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iamdunn · 3 years

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Miraculous Flash Forward part 2: Hei Mao

A Miraculous Fan-fic

Written By

AJ Dunn

Adrien went about his day grocery shopping and stocking his new home with personalized essentials. Something to make it more him and not as much Amelie, bless her heart fro trying. It had been nice having a mother even if it wasn’t his mother. Emelie remained in a coma in London. He had visited her everyday. It felt like he had finally healed from her loss only to have the wound ripped open again. The ache still seeped from his being as a dark shadow hung over him. Not only did he have to hide from the identity his father created for him, but also the bad publicity his father created as well.

With groceries put away, and Plagg fed, Adrien set about finally unpacking his bags. He could hear the television turn on as Plagg scrolled through channels. News reports still talking about the capture of Hawk Moth even though it’s been two years. A report came on their air and he recognied Feliz’s voice. He hung his shirt and went downstairs to see.

“I have been given full authority over the former Agreste Brand and we will be revitalizing this brand starting…” he stopped talking to the microphone at the podium to turn around. He was standing in front of the Agrest Building that Gabriel had built. Felix raised his hand as the blind covering the company name was removed and exposed the new name.

“Graham De Vanily”

“In honor of our beloved Emelie Graham De Vanily who was so terribly stolen away from us by the heinous villain Hawk Moth.” Felix’s fist clenched near his chest as he closed his eyes for a moment. Adrien was hurt hearing the words but Felix’s scheme was working. The crowd cheered. No one really knew exactly what happened to Adrien’s mother, but making her the face of this company’s new facelift, making her the victim in all of it, took the public's eye off of Adrien and showed the company’s sympathy for the victims rather than the villain.

Camera flashed as Felix reopened his eyes. Reporters pushing forward with their demanding questions and microphones ready to accept his answers.

“What about Adrien Agreste?”

“I’m sorry there is no Adrien Agreste.” Felix said sharply. It was what Adrien had asked him to do.

“Then who was the model Gabriel used?” This was the part that Adrien knew Felix could handle. He watched as Felix threw on his best Adrien smile and scruffed his hair into the shaggy mane that was Adrien’s trade hair style. He was good. Adrien missed the antics of their childhood with his twin of a cousin. Adrien snorted a laugh then shook his head returning to his chores.

“Is it dinner time yet?” Plagg complained. Adrien returned to the seating area. Plagg was still seated on his favorite armchair with a lump of cheese. It wasn’t Camembert but it seemed to satiate him enough.

“You're right.” he smiled realizing how quickly the day went by. “Let’s go.” Adrien walked to the front door. Looking back at Plagg wondering why the little guy wasn’t moving. Plagg stared at him stupidly.

“You're not planning on taking the metro again,” Plagg complained. “When we can take the quicker route.”

“It’s still light outside, I can’t risk Cat Noir being seen by the public.”

“He was seen last night by those guys?”

“But who is going to believe a bunch of criminals?” Adrien realized he would have to think of something to maintain his own cover of darkness.

“But you're not even Cat Noir anymore.” Plagg reminded him. “Just change the appearance of your suit.”

“Wait,” Adrien walked back into the seating area. “I can do that?”

“Kind of,” Plagg explained. “You will still be dressed in black, but you could… add a hoodie to cover your sunshine blond hair.” Plagg flew up and looked Adrien over. His tiny hand on his chin. “Maybe you could check out Marinettes’ website for some thoughts.”

“But when I transform it automatically puts this design on me.” Adrien was confused.

“It’s too basic,” Plagg complained. “Shadow Moth never wore a dress I can assure you but Mayura did. Polymouse looked nothing like Multimouse, and let’s face it, Luka was a way better holder for Sass than you.” Plagg was still sore about that one. Adrien thought about it. Sure a hoodie would help, but he didn’t want people to know there was A BLACK CAT superhero in Shanghai.

“I’ll think about it. For now, we take the Metro.” He grabbed his coat and key then opened the door.

Adrien got off the bus at the same stop as last night and went into the same store. This time he would grab something at random then head to the restaurant. He could smell something amazing coming from the restaurant down the street and it made him think of a seafood dish he had the last time they visited. Adrien found the seafood tanks in the back of the market and picked out 4 hairy crabs.

“Cheng Sifu, I am here,” Adrien said as he entered the kitchen. He handed the bag with the four live crabs in it to Cheng. His eyes widened in excitement as if he had hoped for this.

“This is a very fortunate fateful food, Adrien.” He dropped the four crabs into the already boiling pot. “I started this broth earlier for another crab dish but these are much fatter and tastier.” Cheng proceeded to show Adrien how to prepare the broth and they worked quickly as the crab's shells turned bright red before they used a wire scoop to lift them from the pot. Cheng strained the broth from the pot setting it aside as they rinsed the crab in ice-cold water so they could deshell them. Cheng flung droplets of water from his fingers as he worked so quickly. Splattering Adrien on the face. Adrien laughed like a little kid seeing the playful grin on Sifu's face.

“I give you Adrien Soup.” Cheng set a bowl down in front of Adrien.

“De Vanily Soup.” Adrien corrected him. The steam rolled off the bowl as chunks of crab bobbed in the bowl. The red broth with vegetables floating sent an aroma into Adrien's face. He was proud to be able to know how to make this. Cheng played the accordion as Adrien scooped the soup into his mouth. He lost himself somewhere in the memory as he looked to his side smiling expecting to see Marinette laughing at her uncle. She wasn’t there. The smile drained from Adrien’s face as he looked back at Cheng.

“We could call her.” Cheng set the accordion down then took a seat across from Adrien. He let his face fall back to his bowl as he continued to eat trying to regain his composure. He felt the burning in his eyes as the tears tried to well up but he swallowed them down with another bite of soup.

“Best not.” He said then looked at his watch. “You know, the time difference.” He shrugged then lifted his empty bowl. They returned to the kitchen to clean up but the kitchen staff took his bowl and there was nothing more to do. “See you tomorrow Cheng Sifu.” Adrien gave him a quick wave then headed for the alleyway. It was very dark now as clouds were rolling in. Adrien thought about what Plagg had said earlier and imagined what his suit would look like with a hood.

“Plagg claws out.” He said. Sure enough, as his suit covered his body from toe to head, a leather hood sprouted off the neck covering his head, his cat ears protruded from the top. It came down far enough over his eyes that while he could still see, it would make seeing his face that much harder. It was much different from the suit he wore as Aspik which completely covered his head, this one instead felt more modern and airy. He made his way back to Chao.

“It will rain tonight, Xuesheng,” Chao said as Mao landed on the ground before him. “We will start with a few small lessons, but you will need to rest your Kwami.” Mao had to take a minute to take in what Chao had said.

“Rest my…” his breath caught in his lungs. “Kwami?”

“You think me a fool? That I do not know what powers your ability.” Chao turned and headed into a side room of the temple. Mao followed him. There were many drawings on the walls, various characters that depicted magical beings. “Many believe them to be folklore. And to those who are not trained, they are.” Adrien sees a black cat adorned character from an ancient Chinese battle. “Many are taught here and sent to the guardian temple to become guardians. I was one of them.” Chao said.

“You were a guardian?” Mao asked.

“I was there when the temple was gobbled up by a sentimonster.” Chao turned to look at him. “It was you, and your partner that defeated it, and restored the temple.”

Mao was shocked as he stood before his Sifu. Chao turned and walked deeper into the temple down a flight of stone stairs to a large room filled with various weaponry, sparring dummies and in the middle of the room a large sparring mat. Mirror lined the four walls surrounding the mat. The torch-style electric lighting illuminated the room in an orange glow. There was a small table in the corner with a plate of cheese and crackers.

“I assume Plagg still eats human-sized portions of cheese?” Chao asked. Mao chuckled. He was still nervous at the prospect of exposing his identity to anyone but Master Fu. “I assure you, it is safe here.”

“Claws in.” He whispered. Plagg zipped out. His eyes exposing his shock as he found himself in a strange place. Until his eyes fell on the Sifu.

“Chao Sifu?” Plagg asked in surprise. He flew up to the old man gripping his face in his tiny hands. Chao chuckled at the action, bringing his hands to cup the Kwami.

“You seem… friendly.” Adrien felt a bit jealous as he watched his best friend warm up to a stranger.

“Plagg and I encountered much mischief.” He stared at the Kwami now sitting in his hands. “I was but a child when I went to the temple. I felt caged in. I did not want to be there.” he set Plagg down by the plate then brought his hands back together in front of himself. “Sometimes at night, Plagg and I would escape the temple and bound free through the mountains.” Adrien's jaw dropped as he heard the Sifu talk about his rebellious side.

“Sounds like someone I know,” Adrien said acting innocent.

“Cat Noir had plenty of freedom, while Adrien was locked in the best bedroom any teenage boy could want.” Plagg scoffed as he gobbled some cheese.

“Oh, is that so?” Chao asked.

“It’s a long story.” Adrien swung his arms in anticipation of his first lesson.

“We shall start with some basic steps.” Chao led him to the center of the sparring mat after they kicked off their shoes.

Adrien hurt so bad as he rolled out of bed the next morning. Not sure if he would be able to move. In the bathroom, he stripped out of his pajamas tossing them on the floor. He caught sight of his body in the ever-present mirrors that encircled the room. The main thing he hated about the bathroom. He was his own constant reminder of his father.

“Hmm…” he mused in the mirror. “At least now I know what father would have looked like after taking a beating.” he chuckled. Plagg droned on something about being awake so early and not having anywhere to go.

After soaking in the steaming hot jet stream tub Adrien sat on the couch with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. He had to lower the eclectic blinds on the windows to prevent possible sighting of the mysterious floating creature even though they were up high enough that it was most likely not a concern.

He opened his laptop and began searching through design pages looking for ideas for his Hei Mao suit.

“Nothing,” Adrien said frustrated after a while.

“What about Marinette. She could design something for you.” Plagg offered. Adrien shook his head, he wanted nothing more than to wear a Marinette design again.

“I can’t talk to her Plagg.” Adrien groaned.

“But Felix can, and if I remember right he is the CEO of a fashion company am I right?” Plagg was on to something. He picked up his cell phone and dialed up his cousin.

“Adrien to what do I owe the pleasure of your call?” He sounded upset.

“What is it, Felix?” Adrien’s question could wait.

“I just got out of a meeting with public relations and they’re screaming for something to boost the community morale.” Adrien smiled. This was purrfect he thought.

“I think I can solve your problem and you can solve mine.” Adrien started. “Initiate a community-wide design competition. The theme is aged-up versions of Ladybug and Cat Noir in more… fitting attire.”

“It’s a competition?” Felix asked. “What would the reward be?”

“How about the winner gets to spend an entire day or week as a Graham De Vanily designer and their design is featured in the catalog, as say a costume.” Adrien grinned. “I’ll be the final judge, a silent Judge.”

“How,” Felix started, his voice sounding confused. “Does this benefit you?”

“Remember that girl, Marinette?” Adrien asked him.

“How could I forget,” Felix remember the beautiful girl from the video sent to Adrien.

“She’s a designer and well, I really want a costume designed by her.” Adrien wasn’t entirely lying.

“Let me guess, you want the Ladybug costume.” Felix scoffed.

“Exactly, well one of each. But the winner will be the one who designs the best of each costume, it’s a two for the win.” Adrien’s face beamed and he was glad that Plagg was the only one who could see it.

“I’ll put the word out,” Felix said coldly before hanging up the phone.

It had been nearly a month since the announcement for the costume design went out. He watched Marinette’s webpage and even found Alya’s blog. They definitely knew about it and even commented that Marinette would be entering her designs in as well. Adrien was so excited. His body was getting more accustomed to the beatings dished out by Chao Sifu, and his cooking skills got better with Cheng Sifu. During the day he often went past the temple to watch Chao Sifu teaching classes to groups of younger kids. They seemed to be far too young to learn martial arts but he was also forced to participate in far more activities by the time he was their age.

He spoke a number of different languages and played the piano. Adrien hadn’t touched one since he left his in his old bedroom. Felix said he wanted to move into the Agreste manor but felt uncomfortable with that idea given the current state of the public opinion regarding it. So he agreed to ensure the mansion was being maintained for when Adrien was ready to return to it.

Adrien felt a little stalkerish as he checked Marinette’s social media accounts daily, followed Alya’s blog, and even yes. The Lady blog. Marinette got more beautiful as she grew up. He had been watching his friends from afar. Nino seemed to be doing good. He even found Luka’s page. He wondered why Marinette hadn’t mentioned anything on her pages about her boyfriend or husband. Luka seemed happily married as he bragged about various things his twins were doing, never posting pictures of them though, or his wife.

Something tugged at Adrien’s heart as he scrolled through her pages. Juleka now served as her primary female model for her designs and even Luka joined in on occasion. He used to be Marinette’s model. As the contest date closed in, Adrien had to fight the urge to return to Paris for it. He wanted to be there, to witness Marinette winning. He knew her designs were going to be the winners. The days dredged by as Adrien maintained his covert agenda. His evening meals with Cheng Sifu, and his training with Chao Sifu. Two people that maintained his secrets. Even the grocery clerk aided him in his endeavors as she would help him pick out his fateful food items each day.

“So, are you planning on being here for the judging?” Felix asked.

“You know I can’t.” Adrien felt like his father, he had always had Nathalie walk around with the tablet showing him each of the designs. He didn’t even want to be that present.

“I have an idea,” Felix said. “I’ll call you right back.” A few minutes passed when Adrien’s phone chimed on his duo to pick up a video call. He saw Felix standing in a mirror wearing a pair of clear lens glasses. The image was coming from a micro camera in the frames. “This way, You can hear and see everything and no one will be the wiser.”

“How, can you hear me?” he asked. Felix reached up to the earpieces over both ears.

“The speakers are her like with earbuds only they don’t go in the ear. I can’t see you though unless I look at my phone.”

“This is purrfect.” Adrien beamed. He saw his cousin groan dropping his shoulders.

“Did you just make a cat pun?”

“Yep.”

“Are you blushing?”

“Pawsibly.”

“You’re encourageable.” Felix turned away from the mirror. He was in his suit at the Bourgeois Hotel. It was just like the one Chloe used to live in.

“I know.” Adrien fought back the urge to say something cattish.

“Goodbye, Adrien.” Despite his cold tone, Felix really did seem to enjoy their dynamics. He was the straight-laced one and Adrien, fun and playful.

“Could you imagine Plagg?” Adrien slumped back in his chair. “If Felix was given this miraculous,” he said holding up his hand. A look of terror crossed Plagg’s face as if he was threatened to never be given cheese again. Adrien laughed.

It was the day of the competition and Adrien watched as Felix straightened his tie. A chill running down his spine as he recalled how his father used to do it. Felix really was the younger version of his father. Sometimes he forgot that they had different fathers. Even though he looked nothing like his father, rather they both looked like Gabriel and Amelie.

Adrien shook the feeling off his shoulders as he watched his cousin leave the bathroom. The venue was set up at the Graham De Vanily building in the showroom. There were tons of people scattered about the room with various changing stalls set up using temporary wall structures. Felix walked through the halls slowly inspecting each station. Two models to each one in a Cat Noir suit, the other in a Ladybug suit. The gender specification had been an explicit requirement for the event.

Felix stopped by each inspecting the details and scoffed moving on to the next. Most of them were near replicas of the original suits.

“Is there just one person here who didn’t copy the original design?” Felix fumed.

“There,” Adrien said through the screen. He had to mirror his phone to the TV so he could get a better look at everything. His heart dropped when he recognized the old familiar midnight hair. It was no longer pulled into two down ponytails, instead, it was long and flowing. There was a bit of curl to it as it swayed back and forth with her movements. She was preparing her model already in costume. “I hope she’s not married,” he said before he realized his cousin could hear everything.

“Miss Dupain-Cheng,” Felix said stepping up behind her. “What have you got for us this time.” He at least sounded pleasant. She spun around to face him. Adrien watched her face as it lit up in a bright red hue.

“A..A... Adrien?” Adrien could feel heat welling up in her heart even though she was, once again mistaking Felix for him. The fact that she was still thinking about him and tripping over her words at the thought she was in his presence made him wish he had gone.

“Felix, actually.” he took both of her hands in his looking down at them as he placed a kiss on each knuckle. “Adrien was a fool for letting a gem such as yourself slip through his fingers. Adrien fumed as his cousins’ obvious attempt to annoy him. Marinette’s cheeks returned to their normal hue as her face melted into sadness. Adrien’s heart broke for a minute.

“Do you need a tissue, Adrien?” Plagg asked. Adrien ignored him so as to not expose him to Felix who could hear everything except the Kwami.

“Show us what you have made for us.” Felix said. No one knew he was televising this for Adrien. Marinette explained in detail the design of this new Lady Noir Suit. It wasn’t all red as Ladybugs had been instead there was more black around the waist with a light red tulle skirting around the waist allowing for movement while offering a bit more coverage to the more sensitive areas. Another Tulle adornment lay over the breasts.

“Exquisite Marinette,” Felix said.

“Ask about the signature stitching.” Adrien chimed in quickly. He was nearly biting at the bit as he watched his cousin explore every detail of the suit.

“Ah-hem. Um, show me your signature stitching.” He looked up at Marinette who suddenly blushed.

“How do you know about that?” Marinette shrieked.

“Tell her Gabriel had made reference to it after other designs she had done.” Adrien threw in.

“I am the CEO of a fashion company, it is my job to know about that,” Felix smirked. Marinette pulled out another suit, it was designed for a man but she held up the collar piece showing the distinct gold embossed threading signing her name through the stitch.

“You did that with each of these designs?” he mused then moved on to the Cat Noir suit. Adrien swallowed hard when he saw Luka wearing the Cat Noir Suit. He almost didn’t recognize him with the hood pulled nearly over his face. The Ears protruding through the hood even seemed to have a little fluff to them. The hood flowed down the back with fine red lines detailing the changes in the material. The extra padding around the soft spots was highly more with the deep red. Felix walked around Luka slowly inspecting every detain including the attached belt that held a baton. The extra-long belt that also served as Cat’s tail dangled down to the floor. Adrien wondered if his belt was actually longer now than it was when he was a teenager, he was much taller now. “Why is this red and not Neon green as his ring?”

“This design is meant more for stealth. The red.” Marinette blushed.

“Ah, she’s so cute.” Adrien didn’t mean to say that out loud. Felix snorted.

“Who is Cat Noir without his Ladybug?” she finished. “I added more black to her’s to signify him on her so I thought I’d give him a piece of her.” Adrien felt warm at the thought. “As for the hood, Cat Noir has such bright hair, so this would provide him more stealth.” She scooped up the tail belt holding the end out for Felix to inspect. In fine detail along the edge of the belt was the customary Marinette signature.

“Very good Miss Dupain-Cheng,” Felix again took her hands. He flipped them over and even rubbed his fingers along the back of her hands. “Lovely, sure you didn’t make these by hands these hands are far too nice to have labored so.” Ooh, that smooth talker. Adrien was standing now anger fumed on his face. Felix turned away and began walking to another stall.

“Wait.” Marinette’s voice was small through the receiver. Felix turned around. Luka was holding her shoulders as she stood in front of him face Felix. She nearly shook as Adrien swore he saw a teardrop from her chin. “Can you tell him, if you see him…”

“What that you love him? I saw that video message you sent him. Was that your attempt to confess your feelings or just console a friend.” Felix seemed a bit harsh but Adrien bit back his words wondering what it was Marinette had said in the video.

“Tell him we miss him.” Ah there it was the fire in her eyes she was angry. “We miss our friend.” She turned away from Felix in a huff. Felix laughed.

“What are you doing Felix?” Adrien barked.

“Congratulations Marinette, I think you might just be our winner.” He scoffed then turned around.

“I just had to see her fire up, oh Adrien,” Felix whispered. “I can see why she means so much to you.” Felix tapped a button on his phone and disconnected the call. Adrien had recorded the entire video call. He replayed the video showing Cat Noir’s suit. He memorized every detail. Mulling it over in his head before setting his phone down and calling on his transformation.

He ran to the bathroom to examine his new suit. Every detail mimicked Marinette’s design. He suddenly realized and reached for his belt tail. It was longer. He studied the red stitching design and found it. Her signature was embedded into the magic suit he now wore.

#miraculous fandom #miraculous chat noir #adrienette #miraculous ladybug #miraculous world #felix graham de vanily #miraculous adrien #adrien agreste

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helpinghanikan · 5 years

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In the family

Avengers (and Matt Murdock) x Reader

Sum: Family business is good business, how you fit in is to be seen.

AN: Mob au

Steve Rogers:

A single lamp was on in the corner of your living room. Steve had tried to stay up for you again.

He’s sitting in the corner of the couch in his regular clothes. One leg up, head leaned back against the arm rest, one arm over his face, probably placed there after “shutting his eyes for a few seconds” that resulted in the nap.

A drawing pad is open on his lap, pencil fallen from his hand and onto the floor. It was the pad you had bought him awhile ago, the big expensive kind. “I saw it on my way back,” You had said. “It was on sale,” you had said to get him to accept it. It was not, actually, on sale.

He had been drawing the doorway next to your turned off TV. Door open, showing one corner of your bed and the bedroom’s wall paper. Using dark shadows on paper. Where the only outline in the door was that of the bed, everything outside the doorway was lighter, like he hadn’t focused on them as much.

His art had started to take off around the same time you started with your “social club”. Less time spent together, more time with the drawing pads. Longer you were out the better the things you brought back. New TV, bed spread from a specialty store instead of the local Walmart, and more drawing pads.

The one he used was closed gently. Placed on the coffee table without any noise.

He was a very weird sleeper. Slept like the dead but a certain sound, high pitched or too loud, would send him bolted upwards. Things like walking on soft feet, or a fan running wouldn’t wake him up. Picking up his leg and placing it next to the other, next coming the couch blanket over his body.

It’s best that he didn’t know about your little “club”. He loved you madly, enough to not ask questions, but also enough to worry. It’s best he didn’t know, it’s best that he just sleeps.

Tony Stark:

It’s easy to forget the danger that comes with your life. A lavish penthouse, drivers and constant respect from absolute strangers had a way of spoiling a person. That a gun had to be constantly strapped to your hip did little to change that.

It’s not until his hands grips yours that you are reminded of that. A whisper into his ear, a slamming phone call or just glancing at a text and his hand is somewhere on your body. Shoulder, knee, ankle, and hands were always open for his hand to hold. Your entire life becoming a human stress ball for your husband.

You only ever asked what was wrong when he comes in upset, then it’s up in the air towards the cause. His answer will always be sarcastic;

“Having a bad day?” You would ask as he walked past.

“No, it’s going great. Black mail is in now a-days, right?” That was the farthest he would explain it. Reaching for the closest part of you to him and groaning into the hand covering his face.

Thor:

You don’t know where he went, you don’t know what he was doing and, you didn’t want to know. What you do know is that he comes home late, that he is paid well, and that he loves you, no matter what.

“Shoes…” You remind him.

Thunk Thunk

You had only been asleep a few minutes ago. Still half-awake, blinking slow while approaching Thor. In the walkway past your main entrance he mostly strips on the welcome mat. Shirt, pants, tie and, of course, shoes are bundle together and put into your arms. One long blink as he leans down and kisses your cheek.

“Thank you,” He says, walking towards the shower before you yell at him about that too.

Your hand grabs around the handle of the hammer left by the door. The one thing he kept forgetting, leaving that thing head down on the tiles, smear of red left behind you’d have to clean later.

Clothes are tossed into the tub in passing. Trusty large bucket pulled from under the sink, dish soap taken out, bleach put in. A dangerous combination if they were to ever mix, but it was best to keep them together. “It’s just cleaning supplies, officer.” You would say when they’d finally appear with a warrant.

On your knees in front of the tub it fills with freezing water. Dish soap poured in and you begin scrubbing. Be it from wanting to finish quickly or that your muscles weren’t alive yet, your pajama shirt would be soaked by the end of the cleaning session.

Water is a candy-apple red by the time the stains are gone from the shirt. The pants were easier, given the black color. The shirt was the faintest pink from the water, that would be removed after a regular run through the washing machine. Where they both go after wringing them out and tossing them in.

The hammer was another story, soaked in bleached, scrubbed with a tooth brush. Left in the sink to naturally dry and then to be placed back into the tool belt in the garage. When somebody asks why only your finger prints are on it, “because it’s mine, why else?”

An alarm would sound in the wee hours of the morning for you to put it back before living hours. For now, though, you strip as Thor had. Tossing your wet clothes in with the others and starting it up. Thor had many white shirts and black pants, why were these so special?

He’s just coming out of the shower a few seconds after you return to bed. Hair damp, muscles relaxed, a thick hand lays on your side under the covers. A kiss, just as sweet as the first, is placed on your temple. He smells like rain and copper.

Not that you would know anything about that.

Bucky Barnes:

This young man before you is a dime a dozen. Although the “leader” of his little group, you wouldn’t be able to pick him out from the group as anything but a drone. He wasn’t exactly a skeleton like the other quivering street rats forced into your office. He was fatter, but still gangly none the less. Not that he was looking to you, looking over your shoulder the entire time.

“So, was it an accident? Or are you just stupid?” you ask after a few seconds.

He finally looks to you, only for a few seconds, then returning over your shoulder. “I didn’t- nothin’ was meant by it. We just- yeah, we just got drunk.”

“So, you were confused.” You finished for him.

He nods quickly as the boards creek under a walking weight somewhere behind you.

“The Winter soldier” or “the white wolf” had a bigger reputation then you did. To very few he was Bucky. A man with a bloody past and one hell of a resume. This brought him into your payroll and eventually into your arms.

“Yeah, we, uh, I’m sorry. We were drunk and, we’re so sorry.” At least now he was looking in your direction, with Bucky standing behind your chair.

“You were drunk, so drunk that you picked a fight. Went into an alley and beat a twenty-two-year-old until his jaw broke.” Picking up a file and slapping it down for effect. It was actually filled with receipts from take out for tax reasons, but he didn’t need to know that. “So drunk that you left him there and weren’t even smart enough to try and get out of my territory.”

The truth was Mikey, one of your boys with too big a mouth, had started the fight. But you’d have to deal with him later.

He incredibly quiet at this point. Unsure where he’s supposed to stare, looking between you and Bucky just behind your chair.

“I’m so sorry,” He tries again.

“He has bills, a lot of bills now and I’m not putting that on his family.” You spat, opening your receipt file. “I’m putting that on you.” The file is slammed down again, hoping not to lose any of the receipts and get yelled at by your accountant.

He’s staring right at you now.

“Get your shit together, get the money together and everything is going to get a lot easier.” He’s nodding fast before you even finished your statement. “Bill will be in the mail, get out.”

He practically runs from the room. Sam smirking as he followed him out, making sure the rat actually left your building.

Your wolf’s hands go to your shoulders. Squeezing them softly, a soft kiss to the top of your head when there is no one there.

Natasha Romanoff:

That bitch, that absolute bitch.

“I’m so sorry,” Were the words your ‘work friend’ had said in the office. Stepping into your space with false kindness, before dropping the bomb without a second thought.

He had supposedly seen Nat at this high-end bar he moonlights at. You had every reason to ignore his accusation; he had only met her once, in the winter when you both wore heavy coats and hats, in a passing “hey,” before moving on. A far reach from the supposed get up Nat was wearing that night. The words “she was a little whore-ish looking” were used, the glare you gave sent him running back to his cubical.

He was right though, that weekend there she was. Sitting on one of those too expensive stools, leaning against the bar with one arm. The other putting her hand on the knee of the man in front of her, she was looking at him with a Gatsby worthy look. The same she would give you, seeing it given to someone else, though. It was probably easier to be shot.

In another lifetime you might have stormed in and started a scene. Instead the wound was too much. Sending you limping home to ignore her calls and text. You’d still be too hurt to read the paper some days later. Completely missing the man’s obituary.

Bruce Banner:

They always go for the supposedly weakest member of the family. A few days the same car had been following you, more specifically he, Bruce didn’t notice. Even with your head looking back to it every few steps when you walked.

You were preceptive, not sneaky.

It wouldn’t be long before they’d try and contact him. That would come maybe a week after, when which ever branch of law enforcement on your ass figured out his schedule. He was on the street earlier then usual that day. Leaning forward into a car window that you unfortunately recognized. This slowed your walking to a complete stop; an exception were the one and two taking you between buildings. A horrible hiding spot if anyone were to actually be looking at you.

He steps away from the car with half a smile. It’s the kind he does to replace frustration, laughing at something said by the people in the car. It pulls out from curb as you start half-walking, half-trotting towards your man. Your line of questions completely ignored as his hand takes yours.

“Stark gonna help us with that vacation?” You asked over lunch.

The “opportunity” those agents had offered Bruce were laced with reminders of his past. That of the anger which went out of control, the record he had to be upfront about at the beginning of your relationship and all that could easily go away.

“He’s more then willing to, where he wants us to go may be… too much.” Bruce says, hidden behind a menu. Tony’s idea of laying low was a penthouse outside of the united state jurisdiction. “Rogers owes you a favor, though, right? Maybe he has an idea?”

“That’d be too close to home, we need a more…exotic place to relax.” He offered. “Shuri loves me, her family has a place.”

“That works, should I bring a bathing suit?” You had asked.

You would both be gone from the radar within a week.

T’Challa:

The floor is so much more comfortable then the couch for reading. Back to the cushions and legs spread out, you don’t bother looking up when he enters the house.

Call it fake or call it protection, T’challa’s personality changes depending who he is with. With outsiders he can considered cold, several are still under the impression he doesn’t even speak English. The family he was respectful, big brotherly with an unrestricted face. His inner circle and the jokes come out, more teasing to their boss and relaxed shoulders. With you, everything is gone.

The entire world a weight he drops at the doorway. Calling out to you which you don’t bother responding to as he would find you no matter what.

“How’d it go?” He sits on the couch next to you, your shoulders, naturally leaning into his legs.

“It was very long, everyone was…yelling.” He’s tired, legs stretching out under the coffee table. Chest sliding farther down the couch with a groan. “It was done, though. Of course.”

A few seconds of silence as you finish the page your on, placing book mark and closing the binding. He doesn’t move from his spot on the couch, even when you placed the book on the coffee table and stood up. Staying in his relaxed position, only making a small noise when your warmth leaves his legs.

He jerks slightly when you walk around the couch. Arm moving from his face to see you looking down at him. Your hands on either side of his head, scratching through his hair line, massaging his head. Humming is added when your thumbs rub over his eyebrows, gently across his eyelids and two fingers against his temples

Although “Black Panther” was just his mob name, he did tend to act like a cat. Eyes closing softly, a groan in the deep of his throat, head moving to chase your hands when they move too far from their duty. If he were any more feline like he’d be purring.

Pietro Maximoff:

A club is a stupid place for a business meeting. It’s too loud, even in the private booths, and the over priced drinks just made the guy out as being a snob. Sent as Stark’s representative you had to play the game on the guy’s terms.

It was why you were currently scanning over the banister. Looking for that little color flashing in the strobe lights.

And there it is, silver tie hung loosely around his neck. Leaning against the bar, your cute lookout taking his break from scoping out the club. He catches your eye after looking upwards, a little head tilted upwards. Not a trap, we’re good.

You give a head down, come up, need help.

He’s smiling before disappearing into the crowd of moving bodies. You turn to the “clients” you were meeting. Stark had talked about expanding for awhile now. More into the school district (that many of the families own kids attended the school was just a coincidence) hence the yahoos you were forced to talk to.

Two sons from old money sitting in the lounge chairs. A woman draping over the back of the elders brother, she not paying attention, around his neck, standing behind the chair like his cape.

“Do you like the place?” Younger brother asks as you sit down.

“It’s very bright. Nice and young, just as Boss had described the two of you.” Stark had actually used to words ‘freshly dropped from community college’ but yours were better. “A little young running this place, young to be as powerful as you both are.”

They preened like birds at the compliment.

“It wasn’t easy,” Oldest jokes and you all have a good life.

Pietro was a quick little jack rabbit. The fastest runner in the family, which was how there was suddenly a glass in your face. Weight on one arm of your chair as he leans against you, putting the arm around your shoulders after you take the glass. Your arm around his waist. A new pretty thing to show off you were just as good as they were.

The youngest twerks an eyebrow while the eldest squints.

“Pretty young yourself to be here, why?” He asks.

Tips of your fingers gently touch the small gap of skin between Pietro’s shirt and pants. “Boss wants some of your area, he’s more than willing-.”

“He wants a piece of our shit?”

“Just a piece, a small piece.” You say. “Are you even using it? Don’t you want money? Don’t you want a cut without doing any work?”

Both brothers take a long drink from their glasses. Pietro takes the chance to take the glass from your hand. The arm candy with the tendency to steal, scandalous.

“Why didn’t Stark come himself?” Oldest asks.

“He’s so old, you really think he would like this place? It’d be the same as bringing your grandpa to the club.” You explain.

“Jude,” Youngest says, gesturing for his brother to come.

“We’ll be back.” Oldest says, following his brother to the off-side office. His cape following close behind, being sure to keep hold of his arm.

Pietro gives your glass back after their gone. “So, I am just here for my looks?” He asks.

“You love it,” You state, knocking your head back for the last of the drink.

Peter Parker:

For the two years you’ve known Peter you had no idea his statues. That the “prince of the family” was the same guy holding your hand and walking you home after school. That the black car following you down the street was nothing to be concerned about. Or the dark reason bullies had suddenly stopped bothering him.

Like at most schools bullies were a problem that was “complicated” to deal with. Peter, unfortunately, was on the receiving end of quite of a bit of it. The same could be said about you, girls are more brutal then many are willing to admit. Both of you had your reasons not to tell anyone, the office was aware but what could they do? Excuses came from the secretaries about how horrible it was for the bullies and the sympathy you needed to feel for them.

Thus, the side by side walking you did together. Hands going from swinging by your sides to interlocking fingers.

Although you neve told your parents about the problems, Peter had the truth forced from him after coming home with a black eye.

Peter was a bad liar, but great at keeping secrets. Had you never asked about the car suddenly dropping him off and picking him up everyday you wouldn’t have noticed the bullies. Noticed the red and blue casts around their arms, that they were completely avoiding Peter’s eye contact and even turned around at the sight of you.

“My dads are really protective.” He said one day at lunch, that was the truth. “I don’t know what happened, though.” That was a lie.

Stephen Strange:

Following basic directions were easier then most complained about.

“More pressure, a lot of pressure.” He’d say.

“Hold this back for me.” He’d say.

“Sweetie, go wash up.” He’d order before you’d enter the room.

In the end you were little more then a glorified nurse. One without any medical training but plenty of experience holding people down and handing over medical tools. The toughest made man would grab the hell out of your hand during stitches.

Thor does this now, his face cringing into distortion. Holding your hand and focusing on you instead of the stitches being put into his leg. “Is it out yet?” he asks, with a groan.

“You don’t remove a bullet,” Stephen says form the other end of the table. “Just patch it up,”

Thor lets out a little “ah!” when the surgical needle goes through a thicker piece of his skin. Your hand pressing against his forehead to keep him from sitting up and seeing all the blood and a foreign object going through his skin several times. Doesn’t matter how tough he was, how much blood he sees on the regular, when it’s your own; there’s something different.

“Stop whining.” Stephen says, wiping the disinfectant from the wound.

After that it’s a few seconds of wrapping bandages around his calf. Pant leg pulled over and Stephen scoots over to look over his patient. Pulling the small pill bottle of golden “magic” he definitely did not create himself.

“Wait till you get home, take a quarter, a quarter, of a spoon when you get home. If you do, don’t touch the butterflies, just don’t touch anything.” He warns, holding it out to him.

“And there’s no refill, either.” You add. Stephen pointing to you for emphasis.

“Thank you, Dr. Strange,” Thor says as though he hadn’t gotten the lecture a hundred times by now. He sits up on the table, smiling at you. “And nurse.”

Neither of you had the legal license anymore. Not that it was needed to patch up bullets.

Matt Murdock:

“You been through the sports lately?” Officer something-face says on the other side of the table. He’s slouched in his chair, paper held in front of him as though hiding from the other side of the room. “I don’t read it myself all that much. Watch too much of it, I already know what they’re gonna say. It’s all gonna be wrong.”

This was the tactic they were going with: good guy, nice cop, spends the first bit talking to you. Rope into a conversation, get you comfortable and get you to spill. When that didn’t work after awhile another cop would come in storming. Yelling at nice cop for being so nice and going on a rant hoping you’d interject. After that, a ping pong game of questions from both cops until you snap and say something.

Now, the only thing you could do, was mentally prepare for it. Sitting there like a pouting toddler, arms crossed, refusing to look at him.

“Where’s my lawyer?” You said the magic words an hour into your interrogation.

“You know we’re not gonna be able to talk they arrive?” Nice cop says.

“Stop talking,” the door slams open and your angel walks in. Hand out, sticking to the wall so he doesn’t run into the table during his march through the room. “Is my client under arrest, Officer? Has she been

“And they arrive,” Nice cop says gathering his paper. “Mr. Murdock, where there’s blood you’re sure to follow, starting to think you might be a shark.”

“Only if the blood is my client’s. Is she under arrest?” He asks, hand leaving the wall. Going instead to your shoulder, both as comfort and to acknowledge where you were.

“There was a murder, with her MO.” Nice cop says.

“I’m sorry, I was unaware she was convicted of murder.” Sarcasm, he was at the previous trials and arrests. Nothing was ever held against you.

“You know all your clients are, Murdock.” Nice cop says, starting to become not-as nice cop. “This time, she wasn’t so careful.”

“I wasn’t even there!” You almost yelled, toddler now throwing an almost tantrum in standing quickly.

Matt’s fingers curl into your shoulder, practically slamming you back into the chair. Leaning into your space and whispering a soft, “Shut the fuck up.” Before standing straight.

“Is she under arrest?” Matt asks again.

“Not yet,” Not-as cop admits.

“Then we’ll be seeing you.” His arm is around your forearm. Pulling you up from the chair.

Matt, the man at the top of your don’s payroll, was smart enough to wait until you’re both outside to ask; “What did you do?”

--------------------------------

Carol Danvers:

Her hand is a constant reminder at any small bit of exposed skin. Sliding their way to what little space was between your shirt and pants. Gently past your hair to the back of your neck for a conversation. And now, even at a formal event, her too hot fingers rest on your forearm. Standing next to you but having yet to involve herself in the conversation.

Her never leaving presence was supposed to be a threat. “Stay in your lane, do your job, pretty girl. Nothing will happen to you, Carol won’t let anything happen to you.” The big boss had said as the strong blonde stood close to you.

It’s hard to see Carol as a threat when all she’s done is protect you. More then once her hand grabbed the wrist of someone ghosting over your backside. Getting close enough her fire breath whispered in your ear to not go with somebody or to get ready to duck, even just saying “take off your heels” and you keep the smile but lose the shoes.

The smart part of you knows she a threat, but the reasonable part believes she may also be more.

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semicolonthefifth · 4 years

Text

CROSS Ch4 - You Rascal You

A couple hours had passed since then. The music-player had been cycling through several songs and had eventually settled on “Run’ Em Off” by Lefty Frizzel - a moderately cheery Old Earth Western tune. Charlie recalled hearing Jason groan quite audibly when it played.

Charlie had never seen a man drink seven full, large glasses at a bar in one sitting - especially not without losing control of their higher brain functions.

Yet there he was - the man he’d come to know as Jason Cross. Gunslinger; bounty hunter; one of a two man team, part of a famed group that would take down raiders through skill and knowledge of the land. He was a man he only knew as a wondrous tale of wasteland justice; and there he was, chugging alcohol as if he was competing for the world’s biggest drunkard. Yet at his 8th glass in the man stood. At least that was something worth admiring.

Frankie, meanwhile, was all too busy admiring the book - his nose deep into the pages cataloging the history of Aurora. He gazed with sheer joy in detail of every photo, sometimes turning back a page just to re-admire it some more. He let Charlie and Jason be, all while he was content with catching up on the knowhow of the world.

Charlie coughed a bit before asking politely through some discomfort, “Um, Mr. Cross?”

Jason held a finger up, silencing Charlie while he finishes his latest order. After a few large gulps does he finish, letting out a long and heavy sigh. A quietness comes after, with Jason staring off into space. Charlie almost gets a word in before Jason then speaks up.

“Fuckin’ genetics, I swear to God.” He softly complains. “I should be dead now, or at least hammered. Why am I always drawing the worst luck?”

“Yeah… was about to ask about that.” Charlie wonders aloud with a worried tone. “How are you still talking, or in fact… standing?”

“Call it a curse.” Coldly replies Jason. “Let’s just say my body ain’t built like most others if my height ain’t a strong hint by now. Don’t want to get into it though… way too personal.”

“And what I just learned WASN’T personal already?”

Jason groaned more, head brought down with a thumb squeezing at his temple. His injured hand was deep into a plate of ice, half already melted at this point - all while his free hand tends to the headache. His brain was ringing a bit, but it wasn’t the alcohol that was running deep in his body. Repressed memories kept clawing out, and trying to bury them further was hurting his head more than it was worth. With a strong flavorful exhale, he picks his head back up and looks at Charlie.

“Alright, what do you want to know?”

“Y-... You serious?” Charlie asks, a bit concerned for his own safety as he was for Jason’s.

“More than I’m not.” Jason states, with hints of a tired slurring in his speech. “I’m half thinking of running out of here, but considering how shit my luck has been I don’t want to run the risk of something worse happening out there. So… ask away. Might as well ride this newfound awfulness till it ends.”

“Ok, ok…” Charlie collects himself, doing a couple of deep breaths before taking a professional, presentable angle to speak with Jason. “You are Jason Cross. Brother to Frederick Cross. Member of the Crimson Crosses, one of the most famous militia groups on the Black Road, here on on Aurora. Aaaaaand you’ve druken enough ale in one sitting to knock out a man.”

“Yup, unfortunately yes, absolutely no, and not even close.” Answers Jason with a tired look. “Fred and I haven’t been brothers for about… 5 years now. Not a word said to each other since, that I’m certain of. I’ve also not been a member of that damn group for the same amount of time - all entirely my choice. As for the drinking, I’m not close… not a little. I think I can handle some more.”

“But why?” Charlie asked, genuinely concerned - the wideness of his eyes like a boy hearing that his childhood hero was fake all along. “You two were fantastic. I’ve gotten so many stories collected about you guys. All the adventures you’ve taken, and the good you’ve done.”

He quickly snatches his collection book from Frankie, turning a large chunk of pages to a chapter highlighting the many achievements of the Crimson Crosses. There were stylized posters and photographs, all of them singing praise upon the Crosses and their exploits. Charlie began listing them off, all with a sense of innocent pride in his voice. “Here - this one’s about you guys facing off against a crook known as the Silver Stallion. And look here! ‘The Cross Brothers, and the Attack of the Screaming Mimmies!’, a widely-seen classic. Then there’s this one where you fended off a swarm of Kodvacs from ravaging some farms. You guys were heroes!”

Jason takes a glance at the photos, the memories coming back again. With it comes that tremble behind his eyes, a sharp pinch he tries to ignore before stating coldly, “Yeah, but that was long, long ago. Told you: Fred and I ain’t brothers no more. Those adventures don’t mean anything, not when things are so fucked right now. The Crimson Crosses weren’t meant to last with how they operated.”

“Why’s that?”

With a harsh cough, Jason continues. “All Frederick was concerned about was tradition, that’s it. He wanted to keep everything like it was in the old west days. How we lives; how we operated; how we even talked - if, again, you hadn’t noticed. Meanwhile, I wanted to have us improve and modernize; he thought I was ‘ruining things’, and said I had no respect. Eventually I said ‘fuck it’ and left. Left him and that group to rot.”

“That’s it?” Charlie asked softly, yet still curious. “Couldn’t talk it out?”

“Nope, and I don’t care anymore to ever return to it. I got my own thing, and he’s got his. Out here I’ve been handling myself fine these past years. Sure, there've been some… rough parts.” Jason pauses, out of the alcohol in his system or his own emotions is unclear. “Still, I can survive. Can’t say the same thing about the Crimson Crosses, but that don’t matter.”

“That’s unfortunate to hear…” Charlie said softly, looking rather devastated. Jason noticed, but he didn’t much care for it. Suddenly then, Charlie thought of something and proceeded to ask, “Well, it wouldn’t be so bad to talk to him again, right? Maybe catch up on some things? Make amends?”

“Oh to hell with that noise!” Jason shoots back. “I got better things to do.”

Frankie slides the book back to his reach, getting back into his reading as he chimes in with, “Yeah, Jason’s his own man now. Riding around, bounty hunting for the government. Last I heard he got a lead on some guy for a high price - Sid was it?” He shoots a toothy smile at Jason, exclaiming, “Ain’t that right, Jason?”

His smile suddenly weakens once he’s face to face with the sheer, utter misery emanating from Jason’s sour expression. Frankie moves away, chuckling nervously, “I uh… take it that the job didn’t go so nicely?”

Then, a THUD!

Jason’s head slumps onto the table - his face directed down, all the while he admits to his company, “Nothing’s been going nicely. Killed the bastard, but didn’t mean - then I just embarrass myself and get my fingers fucked over when I turn in the bounty. I didn’t even get a single cred for all that trouble. Seems like my luck has just about run out. Everywhere I turn to, everywhere I go… something goes wrong. Sometimes it feels like the universe is just making me out to be a joke. Sometimes… I just wish I weren’t me.”

“Now, come on Jason.” Frankie softly replies, lending a comforting hand upon Jason’s shoulder. “You ain’t unlucky. It's just some bad circumstances. You’ll pull through in no time, I’m sure of it.”

Jason tries to feel a little better, though by now it was a feat that felt harder to get over than any mountain along this cursed world. The reassurance does not last though, as a couple new guests come in through the back of the bar to join in for the night.

The two men were broad in shape, and both quite physically intimidating. One man was quite fat, with a big bushy, coal-black beard alongside a long length of hair from his pinkish head, and a slew of tattooed flames along his muscular arms. The other was far more fit and tall in appearance - white skinned and clean shaven, with dark blonde hair shortened to a buzz cut. His lower jaw jutted outward, often times showing a small row of yellowed teeth. Despite their differences, they dressed very similarly: black leather jackets; dark-red colored shirts with white horizontal stripes; brown, dirtied pants that tucked into their black boots. Each man had a knife prominently sheathed at their belts on one side, but the fatter one has a sawed-off shotgun in his hand.

Jason’s company immediately took notice of them, with Charlie quickly collecting his book back into the backpack while Frankie remains mostly still in his seat. Meanwhile, Jason was too mentally exhausted to even see them; he kept one hand one the ice and the other on the table, all the while groaning every now and then.

The Bartender also saw them - doing a table-take before moving himself away. As the two men slowly made their way to the trio, he observed carefully from where he stood.

Once the two men reached the others, the fit one of the pair looked over them with a brutish scowl - all the while his fatter friend circled over in a slow pace so as to flank the group. Frankie, nervous though smiling, tries being civil, “Hey there uh… friends. You needin’ something?”

Charlie wrapped his arms tight around his back, sticking extremely close to Frankie. The fit-bodied brute unclenches his jaw, cracking it as he adjusts it before speaking in a thick drawl, “Name’s Jessup, ‘friend’... and he’s Burk” He adds, nodding to his partner. “We here juss’ to be lookin’. No issue in’at, yeah? Juss’ a couple guys coming in for a drink is all.”

He leans close from where he stands, while his hands are kept to his side - very close to to his knife where it’s plainly seen. His mouth hangs crooked at times,with lips dipping down obnoxiously. Jessup continues, “Have been runnin’ down the road and back all nigh’ long. Going down the ways and makin’ our mark cross the dunes. We juss’ abou’ looking fer’ someone who’s causing us some problems up on ‘dere road. Wen’ in and murdered a friend of ours… and ‘den carried him off.”

A nervous chuckle escapes from Frankie’s lips, which he fails to contain as the goon Burk completes his slow round. The man gets closer to Jason, examining as best he could. Meanwhile Frankie insists, “Hadn’t seen anyone like that, sir. How do you even know your friend was killed anyhow? Maybe he ran off somewhere?”

Jessup doesn’t flinch or change his expression, instead adding, “Oh, we know he killed him. Supposed to come meet us back, and gave us some warning ‘case any problem were to come his way. ‘Course he never came back, so we checked on a bar he said he were goin’ for. ‘Course we found his body by ‘dere road - put away by his killer. Followed on over ‘tword’s dat bars he mentioned, and then soon enuff one of ‘dem squealed about who done it.”

He slowly rises back, cracking his neck and jaw as he towers over everyone. The knife by his belt tapped by his muscular hands, tense and ready. “Roughed up the owner pretty good - probably hurt his friends just as fierce, I reckon. ‘Ventually he gave a name and some general idea on where he gone on and fled. About put us through a good couple’a hours, but we got the run on the man. Man were described as a blonde, big fella - red bandanna ‘round his head, and got a vest ‘longside some goggles. Name were…. Jason Cross. That soundin’ familiar?”

Charlie was fiercely shaking in his seat, while Frankie had lost all the color and optimism in his face. The corners of Jessup’s lips curled up a bit upon seeing their reactions before he slowly turns his gaze right towards Jason. He asks with a soft intimidation, “Him, eh? Am I gettin’ right?”

Before either could answer, Jessup starts moving over. Frankie attempts to stop him by getting in front, but is quickly stopped when Jessup snatches his arms and slams the man against the table. Pinned, Frankie struggles as Jessup steals the man’s sidearm, keeping it away while his friend Burk makes his move. The Bartender can’t do anything to help, as Jessup aims the stolen gun right at the owner.

“Don’t be gettin’ any bright ideas, fella.” Jessup growls through gritted teeth. “We only wantin’ one dead man today, so don’t push us to make room for four. Keep yo’self out of our business if you know what’s good for ya’.”

All the while Burk holds up his shotgun, tapping Jason on the shoulder with a free hand while the gun was aimed. Jason stirs, looking lazily at the two as his mind starts to catch up on things. When he finally puts two and two together, he winces and groans, letting out a slow, tired, “Oh, damn it. It’s me, right? Of-fucking-course it’s me… it always got to be me.”

“Get up!” Shouts Burk, striking the butt of his shotgun at Jason’s back. Jason barely reacts, not even out of pain. His head is giving him all sorts of ringings and fog. It’s like an ongoing fireworks event is bouncing around in his head, and it ain’t letting up anytime soon. There’s enough awareness to get him to hold his hands up slowly, though he still groans in doing so.

“I’m coming, I’m coming… just give me a second ok?” Jason slurs in his remark. “My head’s a bit fuzzy.” He lightly shakes his head, not so much to push the intruders into making the problem any worse than it should. Afterwards, he suggests, “Mind we take this outside? I’d rather not die in a bar, personally speaking. I think that’s not gonna do me any favors for me after I’m dead.”

“No chance there, friend.” Jessup chimes in. “Boss wantin’ you dead. Right here, so nobody be goin’ and messin’ with us again.”

“Yeah!” Adds Burk, “So pipe down! Else, we make this a slow one.”

Jason blinked, his expression a mix of confusion, intoxication, and grumpiness. Some of it brought by the situation, part of it by the music. Just as his whole world was turning upside down; just when it seemed he was about to be done in at the worst possible way - the universe throws another wrench at the burning tractor that was Jason’s life.

Blaring from the radio like an insane bastard was about the worst song that could play at that moment: “Paraylized” by the Legendary Stardust Cowboy. It screeched with a mix of unintelligible lyrics screamed aloud, alongside a set of banging drums and cymbals. All that noise turned the fireworks in Jason’s head into a lineup of air horns playing simultaneously. It woke Jason’s sense quick, but at the cost of knowing that this song would be what followed him into the afterlife. If disappointment could kill, it would’ve done him away three times by now.

He held a finger up as he stared back between the music-player and the two goons. Then he begged, meaning it when he says, “Listen… if I’m dying, can I make one last request?”

Jessup pursed his lips, sighing gravely, “Yeah?”

“Please.” Jason pleaded aggressively, “Can I please change the song? I’ll die, alright, but it shouldn’t be to this. It can’t be to this. Anything but that piece of crap.”

All of them glanced towards the music player, to which even Jessup and his partner looked troubled at. Eye-twitching, it almost seemed heartless to make THAT the last thing for someone to hear before they die. After a moment he stepped aside, nodding to Burk to let Jason move ahead - though to keep his gun aimed still.

Slowly, on the death mark, Jason Cross makes his way to the player. He twitched and frowned at every incomprehensible shout from the singer, but prayed and gave thanks to the universe that - at the very least - he could change it before he died. For a moment he thought how easy it would be to run out through the hallway at this point, then out the back - but he knows that was his fear talking; were he to leave, it would only put his friends in danger in his stead. After a long, slow walk he made it to the music-player, studying it for a moment.

It was a neat little invention, inspired by the more modern techs made in the 21st century of the Old Earth. The player was a small rectangular box with a screen monitor that, when touched, would respond to the users action. It had a series of wires going into the walls, likely into the several speakers hidden throughout the saloon. The box was a brown color, to better match the area, but also dusted with age. The screen lit up past the dust, a sign that few ever come to change the music themselves. When Jason scrolled through the selection, he found it to be near infinite, thanks in part to the incredible storage this little box held. As he scrolled, he cycled through what music was available - as he couldn’t afford the time to be picky.

There were all sorts of songs, most of which had a country feel. There were variations of grunge, rock, and easy listening throughout the pre-selected library. Jason recognized some names: Eddie Arnold, the Larks, Dick Dale, along with some Van Morrison. He felt the clock ticking - he had to find something, anything.

If Jason Cross were to die today, he ought to die to something different.

He hovered his fingers to the monitor, closed his eyes, and picked a song at random.

Then, silence.

Nothing.

Soon, a screech - Jason’s ears perk and he cringes.

A guitar strums. The drums follow. There’s a beat that hits hard.

Jason’s eyes slowly open, and then his body eases. He turns away from the music player, and right there simply lets the music hit him. The lyrics come, sung by a dry voice that speaks of a rascal to be made dead. The song hits Jason in the way he needed, as if it woke him up - and pointed him on a path right back to those men.

For the first time in a long while, though he cannot say how, Jason felt good. A sensation crawls up his spine, and a light breathless chuckle erupts out softly.

The two men look confused, but Jessup is quick to shout in a pissed off tone, “Alright ‘den! Get on back ‘ere, Cross! It’s about time you died!”

Jason looks at them, and after a look around he slowly makes his way back. Being careful, he grabs something off the hallway wall and keeps it right close.

He moves further towards the two, stopping just right before them. Jason’s friends are unable to do much at this time, and the Bartender is just as stuck. His attention is immediately drawn to Jessup, whose lip twists into a grin - his bottom lip still sagging, enough to show his browned gums. Burk’s shotgun is aimed at the ready, and Jessup asks,

“Any final words?”

Jason doesn’t nod or shift for that moment, instead staring intensely right back at Jessup as he answers back, “Yeah…”

“...Draw.”

Quick as a flash! Jason flips his hands and produces a revolver, aimed right at Jessup’s throat. Both men were taken by surprise - the gun was too quick to register before it had already pinned close to his jugular. Jessup chokes a bit out of reflex, but he keeps his cool. He looks at Jason, right into his eyes - through the goggles he can see pure anger daggered right back with an odd greenish spark.

Rob is left surprised, holding the shotgun as he tries to get what had just happened. For a moment his eyes concentrate on the gun Jason’s holding.

“You be goin’ and making a big mistake.” Jessup scowls, spitting at his t’s and k’s.

Jason doesn’t give. He returns in kind, fierly. “I’ll be the fucking judge of that.”

Rob looks closer at the gun. He squints, and thinks aloud, “Is that a--”

SMASH! Shards of white porcelain and half-melted ice fall everywhere. Frankie is risen off his seat, holding a broken plate while all the other pieces are spread about or wedges into Burk’s head. The fat brute recoils in pain; the shotgun is lowered before it’s finally dropped.

Jason takes the opportunity, smacking the revolver upside the brutes head. Hard. Jessup falls to the side, also dropping the gun he’d stolen from Frankie before it slides far away.

Angry, Burk gets up and charges at Jason - he tackles him against the bar table and begins to lay down a series of heavy strikes against Jason’s face and body. Pinned down, Jason tries to fight back against the blows, by kicking against his fatter opponent. All the while the Bartender finally gets the chance to join in and tries to push Burk off Jason - as well, Frankie and Charlie try their best to smack at the man.

Not content with just punching, Burk ignored everything before pulling his knife from off his belt and goes for the stab.

The blade swings wildly, causing everybody around the two to step back to dodge. Burk’s hand raises high for the moment and he strikes down, landing a deep stab into the table - near Jason’s neck.

Jason keeps moving, but the man pulls and goes again for the kill - close enough to nick him on the cheek.

After a couple more swings, and a hefty shove to push everyone away, Burk slams the knife down. A hard scream is heard! Blood shoots up as the knife pierces Jason’s left shoulder!

It twists, and suddenly Jason’s adrenaline hikes up enough for him to launch the man away with a fierce kick - pushing him off and onto the floor.

Jason gets up, breathing harshly as his pained growls start to sound like a pained beast. He doesn’t have time to register the knife stuck on him, but instead his attention is immediately directed at the goon that put it there. Through the tinted goggles, all Jason could see was red.

Before Burk could even move an inch or utter a word, he’s quickly overcome by Jason - who starts to beat him with the gun he picked off the wall. Fierce blow after blow is unleashed upon the man, fueled by pure, unadulterated anger.

The others are frozen in terror. Jason goes mad with his beatings. With Burk on his ass and against the wall, there was nowhere to turn to to escape Jason’s pummeling. He’s beaten down by the gun; slammed in the face by Jason’s knee; his head kicked in by a downward stomp. In between the pain he could only catch a glimpse of how bull mad Jason was, and nothing more. Even when Jason loses his grip of the gun through the blood, he still keeps at it with his fist.

Blood splatters, against walls, tables, and chairs. The bar echoes with violent thuds and hectic breathing. Frankie, Charlie, and the Bartender watch Jason beat the man down - too shocked to get in the way. It’s hard, at this point, to even recognize the intruder’s face… or to know if he was even still alive at this point.

Meanwhile, as Jason keeps hitting, Jessup recovers and wakes from his blow. He spits some blood and a couple teeth onto the floor, before noticing the bloodied revolver that Jason struck him with - on the floor and within his reach. Struggling, he makes the grab and picks it up before aiming it right at Jason.

Jason finally notices, as does everyone else who all stare down at the grinning Jessup. Breathing hotly, and with his arms exhausted and blood-stained, Jason doesn’t do much, nor does he react strongly. All he does is look down at the injured brute aiming the gun.

Jessup lets out a pained laugh, with blood dripping off his lip. “All ya’ll are so dead. Every las’ fucking one of ya! Ain’t gonna be a soul alive once Boss Lars is done with you.”

He cackles and bleeds before pulling the trigger!

Nothing.

Not even a click.

His expression instantly sours into utter shock as he then turns the revolver - it is a replica. A fake.

Then he hears something getting picked off the floor. Looking up, he sees Jason holding Rob’s shotgun with one hand - aimed right at Jessup’s face.

Jason glares down at him, then, with barely restrained rage, states,

“I’d like to see you try.”

Click.

BANG! Ca-click, BANG!

The bar is showered by a large mist of blood. From where Jessup’s head once was, there is now only a mess of gore splattered all over the floor. Two walls are covered in blood and brain matter, and much of the bar table is colored in similar red. Trickles of it hit everyone, but not as much as it hits Jason.

Frankie, after a long pause of shock, lays against the table as he pants and wipes the blood off his face. He tries to look for his gun, but mentally puts that off for later.

Charlie stares on like a deer in headlights. He stands completely straight, as he looks on. Frightened, shocked… amazed, though he doesn’t say.

The Bartender is the least emotional or reactionary of them all. He takes a deep breath before slowly making his way to the back closet at the end of the bar.

Then there was Jason, standing there. A shotgun in one hand, and a knife wedged deep into his shoulder. He stands tough, breathing heavily as he finally has time to register all the wounds inflicted upon his face and body. It hurts, and it’s going to hurt even more.

As if on auto-pilot, Jason starts walking out of the saloon’s front door and doesn’t say a word. His friends take notice and start moving after him.

Right outside, the people of Blondie gather around the bar. They’ve since been woken up from the commotion in the saloon, and everyone from the craftsman, the traders, the local priest, the carers and the watchmen come to see what had happened. Even the Mayor has come out, dressed in his nightly finest, as he stands front and center along his people - men and women, young and elderly alike.

They had just come once the gunfire caught their attention, and were debating amongst themselves on who would be first to enter before they see Jason exit out from the building. They stand, shocked in seeing the bloodied Jason Cross walk out from the saloon - sporting a shotgun in one hand, and a knife jutting out his shoulder. Then, coming right after him was Frankie and Charlie, who both start to stare with uncertainty in what to do now. Frankie’s first instinct is to calm everyone, but he isn’t able to get a word in… not before Jason.

Crazed thoughts run through Jason’s mind alongside a constant ringing - a ringing that felt like it never left him, and he can’t remember a time where it wasn’t following alongside him to begin with. The pain is too strong, it’s catching up to his brain now. The drinking has finally come to the station, and it’s not kind to let the pain have its way on his senses. There’s nothing but noise, and through it Jason can only think sparse thoughts.

‘Can’t say my name.’

‘All I get is trouble.’

‘All my name brings is trouble.’

‘Have to say something.’

‘Have to say something now.’

‘Sometimes… I just wish I weren’t me.’

Jason drops the shotgun, and with that he then holds both his arms up as best he could. Then, with a crooked grin, he announces aloud, “People of Blondie. My name… is Frederick Cross… and I just saved the day.”

The crowd murmurs, and some look outright shocked. Shocked… and excited. The Mayor looks outright pleased.

Jason grins some more and chuckles, all before proceeding to fall backwards onto the unforgiving ground.

The last thing he sees before blacking out are the crowd of people coming to his body. As well, the concerned looks on both Frankie and Charlie’s faces.

The people of Blondie never stopped talking that night: of the man who saved their town from a couple of gun-toting hooligans, and the very name he bore.

Frederick Cross.

#CROSS #my writing #eyeofsemicolon #the5thsemicolon #semicolonthefifth #KRONOS #western #science fiction #sci fi

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