#cityton chronicles

[idiopath-fic-smile]

(hey, uh, anyone remember this story bit from like 2 1/2 years ago? i've got a ton of other stuff i should be doing but i finally decided to stop worrying and just have fun with this one.)

Days passed. Time, much like the inevitability of death or a very determined baby, crawled inexorably onward. Edmund kept meaning to track down and eliminate the hero known as Dragonfly in and among more routine unholy machinations, really he did, but well. Long-term project management wasn't exactly his thing.

Surely their paths would cross again. That was the way of nemeses. Assuming Dragonfly felt the same way, of course, which, ugh, maybe that was a little presumptuous? All Edmund had really accomplished so far was slightly inconveniencing the guy.

Well, no, Edmund had accomplished all kinds of things: stealing blackmail fodder from Mayor Gooddale's secret vault, very briefly unleashing K'h'gg'ragel upon some unsuspecting pool guests, heisting several priceless gems from the Cityton Natural History Museum, and, most calamitously, interrupting the annual Cityton Swedish Heritage Day Parade.

(Granted, that last one had been an accident, but the results spoke for themselves. Meatballs flying in all directions, lingonberry jam strewn over the parade route like sticky, sticky vengeance. But maybe Dragonfly hadn't heard about it? Edmund had spotted no telltale flash of green at the scene of the crime. Not that he'd been looking for Dragonfly, except in the most appropriately sinister possible—)

“Boss,” said Dawn “Hey, boss.”

She was a new hire, which meant actually somewhat competent, but also Gen Z, so her presence filled Edmund with a vague unease, as if there was an obscure joke, a whole layer of reality, a strange metaphorical smell he was failing to detect. His hope was that other people would feel the same way, and that this would somehow translate into a more ominous henching presentation.

“Oh my god.” Edmund scrubbed a hand down his face. “I know bare lightbulbs are more sinister, I know, but I've got eyes, too, Dawn. Is it so wrong to want to operate under some gentle, diffused lighting every now and then? Does Evil Crate and Barrel really not get that my lair is supposed to be at least partly for me?”

Dawn sipped her iced coffee, thoughtful.

“Does that really send the message you want?” she said. “I mean, isn't a lot of this about, like, your brand identity?”

“If anyone says my lair lamps are too flattering, I'll tear the fixture out with my mind and bring it crashing on their miserable heads,” said Edmund. “That's branding.”

Dawn nodded, but didn't seem convinced. “Actually not what I was gonna say, though,” she added after a few seconds. With a thunk, she set a white-ish orb on Edmund's temporary desk. “This came for you.”

On closer examination, it was a human skull. “That can't be sanitary,” Edmund muttered.

“Christ,” said Dawn, “it's not real, you big baby.” She tapped her long, manicured fingernails against the cranium and raised her eyebrows at Edmund, as if to say, See?

Privately, Edmund had no idea what this was supposed to illustrate, if skull identification was a standard course in Necromancy, or if Dawn just happened to enjoy some very specific ASMR videos.

The vibrations triggered a spring-loaded device in the skull and the jaw snapped open, revealing a heavy piece of black cardstock. It was an invitation to the Grim Gala, the yearly black tie party-slash-villanous trade show. The front listed the time and place, and on the back was an even darker logo of an embossed ten gallon hat.

“I guess Bonespur's hosting this year,” Dawn observed. “Y'know, the walking, talking cowboy skeleton?”

“I fucking hate that guy,” said Edmund.

“But you're going, right?”

Edmund thought of the many, many nights he had borne the shame of the Malarkey name alone, without so much as a texted shrug emoji from his diabolical brethren. True, being a bad person came with the job description, but Edmund had gone to school with these people. Once upon a time, he had brainstormed gimmicks with them and covered for their alter egos and been a shoulder to cry on when their own nemeses invariably escaped. And then the family scandal, and then nothing. A bad person, sure, but a bad friend? Come on.

“I don't need anything from them, and they don't deserve anything from me,” Edmund hissed. “Except revenge,” he added dutifully.

“Dragonfly's going,” said Dawn, crunching on the last of the ice from her coffee.

Edmund's head snapped up. “Sabotage?” he asked, with a sudden mysterious surge of concern for the sanctity of parties and tradition and work events.

“Uh-uh.” Crunch crunch crunch. “Espionage,” she slurred, "He's infiltrating it for information.”

“How'd he score an invite?” Edmund wondered aloud.

“The usual,” said Dawn. “Hacker friend.”

“And how do you know about it?”

“The usual.” Dawn grinned, in that toothy, disconcerting way specific to grad school Necromancers. “Dead hacker friend.”

The Grim Gala was hosted in a gothic-looking underground cave, across town from the grotto. Cityton boasted no fewer than twelve cavernous subterranean spaces of various sizes and moral alignments. At some point, there were bound to be structural issues with the land above, but that wasn't Edmund's problem.

“Fancy meeting you here, Dragonfly,” Edmund murmured. It didn't come out as cool as his best attempts, but in the half hour he'd practiced that line, he'd definitely said it worse, too.

The nemesis in question whirled around, looking better than was really fair in his tux. “How'd you recognize—“ he started.

“Your disguise covers almost exactly the same parts of you as your costume,” said Edmund, a half second late with the effort not to blurt, 'I spend a lot of time staring at your jawline and the shape of your mouth.'

“Oh shit,” said Dragonfly. “Shit shit shit. Oh hell.” With one smooth motion, he slipped off his domino mask and stuck it in his back pocket. “Is that better?”

“That's your face,” Edmund said, seemingly on autopilot. “That's just your whole face.”

Dragonfly winced. “Yeah, okay, but maybe my eyes will—be…distracting?”

They were, but Edmund would not have admitted it under torture.

In the breast pocket of Edmund's impeccably tailored suit was a pair of reading glasses, in case Bonespur went on another twenty minute rant about the glories of the Old West and any reasonable person needed to pass some time scanning through articles on their phone.

“Here,” said Edmund, without thinking. “Insert joke about how nobody in this city can recognize a man in specs.”

“Specs?” Dragonfly repeated. “What are you, ninety?” A dimple flickered at one corner of his upturned lips as he unfolded the simple black frames and slipped them on.

Holy shit, it was a callback to their first meeting. He remembered. He remembered!

Edmund took a deep, steadying breath. “Old fucking soul,” he said, valiantly fighting a smile.

“Thank you,” said Dragonfly. He blinked. “Wait, why are you helping me? That doesn't seem to be your typical vibe.”

Good fucking question.

“Is it a life debt?” Dragonfly continued, eyes wide. “From that time I rescued you from the roof?”

Edmund hadn't been in danger of anything but embarrassment, but he knew what side of the lie-bread his deception-butter was spread.

“Yeah, that must be it. Hey, what's your cover identity here? Because if it's as slapdash as that mask—”

Dragonfly rolled his shoulders. “Doctor Dastardly, at your service,” he said, with a British accent that hovered somewhere between Monty Python and a high school production of My Fair Lady. Uh-oh.

“No good,” Edmund gritted out, “that's the name of a real guy.”

“What?” Blessedly, Dragonfly said it without the accent. Unfortunately, he also said it without any volume control. The word echoed in the atrium. Several party guests peered in from the next room.

Leaning in slightly, Edmund lowered his voice. “Doctor Dastardly? He's got a PhD in psychology and the D stands for Death? He's been around a while, maybe you came up with the name subliminally.”

“Oh,” said Dragonfly. “Evil psychologist. That's…not great for humanity. What about, uh, Doctor Demise? Is that a guy yet?”

“A girl, actually,” said Edmund. “She's been out for like six months.”

“Good for her,” Dragonfly said. Then he frowned. “I mean, not the part where she's—what's her beat?”

“Poisons. The more lethal, the better.”

Dragonfly nodded. He was starting to look a little manic behind the glasses. A woman in a slinky yellow and black striped ballgown stared openly at him. Operating on instinct, Edmund put a hand on Dragonfly's elbow and smiled back at her. The woman (she had to be either bee-themed or hornet-themed, but it didn't ring any bells) returned her attention to what appeared to be just a plate of honey.

Two things occurred to him then. The first was that probably that lady's deal was bees. The second was a little harder to swallow.

“Look,” said Edmund. “How attached are you to the Doctor thing?”

“Not very,” said Dragonfly, “I just thought it'd be clever since my codename starts with Dr.”

“Do you know how long your average evildoer spends on their alias?” Edmund asked, incredulous. “Do you have any idea the amount of, of testing and focus groups that goes into a decision like that? Of course you don't, your alter ego is an insect. Well, rest assured, you are unlikely to spontaneously invent a gimmick and an original crime name that will hold up under scrutiny with these people.” Was Edmund doing this? Apparently, he was doing this. “I can think of one way you won't immediately blow your cover. If anyone asks, give them a normal first name and tell them you're with me.”

Dragonfly gave him a considering look.

As if sensing the opening in the conversation, the striped dress woman slunk towards them.

“Edmund!” She cooed. “Everyone's buzzing about your charming companion.” Oh great, she was one of those hundred percenters, a villain who took their concept so far, it became the only thing about them. They could be effective, but they were the last people you wanted to corner you at a party. As if to confirm his impression, she extended one elegant gloved hand to Dragonfly and added, “Bees-ed to meet you.”

“My name's Jacob,” said Dragonfly, giving the hand an earnest shake. “I'm his date.”

“Queen Beezlebub,” she replied. “Hive been wondering when Edmund here would settle down, not that it's any of my beeswax. Do let me know if you need any-sting.” And with that, she flitted away, leaving Edmund gaping.

“Wow,” Dragonfly muttered after a moment. “Been a while since I met a real hundred percenter. I guess I admire the commitment, but man, all of a sudden I'm so tired?”

With effort, Edmund closed his mouth. “Date,” he said at last. “You told her you were my—”

Dragonfly's eyes narrowed. “You said 'Tell them you're with me!'”

“I meant as a friend!” Edmund hissed.

“Yeah, well, your directions were unclear!” Dragonfly shout-whispered back. "You touched my arm!"

"Friends touch arms." Edmund was aware he was feeling more defensive than the situation really required, but he was also unable to stop.

"Yeah?" Dragonfly retorted. "Yeah? Name one friend you've arm-touched in the past year!"

Edmund pinched the bridge of his nose, refusing to process the predicament he was now in. “You,” he said, “may be good at being good, but you're bad at being bad.”

“Fair enough.” Like it was nothing at all, Dragonfly took his elbow. "Now let's mingle. Honey.”

hey hi I’ve been trying to write something, anything, and what came out is like 3k of an extremely stupid supervillain/superhero story that I’d been kicking around in some form like over ten years ago. it doesn’t map onto any kind of an AU so I guess it’s original fiction? enjoy?

Cityton Chronicles, part 1

The problem with carrying out an evil scheme, thought Edmund, was the scheme part.

Anyone could nurse a sinister thought or two; it wasn’t that hard to shake one’s fist at the sky and murmur, “You’ll pay for this. With God as my witness, oh, you will pay” and then maybe cackle a little. That much was child’s play. (Literal child’s play; he had witnessed more than a few dire pronouncements from his classmates at Hawthorne Grimmsbury’s Academy for Ominous Boys, especially when recess was threatened.)

Actually going through with a plan was a whole different story. There were logistics to manage. There were people to manipulate, details to babysit, hypotheticals to anticipate. The nitty-gritty, as it were.

Edmund was not destined for the nitty-gritty.

Although, wasn’t that what useless people always said? “I’m more of a big-picture person.” Maybe he was useless. Maybe that was the issue. Maybe Edmund Malarkey, heir to Malarkey Industries, was simply not cut out for masterminding.

Case in point, he had a terrible feeling he was about to make a complete hash of the Ritual.

The parameters were clear enough: full moon—check. Chalk for pentagrams—check. One hundred lit candles—check. (Some were scented; the store hadn’t had enough plain tapers in stock, but the text of the Ritual had been written well before the notion of pumpkin spice was a cozy twinkle in some godless marketer’s eye, and so Edmund figured this would probably not disqualify him.) Thirteen hooded figures, all in black…

This was where things got dicey.

The first sign of the trouble to come was when Carl showed up in navy fucking blue.

Keep reading

[idiopath-fic-smile]

in other news, I think the superhero/supervillain fic might be reaching a point where a couple of betas would be helpful, hit me up if you feel like wading in! 

ETA: I think I’m good now, thanks!

[idiopath-fic-smile]

hey hi I've been trying to write something, anything, and what came out is like 3k of an extremely stupid supervillain/superhero story that I’d been kicking around in some form like over ten years ago. it doesn’t map onto any kind of an AU so I guess it’s original fiction? enjoy?

Cityton Chronicles, part 1

The problem with carrying out an evil scheme, thought Edmund, was the scheme part.

Anyone could nurse a sinister thought or two; it wasn't that hard to shake one's fist at the sky and murmur, “You'll pay for this. With God as my witness, oh, you will pay” and then maybe cackle a little. That much was child's play. (Literal child's play; he had witnessed more than a few dire pronouncements from his classmates at Hawthorne Grimmsbury's Academy for Ominous Boys, especially when recess was threatened.)

Actually going through with a plan was a whole different story. There were logistics to manage. There were people to manipulate, details to babysit, hypotheticals to anticipate. The nitty-gritty, as it were.

Edmund was not destined for the nitty-gritty.

Although, wasn't that what useless people always said? “I'm more of a big-picture person.” Maybe he was useless. Maybe that was the issue. Maybe Edmund Malarkey, heir to Malarkey Industries, was simply not cut out for masterminding.

Case in point, he had a terrible feeling he was about to make a complete hash of the Ritual.

The parameters were clear enough: full moon—check. Chalk for pentagrams—check. One hundred lit candles—check. (Some were scented; the store hadn't had enough plain tapers in stock, but the text of the Ritual had been written well before the notion of pumpkin spice was a cozy twinkle in some godless marketer's eye, and so Edmund figured this would probably not disqualify him.) Thirteen hooded figures, all in black...

This was where things got dicey.

The first sign of the trouble to come was when Carl showed up in navy fucking blue.

Edmund pinched at the bridge of his nose and sighed loudly, breath crystalline in the late November air. The invitations had been so specific.

“It looked pretty dark online,” Carl offered as the wind whipped at them atop the roof of the Cityton Natural History Museum.

“Pretty dark? Pretty dark? Did it look like the blackest black?” said Edmund. “Did it look like Anish Kapur's most haunting nightmare? Did it look like a raven's wing in shadow at the stroke of midnight, Carl?” Carl stuck out his chin. “It's almost black.”

“Yes, and bananas and humans share about sixty percent of their DNA, we're almost cousins,” Edmund told him, dangerously quiet, “but fortunately for you, I'm not going to peel you and eat you in a fruit salad, you buffoonish optimist.”

Edmund should never have relied upon his father's former henchpeople. They were loyal to his father; they looked upon him with bemused tolerance. He should've just gone ahead and recruited all of the necessary twelve people from Craigslist. He'd held off due to a suspicion that anyone he found on the internet would assume the Ritual was fundamentally a weird sex thing, but at least a bunch of kinksters would have probably taken the rules seriously.

He sighed. “Carl, there's a bodega down on the corner. Go buy two black trash bags and make yourself a garbage-robe.” Carl frowned. “Is there time?”

Edmund checked his phone. Eleven fifty-three. “Hurry. And save the receipt.”

Another gust of wind kicked up. Edmund shivered. He'd been smart enough to request a fabric swatch ahead of time from the Etsy store where he'd custom-ordered his own set of hooded black robes. He hadn't stopped to consider how warm—or not—a single layer of said fabric would feel well into autumn, completely unshielded by the elements. Theoretically, he could've crammed a coat under the robes, like a child wearing a Halloween costume in an unseasonably cold October, but no, he hadn't wanted to look bulky.

He checked the candles again, for want of anything better to do.

“Boss,” said a hesitant voice behind him.

“What is it, Stephanie,” said Edmund.

Stephanie had clearly repurposed her teenager's old Hermione costume as her robes, but she had bothered to remove the Hogwarts branding, which was something, at least. Beyond the fact that Edmund didn't feel like giving a repellent transphobe any extra attention, there might have been copyright issues.

“Is that thing about bananas really true?”

“Yeah,” said Edmund. He had read it many years ago, in a book titled 2002 MORE WACKY FACTS TO BLOW YOUR MIND AND AMAZE YOUR FRIENDS, which didn't seem especially pertinent. He did a quick headcount. Even without Carl, they only numbered eleven. “Where's Donna?”

“You should call her,” said Stephanie. “Donna never answers her texts.”

Edmund had been halfway through tapping out a text. Ugh, Boomers. Calling was for emergencies only; everyone knew that. Unfortunately, this qualified. He gritted his teeth and dialed.

Donna answered on the fourth ring. “What?” She sounded groggy.

“Did you,” said Edmund, still through gritted teeth, “forget what night the Ritual was?”

“Oh shit,” mumbled Donna. “Are you sure? I thought it was at noon tomorrow. Carl told me twelve o'clock.”

“At night,” said Edmund. “Twelve o'clock at night, this is a dark incantation to a primordial god, it does not overlap with daytime television.”

Just then, Edmund's phone beeped with another call. “Can you hold, Donna,” he hissed.

“Hey boss,” said Carl, “the bodega only has white or green trash bags, what's my next step?”

“HOLD,” Edmund shouted, switching calls again. “Donna, can you grab an extremely dark-colored robe and be here immediately?”

“Like a bathrobe?” said Donna, sounding lost.

Of course Carl had not bothered to relay the dress code. Of course he hadn't even managed to hand her the painstakingly crafted invitation. Edmund had used the nicest card stock available to him, not that it mattered.

“Uh, boss?” Leroy called over the roar of the wind. Edmund flexed his stiffening fingers.

“One second, Donna,” said Edmund.

“How much longer is this gonna be?” said Leroy. “Because I was gonna catch the late show tonight—”

“Watch it on YouTube the next day like a normal person!” Edmund snapped. “Donna—”

“I can be there by 12:40,” said Donna through the tinny phone speaker. “There's some errands I wanna run first.”

“It's the middle of the night, what errands!” said Edmund. “Donna, hold—” He switched back to Carl. “Listen, are you sure there aren't any black trash bags?”

“White or green only,” Carl affirmed. “Some of them are scented, do you think that would make a difference?”

“Boss,” said Frank from the other side of the roof, “we lost the chalk?”

“Hold on, Carl,” said Edmund. “What?”

“It was here a second ago!” “Did you secure the chalk against the wind?”

“What?” said Frank.

“The chalk, it's cylindrical!” Edmund managed to shout. “Did you do anything so it wouldn't just roll straight off the roof?”

Somewhere above the din of wind came the sound of a half dozen pieces of sidewalk chalk landing on the street five stories below and shattering.

Edmund buried his (cold) face in his (frozen) hands.

“Uh boss,” said Stephanie. “It's 12:01.”

Edmund sighed. The primordial god K'h'gg'ragel might have allowed for some creative interpretations on Ritual-adjacent matters, but everyone knew K'h'gg'ragel was a stickler for punctuality.

“Alright,” said Edmund, pitching his voice to carry. “Pack it in, we'll try again next full moon.”

“Phew,” said Leroy, who was wearing a thick downy jacket over his robes, and a hat with earflaps, and mittens. “It's cold out.”

“I FOUND A BLUE ONE!” Carl shouted from the speaker. “IS THAT ANY BETTER?”

Edmund turned his phone off.

Lighting and strategically placing one hundred candles had been something of an undertaking. Blowing them all out alone and stuffing them back into a series of duffel bags was somehow worse. Edmund was about half-done when he heard a distinct whirring buzz. He looked up.

It was Dragonfly. Of course it was Dragonfly, heading right for him.

Great. Edmund's first-ever showdown was going to be a one-on-one against a superhero armed with a jetpack, one hell of a punch, and electrified darts. Edmund was going to get flattened, and all before he even got the chance to point out that the darts and for that matter the punching didn't fit with the overall insect theme. 

“Hey man,” said Dragonfly, dropping effortlessly down to the roof of the museum. “I saw the lights from the sky, thought I'd investigate.”

They weren't fighting yet. Why weren't they fighting? Edmund's whole body fizzed with adrenaline. Also, cold. Either way, he was shaking a little, and bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“And what, strike another heroic blow against the terror that is a bunch of sweater-themed Yankee Candles?” said Edmund.

Dragonfly shrugged. His costume included a bottle-green moto jacket and gloves. It looked warm, in a way that made Edmund feel even colder. “Sweater candles? What, like burning wool?” he said.

Privately, Edmund had wondered about that too. This, he decided obscurely, was another strike against Dragonfly.

“Maybe burning wool smells phenomenal,” said Edmund instead, rocking forward. “There's no way you could possibly know, unless you're here to tell me you've lit a sheep on fire, which seems well outside your whole—” he waved his hands vaguely “—moral compass.”

“Word travels fast,” said Dragonfly gravely. “I am foursquare against sheep-burning. Always have been.”

Edmund squared his shoulders. “So, are we doing this, or what?”

From behind his signature oversized goggles, Dragonfly's brow seemed to furrow slightly. “Doing what?”

“Fighting,” said Edmund. He had to grind his teeth together to keep them from chattering.

“Ah,” said Dragonfly after a pause. “Oh. Um. Okay. Here's the thing?” He steepled his fingers. “You seem unarmed. You're not hurting anyone. You're also not committing any crimes.” Edmund opened his mouth to protest, and Dragonfly continued, “Or, okay, you're trespassing on the museum, I guess, technically, but it's not like you're even trying to sneak into an exhibit without paying.”

“I am here,” said Edmund firmly, “to perform a terrible and arcane Ritual which will summon—”

“Yeah?” said Dragonfly. “Where's your followers? Where's your summoning chalk? It's well past midnight and the only sign of any occult activity I can see is the candles, but for all I know, you were just up here trying to have a little me-time, which, like, on some level I get, you know?”

“So,” said Edmund blankly, “what now?” He had given up on trying to tense his jaw. His upper and lower teeth clacked rhythmically against each other.

“I give you a stern verbal warning about what's probably a minor fire hazard and recommend that you enjoy the museum from the inside, during business hours, with a ticket,” said Dragonfly. “I hear they have a great exhibit on prehistoric mammals. In the meantime, get somewhere warm, okay? Your lips are turning blue.” “Fuck off,” Edmund more or less managed to say through his shivers.

Dragonfly spread his hands, placating. “Fair enough.” He began to walk away. At the edge of the roof, he hesitated. “Uh, do you have a way down?”

“Obviously,” said Edmund.

“Yeah,” said Dragonfly. “Uh, okay.” They regarded each other. “What is it?” said Dragonfly after a few seconds.

Edmund froze. Or well, he was already half-frozen. Edmund stopped moving, was the point.

Apparently interpreting Edmund's silence as helplessness, Dragonfly offered dubiously, “I could carry you down?”

“How,” said Edmund, flat. It was the wrong thing to say, in that it wasn't 'No,' or 'Fuck off' again, something sensible like that, but damn it, he was freezing, and if he gave up the way he'd gotten everyone onto the roof, then this whole fucking evening was going to be a wash. He had tried so hard. It wasn't fair.

Dragonfly took a step closer. “Fireman or bridal?”

Edmund tried and failed to parse this three separate times in his cold-fuzzed brain. “Is that a meme?” he settled on finally.

“Do you,” said Dragonfly, “have a preference on how I carry you.”

“We haven't even established that you're going to,” Edmund said. Clackity clackity clack went his traitorous teeth.

Dragonfly sighed. “I can't leave you up here,” he said. “One, if I let you keep hanging out on the roof of the history museum, then technically I'm kinda aiding and abetting your whole trespassing situation. Two, it is really fucking chilly up here, and if you freeze to death, then that's on me. Which is also not, like, great for my conscience.”

“So I don't have a choice,” Edmund spat.

“You totally have a choice,” said Dragonfly. He tilted his head to the side. “Hell, you could do me a solid and just exit using whatever secret method you entered with, but I have a feeling mum's the word on that particular angle.”

This Dragonfly character was smarter than he looked. Of course, he was a grown man who fought crime dressed as a giant insect. The bar was not particularly high.

“Mum's the word?” Edmund echoed. “What are you, ninety?”

“I'm an old fucking soul, dude,” said Dragonfly. “Point being, you don't trust me not to watch you leave the roof. Which is hurtful, frankly. I'm not sure I trust you not to stay up here out of pure stubbornness. If I give you a quick boost down, then it's problem solved and we can both go about our nights. Crime-fighting for me, and for you hopefully a pile of blankets and whatever warm food rich people eat. Mashed potatoes? With...caviar?”

This clearly did not merit a response. Dragonfly knew who Edmund was, apparently. Most people did.

“What if you drop me?” said Edmund.

Dragonfly laughed. He had a nice laugh. It was yet another point against him, somehow. “Don't you think that might go against my whole—” he gestured with both hands “moral compass?”

Edmund recognized his own words being used against him. On the other hand, the thought of a hot meal and, moreover, central heating beckoned.

“I don't care,” Edmund said at last.

“What?” said Dragonfly.

“Bridal or fireman's carry,” said Edmund. “I don't care.”

Dragonfly nodded sagely. “Let's get this over with, then,” he said. “Hey, d’you want help with your candles?”

Did he? He didn't want to want help with his candles, but that was another question. On the other hand, if Edmund accepted Dragonfly's aid, it would shave off valuable minutes of this excruciating headache. The backs of Edmund's knees were cold. It was absurd.

“Fine,” said Edmund.

“Huh,” said Dragonfly several minutes later. “This one's rain-scented, and this one's Ocean Spray, and yet they smell nothing alike.”

Dragonfly had without fail commented on every single scented candle in the bunch. Edmund looked up from his umpteenth taper candle, momentarily distracted from the knifelike chill.

“Rain and ocean are two completely different things,” said Edmund. “The surrounding environment, the vibe, the salt content.”

“The vibe, I grant you,” said Dragonfly. “But salt, really? Have you ever smelled salt before?”

“The ocean has a smell,” Edmund insisted. His family had summered on the coast every year before—well. Before last year. He mostly remembered the sea as having a whiff of fish about it, which didn't sound promising for a candle, but it was the principle of the thing.

Dragonfly shrugged. “You've got me there,” he said. “Never been.” Cityton was only about an hour's drive from the beach. Edmund wasn't sure he knew anyone who had never visited at least once, for a long weekend at least. Of course, it wasn't like Edmund knew Dragonfly. He didn't even know what Dragonfly's eyes looked like.

Edmund blew out another few tapers.

“This one's just called Singing Carols,” Dragonfly announced. “Guess what it smells like, I dare you.”

And so on.

In the end, Dragonfly carried Edmund off the roof of the Natural History Museum scooped under the armpits, the way you might hold a cat if you were engaging in some light cat-related horseplay. The mechanical dragonfly wings were well-made, Edmund could admit that much; Dragonfly didn't seem to have any issue bearing Edmund's weight or the combined weight of the candles, and their feet gently touched the ground after only a few seconds. It was already slightly warmer—or at least slightly less freezing—on street-level.

Dragonfly let go and stepped back immediately. This close, Edmund could see that his lips were pretty badly chapped. It made sense that someone who donated all their time to—again—flitting around town trying to right every minuscule so-called wrong while dressed like a bug wouldn't be experienced enough with self-care to be acquainted with a good lip balm, but the thought made Edmund weirdly a little sad.

His sense of deeply ingrained politeness warred against the equally powerful urge to be a real bastard about the whole thing. In the end, politeness won out, by the very skin of its mannerly little teeth.

“Thank you for not dropping me to my almost certain death,” Edmund gritted out with extreme reluctance. He stared over Dragonfly's shoulder as he said it.

Nevertheless, for some awful reason, for just that moment, it felt a little like the end of a date.

“Right,” said Dragonfly. “Right. Well then. Happy trails.” He seemed to consider this. “Or you know, if doing crimes is what makes you happy, then for the sake of Cityton, let's say, mediocre trails. Do you wanna borrow my gloves?”

“Why,” said Edmund flatly.

Even though the goggles completely obscured much of the upper half of Dragonfly's face, Edmund had the distinct sense that a disbelieving stare was being leveled at him.

“For your hands? You know, the traditional office of gloves?”

As the scion of Malarkey Industries, Edmund was long accustomed to being hated for who he was. Hated, feared, not-too-secretly envied. And lately: mocked, dismissed, his family name transmuted into a juicy, low-hanging punchline for lazy late night writers.

He wasn't sure he'd ever been pitied before. It did not sit well.

“I'll warm my hands on the fires of hell while I plot your demise, you miserable fool,” growled Edmund.

“Yikes,” said Dragonfly easily. “Well, I'm off.” And with that, he took to the sky.

Edmund curled his fingers into the sleeves of his stupid, summer-weight summoner's robes and started back towards what remained of his home.