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thetomorrowshow · 2 years

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sent to help

esh au masterlist (i'll update it soon i swear)

IT'S NORMAN TIME BABEYYYYYY! this part is set 6-8 months after 'poisoned rats'.

cw: references to past abuse

“Maybe you should get a cat.”

The suggestion comes from his therapist Nora one day, after an emotional session of beginning to unpack why Jimmy won’t let anyone touch his hair. He’d been running his hand on one of those pillows with the reversible sequins during the conversation, and he can imagine that petting a cat would be more comforting.

There’s Elle, of course. But Elle doesn’t really care much for being pet, and prefers being alone to Jimmy’s company, so that won’t work. He thinks about a service dog for a while (they certainly have the money for one and Jimmy has diagnoses that would make him eligible), but Scott’s allergic to dogs and it’s just not worth it.

He’d had a dog as a child. He doesn’t remember her very well.

The more he thinks about it, the more he wants a cat. A young cat, maybe, a little baby of a cat for him to raise and train himself.

He’s scared, though. He’s very scared.

“I’m scared,” he admits to Scott one evening, on their way home from the animal shelter (Scott had leapt on the idea of another cat, had enthusiastically looked up shelters and volunteered to go with Jimmy to check things out).

Scott doesn’t answer immediately, checking his mirrors and over his shoulder as he merges into a busy lane. “Of what, love?”

Jimmy sighs, slumps in his seat. “Of. . . .” he breaks off, a little ashamed of his thoughts. “Never mind.”

“Why don’t you want to tell me?”

“Because you’ll think I’m stupid,” he mutters.

Scott tsks. “I promise I won’t.”

Scott hasn’t made a joke about something important to Jimmy in a long time. He probably won’t about this.

“I’m afraid,” he says slowly, “that I will mistreat a cat.”

Scott doesn’t laugh, but there’s humor in his voice when he replies, “Jimmy, I don’t think you would ever mistreat any living thing on purpose.”

That’s the problem, though, because Jimmy has mistreated living things. Jimmy’s killed people, he’s hurt people, he’s done it accidentally and on purpose.

And more importantly. . . .

“I was a pet,” he says quietly, so quietly that he thinks Scott won’t hear him. He knows he does hear by the way his spine stiffens, by the way his fingers tighten on the steering wheel. He continues, louder now. “I was a pet, and I was mistreated. And—it’s all I know, I guess. I’m afraid that if I get a cat, it’ll be like . . . like generational trauma. I’ll abuse it because I was abused, and I don’t know any better.”

“Oh, Jimmy. . . .”

“They beat me, and whipped me, and kept me chained to a table leg and put me in a cage when I was bad, and so much more, and I accepted that it all happened because I was a pet. Because that’s how pets are treated. And I don’t—I don’t wanna hurt an innocent little cat because my head’s so screwed up about this.”

Scott is silent. Jimmy hazards a look up, sees how stormy his face is. He looks back down to his lap, anxiety leaping into his throat.

After a few moments, Scott speaks, voice tense. “You know you aren’t a pet, right?”

“Yeah! Yes. I . . . I understand. I know that. But. . . .” He shrugs. “Conditioning, y’know?”

They’re almost home. Scott turns onto their street, pulls into their drive. Once the car is in park, Scott unbuckles his seatbelt and turns to Jimmy, taking his hands in his own.

“Jimmy, I have never once seen you mistreat Elle,” he says seriously. “I understand why you are concerned, and I’m proud of you for sharing with me. But I don’t think that you will, in any way, shape, or form, hurt a cat. I have full confidence that you will treat a cat with the utmost respect and care.”

“But what if—”

“And if you happened to do so, I would tell you immediately,” Scott finishes, “and together we would work something out about it. Would that be good?”

That settles his racing heart a little bit. Jimmy leans down, kisses Scott’s knuckle. Knowing that there’s someone keeping him accountable means all the world to him. “Yeah. That would—that would be great, actually. And,” he laughs a little sheepishly, “I’ll bring this up in therapy next week. Think I need to process this.”

Scott smiles softly, reaches up his hand but pauses. “Am I okay to touch your face?”

Jimmy shrugs. “Go for it.”

Scott rubs his thumb along Jimmy’s jawline, cradles his chin in his palm. It takes a moment, but Jimmy realizes that it’s uncomfortable. It’s not a safe touch today, so he does what his therapist has been having him rehearse and he pulls away, muttering, “Yellow.”

Scott’s hand drops back to Jimmy’s hands, gives them a quick squeeze. “Kisses okay?”

Jimmy nods, weird feelings dissipating. “Please!”

Scott giggles and leans over, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. Jimmy feels his cheeks heat, shakes his head back and forth rapidly once Scott pulls away. “Love you,” he says, the last knots of worry loosening in his chest.

Scott sighs contentedly. “I love you so much.”

Jimmy sees the way Scott’s eyes sparkle when he looks at him. He hears Scott mutter under his breath, “You’re so adorable,” when he thinks Jimmy won’t notice. Jimmy doesn’t press it, though, because he’s absolutely besotted with Norman.

Norman is his new kitten. He’s five months old and his fur is so fluffy and his eyes are so big and blue and he loves being held and cuddled and he’s lovely, he’s a lovely baby.

There are words that Jimmy avoids saying, words that he knows Scott notices. He doesn’t call Norman a good boy, he doesn’t use the word perfect, he doesn’t call him pet or obedient. He calls him Norman, and only Norman, and sometimes Big Man Norman when he’s an especially brave little kitten.

Norman isn’t just a little guy who lives with him, though. More than once, Jimmy is in the throes of a flashback and Norman hops up into his lap, purrs and nuzzles up against him, and Jimmy is brought back to reality. He goes from shaking at Xornoth’s feet to having a cuddly kitten licking his arm and meowing up at him, his own living room coming into view around him. It gets to the point that Scott drops everything to find Norman when Jimmy gets triggered, the cat rousing him quicker than any of their other tactics.

He tells his therapist of the improvement, and she’s happy for him, reminds him that this is a victory and he should celebrate. He does; he calls Lizzie and invites her over to meet his new kitten, throws a little party with him and Scott and Lizzie and Joel (he and Lizzie are a package deal) and the two cats of the house, which ends with Lizzie trying to put a party hat on Norman and Joel trying to sauvely suggest to Lizzie that they go to his house down the block and spend the night there rather than drive the whole twenty minutes to her apartment.

It feels so normal.

“You’re a keeper,” Scott declares, holding Norman up in the air and nuzzling their noses together. “Part of the family, now. We’ll get you a tag to match Elle’s and a little backpack for you so we can take you on walks. Won’t that be cute?”

That’s when it really sinks in, though. It finally hits Jimmy that Scott is treating Jimmy’s cat as a permanent fixture of the household. Scott considers Norman (and Jimmy, by extension) necessary to complete the family.

He’d known before. But he hadn’t really accepted it, maybe. And now it’s here, right in front of him, and Scott doesn’t even know that Jimmy’s four seconds away from bursting into tears because he’s home.

It can stay that way, though. There are some feelings that are just for him to process. For now, Jimmy watches as his boyfriend (his home) welcomes someone new into his life.

#empires smp #esmp #jimmy solidarity #scott smajor #flower husbands #empires superpowers au #esh au #mas writes #did the post editor update? hm #somebody forever ago asked for norman in this au and this fic is dedicated to them #norman my baby boy :))#i don't have much to say here tbh #this is one of the lighter one shots that i've written #as i'm sure is already apparent #there's one very far in the future that has zero angst #it's the only one tbh and atm it's under 1000 words lol #so this is the best u get. have some flower husbands adopt norman #lmk what yall think #love you guys

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thetomorrowshow · 2 years

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poisoned rats in a pot of grain - ch. 8

Masterlist - Previous - Next

IM SORRY BUT THEY'RE FILMING LAST LIFE S2??? MAYBE???? BRB CRYING

anyway i've been fairly busy!! main draft for this fic is just about completed; the next part of the trust au is ready for posting later this week; i can post the next chapter of scott's backstory any time i want as long as i edit it lol. much love!

cw: implied/referenced torture, onscreen murder (of unnamed character), blood, dehumanization

“The plan,” Scott says, hitting the convoluted stringboard with a ruler, “is simple.”

The plan is anything but simple.

In the past seventy-two hours, Mythics has been moved into what solely Scott refers to as ‘witness protection’ (actually into the care of the hero Pearl, who had taken him quite willingly); fWhip has sent out drones that found the precise location of Xornoth’s base rather than vague directions from Mythics (a manor on the edge of the city); and Xornoth has somehow, through entirely illegal and frankly impossible means, become an elected senator. None of them can figure out exactly how that happened.

“fWhip is on bed rest,” Joel pipes up before Scott can properly begin. He waves his phone. “He just texted me. Surgery went well, but he shouldn’t be up for a week at least.”

That’s fine, Scott had expected that. He taps a photo of a hero on the board. “That is why I planned ahead. Lady and gentleman, Blossom.”

“No,” Blossom says, smiling apologetically. “I’m a pacifist, Major, you know this. I don’t seek out fights. I just want everyone to get along.”

She shuts the door in his face.

“And that is where Pearl comes in,” Scott says, tapping the stringboard.

“Yeah, I’ve kinda got my super-hands full?” Pearl says, grimacing. “Mythics isn’t exactly easy to entertain. I’d love to, don’t get me wrong, but he’ll definitely wreak havoc if I leave.”

“And that is why we depend on and trust one another,” Scott says, tapping the stringboard. He eyes his two compatriots seriously. “If any of us proves to be a traitor to our cause, we fail.”

“We literally know the plan,” Lizzie deadpans, arms crossed. “We helped make it.”

“It’s still best that we go over this, just to make sure we have it memorized.”

“We wrote it down?” Lizzie pulls a slip of paper out of her pocket, waves it.

Joel sighs, leans over to her. “Lizzie, let him have his action movie moment. He built a whole stringboard and everything.” “First step,” Scott forges on, “is to sneak into the manor. Our best bet for getting us in is Joel—he can make the guards think they heard a sound or something, I don’t really care. He does something to get any guards away, and then we’re in without an alarm being immediately raised.”

“Unless there’s a security system.”

Scott nods to Lizzie. “Unless there’s a security system—and they don’t disable it. That’s why I’m going in first—if I see anything that looks like an alarm or a camera, I freeze it. It’s not foolproof, but hopefully it can keep them off our tail for a couple of minutes so that we can find Gem.”

“Are we sure that Gem’s in the house?” Joel brings up, hand slightly raised. “Like, she could be anywhere in the city. She could be dead. If she’s the fourth member of our party and we can’t find her, what are we gonna do?”

And when I have your little friends, that Gem and that Blossom and the mayor, I will make you watch me torture them.

“She’s alive,” Scott says, shaking off the memory. “Xornoth isn’t interested in killing anyone at the moment. She’ll probably be locked up somewhere, though. Maybe a basement of sorts?” He scribbles basement? onto a sticky note, throws it onto the board under a cut-out of a photo of Gem. “This is probably where we’ll split up—Joel heading off to find Gem, while Lizzie and I look for Xornoth and Solidarity. Of course, things could change once we get there. In the heat of the moment, there’s a million things that could go wrong.”

“Right. What if Xornoth kills us?”

Scott glares at Joel.

“What if we kill Xornoth?” Lizzie asks. “I know the goal is just to lock them up, but what if something unexpected happens?”

“Nothing unexpected will happen,” Scott says resolutely. “Not in this case. Xornoth isn’t going to go down like that, they’re too powerful. But they won’t want to give up Solidarity.”

Lizzie shrugs. “Not my problem. I’m just here to kill him.”

Scott sighs, taps a corner of the board that reads RULE NUMBER 1: DON’T KILL SOLIDARITY.

“I mean, I’m just here to . . . not kill him. Right.”

Oh boy.

“Right, you all know the rest of the plan,” Scott concludes, rubbing his forehead. “Just . . . no more casualties than necessary, okay?”

“You got it.”

“I’ll try my best, Major.”

This isn’t going to go well.

There’s screams coming from the basement.

He can only hear them occasionally, when the door to the meeting room opens for lackeys or official-looking businessmen to bustle through. His master is in constant meetings and conversations now, several seats around the table always occupied by a rotating door of people.

Jimmy’s been here for hours, he thinks, maybe even an entire day. He hasn’t moved from Xornoth’s side, cheek pressed to their leg like the obedient dog he is. When Xornoth stands, leaves the room, Jimmy stays, eyes demurely on the floor, not even processing what others say. The only words worth hearing are his master’s.

He’s been staring at the ground for some time now while waiting for Xornoth, perhaps longer than an hour, when his master finally returns, angry words spewing from their mouth.

“You think you can defy me? This is my city, fool!”

“And—and someone has to stand up to you!”

“Pet,” his master hisses, pulling Jimmy up by the hair. They unclip the leash from his collar, point him in the direction of a rather scared-looking man in a too-tight button-up. “Kill.”

Jimmy dives at him without hesitation, long nails tearing into his face and pulling at his hair. The man screams under him, and Jimmy lets the adrenaline flow as he grips the man’s throat—he doesn’t have enough physical strength to snap his neck, but an accident—

There’s an awful crack and the man crumples, eyes rolling up. Jimmy releases his neck, watches dispassionately as his body hits the ground. Then he turns back to Xornoth, waiting for their next command.

His master is smiling. “Good job, darling,” they purr, beckoning Jimmy close. There’s other people still around the table, Jimmy notices, people now silent, people looking anywhere but at the body behind Jimmy.

Xornoth fixes the leash back onto Jimmy’s collar and he relaxes into the familiar weight, rolling his shoulders back. This is good. He’s done good.

There’s a bit of blood under his fingernails and staining the pads of his fingers. Nothing abnormal. Nothing that should make him want to shake apart.

Xornoth leads him back to their seat, where Jimmy obediently drops to his knees, uncaring of the sharp pain that shoots through his bad hip. He doesn’t feel anything for the body just meters away. He doesn’t look at it. He doesn’t think about it.

He just killed someone. He just killed someone who did nothing to deserve it. He just killed someone because his master told him to.

He’s spent so long not letting his brain catch up to his actions. He can’t start thinking about what he’s done now.

Xornoth’s hand cards through his hair as his master begins speaking, and Jimmy does nothing but lean into it. He rubs the hem of his shorts under his fingernails, clears out some of the blood.

The door opens again, another distant scream echoing through the room. Jimmy chews on his tongue. He’s glad that whatever is happening to whoever that is, it’s not happening to him. He’s good. He’s a good pet. He does what his master tells him to do.

“Pet—”

Jimmy hears the word in the middle of the conversation, glances up a little to see that while his master isn’t talking to him, they’re smirking down at him, something almost . . . triumphant in their gaze. Jimmy rests his head against their lap, stays still even though his hip screams for him to shift just a little bit to the side. He’s a good pet.

His eyes wander out to the side, where only the shoes of the dead man are visible. Why has nobody removed the body? Why is it still here? His first ever intentional kill, committed thoughtlessly, automatically, and now a man is gone like he’d never even been here.

He’s losing his grip, Jimmy realizes, his tremulous hold on the compartmentalization that keeps him sane beginning to slip. He can’t have that, that’s very bad news, he can’t let emotion leak into this part of himself because he’s a good boy. He’s a good pet. He’s good for his master.

He twitches his head, just slightly, as if trying to scare off a fly on his nose. His master doesn’t notice, doesn’t notice that Jimmy’s carefully-crafted delusion of control is crumbling before his very eyes. He hadn’t wanted to kill anyone. He hadn’t thought that would be required of him. He doesn’t want to be here.

You’re fine, he tells himself, careful not to let his lips make any noise. You’re a pet. You can’t do anything that master doesn’t command. You can’t risk the cage.

Because that’s all it really ever boils down to, isn’t it? He’s not a pet because his resistance will hurt others. He doesn’t warn away the heroes of the city out of any actual care for their wellbeing. He only cares about not getting put in that cage ever again.

People file in and out. He doesn’t hear any more screams. His master holds a meeting, then another, then another, and Jimmy sits at his side and doesn’t doze for once, stares at what is left of the blood from the scratches he made down that man’s face.

When he’s finally alone, Jimmy rinses his hands in the too-cold water from the broken sink in the corner of his cell.

There’s still dark red crusted under two fingernails.

He leaves it.

A stakeout reveals that, likely due to Xornoth’s new political position, cars go to and from the manor frequently, a mix of classic kidnapper vans and government vehicles. It might be as easy as driving to the front door, Joel pulling a Jedi mind trick, and then walking right in.

That’s what Scott hopes, at least, jostling on the floor of the white electrician van that Lizzie had somehow acquired.

Joel’s up front in the driver’s seat. Even through the small grate window, Scott can see his knuckles turning white around the steering wheel. Lizzie’s across from Scott, staring determinedly at the floor.

This doesn’t feel like Scott’s typical base-busting. This feels like a shady, villainous operation. Which is sort of what it is, with Lizzie involved.

There’s a huge chance that everything will go wrong. They’re only three people, after all. One of whom certainly wants Solidarity dead, and is therefore untrustworthy. But Scott has to rely on them. He can’t do this alone.

The van jolts to a stop and Scott swallows, balls his hands into fists. This is it.

“This is it,” Joel calls back to them, voice filled with false cheer. “If this doesn’t work out—”

“Please—”

“Lizzie, I love you,” Joel continues, undeterred. “And Major, you’re a prick.”

Scott rears back. “Unprovoked?” he sputters, before Lizzie shushes him and suddenly Joel is rolling the window down.

Scott ducks down, Lizzie following barely a half second later. “Cargo?” an unfamiliar voice requests, and Scott can feel his heart pounding. They’ve done absolutely nothing to protect themselves here. If there’s anyone examining the van with some sort of x-ray vision there’s no way to get out in time. Even if they do, the alarm will be raised and Xornoth will be conscious of their efforts. There isn’t a second try here. They’ve pinned everything on this.

There’s a moment of quiet, too long, a moment only filled with the sound of the idle engine and Lizzie’s breaths. Then Joel’s seat creaks, and the voice says, “All in order. Go ahead.”

The van jerks forward and they’re moving. Scott dares to raise his head a little, catches Joel’s cheeky grin in the rearview mirror.

“Headed to the garage!” he calls back, and Scott bites his lip, his stomach flipping. The first checkpoint has been passed—they’ve gotten in without detection. He ought to be celebrating, ought to be excited. He can’t help that everything feels like it’s about to go horribly wrong.

He hasn’t been this nervous in years. It’s just another fight, he tries to tell himself. You’ve busted tons of bases in your time, including Xornoth’s. It’s just another fight.

It’s not just another fight. This is Solidarity’s life on the line. This is Gem’s life on the line. This is the entire city on the line.

And then they’re pulling into a garage, and Scott has to suck it all up and clamber out of the van.

There’s nobody else in this garage. A black van is parked beside them. There’s a screen door leading into the main part of the house. Shelves of typical garage items line the back wall—spare tires, jacks, rope. Nothing out of the ordinary.

It’s quiet. Not too quiet, not eerily quiet. Quiet like a church on a weekday. An accustomed quiet. A not-to-be-disturbed quiet.

Joel behind him has fixed his mask onto his face, and Lizzie behind him is climbing out of the van, smoothing down her hair. She’s got a canteen strapped to her hip, ready to spit out a stream of water just in case.

“Should we head to the door?” Scott whispers, nodding toward it, but Joel points instead to the opposite corner of the garage. There, Scott notices, set into the floor, is a trapdoor.

A basement.

That’s their first place to check for any prisoners—and somehow, it seems safer to come in through a trapdoor rather than the main one into the house.

Joel takes point, stealing toward the trapdoor and easing it open. Scott follows Lizzie down the ladder, glancing around behind them. This is too easy. A door straight to the cellar? Through the garage? There’s no way they’re this lucky.

It appears that they are, though, because when, unhindered by non-existent guards they begin going through the rooms, the third room they check in the dark basement (which is eerily quiet, quiet in the unnerving way rather than the natural way) houses Gem.

She’s not in the worst shape of anyone Scott’s ever seen, but he rushes to her side as soon as they spot her. She’s chained to the wall, a flickering purple force around her, hair tangled and face bruised. Her eyes are closed, bags beneath them deep and dark.

Even asleep, just by looking at her Scott can tell that she won’t be up to accompanying them for the rest of the mission. He’s not sure what they can do for her, though—she can’t take the van home, seeing as it’s their current escape plan and would alert the manor to their presence. They can’t abandon the mission to help her, that would be consigning Solidarity to his fate. They can’t just leave her here—they can’t do anything, it seems, and Scott’s starting to panic which he can’t afford to do—

“Gem,” Scott whisper-shouts, stuck outside her shields. Gem starts awake instantly, raising her arms to cover her face—until she sees Scott.

“Major,” she breathes, and her entire body visibly relaxes. The force flickers once more, then disappears. Scott shoves himself forward on his knees, pulls Gem onto his lap.

“Gem, it’s so insanely good to see you,” he tells her, trying not to betray any actual emotion. They’re still in the middle of a mission, after all. He doesn’t have the time to let down any defenses.

Gem mouths something. Scott leans forward, ear over her mouth, and she tries again.

“Get out,” she croaks. “Scott, it’s—he’ll come back any moment—they know you’re here—”

Oh no.

Things had been going too well, hadn’t they?

“We’ve been made,” Scott hisses to his companions. Lizzie curses, Joel spins around to face the door.

Gem’s stirring, fruitlessly pulling at the chains around her wrists. Scott takes a link, applies tighter and tighter ice, he doesn’t know the physics behind this move but he’s broken metal by freezing it far too many times—

The first chain snaps, and he makes quick work of the other one, pulling Gem up to her feet. She can stand, surprisingly, shakes out her arms with a pained grunt.

“I’m fine,” she mutters when Scott tries to help her. “I just wanna get out of here.”

Everything is suspicious, everything including how injured Gem had seemed at first to how capable she seems now—how she warned them, but there’s no one nearby—but Scott pushes aside the prickling in the back of his brain and nods to her, continues on his way out.

He’s barely turned his back on her when something heavy slams into him from behind, sending him flying into Lizzie with a loud crash.

The air is totally knocked out of him and it’s a few seconds before he can even see, let alone breathe. When he does manage to suck in some air, he blinks his eyes open—he and Lizzie are on the floor, Lizzie shoves him off of her and rolls to her feet—Scott pushes his aching body up, gasping, only to see Lizzie dive at Gem and take her to the floor.

He cries out, pain forgotten in adrenaline as he sprints forward—he has to protect Gem, he has to save her—but Gem’s hands go loose from where they’re pulling at Lizzie’s hair as Lizzie slams her head into the concrete floor.

Gem’s unconscious before Scott can get there, and he goes to shove Lizzie away—that’s Gem, that’s his friend, how could she—but a hold on his cape stops him. He whips around; Joel is there, face white, holding him back.

“Major, Gem—she just tried to kill you,” he says, and Scott doesn’t need to be able to read minds to know that Joel isn’t lying. He glances back to Gem’s lax face, Lizzie dusting her hands off as she stands.

“Thank me later,” she bites out, stepping over Gem to stare Scott down. Scott looks between Gem and Lizzie, trying to work out—why would Gem—?

Joel groans at the same moment that Scott connects the dots. “The other telepath,” Joel grumbles. “They must be here.”

And Scott, still looking down at Gem, knows exactly what’s about to happen. He almost doesn’t want to turn around, as if not looking will make it not happen. But he sighs, pushes a hand through his hair, and turns around.

Joey Graceffa waves from the doorway.

Graceffa seems put out, almost, when he gets no reaction from the group. “C’mon, nothing for the richest man in the country?” he pouts, slipping out of his expensive suit jacket. Scott’s lip curls.

He can take Graceffa, easy. He’s known for years that there was something up with him, that he wasn’t just corrupt in that all-billionaires-are-evil way, but in more pressing ways as well. He’d never had sufficient evidence to go after him, though.

Right now, evidence doesn’t matter.

But once again, Joel pulls him back by his cape. “Don’t,” he says lowly, and Scott can feel the power in his voice. It’s not directed at him, not right now, but Scott hasn’t been on the other end of a telepath’s powers in a long time and he certainly doesn’t want to break that streak now. He backs down, lets Joel approach Graceffa.

“So,” says Joel, gesturing toward Gem. “Your work?”

Graceffa shrugs. “Quick and dirty,” he says. “Nothing near what I had going with Mythics. I suppose you would know what happened to him?”

Joel barks out a laugh. “It’s not gonna be that easy, mate,” he says confidently, pressing closer to Graceffa.

And then they both go silent, staring into each others’ eyes.

An entire minute passes.

Scott exchanges a look with Lizzie. She shrugs.

“Is this a straight man thing, or. . . ?”

Graceffa slaps Joel across the face, points at Scott. “How dare you accuse me of being straight!” he gasps dramatically, and there’s something pushing at Scott’s brain, behind his eyes, and he doesn’t like this, he doesn’t like this at all—

Then Joel is slamming Graceffa into a wall. “Both of you, head out and find Solidarity! I’ll catch up!” he shouts, as Graceffa wriggles free of his hold and kicks him in the knee.

Scott doesn’t need to be told twice. He runs, Lizzie on his heels, further down the basement. The basement isn’t too large, quite a bit smaller than Scott expected for a manor of this size, and within sight of the room Gem was in is another staircase. Scott freezes just before it, holds an arm out to stop Lizzie.

“Joey Graceffa knew we were here,” he whispers. “He could’ve alerted anyone.”

“Who even was that guy?”

“Classic billionaire type, and apparently a telepath?” That part is still fuzzy, but Scott’s pretty sure they’ve just left Joel and Graceffa having some sort of telepath showdown. So Joey Graceffa is the telepath, and for some reason, he’s been hanging out in Xornoth’s basement. Scott entertains the idea that Graceffa is Xornoth for about .2 seconds, before dismissing it entirely. Laughable.

Scott leads the way up the stairs, slow and careful. Something still isn’t right about this.

It’s the middle of the day. Sure, they sort of hoped people would be out to lunch, but there’s got to be some sort of staff here, right? And they know for a fact that Xornoth employs some basic muscle, so theoretically there should be any number of thugs around the building.

It’s not right that Joey Graceffa of all people is the only one to notice that they’re here.

But when Scott pushes open the door at the top of the stairs, there’s no one there.

It’s just him and Lizzie, alone in a grand, painting-lined hallway.

The prickling in the back of Scott’s brain has grown to a roar of dread, because this just isn’t right. They shouldn’t be alone in a building that constantly has vehicles shipping to and fro, a building where Xornoth and presumably all of their thugs reside, a building where Solidarity by all rights ought to be.

But it’s just the two of them, and the quiet that had been unnerving earlier is downright oppressive now.

There’s an open doorway to Scott’s right, light spilling onto the polished wooden floor beyond it. Scott looks to Lizzie, who shrugs.

It’s the first sign of proper life that they’ve seen. And if Gem is to be believed, it’s not a secret that they’re here.

Xornoth is most certainly there. It’s also most certainly a trap. But Scott’s not a hero for nothing, and Lizzie’s not a villain for nothing. Both kinds are quite notorious for getting out of traps.

Scott stretches, rolls his neck out, then leads the way into the room.

It’s a ballroom, large and grand, all sorts of intricacies decorating the walls and ceiling, but Scott only has eyes for the two figures on the dais at the opposite end of the room.

Xornoth in all their dark glory, resting back in a jewel-encrusted throne. The Canary in full costume (glider wings and musketeer hat included), kneeling at their feet. A chain connects the Canary’s collar to Xornoth.

Xornoth raises a hand, and Scott suddenly realizes that it isn’t just the two of them in the room. There’s a small guard made up of eight or so thugs standing by the door, and it’s barely a second before two of them have Scott by the forearms and two others have Lizzie. Scott struggles, but only for a moment—they’re not attacking him, just pulling him forward to meet Xornoth. He was already planning on heading that way, anyhow.

“Well,” Xornoth says once both Scott and Lizzie are before them. “Here to destroy me?”

And Scott’s seething, because he is here to destroy them. Because Solidarity is right there, chin on Xornoth’s lap. Because they’re finally here, and Xornoth is still acting like they have the upperhand.

When Xornoth removes Solidarity’s musketeer hat and glides a hand through his golden hair, Scott can’t help but yank one of his arms free. A shard of ice shoots down his arm and into the thigh of someone holding him. That person curses, smacks Scott over the head.

Scott curses as well. He needs to calm down. He can’t lose control here, in front of his nemesis, with an innocent’s life at stake. He stares up at Solidarity, searching the little bit of visible skin for any signs of recent injuries, trying to catch the man’s eye. Solidarity isn’t even looking at him, eyes fixed on . . . on Lizzie.

Lizzie’s staring back at Solidarity, face tight. Her hands, restrained as they are, are clenched in fists, knuckles turning white.

What’s visible of Solidarity’s face is expressionless, even as he leans into Xornoth’s hand.

“Nothing to say to me, Major?” drawls Xornoth, lip curled. Scott returns his attention to the villain. “Nothing to say to your . . . brother?”

Brother?

In what? Being powered?

Maybe it’s some sort of tax bracket thing, Xornoth pleading to his anti-establishment spirit. Even so, it’s weird. Confusing. Probably meant to throw him off. Scott doesn’t like it at all.

“We’re not brothers,” he spits out, “and we never will be. Anything else cryptic to say to me, or should we skip to the part where I kick your demonic butt?”

Xornoth laughs, strange and echo-y in this space. It sends a chill running up Scott’s spine, one that he tries fruitlessly to shake. “Why, why, Major—or should I say, Scott,” they say, and the chill spreads to all of Scott’s body, stealing the air from his lungs.

There’s only two people on earth who know Scott’s secret identity, and neither of them have taken up supervillain activities in the last ten years—unless his therapist has something to tell him. And his therapist is a middle-aged woman named Nora, so it would be more than a little concerning for Xornoth to remove their mask right now and reveal themself to be her.

“How do you—?”

“Brothers, Scott,” Xornoth tells him, one finger idly wrapping a lock of Solidarity’s hair around it and pulling hard. Solidarity doesn’t move. “You’ve forgotten your poor, lonely brother, cast from the home at just fourteen? Surely you remember something of me, you at least stood taller than a toddler.”

No way. There’s literally no possible way that’s true. Scott was an only child. He hates to think of the people who raised him, the place he grew up, but now he casts his mind back, tries to recall any evidence of such a sibling.

There’s nothing. Not even a faint echo of a teenager occupying the house when he was young. No photos, no possessions, no memories.

Xornoth’s probably lying. They’re probably just trying to shake him before the battle, give themself the upper hand. But the fact that they know his name is scary. Incredibly scary.

If they know Scott’s name, who else does?

He’ll just have to make sure to bring Xornoth in alive. He needs answers about this, but right now they’re going to have to wait.

Scott sighs, tugs himself free from the guards easily. “We fighting or no?” he asks, then doesn’t wait before sending an icicle flying at Xornoth. The villain dodges it easily, stands, unclips the chain from Solidarity’s collar (Scott’s blood boils at the sight of it) and places the man’s hat back on his head.

“Pet,” says Xornoth casually. Solidarity’s eyes instantly leave Lizzie, turning instead to Xornoth. “I have some business to take care of with my long-lost brother. Keep her—” they point at Lizzie— “out of my way.”

Scott barely has time to process the words before the Canary leaps at Lizzie, and Xornoth flies toward him.

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