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knifesxedge · 2 days ago

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ao3 links still aren’t working for me but here’s my fic for the @dangerdaysbigbang ! i did a little piece for the online event which is going live today, and you can read it on ao3 HERE or below the cut!

An Exercise in Growing Up

Rating: T

Words: 3,945

Summary: The Girl and Party (& Party’s two-year-old daughter) are ambushed by Dracs. The Girl has to protect them. Nobody liked that.

It’s comfortably warm in the Trans Am, the ancient A/C on full blast just enough to combat the late afternoon sunrays pouring in through the glass of the sunroof, windows and front windshield. The Girl is worn out after spending most of the day playing with Charlie and the other kids at Gravel Gertie’s in Zone Five, sleepy the way a cat is when in a similar patch of sunlight. She’s half-dozing in the passenger seat when Party Poison curses and jerks the steering wheel to the side, jostling the Girl’s head from its resting place on the shoulder of the leather seat.

“What? What?” she gasps, sitting up and looking around anxiously. She sees it almost immediately through the rear windshield: a blindingly white BLI patrol car kicking up dust a few miles behind the ‘Am. When she looks over and meets Party’s eye, as much as they’re trying to hide it, they actually look scared.

“I’m gonna try t’ outrun them,” they say, offering her a smile that’s more grimace than genuine. Their tone is determined, but the tremor underneath is what makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up. Very rarely in her sixteen years with the Fabulous Four has she seen Party frightened enough that they couldn’t bury it under several layers of artificial confidence and bravado.

Then again, she watches them glance into the rearview mirror at where their two-year-old daughter is fast asleep in her carseat, and she understands. She was that baby girl, once — though when she was that young, her family never would have taken her out in the car without at least three of them there. And as if they can hear her thoughts, Party mutters, agonized, “So stupid . Can’t believe how cocky we’ve gotten, should have never left th’ Diner without another adult. Witch, Girlie, ‘m so sorry about this.”

The Girl doesn’t look at Party’s hands white-knuckling the wheel, doesn’t glance downward at where their left ankle is encased in a hefty wrap, from when they’d sprained it badly in a firefight earlier that week. She does look at their face, though, at the deliberately calm smoothness that’s come over their expression, the resigned pinch at the corner of their mouth and in the set of their jaw.

“Party, when they catch up — “

“They won’t,” Party says firmly, but their eyes are stormy with a cocktail of regret and fear. They look in the mirror at Charlie again.

“You can barely walk,” she tries again, but Party’s head whips around to look at her.

“I won’t let them hurt you.” they say, simply. They turn back to the road, but one of their pale hands fumbles for hers, squeezing it tight. “My girls,” they murmur, a slight shake in their voice. “No, I’ll never let them hurt you.”

“Party. They’re going to catch up.” The Girl doesn’t let herself sound afraid, just calm and reasonable. Party is prone to dramatics and even more so to martyrdom, but she can’t let them do this — not now, not in front of their daughter, not when their ankle is in shreds and she’s able and willing. “I— I want you to stay in the car with Charlie.”

Party opens their mouth to protest, but she talks over them, the way Jet and Kobra do when they need to make a point without Party interrupting. “I’m in fighting condition, you’re not. An’ Charlie needs you.”

Party’s eyes stray to their sleeping daughter again, sorrow clouding their expression, along with a wistfulness and a fierce, protective love that makes the Girl’s heart ache. She’s seen them look at her that same way more than once. The most memorable instance was when she was five, right before the clap that had landed her in the back of a BLI patrol car. They’d tucked her under the table of the Diner’s booth, pressed her favorite toy into her arms, and said quietly, Stay hidden. We’ll be right back.

Party’s mouth trembles. “But you’re still jus’ a kid, Girlie. I’m th’ adult here, I’m responsible for both ‘f you.”

“I’m no younger than you were when y’all first took me in,” the Girl counters. “An’ you’ve put your life on th’ line for me so many times since then. Just — let me protect you, now. Stay with Charlie.”

Party swears, hands flexing on the steering wheel and the gear shift, but they set their lips in a firm line and take a deep breath, letting it out in a long, shaky sigh. Their voice only wobbles a bit when they concede, quietly, “Okay, Jackrabbit.”

The Girl kisses their cheek, and reaches into the glovebox for the spare raygun the crew keeps there. Bright purple, spangled with various small stars, lightning bolts and a big smiley face sticker. It’s hers in everything but name — mostly because none of the Fab Four like thinking that she’s in need of a weapon of her own now. Although it’s been years since Ghoul first found her and they swore to keep her safe, she supposes it feels like failure. She hefts the raygun in her left hand — her shooting hand.

The patrol car that was in the near distance a few minutes ago has gained speed and is cruising into shooting range. Party looks pensive, scanning the highway ahead of them like they’re looking for something — and they find it. As soon as a building appears on the horizon, Party floors the gas and yanks the wheel left, and the car skids off the road and into the open desert.

“Hopefully the dust will give us a little cover t’ get t’ that warehouse,” they yell over the roar of sand under the wheels. “Girlie, are you sure — oh, hey, hey, princess, nothin’ t’ worry about, ‘s all okay.” Their voice immediately smooths out, going gentle and soothing as Charlie stirs awake at the clunking of uneven terrain making the ‘Am pitch and groan. She starts to look around anxiously, whimpering like she’s gearing up to start crying for real. The Girl twists in her seat, waving her hands at Charlie in hopes to distract her a bit, gently patting her knee.

“Pretty bumpy, huh?” she calls, loud enough that she hopes Charlie will be able to hear her. Charlie looks disconcerted, but nods. “You okay?”

Charlie nods again, clumsily signing, “Want Oya.” She looks unsure and a little frightened, and the Girl realizes it must be because Party looks so scared. Party seems to realize it too, because they suddenly square their shoulders and force a smile for her.

“Oya’s driving right now, anata,” Party says, tone light. “We’ll stop in jus’ a moment, okay?”

“Where going?” Charlie asks, hands carefully mimicking the motions her parents have shown her, and then, round little face creasing up, “Go home now? Please?”

“Not just yet, sweetheart,” Party says, apparently watching her motions in the rearview. Their worried eyes have flicked back to the desert in front of the car and the rapidly shrinking distance to the warehouse ahead, but they still answer in that same cheerful tone. “Quick pit stop, okay, won’t be long. ‘S okay, babygirl, everything’s okay.”

“I just have to do something real quick, okay? An’ then we’ll all go home,” the Girl adds. Charlie nods solemnly, eyes big and tiny mouth a little worried line.

“Be okay?” She asks, little pointer finger carefully adding the question mark at the end.

“Promise I will,” the Girl says, and holds out her pinky to loop it around Charlie’s. “I’ll be fast.”

Party jerks the wheel one last time, whipping the Trans Am around the corner of the warehouse and out of sight under the shade of the tall concrete walls. They throw the car into park, flinging open the driver’s side door and limping as quickly as they can around to Charlie’s side and scooping her into their arms.

“We’re gonna stay here, okay?” they murmur to her, crawling into the backseat as smoothly as is possible with an injured ankle and a two-year-old in their arms. “An’ we gotta be quiet. Can you do that for me, darling?”

“Okay, Oya,” Charlie lisps, but her eyes are wide and worried. She has no way of understanding what’s going on, but she can tell that Party’s afraid. She wraps her small arms around Party’s neck, and they lean up against the seat to prop her between their knees and chest.

The Girl watches them for a moment. Party brushes a few fine strands of dark brown hair behind Charlie’s ear, careful not to jostle her bright orange hearing aids, looking at her like she’s the most precious thing in the world. They kiss the top of her head, and then curl themself protectively around her. Party looks up at the Girl, then, eyes glittering with worry. “Be careful, Girlie. Destroya, please, you have to come back safe.”

“I will,” the Girl promises, again, voice quiet. There’s no time to say everything she wants to say to them — the figure who has always loomed so large and infallible in her childhood memories and who now looks so small and fragile, cradling her little sister’s head to their chest. Instead, she just puts her hand on their shoulder, leaving it there for a long moment, and says, “Stay hidden. I’ll be right back.”

She closes the door before she can hear their reply.

When she rounds the corner again, purple raygun raised but not yet aimed, she sees the patrol car has slowed in its approach. It’s prowling forwards, cutting a wide berth around the warehouse like a buzzard circling an injured rabbit. As soon as the Girl appears from behind the wall it zeroes in on her, heading in her direction. That’s good. She wants to keep it away from the Trans Am, if she can. If worst comes to worst, Party is still capable of defending themself, but— with a heavy limp and Charlie there, she really, really doesn’t want to find out how far they’d have to push themself to manage it. I can protect them, she thinks. I have to protect them.

The shining white sedan has purred to a halt, now, silent and still, facing her. There’s a long moment of impasse, but at long last, with a crack, the doors burst open and four Dracs pour out of the car, brandishing rayguns that match the gleaming white sheen of the patrol car’s finish.

The Girl ducks as a sizzling blast slices through the air right where her head had been. Her feet catch in the sand, and she tries to roll with the momentum like she’s seen Kobra do, but goes down heavy. From the ground, she fires wildly back, shot after shot going wide, until finally, one errant beam finds its target in a Drac’s throat, and it falls.

She hauls herself upright. One of the white-clad figures is circling her, the other two hanging back— probably what passes for sharpshooters by Drac standards.

She scrambles backwards in the hopes that a small heap of warehouse junk — a crate, some empty oil drums, and a whole mess of stinking tarp and tangled barbed wire — might offer her some makeshift cover. A few more potshots from her pursuers scorch the side of the bleached wood and lend the smell of acrid smoke to the stench of sun-roasted garbage.

She peers over the top of the barrels, crusted in who-knows-what, and sees one of the closer Dracs advancing on her position, zombie-like determination in every step as it slowly gets closer. She aims, and fires, and though she misses her intended target — the approaching Draculoid — one of her shots clips and manages to blow a tire on the front end of the dracmobile, which explodes with a loud bang! Even as she jumps, startled, tire shrapnel flies everywhere, causing one of the Dracs next to the vehicle to stumble. Her next two desperate shots graze the incapacitated Drac’s throat, and blood starts to gush from the nicked artery, the Drac collapsing to the ground with a horrible gurgling noise, and catches the closest Drac in the right shoulder. Aim for center mass, she can almost hear Jet telling her. ‘Specially if y’ ain’t good ‘t hittin’ yer target. May not be real Merciful, but ‘f ‘s you ‘r them — take those fuckers down, Girlie. She gets the one closest to her again, melted polyester smoking around the hole she just put in its chest, but even still, it keeps coming, gripping one of the barrels in both hands and flinging it aside like it’s made of styrofoam. She fires wildly, another raygun bolt meeting its target in the Drac’s side and starting to leak dark, coagulated blood.

She wants to scream in terror, but it’s at that moment that her legs are swept out from under her with a swift, hard kick, arms restrained behind her back by an unyielding grip that she can tell from the telltale scratch of cheap fabric against her skin is the other Drac that she hadn’t even realized had disappeared from view.

As she squirms fruitlessly in the Drac’s grasp, she can see its partner starting to take a curious, predatory path around the corner of the warehouse — toward where the Trans Am is hidden, and Party and Charlie with it. She does scream out loud, then, biting at her attacker’s arms and clawing blindly behind her at where she can only assume the eyeholes of the mask are. She can feel the tear of skin beneath her fingernails, taste blood on her tongue, but the Drac doesn’t even flinch, almost like she’s being held by a marble statue, except a statue’s grip wouldn’t start to tighten, around her ribs and around her throat until the world starts to get fuzzy and dark at the edges, blurring in and out. The second Drac has just reached where the shadow of the warehouse stretches out over the sand, and its head tilts in apparent interest. She can just barely see the way it reaches for its weapon, other hand reaching out to stroke over the tarnished bumper of the Trans Am. The Girl lets out a wordless cry of panicked frustration, squirming in the Drac’s iron hold. To her surprise, it suddenly breaks, though she knows her own strength is no match for the relentless, unstoppable doggedness of the undead; the Drac jerks backwards as if burned — or electrocuted by an errant shock. In their holsters, the Dracs’ rayguns sizzle and go dead, low battery light blinking a warning for a second before it too goes dark. Freed from the Drac’s grip, the Girl tucks into a ball as she’s dropped unceremoniously to the ground, rolling in the dust as her grasping fingers meet the grip of her own dropped raygun, and she smoothly comes up into a crouch to fire two dead-on shots that leave her opponents crumpled in the sand. For a moment, she just kneels there in the dirt, heartbeat pounding like a headache behind her eyes. As she stumbles gracelessly to her feet a second time, she pants for breath, adrenaline and panic still singing in her veins. The quiet ringing in her ears subsides as her breathing starts to slow, chest no longer heaving, hand twitching tighter in its hold on her weapon involuntarily. She looks at the bodies strewn around her, unnaturally white against the natural earthy tones of the desert landscape, black holes scorching their surfaces like mottling on a rattlesnake. She shudders, taking a deep, steadying gasp of air that tastes like blaster smoke.

The Girl whirls around at the sound of uneven, clomping footsteps in the sand, muzzle of her raygun jerking up on instinct, but instead of the white jacket of a Draculoid, she’s instead greeted by Party, limping as fast as they can across the stretch of dust between them with Charlie balanced on their hip, beating at their shoulder with her tiny fists in a demand to be put down.

Party lets Charlie wriggle to the ground and flings both arms around the Girl. At the same time, the Girl can feel Charlie’s small arms wrap around her knees, fingers fisting in her cargoes.

“Oh, god, Girlie,” they say, voice trembling, face hidden in her shoulder. Their grip is vice-like as they start to shudder, going weak and limp in her embrace.

“‘M okay. ‘M okay,” the Girl says, and she’s not sure which of them she’s reassuring.

Party lets out another shuddering breath, hand sliding up to cradle the back of her head against their chest, the same way they’d been holding Charlie only minutes earlier — the way the Girl could remember being held when she was Charlie’s age. “Brave girl,” they murmur, voice strained, and squeeze her even tighter.

And then they’re back in the car, speeding along the cracked, dusty highway, almost as if nothing had ever interrupted them. Almost. Party radios the crew back at the Diner, a note of steel forced into their tone despite the still-present tension in their shoulders.

Even Ghoul’s steadfast nature doesn’t hold up in the wake of the danger they were facing— and when the clear, unfiltered fear in his voice seeps across the line, a mix of stress and raw bleeding-heart sentiment causes Party’s voice to pitch up to previously undiscovered levels of falsetto. The words come faster and faster, terror and relief and reassurances spilling over each other and getting tangled up in the back-and-forth of conversation, if the constant din of talking over each other can even be called that.

Charlie, upon hearing her father’s voice over the line, reaches out insistently for the transmitter and babbles until she’s handed the radio, which barely fits in her clumsy two-hand grip. She chatters cheerfully across the waves, mercifully unaware of the severity of the situation they had just narrowly escaped. The Girl tunes it all out, looking out the window at the endless stretch of sand and golden-blue sky streaking by in ribbons of light and color past the dust-clouded glass.

When the Trans Am creaks to a halt in front of the Diner, obviously unhappy with the strain off-roading had put on its engine, their crew is waiting for them under the shade of the defunct gas station carpark.

Ghoul gets to them first, crushing Charlie between his chest and Party’s as he wraps them in a desperate embrace. His hand brushes over Party’s cheek, landing in their hair, and then sweeps down to smooth a thumb against Charlie’s eyebrow. He murmurs a few words that the Girl can’t quite make out, but she’s pretty sure they aren’t English. She doesn’t even have time to open her mouth before Jet has her in their arms. “Niñita. Por dios.”

She clings back, and lets herself feel like the scared little girl she’d try to bury deep down the moment her family was threatened. Still — “Estoy bien, mana. Me siento bien,” she insists. Jet lets out a breath, nods, and holds her by both shoulders, just looking at her for a moment. Her eyes soften, the slight crows’ feet at the corners deepening as her eyebrows knit.

“When did you grow up, nena,” Jet murmurs, less like a question and more like a quiet wonderment. She shakes her head. “Playing hero. Y’ got too much Party in ya. Witch alive.”

Ghoul appears, then, out of her periphery — apparently having finished fussing over Party and Charlie, at least for now — and he and Jet trade places. His eyes are soft and scared, hand coming up to brush over her cheek, thumb smoothing over her eyebrow, just the way he’d done to Charlie. “My brave girl,” he says, voice choked, before he pulls her into a tight hug. Her arms come up to hold him back just as tightly. “You shouldn’t ‘ve had t’ do that, Bunny,” he murmurs, and then adds, “‘M sorry.”

The Girl squeezes his arm as she pulls back. “‘S th’ Zones. Gotta grow up fast here.”

Ghoul frowns, but doesn’t seem to have any rebuttal to that statement, though he obviously doesn’t like it. Instead, he brushes his thumb over her cheek again and says, “C’mon inside. Y’ need somethin’ for th’ shock.” And he leaves it at that.

She doesn’t find Kobra until much later. He’s on the roof, smoking a cigarette and staring out at the darkening desert with his feet dangling over the edge when she pulls herself up the access ladder.

“Y’ gonna share?” she asks as she drops down to sit next to him, gravel crunching.

He snorts, takes another drag, and lets it pour out of his mouth and nose like a dragon. “Yeah, right.”

They sit together in a long silence she doesn’t feel the need to fill. It’s why he’s her favorite — though she’d never tell any of the others that. He never minces words, or feels the need to speak when there’s nothing to say.

“Y’ know why they’re really upset, don’t ya?” Kobra says eventually. Smoke haloes around his head and fingers, and hovers in the dusky air.

The Girl shrugs, though she’s got a fair guess.

He stubs out the last bit of his cig against the siding of the Diner. “All ‘f us wanted you to be able t’ be a kid longer than the rest ‘f us ever got to. An’ even more than that, you were in danger, it’s that you had t’ put your life on th’ line to protect your family. Y’ had t’ grow up. An’ so yeah, sure, Party was scared. But I think they would rather’ve been able t’ just do something, fight for you both, than t’ send their baby girl out t’ the front lines. ‘S why everybody’s so shaken up.”

“I told ‘em. They were my age when y’all brought me home. You were even younger,” she argues, but there’s a heaviness in her chest. She knows Kobra is right, and even more so, she feels the same way. Facing down a squad car of Dracs, she’d wanted to wail for someone to protect her. But in that moment, she wasn’t the one that needed protecting the most.

“Someone had t’ do it,” she adds, halfheartedly.

Kobra sighs, lights a new smoke that he pinches between his pointer and middle fingers. “Yeah,” he says, simply, roughly, and clamps it in the corner of his mouth.

Silence falls again, save for the whistle of desert wind and the faint sizzle of the cherry of Kobra’s nic stick. The Girl stares out at the horizon, where the tiny cluster of faint lights indicates the ever-present threat of Better Living. Her fingers itch for a cigarette, though she’s never smoked (and probably never will, if Kobra has his way). The smell is comforting, though, and she inhales it with every breath she takes.

“Do me a favor?” Kobra says suddenly. He looks scrutinizingly at her, cig still dangling from his mouth. “You were brave t’day. Y’ saved yourself an’ y’ saved your family. I’m proud ‘f ya. Don’t be brave again. Unless y’ have to. Okay?”

The Girl remembers how she’d felt that morning leaving the Diner with Party and Charlie— it’s like looking into the memory of a different person. She breathes deep, again seeking the ever-familiar scent of nicotine smoke. “Yeah,” she says, forever his little echo, and holds out her pinky.

Kobra loops his with hers, eyes already fixed back on the lavender-grey line of where sand meets sky. “Good girl.”

#pi's personal #danger days #ttlotfk #killjoys california #the girl #party poison #danger days big bang

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