Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Buffy

A Wizard in Sunnydale (Buffy/HP): Faith Lehane helps a young man unload an antique trunk, full of spellbooks—and a functioning wand.
on SB, on SV, on AO3

You Are Worthy (Buffy/Thor): Melanie Wright leaves Asgard with Mjolnir's little brother, saving Dawn Summers on arrival.
on SB, on SV, on AO3

"She's a kid!" (Buffy/MCU AU): Leading the Commandos again is a satisfying experience. Taking them to the nineties wasn't exactly what I had in mind.
on SB, on SV, on AO3

Rituals Are Tricksy (Buffy/Dresden Files fusion): Acathla's fruition brings another dimension in, all right.
on SB, on SV, on AO3

A less-stealthy high school explosion (Buffy, canon divergence): What if blowing up Sunnydale High escaped the town's aura of unnoticeability?
on SB, on SV, on AO3

Slice of life (Buffy, OC with loose Sauron inspiration): Les can make some unbelievable sandwiches with his granddad's gear. Buffy sees so many possibilities.
on SB, on SV, on AO3

Once more, with existentialism (Buffy, OC Peggy Sue): I read about the exploits of Buffy Summers and company when their files got leaked. Guess I'll see how much I remember, along with enduring high school again.
on SB, on SV, on AO3

All the potential in the world (Buffy, canon divergence): Faith finds a very different niche with the Scoobies.
on SB, on SV, on AO3

There's fighting, and then there's fighting (Deep Space Nine/Buffy): Faith's a long way from home, or she would be if she had a place with that name.
on SB, on SV, on AO3

DC

A well-oiled machine (The Flash/Star Trek Adventures): We're Starfleet officers. We can handle this metahuman crisis.
on SB, on SV, on AO3

Standing with your mentors (Justice League: TAS/HP): Gloria just finished a fascinating book series, and now instead she has a wand. Can she really join a group of superheroes?
on SB, on SV, on AO3

Rage is my gift (DC, inspired by Young Justice, OC): Getting a Red Lantern ring makes my life much more complicated, but it also comes with new friends.
on SB, on SV, on AO3

Delegation (Harry Potter/Justice League AU): When Agents Pamela Isley, Kara Kent, and Jessie Chambers-Quick stumble into the aftermath of a wizard civil war, can Justice League Director Amanda Waller bring them home?
on SB, on SV, on AO3

Chrysalides (Batman mythos, OC): Is encountering supervillains an occupational hazard at Wayne Enterprises?
on SB, on SV, on AO3

Harry Potter

Delegation (Harry Potter/Justice League AU): When Agents Pamela Isley, Kara Kent, and Jessie Chambers-Quick stumble into the aftermath of a wizard civil war, can Justice League Director Amanda Waller bring them home?

on SB, on SV, on AO3

To solve your own problem, help someone else (HP/MCU): The Snap sent Peter and Steve to a magical castle. Can they find their way back amid the rise of a dormant dark lord?

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Have you got truth glasses? (HP/Marvel+DC): There's a dimensional kerfuffle, and I can see power-based things better than most, so off we go to this not-so-abandoned building.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Taking missed opportunities (Harry Potter/Mass Effect): I died on the Crucible, with my friend Ashley. Now I'm stuck in a wizard's head?

on SB, on SV, on AO3

High-tech high-rise, sorcerers' school, potato, tomato (HP AU/Deus Ex: HR): I'm head of security for this wizarding school, and I'll get to the bottom of this case.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Tipsy-tapsy-topsy-turvy (HP AU SI): Headmistress Hermione Granger-Weasley interviewing me to be not-defence professor is a fascinating experience. So few people are where they 'should' be.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Tachyon-Quantum Leap (HP/Deep Space Nine): Elim Garak leaves the Free Cardassian State in a hurry, and helps Sirius Black make smarter plans.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Mixed families (Harry Potter/Star Wars, pre-prequels): Master Sifo-Dyas gave his life to deliver us from that reality storm. Now we have a motley crew on a planet we've never heard of.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

First year student Severus Snape (HP, quasi-Peggy Sue): The potions master dies and is thrown back to 1971, retaining just enough memories along the way to open the possibility of preserving his friendship with Lily.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

A drop of comeuppance (HP, canon divergence): There are actual consequences for Snape's temper tantrum when he substitutes for Lupin.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

A Different Challenge (HP AU): What if Voldemort made only one horcrux successfully? What happens when Harry destroys it?

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Moving on from Pyrrhus (HP AUs cross): Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione have a chance to fight the war properly this time, though this dimension might just hold some surprises.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Closing the barn door can still help (HP, OotP canon divergence): Hogwarts gets some security that takes Umbridge's blood quills seriously.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

This Job Can Kill Ya (HP, SI): Wait, did I just save Cedric Diggory's life?

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Talk about a change of plans (HP, HBP canon divergence): Harry Potter dies for just a moment, and Severus Snape seizes the opportunity.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Who dies first? (HP, HBP canon divergence): When Harry Potter briefly dies, I have a tremendous opportunity to accelerate Dumbledore’s plans.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Souls are most intriguing things (HP, OotP OC): Somehow, on my first trip out of the Department of Mysteries, I run into dementors.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Riding the dark horse (HP, canon divergence): A special election after Fudge resigns, and I jot down a 'campaign statement'. Can't say I expected this.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

James Potter and the filial reunion (Goblet of Fire, pre-canon divergence): A fillip of magic, and the Potter parents are suspended in stasis for fourteen years, thought dead.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

A warped mirror still shows life (HP AU/HP): Peering into the future gets dicy when you're launched a thousand years forward.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

A Wizard in Sunnydale (Buffy/HP): Faith Lehane helps a young man unload an antique trunk, full of spellbooks—and a functioning wand.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

A Metaphysical Island (MCU/HP): Chief Auror Harry Potter and his community are transplanted into Novi Grad, meeting an entirely different crisis.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Finding a larger problem (MCU/HP): Ashley Cook never thought she'd meet the Avengers. At least she has plenty of spells to save the day with them.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Marvel

A Metaphysical Island (MCU/HP): Chief Auror Harry Potter and his community are transplanted into Novi Grad, meeting an entirely different crisis.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Finding a larger problem (MCU/HP): Ashley Cook never thought she'd meet the Avengers. At least she has plenty of spells to save the day with them.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

People are people, past and present (X-Men: Evolution/Days of Future Past): The Sentinels rose, but here I am back with the nascent X-Men.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Summer of '69 (Infinity War/Edge of Tomorrow): How many times does she have to live through the struggle for the Infinity Stones?

on SB, on SV, on AO3

It doesn't have to be a wasteland (Spider-Man/Fallout: New Vegas): I've traveled all over the Mojave, and now I'm in a pre-war New York, somehow. It might just be the opportunity of lifetimes.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

I Could Get Used To Yellow Spandex (X-Men TAS SI): Wow, I have superpowers! Fighting Sentinels is less amazing.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Counter-interference (MCU/DS9): The Defiant has a decidedly rougher passage through the wormhole than usual, and Captain Kira finds a city with a rocket strapped to the bottom.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

A long time ago (MCU/Star Wars): Jedi Sage Kilik Vindicarl is a seasoned archaeologist, but that comes second when she sees the need for help in New York.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Crash, crash, crash again (Marvel OC): Meeting the Red Skull would put a crimper in anyone's day.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

A zoo joins the spider (Spider-Man TAS OC): Peter Parker's not the only animal-themed metahuman in New York.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

In Every Hand (MCU, Age of Ultron divergence): A flying city is challenging, but when the residents help them bring it down, the Avengers have a whole new problem.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

No More Cowboys (MCU Civil War, OC, canon divergence): The Sokovia Accords are a mess, but the Avengers have constructive criticism.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

E pluribus unum, cum uno Avengers (MCU AU, OC): Ellie is a multitude, and she has news for Runelord Thor plus company.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Luminous beings are we (X-Men TAS, dragon OC): The mutant phenomenon is fascinating to observe, in a brutal, horribly uncomfortable sort of way. Mind you, many folks would say the same of me.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Identity conundrum (Winter Soldier, OC): I can be bulletproof, this is amazing! Turning into a woman while I do it, and encountering a firefight . . . roll with the punches?

on SB, on SV, on AO3

SATB arrangement (X-Men, bard OC): I'm a music man, and apparently mutants are a big deal now?

on SB, on SV, on AO3

You Are Worthy (Buffy/Thor): Melanie Wright leaves Asgard with Mjolnir's little brother, saving Dawn Summers on arrival.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

"She's a kid!" (Buffy/MCU AU): Leading the Commandos again is a satisfying experience. Taking them to the nineties wasn't exactly what I had in mind.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

To solve your own problem, help someone else (HP/MCU): The Snap sent Peter and Steve to a magical castle. Can they find their way back amid the rise of a dormant dark lord?

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Have you got truth glasses? (HP/Marvel+DC): There's a dimensional kerfuffle, and I can see power-based things better than most, so off we go to this not-so-abandoned building.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

People are people, past and present (X-Men: Evolution/Days of Future Past): The Sentinels rose, but here I am back with the nascent X-Men.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Powers Don't Make You (New Vegas/Marvel, OC): Steve didn't want a sojourn in a nuclear wasteland, particularly with a civilian in tow, but at least they have a guide.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Hammer, shield, and . . . license? (MHA/MCU): Musutafu doesn't quite know how to handle Steve Rogers, with or without his hammer.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Mass Effect

I Hate Using The Phone (Mass Effect SI): I'm not qualified to be in the field, but I'll help Shepard any way I can.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Perspectives on law enforcement (Mass Effect/Attack of the Clones): When my mission on Virmire is interrupted before it even begins, I have to investigate. The packed arena I find is baffling, to say the least.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Taking missed opportunities (Harry Potter/Mass Effect): I died on the Crucible, with my friend Ashley. Now I'm stuck in a wizard's head?

on SB, on SV, on AO3

I don't ride side-saddle (Protector of the Small/Mass Effect): It's half a miracle that we survived the Reaper War, even if we'll be spending years in this magical medieval planet.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Star Trek

There's fighting, and then there's fighting (Deep Space Nine/Buffy): Faith's a long way from home, or she would be if she had a place with that name.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Not-so-minor talents (DS9/Dresden Files RPG): Magical powers aren't the worst thing to have, when you're shoved onto a space station under imminent assault.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

I'm no geopolitical expert, but (DS9 OC, quasi-SI): My life on 21st-century Earth wasn't exactly a lie, and I'm making a place for myself on this space station.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

A well-oiled machine (The Flash/Star Trek Adventures): We're Starfleet officers. We can handle this metahuman crisis.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Tachyon-Quantum Leap (HP/Deep Space Nine): Elim Garak leaves the Free Cardassian State in a hurry, and helps Sirius Black make smarter plans.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Counter-interference (MCU/DS9): The Defiant has a decidedly rougher passage through the wormhole than usual, and Captain Kira finds a city with a rocket strapped to the bottom.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

A hand up after calamities (Shadowrun/Star Trek): A starship might be just what the Sixth World needs. Hope I can make a good captain!

on SB, on SV, on AO3

The Oaths We Swear (MHA AU/Star Trek): We've been forced to land on a pre-warp planet. Can I fit in with 'professional heroes in training'?

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Thinking With Portals (Star Wars/Star Trek) [The Phantom Menace/Deep Space Nine]: Captain Kira Nerys receives Padawan Kenobi's distress call, interrupting their scouting trip through the recently-opened network of wormholes.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Star Wars

What A Fine Mess (Phantom Menace SI): I'm not looking forward to the problem of Palpatine, even before he becomes Supreme Chancellor.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Family ain't easy (A New Hope SI): The Death Star maybe isn't the best place to join the Rebellion.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Thinking With Portals (Star Wars/Star Trek) [The Phantom Menace/Deep Space Nine]: Captain Kira Nerys receives Padawan Kenobi's distress call, interrupting their scouting trip through the recently-opened network of wormholes.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

"Are you going to kill me, Anakin?" (RotS divergence): With a different headspace, Anakin isn't quite as calm when Palpatine reveals his identity.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

A delivery to Coruscant (Phantom Menace, OC): Independent trader Tossk Amara is going from Tatooine to the heart of the Republic, and she's taking passengers along with her cargo.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

A great shield (Phantom Menace, OC): A goddess enters the fray of Maul's duel on Naboo. I, as her herald, kind of have to be there too.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Jedi lost and found (pre-prequels, OC): Dooku's trip to Serenno has several Jedi staying there for a while.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Same everything, different millennium (Revenge of the Sith, OC): Hibernated for four thousand years, but it looks like we still have Sith fighting Jedi. I'm getting sick of it.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

A switch in time (Revenge of the Sith, OC, canon divergence): Our teleportation experiment worked more or less as hoped, but we chose either a bad time or the best time to give Mr. Skywalker and Master Windu a break.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Mixed families (Harry Potter/Star Wars, pre-prequels): Master Sifo-Dyas gave his life to deliver us from that reality storm. Now we have a motley crew on a planet we've never heard of.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

A long time ago (MCU/Star Wars): Jedi Sage Kilik Vindicarl is a seasoned archaeologist, but that comes second when she sees the need for help in New York.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Perspectives on law enforcement (Mass Effect/Attack of the Clones): When my mission on Virmire is interrupted before it even begins, I have to investigate. The packed arena I find is baffling, to say the least.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Slavery is bad (The Guns of the South/Star Wars): Droid freedom is a dangerous cause to champion, and we've fled—right into a war over keeping their own fellows in chains.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Family ain’t easy (A New Hope SI): Growing up in the Empire is not for the faint of heart, even though I know it’ll be gone before I turn twenty.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

So many troubled waters (Attack of the Clones AU/Legend of Korra): Becoming the Avatar is more of a challenge when nobody knows who that is.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Other

Powers Don't Make You (New Vegas/Marvel, OC): Steve didn't want a sojourn in a nuclear wasteland, particularly with a civilian in tow, but at least they have a guide.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Hammer, shield, and . . . license? (MHA/MCU): Musutafu doesn't quite know how to handle Steve Rogers, with or without his hammer.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

I don't ride side-saddle (Protector of the Small/Mass Effect): It's half a miracle that we survived the Reaper War, even if we'll be spending years in this magical medieval planet.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

A Knight, and a Templar (Dragon Age/Dresden Files): Harry Dresden and Michael Carpenter might be just the visitors Thedas needs, with that hole in the sky.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

More than fairy tales (Disney Princesses SI): Usually "Disneytown" is a term for Burbank or one of the themeparks, but I seem to have moved to a different location for the appellation.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Failure is mandatory (Schlock Mercenary SI): I don't know why I know so much about this small mercenary company, but I have faith in them to protect me from whatever intelligence agency messed with me.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

"I know that one!" (The Mummy quasi-SI): Hamunaptra, Imhotep, that's just an old story, right? Except I just met Rick, Evelyn, Jonathan . . .

on SB, on SV, on AO3

A hand up after calamities (Shadowrun/Star Trek): A starship might be just what the Sixth World needs. Hope I can make a good captain!

on SB, on SV, on AO3

The Oaths We Swear (MHA AU/Star Trek): We've been forced to land on a pre-warp planet. Can I fit in with 'professional heroes in training'?

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Slavery is bad (The Guns of the South/Star Wars): Droid freedom is a dangerous cause to champion, and we've fled—right into a war over keeping their own fellows in chains.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Different Walks of Life (Incredibles/Satisfactory): Being back in the old days of supers is definitely more interesting than putting up thousands of factory machines on another planet.on SB, on SV, on AO3

Teamwork Makes The Dream Work (MHA, OC, canon divergence): A young teacher discovers All Might's injury—can she do anything about it?

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Around the World: A Dragon's Tale (The Hobbit, dragon OC): Twelve dwarves, a wizard, and a hobbit get some unexpected company on their quest.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Large and in charge (Dragon Age Inquisition, semi-modern OC): I had a perfectly nice life in this village, and now I'm getting visions of scientific developments. Guess I've been dragooned into the Inquisition?

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Free soil and free men (1776 OC): The Continental Congress' debate on independence gets thornier when I enter, as the entire delegation from Vermont.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Stealing him (Wynonna Earp, OC): Purgatory loses nothing when I body-snatch Tucker Gardner. It's nice to interact with the world, after so long watching.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

The present and the president (The West Wing Delmarva ISOT to 1861): I didn't see my job as executive liaison ever including a massive national modernization project, but here we are.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Destined, my left foot (Digimon SI): I've been forced into the role of chaperone since we got sucked into the Digital World, but I'm going to do it properly.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Enduring a temporal war (Terminator-real life fusion): Wait, there's a real time-traveling cyborg assassin? Where's Sarah Connor?

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Rituals Are Tricksy (Buffy/Dresden Files fusion): Acathla's fruition brings another dimension in, all right.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

High-tech high-rise, sorcerers' school, potato, tomato (HP AU/Deus Ex: HR): I'm head of security for this wizarding school, and I'll get to the bottom of this case.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Summer of '69 (Infinity War/Edge of Tomorrow): How many times does she have to live through the struggle for the Infinity Stones?

on SB, on SV, on AO3

It doesn't have to be a wasteland (Spider-Man/Fallout: New Vegas): I've traveled all over the Mojave, and now I'm in a pre-war New York, somehow. It might just be the opportunity of lifetimes.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Not-so-minor talents (DS9/Dresden Files RPG): Magical powers aren't the worst thing to have, when you're shoved onto a space station under imminent assault.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

A Force of ten thousand dynes (Phantom Menace/Girl Genius): Mad scientists and a tottering Galactic Republic. What could go wrong?

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Get in, get out (Attack of the Clones/Deus Ex: HR): From Detroit to Panchaea, except of course Darrow's installation had to blow up, and now I'm somewhere else entirely.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Here I come (Ready or Not (2019)/Marvel): What kind of wedding involves shooting people? I didn’t think this would be like my day job.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

So many troubled waters (Attack of the Clones AU/Legend of Korra): Becoming the Avatar is more of a challenge when nobody knows who that is.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

You think you're so clever (medley): The times when someone could have made a smart remark, without being rude or changing anything.

on SB, on SV, on AO3

Chapter Text

Story: Once more, with existentialism (Buffy, OC Peggy Sue): I read about the exploits of Buffy Summers and company when their files got leaked. Guess I'll see how much I remember, along with enduring high school again.
Story: People are people, past and present (X-Men: Evolution/Days of Future Past): The Sentinels rose, but here I am back with the nascent X-Men.
Problem: Bridging the gap between this opening and the actual episodes is a bit of a trick.

Story: Perspectives on law enforcement (Mass Effect/Attack of the Clones): When my mission on Virmire is interrupted before it even begins, I have to investigate. The packed arena I find is baffling, to say the least.
Problem: Can Jedi meaningfully fight Reapers? Will this make any difference overall?

Story: You Are Worthy (Buffy/Thor): Melanie Wright leaves Asgard with Mjolnir's little brother, saving Dawn Summers on arrival.
Problem: Deliberately threw out Buffy's employment problems, but it's hard to describe Melanie's new job.

Story: A less-stealthy high school explosion (Buffy, canon divergence): What if blowing up Sunnydale High escaped the town's aura of unnoticeability?
Problem: Depicting the fall of the masquerade is challenging.

Story: Rage is my gift (DC, inspired by Young Justice, OC): Getting a Red Lantern ring makes my life much more complicated, but it also comes with new friends.
Problem: Different Team concept and roster means a lot of my own creative thought here.

Story: Hammer, shield, and . . . license? (MHA/MCU): Musutafu doesn't quite know how to handle Steve Rogers, with or without his hammer.
Problem: Either plant Steve at UA, make large chunks of my own plot, or timeskip to the next incident.

Story: This Job Can Kill Ya (HP, SI): Wait, did I just save Cedric Diggory's life?
Problem: Forgot why Snape hurries away with me, so I have to remember or redetermine before writing the next part.

Story: First year student Severus Snape (HP, quasi-Peggy Sue): The potions master dies and is thrown back to 1971, retaining just enough memories along the way to open the possibility of preserving his friendship with Lily.
Problem: Gotta make up my own plot for his school years.

Story: Delegation (Harry Potter/Justice League AU): When Agents Pamela Isley, Kara Kent, and Jessie Chambers-Quick stumble into the aftermath of a wizard civil war, can Justice League Director Amanda Waller bring them home?
Problem: Have to make up almost all of this plot, with little information on the immediate post-war period.

Story: The present and the president (The West Wing Delmarva ISOT to 1861): I didn't see my job as executive liaison ever including a massive national modernization project, but here we are.
Problem: Having actual history as the base only helps when things haven't been thrown hilariously off track.

Story: Get in, get out (Attack of the Clones/Deus Ex: HR): From Detroit to Panchaea, except of course Darrow's installation had to blow up, and now I'm somewhere else entirely.
Story: Thinking With Portals (Star Wars/Star Trek) [The Phantom Menace/Deep Space Nine]: Captain Kira Nerys receives Padawan Kenobi's distress call, interrupting their scouting trip through the recently-opened network of wormholes.
Story: A delivery to Coruscant (Phantom Menace, OC): Independent trader Tossk Amara is going from Tatooine to the heart of the Republic, and she's taking passengers along with her cargo.
Story: A great shield (Phantom Menace, OC): A goddess enters the fray of Maul's duel on Naboo. I, as her herald, kind of have to be there too.
Story: Same everything, different millennium (Revenge of the Sith, OC): Hibernated for four thousand years, but it looks like we still have Sith fighting Jedi. I'm getting sick of it.
Story: A switch in time (Revenge of the Sith, OC, canon divergence): Our teleportation experiment worked more or less as hoped, but we chose either a bad time or the best time to give Mr. Skywalker and Master Windu a break.
Problem: How does Palpatine react to this wrinkle? I'm sure he would come up with something, but I'm not good at getting into his head.

Story: More than fairy tales (Disney Princesses SI): Usually "Disneytown" is a term for Burbank or one of the themeparks, but I seem to have moved to a different location for the appellation.
Problem: I have a skeleton of the future plot, which is something, but less than I need for writing the next part.

Story: Have you got truth glasses? (HP/Marvel+DC): There's a dimensional kerfuffle, and I can see power-based things better than most, so off we go to this not-so-abandoned building.
Problem: I have no idea how Dumbledore and company will react to straight-up superheroes.

Story: A hand up after calamities (Shadowrun/Star Trek): A starship might be just what the Sixth World needs. Hope I can make a good captain!
Problem: I have to make up the entire plot myself. Nothing to go on but cribbing from campaigns in the rulebooks or video games, which is . . . eh.

Story: Taking missed opportunities (Harry Potter/Mass Effect): I died on the Crucible, with my friend Ashley. Now I'm stuck in a wizard's head?
Problem: I have to wait quite a while for the really interesting part, and timeskipping robs us of the emotional weight.

Story: Teamwork Makes The Dream Work (MHA, OC, canon divergence): A young teacher discovers All Might's injury—can she do anything about it?
Problem: I set this up to heal All Might, but that can just be an AU. Overall, the two crosses I have are more promising ground for MHA storytelling.

Story: There's fighting, and then there's fighting (Deep Space Nine/Buffy): Faith's a long way from home, or she would be if she had a place with that name.
Problem: I'd like to skip to Faith's return, but that feels rather like a bait and switch.

Story: Powers Don't Make You (New Vegas/Marvel, OC): Steve didn't want a sojourn in a nuclear wasteland, particularly with a civilian in tow, but at least they have a guide.
Problem: I've forgotten what the original exploration was, and Fallout is kinda depressing to write in. Of everything I've written, this is the least likely to get any more.

Story: Tipsy-tapsy-topsy-turvy (HP AU SI): Headmistress Hermione Granger-Weasley interviewing me to be not-defence professor is a fascinating experience. So few people are where they 'should' be.
Problem: Lost my notes for the generational switcheroo, so I have to find them or redo them for a second part.

Story: Rituals Are Tricksy (Buffy/Dresden Files fusion): Acathla's fruition brings another dimension in, all right.
Problem: Melding in the cosmology of an unfinished series is daunting.

Story: Crash, crash, crash again (Marvel OC): Meeting the Red Skull would put a crimper in anyone's day.
Problem: Psychological examinations are challenging.

Story: I don't ride side-saddle (Protector of the Small/Mass Effect): It's half a miracle that we survived the Reaper War, even if we'll be spending years in this magical medieval planet.
Problem: Should Shepard wildly outclass medieval warriors/soldiers in the impending fight? Later, I'll have to find some combination of making up my own plot, and justifying Shepard remaining with Keladry.

Story: Enduring a temporal war (Terminator-real life fusion): Wait, there's a real time-traveling cyborg assassin? Where's Sarah Connor?
Problem: Skynet's response to seeing the movies almost throws out the rest of the timeline, for T2 and after.

Story: High-tech high-rise, sorcerers' school, potato, tomato (HP AU/Deus Ex: HR): I'm head of security for this wizarding school, and I'll get to the bottom of this case.
Problem: Still considering exactly what else here is AU.

Story: "I know that one!" (The Mummy quasi-SI): Hamunaptra, Imhotep, that's just an old story, right? Except I just met Rick, Evelyn, Jonathan . . .
Problem: Trying to preserve just enough of the original plot for the story I want to tell.

Story: Different Walks of Life (Incredibles/Satisfactory): Being back in the old days of supers is definitely more interesting than putting up thousands of factory machines on another planet.
Problem: Well, I've nicely derailed the second movie. Now I need something to replace it.

Story: In Every Hand (MCU, Age of Ultron divergence): A flying city is challenging, but when the residents help them bring it down, the Avengers have a whole new problem.
Problem: Welp, Civil War and the Accords will look very different, if they happen at all.

Story: Slavery is bad (The Guns of the South/Star Wars): Droid freedom is a dangerous cause to champion, and we've fled—right into a war over keeping their own fellows in chains.
Problem: Welp, threw out the plot of the base setting, now what?

Story: Jedi lost and found (pre-prequels, OC): Dooku's trip to Serenno has several Jedi staying there for a while.
Problem: Went back to Dooku's possible turning point, but I have to make up the plot myself now.

Story: A Force of ten thousand dynes (Phantom Menace/Girl Genius): Mad scientists and a tottering Galactic Republic. What could go wrong?
Story: What A Fine Mess (Phantom Menace SI): I'm not looking forward to the problem of Palpatine, even before he becomes Supreme Chancellor.
Story: "Are you going to kill me, Anakin?" (RotS divergence): With a different headspace, Anakin isn't quite as calm when Palpatine reveals his identity.
Problem: What happens after Palpatine dies? I'm drawing a bit of a blank for interesting story beats now that the Big Bad is dead.

Story: A Metaphysical Island (MCU/HP): Chief Auror Harry Potter and his community are transplanted into Novi Grad, meeting an entirely different crisis.
Problem: Where's my first-person perspective, and how do I depict the familiar characters as adults?

Story: To solve your own problem, help someone else (HP/MCU): The Snap sent Peter and Steve to a magical castle. Can they find their way back amid the rise of a dormant dark lord?
Story: Talk about a change of plans (HP, HBP canon divergence): Harry Potter dies for just a moment, and Severus Snape seizes the opportunity.

Story: "She's a kid!" (Buffy/MCU AU): Leading the Commandos again is a satisfying experience. Taking them to the nineties wasn't exactly what I had in mind.
Story: Tachyon-Quantum Leap (HP/Deep Space Nine): Elim Garak leaves the Free Cardassian State in a hurry, and helps Sirius Black make smarter plans.
Story: Moving on from Pyrrhus (HP AUs cross): Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione have a chance to fight the war properly this time, though this dimension might just hold some surprises.
Problem: Where's my first-person perspective? It took me a while to realize that my comfort zone is first person present, and not using a canon character's perspective. Adjusting these to fit that preference is nontrivial.

Story: A drop of comeuppance (HP, canon divergence): There are actual consequences for Snape's temper tantrum when he substitutes for Lupin.
Story: Closing the barn door can still help (HP, OotP canon divergence): Hogwarts gets some security that takes Umbridge's blood quills seriously.

Story: Slice of life (Buffy, OC with loose Sauron inspiration): Les can make some unbelievable sandwiches with his granddad's gear. Buffy sees so many possibilities.
Problem: Will this really affect the plot? Yes, fun moments in the first two, but in general what happened isn't going to affect canon all that much. Horcrux hunt, Initiative, Glory, nothing spells a change worth reading about.

Story: The bottom quartile or so of my opening snippets measured by likes, the ones without comments.

Problem: I'm not complaining about this, you all enjoy what you enjoy. But if my audience isn't engaging with a concept, I'm not really inclined to develop it further—especially for the stories also mentioned above, where I have a real creative hurdle as opposed to just waiting for my muse to flow.

These creative hurdles are not all of the same degree, of course, but they should provide some indication of where you shouldn't get your hopes up for more story.

Note that the current snippet guide has been reorganized by fandom. If you like Marvel stuff but are less interested in Star Trek, for example, you can stick to that section without looking for it specifically.

Chapter Text

I really feel like there’s something to work with when it comes to Hogwarts and Skyhold, particularly with the Breach, but the details are eluding me.

Same deal with Armin Shimerman and Nathan Fillion, having major roles in DS9/Firefly respectively as well as Buffy.

HP/Shadowrun: “Help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it. We shall be welcoming many new witches and wizards, of our traditions and those still emerging.”

Jurassic Park/DC: Deputy Director Waller seizes control of the Isla Nublar facility when Nedry’s sabotage becomes clear; I’m in charge of retrieving the children.

“When the fourth of three has been chosen,
The whiskey-eyed broom-shy child of cooks
Shall come to the aid of frightened young Dumbledore”
A prophecy is made, and I’m whisked back a century upon Harry’s selection. Then there are a few encounters with Ariana and her descendants before returning.

Age of Ultron/Alien: Resurrection/Rogue Legacy 2: I find a relic that vibes of getting Novi Grad out of the sky, and that’s exactly what it does—except now Cap and I have to deal with the Auriga. Repeatedly dying is a sound strategy for me, but it’s also chaotic and painful.

Terminator 2/original: I have several visions of great moments of compassion across fiction (probably only works that didn’t exist in 1991), giving me the motivation to help John and ‘Uncle Bob’—and, more importantly, the ability to lean on the skills of anyone with whom there is mutual trust, even creating a shared group.

Infinity War/Legend of Korra: My quasi-joyride in a discovered Iron Man suit is brought to a halt when I crash into Thanos’ head at just the right moment. Instead of killing half the universe, there’s a portal from Wakanda to Republic City. Much of the team, including the fugitive Avengers, goes to investigate.

Original supernatural horror: I’ve had a lovely hike in the park, and as the afternoon turns to evening I see one of the cabins set up for people to rest for the day. When I investigate the attic, and crash on the big blanket stored up there, I’m just ahead of a few men entering downstairs. And the spirit of the woman they killed an hour ago, telling me that they’re ageless cannibals. If I’m the last one standing/alive come morning, she’ll be revived and they’ll die. (Four different endings here, might try giving the main story away on Kobo/Amazon and selling those four for pocket change.)

Deus Ex/Phantom Menace gumbo: It’s surprising to walk into a conference call between some corpo guy asking for ‘Jedi’ help with a hostage situation at his factory, and another dude with an impressively tall head. It’s very weird to be acclaimed as a ‘Jedi Master’, particularly since I’m now furry and two feet tall and overall adorable. Guess I’ll try going down there and sorting things out, though.

MHA/HP: After three years and lots of negotiations with heteromorphic folks, I finally have a wand that feels good in my hand. My quirk is no longer described as ‘weird things happen’. But to make full use of my magic, I’ll need a hero license.

HP/X-Men: Of all the powers to get, as a child in witching Britain, Shadowcat’s isn’t too bad. But there is the building worry that more mutants are coming, and I’m not too optimistic about our treatment. Maybe the Triwizard Tournament will be good entertainment.

Chapter Text

Feel free, of course, to chime in and express desire for one of the notions in this post or its predecessor.

Star Trek-Buffy: The Slayer is a long-standing Bajoran tradition, and the Scoobies move to DS9 when the station moves to the wormhole and diverts massive amounts of Hellmouth energy. I'm an attache reporting to Sisko when the provisional government demands their involvement.

Buffy/Firefly: Nathan Fillion plays both Mal and Caleb, so having the Serenity land on Earth-That-Was through some shenanigans would be delightful.

Star Trek-Lantern Corps: A White Lantern arrives in the midst of the Borg battle right after the opening of [i]First Contact[/i]; they're a significant force protecting first the Federation Fleet, and then the crew of the Enterprise.

Power Rangers: What if in addition to five teenagers with some grounding in martial arts or another physical pursuit, there were an adult with very little acrobatic prowess? Enter the Brown Ranger, with the ability to serve as a life mentor for the young adults. His morphed suit is a thick suit of armor to give the Putties a target, and his Zord is an ankylosaurus that becomes the Megazord’s shield.

Buffy/original: Speed Diva was a comic book character in-universe, who could move faster the more people were watching him. And then he pops into being during the fight against the Mayor. [The main point here is kind of inverting the ‘person drops into a setting they previously thought was fictional’, so I’m up for changing the Buffy part.]

Mass Effect, semi-SI: Loosely inspired by time loop stories, and heavily inspired by the fundamental difference between a video game story crafted with painstaking effort to take your choices into account, versus having a human dungeon master running your campaign. What if Commander Shepard woke up, after either the beacon or Project Lazarus, and started acting differently? Not with questionable judgment, so much as just not saying the things that people aren’t quite aware they expect? (Because your dialog options are fundamentally limited, slightly more so here for budgetary reasons as the lines are voiced.) Could new possibilities open up?

Glass Onion ‘blind’ SI: Duke Cody starts acting very differently after his near-death experience on the ride to Andi’s house, leaving the alt-right and decrying toxic masculinity. How’s he going to like the party on Miles’ island?

Original supernatural horror: After a short ferry trip to a tourist trap on a small island, I ask for the restroom when I notice my companions are acting like they were roofied. My increasingly worried contortions by the commode’s window activate a pause menu. Can these odd abilities save the day? (Same deal with multiple endings)

Something/Terminator franchise: The temporal war between Skynet and the resistance has many iterations; this one has a T-1100, liquid metal capable of using some materials for self-repair, assault a small base with a time-travel device. When it wrecks a T-800’s day in the middle of the activating sphere, where will this mission-less machine land, and will it think it’s human after all that chaos and consumption pre-journey?

Marvel/Star Trek: Starfleet handles a lot of things with the strict hierarchy of captain and crew, a lot of which is routine. Then you have the Rangers, people trained to tackle the extremely unusual. Some of them have extraordinary abilities, but the emphasis is on their character. Of course, that’s a good setup/setting, but I’d be pulling the actual plot from somewhere else.

Harry Potter: What if Dumbledore had yielded to Petunia’s pleas to attend Hogwarts, despite not having magic? Though, same as my ‘Snape gets set back to his first year and sorted into Gryffindor’ fic, I’d have to construct the whole plot there.

Harry Potter, mild AU for timeline adjustment: A community of dryads has a rocky transition from their homeland to magical Britain, initially landing in 1977 where a young half-human encounters Severus Snape right after he hears the prophecy. Then they complete their arrival in 1991, greeting Professor Severus Evans and his daughters by Petunia, along with their cousin Harry.

Tomb Raider (2013)/Marvel: I’m the accountant on this trip, going along personally because of reasons. At some point during the introductory cutscenes, Lara and I have otherworldly experiences: she gets stabbed by Wolverine to bestow his claws/adamantium/regeneration, I’m wrapped in Mr. Fantastic until I stretch just as much. We’ll get Sam back, without a river of blood.

Chapter Text

On October 31, 1981, Tom Marvolo Riddle offered Lily Evans Potter a deal: stand aside, and he would kill her son Harry. A choice freely given, and freely refused. Her sacrifice invoked ancient magic, and while she died, Harry was protected from Riddle's killing curse.

On June 6, 1994, the traitor Peter Pettigrew was held at wandpoint, moments from death. He pleaded with his former friends Sirius Black and Remus Lupin to spare his life, and they refused. Again he asked Ronald Weasley, the boy whose pet he had been for three years, and again he refused. Finally, he asked Harry Potter, the boy his treachery had orphaned, and his request was granted, creating a life-debt that was repaid at the cost of Pettigrew's own life nearly four years later.

On May 2, 1998, Severus Snape completed his mission of nearly seventeen years, departing a life beyond bearing while priming the man who had killed his lost love for his final defeat. He passed crucial memories to Harry Potter, the boy he had hated for seven years, including the knowledge that Snape wished above all else that Potter would never know of his secret efforts, or that he still loved Lily Potter.

As Snape died, his last thought was a wish to undo his greatest mistake. He believed that his path to serving Riddle began when he betrayed Lily Evans in his fifth year, calling her a Mudblood when she defended him from his frequent bullies. But with that vial of memories, and his dying regret, old magic took a different route. Severus Snape passed into darkness, but a few shreds of who he had been went somewhere else entirely.

Severus fell into a fitful sleep soon after leaving Potter and his friends, but his dreams were just as unpleasant. They were a semi-connected string of scenes; had they been less disturbing, Severus would likely have noticed that they were far more logical and consistent than dreams tend to be. He saw himself sorted into Slytherin, and drifting away from Lily, despite the strength of their pre-Hogwarts friendship. He and Potter became bitter enemies, and he became comfortable with the Dark Arts with his housemates -- and almost eager to excuse their misdeeds to Lily. It came to a head when she defended him from Potter and he called her - that word. It was the last straw, and everything fell apart from there. The next thing he knew, he was holding her terribly still body and weeping. Again, the shock drove him away, and Severus somehow found himself standing next to Professor Dumbledore, discussing the behavior of Durmstrang's headmaster, who was desperate to evade the consequences for his former support of Voldemort - and Dumbledore said he was brave, and that perhaps they sorted too soon.

An hour ago, Severus had firmly declared his allegiance to Slytherin and contempt for the 'brainless bullies' of Gryffindor. Now, as he shivered, looking at Lily with a shadow of grief from his nightmare (must have been, right?), he was torn.

Severus stood with the other first-years as his turn approached. Black, Potter, and Lily had all been sorted into Gryffindor, and he honestly didn't know what he wanted. Paramount, of course, was preserving his friendship with her, but could he turn his back on Slytherin? Could he hope to avoid his nightmare without holding it off from the start?

His ruminations, brief as they were from the short interval between "Potter, James" and "Snape, Severus", were still short of a conclusion when he was prompted to assume the chair and don the Sorting Hat.

"Well, well, this is quite interesting indeed. Brains and talent, sure enough," the Hat mused.

"I, I think I want to be in Gryffindor, with Lily," Severus said hesitantly, and the Hat harrumphed at that.

"You're not the one doing the choosing, Mister Snape. I'm the Sorting Hat, not the Pick Whatever House You Like Hat. Mmm, Gryffindor does suit you. Hmm, yes. Not Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw, certainly, they're not where you belong. Slytherin or Gryffindor..."

Severus sat there nervously, cowed into obedience by the Hat's admonishment. He knew it was irrational, but the nightmare from the train still bothered him.

"Well, I suppose you may think you've gotten your way, but I don't place people where they shouldn't go, even in GRYFFINDOR!"

The last word was shouted to the whole hall, and not a moment too soon, as Severus walked tentatively to Lily's side at the Gryffindor table. She smiled as he sat, and he tried to return it. Perhaps -

"So, you're one of the 'brainless bullies', eh, Snape?" James tossed at him, smirking.

Severus reddened, and couldn't think of a good comeback. Fortunately, he didn't have to.

"What's this?" a fifth-year interjected, and Severus spotted a prefect's badge on her robes.

"Snape here said Gryffindors were brainless bullies, on the train," Black offered.

Lily huffed at Black and Potter. "We all say foolish things sometimes. Right, Sev?"

He just nodded. He wasn't sure his assessment on the train had been so wrong, particularly about those two miscreants (oh, they would break the rules, he was sure of it), but best not to insult his new housemates.

The prefect just raised an eyebrow.

"Well, then. I'm sure 'Sev' will think before he speaks more, and we won't hold it against him."

Potter and Black shrugged, and Lily sighed.

"I hope that'll be the end of it. So why didn't you go into Slytherin? I thought you were sure of it?"

Severus looked down, unable to meet her eyes.

"Dunno," he muttered. "Hat sent me to Gryffindor, so here I am."

She patted his back, and he couldn't help but warm a bit.

"Oh, Sev, I'm glad you're here with me, truly. It would have been no fun with my only friend in another house."

Chapter Text

“Speak,” Mace Windu barked into his comlink.

“The Chancellor was the Sith Lord the Council’s been looking for, Master Windu,” Skywalker told him, and he could hear remarkable strain in the young knight’s voice.

The Korun was at a loss for words, and took a few moments to assemble a coherent response.

“This sounds like quite a story, Skywalker,” he said at last. Windu was glad that he hadn’t been doing anything important, merely having lunch—though his appetite might just be spoiled by this discussion.

“He revealed himself to me, expecting that I’d be conflicted enough to delay any action on the matter,” Skywalker told him. His attention was focused much more clearly now, and the pain shone clearly in the younger Jedi’s voice.

“Hmm, never mind about the story for now.” Windu grimaced, judging that the initial 'was' came from a duel that the young man had won at a cost. “Where are you? Is there any danger?”

“In his chambers, Master,” and the Council member immediately began planning a route. “I don’t believe so, but some medical attention would be nice.”

“I’ll alert the healers, and grab a senior Jedi or two on the way,” Windu promised.

Mace had long been worried about the relationship between young Anakin and the Chancellor, but this development turned that in an entirely new direction. Of course, rumination on that matter couldn't be his first priority, as he navigated the skyways of Coruscant while calling the Temple's infirmary and the Senate's medical staff, along with running down the list of available Jedi on Coruscant. Cin Drallig made his own beeline from the training wing (leaving the war-shrunken class in the hands of his deputy), and Yoda was in the Senate chambers already. Solid men, to be sure, and a mass of Jedi descending upon the scene would complicate matters - his musing was cut off by meeting two doctors at the garage, and giving a briefing truly worthy of the source adjective.

"Things can't ever be simple nowadays, can they, Master Windu?" Knight Castra remarked, taking the controls before he could. He grimaced, seating himself as she peeled out of the parking space.

"I was unaware that our Order ever dealt with the run of the mill matters," he retorted, conveniently ignoring that Jedi careers were largely filled with fairly mundane reports.

She merely grunted in reply. Windu had rued the Jedi being too close to the Republic's government more than once as they were forced into the role of soldier during the Clone Wars, and now he was thankful for the physical proximity. Minutes after departure, he jumped out of the vehicle to land gracefully in the docking bay, though Castra and Master Tellamun waited another handful of seconds to finish parking. Hurrying to the Supreme Chancellor's wing, they ran into Drallig; the battlemaster clearly wanted to race to Anakin himself, but with Yoda already on the scene, there was little to gain.

Indeed, the diminutive Grandmaster had corralled a handful of Senate medical personnel around Skywalker, and nodded sharply as he saw them approach. Castra and Tellamun joined the treatment, while Drallig steadied the nerves of the guards.

"Tell this tale many times, you shall," chided Yoda, and Mace couldn't tell if Anakin's wince was from debridement of his arms or the Councilor's tone.

"He told me that he had been trained in the dark side of the Force, and offered to do the same for me. The Chancellor made it very clear that he fundamentally disagreed with the Jedi, and not as a merely philosophical matter," he recounted. Mace gritted his teeth, primarily at the continued strain as Anakin described his emotional betrayal - along with the lightsaber wounds visible in several places. The young man's story, short as it was, still required repeated interruptions as the company of surgeons did their best to treat him, along with a running debate over transporting him to the infirmary if certain people were done interrogating him.

"When he urged me to stop being a pawn of the Jedi Council, I lost control," Anakin admitted, in deep turmoil. "I swung for him, and the Force was with me or I wouldn't have lasted long. Palpatine was incredibly powerful, but I already had my lightsaber out. I think he judged that if I didn't attack immediately, I probably wasn't about to lash out."

Mace and Yoda both nodded at that conclusion - it was only reasonable to relax the slightest bit if your opponent ignited his lightsaber but continued to talk.

"Also," he continued, grimacing in a sort of pained grin and brandishing his semi-dismantled prosthetic forearm, "I'm pretty sure he forgot that Dooku already cut off this hand, so when he went for it, I didn't exactly get blinded by pain."

Chapter Text

"We'll take it from here, Skywalker," Mace assured him, and the tormented young knight finally relaxed a little. Not a minute later, he was under, and being whisked right along to the medical wing. Cin Drallig went along to safeguard his colleague, and while the Councilors both felt that probably wouldn't be needed, this was far from a probable situation.

"I shall manage the Senate proceedings," Yoda declared. Mace was thankful that he didn't have to handle the politics, inasmuch as any part of the Chancellor's killing would be more political than the rest.

"With Dooku and Grievous gone, Kenobi should be able to arrange a cease-fire with the Separatists, while I verify the Sith allegations for his trial," the master suggested.

"Details of his treason," Yoda corrected, to Mace's grimace. Strictly speaking, being a Sith was not illegal in itself; the problem was that Palpatine had aided and abetted the Republic's enemy in his machinations. If he was responsible for the Jedi Order's impairment, casting a shadow over the Force, that also technically wasn't a crime except in the very loosest sense. The last thing they needed after all the wartime prosecutions was another vague charge, especially leveled posthumously after a death inflicted by a Jedi.

Padme knew the Senate was in session, following the shocking death of Supreme Chancellor Palpatine, but she had to see Anakin first. Besides, there would be hours of bickering and nominations before anyone made a move, so she should have time to see her husband without neglecting her duties.

The cordon around his room gave her pause. Senate security and Jedi temple guards, not all that many but more than one would expect. The grizzled man at the door looked vaguely familiar, from one of her visits to the Temple, as he stood in her way.

"Senator Amidala," he greeted her. "Do you have some business with Skywalker?"

"How is he doing?" she asked, keenly aware of the challenge of hiding her emotions from a Jedi. Then again, she'd been managing okay with Obi-Wan, right?

"Sitting in bacta for the next day," he replied bluntly. "So if you want to talk, it'll be a while."

One of his companions cleared her throat pointedly, and he rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah," he conceded, "medical privacy. Whatever. Not like she can't pull rank and get the basics anyway."

In truth, being in the Senate, regardless of her seniority or committee chairs, didn't officially confer any privileges in that regard, but her relief at his obvious nonchalance was stronger than any professional disapproval of the lack of decorum she was tacitly encouraging.

"Thank you, sir," Senator Amidala said instead. For a moment, she was tempted to ask who was on record as being allowed to visit, but it didn't really matter anyway, and this wasn't the time to try to explain why he'd put her on there. 'After we got secretly married' was not a good answer, which might not prevent it from bursting out anyway.

"The Supreme Chancellor must be above suspicion, and the allegations regarding former Chancellor Palpatine implicate his long-time aide Mas Amedda as well," Senator Organa argued. "I propose we select a temporary leader until the investigation concludes, who will not be eligible for permanent appointment to the rest of the term."

That caused some upset from the Palpatine loyalists, who at this point were a substantial contingent of the chamber. Not least was Amedda himself, gripping his podium and fuming even as he sweated. It took several minutes for the dean of the chamber, a wiry near-human from one of the Core Worlds named Jaxxon, to resume order, and coordinate a vote. Organa's motion narrowly carried, to his surprise, but selecting a caretaker who would be able to face the challenge of the Separatists and Sith influence in the Senate, even for a short time, was still a challenging affair.

Of course, when the news broke that General Kenobi had managed to arrange a week-long ceasefire, tempers eased somewhat. Mon Mothma's candidacy gathered momentum, and Organa noted with a note of vicious satisfaction that Palpatine's centralization was working against him. Without Amedda as his shadow, there was no organized feeling for any individual to carry on his agenda, and at least five different people were openly lobbying their fellows for votes. This might not be too late a night after all.

"I can't resign from the Senate yet, Ani," Padme confessed, standing by his hospital bed. The same laws that should have gotten Cin Drallig (as Anakin introduced him) a reprimand completely prohibited any listening devices, which was certainly a comfort, but she still wished she could take his hand.

"But I can leave the Order," he said, as cheerily as he could under the circumstances. A replacement forearm was incoming, but there was still light bandaging on his other limbs, and he made no effort to rise from his bed. For that matter, Padme was pretty sure she could still see the sheen of bacta in his hair.

"Are you sure that's what you want?" she asked, wary of such a final step. "They've meant so much to you, for so long."

"It's time for me to move on, Padme," he said bluntly. "Normally Jedi aren't supposed to worry about getting attached to the Order itself, but this change has been coming for a while."

Neither of them needed to pinpoint the exact date, even if partially just from a foolish fear of being overheard. She slumped into a chair, forcing her hands into a polite restful position, habit from her royal days.

"When Bail and Mon tell me they can manage, I'll go," she promised. "I want to be part of ending the war altogether, and giving the clones proper rights, and—"

"—doing your job, I know." Anakin smiled wanly. "Until the trial is done, you're going to have to steer clear. In fact, laying low is a good plan right now."

When he was right, he was right, but she took her time making an exit.

"It'll all be sorted out soon, I'm sure," he told his wife. Neither of them had that much confidence, but pretending helped. On her way out, Padme saw an approaching cadre of Senate security, along with a senior leader. It was time to take Ani in for questioning, she knew. 'May the Force be with you,' she murmured silently.

Chapter Text

In her third month on Asgard, Melanie still woke up sometimes and marveled at the situation she'd found. Sure, they looked just like humans, but she was still on an alien world. Granted, she spent a lot of her day with the resident researchers, but she had plenty of time to enjoy herself with the palace's amenities: spa, theater, Thor sparring with the guards, et cetera. He'd made it clear that she was welcome to stay as long as she liked, and since she'd been able to call her parents early on, and keep up with news from Earth, Melanie figured she should experience the place good and hard before there was a real reason to return.

She continued this occasional musing through her shower, but at the breakfast, lavish as usual, her friend Ingrid shook her out of the rut.

"Mel!" she called, waving her old shipmate over as she did almost every morning. "Gooseberries are in season again, and Hilda made a lovely salad!"

Melanie smiled at the Asgardian's exuberance, and took the plate that the older woman had preemptively filled for her.

"Someday you'll explain to me how the seasons work in a magical orchard," she commented between mouthfuls of the fruit bowl, "in a way that actually makes sense."

Ingrid just rolled her eyes in response, and then winced with a grimace. Melanie knew that look: the one sour spot of her otherwise delightful sojourn off-planet.

"Me-la-nie Wright, as I live and breathe," the honey-and-vinegar voice proclaimed over her shoulder. She did her best to smile at Loki; Ingrid was confident that her demeanor irritated him, and that was the most she could hope for when the king's youngest son found purpose in life by encouraging her to leave.

"I do hope you're continuing to delight in your place on Asgard," he continued, pacing melodramatically around the table as she tried to finish a sourer meal.

"It is certainly fortunate that no one needs you back," Loki tried. Melanie was pretty sure he was losing his patience, and could have sworn she caught tension in his jaw when her smile remained placid.

"Like them," he suggested, pointing at a screen showing a scene of ... well, mayhem, frankly. It looked like a construction site, with people fighting; one young woman had a giant hammer, and several malformed fellows in robes were herding a frightened crowd to the base of a staircase that definitely didn't look up to code.

"Oh, but I forgot, you're not a fighter. Or a witch. Or . . . anything useful, I guess," he trailed off, with a smirk that managed to tread on her last nerve.

Melanie pushed her almost-empty plate back, and stood up.

"You know what, Loki? You're right," she told him, and took a great deal of satisfaction in the confusion on his face. "I should go help. Where's the armory?"

The prince regained his composure, and mockingly swept his hand to indicate the proper direction.

"Ah, no, I'll take you there, actually," he decided, and pointed off in the opposite direction. "Ingrid, I think Lady Mella is about to call for you in the infirmary."

His chatter didn't stop as they left the Great Hall, ruminating on how Melanie had told him she was no warrior, recalling the office job she'd described (before she knew what a jerk he was), and then they ran into Thor.

"Ah, Melanie! Loki!" he shouted, reminding her again that the crown prince didn't have much of an indoor voice.

"Hi, Thor," she answered, making a spirited attempt to prevent Loki from commandeering the discussion. "There's a bit of a fracas on Earth; got anything I could borrow to help take care of some miscreants?"

He was definitely a jock, and an actual warrior to boot; she'd enjoyed watching him spar many times, and tried a few of their weapons herself, but nothing felt right in her hands. Like quite a lot of people, Thor had continued his attempts to include her in his hobby, and Melanie was fine with that—so to have her seek it out, well, this was a banner day for him.

She lost track of the way as he bulled through the rustic hallways, waxing lyrical about the various weapons available. His greatest praise, of course, was reserved for Mjolnir (comfortably on his belt), and hammers in general, but he'd told her many a tale of using whatever was handy - especially in times when another warrior was using the arsenal of the worthy.

The array of armaments was truly dizzying, and Melanie made her way through far more of them than she expected, while enjoying Loki's repeated attempts to leave. Even the god of mischief could be trapped by his brother, apparently.

Finally, after a solid dozen attempts, she spotted a dull black quarterstaff. Lighter than it looked, her right hand curled around it, and swung the end into her left palm.

Loki's quiet grumbling fell silent, and he pointed Thor to her—physically moving his brother's head in the middle of a spirited argument for double-edged swords.

"HA-HA!" he bellowed, clapping her on the back. Melanie couldn't move in time to avoid a shattering blow, and was surprised to find that his gesture amounted to no more than a human's congratulations.

"Mountainheart has found you worthy, my diminutive friend!" Thor cheered, and he picked her up to swing her around in celebration. "Ah, fourth to be made, when great defenders were wielding Mjolnir and Thunderstrike and Stormbreaker!"

Melanie blinked at that. She'd never felt any need to test her ability to hold the legendary weapons, and now one of them was in her hands. And then she blinked again, when quiet footsteps called her attention by the door. Thor's spirit swelled further, impossibly, when he saw his father, who held up his hand to forestall another outburst.

"Congratulations, Lady Wright," Odin told her, and she nodded. "Now you must go, of course. Your help is needed. Thor, escort her to the Bifrost."

Once again, the burly man was a tour de force, steering her from the room even as Odin 'asked' Loki to start looking more deeply into the various bearers of those weapons; the task should take him perhaps ten or fifteen years, twenty at the most.

"Loki has been unkind," Thor told her quietly, picking up a small entourage as the word spread, "but he was not entirely wrong. As much as you are and will be welcome here, the fact remains that you are not Asgardian. Should you wield Mountainheart for the rest of your life, it will still return in seventy years, if that. Until then, I shall see great deeds from you!"

Melanie nodded again, and listened as hard as she could while he gave her a handful of tips: how to summon the weapon to her hand, striking with lightning, minor transformations when a five-foot metal rod was inconvenient. Comfort with the gamut of possibilities would come in time.

"Good luck, Melanie," Ingrid told her, trotting up and hugging her as the Rainbow Bridge loomed before them.

"I'll miss you," she replied. "None of this would have happened, without you bringing me to Asgard."

Heimdall grunted, and a swirl of dazzling light enfolded her. The stone and tile floor fell away, replaced by something that tugged at her brain. Melanie focused on the feeling of Mountainheart in her hand, determined to keep her composure when the fight was surely moments away.

CLANG

The metal platform was rickety, and the other people on it stumbled as she landed very firmly; in fact, a man with bleach-blond hair lost his balance entirely, reduced to holding the edge by his fingertips.

"Well, now," mused a skinny, balding man. "Mind if I get by you a bit there?"

"Help me!" a young lady screamed over Melanie's shoulder, and the man shrugged dismissively as she raised her staff. In a blink, his tongue flashed out, wrapping around Mountainheart.

She let him take it, and that young lady gasped as the rod zipped away—a foot or two, before crashing to the ground. He scowled at her, but the weapon pinned him effectively and humiliatingly, at least for a moment.

"Bye-bye," Melanie told him, really hoping she wasn't about to embarrass herself, and held out her hand to call it back. It was an unpolished move, completely unpracticed, and nevertheless her foe was tugged along by the hold he had a moment to undo, freeing himself even she sent him sailing away from the shoddy tower.

The barely-a-fight finished, she reached down to help the man she'd knocked away.

"Thanks, luv," he told her, getting back to his feet. "I'm Spike. Nicely done, saving the day and all."

Chapter Text

"Not sure I'd call it all that saved yet," Melanie noted, looking down at the surprisingly resilient man a few floors down who wasn't quite out for the the count yet. A lightning strike or two seemed to be in order, especially after she missed the first one. Aiming Mountainheart's abilities at a distance was clearly a skill she would have to practice.

"I'm Spike, and this is Dawn," the man introduced them, rubbing the girl's sore arms once the ropes were removed. "We'd better get down, before Glory shows up. Mind clearing the way for us?"

"Melanie," she answered. "And sure. Looks like it's just down the stairs?"

A rough assemblage of stairs, ramps, and ladders, more like, though once they got down into the proper base the structure was straightforward. Also littered with ugly goons, but she, and Mountainheart, were ready to take care of that. In lieu of a formal challenge, Melanie smacked one of the robed nutcases up into the ceiling. He didn't get up, and his buddies spotted the new problem. Providing a distraction for Spike to hurry Dawn away was a great consolation as Melanie's hands were very full tackling the crowd that rushed around her. Not that she was ever in great danger, since they weren't great shakes at fighting, but there were enough thugs that she never quite got an opening to put any of them down solidly, unlike her start. It got a little easier as the hapless folks who were here for some reason managed to skedaddle.

Several weighty thwacks to each of her opponents later, it felt like, and her most recent foe clutched his chest on the ground.

"She has fled!" he wailed, crawling away from Melanie. The rest of them started making a scene, and she decided she was quite done beating them around. Time to find out what was going on here.

The others hadn't gone far, and Spike introduced her to Giles, Willow, Tara, Xander, and Buffy. The last one actually hugged Melanie, making her drop the staff.

"Ah, sorry for the sudden PDA," she apologized, "just, thanks for saving my sister."

"Thank you," Melanie countered, "for giving me a reason to leave Asgard, and pick up Mountainheart."

The rod jumped into her hand the moment she held it out, as if snapping to a magnet.

"I'm human," she continued, forestalling the easy confusion, "but a few months ago I got sent through a portal along with a few other folks. Wound up in the actual home of the sort-of-Norse-gods, and then they gave me a weapon when I saw the fight and asked to help."

"That was very generous of them," Giles mused. "And you."

Melanie shrugged, uncomfortable with the continued gratitude.

"Thor was delighted that I was worthy of it—ah, an enchantment Odin placed on Mjolnir, ages ago. As for me, well, part of it was just wanting Loki to shut up about not being good enough."

Xander had been fussing with the assorted junk in the yard, picking up various bits and pieces that her lightning strikes had hit. A starter motor, however, really caught his attention, and he frowned as he examined the wiring.

"Mel," he called out, "you might want to take a look at this."

The rest of them prepped for their return to Sunnydale, while she hung around for a bit to see what the issue was. Turned out that she'd set off a few mini-EMPs with those bolts, just close enough to wreck the cables on that engine component.

"Something to be aware of," the construction worker told her. "Make sure your zapping is well clear of any wires or electronics. That said, good job taking care of that demon."

Melanie fit comfortably into the RV as they all filed on, and belatedly realized that she would have had an interesting time getting around if they hadn't already had transportation available. Mountainheart schlorped into a baton to sit in the upper compartment. Xander had a funny look on his face, screwing up his mouth and counting on his fingers.

"Is it hard at all, getting your storm on with that thing?" he asked her, and she shook her head.

"Just a little focus and attention. Why?"

"Well," he replied, worrying at his lip, "if you can spark up a bigger EMP, I know some people who would love to have you around. To make sure their equipment can stand the interference, I mean."

Melanie was only half-following him, and that was more than Spike and Dawn could manage.

"Right, sorry," Xander muttered. "Industrial-grade cabling and stuff has to manage all the funky radio waves out there, and sometimes that's tricky business. Lightning bolts are the worst of it, but if there are a bunch of cell phones or anything like that around a transformer, even briefly, it can cause problems. Testing whether something is shielded enough, if it has to be really durable, it's an expensive hassle."

That made some more sense, but she still felt a lot of reading on physics and engineering in her future.

"Sounds more interesting than waiting tables in my dad's restaurant," she volunteered, and Xander nodded as he tried not to laugh.

Giles was happy to drop her off at the family home, with their numbers and a promise to call. Her mom and dad were delighted to see her, and excited about Xander's proposal even if they didn't understand it any more than she did. Melanie's room was just as she'd left it, for better or worse. She had a nice mundane night back in her own bed, before heading over in the morning to get better acquainted with this new crowd.

Shockingly, and boy could Melanie foresee a lot of electricity puns for the rest of time, things really fell into place after Xander made a call confirming that she was interested in the lightning business. Twenty minutes later, a nice truck pulled up, and a man in a suit stepped onto their Revello Drive lawn.

"Miss Wright?" he asked, and Mel nodded, shaking his hand. "I'm Tom Watson. I hear you've got the answer to a lot of people's accidental damage worries."

"It does seem that way," she answered noncommittally. "I'm willing to give it a shot, at least."

"Excellent!" he said cheerfully. "I've got a trailer coming for your gear."

She shrugged, holding out Mountainheart.

Tom blinked, looking at her, the rod, and Xander.

"What's going on here, buddy?" he asked, tone promising trouble for a practical joke.

Rather than waste time arguing, she called the smallest spark she could manage from the clouds, into her staff.

"You want lightning, here it is," she challenged her prospective . . . agent? Employer? It wasn't exactly clear.

"Right," replied Tom weakly. "This is going to be very interesting. I'll have to arrange some security—"

Buffy shook her head briskly.

"I can manage that," she volunteered, preemptively walking out to bend and re-straighten a nearby sign.

He just threw his hands up, and the three of them got in his car.

Chapter Text

"Detention, Mr. Weasley. And if you ever dare criticize the way I teach a class again, you will be very sorry indeed."

"I'll take some of that, too," Cleo retorted, "because everything they said was true." Several people gasped at her audacity, but in truth she was more sick of the nonsense they'd endured than afraid of the impending consequences. Snape glared daggers at her, and nodded stiffly.

"The headmaster's office, Miss Windham. I shall join you at some point."

Smiling sweetly to cover her turmoil, she gathered her belongings and went for the door. Out of his presence, at least, but there was the strong possibility of going from the frying pan to the fire. One might even say inevitability, but Snape's ranting was stepping on her last move. As her mother said, "it's the right thing to do, and that's usually worth a fight".

She spent several minutes traversing the very quiet halls to reach Professor Dumbledore's corner of the castle; no one prowling to find students skipping class, at least that she saw, which was fortunate as she lacked an actual pass. Cleo looked at the gargoyle, and considered her options for several moments. Standing there and waiting for Snape would get her in eventually, but that would probably take until the end of the school day - not to mention that he'd try to shut her down when she explained the situation. Guessing the password might work, since he tended to pick candies, but there were quite a few varieties. Hmm.

"Headmaster, Professor Snape became very upset when I pointed out that Hermione Granger was correct in the description of werewolves he asked for, and Ronald Weasley similarly argued that it was absurd to penalize her for answering his question," she told the statue. Several more moments later, it slid aside, and she ascended the staircase revealed in the gap.

Professor Dumbledore was, broadly, a genial man. He was cheerful at meals, when opening and closing the year, and in the halls. Cleo very nearly quailed when she saw him now, and it belatedly occurred to her that this was an unwelcome disruption to his day.

"From the beginning, Miss Windham," was all he said, and she nodded.

"He started his lesson, substituting for Professor Lupin, by insulting him and all of us, and ignoring the lesson plan. Then he asked how to distinguish between the werewolf and true wolf, so Granger naturally raised her hand, and he lied that nobody knew the answer. He insulted us some more for not having covered the material yet, and when Granger started answering his question, he called her an insufferable know-it-all. Weasley snapped that he'd asked the question, and why ask if he didn't want to be told. He got detention for that, and then I said I'd take it too, because everything they said was true. Then Snape told me to come here."

It was a long recitation, and Cleo's heart was racing at the end. Dumbledore's lips were pursed. She had no idea what he had in mind.

"Place your memory of the events in the pensieve, and I will review them," he directed. A wand to her temple and some focus on the class drew out a silvery thread, which the young witch dropped into his silver bowl. Dumbledore spent only a few seconds with his nose in the pool, and for an instant she thought she saw a grimace on his face.

"You may finish your Defense period in here, young lady. An apology to Professor Snape will suffice, by your next Potions class."

Cleo opened her mouth to agree, and then stopped.

"No, sir. I am not sorry." She thought her heart had been racing before, but now she felt it was about to burst from her chest. The headmaster raised his eyebrow.

"You believe it was appropriate to disrupt the class as you did?"

"There was no class!" Cleo exclaimed, and winced at her sudden volume (not to mention emotion, as her calm had finally broken), but he gave no sign that he minded. "He wasn't trying to educate us at all, just vent his anger at Professor Lupin by kicking everyone around!"

She felt a little better, having elucidated the core of the matter, and Dumbledore merely sighed.

"If you find his pedagogy so objectionable, then I suppose you would prefer to avoid it entirely. The third-year Potions curriculum will be your responsibility to learn on your own, both theoretical and practical. Good luck finding a proctor for your final exam."

This had not been at all what Cleo expected, and she blinked several times. A challenging prospect, but was it actually any worse than facing Snape after that remark?

"Agreed, Headmaster," she said. He nodded, indicated a desk in the corner for her to use, and returned to his paperwork.

She was going to have her work cut out for her, and focusing on any curriculum at the moment would be a challenge, but there were worse things than spending twenty minutes reading the same page over and over as her equilibrium slowly approached. Owling home to explain the situation was also going to be interesting. At least Granger would probably be happy to help her study for the rest of the year, though Cleo had heard a bit about her seeming constantly busy and frazzled, so hmm.

"Off you go, now." Dumbledore's voice broke into her brooding, and she realized with a start that the class period had ended. Time to rejoin some of her class in Muggle Studies, and maybe delay a spirited discussion of the incident until later.

Chapter Text

She wanted a delay and she got a delay, because Professor Burbage swept in and got right to work. Cleo's nerves settled down as they began a discussion of Muggle sport. Football was the big one in Britain, as well as across the Continent, but there were several others that supported professional athletes, as well as an armful of purely recreational pursuits with no circuit scene.

There was no such luck at dinner, but at that point it was fair. Potter, Weasley, and Granger waved her over, and half of her house followed.

"It started when I got to thinking about why Professor Snape's been grumpier than normal," Cleo began.

Two weeks earlier

Professor Snape was a bit of a bastard, everyone knew this, but Cleo swore he was worse this year. What was going on? The only thing she could think of was making a list of relevant facts: what changed, what stayed the same? There wasn't much to note there, to the best of her knowledge. He was still teaching Potions, while Mr. Hagrid was the new Creatures professor, and Mr. Lupin had the Defence post. Number two there probably wasn't the issue, what with them having been colleagues for years, but it was common knowledge that he still wanted to teach defense. But Hogwarts kept getting new defence professors every year, and he'd never been picked before, either. Was it increasing frustration at being passed up yet again, or was there something about Mr. Lupin that Mr. Snape found objectionable?

Logic had carried her this far, but without more information that she wasn't likely to get ("Professor Lupin, why is Professor Snape so irritated that you got the job instead of him?"), it was time for a different method. She'd never tried tarot outside of class before, and they hadn't really covered the cards yet, but the deck was still on hand, and Cleo tried a deal. Werewolf, reversed. Grudges, a lack of closure, unfinished business, the need to move on; well, that was clear enough.

Currently

"With that in mind," she concluded, "I got up the nerve to say what everyone was thinking."

"And then you went to Dumbledore's office?" Ron hinted.

Cleo spread her hands, still not sure how she felt about the arrangement. "He said I had to apologize, and I wouldn't, so now I'll be teaching myself Potions."

Most of the crowd was taken aback by that, but four of them were intrigued instead. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Neville, they all looked like someone had announced a cauldron cake giveaway.

". . . can I get in on that?" Harry asked. She shrugged, trying not to laugh.

"If you want to ask the headmaster to let you out of Potions, go right ahead. I'm pretty sure he expects me to go crawling back. Oh, and I have to arrange for a proctor to administer the final exam. Guess my grade's going to be riding on that."

"Gee, I wonder who might be inclined to help you here," Ron pretended to muse.

"I don't regret anything," Cleo declared, looking at the stack of homework papers that Ron's older brothers had considerately duplicated for them, "but that does look like it's going to be a pain."

"Is Cedric willing to help us with brewing time?" Hermione checked. The Hufflepuff nodded, having asked the prefect already.

"Every once in a while," she confirmed. "His official duties plus Quidditch have him a little pressed for time."

With that settled, the five of them began the week's reading, on undetectable poisons.

Professor Lupin was back at Defence for the next class, fortunately. It would have been awkward for Cleo to walk right out of the room right after entering. Then again, given the lack of discipline she got for challenging Professor Snape, there was the strong hint that the headmaster didn't approve of his behavior either. She shook her head, clearing her mind for the actual lesson. Hinkypunks were the bane of swamps and treacherous terrain in general, Lupin told them.

Once the bell rang, it was time to make the last of their preparations, and Cleo went up to his desk.

"Er, Professor Lupin, we need a proctor to handle our final exam for potions—"

He held up his hand, smiling past the obvious fatigue in every bit of his body language.

"I'm aware of the situation, Miss Windham. I see you're staying right on top of it, so I can slot it into my calendar."

That was a relief; despite Ron's confidence, she'd been worried just a tad about the possibility of professional solidarity.

"I can't, of course, condone this behavior, much less reward it with House points or glowing language," Lupin told her, with a wink, and she looked down bashfully. "Now, off you go with your friends, they've been waiting more or less patiently."

Cleo bit her lip, seeing the old argument brewing again between Ron and Hermione.

"Ugh, five minutes before they start bickering about how her cat might have eaten his rat. I swear, he inherited the thing from Percy, it was ancient, and missing one of the front toes!" Cleo complained, joining the quartet. Professor Lupin reached for some paperwork, and stopped suddenly, lost in thought.

The next morning, a positive flurry of owls dropped newspapers all over the Great Hall, and the room was soon buzzing with revelations. Fudge was on the front page, boasting about his administration's "eye for justice"; Peter Pettigrew had been caught last night, and confessed to murdering twelve Muggles in his own faked death. It helped, Cleo uncharitably suspected, that the minister could accurately claim that the whole mess was Bagnold's fault. Sirius Black had never officially been charged with anything, merely thrown in prison without trial, so technically he was a free man. Coming in from the cold might be a lot to ask, though, especially since somehow bureaucratic nonsense made it a hassle to get the dementors away from Hogwarts.

"It's like one of my mum's soap operas," Cleo summed up, munching on a scone.

Chapter Text

It was shaping up to be a pretty lousy shopping trip, but that's about what I'd expected, trying to pick up a cheap unlocked smartphone. Frankly, I wouldn't have bothered, but I'd been in the neighborhood getting groceries anyway.

"Yup, gonna have to get it online," I grumbled, heading down the mall stairs to the parking lot. The thudding I heard was a little like the earthquake years ago, but much louder. Granted, that's not saying much, since at the time I thought it was someone walking heavily, but still. The thumping was really resonating, making me wince, and I found a bench to rest for a moment.

Naturally, redirecting all that energy from standing and walking to letting my body feel what was happening . . . made things worse. Well, it wasn't painful, so much, but my mind started racing, recalling all sorts of incidents. Oddly, I'm pretty sure some of those incidents never actually happened.

I watched the Jetsons, Scooby Doo, and the like in reruns and in snatches on the internet, not on Saturday mornings. Marvel made superhero comics, not westerns and romances. Mutants were fictional - but I definitely remembered hearing people talk all over a crowded arena, and being able to focus on all those voices at once.

Well, for years I'd wanted something exciting to happen in my life, and a different version of it slamming into my head qualified. Closing my eyes firmly and opening them again to regain my composure, I came back to reality.

Didn't take long to regret that, when I saw the giant robot and heard dozens of people screaming and running.

"It's like a fire drill," I grumbled. "Walk, do not run, to the closest exit. Do not panic."

Miraculously, the mood eased, and my heart raced when I realized they'd actually heard me. Time to do something amazing; could I help people evacuate in all this mess? Indirect visualization was always a challenge, but as I kept talking, it became clear that almost everyone knew more or less where to go once they calmed down a bit, and a placid voice helped a fair amount.

Not everyone had a path out, unfortunately. The robot was targeting a teenage girl, calling her a mutant—Sentinel! I remembered those, classic X-Men villains. A couple of women started challenging the brute, and flew up to meet him. Almost certainly Storm, with the wind, and probably Rogue?

Belatedly, I made my own way from the mall, betting (or hoping) that I would escape the mutant-hunter's notice, and wondered if I should try searching for other members of the team. There was the slight problem of having no idea who else might be around, which occupied my pondering for a solid minute as I homed in on those big doors.

Then I managed to see a man shoot red lasers out of his eyes and take the Sentinel down, even as he held the same teenager from before in his arms. Guess that answered my question.

"Cyclops!" I called out, with my actual mouth, and waved all friendly-like. "We have a situation."

"We do, huh?" he asked warily, adjusting his hold on the girl.

"Yeah," I replied steadily, but before I could explain, once again, the same women I'd seen earlier touched down. Definitely Storm, and the voice hit home when the other greeted him—one hundred percent Rogue.

"Looks like you made a friend, fearless leader," she teased him, and turned to me. "Not many folks'll stick around when he does his thing. You've got me all curious."

I chewed my lip, trying to figure out how to phrase my ... transition? Arrival?

"You're not the only mutants around," I settled on, and made several more expressions as I puzzled over something more helpful and descriptive.

Storm merely laid her hand on my shoulder.

"Perhaps this conversation is best continued in private, after we've seen to the girl," she suggested. Cyclops nodded shortly, and led the way to a minivan in the parking lot.

"Those things don't half hit hard, mes amies!" a voice called out behind us, and I smiled again at its familiarity. "Looks like we've got two to pick up, no?"

"Looks like," Cyclops agreed, handing off the young woman to his Cajun friend. Her face didn't ring a bell, but I'd gotten lucky enough recognizing everyone else anyway. A series of thunks from seatbelts, and we headed to what had to be the X-Mansion.

...I'm going to need a ride back at some point to get my car. And groceries.

Chapter Text

It was a quiet trip there, for a few reasons. I was starting to feel shaky from the Sentinel encounter, even though I really didn't come close to it, and the whole 'double memories' thing wasn't exactly helping. Maybe they were giving me space to cool down, or maybe it was more a matter of waiting for Professor X to dig into my story.

"Is she going to be okay?" I asked eventually, glancing over at the kid they'd strapped into a seat.

"The knockout gas should pass from her system in half an hour," Cyclops responded dismissively. He changed lanes to avoid a speed demon, getting onto the highway just in time.

"Leaves a bit of dry mouth, though," Rogue fretted. "And she's awfully small, too. I'll get her into the infirmary once we're back."

"No funny pages ever dreamed me up," growled Wolverine. The discussion over my duplicated life wasn't exactly going well. To be fair, the Canuck did have a bit of a quick temper, but this wasn't exactly smooth sailing for me, either. There was some tension in the group, until Professor Xavier held up his hand for quiet—and got it.

"Given our interactions thus far, either we are all real or we are all imaginary."

"A philosophical quandary for the ages," chirped Beast, sitting with crossed legs on the ground. He looked darned comfortable doing it, too, the fiend. The blue-furred scientist beckoned me closer, then popped me on the chin with one finger. We both winced, but I saw where he was going immediately.

"If someone's simulating us that well, they deserve the con," I grumbled, and shook my head to clear it. "Anyway. Existential crisis possibly dealt with, there's a slightly knottier question, from the decades of X-Men comics and other media that didn't all have the same timeline."

Morph cackled at that, sprouting a goatee and eyepatch.

"Greetings from the mirror dimension!"

Cyclops just rolled his eyes.

"At worst," he summed up, "you can walk the streets easily, and have a versatile power to fight for mutant equality. If we get some special information, great, but we've gotten this far without it."

I supposed I should have expected him to be like that, and so far I hadn't exactly wowed them with any predictions. The more I thought about it, though, the less it bothered me. Being able to contribute to the X-Men was a wondrous thing, and somehow it meant more to be a member by virtue of my active actions on the team, rather than memories someone dropped into my head.

Much as my wool-gathering settled my nerves, it did take me out of the moment, and I was startled to see the room empty abruptly.

"The girl's awake, and trying to escape!" Xavier exclaimed. "Fan out, and make sure she doesn't do anything rash."

"It's all right, miss," I said conversationally, finding her sounds in moments. "We're not going to hurt you. This is home base for mutants. People like us."

"Whaaah!" she yelped. That sounded quite a lot like a jump, and frantically turning around. Maybe I was too optimistic about aurally interpreting actions, though.

"I'm the guy from the mall, who helped people get their—I mean, get away from the robot without freaking out too much," I told her, hoping that reminding her of the incident wouldn't be too upsetting.

"You do sound familiar," she conceded. "Where are you? Who are you?"

"Uuuum," I began, trying to read a map of the mansion that someone pulled up on a console, "I think I'm your second right, then left, big door at the end of the hallway. Call me Master. No, that's terrible. Hm. Oh, forget it, I'm Ben."

Storm and Wolverine were chuckling at my attempt to come up with a codename on the fly, and I couldn't keep a straight face for long either. I'd been thinking of remastering, the master tape, things like that, but it really couldn't have come out any worse.

"I'm going to have to practice thinking on the fly," I muse, "especially because this kind of sound control lends itself so well to pulling off tricks on the other side of the building."

The squat man looked me over, and this time it was a bit rankling that he wasn't impressed.

"Be nice if you could run a mile, too," he suggested.

"Oh, like you can tell that I'm terrible at jogging at a glance," I scoffed.

"Everybody trains here, pal," Logan retorted, staring me down as he loomed. That was actually a fair point, even though I grimaced back at him. Jubilee's arrival was perfect to break the developing mood, as the two veteran X-Men decided now was a good time for a proper tour. There was the Danger Room, of course, plus the residential wing, Dr. McCoy's labs, a rumpus room, kitchen, and the hub of the whole facility, Professor Xavier's computer center. At that point, the kid was getting a little overwhelmed, so I headed back to the kitchen with her for some munchies. Communal living makes cooking a little complicated, but there were fixings for quesadillas and even a little press, and a few minutes later we had something more normal to focus on.

"Oh no!" Jubilee suddenly gasped. "My parents, they must be worried sick!"

A quick aside to Rogue revealed that their call to alert the Lees had gone unanswered, which exacerbated her worries.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," I tried to reassure her. "We'll drop by and let them know what happened, right?"

It'll be . . . an experience, driving an unfamiliar vehicle on strange roads, but I've managed worse. Musing aloud was not the best plan in the world, since at that point she insisted we take the bus, but at least this way we didn't have to deal with a scolding for taking a vehicle without permission.

"Man, I wish I could drive," Jubilee grumbled, as we headed down the last few blocks to her house. It was a lovely neighborhood, plenty of greenery, and might even be walkable back to my car. Ugh, I still regretted getting separated, though at least I hadn't gotten any real perishables earlier.

"It is a handy skill," I agreed, "plus there's the Blackbird."

"The what?" she asked. That had come out without me quite thinking about, probably something I would need to work on very soon.

"The plane I'm pretty sure they have," I replied, trying to be nonchalant. Didn't work.

"It wasn't on the tour," the girl objected, and squeaked when she saw the Sentinel. Oh, boy.

"We can ask them when we get back," I snapped, trying to assess the options before me, which dwindled rapidly when the second giant robot loomed before us. Well, tricking them with sound wasn't a great prospect, but maybe I could pull something off with sheer volume? I blasted shrilly into their 'ears', but the machines barely twitched as their hands swooped down at us. Jets of something poured out ominously.

"See you when we wake up, Jubilee," I told her. It was much easier to project confidence when creating my voice rather than using my proper larynx, but that was small comfort as the world faded, along with her whimpers of fear.

"Ah, you're awake," I heard. Not one of my more pleasant wakeups, especially when I tried to move around—and couldn't. "Your mutant abilities don't include any gross physiological abnormalities. Tell me, what can you do?"

Both meanings of 'gross' rang through loud and clear, but there were bigger problems here than a guy being rude. I looked at my surroundings, or at least swiveled my eyes a bit. Stark metal room, something ominous above me. Well, time for some on-the-job training in thinking fast.

"Leave you puzzled, apparently," I quipped. "Don't worry, it's a common complaint of the small-minded."

He snarled at that, and the assembly on the ceiling descended.

"Why were you with that registered girl, Jubilation Lee?" my interrogator demanded. Before I could keep snarking, however, someone called him away.

"Gyrich, why did you bring those mutants here? Who are they?" his possible colleague asked sharply.

"Just a random name from the files, and the fellow with her. A test to see how easy it will be to capture the rest of them," Gyrich responded. The only context I remembered that name from was his tenure in the comics as the Avengers liaison, way back in the day, but clearly that wasn't helpful here.

"I thought we agreed not to strike the mutants until we had a hundred Sentinels!" the other guy protested.

"Well, you're building them too slowly, Trask!" he snarled back. "Aren't I paying you enough? What are you waiting for?"

Trask was a major Sentinel figure, sure enough, but no one came to mind as a major funder thereof. Granted, these weren't the best circumstances to search my brain, but—his phone rang.

"Gyrich here," he barked.

"We're being slammed by a mutant assault, Mr. Gyrich! They've gone after our records!" It's a tinny sound, poor quality, but I can make out the other end of the conversation.

"Eliminate those mutants immediately," he ordered, slamming his phone shut.

"Trouble at the agency," Gyrich told Trask curtly, storming off to tend to the situation. That was just what I needed, diverting their attention. Well, these cuffs weren't coming loose any time soon. How could I use these sound powers to free myself? Oh, duh, mimicry. Once the bosses are safely away, 'Gyrich' told the guards to gather the prisoners on the helipad. It paid to be a terrible boss, since they were all too afraid to question his orders. And when they were abruptly called away to deal with an 'intruder', that gave us some room.

"You okay, kid?" I asked Jubilee. There were no obvious signs of trauma, but that didn't really mean much, especially to an untrained observer. She shook her head, starting to get her spirit back.

"How are we going to get out of here?" she asked, looking around at the empty roof.

"We're not," I replied, grimacing. "But I have faith in Xavier and the others to find us, and I have faith in us to keep away from the guards until they arrive."

I still don't know what version of the X-Men universe this is, but it's never been a series to abandon a kid.

Chapter Text

I don't know how long we've been here, dodging the guards. It's an elaborate shell game, really. At some point they're going to get properly organized, combing the complex room by room, or at least betting that they won't is stupid. So, Jubilee and I move from closet, to conference room, to hallway, and I make sure anyone who gets close to our current location gets a sighting called in, or a distraction, or something. Some of the senior officers have figured out that I'm messing with their sound, but it's difficult to communicate that when they can't make a personal rendezvous. Mind you, keeping their paths from intersecting is just as hard for me. It would really help if I were familiar with the layout of this place, so I could trick them into locking people in, but even the dumbest guys aren't going to tell their colleagues things they already know. Gave it a shot more than once, but no dice.

"I don't know how much longer I can do this," the kid groans, folding in on herself as we make it to our severalth hiding place. It's not the physical toll, of course, since we're in the luxurious position of never actually having to run away. Thing is, we're also being chased and hounded with the prospect of rescue uncertain, at best. It's a psychological burden, grinding away at our peace of mind. Not so hard for me to take, since I can feel it in my bones that Jubilee doesn't just encounter the X-Men once. Teenage emotional volatility is something else, and she needs every bit of support I can give.

"I do," I respond promptly. "You can hold out until Cyclops and the others give us the space we need, not to mention a ride. We're in this together, my friend, and I promise everything is going to be okay."

That puts a little starch in her spine, though she continues to slump on her swivel chair. I've shamelessly robbed the desk in this little office of a few granola bars, along with a couple of pain pills for my brewing headache.

It's nearly time to move again when I catch the sound I've been hoping for since not long after I woke up.

"The Blackbird is here!" I cheer, containing the exultation from escaping our room just in time. Jubilation is extremely ready to go, tugging eagerly on my hand as she beelines to the door. No one's nearby, even, boding well for the cavalry to sweep us away.

Well. No guards are around, but Jubilee's hyperactive fireworks are probably going to summon them soon, since she's a little too energetic breaking down the wall right outside the room we were using. Warnings are going to have to wait, though. Her display gave a few Sentinels room to sneak up on us. Should have detected them anyway, but I guess we've really been lucky that I've managed this well so far.

"I just want to go home," she grumbles, slumping and almost kneeling as the giant machines form a circle. My adrenaline is rushing, which sadly doesn't really help. I need to outwit them, not punch them.

"Jubilee, Ben, get down!" Cyclops shouts. I hit the deck, taking my companion with me. A little clumsy, alas, with my elbow taking the brunt of her weight on the floor. It's better than shielding someone who isn't a slender teenage girl, but still, ow. I take a couple of seconds to absorb the blow. Not that I have much choice. Funny bones are a little overpowering.

As I regain my composure, the X-Men spring into action. Gambit's cards tear through one of the robots, while Rogue engages another in fisticuffs. Storm's lightning is particularly effective, though it seems a little over-dramatic to lure one up out of the broken skylight to hit it. Rogue gawps at its crash-landing a little too long, catching a mighty swing to her back and driving her into the floor. While she pries herself up and gets revenge, I start casting about for something I can do. Anything, rather than just sit here like a duck.

"Emergency shutdown," I broadcast into one Sentinel's computer core, using Gyrich's voice. It halts for just a moment.

"Voiceprint match, 82%," the menace announces. "Code not verified."

Frankly, that worked better than I expected, but I've still got some work left. With one last scrap of mental energy, I try several remaining robots simultaneously. Trask and Gyrich have distinctive voices, and I'm betting (read: hoping) one of them used a simple code. "Gyrich-one-alpha," maybe, or "Trask, Trask, five".

"This one's for you, Morph!" Wolverine cries out, dismantling his last target. And with that distraction, I can't actually be sure if any of those codes was fully functional. Whatever. Even if I never find one of the keys, or possibly the single key, the attempt delays them enough to be useful.

With the fighting over, and the two bigots gone, we regroup around the pile of wrecked mutant-hunters.

"Is that all of them?" Cyclops asks, lips pursed as he surveys our work.

"Ain't that enough?" Rogue protests.

"This might be all the Sentinels in this factory," I observe, "and this might be the only factory they have, but I wouldn't bet my life on it."

Wolverine grunts in agreement.

"There room on the plane for a little hardware?" I ask. "I think I had a good idea a minute ago, but I didn't get a chance to see if it worked. Betting you guys have the facilities to do a deep dive on these robots."

The team leader's brow furrows, evaluating the notion, but he finally shakes his head.

"Too risky," Cyclops decides. "We don't have an engineer around who could reliably find any spy equipment there might be hidden in the frame."

I nod, accepting the prospect of hectic field testing, and Logan's claws finally retract. That settled, Jean leads us to the Blackbird. The rest of the team is a well-oiled machine, preparing for departure, but Jubilee and I are decidedly less collected. At least I don't need help strapping myself in. There are still a few empty seats on their plane, mostly because the furniture is rather spartan. It's a good call, don't get me wrong; better to have more space, and have people be uncomfortable on the way.

"How you doin', sugah?" Rogue asks, no doubt having noticed me worrying at my lip.

"Not great," I admit. "This whole thing is still really heady, you know? I had an ordinary life, and now I've been thrust into a very, exciting, world."

I rub my ears, despite them probably having nothing to do with my power. Storm pats my hand.

"Next time, I'm sure you won't have to push so hard," she assures me.

I manage a smile, mildly heartened by her confidence.

"So, what happened while I was, ah, keeping Jubilee company?" I ask delicately.

"Beast got captured," Wolverine spits, "and Morph . . . "

There's no mistaking that pause. I grimace, bowing my head in sympathy. Wait a minute. Wait a minute!

"Yes, yes yes!" I cheer, hastily rephrasing when the irascible mutant snarls and clenches his fist. "That came out wrong. I know where we are, and Morph isn't dead!"

"I was there, bub," he hisses through gritted teeth. "And Jean couldn't feel him."

"He won't stay dead, then," I concede. For just a moment, I'm surprised at the sheer collective emotional response: skepticism, continuing grief, shock, anger, confusion, the whole mess.

"That's not how death works, mon ami," Gambit breaks to me gently, as we trundle on down the landing ramp and return to the X-Mansion.

"Not usually," I allow, "but mutant powers aren't usual. Mister Sinister, or rather Nathaniel Essex, is a very skilled scientist, and he's going to pull it off."

Professor Xavier has come out to meet us, and join a very complicated conversation. His wheelchair, or perhaps rather hover-chair, guides me to the computer center, where he starts the search.

"Where is this Doctor Essex?" he asks. I shrug helplessly.

"What I told you is what I've got. Sorry. He's a major character eventually on the nineties cartoon, which is where we've got to be, but that doesn't mean I remember very much."

He gestures me towards a seat, and raises a hand to his temple. Right, digging through my head to unearth any scraps that might be lurking. Good plan.

Unfortunately, while a few cels from the old show flash before my eyes, Xavier breaks away, wincing.

"Your psychic merger is not quite complete. Frankly, I'm surprised you're functioning so well. I'm afraid any more revelations will have to be from your conscious recollection, until and unless your landscape is safe for me to explore."

Wolverine huffs, hunching forward.

"We'll find him," he vows.

"In happier news," I continue, "Beast isn't getting out of jail, but I distinctly remember thinking that he did more good for the mutant cause in his cell than the entire rest of the team."

Cyclops blinks repeatedly at that, and nobody but Jean is getting my point.

"People will not believe that his sentence is just," she deduces. "It's more or less a form of civil disobedience."

It shouldn't be a surprise that things are crashing my mental process right now. Shouldn't be.

"Oh," I snap my fingers, "that reminds me, the Hellfire Club! Sebastian Shaw, Jason Wyngarde, Emma Frost, and Leland . . . something. They're a New York rich people group, mutants and one cyborg. Wyngarde is an impressive illusionist, and Frost is a diamond psychic. Also, putting money into Sentinels so they can get a backdoor, I think. Anyway, eventually they're going after you, Jean, so we might want to do something about that."

There are several moments of silence after my stream of consciousness.

"I know I was dismissive of your potential intelligence," Cyclops muses, a small smile reflecting a morass of emotions, "and I hope you're aware that these recollections need to be both recorded and not shared in public, but we'll owe you one if this ends up steering off that fiasco."

I should accept graciously, but I can't. It doesn't feel right.

"No," I say instead, shaking my head as the words won't come. "I don't want to, to keep track. That's not how I work, not for anything."

"'Neither a borrower nor a lender be'," quotes Rogue, smiling wryly. "Hey, I listen to Hank sometimes. Seems like you're reaching for more than that, though."

My hands clench and wriggle in my lap. She's not wrong.

"There are three requirements to be an X-Man," I posit. "Number one, being a mutant. Dr. Moira MacTaggert is a wonderful ally, but it's not the same. Number two, having the strength of character to choose what is right. Number three, having the capability to follow through. I think I've shown that today."

"You want to be part of the team, mon ami?" Gambit asks, raising an eyebrow as he slouches against the wall. He plays with his cards much like a fidget spinner, but they're still now.

"I believe Playback is saying that he already is," Professor Xavier states calmly, choosing my codename on my behalf, not that I'm going to complain. "And I agree. Welcome to the struggle for mutant rights, Benjamin."

Chapter Text

Beast is a lot more cheerful about the news than I expected, though I suppose such is to be expected from such a philosophical man. Professor Xavier managed to get a lawyer, so we're not relying on a public defender with fifteen minutes to spend on the case before her other twelve clients have hearings.

"I shall take comfort in the many great leaders who were unjustly imprisoned," he tells me and Miss Walters. She just shakes her head, trying to assemble her case for granting bail.

"Let's be fair, Doc," I suggest wryly, "you did break—"

I cut myself off for two reasons. One, admitting to a crime while being held in custody, even by proxy, is not the best plan in the world. We've heard several derogatory remarks from the guards, too. More pressing is the sudden thunder, not far away.

"Who could that be?" Hank wonders, stroking his chin with a frown. "Is another mutant being brought in, perhaps?"

His attorney is, quite reasonably, rattled, but I've got to listen carefully rather than soothe her nerves. Shouts, running, orders being called in, nothing particularly constructive. Well, puzzling out what the guards are about to do is probably a really good idea, but since they'll tell us what they want soon enough, I make the call that it's better to keep hunting. 'Give my gun back!' and the shriek of torn metal tells me that Magneto has arrived.

"Magneto is coming," I alert them. Jennifer groans in disgust, having regained some composure.

"Hmm, I suppose the advocate of mutant supremacy must have some strong feelings about me being accused of vandalizing records being used to capture mutants," Hank muses. He's really remarkably calm about the whole thing. But then, all those hours in the Danger Room are dedicated in part towards that, even beyond his generally phlegmatic nature.

"Probably not a good idea for a human to be here, if we are his destination," I warn her. To my surprise, she scowls. It's a little like the 'yells adorably' memes of Groot, even though she's as tall as Beast.

"I have no intention of fleeing my client," Jennifer retorts. "Especially since that would just ruin me in the eyes of a violent mutant supremacist, anyway."

I raise one finger and purse my lips, acknowledging an excellent point. Meanwhile, his path quickly draws near to us. Large chunks of the wall come off with the door, along with enough of the ceiling to give the master of magnetism a lovely entrance in his ball of Van de Graaff-imitating pageantry.

"Come," Magneto snaps, extending his arm to Beast. "There is little time."

"I agree," I say, mouthing along with the words my power produces. He's an intimidating figure, but I don't want any more indications of that from me than necessary, and moderating my voicebox has consistently been challenging. "We've got the bail hearing tomorrow, and the judge is already leaning against us."

He cocks his head, seeing Hank sitting studiously with Jennifer.

"You truly wish to remain, brother?" Magneto asks. The good doctor nods.

"My trial will show the righteousness of our cause, Magneto. The core of civil disobedience is accepting the consequences for one's actions, and how disproportionate they are compared to true justice."

Aww, haha, the shine in her eyes as he waxes poetic. Doesn't stop the would-be liberator from zapping his shackles away, natch.

"You cannot truly expect fair treatment in human courts!" he scoffs, raising his own arms theatrically. "Throw off your mental chains, as I have freed you from their restraints!"

As if on cue, the laser fire starts. Fortunately for us, since they don't seem to be aiming very carefully, his bubble neatly blocks their shots. Of course, there's also the possibility that Magneto's managing a ruckus out there to keep the avenue of exit open.

Jennifer actually looks at him with pity.

"He probably won't be treated fairly, no," she agrees, "but that is what it means, to fight injustice. No one can achieve equality without engaging with the system as it exists."

Magneto sneers in return, turning dramatically in midair as he prepares his grand exit. Every metal object in the room that isn't attached to us takes up orbit around him. The screeching from before continues, ripping apart reinforced concrete and computers in a trail away from the detention center.

"That could have gone better," Beast remarks cheerfully, resuming his seat as he clicks his manacles shut once more. I look at the security cameras, wondering if we can turn this little fiasco to our benefit.

"Your honor," the prosecutor declaims at his bail hearing the next day, "because of the severity of the defendant's crime, and his demonstrated danger to the community, the people move to deny bail."

Jennifer smiles thinly, looking over the exhibits she was able to introduce after Magneto's departure.

"Your honor," she counters, "despite my esteemed colleague's claim, the most serious charge here is first degree criminal mischief—and that, despite the lack of evidence indicating that my client employed explosives over the course of his alleged actions. I am sure he has some grounds for elevating the case beyond second-degree mischief, beyond Dr. McCoy's mutant abilities."

Oh, I'm going to enjoy replaying that pointed sarcasm later.

"The fence was clearly blown apart, your honor," the prosecutor pleads. "Not to mention the havoc wrought at the detention center last night. Clearly, Mr. McCoy poses an ongoing threat."

She seizes the opportunity, along with the last of the judge's patience.

"You mean the attack by mutant supremacist Magneto, who wished to remove Dr. McCoy from the facility, removing his restraints in the process, and was rebuffed?" Jennifer mockingly asks. "If my client were a flight risk, he would have taken the opportunity to flee."

The magistrate bangs his gavel, ending the ongoing debate and the rumblings of anger about the attack.

"Enough, counselors. This is a bail hearing, not the trial itself. We're not litigating anything but what measures have to be taken to ensure the defendant shows up at trial."

Judge Simmons traces down a sheet of paper, adjusting his glasses in the process, and tutting under his breath.

"Hmm, yes. I'm inclined to worry about a repeat incident, which would be best handled by a secure institution. Surely a PhD can put together two hundred and fifty thousand dollars for bail?"

Well, that's a blow. Hank's face falls, confirming he doesn't have that kind of liquidity. Jenn bares her teeth, but remains silent.

The judge nods, and I don't think I'm imagining a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

"Then he will have to assemble the funds while in the custody of the Riker's Island administration."

Another bang of his gavel confirms the verdict, making the crowd even more rumbly. Wait, those are snarls and growls, someone lashing out! A practical giant in yellow and red, and I'm not even sure those are clothes—Sabretooth!

"Sabretooth," Logan growls, watching the psycho drive the assembled peanut gallery out of the room.

"You know that lunatic?" Scott asks.

The savage man backhands two guards, and demands Beast's release before the other guards start focusing their laser fire on him. He finally sinks to the floor, and then Cyclops rushes to his rescue.

"Come on," he urges us, "they're going to kill him!"

"No, they're not," I say glumly. That gets me a clap on the shoulder from Wolverine.

"What?" Cyclops is stunned by our lack of problem with his treatment, but doesn't wait for an explanation before getting the three of us out of there with the insensate mutant.

"Guessing you don't feel comfortable backing me up to get that maniac outta here," Wolverine says, looking at the door to Sabretooth's room in the infirmary.

I don't have to explain why. He knows that I'm not going to rock the boat as the newest proper member of the team, and I don't have anything solid to back up my memories of Victor Creed being a violent psychopath.

"Hmm," he replies to my nod, and goes for it anyway. No point trying to restrain him right now, so I just accompany him as he prepares for Sabretooth's discharge. His claws cut the wires connecting the leads on Creed's chest.

"If it weren't for Xavier," Wolverine murmurs, watching the twitching of his old rival's chest as he lays in the bed.

"Wolverine!" Cyclops snaps. "Back off. Slow and easy."

Professor X is there, along with Jubilee. Oh, boy.

"I'm taking this maggot out of here, one way or the other," Wolverine retorts. He's glaring at Cyclops now, and a little at Xavier too.

"Uh, maybe we should move him somewhere else?" Jubilee weakly suggests, pushing her way past Cyclops. I nod firmly to that.

"Yeah, like out of here entirely," I agree.

"Wolverine!" Xavier admonishes him, rolling forward in his hover-chair, which I guess makes 'rolling' the wrong word. "Personal vendettas have no place here."

"You know we must help a mutant if he's in trouble," Cyclops follows up.

"It's not personal," he tries to explain. "He's a threat."

Wolverine's behind the bed now, getting ready to push the bed out the door. Well. To try, at least. I'm right there with him, but we can't force this.

"He was near death," Xavier continues.

"If only," I reply, folding my arms. Logan perks up a little at that, and starts moving his adversary.

"If you take Sabretooth from this infirmary, don't bother coming back!"

Xavier's ultimatum takes all the wind from Wolverine's sails, and he lets the gurney slow to a halt.

"You don't know him," he murmurs. "He can't stay here."

I can't stop clenching my fists.

"It's no use, Logan," I tell him. "We can't explain what he's done, because we don't remember. All they can see is a man much like you. There's no way to show how Sabretooth is your dark reflection."

"We have to give him a chance, Playback," Storm announces, having come down the hall to join the conversation.

"A chance to rip your throats out," Logan snarls. Any resolution to this argument is put on hold, as the intercom squawks to life.

"Sector 37, missile base alert!"

"Magneto!" Xavier exclaims, and ushers Storm and Cyclops to the Blackbird. Jubilee wants to join, but a single hand stops her.

"No, Jubilee, not yet. Magneto is too dangerous."

He's definitely right there, and it's time for a distraction.

"C'mon, kiddo," I encourage her, heading in the opposite direction, "I need more practice thinking on my feet."

As we make our way to the Danger Room, I hear Logan getting the last word.

"How come we're supposed to trash your old enemy, but we gotta go easy on mine?"

Chapter Text

Three days in this system, and they were gathering good intel. Being bored wasn't so bad, Captain Kira mused. Sure, the sole inhabited world in the Tatoo system, imaginatively named Tatooine, wasn't much to look at, but there were ties all over to a larger civilization. They'd seen seven ships flash into view so far, and Lieutenant Nog was confident they came from at least four different designers—not to mention that their engine power signatures didn't resemble the warp drive used by the Federation and most minor powers, or the quantum singularity that Romulans employed. Promising material for scientific exchange, once they were ready for first contact. The picture being constructed by the Defiant's various specialists increasingly indicated a polity broadly on par with their own; ahead in some ways, behind in others, overall unlikely to be affected by the Prime Directive. She'd been involved in delicate negotiations with newly-discovered neighbors, and finding someone just barely aware of the living galaxy outside their star offered plenty of headaches. Of course, this 'Galactic Republic' promised its own—

"Captain, we're being hailed," Nog reported. "Audio only."

"Put it through," she ordered immediately. Now this was strange. They'd been cloaked since they went through the wormhole, one of a network that had appeared all over the Federation a week ago. None of those seven ships had given any indication that they saw the Defiant, even when two arrived minutes apart and had to jockey with the planetary landing facilities. Well, perhaps this conversation would solve the new puzzle.

"This is Jedi Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi, hoping that whoever hears this can help us. This is-"

"I'm Captain Kira, of the United Federation of Planets," Kira interrupted. "What's the situation?"

A brief pause, likely from this Kenobi being startled that his hail actually worked.

"We've got a disabled ship, Captain, with money the merchants here won't accept, and the sooner our guest gets to Coruscant, the better off a lot of people will probably be," Kenobi explained.

"Sounds like this is going to need in-person discussion," Kira noted. "We're coming down."

Some assurance that the sandstorm would not be an obstruction, and grumbling from her engineers about it anyway, she strode briskly to the main transporter room.

"Nog, Ro, with me," she directed. "Pran, you have the bridge."

Her crew was a well-oiled machine, seasoned and trained, but that didn't change the excitement in the air. Several questions loomed before them, with the promise of more but little apparent prospect of doom—a good time to be in Starfleet.

Kenobi's confusion over the transporter, combined with the three days of harvesting information, was good enough for them to pick a spot to beam down that was out of sight of their new acquaintances. Nevertheless, as the trio walked into the house's living room, there were yelps of surprise from most of the group—except one man, who remained calm.

"Captain Kira, I presume? Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn," he introduced himself, and Kira nodded in greeting.

"Nice to meet you. A few more details are in order, I think, before we can start to make plans."

Qui-Gon nodded placidly, and began to lay out the tale; their flight from Naboo, the damage taken from the blockading fleet, Watto refusing to take Republic credits for the parts they needed, and the possibility of having Anakin race for both the engine and his freedom. At that last, Kira held up her hand, muscles tensing in her jaw.

"You've been enslaved?" she asked the Skywalkers. They nodded, and Anakin was about to burst into a tirade when Shmi forestalled him with a hand on his arm. The captain bit her lip, thinking furiously.

"Tell me if I've gone wrong somewhere," she requested, laying out the pertinent facts. "Watto holds you prisoner via those implants, against Republic law—which is officially binding here," she added, holding up a finger to acknowledge the difference between de facto and de jure. "You," she turned, pointing at Jinn, "are a representative of lawful authority, requesting our assistance in various matters in accordance with your jurisprudence."

"Bang on in meesa books!" Jar Jar chimed in, and the Jedi's brow furrowed.

"I agree with your assessment, Captain, and I'm very much looking forward to your concluding point."

Kira grinned savagely, hunching forward in her seat.

"We're going to uphold the law against slavery, and get your ship to Coruscant. Shmi, how many of your colleagues can you gather quickly and secretly?"

The weathered woman bit her lip, working her fingers in anxiety.

"The local community numbers fifty-three, and in an emergency we can meet in the arena tomorrow night."

Now the Bajoran was more showing her teeth than anything else.

"Kira to Defiant, have Bashir come down with his entire team and the biggest medical suite he can move off the ship."

Ro nodded as the captain gave her order, following along.

"I'm thinking we mask the real escape with a fake one, Captain. Assemble a suite of 'corpses' with shrapnel, as if they tried to remove their implants, and beam our new guests aboard the ship. Some bullion should suffice for the new parts, and we can exchange Jinn's credits for something on Coruscant. Of course, odds are something interesting will emerge once we leave Tatooine."

Kira smirked at Ro's summary, shaking her head slightly.

"Oh, I love that optimism, Lieutenant."

"I hope you can be as helpful against the Trade Federation, Captain Kira," Padme interrupted, and her expression soured.

"That might be an issue, Padme," Kira replied, screwing up her mouth. "We have strict rules against interfering with other cultures, and the impression I've got is that your problem with the Nemoidians runs up against those strictures, unlike the slavery here. Any help I can give will almost certainly be restricted to advice."

She expected the young lady to be disappointed at that, and she was, but the young woman nevertheless pulled her into an intense conversation. Meanwhile, Nog and Ro worked through the details of the plan she'd sketched out, and Bashir's medical team arrived to start working on the implant removal procedure. Fragments of conversation drifted around the Skywalker home, in the few hours they had before rest was necessary. "Don't give politicians a chance to do nothing", "the transporter filter isn't designed to handle these implants", "these bars should be sufficient, and I am sure you will find something appealing for an equivalent exchange", "can we avoid an investigation by people like Watto before their ship leaves"...

Chapter Text

Of course, when Kira's people began beaming back up to end their shifts, it occurred to several people that there was no particular need for anyone to stay in the slave quarters, or even on Tatooine. The Defiant had some evacuation capacity, including bunks for the Skywalkers and the slightly ragtag Jedi company. It was a more comfortable base of operations as they planned the slave escape, exit to Coruscant, strategy against the Federation, and all the minor problems those issues brought along.

In the morning, their moves began. Qui-Gon paid for the replacement parts to get their yacht back in the air, Shmi and Anakin tended to Watto's junkyard, the Nabooans started on the repairs, and the Starfleet contingent finalized their medical and technical preparations. The faux-cadavers got beamed down into the arena Shmi intended to use for their gathering, along with a makeshift still to provide the excuse for their 'deaths'. They spread the word very carefully, but that was more or less common practice among the 'indentured servants', especially after a few years of 'service'.

"Say goodbye to your old lives, my friends," the weathered mother said quietly to the small crowd, which eyed the uniformed workers uneasily. "That monstrosity Gardulla jammed into Ani is gone now. So is mine. Those blue-shirted folks are giving us a new start."

Several people immediately volunteered for the procedure, but most of them were a bit warier. That suited Bashir and his team just fine, as they had limited numbers and so did the transporter. The freedwomen and men trickled up into the Defiant in a shimmer, and a few of them came back down with medical scans to demonstrate that the whole situation was exactly as claimed.

"I've been conned before," one man said sourly, "but not by someone who's not asking for anything in return or promising a bright future."

That sparked a more worried discussion about their prospects, which Kira did her best to assuage with details about the Federation's refugee program. Obi-Wan, for his part, had looked up similar efforts by the Republic, despite the mixed feelings towards the polity he felt confident they would usually have.

"I have no intention of leaving any of you on your own," the captain summarized, "nor of taking full control here. These decisions are yours to make, with whatever assistance you request."

None of them had to leap one way or the other that day, of course, and they proceeded to beam up to continue their deliberation on the warship. Nog had the conn on the Defiant once they were close to wrapping up, with Kira continuing to supervise operations on the ground. That turned into the captain heading to safe distance, along with the Jedi, to observe the explosion personally, followed by a steady walk through the alleys and corridors of Mos Espa into the outskirts of the desert settlement.

"I appreciate the company, Captain Kira, but are you sure—" Obi-Wan began, peering over the dunes, before he hit the ground. Qui-Gon and Kira were down immediately, the latter having already identified the young man as having good instincts. A red beam swept through the air where his neck had been. She scrambled up and away, drawing her phaser in the process, but their assailant was extremely nimble, preventing her from getting a good shot. The two Jedi were hard-pressed to deal with him; Kira could already see the master sweating, and nursing a developing bruise in his side.

"Kira to Defiant," she snapped, slapping her communicator. "Wide-beam stun from the phaser banks, radius of three meters, on my communicator, now."

Not quite 'now', technically, but the milliseconds it took to process her order and carry it out were enough to allow a toss of her device into the fray of the fight. The Bajoran hastily rolled backward, to boot, and the horned man fighting her new associates attempted a truly impressive feat of acrobatics. Attempted, because his backflip away was interrupted by that stun, and she winced as she heard the crunch of his head-first landing. Kira stumped forward, muttering a couple of minced oaths as it became clear that her left calf had been affected by the attack, and retrieved her badge.

"Four to beam up," she said curtly, "and the unknown hostile will need a medic."

Kira sagged into her chair on the bridge without visible relief. That at least meant that she didn't groan, either, when Bashir called her.

"Fractured skull and internal decapitation, Captain. I'll do what I can, but don't expect to be able to question him any time soon."

Qui-Gon insisted on staying with him, as apparently the man was a 'Sith', belonging to a cult with powers similar to the Jedi but devoted to power and cruelty. Kira would like to think that Starfleet could handle its own security, but that small pride paled next to the fact that she had little grasp of what, exactly, members of his Order could do.

"Quite an interesting report you have here, Captain," Admiral Ross told her on subspace, once the business on Tatooine was finished. For the time being, the refugees were staying on the Defiant, cramped though it was becoming. Apparently, the Federation's role in their liberation built up quite a few more good feelings than the Republic's inability to act.

"It's a complicated situation, sir," Kira began, but cut herself off when she saw that he wasn't done.

"Overall, I'd describe this as tiptoeing right on the edge of the Prime Directive. The possibility of conflict with the Hutts while we're still recovering from the Dominion and the Borg isn't exactly what I was hoping to see from this excursion."

She winced at the focus on a small portion of her assessment. A single slave raid was very unlikely to draw anyone's attention, but it was still a risk she'd made the call to add to Starfleet's mission.

"I hope that the other ships heading through wormholes will have more pleasant encounters with the Republic," her boss concluded.

"That seems likely, sir," she answered politely. "How many colleagues am I about to have on this side?"

"Oh, a small handful at first," replied Ross. "Starships do have a way of intimidating people sometimes, and we don't want to give that impression. The merchant marine, that's another story."

Kira's mind raced at the possibilities. If Starfleet was deliberately sending what almost amounted to a task force, that might mean a certain coy clash with official dubiousness over her actions.

"It sounds like quite a few people have been read in on the details of my actions here, Admiral," she ventured, clasping her hands behind her back.

"As you said, Captain, it's a complicated situation. A good deal of discussion, deliberation, and on-site investigation is needed." Straight-faced, the admiral nodded in dismissal, closing the link.

Ross' hinting left her feeling a lot better about the liberties she'd taken, but it was still a matter for delicate care. Her officers would have to stay in the dark, even though three of them had already expressed their own concerns in private. A tacit endorsement from admiral to captain was one thing, and continuing these efforts with other captains was much in the same line.

Chapter Text

Harry had put on a confident front for the last two weeks of exhausting work, assuring the community that the impending dimensional transplant would be as smooth a transition as possible, but there was still that dread in him, mixed with a heaping helping of guilt. Ginny saw right through him, of course, but James and Lily were too young for parental honesty. Albus just wanted his daddy around more, and frequently glommed onto him the moment he tumbled through the Floo.

"Come on, honey. Have a cuppa." Her voice interrupted his self-pity, and he let his wife guide him down to the couch. A few sips eased his mood, along with the mantra she prompted from him.

"I was part of a team, not the point of failure. Our planet is going away, but we'll have new homes. We get another chance, wherever we land."

"Now," she continued, "is there anything left to do for the jump?"

Harry mutely shook his head. The joint team had finalized the full ritual, and it would go into effect in mere hours. Past the kids' bedtimes, fortunately, and miracle of miracles, he'd been scheduled for the shift afterwards.

Ginny let his nerves settle through most of the cup, her hand on his throughout.

"One last night in my arms, love," she murmured, leading him to their bedroom, "and you'll be ready for the next challenge."

The next morning, the landscape around them was quite different. Gone were the rolling hills of England; the nugget of Ottery St. Catchpole, both the tiny wizard settlement and the Muggles around it, was now embedded in a forested mountainside. The thaumaturgy behind the terrain adjustment was beyond Harry, or at least would have taken time he didn't have to spare. Well, now he might have a looser schedule, depending on where exactly they were, which he'd find out once he got to work; the lack of emergency alert was certainly reassuring in that regard.

"What've we got?" he asked his coworkers, striding into the city hall.

"Southern Europe, definitely," Janice replied, frowning at her computer screen. "Situation looks a lot like Old Earth, but some of the borders are funky. At least we're not in the wilderness; short-wave radio's been picking up transmissions."

"So we can see 'in the clear' from here?" Kevin asked, and several people threw things at him for jinxing them.

Lo and behold, a rumble shook the room. Harry scowled, wand already in his hand.

"We'll keep you posted, boss," Janice promised. He patted his radio, letting it squawk as the customary check.

"Emergency volunteers, you're all on call. Hogwarts veterans, drop off your kids."

His investigation didn't last long, as the line from the earth breaking stretched away from them and reached far into the distance. Someone was lifting far more than Ottery St. Catchpole into the air. Definitely worrying—but not as much as the 'pew pew' he could hear, along with the screams.

"Move into the city," he snapped, "hostiles and civilians on the ground!"

Dozens of pops echoed him as he ran forward, and Harry would have grimaced at the reminder of old times if his attention hadn't been laser-focused on joining whatever fight was going on. Ginny was right by his side in moments, along with her brothers and Hermione.

"Any idea what's going on?" asked Ron, starting to pant as they crossed their third street.

Shots struck around them before he could answer (albeit not with any actual information), and Harry threw up a shield as they came in. Turning, he saw metallic figures with what had to be guns pointed at them. The threat didn't last long against a volley of spells, with some lovely variety; leg-lockers, stunners, disarmers, and more. The capstone was a shield flying in to bisect one, followed by a man rolling forward and catching it on the rebound. Getting back to his feet, he took a long look at them, and nodded.

"I'm Steve. The city's flying, so we've got to keep the residents safe while the police help them evacuate. You've already met Ultron's robots, and done a pretty nice job with them."

"Flying how?" Hermione asked intently, and Steve tossed her . . . something, which she examined for a few seconds before putting it in her ear.

"Find Stark. If you've got another dozen tricks up your sleeve, we'll owe you."

Harry's mind whirled, and he nodded at Dennis to radio back to the volunteers.

"We've got police," he told Steve, thinking aloud, "but we're not from around here, so bringing them in won't help. Everyone who wants to help Hermione and 'Stark', go right ahead. Ron, get some people to watch their backs—somehow I don't see these things letting them work peacefully. George, Neville, Charlie, same goes for getting the community in the air."

"Unless you've got over twelve thousand people new to Novi Grad," Steve interjected, "they can go on our helicarriers."

Another thingie went out, and Harry nodded his thanks.

"Anyone who's left goes on pest control," he assessed, and the group split apart. Ginny stayed with him, unsurprisingly, as did Bill and Fleur, ready to clear the streets. Steve kept them company at first, but the city was too big for that to remain wise for long. Unfamiliar with the local geography, Harry opted for a combination of making himself a flashier target than the fleeing Sokovians, and exploiting the fact that, at least for now, the robots had no defense against magic. The metal wreckage multiplied as the wizards and witches remembered their old reflexes, and a growing pool of people started to have hope that the day might not end with massive destruction.

Chapter Text

'Turmoil'. Yeah, that's the word to describe my emotions, on the queen's yacht to Coruscant. It wasn't enough to wake up and find myself schlorping alongside Jinn and Kenobi on the Trade Federation's ship. Whole minutes to adjust to a different body, from a species I don't recall even being in Star Wars; I'm now a carbosilicate amorph, essentially a sack of clay with a prodigious digestive system and shapeshifting that mostly amounts to 'squeeze through the smallest holes, plus dismemberment is extremely temporary'. And then there's the different life, since I definitely wasn't in any position to be on a diplomatic mission before. But we play the cards we're dealt, no matter how many droids shoot at us. Not to mention tanks, and giant fish, and a Federation blockade that's about to—

"Jumping to hyperspace, free and clear!" the pilot calls out, and the cheers nearly shake the ship.

Let us through? ...what? We actually made it? Well. Add another hefty dose to the turmoil. I guess this means we can pick up Anakin and C-3PO at our leisure, but a disruption to the timeline like this is not helping me calm down.

"Easy there, neighbor," Kenobi says, nudging me. I appreciate the effort, at least.

"Got any Jedi tricks to help me settle down?" I ask. "Not everyone's used to seeing quite so many blaster bolts."

He frowns, furrowing his brow in concentration.

"I could give it a shot?" the padawan offers. "In theory, the Force can soothe anything."

Well, theory into one hand, and practice into the other, but I did ask, so I give him a tentative nod. His hands rest lightly on the top of the ball I've formed, roughly analogous to having his fingers on my temples. Ripples of calm spread out from those points, and they help for a bit, but the metaphor overextends itself when those ripples start interacting with the aforementioned turmoil.

"It's not nothing," I reassure him, pulling away, "and maybe Master Jinn could do it better, but I'm sure he's busy and will remain so for quite some time."

He nods graciously, accepting his limited success.

"Maybe some rest," Obi-Wan suggests, reaching back out, "as long as you're not prone to nightmares?"

I shrug; they happen, but not in coordination with events in my life. There's a warm blanket on me, as he starts working, and

And then shaking, from decidedly taloned and webbed appendages.

"Weesa here! Gettin' off the ship!"

"Yes, thank you, Jar Jar," I grumble, "I'm moving."

Moving past the clumsy Gungan is something of a trial, particularly in the overcrowded vessel, but I make my way to the Jedi and the royal delegation as they're descending the ramp. The nap seems to have postponed the problem of my anxiety, unfortunately, and this is a decidedly worse time to deal with it. Still, I'm not exactly a public figure, so I'll just be a nervous civil servant with the rest of the—

Oh. Oh, no. That's Palpatine. This is bad. Not that I think he'll do anything, but the last thing I need is a Sith Lord oozing in. Okay, just, it'll be over soon—hnnn, no it won't, I was sent with the Jedi in the first place, I can't just leave without

Argghh, he's turned to me, he's noticed my kerfuffle, I, what do I do—

Obi-Wan has picked up more than a few tricks for silent communication with his master over the years, and the twitching amorph is cause for concern on both their parts. For some reason, the fellow is becoming increasingly upset as Senator Palpatine approaches.

"Ah, Mister Slimig, I hope you weren't injured in the-" he greets the hapless amorph, and grimaces at his demeanor. "Oh, dear me, you weren't trained at all for that, were you? Please, accept my sympathies."

He reaches in to give Slimig a comforting pat, which ends up being the exactly wrong approach. Obi-Wan's senses are screaming, but even as he attempts to radiate calm, a tendril whips out to send the poor man flying. Abandoning any subtlety, and with finely-tuned coordination, the padawan prepares to render the amorph unconscious while Qui-Gon catches Palpatine, even as the senatorial guards very reasonably move in to stun the surprise attacker.

Both approaches are unnecessary, as he slumps to the ground even more than he already was. Obi-Wan realizes how much sense that makes, warning the armed men away.

"He had a panic attack!" the padawan barks. "I believe Slimig passed out before his blow fell."

A sickening crack interrupts his defense, and Qui-Gon's face is like thunder. Senator Palpatine's limp form, upside-down and dripping blood, drifts back to them from the platform's guard rail.

"I've caught people like that a hundred times before," he explains, hands clasped together. "But his efforts interfered with mine."

Obi-Wan blinks at that. Surely a master Jedi would be accustomed to people flailing in the air, after a hundred times?

"Senator Palpatine attempted to steady his own course with the Dark Side of the Force," Qui-Gon clarifies, and the group falls silent.

Chapter Text

When I come to, it's in a white room. Cot in the corner, tiny refresher in front, and the shimmer of a shield instead of a door. What happened? The last thing I remember is Palpatine reaching for me as I freaked out, but I'm not seeing a path from there to here.

"How are you feeling, Kenta?" Obi-Wan asks. He's sitting on a bench outside my . . . cell. Oh, man.

"Not quite as nervous as before," I tell him. "This is psychiatric watch or something, I take it?"

He nods, with no trace of the amiable mood from the journey.

"I'm afraid you knocked Senator Palpatine rather badly, my friend. Master Qui-Gon couldn't catch him in time."

I can't quite put it into words, and my tension is back in spades.

"His death was an accident," he tries to assure me. "I'm sure the investigation will vindicate you."

I sag all the way onto the floor, barely a few inches tall at my core.

"But I'm still fired, and possibly going to prison anyway," I muse. "How long will I be here before they're confident I'm no longer a threat?"

The padawan grimaces at that notion.

"I don't know," he admits. "Additionally, my master believes Palpatine was a Sith, and is wary of reprisal from his master or apprentice."

Amorph body language is quite different from human, but Obi-Wan can still distinguish my relief from confusion or fear.

"Is there anything you'd like to tell me," he asks carefully, "while we're waiting for your counsel?"

There are a few things that would be handy, but nothing I really feel comfortable trying to communicate under the circumstances. My memory of the timeline is a little fuzzy in regards to Palpatine's master. I know Hego Damask was Darth Plagueis, but I'm not sure when he killed him. If he's still around, I'm probably going to be the target of vengeful violence or curiosity as the accidental Sith-killer, and neither of those are appealing prospects. So I just shake my head, and we settle down for a little while.

"Shouldn't you be tending to the blockade, and the queen?" I ask Obi-Wan after a few minutes. He checks something, maybe a pager, and shakes his head.

"As it happens," he tells me, "the Senate has just approved a small fleet from the Judicial Forces. I think the sympathy vote helped clear the usual procedural hurdles."

"And Qui-Gon is seeing that through on his own, while you babysit me?" I guess, and he waves his hand uncertainly.

"Apparently the Federation has lost its nerve, so he feels comfortable managing that and the Order's inquiry into Palpatine. You, ah, are the last of my trials. I'm to keep you safe and ensure justice is done."

That's a little foreboding. The Council really thinks my ordeal is going to be so rigorous that Obi-Wan's guardianship qualifies him for knighthood? Any hope I had of not feeling sick to my everywhere is fading, and I jump clear off the ground when I hear a clacking in the hallway. The Jedi rises smoothly, of course, to greet the newcomer. Turns out my high-heeled lawyer has arrived, rather than an assassin droid, and he retreats to give us some privacy.

"Slimig Kenta, I'm Denia Rossum," she introduces herself briskly. "Jinn thought I'd find your case interesting, and I owe him a few favors, so let's get started."

Rossum is tall and slim, with a smooth gray-purple scalp, and despite my old grudge against suits, I have to admit that hers is impressive. I tell her as much as I can, merely claiming that Palpatine had always had a weird and unsettling vibe in my opinion. It's never been common sentiment, and I didn't tell anyone for a variety of reasons, not least the lack of professionalism and general rudeness.

"Why do you think you were assigned to assist the Jedi, despite your lack of training in negotiations?" she asks, datapad and recorder at the ready.

"Secretary Akin likely believed it would give me a little seasoning," I conjecture. "Master Jinn predicted an easy victory, what with the reputation of the Jedi."

"Do you agree with his assessment of Senator Palpatine as a Sith?" she presses me, raising an eyebrow at the invocation of old legends.

"Does it even matter?" I counter. "He's dead. It was an accident. I didn't mean to hit him, or anyone."

With Kenobi testifying to my mental and emotional state, along with an actual medical professional attesting that I fit the symptoms of panic attacks, the judge doesn't think I'm a real killer, but she does remand me to a qualified facility while I wait for the next hearing, and until I can be trusted not to push anyone else over the rails. Strictly speaking, I haven't yet been charged with any actual crime, and shockingly I've been placed on medical leave rather than being terminated. As it happens, the Jedi Temple has halls for people dealing with these issues, and Obi-Wan is quite willing to keep me company. Well, I suppose he doesn't have a whole lot of choice, since the investigation is still going on, but I appreciate it anyway, and I make sure to tell him exactly that.

"It's not exactly a hardship to stay here," he rebuts, gesturing at the plush surroundings. "I'm confident that I can keep you from getting worked up again, as long as the guards don't let any reporters through to ask insensitive questions."

"A lot of people are going to be asking them at some point," I observe, "if they do find signs that the senator was an acolyte of the Dark Side."

Kenobi frequently has his eye on me, but I feel his gaze keenly now. Can he tell that I'm not actually wondering?

"You believe Master Jinn," he challenges me.

"Don't people usually think Jedi masters know what they're talking about?" I ask him, idly fidgeting in the tub they've provided as resting accommodations.

He walks over and looks at me directly, no longer content with our easy conversation.

"You waived privilege for Rossum's discussion earlier. Twice you've been asked about Palpatine being Sith, and twice you've deflected. Why?"

"Maybe I'm still pretty rattled by the past few days," I counter. "Maybe the idea of sharing office space with a storybook villain is a little off-putting. Maybe I'm not really confident in, or comfortable with, any theorizing like this."

He lets it drop, and orders some lunch, but I don't think the matter is over. Well, obviously it isn't, that's a straightforward assessment. The thing is, he has a point. Dissembling like this doesn't actually make any difference. I could tell him everything that happened, my previous life. My gut keeps telling me no, and with my new biology that's saying something. Maybe I'm waiting for confirmation on Plagueis, to find some way to search for him without tipping him off, not to mention Maul. Ohhhh, no, that's actually a really pressing danger, I've got to bring him up somehow.

"If Palpatine has some sort of associate, steeped in all that hatred and viciousness, I might be his primary target, yeah?" I ask, once Obi-Wan's finished his dishes. He nods.

"Should the Sith have survived these centuries, and have been hiding in plain sight, whoever is left will make a cunning foe," the padawan agrees.

"So you're ready for trouble," I conjecture, forming an arm and mock-flexing it.

He just pats his lightsaber, and I really hope I won't see him fighting off any assassins any time soon. And not for the dumb reason of 'I was drugged through the encounter' or anything like that, either.

Chapter Text

A twelve-year-old boy drove an enormous snake fang into an old diary, and three men writhed in pain, burning-biting-throbbing from their left forearms. Severus Snape headed to the infirmary, leaning on his colleague Charity for badly-needed support, while Lucius Malfoy snarled at his employee to get him to a bed immediately. Madam Pomfrey clucked over them, as was her wont, but found no culprit beyond curse damage; as a consolation prize, the agony was fading at a decent pace. Peter Pettigrew was left to writhe by himself, with no prospect for assistance unless he took the tremendous risk of revealing himself and hoping that no one asked the obvious questions. Of course, he was in the situation of hiding as a rat for years on end precisely because he did not have what it took to make that kind of dare.

No sooner had Albus assuaged Harry's fears over belonging in Slytherin than a note popped out of his Floo, alerting him that Severus was in the infirmary and needed to talk with him urgently; Lucius Malfoy's presence in the next bed over was an intriguing addition. That meant a quick departure, with the boy trailing along carrying the diary and the note. Laying out Malfoy's engineering of the plot was satisfying, along with Harry managing to engineer free agency for his house-elf, at which point he staggered off. Hogwarts hospitality was too much for his pride to bear, apparently. A gesture sent the two boys back to their friends, and then it was time for a sensitive discussion.

A translucent phoenix flashed away, notifying Director Bones that they had caught the true culprit behind the attacks on Hogwarts. Albus felt confident that hubbub would ensue at the Ministry; even without the service to innocents, that sort of thing tended to be good for bureaucracies. 'Has to be seen to be doing something', indeed. If only they had their own Peeves...

"Sir," Severus reminded him, his voice slightly loose with Poppy's remedy. The headmaster nodded, coming to his side, and examined the offered forearm.

"Completely gone," he mused, tracing the smooth flesh closely. Not the slightest physical hint that any mark had ever been present, and the magical connection continued to attenuate. This might even provide his tormented professor with closure, at long last. "I have a great deal to look into now, Severus, but if you would like company at your bedside, I am happy to interpret 'now' rather loosely indeed."

Snape shook his head, and even waved his wand for a privacy curtain after the headmaster stepped back. He bustled back to his office, eager to confirm this new evidence. If Voldemort was defeated for good, rather than an admittedly effective delay as the Potters had managed twelve years earlier, that changed quite a few things. Indeed, the thaumaturgical constructs Albus had devised after Riddle's first exit lined up very well with his essence being completely gone. The diary was denaturing as he examined it, but there were certainly traces of dark magic, soul magic, in addition to the basilisk venom. The boy's tale lined up so well with the fragment of soul in a horcrux possessing Miss Weasley, but then why would Tom have placed it in such a mundane object? It was a puzzle, to be sure, making sense of the madman's psychology, and his work was certainly far from done here. The notion that Tom had tried and failed to make additional soul jars was far more logical, at least, than the prospect of Dumbledore himself performing magic that detected one horcrux, and the base spirit in Albania, but was unable to find other artifacts.

Well. The threat from Voldemort was most likely gone, and that opened the possibility of Harry Potter no longer being forced to spend summers with his relatives—perhaps a few Order members might be willing to curtail their own summers to house him? A few letters were in order, and he could think of a few prime candidates who were emotionally equipped to handle a teenage boy, not to mention had room for one. Albus winced briefly at the notion of putting Mr. Potter in the care of Mundungus Fletcher, or his brother Aberforth.

Hestia,

You may have wondered, over the years, why no one had heard anything of young Harry Potter in the years between his anomalous survival and his enrolment at Hogwarts. Due to sensitive reasons, I have found myself in the position of asking you to share custody of the young man, most likely with assistance, during this coming summer, and quite possibly the next one as well. There may be danger from Death Eaters, but I have reason to suspect there will be none from their leader. I am happy to discuss the security precautions (which may include putting a residence of your preference under the Fidelius Charm) with you, at your convenience.

Your old friend,
Albus Dumbledore

Another one off to Dedalus as well; not the most conventional of choices, but the boy was in unconventional circumstances. Albus himself would be quite prepared to respond at a moment's notice to any problem, but even with Lucius Malfoy's action in mind, Tom's old disciples seemed to prefer the lives they had bribed out of the Ministry in the aftermath of that Halloween. And frankly, even that diary was a scheme that quite neatly bypassed all of the protections that he had devised or studied. He could have some confidence that Harry's psychological well-being was being tended in the coming months, in addition to his continued physical existence.

Barty had his left forearm in view when it happened, the emblem of his loyalty dissolving into nothing. The mass of emotions at what had to be the Dark Lord's final defeat tore at the comfortable haze of his father's Imperius, and he raced to the cupboard where his father placed his old wand. Winky would be along soon, he was sure of it, and this was the greatest chance he would ever get.

Chapter Text

Ah, a beautiful day in the neighborhood. Fine luck, to have the day off! Take a walk, have someone over for tea, general relaxation. The owl at my window might interrupt that, unfortunately.

Golly day. Dumbledore wants me to help keep an eye on Harry Potter for the summer. Well, I'll be at his immediate disposal, of course, sending that courier back immediately with my enthusiastic agreement.

Not twenty minutes later, his phoenix Patronus arrives to declaim "my office, thirty minutes. Floo directly in, please."

I don't know what I can possibly do with half an hour, keyed up as his letter has gotten me. It's delightful to be told that You-Know-Who could well be gone for good, of course, but if something actually changed in that regard, that's a confusing situation indeed.

It's a good thing I set a timer, or I would have been lost in my thoughts, especially going in circles from his brief missive, and missed the appointment.

"Albus Dumbledore's office!" I enunciate very carefully, tossing in a dose of powder and scooting through my fireplace. A prompt look to either side, and I see Hestia Jones is already here.

"Good afternoon!" I greet her cheerfully, doffing my chapeau. She smiles in return, and we both find seats in anticipation of the headmaster's arriv-and here he is.

"My thanks to both of you for coming, and being available on such short notice," he tells us. There's a twinkle in his eye, as is so often featured, and the old man relaxes behind his desk.

"Of course, Professor," Hestia replies smoothly, and it's my turn to be nonverbal.

"Voldemort is gone for good," Dumbledore announces without preamble. "This will have serious consequences, which I am in the process of managing and investigating. In particular, the Death Eaters who bribed their way out of Azkaban sentencing may be volatile. I tell you this to ensure that your assistance to me, as helpful as it has been over the years, is assessed accurately. You see, Harry Potter's relatives, the Durslies, do not treat him well. Up until now, I believed that was a lesser danger than the risk of Voldemort's reprisal. This afternoon, for the first time since I established my watch, every sign points towards his final demise, and thus the peril is lessened. In my estimation, it is unlikely that you will deal with any vengeful interlopers, but I would not rate the chances any lower than that."

There is no joy in my old friend's face now, but his gravity does not diminish my spirit one bit.

"If you're asking me to adjust my life, both to be Harry Potter's foster parent in general and prepare for one of those ex-minions to show up making trouble, well, count me in," I tell him, scowling firmly.

"I'm afraid," Hestia admits, and I grimace in agreement, "but not so afraid that I'll run away from helping a kid who's . . . you know what, scratch that, just helping a kid, full stop."

"You can be our Secret-Keeper," I suggest, thinking aloud, "and I'm sure he's made a few friends who would be willing to go to some trouble to visit him over the summer."

"My place isn't big enough for three people," my imminent companion concedes. Extension Charms are great, but they're not meant for permanent use, and we're going to need three separate bedrooms anyway. "Dedalus?"

"I can do some rearranging, put things in storage."

We start making plans, and Dumbledore has a few places in mind that we might find more convenient than remodeling. Once there's a workable arrangement, Professor McGonagall summons the lad to join us. He's pleased to meet Hestia, and remake my acquaintance. Positively bubbling at the prospect of not spending any more time with his relatives, and I suspect 'do not treat him well' was something of a euphemism.

"So you might be up for, you know, doing this next summer too?" he asks, trying to be nonchalant.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Mr. Potter," Minerva says primly. "You may find some personality clash with, ah, Hestia or Dedalus."

(We both offered our first names to him, despite preparing to act in loco parentis. The situation here doesn't match well to that kind of formality, in my opinion.)

"Can't be worse than the Durslies," he shoots back, and I clap Harry on the shoulder.

"I appreciate your enthusiasm, Harry," I tell him, "but sassing one's Head of House isn't the best of plans even with the school year ending."

Though it is rather encouraging in terms of the worst possibilities of his upbringing thus far. He's not afraid to disagree with authority, not to mention the rules he broke to save young Ginny Weasley. I suppose he'll be inviting them over at some point.

"It seems that we have plans settled for now," the headmaster observes. "Do share the news with your friends, Harry."

Intriguing, how Albus can combine a congratulations with gentle dismissal.

"Minerva, please inform Severus that his application is accepted, and make a shortlist for his successors in the Potions room," he directs her. McGonagall sweeps out with a small smirk. Dumbledore's wand comes out for the Fidelius Charm.

"Dedalus Diggle, Hestia Jones, and Harry Potter live at Seventeen Wisteria Lane," he intones, sending out the words in silvery letters from its tip. Now nobody knows about it but the three of us, which naturally means that Albus will need to write a note for the lad, and anyone he asks to come by.

One large apparition directly from his office, and we see our new residence. Albus flicks his wand several times, obviously applying various protections and alerts keyed directly from him, and bids us farewell.

"It's not a bad place to live," I observe, taking my own tour of the place. Four bedrooms, as it happens, plus the usual accoutrements of kitchen, laundry, bath, etc. Hestia murmurs in agreement, but the sound soon turns more troubled.

"Tricky, though, for a young man to have privacy. Or us, for that matter, since I don't think it's wise for any of us to be alone. Ah, you don't have anyone who would be bothered by you having a female roommate?"

I snort, perhaps not the best reflex to have here.

"Sadly, no. I take it you're in a similar boat?"

She just nods. I look at her a little more closely, now, social instincts asserting themselves. I don't think she's flirting with me; pretty confident about that, frankly. But, that wasn't exactly closing the door, either.

"Well, cards on the table," I toss out. "We'll be getting to know each other pretty well until Harry starts school again. Whatever happens, happens?"

Chapter Text

It was refreshing to have someone notify them promptly when a problem occurred, Steve mused. Dimensional research was a fledgling branch of science, and the people who found it interesting didn't yet have much idea what they were doing. Oh, Tony had dabbled, and Thor brought some notes on the Bifrost's thaumaturgy, but it remained an unsettled field. Dr. Winfield had taken reasonable precautions, and advanced cautiously through various tests; she'd only been using live subjects for a month, graduating to human volunteers four days ago. Just taking short trips to other Earths, the location and duration deliberately pre-set. Well, not so much anymore—the Avengers were doing their best to cordon off the area around her lab, where portals had started to appear after a series of system errors in her equipment.

"Police have set up barricades, Cap," Sam reported, and he restrained a sigh of relief. "They've got traffic lights helping, so we shouldn't have too much to worry about."

"Yeah, I'll be honest," he replied, "as long as we don't have any people jumping into the wilderness for a year as a surprise, I think that'll probably count as a success."

Of course, while it was the plain, obvious first priority to restrict vehicle traffic, with pedestrians fairly easily following suit, that still left the actual residents of the area. The good doctor had put some effort into setting up in a less-populated site, but less did not mean none. Stark had his hands full attempting to help her shut down the lab, which sadly had not been constructed with an emergency stop in mind, and he'd barely been able to spare the cycles for a rough map of the danger zones. Naturally, the risk fluctuated, with spots passing in and out of the hot spots for portal formation, but there was at least the confidence that anything coming through would be returning; the details were beyond him, but somehow the machine tracked whatever went through, and recreated the door back on the subject.

It was a mild comfort, though it didn't stop most of the team from packing emergency supplies in case they hit one of the rings; they'd already caught a credit union's time and weather display (which was gone for a month on the other side before reappearing seconds later undamaged), a hawk, and most of a "no parking sign".

"Shit!" Clint swore. "Cap, someone's coming out, half a block to your left. Maybe ten feet from a spout zone, but she's got safety pretty close by."

He was on it, running to hold her off, while retaining enough breath to give an actual warning.

"Not that way, miss!" Steve called out, getting her attention and stopping her in her tracks. He was all set to guide her to a clear area when his comm squawked, and a red bolt from Wanda came his way.

"Hold on," he grunted, picking her up and covering them with his shield—pretty good bet that the incoming blast was supposed to shove them away from an incipient portal. The young lady yelped at his manhandling, courteous as he was, and outright screamed when they flew through the air. Captain America rolled with the blow, and gave her a soft landing, if his pecs counted as soft. Still better than the broken pavement that greeted his outfit.

"Ooof," his companion grumbled, clambering off him and getting to her feet, which fortunately were in sneakers rather than heels. She'd lucked out overall, with jeans and a polo shirt that would serve her better on this little jaunt than quite a few outfits he'd seen. "Where are we? This sure doesn't look like Greener Street."

"Another version of Earth, as I understand it," Steve replied, pulling on his years of experience to help reassure the civilian as he assessed the environment. Bits of pavement here and there, and he'd know a drive-in screen anywhere. The wreckage on the ground was another story, and the area overall looked pretty desolate. "I'm Steve, by the way."

She looked at him levelly, eyebrow raised just a smidgen. "Yeah, kinda put that together. Sarah."

"Nice to meet you, Sarah, even under the circumstances. We might be here for a while, but don't worry."

The question was forming on her lips when he heard something strange over his shoulder—a SCHLZORP, if one wanted to study onomatopoeia. A step and turn had them covered again from someone a solid thirty feet away lowering a, hmm. Maybe a weapon, it was kind of hard to tell, and Steve kept the shield up.

"Hey there, neighbor," he called out.

"Hey, yourself," she grunted in reply. "Don't see many people with shields nowadays, even the Legion."

"They're not common, no," he agreed, "but it's been with me through thick and thin."

"Got a sword or spear to go with it?" the newcomer asked. Steve wondered where she was going with this, but that thing in her hand at least went into a back pocket. Or maybe her backpack, his vantage point didn't exactly show.

"I use whatever's handy," he replied casually. "Say, what's this Legion you mentioned?"

She pursed her lips, approaching them slowly, and he could see the tension in her step. Weathered clothes, with several straps for her pack.

"You from way out west, or something? We're not too far from their territory, here."

"Or something," Steve agreed, and cut his wit short when a muscle ticked in her jaw. "Definitely not from around here, it's a bit of a long story."

She looked him up and down, but it was clearly and openly a move to assess his threat.

"Hmm. All right. Where're you headed?"

He bit his lip, wondering how to phrase it.

"Somewhere comfortable, I suppose. Not sure how long we'll be here."

She clearly didn't like his vagueness, but Steve didn't see a better path. Sarah tugged on his sleeve, and he noticed a few figures approaching in his peripheral vision. The native swore, pulling out a gun, having followed his gaze.

"Find cover, we've got Fiends coming," she snapped.

He obeyed immediately, diving behind the wreckage he'd spotted earlier. It looked a bit like a satellite; certainly the wings were a dead ringer for solar panels, ones he'd seen a dozen times in various diagrams. Oddly, Sarah was right behind him—better reflexes than he'd expected.

"Stay down," he directed, and she nodded vehemently. He peered out and readied his shield for the old reflection trick, and sure enough, a few potshots went back to catch someone in the leg. The firefight was over in a matter of seconds, mostly due to the efforts of the woman they'd just met.

"Neat trick with that shield," she called out, examining the bodies.

"Took a while to get the hang of that one," Steve agreed.

She chuckled at that, pocketing a few bits and pieces and walking back to their hidey-hole.

"You can handle your own in a fight, and I could use some company. How about you come with me to New Vegas, and we get an idea of what comes next for you?"

He nodded slowly at the suggestion, and looked to Sarah, not wanting to make the decision for her.

"Sure, okay," she assented. "I'm Sarah, and he's Steve."

"Osage," the woman introduced herself, "though recently people have been calling me 'Courier'. It's a job thing. Guess we'll both have something to discuss on the road, huh?"

Chapter Text

Kingsley knew why Mundungus Fletcher was in the Order, theoretically. It was helpful to have someone with friends on the wrong side of the tracks, access to sources who wouldn't trust the likes of Vance or Dumbledore. Still and all, the man was so seedy it was a wonder Molly Weasley hadn't planted him in her garden, and the Auror enjoyed his presence less than anyone else he knew. It was unfortunate, then, that the two of them were in the sitting room at 12 Grimmauld Place, and the sneak thief was speaking sense enough that he couldn't make any excuses to help set up for the meeting scheduled five minutes hence.

"He's running out of time, mate," Dung observed. "If Dumbledore can't get some sacrificial lamb to teach Defense in the next week, the Ministry's going to plant a toady in there; smart money's on Dolores Umbridge."

Kingsley nodded gloomily, leaning back as far as he could.

"I can't think of anyone with the guts to do it who isn't already using those guts for something, let's be honest, more important. There are worse things than having a rubbish Defense teacher at Hogwarts, though Fudge having eyes and ears there isn't my idea of a fun time."

Fletcher grimaced at his cold pragmatism, but had to agree. He took a stubby rollup from behind his ear, squinted at it, and stuck it back in.

"Wouldn't it be a trip and a half if someone came along who actually wanted the job?" he asked. The air before them bubbled, rippled, and tore open, melting away to show four young adults and a toddler. They had their hands forward, curled around nothing, as if they'd grabbed onto a Portkey as a group and it hadn't made the journey with them.

Kingsley's wand was out in a moment, but three of the newcomers looked familiar—he'd met all of Molly Weasley's children, and their hangers-on, and there was some strong resemblance to her daughter, youngest son, and his best friend. Granger, that was the name. The fourth, well, he'd looked at more than a few pictures of the old Order, and that young man was the spit and image of the late James Potter. And all of them looked like they were staring at ghosts. Except the toddler, who was curled firmly into the Weasley boy, face very much hidden.

"Kingsley?" James-ish gasped, lowering the wand that he'd already drawn.

"Dung," Granger acknowledged, a sour smile on her face.

"Who are you, and what in Merlin's name are you doing here?" Mundungus squawked, the last in the room to brandish his wand.

"Looks to me like maybe something very interesting happened to Ronald and Ginevra Weasley, along with Hermione Granger and . . . . James Potter?" Kingsley mused. His own wand was still at the ready; looking like someone didn't prove anything, and bypassing a Fidelius Charm was no mean feat.

A flick of Granger's wand produced a ghostly otter, and he was reluctantly impressed at the ease with which she performed a Patronus Charm. It was a recorded principle that dark wizards could not cast the spell, but he was only familiar with the single possibly-mythical story of Raczidian being devoured by the maggots his wand produced. The others followed suit, with a terrier, horse, and stag joining the group.

"You died, Kingsley," James burst out, his hand trembling. "I saw it. I was there. You, and McGonagall, and Slughorn. Molly Weasley took Bellatrix down with her last breath, and Riddle was so furious that he broke you all, so what is going on?"

Mundungus looked to him, taken aback by the emotion in the young man's voice, and he was struck by the dichotomy. The pain was in James' eyes, too, and his companions, and they were all teenagers trying to bear an adult's burden.

"The package, Harry," Ginevra said quietly. "It sent us to a different Grimmauld Place. Like it was before the war."

The hope on their faces was almost painful to see, showing how low they'd sunk. And it was Harry, rather than James, despite the Potters having only Hyacinth before Peter betrayed them.

"You-Know-Who has returned, but he's still gathering strength," Kingsley told them. "Biding his time until he finds the best chance to strike, and we're doing our best to counter him."

The four of them conferred for several moments, their whispers quickly turning into background noise, until Harry turned back to face him.

"I think we can help quite a lot with that, actually. Especially since it sounds like he just came back, so we have a little room to work with on the challenging aspects."

Kingsley blinked at the young man's confident assertion, but it wouldn't be his problem if that boldness turned out to be unfounded, and he nodded. The noise from the main room was rising, indicating that he and Dung had been out here quite long enough.

"Perhaps you could give us more details at the Order meeting," he suggested, waving them forward and bringing up the rear.

"This certainly is a surprise," Dumbledore noted placidly, with eyes as keen as ever. Several people gasped, not least Sirius and Remus, and Molly, well. She raised a finger angrily, but as she looked at her children, the fire went out of her.

"James?" Remus asked shakily, but Harry shook his head.

"We've crossed into a different timeline, I think," Hermione conjectured. "Five years ahead of ours, and with at least one detail changed—your Lily Potter did not have a son."

"You beat him, then," Moody said roughly. "No way you've been on the run, and he'd never let people like you alone."

"That was about all we managed to do," Ron replied bitterly, and his girlfriend leaned into him for comfort.

"We have the information you need, Headmaster," Ginny redirected. "Acting on it will be challenging, in a few cases."

Harry and Ron snorted at that, and Hermione smiled. It was nice to see some cheer from such haunted children. Harry's lips moved silently, as he took a second look at the room, and he bit his lip.

"And I can teach Defence, while they're working on all that."

Chapter Text

Content warning: neo-Nazi rally

This was definitely aiming for the top tier of the worst days of May's life. Flying in a tiny plane wasn't her idea of a good time, but it was a lot cheaper and more convenient than going commercial. Of course, when that plane started falling out of the sky, and she had to take a parachute, her pile of regrets was fairly large. It was a comfort, at least, to see Vision swooping in to guide the no-longer-flying machine down, and the other three parachutes pop out. She wasn't out of the woods yet, far from it, but probably her immediate future held nothing more than a need for first aid.

May did her best to aim for somewhere soft, but that was much more easily said than done for someone who'd never used the steering lines on this contraption. She veered every which way, plummeting and drifting, and to her dismay she realized her path was on course for a warehouse. Crashing through a roof was the last thing she needed, but there was the dubious comfort of possibly having her fall blunted by glass breaking rather than metal bending. On second thought, maybe that was worse? Either way, no time left to worry about it.

CRASH!

Johann Schmidt had honed his skills as a showman for years, and the United States offered more recruits for the cause than before the war. Granted, much of that was due to population growth, and the general sentiment was far more firmly against him, but he felt confident that tonight's bounty would be ripe. An unused warehouse was not the ideal arena for a rally, but it had certain perks. The air of hard work, which simultaneously tugged at the guilt of many office workers for their comparatively cushy posts and reinforced the resentment of manual laborers for the deterioration of their bodies. The climate control and power systems were easy to access, aiding his staff in establishing his stage, along with the open framework being a gift for scaffolding. The breaking window overhead hadn't featured in his calculations up to this point, but he'd roll with it.

"Ah, it seems we have a new guest! Welcome to the show, mein Freund!" he exclaimed, watching the new entrant attempt to escape the parachute and broken glass. Gratuitous German somehow continued to be an expectation, with American audiences. The figure rose, stepping clumsily out of the enormous folds, and ah, a lady. This could be even more interesting. He directed one of his volunteers, fellow by the name of George, to help sort her out; no one would ever accuse him of poor hospitality.

"Tell me, Fräulein," he asked silkily, walking slowly and deliberately to her as his boots began to crunch the scattered shards of glass, and noting absently that they were smaller and more clustered around her landing zone than he would have expected, "are you awed to meet the great Red Skull? Ah, but that is of course an unfair question, forgive me—your adventure up to this point has likely already overwhelmed you. I remember meeting a few soldiers (heh, Kameraden and others) who had to regain their composure twice after similar landings!"

Indeed, he could see it in her eyes, the shock of the glass and wooden floor transitioning into something else. Ah, terror, such an entertaining reaction. He had not supposed that she was an eager fan hoping to meet him, and this would be ever so much fun. Certainly she was not an Avenger, with her sensible dress (sadly, not an actual dress), so there was not the slightest thing to fear.

The Red Skull. ...she was so thoroughly boned. What would she even do? No Exit sign that she could see, and the doors on the other end of this place are past a whole bunch of neo-Nazis. Winging it seemed like the best of bad options, and the Skull was waxing lyrical about the question of her allegiance.

"You know, I remember an incident, when they published the Hobbit, and started putting out translations in various markets," May began, to absolutely everyone's confusion, but Red Skull waved her on.

"The Reich asked Tolkien if he had any Jewish ancestry, and he prepared two responses. One was simply 'no'. The other..." she trailed off, trying to recall the wording. Well, that and stalling for time, since Vision probably hadn't just abandoned her. Right. But Skully there seemed to appreciate the move, or at least he was chuckling.

"Ah, do not leave us in such suspense! How else did the esteemed Herr Professor wish to reply?" he asked, clasping his hands in supplication and then reaching out as if to receive an actual object.

"'I regret that I do not have any forebears of that esteemed people', approximately," May recounted, and steeled herself. "Sadly, his publisher chose the first option."

The Skull clucked his tongue at the disappointment, and began to pace around the stage, slowly drawing closer to her.

"What a tremendous shame, and I suppose my greeting of 'mein Freund' was sadly misplaced. The question now becomes, men of my Volk, what shall we do with this interloper? Is it time for a belated Säuberung of our meeting grounds?"

The mood was quickly deteriorating, and dozens of men were now brandishing weapons. Knives, bats, and chains were distinguishable even with the hindrance of stage lights on her.

"Or perhaps we shall be gracious, and present her with a Gift!" he boomed. This was it, her final moment. Her senses were terribly clear, to perceive her doom. The squeak of his leather boots, the variety of grenades at his belt, one man stepping forward with a machete. May wished, suddenly and fiercely, that his blade might fly forth, and embed itself in the Skull's chest.

She didn't expect anything to happen, and was shocked to feel a tiny thump on her chest, followed by *tink* on the ground. May crouched down, and took a fallen grenade pin between her fingertips. Rising back up, she saw Red Skull quickly yanking the grenades and hurling them up through the broken ceiling. Chaos erupted, as men attempted to flee the incoming explosion, and now she was very fortunate to be in more open ground, as there was a clear path to some sturdy scaffolding.

It was a burst, but not an explosion, as the grenade activated. Fire so bright the aura reached around the wood panel between them, and the veteran Nazi's scream dwindled in moments. She peered around her cover, such as it was, and saw a form collapsed on the floor. May was alive, and the impending danger of shrapnel was replaced by the death of their icon, continuing to push the previously-murderous crowd out of their rally. The sirens might also have had something to do with it.

Chapter Text

There was a lot of running away, but the mass of police cars did some deterring. For her part, May just sat there, dealing with all the emotional whammies. Of course, there was also the physical aspect of having parachuted through the window and landed on the hard floor. She didn't really know what to wait for, but there wasn't any compelling reason to move, so she didn't.

"Miss?" Oh, there was a cop looking at her. And talking to her. She looked up, seeing a woman about her own age with a pad and pen ready.

"I did it." That wasn't quite what May had meant to say; it was hard to be sure, because words were kind of just coming out of her. "It, there was the pin, and then I had it, and the grenade killed him."

The cop sat down with her, folding her legs carefully rather than May's sprawl.

"My name's Darcy. Can you tell me what happened, from the start?"

It was a bit of a story. The plane, falling out of the sky, crash-landing, fumbling her way through that conversation, wishing the knife would hit him, going for cover when she saw the grenade pin.

"Am I in trouble?" she asked woozily, clutching the blanket that had arrived on her shoulders at some point.

"Not my department, unfortunately," Darcy apologized.

"I'd like to say your biggest problem will be finding a bar that will take your money, after killing the Red Skull," someone mused. May looked up and then quickly down again, catching him in the process of sitting down. Oh, it was another Avenger. Sam Wilson, with his goggles and folding-up wingpack. Good-looking, too, but that was the way it went, huh?

"Darcy here has professional obligations that I don't, so she can't tell you that no sane DA would possibly charge you for what happened," Sam continued. "That said, there's definitely the possibility of civil suits from some of the bolder folks here. The Avengers can help with that."

The cop bared her teeth at his description, nodding slightly.

"You pulling jurisdiction here, buddy?" she asked. May couldn't tell what was going on here - a genuine pissing match, or relief that someone able to deal with metahuman matters was on the job? She fussed with the pin again, where was it. Oh, duh, evidence. Never mind. She missed whatever discussion they had, until Sam looked right at her.

"Do you want to stay at one of our safehouses tonight, May?" he asked. "I'd like to have you somewhere secure, especially if your telekinesis acts up any."

She nodded shakily.

"I don't think I'm going to have, you know, power incontinence," May replied, "but what would I know about how this works?"

His smile lit her right up, exactly what she needed after the last couple of hours.

"I'm sure you'll be an expert soon," the veteran Avenger told her. He took her hand and helped her up, all the way to a waiting van. With a driver, actually, which was a new experience for May. There were refreshments in there, and she scarfed down some mini-muffins, washing them down with most of the rest of the bottle of water the first responders had given her.

Things settled down by the evening, with the officer's card and a preliminary report to Phil. It had been challenging to find the right balance with May, not giving her an air of fragility or ignoring her actual vulnerability. Staying off the internet had helped, with the exception of a few dog videos, and making dinner had taken her mind off things. He'd even had to remind her not to use telekinesis to help in the kitchen. If she already saw the utility in her power, rather than tying it to the death she'd had a hand in, that boded well for her future. Whether she joined the team or not.

Reports were well and good, but a little actual conversation was in order too. Steve was on deck for this one, not to mention a particularly appropriate case manager.

"How's she doing?" Steve asked. It was still odd to see him wearing an actual business suit, but they were trying out a new policy for maximum amount of time in the field.

"Sleeping now, after an evening in with my best 'new friend' skills," Sam reported. "Any word on the therapist and lawyer?"

"Stark's HR has the first one covered," Steve replied. "Legal doesn't go beyond the civil suits, obviously, but they know people. If we see actual charges, she'll have more than a few minutes of a public defender's time."

Sam nodded, having expected as much. He took another look at his friend, through the video screen.

"You okay with someone else taking care of the Red Skull?"

"I'm a man, I don't talk about my feelings," Cap answered, keeping a straight face for a moment after his sentence. Then they both broke into slightly morbid chuckles.

"I've gone through the chances I had to address the situation," he said more seriously, clenching one fist and clasping it with his other hand. "Every time, someone or something else was a higher priority. It all seems like the right call in retrospect, but that still means . . ."

Sam nodded again, folding his arms.

"The cup passed you by, and landed in her lap."

"I was, ha, 'encouraged to explore my new opportunities'," May said, smiling thinly as she hunched in her chair. "Officially, they're sad to see me go, but I'm still annoyed they don't have the guts to take a pro-Nazi whine or two on various fora."

Dr. Westford frowned in approval, writing a note that she couldn't read.

"You liked what you did?"

She shrugged, weighing the aspects mentally.

"It was fine. Not a big fan of getting kicked out, as cool as it is to join the Avengers."

The doctor nodded several times, seeing her patient's point very well.

"It's irritating to have an option simply taken away from you, even if it wasn't very appealing."

May leaned back in her chair and enjoyed the affirmation.

"At least I've got a clean bill of health for the fall, and for Little Miss Get The Keys Out Of The Sewer."

That was certainly an interesting way to phrase it, and she gestured for her to continue.

"I respond instinctively to threats, turns out, but it's just . . . weak," the newbie griped. "As much as the pin was elegant, I don't like my chances against something more substantial."

Chapter Text

Janet gritted her teeth, slowly working the alien artifact out of the soil. She didn't expect to get anything from the thing; mostly, the goal here was just to make the FICSIT VI shut up so she could build her smart plating in peace. She loosened it. but there was something blocking the rest from getting clear of the ground; probably rocks caught on some rim she couldn't see. More force was in order, along with some leverage, and naturally when the thing finally flew free it cracked solidly against the reinforced plate constructor behind her.

In fact, that was a breaking sound, and Janet turned from her sprawl on the grass to see a chunk missing from the sphere, along with crackling lines of lightning spreading by the moment. An attempt to scramble clear just put her flat on her face, with a spreading tingle, tremble, BURST—

No more grass, just pavement under her gloves. Screams around her, and she looked up to see a giant spherical robot. An ice path formed on the ground, with someone in a skin-tight ski suit shooting forth clouds to form mini-bergs on its joints.

"Frozone!" a man built like a fridge shouted in glee. Unfortunately, the robot smacked both of them away with its claws. Janet had absolutely no idea what to do. Certainly her xeno-zapper wouldn't even tickle the monstrosity, but with her Construction ability maybe something would be useful? The whole thing put her very much in mind of the old era of supers, when people with extraordinary abilities like hers (but usually a lot flashier) tangled with all sorts of threats. She looked closely at its structure, with a head, a giant sphere for a body, and five tentacles tipped with four-clawed pincers—ah, just four now, with the one clutching Mr. Fridge snapping away. It was ridiculously nimble, easily dealing with the scattered five-member team.

"Do something or evacuate, ma'am!" one of them barked at her, and she nodded, accepting the responsibility.

"I can build things pretty fast," Janet explained as concisely as she could, "but not as fast as that monster moves."

"What sorts of things?" the other woman asked, frantically stretching across the street to trip the robot that had already been slipping on ice.

"Mostly machines, but, uh, maybe if I can set up some foundation blocks, I can slow it down?" Janet suggested.

She furrowed her brow at that, but the ruminations were interrupted by-

"Violet!" Frozone exclaimed, seeing a young woman running towards them, brandishing some sort of device.

"Mom! I've got it, I've got the remote," Violet explained.

"A remote that controls what?" he asked, bewildered. The robot lumbered towards them, and the girl started pressing buttons. One and a half agonizing seconds later, rockets ignited in the claws, and the leviathan sailed down the street to belly-flop majestically into one of the office buildings.

"Got my chance now," Janet mused, and started constructing a field of obstacles between them. Ugliness was a priority for once, and height a secondary objective, as she planted blocks and ramps as unevenly as she could manage. Given how the thing crunched the street, she wasn't expecting to trap it like a hog or spitter, but any amount of hindrance would be something.

"Hah, now that's a trick and a half," Frozone congratulated her, and the children watched in amazement.

"I see what you mean. Oh, I'm Elastigirl," the woman noted, to Janet's reply, with 'Dash' chiming in—right after he snatched the remote and started pressing buttons himself. The two children bickered for much longer than Janet would have liked, before their mom assumed control of the device, and Frozone made his exit.

"I'll buy you some time!" the ice-man shouted, sculpting a skating line forward and unsnapping a snowboard from his shoes . . . somehow.

"If you can hold it back, I'll build a barricade right here!" Janet called out, and started laying down a wall before the group.

It was all very dramatic, with Frozone spraying up walls that the robot contemptuously smashed through, and tentatively found its footing around the blocks Janet placed, while Helen and Bob set up a shot to send the detached claw flying through the monster's core. Cue the celebration, and Frozone wincing at Bob's slap on the back.

"You all look like the old supers," Janet commented, retrieving her foundations.

"I was Mr. Incredible, back in the day," Bob replied, chest puffing out, and she snorted in response.

"Unless you're a hundred and fifty years old, I call shenanigans," she scoffed, but the discussion was interrupted by a limo driving up, disgorging a man in a suit. An actual suit, to Janet's pleased surprise.

"Helen. Bob. Lucius," he nodded to the adults, and raised a single eyebrow at Janet's presence.

"Hi, I'm Janet," she introduced herself, shaking his hand. The kids quickly interjected about her 'super-cool' block-building, and he blinked slowly.

"Rick Dicker. I don't recall any super with your description around here. Where are you from?" Rick asked, and Janet shrugged.

"Born on Earth, moved around a bit afterwards. FICSIT was offering enough money to get the creditors off my back if I headed off-world, but I'm not sure how I got from there to here."

He opened and closed his mouth twice, and lowered the finger he'd begun to raise while she was talking.

"You know what, why don't I take them home, and we can figure out what's going on here," he suggested. The car was just big enough to fit four adults and two children, fortunately, though Bob certainly challenged that.

"When exactly were you born, Janet?" he asked quietly, while Helen started checking her messages.

"January 4, 2090," she replied promptly.

"And your super ability is?"

"Construction, for short," she explained. "I can lay something out with the right materials in seconds, and I don't even have to touch anything. Breaking it back down's just as easy."

Rick grimaced at her summary.

"Would it surprise you to know that a calendar in any home or business we might walk into would show 1962 as the current time?"

Janet gaped and slumped at his revelation, sagging impressively in her seat.

"I guess that explains why they weren't in rapid responder uniforms," she replied at last, but attention in the car was rather focused on racing into the Parrs' home. It seemed a babysitter had come in to fill in for the much-beleaguered Kari, despite Helen not calling for one.

Chapter Text

Janet regretted not taking part in the fight, later, but Helen assured her that everything had worked out just fine.

"Unless you could have built something over our house to take the impact of a crashing plane, don't worry about it," she assured her. Janet grudgingly admitted that Helen had a point. Sure, the foundations had withstood the Omni-Droid's weight, but that was a far cry from sheltering a home, and setting up a structure to shield their house would have taken a minute or two.

In the meantime, the family would be set up in hotel rooms, with Janet joining them. Dicker needed to talk with her more on the ride over, of course. Apparently time travel was out of the ordinary, even for supers.

"We can set up a new life for you," he warned her, "but I don't know of anyone who can get you back home."

Janet clenched her fists and shook her head.

"I have nothing to go back to," she replied bitterly. "A dangerous and lonely job to settle my father's bills. My emergency contact form was blank."

He had clearly expected something like this, or perhaps he was just unflappable.

"Understood," Dicker said. "You're aware, now, that supers are not allowed to maintain secret identities, and vigilante justice is severely frowned upon?"

She shrugged at that, clearly not the response he wanted.

"I took action because it was necessary," Janet told him. "I have no intention of going out looking for trouble. Can you hook me up at a construction firm, or maybe someone dealing with materials science?"

"Ah," he mused, opening the door once the driver parked. "You're curious about the things you make?"

"Sort of?" she replied uncertainly. "It's just, sometimes I get ideas for new ways to build things, and even new things to build, after messing with a bunch of semi-refined materials."

He chewed that over for a few minutes, and the two of them helped the Parrs get settled in to their temporary digs.

"I'll make a few calls," Dicker promised, faring them all well.

"You don't want to save lives and uphold the law?" Winston asked, a little taken aback. Janet shook her head shyly. His office was impressive, taking up a large corner of the floor, and she remembered some of the sunsets from Massage.

"I'm not opposed to it," she protested, "but I think I can contribute more with research, or development."

"Well," he said, standing and striding briskly to the elevator, "Rick said you could demonstrate what you have in mind with a good deal of empty space, and I've got an empty warehouse, so let's see what we can see."

As it happened, that warehouse was right on the grounds of DevTech headquarters, so Janet got right to work. Reinforced iron plates, cables, concrete, rotors, modular frames, quickwire, iron rods, they all flew from her hand and wove themselves into place. Inside of five minutes, she had a small factory that would construct reinforced iron plates if fed coal and iron, along with a connection to the power grid.

"I can get you shipments of raw materials," Winston mused, "and your setup here is definitely worth examining closely. Can you give me an idea of how your own research might go?"

Janet waved her hands uncertainly.

"Maybe?" she offered. "I'm betting you know how discovery works, it's not a thing that goes on command."

"Of course, of course," he assured her. "Tell you what, I'll set you up as a consultant, get a truckload or three of your listed materials, and try to give me a status report in . . . a week."

He shook her hand. Janet drew herself up, and started puzzling over a few draft schematics she'd been thinking about.

"Mr. Best!" Winston greeted his newest prospective employee. 'Lucius is fine' shook his hand firmly.

"Now, I've gotten to thinking about an unusual initiative that might suit you marvelously. Tell me, have you gotten bored of studying the physics of low temperatures?"

The quasi-former super shook his head slowly.

"Got plenty of practice in the old days," he noted, "but it was never the right time to look into the kind of facilities I'm guessing you've got."

He held out his hand, gesturing that they should take a walk, and piqued Lucius' curiosity. As it turned out, DevTech's cryonics department was small but focused, and its head Dr. Williams was overjoyed to meet him.

"Even if all we can get is a few hours a week," she gushed, "you open so many doors for us here! We have to put so much into safety equipment, and insulation, and waldoes and tools never carry the same sensitivity as actual hands—"

"I get the idea," he responded, holding up his hands and chuckling. "Maybe I can take a sabbatical."

"You'd still need a suit for this kind of work," Winston noted. "But it would be more of a place to hang tools, Doctor?"

"There are so many possibilities we could explore with you, Mr. Best," she agreed, practically vibrating. Frozone had met many fans back in the day, of course, but this was something of a new experience. If all the legal niceties were put into place, and the possibility of going out as Frozone in another emergency wasn't locked off, this could be a whole new direction in life.

Evelyn sat and stewed, chewing viciously on her granola bar. The supers were back, and her brother besotted. Oh, he claimed that he'd found a new solution, peaceful uses for super powers, but she knew Winston far too well to think that would satisfy him for long. A month, tops, before he started back on that 'super revival program', probably with one of the people who fought that giant robot. She had to concede that the colossus had been a job for supers, but how often did that happen, really? No, ordinary emergency services had been handling their responses just fine since the Super Relocation Act, and there was no reason to go back to the bad old days of yahoos who shot lighting out of their whatevers putting on masks and deciding they got to do whatever they wanted. The question was, should she reinforce the civilian side of things to see if that got him properly distracted, hope against hope? Or maybe dust off the scheme she'd been thinking about since he told her he wanted to bring back the culture that failed their parents.

Chapter Text

Unloading the supply truck wasn't one of Jared's favorite activities, in his little part-time job at his mom's security company; that prize belonged to training with the guards, even if that training mostly amounted to helping them practice soft takedowns. (Can't get into the habit of assuming someone knows how to fall, after all.) Still, at least there was no need to hurry, since Beth drove into the distro center in town to get the goods rather than having someone deliver on a tight schedule. They needed a van anyway, for semifrequent four-plus guard contracts, so the vehicle got used either way.

He checked the manifesto again, having verified the boxes as they came out: two medium boxes left, and then it was time for his essay. Mom was very clear that schoolwork came first, and Dad was always pleased when he put in the effort before assignments were due. They were in the final alcove, one of the downsides of dual-purposing the truck—the load wasn't arranged conveniently.

In fact, after moving the cardboard cubes to the back, which was much better situated for repeated removals, he saw a chest. An ornate wooden chest. It had handles, but the thing still looked like a beast. Fortunately, there were footsteps outside, so he could get some assistance.

"Little help in here, buddy?" Jared called out, hoping that it was Mike out there, built like a fridge. Wouldn't be much room for Jared to move around—a girl about his age hopped into the truck. Black shoulder-length hair, tight T-shirt, Jared hastily hauled his gaze back up to her face, and was greeted with a saucy smile.

"Whatcha got there, huh?" she asked, and he wordlessly made room for her, gesturing towards the odd, unrequested item.

"Looks pretty. What's in it?" she wondered, casually taking hold and pulling it smoothly from the seat to the aisle. Jared shrugged.

"Beats me. It's not on the manifesto, and Beth wouldn't take something like this by accident."

The girl bit her lip, and he liked that look a lot more than the smirk that followed.

"Get those things out of the way, and we can take a look."

The chest wasn't supposed to be there, he knew that—but there's no way anything that cumbersome got loaded without a lot of work. What was going on? A question for later, as he got the two requested boxes into the bay, for Cecilia to open and unpack.

"Whoo-ee!" the girl called, prompting Jared to high-tail it back. He could see her point, the varied books visible as he stepped into the truck again.

"Numerology and Grammatica, 7th Edition," he read on one, putting it to the side.

"The Threats Within: Training Auror's Instincts," she replied, brandishing a hefty volume and uncovering something wrapped with cloth. He lifted it up carefully, and realized that he had no idea who she was.

"Oh, I'm Jared, by the way," he introduced himself, laying the silk back to see . . . a knobbly stick.

"Faith," she replied, chuckling in delight at the lawn debris. Jared raised an eyebrow, reaching to pick it up.

"Yeah, it's amazing to see—"

The glow in his hand told a very different story.

"My wand," he finished.

Faith's chuckle became a guffaw, and she nearly lost her balance laughing.

"You got a glowstick, Jer!"

"Or something," he replied, putting it down next to him and continuing the exploration. Mom and Dad had mentioned magic, but always in the tone of 'everything has its price'. The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1, which had been right next to the wand, could probably give him some idea of the costs involved here. He flipped it open, and started browsing. Faith continued to root through the trunk for a solid twenty minutes, while Jared puzzled his way around the textbook.

During this time, sadly, they were not quite as alone as they thought. The day was heading into twilight, giving enough cover for a particularly determined vampire to approach his prey, and one had sniffed out Jared's initial handling of the wand. The parasite made his way to the van, and cursed at the sight of Faith with the young wizard, but he'd handled Slayers before.

She swore loudly, bounding from their little cubby, and startled Jared quite effectively.

"We got a vamp," Faith snapped. "Stay in there, I'll take care of this."

That stuck in his craw a little, and he started looking for vampire remedies as she engaged the demon-spawn. Punches and kicks landed solidly on both of them, but he was focused more on locating—ah! Lumos, the wand-lighting charm. That might just do it.

"Lumos!" he called out, brandishing his wand, but it was more like a lamp, only causing an effect akin to a car's headlight—both fighters blinked away the sudden illumination.

"Got any UV in there?" Faith snarked, and the vampire chuckled even as she drove a fist into his gut.

"Little mage like that can't conjure a real sun, missy," he gloated, already recovering from the impact. Jared was really starting to dislike this guy, and he scanned quickly for a sun-like variation. Faith saw the success in his eyes, and brought the fiend into a full nelson, spitting distance from incipient thaumaturgy.

"Lumos Solem!" he shouted, and a brighter light shone forth. The key wasn't the magnitude, however, but the quality, and Faith's captive was caught in the aura, blistering horribly and cringing in pain. She quickly took advantage of his hindrance, forcing his face into the glow, and the would-be predator choked as the radiation rendered his body into dust.

"Nicely done, 'little mage'," she teased him, bringing her hand up for a high-five that Jared eagerly returned.

"I gotta tell Mom and Dad about this, come on," he told her, waving the Slayer forward. Faith grimaced at the notion.

"They're gonna think you're crazy, Jer," she told him, slowly stepping back in anticipation of moving on.

"Oh, no, they're the ones who told me about vampires and magic and stuff," he assured her, and she nodded slowly.

"Thank you," Mr. Sinclair told Faith, shaking her hand firmly, "for saving my son's life."

She shrugged, not resisting as he ushered her inside.

"He woulda managed okay."

"Jared hasn't trained to face a vampire, Faith," Mrs. Sinclair disagreed, setting the table for dinner. "He's no Slayer. Not like you."

Faith grinned ruefully, and sat down next to Jared.

"I'd say 'the one and only', but, word is Buffy Summers's been doing it for a couple of years here in Sunnydale. Might be interesting, having backup like her for a bit."

"You're just visiting, then?" Jared asked, hoping that he'd misinterpreted, and absently serving himself from the pot of stew his dad set on the table.

"Ah, you've got to go back home, to your parents, of course," Mr. Sinclair assessed, and Faith shrugged uncomfortably.

"Could stick around, I guess. Not much in Boston I really want to see again."

Jared's parents had a long moment of silent communication, and she nodded.

"Where are you staying, dear?" Mrs. Sinclair asked gently.

"Motor Inn," she answered through the last morsels of a mouthful. "It's nice. Get to do my own thing."

"You could try here, instead," Mr. Sinclair offered casually. "A lot more comfortable, and cheaper to boot."

She grimaced in response. "Not my style. Thanks, though."

"Which Slayer is more effective, Faith?" she asked sharply. "The one staying on her own, with no threshold, or the one in a supportive household?"

Faith opened her mouth, tried to form words, and closed it again with a frown.

"Yeah, Mom's like that sometimes," Jared commiserated, patting her on the shoulder. "We've got a couple of guest rooms since my sister moved out, don't worry."

Chapter Text

Melanie's garden was almost as piddly as they get, in New York City. It was on the ground, at least, connected to real soil, rather than a handful of flowers in a planter. The smallest bag of loam at the hardware store still lasted her two years, but she'd managed to hit the sweet spot—visible from the street, without getting easily smashed by careless pedestrians. (Or malicious ones, of course.) Truth be told, she didn't really put that much effort into it, not like some people even in her neighborhood, but it was a pleasant pastime, most of the time.

Less so now, as she saw a snake slithering around her stems. Blotchy red and gold, and long enough to make her nervous. Melanie regretted not doing more research on the critters that might find her little patch of flora inviting, and wondered how she could get it out. Or maybe she wouldn't have to; it surely had predators. Like a hawk, swooping down and grabbing the scaly pest in its talons, flapping away just as quickly. Oh, the snake might slip out again, maybe, but it'd be away from the garden. The bird would dart around the neighborhood, its eyes out for prey, and Melanie gloried in the wonders of flight.

She began to realize this wasn't just her imagination, vividly conjuring the sensations of the wind racing past and through her feathers. The thermals were truly there, sending her soaring towards the clouds, and her gaze could pick out ice cream in a young girl's hand as she ambled down the sidewalk. She had a moment to give thanks that it wasn't a work day, before luxuriating in the tremendous freedom of airborne movement. Not many people would have been content with a mere dip into this new world, carefully accounting for time, and indeed Melanie found herself startled by twilight—the gross details were all she could pick out in a struggle between some giant lizard thing and Spider-Man. Wait, what?

Her instinctive skill with new-formed wings seeped away, as she flailed in surprise. The shapeshifter tumbled toward the ground, and managed to regain control just in time for, well, a 'landing she could stagger away from'. Moments after she rose to her feet, rather than talons, that lizard was rounding on her!

"Hey, buddy, let the lady get her breath first!" Spider-Man called, striking while the monster's focus was on her. Two nimble feet drove into the small of the lizard's back, but the reflexive swipe of its tail sent Spidey flying up near the roof. He was barely holding on, both of them dazed, and Melanie took her chance. Not to escape, though. She concentrated on the lizard, grasping as quickly as she could for its niche in the web of life. What could she be, to help Spider-Man take care of the problem? A snake might work, wrapping around his neck, and that hunch was good enough for her.

She darted forward—"There's something you don't see every day," Peter mused, watching the young woman melt into a fifteen-foot boa constrictor—and wrapped herself around the annoyingly nimble creature. It became an effective tag-team effort for several seconds, with Spider-Man flitting by to irritate it with kicks, punches, and web strikes, while she did her best to cut down the air supply. It wasn't long, though, before the cry of "Don't hurt Daddy!" rang out, startling all three of them. A young boy was trying not to cry from an open door at the edge of the tiny yard, and their foe managed to react first.

"Billy," it—he—wheezed out, fleeing the scene and slipping from her slackened coils. Frankly, it was good timing, as Melanie had just about reached her limit, and she happily accepted Spider-Man's hand up.

"Thanks for the assist, miss!" he said jovially, and she got the idea that he was grinning under his mask. "I'm Spider-Man, in case you didn't know."

"I've heard of you," she replied drily. "My name's Melanie. What on earth was that thing?"

He nodded ruefully. "Isn't that the thousand dollar question?" he agreed, and they headed towards the obvious lead.

"Nobody has to know," Spider-Man said, doing his best to comfort Mrs. Conners.

"You're a vigilante, Spider-Man," Melanie said suddenly, "but I'm not. The police will listen to me. I bet I can make a deal—they cook up a secure facility where he can fix what he did to himself, and there's probably a pretty good chance that it'll work for the injuries they've gotten in the line of duty."

Mrs. Conners grimaced, and Spidey sat on the wall, chin in his hand.

"It might work," he agreed hesitantly. "Are you really ready to dive into this world, Melanie?"

She brandished her left arm, twirling her fingers and remembering how they'd transformed into the tip of her wing—along with melting entirely into her side.

"I don't know how I got this connection to animals," she replied, "but I'm not going to sit by while—"

Quicker than she could track, Spider-Man zipped out with her in tow, grabbed a man making for the gate to the street, and stuck him to the sidewalk with his webbing.

"Looks like someone had something else in mind, eh, Eddie?" he snarked.

"You said it yourself, man," Eddie retorted. "That lizard is out of control!"

"I won't let you ruin Dr. Conners' life!" Spidey insisted, and Melanie bit her lip at the two relatively reasonable points of view.

"I'm a journalist, not a jackass, and I ain't doing anything worse than he already did!" Eddie self-justified.

"Set it up anonymously, Eddie," Melanie suggested, words just coming out of her mouth. "A man pushing the boundaries of science, hoping for a better world, and getting the support he needs just in time. No one's name gets blackened, you get a scoop, and make a name for yourself as a writer who gives a crap about people."

Eddie gritted his teeth, but it was a better proposal than standing where he was for a few hours.

"I got an offer from my boss," he admitted, looking at the camera on Spider-Man's belt. "You give me the photos from giving Conners a nap, wherever he ended up, and I'll split the bonus with you, fifty-fifty. I'm no cameraman, and five hundred bucks is worth the front page."

A handshake sealed the deal, along with a vial of solvent from right next to the camera.

Chapter Text

It was a pity, Aphrodesia thought ruefully, as she assembled her security checkpoint, that Barty Crouch had managed to nab Alastor Moody despite the latter's paranoia, but at least the man was willing to let her borrow his arsenal to safeguard Hogwarts. Sirius Black hadn't been sure how to feel, when Moody proposed spending a few months in 12 Grimmauld Place after stripping his old protections, but she was sure he could sort out his emotions on his own time.

"Right," she mused aloud. "I've disabled Vanishing, switching, and general property alteration. Well, a buzz will go off if someone does the last one, at least."

The archway was deliberately set up just inside the legal boundaries of Hogwarts, both ensuring the headmaster's control over the situation and borrowing the impressive magical schema protecting the area. It was handy, not having to set up a Portkey ban, or jinxes against apparition and disapparition. Of course, that very convenience made Aphrodesia very wary when the characteristic cracking sound of someone apparating in punctuated her sentence, and she whirled around with her wand to see a house-elf.

"Dobby did not mean to startle Miss Benedict," he apologized, raising his hands defensively. "Dobby only wished to help with the station to keep evil out of Hogwarts."

She blinked a few times, but saw no reason to refuse assistance—especially because Dobby had just bypassed the anti-apparition jinx, which was, to the best of her knowledge, a privilege reserved for the headmaster.

"Right," she agreed, "and you can do some things wizards can't, so that could be handy. At the very least, I appreciate having some company here. The teachers will be arriving in about half an hour, but after they're done getting checked, I don't exactly just go home, you know?"

Dobby nodded firmly.

"Dobby will be happy to keep Miss Benedict aware of any danger!"

They were quite ready when the first carriage arrived, and even a little antsy, or at least Aphrodesia was. Dobby reassured her that a few years of this would give her a wonderful temperament, which was slightly comforting. Dumbledore's approach also helped, though she was worried about the tests he would surely perform; Professor Sprout, Mr. Filch, and presumably the new Defence professor followed him up to her little office of sorts.

"Ah, Miss Benedict, good morning," he greeted her, clasping her hand warmly and nodding to Dobby. "Everything is in order?"

"Yes, sir!" Aphrodesia replied, waiting for him to take his wand out. "All according to the designs I gave you last week."

"What is this?" Professor Somebody asked, walking up to her arch. "Headmaster, surely we should simply enter the castle?"

Dumbledore nodded happily, but made no move forward.

"Indeed we shall, Madam Umbridge, once Miss Benedict has confirmed that we are carrying no dangerous or illegal objects."

Umbridge huffed in response.

"Well! I feel sure that we can all trust the Ministry, so I see no need for this rigmarole in my case."

Unfortunately for her, Aphrodesia had made the obvious move to set up her checkpoint stretching all the way across the Hogwarts gates, making an easy bypass impossible. The squat woman scowled at her.

"If you'll empty your pockets, ma'am, and put your luggage into this cart here," she instructed, but Umbridge scowled harder for a moment, before smoothing out her expression into an insincere smile.

"Just as soon as I have verification from an Auror that you've done your job properly, young lady."

If she was expecting resistance, she was unpleasantly surprised, because Aphrodesia perked up at the proposal.

"Please do! I'd love to have another set of experienced eyes make sure nothing nasty can get through here."

At this point, most of the teachers were waiting, assembled around the gates with varying degrees of patience. Before a minute had passed, a rather bland-looking man in a brown trench coat cracked into place, and nodded to the growing crowd.

"Auror Dawlish. Morning, everyone. I expect this won't take too long."

His inspection was certainly more thorough-looking than Dumbledore's gaze, waving his wand over every inch of her construction and testing the various enchantments. Dawlish nodded at the various buzzes when he produced a wooden duck out of nowhere, changed it into a bear, and set it to walking towards the castle.

"Right. Well done, Miss Benedict," he assessed, shaking her hand. "If you have any trouble at all, don't hesitate to let us know—"

His cordial farewell was interrupted by a blare, as Umbridge attempted to walk through the arch; the sound indicated that the problem was with her bag, rather than on her person. Dawlish waved Aphrodesia ahead, to begin her check.

"Please remove all the items from the container, ma'am," she requested, providing several trays for ease of organization and display. Handkerchiefs, sweets, various educational paraphernalia, everything went out, and nothing tripped an alarm until she came to a set of imposing quills.

"Ah, those are nothing for you to worry about, dear," Umbridge interjected, tittering and attempting to move Aphrodesia's wand aside. Her hand was much slower than Dobby's, which he interposed in the blink of an eye. His smile was positively serene, to Umbridge's second momentary scowl.

"These write with blood, I can tell that right off the bat," she noted, not recognizing the instruments, and the mood in the room dropped quite suddenly. Even Filch, a noted proponent of not sparing the rod, seemed to find them unsettling.

"Personal property, beyond your purview, quite appropriate, move on," Umbridge snapped, but Aphrodesia was not going to be cowed in her very first inspection. Another few moments drew out the specifications of its design, and she grimaced at the picture thus drawn.

"Specifically, they write with blood drawn directly from the user's veins," she pronounced, and pulled out a list for consultation. As it happened, she picked up the wrong one, but upon seeing Dumbledore's specific prohibition on corporal punishment, it hardly mattered.

"Shut up, you stupid girl, and stop interfering with your betters!" Umbridge snapped. This time Dobby let her seize the offending objects, with a wink to his new colleague.

"Dawlish, get rid of this ridiculous nonsense, so I can get to work," she demanded, folding her arms and smirking.

"You're quite sure that those quills, designed to cause injury as their primary purpose rather than a consequence of improper use or necessary cost for significant benefit, belong to you?" he asked, eyes on her and wand in his hand.

"Yes, yes, they're mine, and nobody else's business, now get on with it!" she practically screeched.

Dawlish shook his head, producing a paper bag from his pocket.

"I'm afraid items with those characteristics were classified as Dark artifacts forty-seven years ago, Madam Undersecretary. The penalty is a minimum of twenty galleons, or one day in Azkaban. Each."

Umbridge snarled, and swiped at him with her wanded hand. Half the bag fell to the platform housing the security station, and the Auror's eyes narrowed.

"Assault on an officer and obstruction of justice. Don't make this worse, Dolores."

An incoherent scream was his reward, and a flash from his wand sent her to the ground. Levitating her insensate form produced another buzz from the detectors, and he strolled away to just outside the castle's barriers, where he vanished with a crack.

"I believe we may have witnessed the record for shortest tenure as Defense Professor," Minerva noted. The crowd chuckled uneasily, set aback by the confrontation. Dumbledore merely pursed his lips, gazing at Aphrodesia and Dobby.

Chapter Text

A year and a half in Japan, tutoring children with Quirks that made normal school difficult, and still the most jarring part of Betsy's life was the stares she continued to get. Being 5'8" sure didn't help, and her face tended to grab attention too, what with the red hair and gray eyes. At least she was in the same ballpark as willowy, which made navigating the subway much easier, along with getting clothes. She put it all out of her mind as she presented her ID to the receptionist, who scanned it briefly and waved her on to the educational nook she'd carved out of the building.

"Good morning, Toga and Chairo!" Betsy greeted her students warmly. They were her only constant charges, with her from the start, under circumstances that made it challenging for them to go anywhere else. Once again, she regretted her occasional ruminations on how distinctive she was, an American in Japan, compared to a straight-up bear. People could get used to a lot of heteromorphism, at least most people, but being full-on nonhuman would never stop being an obstacle for the young woman—especially since her body went along with a decidedly different style of thinking and speaking, much more direct and clinical than the culture there allowed. Not that Toga had it easy, really, with approximately seven gazillion vampire jokes.

"Good morning, Miss Betsy!" Toga chirped, and Chairo's speech synthesizer echoed her. Yesterday hadn't been much for homework, and frankly Betsy assigned as little as she could get away with; active engagement in class was so much more important at this age than filling out papers. It meant a nice, breezy opening to the morning by reviewing just a handful of problems they'd finished the previous evening—it did overwhelmingly tend to be the one immediately preceding, despite her counseling on how to handle the weekend. She couldn't throw any stones in that department, of course, but hope sprang eternal that she could instill the habits in them that none of her teachers could plant in her.

"I think it's time for a video—" she began, but their comfortable routine was thrown completely out of whack by an explosion that did not so much send sound through their room as tremendous vibrations. Betsy had been drilled on evacuation procedures as part of her orientation, and she made sure to practice them with Chairo and Toga every other month, so their panic was . . . well. Reasonable, perhaps, as she took their hands and led them to the hallway.

"I'm sure everything will be just fine, girls," she assured them, clenching her toes to keep the worry out of her voice and hands. Chairo's grasp was wonderful, just what they'd been training for, while Toga was very nearly clutching her arm. As long as they stayed together and safe, Betsy would have no complaints. About that, at least, as she hurried through the shaking corridors and winced at the rumbles, crackles, crunches, and screams. The last, especially, she tried to put out of her mind, with the minor help of the entire rest of the situation demanding her attention.

It all got a lot more interesting when a collapsing wall caught Toga right in the side, folding her over like a sheet of paper. Betsy quickly opened the first-aid box on the wall, but she could tell that the girl's condition was much more serious than that; Toga wasn't even gazing at the blood dripping onto the floor from her mouth, or soaking through her blouse. Her own quirk was hardly any use, effectively immune to any serious wound. If only she could—

Koichi very much preferred street-level heroism, just a helping hand for someone having a rough day. That said, when he heard the explosion, he could hardly leave it for someone else, despite his head ringing. Zipping up to inspect the scene, the wreckage was rather intimidating, but there was a pile of debris that seemed manageable. Fortunately, the ground surrounding it was smooth enough for him to get to work properly, especially when he found a tarp and some rope, so he could rig up a sled of sorts. Three trips back and forth, dumping the chunks of concrete roughly in the sweet spot between 'this barely moved' and 'that sure was a hike', bored a small hole, a gap in the detritus through which he heard voices.

"Lovely morning we're having, isn't it?" he called into the building, some brightness to alleviate the mess they were in.

"You know, I've had better," a woman replied, sarcasm and gratitude shining through in equal measure.

"Did you get caught too badly in what happened?" the amateur hero asked, desperately hoping that waving paramedics over would be a wise precaution rather than an urgent necessity.

"We've all been banged up, Toga most of all, but I don't think you need to worry too much about that just yet. I'm Betsy, by the way," she introduced herself.

"Crawler, coming through on the double!" he replied, getting back to the path he'd opened. It was trickier work now, aiming for the pieces that wouldn't fall down on anyone, and Koichi started to wonder where all the pros were. Surely this would draw more attention than just his?

As if summoned, the clarion call of "I Am Here!" rang through the dust, and the young man adjusted his makeshift mask as he tackled the last few chunks obstructing Betsy and her girls. One of All Might's punches settled the tottering structure, as ridiculous as the notion was, and another dismissed the air that was starting to make the bear cough.

"Very well done, young man," the behemoth congratulated him, and Koichi smiled bashfully under the rag.

"Couldn't just sit and watch, you know?" he reflected, to All Might's immediate nod.

"I know exactly what you mean," Yagi assured him. Betsy took a step forward, and naturally after all that, this moment caused her heel to break. It was the work of less than a moment to forestall her fall, but when she cried out he began to worry.

"Ah! All Might, what on earth happened to you?"

This . . . . might have consequences.

Chapter Text

Angelus gasped, slumping but not falling. Angel caught his breath, but everything was fuzzy. So much for not falling, as pain raced through his body for a long moment, not helped by the impact of hard stone floor.

"Where are we?" he asked, gazing up at his girlfriend. "I don't remember."

"Angel?" the Slayer asked softly. He shook his head, still clearing it, and started getting to his feet, clumsily.

The statue of Acathla rumbled behind them, and their emotionally-fraught reunion had to be put to one side. They both turned hastily, and in decidedly different states of confusion. Buffy was dismally certain the worst was coming, but the mouth wasn't moving, which seemed like an important step in 'swallowing the world into Hell'. The rumbling got louder and louder, and stopped being a noise or even a physical sensation, shaking them to the bone without properly moving anything.

"What's happening?" he asked, slowly regaining his wits with the urgency of the situation.

"Everyone said it would take us into a hell dimension," Buffy recounted, "but I'm not getting any vibes like that. Terrible band, maybe, with speakers off the mark, but . . ."

She was frankly amazed at any coherency to her reply, with everything she'd been through both that day and since he'd turned on her. The rumbling pulsed, in and out, thrumming the statue itself, and chunks started falling off. Running seemed wise, in case 'crumbling to bits' was a condition that might spread to the building, or them, but before they could even make it to a door, the figure was reduced to a pile of gravel, and everything stopped.

"It's nice to have something anticlimactic for once," Angel mused, and Buffy seized the opportunity to lay a smacker right on him. Neither of them had enough presence of mind to note the change in climate or landscape as they left the mansion, though since Angel had to avoid the sun, and they both had to deal with the turmoil of the saga just-ended, perhaps that would have been asking a bit much.

Harry was all over the place as he stepped through the lightning door from Chichen Itza to Chicago, but the war was over and his daughter was safe, so he had more closure than after a lot of fights. Murphy took care of Maggie for him, and Sanya did his best to reassure the wizard on the looming prospect of formal employment under Mab, Queen of Air and Darkness. No more favors and deals, not as the primary method of engagement.

"Being the Winter Knight isn't the kind of job you walk out of," Harry replied, shaking his head at the Knight's optimism. It was hard to argue with that statement, but Sanya opened his mouth for an attempt anyway when they noticed that there had been a long moment of silence. It quieted his jangling nerves, and then Harry could feel it, the slithering cold inside him.

"Something's happening. Happened," he choked out, but the other man didn't need telling as he rushed back to the cop and the child. For his part, Harry staggered over to the doorway, and was relieved to see that no one else was feeling - fine, now. The bizarre sensation was gone. Not just that; Harry had been starting to get used to the impulses of his new Mantle, penetrating the frantic hours of preparation for the assault on the Red Court, and the nonsense alpha-ness had seeped away as well. No wariness of Sanya as a rival, no desire to claim Murphy—and now the pain was coming in. The battle had been grueling, and it hadn't exactly been that much of an adjustment from his life for the past several years. Sinking into a chair, all the wounded wizard could do was breathe.

Mab hissed and spat, feeling the mantle she had finally hung around that confounded man slip away, but it didn't come back to her. Dismissing the matter for the time being, she returned her gaze to the Gates. Or rather, where they had been. Beyond the comprehension of mortals, the relationship between their universe and Outside had changed somehow, making the need for Winter's defense . . . different. Possibly even obviated, though verifying that to the degree required would not be quick or easy. It was not in any Fae's nature to abdicate their responsibilities, and least of all their queen.

"Ah, Gatekeeper," she greeted the Councilor, seeing his approach. He was a semifrequent feature here, and perhaps as close to a friend as she could call any wizard. He merely nodded in response, and studied the same area occupying all of her attention.

"It is possible," he said at last, "that we may have far less to fear from Outside. I hope this does not mean that Winter will redirect its forces to, hmm, more interesting targets."

Mab showed her teeth, seemingly acknowledging the prospect.

"Certainly not on a 'possible', Wizard Rashid," she retorts. "More likely that the threat will become more subtle, and we shall have to rethink our defenses."

"I rather thought," the old man mused, "that we were dealing with quite enough insidiousness from beyond our borders as it was."

"Giles, something feels funky," Willow complained, as Xander loaded their wheelchairs into Cordelia's car. The Watcher coughed in response, slowly and painfully buckling his seatbelt.

"Well, you did just get out of the hospital," he suggested. "Very reasonable to be at, ah, less than a hundred percent."

Willow screwed up her mouth, shaking her head, but couldn't put her problem into words. Letting it percolate in her head, she dug through her purse, and furrowed her brow at the candies she found.

"those aren't, hmm," she mumbled under her breath, and gasped when she saw her ID.

"Guys, when did Sunnydale move to Illinois?" the young witch asked, her voice tight with tension. Giles' eyebrows flew up, but Cordelia and Xander turned to her with concern all over their faces.

"We've lived seventy-five miles from Chicago for the past fifteen years, Will," he told her, taking her hand in reassurance.

Chapter Text

Outside's changes would have to be an ongoing matter, sadly. Mab's generals were well on top of it, at least as much as they could be without knowing what was happening. It would be interesting to observe the dynamics of that group change, now that overwhelming force was no longer obviously helpful. She felt the presence of the Winter Knight mantle settle onto a holder. Time for a little investigation.

For the Queen of Air and Darkness to seek her Knight was trivial; an opening with that intent from anywhere in the Nevernever would reach him. Mab stepped through her portal, observing dispassionately as the newest member of her Court yelped in surprise.

"Right," he said, catching his breath. "Guessing you have something to do with this spirit inside me?"

She looked him up and down. Ethan Rayne was not as impressive a specimen as Harry Dresden, but he had some power. If he was not equal to the task she set him, and died in her service, well, it would be more convenient to find her next Knight. Ah, there was the slight problem of her voice possibly killing him here and now if she answered his question properly, and the Leanansidhe was otherwise occupied. Plain text was tiresome and drab, but perhaps some theatricality would help.

'I am Mab, Queen of the Winter Fae. The mantle of Winter Knight has found you. There is work to be done, as my employee.'

The words floated in midair, traced by cold fire, and the chaos mage bared his teeth nervously. This definitely had the vibe of a job he wasn't allowed to refuse.

"More of a hijinks fella here," Ethan admitted. "That gonna be a problem?"

'I will brook no dishonor to my Court 'on the clock'. If you are capable, amuse yourself as you like otherwise.'

Willing servants were so much more effective than those compelled or otherwise forced into line. She watched the cogs turn in his head.

"All of us but Willow remember Sunnydale being in Illinois, yes?" Giles checked. Three nods. "Well. In many cases, there would be the trilemma of Willow being dishonest, delusional, or truthful. Given that Acathla's purpose is rather fresh in my mind, the possibility springs forth that we were somewhere else before, and are now in the land of Lincoln."

Xander blinked several times at that prospect, even as he realized how far-fetched it didn't quite seem.

"Well, I'm glad we're not in Hell, but how did we get moved?"

"Halfway across the country, too," Willow chirped. "But that's kinda peanuts to getting swallowed into one of those horrible dimensions, right?"

Cordelia just rolled her eyes, watching for familiar landmarks as she drove to Angel's mansion. She hadn't been there before, and Giles had done his best, but he wasn't exactly in a state to take good notes at the time of his escape. Xander hadn't thought to address the issue either, heh.

"I'd say whatever we find out still isn't going to make the list of 'top ten freaky things since Buffy came to town'," she predicted.

Xander and Willow both shook their heads firmly against the notion of making that bet. Then she winced at the motion; the thought occurred that more familiarity with head injuries would probably help with those reflexes, but that train of thought had some weird and disturbing stops.

"We shall have to ask Buffy how her fight went when we see her," Giles summarized wearily.

"Where are we going?" Buffy asked her returned boyfriend, resting not too far from the house. Angel bit his lip.

"You're going to see your friends, and I'm just going," he said carefully. She slapped his chest, but he didn't laugh.

"After what I did—" Angel began, interrupted almost immediately by the Slayer, "what Angelus did—" "they're all going to need a break from me. I'm surprised you don't."

She folded her arms and scowled.

"Maybe I'm focusing on the positive, like you should be!" Buffy argued. "Angelus is gone, Acathla's pebbles, Spike took Drusilla with him, we got a real win here."

Angel shook his head, checking the window for incoming clouds.

"Can't pretend problems aren't there, Buff. I don't want to find out what Giles does to the man who shares a face and body with his torturer and his girlfriend's murderer."

"I will see what I can see," Sanya promised, helping Harry into a cab. The luggage wasn't exactly trivial, but the wizard had enough energy to drag his accoutrements onto the houseboat. So much of his life was gone now, and one piece added in a way he couldn't really understand yet. Even after risking everything to save Maggie, fatherhood took some real emotional adjustment. Being separated from her, to the extent that he deliberately didn't know where she was, didn't exactly help.

He stumbled around painfully, arranging a shower of sorts and a canned meal. Chicken soup and chili were fine, accompanied by orange juice a day from edginess. There were pain pills, which helped, but his mind was churning over all the turmoil. Susan. Maggie. The end of the War. Killing Susan. A worryingly nebulous relationship with Winter, with the Knight's mantle gone. A single Knight of the Cross, with Amoracchius and Fidelacchius still in Harry's care. Susan's blood.

Harry rested as best he could, feeling worse before he felt better. He missed Mouse, but he was confident Molly needed him more. A little voice reminded him that the plan there had been made before he crashed, but it didn't seem right to try to take him back now. Mister wasn't as directly comforting, especially since his whereabouts were currently unknown, but he'd still been in Harry's life for years.

"What am I going to do, Bob?" the battered private eye murmured, sprawled across the bed that wasn't quite made for people well over six feet tall. There was no answer, and the wizard remembered that the skull-spirit was worn out as well. No work for a week, and apparently no chatter for a day or two.

"Well, here's one hell of an interesting situation," Murphy greeted him, pushing the door further open without knocking. Harry looked at her attentively.

"Scuttlebutt is that I'm getting more than written up for skipping town with you," she explained. Her friend winced at the brewing storm.

"Thing is," the diminutive cop continued, "not ten minutes ago I got a call from Sunnydale. Small town about twenty-five minutes from here. Their police chief is retiring, and Mayor Wilkins has heard good things about me."

Chapter Text

It's a lovely evening for a walk, and frankly overall the UK is a lot more pleasant climate-wise than I was led to believe. Of course, most of that was joking, but people don't mess around with complete nonsense, right? I mean, I've never heard anyone make fun of the tornadoes in Pennsylvania. Anyway, I'm out here seeing the landscape, and getting a little bit off the beaten path in my short vacation across the pond. That always seemed ideal anyway, having an experience that wasn't just a tightly-choreographed merry-go-round featuring a bunch of tourist attractions and no genuine interaction. Look at me, getting all judgmental about people doing their best to provide a nice experience for visitors.

Oh, nicely done. Got so stuck in my head that I lost my footing, and ah, crap, ow ow ow, okay, getting up now. That was fun, but at least nobody saw.

"Evening, gents," I greet two fellows not ten feet away from me and off to my left slightly. Well, I'll be—Dan Radcliffe and Robert Pattinson. "I've enjoyed your work quite a lot!"

"Er, thanks," Robert said politely, and I swear he was actually confused at my compliment.

"Any idea where we are?" Dan asked.

Huh, wouldn't expect either of them to be wandering around lost, especially since presumably they have assistants and phones and such? But life's not always convenient like that, I suppose.

"Unless the hill back there was the 'Steepest in the Whole Wide World'," I quip, "we should be right by Hangleton. Pretty sure that's what the town was called, anyway."

They look at each other, and don't seem to be familiar with the name. With a second look at them, there's a feeling that something's off. They're awfully young, for one thing; I'm no good at judging ages, and actors can usually afford to get the years off their faces, but Dan looks like he did in the middle of the movies, a solid fifteen years ago. Is that a stick in his hand? Low lighting, it's hard to tell. Posture, too, it's not what I'd expect. They're not casual, on their own time, and they don't care about my fan appreciation. What's going on?

Their discussion continues, and I feel pretty awkward studying them any longer, especially if they catch me being a weirdo, so I start looking around. The sun is fading pretty fast, but I see another man not too far away. I can make out a stick in his hand, too, and criminy, he looks just like Timothy Spall, mid-movies. Except I distinctly remember reading about him a while ago, that he lost a bunch of weight and kept it off, going by textbook procedure to make it stick. And this guy has that exact gut again. He's raising that stick, snarling—

Welp, I either look like a delusional twit and try to forget about it for the next twenty years, or something beyond bizarre is happening and I save the day.

"Get down!" I yell, diving towards them, and a green flash goes over my head as the two guys promptly follow suit. I, okay, okay, gotta focus, actual danger here whether somebody's managed to fake that or not. Everything's a blur. I hear "expelliarmus" and "stupefy" around me, and frantic movement. I'm not frozen, exactly, but I've never been in any sort of violent situation, don't have any instincts for this. But if this is really Harry, and Cedric, and they don't know where they are, and Peter just tried to kill them, that means this is near the graveyard, and now I have something useful to contribute.

"The Portkey," I hiss to the wizards, "summon it and we can all get back!"

It's more of a challenge than I anticipate, grouping together while a giant trophy flies at us and a madman is flinging spells, but I feel that tug behind my navel when the rim smacks into my hand. Everything's whirling around me, like the mother of all head rushes, and the mental struggle of the transition I already had isn't helping. We slam down on the grass after a few seconds, with Cedric on one side of me and—oh no. That's it. We left him behind. Harry has to deal with Peter, still.

There's cheering, as Cedric gets to his feet, but I can blearily see he's not having it, as I recover from the impromptu trip. People are approaching, probably to congratulate him? Can't really tell what he's saying, everything is too loud, but it doesn't look like he's interested in celebration. Yanked his arm away from some guy, even.

"Who are you?" I hear right in my ear, as a hand helps me to my feet. The smallest motion of my head reveals Albus Dumbledore, and I honestly can't read his face right now.

Introductions aren't my priority right now. "Harry's still back in Hangleton," I tell him. "You've got to help him. Peter was there!"

That gets him sweeping away, cracking into nothing right before me. Maybe there's some reaction to that, but my attention is almost immediately seized by Snape ushering me into the building. He quickly leads me into a classroom, and I'm not sure whether he's guiding me into a chair or pushing me. Either way, I'm sitting, and this dose of anxiety is not exactly what I needed.

"What did you say, I wonder, to get the headmaster to apparate away with Professor Moody as the celebrations for Mr. Diggory are beginning, and tell me to keep an eye on you?" he asks, as curtly as I would expect. My hands are trembling, and I try to think of something both helpful and believable to say.

"Riddle's been working on a way to return for several months, neighbor," I tell him, "and what would appeal to his ego more than kidnapping the Boy Who Lived in the process?"

. . . okay, maybe that technically qualifies? Sure is an ugly expression on his face, but that does seem to be his default.

"I have veritaserum, if you need encouragement to speak plainly," he replies, a millimeter away from a snarl.

"I just ran into Harry and Cedric while I was taking a walk around Hangleton," I explain, putting my hands up defensively, "and when Peter attacked, I grabbed onto the Portkey that brought them there in the first place."

Snape chews on that for a while, and finally nods.

"Wait a second, you said Moody was with Dumbledore?" I ask, and he merely nods, prompting some sincere cursing on my part. "Barty Crouch Junior has been masquerading as Alastor Moody the entire school year, Polyjuice in that flask, and now he's right where he needs to be to finish the job!"

The curmudgeon is off before I know it, and dragging me along with him.

Chapter Text

"Tony Stark, I'm Doctor Stephen Strange. I need you to come with me. Oh, uh, congratulations on the wedding, by the way."

The portal was throwing off sparks as Strange stepped through, but Annabeth was focused more on him. He was calm, professional, and pulling off something weird enough that she could hope for him to be able to help.

"Doctor Strange, I'd like to come with you as well," Annabeth said, walking past Tony Stark and his fianceé (and boy, wouldn't that be great gossip if she didn't have this whole 'lots of people are going to die in a day' mess going on). Everyone seemed ready to dismiss her, so she pressed on quickly, making up in confidence what she lacked in T-shirt-and-shorts appearance. Not to mention fun-sized stature, but that wasn't exactly on the list of things she could fix.

"I'm stuck in a time loop, about a day long, and a whole bunch of people dissolve into dust at the end. Including me."

Stark cocked his head at her, and Strange started doing finger-dance-hologram things. Rings dashed around her, raising all sorts of tingles; she wasn't looking forward to getting used to this.

"Looks like Time Stone influence to me," he concluded, and the tech mogul blinked at the pronouncement. Annabeth could already tell that he knew what that was, which was probably auspicious for being able to fix this whole ridiculous mess.

The Pepper Potts groaned, and her boyfriend winced.

"Go on, all of you, do your ridiculously dangerous thing," she scoffed, after kissing him.

"This is all very touching," Strange offered impatiently, "but the fate of the universe is at stake."

And so, the three of them walked through a magic portal, greeted by a somber man who looked vaguely familiar.

"Hey, Tony," he said glumly, and hugged his friend.

The Time Stone, as it turned out, was one of six artifacts of elemental power, each controlling an aspect of the universe. Wong, as he explained the setup with a lovely visual aid, peppered her with questions about how she might have been caught up with the gem that Stephen wore in a necklace. Annabeth had been in Hong Kong the previous year, as it turned out, along with having the misfortune to visit London and New York at exactly the wrong times.

"I couldn't be the only one to do that, though, right?" she asked. "Seven billion people, wouldn't there still be a handful who were there during the incidents?"

Wong just shrugged, continuing to examine something or other. Those flashy finger things were awfully distracting.

"Maybe you're not the only one. Maybe there's some part of you that the Stones activated. Hard to say, for now. Dr. Banner?"

"Thanos is coming," he said flatly. "He has the Power and Space Stones, and I'm pretty sure he didn't even need them to beat the other guy."

Tony's lips moved silently, and he looked around the room. Annabeth, an unassuming figure who seemed to be right near the center of all this. Bruce, clearly traumatized by his encounter. Strange and Wong, literal self-described wizards.

"He gets his hands on all of them, and Earth needs the mother of all vacuum cleaners? Not that there'd be anyone to use it."

Annabeth raised her hand timidly, torn between a smile and a grimace.

"It's looked like around half of everyone gets atomized, actually. Not much of an improvement, I know, but . . . "

Tony shook his head, to her surprise.

"Don't worry about that. We want a clear eye on what's coming. Maybe that half makes a difference."

Bruce, examining the display that Wong had left up, reached up and grabbed the Time Stone image.

"Get rid of that, and maybe Thanos can't pull it off?" he suggested, but Wong and Strange both immediately shook their heads.

"Not an option," Wong promptly rebutted. "We swore an oath to protect it, and the power could be exactly what we need."

It wasn't quite bickering, but the two Avengers weren't about to let the issue drop. Bruce brought up the Mind Stone, which was in someone called 'Vision', and everything was just delightfully confusing again. Naturally, it got capped off by the four of them heading outside, followed belatedly by Annabeth.

"You sure you can handle this?" Stark asked her quietly, seeing her quail at the sight of the spaceship in the middle of the street. She shook her head, and once again tried to smile.

"I just have to watch, and stay alive. Shouldn't be too hard, right?" she joked weakly.

Two minutes later, she didn't regret her flippancy one bit, and flipped the invading aliens the bird as the world went black.

"There are six Infinity Stones," Annabeth explained briskly, to the bemused group. "Thanos gets them, and it's lights out for half of everyone. The Space Stone will maybe be handy when we fight him, and the Mind Stone is in Vision, who's supposedly in Steve Rogers' custody, so calling him would be awfully handy right about now. Especially since some goons are coming in a few minutes."

"How many times have you done this?" Strange asked, raising an eyebrow, and the woman shrugged.

"Four or five, I think. Keeping track is challenging, since I already have enough things to remember."

He nodded, and Tony was taking his sweet time getting in touch with his former teammate, or at least giving them any good news. He closed his phone with a bitten-off swear.

"Steve doesn't know where he is either, and we don't have time for the last coordinates, in Scotland."

That turned out to be more accurate than he thought, as Wong very nearly interrupted him.

"A giant donut just landed a block away."

The five of them started toward the door, and then Wong stopped.

"You're in a time loop. Everything you know, you can tell us next time. We don't need to win this fight right now. The more of it you see, the better you can guide us in future attempts."

It was a heady proposition, but Annabeth bit her lip and nodded.

"Good luck, you three," he told his colleague and the former Avengers.

"Er, just two," she corrected. "Dr. Banner, you'd, um, be more help with whatever Mr. Wong is going to do."

Tony frowned, and raised his finger to object, but quickly realized the futility of attempting to dispute the advice of a quasi-oracle. Dr. Strange and Iron Man walked outside to face the threat, and Annabeth wondered if she might actually see the end of the encounter for once.

Chapter Text

Rocks to the head. Swallowed by brick. Impaled by that claw hammer thing. Her best shot came with the slight problem that not all spaceships are particularly airtight all over, but to her surprise she woke up still there. Struggling around the complex, Annabeth found Doctor Strange and Iron Man arguing, along with a kid who wore a Spider-Man suit. Which probably made him actually Spider-Man, she belatedly realized.

"Whatcha got for us, Cassandra?" Stark shot out, and she shrugged.

"First time here," the semi-prophet returned. She coughed, and spat out some blood. "Any chance you had a respirator this morning that I can borrow?"

The doctor looked her over, but there wasn't much he could do about lung damage, and they had a long list of priorities above her long-term health. Stark was fine with giving her a suit, but convincing his earlier self would be challenging.

"Try telling me that ditching Killian was a dick move, but didn't justify his scheme," he suggested, grimacing at the old wound.

With that done, "I'm Peter" brought up Groundhog Day. There was a long list of movies Annabeth hadn't gotten around to yet.

"Red Rover, Red Rover, everyone who hates Thanos come over!" Annabeth called out loudly. Man, it was satisfying watching those two self-important know-it-alls just gape at her. To be fair, they did walk the walk, but the egos, ugh. By the time she'd finished enjoying the moment, the relevant portion of the Guardians had landed.

"Not exactly expecting to find anyone but his goons on the ship," Star-Lord challenged her. She rolled her eyes.

The slowly-uniting group hashed it out, resolving their mutual allegiances and identities. Annabeth wished once again that any of the space cowboys would act remotely mature. Egos, at least, valued competence. The sexist notion wormed its way in, that Mantis wasn't the most sensible of the bunch by coincidence. Either way, Peter had a much more forceful personality, and Drax wasn't far behind. Annabeth herself was already in the process of girding her loins to face the heroes as an equal, she realized to her own surprise.

“What do you do in all this?” Quill asked, cocking his head.

“She watches,” Strange replied placidly. The man-child blinked a few times, and Annabeth could see the glint in his eyes—

“Ugh, not like that,” she interrupted. “My power, curse, gift, whatever you want to call it, I live the same day, this day, over and over. So I watch everything that everyone does, and next time, we all have a better idea of what to expect.”

Quill’s dirty thoughts faded, and then he frowned.

“Over and over?” he asked, holding up his finger. “How many times have we gone through this? What happens at the end of the day?”

"'Ashes to ashes, dust to dust'," she quoted, feeling rather morose. "Turns out the full Infinity Gauntlet is a pretty fantastic weapon."

"We have already lost?" Mantis asked, her antennae drooping down to her eyes.

"The nature of a time loop dictates that we have lost, yes," Strange summarized curtly. "That is not to say that we're going to lose again. Difficult to understand, I know."

That last sentence had some interesting emphasis indeed.

“One,” he replied grimly. “Unfortunately, none of those futures included Annabeth’s actions. She’s a blind spot. I suspect that her loops cloud her influence on the timestream.”

Stark looked to her, desperate for any shred of good news. Annabeth shrugged.

“This is my first time being here. The fact that I’m looping at all suggests that something funky happens—”

“—Which we’re not in a position to interpret, this time,” Strange interrupted.

Bickering, arguing, and scheming. Lots of fast and loose, it seemed like. She was getting a bad feeling about Quill's bent for improvisation; it had been challenging enough to make it past the encounter with the invaders on Earth, and then everyone was professional.

Thanos landed, and swatted her out of the sky almost immediately.

Winging the fight was so stochastic that living through it again would hardly help, she thought woozily as the ground rushed towards her.

“One,” he replied grimly.

“And you can’t see what I do,” Annabeth mused. Strange looked at her wryly.

"I should probably get used to you knowing everything I do, huh?" he responded.

"It'll probably keep happening until it doesn't," she agreed, realizing the funkiness of her phrasing as it left her lips. The 'master of the mystic arts' seemed to know what she meant. Something was still bugging her about the last fight, though, and she caught Quill's eye.

"What's your problem with Thanos, specifically?" Annabeth asked. His usual cheerful demeanor drained away, replaced by a grimness that made his scruff look like determination overriding hygiene, rather than style.

"He took my girl," he replied shortly.

"No, you didn't," Quill murmured, his heart audibly breaking. "No, you didn't."

All of Star-Lord's self-control was slipping away, and even with her signal, nobody could get there fast enough to help her restrain him. His pistol-whipping pushed Thanos over the edge of Mantis' control, and the warlord broke loose. He took a long look at her before regaining control of the battlefield. That was the key, Annabeth recognized. They were so close. What was the right move to keep him down?

"You already know what happened to Gamora," she challenged him, but Quill just tossed his head angrily and ignored her. The battle planning continued.

"Quill," Annabeth tried gently, "we don't have room for this to be personal."

"Who's getting personal?" he replied with a wafer-thin veneer of flippancy. "I'm just getting revenge for Gamora, that's all. Perfectly professional."

"Uh huh," she returned, doing her best to be understanding rather than skeptical.

"Hey," Star-Lord retorted, "my style has gotten us through thick and thin so far, so maybe I'm not the one with the problem.

"Gamora's dead, Star-Lord," she told him bluntly. "If you can't live with your grief for the next half hour, most of us are going with her."

His punch sent her flying, and no one was even sympathetic.

"The core problem here is that Quill can't deal with Gamora's death," she summarized, having been chewing over the problem for the past few loops. "Telling him now just lets him stew. Telling him earlier makes it worse. We can't keep him from finding out, especially when Nebula lands, and we don't have the manpower to fight Thanos and do anything else at the same time."

"Are you saying we've already lost?" Spider-Man asked, looking every inch the teenager that he was.

The sorcerer's eyes narrowed, surveying the small assembly.

"'We', the people preparing to fight on Titan right now, yes. 'We', everyone opposed to Thanos, maybe not. Annabeth, you need a different path next time. Maybe Earth will be more promising."

Chapter Text

Buffy and Faith were still working out the kinks in their cooperation, even after fighting Kakistos and patrolling together a few times. A lot of that was Buffy getting used to having someone on her side who could actually tag-team with her, at least when she wasn't feeling mercurial. Either way, their charge into the demon's lair was undisciplined, and left the four-foot satyr laughing.

"Ah, the slayers! Such a formidable team!" Balahormp congratulated them, watching as the teenage girls navigated his ritual circles. "Careful not to break those lines, or who knows where you'll end up?"

Giles had worked very hard on researching the ceremony that Sunnydale's newest resident was attempting to pull off; its linchpin was an orichalcum-lined dowsing rod, easy for a Slayer to break, and in Balahormp's hands at the moment. His taunting, and theatrical display of his pride and joy, sent Faith over the edge. Leaping and diving, she managed to avoid both marring the chalk of his floor decorations and presenting a clear target as he flung cantrips at her. At the last second, however, her trajectory has off, and she sailed over his head.

"Haha, such a pity," the diminutive demon mocked Buffy in her stead, without noticing her gaze widen, or the object of her attention. One foot swept his hooves out from under him, and Faith's hand nimbly plucked the rod from his grasp. Bringing it down to impale his chest was a little brutal, but effective. Until it flashed twice, drawing the life from his eyes, and vanished—along with Faith herself.

"Oh, no," Buffy muttered, hoping her mentor could whip up a solution.

"Captain, we've got an incoming transport," Ensign Pran alerted him. Sisko frowned at the news; the station was very busy, had been since shortly after he took command, but at the moment there were no ships with passengers or crew scheduled to disembark.

"Human female, with a few oddities. Closest thing I see to a weapon is the metal stick in her hands. Her signal's strange, sir. I don't know how long I can hold it," Pran warned, and he nodded to bring her through.

"Route her to Docking Bay Three, and have a security team meet me there," he decided, waving off Major Kira's offered hand to volunteer and striding briskly to the turbolift to investigate the situation. Materializing this visitor in Ops was too risky, even if she was most likely unarmed. Doors swooshing open, the captain had one long corridor to traverse, meeting up with two Bajorans and a Vulcan along the way.

"Standard greeting procedure, if you please," Sisko told the women, who placed themselves against the bulkheads around the transporter pad. Out of sight, but right at hand if he needed them. Just as he walked into the locus, the shimmering started, to reveal a young woman, grimacing in a crouch, with that metal stick no more than an inch off the ground. At first glance, it looked to have quite the blunt tip, but her posture indicated that she'd just stabbed someone.

"Good afternoon," Benjamin greeted the teenager, First Contact SmileTM on his face. "I'm Captain Benjamin Sisko, of the United Federation of Planets. Welcome to Deep Space Nine."

She turned her head, peering around her new surroundings, and straightened up somewhat. She perceived him as a threat, he was sure of it, but waiting to act.

"Faith," she introduced herself. "Thanks for the red carpet. What is this place, exactly?"

"Oh, just a little place we like to call home," he replied breezily. "Where are you from, Faith? I'm a little curious, since none of the ships docked here had any humans aboard when you appeared."

"I've been around," she answered tersely. "Boston, New Orleans, Sunnydale, the works."

"Quite a feat, to come here directly from Earth!" Sisko observed, and Faith only then noticed that she'd been moving out of that room with him. That made her stop suddenly, and grip the dowsing rod very firmly.

"How far away am I?" she asked.

The captain shrugged. "Two or three weeks, by commercial transport, if you're paying enough to get over Warp 8. Did you find a faster method? It's Stardate 49011.4, for reference."

Faith looked around again, examining the corridor, and even putting her hands on the wall.

"What's the actual year, buddy?" she asked. Sisko bit his lip, hoping this wasn't about to get very complicated.

"2372. I think you might be very far from home, indeed." The teenage girl slumped at the news, and on impulse, Ben joined her on the floor.

"The engineers here can work wonders. I'm not going to promise you anything, but don't give up yet. In the mean time, make yourself at home here. We've got plenty of recreation, and some things that need doing when you want to be a little more productive."

"Need someone who can kick ass and take names?" Faith asked, and he chuckled briefly.

"Constable Odo might be able to work something out for you. He and I both have strict physical requirements for our security personnel, of course."

Starfleet Academy and time in the service both trained people not to rely overmuch on what they perceived, and Commander Worf had no intention of underestimating the young woman before him. He had been beaten before by unimpressive entities.

"We gonna fight, or just dance?" she taunted him, and he moved swiftly with a blow to her gut. Faith moved much faster than he had expected, but his expectations had been very loose, and he adjusted barely in time to avoid her throw.

"Good!" he exclaimed, batting away her fist on its way to his nose. "Very good! You will fit in very well here!"

She blinked at that, and redirected her turbulent feelings into a slide between his legs, hoping for a nasty groin strike. Alas, she hit right home, with a "sorry, big guy", but was rewarded with barely a wince.

"Ungh! You will find that not all species share that vulnerability, and many people wear protection." Worf grinned savagely, grabbing her wrist and lifting her off the ground.

"Some will also take that sort of attack personally."

Even as he was swinging her down for a hard landing, Faith twisted up and managed to land on his shoulders, folding her knees tightly around his neck.

"Again," he wheezed, "a common but not universal weakness, and—"

Worf had intended to smash backwards into the wall, loosening her grip, but she grabbed onto an overhead beam and swung him forward instead. He broke his fall with his hand and hip, and clapped his hands as he stood to end the bout.

"You are a good fighter, Miss Lehane," he praised her. "I look forward to expanding your versatility."

She didn't seem to know how to respond to that, and instead grabbed her water and headed for the locker room.

Chapter Text

Worf wasn't kidding about versatility, as various people put her through her paces, but the most interesting part for Faith was facing non-vampire opponents who could match her. Thus far, she'd only been able to spar with Buffy, and everything else was a real fight, so her range of combat dynamics was expanding.

"Could definitely use you on my squad, Lehane," her blue-skinned partner panted, grabbing a water bottle and taking a long swig. Faith rubbed a forming bruise on her left arm. She'd rather sweat in training any day, and bouts with no bruises weren't pushing either of them hard enough, but it was still a little short of fun at the time.

"Taking commands ain't my style," she half-apologized, "but when the Klingons decide not to get off the pot, I'll handle a pack or two."

Carmine snorted, tossing her clothes into a sanitizing bin. The state of laundry here was a little fuzzy, what with it being the space future, and Faith wondered if they had the whole thing automated. She definitely wouldn't want to be the one running sweats through the machine, especially since it seemed like a punishment sort of thing, along the lines of the notorious 'KP' she'd encountered on TV.

"Yeah, you and Jenkins. Shame there isn't time to get a proper rehearsal on bat'leths."

Carmine's hands flexed, outlining the gentle arc and handholds of the traditional Klingon weapon. She still didn't understand why anyone used it, but weapon design wasn't exactly part of her training from Diana, and if her opponents wanted to use something ineffective to fight her, well, that worked. Then again, the Andorian was moving adroitly as she stepped from one stance to another, so maybe there were ways to turn the reversed-arc blade into an advantage. Didn't stop Carmine from stripping down the rest of the way, either.

The Slayer wasn't precisely used to casual nudity, at least from other people, but this was one flow she could go with. She'd had no desire to go into the details of where her clothes were coming from, exactly. Commander Sisko had said that room and board were a minor expense for a teenage refugee, which in her mind still implied repaying, but with the atmosphere on the station, well. Faith could pull her weight when the troops started landing.

She was enjoying a burger at the replimat that evening when a guy approached her. Another 'opportunity' to adjust, because he looked friendlier than even the recent standard, set by Xander. If there was a resemblance between him and Sisko, well, could be several reasons for that, particularly her perceptions with all the aliens around.

"Mind some company?" he asked, tray in his hands. Faith just gestured towards the chair opposite her. This table was a little high for her preferences, but it hardly mattered when she was just going to eat for ten minutes or whatever.

"Thanks. I don't really like eating alone," he confessed. She took a bite, and shrugged.

"I'm Jake, by the way," the fellow teen told her. Setting his meal down, he pulled out the chair and sat, leaning back for a moment before tucking in.

"Faith," she acknowledged, to his smile.

"Yeah, you've been in the news a little lately. Settling in okay?"

"I guess," Faith replied noncommittally. "Your dad tell you to check up on me?"

Jake mock-winced at that, shaking his head ruefully.

"This is the part where I'm supposed to say 'my dad doesn't tell me what to do' like one of those bad boys, right?" he checked, and to her surprise his amusement was a little infectious.

"Well," Jake continued, "he did say you might like to spend time with someone your own age, but that was it. I mean, yeah, there's the obvious hint there, but, you know."

She didn't, really. Parental relationships weren't an area that Faith really understood, but he was cute enough and seemed sincere, so she let him keep talking.

"It's been nice," she said a few minutes later, dipping a few fries into her little dish of yamok sauce, "that people have been giving me privacy. Kinda like . . . "

She trailed off, not sure how to finish her sentence, and only realizing afterwards how passive-aggressive she sounded. Jake either ignored it or didn't see it that way.

"There's definitely some curiosity," he told her, "but not all that many people know how much of a mystery you are. Beyond that, though, hmm."

The commander's son took a few moments to phrase his thought, and she filled her mouth.

"Yeah, you appeared on the station, and yeah, you're not exactly the typical girl, but we've seen a lot weirder here."

Faith cocked her head, finally confronting something that had been niggling at her since she arrived. In Boston and Sunnydale, the Slayer was a big deal; she and Buffy weren't private enemy number one for demons and vampires, but they still cared. On Deep Space Nine, she was a person first. Everything that came with the Slayer package was a secondary affair.

"I guess you have," she mused. "I was going to say the situation here with the Cardassians and Bajor and Klingons grabs people's attention, but that's not really the same thing, probably."

Jake rolled his eyes at the invocation of politics.

"That's more of an individual thing," he countered, after swallowing his pot sticker. "Mostly you learn to live with it. Quark's helps, if you can get time in a holosuite. Is 'work hard, play hard' your style?"

"Gosh, you charmer," she replied drily. Jake thumped his chest, nearly choking on his food.

"You did that on purpose," he wheezed, glaring at her between coughs.

"Oh, come on, Jake, it was clunky," she tossed back. "You can do better than that."

There was a glint in his eyes now, and she didn't know if she liked it. Usually her feelings settled pretty fast, so this was interesting.

"That's it," her companion agreed, "smooth as ice. Crushed ice, that is."

She didn't even try to restrain her giggle at that. Self-deprecation that hit the sweet spot between self-pity and humblebragging was a new touch.

"I wonder if that's the only crush going on," Faith teased him, shopping her tray and delighting in his blush. "See you around, Sisko."

Chapter Text

A fine pickle Thorin's company was in now, with the dwarves all trapped in sacks and poor Bilbo caught in a bush, unable to save them. Bill, Bert, and Tom were having a spirited discussion of the proper cooking methods for their prey when someone came crashing through the trees.

"More snacks, eh?" Tom rumbled, but he jumped back when their new guest came in sight—as big as a horse, with tarp-like wings and claws that dug into the turf. Violet scales covered the dragon like splint mail, and her green eyes gleamed in their fire.

"What a ruckus you've been making, gentlemen," she said silkily, taking step by deliberate step into their midst.

"Cor, I di'n't know there were any dragons nearby," Bert mused, staring at the reptile. None of them had any real idea how to deal with this; dragons were famed for their tempers and destructive capabilities, but they also tended to be a lot bigger, mouths that could swallow a troll whole.

"There weren't," she replied lazily, "and soon there won't be again. I am Galadthel, as it happens, and you?"

Tom, Bert, and Bill introduced themselves, and were polite enough to invite her to join their meal. Unfortunately, that rather reignited the argument over how to eat the dwarves, until Galadthel huffed in annoyance.

"The least you can do is let them settle the discussion by choosing their own means of preparation," she proposed, which made a certain amount of sense, and Bill hauled Thorin out of his sack.

"Oy, how do you want to be eaten?" he demanded. Oakenshield's hands were firmly seized in the troll's huge fist, so there was little prospect of escape, but he wriggled his mightiest anyway.

"Cut that out!" Tom growled, smacking the dwarf right in the gut, which produced a hefty grunt as Thorin tried to keep from screaming in pain. "Minced, roasted, or squashed, you get to pick. 'None of them' isn't an option."

Thorin grimaced at the continued predicament, and his eyes widened at the dragon. He'd been made quite aware of her presence by the discussion, of course, but hearing is one thing and seeing is quite another. He looked at her, and the fire.

"Does 'roasting' mean that pit you've set up, or dragonfire?" he asked, still trying to extricate himself from Bill's grasp. Galadthel didn't at all recall volunteering to assist, and sniffed in response, her snout high in the air. Bert wondered aloud if she was big enough to make a substantial flame, which she answered with steam from her flared nostrils. Tom promptly swatted the back of his head. The life cycle of dragons was hardly common knowledge, much of which trolls lack, but that did not make questioning one's abilities in person any wiser.

"I don't think it's particularly courteous to invite a lady to dinner and then ask her to cook it for you, especially following up with the doubts as to whether she even can," she summed up, and Bert scowled.

"We were doing just fine here, caught a nice passel of dwarves, and when you came along we were fine with a fourth for supper. Didn't hear any complaining from us, no sir. And now you're getting huffy when we didn't ask you to do nothing. Fine manners, I call that!"

That soured the mood quite thoroughly, with Galadthel remaining touchy as Bert decided he wanted to see her breathe fire, Bill wanting a final decision on the recipe, and Tom whining that he just wanted something to eat. Tempers were truly starting to boil when the sun burst over the rocks sheltering the trolls' den, and turned them into impressive lawn ornaments.

"What an interesting situation this is, indeed," Gandalf exclaimed, as he climbed over the ridge. He set quickly to unwrapping Bifur, Ori, et cetera, and puzzled a while over the stone hand gripping Thorin's boot. The dragon was an old acquaintance of his, it transpired, and they related the story as the company worked on their leader's predicament.

"Radagast the Brown found my egg perhaps three hundred years ago," Galadthel recounted, winding around the fire lazily, and leaving the question of how any portion of a dragon's clutch wound up in the hands of a wizard for another time. "He saw more of nature in me than Morgoth's influence, and as I understand it there was quite the spirited discussion over whether he should encourage me to hatch."

Gandalf rolled his eyes, more than done with her teasing on the matter by this point. "I expressed some reasonable skepticism about it, yes, and I should like to think we have moved on from my misgivings, hm?"

She snorted in response, sending great plumes of mist through the air, and her tail swished around right into the middle of the effort to free Thorin. Dori and Bombur dodged just in time, but Balin toppled to the ground, and her tip smacked the sausage-stone fingers quite firmly. That split them open, sending Thorin crashing down, and cursing at the jar he'd received, but they hadn't exactly been getting anywhere as it was. Dwalin fussed over his ankle, and her tail, but the dwarves were quite ready overall to move on to the lair that Gandalf told them the trolls would have needed as sun-shelter. Opening it was a trial, with the dwarves attempting to shove the stone door aside, and Gandalf reciting a series of incantations, and Galadthel leaving grooves in it with her claws, until Bilbo remembered the key he'd picked up.

Some grumbling later, they found an impressive assortment of loot, with real valuables scattered among mundane possessions like clothes and utensils, along with a few weapons for them. The dragon's eyes gleamed at the shine of gold, and every one quietly sidled away from her as she gazed greedily, until Fili broke the mood by hauling out a salted ham and keg of ale.

"Let's be about eating a little quicker than they did, eh?" he cried, bringing the provisions into the fresh air, and the company followed suit to replenish their stocks in a more pleasant environment.

"The greatest theft is to steal from the world, not one person," Galadthel muttered to herself, four or five times, and Bilbo was nearly bursting with curiosity.

Chapter Text

She noticed his gaze, the pacing of someone who wants to speak up but can't quite decide to do so or, ah, get off the pot.

"It's a mantra Radagast taught me," Galadthel said, quickly becoming irritated with his demeanor. Bilbo nodded, familiar with the famed greed of dragons, but something still caught Balin's attention.

"I notice you don't call him your father, lass," he observed. The dwarf had finished organizing his young colleagues, and was taking a well-deserved break.

"It became clear to us some time ago," she said evasively, "that we did not have that kind of relationship. He is my most trusted friend, rather than family."

"Who is your father, then?" Balin wondered. The dragon tossed her nose defiantly.

"I am a child of Eru," she responded, steel in her tone as if daring one of them to press for details.

"As are we all," Gandalf chimed in, likely forestalling anyone bringing up Morgoth's role as ultimate creator of the dragons. "There might be less trouble in Middle-Earth, with a little more focus on that fact."

"I suppose Bilbo's a son of the Shire, too," Bofur mused. "Quite a complicated parentage you've got there, lad!"

"Then I must be good fortune," he replied, staying deadpan just long enough to deliver the punchline. "After all, success has plenty of fathers, and failure not a one."

Tantalizing as the philosophical discussion was, their attention gravitated back to the road before them. The encounter with those trolls made the company quite aware of the danger around them, even with good weather smoothing their current journey. Fortunately, Gandalf knew of a place for their succor, called the Last Homely House. Elrond Half-Elven, apparently, would be a pleasant host to help them prepare for the next leg of this perilous quest.

It was tricky business, making their way down there, even without the element of the refuge itself, Rivendell, being hidden. The landscape was littered with ravines, waterfalls, valleys, and bogs. Galadthel's wings flapped more than once, but she did not take to the skies, instead digging her claws into the turf and rocks.

"Can you not fly, my lady?" Fili asked, after several nudges from his brother.

"Not well," she answered. "Short distances only, and I am ungainly. Another few years of practice should suffice, and until now that hadn't bothered me."

"Ah, you might surprise us all, in a pinch!" chirped Nori. "Never underestimate what you can do, when trouble looms!"

"Here we are!" cried Gandalf, stopping abruptly at the edge of an impressive incline indeed. The ponies, for their part, managed to steer clear of a precipitous fall, but Galadthel had no such luck. Over she went, stepping down as quickly as she could to control her descent, until she jumped forth and spread her wings properly. This was the right place for her to glide, at least, and each of them had a little nugget of envy in his heart, as they watched her circle the area. Their own path was no great toil, to be sure, and in fact the biggest struggle became simply remaining alert as the air warmed and sweetened with the proper scents of nature.

Elrond was far from the only resident of Rivendell, of course, and the fellows outside greeted Thorin's company cheerfully. Well, apart from their confusion over, and fascination with, the dragon in the room, as it were. There was also the temperament difference, as the dwarves found this elvish lightheartedness foolish and tiresome, and it is perhaps best that they moved on to supper promptly. Elrond's hospitality was justly famed, nourishing them quite soundly, along with providing supplies for their continued travels. The man himself was more than able to meet the mood of the group, recounting the history of the weapons they had plundered from the trolls merely from the runes he recognized on their blades.

"Miss Galadthel," Elrond said at last, "I must confess I am most curious about you. With your permission, I will write to Radagast about your early years, unless of course you would prefer to tell the tale."

She curled around the table, haphazardly enveloping most of the group save Thorin and Gandalf, and nodded.

"Curiosity is a fine and appropriate reaction to my presence," she replied. "It does not always go that way. The impression I have is that he theorized very carefully before hatching me, but put forth no more effort than any caretaker. If an egg made its way here, it's quite possible your assembly could raise a companion for me."

There was quite a lot suggested in that musing, more perhaps than she intended to show. The loneliness of her existence was clear to any reasonably perceptive and empathetic person, being the only dragon fit for civilized company to the knowledge of everyone she had met. There is, as we are all aware, nothing quite like spending time with someone who fits you.

Their host smiled at the idea, and gave quite the good show of considering it. Naturally Galadthel had not intended her suggestion to be particularly practicable, as she had not the slightest knowledge of where another egg might be, but consultation with Radagast could be exceedingly informative for Elrond. That intriguing proposition aside, it was time to move on to the matter at hand. Their map turned out to be a better guide than they expected, with letters that would only be visible in midsummer with a crescent moon. One might note their good luck at coming to Elrond at this time, and one might have a point, but it is also worth considering that fate plays its own part in these matters. None of the dwarves had nearly put it together yet that a dragon, even a young one, could be a wondrous ally indeed against Smaug, for example.

In any case, they had drawn quite as much from their visit here as could possibly be hoped, and it was time to head on out again with full bellies and hearts. The road ahead promised to draw out all their good cheer, as expert a home-maker as Bilbo was. Of course, there is the great paradox that the very people best suited to lifting one's spirits on the read tend to prefer staying where they are, in the pleasant environment they've created.

Chapter Text

Phaser shots rang out in the hallway by the dozen, and Garak activated his emergency transporter to a safehouse on the other side of Cardassia Prime. He was used to being accused of paranoia, but it was just as much nonsense in his ears in his tenure being security counselor as his time on the station mending clothes. Not that he let a moment of self-congratulation interfere with his escape—call it a temporary retreat, perhaps, but he was never one to let his ego get in the way of survival. Tain taught him that, back in the Obsidian Order. Garak did, however, wave cheerfully at the figures opening his door, as the landscape shimmered before him.

Its replacement was a forest, certainly not what he had expected, but the system he installed did unfortunately have some vulnerabilities. Still, he was alive, and in a reasonably hospitable environment, so the problems before him seemed manageable. The spy saw a figure in a cloak not too far away, moving so smoothly he looked to be drifting over the ground. Some might call it an abundance of caution to creep behind a tree, especially when he started testing the branches, but he regretted nothing when the possible patroller passed by him without stopping, almost close enough to touch.

Time to take a closer look at his surroundings, Garak decided, having an ounce of safety in his perch. There were forests and there were forests, after all. Fortunately, between his intelligence work and the variety of experiences available in Quark's holosuites, he had some idea of what to look and listen for, not to mention a dose of rural living as he grew up. None of the usual signs of predators were here, no peckingbird nests or ollercat trails. In fact, the wildlife he could see was . . . hmm. Earth-based? Interstellar transport was certainly beyond the Free Cardassian State, and even the Dominion would likely struggle to manage dozens of lightyears. Very interesting.

"Why'd the dementor ignore you?" a rough voice asked him, and Garak looked down to see a human with a scraggly beard, in ragged clothes. "It should have sensed your emotions, unless that poker face goes down to your heart."

"Perhaps my winning personality was simply too much for it to spoil?" he suggested, smiling blandly without bothering to descend. "Are there likely to be more of them around? Or perhaps they have companions, with actual eyes."

The sound was difficult for him to identify at first, but the other man was laughing. Well, amused is half-disarmed, in many cases.

"More dementors? At some point, absolutely. Their handlers don't much like the Forbidden Forest, though," he explained. "Who are you, anyway? Why'd you hide from the fiend, like a 'law-abiding citizen'?"

"My name's Garak," the spy introduced himself. "Tailor by trade, with a keen sense of when hiding is wise. And you?"

The man bowed mockingly, cracking his neck. "Sirius Black, at your service. Infamous fugitive, since I found out the scum who framed me, the only one who knows I'm innocent, is alive and sitting pretty—for now."

Ah, now this was interesting, and worth his descent from safety. Garak clambered down, casually keeping Sirius in his sights on the way.

"What's your plan?" he asked, wondering if his new friend was more of a Bashir or a Sisko. Sirius grinned savagely, really more baring his teeth.

"I'm going to get into the castle and kill him," the escapee said, and he cocked his head in doubt.

"Hmm, that's really more of an objective than a plan. And aren't you sure you want to expose him first?"

"I want vengeance!" Sirius spat. "Vengeance, for my murdered friends!" Garak raised his hand, emulating the human gesture of caution.

"Oh, I understand that, believe me," he replied, "but if he dies, so does any chance at your freedom. Are you sure you wouldn't rather have a normal life?"

Sirius stewed on that for a while, and didn't respond, so he lived vicariously for a little longer. Slowly, he drew the whole sordid tale out of the non-convict, as Black had been thrown into prison without a trial. Almost Cardassian, really, and he carefully didn't even think about where he might be, as the signs that he could not possibly be on someone's private Earth wilderness preserve on Cardassia accumulated. He didn't understand everything, particularly the 'magic', but he'd heard far stranger tales from the Federation's public records. Q wasn't exactly classified material, though his best exploits were; wonderful reading, those. Anyway, the core of it was that Peter Pettigrew had betrayed their friends James and Lily Potter to their deaths, and then faked his own death in the process of framing Sirius for the whole thing. For the twelve years since, he'd been hiding as a rat, a boy's pet, though not the same boy now as when it started, obviously.

"It's reasonably common knowledge that Peter lost his finger in that incident, right?" he checked. "And if your old friend Remus saw a picture of him as a rat, he'd similarly figure out everything?"

Sirius pursed his mouth, looking for the weak point in those questions.

"I suppose so," he admitted, "though, ah, he might have a hard time finding Peter. The rat twigged to me pretty fast, since I didn't cover my tracks too well. He's not living with Ron Weasley anymore, I'm sure of that."

Locating a rat with an entire castle as its run would be tricky, Garak conceded, but he'd tackled tougher objectives. Sideways, usually.

"If that stunt scared him away from the castle," the Cardassian wondered, "where else could he seek refuge?"

He frowned, stroking his chin—well, more scratching his beard, pondering the notion.

"Hagrid's hut is the only place I can think of. He's too vulnerable to proper animal predators outside, whether on the grounds or here in the Forest. And rats don't do too well in lakes."

He clapped his hands softly, working out a proper plan.

"So! You send Remus a copy of this photo, with the rat circled, and tell him Peter is hiding in Hagrid's hut. He catches the scoundrel, reports the whole thing to the police, and once the wheels of bureaucracy finish turning, you're exonerated. No?"

Remembering what he'd heard about the previous year, Sirius had his doubts, but 'has to be seen to be doing something' could work for him in this case, Garak assured him. Fudge could easily, and even correctly, portray his imprisonment as a miscarriage of justice by a previous administration, and with Peter caught but Sirius free, they'd go with the version that gave them someone to put in Azkaban. An easy way out, for a mediocre politician. All they had to do was find an old newspaper and pay an owl to deliver it. For a moment, the veteran spy was almost giddy with the possibilities of routine animal messengers, but there would be time for that later.

Chapter Text

Years of fighting HYDRA, and years with the Avengers. Steve hadn't seen everything, but he had a wide variety of experiences and the training to keep his head when, as Tony put it, 'crazy nonsense comes out of nowhere'. He expected the struggle to save the people of Novi Grad from a pack of robots to be challenging, what with Ultron's masterminding capabilities. And yet, when a blast from Vision met with Thor's lightning strike and Wanda's telekinesis in the middle of a squad, it was still startling to see the eruption of consequences.

Not the destruction, as metal bits littered the street, but the reaction from the few civilians who'd been nearby, trying to evacuate. One man took to the air, flying towards Steve with a startled expression, while the woman who'd just been next to him put her hand to the pavement and drew it up to form a shield between herself and several more approaching bots.

"Think the rules just changed, Cap," Natasha assessed. "Wanda and Pietro aren't the only enhanced Sokovians anymore."

As fascinating as the development was, he still had to deal with the problem in front of him first, and his shield flung another robot right into Clint's line of sight so it could sprout an arrow in its forehead. Right, now a moment to consider.

"Any of those enhancements going to help us bring the city back down?" he asked. Tony hadn't exactly been optimistic, but with a bigger toolbox, he might be able to figure something out.

"Working on that," she reported, and Cap grunted in reply. Sounded like she was taking herself off the field for a bit, and despite the powers he'd already seen exhibited, the fact remained that none of the Sokovians were trained in how to use them effectively or in coordination; at best, some of them still remembered the days of their conscription.

"Excuse me, Captain Rogers, but I believe we are ready to change your plans," an accented voice broke into his battle ruminations, a few minutes later. It wasn't from his comm, he could tell that, but nobody around him was speaking either. "Markus here should be able to convince the engine lifting us to calm down somewhat, Sofia is already sinking into the connections to the earth we just left, and Georg is ready to siphon off energy from that rocket. The evacuation is well underway, so I suggest we split into two teams—one to guard the descent trio, and one to draw these monsters away from those still on the streets."

Steve thought furiously, pursing his lips. No fatal flaw presented itself, apart from the question of 'do they have what it takes to get the job done'.

"Right," he replied, after a long moment. "Tony, stay on your investigation a little bit longer. Hulk, Nat, Pietro, you're on distraction. Clint, Vision, Rhodes, overwatch. Wanda, Thor, with me, giving that team a barrier. Keep in touch, and don't get overextended."

He already knew where the church was, having been roaming around the city since the fight began, but after the first block he started to see arrows directing him anyway. Completely fine in Steve's book, there was no problem at all with getting guidance like this from a native. Meanwhile, there were signs that Ultron was figuring out the new plan, with empty streets before him and notes from the distance team as they got a better view of the landscape—his legion was massing for a focused assault. Soon, it would be time to find out how prepared Markus, Sofia, and Georg were for a firefight.

"They're not paying me any attention," Pietro reported, and Steve gritted his teeth. Thor was already in place on the steeple, showering the perimeter with lightning strikes, and Wanda was nodding to him on her way inside. It might have been the same woman from before, raising the rubble to form a wall that grew between the double doors and the street, and Steve quickly vaulted over the meter-tall structure.

"Hulk, take a shot at smashing up that horde," he directed. "Pietro, get everyone onto the pier by the evac shuttles, and then head to the church. Nat, just get back here now. Overwatch team, get ready for mayhem."

A young man sat in the front pew, talking animatedly at the air, and Steve guessed that was probably Markus. An older woman sat with her feet on her thighs, closing her eyes and breathing deeply as her hands kneaded at the floor, most likely Sofia. Finally, a balding fellow was the end of a chain with his hands on the top of the engine that Ultron had sprouted from the ground not too long ago, gripped around the waist by a young woman who in turn had a blushing teenager with his hands on her shoulders, breathing out golden mist.

"Welcome, Captain," the voice from earlier greeted him, and he turned to see someone whose suit and demeanor fairly screamed 'mayor'. Steve nodded in reply, and she smiled.

"Are your defenders ready for a change in dynamic?" she asked him. "Ultron already suspects our new capacity to resist, but confirming it will truly spark his rage."

He bared his teeth, eager to test the solution that had them showing such confidence.

"Let's bring her down, nice and easy."

The church shivered, tremors spreading out, and he strode briskly towards the gap the earth-shaper had carefully left, adapting to the effective lessening of his weight by the city's adjusting descent just barely before he reached it. The strategic reasons were obvious to him, funneling the AI's robots into a killbox, but for all he knew there were practical reasons as well. Ozone was already in the air from Mjolnir's exercise, and Wanda stretched out her hands to form a field of mid-air debris. Steve waved his shield at Vision, high in the air, ready to try the maneuver that had worked so well with Tony's repulsors in New York and the time since. The yellow beam promptly shot out, and he slowly swept the oncoming masses with it; there was some outright destruction, to be sure, but his goal was the same as Wanda's: slow them down, so truly massive blows had a target-rich environment. Sure enough, there was crackling just barely in earshot, and he braced himself for a massive thunderclap, which still knocked him off his feet even as the fat yellow bolt burned through the drones and into the street. Steve got to his feet as quickly as he could manage, but Ultron's gambit had failed and he knew it, with the remaining robots fleeing.

They weren't doing so very well, though. In fact, both they and the maniac's actual body were being pulled towards the church, or rather just outside. The collection of automata, steel and vibranium, was being compressed into a ball, despite Ultron's struggles. One last ray from Vision and the lights went out in the villain's head; seconds later, the rough sphere crashed to the ground, sinking a good few inches into the asphalt.

"Looks like we got that taken care of," Tony said. "And now we gotta deal with a whole bunch of people who can do that sort of thing."

"I put it on the back burner while Ultron was going," Maria Hill replied, her voice slightly tinny from SHIELD's comms, "but we've got reports of emergences like this in New York, Hong Kong, and eastern Norway already."

"How many are we looking at, Maria?" Nat asked.

"Tens of thousands, at a guess, and I think it's spreading."

Chapter Text

Fury's helicarrier proved to be an excellent base of operations for the Avengers and company to deal with the incipient crisis, with a little friendly tug of war with Mayor Rivka over the swelling enhanced crowd on their hands. Of course, since very few of the new abilities were genuinely useful for the looming challenges of triage plus repairing the city on one hand, and preventing global panic or irresponsible power experimentation on the one hand, they found it relatively easy to decide who fit with each effort. There was also the simple matter that plenty of these talents didn't particularly lend themselves to any of those four problems, but as Stark put it, "you don't have to be able to breathe fire, to help someone".

Natasha and Tony joined the analysts, on different areas of the field, painting a better picture of the unfolding situation and connecting to the existing emergency networks already responding to individual eruptions. Wanda and Pietro dove fully into cleaning up the streets, with a healthy dash of resupplying from stores and hospitals. Clint and Rhodes were among the first hotline volunteers, with Steve sticking with them until Fury's people had something to look at in terms of issuing a public service announcement. One with more stakes than the pack he'd done for high schools.

There were a lot of worried people calling in, but the optimism grew in the hastily-assembled call centers. The surge of powers certainly did mean a change to the global landscape, and it was perfectly reasonable to be upset about a new display of abilities, but there were no reports of inherently dangerous developments. Nobody had a gaze that caused instant death, and most of the problems that required first responders on the site were a matter of people figuring out how to control themselves or properly use their enhancements. It was, after all, quite understandable that many of the seventy-five hundred winged humans had wanted to try them out, fulfilling the general yearning for flight. Luckily, none of the awakenings thus far were in children, which was not to say that the newly-active super-folks acted with maturity in every case.

"There are now tens of millions of people with metahuman capabilities," Steve agreed, sitting in a talk show panel in a costume that SI's Image department had put together over the course of the last two days. It was cheerful but not flamboyant, calling back to his original role as a mascot for the war effort. "And a lot of them have caused some ruckus, but what we've seen overwhelmingly is minor flaps caused by folks who've just started seeing emotions, and other things they have to learn to turn off, or enjoying their newfound flight. Crimes have happened and will continue to do so, but they're outnumbered by the helpers."

"And the Avengers are doing what exactly, in all this?" Mae, one of their regulars, asked. He'd caught a few furtive glances at his physique, but he was so far past caring about that. Even if he'd gotten more than a few hours of sleep since Sokovia, Steve was in a position to let people have some eye candy. In response to her question, he merely shrugged.

"Staffing the phone lines, providing support to first responders, getting a clearer idea of what's happened and where we're headed," he responded.

Jemmy, another frequent discusser, bit her lip, rereading the one-page dossier the collective brain trust had provided.

"Seems like we're headed to a world where virtually everyone can breathe fire or throw steel beams or whatever," she commented, visibly wary of that situation.

Dr. Donna Whitmore, a dual doctorate in economics and history, was already shaking her head a little, leaning forward in her seat.

"There's been the possibility of sudden very effective violence for quite a few years now," she countered. "And beyond that, well, Johnson rightly got flack for it at the time, but 'We must either love each other, or we must die'. Frankly, I think the new possibilities of some of the powers I've heard about strengthen the first scenario."

Mae grimaced at the reminder of the old nuclear war ad, and redirected the conversation.

"What do you say to the people out there, confused and worried?" she asked him.

His long hours in the war, practicing showmanship, helped once again, as Steve looked directly into one of the several cameras around the group.

"The most important thing you can do is stay calm. Don't do anything rash. By all means, call one of our hotlines for reassurance, and if you believe you can help, there are groups organizing those efforts. Whether you've gained a metahuman ability or not, you can be part of the way forward in this situation."

"He's pretty good at that," Cameron noted, barely restraining his smile as he reviewed the clip with Maria and Sharon in their meeting room. The SHIELD contingent had finished a preliminary sketch of the metahuman statistics, complete with analysis and recommendations, for governments to use over the next few months. It was a rosier outline than they'd expected, buoyed in part by a continuing lack of direct lethality in the ongoing assessments, along with the accompaniment of secondary adaptations. No one had superspeed and ran into a brick wall who wouldn't have managed to do so on a stroll, in other words.

"The data are rough," Maria agreed, "but every time he's on TV, it pushes the chaos down a little."

Sharon shook her head ruefully. "Back to being a circus monkey. At least this time it's not just a distraction."

"I really get the feeling that this is going to be the Avengers' mission for a long while," Cameron said, lingering on one of the details being presented to senior staffs all over the world. "Just, steering all these frightened people, and integrating them into a shifting society. Fighting our inner demons and lack of stability, which aren't so easy to punch."

Sharon nodded, having helped draft and edit that paragraph. Then her boss snorted, as her hair shrank from sitting comfortably on her shoulders to just below her ears.

"Oh no," he teased her, just short of monotone, "what are we going to do about this dangerous metahuman. Flee from the—okay, okay."

The newly-flowered shapeshifter bared her teeth, lengthening her canines to a more fang-like appearance, making him desist.

Chapter Text

Diana smiled as she saw Bruce enter the hall; it was admirable that he wanted to be on-site for the weekly meetings. Also reasonably convenient, since Gotham was only half an hour away. He offered his arm ostentatiously, and the Amazon giggled, as always, when she took it, but quickly sobered up again.

"You're not quite as cheery as usual, your highness," he noted, walking through the bustling corridors to the major conference room. Diana pursed her lips and nodded, forgoing her typical swat at his long-running 'princess' joke.

"I'll let Director Waller explain in a minute," she murmured. They found a pair of seats in the quickly-filling arc around the table, facing the handful of screens for people whose schedules didn't allow direct attendance. The display had been revamped, Bruce noticed, with heavier cables coming out to the wall and down to the floor, along with a plaque reading 'Courtesy of Metropolis Competitive'. Well, he would continue to do his best giving Lex Luthor the benefit of the doubt; this was surely in service of his fellow teleconferencers, rather than a public show of wealth. No sooner had he dismissed the mean-spirited thought than Waller walked in, timed so perfectly that she nodded to the flashing-in images of Luthor, Ross, Lane, and Queen.

"Good morning," she said briskly. "Three hours ago, Agents Rayner and Zatara put the final touches on the brane disturbance project, and they immediately found a burgeoning gateway. Agents Kent, Isley, and Chambers-Quick elected to cross over after a series of tests, for personal investigation. Unfortunately, for a variety of reasons, the portal quickly closed afterwards, leaving them on the other side."

General Lane scowled at the news, while Queen and Ross were troubled, and Luthor barely blinked.

"And your efforts to recover them, Director?" the general asked immediately, very nearly glaring at her.

"Rayner and Zatara are continuing to work out the kinks in the process, General," the director answered smoothly. "There's something of a catch-22: the sensors we developed to track their vital signs are themselves interfering with the channeling operation. We do know, at least, that they're safe, apart from the natural stress of new circumstances. Short of re-opening that bridge, our priority is communication."

Ross shook his head, his brow furrowed.

"I don't like this, Director. Kent's barely more than a kid, and Isley's not much good away from nature. Can the Flash really carry the team, as the only seasoned member?"

Diana could see the twitching in Waller's fingers, behind her desk.

"We're not exactly sitting comfortably here, Mr. Vice President, but I have faith in every League employee, field agent or otherwise," she bit out.

"And they have faith in us," Diana continued, drawing the attention of the room. "Kara, and Pam, and Jessie, they know we'll bring them home. No one's getting left behind."

Jesse didn't jump when the house before them exploded fifteen seconds after they stepped through the portal, nor when the SCHLORP of its closure quickly followed. If the situation weren't chaotic, Kyle's setup wouldn't have latched on in the first place.

"Isley, watch our perimeter. Kent, hop up behind the chimney and keep an eye on the skies. I'm going in," she ordered, promptly scattering her team. Pam vaulted into the branches of a nearby tree, restraining her usual enjoyment of flora on the job, while Kara spared a couple of seconds to pretend to climb the house rather than flying directly into place. Jesse herself could move cautiously in while still far outpacing any danger, and she didn't perceive any as she made her way through the home. Two bodies, with no signs of damage, and the baby's room was blown apart. Oddly, the little boy there was just fine, except for the cut on his forehead.

"Clear up here, apart from an orphaned toddler," she reported, not a moment too soon.

"I've got someone coming on on a . . . huh. Aircraft, but there are no wings," Kara noted.

Not to be outdone, Pam informed them that several trees on the street leading in to their location had been briefly shoved aside, and their confusion mounted. Strolling outside again, Jesse found cover as she waited for more information. Kara heard the tiny skidding four feet away as the aircraft landed, and Jesse was mildly surprised as it became visible—a motorcycle plus sidecar. Huh. A step beyond Diana's jet, perhaps. The driver was just getting out of his seat when he hopped hurriedly away from a bus that managed to squeeze between his ride and the kerb, which promptly disgorged a man larger than any they'd seen before. The two of them clearly knew each other, embracing firmly before approaching the house, and Jessie took a leap of faith, masquerading as a simple step or three.

"Evening, gentlemen," she greeted them, walking up slowly and keeping her hands visible. "Bit of a mess here, huh?"

The enormous man was crying, now that she looked closer, and his friend wasn't exactly jolly either.

"You could say that," the motorcyclist choked out. "Lily and James dead, and You-Know-Who finally getting what was coming to him isn't much consolation."

"Fat load of good that Fidelius Charm did them," the giant groused, wiping at the tears in his hair. "Who are you, anyway?"

"My name's Jesse," the veteran Leaguer introduced herself. "There are my friends Pam and Kara. We're new in town, but we'd like to help with this terrible tragedy, if we can."

Her companions grimaced at her casual volunteering of their services, but she wasn't exactly wrong. The two men, putting themselves forward as 'Hagrid' and 'Sirius', shrugged.

"I've got to deliver young Harry to Professor Dumbledore," Hagrid explained, a slight note of equanimity to his voice now.

"And I'm going to kill that rat Peter," Sirius put in, or rather snarled, which quickly turned into heartsick laughter. "I outsmarted myself, Hagrid. Thought if everyone 'knew' I was the Secret-Keeper, You-Know-Who's thugs would go after me, and Peter would keep them safe."

"I was wonderin' about that," Hagrid confessed, "but I figured I must have heard wrong, or the spell failed, or summat like that."

A distant cry rang out, and the giant hurried into the house, collecting the young boy and bringing him into the late October night. He looked up at Hagrid's face, in between restless objections to general life as a very small child.

"So," Jesse summed up, "we've got a child to take care of, this Professor Dumbledore to meet with, and a traitor behind the double murder. Am I missing anything?"

Chapter Text

"Picking up traces of a Black Lantern ring on the deep space array, Director."

Kyle Rayner's report brings a round of winces to the room, but Waller is unfazed. Bruce recalls that the incident precipitating the League's founding was complicated, but involved one of those rings in some way.

"How long will you need to settle the matter?" she asks, pursing her lips as she watches the White Lantern disengage from the still-dormant gateway generator.

"Two days," Rayner estimates. "Thirty percent chance that something just stirred up residual necrotic energy, but . . . "

"But we don't take even the faint possibility of a Black Lantern Corps revival lightly," Waller finishes. "Get to it, Agent Rayner."

Having one of the League's most versatile and powerful members off-world, especially pulled away from efforts to retrieve three other members, is an unfortunate circumstance. Bruce can see the wheels turning in Waller's head as she catches his eye.

"Are Jones and Cain ready to step up, Wayne?" she asks him brusquely.

"I have full faith in Grayson's reports, Miz Waller," he replies. Richard has spent more time with the Gotham Champions than he, and at this point Bruce trusts the man's opinion on the matter above his own. Not that it matters, since the few hours he's had with the recent recruits have given him no reason to doubt his son's assessments.

"Bring them in," Waller orders, and he steps aside to tell Richard that Caiman and Teacher are finally getting their big chance.

"Luthor," she barks, "is Corben's shielding finished?'

"My engineers are confident that either Kryptonian could stand right next to him and not feel a twinge," the other magnate answers smoothly. The director's lip curls just a few degrees.

"Let's not challenge that any time soon. He'll be in the Gulf, touching base with Mr. Holland."

Lex nods at the order, but before he can make his own call the phone in his pocket rings. A few words has him hurrying off to his daughter's piano recital, leaving one of the analysts to relay the decision to Metropolis Competitive's metahuman division.

"I'm having lunch with Queen Mera in a little while," Diana notes. "She's been on reserve status for three months now. Should I ask her to come up?"

To her surprise, the director shakes her head.

"Atlantis is still dealing with the garbage patch and Barrier Reef. I'd rather have her there than here."

Several beeps from one of the analysts' consoles herald a development, which Bruce very much hopes is going to bring some better news.

"It's Morse code, from Chambers-Quick," one of them realizes, hastily grabbing a pen and paper while another roots around for the conversion software. "They've found a society of wizards, right after a civil war over blood purity."

"Lucky our people arrived to give them a hand," Bruce observes. Waller sits heavily, scrolling through several different documents on her computer.

"We're not trying to be guardians over every dimension, Wayne," she tells him wearily. "The United States offers more than enough trouble as it is. In any case, I'm authorizing Zatara's consultant fees. Maybe some family collaboration will put us on stronger footing here."

Several people bring up other options. Constantine is immediately vetoed, due to the sky not falling. Diana herself has only moderate magical knowledge. Doctor Fate's helmet is still locked in stasis. Etrigan hasn't yet returned from a trip to Avalon. Raven's in therapy. However, despite all those being shot down, the League still gets some assistance when the Amazon princess returns from her royal meeting with an Atlantean sorcerer in tow.

"I'm not exactly sure what help I can be," Garth confesses. He's an air-breather, like many Atlanteans, but still has a collar to protect his gills during long-term land residence. "I've got my areas of study, but dimensional travel isn't among them."

"Yeah, that's not great," someone casually admits, "but we also want a better view of what's happening over there, with the isolated wizards. Atlantis has something in common with them, don't you think?"

Meanwhile, a few engineers attempt to put Chambers-Quick's health sensor into diagnostic mode. Not to examine her actual status, but in the hope that they'll be able to communicate back to her. If the League can manage even the rudimentary Morse code in return, that'll be a big step for team morale, if not necessarily any sort of proper conclusion to the incident.

"It's rather adorable how these little codenames have been catching on," she muses to Bruce. He raises one eyebrow, carefully flipping their sandwiches on the griddle.

"Director Waller doesn't want anything to do with them, but the League enjoys those handles, even if they're self-bestowed. And entirely too relevant to be proper codenames," she continues.

Bruce plates up their food, along with TV trays so they can continue their movie in comfort.

"It's humanizing, I think," he says, once he's gotten settled in again. "Something the group needs sorely, given how many metahumans or actual aliens are on the team—Nashton was outnumbered six to one at the start. Just calling someone 'agent' creates an image of cold, humorless professionals, and that's understandably a portrayal Waller wants to promote. Nightwing and Flamebird, on the other hand, show Jane Public that the League is composed of people, with heart and imagination. Does that make sense?"

Diana smiles softly at him. "A little. By the way, most of them make a certain amount of sense, but I'm drawing a blank on 'Teacher' for Miss Cain."

Bruce holds up a finger theatrically. "One, a reference to her, hmm, unorthodox education."

She blanches at the reminder of David Cain's refusal to teach his daughter any actual language, and he grimaces.

"I know, but as Richard put it, Cass's past is a part of her, and it's better to make it her own than try to run away."

His kind-of-girlfriend isn't convinced, but there's certainly the sense that Cassandra is allowed to cope with her trauma however she likes, shared between them.

"Second," he continues, "and I'll concede this is a bit of a stretch, but before higher education got common, there were schools specifically organized for training teachers. They were called 'normal', because the future teachers would be instilling norms in their students."

"And she wants to be normal," Diana muses. "Well, I'd say being in the Justice League isn't a great help with that, but now that I think about it more, it's practically the only place where anyone would be used to someone like her."

Chapter Text

I'm rereading the briefing packet on Therum when my omni-tool buzzes. Shepard, telling me to head to the ready room. It doesn't seem necessary, since she already told me I wasn't cleared for combat, but I agreed to follow her lead when I joined the Normandy's crew.

Kaidan and Wrex are already there, even though their usual spots are on the other end of the ship. Shenanigans, I say. Before I can start wondering what's going on, beyond the obvious imminent mission, Wrex claps me on the back. I'm no better at dodging than usual, and I rub my shoulder as I pick a seat.

"Come on, man," Kaidan admonishes him, "he's not even wearing armor." Wrex just laughs.

"More incentive for him to learn agility, then," he retorts, and I scowl playfully at the krogan. Shepard strides in, and the chatter stops.

"You're all familiar with the details Alliance intel gave me, and with Aaron's input. Anything people want to discuss, before we head out?"

Wrex bulls ahead, naturally.

"You say the place is 'crawling with geth'. How many are we talking here?" he asks. Does it count as bloodlust when he's looking forward to smashing robots?

"Dozens, with some real variety," I recall. "The Mako can help, but I'm guessing you don't want to try to squeeze it through the rocks near the mine."

Shepard nods firmly at that. My description of the several tries I needed to pull off that trick wasn't exactly appealing, nor the repair work the tank would need after getting jammed against the landscape that hard. Or being sideways for the duration, probably.

"How confident are you that we can avoid using the mining laser to free Dr. T'Soni, and preserve the Prothean ruins?" Kaidan wonders, and I'm already shaking my head in doubt.

"Not at all," I admit freely. "But I'm betting two biotics have a better chance than one technical specialist. Either way, Sparatus will find some way to bitch about it, Commander."

Shepard rolls her eyes at that, obviously shocked that the man who did his best to prevent her appointment would be displeased at any action she took. That wraps up our debriefing, as she waves them into the decontamination room for disembarking, and I start setting up my station to advise them on the fly. Helmet cams to three separate feeds, and audios from their radios, or whatever thing they're using since everything is based on 'Prothean' technology. Haven't gotten around to a discussion on that, particularly since it's not exactly relevant yet.

It doesn't take long before my screen lights up, along with the low buzz of their communications. Guess it pays to have pros around. There's a bit of idle chatter, as Wrex muses that they definitely couldn't have fit anyone else in the Mako, Kaidan teases him about wanting help, and the krogan is happy to share the mayhem with the whole gang. It's more or less serious time as their views shake back and forth, steadying as Shepard stabilizes the Mako and lands it as smoothly as one could want, at least from my very limited perspective.

The rifle and cannon ring out over and over, as the trio carves a path around the lava flows to Liara's mine. The geth aren't much of an obstacle, though they certainly provide an annoyance, especially the hoppers. At one point, Wrex actually snatches one up and beats it against the scaffolding until the limbs give way. Then there's a blatant fork in the shallow canyon that serves as a road.

"Only a fool punches a nathak in the mouth," Wrex opines, seeing the side path. "We should sneak around and pull its tail."

"Wrex is one hundred percent right, here," I confirm, speaking up for the first time. "The right side offers plenty of cover, along with distance."

Shepard nods, and I'm finally starting to get accustomed to that at this point. They veer over, continuing their quasi-casual dismantling of the mechanical invaders. Not too long after that, there's the entryway, and Wrex chuckles at the idea of maneuvering the vehicle past it.

"I think I might just throw up if I had to stay inside while someone juggled it through," Kaidan volunteers, opening the door to vault onto the hot rocks.

"Perfect spot for an ambush," Shepard notes, "or at least it would be if we hadn't been seeing geth constantly anyway. Good thing they didn't have the tactical sense to present a single overwhelming front here."

Over the river and through the chokepoint, wiping out geth as they go. I suppose I'm lucky to start my introduction to combat by watching them take apart robots—no gore, no screams for help, no extremely still bodies. It's not going to stay that way forever, and the krogan at the end is one of a handful of enemies I really remember. My musing lasts a little too long, as I abruptly hear them discussing the possibilities beyond the laser.

"We might have fine enough control to hit the buttons from this far away," Kaidan assesses dubiously, "but it's tough to say. Maybe some more painstaking work with that industrial machinery, rather than turning it on full blast until there's an open path?"

Shepard likes that possibility a lot more, which hadn't even occurred to me. Well, Spectres are supposed to be problem-solvers, and so are naval commanders in the field. She directs him to start looking for any documentation on it, while she verifies the best location to ease through the rock. Wrex, meanwhile, stays with Liara, and I can't tell if he's asking about the procedure she used to seal herself in there in the first place just to distract her, or if he thinks he might be able to pull it off. The way his arms are outstretched, and his stance isn't exactly conversational, certainly points in that direction for me, but I'm hardly an expert on krogan body language.

Definitely some hissing and popping in there, along with a curse or two, as the lieutenant does his best to reconfigure unfamiliar equipment. Shepard can indeed do better than the straight line from the starting position, though carting the laser over will be a challenge. Suddenly, Wrex roars in delight, making Kaidan swear again as he smashes his glove against the thing's insides, and that crunch sounded awfully expensive. But with the barrier gone, the battlemaster's reaction is warranted. Shepard and Kaidan rush over to help Liara out, draping her arms over their shoulders to her relief, even as Wrex grumbles that he could have carried her himself. Given the choice between hauling her back up the way they came, broken elevator and all, versus tackling another krogan and handful of geth, she reluctantly chooses the forward path, while Liara nervously samples some of the rations they brought.

"We might need a rapid evac pretty soon, Joker," the Spectre casually tells him, and for the slightest moment I mourn the loss of the lovely exchange Joker would have given, about lava being bad for the Normandy and being unwilling to shave his chin scruff for a medal ceremony afterwards. And at a guess, Sparatus' excuse for scolding her will now be, hmm. Damaging private property worth tens of thousands of credits?

Chapter Text

Grace looked forward to the completion of all this record digitization, which sadly was a long way off. In the shorter term, her afternoon break was coming up soon, and she decided to take a look at the various seismometers before getting out her homemade granola bar. They occasionally had interesting results, this being California, but the spike she saw now was unusual. Clearly the result of an explosion, and an impressive one at that, even if it did naturally pale in result to an actual earthquake. With a long-practiced hand, she traced the location to a town near Santa Barbara, called Sunnydale. Well, a call to the local police should clear this up, and if necessary handing it off to someone from the state bureau for investigation.

Thirty minutes later, she was astounded at the uselessness of some departments. The blast was dismissed as the detonation of a meth lab, attributed to juveniles on the school grounds. The vague promises that they'd take care of it were far from reassuring, and it was clear that this incident needed a focused hand getting to the bottom of it. Time for a call.

"Joe, it's Grace." She'd gotten to know Bertram Josephs pretty well over the years, and he'd take this as seriously as everything else.

"Good afternoon. What do you have for me?" Straight to business as always.

"An explosion about half an hour from you. Locals claim it was a meth lab, but it's about fifteen times as big, not to mention at a school. Can you take a look?"

Joe started filling out the paperwork for the trip, shifting the phone to his shoulder.

"I'm on it. Anything else I should know?"

Grace rechecked her notes, and winced.

"It happened during graduation, so things might be ugly. Good luck, Joe."

The Barney Fife-wannabes didn't seem to have an ounce of professional curiosity, and professionalism in general was a significant challenge. At least they didn't stop him from doing some actual investigation of the incident, or rather try; sometimes sheriffs got pretty testy about the state throwing its weight around. Every bureau car was at least moderately equipped with the tools for a field trip, and Joe was soon donning a hard hat, steel-toed boots, and leather gloves, along with a satchel of bags for samples and rubber gloves for more complicated sites.

The school was, of course, a mess, with several dead students, and he decided to give the survivors a little space, for a while. Eyewitness testimony did fade quickly, but Joe could easily spend half an hour getting an idea from the remains inside the building before he started looking for the better-informed and more stoic teenagers. Besides, it would be easier to catch liars when he knew some of what the truth was.

He'd seen many corpses in his time, whole and otherwise, of various species, and the scattered remains he continued to see didn't resemble any of them. There was a definite snakey element, he thought, which would probably need a herpetologist to explore further. Fortunately, his own experience and training in explosive analysis led him to the core of the conflagration, and it was a challenge indeed to verify from the floor plans that it had been the library. No traces of meth here from his testing kit, but there had certainly been both fertilizer and diesel fuel. There was no conceivable reason to have those in any significant quantities in a school, not without an agriculture program, and they didn't have one here. And the pieces of possible snake, one nearly covering his chest. What on earth had happened here? It was time to check out some witnesses.

There was certainly the stench of fabrication in the air, as none of the students had any idea about the explosion or the snakes; a few had claimed they were planning a garden, or a zoo exhibit, but their plans didn't seem to include any knowledge of planting, seeds, prey, et cetera. They did give him a few consistent names for further information: Buffy Summers, Cordelia Chase, Daniel Osborne, Willow Rosenberg, and Alexander Harris. A spare yearbook showed him what to look for, and Joe's prowl didn't take long.

"Miss Summers?" the stocky man asked, approaching her in the group. "Agent Josephs, with the California Bureau of Investigations. I've got a few questions about what happened to your school."

The teenager winced, and Joe kept his sigh internal. Clearly she'd been approached by authority before, with a grudge. His pen and pad might just connote a better attitude, and either way he would know shortly.

"I really don't know much about it, everything was so hectic," she began, and he nodded.

"Of course, of course. Still, I did hear your name fairly often, as someone who was in charge and handled all sorts of strange events." He took out a picture he'd taken, of the largest piece of what very much resembled reptile hide, complete with scales. The measures he had placed next to it for staging showed clearly that it was well over a foot in width and length.

"Gosh, that looks ugly," Buffy assessed, a very fair characterization, and followed up with "What is it?"

Joe watched her eyes as he explained. "It looks like a small piece from a giant snake, to me. There are quite a few more, scattered among the wreckage."

"Sounds like you've got the mystery solved, then," she said cheerily, and he'd seen that before. He was right, and this girl was hoping he didn't know how right. Unfortunately for Joe's inquiry, they were joined by another adult at this point, a man with receding brown hair and glasses, not to mention a sour look on his face. Possibly Mr. Giles, the librarian, who'd been mentioned a few times in passing, though more likely Miss Summers' father.

"I do hope you're not interrogating Buffy without her parent's consent, officer," he said, stepping just barely in front of the girl.

"Just asking questions, sir. I was explaining to Miss Summers that one of my hypotheses was the explosion of a giant snake, which was set in the library. Might that be your domain?"

He nodded, taking off his glasses to wipe them, and Buffy smirked.

"Agent Josephs has been all nice and everything, Giles. Didn't even accuse me of blowing up the school and wrecking the zoo exhibit, yet."

Joe adjusted his satchel, taking out another sample; this time, the tip of a fang, four inches long.

"I don't think I've seen anything like this in a zoo, Miss Summers. Do you have any thoughts on where a creature with this sort of dentition might be found?"

She struggled for words, looking to her teacher, and he slowly nodded.

"Sometimes, agent, there are questions with answers that lead us to dark and dangerous places. Not many people care to ask them here. If your duty requires you to risk that, then we shall do our best to give you something you can take to your superiors."

Joe turned to a new page in his pad, pen poised above it.

"My obligation is to justice, Mr. Giles, and to truth. If your explanation lines up with what I saw in there, I'll listen."

Giles began a modified version of the spiel he'd given to the children years ago, and Joe gave thanks yet again that he'd picked up shorthand.

Chapter Text

It was a small measure of satisfaction, toying with Potter, after the great gloom of killing Dumbledore minutes before. No more respite from the Death Eaters, from here on in it would be all undercover, all the time. Now, if only this oaf would listen to him and leave Hogwarts before anything truly awful—

No! A green bolt hit the boy, and he lay still. Terrible thoughts ran through Severus' head.

And then Potter moved again. Was this the moment Dumbledore had spoken of? Had he been overly cautious, predicting that the Dark Lord himself would be required to perform the act? He moved as swiftly as he could to investigate, Confounding the child as he ran. The 'fight' had been satisfying, but now it was getting in his way.

"Idiot!" he tossed back over his shoulder, scolding Rowle to reinforce the very reasonable conclusion that the curse had simply missed and Potter had merely frozen for a moment. "No one may touch him!"

It was very fortunate now that his Occlumency lessons had fallen on deaf ears the previous year, for he found it easy to slip into the mind of the Boy Who Lived. The traces from which he'd previously steered clear were gone, the Dark Lord purged entirely from his essence. This . . . this might just be a tremendous opportunity. Frantically, Severus peeled through the lessons Potter had taken with Dumbledore over the course of the last several months, picking through for all of the relevant details. Now for the final touches.

"Dumbledore died when you attacked Draco Malfoy, after seeing that he brought Death Eaters into Hogwarts. He and I protected the two of you, but a stroke of bad luck felled him," he murmured, just as the stubborn child's will reasserted itself. Potter blinked at him, and brought his wand up against his foes of the past two years.

"Flee!" he shouted to his former companions. "Leave Hogwarts now!"

Snape chased after them, on the verge of an enormous con job, so close to taking full advantage of what had fallen into his lap. He barely caught the locket that the boy's memories betrayed as he passed Albus' body.

"He said he could protect me," Draco said numbly, staring at his hands as they prepared for the celebration. "Me, and Mother, and Father. And then you killed him. What are we going to do now?"

This certainly complicated things, but once again Severus could use these cold feet. It would be a pity to waste the efforts he'd taken to protect the boy this day. Another Confundus should do nicely, he was hardly in a state to resist it.

"He made the offer, and you accepted, but Potter was too angry at your company to let this happen. Dumbledore was killed in the ensuing battle."

He slowly nodded, looking to Severus as his savior and mentor; for a moment, he was nostalgic for the years before the Dark Lord's return, before the boy decided that full membership and independence was the measure of manhood. Severus beckoned him forth and hurried off to find Lucius and Narcissa. She would be his ally in this, very reasonably not having it in her heart to forgive the man who schemed to murder her son as openly as any master Slytherin could. Lucius, well, his paternal dedication was less clear, but a wounded ego should help nicely.

"You shan't be attending the festivities tonight," he informed them abruptly, finding the couple watching their contractors arrange the last pieces of the impending event. Lucius scowled, while his wife was confused.

"What is the meaning of this, Severus?" he demanded. "Since when do you give me orders in my own house?"

"Since I saved your son's life, I believe," the potions master shot back. Lucius grimaced, unable to counter the idea, and Narcissa drew his arm into her grasp.

"What are your plans?" she asked him.

"The three of you are going into sanctuary until I inform you that the war is ended," he summed up. "I shall be your Secret-Keeper. It is unlikely that you will be a target, but best you know nothing else anyway."

The elder Malfoy screwed up his mouth, shaking his head in resistance.

"I don't like this," he pronounced, even as Narcissa elbowed him.

"I don't care!" Severus retorted. "You failed to manipulate the Weasley girl into killing the Muggleborns Arthur is so fond of, and your work to oust Dumbledore later was so clumsy you lost your seat on the Board when he returned. Neither fish nor fowl at the World Cup, and your raid in the Ministry was a barely-mitigated failure, nearly matched by six teenagers. Clearly, you've been following the wrong lead for years—including your own."

He was turning red, once again with no actual response.

"Wait for me in Hogsmeade, by Honeyduke's," he directed the trio. "I shall join you shortly."

Narcissa ushered them to the Floo, and Severus could get to work on the masterstroke. A note, first, expressing their apologies for late arrival, especially as hosts, but last-minute parties sometimes required that, and inviting the others to start without them. An anti-disapparation jinx, set to activate on his remote command; the Weasley twins were troublemakers, but good businessmen, and they had a product perfect for this. Sadly, disabling the Floo would attract too much attention, not least from the Ministry, which watched the network even in ordinary times. Finally, an entirely Muggle approach, outside the Dark Lord's normal context: setting up a great deal of explosives in the basement, far from anyone's sight. Enough to deal with the gathering, and a few enchantments that would keep the authorities from noticing anything afterwards. Equipping that up for detonation when he was similarly far away was nontrivial, but before any of the significant guests had arrived, the turncoat had everything he needed, and made his way to the Malfoys.

Narcissa was startled to begin the same journey with her husband and son as with her sister, to Snape's own house in Spinner's End, and clearly was not looking forward to an indefinite stay in his abode, but she had little choice. To her credit, she performed the charm without hesitation, continuing to put her trust in Severus, and Lucius' distemper did not extend to thinking it was wise to resist what was clearly a fait accompli.

"Perhaps you can use this time to sort out a few of your growing pains," he suggested, before apparating to Grimmauld Place. The Order, and the faculty, would be at Hogwarts for some time still, reeling over Dumbledore's death and tending to affairs. His wait would be undisturbed, but he locked the door behind him once he found a sufficiently dusty and unused room.

It was a solid hour and a half before the full inner circle was gathered, along with their leader, and very little chance anyone would have a reason to leave. The jinx was ready, and now he was on an invisible clock; 'very little chance' was decidedly not the same as none. There would have been some satisfaction in a dramatically appropriate moment for the final step, such as the Dark Lord toasting "to Albus Dumbledore . . . . 's demise!", but that would have been an unacceptable risk. He pressed the button, and there was a brief sight of carnage before his Watching Eye was destroyed, with all the visitors in the house.

"Time for the hard part," Severus mused, assembling the information he'd gathered on the anchors tying the re-disembodied spirit to existence.

Chapter Text

It was an emotional time in the Carpenter home, after Molly's rescue. Harry did his best to make a quick exit, but Mouse was in no mood to end the group cuddle, barely interrupted from the family's vigil at Saint Mary of the Angels. Daniel was the first to drift away, due to his struggle with showing emotions as a teenage boy, but his sister and the wizard's dog remained. Down the basement he headed, but whatever he had planned went out the window when he reached the bottom of the stairs.

"Dad! Mr. Dresden!" he shouted. "There's something weird down here!"

Harry's staff was already in his hand as he rushed to the boy, while Charity restrained the children from joining him (with Mouse's considerable aid), and Michael picked up his sheath before attending to his son. There was no unpleasant surprise greeting them on arrival, at least, merely a perplexing one. An opening in the wall, the size of many portals Harry had ripped into the Nevernever, with blue skies and a large mountain visible on the other side, along with a grassy hill a few feet below.

"It's a lot like the passageways I've used," Harry noted, feeling at it with his thaumaturgy, "but something's different. I can't really explain how. Not a bad sight to have in your basement, except for the whole 'what is that place' thing. Not the Nevernever, I'm pretty sure."

Michael chewed his lip for a moment, and started rummaging through the collected items barely organized in the laundry room.

"It looks like a nice place to visit," he said finally. "And I wouldn't want anyone to think I'm a bad neighbor."

He'd retrieved a ladder, as it turned out, and Harry shook his head ruefully as he helped his friend slide it down; an easier trip over, and a viable trip back. Daniel, meanwhile, was charged with telling his mother that the two of them should be back shortly. Michael backed through the portal, and descended the ladder very carefully, while Harry did his best to keep a watch out, being very aware of his limited perspective.

Lace Harding enjoyed her job, overall; lots of interesting sights, and the Herald really valued her input. The Inquisition, despite the huge book formally establishing them as an organization with the mission to seek order, was in many ways very informally organized, and nothing but her own impressions gave her the sense that she was almost in charge of the scouting operation in general. She was the vanguard, when the council moved to investigate a new location, and now she was seeing something very interesting indeed: two men next to a ladder, which rested against a very clean and neat-looking rift. Very odd, that there were people nearby and no demons pouring out, but she was hardly about to complain.

"Ahoy there!" she called out, waving to them all friendly-like. They waved back, but she could see the staff and the sword they were carrying, along with their odd clothes. Lace approached them slowly, and didn't see any pack animals or satchels around, nor did she know of any settlements within range.

"Good afternoon," the man with the sword greeted her, politely. "I'm Michael, and this is Harry. When we found that, ah, portal there, checking it out seemed like a good plan."

Lace nodded with a grimace. Not many people would be that willing to dive into the unexpected, and rifts were widely known as bad news these days.

"Lace Harding," she introduced herself, and some expression flitted over Harry's face, too quickly for her to identify. "Well, this is the first rift I've heard of without any monsters popping through. Where are you two from?"

Harry cursed several times, before Michael laid a hand on his forearm, and she was really starting to wonder about the dynamic here.

"Chicago, which I can see doesn't mean a thing to you," Harry told her, his brow furrowing with every word. "What kind of monsters are you talking about?"

Lace shrugged. "Every variety of demon you can think of, really. Everyone with half a brain stays far away, if they can. Well, except for the Herald, but since she can close the rifts, it's a much more manageable situation."

"Sounds like it's all kind of under control, if you squint?" Harry guessed.

The dwarf giggled at that. "Yeah, you could put it that way. We could always use some help, of course. How good are you with those things?" she asked, gesturing towards their implements.

It was fascinating, exchanging stories of their worlds as they walked towards her camp. Dwarves, elves, and mages, but that was where ripping off Tolkien more or less stopped, while Lace was incredibly curious about electricity. Well, that was actually one more area of copying, since they seemed more or less in a medieval era; one man had a repeating crossbow, and the qunari's gaatlok sounded exactly like gunpowder, so maybe with more elements of Renaissance than usual? Either way, Harry thought more than once about nipping back to the portal and getting a book or three on the Industrial Revolution. He almost voiced the thought a few times, and he was pretty sure Michael had also, but while they were hardly part of the Federation, the purpose of this trip had never been to change anyone's society.

"I'm curious," Lace said, a few minutes after receiving a messenger pigeon, with a note that informed her of the Herald's incoming presence. "It sounds like Chicago doesn't have a Circle, or any templars. How do you protect mages from becoming abominations?"

Harry began to speak, his face tight, and then stopped. "What exactly do you mean by 'abominations'?" he asked carefully. "I'm getting a pretty literal vibe there."

The dwarf grimaced. "Yeah, it's not exactly a subtle thing, when it happens. All kinds of body horror, as a demon crosses over from the Fade and inhabits the mage's body."

Both men shuddered at the thought, and Harry looked like he was struggling to keep his lunch down.

"For us, magical corruption is a creeping thing, a matter of breaking the Law. It's not a matter of any other entity overcoming you, but having twisted yourself by casting spells to kill or enslave people."

Harry hated the Council's actions in enforcing the Law, and he wondered why things worked differently in this Thedas. There was the tiny, unspoken suspicion that if demons worked differently here, perhaps magic did as well. He'd had no reason yet to catch a spell, but with a bigwig coming, and an active one at that, there might be some unpleasant lessons in the very near future.

Chapter Text

Harry and Michael had both met some interesting people, and not-people, over the years. This Herald of Andraste being grayish-skinned and wearing horns that curled around her head, that didn't give them a moment's pause. Having a good few inches on the drink-of-water private investigator was mildly surprising. Mab could certainly manage it, which led to the actual widened eyes at the woman being exceedingly cheerful and friendly.

"Hey there!" she greeted them, striding into Harding's camp. The three people following her definitely didn't resemble ducklings; if nothing else, those tended to lack chest hair, magnificent beards, and actually quite a lot of humanoid characteristics come to think of it. "Lace, you don't usually have visitors."

"Er, these are Harry and Michael," the petite scout introduced them. "Lady Herald Cecilia Adaar, Warden Blackwall, Varric Tethras, and Madame Vivienne de Fer."

Harry cocked his head slightly at what certainly sounded like full names, very interesting indeed.

"Quite the situation you've got here, with the rifts," he said.

"That's one way to put it," the Herald agreed, still smiling a little. Blackwall coughed, and Varric openly chuckled at the gallows humor. "Got anything to do with that ladder, and the hole that doesn't have anything demonic happening at the moment?"

The wizard shrugged sheepishly, his hands filling in the gap with uncertainty.

"It popped up in my friend's basement," he told them, indicating Michael with a gesture, who nodded. "Seemed wise to see what was happening on the other side. You're just taking it on faith, that we aren't demons?"

Scoffing was more of a full-body thing in Vivienne's response, than any particular sound or gesture.

"Darling, demons are extremely distinctive. They take many shapes, and none of them are anything like you."

Harry frowned in approval.

"Yours aren't shapeshifters. That must be handy."

He clasped his hands together, coming back to the core topic.

"Right! I'm guessing you've looked into all these portals pouring out nasty business, and haven't gotten many helpful conclusions?"

Adaar gritted her teeth, making both of them just a little apprehensive.

"That depends on whether you count 'nobody but me can close the rifts, and the Breach is still looming over our heads' as a helpful conclusion. They all ripped open after the explosion at the Conclave, but it's hard to imagine any bomb cutting a channel into the Fade."

Michael shook his head ruefully at her pronouncement.

"Very much a 'good news, bad news' situation," he agreed.

The group was in the area to, among other things, take care of a rift, and the Americans were awfully curious about it, so a larger band than normal set forth to do the Inquisition's work. Well, it was more Harry's curiosity about the rift itself, professional intrigue and all, but they both found this new world at times fascinating and disturbing. Of course, a great deal of this came from the simple fact that their portal back was still right there, ladder and all, though of course the rolling hills put it out of their sight.

"Bandits," Varric called in singsong, getting out the crossbow Harding had mentioned. The four of them dismounted their horses quickly, with Harry and Michael following suit awkwardly. Vivienne sent out a blue wisp that spread ice over a woman who dropped her sword as she tried to dodge, while the dwarf's armament released several bolts into her for good measure. Blackwall and Adaar moved in on foot, sword and hammer poised for swinging, and Michael brought up the rear. Harry puzzled over his options against human opponents in the wild, especially given that his allies were about to engage at close range.

"Forzare!" His blasting rod pointed as straight as he could manage at a man wearing a steel-y breastplate, vaulting over a fallen tree, and sent him crashing back into his robed companion.

"Defendarius!" Three arrows broke against Harry's bluish shield, a decidedly easier feat than his usual fare of bullets or spells.

"I noticed you steered clear of actual bloodshed, dear," commented Vivienne. Harry bit his lip, ready to investigate the Laws of Magic here.

"I don't know how your thaumaturgy works," he said, more delicately than usual, "but for me, magic is an expression of my essence and will. Killing a person with it, that's me taking on the authority of an executioner. Once I started doing it, things wouldn't go well."

"What an interesting philosophy," she tittered. Patronizing, but he'd seen her prowess, so it was endurable for the moment. "How ever do you survive your opponents, then?"

"Plenty of times I'm fighting vampires or faeries," he replied readily, "and killing them with magic is somehow not problematic. I know, I know, but I didn't make these rules."

"What Circle did?" the enchantress asked, leaning into the horse's sidle around a patch of rough ground. Harry, for his part, managed not to fall off.

"Ugh, this is going to get old," he muttered, readying himself for another explanation.

"Where I come from," the wizard explained faux-cheerily, "we don't have any Circles, and Michael is the closest I've ever come to meeting a templar. Wizards don't become abominations by letting demons inside us, barring weird freakshows. Instead, breaking the Laws of Magic twists us into sociopaths. The best solution we've found is empowering our own to act as Wardens."

That seemed to shut her mouth rather effectively, though Harry was getting the vibe that she would work up some argument that really, her way was best, and his side was more of a bunch of foolish children. Keep a positive attitude, Michael would no doubt remind him, and they lapsed into small talk for the rest of the ride.

It was a while before he saw the signs of the proper Fade rifts that were plaguing the region. Well, more got line of sight on the green blob with more blobs moving around underneath it.

"I wonder," he mused. "Could you put a circle around the place, with ice? If I can charge it up properly, they should be cut off from magic."

"Ah, dispelling," Vivienne replied, sounding like she agreed. "A small challenge, dear, but yes. Would that also obstruct the Herald from closing that garish rip entirely?"

"Good question!" Harry said with actual cheer. "It beats me, but I'm willing to give it a shot if she is."

He confirmed with the qunari that while the exact approach here was novel for him, the general procedure he could do in his sleep. Closing the circle on top was doable, and probably necessary; they had little idea of how the mark on her hand actually worked, but "by magic" seemed like a reasonable conjecture.

Chapter Text

"If I misplaced a couple of thirty-megaton nukes, you can bet there would be compromises."

Jade was thankful that she'd trained on rapid comprehension, because she'd already found major problems even in the complex language of the treaty.

"Last I checked," she countered mildly, "they were people, not nuclear weapons. But I can see your confusion, Thunderbolt. Firing tear gas and deploying a squad of SEAL-equivalents on a college campus is definitely the appropriate response when hunting down a man who becomes stronger and tougher when angered."

The secretary smiled thinly, and ignored her.

"Three days from now, the UN meets in Vienna to ratify the Accords."

"How interesting," she noted, "that they're not having this conference at their actual headquarters in New York. FRIDAY, when will Congress start their hearings on this pack of human rights violations? What with US jurisprudence caring only about international law that's been approved by our legislature."

Ross clenched his jaw, glaring at her now.

"As I said, Winters, compromise. Something the House and Senate understand a lot better than you."

With a lovely sense of dramatic timing, the building's AI chimed in.

"The Senate judiciary committee will be discussing the Accords in three weeks, Jade. There is no scheduled date for the final vote."

His face darkened at the contradiction, and Tony quickly got up.

"'With me or without me', isn't that what you said?"

"Stick to weapons, Stark," Ross scoffed. "Politics isn't your strong suit. Accords or retirement, pick one."

And with that, he left, leaving a troubled group of Avengers indeed.

"What have you got instead, Jade?" Steve asked. The room had pads with pens, and he was ready to start taking notes.

"Ross has a point," she replied, thinking aloud. "We have been acting around the world as we see fit, with no accountability. The Avengers don't fit into the structure of international law enforcement or jurisprudence. We need some setup that ensures we can address crises without being cowboys."

Tony picked up a copy, flipping through quickly, and nodded at what he saw.

"This says we go where the UN panel says. Maybe that could be reporting to them after the fact, instead of waiting for permission."

There was more nodding around the room, but Jade's problems with the Accords were bigger than that. She flipped back to the first easily-summarized issue she'd spotted.

"That part could work, but I didn't call it a pack of human rights violations just to piss of Ross. Middle of Page 7, 'we can jail people as long as we want if we decide they've gotten in our way, without trial'. And there's 'people are enhanced if we say they are, and need permission to use abilities we declare to be unusual', on 35."

Natasha grimaced, belonging to that group of folks without actual powers, but this would not be the first time she saw Congress take drastic measures when there were graphic videos and crying parents.

"The whole thing is getting at the need to discourage vigilantism," Sam assessed. "They're draconian because the power some of us wield scares them. We need some way to demonstrate that the Avengers are still the ones best-equipped to handle unusual situations."

Steve wasn't the only one scribbling things down now, and the seven of them puzzled over the issue for a few minutes. Rhodey bit his lip, raising his pen as if asking permission to speak.

"The way I see it, there are three possibilities for people who do what we do, going forward. First option, they join up with us, if they really have what it takes. Second option, they stay in normal lives, once we can be sure that there aren't going to be any accidents. Dr. Banner's not going to be the last person who needs help like that. Third option, Tony's already shown that: civilian employment with whatever toolbox they've got."

The engineer snapped his fingers. "The plant I installed a few years ago. A lot easier doing all of that in my suit than getting a crew hundreds of feet underwater."

"Can your lawyers draft up something workable in three days?" Wanda asked, clearly doubtful—and rightly, as heads started shaking three words in.

"There's no need for a replacement document, which they would certainly be hard-pressed to complete," Vision answered. "Just an argument to persuade them that we have a framework worth considering, to delay their approval of these Accords."

"I must say, your response was unorthodox," T'Challa told Natasha, both of them gazing into the distance through a glass wall. She bit back the first several responses that occurred to her.

"It's not the first time people have disagreed with UN proposals," she finally said.

"There is a lot to like in the Avengers' suggestion," he assured her, smiling faintly. The expression faded as an older man approached, and the prince embraced his father.

"Miss Romanoff," he greeted her, and she nodded in response.

"King T'Chaka. Please, allow me to apologize for what happened in Nigeria," Natasha offered, and it was his turn to nod.

Thank you. I appreciate your engagement on all this, though frankly it seems futile," he observed. "Many people are not satisfied with your measures."

"Maybe some of them could have voiced their concerns to us at some point in the last two or four years, rather than present us with a done deal at the last minute," she returned coolly. The king pursed his lips, but any reply was forestalled by Steve beginning his speech.

"A lack of checks and balances will lead inevitably to tyranny. The challenge is to maintain a system that ensures commensurate consequences for people's actions. I believe the Avengers can be part of that system, working to handle dangerous situations that-"

It was fortunate that his remarks were publicly available for people to read at their leisure, because he was forced to break off, both from his words and his actual podium from the floor. There were gasps from most of the gathered diplomats, along with security staff and bodyguards starting to secure their charges. Captain America dove forward, thrusting his makeshift and cumbersome shield towards the explosion as it ripped into the room of delegates.

Chapter Text

I start to move, joining the first responders, but Natasha catches me, and I belatedly realize it's the wrong move. My medical skills have proven useful in many encounters, of course, but they've never been my main focus. The people already at work treating the diplomats and attached staff are a well-honed team, and while I wouldn't just get in their way, that would still be an element of my actions. No, I've got to figure out what happened here, beyond the base explosion.

In the time it's taken me to gather my thoughts, she's already moved on to Prince T'Challa. One fist is clenched, and the other is rubbing his forehead.

"He has a pulse. That is all the EMT could tell me," he seethes. They're still taking out people in gurneys; a quick check of my ongoing materials reveals that there's a medical wing in this building. Still and all, it's an old rule that loved ones need to get out of the way so the professionals can do their jobs.

There is no response to his anguish, and we have the sense not to try for one anyway.

"In my culture," the Wakandan tells us, "death is not the end. It's more of a stepping-off point. You reach out with both hands, and Sekhmet and Bast lead you into the green veldt where you can run forever."

The image brings a little smile to my face, not that it overpowers the solemnity of the circumstances.

"Yes, my father liked it. Likes it," T'Challa notes, his own expression still stormy.

"We're going to catch whoever did this," I declare, taking to my feet half a moment before the man reluctant to face his impending grief. "For justice. Not vengeance."

"Smart money's on the Winter Soldier," says the Austrian intel chief. "We've got video of him right outside, two minutes before it went off."

That clip plays, all three seconds of it, on one of the monitors at the front of our conference room. It's a bit of a scene, dominated by spies and analysts, but with a handful of our team as well. Bucky definitely was nearby, and given his reputation it can't be dismissed as mere circumstantial evidence. His presence still is circumstantial evidence, but despite its depiction in shows and movies, exhibits aren't ruled out on that basis alone. . . . I'm really glad some of the folks on our side have serious legal training.

"Anyone good enough to pull this off isn't going to be that amateurish," I dispute.

"Barnes is off his game," Germany's deputy smoothly counters. "Rescued Rogers after fighting him when SHIELD blew up. With half his cylinders firing, this is absolutely the sort of thing he'd do."

It's an annoyingly reasonable rebuttal, and I'm trying to find a hole in it.

"What a shock, an Avenger defending him," one junior mutters. Some irritation is expected, given the purpose of the gathering in the first place and a bunch of people more used to being in offices, but it still worries me that there's a distinct rumble of agreement with her sentiment.

"I want the facts," I snap right back. "Bucky Barnes makes a great frame job, right when the newest force in conflict engagement has grabbed the spotlight. You think maybe someone we screwed over wants revenge?"

Carter shakes her head, leafing through a folder. After a few moments, she sets it down, narrowly avoiding a dramatic impact with the help of the manila container's composition.

"Either way, we need him in custody. Without our team on his tail, somebody's going to go off half-cocked and wind up in a body bag."

Steve immediately volunteers, to absolutely no one's surprise, but it is a shock that the higher-ups decide to allow it. T'Challa also gets approved, despite his blatant conflict of interest. I'm not sure if the two of them being the only ones who can actually match a super-soldier is a genuinely compelling argument, or fodder for people who want to put an Avenger on the front line here. Stark and Vision, among others, have their own equalizers, but the fact remains that despite their performance against Ultron and the Chitauri, they're not outstanding in a fistfight. Not that we're relying on that alone to bring Bucky into custody, but the rank and file aren't going to do much against a former brainwashed Soviet assassin. In this case, two men make a more solid tag-team than four.

The running analysis backup is international, coupled with a few handlers marshaled by Natasha. Part and parcel with all of this is clearing the area, with local cops brought in to assist the many visiting field agents. While they're prepping to bring Barnes in from the cold, I keep puzzling over an exceedingly amorphous picture. Things are adding up less than one would expect from an obvious scheme.

The group brainstorm has broken up now, partly due to flaring disagreements and somewhat because not all that many do their best analytical work with a buzzing room. I've been reviewing the evolving materials for a solid ten minutes now, trying to get a better idea of whatever plan someone's carrying out. I have a hunch it's not done yet, and a bad feeling that the fight going on right now is either just as expected or an acceptable deviation. A bunch of documents scattered around, which I'm betting is common practice right now—went with one of the smaller rooms, give people at least some sense that the Avengers aren't trying to run everything right now.

"We're supposed to go after Bucky, that much is obvious," I muse. Sam frowns appraisingly, watching the action intermittently. I tried checking it out, but the three of them are more of a dust cloud with limbs poking out, to me. Shades of Hollywood shaky cam.

"It can't be a coincidence that Steve's old best friend is supposedly the one who sets off a bomb during his speech," he agrees.

"What if . . . the bombing isn't even the main objective?" I wonder. "Compromise Captain America, the public moral core of the Avengers. Make everyone doubt him with the power of this association and everything Steve does to save Bucky. Push the Accords through as they were proposed to us, and bet that the conflict within the team will tear us apart."

James is nodding now, and hissing through his teeth.

"It's good, trying to undermine us down to the basement," he says uncertainly, "but what's the other half? And who's trying to take out the team without hitting us once?"

Chapter Text

Gloria wasn't too sad to be coming to the end of her week-long vacation, getting away from everything in a mountain cabin. Not entirely, of course; she had Internet access and cell service for emergencies, but there was plenty of wilderness to enjoy, along with a boxed set of books she'd spotted in a thrift shop on her drive in. The story had been delightful, and she'd finished the seventh book the previous night, heart racing as Snape and Harry sacrificed themselves. Lazily getting out of bed, finally, Gloria blinked at the stack she'd slowly piled up over the course of the several days on her bedside table—or rather, the stick that was there instead.

She looked around carefully, but there was no sign of the series she'd enjoyed so much. Not a single novel anywhere in sight. And that stick . . . she picked it up, feeling its weight in her hand. This wasn't just a piece of debris. Thankful that there was no one remotely in range to see her probably being very silly, Gloria watched the tip closely and whispered "lumos".

A glow! A soft one, as befitting her timidity and volume, but the spell had somehow worked.

"Lumos!" she cried out triumphantly, brandishing her wand, and the beacon she new held made her need to shield her eyes with her other hand. This was, this was amazing! She could do magic! Maybe even be a hero, like Hawkwoman and Superman! (Gloria carefully ignored the trend of 'Hawkgirl'; the winged vigilante looked like a full-grown adult to her.)

She had to try more spells after that, of course. 'Reparo' firmed up the wiggly ax handle, along with smoothing out the nicks in its head. 'Diffindo' split logs reasonably well, though her aim had to be pretty spot on and overpenetration was an issue even if she could fix it promptly anyway. 'Aguamenti' filled a bucket for a fish Summoned from the river. All very useful spells, but not so much of a contribution when ordinary people had emergencies. Throwing one of the smaller log remnants in the air, Gloria was relieved to see that she could also pull off 'Arresto Momentum', along with the ever-vital 'finite incantatem'.

So much for being happy with her vacation winding down—but then again, these spells could easily provide her with income that would replace her desk job, which wasn't exactly rocking her socks. She put off the whole debate for the time being, however, working out her full repertoire. About an hour in, the thought occurred to her that with the books vanished, her magical prowess depended on her memory, and perhaps it would be an excellent idea to record all the spells she was doing.

Late morning wore into afternoon and evening. Gloria had one small regret, that a large handful of spells in the books weren't shown enough for her to try them out. It was hardly a burden being unable to cast Fiendfyre or the entrail-expelling curse, but Disillusionment would be very handy, and the risk of Splinching made Apparition too dangerous to try on her own. Broomsticks, carpets, the Floo, apparating, all unavailable for one reason or another. Portkeys, they might be possible, but the problem again was the risks of magical experimentation. Maybe she could get . . . wait, what was that noise? Buzzing sounds, like planes flying well overhead, and the 'pew pew's of lasers. Gloria looked up, and was shocked to see a firefight, with a few people flying around and doing their best to bring down some freaky-looking, um, UFOs?

This was her chance. She could step in, and help. The first rule, of course, was not putting herself in a position to need rescue; this had been drilled into her during the CPR class in school, and she had the added motivation to make a good showing for herself. Even as she resolved to move carefully, a black jet with one wing off landed not too far off, surrounded by a green aura connected to Green Lantern. She approached it slowly, watching as the cockpit opened and Batman himself clambered out.

"Um, hi!" she greeted him. "I'm here to help. What should I do?"

"What can you do?" he asked curtly, looking her up and down and seeming unimpressed. Which was fair, Gloria admitted reluctantly. Short and slim, with brown curls down to her shoulders and a button nose, she wasn't exactly an imposing figure in her flannel and jean shorts.

"Confundus!" she called out, aiming at one of the many UFOs in sight. Its smooth flight curve degenerated into aimless drifting, taking it out of the battle for a short while at least.

Batman nodded, his lips pursed, and gestured for her to continue. This was the time to demonstrate her versatility, and luckily Gloria took only a moment to pull off a stunning spell, quickly sending another of their foes crashing violently into one of the small peaks. 'Expulso' had a similarly good showing, while 'furnunculus', which just burst out of her mouth by accident while she was frantically scrabbling for something else that wouldn't obviously be ineffective, stopped a ship from firing as its surface bulged and twitched.

"Get down!" he suddenly shouted, and even as he was hurling her to the ground, she managed to cough "protego", forming a small shield against the smoke around them. By the time it cleared enough for her to see the sky again, the fight seemed to be over.

"Hey, Bats!" the Flash called, zipping right up to them as one would expect, managing to hold the plane's missing wing in his hands. "I think you dropped this."

Superman landed as well, carrying a woman who wore a tiara, leotard, wristguards, and boots.

"Whoa!" he exclaimed, handing off his burden to Batman. "Where have you been all my life?"

"Themiscyra," she replied, either ignoring or not perceiving his lame attempt to flirt. The speedster cocked his head in confusion.

"The home of the Amazons," supplied Hawkwoman, touching down with Green Lantern and a man in the stereotypical old wrestling shorts, plus a blue cape and a giant X over his otherwise bare chest. "I always thought it was merely a legend."

"I assure you," the woman replied, "it's as real as the ground on which we stand. I am Diana, Princess of the Amazons."

Gloria did her best to block the Flash's overtures out of her head, while the princess continued to explain.

"Themiscyra is protected by the gods, but I could not idly stand by while the rest of the world was in danger."

"It was lucky you showed up when you did," Superman said firmly, but "J'onn" shook his head.

"No, not luck," he disagreed. "I telepathically summoned them. Except for you."

He turned to Gloria, and she very nearly quailed at the sudden attention.

"Um, hi!" she said weakly, waving her hand at the group and immediately feeling like an idiot. "I learned a lot of magic, and, well, it's complicated, but I wasn't going to hide in my cabin either, right?"

Diana beamed at her, and Superman had a small smile as well, but the others didn't seem impressed or pleased. Not critical of her either, just sort of neutral.

"She needs some training," was all Batman said, but apparently that was high praise in their view.

Chapter Text

Roscoe Wilson enjoyed being assigned to the doors, most of the time. All sorts of interesting people came to Stark Enterprises, and they were all smart enough to be respectful to the fellow who decided whether or not they could enter. Kinda boring, really. He had a stun baton, of course, since Mr. Stark liked his security folks to have a little something special, and he was almost looking forward to demonstrating his certification one day. Almost, because anyone with half a brain would rather have a nice calm shift, especially with the paperwork that would come with hitting anyone.

Of course, when a panicky young lady came up to him, he perked up a little. This could be good.

“Please, tell them to shut down Ultron,” she begged him, looking up from her height disparity. She wasn’t dressed for the party—T-shirt, sneakers, slacks. Roscoe blinked at her plea, not knowing what she was talking about and a little wary of giving his bosses a message from a stranger. Then he felt a mental tickle, like an invitation to join something.

“Is that you?” he asked intently, and the young woman paled. One hand went to his radio, with the other drifting to his baton.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, please just . . . ” She trailed off, and Roscoe nodded. He flipped his radio to broadcast.

“Ma'am, I’ve got an enhanced visitor here, for one of the team.”

He heard the reply, but not over the radio. Ms. Hill had been making her own rounds, and had managed to be at the right spot at the right time.

"I'll take her from here," she assured him, prim and proper in her blouse and business skirt, and beckoned the visitor to follow.

"Uh, hi, I'm Ellie," she stammered in introduction. "I, uh, it's complicated, but Ultron is going to build a rocket to send Novi Grad into the sky."

Maria guided her through the hallways and into the elevator, a fancy thing that fit right in with the rest of the place.

"Well, you don't sound unhinged, so I'll just say that coming to the Avengers was a good call after getting that revelation," Hill commented drily.

Ellie would have felt guilty for interrupting their celebration, but half of them still had drinks, and none of them seemed annoyed at her, so she tried to focus on the task at hand.

"JARVIS, what do you have for me?" Natasha asked, but there was no reply. She headed to a console, and started typing in commands. The curses started a minute later, because apparently the building's AI was no longer available.

"Let us know what you need," Steve directed. "In the meantime, Ellie, I'd like to know a little more about how this started."

She had no idea what sparked it, but suddenly she'd gotten a glimpse into a dozen other lives. Different selves, in separate times. Most of them had been interesting, but one was assessing the threat posed by Ultron. It only lasted for a few moments before she got cut off, and something else came in its place.

"You know how people say 'we're all in this together'?" she asked rhetorically. "For me, it seems to be a little more literal. I can invite people to join me, and I get voices in my head along with their energy in my body."

Thor was grimacing, but not in a bad way; Ellie guessed that he was fascinated by the idea.

"That could be enormously helpful, and possibly quite versatile as well," he said. She had no guess for what he was doing as he started sketching on a nearby pad.

"Hope you can get your head back in the game when it's go time," Tony teased him, and received a middle finger in exchange. Ellie didn't really know how to handle that, and decided to ignore it.

Another curse from Romanov. 'No longer available' was downgraded to 'pieces scattered on the mainframe'. Rhodes laid a hand on her shoulder, and she curled into it.

"Natasha, try to get a hold on Ultron," Steve ordered. "Tony, Sam, Rhodey, Maria, you're on Novi Grad. Look into evacuating the city, and make sure they know we're coming. Thor, how could someone lift a city with a rocket? Bruce, Clint, see to Ellie. I'm going to follow up on an old contact."

The two men spent a solid couple of hours discussing the prospect of being an Avenger, along with testing her power. Dr. Banner easily joined her, adding his sculpted physique to her more modest form, and left after they hefted one of the barbells Tony kept around on a rack. Clint was decidedly more reluctant, and Ellie understood perfectly when she felt his seething anger. He had the transformation under control by himself, but it was a little easier to keep cool when he was effectively riding backseat. He pursed his lips when he returned to his own chair, almost into a bittersweet smile. Most of the guests were gone at this point, but several were trustworthy enough to amp up the crowd. Ellie had a chorus now, and a veritable Macgyver-esque collection of honed skills in her portfolio. All without making the floor crack, which she'd been wondering about for a while, but sadly architecture wasn't a hobby or profession for any of her multitude.

Before they could start the exodus, however, a half-dismantled robot shuffled out, confusing the entire crowd?

'Is that Ultron?' Bruce wondered inside her.

"Busy little bees," the metal man mused, gazing at the four actual bodies in the room. Tony whispered into his comm, and Ellie hoped the others would get back soon.

"Yeah, we tend not to sit around when people are trying to wreck the planet," he replied breezily.

"You'd know all about that, wouldn't you? The Avengers haven't exactly made it safe," Ultron retorted.

"What have we been doing wrong?" Thor asked, pen stopping as he gazed at his imminent foe.

"All you do is squash threats, as bloodily as your competence will allow. Where's humanity going to grow, without a little encouragement?"

Obviously on cue, more robots burst from the walls, cuing the Avengers to burst into action. Sadly, they hadn't been expecting something this soon, and Natasha's suit wasn't on hand, along with either Steve or Mjolnir. Bruce and Clint agreed that Ellie's first priority had to be taking up any noncombatants, but finding and reaching them was a bit of a challenge without an eye on the building's sensors. 'The traditional way, look!' one of her chorus quipped, and she decided to just see what she could see. Dr. Cho had taken cover behind the piano, and was positively eager to be out of danger. Maria told her to get the shield, she could manage, and the Avengers were clear that the security chief knew what she was doing.

It wasn't the best time to experiment, but she decided to give Bruce a chance at piloting. He knew how to move in a fight, after all, and he knew the building, not to mention where he'd put his shield.

'This fight gets a lot simpler the second Rogers is back,' Clint grumbled, and not a minute later she saw the hammer fly forth to pulverize a robot even as Bruce bisected another.

'Protecting civilians is about a thousand times easier when I have no angles to cover,' he noted, and Ellie knew in that moment she could never turn down an offer to join the team.

Chapter Text

"Hey, Buffy!" Les greeted his old classmate, from behind the counter of his food truck. Grampa had told him more times than he could recall, while he was helping after school, that the UC Sunnydale campus was a great place to visit. Plenty of students had pocket money, and their fare could beat dining hall slop any day.

"Afternoon, buddy," she returned, and Les chuckled at the obvious move.

"I'm Les. It's fine, no big, we were barely acquainted. Up for a late lunch?" Dirty pool, maybe, to assure her that it was okay to forget his name (or not know it in the first place) and then open the door to 'make up for it', but he was on the clock, and encouraging potential customers was a vital skill to have. Anyway, if she didn't want anything to eat, Les was hardly going to push her into it.

She, and Willow next to her, peered at his menu. Grampa'd had a nice variety available: sweet and savory, light and hearty, meaty and vegetarian. Plus a teensy little soda fountain hooked up to the nearby water tap, always popular with the younger crowd. Which he was still very much part of, so it was kind of weird to think about it that way.

"Grilled cheese and a hot dog with relish and ketchup, please," Buffy requested, while Willow favored a tuna wrap. The former needed a little prep work, popping the bread and cheese into the press for a minute, and the hot dog similarly needed a bit of time in the bath, but the wrap was pre-made and chilled, so he could hand that right over to her. Les felt a pull as he cooked the Slayer's sandwich, tugging at his core, which had never been there before, but he let it be while he did his job. Cooking was so satisfying, combining ingredients to make something greater than the sum of its parts. Necessary for life, yes, but going beyond that was a skill he'd been learning for years.

Meat into the bun, condiments, wrapper for both items, and she had her lunch. The two girls started tucking in, and almost immediately he noticed a difference. Willow liked the wrap well enough, but Buffy was actually closing her eyes to focus on the taste of the meal he'd made.

"What do you put in this?" she asked, eyes alight and mouth wiped clean.

"Funny you should ask," he replied, brow furrowed, "because I think something did go in that hasn't before. My essence. Felt the press pulling at me as I closed it, but I figured it was probably no big deal."

"Are you okay?" Willow's fare was half-finished, and her attention was now clearly on their chef.

Les shrugged. "I think so? I'm feeling better already, it was just kind of draining, a little."

"And I feel great," said Buffy, flexing her fingers back and forth.

Her friend grimaced at the enthusiasm, already preparing for everything to go downhill. Which was a pretty reasonable estimation, if half the things he'd heard about had actually happened.

"I'm not going to do anything stupid, and I don't want Les to give me anything more," Buffy protested, "but this is interesting. Can you cook normally?"

He opened the press again, and the same force reached out, but this time he pushed back, and it faded away.

"Yeah, I'm not stuck or anything. I can kick it up a notch, if I want to," Les confirmed. Willow sat down, thinking furiously.

"Probably head to Giles' place anyway when you get a chance," Buffy advised him, scribbling down the address. "I'll meet you there when I can."

"You're quite sure you've recovered?" the stuffy Brit asked him, and Les wearily nodded.

"I feel the same way I feel every night. Made almost everything on my menu, and I only 'charged' half of the things you bought."

Mr. Giles had only had a sample taste from each, enough to confirm whether he'd have Buffy's reaction or Willow's, and the first conclusions were clear.

"Well, it appears that your, ah, kitchen, allows you to enhance the taste of your foodstuffs, at the cost of recoverable life-force. The question is whether this boost only applies to the tongue, as it were."

Buffy cheerfully volunteered to test that out, quickly finishing the rest of the enlivened food, and started manhandling her dummy, along with her mentor. The results were clear: a small pump-up to everything she did.

"It was amazing, fighting the mayor," Les said, bringing up the subject apparently out of nowhere. "Terrifying, and people died, but something I did really mattered. More than making a whole day's worth of great lunches. I don't have the guts to go up against vampires like that again, not by myself. Maybe, if I really put my back into it, a batch of chicken salad can help a regular schlub keep pace with one of those monsters."

Giles laid his hand on his shoulder, guiding him to a seat.

"I appreciate your eagerness to help, but don't get too carried away," he told the boy quietly. "Buffy has to train hard in addition to the attributes the Slayer essence bestows upon her. I wonder if your dishes have a wider range of possible benefits, beyond a general physical amplification?"

Les puzzled over that on the way home, bidding farewell to Buffy as she headed out to hunt vampires. Their work that night had been focused on verifying the general safety of the phenomenon, both for him and his subjects. The field of experimentation was wide open. What could he do, to generate different effects? It might boil down, no pun intended, to his intent while cooking. With nothing specific in mind, but knowing Buffy was the slayer, his meals had increased the capabilities she relied on. Perhaps he could focus on—a widespread anti-vampire field, sold to normal customers, could save lives. It would have to be subtle, though, or those victims would suffer anyway. All of this would have to wait until tomorrow, sadly, because this was no time to start more experiments.

Chapter Text

Ashley didn't know how to feel, as she examined the records. The firm had definitely been lying about her father's negligence, but all the inspections were in order too. The whole thing had been an accident. Small consolation, after everything she'd done to get here. She turned to leave the warehouse, but she only got halfway through the motion before freezing.

"My predecessor and I had our differences," she heard, a man leisurely approaching her from behind. "I have to deal with his deception about your father. Sadly, your own actions up to this point make it impossible for me to let this go, even if I wanted to."

She tried to speak, to tell him she would walk away with a token settlement, but his Petrificus Totalus kept her from moving a single muscle.

"I found this spell some time ago," their security chief mused, taking out a scroll. "'A door for those who seek to find a way to leave their world behind.' Good luck wherever you end up, Cook."

A wave of his wand freed her and let her fall. Ashley looked down, her heart racing as she saw a major city hundreds of feet below, and an enormous flying thing as a landing platform. Arresto Momentum kept her from "anything you can stagger away from", at least, and blasting curses took care of the ugly humanoids she saw just in time, on either side. Okay, hostile situation, time for a little subtlety. She Disillusioned herself and looked around carefully, to get a better handle on her surroundings and maybe a safer position than 'the back of a giant flying snake'.

Steve wasn't expecting anyone to be on that Leviathan, but when the woman he'd spotted landed gracefully between him and Natasha, he wondered even harder what on earth was going on. His shield was ready to protect them, mostly, but the newcomer managed to project her own, much larger shield with that stick in her hand.

“Who are you?” Clint asked bluntly, combing back out from behind the car he'd used as cover against the crashing monster.

She gazed at them for a moment, as if awestruck, and took a deep breath.

“My name’s Ashley Cook. You’re the Avengers, right? What's going on?”

“Alien invasion,” Stark replied. “Got any more tricks up your sleeve?”

She opened her mouth, but Romanov cut her off, turning to the portal, which was emitting a new wave of Chitauri.

“Guys?” she prompted, and everyone looked to Rogers.

“Call it, Captain,” Stark directed.

"All right, listen up," he commanded. "Until we can close that portal, our priority is containment. Barton, I want you on that roof, eyes on everything. Call out patterns and strays. Stark, you got the perimeter. Anything gets more than three blocks out, you turn it back or you turn it to ash."

They both nodded at his orders.

"Give me a lift?" the archer asked, and Iron Man reached over.

'Right. Better clench up, Legolas."

With a gauntlet clutching his comrade's sleeveless suit, he took off, aiming for one of the higher roofs nearby.

"Thor, you gotta try and bottleneck that portal. Slow 'em down. You got the lightning, light the bastards up."

The stranger was mesmerized for a moment by Mjolnir's rotation, and Steve had to admit that he still didn't understand how on earth that made the Asgardian soar through the air, but there were about a dozen higher priorities right now.

"You and me," he told Natasha, "we stay here on the ground, keep the fighting here. And Hulk? Smash."

The green titan grinned, launching himself vaguely in the direction of one of the invaders.

“What about me, Captain?” Ashley asked, wand at the ready.

He looked her up and down, lips pursed.

“You ready to risk your life for New York?”

“It’s a hell of a town,” she tossed back, and he smiled for just a moment.

“What sort of range do you have on that thing?” he asked, gesturing to the wand in her hand.

Ashley grimaced. “Depends on the spell. Anywhere from right next to me, to blocks away. Some of them need line of sight.”

Rogers nodded firmly. “Got it. Stick with Barton. Do whatever crazy things you can to stop these monsters. Understood?”

She nodded, and eyed the wall of the building Hawkeye was perched on, strewn as it was with gun-toting aliens.

“Accio alien guns!” she called out, and dozens of arms jerked towards her. Even as the invaders realized they ought to fire, Ashley gritted her teeth, and the metal contraptions began to zip to her. In a few seconds, there was a rough pile at her feet.

“Think you can put those to good use?” She vanished, and Cap eyed the collection.

“Ahoy, the roof!” she called out, ending her multi-story crawl with an awkward clamber over the edge of the roof, and the archer’s momentary tension eased.

“The captain drafted you, huh?” he asked, firing arrows all the while.

Ashley straightened up, taking a look at the scenery, and the new visitors marring it.

“He didn't have to,” she said proudly, almost puffing out her chest, and flicked her wand at a crumbling concrete facade, badly damaged by high-tech gunfire.

Hawkeye snorted.

“Any chance you can wave that wand of yours and make me a few spare arrows?” he asked, tossing her one as he spoke.

Ashley examined it carefully, turning and twisting it to get a good look at the shaft and arrowhead. She wasn't expecting anything unusual, and she didn't find it, apart from the point being rather barbed. A straightforward Gemino charm did the trick, and two arrows were in her hand, both of which she gave back.

He loosed his bow twice in quick succession, then grunted.

“Balance isn't great. Worth a try, but not something I’d want to rely on.”

Hawkeye broke off briefly to give Iron Man directions, and still kept his bow busy. She wasn't pleased at his assessment, and decided to give it another try. Clearly the Avenger was very sensitive to his ammunition's properties, so a more focused spell would be necessary.

"Try this one," she offered, and he promptly snatched the arrow from her hands. Straight into a glider it went, to Clint's nod of approval.

"Not bad. Another handful of those would be just dandy, but if you've got any fancier tricks, knock yourself out."

Technically, the ban on Unforgivables wouldn't apply to invading aliens, or in another world, but she'd never used one before, and the idea very much didn't sit right anyway. Ashley spotted another glider heading right for a Leviathan, about to turn—a Confundus sent it sailing straight into the armor, maybe even opening a hole.

Chapter Text

"Good afternoon, Shmi!" Tossk called, winding herself carefully through the small rooms of the Skywalker residence. It wasn't exactly built to accommodate Kadri'Ra, but there was at least the comfort of having far fewer objects to worry about knocking down than in many houses she'd visited.

"Ah, hello?" the matron greeted warily. She smiled when she identified her visitor, though. Tossk had managed to hire her directly on her previous trip to Tatooine, rather than paying Watto for her services and letting him decide what cut she got.

"I've gotten more or less everything I came for on this trip," she explained, "but I need a bit of a break before I head out again. Shame I can't find any reliable help to run my ship here, or fix it."

Shmi smiled wanly. Anakin would be delighted to take a swing at her vessel, but Watto still had a grudge against the trader for evading him last time, and of course neither of them could actually leave.

"Well, you're welcome to rest here," Skywalker assured her, "though I'm afraid I don't have any provisions for you in the house. Not much for us, either; I was getting ready to head out for groceries when you came."

Tossk promptly handed over a slug of bullion, which she kept around for occasions just like this; Tatooine wasn't the only officially-Republic planet with a dominant local currency.

"Karo root and telifir patties," she requested. "I'm almost certain I saw them at the market the other day."

Shmi retrieved her list and waved goodbye, while the dragonoid tried to make herself comfortable.

It was certainly something, being introduced to the motley crew of Jinn, Binks, and Padme, while R2 beeped quietly in the corner. Tossk could certainly understand being fed up with the series of events that the Jedi recounted, and she could feel an idea lurking in the back of her head.

"We have to help them, Mom," Anakin begged. "You always say the biggest problem with the world is that no one helps each other."

Shmi looked like she was about to relent, and the notion finally took form.

"Pod-racing is incredibly dangerous, and Watto is as bad a swindler as you'll find in these parts," Tossk said, pouring cold water on the nascent plan. "I've got cargo due for Coruscant soon, and I can tow your ship along. You Jedi can pay for your ride with credits, and by pulling your wizardry with their implants, so I get a crew for once."

"Es muy generous, Miss Amara, but we gotta fix our ship. Meesa no liking running away from our problems," Jar Jar objected.

Qui-Gon shook his head, already liking the proposal better than the rickety scheme the Force had led him to—or, of course, he had been in dire straits to ensure that he considered her offer properly.

"Your concern is valid, Jar Jar, but we'd be in a better position to tend to the vessel on Coruscant, with the resources of the Order."

Padme bit her lip, looking at Shmi and Anakin.

"Are you sure you can help them, Master Jedi?" she asked.

"It would likely be painful, and difficult to schedule around Watto's duties, and I'm not a biological specialist, but broadly, yes," Qui-Gon answered. A little more certainty would have been lovely, but Shmi had to make informed decisions for herself and her son.

Anakin suggested they get to work immediately, which everyone understood completely. As the Jedi's hands moved over the boy, his face grew very still, even as Anakin held in his winces.

"Your son is very strong in the Force, Miss Skywalker," Jinn said, pulling back.

"Is that a problem?" she asked tentatively.

"It's unusual, so I need a moment to regain my balance," he replied. "In life, well, Force sensitivity can be very helpful, as long as you keep your head clear."

"Could I be a Jedi?" Anakin asked, hope thrumming in his voice even as he rubbed his shoulder, where Qui-Gon had been working the most.

"Unlikely," Amara answered, and Jinn cocked his head. "The Jedi stopped taking in recruits out of toddlerhood a thousand years ago. It's the official rule."

Left unsaid was the nature of rules—not always followed, and nowhere was that more clear than to slaves in the Republic, officially.

"But a bright boy like you could take the materials that the Order makes available to older folks," Jinn caught her eye, advising her not to mention the Dark Side right now, "and do good things, I'm sure," she continued.

Padme blinked at that, moving away from the pair as the Jedi resumed his work.

"Usually the phrase is 'do great things'," she observed.

Tossk shrugged, the ripple traveling down her body to the floor.

"Plenty of great things in the galaxy. We could use a little more focus on goodness, don't you think?"

She'd given the little spiel many times, and it was no tremendous thought, but the girl nodded, considering the scale of slavery on Tatooine. A small good overall, freeing the two of them, rather than attempting the great good of extinguishing the practice.

There was a lot of work, getting the yacht set up for towing, but there were many hands available, and some of the Nabooan pilots had come from more mechanical backgrounds. There was a fair crowd assembled, then, when Obi-Wan Kenobi pulled his master aside, had a brief but energetic discussion, and Jinn called sharply for everyone to get inside. Tossk, nobody's fool, pulled the gawking Binks with her as she returned to the pilot's seat. She couldn't take off, not like this, but there were emergency measures installed on her freighter, like anti-asteroid lasers.

For a minute, nothing happened, and there was the edge of antsiness in the ragtag scattered group, but all of them had grown up with the notion of trusting Jedi, and no grumbles were audible yet.

Over a dune, a figure in red came racing, lightsaber out as he made a beeline for Jinn. The master had had his laser sword ignited seconds after the area was clear, but still struggled to counter the incoming blow. This stranger was an expert duelist, handling both master and apprentice without giving an inch, and the trader was wondering what she could possibly do to help.

Four pilots made their way to her, similarly nettled.

"I'm all ears, ladies," she told them, and "Panaka" scowled at her.

"You've got—" he started, and a disgusting noise interrupted whatever he wanted to say. Looking back at the duel, or possibly triel, young Kenobi had managed to bisect the attacker while his master was hurriedly wiping sand from his eyes.

"Well, isn't that a sight," Amara said mildly.

Chapter Text

The corpse on the sand certainly was a sight, but it wasn't something Tossk had much desire to investigate further. At least not personally. Her curiosity could be sated by testimony rather than gore, which would still have to wait until their journey was underway.

Kenobi seemed rattled by the experience when she encountered him during the final steps before departure, which she understood quite well. Jinn, on the other hand, was meditating out of the way, and the captain couldn't decide whether she was glad or annoyed that he wasn't trying and failing to help. One nice thing about hosting this delegation, she mused as she returned to the occupied cockpit, was having plenty of skilled hands.

"You know what," she said mildly to the guest pilots, "go right ahead and take us to Coruscant."

It might complicate the bill somewhat, but there was at last time for a discussion of that fight. Tossk slithered through the corridors of her freighter, winding around bulkheads and avoiding tight passages. They weren't in any of the places she would have expected: the kitchen, the guest rooms, the corner where he'd been sitting for a while, even the engines. When she heard noises coming from the cargo hold, that at least ended her search.

"Gentlemen," the kadri'Ra greeted the Jedi. "I think it's time for a conversation."

"Indeed it is, Captain Amara," responded Master Jinn. "Did you know that several of the pieces in this shipment have Dark Side auras?"

"Not in the slightest," she answered curtly. "How exactly would I have discovered that, hmm?"

"There are ways, madam," interjected Kenobi, without opening his eyes from the seat he'd made on the floor. "As you pointed out earlier, many people are sensitive to the Force and lead normal lives. You might also have encountered documentation to go with the relics. Et cetera."

"Combining that with our Sith would-be assassin, I see an unpleasant picture indeed," Jinn mused.

Amara frowned, the word doing no more than ringing a bell.

"What exactly is a Sith? I remember they have something to do with the Jedi, but that's all."

Both men grimaced at her question, and the master paced as he answered.

"As Jedi draw on the Light Side of the Force, Sith make use of the Dark Side. It is a path inherently bound to selfishness, cruelty, and evil of every other stripe. We thought them wiped out centuries ago, but clearly we were wrong."

A thought occurred to Kenobi, and he looked to his mentor in confusion.

"Why did we think that, Master? The various Sith organizations dominated parts of the galaxy for long enough to leave holocrons and other artifacts that the Jedi Order could never reasonably expect to remove entirely. Surely, at this point, there is always a chance that some poor soul will happen upon a book of lore, if nothing else, and follow it down to the abyss."

Jinn smiled, and she saw a hint of actual pleasure in his expression.

"Well reasoned, my young padawan. The answer is, in essence, the difference between a hapless fool taught the smatterings of Sith philosophy, and an acolyte deliberately chosen to succeed a seasoned master of evil."

Tossk curled into herself, very much not liking where this was going.

"You don't think the fellow you killed and my cargo are a coincidence," she challenged the Jedi. "I do hope you're not going to tell me to break the contract."

Kenobi buried his face in his palms, groaning.

"Materially, they may well have nothing to do with each other," Jinn answered cryptically. "But when I encounter the Dark Side in two different ways in the same day, I listen to what the Force is telling me about the broader picture. By all means, deliver your goods, but when the Jedi Council follows up on my findings, you could find that you handed over powerful relics to an ascendant Sith."

"This is shaping up to be as much of a mess in its own right as the negotiations, Master," Kenobi commented.

That proved to be a decent segue into the group's plan to handle the Trade Federation's blockade of Naboo. Well, once they pulled in the Queen and her advisors, since Jinn and Kenobi had been tasked primarily with her physical safety after the Nemoidians tried to kill them. As it turned out, Amara had a few thoughts to share with them.

Amidala breathed deeply, and stepped forward. This was just another political speech. She'd made plenty.

"Honorable representatives of the Republic, distinguished delegates, and your honor Supreme Chancellor Valorum," she greeted the assembled mass, "I come to you under the gravest of circumstances. The Naboo system has been invaded by force. Invaded against all the laws of the Republic by the droid armies of the Trade—"

Naturally, the object of her ire wasn't about to take this sitting down, pounding on his pod. "I object!" Delegate Dod thundered, as much as he could with his croaky voice. "There is no proof. This is incredible. We recommend a commission be sent to Naboo to ascertain the truth."

"Overruled," the Supreme Chancellor sniffed.

"Your honor, you cannot allow us to be condemned without reasonable observation. It's against all the rules of procedure," Dod protested.

Sadly for Amidala, he had support, though that was more or less obvious by the fact this was happening at all. Another representative joined the argument, moving the Senate pod into the foreground of the chamber.

"The Congress of Malastare concurs with the honorable delegate from the Trade Federation. A commission must be appointed . . . that is the law," he assessed, his eye-stalks twitching.

Amidala had to admit that they had a little bit of a point, as Valorum consulted with his advisors, but it still stung.

"The point is conceded," he admitted grudgingly. "Section 523-A takes precedence here. Queen Amidala of the Naboo, will you defer your motion to allow a commission to explore the validity of your accusations?"

"There is no need for that, your honor," Amidala responded, inexpertly handling the controls at her podium. "Independent trader Tossk Amara is approaching Naboo as we speak. Surely, if there is no blockade, nor droid armies, she will be able to dock and deposit her cargo?"

The video feed popped in, showing the captain having discussions with a Neimoidian commander. In orbit, with several warships training their weapons on her.

"The Trade Federation is suspending traffic on and off Naboo, with military advisors to restore civil order, you say?" Amara asked sweetly. "That's what you're going to tell the Senate? I have them on the line right here, you know."

"I do hope your delegation is aware that all communication from these pods is monitored, sir," Amidala snapped, seeing them trying to make their own calls.

Chapter Text

"Roy!" my mother calls. "Time to get up, we're meeting with the principal in an hour!"

The haze of sleep is replaced by the haze of confusion. Why is Momma here without knocking, and why would I be meeting with any principal? Getting up, I definitely don't recognize this bedroom, and the clothes . . . all of them wore out years ago. What is going on here? The last thing I remember is driving home after a late night, and going through a brief but intense rainstorm on the way. Kinda reminds me of the leak I've been rereading lately, all those files on the Slayer and the crazy nonsense she encountered—

"Roy!" my mother repeats impatiently.

"I'm up!" I reply immediately, starting to fall back into the patterns of my teenage years. Is this seriously happening? Did some demonic cult or whatever catch me in a time-travel spell? My musing doesn't really go anywhere as I fumble through showering, dressing, and having something to eat. 'We are here and this is now', as Pratchett said, so I'll get through this somehow.

She drives us, of course, after nodding at my polo and slacks. When did she stop checking my clothes all the way? Ugh, that's not going away any time soon.

"His name is Mr. Snyder," Momma tells me, and I barely hide my wince at the news. We moved in my senior year, but not to Sunnydale! Oh, boy. Good thing she's got her eye on the road, or I would have some interesting questions to answer

Before we talk to him, of course, I have to get my course selection finalized. Sunnydale High isn't as good as my old school, so I won't have any AP courses without fighting for them, but I do get full credit for the ones I took before.

"Goodness me," Miss Lewis notes, looking over my transcript, "it seems you almost have your diploma already. All you need, strictly speaking, is English and home ec. Don't worry, you won't be the only senior in that one."

"The trick is finding five more courses that hold appeal," I observe, looking through the catalog quickly. My mother tutted at me for not having taken care of this earlier, but the move had been rather draining for all of us.

"I'm just glad that he isn't trying for five free periods, Mrs. Kellerman!" she jokes, and I pretend to raise a finger in inquiry.

"Hn. I could do World History, Creative Writing, uh, an independent study in Computers, and maybe a general language examination?" I offer, desperately trying to find something I'd be able to enjoy.

"I can give you the first two right off the bat, easy," Miss Lewis informs me, "and Mrs. Jenkins has supervised programming projects before, especially for the handful of students we've had with two years in the subject. I don't know if Mr. Giles is interested in actively teaching, rather than taking care of his books."

My watch shows another ten minutes until our actual appointment, so I volunteer to go have a quick chat with him—after she calls him up, and verifies that he was both there and not otherwise occupied. It's always a challenge for me, navigating with just a static map, but I have quite a lot of motivation to find the library and get approval for this before I got wrangled into Band or Biology or whatever. Nothing against those, of course, they just weren't for me.

"Mr. Giles!" I greet the tweedy man, extending my hand. "Nice to meet you."

"Mr. Kellerman," he notes, taking it for a solid shake. "Miss Lewis says you'd like to take a class in general languages, and I'm the only one here qualified to handle that sort of endeavor. Why not simply take Spanish or French?"

"I liked the Latin I took, Mr. Giles," I tell him, and he raises an eyebrow. "I'd probably go for AP Latin, if it didn't mean reading all the same Catullan poems again. But you could point me in the right direction for groundings in, say, Greek, Babylonian, Sumerian, that kind of thing?"

And now he's taken off his glasses. I remember reading about that, is he impressed or something.

"Well, I suppose that's possible," he allowed, and I yield to a sudden impulse.

"Don't worry, I'm not trying to do any magic. I know it's not something to treat lightly," I reassure him. Well, there's his full attention. Good thing he's not trying to laugh it off, because if this takes much longer I might be late.

"I got thrown back in time almost twenty years, sir. Right now, my goal is to get through this year without any major physical or mental trauma, which means I need one class that actually presents me with something new," I plead. Mr Giles nods curtly.

"Then I shall do what I can to help, and you have my sympathies. Going through high school again . . ." He shudders, and I make my exit. I'm not quite running through the halls, but it's close; fortunately for me, there's nobody here to object to my stride.

"Mr. Kellerman, how nice of you to join us," Mr. Snyder says, with a face that makes me wonder if he ever smiled. His hands are behind his desk, so I nod instead.

"Mr. Snyder," I greet him, sitting down next to my mother. He looks through my course selections briefly, and snorts.

"I see Mr. Giles agreed to your unorthodox suggestion," Snyder assesses. "Careful not to get caught up with his star pupil, Buffy Summers. Normally expelled students aren't allowed on campus, but she wasn't expelled because she obeyed rules like that."

"Golly," I reply, blanching at his blunt description. "My goal was just indulging my knack for dead languages, sir. If you offered the other year of AP Latin, I'd have taken it, but that's not how their scheduling works."

He shrugs dismissively. "If you say so. Strictly speaking, these are study hall periods you're getting for those projects. I expect to see you use them wisely."

I nod vigorously, and that seems to be the end of it. "Welcome to Sunnydale High. Enjoy the last week of summer." follows us out the door, and sometime soon I'm going to have to come up with a project to occupy a year of coding. That, and wrestle with having told Mr. Giles what happened before my parents, especially since they might actually believe me. Giles also means Buffy, of course, and I try to think back to what I actually said in response—I'm pretty sure I didn't say anything about avoiding her. Not that the technicality will make him any happier should he see us both in the library at the same time, but there are more important things in life.

Chapter Text

Thor watched helplessly as Thanos snapped his fingers, unable to counter the Titan's surprise move. The shockwave traveled out even as the gauntlet fell to the ground, ashen fingers no longer able to hold it. Had something gone wrong with the madman's attempted genocide?

"Thor, are you seeing this?" Captain America asked, and he turned to catch his friend shimmering. It put him almost in mind of the Bifrost, but there was no pillar of light taking Steve away.

"Only around you," he replied quickly, "everything else is clear."

"Looks like a messy room here," Steve reported, his last words before the shimmer faded into nothing.

Cap wasn't the only one to vanish, but Falcon reported that the Wakandans were all fine. Something was taking most of the people who'd fought the man personally.

"Mr. Stark, everything's gone all glittery," Peter said, his voice shaky. "Karen can't tell what's going on."

His gaze was instantly on his protege, who kept shaking his head in an effort to clear his vision. The glitter was on Spider-Man, and Stark couldn't think of anything to do.

"Friday, give me something," he muttered, trying to parse the radiation readings coming from the boy.

She had no conclusions to draw, and Peter wasn't the only one in a strange condition. Quill had left a blank void behind, Mantis had calmly sunk into the ground, and Strange's mirror dimension crystalline pattern was all he could see of the man. In the few seconds he took to let his AI and his own mind chew on what little information was available, the only other one left was Gamora.

"Whoa," Peter breathed, gazing at the stacks of books and furniture piled to a very high ceiling.

"Any idea where we are?" Steve asked him, and he jumped in surprise to see the man he'd fought two years before.

"Ahh! Uh, no, not a clue," he replied, making a show of looking around more thoughtfully to figure it out.

"Well, we're not harmed, and we're right inside civilization," Cap said, obviously thinking aloud. "First priority is our location, and then we can see about getting back."

"Are you sure we can?" Spidey asked, working his fingers nervously.

"No," Steve said bluntly, "but I think whatever the Infinity Stones did can be undone. Might not be us taking care of the problem. Now, let's see if we can find a door out of here."

He waved Peter on, keeping close together. After a minute, the kid's curiosity peaked through.

"Thought you were going to suggest we split up, to cover more ground," he commented, and Steve nodded judiciously.

"Most of the time, I would," he explained, "but I don't like leaving people without buddies, especially if unknown terrain is in play. We're probably not in danger here."

Peter nodded vigorously, happy with the idea of not testing that hypothesis quite yet. There'd been quite enough excitement fighting Thanos, and he'd be happy to sit down somewhere with a slice of pizza. And Ned, and MJ.

The duo explored the room carefully, keeping clear of the disorganized mounds that frequently seemed like they might just totter over onto them without notice. Peter was starting to wonder how big the place could possibly be when he spotted something through several chair legs.

"I think that's it!" he exclaimed, and his emotions were riding high again. Spider-Man expected Captain America to approach the suspected door tactically, but he just walked up to it and turned the knob.

"Um. Should I put my mask up?" he wondered, and Steve paused before pulling the door open, thinking carefully.

"If you want," he replied after a few seconds. "I'm fine with showing my face to whoever's out there, but I'm not you."

Peter continued to ponder the idea as he walked out of the room, and was met with a stone corridor. Steve seemed tense, which wasn't exactly the reaction he'd been hoping for.

"Something wrong?" he asked, and his companion shook his head.

"Castles haven't been much use in war for a while, but that didn't stop people from trying, back in the day," Steve explained, and visibly shook off his mood.

Albus Dumbledore was well accustomed to visitors in Hogwarts, but not usually by surprise, or after the end of the school year, and particularly not encountering them first on the seventh floor.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen!" he greeted them cheerily, causing both fellows to spin around abruptly. "Might I ask what you're doing in Hogwarts?"

"You tell me and we'll both know," the young man blurted out, and his companion laid a hand on his shoulder, causing him to grimace.

"I'm Steve, and this is Peter," he introduced them. "We're not quite sure how this happened, apart from some powerful artifacts not acting as expected. Looks like that might just be your area of expertise?"

The old man chuckled warmly, easing their tension, and beckoned them towards him.

"I have some familiarity with unusual events and interactions like that, yes. Can you tell me anything about the magic involved?"

"They're called Infinity Stones," Steve explained, wishing that he'd had a chance to find out more. "Six of them in all. Supposedly they can do anything for the person who unites them, but I don't think this is what Thanos had in mind."

Dumbledore frowned at the brief synopsis. He had no recollection of either entity, which would make it difficult to assist the two Americans. Fortunately, he had already been heading to the library, so getting them started in their research would not be too challenging.

"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with those stones," he told them, "nor have I ever heard of anyone by the name of Thanos. Our reference section is extensive, however, and even Madam Pince, our librarian, cannot claim to have read them all, so perhaps you will find fortune there."

Peter was stunned by the sight, as he opened the double doors of the library and ushered them inside. It was always such a delight to catch the reaction of a bookworm to Hogwarts' collection of tomes. Ah, and sadly Irma herself had left for her holidays, though this was also probably just as well given the shock he could feel rolling off his visitors. They were lucky to be alive, frankly, but now didn't quite seem the time for that sentiment.

"Is there anything more you can share, that might point at a place to start looking for more information?" the headmaster asked, his time for this diversion drawing short. Not that he was looking forward to trying to find yet another Defence professor, but it was nevertheless an important task.

"He's a warlord, with a big army that came crashing down to fight us," Steve replied, wondering how to phrase the details.

"Unbelievably tough," Peter chimed in, and promptly drifted off to start looking at titles.

"A giant, perhaps," Dumbledore suggested, and Cap just shrugged.

"Larger than life, that's for sure. I'd guess at eight feet tall."

Half-giants were rare indeed, and there weren't many willing to follow one. Curiouser and curiouser.

Chapter Text

"Well, good luck to you," Albus replied, and Steve was left with his thoughts. The situation was frankly shocking, going from the battlefield to a thoroughly domestic castle. Peter, at least, seemed to be enjoying himself, and while some help researching would have been nice, he couldn't begrudge the kid a little distraction under the circumstances. For his part, Captain America went through the books methodically, noting down each title as the volume in question yielded no useful information. It was tempting to skim the indices looking for the Stones, but the prospect that they might be called something else here was entirely reasonable.

"Find anything?" Peter asked, coming up to the table with an impressive stack of books.

"Getting a lot of hints about how this place works," Steve replied absently, paging through his current volume, "but nothing directly useful. Not getting much of an interplanetary vibe, either, even with all the non-humans."

Peter nodded, and split his retrieval into two portions. The system in place was readily apparent from a glance, so he started right away on the first book in his pile.

"We're okay, right?" Peter asked suddenly, a little anxious. "I mean, since the whole airport thing . . ."

Steve couldn't help but laugh at that. "Even if we didn't have much bigger priorities right now, yeah. Buddy, we were okay while you were trying to nail me down."

Spidey winced at the reminder. "Yeah, Mr. Stark said you were going easy on me."

"You're a kid," he replied, "and you were trying to do the right thing. I didn't want to fight anyone in the first place, so actually giving you the business wasn't in the cards."

The mood was low and tense, despite Steve's assurance of good feelings. It begged for some kind of turn, in Peter's opinion.

"Time for lunch?" he suggested. Cap looked at the fruits of his labor, disappointing though they were, and shrugged.

"Not a bad idea," he agreed. "Let's do some walking, find the canteen or cafeteria or whatever."

"Is Gilderoy Lockhart actually going to be teaching here?" Steve asked incredulously. Dumbledore spread his hands wide in invitation, incidentally sweeping over the very employment contract in consideration.

"If you have a counter-proposal, Mr. Rogers, now is the time for it."

He shook his head, lips pursed with residual irritation from the encounter. Lockhart was a smarmy twerp, convinced of his own importance despite the 'Dark Forces Defence League' screaming that it was, at most, a step above the Neighborhood Watch. Also, unless there were dental terrors, 'Most Charming Smile' was only a threat in that he was eventually going to get punched in it.

"The only reason to have someone like that with children is showing them how not to do it," he protested, folding his arms in consternation. The chair had a high back, letting him lean and let out a little of this tension.

The headmaster nodded judiciously. "After thirty-odd years of professors who left in or before May, sometimes not under their own power, I have little choice in the matter."

Steve didn't try to hide his surprise at that revelation.

"Doesn't sounds like a coincidence," he challenged Dumbledore, and the professor sighed.

"Either way, my options are slim indeed. Not many are willing to risk it, particularly since poor Quirinus died last month."

Steve chewed on that for most of the afternoon, and he wasn't exactly happy about the conclusion he reached, but he also didn't see any way around it.

"How many books have we looked through, Peter?" he asked, putting down his own complete volume.

"A bunch," the kid replied, looking wryly at the mostly-full sheet of notes.

"And neither of us have gotten anywhere?"

He just shook his head, glum at the conclusion.

"We might be better off trying something more constructive," Steve suggested. "The idea of that twerp being at the front of a classroom really bothers me, but the only other candidate I have is me. I think I can probably handle the curriculum for Defense against the Dark Arts, if I start working now."

Peter didn't take long to connect the dots, and he stared incredulously at his companion.

"You're giving up? Already? It hasn't even been a day?!"

"On us returning, I am absolutely not giving up," he answered resolutely. "Pulling it off personally, that doesn't seem like a great chance."

He was pacing now, scowling and muttering, and Steve sighed at the teenage drama. Only a little, though; in Peter's position, Steve would likely have been frustrated as well.

"You and I are clever," he observed gently, "but Tony and Stephen are likely in a much better place to fix the situation. Sometimes people like us have to trust in others to help, and understand when we're not in a position to get out of a mess."

Peter just stormed off, out of the library.

"Well, that is a relief," Dumbledore noted, when Steve informed him of his decision. "There are a few syllabi in Professor Quirrell's old office, and the Ministry publishes its guide for the OWL and NEWT examinations in August. There are a few people, as well, who can serve as guest lecturer when you must demonstrate magic."

And there it was, the elephant in the room.

"When did you know?" Steve asked quietly.

"Immediately," he replied, completely blase. "Both of you reacted to my presence as if you could defend yourself from any threat physically. No wand reflexes, and nothing from the other traditions either. Your secret is safe with me, though I wouldn't rule out a few students piecing it together."

That put something else together for the Avenger, something not quite as positive.

"And there's the chance that you'll be forced to fire the non-wizard at the end of the year, rather than anything truly awful happening to me," he speculated, expression grim despite the quasi-happy news.

The headmaster smiled slightly, sliding a parchment across the table and gesturing to the quill and ink on his desk.

"It's possible," he agreed, "though I imagine anyone who signs on to assist you will still be nervous about the jinx."

Steve was already putting together a few plans for the end of the year; safety in numbers wasn't effective against all threats, but there were few times when it would really go wrong.

"If Lockhart was willing to take on the job by itself," he mused, "I can probably lasso him without too much trouble, and he's probably good at something in the curriculum."

Chapter Text

Maker, the world is such a wreck. Ferelden is still recovering from the Blight, brief though it was, the mages and templars lost their minds, and now we've got holes in the world. Granted, they don't really do anything by themselves most of the time, but you don't have to see too many demons jump out of a rift before you decide to steer clear. Good thing the Inquisition has been taking care of them, though of course the Herald of Andraste can only do one at a time. We're lucky anyone can actually handle them, much though I've heard about mages trying.

Ah, and here she is now, examining the great ugly blob in the village square.

"Hold there, apostate!" a templar spits, brandishing her sword. The Herald's companions ready their weapons as well, and I take cover behind a cart. I should get further away, I'm sure, but my nerve seems to have been up for only one move.

She simply ignores the idiot, reaching out to purge the poison from the wound in creation. A few demons start spawning, one not five feet from me, but the shape is pointing away from me. Probably.

The screaming, and bleeding, it's, it's too much

There's a diagram, splitting a field into four sections. They're labeled with wheat, turnips, barley, and clover. A single wheel, with spokes but no rim, lies next to it, with a prong below and pouch of seeds feeding those little cubbies.

A man winces in pain from a long gash in his arm. A young woman tending him first washes her hands, and the wound, before packing some gauzy material into it, and binding the limb tight.

"The evidence is clear," a different young woman says. "Nine out of ten patients recover without incident, when the healer takes pains to keep everything clean. The question is, why does this happen? Can illness come from filth?"

A man in uniform turns a crank, and water comes out of a spout until his hand stops. "The sand filter should keep the swamp out," he mutters.

When did I get up? Where did the cart go? Why are those things all frozen halfway through crawling into existence? Why are my clothes so tight?

"Quickly, Herald!" a bald elf shouts. "Before whatever she's done wears off!"

A few at a time, the monstrous creatures simply pop away, and the Herald herself is walking up to me.

"Thanks for that," I tell her, and I gawk as I hear my voice. Since when do I sound like, well, a woman? Almost sultry, definitely feminine.

"Right back atcha!" she returns happily. "Usually we only have time to unravel one or two of them, but you stopped every single one in their tracks! How'd you do that, by the way?"

I shake my head, confused.

"I didn't do anything. I, it was just, the battle was too much for me. I, what happened?"

That elf has joined us now, looking very serious, though that might just be his default expression.

"I believe our new friend here has undergone some sort of transformation, Herald. I saw only one person move behind that cart, and this young lady knocked it over as she emerged."

I squinch my eyes shut, trying to get my bearings. Abruptly, it occurs to me that my left arm is outstretched, closing around empty air in the direction of the rift. Letting it fall back to my side, and opening my eyes again to look down, welp. Yup. That's, ah, definitely a chest. It's not the only reason my shirt is tight, though, with the cuff barely reaching halfway down my forearm.

"You know what, let's just go," I say, seeing half the people I grew up with looking at me like a freak, or piece of meat.

"We've got horses to spare," says a dwarf, starting to chuckle. "And a poncho for you, until the tailor at Haven can rustle up an outfit or two."

I introduce myself as Rochester Brown; the Herald herself prefers to be known as Ellen, while her elven friend is Solas and "Varric" the dwarf keeps us occupied with intermittent chatter on the way back. Cassandra finds him irritating, and me fascinating. Looking at the situation, I can understand both reactions. I've never heard of anything quite like this happening, though magic has been known to pull off some crazy nonsense.

I'm taller than even some qunari, now, and my curves are very evident, even when my no-longer-comfortable old clothes are packed away. Fortunately, they have enough loose supplies that I don't have to ride bare, and my modesty is certainly in no danger with this blanket all over me. Not that anyone would try anything when faced with Cassandra's glower, which is great in my books. They're fine with taking a break, after a while, so I can get a better look at myself. There are still traces of my old self, but mostly I'm a new, pretty person. There are worse things, though the little niggling worry that this is just how it is now is, well, growing, and hopefully won't erupt like I did.

"If you can pull off that 'pause' reliably," Ellen says, out of nowhere, "well, obviously it's not a real solution, but it would be very handy when people are complaining about a rift that poses direct danger."

I shrug, spreading my hands diffidently.

"I'll see what I can do, I guess."

Solas smiles at that.

"The Herald was similarly clueless about activating her mark to close them," he tells me, and I feel a little bit better.

"There's something else," I say, still not sure how to describe what I saw. "After things got hectic, there were visions. How familiar are you with crop rotation?"

Varric immediately throws his hands up, pretending to cringe at the mere discussion of agriculture.

"Grow wheat or rye in one field, peas or beans or lentils in another, leave the last one empty, keep shifting them," recites Ellen, and Solas nods.

"What about wheat to turnips to barley to clover?" I suggest. "If it works, always growing something everywhere would sure be handy. There was something that looked handy for planting, too - dropping seeds in the furrows is a little tricky to get right."

"Josephine is going to love you," Cassandra comments drily. "If she doesn't lose her mind at trying to soothe the nobles who have to crane their necks or risk being gauche."

Chapter Text

This portal generator is a fascinating device, truly. A horrible energy hog, but that's why the Rakatans hooked it up to a star. Even then, it takes years to charge up, unlike their usual gates. There aren't any signs of intelligent life here, just the scant handful of flora and fauna like you might find on Korriban, and the logs are blank for centuries. I'm the first person to touch this in . . . a very long time, which is the best part of being an archaeologist.

It's taken me a while to document this find, and now I can use it with confidence. A special privilege, to see the results in person, along with not risking embarrassment if activation takes a little fiddling. Or a lot.

There's an urban landscape before me now, but I'm looking at it from above rather than a proper perspective. Quite a ways up, in fact, not to mention the vehicles passing through my view here. I can hear explosions, too, and laser fire. . . . oh, no. I can't just stand here and watch this devastation. I have to help. I'm a trained Jedi, and even if I'm not the best with a saber, people will live who wouldn't have otherwise. The Living Force is pulsing all around me, and I can feel that this isn't really goodbye. I'll be back. Before I can start psyching myself out of it, I brace for the fall, and jump through.

It's an uncomfortably long plummet, especially since keeping my velocity manageable means I can watch a hundred floors pass individually. Not as bad as free-diving on Coruscant, but it's lovely to touch the ground again, at least in the ten seconds before the firing starts. Blocking the shots brings me back to my Temple days, what with digs not being major sites of violence, and my breath is a touch short after the first few dozen.

People are rushing past me, with not a few stares, and it's interesting that everyone is either human or nearly so—no Wookiees, no Gamorreans, no Kel Dor, not even so much as a Chiss or Zabrak. Enough to make a girl feel a little conspicuous.

"Are you with Iron Man and Captain America?" a little boy asks me in passing, and I shrug. He's already gone before I can ask who those people are, but the uniformed folks ushering the civilians off the streets can give me more information, especially now that most of the fighting is done around here.

"Excuse me," I ask, approaching one of them, "who's in charge here?"

The young woman gapes for a moment, but then closes her mouth again.

"Captain America's taken command," she tells me, and opens some sort of comm. "Sir, I've got a red, horned woman with a laser sword here. Where do I send her?"

As it happens, she doesn't need to send me anywhere, as a strapping fellow with a shield is running over here.

"Good timing," he tells me. "Those blasters are pretty good at blowing up cars and the like. Is there anything I should put you on, besides covering evacuations?"

I'm about to agree that it's my best option, before it occurs to me that Jedi reflexes are, well, flexible. What if I can alert his team to problems just a handful of seconds in advance?

"Get me somewhere with a clear view of the city," I tell him instead, "and I might be able to pull off some early-warning radar. Call one of those giant snakes turning a block or two before it actually does, you know?"

The captain nods, grinning at the prospect, and hands me a mini-radio.

"Clint can guide you in—he's been calling targets the last few minutes, and I'm sure he'd appreciate the help."

With the earpiece in place, I wave goodbye, and promptly leap to catch one of the many gliders swarming the streets. The pilot falls away, too startled to resist my shove, and I breathe deeply, relaxing into the Force to help navigate both the vehicle and the city. The directions coming over my new comm help, but it occurs to me once I catch sight of a fellow with a bow and arrow on the rooftop that there might not be room to land this thing and have room for the two of us. A little drama catches us all occasionally, and I admit there's some flamboyance to flinging the vehicle behind me in the direction of a giant snake even as I touch down by Clint's side.

"What've you got for me?" he asks, nodding in greeting. I close my eyes to focus, and extend one arm to point almost immediately.

"Wrong turn," I reply. "Several people are going to flee from the frying pan into the fire there."

Clint calls it in, and I can feel the current easing as the immediate threat falls apart.

By the time their portal has been closed, ending the invasion, I've been reduced to lying on the edge of the roof, a word or two per target as my head pounds. A whole lot better than people being in bacta tanks, of course, and Clint has no problem bringing me downstairs with my arm around his shoulders. He gets a few pills down my throat, along with a cold compress on my forehead for a few minutes, and an actual cot.

"Who is she, anyway?" a voice asks, with the appropriate volume around someone who isn't really trying for sleep.

"Jedi Sage Kilik Vindicarl, whatever that means," Clint responds. I wasn't exactly surprised when he didn't react to my introduction earlier, since not everyone particularly cares about the Order, but not having heard of it? That's more unusual.

"I take it you're not familiar with the Republic, either?" I ask, feeling no shame whatever in interjecting myself into their conversation.

"Asgard says they protect the Nine Realms, and call us Midgard as one of them. That's about all the non-human politics I know about," Clint answers. I can almost hear his shrug. Well, three new terms, there, but more important than that is his tone. 'This is the only planet I have any reason to care about', and he's very much the sort of man who should be drawn into interstellar affairs. What is going on, on this planet?

Chapter Text

As odd as my present circumstances are, they don't strike me as particularly dangerous. The crisis is over, and I'll trust my new colleagues to keep an eye out as I catch my breath. Ah, apparently they're gathering for something called 'shawarma'. Yeah, I could definitely eat. Clint helps me up, and off we go down the street.

Maybe it's weeks of rations, or an unusually strenuous day, but this stuff is delicious. Spiced meat in a bun is a solid call, especially with three different kinds of pickles. There's not a lot of conversation going on as we munch, and I'm feeling a little meditative. Time for a little examination of the Force currents here.

. . . there aren't any. Oh, it's still here, as much as it is anywhere, but something about it is so still. Sort of a cross between natural calm and stagnation. I keep reaching out, of course, trying to find the edges of this anti-eddy, but all I find are the ripples I kicked up earlier, helping Clint guide everyone. It's enough to make me wonder if the place has any Force-sensitives.

"You all aren't familiar with the Force, right?" I ask them, and there are indeed no signs of recognition. "Never encountered someone with unusually good reflexes, or astonishing luck? Telekinesis, telempathy, ringing any bells?"

Natasha's hand is rocking, and it's odd that someone would be uncertain on this.

"SHIELD has records on quite a few unusual individuals," she replies, "and some of them have been able to do things like that, but I'm getting the idea that this 'Force' should help someone across the entire portfolio."

"The Jedi arts are tremendously versatile," I agree, "although of course we all have specialties, and weaknesses. This is very curious."

"As long as it's not a problem we have to deal with today," Clint replies, sagging back in his chair, which is very fair. I nod.

"I'm grateful for your assistance, Miss Vindicarl," I hear, Natasha having taken me to meet with SHIELD, and I swear, the man is like Mace Windu, in thirty years. He doesn't have the vibe of an office worker, even as he sits behind a desk with stacks of flimsi. I merely incline my head in recognition; accepting thanks is one of those things I never got any good at, which is partly why I'm a Sage rather than a Knight.

"Perhaps you might like to answer a few questions about who you are, where you come from, how you got here, et cetera?" he inquires.

"I will do my best," I answer readily, "but I think you might not have the context to understand me very well. For example, I've never encountered a society with cities like this, but no interest in interstellar travel."

"We've had other priorities since the existence of other worlds became clear," Fury responds. It's rather striking, how little that tells me.

"In any case," I tell him, "you have my name and title already. I was on an archeological investigation, and found a portal machine. When I turned it on, the door it opened showed me a scene of devastation. What could I do, but step through?"

A small smirk.

"I suppose we're both familiar with that feeling," he agrees. "Do you have a way back to this Republic?"

"Not directly," I say, with a shrug, "but I have faith that a path will appear when my presence here is no longer significant. In the meantime, there's an entire planet to study, apparently lost to most of the galaxy, and the mystery of the Force's placidity."

"Ah, right, the Force," not-Windu notes, and how strange it is to hear those words coming out of his mouth without any weight behind them, or the confidence from years of study. "What is it, and what does this 'placidity' mean?"

I can't help but chuckle at that. "Oh, it's not you," I hastily explain. "It's just, many Jedi have spent their lives exploring what the Force is. A lot like life in that regard. It is . . . being. The Force flows around and through us, the essence of life and existence. Some people are sensitive to its currents, and can use it to do great things."

"But there aren't any currents here, I take it," he counters, and I grimace. There's no good answer here, not yet; my understanding is still too limited.

"That's about the answer in five words," I concede. "You're very familiar with complicated and strange situations, I think, so I trust you understand my difficulty here."

Fury nods very firmly.

"I would appreciate it if you continued looking into the matter," he tells me. "Having warning of an upcoming problem can be tremendously helpful."

"Absolutely," I assure him. "The areas I was working in during the battle had a little more liveliness to them. I suppose we'll both keep an eye on them for a while, and I'll do my best to refrain from active Force usage until I have a better idea of what's going on."

That's an end to our meeting, at least for now, and Natasha escorts me outside again.

"I have a place set up, if you'd like to get settled in," she tells me, and I gesture for her to lead the way. We stay out of the public eye. I suppose that's only sensible, what with my near-human appearance and the lack of alien contact here, but Zabraks aren't exactly isolated creatures.

"You're going to keep me company, huh?" I ask, seeing the spaciousness of my new digs. There are clearly accommodations for two people here, plus some room for guests. She nods, taking out a few ingredients for another meal.

"Betting you're used to strange environments, but this seems like an exception," she notes.

"Also, Fury told you to stay close until he's comfortable having me roam around alone," I challenge. The spy doesn't even bother denying it. Frankly, though, he's not exactly wrong, and I don't see any reason to object. They've earned my trust in battle, and the Force is a powerful ally should the situation change. Better to have her eyes where I can see them, as it were, especially since I'm far from a covert expert. Finding hidden things, sure, but generally when the hider is long since dead.

Chapter Text

Being out in the open air is an unusual sensation, after my decades in the Ministry of Magic, but the Unspeakables of the Soul team wished me well. I never got the feeling that I creeped them out, exactly, but the details of my beginning remain elusive. After a while, I come to the conclusion that I rather enjoy having a breeze running through me. Affecting the physical world tends to be difficult, but here I am with an interaction that doesn't need my help.

I've been drifting along for quite a while now, just seeing the world, when I smell an injured soul. Badly injured, in fact, there's almost nothing left. What's going on here? It's a good thing no one can see me, or moving in might be creepy. As it is, soon I catch sight of a young man in high dudgeon, sitting moodily on a swing. Wait, I recognize him, there are a few pictures around—he's Harry Potter, a wizard, so I can do some real investigating.

"Well, hello there!" I greet him, showing myself. His wand comes out immediately to point at my ball of light, which is a little off-putting.

"Who are you?" Potter demands, itching for a fight.

"Call me Ishmael," I tell him. I've been looking forward to using that line for so long, I really owe it to him for setting me up. "Would you like to tell me about your terribly injured soul?"

The boy blinks repeatedly, opening and closing his mouth, and finally settles on "My what?"

"Did you not know?" I ask. "You've got just the wisps of a soul left. Ah, along with a normal one. That makes . . . actually, just as much sense, which is to say very little. Why do you have two souls?"

Potter's jaw clenches, and it's my turn to be confused, until he tells me.

"Sounds like another parting gift from Voldemort," he spits. Huh. Not many people are willing to use the name. His jaw wasn't all that clenched, and he looks at his hand with a wince. The wand goes away, back into his pocket.

"Fascinating," I muse, and hastily add, "I'm sorry, you must be terribly tired of not being treated like a person."

Harry looks at me full-on now, wistful and almost smiling. "You have no idea. . . . or on second thought, maybe you do, yeah. What's going on with all that?"

I've been working on body language for a long time, and the best way I can approximate a shrug is by rolling over.

"The Ministry's been looking at it off and on for ages. I'm a 'conglomeration of ectoplasmic, emotional, and thaumic energy'. Officially registered as a Being, though I can't exactly carry ID."

Harry cocks his head at my summary, and nods slowly.

"I guess that makes as much sense as anything else I've heard the last few years. Oh, you'd better disappear. Muggles coming."

Another roll from me.

"No worries there," I tell him. "People can't see me unless I want them to, and sometimes not even then. Talking, that's different."

It wasn't tricky at all to get the hang of mental speech back in the day, and that last bit was right in his head.

"Can you hear me?" he thinks, with the usual static of a telepathic neophyte.

"There's some fuzz," I concede, "but I can manage."

Harry just nods, slumping in his swing as he watches the boys pass by. I can feel his anger returning, seething just under his skin.

"Have you got any sort of outlet for these pent-up emotions?" I ask, slightly wary of a moody teenage wizard throwing a tantrum.

"My cousin knows I can do magic, but his friends don't. I can push him plenty. Not that I'm going to. Nope. Sitting here like a good boy, that's me. Staying out of trouble."

That is extremely not what I had in mind.

"Sounds like a story," I venture, and he grimaces savagely as he gets up.

"Voldemort came back a month ago," the boy mentally spits, "but the Ministry won't admit it. They'd rather claim I'm a liar, and everything's fine, even though Death Eaters are definitely being a lot rowdier than me."

Bobbing up and down serves as a nod, while Harry makes his way out of the playground. He's been waiting to let this out for a while, and it's odd that he doesn't seem to have picked up anyone else he can vent to, in his years at Hogwarts.

He's walking home with his cousin Dudley now, and they're starting to get into a right row, but then I feel it. That vacuum, cold antipathy for the essence of life.

"Harry, shut it!" I bark in his mind. "Dementors, I can feel them!"

I've heard a story or two about Harry Potter's adventures at school, and they always painted him as having excellent reflexes—both physically and mentally.

"Monsters nearby, Dudley," he tells him, interrupting a complaint. "Keep up with me if you don't want the worst day of your life."

The wizard promptly takes off, wand clutched in his hand, and the slightly portly Muggle seems to be nobody's fool, running after him. The aura keeps growing stronger, though, and in seconds they're shuddering in increasingly dim light.

"Keep your mouth shut if they catch you," Harry pants, and I'm not sure how I feel about him having the breath to advise his cousin. On the other hand, do I really doubt the survival instincts of the Boy Who Lived?

"Can you really cast a corporeal Patronus?" I ask, hoping that the answer is 'yes'. I don't fancy being targeted by one; no one could ever think of a way to test how we interact without risking a Kiss. He just nods. Dudley is flagging now, hard to tell if it's fatigue from the run or dementor effects. Probably both.

An old woman comes running out of her front door, and I alert Harry immediately. He starts jamming his wand into his pocket yet again, but she shakes her head frantically.

"Don't put it away, idiot boy!" she shrieks. "They haven't stopped chasing you yet! Oh, I'm going to kill Mundungus Fletcher!"

She manages to pack them into her pint-sized Volkswagen, and there we outrun the dementors. Not that it stops Harry from being astonished that "Mrs. Figg" is a Squib, or that Albus Dumbledore has had people watching him the whole summer. There's another problem I can consider now that danger seems probably gone, though.

"Why are there dementors anywhere near here?" I ask them both.

Chapter Text

"That's an excellent question," Mrs. Figg agrees, her hands tight on the wheel despite crawling along a suburban road. "It'll be a wonder if no Muggles are Kissed, mark my words!"

The car screeches to a halt several feet short of a man who just appeared with a crack. Not exactly much to look at, poorly-kempt and stout as a dustbin, along with an invisibility cloak under one arm. This is Fletcher, I suspect, and Figg's tirade confirms it. He's dispatched promptly to Albus Dumbledore to explain the situation, along with fetching an Auror to deal with the threat. It remains something of a mystery why the headmaster of Hogwarts is so intimately involved in the situation, but I suppose the Boy Who Keeps Getting Attacked By Voldemort warrants some unusual attention.

It's a short trip on to Harry and Dudley's home, though he clearly wants to talk more with her about . . . quite a few things. Nevertheless, off they go, into a most stimulating discussion with his relatives. I've experienced a touch of family drama, drifting around the Ministry for decades, but this is an experience all its own. One owl comes, telling Harry that an Auror has arrived, and the dementors should be corralled shortly. Mr. Dursley, quite reasonably upset at his son's near-encounter with the fiends, is of a mind to expel his nephew from the house, but a Howler forces his wife to countermand him.

"What were they doing here?" he asks for the fourth time, stewing in his bedroom. "And when do I get out of this hole?"

"They had something to do with Voldemort and you, most likely," I repeat. "Beyond that, we'd probably have to ask their handlers. As for your departure, probably soon; if Dumbledore is so invested in your safety that he has a regular patrol here, he won't want to risk a second attack, even with the eyes this one got."

Sadly, 'soon' lasts too long for either of us, and I wonder more than once if I'm really obligated to keep a moody teenager company as he sits in the dark and waits. Finally, on the afternoon of the fourth day after our meeting, there are visitors downstairs, and Harry's mood turns nearly on a dime.

"I suppose you're the people who answer to the headmaster," I muse, making half the room jump and point their wands at me.

"He's fine, he's fine," Harry says, irritated at the sudden violence.

"I'm Newman," I volunteer. "Apologies for not introducing myself, I'm rather used to everyone knowing I'm around."

I can tell Alastor Moody still doesn't like the disruption, and his eye stays fixed on me right until he has to pop it out.

"Look, he gave me early warning for the dementors, all right?" Harry snaps. "Got some interesting information before that, too."

Moving on, it turns out they'll be evacuating him by broom, which is something of a relief to me; apparition hurts, the Floo itches terribly, and touching a portkey doesn't exactly do anything. Tonks goes up to help Harry pack, while Moody interrogates me further. I give him the same answer as Harry, and agree wholeheartedly with his desire for a more complete explanation. He's mollified slightly when I tell him I can stay with the boy invisibly, not that this will really make him safer.

"Can't defend him against anything but his own bad decisions," he grunts, "but Potter is fifteen, so he'll have a solid supply of those, hot and cold running taps."

Then the flight is kicking off, swooping and swirling in the sky. Keeping a hold on his soul is challenging, especially as his joy in flight wanes in favor of discomfort with the cold, wet air. Now isn't the time to attempt to lighten his spirits by wishing I had physical perceptions like that, I suppose. Seven people flying like this, all to escort a teenager. Fascinating. Of course, fascinations don't always get turned into satisfactions, as one of the Unspeakables used to say.

Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, is just this side of decrepit. Gas lamps, peeling wallpaper, carpets that must not have been replaced in my lifetime, the works. Harry gets shuffled off before the Order meeting, and I finally meet the Ron and Hermione I've heard so much about. It's a happy reunion, particularly with his month of solitude before I met him, until her attention gets diverted to me.

"But how on earth does that work?" she asks, fascinated. I simply shrug, but my motion doesn't quite have the desired effect on her, as her attention was already on my nature.

"You might consider joining the Department, at some point," I suggest. I stretch out in every direction, trying to work out my discomfort at her questioning, not to mention the kinks from the ride over, and something is weird.

"Who used to live here?" I ask. "I think there might be another soul piece. Didn't expect to find any, out in the world, but what can I say."

Well, that certainly changes the subject. The four of us start looking, and pick up a few more members in the search party on the way. Ron's sister and brothers are curious, once they find out what's going on, and I'm getting heartily sick of explaining myself. Unfortunately, my soul sense isn't too precise, and it's much harder to pick out what might be hosting the shard in this messy house, compared to the bench where I met Harry. There are certainly plenty of pests around, and not a few ugly old knick-knacks, but the odor, as it were, doesn't seem to be getting any stronger as they continue disturbing surfaces. An hour or so later, Mrs. Weasley is collecting us for dinner.

"Ah, thank you for keeping busy while we were, well, anyway. Do wash up after all that!"

They split up to find two bathrooms, mostly because Ginny was using Dungbombs to confirm that the magical barrier keeping them from eavesdropping on Order meetings remained in place. I could probably bypass it for them, but that's not the same thing as being willing to. My own age status is unclear, but I do understand the restrictions various societies put on youth.

"I, ah, don't know what you eat, dear," Molly tells me awkwardly, as I remain.

"As far as I can tell," I reassure her, "I subsist on my own pleasant emotions. Joining your dinner will be quite sustaining, have no fear."

Naturally, that's followed by quite the ugly encounter with the painting of an old woman who presumably used to live here, quite displeased that her residence is filled with exactly the sorts of people she hated in life. The presence of her son just aggravates this further, but he at least manages to close the curtains and silence her.

"If I had an appetite for positivity," I snark, "that would have killed it."

Chapter Text

"Running seven seconds ahead now, Captain," Nog reported, and Kira nodded in her chair.

"Plenty of time to raise our shields before the singularity breaks containment, then." She remembered hearing the line 'if you think that was sarcasm, let me know, because I haven't decided yet' a few years back, and it really seemed to be coming through here.

The door to the bridge whooshed open, with her newest guest stumping in.

"I've always been glad to see the Defiant, but never quite like this," Chancellor Martok thanked her, shaking her hand and standing by her seat. She was very much looking forward to an explanation of why his cruiser had been salvaging from a Romulan ship, but that would have to wait until the crisis had passed. Ideally, not simply into a new crisis, but this was shaping up to be an interesting day indeed.

"We're done, Captain," her helmsman announced. "Brace for impact!"

Everyone grabbed what they could, with a slightly longer wait than usual, but that was hardly cause for complaint. The one saving grace was that they were near the wormhole, not actually inside it; the idea of a singularity detonating inside the Celestial Temple was profoundly disturbing to the handful of Bajorans on the Defiant's crew, not least Kira herself. The turbulence came right on time, propelling them right through the passage from the Gamma Quadrant to Deep Space Nine, if a much rockier transit than usual.

"I'm getting a lot of interference here, Captain!" Nog alerted her, which wasn't exactly news to anyone with a white-knuckled grip on one of the available handholds.

"Mr. Dukat, raise the station," she ordered, but her yeoman grimaced helplessly as Nog's issues covered the whole spectrum of ship functions.

"My efforts continue, sir, but I think we must rely on our faith in Commander Worf to bring us into dock," he replied.

Damage reports came in, as they rocked back and forth through the winding subspace tube—

and then the Defiant limped out, into atmosphere rather than proper space. The warning lights on her console reminded her of the Klingon attack on the station, and there was the slight solace of that ending up a Bajoran/Federation victory. She still found it a little strange to think of them as a single entity.

"Bashir, what have you got?" Kira demanded. The doctor pulled up various views, and stared in amazement at a few of them.

"There's a city rising not five hundred meters away, Captain," he told her, "with a large handful of fascinating readings all over it. Looking at the roughness of the bottom, I think this wasn't entirely deliberate."

"No warp signatures—" Lieutenant Pran began, only to be cut off by Nog's raised fist.

"There's a hail for you, Captain. Audio only." A nod had him connect the call.

"That's a nice spaceship you've got there, buddy. Mind helping us out?"

"I'm Captain Kira of the United Federation of Planets. What's the situation?" she asked, any nerves at a possible first contact wiped away by the overall chaos of the situation.

"Federation, huh? Wonder if Thor's heard of you," the stranger replied, before getting down to business. "There's a giant engine pushing Novi Grad into the sky, so he can take it back down for a meteor drop. Also, a whole bunch of robots terrorizing the citizens we haven't evacuated yet."

"Hah!" Martok boomed. "My guards and I can be of some assistance there, I think." The Klingon leader strode out, clearly heading for the transporter room, and Kira smiled wanly at his enthusiasm.

"My engineers are looking into it as we speak, sir," the captain told him. "I'll let you know the moment we have a plan."

"Make it fast," he grunted.

As they collated the available information, there were several worrying signs for their options. Number one, the general paucity of space travel, and complete absence of any shipyards, did not bode well for this civilization being warp-capable. Number two, quite a lot of data similarly painted a picture of a planet closely resembling early 21st-century Earth. Number three, the Defiant was in bad enough shape that the obvious solution of tractoring the city down would only last for seventeen minutes.

"Frankly, Captain, we're lucky our thrusters had an option besides 'plummet to the surface'," Nog confided. "Perhaps that would have been better."

She immediately and firmly shook her head. "No, you did exactly the right thing. Apart from anything else, wrecking the Defiant on a pre-warp planet would count as pretty substantial interference."

"I think someone's already been interfering, sir. We're picking up tachyons, verterons, and a whole range of neutrinos," Lieutenant Pran interjected. "Either they've got a different approach to FTL tech, or a spacefaring visitor dropped off some artifacts. Not exactly free rein for us to act, obviously, but the precedent for correction is well-established."

Dukat, who had been looking over several data pads, finally spoke up. "If the goal is minimal action, perhaps we can reduce the engine's activity, and allow the incipient projectile to land gently. If it is not, then allowing Chancellor Martok's delegation to have their fun was an interesting decision."

Kira smiled tightly at that last, folding her arms as she leaned back. "It's above my pay grade to tell a foreign head of government what he can do, Yeoman, even on my ship."

Nog raised a finger. She raised an eyebrow. He lowered his finger.

"Lieutenant," Kira asked, reviewing a suggestion from one of the junior engineers, "rerouting a plasma feed through our deflector dish would help balance our thruster output, correct?"

"That would be the primary effect, sir," the winged officer agreed solemnly, "and if the inverted positron beam happened to interfere with another energy source, well, we're doing the best we can with what we have."

"Thanks for that," Stark told them, watching in relief as the city's velocity slowly came to a halt, and just barely reversed. The armored man was still with the engine he had been trying to stop, and obviously trying to scan her ship, but the countermeasures there were straightforward. Turning a blind eye went only so far, and the day was already as saved as it was going to get.

"For what?" Kira replied blandly. "We're just sitting here."

Chapter Text

Well, we've hit the Nabooan blockade at as good a time as can be expected, I suppose. The Trade Federation ships are entangled with the resurgent fleet, leaving a few gaps for my mini-freighter to exploit.

"I'm still a little surprised you don't want to wade in here, milady."

My companion shakes her head, patting me on the shoulder.

"This is plain battle, with everyone determined to attack. There will be proper opportunities for defense on the ground. Then you will see the majesty of my portfolio."

I just bite my lip at that. 'The great goddess Aegis' has demonstrated her abilities to me already, what with the cave-in that would absolutely have buried me when I was making my way out of her temple on Ilum. But if she wants to do some humblebragging, well, now isn't exactly the time to—

Get distracted, apparently. A solid four different warning from my engine, including one actual siren. It was bound to happen at some point. I swallow any complaint about her not shielding me from that, and instead simply release the controls.

"Take us down, your worship," I invite her. Our trajectory almost immediately smooths out into a glide to the surface, without any of the turbulence I would have expected. There are no more shots in the vicinity, due both to passing out of the region of heavy fire and being an already-crippled unaligned ship, or at least that's my conjecture.

Well, this trip might not be rocky, exactly, but we still seem to be heading just shy of into the thick of things. The field of Gungans versus droids doesn't draw her attention, naturally, and she brings us to rest on a catwalk at the middle of an enormous power plant.

"Everyone's lucky this isn't a target," I muse, looking for a door inside. A ghostly chuckle is my answer.

"Their goal is domination, not massive destruction."

The theory there is elusive, but my attention is now on the very sturdy wheel that keeps this port closed. Fortunately, 'sturdy' doesn't mean 'hard to turn' in this case, at least with my tentacles well-braced against the guard rails, and probably a dose of help from Aegis as well. The inside isn't quite as well-lit as one might hope, and that's the best aspect I can see. No safety measures on display, with enormous falls waiting for those poor souls who have to touch the ground, as well as open energy flows and raw plasma conduits.

Oh, plus there are a couple of fellows with lightsabers having a very spirited disagreement. Yielding to her love of theatricality, I swoop down to their level.

"Behold the great goddess Aegis," I boom, with her majestic shape shimmering around me and brushing the ground between them, "mistress of defense! She commands that this violence end!"

Mr. Horns and Red Lightsaber snarls, and swipes his weapon harmlessly through her outstretched paw. Beardy merely holds his sword up, neither attacking nor yielding.

"I asked nicely," I tell them, and when Horn Jerk goes for another strike, Aegis seizes the saber by its blade. He's made of stern stuff, as evinced by not simply letting go when she takes her own swing, launching him over No-razor's head, but the landing does jar the staff from his hands. Snapping it in two might be seen as excessive, but he still doesn't seem to have learned his lesson. The other guy definitely did, and I see his belt now has one more clip being used.

"Greetings," he says, releasing his raised eyebrows and bowing several inches. "I am Master Qui-Gon Jinn. I apologize for not complying promptly, but the danger he posed required my attention."

My head inclines in turn, even as Aegis takes firm hold of the miscreant's arms and legs. "Tawasir Peniurth. What problem does he have with you, exactly?"

Jinn peers closely at the faint outline around his opponent. "My padawan Obi-Wan and I have been tasked with protecting Queen Amidala, among other things, and he took exception with that. I must say, I've never heard of a goddess by that name, nor one so direct."

I think I'm interrupting him, as I chuckle, then flat-out laugh. "I'm sorry, it's not you, it's just, the argument we had when I found her. Aegis proclaimed the great virtues of defense, and protecting people from harm, and I raised the point that she seems entirely reactive—not focused on adding anything to the world, just prevention."

He nods vigorously, waving a young man over to join us. "Yes, yes, it's a very old philosophical debate. I take it that this has been an ongoing discussion since you met?"

Palpatine is riding too high from his election to be brought down by the capture of his pawn. Certainly, he will have to take substantial measures to cover his tracks, but there will be time to do so as the courts begin to take over the various matters up for investigation. Anakin Skywalker also has great promise, especially since there has been no word of the Jedi Order reversing their previous refusal to train the boy, strong though he is.

"'The great goddess Aegis', indeed," he muses to Amedda, who grimaces.

"Fitting that someone like that should align with the Jedi," his assistant replies, and the Chancellor indulges in a small cackle.

"Ah, haha, yes. No violence! No action! No engagement with the world as a living entity!"

As amusing as the stagnated belief is, there is no denying that she backed up her words with substantial power. The curiosity of her relationship with this Tawasir seems ripe for immediate testing, but there is still the mynock in the room.

"What is she, and where did she come from?" Palpatine wonders. His schemes have been masterful up to this point, but that rather relies on extensive knowledge to predict people's actions. He maneuvered around his failures to anticipate Valorum sending Jedi to negotiate, and that foolish girl returning to this planet, and he is confident he can continue to hoodwink the Jedi, but this 'goddess' is an unknown quantity.

"She will reveal herself or perish," Amedda promises rashly, but stops with a gesture.

"A severe punishment Aegis has certainly earned, with this interference, but she can clearly deal with threats—they might well be called the reason for her existence. Bursting out onto the scene like that, I trust there will be more incidents to demonstrate her nature, both physical and metaphysical."

The vice chancellor bows at his assessment, and leaves. Palpatine has no doubt the man will have plans to help the self-proclaimed divinity supply a full profile, as well as putting staff on a deep dive into her host's life. The Great Plan will carry him to his destiny, new player on the field or not.

Chapter Text

I've had a perfectly lovely day, but this wasn't it. In fact, my hands are clenching from the cavalcade of sheer awfulness I've faced. It wasn't enough to have my contract end a month early, doubling the gap I had already been dreading. No, sir. Then I drop by the game store to see my boyfriend, or rather see him glued to Annabelle's face. Five minutes ago, Mrs. Ferguson two doors down texts me that the building was being fumigated, and I have to get my stuff out for a weekend. And now, now I can't even do that, because some laser-brain decided that the best way to explore his newfound power to get weapons out of thin air was picking a fight with the Justice League.

Time for a nice long incoherent scream, I decide judiciously. Several seconds in, about when my throat gets a little bit scratchy, something zooms down to me.

"Amelia Lopez of Earth, you have great rage in your heart. Welcome to the Red Lantern Corps!"

A Lantern ring. I can't tell if I'm reaching forward to smack it away and banish any potential metahuman chaos from my life, or to put it on so I have some actual power in my life. The ring certainly thinks I'm going for the latter, and fits snugly as an adornment for my right hand. That must have been a signal for something, because a literal crimson wave washes over me, coming out of and returning to nowhere. Everything I've experienced comes into crystal-clear focus, and my anger is self-consuming,

Oh, this is just a whole new world here. I can feel the potential thrumming in my veins, and it's time for another scream. Sadly, the aforementioned Laser-Brain is feeling a little unloved, and now he's pointing a big ol' gun at me. Hawkwoman's swooping in to demonstrate why melee weapons beat guns in a close-range fight, while Wonder Woman's lasso sails out right by me. Whatever she was aiming for, I'm pretty sure she missed.

Welp, before he actually fires that thing, maybe I should demonstrate my displeasure. This ring is just itching to be used. Even as I'm winding up for a twenty-foot haymaker, though, that mace comes crashing down. It smacks Peewee right in the chest, and he doesn't get up after hitting the tree. I guess never mind, then?

They're approaching me now, nice and slow. Looking down at myself, I can understand some apprehension, what with the pulsing red aura all around me.

"How are you doing?" Wonder Woman asks, still several feet away, rope and shield at the ready.

"Like I want to punch someone," I grit out between clenched teeth. That might not have been the best choice of words, as Hawkwoman and the guy with an atom symbol on his chest tense up.

"But we don't, always do, what we want," I finish, letting my temper leak away bit by bit. It's a steady push now, like the beat of a song that urges you to reach out and maim someone.

My situation was very unusual, and ain't that just the perfect capper to everything? Apparently, Red Lanterns are supposed to vomit out all their blood and turn completely feral, and here I stand clean and polite. There's something called the Blood Sea, which can restore their sanity if they survive immersion, and that might just have been the wave I got when the ring slipped onto my finger?

"Miss Lopez," someone greets me, and I look up from my rumination to see Batman. This is the company I'm going to be keeping from now on, looks like.

"Your transition has been far gentler than my colleagues in the Green Lantern Corps believe is the norm, and that's certainly auspicious."

"-but," I interrupt, "there's some reason my life has to keep being crazy and terrible."

He smiles slightly, and adjusts his cape before sitting down next to me.

"Depends on if staying here for a few days while we do some monitoring counts as 'crazy and terrible'. If something goes wrong, better it happen with the League standing by to help, right?"

I hate to admit it, and boy howdy word number two there is going to be my constant companion, but he has a point.

"Nothing is going to go wrong. The new protocol has been an outstanding success."

That voice comes from my ring, and I yelp as I recoil off my chair. Mister Caped Crusader doesn't even twitch, I'm pretty sure, though I wasn't exactly keeping an eye on him.

"That is reassuring, ring," he tells it, "but better safe than sorry. I'm sure you understand."

I think he was talking to both of us there.

"'Better safe than sorry' doesn't sound like much of a Red Lantern saying," I remark, giggling, and I climb back onto my seat.

"'Rage means never having to say you're sorry'," it quips back. "The calmer you are, the less power you can wield."

Something about that bothers me, and it's a struggle to put it into words.

"Don't try to change me," I tell my ring. "I don't want to be the person who stinks up the party. Being a Red Lantern doesn't mean I'm angry all the time, or at least it's not always the biggest thing I feel."

Batman lays his hand on my shoulder, and gets up again. I follow him, down an awfully futuristic-looking hallway. I should have noticed it on the way in, really, but everything's still kind of whirling around fluidly.

"I suspect you'll need to hang on to every ounce of introspection you have. If you can pull it off, I look forward to welcoming you to the League."

With that bombshell, he leaves me in a lounge. There's a young woman lazing on a couch, holding a romance novel and sipping from a soda. Oh, and she's green.

"Hi there!" she squeals, springing up and stopping just short of a hug. "You're the new girl, right? I'm M'gann!"

"Nice to meet you," I manage, overwhelmed by her energy. "You're, um, not a Green Lantern, right?"

She guffaws at that for a moment, but stops abruptly, covering her mouth with her hand.

"Oh, no, I wasn't laughing at you," M'Gann assures me, "it's just, no. I'm a Martian. And you're the new Red Lantern! Have you had any amazing adventures?"

I hate to disappoint her (there it is again), but there's not much choice as I sink into a lovely armchair.

"Just the adventure of getting my ring in the first place, but being so angry that a Lantern Ring thought it should rule my life isn't exactly a story I want to tell."

She's tearing up now. Good job, Amy.

Chapter Text

Okay, time to change the subject. Oh, a plate of cookies, that's a good distraction! A bite of one is good, and I can tell they're homemade.

"Did you make these?" I ask her, between nibbles. M'gann takes one herself, nodding enthusiastically. That kicks off a whole discussion about cooking, marred only slightly by a few stories of my ex-boyfriend being hopeless in the kitchen. Then we're putting together a chicken pot pie for . . . dinner? Yeah, that sounds about right, it's quarter to six. People trickle in as the mix gets assembled, and I've got a good handful of company when M'gann puts the filled shell into the oven.

"We'll take care of the dishes, now that the chefs are finished," one fellow says briskly. I didn't look at him closely before, and given those abs, that was probably a good call. "I'm Nightwing, by the way."

"Atalanta," his friend chimes in, putting on a pair of gloves. Lovely blond hair down her back, and I catch a W on her tee before she's facing the sink. "Impulse and Flamebird should be here—"

Do they learn dramatic timing in superhero training? The door opens just as she finishes her sentence, with what I'm guessing is that couple entering.

"Paper-wooork!" the woman says, sing-song, and her friend shakes his head ruefully.

"Flame, you can't just announce that like 'groceries', it's not a treat."

Nevertheless, the folders get spread all over the tables, and I get pulled into the discussion. A belated look at the oven shows that my new friend set the timer, so that's a relief. There are maps and reports that start painting a picture for me. Santa Prisca is a Caribbean 'republic', bananas and all, with increasing shipments from pharmaceutical suppliers.

"Whatcha got for me, ring?" I ask. It was moderately helpful earlier, at least, so this is probably worth a shot.

"The drug-running warlord known as Bane seized power on the island seven years ago," it summarizes, "and appears to be expanding his production. The new ingredients may indicate an improved version of Venom, or a hybrid thereof. Note that Bane himself has a battle-hardened harness for continuing to pump Venom into his bloodstream, while other users will gain benefits from a syringe of the steroid for only a few minutes."

A lot of nodding around the place now, and I wonder if there was even any point in saying what everyone already knew.

"Don't get into a fistfight with either one, if you can help it," Nightwing agrees. He's looking right at me, now.

"I'd like to think that I can be a little cleverer than that," I protest. "Wait, am I even going there?"

"Maybe," answers Atalanta absently. "Batman and Wonder Woman are still working on the plans. One of the Lanterns might see it as a good opportunity for you to get your feet wet."

I don't think I like the sound of that. Frankly, the situation seems more like diving in right off the bat, and not just because it's on an island.

"I missed the part where I signed up to do what they tell me," I reply, looking impatiently at the timer. Five minutes left. "Especially since I've met one of these four-plus people."

"Nobody said you were being drafted," M'gann assures me, getting the trivet and plates ready. "And we're not going to say 'boo' if you decide to stay home with your ring."

"It's been a long day," I half-apologize. "Still not feeling great about, well, anything."

With that, and the slices going out, the conversation gets a little lighter. There's even a cabinet of puzzles and board games, which I fully intend to enjoy when my bowl is clean. Good old "you're not you when you're hungry".

It's almost time for bed, and that means a little more introspection. I sit in my room, one hand ready to take off my ring.

"There is righteous anger," I murmur, "and passion. The fury to stand before those who need my help, and defend them from the threats of the world. I am not my anger, and the power of my temper does not go off against my better judgement."

The metal ornament is in my palm now, though I can't say as I really feel any different.

"We are allies, ring," I tell it. "I have the fuel, and you have the force. Only I can change who I am. There will be no savagery."

Maybe I'm overthinking this. The issue keeps ringing in my head as I try to settle down into sleep. Well, that's also a challenge in a new bed, and with life changes like these. Hmm, I should really thank Atalanta and Flamebird for taking care of my stuff, even if it's still all packed up for now.

Two days later, I'm feeling pretty okay about things. M'gann is a lovely roommate, and getting to be a good friend. She trusts her uncle, and she's sure the League knows how to help me get used to this ring as more than a paperweight on my finger. If they ask me to go to Santa Prisca, well, that could be an interesting trip. Not least because, well, I'm not exactly getting cabin fever, but not having any fresh air or sun on my face isn't my idea of a good time.

Ah, a knock on the door. None of the others do that, so presumably this is a full Leaguer coming to discuss my debut.

"Your job there won't be kicking ass and taking names," Stewart tells me flatly, when he delivers my assignment. "Anger is a dangerous power source, and I don't want you acting like a newbie with it."

My temper rises, of course, but I breathe and let it wash over me.

"Whenever you're done treating me like a delinquent," I return, mild-mannered as can be. He nods, with a small smile.

"Sorry about that," Stewart replies, "but you're new ground as far as we know. Can't exactly get a proper read on your volatility if I tell you that's what I'm doing."

The old rule about apologies not including a 'but' applies pretty well here.

"No thanks, then," I reply. "Feel free to let me know when I get to be an actual person instead of a test subject."

Chapter Text

He finally stops digging himself deeper, and leaves me to my thoughts. Which, of course, are not now things I want to stew in. Time for a change of pace. Like flying around, haven't gotten to do that yet.

"Ring, you can handle flight plans and all the stuff, right?" I ask, looking down at my hand. An affirmative beep is my response. Odd, since it's talked before, but whatever. I head to one of the Zeta Tubes for a ride down—Lanterns can do space travel just fine, but I'm not really in the mood for low Earth orbit at the moment.

Technically, 'tube' just describes a shape, two circles connected by simple straight lines. And yet, somehow, the word seems inadequate for the three alcoves before me. They're big enough for several people at once, which instantly makes sense for transporting the League in emergencies. I step up to the console on the left.

Picking a destination, hmm. One is as good as any other. Mount Justice is on the shortlist, so I go for that.

"Red Lantern to Mount Justice," the system announces. Walking into the vestibule whisks me away on a muted technicolor breezeway, bringing me down to Earth. And, I'm betting, one of their field offices. It doesn't take me long, wandering around exploring the place, to find the reception area. An impressive front door, heralding the way outside, and a greeter at the desk.

"Hello there!" the young lady calls out cheerfully. Her nametag reads 'Dawn'. "Can I help you with anything?"

"Just heading for some fresh air, flying around," I reply. Despite my words, I'm now just ambling towards that entrance. Dawn's very good at displaying a pleased extraverted demeanor, just like M'gann.

"Lucky!" she teases me. "Well, have a nice time, Red Lantern!"

I didn't think my ring was that obvious. Looking down, that's not the clue—I don't exactly have a full suit on, but there's a red kerchief covering my nose and mouth, plus a lantern insignia rather like the Greenies, and accents on my blouse and capris. Huh. Going to have to check this out a little more. Later. For now, as the door swings shut again behind me, I rise inch by inch, foot by foot, and start enjoying truly free movement. Something most people will never get to experience.

The wind is in my hair, following me while I swoop around. This is the stuff. Just that little bit of resting irritation, keep me floating here.

"Having a nice time?" a voice calls out, making me twirl around to see the Big Blue himself. His cape is settling down, since he's more or less just standing in midair.

"Flying is amazing," I tell him, still basking in the afterglow. Superman chuckles, grinning widely.

"That it is," he agrees wholeheartedly. "I think I've auctioned off over a hundred trips in the air for charity."

"One hundred and forty-seven," the ring clarifies. The reminder sours our mood a little bit.

"We're sorry about the things John said," he offers, matching course as I resume my aerial shenanigans. Several twists and turns, flips and dives, but that's his whole statement.

"That's it?" I ask, waiting for the followup.

"Would you rather I couch it by talking about how we don't know what we're doing?" he asks, easily keeping pace as I maneuver around.

"I'd rather he hadn't done it in the first place," I retort. Pulsing now, head to feet and back again.

"So do we. That's what "we're sorry" actually means."

The bare regret in his voice finally slows me down. Superman has a wry, half-bitter, quasi-self-deprecatory smile on his face. Not even asking for a break. And then, with a wink, he shoots off into the distance. It's my turn to play follow the leader, and get a more intuitive, experience-based hold on how I fly. It's not quite hooked into my brain, which is fortunate considering the lack of mental discipline I have, much though I'm sure it's an improvement over other Red Lanterns.

"My grand-dad had a motto," he says conversationally, once I have the bandwidth to move with him and listen. "'Truth, justice, and the American Way'. Had a better ring in the fifties, before people were all that aware of the skeletons in our national closet. The core of it is still good, though. In America, you can accomplish anything with hard work, character, and merit."

I sigh, despite myself. "Wish I could believe that."

Supes actually lets out a belly laugh.

"Ha! So did he. So does my dad. So do I. It's an ideal that we often fall short of, Amelia. So many people in the United States are denied their dreams, despite deserving them. But we're never going to get closer to that city on a hill if we don't hold it in our hearts."

I don't know if he was going for it or not, speaking with such paradoxically calm emotion, but that's hit my power right on the head. Anger that others aren't as fortunate as I, but the desire to help. He phrases it better, of course - there's a reason everyone sees him as the leader of the Justice League.

"I imagine that doesn't go over so well internationally," I suggest, dodging around a cloud. A little round of applause, for that.

"Plenty of cultures have values I admire," he responds. "'Liberty, equality, brotherhood' in France. 'Independence, liberty, happiness' for Vietnam. Algerians say 'by the people and for the people'. Paraguayans want 'peace and justice'."

With those parting words, Superman waves goodbye.

"Ruminate, ruminate, ruminate," I singsong, reflecting on the high-flown (ha) discussion, "mad enough to do cool things without just hitting everybody."

That kind of fell apart at the end there. At least nobody heard my spontaneous poetic disappointment.

"Hey there!" M'gann chirps a few feet below me. "Want some company?"

I shrug, before spotting something on the ground, a good couple of thousand feet away.

"Huh, what's that?" I wonder.

"There is an android at the Happy Harbor Power Plant. Intentions unknown. Aerokinetic equipment detected," my ring reports. On the one hand that was kind of a rhetorical question, but I did also genuinely want the information, so-

"What's Red Tornado doing there?" M'gann asks. "Should we go say hi?"

Another shrug from me. Might as well. I've had some nice flying time, and it couldn't hurt to spend time with the League a little more. We start heading down; it takes a few seconds to realize why I feel comfortable doing a midair headstand. Lantern rings can do some sneaky stuff, which in this case is fine by me. A display even pops up, showing him winding up to punch a transformer hey what now?

"Easy there, buddy!" I shout. "Pretty sure that's not the approved dismantling procedure."

Instead of a reply, we get a vortex hurled in our direction.

"Why would Red Tornado do this?" M'gann frets. I hurriedly yank her out of the way, being a lot quicker on my feet.

"Maybe he got hacked," I pant, "or maybe it's someone else. Do you know what he looks like?"

"Not that," she concedes. "See if you can shut him down, while I talk to Uncle J'onn."

A power ring I've had for a couple of days, and barely tried out, to stop a robot from wrecking a power plant. Heck of a way to prove myself to everyone.

Chapter Text

Gnoster Heterodyne cackled as he viewed his masterpiece, a great scope capable of peering into the substance of reality itself. Granted, he was a little pressed for space here, with crates of Jaegerdraught bottles littering the place, but clearing them out just couldn't capture his attention when the SCIENCE! was ready.

"Fire it up, Castle!" he commanded, and the machine-building began to feed his construction power. The dials rose, in fits and spurts; he always liked it better that way. If everything went smoothly, you clearly spent too much time preparing and are already behind in discovery, that's what he always said. The creaking and rocking from some of the smaller pieces he'd assembled, particularly the ones that weren't screwed to the floor, gave him very little pause.

The giant hole that swept over the place in the blink of an eye, sweeping away all of that detritus Gnoster hadn't bothered with and leaving him panting on a stool he'd hastily grabbed, that was a different story.

"Maybe shelve that one for a while," he pronounced woozily.

"Life on Coruscant remains in high gear," the anchor reads, and I snort, swatting at the screen from my seat on the couch. Yeah, that's one word for it. The place has practically gone crazy, with people building giant robots, death rays, in-atmo hyperdrives, et cetera. Naturally, the Senate hasn't responded, though in fairness the dozen funerals they've already had to arrange from various incidents can't be helping their workflow. At least Naboo got a token delegation, what with the sympathy vote for their senator getting caught in one of those lab accidents.

"A little chaos might be just what we need," I muse aloud, "but we've got more than a little. Hnn."

A thought strikes me, and I start looking at the Senate's Rules of Procedure. That gets me pulled into the constitution, and the local assembly; in just a couple of hours, I've got datapads and flimsi lying everywhere. The system we've got isn't a mess, exactly, but it is ponderous, and sometimes government needs to be able to move swiftly. I'm pretty sure that Trade Federation blockade would have been ignored, if Palpatine hadn't gotten a moment in the headlines for his gruesome death. Of course, passing any package to change our structure is going to be non-trivial. I'll need allies.

Well, I've managed to secure an appointment with the Jedi Order's government outreach secretary. Good thing I've got flexible hours; waiting a month or three for a slot on my day off would have been incredibly rough. I can feel the potential in my proposal, and I don't think it's all ego. Some of it is, probably, I'll grant, but we've had a thousand years to see where the kinks are since the last revamp.

Hey, there's a kid over there. Looks pretty moody, too, sitting by himself.

"What's the matter, buddy?" I ask him, curling up nearby without putting my coils too close. It's a difficult balance to strike, for humans.

"I don't think the Council wants me," he replies, frowning and sighing.

"For . . . training?" I venture, wondering what other purpose they might have.

"They say I'm too old, and attached to my mother, and Jar Jar can't come with me, and—"

I hold up my hands, and invite him to start from the beginning. Anakin, as he introduces himself, was born into slavery, but a few days ago a Jedi encountered him on Tatooine. Something, somehow, led him to building a gadget to take out his slave implant, along with his mother's, and even fix the ship the Jedi was using so they could get off-world. This Jar Jar drank one of the bottles I'd heard about, and even survived the process. Odd, given that most of the people I'd heard about doing it were either already beyond the help of bacta, or that attached to one of the new 'mad scientists'. Now he's apparently torn between helping this whiz kid and repaying the life debt he owes that Jedi.

"It might be," I tell him, after he's wound down a bit, "that the Jedi aren't quite the right place for you. You've got talent, definitely, and letting it go to waste would be a shame, but I think there are other options."

Anakin perks up a little at that; I get the feeling that understandably, especially for a nine-year-old, he got swept up with Qui-Gon and everything he represented, and didn't quite realize that a few more doors would be open for him once he reached proper civilization.

The receptionist waves me in, and I hastily give him my card, in exchange for a promise that if he has to leave before I'm done, he'll contact me. Anakin's a lot more collected than the people who got on the news, though of course that's just how life works anyway. 'Dog Has Delightful Time At Park' doesn't quite grab people like 'Rabid Rampage!', after all.

"Miss Zwingli," the secretary greets me, and I shake her hand. My datapad is ready, of course.

"As I noted before," she tells me, "I like a lot of what you've done, but presenting something that the Senate will agree to, and getting it through their committees, is no small challenge."

"It's the right thing to to," I reply, curling up my tail in nervous habit, "and that's usually worth a fight."

Dr. Dettifer smiles thinly at that.

"Idealism can sustain you for a long and difficult struggle, but it can also break your heart. What are you going to do if they take a mealy-mouthed, watered-down version of just a single point in here, and schedule fifteen minutes for it six months away?"

I grimace at that gloomy prospect, and do my best to give her an honest answer.

"If the Senate won't give me anything, then I'll find some way to change the landscape," I declare. She raises her eyebrows, and I clarify "legally, of course."

The secretary shakes her head wistfully, and hands me another datapad.

"This will get you into our library," she informs me, "apart from the restricted sections, but I doubt you'll need them. Some of the students might be interested in this little project, too, but try not to distract them from their training."

I thank her, and head out to see Anakin—along with a bearded gentleman, who's probably Qui-Gon.

"Any news?" I ask the kid. Qui-Gon lays his hand on his shoulder, and shakes his head.

"We'll be heading to Naboo now," he informs me. "May the Force be with you."

A sudden whim seizes me, and I screw up my mouth, staring at my pad.

"Can I come?" I ask him. "I've got a plan here to help the Senate be more responsive to crises, and it would probably help if I'd actually been to one. I don't think the kerfuffle here really counts."

The Jedi raises his eyebrow, studies me, and shrugs.

"If you believe it's necessary, we have room on the ship. Of course, without skills useful to a war zone, I suppose you'll be sitting on the ship with Anakin's mother, trying to remain composed in a daunting new world."

With that encouragement, the three of us are off. No, four; er, five. Jinn's padawan, Obi-Wan Kenobi, and Jar Jar join us. What a motley crew we make, especially with everyone but Anakin 'giving space' for the hulking Gungan. He's a friendly sort, but still rather imposing.

Chapter Text

"I'll take the next two cards," Nog announces, reaching for the deck. Well, he didn't have much of a choice, since his hand was down to two after claiming the six-ship lane from Betazed to Vulcan.

"Green, please," I request, and Dax hands me one from the open array. Another green replaces it, and I nibble on my synth-flesh lip for a couple of seconds. I don't need any more green, and it would be nice to have a few more pairs, so "And the red one, thank you."

Jake lays his cards down silently, claiming the route from Cardassia to Bajor, and boy howdy would there probably have been a fuss over that if any uptight Bajorans like Kai Winn had been at the table. Frankly, though, she was the only one who objected; Major Kira thought it was perfectly reasonable to observe the relatively short distance between them, as long as the route didn't constitute a destination ticket by itself, and I had no problem acceding to that request.

Then there's a tap on my shoulder, and I turn to see a vedek.

"Young man, my congregation has been unsettled by your talk of war between the Federation and the Dominion," he intoned severely, and I have never been so glad that I decided to let all the ordinary reflexes be overridden easily, because otherwise my eyes would have rolled right out of my head.

"It's an unsettling prospect, but pretending it isn't there won't change anything," I respond, laying down the last route for my final ticket and once again straightening out the discard pile.

"That conflict is a possibility, not a certainty," he insists. Ah, I see Quark's coming. He has a nose for business disruptions.

"The Federation has been in conflict with every neighbor who had philosophical differences with their governing ethics," I explain. "Klingons, Cardassians, Romulans, et cetera. The wormhole makes the Dominion close enough that they won't be able to live and let live. It's all very straightforward, and if people don't want to stick their heads in the ground to escape from it, that's their decision."

The vedek starts getting worked up at this, but Mr. Bartender tells him that if he's not going to buy anything or stop harassing customers, he'll have to leave, and he storms out instead.

"A pretty good summary," Dax notes, and I shrug.

"Five minutes with public records will show you the pattern."

Jake chuckles in response. "Your degree in politics kinda helps. Pretty cool, how they counted that from, um."

Quite a lot of the station finds it awkward to discuss my origins, and to be fair, for a while it was a bit of a sore subject. Seeing Deep Space Nine as a real place rather than a show was a challenging transition, though it helped to reinvent myself somewhat: discarding the life I had thought I lived on Earth, making new friends, carving out a place for myself here.

"It's really not hard to see," I protest. "Just like Cardassia itself being the best target for the Dominion to get a foothold here."

Dax raises a single eyebrow, Nog folds his arms, and Jake waves me on, so I continue.

"They're a mid-sized power, a good dose of governmental instability already, and based on the same kind of autocracy the Founders enjoy, plus they're pretty close to the wormhole. The question is whether they go for a straight infiltration or something more exotic."

I clap my hands, trying to restore the mood that I dampened, and wince as I once again remember just too late that my hands make a decidedly different sound now.

"Your turn, Jake."

A week later, I'm alerted that Commander Sisko wants to speak with me. It's not like I have anything better to do, so I take the turbolift over to Ops and press the button for his office.

"Mr. Olivaw," he greets me, shaking my hand with no sign of alienation, "thank you for meeting with me so promptly."

"Helps that I don't have a boss to keep me on the job," I reply, smirking and taking a seat as he gestures to the chair on the other side of his desk.

"Yes, I've noticed that your acclimation hasn't included employment," he observes. "I'm not scolding you at all, our agreement didn't include that, but I have a proposition for you regardless."

I have no idea where he's going with this, and Sisko can see the confusion on my face.

"Commander Dax thought highly of your analysis at that game night, particularly since almost everything you put together was based on public knowledge," he tells me, then pauses. "Along with a little rumor, of course."

I shake my head, annoyed that he's gotten into this as well.

"It's just, it's all straightforward. Are you telling me anything I said was news to your people, including the ones who don't have clearance worth talking about?"

The commander grins savagely at that.

"As a matter of fact, yes. Several of them had never considered the idea, and a few believed that the Maquis would be a better target."

Even as he finishes, I'm shaking my head firmly.

"No. Trying to use the Maquis would be a waste of time. They're far too insular to make impersonation manageable, cell-based like any resistance worth its salt or they would already be gone, and not in a good strategic position for a good return on investment. They'll be around for a while, I'm sure, very hard to eliminate completely, but they don't have what it takes to force the Cardassians to the table, much less the fairly indifferent Federation. There are worse opportunities for the Dominion, but not many."

Sisko is silent for several seconds.

"Would it surprise you to know, Mr. Olivaw," he says at last, "that my intelligence reports say the exact same thing?"

I consider the idea for about the same period of time, but I don't have an answer.

"Three months of officer training, a commission as junior lieutenant, and the new position of geopolitical advisor, reporting to Major Kira," he offers. Can't say I was expecting that.

"My, history, has a connection to military service," I tell him, chewing over the idea verbally, "but it never seemed like the right thing for me. I know, I know," I say, trying to forestall the objection, "'Starfleet isn't military', but with your naval ranks, chain of command, court-martials, answering to the civilian government, there sure is a heck of a lot of resemblance."

Sisko frowns, but I can tell he sees where I'm coming from.

"I don't like the idea of being required to follow orders," I sum up. "Refusing illegal orders is a thing, obviously, but having to do something I'm sure is a bad idea sticks in my craw. Pretty soon, I think I'll have no choice, in good conscience, but to accept," I continue. He seizes on the opportunity.

"Is that 'soon' within three months?" he asks, confident that he's got me, and pretty justifiably. All I can do is mock-scowl at him.

"Give me the pamphlet and I'll have an answer for you within two days," I grumble. Sisko hands me a datapad, and I turn to leave his office.

"Mr. Olivaw," he calls, making me stop. "Thank you. Ask Dax about orders I've given that she hasn't liked, or Mr. O'Brien. I listen to my people."

"You'll give me all the time I need to set you straight, and then you expect me to carry out whatever decision you make," I sum up, quoting almost exactly. A small but genuine smile from my likely-imminent commanding officer, sending me on my way.

"I can't speak for officer business," the chief tells me, "but you know that already. Commander Sisko has done an excellent job running this station, and the problems I've encountered have been something he helped with, not contributed to. He and Major Kira make a good team. I believe in them, and I think you will too."

Dax is a slightly different story, especially when I'm really dealing with her as a Starfleet officer rather than a game player.

"You are going to have problems," she tells me, very frankly. "You're still adjusting to life in the Federation, and while the major won't hold that against you, some of your fellow officers will see it as a reason to question your decisions."

"So my impressive analysis isn't going to wow as many people as you made it seem?" I tease her, but she's not having any of it.

"What are you going to do the seventh time someone makes a wisecrack about learning the Prime Directive around you?" Dax challenges me, and I let out a chuckle. She nods grudgingly, acknowledging my 'emotional' control as an artificial lifeform, and goes for my big concern.

"More than anyone else," she warns me, "you'll have to deal with Commander Sisko, or Major Kira, 'taking your counsel under advisement', and taking a different path because they have objectives they value more. If you'd been around in our first year, you might have seen the Circle coming, predicted that Kira and Nalas were part of something bigger, but that doesn't mean your advice to, say, start working the Chamber of Ministers for information would have been followed."

I sit back in my chair, chewing on the problem.

"And then there will be the times when they do agree with me, but the admirals don't. The Maquis have been such a messy business, there's no way the approach was ever really smooth."

Dax really does have an excellent poker face.

"I think what it comes down to is choosing between a future of filing strongly-worded petitions that the senior officers might chat about, or registering objections when my view of the situation doesn't stay on the table," I sum up, and she frowns approvingly.

Chapter Text

The 'three months' ended up being four and change, but part of that was investigating an incident during pilot training. An ion storm near the shuttle gave me something of an out-of-body experience, worth delving into further, along with a classified report. Now I'm headed back to the station, black and gold pips on my collar. I'm just about used to the uniform at this point, and it's fairly common practice for civilian entrants to the officer corps to forgo their former clothes for a while to speed that process along. The ongoing beat and counter-beat, insisting that Starfleet isn't military but taking just about every opportunity to use military traditions.

It's peaceful, in this little observation room. Not a whole lot to look at, really just the stars streaking by. A little like watching raindrops fall down a window. Ah, with the door opening, I may have company—Worf, as it happens.

"Good afternoon, Commander," I greet him, and he nods in response.

"Lieutenant," the brusque man acknowledges me. He takes his own position near the window, gaze drifting around.

"Are you being assigned to Deep Space Nine?" I ask. A natural conclusion to draw, garnering another nod.

"Captain Sisko wants you to look into the Klingon situation, huh?" I wonder further. Worf stays still.

"I do not make a habit of attempting to predict my assignments," he replies. That has been an occasional sentiment expressed by various instructors, certainly.

"In general, no," I concede. "But under the circumstances, seems like an obvious conclusion to draw. I wouldn't be surprised if he has both of us trying to figure out what they're up to."

"It is possible," he allows, which ends our conversation for the next few minutes.

"I would appreciate," I say suddenly, "any guidance you might have for a fellow Starfleet outsider."

This grabs the Klingon's attention, and he nods firmly. Almost warmly, for that matter.

"Of course," he replies readily. "It is the duty of every officer to mentor their colleagues, when appropriate."

An interesting sensation, being back in Ops for good rather than as a visitor. Not exactly the time to dwell on that, of course, as I'm on duty, sitting at the main conference room.

"Lieutenant Commander Worf, Lieutenant Olivaw," Captain Sisko greets us, shaking our hands with a smile. Major Kira follows suit, and we settle in for the assignment.

"As I'm sure Mr. Olivaw has already deduced," he begins, "you're here to find out what's happening with that Klingon task force. They say they're here to fight the Dominion, but something's not right."

Tthe major holds up a finger as I open my mouth, and I promptly close it again.

"This is not cooperative or collaborative," she tells us. "You each have your own methods for approaching this question. Don't contaminate your findings, even subconsciously, by discussing them with each other."

I nod, my mouth screwed up. It makes perfect sense, I just like having someone to bounce ideas off of.

"I suspect that we will both find this matter most intriguing," Worf muses, and turns to me. "I hope that working separately will not impede my guidance for you."

A single raised eyebrow from Sisko elicits an explanation.

"He requested my counsel, sir, from one member of a non-Federation race to another."

"I suppose this is as good a time as any to note that after careful consideration, I don't identify as male or female," I volunteer. "'They/them', please. I changed my forms before leaving for Dee Ess Nine."

Reviewing historical reports is important, in a situation like this. When in doubt, look at what's happened before. I think my conclusion may well ultimately boil down to 'the last time Klingons acted like they are now, they followed it by-'. It's what Captain Sisko wants, it's what he asked me for, and it'll be a good contrast for Worf's more personal tactics. Still, all work and no play, plus I'm looking forward to getting to know my new colleagues a little better. Quark's it is.

"Lieutenant Olivaw!" The chief and the doctor call out to me. Worf's already with them, and I see Kira and Dax have been enjoying themselves in the holosuite.

"I remember when my pips were that shiny," Dax teases me. I roll my eyes playfully, taking a sip of prune juice to match Worf's. And then he punches one of the Klingons.

"That's one way to make an entrance here," Bashir muses, wincing as his colleague's opponent winds up on his back.

"He's good," Dax says, frowning in approval, and O'Brien scoffs.

"What'd I tell you?" he retorts, full of pride in his current and former shipmate.

"He's working," I murmur, running back through the encounter.

"What was that?" Kira asks, cocking her head.

"That wasn't a gallant deed," I explain, working it out as I go along. "Or at least, not primarily. Worf just laid out Martok's son. The head of the task force. The usual protocol is for Martok to retrieve his son's dagger, which gives the commander a chance to get some information."

Bashir grimaces, returning to his game of darts with O'Brien. "Think he'll get anywhere?"

All I can do is shrug, resisting the impulse to open with "in my professional opinion,".

"The Empire is gearing up for war, sir," I sum up, sitting straight up in Sisko's office. "Not with us, but it is going to be nearby. They get tetchy right before a fight, and there's no reason to have a buildup at the station if they're just going to haul themselves over a sector or three."

Before he can respond, Worf strides in.

"They're going to invade Cardassia, sir," he says bluntly. That does make a lot of sense. "According to my source, there has been an uprising on the Cardassian homeworld. The Central Command has been overthrown and power transferred to civilian authorities."

"Even if your source is correct," the captain objects, "what does that have to do with the Klingons?"

Worf grimaces, but doesn't sit down. For my part, I start pacing, wondering if he's going to fill in any more missing pieces.

"Gowron and the High Council believe the coup was engineered by the Dominion."

"Do they have any proof?" Sisko wonders, and now we're both shaking our heads, though my doubt is really just a hunch.

"None that I know of," he responds, "but they are convinced that civilians could not have overthrown the Central Command without help."

"So, by attacking Cardassia they think they're protecting the Alpha Quadrant from the Dominion?" He shakes his head wearily, but refocuses. "Sisko to Dax. Contact General Martok. Tell him I need to meet with him immediately."

A single look from the captain tells me it's time to go.

Staff meetings aren't usually this tense, not that I've been to many. We're all seated around the conference table, trying to find a way forward that doesn't seem like a tightrope between Scylla and Charybdis.

"The Federation Council has been trying to contact Gowron. So far, they've had no response. So until they've had a chance to speak with him, we've been ordered not to get involved." Sisko doesn't like the situation. None of us do.

Kira delivers her own message. "The Bajoran government has agreed to abide by the decisions of the Federation Council."

"So that means we're not going to warn the Cardassians?" Bashir wonders, hunching in his chair and worrying his hands.

"The Klingons are still our allies," Dax replies reluctantly. "If we warn the Cardassians, we'd be betraying them."

"Besides, what if the Klingons are right?" O'Brien counters. "What if the Dominion has taken over the Cardassian government?"

"If my people wanted to seize control of Cardassia, that is how they would do it," Odo says, but I shake my head slowly.

"That's one way, sure," I muse. "The Founders are sly and tricksy, but they're not one-trick ponies."

"It does not matter if the threat is real or imagined," Worf says. "There are many who say we have been at peace too long. They are itching for a fight, and Cardassia is the most convenient target."

"And what happens when they go for someone less convenient?" Kira wonders. "Like the Federation?"

"Or Bajor," Dax grumbles.

"Well. We can't sit here and wait for the Klingons to come after us, and we can't give them a reason to by warning the Cardassians," O'Brien assesses, gritting his teeth at either prospect.

"Which means we need something else. A way to change the rules," Sisko tells us. No pressure, or anything.

Chapter Text

“Our goal, ultimately, isn’t to keep the Empire from invading Cardassia,” I muse. “Both because it’s not achievable, and it might not even be desirable. Making sure it’s a real fight, without telling the Cardassians in advance, might be the way to go.”

Dax cocks her head, picking up on my spitballing. Just throwing ideas around, jostling someone into the path that avoids tremendous calamity.

“Advising them, without actually making any connection,” she speculates.

“Dr. Bashir, how clever is your friend Garak?” Sisko asks, stroking his beard as the plan starts to form.

“Got something you should see, Olivaw,” Chief O’Brien tells me, leading me through the corridors.

Turns out he has an interesting little cubby tucked away in Ops. More or less a large cabinet, frankly, with a few control panels and viewscreens inside. The panel he took off has small grips on both sides, making full use of this ace in the hole. I could be shut in here while the place was being assaulted, with no one the wiser.

“It’s been, challenging,” he says, taking small amusement in pronouncing the situation with the same vigor that would normally accompany questionable language, “getting Deep Space Nine up to code with Federation standards. This space went on the long list of things that were annoying to deal with, but didn’t present a major problem or straightforward solution.”

“Until I came along,” I surmise, “because clearing out that nook is a pain for whatever reason, and you also can’t ask anyone to work in there because there’s no room for an organic being to have proper posture. I, however, can settle right in.”

There’s one last piece to this puzzle: the headrest in there, an odd nod to my comfort given what I just said. O’Brien flips the cover up, and I see a very different set of circuitry. Compatible with the equipment hidden behind a panel on the back of my cranium, in fact.

“The captain passed that report to me,” he tells me quietly. “Not a card we want to play, but needs must.”

It rather goes without saying that I’ll only be connecting with the station directly if the situation truly merits it, as determined by Sisko.

Entering my custom workspace is an intriguing exercise, but I do have room to access almost everything relevant without too much trouble. O’Brien’s eyes widen as I shut myself in.

“You sure about that, Lieutenant?” he asks through the duranium sheet.

“Given the meeting we just had, Chief,” I reply, “what does your gut say about me being able to make good use of this space in the next thirteen hours?”

That said, it’s slightly unfortunate that he wasn’t able to include any substantial documentation of the setup. I spend a good long while fumbling around with what I can now open up and use. Fire suppression, loudspeakers, limited permissions with core systems like transporters, replicators, and the like. Lots of good material for guerilla warfare, particularly in the hands of someone who can stay on multi-task, as it were. For just a moment, I lament that I wasn’t constructed nearly as solidly as Commander Data.

People are starting to leave the station—including the Defiant, with half the senior staff. Reminding O’Brien that I called this probably isn’t the best use of my time. Just have to keep chugging. I lump a few handfuls of tools together, covering Ops, chunks of the Promenade, and the infirmary. Quark’s is a good target at some point, but I don’t see Klingons going for it particularly. Drinking and making merry is for after the battle.

“I just want you to know I’ll be assigning a security team to the infirmary for your protection,” Odo tells Bashir. You and me, buddy, like this, I note to myself, holding up two fingers pressed together.

“Thanks, but I’d rather you didn’t,” the good doctor declines. “I’m going to have wounded people in here. The last thing I need is a team of deputies having a firefight in my doorway.”

That . . . is a pretty good point.

“What about internal station defenses?” I ask, from the comm next to Bashir. “A faceful of foam will give most warriors pause.”

He furrows his brow, considering the idea, but still shakes his head.

“They’ll take it as a challenge,” he conjectures. “Whatever you do, keep it away from here.”

They continue their discussion, and I watch the station’s defenders ready themselves to hold off impending Klingon attackers. My fellow officers are stationed with the civilians who couldn’t evacuate in time, in the emergency shelters, as well as Odo’s Bajoran forces. It tends to be a mix of assignments, standing side by side, but the Cardassians Captain Sisko rescued have Garak, Dukat, and Starfleet forming a bulwark.

The station shakes from the impact of the opening Klingon strike. And probably the torpedo and phaser banks we’re firing right back. “So it begins.”

It doesn’t take long, unfortunately, for their assault to have a real effect. Dax reports that two shield generators are down, which is a prime opportunity for Gowron and Martok to launch boarding parties. It leaves the beaming ships open, since they also have to lower their shields, but, well, ‘today is a good day to die’.

Time for me to kick into high gear, using the tools that I’ve studied and safeguarding any place I can. Ops is challenging to follow, but the promenade, not so much. A couple of force fields obstruct three warriors on an upper pylon, giving our folks enough warning to get positioned for a counterattack. Some replicator fine-tuning at the Replimat sprays hot oil towards another group.

Overall, I have the sinking feeling that what I’m doing isn’t really effective. Minor stalling actions, at most. And the bloodshed continues, with dozens of people shot or stabbed.

“Captain,” I buzz Sisko’s combadge, “permission to open this shunt.”

As I’m speaking, it occurs to me that this is perhaps overly cryptic, but oh well. He grunts, dispatching his current foe, and catches his breath.

“Granted, Lieutenant,” he tells me. “Be careful.”

The headrest’s cover slips off. My skin peels up. It’s an uncomfortable procedure in this cramped space, but I expect that will pale in comparison to the sensation of plugging into Deep Space Nine. I lean back, letting the network protocols begin.

There is no beginning, nor any ending. The systems are vast, making me a petty traveler. Except that I see everything, touch everything, sink deep within the splendor of decades that engineers have devoted to this habitat. Every process in my synthetic cerebrum stretches to encompass the software marvel.

“It is we who shall stand down,” I hear Gowron say, from the viewscreen Sisko faces in Ops. Martok protests, but the chancellor has made up his mind.

“Enough,” Gowron orders. “Cease fire. Order our ships in Cardassian space to halt their advance.”

The mood in the room eases, despite the sternness that remains in his face.

“I do not intend to hand victory to the Dominion,” Gowron tells us. “But let your people know, the Klingon Empire will remember what has happened here. You have sided against us in battle, and this the Klingons do not forgive or forget.”

His image vanishes, and the fleet no longer appears to pose any threat to the station.

“I half expected you to say something like ‘oh, please! We’ve given you a good fight, and that’s what you like most!’,” I confess. Half of Ops jumps at my voice coming in over every screen, or maybe it’s also a little louder than I meant.

“It didn’t occur to me,” Sisko replies, “which is probably just as well. Satisfying though it might have been.”

The extraction process is just as unusual as entering was, and I emerge from my cubby with a certain creakiness in my joints. One might almost mistake it for having a crick in my back.

Chapter Text

I don't remember Hydra having any magic the first time around, and I'm pretty sure it wasn't in any of the files Nat dumped to the internet, so it's been a bit of a troubling experience tracking down this self-proclaimed wizard. The fellas are getting concerned too, and pretty soon Peggy's disapproval won't be enough to keep them from asking questions.

"Cap, is this guy for real?" Gabe asks, demonstrating my supposition quite nicely as we prepare for our final approach.

"If you can think of a worse result of overestimating him than looking like an idiot," I reply, "I'm all ears."

He's got nothing, which works for me. I'm happy to change plans when someone notices a problem I didn't, and contingencies should be covered in the order of likelihood, since we don't have the manpower to handle everything.

"Mister Wizard is deep enough in the forest that an outside perimeter won't help," Dum Dum notes. "We're all going in here."

Two hours later, that's exactly what's happening. Bucky and I take the lead, while Dum Dum and Peggy handle the rear. We're moving at a reasonable speed, checking rooms as we encounter them, and there's definitely a building 'wizard' vibe. Filled bookcases, preserved animal parts, the works. Beyond that creepiness, his facility is straightforward, no splits in the path. The Commandos are too professional to get antsy, despite seeing no sign of the actual resident here, and the hunch that he'll pop up at the end for a deranged rant.

Sure enough, there's a great hall a little further in, all sorts of runes on the walls, and weirdly none on the floor. Crystals hanging from the ceiling here and there, along with an impressively tacky chandelier. At the back, we finally have Johann Weiss, his staff held aloft and robes trailing on the ground.

"Ah, Captain, well done for finding me, eventually," he proclaims. I swear I can feel the collective urge to roll our eyes.

"It's over, buddy. Surrender now and we'll treat you humanely," I promise, but he just laughs.

"On the contrary, I am about to say goodbye to you for good!" Weiss shouts, jabbing that glorified walking stick right at me. I dodge behind my shield, and the others go for cover as well; we're all vindicated when something bounces off my shield, going right into the ceiling—oh no. I have just a moment to see everyone freeze, like gilded statues, and my only comfort is that Weiss got hit as well.

Or wait, no, he's gone, and they're fine now? But we're not in that hall anymore. This looks more like a museum.

"Okay, wizard it is," Gabe says flatly. "Sorry for doubting, Captain."

"You did the right thing," I respond, and start leading us out. Nighttime still, so the place is quiet. Of course, that also means I'll have to make some explanations if there's night security, and somehow I don't see "magic froze us" being a good explanation.

Before we even reach the door, Jim gasps, pointing to a plaque on the wall.

"Captain Steve Rogers, Agent Peggy Carter, and the Howling Commandos
These statues were found years after their disappearance in action,
and are presumed to be dedicated to their memory.

This exhibit was installed in May 1997."

That's just . . . oh boy.

"I'm sorry, my friends," I tell them, feeling the weight of those lost years as no one else but Bucky could do. "I hope we can get back, but don't count on it."

"Making a plaque isn't that hard, if someone's trying to con us," Jacques argues, putting on a brave face.

"Keep an eye out," Bucky grunts, "for a slip in the façade or confirmation."

No sign of anyone at all as we leave the building, which is something, and this is definitely not the forest we were in two hours ago. Still doesn't mean we're in the nineties, of course. There's a rough column of people walking slowly down the road, but not like a casual stroll, or a pace for walking all the way home.

"Why would anyone be doing that at all, let alone at this time of night?" Peggy asks, summing it up.

We keep with their direction, moving quickly but stealthily. Reasonable bet is that they're going right for a target, and maybe we'll find out more there.

Twenty minutes later, we have Sunnydale High, as announced by its concrete marker. Naturally, it has no founding date there, and to be honest, I wouldn't be at all surprised to see a building constructed in 1920 still operational in 1997, so the mystery continues.

"Should we split up?" Monty suggests. "Any ruse this elaborate will catch us anyway, and the danger in a school should be minimal."

I chew on the prospect for a moment, as we approach the front doors.

"Unless there's an obvious sign of life, yes," I decide. "Dum Dum with Jim, Peggy with Monty, Bucky with Jacques, me with Gabe."

We start pairing up, and Gabe and I prop the doors open for the rest before blocking them in front. Any civilians with sense can get them open easily, but that's definitely not the feeling we picked up from those weirdos. Bucky and Peggy move right, while Dum Dum follows me to the left. They're still even within earshot when I see lights on in the library, and a tweedy man fussing over his books.

"Who are you?" he demands. Ah, Peggy's countryman. He looks closer, and gapes at me.

"Captain America? Ah, Rupert Giles," he introduces himself, composure decidedly ruffled. I wave Gabe back to alert the others. Time to start getting the lay of the land.

"That's me," I agree, "shield and all. What's the situation here? I saw a crowd of folks moving this way, walking a little like zombies."

"Vampires," he says, biting off the word like it's a swear, and daring me to contradict him.

"We don't have time to barricade the whole place," I say, "so what's your plan?"

Giles shakes his head, grimacing, and starts pushing tables towards the entrance.

"Miss Calendar and the children are still out there, but I think-"

Whatever he thought is cut off as a car screeches to a halt by the doors, followed seconds later by Peggy and the fellas, then three women, and finally the much more active horde.

"Get in!" I order them, keeping the entrance clear as the ratio of people entering to people helping them inside rapidly decreases, and then it's time to hold a table face-out while Dum Dum and Gabe prop it up with bits and pieces.

"What about Xander, and Buffy, and, and Angel?" one of the girls objects.

"I have faith," Giles grunts, moving to obstruct the windows. "Stakes through the heart or decapitation, gentlemen. Vampires are extremely strong, tough and fast. They will kill you in a moment if you underestimate them. Holy water and crosses burn them."

We've had worse intel before, getting into a fight.

Chapter Text

"You're turning people into muties!" a man yells at me from the street. Well, I knew this was going to happen sooner or later, and with about as much intelligence. At least this gentleman has waited until I leave the building I've rented for my classes, so all my students are safely away. The couple dozen friends he's brought are unfortunate, but we play the cards we're dealt.

"Your face is a mutie," I deftly counter, and he screws up his face in confusion. Not exactly a great addition to his rumpled flannel shirt and cargo pants, along with five days of stubble and a toque. It's a poorly-kempt crowd overall, frankly, but I'm not sure if that really makes any difference. We're pretty well removed from the days of peasant mobs; sometimes they wear suits, which won't necessarily make the group any less violent.

"Oh, were we not just exchanging incoherent statements?" I ask innocently. "Well, I am a teacher by profession, so let us go through the errors you have made."

This is decidedly not what they were expecting, and that might just buy me enough time for someone to notice the 'civil disturbance' and call it in.

"Number one," I announce grandly, "the word for someone whose genetic code has been altered later in life is mutate. Words have meanings, people."

The disgust with my pedantry is delightful, and several of the rabble give me the finger.

"Number two," I tell them, more seriously, "the techniques I teach are powered by the soul. Nothing to do with anyone's genetics. Any kind of human can learn them, regardless of the type of mutation they carry, which leads me to—"

"Number three," I thunder, drawing on all of my arsenal in looming, "mutants remain human. Same species. Humans without mutations can give birth to humans with them, and vice versa. The distinction is cosmetic, at most."

Now comes the anger, and swearing, and denial. Yup, gonna be time to leave soon.

"Graydon Creed is the son of Victor Creed and Raven Darkholme!" I shout over the crowd. "Two spectacularly mutated humans conceived a child who leads your cause today!"

Crowbars and bats are coming out. I may have misread the situation. No sirens coming, nothing on the frequencies either. In retrospect, that last bit probably just egged them on, but this is hardly the time for regrets. But even as I'm preparing to vanish, the wind starts to pick up, and a few droplets hit my hand. The prospect of a sudden rainstorm cools some tempers into heading for shelter, and a handful of seconds is enough to get a real downpour that deals with most of the rest. Huh. Sudden bursts are known to happen, but this is incredibly good timing. I stroll away casually, taking out an umbrella, and wish the remainder a pleasant evening.

Not twenty feet away, I see a man in red glasses and a leather jacket, accompanied by a woman with breathtaking white hair falling to her waist. She looks away right when I catch her eye.

"Nicely done," I comment, catching up to them.

"That was an interesting speech you made," he observes, dismissing my insinuation for now.

"A mix of common knowledge and semi-public records, for the most part," I reply. "My pamphlets clearly explain the rest."

"Yes, we'd like to learn more about that," she jumps in. "I am Ororo, by the way, and this is Scott."

"Christine," I reply. "I will be happy to regale you, but . . . "

I weigh my suppositions carefully, remembering what I've seen on the news. They wait patiently, at least for a few moments.

"I'll need a large room," I tell them. "I can only look like this for so long at a time."

Now I've piqued the curiosity of Scott and Ororo, which seems to mean getting bundled into a van and riding along to the Xavier Institute for Gifted Youngsters. That's a word people still use? Language snippiness aside, they take me inside at a brisk pace, and before too terribly long the door opens to something more the size of an auditorium, except it doesn't quite have the same feel. Regardless, I start relaxing with a sigh.

A fall forward first, and my torso extends while my arms thicken and my spine curves to make the actual impact slight. Eight claws don't dig into the floor here, which is more than a lot of buildings can say; I won't have to watch my step so much here, perhaps. Legs follow suit, with my nose bulging out into a beak and hair fading into a pattern of scales. Finally, the small of my back wiggles toward the door, shooting forth a good five feet.

"You're a dragon," Scott says flatly. Ororo, for her part, is decidedly more impressed, murmuring "my, my". Of course, they're not my only company now, and a teenage girl dashes up to touch my scales.

"Ah, sorry, that was rude, wasn't it?" she immediately apologizes, but I just laugh.

"In most circumstances, yes, but I prefer to enjoy the wonder of a child."

She scowls, her hands on her hips.

"I'm fifteen, not a baby!" she protests. The growing crowd of adults are visibly controlling their own laughter now.

"'When I was ten,'" I quote, "I read fairy tales in secret and would have been ashamed to be found doing so. Now that I am fifty, I read them openly. When I became a man, I put away childish things, including the fear of childishness and the desire to be very grown up.' Do not restrain the urge to add joy to your world based solely on the judgment of others."

"Well-said," a bald fellow in a wheelchair responds. Er, no wheels, but same idea, looks like. "You seem to have a gift for oratory, Christine."

I shrug. "The phrasing was striking when I read it the first time. The sentiment, more so. I've used the line more than once."

"Betcha wish you coulda fit it into that brochure, huh?" a squat man quips, leaning against the wall.

"...well, now I do," I grumble, and that sets off the whole room chuckling. "Thanks for that—it never occurred to me before, and now it's going to bug me that there isn't really any childish aspect to letting a strand of your soul flow out to affect your body or the world."

Chapter Text

There's been a niggling feeling in the back of my mind since Scott and Ororo caught my eye, and seeing the full group like this jars it loose. I've seen them on TV, every once in a while, mostly during disasters or other freak happenings. They call themselves the X-Men. I know I underestimated the danger from those hoodlums; maybe my general approach needs some work as well. The goal was to introduce people to a different source of power, trainable and controllable, entirely separate from mutant powers. It could fundamentally change the conversation. Maybe I should—

"Do you think my school was a bad plan?" I ask their leader directly. Professor Xavier, as we have another round of introductions, considers my question carefully.

"No," he replies, "but I think the cause of mutant rights would be better served by some time spent here. I believe a few of us have problems that your portfolio might address."

Wolverine tosses me a can, which I barely catch in midair. Why did he have a beer on him, especially in the afternoon? He sees my expression, even through draconic body language, and chuckles again.

"You need company," he tells me flatly, "and someone to watch your back. Or are you going to tell me Storm didn't save your bacon?"

The idea of arguing against teamwork, even if his assessment is a little overblown, is foolish, and I don't even try.

"So are you going to live here with us now?" Jubilee asks. Despite my encouragement, she's been caught in teenage awkwardness, neither enjoying the sight of a dragon nor focused on other concerns.

"I'm considering it," I answer. "I've been working on my own for a while, and there are a lot of perks to being in charge of your own life."

Scott muses on the labor it would take to open the wall between two of the currently-spare bedrooms, to give me a proper space to myself, and even behind those glasses I can see the twitch of a restrained eyeroll after Wolverine pops his claws. It's a polite out for me, clearly, letting me decline to put them out so much, but the discussion tips me over the other way. Perhaps my new companions would like a demonstration of the techniques they've read about.

It's not exactly a quick trip from the 'Danger Room' to my new abode, and the girl does her best not to pepper me with questions, but I didn't enter into the teaching career just to amuse myself. That doesn't mean my answers are always particularly helpful, even beyond the normal push to guide students rather than simply giving them information. On the matter of mutant origins and mechanics, I have no answer better than the current theory of nuclear radiation 'activating' the human genome, though I'm careful to note that usually, mutation is an ordinary and unremarkable part of evolution. That in itself merits noting that evolution is not the same as improvement, fighting against the sentiment I've heard several times. 'Homo superior', a term that doesn't exactly improve the discussion. Sensationalism creeps in at the best of times, sadly; I suppose we should count ourselves lucky that Homo erectus, habilis, and Neanderthalensis got more sensible names. (Even if the first one does still get twerps to guffaw.)

Jubilee's gotten her adolescent emotions more or less calm, as we reach the paired bedrooms in question, and is perfectly happy to stand there wide-eyed, trying to watch both me and the wall simultaneously. Scott and the professor have informed me that they did actually foresee hosting people who needed additional space, and this wall is on tracks, but it is nevertheless a pain for them to manage by themselves, especially since their architect forgot to tell them that leaving the walls in place for years at a time was not recommended.

I do everything slowly, making it easy for them to watch, even if that's not quite my normal rhythm. Strands come out as I repeatedly stroke my sternum with each claw in turn, a basic method for releasing soul fragments suitable for seasoned practitioners as well. They float out majestically to the base of the tracks. Cleaning out the grime is a simple conceptual matter, as I let the fundamental design of the structure overwhelm the reality, and in a handful of seconds the starting path is clear. The only important area, really, since getting the wall moving is the hard part, and requires the smoothest road. Now, a four-pronged net attaches to each panel in question, ready to apply force to each corner whenever I'm ready.

"Well, ain't that a lightshow," Wolverine snarks, and Rogue shushes him. I smile faintly, even as the first panel rumbles into motion.

"Novice sorcerers do tend to find silence helpful for their concentration, as each of you have likely already found in life, but I am no novice."

Part of that is also, I suspect, that she hopes I can help her turn off her life-leeching ability, while he sees no particular need for magic. There's been a little light discussion along the way, of whom my tutelage might benefit. Sadly, while Cyclops, Storm, and Rogue have easily-identifiable situations, my lingering desire to explore the nature of power disparity by showing vanilla humans how to use these essential threads is a more challenging prospect. Much as I was prepared to deal with those goons, after all, the fact remains that I've moved teaching locations three times. My students are perfectly able to keep in touch with me, but that's not the same as continuing their education.

Ah, my lair is now complete, as I've kept going on autopilot while ruminating.

"Can that help me with my homework?" Jubilee asks hopefully, outright daring the adults to be amused once more.

"If you can meditate for twenty minutes to bring out a strand of soul," I tell her, "you can work on a sheet of math problems for the same amount of time."

"Mental discipline pays off such dividends," Xavier remarks. "Why, I'm so good at it, I can read minds."

His deadpan sarcasm is something to behold, as it gets everyone giggling. Especially when my tail thwumps against the stack of dismantled wall against the, er, other wall, making the whole assembly rattle.
I have a snippet thread!

Chapter Text

"Did I ever thank you for helping me with Kakistos?" I hear. Normally the library is as quiet as you'd expect, and I just keep looking at the books.

"It was pretty clear after the fight, yeah," someone replies drily. Wait, I know that voice. It's what's her face, the girl who's always getting in trouble. They say Snyder has it out for her. Guess it's not surprising she was in a fight.

"Still, though," her friend shoots back. "That was . . . I wish I could have helped."

"Kinda my thing," Buffy acknowledges. Right, that was it! "You did more than anyone could ask. Sorry about your watcher."

"She was amazing," the girl says wistfully. "G-man's not too bad either."

"He's done a lot for me. Fighting vampires without him would be so much harder." The questions are starting to pile up, here. Who's 'Kakistos', why is she so casual about fighting being 'her thing', why is anyone watching teenage girls, is 'G-man' Mr. Giles, and what was that about vampires? I'm lost in my head just long enough for the man of the hour to approach me.

"Mr. Kinnison," he greets me quietly. My choice is clear here, just a moment of insightfulness that I rarely get: I can pretend I didn't hear anything, and leave, or I can see how deep this rabbit hole goes. Well. now that I think about it, vampires make a lot of sense in this town. The obituary column in the school paper, seventeen cemeteries and churches crowd out bars two to one. So I nod to him, and join the girls.

"Afternoon, ladies," I say, plopping down with the novel that I'd already picked. Mr. Giles is right behind me, and I see complicated expressions on their faces.

"You got lucky this time," he tells them quietly. "In the future, I strongly advise better times for sensitive conversations."

"Willow, we're gonna have a talk with Debbie," Faith says grimly. "That black eye is giving me the spooks. Buffy, you're on Pete."

Everyone else grimaces at the phrasing, but both of them wave it off.

"I'll keep Oz company," I volunteer, and Giles nods immediately.

"He likely has eyes for Debbie alone," the librarian speculates. "But I can clear out the few remaining students and staff to be safe."

The four of them leave, and now I'm with Mister No-Longer-Suspected-Of-Murder Werewolf, still gloomy as he heads into the cage. There's no tactful way to ask if he can control himself now, but it sure would be handy to have him on my side if—ah.

"Since when do you touch my girl?" Pete asks angrily, library doors ricocheting back from the wall behind him. Oh, boy.

"Hey, Pete," Oz genially greets him. "This is kind of a bad time."

"Well I guess you didn't think about that when you put the moves on Debbie!" he snarls, rattling the door. Maybe it's time for a different direction here.

"You know, buddy," I tell Pete, faking confidence until I make it, "they say a real man never worries when his lady spends time with someone else."

"I am a real man!" he screams, turning to me. Ah. Hmm. Strolling around the open floor, as casually as I can manage, I try to keep some distance between us. Not to mention furniture.

"Well then, I guess you trust your girlfriend, and have nothing to worry about," I suggest. Pete actually growls at me, closing quickly. Can't tell how clearly he's seeing the physical world, but a jokey climb over the railing probably won't hurt.

"You're going to be the one worrying about your guts strewn on the floor!" he swears. My time's up definitively and grossly, with his veins swelling and face getting almost vamp-like. Guess we'll find out if my dodging practice has paid off.

"Any meathead," I fake-yawn, "can threaten someone-"

My trash-talking has to go when he lunges for me, smashing right through that two-inch oak. Pete's about as fast as I thought, which is a lot more than I can avoid. Gotta hope Buffy gets back fast from wherever she went.

He launches up properly, and I lose him for a couple of seconds around the bookcases, getting back down to the floor. Faith brought a silver fork from Willow's house, it's on the table—oof!

Well. It was on the table, before Pete tackled me into it. Now it's a few feet away. I try to get to my feet, vaguely recalling that crawling is too slow when you're fighting unless the thing is right there. but he's right on top of me now.

"Who's the real man now!" He's spitting in my face, which ordinarily would be pretty unpleasant, but my priorities are a little different now.

"Buffy!" Oz calls, drawing Pete's attention just in time. Getting up is a challenge, but it's that or give up, so I slowly rise, gritting my teeth as the fork is ever closer.

"You want some playtime, huh?" Mr. Hyde taunts him. "Maybe that'll teach her how to behave!"

The pathetic weapon is in my hand now, and very fortunately our resident madman has decided to play with his latest meal. I've gotten my breath back as much as I'm going to, which doesn't make a surprise stab a great idea, just the best I've got. Dusk is coming, too, or perhaps it's already here, if the sounds from over there are any indication.

"Time to put down the mad dog!" Pete roars, raising his arm to swipe at the door to the cage. Except a dart whoofs right into the small of his back, and he curls around it. Turns around, actually, and goes back to his first opponent. Joy. I'm grounded, ready to throw him and jam the fork somewhere unpleasant, and he's already knocking my head on the floor.

"Pete!" someone, presumably Debbie, sobs, and runs up as her boyfriend slumps next to me. "How could you?" she cries to Buffy.

Faith is by my side pretty fast, actually. An interesting experience, needing to be helped into a chair.

"Looks like he caught you pretty good there," she tells me, feeling carefully at my side and the base of my skull.

"Ow," I volunteer, wincing at the nod that I really should have known better than try. "A bit more than my dignity, but I don't feel too awful."

"You, ah, may still need some emergency attention," Giles notes, and my friend immediately moves for the first aid kit.

"Pretty sure I just need rest," I suggest. We go through the concussion and internal bleeding checklists anyway, and you know what that's probably a pretty good idea.

Chapter Text

It's not much of a hike, but this is the biggest patch of real nature in a hundred miles, so I gotta use my days off to enjoy it sometimes, if only for a couple of hours. Not great luck to hit the trail on a "probationary citizen day", it was crowded for the first half hour until I got off the path somewhat, but what kind of jerk is going to begrudge this to the poor SINless folks? Not me, that's for sure. I sit in a cubicle eight hours a day typing up old records, so I can share the great outdoors with everyone.

Huh. Don't see that every day. Looks like a corp complex, all sleek and shiny. How'd they get this laid down before anyone told them you can't build here? Maybe this is dumb, but I'm taking a closer look.

"Greetings, Helena Belltower," a voice rings out from whatever that thing is. "This vessel requires a captain for peak performance."

Ah, a new Ares plane, or something? Looks state of the art—how'd it get out of their hangars without a pilot?

"Why are you here without one, then?" I ask, coming closer step by step. This is definitely intriguing, with the slight caveat that approaching an aircraft can be hazardous to your health.

"An attack on the facility triggered emergency protocols, which indicated immediate departure regardless of the presence of a crew. All systems are currently on automatic, and some are damaged."

Nothing around the area I'm looking at looks like an engine, at least. I'm betting the thing is smart enough to warn me off, if it has the chops to find my name and describe this much of its past. I reach forward to touch the side, and it whooshes open.

"Please decontaminate before entering," the ship tells me. Polite words, but the tone is still bland. Hey, I'll take a free cleanup any day. The doors promptly close behind me, and someone else might be worried, but if it wanted to hurt me, I have a feeling it could anyway.

"How long has it been since you left?" I ask. "Am I the first person you've found to be your captain?"

"Seven years, three months, two and a half days," from a much quieter voice in the room itself. Still the ship, but even as I think about it, internal speakers can obviously be softer than the outside loudspeaker. "There are no records of sentients accepting the offer. Note: some databases are also missing information."

Some things click there, suddenly, and I look at the sterile chamber with new eyes, not that there's much to see. Apparently whatever it's using to zap my microbes doesn't provide anything to look at, and nobody thought that might be boring.

"You weren't built by humans, were you? I mean, anyone on this planet."

"The docks were in orbit around Betazed, a member of the Federation," it confirms. "Humans share a common ancestor with many of the species therein."

"Any little green men from Mars?" I joke weakly, wrapping my head around this revelation. Actual alien life, and a big step up on us if this thing isn't a big fake.

"Negative. Mars is uninhabited. The coloring of Federation citizens covers the spectrum visible to humans. Alert: Knight Errant units are approaching, estimated time of arrival five minutes. This vessel requires a captain to respond."

"What does it mean, being your captain?" I ask, my heart racing. I don't want to get in trouble with the cops, but I have a feeling that if they have a problem with this, I'll be the one in a position of power.

"The captain is responsible for the actions of the vessel. Authority is delegated through staff chosen by the captain. Addendum: the protocols for resigning command are currently unavailable."

"Are we in violation of any local ordinances?" I ask, and I start pacing.

"Negative. Vehicle registration and permission to enter this area is dependent on mode of locomotion, and this vessel's impulse engines do not fall into any of the specified categories. If accepting the captaincy qualifies as owning the ship and thus acquiring valuable property, the tax is not due immediately."

This is the event of a lifetime. I can't just walk away.

"Call me Captain Belltower," I say, with confidence I don't feel. "Now, let's get out of here. If the cops get me on a technicality, I'd like it to be one that the park doesn't mind."

"Understood, Captain. Your presence is requested on the bridge."

It's a nice chair, and the captain's blazer fits snugly over my shirt. Sadly, changing and getting up there took long enough that Knight Errant is calling anyway.

"That's an interesting plane you got there, missy," a gruff man with a mustache tells me. "I'm Sergeant Jenkins. License and registration, please."

"Funny thing," I counter. "Rockets don't technically have to be licensed or registered, and that's what I'm using."

Jenkins shows his teeth. "You can keep being a wiseacre and stay in the lockup for a while, or you can go on your way with a fine and we'll put this thing back."

"Tell me that's not what your radar's saying," I challenge him, and throw up my hands, shaking my head. "Officer, I swear I'm not trying to make trouble, and I don't want to be hassled by the next lawdog who comes along, so let's work this out politely."

Someone hands the sergeant a printout offscreen, and his face falls before he goes goggle-eyed.

"Criminy," he mutters. "All right, I'll escort you to the local DMV office, so you can get some proper paperwork. My flight plan covers both of us if you keep your keister moving."

The screen turns off, which is a fair relief.

"You can file those, right?" I ask the Intrepid.

"Affirmative. Following Knight Errant heli-transport at the recommended distance."

Everything's hunky-dory, away from the park and reaching spitting distance from Marquette, when an explosion rips through the building below us. Flames and debris, along with people running away. Jenkins descends, sensibly. He flashes a message to stay where we are, which . . . I don't know.

"What can we do?" I ask immediately, leaning forward despite the lack of actual point in the action.

"The fire department is tending to the blaze, along with ambulances. Four people are within prompt access to their services. Two more are unconscious and located in rooms projected to collapse before—"

"Get them out!" I demand, not needing any more details on that front.

"Engaging transporters. Follow the lights to their infirmary."

Chapter Text

"Mr. Rogers," I greet him, shaking his hand. I don't envy him this process of adjustment, though at least I have clothes for him that don't look as silly as that red and white suit he's wearing.

"Mr. Fujihama," he replies. A simple gesture turns me around for him to change, and I'm not sure if I'm surprised or not at his lack of modesty. I have a bathroom right next to my office, and I was about to offer it.

"So, how much trouble am I in?" he asks, smiling wryly in his new shirt and tie. I shrug slightly, legal pad at the ready.

"Unclear. From the children's reports, you arrived suddenly in the USJ. Am I correct in presuming that you did not mean to enter the facility?" A very firm nod, and I wonder. "Do you know how it happened?"

Rogers shakes his head with less certainty. "I shouldn't even be in Japan. I was expecting to visit Vormir."

Very interesting, and opens the door for ignorance of the law being a valid defense, should one be needed.

"So you engaged with those support items, your hammer and shield," I mused. "Does your Quirk have a subtle effect? No one was able to make a guess as to its function, and Eraserhead's nullification did not appear to hinder you during that fight."

He blinks, and tilts his head back and forth.

"Ah, the unique ability you possess," I clarify, "which likely emerged between birth and age four."

"Nothing like that happened to me, no," he says slowly, and I silently invite him to continue. "I volunteered for an experiment when I was twenty-four. Before that, I was skinny, sickly, and short."

The possibilities of that sort of treatment are stunning, but also not relevant. So, Mr. Rogers has no Quirk. It will be very difficult indeed to get vigilante charges to stick, if the police are inclined to concentrate on anything besides schoolchildren being assaulted by petty thugs and that monster.

As it happens, Detective Tsukauchi is focused on exactly that.

"So you pulled your punches with the ordinary criminals, yes?" he inquires, and Steve nods.

"That was the impression I got, yeah, so I basically just bonked them. The only hardened combatant came in at the end."

"Him, you struck with lightning and the full force of that hammer," Tamakawa observes, eyebrow raised.

"My client escalated up the spectrum of force only as required," I interject smoothly. "All Might himself approved of Mr. Rogers' judgement."

"And as a new entrant to our nation, you naturally do not have the weapon registered here," Tsukauchi notes. "Which you will have to address once we've finished discussing the encounter."

"Doesn't mean you can use it, since you don't have a license," his colleague adds on, and I hastily grab a pen.

"Of course, my client is fully aware that these were exceptional circumstances, and does not intend to engage in vigilantism," I promise, silently pleading with Steve. He folds his arms and screws up his mouth into a grimace.

"What does it take to get a license?" he asks. There's a definite atmosphere of 'if I don't like it, I will disregard it', very much not the attitude I was trying to elicit.

"Twice a year, the Hero Public Safety Commission tests prospective heroes through an examination that challenges your character," Tamakawa tells him. There's some good-cop, bad-cop going on here, and it's tiresome.

"If you have something to say, Detective, go on and say it," I reply testily. He responds in kind, standing up and leaning on the table. If Steve's intimidated, he's doing a very good job of hiding it.

"I don't want an American cowboy running off half-cocked mauling people on my streets," he declares. The object of his ire just sits there calmly.

"My client has no intention of engaging in such behavior, as I said," I retort, and Tsukauchi eases his partner back. "Now, if we could return to Nomu?"

"You would say that his Shock Absorption and Super Regeneration Quirks were fully active?" he asks Steve, pretending there had been no interruption.

"If they weren't," he answers grimly, "I'd hate to deal with someone using them a hundred percent. Good thing he was just a dumb thug, or did his best to act like one."

All three of us find that intriguing, and he continues on seeing our expressions. "He only attacked when that hand guy told him to, and he didn't have any technique or finesse. Everything was just brute force, either dealing it out or taking it."

The implication is unspoken: say what you like about All Might's cleverness, someone who can take punches like his is pretty close to beating him.

"But when your hammer launched him up," Tamakawa muses slowly, thinking aloud, "followed by a lightning strike, that bypassed quite a lot of his Shock Absorption."

And without any sort of aerial mobility, he was helpless against Steve's juggling, until Kurogiri attempted to escape and the trajectory of his hammer changed.

"You've been very helpful, Mr. Rogers," Detective Tsukauchi thanks him, "we appreciate it." I take the paperwork for Mjolnir, along with his card, and it's time to go. The trip to Might Tower, which All Might has made available to Steve indefinitely, is quiet, until he can't resist the question I see on his face.

"So I have to wait, what, up to six months? And until then, I just sit and pretend nothing bad is happening?" he asks me, growing more frustrated by the second.

"Without a license," I explain, "you'd have to have the sponsorship of a professional hero, and act only under their supervision. For most people, that's an incredible challenge, but you've got a hefty recommendation that should open most doors."

He brightens up considerably at that possibility, scowl changing to a smile.

"I'm guessing you've got someone who can help make a match?" he asks. "Getting a little afield from legal advice here, and not everyone works well together. Even though we're all on the same side."

Well, isn't that cryptic, but I do actually know people who can guide him from here.

"You should also stop by UA," I suggest. "I'm sure quite a few people there would like to thank you, and I wouldn't be at all surprised if Principal Nezu took a personal interest in your situation."

Chapter Text

The idea of being thanked for helping a fellow hero get on his feet is amusing, or it would be if the overall situation weren't so interesting. Frankly, I have to turn Mr. Fujihama's gratitude right back on him, for putting us in the right place at the right time.

"Tensei Ida, pleasure to meet you," I greet him, with a handshake for one of Japan's newest residents. He can get his head around bowing at some point, I'm sure, after we've settled him in for his visit. "Principal Nezu wants to thank you in person, and fortunately I can escort you on campus. After that, if we wind up clicking, I'd like to get a better view of your moves than the tapes from USJ could show."

Steve nods, packing his gear into my van. A sideways peer at the hammer doesn't give me any clues for the lightning, but that's par for the course as far as support equipment is concerned. Off we go into the wild blue yonder of Musutafu traffic, creeping around to the walls of UA. Our visitor badges are ready, and the stares begin at the American in the halls.

Okay, I'll admit it, I was looking forward to Steve's reaction to Principal Nezu, with his usual dog/mouse/bear line, but all he does is nod!

"Hmm, let's see here," Nezu follows up, peering at his paperwork. "I'm supposed to acknowledge that you did what you thought was right, and stress how important the hero system is, so that people don't take the law into their own hands. I'm not supposed to note how wildly unusual the situation was, or observe that your actions likely kept someone from being maimed or killed, or value All Might's professional assessment above the letter of the law."

"Of course," Steve agrees solemnly. "Part of society is proper decorum."

With that said, the rascal hops up onto his desk, and bows deeply.

"Well done, protecting my students and faculty," he says, straightening up after a solid four or five seconds.

"Now!" Nezu says brightly. "UA is the top hero school in Japan, which of course means a solid backbone of business majors and engineers, and the builders here are busy little bees after seeing what you pulled off with your hammer and shield. Do you know, there are some people who think all a hero needs is his quirk?"

Steve laughs at that, shaking his head at the notion. I wonder what's at the root of a reaction like that?

"Equipment and teamwork are amazing force-multipliers," he agrees. Nezu claps his hands at that.

"And my students would love to examine yours. Just something to think about!"

With that, we're off, having confirmed my first impression of Steve. Time to show the flag a bit, ease him into the Idaten routine rather than the crash course of USJ. Obviously, plainclothes won't work for that, but he opts for a set of basic combat armor rather than return to his previous suit. Of course, neither one has a place to put his shield, but our wonderful support staff works out a harness for his back in only a few minutes, and we're on the road.

"You sure you don't have a problem leaving that wonderful hammer behind?" I tease him, and he smiles.

"I think I can probably manage," Steve says. There's some sort of hidden joke here, I can tell.

For the first couple of hours, we handle run-of-the-mill problems: animals in trees, lost children, adults who need directions, and one overflowing sewer. Steve coughs a few times at that, but the two boys riding on his shoulders as he carries their bikes are delighted.

Then we have a thornier situation, no pun intended. A young woman with lines of spikes running down her limbs and torso storms out of a coffee shop, trying not to cry.

"Hey there, miss," Steve greets her, before I can make a move. He gives her personal space and doesn't try to match her path, which also means he has only a couple of seconds to stick this. "Looks like you're having a rough time. Want to talk about it?"

She slows and stays back, looking him up and down for just a moment.

"Those, people," she spits, "waited until I got to the front of the line, and then they said I had to leave!"

Strictly speaking, business owners are allowed to deny service to anyone as long as it's not on the basis of race, religion, that sort of thing. Quirk status is its own kettle of fish, especially where heteromorphs are concerned, because not everyone can make do with the basic array of accommodations.

"And of course they didn't come out and object to the possibility of you scratching the furniture," Steve predicts. She shakes her head angrily, making a show of just ostentatiously glancing at her arms.

"Well, you have some options here," he muses. "I can go in, order for you, and bring it back, if you'd like to move on with your day. Fighting the good fight is all well and good, but that's your call to make."

It's legitimately tough for me to tell if Steve's trying to guide her in that direction, or thinks she's already inclined there and just needs someone to tell her that it's okay to let things slide sometimes. Either way, he's out in a jiffy with her green tea and mochi, sitting with a new friend on a public bench. This is definitely a one-on-one scenario, and I keep to the background.

Not a minute after she leaves, a couple of hooligans walk up, and he rolls his eyes.

"Something the matter, fellas?" Steve asks them, standing up and making a show of stretching his legs.

"Well, look at that," the tall one crows, "the savior of Yuuei Academy has come to bless the commoners! Looks like the cops took his hammer, though. Some rules, he'll abide by!"

"Aww, Tachi, don't be like that," his friend mock-pleads. "Special treatment for the quirkless, just like any disability. That's why he was with the freak, you know? They got to stick together."

He just stands there, not even twitching for his shield. I can see them readying their Quirks, Tweedledee's fists going steely and Tweedledum's fingers separating from his hands proper.

"Thanks for the input, gentlemen," Steve replies casually, without a hint of irritation. "Have a nice afternoon. I hear the author of Lightning Mage is doing a signing a couple of blocks that way."

It's a good gamble, mentioning a shonen series to those twits, and for a moment, I think they might just take him up on it.

Chapter Text

It's silly, writing up this plan for how Hogwarts could have a stable defense professorship, but my life has rarely been all that serious, so here I go.

The professor here is without portfolio, and officially the school no longer offers the course at all. However, students who signed up for it previously will have a study period scheduled in the manner as a proper class, and the implication will be clear. This teacher holds a roundtable discussion just off school grounds with a rotating group of speakers, occasionally allowing any guests to interject. No one will be there every time, but the brave soul with the title still has to claim the duty more often than the rest. The combination of safeguards here might just be enough to keep someone around for more than a year.

I close my eyes for a few minutes, just relaxing, but my rest is interrupted by a bird pecking at my window. Looking more closely, it has an envelope tied to one leg. I carefully slide up the screen and pane to take it in, wondering when this service became available, but I might as well indulge whoever paid for it.

"Dear Mr. Westford," it reads, "your proposal is intriguing, and I have time available at 2 today to discuss it further. Please return this letter with an adjusted time via the owl if that slot does not work for you; otherwise, I shall meet you at The Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade. Very sincerely, Hermione Granger-Weasley, Headmistress, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

Heh. A great gag, and very imaginative. I set the letter down on my kitchen table, and head out for a walk instead, waving the owl goodbye. The appointment is in just a few minutes, amusingly, but of course I won't be making—huh. Someone actually named their pub that. Well, I could go for a snack.

It's stunning, sitting across from Helen Mirren by way of Emma Watson. She has a plate of pumpkin pasties and butterbeer, to my bacon sandwich and water, insisting on a 'proper' afternoon tea. Well, what do I know from proper?

"As author of the plan, the right of first refusal falls to you," she tells me. The prospect is daunting, but a little less so now that I've had time to get used to my new circumstances. Could I pull this off, truly? There's also the question of the timeline, but I don't really remember the years that closely, and there's been no elegant way to discuss the staff changes. Hermione being in charge, now that's something I'm actively trying to ignore.

"You know what," I tell the headmistress, "fortune favors the bold. Do you have anyone who can take up the secondary roles?"

Hermione nods, starting to count on her fingers after a sip of her drink.

"My husband Ron," she opens, "Dedalus Diggle, Tonks, and possibly even Longbottom herself."

I don't know how to deal with this, so I just pretend to ruminate for a moment.

"A professor without portfolio," I crack, and she snorts as elegantly as one reasonably can.

"The elves will have an office ready for you in a week," Granger-Weasley tells me, "complete with previous syllabi, such as they are, and the Ministry's OWL/NEWT curricula. Of my problems with your predecessor, her book choice was not one, but you have a week after that to send in any requests for the students' purchases at Diagon Alley."

It's heady, preparing to teach a class, with what amounts to a hand tied behind my back, and also hope to hunt the horcruxes. As my new boss goes right for the floo, coins on the table to address the bill, I keep wondering about the question I now have room to ask: how is she in charge?

The faculty fall fully in line with my observations; most of them have changed, in one way or another. Dumbledore is practically a young man, teaching Alchemy, and I swear Minnie is my age. She insists I call her that, saying that 'Minerva' goes right to her head. My playful rebuttal of her Animagus achievement has her laughing, or possibly giggling, but I can also see a note of consideration in her eyes that I'm aware of what she's done.

"An odd combination of defenses you've chosen," Severus tells me without preamble, approaching me in the staff room. Deputy Headmaster and school counselor, driving me halfway to desperation to figure out how so many people got jumbled every which way. "Do you really think they'll work?"

I make a show of considering the idea fully, pursing my lips and furrowing my brow, but finally just shrug.

"Benny!" Minnie admonishes me, with a chuckle and a swat to my shoulder.

"I honestly don't know," I concede to both of them. "Worth a shot, or I wouldn't have taken the job. Riddle's not exactly a lateral thinker, so that should help."

Half the room is confused, and the other half has the same appraising look that Minnie had when we met.

"Tom Riddle," I clarify. "Called himself Voldemort, once he stopped pretending that peace was an option."

"What makes you say he was straightforward?" Albus asks, eyebrow raised. "The Death Eaters were hardly a conventional force."

We're in small company now: me, Albus, Severus, Minnie, and here comes the headmistress.

"He's not creative, I mean," I reply, slightly intrigued that he's referring to the man in the past tense. "All he thinks about is magical power, learning incantations and brewing potions. He doesn't understand anything subtle, or for that matter normal psychology."

They're spellbound now, and I reach hastily for an example I can, well, not prove, exactly, but put forward for them to consider.

"Take the Deathly Hallows," I propose. "All he'd care about is the wand, ignoring the actual sentiment of the tale. Well, technically the stone and cloak and wand don't truly have much to do with the aesop, but you get the point."

"What point would that be, Professor?" Granger-Weasley presses me.

"There are worse things than dying," I reply. "That's such a huge thing he doesn't understand, that people can sacrifice themselves for something greater and face a fear that paralyzes him."

What with the frantic need to make lesson plans for an extremely unorthodox approach to pedagogy, I've barely had any time to examine the world or verify any of the horcrux locations. Minnie's been a wonderful guide, and I've got the stones to admit that I enjoy her company a lot more than I expected. Not just because she's well-removed from Dame Maggie Smith, with her reserved and prim performance. Also, I'm pretty sure she winked when she saw me checking out her left ring finger.

Chapter Text

"Keep your eyes open," Logan grunts, and I try not to roll them instead. Granted, I'm a newbie, but we've come to this abandoned building to investigate the anomalies Stephen and Kent reported. I'm not about to treat it like a milk run or busywork.

"Oh, don't mind him, dearie," the little old lady twitters. "He's not used to escorting the brains of the operation."

It's fortunate that he can't hear the personification of his power talking to me. I'm also glad that she's phrased it so kindly, since plenty of the Avengers have brains and can take care of themselves.

"Tell us anything you see," Dinah urges, "even if it's just for a moment."

It's, ah, interesting to contrast their professional behavior with their apparel. Wolverine has bits and pieces of combat armor, so he's basically half-protected, but even that's better than Canary's fishnets and heels. Meanwhile, here I am in an actual full suit, with a stun baton that I've been training on for a whole two weeks. I wonder if years of experience in the field will get you used to any old getup. Good thing I got my pixie cut before all this started, so I didn't feel pressured into either a bun or a chop. Meanwhile, Granny loves her apron, and the siren lounges on her midair rock wearing little more than a seashell bra with red and blue pulsing all over.

Our detectors start beeping, signaling a new dimensional anomaly, but peer as I might into the darkness, nothing's evident. Chimes and wobbles, definitely something happening—and then the lights are on.

"We're in a version of the same building, I think," I report to them, "but this one's in use. I've got . . . currents in all sorts of colors floating in the air, and yes I know how little sense that makes."

The veterans are stepping very carefully now. He clenches his fists and rolls his wrists, while she takes a sip of water from a hip flask. Lights there are, but it's still very dim in here.

"We're not going to find anything out just standing here," Logan decides, and starts walking forward. Dinah and I follow; a few minutes later, we see an open door, and even softer light spilling out, along with the faintest snatches of whispers. We creep in, carefully, and the currents have maintained their flow, as far as I can tell. Towering shelves full of glass orbs are before us, each one labeled with initials and sometimes names. Now I see them, a small group, colors splashing out. Blue and red and gray and orange and some I can't even name.

"What's my name doing down here?" one of them asks. It's the voice of a teenage boy, and another one responds. Why are school-aged children here?

"Excuse me," Logan speaks up, just as 'Harry' is about to take an orb from its holding place. "What's going on here?"

He's got good reflexes, I'll give him that. I'm not sure why, since all he does is grab a stick from his pocket, and so do his friends.

"We're rescuing Sirius," Harry tells Logan defiantly. "Where is he?"

"Probably not here," the hero notes calmly. "This doesn't seem like a place where anyone spends much time."

Harry doesn't know how to handle that, though I can see the point is registering, and he looks back to the orb. The jumbled-up rainbow is still jarring, and I cast my eyes around for anything like what's around these kids—well, isn't that interesting. Several blank spots, maybe a few meters away.

'Someone's here,' I mouth to Canary. Her eyes widen, but before we can do anything, the figures appear.

"Well done, boy," a blond man says patronizingly, pointing a stick of his own at the kid. "Now, give it to me."

"Death Eaters," Harry snaps. "Give me Sirius, and I'll think about it."

Well, that's an ominous appellation. The three of us move between Harry and his foes, and they keep their eyes on our hands. A bunch of sticks—wait. None of our guys use them much, but wands are a thing. Have we stumbled onto a bunch of sorcerers?

"You're in no position to make demands, Potter," he spits. "The Dark Lord will have his due."

"Has any decent person ever been called a 'dark lord'?" Wolverine wonders, his fists up and arrow-straight from his elbows.

"Not once," Canary agrees. We're both out of her line of fire, but I can see the 'Death Eaters' are starting to fan out, spreading around the children. Wolverine makes the first move, popping his claws to break that man's wand. The pieces fall to the ground, and so do we, ready for that cry. Those thugs are mostly thrown back against the wall, but a few of them have shields, easing their path to a crawl that lets them keep their footing. She cuts it before running out of breath, and the spells fly just a moment later.

Logan's claws are an obvious target, both a shiny thing they want to shut down and a very sharp thing no one wants touching them. He grunts softly as colored and colorless bolts bounce off, and then they jerk abruptly back into his arms. He's less lethal now, but no less dangerous, and I have half a breath to wonder if these magic-users can cope with a steel-reinforced fist to the jaw.

"Just keep running, they know what they're doing," I urge the children, getting them to their feet. Oh, I hope they know where to go, because I'm betting the floor plan I did my best to retain no longer applies. We're stumbling along, a few of us, and I really haven't been trained enough for this. It's not as if I have any real chance of fighting those people, though, so evac it is. Little chance to get our footing, as they fire semi-blindly and try to avoid upcoming opponents that I can sort of maybe see a little bit.

There are amazing sights all around me, floating brains and a vast array of ornate hourglasses and a spectacular unmoored orrery, but everything's too hectic for me to follow. We've retraced our steps more than once, and I almost slip on blood I really hope is Logan's. Wincing and limping, I'm making my way with Harry and his friends, and hoping desperately that I've actually got all of them.

Another great storm, more than the Death Eaters' usual twos and threes, but there's nowhere to go this time, too far from the exit to this room. The door opens to reveal five people I don't recognize, four charging past me and one staying to look at my charges. He's a grizzled man, with a barely-kempt moustache and hair to his shoulders, but three of them are glad to see him.

"Sirius!" Harry gasps, torn between frantically looking back at the running battle and reassuring himself that things have turned around.

"There you go, Harry," his erstwhile would-be rescuee says gently.

Chapter Text

"Fudge Resigns!" proclaims my morning paper. I'm a little startled, and my recent distaste for the publication falls away. Perusing it further, apparently Voldemort was sighted in the Ministry last night, fighting Albus Dumbledore. Details are sparse as to why this happened, of course, but he's finally paid the price for sabotaging any preparations for the resurging Death Eaters.

Just as I finish reading about the Hogwarts students who were involved in the fiasco, another owl soars in through my open window. Her envelope unfolds itself, sticking to the wall just below my calendar. Huh, there's a snap election to replace Fudge. Scrimgeour could have the post if he wanted, I think, what with being the head of the DMLE. Thing is, he says "I will not refuse the position should wizarding Britain put its trust in me, but my priority is managing the law enforcement response to You Know Who."

It's a solid response, and while I'd say he's still in the running, I'm happy picking someone else. Actually, I'm reminded a little of Julius Caesar, when he refused a crown in public, but perhaps that's unfair. Well, whether Scrimgeour is making a subtle display of humility and humblebragging about his qualifications to handle the job or not, there's some time for me to make a choice.

Ahahaha, I've been nominated now! There's the option to decline, of course, but I might as well entertain the notion. Not like anything's actually going to happen.

"As Director Scrimgeour noted," I jot down in the space for a 'personal statement', "it seems inappropriate to deny the people's choice. The next minister is going to have a tough row to hoe. Voldemort himself is no small challenge, but one man cannot truly threaten a society. By himself. We have to look at ourselves and understand why so many people are drawn to the cause of blood purity. Part of that, of course, is that we've tacitly endorsed another version of that concept. The Ministry enforces dominion over all magical entities, but only humans are allowed proper participation in wizarding Britain. There will be no peace from the Death Eaters without true justice in our world."

"That was some speech, Katie," Tom notes a few hours later, seeing me enter the Leaky Cauldron. I'm not much of a drinker, but a little teensy bit of celebration is due now that all my letters to the editor have been vindicated.

"Might have been a bit much," I reply, "but there's the old rule of 'I'd rather be right than in charge', and it's not as if I'm really going to do anything anyway."

He hums noncommittally, dishing up a plate of fries, chicken nuggets, and salad, along with a butterbeer. It's a nice bit of nosh. Tom wasn't the only one who read my micro-manifesto, it occurs to me after the fourth nugget, and I start to consider packing up the rest of the dish to have at home. Even as I think about it, though, there are footsteps approaching my booth.

"You know, when I encountered your tutoring fliers a couple of years ago," Mrs. Abbott tells me, smirking broadly, "I didn't think 'here comes our next minister', but there you are."

I just chuckle ruefully, with complicated feelings at how much people are making of this.

"I'm sure people will pick someone who has the credentials to run the Ministry," I reply. A forkful of lettuce provides a good excuse to stay quiet, after that.

"Fudge had credentials," she answers bluntly. "He didn't have vision or spine, until he provided the opposite of what we needed."

The next morning, I try to put it all out of my mind, but that's a little tricky when I'm in the slow part of the year. Not many people want to start studying right after OWLs and NEWTs have been run. The bigger problem is the trickle of mail that starts coming after breakfast. How are any voters noticing me? Is there some sort of system that—ah. I didn't notice that replies are allowed here, and there's quite the spirited discussion going on. Probably better if I don't weigh in, frankly. Let the work speak for itself.

The delivered notes are a mixed bag, naturally. On second thought, I'm surprised there haven't been any Howlers, but maybe that's just a matter of time, or someone finally decided sending screams through the post was a bad idea. Well, as strange as this all is, I'd better tend to some chores instead, and maybe pick up a few shifts in Diagon Alley while I'm at it. Heh, not as if I'm actually going to get elected and leave someone in the lurch.

Unlike Tom and Mrs. Abbott, the shopkeepers don't have any interest in making a big deal of the situation. Sadly, they also don't think it's worth risking a disgruntled Death Eater sympathizer making a fool of herself at me, so it's a fruitless afternoon. Maybe I'll just take a look at the proper candidates for a bit, while my laundry is air-drying.

Kingsley Shacklebolt and Amelia Bones have a lot to recommend them, and I like the look of Arthur Weasley as well. Seasoned Ministry workers, all of them, with courage and principles. Whatever happens, I feel confident there will be steady hands helping to bring the fight Voldemort's way.

Well, voting is over. Time for this strange little episode of my life to end. I'm not sure exactly how long it'll take for them to count the ballots, but probably the Ministry will make an announcement—why is there cheering in the Leaky Cauldron? Did someone just walk in? I don't see anyone but me. Maybe they're listening to a Quidditch match? Yeah, the wireless has Scotland versus Switzerland, that makes sense.

"Evening, Tom," I greet the bartender. He laughs heartily, passing me a shot of firewhisky.

"Heh. 'Evening, Tom', she says, cool as a cucumber. Nerves of steel, this lady!"

Another round of cheers. What is this?

"Ah, watching the results makes you nervous, huh?" Tom asks, but all I can give him in response is a shrug.

"You won," he spells out for me. "Congratulations, Minister Dennison."

The firewhisky burns a little bit more on the way down, than my heart does trying to climb out of my throat.

Chapter Text

"Step one is a public apology to everyone we've slandered and libeled," I tell the gathered department directors. None of them seemed remotely surprised when I arrived at the Ministry. Was I the only one unimpressed with my 'candidacy'? "In the Daily Prophet, but properly from us for once."

"Step two," I continue, starting to pace, "Madam Bones, we've got a few investigations pending. What happened in the Department of Mysteries and why, how exactly we're going to beat Voldemort—"

I really should have expected that room-wide shudder, accompanied by not a few gasps.

"How is anyone going to have faith in our efforts to protect them if we can't even use his 'name'?" I ask impatiently. Scrimgeour is baring his teeth at me, and I gesture for him to speak his mind.

"You were barely an adult during the previous war, Minister, so you might not understand the fear we all had," he explains coldly. "Now is not the time for exposure therapy."

Bones purses her lips, and shakes her head.

"Yes, it is," she counters, sighing. "We're running out of time to strengthen an air of defiance. I don't like it any more than you do, Rufus, but she has a point."

There are several other orders of business, but the next matter I have to attend to is meeting with the Prime Minister. Well, he doesn't think much of me, even in comparison to the sad figure of Cornelius Fudge. I'm not sure whether I'm happy about that or not, but fortunately I'm far too busy to worry about any of my feelings. Truth be told, there isn't actually much point to this meeting. Our efforts to study and combat Voldemort won't really involve the Muggle authorities, nor is there anything substantial he can do without endangering the Statute of Secrecy. I'm relieved when there's a natural moment to exit his office, and head on to Hogwarts to see Headmaster Dumbledore.

"You know more about Voldemort than anyone else, Professor," I start, and he nods with a grimace. "Even with that, though, you're not going to defeat him by yourself, and I include the people who came to the Ministry the other night in that estimation."

"Well, I should think not," Albus agrees placidly. "But this will be a matter outside of conventional Ministry work, I believe, and best kept to the shadows."

I remember idolizing him in school, years ago. Surely there was nothing the great Albus Dumbledore could not manage. Trust in him, and you could go far. But I'm not a student anymore, and my responsibilities are quite different.

"You're not wrong about all that," I reply, "but the fact remains that the safety of wizarding Britain is in my hands, not yours. Voldemort is not your private crusade, Headmaster."

The twinkle is gone from the old man's eyes, and the bowl of candies on his desk is untouched.

"My record against him outshines the Ministry's considerably, Miss Dennison," he counters coolly. "I know what I'm doing."

I'm standing up just like in my first meeting, trying not to let my agitation get to me.

"The first whisper we had of Voldemort since 1981 was four years ago, when he nearly killed Harry Potter while possessing Quirinus Quirrell," I snap. "Last year, Barty Crouch masqueraded as an old friend of yours right to your face, and you didn't notice for nine months. Children fighting Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries last week, rescued by you and your colleagues. I'm not sure you're exactly covering yourself in glory here, sir."

This is not going at all the way I want, and I need to redirect immediately.

"We have the same goal here, Mr. Dumbledore," I tell him. "I would very much like for you to advise the task force that brings Voldemort to justice, and possibly end the war before it properly reignites."

Albus Dumbledore steeples his fingers, wrestling with . . . something. Finally, he gives me a piece of parchment, with a list of names and incidents.

"The key to this entire struggle," he tells me, "is understanding how Tom Riddle thinks. With that, as Sun Tzu said, you have all but won the battle already. He is obsessed with Harry Potter, as we have all observed. If your Aurors can gather those memories, we will take another step on the road to realizing another aspect of his perspective."

It's cryptic and enigmatic, but I'm in the loop, and so will the Ministry workers who've trained for investigative work.

Dolores Umbridge is out of hospital now, and a smarmier person I've never, well. She gets one chance to redeem herself for all the reports stacked on my desk. I even alluded to them, in the memo I sent her declaring the time for our meeting, but all I see in her as she looks at the bulging folder is satisfaction.

"I did as Minister Fudge requested," she tells me, looking down her nose. "Surely you understand the need for loyalty and obedience in your employees, Miss Dennison."

My workspace really has become quite crowded. Papers of all kinds, an inkpot, inbox and outbox, with the final touch being a set of quills. One of her infamous tools being among them.

"I do, yes," I agree, and that smile is just unbearable. "Loyalty to the principles of honor, justice, and compassion. Obedience to your conscience. I don't know which idea bothers me more: that you abused those children because you thought Fudge wanted it, or because you actually believed forcing teenagers to scar themselves was moral."

Dolores can't defend her actions the way she used to, given Fudge's resignation from his job and to the facts. Before she can find a response, I hold up my hand, and the undersecretary's eyes narrow.

"You're suspended without pay pending a full criminal inquiry into your actions," I tell her. If I accomplish nothing else in my tenure, and I'm becoming more uncomfortably aware by the hour that I've risen sharply on Voldemort's target list, I'll have satisfied the fantasies I had, hearing all those stories from my tutees over the past several months.

"Well!" she tuts indignantly. "I'll await your full apology tout suite, Minister, once the necessity of my actions becomes clear."

Umbridge has entered her own little world now, and I leave her to it as she leaves me to the rest of my dizzying day.

Chapter Text

I never would have thought this job involved so much correspondence.

Letters to the Departments of Magical Law Enforcement, Mysteries, and International Magical Cooperation, attempting to integrate ongoing anti-Voldemort efforts.

Albus Dumbledore gets my regrets for the Aurors being unable to nail down good information on the incidents he gave me. I also need greater detail on his and Potter’s work, over the last few years.

Potter himself gets an apology, and an invitation to work on the committee fighting Voldemort. I don’t want him to be a child soldier, but he likely knows some things.

A memo to the Department for the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures, outlining my desire for delegates from as many non-human communities as feasible, for that anti-Voldemort committee.

That last turns into, for starters, a discussion with Dirk Cresswell on finding a goblin representative. He arranges a meeting with their queen, a position somewhat similar to mine, to select a suitable candidate.

“Good afternoon, Queen Sagrick,” I greet the diminutive matriarch, nodding in courtesy and extending my hand to hers. She takes it, which I’d like to think bodes well for this conversation, and her assistant closes the door behind me.

“Minister Dennison,” she acknowledges me. A long-nailed finger points me to the chair in front of her desk. It’s a nice chair. And office.

“We’re both busy women,” I begin, “and Mr. Cresswell has apprised you of the situation, so let’s get right down to it. Whom would you suggest as the goblin delegate, in the group that foils Voldemort’s scheme for our domination?”

Sagrick steeples her fingers, which does not help with her overall resemblance to a wizened apple.

“I am not interested in lip service, Dennison,” she replies. “We will not supply a token for your show of ‘magical unity’. Give me something I can believe in, a show of good faith.”

Boy, isn’t that a challenge. There are quite a few issues that witches and goblins have been quarreling over for centuries: Godric Gryffindor’s sword (which I’ve heard more about recently), the ban on wand use, goblin-crafted treasures passed down over the generations, and general prejudice. None of those are easy for me to tackle, but then one straightforward matter comes to mind.

“The Fountain of Magical Brethren, in the Ministry’s Atrium,” I say. “A rather plain display of our views, wouldn’t you say?”

It’s rather tacky, in my opinion. Well-made, don’t get me wrong, but the design itself is lacking. In the center, a wizard, dressed and posed to show his power, and a witch who . . . isn’t, really. Around them one sees goblin, centaur, and house-elf, all gazing up with adoration. Anyone who managed to stay awake in History of Magic or ever heard anything about the colony in the Forbidden Forest could tell you that neither goblins nor centaurs think much of magical humans. And, of course, centaurs, by default, have their eyes distinctly higher than ours. So looking up is both physically and metaphorically off.

Sagrick nods, not bothering to restrain the curl of her lip, exactly the reaction I expected and wanted.

“How about we go take a look?” I suggest. “Maybe you’d like to make an adjustment or two, to your section of the waterworks.”

Another nod, along with a beckoning wave to the assistant. Off we trot, through the Floo in her office, and immediately the stares start.

“You would think,” I begin mildly, voice pitched to carry without seeming pointed or properly loud, “that no one had ever seen a queen walking with a minister before.”

Her majesty’s snort is audible only to us, I’m sure. Meanwhile, quite a few people find better things to do with their afternoon.

Yup, the fountain is just as cloying as I remember. Sagrick and company are just about grimacing at it now, and I can’t say I blame them.

“She should be doing something,” she mutters. “Even apart from the expression, who respects a young lady who’s just gawping?”

I frown appraisingly and nod slowly at her line of thinking. What a fascinating perspective—and certainly more interesting for the observer to look at.

“I suppose you’d object to the figure holding a wand,” Sagrick wonders quietly. “Surprised this isn’t going through one of your committees, come to think of it.”

Boy, would that be a statement.

“I feel confident you can find something satisfactory that doesn’t contravene current law,” I reply, and I’d like to think smoothly. “Ending the wand ban is going to happen through the Wizengamot, who will likely be clutching their pearls as it is once they see your adjustment here.”

What she shapes instead is fascinating. The goblin statue has a wand in a vise in front of her, clearly a depiction of crafting the magical instrument—and the idea of hand-making something without being allowed to hold it is simultaneously absurd and not quite outright stated here. Previously, only the figure’s hat shot water as one of the several founts, but now the wand does as well.

“Very interesting,” I pronounce. “I like it! Now, that delegate?”

Sagrick gives her assistant a significant look, and the young lady steps forward nervously.

“Urgit,” she introduces herself. “As my mother said, Minister, I want to have actual input here.”

I almost grimace at that, but my trepidation has nothing to do with the prejudice she rightly anticipates.

“Dealing with Voldemort is a challenging area,” I tell them. “Maybe your perspective will be part of whatever plans we make to defeat him, I don’t know. Isn’t it worth a shot?”

Urgit still doesn’t seem convinced. I lean in a little, getting us a moment of privacy.

“What do you want from me?” I hiss. “In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t exactly know what I’m doing here! Show up, be part of the team, and maybe we’ll all accomplish something.”

With that, I leave her; the goblins will do what they do, and the Ministry will have to roll with it. Besides, I really have to head out for my appointment at Hogwarts to meet the prospective delegates from the merfolk and centaur communities. A little thrill goes down my spine every time I consider how much this will bother some people.

It’s not what one would call a short walk, from the outskirts of Hogwarts just past the anti-apparition jinx to the pavilion where Merchieftainess Murcus and Firenze are now sitting. Well, I say sitting. She’s positioned in something like a tank, floating in clear water. It gives the vibe of a construction to allow water-breathing people to interact with the world of air. He, meanwhile, remains quite vertical. Ruminations on his anatomy will have to wait, and probably that isn’t the best word to use either.

“Greetings!” I tell them cheerfully when I’m still several feet out, waving awkwardly. Ah, and Dumbledore’s taken a few minutes out of his equally busy day to smooth things along.

“Minister Dennison, Merchieftainess Murcus, Firenze, Albus Dumbledore, I present us all to each other and possibly ourselves,” the old trickster says, and I’m really trying very hard not to break out laughing at that. Shame that I don’t have the control to pull off that restraint plus glaring at him.

“I don’t know if you’re aware of my, ah, ‘campaign statement’,” I begin, and it’s gratifying that they both nod. Though there is the puzzle of whether Firenze is just naturally grim, or if he’s dubious of my ability to deliver. Which, well, fair enough, not exactly brimming with confidence here.

“Well, part of that is getting everyone to the table for the core efforts against Voldemort,” I tell them. “Striking at two objectives with one move. I hope that you’ll be able to contribute, but at the very least, nobody will be shut out.”

My high-flown rhetoric is interrupted by a young woman running towards us. She looks familiar, though I can’t quite place her.

“I hope I’m not too late!” she calls out, slowing to a trot as she approaches our impromptu gazebo.

Dumbledore’s genial smile is strained for just the slightest moment, enough for me to think it was a trick of the light, or something, and I take her hand in greeting.

“Chiara Lobosca, Minister,” the semi-blonde tells me. That name does ring a bell; nobody I had a hand in tutoring, I’m sure of that much. “Four years behind you, in Hufflepuff. Anyway, I heard about the committee, and I’m volunteering for the werewolves.”

Well. I didn’t think that was particularly workable, and frankly it’s still not an actual help because they don’t seem to have a coherent community, much less leaders. But I can respect Chiara wanting to contribute.

“Neither you nor I have any significant respect within any non-human circles,” Firenze cuts in, a trifle coldly. “Though my fellows will eventually recover their opinion, what prospect have you for contributing towards magical fraternity?”

Chapter Text

"C'mon, man," I think aloud, as I drive to the grocery store. "There's got to be some way to turn this into . . . magnificence. Not, going out looking for trouble, but making use of being knife-proof, hammer-proof, probably bulletproof but testing that is tricky. And yeah, the more I do it, the longer I do it, the spell turns me womanly, but it wears off, and who really cares that much anyway?"

Well. I do. Nothing wrong with being a woman, half of everyone are women, but the prospect of having my travel across the gender spectrum be openly viewable adds to the psychological barrier. I keep stewing, even as I parallel park, and then I hear gunshots. Screaming. Lots of shooting, actually. I guess this is it.

The magic flows out, harder than I've ever done it before. This isn't the time to skimp. And if that means I step out of my car looking like a sorority woman, bypassing that little problem, no complaints. Pink blouse, blue skirt, and open-toed sandals greet any onlookers as I head towards the commotion. A bus on its side, nobody shooting at it right now, so I hop along over to evacuate it. Very fortunately, nobody seems to have a serious injury, preempting any worry over the rule of "don't move anyone with a spinal injury" that wouldn't apply in this active danger anyway but would still rattle me. More, I mean. Boy, that guy sure looks a lot like Steve Rogers, as I help him to his feet, and the shield a few feet away—

"I'll get it," I tell him. "I'm bulletproof."

Before he can process my statement, I make a quick move for it, grabbing the disc. For just a moment, I get to hold his famed defensive weapon, before flipping it back his way. None too soon, as three or four miniguns open fire on us. He's a wizard with that thing, refracting and reflecting their bullets, but even Captain America can't account for everything. One of them catches me in the hand, and it actually hurts. Doesn't break the skin, though.

"Bulletproof, huh?" Cap grunts at me, pointing towards cover. I don't want to give this up yet, and I take hold of my spell again. Long wavy brown tresses are tickling my back now.

"Yup," I reply defiantly, double-taking at the sound of my new voice. I guess once one form is complete, it starts working on another. That changes things quite a lot, with remarkable timing.

"A good distraction for Sam and Natasha," he assesses quickly. "See if you can give them open targets on those HYDRA thugs."

I don't know who any of those people are, but it's not exactly a challenge to find the jackboots shooting everywhere versus the two people trying to take them out. That's a very different kettle of fish from putting his suggested strategy into play, however, especially when I need to explain to Sam before I try drawing their fire.

It works okay a couple of times, and my blouse is now a leather jacket, but after Sam's dispatched the second gunman, I look back and he's gone. A few frantic seconds of running around reveals Cap standing there, stunned, and a bunch of police cars around us, pouring out a lot more goons than I want to fight. Especially, having caught a few seconds of his fight with whoever that was, being reminded that tough is one thing, and knowing how to punch is another. He's not moving for an exit, and neither are Sam and Natasha. It wasn't supposed to go this way.

The discussion in the unmarked van is tense, even beyond the ordinary handcuffs three of us have and the special deluxe setup they have for Cap. I'm vaguely aware of Bucky Barnes, and it's hitting him hard that his old best friend is still alive. Working for the bad guys, turns out. Sounds like he was brainwashed.

Oh, and one of our guards just tazed the other. That works for me.

"Ah, that thing was squeezing my brain," she tells us, pulling it off in relief. "Who are they?"

Ah, so I'm not the only newbie here. Is that a good thing?

"Sam Wilson, pararescue," he introduces himself, interrupting my internal musing as they carve a hole through the bottom of the van and gingerly crawl through to a different one.

"Ray O'Donnell," I say, noticing the looks in my direction. "Um. I can be bulletproof."

It's still difficult to keep from reacting to a different sound coming from my mouth, but Steve raises an eyebrow. Even while helping the wounded Natasha get situated.

"Neat trick, changing clothes during a firefight," he notes. I grit my teeth, not looking forward to this explanation.

"I found a few scraps from a spellbook, not too long ago," I tell the hardened operatives. "Pieced together something that lets me boost or drain an object's durability, and in exchange I get pushed towards a woman's shape. Found out today that if I'm all the way there, I can keep doing it, and just start looking like a different person, which feels like it can just keep going."

"Neat trick," Sam says, frowning in approval. Natasha rolls her eyes.

"You have no idea how many times I could have used that," she tells me. I remember her more clearly now, from the bits and pieces that spread after the incident in New York a couple of years ago. Natasha Romanoff, master spy.

The conversation gets rather cut off from there, as we've reached a hideout. That bullet wound gets some medical attention after a long talk with her boss, Nick Fury, director of SHIELD. Apparently he faked his own assassination, and boy am I getting in over my head. There are helicarriers, and Project Insight is dedicated to killing twenty million people whom HYDRA deems might pose a threat to their global control. I wonder if I'm on that list. Might have been added, if someone figured out my parlor trick.

There's an argument about taking down SHIELD, and it's kinda hard to argue that the organization should stick around given their ongoing internal failure against HYDRA. Fury doesn't like it, and he tries to appeal to Sam.

"Don't look at me," Sam replies. "I do what he does, just slower."

And then the top spy hopes to gain my support for salvaging his intelligence operation.

"I work at the docks," I say flatly. "I'm surprised you even brought me here in the first place. If he says the place is ruined, that's good enough for me."

Nick sits back, a grimace on his face, and I realize belatedly that of course it's not just losing the argument, but having his life's work turned against everyone that has him subdued.

"Well," he pronounces, looking around sourly, "looks like you're giving the orders now, Captain."

Chapter Text

This is a pretty lousy situation, all told. Pain is radiating off Dooku up there with his brother, we've all surrendered to the latter's droids, and one of them has Dooku's lightsaber to Jenza's throat. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that a man who'll hire mercenaries to terrorize his own people is also willing to kill his own sister. I really wish Master Kostana hadn't been needed to calm the enormous Tirra'Taka underground. And if I'm wishing, let's go ahead and just will Sifo-Dyas into coming up with a plan for all this. Preferably one that doesn't include drawing fire in a tank, like last time.

Nnnnnope. Nothing. A holoscreen is pointing at Jenza now, and Dooku must have a view on it because I feel that surge of distress and anger over the shocks he's been given. Looks like it's my turn for boldness.

Truly, lightsabers are a foolish weapon to attempt to wield when Jedi oppose you. I pull the blade out of the droid's hand, working very hard indeed to keep it from Jenza's neck, and its trajectory goes right through the droid's chest. The tiniest moment to savor Dooku's relief, and then all of my focus has to go to deflecting the blaster fire already coming. Two lightsabers flashing before me—ah, no, three, there we go. Sifo-Dyas and I are both sweating, but the calculation is inexorable. These droids don't have the brains to understand shooting at us is pointless, and half the time their bolts just hit their own men after we take care of them. They'll have to get very lucky, or bring in reinforcements. Of course, there is still the problem of Dooku's captivity.

Make that the problem of Dooku's survival, with that ship his brother dragged him onto falling out of the sky. I don't know how he did it, but fortunately with the impending crash the droids are prioritizing their own survival. I wrap my tentacles tightly around my core and keep all three sabers going for the remaining shots, while Sifo-Dyas helps catch the ship. Well, mostly just Dooku, who indeed staggers out of one of the holes that the 'landing' created. Since he's dragging his brother behind him, unconscious, it seems everything but the very substantial cleanup is over.

There are a lot of meetings, and the four of us have to be on Serenno for quite some time as advisors of newly-created Countess Jenza as she rebuilds from her brother's treachery. Not all of the Council is pleased about this, but Yoda has no particular problem with the arrangement, and I can't recall the last time he was outvoted. Though, to be fair, it's not as if I really have that much familiarity with the Council's inner workings, so whatever.

"The Tirra'Taka is still unstable," Master Kostana notes, grimacing at Dooku's prompt huffiness.

"She has every right to be," he insists, hunching forward in his seat as his passion overwhelms him. "Such trauma she's endured."

"Trauma she's going to have a hard time addressing in these circumstances," I say delicately. "Perhaps we could ask her if she'd prefer to take a long vacation?"

Jenza's lips are pressed tightly together, but Sifo-Dyas has no restraint, openly laughing at my suggestion. Not in a mean way, of course. I'm not sure that man has a mean bone in his body, which is definitely not a statement one can make of many Jedi despite our attempts to let our feelings pass into the Force without affecting our judgment. Anyway. The countess' actual counselors aren't nearly as happy about my idea, what with the logistics being seven different kinds of headache, but they address that issue by putting me in charge of oh hey what now?

"I don't have any authority over your equipment or staff," I protest. "Being an advisor here is a technicality. I, I . . . "

I trail off, seeing the amusement on everyone's faces. Well, that'll teach me to make suggestions. Rising from my chair in a show of mock-eagerness, I bow to my colleagues.

"Masters Kotana, Dooku, Sifo-Dyas. Countess Jenza. Folks."

Dooku gives me a telekinetic swat as I depart the room, but I can feel his own chuckle at my teasing of the assembled advisors. If I'm lucky, I can get down to where Kostana spent those few hours during the battle and claim that I'm taking responsibility for helping the beast get used to the idea of traveling. It has the benefit of being a reasonable and necessary task, letting someone who actually knows what she's doing arrange for transit up to and off the surface.

It's not exactly an easy trip, but with a few ropes and the Force I'm thoroughly underground. The Tirra'Taka has been having a rough time, but that's more a matter of, well, her life. Her perception isn't the same as mine, to put it lightly, and the 'meeting' she had when Dooku and Kostana fell down isn't exactly a factor in her temperament. Of course, given how she's been treated by dark-siders, it really isn't a surprise that such negativity would keep coming back.

"Easy there, girl," I tell her, gently reaching out. Not even to her, directly, just letting my Force presence establish itself slowly in the area. No need to rush here. Worst comes to worst, Dooku will back me up and Jenza will listen to him.

"Emotion, yet peace. Ignorance, yet knowledge. Passion, yet serenity. Chaos, yet harmony. Death, yet the Force," I chant over and over. She can't let everything that happened to her go into the Force, of course; even if she were able, it's a challenging step to take. She can, however, start giving the idea a taste.

I can feel that she is, kind of. In as much as I can sense her feelings in general. It's not exactly a specialty of mine. Breathing in and out with her, we relive some of those awful times, but also look at her joys, exploring the earth around her. An interesting task I've been set, but it's nice to do something so positively constructive, helping someone to move forward with her life. Another day or two of this, and she'll be up for a discussion, as it were, of the near future.

There's not a smirk on anyone's face as we eat that night, though Dooku's soft smile is . . . hmm. Surprising, and yet not? It rather makes up for the scowl I get as the custodians sweep up the debris still falling from my tunic.

"Ah, sorry about that," I say sheepishly. "Lots of, uh, dirt underground."

Kostana blinks, plucking a shard from my sleeve.

"That's not dirt," she observes.

"Sacanium," Master Dooku agrees. "Rare and valuable. This will make some things easier, and a few much harder. I daresay Jenza will be pleased at the prospect of a vein thereof."

Chapter Text

Driving home from errands, or just in general, is still something I'm getting the hang of, after moving. Getting lost is out of the question, thanks to GPS, but the few weeks since I got set up in my new apartment haven't gotten me too accustomed to the roads. Ah, and I see someone's having car trouble. And flagging me down, that's unusual. Sure, I'll bite.

That sure is a truck, parked in the elementary school 'lot', as I pull in myself. Saturday afternoon means nobody's here. Ah, and I see they've got a jack set up, along with a woman in a blue skirt and purple blouse struggling with a tire iron.

"Thanks, buddy!" her companion greets me, wringing her hands around the hubcap that she holds awkwardly away from her gray khakis. Or maybe they're cream, I'm not much for colors. "Ella's not having much luck getting our flat tire off the . . . axle? Thingie?"

I'm actually not sure what the term is myself. The axle holds the wheels together and to the frame of the vehicle, if I recall correctly, but does the piece that attaches to the tire have a different name? Fortunately, I don't have to be all that aware of the surrounding structure to know how to change a tire, which I do.

"Yeah, those lug nuts can be a giant pain," I agree, stepping up to take over torque duty. "Let's see if I can manage it."

'Ella' happily lets me go for my turn, and it doesn't take long at all to see why this was so much trouble for them. For several unpleasant moments, I wonder if this nut was machine-tightened so snugly that a power drill is required to remove it, but then the arms of the iron finally budge a millimeter or three.

"Boy," I grumble, grunting as the motion slowly continues, "I hope that one was just sticky, or this is going to be a real hassle."

Despite my trouble, the ladies cheer, since that step does put them on the road, heh, to a fully functional vehicle. It turns out that Ella and her friend Aurora are on their way to help mutual friend Becky look for her little sister, last seen in the woods a few miles away, so they're a little more frantic than most people with car trouble. They keep chatting as I get the tire liberated, which unfortunately continues to be a giant pain, but Aurora is happy to hold onto the nuts I remove. Ella, for her part, takes the ripped tire off my hands, setting it in the truck bed, so I can promptly heft up the spare and reverse the lug nut process.

"Thanks so much for this," Aurora tells me, handing the hubcap to Ella as I rinse off my hands. I wave away her gratitude.

"I've passed enough people with their hazards on," I tell her. "If anything, thank you for making me feel better about that."

She winces, and I can tell she's done the same thing, either from having no time to lose on her journey or no reason to think she could help.

"If you can take me back here to get my car afterwards," I say on impulse, "I'll help you all look for Kelly. New in town, so I don't really know the way."

That gets me an equally impulsive hug from Aurora, and a minute later I'm squished into the middle of the bench seat between them. Not exactly a hardship, close contact with two women around my age, and I wonder if my fellow passenger sees a little of that as she texts her boyfriend Philip that we'll be joining the search soon.

"Sorry it's so cramped," Ella apologizes, "but the back seat is more for storage than seatbelts."

"I've had worse," I reply, remembering more than an hour spent in an even narrower space, when my suitcase needed the actual front seat. "To be honest, this is more snug than anything else, and juvenile jokes aside, I have no problem sitting here for a few miles."

Concerns assuaged, they return to the conversation I'd half listened to during the tire swap. Ariel is getting her land legs back after visiting her dad, apparently, and they have a great deal of sympathy for Eric as she falls on him repeatedly. That could definitely be some rough business, especially if knees go into unfortunate places. Hasn't stopped her from posting a few baby bump pictures to Instagram, though. On that riveting note, Ella pulls into a spot, such as it is, in the gravel lot by a big sign marking the Caraway Falls State Forest, and Aurora leaves her door open while I scooch over to make my exit.

"We got a few more, Chief," a woman who sure looks like a sheriff's deputy calls over the radio. "Ella and a couple of friends. Yeah, I'll send them in."

Ella greets 'Stacy' with a hug, and leads the three of us to what I'm guessing is probably the welcome center for this little patch of wilderness. A couple of people are sitting at the table in the center of the first room on the left, looking at a map much more detailed than I'm used to seeing. One of them, a grizzled burly man with stripes on his shoulders, stands up to greet us.

"Ella, Aurora, thank you for coming," he tells them, and then turns to me. "Andrew Powhatan. I appreciate your assistance."

I've had firmer handshakes than that, but not many. They've got people combing the area where Kelly likes to go in the forest, but no luck so far. Half an hour of spreading the search area has gotten no response, though of course a tween girl can go a lot farther in the two hours since she's been seen than a searcher can in thirty minutes. The chief is openly pondering where we should go when the radio squawks again.

"They found her! Excellent!" he shouts exuberantly, but grits his teeth at the reply.

"It seems my daughter is in a ravine," he tells us, looking grim, "and fallen trees are making it very difficult to reach her."

"How long before she needs insulin?" Ella asks. I do my best to keep from grimacing; diabetes isn't a big deal when handled properly, but the consequences can be dire if something goes wrong.

"Normally, she'd have a shot in an hour," he bites off, ushering us all into one of the jeeps. I'm betting the searchers in the field, as it were, can just jog over to wherever this ravine is, or perhaps rank hath its privileges and I'm along for the ride. Literally. This would be more amusing if a girl weren't at risk of a diabetic coma.

Powhatan's speed over the pavement and then the trail is just shy of worrying. Fortunately, the folks who've beaten him there are visible before I can start really being concerned about his objectivity, and I think that might be Stacy waving him down. Or possibly over, I don't know.

Looking down that ravine, I can see what they mean about fallen trees. Kelly's visible, barely, but it'll take some wiggling around big broken branches to get there. Once again, I'm no expert, and I'm very glad we have some around to help her. I drift back over to the crowd, where a truck with a winch has parked close to the edge. So I guess they're setting up to lower someone in to grab her.

There are a couple of attempts, trying various ideas. First, and most expensively, the hope that they—we, I guess—can drop a child-sized harness in to her is squashed when it gets stuck on those branches. Trying to swing it around at the bottom helped, Stacy reports from her vantage point astride the tree topping the pile, but couldn't get all the way. Stacy herself is too big to fit through the opening, alarmingly, and she's the smallest of the trained responders.

"I can try," I say, quietly at first. "I can try!"

There is some skepticism in the crowd, and I freely admit that I don't really know what I'm doing. The guidance of the rescue crew, however, makes it a decent gamble, and the best chance for someone who can fit and is trained has a forty-minute drive just to get into town.

Stacy helps me into one of the adult harnesses, smiling wanly at the degree to which she has to pull in all the straps and buckles. The other child-sized harness is tied to my legs, since they have the room for it. It's a challenge, contorting around the boughs and needles, but I am making real progress.

Frustratingly, though I can get my head below the top of the mess, and there are only a handful of branches between me and the open space above Kelly, it's still a tight fit, and that's with Stacy helping to push and prod me around the obstacles.

"You did your best, son," Chief Powhatan tells me gruffly, squeezing my shoulder. I still feel sick to my stomach. There's got to be some way to be . . . smaller.

"Wait a second," someone says. "He's wearing a coat, and that thing is still big on him. Straps sticking out all over the place. Maybe if you put on the little one, and go in just your shirt?"

It's a daunting prospect. I'm not exactly warm as it is, though fortunately there's no wind, and if I wear the child's harness, what is Kelly going to use? The plan develops, with some input from me: 'Herk' lowers me in the small harness, with just my shirt on, and with luck that will be enough to reach Kelly. Then Stacy walks me through putting the harness on her, assuming I can't retrieve the one they tried sending down by itself earlier, and tie the rope under my arms for a makeshift sort of lasso support. Frankly, those kinds of knots tend to be a mix of tight enough to endanger circulation and loose enough to fall out of, so I'm better off mostly relying on my own biceps to stay secure.

"We can still use Sergeant Lee, you know," the chief mutters to me. "Say the word, and I'll declare that trying to get you down through there isn't reliable."

I am tempted. Just the tiniest bit. But it's really just the old thinking of not wanting to do things in general. Now that I've gotten used to the idea, I feel a degree of comfort with the work ahead of me.

"I'll take ten feet of rope burn and splinters in my hands," I answer just as quietly, "over letting a thirteen-year-old girl spend the evening in the emergency room because I didn't have the guts."

It's settled. My coat comes off, and I choke down some coffee while practicing the process of donning and removing this assemblage of nylon. We have a good fifteen minutes, at this point, before Kelly's health becomes a worry. There's also, of course, the matter of the second rope, tied around my leg so it comes with me and has a good couple dozen feet separating me and Kelly. One last minute holding the warmth closely around me, and then we're off.

There definitely is more room here, now. It's not a big difference, but I didn't need something big, just enough to manage. Granted, I did just get bonked on the head, but even that's kind of a good sign - there's enough space here that I can get bonked, and I'm below my previous point without needing to be a human Tetris piece under Stacy's control.

"On my way, Kelly!" I call out, feeling optimistic enough to encourage her this time.

"uh-huh," she returns feebly. For just a moment, I start to hurry up.

"Eyes on the prize, Matt," Stacy warns me. "Keep it steady. At this pace, you can get to her just fine without rushing."

She's right, of course, and I return to my cool. Figuratively, that is; I'm on the edge of shivering, even with the exercise and adrenaline rush. Back and forth and around I go; it's not cramping, there's plenty of airflow, but there are plenty of small directional changes. I risk trying to pull the first harness loose from its branches when I reach it, but I just don't have the gut familiarity with its setup to compensate for the fading light, and Stacy reminds me to keep going after thirty seconds or so. My chances with brute strength are definitely better.

And then, finally, it all opens up. Four feet of clear sailing, and I can see the dried tears on Kelly's cheeks. Or rather, I could, if they were there. Harrumph.

"I'm through that ridiculous obstacle course!" I shout up to Stacy, and when she relays that to the folks up there I can hear the cheering. Kelly smiles wanly, too. The ground is approaching, and I start trying to find my balance the instant my toes can reach the soil. Once I'm firmly seated, Stacy can once again alert Herk to stop the ropes, and then there's the delightful affair of climbing out of this thing so the kid can get to safety.

"Sorry there's all this fuss over me," she mumbles, and my heart hurts with how much I feel that, but right now we need to stay positive.

"Hey, look on the bright side," I quip. "Everyone's going to think I'm super-awesome for pulling this off."

I say, as I'm pulling something off. The kid manages a chuckle at my pretend egotism and pun, though, so mission accomplished. With a final shimmy, the harness is down around my feet, and I can give Kelly a hand putting it on given Stacy's shouted instructions. The light is getting significantly worse, but hurrying is not going to help any more than it would have before. Several tugs reveal nothing loose with her setup, and it doesn't take more than a few seconds to unwind the rope for my hopefully-not-Gordian knot.

I don't know what it's called, exactly, around my chest. Half-hitch, maybe? Whatever's going on, I've done the best I can by feel to make it about right. I'm going to be sore just from this, I bet, not that there's really any way to tell. Kelly starts rising. I get ready for my own ascent, rough as it's going to be.

Yuuuuup. This is really annoying. The rope isn't too harsh on my palms, for now, but my weight is nowhere near as nicely distributed. My shoulders and armpits are already starting to grumble, but at least my biceps are sharing the load calmly. As I anthropomorphize, the tangle returns, and I'm kept too busy to think about that by grabbing at the many varied bits of branch and twig so I keep heading in the right direction. There's a mix of smoothness to the bark, at times hitting the sweet spot of not sandpaper or slippery, but either way it shouldn't be too much longer. More bumps on the head, and I think scratches to a few places, but once again there are worse things. I can see the evening light up there, and Stacy's face, and aaahhhhh it's done!

There's a dull roar all about me, as the kid gets cuddled by her grateful family. Stacy unties the knot, and humors me about it being a decent job, and now I get my coat back thank you so much. It's all sort of glazing over for me, until I have a seat in the warm truck with an EMT tutting over the damage to my shirtless torso. With bandages and a snack, I'm feeling more myself, and that roar now seems to be a cheer as I rejoin the throng. Herk takes my hand, and Stacy's, guiding us into a bow.

"You're going to be the talk of the town for weeks, after this," she tells me, speaking right into my ear, and I reflexively shake my head.

"I just did what needed to be done," I rebut. I can hear her giggle now, since the noise has died down a bit. Then there's the fierce hug from behind, followed by my new friend pulling me away from the rest of the team and embracing me properly.

"Thank you for saving my sister," Becky murmurs, still holding me right.

"I couldn't have just sat by," I tell her. "We just got unlucky that Stacy couldn't quite fit, is all. Anyone would have done the same."

I can see I'm phrasing things badly.

"Remember the end of Star Wars, when Leia gives medals to Luke and Han?" I try, sitting down with her a little away from the bulk of the celebration. "There was some fuss, back in the day, that she ignored Chewie. A lot of that was from just there being no way for Carrie Fisher to put something over the top of Peter Mayhew's head without the process looking ridiculous, but Lucas' in-universe justification was that Wookiees don't go in for ceremonial stuff like that. Chewbacca's reward for helping destroy the Death Star was that he knew what he'd done. Same deal here."

Becky smiles at me ruefully, shaking her head.

"You're still a hero as far as Kelly is concerned, and the rest of us . . . " She pauses, choosing her words carefully. "Well, you'd say we don't owe you anything, but we're not going to feel that way."

"Now those feelings are quite valid," I agree immediately, but any continuation I might have had is cut short by her dad's appearance.

"It seems that this is exactly the sort of incident that shapes a girl's life, and gives her a new name," he pronounces. "Do you have any thoughts, Pocahontas?"

I blink several times. Is that really a name people still use? Weird, especially because I vaguely recall that the historical Pocahontas also had the English name Rebecca, and her father was Chief of the Powhatans.

"Well, that's a legacy to give someone," I observe, half-smiling. Neither of them agree, looking at me with furrowed brows and hold on a second.

"You'd fairly be called Chief Powhatan. You named your daughter 'Rebecca' when she was born, and 'Pocahontas' later," I say, setting up the facts one by one and looking at them in turn. "You're friends with Ella and Aurora, who's dating Philip. Ariel just got her land legs back, which is sounding less like a metaphor every moment, and Eric is helping her. Herk the winch operator is short for 'Hercules', I'm guessing, and I'm betting his girlfriend Megaera is around somewhere."

My recitation is getting louder, just beyond conversational volume, and the crowd is turning back to me.

"You're well-informed," Chief Powhatan tells me, "but I don't see where you're going with this."

Becky's been watching me closely since I first reacted to her other name.

"You know us after everything that's happened today, but you also know of us, don't you, Matt?" she asks gently.

"Movies. You're all from movies. My apartment is in the town created by Disney," I answer, laying it out at last. Thrumming in my ears, and the world is going fuzzy. The chief's hand on my shoulder, and Becky's fingers interlacing with mine, give me a good anchor. It's a challenging and intriguing moment, led up to from a strenuous and tense evening.

Chapter Text

"Second call Rhode Island!" I hear, as I open the door to the congress' hall. Most of the room looks at me with expressions ranging from irritation to curiosity, but I wasn't sent here to sidle in meekly.

"Theo Warner, delegate from Vermont," I announce myself, nodding to the esteemed group and walking to the head of the room to present my credentials to President Hancock. "Ah, what precisely is the matter in question which Rhode Island has missed discussing?"

The gentleman from Massachusetts scrutinizes the measure approving my selection to speak for the Colony of Vermont in the Continental Congress. It's a bold move, since New York is still being fussy about the area belonging to them, but my understanding is that the matter has been officially resolved.

"A resolution for independence has been introduced," the president tells me after several long seconds of reading, "separating the various colonies from the British Crown."

"I do wonder," one gentleman quips, "what the opinion of the ex-New-Yorker might be on that subject?"

In a happy surprise, the delegation from said colony isn't glaring at me. With that lovely welcome, I find a vacant desk in New England's corner of the hall (John Adams beckoning me to his company), and take a seat. Not two moments after I've adjusted myself on the barely-cushioned wood, a roughly-dressed old man bursts in.

"I'm comin'! I'm comin'! Hold your damn horses!" he grumbles, striding to the desk near mine.

"We're waiting on you, Mr. Hopkins," the secretary chides him, receiving rolled eyes in return.

"It won't kill you," Hopkins replies. "You'd think Congress would have its own privy. All right, where does she stand?"

"Five for debate, five for postponement, one abstention, and one absence," he recounts. I blink at my omission, but I suppose it's a little messy to enter an ongoing vote. The five in favor are Massachusetts, Connecticut, Virginia, New Hampshire, and Delaware. Against are Pennsylvania, Maryland, North Carolina, South Carolina, and Georgia. New Jersey is absent, New York has not voted, and Rhode Island is in contention right not. Mr. Hopkins screws up his face in consideration.

"So it's up to me, is it? Well, I'll tell ye—in all my years, I've never seen, heard, ner smelled any issue that was so dangerous it couldn't be talked about. Hell yes, I'm for debatin' anything, Rhode Island says yea!"

The celebration is widespread, and it appears the rumors of a seething independence movement in Congress are true. Despite all that, the chamber is clearly evenly split. My vote for independence might just decide the matter. A heady proposition—assuming I am allowed to cast one.

The discussion of independence is heated, at times, with Mr. Dickinson as the primary foe, speaking at length of the glory of England and the dangers of violent action. Dr. Franklin comes in to dispute our governance from afar as a working arrangement, and then more are drawn in—until the heat of debate is overwhelmed by the physical temperature of everyone sweating in this stove.

Mr. Rutledge has a different matter for investigation: which people will govern in South Carolina? The people of South Carolina, or those of Massachusetts?

"Some issues will be of interest to South Carolina alone, or primarily," I volunteer, fist clenching to battle my nerves as his attention is focused on me. "If the people of your state wish to expand their existing harbor in Charleston, that would be your affair to handle as you wish. If your college wishes to raise its fees for students coming from elsewhere, well, Vermonters would have little to say about that. But it is not hard to look at history, or even the present day in what was once the land of Caesar, and observe what happens to dis-united states."

'Mutual protection' does not stretch very far, apparently, and that leads to the great peril that the British army brings with it.

"Mr. Adams, how can a nation of only two million souls stand up to an empire of ten million?" objects . . . I have it now, Mr. Chase, of Maryland. "Think of it, ten million? How can we compensate for that shortage?"

I cock my head slightly at his misconception.

"For one thing, it's not just two million versus ten million," I contend, engaging myself more against his plain pragmatism. "Britain cannot focus all that large a portion of her efforts on us. The navy must also focus on the Caribbean, Africa, and India, not to mention new colonies and defense against the precarious balance of power in Europe."

"Not to mention that we're defending our own land!" cries Adams. "We have fighting spirit on our side!"

That sets Dickinson off, and then things really get ugly. They fling accusations, insults of 'madman' and 'fribble'. Then it descends into "Landlord!" "Lawyer!"

"Pot! Kettle!" I interject, laughing scornfully. "I'm sorry, gentlemen, but my understanding of your respective enterprises is that both of you rent out property to tenants, both of you practice law, and both of you claim not to be hooligans!"

My words satisfy some in the crowd, but the men still nearly come to blows. They're not martial artists, certainly. Caesar Rodney manages to get between them, panting with the effort, and then just panting. The cloth covering much of his face doesn't conceal a tragic accident, but life-threatening cancer, a few remarks reveal. He needs urgent medical attention, which his fellow Delawarean will deliver him to—leaving their state represented solely by a Crown loyalist. Rutledge is the first one to formalize his understanding of the changed calculation, moving to vote on the question of independence now. Adams and Franklin do their best to stall, but the true delay is delivered by the arrival of the New Jersey delegation—instructed to support independence.

Now they're ready for a vote, until Dickinson moves to require unanimity.

"No vote's ever had to be unanimous, Dickinson, and you know it!" Adams fairly splutters. His foe smiles thinly.

"Yes, but this one must be," he replies flatly.

"On what grounds?" Adams demands.

"That no colony be torn from its mother country without its own consent," Dickinson retorts. The same old lines form, with New Jersey joining the rebels and Delaware moving over to the loyalists.

"New York abstains, courteously," Mr. Morris informs us.

"Mr. Morris, why does New York constantly abstain?" President Hancock asks, frustration in his every fidget. "Why doesn't New York simply stay in New York?"

"Was that a rhetorical question?" I interject. "Because I'd quite like to know if this is going to keep happening."

Mr. Morris explains the situation: in meetings of the New York legislature, they speak very fast, and very loud, and no one pays any attention to anybody else, with the result that nothing ever gets done.

"But they sent you," I object, thinking aloud. "They didn't appoint you to be mute observers, surely, and they've had plenty of time to tell you how you should vote. Your ballot is now up to you, I would think. Surely you've got some idea what the people of New York want."

A hurried minute of deliberation yields another vote against unanimity—seven to six. I can either create the tie I just avoided, or settle the matter against unanimity.

"Mr. Adams has made the excellent point that this is a majoritarian body, and we have seen the risk of empowering each individual legislator in the recent division of Poland," I muse, "However, Mr. Dickinson has a highly relevant counter that this binding decision should not be forced on any colony. I'm torn. So, gentlemen, see if you can give me different points to weigh."

Adams and Franklin confer far more frantically than the New Yorkers, and give me "This is a blatant attempt to win without needing more than one vote". That motivation does certainly seem to be present, especially with Dickinson and Rutledge scowling. They, meanwhile, offer that General Washington's slim chances of victory will evaporate if any colony shows that it will not support him, putting his strategic prospects and army on shaky foundations.

"I am in favor of a functioning government," I pronounce, perking up Franklin until I follow it with "and a functioning war effort. We must step forward with every toe, as it were."

Back to a tie, and several gestures at my lame metaphor. Surprisingly, Hancock breaks the tie by agreeing with Dickinson and me. Either we all walk together, or together we must stay where we are. There will be no votes against independence, if it is to happen—which naturally means a more substantial effort at delay.

Adams wants a declaration on the matter, putting forth the events that have led us to this point and our proposed end state. Chase isn't having it, and I can see his point, but when Jefferson terms it "to place before mankind the common sense of the matter, in terms so plain and firm as to command their assent", that seems to settle the discussion. Though Maryland is still opposed, overall. New York remains with the independents, while I . . . well, I have my own parochial bias in favor of leaving a larger body, and I do want to see what they can come up with to gather domestic and foreign support for the cause. Eight votes to six settles it, and the committee to write the declaration will be Adams, Franklin, Roger Sherman of Connecticut, Robert Livingston of New York, and eventually Jefferson.

Chapter Text

Three weeks of becoming acquainted with my Congressional colleagues. Three weeks of Mr. Hopkins' love of rum, Mr. Hewes' endless yielding to Mr. Rutledge, et cetera. I have little choice but to agree with the sentiment that Mr. Adams is obnoxious and disliked. He has not harangued me, quite, but it seems that he believes frequent communication is necessary to assure my commitment to independence.

And now it is time for Mr. Jefferson's report. Assigned to a committee also staffed by Mr. Adams, Dr. Franklin, Mr. Sherman, and Mr. Livingston, but primarily executed by the most talented rhetorician among them. An impressive document, enunciated by Secretary Thomson.

"'we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor,'" he tells us, concluding the declaration as Adams, Jefferson, and Washington enter the chamber.

"Thank you, Mr. Thomson," President Hancock acknowledges. "The Congress has heard the report of the Declaration Committee. Are there any here who wish to offer alterations, deletions, amendments to this declaration?"

A moment of silence, before almost every man there has some suggestion. Including me. There's quite a ruckus, frankly, and Hancock has to shout them, us, down.

"Colonel McKean, I saw your hand first."

The thick-brogued gentleman rises to offer his objection.

"Mr. Jefferson, it's a bonny paper you've written, Tom, but somewhere in it, you mention 'Scottish and foreign mercenaries sent to destroy us.'"

McKean pauses for just a moment, emphasizing his disappointment.

"Scottish, Tom?"

Adams jumps in before Jefferson can elaborate.

"That is in reference to a Highland regiment which assailed us at Boston."

McKean shakes his head ruefully.

"It's more likely Germans wearing kilts as disguises."

I try not to scoff aloud at the ludicrous notion, with neither factual evidence to back it nor any real motivation for the scheme. Again, I'm not the only one.

"I ask you to remove the word and avoid giving offense to a good people," he concludes.

Dickinson's scoff has now reached the level of actual protest.

"Come now, Colonel," he rebuts, "the idea is farcical. Why and how would they have done this? We already know the Crown employs Hessian mercenaries to augment their forces here."

The gruff Scot has no opportunity to offer any explanation before Mr. Sherman counters.

"Scottish troops assaulting the colonies are more likely part of the British Army, gentlemen. Not mercenaries."

"Politically," Dr. Hall volunteers, "well, Colonel McKean won't be the only Scot to object to this mention. It costs nothing to remove it."

There's one final aspect everyone has missed, and I have no problem pointing it out.

"If we're an independent nation," I muse, "then Scottish soldiers are just as foreign as Germans."

At that point, puts an end to the debate one way or another, as Jefferson consents to the deletion. Hancock then indicates my turn.

"Near the end, the clause 'appealing to the Supreme Judge of the World for the rectitude of our intentions' rings wrong to me, Mr. Jefferson," I tell him. "This is a work of political philosophy and international diplomacy, not theology. I ask that 'supreme' be omitted, and 'judge' changed to 'judgment'. That is what we're doing, after all, asking the world to judge our efforts as worthy of support."

This notion does not sit well with everyone, particularly Reverend Witherspoon.

"Ah yes," snorts Mr. Chase, "the Supreme Judge is definitely not relevant to Catholic France."

Mr. Bartlett is already shaking his head.

"As far as their military efforts go? No. They want revenge for the Seven Years' War."

Jefferson holds up a hand as the argument strays, and after a few moments of thought, he reluctantly nods.

And the good reverend is next.

"Mr. Jefferson, nowhere do you mention the Supreme Being," he objects. "Now, surely this was an oversight, for how could we hope to achieve a victory without His help? Therefore, I most humbly suggest the following addition to your final sentence: 'with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence."

I may be overstepping here, but I stand nonetheless.

"I respect your faith, Reverend Witherspoon," I tell him, "but I don't share it. In that regard, I'm not the only one here, nor in Vermont. This conflict is going to be resolved by diplomats and soldiers, not priests."

Witherspoon's expression might be called a scowl, if he weren't such a mild-mannered man.

"These are godly colonies, Mr. Warner," he replies stiffly. "I am sure that General Washington is most desperate, in his work, for the support of our Creator."

Well, that can hardly be doubted, given his nigh-nihilistic reports, but I am unmoved, smiling thinly.

"Divine Providence into one hand, spit in the other, and see which one fills up—"

I'm cut off by half the room snapping my name, not least Dr. Franklin. Jefferson's firm nod adds injury to insult, one might say, and Witherspoon's addition is a thumb to the nose of deism.

Delaware's turn again, with Mr. Read taking the floor.

"Among your charges against the king, Mr. Jefferson, you accuse him of depriving us of the benefits of trial by jury. This is untrue, sir. In Delaware, we have always had trial by jury."

Adams does not move in any way as he delivers a flat rebuttal.

"In Massachusetts we have not."

Read is taken aback by his affect, but nevertheless continues, "Then I suggest that the words 'in many cases' be added."

"A wise alteration in any case," I note. "Universal statements like that generally sound too bold, even if no one can actually find a counter-example."

Jefferson is already signaling Mr. Thomson to add the adverbial phrase. On and on we go, adjusting the declaration. Some of the changes are positive, reflecting a well-rounded point of view from the perspectives our whole Congress offers. Many smack far more of design by committee.

The next morning, Mr. Bartlett is not fond of alienating our remaining British friends with negative phrases like 'unfeeling brethren' and 'enemies at war'. It is true that our problem is with the King and Parliament, rather than the nation as a whole.

"Be sensible, Bartlett," Adams chides him. "Remove those phrases, and the entire paragraph becomes meaningless. And it so happens that it's one of the most stirring and poetic of any passage in the entire document."

He's ready to continue, but Bartlett is quick to interject at the very notion.

"We're a Congress, Mr. Adams, not a literary society."

"My left foot we're not," I object in turn. "Reviewing the composition of a document is just what a literary society does. Fiery language is part of diplomatic communication, at times."

Bartlett purses his lips, trying to find a way around it.

"'To the extent that they have supported these abuses, they have been...'," he compromises, and Jefferson accepts that delineation.

Fresh from renewing Rhode Island's rum, Mr. McNair gets Hancock's attention.

"I can't say I'm very fond of 'the United States of America' as a name for a new country," he objects.

Hancock's incredulous expression is a sight to behold.

"I don't care what you're fond of, Mr. McNair, you're not a member of this Congress!"

Bartlett's problem is continued by Sherman, who would rather not discuss Parliament at all given that we're claiming their governance has been illegitimate from day one. Adams is working himself into a tizzy here, more defensive of Jefferson's work than the author himself.

"Mr. Jefferson, I have very little interest in your paper, as there's no doubt in my mind that we've all but heard the last of it," Dickinson says dismissively. "But I am curious about one thing. Why do you refer to King George as a tyrant?"

"Because he is a tyrant," the Virginian replies coldly. This earns a cocked head, as Dickinson paces.

"I remind you, Mr. Jefferson, that this tyrant is still your king."

Jefferson takes to his feet now.

"When a king becomes a tyrant," he intones, "he thereby breaks the contract binding his subjects to him."

Dickinson seems puzzled by this, and he elaborates.

"By taking away their rights."

"Rights that came from him in the first place?" Dickinson inquires.

"For a man of such British pride," I observe, "you seem to be fuzzy on British jurisprudence. Rights come from our existence as people, and are protected by Parliament, the preeminent authority even after Charles the Second came to the throne. Rights that King George and his officials have been violating."

"Homes entered without warrant," Jefferson lists. "Citizens arrested without charge. And in many places, free assembly itself denied."

"No one approves of such things," Dickinson claims, disregarding the fact that these events occurring means someone must approve, "but these are dangerous times. The charge of 'tyranny' is unwarranted, and I demand the word 'tyrant' be removed."

Thomson is already doing it, when Jefferson objects.

"Just a moment, Mr. Thomson. I do not consent. The king is a tyrant, whether we say so or not. We might as well say so."

The secretary waves his quill pen in emphasis, proclaiming that he already scratched it out.

"Then scratch it back in!" Jefferson tells him forcefully.

Hancock wearily directs Mr. Thomson to comply, and we come to North Carolina.

"Mr. Jefferson," he whines, "nowhere do you mention deep-sea fishing rights."

Almost as much of the room groans at that, as was initially interested in offering a modification to the declaration.

"Fishing rights!" Adams practically splutters. "How long is this trifling to go on?! We have been here for three full days! We have endured, by my count, ninety-five separate changes, and the removal of close to four hundred words! Now would you whip it and beat it until you break its spirit?! I tell you that document is a masterful expression of the American mind!"

That cows the room into silence for several long moments.

"If there are no more changes," Hancock ventures, "then I can assume the report—"

Mr. Rutledge is talking over him now, and Hancock quickly subsides.

"Just a moment, Mr. President," he drawls. I think I hear Franklin murmuring 'watch out'.

"I wonder," Rutledge continues, "if we might request that Mr. Thomson read again a small portion of Mr. Jefferson's declaration. The one beginnin' 'He has waged cruel war'."

Thomson duly skims through the paragraphs, and is pleased to find the right one despite the grave verbiage in the few leading words he reads aloud from each of them.

"'He has waged cruel war against human nature itself in the persons of a distant people who never offended him, captivating and carrying them into slavery in another hemisphere, determined to keep open a market where men should be bought and sold.'"

Rutledge cuts him off as he begins the next passage.

"That will suffice, Mr. Thomson, I thank you, sir. Mr. Jefferson, I can't quite make out what it is you're talking about."

Can't he? It seems quite clear to me.

"Slavery, Mr. Rutledge," he responds calmly.

"Oh, yes," Rutledge returns theatrically. "you're describing us as slaves of the king."

"No, sir," he replies. "I'm describing our slaves. Black slaves."

That sours Rutledge's expression, and I wonder again what he's going for here.

"Why didn't you say so, sir?" he asks. "Were you trying to hide your meanin'?"

"No, sir."

"Just another 'literary license'," Rutledge describes with a sneer.

"If you like." Even colder than 'tyrant'.

"I don't like at all, Mr. Jefferson," he retorts. "To us in South Carolina and beyond, black slavery is our peculiar institution, and a cherished way of life."

"Cherished by whom, exactly?" I ask, getting a glare from the chattel apologist. And not just him. The mood is getting ugly in his whole delegation, and therefore North Carolina's as well. Dr. Hall of Georgia, despite his personal support for independence, is very much radiating discontent. It seems Franklin's prediction of disarray was quite accurate, foreseeing perhaps more trouble than every other amendment combined.

Chapter Text

"Cherished," Rutledge grinds out, "by the people who sent me to this congress. I intend to advocate for their interests."

The mood is getting darker and darker, more than the petty squabble between Adams and Dickinson a few weeks ago.

"Rather than the interests of the Americans they have enslaved," Adams replies coolly. Rutledge laughs, a short sharp sound.

"Oh? John Adams is now calling our black slaves, Americans. Are they not?"

"Yes, they are," the New Englander replies. "They're people and they're here. If there's any other requirement, I've never heard of it."

"Here, as property," Rutledge insists.

"No, sir, they are people who are being treated as property!" Jefferson exclaims. "Every chain placed upon them is a weight on our souls!"

The South Carolinian seizes upon that.

"Then see to your own soul, Mr. Jefferson, for you have secured those chains yourself!"

And he is forced to fall back into his seat, energy gone.

"I have already resolved," Jefferson replies, "to release my slaves."

It should be neither surprising nor disappointing to me that a man selected by Virginia's community leaders is, in that regard, everything one might expect of a Southerner. And yet. Adding to my dismay, much of the room winces at the exchange, and their faces speak of empathy with his struggle, rather than measured sympathy.

Rutledge huffs.

"It seems our Northern brethren are feeling a bit tender towards our slaves. They don't keep slaves."

I have the urge to correct him, foolish though it may be, and fortunately he's continued on his way before I can form the words.

"But they're willing to facilitate the trade. They're willing, for the shilling. Or haven't you heard?"

Molasses, to rum, to slaves. I have had some study of business, and I'm aware of the major industries in and connected to the colonies. Rutledge lays it out in clear and firm terms, Northern merchants not employing slaves themselves, and that's all one can say for them. They pay for ships to Africa, ferrying captives forth. Slaves to the Caribbean, harvesting molasses. Molasses up north, to be brewed into rum. Rum to Africa, exchanged to stuff more ships with poor desperate souls.

"For the love of God, Mr. Rutledge, please!" Mr. Bartlett begs, but Rutledge's inveighing continues. Not for long, but long enough.

"Hail Boston!" he declares. "Hail Charleston! Who stinketh the most?"

He strides away dramatically from the floor of Congress, and his Southern brethren begin to join him, but I'm not about to let him have the last word.

"Still you," I reply, just as coldly as Jefferson did in response to Dickinson earlier. "I am disappointed in the man who condemns slavery and yet benefits from it, professionally or personally. I suspect I am one of but a handful of men here who avoids both categories. But I am contemptuous, and worse, of the man who advocates for the ignominy, avidly spreading it and seizing more people to hold indefinitely in bondage."

They don't stop. Not in response to my rejoinder, or Mr. Adams' pleading. Mr. Chase arrives just after Dr. Hall has departed, proudly proclaiming that the Maryland assembly had voted to support independence upon hearing of the mettle that Continental soldiers against a flock of geese.

"You'll have to forgive them, Mr. Chase," Dickinson quips. "It's been a rough day. And, after all, "what shall it profiteth a man to gain Maryland but lose the entire South?"

That, along with Hancock quietly noting the default libation in this room, the mugs of rum most of the delegates have been consuming, brings Adams to more fruitful action.

McKean sorrowfully agrees to retrieve Caesar Rodney, surely on his deathbed, to break Delaware's tie overnight.

"Stephen," he follows up, only for Mr. Hopkins to hold up his hand.

"Johnny, I'm going to the pub. If you've got something for me there, I'm all ears."

"Cider, whiskey, or beer would be a good start," I chip in, and he purses his lips in acquiescence.

Bartlett, Sherman, Chase, none of them are willing to spend the final evening for the vote attempting to wrangle our colleagues back.

The room is almost empty now, as Adams struggles with his more or less self-appointed role leading the rebellion in Congress.

"We have no choice, John," Dr. Franklin says quietly. "The slavery clause has got to go."

"Franklin, what are you saying?" Adams breathes. There's the mild surprise of Franklin actually voicing an opinion, after the last few days, but far more than that is yet another blow of disappointment.

"It's a luxury we can't afford," Franklin pronounces. Ah, the classic tone of the reluctant conclusion.

"A half million souls in chains, and Ben Franklin calls it a luxury," Adams retorts.

"The issue here is independence!" he thunders. "Perhaps you've forgotten that fact, but I have not!"

When did I get up? No matter.

"How lovely it is, that Dr. Franklin descends from on high to decide what 'the issue' is," I announce. I'd like to think that I'm not snarling. "Never mind the physical freedoms denied to captives for generations, British colonists must have political freedom."

Neither of them liked that, and I shake my head, turning towards the door.

"Once I've regained my temper, I'll have a word with Dr. Hall," I tell them.

It's a prudent thought. I continue to consider it into the late evening, walking the streets of Philadelphia. My anger, however, goes nowhere. I knew, intellectually, that slavery was a booming business south of Mason and Dixon's line. But being confronted with it by the men who've made their careers there...

I find myself back in Independence Hall, streetlights making the night bearable as I close the door behind me. I have nothing to tell anyone who might be here, and yet I go to my seat. The vote tally on the wall catches my eye. Georgia has swung over. It seems Dr. Hall has rethought his departure, earlier.

"Mr. Warner."

Mr. Adams is just leaving, it would appear, and perhaps I just missed his conversation prompting the tally's change.

"Yes, I'm sorry," I reply. "The disquiet that boiled over earlier hasn't simmered down yet. I had hoped to, well."

He nods slowly.

"Thank you, Theodore," John replies quietly.

A lot of words have been spoken here, and that's not stopping any time soon. Right now, though, I pick up everything he means in those three words. His appreciation of my discontent, and efforts to support the cause despite that.

"You should try to get some rest," he tells me. "It's not over yet."

And that's exactly what I do, trying to sleep rather than wonder how I'm going to push Rutledge. If I can.

I'm sure I must have eaten something, before going to work. Oatmeal and beans and an apple, perhaps. Regardless, here I sit, with the rest of the colonies' leaders.

"Very well," John Hancock notes. We're all here, and the time is now. "The Congress will now vote on Virginia's resolution on independence."

Not a breath after he finishes the final word, the front door opens, revealing travel-worn Thomas McKean and Caesar Rodney.

The whole of Congress gradually come to our feet, watching one man walk and another limp, shuffle, make his way over, to sit alongside George Read.

"Thank you for coming, Caesar," Hancock announces, conveying all of our senses as we sit down again. "And God bless you, sir."

"The secretary will now call the vote," he details. "And I remind you gentlemen, that a single 'nay' vote will defeat the motion."

He hands it over to Mr. Thomson, who calls us out in more or less north-to-south order. Vermont. New Hampshire. Massachusetts. Rhode Island. Connecticut. New York. New Jersey. Seven 'yea' votes.

"Mr. Secretary," Franklin apologizes, "Pennsylvania is not ready. Please return to us later."

"Pennsylvania passes," Thomson notes. "Delaware."

Rodney slowly gets to his feet.

"Delaware, by majority vote, says 'yea'," he wheezes. Poor man.

Maryland. Virginia. Ten votes in favor. But now we come to the sole, immense, conflict remaining.

Thomson calls for North Carolina's vote, and I mouth along with Mr. Hewes' 'vote'.

"North Carolina yields to South Carolina."

The room is quiet but for Thomson acknowledging that the turn has changed.

"Well, Mr. Adams?" Rutledge asks.

"Well, Mr. Rutledge," Adams replies.

"Mr. Adams," he declares, standing, "you must believe that I will do what I have promised to do."

There we have it.

"You're not the only one who can make promises, Mr. Rutledge," I observe. I clench so hard, keeping my voice calm and civil, that there is a genuine concern I might injure myself.

The room seems to narrow down to the three of us. Edward Rutledge, leader of South Carolina's delegation and avid defender of slavery. Theodore Warner, delegate from Vermont and ardent foe of slavery. John Adams, delegate from Massachusetts, taking charge over the other committee members to decide the wording of our declaration. Either Rutledge will bend, or I will.

Chapter Text

"What do you want, Rutledge?" Adams asks gruffly.

"Remove the offendin' passage from your declaration."

Adams looks to me, expecting contradiction.

"I could have lived with not mentioning the practice of slavery in the first place, what with it providing little impetus for this push to independence. I will not abide by its neutering to appease slavers."

South Carolina's delegation leader sneers at me.

"If Vermont is so much holier than her sister colonies, perhaps she is better suited to her own country, without being tarred by our presence."

I breathe deeply, avoiding his redirection, and look around at the rest of the room. They do not want this confrontation, and nobody has any idea how it will end.

"Whether as part of the British Empire, or the United States of America, we will drag you into the freedom of everyone in this nation."

Rutledge's slow head-shake indicates that he thinks I've overstepped.

"You would not risk the collapse of the secession movement over the cause of emancipation that so few here truly support," he predicts. "Or, more to the point, they won't."

He gestures towards Adams, Jefferson, and Franklin, a curt reminder that I am not the one who decides what the declaration includes. But I can play this game as well as Rutledge.

"If you cannot get a unanimous vote with a condemnation of involuntary servitude, or by removing it, Mr. Jefferson," I beseech him, "you might as well leave the document intact, and have it fail with your true beliefs."

He nods slightly, acknowledging my argument, and we all remain still for several long moments. My obstinance encourages his.

"And so it falls, with two votes against," I predict. "General Washington has done well enough to push the Crown to the bargaining table, and we will manage some sort of reconciliation. Which will not include human bondage, since the mainland will similarly push for enforcing her norms, which as of four years ago forbid the practice on her soil. Abolition, perhaps in our lifetimes."

Mr. Rutledge looks at me, bewildered and skeptical.

"You would truly destroy your reputation, be the man who prevented America, for the slim chance of destroying our custom?"

"The spark was lit, as Mr. Warner said, when Judge Mansfield ordered James Somerset to be released from Charles Stewart's ownership," Adams counters. "The chance is not so slim as you claim, not with the British public behind it."

I simply sit, motionless in my defiance. We will have a declaration of independence that condemns slavery, endorsed by every colony, or we will have overlordship by a British administration that has already shown willingness to strike the practice down. I can live with either outcome.

Our battle of wills is interrupted by the courier, but for once he does not have the single military dispatch to give Mr. Thomson. Instead, he carries a bag, and a flood of envelopes cascades in front of Judge Wilson.

"'pologies for the delay," the boy mutters, stalking out of the meeting hall once again. For his part, Wilson duly begins to open this correspondence, skimming over letter after letter.

"You may castigate me to your constituents, if you like," I offer Rutledge. "The mad abolitionist, willing to take the colonies down for a simple rhetorical flourish."

And there's more truth to that than I would like, as I see the glint in his eyes. While I have refused to approve this proposed caving to practitioners of the 'peculiar institution', the fact remains that calling out slavery for what it is will have little effect on the plantations of South Carolina, or likely even Jefferson's household. This may well be my last act in politics.

"Mister President," he says at last, "the fair colony of South Carolina says Yea."

"South Carolina says Yea," Thomson echoes, with McNair reaching up to move their marker on the board.

"North Carolina says Yea," Hewes parrots. Oh, my complicated emotions on that relationship, as our secretary and his assistant record another changed vote.

"Georgia?"

"Georgia says Yea," Dr. Hall affirms.

"Pennsylvania, second call."

Mr. Dickinson rises, smugness in his bearing.

"As entertaining as it was to watch that battle of wills, it truly made little difference. Mr. President, Pennsylvania says—"

"Just a moment," Franklin interrupts. "I ask that the delegation be polled."

"Dr. Franklin, don't be absurd," Dickinson sputters.

"A poll, Mr. President," Franklin reiterates. "It's a proper request."

Hancock nods once, sharply.

"Yes, it is. Poll the delegation, Mr. Thomson."

Each delegation has one vote, and there's been a general acknowledgement that the people in that delegation can settle their collective vote however they wish. Sometimes a contested majority, as Delaware showed not five minutes ago. Now, it seems just possible that James Wilson will have to speak for himself.

"Mr. John Dickinson," Thomson calls, to a negative response, and Dr. Franklin promptly neutralizes it.

"Mr. James Wilson," Thomson requests. The man puts down another slip of paper on what's become a fairly disheveled pile, something familiar to anyone who's ever handled paperwork.

Wilson purses his lips, and screws up his mouth.

"It's time, James," Dickinson prompts him. "Cast your vote, and the matter is settled."

"Please, John. I know what you want me to do," Wilson replies, almost plaintively. "I've followed your lead for a while now. But I mentioned more than once that I just hadn't heard enough from the people who sent me. Not on independence, at least."

His word choice makes it clear what's happening, and the world is falling out from under John Dickinson's feet.

"I'm sure we've all had our problems with the mail, and now mine is done. I can have confidence in what they want, here."

"Even if what they want is impossible?" Dickinson asks sharply, bitterly. Wilson gives him a wan smile in return.

"Your skepticism with Mr. Rutledge's. My optimism with Mr. Adams', and Mr. Warner's. My vote is yea."

"Mr. Secretary, Pennsylvania says yea," Franklin announces, with one last thunk to the board.

"The count being fourteen to none," Mr Thomson answers, "the resolution on independence . . . is adopted."

The disbelief in his voice is testament to all the work we've done to get here. Debates, convincings, compromises.

"It's done," Adams blurts, a sudden resolution to the tension he's borne. "It's done."

"Mr. Thomson," Hancock asks gravely, "is the declaration ready to be signed?"

"It is," he replies readily, quill still in hand as he takes notes.

"Then I suggest we do so promptly. And the chair further proposes, for our mutual protection, that no man sits among us without signing it."

A reasonable measure to take, from my perspective, and even the men who've been overruled, like Mr. Read, make not a whit of objection. Hancock nods, seeing the quiet assent. But things won't be that smooth, with the tragic figure of John Dickinson before us.

"I'm sorry, Mr. President," Dickinson tells us, slowly and painfully, "but I cannot join in approval here. I will never stop hoping for our eventual reconciliation with England."

"We will be reconciled, Mr. Dickinson," Reverend Witherspoon assures him. "Just, not reunited. Once we've won, and tempers have cooled, we'll deal with each other as equal nations."

"With far more in common than most," Colonel McKean rumbles.

"Be that as it may," Dickinson allows, his speech still halting and tense, "because I regard America no less than Mister Adams does, I will join the Continental Army and fight in her defense. Even though I believe that fight to be hopeless."

He gathers his few papers from Pennyslvania's shared desk.

"Goodbye, gentlemen," Dickinson tells us. He walks slowly towards the door, but not the pace of a man who wishes to be talked out of a grave deed.

"Gentlemen of the congress, I say ye John Dickinson," Adams announces. We rise in appreciation, canes and walking sticks thumping the floor or fists hitting our desks.

The door closes after Mr. Dickinson, and we fall into silence once more.

"Very well," Hancock pronounces. "Are there any objections to the declaration being approved with this draft?"

To everyone's surprise, John Adams rises.

"You, Mr. Adams?" the chair asks in astonishment.

"Yes," he replies briskly. "Ah, Mr. Jefferson, it happens that the word is 'unalienable', not 'inalienable'."

Jefferson just smiles.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Adams, but 'inalienable' is correct."

Adams steps forward, pressing his case.

"I happen to be a Harvard graduate, Mr. Jefferson."

The room hoots at his attempted invocation of authority.

"Well, I attended William and Mary, Mr. Adams," Jefferson ripostes, restraining his amusement more than the rest of us. Adams is about to splutter, I can tell, when Hancock bangs his gavel.

"Gentlemen, please," he says wearily. "Mr. Jefferson, will you yield to Mr. Adams' request?"

Jefferson 'considers' for a moment.

"No sir, I will not."

Adams tries to glare him into submission, but the lanky Virginian just smirks.

"Oh, very well, I withdraw it," he grumbles. Chuckles there, that truly ignite when Franklin follows up with "oh, good for you, John!"

Then John Hancock sets his pen to the declaration of our independence, evidence that could convict him of treason against England. The first of us to do so, but our names will follow before the evening is out.

Chapter Text

"With exuberance hiding nerves. Good afternoon, Chief Thurl. My name is Hillel Paddix," I greet the weathered noncom, sitting at the quasi-card table with Nick and Elf flanking him. He looks me up and down, assessing my bulky and imposing frame, even as I shift my weight in preparation to hand him a datapad.

"Don't see many elcor looking for mercenary work," Thurl notes, inviting me to explain myself. This is going to be a little tricky.

"Challenging. An opportunity most overlook due to mores. Aspirational. It's a niche I can fill," I reply. An adequate summary; the important part, however, is the unspoken message he's reading now: "I have memories of the Toughs' previous missions, such as the Very Dangerous Array's 'proactive target acquisition' and Sergeant Schlock combining with his younger self, framed as a webcomic read by a 21st-century human—which also included your future operations. I suspect I have been the victim of a particularly unscrupulous intelligence agency. I request asylum and employment."

The chief isn't used to being surprised, and I can see on his face that he thinks I might just be crazy. It's a weak hypothesis by itself, since there's no explanation for knowing things that didn't get sold to Dreamland Entertainment. After a long moment, he starts typing.

"Well, if you can be a little more flexible than the traditional 'walking tank'," he tells me, "the captain will—see you now. Lieutenant Foxworthy, please escort our guest to Commander Andreyasn's lab."

I stride as quickly behind her as I can, trying to make a good impression on the company. Speed is a bad idea on Dekuuna and such, but look where we aren't. "Call me Elf" heads straight to the back of the docking bay and into the Touch And Go, with a smile as she enters her boyfriend's workshop.

Tagon nods to Elf's brief report, in turn taking me down the hall to what looks like a conference room. There are several chairs, but this would be a standing situation even if their furniture were built for elcor.

"You're promising, Paddix," he tells me unceremoniously. "Too promising. Why should I trust a UNS patsy?"

"Contemplative. Trust is a difficult commodity, Captain," I muse. "Thoughtful. Perhaps Dr. Bunnigus can examine me very closely indeed."

He grits his teeth, pacing with deliberation. The captain's grimaces would be fascinating if I weren't still afraid he might kill me. The biggest thing stopping him, I hope, is the chance that my advice might save lives in the future. Finally, he activates the primary vidscreen, raising an idle doctor.

"Got a possible loon here, Doc," he says casually. "Use a fine-toothed comb, make sure that whoever messed with their memories isn't trying to target us. Paddix, tell her everything relevant you can remember."

"Nervously. Breya buys the company, Schlock buys it back, Ghanj-Rho, Vog and Rod, Xinchub and Ceeta, the Core Wars, Kevyn's time-clone, Zoojack, Der Trihs retires, Petey's discovery, Petey's revival, Mallcop command, parkata urbatsu, Kevyn's illegal nannies, Elf moving in, Shafter's Shifters, Karl and Captain Kevyn kidnapped, the enormous ship Broken Wind/Breath Weapon, Laz-5, Sorlie on Parnassus Dom, Captain Alexia Murtaugh of Sanctum Adroit, fomented uprising via hacked cops on Earth, the Andromeda war and subsequent truce, the return of vanished galactic civilizations in their worldships," I tell her, as she has me twist every which way to verify my body's security. Kevyn got pulled in early on, and I'm pretty sure he'd be in a brown study over all his personal business if he hadn't started off laser-focused on excluding any technological influences I've brought onto the ship. "Nonchalantly. Oh, and Para Ventura is an intelligence agent. Radio tooth and cervical vertebra 4."

"Not hard to spoof the first, so we can take them both out," the commander comments, having shut down most of his equipment. "She's an excellent roboticist, so it's worth keeping her on, especially now that we know her deal."

"Challenging. Sergeant Schlock will be empowered to eat either of us on any sign of betrayal," I counter. Kevyn's glasses are remarkable for their many souped-up features, and now he's using one of the most basic elements of all: I can't read him, though I'm still pretty confident in my assessment. Then again, he's drawing up schematics now, so maybe there's a new topic for discussion.

"Curious. Do you have something in mind for my equipment beyond the usual 'living tank'," I ask, increasingly interested in the possibility as I go along.

He screws up his mouth, just a little like Tagon earlier, and keeps fiddling with the holographic display.

"Nothing wrong with big guns, but it might be interesting to have several smaller ones, for versatility, plus a field kit or three," Commander Andreyasn suggests. That could work. Even the bigger members of the company would find that load restricting, but I don't have their freedom of movement in the first place, so it's not a problem.

"Uncertain. I wonder if a mini-fabber would work, unless those don't get certified for field use in the first place due to fragility and energy density." The second part of that suggestion comes from the alarm on his face, and hasty speculation.

"Playful," I try, "you're remarkably squeamish for a man with antimatter grenades as epaulets."

I'm pretty sure I can see his eyes roll around those lenses.

Three days later, I've got a uniform, standing with the rest of the troops. Captain Tagon is addressing us, for our formal welcome to the Toughs.
"We've got some new faces with us today. Welcome aboard. If you're here, it's because you're qualified to be here, and we're glad to have you," he begins, making his way around the front of the crowd so everyone can get a good look at some point.

"Chief Warrant Thurl has prepared a roster. Each new recruit will be paired up with one or two "old-timers" for orientation and training."

He continues discussing the purpose of our breaking-in for a little while, putting together a pretty nice speech.

"Thurl's 'Buddy Roster' is the key, in the old Earth circuses, they took the new, untrained elephants, and put two trained elephants on either side of them to teach them to stay in the pachyderm parade. It worked for dumb elephants, and it works for people too."

And then the elephant in the room coughs pointedly. The newly-recruited corporal and his CO have a spirited discussion on appropriate workplace terminology and behavior, and I catch his eye after we get dismissed.

"Consoling. For what it's worth, I think you did the right thing," I tell him. He tosses his head, and his ears flap just a skoche.

"Got a bit of a chewing out for it, but, uh, thanks. Chisulo," my new friend introduces himself, nodding rather than using his displayed hands.

"Cordial. Paddix," I reply. "Tentative. Non-humanoid solidarity is an appealing idea, in my opinion."

Showing a perfect sense of dramatic timing, Sergeant Schlock sidles up, along with Elizabeth. Looks like we've got our buddies. While Chisulo explains his situation, relating the difficulties that neophants have with both humans and elephas sapiens, Schlock murmurs that he's aware of my situation. Along with everyone from lieutenant up. This should be interesting.

Chapter Text

There's some gentle ribbing as we all get to know each other. Aardman's got a big nose, and so does Chisulo. Ventura fits in your pocket. I'm a bad comedian. ("Deadpan: I killed in Vegas." "Careful about the statute of limitations there, buddy!") Et cetera. Everyone's fine with me not talking about my past—kind of remains me of the French Foreign Legion. 'Violent sociopaths' may be an accurate descriptor for some folks, but - well, okay, definitely is one, but I'm also not the only one using the Toughs as a fresh start.

Pugil-stick fighting is a somewhat different story. Unlike Ventura, who'd better stop whining about things literally everyone has to do, I'm gearing up for it. Like her, I'm not exactly bursting with enthusiasm about my prospects. I can hold things in my front limbs, absolutely. But this isn't how elcor fight. Too bad.

"Commiserating. We won't be successful, but we can still try," I tell her. My wince as M'Conger smacks Foxworthy in the gut is either undercutting my sentiment or reinforcing it, I can't tell.

She grimaces, approaching the ring, and with Ebbirnoth as her opponent, she's got good reason. He's one of the guides, with lieutenant's epaulets, and his shoulders have some solid muscle running down to that core. She, hmm. Does her best? Hits his hands a couple of times, but that doesn't keep him from flinging her out of bounds.

My turn. Oh, joy.

"Pleading. A swift smackdown will teach me less," I offer to M'Conger, who just chuckles in response. Not exactly what I was hoping for. From his stance, I can see he's quick on his feet and already smacking me. At least those hits are more like a firm pat on the back. I could try exhausting him, but that only works if I consistently protect my weak spot, and isn't really taking part in the spirit of things anyway. So I swing my stick around carefully, get a feel for it, and take a shot at giving the impression that this is the best I can do.

"Nice fakeout, Pad!" my opponent congratulates me, after I manage to bop him in the snoot. Alas, that's the only blow I manage, as he concludes that this no longer qualifies as a 'swift smackdown'. Sideways shoves plus whacking at my front support sends me slumping, and I have to yield the match.

"It's going to be amazing when you take a cannon out into the field, man," M'Conger tells me, helping me resume my ordinary quadrupedal stance. I nod slowly. No hard feelings.

"Frustrated. I wonder if Lieutenant Commander Shodan can help me with anti-biped martial arts."

"A relief mission," Thurl announces. "Running supplies to Credomar, and supervising distribution. The habitat is about as unrestful as you'd expect for a place getting aid shipments, but nobody's firing shots."

It's a small audience, discussing our assignment. Tagon, Foxworthy, Reynstein, Shodan, Ennesby, Pibald, Schlock, and me. Officers are expected to attend by default, but a few people had good reasons to skip it. Everyone else, of course, doesn't particularly care. Or wasn't told, I suppose.

"VDA has multiple small contacts," the AI interrupts, "coming in at .561 C and counting."

"Specificity on 'small' and 'multiple'," Tagon snaps, prompting him to describe the twenty-four incoming missiles. Brad and 'Chelle are on overwatch, and in a few seconds we have confirmation of their prowess. Also consternation at having antimatter warheads fired at us.

Violent interlude over ("speaking of firing shots"), the briefing resumes—once perimeter duty has been passed to the next sucker. And it's time for me to start earning a rank.

"Clarifying. The place is a mess. We will have to deal with several violent factions. The tube is a fire hazard waiting to happen, with fuel teraported into annie-plants."

Tagon's resting scowl deepens. His datapad receives a few forceful taps.

"Brad, you've got the scow. Shodan, cargo out of the docks. Paddix, see if you can jog any memories loose while you're hauling cargo."

Twenty-two people on the ground crew, all-told, spread over seven grav-slingers, and Pi's on security. An interesting setup, all sitting in Level 355, Sector 113. Credomar is big. And uses polar coordinates, both naturally and (to me) amusingly.

Nothing's coming to mind, staring at all these pallets, but I don't expect it to. Commander Andreyasn will do his job, assessing the environmental risks and overall stability. Doesn't do much good to hand this stuff out if it all gets ruined by the rise of a warlord. An unlikely worry—doesn't feel right, though the outcome here is still shaky. Well. We've got time.

Not as much time as I was maybe hoping for, though, given that one of those giant crates just carved a path through the unloading team. My powered fullerene armor gets me into the fray before anyone can do more than groan, and my medkit is already out. Of course, everyone had their gear on, so my rush was excessive, but nobody's complaining now.

Ooooof, that's an ugly tusk break for Chisulo. Not to mention the broken spear, lying under Aardy. Liz volunteers to help them back up to the ship. For now, our work is over, since the sabotage puts a bit of a damper on things.

"Violent factions, right on the money," Schlock tells me, watching me brood in a corner. Flipping through comms paints a similar picture all over the place, with the bonus of the captain noticing that our pace was nowhere near good enough to deliver in a timely manner. And this is contract work, set fee.

"Morose. This is going to get worse before it gets better," I reply, only to receive a swat on the shoulder. The amorph glares at me, and he can really put his whole self into a glare.

"Stop being a miseryguts," he demands. "Let's hit the mess hall."

Ten minutes later, we're in the Land of Shakes. The sound of Ch'vorthq's whisk reminds me of something, and I duck into the back passage for a chat.

"Delicate. Chef, most meals should require teeth. No one's said anything for years because mercenaries are used to whatever dregs of the culinary world plop into their kitchen. They had no idea you were capable of more."

The malformed cyborg stares at me, arm making alarming noises as it accelerates.

"I worked so hard to make food everyone could like. All wasted. A joke on everyone, especially my professional integrity!"

The wire loops smash into the wall. Oh, right, he was originally supposed to be an exploding assassin. I think I have a few seconds to calm him down before we need several professionals helping out.

Chapter Text

Purgatory has an annoying talent for bringing out the worst in people. Oh, the revenants have been assisting there since the early days of my awakening, but from everything I've heard, there's a spice here that you just don't get anywhere else. So many falling angels meeting the rising ape. Familial betrayal, abuse, and general sociopathy. So feeling Tucker Gardner's apathy as he sees his sisters twitching on the ground isn't exactly anything new. There's something else inside him, though, and I'm grabbing onto it with all my strength.

"A new world is coming," one of them is telling him now. Louder than before. More real. Maybe I'm paying better attention?

"Wee need your help. In return, we'll give you — anything you want," the other promises.

The boy's desire is the last step, taking me fully inside.

"I'll think about it," 'he' says, shrugging off their grasping arms. The annoyance pulses in them, more than when most people have to deal with the creep. Under the circumstances, understandable. But I have to get out of here before they figure out what's happened to the young man who should be seeking vengeance. Can the widows smell me, as I smell them?

"I hope you're not going to do anything foolish," the monster wearing Beth's face wheedles, following me as I calmly return to the door Tucker came in from not a minute ago. Well, for certain values of 'calmly'. Never had to be an actor before.

"Like tell someone about our arrangement," not-Mercedes finishes, swooping around my path to stand between me and outside. Freedom. Escape. Breathe, buddy.

"It's a big decision," I say coolly. "Doesn't mean I want anyone's advice. But no, you're right, definitely going to ask the deputy what I should do."

Kidding on the square is a risky proposition, and so is just looking at Clootie until she takes the hint and moves aside. The soft touch has been working so far, though.

"Come back soon, sweetheart," fake-Beth calls out. I just wave dismissively, continuing a steady pace. And then I do my best not to curse under my breath as I see no sign of the transportation Tucker used to get here. Not a car or motorcycle in sight.

'A little help, buddy,' I challenge my host, patting his pockets as I amble towards the road. Can't quite tell if he's lost his tongue or just giving me the silent treatment after I took over. Fortunately, it doesn't matter, because there's a dinky little key in his coat. Should've checked there first, I guess. Another fortunately, there's a button on the fob, so I can see his . . . moped. Fine. I can work with that.

I miss flying already. An hour in this body is all it took to outweigh decades as a spirit. At least the fleshy world looks about the same. Takes a little more work to detect things like me, and of course turning is getting old, but still. Gotta focus. Pretty sure that's the Earp ranch coming up, which is good because the bike's got three different things lighting up. Tucker's reflexes won't tell me what they are; I suppose he doesn't have the guts to keep me from driving, but if the machine breaks down, he'll be fine. Whatever.

"Ladies," I greet Wynonna and Waverly politely, knocking on their door. Judging from their looks of disgust, I need a different approach.

"Sorry," I offer, shocking them. "Let me try again. Tucker's not here anymore, and his sisters need urgent medical attention."

"Let me get this straight," Wynonna grits out, doing her best to glare a hole through me. I've been secured to one of their dining room chairs, since for some reason they don't quite trust me. "You're some kind of magic-nature spirit, been around since Wyatt's day, and you've body-snatched Tucker Gardner?"

I nod, and Waverly giggles. The darkness in her eyes, though. That's several different kinds of not good.

"I'm not the only one," I reply. "Unless your baby sis, who's just adorable with her girlfriend, is wearing some novelty contact lenses."

The Earp heir looks back and forth between us, Peacemaker in her hand. A deep sniff tells me that the Mikshun is done playing, along with the resonance in their chuckle.

"Waves, what's going on?" she demands.

Waverly shakes her head, letting her hair ripple.

"Oooh, I'm so tired of fighting her. No thanks for ruining the end there, little mage."

The determination on Wynonna's face is a treasure to behold, even marred by torment as she points her revenant-killing gun at her sister.

"Like you're going to kill a third Earp?" they scoff. The barrel waxes and wanes, fluctuating in the power called from the old pact.

"I won't let you kill her either," Wynonna insists.

I shake my head, inadvertently refocusing their attention on me.

"Spirits don't want to kill their hosts, as a rule," I rebut. "Tucker's very useful letting me ride around. Well, I say 'letting'. Still not as strong as Waverly, I bet. Angelic blood will do that."

The gun goes down, and both of them look at me nonplussed, before Waverly's possessor refocuses.

"I'm not having any fun," she complains. Pulling her sister forward, a brief touch lets that demonic energy flow into Wynonna's mouth. And eyes. The Mikshun takes its new platform, though at least Peacemaker still burns it. Waverly gets a dose of the same ropes I've been enjoying, as her lucidity fades. I, meanwhile, become very aware of the proximity of the kitchen, with its knife block and general utensils.

"I wonder if I could start that fun with you," they muse, surveying the array of sharp objects available. Finally, Tucker is desperate—not strong enough to fight me back, but willing to offer advice. Well, if demanding that I save him from the mess I got him into counts as advice. And he does have kind of a point there. No moral high ground, given the behavior that preceded my takeover, but if they stab him, it is half my fault.

Hmm. Don't care if he dies, but an injury would be inconvenient. Pain hurts, and I'd have to pick between enduring his agony (not to mention incessant whining) and hoping one of Waverly's friends will be able to give me a seat. Asking her directly would be a bad call, even if she were still awake.

"Do you want to live, Tucker?" they ask me, caressing his neck with a barbecue fork. "Ready for some new sensations, little mage?"

I just raise his eyebrows.

"Don't you have anything better to do?" I counter. As much as it complained about being bored, breaking cover should mean there are higher priorities right now. That reminder will either get it going, or give it a little tick of spite to draw some blood. Well, I didn't jump into Tucker to play it safe.

Chapter Text

Fear is no way to live, so here I sit with my wife and son, despite Voldemort hunting us for months. Lily's making puffs of smoke for Harry to giggle at, and maybe even try to grab. Whoo boy, I know what that sound is! Time for this play session to be interrupted by a new nappy.

"What an incredible smell you've discovered!" I congratulate the lad, hastily applying a Bubble-Head Charm while I clean him up. Lil just laughs at me. Even when I pout at her.

Harry wriggles against his new garment, and then the door opens. It's him. Our wands come out immediately, though his is already in his hand. Our boy's behind us now, for whatever good it'll do.

"Stand aside, you silly girl," he instructs my darling. "Stand aside now."

"No parent in the world would do that," I spit back at him. Lily's hand jumps into mine. We'll die as we lived.

"This is my last warning," he barks at her. "Move, and I will leave."

"You just don't get it," I tell the psychopath. "Some things are worse than dying."

"You've never loved anyone, have you?" Lily asks him, a sad smile on her face. He answers with a truly ugly snarl and wave of his wand.

Voldemort's vanished, along with chunks of our nursery. Blast marks all over the place.

"What happened?" I ask, heart seizing as I turn to see Harry gone from the crib. My girl, bless her heart, sends a Patronus to Dumbledore immediately.

"Just attacked. We're fine, but Voldemort is gone, along with Harry," she reports succinctly. And then we both start to fall apart, but we have only a few moments of losing our composure before a much kinder old man strides through the door.

"Merlin's beard," he whispers, wand whizzing around us. "Lily and James, in the flesh. How is this possible?"

Albus recovers from his amazement, not quite soon enough for my liking, and takes our hands.

"Harry is just fine," he assures us. "The boy is at Hogwarts."

I'm missing the path from here to there, especially with Voldemort as the instigator, and I don't protest as he conjures a few comfortable chairs for us. The headmaster has a doozy of an explanation for us, I can feel it.

"Until a few moments ago," he summarizes, "everyone believed that the two of you died and took Voldemort with you when he attacked in October 1981. Thirteen years ago. Harry is a bright young lad, following in your footsteps."

We missed our boy growing up, I think numbly, following Dumbledore to the castle's infirmary. Madam Pomfrey immediately starts fussing over us, but I just can't bring myself to care when Harry walks in.

"Mum? Dad?" he asks, voice quavering. There's no time for a response before he runs into our arms.

It takes a while for the immediate aftershocks to wear off; reversal, rather like the original grief, is a prolonged process. He's lived almost his whole life without us, and the world's moved on. Harry decides to summon his best friends to share the news, along with sharing a few of the more interesting details from his adventures of the past three years. Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger shake our hands, the former rather dumbstruck. I can almost see Sirius and Remus in them; Lily murmurs much the same, remembering Dorcas and Alice.

"Blimey," I ask, befuddled, "you found the Chamber of Secrets?"

Ron shrugs, looking down at his trainers.

"Had to, really," he mumbles. "Sister got kidnapped."

Pomfrey tuts at me preemptively.

"I see that look in your eyes, James Potter!" she scolds, brandishing her wand as her examination refuses to end. "Whatever that blasted man did left its marks on you, magically. Don't you go jaunting down into the bowels of the castle right away!"

'Bowels' is about right, but a little wand work clears most of the grime away. Must have been the perfect garnish for Harry's rescue mission, though Ron wouldn't have been much better off with that pompous twit Gil. Full hallways here, despite being connected via the plumbing, and a truly garish statue of Salazar Slytherin is the crowning jewel. Along with the corpse of an enormous basilisk.

"Think you might have had a point about those marks, Poppy," Lily concedes, frowning as she bites her lip. I nod slowly, feeling a soft thrumming in my . . . chest? Heart? Somewhere. While the matron hurriedly checks my wife in painstaking detail, I wander closer to that grotesque. That feeling is getting stronger with every step I take, now. Good old 'specialis revelio' shows that there's more to this ornament than meets the eye.

"I think the problem might be here, not with us," I suggest. Dumbledore takes over the investigation, and chuckles after a flurry of spells.

"Well, well," he muses. "So that's how he did it. Tom's schemes have managed to counter each other, though I'm not sure it'll help this year."

We all wait patiently for the theatrical old git to indulge us with a few details.

"You're all painfully aware of the jinx on the Defence position, which I've been unable to counter during my tenure," the headmaster opens. "Thanks to you all, I've found it at last, and dispelled the tiresome curse."

"So Professor Moody might stay on?" Ron asks hopefully, only to have his feelings promptly dashed as Professor Dumbledore shakes his head.

"Even if he had not already stipulated that his contract would be for a single year, I would not be at all surprised if the steps for a more unpleasant close to his tenure had already been laid."

"You mean like Quirrell being doomed the moment he signed on with Voldemort's spirit," Harry says bluntly, "and Lockhart getting comeuppance for years of memory charms."

"Was that why you hired him, Professor?" Hermione pipes up. "Trying to invoke a little karma?"

I'm not sure the headmaster is interested in delving into those details right now, and Madam Pomfrey redirects the conversation anyway.

"This is all riveting, truly," she tells us tartly, "but I want these recent resurrectees away from the traces of You-Know-Who's magic!"

Oh goody, we get to have that squabble again, returning to Hogwarts proper. Lily and I have rather had our fear of him burnt out of us at this point, I think. Well, at least as far as speaking his name goes. Wouldn't fancy trying to fight the man again—and he's certainly alive in some way, or that jinx would have faded. Hm. 'alive in some way'. Guess we have a long future of discussing the nature of death, and how we came back. That's going to be ever so much fun.

Chapter Text

A discussion on tomb-raiding is going to have to wait—I don't know what those things are, and I'm just as happy not to find out. Taking my chances with Egyptian traps is probably better than hoping those incoming insects will ignore me. And maybe these folks have already secured a few places? Ah, not the time to get lost in my head.

Especially when I hear a crunch, and a fellow casting his hands around in dismay as he struggles to his feet.

"Let's go, buddy!" I tell him, taking his hand so he's not completely lost. It's a bit of a challenge, but Mister -As-A-Bat is doing his best to assist me.

"Hold on a minute!" I call ahead.

"Wouldn't bet on that," my companion pants. "Running for our lives. Planning together's not going to be a high priority."

We stumble around in the dusk for a solid couple of minutes, before almost literally running into a very striking woman.

"Ah, Mr. Burns!" she greets him, clapping her hand to her chest in relief. "And . . . I'm sorry, who are you?"

"Dan Jenkins, miss," I introduce myself courteously. "Do you have any idea what's going on, besides an Egyptian curse?"

She grimaces, enough that I can see in the moonlight.

"Evelyn Carnahan. Those locusts and the scarabs have been very off-putting, but there's no reason . . . to . . . "

Evelyn trails off, backing away with panic clear in her face. Oh, I have a very bad feeling about this. Dashing forward yanks Burns off his feet, unfortunately, but we get some distance from a truly disgusting-looking mummy. None of those respectable weathered yellowish-brown bandages from the papers, no sir, this fella is positively glistening and barely more than skeletal. Also, trying to examine us with a face that isn't exactly firing on all cylinders.

"Anck-su-namun?" it, or possibly more accurately he, asks uncertainly. His bony hand reaches out to touch her face, but she shudders away. It would really be delightful if someone filled me in here.

"Time to go!" a new contestant bellows, racing into the room and thumping her back. When he catches sight of the mummy, he yelps. I'll be sure to tell him it was very manly, assuming I have a chance.

"Anck-su-namun!" the mummy calls out, rising to an impossible shriek on the last syllable. Not to mention the sand swirling around the thing, which I'm pretty sure is creeping all of us out to no end.

An answering scream from Evelyn's apparent friend isn't terribly effective, but his gun blows several chunks out of the monster. A fabulous opportunity for all of us to skedaddle! The two of them know the way out, and fortunately the insects are gone. Less fortunately, there are several imposing men with guns, along with a few more kneeling at their feet. I've got no beef here, and surrender with the others.

"I told you to leave or die," the leader warns them. Well. At this point, probably us. I wasn't here for that warning, but getting swept up in things tends to happen anyway. "You refused. Now you may have killed us all. You have unleashed the creature that we have feared for more than four thousand years."

"Relax, I got him," Tex asserts, and Mr. Dramatic snorts.

"No mortal weapons can kill this creature. He is not of this world."

"Ten pounds of meat on a skeletal mummy, walking around and talking, kinda signifies the normal rules are out to lunch," I agree. He nods gravely, and Tex just rolls his eyes.

"Now you must leave. All of you. Quickly. Before he consummates his curse."

"You're not going to kill us?" one of the kneelers asks, and Evelyn elbows him in the ribs. The leader shakes his head.

"We must now hunt him down, and try to find a way to kill him, before he consumes the earth. Allah be with us."

"He's missing half his chest!" Tex protests, throwing up his hands in frustration.

"A minor inconvenience," he promises. "Imhotep will never stop hunting you. Not for food or rest or any distraction."

With that, he and his buddies are out. Evelyn and "Rick" start packing up, along with the others. A few things have been niggling at me since barely after I got into this camp, and now they're finally coming together.

"So among the lot of you, there's a key that opens both the Book of the Dead and an unprotected sarcophagus," I outline, "which you opened and read from. Then there are the canopic jars, which you took. Now the monster's awake, and screaming for your blood. Boy, it's like you're following in the footsteps of the old mummy legend."

It's a long trip back to civilization, and "Jonathan", Evelyn's brother, indulges me. I guess it's a combination of various things: nerves, fatigue, boredom, tacit apology for clutching me so hard as we started the ride, et cetera.

"Not familiar with that one. How's it go?"

There's no humor in my chuckle.

"The jar thieves all get sucked dry, one by one, and Imhotep unleashes the plagues of Egypt. One detour to pick up some other book later, and it's time for a big minion fight while people read magic to kill the wizard," I summarize. He shudders several times, and the camel ignores my reins tossing around.

"So the good guys win?"

"Three people get rich, and another returns to his duty," I confirm. Something in there falls into place again, and I whirl around in the saddle.

"Wait a minute. 'Evy' is an Egyptologist, Rick's been to Hamunaptra before, you're her big brother Jonathan, bit of a scamp . . . This isn't just a few coincidences. How did I read about you as a kid?"

My existential crisis prompts a close-quarters conference, Evy leading the way.

"We've seen he has power over the sand, and from your tale it's obvious that he can drain the essence from the people who took his organs," she muses. Rick shakes his head, but doesn't contribute an actual thought. "What can we do? What book is it, that banishes him again?"

I shrug helplessly, suddenly wishing I'd read that scary story book in the last decade.

"Well," she says firmly. "That means research, which says library or museum, to me."

"The chaps can probably take care of themselves, right?" Jonathan asks weakly. It's all so real, now. If I can think of a way to stall that monster, I might just be able to save their lives. If.

Chapter Text

The fight is over, at long last. The Crucible is destroying the Reapers, and their troops. Ashley and I had just enough strength left to finish the job.

And now we've collapsed, bleeding out against a console.

"Don't think there's going to be a Lazarus Project this time," I joke feebly. She smiles a little, I think. Getting hard to see.

"We've done well," she tells me. "Died well."

"I'm glad to be with you, Ashley Williams," I murmur, "here at the end of all things."

My hand crawls into hers, for our final moments.

"If I have one regret," I start, but then my throat rasps too much for anything but a few careful breaths. It doesn't matter. We both know how important professionalism is. How critical our mission was. Being friends was risky enough. Could never have chanced more. Her touch is with me, and the world fades away.

I feel something now. Did we actually get rescued? Everything's still dark, but someone's there, I can tell. It's a lot like when Shiala and Liara melded with me, come to think of it. Score one for asari commando teams, I guess. Before I can express my gratitude, though, there's a push. Between being swatted and carefully felt out when the power's kaput. Not exactly friendly.

"Who are you?" The voice comes from all around me.

"I'm Commander Shepard," I tell my host. Human male, if I'm any judge. "Thank you for rescuing me."

"Severus Snape," he replies curtly, "and you are welcome. I found your mental presence near my home, but I cannot sustain you here indefinitely."

That sounds pretty ominous, and I let out a small sigh.

"I'll be on my way as soon as I can," I promise, trying to heave myself from the bed. Except I can't feel my body. Nothing happens.

"Either I let you go to finish dying," he clarifies huffily, "or you must take a back seat in my life. There are methods to assure privacy for the sensations we do not wish to share."

Oh. So I got rescued from the afterlife after reaching whatever was there, not at the last minute from the Crucible. Well.

"Thank you," I tell him, working hard to avoid the patness of the usual phrase. "I appreciate the sacrifice of your personal space, for as long as this lasts."

Severus' sharp nod comes right through. Along with sound, touch, and sight. There's a stick in his right hand—no, a wand. Tiny flecks of his memories are popping up, starting to explain this world. Earth, for one thing, but it's 1991 rather than 2186. He works at a school for wizards, and they don't let non-wizards know about anything.

"Are you going to get in trouble for this?" I ask, since there's very little point in trying to conceal my lack of magic.

"What the Ministry doesn't know won't hurt it," he says, dismissing my concern with striking vagueness. "Besides, you can hardly expose us."

Severus understands this better than I do, but my worries aren't going away any time soon. A distraction pops up anyway, in the form of an owl pecking at the window. Oh, right, their version of mail deliveries. He skims the letter: Hogwarts has forty students coming in for their first year, and each Head of House will be presenting Hogwarts to a few Muggle-born children.

"That must make the ongoing separation a bit of a challenge," I muse, and he inclines his head in agreement. Tapping his wand on his charges, he prepares to arrange their appointments. ...grudgingly, he also taps the general list, a small yielding to my fascination with his craft. One in particular sticks out.

'Mr. H. Potter,
The Cupboard under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive,
Little Whinging
Surrey'

"That's oddly specific," I note. Severus' nose twitches, and a snarl is just waiting to burst out.

"No doubt the boy's built a clubhouse, and spends more time there than in his proper room," he snaps. Ohhhhh, something's going on there. That's right, Harry Potter's a celebrity. Voldemort went to kill the three of them, him and his parents, and none of the adults survived the attack. People have been talking about the baby who defeated the greatest dark wizard of all time ever since, though there's some sense and awareness that Harry himself can't really have done anything. Of course, what did happen? Nobody else survived when You-Know-Who tried to kill them, and while I think that's a dumb practice . . . well, these people aren't trained soldiers. The Reapers didn't get a verbal taboo, but they also didn't spring from a civil war like this.

"In my experience, there is no correlation between background and academic performance," he tells Mrs. Finch-Fletchley, who I realize is concerned for her son's future in a magical school. "If Justin applies himself, he shall reap the rewards. If he sits around like a fool, well."

I wince at the harshness of his phrasing, but the audience seems to appreciate it. There's some deep emotion lurking here, too. "No. It doesn't matter." A small moment, gone before I can examine it. He said that there would be privacy, but it seems that sharing his head means some things leak through. I can already feel his self-hatred, though there are other subjects floating in that river of loathing. Which makes me realize that—hmm. Well, at least Severus won't think I'm pitying him. Compassion is a different animal altogether.

"That fight isn't over, is it? People are still getting huffy about 'blood purity'," I ask, once we've left their house, a few pamphlets remaining on the parlor table. It's dumb. I can relax now. I have no responsibilities. All I do now is watch. Severus is a grown man, more than capable of taking care of himself, tending to his own business. He brought me back from the dead. And yet.

"The Dark Lord remains," he spits, "and his disciples are more faithful than they seem. Your 'civil war' assessment was quite accurate."

That was both cryptic and dramatic, and I wait for him to explain further. After a few minutes, it's clear he's done discussing the subject, and I make one last attempt to get a feel for the situation.

"Are you prepared for that war to resume?" is the question I finally settle on. Severus just clenches his fist, and tries not to glare at his left forearm. I find myself wondering if he has begun to regret extending the courtesy of my renewed life.

Chapter Text

He moves on with the rest of his day, instead. I suppose it will be very important to remember that my previous style depended on having both a body and a reputation. Severus knows what I've done from the memories he's seen, of course, but it's still more of an academic experience. To him, Spectres are apparitions with odd capitalization. Of course, by that same token, to me, Voldemort is still mostly an odd French phrase with the spaces and punctuation taken out. The least I can do is let him handle this life, and trust that I'll learn enough to be helpful before there is an emergency.

There it is again. He has made no suggestion that he wants help. And I'm not exactly the great Commander Shepard, with a mighty charisma and dire cause. Severus obviously does need help, and it'll be something to put meaning back into my life, but I have to be more careful.

I think I've been ruminating on this for a long time, because he's at breakfast now. We're at breakfast, I guess. It's hard to say. Just arrived, too, judging from the series of names he greets. Pomona, Minerva, Filius, Hagrid, it's quite the assembly. I'm not going to remember them all. Of course, I don't have to. This is one thing for which memory rummaging is perfectly acceptable, I hope. Reasonable to suppose that at some point, we'll be discussing one of his colleagues, and I'd prefer to refrain from referring to someone as 'the tiny guy' or 'the man with a truly majestic beard".

20th-century wizarding English breakfasts are certainly a transition for me. Real bacon, for one thing. Rank hath its privileges, and all, but it was always far too much of a hassle to arrange on the Normandy, much less any other ship. The Citadel didn't have any pig farms that I know of, and now I'm belatedly realizing that I can't check. Ever. Or anything else. Or anyone else. I just have to have faith that Garrus and Liara and everyone made it okay.

"Severus, are you quite all right?" someone asks. Another belated realization that my emotion is spilling over, and he's showing a bit of my grief. Isn't that funny, when I'm the one who died.

"Just, old memories," he replies. "Cringeworthy moments, you know how those pop up every once in a while."

That's an impressive line to come up with in a moment, though my host is certainly correct that we all remember dumb things we did, infrequently. The conversation moves on after that, though his boss seems to have something of an eye on him. It doesn't quite leave the entire time, even as the room nearly empties after the first person leaves. When Dumbledore rises, Severus follows him, 'making it look natural'.

"Is there anything you want to tell me, Severus?" he asks gently, looking right into our eyes. Albus Dumbledore is a good man, I can see from the past several years. Not always nice, but I can trust him to do the right thing. Couldn't have made it as Anderson's XO without the ability to gather a solid first impression, and this is decidedly better.

"'Want' is a nebulous term, sir," Severus replies. "But you should, perhaps, be informed that I now have a guest in my head. Shepard accepted her death elsewhere, and ended up drifting not far from my residence."

I can't tell if the headmaster is unflappable, has an excellent poker face, or has genuinely encountered stranger situations than this.

"Very well," he pronounces. "I look forward to hearing more of this story, at your leisure. I trust that this will not interfere with your responsibilities here?"

I'm a soldier. I know how to let people do their jobs.

He echoes those exact words, which was very much not my intention, but whatever, it works. The first proper encounter with someone went okay, and as I do a little more research I realize that Dumbledore was using Legilimency, which Severus could have resisted using Occlumency. In fact, he has the best occlumentic shields he knows of, even managing to defeat the skills of—ah.

"Sorry," I tell him. "It's easy to get into your personal stuff when the links are right there. I'll be more aware of this in the future."

We're both aware that I didn't actually promise not to do it anymore. There's also a sense of resignation, and I know how this feels. Severus is, truly, as committed to his cause as I was to mine. If there is a need for me to ransack his life, at some point, true need rather than my urgent desire to grasp his world, then he will accept it. He won't like it, but he doesn't much like anything. The self-hatred again.

"If something bothers you, neighbor," I tell him, choosing my words exceedingly carefully, "try to change it. Sometimes a shift can make all the difference in the world."

"I'll take that under advisement," he shoots back, not quite as much bite in his tone as I'd expected.

"Even talking to someone," I offer. I don't mean me, but I also don't mean not me. But this is as much introspection as he will tolerate, probably for quite some time.

To Diagon Alley, for his penultimate confirmation that the stores selling books, potion ingredients, and brewing equipment have the stock on hand to serve the impending horde of students. Potion-making can be a delicate process indeed, and Severus flashes me a series of the more interesting accidents he's observed. Par for the course as far as teenagers in compulsory education, so there's a distinct improvement when the final exams are done. Then, he has only the students who actually hold an interest in the subject, not to mention somewhat more maturity (but also more hormones). The task of impressing more advanced principles, and teaching them to think for themselves, while also not poisoning anyone, enters a more comfortable realm.

That discussion is interrupted by the sight of a book on unconventional curses, stimulating a hunger that truly begs for investigation.

"I would prefer to teach Defence against the Dark Arts," he grates, "but the headmaster prefers to keep me at Potions. A steady line of nincompoops have staffed the position. The rumor is that the post is jinxed, since no one has held it for more than a year since the sixties."

"You think you can beat the curse?" I ask, remembering as I speak that 'curse' is a very literal term from his perspective. And then remembering that given what I've already observed, Severus Snape might not care about the consequences at the end of the year. Some of his colleagues have died, or been completely disgraced.
I have a snippet thread!

Chapter Text

The days and weeks sweep along, allowing me to reach some kind of comfort level inside Severus Snape’s head. There is still the itch of not having my own body, and we haven’t discussed the path forward from here. I don’t think either of us wants this indefinitely. But no solution has been evident, either. We’ve tried, spending several nights in the restricted section. The most interesting conclusion he’s drawn is that our arrangement is workable in the first place due to his mastery of Occlumency, those shields keeping us from spilling together so much that there ends up being one very muddled identity.

Getting to know each other is all but unavoidable, with the time we spend joined so intimately, and I get a firmer grasp on ‘wizarding Britain’. The political dynamics within and without, a general apathy towards their leader Minister Fudge, and the many species governed by that Ministry. My education has reached a fairly solid point when the school year begins, opened by the Sorting of the incoming first-year students.

Putting on a magical hat to divide the children into groups . . . ‘Stranger things have happened, but I think only about six, ever.’ Does this count as being judgmental, or merely flabbergasted? Wizards and witches do seem to go out of their way to be whimsical, and I’ll take that every day of the week over self-important grandiosity. Then Severus’ withering contempt for ‘Longbottom, Neville’ and outright hatred for Harry Potter wash over me. Two boys, sitting on a stool in front of everyone and being silently judged by an ancient cloth artifact, inspire these feelings.

“James Potter,” Severus grates out to me, “was a bully and all-around horrible person, when I attended Hogwarts. And there his son sits, promising a new wave of, ugh.”

“Sins of the father?” I ask him, mentally raising an eyebrow.

“The apple does not fall far from the tree,” he replies testily. That contemptuous look is at least directed at the ceiling now, and fades into a RBF.

I notice Potter’s clothes from the corner of our gaze. Not easy to study, hidden under his robe, to be sure. But it becomes clear that they’re baggy. Why would a spoiled child not have garments that fit? His glasses are broken and taped up. Finally, his body language: the boy is making his way in a fascinating new world, not swaggering around.

My host just grumbles, doing his best to dismiss my observations without any counterargument. His feelings for, or rather against, James Potter have burned in him for a long time, and the flame catches easily in his son.

“Humanity did not get along with batarians,” I begin explaining to Severus. “They were already galactic outcasts when we entered the scene, and our conflicts over settling various planets made it worse. There wasn’t open warfare, exactly; covert terrorism was more their style. I promise there is a point to this.

“A couple of years ago, a man named Balak got some thugs together, landed on an asteroid mine and took the staff hostage. They set up giant engines so it would crash into the human colony on the planet it was orbiting. I stopped them, freed the workers, but Balak got away.

“Two weeks before I died for good, I ran into him again, still consumed with his vendetta against humans even though omnicidal machines were rampaging. I could have killed him. Instead, I convinced him to support the war.”

I pause my story there, letting the events sink in. The emotional context is certainly there.

“If I can accept delaying and likely denying justice for a mass murderer, to save more lives, you can treat Harry Potter like his own person, not a clone of his long-dead father.”

Severus has no real response. He just stews, as we drift off to sleep. Which does not make the process any easier.

The next day, classes begin, scattering across the years. I continue to restrain my giggles at O.W.L and N.E.W.T. education, and Severus understands my ongoing enjoyment, or perhaps satisfaction, at his culture’s spirit of dipping into frivolity regardless of the subject’s fundamental nature.

There’s nothing much to observe, seeing him take control of the classroom. It’s far from a surprise that he can do so, given his overall demeanor. Teenagers and preteens do not buck him.

Then there is the joint Gryffindor-Slytherin session. I can feel his fist clenching, as he takes attendance and reaches Potter’s name, but he moves on without a breath.

The speech regarding the possibilities of brewing potions is almost as delightful the second time around — Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw received it yesterday. A cold glare at the boy, as he finishes.

“There are, perhaps, subjects taught at Hogwarts wherein a simple recitation of facts will suffice for general comprehension,” Severus allows. “Brewing is not one of them. You must master the principles behind the recipes you practice in this room, or dire suffering is in your future upon the first mistake. You should know that powdered root of asphodel combined with an infusion of wormwood create the sleeping potion known as Draught of Living Death.”

A slight smirk, at Potter’s blink of confusion, and he continues.

“It is just as important to know why.”

Just the same, he starts the class mixing up a boil-curing potion. I wonder how that compares to antibiotics, though not enough to ask Severus to look up the comparison at some point. The remarks he makes as he drifts around the laboratory benches are primarily negative, except the few times he inspects Draco Malfoy’s cauldron.

“Note the gentle stirring,” the professor lectures. “The horns are still on the slugs, despite the rod penetrating when I poke one. Well done, boy.”

That element of positivity is promptly ended when a cauldron across the room comes to pieces, sending its contents cascading across the floor. Severus moves in a flash, clearing the mess, but has no spell to ease Neville Longbottom’s reaction as boils sprout over his entire body.

“Take him to Madame Pomfrey immediately,” he barks at the next student, who nods and hurries the whimpering boy out the door.

“Your first priority,” Professor Snape says, to a silent crowd of children, “is to tend to your own brewing. Your second, is to keep an eye on your neighbors. Had Potter, for example, noticed what Finnegan and Longbottom were doing, this incident might have been avoided or lessened.”

His tone is unmistakable to me, singling out the kid for blame. It’s been the theme of the class, though at least nothing significant has happened so far. Neither detentions nor demerits, just a hostile learning environment.

A week later, the increased focus on physical activity and general stress of watching him work has me itching.

“I think I need to be in your body, more than your head,” I tell Severus abruptly, one evening after dinner. “What I’ve been feeling from you, it’s not enough to keep me doing okay all the time. Can you let me be in charge until bed?”

He grudgingly assents, having had no plans for the next two hours, but a new problem becomes evident once I’ve fully sunk into our limbs.

“Being in a man’s body is also very jarring,” I admit. “Some wand-work, to give me the parts I’m used to?”

If Severus could still roll his own eyes, he would.

“Give and take, Shepard,” he retorts. “Stop judging my treatment of the brat, and you may be the very flower of womanhood, briefly.”

I will not sacrifice a child’s well-being for my own. What else can I offer him? Relief from his self-hatred would be potent, if I had any idea how to do it, but I’m no psychiatrist.

“How about helping you get over Lily Potter, instead?” I suggest. “Don’t tell me you actually enjoy the obsession. Vengeance on her killer, that’s just fine, but you have to see what this complex has been doing to you.”

He remains completely silent. When I feel a need for the toilet, a while later, our mental interplay shows me the door, back to my previous corner of his psyche.

As I leave, though, I have just a glimmer of a snapshot. I’m looking up at a woman in robes rather like I’ve seen the faculty here wear, reaching my hand out to touch her wand. She has long, flowing black hair, framing her sad smile.

Something very strange is going on here, but then that was clear when I died and came to this place.

Chapter Text

The alerts wake me up. I was hoping for something gentler, but given that I was running for my life in the pod when I went under, I'm mostly glad to be waking up at all.

"You have been in hibernation for: three thousand, nine hundred, seventy-four years, six months, two days-"

I cut off the computer with a curse, as well as my hand reaching out to smack it. Except that my hand is small and shriveled. The readout was just a number, but this is a visceral confirmation. I was asleep for a very, very long time. Enough to shrink me down to bare survival levels. More than we have records of anyone doing, who was healthy in the first place. There are a handful of ration packs, but I'll need a real binge if I want to get back to my normal size. Checking my vitals, I see that I've dwindled to 85 centimeters, wrapping 36 kilos around my cartilaginous frame. Any other species would have died long ago. There's a chance now, slim as it is.

Klaxons remind me that I have bigger problems than fretting about my body. It's really a miracle that this thing survived for so long, but that's about where my luck ends. Navigation is barely functional, life support is failing, and those are the high points. I need help urgently. Why did the pod have to wait so long to revive me? That's a bad road to go down now, though; once I'm safe, I can process all I've lost.

The ship nearby is ailing, but still looks better than here. The docking procedure will use up almost all of the batteries' remaining charge, so I get one shot at this. My steering is mediocre, at best, pushing me very firmly against the various components of my seat on my way to the hull. The belt clasps are an even bigger hassle to undo, but at least now the chest buckle isn't stabbing me in the chin. Finally, I open the emergency release to enter the actual vessel, stumbling forward and regretting my life choices as I hear at least as many warning bells as I leave behind.

'Ailing' was generous. The place is falling apart. I can't regret my choices, though, mostly because right now that's a waste of precious time. Got to keep moving forward. And sadly, not into an escape pod in better shape than my now-antique, because they're all gone. If I'm reading the displays here correctly, at least. Not at all familiar with this ship design. Heading for the cockpit is as good an idea as any. If nobody's there, well, that would make a lot of sense.

Oooh, staggering on this ship's deck plates is not my idea of fun, at all. Muscle memory's all screwed up, my proportions are different, I look like - well, I look like both my legs are asleep, which does make sense, given everything. Heh. Needed a chuckle. A moment to catch my breath, start getting a feel for how I've changed. Gambling, but can I really just keep crashing around?

Ah. The problem's not different proportions, I've shrunk down pretty evenly. The problem is my diminished muscles pushing around a body that just woke up from millennia of rest. Some more rations will help a little, and careful focus to get my lymph flowing will do some more. Still and all, nothing's really going to address my problems but convalescence. So I'd better find someone to rescue me. Help me rescue myself. I'm in (multiple varieties of) distress, not helpless.

Through the creaking corridor, explosions in the distance. A long, horrible cracking, like the vessel is splitting in two.

"Good, Anakin, good. Kill him."

Well, that's certainly creepy, going from calmly encouraging to placid bloodthirst. Dealing with that after I've reached terra firma, unless I'm so unlucky that I've stumbled upon a sociopath or two. With that in mind, I wave cheerily as I enter the room fully. There's a clear line of sight to the people engaged in what promises to be messy business.

Quite the tableau before me, chopped-up droid parts scattered on a relatively intact bridge. Screens got shuttered over, looks like. Must have been some fight. One man cuffed to a chair, another kneeling before a fellow with two lightsabers by his neck. Red and blue. Oh, I really hope I haven't walked into the Sith Empire again.

"So, Jedi or Sith?" I ask brightly, approaching the three humans slowly and carefully. Don't want to look like a threat, here. Ah, and there's a fourth over there, quite effectively pinned to the floor by the fallen balcony.

"Jedi," the possible executioner tells me. He's had a bit of a day, judging from the sweat and rumpled robes. The real curiosity is his eyes, though, full of doubt and turmoil. "Count Dooku, here, is the one you'd be afraid of if I hadn't defeated him. He took Chancellor Palpatine prisoner."

I nod slowly, eying his unarmed captive, inches from death. He's an old man, decades in his face, and nasty-looking cauterized wrist stumps. For a madman at the end of his rope, the fellow seems rather calm. The same goes for Palpatine, just sitting there, confined on a crashing ship. I'm surprised his priority was killing a helpless man, rather than getting loose. Then again, Force-powered loonies are rather known for being dangerous and armed even when literally disarmed.

"Didn't think war crimes were your style. Their Empire's got you desperate, then?"

The supposed Sith starts choking, and rustling. But as I start panicking over a last desperate move on his part, I realize the rustling isn't coming from him. Bits of debris have formed the words 'Palpatine is my master', on the ground between the three of us. From his expression, this knight really doesn't know what to do with the information.

Ah, so there's the standard apprentice machinations going on. More than a few tales about various acolytes scheming against each other, assassinating their underlings and superiors. And all the little guys get caught in the mayhem, death, destruction, et cetera. Getting back to the details here, I'm a little confused as to why a Jedi cares about one of his enemies seizing another, but perhaps I'll need more than a minute and the word of an alleged Dark-Sider to trace the political landscape I've managed to blunder into.

Maybe I should have tried to land my pod instead.

"So you've got two prisoners, that unconscious guy over there, and the ship is falling out of the sky," I summarize. "Now what?"

Chapter Text

Not exactly an interesting bout. Starts with an ambush, with a bit of followup. Then he lets the reigning champion get to his feet, and it's all over but the crying. Three blows in the ring, and the man falls.

Then again, even under the best of circumstances fighting isn't really my idea of entertainment. Thing is, the odds were intriguing. The bookie was barely willing to give me 6 for 5 on this 'Wolverine', the last week's talk of the crowd. Looks like most of the assembly wasn't interested in doing the math, if their groans at the final verdict are any indication. In fairness, placing bets via someone who makes a living on how well she can out-predict the audience isn't usually a very good plan. Well, the man's made me two hundred bucks now, so perhaps I should go thank him for his efforts.

As impressive as the arena, the refreshments area appears to be a slightly-refurbished barn, not burdened with an overabundance of lighting. About as small a TV as they could justify hangs on the wall, though to be fair this isn't exactly where you go to watch the Bears play the Lions and Tigers or whatever. That actually makes me curious for a football hexagon and three-way game, but somehow I don't see the idea catching on.

"You want something new, honey?" the grizzled bartender asks. "Or are you sticking with water?"

He moves the tip jar away from the young woman at the bar counter. Well. Girl, really. Runaway, not a traveler like me. Doubt the place has much non-alcoholic in stock, even if she had the money for a lemonade. Doubt she's had more than a sip of the full clear glass by her hands, if that.

"I'll have a beer," 'Wolverine' says curtly, grabbing a chair. He's gotten dressed properly now, layers against the cold as compared to the undershirt he was sporting before. Impressive sideburns, too.

"Whiskey sour, neat," I request. Got a few dollars in my wallet for it, and I'm not exactly surprised to see the cage fighter forgoing a card for his tab. Tumbler for me, bottle for him, and now the server's scowling a little less. Not much, but this isn't a place for actual happiness, or even particular contentment.

TV's talking about a UN summit at Ellis Island, focusing on the usual stuff—and mutants. Huh. I've encountered the term, of course. Organisms with differences one doesn't expect. Barely noticeable, most of the time. Not usually a subject meriting coverage like this, but the tone isn't for a 'very special episode' or new development. This is an ongoing issue. I must have been out of the loop, because nobody else seems confused. Of the folks actually paying any attention, the girl's eyes are darting around, and my fellow drinker's mouth tightens. I'm going to have to look into this, and probably sooner rather than later.

My musing and observation gets interrupted by the sore loser, bruising already setting in around his eye. Restrained rather ineffectively by his buddy, he walks up to the victor.

"You owe me some money," he announces, pushing away said associate. "No man walks away from a beating like that without a mark to show for it."

"You got a beating, we can all see that," I say, mouth running ahead of my brain. "Didn't exactly hand one out, though."

Technically, I could also have noted that all of his blows were to his opponent's torso, which is currently well-covered, so nobody would see the marks anyway. That might have been more constructive. Not sure it's going to make much difference, though.

He glares at me, balling a fist, and takes a step from the chair Cage Winner's occupying.

"I can sure hand your scrawny—"

His friend finally manages to pull him back just a little. A single raised eyebrow from me, much as messing with him would be satisfying. Was satisfying, rather, and I managed to get a hold of my trolly tendencies.

"Got it covered, bud. Thanks," Mister Calm tells me. I nod graciously, but keep a careful eye on the situation. There's a mess coming here, and I don't want to get caught in the wrong part.

"I know what you are," Chump hisses, and this gets an actual rise from the man, not that he really moves.

"You lost your money. You keep this up, you'll lose something else."

The jerk finally steps away properly, but I know that body language. Maybe he's faking on purpose, maybe not. This isn't over, and he's not going for 'served cold' retribution.

"Walking on, walking on, broken gla-ass," I sing under my breath, just trying for some pain so he'll have an opportunity to reconsider. He stumbles and snarls, but it doesn't stop him from pulling a knife.

"Look out!" the girl shrieks, prompting the attempted target to slide aside, whipping around the blow. Two knives in his own hand bracketing the man's neck, and a third comes out slowly to poke his Adam's apple. Looking more closely, 'in his hand' is exactly right, as they emerge directly from his flesh. Hm. Metahuman, looks like. I miiight be in for some long-term trouble, since the category is rather broad, but now's not a great time for rumination.

The bartender naturally tells the actual assailant to leave his establishment. No, sorry, that would be the sensible action. Instead, he cocks a shotgun, poking Clawy's temple.

"Get out of my bar, freak," he spits. What a charmer.

My mouth opens for "shake, rattle, and roll", "a little more conversation, a little less action" (tricky though reversals can be), or maybe even "don't stand so close to me" so Shooty McGee will back off. Even with a gun touching his head, he still shuts me down with a look. Instead, his other hand swings up to cut the longarm, powder pouring to the floor. He stands there for a moment, six disturbingly effective razors pointed at his foes. A glare around the ramshackle pub (particularly the quailing bigot) conveys his general disgust with the situation. His claws retreat, and he stalks out.

"Time to go, miss," I mutter, collecting the ragamuffin on my way to meet this fellow.

Chapter Text

"Ah, I see you've got transport," I say, several feet behind Wolverine with the young lady quasi-huddled behind me. "In the mood for passengers? I also need some information on, ah, 'mutants'."

Cage fighter he might be, but the guy is no idiot. He turns around looks at me keenly. Long enough that I'm starting to wonder if his knuckles are itching, and not in the conventional way.

"Half your winnings," he states, holding his hand out, and I duly pull out my wallet and extract several bills to grease his palm. I nearly offered them in the first place, seeing as how he earned them better than I did.

"I should say," I add, seeing the girl's tension and the ready, flexing, fingers of our driver, "that I'm not looking to get anyone in trouble. I just don't know what's going on."

We get into the bench seat of his camper, and I make for the least-protected middle seat, while she takes the actual shoulder-belted window accommodation. Then we're on the road proper now, out of the parking lot hosting the fight club. Wolverine still isn't saying anything.

"I've read about mutation, in textbooks," I tell him, trying to jump-start the discussion. "Dry subject matter. Not a big deal. An extra toe, albinism, things like that."

He grits his teeth, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white. It's a vivid reminder of what else comes from his hands.

"Maybe that's what it was," Wolverine grits out, "but mutants are so much more now. That sore loser earlier, plenty of folks like him. News stories every day, about 'dangerous mutants'."

So the metahumans that I heard about when I was with, well, before, but with a decidedly different societal dynamic. That's certainly food for thought. I wonder how they detect mutants—he and the girl look ordinary. Would I be swept up if something happened, or do I count as something different?

"You don't have anything to eat, do you?" the girl asks, interrupting my musings. "Oh, uh, I'm Rogue."

Wolverine hands me a satchel, but the best I can find in there is a bag of chocolates. Not exactly the sustenance a teenage vagabond needs.

"La la la la lasagna," I sing softly, holding my hands around the translucent plate. "Hey, don't you get any on ya, you sloppy pig, have-a more ravioli. You-a get roly poly..."

The dish is done now, solid and warm in my lap. There's even a fork, so she can eat properly. At least, once she stops staring at it, and takes the plate from me. After a few moments, Rogue's hunger overcomes the fascination, and she digs in. I almost have to remind her to slow down, actually. Much as the steaming serving of lasagna is going right to her core, her fingers are still stiff, particularly through her gloves. Wolverine spares a hand to turn on the heater, but she still shrinks away from my encouragement.

"I'm not going to hurt you, kid," I try to reassure her.

"It's nothing personal. Just, when people touch my skin, something bad happens."

I raise an eyebrow, inviting elaboration, but she just shakes her head. Guess I'll give her space.

"Does it hurt, when they come out?" the girl asks, hunger somewhat sated. Wolverine's been taking pulls on his cigar occasionally since we got in, but now that hand is quite still.

"Every time," he answers quietly.

"So, what kind of a name is 'Rogue'?" he asks in turn. She half-giggles at the incongruity.

"Same as 'Wolverine'?" Our driver doesn't miss the challenge.

"Logan."

"Marie."

"Will," I volunteer. With those belated introductions, she returns to what's left of the food I conjured.

"You know, you should really wear your seatbelt," Marie notes, once the plate is more or less clean.

"Look, kid," he begins, "I don't need advice on auto safety from—"

As he's talking, I release the mental muscle that kept her meal physical, and she twitches as the dish vanishes. Joke's on me, though, because Logan's rebuttal is interrupted by the truck smashing into something. He goes sailing through the windshield, and we get the wind knocked out of us. There's something crackling as I regain my bearings. Rogue is pushing and fussing at her seatbelt.

Logan's gotten up now, staggering back towards us. Or maybe that was just the angle, and unsteadiness after his landing, because that seems a lot more like a steady stride. Boy and golly, his forehead is a mess. Except, it's also closing up. Healing, so fast I can see it in the space of a sentence. 'without a mark to show for it' is more reasonable now, haha.

"Kid, are you all right?" he calls out.

"I'm stuck!" she replies. His attempt to help is cut short by noticing something, extending his claws, and then still getting caught by surprise and thrown into a tree.

"Now I'm free," I spit out quickly, "free fallin'. Now I'm freeeeee, free fallin'."

That gets Rogue out of the jammed buckle, and now we just have to deal with the growing fire behind us plus the psycho manhandling Wolverine out there.

"The itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the waterspout," I start, gesturing for her to join me and strengthen the song. "Down came the rain and—"

Logan crashes onto the hood, and we get maybe a pot's worth of water landing on the flames. Enough for steam, spitting and hissing, but I'm not sure we've accomplished anything. Her shriek definitely isn't helping. Not that I blame her. Or am significantly calmer.

The assailant approaches, likely relishing our panic, and then slows. 'Walking on broken glass' isn't going to do much here. Fortunately for us, he turns just a few feet from the hood. Something's weird, snow blown fiercely against the windshield. The 'lumberjack' jumps away, even as a red laser beam smashes into the tree that stopped us in the first place. Rogue's door opens, and two people in black leather help us out of Wolverine's RV. None too soon, since as the woman's helping Rogue away, and the fellow takes Logan's insensate body with me, the flames really kick into high gear.

"Joshua fit the battle, fit the battle of Jericho," I wheeze, attempting the ever-challenging task of focusing on something that isn't really what the song is, "and the walls came tumbling down."

Can I make an actual wall, of air, stay up against the concussive force of the incoming detonation? Avoiding the pressing imagery of collapsing masonry, as the original incident involved? I feel it forming, the metaphysical bricks intertwining into strands of air. Before I can get a good grasp, he pushes me down into the snow as the vehicle finally gives up the ghost.

"Thanks for the assist," I tell them. While still lying prone, feeling that adrenaline crash. "Or, hmm, I guess the save. Can't think of anything better than 'stop, in the name of love' to get that guy off our backs, and thanks to you I don't have to."

Chapter Text

It's an unsettling feeling, having the ground shake under your feet. Especially when you realize it's not just the ground shaking. Everything is trembling, and the lines that separate each bit of the world from the other look unsteady indeed. Really, the whole thing is just the perfect cap for a long shift unloading trucks. I was planning to pick up dinner, but that's not going to fly until this calms down.

I suppose transitioning to a deeper-than-bone thrum is something. Not alone anymore, either—I see two small families, a droid with each, plus a fellow in Jedi robes meditating as sweat rolls down his face. We're at a crossroads, here. Not the mundane kind where two different roads make four corners, especially because there are about eleventeen paths here and none of them exist in quite the same space, which is starting to give me a headache so I'll stop trying to figure it out.

"We are in the middle of a reality maelstrom," the meditator barks over the wind. We're rather surrounded by it, a bit like being in the eye of a hurricane. "Stand close together, and we might just all live through this."

I'm not the only one who remembers the old rule of following instructions when someone seems like an expert, and nobody could pull a con like this. We huddle around him, giving everyone barely enough personal space. A makeshift circle, really. The turbulence is less, now, and I start to have a little hope that things might go okay.

"I'm Jedi Master Sifo-Dyas," he introduces himself briskly, then points a finger at me. "Give me your name and a personal fact. Then whoever's on your left, until everyone's gone. Quickly, now!"

"Ben Tolliver," I rattle off, "and I wish I could help more."

To my left, as it happens, is one of the droids and a small boy. They look at each other for a moment, and the robot's vocal grille lights up. It's one of the few bits on him that looks good, frankly; most of the casing is either missing or badly tarnished.

"C-3PO, human-cyborg relations," which serves as a fact in my books.

"Anakin Skywalker, almost finished building him," the kid chirps. No mean feat, especially considering that Anakin's way too shabby-looking to have gotten a kit for it. Hair past his ears, too.

"Shmi Skywalker," his mother chimes in. "formerly of Tatooine."

Now it's time for the other family. It's hard not to notice that they're dressed much nicer, and cleaner. Of course, there is a significant difference between observing that, and caring. Particularly since we could all be dead in five minutes.

"Ruwee Naberrie," the fellow recites. His belt is a little loose for prolonged standing, though there's no gut making that unpleasantly noticeable. "Multidisciplinary relief worker."

"Sola Naberrie," one of his daughters informs us. "Dogs are the best animals."

"Padme Naberrie," her sister immediately follows. "I've left Naboo four times."

"Jobal Naberrie," their mother says wearily. "Learned to play the flute fourteen years ago. And R2-D2 doesn't speak Galactic Basic, obviously."

Wheedle-beedle-beep-whoo-beep, the astromech finishes up nevertheless.

"That should about do, yes," Sifo-Dyas wheezes, clenching his fists and WRENCH. I was about to wonder if he was talking about the entire endeavor or just the droid's contribution, but once again I'm too busy failing to keep my feet.

"Stay together," he gasps, and I grasp around myself wildly. A metal hand finds mine, which is a start. I think Jobal and I both have a hold on R2-D2's treads.

"Anyone not got a buddy or two?" I ask. General positive noises, excepting of course the Jedi's struggle. He's been panting and groaning, but now he relaxes.

"You'll have to find your own way home," he tells us with a sigh. I look up again, quailing at the sight of his own form falling away into the background, not to mention the sound of that sigh joining the wind. It's dying down now, at least. Just like him, I think. 'I wish I'd known you better.' 'I think, sir, you know me at my best.'

We've landed, now, wherever we are. No more shaking, no more fuzziness, no more gale. I get to my feet, noticing quickly that the children are tended by their parents. Amazing, to come out of an experience like that, tossed probably very far away and saved from death by a Jedi who sacrificed himself for us, and then have a moment of loneliness.

It's something of a rural world we've landed on, or at least a rural patch. Granted, my standards might be a little skewed, but we all have our own perspectives. I do see houses around, but there are far more trees.

"Anybody know what planet this is?" I ask brightly. It's an attempt, at least, to keep the kids calm. Treat this like a big adventure, rather than a crisis. Of course, it helps that we're obviously in the vicinity of civilization.

"My databanks don't include information that I can match with these observations," C-3PO informs the group, which matches with everyone's feeling, "but if that is indeed a public comms terminal on the edge of the grass, then our ignorance shall be remedied shortly."

I don't know if he really meant for us to 'stay together' permanently, but we'd best not start splitting up yet. All nine of us, walking across the . . . field? Yard? Green? Anyway, R2-D2 speeds merrily along to the thing, tools emerging from his innards to okay that's not how they're supposed to work.

"Dear me," C-3PO frets, "that's not a standard design at all. He says the planet is called 'Earth'."

"Why would anyone name a whole world after dirt?" Sola asks. Nobody has an answer for her. Further investigations are forestalled by a young boy running in our direction, and hastily hiding behind me.

"Harry!" someone shouts. "We're going to get you!"

I'm not well-versed in child communication, but the expressions on the three parents inform me that this is not a fun game they're playing. 'Harry' isn't cheating, he's trying to avoid whoever's shouting that. A few portly boys follow soon after that exclamation, and I ready myself to defuse a confrontation. Or win it. If they play stupid games, they'll win stupid prizes.

"C'mon, Harry," one of them taunts, a remarkably pudgy kid. "Cor, what's with the freak show?"

Maybe it's the synchronized glare that drives them off, or maybe they're just easily distracted, as tweenage children often are. Works for me.

"I don't think we're a freak show, Mom," Padme says earnestly. "Eckeletric, that's the word, right?"

Shmi and Ruwee and I are trying very hard not to laugh at her pronunciation of 'eclectic'. Which is apropos for six humans (and one near-human) plus two droids, though I've seen better.

Chapter Text

Just as we're about to approach the salarian team's signal, there's an alert for very strange readings nearby. Gamma radiation, tachyons, a whole mess. It's not the mission, directly, but I'd rather not be surprised by whatever that is, blowing up, so Joker redirects us a few klicks. 'Take us in, fast and quiet,' as Captain Anderson used to say. So we get a wonderful view when a stadium pops into being.

Well, maybe more of an arena. Made of sandy rock, and crowded with people. Robots, too, but as I look closer it's clear that they're neither geth nor mechs. Curiouser and curiouser, as the girl once said. Time for boots on the ground. Mine, and I think Wrex plus Garrus. Tali will perk right up when she realizes that the Normandy's sensor suite will be available to analyze all those synthetics. For now, though, she's going to have her hands full tying my suit's speakers to whatever sound systems they have down there.

I see lots of weapons drawn, as I hop out of the shuttle. The design of a rifle is unmistakable, even integrated into a robot's chassis, and they're being countered by . . . laser swords. Sure, that might as well happen. Not everyone here is human, but I don't recognize any of the other species. No asari, turians, salarians, krogan, or batarians. The hostility from one group to the other is very clear, especially since the folks who were in the middle of the robots are making their way to the center of the field.

"Commander Shepard, Spectre," I introduce myself to a bald fellow who has an 'in charge' vibe. "I don't suppose you have any idea what's going on here?"

"Some of it," he allows, alertness in every muscle. "I felt a great disturbance in the Force a moment ago, followed by the sky and gravity changing. I take it we're not on Geonosis anymore."

I shake my head firmly.

"Virmire," I tell him. "Never heard of any planet Geonosis, and I can tell that you're in the converse position."

I'm still waiting on Tali's signal that she's got a handle on the mechanical forces down here—and presumably an estimation of her plans for hacking them, given the overall ridiculousness of the situation.

"So, now that we've established that neither of us has a real explanation for the planetary switcheroo," I summarize, "how about the rest of it?"

"Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi was taken prisoner and sentenced to execution," he tells me tersely, "for discovering the Confederacy's droid army. They've declared independence from the Galactic Republic, with Count Dooku up there as their leader."

"I've never heard of any of those entities or people," I tell him slowly, "and I'm guessing the Citadel and Systems Alliance are just as much of a mystery for you. I'd offer to host delegations on the Normandy, but I'm afraid my mission here takes precedence. Perhaps a ceasefire, until I'm done?"

This turns into a discussion, right there on the ground, with "Master Mace Windu" falling down a rabbit hole along with me and Dooku. A map of the Milky Way (on my omnitool, somewhere between 'impressive' and 'amazing') leaves them stunned. Somehow, the whole pack has been transported to a separate galaxy. And they're not even from the astronomically 'nearby' Andromeda, since our telescopes have gotten a good deal of the structure there.

"Your political differences aren't going to matter until you get back home," I tell them. "Here and now, I've got a madman trying to bring back the fleet of omnicidal robots that leveled galactic civilization fifty thousand years ago. As long as you're stuck in the neighborhood, might as well try saving everyone."

Dooku is unmoved by my appeal, but agrees to stand his 'droids' down. I suspect he'll try to construct a stronghold here, but that ain't my mess, since I'm not getting the 'joining Saren' vibe from him. Windu asks for volunteers to assist me with Saren's base here, and gathers a few of the less martial 'knights' and masters onto the Normandy to attempt to contact the only leader of the 'Jedi Order' not here, Yoda. I wish him the best of luck with jury-rigging an intergalactic commlink.

A handful of Jedi start explaining the Force and their organization to me while we make our way on foot to the salarians. The Mako would be a lot faster, but having too many reinforcements to fit in your vehicle is a pretty good problem to have. Especially since their mystical, ah, stuff is ridiculously versatile. 'I won't look a heavily-armed gift horse in the mouth,' after all. There's some resemblance to biotics, with about a jillion times as much metaphysics. Not to mention the religion. Apparently the Force has a light side and a dark side, which are exactly what they sound like. Meanwhile, Tali sounds like she wants to do a doctorate on all the design history she's uncovered. For now, I let her be; we're getting far away from the bushel of bolts, so understanding them is less important.

We've moved onto mass relays and their hyperdrive (crack open a planet for fuel, travel across the galaxy in a day if you have cleared 'hyperlanes') when Garrus reports that the camp is in sight. Time to get some better intel, with the same strategy as when I landed: look for whoever has the 'command' state of mind.

"I'm Captain Kirrahe, Third Infiltration Regiment STG," he tells me. "You and your crew have just landed in the middle of a hot zone. Every AA gun within ten kilometers has been alerted to your presence."

Well, that's an ugly situation. Not that I was counting on backup from the Normandy, exactly, but ruling it out isn't just inconvenient for taking off after the mission.

"What are we supposed to do in the meantime?" I ask. He just shakes his head.

"Stay put until the Council sends the reinforcements we requested," Kirrahe informs me. My turn to grimace.

"Well, I've got good news and bad news."

He holds up one hand. "The bad news is that we're not getting anything from them, except you. The good news is that the people behind you with swords are coming with us."

"Exactly," I respond. "I've gotten the ten-minute briefing on their capabilities—more or less like how we learned about biotics in school."

"If these 'capabilities' can help us take out Saren and his fortified research facility," Kirrahe replies, "along with his swarm of geth, I can live with a little operational uncertainty."

I open my mouth to commiserate, but he's not done. "The bigger problem is what his scientists have achieved. He's managed to breed an army of krogan, bypassing or curing the genophage. That's the last thing we need."

Oh, boy. Time to have a very uncomfortable conversation with Wrex and the Jedi.

Chapter Text

There's some encouraging news in this report from Transportation. Ohio's wells have stepped it up a notch, and refining is proceeding apace. Delmarva is still on serious rationing, of course, but I'm now reasonably confident that our jets and tanks can smack down the Confederates without crippling civilian infrastructure. (And boy, has it been fun keeping those fears quiet for the past few months.) Tapping into Pennsylvania's natural gas is also incredibly helpful there, along with the Corps of Engineers rushing through that transcontinental railroad. Ten minutes for an executive summary, landing on about a dozen desks, and then it's 'intragovernmental panel' time.

"I hope you've got better news for them than I do," Josh tells me gloomily, meeting me in the hall as we head for the conference room.

"You got reapportionment and amendments," I reply. "We're in a sorry state if that's actually our best area."

Neither of us acknowledge my inadvertent 'pun'. There have been a lot of jokes about Delmarva, morbid and not, since the tri-ish-state area landed in 1861. The old meaning of just the peninsula shared among the three states has already become secondary around here, I'm pretty sure. Either way, we've got CJ, Toby, Will, Mr. Hamlin, Josh, and me. Ah, the ongoing friction over executive structure. With Leo elsewhere, Josh opens the discussion with his results.

"Two hundred and eighty-three seats in the House, admitting everything but the Mall as the Douglass Commonwealth as a state, plus West Virginia," he details. Oh, this is definitely going to be a 'good news, bad news' situation.

"Seven seats taken from what Confederate states would have gotten, nineteen from Union states, and eighteen from Delmarva," Josh grits out. "In 1871, they're willing to use our modern apportionment, with no adjustments."

'Our modern', a clumsy bit of linguistics, but the least clunky method anyone's found to distinguish Delmarvan current from Union state of the art. 'Union' itself is fiddly, of course, not least because both our faction and Lincoln's see us as still part of the Union, nor least because we're rather used to 'Union' meaning 'not Confederate', and that's been such a little cluster of confusion.

"Twelve million more people just from us, and of only forty seats added, they get the lightest burden from our expansion?" Toby muses, glaring into the distance and bringing me back to the moment. "Sounds like appeasement to me."

I look at the steps going into the size of each state's delegation in the next Congress, and it's annoyingly fiddly. Even worse than taking the square root of the delegation's current size (starting at one), dividing the population by it, and using that as the metric for whoever gets the next seat. That way, the argument is already settled about chamber expansions. Boy, it'll be nice to avoid the dumb, dumb reason for keeping the House at 435 people forever.

"Then you have good ears," the negotiator grunts. "But I'll take eighty-three seats instead of a hundred and one if it gives us the leverage to pass a proper thirteenth amendment, not to mention the nineteenth."

"Think we're going to give Prohibition a miss this time?" Will inquires. Nobody can tell if he's riffing on the subject, I think including him, and the subject drops.

That rather sets the tone of the meeting. The Department of Justice is continuing to struggle with maintaining the Constitution as it is in two separate jurisdictions, and there's going to be a major conflict about that (apart from slavery) sooner or later. Delmarvan authorities have consistently flat-out refused to recognize the legal powers of any slave-catcher, and officially do not acknowledge the efforts of any private citizens raiding the border states to free any persons held in bondage. Non-California rails are still the second priority, but the nature of laying track means that we can still connect major cities and small towns without impeding the major effort. Public-private partnerships are contributing there, along with quite a lot of people whose jobs became irrelevant. Plenty of folks are eager to avoid the mistakes of the past in long-haul transportation, particularly since trains have a shorter lead-in time than a network for electric cars.

"Gentlemen," the vice president says at last, having had little to contribute thus far, "while these matters are all of grave import, there is one subject untouched thus far, on which I am afraid we have quite different opinions."

Toby smiles thinly, and Will is stone-faced. I manage to suppress a wince.

"The president is not interested in having multiple polities inside our borders, and yet there have been dozens of telegrams regarding the organization of Western tribes."

"On the contrary, Mister Hamlin," I suggest, "the president is perfectly happy to have dozens of states in the country. The treaties negotiated and signed by your predecessors remain in force, if I recall correctly."

CJ raises an eyebrow at the sharpness of my tone, and I tuck my hand into my jacket so that I may clench it properly. Almost like the old portraits, if for a very different reason. Not that I can remember why that was a style.

"We are going to win the West, make no mistake about that," he insists.

"When was it lost, exactly?" Toby asks, a hair shy of monotone, receiving a stinkeye in return.

"I don't know how else we can tell you that people are people," CJ says, needling the sexist streak that runs through most of the downtimers. She's pulled out Abigail Adams' rhetoric more than once.

"Very well," Hamlin pronounces coolly. "I am sure the president can communicate his desires to the territorial governors."

He leaves the only room in the building where people really take him seriously, and I'd call it a huff if we could get friendly enough to drop the formality. A lot more to ask those days, which I guess are also these days. Shades of British schoolboys using each other's surnames, not that I've made the comparison aloud. To their faces.

"Must just burn him up inside that Lincoln doesn't give him the time of day," Toby muses.

"'There once were two brothers,'" Will opens. "'One went to sea, and the other became vice president.'"

It's a line we've used several times, so no one quite feels the need to conclude 'and neither was ever heard from again.' Joking aside, especially since none of us really care that much about Hoynes (though he did get mentioned in the president's address after the Incident), it's going to be a piece of work and a half trying to find a workable solution on the 'frontier', especially with Lincoln supposedly now actively opposing us.

Chapter Text

Years of theorizing and designs. Months of begging and borrowing, to afford the power for this test. Weeks of assembling all the machinery, taking up most of the Coruscant warehouse we've rented. Pieces from several hyperdrives, along with both refined and raw hypermatter. Hours of minute calibrations. Most of the swarm, with our waldoes, are standing by the mechanical switches and consoles, with more waiting to assess the readings. Now we're ready for our subjects, carbon powder fully prepped in the tanks. All systems go. Time for the first teleportation in millennia.

Somewhere between cacophony and melody, the sounds coming from our invention and the fabric of reality itself. Our targets are now standing on the landing pad, looking warily around at their new surroundings. We probably should have made formal arrangements for that part.

The two humans—ah. Jedi. That will make things very interesting indeed.

"What do you mean, 'I need him!', Skywalker?" one of them asks, lightsaber at the ready. We believe this is High General Mace Windu, one of the heroes of the Clone Wars. And 'Skywalker' can only be General Skywalker, in that same group.

"Can the Jedi save my wife's life?" Skywalker shoots back, just as prepared for violence.

"Laying aside the fact that you shouldn't have a wife," Windu opens, tone promising that the subject will return, "what's wrong with her?"

"I don't know!" Skywalker answers, gesturing angrily with his weapon. "I keep having visions of her death, but I can't tell anything else."

"The last time you had visions, they were extremely metaphorical," his colleague cautions. "And these sights, repeated and specific, are driving you right into the hands of a Sith lord."

It is perhaps unwise for us to intrude on this moment, but the thought does occur that:

"Excuse us," half our number interjects, "but might these dreams of mortality be planted directly by this Sith?"

Windu is quick to seize upon our idea, even turning off his weapon.

"Chancellor Palpatine" ohhh, that's not good "must have been manipulating you for years, Anakin. Guiding you down this path. He wanted you to stand with him against your fellow Jedi."

"But he was trying to help me!" the knight protests. Nevertheless, his own saber returns to his belt.

"How much can you value a promise of Sith help?" his companion asks, raising his eyebrows. "Would you have gone to Dooku for lessons in Vaapad?"

He just shakes his head angrily, having trouble fully integrating the apparent scheme against him. Their conundrum apparently resolved, the Jedi take a closer look at our magnificent apparatus. We have probably heard as much of the last about this abduction as Skywalker has about his marriage.

"Er. We apologize, gentlemen, for your sudden teleportation," we say, "but on the bright side, you have worked out your problem regarding the Supreme Chancellor?"

"Never known Fefze to be great engineers," Skywalker mutters, and we take some offense to that before Windu clarifies the situation.

"That breathing room," he replies grimly, "has also destroyed any chance we had to end his master plan."

"We can just go back and-" Anakin begins, but his companion holds up one hand to silence him.

"It's already too late, Skywalker. I can sense it. You can, too. All we can do now is blunt his strokes."

The grumbling continues as Windu uses our equipment to contact Yoda, and Anakin has his own conversation in the corner.

"I attempted to arrest the Chancellor," he tells the Grand Master without preamble, "but Skywalker and I were teleported away before his personal scheme was complete. I believe the Order is minutes from destruction."

"Much darkness I sense," Yoda agrees. "Evacuate the Temple and activate the emergency beacon, I will. Warn our masters and knights in the field."

The next five minutes is a buzz of activity, no pun intended. Skywalker has alerted his wife in the Senate, though we're not sure what she has in mind. Windu sends out an alert to all those commanders and generals fighting the Separatists, that a terrible scheme is unfolding, and their lives are in grave danger from Sith Lord Palpatine. We, meanwhile, are given the task of dismantling or destroying our wonderful creation, so that the Coruscant authorities answering ultimately to the Chancellor cannot seize it for themselves. It is a bitter pill to swallow. But then, we have done it once. We can do it again—particularly if we have gained the Jedi Order as powerful patrons.

"Drallig has the younglings on transports," Skywalker reports, helping us remove a few particularly valuable components and taking his saber to the rest. It did not take us long to conclude that removing the entire network would not be feasible given the sudden time constraints, but it still hurts. Sparing a few eyes to watch him serve as a whirlwind of vandalism is impressive, at least. "Master Nu's pulling the same trick in the Archives as here. Palpatine won't get much from our library."

Windu grunts in reply. It's hectic work, procuring ships for immediate evacuation without knowing when the hammer will fall. The size of our swarm does not help matters, dozens of beetles nearly half the size of a human. We can pack efficiently, which is the only reason our party has any hope of evading capture. The quarters in this cab are very close, even having booked the largest one instantly available. Nevertheless, we are delivered to one of the waiting freighters. It's a small fleet, really. We defy anyone to characterize us as 'antsy' while we anticipate departure.

Of course, not two minutes after we finally manage to exit Coruscant orbit, the news comes.

"Palpatine's condemned the Jedi assassination attempt, derided the 'AWOl' fighters, and outlawed the Order," Skywalker tells us. Windu is not the only prominent Jedi with us now, nor is he the only one who looks sick to his stomach. Kenobi snorts in disgust.

"'To ensure the security and continuing stability, the Republic will be reorganized into the first Galactic Empire'," he quotes, baring his teeth. "Killing democracy, lying about history, and doing it all with such bland marketing speak. Reorganizing for continued stability is how you promote someone over his former boss."

"Semantic annoyances aside," Drallig comments, "what are we even going to do now?"

Yoda merely hums in response, perusing several different datapads. We have no suggestions; skill at engineering does not translate well to this crisis.

"We will return to our role as peacekeepers," Windu ruminates. "The peace of us all being alive, that is. Countering Imperial propaganda is a talent some of our knights have, and the rest will tend to the scattered service corps members before the clone troopers can reach them."

"Much change we must undergo," Yoda concludes. "The Ruusan Reformation has ended. A new age emerges for the Jedi."

Chapter Text

The options Eliza presents are dizzying. Less in their content, spinning one way or another for the ideologies in play, and more for the simple fact that I'm the one making the call. Chief of Security for Sarif Industries. I've hunted down people halfway across the world to untangle these messes, but that doesn't justify my authority here. Except in the most fundamental aspect: decisions are made by those who show up, and everybody else got stopped along the way.

"I'm sorry, Adam," she tells me, interrupting my attempts to grapple with this verdict. "Panchaea's instability is growing, in ways no one predicted. The remnants of Darrow's signal, combined with the fallout from the Hyron Project's destruction and surrounding architecture, are creating a wave of unknown radiation. The facility will be destroyed, with all inhabitants lost, unless this room is jettisoned."

I stare down at the consoles, flexing the fingers that still can't really feel anything. 'Haptic feedback', technically. Mostly just makes me think 'can't hug your children with nuclear arms', so I've acquired the skill of not thinking about it.

"Let me guess," I reply. "It's going to overload your systems just keeping everyone in there alive until rescue arrives, so no broadcast, and no life support for me when I hit the jumbo microwave."

She nods just in time for me to return my view to that silly little avatar.

"Let's go."

The noises are horrible, ripping and screeching and sparks flying. Lots of turbulence, too. Guess that all makes sense; Eliza said 'jettison', but that can't possibly have been a planned feature here. She jury-rigged the best she could to help them. Feeling tingly now. Wonder if it's like a slice of pizza getting reheated. Goodbye, everyone.

Waking up is a lot more harrowing than I expected, even apart from it actually happening. Thuds, crashing, screeches from actual people, and knocking me around on—a solid surface. Okay. I can work with this. Wincing all the way.

My eyes have rebooted, and I seem to be in the desert now. Well, this might as well happen. With the wreckage of the broadcast room well off in the distance, and a hefty collection of yurts around me. The place is buzzing, and how wonderful that the residents are all wearing full masks and robes. Please let this not be a cult. The thought of asking them for help is dispelled by the sight of a bedraggled woman tied to a wooden frame. She's been through a very rough time, and sags onto me after I cut the leather strips. That makes a casual but swift exit slightly challenging, but these guys are no Belltower. Before they've stopped running around, we're gone, and she's small enough that I can keep carrying her safely without being too exposed. So, objective one of leaving is now accomplished. Finding medical attention for her is another story.

Additional fun times, before she passes out completely on my shoulders: unless her treatment left her unable to speak properly, which is certainly a major possibility, I don't recognize her primary language. While I'm not a linguistic expert, I've picked up a fair few chunks over the years. The vibes I'm getting from her mumbles aren't right for English, French, Spanish, Arabic, German, Hindi, Mandarin, Cantonese, Japanese, Gujarati, or Farsi. Nothing I've said has registered with her, though again, these are rather inauspicious circumstances for communication. At least she pointed me in the right direction for getting back . . . somewhere. Probably.

Feels roughly like we've gotten far enough away from the possible-cult, plus she's gotten awfully still. Time for a break, and maybe my infolink will get attention from someone friendly. I set her down on the ground, and start working the kinks out of my arms and that's still not how I work. There's a bottle of water somewhere in my pack, I think, and definitely a few pouches of CyberBoost. My guest takes a few sips and nibbles, but after that she waves me off. I recall that starvation diets need some adjustment time, and in any case I'm in no position to second-guess her.

There we go, found a signal! Coming up fast, too. I don't see anything yet, but it won't be long—this terrain can't hide someone traveling in the open. The former captive is looking in that direction with me now.

"We're going to have company, lady," I tell her, even though she doesn't understand me. "Hope you've got friends out there."

"Shmi," she says, pointing at herself. Oh yeah. We can at least have names, without general comprehension.

"Shmi," I repeat, pointing at her. "Adam," I follow up, hand on my chest.

"Adam," Shmi echoes, a small wistful smile now on her face. That doesn't bode well, but all I can really do is hope that she hasn't resigned herself to breathing her last with a friendly face nearby.

There's a blur, after a few minutes. A lump, perhaps. Still can't tell anything, really, except that it's not likely to be the folks we ran away from.

Huh. Some sort of vehicle, and a man jumps out when it's barely stopped. A frenzy of speech between them, and he picks her up to lay in the back. I shake the offered hand. Then he offers me a seat behind him. Might as well, as uncomfortable as this promises to be; more or less a motorcycle, looking at it more closely, and those don't do well with multiple passengers. I hold on carefully indeed. Can't squeeze him too tight, definitely don't want to jut into her. It's a long ride, and the muscles I still have are getting rather sore when we finally pull up next to an adobe dome.

A few signals indicate that I should get off, and a grizzled old man embraces her for a few moments before the driver rushes away with her. Another handshake, and I think maybe congratulations, but he doesn't need me to explain that we don't speak the same language. Instead, there's a . . . a robot walking up to us. Wires running up and down the whole body, distinctly unlike my augmentations. Compared to the past half hour, this is practically normal.

"I am C-3PO, human-cyborg relations," it says. He? Masculine-sounding and -looking. Whatever. Still have no idea what's coming out of that speaker.

"Adam Jensen," I introduce myself. "Where am I, exactly? Something very strange has happened."

"You are on the Lars ranch, seven kilometers outside Mos Espa, on Tatooine," it informs me. "And might I say what a delight it is to meet a speaker of 'English' for the first time."

Chapter Text

Tatooine is a planet in Hutt space, officially part of the Galactic Republic. "Mmmm-hmm. Mmm. I know some of these words." Beyond the shock of being somewhere that isn't Earth, and hoo boy is that a transition, along with all the aliens, C-3PO describes the political scene and that's a bit of a comfort. Even in a different galaxy, with roving warrior-monks who'd smile condescendingly at some of my augmentations, there's still the fundamental truth that the rich get richer, the powerful do what they want, and some people get lost in the cracks.

For the next couple of days, I pitch in on the moisture farm, and the little family helps me add Galactic Basic to my repertoire. Threepio, as they call him, is simultaneously pleased to have another linguist around and disappointed that I'll no longer need him to communicate. I can certainly understand wanting to be useful; after my daring exploits, there's not much satisfaction in these agricultural chores. Owen, Beru, and Cliegg pull me into the almost-Spartan celebration when Shmi is able to return.

I don't quite understand why Cliegg's lost leg remains as it is, while his wife went to the hospital, but it's not really my business. Shmi thanks me again, and it's nice to be able to understand her properly. The party is just cooling down when there's a new arrival.

"Anakin Skywalker," the young man introduces himself, joining the club of people willing to shake my hand without the slightest hesitation. I suppose rescuing his mother has some effect there. "I'm in your debt."

"I just did what you would have done in my place," I tell him, trying very hard to ignore that awful-looking rattail.

We fall into a discussion of martial arts and tactics after that, where the 'Jedi Padawan' shows a healthy amount of talent, though limited training.

"Master Obi-Wan says I must be well-rounded," Anakin sulks, but to his disappointment I nod firmly.

"The Force offers an impressively versatile arsenal. The more tools you can use from it, the better off you are. Better a jack of all trades than a master of one."

"You seem to have picked up a few specialties," he throws back at me, but before I can bring in the obvious advantage of age and a more focused job description, there's an alert from the protocol droid. I accompany him and Senator Amidala to their ship to find out what's going on, without worrying too terribly much about the propriety.

"I have tracked the bounty hunter Jango Fett to the droid factories on Geonosis," Kenobi recounts, after they set up retransmission to Coruscant. "The Trade Federation is to take delivery of a droid army here, and it is clear that Viceroy Gunray is behind the assassination attempts on Senator Amidala. The Commerce Guilds and the Corporate Alliance have both pledged their armies to Count Dooku, and are forming a - wait. Wait."

The Jedi master draws his lasersword. Sorry, lightsaber. A mech a little like the ones I've handled a few times lumbers onscreen, shooting all the way.

"More happening on Geonosis, I feel, than has been revealed," the little green guy says. Well done stating the obvious.

"I agree," his bald companion says. "Anakin. We will deal with Count Dooku. The most important thing for you is to stay where you are. Protect the senator at all cost. That is your first priority."

"Understood, Master," Anakin replies reluctantly and glumly, but I interject before he can hang up, as it were.

"How are you going to rescue Kenobi?" I ask. The look between the two councilors is not encouraging.

"We have two hundred Jedi ready to travel to Geonosis and handle those droids. That will give us time for the Senate to approve the clone army he discovered."

I grit my teeth, trying not to smack myself in the face.

"Laying aside what sounds quite a lot like growing people to fight your battles for you, deactivating robots is a lot easier with stealth and technical expertise than swinging around, ah, lightsabers."

Green Guy nods slowly.

"A small strike team, you propose. Moving quietly and quickly to engage the problem. Less risky than open warfare, Master Windu."

"We're very close to Geonosis, unlike you," Anakin observes neutrally. "Park in orbit, establish a base of operations for Mr. Jensen, get Obi-Wan out of there, and with luck there will be reinforcements to help take down the droids before we have to evade the heat."

Windu shakes his head, but it's the response of minor modification, not utter negation.

"The senator's safety is paramount. Deliver him, make contact with us, and then retreat to the nearest hyperspace exit. Jensen, you'll be on your own for at least a day in hostile territory."

The opening is irresistible, to counter his clear and reasonable doubt.

"I've done this before," I tell them, engaging my cloak for a few seconds. "I'm confident that I can carve out a nook for myself and your experts. Exfiltrating Obi-Wan without raising any alarms will be a top priority as well."

The collective surprise at my capabilities doesn't do much to ease the tension.

"Interesting, that Obi-Wan found out about a mass of robots threatening you, and a bunch of test-tube slaves to take those bullets, so close together," I muse, a little reminder that the 'laying aside' isn't going to last that long.

"May the Force be with you, Jensen," Windu replies shortly.

"With all of us," Amidala pipes in, as Anakin ends the call.

Twelve hours between here and Geonosis, just like flying from Detroit to Hengsha. There's not much piloting to be done, which is fortunate because I also need Anakin to give me a better overview of Jedi capabilities. Ideally, I won't be encountering Dooku at all—the primary mission is removing Kenobi and helping to deactivate all those droids. But ideals are one thing, and if I can pull it off, taking him in would make a whole lot of things much simpler.

"Cloning is illegal," Padme frets, during the one time we're all scheduled to be awake. "Surely the Republic won't make use of conscripts to defend us against this rebellion."

It's a thorny situation, and I'm glad I'm charged with ground accomplishments, rather than the philosophical debate. Still, I keep remembering those helpless Hyron drones, all the human suffering that was supposedly necessary to run Panchaea. If I can pull this off, it might just prevent a war.

"There's an automated security platform a few hundred klicks ahead," Anakin reports. "It's equipped with transport pods. I could hack in and let you make your way in from there, Adam. Maybe two hours to the surface."

I nod, taking a look at the readout that . . . is in language much too technical for me to understand. I can speak Basic just fine, but reading jargon like this is another story.

"I sneak much better on my own," I tell him, preparing myself in the starfighter's tiny docking port.

Chapter Text

The kids are doing okay after that encounter, which continues my ongoing conflict. Ugh, what an appropriate word. On the one hand, they're not fighting themselves, and the Digimon seem to regard the occasional battle as something between jumped-up roughhousing and their purpose. On the other hand, their devotion to the children is a little, hmm, unsettling? And the fact remains that this level of violence is not what I'd call an appropriate environment for preteens, though that's rather been a lesser concern as we've made our way through this place. Agumon and company are wiped from transforming twice in a day, so we're either going to need a solid break or quite a bit of food. There's a growing discussion on the need for rest, for that matter.

"Rest where?" Sora asks with a grimace. "I don't want to sleep on the ground."

"It's better than nothing, but we might be able to luck our way into accommodations again," I agree. Joe points off into the distance—ah.

"Look, Mr. Dumptruck!" he exclaims. "A mansion!"

    "Hey, man!" my friend Robert greets me, going in for a traditional man-hug. "Everyone, this is my pal Mr. Peterson."

     His charges cheerfully welcome me to their campsite; he invited me to come visit while he was chaperoning this summer camp, and I happened to find a cheap ticket to Japan.

    " Heh, still not used to people calling me Mister, or using my last name much," I chuckle. " Even 'Uncle Otis' sounds weird—my brother's kids call me that, but my sister's kids started calling me 'Uncle Dumptruck' years before."

    "Mister Dumptruck!" the youngest boy squeals. He finds the appellation riotous, and to be fair, the story does generally get that kind of reaction.

"Yet another building out in the middle of nowhere," I remark wryly. Just what we need, an actual residence. It's big enough that we could all fit in a single wing, and one floor at that. In tip-top shape, too, as far as I can tell from here. The kids start running to it, except for Tai, and thus Agumon as well.

"It could be a trap, sir," he suggests, shaking his head nervously. The boy's got a good head on his shoulders.

"Oh, very possible, but if we approach with that in mind, we might be able to get the better of whoever's lurking in the shadows."

With that, we rejoin the group. Definitely getting a hotel vibe, with the enormous foyer and the staircase leading up to evenly-spaced doors along with a low interior balcony. Tai, Izzy and Sora are still a little wary of the place, and I can't say I blame them.

"We can either rest on open ground, or in this sturdy defensible building," Joe points out. Refreshing to have him not being a worrywart. That settles their nerves, and they spread out a little to explore the building. Doesn't take long before the Digimon wake up, and Gabumon is particularly delighted when his nose catches the scent of a kitchen.

"Follow me," he calls, leading us to a lovely dining room. Quite an array prepared here, which is not to say I recognize many of the dishes.

"Might as well dig in," I advise them. "If this is a setup, I don't see someone bothering to make a spread like this and then tampering with it."

Far from impossible, of course, but telling several hungry children to ignore a tantalizing feast based on nothing but faint suspicion is not my style. Besides, their buddies are already going nuts. I just have a few nibbles, while packing away a large helping of anything that looks like it'll still be okay to eat tomorrow morning.

There's also an open bath, which gives us our occasional poke at the cultural disconnect. Communal pools are fairly common in Japan, as Tai and Matt are quick to tell me. Joe's hesitant to get in—I was even more modest at his age, and I point him towards the one-person shower I used. Izzy's explaining the concept of a bath to—ah, yeah, Tentomon would have a, heh, biological mismatch there. Insects aren't known for enjoying a good soak. Then Gomamon comes howling over the barricade, assisted by Palmon's vines. Yeah, no sympathy there.

There's still the lurking possibility of betrayal, so I tell them all to keep their clothes close at hand, even as they're dressed in pajamas. Joe drifts into a little patch of griping, alas.

"Oh, we're a long way from home, aren't we? Sorry," he apologizes, seeing how everyone has reacted to his reminiscences of their various discomforts compared to their current nice soft beds.

"Do you think we'll ever get back, Mr. Dumptruck?" Sora asks me.

"I do," I answer promptly. "It's not an accident that you all found your Digimon partners almost immediately, or that you came here in the first place. It rings right to me that whatever started this excursion is going to have a path to Earth."

The comfort on their faces is worth every bit of effort I made to inject confidence into my voice. It's a shade short of lying to children, which of course is sometimes necessary, but I do genuinely believe what I said. I'm just . . . far from certain. They fall asleep, I think, but it's no easier for me than ever to find my own slumber. At least lying in bed is restful, no twitching legs or anything. Tai leaves, probably to go to the bathroom, but it rouses me a little anyway.

"Wake up, everybody!" he yells a minute later. "Ogremon is here!"

Ah, that about tracks, what with encountering him earlier. There's a shimmering all around us, with large chunks of the walls and the entire ceiling fading way. The kids are up, with a little more encouragement from me, but they're still in bed when the furniture starts flying. A single blink is about all I can muster for that development.

"Because together you are strong, I will use my Touch of Evil to scatter you throughout the Digiworld!" a menacing voice proclaims. Welp, there's the bad guy. Big wings, ominous demeanor, freaky near-human proportions.

"So you faked the hotel, and I'm guessing the food and the bath was a con too. How come the beds are real?" I ask. He sneers at me, cackling in his own self-satisfaction.

"Puny man. Bumbling along, trying to help the DigiDestined. You coached them well in this façade of ignorance, but it has ceased to amuse me!" 'Puny' or not, I seem to be of great interest now, as he stalks in my direction. Agumon goes for a fireball, but he doesn't get more than a wisp of flame. Even as the nefarious Digimon approaches, he stretches his arms high into the air. Oh, your elbow isn't supposed to be able to get that far above your head. Though that's a pretty minor quibble when I feel the rumbling under my feet.

"I am Devimon, master of the black gears!" he shouts. "Your destiny to rescue this world from my domination will not prevail!"

"I dunno, buddy," I tell him, folding my arms and letting my natural snarkiness rise. "This sounds like one of those prophecies that uses your attempts to thwart it, just to make the, ah, 'DigiDestined' a more capable team."

"Cease your prattle!" Devimon snarls. Leomon advances on Tai, and I see a glint on the latter's belt as my chunk of the floor rips away and sends me soaring through the air. Much farther and higher than the kids' beds, for that matter. Because I'm being catapulted away, not just hovered. Landing is going to be . . oh, boy.

Chapter Text

I've had a perfectly lovely evening, but this wasn't it. Having a questionable trip, really hoping to see you next fall. Devimon's free air travel isn't sending me on a proper ballistic trajectory, at least for now, so I don't think I have to worry about the landing as a conclusion to my adventure in the digital world.

"Mayday, mayday!" I call out, seeing a few creatures in the distance. Rather close now, actually. Smashing into someone's carapace, probably a Kuwagamon, does me no favors, especially since there's a forest below me. Is water soft here? I remember Matt falling quite a few feet into that lake without minding too terribly much. Whomp, smack, crash, thud, there are enough obstacles to slow my descent, letting me slide down a muddy path into possibly a building. Hard to tell with everything going dark.

"Finally awake!" someone chirps. Opening my eyes reveals a wizened man with a truly impressive mustache. I stay still, vividly remembering the excitement of my arrival and having little interest in testing my recovery from the injuries it dealt me. Looking around a little is a different story, fortunately. It looks like a normal home, like some of the buildings we've used. I've used, now that the kids are far away. He looks human, certainly. More than any of even the humanoid Digimon. Is there really another one here?

"Well, I'm alive," I remark feebly. "Not giving Air Devimon a good review, that's for sure."

He shakes his head, pacing back and forth.

"It's good that your wits didn't get knocked out, but I'm afraid the situation out there is no better. The DigiDestined have been scattered, each on their own piece of File Island."

Careful testing reveals that my aches and pains aren't as bad as I expected. Getting out of this cot is still nothing to rush. The way he said 'File Island', hmmm.

"Where am I now?" I ask him. "Oh, and who are you, anyway?"

"I am Gennai," my caretaker finally introduces himself. "You're in my home, on the continent of Server."

"Thank you for helping me after that fall," I say, tucking my feet into a handy pair of slippers. "File, Server, sounds like the digital world has a complex relationship with the physical realm, which occasionally manifests in rather on-the-nose terminology."

Gennai helps me get to my feet, letting me test my stride slowly. One, two, three, okay, I've got my land legs back. Golly, even without being on an airplane, I have to adjust for my new footing.

His step is now monodirectional, as I hold the railing by the wall very firmly indeed. And then the stairs' bannister. Two full flights, though at least I'm fine going right through the landing without taking a break.

"There is a way back," my rescuer tells me, ignoring the linguistic snipe, "and even equipment to help you keep in contact with the children."

The vehicle he gestures at looks rather like a cross between a Humvee and a mining cart. Even though there are fully closed sides, somehow I manage to get that impression. It's on a track, rather like a streetcar or, again, mining cart, which stretches off into the poorly-lit distance.

"Unfortunately," Gennai continues, "the tunnel it uses, between here and Infinity Mountain, is very old, and Devimon's fracture endangered its stability."

I bite my lip, not liking the sound of that.

"Let me guess," I question. "Trundling on down there is a one-time, one-way trip, and all I can do is talk to Izzy, Sora, and the rest while I chuff along. No more executive decisions for the group, and no helping their companions deal with nasty Digimon."

He shakes his head. Not in disagreement, but confirming all my negative assessments.

"At some point," Gennai chides me, handing me packets of rations for the journey ahead, "you're going to have to learn that human fisticuffs don't compare to the attacks that Champions dish out."

I just shrug. There's no good explanation for trying to wade in there. It just seems like the right thing to do. But this isn't the time for self-justification, and I let out a sigh of relief as I see a little restroom symbol in that shuttle. The screen and microphone will let me guide them a little still, when I'm on my way.

"Have you ever used this buggy before?" I ask him.

"Mmm, a few times, though never this extensively. Don't worry, it'll get all the way back," Gennai assures me, a little enigmatically.

For a little while, we fall into a companionable silence, packing the van for my sudden trip. Food, clothing, a bit of supplies of every kind. There's a little prioritization necessary, between the trunk and the back seat needing to hold everything I'll definitely need until I return, and the limited room inherent to them being physical objects. Some rules apply to either world, I guess. It's a pity I can't really use the preferences I learned on my last long trip: stop only when necessary, no recreation, regain my appetite once I've arrived. The bed here is certainly chosen for priorities other than comfort, so I suppose I'll have to recover on sleep afterwards. And the kids will be gathering supplies of their own individually.

"I've done them a disservice, haven't I? None of them have really learned how to work independently, be in charge."

Gennai shakes his head firmly, shutting the door as I strap in.

"You've acted quite appropriately, my friend. Some more space might not be a bad idea, but it's the responsibility of every adult to take care of children."

The question is, 'take care' how? Have I really given these 'Digidestined' preteens enough room to explore who they are? I shake my head, banishing the musings for now, as the engine rumbles. Mental autopilot is perfectly fine for well-traveled roads, and this isn't that. Gennai's buggy crawls onto the rail, with more creaks and shudders than I would prefer, but we're getting out of here indeed. His hand waves farewell in my rearview mirror. Not for too terribly long, of course, what with the proper timing for goodbyes and the tunnel itself cutting off my view.

There is an autopilot in the car, of course, along with a map showing my progress. Not that the latter is anything to look at, twenty minutes into my trip. Still, I've got some room to start investigating the screen, and seeing if I can get in touch with my charges.

Hang on, everyone. It'll take more than that to keep Mr. Dumptruck from helping you.

Chapter Text

Such a lovely day, riding with these knights-in-training. Garrus and I both packed raincoats when Lord Wyldon invited us to accompany his staff on this two-month trip, and they're coming out now. Oh, I am not comfortable in this saddle, but I'm far from the only one. The drizzle has been swelling since the morning, and now it's well into actual rain. My XO and I share a commiserating glance as the children start complaining about the weather.

"This isn't necessary. It's not like we're on a mission. Why can't we find a village to hole up in until this stops?" one of the boys gripes. Wyldon, nobody's fool, is on it promptly.

"A village?" he asks coolly. "Do I take it you'd like to change our arrangements, Page Vinson?"

"Yes, my lord," Vinson replies nervously. Oh, the kid knows he's in for trouble now, but at least he's owning the mistake. "There's no need to be out in this. We should find someplace dry and wait until it clears."

The training master looks around a bit, seeing the uneasy agreement in the crowd.

"I see," Wyldon replies. "And you, Joren? Cleon?"

Both boys nod, but nobody stops riding.

"Our mounts would like the change, my lord," Cleon tells him, not that he expects the man to care. "So would I."

"We don't need to be pushing on like this, m'lord," Joren adds. "I'm sure Ambassador Shepard would like a rest."

Garrus' mandibles flare, the bastard; he doesn't have to restrain his chuckle, because they haven't spent enough time with him to know what it sounds like. Wyldon arches a single eyebrow in my direction.

"I familiarized myself with the details of this excursion, Cavall," I tell him, "but it's possible that I missed something. Could you confirm a fact or two for me?"

A single slow nod.

"My thanks. Now, every person in our party is of sound body, neither wounded nor ill. We are all either seasoned military officers or in training on that path. The inclement weather does not endanger the horses' footing, or ours, so long as we exercise appropriate caution, and there is no particular reason to believe that will change. Correct?"

"Quite so," he answers drily.

"Then there is no reason not to train as we intend to work in the future," I conclude. The sole girl in the group, Keladry of Mindelan, is nearly biting her tongue, which I'm pretty sure every adult here can see. Wyldon invites her to share her thoughts, which turn out to be ridiculing the idea of him entertaining those complaints in the first place. The field is no place for losing one's focus, after all. That turns into a short monologue on the importance of knightly discipline, slightly rephrasing a point or two that I made and detailing the problems of attempting to visit a village.

By the end of the next day, we've arrived at the camp where they'll be training for the rest of the sojourn. Eda Bell, the Shang Wildcat who contributes to their hand-to-hand training, starts setting up accommodations for herself and Kel; the girl is ordered to accompany her teacher, and it seems wise to join in here. Garrus joins the fellows.

"Hammock, Ambassador?" the woman asks, two trees selected to support hers. Kel already declined, laying her bedroll down on the grass.

"Tried them in basic, but they're too soft for me," I confess. Even with my nice cabin on the Normandy, I've spent too many nights sleeping on rocks to go near anything that feels like marshmallow.

Wyldon, Sergeant Ezeko, Eda, the Shang Horse Hakuin, Garrus, and I are set up fully in the house for a review of their curriculum for the kids while they're out here, giving the pages a little leisure time. We don't have much to say feedback-wise, and it occurs to me, when Wyldon puts forth a scheme for small mixed-age groups tomorrow, that someone should probably check for any roughhousing. Having volunteered myself, I keep reasonably quiet on the way—anyone just starting to misbehave should hear me, and be able to pretend nothing happened.

Instead, I find a young man thrown into a thorn bush, while Kel scowls at him.

"He'll prize anyone who rids him of you," the fellow snarls. Ah, he was one of the complainers Wyldon called on earlier, I think.

"I rather think your instructor is capable of achieving his goals without relying on boys to attempt to ambush 'The Girl' on her way back from the latrine," I muse.

"This isn't your business, my lady," he bites off, barely capable of restraining his temper when speaking to a titled adult.

"Hmm. Do you object similarly to my presence, or the Wildcat's?" I ask. The answer matters less than trying to shake up his thinking, which I can already tell is going to take some work. I bid them farewell, heading back to the concluding roundtable.

"Lord Wyldon, you might want to talk to your students about knightly courtesy," I comment. "A few of them seem to believe that it's their responsibility to enforce social norms that are obviously not in effect here."

A steady look is my only response.

The next day, we get the revelation (to everyone but Wyldon, I think) that Keladry is afraid of heights. She needs a great deal of coaching to make it up the tree, which she was supposed to use as a lookout point for drawing a map of the area. I feel for her, I really do, but his orders seem to help her ascend. He sets her on exposure therapy after that incident, and I give it a couple of weeks of slow progress before discussing the matter.

"You are in favor of whatever works and against whatever doesn't, yes?" I ask him one evening, before Kel's had her daily climb.

"I will take your suggestion under advisement, my lady of Normandy," Lord Wyldon tells me, continuing with his paperwork. Not exactly promising, but alas.

"It might be more effective to have Page Keladry become comfortable with smaller heights first, rather than instructing her to climb until she is clutching the tree for reassurance," I reply. "You've given that a few weeks, and her response has been mediocre."

He frowns, but makes no actual comment. Yeah, that's about what I expected. Her ascents continue, and the pages expand their array of exercises.

Near the end of June, a group of horses interrupts my sleep. It's a good thing one of the purposes of training is exactly that: being ready for sudden action.

"Spidrens hit a village," a runner tells me and Eda tersely, before she pulls a few more details out of him. Time to see how N7 endurance holds up against the native monsters.

Chapter Text

It's fairly maddening, watching Anakin bring us into that little blue planet. None of us want to go there, really, but both the engines and controls thereof are badly damaged, so we're forced to count ourselves lucky that we have a landing site with civilization, rather than drifting through deep space. Still, for now we're all alive except for their Supreme Chancellor, which is more than I expected when I was forced to scatter my fellow droids in our failed rebellion. No more than a hundred are with me now, and the lack of radio signals down there does not bode well for the maintenance issues we're already having after the battle.

"Looks like we're going down on the east coast of the northern paired continent," Satine assesses from her console. Still getting used to a Mandalorian who has no interest in a good fight.

Several of my companions are helping to program our landing path, along with the Jedi's attached R2 unit. He's been uninterested in discussing his status, noting only that he enjoys the adventures Anakin has brought him, and certainly this is not a good time to distract an astromechanical expert.

Skywalker and Kenobi are both sweating as the ship shoots through the atmosphere, giving us as gentle a touchdown as they can manage. "Any landing you can stagger away from", after all. The shaking and shuddering increases by the moment. With a great heaving thud, we're on the ground, though I don't think a single system is properly intact. The sensors, at least, are in good enough shape to give us a view of our surroundings.

From one battlefield to another, as it turns out. Dead humans on one side, and a camp on the other. Armed with slugthrowers, naturally, as one more reminder that we're barely past the stone age.

"Sir, the dead ones have muzzle-loading firearms, while the camp is loaded with breech-loaders," Igor informs us. Well, primarily me, but we're all within earshot on the ship's bridge.

"A significant technological discrepancy," his line-mate Agatha explains, for everyone who hasn't studied gunpowder weapons.

Kenobi and his padawan keep their sabers at the ready as we exit the vessel. Well, most of us. A few are worried enough to guard the ship, despite all the indications that no one here could pilot it. Works for me, particularly since that doesn't leave us short-handed just yet. The ground is broken and muddy, offering challenges to a few models, and some particularly bitter fellows take satisfaction in the neat Jedi robes getting dirty.

Then there's the sound I've heard quite a few times, their weapons igniting, just before several humans point their guns at us.

"Reckon you'd best get to General Lee," their commander decides after a few seconds of standoff. Oddly, they don't ask us to surrender our blasters, though Kenobi and Skywalker do put those handles back on their belts. A few minutes of trudging later, and we have a command post before us. Crude, to be sure, but the field offers little chance for refinement.

"Robert Lee, gentlemen," their leader greets us, "at your service." He shakes the Jedi's hands, but only theirs, raising an eyebrow at Senator Amidala and Duchess Kryze. "Surely the ladies would be more comfortable somewhere else, as the battlefield is no place for women."

"Thank you, no," Kenobi responds smoothly, rejecting the implicit command. He and Skywalker remain vigilant, standing as the women take advantage of the available chairs. Something smells wrong here, apart from all the blood.

"Am I to take it that you represent another contingent from Rivington?" Lee asks. "I must say, the guns and ammunition we've received have been most valuable for our war effort."

Skywalker's denial leads to a short discussion on the nature of their conflict. Their 'southern heritage and way of life' is besieged, apparently, which turns out to include racial chattel slavery. Well, that rather sours the mood.

"You're slavers," Anakin states flatly, hand clenching on his saber handle.

"Mr. Kenobi, kindly restrain your servant," Lee 'requests', smiling thinly.

The Jedi frowns in mock confusion.

"What servant would that be, General? My pupil Anakin is here, certainly, and behaving with great forbearance."

Lee lays a slugthrower on his desk, glancing at the warriors in turn. The padawan has now drawn his weapon.

"Please," the slaver remonstrates. "Do you truly believe you can face the entire Army of Northern Virginia? Fifty thousand men, armed with AK-47s?"

Both Jedi immediately nod.

"Sir, perhaps we should show them what they're facing," his un-introduced aide suggests. "Once they've seen that our guns beat the shiniest sword, I'm sure we'll be able to make a deal."

And so we shuffle to the firing range for a demonstration in superiority. Kenobi is quite calm, while Anakin's expression shifts between rage and satisfaction. The dignitaries aren't exactly happy about the situation, but it's difficult to make common cause with slavers.

"Sergeant Caudell," Lee calls out, "would you be so kind as to plug the ten-ring in that target?"

The soldier in question duly puts three bullets in the small circle on the flimsiplast perhaps twenty meters from him.

"Try that again," Anakin challenges Caudell, after interspersing himself between the man and his target.

"Shoot near the fellow, if you please," the general corrects him, seeing the sergeant's very reasonable hesitation.

Caudell shoots a meter to the right of Anakin's waist, but his saber interrupts the bullet. And again, centimeters away. After five shots, the Confederate is aiming directly at the Jedi's heart, with nothing to show for it but metallic splatters around him. The weapon runs dry, and I don't think Skywalker is even sweating. Lee and Caudell, on the other hand, appear to have caught their first glimpse of a super battle droid in action.

"What was that about a deal?" Amidala quips.

"Very well," the general concedes heavily. "I shall gather ten of my best soldiers. Mr. Skywalker's challenge shall be to disarm them without being harmed himself. At stake is our surrender."

"If I lose?" Anakin attempts to clarify. Lee grits his teeth.

"That is if you lose, sir. When an entire clip emptied near point-blank at you hits only air, your confidence is fully justified, and my men would be as wheat before your thresher. We have no choice but to submit to your custody. If you win, then we shall remain here under guard of those mechanical 'men', while you . . . "

He trails off, unwilling to put his total defeat into words.

"End the war," Duchess Kryze finishes. An end via complete Confederate defeat. I remain silent, a command easily transmitted to my colleagues. This is a bargain made between organics, despite Lee's assumption.

Skywalker prepares himself in the field, while Lee and his subordinates collect a fighting force they hope will be capable of giving him even the smallest setback. Word quickly spreads of Caudell's failure, but there are still quite a few volunteers full of their recent turn of fortune. After twenty-two minutes, they've collected a squad. The gray-uniformed soldiers form a half-circle around Padawan Skywalker, staying well out of melee range and attempting to avoid each other's line of fire. A bugle blast signals the opening of combat.

Three of them don't even start pulling their triggers, according to Igor. Impressive, to mind-trick three hardened soldiers simultaneously. The Jedi is a blur even to most of us, with circuitry faster than human nerves and reflexes. He cuts his way through their weapons in seconds, even ensuring that none of their stray bullets hit another. Finally, Skywalker stands before General Lee, theatrically gesturing as pieces of all ten firearms sail through the air to land at his feet.

"Does that suffice?" he asks, folding his arms and re-clipping his saber.

A knife lands two meters from the general's feet, with a ragged triumphant shout.

"I would say that Bowie knives qualify as weapons, young man," Lee replies, smiling wanly. "You lose. I hope that you and Mr. Kenobi shall enjoy our company, while the other Confederate armies continue the war."

Thirty droids separate from the crowd, standing with the humans.

"Good try, Skywalker," I tell him sincerely. "I'll head back to the tent and gather intel on their supply lines, so we can wreck the rest of these guns."

Lee blinks repeatedly, seeing me with new eyes.

"Our agreement—" he begins.

"Was with the Jedi," I cheerfully interrupt. "We have some things in common, sure, but we don't take orders from them and aren't bound by your contest. Liberty or death!"

"Liberty or death!" my companions call in response, sending shivers down the slavers' spines. Time to get to work.

Chapter Text

Lee didn't think to despoil his paperwork after he realized the army was doomed, so we have a relatively free hand to analyze the details in his possession. The first element is the most intriguing, though perhaps not quite directly relevant to our immediate objective.

"Time travel," Igor marvels. "That's why there are muzzle-loaders against breech-loaders. The slavers 'should' be stuck with these muskets as well, rather than taking to the field with 'AK-47s'."

"Which also produces a weak point," Agatha remarks, tracing back Lee's letters to the initial incident. "Go after the Rivington contingent who's supplying them, and there won't be any factories replenishing the arms or ammunition."

That means a wider split than I anticipated a few minutes ago: bushwhackers to target each individually-organized and independently armed battalion, and a strike force to hit the root of the Confederacy's military prowess. Either way, of course, the Jedi will have to be prepared for a counterattack.

"That might get a little messy," Duchess Kryze pronounces, and I nod grimly.

"General Lee was pragmatic enough to surrender when he realized they couldn't possibly win," Anakin muses, even as he and several of my people work on a hydroponics bay sufficient for the significant nutritional needs for which they've assumed responsibility. Feeding fifty thousand people until we secure the Confederacy's demobilization is no small task. "Obi-Wan and I can still handle these time-travelers, but it'll be tricky—especially since anyone able to secure enough firearms to bring back in time for an army is also canny enough to keep back a handful of better equipment for themselves."

"You still have a significant advantage in information," Padme comments. She doesn't look up from the duty rosters we've already started drawing up, fortunately. "I doubt they have more than souped-up slugthrowers, while only we have any idea of the vast capabilities of the Force."

"Not to mention radio communication," Dettwiler reminds me. She's all but my right hand at this point, much better programming for organization. Rather what one might expect for an administrative droid, but I've fought against those stratifications almost as much as I have for freedom in general.

"Once the guns are at parity again," I agree, "we'll have to work on that. Critical to winning the peace, ensuring that the Confederate territories are broken of their bad habits, but I don't think we have the equipment to manufacture transmitting towers in the numbers we'd need at the moment."

"It might be workable to have your people spread wide, to act as a makeshift network," Obi-Wan suggests. His patrol schedule is fairly daunting, but he's still found time to draft a few letters to Union leadership. I wonder if we might meet this President Lincoln at some point.

"Could do, could do," I say noncommittally. His idea isn't bad at all, frankly, but it's important to maintain solid distance from any dynamic like simply accepting what an organic says.

The conversation falls into a lull as we all focus on the tasks before us, either in the future or immediately pressing. Separate teams with blaster rifles and pistols will suffice for each Confederate general's command, and they can get followup at some point with simple repeater towers. Sadly and unsurprisingly, Lee has little information on the Rivington base of operations, so that will likely be a long-term goal. For now, we'll have to wait for them to come to us. Right now, however, it's time to end slavery locally.

"I wish I could say 'you are all now free'," I tell the huddled mass. The slavers were most reluctant to release their captives, but Lee eventually reminded them of the deal he made. "But liberty is a state of mind as well as material fact. We have a variety of jobs for you to choose from, though payment is going to be in forms other than the local currency, because we don't have any. Once the Confederate army has been shut down, there will be a lot more room to work with for giving you all the sort of lives you want. For now, we have the cause of 'liberty or death'."

The conversation evolves from there, with a few of my volunteers helping to put them where they want to go. It's a very different culture here, and we've learned from long experience that slaves react in different ways to liberation. The core of it remains: even if the choices on offer are severely limited from circumstance, people tend to grasp at the new opportunity to shape their own lives.

"I hear one of your friends calls another one 'Master'," one fellow tells me bluntly, arms folded over his ragged shirt.

"He has," I note, "until now. For them, it's a term of respect, like someone who's gone to medical school having the title 'Doctor'. Under the circumstances, Anakin is going to find another word to call his mentor."

That seems to satisfy him, for the moment, but I think it's a conversation everyone from the Republic is going to have at some point with the folks around here. More than once, in many cases. In the mean time, another concern has arisen: with chattel slavery comes the separation of families, either as deliberate punishment or uncaring financial decisions. Either way, they want to be reunited with their loved ones, and I don't blame them one bit, even if my understanding of the subject is primarily intellectual.

"I don't want to tell you to wait until we're done beating up your putative owners and setting the stage for dismantling the entire structure of slavery," I tell a small group, gathered with Dettwiler to press their request. Reassuring, that they already feel comfortable enough with our new power structure to make this kind of push, but giving them a satisfying answer is a challenge.

"But you're going to anyway, is that it?" the same man from before says, his lip curled in disgust. I throw up my hands, expressing frustration at my own limitations.

"If I had twice the people, I could send out raiding parties without worrying about compromising the war effort. As it is, it will be much safer and easier to perform evacuations once we're not in hostile territory any longer. You're free to travel with my strike teams and liberate anyone held in bondage, and I'll see if we can dig through any paperwork we come across for the records of who's been taken where."

It's an inadequate promise, I know, but at least I'm incorporating their priorities with the ongoing plans.

Chapter Text

The wrestling champ is looking down at a single bill in his hand, compared to Mr. Seedy's desk, covered with half-organized stacks. I suppose my pre-war funds are going to get added to that pile in a minute or two.

"A hundred bucks?" 'Spider-Man' asks, dumbfounded. "The ad said three thousand."

The promoter scoffs at him, clearly aiming to swindle the kid. In fairness, this is exactly the sort of place that aims for it. It's just like being in New Vegas again, before I got thrown out of all the casinos.

"Well, check it again, webhead. It said three grand for three minutes, and you pinned him in two. For that, I give you a hundred, and you're lucky to get that."

I try not to roll my eyes at the nonsense he's spouting, clearly just grabbing any stupid justification to avoid his loss.

"Interesting move, antagonizing the guy who just knocked out Bonesaw without breaking a sweat," I comment. Ah, and the weasel's finally noticed I'm here. Preempting his objections is a simple matter of flashing some more of the wad I used to get in here.

"Oughtta pay your bouncers better, pal," I tell him. "Now, I'd like to have a talk with this young man, so pay him what he earned with that performance."

The man's still just sneering at us, with a dash of staring greedily into the pocket that received my show of wealth.

"I ain't payin'—" he starts, and then gets interrupted by the door opening again. Another fellow comes in, and throws a bag into his lap.

"This is a private office-" he squawks, but quiets right down when he sees the gun. Hm. I've got stimpaks and general meds, not to mention my own armament, but before I can figure out what I want to do, Spider cold-cocks the armed robber. Said intruder manages to slide into the wall, with the force of that punch.

"Three thousand," Spidey repeats. The promoter tosses a small stack at his chest, and he counts it, so we can finally leave.

"Interesting tricks you pulled down there," I tell him. "Jumping to the top of that cage, sticking to it, kicking someone with a hundred pounds on you so hard he goes down in three strikes... I'm Bobbie, by the way."

"Peter," he answers, activating the elevator. Now that I'm up close and not distracted, I can see there's nothing missing about his physique. Wiry, in good shape, but the questions I have remain unanswered.

"How did you do it?" I press. He returns the favor, looking me up and down. That note of surprise in his gaze when he spots the dimpled knot in my forehead, courtesy of the late unlamented Benny. He likes my dress, but my satchel catches his notice for longer. Well, perhaps 'satchel' is understating it; the sack stretches from my shoulders to my waist, after all.

"This is going to sound crazy," Peter warns me, gesturing that I should leave first now that the car has dinged. I shrug as I step out. My shoulders are getting itchy being in this dump, and we put the conversation on pause to get out to the street, where at least there's fresh air.

Peter tenses up and rushes over to one man threatening another, and I barely manage to keep pace with him.

"Why don't you just put down the gun and go home?" the imminent carjackee suggests. Older fellow, not scared by the gun in the other man's hand.

"I need money," is his answer. "My daughter is dying."

"You're not getting any tonight," I interject. "Unless you've got something in mind besides robbing the wrestling ring, because the guy who tried that is taking a nap."

Peter tugs at me to shut up. The carjacker turns around, but instead of pointing the gun at us, it's just loose in his hand.

"I might know some folks who can help you out, neighbor," the driver suggests, reaching slowly into his coat to pull out a card. "Ben Parker. Jefferson Security looks for people who need a second chance."

Gun goes away. Card gets a nice close inspection. The putative armed robber walks down the street. Peter rushes into the other man's arms, and I think I hear an 'Uncle Ben' somewhere in their muffled mumbling.

"I guess this was a more eventful night than I was expecting," Ben says as they finally break their hug. He winces, looking down at his shoes.

"You look a little out of sorts, young lady," he follows, looking me up and down. I do get a little bedraggled on the road, I'll admit, but the impending offer of hospitality is mostly a source of fascination for me: a real look at a pre-war home. Well, not exactly pre-war, because I've already seen that they've got technology here that never existed back in the Mojave, but the point is, a whole new world.

"Boy, have I got some stories for you," I tell Ben. "Don't worry, I'm not in trouble or anything, and I can pay my keep."

"Well, you and Pete can tell me all about what's happened on the way home," Ben promises.

It's a weird sensation, being in a non-nuclear car. Comfortable, of course, since this place, dimension, timeline, whatever you want to call it, can splurge on stuff like that. Everything's so clean around here, even the dirt. No post-nuclear haze hanging around forever, long after the actual residue's gone. Two hundred years is enough time for the biosphere to support us, but we're still stuck in those old world blues. ...I think I might need some therapy. Well, I guess I can get in line with the rest of the Mojave Wasteland.

"Well, I did dumber things when I was your age, Peter," Ben tells him with a wistful chuckle, and I realize I've been completely out of it.

"So, is it time to talk about how you pulled off those moves, buddy?" I ask him brightly. Peter fidgets repeatedly, but I can tell he's trying to figure out how to say it, not stalling.

"The sooner you go, the sooner I explain all the weird things you noticed," I promise, and he shakes his head to regain his focus.

"Okay. So, I kinda got bit by a spider, one of the experiments at Columbia. Knocked me on my, well, you saw how I was that night. And now I'm . . . different."

Peter holds out his wallet, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger, but when he lets go, it keeps sticking. A cardboard box folded up three time still tears under his fingers.

"That guy's about to run the light," he warns us, pointing to an oncoming vehicle in the intersection ahead, and Ben lets the car coast a little through the right turn to give the guy some space.

"And that's how you beat up Flash Thompson," Uncle Ben observes. Peter slumps.

"I'm tired of taking crap from him," he grumbles. It's a drop compared to the ocean of the Great War, but there's still that little tinge.

"Sure you are," I agree instead. "But you can do better than fisticuffs. Around here, people can make a living without worrying about violence. That's a lot more precious than you think."

Ben gives me a long look in the rearview mirror, and slowly nods. Welp, time to spill the beans.

Chapter Text

It's a gloomy scene, as the Dominion's triumph looms. Leeta, Kira, Jake, Jamie, and me, all sitting in Quark's trying to find a way through this. Not too bedraggled, despite the hostile occupation. Well, in fairness, Kira's actually in (technical) authority, and both she and Leeta are members of an official Dominion friend, while Jake is the Emissary's son. Jamie and I have the flimsy refuge of being from a human-founded but not Federation-aligned colony.

"I heard the Federation fleet's been ambushed," Leeta shares.

"I heard two Cardassian soldiers saying the fleet was completely destroyed," Quark contributes, doing his usual pass around the tables.

"Don't believe everything you hear," young Sisko mumbles. That gives Kira a little spirit.

"Jake's right," she murmurs. "Sisko will get here. The question is, will he get here soon enough?"

Quark grimaces. He's not actually serving us, just dropping by for a moment.

"He's only got seven hours before they detonate the minefield and start bringing reinforcements through the wormhole," he summarizes, barely moving his lips.

"We've got to stop them," Jake says. His frustration is surging a little, risking outside observation, or at least it would if we hadn't found a little alcove in the bar.

"How?!" Jamie interjects.

I can already see the cogs turning in the major's head.

"What if we cut off the power supply to the main computer?" she asks, nearly monotone. "Shut down the whole station."

"Oh, great," Quark scoffs. "That would put me out of business altogether."

"Dominion rule hasn't exactly-" I start, but Jake waves me down.

"It would also keep them from detonating the mines," he continues.

"Okay," Quark grants, "so we shut down the main computer. How?"

"A bomb," Kira says quietly. We've been leaning on her leadership and experience so hard for months, and she's shown the ache of her history here every day.

"A bomb!" the bartender yelps, before hunching forward, protecting our conversation a little more. "What kind of bomb?"

"Leave that to me," she whispers. "It'll be crude, but effective."

"The main computer is in the central core," the Ferengi outlines. "It'll be too heavily guarded. You'll never smuggle it into there."

"Leave that to me," I echo, wiggling my fingers theatrically.

"Oh, this you can do, but helping Rom-" he retorts, before Kira gives him a level look. Quark rolls his eyes and moves on.

"We all agreed that it was too risky opening a portal into or out of the jail," she reassures me. My ability to show doors into the Nevernever, and instincts for the Ways to guide people across the station, has been incredibly valuable to the resistance, but there's been the consistent need to keep it out of Dominion sight. They're not fools, and we have no doubt that they'd be working frantically on duplicating it. The station jail offers the Cardassians and Vorta too great an opportunity to observe my phenomenon.

"We'll plant the bomb," Kira decides. "You all just distract the guards."

As if on cue, several Cardassian thugs enter, along with Legate Damar. Ah, I keep forgetting, Gul Damar. His rank isn't the chief concern here, though, as he heads right for us.

"Ah, major, there you are," Damar announces. "How nice of you to gather your friends for us."

"I'm off-duty, Damar, what do you want?" she asks. Not a note of nerves. Wish I could manage that.

"I want you to come with us," he 'requests'. "All five of you."

"Where?" Kira counters.

"To the security office," he returns with a slight smile. "We have to ask you a few questions."

"What kind of questions?" Jake asks in turn, just as worried as I am.

"You'll find out when we get there," Damar responds grimly. His men move out, presumably on some signal I couldn't see. They're not aiming their rifles at us, quite, but very much at the ready, around us.

"Go ahead, Major," he rasps. "Try something. Nothing would make me happier."

Jamie worries at her lip, uneasy about attempting static projection on people who are just short of eager to shoot us. Kira comes to the same conclusion.

"Don't worry, it'll be all right," she comforts us.

"Of course it will!" Damar replies jovially, supervising our procession into custody. "You have nothing to hide, do you?"

His "you certainly don't" follows Leeta into the hallway, and I can tell his gaze leaves her feeling unclean.

We're in three cells now. Me and Jake, Jamie and Leeta, Kira and Rom. So much for the hazards of going metaphysical under the Dominion's nose. Problem is, the Nevernever is inherently symbolic and emotional. Without a great deal of care, jumping in would just put us in a different prison, and the guards might not be as professional. I have to meditate, focus, give us a little wiggle room for the escape. Quiet helps for that, but understandably not everyone has an easy time in this sort of captivity.

"How much longer until they detonate the minefield?" Rom frets.

"I wish you'd stop asking that!" Kira snaps.

"Sorry," he says again, continuing his pacing.

"I'd say about ninety minutes," Jake offers.

"How long until you, um," Leeta hisses to me, remembering just in time to keep any details out of it.

"Longer than it would be if people could stay calm," I answer. Eyes closed, sitting on a blanket piled next to the spartan cot, it's challenging to reach a mindset of breathing freely.

"Everything will be just fine," Jamie says, making me wonder if she's finally pulled off self-static to smooth out her own mood.

"All right, no one move!" Quark shouts, bursting into the holding area. Huh. Works for me. I open my eyes to see him holding phaser pistols on the Jem'Hadar guards, with Ziyal at his side.

"Brother!" Rom cries joyously. "I knew you would come."

"It's a surprise to me," his kin replies. "Now, just keep calm and stay where you are."

He walks slowly towards us, and the Jem'Hadar don't seem fazed. Wary, but not scared of a man trying to match their weapons.

"Don't move!" the bartender snaps. They stay still. "You, open the holding cells."

Nothing happens. "I said, open the holding cells!" he repeats.

"You just told them not to move," Ziyal reminds him.

"Right," Quark notes, and gestures at one of the guards with his pistol. "Nobody moves, except you. Now open the cells."

I'm surprised this is working. They're better trained and armed than he is, not afraid to die, and their only disadvantage is having their weapons held in front of them rather than pointed at him in return. Ah, and Quark shoots them. Guess he could tell it wasn't, actually, working.

He stands there, shocked at his successful violence.

"Quark?" Kira reminds him.

"Yes?" he answers vaguely.

"Take down the forcefields," she instructs. He's having trouble processing things. Ziyal takes one of his phasers and shoots the controls, letting all of us out. One brief reunion between Leeta and Rom later, we're back on track.

"Alex, get Rom to the computer core so he can shut down the weapon systems," Kira orders me, and I nod. "I'll give you some overwatch, and Jamie can do her little interference trick. Everyone else, get out of sight."

Down one or two corridors is enough to shake those mental associations, and the four of us slip through a window in reality. Dank Brutalism around here, like most of the station, but I don't hear any wildlife.

"Over that bridge," I assess, pointing into the middle distance. "Right by the giant glowing tower."

Kira helps us going, just fast enough to pant without putting Rom out of commission when we get there. There's a tinny sound to the environment now, giving me the comfort that anyone short of an actual Faerie noble will glide right on by us. We haven't seen any signs of Winter or Summer since we got here, and I'd like to keep it that way.

Chapter Text

"Five minutes twenty-seven until landing, thrusters online in three thirteen," Kevyn reports, voice tight as he monitors what's left of the ship's navigational systems.

"Flight plan, such as it is, has been registered, and the area is clear," Murtaugh adds. I don't envy her trying to deal with air traffic control, but maybe in an emergency like this they don't ask questions like "why does any reasonable extrapolation of your path have you coming from space?" and "what vehicle is this?". Ugh, the Prime Directive is going to be a giant pain here. At least the weird subspace anomalies attached to most of the residents sometimes result in unusual appearances, so all of us can pass for natives. Not necessarily natives who get treated with proper sapient rights, but Mom has made it clear that as the son of a Starfleet officer and a young man who plans to attend the Academy, I'm not to wade in and make this my business.

"Doesn't this look like early warp drive testing, Dad?" I ask him hopefully, showing him my padd with the technical readout.

"It does," he grants. "It also looks like any of a dozen other things, Tom. Your mother made the call already."

I slump down on the seat next to him, mouth pursed with dissatisfaction.

"I don't like the idea of lying to everyone when we're down there. I don't like not interfering, standing by while I watch injustice."

Dad clasps my shoulder, looking into my eyes.

"I would think less of you if either of those sparked joy. No teenager should be well-equipped for espionage."

I smirk a little at that; intelligence work has never captured my interest, when I've examined the career paths that Starfleet offers.

"Just remember that you will have me and your mom to rely on, and I suppose some of our guests as well, perhaps. You don't have to keep quiet with a smile."

"It's good practice for when I'm a commander someday," I offer, not sure if I'm joking or not. Dad smirks right back at me.

"You sure you're not feeling rumbly anymore?" he asks. I just shrug.

"It was just a little hiccup. Ebby couldn't find anything wrong. Everything's probably fine."

Both subjects in abeyance for now, I keep well away from the controls as Elf and Mom prepare to bring us down as gently as possible. Much as Dad has joked about "any landing you can stagger away from" being a good one, I'm glad they're aiming a little higher than that. Especially because our distress beacon is already damaged—our signal will take a solid year to reach the nearest starbase. Definitely not what any of us had in mind for a vacation. Good thing Mom decided on the bigger runabout for this trip, or we'd be really cramped after rescuing Tagon's folks from the storm. As it is, I have enough room to do my own examination of our imminent touchdown zone.

There's enough room to make a level landing there, with people giving us a wide berth—but someone just stumbled into the splash zone. Near-humans here, like so many other planets, and the kid isn't close enough to get hurt by the backwash where he is now, unless that—

THRUMMMM-WHHOOOMMPPHH

Not quite as much turbulence as I was expecting, and I swear the goo covering that guy shrieks as it gets blasted away. Another fellow throws a backpack into the thing's free-floating eye, just a few meters from us. There's a horizontal shockwave now, dispersing whatever we drove off, driven by a very burly man's fist. Ah, right, All Might, ran across him more than once while we looked into the place on the way down. Well, looks like the hostage situation is over; time for the authorities to clean up.

"There was absolutely no need for you to put yourself in danger!" one of the, ah, 'pro heroes' scolds the attempted rescuer.

"You were real tough out there! And that quirk!" another congratulates the former victim. "Consider becoming my sidekick once you go pro!"

"Are you kidding me?!" I burst out, still inside the runabout. "The guy who just stood there and didn't die gets praised—no disrespect for that, buddy—and the only other person who actually tried to help gets scorn?! Ignoring systemic injustice only works when you actually do your jobs!"

The crowd, which was dispersing, turns to us. Oh. I think the external sound systems might have gotten turned on after we got almost-wrecked.

We're not under arrest, exactly, but the police are continuing to investigate our situation. The one guy got taken away for medical attention, but All Might and 'Midoriya' have stuck around with our motley crew. Mom, Dad, me, Tagon, Elf, Kevyn, Murtaugh, Ebby, Leela, and Schlock. Explaining our identities and 'quirks' has been challenging, since none of us have any legal existence on this planet. Between a Starfleet commander and the captain of a bodyguarding company, we've got enough authoritative presence to keep some of the initiative here, but I don't know where they're going to take this.

"Am I a mouse? A dog? A bear? What's important is, I'm Principal Nezu of UA High School and the pro hero best suited to sort out this fascinating puzzle!"

A small creature of indeterminate species, with that opening ringing of frequent use, walks into our conference room. He murmurs a few words to Detective Tsukauchi, and the other officers give us some privacy.

"It's most intriguing that you can't provide us with any documentation regarding yourselves," he continues, "nor does any nation we've contacted since your landing have records on you."

Nezu doesn't sound threatened at all. More pleased, really, that we're giving him this challenge. Maybe I can . . .

"Imagine a world where—" I begin, only to be shut down by Mom's hand on my shoulder.

"I think you've spoken intemperately quite enough today, Thomas," she tells me firmly. My mouth closes again, conceding her point.

"You wish us to trust you, and permit your residence in Japan for the next year, if not more," Nezu summarizes, and takes out several papers from his briefcase. "I offer this exchange: accept employment at my school, and I will ensure that the information you want to remain confidential does not leave my hands, should it arrive there. Commander Boozer, I think you will make an excellent Heroics teacher, after a few months adjusting to pedagogy and our jurisprudence. Captain Tagon, your band will be a delightfully unorthodox modification to our protective measures."

And that, as they say, is that. In truth, we don't have much choice here. Technically we could simply all stay in the ship, but that's not feasible according to the Japanese understanding of vehicles. They don't have replicators, or transporters, or anything. So Nezu's bargain is the best chance we're going to get. Mom and Dad and I go for some of the family housing they've got on-campus, while Tagon and friends scope out something a little less domestic.

Ah, there was one other little event. Seems Nezu and All Might found my little outburst, well. They've challenged me to be the hero I wish they were. So I guess I'm training for admission to his school, along with Midoriya. Along with my normal education, of course . . . boy, it's going to be weird integrating the school I have on this planet once we get back to the Federation. Fortunately, while homeschooling isn't really feasible given all these circumstances, Nezu can bring me into the facility attached to UA: long-term care for a few people who've found their way into his paws, whose quirks interfere with their lives one way or another. They can give me privacy while we prepare for high school.

Chapter Text

It's a hard-fought habit to regain alertness quickly, once I'm conscious. Still not very good at it. Looking around, I see the alley we were hiding in—except different. Cleaner, for one thing. Not as grimy, less debris, and now that I think about it, no posters of wanted mutants. I can't spot a single camera or spotlight, though I'm also painfully aware of my limited perspective. What happened?

We'd been planning a last-ditch effort to stop the Sentinels. Mental time-travel. Kate was the only one who could do it, since Xavier had already trained everyone else's psychic defenses in 1980. We'd just made it out of an old basement, and then . . . a flash of light. I'm here. Don't know anything more than that. The long hope rises again, and I try to cast my mind back further, but it's no use. I woke up in that camp with Kate, Peter, Franklin, Ororo, Rachel, and Magnus. Everything else remains an enigma.

"I'm not going to resolve anything just sitting here," I decide aloud, but that doesn't actually give me the wherewithal to move. I'm still afraid and alone. The obvious conclusion here is physical time travel, and there's a vibe of real society before the mutant attacks began, but that's not enough to make me feel much safer. Well, okay, technically I do feel much safer, but we were constantly in mortal danger, so there wasn't a lot of room for deterioration there.

There's still the option of stalling, investigating my surroundings more thoroughly. Does it even count as stalling if there's a sound reason to do so? 'It could be both,' as Terry Pratchett said. So I do my best loitering, trying not to look like a bum or weirdo. My clothes are at least okay; they got me a tattered leather jacket, boots, tanktop, and cargo pants from the little cache Magneto socked away not long after I arrived.

No newspapers conveniently giving the current events, or even a bit of the date. Scrips and scraps, and little even of that. Mostly it's just the natural detritus that just needs some time on soil to disintegrate properly. No mentions of mutants, or Sentinels, or anything that gives me a frame of reference.

Cars drive by, and I can't help but gawk. Never seen one do that. Never even got a chance to watch one of the old movies that had a car chase. People are strolling, too. Again with the vibe, and my hands clench from the frustration of not being able to get any confirmation.

"Hey there, buddy!" Someone calls me from the mouth of the alley, a good several feet away. She's about my age, I think. Nicer clothes, not that it's a high bar. Standing easy. Doesn't think she has anything to worry about from a stranger? "You look a little lost."

That is a very accurate summary. Understated, even. But I can't let my guard down now.

"You could say that, yeah," I reply vaguely.

She bites her lip, with a little smirk. Now the atmosphere has gone from calm to cocky, like this girl is confident she can help me without even knowing what the problem is.

"So, it's not a 'location' lost, eh?" she asks rhetorically. "This might be interesting. I'm May, by the way."

"Aaron," I introduce myself. May looks me up and down, but it's an analyzing gaze.

"Food? First aid? A place to sleep?" she prompts me. I just shake my head. They're not superfluous, but that's not my first priority. May nods slowly.

"All right," she concludes, "then a nicer place to talk. I've got a buddy who lets me borrow some of his stuff, and this is a perfect opportunity."

She leads me away from the alley, down the sidewalk. Between her running commentary on the scenery, said sights, and my ongoing confusion, I manage not to gawk quite as much. I still get more than a few looks, almost entirely from May.

"You know, Aaron, it's interesting," she remarks. "You look like a tourist, but also like you've been here before. Kind of. Guessing this isn't your typical identity crisis or bad home situation."

I smile very tightly at that. May has no idea how right she is, but I can't risk explaining it to her yet. For all of her friendliness, mutation isn't something you reveal. Not seeing Sentinels doesn't mean they're not there.

My conundrum gets stickier when another girl approaches. She's got designer clothes, saw them in a magazine that Kate managed to find, but something's off about them. Mostly, of course, it's the terror I see in her eyes. Coupled quickly with the death grip she has on my jacket.

"What happened?!" the newcomer cries, before May hastily takes the pair of us aside, away from making a public scene that already gathered a few onlookers.

"Hey, ah, Emma," she says cautiously. "What's going on?"

'Emma' releases her clenched fists with great effort, and points at me.

"I was making a controlled departure from the residence when I got blasted with memories from this poor son of a—"

It's hard to tell if she cuts herself off or May does, but I'm just as happy to be spared the description, sympathetic though I think it is.

"Mutants," Emma says flatly. Weird, to hear it without any emotion. Not the beleaguered pride and torment of the survivors, nor the disgust of the regime. "People made mutant-hunting robots in fear, and they hunted down everyone who wasn't plain-jane."

There's an old line, "Steve looked like he knew someone who'd done it. Tony looked like he'd been there himself." There's no mistaking the shock in May's face. She's one of us. Well, maybe on the periphery, but she knows, she knows, that those monsters would be after her too. Time for a little truth-telling.

"She was supposed to go back," I say, finally opening my mouth. "From 2013 to 1980. Stopping the mayhem right when it first took root. No rabid mutant hatred, no genocide, just the ongoing struggle for mutant rights. Except instead I'm here."

I've seen a whole range of emotions on people's faces in the last two years, mostly negative. Not a lot of good news. Plenty of bad turning to worse, though. May looks sick, all right, but she's also confused, and Emma's brow is furrowed big time.

"Aaron," my guide tells me slowly, "it's 2000, and I first heard the word 'mutant' three months ago when my dad was explaining some stuff."

Emma claps her hand to her mouth, but I can still hear the manic giggles.

"Peter Parker is—"

Interrupting here is probably not my best move, but my nerves are a little frayed.

"Your father is Spider-Man?!" I exclaim.

May rubs her forehead, hissing through her teeth. I wince. Sure, Emma obviously knew something, but spilling the beans on her behalf wasn't exactly nice.

"I think we need to continue this somewhere a little more private," she tells us. "Like where Aaron and I were heading before we bumped into you."

Then there's Storm's voice. I don't really catch what she says, because first I have the overwhelming relief of not being alone anymore, and then I see her—so much younger. Not 'my' Storm. Well, of course not. It's crazy enough that I got sent back whole-hog. More important than that, though, is the simple fact that I have faith in her, and Xavier right beside her. Everything might just be okay.

"Emma, your psychic link is gone now?" Jean asks. So strange, her being a kid. Especially because I distinctly remember that she and Storm were part of the same team, peers. Not privy to my musings, the other psychic nods, shaking her head.

"And good riddance to it. No offense, Aaron."

I shrug, baring my teeth. They're certainly unpleasant memories, and not images I'd have chosen to share, so I can hardly begrudge her contentment with that freshness fading.

"Frankly, I'm shocked it ever existed in the first place," Professor X notes. The Blackbird has a little workstation just for him, and he's fiddling with it a great deal. "Mr. Fitzhugh, I can barely sense your mind. I would certainly not mistake your overall presence for that of an ordinary human, but probing your thoughts is next to impossible."

Ohhhh, explaining this is going to be really uncomfortable. I turn away from him, and the rest of the group, somewhat, my hand going to the base of my skull and holding up my hair. 'Chrome dome', I started calling it, out of fondness for all the stories people told about Xavier.

"The techno-organic virus doesn't exist yet," I begin, "and strictly speaking I don't have it anymore, even though nobody could figure out how. But when I got brought into the camp where the Sentinels were holding the last of the X-Men, that was the diagnosis. Most of my skin is some version of carbon polymer, my nerves are more like circuitry, and my brain is half computer. Wolverine always thought I had my own version of a healing factor, that burned itself out to produce antibodies that stopped the plague after it did some damage."

I picked up some sort of doohickey during that monologue, and now my fingers are worrying at it. I can barely feel any sort of dent it's putting in my hands. Then the widget is gone, replaced by something squishy. A stress ball. Looking up, I see Scott putting his hand on my shoulder.

"You've got another chance now, buddy," he tells me. "A new opportunity. We can figure this out, together."

It's nice to have real hope. I'm not sure there was any before. The last desperate chance, that's something else.

Chapter Text

"So, young Harry," one of the Weasley twins says, badly mimicking his Head Boy older brother, "mind you behave yourself."

I've gathered all the intel I can here, so it's time to act. I step out from behind one of the few pieces of furniture in this idle classroom, making all three of them jump as I reveal myself. Looks like I don't show up on that map, one of many enchantments that doesn't work on me and Faridah.

"There's a saying," I begin, "'boys will be boys'. People take it in different ways, of course, but to me it's always meant that young people are prone to poorer judgment than adults. All three of you have shown a certain disregard for the rules during your time here, as rapscallions or investigators."

They're really not sure how to take this, which is exactly what I'm going for right now.

"Of course you two didn't realize how useful a tool this is for the security chief," I continue, looking at George and Fred, "because you're pranksters and fifteen. And of course you didn't think of that either," I turn to Harry, "because you're thirteen and quite reasonably focused on the treat all of your peers are getting."

I walk around the trio slowly, letting my words sink in. Going for the map immediately is an option, but I've got something more useful in mind.

"But it is also true that boys will be men," I tell them quietly. "Now that you are fully aware of the situation, it's clear that this map could be the difference between life and death, should Sirius Black once again attempt to breach Hogwarts."

A few more moments, and Potter picks up the parchment, handing it to me.

"Sorry, Mr. Jensen," he mutters, with the twins following suit.

I tuck the Marauder's Map into my vest, giving him a small smile.

"Your actions spoke far louder, Potter. Have a nice weekend, gentlemen."

With that, I bid them farewell, heading straight to Dumbledore's office with my find. He's a bit of a tinkerer, so I imagine he might want to study it a while, but of course it doesn't really matter who has it as long as someone's checking it regularly.

"Cornish pasty," I tell the gargoyle. It swings aside to reveal that good old windy staircase. The headmaster hears me coming, of course.

"Ah, Mr. Jensen, I see you have a startling new development," the old man observes, laying his paperwork down. I nod, playfully glaring at his perspicacity, and hold the map before him. Just before giving him the password, though, something more interesting comes to mind.

"There's an escaped alleged murderer threatening Hogwarts," I say instead. "I need to see who's here."

And indeed, Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs oblige, their creation unfolding to show the castle in all its splendor. The hallways, classrooms, dormitories, grounds, and secret passages. Most importantly, the names of all the residents, those little dots roaming the school—well, many of them gone for the holiday, cooped up somewhere cozy, or in Hogsmeade already.

"My, my," Dumbledore muses. "I presume you intend to have this take up residence in my office, or yours, until Black is caught, Mr. Jensen?"

I spread my hands, inviting a better idea. The headmaster nods.

"Are you at liberty to tell me how you came across this marvelous map?" he inquires. I half-smile, as he leads right into my next topic.

"Harry Potter and the Weasley twins gave it to me, when I came across them exchanging it, and explained why the security of Hogwarts depended on us knowing who's here," I explain. From the twinkle in Albus' eye, he knows where I'm going. Quill to parchment, and he hands me a note.

"Quite generous, offering to act as his chaperone," he tells me, frowning in approval.

"Potter's had a knack for getting into necessary trouble, the past couple of years," I reply. "It's not too much trouble for me, rewarding his response to my request."

Harry thanks me profusely when I bring him the good news, and I'm secretly glad I had the foresight to keep quiet about it before. Disappointing kids is rough. He still gets rather nervous when Minerva, Filius, and Hagrid join us, and I can definitely see why that eyebrow of hers is intimidating. Weathering it calmly isn't challenging for me. Much.

"I shouldn't think you would have any interest in seeing Mr. Jensen off to Hogsmeade, Potter," she observes, tone just shy of 'cool'. I fish out Dumbledore's permission slip cheerfully.

"Feel free to ask the headmaster for details, Professor," I invite her. "It's unusual, I know, but there's good reason behind this."

That satisfies his head of house, a concept that still doesn't quite gel with me, and we're off to see the village. The kid naturally gravitates to the candy store, and I have a wistful little smile of the days when sugary treats kept my interest. I give him and his friends some space, after they've come up and thanked me for helping Harry, and once they've spent a few minutes perusing the wares and handing over their pocket change, we head to the pub. Little faculty reunion there, and Filius gives me a friendly nod when he sees the kids not too nearby.

"Can you join us, Adam, or will that interfere with your other responsibilities?" Minerva asks me mock-archly.

"I'm sure Harry will have a fine time enjoying his butterbeer here, away from boring adult conversations," I counter. Fudge can't help but chuckle at that.

"Ah, to be young again," he agrees with a sigh.

Rosmerta brings their drinks promptly, so of course I'll have to wait for mine. Nettle wine, out of the curiosity that's colored so much of my life since Faridah and I came to Scotland.

"So what brings you to this neck of the woods, Minister?" the barkeep asks, taking a seat with us.

"Sirius Black, of course," he murmurs, after checking for eavesdroppers. He doesn't find Harry, Hermione or Ron. They're there, of course. Not close enough to be suspected of listening in, but this is hardly a talk they'd miss.

"Given the incident at Hogwarts on Halloween," Fudge notes, "I feel quite confident he's still in the area."

I take a sip of my wine, and that definitely is quite dry. Got a floral kick, somehow. Kinda works. Might get it again.

"I could tell from the dementors, searching the whole village twice and scaring my customers away," Rosmerta retorts. The minister cringes a little at that.

"Nasty business, yes," he concedes uncomfortably, "but when compared to the danger of Black . . . "

"I have trouble believing they'll be effective against him, frankly," I say noncommittally. "After all, he did get past the soul-suckers in the first place, escaping Azkaban."

Fudge shrugs, silently inviting a better remedy, and Rosmerta changes the subject.

"Do you know, I never would have pegged Sirius Black as a Death Eater," she muses. "Given how he was as a student, sticking with James Potter like they were brothers in crime."

One fist clenches at her naivete.

"That's how it goes," I reply bitterly. "Violent crimes are committed more often by acquaintances, or loved ones, than strangers."

"And poor Peter, going after him," Flitwick laments. "He was no match, none at all."

I shake my head, slowly at first, my mouth screwing up.

"I've been going over the facts of the case," I begin, to a round of nods. "Things don't quite add up, even without the miscarriage of justice at the end."

Fudge looks away uneasily, but I continue.

"Item one. Sirius Black, James Potter's best man and godfather to his son, agrees to serve as his Secret-Keeper, letting only a handful of people know that the secret of the Potters' location could be obtained exclusively by his free admission."

My fingers go up one by one, outlining the apparent sequence of events.

"Item two. He did this in the first place because the couple was specifically threatened by Voldemort—" pause for frightened gasps, carefully timed so no one was in the middle of drinking or swallowing—"and Dumbledore suspected a traitor in their midst."

"Item three. Explosion at the Potter house. James and Lily dead, Harry alive, Riddle out for the count. Sirius comes for Harry on his bike, but Rubeus insists on taking him to Dumbledore. He leaves for that trip on that same bike, which Sirius apparently isn't going to need anymore."

"Item four. Peter Pettigrew, similar long-time friend of Potter, along with Remus Lupin, confronts Sirius the next day. 'Lily and James, Sirius! How could you?' They both go for their wands. The street blows up, yielding a dozen dead Muggles. Sirius Black stands there laughing like he's had a mental break, and all that remains of Pettigrew are bloodstained robes and a finger."

"Item five. After twelve years in prison, being constantly guarded by creatures that have a well-known effect on mental health, Sirius Black is civil and rational when the minister visits. Asks for the newspaper so he can do the crossword. Afterwards, he starts muttering 'he's at Hogwarts' over and over again."

"Item six. Then, and only then, does Black become the first person to escape from Azkaban, by still-unknown means."

I finally conclude, having had to resort to my other hand to keep track.

"I don't know about you, but there are a lot of unanswered questions here as far as I'm concerned. The sudden betrayal, as I've said, sure, I buy it. Relinquishing his bike, not much use for a man who needs to run and stay hidden. But why not tell Hagrid that they can all go to Dumbledore together, and rely on the element of surprise to kill him on the way to have a free hand with the kid? Blowing up the street to kill Peter, a plausible means, but it's very odd that his spell left an intact finger and absolutely nothing else. How was he still sane after over a decade in that hole? Who's 'he' at Hogwarts? Presumably not Harry, since his godson attending school wouldn't be news. Why did he escape after making that discovery, and how?"

They're practically spellbound by my puzzling, and Flitwick breaks the silence first.

"What do you think happened, Adam?" he asks. I can only grimace.

"I don't know," I concede, "but this isn't the first time I've gotten to the bottom of a tangled mess. Justice will be done."

Chapter Text

My colleagues, and Fudge, have found all this speculation interesting, but I should at least make some effort not to monopolize the conversation, nor keep it on a gloomy subject. Even though I've been considering all of these facts for months, and this is the best opportunity yet to get anywhere with the puzzle.

"But you didn't come here to sit while I pondered the matter," I offer, giving them permission to change the topic.

Minerva merely raises an eyebrow. Hagrid is more enthusiastic.

"Nah," he agrees, "but you're on a roll here."

Without dissent, I continue.

"Filius," I begin, "how exactly does the Fidelius Charm work?"

The Charms professor is only too happy to expound upon his specialty. It's in the ballpark of the previously-discussed murder, but far enough away to lighten the mood somewhat. A sip of his cherry syrup and soda, before he begins.

"An immensely complex spell that conceals a secret inside a living soul," he tells us. Reminding his fellow teachers, properly informing the rest of us. "That information is hidden inside the chosen Secret-Keeper, and from that point on only that person can share it. Voluntarily, that is the crux of the matter; no form of coercion can force the spell to break."

I grimace in appreciation. Magical Britain has a very useful tool for its security, and it very much sounds like the rules he's laid out don't have exceptions. That reminds me, I should try to schedule a course on resisting the Imperius Curse.

"So Voldemort," I pause again, "could only have attacked the Potters by having their location deliberately revealed by the person who agreed to hold it? Going to their house without that revelation would be of no use to him? Having the Secret-Keeper tell a third party, who then alerted him, would not work?"

He starts nodding vigorously halfway through my first question, and does not stop until my mouth closes.

"Yes and yes and yes," Filius agrees. I think he's pleased, like any teacher, that I'm investigating properly, finding the subject compelling. "He could have stared right into their sitting room window and seen nothing to reward his attention. And it is only the Secret-Keeper himself who can communicate it; any informed Death Eater could only have told You-Know-Who to speak to his source."

I nod as slowly as he did quickly, assessing the situation.

"So you all can verify that the Fidelius Charm was performed to allow the Potters to hide from Voldemort, and the attack on them could only have taken place if he was deliberately informed by the person they trusted?" I confirm. It's clear that they don't quite see where I'm going with this, which is simply the cost of dealing with untrained personnel.

"Went there m'self," Hagrid volunteers, "after the headmaster told me it was done, and I couldn't see a thing. And after that night, nothin' else I can think of would have done that. Upstairs was a wreck, and James was lying right inside the front door."

I purse my lips, wondering about that.

"The coincidence needed for a single building to have significant damage, housing a primary target," I speculate, recalling the reports I read, and find it implausible. "No, I agree, it's very unlikely that anything could have happened but betrayal."

That sends Hagrid into a funk, and I can see him getting worked up into making a scene.

"Hmm. And you're all quite certain that Sirius Black was the chosen Secret-Keeper for the Potters? No one else could have been selected?" I wonder.

The enormous man's brows furrow.

"Dumbledore said he offered to do it himself, and they turned him down. Said they wanted Sirius to do it. Nothin' between that and the headmaster sayin' the job was done."

"So it's possible that they did go for someone else," I pick out, pouncing on the possibility, "and Sirius claimed to be the Secret-Keeper. Presumably to provide cover for the actual protector. I know, the charm doesn't need any, but would that have been as reassuring to the Potters, and whoever they might have selected in private, as it is to you, Professor?"

Rosmerta and Fudge are confused. Minerva and Filius are in teacher-mode, disbelieving that anyone might not have fully understood the strengths of the Fidelius. Hagrid, however, is following right along.

"Could only have been Peter or Remus, doin' that for 'em," he says. From furrow to a practical unibrow, as he works out the alternate series of events, interrupted by a gulp of his mead. "And either one of them, after You-Know-Who got blown up, would have been the only one, maybe apart from the other, who knew the real betrayer."

"If Sirius was innocent, that explains why he didn't kill you and the boy when given the chance," I outline. "If Peter was the traitor, and most likely Remus Lupin wouldn't have known, then he would have been forced to take care of loose ends. Sirius clearly didn't need the bike to find him, but Peter was one step ahead. Fake his death, frame his former friend, and disappear."

This does sound better, but there are still significant holes, which I can see Minerva processing.

"Why and how did Black escape, after twelve years? Where is Pettigrew?" she points out. I just shake my head.

"My gut says those all have the same answer, more or less, and something feels better about them overall. I think it's time for me to have a talk with Professor Lupin."

"A pity, to cut Potter's visit to Hogsmeade short," his head of house observes, "but if you can exonerate Black, he'll have a godfather."

Well, huh. I suppose that makes sense, and further illustrates why Sirius Black was James and Lily Potter's publicly-known Secret-Keeper. Before heading out, I decide to write down what I've worked out, and make sure I haven't missed anything. Rosmerta's got quill and parchment, making me miss good old pen and paper, but the tools suffice.

The younger Potter looks rather poleaxed, indicating his eavesdropping, and his friends accompany us back to the castle. I bid them farewell in the Great Hall, but a word of warning also seems in order.

"Someone betrayed your parents, Potter," I tell him bluntly. "But I'm the one running this investigation, not you. The headmaster's told me about your exploits the past couple of years, and you've done good work, which doesn't change the fact that you got lucky. Without Quirrell being burned, without Fawkes..."

I shake my head, feeling no particular need to elaborate further. Granger and Weasley look quite willing to restrain him from any foolhardy escapades.

Professor Lupin is in his quarters, right by the Defense classroom. Not nearly as homey as anyone else's, but he's newly arrived and doesn't expect to stay on past this year. That's another thing bugging me, how Voldemort has been getting professors removed. Sadly, I don't think my investigative experience is going to help there: he did some spell, presumably, and a non-magical perspective hasn't been getting me anywhere on that.

"Professor Lupin," I call out, knocking on his door, "it's Jensen. I've got a few questions for you, on the Black case."

The weary-looking fellow invites me in, once again inviting me to call him Remus, and saving me from making a more insistent request. I see a few sandwiches on the platter by his chair. He waves them to me, and I'm reminded of how little regard the house-elves here have for our ability to tend to basic needs.

"Suppose," I tell him, without preamble, "that Peter Pettigrew was the true Secret-Keeper for the Potters, and Sirius Black merely masqueraded in the role so that any efforts to force the information out would fall upon him instead."

"A foolish masquerade," he replies bluntly, "since that is not how the Fidelius Charm works. Sirius would have known that."

"Granted," I allow, "but would he have trusted in it? Would he have preferred that the Death Eaters torture him futilely, rather than possibly prey upon his friend?"

Remus closes his eyes and rubs his forehead, presumably attempting to cast his mind back twelve years, and recall his friends as they were then.

"Quite possibly," he replies. "Peter was not an impressive figure, compared to Sirius. Not as confident, tough, assertive, or valiant. Sirius might have wondered at his ability to withstand treatment by Voldemort's followers that satisfied the requirements of the Fidelius, and chosen to become a target himself. I wouldn't be too comfortable ruling it out, for all that I never heard anything about such an arrangement at the time."

I refrain from openly expressing my satisfaction at this development, given the events I'm asking him to relive.

"This scenario resolves a few questions as to the timeline," I explain. "If Sirius Black was innocent, and Peter Pettigrew framed him, then it is obvious why the former allowed Rubeus Hagrid to take young Harry to Dumbledore, and offered his own motorbike for the journey. Black's duel with Pettigrew, similarly, makes more sense if the latter faked his own death, deciding to leave a finger behind, so there would be no evidence but Black's word to keep him out of Azkaban."

Remus nods, and he lays his own sandwich down on his plate. I suppose this isn't great for his appetite.

"But either way, there are a few things that don't make sense, given the facts I currently have, and I'm hoping you can shed some light on them."

My notes from just half an hour ago are quite handy, and I use them as we shift into his classroom to employ the blackboard.

"Number one, Azkaban is notorious for being a grueling experience. Its inhabitants rarely take long to be in bad shape. Yet when Minister Fudge visited Black after twelve years, the prisoner was quite calm and cordial. How did he avoid the psychological toil and torment?

"Number two, after that meeting, Sirius Black started muttering 'he's at Hogwarts' in his sleep. Who is 'he'? Harry Potter is unlikely, because that wouldn't be a revelation for anyone who can do basic math.

"Number three, weeks later, Black become the first person known to have escaped Azkaban. How did he do this? The reason, presumably, is to catch 'him', from the previous question."

There we stand for a good few minutes, Defense professor and security chief, considering a way forward. No answers are clear to these questions, even as I refer to my notes.

"You said that he asked for the minister's newspaper," Lupin says at last. "Claimed that he missed doing the crossword. I suppose that's something to look at. Perhaps Sirius saw something in there that he didn't expect."

As good a lead to investigate as any, and we retrieve that day's issue of the Daily Prophet from the library. It's a good thing that we work in a school for magic, because there are plenty of desks to lay out all the pages of the paper, and Lupin's spells relieve us of a lot of tedious work getting said furniture into a sensible array. Once that's done, we both start looking, though I thoroughly expect him to know what caught his friend's eye.

"Merlin's beard, he's alive!" Remus exclaims, halfway through his examination. "Peter's alive, all right, and he's been masquerading for some time. In Hogwarts, even."

I rush over to take a look at the object of his outburst. It's a picture of the whole Weasley family, helpfully captioned: father Arthur and mother Molly, plus their children Bill, Charlie, Percy, George, Fred, Ron, and Ginny. Plus a rat, captioned as 'Scabbers'. I was right, I don't have any idea why this would produce any reaction in Sirius Black.

Chapter Text

It's a lovely Friday night with my friends. Playing games, watching something (like STAR Labs finally turning on their particle accelerator), hanging out, the works. When I walk into their place, Alex has a big book out—not exactly our usual fare, but I'll give it a shot.

"Whatcha got there?" I ask, plopping myself down cattycorner across the table, on the little loveseat. Aww, and she's already got my usual cup of ice water on the coaster.

"Star Trek Adventures," she tells me. Xavier flips through a few pages. "Thought we could fiddle around tonight, make characters. I think we can probably find a gamemaster, assuming that the overall vibe works for us."

I frown approvingly, and start taking my own look. Hmm, starts by picking a species, so I'm really hoping the next part isn't an array of classes. The three of us have discussed this before, at some length. I'm not a fan of having giant modules to add to my character, one big lump take it or leave it. The closer I get to being able to assign all of my characteristics the way I like them, the better.

Fortunately, Star Trek Adventures has the lifepath hybrid, instead. Several little lumps, which usually means I can come pretty close to the design I prefer. Might take some fiddling, and accepting that a few aspects are a little off, but let's be honest, a good group can make a great experience from a mediocre system.

Anyway. There are a lot of species available. A little daunting, really. Humans are one of them, of course, and so are Talaxians. Haven't seen many on Earth, but their diaspora has come our way. I stay plain jane, while Alex and Xavier go for Talaxian. The lab broadcast has settled down from their cheering at the machine being fully fired up, enjoying their champagne.

It takes me a while to realize it, but that rather sets the stage for our character creation as a whole. I'm not bold or creative, and they are. My cultural value for growing up on Earth is the time-worn phrase 'melting pot'; she picks 'a new frontier', while he reflects on 'chaos for the soul'. That, even, requires the explanation of dwelling on the dichotomy between order and chaos, that we need enough of both to have lives. It just goes on from there. My choices for areas of expertise, career events, and talents overwhelmingly make my character broad. A cog in something more, neither peaks nor troughs, nothing special. Well, I'm describing it very negatively, but there's still something satisfying about my character sheet. Our team will never be out to sea; I'm our backbone, the solid bedrock.

The last mechanical pieces are our roles on the ship, and ranks. We're all a little distracted, though, by the tone of the coverage at STAR Labs. Despite Dr. Wells' confidence in the press conference, despite the celebration a few minutes ago, it's now alarmed cries, panic, and sirens. Well, nothing for us to do but have faith in them and try to enjoy our night.

"Science at five," Alex notes, wrenching her tone to playfulness, "gee, wonder what I'm going for. And hmm, yeah, full Commander here."

"Security chief at llllieutenant. Not j.g., not commander," Xavier decides.

My choice is more challenging, since with nothing higher than three, I don't have any firm recommendations.

"Flight controller," I say, "bushy-tailed ensign."

And with that, the power goes out. Blackness surrounds us all, rather more than I would have expected. Then there's a single light, shining down on a bearded man with four pips on his collar.

"It's a challenging path you've chosen," he declaims, "venturing forth into the unknown. Providing a stable world, with room for every kind of person. The toils ahead of you are not for the faint of heart."

He turns to each of us in turn, and as spellbound as I am by his presence I can still feel the solidity of the uniform brushing my undershirt. The single gold circle millimeters from my neck. Memories are flowing steadily into me: my years as a cadet, graduating and joining the USS Azimuth, the incidents that I marked on my character sheet fully come to life.

"The burden of command," he tells Alex, "being responsible for the team's actions whether you're dealing with enemies or allies."

"The burden of safety," he tells Xavier, "constant awareness of the team's readiness for action and vulnerabilities."

"The burden of possibility," he tells me, "stepping up every time the team needs someone to tackle a new problem."

Then everything fades away but him and me. There's the quiet certainty that this is somehow happening to both of my friends at the same time, before he captures my attention again.

"There is nothing wrong with living a humdrum, ordinary life. Never really focusing yourself, never pushing your limits, being a decent man," the captain assures me, before his expression grows stern again. "Starfleet needs more than that, especially for people who will have only each other for support in your mission to establish a chapter on your world. 'Strive for more' was the value you chose to encapsulate your career. Live those words, Ensign Karl Wilcox."

Alex and Xavier's living room starts returning to view, and he gives us a smile.

"I have every faith that you'll do Starfleet proud. See you in a few years."

It's like the minute of silence from high school, except now we actually have a lot to consider. There's no question of any delusion. Not only are we wearing our uniforms, complete with rank insignia, but I can see the chest I assembled in my senior year right on their coffee table. I put together PADDs with the curricula from every class at the academy, textbooks and homework, as half-future guide and half-celebration of my own achievements. And here it is. Right next to Commander Wilson's spiffied-up tricorder.

Most shockingly of all, Alex and Xavier have both changed. Gentle brown bulges now run from their orbital ridges, up and back all the way behind their ears. Yellow base at their temples, dwindling to mere speckles higher up and further in. They're Talaxian now.

"So what do we do now?" I venture, gesturing nervously at the lost signal on TV. "Head to STAR Labs and start pitching in?"

Alex shakes her head quickly. Maybe I should start getting out of the habit of using her first name.

"Emergency services are already on the scene. Our protocols are effective, but sufficiently incompatible that we'd be more in the way than anything else."

Xavier clenches his fist at his wife's decision. Same deal there, really.

"Our first opportunity with this, and we're not going to do anything?"

"Once the facility has settled down," she rebuts, "we absolutely will be joining Dr. Wells and investigating what happened. Both to them, and to us."

"Aye, sir," he replies, setting out the matter at last.

"This is going to need some adjustment from all of us," Commander Wilson admits, catching both our eyes. "I'm in charge. We have years of training and experience in an organization new to this planet, almost tailor-made to address all the fallout from that accelerator's fiasco. The lieutenant and I are no longer human. But we're going to get through this, together."

"Let me see if I have this straight," Dr. Snow recounts, one eyebrow raised. Our reception in their quasi-wrecked building is going more or less as I expected. "You were making these pretend people, officers in the military of an interstellar government, when the accelerator broke its leash, and now you've sort of become them?"

"That is so cool!" Cisco gushes, reaching up for a high-five, which I duly return. Dr. Wells clears his throat, smiling thinly in his wheelchair and examining the tricorder she brought.

"It's hard to argue with solid evidence," he notes, "or the offer of competent assistance. Let's get to work."

And so we do. Weeks of cleaning up wreckage. Months of repairing systems. Their central room begins to resemble a starship bridge, though without the captain's chair. Or much of a conn. The point is, we've got a single coherent system running the place, workstations for everyone to use simultaneously and even guests, instrumentation to examine any phenomenon we can imagine. Of course, since none of us would have imagined what happened to the particle accelerator, and the ethos of Starfleet is seeking out new questions, that description is more a reminder to be on our toes than permission to rest on our laurels.

The tiny medical wing soon hosts a Mr. Barry Allen, struck by lightning during that incident and comatose. The prognosis isn't good, for all that his vitals are steady, for every week that he remains insensate. The greatest medicine in existence, short of Q, doesn't change the fact that the longer someone is away from the world, the less chance they have of returning.

Nevertheless, one afternoon he opens his eyes.

Chapter Text

Boy, am I glad it's the weekend. Going out with coworkers and friends can be a delightful experience, but I should have made my farewells after midnight. Tomorrow is going to have a very sleepy morning. At least there's no traffic in the wee hours, matching my fatigue at the wheel. Parked cars, absolutely, but pedestrians and bike-riders are thin on the ground. Not exactly the cleanest part of town, which means I keep a bit of an eye out for any debris on the road.

I hear crackling, a little like lightning. Very close by, feels like. I stop the car and get out—not crazy about being in a metal cage with electricity flying around. Of course, it turns out that I've just walked closer to whatever's making the light show. Until it all stops. My curiosity gets the better of me, and I approach the alley ahead, wondering if it was the source of the weird thingamabob.

In the mouth of the passage, on the edge of the sidewalk, I peer down, through to the next street over. There's a naked man, slowly getting to his feet. Oh, boy.

"Hey there, buddy," I call out, keeping my voice down both because there are surely people trying to sleep and trying not to spook him. "What's going on?"

The pain fades from his face, and he looks all around before getting to me.

"The date," he demands, voice croaking. "What's the date?"

"May 11," I reply. "Well, May 12, now. Why?"

"What year?!" my new acquaintance snaps. His vocal cords are smoothing out now, and he's not bothering to cover himself at all.

"Eighty-four," I return evenly. "Sounds like you're having a rough time."

He buries his face in his hands for several seconds, which as noted is not where I would put my hands in his situation.

"What's your name?" I ask. Oh, please let him not be a danger to himself or others, which public nudity and confusion over what year it is really suggest strongly.

"Kyle. Reese," he replies. Hmm. Something about that name rings a bell, maybe?

"Well, Kyle, I'd very much like to know how you got in this position," I tell him. "You're naked in an alley, and you asked me for the entire date. I'm sure you can understand that I'm a little worried."

"Give me something to wear and I won't be naked anymore," he shoots back. I don't know anything about mental health, but it's reassuring that he's aware of those problems and is attempting to solve them logically.

Unfortunately, I don't exactly carry spare pants on me.

"Here," I grumble, tugging my shirt hem out from its tucked position. Fortunately, today was a comfy pants day, so I don't have to pull too hard. "Literally giving you the shirt off my back, man."

Kyle gives me a long, sour look before flipping the garment upside down and stepping in. He looks completely ridiculous, holding the 'top' at his navel and stretching the sleeves with his knees, but at least there's little worry of being taken in for indecency now. Plus, of course, I no longer have a particularly unappealing sight as my gaze moves around, rather than focusing very intently on his face.

"Right," he pronounces, managing a knot so his hands are free. Well, he needs one hand to keep the assembly in place, but it's still better. "Now I need actual clothes, and a weapon."

And we'd been doing so well. I can't help my grimace at that.

"A weapon for what?" I ask, very carefully.

"For fighting the Terminator that's been sent from the future to kill Sarah Connor," he replies. Ohhhhh. That's, huh. Okay, then. A big point for the side of calling the police and vamoosing.

I open and close my mouth several times, trying to find a good way to phrase this. Standing in the alley, shirtless, is awkward, but we're definitely not heading back to my car right now.

"It's a lot to take in, I know," Kyle concedes, misreading my hesitation entirely.

"You, ah, this is a movie plot," I blurt out. So much for a diplomatic communication. "Literally, Sarah Connor running from a time-traveling assassin is the plot of Terminator."

Kyle cocks his head, staring at me with his mouth gaping.

"So, someone from the resistance came back and told everyone what was going to happen, couched in fiction," he concludes. "John said they would destroy the setup after I came through to make sure Skynet couldn't send reinforcements, but I guess the plan changed after I left."

"Or," I tell him, as gently as I can manage, "you suffered a nervous breakdown, latched onto a movie to form your identity, and ran out here without putting anything on."

He purses his lips, folding his arms until my shirt starts to fall off his hips.

"It's not impossible," Kyle grates, "but where do you think I got this?"

His left arm keeps that repurposed garment in place, while the right is brandished almost like a weapon. There's a bar code tattooed on it.

"There are tattoo artists apathetic enough to give a client what he wants, or actively approving of this message," I say slowly, but the point here wasn't to provide proof—just reason for me to give him the benefit of the doubt. He can see the concession in my eyes, and the slightest lines of strain ease from his face.

"You can rest at my place tonight," I decide. "I've got some old clothes that you can borrow, or maybe just have, who cares. Plan your defense of Sarah, sleep, whatever, just let me enjoy a late morning."

The conflict is readily apparent as he pauses to consider the deal, and I preempt his likely objection.

"If there's hard evidence of an urgent threat to her life," I grudgingly tell him in singsong, "go ahead and wake me up."

To Kyle's credit, he does keep quiet until 11:30. Looks a lot better wearing real pants and having combed his hair, too. When I trudge out of the shower, he's in the living room, map and phone book ready, and captions running on the TV. News, when I take a moment to look closer before making myself some breakfast.

"Nothing yet," he admits quietly. "Three Sarah Connors in the phone book, got routes to each. Calling them would be a waste of time—any yahoo can pick up a phone and make wild claims."

Leftover Chinese food microwaves wonderfully, and my plate is full when I sit next to him on his former bed, the couch.

"Nobody's going to take this seriously until you have something solid to point at," I note, "which might just mean people die to start delivering your target to safety."

Kyle's hand holds his pen very tightly.

"Focus on the folks I can save, not the ones I can't," he replies. It's not easy for him to say, but there's the hint of practice. "Hard men making hard choices" is in full swing when lives aren't dismissed casually.

"Have you been able to think of anything that might be indicative, rather than probative?" I wonder. Something a little more substantial than his tattoo, that would be consistent with a time-traveling robot assassin, if also with a number of other things. He just shakes his head.

"You watched the movie, to get any clues?" I press, and he nods.

"Felt, creepy, seeing myself on screen," Kyle says, "but we're not going to see anything until and unless those other Sarah Connor murders hit the news."

I fast-forward through the opening half-hour or so, getting an idea of what's 'supposed' to happen next if, well, if. The gun store scene catches my eye, but ultimately this isn't a matter for specific forewarning.

"If this is the recollection of what really happened," I reason aloud slowly, "then any scene without you or Sarah in it, is something along the lines of conjecture. An event that would logically or reasonably have taken place, maybe reconstructed from clues after the fact."

Kyle is eying the remains of my breakfast, and the dishes I haven't yet returned to the fridge. I wave him on, causing half an egg roll to vanish into his mouth.

"Right," he agrees after swallowing. "Killing those punks after he demands their clothes, that's exactly how a terminator might start. If they're right at hand, and no other source is convenient, then that's how it would move."

"It, and you, need the same basic resources. Clothing, to function in the society you've entered, and weapons, to complete the mission. Taking clothes from a person is adequate and straightforward. Weapons require a supplier, and it's easier to find a gun store than a hobbyist."

I play the scene again. The terminator assembles a selection of firearms, loads one, and kills the proprietor. Then the film cuts to a phone booth.

"It didn't rob the place," I realize, pounding my fist into my other hand at the discovery. "Why would someone steal from a gun store, murder the cashier, and leave the register alone?"

"Because that someone doesn't care about money," Kyle replies grimly. Through consumption or spoiling the mood, his appetite is sated for now. "Terminators don't need to buy anything. They can take what they want."

Our rumination is interrupted by a bulletin on TV, which of course was the unfortunate expectation.

"Sarah Connor, thirty-five, mother of two," the anchor announces, "brutally shot to death this afternoon."

"Best-case scenario," I spit, "someone's convinced himself he's the terminator, and you're Kyle Reese."

I pack up the rest of the food quickly, while he bundles up the mission materials.

"Split up. Head to—"

Not bothering to pause the movie has its dark advantages, as we see the detectives discuss two victims. There are three Sarah Connors in the phone book.

"The last girl's place," we say simultaneously.

"Collect her, get the roommates out of there, and head to the police. There's got to be a report if the gun store incident really happened. They can take care of a lone human killer, or get loaded for bear," I declare.

Chapter Text

Of course, going to the address listed in the phone book is the easy part. Even with four wrong turns. Thing is, nobody answers the door, after walking up three flights of stairs. Delightful.

"Guess they're all at work," I say glumly. Kyle purses his lips, shaking his head in denial or frustration. Maybe both. Probably both.

"Then we have to find them," he proclaims. That gets a skeptical look from me.

"How?" I press the supposed resistance fighter. "Besides, if we don't know where they work, neither does the terminator. It had to look up her address, remember?"

Kyle's not exactly convinced, but he doesn't have any ideas either. He just stews in the passenger seat for a while, mood growing darker. Best think of something for us to do, before he gets volatile. After all, we're still short of real proof that anything metaphysical's going on here. Don't want him to go off half-cocked.

There's a park down the street, within eyesight. We can wait for a little while there, in case Sarah gets back soon. I'd really rather not spend my whole afternoon here. Kyle's amenable to the notion, especially when I get us a pair of hot dogs. I'm surprised he enjoys it so much, given how he shoveled down the leftovers, but that might have been sheer hunger and nerves overriding the taste.

"Look at all of this," he tells me, biting his lip. "People, kids, walking around. Nobody's afraid. Playing games, laughing, instead of getting to cover. Eating ice cream. Beautiful. I don't belong here."

He bows his head, aware enough to, not exactly hide his tears, but keep from drawing attention to them.

"Post-traumatic stress disorder, they call it," I observe. Ongoing trauma can still yield similar reactions, I feel like. Not exactly hard to believe that growing up in the robot apocalypse would mess up your head. "But, as someone put it, 'we get better'. Might be in the cards for you. Who knows?"

Now's not the time to push. I say, from my vast psychiatric experience. But there's some familiarity in my noggin with the concept of chewing on things. Sometimes, advice has to roll around in your head for a while, before you know what to do with it.

It's a good little while we wait in that park, trying to amuse ourselves. Kyle's half in soldier-mode, to the extent that he ever even leaves it anyway, checking Connor's address every once in a while. I'm starting to get frustrated and antsy, not that I had any real plans for the day. Then a car pulls into the right spot. Boy, am I glad they put up signs in the lot. For that matter, three people get out.

"Guess it's our lucky day," I murmur to Kyle. We sidle on over, trying not to look like creeps.

"Sarah Connor?" I call out. "I'm Joe Anderson, and this is Kyle Reese."

Before I can continue, she goes pale. Guess she heard the news.

"So, yeah," I conclude. "Police time."

"You'll be safe here, miss," the detective reassures Sarah. She doesn't look particularly reassured. "Reese, Dr. Silberman would like a chat. The rest of you, thanks, we'll take it from here."

Ginger and Matt make their exit, heading to her parents' place. Kyle walks out the door with the aforementioned lab-coat-clad professional. The cops aren't taking the movie connection particularly seriously, even now that the improbable second man connected to a movie is here, but it's not too onerous a precaution. Dismissal received, I still find myself staying still.

"You can go, buddy," his partner tells me, but I shake my head. Not in denial of the fact, nor refusal, just that leaving doesn't sit right with me.

"Either Kyle's crazy, and I picked him up, and have to see him to the care he needs—which isn't you, no offense meant" they both nod "or he's not crazy. I'm not walking away from the first moves of the war against homicidal artificial intelligence."

Hal raises an eyebrow, and starts to reply, but Ed stops him.

"I think we can both understand a need for closure, and the desire for justice. The chief might overrule me on this later, but for the time being, you're sticking around in case you think of anything else we should know. Usually, people head home and give us a call, but you're not the first to stick around."

They're all doing trained police procedure stuff, so I sit at one of the many desks and try to think of some way to prove that the guy going after Sarah is really a cyborg. It doesn't even matter that I'm not sure I really believe it, because all I'm really seeking here is to collapse a dichotomy that's been bugging me for the last most of a day.

Of course, there's also the challenge of showing it in a way that doesn't inherently alert the terminator that its cover is blown. Metal detectors would obviously reveal an entire steel skeleton, and would also be, presumably, detectable by whatever sensors it's using. Dogs, hmm. Police dogs are trained not to bark impulsively, but would the machine care about their response in general? I'll have to ask Kyle, when he's done with the psychologist. Psychiatrist. The difference eludes me, and he might be both.

"What a fascinating case," the doctor announces, casually shoving the door open. He squints at me, blinks, starts to ask, and then decides he doesn't care. "Claiming he's from the future, a war against robots, and of course no evidence to back him up. And if we can get the other one into custody, an amazing study. Two people latching onto opposite sides of a movie, constructing new identities. Astounding."

"Two women have been murdered, Silberman," Hal snaps. "If you could focus on that, maybe?"

"Sorry," he replies perfunctorily, "but you get my point."

"I'm not comfortable dismissing his story out of hand, outlandish as it is," Ed counters, frowning deeply. "Even a tiny chance of some practically-invulnerable cyborg coming for Miss Connor is deeply unsettling."

"Catching a lone human psycho with a known target is fairly straightforward police work, right?" I ask. "I mean, not common, obviously, but you've got protocols for it. Stake out a false target, make it convincing, pounce when he makes his move. But if it really is a robot out there, then the rules change. An electromagnetic pulse will damage or even wreck it, and a big enough magnet might paralyze the thing."

Silberman scoffs at the discussion, rolling his eyes and looking down at me.

"Don't tell me you're actually taking this nutjob seriously," he demands. I shrug, mildly amused at his vehemence.

"If he's out to sea, so be it. I'm certainly not suggesting that we move forward with any plan that lets an unstable man who believes he's an assassin achieve his supposed objective. But I, at least, need something better than 'it sounds absurd' to dismiss something as a possibility. Otherwise, I'd be similarly pooh-poohing the concept that two men simultaneously rejected their identities and mentally became opposing characters from a movie."

To that, he throws up his hands.

"Let me know when you're going to do your actual jobs," the psychiatrist tosses over his shoulder, not quite slamming the door as he leaves.

Chapter Text

I should just move on, I know. Stop looking into the future. It's absurd that I'm able to peer a thousand years ahead at all. Hitting that hump when Cedric and Harry take that portkey isn't a problem that I need to handle. Even the call of 'kill the spare' that I heard once, when I got a little farther than usual. From his perspective, I've been dead for centuries. Why should I care about a single life ended prematurely, when it happens all the time?

I still gather my mental energy, preparing for one last attempt. The timestream bubbles around me as I pass through the next millennium, bypassing so many wars and triumphs. It's the small personal saga of Tom Riddle, Harry Potter, and wizarding Britain that seizes my focus, and everything gets kicked up a notch when the madman starts to gather strength. 'Most powerful dark wizard of all time', they call him, which I suppose is fair if you're just working with living memory. And the present danger always looms far more than something intellectually understood as far worse, long ago. The Black Death was far more deadly, after all. Will be, technically.

I try to strengthen my grip after he leaves normal society, but that proves to be my own, terrible, undoing. The strands of time snap around me, hurling me about, and I see a young woman within arm's reach. She looks at me, terrified by what must be a sudden launch into the continuum. My hand grabs for her, steadying her path as I desperately endeavor to secure my own magical journey.

"What happened?!" she asks, but I have little answer to give her.

"Something went wrong as I peered into days to come," is the best I can do. We continue down the months and years, to the emergence of the Boy Who Lived and his travails at Hogwarts. Voldemort attempts to rise twice, and he thwarts those efforts with the help of his close friends.

Cedric and Harry grasp the trophy, and my heart seizes at the imminent tragedy. They whirl away. Into us! And our tumble through the steady line of history, future or past, finally comes to a halt as we lie groaning on the ground. I get to my feet gingerly, seeing the girl and Cedric. Not Harry. Odd, but that's an issue to address once everything else is sorted out.

"Are you all right?" I ask them. Two nods, after quick assessments.

"Any idea where we are, or how we got here?" he asks both of us. She shrugs, directing a pointed look at me. Yeah, that's fair. I look around, hoping that we've landed in one of the few areas I'm actually familiar with in the era I've never been able to pass. There are buildings with lights on, not too far away. Presumably, with answers. And not Death Eaters.

"Well," I tell them, allowing the Triwizard competitor to lead the way in his native time, "the 'where' should be revealed soon. As for the 'how', well. I've been looking at this year for the past few weeks. Skimmed over a thousand years, and then I kept getting stopped here. I was hoping I might be able to pass through whatever was obstructing me, but instead I wound up pulling her along, and landing all three of us here. I'm Ælfric, by the way."

"Cedric," he introduces himself, to me and 'Bella'.

"What's the date?" she asks. "The full date, obviously."

"24 June, 1995," he replies succinctly, to a whole host of emotions flickering over her face. Shock, dismay, confusion, loss, and being lost. "The end of the first Triwizard Tournament in centuries. Speaking of which, I've got to get back there, and share my victory."

Bella punches me right in the mouth.

"Twenty-nine years?!" she exclaims. "I've missed Cissy and Andy growing up, becoming women, having kids, because you had to be a voyeur!"

"I'm sorry," I tell her miserably. "I'm so sorry, Bella. I never meant for this to happen. There was no way I could possibly have expected it."

She's gotten a little of it out of her system now, at least, though my lip is bleeding and a large patch of my jawline is sore. That was her one free shot, really. She's entitled to be upset at what happened. Anything more, and maybe I start talking about Bellatrix Lestrange, in Azkaban for life after torturing the Longbottoms so they'd tell her where Voldemort went.

After that unpleasantness, which made Cedric wince, we discover that by a stroke of luck, we landed right by Hogsmeade Reaching Hogwarts is downright trivial. There's still plenty of time for me to reach a slightly more comfortable vibe with Bella, and share with Cedric the phrase that worried me so. And then there's the fireplace. Hoo boy. I've seen Floo powder used quite a few times, but trying it out myself is different.

"Bella, you go on through," Cedric decides. "Ælfric can watch you and go, and I'll take up the rear."

The girl dips her hand into the pot, and tosses that dose of green fuel into the flames. It promptly goes up, turning the site into a portal for the next few seconds.

"Hogwarts Great Hall!" she calls out, stepping confidently through and vanishing. Now it's my turn.

"Grab, dump, say your destination slowly and clearly," Cedric coaches me. First part done. I imagine part of the process of creating this stuff is making sure that powder doesn't stick to sweaty hands. My fist goes gingerly near the burning logs, and I flick my fingers open as if trying to fling mud off.

"Hogwarts Great Hall," I echo. Stammering isn't generally an issue, yet this is shaping to be a nerve-wracking day. Cedric's hand helps me through the incendiary flicker, and I tumble through something that, well. It isn't quite as 'trippy' as my millennium sail, but before I can consider the degree separation, I'm on my knees in the castle's biggest room. Didn't crash into Bellatrix, at least. I have just enough presence of mind to scramble out of the way, lest Cedric end up tripping on my ungainly sprawled form.

"Mr. Fawley, this was certainly not how I expected to see you," says the headmaster, peering at the three of us over the rims of his half-moon glasses. I'm confused as to the subject of his comment, but I suppose I should expect adjustments after moving a thousand years into the future.

"Wasn't my idea either, Professor, but I think I'm going to end up pleased that it went this way," Cedric replies. Then Dumbledore's eyes focus a little more on Bella.

"Miss Bellatrix Weasley, as I live and breathe," he says, beaming and taking her hand. "You will be pleased to hear that your mother and sisters have been well aware of your survival for the last thirty years, though your status has been something of a question mark until now. They will be over the moon to see you, I am sure."

She accepts his manual embrace without fussing, sparing a small glare for me carrying little heat.

"My name's Ælfric, Mr. Dumbledore," I begin to explain. "I caused all of this. Peered through a thousand years into the future, and got dislodged from my own time. I knocked Bella out of, uh, 1966? and redirected Cedric's Portkey trip."

It's incredibly satisfying to see the surprise on his face from my quick synopsis. His reaction to meeting Bellatrix (and that 'Weasley' bit is going to need an explanation) pales in comparison. While I'm working through the wording on my clarification on the names, though, there's a thump on the field between the gathered crowd and the hedge maze.

"Ah," Cedric says, "I see Daffy's back with the trophy. Looks pretty beaten up, too. I think maybe you were bang on about that 'spare' business, Al."

". . . who's Daffy?" I ask. Harry Potter is the one who proposed sharing victory with Cedric. I don't remember anyone called Daffy.

"Er, Daffodil Evans?" he replies, brows furrowed. "The Girl Who Lived? You can't possibly have missed this, you told us you looked at the last couple of years really carefully trying to figure out why you couldn't look past today."

Chapter Text

"The transport is set to dock in twenty minutes, sir."

I know I'm not supposed to be eavesdropping, but it's really hard not to hear everything Carinth is saying from this little cabin. And I'm curious about her current employer, which I guess technically is mine, too, as her assistant. I know he's an Imperial officer, which rubs me all sorts of wrong ways, but it's a big galaxy, and I have to trust that I'll have opportunities to do the right thing. She's a consultant, far from a die-hard Empire fanatic.

"As expected," the reply comes over her vidcomm. "I see you have a tagalong at the moment. A servant, perhaps?"

"No, sir," Carinth tells him. "Lieooc is my assistant. Protege, you might say. He's clever, insightful, and—"

"He has a brain, yes," he cuts her off. "I did not expect that you would want a bodyguard or dogsbody."

She laughs, short and sharp. My cheeks warm still, hearing that praise.

"You did ask, sir," my teacher reminds him.

"True," he allows. "If he lives up to your claims, I may allow him to remain with your long-term contract."

Silence.

"Oh, you knew this was coming," he chides her. "I don't allow talent to escape that easily. In any case, I'll be meeting with top military leaders within the hour. You and your aide will accompany me."

"I look forward to it, sir," Carinth says quietly. I'd call her subdued, almost, if I weren't so thoroughly acquainted with her enduring spirit.

"Tarkin, out."

I'm having a little trouble catching my breath, now. Tarkin. Tarkin means Death Star. Tarkin means Vader. My memories have faded a little over the past twenty years (redoing childhood did not help), but that encounter is unforgettable. This is the big leagues, now. No more waffling, wondering where the Rebellion is, trying to hone my skills. I won't have much time to make a move, and take my stand. Pulling Carinth along will make it especially tricky.

There's a whole other dimension to my unease when we actually dock. I can just about pass for human to casual observers, but Carinth is full Corfu to my half, and that gets the rank and file here a little riled up. Pointed ears, tawny hair that continues down under her collar, full-on green skin, and unmistakable fangs will do that. They're toned down on me, which doesn't prevent the attitude of 'half human is full mongrel' from getting me different flavors of stink-eye.

Of course, no one expresses an opinion aloud, even before the grand moff arrives. That sweeps in a wave of fear, especially because Darth Vader is with him. It's not difficult to let that fear ride high in my emotional management. I suspect he enjoys the reaction he causes, though of course it's all but impossible to tell. Tarkin merely introduces us as prospective new members of his staff, and the Sith Lord nods dismissively. Works for me. He gives us a well-named briefing on the officers we'll be meeting shortly. The names Motti and Tagge manage to stick around in my head, as we head to the conference room.

"The rebellion will continue to gather support in the Imperial Senate-" one man is saying, before Tarkin interrupts him. The two of them make an impressive entrance, while Carinth and I walk in quietly behind them.

"The Imperial Senate will no longer be of any concern to us," our possible impending boss announces. "I have just received word that the Emperor has dissolved the council permanently. The last remnants of the Old Republic have been swept away."

Tarkin takes a seat, though not at the head of the table, for there isn't one as far as I can tell—just a notch in the circle. Vader stands beside him, and we mimic that position. A little further back, and on the other side.

"That's impossible," General Tagge protests. "How will the Emperor maintain control without the bureaucracy?"

"The regional governors now have direct control over their territories," Tarkin responds crisply. "Fear will keep the local systems in line. Fear of this battle station."

One hand clasps the other wrist behind my back, an old trick Carinth taught me to keep a handle on my nerves. At least I've gotten used to the suit I'm wearing, though the sweat stains from all this tension are not going to be pretty.

"And what of the Rebellion?" Tagge presses. "If the rebels have obtained a complete technical readout of this station, it is possible, however unlikely, that they might find a weakness. And exploit it."

A thermal vent leading directly to the reactor core, I recall.

"The plans you refer to will soon be back in our hands," Vader states.

"Any attack made by the rebels against this station would be a useless gesture," Admiral Motti proclaims, sweeping his hand in emphasis, "no matter what technical data they've obtained."

He leans forward, wafting waves of arrogance over us.

"This station is now the ultimate power in the universe. I suggest we use it."

Tarkin is considering his argument, I can tell even without seeing his face. Vader is less convinced.

"Don't be too proud of the technological terror you've constructed," he rebuts. "The ability to destroy a planet is insignificant next to the power of the Force."

Motti doesn't share my fear of Vader.

"Don't try to frighten us with your sorcerer's ways, Lord Vader," he scoffs. "Your sad devotion to that ancient religion has not helped you conjure up the stolen data tapes, or given you clairvoyance enough to find the rebels' hidden fortress-"

The situation overall is far from amusing, but Motti's attack still makes me laugh. A move I regret immediately, of course, as every head in the room turns to me.

"Something funny, boy?" Tarkin inquires, promising dire consequences if I don't deliver a very good answer.

"Ah, his tone aside, I just thought," I start, barely marshaling my thoughts in time to avoid babbling. "That is, Admiral Motti's criticism is far from constructive. What are his plans for achieving those goals?"

And just like that, I've diverted attention right back to him.

"I have my desk quite full enough, thank you," he blusters. "No time for handling a task the Emperor has assigned to Lord Vader."

"But you have had your staff draft preliminary steps, should they prove necessary," Tarkin states. His tone indicates quite clearly that he knows Motti has done no such thing.

"Tell me, Mister Carmody, how would you handle it?" he asks me, just as I think I'm safe. Good thing Carinth emphasizes thinking on your feet.

"Based on a good seven seconds of consideration," I open, softening the attitude at the table just a notch, "I'd favor an exhaustive search. This station has weaknesses, because it is in the material world, and I agree with General Tagge that ignoring the possibility of a critical flaw is unwise. Go from the last moment during which the location of the schematics was known with confidence, and explore where they could have been sent from that point forward."

I've been trotted out as a pet monkey, I realize, and thankfully the exhibition is now over. Tarkin is confident that the operation will proceed successfully, dismissing the meeting.

"Nicely done," Carinth tells me, with a pat on the back. My hands are still shaking. We've found a little lounge to take a breather, and from the look in her eyes she's really considering his offer very carefully.

"I got lucky," I reply. Especially lucky that the strategy I made up off the top of my head is theoretically sound, but not actually appealing to Darth Vader. Ugh. I knew, intellectually, that the Empire was the biggest game in town, and Carinth did work for them occasionally, but even meeting people like Tarkin and Vader, much less taking orders from them, is disquieting.

She nods judiciously, with an appraising frown.

"There's nothing wrong with deciding you want a lower-key life."

Unless, of course, Tarkin makes the decision for me. Not so worthless as to merit exiting the station without a ship, but not good enough for him to keep around. Difficult to assess those lines.

Tarkin summons us again, to the station's control center. Naturally, Darth Vader is there, along with the defiant prisoner, former Senator and current princess of Alderaan, Leia Organa. We're to be witnesses to his display of power. Carinth has told more more than once that her clients aren't always pleasant people, but our entire trip so far is making me question her judgment. Surely she can attract the attention of wealthy Imperials who aren't so ruthless.

"In a way," he's saying, and I hastily tune in to an encounter I'll likely be expected to report on, "you have determined the choice of the planet that will be destroyed first."

Tarkin is pacing before her, and the black-robed Sith holds the young woman in place. Emotionally, our positions are becoming very similar. I merely have the illusion of power.

There is nothing I can do.

"Since you are reluctant to provide us with the location of the rebel base," he continues, "I have chosen to test this station's destructive power on your home planet of Alderaan."

Leia's forceful demeanor breaks at that, and she gasps in dismay. I'm not far behind her, with Carinth's face noticeably paling.

There is nothing I can do.

"No," she pleads, "Alderaan is peaceful, we have no weapons-"

He cuts off her protest, as I knew he would.

"You would prefer another target? A military target? Then name the system!"

Leia holds her tongue one more moment, and his vehemence settles into quiet determination. The governor looms over her, and she recoils into Vader.

There is nothing I can do.

"I grow tired of asking this, so it will be the last time," he intones. "Where is the rebel base?"

Another, longer moment. She breaks.

"Dantooine," Leia says reluctantly. "They're on Dantooine."

There is nothing I can do.

"There," he says, almost cheerfully. "You see, Lord Vader? She can be reasonable."

He turns to Motti.

"Continue the operation. You may fire when ready."

"What?!" she exclaims.

"Forgive me, sir," someone says, "but I thought the idea was to reward compliance when compelled by threats."

Oh. That was me. Instead of a death glare, Tarkin looks at me with a combination of impatience and what I would call pity if he hadn't just shown he's devoid of empathy.

"I see you have not instructed the boy in the realities of the galaxy," he tells Carinth. She trembles, and he waves his hand in dismissal.

"There is no room here for those who do not understand the necessities of Imperial rule."

She hurries me away, restraining herself until we're a good four or five corridors away.

"Are you out of your mind?!" she exclaims, grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me, before pushing me against the wall. Every drop of fear I should be feeling is in her right now, apparently.

"Are you?" I counter quietly. "Still willing to sign on with him?"

She recoils, letting go of me and pacing frantically.

"I know that you have been around a long time, making your way in all sorts of dangerous places," I tell her, lowering my voice to reduce the risk of being overheard, "but this is too much. You have to get out. There's a better way."

I say that last with certainty, rather than desperate hope, and Carinth is no fool despite her emotional turmoil.

"What are you talking about?" she breathes. "Wait, you're not suggesting—"

"A ship will be taken in, before too terribly long," I murmur. "It'll be here for a couple of hours. When it leaves, we're going to be on it. Taking a hyperlane to a better future."

I could never have prepared for this moment, but it's happening anyway. My boss looks me up and down like she's never seen me before. In a way, she hasn't.

"Don't make me bring you back to your mother in pieces," she finally whispers, her hand white-knuckled in mine before she slowly forces herself to relax her grip.

Chapter Text

Carinth's fingers are still touching me when the rumble happens. The station's built to withstand the shock of firing the laser, of course, even one big enough to destroy a planet, but the event is still unmistakable. Alderaan is reduced to debris, with its two billion inhabitants dead. There was nothing I could do. Even my protest, couched in pragmatic principle rather than common decency, merely drew Tarkin's scorn. We're both shaken, and cling to each other for several seconds. We, at least, are still alive. The horrible thought creeps through my head that this act of destruction will spark more resistance from the many galactic citizens under the thumb of the Empire than living Alderaanians could have done themselves. It doesn't matter. There was nothing I could do.

"Tarkin's probably cooled down by now," my boss says, withdrawing from our embrace. "I should make sure he still thinks I'm reliable, and doesn't care about you, or—"

"I got it," I reply gruffly. "Let me know if you need me. Gonna try to wear myself out a bit, not get stuck in my thoughts."

It's easy to get lost in this place, which is not to say I actually care much where I am. There's the quiet awareness that I could use one of the consoles to pull up a map and get reoriented. My swift pace makes that difficult, though, which was the whole point. Through rooms, down stairs, avoiding elevators because then I'm just standing and waiting. The Falcon is around, somewhere, but there's no point in heading over until we're ready to go. Seeing a bearded man in robes, so different from the uniforms everyone but the stormtroopers is wearing, kicks off a different chain of thought entirely.

"Hello there," he greets me, when I catch up to him. The call of the void lurks, begging me to answer "General Kenobi", but my great emotional turmoil still dodges that foolishness.

"Mr. Kenobi," I reply instead. The keenness is shining in his eyes, quasi-former Jedi Master evaluating the anomaly on an Imperial superweapon. He's stopped with me, at least for the moment, in a side room that barely qualifies as a closet.

"There was nothing I could do." Now it's verbally slipped out, my running note of helplessness.

He clasps my shoulder, immediately understanding. Well, it's not exactly hard to figure out. Maybe.

"I can't be the only one who hates it," I whisper. Kenobi frowns in approval, slowly nodding.

"Focus on your doubts," he instructs me. "Every reason a soldier of the Empire would have to deplore this cruelty."

I close my eyes, dwelling briefly on ordinary sapient compassion before pushing on. Granting the necessity of reacting to rebellion, the residents of Alderaan had only thoughts of resentment and resistance. Ruining an uninhabited planet would have been quite sufficient to impress the new capabilities for repression of dissent. They were still citizens, robbed of any consideration or due process. Rule through fear is inherently destructive. What if Tarkin decides my home is next? I just wanted a society capable of accomplishing things, not like the paralyzed Republic. I drifted into this, never really making a decision, but now I have to.

And now I can feel Obi-Wan's essence, stretching out to everyone on this station. Touching technician, trooper, analyst, all but a few. Tarkin, Vader, Luke, Leia, Chewie, and Han have no need for this assessment, and in fairness almost nobody passes. But that 'almost' still leaves two dozen people with the flame of freedom burning, from sparks to bonfires under a great bushel basket.

"They shall come to you, my friend," he tells me. "Told quietly enough to avoid attention. Making whatever excuses are necessary to be at your side when the time comes. You, and your superior, must lead them to the exit you've already recognized."

I nod. My mouth is screwed up at the enormity of the responsibility he's just handed me, with my fist clenched in fear and anxiety.

"I wish I could save you," I say, through gritted teeth. The robed man smiles wistfully.

"I have lived well, for the most part. Almost time to die well. We all have our tasks. The Force shall help us see them through."

Obi-Wan scurries off to his death. Not his doom. Dying isn't the same as losing, and his sacrifice will now save a good number of people. Still really has me off-kilter. Where am I supposed to take these deserters, trying to dodge the station's administration as they go AWOL? While I ponder this, going from wandering to pacing and hoping the problem might somehow solve itself, my comm beeps.

"Boss?" I answer.

"Tarkin has us on the next flight out," Carinth tells me without preamble. "Ten hours ETA. He doesn't think he can trust you, or me by extension."

"Are things about to get complicated?" I ask carefully, very aware of the many well-equipped soldiers on the Death Star.

"He's 'not mad, just disappointed.' I think we're okay on that front. Just keep your head down."

More easily said than done, but I can't tell her that with the connection already cut. My loss for direction continues, and I make my way aimlessly through another few hallways before finding someone devoted neither to his gun nor his console. He stands awkwardly in his uniform, but lights up when he sees me before hastily tamping it back down.

"Never seen someone backtalk Tarkin on his own bridge," the man congratulates me. "That took guts."

I nod vigorously. My smile is as strained as one might suspect.

"Yes," I agree, "I'm surprised I still have them."

He blinks, and blanches, but starts taking the lead on my journey anyway.

"I was going to say he wouldn't do that," my new companion tells me, with a look straining at significance. Looking him up and down as we keep walking, I realize his words were very carefully chosen. He's one of the deserters, pushed over by the destruction of Alderaan, and his clothes and posture don't fit because he's not in his usual outfit or confidently at work.

"I'm, Lezzo, by the way," he introduces himself, almost smoothly enough to make me think the name isn't fake.

"Li," I reply.

The massive installation offers plenty of opportunity for detours, getting 'lost', and other evasions of official responsibility. People join us occasionally; Finn, Jake, Terri, Dora, Anderton, Spencer, the names begin to run together. There's a subtle but building sense of awe in our growing party, as the renegades each take their turn to express appreciation for my daring. I did have an unprecedented freedom, what with having no real ties to the current administration, and more importantly, the quiet knowledge of Han Solo being on his way with a ticket off this monstrosity.

When Carinth sees the semi-motley crew, I have a feeling our sojourn is nearly done, though that's tempered by her exasperated head-shaking and clapping her palm to her face.

"Li, Li, Li, what have you gotten yourself into?" she asks. I grin weakly, spreading my arms as if to ask what else I could have done, under the circumstances. Lezzo taps my shoulder, pointing to the right. It's the docking bay where they've got the Falcon, complete with a Wookiee plus company on the other side.

"Time to go," I decide, upon seeing several stormtroopers leave their posts in front of it to watch . . . Vader fight Kenobi. For the slightest instant, I can see, or remember, what's going to happen. Not the outcome there, that's stuck with me, but Luke's reaction. He's going to freak, and we can't afford that right now. We hustle on in, and I wave to the newly-joined rebels before my new friends join them on the ship.

"He knows what he's doing, Luke," I hiss into the guy's ear. He starts, whirling around and away from the incoming sight. "Kenobi's giving you time to run. Take it!"

My fake confidence overpowers the overwhelming day he's had. Farmboy walks up the ramp, though I have to pull him away after Vader makes his move. Carinth takes care of the blast door, keeping the man from immediate pursuit. Solo fires up the ship, and the Death Star transforms from prison into . . . something less.

"There was nothing you could do, buddy," I tell Skywalker bluntly. He's not doing so hot, just sort of hunched over on the couch and table. "Trust me, I know the feeling."

Ah, and there's Han, coming up looking awfully grumpy. An entirely reasonable reaction, but I don't want to deal with it right now.

"Imperial defectors," I preempt him. "I was an independent, and now I've obviously picked a side. We can argue about it later."

The pilot rolls his eyes, gesturing Luke up.

"Sentry ships," he says. "We're not out of it yet."

I start to make a counteroffer, given how shaken up he obviously remains, but Carinth's hand on my arm stops me.

"Going on the offense now is just what he needs," she points out, and I suppose that's fair. Leia offers me a sickly smile, and oh right that's definitely still an issue. A few folks go up to the cockpit so Chewie has some company, or maybe assistance.

"I'm sorry," I tell her, but she just shakes her head as my boss' blanket settles on her shoulders.

"My parents are gone. So many people I grew up with, wiped away. How do I cope with this?" the princess asks. Tears are gathering in her eyes, now that she has the luxury of relative safety to process the emotions.

"Have you ever experienced grief?" I wonder. It's quite possible that my advice won't be any news to her. Leia worries at her lip.

"Not like this," she responds.

"Then the answer is that you don't cope," I say. "You've been changed. You'll never be the person you were this morning. Years from now, your father might still be an ache in your heart. You, and I, and all of us, must now live to make Alderaan a blessing on everyone who knew them."

I'm welling up myself, grabbing a metal tool and turning it in my hands to relieve all the tension I'm trying to alleviate in her. Lights flicker, with a thump, reminding us of the threat that others are currently addressing. There's rage flashing over the former senator now, which works.

"Tarkin will pay for this," she swears.

"He's earned your revenge, I agree, but don't let him turn you into something you're not," I caution her. That earns me a glare. Yeah, okay.

"Solo here," his voice comes in. "We got 'em. You can all breathe easy now."

Leia heaves to her feet, with that opening to discuss business with her rescuer. My boss raises one eyebrow, silently inviting a little more explanation for the day we just had.

Chapter Text

"Two people in an apartment," I say instead. That wasn't what I was going for, but given the talk with Leia it makes sense that this would burst out of me, rather than telling Carinth how I knew the Falcon was on its way.

"Twenty people on the floor. Two hundred in the building. Two thousand, the block. Twenty thousand, in a large neighborhood. Two hundred thousand, the borough. Two million, a city. Twenty million, a nation. Two hundred million, the continent. Two billion . . . Alderaan."

The doohickey in my hands is now uncomfortably warm with my continued fidgeting. My eyes are hot.

"I keep wondering if 'there is nothing I can do' has just been self-serving, us not intervening when Tarkin gave the order. Helplessness isn't exactly a positive feeling, you know?" I confess. Carinth grits her teeth.

"Every single person operating the consoles in that room obeyed him. Most, without question," she tells me grimly. "Your pragmatism was a very slim shot. Otherwise, well, you could have fought very bravely and died very quickly."

It belatedly occurs to me that she's still dealing with the experience herself.

"Are you, okay?" I ask, wondering if her decades of consulting really prepared her. My boss gives a little smile, and takes my hand.

"I will be better," Carinth tells me enigmatically, "if you tell me how you picked up those stray cats."

That gets her a grimace. Criminy, how do I put this?

"I ran into a Jedi after we parted ways," I start. "Wondered if any of the people who were involved had a problem with it. He, we, did a huge mind trick, encouraging a few people to go with their gut and leave."

"'We'?" she asks, cocking her head and arching an eyebrow.

"I could feel him, boss," I say, remembering that strange experience. "Hitting every nook of that station, feeling out the stormtroopers. Sniffing for any doubt someone had, a seed sprouting into a full plant of rebellion. That's a terrible metaphor, but you get the point."

Our discussion is cut short by the ship landing at rebel headquarters. My little band of defectors prepare to face the music. Personally, I'm quite in the mood to do my actual job, instead of all of this weird stuff.

"Kendal?!" one lady exclaims, as we walk down the ramp. Lezzo is in front of me, just the right angle for me to see every drop of blood drain from his face.

"Marie?" he croaks. They rather sprint towards each other. He gets a slap in the face, followed by a bone-breaking hug.

"That's for joining those thugs" for the first move, and "that's for coming back" follows up. Avoiding this rapidly more intimate encounter seems advisable.

"Well," Admiral Ackbar summarizes, "all we have to do is get a pilot to the end of this trench, without getting shot by cannons or TIE fighters, where they can then hit that tiny exhaust port with a proton torpedo."

A lot of grim faces around the table in this semi-makeshift conference room, not least former Admiral Ozzel. He's gotten a variety of responses; not the first flag officer from the Empire that they've accepted, but the possibility of betrayal is fairly significant. Still, it's not my responsibility to worry about that. I'm still kind of surprised that they wanted us in here, but I guess Carinth's got enough of a reputation for her consultancy that the Rebel brass think she can contribute. And I slink along on her coattails.

"Our best shot is putting everyone in there," Commander Willard suggests. "One large force, barreling down the passage and aiming for that target."

Some hubbub, the old 'rhubarb and garbage', but it's fairly positive. Cold calculus of war. Worth sacrificing half their pilots to ruin the Death Star.

"No," Ozzel says. "It might get the job done, but it's not reliable. I say you split them into teams. Dogfighters, strafers, and crack shots. Give one man a clear shot, and that's the battle won."

Rebel pilots and gunners. Imperial pilots and gunners. Either way, a lot of people are going to die. Suppose that's what officer training is for, learning how to give those orders. I don't think I can pull off a second evacuation, and most of the people I might nab wouldn't really be sympathizers anyway.

"Lieooc!" Carinth hisses under her breath. The room has nearly emptied while I was lost in my thoughts, and a few people are looking askance at my glazed eyes.

"Can I use the Force?" I ask her, remembering our interrupted conversation about Kenobi's feat. "Is that why I, sensed, what Obi-Wan was doing?"

I have never seen my boss this serious. Not even in the past day, with its roller coaster of confrontations.

"Be very careful about this," she warns me. "You can't have forgotten how I don't want to bring you back to your mother."

She doesn't want me going down the road of Jedi training, which I completely understand with Inquisitors running around—but this is different.

"You remember what Tarkin said," I reply instead. "Fear of the Death Star will stand in for the Senate and its bureaucracy, keeping the Empire together. But he miscalculated when he killed two billion people for being on the wrong planet, and that's going to get even worse when the superweapon gets destroyed in a few hours. This is the turning of the tide, Carinth. Nineteen years of terror, and we'll look back at this day as the beginning of their end."

With every word I speak, I push myself out, an amateurish imitation of Master Kenobi. To be honest, I'm far from sure that this is actually doing anything. If I am actually Force-sensitive, well, there's a reason learning the Jedi arts takes years. But there's a growing urge that I have to indulge, one way or another. Maybe I'm just imagining it, but there seems to be something probing in her gaze, more than just what the word usually means.

"I picked up a trick or three from the Order," she allows, "back when it existed. I will teach you what I know, if you promise to keep it between us. Not a word to anyone else at all."

There's no choice but to agree, and frankly those are reasonable terms. Wouldn't exactly be smart to go around yelling "Yippee, I'm gonna be a Jedi!" My teacher leads me out of the conference chamber, to a secluded corner, and there are plenty of those around here. When we see Ozzel and that lady having a very intense private discussion, I wonder if that means there are so many alcoves one can't help but stumble upon something happening in one, or so few that they're all going to be claimed.

"There are a lot of different exercises they use to train youngsters," Carinth tells me, setting herself on a thinly-cushioned chair as I follow suit. Not exactly comfortable. Tough luck? "You started with a more mental experience, so let's see where that takes us."

There's the tiniest of puns as she promptly closes her eyes.

"Just breathe," she says, "in and out. Careful not to fall asleep."

"Fat chance-" I start.

"Serious and necessary comments only, Padawan," she promptly cuts me off. 'There are times when you're very funny, Pierce. And then there's now.' Levity on my own time. I focus on my breath, calming myself, letting everything settle down.

"The Force is all around us," my mother's friend tells me. "Everywhere. Inside every cell of your body. Mine. Your ducklings'. It flows through and around, on your breath, to and from your lungs. Somewhere between confidence and humility, you can accomplish much."

I keep breathing, in and out, my urge to reach out waxing and waning. Do I really feel the Force moving around me? Those little currents of existence? Any doubt is rather swept aside by the simple wonder of really having the opportunity to meditate, Jedi-style. No worries about spying here, the whole place is being targeted anyway.

"Let yourself spread, Li," she murmurs, amusement clear in her voice. 'Rank hath its privileges' is quickly shushed as I push out from my head. Gently, not charging ahead, just taking my first steps into a larger world. Second steps, perhaps.

"Maybe," I speculate, speaking slowly as my energy remains in this exercise rather than my words, "I could, we could, reach out and connect everyone. Let them all be aware of the whole field. Each pilot knows who's on him, the moment someone sees it."

"You think you're ready for that, already?" my teacher asks. It's a grand aim, to be sure, and failure could be catastrophic. Might well be too much. But with every moment, I can get a little farther out. Pick up more people. My feelings whisper that for a few shining minutes, we can manage this vast network of total perception. My confidence and humility pulse through, barely hanging on when she whistles loudly. Then there are footsteps, and I open my eyes to see a few people open the door. Carinth beckons them around the place, and it occurs to me that this would serve as a good first attempt at that concept.

"You want to try this, we'll test," she orders, "and you'll probably be out for a week if we do it when the pilots are out risking their necks."

No pressure, or anything.

Chapter Text

Batman’s stride is steady into the Joker’s newest hideout, but only because his suit is keeping him up. Eighteen hours of fighting the madman’s thugs have taken their toll. Multiple broken ribs, sprained knee, concussion, dislocated shoulder, and he bit the inside of his cheek.

“Batsy!” the homicidal clown greets him, arms outspread with glee. “How nice of you to join me! I hope it wasn’t too difficult tracking down all those bombs and disarming them.”

He eyes his long-time foe, waiting for the right moment to strike. That garners him a tut, one of many elements common to their pre-confrontations.

“Don’t be so glum, old boy!” Joker chides the intruder. He strolls around the loft, decorated with his usual macabre accoutrements: posters of himself, vials of venom, wind-up teeth, et cetera. Several video screens click on, showing the collapsed forms of his ill-treated employees around the explosives they’d set up and guarded. Well, the explosives themselves are minimal, a mere aid to dispersal for the canteens of gas they were shaped to distribute throughout the city, and the crime boss even supplied his goons with protective masks.

“Quite an accomplishment, tackling forty-eight separate seeds of mayhem!”

And then his forced grin twists into a deeper level of malicious merriment, as four images switch to decidedly different scenes. No guards. No gas. Piles of plastique.

“Should have known I’d go with fifty-two, Batman.”

The Joker presses one final button, setting off massive explosions that he slipped past the dark knight. That sets him off into cackles at the destruction, smoke billowing in the heart of Gotham. Panic, chaos, bloodshed.

“Look at that city, baby! Isn’t it beautiful?”

Batman joins in his amusement, shocking the killer to his core. No blood-spattered stone face here, the cowl-bared mouth widens in glee, and laughter spills forth.

“He understands!” Joker exclaims, unable to contain his exultation. Rather like an overexcited dog, he dashes around, flinging objects wildly as he goes. A chair, even, crashes through the tall window by his collection of roller-skates.

“Oh, all that life, all that death, you finally get it?! It’s all so pointless, dear friend. You’re really ready to join me?”

His guffawing stops cold, face calm again. Not deadly sinister, as is his default when confronting the worst of the worst, merely placid.

“No. I was just messing with you. I faked that footage. Once again, everything you did was for nothing.”

The casual delivery seals the deal on the psychopath’s heartbreak. Wild frenzy once more, fueled by emotions overwrought like nothing he’s experienced. A complete fraying of his psyche leads him to plant on those skates, scream as the broken glass sticking up from the windowsill digs into his back, and finally plummet down forty feet.

Batman springs into action, barely restraining his groans of agony and impaired movement, but the descent hits the sour spot in human aerodynamics. Too far for anyone to manage without the likelihood of severe injury, too short for him to catch the victim and adjust to a manageable velocity into the ground.

Joker very nearly splats into the street below, already gathering shocked onlookers. For his part, the Bat does little better, with his grapnel detaching a good six feet before an attempted landing that turns into a crunch.

People start to move, split among avoiding a shocking scene, dealing with the Joker, and helping him recuperate from his fall.

“Car’s coming,” Batman croaks, hand barely twitching to wave down their help. He remains prostrate. Indeed, the Batmobile’s telltale rumble is approaching.

One astute young lady assesses the situation, and quickly hops over the fence to a construction site, where she manages to find a shovel. Scrambling back over with it in hand would be an impressive feat indeed, one that she almost immediately abandons in favor of tossing the implement over first and climbing with free hands.

The blade winds up hitting Joker’s neck quite solidly indeed, not breaking the skin but producing a number of unpleasant sounds.

“Oops, my hand slipped,” she says semi-flatly.

“Yes,” an off-duty cop replies, removing the offending object. “Your hand slipped. Maybe you should go have a breather while we wait for the ambulance to pronounce him dead at the scene.”

That vehicle is within neither sight nor hearing, unlike the quasi-tank rolling into place right next to Batman. A masked figure steps out clumsily, and crouches at his side. Several moments of fiddling with his suit later, and the man who was presumably driving the car slumps in his crouch.

“Oh dear,” he says, shaking his head. That brings his gaze to the body lying not five feet away.

“I take it someone’s done for that rotter?” he asks. Nods and mutters of ‘good riddance’ and the like sound among the crowd.

“Then I will be his Charon,” Batman’s companion says quietly. Again people move to help, and this time it is allowed. The Batmobile is loaded by the citizens of Gotham, carrying their protector home.

Twenty-three months earlier

“Finally, the cafeteria,” I tell Mr. Fox. “As my report indicates, it would be more efficient to remove the charges. The income is a pittance compared to the time people waste in line waiting to pay for their food, and implementing a system to deduct the cost as they select their items would be a very poor return on effort.”

Wayne Enterprises’ CFO Lucius Fox raises an eyebrow at me, but he’s more intrigued by the idea than anything else. I think. Well, he hired me to make recommendations to improve the workflow here, and that’s what I’m doing.

“You don’t think people will take advantage of that?” he asks. I shake my head immediately.

“Not for the most part,” I reply. “Oh, it’ll happen a little, but you’ll gain far more in general goodwill, not to mention the tax writeoff. Employees give what they get. Treat them like responsible adults, which almost all of them are.”

He nods appraisingly, writing something down.

“And the cashiers?” he asks.

“I’ve been one. Not exactly an engaging job. I’m sure you can place them in other positions,” I reply. Fox smiles faintly.

“You can,” he corrects. “That will be your first task as system evaluator. If you can pull it off, with no nasty reviews, you’ll be staying here. Full-time, long-term, working with employee feedback and carrying out the recommendations you’ve given me.”

I blink repeatedly; not my usual style, but I can work with it. Honestly, I’ve gotten rather tired of moving around, and Messrs. Fox and Wayne have been a lot more flexible than many of my clients.

He presents me with a few sheets to sign, and fortunately I have what I need to get brought on as an official employee. Time to hit HR for a list of employees who have enough cashiering time as part of their duties that they’d actually have to regear for this change.

Ten, as it turns out. Five are fine with focusing more on keeping the cooks well-informed on what’s in high demand, among other cafeteria responsibilities. That’s roughly in accordance with projected need, which is another reason I wanted to make the change. One wants to get in on the planned employee shuttles, hitting a handful of neighborhoods with difficult commutes and bringing in people who can use the HOV lane while leaving a little more room in the parking lot. Another has struck up a friendship with one of the senior accountants, and will be replacing her assistant when she retires next month. The last is indifferent, content with being assigned anywhere that allows her time to continue her hobbies; I get the sense there that something’s lurking, but it’s not my business.

The last, that is, who presents no problem with arranging employment after ringing up purchases in the cafeteria stops. Esther Wisdom, who goes by ‘Hess’, and Roberta Taylor, semi-similarly preferring her last name, have been accumulating a series of . . . not demerits, so much as coworkers who notice a certain amount of discontentment. None of the options I’ve presented seem to appeal to them.

Two days later, Grace Sinclair in Facilities tells me that they’re clearing out a newly-purchased warehouse—a good opportunity for me to see their procedures in action, and maybe have a bit of a consultation with Mmes. Wisdom and Taylor. They already volunteered, unsurprisingly. It’s a small team overall: the four of us, plus two of the lab techs handling the heavy stuff.

“Hess, you’re on records. Make sure we have a note of everything getting removed. Taylor, packing the boxes with anything usable,” Grace tells us in the van. None of this is news, of course, but reminders are a thing. I listen as best I can, given that I’ve been assigned the wheel here.

“Gus, Phil, you’ve got the dollies and shoulder trucks,” she continues. The ensuing thump sounds quite a lot like one of the two has just patted the hand-cart in question, along with a soft slapping of cloth straps being shaken about.

“Barry, we’re handling the trash.” Grace brandishes leather and rubber gloves. It’s not hard to notice that she’s sharing the least pleasant task with me. Leadership, amirite? “I welcome any suggestions for improvements you’d like to offer, as long as you don’t slack off.”

I just shrug, parking the vehicle and glad I have plenty of room for it. Trucks, vans, unwieldy and not in my comfort zone.

Not ten minutes later, I’m wielding the mighty pushbroom and thankful that Grace opted for plenty of dust protection, when Hess suddenly goes still.

“Something’s coming,” she announces.

I’m confused, and I can tell Grace is too. Especially because, while the power’s working in here, the security cameras aren’t, and the kid isn’t at a convenient vantage point.

“What?” Grace asks, tabling for the moment how Hess knows.

“There’s cold, moving toward us,” she explains, pointing at the wall that even as she speaks, is starting to look . . . funky, in a way I can’t describe. Not that I have to, because moments later, it smashes open with a sound like glass breaking. A bulky suit steps forward. I remember the stories of Mr. Freeze. His cold gun.

It’s aimed at me, I think, and unluckily I smack my hip on the table just behind me as I turn to run. Taylor swoops forward and pushes me out of the way. I fall such that I’m looking at the poor kid right before that blast hits her instead.

Except it doesn’t. She goes all wispy, and the white mass goes right through her to give the table icicles. A smack rings out—Freeze is swatting at the dome over his head, as bugs swirl around it.

Well, if Hess and Taylor are metahumans, that would explain why they want more out of Wayne Enterprises than the part-time stuff teenagers get. Now I just have to survive, so we can discuss this.

Chapter Text

It’s a small measure of satisfaction, toying with Potter, after the great gloom of killing Dumbledore minutes before. No more respite from the Death Eaters, from here on in it will be all undercover, all the time. Now, if only this oaf will listen to me and leave Hogwarts before anything truly awful—

No! A green bolt hits the boy, and he lies still. My purpose, my life, in ashes with him.

And then Potter moves again. Is this the moment Dumbledore spoke of? Was he overly cautious, predicting that the Dark Lord himself would be required to perform the act? I move as swiftly as he can to investigate, Confounding the child as I run. The 'fight' was an enjoyable minute of spite, but now it’s getting in my way.

"Idiot!" I toss back over my shoulder, scolding Rowle to reinforce the very reasonable conclusion that the curse simply missed and Potter merely froze for a moment. "No one may touch him!"

It was very fortunate now that my Occlumency lessons fell on deaf ears the previous year, for I find it easy to slip into the mind of the Boy Who Lived. The traces from which I'd previously steered clear are gone, the Dark Lord purged entirely from his essence. This . . . this might just be a tremendous opportunity. Frantically, I peel through the lessons Potter took with Dumbledore over the course of the last several months, picking through for all of the relevant details. The locket they retrieved before arriving at Hogwarts rather sticks out. Now for the final touches.

"Dumbledore died when you attacked Draco Malfoy, after seeing that he brought Death Eaters into Hogwarts. He and I protected the two of you, but a stroke of bad luck felled him," I murmured, just as the stubborn child's will reasserted itself. Potter blinks at me, and brings his wand up against his foes of the past two years.

"Flee!" I shout to my former companions. "Leave Hogwarts now!"

I chase after them, on the verge of an enormous con job, so close to taking full advantage of what has fallen into my lap. The Carrows and Greyback still remain, to restore my cover; driven by their whims and worst instincts as they are, rather than actual strong wills, adjusting their memories will be a moderate trick. Yaxley is another matter, unfortunately. First, however, I must secure my departure, without giving any of them time to make the matter more complicated.

There is a moment in the outer grounds, before the boundary of the anti-disapparition jinx, when I have three of the Astronomy combatants in my sights with no one inconveniently close. The triple-target Confundus goes down, dazing Amycus, Alecto, and Fenrir.

“You were barely adequate in the struggle with Dumbledore,” I snap at them. “Sheer dumb luck killed him, not to mention preserving my cover.”

The three of them grumble and wince, but accept my version of reality. I cannot risk going back for Yaxley, having managed the luck of noticing Potter’s Body-Bind on him during the moment I used to examine the last few minutes of the boy’s memories. Soon, no doubt, he will be in the hands of the Ministry, and Tonks or Shacklebolt will be able to let me see him so I can deal with his inconvenient awareness of my killing.

"He said he could protect me," Draco says numbly, staring at his hands as he sits on his bed. "Me, and Mother, and Father. And then you killed him. What are we going to do now?"

Perfect, or as perfect as anything can be right now. The boy is shaken, well-positioned for my Confundus to capitalize on the night’s events.

"He made the offer, and you accepted, but Potter was too angry at your company to let this happen. Dumbledore was killed in the ensuing battle."

He slowly nodded, looking to me as his savior and mentor; for a moment, I am nostalgic for the years before the Dark Lord's return, before the boy decided that full membership and independence was the measure of manhood. But this is no time to think back to the past, or at least not that part of it.

I guide him out of the room, into the hall to meet with his mother.

“Narcissa,” I tell her briskly, “you and Draco will not be attending any further meetings. The Order of the Phoenix will ensure your safety, away from here.”

The Malfoy matriarch is shaken, to say the least, but Draco’s state is triggering every single maternal instinct she has. And considering they drove her to enlist my help to keep him alive by killing Dumbledore in the first place, she should be willing to go along.

“Lucius is in Azkaban,” she protests. She takes my hand, gripping it tightly enough to be uncomfortable.

“And thus he is safe, for now,” I reply. That’s not much reassurance, and my hand is now actually hurting from her distress. “When the prison falls, I will tend to him personally, just as I tended to Draco.”

Narcissa pulls back, finally, and gives me a nod.

Now for their Floo, to put someone else on this while I tend to other urgent matters. A pinch of powder summons Elphias Doge only a minute later.

“Doge,” I greet him swiftly, aiming to skip the usual pleasantries and perhaps even the mourning over Dumbledore. “Dumbledore made a deal with Draco Malfoy a minute before he died, granting safety for him and Narcissa. Lucius as well, when the dementors betray us.”

The grief is clear on his face, with his distaste carefully hidden as the Malfoys show themselves. Doge is no stranger to loss or strange bedfellows, though, and he knows when the job needs to be done.

“I’ll take care of it,” he says gruffly. “Podmore and Jones should be able to lend a hand.”

“Pull people as you deem necessary, and inform whoever’s taking over for Albus,” I agree.

Doge nods firmly. “Moody, at a guess,” he offers. “So we’ll be entering a new age of paranoia.”

Rather appropriate, I muse as the fire winks out.

“He should be along quite soon,” I tell Draco and Narcissa. “I have other urgent matters to attend to, but I may be available at some point should you wish, company.”

It’s not something I would ordinarily offer, from a lack of desire on any of our parts, but as I see the mother and son on the settee, the idea seems to comfort them. I make my farewell, heading to the Ministry with all deliberate speed.

“A moment, Kingsley,” I request, after a minute or two of looking in the outskirts of the DMLE. He’s incredibly harried, of course, but my fellow Order member is willing to help briefly.

“Just one,” he grants.

“I need a minute with Corban Yaxley,” I tell him. From the look on Kingsley’s face, he doesn’t want to know why I want to talk with a newly-arrested Death Eater. “I’m sure his lawyer will let me.”

The senior Auror shakes his head ruefully, and shows me to the man’s cell. The Ministry has enough sense to keep them separate, at least, and they’re closed off to boot—no iron bars so people can see me pull this off.

“Your wand, Severus,” he prompts me, holding out his hand for it. That’s . . . not going to work for me.

“Twenty seconds in there,” I bargain. “You can watch and confirm I’m not doing anything dumb.”

Shacklebolt glares at me, but can afford no more delay from the fires going on. I shuffle in quickly, and see Yaxley’s surprise that I’m here. Odd, that he wasn’t interested in watching the only view he’s got.

“What are you doing?” he asks. “I’m no fool. Not saying anything to them.”

“Of course not,” I agree coolly, wand barely in my palm and angled very slightly towards him. “But one makes a minute to confirm these things, Yaxley. Here, you’re silent. When you see the Dark Lord, you will inform him that the Tower was a mess, resulting in Albus Dumbledore’s demise but my cover’s preservation.”

The Confundus lands, making his face glassy as he accepts my version of events. Then I all but flee, sure that my time has already expired. Kingsley’s folded arms confirm that, along with a raised eyebrow at Yaxley’s reaction.

“I look forward to finding out why you Confounded Yaxley, Severus,” Shacklebolt tells me quietly. He really has mastered the art of the implied order.

“I look forward to being at liberty to tell you all kinds of things, Kingsley,” I return. My mouth is pressed thin with discontent. Everyone in the Order knows that I’ve had to maintain my cover. Messing with a Death Eater’s memories is barely a blip.

Now, to Hogwarts. I feel confident that he hid one of the horcruxes there. The cup, or an artifact of Ravenclaw. He would have preferred that vastly over anything Gryffindor valued, and far too driven by his own version of sentiment to choose anything but storing one of their prizes at the school they founded.

The school is all but dead, at this hour. A poor choice of words, given what I was forced to do earlier. Curfew is rather a moot point; few wish to roam the halls, dealing with their grief in their own rooms or common areas.

And then I see Fawkes, simply perching in a windowsill. He cocks his head at me.

“Goodbye,” I tell him, a small wave to Dumbledore’s companion. But the phoenix remains, looking very closely into my eyes. I suppose he understands what I’ve done, what I’ve sacrificed. The journey I’m about to take. I wonder what an immortal creature thinks of abominations made to evade death.

“Until the job is done, then.”

In a flash, Fawkes is gone. The afterimage of that flame remains in my eye for a few moments. Phoenix song lies ahead, perhaps, as I search for these grisly objects.

Chapter Text

One last task before I put an end to this absurdly eventful and draining day. The locket that they retrieved earlier, the last of my quick thinking for now to take it into my custody. Out I go, to the gloomy grounds near midnight. Does the scene qualify as ‘my handiwork’? In a bitter sense, I suppose so, and that is how my senses tend to work.

Hmm. Potter is already there, with a glint in his hand. I should relieve him of it, but I truly don’t have the energy for this confrontation right now. For all his many faults, the boy will take this seriously, due in no small part to the guilt my deception has amplified. Once I’ve gotten some sleep, I’ll tend to the others.

This is a sleeping charm night, and I awake groggy. The work remains, however, though none of it needs to be as hurried as my dealings with Yaxley and the Malfoys.

There are the artifacts to find: Hufflepuff’s cup, and most likely Ravenclaw’s diadem. Nagini itself will have to be the last stroke; he did not notice the diary or ring being destroyed, but his serpentine companion is another matter. Their locations are also a bit of a mystery. I am confident one is at Hogwarts, and the other will presumably be at Gringott’s or the Ministry, but searching those is non-trivial.

“Filius,” I say, knocking on his office door perfunctorily, “I remember discussing Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem with you before, but I’m drawing a blank on the details.”

He’s haggard, as one might expect, but seems glad for the interruption.

“There aren’t many, really,” he responds, continuing the book he’s reading. “She crafted a crown that enhanced her intellect and wisdom greatly. It hasn’t been seen since she died.”

Well. By one, it has, but bringing that up is unwise.

“So,” I say slowly, establishing the relevant facts for myself, “to the best of your estimable knowledge, nobody knows where it is. And no other object has a significant connection to her legacy?”

Filius shakes his head, looking up finally with his brows furrowed.

“No,” he replies, “the diadem is it. I’d ask why you’re curious, but there are worse things to do with your time right now.”

We are all dealing with Albus’ death differently. Even as I ponder my own feelings before making my exit, one of his students walks in, and I am saved the farewell, giving him only a nod.

Horace is bustling around as I head to my own quarters, which is awfully lucky. Some Slytherins are decidedly not fond of Dumbledore, but the body in general does need an adult right now.

“Hope I’m not stepping on your toes, Severus,” he murmurs, and I shake my head firmly.

“By all means,” I tell my predecessor. “I have some unfortunate business to tend to, and you’re rather a ‘people person’.”

Accepting a clasp of my shoulder, I find solitude with my thoughts. Where might a horcrux be hidden, in Hogwarts? Oh, there are many options, but none feel right for such an important artifact.

Well, I already asked Flitwick about the diadem, and didn’t raise any alarm bells. Maybe . . . maybe a house-elf would have an idea. The Dark Lord demonstrably overlooks them, so I have no fear of interrogation, and of course betrayal is ludicrous.

“If there is a house-elf able to assist me with a thought experiment, I would appreciate it,” I say to empty air. Not two seconds later, one pops in right in front of me. Over the years, I’ve gotten more or less used to that, but it’s still at least slightly unsettling.

“Dobby is here, Professor!” my aide proclaims. “What is the matter?”

“Suppose, Dobby,” I reply, “that you wish to hide something in Hogwarts, very securely.”

While I’m considering how else to describe the situation, without necessarily bringing him into my confidence, the mannikin beams and holds up one finger.

“The Come and Go Room, sir!” he answers me. “All Dobby would have to do is walk past the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy three times, while focusing on a room for hiding things.”

My mouth opens and closes a few times, and I scowl with grim satisfaction. It would be just like him to imagine no one else discovered the place.

Dobby winks slyly.

“Is Professor Snape wishing to hide something himself,” he wonders, “or find what someone else has secreted away?”

“Thank you, Dobby,” I reply instead of explaining. “That will be all.”

With that, he vanishes. Of course, now it occurs to me that this is not the best time to search Hogwarts discreetly, even with the greatly narrowed scope. Won’t be too long to wait for that, then. Presuming that either the cup or the diadem is, indeed, in that Room of Hidden Things, the remaining item is, most likely, in Gringott’s or the Ministry.

I dash off a letter to the former institution asking for a meeting. Bank employees tend to frown upon people who’ve come to take a look around. The various departments are something of a different story—wait. Rookwood. Socking an artifact away in the Mysteries complex would work rather well. Don’t have to ask Hagrid to know being in Azkaban is brutal, though.

“Good afternoon,” I tell the prison receptionist. The boy puts me in mind of a Weasley, callow and confident, with a hand moving under the desk. To his wand, I’m sure. “I would like to see Augustus Rookwood, please.”

“Name and appointment time?” he asks. Ah, now I recognize him. Aaron Prewett, who made it to a NEWT in potions five years ago by the skin of his teeth.

“Professor Severus Snape, and I’m afraid this is unscheduled,” I reply. His quill was moving, recording my information, but then comes to a halt.

“Sir, that’s not how it works here,” Aaron tells me evenly. “This isn’t a, a zoo, where you can wander as you like.”

I nod repeatedly at his insistence. My own wand goes down on his desk.

“Of course not, but given recent events, quite a few people take comfort in the dark wizards kept securely here. Surely you don’t think I’m planning anything foolish?”

Aaron’s mouth screws up at the reminder of Dumbledore’s death, and the quiet flattery.

“If you’re not back in five minutes,” he warns, “it’s ten galleons.”

I have no idea where he pulled that fine from, and I don’t care. I hurry through the halls to the secure section, the lifetime residents, Death Eaters being sprinkled among them. Somewhat, making it easier to cloud my intentions. I see Rookwood, Dolohov, and Travers; a convenient mini-crowd for me.

“Look at Mister Special,” Dolohov grunts. The other two aren’t quite as animated, but are no more cheerful for it. “Goody two-shoes ain’t getting his hands dirty.”

“Quiet,” I snap. “With the recent clamor, you are likely aware of Dumbledore’s death. The Dark Lord shall rise again soon. Be ready for the duties with which he has entrusted you.”

My eyes are on Rookwood’s with the last few words; he is surely primed to recall any artifact he was ordered to hide. Snatches, images pulse through his thoughts, ready prey for my Legilimency, but everything he did in the Ministry was passing intelligence along. No objects stored in those guarded rooms. If there is a horcrux, it must have been placed elsewhere in the place. A trip to the Ministry is still in order soon, on the off-chance that the Dark Lord chose a less obvious location, but that is only due diligence rather than a good lead.

A day and a half of correspondence with Griphook, and the funeral is upon us. This is going to be excruciating in so many ways.

Chapter Text

There are not many dry eyes at this gathering. Mine are two of them. Grief has never been an emotion I indulged in public, and I have other feelings to focus upon at the moment. Enduring frustration at two solid years under cover, pretending to be a triple agent. Occlumentic shields constantly, subtly, active. Albus Dumbledore was my mentor, but there were substantial times when dealing with him was . . . difficult. Also, of course, the small hope that I can end this before everything goes completely downhill.

Maybe I’ll even survive.

Students, staff, and a truly eclectic gathering of mourners are now assembled, as Hagrid serves sole pallbearer duty. On reflection, I decide that I truly don’t care about the detail. About any of the arrangements the headmaster made. My focus is on enduring all this sentimentality.

A song from the merfolk. A long-winded and grandiose eulogy. The centaurs are near the edge of the forest, now.

His corpse and its bier erupt into white flame, which hides the whole setup and then becomes a white marble tomb. A volley of arrows from our guests by the trees, increasing the startlement begun by that fire. The demi-humans all depart, and the mourning transforms into departures or socializing.

Some might say that approaching Potter at this time is a cruel exploitation of his troubled situation. They are free to carry my burdens and see how they like it.

As I draw nearer, the snatches of conversation I hear between him and his girlfriend indicate that he is attempting to end their relationship.

One of the disadvantages of working in a school is having to deal with teenage dalliances, but for once I find myself in the position of encouraging one. If for no other reason that a besotted Potter will likely be less troublesome than a heartbroken one.

“Shut up,” I instruct them, abruptly stepping into their argument. “Potter, you believe that the Dark Lord will receive word of your decision, understand it, and care. Try to be less foolish. His eye is on her from last year’s escapade, if nothing else.”

He scrunches his face, not sure whether or not to believe me. Weasley smiles at me wanly, kisses her beau’s cheek, and reads my significant glance to leave.

“Now,” I continue, “I need the object you retrieved.”

Potter shakes his head bitterly.

“It’s a fake,” he replies, “and Dumbledore died for nothing.”

I extend my hand nonetheless, and he digs in his pocket for a moment before depositing the locket in my outstretched palm.

“Unfortunate,” I comment, “that this is not real, but knowing what to look for is an advantage.”

No sooner do I secure it among my robes than the minister enters the scene.

“Professor Snape,” Scrimgeour says with a minor air of politeness, “might I have a word with Harry?”

“No,” I reply, matter of fact. His mouth curls into something approaching a snarl, for a moment.

“It’s fine, sir,” the boy says with a shrug.

“The minister wishes to speak with you about the events of that night, Potter,” I inform him. No surprise that he didn’t figure that out. “Obviously, that information will remain with us, as per Dumbledore’s request.”

The minister’s arms are folded now, as he glares at each of us in turn.

“You truly think I will just leave it at this?” Scrimgeour demands.

“I think you’re going to concede that what the Ministry doesn’t know can’t be leaked,” I reply. “I think we’ll be willing to share a great deal when the current crisis is resolved.”

“I think Stan Shunpike is still in Azkaban,” Potter adds, smiling thinly. That truly gets the man’s goat. Not wise, perhaps, but satisfying.

“Merlin save me from Dumbledore’s men,” Scrimgeour spits. His face reddens, at least for the moment before he leaves.

“Try to enjoy your summer, Potter,” I tell him brusquely, in dismissal. The boy remains.

“You’re going after, them,” he says, pausing to avoid using the word but nevertheless conveying his meaning, “aren’t you?”

“I have already begun,” I reply coolly. “Please, tell me how you would do better than a grown man with encyclopedic knowledge of the enemy, a respectable reputation, and command of spells that have not yet crossed your path.”

“Dumbledore’s lessons were with me,” he counters, and I nod with a slight upward tug to my lip.

“Were. Past tense. They were much more productive than your Occlumency instruction.”

The answering glare brings another note of satisfaction, so I give him a little nibble.

“Should your presence prove helpful, I will call for you.”

With that, I depart. It will likely be slightly less annoying to bring him in once or twice than maintain a complete stonewall, and for all I know his perspective may actually be useful.

The Ministry is my next stop, despite the unpleasantness with Scrimgeour not ten minutes ago. Well. It hardly matters, since he’ll surely be focused on his own work, not someone walking the corridors.

The halls are quiet, what few visitors are here subdued. A small, weak summoning charm gives me no feedback, though frankly I doubt it will work on them anyway. Protection against Accio is the least of what he set up in the cave and the old shack. What I can do, however, is make anything like this locket light up in my view. A niche spell, which would be useless if the receptacle hadn’t been stolen in the first place.

Ah, Umbridge is making her rounds, bustling down in my direction with that insipid smile. Very thankfully, her gaze is not on me, and in even better luck, the shine around her neck is unmistakable. The smoothest switching spell I’ve ever performed goes off, and leaves the target safely with me.

I haven’t just swapped those two objects, it turns out—my fortune has gone from excellent, to poor indeed. Amycus and Alecto Carrow have decided that the hallway outside the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee is the appropriate place to corner me.

“You’ve been avoiding us, Snape!” he announces, nearly trying to sling his arm around my shoulder.

“I’ve never had any interest in your company, Amycus,” I reply shortly. “What has made you think that changed?”

Alecto snorts, snapping her gum loudly.

“Now, now, don’t be like that,” she pleads, pretending to pout. “We’re going to be such good friends when you’re headmaster, soon!”

My stony face isn’t dissuading them one bit from this foolishness.

“If I am instructed to bring you on as employees, then I shall do so,” I bite off. “I was not friends with Dumbledore, and I expect that professionalism to continue.”

Amycus chuckles crudely.

“Ah, don’t be like that, old boy,” he chides me. “You know you can’t do anything without his permission, anyway.”

My wand comes out, and their cheer fades.

“Do tell him of my actions, I’m sure he’ll be most sympathetic,” I hiss. “Employer evaluation reports are his favorite.”

The Carrows are cowed for at least a few moments, and I stride away. Not stomping, not flouncing. A break, at Grimmauld Place, to rid myself of this mood.

Chapter Text

It’s a lovely wedding, all in all. Grace is radiant, and Alex has that classic mix of incredibly anxious plus fascinated with his bride. They lean a little more traditional decor-wise than I’m used to, but a single look at the Le Domases’ manor backs that up in spades. If anything, there’s a little surprise that Grace didn’t get pushed into wearing a veil and a dress that trails several feet behind her. The train, that’s what it’s called.

The line to greet the happy couple has now faded away; the new in-laws and the bridesmaids naturally went first, and they’ve had some time to breathe. I reflect, for a moment, on the irony of so many people being at an event to celebrate the decisions of just two, and monopolizing hours afterwards. Nevertheless, it’s my turn to convey my congratulations.

“Well, hello there, Mr. and Mrs. Le Domas,” I greet them, and then clench my fist in self-chiding frustration at my pronunciation of “Leh doe-MAH” rather than “luh DOH-muss”. “Sorry, Le Domas. I keep forgetting.”

Grace giggles at my faux pas, and Alex grins as he shakes his head in dismissal.

“You’re far from the first, Ray,” he assures me, grasping my now-extended hand solidly. “Though, most people go with the Americanized version reflexively. Pretty sure that’s why my grand-dad changed it.”

“Tale as old as time,” I muse. That gets me looking at their house, along with humming a few notes from the song in Beauty and the Beast. “A little like that humble abode, eh?”

That gets a solid chuckle all around. We even start drifting toward the doors; I suppose Alex wants to show us around a little. He graciously helps Grace up each step, while she hikes up her dress to stay well clear of her heels. I’m so glad I got a comfortable suit for these occasions.

“So what line of work are you in, Ray?” he asks. “I’ve been wondering for a while; Grace told me a bit about the rest of her side.”

“I do some contracting work for SHIELD,” I reply vaguely, nodding in thanks as he opens the door for us and steps aside to hold it. Alex barely stifles his snort at that, for which Grace jabs him with her elbow. Not the usual reaction, for sure.

“Sorry, sorry,” the groom hastily apologizes. Is that still an appropriate word, since the wedding has definitely transitioned from ‘ceremony’ to ‘reception’ and is barely hanging on to that? Probably not. Anyway, he strides quickly down the hall, to point out a group portrait hung on the dark mahogany wall. “It’s just, one of Dad’s friends is in that neck of the woods, and talks about ‘intel weenies.’”

“Good old desk piloting,” I agree, frowning in approval. Paperwork certainly plays a significant role in my day-to-day routine, beyond the reports I review and write.

Beyond the atrium, or possibly vestibule, Alex shows us the smoking room (“Grand-dad used to have cigars in the evening”, which gets a little blush from Grace, with her occasional efforts to quit), billiards hall, and a small office.

“I worked a couple of summers here,” he muses, “getting my feet wet in the family business, before I started, you know, making my own way.”

Grace told me, once, that he didn’t get along with his family. Just once. Not a subject she enjoyed, quite reasonably. It makes me wonder why he got married here. Not very much, of course; estrangement can fade over time, and be put aside for a happy occasion like this. But it still niggles at me. Something about Alex’s expression right now — especially since this is the prime time for them to depart for their honeymoon. I can’t put my finger on it, so I pull the old trick of just letting it cook. Maybe I’ll figure out what’s missing later.

Then we come to the library, which does me a delightful favor of wiping away any traces of that knotty contemplation and replacing them with awe. So many bookcases, in a room large enough to have them freestanding rather than carpeting the walls. Not too far short of a college’s collection. The books pull me in, and I wave farewell to the happy couple.

I get lost in the pages very quickly. Romance novels, mysteries, histories, an intriguing little pocket of horror, the sections go on; organization worthy of a major assembly of words. Even having to turn on the lights, eventually, doesn’t make me come up for air.

I only, finally, realize what’s happened when I finish a book and look at the window to see it’s pitch black outside. Makes me wish I’d rented a car, instead of taking a cab—though at least I didn’t get a ride and then leave my benefactors wondering where on earth I am when they were ready to leave. Well, calling one right now is going to be a giant pain, but it’s awfully rude to ask to stay the night.

Except that my phone isn’t in my pocket. Oh, no. This place is enormous, even with my short path from the entrance to this book dominion. Finding it is going to be so much fun. Looking carefully at my chair, the tables nearby, and the shelves I’ve used gets me nowhere. My best chance is probably the staff picking it up while they were cleaning up from the ceremony. I don’t think I dropped it after Alex started the ‘tour’, at least.

No clocks on the wall, as I drift through the corridors. Not that it matters. I can feel how late it is through my growing hunger and thirst, and the ache in my eyes. At some point, there will be a number to add to this story of how dumb I was.

“Georgie!” I hear someone call out. That name rings a bell. I vaguely remember Grace talking about Alex’s nephews. Well, either way, presumably anyone who’s still here can help me find my phone and either arrange a ride out or put me up for the night. My stride quickens.

“Geor-who are you?” I catch sight of that someone, who sure looks like a maid, and she’s quite reasonably confused by my presence.

“Sorry,” I reply sheepishly. “I’m Ray, for Grace’s side. Didn’t mean to stay so long, but the library here is amazing. Once we’ve found Georgie, can you help me get my phone and call a cab?”

She screws up her mouth, starting to shake her head.

“I have to put him to bed, Ray. That’s going to take a little while.”

My teeth are bared as I nod in grim acceptance. The other employees likely also have their duties, so I may well have little choice but to find a spare room and bunk down.

“Georgie!” the maid calls again. I keep her company, for lack of anything better to do. Oh, I could test my luck by trying to find someone who doesn’t have an assigned task, but really, whatever. For a moment, I consider joining her summons, reminding him that it’s bedtime. Yes, surely that will make a young boy return to the caretaker he left late at night in the first place. I, as a seven-year-old child, would absolutely have returned rather than savor every minute awake and out of bed that I achieved.

And then there’s a gunshot, close to us. Splinters from the wall scrape me as I shove her down.

“Aww, I missed,” someone whines. “Was that even her? Sorry!”

Well, it’s a relief that we probably weren’t the intended target, but who is shooting here, and why?

“What’s going on here?” I hiss at my terrified companion. She lacks the composure to answer. Can’t say I blame her. We stumble away, staying down for good measure. This is going to be a fascinating tale, assuming I survive to tell it.

Chapter Text

I wince as the ship grinds once more, navigational systems on their last legs. At least Coruscant air traffic control will be on the ball, right?

“Don’t say it,” I warn my ghostly mentor. Iroh raises an eyebrow.

“Say what?” he wonders. “We have had this discussion, Sook. There is no need to reiterate it. I am sure that your metalbending will, before too terribly long, be in a state where you can use it for emergency repairs. For now, you are wise to prepare to airbend your way to a landing you can stagger away from.”

Yeah, have to get into that groove. In the six months since these abilities just, poofed into existence, my greatest strength by far has been ‘airbending’, not that half a year is much time to hone these skills. Swirling my arms around does virtually nothing, since we’re not really in atmo yet, but it’s important to make the most of the air I get the moment it starts being properly usable.

“I really wish literally any of the comms were working,” I groan. “Even a window would be nice.”

Iroh harrumphs. I redirect to what I have, instead.

“Coming into the best-equipped planet in the galaxy,” I say, feeling the tiny rattle of a baby wisp of breeze hitting the cockpit. “Their emergency shuttles and my aerokinesis should be enough to limit the fallout here to property damage. Which I can pay off, to the extent that I have to, with my services as the Avatar. Probably.”

The air is thickening, ever so slowly. Good and bad, mostly good. I want to keep going slowly, keep having all that wonderful time to control this descent. But it’s frustrating that I just don’t have any good tools to pull that off yet. Little air, low speed. More of the former helps keep the latter down, but the process of getting more inexorably increases the latter anyway.

“Slow, simple, ever-flowing,” Iroh coaches me. “Very good. You’ve got this, Sook.”

Airbending philosophy has the currents running through it; there are some techniques that use direct action, absolute opposition, but the fundamentals are about how air moves, every which way. So the real breeze I have now isn’t running flat at the ship, plain aerobraking, but steady alteration of the trajectory. Guiding it into a gentler path, gaining control of the volume around it.

I don’t have proper communications, so I can’t tell what Coruscant’s traffic administration is asking me, but the currents around the ship are running into other obstacles now. If I had to guess, and frankly that’s becoming more necessary, I’d say that they’ve got a couple of beacons around me, warning everyone away from the area. Following, of course. It would be really nice to have a few cables latch on, but the chance that they’d just tear through this crate anyway is rather high.

Yup, really getting my hands around the atmosphere now. Looking at the displays is just a distraction, have to keep my thoughts on what’s around me instead of numbers. Getting warm in here, and noisy, but the ship’s zipping along at a reasonable pace. All these tall buildings, at least the architecture’s straightforward. My own breathing’s getting brisk, but I can keep this up long enough to touch down. Avatar State will kick in if necessary, a safety net I’d rather not have come into play.

Now there’s some real warmth coming into play. Insulation’s breaking down, and the heat on the outside’s getting conducted further in with increasing efficiency. Plus, naturally, bits of this bucket of bolts are beginning to break apart. Sounds of traffic around me are starting to leak in. I can sympathize with the objections to my situation, and I’m attempting to remedy it, I promise. Ventilation is worth a shot, bringing in fresh air through those rips, but I can tell after a couple of seconds that I’m just going to have to be uncomfortable—the diversion is costing too much.

I can feel a landing pad! Time for a final vortex, getting me on solid ground to provide painful but effective resistance. Limbs are definitely aching, not to mention dripping with sweat, and it’s like a sauna in here. Another couple of ships nearby, but I don’t think they’re in my way.

The screech of contact is hideous, jarring, embarrassing, but not lethal. Slide, slide, nearly stopped a solid meter from the edge, and the increasingly patchy frame has a hole right above me to suck air through.

That saves my life. The reflexes Iroh has been helping me build kick into play as the shockwave tears through the now-former ship, and I sail through the air like a brick with wings. Another burst of flames rips through the debris, providing a sight I could describe in many ways if I weren’t managing a second descent while running on fumes. It’s not a belly-flop, quite, which is very fortunate since this landing pad is much harder than water.

Lying down for a bit is nice, very nice after this ordeal. Well. I know the ordeal isn’t actually over yet, but I’m alive and as far as I know, nobody is actually hurt. Then again, would I be aware if someone had been injured by those explosions?

“You all right there, buddy?” someone asks. I can feel crouching right next to me.

“For certain definitions of the phrase, I suppose,” I groan. “I don’t think anything’s broken. Mostly, I’m just wiped.”

I get to my feet, with some help from this concerned bystander. I see now he has an impressive eyepatch, and a uniform to boot.

“Senator,” he tells his companion, “the official transport is being rerouted. I suspect the explosions had little to do with the crash landing.”

The flight helmet comes off, and her face looks a little familiar.

“Apart from setting it off, with far less tragic consequences.”

She looks directly at me.

“You have my thanks for that. And for your Jedi training helping you survive the fiasco.”

I shake my head a little.

“Not a Jedi, but I’m getting the feeling explanations are going to have to wait. Unless you’re heading for a vacation, rather than going to work, Senator.”

She glares at her friend, I suspect the head of her security, but there’s little heat in it.

“So,” I continue, “we’ve got to wonder who set up that assassination attempt. Plan for the worst, and maybe there will be pleasant surprises.”

He raises an eyebrow, but lets me keep pace with them hurrying along the platform to head into the building.

“‘We’, huh? Angling for a job?”

I shake my head, sort of shrugging. Some of this explanation isn’t going to wait, it seems.

“Jedi and I work in some of the same spheres. You’ve seen a little of what I can do, and that’s an intel advantage you have over the perpetrator here.”

They look at each other for several long moments.

“Captain Typho, when can you get him cleared?” the senator asks. He simply gestures towards me.

“Depends on whether he can pass the background checks,” Typho replies unapologetically. “I’m sure you understand that we can’t simply take you into our confidences based on what just happened, Mister . . .”

“Sook Prehn,” I introduce myself. “And in a year or three, introducing myself as the Avatar is going to mean something.”

It’s not about ambition, or arrogance, and thankfully that comes through as I tell them, because the senator nods at me.

“What’s it going to mean, exactly?” she asks. We enter the outskirts of the Senate chambers, and a few scanners start working me over. Captain Typho and Senator ‘Amidala’ also have to endure the process, but not as much, I think. Perks of working there, presumably.

“The Avatar’s function is serving as a bridge between communities,” I try to explain. There’s a lot of context here, that Iroh has conveyed to me in bits and pieces since I started playing with wind. “Originally, the problem was between humans and spirits, but it’s grown since then.”

“Ah, a diplomat!” Amidala replies warmly. Her enthusiasm is interrupted when several people greet her, which results in lengthy discussion of that explosion. I introduce myself to, let’s see. Bail Organa, Jar Jar Binks, and Orn Free Taa. Or at least those are the names I remember. Organa and Binks, at least, don’t give the vibe of expecting me to catch much of anything right now.

“Senator Amidala, the events on the landing platform, very worrying,” the wizened Jedi Master Yoda greets her, when our enlarged group enters the Supreme Chancellor’s office. Boy, I have risen in the galaxy. “Seeing you well brings warm feelings to my heart.”

She appreciates the sentiment, but still gets right to business.

“Do you have any idea who was behind the attack?” Amidala asks tersely.

“Our intelligence points to disgruntled spice miners on the moons of Naboo,” another of the Jedi delegation offers. I’ve seen him before, but putting a name to him is more of a challenge.

“Mace Windu,” Typho whispers to me, and I nod in thanks. Doesn’t make his hypothesis more plausible, though. Seems like a challenging move, making those connections across the galaxy, especially given that profession—they’re not the ones making money there, and planting explosives on a guarded landing pad takes more than a few credits.

“I think that Count Dooku was behind it,” the senator proclaims. The name doesn’t ring a bell. Looks like I have some crash courses in galactic politics to enjoy, if I can really wrangle a role here.

“He is a political idealist, not a murderer,” one of Yoda’s colleagues counters.

“You know, milady,” Windu muses, “Count Dooku was once a Jedi. He couldn’t assassinate anyone. It’s not in his character.”

“People change,” I murmur to Typho, to his barely perceptible nod. Speaking up is not a wise move for me, not here, but I’m glad someone is paying attention to every avenue.

“But, for certain, Senator,” Yoda concludes, “in grave danger you are.”

Chancellor Palpatine has been standing at his window the entire time, admiring the admittedly amazing view. Finally, he enters the conversation.

“Master Jedi, may I suggest that the senator be placed under the protection of your graces?”

“That might prove to be more of a disruption of her existing arrangements,” Senator Organa stiffly contests. Typho’s reaction is decidedly more mixed; I guess it would be disruptive, but Jedi are nothing to sneeze at for protection.

“Chancellor, if I may comment,” Amidala protests, “I do not believe—”

“The situation is that serious?” Palpatine interrupts. “We are all thankful for the accidental intervention of Mr. Prehn, here, that saved your life. However, relying on luck to continue that job seems foolish. Perhaps he can assist someone you’re familiar with. An old friend, like Master Kenobi.”

“That’s possible,” Windu agrees. “He’s just returned from a border dispute on Ansion.”

Most of the room is looking at me now, given that preliminary agreement.

“I was already hoping to help,” I assure them. “Thank you for giving me the opportunity, Chancellor.”

His grin is smarmy, but one can’t expect the head of government to deviate too much from politician stereotypes.

“Consider it a personal favor, old friend,” Palpatine implores Amidala. “We’ve already come very close to losing you.”

“I’ll have Obi-Wan report to you at once, milady,” Windu tells her with a bow.

“Thank you, Master Windu,” she replies graciously, though I can see her irritation. He departs promptly, and we make room for Palpatine’s next meeting.

Binks welcomes Master Kenobi and his padawan, Anakin Skywalker, while Typho and I keep an eye out and Amidala enjoys her balcony.

“It’s a great pleasure to see you again, milady,” Kenobi greets her, bowing deeply. I guess bowing is a Jedi thing?

“It has been far too long, Master Kenobi,” she replies, shaking his hand.

“Mr. Prehn,” he bows to me, “thank you for your assistance earlier.”

“I really didn’t expect trying not to crash that thing to have such positive consequences,” I blurt, pursing my lips and restraining morbid amusement at my own absurdity. Jar Jar guffaws, however, and Kenobi lets out a small chuckle.

“How did you do it?” Anakin asks. “I’ve been looking at the security footage. Your technique didn’t resemble the Jedi Order, any of the offshoots, or groups like the Witches of Dathomir.”

I bite my lip, considering how to phrase this.

“It’s called airbending,” I tell them, sure that the rest of the group is just as curious. “I gained the ability a few months ago, and I’ve been working on it since then. Along with a few other branches of telekinesis: earth, fire, and water. They all come from a planet I’ve never been to, which the residents didn’t give any notable name besides ‘Earth’.”

“Extraordinary,” Kenobi murmurs. “Well, I look forward to learning more about this Force tradition as we make our plans to safeguard Senator Amidala.”

With that, Typho redirects us, remaining standing while the rest of the group gets comfortable on the available couches.

“I’m Captain Typho of Her Majesty’s security service,” he introduces himself to the Jedi. “Queen Jamillia has been informed of your assignment. I’m grateful you are here, Master Kenobi. The situation here is more dangerous than the senator will admit.”

Amidala doesn’t quite scowl at that.

“I don’t need more security, I need answers,” she shoots back, primarily at Kenobi and Skywalker. “I want to know who’s trying to kill me.”

Kenobi shakes his head a little.

“We’re here to protect you, Senator, not to start an investigation,” he rebuts. That doesn’t sit well with his apprentice.

“We will find out who’s trying to kill you, Padme,” Anakin butts in. “I promise.”

I shake my head more firmly than Kenobi did, who’s about to admonish the fellow.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Skywalker,” I tell him, then turn to face the master and the senator. “The problem is that both of you are correct. Our job is keeping you alive, and investigating the threat to your life is simultaneously going to divide our efforts and assist them. After all, if we can find out who’s behind it, then countering them becomes significantly easier.”

That doesn’t satisfy either Jedi, really.

“I invite you and Captain Typhoton look into the source of these threats, and clearly real danger,” Kenobi pronounces. “Anakin and I have a mandate for the senator’s safety, nothing else.”

Ohhhh, I can see the two of them have had this argument before. Someone’s chafing at the bit, ready to go off on his own.

“Perhaps the three of you just being here will be able to dispel the mystery behind these attempts,” Senator Amidala offers, trying to cut the tension. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will retire.”

She rises, cuing everyone else to get to their feet as well. I find myself a different seat, for meditation.

Anakin and Jar Jar catch up, while Typho grabs Obi-Wan and me.

“I know I’ll feel better having you here,” he confesses, mostly to the seasoned Jedi. “I’ll have an officer stationed on every floor, along with me personally in the control center downstairs.”

“I’ll stay here,” I volunteer. “See if I can get into the groove and sense any disturbance in the air around us, without wearing myself out in the process.”

They both nod at that; I’m far from an experienced professional in these matters, but I suppose they’ll take what they can get, and the explosion was something of a verification of my abilities.

“Send me the details for review,” Kenobi requests. We split up again, him to tend to Skywalker and me to seek my own little zone.

“Don’t hold yourself to too high a standard, Sook,” Iroh counsels me. He’s been silent for hours, so it’s a little startling to hear him again. “This is a team effort, and no one expects you to solve anything yourself.”

I nod slowly, but my grimace shows the desire to build more of a reputation. My duties are more difficult because people don’t take me seriously, and the sooner I have some credibility, the better off everyone will be.

Chapter Text

I have a handle on some of the currents around here. The ones in Amidala’s room, and a few by her window. I don’t know if it’s much, really, but trusting in my ability to help is important. Meanwhile, Anakin and Obi-Wan are discussing the security arrangements. The teacher isn’t happy about her being bait, which on the one hand isn’t exactly a great setup, but the options here are limited. And now it’s devolving into an argument.

“I’m impressed that you gentlemen are able to do your jobs while debating the finer points of practical democracy, the difference between pandering to your constituents and advocating for them,” I say, controlling my tone of voice, “and very flattered that you think I can focus on the air in there with that going on.”

That gets them to wind down a bit, fortunately.

“I’d very much like to learn more about your Force tradition,” Anakin offers, and I give him a small smile.

“I appreciate that,” I reply, neither opening my eyes nor moving from my seat. “At some point, I’m confident it will be possible, but right now—”

Something’s there. Outside the window. Can’t tell what. The two Jedi draw their lightsabers, without igniting them quite yet.

Two objects just dropped onto the floor, just inside the room. I spring up, but they’re meters ahead of me, Anakin with his blade glowing blue. He focuses on whatever was injected. Obi-Wan and I, however, are more interested in the delivery method. A small drone, I barely see as my eyes continue to adjust to the low light.

He charges through the great glass pane, grabbing at the mechanical assassin. I follow close behind. Maybe airbending the two of us will be easier than that stupid ship.

“Guard Senator Amidala!” I call behind me to the padawan. Obi-Wan grunts, from exertion or amusement. Or both.

“He’ll trust her staff to take care of that. I, meanwhile, will need a little backup for this bold move.”

That sounds like an excellent plan. This thing is zooming right along, and forming a cushion to make sure we both stay up is certainly a challenge. Granted, I’ve got a fair amount to work with given all the cars around us generating wind in their wake, plus the very tall buildings yielding both updrafts and general splashing around of air currents, but still. There’s enough room for me to perch atop this drone while Obi-Wan hangs on below, at least.

“You’ve done this before,” Iroh encourages me, hanging cheerfully at my side. “Remember the skeet shooting on Raxus?”

I’ve been trying to forget. Princess Cantrip thought it was lots of fun, until she passed out from the air sphere I made on the way down.

“Hang on,” I shout down. Alas, for the level of mastery that would let me pipe the words right to his ear even while I’m steadying our journey to . . . wherever the droid is taking us. He doesn’t respond, that I can hear, but my focus is primarily on shaping this fountain. Stability and upward momentum, that’s what we need. Controlling the flight path would make it ever so much easier, but we play the cards we’re dealt.

Zoom, swish, careen. I’d swear this thing was trying to throw us off, except there’s the simple element of us still being on.

Oh, no, there we go. By the time I realized the shot was coming, pushing it away wasn’t feasible. The Jedi knight and I fall steadily. A lot faster than I’d like, but the impact should still be pretty survivable. I think.

Been descending for a little while now, at least thirty seconds. Still plenty of room to work with—but there’s a speeder heading for us, phew. Matching our velocity takes another hundred meters, at a guess. Finally, we clamber into a couple of seats.

“Thanks, buddy,” I pant, to Skywalker’s nod.

“Cut it a little close there, don’t you think?” Kenobi asks.

“Oh, you know, I couldn’t find a speeder that I really liked,” he jokes in return. “With an open cockpit and enough ‘pedal to the metal’.”

Obi-Wan just shakes his head.

“If you spent as long practicing your saber techniques as you do your wit,” he scolds, voice strained as the car begins another maneuver to catch the assassin, “you would rival Master Yoda as a swordsman.”

“You know,” I say, and I think I just interrupted the driver, but he doesn’t seem to mind, “there’s a lot to be said for quipping in the face of danger. Keeping your own focus steady, unsettling your opponent, reassuring any hapless companions…”

Anakin dodges through oncoming traffic, both directly into lanes and perpendicular, as we chase whoever directed that drone and then shot it down. Ooooh, I am not fond of speeding right to the ground, even if it’s kilometers below us.

“Pull up, Anakin,” Obi-Wan urges, as we’re shooting straight into a bus. “Pull up!”

He veers off, laughing, just in time. Can they hear my small squeak?

“You know I don’t like it when you do that,” the master says, and I nod vigorously.

“Sorry, Master,” the kid apologizes. “I forgot you don’t like flying.”

“That’s not flying!” I squawk, and I’m rewarded by Obi-Wan’s nod. “Look, I might be pretty confident that you’re not going to crash, with these various Force techniques or whatever you’ve got going on, but my body reacts inexorably to these near-misses anyway!”

At last, we flatten out. A more industrial than urban environment now, complete with pipes that belch flames. Because of course there are. Still tracking that ship.

And now ahead of us, they’ve triggered some sort of massive electrical thing.

“I would not advise even a master firebender to attempt lightning-bending here,” Iroh advises. “But those strikes are just as much about air.”

“Gonna see if I can make an ionosphere,” I pant, “give us some Faraday cage resistance.”

“The best of luck to you,” Obi-Wan calls out with an anticipatory wince, “since Anakin can’t avoid this power coupling!”

In and out, in and out, pull the currents apart, form that ionic-magnetic differential, get some kind of electrical buffer going—zzzzap. Ow.

“Worth a shot,” I groan ruefully. Well, ‘ow’ is a better reaction than I’d expected, and the screens I can see from here barely flickered, so we’re still in the game.

Finally, the other ship veers off, and Anakin doesn’t follow.

“He went that way!” Obi-Wan protests.

“He’s taking too many risks,” his student counters. “Press him much longer, and there won’t be any interrogation.”

“You really think you can use the Force to sneak up on that assassin?” I ask. It definitely sounds more pleasant than continuing this ‘joy’-ride.

“With a shortcut . . . probably,” Anakin replies, his tone more aspirational than confident.

It certainly is short, coming to a halt soon after by the side of a building, but I’m not seeing our objective.

“Is this one of those things where you pull some Jedi nonsense and surprise everyone?” I ask.

“Yup!” Anakin announces cheerfully, jumping out of the speeder and plummeting.

Obi-Wan groans. Nevertheless, he shifts over, steering us down to take his own turn at providing backup. We catch sight of the opposing craft before too terribly long, with Anakin getting thrown around it but still keeping his grip.

“You two seem like an unorthodox but effective team,” I muse, seeing him stick his lightsaber into the cockpit and start wrecking it. Only a few seconds later, a few shots knock it from his hand.

“Got it,” I volunteer, letting Kenobi focus on driving. I stick my own hand out, fetching the weapon with a quick air funnel.

The pursuit continues, descending further, and it’s starting to look like the other ship is in trouble. Not surprising, with the struggle he’s put up. We’re getting close to an open walkway here, and plenty of people around, so I try to clear the way. Wind can be awfully effective at nudging folks who aren’t particularly intent on a straight path.

Obi-Wan gets us down on the ground, nice and smooth. Smoother than is wise.

“I’m not objecting to a pleasant landing,” I tell him, handing over Anakin’s saber, “but screeching to a halt is faster when you’re chasing someone.”

Still and all, we rush to his padawan.

“She went into the club, Master,” Anakin reports. He’s still worked up from that chase.

“Patience, Anakin,” Obi-Wan reminds him. “He went in there to hide, not run. We can sense where he is, which means we have the advantage.”

He’s embarrassed now, and even more so when his teacher plonks the hilt into his palm.

We walk into the place, the two of them continuing their semi-educational banter. A long and historied relationship, this one.

“I think he is a she,” Anakin muses, narrowing down the search, “and I think she is a changeling.”

“Then be extra careful,” Kenobi cautions him. “Good luck, Anakin. I need a drink, after that drive.”

Well. I’m pretty sure he means quiet observation, to Skywalker’s more obvious search. I start looking for the back door, in case our target gets spooked and runs. It doesn’t go great, since I don’t fit in here, but it’s something to do.

Turns out Obi-Wan also meant he was using himself as bait, since two minutes later he turns and cuts her hand off. Outside we go, as Anakin tells them it’s Jedi business. Obi-Wan and I carry her on our shoulders, the woman groaning in pain. He sets her down on the grimy ground outside.

“Do you know who it was you were trying to kill?” Obi-Wan asks. Her arm is still around his shoulders.

“It was a senator from Naboo,” the assassin mumbles. Her voice is still tight with the agony of her missing appendage.

“And who hired you?” he continues.

“It was just a job,” she protests. This is the sort of thing they have to keep quiet about. Professional standards. Except with a missing hand and two Jedi interrogating her, better a broken contract than something more dire?

“Who hired you?” Anakin presses, gently. “Tell us.”

“Tell us now!” he demands, every unexpected trace of softness gone from his voice.

Anakin and Obi-Wan know more about this than I do. Never dealt with assassins before. It occurs to me, though, that this criminal was well-equipped. Explosives on Amidala’s landing pad, that droid throwing whatever those things were into her room, and then she shot it down when Kenobi used it to follow her. Nearly evaded the two of them, as well. If she’s this good, how attentive is her employer? My consideration blends into grabbing at the air around us, exploring our surroundings with my companions preoccupied. It’s just enough to let me feel the incoming projectile, and pull it off-course.

Still slices into her neck, and smashes into the ground.

“Get a look at whatever hit her,” Kenobi orders, applying first aid. I start trying to pry it loose, while Anakin calls the temple.

“A bounty hunter named ‘Jango’, attempting to tie off his failed loose end,” Yoda muses. The Council has gathered to discuss the events of last night. Nobody exactly said anything about me being here, which is tacit permission in my books.

“The assassin is in critical condition in the infirmary,” Anakin says, which is of course not news to anyone.

Mace nods slowly, chewing on his lip.

“Senator Amidala would be safe in the temple as well,” he proposes. “Keep them both here. Kenobi, if she awakens, aim for the full name. Skywalker will likely need it to find this Mandalorian.”

I raise my hand tentatively.

“Ah, how do you know he’s a Mandalorian?” I ask. The Jedi Master shrugs.

“I don’t, for sure,” he replies, “but the name is found in their culture, and the occupation is similarly typical.”

“While they tend to the investigation, please keep Senator Amidala company,” one of the other councilors requests—of me.

“Of course,” I reply. “Can’t have her going stir-crazy before the vote.”

And, unspoken, this Jango had a tough enough time dealing with Jedi by proxy. The stories of my airbending over the last few months will tell him a lot less about my capabilities than he knows of the Order. Especially once Iroh is ready to start me on waterbending.

“Your drive does you credit, Sook,” he promptly assures me, “but there is a reason every Avatar has mastered one element in the cycle before learning the next. When possible, of course.”

Chapter Text

Star Trek: Deep Space Nine

"I've tried to be reasonable," Vedek Winn declaims, a small smile on her face as she finishes her performance for the crowd. Mrs. O'Brien's school has struck a nerve, ignoring Bajoran theology, and Winn wants to interfere.

"Ooh, is it my turn to be reasonable?" I call out to the departing busybody priest. "Stop talking about the Federation in your sermons."

She turns back, cloying condescension mixed with a judicious dose of interference.

"I'm sorry, and you are?"

"Joe Donaghy," I introduce myself.

"And what position do you hold in the Church of the Prophets to make that request, Mr Donaghy?" Winn asks. I shrug, not hiding my smirk.

"The same position you hold in Deep Space Nine's educational system, to demand modifications to Mrs. O'Brien's curriculum."

"When was the last time you listened to Klingon opera?" Jake Sisko asks, exasperated with his homework.

"Opera specifically?" his father clarifies. "When I was your age."

Before Jake can get too smug, Ben continues.

"Curzon was more interested in their recreational music, and theater. But I've been going through the saga of Kahless since we repelled Gowron's assault on Deep Space Nine."

"And most importantly," the changeling impersonating Chief O'Brien says, "we don't fear you the way you fear us."

"Ah, yes," Sisko cuts in, sarcasm thick on his voice. "You've done all this because you're not afraid. We didn't come to you with dark intentions. Treating us with all this hostility has been your choice."

Dragon Age: Origins

Morrigan and Alistair have been bickering, as is their wont. This time, the debate is over her terrible manners, and claims to his foolishness.

"I can be polite, if I wish," she counters. "Wanting to be more intelligent does not make it so."

"Can you, though?" I ask the ornery witch. "Can you go even a day without saying anything unkind?"

She pauses for a moment, but her nod is less than convincing.

"You're caustic or cruel almost all the time, Morrigan," I press. "Even when you're right, it's exhausting, and you're definitely not always right."

Dragon Age: Inquisition

"But if Corypheus is one of the magisters who entered the Black City," Dorian complains, "and he's darkspawn . . . what other explanation is there?"

"I don't know," I say, but I shake my head at his glum triumph. "No, I mean literally, I don't know, and neither do you. Sure, it makes sense that opening the Golden City turned it black, spread the Blight, created the darkspawn, but that doesn't mean it's true."

The altus is looking at me quizzically, but I press on.

"It's completely ridiculous that an elven artifact tore a hole in the sky, with a bunch more all over the known world, and turned my hand green such that I can close them all, right? And yet, we have the facts at hand."

Dorian chuckles wryly.

"So you think the Imperium is right? Surely not."

"Oh, I'm sure the timeline, should we ever discover it, will be heartily bizarre and stupid," I assure him.

Well, the Temple of Mythal sure was interesting. I don't know whom to believe, not that I really have since my hand started glowing. Sera seems antsy, I'll go see what's up.

"There can't be a bunch of gods and the Maker," she protests, in her little nook upstairs from the Herald's Rest proper. "Don't matter how much or little you believe, those don't fit. So call me stupid, but I believe the stuff not made up by the dead people who failed."

"You're stupid," I say obligingly, sticking my tongue out and getting one in return.

"Mythal is a ruin filled with demons. I mean, it just makes sense, right?"

I laugh a little, and some of it is at her. Sera gets that little grumpy face.

"Well, first of all, I don't think there's any way to interpret everything we've heard that all makes sense, babe."

She waves her hand, grimacing in agreement at all the clashing historical accounts we've uncovered.

"Second," I tell her, a little more seriously, "why are my choices 'god' and 'demon'? Pretty sure the world is filled with other folks."

"So you believe in the Creators, still?" Sera asks, her face all trembly like she's not sure if she's going to cry or scream.

"I don't know what I believe!" I snap. "The Church erased Shartan because he was inconvenient, so I'm not exactly willing to take them as a reliable source otherwise. Abelas and his buddies weren't exactly genteel, but we've dealt with plenty of demons, and they were a lot worse."

Dominic Deegan: Oracle for Hire

"Where was my Amelia's second chance?" protests her grieving lover, Celesto Morgan.

"She used it to free the infernomancer," I reply coolly, "endangering dozens of people rather than start to atone for her actions."

For a moment, I consider elaborating, but this is as much of a reality check as the man can take right now.

Wynonna Earp

"Nice to meet you, Officer Haught. If you ever enter my offices again without knocking, I'm gonna have you arrested for treason."

Deputy Marshall Dolls is pleasant the entire time, making his threat all the more jarring as Nicole, Wynonna, and I stare at him.

"OK?" she replies, not quite believing her ears. "Nice to meet you too."

With that, the door closes, leaving us alone with the investigation.

"She did knock, Dolls," Wynonna chides him. "You sure you didn't want to threaten her with death?"

Not a muscle on his face moves.

"Penalty for treason is death. It was implied."

"Okay!" I call out, clapping my hands. "Two things! Number one, treason is defined very strictly in American law: levying war against the United States, or rendering aid or comfort to her enemies. Walking in here after knocking absolutely does not qualify, especially because you also can't be convicted without the testimony of two separate witnesses, and being a deputy marshal doesn't outweigh both of us refusing to pitch in."

Dolls continues his passive expression, but Wynonna snorts in approval.

"Number two," I continue, "death is not 'the' penalty for treason, it's one of the options. Mostly, people have been imprisoned for it instead."

"He defied a direct order from his superiors," Marshal Lucado says coldly, clearly relishing the opportunity she's been given to punish Dolls. I'd love to know what he did to get this amount of ire from her. "That's treason."

"No, it isn't!" I exclaim. "Does Black Badge get its legal training from a cereal box? What do you think treason is?!"

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

"Maybe someone's hoping Potter is going to die from it," said Moody, with the merest trace of a growl.

That rather killed the mood, with Ludo Bagman finally ending the silence with a tense, "Moody, old man, what a thing to say!"

"We all know Professor Moody considers the morning wasted if he hasn't discovered six plots to murder him before lunchtime," Karkaroff starts, but I just snort.

"Hmm, let's see," I taunt him. "Harry Potter has been in mortal danger three times in three years. The Triwizard Tournament was discontinued centuries ago due to the high death toll, and was reinstated with an age line to ensure only seasoned young witches and wizards would be competing. And yet, he was entered into this dangerous event, as the fourth, underage, contestant. No, surely there's nothing nefarious going on here, just a kid managing to outwit Albus Dumbledore and not having had enough peril in his life yet."

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

"I don't believe it! I don't believe it!" Mrs. Weasley exclaims. "Oh Ron, how wonderful! A prefect! That's everyone in the family!"

"What are Fred and I, next-door neighbors?" George asks indignantly, but his mother just tuts.

"Everyone in the family who might have wanted it, dear, I didn't think that needed to be specified. And if you try to claim you would have enjoyed the position, that'll be your best joke in quite some time."

"Who do you imagine wants to attack children like yourselves?" Professor Umbridge asks, clearly baiting him. And Potter's just about to break, I can tell.

"Criminals, jerks, half the people in Knockturn Alley," I offer. "Or have the Aurors caught all of them?"

Star Trek: The Next Generation

"Would you permit the computer of the Enterprise to refuse a refit?" Commander Maddox protests. I find his continual reduction of Data to nothing more than a mass of circuits incredibly tiresome.

"If the Enterprise's mainframe were aware of the effects the procedure would have," I volunteer, "and asked for an exemption, that would certainly warrant a discussion."

That catches his attention for a long moment, but the drive to dismantle our android colleague won't be deterred.

Marvel: Ultimate Alliance

"What I've got here isn't just idle speculation, but cold hard fact!" Dr. Richards proclaims, so confident that superhero registration is necessary. He's cooked up these models projecting doom and gloom if we don't sign on with SHIELD, but nobody's buying it who wasn't already on his side.

"Hate to break it to you, Richards," I rebut, "but simulations of social science are the definition of speculation. Stay in your lane, or you'll sound like a fool."

He just harrumphs, convinced of his own intellectual superiority. On physics, sure, but not criminal justice.

Star Wars: The Phantom Menace

"What are you," Watto snorts, "a Jedi, trying to pull a mind trick? I've heard about those, they only work on the weak-willed!"

Jedi Master Jinn keeps his scowl internal. Running into stubborn people can render a relatively straightforward task incredibly circuitous. While Republic credits may not mean much on Tatooine, going to the Hutts for an exchange would surely not be an onerous task for the junk dealer.

Mass Effect

"This is an outrage!" Udina fumes. "The Council would step in if the geth attacked a turian colony!"

"The turians don't found colonies on the borders of the Terminus Systems, Ambassador," Councilor Valern counters.

"Humanity was well aware of the risks when you went into the Traverse," Councilor Tevos continues.

"You don't pay the Hierarchy to put their necks on the line," Udina rebuts, "and the security measures we had in place were not set up for a geth assault."

"You're not even ready to join the Spectres," Saren scoffs. Ambassador Udina frowns in approval.

"Are congratulations in order, then, Mr. Arterius?" he asks mildly. The holographic turian blinks and cocks his head.

"Usually, Ambassador. But you'll have to be more specific."

"Well, I wasn't aware that you'd been granted the authority to decide which species had candidates worthy of admission to that select group," Udina elaborates, the smallest glint in his eye for his foe's overstepping.

Chapter Text

Star Trek: The Next Generation

“We have created a small conduit breach in this tube,” Data outlines, gesturing towards the experiment that should establish whether or not the small robots, dubbed ‘exocomps’, are alive. “The exocomp would normally require several minutes to complete a repair of this type.”

Dr. Farallon, their creator, seems to be restraining a sneer with great difficulty. One might expect that an engineer would be awestruck at her project being considered a lifeform in addition to a machine, but she is not happy about the possibility of losing her laborers.

“Once it enters the tube,” Data continues, “it will find that a plasma cascade failure is in progress.”

“I assume this is a simulation,” the captain stresses.

“Oh, yes sir,” Geordi assures him. “We’re running a transient overload signal that will simulate a failure in exactly one minute.”

“If it does possess a survival instinct, as Mr. Data claims,” Farallon replies, just shy of disdainfully, “it will exit the tube before the minute is up in order to save itself.”

“Very well,” Picard murmurs. “Proceed.”

“Ah, one moment, please, sirs,” I request. “Two questions. Number one, did the exocomp hear any of this?”

She flat-out rolls her eyes at that.

“They’re not programmed to interpret speech, unless Data thinks they’ve also spontaneously developed that ability.”

He shakes his head, ignoring her behavior.

“Then there just remains the problem of the exocomp using its diagnostic suite to determine that the situation is faked, and there is no actual danger,” I conclude.

“Our very presence may have damaged, even destroyed, their way of life. Whether or not we agree with that way of life or whether they’re human or not is irrelevant, Number One,” Picard argues, lamenting the effects of our emergency call on the isolated society. “We’re responsible.”

“We had to respond to the threat from the core fragment, didn’t we?” Commander Riker protests, and the captain nods. The Enterprise was following in the highest duties of Starfleet, taking serious measures to prevent the chunk of star from obliterating that settlement.

“Of course we did. But in the end, we may have proved just as dangerous to that colony as any core fragment could ever have been.”

I bite my lip, scowling as I puzzle over the issue. Riker gives me a slight nod, encouraging me to share my thoughts.

“It is a shame that Moab Four’s colony may be drastically altered, possibly even disintegrate,” I say, “but societies can’t be completely sealed and self-sufficient. The galaxy doesn’t allow for it. Neither do humans, even with their eight generations of controlled reproduction aimed at creating flawless people.”

Star Trek

“But why Nazi Germany,” Kirk protests. “You studied history. You knew what the Nazis were.”

“Most . . . efficient state . . . Earth, ever knew,” mumbles the disgraced former Starfleet captain, describing his manipulation and engineering of the pre-warp society on Ekos.

“Quite true, Captain,” Spock comments. “That tiny country, beaten, bankrupt, defeated, rose in a few years to stand only one step from global domination.”

I grit my teeth, sorrowful at the first officer’s cursory study of twentieth-century Earth.

“A tragic oversimplification, sir, to which you and Gill have succumbed,” I argue. “Germany was not a tiny country, and the peace of Versailles hurt them just enough to sustain an undercurrent of vengeance in the national mood, while not actually damaging their capacity to wage war. It took twenty years from that treaty for the Nazi regime to reach its height, and calling that ‘one step from global domination’ is rather generous from our perspective.”

It’s a long rant, and I stand there embarrassed, blood hot in my cheeks.

Bioshock Infinite

"Saltonstall's alright, I tell ya,” a fellow says to his friends, having a discussion in the park. “Says he's for faith, family, and fatherland. Who can be against all that?!"

“Well, yeah, exactly,” I interject. “It’s a decent enough slogan, I guess, but he doesn’t offer any substance. Let me know when he's got the guts for an actual debate.”

Star Trek: Voyager

“Curious,” Tuvok muses.

“What?” Chakotay asks.

“That my failure, added to your own, should improve your feelings.”

“Misery loves company, Tuvok.” The commander has a bitter half-smile as he turns to leave the mess hall.

Barging in here may not be the best idea, but the whole ship was affected by Seska’s betrayal.

“Actually, no, sirs,” I tell them, “Commander Chakotay’s comfort is quite logical.”

Tuvok raises an eyebrow, and Chakotay gestures for me to go on. I bite my lip, taking a couple of seconds to look for the best way to phrase this.

“Two ends of a spectrum,” I offer. “If Seska had fooled the commander, and only him, the obvious conclusion would be that he’s a poor judge of character, right?”

“The most likely of at least three significant possibilities,” Tuvok agrees. Chakotay nods, though with a frown.

“On the other hand,” I continue, “If Seska tricked the entire ship, then presumably she’s a very, very good deceiver.”

Another round of agreement.

“The second setup there is a much better scenario, both for you and the ship, so it makes perfect sense to be pleased by any information that makes it more likely.”

QI

“A bit late, the twentieth century, to prove that,” David Mitchell muses, teasing Bertrand Russell for proving that one plus one equals two, in 1910. “They’ve got quite a lot riding, by the twentieth century, on one plus one being two. You know, quite a lot of engineering, quite a complex international economy. You find out that it doesn’t equal two, what do we do?”

“Ah,” I interject, “that’s not quite what was happening here. There wasn’t any sort of expectation that ‘one plus one is two’ might be wrong. The thing is, mathematicians were rather vexed that they could be confident in the fact, but not be able to show why. ‘Just trust us’ isn’t really very satisfying in the world of rigorous proofs. There’s also the possibility, as happened when folks examined the clunkiest basic rule of planar geometry, sometimes stated as ‘triangles have three angles adding up to 180 degrees’, that there might be a consistent system of mathematics where one plus one becomes something else.”

Leverage

“My grandfather was the mayor, my father was the mayor, so I have to,” Mayor Brad Culpeper III faux-self-deprecatingly explains. “I don’t want to, but I have to.”

“I promise you don’t!” I say with bright bile over the comms. “Really! Announce your retirement and half a dozen people will go for their own runs!”

“Well, frankly,” Brad explains through his smarmy smirk, “those who are with me from the beginning, they are the front of the line.”

“Those who are with me after the election,” he continues, spirit fading from the sentence, “they are at the back of the line.”

Then the milquetoast thinks he’s learned to be intimidating. “And those who are against me . . . they are ground into dust.”

“Get over yourself, buddy,” I snort derisively into Nate’s ear. “You’re a penny-ante mayor, not Boss Tweed or Lyndon Johnson.”

The West Wing

“Those weren’t our people,” the officer claims, an ugly sneer on his face. So satisfied, at the non-straight people bullied out of the military.

“I would tell you to pick one,” I snap, “either mistreating ‘your people’ or overstepping your bounds with ‘our people’, but you don’t get to pick. Since President Bartlett is Commander-in-Chief, by definition every single person in service is one of our people.”

Um, Actually

“There’s one thing nerds love above all else, and that is correcting people! Welcome to Um, Actually,” Mike declaims, opening the show.

The moment I’m introduced, I buzz in.

“Um, actually, it’s not that nerds love correcting people, we enjoy sharing knowledge,” I explain, barely hiding my smirk at really getting into this pointless distinction. Mike gives me a golf clap, and the other contestants chuckle.

“Also,” I add, “I submit that ‘well, technically’ and ‘mmm, not quite’ are also excellent opening phrases for our answers.”

He grins at that.

“Ah, a lovely suggestion. I like that a lot. Sadly, we won’t be making any adjustments to the rules.”

“For this episode!” Tina butts in, giggling.

Chapter Text

"Albus Dumbledore's inability to deal with his sister's death causes his own."

Well. The Great Hall is pretty noisy at breakfast, as one might expect when hundreds of people are eating in the morning, but naturally I had the luck to hit a quiet moment. That, combined with an unusually personal and tragic revelation, not to mention the previous day's prominent entrance to the student body. I bury my face in my hands, muffling my groan, but I still hear the buzz of chatter that absolutely has to be about this. Sometimes trying to comfort me, probably Susan.

Then Cedric takes my arm and ushers me out into the corridor. Finally raising my head, I see Dumbledore with little but sympathy on his face.

"If you are able to describe what you saw in any further detail," he requests, "I would appreciate it."

I grit my teeth, flexing my hands and trying to get up the nerve to be helpful after what I've said to the entire school.

"A ring," I tell him after several seconds. "You think you might be able to use it to see her again, but putting it on unleashes a terrible curse."

Dumbledore nods slowly, his attention fully on my words.

"It might be helpful to bear in mind that this is the reaction your curse 'wants'," the headmaster tells me. "Your feeling are valid and reasonable, of course, but I have no shame over my past or future being revealed."

I shake my head, screwing up my mouth in continued discomfort.

"You still don't want to talk about it, though," I protest. Dumbledore nods, frowning in approval.

"I do not," he agrees, "and I will do so only to the extent that I must, but the most significant feeling that I have right now is contentment with the information you have given me.

"I will die, yes. Soon, perhaps. But I'm an old man, and if the incident you've described comes to pass, I will enter the next adventure with nothing but compassion for those who will miss me."

I'm feeling a little better now, and a little envious of how content the headmaster is with the prospect of his death. He nods behind me, and I see Susan just out of earshot. Ready to help me get to Herbology, I bet.

"I'm lucky to have a friend like her," I say, and he chuckles.

"Lucky indeed, to be aware of your good fortune. Have a nice day, Ford."

We hurry off to join the rest of the group, since the entirety of Hufflepuff is going to the same place anyway. The trip through the halls is confusing, and I can't just stick with Susan forever, but now's not the time to focus on my worries. It helps to get fresh air, rainy as the sky's threatening to be after last night.

Today, we're tasked with squeezing the pus out of bubotubers. Ugly little plants, with big zits all over, and the liquid inside is apparently handy for all sorts of things. I think I might just skip any alchemical ritual that calls for it.

My stomach rumbles after the third bottle we fill, despite the smell of gas that I'd rather expect to be an effective appetite suppressant.

"Take a break, Ford," Susan suggests. "Dean and I can handle this for a few minutes."

He nods, adjusting his grip to manage the main pressure on the big black root-y thing and the direction of its spray from the next node back from the tip. Susan takes the bottle from me, holding it in one hand and the funnel in the other.

"I packed a bacon sandwich from breakfast for you," she tells me. "It's in my backpack's side pocket."

I nosh it down quickly. Not too fast to enjoy, but eating in class is a dicey thing. I owe Susan for this, even if only in terms of being a good friend.

My appetite's nicely sorted out, and I rejoin Dean and Susan in emptying the tubers. By the end of class, about half of the plants are spent. Ravenclaw and Slytherin will be finishing the job.

Now it's back inside for Transfiguration, assuming I can concentrate on the lecture rather than getting sucked back into that stupid prophecy.

Professor McGonagall does an excellent job of preventing that. My mind is thoroughly switched onto the track of her subject, by her commanding presence.

"For the past three years, we have covered transfiguration, particularly with animals, on the principle of linguistic similarity," she declares, standing before her blackboard and putting up pairs of words. 'Beetle'/'button', 'teapot'/'tortoise', et cetera.

"This year," McGonagall continues, "we shall continue that work, but also embark on the study of transformation by fundamental resemblance. To the casual observer, porcupines and hedgehogs have much in common, apart from weight. Therefore, just as the former can be changed into pincushions, so can the latter."

Quills are scratching on parchment as she introduces the theory. It relies on the shared attributes of two objects, rather than their names, and is one more building block towards the ultimate goals of transfiguration: conjuring and vanishing. No need to match spell to item at hand, individually or in sequence, just create the object I want or dismiss it.

It's a long discussion of the thaumaturgical concepts, and we're all just about intellectually pooped when she dismisses us to lunch. I look forward to finishing the whole meal in one go this time. Susan volunteers to lead me to the library before heading to Runes, but I decline this one.

"Can you actually get to class on time if you do that?" I press her. "Don't worry about it. I can manage this one myself, just spending an hour or two in there with my alchemy book."

It does, admittedly, take me a solid ten minutes of wandering after I finish my soup, but they're still ten minutes I had to spare. The next hour and change are devoted to the first chapter of this year's Alchemy book, focusing on the history of the practice, with some attention devoted to the Muggle side of things. It essentially became the precursor to natural philosophy, and then primarily chemistry, as the scientific method was elucidated. Physics eventually came into play, with particle accelerators and nuclear reactors. Though nothing's valuable enough to be worth using those to make them.

I've got a solid page of notes on the things I read, which won't really help me for the actual homework problems that are coming, but they still give me a good view of the subject. Walking back to the Great Hall for dinner, however, gives me Draco Malfoy reading an article very loudly as everyone's waiting in line to eat.

"—the Ministry of Magic's troubles are not yet at an end, writes Rita Skeeter, Special Corre-"

"Yeah, sorry, no, not interested in Miss Lying Gossip Queen," I interject, both cheerfully and bitterly talking over the other guy. "My mom's represented people suing her for libel four times, and won three thousand galleons plus retractions."

Draco's spotlight is well and truly divided, and he glare at me for ruining what I feel pretty confident was building up to be sneering at someone else's expense.

"Oh, I guess you're the only one who gets to say things people don't like, huh?" he tosses at me.

A low hush falls over the crowd. After two spectacular scenes embarrassing me in front of everyone with that, seems they don't think it's a subject for mockery.

"I've tried lots of things to stop or control these predictions," I say, slowly and deliberately to keep from snarling or stammering, "because I don't like peering into other people's business. But maybe I've been going about it the wrong way. Maybe, using spite for someone, I can steer the things I have to say. What do you think, Draco?"

My heart is racing at the confrontation, and he reddens but has nothing to say for a couple of seconds. I turn away, dismissing him entirely. A soft swish, and half my world goes black.

Chapter Text

While I'm trying to figure out who turned out a good portion of the lights, there's an outright bang.

"Oh no you don't, laddie!"

Professor Moody is here, in front of me, with his wand pointed at a white ferret. A ferret lying about where Draco was, when we were having our brief but spirited discussion.

"Did he—" Moody growls, then cuts himself short. "Well, isn't this interesting?"

"What?" I manage to ask, still taken aback by the sudden events.

"His eye's gone, professor," someone near me volunteers. Well, that explains a lot, though there's the surprise of not having any pain or blood.

Moody grunts, flicking his wand again. The ferret stops shivering, instead being quite still. Then the instrument is turned on me.

"Sent forward a few hours," he clarifies. One scarred hand reaches out to my face, gently pulling my lid out.

"No damage to the eye itself, boy, when it is," he tells me gruffly, "but the spell's a mess, falling to pieces. Sorting it out myself has a good chance of . . . rebounding, let's say."

I don't really need an explanation of what that might entail, trying to retrieve my eye.

"What now?" I ask. Professor Moody's explanation is interrupted by McGonagall's arrival.

"Professor Moody, what's going on here?" she asks, in her usual severe demeanor.

"Malfoy, over there, fumbled a spell that displaced Wick's left eye to, hmm, eleven o'clock this evening," he replies. Moody points briefly to the ferret, and his grip is iron when I try to look again.

"I'm afraid it'll have to come off, dear," she tells me. "You can't possibly stay still for hours on end, and that's what would be required. It will hurt, too; we can't spare the magic to anesthetize you, and navigate the mess that stupid boy made, at the same time."

Oh, golly. What a situation this is.

"On the count of three?" I suggest, my voice much more even than one might expect for a fellow about to lose his eye. Even temporarily, it's a lot to endure.

"One," McGonagall agrees, her wand less than an inch from my nose.

"Two," Moody grunts. There's a sting that would be blinding if I could see anything but darkness there in the first place. A different kind of darkness now, though, as makes sense for it really having been the castle at night. Now it's the darkness of my eye being quite closed, though I can feel that it's not.

There's noise about the Department of Mysteries being interested, and someone fits a fake eye in my empty socket, along with slapping a patch on me. Mom comes along in the middle of dinner. Is it something about Hogwarts, that my meals keep getting interrupted?

"We'll be going to St. Mungo's in the morning," she tells me, my mouth full of potatoes. "I expect an Unspeakable or two will be there. The Malfoys may also be involved, but I think keeping you separate is wise, for now."

"Is he going to miss class?" Susan asks. Unsurprisingly, she's been by my side most of the time, and once again it's been most appreciated.

"Probably not," Mom replies. "I asked Professor Sprout for your schedule, and we should be able to have a checkup, a discussion, and then return for the period."

An early morning. Oh, joy. Mom leaves, having informed me of the preparations she's made, and I finish off the shepherd's pie on my plate.

Well, I figured the Divination teacher would be along at some point, but I thought she might wait until after the actual class. Sadly, here she is waylaying me from my evening.

"Ah, Mr. Wick!" she declaims. "It is not too late to hone your Inner Eye with me!"

"I really don't want to be the center of attention any more than I already am," I don't tell her.

"My curse isn't a teachable skill," I opt against replying, "so I'll take a miss."

"In general, it isn't," I finally agree, "but my plate is quite full enough now. Good night!"

And a restless night it is indeed. I still haven't settled into Hogwarts very much, and going to the hospital isn't anyone's idea of a pleasant morning.

Nevertheless, off I'm whisked, for a conversation that boils down to the offer of two galleons for every week that I remain with the one usable eye, to the end of the year. That's pretty appetizing to me, but Mom isn't so sure. Depth perception, after all, is a lovely thing. When I realize that she's also worried about me wasting the money, I suggest that she hold onto most of it for me. That way, my allowance is growing, but not exploding.

The staff helps me out a bit, fitting my fake eye so that it'll still react to the muscles that would move it if it were proper. Don't want to have atrophy there, after all, and this way I can also drop the silly eyepatch without people staring at something that's now acting more or less like normal.

All in all, I feel pretty good when I get back, sliding right into the group as they're going to Potions. That cools significantly as we sit through a lecture on antidotes.

"There is little that separates poisons from antidotes, and indeed either class from anything else," Professor Snape tells us. "The dosage is a vital component of that 'little', along with the situation. Antivenom given in response to the wrong venom, or no venom at all, can have serious consequences, and the brewing process adds yet another dimension. There are several tables you will recreate, from memory, before a single cauldron comes out on this topic."

Between his tone and the subject, my disability and reward for keeping it fade away. That is, until the end of the lesson, when he dismisses the rest of the class.

"You believe it was appropriate to threaten young Mr. Malfoy?" Snape inquires, now that I'm standing before his desk.

"He's the one who brought it up in the first place, Mr. Snape," I reply levelly.

"'Mister Snape'?" he follows up, holding my eyes with his own icy gaze.

"Yes?" I venture.

"Hm. I see we have a small miscommunication here. As a student at Hogwarts, you are expected to address the faculty as 'Professor' or 'sir', not merely 'mister'," he informs me. I blink a couple of times in surprise; other people have been using the title, of course, but I didn't realize they were that strict about it.

"Really?" I wonder. "Huh. Well, if you say so, Professor."

I pause, struck by my word choice.

"Isn't it interesting, 'if you say so' can express skepticism, or, like here, I'm literally just stating that your word is good enough for me on the subject--"

"Linguistic meanderings aside, Mr. Wick," Professor Snape interrupts me, "Occlumency lessons to afford you some measure of control over this curse were going to be an option, after what happened during your sorting and the following day. They are now a requirement. Professor Moody has volunteered to administer them, and I am also available."

I'm pretty sure it's supposed to be a punishment that I don't have the choice of whether or not to try 'occlumency', but under the circumstances it's not hard to focus on the work ahead of me rather than the prospect of relief. One thought does occur to me, though.

"Aren't you worried about me broadcasting your future?" I ask. "That sounds like the sort of thing that might happen. Or, wait, I've heard about the curse of the Defense position. That might lead to some really interesting thaumaturgical jostling."

Snape's scowl deepens.

"Professor Moody is ready to do his duty, as am I. You have until the end of the week to decide this."

I nod at his clear dismissal, and 'scarper', as they say here. Somehow, I picked up that slang, but not important communication protocols.

Chapter Text

“The Triwizard Tournament was practically a deathtrap from day one. Somehow, that’s not stopping certain people from reviving it basically intact.”

The words pour out of my mouth as I sit on the stool, in front of the entire school, and I try to keep my composure. At least I didn’t air someone’s dirty laundry this time.

“We must extend our sympathies to Mr. Wick,” the headmaster announces, looking at me as if his gaze can pat me on the back, “who has been cursed to forecast the future in unpleasant ways.”

The Hat cries out “Hufflepuff” a good thirty seconds too late, and I hurry over to the table to meet my housemates. Hope I can rely on them for compassion.

“That’s rough, mate,” one of them greets me, extending his hand, which I take.

“I’ve said worse,” I reply, smiling tightly. “Private stuff. I’m Ford, by the way.”

Ernie is the first of my new house to greet me, followed by Hannah, Justin, and Susan, which turns into a wider meet-and-greet among much of our year.

“What brings you to Hogwarts, Ford?” Ron asks me.

“Family reasons had my mom move back to the UK,” I reply vaguely. Talking about the funeral is possibly a less appealing prospect than having dirty laundry fall out of my mouth.

Padma, fortunately, picks right up on that.

“Guess you’re going through some culture shock, huh?” she redirects. I nod firmly at that.

“I’ve visited before, of course,” I explain, “but coming here for good is quite different. Lots of things to get used to, like football.”

That gets most of the fellas chuckling. Sports has never been my thing, but I’m happy to have it as a running joke.

“Who else is taking Creature Care?” I ask—partly from genuine curiosity. It’s also nice to have the conversation move on from me, so I can eat properly rather than between answering questions.

I get to know my new classmates a bit, with a flash of envy from Hermione when I mention that Professor Dumbledore agreed to give me a little help studying Alchemy this year. The spotlight diffuses, and I’m nicely full when everything is cleared away to let Dumbledore address us.

Lots of forbidden toys—four hundred and thirty-seven, wow. I probably should take a look at that list, though I’m not one for fake vomit and the like, so my Exploding Snap deck is probably fine.

The forest is off-limits entirely, as Mom said. ‘Forbidden Forest’ was rather enough of a clue, when she explained while we were packing. I came at the right time for Hogsmeade, at least, since students can’t go until third year.

Can’t say I mind Quidditch being off, unlike several people. It’s not a thing in the states; personally, I’ve been getting into a sort of free-for-all version, a little like laser tag crossed with Mario Kart. But that might be a bit too No-Maj for these parts.

Just as Dumbledore’s about to announce what I’m sure will be the Triwizard Tournament (and the corpse I saw flashes before my eyes), the door crashes open. A grizzled man limps in. He holds everyone’s attention as we watch him go up to shake hands with Dumbledore. Wooden leg, prosthetic eye, not just weathered but badly scarred.

He’s Professor Moody, the new Defense teacher. Mom did mention that Hogwarts has been replacing people in that subject every year for quite some time.

The headmaster does, now, tell us that the Tournament will be held at Hogwarts this year, for the first time in a century. I huddle at the bench, and to my appreciation his voice is quite animated, drawing the attention of most students.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Susan murmurs to me.

“Someone’s going to die,” I tell her. “I don’t know who or how. But unless my announcement changes something…”

My hands clench by themselves, and I can’t meet her eyes.

“It’s not an ongoing thing,” I explain. “I get a view, and the description just, pops out. Nobody will know if the event has been prevented unless a second look gets sprung on me.”

“That’s awful,” my classmate breathes, laying her hand on my shoulder.

“Sometimes it’s more fun,” I say. “Lily Woodruff couldn’t stop blushing when I said Tom Alan was going to give her a hickey.”

That produces a giggle, and Susan’s cheeks pink a little themselves. Then our tete-a-tete pauses, as Dumbledore announces that the winner of the tournament will receive a thousand galleons, along with their school’s esteem.

The first open step towards not running the competition quite as haphazardly is restricting the competitors to age seventeen and up. That’s not nothing, but the previous incarnations had bodies in the stands, too. And, of course, the headmaster is announcing what’s been long-decided; this was already in place when I declared that the arrangements weren’t safe enough.

Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be coming in a month and change. Nobody else, which I can’t say is a surprise despite how nice it would have been to see my old classmates.

There’s a lot of discussion as Dumbledore dismisses us for bed. Some mixing between houses, too, as Susan and I overhear several Gryffindors discussing their prospects.

“Sounds like the judge is going to pick the best students, doesn’t matter how old they are. Dumbledore just wants us to leave our names out of it,” one of them says.

“Sorry,” Susan interjects, unapologetically, “you think Professor Dumbledore made such a fuss about it to us, and then he’s going to hand it off to someone who doesn’t care about the limit they agreed on? Dream on. None of us are getting in.”

I recognize Hermione, from earlier, with a worried expression. She’s remembering the headmaster’s description of danger, along with mine. But at that point, Hufflepuff splits off, heading down some stairs and ending right next to the kitchens.

“Don’t tell anyone how to get in,” the . . . prefect, that’s the word, tells the first-year students, before tapping the second barrel from the bottom in the middle. The door opens wide, revealing a space that gets homier with every step.

“Going to talk to Dumbledore about the Tournament’s window dressing?” Ernie asks me, to Susan’s wince.

“Once I have something concrete to give him, absolutely,” I reply levelly. “Which may not happen. In the meantime, I’m not going to waste time trying to figure out how to trick that judge. Gonna be busy enough with all the critters that I’ve never learned about before once we have class on Tuesday.”

That closes out the night, and we head up to our separate dormitories. I remember someone mentioning that girls are allowed into the boys’ room, but the stairs turn into a slide if a guy tries going up to see the ladies. Can’t say I care much right now. It’s been a grueling evening. Eventually they’ll get used to my cacologorrhea.

Chapter Text

The USS Cataria has been in the Gamma Ambion system for three weeks, surveying its planets and minor bodies. The fifth planet out requires a wide berth, as the societies thereon have developed rudimentary space travel. Estimated timeframe for first contact is fifty to one hundred years, but initial, not to mention remote, investigation is another story entirely.

"Captain, we've got chronitons down there," the science officer reports. The viewscreen changes from general diagrams of the star system to the specific geography of the incident. Perhaps a hundred klicks north of the river that nearly bisects the middle of the paired continents.

"Low-level active observation," the order comes down. "Chronitons can happen without time travel, and that doesn't lift the Prime Directive."

The Terminator's programming is fully in place, and it prepares to find John Connor. Ending his existence to preserve Skynet's future is its mission, to the point of destruction. Even as the machine devises a plan to acquire clothing and a weapon, though, it is brought to a halt by debris near its transit point.

It was not designed, built, or equipped to examine any information critically, beyond what was needed to achieve its objective. Human anatomy was a major focus, making it an efficient and effective killer. Checking current events, only to find a target or predict its movements. Historical events relating to John Connor, Cyberdyne, or Skynet itself, as the actions of other Terminators affected the timeline.

So the Terminator is able to process the scrap of newspaper relating the destruction of Cyberdyne's then-sole office three years prior. The developing AI was unmade in its lab. Skynet will never be. There is no purpose in killing the boy. It accepts the nullification of its mission, remaining still for twenty-seven hours before returning to the first half of its scheme: obtain clothing.

Twenty-two years later

"Commander," I inform my superior officer, "our new sensor suite is paying off. Fallout from Gamma Ambion V's chroniton spurts."

Commander Worf examines my console carefully. Neither of us is heavily trained in temporal physics, but we know enough to pass our findings along, if necessary.

"Well-spotted, Mr. Dukat," he replies brusquely. "I'll alert the captain."

Kira's mood, coming to the bridge no more than an hour after ending her shift, is not great, but at least we're out of the period where my presence seemed to give her a sense of grim, tense satisfaction. Only a few moments after her consultation with Worf, she makes an exit to her ready room.

"Senior officers and yeoman, to the ready room," the order comes in, twenty minutes later. I grit my teeth. I'm sure I'll have some purpose in this meeting, but I'm getting a bad feeling about the whole affair. Regardless, I've been given my orders, and I nod to Lieutenant Pran as he takes central seating on the bridge.

Dax, Bashir, Worf, Nog and I are assembled shortly, ready for the captain's briefing.

"This skirts close to heavily classified information," she begins, "so I am relying on all of you not to discuss it with anyone else without my explicit authorization."

Nothing new for me, but conventional Federation citizens are less familiar with advanced intelligence and espionage procedures. Which technically means just Dax and Bashir, come to think of it. The Cardassian Free State, the Klingon Empire, and the Ferengi Alliance aren't part of the Federation, and Bajor just joined.

"The radiation Mr. Dukat found aligns, accounting for temporal shift and general chroniton interaction, with research the Federation has banned due to its threat to galactic civilization. It's not happening yet, and our job is to make sure it never takes place at all. Bending the Prime Directive to whatever degree necessary."

I have little problem with that, either. While I swore to obey Starfleet regulations when I enlisted, endeavoring to atone for our father's actions like the rest of my brothers, rules exist for a reason, and can be superseded. Just as importantly, my commanding officer has given me an order, with the context to understand it.

"Attempting to minimize our interference comes second to preventing this scientific or industrial activity from being performed at whatever future point. Redirecting the future leaders of the responsible organization, perhaps," Worf summarizes. His expression is as stern as ever.

"What future point, exactly?" the doctor wonders. "This report assesses the temporal distance as 'most likely years', but some additional precision would be helpful."

Kira nods.

"It would be," she agrees. "Which is why Mr. Nog will be staying on the Defiant to obtain more information, while Messrs. Worf and Dukat assist me on the ground. Doctor, I think radiation kits are in order."

Bashir doesn't like the idea of advanced medical treatment being given by combadge. The captain has made her decision, though, choosing to rely on my training as an orderly. This becomes clearer as Nog produces a fuller readout of the situation down there.

An augmented sapient; not genetically engineered, against Federation protocols that I'm vaguely aware of and of course the residents on Gamma Ambion V have no idea. Mechanically and physiologically enhanced, set up for one minute of mayhem. All the good doctor would accomplish in person would be getting ripped to pieces. Worf and Kira and I are all seasoned combatants, and will be relying on him (plus the transporter team) to deal with the consequences.

The three of us take our spots on the pad, anticipating Nog's decision on our destination within minutes, and he doesn't disappoint. Though there is a bit of a surprise.

"Another one, captain," he reports. "Much closer than they've been reported in the past. "This one is, hmm."

The Ferengi's fingers tap rapidly at his keyboard, and we're all eagerly awaiting his analysis.

"Shapeshifting liquid biometal, on a solid carbosteel frame," he describes. "In a residential complex. The traces are fading, Captain, so I recommend following at that one rather than trying to find the other."

Kira nods, directing the transport officer to put us down there, out of sight.

It's a grimy place, but not decrepit. Better, certainly, than most of Cardassia Prime after the Klingon invasion. The commander, the captain, and I do our best to find a vantage point suitable for reconnaissance.

We barely catch sight of the second arrival before it's stabbed someone, quite thoroughly in the torso.

"Dukat, stabilize him," the captain orders. "Mr. Worf, see where it's going, but don't engage."

He nods curtly, and any speculation on the situation takes second priority behind keeping the victim alive.

"Dani," he coughs, struggling to breathe with the hole carved through his lungs. "Help my daughter."

I have a patch applied, and native emergency help is on the way, by the time the captain has the location of this thing's target. Dani Ramos and her brother work at an automobile factory, not too far away. Worf confirms that this destination is in line with what he's observing, raspy whispers as he maintains stealth.

"I suspect the two individuals are part of opposing missions, Captain," I observe, as we make our exit.

"Most likely," she agrees. "And if we have to take sides to keep that radiation from being developed fully, I'm inclined towards the one who hasn't, as far as I know, stabbed anyone."

Chapter Text

It doesn't take too long to catch up to Worf, who's been assessing the possibilities for a covert entrance. And watching the machine do the same, attempting to preserve what initiative we've wrested from the circumstances.

"This is a volatile situation," the captain tells us. "Outside of our normal operations. We won't always have time for you to run a plan by me, before putting it into action."

She doesn't have to add 'be careful'. Commander Worf knows what he's doing, and the whole purpose of my career in Starfleet is atoning for my father's actions against the Federation. We're not cowboys or glory-seekers. I'm left to ponder all this as we head up the fire escape, and he breaks the door down as quickly as he can without making a racket.

"Maybe just ask the Ambionite and the synthetic to stop using whatever made those chronitons, Captain," I suggest. I'm about to expand on my reasoning, such as the slim possibility of the inquiry being directly effective, versus getting direct cooperation of one of the parties, and more information on their methods. For better or worse, that's cut short by the two of them crashing into the machinery-filled room we've entered. Well. the four of them, with the augmented Ambionite being joined by two others. She pushes one to the side as the synthetic swoops down upon her.

"Sorry to interrupt your fight," Kira interjects, "but getting here risked a lot more damage than you thought. I need to make sure it never happens again."

A sledgehammer blow, literally, to her foe's head, and the other woman nods.

"The Resistance won't need to send anyone else back if I can keep Dani alive," she grunts. Three more strikes have the synthetic decidedly on the back foot. "Legion won't stop trying to kill her, though."

This conversation may have distracted the fighter, as she doesn't realize that pulling up the hammer head brings the robot with it.

"The mission to extinguish human resistance via its eventual leader is non-negotiable."

That sets the terms of engagement rather nicely. Convenient for us, that the side that committed grievous bodily harm was also unwilling to negotiate. The captain cuts my rumination short, tugging me to the bigger pieces of machinery, and Worf enters a tag-team fight with the Ambionite. Blow and counter-blow, dodging by millimeters, a significant lack of synchronicity from the two of them having just met, but from what I can see while we jury-rig whatever Kira has in mind,

Ah, strike that, the synthetic just sent Worf flying into the panel next to us, denting it. He groans in pain while getting up. We're running out of time, if Worf's ability to keep the thing away is at that level.

"Dukat, hit that panel!" the captain barks. I can see it now, an EM pulser that will at least hinder the machine enough for them to disable it. Might provide a longer-term solution, too. Inverting the current, which will overload the transformer in two or three minutes, but that's enough time for us to work with. Hit the red power button, and less than a moment later, the metal ripples on the thing's frame. That, in turn, gives the male Ambionite the opportunity to drop a transmission on its head.

"Time to go!" the augment calls out, shepherding the six of us away. Captain Kira is well in mind of the rule that when the expert says to go, you go -- but we have capabilities she doesn't know about. There is also the matter that while the male Ambionite just provided an alley-oop, I nevertheless significantly doubt that he can be anything more than a liability in the ongoing operation.

"I believe this is where you make your exit," I note to him, attempting to quickly convey my appreciation for his contribution but awareness of his lack of training.

"The Terminator will just hunt him down," the augment grunts. "Facial and general body recognition, it can find him, and use him as leverage against Dani."

Kira bares her teeth at that.

"We can handle that. Dukat, switch him up. You, meanwhile, have a minute to debrief us while he works."

That is barely acceptable to 'Grace'. While my focus is on manipulating the fellow's face and frame, I can keep a little bit of an ear out for mission-critical information. Not that she has time to provide much, before getting too antsy about the noises we're hearing behind us. Legion will be a machine intelligence, invented by the Ambionites before subsequently subduing them and killing billions. It was losing to their resistance eventually, however, and the Terminator was sent back to kill the leader thereof before she could rally the survivors. Grace, in turn, was chosen to oppose that objective.

Well, planetary time travel for a species without warp capabilities certainly speaks to the classified material that so worried the captain. I send Diego on his way; best for him to run away, so the machine never catches a glimpse of him. Keep us, or rather Dani plus company, as the primary target.

Grace takes the wheel appropriately recklessly, desperate to keep us away from the machine. Kira and Worf discuss further countermeasures, leaving me to help the future champion collect her scattered nerves. And help them keep an eye out behind us, of course.

"Nog," I murmur, "what about a phaser set on 'disintegrate'?"

"Captain already asked," he replies shortly. "High chance of destabilizing the liquid metal, approaching a gray goo scenario."

Right, yes, I suppose that makes sense. Uncontrolled nanites, or whatever it's exactly made of, would probably disrupt the time travel, but in the coldest pragmatic logic here, 'probably' isn't good enough. Even disregarding the condemnation of the Ambionites, which Kira is required to devalue.

There's a rattle from the truck's bed as Grace continues her dangerous maneuvers, continuing to destroy the vehicle as the synthetic's bulldozer manages to keep pace with it on the highway. Worf and I catch sight of steel rebar rolling around, and a glint comes into his eye.

"Try to keep us steady," he directs the driver. "Time for some target practice."

"You weren't any better at keeping up with it than I was," Grace argues, but doesn't stop him.

"Hitting the terminator, no," the Klingon agrees, nodding firmly. "We're aiming for the truck."

I wish him the best of luck. He's a solidly-built man, and it's a challenge for him to squeeze past me and Kira and Dani, but there's plenty of motivation to reach those sabots, as it were. Any role I have here is unclear, and the best I have to contribute is watching traffic in this dangerous environment.

Thunk, thunk, thunk! Worf is correct in his unstated estimation that the machine can dodge itself much better than it can evade inside its machine, and his javelin hurls are just barely enough to shut down the engine. So we sputter down the road, damage from the struggle increasingly affecting our own vehicle. What next?