https://www.tumblr.com/cassandrarebornanew/769128980275216384/the-misfits this is Part 1
https://www.tumblr.com/cassandrarebornanew/769128980275216384/the-misfits this is Part 2
idk how to do hyperlinks I’m sorry someone teach me pls
Warning: violence, language, a horrible Scottish accent
This is (sort of) a finale, so if you want more of this series/characters etc, let me know.
——————————————————————————————————
You vault over the ledge, smooth and refined. Storming towards the laboratory, you clock the soldiers filling their way towards you, the alarms blaring, and orders being thrown from one to another. You clock them, yes, but pay them no mind. Your magic prickles its way through your veins, lighting them up in a glowing blue. Your tattoo glows too, twisting and spreading and covering more of your body, intertwining with the brightness of your veins until they’re indistinguishable. The darkness of your pupils spreads, covering your eyes entirely, before spilling over into your skin like ink. Any area not lit up by your power turns black as obsidian, skin solidifying and warping. Arms appear, long fingered and slim. Your body dissolves itself into a fog of blackness, blue magic lighting up every wisp.
You are no longer mortal.
You are now magic incarnate.
You are now rage given form.
The 141 watch, partly frozen in horror and awe, as you rip your way through enemy lines. Hands strangle and snap necks, reaching into chest cavities and ripping out someone’s beating heart. Your magic - no, you are fluid, burning someone with such heat they turn to ash, only to freeze another so fast that their flesh shrinks off of their bones. You pull the wind from someone’s lungs, drain their blood, control them so that they fire at each other. There is no limit to what you can and will do, no stopping you now. And in the midst of this storm of power, typhoon of death, is what’s left of you. No longer with your crooked smile and confident swagger, but still you. Floating in the middle of everything, observing with a cold gaze that betrays your anger. You sail through, closer and closer to the place you know the rest of your team are. Then you stop.
A breath of stillness as you analyse what is in front of you.
Wards. Carefully made wards. Designed to keep you out. You would laugh at the attempt if you weren’t so furious. But you are livid. So, in response, half a dozen or so arms pull up in front of you and a ball of pure energy begins to form in your hands. It shakes the ground, and the energy casts beams of light to all surfaces. A few more seconds, and you push it forwards, overwhelming the spells that keep the wards in place, fraying them until they yield. Pushing past the door, the task force hot on your heels, one of your many not-quite-eyes scanning the surrounding areas. Heat signals, vibrations, sound waves, all easily spotted until a picture is painted for you. Turning sharply, you allow what’s left of your body to touch the floor, before sprinting off at an inhuman speed. You register cursing and footsteps behind you as you run, following your proverbial nose.
You can feel the magic in you clamouring for more, more, more, even as it eats away at you like a starved beast. This power cannot be contained, not by your current form. That doesn’t matter though, not as long as you can reach the rest of the team and get them out. Nothing else matters. Nothing… else…
The doctor sits in a high back swivel chair, smug and satisfied and completely unaware of what he’s done. Your team on the other hand, well, they’ve seen you angry (not this angry though) so they know what’s coming. They stopped trying to fight back a while ago, opting to wait and see what will happen next. There’s about twenty enemy soldiers in here with them, all aiming their weapons directly at them, and they’ve been slapped with cuffs that prevent shifting. Scope speaks for the first time since they grabbed her.
“You’re all dead. I hope you know that.”
The doctor turns to her, the very picture of an egomaniac. “Oh? Don’t tell me your little Captain is going to stop me? I have a hundred men out there, all of them trained to perfection. These rooms are lined with special alloys that prevent magic use, and that alloy is in every one of our bullets.” He leans forwards, smirking. “Your leader is going to drag themselves in here, bleeding and broken, and I will pull them apart and figure out exactly what makes them so special.”
There’s a beat of silence, before Scope copies his expression, features twisting into a frighteningly accurate imitation.
“You’re all dead.” She doesn’t have to say any more, doesn’t even have the time. They know you’re coming, can feel it in the spell you placed on them so that they could always find each other. Each of them turn towards the door the very second it flies off of its hinges. Your inky blackness seeps through the doorway, recoiling for a second, before diving into the walls. The doctor watches in horror as hundreds of tiny hands meticulously peel the alloy out of the walls, pieces floating in the air where you left them.
You step into the room as they open fire.
Most of the bullets pass through your incorporeal form, and those that don’t are simply slung back at them as you manipulate gravity further. Crux can’t help but mutter “Holy shit” in surprise at the magnitude of your anger. This is new, even for them, but they aren’t worried. They trust you.
Your voice crackles into reality from all sides.
“Your men are dead. Your bullets have no effect. Your alloy does not protect you. Give me what is mine.”
What a stupid question. His fate was decided the day he took your team, your family.
“I will kill you quickly. That is all you deserve. That is the only mercy I will give.”
That apparently isn’t good enough for him. He grabs a handgun from one of the soldiers and points it at Crux. Your head cocks to the side slightly.
At that moment, the 141 rush into the room and line up either side of you.
“Sweet steamin’ Jesus.” Soap exclaims. “There ain’t a single this ya can’t do, aye? We should keep ya ‘round.”
More silence. It’s only then that he realises exactly what’s happening. Guns cock, reload, and find targets again, but you don’t care. The magic is beginning to overpower you, and you need to get them out now, before they get caught in whatever will likely ensue. You’ve taken down somewhere in the region of a hundred and fifty soldiers in the span of a few minutes, and it’s wearing away at your self control. Without moving or giving any indication of your actions, you slowly and carefully alter the gun in the doctor’s hands. Once you’re sure it will yield the desired result, you straighten slightly, catching everyone’s attention.
The shock is palpable. You ignore Crux’s look of pain to the best of your ability. This is what is necessary.
“Fire. Go on. Or are you too weak to kill at point blank? Do you need the guise of progress to soothe the tatters of your conscience?”
You watch as each of your words hit him, taking effect exactly how you’d hoped. He screams something incoherent and irrelevant about his inner strength, before he pulls the trigger.
You grin icily as the doctor drops the ground, bullet piercing the upper corner of his lung. The death will be long and painful as he slowly drowns in his own blood. That’s good. He had it coming. The bullet fuses with his body, keeping the wound open. No one can save him now. A flicker of a thought and twenty necks snap, soldiers dropping like flies. Cuffs fall to the ground, effects nullified. You pull your team to their feet, silently checking them all for any sign of injury or pain. Finally, you reach Crux. Your hand rests on their shoulder, a silent apology. For both what you did and what you will do. They look you in the eyes, understanding that you would never allow them to be hurt. A gentle smile.
The flash of understanding through your team parallels the confusion running through the others, but you pay them both no mind. Pulling together whatever control you have left, your magic wraps around them, as soft and airy as you can make it. Then you pull. Pulling away from here, pulling them into a ripple that you’ve created, pulling them out. Before it’s too late.
They land on the ground hard. Looking up, they see the trucks, and the woods, and the lab in the distance.
“Motherfucker! They did it again!”
Gaz looks at Arctic in confusion. “What do you mean? Do what again?”
None of the Misfits reply, instead scrambling back up the ledge to try see what will happen next. The 141 join them, and as Price opens his mouth to ask just what exactly they’re waiting for, the entire laboratory explodes. Waves of magic roll outwards, directly from a core of pure energy. The bast throws them down the ridge, rolling all the way back to the trucks. As they get pull themselves back up, they come to the chilling realisation that everything is gone. The buildings easily covered a square mile, sprawling and vast: yet not a single one stands. Ash floats to the ground like dirty snowflakes, not a hint of what was there, of who was there, previously. Your magic had become too much for your body to handle, and ripped its way out. The 141 are confused, shocked and just a little horrified. Your team, on the other hand, is frustrated, annoyed and just a little pissed.
“Every time something happens to the people they care about, they use so much magic that they have to redo. It’s like the third time now!” Jester pouts, much to the confusion of some.
“Run that past me again. Redo? Third time?”
Jester turns to Ghost, before impatiently explaining. “They can’t die. Like ever. So every time their magic consumes them, they ‘redo’ into another form. It’ll be them, just slightly different. And each time they improve it - their body, I mean. Lasts longer and longer under the strain of their magic. That’s what they told us anyway.”
“Well how long will it take for them to come back?”
A shrug. “Depends on how much magic they used now. A lot this time, so maybe a few months? I don’t know man, they show up when they show up. Literally nothing we can do except wait.”
“Well that sucks.” Soap interjects.
“No shit. I’m honestly not sure how much longer I can take this.”
Slowly but surely, everyone climbs into the trucks, and what’s left of the team up makes its way back to base. They have time to figure everything out later.
“And that’s the mission report done. Thank god.”
Groans of agreement as eight spines straighten, nine chairs left empty behind them. Eight forms are completely filled out, one unwritten.
“We’re heading out. We always sort of float around until they collect us again, but I think this time it’s over. I know I can’t do this again. I’m enrolling, like most of us.”
Price claps Scope of the shoulder. “Fair enough. Well, you have our contacts. Let us know if we can do anything for ya, yeah?”
“I insist. They aren’t back yet, and that means we can’t tie everything up. Stop wasting my money and take some time off.”
“Fine. I’ll see what we can do.”
“A holiday Price, you need it.”
“Yes, yes, holiday shmoliday.”
It’s hot here. High temperatures, high humidity. There are a lot of bars too. Which is good, because the four of them have been drinking like alcoholics. Scope and Jester are starting to make more sense now. This is really hard. It would be one thing if you were actually dead, but you aren’t, and they don’t know what to do. All they can do is wait, and hope you’ll find them. Stranger after stranger approaching them, but when they don’t see you, they lose interest. Tonight is no different. They’re each at least four drinks in, as someone walks up to their table.
Taller, slimmer, same confident smirk. Blue lock of hair hanging over a pale left eye. Paler iris, darker hair. Tanned and healthy, cocky and unexpected.
