your ticket to the multiverse

          One of the things Kyle really missed about Earth was the nightlife. Out in space, on planets that might not even have a night time, there was nothing remotely similar to the chaotic fury of Big City Nights (Scorpions, hell yes). Off the job, for the most part, the Lantern figured he could have a normal night to celebrate being back and not being called back to Oa for yet another intergalactic issue the Corps deemed a problem that needed to be dealt with. No calls from the Guardians, no strange space-monsters he had to make a giant green fist to punch out of the atmosphere. Just fun.

          He was a little too thankful no one in the bar knew him, he could let loose in a way he hadn’t in a long time. With other similarly buzzed patrons chanting the words along with him, he didn’t really feel like he was alone on that small stage. The only thing he was really worried about, and even that was pushing it, was getting another drink the minute his feet hit the floor. A smile graced his face as he snagged another full green bottle, shooting a bit of a grin at the other he was sure was talking to him. “You’d think,” Kyle chuckled, the ring on his right hand clicking the glass. “But very bold of you to assume the artist from SoCal who just poured his heart out singing Bowie isn’t playing for his own team.” His free hand flicked through his hair, messy and wild from his high-energy performance. If only he could construct his own guitar out of the mask… “Just looking to make some friends in town, chica. Haven’t been around these parts for a hot minute.”

/

He was fun. America could tell it by looking at him, hear it in the lilt of his voice as he sang. She’d always liked people like that, people who could lose themselves in a moment and have a good time even when the world might not be perfect around them. And this world? It was a goddamn mess every time she showed up. There were complications here that never took place in other universes, strange happenings that should have felt entirely out of place even when they didn’t. By all rights, America should have avoided this reality but... She had a soft spot for it. And it was, in some small part, because of people like this. Other universes had them, too, of course, but in this world... In this world, they always seemed just a little more fun. 

She laughed again when he spoke, tilting her glass towards him. “Touche,” she nodded, quirking a brow as she brought her drink to her lips to take a swig. “That so? I’m not really from this town. I’ve actually been away for a hot minute, too. That disqualify me from the friend thing?” She found herself sort of hoping it didn’t. America didn’t often care whether people liked her or not, but the idea of being friends with this guy wasn’t a bad one.

/

“Fire face,” Daisy repeated, deadpan as she stared at America, waiting for the rest of the joke — but no. That was it. Robbie would have adored her if he had met her, she had that same snark that Daisy had shot in his direction the first time they had met. They really were siblings, weren’t they? (In all the ways that mattered, too.) “I prefer to call him flaming skull, but you know… what you said is accurate too.” She nodded her head and tried not to laugh too much. Fire face would be a good insult later — at least to throw Robbie whatever trail of bullshit he might end up on in the next couple of days.

And they could both use something more lighthearted, too. They had both been through so much, and she wanted to say they had earned a break — that they deserved a fraction of happiness that other’s got… but she doubted that they’d get it. The world had never been kind to them. (But Daisy could close her eyes and pretend.)

“He’d smell it,” Daisy relented. “But he’d eat it out of spite just to disgust me, I think. In fact…” She groaned and put both hands on her head. “I think they both would. They’re moldy bread eating assholes. Robbie, unfortunately, would make eye contact while doing it. Matt would feign ignorance and I’m — I don’t know which upsets me more.” Falling silent, Daisy shifted so that she was looking America in the eyes, carefully watching her expression. “What about you? Are you a moldy bread eater?”

/

“His face is on fire,” America pointed out, not backing down for a second. She’d always been stubborn --- a trait that Daisy and Matt both shared. The three of them were more than a handful when thrown together, and some days America almost felt bad for the nuns who ran the orphanage where they’d met. Almost. She continued staring at Daisy until she relented that fire face, while not her preferred nickname for her... whatever it was Robbie was to her, was still accurate. A grin spread across her face as she nodded her head. “Fire face is better,” she stated in a tone that left absolutely no room for argument. Maybe stubborn was an understatement. 

It was always nice, hanging out with Daisy. They dealt with some heavy shit on a day-to-day basis, but in moments like this, they got to be themselves. They didn’t have to be Quake and Ms. America, super heroes. They could just be Daisy and America, sisters. It was something America hadn’t really found anywhere else, something she wasn’t sure she would want to find anywhere else. She liked what she had too much to risk it, even for a second. 

America made a face, because Daisy was right. Matt was petty enough to subject himself to a snack of moldy bread just to make someone else’s stomach turn. “Men,” she sighed, leaning her head into Daisy’s shoulder. “They’re the worst.” She straightened back up as Daisy shifted, turning her head to meet her gaze and narrowing her eyes. “I,” she said, slow and deliberate, “would never.” And they both knew it was a lie. Matt was petty enough to eat moldy bread... and so was America. Pettiness, like stubbornness, was a family trait.

/

This was Matt’s favorite place in the world. Hell’s Kitchen, New York at large, at night time when he could hear the city buzzing underneath him and could feel the wind lightly blowing through his hair. He’d never take his helmet off with anyone else who joined him, but he did with America. He’d learned at an early age that there was no point trying to hide from her, at least when it came to the obvious. She tore through his life every time she appeared, and he’d grown used to it, became safe within her sharp words and observations. She was one of his greatest exceptions, and he’d missed her, and she knew that, but he couldn’t say it. Neither of them could. They were both made of similar things.

Matt had his eyes closed, breathing in the city, when he felt America’s grip on his arm hauling him to his feet. “I was praying,” he lied through his teeth, a small smile coming onto his face already because he knew she wouldn’t fall for it for a second. “That was the plan, yeah. When’s the last time you just got a chance to–” Relax. It didn’t suit either of them, really. It never had. Matt sighed. “Fine. What are we looking for, exactly? I didn’t hear–” Rustling, underneath them. Something being dragged. It was larger than a person, but he couldn’t get more information than that from this high. “Alright, I hear it. Lead the way.”

Family was a funny thing. When America’s mothers died and she leaped through a rapidly closing portal into a multiverse where she was utterly alone, she’d figured that was it for her and family. She’d lost her mothers, chosen to leave whatever else she had (and she couldn’t remember, beyond the vague shadowy recollections of a child, what else there had been for her outside her parents) behind her forever. The last thing she’d expected was to build a new family in an orphanage she’d never expected to stay in for more than a few weeks, but... here she was. Sitting on a rooftop, staring out into the city next to a man who was her brother in every way but blood. And it was familiar and it was comforting and it was wonderful in a way she’d never cop to because feelings weren’t her thing, but Matt knew anyways. Matt always knew. It was one of the things she liked best about him.

The multiverse was vast and endless. America had been traveling through it since she was six years old, and she still hadn’t seen close to all of it. She’d seen universes made up entirely of one thing, other worlds that looked like blank, unfinished canvases. Universes where people had killed one another centuries ago, worlds where they’d managed to find peace and build societies that were something bordering on perfect. She’d seen worlds with no people at all, too.

She’d managed three years of travel before she wound up in Limbo. Three years of various worlds in various states, three years of seeing more than any child should ever have to see. Back then, there’d been little to no control over where she wound up, and it had often taken her longer to gain enough energy to kick open an exit. Her plan had been to stay in Limbo only until she had enough energy to leave it... but then she met Illyana. A girl not much older than her, surviving in a world not built for children and seeing things no child should see. It wasn’t the first time America had felt a connection to someone she’d met during her travels, but it was a level of shared life experience she didn’t find often.

It was what brought her to Illyana’s apartment, leaning against the doorframe as her friend opened the door with dramatic flair. America quirked a brow, snorting at the words. “We both know this isn’t exactly Hell,” she quipped, walking into the apartment without waiting for the invite. No one had really succeeded in teaching her manners during her multiversal travels. “Figured it was only polite to let you know I’m in-universe for a while. Got any chips?”

She wished she could say she thought things through. She wished she could pretend she had a plan for everything she did, wished she could look at her mistakes and say she’d planned for every situation she could have, that none of the blame could truly fall on her shoulders because she’d thought ahead. She wished she could say she didn’t leap without looking without it being a lie. Impulsivity defined every aspect of her life. She came and went on a whim, jumped from one universe to the next not because she had a reason to go somewhere new but because she had an aversion to stay somewhere old. Even at six years old, it had been a common complaint --- you’re too impulsive, Chavez. This isn’t the correct way to behave. And maybe they’d been right, but she’d never known how to stop. 

“If I weren’t impulsive,” she said at last, an easily confident and utterly fake smile spreading across her face, “I wouldn’t be here, would I?” Jumping through a portal without knowing where it would take you wasn’t the kind of thing anyone did after thinking it through, after all.

Honor had taken human form when America was six years old. Her mothers held her tight, pressed their lips to her hair, told her how loved she was, and walked away. Honor made her an orphan, left her crying so hard she couldn’t breathe. She remembered hands on her shoulders, squeezing tight when all she wanted was to be let go, to never let anything or anyone touch her again. Your mothers were heroes, they said. They sacrificed themselves for us, for all of us. You should be proud. 

And maybe she would have been, had it not be drowned out by grief.

It was only a few moments later that honor convinced her to tear herself free from that sympathetic grip. Honor made her legs move faster, made her run so hard she swore she was flying. Honor was the wind at her back, pushing her into a rapidly closing portal among terrified cries of, Chavez, no! that fell on deaf ears. 

“Honor,” she repeated, like it was just a word. Like she didn’t feel the weight of it every goddamn day of her life. Like it didn’t define every part of who she was, who she could have been. “It means nothing I want any part of.”