#about a pretty emperor who ripped the world apart to avenge her family

[dotshiiki]

TBM fic (I know, what, already?)

I told you I needed to write angst. See, I read That Chapter in TBM and went to church and it was ripping up my heart the whole time and I basically wrote on my phone the entire walk home. And goodbye rest of my day because all I could do was this. Spoilers for TBM.

Sister of the Hero | Summary. Thalia gets some bad news. | 1500-ish words

(Or basically, I try and cope with the character death in TBM. Pure plotless angst.)

Her first hint that something is wrong is when Artemis shows up.

This wouldn't have been a big deal back when the goddess of the Hunt actually, you know, hunted regularly with her pack. But ever since things went pear-shaped with that Greek-Roman schism, the gods haven't exactly been flocking down to say hi. Thalia's been pretty much running the show for three years now.

It's who Artemis shows up with as well—the satyr looks hardly a day older than when Thalia last saw him at the Battle of Manhattan (well, fine, she looks exactly the same, too, but in Grover's case, it's less halted ageing and more satyrs age incredibly slowly).

Last she heard, Grover was summoned to guide Apollo and Meg through the Labyrinth in search of the third crazy emperor bent on taking over the world. The fact that he's here now, having clearly gone out of his way to find her (not to mention he's in the company of Artemis and not a blush is on his cheeks) … well, if it's to announce that all their problems have been miraculously solved, she'll eat her tiara.

'I have bad news,' Grover says.

That slight tremor in his words, borne of an attempt to keep one's voice steady that isn't quite succeeding, tells Thalia exactly what sort of bad news this is going to be. She's experienced it enough herself, after all. The Battle of Manhattan. The Battle of San Juan. The Battle of the Waystation. She's no stranger to loss. There've been too many in the past few years.

It strikes her how many more she may have to face in the centuries to come. She remembers the weary look her predecessor Zoë Nightshade used to have. Zoë led the Hunt for three thousand years. Thalia is starting to understand she was so at peace with passing on.

Then Grover says, 'It's about Jason.'

And everything stops.

It steals up on her, sometimes, these moments where the world moves in slow motion and she becomes rooted to the ground, silent and still. It must be how she experienced the world for six years (not that she actually remembers being a pine tree). She's been trying to break the habit for years now—she hates being still—but it's an insidious one.

It's actually ironic how she ended up as a tree. After L.A., after she lost Jason—after her mom failed them so badly … no, after she failed her baby brother. She ran away and never looked back and vowed she'd always keep moving. Keep moving on.

She'd never stay still.

Until she did (yeah, thanks for that, Dad).

But she's frozen now, replaying those three little words from Grover's mouth. It's about Jason.

A lot of her memories from before (she's never really sure what she means when she thinks before—before the Hunters? Before arborification? Before Luke?) are fuzzy now, but there's one that stands out clearly: the day Beryl Grace brought her children to the Wolf House in Sonoma.

'Ah, I forgot the picnic basket,' her mother said, tugging Jason away from Thalia. 'Would you get it, dear?'

And Thalia went, because Jason was hungry and if nobody fetched the food, he might try eating rocks this time (and even at nine Thalia knew a mom who managed to get wasted while her two-year-old ate a stapler was not to be trusted to keep said toddler properly fed).

When she came back, he was gone.

The hurt that ripples through her now isn't like the explosion of grief that spurred her into action back then, raging at her mom and throwing the picnic basket at her head (she thinks she may have hurled a couple of rocks as well). This is a shockwave fanning out from the site of that old wound—the one that started to scab when she met Luke (sometimes she wonders if she was so drawn to him because he reminded her of her dead brother, blond and blue-eyed and always gazing at her with those worshipful eyes … almost as though Amaltheia knew who she was missing and brought her to the closest possible substitute for family). The one that knitted into a thin scar two years ago when she found her brother at last. It is a serrated blade that digs into that closed up scar, ripping it back open.

There will be no hope of stitching it back again after this.

Thalia forces herself to move, to unroot. Her fingers uncurl one by one. When did she even clench them?

'He got dragged into your quest, didn't he?'

It was only a week ago that she told Apollo and Meg to say hi to Jason if they passed through L.A. She wishes she'd never mentioned it, never given them the slightest indication that he existed.

Hades, she wishes she'd gone and dropped in on him herself.

Anything that might have changed things.

What if, what if, what if.

The story comes out in Grover's faltering voice. Thalia touches her face. Her cheeks are dry. Where are her tears?

'Are you sure?' she hears herself say. 'Was there a—a body?'

She made that mistake once. She believed her mom when she said Hera had taken Jason. Technically it was true, but if she'd searched harder, if she'd pushed further …

More what ifs.

Did she mention, she hates what ifs, too?

'I didn't see—him,' Grover stammers. 'I wasn't with him. But it's real.'

Why weren't you there? she wants to yell. Weren't you the guide? How did it become Jason’s fight? 

But she knows the answer. She knows viscerally what must have happened. A last stand. A desperate need to save his friends. The acceptance that his life for theirs was a worthy price.

She's been there herself, after all.

Apollo, Meg, Piper—they were his Luke, Annabeth, and Grover.

The irony tastes like ash. They grew up apart, but her little brother turned out just like her anyway.

Only Dad didn't come through for Jason.

'My brother and his, ah, demigod master, are taking him to Camp Jupiter,' Artemis says gently. 'He'll get a proper Roman burial.'

Grover nods. 'I—I guess he'd want that?' He looks at her uncertainly, and Thalia realises he doesn't know. He doesn't really know the boy—the man—who sacrificed himself for his friends.

And … neither does she. For all she loves her brother … loved her brother (can she still use the present tense if he's gone?) … she doesn't know what he would have wanted, or where his real home was,  or who else he called family. She never had a chance to know him as the man he'd become.

It's Luke all over again. All those missing years and by the time she had a chance to grapple with the new person they became, she lost them. And the fact that they died as heroes isn't much comfort.

(She wasn't there when Luke died, either.)

This time, it's her own fault. She chose to become a Hunter. It's not like she regrets her decision. Not really. Mostly.

But she can't help wondering—if she'd been free of her current responsibilities, could she have spent the past three years with her brother? Would she have been with him at the end?

Could she have taken his place?

'Caligula is going there, too,' Grover says grimly. 'To—finish what he started. Apollo and Meg are going to try and stop him, but the prophecy we got from the Erythraean Oracle, it said they'd only succeed if they had help from Bellona's daughter.'

Bellona's daughter. She remembers a warehouse ambush turned quickly on its head, her knife held back at her own throat. A girl who was so much deadlier and captivating than Jason had managed to describe.

A girl who had known him better than Thalia ever had the chance to.

Thalia closes her eyes. 'I need to go there, then.'

Technically this would be dereliction of duty. They haven't found the infernal Teumessian Fox, and Camp Jupiter is in the opposite direction of their tracking. But duty pales in the face of her burning need to bring her brother's murderer to justice.

If they wanted her to put duty first, they should have made her the Roman, she thinks bitterly.

It's utter folly to challenge a goddess. Thalia does it anyway, looking up with defiance in her eyes.

But there's a funny look on Artemis's face. Part compassion, part … regret? Trepidation? Almost as if they are in the same boat.

Technically, Artemis is Thalia's sister, though she's never really thought about it that way. Now, though, the unspoken agreement that passes through them is definitely not from lady to lieutenant, but from one sister to another. She'll let Thalia make this decision for herself. She won't pass judgement.

Artemis may not get boys, but she does understand what it means to have a brother. And maybe she even gets now what it might be like to lose one.

Maybe Artemis even wants her to go. Because her hands are tied—the catch-22 of being a deity. She cannot order her Hunters to interfere even if she wants to.

But Thalia can.

And she'll go to Camp Jupiter. She'll find this Caligula and avenge Jason. She'll give her brother the farewell that twice now she's failed to say.

(There will be no third chances.)

And if Reyna Ramírez-Arellano is the key to taking down these emperors, then Thalia is damn well going to be fighting by her side.

Because she is Thalia, sister of Jason, and nobody—nobody—gets away with hurting the people she loves.

A/N: What hits me hardest about Jason’s death in TBM is imagining the others’ reactions to the awful news. And this just had to come out because I cannot deal otherwise. 

[aslightstep]

29 - Tony / ABO AU

(This is the start of how it all ever ends/They used to shout my name, now they whisper it)

Yellow Flicker Beat

When the world finds out, the people almost seem relieved. “Yes,” they breathe, laughing under their breath. Vindicated. “He’s exactly the monster we always thought he was.”

Crowds rage outside of his tower day and night while he watches them from on high. He’d had a glass of whiskey in his hand, but Clint had dashed it to the floor the moment he saw it. Clint, who had always let him be, let him cope, never treated him differently even if he was Tony Stark. Clint who was fearless, who had then shrunk back when Tony whirled on him, the remnants of the glass in between them. Normal, adjusted Omega Clint.

The Avengers are…gone now, maybe, Tony is too tired to care. (Too scared.) The big secret came out and suddenly there was a tinge of fear in Steve’s eyes, a knowing in Natasha’s glance, a shock of betrayal in the new set of Bruce’s worry lines. If Thor had been here…well, perhaps he could have kept Thor. Thor had been greatly confused by Earth’s gender dynamics when he first arrived and once they were explained, had been even more greatly discomfited.

“A warrior should be judged by his mettle,” Thor had protested. “His honor.”

“And they are,” Natasha had replied smoothly. Betas were always smooth, but Natasha was like silk. “As long as they’re in control.” 

The glass is still on the floor, the crowds are still outside, and there’s a strange beeping echoing through the floor. “J,” Tony croaks. “What is that?”

“A reminder, sir. It is time for you to take your suppressants.”

Oh, God. That had been the first thing he had ever taught JARVIS to do, over twenty years ago. Not once had it ever been needed, not after nearly a decade of ruthless conditioning by Howard and his teachers on their necessity. 

Not once, until now.

“Cancel it, J. No point now.” Tony leans into the cold glass. He can’t see the signs that people are waving from up here, but he can imagine what more than a few of them say. It’s a slogan ingrained in every child’s mind.

TRUST NO ALPHA 

Once upon a time, Alphas had ruled the world. They were leaders, kings, emperors. Strong and quick, amassing great packs filled with loyal Betas and Omegas that bent to their will. Alphas were strong, quick, and fiercely protective.

They waged wars over great swaths of land, gobbling up whatever fell in their path and making it their own. There was no individuality. There was only Pack. You were in it or you were dead.

And in the pack, there was only Alpha.

But over time, things changed. Rulers became dictators. Kings became tyrants. Protection became possession. And the loyalty of those Omegas and Betas became slavery. 

Alphas were rare, even back then. The masses rose up and cast the Alphas down. A new world order arose. Betas were so much more even-keeled, after all, and omegas just as fierce and loyal without riding the razor’s edge of madness. What did Alphas provide anyone but a lifetime of unwanted devotion and terror, never-ending instability in their constant need for control?

Alphas were dangerous. Alphas were unstable. Alphas were intrinsically inferior from the moment they were born. Trust No Alpha. They were only good for fighting and fucking. 

No one wanted them. Parents in third-world countries drowned their Alpha babies, not wanting to risk a new Pack rising up. Developed countries sent their Alphas to faraway, isolated schools with the same fear. Because no matter what Omegas and Betas told themselves, the awful truth was that an Alpha demanded Pack by sheer virtue of his or her existence. They were scared. Letting any Alpha roam free was a chance that at any moment, it could all be undone. A new Pack could be born.

They had tracked down one out on tundras of Russia just last year. Shot them all dead to a man. Tony was still surprised to this day that Howard hadn’t done the same the moment he presented. Instead, Howard had traced his mother’s lineage. Found more than a few Alphas in her line. Beat her black and blue. 

That, more than anything, proved to Tony exactly what he was worth.

“The board’s vote was unanimous, Tony,” Pepper whispers, barely audible as she chokes back her tears. She’s known what Tony was since the moment a bond almost formed between them when the dosage for his suppressants needed a re-up and his hormones had gone out of whack. Tony had torn it apart quickly and efficiently but she had still felt it. “I’m so sorry.”

His company. His legacy. Gone, just like that. Because his DNA did this, instead of that. “It’s not your fault, Pep.” Tony hangs up the call. He’s been drunk for days. There’s a Stark-issue pistol sitting pretty on the coffee table, calling his name. “Any word from the team, J?”

“No, sir.” And why would there be? He was an Alpha in their midst. Hadn’t SHIELD warned them how out of control Tony could be? He could’ve formed Pack at any moment if he’d gone off the suppressants. Could’ve bent them to his will, unmade and remade them to his liking. 

But he didn’t. Doesn’t that - doesn’t that count? He didn’t. He never would have. He didn’t want a pack. He wanted a family.

And he’d had it, for one brief shining moment. One rogue hacker with an agenda going through his medical records and in an instant it was all gone. “Try their cells, every four hours, alternating, J.” He’s past caring about appearing clingy or pushy. He just wants to talk to them.

“Is there a message you would like to leave?”

Tony looks down at the crowd outside. Hears the round table going on the news. Rhodey’s phone call from yesterday evening echoing in his head. “Tell them I’m sorry. Tell them there’s not much time.”

He picks the gun up. Puts it down. He doesn’t want to die like this. Like an Alpha. He wants to be Tony Stark.

“Tony, they’re coming for you.”

“They’re not getting their hands on the suit.”

“They’re coming for you. You’re an unbonded Alpha with more power than most of the free world. They won’t allow you to…”

“Live?”

“Tones. I’m coming, okay? Get your suit ready, we’ll make a run for Finland. Their Alpha laws aren’t so insane.”

“I’m not making you a fugitive, Rhodey.”

“Tony-”

“I love you, okay? You saved my life. Think of this as me returning the favor.”

“Sir. They are shutting down power to the building.”

“Initiate Project Nuketown, J,” Tony says. The lights go out, but Tony’s not an idiot. His penthouse and lab have their own generator. “JARVIS?”

“Sir?” JARVIS sounds almost scared now, as the sound of boots echo in their stairwell from a long ways away.

“Look for me. This isn’t the end, alright? I’m not going out like this - okay, I totally am, but it’s like the song says-”

There are soldiers in the living room. Tony grins at them, full-grown Alpha snarl, teeth bared, relishing in the collective flinch.

“’Iron Man lives again.’”

When they lead him out in a hood (to decrease sensory overload) and handcuffs that would probably keep Steve Rogers in check (never underestimate an Alpha’s strength) the crowd that has been protesting at the base of the tower goes strangely quiet. He can hear their feet move as they shuffle aside, letting them pass. High up above in the labs, a special corrosive liquid developed by him is eating away at the suits while the bots lock themselves away in a private room and JARVIS retreats deep into the Internet to hide and bide.

Tony Stark is disappearing before their eyes. Iron Man is no more.

They take him to a prison called 42. A sneering government agent tells Tony that he can go free if he bonds, which Tony refuses. “I’ll rip out the gland if you try to force it,” he tells them. “Don’t think that I can’t.” Alphas are devoted to the Omegas they bond with, on occasion to the point of obsession. They can’t think of anything but providing and protecting for their Omega. Nowadays, that kind of mental imbalance is encouraged - to keep the Alphas in line and under control. 

Tony imagines that it used to be a very profound thing, the Bond. An Alpha’s body yearns for one their whole life. But a smart Alpha is careful to let that be the only thing that does. Keep your heart and your mind safe. They are the only things you will own.

Tony is stuck in a dark cell, alone, always cold. He dreams about life before constantly. Even with years of suppressants destroying his body and his mind always screaming as its most base part was ruthlessly shut down, Tony had been so happy. He’d had Pepper, and Rhodey. He’d had the Avengers. No one knew his secret; it had died with those men in the cave and Obie. He was going to live an incomplete life, but that had just made what he did have all the more sweet.

He was warm, and respected, and maybe even loved. They’d make Pack, and gender dynamics could go fuck themselves. It had been all their own.

Now it’s all gone. 

They, of course, want him to make weapons.

“You’re smart. Amazingly smart, for an Alpha. It’d be a shame to let that go to waste.”

And Tony agrees.

They lead him into a room with all sorts of metal and chemicals and tools and he smiles. The guards are watching him at all times. But they’re watching out for an Alpha. That is their mistake.

It was never being an Alpha that saved him. It was being Tony Stark. And they can take away his money, and his toys, his friends and his team, but at the end of the day, he is what he made himself, not what his biology dictated. He is Iron Man.

It doesn’t take three months this time.

Three months later, Bruce Banner is awakened by a beeping sound. He sits up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. They had been pulling so many long nights lately. The world insisted that Tony Stark had died in the Prison 42 explosion, but the Avengers didn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe it. 

“JARVIS? What is it?” 

“I have located him,” the AI answers, clearly overjoyed. The audio seems to cut out and quietly, Black Sabbath’s ‘Iron Man’ begins to play. “It is on a loop. Repeating for over three weeks.”

Bruce laughs disbelievingly. “Oh, Tony,” he whispers, a fierce wave of longing rising up in him. He’d missed his friend. “Are you able to contact him?”

“Yes, I am. Would you like to pass on a message?”

“Tell him his apology is accepted. And we’ll give our own in person.” He stands, yanking the cricks out of his back, and heads for the elevator. “And tell the team to Assemble. Our Alpha needs us.”