lunar Capital. Specifically, to Gensokyo. Her plan to do so was to use her power over truth and lies to create the Urban Legend phenomenon in Gensokyo, where Urban Legends would come true when the proper conditions are met. By spreading rumors of the existence of the Lunar Capital in Gensokyo, it could become real in Gensokyo (ending all life in Gensokyo as an unfortunate side effect). To this end, she spread the rumors and let Sumireko get her hands on the Lunar Capital Occult Orb. With the preparations in place, all that was left was to pull the trigger by invoking whatever conditions are associated with the rumor (this is not made clear).

Which is where the invasion comes in. They weren’t there to fight: they were just there to scout things out and possibly set-up the necessary conditions to trigger the urban legend. There’s no point in sending ground troops to the place you’re going to drop an atomic bomb, after all. It was a covert ops mission, and their vehicle (the Mars Rover looking machine) was even enchanted to be invisible to youkai. No reason to poke the hornet nest. Because it was invisible to youkai, the only person who noticed it on the mountain was Sanae.

Eirin somehow caught wind of all this and decided she’d rather Gensokyo not be replaced by the Lunar Capital. To this end, she manipulated the standard incident resolvers (plus Reisen) into going to the moon on her behalf. In order to guarantee the success of this plan, she also gave them a special elixir that would allow them to see the future and avoid their own deaths. This elixir had some awful side effects such as detaching you from the concept of life and death, and therefore lifeforce/kegare, but she figured that wasn’t her problem. Canonically the protagonists refused to drink this suspicious elixir, but went where Eirin pointed them anyway.

After beating up some moon rabbits and passing through the dream world, the protagonists end up in a deserted Lunar Capital. Sagume had evacuated everyone to the dream world, with Doremy’s cooperation. It’s important to note here that Sagume can’t tell anyone what she’s doing, because doing so would guarantee the failure of her plan (because of her power which turns the truth into a lie). So Yorihime and Toyohime and Tsukuyomi are all in the dark about exactly what’s going on here, although perhaps they know that “Sagume has a plan” or something vague like that. The dream world contains a perfect replica of the Lunar Capital, so they all think they’re still on the moon. It seems that Sagume is given a ridiculous amount of authority in this situation. Either that, or she just thinks it’s absolutely necessary and plans to get court-martialed once it’s too late to take it back. I think it’s also interesting to note that there’s not a single soul but Sagume in the Lunar Capital: even the enemies are just automated drones under her control. Just imagine her being totally alone here, defending the capital both literally and figuratively on her own, with no support.

Anyway, Sagume immediately realizes that the protagonists are a gift from Eirin and tests you. Once the battle’s over, she decides that the best course of action is to trust Eirin and reveal everything to the protagonists. That’s the only way she can convince them to go after Junko, but doing so also ensures the failure of everything she’s worked towards so far. But she thinks that’s worth it, because she didn’t really want to move the Lunar Capital to Gensokyo anwyay. As soon as she thinks there’s a chance to do it another way, she bets everything on that dark horse. But it’s still a gamble: she has no guarantee that Eirin’s plan will succeed either. This is a leap of faith for Sagume.

The protagonists go on to beat up Clownpiece and Junko. Canonically, they never get hit, since if you do so then you get a bad ending. So the canon route here is a no-miss Legacy clear. Pretty impressive. Seeing the protagonists arrive, Junko immediately surrenders, her plan having been foiled by the completely unexpected move of sending Earthlings to fight her. This wasn’t a contest of strength in the first place, it was a contest of wits, and she lost. Although she fights them anyway for pleasure.

Afterward, she and Hecatia realize that the Lunarians (including Chang’e) are hanging out in the dream world and try to attack them directly from there. The protagonists stop them. Junko becomes interested in Gensokyo, and Hecatia sends Clownpiece there because it’s a nicer plan to live than Hell. Sagume later visits Eirin in person, although we’re not privy to what they discussed. Gensokyo is still affected by the urban legend phenomenon, because Sagume either couldn’t or simply didn’t bother to undo it, but is no longer in immediate danger of the Lunarians pulling the trigger. Reimu probably throws a party?

[momomomma2]

I would like to request 34 and 4 with John Seed and Mdeputy. They go together well enough. Please and thank you. (I love your blog, get some 10/10 Far Cry content here.)

John hovers. It really shouldn’t come as any surprise, John’s a ball of energy that manifests in odd tics and twitches, seeping out of him every moment he doesn’t have a task before him. Rook’s met a thousand hoverers in his life, people who deal with their uncertainty by shifting in place, pacing in a space only a few feet long, staying too close to what’s causing them stress.

It’s understandable.

It’s annoying.

“If you keep looking at me like that we won’t make it to a bed.” Rook jokes, trying to cut the tension that’s fog thick in the air around them.

John immediately stops, hands clenching tight at his sides, eyes knife sharp. It’s not the smartest thing Rook’s ever done, kicking the hornet’s nest while he’s in just his boxers and already patching up wounds but it’s worth it for the gobsmacked expression that had flashed across John’s face. John opens and closes his mouth a few times, obviously searching for the proper response, before he finds it.

“You...got hurt for me. Put yourself between me and a threat and just...took it.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome.” Rook mutters, smoothing the last bit of medical tape into place on his thigh, rolling his neck to and fro for a moment.

He had reacted mostly on instinct when the wolf had leapt from the underbrush towards them. It wasn’t a Judge, thank god, or Rook would’ve been sporting more than just a bite wound and some scratches. But it was older, heavy, colliding with him instead of John when he’d shoved the man out of the way, sending both of them tumbling to the ground.

Rook had pulled something in his back during the landing and something in his shoulder trying to wrestle the thing away from him so he could shoot. It had thankfully been startled off by a meal not going down easy, escaping into the trees once more as Rook spat curses and John stared at him like he’d seen a ghost.

“Why?” John asks quietly, something heartbreaking in his voice as Rook lets his head hang loose, tipped backwards to look up at the ceiling.

He sighs.

“I don’t hate you, John. Though I’m pretty sure you’re damn determined most days to give me a reason for it. In another life...I would’ve really liked you. Probably tried to fuck you. Maybe even convinced you to stay the night afterwards.”

“I would have stayed.” John lies quietly, Rook snorting as he set his head upright, arching a brow.

“Bullshit.”

“I might have. You are...something else. I’m not sure what, I’ll find out what. But it’s something different. I like to think I would’ve known that even if things weren’t...how they are.”

How they are is a delicate way of putting it. Of describing whatever the hell this is. Rook’s supposed to be hunting John Seed down, running him out of the Holland Valley, and John is supposed to be fighting him every step of the way. Their little rendezvous, when they meet in the middle of the night on the riverbanks, no weapons and no intentions of baptism by force are...strange.

But nice. John’s a fascinating ball of tangled wires, one that Rook’s fingers itch to unwind strand by strand and rearrange into something better. He wasn’t lying, in another life they could’ve been something. But they have here and they have now and the concepts of shared breakfasts and careless rolls in the sheets aren’t a possibility.

Rook ignores the hopeful voice in the back of his head that whispers “maybe one day” with far too much wistfulness in the tone.

“You’re favoring your shoulder.” John comments, like he’s just noticed it, and Rook winces when the attention makes his brain focus on the low throbbing pain that stretches from bicep to neck.

“Yeah. As it turns out, taking roughly 90 pounds of angry animal to the chest doesn’t do wonders for the body.”

John shifts in place, eyes shifting around, never settling in one place. He takes a breath, releases it without words. He seems to be rolling around an idea in his head and Rook sighs at him again.

“John. Spit it out.”

“Do you...well...I mean...I could give you a massage?”

Rook leans back on his hands, ignores the way it makes his back and shoulder scream in protest. The blanket on the bed is scratchy beneath his palms, someone else’s taste in bedding not nearly the same as Rook’s, but it distracts him from the tearing pressure in his muscles for the moment.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so lost for words.”

“Shut up.” John flushes underneath the low lights of the abandoned cabin, red crawling along his cheeks, bright against the pale of his skin. “You could just say no. I’m shocked you still have the energy to be an asshole.”

“Scrounged some up just for you.” Rook blows him a kiss before groaning, carefully sitting back up on his hips. “Alright, yeah, you’re not...if you’re really offering, that sounds like Heaven right about now.”

“Lay down on your stomach. I’ll go find some lotion.”

It takes Rook so long to ease himself down, moving carefully because of his wounds and the ache spreading across his back half, that John’s back before he’s flat on his belly. He collapses as John sets the lotion next to him on the bed, face pressed into the pillow. There’s a curious moment of silence, heavy and almost pulling his gaze around, before Rook jolts at the feeling of weight across his ass.

“Seriously, John?”

“Shut up,” John hisses, squeezing Rook’s hips between his thighs like that’s anything close to a punishment. “It’s the best angle I can think of. Just lay there and play dead, spare us both any annoying commentary.”

Rook complies without argument, mostly because soon after John’s done talking firm hands slide up either side of his spine. He buries his groan in the pillow, tempted to arch into the pressure, going boneless instead. He should probably be worried, being in such a vulnerable position around arguably the most unstable of the Seed brothers.

But he’s not. There isn’t a stray thought in his mind that John will hurt him, not when he’d been so worried about Rook being hurt before. Not when he’d hovered like he did. Not when he’s touching Rook with steady but careful hands, adjusting every time a small noise of discomfort escapes Rook’s mouth.

He’s not sure what he and John are, at the end of the day. Whether they’re still enemies or something else, something more important and probably more dangerous. But for right now, in this very moment, it doesn’t matter.

They’re together. Everything other definition can wait until tomorrow.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Countless Roads - Chapter 37

Fic: Countless Roads - Chapter 37 - Ao3

Fandom: Flash, Legends Pairing: Gen, Mick Rory/Leonard Snart, others

Summary: Due to a family curse (which some call a gift), Leonard Snart has more life than he knows what to do with – and that gives him the ability to see, speak to, and even share with the various ghosts that are always surrounding him.

Sure, said curse also means he’s going to die sooner rather than later, just like his mother, but in the meantime Len has no intention of letting superheroes, time travelers, a surprisingly charming pyromaniac, and a lot of ghosts get in the way of him having a nice, successful career as a professional thief.

———————————————————————————

“Your boys got into a dust-up with the Stillwater gang at the tavern,” Hex tells Rip. “Stillwater’s men have been stealing, robbing, killing people in this town for months. This ain’t gonna help.”

"That's terrible," Ray says. “Well, if they want to continue that, they’ll have to go through us first."

“No, they won’t,” Rip squawks, and for once Len is inclined to agree with him. “Your little ruckus has undoubtedly already placed the timeline at risk, to say nothing of potentially alerting the Hunters to our presence here.”

“Looks like someone’s already planning on busting out of town,” Hex says, sneering. “Again. You always were good at cutting and running, Hunter.”

“A man wearing a Confederate uniform doesn’t really get to talk about cutting and running,” Len says mildly.

“It’s rude to discuss matters to which you have no understanding, Mr. Snart,” Rip says hastily, even as Hex turns on Len and takes a step towards him, eyes narrowed and mouth all threatening-like.

Len seen a lot worse. He glares back.

“My mother was black,” he says pointedly. “Jax is black. Kendra’s black. Feel we’re pretty far along understanding all we need to understand about good ol' Jonah here, however buddy-buddy the two of you may have been back in the day.”

“I had my loyalties,” Hex says stiffly. “And I surrendered myself to the Union army after 1862 rather than betray either my comrades or my disdain of the slave-holding system.”

“The fact that it took you until the Emancipation Proclamation to figure out that the Civil War was about slavery doesn’t say much about your intelligence,” Kendra says, arms crossed. “Uh, no offense.”

Everyone stares at her.

“There a way of taking that that wasn’t offensive?” Hex asks, but he looks more amused than anything else.

“Maybe we should talk about the Stillwater gang,” Ray says hastily. “And how we plan to stop them.”

“Still not seeing how it’s any of our business, Haircut,” Mick says.

“We’re heroes,” Ray says. “We can’t just stand aside and let this town suffer!”

“Well, what about the timeline effects?” Sara says practically. “It’s one thing if the Stillwater gang was a bunch of nobodies who have no impact, but if they end up attacking someone who gets inspired by that incident to shape their belief system and then that person becomes someone influential – stopping that could be bad. Butterfly effect, right?”

“Excellent point, Miss Lance,” Rip says.

"But how does the butterfly effect square with the whole 'time wants to happen' stuff?" Jax asks, frowning.

“Gideon, why don't you check the timeline?" Rip continues, ignoring him.

He probably doesn't have a good answer.

“As it happens, no member of the Stillwater gang has a significant impact on history,” Gideon says. “In fact, the only individual in the town who does is one Herbert George Wells, a young boy, and he's not listed as having any life-changing incidents during this period.”

“Then we can interfere!” Ray exclaims. “Listen, guys, it's actually all pretty simple. There’s a town being terrorized by this gang, and I aim to do something about it.”

“You 'aim to',” Len says dryly.

“Haircut’s going native,” Mick says, smirking.

“I think it’s admirable,” Kendra says firmly, but her attention is elsewhere. “Uh, Sara, can I borrow you for a minute?”

The girls head off their own way.

Ray goes back to town to talk to the sheriff, Hex accompanying him – Rip having opted, yet again, to remain on the ship for reasons of his own.

Ray walks out with a sheriff’s badge pinned onto him and a gigantic grin.

“Oh, he’s gonna be insufferable now,” Len says, covering his eyes with his hand.

“Nevertheless, it is our duty as his teammate to back him up,” Stein says with a sigh. “Come along, Jefferson; it’s best if we stick together. Let’s go ask for a map or something at the tavern.”

That just leaves Len and Mick.

“There isn’t even anything here worth stealing,” Len complains to Mick, who nods in pained agreement.

“I’ve gathered up some other ghosts for you, sir,” Grace says, floating over to him. She points at a massed up crowd, some way distant. “I’ve asked them to stay back for now, though.”

“Well, that’s thoughtful,” Len says, noticing absently that James is nowhere in sight. “So, what is it you want the life in order to –”

At just that moment, an actual honest-to-god posse on horseback ride into town, shouting and firing guns.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Len groans, burying his face in his hands.

“We should find high ground,” Mick says, heading off purposefully.

Len grabs a rifle and follows.

Ray, of course, walks straight up to the guy. “This here town’s under my protection.”

The man sneers. “And who the hell are you?”

“John Wayne,” Ray says. “Salvation’s new sheriff.”

“Did he just –” Mick starts.

“Don’t,” Len says. He can feel a headache developing.

Grace’s still floating by.

“We can talk later,” Len tells her.

She nods, though she looks a little annoyed.

“– my boys ride into town whenever we want and take whatever we want,” the guy in charge says. “In exchange, we don’t kill the whole lot of you, the whole town. But the arrangement’s over now, little man. And given that there’s only one of you –”

Let it never be said Len doesn’t know his entrance lines.

He shoots the gun out of the leader’s – Stillwater? – hand, making his horse rear up and making the man have to take some time to calm it.

Ray smirks. “You get out of town and you don’t come back, or the next bullet’s in your eye,” he says. “I’ve got sharpshooters all around.”

“Boss,” one of the gang says. “The guy at the bar could also shoot a gun out of a man’s hand…”

“Probably the same guy,” Stillwater scoffs, twisting around in his seat to look to see where the shot came from. He sounds a little doubtful, though.

Len ducks down and shoves the gun at Mick, who stands up pointedly.

“There,” one of the gang says.

“Different guy, boss,” another reports.

“Fine,” Stillwater spits. “Let’s ride, boys!”

And then they all gallop out.

“Dude,” Jax says from the door of the tavern. “That was badass.”

“Running a bad guy out of town’s always been on my bucket list,” Ray replies gleefully.

“You lot ain’t nothing but trouble,” Hex says, scowling. “You just keep on poking that hornet’s nest.”

“Hey,” Jax protests. “He saved the town!”

“Today, sure,” Hex says. “What about tomorrow? Day after? For a bunch of time travelers, you don’t seem to understand much about the future. One day you’re gonna leave, and Salvation will end up like Calvert.”

“What’s Calvert?” Ray asks.

It turns out to be some town in Oklahoma that a guy named Quentin Turnbull razed to the ground, and it turned out that Rip had been there – Rip had actually moved in, gone native, and stayed there nearly half a year. The day after he’d disappeared, the whole place had been destroyed.

That, presumably, was why Rip was keeping to himself this mission.

“That would’ve been nice to hear from Rip,” Jax says, but shrugs. “Okay. So what do we do now? We can’t stay forever.”

“If you want to save this town, really save it, that means we have to find and destroy the Stillwater gang for good,” Hex says. “And that means finding and arresting Stillwater himself. With him gone, the rest of them will scatter like rats.”

“I have a map,” Jax says, holding it out to Hex, who snatches it. “And directions. Grey got them from the barkeep. He went back to the ship to get a kid some medicine.”

“Won’t that be a timeline problem?” Ray asks.

“Ask yourself if Grey cares,” Jax says wryly.

“This information’s good,” Hex grunts, ignoring them. “Based on this, I know where the Stillwater gang is holed up. We can go get ‘em.”

They go pick up more guns and a set of horses, some of which come from gang members they’d beaten up earlier.

Len – who’s already armed – leads his horse out to the area behind the stables to practice getting up on it. He’s not that familiar with the mechanics of horseback riding and he’s not particularly pleased about the idea of practicing in front of a judging audience.

“Pardon me,” Grace says from behind him as Len swings himself onto the horse the way people do in the movies – one leg in the stirrup, then up and over. It works pretty well, likely thanks to how tall he is.

Attempt to climb giant beast, successful. Go Len!

Oh, wait, giant beast is moving, what the fuck.

Not good, not good, not good!

Okay, gripping with the legs seems to work –

“Regarding your offer of life…?” Grace says, coughing a little.

“Sorry, yes,” Len says. “Gimme a minute, this – okay, whoa, whoa, boy! – this isn’t as easy as it looks.”

“Have you never ridden a horse before?” she asks, distracted.

“Not unless you count carousel horses,” Len says. “And one traumatic near-riding experience when I was younger, but that didn’t actually ever go anywhere.”

That seems to put her off a bit. “I see,” she says. “Regardless, I wanted to talk about your earlier offer.”

“Sure thing,” Len says. “Tell me, what is it that you’d like to do with –”

“Len!” Mick shouts from the front of the stable. “We’re riding out!”

“Damnit,” Len says. He hasn’t entirely figured out ‘go’. “Sorry, Grace,” he tells her. “We’ll talk about it later.”

He tries kicking at the horse’s sides.

Lo and behold, it works! He is achieving forward motion!

“City boy,” Mick sniggers when he sees him.

“Shut up,” Len says cheerfully. He’s in way too good a mood to let little things (like Mick’s perfect form on a horse) get to him. “We going to get them?”

“Hell yes,” Jax says.

“Where’s Stein?” Mick asks.

“Still with the medicine,” Jax says. “It’s fine; Rip took the time to swing by and re-emphasize how much we really shouldn’t be using any future tech or anything.”

“Well, if I get shot, I’d appreciate some future tech healing me,” Len drawls. “So, you know, don’t take him too much to heart.”

“Got it, boss,” Jax says with a grin.

“Y’all gonna keep flapping your mouths or you gonna come do some real good?” Hex asks.

“Flapping, clearly,” Mick says. “Speaking of doing 'good', how much of a bounty you gonna get from these guys, again?”

Hex glares.

“We’re allied for the sake of the town,” Len says. “You still haven’t given us a reason to like you, Mr. Confederacy; remember that. Let’s go.”

They ride forth.

At one point, Len notices when he turns to say something to Mick that Grace is still standing where he left her. That’s strange.

Then Ray comments that it would’ve been nice to have Sara on this mission and Hex replies with something offensive about their “fillies”, apparently referring to Sara and Kendra wandering off on their own, and Len has to turn back to stop Hex from getting shot by the more progressive members of their little group, and he forgets all about it.

“Time-era appropriateness,” Len reminds them. “Remember, just because he walks and talks like a racist stereotype doesn’t mean he’s actually as stupid as he comes off.”

“You fellows are real good company,” Hex growls.

“What, did Rip never mention any of this stuff?” Ray asks.

“No.”

“Look at me,” Len says. “Surprised that Rip Hunter managed to fail to mention something.”

Luckily, that manages to get a laugh out of the whole group, and tensions fade.

And then, because plans are apparently for idiots, not cowboys, Hex leads them straight into the gang’s camp without giving them a chance to pause and talk strategy.

Maybe he's where Rip got it from.

“Jeb Stillwater,” Ray announces in his most grandiose voice. “You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney –”

“There won’t be Miranda rights for another hundred years,” Len snaps.

And that, unsurprisingly, is when the shooting starts.

There are a lot more of the gang than there are of them. Len has his ghosts, though, and that would probably even the score –

“Don’t you dare, boss!” Mick calls to him. “Remember, no general-ing!”

Right. Len’s trying to avoid calling on large groups of ghosts. Need to ensure that he doesn’t try to take over the world.

Not that taking over the world as it exists in 1871 would be fun in any way other than to establish an iron-fisted progressive state…

No. None of that.

Even if it would be funny.

“Fall back!” Hex shouts. “We have Stillwater! Fall back!”

They turn the horses around – some judicious yanking on the reins by Len helps convince his particular horse to think about turning, but the loud sounds of the guns helps incentive it even more, Len finds – and start getting out of there.

And then, just when he thinks they’re free and clear, a lasso flies out of the dark and loops around Jax, pulling him backwards off his horse.

“Jax!” Ray shouts.

“We’ve got to go!” Hex shouts in return.

“Not without Jax!” Len bellows.

“We got Stillwater! We’ve got leverage over ‘em, we can trade him back to the gang in exchange for your buddy,” Hex argues. “Live to fight another day or die tonight.”

“Fuck that,” Mick says. “Boss?”

“Go get him, Mick,” Len says, glaring at Hex. "Jax is black, you asshole; they might just lynch him before daybreak on the grounds that no one would bother trading a man worth a bounty for a black man."

Mick jumps off of his horse – damn, his form is good; you could film a movie of just that and Len would be entranced – and sprints back towards the gang.

“Your friend’s gonna die,” Hex tells Len.

“Oddly enough,” Len drawls, “I don’t think that’s gonna be the case. C’mon, let’s get Stillwater back to the ship.”

He doesn't want to trust Ray alone with this guy - less because he thinks Hex will pull something, and more because he thinks Hex will successfully talk a still-too-trusting Ray into something stupid.

They’re about halfway there, Len hanging back from the others a bit because his horse seems to be intent on moving at a slow walk instead of a trot and all the kicking in the world doesn’t seem to be helping, when Grace appears right in his way.

Len grabs instinctively at the reins, making the horse buck and him swear.

"Grace, what is it?" he asks. "How can I help you?"

"Oh, you can help me quite a bit," she says. "You know how. Your life."

"I told you –"

"Later," she hisses. "Oh, yes, later, always later – well, I'm tired of waiting for a later that will never come!"

Oh, shit.

Len throws himself to the side, leaping off the horse and rolling badly onto the ground as she reaches for him, her eyes glowing white. She's only a minor poltergeist – he should be able to hold her off until –

Someone grabs at Len's shoulder.

Len wrenches himself away, twisting sharply to break their grip, but not before he feels that awful nauseating sensation of his life being sucked out of him by force.

Unquiet dead.

Len puts his back to a tree, even though he knows it won't help.

It's not just Grace, either; it's the whole group of them that she introduced the second time she came to him – the time when James was strangely absent –

"You gathered up unquiet dead," Len says, and has to leap to the side as one of them charges him. He escapes that one, but another grabs him by the hip, scooping out another handful of life. "What happened to James?"

"He didn't agree," Grace says, her pretty face still twisted in anger. "He didn't understand – for people with power, it's later – always later –"

"Not that I don't sympathize with that notion," Len says, hissing and ducking forward when another ghost's arm comes through the tree to gouge out more life from his back. "But if you keep up with this, you're gonna kill me!"

"So be it," Grace says indifferently.

"Damnit, if you just waited a little, I'd be happy to give you assholes what you wanted!" Len snarls and looks around. Hex and Ray are gone, with Stillwater. Mick is rescuing Jax.

He reaches inside himself for his power, intending on calling up some friendlies, but Grace herself darts forward and slams her arm right into his belly.

The sheer wrongness of it knocks the breath out of his body.

"Don't call for more of us," she says. "There's more than enough of us here already. Don't let him speak!"

And then they're on him, ghostly fingers scrabbling at him, hurting him, bearing him down the ground, pulling at him, and Len has a lot of power now, more than he ever did before, but he's still not an endless sieve of it.

"Stop!" he hears someone call.

"James!" Grace hisses.

And then the friendlies come – few of them, very few, damnit, he's too new to this era, he shared willingly with too few of them; he should have listened to Mick – and they wade in to help him, pulling the unquiet dead off of him.

But they're slow and he's getting weaker, and he doesn't want to risk Jax's life but he doesn't want to risk his own, either.

"Mick," he croaks, pushing ghostly fingers away from his mouth. "Mick!"

The second one came off as more of a gurgle than a proper yell.

"Mick!"

That was better, louder. Still not much – but then, Mick didn't need Len to be that loud.

"Shut up!" Grace screams, and shoves her hands into his chest. "Shut up and give it to us!"

"Get your goddamn hands off of him," Mick's blessedly familiar voice roars.

He's come.

"Mick," Len says, or tries to. His tongue is too thick for his mouth. He's slurring.

He's dying.

There are too many of them.

Mick roars above his head. The sound is filled with pain - not just pain at Len dying, but his own pain, pain of the unquiet dead lashing out at him.

If Len dies of the grasping hands, of the fire in his brain, of the choking death, Mick will be left alone.

No.

"Come," Len gasps, throwing his power out where his voice does not reach. "Come and fight for me."

And they come, his dead, his legions, his friendly followers, they come to him, they come for him, they come to fight on his behalf.

The dead of the war between the states, the dead of the clashes between the tribes and the white men who came ever onwards, the dead of the West –

They come to him, howling in rage.

And they rip the unquiet dead off of him, tear them off, and he can breathe free again.

His hands are clenching, his back arching, his muscles spasming, his legs kicking –

But he can breathe.

Len sucks in the air, filling his lungs. He ignores the shouts and screams of the dead around him, clashing against each other. It means less than nothing; his dead will take care of it.

His Mick will take care of it.

"– boss! Boss!"

Len opens his eyes. He's lying on the cold, dark ground, his back propped against a tree. Why?

There's a young black man kneeling above him, concern in his eyes. His hands are outstretched. He does not appear to be a threat, but he is not one of Len's ghosts.

"What?" Len rasps.

"How you doing?" the young man asks. "You okay?"

Such an inane question. Where are Len's ghosts? They will help him without badgering him.

"Where," Len says, but the strength fails him. His ghosts, he needs his ghosts – his legions –

"Lenny?" someone else asks. "You okay?"

Len sneers. What a stupid question. Of course he's not! And this, to come from one of his own, no less. He needs his ghosts, to come to him, to defend him –

"Lisa needs you."

It takes a second to register, but when it does, Len's belly seizes up with fear. Not Lisa, no –

He looks up. Jax and Mick are looking down at him.

"Where," he starts, trying to convey the urgency, that he needs to find her, help her, protect her – then he thinks about it for more than half a second. "When?"

Mick exhales and crouches down. "Good to have you back, boss."

"What?"

"You sure he's back?" Jax asks. "He hasn't even moved as far as 'how'."

Len painfully uncurls a finger in his right hand. Just one.

Jax laughs. "Okay, yeah, he's back." He reaches forward and clasps Len's shoulder for a moment. "Don't scare us like that, okay? We've only got one of you, boss."

Then he stands and walks off.

Len looks after him in confusion. Then he looks at Mick in question.

Mick shakes his head. "You lost yourself for a few minutes there. Megalomania. Not just that, though; it was worse than before. You forgot – everything. Even Jax."

Len swallows.

"It's okay. We got you back."

"Thanks," Len says. He swallows again, sitting up, though he needs Mick's arm to do it. "I'm back."

"I know." Mick's voice is fond. Concerned, yes, but fond.

"What happened?"

"Well, Ray and Hex got Stillwater back to town without noticing you’d fallen behind, the Waverider is now guarded by what feels like a full on legion of invisible ghosts, the Stillwater gang has notably increased its respect for and belief in the supernatural nature of this forest, and I think they're going to challenge us to a duel at high noon. For the town. Way for ‘em to save face before getting the hell out of Dodge."

"Not Ray."

"No, don't worry. No one is so stupid as that. Rip'll do it."

"And?"

"And I'll keep an eye from a distance."

"Good."

"You, on the other hand, will be spending some quality time with Gideon's med bay. That was the nastiest attack we've had in years."

"How many?"

"Dozens. Hundreds, maybe. First you nearly died, then you went all megalomaniac on us for a bit…It was bad, Lenny."

That sounded bad.

"Well, I survived," Len says, shaking his head even as he stands up and starts walking, very gingerly, towards the ship. "And I wasn't on a horse. So, you know, you win that argument."

"What argu—wait. You mean the one about you not being safe behind the wheel? I can't believe you even remember that."

"I remember when someone warns me about the dangers of falling off a horse," Len says. "Especially shortly after I have to jump off of one."

"Technically, you jumped off of one to avoid falling off of one during an attack –"

"That doesn't make you right."

They bicker all the way through the camps – literal camps, because you can take the man out of the army but apparently he’ll bring along his tent – of ghosts guarding the Waverider. They're almost at the ramp when Len hears it.

"—Snart!" a distant voice calls. "Grazhdanin Snart! I must speak with him!"

Len frowns. Grazhdanin is the Russian word for fellow-citizen; even if 1980s Russia hadn't featured it pretty heavily, old Vanya back in Iron Heights, an old Russian gangster who'd protected Len from his dad in one of his earlier stints in the can and taught him all the Russian he knows, had taught it to him early on.

"What is it, boss?" Mick asks.

"Exactly how many Russian communists would you expect there to be in the Wild West?" Len asks.

Mick frowns as well.

Len turns. "Let me see who it is," he calls, and his voice doesn't even go into echoes, good.

"I don't like this," Mick grumbles. "Maybe they're up to something."

"You'll stop them if they are."

The ghosts part and another ghost hurries through, aiming right for him.

A woman, powerful but weary, in a great big peacoat and a rifle –

"Svetlana?" Len exclaims.

"You know her?" Mick asks, surprised.

"Yes, we spoke – but that was in Russia. In 1985. How could she be here? Now? And still know my name? I mean, even if she wasn't so obviously a Night Witch from World War II, she's Russian -"

"I'd like an answer to all that," Mick says, lips pressed together. "I've had enough nasty surprises."

"Grazhdanin Snart," Svetlana says, coming close. "I have found you! I began to fear – but no matter. I have an update."

"What's the update?" Len asks. "And while we're at it, how did you get here? To this time, to this place?"

"The two answers are related," she says. "I took you at your word and followed the man in Moscow – Master Druce, his comrades call him."

Len blinks. "Wait," he says. "You followed him..?"

"I entered his ship, or rather, those of his three servants," Svetlana confirms. "It repelled me, but I persisted."

"Well done Svetlana," Len says, impressed. Even Mick, the only other ghost Len knows to have been willing to enter a time ship for more than a few moments, looks impressed by it.

She flashes a quick smile. "Thank you, Grazhdanin. But more important: they have followed you here."

"Of course they have," Mick growls. "Funny how Rip's hiding spot turned out not to be all that great for hiding."

"They suspected he would come here," Svetlana confirms. "He was here in the past; he has an attachment to the place. They have come here and plan to ambush you during the duel."

"Duel – the shootout at high noon?"

"Yes, yes, that. But there is more: they have changed orders. They are to kill you now."

"They weren't trying to before?" Mick asks.

"No," Svetlana says. She sounds very sure. "Not to kill. Only to chase."

"To capture, you mean," Len says.

"No," Svetlana says. "To chase only. They say this is an operation; they rely upon Rip Hunter to guide you."

"Hold up. He's with them?" Len asks, alarmed. If that's the case, they're screwed – and Len isn't the judge of character he thought he was –

But Svetlana is shaking her head. "No," she says. "It's a plot. A sting. He does what they expect. Only – they did not expect you to come so close to succeeding. Too dangerous."

"Close to succeeding," Len says. "You mean – in the 50s, when we nearly got Savage? They don't want us to kill Savage?"

"Makes sense," Mick opines. "What with them not wanting to change the timeline and firing Rip and all that."

"But then what's the sting part of it?" Len asks. "Why let Rip – why let us – do what we're doing? Why chase instead of kill or capture right off the bat?"

"Maybe we're not supposed to kill him until the moment is right?" Mick suggests.

"Then why’d they decide to kill us now?" Len scowls. "Something stinks."

“Stinks or not is unimportant,” Svetlana says impatiently. “The Hunters are going after the others now.”

Len looks at Mick. Mick looks back.

“Don’t you dare,” Mick says.

“We’ll need all the help we can get to fight them, if they're that tough,” Len points out.

“We will not,” Mick says, crossing his arms and glaring the way he does when he's really serious about something. “You are going to stay on the Waverider and get your brain looked at to make sure there wasn’t any damage. I’m gonna go warn the others –”

“But –”

“Boss. I’ll take half of the ghostly army we’ve got on our doorstep with me, okay? But I don’t think we’ll even need ‘em. If we’re prepared for these Hunter assholes, we can ambush them with just the forces we've got.”

Len thinks about protesting, but his head is hurting and he still feels vaguely cotton-mouthed. He probably won’t be of much use even in the best case scenario. Still… “If you need help –”

“I’ll send a ghost,” Mick promises. “So that you can get Gideon to come blast them from the sky. But trust me – you won’t need to.”

“Fine,” Len grumbles, conceding the point, and finally climbs onto the Waverider. “Gideon,” he says, once inside. “I need a brain scan.”

“Certainly, Mr. Snart,” Gideon says, sounding somewhat puzzled. “Is there a particular reason?”

“How familiar are you with the symptoms of epilepsy…?”

[sun-summoning]

summary: mutsu and kagura in space 

their stowaway doesn’t try very hard to hide her presence. really, she doesn’t try at all. complaints about some ravenous little earthling bullying the staff in the kitchens brings mutsu down to deal with their guest. she might be young, but mutsu knows this girl is another yato based on their previous encounters and she understands she would be the best one to confront the kid.

“why are you here?” mutsu asks.

“i was hungry,” kagura replies between bites.

“why are you on this ship?” mutsu rephrases.

“i was bored.”

mutsu frowns. “this is a place of business. this is no place for children.”

“i’m not a child,” kagura protests, lowering her bowl onto the counter with a loud thud. she glares at mutsu, but the venom in her eyes is covered by the lingering rice around her lips. “i’m fourteen.” she pauses. “and three quarters.”

when she was fourteen, mutsu was the heiress to a fleet of space pirates and traded slaves like any other commodity. the girl before her is just as small and just as fierce, but her emotions flicker over her face so easily.

mutsu sighs. “is your--” she mulls over the right word, “caretaker aware that you are here?”

“gin-chan?” kagura wipes her face with the back of her hand and then wipes that hand on her dress. she shrugs noncommittally. “i might have left him a letter.”

“might have?”

“i didn’t.”

“so he’s unaware.”

“i told sadaharu!”

mutsu recalls the dog in question and recognizes how unhelpful him knowing will be when gintoki realizes kagura is missing and raises hell. she takes a breath. she doesn’t yell at the crew and only really ever raises her voice at tatsuma if anyone, so she won’t yell at this foolish child.

“why are you here, kagura?” mutsu asks once more. 

perhaps it’s the use of her name that makes the girl falter. her hands link behind her back and she begins to shift, suddenly shy. mutsu has met this girl a handful of times, and at no point would she ever have called kagura anything akin to meek.

“i’ve only met a few yato before,” kagura mumbles. “aside from my family, i mean.” she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, silently stalling. when she finally looks up at mutsu, her cheeks are dusted with pink. “you’re the first yato lady i’ve ever met aside from my mami. you’re like me, yes?”

mutsu doesn’t think she’s anything like this girl.

“sorta,” kagura corrects. “mostly. whatever.” she shrugs, looking down at her feet. “i thought we could hang out?”

that definitely wasn’t what mutsu was expecting. “hang out?” she echoes.

kagura nods. “hang out!”

-

runaway child or not, the kaientai has a strict schedule they need to adhere to and don’t have time to drop off a little girl on earth. the earliest they can do so is in ten days, and while kagura says she’s fine with that, tatsuma is not.

“kintoki will be upset!” he points out.

“the fact that you call him kintoki tells me you don’t care all that much about whether of not he is upset.”

she would send the captain to make the delivery, but something tells her that setting him loose in edo would only result in a week of drinking and partying. and if not that, she imagines kagura would just bully tatsuma into letting her have her way.

mutsu considers the deliveries and pick-ups they’ll be doing soon and then the costs of lugging around a fourteen-year-old yato. she almost smiles when she considers the impact kagura will make on their provisions. 

she turns to kagura after removing any mask of amusement. 

“this isn’t some luxury ship,” mutsu states, “so you’d best not expect any five star accommodation.”

kagura picks her nose as she explains that she sleeps in a closet.

-

despite kagura’s initial request, mutsu isn’t particularly inclined to “hang out.” she continues on with her day, working and working and working, and not once considering the girl.

when mutsu was fourteen, she was looking after a ship. there were other powers that did a lot of important work, but she was always kept in the loop. she was welcome to join in the work just as she was allowed to roam free. she supposed that allowing kagura that same independence would have been the best way of getting her out of the way, but instead kagura makes her presence known.

“vice-captain,” one divisional manager begins when he calls her. “there appears to be a strange girl running lose in the loading bay. she’s been moving around crates to make a castle because she is now the apparent queen of the kaientai?”

mutsu sighs. “tell her that the highest power on this ship is the captain. after that is the vice-captain.”

“uh. sure.”

mutsu doesn’t even make an hour before she gets another call, this time from the head of the kitchens, explaining that the monster from yesterday has returned to ravage their supplies. 

soon after that, the guards tell her that a little girl has been running around and asking where they store their sukonbu.

-

mutsu decides that the best way to manage kagura is to keep her at her side. mutsu continues on with her task, always looking back to make sure kagura is following her whenever they make any moves.

“neechan, this is boring,” kagura complains.

“work often is.”

kagura snorts. “not my work!”

admittedly, that piques mutsu’s curiosity. she knows about gintoki’s odd jobs business and has certainly requested their assistance on more than one occasion, but she’s always wondered what other kinds of work they received.

“and what is your work exactly, kagura?”

her eyes widen at the question and it occurs to mutsu she hasn’t really shown that much interest in the girl despite her own clear admiration.

“lots of things!” kagura replies. “delivering packages for terrorists, warding off fake ghosts, punching down hornet’s nests.” she waves a hand, her grin smug and excited. “you know, the usual.”

-

tatsuma insists mutsu just take some time off for now and spend time with kagura since she rarely meets anyone of her race. he says so freely, not quite considering that kagura is sitting at the other end of the table gnawing on another dish.

“she’s kind of...” tatsuma considers the right word. “adorable.”

mutsu looks at kagura’s sauce-smeared face and wonders if he needs his eyes checked. “adorable?”

“or something.”

kagura rubs her bloated belly and demanding someone roll her back to her room. she calls for “pachi” before pausing and remembering where she is. she stands on her own, yawning and stretching and then waving at them and saying she’s calling it a night.

mutsu watches her leave. “or something indeed.” 

-

“how come you don’t carry an umbrella?” kagura asks, prodding mutsu with her own.

“i’ve never had one,” mutsu admits, swatting it away.

“but what about the sun?”

“i generally avoid it.”

“but what if you can’t?”

“my hat is sufficient.”

“but what about kicking people’s butts?”

mutsu cracks a small smile. “surely you know i don’t need a weaponized umbrella to win a battle?”

kagura grins in turn, albeit a little wider. “i knew you were super strong, neechan!”

-

while most yato are prone to using their fists and swinging around their umbrellas, those umbrellas are also weaponized and use their own special sort of bullets. mutsu doesn’t carry around an umbrella, but she does have her own firearm. 

she has a collection, actually, and judging by kagura’s silence, she’s positively enamoured by it. 

“come,” mutsu says, grabbing the one that shoots laser beams. they walk over to the shooting range and mutsu holds the gun before her. she takes aim, she shoots, and behind her kagura is making little noises of excitement with every blast of green that takes down a target.

after a minute, mutsu glances over her shoulder. 

“would you like to try?” she offers.

“yes!”

she hands the girl the gun and kagura tries to replicate the position mutsu had been in. this gun is different than what she’s used to, shorter and probably a lot lighter too, so mutsu adjusts her stance and her arms and then tells kagura to fire.

the eruption of green light has kagura cheering. after one shot, she turns to mutsu and grins. 

“i want one of these,” she declares. “i can have this, yes?”

mutsu imagines it must be frowned upon to give a weapon to a child, but then she remembers what they are and knows that kagura’s fists could do much for damage. she rests a hand on kagura’s head and agrees.

-

mutsu is an only child, tatsuma knows. he considers that her father, pirate that he was, may have left a handful of bastards around the galaxy, but mutsu grew up alone and that much he is certain of. that said, he thinks she handles the little yato girl with ease. 

when he points this out in private, mutsu shrugs.

“i apply the same principles as when dealing with a potential client.”

“right.”

mutsu doesn’t like his tone, he understands, based on the way her lips thin.

“what?” she bites out.

“i didn’t say anything!”

“you were going to.”

tatsuma shrugs. “you’re good with her,” he says simply enough.

mutsu raises an eyebrow. “you’ve already said that.”

“did i?” tatsuma laughs because he doesn’t want to elaborate. “relax, mutsu,” he says, placing a hand on her shoulder. he smiles. “there’s nothing wrong with admitting that you actually do want to--” he pauses, tapping his chin. “how did she put it? ah, yes. hang out.”

-

one night kagura insists on sleeping in mutsu’s room. she brings along snacks that are apparently for midnight and drops her futon on the floor with a thud. she arranges it in one sliver of space as mutsu stares at her, shocked into silence by her audacity.

“i have work to do, kagura.”

“work?” kagura scoffs. “it’s bedtime, neechan. why are you working?”

“i have a company to run.”

“but that’s boring!”

“have you ever considered your future aspirations, kagura?”

“huh?”

“what do you want to be when you grow up?” the question is odd and childish but there’s a light of wonder in kagura’s eyes. the girl bites her lip and looks shy despite all mutsu knows her to be.

“i’m going to be the best alien hunter in the universe,” kagura declares.

mutsu cracks a smile, because she knows the man that title currently belongs to.

“i’m going to travel the galaxy and i’m going to be beat that stupid baldy off his throne of the strongest!”

“baldy?”

“papi,” kagura says with a nod.

“papi?” mutsu echoes, because that did nothing to clarify.

“my dad,” kagura explains, “is an alien buster.” she grimaces, crossing her arms and seeming more inconvenienced than proud. “and for whatever reason, people consider him to be the best.”

kagura busies herself opening their midnight snack an hour and a half too early. mutsu considers her own father who expected her to inherit his ruthlessness and their family business. would she have ever met tatsuma? would she ever have come across all these gems she called her comrades? would she ever have met this strange yato girl?

“anyway, that’s one idea,” kagura says, her words garbled by the food in her mouth. “i’ve also considered taking over the yorozuya when gin-chan kicks the can.”

-

kagura insists on creating a delicacy she learned down on earth and so mutsu lets her go to the kitchens (she’d been banned after threatening some staff for “hiding their sukonbu stash”). kagura comes back shortly with two bowls of rice and another bowl of something else. she sets mutsu’s rice before her and then cracks an egg, letting its contents fall over the grains. she does the same for herself and then claps.

“time to eat!” kagura yells, immediately digging in.

mutsu just blinks, taking in the simple meal.

“what is this?” mutsu asks.

“egg on rice!”

“yes. literally.”

kagura nods and explains that she and gin-chan eat this all the time and it’s one of her favourite things, although she also likes ramen and barbecue and gin-chan says that she can eat sushi on her birthday.

when she notices mutsu only staring at her dinner, kagura pauses. “is--” she swallows and then bites her lip. “do you not like it?” her cheeks turn pink. “i can eat it for you, if you don’t want it--”

“no.” mutsu reaches across the table and rests a hand on kagura’s head. she doesn’t ever recall being on the receiving end on this sort of affection, but something inside of her tells her she needs to reassure this kind young girl. mutsu draws her hand back and picks up her chopsticks. 

she takes her first bite, not unaware of the way kagura’s eyes follow her motions. she smiles and kagura smiles back.

“it’s delicious.”

-

tatsuma is in the middle of his morning coffee when mutsu makes it to his side. she’s always been shorter, but today she seems even more so. tatsuma does a double take and after a moment, he realizes that this isn’t mutsu at all. instead, kagura wears a similar woven hat and a cloak of burgundy.

he smiles and he laughs, throwing his head back and clutching his belly. 

“oh man,” he chokes out. “well aren’t you precious?”

“enough of your prattle, captain,” kagura replies in a low voice that isn’t quite her own. she rips the tablet with the day’s schedule out of his hands and reads it as if it means anything to her. “ah, yes, work and stuff.”

tatsuma crosses his arms, deciding to play along. “what are the plans for today, mini-mutsu?”

kagura wears the face of annoyed vice-captain quite well. “business as usual,” she replies. “although today we shall--” 

she cries out, whiny and childish, and when tatsuma looks back at her, mutsu is there, a disapproving frown replacing her usual headwear. 

“ah, mutsu!” tatsuma greets. “i’d like you to meet your replacement.”

kagura giggles and tatsuma joins her.

“funny,” mutsu intones. 

“i’ll be really good at it, neechan!” kagura insists. “it’s simple, yes? just clean up the mess that your curly-haired idiot boss makes. i do that all the time!”

tatsuma’s laughter comes to an abrupt halt. “oi!”

-

“i think she looks up to you.”

mutsu nods because this isn’t really news. 

“smart kid,” tatsuma says, “choosing you.”

“oh?”

tatsuma laughs. “well there are a lot of questionable people she surrounds herself with. what if she turned out like zura? or kintoki, hm?”

mutsu just shakes her head and ignores him.

kagura had fallen asleep in her chair in the meeting room almost an hour ago. mutsu had told her to go back to her room and rest, but kagura had insisted that she would wait for neechan to finish her work before leaving. “you work too much,” kagura said after a yawn. “i need to make sure you sleep as well, yes?” and so she waited, curled up in a chair with her eyes fluttering shut every few minutes until she finally dozed off entirely. 

while tatsuma hadn’t confirmed that mutsu was a yato until recently, he definitely had his suspicions after a decade of observing her aversion to sunlight and powerful punches. he never pressed the issue though, assuming that it was just something mutsu didn’t want to talk about.

he knows the same stuff about the yato that everyone else does. they are one of the most dangerous races in the entire universe, they’re weakened by the sun and are often found carrying around umbrellas, and that their stomachs are essentially black holes.

and now that her heritage has been confirmed, it’s no surprise to him to see mutsu taking to this girl so easily.

there’s so few of them left that finding one must feel like reuniting with long lost family.

“are you going to miss your mini-me?”

mutsu rolls her eyes, annoyed with the nickname he’d given kagura after the dress up fiasco. “i have no time for sentiment,” she mutters.

“hm? well i will sure miss her.”

“you wanted to send her home the moment you realized she’d stowed away on this ship.” mutsu narrows her eyes at him. “or perhaps you just wanted to go down to edo to visit your usual haunts?”

tatsuma laughs, leaning back into his chair.  “now, now, mutsu. i’m a responsible adult now, remember?”

“right.”

despite how much he did want to bring kagura back, certain that kintoki was probably freaking out over his missing daughter, tatsuma is glad mutsu steered him away from the idea. perhaps she wanted to spend time with kagura, perhaps she just wanted to stay on schedule -- it didn’t matter. tatsuma smiles, glad with the end result: mutsu got to spend time with this little yato girl.

“she really likes you, mutsu.” 

“yes.”

“and,” tatsuma continues, “i think you really like her too.”

mutsu busies herself with scanning the inventory log she’s been reading between adjusting kagura’s head so her neck wouldn’t hurt when she woke up and wiping away the girl’s drool. he thinks he sees a ghost of a smile when mutsu replies that she thinks he might be right.

-

the next day, mutsu joins him on the bridge as they set course for earth.

“what if,” mutsu begins slowly, “we just...don’t bring her back.”

tatsuma rubs the back of his neck. “i’m pretty sure that’s considered kidnapping.”

“she came with us on her own volition.”

“i’m pretty sure that’s still considered kidnapping.”

mutsu’s brow furrows and tatsuma recognizes that she’s displeased with his answer. “under whose jurisdiction?” mutsu continues. “the laws of edo don’t apply to this ship, much less this galaxy.”

tatsuma shakes his head. “why don’t you just admit that you enjoy having her around,” he suggests. “that you actually do want to hang out.” 

”hmph.”

-

on their last day together, kagura tells mutsu she wants to show her the castle she’d made. mutsu dreads every step she takes closer and closer to a haphazard pile of boxes in the corner of loading bay, but when kagura announces that they’ve arrived, mutsu sighs. 

"welcome to my humble abode!” kagura says. “please be sure to bow down to the queen of the kaientai.”

“the queen of the kaientai?”

kagura grins. “me.”

mutsu sighs. “you are not the queen of the kaientai, kagura.”

“how dare you!”

“and didn’t i tell you not to move the boxes around? we have a strict inventory--”

“the manager said i could use these boxes!” she promises. “he said they just had the 500 million yen bags in them, but that neechan said they were worthless so i should be allowed to play with them!”

mutsu purses her lips. “fair enough.”

-

later that night, mutsu decides to take a break and after a stop at the kitchens, she walks over to kagura’s room. she walks by tatusma along the way, catching his knowing grin and ignoring it. when she makes it in front of kagura’s door, she knocks softly. 

there’s no response and for a moment, mutsu thinks the girl might already be asleep. but the door soon opens, kagura dressed in her bunny print pyjamas and a piece of sukonbu hanging from her lips.

“neechan?” kagura blinks. “don’t you have to do work?”

mutsu smiles. “i’m taking a break. may i come in?”

kagura steps to the side and mutsu steps inside. she puts down the items she’d taken from the kitchen and her grin widens when she hears kagura’s excited cheer.

“rice!” she yells as she claps. “and...eggs?” she blinks before understanding. 

“i enjoyed your cooking,” mutsu tells her. she picks up one of the eggs and cracks it on the edge of the bowl. “i thought i would try making it for you this time.”

they eat, chatting about all the different planets mutsu has been to and all the places kagura will visit when she gets older. kagura tells her about the jobs she’s been on lately while mutsu shares tales of the kinds of business people they’ve come across. they chat about everything, both laying on kagura’s bed, rubbing their stuffed stomachs and staring at the ceiling as they talk.

kagura falls asleep first, her head lolling to the side and resting against mutsu’s shoulder. mutsu closes her eyes too, content. 

-

as their ship pulls into the dock, mutsu spots the yorozuya waiting. the dog runs around excitedly while the glasses boy tries to get a hold of him. gintoki leans against a crate, trying to appear at ease, but mutsu can see his tension from afar. it’s only been ten days, but mutsu assumes they must have missed kagura very much.

considering that kagura will now be leaving their ship, mutsu realizes she’ll be missing her as well.

“thanks for the gun,” kagura says. “i’ll keep it forever, neechan. i can’t wait to show it to pachi!”

“don’t shoot him.”

kagura opens her mouth, ready to fight her on that request, but then she sighs. “fine, fine, i’ll save that for sadist then, yes?”

mutsu doesn’t know what she’s talking about so she says that should be fine. 

mutsu walks with kagura down to the loading bay doors where she might exit and return to the family she built on earth. what a special girl, mutsu thinks, to be able to find kin on earth and in space. she’ll miss kagura, she can admit to herself. she’ll miss the companionship, the mischievous laughter, the way she looked at her like she was her hero.

when they exit the ship, the dog barks and begins running towards them.

“thanks, neechan,” kagura says, a wide grin stretching across her face. “i had a lot of fun with you.”

mutsu nods and admits, “i as well. i--” she wants to laugh at the words coming to her mind. “i enjoyed...hanging out.”

kagura giggle and then wraps her arms around mutsu’s middle. mutsu isn’t used to physical affection, the extent of it only ever really coming from tatsuma if anyone. her arms hang awkwardly at her sides while kagura just holds her tighter, crushing her in her grip. 

“what are you doing?” mutsu asks.

“i’m hugging you,” kagura replies.

“why are you hugging me?”

kagura lifts her head, her brow furrowed as she looks at mutsu as if she’s crazy. 

“because i’ll miss you.” kagura eventually pulls away and steps backwards, ready to return to her family here on earth. she raises a hand and waves. “i’ll see you next time! we’ll hang out again, yes?”

“yes,” mutsu promises, “we will.”

-

fin

[hellsangelsheavensrejects]

Present Day: Showdown in the Parking Lot

Blythe

"Wow, so not only do YOU stick around Wynonna, you're now also cool with having JOHN CONSTANTINE around? You know what that man does? He gets people killed. The fuck is it with you and that asshole anyway?"

Harry

“Oh, hey! You know what? I’ve been waiting around all day for some rando too cowardly to show their face to drop by and give unsolicited opinions on me and the people I choose to spend my time with. Congratulations, you’ve won the Dipshit Award!”

Blythe

“Gee, that's some epic level avoidance there. You should get a medal for that. Also, I'd pester Constantine, but he's got my number ... or more precisely my name. And he's a lot better with wards than you are. So, what is all this? Are you trying to get that girl of yours killed?“

Harry

“Do you really like playing pinata with a hornet’s nest so much, or are you just that stupid?” Every hair on Harry’s body was stood on end as he pivoted on his heels in the darkened parking lot, staff at the ready, searching for the source of the sinister voice. He didn’t like this one bit; whoever or whatever it was, it clearly had some personal agenda– or vendetta– it was attempting to fulfill. And if it was strong enough to get past the wards on his apartment, like it was hinting at…

He gave an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “This creeptastic voice throwing thing is getting old. How about you come out where I can see you? Then we can duke it out like mature adults and call it a night.”

Blythe

"Now, now, wizard. I was just trying to give you a friendly warning, is all.", the shadows between two of the trees lining the parking lot seem to solidify into a tall figure with a pale face. They cluck their tongue. "But really, what IS it with you and Constantine? I mean, beyond you clearly wanting to get in his pants. Don't worry, I get it."

Harry

“You and I must have vastly different definitions of the word ‘friendly,’“ Harry remarked. He narrowed his eyes as he watched the figure fade into view, and readied himself, reaching down into that deep well of anger, pain, heartbreak, and love to find his power.

“See, to me, ‘friendly’ is hanging out, getting a few beers, shooting the bull. This whole menacing stalker vibe you’ve got going on over there? Not really all that friendly.”

Blythe

The figure that steps from the shadows is tall and thin, unnaturally so. A long feathered boa around their shoulders only highlights their skeletal body. Their face is as pale as the moon above and they gift the wizard with a grin full of sharp teeth. Right underneath an array of six red, glittering eyes. "You really are good at avoiding answering questions. Deal with the Fae lot quite a bit, do you?"

Harry

Harry kept his eyes locked on the creature, sizing them up. A demon of some sort, probably– especially considering what he knew of John. Whoever and whatever this creature was, they very clearly had a history with Constantine, and probably had in mind a little payback.

He wasn’t going to make it easy for them.

A grin peeled his lips back, baring his teeth. “I deal with a lot of interesting folks. Always walked away from it; can’t always say the same about them, though. How about you, Skellington? Gonna keep pressing your luck?”

Blythe

The stranger came sauntering over and when they finally stepped into the full light of one of the few still functioning lights illuminating the parking lot, it became clear that the dull clack-clack-clack of their step did not come from heels, but from hooves. "That would be boring, though, wouldn't it? Ending it right here? Not when it could be SO beautifully painful for you. Or for little Johnny ConJob."

Harry

In all his years of wizarding, Harry had learned that there is always a moment of crystal clarity, an epiphany that lights up the mind and makes all the little details fall into place. It clarifies the plans of the bad guys, provides a blueprint for a counterattack, and, most unsettlingly, sheds light on his own choices, feelings, and proclivities.

This demon had seen something between Harry and John that Harry had not yet had the courage to name.

“My Id is probably yukking it up right now,” he muttered, then arched an eyebrow at the creature, bringing his staff to bear and readying his will. “You want pain, huh? Well, hey, if you insist. Have a blast with it. Fuego!”

Blythe

The fire lit up the demon, and for a moment it seemed to distort them. The feather boa turned into terrible wings and those already long, thin limbs grew longer and thinner. Hands elongating into razorsharp claws. And then the demon was gone. The magical fire the wizard had unleashed missed it's mark and rushed off into the darkness. There was silence and then, right behind Dresden: "Not fast enough. Tell John hello from Blythe." and then, those claws embedded themselves into the wizard's back.

Harry

The demon… changed… before his eyes, and then vanished. Harry spun, leading with his staff, trying to pinpoint his enemy before it could reappear and get the jump on him.

Which was exactly what it did.

As the razor-sharp claws tore deep into his skin, his one thought, accentuated by a furious, agonized scream, was that he desperately wished he’d gone for the extra protection of his spell-reinforced coat before leaving this evening, but the balmy summer temperatures had dissuaded him of the notion.

Lips peeling back into a snarl, he took his staff in both hands and slammed it into the ground hard enough to break a hole in the pavement, then with a shouted word sent a burst of force lashing through the staff and into the ground, enough to– he hoped– knock them both off their feet and give him a chance to wrench free.

Blythe

The demon Blythe laughed, dodging the blow of the staff with supernatural ease. They seemed to have been caught off guard, however, when a wave of energy expanded from the impact of said staff and threw them backwards. Snarling, Blythe caught themselves on all four, three pairs of eyes blazing with hellish fire. "I will eat your soul in front of Constantine!", they threatened and threw themselves back at Dresden.

Harry

Cold fury erupted through him at the demon’s next mention of Constantine, and the pain of his wounds melted away into so much background noise. It had occurred to him before that he knew precious little about the man’s past. About the demons– both figurative and, apparently, literal– that haunted him. He hadn’t pressed for details, and had volunteered precious few of his own.

But this creature, whatever its history with John, clearly had one hell of a hard-on for hurting him. And that…

That was not okay.

Not even a little bit.

(He tried not to think about what that might mean)

(It meant Constantine was his, and he’d be damned if he’d let this demonic stick bug harm him in any way)

As the demon hurled itself at Harry, he swung his staff to bear again and snarled, “Here, have an appetizer on me. Infriga!” A roar of wind kicked up, punctuated by a flash of glittering light, and the air rippled and cracked with a broad swathe of mist-shrouded frost.

Blythe

Pain in the air, the taste of blood and Blythe could feel their gut twist with pleasure.

Oh, they knew that anger.

Their sources were correct, then. John Constantine had gotten himself entangled with this … Dresden character.

And what a character he was. Half of Fairy was having a hardon for the man and Hell? Oh, Hell was just jonesing for his soul.

Blythe, however? Blythe was just here to have a little fun on John’s expense. Maybe start a little collection down in Hell? Oh, wouldn’t that be fun? They’d string up Dresden right beside what was left of sweet Oliver. And then, then they’d get the one with The Gun, too.

And they’d make John watch.

His own personal Hell on earth.

But first … They saw the spell coming this time. The staff might direct his power, but it was also telegraphing Dresden’s intentions and Blythe pushed themselves out of the direct path of the incoming power. The edges of it still stung like a hundred knives to their skin.

They laughed.

“Too slow. Again.”, they admonished with a little click of their tongue. A tongue, that they wrapped around their blood stained finger. Only to draw back with a hiss, swallowing the astringent sweetness of fairymagic. “Oh, now that’s interesting!”

Once again, they cloaked themselves in shadow, pulling darkness around them, before reaching for the threads of magic around them. Long fingers knitted into a complicated pattern and when they stepped back into the half-light of the parking lot, barely a step away from Dresden, the power of their own spell released.

It took hold of the staff and yanked, hard, giving Blythe an opportunity to step into Dresden’s space, almost like a lover into a waiting embrace. The way Blythe wrapped their arms around the man furthered that illusion until their claws dug into the muscle beside his shoulderblades, holding him in place.

“Just a little lovebite.”, they quipped and dragged their tongue along Dresden’s face before sinking needle sharp teeth into the soft tissue of his throat.

Harry

Stars and stones, this demon moved fast, even when it wasn’t doing its little disappearing trick. Harry was faster and stronger, both magically and physically, than he’d ever been before, but he was having a devil of a time keeping up with the creature’s feints and attacks.

Case in point: the demon appeared in front of him, divested him of his staff in one smooth, distressingly powerful yank, and wound its arms around him in an almost sensual embrace. Harry tried to jerk back, about to quip something about the creature not being his type, but then he felt the sudden, burning agony of claws burying themselves into his back again as the demon locked itself to him.

Panic, fed by a growing, dreadful awareness of inevitability, lanced through him. He hissed through his teeth and tried to wrench free, grasping ineffectually at the demon’s bony arms. “Get off!” he snarled, bucking and thrashing against the arms holding him in place. He could feel the muscles near his shoulder blades tearing around the demon’s claws. “Get the fuck off!”

A lascivious slide of the demon’s tongue across his face made him reflexively jerk his head to the side, giving the monster a clear line to his throat. He realized his mistake a microsecond too late– though to be fair, there was probably little he could have done to avoid what happened next.

The demon’s fangs sank deep.

Stars exploded through his vision, and he convulsed, limbs flailing in a futile attempt to dislodge his attacker. Time seemed to bend around him, and his awareness warped. He felt something warm spurting down his neck, soaking through his shirt, and, inanely, a string of facts he had learned long ago began to drift through his mind.

The average human body holds about four-and-a-half to five-and-a-half liters of blood. He was taller than average, so he would have more than that, though he had never actually taken the time to do the math, so he couldn’t cite an actual number. Death by exsanguination could occur after the loss of half to two-thirds of your blood.

And he was bleeding fast. Weakening. He could already feel the dizziness beginning to set in, pulse fluttering, limbs going leaden, cold creeping through his body. He wasn’t even sure if he was still upright. Was the demon still with him? He wasn’t sure if that would even have made a difference.

He was going to die.

He was going to die, and… he’d had so much that he’d wanted to say. To Wynonna. How deep his feelings really went for her, the extremes he would go to for her. To John. How he was ready to face, to embrace the confused maelstrom of feelings that erupted in him whenever he was near.

He was going to die, and he wasn’t going to be able to tell them.

[ryanmeft]

Every Classic Mega Man Weapon Ranked, Part 2

To gamers who were young in the ancient 80's, game characters were iconic in a way that modern kids, with a veritable plethora of types of games to choose from, simply cannot fathom. We stomped on Goombas with the Super Mario Bros. We fought Ganon with our sword and our wits.  We plumbed the depths of alien planets with a hard-bitten bounty hunter. We even occasionally played things that weren't made by Nintendo, like that one really fast guy from that one company. What was his name? Was it Speedy? Oh yeah! Good 'ole Speedy the Hedgehog. Even with all these iconic characters, one stood out for letting you do something no one else did: taking your enemy's weapon, and ripping them a new asshole with it. Mario didn't do that. Link didn't do that. Speedy certainly didn't do that. Capcom seems to have forgotten about the Blue Bomber lately, but on Monday they're going to announce...some Mega Man thing. We don't know what yet. Hopefully it's cool. Anyway, to celebrate the 30th anniversary of the original Mega Man, here's part two of my list ranking every Mega weapon in the classic series. You can find part 1 here: http://ryanmeft.tumblr.com/post/168077242247/every-classic-mega-man-weapon-ranked-part-1. And part 3 here: http://ryanmeft.tumblr.com/post/168173192902/every-classic-mega-man-weapon-ranked-part-3 And the last part: http://ryanmeft.tumblr.com/post/168197639092/every-classic-mega-man-weapon-ranked-part-4

53. Quick Boomerang (MM2) It's a boomerang. Just a boomerang. I used to like standing around firing them and watching them return to me, because I was 8, and stupid.

52. Flame Sword (MM8) It's exactly what it says it is. After years of shitting out seriously crappy melee weapons, this one...well, it wasn't especially useful, but it wasn't godawful, either. And wouldn't you know it? Just when Capcom seemed to be inching toward doing it right, they figured out it was kind of pointless to do at all. They could have tumbled to that back in 1990 and saved a lot of kids a lot of disappointment.

51. Yamato Spear (MM6) This one could be rapid fired, but it is otherwise just an arrowhead that you can shoot. "Yamato" is a word that means "Japan". Isn't it kind of really, really sad that this is the coolest thing a Japanese developer could think to give to a boss literally named Japan Man? 50. Concrete Shot (MM9) File this one under "cooler in theory than in practice". The ability to encase enemies in stone sounds cool (and slightly insane), but visually, all it really does is replace the enemy sprite with a rock.

49. Thunder Bolt (MM7) Almost every MM game has one or two weapons that are just filler---not offensively useless, but not odd enough to stand out, either. For Mega Man 7, this one filled that apparent need.

48. Bubble Lead (MM2) The original travel-along-the-floor weapon. How, exactly, does one make a bubble out of lead without breaking science? It was the only way to deal with lots of annoying ground enemies, though, so we'll forgive the bastardization of the laws of nature this once.

47. Wind Storm (MM6) Oh, sweet. We literally get to shoot a tornado and why is it tiny? Why is it just moving along the ground? Wind Storm is technically a tornado, but it's a little like the fact that a poodle is technically a dog; that still doesn't make it cool.

46. Needle Cannon (MM3) It fires big spikes. You can't get much more straight forward. Unless the enemy was weak against it, it wasn't very much fun, but it wasn't annoying, either.

45. Freeze Cracker (MM7) Seemingly unable to make an ice weapon that was actually cool, Dr. Wily settled for merely functional. This one is basically useful for shattering on walls to hit shielded enemies from behind, and you don't have to do that often enough for it to be awesome.

44. Blizzard Attack (MM6) Much like the Silver Tomahawk, this one has a rather incomprehensible flight path. It works fine if your aim is right, but it's just too easy for the odd pattern to miss.

43. Napalm Bomb (MM5) Imagine if some daycare mistook this for a bouncy toy.

42. Hornet Chaser (MM9) This one may make me think of a hive of bees nesting in Mega Man's chest, but it's still rather unfairly maligned. It isn't very powerful, but it's great for taking out small, annoying enemies, and sometimes it brings you presents. The only thing real hornets bring you is inexplicably dark endings to early 90's Macauley Culkin movies.

41. Flash Stopper (MM4) Capcom's to-date last experiment with halting the flow of time, and that's probably a good thing. This one allows Mega Man to still fire standard shots while time is stopped, but not to use any other weapons. That's an improvement, but the only way for this power to be as cool as it sounds is to allow you total freedom while it's active, and that's more power than any 'bot needs. Think of the children, or something.

40. Danger Wrap (MM7) Every now and then, Capcom comes up with something that is totally original, and so it was with this weapon, which wrapped up enemies in a bubble that then exploded. It was cool when it worked right, but it was so picky on which enemies would actually bubblesplode that it wasn't very useful.

39. Crystal Eye (MM5) Are you actually firing a robot's eye here? How does this work? Whatever. Ahem. This is basically the concept behind the Gemini Laser, but occasionally useful. It splits into four little ping pong balls, and chances are one of them will hit something.

38. Ring Boomerang (MM4) I'm not sure how a ring would return when thrown. I mean, it isn't special. It isn't the One Ring. It isn't even a diamond ring. It's just a hoop of gold. Maybe it's magnetized. Anyway, this one actually lays the smack down pretty hard when it hits. Short range, unfortunately, hampers its usefulness.

37. Shadow Blade (MM3) This was like Metal Blade, except you couldn't throw it in any direction, it had a limited range and it ate up more weapon energy. It was a Metal Blade that didn't work as well, which, you know, as pitches go, that's unique.

36. Knight Crusher (MM6) This is like the Rolling Cutter, but you can kind of aim it a little bit. Look, let's just call it what it is: Mega Man 6 really phoned it in. Most of the weapons weren't terrible, per se, but they were the textbook example of a developer who no longer cares. Sure, it's hard to blame them. The NES was basically dead by this point. It doesn't change the fact that "slightly better Rolling Cutter" is the best MM6 had to offer.

35. Leaf Shield (MM2) The original shield weapon was super useful, as long as you stood still. Somehow, though a shield made of flowers disappeared the moment someone farted in the general vicinity, one made of leaves did not. However, once you moved it flew away, and likely drifted harmlessly to the ground the moment it hit anything bigger than a politician's soul. Capcom would spend the rest of the series figuring out how to make a truly useful shield.

34. Search Snake (MM3) This one was nice for for getting those hard to reach enemies, but let's pause for a moment. Mega Man is shooting snakes out of his arm. Where are the snakes coming from? Is he generating them inside his gut? Is there a hatchery in there? To anyone about to explain to me that they are robot snakes I KNOW THAT IT IS CALLED HUMOR

33. Noise Crush (MM7) This one is powerful, but just...strange. Think on it. The technology to simply charge weapons directly is already in widespread use, and Wily decides it would be better if you had to do it via table tennis. Strange.

And that’s it for part 2 of the list, in which we went from the weapons that were just boring rather than actively useless to those that are fun to play around with but mostly too strange to hit your regular rotation. Next we’ll be dealing with the weapons that you actually go looking for in the pause screen, and in part 4 on Monday, the best weapons in Mega Man history!

[ofwolvesandshatteredshields]

Deadeye

4.5k words, rated T, pre-relationship McGenji, Blackwatch era, violence warning

Warning for eye trauma. Goes in the continuity of the Sublimation series. Someone prompted me with how Jesse’s Deadeye business might work, so I wrote Yet Another story on my #1 fav theme, non-consensual medical body modification!! Yes

——

There’s no ice.

Fuck. Jesse thinks of drinking it straight, swilling the two fingers of gin as he replaces the lid on his contraband ice bucket. But the day wasn’t that bad, and he wants to stretch this out over a couple of episodes at least. So he picks up the ice bucket, jams his feet into his boots, and heads for the mess.

It’s close to eleven at night so the halls are deserted, the lights dimmed down to pale wisps of blue blotting the black ceiling. Jesse glances over his shoulder now and then but there’s never anyone there in the dark. Probably. And who’s to say Reyes would chew him out for this, anyway? Fuckin’ ridiculous that a little gin is against regulations—

There’s light from under the workshop door.

An electric flicker, the mild scent of something being welded. Jesse doesn’t put in that kind of overtime anymore, has been done with trying to impress Reyes for a long time. So he continues on to the mess and fills the bucket and snags another 3 bags of nutrient-reinforced potato chips, which taste a little off but all in all could really be worse.

On the way back he hears a noise of pain from the workshop.

Sort of like a whimper. Maybe someone nicked themselves. Jesse slides the door open and sticks his head in. “Y’all okay in—oh.”

It’s the new guy.

Some of him, anyway. His head and torso and his one human arm are hanging suspended from the ceiling. His chest and stomach are opened up, mechanical arms buried in his insides. Sparks fly, illuminating tables piled with scattered machine parts; his unmasked face tightens. “I am fine. Thank you.”

Jesse stares. Genji. Right. “Uh—does that hurt?”

“No. It is—ah.” A flinch as one of the metal arms jabs into him. “It is fine.”

“Uh-huh,” Jesse drawls. “Can’t you just, you know…go into sleep mode or something?”

Genji levels a sullen glare at him. “It doesn’t work that way. I still have a brain.”

Jesse leans on the door jamb. “So you just…sit there. For…how long does this take?”

“Several hours,” Genji mutters.

“Several hours. Staring into space while those things zap you.”

“Perform maintenance on me.”

“So that’s a yes.”

“It does not matter!” Genji snaps. “I already told you, I am fine!”

Jesse lingers there for another moment, thinking. Then he straightens, turns, and shuts the door behind him.

In his room he drops a couple ice cubes in the glass of gin and grabs a few things. Genji is still there on his return, gazing at the floor. But he starts when the door opens. “You—why are you still here?”

Jesse toes a couple of rolling chairs out from the long tables and kicks them across the room. On the first one he plants his computer and lets the screen fan out; the second he plops himself down on, adjusting the screen to make sure Genji can see it. “You like westerns?”

“What are you doing?” Genji asks tersely. “What is a western?”

“You know, a cowboy movie? They were real popular about a hundred years ago.”

“I have never seen one. I don’t like old movies. What are you doing?”

Jesse sighs, gritting his teeth. “I’m hangin’ out with you. Since it looked like you could use the company.”

“I do not require company. You do not need to do this. I am fine by myself.”

“God damnit, I know!” Jesse snaps. “I’m doin’ it ‘cause I want to! So just—watch the god damn movie with me, okay?”

A stunned silence. “I…very well.”

“Christ,” Jesse mutters, and starts the file. The MGM logo flickers onto the screen, the lion roaring.

He’s seen it a half-dozen times but all the hard glares and growled lines still put him in a good mood. The gin helps. Genji is quiet behind him except for the hisses of pain. Jesse offers him a bag of potato chips but apparently he isn’t supposed to eat during maintenance.

Jesse slumps in the chair, his glass balanced on his leg, the ice melting slowly. On the screen, John Wayne levels threats at a highwayman. Jesse smiles, his lips moving as he mouths the words…

“Agent McCree.”

Something warm is shaking him. He blinks with bleary eyes.

“Agent McCree. The movie is over.”

“Mm.” There’s drool on his chin. He swipes at it. “Jesse’s fine.”

“Ah. Then…Jesse.”

The movie is over, the credits done, the screen idle. Must have fallen asleep. He grunts. “So? ‘dja like it?”

“I…yes. I did.” Genji removes his human hand from Jesse’s shoulder.

He chuckles. “I knew it. No one can resist John Wayne.” The glass has slipped down, resting balanced between his legs. He picks it up and glances back. “How much longer you got?”

“Not long.” He shrugs. “Less than an hour.”

“Hm. Then if you don’t mind, I might turn in. Since I can’t seem to stay awake.”

“That is all right. I…thank you. For doing this.”

“Hey, you don’t need me to watch a dang movie.” Jesse groans to his feet. “I’ll see you tomorrow, all right?”

“All right.” Genji’s enhanced red eyes watch him. “Good night, Agent—Jesse.”

“Night.” Jesse waves, taking his computer and glass of melted ice with him.

——

“Fuckin’ son of a gun shit asshole dicksucking motherfucker fuck,” Jesse mutters to himself, rather calmly, he thinks, as bullets pock the concrete above his head. That means they’re shooting from both sides now and he isn’t much for being surrounded.

Recon assignment. Right. Stockman dropped them in the middle of a hornet’s nest with nothing more than a pat on the ass. Jesse exhales as the afternoon thunder cracks outside, rolling through the juts and crags of the ruined city. Genji should be okay, he’s mostly made of metal. Reyes…well, who the fuck knows what Reyes is made of, but a few bullets won’t faze him much.

Jesse supposes he’s got body armor, which might stop some bullets if they’re fired from far away. The metal arm, too. The rest of him is soft and squishy and vulnerable to getting pulverized into meat.

He curls up, hiding his head. This building was mostly missed in the bombing the Omnics laid down here fifteen years ago but that doesn’t solve the larger problem of how he’s surrounded by mercs and he’s only got so many bullets. He sticks the rifle out the window above his head and fires blindly. Maybe that’ll scare them off. The ones on that side, anyway.

The clink of metal on concrete.

Jesse knows the sound of a grenade and doesn’t even see it ’til he moves, launching himself towards the gap in the dividing wall. As he goes something nicks his eye.

He doesn’t really feel it yet because the grenade is detonating behind him—on the other side of the wall, at least, so he doesn’t get hurled across the room, only stumbles. But as soon as the echo of the blast fades in his ears, the eye explodes in pain.

Jesse drops his rifle and  hunches, pressing his hands to the injured eye. Blood runs down his gloves, seeping into the edge of his shirt sleeve. It hurts. It really, really hurts. He takes in a shuddered breath and tries not to shout. Instead an agonized whine like a dog’s curls in his throat. Is that it? Is his eye ruined? How is he supposed to shoot? What will Blackwatch do to him if he can’t? Will they take him out back and put him down? He’d like to think his commander wouldn’t let that happen but despite the rank there are people above Reyes in the food chain.

It’s stupid to be thinking about that right now anyway because he’s about to be killed by a dozen Algerian mercenaries, not Blackwatch. Jesse tries to concentrate but he hasn’t felt agony like this since his arm got blown off in Ukraine eight years ago. He can feel the pulsing in his eye, how the blood gushes rhythmically between his gloved fingers. His good eye is tearing up but at the sound of approaching footsteps he blinks furiously, trying to make it focus. Dark shapes in front of him, and he raises the rifle in his off-hand, metal finger searching for the trigger—

A brilliant flash of silver. Shouts of surprise—Jesse would know what they were saying if he’d brushed up on the language like Reyes asked—and the deafening rattle of rifle fire in close quarters. The ringing of metal and gurgles of pain. Jesse scrubs his good eye with his sleeve.

Genji.

Crouched in front of him, blade (and mechanical arm) a blur in the air. A human shield—better; that body of his is bulletproof, and with those enhanced eyes his sword can block whatever bullets might strike his exposed flesh or try to sneak past him.

Not quite a dozen, but Jesse counts eight people fanned out in the room, one already on the ground. The problem, of course, is that Genji can’t move or Jesse will be vulnerable to getting shot, and he must be out of those throwing blades he favors because he’s not using them.

So Jesse’s still going to die, just not as soon. Genji’s still deflecting their bullets—Jesus, what’s that sword made of?—but there’ll have to come a moment when he can’t stop every bullet and Jesse will be struck—or Genji will, because he isn’t all metal—

A shadow falls across the doorway.

A resonant crack and one of the soldiers falls. That’s a shotgun report.

Reyes.

He stalks into the room, pulling fire from the seven remaining soldiers. Jesse knows he’s been angry recently—well, for years, really—but this is…more. His face is dark as the thunderclouds outside but his eyes are bright as flames. The bullets riddle him, punching through his head, chest, stomach, and legs, blood exploding onto the wall behind him. But his body hardly jerks, and wisps of black escape from the wounds. Something glimmers inside them. The shots tear into his face, shredding his nose and cheeks, exposing teeth, shattering his skull.

He raises the shotgun and fires.

No wasted shots—would be hard to waste them in a cramped space like this anyway, the shotgun spraying into the soldiers’ unarmored bodies. There’s nowhere to go. Reyes is blocking the exit, Genji planted right beside the opening to the next room. They shouldn’t be shooting at Reyes. It’s obviously not working. But they do anyway, until there’s no one left standing and just nine people dead or dying on the ground.

Reyes jams in a new clip of cartridges and finishes off the ones who are still moving. The muzzle flashes, the shots deafening in the concrete room. Jesse cringes and covers one ear with his free hand.

Reyes looks…bad. His face is ripped up, and dark blood soaks his clothes. When there’s no more movement from the mercenaries he kneels beside one of the corpses—

Genji turns, blocking Jesse’s view. “Are you all right?”

He swallows, pain radiating from his eye, tightening his throat and turning his stomach. “I think—think I’m okay. Just my—just my eye.”

Genji grasps his arm. “We’ll get you to safety.”

Kind of humiliating, if he’s honest with himself. Supposed to be an elite agent and all that. But his eye got shot and it hurts, it fuckin’ hurts—

“McCree.” Reyes now, kneeling in front of him. Whole again like he didn’t just stand in a rain of bullets. “What’s wrong?”

“I think my eye’s gone,” he whispers, embarrassed like a child caught disobeying his parents.

“God damnit, would you stop fucking losing body parts when you’re in the field with me?” Reyes growls. “Listen, can you run?”

Jesse nods, struggling to his feet with Genji’s help. There’ll be more on the way. And there’s flexfoam in the truck. Maybe that’ll stop the—stop all the blood pouring from his empty, broken socket—

“It will be all right,” Genji murmurs at his side. “We’re going to get out.”

Right. They’re going to get out.

Reyes stalks ahead of them, glowering at their flanks, but no one else shows up to get in their way. God damnit. He was almost out before they pinned him. The eye feels swollen now. Even though it’s not there anymore.

The Jeep is stashed in a storage locker a few blocks away, and Jesse climbs inside and curls up in the back of it. Reyes is in the driver’s seat and jams it into gear, the engine rumbling, tires grinding on the broken-up pavement. Genji digs out the first aid kit. “Please lower your hand.”

Jesse obeys with reluctance as Genji shakes the bottle of flexfoam and points the thin red tip at his eye—where his eye used to be, the pale green foam squirting out and filling a hole in his face that wasn’t there before. Jesse squeezes his hands between his thighs so he doesn’t bat Genji away. The flexfoam will help it start healing, he knows that.

“Do you want some painkillers?”

Genji holds up a small, capped syringe. Jesse covers his eye back up shakes his head. “I’m fine—I’m fine, I don’t need ‘em.”

“God damnit, McCree, just take the fucking painkillers!” Reyes snarls from the front. But Genji still waits for Jesse’s permission, and only when given a nod does he flick the cap off and jam the needle into Jesse’s thigh.

The effect is nearly instantaneous, a gentle warmth radiating throughout Jesse’s body. It takes a little longer to reach his eye but it soothes the frantic, prickling pain, and cautiously Jesse lowers his hand—only to clap it back on again when the Jeep jars over a chunk of rubble, terrified for a split-second that everything will fall out of the socket and spill onto his lap.

Someone is grasping his thigh, squeezing gently.  “It will be all right. We will take you back to base. They can fix you there.”

Jesse plants his own hand over Genji’s—the wrong one; his prosthetic arm senses pressure but nothing else so he switches. He’s still got gloves on but he can feel how the metal plates reinforcing Genji’s fingers are cold from the late autumn air but the synthetic flesh beneath is warm. Each bump and jolt of the Jeep makes him think he’s about to fall right apart. But this—Genji’s hand here is holding him together.

Reyes is shouting into his comm in the front seat. Jesse’s vision starts to clear a little, tears drying on his face. Genji gazes at him with steady eyes, the red glow dimmed now outside of combat. An ember smoldering in the dark afternoon. “You will be all right, Jesse,” he murmurs.

For some reason—some unknown, blessed reason—Jesse believes him.

——

The infirmary.

There’s something holding his eye shut. Does he have an eye? The Blackwatch docs didn’t really tell him what they were going to do before they pushed the drugs in and put him under.

“Hey, McCree.”

Jesse turns his head.

A white curtain surrounds them, giving them some privacy. Reyes’s hand rests on his arm. “How are you doing?”

“Hm.” Jesse clears his throat. “Uh…I don’t know. Tired.”

Reyes lets out a long sigh, leaning back in his chair. “They had you under for a long time. The anesthesia’s gonna take a while to wear off.”

“A—a long time?” Jesse gingerly probes his eye—covered in a bulky gauze dressing. “What did they do?”

“Gave you a new eye,” Reyes says. “And god damnit, Shimada, I told you three times to go get some rest.” He reaches behind him and yanks the curtain back.

Genji is there, crouched on the next bed, cringing. “I apologize, Commander. I was…concerned.”

“Yeah, I fucking gathered,” Reyes shoots back. “You know, Stockman’s really not big on all this concern business. Just the opposite, actually.”

“I—I am sorry.” He hops off the bed—

“No, I didn’t say that.” Reyes rises slowly, rubbing his face. “Just…be careful. You got that?”

“Yes!” Genji straightens. “Understood, Commander!”

“Christ,” Reyes mutters. “Stockman wanted to see me so I’m gonna go deal with that. McCree, I’ll come check on you later.”

“Thanks, boss,” Jesse says quietly.

Then Reyes leaves the infirmary and Genji sits down in his chair.

For a moment they don’t say anything—Jesse thinks it’s a moment; he’s not feeling too sharp right now. Then Genji says, “I’m sorry.”

Jesse snorts. “You ain’t got nothing to be sorry for. Honestly, I’m surprised I’ve only lost an arm by this point. You know the kind of missions they send us on.”

“No, I—I’m sorry about the doctors. They should have asked you.”

Oh.

“Do you know what they did to me?” Jesse asks.

Genji shifts, putting his heels up on the crossbar of the chair, jamming his hands between his knees. “They put in an electronic eye and…enhanced your optic nerve and part of your brain.”

Jesse stares. “They did something to my brain?”

“Only the part that is involved with sight. I believe.”

“I didn’t want that,” he blurts out.

Genji clasps his hands together, one metal, one flesh. “Yes. I…I am sorry.”

Jesse realizes he doesn’t know a whole lot about his fellow operative and that he might have just said something real stupid. “Uh.” That’s not a whole lot better. “So when you got…you know.” Batting a thousand. “When you got—“

“When they made me this body,” Genji interrupts. “What about it?”

“Did you get any, you know. Input?”

Genji smiles a little at his knees. “No. I was not really in a state of mind to be making decisions like that.”

“But did they ask you?”

“I…no.”

“Well, that’s some bullshit.” Jesse struggles to sit up, grasping the bed railing. His body feels so damn heavy. “It’s your body. They should have asked.”

Genji shrugs. “It does not matter anymore. It is done.”

The frustrating thing is he’s probably right. That’s the body he’s got now, and it’s a fucking complicated one. Putting him in a new body would probably be dangerous. Jesse takes a good look at him for the first time in…ever, maybe, the fine threading of the synthetic muscle, the faint glow beneath the vestigial ports where they modified away the tubes and wires that used to be sticking out of him. “Would you change anything?” Jesse asks. “About your body, I mean. If you could.”

Genji shrugs. “I have not given it much thought. I suppose…” He spreads his hands in front of him as if comparing them side by side. “It is very good for stealing and killing and all of the things we do here. I only wish it were good for other things as well.”

Jesse has caught sight of the side table by now and asks, “Hey, so I know you said you can’t eat during maintenance, but, I mean—can you eat? When you’re not getting zapped?”

“Repaired. And yes, I can. The food is simply destroyed after I swallow it.”

“Good.” Jesse jerks his head. “Because I sure as hell can’t eat all that Jello by myself.”

There’s a bilayer of Jello cups sitting on the table in red, green, and orange. Genji grins. “I will of course do my best to assist you.”

There’s only one spoon so they alternate. It might be the painkillers but Jesse at one point starts laughing uncontrollably at the way the Jello wobbles when he scoops it out, and Genji is baffled but laughs right along, bubbly and light.

In a little while the doctor comes in to check on him with Reyes on her tail so Genji rises and heads for the door. The doctor is saying something but Jesse’s not really listening. Behind Reyes Genji lingers at the door and waves with his human hand. Jesse lifts his own human hand and waves right back.

——

He’s at the shooting range.

His standard-issue sidearm is at his hip, holstered. His revolver is in hand.

Targets are at forty yards. Jesse frowns at the control panel, reaches up and taps. The targets glide back on their tracks. Fifty yards. Sixty.

“How are you?”

Jesse turns. Genji steps cautiously through the door. “Fine,” Jesse tells him.

“Ah. Then…it does not hurt anymore?”

He rubs his mechanical eye. “It’s…not too bad.” The surgery was four weeks ago yesterday. The soreness is gone, but the burning’s still there. Nerve pain, the doctor said. She expects it to stay. “What’re you doing here? Workin’ on your shooting?”

It’s a joke. Genji has a distaste for guns and avoids practicing with them as a rule. He waves his hand. “No, I just—I was…I wanted to see how you were recovering.”

“Oh.” Jesse stares for a second, then blinks. “Uh. That’s mighty kind of you.”

Genji shrugs. “You checked on me when I was undergoing maintenance. I am trying to repay your kindness.”

“You ain’t gotta repay nothing. Any decent person woulda done the same thing.”

“No one else did,” Genji answers.

Jesse doesn’t really know what to say to that. The target is at a hundred yards now. He can hit a hundred yards if he takes a second to aim, and he lifts the revolver—

—and fires.

He had the shot. Knew he had it, somehow. The screen shows a perfect hit, right in the target’s head. Jesse frowns, looking down at his gun, his fingers curled around the grip. How did he…

The eye. “A good shot,” Genji observes.

Nervous suddenly, Jesse taps the control panel again. The targets recede. A hundred and ten yards. A hundred and twenty. A hundred and thirty. All the way back on their track until they hit the rear wall. Maximum range. Two hundred yards. Jesse exhales, raises the revolver, sights down the barrel. No instant pull of the trigger this time, and he lines up the shot and squeezes—

A tiny twitch of muscle, his wrist tightening minutely just as the trigger clicks. That wasn’t him. Again the screen shows a bullet hole square in the center of the target’s forehead.

Jesse lowers the revolver. “Oh,” he mumbles.

Genji comes up beside him and rests his metal hand on Jesse’s metal arm. “You’ll get used to it.”

[denial-island-spn]

[Raphael’s World]

*After changing into something more suitable and making herself semi-presentable, Megs steps out of the cabin, ready to meet with this world’s Gabe.*

Gadreel: He’d like to meet with you separately --

Gabe: *automatically* Not gonna happen.

Gadreel: *gives him a patient look before turning his eyes back to her, awaiting an answer*

Megs: I’m not going anywhere without him.

Gadreel: *decides to level with her* Alright.  I want you two to meet separately *catches the way Gabe’s eyes darken on him* because I know how he is and putting him face to face with another version of him is not the best idea.  

Megs: *rubs a hand over her face* Yeah.  Figured as much.  He goes where I go.  Can we just get this over with?

*as they walk down a trail away from the main area, Gadreel fills her in on the events she missed while under Raphael’s control.  He also explains his and Samandriel’s true role at the facility and Gabriel’s long standing intentions of taking Raphael out of control.*

*Just as Megs begins to think maybe this won’t turn out as bad as she thinks, they enter a clearing, a familiar figure standing in front of a campfire, and she can already tell by the smug look on his face and the way he carries himself this is going to be every bit as exhausting as she imagined*

Dark Gabe:  *throws his arms out wide in a welcoming gesture* Sleeping Beauty arises! So you’re what got my brothers’ panties all in a twist.  *eyes drifting from her, to his counterpart, and settling on the way Gadreel has placed himself closer to her than himself*  *chuckles, amused*  like moths to a flame.  *eyes drift over her, as he saunters closer*  I can see what the fuss is about. You are lit up brighter than a fourth of July fireworks finale and the colors are just as spectacular.  Especially the ones right around *frames his hands around the center of her chest*

Gabe: *steps in front of her, giving Dark Gabe a firm small shove that is a clear warning*  Back off

Dark Gabe: *puts his hands up* Woah-ho-ho. Easy there, tiger.  I was talking about her heart.  *peers around the side of Gabe*  You got a lot of it, sweetheart. You also have quite the mouth.  *impressed* I don’t think I’ve been sassed by a human like that in centuries.  Except by my welcoming crew *grins* she is also something.  

Gabe: *his voice lowering threateningly*  How about, you stop wasting our time and tell us what you want?

Dark Gabe: *brows raising, as he pockets his hands, though his entire body continues to bounce and sway as he speaks* O-Kay, didn’t realize she was spoken for and, for the record, I’m pretty certain I have my own force of nature waiting back for me at camp.

*Dark Gabe’s brows give a playful bounce as Megs’ steps around Gabe’s side.  Her stare is appraising and he feels it tug at something in him in a way that unsettles him.  So he does the only thing he can think of and kicks a hornets nest in hopes it deflects attention from himself*

Dark Gabe: *Looks casually up at his counterpart*  You know, most of this could have been avoided if you just claimed her properly.  

Megs: *her stare bounces between the two of them before landing on her friend, her stomach beginning to sink as she reads between the lines*  What is he talking about?

*Gabe clenches his jaw, glowering at the other archangel, but says nothing*

Dark Gabe: *his brows shoot straight up*  Wait, she doesn’t even know?  *mouths the word yikes dramatically before placing a hand over his lips* My bad, bro.  Didn't mean to blow up your spot.  Especially if you’re trying to hit that officially.

Gabe: *growls* Stop talking.  Now.  

Megs: *Without missing a beat, sounding just as displeased* Keep talking.  

Dark Gabe: *amused as he holds out his hand*  My quarters are just up the way, if you’d like to go somewhere a little more private to chat.

Gabe: *his confidence begins to falter, his nerves bleeding through glare he fixes on his counter part* Sweet tart, don’t.  

Dark Gabe: *weighing in for no reason other than to stir the pot* She’s a big girl.  She can make her own decisions.

Gabe: *turns and takes her by the shoulders* You don't know him. *determined to keep her from leaving his sight after everything that has happened, he finishes the rest in her mind* I will tell you everything just don’t --

Megs: *her entire body visibly tenses and her eyes take on a wild edge as she snaps at him*  Stay out of my head!

Dark Gabe: *features become more neutral as he watches the interaction between the pair carefully*

Gabe: *puts his hands up, hastily trying to appease her as his voice becomes gentler*  Ok, ok.  I just *he pulls out all the stops, giving her his best wounded look*  Do you trust me?

Megs: *Jabs a finger at him*  Don’t even.  *glares, her anger igniting*  Don’t you dare play that card right now.  And you *turns and jabs the other Gabe* You think I’m going anywhere with you after what you all did?

Dark Gabe: *his gaze drops briefly to where she’s poking them and despite the amused veneer he presents, there’s something that hardens in his stare the longer he studies her* Easy there, toots, I had nothing to do with any of this.

Megs: Yeah.  That’s the problem.  You heard my prayers and you waited how long before waltzing in to save the day like a big damn hero? *her anger gives, revealing the exhaustion that still lingers*  If you want to talk, we do it here.

Dark Gabe: *gives a knowing smirk to his counterpart* You know, sweet cheeks, as game as I am for a good old-fashioned pissing match, you’re looking a little rough around the edges.  Why don’t you do yourself a favor and ask your boyfriend there.  You find his answer lacking, feel free to come back to our lovely neck of the universe and find me.  But, I wish you the best of luck in your travels.  *begins to saunter off back toward the encampment.  He makes it to the edge of the path before turning and calling over his shoulder*  Oh, I almost forgot.  Are you missing something?

*Megs and Gabe exchange a glance and Gadreel frowns, having a good idea what’s coming.  Dark Gabe turns and reaches into his pocket from which he produces a familiar looking key.  He holds it out in front of them, clearly baiting them.  Gabe purses his lips and takes a step toward his counterpart, only to have Dark Gabe immediately pull back the key.

Dark Gabe: *holds up a finger and wiggles it back and forth as he tuts* Uh-uh-uh, I believe this belongs to the lady.  

*Gabe glowers and Gadreel puts his hands on his hips, his eyes rolling skyward as if to say this is our great savior?*

Dark Gabe: *encouragingly* Just come and take it, sweets.  Unless… you’d like to stick around for a little while.  *He smiles antagonizingly, goading them further*

Megs: *lowering her tone* Why are you always such an ass.  

Gabe: I don’t know, but I’ve never wanted to kill myself so badly before.

Gadreel: *reassuringly* He’s not going to hurt you.  

Megs: *glances over at Gadreel* Who says I’m not going to hurt him?

*Dark Gabe is clearly amused by her remark.  Not having much choice, Megs begins the short walk back toward the path.  As she gets closer, there’s a tingle of energy across the air that makes her uneasy, as does the snap Dark Gabriel gives just as she’s reached him.*

Dark Gabe: *drops the attitude* Easy there, sweets.  I’ve just given us a little privacy, is all.

*Megs nervously turns, relieved to see Gabe is still within sight, though he does not look happy as Gadreel keeps a firm hand on his arm.*

Megs: *turns to Dark Gabe and folds her arms over her chest* What do you want?

Dark Gabe:  You’ve done me a huge favor you know that? Regardless of what you are or how you got here, my brother is running scared right now because of you.  For that, I owe you.  The thing is, there isn’t much I can give you in return, except maybe a little advice, and my advice to you, kid?  Be careful with him.  

Megs: *skeptically* Why would I listen to anything you had to say?  

Dark Gabe: *smiles patiently* Just because I’m an ass, doesn’t mean you should discount everything that comes out of my mouth.  I know myself, and I hate to break it to you, sweetness, but he and I aren’t that different.  

Megs: *defensively* He is nothing like you.

Dark Gabe:  Believe what you want, but you should believe me when I say that one has secrets.  Some of which are starting to rise to the surface.  *Megs looks as if she wants to say something, but purses her lips*  Don’t feel bad.  It’s hard to defend someone’s trustworthiness when they’ve clearly kept some pretty important information from you.  Probably for months now.  You’re probably asking yourself, just how many secrets are there?  I hate to break it to you sweets, but with someone like him?  There are more than you can imagine and what you really should be asking yourself is how safe can you ever really be with someone like that?

Megs: *shaken by the reminder that Gabe has kept some pretty big things from her, her doubt begins to show through her mask, making her look more tired than anything*  Is there anything else?

Dark Gabe: *his smile almost turns sympathetic* That was it *hands the key to her* Safe travels.  

Megs: Please tell Calli thanks. We wouldn’t have made it out without her.

Dark Gabe:  Thanks again for getting our uprising off the ground.   *He snaps and a doorway appears next to Gabriel is standing*  Oh, and one more thing. Should you really find my counterparts explanations lacking… use this.  *he hands her what appears to be a folded up piece of scrap paper* Just click your heels together three times and say there’s no place like home.  Or add a drop of your blood to it.  Whatever strikes you in that moment.  

*A soon as Megs takes the paper and safely pockets it, she blinks and suddenly finds herself back with Gabriel.  Startled, she looks around to find that both Dark Gabriel and Gadreel have disappeared*

Gabe: *catching the unsettled look on her face* You alright?  What did he say?

Megs: *feeling tired and overwhelmed by everything that has happened*  More bullshit.  What else.  *Looks up at the portal*  Can we just get out of here?

Gabe: *gives her a smile that masks his suspicions and concern* Thought you’d never ask.  

[hereisplendorr]

Here's something I wrote over 8 years ago. I was reminded of it today. I don't like the vestiges of racist, drug war language it contains; I was on the way out of having been raised very conservatively, and this piece is part of the questioning I did as I worked out how wrongly I'd been informed about so many things. There are also stylistic things I regret, but here it is anyway.

Hornets' Nest

This hornets’ nest. Family vacationing near the top of a mountain, a stilt-mounted house surveying a dirt road and a small creek, billed as “overlooking a waterfall” which is, as usual, generous. Here’s my dad, not long out of bed, pajama pants that might be comical if I’d looked more closely; next time I will look, and tell you. Dad is peering out of the window above the sink, where the eaves of the screened-in porch are mere feet away, it’s a corner, you could reach out and grab the little hornet-spit-formed baseball nest. Is that right? About the hornets using their saliva to glop together paper or wood fibers or whatever? Do hornets have saliva? We’ll have to wiki what’s sticky later.

There is a small hole pointed almost directly at our window, at my dad, and hornets are moving rapidly in and out, but it’s so dark inside, so abruptly interior and secretive that, on the cusp, only half of a hornet can be seen at a time. Unknown amounts of stinger made more obvious because there is shadow where there should be visible threat.

Actually: that’s always true.

I join my dad, and he’s sipping coffee. Contemplating the eradication of a species while he waits for the early-morning mindfog to clear. I’m holding a book that I’m rereading after four years, after that first time when it mangled my view of freedom and tried to unleash me before my socially-appointed time. I also have a pen, which I have used to make just a few marks to the sides of important lines, only remembering that marking is okay when I’m two-thirds of the way through.

Yesterday I decided I wouldn’t drink any more coffee. I usually only drink coffee when I’m with my family or with friends - I am a social coffee drinker. It is one of the few things I do only when in the company of others. However: in a few hours I will fill my new mug with coffee, conflicted and exuberant because, what does it matter? This is vacation and I have finished this book and gotten into the shower because I thought I would start crying and all emotions must be optimized, maximized, extrapolated to their fullest potential. If I’m grinning, why not throw my arms out to my sides, mimicking the spread shape everywhere? If my face is going to have this thin trickle of water, why not the entire body, enveloped and steaming, endangered and streaming? If struck with despondency, if depressed, why not also be compressed, squished down to the lowest point, waving paper-thin as I pass a cockroach under a door-frame thoroughfare, watching its antennae drop astonished?

Bordering, I will not cry. So the shower will be repurposed, become a more obvious cleansing, rinsing some of that old detritus. Cinnamon soap will hang under the faucet. When I steal a small daub of my brother’s eucalyptus/mint shampoo, I will be two flavors of gum and thrilled.

But all of that is a few hours away. On this page, we’re still inspecting the hornets. My dad says, “You see that?”

“Ikes! Yellow jackets!” I say.

He pauses, doesn’t believe that his son doesn’t know the difference. “Actually, I think they’re hornets.”

“Yes. Right. Hornets. I thought--”

“They do look a little like yellow jackets.” Maybe he can be swayed. “But that’s what a hornets’ nest looks like.” He will not be swayed. I sway instead.

“Yeah, well; I wasn’t sure at first.” But to me, hornets are mythological - a hornet’s nest looks like my neighbor Brandon when I was seven, he and two other kids from our street jabbing a stick into a bush in front of Brandon’s house. A hornets’ nest looks like I’m standing at the edge of my yard, yelling that they probably shouldn’t do that, knowing what would happen because I’ve seen Winnie the Pooh and I understand the word “swarm” vaguely but viscerally. A nest looks like nothing until the stick hits the right angle, or the hornets finish counting to ten in warning, and then it’s like the cloud of hornets has always been there, maybe we just weren’t focusing our eyes -- there is no transition between no-cloud and cloud, between scold and swarm, between poke and panic and a Hornets’ Nest looks like I’m fleeing for my house, for the safe door, and I look over my shoulder and see this single hornet breaking from the pack, approaching me at unbelievable speed, flying straight into my lens like a television cartoon. I can see its wings right before I reflexively close my eyes and it stings me, just below the juicy marble of my left eye. The doctor tells me a centimeter higher and it might have stabbed my eye out.

I’ve never seen a hornets’ nest since then, as far as I know, though I am still equipped with both eyes. I have told the near-blindness story many times, never with any concept of what a hornets’ nest looks like… actually not even sure how to tell a hornet from a yellow jacket!

And then, here it is. This hornets’ nest. Until now I’ve always thought about it like “hornet’s nest,” as though the hornet were the entire colony, or maybe just that one hornet’s nest, the one that stung me. But we’re looking at these hornets flitting in and out, and I realize it’s got to be “hornets’ nest.” The plural is visible, shiver-shocking, and in transit. Industrious little things.

Why does their jerking, flickering movement speak of malevolence and hatred? When police say, “No sudden movements,” when they’re getting ready to pin the perp to the pavement, are they thinking about hornets and how you can’t trust them to be in the same place for any longer than a second? And: Are the police aware that they have become the swarm?

“How many do you think there are in there? Forty?” I guess high, to push the threat into absurdity, so that when my dad says, “No, not that many,” I can laugh and be relieved.

“Yeah, maybe,” he actually says. “That sounds about right.” I do not laugh, and I am not relieved. Now I know that he, too, is overestimating, maybe hoping for me to deny it, except he knows about hornets and I know nothing.

“Man. That’s a lot of hornets.”

“I wish I had some hornet spray,” my dad says. He gets wistful like this sometimes. “We’ve got ant and roach spray, but if I had hornet spray I could just open this window and shoot it straight into that hole and then shut the window really fast.”

“You wouldn’t have time,” I say. “You’d have to lean way out to get the spray to reach, and they’d be on you before you even pull the trigger.”

“No, hornet spray is a… it’s a stream, it shoots like twenty feet.”

“Oh, I was thinking of the other, you know, ant-type.” Of course! Of course, hornet spray has range! If I’d been in charge of inventing hornet spray, I would have botched the first batch by being too attached to the established method of bug murder. But then: why wasn’t spider death-spray also a long-range spray? Why this gentle mist? A weaponized stream would have come in handy when I was systematically eradicating the spiders outside my new house, having to jump to get the ones - again, under the eaves, like the hornets exploiting our shelter - that were too high up, almost always getting the cloud back on me, missing the spiders and becoming sticky with poison.

“No, it’s a stream. I wish we had some hornet spray.”

We watch the hornets moving in and out for a few more minutes.

“Was that a big one?” my dad asks, piqued.

“Where? No, I don’t know,” I say.

“You know there’s a big momma in there somewhere.”

A big momma hornet. Somewhere brooding.

“What’s the structure? Is it comb, or condos, or what?” I like imagining the hornets with time-share condos. Somehow it makes them even more desirable as targets for violence.

“No, they… there are compartments, for babies, and then they build more compartments onto the outside, for more babies.” My dad might know what he’s talking about. It sort of sounds like the time he told me about the poor black people in his town who became very wealthy when some drug came into vogue - maybe cocaine. They got the jump on the market. He said that, in order to store up the money, they rapidly and haphazardly expanded their tiny shacks, adding on a few rooms at a time, or a tennis court, or in one case building an entire mansion off of the back of a lean-to such that the front door was still through the old one-room shanty, but then you’d cross through the back door (how did my dad know this? probably he bought drugs from them but did he actually go to their homes or was he assuming based on the exterior?) and into opulence like none of us can possibly imagine.

Drug money mansions. Hornets’ nests.

Common threads:

Contained danger. Safe until prodded. Best if ignored.

Other commonalities:

Piecemeal; Pocketing; Pests; Persistence; Xenophobia.

“Huh,” I say. I lose interest in the in-and-out traffic jam, of thinking that everything lately has been turning up cyclical, pendulous, and that I embrace the notion as fervently as I am opposed to its purportedly universal nature. There is stability in it, an averaging out, which I need… but there is a resistance to progress that makes me want to spit, sometimes I do spit about it, because I think spitting goes so well with spiting and that I ought to, as I mentioned, outwardly manifest my emotions whenever possible. No more bottling, ever. Certainly not bottling of spit. Eugh.

Then I’m on the couch, reading a bit more, and my mom comes into the room. Dad lets her know that there are hornets, that we have no spray (except ant/roach), and that we also forgot to purchase Off! at the grocery store yesterday. She says we’ll get some, or something, and then Dad begins monologuing about his desire to destroy these hornets, his responsibility to his family and to the future. He doesn’t want us to get stung, nor does he want the next renters to be stung, either. And if they aren’t dealt with now, the nest will only get bigger, more virulent, more dangerous. He becomes discouraged, though, as he does so often recently, without cause, and begins saying, “Or, well, maybe we should just leave them alone. They probably won’t sting us, and then those next people can deal with it. Maybe they should deal with it. Why should we?”

I have to interrupt. “Nothing should be left for anyone else to do. Ever. We should always take action, always pre-empt. You want to destroy those hornets: we will destroy the hornets.”

My dad shrugs, makes a “you’re probably right” face. Mom is a little overwhelmed by the vehemence of the statement, as she tends to be. I speak clearly, decisively, sometimes dogmatically, and she is not the only one who is put off by this. It’s something I’ll spend the rest of my life wrestling with.

“We will kill these hornets because they may harm us, and then the people who stay here two months from now will not even know the hornets were there. They will not know us, nor will they know the favor we have done them. But when they are drifting off after an unmolested day outside, just before they lose consciousness, they will know our faces and they will know love.”

“Hey, I like it,” my dad says.

“And at that exact moment, we will remember the hornets, and hope that someone appreciates it, and we won’t know that it’s because they actually are appreciating it, but we will feel that love, also, and all of our lives will be better for it.”

There is a pause as we take this possibility in, and then I say, to diffuse, “And at the same moment, the relatives of those hornets will fill with rage at our scent, and the animosity between our species will grow.”

“And,” my dad laughs, “when the world-ending war between man and hornet comes to a head, we’ll know we were instrumental in bringing it about.”

“This is the impact of our lives!”

Laughing, my dad says, “Well, we took that about as far as it could go, I guess.”

**

Does the joke diminish fervent truth? Or is it just that degree of comfort needed to survive grave purpose?

**

Tomorrow, we will discover two other nests; it is an infestation. We will get the spray. Two cans. Dad will say he doesn’t delight in their sudden end. They will die as soon as the stream touches them. The range is impressive. The nests will sop up the chemical; they will darken and drip. The whole family will watch through the window. The lead-up will be like Christmas. An hour later, Dad will be wandering the house, saying he isn’t sure it was the right thing to do. We will comfort and reassure him, because we always have.