#idea writes

The Z-team had convened at a bar (luckily not one they were likely to start a major fight in this time) and Prism was on a mission. Her bestie had been dropping increasingly desperate hints and she was going to rip off her ears if she had to listen to his whining a moment longer. Flambae had long since left finesse at the door and it still wasn't enough—Prism was just finally tipsy enough to do something about it.

Their stupid dispatcher (whom her heart decided to care about without her input, thanks) had stepped back from their raucous party for a moment. Flambae had been laying the flirting on thick, but it was in his usual style. Frequently mean, occasionally raunchy, and apparently too subtle for Robert to pick up on.

Robert's gaze was focused on the group, but soft in its intensity. Ugh, how the hell was Flambae not managing to pull this heart-on-his-sleeve dumbass?

He noticed her stalking over, expression growing quizzical as he lowered his glass of pisswater beer from his lips. She flicked her shades up to her forehead so he could see her glare.

Once they were close enough together to talk over the music, he asked, "What have I done this time?"

Prism snorted. "Oh, nothing—and that's just the problem. Dumbass."

"Uh huh. Care to elaborate on that?"

She took a deep breath in through her nose. She wasn't questioning her bestie's taste, honest. "You," She said, jabbing him in the chest with one sharply manicured finger, "Are one dense motherfucker." His drink sloshed a little.

Before Robert had a chance to shoot back, Prism kept going. "You see my bestie over there?" She gestured at Flambae, who'd noticed them talking. He sneered when they made eye contact and made a point of turning back to the conversation. Bitch wasn't hiding the growing flush highlighted on his cheekbones. 

"...What about him?"

Prism grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him in closer. "He wants to fuck you so bad it's making him look stupid." 

Robert spluttered, but she kept going. "His pining is driving me insane. So you need to either tell him you're not interested or nail him to the motherfucking wall. Got it?" She let go and slugged him in the shoulder. "Good talk!" With that, she left him and went back to the table. 

If that conversation ended up not working, her next plan was to lock them in a closet together and pray they actually rip each other's clothes off instead of ripping each other apart.

(When they come into work the next day with Flambae in an uncharacteristic good mood and Robert finally relaxed, she damn near cheers that the pining is over. Unfortunately, she hadn't predicted Robert reciprocating Flambae's on-the-job flirtation.)

Jazz threw himself into a nearby alleyway and slipped through to the side streets.

Someone's steps echoed his own.

Frag. No matter how fast he ran or how many tricky shortcuts he took, the staccato of dogmatic pursuit remained the same distance behind him. 

A stun round final nailed him square in the back, sending electric numbness up and down his spinal strut. His joints seized all at once and he crumpled. Alerts flashed in his HUD about foreign coding and injury and no slag, genius, he hadn't noticed! Was actually wondering why he was face-down in the middle of the road, thanks.

A tight grip on his shoulder pauldron pulled him from his commentary and flipped him into his back. Before he could even think, the mech yanked Jazz’s wrists over his head and locked them tight with a pair of stasis cuffs. 

“You've got a lot of nerve coming back around here, Meister.” The icy optics of a Praxian enforcer glared down at him, sculpted lips pulled back into the slightest sneer.

A shaky chuckle rumbled in Jazz's chest. “Aw, Prowler! If I didn't know any better, I'd say you missed me,” he purred. “I sure missed you.” He shifted his hands around in the officer's grip. “And look, you even got me these nice bracelets!”

The officer didn't seem terribly amused. “You're under arrest for breaking and entering, reckless endangerment, grand theft, and several counts of assault.”

“Can't a man have hobbies?”

The enforcer swiftly stood up and dragged him by the cuffs. Jazz scrabbled to get his legs under himself, but the angle and the lingering effects from the stunner denied him the needed leverage. His heels scraped against the ground. Jazz wasn't exactly a light mech—just what kind of engine was that officer packing? Its quiet thrumming didn't betray the power he wielded so effortlessly.

Prowl shoved the cuffs low against a light pole and magnetized them in place, leaving Jazz laid out on the sidewalk as he kneeled down next to him. 

The warnings from the stun shot finally faded, but the spec ops risk assessment module always lurking in the back of Jazz’s processor easily replaced them as it spun up. He denied every request without reading even one and locked the program down—it wasn't going to tell him anything he didn't already know.

Prowl looked down at him as if in contemplation. “Last time we fought, you said something interesting. That you do this not for money, power, or influence, but because you can. Because you want to.”

“So you actually pay attention when I talk.”

“More than that. And I've been thinking—” He ran an absent digit over the port on Jazz’s side, just above his hip junction. “—that maybe I should take a page out of your playbook and get what I want.”

Jazz shifted, gaze flickering between his face and the hand still on him. “And what would you want?”

“I wanted to chase you, which I did; I wanted you captured, which you are; and I wanted to cuff you and have you at my mercy, which I now have.”

Despite the situation and himself, Jazz snorted. “Oh, please; we both know that I can escape from these at any time.”

Something darkened in Prowl’s field. He stared Jazz down, his optics glinting in the shadow cast by the flickering light post. “Do it, then.”

It wouldn’t be the first time Jazz had given him the slip after being caught and cuffed. It was practically a hobby at that point, and they both knew it; standard enforcer cuffs could only hold him as long as he let them. He twisted his arms around so his palms faced outward, fighting the tight cuffs for every minute shift, but the flexibility his spec ops training granted him was good for more than just parlor tricks. One more wiggle to situate his palms as close to the locking mechanism as possible. His mods activated with a low hum, and—

Nothing. Slag. “You upgraded your stasis cuffs.”

Prowl—normally so blank and composed—bloomed with unrepentant pride at finally catching his prey. His doorwings fluttered high as he said around his self-amused smirk: “Custom-made and top of the line—those mag-pulsers in your hands can't short them out. In conclusion: you can't escape.”

Jazz chuckled lowly. “You smug fragger. Now what? Gonna arrest me all proper? Haul me to the stockades?”

“No. That's what the precinct wants, but I'm not done taking what I want.” The touch that was previously ghosting over his port clamped down, its twin joining on the opposite side as Prowl hauled one leg over Jazz’s hips to straddle him. “And I want you.”

His spark spun faster as the mech above him ground his hips against his modesty panel. Conflicting protocols came online in response. “Now, hang—hang on a moment—”

Those words went ignored as a deft hand popped the cover of his hip port, the other unspooling a cable from his forearm. Prowl grinned. “Let's see what you've given me to work with.” Static from their building charge jumped between the port and cable head as he clicked them together. 

At once, Jazz’s head was filled with Prowl, Prowl, Prowl. The sheer overwhelming force of the other processor pressing against his own threatened to swallow him alive. He'd never felt more like a cassette facing down a titan than in that moment. For every firewall and blockade he threw up between his kernel and the intrusion, Prowl’s clearly overclocked processor batted them away like they were mere annoyances and not advanced anti-interrogation software that most mecha didn't have the power to even run.

Prowl punched past the final barrier with a satisfied hum and settled his reach into every corner of Jazz’s mind. He spent a moment flicking through active programs before pausing. “Hm, no. You won't be needing that one.” And he shut it off with little fanfare.

Jazz knew which one it was at once; his valve stopped artificially lubricating itself and his sensitivity ratcheted back up to normal levels. The sudden shock was enough to pull a hastily suppressed gasp from the back of his vocalizer.

“Didn't take you for a sadistic slagger,” he muttered between panted in-vents.

Prowl leaned in and caressed his chassis. “Not in the least. You really won't need something to prevent pain or damage from interfacing.” Digit tips ran along his transformation seams. “I plan to make sure you enjoy it.”

Jazz squirmed at the teasingly light touches. “A-ah, do you, now?”

“I want you to lose yourself underneath me, Meister. I’m enjoying this plenty, and I expect that you'll be feeling the same.” 

A data packet pinged over the hardline connection and instantly began unpacking itself before Jazz could even glance over the contents. Information—sensory data slammed into him. The desire, the hunger in the chase. Pride, pleasure abound. Touching him(self?), getting touched, digits on his frame a frame under his digits under his thighs the sounds and sensations of Prowl wrapped up with a bow and experienced all at once—

Jazz spat out static as his charge crescendoed like a thunderstorm and shuddered down to a rolling, blissful lull. Heat blasted from his wide-open vents. A blue glow from his own overbright visor glinted off of Prowl’s chassis.

It took him a moment to reset his vocalizer. “That,” he slurred, “was cheating.”

“I hardly think so. I just wanted you to feel the same pleasure I’ve felt during our little tryst.”

“Hah, is that what we're calling this, now?”

Prowl neglected to dignify that with a response and instead rolled his hips, grinding down mockingly. Another whine pulled from Jazz, and Prowl in-vented deeply as if he could drink up those sounds of pleasure. 

After a moment to breathe, Prowl unlinked the two of them with a show of great, teasing reluctance and wound his cable back up. The sense of singularity slammed into Jazz as Prowl slipped out of his processor. A hollow part of him ached at the loss. “But I suppose if you insist it's cheating, then I'll have to prove myself with just my frame instead.” He shifted his weight back into his heels and opened his modesty panel, revealing a strong-looking spike already at attention. Thin, bead-like biolights glowed golden along the bottom ridge. “Now, will you open up if I ask you nicely?”

Jazz bared his dentae as his engine growled, though it was weak even to his audials. “You'll have to rip my cover off to get me to cooperate.”

Prowl hummed in feigned consideration. “No, I don't think I will.” He slowly reached down, never breaking optic contact. “You'll open willingly for me.”

One hand massaged the broad frontside of Jazz’s modesty panel, occasionally dipping into a seam and running a claw tip along it. Even closed, that was a sensitive part of his frame and each purposeful caress sent his charge climbing back up. The other hand slipped into his hip joint and went on the hunt. Gentle pulls on the wires there, practically playing him like a stringed instrument, sent bolts of pleasure up his spinal strut and he struggled not to moan.

Pressure on one specific connection felt different from the rest, and something in his reaction must've given that away. Prowl only paused for a nanoklik before tugging it in time with his massages, pressing deep. The sensation alone was intoxicating and his spinal strut arched up into the touches. In an instant, Jazz’s modesty panel folded away with a neat click.

Prowl fixed him with a half-shuttered look. “As I said.”

Jazz spluttered for a moment and elected to clamp down on his vocalizer instead of embarrassing himself any further than he already was with his valve—already dripping lubricant, no program necessary—on display. The heat radiating off of his frame more than likely said enough anyway.

Prowl dragged his digit along Jazz’s plump valve, carefully edging by his anterior node. Warm shivers radiated across his sensory net. After teasing a moment longer, Prowl dipped in up to his second joint. Jazz gasped at the sudden intrusion. “Just as I expected,” he murmured. “Your first overload brought your lubrication systems online and relaxed your calipers; you hardly need any preparation to take my spike.” 

Jazz couldn't help but squirm against the cuffs as Prowl pushed his digit in down to the base, rubbing Jazz’s walls as he went.

His usually clever mouth failed him. Each press to his calipers lit up his array with sparks of pleasure and only the faintest stretch when pushed wide—no pain. Prowl withdrew and swiped his thumb over Jazz’s anterior node in one motion. An unbidden moan fell from his intake.

Prowl lined up the blunt tip of his spike with Jazz’s hole. “I'm going to make you overload hard enough that you undergo a full processor reboot.”

Jazz revved his engine and flashed a bit of fang, but there was a challenge in his tone. He wrenched back control of his vocalizer and said, “Prove it.”

Prowl’s spike pressed in without pause, not giving Jazz even a moment to adjust to the fullness until he was completely sheathed. Their hot arrays touched and charge leapt across their plating. For a brief moment, all they could do was vent, breathing each other in. 

Then, Prowl began to move. The slow drag of his hips, spike sliding back enough that only the head was still inside, before pushing back in with gentle mercilessness. The bumps on the bottom of his spike toyed with, stretched, Jazz’s entrance as the motion brought them in and out. 

A well-aimed thrust kissed his ceiling node and his hips bucked into it. Pleasure boiled in his lines. “Prowl—Prowler, please!”

“Patience.” His thrusts slowed down but went deeper, all directed to brush just that sensitive bud. “I want you to savor this.”

“Frag—Nng!” Jazz strained against the cuffs, to grab, to pull, to touch, anything to sate the demanding charge racing through his lines. His shoulders ached, but the tension only made the ecstasy that much sharper. 

Hands cupped and kneaded the metal around his headlights. “You don't need to do anything right now,” Prowl said softly into his audial, “all you have to do is feel.”

Jazz moaned, consumed by the symphony Prowl was playing using his frame. The rhythm, the harmony; pleasure felt deep within his struts.

Prowl’s thrusts grew unsteady—he was close. At once he shifted to nail Jazz’s ceiling node with every thrust of his hips. 

Prowl came inside him with a blissed cry. The force of the transfluid against Jazz’s nodes lit up his sensors like the break of dawn, overload glowing brighter and brighter within him, until it turned into gentle mist and dispersed. His optics fluttered shut.

***

Jazz resurfaced slowly to Prowl removing the modded cuffs and gingerly lowering his arms back down, careful to avoid pulling the likely-strained cables in his shoulders. His array was already wiped down and neatly closed back up.

He stage-whispered none too quietly, “Prowlerrrr,” drawing out the last sound through the hoarse static in his vocalizer.

The corner of Prowl’s mouth quirked up. “How are you feeling, Jazz?” He helped Jazz up somewhat, half-leaning and half-laying against the light post.

“A little bit like I got run over, but in a good way.”  Prowl placed a cube of plain energon in his hand and he sipped at it graciously. “I don't think my struts are going to thank me for interfacing on the ground come tomorrow.”

Prowl snorted fondly and drank from his own cube. “Was it worth it?”

Dauntlessly undeterred as per usual, Joe merely smiles serenely and says, “But I must watch them, as the rain must fall and snow must melt; it is in my nature, sewn into my skin.”

Even-spaced threads holding his innards on the right side of the felt are the only thing decorating his skin, by Cleo’s own observation.

“Fine as that may be, your ‘nature’ does not make you invincible to arrows.” Generally speaking, being made of cloth made Joe invincible to very little, save for perhaps pain and common sense. He would grow tired of his game eventually, and then he would stop attempting to consort with the humanfolk (at least, Cleo hoped he would tire of it).

“If I am endlessly repairable no matter my condition, is that not a form of invincibility?”

 “Joe, you can only be repaired if I have the pieces to put you back together; if the humanfolk decide it would be more fun to capture you instead of running you off, you would be in more pieces than magic thread could possibly hold together.”

“Killjoys—that being people who deny my innermost whimsy, that being you—” he gestured at her with the arm not being worked on, “should not judge how one chooses to express themself, especially when they are themselves of humanfolk blood.”

Less ever said about one Joe Hills’ innermost whimsy, the more sane one would be, as neither consistency nor thoughts of sound minds are facets of his being.

Minutes flow around them like a gentle brook as Cleo continues her stitchwork and pointedly does not give his comments the dignity of a direct response, at least until she thinks of one worth saying.

“No humanfolk,” she began slowly, “Would consider me possible by their understanding of the world, let alone ‘of their blood’; I have not been theirs for a very long time.” One day was all it took to lose everything that she’d built over the course of her entire life, as one day was all it took for the sickness that ravaged her village like a pack of wolves descending on a flock of sheep to bury her in an early grave that she didn’t stay put in.

“Perhaps that much is fair and you have no love left for them, but I have never been theirs; the humanfolk ways are unlike our own, and I find myself pulled in again and again despite all attempts to the contrary.”

Quickly fleeting curiosity would be too much to ask, she supposed, as temporary passion was also as antithetical to Joe’s nature as he claimed sedation to be.

 “Really, you can’t be all too mad at me for this, because if you were as upset as you pretend to be, you wouldn’t have offered to sew me back up, and you certainly wouldn’t have added these nice yellow flowers without me needing to ask.”

She glances down to her hands as if seeing them for the first time that morning, the hands that gently wove the thread in and out of his fabric skin with a practiced ease and the comfort of a close friend. This conversation—despite its distances—has still grown much too close to an uncomfortable shard of glass nestled deep into her chest, digging and poking into the soft tissue beneath her heart that she could not excise no matter how strong her will. 

“Unfortunately, we still live in a world where I need to sew you back up for reasons other than your own foolishness, and it’s not like I could simply let someone I’ve worked on walk around looking like I did the job carelessly.” 

Vexed enough by her candid response, Joe allows the conversation to wander along to more familiar territory by changing the topic with all the subtlety he could muster—that is, not a whole lot.

 “What type of flowers are these meant to be, anyway?” Joe asks, stretching to see Cleo’s handiwork.

“Xyris flowers, of some kind; they’re all over around here and you seem to like them well enough that I didn’t think you would mind if I put some on your arm.”

Yellow petals of soft thread cascade from the top of his shoulder down midway to his elbow, just shy of of meeting up with the dusky green vines—those were almost ready to come out, but the new stitches would have to stay for a few weeks so the fabric could knit itself back together. Zero weeks have gone in recent memory that did not end with one of Cleo’s friends needing stitches (usually Joe, and usually for silly and-or humanfolk reasons), but she never stopped pulling out her needle and thread before they could even apologize for bothering her.

And as Joe thanks her for the help and the flowers, she leads him back to her house for an early breakfast to cap off an odd morning, all the while dreaming of a world where the humanfolk and the otherfolk didn’t have to live on opposite sides of the veil, and Joe could make strangers into friends.

 Better worlds and broken hearts are playing cards of the same set, but a card for resilience is also shuffled into that same deck. Crisp toast and peppery fried eggs aren’t quite miracle workers, but they’re enough to bring Cleo back up to normal when combined with good company. Dreams weren’t going to come true on their own, but maybe Joe was onto something with his adventures.

The Watcher was small in structure, much shorter than any Martyn had seen before, and their wings were forced into a flightless mantled position with a harness. It didn’t do much to make them look bigger, especially when their arms were chained tightly enough behind them that their shoulders pulled back.

Every jostle from the guards sent their head whipping to face the source of the touch in spite of the hooded blindfold. Their jaw moved, but no sound came out.

… What?

They were in a Listener amphitheater; the acoustics would’ve still been fantastic even without the aid of the magic that filled the place. Martyn might not have been able to understand them from up in the box seat, but he should have at least been able to hear them; their body language didn’t exactly read ‘I’m controlling my volume.’

The guard standing nearest to the crowd did something to get the Watcher’s attention and they turned again. Their lips pulled back as they spat something out, silent.

Martyn’s eyes widened.

Every time they went to speak, thin wisps of a gold symbol shimmered over their mouth but disappeared as soon as they stopped trying; definitely a silencing spell, though there might’ve also been something else wrapped up in there.

The attendants didn’t bother trying to read their lips, instead pulling them along by the shoulders to a small raised platform maybe half a block high on the far side of the stage. They stumbled on the edge before getting manhandled up and onto it and turned to face the crowd.

One of the guards said something, but the watcher recoiled as if offended and shouted back mutely. The other shook their head at their compatriot before they could try again.

Instead, they each tightened their grip on the watcher’s shoulders and shoved them to the ground. Their knees cracked against the quartz floor and Martyn winced. That he heard.

He couldn’t help but stare at them as the rest of the set-up continued. They eventually slid back from a kneel to instead sitting on their heels with their head held low and shoulders hunched. Martyn frowned. They were a watcher, and he’d hated the Watchers ever since they stole Grian from him and their friends.

But it was much easier to sympathize with someone hooded and chained before a crowd than similar people playing toys with players’ lives.

He mostly paid attention when the leader of the Listeners (also known as Martyn’s superior and one of a small handful of listeners he answered to) began the ceremony, but he kept looking back at the figure on the platform. No one mentioned or even acknowledged them for a while, but it wasn’t long until they were the topic of discussion.

“The Watchers are cowards and fools,” His Grace said, hitting a fist down onto the podium. “Even when able to make attempts towards greatness, they fail to reach the greater heights that Listeners are capable of. For this reason, we have sought out and taken hold of their highest accomplishment to date.”

Martyn’s brow furrowed. Accomplishment…?

His Grace snapped a finger and an attendant snatched the hood off of the watcher.

The man recoiled at the suddenly light and tried to curl up, but the other guard’s grip on his shoulder kept him upright.

He couldn’t hide his face.

Soft blonde hair that curled over his ears, a square face with a crooked nose from being broken in an incident they promised not to speak about again, a jaw that Martyn’s hands still remembered the shape of—that wasn’t just anyone.

No.

Whispers rippled over the crowd.

His Grace smiled and gestured with a sweeping hand. “I present to you all, the one nearly equal and opposite our own Prince: the player-born watcher.”

A wounded noise clawed out of Martyn’s throat.

No.

His hands clutched at the box's wall—when did he stand up?—until he thought his fingers might break. The Evolutionists could only assume Grian was killed when he was taken by the Watchers. He'd been one of them this entire time? How could Martyn not have known?

The watcher’s—Grian’s—attention snapped to him. His eyes went wide and a thousand different emotions flashed across his features. He was just the same as the last time Martyn saw him, yet also utterly alien.

The wings were new.

A rumble of a clearing throat punched through the air and Martyn flinched minutely. His Grace was focused directly on him, as were the shifting masses. Awareness of their Attention forced the weight that it brought to the forefront of his mind.

Martyn suppressed the urge to shy back. He stood up straight and steeled his expression into a trained neutrality. By the tightness in his jaw, it didn’t really work.

His Grace inclined his head towards him. “Prince.” The edge in his voice left no room for negotiation. “Would you like to share why you’ve interjected into this ceremony? Speak freely.”

“A-aye, Your Grace.” Each word reverberated through the hall with piercing clarity. He’d never been permitted to speak during a ritual before. “I have known this watcher once. As a player.” That wasn’t even the half of it. “I was… merely startled.”

The crowd did not react audibly, but that was feedback enough. If anything, the silence threatened to swallow him whole.

Martyn and Grian. Player and Admin.

Partners.

Now, the player-born listener, their Prince, their Jewel of the Empire, and… whatever Grian was to the Watchers.

Equal and opposite.

His Grace nodded and smiled thinly. “Of course, of course. Your former playerhood. Important to you, isn’t it?” He continued before Martyn had the chance to reply, not that he planned to. “You are beyond playerhood bonds, now, but this—” he gestured again to Grian, still frozen stiff as his eyes leapt back and forth between the two of them. “—is no mere player. Do you not agree?”

Grian was never a mere player. Not on EVO, and not right then, either.

Martyn clutched his hands together under the edge of the barrier, just out of view of the hall. “Aye, Your Grace,” he echoed.

Satisfied, His Grace nodded. “Then you shall prove your strength. Would you like to join me at the altar?”

Something caught in Martyn’s throat. That was not a question.

Silently, he beat his wings and glided down to the stage below.

As he cautiously landed, the nerves crept higher in his spine. The few Listeners standing before the crowd all towered over him by as much as a full block. All were True Listeners. There had only ever been one player-born.

His gaze briefly flicked from His Grace past him to where Grian was still sat on his heels in shock.

Two player-borns.

A part of Martyn wanted to retreat back to the dreadfully boring box seat, or perhaps to that morning, before his world had been been turned on his side. He crushed the feeling in his chest.

His Grace nodded at him and turned to the audience.

Martyn mirrored the action.

Even the individuals right before him the front row blurred and melted into the background energy that threatened to eat him from the inside out. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. Maybe the other Listeners could hear it. His stomach turned at the thought.

“My fellow Listeners. Our Prince, born a player but having ascended to us, is a testament of Listener strength. He has been gifted with incredible power, a power that the Watchers could not stand that we possessed. They created a player-born of their own to compete, but that effort has been subdued and bows before our might. I have elected to give our Prince the honor…” he trailed off expectantly. Martyn could picture the self-assured smile on his face without even looking—it painted his voice a smug, sickening tone.

“…of deciding his opposite’s fate.”

Martyn could’ve collapsed. He was given what?

An attendant’s hand—when did one of them approach him?—between his wings guided him over to Grian’s display. Each staccato footstep echoed like a crossbow shot.

One mercy the world could offer him was that Listeners had more acute hearing than sight. Wearing a face of control like a mask was just a holdover from his player days. Though he’d grown rusty with time, it rarely mattered. No one there noticed the fragility of his composure.

The second mercy was that Grian had bowed his head, scowling tightly at the ground. He’d always been too good at reading Martyn’s thoughts with just one look.

He stopped beside the platform, and the attendant slipped away into the shifting mass of ritual folk upstage. Despite the crowd, despite the audience, all he heard and saw in that moment was Grian.

Grian still did not look at him.

The honor of deciding his opposite’s fate.

Martyn was no fool; for every handful of ceremonies he avoided, he attended another and paid rapt attention. The way higher Listeners moved around meaning, left the truth to implication, implied what they wanted and punished failures to deliver: he drank up the bitter taste until he spoke their language almost as well as they did.

His Grace’s hidden expectation was more than clear, so Martyn had one shot to actually decide.

He cleared his throat.

Showtime.

“The Watchers have wasted the gift they gave you.”

Grian went still. Even his muted breathing seemed to pause.

His Grace’s Awareness pressed into the back of Martyn’s skull. Addressing the captive instead of the crowd? Unheard of. But interrupting to ask what the hell he was doing would cause a much bigger scene than Martyn being a little unorthodox, so he stayed his hand.

Good. Martyn needed that wiggle room to talk like a Listener while saying something else.

“Strength unused is strength wasted. It would be so easy to strike you down here and prove the dominance of the Listeners.” He paced forward and grasped Grian by the shoulder, pulling him to the side to face him instead of the crowd.

Grian shrugged the hand off his shoulder and glowered with red-hot ire, but the glassiness in his eyes betrayed him.

“But doing so would only squander the potential you might have.” Martyn prayed to any god that was listening Grian would understand.

Grian’s brows knitted together as he scanned his face. ‘What?’ he said soundlessly.

Good enough.

‘Trust me,’ Martyn mouthed back. ‘Please.’ His mask all but crumbled to dust.

Something in Grian shuddered before being quickly boxed back up. Sharp teeth needled at his lips, dark gaze still trained on Martyn.

‘Please.’

Grian gave him the faintest inclination of his head, so slight that Martyn was almost scared he’d imagined it.

Relief crashed into his chest like a wave, and he turned to address the crowd with renewed vigor. “If the Watchers were fools enough to create a player-born they could not protect, then it would only be just in the world for a listener to take him and have him, would it not?”

There were mutters of confusion from the crowd, yes, but more important was a budding prideful energy behind it. Yes, their Prince had a point; they should claim anything that their enemy failed to defend.

Martyn grinned wolfishly and made a point not to look back at His Grace. “I’ve made my decision. As a show of our strength, I will make the subdued player-born watcher my personal attendant.”

He reigned himself in when he turned back to Grian. An unbidden apology sat heavy in his mouth. “Rise, Watcher. Accept your role beside me.”

The room held its breath.

Grian shifted to the side and planted a foot on the ground. With shaking knees and unsure hesitation, he pushed himself up. For a tense moment, Martyn feared he’d fall and not be able to catch himself thanks to the restraints, but he stood strong. Unsteady with pinpricks of fear, but standing all the same.

Martyn did not have look down to meet his eyes.

He nodded, just as imperceptible as Grian’s before.

It had to be an understanding.

Martyn held out a hand in front of him. Delicate glowing threads spun out of the air, twisting through each themselves and each other. They wove towards Grian and lunged at the silencing spell. He flinched for a bare second, but faltered when nothing hit him. He stared in surprise when the fibers from the silencing spell unfurled and joined Martyn’s magic instead.

That silencing spell was actually the world’s third mercy—Martyn probably couldn’t have pulled off what he was attempting without its framework or far more time than they had.

The energy slipped below Grian’s chin, shrinking thinner and thinner until only a band about the width of a finger remained. It wrapped around and sat delicately, seamlessly, against his throat like a gold choker.

Even unsilenced, Grian could scarcely do more than breathe. The sound was quiet, but it was all Martyn needed.

Grian was here.

His Grace stepped forward with heavy footfalls, reclaiming the attention of the hall. “A most excellent choice. The Watcher’s player-born, made a mere servant. How… clever.” He jerked his head towards the wings of the stage—and the exit from the amphitheater. “We shall give you time to make sure they understand their duties, Prince.”

That too was an order, but one that Martyn was more than happy to follow. He bowed his head in expected deference. “Aye, Your Grace.” He held up a hand to Grian to offer assistance, only grasping his elbow when acknowledged.

Mask in place once more, Martyn marched out with Grian trailing behind him.

Not much damped the sound of their shoes against the brick. The halls were sparsely populated at the time thanks to the meeting, but that only meant there was little else to catch the attention of the staff not in attendance.

The two of them didn’t stop until they were in a far-off wing of the fortress. A lone guard stood watch over the oversized door at the end of the hall.

“Greetings, Prince. How was—?” she cut herself off, attention falling from Martyn to the watcher behind him, following like a feathered shadow.

“It was fine.” Martyn didn’t give her the chance to recover. “You’re dismissed. Inform the guard rotation that I wish to be left alone for the evening.”

She blinked in confusion but slowly nodded. “Yes, Prince.” After a moment, she unfurled her wings and took her leave.

A moment passed. Martyn rested his forehead against the door and exhaled through his teeth.

He chuckled. “Fuck, I can’t believe any of that worked.”

Grian shifted behind him, bindings clanking together. “...What worked?”

Right, of course. He still had so much to deal with. Including fixing that.

“Saving your life, for one.” Martyn pulled open the door and beckoned Grian to follow once more.

“A-ah.”

Once inside and the door shut firmly behind them, Martyn sank onto the velvet lounge by his bookshelves with a long-suffering groan. The adrenaline was wearing off. He flicked his hand in Grian’s direction. Rattling chains and leather straps unceremoniously tumbled to the floor.

Grian hummed and rolled his newly-freed joints, hissing when they were tight from holding still. “You’d think removing the bindings would make make everything hurt less, not more.”

Martyn snorted at the comment. “Ah, you’d think, but that’d be too convenient,” he said, giving the other a wry smile. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Grian stiffened all at once. If he’d entered a stillness competition against a stone statue, he might’ve won.

He looked like how he did back in the amphitheater.

Martyn frowned and sat up straight. “That was a joke. You’re fine, I promise.”

It took a moment, but he eventually slackened. Which wasn’t to say all the tension left him—not hardly. “Sorry. I’m… I just—” He gripped his arms in a facsimile of a hug, seeming not to notice he was doing it.

The grimace on his face hurt.

“You don’t need to explain yourself right now,” Martyn said.

Grian shook his head. “So much happened since I last saw you, or any of our friends. Where would I even start?”

Martyn gnawed on his lip. That was the question of the hour.

But he might’ve had an answer.

He scooted over on the cushion and patted the now-empty space. “How about right here?”

Grian laughed softly and ambled over. He sat backwards, half on Martyn’s lap, so he could wrap his arms around Martyn’s neck and press his face into his shoulder. Just like old times.

Martyn leaned into him, gently moving his wing so he could begin preening the feathers that were ruffled or broken by the harness. Grian melted into him more with each smoothed feather, if such a thing were possible.

For anyone else, he would’ve had to ask to preen them or get preened (and it was horrifically awkward, since none of the Listeners knew how to act normal around him as their Prince). But even after all this time, with everything that changed, the two of them picked up right where they left off. It was nice.

They would have a lot to talk about before the next day dawned and they faced the repercussions of Martyn’s choice. Martyn didn’t know what Grian’s life with the Watchers was like, but he got the impression that he didn’t have nearly the comforts that Martyn did, even if Martyn found the Listeners’ treatment suffocating. His Grace’s treatment especially, who no doubt will have had plenty of time to simmer in his indignation by the time they see him next.

But that could wait a moment longer. Martyn liked the quiet.

Grian shifted. Then shifted again. He huffed. “Question. Why was I a glorified errand boy when you got made a Prince?”

Martyn laughed over Grian’s offended squawk.

“Stop laughing! I’m being serious!”

He didn’t stop.

Grian started as well.

He picks at the hem of the t-shirt as he paces about the Boat Boys (not Small Etho!) base area. The day passes as usual: chaos reigns, problems are caused (all on purpose if asked, mostly on purpose in actuality), and Joel enjoys Etho’s company. Really, the man is a delight—Joel knew of him more than he knew him personally before the latest season, but every new interaction reveals something new about Etho that he didn’t know, and Joel’s actions and mannerisms in turn to him.

Everything seems fine, until. Until, until, until.

Etho removes the secret layer. Joel finds out about it in between sessions and tries (fails) not to take it personally.

It… stings.

The start of the next session and Joel’s ire do not roll in like thunder, but instead stumble in on unsure legs like a fawn. Sure, he’s irritated (and a little offended, and a little hurt), but it’s Etho. So Joel leans on the edge of The Relation Ship and drinks in the sight of the server.

A creaking floorboard from behind him and a gentle wheeze of breath belies Etho’s awaited arrival. 

Without turning around, Joel begins, “I see that you’ve changed your skin?” It’s light as he can manage with a slight chuckle of incredulity, but from the tightness in his jaw, it does little to masquerade much of anything.

“I did, yes—”

“You took the face off? Was it because I—”

“Yeah.”

Joel huffs. “Wow, brilliant.” He pushes off and turns in a single motion, and—

Freezes.

…Any plans Joel has for a polite (but frigid, but pointed, but sardonic) questioning evaporate once he gets a look at Etho’s face.

He looks tired, bags like smudges of coal languishing, shifting with every blink. Every step is upheld with an air of casual nonchalance, but the slight tremble in his fingers betrays him. His pale hair is dull and falls over his scarred eye.

“...You look like a wreck.”

Etho scowls for a bare moment but beats it down to a practiced neutrality. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

Joel snorts. “Considering that I hadn’t asked but you tried to deflect anyways, say that I don’t particularly believe you.” He grabs Etho by the wrist and slides past, leading him down to their chests. “Did you sleep at all between now and the last session? Because your eyebags have eyebags. Bet we could fit a whole stack of items in there.” Before Etho can respond, Joel pops the lock on a chest and picks out a loaf of bread. He drops it into Etho’s hands with a nod of finality.

“I slept just fine. And I ate too, if that’s what you’re getting at by this.” He gestures helplessly with the bread. “I told you, I’m fine.”

Joel shrugs. “And I said I didn’t believe you. I can play this game all day, especially since your face isn’t helping your argument.”

Etho scowls again. “Stop saying that.” 

“Saying what? That you look like you’ve been fighting phantoms? And losing?”

 “Joel, please…” His shoulders are drawn in close and his grip on the bread grows tighter, more desperate.

Joel falters.

“Are you… okay?”

Etho makes a face and stalks back onto the ship. “You don’t need to rub it in, you know.”

Joel trails behind him, his sense of assurance drying up. “You’re gonna need to be a little more specific than that, mate. Rub what in?”

He laughs. Laughs. Something dry, something quiet, something brittle. Etho keeps his gaze trained on the bread crust he picks at aimlessly. “I know I’m nothing nice to look at. I’ve known that basically forever. So you don’t need to rub it in; I already know.”

Joel blinks. He stops following Etho’s pacing and stands in place. What does he say to that? “You’re kidding, right?”

Mm. Probably not that.

Etho gives him an unimpressed look. “Why would I be kidding about this? You’ve been saying it yourself all morning.”

Wait, he thought that… and then Joel…

Oh, goddammit.

Joel rubs a hand across his face letting it trail up to drag through his hair. “You look tired, man, not ugly. You’re not a supermodel—so what? Neither am I. And neither is anyone else that we hang out with. You’re in pretty good company.” His feet finally unstick from the floor and he manages to scoot next to Etho, their shoulders brushing. “You’ve been thinking about this the entire break, haven’t you?”

Etho shrugs, as if it hides the way his shoulders droop with the weight of his thoughts. “I don’t… I try not to think about my face too much. Not ever since”—he waves his free hand at the long, ropy line bisecting his face—“that. No mirrors in any of my builds or anything. I guess your silly t-shirt just reminded me that everyone else is looking at me when I talk to them.”

Joel kinda feels bad for taking that personally, now.

He shakes his head. “If you told me what was up, I would’ve ditched the shirt. Here, like this.” He reaches up with one hand and yanks it off by the neckline, tossing it across the ship in the same motion. It hits the wall and slides to the floor in a crumpled heap. “There, now it’s gone.”

Etho takes a minute to gather his thoughts. After a pause, his eyes trail over to meet Joel’s. “Thanks.”

Joel leans over and bumps him, never breaking eye contact. “Bothering people is fun. Hurting them isn’t.”

The moment passes, and Etho turns his attention back to the bread. He slides his mask down and takes a hesitant bite.

— — — — —

Joel leans back and kicks a foot over his leg. “Besides, I can still think of, like, at least three different people who would throw themselves at you in a heartbeat if they thought they had a chance of getting you into bed with them.”

When they pick up, they don’t have the slightest clue what he’s talking about when he brings up the new Buttercup Scout troop that his daughter was starting and invited Grian to. He’s put on speaker phone so both of them can listen at the same time.

Mr. Vigil Penumbra makes an unsure sound. “And you say that your daughter—Scarlet, was it?—wants Grian to be a part of her troop?” He’s asked for clarification a few times, as if something about what Doc said is hard to believe.

Nevertheless: “Yes, that’s right. They met at school, and Scarlet put the offer out.”

“And how did you get our number?” he asks. 

Doc pinches the bridge of his nose. Never has he been so glad to be having a conversation over the phone instead of face to face. “I asked Scarlet to ask Grian for it, and then Scarlet passed it along to me. I’m still in the process of getting certified, so it’ll be about two weeks before we can start scheduling meetings. I just wanted to reach out to verify your interest and let you know what supplies you’ll need to get beforehand.”

Vigil chuckles, mostly to himself. “Ah, I’ll need to ask if Grian still has all her things, or if she got rid of them after her last troop.” He holds the phone away from himself and clears his throat. “Grian! Can you come downstairs?”

There’s a response of some kind that’s too far away for Doc to make out, and then the quiet knock of footsteps down wooden stairs. “Yeah, what’s up?” a girl, presumably Grian, asks. Her lilting voice is high in her throat, brassy but soft on the edges, and lightly accented. The question comes out stilted.

Vigil clicks his tongue. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that. Could you say that again?” There’s a dryness to his tone, one that tightens the nerves on the back of Doc’s neck.

“Uh.” Grian coughs. “Yes, father; what do you need?”

“You still have all that Buttercup Scout stuff?”

“I do, yeah. I said I would only burn it if Mumbo told me she’s no longer interested in scouting, remember? She’s planning to join, too.”

Mrs. Iris Penumbra takes the opportunity to join the conversation. “Thank you, dear, but don’t talk back. Why don’t you go get a glass of water from the kitchen, since hydration is—”

“—healthy, and you can’t talk back if you’re drinking a glass of water,” Grian finishes the sentence alongside Iris with all the enthusiasm of a root canal. “Yes, mother.” There’s some more footsteps as she fully descends the stairs.

“Thank you, baby. Love you.”

“Love you too.” Now she sounds further away.

A lightly muffled Iris, a little quieter than before, makes the offhand comment to her husband, “I’m somewhat surprised anyone asked her; she’s not exactly the friendliest girl around.”

Doc winces at the bluntness. There’s a good chance Grian is still within earshot.

Vigil hums in thought, but doesn’t offer any comment on the topic. “It’ll be good for her to socialize with someone other than just Mumbo.”

With that, Doc is finally able to regain their attention and steer the conversation back towards the new scout troop.

In the end, Xisuma, Iris, and Vigil agree that having their daughters join a brand new Buttercup Scout troop run by someone who’s still in the process of getting certified is a grand idea. Tuesdays are unavailable since Scarlet has physical therapy those days, and earlier he learned that Fridays don’t work for Mumbo since that’s the standing date she and Xisuma go to see her Uncle Exiona. The other days of the week seem open, for all three of them, so they pick Thursday as their day for new troop meetings.

***

A few weeks later, the date selected for the first meeting rolls around.

It’s hosted at their house, since they’re hardly a big enough troop to warrant asking the community center, library, or local church to sponsor them (Scarlet was mildly peeved that they weren’t going anywhere to make it feel more “official,” but agreed once Doc pointed out that the couches in the family room were much more comfortable than folding chairs). She’s practically vibrating as she flitters between the button maker Doc is setting up on the coffee table and the front door, already tired of waiting for her new troop members to arrive.

The button maker is an old thing from his and Ren’s college days. It’s practically a relic at this point, but it still works just like it used to. (He’d checked.) Making their buttons during a meeting seemed like a good way to break the ice. No way is he going to have a bunch of middle schoolers trying to make cookies like Symmetry’s troop, not without an idea of how messy the other two are.

He tightens the final bolt as Scarlet gears up to take another trip to the door. Before she can even stand, Ren reaches over and scoops her off the couch, making her shriek in surprise. “I’m starting to wonder if your feet are on fire, since you’re having an awfully hard time sitting still, baby,” he teases.

“Nooooo!” she whines, giggling despite herself. “Put me down, they’re going to be here any minute!”

Doc laughs heartily at the two of them, but his gaze does flicker to the clock hanging on the wall. He and the other parents agreed to start the meeting at seven, and 7:01 just ticked by. It’s nothing he needs to be worried about yet, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t worried anyways.

Ren sways back and forth with Scarlet in his arms. “Hm, tell me why I should set my little princess down?”

“Um… Because you love me?”

He bonks his forehead against hers. “I think that makes me want to hold you just a little bit longer, actually.”

Scarlet scrunches up her face and goes to respond, but the doorbell rings before she can speak. Her eyes widen. “That’s why! They’re here!” She resumes her wiggling with full force until Ren frees her and she rushes over to the door. Her shoulder clips the wall on the way and Doc calls out a “Be careful!”, but she’s hardly paying attention to him.

Doc stands with a stretch, popping his knee joints, and follows after her. He turns the corner into the entryway just as she's opening the door. 

Waiting on the porch are the girls from Scarlet’s phone, Mumbo and Grian, as well as a tall, long-limbed man wearing a vintage band shirt with the sleeves cut off and a chain necklace. Grian and Mumbo have matching uniform sashes, though Grian went the extra mile and also has the beret. (They elected to get Scarlet the vest since they were worried about the sash falling off her shoulders and her struggling to adjust it when she's using her crutches.)

Scarlet is quick to usher them inside with happy words and exchanges of fist bumps. Ren gives Doc a thumbs-up, so he turns back to talk to the parent.

The man smiles and shakes his hand. “Hello! I'm glad to see that we’re in the right place.” Ah, Doc recognizes that voice; this is Xisuma, Mumbo’s father.

“As am I. Scarlet has been really looking forward to this troop meeting. You're welcome to stick around, of course, though I am curious—” His gaze flickers between Xisuma and the empty space behind him where there's only the door. “—Did you carpool? I was expecting to meet Grian's parents as well.”

Xisuma makes a face, but he's quick to smooth it back out. “Yes, well, something came up for them at work. And since I would be driving this direction anyways, they asked if I could help. I couldn't just leave Grian without a way to get herself here or back.”

Doc nods in understanding. “I see. Regardless, I'm glad to have you and your daughter here today, and Grian as well.” He walks back towards the rest of the house, Xisuma following so he can see his daughter’s first Buttercup Scout meeting (“and to keep an eye on Grian,” he added in a hushed voice.) The thought is nice, but it’s hardly a necessity.

Ren has corralled the girls into sitting on the couch together in front of the button machine, where the three of them joke together in unsubtle cacophony. His tail is wagging behind him and he gives Doc another thumbs-up. Xisuma nods and takes a seat on the armchair off to the side.

Doc claps his hands together to capture the room’s attention, and the group conversation slowly peters out. “Welcome,” he says, “to the first official meeting of Buttercup Scout troop M77. Today we’re going to be going over our goals for the troop and making your first official scout buttons.”

Grian unpins the large button on the top of her sash, presumably from her old troop, and limply holds it up. “Don’t most troops go to an official scout store for the button ceremony?” She props up her head on her hand. 

“That’s true, yes, but take a look at the design.” He points at it and she lowers it to get a better look at the screening, which was a simple outline of the flower in black with a yellow fill. Mumbo and Scarlet lean in to look as well. “It’s nice, but the picture is just printed on—lots of other girls have a button identical to that one. If you make your own, then no one else will have one like yours.”

Grian thinks on that for a moment before nodding and shoving the button in her pocket, seemingly mollified for the moment.

Mumbo tilts her head in thought. “Can we—are we drawing these, or…?”

Doc smiles and kneels down next to the coffee table. He slides a tub out from the small shelf attached to the underside and brandishes it for the group. It’s full of markers, colored pencils, and other art supplies from when Scarlet was younger. “Take a circle of paper from the pile next to the machine”—Scarlet reaches over to snag a few and hand them to the other girls—“and draw the design you want for your button!”

They go back to chattering amongst themselves as they draw, and Doc breathes a sigh of relief. So far, so good. Having three parents present for as many girls was definitely overkill, but he knew his Scarlet very well, and apparently Grian had a bit of a reputation. What precisely for, Doc couldn’t be certain, but it was bound to be exciting, a headache, or both.

It's not long before Ren takes the opportunity to walk around the backside of the couch and observe their work. He hums in appreciation as he does. “I like the cat face, Scarlet!” he says to her, and she beams at the praise. Doc should’ve guessed that’s what she’d make; it isn’t as if she’s been obsessed with cats since she was five, or anything like that.

Ren steps to the side to look at Mumbo’s pin, but she curls over it the second his shadow falls over her. “Don’t look at it! It’s not ready, and it’s bad, and!” She shakes her head, eyes scrunched shut. “You can look, but only once it's done.”

Ren softly agrees before she can work herself into a tizzy and leaves her to it. His expression once he gets a look at the button Grian is making has quite the strong resemblance to the face he made when he was shown that blood can be used as a substitute for eggs in baking—mostly off-put, a little confused, and just interested enough not to look away. He blinks a few times. “Er… Are you sure that's what you want to put on your Buttercup button, Grian? It's a little bit. Violent.”

Grian glares at him. “Yes.”

Xisuma murmurs under his breath, “Goodness me, not already,” and goes to stand up, but Doc gestures for him to stay seated with a flick of his wrist.

He instead ambles over with a practiced casualness, looking between his husband and all 4’11” of angry tween girl in his family room. “What seems to be the problem?” By this point, both Mumbo and Scarlet have drifted away from their own projects and keep stealing glances while trying not to look overly nosy.

Grian scoffs and holds up the paper she was working on. “I’m just sketching the design for my button. The handbook says that you can put whatever you want on a Buttercup button, and I want to draw this.”

Ah. Hm.

Really, the amount of detail she's managed to work in with just off-brand colored pencils is impressive. The shape language and clear design on the rabbit’s organs are notable, and the knife’s texture stands out well from the fur.

The handbook’s blithe statement of ‘whatever you want’ is almost certainly meant to be followed up by an unspoken ‘within reason and good sense, of course.’  Bunny viscera isn't exactly a part of the family-friendly Buttercup Scout image.

And Grian is staring him down, eyes daring him to tell her no.

Doc reaches forward and takes the drawing, telegraphing his movement enough for her to snatch the paper back if she desires. She doesn't, and he puts on airs of inspecting it closer.

“Do you draw often?” He asks.

She shifts a bit and crosses her arms. “Sometimes.”

Mumbo snorts and leans over. “Sometimes. Gri, you've filled three entire textbooks since the end of winter break.” Grian hisses and swats at her shoulder, though Mumbo just laughs in response.

Doc clears his throat and Grian snaps back into him. “I can tell you've been practicing; you're very good at this.”

“Mhm.” She doesn't sound impressed. “But…? There's always a but when people talk like that.”  She's still awaiting some specific reaction.

Doc just shrugs and hands the drawing back to her. “I’ll definitely help you make this one, but I'd prefer if you made another to be your official Buttercup button. I'm just worried that I'll get in trouble if you wear that while in uniform, since I'm your troop leader.”

Grian's face twists in confusion, though Scarlet’s eyebrows have shot up—she knows this technique well enough from her own upbringing, and she also knows well enough not to interrupt .

“...You're not telling me I have to throw this one out?” She's tense, like her unconscious mind can't decide whether or not to defensively raise her shoulders, or to completely unwind. Her gaze flickers between what she's been working on and Doc’s steady expression. “I can still make this one?”

“Sure, why not?”

For a moment, Grian doesn't have anything to say to that. 

At once, her off-kilter confusion is packed away into an uncertain, projected nonchalance. She leans forward and selects another sheet as if that has been her plan the entire time. “Whatever. I'm gonna draw my Minecraft skin.”

Mumbo perks up. “Wait, we can do that?” She crumples up her first paper and darts forward for another. “That's a much better idea!”

Scarlet bounces in her seat a little bit. “Let’s all do it! So then our buttons will match!”

Grian waves the two of them off. “I don't care; you guys can do whatever you want.” Despite that, there's a ghost of a smile threatening to break her mask of indifference.

Doc smiles at Ren (who easily returns it) in satisfaction and strolls back over to Xisuma. He raises one eyebrow in inquiry.

Xisuma’s wide eyes dart over to the rambunctious trio and back. He nods.

There's still the button ceremony, passing out number patches for their uniforms, selecting future goal events, and the closing ceremony left until the meeting is over, but in that moment, the controlled chaos is the perfect state for the meeting to be in.

As the meeting closes, Scarlet has made two buttons and two new friends. Doc couldn’t be more proud.

***

A few months later…

Doc claps his hands together and the girls fall silent. Three sets of wide, expectant eyes stare back at him. He smiles at his scouts. “Welcome back to another Buttercup Scout meeting, everyone!” With a finger held up for emphasis, he asks them, “Now scouts, who knows what we will be doing today?”

Grian smirks with self-satisfaction and casually offers, “Violating the Geneva Conventions?”

Mumbo and Scarlet giggle to each other before giving him an innocent look.

“Tax fraud?” Mumbo asks.

“Arson?” Scarlet chimes in.

Doc gasps in mock horror, hand pressed to his chest. “What?! No. No no no no, no!” The fake suggestions are a part of the routine at this point—Grian started it, Scarlet picked it up almost immediately, and Mumbo joined in a little bit later once she felt comfortable. He makes a noise like he’s considering their ideas. “Well, maybe tomorrow, but not now.”

They chorus whines of disappointment (Grian acts like she’s especially offended) and Doc continues, “Today we are going to work hard, earn some badges, and—”

Ren chooses that moment to bound back into the room. He throws his arms around the scouts in a quick hug. “And let’s sell some cookies, dudes!”

The group cheers, even anxious Mumbo, even temperamental Grian, and Scarlet is right in the middle of a group of people that care about her.

She got exactly what she wanted from the Buttercup Scouts.