#polykrisis

vanta, getting pushed down on the bed by wilson: this bed smells like vagina sauce

wilson: ...are you talking about marinara sauce??

vanta: no, vagina sauce!

wilson: what the fuck is vagina sauce?

vanta: you know, the stuff that—when you're turned on and you have a vagina, you get wet! that's vagina sauce!

wilson: shut up! that's not vagina sauce, stop calling it vagina sauce!

vanta: so what do YOU call it then?

wilson: slick

vanta: oh,

vanta: okay,

vanta: so I'M the weird one but you call it slick like you're going down on a furry

wilson, is a furry: that's because it's actually called slick!

vanta: no it fucking isn't! it's vagina sauce!

wilson: okay, fine, this bed smells like fucking vagina sauce!

wilson: this is so dumb you're SO dumb

wilson: how the hell did you get a vagina on this bed while calling it fucking vagina sauce???

vanta: i didn't have the time to wash the vagina sauce off the sheets after i went down on your mom last night

WE NEED KRISIS TO RELEASE AN ACTUAL FULLY COVERED SONG I WOULD, I WOULD GO INSANE

Zali is either the first or last to arrive on the scene. It depends entirely on whether the rendezvous building has an elevator or not.

He wasn’t so lucky this time, but did find a wannabe-villain hiding out in the stairwell, so he couldn’t complain. The fight was over before it even started. Zali collected the contraband along his belt, somehow blending into his loose pants. He had defeated a small-time smuggler, with a backpack, quite literally, full of all that and a bag of chips. The smooth cloth tended to wrap around the sealed bag.

Tall high heels clicked up the stairs in unintentionally dramatic fashion as Zali climbed. This was the real reason why he tended to be late, but tardiness is 20% of the superhero appeal. The homies would get it.

Wilson’s silhouette is crumpled at the edge of the building as he observes the city below. His goggles shine bright with the city, casting artificial strokes of light onto his face and suit. Meanwhile, Vanta is difficult to see through the night horizon, coat fluttering as he stands guard.

He perks up at the sound of the roof door and Zali’s clicking heels. His hands rest on his hips. “If it isn’t Zali. Where were you, we were waiting!”

“For almost twenty minutes, no less!” Wilson says and stands between Zali’s quick apologies. “We were about to look into alternative contact methods, like if your comms died or something.”

“Sorry,” Zali apologized again. “I was in a fight.”

He explains the (rather uninteresting) fight in record time. The homies get it. After that, Wilson and Vanta catch him up on what he missed while he was gone. Wilson plots out a route while Vanta shares more on what he and Wilson have been up to, namely with the other members of NIJISANJI while they were on holiday from A.S.H.

“That’s cool,” Zali said. “Wilson, where are we dropping?

“What is this, Fortnite?” Wilson pauses his watch to snicker and turn.

Zali stands next to him, taller than ever over Wilson’s crouched form, gloved hands between frozen steel as he points a pistol between Wilson’s eyes.

He lurches back but Zali thought his approach through. He has Wilson pinned. If the ex-hitman were to move he’d be between a bullet and fifty stories to ground level.

Vanta shouts. “Hey, Zali, why do you have a gun, what the fuck?!”

The gun is heavy in Zali’s hands, and stark against the fabric. However, Zali smiles softly, as if he were discussing the weather and not holding a best friend at gunpoint while the other stands helpless.

“I got it from my fight earlier today,” he explains. His voice is even. “It would be irresponsible to leave a bad guy with a deadly weapon, right?”

The gun repositions. Wilson stares down the unfeeling pit of the barrel.

“Why do we always become Kris?” Zali asks.

Wilson’s mouth runs dry. He glances to his left. Fifty stories down. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Do you remember Krisis on Krisis?”

Vanta steps forward, analyzing the situation. “Of course I do. Among Us, or Millie’s birthday party?”

“Why, the homie kiss, Vanta.”

The wind takes up the space that words can’t as all three heroes go silent.

“I remember the time you both defused a bomb together,” Zali continues. “You had spaghetti. What did you share along with that spaghetti?”

It slowly dawns on Vanta. “A homie kiss.”

Zali smiles a little sweeter. “Why did you homie kiss Claude before me, Wilson?”

“Well, it wasn’t really a homie kiss—“

The gun presses to Wilson’s forehead. He leans back a little further. Fifty stories.

“It was more of a… homie chip?” He tries.

“Yeah, that’s right.” Vanta takes another step. “The spaghetti counted because our lips met. I pointed right and pointed left.”

“But it was just a chip,” said Wilson. “Nothing more than that!”

Zali looks down at Wilson, helplessly wide eyes making contact with gold, the sparks of the city reflecting off of Zali’s gaze. The coldness of the metal is beginning to turn warm where it connects with Wilson’s skin.

Desperate, Wilson keeps going. “There was only one big chip left. I would have done it with you and Vanta if there were more big chips.”

“Is that so.”

Zali lowers himself to Wilson’s level. The pistol is still trained on him, but the medic reaches into the flowy folds of his pants, where the charms on his belt mark indents on the fabric. With his back turned, he can’t see Vanta creeping up on him, but as he rifles through his supplies, the other heroes start to make the connection. The potion bottles are familiar, but the bagged contraband is not. A locked-together pocketknife perches between the tassels, the same one the smuggler used as a weapon earlier.

Zali finds what he’s looking for. He pulls out a bag of Doritos.

Wilson screams.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆