The kids aren’t alright chapter 11: say a prayer but let the good times roll
There's an assassin on Gar's couch.
Well, technically it's a communal couch paid for by the combined efforts of his, Dick's, and Vic's asshole fathers' contributions to the NGO that funds reconstruction of the tower every time it gets blown up or some guy who was literally born yesterday lasers through the living room furniture. But Gar and Vic were the ones who picked it out, with intense detail to comfort, function, and style. And considering Vic is somewhere between here and and Betelgeuse right now, that makes it Gar's couch.
Said assassin is curled up around one of the faux fur throw pillows, white hair spilling out from beneath M'gann's hand knit blanket, snoring like a steam engine.
And there go his dreams of getting a jump on the T.V. for an all day Stargate marathon before any of those little assholes he calls friends and teammates could beat him to it.
He didn't account for this particular little asshole, who hasn't shown her face around the tower in at least a year. Last he heard she was somewhere in the north of Cambodia, but it's not like she sends routine updates exactly.
He's got half a mind to turn right around and go straight back to bed. For once let this be someone, anyone, else's problem.
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