Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Most of the house- the little mansion- is marble and plaster, bronze and wallpaper.  Decorated  professionally; lived in and comfortable.

Not this hallway.  Not the concrete steps or the untiled floor, or the looming door up ahead.  All foreboding and gray, steel and stone.

“Dios mio,” a wrecked voice whimpers, the sound lost from the noisy drag of fabric on that concrete, stained ground, “Po-por favor, te lo ruego-”

The wall of a man with his grip on Armando's ankle says nothing; doesn’t acknowledge a word.  As he tries to grasp anything, fingers shredding themselves against the friction, The Pitviper doesn’t slow or falter in dragging him to that vault of a door.

Armando knows exactly what lies behind that door.

When they reach it, the Heavyweight has to pause, in order to punch in the code and open the door.  His struggles continue to yield nothing.

“Estupido, do you really think you’re leaving alive?  Even if I let you go right now, let you crawl up those stairs- do you think you could make it to the door before my Yolanda found you?  Do you think you could go anywhere we couldn’t find you?”

The casual words don’t piece together in his rattled skull for a moment.  When they cursedly, wretchedly do, Armando wails in despair, slumping.  It was true- but he would truly wish to die near any other way.

He’s seen his boss in the man’s personal boxing ring, teaching; has been on the receiving end of such tutelage.  He knows the man to be a very thorough teacher, and he’s assisted in a few of these lessons himself.

Even when they didn’t involve him, it could turn his stomach.

Armando makes one final attempt to free himself from the viper’s grasp as the door opens fully, but Senor Gatti Guerra easily heaves him past the threshold.  Armando scrambles to his bare, battered feet as he hears the older man step forward and the door begin to close, but only looks up in time for a vicious hit to his jaw, knocking him over once more.

The boy stood in the corner of the dim room neither protests, nor looks away.  His father coddles his reclaimed eldest in most ways- but he does not allow him to shy away from this part of their life.

There’s a chair bolted to floor, unforgiving, biting restraints built in.  Before Tiago, it was rarely used – this cell itself was enough of a cage for those who double crossed their founder.  The first dozen times some poor damned soul was condemned to this particular fate, to be useful to the man one final time, Pitviper had strapped his boy to a padded version of the same.  ‘Calmate, hijo’ his boss had murmured as they secured the boy’s gag, ‘you have to learn somehow.  All you have to do for now is watch.’

The practice had been common enough when Senoita Montez was young; had briefly been taken back up when young Tomas was first taken into his father’s household.  Neither was so very reluctant.  Neither required such detailed demonstration.

Even in his desperation, Armando is not stupid enough to attack the Pitviper’s son- only one of the many victims dragged to this room ever was, and for the mere act of grabbing him harshly was utterly broken in short order.  Still- he scrambles to his knees before him; can’t help but grasp the fabric of those overpriced slacks like a lifeline and beg.  By now, the boy- the young man; Armando had been his age when he’d chosen this life and now it was going to undo him- does not avert his eyes from horrid spectacle.  Nor does he comment on the proceedings.

“Hare cualquier cosa, please help me-!”

A large hand finds itself to his hair- stupid to keep it long, Armando.  It'll get you killed one day- sharply forcing his head back.  Armando cries out wordlessly once more.

Above him, the most feared man in all of Spain smiles.  He can’t help but sob.

“Tiago, have I ever shown you how to squeeze out an eye with no spoon?”

“…No, Padre” a whisper sealed his fate.  He tried to beg once more, terror finally seizing his hoarse throat.

“Come closer.”

Chapter Text

Velocity doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the unnatural nature of this- to a blaze of emerald fire engulfing the remnants of their enemies in what he imagines must be the blink of an eye, for most men.

He raises his gaze to his partner in today’s destruction- Green Inferno indeed.

A capitalistic pig, a Scottish madman grinning like a schoolboy, and Jerre has stooped low enough to stand with him and half a dozen more just like him.

It will be worth it. 

Since there’s no one left but the two of them- no one else alive- he sighs, and lets his shoulders droop, tugging off his helmet.  The actions gets the attention of Inferno: difficult to look at directly, like a blinding green star set against the smoke- smothered sky, the man turns first his eyes to Jerre, then to face him.  His sharp grin continued to linger.

“Handsome handiwork, isn’t it?  I’d say we make quite the team.”

It will all be worth it.

“I can’t say I take the same …satisfaction in this that you do,” Jerre offered, “but it must be done, and I will happily be the one to do it.”

That pulled a soft laugh from Inferno, as Velocity often did.  It wasn’t a cruel or mocking laugh, but Jerre often wished that it was.  This would be easier, he thinks, if Allan was not so clearly fond of him.  Entertained by him.

“All in the pursuit of your noble aspirations, aye, ‘comrade’?”  That was a bit mocking.  As he thought initially: exactly the sort of capitalist pig Jerre needed to purge from Suomi.

He couldn’t do it alone.  The newly founded Guild, in all its Opulent savagery, could make it happen in his lifetime.  In his Jaana’s lifetime, even more importantly.

All of this would be worth it, if he had to build that golden tomorrow on the burned and blood soaked bones of today.

“We both know that isn’t really why you’re with us.  You only care for your country because it’s yours.”

As per the norm, Allan wasn’t finished talking.  Slowly, the man made his descent from above, torn but magically ash free cape fluttering in the wind.

Jerre was streaked in ash and gore both.

“You’d tear the rest of the world apart at the seams if you thought it would make your wife smile.  It’s disgustingly sweet.”

Shoes settle silently in the dust, a ghost of a landing, as Inferno hums at him.

“I think you’d enjoy every moment of it.  Just as you thrive off of this.”

As if to demonstrate what he meant, Inferno’s arm swept out theatrically, gesturing once more to the wreckage of what was once a bustling outpost.

“You think only of your own sadism!” Jerre spat out in return.  It shouldn’t get under his skin.

Allan laughed again. Ducked his head and held up his hands when he saw Jerre clench his fist, placating.  But he was still smiling at him.

He shouldn’t enjoy such a man smiling at him.

“True enough,” the other man conceded, shameless.

“True enough, and true enough that you’re a proper red Finn.  But Velocity?  When you have what you want, and you have what we’re owed, and everything is rainbows?”

“You still won’t want to put that helmet down.”

For a moment, they were silent.  Only the whispers of wind and the dying crackle of flame.  The subtle vibrating of a speedster for the briefest of moments.

“Move.  We have more work to do.”

He had to make sure all this was worth it.

Chapter Text

See, the thing about being a man named after a reptile who turns into a giant cat is that Tomas Gatti Bernadino is one zen cabron.  His supervillain Padre moving him in?  Bien, now rent is not an issue.  ‘Tomas, chaval, watch your godsister remove a man’s tongue’? His inner cat is appreciative.

A luchador looking bombon crushing a sentient ape’s skull with one hand? Tomas has seen his future, and it involves getting a date with Grant Alekos Petrou, formerly known by the American abomination of a name that is Grant Albert Emerson.  El Dia de San Valentin is the perfect occasion.

Naturally, since this plan involves  flying to Greece – in no world is Tomas voluntarily boarding a boat – his father finds out what he’s doing.

“Que mono, the two babies-” Tomas’ papi yells at Yolanda and him both when he throws his fork at her, but conversation circles back to The Plan.

It all goes well, advice on how to ‘be a gentleman’ that has him roll his eyes, until: “I’ll call Al about it after dessert.”

Suddenly, Tomas is not feeling particularly zen.  Gulping, “Ah, Papi, you really don’t have to get Ajax involved-” please do not involve the infamously short tempered Greek, actually “-really, I still have to ask Grant!”

“Tomas, do you really think that boy is going anywhere without his family knowing?  What will they think if you show up without asking for his father’s blessing?”

…A shovel talk from the infamous Ajax seemed more appealing, suddenly.

Still, he should sweeten the deal with a gift.  Maybe he could track down someone Grant hates?

----

Given that Jerre has the supreme honor of being married to his queen, he considers it his sacred duty to give her flowers as often as possible, and that includes February 14.

He presents her with a bouquet of tulips he’d stolen from a few borders over, where he’d seen the most lovely variety on his way back from a messy, frustrating errand.  Any frustration he’d felt were washed away by Jaana’s smile and the kiss she pulled him down for, the start of an excellent Friend’s Day.

Speaking of which- Jerre absolutely lingered to soak in his wife’s company, but Velocity had allies to pester on such an occasion.

He honestly still chuckles when he remembers how the rest of the Guild discovered this particularity of his culture- by him presenting a bloody Pitviper with his least favorite candy.

Now, it was simply tradition for him to leave them all a flower, to their eternal grumbling.

…And, of course, Jerre had an even older…friend to visit along the way.  He’d been rebuffed the last several years, but Velocity was nothing if not persistent.

Peeking out from between the curtains of his home, Opal City’s Shadow sighed.

Velocity and StarKnight were screaming at one another in his garden.

----

From the very start, Jesse Chambers and Radek Tikal had been untraditional sweethearts: an American britt and a Czech with plenty of Russian ties who met running errands for their fathers; a crass spitfire and contemplative artist.  Naturally, their dates tended to be a bit unusual.

The couple strolled into a dive bar, hand-in-hand.  Even just walking in, Jesse could feel eyes on them.  They weren’t the usual clientele, she figured.

“Excuse me,” Radek gestured to the bartender- seemingly already confused by his accent, “Could you get me some orange juice?  I prefer a chaser.”

The man looked him up and down, seemingly trying to decipher some punk requesting a chaser before ordering anything else to drink.  He scoffed, but filled a glass with the juice and slid it over.

Jesse took a moment to appreciate how cute her boyfriend was when he perked up like that, sort of like a puppy, and then appreciated the flabbergasted horror on the bartender’s face- alongside weary patrons- as he took a little bottle of pills out of his coat pocket, unscrewed the lid, and tossed back first a pill, then the orange juice.

“Cheers!” Radek thanked the man, before throwing the glass at his face.

The perfect start to the perfect bar brawl.

Chapter Text

He runs his hands over the silken lining of his suit, scrutinizing the repair done there before making his way down to the newly replaced button – identical to the bespoke glass of every other.

He curtly nods in approval, to the tailor’s obvious delight, before slipping the jacket on over the slate bamboo dress shirt he’d chosen this morning.  The fit is still pristine, no further revision needed to its tailoring.

A masterpiece restored.

Allan has always loved the finer things in life.  He takes pride in his many collections.

Expense was no longer a factor for a man of mystery.  One afternoon holding up a bank or city hall could cover anything unexpected.

It would have been faster to fly to this appointment and back, but instead he climbed into the back of a 1964 Lamborghini Miura – one of his very favorite cars, its bonnie cream-colored paint kept immaculate.

Some things needed to be used for their intended purpose, if only now and again.  It felt disrespectful not too.

The time passed easily making small talk, and soon enough Doiby was pulling past the gates of Allan’s estate.  Classic, curving wrought iron – with some upgrades, of course.  The door was opened, and Allan stepped out, taking a moment to trail his finger across the mint black leather of his car’s interior.  Perfect.

It seemed he was in a right sentimental mood today.  Just as well, then, that most of his favorite things were safely stowed in the sanctuary of his home.

He made his goodbyes to the other man, who was (as always) clever enough to take the hint.  Then, unhurried, Allan made his way inside.  Began to wonder his halls once more, a familiar path.

A River Sunset, as he had dubbed the Vietnamese street painting, hung proudly beside Reading Girl in White and Yellow.  They were both beautiful, naturally, and carefully sealed in ornate, gleaming frames.  Further down the hall, just past the first bend, a treasure he maintained himself: through his careful maintenance, the 1952 standing radio, matching entertainment stand and all, not only looked new, but worked perhaps better than the day he’d gotten his hands on it.  He tapped it fondly as he passed.

It went on like that, his personal treasure trove: the remnants of an ancient tapestry, cursed bagpipes.  His whiskey collection – the best in the world; carefully curated – and a whole host of swords, spears, daggers, and firearms assembled over the years.  An actual canon, even, pilfered from a particularly idiotic hero.

And then there was the Mayne Hall.  Molly had appreciated the wordplay.

Allan smiled, inspecting the Harlequin costume through its glass case, although he knew it was still flawless.  Preserved, alongside the soul residing in it.

Next was the mandolin displayed beside her – Michael had wanted to be with his mother, desperately enough to try stealing not only her but himself away from Allan.  Now, they both got what they wanted.

An instrument could be more difficult to care for than fabric.  Carefully, he tested each string – aye, still tuned properly - before moving along.

He had to check all of them over before he could devote personal attention to any of them.

The bronze rose statuette was newer, but she had still been in good enough condition before he managed to track her down.  Really, it was as if Rosie preferred Briar’s self-righteous antics to his care.  He couldn’t understand it.

He noted the metallic petals could use a polish, resolving to handle the matter himself tonight.

No such thing as good help nowthedays.

As he continued along, Allan caught himself thinking briefly for his collection beyond these walls – Pitviper had managed to break his leg and Dr. Dour seemed livid he’d had to go to Spain to ensure the man kept off it.  It was true enough that time and the latter’s attention would fix the former right up, but maybe they wouldn’t mind staying here for a time? 

His father’s stuffed crocodile seemed thematic; Karol would surely appreciate the poison collection…

Hopefully he could get away with keeping them for a few weeks.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t that Wesley didn’t understand, mind.  He’d done the same before, was quite literally doing it now, and would likely do it again.  He wouldn’t stop looking after Sandy ‘til one of them croaked.  The woman was like any other proper British mother, the sort of lady he would have loved to have tea with, up until his boy swallowed hers and spat back everything but blood and bone.

Her black hair hung over her face like a curtain, thoroughly trolleyed and laid out on her yellowing- beige sofa.  She hadn’t even managed to shuck off yesterday’s clothes, and he pushed away thoughts of Dian, after.  Green gas silently billowed out as he stalked through the otherwise empty house, moving more like smoke than anything else: sleep paralysis in seconds; his favorite invention.

It worked no matter if you’d already been visited by proper sleep either.  Ms. Chaney’s eyes snapped open, goosebumps rising on her milky skin as trembles undertook her withered frame.  The Boogeyman took satisfaction that there was no movement but that and the heaving of her chest under a blue blouse.

The real magic always happened when they managed to twitch their eyes over to look at him standing above them.  Magnetizing, spellbinding, and the greatest thrill for his sort of monster.  Tonight was no different.

“You’re mighty lucky, Emma,” he couldn’t help but inform her.  He used the tip of his gas gun to comb some of that inky nest away from her petrified face, and had to commemorate her lack of noise.  Most men whimpered, having any gadget of his that close to anything important.

“No, not luck.  Odd thing, how a sprog changes you, innit?  Shaping them.  Losing them.”

Sighing, he tucked the gun back in his jacket.  Pretense would only accomplish so much, here.

“I am sorry mine took yours from you, Emma.  You should really blame me, giving him a taste for it.  I made him what he is, you see?”

One bloody mistake.  One misfire, and his golden little jackanape erupted into iron and silica.

“He needs the stuff people are made of.  And, well, animals too – but like I said,” She wouldn’t see the smile, beneath his mask, but that special loss of light in her eyes told him Emma heard it in his voice, “Gave him a real taste for it, I did.”

Turning to pace – he could afford to take all the time he wanted – the living nightmare rummaged through his pockets once more.  He’d meant it, when he said Ms. Chaney was fortunate.

Business or pleasure, the Boogeyman was a sadistic prat at the best of times.  The first time someone had managed to make one Sandy Hawkins bleed where his uncle could see, the next morning found the offender ripped to shreds.  Even now, fearful and vengeful tossers joining do-gooders in hunting one Tom Dockin down, only the parents managed to squeeze a drop of mercy from his heart.

At least we’ll both go down as boogeymen.  Almost like they’d planned.

As he produced the syringe with a flourish, that didn’t stop him from drinking in his victim’s silent torment.  No sense in denying himself the pleasure.

“You are one lucky bird, Emma, because I am sorry.  I understand.  But if anyone is going to kill him, its going to be me.”

An bit of air to bubble up in the blood, and it would be just like all the times he kept his prey pinned until their hearts gave out from fright.  An adequate warning for this one’s little mob, and any others that might be inspired.

“I’ll have him back, one way or another.”

Chapter Text

Dr. Michinik was an absolute genius – the sort of man the philistine masses could never hope to understand.  Mira had been his most trusted confidant, long before he truly came into his own, when they were mere doctor and nurse.  Even then, their dimwitted colleagues and ungrateful patients left her alone to witness the birth of his greatness – quietly, in carefully sabotaged medications and the ecstasy of surgery.

“The human form is most beautiful under duress,” he’d murmured to her over an opened abdomen, the most romantic moment of her life, “the most intricate artworks known to mankind lie beneath our skin."

His words had held her spellbound, stood across from him in a Lublin hospital.  They held her spellbound now – giddy, now that he was hers.  Now that he needed her, if not in the way the public eye might assume.  Playing the angel of death so brazenly had left him blinded to the light, but it had only honed his talents.

“Mira, would you like the honors?” His voice dragged her from her reverie, back to the present: their own windowless little ‘clinic’, and the lucky recipient of Doctor Dour’s attention for the night.  The bound man screamed behind his gag, pulling a laugh from her.  They would have to remove that soon.

Her kochany offered her a scalpel, his grouchy Huhuka eying her from the owl’s perch on his shoulder.  We never had this much fun in the operating room.

---

Eliza was quite possibly the most captivating monster Yolanda had ever met.  Given her social circle, that was truly saying something.  Being raised as she was, the goddaughter of Spain’s Pitviper long before becoming the second, she’d learned young the worst monsters rarely came with fangs: whether it was back in Los Angeles, common criminals attempting to court her favor, or lessons from her Tio in the business that would one day be hers, Yolanda had thought she’d seen it all.

Devastation Inc., what was intended only as an opportunity to enjoy her wild youth, proved her wrong in the best possible way.  Every time Alekos stomped a skyscraper to bits, or Emerald set city blocks ablaze, the chaos and destruction sent a thrill through her; called her to claw and bite and shred alongside them.  Teo had called it ‘amor de chiquillo’ and teased her, told her not to get in over her head.

Safe to say this was more than infatuation – Eclipso’s little prison had given far too much clarity for that.

“Is that a human heart?  Cast in resin?”  She stared down her wall’s new centerpiece, the organs laid on a bed of violets.  It probably said something about her sanity, that the sight already had her choking on butterflies.

“Do not be silly,” Eliza looked up at her from where she sat on the chaise, thumbing through a book (braille, naturally.  Yolanda didn’t recognize it). “I used epoxy.”

---

The third Doctor Dour was starting to get on his nerves.  Really, he’d rubbed Michael the wrong way since they met.  It wasn’t often someone managed to put Mr. Horrific on the wrong foot, but the little freak of a savant kept throwing him for a loop.

“You’re just havin’ a tirrivee your superiority complex is being challenged.” StarLass had claimed while he’d been taking readings on her cosmic spear, frustratingly perceptive yet dramatizing as teenagers always were.  He’d chased her off with vague threats of extra training, but her words had lingered more than he’d like to admit.

He hadn’t truly felt like someone was his equal since – since someone the Norwegian was unworthy of being compared to.  That must be why the other man was so uniquely irritating, alongside his disturbing air vent contortionism and complete lack of social skills.  Admittedly, the combination made for an admirably intimidating affect.

It was no wonder why his traitorous mind had decided Dr. Cross was close enough to his level, though: their debates on theology and the human condition were as stimulating as they were shockingly civil, by supervillain standards; while medicine was not typically a very spontaneous field of science, he had proved extremely inventive under bizarre constraints.  The athleticism likely didn’t help, on display in the showers to rival Horrific’s own Adonis- like figure.  He was still a little freak, but an impressive little freak.

An impressive little freak suddenly sat on his work bench, staring at him again.  Fuck.

Chapter Text

“I was almost her stepmother!”

“A rooftop dalliance with her idiot of a father does NOT make you a stepmother!”

Some days, Green Inferno regretted joining the Guild.  Today, watching two of his allies bicker over the infant they all just orphaned, was one of them.  

It was no secret Ajax had joined Velocity in his rabid obsession with babies, but apparently Firebolt had taken one look as she scooped the girl into her arms and fell in love.  

Really, her mistake was granting the shorter man’s request to hold ‘sweet little Teresa’.  Now he wouldn’t let her go, puffed up like a mother hen while the fiery woman loomed above him, incandescent in her indignation.  Usually, the pair got on like a house ablaze.

“Besides, she should be with her own people-“

“You haven’t gone to synagogue in decades!”

At least with the babe between them, neither hothead villain had given into temptation and escalated into outright violence. He could feel the beginnings of a headache from behind his eyes, dragging a hand across his face in exasperation.  The night hadn’t been a complete waste - the smoldering lab equipment and corpses made for a nice ambience.

Besides.  Allan squinted at the pink squirmy thing wrapped up in soft, (blood splattered) blue fabric.  He supposed it was a cute little parasite.

“You think you could handle a baby?! You are literally on fire!”

“You could crush her by giving her a bottle at night!”

Certainly not cute enough to warrant this, however.

“ENOUGH!” He snapped.  Both  jumped, whipping their heads around to regard him with startled, soot streaked faces - as best he could tell with the masks, at any rate.  Then the baby started wailing at the sudden shout, and both began to glare as he bit back a groan.  Fantastic.

“If you two can’t sort it out amongst yourselves, we’ll let the damned Angels decide!”  The position of ‘Chairman’ might be largely symbolic, but it did mean one could palm off unpleasant decisions to the disgraced celestial - and his mate, given the sopping slave hardly ever came to a conclusion without her input.  Half the time, Dominion all but preened at getting the final say.

Seraph, predictably, chose chaos: “The traditional solution would be to split the child in two.”  

Suddenly, Ajax and Firebolt were no longer glaring daggers at him.  Twin exclamations of refusal had both overgrown birds smiling in amusement.  The higher Angel laughed outright, her larger carrion- bird wings snapping out to their full span as she reeled at the reaction.

Revoltingly smitten, Dominion wrapped his smaller, golden wings around her as best he could.  “Now darling,” he faux- chided, tilting her chin up to lock eyes.  Eternally shameless.  “I hardly think such a solution would satisfy our pets.”

Oh, joy.  They were back to being discussed like a gang of half- tamed chimpanzees.  Allan would have to firebomb their beach house for the insult.  If he wasn’t so exhausted, he’d set their feathers alight that very moment - Jere had been spewing pure nonsense, insinuating age was mellowing him.

“Ah, there’s an idea - Ajax and Firebolt can simply split the girl’s time between the two of them!”

“LIKE HELL I WILL!”

“Between Greece and Belgium?!”

Electing to cut his losses, Inferno slipped away amongst the cacophony of yells and cackles.

Chapter Text

Finding a nice place to wreck without pissing anyone important off could be so annoying.  Her Da and the rest of the old Guild were complete control freaks, and there was only so often asking and pouting and threatening could get her way.  The states were out, lest the Syndicate get their knickers in a twist about it.  

At least Canada always had something to offer her.  Sometimes, a girl just wanted to wreak havoc on her own terms!  Besides, Emerald was more light than fire, and that made the Yuletide a very special time for her: she loved to put all those glittering Christmas and New Year lights to shame.

Blackridge, Alberta was a little small for her tastes, but they'd outdone themselves this year.  Pristine skiffs of snow, dotted with ant trails of footprints, haphazard forts and cartoonishly adorable snowmen acted as backdrop.  The usual array of ornaments paled in comparison to the town’s crown jewel: the city hall Christmas tree.

They should really be grateful, because their hard work was about to pay off.  Tonight, their Parade of Lights was made truly spectacular.  All it took was for her to erupt into a mere moment of brilliant, burning radiance.

Those lesser lights the rats had all gathered around burst, a choir of shrikes eclipsed by the swansong of several hundred souls seared by the heat all at once.  Like the rapture, her brother had joked, the first time she’d pulled that off.

She drank in the distinct ambience of a good disaster: glass shattering and kindling igniting and metal on metal on meat.  Allowing her corona to die down, Emerald laughed and twirled in the air as she admitted her handiwork.

The ‘chorus’ scrambled about, trampling over each other as the worst-off tried to feel their way to a nonexistent safety.  The whole Christmas Village aesthetic was thoroughly ruined now, but she liked this scene much better.

I’ll have to bully Kyle into drawing something up based on it.  Have em made up as holiday cards.

Gwenie Anne smiled to herself, noting the boring red fires already flaring to life where the town’s light bulbs had all burst against cheap wooden siding.  She could fix the boring part - make it all festive again.  Graceful as a dancer, Emerald’s giggles mingled with the sounds of fear and anguish as she flung herself down into the pandemonium. 

Finally taking notice of her, quite possibly the only man here who could still tell a person from a light pole howled her name like a warning siren.  Nothing quite made her feel like a goddess the way this did.

“This town could use a bonnie new color scheme!”

The kiss of contact between asphalt and glowing, gloved fingertips, and an arch of deep green flame marked her path as she carved a swirl through the square.  A traditional Christmas palette.

And now that she was done decorating, Emerald could play with her toys.  She might pick one or two to take apart hands- on, but a proper show woman could hardly ignore the audience at large.  When she was little, her favorite trinkets had always been the sort you could wind up and set loose; dolls and trains and little animals with wheels. 

Now though - how did that song go?  A partridge to chew up people like pears, a two headed turtle dove to rid buildings of their roofs, three French hens…all giant sized, green constructs popping into existence with a thought.  Emerald hardly slowed in her flight as each was created, keeping an eye out for anything particularly pretty.

Hopefully she got through all twelve verses before the last of Blackridge expired.

Chapter Text

“Your uncle swore Mr. Mind stripped every ounce of cruelty from your brain.” Good old Seamus.  Sandy wasted no time striding forward, backing a startled Henry into the corridor wall and boxing him in.  He planted each hand mere centimeters from the telepath’s skull, pinkies brushing up against red curls.  “I imagine he’d be happy to know that wasn't the case.”

He leaned in a bit closer, tearing his eyes away from the surprised ‘o’ of that smart mouth to meet Henry’s eyes, “Bit sick of being toyed with, myself.”

It was cute, now Henry’s cheeks turned red too.  Added to the whole coy act, certainly.  Sandy knew better. Modern boys were shameless already, and Henry took that to a whole new level.

“Ah dinnae-“

“No need to play coy.” Sandy was being plenty forward, after all.  He’d even taken the form he knew Henry found the most attractive - he’d heard him call it ‘dashingly disarming’, once- all blond hair and angelic face, reminiscent of his infamously cherubic looks as a lad.  Tom Dockin’s infamous iron teeth were included, naturally.  “I’m just giving you what you wanted.”

After Neuron had pieced his mad mind back into something coherent, Sandy’s thoughts towards his old friend’s nephew had been conflicted.  At first, he’d just thought he wanted to consume the telepath; par for the course, and his teammates were no exception.  It had taken him time to realize that this was different. That Henry was different.

Sandy wasn’t conflicted now.  He knew exactly what he wanted from the other man, and he knew exactly how to get it.

“Feeling awfully forward, aren’t we Dockin?”

“I told you to call me Sandy, didn’t I?  Besides - no matter what you say, I still find myself half convinced you put liking you so much in my head.  Planted it like a sapling.”   Or a virus.  “Even if you didn’t, it’s all your blimey teasing that made it take root.”

Made a man want to shove Neuron back inside him, mind or body or both.

“Sounds a bit mad of a theory to me.  You might just be seeing what you want to see.”  

(For his part, Henry was glad the goggles were slung around his neck like a garot rather than sat in their proper place.  He knew the effect his eyes could have.  Taking a moment to eye the debatably cannibalistic man before him, he found himself biting his lip.  ‘I’ve certainly got one hell of a type…’)

Even if Henry had nothing to do with Sandy falling for him, he’d had plenty of opportunities to let the other man down.  When he’d killed the woman who got a bit handsy at a pub came to mind, putting an end to the group’s attempts to celebrate a successful mission.  Flowers sent to his address, once Neuron all but retired, and Henry only put on the old costume when someone requested his services (nevermind he’d never shared the address, that was rather besides the point).  Even now, with Sandy sliding his arm from the wall to wrap around Henry’s waist, pulling him close.  Flashing that sharp, metallic smile.

Instead, Henry’s eyes danced, fingers finding their way to his jaw.  Sandy let him tilt his head a bit higher - a ripple of ironsand briefly disrupting his form like a shudder.  The redhead didn’t so much as flinch, but he did prove Sandy right for labeling him shameless, the places his other hand started wandering.  If he still had lungs, he would have gasped.

“We can skip the date, if you're keen…”

Sandy could feel Henry’s breath on his face as they leaned in to bridge the gap.  Finally.

Seconds later, he found his arms empty and himself completely  alone in the silent hall.

The frustrated screech that echoed through the walls was a noise more akin to silverware dragged across a blackboard.  Kilometers and kilometers away, Henry smiled around a mug of tea while staying tuned into Sandy’s furious tirade.

Maybe next time, love.

Chapter Text

“Five rules.”

Todd didn't give in to the pressing urge to grind the heel of his shoe into Hamish’s spine, where the man was laid out in their hallway.  He didn’t move to shove him through the shoddy, molding drywall of their home, or grab for a kitchen knife.

“I gave you five damned rules to follow, and you couldn’t even manage that, could you?”

He didn’t need to so much as touch his Da to get the point across.  He hadn’t had to, not for nearly a year now.  The briefest touch of shadow, and Hamish did well punishing himself.  

At the moment, the old man continued to writhe and gasp against the grimy, cream colored carpet.  A lowlight reel of one’s life tended to do that to a bloke.

Todd balled his hands into fists to stop their shakin.  Tried to unclench his jaw. 

“You ‘ave work in the morra.  It’s school for me as well.”  Hamish was supposed to drop him off so he wouldn’t have to walk, then go earn enough to actually contribute towards their bills.  He’d been clear on that.

He’d drawn only five lines in the sand, once it had been clear there’d be a new pecking order between them: No drinking in the house.  Ne’er go into his room.  Either keep the place tidy or get a job.  ‘Family’ dinner every week.  Chib only if you’re well and ready to be beat in return.  Most men wouldn’t have needed all that spelled out for them, let alone by his own fifteen year old.

“‘T’s one thing to stay a bit too late at the pub.” No matter how horribly the whiff of beer or mead or wine had Todd sinking into dread.  Pastor Sean had told him to be generous, and he was trying-

“But this?  Fewer rules than they got in P1.  You still managed to break ‘em all.”

Lugging a 12 pack home, already drunk to start with.  Stumbling his way into Todd’s room, where he'd actually been making a token effort at maths, having already passed 7 with no food to show. The hollering.  The clumsy shove.  The graceless attempt at more.

“Why do ya always havta ruin everything?  I was being good.  You were bein’ good, for once in your miserable life...”

If Hamish was going to opt for cruelty, so would he.  Todd kicked him half heartedly in the ribs, the grunt of physical pain a cold comfort.

“You ‘re never good!” his da all but babbled into the floor, trying and failing to push himself up on arms of gelatin.  It would have been funny, if it wasn’t stomach churning.  “A demon.  You were always a worthless little demon...”

Todd’s vision went fuzzy.  A familiar floatiness crept up on him, and he shoved it away the best he knew how.  Red hot fury overtook him, the skin of his palms giving way to his own fingernails.  He was sure to find a spot or two of blood later.

“‘Demon’?  A fucking demon, am I?!”

Shadows dancing at Todd’s whim was nothing new, even when he wasn’t acting as one himself.  It was a talent almost as well practiced as making others stare down their own abyss alongside him.

Those shadows turning solid was new.  Like rope made out of fine paper sheets, blacker- than- black bands snapped around Hamish like a vice.  As Todd came back to himself a bit, they tightened the slightest more, the resulting gasp considerably more pleasing.

Todd didn't quite know if he was grinning or snarling or simply bearing his teeth.  Didn't matter much, he decided.  “This blimey demon is the only walloper who didn’t get so tired of your shite they ran for the hills!  I stayed!”

Tighter and tighter, his ingrate old man’s pained groan became a constant, breathless drone.  He panted with each breath, shouting briefly as his binds dragged him closer to the lad, rolling him over onto his back to glare up at him.

Cold flesh that Todd still was, only the glint of his teeth and eyes stood out from his shadows form in the low light.  A wiser man would have stopped digging.  Hamish barked out a laugh.

“Fat lot of good that did me - should have never brought a fraik like you home!”

“Stop.”

Even now, even wheezing like something about to croak-

“Shoulda drowned ye in the gutter…”

A resounding crack gave way to sudden silence infringing through the house.  As always, Todd found himself alone.

Chapter Text

Jere generally preferred the nondescript, neat exterior of the common safehouse over its garish, meticulously negotiated interior.  It was the end result of Allen and Roman feeding into each other’s most revoltingly materialistic, pathologically controlling natures.

He had to admit, he was appreciating how spacious the rooms tended to be at the moment.  It gave him plenty of room to slam the latter pest against the tile floor.

Hourglass might be more stable than Green Inferno, less insistent, but by God, could the other man piss him the hell off.

His reckless abuse of Miraculo hardly helped matters: Velocity half snarled as Roman bucked from under him, successfully knocking him briefly airborne.  The obnoxious carpet failed to provide padding- if he remembered correctly,the tacky thing had been Roman’s contribution too.

He wanted to play it like that?  Very well.  Superspeed meant Jere was colliding with the other less than a second after he hit ground again, bowling Hourglass back onto his back before he could succeed in getting his own feet back under him.

No luck- Roman rolled them over easily, and if Jere were willing to give him the satisfaction, there would have been a shout as the breath was all but squeezed from his lungs.  Velocity took a page from Shrike’s book, and his knee found the Tikal family jewels.

Unsportsmanlike, but he just couldn’t help himself, or the unexpected laugh that burst out of him at Roman’s suddenly rather cartoonish face.  It also allowed him to roll again, dragging Roman along and back beneath him.  

It wouldn’t do, letting the resident hophead forget his place.  Jere might as well be doing him a favor.

Letting his hand drift that close to his ally’s face while they grappled was a mistake.  Deceptively sharp teeth buried themselves in his flesh, slicing through the meat like a knife through hot butter.

Jere ripped his hand from Roman’s jaws with a cry of pain and rage.  In the moment between then and Jere’s now injured hand contorting into a proper fist, those shiny white teeth grinned at him stained crimson.  The same shade Velocity had all but patented, as a matter of fact.

Then his even bloodier punch landed squarely on its target.   Hourglass let out an unexpectedly loud shout of his own, muffled a bit under the even more surprising crunch of cartilage.

That made Jere pause, panting.  It usually would have taken several blows to accomplish that. Unless-

“It seems,” Velocity smiled down at him, “that someone has lost track of time.”

Roman glared up at him, his form a rigid line of tension.  He didn’t lessen his no- longer- adamant grip on Jere’s good arm, but he wasn’t quite struggling anymore, either.

Too prideful to back down; too intelligent to risk further agitating the speedster now that his hour of power was over.

Jere admired the way their blood was mingling, now that Roman’s nose was gushing rather like a fountain.  The other man made a noise that could have been a snort, or could have just been him gagging on it.

He could kill him right now.  He doubted there would be much in the way of tangible consequences, no matter who else in the Guild he’d upset with the action.

Instead, he smiled a bit more condescending, bringing his fingers up to settle between Roman’s eyes: half rested on one side of his broken nose, half on the other.  The ruined thing fit between them like a fist in the eye, so he made sure to tell him so.

“We wouldn’t want to ruin the appeal for your little starlet.”  Setting a nose was easy, once you’d practiced a bit.  It still took him several passes, dragging his hand through the bloody mess of Roman’s face, until everything snapped back into place perfectly.

To Roman’s credit, he muffled his screams quite admirably.