#they both wear eye patches other wise it's distracting as hell

[theskeletonatthewritersblock]

When Catha nearly dies after an attempt on their life, they wake to the loss of sight in their left eye, and the ability to see into the oceans of Tathos, of the Seraphina galaxy, which is contained in a reality separate from their own.

Vicen falls at the hands of a rival Sea Master, but when he rises it is with sights on a city known as Palmoa, located on a world not light years away, but time lines.

Together Catha and Vicen, bound by a tether stronger then the laws of reality, must aid in their separate struggles to seek revenge on their killers, and stop a gate from opening that may see the ultimate destruction of both of their worlds.

[starksinner]

Rest

Summary: Charles takes care of you after a job goes terribly wrong.

Pairing: Charles Smith x Reader

Warnings: Heavy depictions of Violence, Blood, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, Slight Angst, Fluff, Implications of Sexual Harassment/Assault, Mention of Dissociation

Author's Note: I haven't written in what feels like a lifetime, so I apologize if this is a mess. Either way, the lack of Charles Smith fics across this website and others is downright a crime, so this is my "fine, I'll do it myself" moment. I hope I do some justice to (one of) the best characters in the Red Dead universe. I hope you enjoy reading, y'all!

AO3 Link

The bruised grass of The Heartlands scrape against the skin of your ankles and calloused feet as you are led from the wide-open prairies into the privacy of an austere and diminutive forest.

The air is moist with remnants of rainfall. Petrichor and the scent of nature tickles your senses as your bare feet meet the soiled ground of the woods.

In your mind, loud and boisterous, rumbles an orchestra of deafening thunder and screaming. The pounding of your head originates from the open and festering wounds that continuously pulsate from the split skin of your sensitive scalp — seething and oozing.

Your hands tremble as they are softly caressed and held within the palms of another, the caring touch calming and guiding as you find yourself threatening to slip off the face of the Earth.

When Charles whispers your name, the most delicate reminder of your existence, you can’t help but whine and whimper pathetically. You force your eyes shut as you fester in a cloud of anger and pride, condemning your humanity and the fragility of your own body as a soaring pain runs up the curve of your torso.

You breathe heavily as you groan and peer down at Charles’ language of love: touch — his ethereal touch, displayed by the tender interconnection of his fingers with your own. A familiar scarlet liquid has crept and dried into the small crevices of your fingers, serving as a grisly reminder of the evening’s barbarous events.

“Men love underestimatin’ a woman in a frilly dress,” you splutter softly, the task of speaking suddenly foreign. “Used their idiocy t’my advantage, but I ain’t too sure the price was worth it.”

Charles gives you a look that reflects that of solemnity rather than one of silent derision. You, like many individuals whose identities cause them persecution, prefer to be given a look that serves as a reminder of the severity of a situation rather than a look of belittlement. That look — the one of silent derision — is well known to you as you��ve watched it be used by men as a means of reprimanding and reminding women of their weakness, naivete, and disorder of hysteria.

Charles wasn’t most men, though. Charles was fair, liberal, and wise — no matter how much he’d quietly argue with you over such labels. He admired and encouraged your strength, both in the physical and intellectual sense. Before you even understood your love for him, you had viewed him as a mystical wonder — an actual man among men. He never viewed you as lesser or judged you unjustly. He took you as you were — in all your strength and all your weakness, with all your stubbornness and all your recklessness.

“You were only protecting yourself,” he asserts calmly, his brown eyes observing yours. ”Those men were...savages. They would’ve killed us if you didn’t hurt them first.”

Like most situations that have transpired the past couple of months, Charles held his head and was right — you knew he was right.

Haphazardly, you grip onto Charles’ hands harder, willing off the tears of discomfort that blur your irises.

“I...I don’t know where my dress stops and where I begin,” you murmur, frowning as you see his features drop sadly.

A deep maroon, the dress you wear is tailored to attract the eyes of desperate men and curious travelers. The bodice is silk and accessorized with a corset that shapes and accentuates that of which men drool and desire. Now, the lengthy ruby material is ripped and caked in pools of dried blood and other human materials you dare not to think about.

Your arms, neck, and chest are redder than the dress, dried patches of red and brown mementos from your slain enemies. You crave ripping off your skin and ridding yourself of the deadly feeling and sight of your sins.

“Camp is right over the hills through here,” Charles notes, pressing his fingers lightly under your chin. “Close your eyes and just focus on your breathing. Let me carry you, love.”

You melt into his soft touch, your face scrunching in defeat as a loud sob escapes you. “I hate killing, Charles. I hate it and I hate myself for it. It was...me or them, I know. That man said he wanted me to...I just…”

“I know,” he whispers. Without any trouble, as if you were a mere pelican feather, Charles hooks his arm under your knees and holds you to his chest. He swiftly carries you through the woods and into the open plains, navigating his way back to Horseshoe Overlook. He gently coos and whispers into your ear sweet assurances as you cry justly. “Nearly there, love.”

---

You felt dissociated from your own body as Charles helped you strip out of your ruined dress, kissing, caressing, and whispering to you all the right things. He helped you wash yourself by a nearby lake, lathering your skin with soap and pressing soft kisses against any apparent scratches and blooming bruises.

What was supposed to be a quick con job just north of Valentine, turned into a full fledged bloodbath. Your role was a simple and tired one — dressed as a rich simpleton, you were to distract some revenue agents and pose as a woman found lost on her wary travels. Charles, the silent hunter, would rummage through the agents’ wagons in search of the lock box that you had on good authority was carrying a wealthy prize.

It was easy — a con that you’ve been participating in since your rebel days with Arthur, both of you incredibly spry and dramatic in your teen years.

Things took a drastic turn as you spotted a third wagon headed in Charles’ direction, just as you were chatting up and charming a lanky looking agent. In a last attempt at distraction, you placed your hand against the agent’s chest and began flirting with him, making his eyes wander to your red painted lips and nearly exposed chest.

Alas, the third wagon of revenue agents had spotted Charles — causing a boom of gunshots and shouts to echo across the plains. Your body immediately tensed until you spotted your love hiding behind a boulder, shooting off his Springfield Rifle into the growing crowd of agents. You acted on pure instinct as you swiftly reached under your skirt, gripping your knife, and slicing the throat of the agent in front of you. His blood splattered across your face as he choked, whined, and fell to the ground at your feet. You grabbed the Bolt Action Rifle from his dead grip and began firing into the agents around you, covering yourself behind one of the large wagons.

It wasn’t until you heard Charles struggle and shout that things took a gory route. He was fighting against a brawny agent that had pinned him to the ground, both men grunting and punching for dominance. You no longer considered your own wellbeing as you kicked off your shoes and sprinted towards him, shooting the agent straight in the head and another three of them as they screamed and barreled towards the both of you. You took hold of the left side of the field while Charles ran to another empty boulder and flanked the right. Both of you fought to pick off the pack of revenue agents that had seemingly swarmed the area, reloading your guns and bearing the pain of flesh wounds resulting from incoming bullets.

Just as you thought you were in the clear, the air was knocked straight out of your lungs as your head smashed against the side of the wagon and you were pushed, face first,  into the solid ground.

“You enjoy playing with guns, sweet thing?” The man on top of you grunted and gripped your neck as you thrashed and struggled below him. He dropped his knee against your lower spine, causing a mantra of curses to pass your lips as you promised death upon him.

“You got some mouth on you,” he groaned into your ear, holding you down harder as you continued to scream and fight beneath him. “I’m gonna take you in. Teach you how to kneel an’ please me good with my dick in your mouth, sweet thing.”

Suddenly, the commotion of gunshots leapt into a dreary silence, causing the man above you to turn his attention to the sudden absence of noise.

In your panic, you heard Charles scream your name.

With all your strength, you growled and practically bucked the agent off of you, reaching forward for your knife and whipping around to kick the man where it truly hurts the most.

The coward wailed on the ground and gripped his manhood, cursing you out as he shuffled backwards in fear. You spat and stalked towards him, your chest heaving and your eyes only seeing red. You pressed your right foot into the agent’s abdomen, hard, squatting down and positioning the tip of your blade near his chest.

“I hope hell burns extra hot for you, sweet thing.” You sneered at his visible fear and hurled the blade into the man’s chest — over and over, you plunged your knife into the agent’s body as blood poured from his mouth and he gaped at you with wide, dying eyes.

Blood poured from your scalp down to your face, your side screamed in agony, every inch of your skin was matted with blood that wasn’t your own — you stabbed until you physically felt the soul of the man beneath you leave his body.

That’s how Charles had found you, still and motionless, covered in blood and lost in your head as he called out for you and led you away from the strew of dead bodies.

---

“I need you,” you speak softly, breaking the night’s silence. You and Charles were under the protection of your tent: he’d been crafting poultice for your inflamed wounds while you’d been attempting to find pleasure in a bowl of Pearson’s stew. Your mind couldn’t stop racing and mulling over the day’s events.

You craved a distraction. You craved Charles.

“Charles?”

“Not tonight,” he murmurs. He speaks with an unwavering finality but with no anger, upset, or aggression. “You need rest. The both of us.”

You frown, like a child. “I just...I’m…”

“I know.” He places the cloth he was working with down and shuffles his way over to you, gripping the blanket by your feet and putting it over your body. He wordlessly noticed you had been shivering, wrapped only in your thin chemise. “When we’ve both recovered, we can share each other...It’s been a long day and I don’t want the love I have for you to pose as a distraction from the pain.”

You snuggle into his side, basking in his scent of ginseng and cedar, and nod against him. He was right, he was always right. “I...I love you, Charles. So, so much. You’re...everything and more to me.”

“And you to me.” He presses his lips against your temple, making sure not to touch the bandages against your scalp. He too takes in your scent, sprinkles of honey and peaches, a smell that proves to be his home and final landing.

He watches your eyelids flutter shut and lets you lay against your shared mattress, pressing a final day’s kiss against your warmed cheek. He is satisfied by your peaceful reflection. “I’ll wake you in the morning for coffee, my love. Get some rest now.”

Charles' sweet whispers are your last rememberings of the day as you drift off into a calming dreamland.

[terrablaze514]

Ionic Victory, Covalent Destiny (1)

A/N: This is the Tumblr version... Because Tumblr will block links to other platforms... [[Cross-posting]]

Disclaimer: I’m just borrowing these characters.

Summary: Four months after the Mariemaia incident, all the pilots turned Preventers share the same living space, keep track of missions, and everything in between. By the time they’ve reached their late teens, they pursue university and they find ways to resolve their frustrations from being unable to fight for so long…Because the only life they knew was war, and as much as they fought to end it, that side to them sparks up. Crimes of all kinds occur in and around campus, so Lady Une assigns each one a mission to fight back against crime. However, The G-Team grew reckless and proposed a deal. This eventually leads to more...

Warnings: Brief mentions of crime, crossdressing.

4K+ words... Shoutout to @quirkypaynesgrey​ for the graphic!

Gundam Wing - Post-EW - Mature Audiences Only. Lightly edited.

"So… it looks like we're being sent on a team mission."

The computer keys clacked as Heero made mental notes on its requirements and parameters. The rest of the G-Team had either focused on packing, cooking or argued with girls on the phone.

Speaking of the devil…

Relena Peacecraft, Sally Po and Lucrezia Noin appeared on the screen.

Heero set his laptop to answer video calls from a handful of people.

"Hey, Heero! We've received an update on your upcoming mission," Noin began. "I will not place you guys at Marriott Hotels."

Heero cocked an eyebrow in response. "Why?" he asked.

"Because it won't allow you to catch the main target," she said.

"Instead, you will attend the Madison Masters Academy for Girls," Sally chimed in. Before Heero could say anything, she added, "You're all required to fit in. Therefore, Relena will help order your uniforms and have them sent to each of you next week. Remember, this assignment will last for a month - perhaps longer. I encourage everyone to blend in with the rest of the students and take their chosen subjects."

"This will also serve as the best cover, so the suspect responsible for kidnapping these girls won't get off easy," said Noin.

"I will also send you a demo on the feminine ways of thinking," Relena said. "Use it wisely, preferably at 'home'."

The ladies had tried their endeavour best not to break into a fit of laughter. Heero's face was beet-red, his eyes filled with shock. How in the heck do they expect to perform well on this Mission when they must wear dresses and act like women? Oh dear…

"Why must we do things like this?" Heero asked with a hint of worry, despite his hardened features.

"Because it's important," Noin explained. "We need to find out, in the best ways possible, who is the mastermind behind the disappearances of these girls. All five of you are the best choices for this assignment. Remember what you're there for."

"Don't get too distracted by the perky stuff," Relena added. "According to Commander Une, a student is associated with the suspect in this school."

Heero crossed his arms and glared at the ladies on his screen. Good thing it didn't scare them, especially when Duo and Quatre entered the shot.

"Everything is ready," Quatre announced. "We're set to leave tomorrow afternoon."

"For real," Duo said. When he noticed the ladies, he waved at them. "So what's poppin'?"

Sally and Heero responded at the same time. "There have been changes."

"Huh?" Duo scratched his head as Quatre thoughtfully inquired, "What changes? Are we moving to a safe house?"

"Yes, but only so you'll be able to disguise yourselves," said Sally.

"So we have to make a cover…" Duo trailed off.

"Already taken care of," said Noin. "I will send additional tools straight to the address you're heading for."

"As we've already explained to Heero, you're all required to blend in with the students-"

"Cool!" Duo interrupted. "I can't wait to wear my biker's jacket and-"

"Dress up like girls at an all-girls academy," said Sally, who returned the favour when she knew how Duo's loquacious chatter would take off.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

"So…" Quatre's voice trailed off, unable to break away from his shock. His reddened cheeks spoke on his behalf.

"We will do girly stuff?" Duo asked, brokenness clear in his voice. "Please, tell me you're lying. We cannot be girls! It will tarnish our image."

"My thoughts exactly," said Heero. "This is insane!"

Both Sally and Noin straightened and regained their composure. "You have every right to know," Sally spoke. "As we've said before, there's a suspect who serves as a major threat to the student body over there."

"Can we go in there and crackdown, arrest the bastard and leave?"

The ladies shared a sigh on the other end. Duo was on a roll.

"I'm sorry, but I have zero intentions to be surrounded by countless onnas." Now Wufei joined in. "This has got to be the greatest foul on your part." He glared at Sally and Relena in the camera. "And don't talk about my hair length!"

"Too late, my long hair is a dead giveaway." Duo crossed his arms and pouted. His emphasis on 'dead giveaway' silenced the room. It added nothing more to the conversation for the next thirty minutes. This vibe had filled the room with crestfallen, fuming faces until…

"It shouldn't be that hard."

Trowa entered the room with Zechs trailing behind him. "The sooner we head down there and capture both criminals, the better. We shouldn't waste any more time complaining about girls and women. They're already dealing with a lot, especially in this current scenario. A little respect doesn't hurt, so let's man up and get going."

The rest of the group shuddered. Has Trowa lost his mind? According to Duo, he did. That was too much talking for a silent clown.

"Since when were you the type to talk?" Duo asked, albeit condescending. "That's strange. And what's worse is your keen interest in being a girl for a whole month!"

Trowa's neutral expression changed when his eyes flashed with anger. He leapt, with a triple axel and landed right in front of the rude American. He reached in his pockets for throwing knives when Quatre stood between them. Heero held Trowa's wrist in place while Wufei yanked Duo's braid and dragged him away.

"Ow! What the hell, man! All I did was make a solid point."

"Shut up Maxwell!" Wufei snapped. "Because my growing hatred for this cursed mission is clear, he made a solid point. Not you."

As their distance grew, Trowa's features softened a little when Quatre slapped him across the face. Now it was Quatre's turn to harness hardened features; his eyes expressed disappointment. Trowa's face had shock written all over it as he refocused on Quatre.

"Do you have the slightest idea what you almost did?" Quatre asked with a stern tone.

"He threw me off," said Trowa.

"Correction," Heero interrupted. "You almost had one of our team members killed. I know that look well."

Trowa growled. "Let me go."

"No."

"Not until we know for sure you won't pose a threat to us or yourself again," said Quatre. "And you did this in front of the ladies who are still online at the moment."

Shocked for a few seconds, Trowa faced Sally and Noin on the video screen. Relena has already left the room, and Quatre turned to face them.

"We apologize," he said. "We'll patch things up and debrief before our departure tomorrow."

Sally and Noin nodded. "Understood," Noin said as she stepped away from the camera on her end. After a five-minute pause, Sally spoke up.

"I know this has a lot to do with your desires to fight again, correct?" she asked.

The three boys nodded when she crossed her arms and continued.

"Well, besides this upcoming mission, I need the five of you, as a group, to come up with safe words and tactics that warrant a break and recovery period. You've been a team that came together under unexpected, yet gracious circumstances. As bitter as this sounds, the wars are to thank for that."

'She makes a solid point,' thought Zechs, who spent the last fifteen hours observing the dynamics of the G-Team in their shared apartment.

"On that note," she continued, "you all need to come up with an effective backup plan for conflict resolution and dealing with your emotions. Trowa, what you did just now sent Relena running for her life. If I were Duo's mother, I'd stop him in his tracks. Wufei, as well-intentioned, as he is, still doesn't know how to separate nonviolent from violent. And Quatre, as bad as things may get, you were just as impulsive as the others-"

"How?" the blonde asked. "I've blocked him."

Sally nodded, then with furrowed eyebrows added, "You've lost your self-control at the last minute, Quatre. Just because you were all trained to be soldiers at a young age, doesn't excuse the facts. You will always deal with annoyances and frustrations of this nature - some worse than others, in every area of your lives."

"I'm sorry," Trowa said weakly.

With a deep sigh, Sally looked down and shook her head. She crossed her arms. "I don't need an apology, Trowa. The rest of your friends do. All I'm asking is that you all come up with a solid breakout plan when you feel frustrated. This isn't the best approach so far." Looking back at the boys, solemn expressions rested on their faces. Heero no longer had a grip on Trowa's wrist and maintained a safe arm's distance between Quatre and the others. At least she had the chance to talk sense into them.

The only question is, will they follow through? She could only hope, and she didn't care what ideas they came up with as long as it will help them maintain their composures and wellness throughout.

"Thanks, Sally," Heero said.

"No problem. Don't forget what I've told you. Sally signing out!" With a salute, the video call ended.

"Next time, don't yank my hair!" shouted Duo in his room.

"Whatever," said Wufei. "One day, someone's life won't be saved."

"Shut up!"

Wufei spun on his heel to leave when Zechs appeared at the door with crossed arms.

"The ladies expect better from all of you next time," he said. "Otherwise, you guys might not get lucky for future missions."

Wufei heaved a sigh and plopped onto Duo's bed. A triumphant smirk curved Zechs' lips. No one has ever stopped him, yet. Before he could say anything more, Duo blurted.

"We're getting old so fast."

Wufei rolled his eyes from his current position.

"You're fucking 19."

"Poor choice of words, Wu-bun. And who gave you permission to lie on my bed?"

"I thought 'we're getting old so fast,'" mocked Wufei.

"You guys are not 19!" Zechs snapped. He paused, took a deep breath and continued, "You're still sixteen and unrested. The insanity is clear in this apartment, and I know you're capable of handling business like grown-ups. Does that make sense?"

"Yessssss," Duo slurred. Wufei nodded and leaned against the wall.

Zechs shook his head, crossed his arms and aimed his icy glare at Duo.

"Before you grow up fast, smarten up!"

He turned on his heel and left the room, intent on helping the others get organized. An uncomfortable silence graced the atmosphere. Man… this upcoming mission has gotten the best of them. Duo mentally willed himself to ease the tension in the room. From his current position, he shot a glance in Wufei's direction and cleared his throat.

"Wufei?"

His comrade turned to him. "Yes?"

"Sorry about earlier," he began. "I don't like cross-dressing while on duty. I mean, they made Halloween for that. Today is just, not my day."

"I understand," Wufei said. "Today is not my day, either. Sometimes I wish we've had an alternative, aside from fighting."

Duo nodded. "For real. It's like, peacetime has driven us insane. We cannot function without keeping our adrenaline pumping." He moved with fluid grace as his braid swung from side to side. As he sauntered over to the bed, Wufei sat up and stared the other youth up and down like a hawk.

Duo paused his movements and raised his hands.

"Dude, relax. I was aiming for my duffel bag."

"Oh." Wufei grabbed the black duffel and tossed it in Duo's direction. As his comrade caught the bag flawlessly, Wufei resumed his initial position against the wall. Duo scrunched his face; why was Wufei so stubborn?

"I'll go first," Duo said. "Why are you on my bed?"

Wufei rolled his eyes and turned his back on the American youth. "That doesn't matter."

Now it was Duo's turn to roll his eyes. He prodded the other youth's shoulder and made a mental note of Wufei's stiffening muscles. Duo heaved a sigh.

"If we can't get along, I don't know how we'll survive this dreadful mission," he muttered.

Just then, Quatre and Trowa appeared at his bedroom door.

"Hey guys," Quatre began, "we need to talk. It's important."

Huh?

Duo's eyes lit up while Wufei promptly rolled and sat upright on Duo's bed. The American cleared his throat and assumed a seat next to Wufei. "What's up? And shouldn't we wait for Heero, first?"

"He went out with the last set of supplies to load Zechs' car, so he'll be back shortly."

Oh, right… Tomorrow's mission.

"So we're no longer-"

Quatre silenced Duo with his hand in the air. "This matter is different. When Heero makes it back, he'll share the details."

"What details?" Wufei asked, eyebrows raised.

"It's an important matter, considering we might get future assignments that may set our emotions on fire." Quatre entered Duo's room and sat on a red cushion with Tony Stark/Iron Man pictured on it, close to the nightstand. "We need to come up with a game plan and a solution."

"Sally's idea, for the record," Trowa added.

"Well…"

"I'm sorry for what happened earlier," Trowa said, as he made eye contact with Duo. "While you and Wufei were gone, Sally had it out with us. To her, it's disappointing how we cannot get around to resolving our problems."

Duo scratched his head as he pondered on the possibility of failure, either for himself or the Team. It's true; once upon a time, their cognition was put into good use. Now, with the progression of peacetime:

Hormones are raging.

Stress is imminent.

With lesser assignments available (and appealing for the record), tensions had risen high in their shared apartment. Is chaos, uncertainty, the struggle for survival and fights for freedom the only thing that mattered? Their Gundams were already gone. Total pacifism benefited them, only but a short time. The deepest root of their frustrations stemmed from the lack of excitement, with their experience, on non-existent battlefields.

Regardless of their past values and influence, war kept them going. It's gotten harder to adjust to this mockery of wondering where they stood.

At least they have each other.

Heero appeared in the doorway, rubbed his jeans and looked at the others; his thoughts weren't here at the moment. He'd rather rethink what Sally had told them, and a flurry of ideas had flashed in his mind while he assisted Zechs in the parking lot moments ago. Due to pent-up tensions in recent weeks, Heero wasn't so sure he wanted to share. Maybe…

"Is he okay?" Trowa asked, snapping the Japanese youth out of his thoughts. Heero's surprised expression lasted for a few seconds, as he caught Wufei and Duo staring into his soul. They didn't appear uptight or annoyed, but it felt uncomfortable.

Unsettling.

"You don't have to put it all out there," Quatre suggested. "Just focus on the basics, Heero."

As he opened his mouth, the phone rang.

Damn it…

Comrades forgotten, feet shuffled and rushed into the kitchen. A shaky hand picked up the phone; his left ear met a busy signal. Heero rushed to his bedroom, opened his laptop, logged on and entered his e-mail inbox.

Nothing.

With a grunt, he got sleep due to his annoyance. With everything that's been happening between him and his teammates, the Perfect Soldier yearned for the moment the storm will calm down. God, do they have to go on this Mission tomorrow?

They'd better stay focused if they want to survive.

**+**

Two days later, all five boys were decked in women's fashion from head to toe. Some supplies Zechs had brought to the safe house on Hartford Avenue have proven useful. However, with a rented Dodge Caravan, ten encrypted security systems, Relena's makeup tutorial, their Preventer uniforms hung in a closet, and concealed weapons left behind, it set the parameters necessary.

They've spent their first day familiarizing themselves with this town, gathered clues on their main suspect, and organized their things. Quatre shared a room with Duo since his companion needed a responsive listening ear. Trowa, Wufei and Heero shared another bedroom across the hall. Three concentrated minds held each other accountable - and practiced their "feminine roles", thanks to Trowa's superb acting skills and direction.

The third bedroom had security systems hooked up. A third laptop which contained confidential information about the school's faculty and students. A live map of the areas they're targeting (where the predator prefers to show up). Two security camera screens, which mingled with the school's security systems (Heero had successfully hacked) and their safe house.

They set alarm systems near the front door, back door and garage. At Quatre's insistence, the group had installed hidden cameras and mics in the kitchen, hallway, basement and other parts of the house.

In the safe house, they were themselves; the usual warrior-like bunch. On their way to school, well…

"The thought of working with you has started a story in my mind that is still writing itself." Wufei stuck the straw in his mouth as he stared out the window, in his femme fatale attire. Trowa laughed while Heero and Duo raised their eyebrows in the front seats.

"Promise me that story doesn't feature dudes disguised as women."

Wufei shook his head. "It's the exact opposite. I've figured Noin, Sally and Relena can disguise themselves as men set up explosives and watch the target base disappear in flames."

No response, then…

"Sounds like a great plot twist!" Duo exclaimed. One look at Heero's stoic, icy expression removed his smile. "Aw, c'mon guys! Lighten up a little."

The sound of cracked knuckles sent shivers down his spine. From the corner of his eye, he noticed how Wufei twitched and leaned against the window for dear life.

"I want ice cream," said Trowa.

"We'll be late for school if we stop," said Heero. "Wait till the day is over, or until lunch break."

Trowa rolled his eyes, cracked his knuckles the second time around (with pronounced pulls) and leaned closer to Heero's seat. "Ice cream. Now."

Wufei cocked an eyebrow. "We're on a mission here, and you want to stop for ice cream?"

Heero kept his eyes on the road. "No."

In came a heavy sigh, "Fine. Have it your way."

Trowa leaned back against his seat, crossed his arms and aimed a fierce kick at Wufei, who caught his offending foot just in time.

"Calm down, Trowa! You don't want to ruin your tights too soon."

Trowa groaned and rolled his eyes. "I want my ice cream."

Wufei shot him an intense glare. "I get it. You want to get into your role properly, but this attitude won't do."

"Will you let go of my foot now?" Trowa asked.

"Only when you're calm," Wufei said with finality.

"But I am calm!" Trowa snapped.

Duo shuddered as the scene played out in his mind. "Dear God, please let us get to school soon enough. We can't keep Quatrina waiting forever!"

Just then, a hand tapped Duo's arm and gave a light squeeze. Blue-violet eyes stared at warm Prussian blues.

"We'll be fine," said Heero, who paid no attention to the troublesome pair in the back.

"I hope you're right," Duo said. "We haven't started, yet this mission is already messing with our heads."

"It doesn't have to be that way," Heero replied as he made a right onto the school's parking lot. A small smile crept on his lips. "All we have to do is concentrate on our main goal. Don't let some fashion shift rob your abilities."

Duo smiled. There's still hope.

Hope is short-lived when one cannot see far into the future.

"Isn't it funny how, no matter where you go, you keep seeing the one thing you're most afraid of?"

"Blending in, like this? Absolutely."

"I hope someone will keep this out of my obituary!"

"Okay everyone, let's not panic. Don't forget the real reason we're here. If we catch the main suspects soon enough, we don't have to keep doing this any longer."

"Note to self: Tell Commander Une not to send us on a mission like this ever again."

The rest of the G-Team, in their feminine disguises, shot glares in Wufei's direction.

"Note to self: Wufei is not invited to my birthday destination."

"Note to Heero: I don't care."

"Note to Wufei: Shove it!"

"Note to Heero: Make me."

"Note to self: Hit them."

Heero and Wufei shuffled away and disappeared into the crowd in the busy school hall. One calculated hit from Trowa hurts like hell for an entire week. At least they've dodged that bullet.

Here's to hoping they won't pick fights too soon.

Quatre regained his composure and glanced over their class schedules.

"Cool! Duo, myself and the others are in the same classes."

"Sweet!" Duo exclaimed in his girly voice. "But, what about Trowa? I don't see "Trista" listed here at all."

His smile was short-lived since Trowa is not listed in a big chunk of their subjects. The tall youth placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Don't worry about it. I'll be fine. We can always meet up for lunch hour."

Quatre's eyes gleamed again. "Yeah, you're right. Then we can discuss our progress further."

"Good. I'll see you guys, later. And make sure the other two are on their best behaviour."

"You can count on it!" asserted Duo.

**+**

"Please, introduce yourselves," said a dainty, short blonde. She wore a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, red-coloured lipstick, and a coastal blue summer dress with a floral design. This teacher wore a friendly, warm smile as she leaned against her spruce, polished desk.

"I'm Duet," said Duo in his falsetto.

"Kim," said Wufei, in like fashion.

"Quatrina," said Quatre. He'd secretly hoped their disguises won't flop.

"Havannah" said Heero. His voice only went up two octaves.

"Pleased to meet you all," their teacher replied. "Take any seat you want."

Quatrina sat at a free table, close to Havannah while Duet and Kim joined others at a different table. Once they were settled, their teacher proceeded with the lesson in progress. Social Studies had focused on various ideologies and perspectives, regarding peacetime since the wars ended…

What a coincidence! Havannah smirked, knowing full and well that Relena would love to hear her take on it. It wouldn't surprise her if her companion had any connections with the faculty members. If that were the case, then the mission would be tricky with these disguises the G-Team ought to maintain.

By all means necessary.

Quatrina's chin rested on the back of her hand, as she took time to grasp some informative responses shared by the class. Kim maintained a seemingly rude demeanour as she took notes. Peacetime hadn't been the friendliest to her lately. Duet had tried her darnedest not to contribute, yet discussions were a must for her exuberant soul. Here's to hoping she doesn't fall off-track with her voice projection. Rehearsing for two days with a long, braided ponytail and a deceptively slim figure tickled her fancy.

So how's Trista keeping up?

Her green nail polish, misty eyeshadow and royal blue lipstick were on point. Her sleek and smooth uni bang covered half of her face, which increased her mysterious flavour. Her Biology classmates couldn't resist since they glued their eyes on her, not the lesson.

She also sported a biker jacket, fingerless gloves and leather tights beneath a gothic style skirt.

~Owari~

@mikkymi​ @negasonic-t-warhead​ @silverlinedmoon-sims​ @craftssakura​ @seitou​ @mskirara​ @angelsmystique​ @noirangetrois​ @cynfinnegan​ @allaboutthems​ @darkmaster07​ @7daysaweekgeek-blog​ @murdergiraffe​ @jennybadt​ @lessy86​ @lemontrash​ @quirkypaynesgrey​

[holy-fate-worse-than-death]

We’ll See About That - Ch 1

Warnings: major character death, smoking, swearing

Summary:

Conner Kent is dying. Clark is hell-bent on using Kryptonian technology to find a cure, not yet at the point of desperation that would drive the Big Blue Boy Scout to ask him for help.

But, after watching his own son’s heart break at the prospect of losing his best friend, Bruce realises Conner’s other father figure is the boy’s only hope.

More than that, Bruce thinks, Lex deserves to know.

In which Bruce Wayne fights for Lex Luthor because he knows all too well what it’s like to lose a son. Angst ahoy!

*

‘The last time we were this quiet was at Jason’s funeral,’ Lex says.

And, for the second time in Bruce’s life, Lex Luthor breaks his heart.

Pairings: Lex Luthor/Bruce Wayne, TimKon

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Lex Luthor, Conner Kent, Tim Drake, Jason Todd

Word Count: 2034

Chapter 1 under the cut >>>

‘What could I have done better?’ Bruce asks quietly.

'This is about Superboy, isn’t it?’ Jason replies sharply, 'You want to tell Luthor.’

His second son has always had a knack for cutting through the bullshit, a trait that Alfred would say is a reflection of Bruce. Were it any other day, it might have made him feel proud. Today, it humbles him.

The sun is rising over Gotham’s bleak skyline as father and son share cigarettes and pointed gazes atop a secluded rooftop ledge, the only terms of the uneasy alliance between them being that neither will tell Nightwing about the cigarettes.

’Lex,’ Bruce replies equally as sharply, 'was the only man brave enough to stand beside me at your funeral.’

If that touches a nerve, Jason doesn’t show it.

His helmet is off, much like Bruce’s cowl is drawn back. Black hair, blue eyes and broad shoulders mirror each other; a subtle challenge evident in the tension in their backs. Who takes the last cigarette? Who gets up to leave first? Do they part ways, or head in the same direction?

The cogs turn in both of their heads, synchronising like clocks without a word being uttered. A plan unfolds in tandem. One ashes their cigarette, then the other.

When Jason finally speaks, Bruce senses the apprehension in his tone, though it’s a near-perfect imitation of apathetic even to his mentor’s ears.

'I’ll keep Tim distracted,’ Jason says.

What goes unsaid is far more powerful, communicated in the briefest of glances Bruce’s way before Jason stands and returns his helmet to his head.

The shiny red thing is a relic of days past. Days when Batman was still the feverish daydream of an angry young boy. Days when the taste of Lex Luthor was still fresh on his lips.

He deserves to know, Jason’s eyes say.

Perhaps Bruce is imagining it, but he thinks they might also say, I wish someone had been there to put us back together.

*

'You’re here to tell me not to break your son’s heart,’ Conner says.

Bruce is seated next to him on a patch of yellowing grass, somewhere amongst the vast nothingness that spans the width and breadth of rural Kansas.

The cheap two-door he’d rented from a town a few hours north of here is parked behind them on a shoulder lane, shielding them from the prying eyes of truckers on the dusty road.

Bruce had thought better of the expensive suits he normally wore, and now finds himself in ill-fitting jeans and a pale blue polo shirt. He’s wearing a hooded sweatshirt over it all that makes him feel a few decades younger than he is.

It’s cold and foggy; early evening.

'I’m here to tell you to ask your father for help,’ Bruce counters.

The ensuing silence speaks volumes. Bruce notes clinically that at no point does Conner think he might have been talking about Clark, nor does he deny that Lex is his father.

'Your son didn’t really die,’ Conner says eventually, eyes fixed firmly on the horizon.

It’s a deflection tactic, Bruce knows, or perhaps just a low-blow designed to knock Bruce off his game. And it might have worked, had The Joker himself not been employing the same tactic against him for nearly half a decade.

Bruce briefly contemplates telling Conner everything he’s wanted to say since he found out Jason was alive. Perhaps, That’s not my boy, or, The little bird I knew and cherished never came back to the nest.

Instead, he finds himself thinking about the man he’d sat atop a grimy Gotham rooftop with that morning. His son, certainly, but not the one he lost.

So he says what he thinks that man on the rooftop would want him to say:

'I think Jason would be insulted to know he’s still thought of as the boy who died that night.’

Conner doesn’t speak for a long time. When he does, it’s with another protestation, just as half-hearted as the first.

'Lex Luthor is an evil man.’

'Evil,’ Bruce says slowly, chewing on the word, 'is a hyperbole Superman is quite fond of.’

'And you’re the right man to judge that?’ Conner quips back, voice pitching upwards, 'One exploitative billionaire to another?’

Bruce lets out a wry laugh. It comes out sounding more like the type of short bark a dog would make if it felt threatened.

'Certainly not,’ Bruce concedes.

He finally turns towards Conner, his demeanour something approaching friendly.

'I hardly think Lex Luthor’s ex-fiance is the right man to judge the virtue of his past deeds,’ Bruce says boldly, surprising himself not for the first time since this exchange began.

There’s a pause, during which the sun descends fully below the horizon and they are engulfed in near-complete dark.

Bruce waits for Conner to speak, but instead he finds himself speaking. Perhaps it’s the bat in him; emboldened by the dark.

'But perhaps I’m the right man to offer you some insight into your father’s humanity.’

Another long pause. The wind stills as though Mother Nature herself is holding her breath alongside Bruce.

Just as Bruce is starting to frantically cobble together another moving speech, Conner exhales. A long, deep sigh.

'I’m dying,’ he says.

There’s no sadness in it, just a bone-deep resignation that damn near rips Bruce’s heart out.

'You know what your father will say, don’t you?’

Conner responds with a tight nod.

'We’ll see about that,’ they say in unison.

On the way back to the car, Bruce finds himself saying something else that is far too honest for such a young man to bear:

'As for Timothy.’

He hears Conner suck in a pained breath, wonders if it’s the illness plaguing him or the pain of thinking about the boy he loves.

'You Luthors have a certain knack for breaking the hearts of Wayne men,’ Bruce says plainly, 'I doubt I could stop you if I tried.’

*

In the car, Conner asks the practical questions; the ones that come to mind only after the gravity of the situation has settled on your shoulders:

'How did you find me?’

'Kryptonian scanners are quite good at picking your genetic signatures from amongst the other lifeforms on this planet.’

Bruce’s hands tense on the steering wheel as he braces for the next question, and for the answer he knows he won’t be ashamed of even though he ought to be.

'So Clark sent you?’

The bleak greys of mid-evening Kansas speed by out the window. The moon and the stars are still obscured by cloud cover, though they’re yet to see a drop of rain.

It had felt somehow wrong to do anything but drive from here to Metropolis. A waste of time that Lex would chastise them both for, Bruce was sure. But there was something Bruce couldn’t shake about the notion that every boy ought to experience a cross-country road-trip at least once in his life. Maybe they’d have a greasy breakfast at some non-descript gas station and forget their capes for a few short moments.

Superheroism seemed like a burden too great for a dying boy to bear. Though perhaps not as burdensome as dying itself.

'The Watchtower is equipped with Kryptonian sensors,’ Bruce finally says.

'Partners in crime, then.’

Another dozen miles of road pass.

'Is Dick with Tim?’

'Jason is looking after him.’

'Is that wise?’

'No less wise than letting him date the half-Kryptonian son of Lex Luthor.’

*

They arrive at LexCorp’s head office a day or so later. The gas station food has been mediocre, and the car rental company has been ringing him off the hook.

Neither of them have slept, and it shows in their eyes.

A nameless Wayne Enterprises employee brings them fresh clothing – a suit for Bruce, something relaxed but fashionable for Conner.

They change in a parking lot that’s entirely too close to the Daily Planet for Bruce’s liking.

It feels a little too much like they’re changing into their costumes for a mission, and Conner looks a little too much like Clark in this light.

He thinks of a hundred missions in Metropolis that started just like this one, long before the Justice League was formed – before they’d even taken on protégés like Conner and Tim.

They waltz into LexCorp fifteen minutes later like they own the place, exiting a top-of-the-line sports car (Bruce would be lying if he said he paid any attention to car manufacturers) that the Wayne Enterprises employee had exchanged for their rental.

Bruce is unsure if the receptionist at the front desk recognises himself or Conner, but by the time they reach the sleek elevator at the opposite end of LexCorp’s glossy atrium, she is chittering into a telephone receiver.

Bruce hears something like, Yes, Mr Luthor, as he guides Conner into elevator first, a tentative hand clasped on the boy’s shoulder.

Lex knows by now, Bruce thinks as he watches the floor numbers tick up one by one. He’ll have these precious seconds to prepare.

What else could it mean, when Batman arrives on your doorstep with your son in tow?

'He knows who I am,’ Bruce thinks to say a few floors before the hundredth.

Conner doesn’t speak, but nods almost imperceptibly. Equally as imperceptibly, he leans closer to Bruce, toward the hand on his shoulder.

The hundred-and-first floor is Lex’s. The gentle ping of the elevator is like shrapnel tearing through their heads. Conner flinches, Bruce squeezes his shoulder.

The doors slide open, and Lex’s face is so pale Bruce is sure his heart stops when he sees it.

Mercifully, however, Lex has eyes only for his son.

They teeter there, the three of them, for a few heartbeats too long. Bruce wonders if this is how people who aren’t bats feel when they stand on the edge of a cliff.

Then, Conner does something that surprises all three men. He leaps into his father’s arms, nearly knocking him off-balance.

Bruce is there to catch Lex’s elbow and keep him right way up. It’s a scorching hot moment of contact; skin-on-skin because Lex’s dress shirt has been hastily rolled up around the elbows.

Bruce swallows it down and turns his back to the father and son, allows them their privacy.

Conner is whispering something like, I’m dying, over and over. In stark contrast to the resignation of yesterday, now Conner sounds terrified. Beneath the anxious fog that has settled over Bruce’s mind, he is faintly aware that Conner’s newfound terror comes from the realisation that this is it. Turning to Lex is the Hail Mary they had all prayed they would never have to make.

Bruce is reminded of Clark in the past, the way he would so callously say things like, Lex Luthor? I wouldn’t go to him if I was dying. Bruce files that away for later; to ruminate on the impression that has left on Conner, to chastise Clark and remind him of his responsibilities as a mentor. If, after this, he still has someone to mentor.

'We’ll see about that, son,’ Lex says.

There is comfort in it – perhaps more than there ought to be. Lex’s confidence is unwavering, even in the face of crisis. Difficult? A few seconds. Impossible? A few minutes. But Bruce is sure he is scared; that any moment the cracks will begin to show.

Bruce glides across the room unnoticed, and finds himself idling awkwardly in the middle of it. Perhaps it is the sleek, futuristic furniture that Lex has decorated his office with. Is that a couch, or a table? Either way, it puts Bruce directly in Lex’s line of fire the moment he spins around, and Bruce supposes the room is designed with these exact moments in mind.

'How did this happen?’ Lex demands, voice booming throughout the sparse, cavernous space.

Bruce takes a moment – selfishly – to breathe deeply. Lex watches him with keen eyes, every muscle in his body going rigid at the thought of Batman needing to steady himself before this conversation.

'Truthfully,’ Bruce says.

He grimaces, because he knows not even the ever-fatalistic Lex Luthor will have prepared for an answer this grim.

'We have no idea.’

[ramblinganthropologist]

Inktober 19 and 20 - Breakable and Scorched

Summary: Alistair Shepard’s policy on cooking could best be described as ‘scorched earth’ and ‘total disaster’. Luckily, the Reapers didn’t destroy pizza delivery when they attacked in 2186. It’s a weird retirement, but it’s his. Luckily, he has someone to eat pizza with, even if that companion is a wise ass. 

---

Ok, who was the genius who decided that things you cook with could be so goddamn breakable?

Honestly, it was a miracle he hadn't lost an eye from the flying glass that had once been the measuring cup. Alistair was bleeding, sure, but it was only flesh wounds. The worst was in his hand. With any luck, he would only be picking glass from it for the next hour.

At least he remembered to turn the stove off this time as he backed away from it towards where he kept the first aid kit. Last time... well, he didn't want to think about that. Bo was still calling him an idiot over it.

“Oww.”

His classmates were often surprised he still felt pain. According to them, all his nerves should be used to it after being buried in the Citadel two separate times. Technically, it was only once with this body – that was something else fun to explain to them – but apparently it still counted. Unfortunately for him, he did still feel pain perfectly well in the parts that were still fleshy. Maybe he had less of them than most people, but they felt it well enough to make up for his missing limbs.

It took some fumbling to get the first aid kit open, but thanks to his prosthetic arm he was soon picking through it. A small amount of medigel was resting on the table as he grabbed for the tweezers he kept in there. Maybe not the best for picking glass out, but he had an edge.

Technically, biotics weren't exactly approved parts of medical procedures according to one of his teachers, but they weren't here and his good hand was fucking bleeding everywhere. It was good to feel that hum as his implant kicked in. Really, it had been too long since Alistair had last used them. Civilian life didn't exactly provide many opportunities for implementation, especially since humans were still a little leery about their own species making shit float. With all the exploding eezo since the reapers hit in 2186, more were starting to pop up. Not nearly as much as other species, but they might beat the turians out in twenty years.

It was always fun, beating them in something.

“Oww... shit.” Even with biotics, Alistair had to fumble with the tweezers to get one of the smaller chunks out of his hand. But it came out, and that was good enough for him. Now there were only a few more pieces, and those were bigger. They'd be much easier to get out.

A few more plucks, and soon his entire hand was covered in medigel and patched up with bandages. Alistair finally breathed a sigh of relief as he sunk back into the couch and closed his eyes. Clearly he was getting soft if this bothered him.

Though, after killing a shit ton of reapers, maybe he could allow himself that. After all, it was 2189 and  the fact they could continue to date shit on the calendar was a miracle in itself.

He stayed there on the couch for a few minutes, quietly resting his eyes. School was wearing him out a little, though it wasn't as bad as 2186. Nothing could ever be as bad as that. Still, it was nice he could still feel stressed out about things. It made him feel human.

Just like the hypo that was starting to set in was making him feel. Right... he had been making food before all of this.

It took him some doing, but soon he was shoving his emergency sugar supply into his mouth. Brain functions would come back in a few moments, but until then he was pretty useless. So, back to sitting on his ass it was. No problems there.

Really, he had been trying to make dinner to avoid his homework before all of this. Clearly, he was getting back into the swing of being a student again with flying colors. It wasn't quite the military retirement he had expected – he hadn't thought he'd make it at all, actually – but it was how his life was going. Maybe he had taken a bit longer to get there, but he was there and that was all that mattered.

“Maybe I should give up on the cooking thing for tonight though...��� he had enough scars as it was. Plus, with his last test results, maybe he had earned a little pizza. That order was easy enough to put through. Now he just got to sit back and wait.

And... maybe start on that homework he had been putting off. That was the trade off, wasn't it?

Honestly, Alistair tended to lose track of time when he was studying. It could have been ten minutes, it could have been an hour. The thing that pulled him out of it was a knock on his apartment door. Well, that and his growling stomach.

“Be right there!”

He still had a bit of a limp – therapy couldn't get rid of that completely. But his prosthetic leg was doing a good job of getting him around. Maybe it wasn't quite Spectre quality, but he was retired. At least that  was what he told himself as he stood up from the couch and made his way to the front door at a slightly reduced speed.

Much to his disappointment, it wasn't pizza waiting for him. However, Garrus fucking Vakarian definitely was a nice surprise.

Alistair didn't even think – he launched himself at the turian with the speed of his Alliance days. He didn't quite manage to knock his fiance to the floor, but at least he put in a good effort regardless. Garrus managed to catch him, and the two were against the wall. It was only decency and the reminder they were in the fucking hallway that kept them from, well, trying to fuck in the hallway.

Also the fact Garus fucking Vakarian was in fucking Baltimore when he should have been on Palaven. That was a bit of a kicker.

“Good to see you too, Al.” That was the first thing he said when he didn't have a tongue in his mouth. It had taken some doing to stop making out with him, but that was the price he paid for getting some information. “Guess I don't have to ask if you missed me?”

Alistair snickered as he nuzzled into Garrus' neck – not to make him totally horny or anything, there were children in the apartment down from him after all – and kissed him lightly over some of his older scars. Really, he would have thought he was dreaming. But his injured hand was aching, and so was his bad hip. Those were both great reminders he was awake.

“Ass. What the hell are you even doing here? I thought you said they were running you ragged back on Palaven.”

The turian responded by clucking like an unholy 7 foot chicken. The translator made it sound like laughter, but enough time around him had taught Alistair otherwise. Though Garrus said he didn't sound like a chicken when he laughed, he totally did. Though it was kind of cute too. He needed to do it more.

That was probably where he came in, being Mr. Vakarian's fiance and all. Laughter was kind of his department.

“I may have moved some things around. After all, isn't your birthday tomorrow?”

Fuck, was it?

Garrus saw the look on his face and laughed even harder. “You forgot your own birthday again, didn't you?”

“No.” The blushing gave Alistair away. Though, he eventually relented and grinned sheepishly. “Ok, maybe. School's been keeping me kind of busy.”

He chuckled as well, but that amusement turned to embarrassment as he heard someone clear his throat off to the left. When he turned to look, he blushed even harder. Garrus might not have been the pizza guy, but said guy was definitely there now.

Now what did he want more? His fiance, or food. Processing... processing... yep, the hierarchy of needs won out. Food it was.

“Uh... be right over.”

Garrus was nice enough to not laugh his turian ass off right away as he lowered him to the floor. Alistair was still blushing scarlet as he limped off to pay for his dinner. Sam – yes he knew the guy's fucking name, he saw him enough to know it – was doing his best not to laugh too. He did shoot him a knowing look as he handed over the food and departed. But then he was gone.

And... well, food.

“How many times this week have you ordered pizza?” Garrus was following him back into his apartment. The turian at least didn't look too shocked when he saw a similar box in the bin next to the door. “What a surprise, only once.”

If he was trying to get fucked that night... well, that was probably going to happen anyway, but he was pushing his luck for sure.

“I may have had some issues in the kitchen.” Alistair scowled a little when his fiance snickered. “What?”

Garrus was nice enough to help him grab a plate, but that was also because he wasn't allergic to levo food. It didn't do much for him nutritionally, but he could definitely steal at least a few slice and not have to worry much. And again, did pizza do much nutritionally for people who could eat it anyway?

“Al, your cooking strategy is scorched earth.” He stole a slice and quick kiss before Alistair could swipe him away. Briefly, it made the human wonder what he was actually saying – no way the turian military strategy would have referred to such a timeless classic with anything to do with their recent love/hate relationship partner. “What, it's an effective military tactic. You've still got a little Commander Shepard in you.”

Someone else might not if he kept it up... Garrus was lucky he was so damn cute. And he was a welcome distraction from homework. Alistair would have to get back to that later, but at least he had someone to lean against while he did it. That was enough to almost make it tolerable.

He still had to clean the kitchen from his attempts at cooking after this but... well, turians were great at dealing with the after effects of scorched earth policy. Maybe he could get his fiance to do it while he did his homework. After all, he was feeding him. Maybe he hadn't made it, but it counted.

That was how it worked, right? Damn... he wasn't so good with this sort of thing. Luckily, Alistair had plenty of time to figure it out. That was the bright side of saving the universe. At least he thought so as he settled in to eat some pizza before Garrus ate it all.

Maybe it was a weird retirement, but he was happy to have it – homework and all. Though, he would have to see if he include that last one by the time he was done. Probably not, but the reapers hadn't been able to destroy that either. Guess you can't win them all.

[imjustthemechanic]

The French Mistake

Part 1/? - A Visitor Part 2/? - The Kulturhistorisk Museum Heist Part 3/? - Cutscene Part 4/? - The Marvel Cinematic Universe Part 5/? - Breathless Part 6/? - Escape at Last Part 7/? - Fox in Socks Part 8/? - Things Go Wrong Part 9/? - Downey and Out Part 10/? - Road Trip Part 11/? - Temptation Part 12/? - An Awful Reunion Part 13/? - Unreality Intrudes Part 14/? - A Call for Help Part 15/? - Loki’s Guests Part 16/? - Stan Lee Cameo Part 17/? - Reassessment Part 18/? - Midnight Invasion Part 19/? - Elevator Fight Part 20/? - Courage Part 21/? - Unwelcome Back Part 22/? - Darkest Hour Part 23/? - They Are Here Part 24/? - The Jet Propulsion Laboratory Part 25/? - Word of God Part 26/? - Avengers Assembled Part 27/? - The Houston Underground Part 28/? - Houston has a Problem Part 29/? - Onward and Upward Part 30/? - The Chi’Tauri Queen Part 31/? - Through the Wormhole Part 32/? - Prisoners Part 33/? - Arm’s Length

At last, somebody who can fight.

The brig did have doors, of course – multi-layered reinforced ones that were currently standing wide open because all the prisoners were supposed to be safely in their tubes.  They’d slammed shut when Thor got the first one open, but now, to Steve’s horror, they ground open again, and rows of troops started marking in, weapons at the ready.  Thor held out a hand, glanced at it, and then at Hemsworth.

“Where is Mjolnir?” he asked.

Hemsworth shook his head.  “That thing weighs a bloody ton!  I couldn’t budge it!”

Thor had been so proud that none of his comrades could lift the hammer at Stark’s party.  Now he was desperately disappointed.  “You’re not worthy?” he asked.

“Of course I’m not!” said Hemsworth.

“I have to do everything myself!” grumbled Natasha.  She scooped up a plasma rifle from one of the fallen guards and turned on the shield function.  Scarlett crawled over to her and grabbed her leg, like Princess Leia in the very oldest and cheesiest posters for Star Wars.  A very wise move.  Steve would have done the same, but there would have been nobody to guard the unconscious Loki.

“What is going on?” asked Evans.

This was the first time he’d spoken.  It was a bit startling to hear him… so that was what Steve sounded like to other people.  He always thought of himself as having a higher-pitched voice, one that would match the skinny little body he’d been born with.  The one he heard now was deep and authoritative even when it was also frightened.

“We’re about to be killed by aliens, that’s what’s going on!”  Nat tossed him her plasma rifle.  “Shield function is the button on the bottom!”

He caught it, looked surprised at himself, then turned it on.  The air shimmered pink around him.  “Right,” he said.  “Nothing I haven’t done a hundred times while I was awake.”  And he turned and charged at the Chi’Tauri.

“Wait!” Steve protested, but it was too late. Evans took off too fast to follow, and knocked the first alien right off its feet.  Others fired at him, but he turned around, holding up the plasma rifle in front of him as if it were literally a shield, rather than just the source of one.  The man had trained as a gymnast, Steve quickly realized as he watched him fight. He was surprisingly graceful, but did not know his own strength – or rather, the strength of Steve’s body.  He put all his weight behind a punch when he should have saved his strength, and leaned into his kicks like a ballerina.

He’d said nothing I haven’t done while I was awake.  He thought he was dreaming and therefore could not be hurt.  But did he know Steve’s own limits the way Steve himself did?

Was this what Steve himself looked like to everybody else, just rushing into battle without a thought for his own safety or anybody else’s?  No wonder Peggy thought he was a self-sacrificing wanker!

It was soon plain that Evans did not know Steve’s limits.  He was trying to take on the whole damn Chi’Tauri army at once. The shield function on his plasma rifle soon gave out from absorbing too many blows, fizzling out just as Loki’s had on the grass, so he started using the metal to deflect the incoming bolts. This worked better than Steve would have expected, but began putting holes in the side of the gun.  Somebody had to go in there and help, but Steve himself couldn’t do it, Loki and Hiddleston were unconscious, Natasha was in no shape to fight and Scarlett might leave that all to stuntwomen…

Hemsworth cracked his knuckles.  “Right,” he said, and rolled up his sleeves.  “I got this.”

“How can you got this without Mjolnir?” demanded Thor.

“Taika’s sent me a couple of preliminary scripts for feedback,” Hemsworth said.  “I got this. Evans!” he shouted.  “Or Cap or whoever you are!  Get out of the way!”

Evans paused with a Chi’Tauri breastplate in each hand, and watched as Hemsworth planted his feet and made fists.  His teeth gritted… and to Steve’s astonishment, whatever he was doing worked. His jeans and red sweatshirt transformed into Thor’s armor and cape, and lightning fizzled around him.

Evans quickly slammed the two Chi’Tauri’s heads together and dived out of the way.  Did he know what Hemsworth was about to do, or only that it was obviously dangerous to be in the way of it?

Hemsworth held up both hands, and then made a motion like pitching a baseball.  A tremendous bolt of lightning burst out, blowing the Chi’Tauri away.  The lights in the room went out in a shower of sparks, and Steve felt his scalp prickle and his muscles involuntarily twitch.  He tasted copper.

A moment later, emergency lights came back on. Those of the Chi’Tauri troops who weren’t dead or unconscious were fleeing.  Everybody’s hair was standing up in halos around their heads.  Eyes were wide and mouths were open, but nobody’s more so than Thor’s.

“I… did not know I could do that,” he said.

Hemsworth was panting, electricity still on his fingertips, the edge of his cape on fire.  “Okay, that might have been a little extra,” he admitted, and took a second look at Thor.  “What did you do to my face?”

Thor reached up to touch it.  “The welts are from the jelly-fish,” he said.  “The rest is fighting the Chi’Tauri since.   How did you…”

“Guys!” said Natasha.

The power outage had turned off all the stasis cells.  All around them, creatures were staggering out, ranging from a ten-foot-tall reptilian beast to a waist-high creature that looked like nothing so much as a duck in a leisure suit.  One bald being was wearing sunglasses and had a droopy mustache, and looked rather shockingly like Stan Lee.

The one that approached them was a human sized and roughly human-shaped creature in a long coat, whose entire body appeared to be made of blue crystals.  “Who are you?” it demanded of them.

Evans came back to re-join the others. Hemsworth’s lightning had scorched his hair and he was panting and was going to have a black eye, but he was alive. “I, uh, I think we’re the Avengers,” he said.  “Earth’s mightiest heroes?”

Stark called them that, mostly sarcastically. Evans spoke the phrase as if he wasn’t sure he believed it, but was prepared to try to live up to it.  There was something terribly comforting about that.

The crystal creature grinned, showing off shiny black teeth that may have been made of obsidian, and shook his hand.  “These here space rats have had me and my crew locked up for the better part of a month!” he said.  “Shall we show ‘em what they get, boys, for messin’ with the Ravagers?”

“Yeah!” a chorus went up from the other former prisoners.

Steve felt a smile spread across his face as he realized that finally things were starting to go right.  “Okay,” he said.  “Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do.”

The crystalline Ravager leader looked from Evans to Steve and back again.  “There supposed to be two of all of you?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” said Evans.

“Yes,” said Steve.  “It’s a long story.  All right, we have to get back to the ship we came in on.  I’m guessing you guys do, too.  Ours is docked down with the Leviathans.”

“They got ours in a cargo bay, up top,” said the crystal being.

“Great,” said Steve.  “You go that way, we’ll go down, and we’ll keep them busy on two fronts at once.”

“Sounds like a plan,” the crystal being agreed. “All right, boys…”

From somewhere among the crowd came a clearing throat.  The source was a being that was either a cyborg or just a robot, built to look like a beautiful woman but having taken quite a bit of damage since that point. She’d been patched up with scrap metal in several places, and half of her head was bald, with only a plastic shell over the circuitry beneath.

“Sorry!” said the crystal being.  “Boys and Miss Alpha-Eleven-Three!  Let’s give ‘em the hell they asked for!”

The Ravagers got to work stripping the weapons from the fallen Chi’Tauri.  There were others among the prisoners who had not been part of the pirate crew, but the crystal being cheerfully swore them in.  They were all here for being enemies of the Chi’Tauri, so they would probably get along.  When a second, better-armed wave of soldiers arrived, they were just in time to be confronted by two dozen furious pirates opening fire.  The one who looked like San Lee gave a weird, yodeling battle cry.

The Chi’Tauri returned fire, and while everybody else was distracted by the fighting, the Avengers made their way through the middle of the fray.  Hemsworth went first, trying to control the lightning powers Thor had been unaware of, and not always succeeding.  Weapons on both sides sparked and smoked as he went by, and Miss Alpha-Eleven-Three made a horrible electronic screaming noise.  Behind Hemsworth was Evans, carrying Loki, and Thor, helping Hiddleston walk.  Last were Natasha and Johansson, supporting Steve between them.

“Excuse us,” said Evans, as they ducked around and behind fighting Ravagers and Chi’Tauri.  “Pardon me! Coming through!  Can we just… thank you!”

“Is he Canadian?” Steve asked.  That would be an entertaining irony.

“Only in spirit,” said Johansson.

Outside the brig, they piled back into the elevator. Steve reached out and pulled the handle, and they started moving – in the wrong direction, going up.  Steve muttered a curse, and turned the handle around to pull it again.  The elevator stopped, and then moved down.  That was better.  He counted the rings of light as they passed.

“Seven…” he murmured.  “Eight… nine!  Here!” Another yank on the handle brought the elevator to a stop.  The doors opened on the Leviathan dockage.

There was a welcoming committee waiting to greet them.  Not only were the elevators surrounded by Chi’Tauri, but the roof of the hallway moved and then whirred open, plates rotating and folding like bizarre and alien origami, and the enormous queen stepped down from above.

They did have one advantage – the opening to admit the queen was on their left.  “Go right,” he ordered.  “Our Leviathan is the one with the blue panel!”  What that actually meant was no longer relevant. What mattered was that it would be easy to find, and the queen couldn’t go that way because the ceiling was too low.

That was why she had the troops, though, and they clustered on the right, seeking to drive the escaped Avengers towards their mistress.  Steve couldn’t fight them any more than he could have on the way in, but now he had somebody who could.

“Evans,” he said.  “Get one of their weapons again – but don’t let the ones with the staves shoot you, because they’re more powerful than the rifle’s force field can handle.”

“Got it,” Evans nodded.

“Knock their legs out from under them,” Steve added. “And don’t get killed, because Hayley will kill me for letting you!”

“Got that, too,” he said.  Evans looked at the nearest soldier, then somersaulted forward and used himself as a bowling ball to knock the alien over.

“I’ll get the big one!” Hemsworth said.  He fired himself up with lightning again, and took flying leap towards the queen, delivering a punch straight to her solar plexus.  She staggered backwards, but the lightning was dispersed by the metallic cloth draped around her body.  This clearly caused her some pain – she tore it away, snarling, and then brought two of her four fists down on the floor, trying to squash Hemsworth like a bug. He leaped aside, just in time.

“Get at the seams in her armor!” Thor shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth.  “That’s how Loki took one’s arm off before!”

This was like playing a video game, Steve thought. They all had their abilities and powers now, but they could only use them at arm’s length.

Evans had a rifle now, but a Chi’Tauri with a staff overloaded its force field.  He threw it aside and bounced it off another individual’s head.  “I am Captain America,” he said out loud, grabbing a Chi’Tauri by the back of its helmet and slamming its face into the floor.  “I am fighting a million aliens.”  He drove his knee into another one’s crotch.  The drones had no genitalia, but it was still obviously painful.  “While a guy who looks exactly like me fucking coaches me!”  He kicked a third in the gut, and it staggered backwards into two others.

No wonder he thought he was dreaming, Steve thought.  Being outside the action watching yourself was a hallmark of a dream.  Dying in this dream, however, would be all too real.