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The press meeting takes way too long. Then they're all taken to a hospital, because most of them are injured in some way. Then Mel takes them back to that stupid tower. Avengers Tower. Watchtower. New Avengers Tower. Nobody knows what they're calling it.

They get a tour, even though they're exhausted and grouchy, and even though half the tower is clearly in some state of construction and clearly not ready to be shown off. The labs are complete, hastily so, but none of them are going to be going anywhere near those. The rooftop bar is still in shambles, and none of them want to linger there. The kitchen and restaurant-like eating areas spiraled out around it seem intact, and well-stocked, at least.

They each have their own floor. Stark had originally made a whole floor for each of his superhero buddies, which hadn't really been renovated at all even in the multiple years the Avengers had been toast, so now they're the cleanest and least disturbed of the whole tower.

Bucky gets Steve's, Walker gets Thor's, Ava gets Clint's.

Yelena gets the one meant for Natasha. Of course.

And Bob gets Banner's, with its combination of calming decor and Hulk-proof walls.

Then they're left alone to "rest" with the promise that Mel and Valentina will be in touch over the next few days, which sounds more like a threat than anything else.

worthallthis

The convoy has long since moved on. The asset had no desire to move on with it.

He kept the old army Jeep that he'd had the keys to. It still gets radio signals from the convoy sometimes, or from other buildings he passes. He doesn't mind that. It reminds him that there are other living, thinking things in this country that he might hurt if he got too close to them.

He's modified the Jeep, added some actual walls to protect the thin canvas that had already been there. Turned the back into a nest of different kinds of fabric, to use as a bed. He's gotten used to the wings, and the tail, and the horns.

He's learned how to hunt some of the local monsters. He's found sources of clean water. He's gotten very good at climbing, waiting, ambusing, and diving down onto his prey. Most of the time he even cooks it.

Supplies are still a thing, and he stops at buildings often. Sometimes he has to fight monsters there. Sometimes he has to chase away scavengers. Sometimes the metal statues come to life and he has to kill them. It's fine. He's capable of it.

This is the first time he's found an actual person. He stands in the doorway of the garage and stares at the person in consternation.

worthallthis

It is an accident. A fluke. A freak twist of fate.

The ship they're on gets caught in a storm, blown far off course. The clan can't find them quickly enough. The spells start to erode.

They do as they are programmed to do when the spells start to erode: they slaughter everyone on board in an attempt to get them to turn around. The last one they kill, a young wild mage, in desperation, throws something at them both that leaves them dazed and orderless, surrounded by bodies and one bleeding wild mage who likely won't last very long either.

One is the oldest of the Pieces of Eight the clan sends out on missions of murder. He knows that. He also knows that he loves the other pieces, whether they feel the same about him or not. He knows they're his family, even when he can't remember how they came to join him with the clan. And he knows that he is made for killing.

And now he's staring around him at the deck of the ship, bloody knives in his hands, realizing that that's pretty much all he knows.

"Seven?" he asks uncertainly. He doesn't know if she has another name. He doesn't, just his number, just One. Maybe she doesn't, either.

He wonders suddenly if he knows how to sail a ship.

worthallthis

There had been some kind of temporal storm. B had tried to pilot around it, and then tried to pilot through it, and then tried to grab Steve so the tendrils of temporal energy couldn't separate them, but then he has no idea what happened. It had hurt, though, and it's left him aching, and the connections for the vibranium arm burning a little.

He is on the ground somewhere, now. Not the ship. He's worked out that much. He passes his hand over his eyes, blocking out actual sunlight, so he's probably on a planet. An Earth-comparable one, given the color of the light and the smells he can pick out. It's quiet, he can hear birdsong. Familiar birdsong, though it's been so damn long since he's actually been on Earth that it takes him a minute to place it.

"Fuck," he says, and sits up.

fifthofthecovenant

More power wasn't the answer. He realized this after he got the power from his father and the ressurrection still failed. It was something he wasn't doing right.

Chase didn't stalk the Ipswitch boys to try and take their power. He stalked them until he found their semi-secret little spell chamber, broke through their pathetic wards, and read all their books and records. He needed a proper spell for this. He just didn't know what it was.

He didn't get the spell from their books, but he did get a lead. Darklings, the spirits he summoned, could be made tangible and permanent, he learned. It had been done exactly three times in the boys' family records: once in medieval Europe in the 1400s, once in New England before the civil war, and once in fucking... San Francisco, almost a decade ago. There wasn't much to go on, but he thought he could probably use the same kind of magic to sniff out a former spirit in a crowd if he had to.

So he books himself plane tickets to California, hires himself a car once he gets there, and starts driving, with a little locator spider sitting on the dash, scurrying left and right as it seeks similar summoning magic to itself, acting like a compass. Wherever this former darkling is, Chase is going to find him.

And then-- he's not sure yet. Maybe dissect him.

fightingevilbymoonknight

Jake has been circling around a target in an obscure European town for almost a week, but getting to him has been-- frustrating. There's someone else circling around him, too, and he really doesn't want to get her in the crossfire. Khonshu is getting impatient, but he's not compromising on this. The fucker is going to die soon enough, he just needs his moment.

He finally decides to deal with the lady first. Maybe if he can get her to back off he can get this done, finally.

He finds her outside the target's apartment building, in street clothes rather than the suit, coming quietly up behind her where she's clearly casing the place. "So are you looking for somebody in particular, or are you just really into architecture?"

fightingevilbymoonknight

Continued from here.

likehotcopper

The first thing Bossie sees upon his arrival in this new world is a woman bending over him. A woman with bright red horns and hands, and elfin pointed ears. She looks sturdy, healthy, and best of all she looks alive. No zombie here.

"Hey. Mister. Are you dead or just knocked out?" she asks, and she pokes at his cheek gently with one vibrant finger.

The land around them looks barren, dusty, a scrub desert with copses of windbown trees in the distance. Beyond even those is what looks like a small city on absolutely massive tank treads, hazy with heat and distance. The sky is clear, but there's wind blowing the dust around them on what looks like a road that Bossie woke up beside. Possibly the horned woman had been walking along it when she saw him and decided to investigate.

worthallthis

The signal from a Void Active world this long after their visit was unexpected. And it's not a distress signal. It's just a... notification?

As someone left from that world's very first visit-- "world"; it's really more of a station, a habitat ring around a star-- they send Soldat to investigate.

They walk the streets of the biosphere, looking for the source of the signal. Everything seems in order. The ring is inhabited now, with a patchwork collection of species, even some actual humans like themselves. It hasn't been inhabited for long, by the looks of shops still in the process of being set up, and hovering platforms of home furnishings outside many of the buildings in the habitat sector. They don't stand out here, just walking along, and no one really notices them. Everyone has work to do, or homes to organize, or places to be.

Then Soldat reaches the pasture and agriculture sector and finds, to their surprise, there's a... circus there? There's a small chain link fence, shoulder high, set up on an empty patch of field, and there are tents beyond that. Fancy, futuristic tents, with static electricity supports and holographic images projected on and in front of them, but still: tents. The circus seems still in the process of setting up, and Soldat can see people hustling to and fro with supplies, animals, and building materials for getting things finished.

Huh. This is probably related to the notification, since it's the only thing out of place about the whole location, but they don't know why yet. They circle the fence, looking for a gate in or someone to talk to.

fifthofthecovenant

Charter Tours

The strange ship with its strange people pulls away, and life continues for Chesial, the Aborsen-In-Waiting. There are still people to save, Dead to put down, spells to master, an uncle to keep alive, and kids to keep an eye on. He's always busy in the work of protecting what remains of the Kingdom, not at the House as much as he'd like, but he does try to include Emerael more often if just to make sure she's not off trying to get herself killed alone.

Some jobs he has to take other partners, and some journeys see him separated from his uncle or sister. Is he here to rescue you, to work with you, or maybe to defeat you?

worthallthis

Bucky never thought the (second) apocalypse would become routine. And it hasn't, not really. Everything is still pretty terrible. The uncorrupted population of the Earth is, as far as they can guess, somewhere in the hundreds of thousands, and at least half of that is centered in Wakanda. The fog has only thinned in a few areas, mostly through the efforts of Kamar Taj's small army of sorcerers, and actual safe locations are few and far between. Food is often hard to come by, as planting crops is difficult when the fog might damage them at any time and hunting the fog-warped monsters requires careful cooking or cleansing spells from said sorcerers for the meat to be edible by normal humans. Unmarred animals have been rare enough that they haven't managed to breed anything but chickens, so the only food they have every day is eggs. The small groups of eldritch raiders that roam the planet aren't edible at all, not even if you're a supersoldier. Bucky would probably kill someone for a loaf of bread.

But being sent out to check on anomalous magical fluctuations, and subsequently shooting whatever comes out of them, is pretty normal now. Bucky and Peggy are the only ones on this particular mission: Banner is in the middle of a project and can't be disturbed, and Scott and Hope are on a different trek checking out something to the south. Bucky prefers to be sent out with Peggy, anyhow. They work well together, both on and off the battlefield. He might even privately admit she's managed to partly fill the hole in his heart left after bisecting Steve's zombified corpse. It will always be there, but it's more bearable these days.

They left the city a couple hours ago, on foot as this didn't wasn't far enough out to waste fuel on the jet or armored truck, and are nearing the coordinates Wong gave them, somewhere in upstate New York. There's only been a couple dog-sized bundles of tentacles to shoot, and it's mostly woodland. Probably formerly cultivated woodland rather than something truly wild, but it's wild now, with the planes of the trees reaching as much horizontally as vertically.

"Think it'll be another raiding party?" Bucky asks quietly, rifle up as they approach what used to be a lakeshore, though the lake itself appears to have mostly dried up as part of it broke open into a shimmering sinkhole.

worthallthis

Winter opens his eyes.

That isn't right. He shouldn't be able to do that. He'd been dead just a minute ago, he's sure of it. He's died before (in the field on the operating table under the knife in the Chair in his head) and he knows what it feels like, and that was definitely dead.

Why can he open his eyes.

Why is he thinking, at all.

He can't see much, from where he's laying. Ceiling. Not the ceiling of the house, he thinks. Not the ceiling of ADI or (god, he hopes) a hospital. His eyes hurt, though, and things seem to be swimming a little, so he might be wrong. His head hurts, too. Everything hurts, actually, and his abortive effort at turning his head stops at just a twitch.

Why is he hurting at all. He should be dead. This doesn't make any sense.

worthallthis

Bucky drops to his knees in the quiet forest in the wake of his best friend, his favorite person, turning into ash and floating away right in front of him. He runs a hand through the ashes, not the fancy new one from the Wakandans, but the old one. The one that can feel the ash is fading, too. He tries to catch some in his palm but it's gone before he can scoop it up.

"Where is he. Where did he go," he hears himself ask, his voice strange in his own ears, strained and tight, fingers digging uselessly into the loam. He's not sure if he's asking about Steve, or about Thanos, as other Avengers and Wakandans stumble through the trees towards where their leader had stood just a moment ago.

Now there's just Bucky, looking up at all of them. Banner and Rhodes with confused expressions still inside their metal suits, stern Okoye looking stricken for once, the Norse god-alien with helpless fury in every line of him, the talking raccoon who is no longer staring at his arm, and Natasha.

God, Natasha.

worthallthis

The realms of faerie love their frivolity. Great gatherings with music and food and dancing and chatter. Soldier doesn't know which great fae lord this is; it isn't like it matters. He's not here to kill any of them. He's here to prevent anything from happening to his own master, so he keeps his attention on him, as is only appropriate.

Though he does find his gaze drifting from his master to the swirl of movement and color from the ballroom floor, from time to time. There are flashes of leaves and talons and raven wings among the dancers, in cloths and hair and eyes, but the rhythm is engaging, the melody is pleasant, and he knows the steps. His feet itch to move, even though he knows he could probably never keep up with the true faerie dancers, and might lose what little he has left of himself if he tries. He still kind of wants to.

He knows he mustn't ask. But apparently his master can tell what he wants, because he finds the cool eyes on him when his gaze wanders back where it belongs. He straightens up, guilty and afraid, but the old fae just smiles indulgently.

"Go on, pet," he says. "I am safe enough for now."

Soldier goes. He doesn't have the same grace as most of the people on that dance floor, as heavy as he is with the metal growing out of his bones, but he has some value as a dancer still. He spins the real fae around to the beat as it picks up in response to the newcomer, strange steps from another life that they manage to pick up with laughter and chattering amongst themselves-- not for him, never for him, but still pleasant to have around him-- and feels almost happy enough to smile. It won't last, it never lasts, and he might come away from the dance with new fangs hooked into his mind, but he doesn't care. He wants to dance.

wereperrito

The last time Jack was in Madrid, back in the late 1870s or so, he'd had to get stitched up by one of the local doctors. It had been a pretty pleasant conversation, and said doctor hadn't even asked too many probing questions about it. Also, he'd been pretty easy on the eyes, so that had been nice.

Now, about a decade later (he thinks, anyway; it could be a little more or a little less), it's not Jack who needs the stitches. The morning after the full moon, weary and heart-sick but determined, he carries the young man the wolf had savaged on his back to where the doctor had been back then, hoping against hope he's still working there. He'll think of something to explain why he doesn't look any different than he did back then. Or maybe he'll be lucky and the doctor won't ask questions, again.

He knocks on the door, shifting the poor fellow a little over his shoulder. He doesn't think he's going to die, he thinks the kid hadn't actually tried to fight the wolf, but... he would much rather be sure. Jack worries. Especially when it's his own fault for not making sure the door on his cellar was secure enough.

fightingevilbymoonknight

It's been six months since the asteroid punched through the atmosphere over Asia, and left behind the cold, the darkness, and the outbreak. They're calling it an outbreak, but nobody actually knows what it is that's turned two out of three humans and half the animals into weird mutated monsters, whether it's an actual disease or something magic or even something from some dead god attached to the space rock. Or if they have, Marc hasn't heard about it. Even Khonshu doesn't have any answers, on the rare occasions he shows his stupid beak these days. Apparently apocalypses aren't great for gods, even cranky skeletal ones.

The suit still works, though, and Marc and the others have been doing what they can with it. They don't know a damn thing about farming or herding animals or making clothes, but they're nearly indestructible and can get into a lot of places most people can't, to either take out the mutated, rescue idiots who got in over their head, or scavenge for tools. It keeps him fed, anyway, doing work for the enclaves of survivors who do know how to eke out a living from what's left of the land.

Mostly, though, they keep moving. Ever since Layla mutated, despite Taweret's supposed protection, staying in one place feels... wrong. It's too likely someone will realize something's off about them, and without backup that's not safe. Scared people aren't going to take well to a guy who's technically crazy, for all they three of them are getting along okay these days. Also... there's too much of a temptation to get attached. Steven in particular badly wants friends (and a home, and a fireplace, and a bed, and lots of books), but Marc and Jake are, for once, in agreement that it's not a great idea.

There were rumors of another enhanced person outside of the old DC area, though, and nobody could tell them if it's someone helping or hurting the locals, so Marc packed up for another trek through the dim wastelands of the former suburbs, bundled up against the cold since the suit doesn't do much for that, to find out. He's currently sitting on top of the old Lincoln Memorial, which is somehow mostly still standing even if the statue's been smashed to hell and he'd had to clear out a nest of flying, biting things that might once have been bats before it was safe to perch here. Right now he's in his ceremonial armor suit-- it's the warmest of the suits, if also the most ostentatious-- and trying to get a good view of what's left of the city.

"Anybody see anything?" he asks the night air.

(There's some lights in the buildings to the north.)

Steven, of course, looking for signs of people.

(And something's been cracking the ground and digging in the remains to the west.)

Jake, looking for signs of danger. Typical of both of them.

"But no people yet," Marc sighs, and makes to swing down.

fightingevilbymoonknight

Steven goes about his day amiably, handling things like grocery shopping and swinging by the book shop and then the pet shop to get more food for the two goldfish. Marc is asleep, or whatever they are when they're not in the front or the nearer inside space, watching.

Jake is not, for once.

That seems to be happening more and more often, these days. Which is deeply weird. Jake is used to being around for the emergencies, the private missions, not the quiet downtime. He's not sure if it's related to his still being Khonshu's avatar while the other two remain oblivious, or related to Marc and Steven's greater communication, or both.

He's not sure he likes it. It was easier when he didn't have to see all the shit he can't actually be a part of.

"Oh, hello," Steven says with a smile, juggling his bags with his keys at his apartment door. "Can I help you?"

Because there's a woman waiting at the door. A woman who is not Layla. Or anybody Steven or Marc would know.

Oh, shit. Oh fucking hell. That's a fucking Widow.

worthallthis

The Fenris Rangers don't really have a headquarters, per se. They do have a city on a planet where they'll check in with each other if they're in the same area at the same time, just to get news and make sure everyone's still alive, usually at a particular bar. Often in a particular booth at that bar.

When Seven returns to that bar, she'll find someone unfamiliar in that booth, a human man with an entire left arm made up of metal. Not the dark metal of the Borg or the shiny chrome of the Federation, but segmented plates of something unfamiliar that, with a cursory scan, seems to wire right into the spine and anchor potentially painfully on the skeleton. Anything more than a cursory scan is jammed.

The barkeep will nod in that direction when Seven looks askance. That's a ranger, waiting to meet up. Just not one she knows.

Soldat has been in this universe for six years now. Rosinante and Weaver tried to give them a couple years of lead time, given the complex political structures in this universe and the amount of infiltrating they'd have to do in order to gain enough goodwill to be believed, but the calculations hadn't been quite right and the portal dropped them here far too early. There's eight more years to go before the people Soldat needs to speak to are even in power, and fifteen before the World Eaters make it to this patch of space. Sure is a good thing they don't really age, given the whole "technically dead and made of cloned spirit material" thing.

So, without any actual means of contacting Beacon in its own universe to pick them up and try again, they've been killing time. Mostly drifting, learning about this universe, hitching rides here and there, trying to build up enough knowledge and allies to draw on to convince people to listen when the time comes. Right now? They've gotten into a little group of vigilante peacekeepers, and it suits them fine. Their last contact dropped them here with the instruction to talk to Seven. They're waiting, fingers tapping idly on the case that currently houses their lantern, and listening to the ambient conversations with mild interest.

worthallthis

Continued from here.

loveshishammer

After Loki disappears with the tesseract, Thor spends two years trapped on Midgard before Odin and Heimdall can get him home again. It's not a bad two years, given he spends it helping his friends in that realm smash some heads and rescue some shieldmates, but it is a stressful two years, because surely Loki has gone far in that time. And Thor wants very badly to find him again.

He spends the next two years hunting down Loki, crossing galaxies and realms and talking to all manner of people both good and terrible. Finally, the bifrost repaired, Heimdall points him to a small planet on the brink of collapse. "Loki is here," he says.

Thor spends a whole day searching. He's not finding much sign of Loki, just panicked people he cannot help. Even if he summoned help from Asgard, they couldn't evacuate even a fraction of these people. It's awful.

He sits himself down at a table in a nearly-empty city and watches a moon slowly approach the planet. Heimdall will collect him as soon as he asks, of course, but he needs to sit down for a minute and indulge in a moment of near-despair for his missing brother and the doomed planet.