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alecmagnuslwb · 8 days ago

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Trick r' Treat, You're Dead Meat

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‘Trick or treat, you’re dead meat, give me something good to eat! If you don’t you’ll be dead. I’ll cut off your boyfriend’s head!’

“No offense Love, but I’m glad we’re not going out tonight I look ridiculous,” John says pulling at his too tight ascot and perfectly coiffed blonde hair.

“Oh, hush,” Zatanna says, adjusting her thigh high pink go-go boots. The movement catches John’s eyes unabashedly and Zatanna steps to him tugging on the ascot trailing her fingers up his neck lightly her eyes on his. “You look cute.”

“I look dorky as hell,” he replies

“You look hot,” she says fixing his hair he’d messed up before pausing for grand effect trailing her hand down his chest with a wink.

John sighs shuffling his way back over to the couch, kicking his feet up watching the final few tragic frames of American Mary playing on the screen.

“If I didn’t know that that was going to be a very good payoff, I’d be changing into nothing but sweatpants right now,” he says, digging his hand into the candy bowl snatching up a few treats.

They’re dressed as Fred and Daphne from Scooby Doo. The costume plan had been brewed and sewed up before Ollie and Dinah’s family had gotten trapped on some sort of alternate dimension island and opted to cancel their festivities. Every other holiday plan they cooked up had seemed a little too close to their previous years that have always resulted in some sort of real life horror so they’d settled on staying at home giving out candy and watching movies.

John had tried all through the month to get her to go with some of her early costume ideas like Chucky and Tiffany or Sidney and Billy, at least then he got to be covered in blood. But she’d insisted on something a little more family friendly since kids would be at the door.

“We’ll be all dressed up with nowhere to go,” she’d said with glee, no room for argument.

Zatanna snatches up the bowl playfully smacking John’s hand away, throwing her temporarily red hair over her shoulder with a smile. He scoffs popping a Reese’s cup in his mouth, as if she can’t just conjure up more candy. She glides over to the door anticipating the ringing bell before the trick or treaters can get to it.

“You can’t do that, then you’ll be the creepy guy handing out candy in sweatpants,” she grins pulling open the door just as the bell finally rings.

“Trick ‘r Treat!” the children shout.

“You guys look fantastic!” Zatanna beams giving out heaping handfuls of candy to each member of the tiny Doom Patrol.

They all shout thank you’s as they run off the porch passing through Woodcrest’s heavy metal gates, tonight adorned in iridescent purple bat lights. A stream of kids make it to the door before she can shut it again, a little parade of varying Bats, vampires, and references to children shows that go over both their heads.

“Well, hey gorgeous,” a cheeky teenager dressed up as Fred says, winking at Zatanna as she gives a heaping handful of candy to his little sister dressed as Scooby Doo.

John walks up behind her grabbing one small piece of candy tossing it into the kids bag. “Get your own redhead, kid,” he says. The kid rolls his eyes sauntering off with his skipping little sister in tow.

The kids don’t stop coming for over an hour after that, the height of the trick ‘r treating coming on in full force. The pair sit on the steps outside giving out sizable and quality handfuls of candy that guarantee the word of mouth about how much candy Zee gives out will mean at least double the amount of kids next year.

Eventually the stream of sugar hyped little ones dies down and the two head back inside cuddling up on the couch watching the remainder of Def by Temptation. They’re cozy on the couch John’s head resting in her lap, him grumbling just a bit everytime the bell rings and a trick ‘r treat straggler shows up at the door.

The movie switches over to Frankenhooker, a favorite of Zatanna’s, just as they fully settle on the couch Zatanna sprawled out on top of John. A half hour passes and they assume the night belongs to just them when the bell rings again. Zatanna sighs, pulling herself off of John eyeing the clock, it’s nearing 10:30 trick ‘r treating’s official hours fully past.

She pulls open the door with a smile revealing a pack of five. “Trick ‘r Treat!” they all shout in almost too perfect unison their voices somehow simultaneously high and gravely. Zatanna scans their costumes, surprised by the old school smocks and plastic masks of Bugs Bunny, a vampire, Casper the Ghost, a devil and Mickey Mouse.

“Vintage, nice” Zatanna says with a smile. She holds out the bowl to the kids, “Take what you want you’ll probably be some of our last kids for the night.” They all reach out swiftly with tiny hands moving fast grabbing nearly everything from the bowl between one beat and the next. Zatanna blinks and they’re rushing off the steps giggling as they go. She watches as they turn the corner seemingly disappearing into the night.

Zatanna huffs stepping inside with the near empty bowl.

“Something up?” John says from his lounging spot on the couch.

Zatanna shakes her head, “Just some odd kids, seemed like they’re having a fun night though.” She drops the bowl on the coffee table, nudging John’s legs with her knee. He gets the message pulling his legs in for a moment stretching them back out across her lap as soon as she’s sat down. She leans forward grabbing a Twix. Just as she’s taken her first bite the bell rings again and again.

“All right, all right,” she says popping the whole Twix in her mouth licking her chocolate covered fingers as she goes. She pulls open the door to reveal an empty doorstep. She takes one step out looking from side to side not so much as a rustle of wind anywhere to be found.

“Very funny,” she scoffs lifting her hand with a twirl. “Nrut ffo lla eht roodtuo sthgil.” she says and they all power down in a wave. She hopes that will keep away any further stragglers or pranksters, she loves seeing all the kids in their costumes but she’s down for the night.

She closes the door locking it firmly behind her. She drops the candy bowl down before slowly undoing the green scarf at her neck blocking the tv slightly just as Dr. Jeffrey Franken gives himself another quick lobotomy. She slides the feathery purple jacket she’s been wearing over her sleeveless dress all night to keep away the chill off her shoulders letting it fall to the floor.

The corner of John’s lips upturn, “Does this mean I get to take off this getup?” he says sitting upright on the couch his attention fully locked on her. She hikes up her short dress making it just a little shorter walking over to the couch straddling his lap and settling down.

She tilts her head, “Eventually,” she says with a smirk leaning in brushing her lips tantalizingly against his.

“Eventually, huh?” he says chasing after her lips, getting a quick playful bite into the bottom one before she’s pulling back her hands sliding down his white sweater. “There was a cartoon crush kink here wasn’t there?”

She moves her hands low, moving them underneath his sweater pushing it up and up and shrugs, “What can i say, my major red flag is being into blonde men.”

“I’d call that a green flag,” he smirks delighting as she urges his arms up pulling the sweater over his head, tossing it over the couch.

She giggles pressing up close against him as she works at the buttons of the short sleeved blue button up layered beneath the sweater.

John melts under her touch, his hands grabbing tight at her waist pulling her impossibly closer. He delights in the little gasp she lets out when he leans in and grazes his lips over her collarbone. Her hands move to his shoulder digging in tight leaving half his buttons still secured. His lips travel down the cleavage of her dress while his hands travel up slowly moving the straps of her dress down her bare arms.

He peels down the front of her dress, his lips pressing at each reveal of alluring skin when suddenly the doorbell rings again. He groans frustrated when Zatanna pulls back and presses her soft purple dress back up to her chest tight.

The bell rings again three times in quick succession. “We’re all out of candy!” John shouts keeping Zatanna steady on his lap.

The ringing subsides stomping feet fleeing down the steps and away.

“Now where were we,” John says trailing his fingers against Zatanna’s exposed back.

“John,” Zatanna says looking over her shoulder back at the door.

“It’s fine, love, they’re gone,” he says moving his fingers down her arms curling his fingers around one of her hands pulling it gently from where it holds up her dress.

“Incorrigible,” she murmurs, not sounding nearly as bothered by the fact as she’s trying to be.

John gets to work peeling the dress back down all the way to her waist. He grabs her bare hips flipping them so they’re flat on the couch John over top of her positioned between her legs. He leans down kissing her glad to feel her brief tension melt away as he nips at the sensitive skin of her neck traveling back down to the collarbone where he started.

He lifts up a hand to his neck to take off the bright orange ascot.

Zatanna reaches up stopping him pulling his hand down to the side. “Uh, uh,” she says. “The ascot stays on.”

He chuckles leaning back down to press his lips to her skin with a chuckle, “Of course it does.”

He licks at the top curve of her breast one hand trailing across her bare ribs and up to the other breast, fingers trailing teasingly around her nipple. She moans, then moves one hand reaching up her fingers carding into his hair, messing up the perfect coif gently encouraging him downward towards the currently neglected nipple. He happily concedes freezing just as he’s about to put his lips around it when a cacophony of loud knocks sound at the door.

They both stop what they’re doing heads turning towards the door. Silence for a beat just the sound of Frankenhooker asking ‘Wanna date?!” before another round of loud knocking.

“Alright that’s it,” Zatanna says pushing John up. She untangles herself from him slipping her dress back in place as she heads towards the door.

“It’s just dumb kids, if we ignore it they’ll go away,” John argues as she gets further away. She just throws him a look over her shoulder, no room for argument. He sighs long and loud falling face first into the cushions.

She slings open the door stepping out onto the steps. “Alright!” she yells. “Very funny. We get it you can knock and you can ring doorbells, but that’s enough! Do it again and you’re gonna find out not such a good witch lives here!”

She’s met with silence, just a light cool breeze rustling leaves across the lawn, the raggedy clothes on her gravedigging skeletons flapping quietly.

She crosses her arms with a huff awaiting to see if these hooligans are brave enough to show themselves.

She takes one step back about to re enter her home when knocks sound again this time coming from the large bay windows in the living room.

John shoots up from the couch heading for the windows and pulling open the curtains to find nothing. Zatanna steps outside a little further leaning over the iron railing, she flicks her hand turning all the Halloween lights back on revealing nothing but large fake spiders in the bushes below the windows.

More knocks sound this time from the back door in the kitchen. John runs towards the sound rebuttoning some of his shirt as he goes. Zatanna rushes back inside the house locking the door firmly once again.

John steps outside the small garden in the back twinkling with little skull and pumpkin lights, the space as still as can be.

“Anything?” Zatanna asks him as she walks into the room. John shakes his head shutting the door ensuring it’s locked.

The doorbell rings again, followed by knocks at both doors. The knocking gets louder windows on the first floor shaking with the force of the knocks.

John and Zatanna rush back into the living room just as a low singing begins. Zatanna mutes the tv knowing it’s not her beloved movie. The words aren’t discernible at first, but as they go they get louder and more clear.

“Trick ‘r treat, you’re dead meat, give me something good to eat! If you don’t you’ll be dead. I’ll cut off your boyfriend’s head!”

“Well that’s fucking ominous,” John says looking to the front bay windows as giggling begins little faces popping up out of the bushes. Five of them in vintage masks that Zatanna saw not but an hour ago.

“These are the odd kids from earlier,” Zatanna says, eyes staying locked on the creepy kids.

They sing their little song again moving their heads in time back and forth their vacant mask eyes on the couple.

“I gave you some goddamn candy!” she shouts at them and they freeze mid-song.

The lights flicker in and out, the TV suddenly loud and stuck like a broken record as Frankenhooker says over and over again ‘Wanna party? Got any money?!”

Until it all cuts out, the whole house going dark for a moment. Zatanna grabs John’s arm keeping him close when after a few silent beats the lights come back on, the tv all static now. Small simple knocks hit the front windows the little faces gone now but words written across the window in what they hope is just dark red paint.

WE DON’T CARE it says in response to her insistence she gave them candy.

“Shit,” she says keeping hold of John. Glass breaks in the kitchen and they head towards it to find the small windows over the sink busted open a few of the brick gravestones she’d placed in the garden lying broken on the floor.

Zatanna drops John’s arm leaning down to pick up a shard of one of the small gravestones it’s covered in a tacky green and red substance she hadn’t put there. She dares to sniff at it a sickly sweet mixture of watermelon and coppery blood.

She drops the gravestone bit and turns to John clapping her hands together loud, “Laes siht esuoh.”

“Is that such a good idea, love?” John says pointing at the trail of goo that follows out of the kitchen and leads down the hall towards the first floor library. The least dangerous of the libraries in the house at least. “I’d say the call is already coming from inside the house.”

“Better to trap them then,” she says twisting one hand at her side. “Sriatspu dna tnemesab ffo stimil.” A warm wave of magic settles over the interior of the house. “And that will keep them away from any dangerous artifacts.”

John nods. “Then let's find the little buggers,” he says just as the sound of tumbling books sounds from down the hall. They rush for the library and enter to find piles of books in every corner giggles sounding from behind the couch.

Zatanna and John walk slowly towards it, hands at the ready. Bugs Bunny mask pops up from behind the couch tossing a handful of candy in Zatanna’s face before running off arm outstretched knocking a row of books off the shelf.

Zatanna guffaws as the rain of bite sized chocolate bars do nothing more sinister as she expected. John takes off running at the menace, “Come here you little shit!” he shouts tackling Bugs Bunny mask to the ground. The impact lands hard Bugs landing all sorts of wrong on one arm.

They struggle with John batting hard at his chest despite the clearly damaged wrist gaining the upper hand overtop John. Bugs reaches into their smock brandishing some sort of bastardized shiv made from a lollipop holding it close to John’s left eye.

Zatanna swings a hand out her magic sending the shiv carrying rabbit into a bookshelf knocking even more books to the ground. John scrambles upright as Bugs gets up from the ground like nothing even happened.

“Zee, wanna hit Bugsy here with another blast,” John says backing up towards her.

“Another hit might kill this kid, which i don’t love the idea of killing a kid,” Zatanna says arms at her side hesitant.

“I don’t think these things are kids,” he replies watching as Bugs twists his broken wrist back into place leaving a puddle of that sickly sweet goo dripping down his arm. Bugs giggles walking eerily slowly towards them lollipop shiv in hand.

“Nope,” Zatanna says flinging a hand at the monstrous bunny. “Dnib gsub ot eht sniatruc!”

The black ropes of the velvety red curtains spool out grabbing at Bugs and pulling them back they growl struggling against the magically tight bonds losing grip on their shiv. The lollipop falling to the ground and shattering into pieces. Zatanna and John cautiously walk towards the bunny once they’re tightly secured, tossing back and forth but the bonds not loosening.

Zatanna reaches up grabbing the plastic mask and slipping it upward revealing the face below. It’s not a kid, that’s for sure. The face beneath is a twisted demonic version of the mask they wear, rabbit-like features twisted and dingy gray. Deep indents run along the face where the mask had been.

“Jesus christ,” John says over her shoulder.

Bugs hisses at him, his two big buck teeth covered in red and green goop rattling.

“Gonna guess you’re not human,” Zatanna says. Bugs starts giggling at that their big black empty eyes staring her down. They whisper their little sinister song the buck teeth getting in the way of certain letters, their head rocking back and forth. “Yeah, we’re gonna put this back on.” Zatanna says with a disturbed look.

“One down, sort of,” John says looking away from Bugs as he emphasizes the ‘we’ll cut off your boyfriend’s head’ line of the song. “If we catch them all we can send them…somewhere.”

“Somewhere,” Zatanna agrees catching on shadows in the hallway. She taps John on the side pointing towards the hall where flickering flames start to appear. They step towards the wide doorway slowly, Bugs still growling behind them when a rumbling sound begins. Two large jack o’lanterns brightly lit start rolling their way jagged evil faces glowing.

They separate dodging to each side of the room to avoid the orange menaces as they rush at them at high speed. Giggles sound from the hallway, the devil and Mickey Mouse making themselves present. They peek into the room waving at them once before pulling more pumpkins into their arms.

They roll them at John and Zee snickering as the flaming pumpkins make their way to them. They keep pulling pumpkins out sending rounds and rounds of them that the pair dodge.

“Where the hell are these pumpkins coming from?!” Zatanna shouts stamping out a small pumpkin that nearly catches a pile of fallen books on the floor ablaze.

John opens his mouth with no answer slipping slightly as a huge pumpkin knocks into his legs before slamming into the wall catching the curtain that Bugs is attached to on fire. Zatanna puts it out quickly her focus on keeping the library from burning down.

The devil and Mickey take this as an opportunity rushing into the room. The devil oh so ironically makes its way to John while Mickey heads to Zatanna.

She’s quick turning from her firefighting duties magic swiping out at Mickey throwing them hard into a pile of smashed up pumpkin. The devil tries to slide through John’s legs, but he doesn’t quite make it. John kicks out at them knocking them hard in the chest. The devil lands ass first on a still lit candle not so much as flinching.

The devil just laughs and starts singing that damn little song. John grabs them by the smock lifting them up from the ground. Mickey sees this, slipping and sliding on the pumpkin mess to get up and assist their friend. Zatanna knocks him back down every time he works back up, enough times that something human would be unconscious by now.

She lifts him in the air slamming him down hard into an ornate chair in the corner conjuring up chains to secure the creature tight. Mickey struggles against it just like Bugs had but seems content giggling and growling all the time.

John fumbles with the devil who’s thrashing back and forth in his grip long jagged red nails scratching at his arms. John holds tight though slamming the devil down onto the hard back of Zatanna’s red velvet couch. Bone cracks but the devil doesn’t even flinch. Zatanna reaches out a hand conjuring up more locks and chains to surround the devil who stays back broken damn near in two over the back of the couch.

The devil's mask slips in the awkward position revealing a distorted face dark red and horned.

“How many more?” John asks stamping at a still lit jack o’lantern on the floor covering his blue flare pants in goop.

“Two,” Zatanna says her magic doing a double check on the bound three. “Casper and a vampire.”

“It’s like a bad joke: the devil, a vampire, Bugs, Mickey and Casper all walk into a witches house,” John grumbles heading for the hall.

They walk slowly making their way through the halls, the lights flicker a few inexplicable pumpkins in the hall still lit. Shadows play tricks around them shapes of the five creatures fucking with them playing on the walls.

They reach the end of the hall again at the living room where this all began, a single pumpkin blocking their way. A disfigured image of the two of them is carved into the glowing gourd the candle blazing unnaturally. From the living room a filter of random scenes from their horror movie lineup filter in and out the lights flickering like a classic haunted house.

“Well they’re talented I’ll give them that,” Zatanna says before bringing her tough go go boot down on the pumpkin. A whisper sounds over John’s shoulder, he flinches back seeing nothing but an empty hall.

Zatanna kicks the destroyed pumpkin aside stepping back into the living room. John follows her trying to ignore the jumbled whispers behind him.

The living room goes pitch black as soon as her boot steps beyond the fake cobweb adorned hallway. The whispers grow louder no longer behind them but coming from every little corner of the room. Zatanna gestures towards the other side of the room knowing that just like before it’s best to focus on one little creature each. John takes her direction stepping away from her as the front door bursts open wind gusting impossibly loud inside.

Casper makes himself known first coming out of seemingly nowhere dropping down onto John’s back.

“Little fuck!” John shouts wrestling with the ghost on his back. He knocks back into the large bay windows hard attempting to jostle the creature. Zatanna holds back not going to John’s aid like she knows the vampire who’s somewhere in this room is hoping she will to catch her off guard.

She steps slowly in the dark before looking up and snapping her fingers her magic slipping the lights back on.

“Gotcha,” she says looking up at the vampire gripping tight to the chandelier. He cackles a haughty movie Dracula laugh swinging the chandelier back and forth with glee.

John keeps knocking into walls to get rid of the ghost on his back who’s grip holds tight around his neck, not tight enough to cut off his air supply but tight enough for real discomfort while the vampire continues to taunt Zatanna.

John drops to the ground hard finally loosening the grip the ghost has on his neck. He lifts up every bone in his back cracking as he goes to reach for a weapon. He gets to the ridiculous knight in armor that lives in the room year round grabbing the heavy dull sword from its grip.

Casper rushes at John trying to take his feet out from underneath him. The ghost is unsuccessful, John swiping the sword at them knocking at the chin of the creature's mask. Casper growls rushing him again and again each time John makes a move with the sword knocking hard at different parts of the body. Each blow makes the Casper howl with anger relentlessly coming at John harder each time.

John slams the sword hard down on the creature's head cracking the skull with a splatter. Brain matter and the sickly sweet goo splash across John and the wall. Caspers mask falls to their neck the ghostly distorted face cracked open with green and red goo. Casper stumbles a bit the brain matter loss actually being the first thing to affect any of these creatures.

Meanwhile the vampire finally descends down from the chandelier landing on all fours on the ground in front of Zatanna. She steps to him ready for a fight. The vampire scuttles towards her, she stomps at one of the creatures hands hard with the heel of her boot and it hisses. The vampire scrambles upright and leaps onto Zatanna.

They fall to the ground Zatanna knocking the vampire hard in the gut with a fist knocking it off her instantly. She scrambles up a hand to the creature's throat. The vampire flails a bit suddenly dispensing hands full of little plastic vampire fangs.

“Really?” she says with a scoff regretting that not even a beat later when the vampire tosses them at her the fangs chomping violently and biting into her skin.

She flinches in pain, pulling back from the vampire. She clambers back using her magic to dispel the fangs from her skin wincing in pain a bit when each one unclamps. The vampire just watches giggling and hissing as she bumps back into the coffee table finally free of the multicolor plastic fangs.

She moves to knock the vampire back with her magic but changes her mind when her back presses against the cool wood of the coffee table. She flicks a hand cracking the table into two sending the bowl of candy flying the legs splintering off one by one.

She picks up the nearest one holding it tight. The vampire stops giggling and rushes for her the two of them landing in the pile of splintered wood. Between her pure skill and magic she gets the upper hand overtop the vampire slamming the stake hard down into where a heart would be if these things have any at all.

The vampire freezes slowly lifting a hand. She readies herself for more evil plastic fangs but all the creature does is drop the hand down on its chest. For a brief moment she thinks she’s finally killed one of these things but the moment doesn’t last long. The vampire reaches up lightning fast scratching at her with sharp little nails.

“These things definitely won’t die!” Zatanna says pulling the stake from the giggling vampire's chest batting its sharp hands away with magic.

“I’m gathering that!” John shouts back, knocking Casper over the head for the umpteenth time. The ghost still won’t go down even if they stumble a bit from time to time.

The vampire hits Zatanna in the stomach gaining the upper hand, but she holds tight to the stake. She hits the vampire square in the chest again, nothing but a delighted hiss being given in response. The vampire pulls the stake from their own chest twirling it in hand toying with her now that they have the advantage when it happens.

The room nearly freezes.

The vampire drops the stake raising a hand to wave over Casper. Casper stops their next rush at John mid wind-up and goes just a little wobbly over the back of the couch grabbing the vampire’s hand. John follows them stopping at Zatanna’s side helping her up off the ground.

“Trick ‘r treat, you’re dead meat,” they start singing their voices joined by more when thumping feet run into the room.

John and Zatanna turn to find the devil, Mickey Mouse and Bugs Bunny all giggling away bits of rope and chain hanging over their shoulders.

“Fuck,” she says hands ready to blast them with magic. John turns back facing the other two who still sing their little song.

The trio join the other two in song and rush at Zatanna swiping her feet out from underneath her before she can get out a single backwards word.

She lands on the floor with an oof turning just in time to see them swipe John’s feet out from under him as well. He lands on his tailbone and winces. Zatanna does the same knowing that land just tweaked at least three old injuries. Zatanna turns still seated on the floor watching as the evil quintet all join hands starting their song over again.

“Trick ‘r treat, you’re dead meat,” they sing their heads moving side to side. “Give me something good to eat!” they continue. Casper’s head reforms a bit of gooey brain sloughing off their shoulders. The hole in the vampire’s chest reforms their smock stained with that same goo that covers the whole first floor now. “If you don’t you’ll be dead. I’ll cut off your boyfriend’s head!” they finish giggling as they all rush out the door one by one still hand in hand, Zatanna’s magical barrier shimmering and dissipating around them.

“They just broke through my protection spell like it was nothing,” Zatanna says with a huff mouth hanging slightly agape as they wind through the front yard, zig zagging just for the hell of it.

“Uh, huh,” John says with a nod watching as the wispy smocks flitter in the wind before the little creatures disappear shimmering away just as the distant church bells ring for midnight signaling Halloween’s end. The sickly sweet watermelon and blood smell lessens with their departure but still lingers as the culprit of the scent covers nearly every surface nearby.

“Why wait till now? They could have been all over the house this whole time,” she wonders reaching down to unzip her heeled boots one at a time.

“Beats me,” John says untying the orange ascot from around his neck. “Thrill of the game i guess.”

Zatanna lets out a tired sigh flicking her hand to shut the door locking it tightly once again.

“What the actual fuck was all that?” she says finally taking her eyes off the door, wiping at the watermelon blood goo on her face.

John just shrugs flicking what he thinks might be brain matter off of his shoulder. “A standard Halloween for the Constantine-Zatara’s at this point.”

Zatanna just groans falling fully back onto the floor legs akimbo wishing for just one normal Halloween.

“I just wanted to hand out candy and have fun, somewhat cartoon crush inspired sex,” she sighs closing her eyes.

“Well we did the first two things and there’s still time for that last bit,” he says brushing his fingers lightly against her arm.

She sighs, “But all this mess.”

“This?” John scoffs. “A handwave and a couple words and this is gone.”

She smiles her eyes still closed. She raises a hand with a quiet backwards spell for cleaning leaving her lips. She feels the wave of magic clean up her, John and the house in a gentle wave. The watermelon blood smell finally gone though she knows she won’t be forgetting it any time soon.

“See,” he says and Zatanna can hear his smirk.

“Shouldn’t we figure out what those things were?” she says peeking one eye open.

John shrugs, “Only if they come back.”

Zatanna closes her open eye again contemplating for a moment. He has a point. “Well, you took off your ascot,” she says with a smile, opting to forget the seasonal creatures for now. She’ll bug Rory about it in a few days.

She hears a shuffle of fabric and then feels as John moves over her nudging her legs open to make room for him. She does, smiling when she feels the end of the ascot retied at his neck brush her skin. She opens her eyes looking up at him no longer bloodied but hair still disheveled. The Halloween lights are all back on again. The tv flickering in the corner Lisa Frankenstein now playing on it.

“The ascot stays on,” she emphasizes eyes locking with his.

“Yes ma’am,” he chuckles leaning down for their lips to meet just as Strange by Galaxy500 plays loudly from the TV.

#my fic #johnzee #john constantine #zatanna zatara #guess who's back back again #keeping up the annual tradition ��🎃

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tianshiko · 2 years ago

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#callillust #calliope mori #hololive #holomyth #shee does the thing #GUESS WHO'S BACK BACK AGAIN #SHEE IS BACK TELL A FRIEND ah no wait #oh well #hey i am back with art finally after ages and i have actually done this all today #incredible amirite

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mashpotatoequeen · 11 months ago

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WHO DUNNIT TMBS CHALLENGE: petrichor

Despite the early hour, the day is starting to grow dark. It’s close enough to winter that the dusks have started to chase the horizon, the light fleeing quickly in a never ending game of tag. Still, it is autumn enough that it’s raining instead of snowing, the earth swallowing up the rainwater in great greedy gulps. Fallen leaves cling to the pavement.

Sticky walks through it carefully, avoiding puddles on the slick sidewalks and shuddering down to his core whenever he edges his way around a worm that has been called to the surface by the vibrations.

(He used to read more books about entomology and the phylum Annelida and arachnids. He doesn’t anymore.)

Even though his sweater is slowly getting more and more drenched, his socks are dry and warm inside his wellies because of his caution. It’s something he appreciates, and holds in almost quiet smugness; Constance- who has sloshed through every tiny body of water she could find with great gusto- has been complaining of cold toes for almost half an hour now.

She keeps splashing through puddles anyway, water filling her new red rain boots, droplets arching through the air gravity defying moment by gravity defying moment.

“George Washington,” Constance says, her voice high and loud and just this side of grating in the ways that only the voices of small children can be. Sticky sighs, and looks at her, and makes sure his polishing cloth is in easy reach: there has been no end to her litany of complaints. She has grumbled about the long walk and she has whined about being hungry and she has positively moaned about the dipping temperatures as the sun gets lower and lower in the sky.

If she’s calling him George, she must be in an onry mood indeed.

(It might be the cold toes. She’s been trying to convince him to give her his socks these past few minutes, and his refusal to consider the prospect might necessitate revenge in her small, strange world.)

Sticky never does like when Constance is feeling ornery. She’s unpleasant and brash and loud, and makes a point of pushing all his buttons. It’s a battle with his patience that he always, always loses.

All around them, the rain comes trickling down.

“Yes, Constance?” he says, and tries to sound calm and curious and not full of pre-set frustration for whatever escapes the little girl’s mouth next. Reynie is good at it, but Reynie is good at most things. Sticky consoles himself that he must at least be better than Kate, who doesn’t even try to hide it. He nods to himself and trudges onwards. They must be getting close to home by now; there is only so long you can walk before you get somewhere.

“Why are you so boring?” Constance asks, and Sticky feels his lips purse. He deftly side steps when she splashes into another puddle.

“I’m not?” he says, and is a little bit annoyed at himself that his tone comes across as more questioning than firm. He walks slightly faster, taking advantage of his longer legs, but she makes no hurry to keep up. Instead, she stops entirely to crouch down and investigate a worm with a disgusted look on her face.

Forced to admit defeat, Sticky stops, too, a safe few feet away. He blinks a few times to clear water from his eyelashes.

Constance shoots him a side-eye. “You are, though,” she says, quite calmly, like it’s not something incredibly rude, like you can just say those things to people, and the storm cloud on Sticky’s face just grows bigger. He grasps desperately for his teetering patience.

“What makes you say that?”

She groans, a little, and pops to her feet. She stomps over, each step sending water skittering across the pavement, uncaring of puddles or cracks but careful enough to avoid stepping on any worms. “We’ve been walking for nearly half an hour and I’ve not seen you go puddle hopping even once.”

Sticky blinks.

Usually, when someone declares him boring, it’s because he doesn’t want to play sports, or hasn’t seen the latest television show. It’s because his words trip out of his mouth- faster and faster- eager to share something new and interesting that he’s read only to discover that everyone around him has long stopped listening. Sticky knows he’s boring, is the truth of it. Dull and dreary seem to be labelled neatly onto his skin for everyone to see.

But he has never been called boring for something as inconsequential and reasonable as not wanting to get wet.

Sticky takes off his glasses and swipes his polishing cloth over them, once then twice and then three times. The rain speckling the lenses gives him an easy excuse. The moment’s pause gives him time to balance himself on his tightrope of patience. He says, a little sharp, “Not everybody likes to get wet, Constance.”

Constance raises her tiny hand and smacks him on the side, producing a muffled, sodden sound; the wool has been slowly absorbing the rainwater over the last half hour, getting heavier and heavier. “You’re already wet!” she declares, with a victorious grin, and then smacks him again for apparently just the fun of it.

It doesn’t hurt. Sticky feels prickly over it anyways, drawn tight and sharp and a little angry. There is a worm, some feet away, slowly squirming its way closer. Constance’s eyes are very blue. It hasn’t stopped raining, and they’re out in the open, and he’s cold.

Sticky Washington is many things, but a tightrope walker is not one of them. He takes two jerky steps forward, moving out of her reach, and then just keeps walking. It’s better to walk than to snap and say something mean. He keeps his focus on avoiding the cracks in the sidewalk, one step after another. The earthworms are given wide berths.

The clouds above them are still grey and drooping, and the rain does not stop. People have their lights on, inside their houses, probably attempting to keep the gloomy weather at bay. Sticky wishes he was back at Mr. Benedict's house, dry and warm. He wishes that it wasn’t raining, or that he hadn’t forgotten the money for the bus fare, or that he’d never agreed to let Constance tag along with him to the library in the first place.

Sticky wishes, a lot. He wishes he wasn’t scared of bugs and things that crawl and squirm. He wishes that getting caught in the rain didn’t make him feel like this, all small and drawn and anxious. He wishes that he was clever, like Reynie, or brave like Kate. He wishes that he could go about his day just not caring about all the tiny inconsequential things that always seem so worrisome to his strange tangled mind, the way Constance does.

Constance, who has to jog to keep up with him. Constance, who reaches out and snatches the fabric of his sweater, tugging as hard as she can, her bright red rain boots skidding across the wet pavement. Her tiny brow is pinched. Her face is as red as her shoes, painted in a scowl.

“Sticky,” she says, and maybe it's the use of his name, or the tone of her voice, but he stops and looks at her. He would raise an eyebrow at her if he knew how, but he doesn’t, so he just quietly waits instead.

After several long moments, the rain still falling down all around them, Constance sighs. “I just want to understand,” she murmurs, and lets go of his clothes. Her hands fall small and limp by her sides. “I don’t get why you don’t do it when everyone else does. Even Number Two!”

“Jumping in puddles?” he asks, and she nods. Her wet hair frames her face like a sticky curtain, strands clinging to her cheeks. It makes her look young.

Well. Younger.

Sticky sighs. His hands fumble for his polishing cloth, and through the soothing repetitions of cleaning his spectacles he manages to murmur, “I really do like staying dry.”

She doesn’t whack his clothes again, but she does poke him a little, where the fabric is wet and soggy.

“And?” she prompts.

“And I suppose, when I was a child, I wasn’t typically allowed. So possibly I’m just not used to it.” The words are hard to get out, each one like a heavy stone that just wants to follow gravity’s course as far down as they can, to somewhere deep and dark and safe. He says them anyway, and remembers the press of neat little outfits against his back and sides, the way his parents would hurry him along down the streets to catch the next competition, the next gameshow, the next opportunity to show off their son and win their next prize

T.V. hosts don’t tend to appreciate contestants with wet socks, is the quiet truth of it. Homeless boys tend to appreciate it even less, when you only have one pair of socks to begin with. Sticky knows, intimately, what it is to be cold and wet and with nowhere to go. He wishes he were better at not thinking about it. About not being scared.

The rain falls, and falls, and falls.

Constance’s fingers are small and wet and warm, when she grabs his hand.

He blinks at her, a little surprised, because Constance so rarely instigates physical touch with anyone who isn’t Reynie or Mr. Benedict. She ignores this, and holds on tighter. She gives his hand a little shake, like she’s annoyed at him. “You’ve very silly, Sticky Washington,” she says, and sounds self assured and exasperated both. “You still are a kid. And your parents aren’t here.” She jiggles his fingers one more time, and grins just a little sharp. “And you’re already wet, and we’re almost home.”

Sticky breathes, and then he breathes again. It smells like rain, wet minerals and the decomposition of organic compounds deep in the soil. He read a book about that, once. He’s answered quiz questions about it, too. Petrichor, he recalls, the smell of rain on dry earth.

There is a puddle collecting on the road, just off the ledge. It’s deep enough that he can’t see the bottom. It’s big enough that if a car were to pass by, they would become more thoroughly soaked than they already are. Sticky turns to it, and considers.

Constance sees this, and her hand squeezes his own. She huffs, just a little, maybe in impatience, but she says nothing at all. The kindness of it echoes, just a little, upwards and outwards and out.

It is not far to jump. The curb of the sidewalk is a few inches, at most. Kate would be able to tell for sure, but the point is that the distance is practically insignificant.

It feels momentous, regardless.

Sticky considers.

It will still be cold, is the thing. There will still be worms and there will still be a lingering, quiet sense of unease. A leap of faith cannot take away from that, no more than wishes can bend reality. Sticky is under no illusions that hopping in puddles will make him right. He has lived too long, strange and scared, to think that.

But here he is. And it is something. It will always be something, to be brave through your fear. To try. Sticky is learning that, he thinks. It's a small and gentle reminder he is tucking away into the corners of his mind.

Constance is right; they’re close to home. He has more socks, and no one to stop him from doing this but him.

He breathes, and he squeezes Constance’s hand-

And they jump.

The leap lasts less than a second. The leap feels like it lasts a minute, an hour, an entire day. Then the water bursts upwards into the air, displaced by their weight one after another. Sticky could explain why easily, the physics behind it all, but it is nice, in this one moment, to see it as something close to magic.

A huff of a laugh comes bubbling up from somewhere in his chest, and maybe that’s its own sort of magic, too.

The grin on Constance’s face is bright and pleased. She kicks the puddle with all her might, sending a spray of water into his shin and thigh. It’s shockingly cold. Sticky hesitates, then smiles right back, his boot awkwardly skimming the top to create an unpracticed wave.

It reaches her neck quite easily. Afterall, she is rather small.

Sticky grins. Constance sputters. “No fair!” she shouts, but something like a laugh is hiding in her voice. His grin grows wider, tentatively, and he splashes her again.

Seconds slide past, one by one by one. They pass in a blur of movement and water and competition, in Constance growing more and more indignant at his unfair height and Sticky growing more and more practised at using it to his advantage. A car passes, and gives two quick honks of its horn.

They pay it no mind.

This is what it is, maybe, to find healing. To do silly ridiculous things that maybe have no importance to anyone who isn’t you. To do the silly ridiculous things just because you can, because a small part of you wants to reclaim something that was lost.

(To do it not alone. That’s something Sticky is learning, too.)

Dusk starts to descend properly, light slipping away past the horizon in spits and spurts and starts. They are making their way, slowly, back home, but they keep getting distracted by the temptation of large puddles and Constance keeps getting distracted trying to rescue the worms. Sticky lets her, mostly, standing a few feet away. (He thinks that this might be okay, too; this bravery in increments. He is trying to let it be okay.)

Overhead, the streetlamps flicker on one by one by one.

“There you are!” a voice cries, and both Sticky and Constance glance up. Kate comes peeling down the street, a huffing Reynie several paces behind her. “And look, Reynie,” she says, and something mischievous sparks in her eye. “There we were, doing all this worrying, and they’ve been out here having fun! Without us.”

Reynie wheezes.

“I agree, Reynie,” Kate says with false aplomb, and her smile seems to just keep growing, scrunching her eyes up. Sticky throws Constance a look, a bit wary of whatever Kate has planned. Together, they brace themselves.

“We must seek our revenge!” Kate calls, and practically throws herself into the puddle beside them. The force of her landing sends water flying high and skittering, and a few drops splash against his cheek.

Reynie releases a breathless chuckle, and then he comes sloshing in after her. Once enemies, Sticky suddenly finds himself turning to Constance as an ally. As one, they sweep their feet through the water and send a great huge wave of it in their friends’ direction. Reynie yelps at the cold. Kate laughs.

Constance’s hand slips into his own, tugging urgently towards higher ground, and they start to run.

His socks are thoroughly soaked.

Sticky, for once, finds that he doesn’t mind at all.

#tmbs #the mysterious benedict society #who dun it mbs challenge #guess who's back back again

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crescendoofstars · 1 year ago

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youtube

ride witcher ride

#guess who's back back again #i missed doing this so much but college got in the way #anyway here it is #the ride of the witcher #joey batey #jaskier #the witcher #julian pankratz #geralt of rivia #the witcher season 3 netflix #cirilla of cintra #yennefer of vengerberg #crescendoofstars #Youtube #the amazing devil

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liebgotts-lovergirl · 2 years ago

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Fire On Fire: Chapter 26 Part 2

(Ch. 26.1) ... (Ch. 1)

II Gallery II Symbol Guide II

Summary: With the Gestapo on high alert and a bounty on her head, the stakes are only getting higher for Alix as the night of her mission fast approaches. But luckily, she and Captain Nixon have some help.

WARNINGS: War, Death, Espionage, Survivor's Guilt, Nix's functional alcoholism, the usual

A/N: All disguises mentioned are actual techniques used by the OSS, SOE, & CIA! Also, Cisco is based heavily on SOE spy Juan Pujol Garcia (aka Agent Garbo) & several other Spanish Maquisards who fought the rise of fascism in Europe for years before WW2 began!💖

Taglist: @latibvles @softguarnere @brassknucklespeirs @mccall-muffin @lieutenant-speirs @bellewintersroe @emmythespacecowgirl @holdingforgeneralhugs @parajumpboots @hxad-ovxr-hxart @sleepisforcowards @suugrbunz @ax-elcfucker-blog @chaosklutz @mads-weasley @vibing-away @eightysix-baby @ithinkabouttzu

Contemporary: December 2nd, 1944. Resistance Safehouse, Signy-l’Abbaye, France.

Alix awoke to the sound of hushed voices in the hall.

Cracking a reluctant eye open, she reached for her knife just as the mantle clock chimed.

4 o'clock in the morning.

Splendid.

She must've dozed off waiting for their asset's arrival.

Silently easing herself off the couch, she crept towards the adjacent wall, her path just barely illuminated by a cool sliver of moonlight peeking through the curtains.

The voices were getting closer…

Alix relaxed instantly as she recognized her handler’s voice, dry bemusement drizzled over his every word like syrup.

"That’s all you brought, Picasso? One bag?"

There was a hearty chuckle from the darkness and then a second voice replied simply:

"They tell me pack light, I pack light."

The speaker's voice had a rather airy, almost nasal quality she hadn't heard before and a pleasant, rolling accent she couldn’t quite place.

Sheathing her knife, the spy subtly retreated to the sofa, managing to be seated just as the two men entered the room.

“Sorry we’re late, Runt,” Nixon remarked as he threw himself into his usual chair and propped his boot-clad feet up on the coffee table.

His gaze flickered over to their visitor and playfully raised his voice just loud enough for the other man to hear.

“Seems like the Spanish can’t keep to a schedule!”

"Next time, you hike the Pyrenees then, chaval," the diminutive newcomer retorted, a toothy grin appearing from underneath his scraggly beard as he removed a faded leather jacket and placed it delicately on the coat rack.

"And I will be the one to drink and complain. Besides, 'Más vale tarde que nunca', as my abuela always said."

As the asset dragged a chair from the kitchen and into the living room, Alix watched him blearily and rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

He was supposed to be here at midnight, she thought with a pang of irritation. What had taken him so long?

The visitor-- Picasso, Nixon had called him-- was in his early thirties, disheveled in ill-fitting black fatigues covered in dirt and twigs, a dark cotton shirt nearly swallowing his frame whole.

Even in his beaten-in combat boots, he couldn'tve stood more than an inch taller than her and he was so slight that his clothing seemed to hang off him like the rucksack he had slung off one shoulder.

Noticing Alix's scrutinizing gaze, the visitor's smile only widened and the American spy observed a barely-visible gap between his two front teeth that reminded her vaguely of her baby cousin.

"You must be La Mariposa Negra," he noted brightly as he sat down, placing the canvas rucksack onto his lap with care.

"There is a poem in my country called that! Perhaps you have heard of it?”

“Unfortunately not,” Alix responded stiffly, still trying to figure out who on Earth this man was working for, why he was late, and why he was now sitting so casually in the living room of the safehouse as though he were part of the furniture.

“Ah, qué pena,” the Spaniard commented easily, still seeming far too cheery for the hour.

“But probably it will lose something in translation anyway."

From his chair, Nixon yawned lazily before gesturing to his protégé.

“Agent Martinelli, meet Cisco León Estrada of the Cantabria Maquis. He’ll be in town for a few days on special assignment.”

The Spaniard extended a gloved hand and they exchanged brief pleasantries before he began unpacking the canvas rucksack on his lap.

“We hear much about you on the radio, Mariposa,” he gushed as he placed two detail brushes onto the coffee table.

"How you make the Germans afraid. It will be an honor to work on you.”

Alix was instantly alert.

“On me?!”

"Correct,” Nixon commented from his place to her right, popping a caramel block into his mouth before going on:

"Cisco is a master of disguise. The SOE calls him Picasso for a reason."

“You are too kind, my friend," the Spaniard replied with a modest wave of his hand. “I have had much practice.”

"Donovan called him in for you personally, Runt,” her case officer garbled through a mouthful of candy.

“He’s going to get you– Well, ‘Tanya’ – ready for her big debut.”

A small vial of dark liquid was placed onto the wooden table top with a plink.

"Is that iodine?" Alix asked as she eyed the antiseptic nervously. “Somebody performing surgery?”

The two men exchanged glances.

"Yes" Nixon deadpanned at the same time Cisco answered with a light "No".

"Well as long as we're all in agreement," Alix snorted as the shorter man rose from his seat, scrutinizing Alix with a pensive gaze.

The former model recognized that look and remained still, patiently allowing the artist to work.

Mumbling to himself in Spanish, the Maquisard plucked absentmindedly at the bush of his beard for several minutes as he paced and studied her features, clearly trying to decide where to begin.

After a moment, he snapped his fingers.

"The eyes,” the Spaniard stated with a decisive nod. “Then teeth. Then hair.”

∆∆━━━━∆∆━━━∆∆━━━∆∆

Breaking an ankle during jump training hadn't been as miserable.

It had been one flash of pain when she'd collided with the ground and that was it. Mercifully, the bone had gone numb. Alix wished she could go numb now.

But instead, it felt like her scalp was being flooded with lava, each strand of hair being personally seared to the root by the peroxide Cisco was using.

She'd been sitting on the edge of the tub in a robe they'd pilfered for what felt like half an eternity, letting her stinging eyes wander the cramped bathroom.

The Spanish asset, Cisco, was standing by the counter, a needle-thin brush in hand as he painstakingly dabbed each pearly tooth of the mold with a thin film of iodine just dark enough to discolor them.

Every good agent knew the devil truly was in the details.

Eating with the wrong fork, a discontinued brand of cigarettes, a discarded receipt with a traceable bank number, even wearing a certain color too frequently could all spell disaster for an agent undercover behind enemy lines.

They couldn't afford to overlook anything; Alix's life would depend on it.

But even with Captain Nixon firing questions at her about her cover from his spot on the tile, all she could think about was the torturous burning sensation of her head and the dark blue colored contact lenses making her vision blur.

"Madonna mía, can I rinse it out yet?" she burst out finally, her fingers clenching onto the side of the tub as she tried to distract herself from the sizzling sting of the liquid seemingly seeping into every open pore.

"Please? Jesus Ch-"

"Only if you are wanting to lose half your hair," Cisco responded, his sharp eyes never wavering from his work.

"And I do not think you are wanting that."

"Where did you go to school, Tatiana?" Nixon quizzed her as he reached the third page of her cover's dossier.

Alix ignored him.

"How much longer?" she inquired and the Maquisard took a quick glance at his watch.

"Thirty more minutes, tía."

"Am I talking to myself?” Nixon complained loudly. “I said, 'Where did you go to school, Tati-'"

"It's Tanya," Alix snapped finally, dropping her voice to a lower, throatier pitch with a thick Russian accent.

"Only my mother calls me Tatiana. And I was trained at the Bolshoi Ballet Academy."

Her case officer didn't miss a beat.

"And your mother? Where did she train?"

A trick question.

"This is joke, yes?" the spy asserted, crossing her arms in front of her chest with an imperious toss of her head as she imagined a spoiled collaborationist socialite like Tanya would.

"We only train with the best. And the best have always been at the Bolshoi."

Captain Nixon gave a silent, grudging nod and Alix could see him fighting a smile at her performance.

"And your dad?" he prompted. "What's your old man do?"

"He is dignitary," she responded, the smoky quality of her lowered voice adding an extra layer of flippancy.

"That is all you need to know."

Nixon nodded his approval and drew a check mark in the margins of her dossier just as Cisco put the finishing touches on her false teeth and sat them on the counter to dry.

"I must get the, ah como se dice…El tinte– " He gestured frantically as he tried to summon the English term.

"Hair dye," Nixon supplied and the Spanish Maquisard nodded enthusiastically, scooting the large box toward himself.

"Sí, yes–" he said between grunts as he tried to pry the tightly-sealed packaging apart. "The dye! Hostia–"

With a huff of irritation, Cisco flicked a knife out from his boot and began to carve the box open to get to its contents.

“You would think–” he muttered in between laborious saws. “– they are hiding gold in here, when really, this– ”

With a final, swift cut, the Spanish operative was able to dip his hand inside and pull out a small package of Auburn Allure buried within layers of cardboard.

“– is all.”

“Dye’s hard to find these days,” Nixon commented as he shifted from the sink to the wall so Alix could finally rinse the peroxide from her hair.

“With shortages and all. Kathy’s always on about it.”

The cool rush of water on her scalp sent a shiver of relief washing through but when she flipped her hair back and looked into the mirror, Alix let out a yelp of horror at the ashen creature staring back at her.

“What did you DO?!” she shrieked as she clutched at the limp strands of her now ghastly-yellow hair.

Skip and Don were going to have a field-day with this.

“Hostia, I told you not to look yet,” Cisco scolded, swatting her hand away from her face.

“You will only scare yourself. Captain Nixon, the scissors porfa.”

Alix opened her mouth to respond but suddenly thought better of speaking sharply to a highly-trained operative with scissors now in hand.

“Not. One. Word." She growled in Nix’s direction and even though it obviously pained him, her case officer made a sarcastic zipper motion across his lips and turned back to her dossier while Alix continued to violently pantomime slitting his throat.

“Ignore him,” Estrada uttered sympathetically, swiping a portion of her bleached hair to the side and clipping it.

“We are not even halfway finished. You must trust me, vale?”

Alix sighed hopelessly and rubbed her stinging eyes again as the operative took the scissors to her beloved hair.

“Vale.”

∆∆━━━━∆∆━━━∆∆━━━∆∆

Within a couple hours, Alix had gotten used to the contact lenses and even the uncomfortable dental façade that shifted her jawline but she was still getting used to the overall person staring back at her in the mirror.

The haircut and bangs suited her face surprisingly well but being a bleach blonde did not. Luckily, the Spanish operative had a plan to fix that too.

“Damn Cisco,” Alix remarked in a tone tinged with envy as she watched him combine ingredients like an expert chemist.

"You can do hair, you can paint, you can take a dental impression, you can kill a man in probably at least 5 different ways, is there anything you can’t do?”

The Spaniard contemplated the question as he vigorously shook the bottle of dye.

“Maths,” he declared after a moment’s pause.

“When I was in university, I always struggle in Maths. Painting a scene from memory, no problem, but you ask me to solve a complicated equation? This I cannot do.”

“What did you end up studying while you were in college?” Alix inquired curiously as he began to apply the deep burgundy dye into her hair with patient strokes.

“Art,” was the wistful reply, his hand faltering slightly with his fading smile.

“But I leave university when the Guerra Civil starts… My little brother and I, we fight in the war. I make it out…Diego does not.”

“I’m so sorry,” Alix whispered, instinctively reaching to touch her rosary.

She knew the ache of that loss all too well.

“How did you end up in the intelligence game?” Captain Nixon asked, finding his voice.

In the mirror, she could see a shadow cross Cisco’s face.

“I go home to Cantabria. I see what Franco has done to mi pueblo…mi gente… mis amigos… Everywhere you look, there is death."

He swallowed hard.

“That is why I no longer go by my first name... Francisco.” He spat the word like a bitter curse.

“After what I have seen…All of the things he has done to good people, all of the things he is doing to mi amada patria…I cannot stand –”

His voice broke and he cut himself off, lapsing into a tense silence.

After a moment, he gritted his teeth and soldiered on.

“So I put down my brushes… I pick up my guns and I go to the mountains, I join the Maquis. Then the SOE, they reach out to me. They hear of my background. They want to train me in disguise and–”

He finished brushing in the dye and made a half-hearted gesture with the brush as if to say Voila, here I am.

“Bueno, what about you? Why intelligence? I am curious.”

Alix took a deep breath and shifted anxiously in her seat.

What reason could she give? There was only one reason she had stuck with the OSS for so long, only one reason she hadn’t quit the spy game long before.

This operative had just poured out his whole life story to her and she couldn’t even say a name?

“M-My brother,” she forced out, surprised at how brittle her voice sounded as the words tumbled out.

“He, um…He was a Navy lieutenant. He shouldn’tve been there that morning, on the ship, but –”

She took a shuddering breath, the words feeling like sawdust in her mouth as she slowly continued.

“– But he'd stayed the night to mediate some stupid squabble. So he was with his men that morning on the Arizona when…when–”

She shook her head, unwilling to give voice to the awful words, but she didn't have to.

"Entiendo por lo que estás pasando," Cisco intoned sympathetically as he began painting dye onto another section of her hair. "We have both lost much and it drives us here, to make a difference."

"Definitely. I tried to join the Women's Army Corps first," she admitted. "But I don’t take orders well. So suffice it to say, my superiors and I didn’t exactly get along.”

She looked over at Captain Nixon, expecting some sort of quip but he appeared to be studying the pristine white tile, so she went on:

"Luckily, Director Donovan was looking for the headstrong type and knew my father personally, so he asked if I would be interested. And--”

She shrugged, trying and failing to keep her tone light.

“Here I am.”

"Bueno," Cisco chuckled. “My wife, Yessenia, has a favorite saying: 'Pan con pan, comida de tontos'.”

Alix's brows knit in confusion.

“‘Bread with bread'…?”

“A ver, it loses something in translation,” the Spanish operative expressed with another breezy laugh. “Es como...all the same is boring, no? It is good to be different.”

Captain Nixon was strangely quiet throughout the course of the conversation and Alix stole another furtive glance in his direction.

The intelligence officer was taking a sip from his flask with a hollow stare straight past her, at the wall.

He was the odd one out, she realized, and he knew it.

The only one of them who hadn’t lost anything…or anyone.

It suddenly dawned on Alix that she had never known why he had joined the Airborne to begin with or why he had agreed to become a case officer. She never knew why he was so strict with her but lackadaisical when it came to everyone else.

To be frank with herself, Alix realized she had never thought to ask. Even if she had, she reasoned, would he have given her a real answer? Probably not.

But now that everyone else was opening up too, perhaps he just might.

"Hey Nix--" she started and it was almost like her case officer sensed that she was about to inquire seriously about a topic he was loath to discuss because he hurried to cut her off.

“Say, you two mind if I turn on the radio?”

“Madonna mia, you’ve got to be kidding,” Alix groaned, throwing her hands up in exasperation before adopting a gruff, mocking tone.

“What happened to ‘no radio for the month, Runt. It's not safe’?!”

“Well first of all," Nixon noted dryly, already exiting the bathroom to retrieve the contraband. "That impression of me could use some work!"

Moments later, he reappeared, radio in hand, and plopped it onto the bathroom counter.

"And second of all," he finished with a self-satisfied smirk at the look of indignance on Alix's face. "Since we’re leaving tonight, HQ gave the okay."

Before the young agent could respond, the saccharine voice of one of Germany's most notorious propagandists came wafting over the crackling airwaves.

“–the Andrews Sisters singing ‘Pistol Packin Mama’. GIs sure love girls and guns, don’t you? Is that why some of you are lending your aid to The Black Butterfly?"

Axis Sally let out a girlish giggle so malicious that it made the spy’s blood run cold and she exchanged worried glances with Nixon, whose expression had darkened instantly.

How did Berlin know she was getting help from American soldiers?!

Where were they getting such detailed information?

Even Cisco blanched as the announcer’s words set in, the dye brush slipping from his grasp and clattering to the floor, deep red splattering across the tile.

“You are smart men," Sally purred coquettishly, somehow sounding more threatening than if she had been yelling.

"Surely you realize you’re backing the wrong horse. After all, do you know how easy it is to kill a butterfly?”

There was a brief pause and then another chime of haunting laughter as the infamous announcer answered her own query:

“All you have to do is catch it.”

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