#butter roll clones

[lovelettersinc]

The original butter roll reacting to his clones?

I think he’s more confused on why licorice bought out there entire stock but otherwise he’s flattered!

[stan-morley]

morley kind of mogged savage in this shot; do you think he was mewing?

[radiance1]

Vlad opened his eyes expecting to look up at his cieling.

The pair of eyes staring straight into his own was not what he wanted to see.

"I need you to make a clone of me." Danny, ever the grain of salt in a pile of sugar, said with all the tact of something who didn't just break into a man's room.

Vlad squinted up at him and scowled. "Hello to you as well, Daniel. Not even a good morning?" He groaned, reaching a hand up to massage his temple to try and offset the headache he could feel settling in. "Do you have the slight clue what time it is?"

"It's 3 AM."

Vlad blinked, and his scowled deepened. "That somehow makes it even worse." He sat up as Danny leaned back, and reached for his side table, taking up a glass with little difficulty and downing the water in few gulps. He then sighed and looked back at Danny. "What is this about making a clone of you?"

Danny crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. "Exactly what it sounds like, fruitloop. I need you," Danny pointed a finger at Vlad. "To make me," He then pointed that finger at himself. "A clone."

Vlad's eyebrow twitched at how Danny spoke. As if he were explaining someone complex to a child. He sighed, killing whatever retort was on his tongue to instead rest his head in his head.

"There should most likely be one left that I haven't melted down yet, do with that what you will." He shifted back some until he could rest against his headboard and waited for the nuisance to leave-

"Why are you shirtless?" Inquired the child that was still there.

Vlad opened his eyes to shoot his a glare and he scoffed. "Are you not going to run along towards whatever need you have for a clone, child. Or do you insist on ruining whatever peace I have left?"

"Is the clone an actual clone or..?" Danny tilted his eyes, eyes roaming off Vlad to the lump beside him.

"No, it won't suddenly come to life, it is just a body." Vlad explained as he manifested a wing to hide said lump from Danny's gaze. "So you need not worry about that part, though why you would need one is beyond me."

Danny stayed quiet for a moment, before shrugging. "You still have a clone of me though? That's kinda weird dud-" His smirk was slapped right off his smug face by a wing as he flew back a bit through the air.

He matched Vlad's glare with one of his own as he rubbed his face, before huffing. "Fine. I'm leaving now." He phased through the wall, leaving with the whisper of fruitloop and leaving Vlad in that blessed, of so sacred silence.

Sadly, it was not to last.

His bedroom door was slammed open, with enough strength to shake the entire room and cause the poor thing to slam into the wall with enough force to crack the blood thing. "Dad! Those weird birds are-" The voice momentarily interrupted by two shouts of alarm.

"SWEET BUTTER BISTCUITS!"

"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!"

"-...Why are you naked...?" Danielle said, a look of disturbed confusion on her face before she ducked low to avoid a blast of magic. "Okay, now that was uncalled for- ewwwwwwwww!" She then screwed her eyes shut and put her hands over her eyes and looked as if she might puke.

Vlad, deciding to spare his daughter from a sight only he should've seen this morning and acquainted himself with quite thoroughly last night, he moved a wing to hide his partner's... private bits, from sight. Who then decided it would be the best idea to sit down.

On Vlad's wing.

If Vlad were any lesser man, he might have complained. But he was not. So he did not.

He did shift his wing around, however.

"You have a kid?" John Constantine, conman extraordinaire, rather shamelessly took the glass offered as Vlad covered the both of them with a sheet and drank the water. "Would a been nice to know before I shot at her, actually."

Vlad massaged the bridge of his nose, a headache coming on that in no way was because of a hangover and sighed through his nose. "She was not even supposed to be here for a week more, so there was no reason to tell you anything."

To which Constantine shrugged.

"Why are you here, Danielle. You were supposed," He stressed the word. "To be somewhere in Metropolis."

A single eye peeked out from between the girl's fingers, before she let out a relieved sigh and dropping her hands. "Those weird birds tracked me down to tell you they want to meet you." Dani wrinkled her nose. "Though I think you should put on clothes though.

"Weird birds-" Vlad paused, sneaking a glance over at his alarm clock to see that it was, in fact, 3:15 AM and groaned. he dropped his face into his hands. "Those blasted phoenixes, it's three in the morning!"

Dani just shrugged and stepped out of the room. "They're in your living room by the way, the fourth one down the hall that takes the two right turns, and they're getting pretty impatient." She then paused, staring straight at Constantine, who stared back with a raised eyebrow.

Water dripped down his face and down onto the bed as a ball of water slapped smack dab in the face as he reopened his eyes with an unamused expression.

Dani stuck her tongue out and then disappeared down the hall.

"Well, I'm awake now at least." Constantine said, reaching over Vlad's lap to place his now empty glass onto the side table.

A loud screech cut through the noise of the mansion, and for the second time. Vlad groaned.

It was only three in the morning...

[suzukiblu]

currently having EMOTIONS abt your 'Billy adopts kon and it goes p good actually'. Billy's there just like oh man I'm rambling they're gonna think I'm so lame...meanwhile I as a reader (and presumably also Kon and possibly the other characters present??) are actually going 'oh my god. oh my god he's known Kon for like one singular minute and already arranged a flat according to his best predictions of Kon's needs/wants, gave Kon FIRST PICK OF BEDROOM, and has freely offered to learn how to cook AND how to drive for the sole purpose of taking better care of Kon'. like. oh my god. oh my god. Billy is so precious and I want to give him a hug. I hope Kon isn't too overwhelmed or suspicious due to Billy's enthusiasm tho lmao. (pls could there be..more? more Billy adopts kon, if possible?) anyway I love ur writing. thank you. idk how to ask from a sidelong but this is tryingahandinholdingapen btw :D

I gotchu, friend, lol. @tryingahandinholdingapen But yeah I love a good unreliable narrator, one way or the other it's just so fun peppering in all the bits of "the actual situation that the narrator is oblivious to", hahaha.

Rich people are weird, Billy decides, then sets the swiss rolls and zebra cakes and rest of the strawberry shortcakes on the counter in case Kid Flash is still hungry or Superboy wants any of them and closes the pantry. Batman’s just doing his best, he guesses. Though Billy hopes he knows how to coupon, if he’s always buying brand-name. 

Well, he’s Batman. It’d be weirder if he didn’t know how to coupon, Billy figures.

It looks like Superboy ate all of his snack cake while Billy and Kid Flash were in the pantry, at least, which Billy hopes means he liked it. He doesn’t know how much real food Superboy’s had, but Batman’d said he should be fine eating solid stuff and not just whatever he’d been getting in his cloning pod. Though Billy’d still asked if they could get some bottled smoothies and protein shakes and stuff like that to keep in the fridge, just in case. He figured those might be easier for him to eat and digest, if it came up. Or like, maybe appeal to him more, if nothing else? 

Billy has no idea, honestly, he’s just doing his best here. The wisdom of Solomon is pretty useful but it’s not really, like, that much of a parenting guide. 

He is not going to cut Superboy in half. Like, ever. Like he understands the idea of that story but also it is an insane and incredibly freaky story and he is just not invoking it, ever. Just no way.

“If it’s alright, Captain, we should get going. We’ve got a bit of a drive to get home,” Mrs. West says, then sighs as Kid Flash empties the boxes of swiss rolls and zebra cakes in lightning-fast succession, though he leaves the strawberry shortcakes alone. Billy checks in the fridge and offers him a couple of the more filling smoothies–peanut butter and banana should be more filling, anyway, even with a speedster’s appetite. He steals those from convenience stores sometimes, when he can. He can’t be Captain Marvel all the time. 

Well–maybe he could, he guesses. But he does miss being himself, sometimes.

“Thanks, man,” Kid Flash says eagerly, then immediately shotguns both smoothies. 

“Wally,” Mr. West says in exasperation as Mrs. West sighs again. “Don’t eat Captain Marvel out of house and home.” 

“It’s okay, we’ve got lots of food!” Billy promises cheerfully. “I work with Flash, I know how hungry he gets. I bet it’s way worse when you still have growth spurts to get through.” 

“It is so much worse,” Kid Flash mutters vehemently, eyeing the empty smoothie bottles in his hands accusingly. Billy gets him another peanut butter banana one on principle. He really doesn’t want Kid Flash to be that hungry. It’s . . . not a good feeling. 

“We appreciate it, Captain, really, but we’ve got snacks and a cooler in the car,” Mrs. West says. 

“Oh, good,” Billy says, relieved. Mr. and Mrs. West both give him strange, inscrutable looks, then glance back to Superboy. Billy wonders if he likes peanut butter banana smoothies. Though if he liked the snack cakes, there’s strawberry banana ones too, so that might be better? And strawberry kiwi, but that’s probably less filling. “Superboy, do you want a smoothie too?” 

“No,” Superboy says. Billy pauses again, then gets him a strawberry banana one and tosses it over. Superboy catches it, eyes it, and then opens it and takes a sip.

Okay, Billy thinks he’s getting the hang of this. But also they should probably talk about how “no” needs to actually mean “no”. Like, for Superboy he’s sure it’s just like that phase when toddlers want to say “no” to everything no matter what, but it’s still important for him to understand. Billy doesn’t want to accidentally upset him or overstep because Superboy doesn’t know how to really say “no” to something.

Yeah, they definitely need to talk about that, he decides.

[randomquadballpun]

DAY 0 (attempt no 1)

It all started out pretty harmless. That was: harmless measured by the Watson-Holmes household standards.

When John returned from work Monday evening, he expected to hear Sherlock and Rosie playfully debating the advantages of squared over lined paper for efficient note-taking or maybe the sound of the two of them battling each other on Rosies Nintendo Switch. Instead, he was greeted halfway up the stairs by hushed silence and a faint burnt smell in the air. Needless to say, he took the last couple of steps a little bit faster.

The picture that presented itself as he walked into the flat was both better and worse than what he had dreaded. His daughter and his boyfriend were leaning over the messy kitchen table, a bowl of ice, a stack of Petri dishes and a burning Bunsen burner between them. To give Sherlock credit, they were both wearing lab coats and gloves and Rosie had been additionally equipped with safety goggles and even wore her messy blond hair in a neat high ponytail to keep it out of the flames.

John let his groceries slide to the floor with a loud thump. "Alright, does anyone want to tell me what you two are doing here?"

Two pairs of startled wide eyes snapped over to him. He raised his eyebrows expectantly, as the two exchanged one quick and not at all ominous glance before starting to explain.

"We are making Ecollies glow green. That’s bacteria!", Rosie declared proudly.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "E.coli. I wanted to show Watson some fluorescing bacteria under the microscope and thought we could make a little lesson in molecular biology out of it. So we are cloning GFP into an expression vector and then transforming the E.coli with it."

"Er …“" John stared at him with a blank face while his mind tried to make sense of the information that had just been conveyed to him. "Alright?"

He could sense the eye roll even though his boyfriend did his best to suppress it – from the corner of his eye, he could see that Rosie had no such restraint. Sherlock clarified. "We are forcing bacteria to produce a protein that glows green under a special lamp. Green fluorescent protein - GFP. We have already put the gene for GFP into a piece of bacterial DNA and shuttled that DNA into the bacteria. Tomorrow morning we can have a first look at them under the microscope!"

That did make sense - sort of. "As long as you clean up properly after yourself. I don't want our toilet to start glowing green in a couple of days!", he reminded them sternly before he stooped down to pick up the bag with groceries again and squeezed past his two favourite mad scientists to deposit milk and butter in the fridge.

"Have you done your homework for tomorrow, sweetheart?"

There was an exaggerated groan behind him. "They are sooooo boring, Dad!"

This was not the first time that they had this discussion but Rosie did sound more like Sherlock anytime they did. "I am sorry, but you still got to do them!"

"Do I reaaaally have to though?"

He had to suppress a grin at the audible pout and tried to force a no-nonsense tone into his voice as he answered: "I told you, if Mrs Harkins asks for any extra parent-teacher conferences this year, I am going to send Sherlock, and no one is going to like the outcome of that." Everyone in the room winced at that prospect.

"I can show you how to do long division once we are done here, Watson. The experiment will only take another 10 minutes, we just have to spread out the bacteria over the agar plates now", Sherlock added in Johns direction.

The doctor nodded absentmindedly before faltering. "Wait, you remember how to do long division?"

This time Sherlock did roll his eyes at him, but with a grin that softened the effect. "No, calculators have been around since before I was born." He winked at Rosie but continued quickly when John shot him a warning glare. "However, I know that there is a tutorial for pretty much anything on YouTube nowadays. Rest assured, Watson and I are going to be able to puzzle out long division."

"Good, thank you." John let his gaze swipe once again over the biohazard that was their kitchen and made the executive decision that he could not be bothered with this tonight.

"How do you guys feel about ordering Pizza for dinner?"

"YES!" Rosie threw her hands in the air excitedly, barely missing the flame that was still dancing merrily between them and not in fact missing a rack of small plastic tubes that had been placed close by as well and was now clattering all over the tiled floor. "I want pineapple, artichokes and pepperoni on mine."

John caught a quick glance at his partners face before the other man dove under the table to hunt after the sample tubes. Well, no matter what the outcome of this experiment would be, at least Rosie had managed to make Sherlocks face glow faintly green tonight.

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

Troubleshooting, part 1/?

-> Will this whole series be incredibly self-indulgent and nerdy - yes!

-> The next snippet can be found here!

[floundrickthewayfarer]

Sandwich Squad

So @the-bi-space-ace and I created a squad of clones a bit ago, and we just had to share them!

Bread was a second-generation infantry trooper who was badly injured in the line of duty. His entire squad was killed in an ambush, leaving him alone and wounded. Permanent damage from his injuries, both physical and mental, prevented him from returning to the field. To save him from being decommissioned, his Jedi general pulled strings to have him assigned to a Venator’s mess hall. 

No one knows what his name was before he came to work in the kitchens. Everyone who knew his old name is dead now, and he refuses to tell his new brothers.  Eventually, due to his tendency to make extra pastries and doughnuts for his brothers, his new name became Bread.

Now, Bread is a quiet, stern clone who tends to smell of fresh bread and flour instead of artillery smoke. He is very close with Butter, a bubbly but lactose-intolerant clone who befriended Bread when he first came to the kitchens.

Their Jedi’s padawan, Sol, is often found following Bread around in the kitchens while Bread pretends he isn’t happy about her being there. Bread always sets aside treats for Sol after missions and long training sessions. His favorite treats to bake are cinnamon rolls and sugar cookies decorated to look like little loth-cats.

Pickles was cloned late in the war, when the Kaminoans were pushing to create more clones on an accelerated timeline. He was born with a neurological disorder that makes one of his legs not respond like the other. This caused him to fall behind in training. His trainers often assigned him to cleaning duty as punishment. As a result, the vinegar smell of the cleaning solutions often clung to him and eventually earned him the name Pickles, a name he hated well into adulthood. 

Narrowly escaping decommissioning with the help of a sympathetic trainer, Pickles was assigned to mess hall duty aboard the same Venator as Bread and the rest of Sandwich Squad. 

Pickles tells fantastic stories and jokes but doesn’t have the best memory. He was on his own a lot as a cadet, so it takes him a long time to trust people, even clones.

Ham, another clone working in the kitchens, immediately took Pickles under his wing when they met, and, though Pickles took time to trust him, the two became very close. They both tend toward gallows humor but also delight in playing pranks on Bread and Butter.

And, because I love sad middles with happy endings, Sandwich Squad’s inhibitor chips are defective. As a treat. When Order 66 strikes, their Jedi is killed, but they are able to rescue Sol, their Jedi’s padawan, and escape with her. They encounter the clone rebellion when Rex and Echo save them from an Inquisitor. They eventually settle on a farm on the Outer Rim, far from the Empire, to raise the little Jedi. (And they all live happily ever after, shhh, let us have this.)

I'm tagging @saturn-sends-hugs because you expressed interest in our boys. :}

@squad-724 your picrew was absolutely wonderful for making Sandwich Squad! You did such a good job with it, and it really brought these boys to life! <3

[jillianfahey]

Bad Batch Afterlife? Hunter

You weren't sure how you got here. You were walking down the street and felt the gunshot, remembered falling to your knees and things going dark. But then you woke up here, surrounded by corridors and people you did not know.

Looking around you heard someone threatening another with death if they continued talking about the dead son they had murdered. So you hurry away from those voices to find yourself in a giant room that looked like a honeycomb. The voices were coming up behind you so you quickly begin to climb down it and hid from people in the shadows of the darkened room.

Quickly darting though the ground floor you found another door that lead to more corridors. Then you realized that you were feeling a breeze and looked at your clothing for the first time. Or your lack of it.

That morning you had dressed in a long sleeved sweater, jeans, and boots due to it being cold out. Now you were wearing a sleeveless garment that fell to your mid thigh, and very little else. Looking around you found that the doors had names on them. Maybe this place had a room for you where you could find a more stable outfit while you figured out what was going on.

Hurrying forward you found that there were less and less female sounds coming from the rooms around you. It was starting to be only male sounds. And that was something you remembered too well from your days as a slave.

You wanted to go back but by now you were well and truly lost. Panicking you started to hear a voice, no multiple voices that sounded almost identical. CLONES!

Instantly your mind jumped to Hunter, with his warm eyes and advanced senses always ready to protect his squad. Hurrying through the mass of bodies you started asking about him by describing his signature bandana and facial tattoo. Then that smoky voice came over your shoulder, "Y/N?"

Spinning quickly in place you see him, and immediately run to him hitting his chest hard enough to make him stumble slightly, "Hunter!" Pressing your face against his neck, "Your here."

His arms wrapped securely around you before you heard his voice say, "I've got you." And in that moment you knew that you were safe. Feeling him pull away slightly, "Lets get you out of the open."

You were still pressed against his side in not quite a hug, but not daring to fully let him as he lead you down the twisting hallways to a door, opening it to show an apartment. Closing the door securely behind the two of you, the arm around your waist bringing you to a bedroom. Your knees give out from under you and you sit on the bed hard, before looking up to see him digging though some drawers for something. Pulling out some sweatpants and a T-shirt he brought it over to the bed and set them next to you. "I'll be in the living room if you need me," he reassures you before leaving the room and shutting the door behind him.

A smile breaks over your face as you quickly stand up to change. Of course he would make sure you would have clothes you feel comfortable in before talking about everything that had happened. Hunter was just kind and thoughtful like that.

When you emerged after changing he was standing at the stove with a boiling pot and turned to see you. He froze, watching you before you speak, "Hunter?"

Shaking his head once, "Sorry, I was just working on the stew from lunch yesterday."

That brought out another smile as you move to sit down at the table, "Stew sounds fantastic." He always thought of his family/squad first and took care of them so well. But then a thought hit you, "Shouldn't we wait for the others before we eat?"

Hunter just shook his head, "No, they won't mind." Setting a full bowl of stew in front of you before asking, "Is there anything you'd like to drink?" Hearing you would like some water he quickly got the full jug and set it next to you with a glass for you to refill as often as you wanted. And then there was a small plate, a full basket of rolls and a container of butter put next to your bowl as well as a knife for the butter. You beamed at him again, he really was too kind to you. His squad should be home soon though if he was setting all of this out.

That made you think of a question, "How long have you been here?" Seeing his face fall, "I just have been sending you messages for months and you haven't responded..." His facial expresstion became more complicated and the two of you started talking about the place you were and how the two of you, and his squad all came to be there.

******************

*Authors Note* I am sorry that this took so long. I will try to get Hunter's POV out soon. My brain has decided to change hyperfixations and it has been a struggle to focus. But I have not forgotten!

[moe-draws-stuff]

[SPOILERS!]

Usually I post art, but this time it's a little theory of some sort.

I think Matcha reacted that way because she has similarities with that dough. Matcha is a failed clone of DE (as far as I know) with a missing ingredient, and that dough is a failed experiment

The way Butter Roll Cookie simply dumped it might've made her think that her team might leave her like that too. Like something useless, "a waste of perfectly good dough".

[hugemilkshake]

Perhaps butter roll meeting a clone of himself while y/n is confused?

Here’s your milkshake! Now when I got this I immediately thought of the double Spider-Man meme so with this power, that’s what I did.

-silly scenario-

All the other researchers left, they didn’t want to hear the two Butter Roll Cookies arguing. But Y/N Cookie, was unaware of this clone business. So they were left, very confused.

[sadly-in-active]

Watch Butter Roll get silly 12x because one of his experiments worked (remember that dumbass crying baby) and so he tries to mass clone all of them so there’s a whole fucking army of crying babies who could be used as weapons

[lovelettersinc]

*LAUGHS MANIACALLY AS I AM MAKING M O R E C L O N E S*

You rn

[ricky-tiki-tah]

Egos and Others

Dave joins the Family Iplier.

—Story Time—

Dave had no idea how he got to the manor. He remembered falling asleep in the dream walker’s village, then opening his eyes to a large oak door. He frowned in confusion, turning around to get a look at his surroundings. He appeared to be on the porch of a large mansion, it’s grounds spreading out to a forest that seemed to circle the place.

The door opened then to reveal a boy with what looked to be peanut butter spread all over his face. “Uh, hi? I don’t know how I…“

The boy blinked up at him before turning to yell back into to house. “Dark, Wil, Mark made another one!” He turned back around with a smile. “Hi, I’m Artie, King Of The Squirrels!”

“Uh, Dave Torres. Nice to meet you? Do you know where we are?”

“Yep! Iplier Manor!”

“Home to the Egos and Others of one Mark Edward Fischbach.” A monochrome figure appeared behind Artie, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I am Darkiplier, head of this household. Who might you be?”

Dave stepped back a little bit, watching the figure warily. They seemed to be cloaked in chromatic aberrations of blue and red while remaining black and white. “I’m David Torres. What were you saying? Egos? Who’s Mark?”

Darkiplier smiled, not unkindly, and stepped aside. “Come on inside and I can fill you in. Artie, will you grab Wilford for me? I believe he was in the kitchen.”

The boy nodded and raced off as Dark showed Dave inside and to what looked to be a living room.

“I’m sure you have many questions and I will be happy to answer any after I explain.” Dark started, gesturing to the couch as he sat in one of the armchairs. Dave took a seat, deciding to go with whatever the hell was happening in what he was still assuming to be a dream.

“As I said before, this place is called Iplier Manor after a man named Mark Fischbach, more commonly known by his media moniker of Markiplier. The people who live here are called Egos. As you may have noticed, we share a face. Everyone here shares the same face, though some might be younger than others such as King, who you’ve just seen.”

Dave was starting to think that this was entirely too detailed to be a dream. “You mean like clones? Like in Star Wars?”

At this moment, a bubbly man with a pink mustache and pink striped hair bounced into the room, plopping down on the arm of Dark’s chair. “Oh hey, a new one! Wilford Warfstache, pleasure to finally meet you Dave!”

Dave blinked. “How did you-?”

“Dark was thinking especially loudly.” At this the pink man turned to the other with a raised eyebrow. “I can hear you just fine without you shouting all the time you know.”

Dark rolled his eyes. “Yes, I was only making sure you were paying attention. Dave, this is Wilford, my partner. As I was about to say before I was rudely interrupted,” he shot a glare at the bubblegum man, “No, we are not clones of Mark. Most of us are characters made from videos on the man’s YouTube channel, given life by his audience. The few Others, who you will assuredly meet in time, are characters that he has played for something else. Egos already have previous knowledge of Mark, and as you appear to have no idea who the man is, that would make you an Other.”

Dave took a minute to let that sink in, staring at the two and pinching himself in hopes that he would wake up from this dream that was rapidly getting weirder. “But that-that doesn’t make any sense! You’re saying that I’m just a character that some guy’s played in a story! That I’m not real?!”

“Oh no, you’re real alright.” Wilford spoke up in an attempt at reassurance.

Dave frowned. “But you said-“

Wilford put a finger to Dave’s lips, startling him. “No ifs, ands, or buts about it! You’re here right? We’re all here, every single one of us. Just because we were all made to be characters by one man, doesn’t mean that we’re not real. Being a character doesn’t make us not real. I mean, think of who you are, who you were before you got here. That was real, right?” He ruffled his hair. “You certainly feel real.”

“What Wilford is saying is that though we may all be a byproduct of someone else’s imagination, we do, in fact, exist.” Dark interjected. “Everything you experienced before you Arrived was real for you. That’s the special thing about Others, you all have your own stories that the rest of us were not a part of. You could even say that you’ve lived more than most of us with such a detailed backstory. If it’s easier, you can think of this place as a sort of parallel universe where other versions of yourself live.”

That was a little easier to accept, Dave figured, thinking it over. “Can I go back home?”

Dark and Wilford exchanged looks before Dark replied. “I will have to ask Mark about that when I speak to him later. You would be the first Other who wants to go back. Most of us do not have …fun backstories.”

Dave thought back on the past couple days and the horrors he’d seen with a grimace. Now that he thought about it, he wasn’t particularly sure he wanted to go back to a world like the one he’d apparently just left.

Wilford seemed like he wanted to say something, his eyes glittering like he knew something, but he kept his mouth shut, instead hopping to his feet. “Well Dave, let’s go find your room! Everyone has one and I’m sure the old place has made yours by now!”

Dave glanced between the two before following after the pink man at Darkiplier’s nod.

Dark sighed after the two disappeared from sight. “Oh Mark, when will you make someone with a happy backstory?” They slipped through the void to their office, already planning out the text he’d be sending to the man himself.

[fallingblueroses]

Something completely unrelated to anything but it's been a bad couple of days and I needed something to laugh at.

Starts out with Kathy coming home after taking William from school and going shopping.

I have no idea of Geoff's preferences on milk.

***

Kathy was unbagging groceries in the kitchen when Geoff came up behind her. "Hey beautiful."

She smiled without turning around. "Hi. How's work going?"

"It's going." He put his hands on her shoulders and began to rub little circles on her neck with his thumbs. "How was shopping?"

She sighed and leaned forward a little. "They were all out of almond milk."

"Two percent will do."

She blinked. "Really? You hate two percent."

"I have other things to think about." He gently turned her around. "Like the pretty little woman in front of me." He kissed her forehead.

Oh, he's in a mood. "I have to finish putting the groceries away."

"Later." He lifted her up to sit on the counter and kissed her lips.

She sighed and kissed him back. "All right. But don't complain when the butter melts." She put her arms around his neck as they kissed back and forth. After a few kisses his hands gently held her waist and pulled her closer--

"Hey. HEY!" Kathy jumped at the new voice, and her mouth dropped to see a second Geoff walking in. He pointed at the first Geoff with each word. "No. Wrong. Error."

The Geoff holding Kathy scowled. "What do you mean, 'error'? She's my wife!"

"She's as much my wife as she is yours!And we have to eat food prepared on that counter and I don't want to have to sanitize everything again! Take it to the bedroom."

"I can't. Goff's taking a shower in the ensuite."

The second Geoff rolled his eyes. "Then use the living room couch."

"Jeff's on the couch."

A third Geoff's voice yelled from the living room. "And I'm trying to sleep!"

The second Geoff threw his arms out. "It's the middle of the morning!"

Kathy nearly passed out when she saw the third Geoff walk into the kitchen. "And we were up half the night because you wouldn't stop working, Jeoph. It's no wonder our host is starting to burn out."

Jeoph put his hands on his hips and glared at Jeff. "Someone has to. Or are you forgetting how Kathy gets the money to go shopping?"

Jeff opened his mouth, but then Goff walked in wearing nothing but a towel. "Ah, that was invigorating! Nothing like an ice cold shower after a five mile run." He ignored the others as he walked up and kissed Kathy on the cheek. "Hi Kath. Did you get the almond milk?"

"...They were out." Kathy wasn't sure whether to laugh or scream.

"Oh well." Goff walked to the refrigerator. "Banana and kale smoothie it is then." Daryl gagged at that.

Kathy hopped off the counter and walked a few paces away from the group. "...Where's Geoff? The original Geoff?"

"In the studio," the four men replied in unison.

"Right. Thanks." She quickly walked to Geoff's studio as the four kept arguing behind her. When she got there, Geoff was sitting on the floor with a dazed expression on his face. "...Geoff? Are you okay?"

He looked up at her and an almost childlike smile came over his face, but he didn't say anything. Kathy stared at him, unsure of what to do, for several seconds. The sound of the juicer and the four clones arguing came from the kitchen.

Her phone rang, and she saw it was Eli. "Hello?"

"Hi Kathy. Everything okay over there? The four of us were supposed to have a video call and Geoff hasn't joined. He's not answering his phone."

She began to laugh hysterically as the absurdity of the situation set in. "You want to talk to Geoff? Come on over and pick one!"

[pinkvaquita]

Saw the original of this trend ( i don't know if it is a trend) from @a-weird-bean-bag

And I had to do my take of it (original under the cut)

This is what happens when you let Butter roll make clones

[iamprchung]

The Spider and the FBI: Part 7 "Paradise Syndrome"

Synopsis by guest writer Jose Chung (written prior to his apparent death at the hands of the Nostradamus Nutball):

Now, grab your Stetsons, conspiracy cowboys, 'cause we're moseying on over to Elmo, Wyoming. Here, amidst the questionable barbeque and dazzling fireworks of the 4th of July festivities, we find Agent Scully embroiled in a situation more perplexing than a malfunctioning weather balloon.

In strides Sheriff Lawrence Durokoff, a man carved from the same government-issue granite as Assistant Director Skinner, only with a grin brighter than a chrome bumper on a brand-new pickup truck. Was it a case of cloning gone wrong? Or perhaps long-lost twins separated by, well, let's just say a misplaced birth certificate (we can delve into government conspiracies all day, but identical twins are a stretch even for this jaded scribe).

The truth, as always, is stranger than the wildest fan fiction. The undeniable spark between Scully and Sheriff Durokoff has tongues wagging about a future filled with calico dresses and prairie sunburns instead of chasing shadows in the bureaucratic labyrinth.  Is our favorite redhead about to trade her badge for a butter churn? Only time, and perhaps a strategically placed horseshoe (it's a small town, after all) will tell!

Notes: Yes, I sure did title this after a Star Trek episode.

"Paradise Syndrome"

Part VIII of "The Spider and the FBI"

by PR Chung

Preface/Notes:

Just reading through this, even after all these years, I recognize exactly where one of my very best friends and amazing author assisted with this story. I know her work is still out there somewhere as she was one of the originals in the X-Files fiction fandom, authoring stories that are still amazing. None other than the very talented Paula B. Her ability to turn a phrase cannot be surpassed, and it’s a joy to read passages I know she helped on.

*************************

Elmo, Wyoming July 4th

By the time she hung up the phone from her conversation with Mulder, Scully's hair was nearly dry from her shower. She got up from the bed and went to the window, drawing back the curtains of her hotel room to look out on the street below.

Nothing much had changed except for the layer of increasing smoke drifting up through the trees from the square. How many barbecues were going? She wondered. And what were they cooking? Burgers and hot dogs? Roasting corn snugly rolled in foil? Brisket and ribs, too?

Her stomach gurgled.

Trying to remember the last meal she'd eaten she turned to go check on her blouse. It was hanging to dry in the bathroom after a lame attempt to clean it in the porcelain basin. It was a very nice bathroom, just not very functional.

The entire room was very nice, as was the whole hotel. Small and quaint, just a few rooms sitting atop a gift shop and cafe. Heavy in small town charm and light on the amenities; a bed, chest of drawers, mirror, and nightstand. No television, no radio, and the phone had to be brought up specially for her room, as had the one taken into Skinner's room down the hall.

His would undoubtedly be of heavier use than hers she presumed as she touched the still damp fabric of her blue blouse. He wasn't pleased in the least about either the situation or the location, and he apparently wanted out as fast as humanly possible.

He had been on the phone at the Sheriff's station the entire time it took to get Bernstein squared away in the holding cell. There was nothing but skeleton crews of federal workers manning the phones in Denver and Salt Lake City. Calling Washington hadn't been much help either; apparently all he had gotten was an ear full of instructions to get Bernstein back there for trial- come hell or high water.

Sure, they could get a flight out of Laramie or Cheyenne in the morning or even tonight if they were lucky enough that the agents from the Casper field operation should show up. But things were looking ugly up there, suspicion of terrorism and arrests sparking upset among the jingoistic masses. It was just another unpleasant federal incident in the making.

Aside from becoming another bout of bad press for the bureau, this whole Casper thing had gummed up the works, delaying agents that Mulder had needed, and now, still, those she and Skinner needed.

Mulder could have gone forever, and would have, if she hadn't interrupted his denunciation of every federal employee he had dealt with during the last twenty-four hours. She could tell he hadn't slept by just the shear amount of information he was trying to pack into a single conversation followed by a spate of questions.

She was sure there would be more questions when he finally arrived in a few hours. After muttering something about manic helicopter pilots, he had said was going to drive to Elmo, which concerned her if he hadn't slept, but once Mulder was set on doing something there was generally no swaying him from it.

A sudden resonant sound of a band practicing drew her attention back to the street below her hotel window, where she caught sight of Sheriff Durokoff.

Self-consciously she took a step back from the window not wanting to be discovered in just her bra. At a careful distance from the window, she watched him across the street and stop there in the shade, talking pleasantly with others.

The sound started up again, a guitar... being tested on an amplifier. Curious, she searched through the trees trying to see, hearing the strong chords of a bluesy country-rock song she couldn't name being played by fits and starts.

The trees were just too thick. She couldn't see a thing and gave up and turned back to look at more interesting things— He was gone. The people he'd been talking to were still there, mulling around and talking, but Durokoff was gone.

Crap. She'd see more of him later, but it was unlikely she would get another chance to covertly study him at length, to examine the similarities between him and Skinner.

His cousin, she concerned. How bizarre, she thought and smiled. Of all the towns they should end up in, after all they had gone through, they just happen to hit the one tiny patch of earth containing another Skinner- or rather a Durokoff. Their mothers were sisters undoubtedly, or perhaps a remarriage had caused the difference in names. She analyzed the possible branches of genealogy.

Like an impression of the sun Durokoff's smile was emblazoned on her retinas. He wasn't the consummate small town, no non-sense Sheriff, all bluster, and intimidation when it came to federal involvement.

He didn't like Bernstein, and he had been to the point with the man, swiftly locking him away in the blunt bowels of the Elmo holding cells, but during the entire time at the Sheriff's station he had still managed to be cheerful and lighthearted. She thought she'd even seen him give her a quick wink at one point.

The un-Skinner, she thought and nearly laughed out loud.

Not completely, though, the similarities remained, and were so great in certain respects that she had found herself deferring to Durokoff the same as if he were Skinner. A certain turn of a phrase, a look, a motion, everything about him stirred an almost constant sense of surprise and amusement in her.

Two Skinner's could be a rather daunting concept for some, but it didn't seem like such a bad idea to her.

A solid knocking sounded at the door of her room yanked her out of that thought, audibly startling her.

"Agent Scully?" a muffled voice called through the door, concerns seeping through the woodgrain.

"Just a minute," she called, rushing to grab her top.

Lawrence Durokoff stood in the hall listening to the muffled scurrying sounds beyond the door, arched his brows. Perhaps she wasn't alone in there, he thought and glanced down the hall toward his cousin's room which he'd discovered was empty only a moment before he tried her room.

"Is there a problem?" Durokoff turned at the sound of Skinner's voice. He was coming down the hall from the stairs, his eyes pinched and his jaw set.

"No. No problem here." He answered taking a step back from the door to address Skinner. Well, he wasn't in there. So, what's going on?

The door jerked open suddenly, a flush faced Scully looked back at the two men. Her eyes darted back and forth between the two of them, questions pooling.

"Uh, hi." She greeted the two of them, holding the hem of her blouse out and away from herself, it was still damp and almost transparent when it contacted her body. "Is something wrong?" She finally asked when neither one of them spoke.

“You two sure are shellshocked.” He commented, glancing amusedly between the two of them. “Nothing wrong,” he told her, and glanced at Skinner, “and no problems.”

Durokoff held out a small satchel to Scully. "I had one of the deputies gather some things together for you," he explained as she took.

"Thank you," Scully said glancing inside it to see what appeared at first glance to be a tee shirt still in the plastic packaging, a hairbrush, and a few basic items of make-up.

Skinner averted his gaze from the scene shifting the plastic bag he was carrying from one hand to the other. Durokoff glanced back at his cousin holding out another bag, a half-sized duffel. "I got some clothes for you and some shaving stuff."

Skinner's hand went to his face, feeling the growth of beard stubble. What a pig he must have looked like, he ruefully thought and glanced at Scully. "Thanks."

The sound of music drifted into the hall through Scully's room from outside; a hearty rendition of Bad Moon Rising being played in the square.

"Well, uh," Durokoff muttered planting his hands on his hips, looking between the two of them. "I guess you've figured out there's a little party starting outside. There's plenty of food and music," he made a brief gesture toward the sound of the music past Scully's shoulder. "I've come to extend the official Elmo invitation for you both to join us."

Scully's stomach gurgled urging her to accept the invitation.

* "... I see the bad moon a rising. I see trouble on the way..." *

Skinner spoke before she could. "Food sounds great, but I don't think we should get distracted. We're still on duty here."

"No distractions," Durokoff said and grinned. "Just good food. I've got plenty of people keeping an eye on that Bernstein joker, so you can stop worrying about him. Just come on down to the square when you're ready and make yourselves at home."

* "... I see bad times on their way..."*

"I may just rest some." Skinner said quietly.

Speak for yourself, Scully thought. "I'd be happy to sample the local flavor. I can't remember my last real meal."

* "I know the end is coming soon..." *

"Great," Durokoff blurted, zealously slapping his hands together. "I'll see you down there, Agent Scully." He said and turned to go, saying to his cousin as he went, "I hope you'll come down, too, once you get some rest, Walter."

* "...don't go 'round tonight... It's bound to take your life..." *

"Here," Skinner said, unceremoniously extending a plastic bag to Scully.

She blinked pulling her gaze off his departing cousin. "What's this?" She asked, taking the bag.

"A toothbrush and paste." He answered already halfway to his room down the hall.

"Thank you..." she leaned out the door calling back to him, but his door had already shut, leaving her alone in the hall.

Back inside her room, she picked through the duffel finding a new tee-shirt, boasting a silk screen print that read 'Second Annual 4th of July Celebration, Elmo, Wyoming'. She frowned reading it.

Only their second? She wondered and moved on to inspect the rest of the items. The mascara would work fine and the lipstick too if she only dabbed it on, it was just a little too dark for her taste, but the blush would have to go, it was far too red.

Grateful for necessities, she snatched up the brush and plastic bag, heading to the bathroom. Her hair was frightful. Could she get it to behave even if she did re-wet it and brush it straight out? No beauty contest is going on that I know of right now, she told herself, yanking first paste from the plastic bag, then the toothbrush— and stopped.

She looked at it, confused at first by what she saw. Turning the brush over in she found a small decal stamped on the handle; a little stagecoach in motion with a name drifting behind it like dust from the wheels. The name wasn't Dana, though... It was Kate.

She looked at that a second before she realized and glanced back, her thoughts on the room down the hall. Dana wasn’t a common name emblazoned on any gift shop trinket. She looked down at the toothbrush.

He’d gotten the next closest.

*****************************

The when the music began Skinner opened his eyes, hearing the chords that were undeniably familiar aside from the performers’ ad-libbing. Before finally getting up to go to the window, he laid on the bed listening to the guitar playing down in the square wrenching out Sleepwalk.

It wasn't great, but it was close, he critiqued pulling back the gossamer curtains to look out. Anyway, the slower, more sedate sounds were a nice break from the honky tonkin,’ rambunctious stuff they'd been playing for the last hour.

He would have liked to have blamed his inability to sleep on the music, but he doubted he could have slept if he were in a soundproof room with no windows. There was just too much weighing on his mind to allow sleep to come easily. There was still no call from the special agent in charge up in Casper, no word on when they could expect more agents. At least Mulder was on his way, that fact, in the strangest of ways helped ease his concerns in some.

Once he got there, they could continue on to Laramie, get Bernstein drugged to the hilt and on a plane and back to DC by Monday at the latest. That would still give them a day before the arraignment hearing and get the federal prosecutor and Attorney General out of his hair.

Skinner chuckled to himself. If ever there was a figure of speech...

A glimpse of red drew his attention to the street below. There walked one of his other concerns: Scully was heading across to the town square.

Damn.

From out of the cover of the trees came Lawrence, a huge smile plastered across his face.

And there came the next concern.

Of all the damn places to end up in why the hell did they have to end up here? Eighteen years of peace shattered in a single day. Peace, yes, but not complete disconnection. There had always been word floating through the family about who was doing what and where they were.

He had known when Lawrence finally made Sheriff here, he'd actually been invited to a party to celebrate the event. He knew it hurt Aunt Anne and Bulah when he didn't respond. He had been busy, and just didn't feel like dealing with it again.

Skinner watched as two boys scurried between Scully and Lawrence, almost bumping into her as they went. He watched Scully laugh about it and talk cheerfully as Lawrence guided her into the park, disappearing beyond the thick canopy of tree branches.

His heart sank almost in time with the lamenting cry of the guitar playing. Too much time had passed, he thought, but things hadn't changed much...

*****************************

Norwalk, Ohio December 1st, 1963

There just wasn’t a whole lot to do, and all the adults were still shuffling around, overwhelmed by the news out of Dallas a little over a week before. It felt like the world, at least their part of it had come to stand still after the news of the president’s assassination.

Heavy and silent, the day pressed in around two small figures scuffing through turned leaves. It was Sunday after Thanksgiving, not much to do between the time Church was done and time for supper, except track around in the woods, down by trestle and maybe, if luck were good, a train would pass on its way into Cedar Point.

But come tomorrow, Monday was going to be the start of a whole new experience...

"Will there be a lot of girls there?"

"Sure will. Who do you think we're gonna dance with, Walter, each other?"

Walter pulled the collar of his red plaid coat up closer to his neck, shivering against the sudden cold breeze. "But a lot of them?" he asked, concerned.

"I don't know," Lawrence looked at him closely, "why, are you scared?"

Walter shrugged and stuffed his hands deep in the warmth of his Tuff-Skin pockets. "No. I was just wondering."

"I think you're scared. You're scared of the girls." Lawrence began to laugh. Walter blushed making his cousin laugh even harder. "Cubby's afraid of the girls."

"I'm not. And stop calling me that stupid name."

"Cubby, Cubby, Cubby." He chanted, jogging in a circle around Walter.

"I don't even look like that kid, knock it off!" Walter hauled off and shoved Lawrence knocking him off balance.

"You got the ears."

"So, what if I have mouse ears? You've got that stupid coonskin hat, and I know your cat gave it fleas cause you're always scratching your head when you wear it!"

"I don't scratch my head!" Lawrence proclaimed, his voice cracking hard. "And I wasn't talkin'bout your dumb Mickey Mouse ears. I meant your ears!"

"So! You scratch your head so much you're gonna scratch all your hair off and then see how many girls you dance with."

"You're dumb." Lawrence spat shoving Walter.

"You're stupid." Walter spat back, regaining his balance.

"You're fat."

The comment fell on deaf ears, Walter wasn't listening to his cousin, something else had caught his attention, a rustling sound close by. Lawrence tried shoving him again, but Walter didn't budge, he remained steady and fixed on the sound. "Cut it out... Listen..." he said, adjusting his glasses.

Lawrence listened, hearing the sound he frowned. "What is that?"

Walter shook his head and started forward, following the rustling.

They walked carefully though the brittle layer of leaves covering the ground, listening intently, checking the bare trees around them for some sign of what the sound was.

"There," Lawrence blurted, his arm shooting straight out from his body as he pointed toward the trees ahead of them. "It's a kite!"

"It was a kite," Walter corrected his cousin who had started for the tree the tattered kite was caught in.

"Oh, wow, look," Lawrence excitedly called out when he peered up at the object. "It's not torn or nothing, look, Walter. Look."

Walter stepped up next to him, peering up. "Nope. It's not torn or nothing."

"Wow."

"But it's also up a tree."

Without a word Lawrence reached up and grabbed a low branch in each hand.

"What are you doing?" Walter sounded more accusatory than he did inquiring.

"I'm gonna get it."

"It's just junk, Lawrence." He told him and shook his head when he saw that he wasn't being listened to.

Lawrence struggled up through the bare branches, losing purchase several times as deader ones broke off under his weight, but somehow managing to only go higher rather than fall back down. It wouldn't be long though...

"You're gonna fall. You better not go any higher!" Walter yelled; his neck bent back until it hurt now to see his cousin. How high was he going go before he would see that kite was just junk, all busted up and worthless?

"I got it!" Lawrence shouted triumphantly.

Walter watched as he waved the ragged kite before him like some trophy for endurance and strength.

It was about then a loud crack sounded.

Clear and loud, like bones cracking, the branch Lawrence was resting his butt on breaking cut through the chilly air.

Walter saw the look in Lawrence's eyes when he realized things had gone very bad- black and huge with fear. He shrieked and Walter thought he sounded like a girl in the instant before his cousin plummeted through the branches and crashed to the ground on his side.

He lay there on his side; his back curved like a hula-hoop and his legs turned in crazy angles that didn't look right at all. His mouth was moving but there was no sound, he was sucking air in, and his eyes were squeezed shut so hard Walter couldn't see his eyelashes when he got up close.

"Holy smokes! Are you all right? Are you all right?"

Finally, and with an intensity like Walter had never heard in his life, a horrible noise came out of Lawrence's mouth: a ragged scream that degenerated into a gut-wrenching bawling. "My legs," he screamed, blood and snot trickling from his nose. "It hurts! It hurts! Walter, help me! Oh, God it hurts!"

"I told you!" Walter screamed, his breath beginning to hitch with frightened sobs. "I told you! Why didn't you listen to me?"

"Please- it hurts!"

Freezing air ripping at his lungs Walter tore through the woods, crashing toward Lawrence's house.

Walter Skinner didn't believe he had ever run harder or faster in his life than he had that afternoon.

******************************

Elmo, Wyoming 4th of July 1999

"Here you go," Durokoff declared, sounding a little breathless as he reappeared from the crowd, waving a handful of napkins.

Scully almost laughed at the inordinate amount of napkins he'd brought back to the table.

"I know I wasn't that messy," she said as he sat back down opposite her at the picnic table.

He watched her take a napkin from the pile and begin to wipe the barbecue sauce from her chin, noticing the dab she'd dropped on her tee shirt. "I don't know," he said grinning at her, "maybe I should have brought back a bib, too."

Scully looked down, gasping at the blotch of red sauce on herself. "I can't believe I've turned into such a mess."

"Ribs are messy business," he said handing her another fist full of napkins.

She laughed, feeling embarrassed. She had been half starved but attempted good manners, yet good manners went out the window when it came to barbecued ribs. She knew she should have stuck with the hot dogs.

"Barbecue in general is a messy business," she commented, demurely dabbing at her shirt.

"That's what makes it fun." Scully looked at him, struck by the strong and cheerful sound of his familiar voice. He looked back at her with kind brown eyes she thought she knew and had to remind herself that she didn’t know this man at all. "I think you missed a little..." He told her, gesturing first at her face then his own, brushing at his own upper lip.

Scully wiped at her mouth again, another wave of chagrin passing over her.

"Uh, it's..." he stammered a little again gesturing at her mouth and beginning to sound frustrated. "It's still..." Scully frowned, growing annoyed by her inability to find this stray smear of barbecue sauce he kept pointing at. "Uh, here," he said leaning over the table enough to hesitantly wipe her lip with another napkin. He stopped, pulling his hand back to look at her quizzically before he confusedly said, "it's not coming off?"

"Huh?" Then she realized and her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh... Well, it's not going to be coming off, either, not without laser surgery, unfortunately." Durokoff's expression was beginning to take on that cast that Skinner more than often got when he didn't quite get something. "It's a mole," she explained and went back to pick at the ribs on her paper plate.

"Unfortunately?" He questioned her choice of words. "Don't you like it?"

"No," she said emphasizing the word by pursing her lips. "I usually cover it up."

"It's darling," he declared. She raised her eyes to give him a dubious look. He wasn't making it any better and she hoped her expression communicated the fact. "Why would you cover it up?"

Apparently her expression did not phase the man. "I've never liked it," she answered and shrugged. "Since I was a little girl, I hated it."

"Why don't you have it cut off?" he bluntly asked.

She cringed, managing to stop her hands before the ribs touched her mouth. "I don't know," she sighed putting the rib back on the plate and pushing it away. "I guess because it's still a part of me."

"Attached to it, huh?" He was being deliberately idiotic now.

Scully blew her breath out, laughing hard in spite of herself. He laughed along with her appearing to do so with his whole body; he seemed to shudder, his eyes pinched with glee, his mouth a full broad smile.

She liked him. She liked his laugh- full on bass and warm- she liked the way he looked and carried him self- formidable confidence blended with deft grace. She'd even become a little fond of the propensity he had for repeatedly adjusting his hat when he spoke. A nervous quirk, Scully had considered, or merely a motion to ease the press of the cap against his bare scalp. She had seen he was just as balding as Skinner the few times his hat had come far enough away from his head.

Although, his skull appeared smoother than Skinner's that was subtly pitted and pocked with peculiar dings and curious indentations. Occasionally, while seated before her superior's desk with Mulder explaining himself at her side, her mind would drift curiously over that uneven back-lit scalp, indexing the probable causes of those marks and wondering if there something more to phrenology.

When their laughter tapered down to scant chuckling they found themselves looking at one another, a certain level of wariness passing between their gazes. The echo of live music rebounded around them, people mulled about laughing and cheering, but it all seemed suddenly very far away.

After a moment, affected, Durokoff cleared his throat shifting his eyes left and right, anywhere but on her. He got up from the table and motioned for her to follow. "Come on, I think that sauce is getting to you."

"Getting to me?"

He laughed one last breathy laugh, re-adjusting the cap on his head. "That sauce has probably got more booze in it than the bar over there."

She gawked at the plate of ribs she'd torn through. There might have been a good amount of liquor in the sauce but surely not enough to make her tipsy. "I couldn't taste liquor in it."

"Likely story, missy," he teased, "come on along with me."

"Am I under arrest for public intoxication?" She went with it, allowing him to take her by the arm and lead her through the crowd.

"Public intoxication, lewd and disorderly conduct, not to mention bad table manners..."

She didn't know where he was taking her but happily trotted along enjoying the feel of Durokoff's firm grasp.

Why couldn't Skinner be more like this, she mused as they wound their way through the crowded park. There was that one brief instant, she recalled his inciting of the Gilligan's Island theme while they were marooned in the middle of the lake, but she had assumed that was just the champagne.

She'd seen him smile just once, that same night, and the simple gesture had softened his features and lent light to his eyes. It was a long time before she had rid herself of the hope of ever seeing him smile like that again, at least for her. Again, she chalked it up to the alcohol he'd consumed and let it go.

Anything between them was not meant to be despite her moments of weakness, times when she was ready to throw everything away and tell him how she felt. He would probably give her one of those incredulous looks he so effortlessly doled out on a regular basis, saying something like "you've obviously made a mistake." Yeah, a mistake, all right. A big one, too. Don't go falling for your superior unless you're ready to suffer the knicks and scratches of unrequited... The sound of Durokoff's walkie-talkie interrupted her dejected introspective.

He excused himself by stepping away from her. A few moments later she was accepting his request to join him on a call, promising it would be interesting. And interesting it did turn out to be.

A rather typical domestic disagreement but with rather distinctive circumstances; at the far-off fringe of Carbon County where the Elmo Sheriff's department authority just about ran out. Two men of wise age, one would assume at first sight, sitting around all morning with nothing better to do than drink themselves into a stupor, decided the fireworks show was too far off to wait any longer. So, they started their own show a little early by setting off sticks of dynamite in their front yard.

The first blast had taken out a car belonging to one man who promptly set off a second stick that demolished the car belonging to the man who had set off the first explosion.

With their cars burning and the yard and house torn up and looking like a scene from a war, the men continued to argue and fight, each threatening to blow the other up.

Judging by the familiarity that the deputies on the scene as well as Durokoff treated the men, Scully figured that these two had a long history of such behavior.

An hour or more had passed when the county fire trucks were finally showing up on the scene and the two men had been talked down and on their way to Elmo where their view of the fireworks show would be quite good from their cells.

Stating that he was certain nothing he could show her now would top what they'd just seen, Durokoff set off anyway to give Scully a brief tour of the area, introducing her to locals less radical than the last and reciting regional history and lore making her feel quite comfortable with his attentiveness and polite gestures of respect.

She found in his behavior an old-fashioned charm replacing cautious political correctness that punctuated the cities she'd lived in most her life. Still, he showed respect to her, as the fellow agent of law enforcement she was, asking her opinion on issues of concern in the area and wanting to know her feelings about recent negative attitudes directed toward federal agencies.

But in defiance of their almost deliberate trade discussions, there was an underlying tension building between them. She could feel the air becoming charged as they traveled together and quite by themselves in the four-wheeler. Talk was becoming less and less as they drove through the mountainous roads, replaced by the frequent exchange of glances and shared smiles in the increasingly awkward silence.

Scully was beginning to feel as though she were on a first date when the radio gratefully crackled for attention, the dispatcher announcing she had a message from the Albany Country Sheriff's department. Scully was quick to stop any information from going out over the radio, making Durokoff aware of that being one feasible way Gryzwac had been tracing them with the use of a scanner.

Remarking how he hoped everyone was being as alert as she was he instructed the call be put through to them on his cell phone, and moments later Scully was talking to a ragged out sounding Mulder. He was traveling with an Albany Country deputy to get a rental car and didn't believe he'd be arriving until nightfall.

"Why doesn't he just get Boyd to have him flown over here," Durokoff asked Scully who relayed the question to Mulder.

"The helicopter is temporarily out of commission," she relayed back, listening to something else Mulder said, then, "besides, he's not thrilled about the idea if it were working."

Durokoff laughed. "I don't blame him in the least."

By the time they got back to town he'd shared his own tale of his experiences with Ronnie Stewart, the rock’n’rolling hot shot of the Albany County Air Patrol. It seemed the man had never quite put aside his days as a stunt show pilot, still managing to get a little acrobatic flying in every once in a while to show off and sometimes scare what he liked to call his "virgin" passengers.

***********************

Lariat Car Rentals Rock Springs, Wyoming

What was the deal?

Was there no respect left in this country for the urgency of federal business?

Mulder mulled these and a multifarious amount of other questions over as he watched the rental car agency employee languidly collect agreements from various pigeonholes along the wall of the storefront agency. Tired beyond measure he leaned against the chest high counter, believing if he stared hard enough at the back of the man's head, willing him to move faster.

"Please do not lean on the counter," he suddenly announced without turning.

Rolling his eyes, Mulder straightened and checked the time on the wall clock. Jesus, it was nearly four o'clock. Where had the damn day gone? "Could we hurry this up some, I'm really tired and I'm in a hurry to get to where I'm going."

"Perhaps you shouldn't be in such a hurry if you're so tired, sir." The man said, turning back to him with a smug lift to his eyebrow, his bushy mustache twitching like a nervous ferret had nested under his nose.

An abrupt and unsolicited laugh escaped Mulder. "Uh," he forced his eyes closed against the sight of the man. "I'm taking the full insurance on the car." He finally managed to assure the funny little man, who was now frowning at him.

"Of course you are after what happened to your last vehicle." He said planting the paperwork on the counter in front of Mulder. "Never in the history of Lariat Rental has there ever been such an act of complete disregard and..."

"I'm really sorry about the other rental car," Mulder bemoaned both what had become of the car he'd left on the side of the road the previous day and the fact that Lariat Rental seemed to have a monopoly on the rental car business throughout the area. Who would have thought there was a vandalism problem in such an area of the country? "Circumstances beyond my control kept me from calling..."

"Yes, yes. So, you've said. Still, I certainly hope this isn't the normal mode of operation among all representatives of the Federal Bureau of Investigation." He remarked pointedly as he handed Mulder a pen.

"As a matter of fact, it is," Mulder, aggravated to a point now, began signing papers with a whimsical flourish of his wrist, dispatching the signed copies toward the man with abandon. "It's a new policy that all federal employees must abide by totally, seek out and destroy as much property as humanly possible within the private sector." He emphasized his final word with such zeal he ripped right though the tissue thin top copy of the rental agreement with the ballpoint of the pen.

"Wonderful," the man declared throwing his hands up, "more destruction. I just never- now, we'll have to start over again."

"What!" Mulder spat as the man snatched up all the papers and started for the pigeonholes again for fresh copies. "Haven't you ever heard of scotch tape?"

************************

Continued in part 8

[just-here-with-my-thoughts]

Soup of the Day

A Bad Batch (Crosshair) fanfic for @ninjadeathblade​ in which Crosshair finally manages to finish his soup in peace (inspired by this YouTube video)

~1500 words

Rating: General

If you prefer, click here to read on AO3

It was lunch-time, and Crosshair headed on autopilot for the canteen. The usual cacophony greeted him, clone troopers and clone cadets all talking, laughing, calling out to their friends as they lined up at their allotted time slot to collect their midday meal. Chaotic, disorderly. Thin lips twisting into a grimace, Crosshair thought – not for the first time – that he was glad he was not like them. Wished – not for the first time – that he didn’t have to take his meals alongside them.

Sighing around his toothpick, he joined the queue. He was hungry, not that his mood was much altered by this. He always hated spending time around the regs, and lunch hour was an ordeal to be endured for the sake of fetching food.

At least he could look forward to his meal. Soup today.

If he had a chance to finish it.

At the serving counter he punched in his number, 9904, so that the system would dispense his rations. He reached for a tray from the stack, smacking away the darting hand of a reg who dared to try and snatch the top one before him. For a moment he thought the trooper was going to square up to him – it wouldn’t be the first time the regs had started trouble with the Batch. He narrowed his ice-cold eyes into a withering glare, top lip curling in an unconcealed snarl. The other clone turned away with a shrug, letting Crosshair take the top tray. Cross wanted to believe that it was because he was intimidating, but he couldn’t help but wonder if that was pity in the sniggers of the other clones.

At least before he had had his brothers.

Now he was alone, the sole Batch-99 clone in this facility full of perfectly similar faces.

He banged the tray onto the counter harder than he intended, snarling away the thoughts. He liked his solitude. Things were simpler this way.

The vending counter had ejected his meal, and he loaded it slowly onto the tray. One glass of water. One side plate with a buttered, crusty roll. One bowl, warm to the touch, chunks of vegetable swimming in hearty nutrient broth. A small meal, but nutritionally dense, carefully formulated to provide the clone troops with all the energy they needed for their busy training schedules.

He took his time moving across the canteen to find a table, sharp eyes darting across the sea of brown-haired heads to try and find an empty bench. Better that than to be forced to take a seat beside others and feel the scorn of their rejection as they moved away. He weaved his lean body between jostling troopers, tray perfectly level, gaze never leaving its target.

Crosshair reached the empty table at the same time as a trio of clone cadets. Their orange and white uniforms were pristine, each jaw unshaved, skin un-inked, hair a regulation crew cut so that even Cross’s enhanced eyesight would have trouble picking one from the other at this stage in their training.

They would develop their own styles and personalities as they went through training. For now they were young and earnest and seemed about to sit at the same table as Crosshair.

He could see it already. An older clone trooper, ready to tell the cadets to give him a wide berth. Heard the whispers at the edge of hearing – or imagination? – the sly, snide words, calling him defective, warning not to mix with him lest his sour demeanour or harsh manner rub off on the impressionable cadets.

Before they could reject him Cross slammed his tray onto the table, hard enough to slosh soup over the lip of the bowl. The noise didn’t ring far in the general hubbub of the canteen, but it was enough to get the attention of the cadets who stopped talking and stood straight and alert, wary of this scarred, sneering sniper.

“This table is taken,” said Crosshair in a cold tone, folding his long legs onto the bench and straightening up his tray, aligning the spoon and re-centering the roll where the force of slamming the tray had knocked them askew. He started intently at the tray, shoulders rising as tension thrummed through his frame, pointedly refusing to look at the cadets. With some confusion they left, and Cross let his shoulders relax just a little. His jaw loosened where his teeth were clamped around his ubiquitous toothpick, and he discarded it.

The last time he had eaten lunch with three cadets, they were his three brothers.

Crosshair dropped his head to one hand, fingertips finding as always the pitted scars on his right temple and he grit his teeth as he tried to banish the ghosts of his lost brothers. Not lost. They abandoned me.

Thumping his hand onto the table in a fist, he straightened and with a determined movement grabbed the bread roll from his tray, tearing through the thick crust and using a soft edge of bread to mop up the spilled soup. The roll was still warm and as he took a bite his stomach growled, reminding him how hungry he was.

Please, let him finish this meal in peace.

He took up his utensils and spooned soup into his mouth rapidly, hissing as the first mouthful scalded his tongue. It was hard to taste it around the burning feeling, and he bitterly washed it down with cold water. With the second spoonful he was more cautious, blowing gently on the spoon to cool the soup but all the while his anxiety rising. This was taking too long. There was bound to be some interruption, some call for his attention and he would have to abandon his meal half-finished. The spoon was halfway to his lips when the tannoy went and he flinched, waiting for his number to be called.

“CT-2306, report to med wing. CT-2306, report.”

Not him. The tension in his shoulders eased a little. He waited for a moment before putting the spoon to his lips and taking a mouthful. This time the soup was cool enough to savour and he let it run over his tongue, avoiding the scalded area from the first spoonful. The veg chunks were soft and he chewed thoughtfully, enjoying the taste and the texture of a simple hot meal, something that the clones couldn’t always count on when they were on missions.

Unbidden the thought came to him – I wonder what the others are eating.

NO. He shook his head sharply, not wanting to think of it. Tech, neat and fastidious as he was in all things, choosing his foodstuffs methodically in even-sized forkfuls. The way Wrecker would hoover up any food left on their trays if they weren’t fast enough at eating – even though he was served a larger portion in the first place, to keep up with his metabolism. Hunter, making sure Wrecker didn’t snatch food away from Echo who as the newest of them was still settling into the routine of life in the ‘Bad Batch’.

They were gone now. No point dwelling on it. He’d given them a chance to join him – join the Empire. It would have been like old times, their squad being sent out on missions… No! He stopped the thoughts once more. His hand was trembling slightly and he dipped the spoon back into the soup bowl to still it.

He had been eating soup that day too. The day the kid came and sat at their table.

Everything had changed after that.

His left arm curled guardedly around his tray, remembering how the lunchtime brawl that day had robbed him of his meal, and his eyes darted suspiciously around the canteen. The other troopers were all engaged in convivial banter; none turned their attention to him.

Another spoonful of soup, and then he dipped the bread roll again and tore a chunk off with his teeth. He had made the right choice. They were the ones who were misguided.

They should all have been here, at the lunch table.

Clone Force 99, taking their rightful place in the new Empire.

His brothers, by his side.

“CT-4695, report to armoury. CT-4695, report.”

Another flinch, but still not his number. Crosshair realised that his bowl was getting empty – he tilted it now to scrape up the last spoonful, then wiped the bread around the edges to get every last scrap of flavour. Trying not to appear urgent he stuffed the bread into his mouth, the over-large bite filling out his usually hollow cheeks as he chewed rapidly. He felt sure that any moment he could be recalled to duty, and he had so nearly finished his meal.

And then he was done. The bowl of soup empty, side plate bearing nothing but crumbs, water drunk. Tension thrummed through his narrow frame, long fingers gripping the edge of the table so tightly that his knuckles whitened. He was waiting for the tannoy, sure it would call him to duty at any moment, and when no such summons came he couldn’t relax.

What was there for him to do with the rest of his lunch hour, except wait for the next order from the Empire?

Slowly Crosshair stood, picking up his tray and skirting the room to deposit it in the cleaning chute. He paused at the doors leading back to the rest of the Imperial complex, glancing up at the tannoy, waiting for it to call his number. When it remained silent he turned to stalk down the huge, empty corridors.

 What would he do by himself in the quiet hours of downtime, without the camaraderie of his brothers?

 ******

For context (do you need context?) the soup video is looping on repeat in my soul and I said to @ninjadeathblade​ that we needed a fix-it fic so that Crosshair could finish his soup. They challenged me to write it. I said I’m sure I could knock out 500 words about Crosshair eating soup.

I was wrong. Apparently I am unable to write 500 words about Crosshair eating soup. I have to write 1600 words of combined soup and angst.

(I have only watched TBB season 1 so don’t know if/how Crosshair will eventually reunite with the rest of the Batch! So this is just from season 1 and the soup video)