Tim Drake-Wayne adopting a cat from a shelter after moving into his own apartment because no one can tell him no now.
he names his kitty Irene because deep-down he’s still a dork who joined a Sherlock Holmes fan club (sidebar: THIS IS CANON YOU CAN LOOK IT UP)
when he doesn’t wanna get out of bed Irene comes up and butts him with her head because FOOD TIM C’MON
it’s really soothing to pet her because she purrs like crazy?? excellent
one time he was sitting in the middle of the living room crying and she came up to him and started purring and he petted her and it was Good
brushing her fur is also really soothing
one time Kon came over to visit and Krypto unexpectedly came with him and Tim was really nervous but Irene just came over and bapped Krypto on the nose and now they’re friends
sometimes when Tim thinks about dying on patrol he thinks about how everyone else would get on with their lives but Irene wouldn’t be able to understand. all she’d know is that one day he disappeared, and he can’t do that to her
he announces her presence to the world by posting a picture of her napping on some Important Documents and like an hour later Damian is climbing through his window demanding to see this cat, why didn’t you tell me about her Drake???
there’s definitely a fanclub for her now, along with all of Damian’s pets. Tim ends up authorizing an official plushie and all the proceeds go to no-kill shelters in Gotham.
she goes on a field trip to Titans Tower because the Titans demand to see her. Bart reads like eighty books on cats and teaches her ridiculous tricks with his newfound knowledge.
We start with a slow pan down to Gotham as Oracle narrates
“Ask your average person who Gotham’s most famous citizen is, and you’ll get the same response every time: Bruce Wayne. Everybody’s heard of Bruce Wayne. You’ve probably heard his name a million times before. But there are some things that the average citizen doesn’t know about him. See, to the people of Gotham, Bruce Wayne is a rich kid who never grew up. They think he’s a buffoon, an airhead, a moron. But the truth is…”
*Batman bursts out of a window, screaming, on fire*
This is then followed by a series of clips from interviews with various Gotham citizens, all of whom give humorously ironic descriptions of Bruce Wayne’s idiocy:
“Bruce Wayne? I hear the guy gets through a super-car every month! Replaces every one, just like that!”
*Cut to shot of the Batmobile flipping end-over-end after slamming into one of Bane’s APCs*
“Wayne? Please! The guy would probably have accidentally killed himself years ago if he didn’t have that butler to babysit him!”
*Cut to Alfred physically restraining Bruce from going out to fight Scarecrow while having a broken arm, a concussion, and the flu,*
“I bet he throws away cash like it grows on trees!”
*Cut to Batman shouting “Hey, Lucius! Ask R&D to make some kryptonite/Nth metal alloy baterangs! Y’know, just in case!”
“I’m almost jealous. Super rich and he gets to hang out with gorgeous women across the world? Sign me up!”
*Cut to Bruce being slammed face first into a wall repeatedly by Lady Shiva.*
Ok everyone, I don’t know how far this'll go, but I just have to express myself to the world. MY STUDENT LOANS HAVE BEEN FORGIVEN!!! For real, I just happened to check my servicer's website this morning, and I have a $0 balance instead of the $17,700 it was last week! I'm sooooo happy it's not hanging over my head like the Sword of Damocles that I'm having trouble expressing it!
So the tire-eating potholes in my neighborhood finally killed both my rear tires and I had to get that dealt with, but while they were getting replaced, I put the dogs in puppy daycare and upon picking them up early, the attendant literally sprinted to the front desk, grabbed me by the shoulders and breathlessly exclaimed "YOUNEEDTOCOMESEEWHATYOURDOGSAREDOING"
While she escorted me back to the play yards, she explained that every time they have more than three Corgi, they have to put all the Corgs in a separate play yard because they turn into a little gang and bully the Very Large dogs by playing Cow Herding Simulator 5000 with them, and especially if Herschel is there, because corgis are bossy-pants dogs, and Herschel has the bossiest pants of them all and acts as leader.
Despite being a little Don Corgleone to the short bitch mafia, Hershcel is also a Huge Baby and will apparently cry and cry and try to climb the fence and cry and eat people's shoelaces and cry if he is separated from Charlie during playtime, so this means any time that "Corgi Party" is happening, Charlie also has to go to Corgi party, despite being full-height, running cat software and a senior citizen. he copes with being Gulliver amongst the Liliputians by climbing onto the roof of the playskool castle they have for a climbing structure in the yard, kicking the ladder down behind him, and stretching out to nap in the sun while the corgi frolic and gambol around him.
Corgi are dogs that make up and play games with secret rules, like kindergartners. "Everyone bark in sync" is a popular game, as is "follow the leader" and it's companion game "March in a circle around a tall structure like ants caught in a death loop".
So what I was greeted with, when the attendant and I snuck out to the play yard, was the sight of Charlie, sound asleep and flat on his back with his paws crossed over his chest because sighthounds sleep in the stupidest fucking positions, on top of a faux-medieval castle with gargoyles on the corners, surrounded by approximately seven Corgi, all trotting in a circle around him, barking in sync.
"They look like they're preforming some kind of ritual!" giggled the attendant as attempted to get my phone to focus.
"Yeah, they're gonna summon Corgtulhu." I said.
Unfortunately, this made the attendant literally fall on her ass laughing, and distracted Herschel and his compatriots, so they didn't get to complete the summons, and I didn't get the pic.
The attendant kept laughing because apparently she's new to puns, and had mostly gotten it under control by the time we got everyone's leashes on and back out to the front.
The manager was watching the front desk, bemused. Did you get to see them doing the ritual?"
"YEAH!" shrieks the attendant, still excitable with merriment. "THEY'RE- THEY WERE-" The attendant ends up giggling on the floor.
"You okay there Katie?" asked the manager with minimal concern.
"We think they were trying to summon Corgthulhu." I eplain, and Katie screams from the floor. "Wasn't gonna work though, you need a virgin sacrifice and Charlie had an STD when we got him."
It was the manager's turn to shriek. and for Charlie and Herschel to start barking in solidarity.
"That's right Charlie! Your sluttiness saved the world!" I told him, as he jumped up and kicked me in the face.
Anyway, that's why Charlie's nickname at daycare is now "Superman(whore)"
---
If you found this story amusing, please consider donating to my Ko-fi or pre-ordering the Family Lore book on my Patreon so I can buy the good dogs more treats.
‘i began to speak, and a voice i didn’t recognize came out…i felt batman rising from deep within’ —from kevin conroy’s dc pride story, ‘finding batman’.
we were lucky to have kevin share a piece of his soul with us through this character & define him for an entire generation🌹
How do I put this gently . . .
You fuckers wanna see Trump actually face consequences - see Roe protected - not lose all the progress of the past 2 years under Biden? (yes ik we need more to be done i know)
YOU HAVE TO FUCKING VOTE IN THE MID TERMS - POLLS ARE SHOWING A RED RESURGANCE BC PEOPLE HATE INFLATION AND THEY'RE VOTING REPUBLICAN LIKE IT'LL DO SOMETHING TO STOP IT.
Vote. Encourage your friends to vote. Vote at all levels. It does make a difference! If it didn't they wouldn't be trying so hard to discourage us from voting!
Ask yourself why they say it makes no difference if it really made no difference. Someone wants to stop you, that's why.
Your mother, father, grandparents, they paid their own money into Social Security and the republicans say it's a "perk"…no. It's their money. You're paying into it with every paycheck. It's your money too.
They want it. They want the poor poorer.
Make a difference. It's one day. A few hours. Make a difference to your parents, your grandparents.
Hello! I recently stumbled across your AO3 writings and they are phenomenal. I notice you've been absent for awhile, and so I sincerely hope you are well in whatever endeavors you are pursuing!
Hello babe.
Ah, you are very right! It’s been a while since I’ve been on 😅
That has more to do with my job and fam tbh. Kiddo is eight now and third grade after a year remote has seen a share of challenges. My mom is disabled now so I’ve taken over some of her care as happens when your parents get older.
Tbh, mostly I’ve been kind of ashamed to log on because I haven’t been writing much for enjoyment. My job, while the best job I’ve had so far in this industry, is intense, stressful, and mentally draining if not satisfying. So, yeah. Life is moving forward and much more busy than it was even five years ago.
That said, I’m not giving up on any of the fics I have out there. As a matter of fact, I decided to post a fic pile on Ao3 of nothing but works-in-progress. It’s all the half-assed things I have on my Google Doc. Well, except for a few done ficlets I’ve finished, like the next chapter of Broken Trust and a side fic for Dead Birds with a crossover starring everyone’s favorite X-Men. So, movement.
But I’m still around and kicking, still thinking up plots and endings. Things are what they are in our crazy world, and I’m glad you had the time to take a look at my works. I hope you enjoyed some of those ramblings ❤️ Just, thank-you babe for hitting me up and reminding me I’m still relevant and there are still people out there discovering how amazing this fandom is.
So, remember this idea in from the Dead Birds verse ^
Yeah, I'm done with that crossover side fic so here it is :D
Short Dead Birds / Marvel Crossover
Dammit Discord babes. Enablers, the lot of you.
The night is again something more.
Something to be tested, something to push, something to become because he can’t go back to the old ways and it’s finally, finally less awful. New Orleans isn’t Gotham, and he’s not that Robin anymore. Each night patrolling in their new city is like an ill-fitting glove, but it’s getting easier, more natural, more like home.
The buildings aren’t as tall in this part of the city, but he can still run, still leap, still fly, he can still catch the beginnings of a mugging, of a B&E, of a drug deal, of someone that’s going to end up in a body bag at the end of the night if he isn’t fast enough.
Well, if they aren’t fast enough.
Falling into New Orleans hasn’t been the struggle he thought it would be with a team of meta-humans. It should and shouldn’t be surprising how quickly they’d all fit into a certain niche.
Muninn can literally draw the power from real practitioners of the arts, can pull the magic from their spell casting attempts, from the street vendors reading palms and making gris-gris. She can channel it into her own power, and with her intent to do good, to save lives and stop criminals, it doesn’t make the war within her tip to Trigon’s side. It doesn’t bring out the demon.
Ceres takes those pesky undercover lessons to heart, scopes out her side of the city with clicking heels and less than a moment needed to whirl into her costume and mask, hand out an easy ass whooping when the situation calls for nothing less. She learns from their new leader how to take it in back alleyways and shadows, making sure the tied up criminals are easier for cops to find.
Vakaris can slow it down, speed it up, can play the game just right. He makes it simple sleight of hand, tracking pickpockets, picking their gains, and sliding back wallets, jewelry, phones, to rightful owners. It’s a better game than he thought he’d find down here. He laughs when the team has to slow down the video feeds to watch him do it. It’s better when he can do it near patrolling cops, make sure the perps have a wallet in hand when he so-easily bumps them into the boys and girls in blue.
Saturn has been in the hero business for long enough that he has more skills than just the obvious. Years ago, he worked with some people for a holographic facial netting, so when he’s out with the team, he becomes anyone when he needs to play on the downlow. It’s a whole different type of shape shifting, and in the last few weeks working as a team to infiltrate their new city, he’s become damn good at it. He uses all the things he’s learned from the Doom Patrol, the JL, the other teams he’s been on during his time in the biz. He listens and learns, is the first of them to start taking on a Creole accent when he needs it.
Belenus ditches the glasses, casts off the old ways and paranoia Clark managed to instill in him. He can wear a mask with the new uniform, doesn’t need to keep hearing that voice saying anything he does could reflect badly on Ma and Pa and Clark and Kara. The weight of the S is off his back, and he gets to make his own name, make himself into the hero he wants to be. Tim had already been Red Robin, Bart was Impulse, now he and Cassie can have that same freedom, out from under the shadow of their mentors.
(And on the top of Hancock Whitney Center, looking out over the city, he and Cassie talked about it in quiet voices, legs swinging in the breeze, how Diana texted more now than she ever had when Cassie was Wonder Girl, how Clark and Kara had been fucking odd when he picked up that last box…)
Erebus is settling in better than any of them could have hoped. He’s doing the down-and-dirty research, vigilante style. Undercover as Marcus Miellet, LaLa Lacau, and Antoine Arceneaux, he infiltrates the shadowy places and niches, pulling at the cords of the criminal underground slowly, carefully, unravelling it bit by bit. His map of criminal activity is growing the more they learn.
Crooked judges and cops and politicians, oh my!
The real jackpot comes when E gets the down-low on the Guilde des Voleurs with a finger directly on the pulse of crime in the city.
It’s their first team Op on their new home turf, and putting themselves out there with the new names, new suits, is going to cause a stir.
And they? Are counting on it.
**
The Varangians infiltrate the main street with absolute stealth. Erebus laughs loudly, dressed as Antoine with a smart goatee, suit and jacket that fairly screams money, a tie pin probably worth more than some people made in a year.
He weaves down St. Anne’s with a noticeable wobble, slurring to passerbys about how well Saints are doing this year.
On all sides, his team is following him, watching closely as he acts more carefree in this pseud than they’ve ever seen him act the whole time they’ve known him. Belenus, hovering above the cloud cover, is smiling softly to himself at that voice singing Dr. John’s Revolution.
Vakaris is moving fast enough to phase through walls, keeping up with the target, and from where he hovers, Belenus can see him looking down at Erebus, can see him smiling at the singing.
(Not yet. But maybe...maybe soon.)
The air around Erebus is misty and surreal, pointing to him as the perfect target.
Unfortunately, they run into trouble before it manages to find them.
The sound is a high-pitched whine, signalling the incoming oh shit.
And even though Erebus is a seasoned vigilante under the guise, has been going solo long enough to have incredible muscle memory and reaction time, he catches his breath at the glowing incendiary coming right at him.
His muscles tense, ready to spring, ten different contingencies flashing through his brain pan. Instinct kicks in and he leaps the same time Belenus drops out of the sky to snap him up into the shadows as the incendiary device–
Queen of Hearts, it’s a playing card…
–explodes in the middle of the street.
It should be insane to feel hands moving over him at super speed, the outer layer of his suit, new and improved tunic, utility belt, and the sweet cape brushing his ankles again. Belenus leaves him fitting in a comm before he leaps away, suited to the nines.
“All right, some recon on that little display would be good right about now.” And Erebus has finally eased into the city by the way he takes the rooftops.
He slips and slides around numerous objects, ducks and rolls, leaps and spins, faster than even a week ago.
(It’s not like he can move in Gotham, it’s not deep enough to be in his bones.
...but that doesn’t mean it won’t be someday.)
He shouldn’t have worries because Ceres, a mask with this new uniform, is in the middle of the street, moving toward the direction the playing card bomb came from without a hitch in her step. (He laughed a little when she told him her personal aesthetic for the new suit is very Captain Marvel and damn does she make those colors look good.)
Saturn and Munin hit the scene, Munin kneeling down to look at the site of the explosion while Saturn charges after Ceres to find whatever Metahuman might be causing trouble in their new home turf.
It gives him just enough time to duck back in the alleyway and throw off the outer wear, reveal the armor beneath, enough time for Vakaris to drop off his bag at lightning speed so he’s got gauntlets and a belt, boots, and a mask of his own design.
(It takes up more of his face, gives him that much more protection, that much more anonymity.)
Noise erupts from out-of-sight, the sound soft and loud at the same time schnnnnikt.
By the time he hits the scene, only a few minutes, the stand-off turned into a fight, and he jumps into the fray without pause, tracking which enemies his people are hitting.
He recognizes faces he’s found in the NOPD database, in Interpool, in ARGUS. Two of the gangs they’ve been researching since the team convinced him to give the new city a chance. Rival gangs, the Guild of Thieves and the Guild of Assassins.
Great, tonight is the night for a gang war.
Throw a few Metahumans in the mix and now they’ve got a real party.
“Vanagians,” he growls out over comms, bo materializing in his hands. “Check in. We’ve got two rival gangs from the looks of things.”
Which is absolute fuckery to say the least.
The street and surrounding buildings have taken some damage, his people trying to get civilians out of the way first and foremost, just like they talked about in strategy meetings.
Welp, good to see some of what he said is sticking.
“No one invited us to the party!” Vakaris whines, zipping around to take away lethal weapons. “I so would have brought the bean dip.”
Erebus smirks a little to himself because wow is this familiar.
Belenus chuffs over comms, “my dude, you know I’ve got the chips for that. Sweet cape and all has a pocket for the family-sized bag.”
And yeah, that’s a knife disarm while he’s talking.
One of the Metas in the fray pauses, looking over as Belenus puts the guy trying to stab him on the ground.
“I’ve got the punch,” Ceres yells as she literally knocks out three people with one good right hook.
“I believe I would have chosen the streamers,” Munin murmurs over comms, and that? Is right where they need to be, witty banter and all.
A chuffing laugh out of a snout as Saturn pounces again, “you totes would, babe. A little confetti, a few nice table cloths, and we got some sweet deco!”
“Yer fucking with me, ain’t cha, Bub?”
And oh. That’s not a run-of-the-mill Meta. Nope.
Erebus knows that voice from a little stint in upstate New York, pulls a stunning round house before he’s off. “Team, do not engage the third group of fighters,” he catches sight of that swept up-do, the glint of very impressive steel in the lamplight. “Looks like we’ve got some X-Men hanging out with us tonight.”
He lands it in front of Wolverine and Gambit, eyes in the sky as Rogue hefts two Thieves with a wide grin and a wink.
His bo takes out a few Assassins because really. Ra’s people have a ton more equipment and professional fighting skills. They don’t need shit like guns.
“Agent 10. Nice to see you again,” he uses Logan’s knee, then shoulder to propel himself in a backflip to take out a few more with feet to the face.
The X-Man blinks, straightens, terrifying claws lowering just slightly.
Gambit at his back, turns to look at his teammate over his shoulder, a full house in hand, “y’know dese nice kids, ami? Seems like dey know you.”
“Gimmie a minute t’ think about it,” Wolverine’s upper lip curls, “for the moment, we’re gonna take the help we can get.”
Erebus smiles, spins and jumps back into the fight, “aw, I’m hurt. After all the ass kicking we did against Strikeforce X, and I’ve got to give you my business card?”
He doesn’t wait for a reply because Saturn gives a loud rumbling growl, and he’s suddenly off in that direction, his team taking precedent.
He misses Rogue lighting down next to Gambit, giving Logan a raised brow.
“Holy shit,” Logan literally throws a hand out and takes down a thief with the back of his fist. “I can’t believe he’s the same kid. No more red, gold, n’ green?”
Gambit pauses to watch the kid working the bo, takes note of some nice moves, more professional than Remy’s own flair. “Now didn’ ya tell me you don’t know nobody in N’Orleans? Why we fightin’ a two-front war if you had people all dis time!”
Logan gives no fucks about dirty punching a thief in the face, regardless of Cajun’s own fealty. “If he is who I think he is, we should be seein’ a Bat ‘round here pretty soon. This ain’t his usual stomping grounds.”
“Nevah know, Sugar,” Rogue fills in, eyeing the smaller groups of thieves vs assassins, “things happen to change. Maybe he’s got a new stomping ground now.”
“Yeah, yeah, I ain’t his mother. Less yammerin’, more fightin’ you two, or we’ll never get out of here. Damn, all I wanted was a cold beer and look at where we are now.”
Rogue huffs playfully at him and takes off, smashing into one of the bigger groups to knock everyone away from each other. She gets a whirlwind past her when one of the new kids flies past to catch a thief from whacking his head into a lamp post.
“Oops! Silly ole’ me. Sometimes I forget my own strength!”
The kid lifts the front of a car with one hand to get at one of the gang members hiding under it. “Tell me about it,” she grins with a wink and drags the hiding thief out by an ankle. A blur flashes by and the thief is just suddenly tied up, still dangling from one of her hands.
It doesn’t take long for Gambit to fight his way over to his brother-in-weapons, watching the kid use the bo like he been born with it in hand, and gives a whistle once all the gang members around them are down.
The masked boy looks up, hip cocked out, bo over his shoulders while he takes in the wind-down to the massive, 100+ person brawl that could have gone very, very badly.
“Nice moves dere, ami. Getcha some cards n’ ya take my MO right out from undah me, eh?”
The boy in the cape has a grim smile, something playing in the background that Remy LeBeau can’t possibly know.
(The accent is completely different, the French twist, but it still takes him back to another instance where the twist of the words was like a twist of a knife in his gut, blood coming through the bandage on his knuckles from how tight he was holding on to something.)
“Regular human,” he waves the comment off, “not a Meta. But, you’re also pretty good with a staff.”
“Aw now. We don’t go by that word, yeah?”
A shiver goes down the vigilante’s spine, but he just gives a nod and jogs back to the pile of weapons Vakaris had taken from the gang members on his first pass through the mass brawl.
Sirens rent the humid air, all the signs of the police on their way.
Logan glances at the kid, an obligatory sniff to try and catch the scent. “Yeah, thought it was you. What? Got tired of the tights or something? Where’s tall, dark, and brooding? Looks like ya ain’t holding on ta his cape no more.”
“It’s me,” Erebus feels more than sees his team come to stand at his back, flutters in his peripheral. “New pseud, no more Bats. That pretty much sums it up.”
“So’s y’all settlin’ here in the Big Easy?” Rogue doesn’t light down on her feet, hovers a little over the hot pavement. “That’s gonna keep ya busy for a while.”
Belenus gives a grin, wide and white under his mask, “I think we’re up to the challenge. Nice to fight with you, though. That was a good introduction for us.”
“Totes agree. This was a good first run.” Saturn fist bumps him with a wink, and something about that green skin makes Gambit’s eyes narrow because he’s sure he’s seen something like that before.
Munin’s cape flutters around her when she settles next to everyone. “We appreciate your help, but background on the fight would also be welcome. Especially since we plan to stay.”
“It’s beer thirty,” Logan cuts in, “first round’s on me. Fer those a’ ya old ‘nuff anyhow.”
He and Cajun step it up to their girl, let her lift them off their feet as the red and blues are getting closer.
“That sounds like a good post-fight celebration,” Belenus snatches Erebus and Vakaris around the waist in a similar style, floating up to follow.
Gambit snorts, “well, les enfants, we see how much you can take, huh?”
The laughter from the two groups rings over the rooftops as they fly.
**
A small dive around a suspect alley is away from the main bars and shops on the street, is a place that welcomes capes and cowls along with superhero groups apparently. He stands with the domino in place, arms crossed while Logan smokes a cigar and bends over the pool table.
Erebus isn’t shocked to see Rogue and Cassie sitting next to one another while Vakaris makes one of Luthor’s awful power-suppressing bands because duh, we have the technology, R. I can make one in like no time.
Belenus eggs him on, talking animatedly about what an absolute douche canoe his other father is, all the plots and machinations because Rogue gets it.
Munin and Saturn sitting next to one another with their thighs touching. The pitcher on the table was discreetly tested before the cups were filled.
“So’s yer outta that hell pit,” Logan spares him a glance before the stick goes back. “Don’t Daddy Bats have feelings about it?”
The sharp crack echoes and the shot is utter crap. Erebus cares enough to tell him so while Remy nudges him out of the way, wide grin and narrowed eyes as he keeps glancing subtly over his shoulder to watch the awe on Rogue’s face while the fast kid moves in vibrations and the girl like Miss Marvel pushes the cheese fries closer.
Logan stands next to him, thinks about heckling the Cajun and decides he’d rather have more of the story, turns to catch a glance at the new mask.
“All right. I hate Gotham, and I’m not a fan of Pointy-Ears, so save me a trip and spill. What happened to the green tights?”
“I’m not that Robin anymore. Why were the three of you so far away from New York?”
“Meh, Cajun’s got old roots with the Thieves. Thieves got a beef with the Assassins.” Logan gives a what can you do shrug and goes to take his shot.
Remy, sans half his uniform, stands by him to watch the furball miss again.
“Take a drink first,” Remy reminds him primly, “ole man like you need it!”
“Aw stuff a sock in it,” without looking up from lining up his shot.
Taking a long drink of his own beer, he taps a finger on the vigilante’s shoulder, “hey, no worry, eh? The worst ones? I get you a list.”
“Intel is always appreciated.”
“Y’ being here is ‘ppreciated,” is parroted back. “No one been down here, takin’ care a’ my city in too long. We always runnin’ from one ‘mergency ta the next. Knowin’ someone is tryin’ t’ keep the peace lets me sleep bettah at night, huh?”
“We’ll do our best,” he assures. “Besides,” and he glances back at his team, a small smile quirks below the dom, “I always have a plan.”
**
Belenus holds out both hands, only slightly wobbly after the sixth pitcher. “Okay okay okay, so watch this,” and he easily lifts the front end of a car up to his shoulder with one hand. “So super strength, right?”
Leaning against a lamp post, late while some bands still play, Rogue sips on her beer and uses the darn thing to help her stay on her feet. Gosh, heels with her costume is such a bad idea.
“Um hum, super strength,” she agrees with a laugh, Ceres leaning on her other side with an arm around her waist.
The fast one is suddenly right there with the bracelet she had literally watched him put together in fast forward, “okay! Dick bag tech engaged,” and snaps the bracelet on his teammate’s wrist.
Belenus gives a groan as his strength drains out, his body feeling oddly weak for his normal way. When he grabs under the bumper again, he can’t lift it even an inch.
“Ta-daa!” Vakaris gives jazz hands, “no super strength! Or any other powers really.”
Rogue blinks at him, then at her gloved hands.
“You know Remy and Logan are inside in case this is a trick,” serious as a heart attack.
Sympathetically, as in the hero life is full of people that will willingly fuck you over, Vakaris and Belenus nod.
“Like I said, this is tech from a seriously bad guy. Doesn’t mean we haven’t repurposed it for our own use, but the original design was to take Metahumans out of the superhero game.”
“Well, I’m not a Metahuman,” she wags a finger, trying to stamp down on the obvious excitement that this could possibly work. “I’ma Mutant, Sugar. So, distinct difference.”
“Right, right,” Ceres waves away, “Metagene versus cellular mutations. We get that, but V–” she gestures, keeping her arm around Rogue’s waist.
The fast one picks on up again.
“We took that into consideration when E ripped the design apart! He even made one for magic users. How mode is that?”
“Well, huh,” Rogue is eyeing the bracelet on Belenus’ wrist.
“Pretty much. E’s a bad ass when it comes to tech. This thing even kills my TTK–” and he stops abruptly, trying not to call attention to the fact that his powers as similar to the former Superboy. He hurriedly thumbs the release and whips the thing off, holds it in one hand while Vakaris points out how to attach, activate, and remove the bracelet.
“And it’s-it’s all right for me to have this?” She hesitates to take it, hand outstretched, faltering.
Ceres, Vakaris, and Belenus exchange a glance.
“I mean,” Belenus blinks at her from behind his mask, “you’re an X-Man. You fight bad guys with crazy ass superpowers. I’m pretty sure the only kind of person we’d give this to is people like you, right?”
From over her shoulder, soft breath against her hair, a bare hand takes the bracelet from Belenus, holds it in front of her hand. “Seems t’ me,” Remy is right over her shoulder, pressing close enough to her back she can feel the heat of him even through the perma-humidity of New Orleans. “Dis is gonna make t’ings much nicer fa ya, cher. Maybe we take it with us, no?”
She finds herself nodding jerkily, wondering if Hank would mind taking a gander, running some tests while she tries it on, to see if it could really–
–let her finally touch someone without being afraid, without putting the team in danger, without being a hassle rather than a blessing.
At some point during this little demo, Logan, Remy, and Erebus must have finished up the game and meandered outside. Even avoiding skin-to-skin contact, Remy has both arms around her to hold the bracelet, looks down at her with kind eyes, and a smile complete with dimples.
“Okay,” she finally agrees, letting Remy hold on to the thing, scared to give it too much credit in case it doesn’t work out for her in the end.
**
The Vanagians ride out to the outskirts of the city where the Blackbird is housed, intent on seeing the X-Men off.
“Thanks again for this,” Rogue gestures to encompass everything. “Always nice to have someone at your back in a fight.”
“And how!” Ceres shakes her hand, gives up and throws both arm around Rogue in a hug.
Remy is saying a thank-you to the team once again for trying to hold up his city and Erebus has a moment alone with Logan while the plane warms up.
“...it’s okay, really,” Erebus finally admits. “For a while, it wasn’t, but–” he turns to look at his team gathered around the two X-Men, laughing like goofballs in their new suits. “I think it’s better now.”
“Nnnh,” Logan grunts out, “the little shit he’s got right now needs an attitude adjustment,” for just a second the schnnnit is a flicker of adamantium in the coming dawn. “I liked you better in the tunic. You and Number #2. First one was too cheery. Last one too bloodthirsty, an’ at’s saying something comin’ from me.”
Erebus shrugs because the truth behind it all (“No home for dead birds, right?”) isn’t enough to break him down anymore, not with Belenus looking around to find him, not with Vakaris checking on him, not with Ceres bullying him into staying, not with Saturn setting up his favorite video game consoles, not with Munin making sure his favorite snacks are always in the cabinets.
“They’ll figure it out,” he says more easily than he would have a month ago.
“An’ what ‘bout you? Gonna stay here and let ‘im fuck around in Gotham? Ain’t gonna go back?”
The small smile quirks under his domino, “no need to. I already found a home.”
Something in it eases Logan’s mind, his gut instincts set off the minute he’d realized who the kid was under the mask, a very different mask than the last time they’d met. Seeing as how he had a team, a new place to roost, didn’t seem too choked up about the Bats, all of it gave him the evidence he needs not to worry so much.
But as he puts a heavy hand on the kid’s shoulder, wrangles his teammates up the walkway of the Blackbird with good-byes and come back soons, he makes a note to set-up another little visit in a few months just to check in on them again.
**
After Hank does a reading on the bracelet, finds it fascinating but with no seemingly harmful side effects (except for the standard your body will be weakened without access to your powers. Surely you understand that?), Rogue fits it on in front of everyone, electrodes and such attached to her in case something goes wrong.
At first, it’s a tingle in the back of her head, something uncomfortable for about a minute. When she tries to lift up and float a little above the floor–
Nothing happens.
Her feet stay firmly grounded and she blinks around at all the familiar faces, landing on Remy and then on Logan.
“I...I can’t fly,” is the first thing that comes out of her numb lips.
Hank and the Professor have their faces buried in screens monitoring her vitals.
“Okay,” and a deep sigh from the Professor, his wheelchair lifting with a soft sigh to turn around and face her. “We have another test, Rogue. However, if you in any way want to wait–”
“No!” She blinks big eyes at him, her chest starting to heave with emotion, with want, with how touch starved she is, “please, Professor. I-I have to know.”
He immediately puts out a hand, offering himself up as a guinea pig. Of course he would, it’s the Professor for cryin’ out loud.
She isn’t prepared for Logan to step in front of Charles with a “Nu-uh. Me n’ Red already been down this road, ain’t we? Not gonna be the end of the world if we do it again, huh?”
There’s already tears in her eyes when he holds out a big hand, palm up, and she’s suddenly crying so hard she doesn’t know if she can even get her glove off anyhow.
Before she knows it, Remy is right there with his arms around her all tight and Logan is rubbing a heavy hand down her back. Storm has a hand in her hair and her face pushed into the soft shirt so the tears dry on it. Cyclops is sitting on the floor where she’d apparently fallen in Remy’s lap, a hand on her shoulder holding on tight, and Jean is just on the other side humming soft n’ sweet.
She doesn’t even realize it at first since it’s too much to handle, thinking about being able to touch people without hurting them, without getting their worst and best memories in her head, that she’d taken her coat off for the tests and the hands all on her are touching skin anyhow.
It’s not until Remy tilts her face out of Ororo’s stomach, bare thumb brushing a tear off her cheek, that she gasps in a breath, wide eyes blinking up at him–
“Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there,” and another one appears. And dodges the downward sweep of claws, darting to the side, bouncing off the pentagram’s barriers, and tripping over the demon’s tail. “In the Vatican!” she cries out as she moves, using the State Farm Agent summoning charm to modify the situation as she was taught, and mentally thanking her trainer for expecting her to be fast enough to do it on the first incantation.
Most State Farm agents, when they run into trouble, have to get the customer to do the jingle a second time. That guy with the buffalo was lucky.
The magic takes hold, and she materializes in the aisle of St. Peter’s Basilica, still holding the demon by the tail, in the middle of Sunday morning Mass. The music clatters unprofessionally to a halt as laypeople, deacons, priests, monks, nuns, and the Pope all turn their attention to the surprised demon whose fifth course of dinner has turned, unaccountably, into a visit to one of his least favorite places on Earth.
There is chanting in Latin, and vaguely cross-shaped gestures, and clouds of incense, and the demon vanishes in a puff of smoke, whether from the efforts of the clergy or of his own volition no one can say. The Agent doesn’t wait, fleeing towards the doors and escaping in the confusion.
She gains the exit and walks, purposefully, toward Rome proper; there, she ducks into the nearest alley. A burner cell phone comes out of one of the less-used pockets of her purse, and she dials a number from memory.
“Allstate,” says a smooth masculine voice after three rings.
“State Farm,” she answers. “I’m calling in a favor.”
“Yeah?” Interest. “What sort?”
As she talks she’s pulling out her smartphone, keying an app that was activated by the summoning, and pulling up the policyholder data that enabled the incantation to work.
“Insurance fraud,” she said, and can almost hear teeth sharpening on the other end of the line. She gives him the name, the address, the policy number. “Someone needs some mayhem.”
“That’s my name,” the man says.
She smiles. “Someone needs all the mayhem.”
He chuckles. Slow. Evil. Even with the echoes of demonic laughter ringing in her ears, she’s impressed. “Don’t worry,” he says, almost purring.
It’s not too long later—State Farm will occasionally loan out their teleportation trick, though Heaven help anyone who tries to use it to compete with them—and the man they call Mayhem is squatting next to a demonic circle with tacky half-dried blood under the leather soles of his shoes. Whoever dispelled the circle didn’t do a good job of it; the ring is still faintly smoldering and Mayhem has already singed his fingers on the air above it. He’s in the basement of a house with a State Farm homeowner’s policy, waiting for his partner in, erm, crime, to show up.
“Oh, good heavens.” He smiles at the sound of someone hopping delicately back, then carefully tiptoeing through the mess. Demons are messy eaters, and Flo’s wearing all white.
She steps gingerly over what might be most of a femur, looks from circle to Mayhem to—is that half a skull on the floor? “Freaky. Whaddaya need?”
“Tech,” he says. “State Farm knows the homeowner summoned them, but the Agent reported at least five people present. Maybe six. She isn’t sure, what with being busy evading a demon inside a very small space with zappy walls.”
Flo’s already got a—where does she get those from anyway? a cardboard box in her hands. Mayhem watches as she unfolds it, refolds it, and ends up with something significantly bigger, shaped like a satellite dish. He tries to watch how she does it; they may be working together, but they’re still rivals and his own higher-ups will be very interested in the latest whatever-it-does that Progressive has come up with.
A blue glow lights up the concave side. Mayhem is pretty sure cardboard doesn’t work that way. Flo makes a pleased sound, and starts rattling off names, addresses, policy numbers.
Impressed, Mayhem asks, “How the fuck?” If Progressive is developing some sort of superspy technology, well, that’s kind of ominous.
Flo grins and looks embarrassed. “I, ah, have occasional dealings with a couple guys from That Other Insurance Company. One of them knows someone who knows someone who works in quality control for the Infernal Realms, and it turns out Hell monitors all their summoned manifestations for safety purposes. His contact got me the list of who was there.”
Mayhem nods. He’s had occasional encounters That Other Insurance Company himself. Bland, grey-suited, timid men who are even worse spies than they are insurance agents. “Wait, Hell has a quality control department?”
“And all other forms of administration,” Flo says. “I understand it’s to generate maximum paperwork. It is a place of punishment, after all.”
Mayhem actually winces. “That’s definitely hellish. All right. The Agent who called me in is flying back from Italy and should meet us in a few hours. Should give us plenty of time to plan an attack. Are they all State Farm customers?”
“Just the one,” Flo replies, folding her toy up, and Mayhem watches with vague envy as it becomes a giant sword. “One Allstate, one Progressive, one Geico, two Farmers. We gonna invite anyone else to the party?” She hopes so. Mayhem’s precision strikes on any sort of insurance fraud perpetrators are the stuff of legend, and the Farmers guys would bring in enough absurdity to make it a work of art.
Mayhem’s grin is something that ought to haunt her nightmares. Instead, she finds herself matching it. “Yes,” he says. “Let’s.”
The sun is just a suggestion behind the horizon, but the morning traffic jam is already clogging up the freeways by the time Mayhem and Flo leave the scene of the crime. Flo is driving, weaving her motorcycle expertly through the sea of zombie commuters, and already some jackass in a twenty-year-old Honda has rolled down his window to sneer at Mayhem for riding behind a woman and in the process taken his eyes off the road long enough to rear-end a state trooper.
By the time the sun is peeking over the edge of the world, the freeway has been exchanged for fast-food restaurants and traffic lights, and Mayhem is contemplating commercials. “I’m another motorist doing something you disapprove of” is warring with “I’m a state trooper,” and Mayhem is leaning toward the latter because it might give him an excuse to put on the uniform, when Flo erupts in giggles, jerking her head subtly to the right. Mayhem finds what she’s looking at and nearly pisses himself.
A van, the type that practically screams “covert surveillance,” is parked in the entrance to a Starbucks. Two men in bland gray suits and the sort of ties that give insult to all intelligent life are sitting in the front seat, coffee cups in hand. Mayhem sees the moment they set eyes on Flo—they both jerk upwards in their seats as if jabbed with a cattle prod—and then the moment where they realize who her passenger is. The one in the driver’s seat boggles and reflexively inhales half his coffee; the passenger reaches over to slap him on the back, sees Mayhem, and spills his own beverage all over the dashboard.
When Flo passes the driveway she gives a little wave to the men, and they both dive for cover. Mayhem would be surprised at the level of ineptitude That Other Insurance Company lets their agents display, but he’s seen one of them try to hide behind a stop sign. Surprise has long since left the station, leaving amusement and a hint of second-hand embarrassment which Mayhem relishes rather than winces at.
He’s jarred from his thoughts as Flo hits the brakes, neatly avoiding the SUV that has just moved into their lane without signaling on her way to the upcoming right-turn lane. The driver diverts attention from her cell phone long enough glare at Flo and stick a manicured middle finger in their general direction, and turns to the road just in time to watch as her car veers off the shoulder and makes intimate congress with a speed limit sign. And then the flashing lights come on from somewhere behind them and Mayhem’s faith in humanity is restored.
He revises. “I’m a middle-management commuter on a cell phone.”
Flo pulls over to let the cop car pass, and Mayhem sneaks a look back at the van. God have mercy, the one in the passenger seat has binoculars.
“Shall we lose them or let them follow us?” Flo’s voice interrupts his giggle-fit.
No question. Not like they’re a threat. “Let’s keep ‘em. They’re entertaining.”
Flo merges back into traffic and signals a move to the left lane. Since the lady in the SUV is still in view, glaring up at them as the police officer steps up to her window, Mayhem is extra gratified that she waits five whole blinks before merging into the next lane. It’s doubtless for the benefit of their pursuers, who otherwise might manage to keep with them if Mayhem draws a map and passes it to them at a stoplight, but his black and petty heart rejoices anyway.
It takes them awhile to get to the suburban park where Mayhem has arranged to meet the State Farm agent who called him in. Or rather, it takes them awhile to get there without losing their inept pursuers; twice, Flo has to double back and be found again, and once the van gets stuck behind a railroad crossing and Flo and Mayhem have to stop and pick up a box of donuts in order to still be there when the train finishes blocking the road. The park is a lovely little spot complete with playground equipment and a little waterfall, as completely removed from this business with demons and human sacrifice as a person could want. There’s one car in the lot already, a rental, and a figure in red shirt and khaki skirt standing beside it.
“Is that the Agent?” Flo asks, and Mayhem nods. The woman is short, dark, curvy—very pretty—and the two guys from That Other are in serious danger of twisting their heads off their shoulders as they drive past. Whether it’s for that reason, or because there’s now three insurance companies having a little meeting in a city park like some exceedingly bad spy thriller, Mayhem isn’t sure.
Flo parks the motorcycle and goes up to introduce herself; Mayhem stays put and watches the van make an awkward U-turn in the middle of the road and come back. The State Farm agent walks up to Mayhem and offers a hand, and he is distracted from the spectacle by a warm-toned “A pleasure to meet you” and a gaze and smile as predatory as a shark’s. It’s enough to distract his attention well and properly. This is the person to whom he’s promised vengeance, and this is the face of a person who has fought and outsmarted a demon.
Damn, he’s glad he picked up the phone.
“Pleasure’s all mine,” is what he says, and then Flo lets out a mirthful squeak. Mayhem and the Agent both follow her gaze, just in time to see the surveillance van leave the road, bouncing over the curb and smashing into a tree.
The Agent is staring, her lips curving into an amused smirk, and Mayhem composes another commercial. “I’m stupid, and I come in pairs.”
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