#sky daddy has so many errant children

[thecherrypitpie]

a post about a fic idea i will never write for lack of time and patience

imagine if michael really is nightbringer and Sky Daddy gets tired of him playing the villain in mc's demonic nancy drew adventure so literal *DIVINE INTERVENTION* is what sends mc back to their present... but at a cost.

they pop back up during a council meeting (totally not discussing how to next try to find mc and rescue them since solomon is taking forever)

lighting quick one of the brothers grabs mc to pull them in for a hug

mc: "no! don't" *squeezes eyes shut and screams, clutching their head*

when their eyes reopen they're a glowing iridescent white

mc?: "SAMAEL, IT IS TIME YOU RETURNED TO ME. GATHER THE OTHERS AND ASCEND TO MY SIDE ONCE MORE. DO THIS AND AS A GIFT FOR YOUR OBEDIENCE, YOU MAY KEEP THE MORTAL."

mc collapses, comatose into the arms of whomstever grabbed them first.

you, yes *you*, should write this and tag me so i can read it

[lemontrash]

Highschool Infiltration AU (4)

@disturbed02girl

(Part 1)  (Part 2 & 3)

___

East Woodborough Public High School, Monday morning, the light smacking in yellow sunspots from the glazing. Throb of engines and the bass, ticking of bicycle wheels, the clap and rattle of skateboards - a cacophony. Washed out sky dyed in a blue that is turning white with heat, rubber soles picking up the dust from the concrete. Everywhere bodies turning humid inside of shirts and shorts, faces pinking. The clarion of girls laughing all ha-ha-tee-hee.  Girls. Not misses. Girls who walk with their shoulders first, slouching jeans and gemmy eyes, self conscious of acne and braces. Girls with biro down the backs of their hands, boys with trouser hems trodden into soft runnels of thread, boys with secret tattoos.

Children.

Heero wades through them, a small Gulliver encroaching into Lilliput. An old man in a skinny boy body.

He finds breathing space and shade beneath straggling trees on scratchy grass, occupied already by children scribbling final answers to last weeks homework, and stray cigarette butts.

He’d expected more similarity to the other schools. There’s next to none. Kids run here and talk loud, smack their gum, turn up in clothes pulled from bedroom floors. No uniforms. No stables. No fencing. No hush and wood polish.

Heero feels his own anonymity more acutely than he ever has. A good thing, for the mission.

Two girls clapping, singing nonsense, or talking. “No! No!” one says to her friend, signalling with the rest of her body, “Yes, say more!”

Heero has a pen and ten dollars in his pocket, but he should have brought a backpack. It would blend more. It’s part of the uniform, he realises. The uniform that isn’t a uniform. The other of the clapping girls looks back, and then drops a whisper into her friend's ear and they peal away into the chaos.

Laughing at him?

Doesn’t matter. It’s not relevant to the mission, and they’re not potential targets. Heero doesn’t need to know anything about them to know that. They’re too ordinary. Ordinary is safe.

Safe enough. The school is a big white block of a building, Heero blinks and it’s rubble. Blink. Box. Blink. Roar of children’s voices.

Blink.

“The fuck?” someone says. A flash of another face, like all the others. Incredulous at the concept of Heero Yuy.

Heero realises he’s scowling like fury.

Twenty minutes till first bell.

Detaching himself from the trees, he drives himself away towards the back of the school. Time now to focus. Establish territory.  

Heero breathes in the dry clay of the earth. Time to choose a sport.

____

It’s a powder blue convertible with that new car smell, as though Santa baby only just dropped it off. It must have been in the garage for several years though, brand new even whilst ageing.

Quatre dismisses Ahmed’s suggestion of an escort, and puts the hood down. It’s a speed control zone, but even a sedate thirty miles per hour creates soft fingers of air that ruffle over his scalp. Sunglasses, chinos, understated but overpriced watch, Quatre supposes he’ll make the appropriate splash when he arrives. First port of call, student services, of course, to make his introduction to the Dean.

And then in turn, Quatre presumes to be introduced to the other high school royalty. Or perhaps they will simply magnetise themselves to his presence, like lions aware of a newcomer prowling into their territory.

Not that he intends to be threatening.

The big houses and lawns give way to smaller lots with bigger roads and untidier kerbs.

‘Why wouldn’t I be at private school?’ Quatre wonders of his character. ‘Money? Character?’ It’s a very nice car. Quatre resolves on personality; a rags-to-riches, Grand-daddy’s alma mater reasoning.

A naif desire for reality and diversity. Get a little taste of the other half before the inevitable route to the board room.

“And in that case,” Quatre says to himself, wheeling the sports car into the parking lot, “I won’t even need to act.”  

___

Town planning guidance states that, as the ideal, each household should be within a 500m walk of a bus stop. Wufei has to trudge more than twice that to the main road. A bus the colour of old mustard and half empty.

Wufei takes a seat near the back. Perches really, thinking of gum concealing on the underside. The outskirts slip drearily past the window, strip mall, gas station, drive-thru, then another. The fat man at the wheel meets Wufei’s eye briefly through the rear-view, but with only a bovine attention. He’s been doing this for too long to care one way or another. All he wants is for the kids to sit down and keep their hands and their drinks to themselves.

Tilting his head, as they groan between stops, Wufei finds a spider in the corner of the window, which oscillates into a blur in its web whenever the driver squishes a foot on the accelerator. ‘Go faster, or let me off?’ Wufei muses.

It’s the most relatable thing he’s seen in days.

The bus lurches to a halt, rear skewed into the nearside lane, and more kids tramp aboard, already looking travel worn. Cups clutched in bare hands, books and bags.

“Hey, pay!” the driver yells at one kid. He turns on a heel and flicks -ping! klink! - a dollar fifty in coins into the slot. The driver snorts.

“Eat it,” says the kid, backing down the aisle, middle fingers raised. Cock of the rock. Wufei rolls his eyes. Wonders what it is about the light spectrum that makes neon looks so dead in the daylight.  

“Move.”

There’s a tussle and a kid is evicted from the seat opposite Wufei. He goes stumbling up the bus, with the surprised offence of a person hit in the face by an errant bluebottle, and then drops into a new seat. Boots bridge the aisle, thumping onto Wufei’s seat and making the springs bounce.

“What?” Duo challenges.

Wufei, finger and thumb, pulls the edge of his jacket out from under Duo’s heel and scoots over.

“Nerd.”

The glint of a shark’s grin in the corner of his eye. Wufei lets his body go reptilian. ‘Don’t overdo it,’ he warns with his silence. ‘Don’t push me,’

Pop of bubblegum, bleep of a game. Pure theatrics. Wufei stares at the spider hanging onto its threads.

It’s going to be a long day.  

___

Trowa changes in a classroom, and returns to the roof to watch the sun rise. He watches staff arrive over the course of an hour, in ones and twos. None of them think to look up. Mostly they look at their shoes.

Then the before-school kids arrive. Parents with morning meetings, the sports kids, the band kids, and kids with reasons that Trowa can’t discern from twenty metres above.

Then the mob. Spooling from buses, the whole hive-like mass of students erupting from the surrounding roads. So many it’s hard to pick out individuals, though he sees Quatre sweep in, shining and spotless. He evokes a bubble through the crowd as he passes through it. People gape and then cling to his wake, taking it all in. As he climbs the steps of the school, Trowa gets a glimpse of sunshine redolent on golden hair, and a smile before Quatre vanishes.

He crowds down a little lower, and trusts no one else will bother looking up.

Duo births himself out the window of a bus not a few moments later, brash and obvious. A distraction that nearly makes him miss Wufei slinking off, having disembarked in a more orthodox manner. Duo stands and scans the building and then mooches away in the opposite direction, towards the bleachers.

Sensible.

He doesn’t spot Heero, but then Heero is always aware of his angles. He wouldn’t expose himself to surveillance like that. Trowa watches the other kids instead.The lonely ones, the bold ones.They make for a curious study. Height simplifies them and their behaviours. He can compare them to cattle, or ants, or apes, but knows that once among them, it won’t be the case at all.

‘Bias,’ Trowa thinks, leaning back from the edge. Under his feet, a bell is chirring. Warning bell. It sounds more suited to a military application than anything as homely as a school. Trowa arranges his face into something nondescript and his body into a slouch. Touch of gangling disorganisation in the limbs, dragging feet. He descends into the school, and takes turns following small groups of children, adding characteristics to Sven until Sven is more alive than conjecture.  

When the bell rings again, Trowa mutely holds his note over the desk to the school secretary. “I got lost,” he says.

“First day,” she replies, thrusting spectacles onto her nose and reducing him at once to paperwork. “Right, let’s see where we’re putting you, shall we?”