Let me paint you a word picture. (And feel free to join in)
It’s somewhere during those twelve long years of dying/reviving/forgetting/raging and Barry’s back in a fleshbody again. But he’s not alone, he’s in a good old fashioned adventuring party, playing fighter.
They’re exploring an old crypt and it’s turned out to be just plain lousy with illusory traps and tricks. So their caster puts on true seeing. Smart move, she’s getting the lay of the land now, which is great.
Things are less great when their caster turns back to their party to relay this information and instead of the older, nervous, very-human fighter she’s been traveling with for weeks now…there’s something else there entirely. Red ghost without a face, empty cowl turned towards her expectantly and the words die right in her throat.
The next time Barry gets distracted poking at a monster’s corpse (a habit that had once seemed harmlessly weird), the caster takes the rest of the party aside and whispers the news. Barry is by far the newest addition to this group, so they trust her over him any day, regardless of how kind he’s been during his time.
So they turn on him, and he isn’t hard to beat. He’s got good reflexes, sure (the sort of reflexes you get from combat practice, not instinct, so it’s weird when he claims he has no formal training), but his skills aren’t terribly advanced. So he’s defeated and tied up within a few minutes.
The caster questions him about what she saw–what she still sees, with the Truesight spell still in effect. Her voice wavers because it really is deeply terrifying. But Barry has no idea what she’s talking about, and it eventually takes a Zone of Truth to prove it. (But how the hell can he be some kind of monster and not know?)
Meanwhile, they’ve paused their progression in the dungeon, and their voices are increasingly loud during this interrogation. They’re all too distracted to notice that they’re slowly becoming surrounded by what monsters remain in the dungeon (and as everyone knows, the stronger ones are always the ones further in–the last ones you’d face).
He’s still tied up.
Barry’s tied up, and it’s all the others can do to defend themselves, let alone defend him. It’s horrible when he gets killed, right then on the spot, and then–
So the bad news is, he is in fact a lich.
And the other bad news is that he’s screaming, and he just seems stressed in general. Angry? Panicked? Nobody knows, but neither adventurer nor monster wants to be struck by any of those goddamn lightning bolts shooting out of him as his horrid ghostly figure sheds the mortal body.
Barry is furious but as soon as he gets himself under control he aims his fury at the attacking monsters. They are wiped out in one well cast and extremely high level spell.
He turns to his recent party and his voice is sad when he says, “I understand why you didn’t trust me. But I wasn’t lying. I couldn’t remember. I just… I’m just trying to find my family again.”
He summons his chest from the demiplane where he keeps it hidden and mage hands the important objects from his corpse. Glasses, for one, that saves him a lot of work later if he can save them. A note he spent a lot of time looking at but didn’t understand. He should probably stop letting his body carry that around before something happens to it. He just hates to let himself walk around with nothing tangible for what he’s lost.
His former friends watch in silence, still afraid. He’s disappointed but unsurprised. How can he blame them? He looks like the villain right now.
Leaving them, he scouts ahead through the cave and takes care of the remaining monsters for them. It was nice being part of a group again and he’ll miss it. But it wasn’t part of his goal so it’s probably for the best.
so catra let adora fall and fought her and stuff, she’s like, Committed to this, right, no going back now, she doesn’t care anymore, fuck it
and she really thinks she’ll be happy if she “beats” adora, if she finally proves everyone wrong, if she’s finally strong
but let’s say there’s a battle and catra (somehow, doesn’t matter) is convinced that adora is dead (spoiler: she’s not, but shh)
there’s a pause, she’s dead silent and still, and then she laughs, because she won, right, she won, she’s second best to no one, but that laugh–”hey adora”–just devolves into crying–”it’s not because i like you”–that devolves into screaming–”i really am going to miss you”–that she looks so confused by, like, what is going on, i won i was supposed to finally feel happy
and catra has never felt quite as powerless as she does then
There came a time when, a couple of weeks into February, they found themselves in Indrid’s Winnebago again.
It was a cramped space, but they made do: Aubrey perched on the countertop, Duck squeezed onto the little half-couch with Indrid, Ned sat on the arm of the driver’s seat and bitched about it the whole time. All of them held mugs of warm nog. It was growing on them, like the man who gave it to them. After the funicular train, they’d realized that Indrid was more useful than they’d thought – and perhaps, too, he could be a good ally. A friend. It was hard to offend someone when they had a few extra moments to prepare for whatever bullshit you were going to say. Between the three of them, they had a lot of bullshit to spare.
Besides. Indrid seemed to like them, anyway. Poor guy was probably lonely, out here in the woods by himself.
Aubrey took a sip of her nog and slowly wove a ribbon of fire between her fingers. It was a control exercise someone in Sylvaine had taught her; from the looks of it, the exercise seemed to be working. The fire looked like one of those Chinese dragon puppets, but in miniature. Its light flickered off Indrid’s opaque glasses. “So, Indrid,” she said casually.
The man looked up. “Hm?” he said.
“What’s the weirdest vision you’ve ever had?”
Ned chuckled, and winced a bit, shifting where he sat on the chair’s arm. That had to be uncomfortable. “Yeah, see anything… wild?” he said, grinning. “Anything worldshaking, or crazy? Anything… risqué?”
Aubrey choked on her eggnog. “God, Ned, don’t be gross,” Duck muttered.
Indrid, though, didn’t seem offended. If anything, he seemed to be taking Ned seriously. “Well, I’ve had quite a few,” he said in his soft, polite voice, smiling placidly. “I’ve ignored the ones that don’t, well, have worse implications down the line, but I can see nearly everything if I focus hard enough. For example, I -”
Ned shifted again on the chair’s arm, slid back too far, and fell down into the driver’s seat with a yelp.
“I saw that coming,” Indrid said stoically. Duck snorted with laughter.
Ned grumbled something rude and rearranged himself in the driver’s seat. “Thanks for the warning, mothboy,” he said, but with no real heat. “But c’mon, Indrid – don’t tell me you’ve never seen anything interesting, or -”
“Something you couldn’t explain,” Duck said. Aubrey nodded in agreement.
“You ever see the Kennedy assassination coming?” Ned said.
“Yes, actually,” Indrid said, the smile stiff on his face. “It went poorly.” The air went a little tense in the Winnebago. Duck patted him on the shoulder.
“But really. I’m just curious,” Aubrey said again.
Indrid took a deep breath, and let it out through his nose. The smile slowly faded from his face. “Well,” he said, and paused.
He suddenly stood up and set his nog on the counter. Aubrey tugged it away from the edge, and watched as the man drifted towards a far wall of the Winnebago. Here the dust lay thicker on his sketches, and they seemed wild and frantic – the edges of each shape shaky, as if half-glimpsed through dream and just barely pulled back to reality. His long fingers skimmed over the pages and riffled through. “Once,” Indrid said, and paused.
The three watched him in rapt silence. He peeled back the sketches until he reached an old one, drawn on a yellowed paper napkin, and gently tugged it loose from its pin.
“Once,” he said again, with his back still to them, “I saw seven birds.”
I’ve mentioned before that there are tropes I never get tired of, no matter how many times I read them. To prove it, and to benefit you if you have similar interests, I have chosen some of my favourite tropes and listed every example of them that I’ve had the pleasure of reading.
the most implausible thing about superhero movies is that these guys make their own suits, like seriously those toxic chemicals did NOT give you the ability to sew stretch knits, do you even own a serger
I feel like there’s this little secret place in the middle of some seedy New York business neighborhood, back room, doesn’t even have a sign on the door, but within three days of using their powers in public or starting a pattern of vigilanteism, every budding superhero or supervillain gets discreetly handed a scrap of paper with that address written on it.
Inside there’s this little tea table with three chairs, woodstove, minifridge, work table, sewing machines, bolts and bolts of stretch fabrics and maybe some kevlar, and two middle-aged women with matching wedding rings and sketchbooks.
And they invite you to sit down, and give you tea and cookies, and start making sketches of what you want your costume to look like, and you get measured, and told to come back in a week, and there’s your costume, waiting for you.
The first one is free. They tell you the price of subsequent ones, and it’s based on what you can afford. You have no idea how they found out about your financial situation. You try it on, and it fits perfectly, and you have no idea how they managed that without measuring you a whole lot more thoroughly than they did.
They ask you to pose for a picture with them. For their album, they say. The camera is old, big, the sort film camera artists hunt down at antique stores and pay thousands for, and they come pose on either side of you and one of them clicks the camera remotely by way of one of those squeeze-things on a cable that you’ve seen depicted from olden times. That one (the tall one, you think, though she isn’t really, thin and reminiscent of a Greek marble statue) pulls the glass plate from the camera and scurries off to the basement, while the other one (shorter, round, all smiles, her shiny black hair pulled up into a bun) brings out a photo album to show you their work.
Inside it is … everyone. Superheroes. Supervillains. Household names and people you don’t recognize. She flips through pages at random, telling you little bits about the guy in the purple spangly costume, the lady in red and black, the mysterious cloaked figure whose mask reveals one eye. As she pages back, the costumes start looking really convincingly retro, and her descriptions start having references to the Space Race, the Depression, the Great War.
The other lady comes up, holding your picture. You’re sort of surprised to find it’s in color, and then you realize all the others were, too, even the earliest ones. There you are, and you look like a superhero. You look down at yourself, and feel like a superhero. You stand up straighter, and the costume suddenly fits a tiny bit better, and they both smile proudly.
*
The next time you come in, it’s because the person who’s probably going to be your nemesis has shredded your costume. You bring the agreed-upon price, and you bake cupcakes to share with them. There’s a third woman there, and you don’t recognize her, but the way she moves is familiar somehow, and the air seems to sparkle around her, on the edge of frost or the edge of flame. She’s carrying a wrapped brown paper package in her arms, and she smiles at you and moves to depart. You offer her a cupcake for the road.
The two seamstresses go into transports of delight over the cupcakes. You drink tea, and eat cookies and a piece of a pie someone brought around yesterday. They examine your costume and suggest a layer of kevlar around the shoulders and torso, since you’re facing off with someone who uses claws.
They ask you how the costume has worked, contemplate small design changes, make sketches. They tell you a story about their second wedding that has you falling off the chair in tears, laughing so hard your stomach hurts. They were married in 1906, they say, twice. They took turns being the man. They joke about how two one-ring ceremonies make one two-ring ceremony, and figure that they each had one wedding because it only counted when they were the bride.
They point you at three pictures on the wall. A short round man with an impressive beard grins next to a taller, white-gowned goddess; a thin man in top hat and tails looks adoringly down at a round and beaming bride; two women, in their wedding dresses, clasp each other close and smile dazzlingly at the camera. The other two pictures show the sanctuaries of different churches; this one was clearly taken in this room.
There’s a card next to what’s left of the pie. Elaborate silver curlicues on white, and it originally said “Happy 10th Anniversary,” only someone has taken a Sharpie and shoehorned in an extra 1, so it says “Happy 110th.” The tall one follows your gaze, tells you, morning wedding and evening wedding, same day. She picks up the card and sets it upright; you can see the name signed inside: Magneto.
You notice that scattered on their paperwork desk are many more envelopes and cards, and are glad you decided to bring the cupcakes.
*
When you pick up your costume the next time, it’s wrapped up in paper and string. You don’t need to try it on; there’s no way it won’t be perfect. You drink tea, eat candies like your grandmother used to make when you were small, talk about your nights out superheroing and your nemesis and your calculus homework and how today’s economy compares with the later years of the Depression.
When you leave, you meet a man in the alleyway. He’s big, and he radiates danger, but his eyes shift from you to the package in your arms, and he nods slightly and moves past you. You’re not the slightest bit surprised when he goes into the same door you came out of.
*
The next time you visit, there’s nothing wrong with your costume but you think it might be wise to have a spare. And also, you want to thank them for the kevlar. You bring artisan sodas, the kind you buy in glass bottles, and they give you stir fry, cooked on the wood-burning stove in a wok that looks a century old.
There’s no way they could possibly know that your day job cut your hours, but they give you a discount that suits you perfectly. Halfway through dinner, a cinderblock of a man comes in the door, and the shorter lady brings up an antique-looking bottle of liquor to pour into his tea. You catch a whiff and it makes your eyes water. The tall one sees your face, and grins, and says, Prohibition.
You’re not sure whether the liquor is that old, or whether they’ve got a still down in the basement with their photography darkroom. Either seems completely plausible. The four of you have a rousing conversation about the merits of various beverages over dinner, and then you leave him to do business with the seamstresses.
*
It’s almost a year later, and you’re on your fifth costume, when you see the gangly teenager chase off a trio of would-be purse-snatchers with a grace of movement that can only be called superhuman.
You take pen and paper from one of your multitude of convenient hidden pockets, and scribble down an address. With your own power and the advantage of practice, it’s easy to catch up with her, and the work of an instant to slip the paper into her hand.
*
A week or so later, you’re drinking tea and comparing Supreme Court Justices past and present when she comes into the shop, and her brow furrows a bit, like she remembers you but can’t figure out from where. The ladies welcome her, and you push the tray of cookies towards her and head out the door.
In the alleyway you meet that same giant menacing man you’ve seen once before. He’s got a bouquet of flowers in one hand, the banner saying Happy Anniversary, and a brown paper bag in the other.
You nod to him, and he offers you a cupcake.
This is so awesome.
Actually, this is New York. Why hide?
Marvel had a plotline that there’s an old tailor who does suit design, fabrication, and repair. He sees heroes and villains on alternate days, and no one attacks or fights at his shop for risk of losing his business.
This was a Spider-man story, so of course the upshot of it was that no one had told Spider-man (they assumed he knew, or he just enjoyed making his own costume). Spidey’s sewing skills are also canon, and he’s sometimes expressed frustration/bewilderment that other heroes don’t know how to, mostly when he gets stuck with a sewing job that he assumes literally anyone in a custom costume could be doing.
(there’s a DC fancomic about this except the poor guy has to cater to villains)
The Director leans forward over her desk, her face drawn and intent. “So I suppose you’re wondering why I called you three in h–”
“Actually, Madam Director,” Taako interrupts, “I’m wondering how you got this lavender tea so right.”
The Director blinks. “I simmer the lavender blossoms in a saucepan with water and honey, because I’m not a fucking barbarian. Twenty minutes, dash of vanilla, the whole thing. Anyway–”
“It’s good tea,” Merle pipes up.
“Thanks, Merle. So–”
“Hold up, hold up. Holllld up.” Taako actually raises his hand. “How– okay, I mean, what the hell, that’s exactly how I make lavender tea, how’d you know?”
“I know everything, I’m the Director.”
“Are you spying on us?” Magnus says, suddenly interested.
“I can, uh, no, I can’t confirm that, or, deny, that horrific breach of employer-employee confidentiality. I probably just know that stuff because of all the cool superpowers you get when you’re in charge of a secret moon-based operation.”
Merle waves his hand enthusiastically. “Hey, what’s tattooed on my butt!”
“Kenny Chesney, which I know on account of you came into my actual office with your whole entire ass hanging out.”
“It was like three quarters, max,” Magnus says. “Hey, what’s my favorite tea?”
“You think tea is for chumps.”
“I do,” Magnus says, earnestly pleased.
“Does anyone have any non-tea related questions?”
Merle waves his hand again. “Do you know about our secret st—“
“Taped under Magnus’s bed. Yes.”
“Aw,” Magnus says to his tea.
“For someone with such extensive woodworking proficiency, I really thought you’d have, like, a secret drawer somewhere,” the Director says thoughtfully.
“Hey, taped under the mattress is a classic,” Taako says.
“It’s very, mm, very college hijinks, reminiscent, very Animal House.”
“Bullshit, you never watched Animal House,” Merle says.
“I may— I might have. You don’t know.”
“Name one— name one scene! Just one! Gimme a quote!”
“I don’t have to, because I’m your boss. Can I get back to telling you about your new incredibly important mission to save the whole— basically the whole entire world, already, or do you want to waste more time playing Fantasy fucking Trivia?”
The three Reclaimers look at each other, and then Taako uses mage hand to pour himself more lavender tea.
“What’s Merle’s favorite tea?” he asks, grinning, and the Director drops her face into her hands.
“Chamomile,” she says, in the grave, sorrowing tones of one who must bear the unbearable, year after thankless fucking year. “He thinks it’s sexy.”
For the Thousand Meme! Now, I do feel that it’s relevant here that I don’t…entirely agree with TLJ as a narrative decision and reserve the right to ignore it to my taste.
1. Something before canon
Rey’s staff used to be medical piping, before she got to it. She ripped it out of a downed Empire ship, crept through the bowels of the thing until she found a door that was jammed shut by a broken hydraulic. It took her about three hours and five mild shocks to rewire it so that it could be opened.
The piping from the room on the other side, she kept. She needed a weapon, and her last staff had been on the unfortunate end of a well-aimed laser cutter a week before, during a fight. This was medical-grade tungsten-coated steel, and the thicker ones were heavy enough to do damage, so–weapon.
The hyperbaric chamber–an odd thing to put in a warship, but not hers to question why, Rey supposed–got her food for a month and a half, when she dragged it back to the trading post.
2. Something during canon (TFA)
The hug she gets from Finn is the first time Rey has been embraced in over a decade.
3. Something after canon
Someday Rey will be expected to attend state dinners as a war hero.
It will be…interesting.
4. Something happy
Rey knows, in theory, that thunderstorms are a thing that exist. Heat lightning ran rampant in Jakku, in the right weather. But the first time she hearts thunder boom overhead, she freezes, and Jessica Pava waves a hand and says, “It’s just a rainstorm.”
The entire Resistance is treated to the sight of Rey, the hope of the Jedi, sprinting out into the rain so that she can whoop and holler up at the sky every time it roars.
5. Something sad
Rey never–she doesn’t miss Jakku, it really is as bad as Finn claims it is. But sometimes she looks out her window or out of the Falcon, or out over a room full of people expecting things from her, expecting things from miraculous Jedi powers all the way down to knowing to use a fork rather than her fingers, and she misses being somewhere with rules she knows. Sometimes she misses that so sharply it hurts.
6. Something shippy
Poe has known Rey for three days when he discovers that she thinks ration bars are the height of gastronomic joy. Finn’s not quite that bad, but he’s close.
The second they’re on a planet with green things and a spare three hours, he sits them down and cooks them a whole meal. It’s a bastardization of his father’s tapas, on account of being mostly made out of alien plant life, and could definitely be better, but both of them look at him like he’s a god while they’re stuffing their faces. Poe grins back at them and considers in depth exactly how screwed he is.
7. Something smutty
Rey is a straight-shooter by nature, not overly given to concealing her thoughts when she doesn’t have to. So once she finishes her tapas, she folds both hands on the table and looks at Finn and Poe and says, “I think we should have sex.”
Then she waits for the two of them to finish choking on air and says, “We all like each other very much and I believe this was a date. Am I wrong?”
“Well, no,” Poe says frankly, and Finn stares at his hands like he’s trying to will himself into invisibility. Rey smiles at him, sweet Finn who can’t hide his thoughts on his face for the life of him. Too much time behind that helmet.
“So,” Rey says, standing up to whisk the plates away. Poe has explained this to her–plates are washed, which happens in the sink. She leaves them there to get dealt with later and blinks at the two of them from the door to the bedroom. “Are you coming?”
8. Something domestic
Rey’s love for plants becomes well-known within weeks of her joining the Resistance, and Rey is liked and likable, so people begin bringing her gifts. Flowers in vases, at first, but the first time someone had to explain that they would die and she looked outright alarmed, they switched to potter ferns and succulents, hardy things that thrive even under the artificial lights of the Falcon. The first time she’s given a carnivorous plant, sort of like a star-shaped, tentacled flytrap that snaps shut on insects like a mouth, she’s enchanted. She becomes a remarkably talented gardener, for someone who grew up on a desert world.
9. Something dramatic
Rey finds some old footage from the Clone Wars and discovers that–shit son–if you use the Force right you can jump off buildings and do backflips over whole crowds. The galaxy will never know peace again.
Finn can’t quite hold it against her, because the first time she puts it to use is to drop three stories into the middle of a fight and save his ass.
10. Something AU
I’m still bitterly upset about the whole “you’re no one” thing so…
It’s halfway true. Kylo Ren says the words and Rey swallows them whole like razor blades and ignores the way they make her bleed.
It’s later, when she’s trying to meditate the feeling away in the pilot’s chair of the Falcon, that she feels a distinct little bzzt against her mind that’s almost like Ren hollering down that link, but not quite. She opens her eyes suspiciously and there’s a young man sitting in the empty copilot’s chair, his legs crossed like hers, dressed in plain brown and looking at her through long curly hair the color of dark sand. He has bright blue eyes and a scar and he glows.
“He was wrong, you know,” the young man observes–he has a deeper voice than she expected. He can’t be much older than she is.
“About what?” Rey has pretty well hit her threshold for dramatics and nonsense, these days, so–sure, now she’s seeing things.
“You’re not no one,” the young man says. “Your mother was, but you aren’t.”
“I think I’m about done being told what I am,” Rey muses, and she gets a wide grin in reply.
“That’s a good instinct,” he advises. “Go with it. But you’re not no one, and I thought you might want to know.”
“All right, who am I, then?”
He offers her his gloved hand, bumps his knuckles against her own in an oddly fraternal gesture–or mimics the motion, at least, and stops before his hand passes too far through her own. “You’re a second chance at balance. Do better than the first one, yeah?”
“So, mes amis, are you coming to the parade tomorrow?”
It’s a fairly simple question from Lafayette, but it makes John twitch a little before he masters the impulse. Then he smiles. He doesn’t have to answer, though–Alex is already talking, because Alex is always already talking.
“Of course we are,” Alex announces. “So are the girls. I tried to convince His Excellency that we could identify ourselves and really shake up some Republicans, but he said he’d get me suspended if he heard I started a fight with any political figures. Besides, John went last year without us.”
“John, I am hurt.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” John says, and rolls his eyes. “You were in France this time last year.”
“Well,” Alex says, and awards John his widest, toothiest smile, the one that always foretold trouble. “Maybe we’ll get on the news and your dad will blow a gasket. Should be good comedy from a safe distance.”
John grins at that. His father this time is not his father from last time, as far as he can tell, but a conservative South Carolina senator probably won’t be a much better outcome. But he’s not in South Carolina, he’s in New York City, and he has Alexander at his side, and friends with him, and the whole lot of them are going to Pride. It’s hard to worry about his father, just now.
5. Something sad
Alex has gotten used to nightmares. They happen. Once he’s old enough, he figures out that it’s because he’s carting around almost five decades of intermittent trauma in a teenager’s skull with unusually good recall–not everyone remembers past lives as clear and crisp as his, and there are pros and cons to that. Not a lot of pros, although his knowledge of constitutional law is unparalleled. Plenty of cons.
When the heat goes out in his dorm during November, he has fitful dreams of being feverish, and worse ones of seeing the sick and starving collapse in fields. When it storms, he dreams off and on of hurricanes and cannon fire. He dreams of searching through fields of bodies for familiar faces, or of trying to hold his son together by force of will, or of his mother’s arms growing stiff and cold around him.
The worst, though, are the dreams about letters. He gets the letter and knows what it is but can’t stop himself from unfolding it to read the handwriting, and sometimes Laurens is there, or worse, John as he is now, young and nearly free of his father but still bleeding and dying and dead.
There is, of course, nothing Alex can do to save John in the dreams. Part of him feels that this is only his due.
6. Something shippy
After John’s family figures out what’s going on–
Well. He always knew that he had exactly as long as it took for his family to learn his past life’s name, the name he’s using in New York, before they started asking problematic questions. It’s not hard to do a search for John Laurens and read the Wikipedia article that’s half about Alexander Hamilton.
So his father calls him up and they have a very tense conversation that comes to the ultimate question.
“Don’t lie to me, Jonathan. Are you gay?”
John sighs and takes a moment to be relieved that he saw this coming and made sure to make plans accordingly. He has insurance through the school, a place to live until summer and Lafayette’s apartment after that, and a job from Hercules. And it’s not 1784 anymore, and he’s not going to be hanged, and–
And he has Alexander.
He gives Alex a glance as if to say once more into the breach, dear friend, and says lightly, “Yeah, actually, I have a boyfriend. I think you’ve probably heard of him.”
*emerges from cave, shamefaced* Right, so, does anyone remember that this AU exists? Because I swear to God I didn’t forget, I just only now have had the time. I actually have a bunch of prompts for it, not all of them are going to get written based on…like…my inspiration level, but also this series is alive again, so like. Yep. Here is some Jefferson. Full disclosure, I dislike Jefferson and think his economic plan was some racist bullshit, so…that is evident.
To all you newcomers, I do recommend reading the other stuff, even if you could probably figure it out.
So, the academic affairs office holds out longer than their
predecessor. Not by much, but by a
little. It takes two full weeks for Alex
to hammer through his petition to be allowed to take more than max credits—and it’s quite a petition. Angelica takes one look at the twenty-page,
double-sided, single-spaced letter to the dean of academics and disavows any
involvement, and John grins fondly, remarking that the dean has no idea what he’s
gotten into.
The dean, incidentally, has lived his life with pleasantly dim memories
of Philedelphia with cobblestone streets and a vague impression that he knows
the unfortunate teacher annually strong-armed into teaching History of the
American Revolution. He recalls very
little else of his time in the Continental Congress—indeed, at gunpoint he
couldn’t have identified what exactly he was doing, back then.
He has a blindingly vivid
flashback upon looking at the first page of the letter—the pamphlet, really—and immediately feeds the entire thing through his
shredder.
“Jake,” he says, sticking his head out of his office to look at his
secretary.
“Yes, sir?”
“Approve whatever Hamilton’s request was before he sends anymore
letters. I’ve seen enough for several
lifetimes.”
“You got it, boss,” says Jake, whose past life was a blissfully
unremarkable farmer in the Italian countryside and who therefore has no idea
that his boss is sparing them all a lot of trouble.
Now, the reason this matters is because Alex walks into his Econ 101
class for the first time two weeks into the semester, takes one look at the
lesson outline the grad student wrote on the board, and makes a sound of
absolute incoherent horror.
“Oh my god,” Alex says faintly, frozen in place two steps inside the
door. He was never an especially
religious person, but he’s wondering if maybe the universe is punishing him for
past crimes. He’s not saying one way or
the other if he deserves it, but this seems excessive. “Jefferson is haunting me from beyond the
grave.”
You’re a regular office worker born with the ability to “see” how dangerous a person is with a number scale of 1-10 above their heads. A toddler would be a 1, while a skilled soldier with a firearm may score a 7. Today, you notice the reserved new guy at the office measures a 10.
You decide it’s best to find out what you can about this person. Cautiously, you approach his desk. He’s a handsome man, tall, but with a disarming smile. How could such a friendly guy with such cute, dorky glasses be dangerous?
You extend your hand. “I noticed you’re new here. What’s your name?”
He shakes your hand warmly. His gaze is piercing, as if he’s looking right through you. “The name’s Clark,” he says. “So, how long have you worked for the Daily Planet?”
This one wins.
It’s been a few weeks, and one of Clark’s friends shows up. She’s pretty and all, enough muscle that she must work out. First thought would be that she should be maybe a 6.
Clark’s introducing her around. “This is my good friend, Diana, she’s in from out of town.”
You blink, and take a step back in fear. You’ve never seen an 11 before.
The day Bruce Wayne shows up for his long promised interview with Lois Lane, you can’t help it, the mug your holding drops from your fingers and sends a shock of hot coffee and ceramic shards across the floor.
Clark stops a few feet away and squints at you worriedly from behind those ridiculous glasses you’re 99% sure he doesn’t actually need, and asks tentatively, “Everything all right?”
You ignore him in favor of staring at the inky dark numerals hovering over the beaming fool gesticulating some fantastic yacht story for a gaggle of secretaries and minor columnists.
That’s it. Your gift has officially gone haywire. There is no other explanation. Because there is absolutely no way that Brucie Wayne is a 10.
At this point, you’ve seen it all. Miled manner reporters and billionaires at a 10 and a model-like woman at 11. You were really starting to doubt your power. The day you really stopped believeing in it was when Bruce Wayne came for another visit, and this time with a kid. The kid couldn’t be more than 10 years old, a bit on the short side.
He was an 8.
The day you started believing in it again was when you saw on tv the formation of something called the justice league.
There were those same numbers over superman, batman, wonder woman and robin. That’s when you put two and two together. You wonder how nobody at the daily planet noticed that Clarke was Superman with glasses. You wonder why you didn’t notice. You wonder why nobody put two and two together that Diana Prince and Wonder Woman looked exactly the same. You look in the mirror as the realization hit you and you see your own number change from a 3 to a 9.
IT GOT BETTER
Despite this, you go about your life. You don’t talk to Clark – Superman? – and kept out of his way. His girlfriend Lois Lane – she was a five when you first met, but now she’s a nine just like you – tries to get you to interview Bruce Wayne, but you refuse. You meet other people in Clark’s group of friends with high numbers. The daughter of the police commissioner from Gotham. The forensic scientist from Central City. More and more people to avoid and worry about.
Meanwhile, your paranoia gets to you. You start working out. Training in self defense. Studying the Justice League, trying to find its members. Finding out all their identities so you can be ready.
One day you wake up with a ten above your head.
That day you get a call. You recognize the area code. Gotham. Your heart is in your throat. You should throw the phone away, run. They’ve found you. You’re doomed. You might be a ten, but you can’t beat them all.
You pick up the phone anyways.
“Hello?”
“Hey, this is Clark Kent. I was wondering if we could talk.”
Your mouth goes dry. “About what?”
Clark’s voice goes quiet. “Well. About the Justice League.”
You stiffen in your seat. Your adrenaline kicks in, and your eyes dart around the room. You can hang up, pack, grab a plane ticket to wherever and disappear. Your passport hasn’t expired, and you’ve been talking to Perry White about a vacation anyways. You could say it’s a family emergency and never come back.
But they’d find you. You know they’d find you. They’re goddamned superheroes. They can carry buildings. They could probably manage finding you.
“Hello?” Clark’s voice returns, tinged with concern, and suddenly you stop. Calm down. They’re the good guys. At least they’re supposed to be.
“Yeah, sorry, just a little shocked you–”
“Caught up to you?” Clark asked. He laughed a little, but it wasn’t teasing. His voice had his regular ease, the same casual tone he would employ to talk about the weather in the break room. “Yeah. Lois noticed your odd behavior, actually. We didn’t realize it was linked to the League until you refused to interview Bruce, and then we knew something was up.”
“Speaking of Bruce Wayne, are you using his phone? Your area code is Gotham, not Metropolis.”
Clark laughed. “Damn. Lois wasn’t kidding when she said you were the best investigator working for the Daily Planet.”
“I just notice things is all.” You laughed nervously. You still can’t shake your general unease. This guy could kill you without any effort. You’re no match for him, or for any of his friends for that matter. Hell, Batman didn’t even have powers and he’d still fuck you up.
“Yeah, and that’s a skill we could use around here. Would you like to talk about joining? Bruce can send you a car, bring you here–”
“No,” you say, sharper than you intended. “Sorry. I’d rather meet in public, if that’s okay with you.”
“Of course. Lunch or coffee? It’s still early, but it’s a bit easier to cram all of us in a restaurant than a coffee shop.”
“Lunch, I guess. And no superhero stuff.”
Clark pauses, then sighs sadly. You’ve heard this sadness before in rare amounts. When bad things happened and fear and greed overtook people, he’d always frown and sigh, like someone watching their best friend self destruct, unable to help or save them. “You’re afraid of us. Aren’t you?” His voice is concerned and hushed.
A pang of guilt starts to replace the fear. “You can throw around buildings like a sack of potatoes, Clark. Your friend is powerful on an impossible level, Bruce’s kid is a fucking eight–”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Clark said, the sadness disappearing. “You have a number system for us?”
“Look, it’s a whole thing. I’ll talk about it over lunch.” You grab your laptop bag. “Where are we meeting?”
Clark said something to someone else. “Got any restaurant ideas? They want lunch.”
Bruce Wayne – you’ve heard enough interviews to recognize his voice – said, “Saffron’s pretty good.”
“Jesus,” someone else said. You’ve heard the voice, but you couldn’t place it. “I keep on forgetting you’re rich.”
“You don’t think it’s a little much, Bruce? The pay at Daily Planet is good but not that good,” said Clark.
“I’ll cover their tab.”
“Okay…” Clark returned to the call. “Saffron, in…thirty minutes? You’re downtown, right?”
“You can get a table to Saffron in thirty minutes?” said the strange voice. “Boy, am I glad I made friends with you guys.”
“Yeah, that works.” You’re a bit hesitant, but you swallow your nerves. At least for now. Your thoughts about threat levels made you forget that Clark is a decent guy. All you could do is hope that he thinks you’re decent, too. “See you then.”
“See you then. Be safe. Bye.” Clark hangs up, and you’re left in your room. The worry is starting to turn into something different. Excitement.
You shove the phone into your pocket, grab your keys, and head out the door. You’re so full of restless energy you walk the whole way there. Once you arrive, you catch your reflection in the mirror and notice that you’re starting to suit that ten above your head.
KEEP GOING!!!!!!!
The hostess takes you to a hidden corner of the restaurant. It’s mostly empty, as though it’s only just opened. Sitting at a long table, chatting politely, was the Justice League.
They aren’t wearing masks or uniforms, no bright colors and costumes. Clark Kent is in his usual office wear, Bruce Wayne is wearing a tailored suit, Diana Prince dons a nice blue dress, and Oliver Queen wears a nice button down. You don’t recognize two of them – a twenty something in jeans and a hoodie, a man in a green shirt, and a burly guy in a baggy t-shirt and old jeans who looks like he had just washed up from the sea. All of them, aside from Diana, are tens, of course.
Clark Kent stands, shakes your hand when you come in. “Glad to see you made it.” He introduces you to the others, and they all shake your hand quite happily and greet you like a friend. You learn that the guy in the hoodie is Barry Allen, the dude in green is Hal Jordan, and the beach dude is Arthur Curry. Waitresses, all ones, twos, and threes, come in with drinks, and one plops a mug of coffee in front of you, along with a small menu. Clark Kent gives you a knowing gaze.
Once the waitresses clear out, Bruce sits up straight. “Clark, would you rather I do the honors?” His silver watch glitters in the light from the windows.
“No, no, Bruce,” Clark says, setting down his glass of water. “I think it’s best if I ask them myself.”
Within a moment, you piece it together. “You want me to join the Justice League?”
Clark Kent cracks a smile. “How’d you guess?”
“You call me out of the blue, mention the Justice League, invite me to Bruce Wayne’s place, and then here, where you introduce me to a group of people who all look strikingly similar to the members of the Justice League.” You take a sip of coffee. “Subtlety is hardly your strong suit.”
Barry Allen laughed. “They got you there on that one.”
“Well, you’re right. At first Bruce wanted to handle the situation himself,” – you’d rather not think about what handle was a euphemism for – “but I insisted we do some more digging. We did, and what we found was…surprising. To say the least.”
You look at him oddly. You aren’t normal – no one else saw numbers floating above people’s heads – but you weren’t surprising. Your parents were the only ones who knew about your ability, and they’re long gone. You’ve got no checkered past, no odd history–
“You have powers.” Clark’s voice was clearly impressed.
“How did you find out about that?” The fear comes back, forming a knot in your stomach. “I’ve never told anyone else about it.”
“It’s not hard to notice,” Barry Allen says in between sips of soda. “Most of the information we got we got from Lois after she’s hung out with you.”
“I’ve never her told her anything about the numbers, though.”
Oliver Queen sits up, flashing you a confused look. “Numbers?”
Okay, something’s not right here. “The number I see over everyone’s heads,” you say, keeping your voice low. “It ties into how dangerous everyone is. Usually it’s just a one or two, maybe a three or four or five if they’ve got some kind of training or if they work out or whatever. Almost everyone at this table has a ten.”
“Almost?” Diana furrows her brow.
“You have an eleven,” you add.
Diana nods, smiling with a bit of pride and making an “I told you so” face to Bruce Wayne, who rolls his eyes. Oliver Queen clears his throat as Bruce and Hal pass him a couple bills.
“Ignore them,” Barry says, rolling his eyes at the three of them. “What you said was interesting – I might have to ask you a few questions on that later – but it wasn’t what I found. Remember the sensory and memory study you did when you were ten?”
You do remember it. Your parents were contacted by a scientist friend of theirs who needed kids to run a study on memory and stimuli. You remember it clearly. The large sterile room, the tests, the person conducting them, a handsome woman with a four above her head, the questions, the smell of latex gloves and fresh bleach. But you don’t remember the results. You were never told the results, other than that they were good, though with a test like that it was hard to say.
“Well, I found the tests. And they were superhuman.”
blackash26 