Cross-Post: Hoodlums (1)

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original here. dated 2013-10-24.

[A/N: The original post is one of my “untitled” random drabbles so this series wasn’t even fully formed/planned.]

~

We have a system. Of sorts. We’re not heroes, god no, but we deliver our own brand of justice. It works, in this part of the city–nobody complains, that’s for sure. It goes like this:

We patrol each area in groups of six, though physically split into two sets of three–each side of the street, with some distance added–so we don’t look like a gang. We are, of course, a gang. A fairly big one too. We have to be, to cover the entire territory–more than five block radius–though not every Hoodlum patrols. Some are too young, too small, too skilled, too something else for that. We’re organized enough and there’s enough of us that those of us who do patrol do so in shifts, starting after the sun sets; there’s three in the warmer months, four in the colder and darker.

We keep an eye out for non-Hoodlums, making sure they know the rules to follow–for the most part, it’s pretty civil. The homeless settlement in the western block is pretty self-contained and occasionally useful allies. We ourselves don’t deal or hook, but there are a few who work in our turf who pay security fees. And they get their money’s worth, keeping out or subduing unruly clients. We’ve even begun to make inroads with some of the bars and clubs, an add-on to their bouncers who can’t leave their posts. Though these are fairly steady inflows, they’re not our major source.

The patrols are for safety–the neighborhood may not like us, but they know we keep them safe–but they’re also for hunting. Which is, unfortunately, the best way to put it. For all that we try and for all our success, this area is still a bad part of town and our gang is young–members and history both. There will always be assholes who come here to prey–muggers and murderers and rapists–not knowing there’s already a pack of predators ready to pounce on any intruders.

Last Wednesday, my crew stopped a would-be rapist on the trail of one of our block’s tenants coming home from a late shift. She made it to the building safely, if perhaps slightly shaken, but he didn’t get further than the alley Red team pulled him into. Six on one is ridiculous overkill, which is why in the two minutes it took Blue team to join them he was already down and ready for clean up.

We didn’t kill him. Geez, have a little faith. But we did take pretty much all of his clothing, everything in his pockets, tied him up, wrote RAPIST on as much uncovered skin as we could, then put him in the dumpster. The last three is for neighborhood security–we’re pretty lucky that our prey is usually so solitary and that most of the police called out to take out the trash are ambivalent if not outrightly pleased by our actions. The first is mostly for fun, though our territory’s hobos are pretty well-dressed–we know better than to keep possible evidence on us. The second is the important part.

We’re not just talking wallet contents, we also take phones, house keys, car keys, everything. This is where our money comes from. Not everyone patrols because what happens after we catch the assholes is more important–we call it in, and more Hoodlums are sent to harvest. Cards are maxed out on food and other supplies, cars are located then sold to chop shops, houses and apartments are scoped out then cleaned out–regardless of where in the city they are, which is occasionally dangerous being in another gang’s turf–whatever can be fenced will be fenced, even licenses to the forger on 22nd street.

Untitled drabble (2015-06-27)

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It’d be easy, you think, eyelids growing heavy behind your sunglasses. Your hands flex around the steering wheel, plastic hot from the afternoon sun. So easy. You are already driving over the speed limit–not too much, only enough to keep up–and you could so easily just. Swerve. Into oncoming traffic. Into the wall. Just ram the front of your car into something and feel the metal and gasoline and glass crunch and burn and shatter around you. Into you. It’d be easy.

But no.

No.

That’d put other people at risk. That’s not fair. Your desire doesn’t supersede their rights.

The thought lingers, still.

—-

You have been trying to fall asleep for the past three hours, tears streaming down your temples from exhaustion and frustration and painfully dry eyes. It’s time to give up. Accept your failure.

There are knives in the kitchen.

It’s dark, but you have walked the path from bedroom to kitchen so many times that sight doesn’t matter. You could navigate the drawers, their haphazard organization of utensils, with your eyes closed. And so what if your fingers catch on the prongs of forks or the sharp edges of the cheese grater? It wouldn’t be a problem after you choose the right knife and cut/slice/stab–

Your knuckles brush against a set of measuring spoons, the clang loud and startling in your ears.

That’d be unsanitary. People cook food with those knives, in this kitchen. Just go back to your room and try (fail) to sleep.

Maybe you can get a prescription for sleeping pills.

—-

Some days are better than others.

By that system, some days must be worse than others.

In the span of a month you attend a funeral, a baby shower, a wedding, a graduation, and a birthday party. You visit your ailing grandmother, play with your sister’s new dog, develop and pop your first blister, argue with your father, get a free cookie with your coffee…

Sometimes, you feel fine. You find things funny and you laugh. You witness something new and are amazed. You get participate and live through your day completely at ease.

Sometimes your head feels full and slow. Most thoughts hazy, and you don’t mean to be rude, but you honestly don’t hear or can’t understand what the people around you are saying. You stay silent.

The only things that pop into your mind with any clarity are things you are afraid to say aloud. So they stay inside and fester.

~

A/N: More autobiographical than not, unfortunately. I haven’t been doing too well, but this helps me. It doesn’t have a particularly hopeful ending, but acknowledgement is can be beneficial in and of itself.

I hope it helps someone else, too.

Untitled drabble (2015-06-26)

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“I am not bleeding, bruised, or in any way concussed currently!” Brian cheers, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, arms flung out and nearly punching Curtis in the eye.

“Congratulations,” Alvin says, not even at all sarcastically. It’s practically a miracle if Brian can get through a day without taking on someone’s pain. Most days they’re lucky and he has an opportunity to pass some of it on, but he still ends up keeping some.

“My little boy’s all grown up. Walking around on his own two feet, not hurting himself.” Curtis mocks, faking a sob; but he lets Brian smack him with a pillow, so all is forgiven.

“We can’t all be invulnerable,” Brian shoots back.

“We should get cake,” Alvin suggest, which is somewhat disjointed from the conversation, but not a total non sequitur, so his teammates let it slide.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” Brian demurs, confused yet also totally on board for cake. Any dessert, really. Well, all food, really; teenage boy plus biological superpower equals ludicrous metabolism.

Curtis, squinting suspiciously in Alvin’s direction, smacks a fist against his open palm. Then his expression rearranges itself into an exaggerated leer, waggling eyebrows and all, “Is Simon on shift at the Baker Bakery today?”

Alvin blushes, a creeping spill of red across his face. Curtis laughs.

“Dude, don’t play me like that,” Brian chides, kicking at Alvin’s ankle but only just barely grazing it, “If you want a wingman you just have to ask. Don’t risk my twenty four hour streak of perfect health for a lie-cake. A lake. A kie?”

“Yeah,” Curtis agrees through his chuckles before it peters out, “Don’t tease, man. You can’t lie about cake.”

“It wasn’t a lie!” Alvin protests, though suitably shamed.

“And anyway,” Curtis continues, unrelenting, “Isn’t his older sister super protective?”

“I’m pretty sure she hates you,” Brian adds, completely unhelpfully.

“She hasn’t even met me yet,” Alvin grumbles, but nods because he’s pretty sure Joy Guerrero hates everyone in general but Alvin specifically.

He has no idea why.

~

A/N: Well, this was not the direction I was expecting it to go in. But okay. Just click on the Alvin Chand tag for related drabbles.

Untitled drabble (2015-06-25)

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There was a certain set of philosophies which had reigned over their household, a strange yet beautiful amalgamation that comes from having the parents she has. A mother who favored Fighting type Pokemon, yet used them to heal; a father who had a team of Psychic Pokemon to catch the human monsters.

Though having disparate bodies, humans and Pokemon could learn from and help each other. Sentience was what made personhood, not sapience. As a child, Adelaide had simplified these lessons to her favorite hobby: just because we dance differently, doesn’t mean we can’t dance together.

She trains her Pokemon the same way she was raised.

—-

She goes out on her journey late; by Unova standards, she’s not too old, but by Kanto standards, she’s practically ancient. City kids tend to be older than country kids when they start their journeys, anyway, and she’s lived in Cadmium City her whole life.

It’s a rite of passage, but the world is a dangerous place–and as city dwellers know, it’s not because of Pokemon. Rather than risk her life with a new Pokemon, her parents send along two of their own with her–her father’s Jynx, who might as well be her third parent from, and her mother’s Hitmonchan, who grew alongside Adelaide from his excitable Tyrogue stage.

In truth, she doesn’t understand why she has to go, but she can’t come up with a reason why she shouldn’t, either.

—-

It is both a surprise and somehow not that she ends up with the title Brawler. Because, to be honest, everyone thought she’d end up as Dancer Adelaide. And she thought so too.

But Dancers… it’s strange. She loves dancing. But to her, dancing is a conversation between her and her Pokemon. For Dancers, theirs is a performance–with their Pokemon, yes, but for their audience. Her dancing is personal. Not to say that Dancers’ aren’t, but she’s a very private person.

And also, much less of a pacifist than she thought.

~

A/N: More of my Pokemon OC Adelaide Jensen. Meh… not too good, but it was the only thing that popped up in my head.

Untitled drabble (2015-06-24)

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This drabble is NSFW (just cussing, though)

“Those assholes are fucking useless!” Apex yells, punching one invulnerable fist straight through an inch of steel into the inner workings of the latest swarm of evil robots and pulling out several still sparking wires.

One down, only about two hundred more to go.

Behind him, one robot readies its blade arm (fucking swords for arms, why?) only to be toppled to the ground by a massive canine. Its head is then ripped off by said canine’s jaws, leaving the body inert. Between one blink and the next, the canine turns into a crouched human who scowls up at Apex in commiseration.

“They lost Griever,” Silverfang growls, jaw and teeth still distorted from his rapid transformation, “I told them to keep track of him.”

“Useless!” Apex repeats, bodily flinging one robot into a clustered group of four that may have been trying to fuse into one larger, deadlier robot (what the fuck, seriously). “Go find him, before he absorbs too much and ends up hurting himself. His power doesn’t do shit against machines. I’ll be fine on my own.”

Silverfang grunts before bounding away, turning from human to wolf between one step and the next.

In between the screeching clash of metal, the slowly petering out screams of civilians, and his own pounding heartbeat, Apex can hear the sounds of conversation between their piece of shit allies and the villain of the week. Are they–? Those tools are trying to get through to him emotionally. All five of them, apparently, at the same time.

“You are fucking kidding me,” he bites out between grit teeth, sacrificing a scratch to the arm to avoid a stab in the leg. It heals slowly, sluggishly oozing blood, “Are these rust fuckers’ goddamn sword arms coated in poison?”

This is the worst.

“We are never working with this team again.”

~

A/N: NSFW because of language… I’m not really prone to cussing, especially not loud explosive cussing so… yeah.

I always wondered why there weren’t more vigilante team team ups in various comics universes. I guess because so many would be unwieldy to write and kind of an overkill. But also… with that many people, personalities are bound to clash, and team philosophies are highly different.

Apex, Silverfang, and Griever are random vigilante OCs of mine. Apex is the typical superhuman super-strength/healing/senses (though not speed). He is also not usually this angry. Silverfang is a werewolf… maybe? Or just a shapeshifter who prefers wolf form. I have previously written about him here. Griever, who I’m more fond of than makes sense considering I didn’t even showcase him, has the ability to absorb injuries/pain and then transfer to someone else with a touch. He has a max capacity, though, so if he doesn’t get rid of injuries soon enough then they’ll manifest on him instead… his power really doesn’t do shit against machines.

Fake Fic Summaries, 1/? (2015-06-23)

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Fic I would maybe like to write/read and their fake summaries:

—–

“When Scott has no idea what the hell is going on, he goes to Stiles.

When Stiles has no idea what the hell is going on? He goes to Harley.”

Maybe it’s a Stiles-gets-bit story, maybe it’s a Stiles-has-magic-that-activates-pre-Scott-getting-bit, maybe it’s entirely AU. Who knows?

Or, whatever allowed Rebecca “Harley” Harlowe to survive three seasons of supernatural bullshit must be something really helpful. Like common sense.

Seriously, she has a speaking role and a full name and she’s in multiple scenes in the FIRST EPISODE. Sure, we never see her again, but I like to think that’s because she knows to steer clear of all the dumb melodramatic danger.

I enjoy this fic’s characterization of her, though if I were to write the above, my version of Harley would probably be slightly different. By which I mean, slightly less ruthless. Not that that part isn’t enjoyable, but because in order for Harley to help out Stiles she’d have to be willing to do so.

Basically, I have a great appreciation for Harley. Or rather, what Harley could have and should have been.

—–

“Darcy frequently talks about the time she knocked out an alien god with her taser and had her iPod stolen by a ‘vague, yet menacing, government agency’ because

a) she’s a fan of Welcome to Night Vale and cannot help but liken her experience with Thor to the series

b) regardless, it is the second most interesting thing about her life

and

c) her taser and iPod never stop talking about it, either.

(Or, in which Darcy Lewis is a technopath)”

I’ve been reading a lot of Darcy-centric fic recently, and while I do love her as our stand-in normal human, I love her as a character more. And I’d like to see what a non-superhero/villain with powers would look like next to the Avengers, some who are superhuman and others just human.

I wouldn’t actually want her to be related to Tony/Magneto/Xavier either? Just… you know… a random mutant who happens to intern for the scientist who makes first contact with Asguardians. And even though she would be a technopath and it’d make ~science~ easy for her, I’d still want her to be poli-sci major, same as the movies, Darcy. Just that she can talk to machines.

~

A/N: Not really a drabble, not really brainstorming. I present to you the first of (probably) many fake fic summaries!

Untitled soul-mark drabble (2015-06-22)

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“You’ve got a little–I think your face is bleeding,” the lone waitress on shift says, as a woman dressed in dark colors enters the diner covered in blood. Lainey tries not to gag at the sight and, wafting it’s way through the air, the smell.

The woman isn’t aggressive or hostile; rather, she smiles absentmindedly at Lainey, and responds with, “What? Oh, no, it’s not mine. But thanks.”

Whatever few thoughts remain in Lainey’s mind after being confronted with a gorgeous, blood drenched woman at two thirty in the morning, flee entirely. She is frozen in fear, too scared to even flinch away as the stranger moves closer.

Because those words? Those words exactly, are scrawled down the side of her left calf. Her soul-mark. The first words her soulmate says to her. Oh god, her soulmate is some kind of serial killer.

Lainey had always been one of those girls perhaps a little too influenced by her soul-mark. She’d hide it with knee-high socks, covetous of the words, yet always pamper her legs when at home. She was always eager to return things to people–or rather, to return things to the wrong people, in hopes of hearing those words in returns. Every time she’d get her hopes up, and though sometimes their responses would be so close, it never happened.

Because apparently her soul-mark is about blood. Oh god, why?

“You’re still open, yes? The neon lights say it’s a twenty four hour diner… though I suppose since the two isn’t lit, you may just be a four hour diner” says the beautiful serial killer who is apparently Lainey’s soulmate.

“Y-yes,” stutters Lainey, brain still offline.

“Excellent, shall I just sit anywhere then?” Miss Super Model of Stranger Danger asks, peering around the empty diner.

Lainey nods, afraid to disagree.

“Thank you, dear. I’ll just use the washroom real quick, but if you could have a cup of coffee ready for me when I get back? I’d like to sit at the bar, please.” Very polite, this murdering soulmate of hers.

Lainey nods again. When the bloody woman passes her by, she tenses even more. It’s not until she can hear the bathroom door click shut that Lainey moves. And breathe, apparently. Her aching lungs thank her.

Oh god, her soulmate is a beautiful, polite murderer.

She gives a full body shudder then scrambles to fix a cup of coffee. The familiar motions seem to dislodge something in her brain because now she can think.

Maybe… maybe that’s not her soulmate? Maybe Lainey’s remembering her soul-mark wrong (impossible, she has those words burned into her retinas). Or maybe she’ll encounter someone else, someone less of an assassin, in the future who will say those words to her as well (possible, but unlikely considering past encounters). Or maybe… she hadn’t acknowledged Lainey’s words… so maybe it’s a non-mutual soul-bond.

That’s… that’s not ideal, to be honest. Non-mutual soul-bonds are rare, but in the sense that maybe a tenth of one percent of the entire population has it. That’s still one in a thousand, still seven million people on the planet, that’s a lot. It’s hard to verify, because maybe the soul-mark is a phrase that will be said in the future.

Her best friend had an uncle with a non-mutual soul-bond. He was nice, and always had time to listen to two teenagers complain about their cushy lives, but he met his soulmate when he was twenty-two–“Hey, I’m Devon, nice to meet you. Happy twenty second birthday, by the way,”–and watched as Devon met his soulmate, the bartender. It… it was a scar, something that had healed over time, but still left behind a mark. He was nice, and helped two dumb high schoolers work through their problems, but he was always sad.

Would a non-mutual soul-bond be better than a possibly murderous soulmate?

“Just perfect, dear,” says the still unnamed possible murderous soulmate, sliding onto the bar stool so suddenly as to startle Lainey. She doesn’t drop the little creamer jug, but she shakes just enough that some sloshes over the side.

Instinctively, Lainey pulls out a napkin to wipe up– mind having fled the vicinity again, leaving her body to function on it’s lonesome–before turning, very carefully, around to place the cup of coffee in front of the diner’s only and bloodiest customer.

“And you’ve added two sugars. Exactly how I like it,” the woman says delighted after taking a sip.

How did Lainey know that? That’s not how she takes her coffee; she doesn’t drink coffee.

“Now then, left-handed Lainey, my diner waitress soulmate. May I interest you in a very early breakfast date with me?”

~

A/N: From that one fic idea floating around–the one where your soulmate’s first words to you are marked somewhere on your body. I thought I’d give it a try. This was pretty fun to write.

Untitled drabble (2015-06-21)

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“You remember Arline House,” he says smoothly, as if they hadn’t just been speaking about the design flaws on the latest episode of Project Runway.

She stares at him, thrown by the suddenness of the topic change and the topic itself, before responding, “I didn’t until you just said it.” It’s a grudging, angry admission. Spat out as she’s flooded by childhood memories previously cordoned off in her mind.

She remembers the creaky, sprawling three story house, the windows and wide double doors arranged to look like a surprised face. The front lawn overgrown with dandelions and a single, struggling rose bush. She remembers the guava tree in the backyard, and even though no one in the house even liked guavas, she remembers picking them every year alongside her housemates.

She remembers Holly, constantly with a book or a pencil and sketchpad in hand, who had always been a pacifist but would be the first to hit below the belt during fights. She remembers Mark who stole fresh plums from the kitchen, even though he would’ve gotten them if he’d just asked, and shared them with everyone–fruit dripping down chins and arms and making everything sticky. She remembers Oscar turning eight, so pleased at being given his own room, yet always breaking into others’ at night because it was dark and he was lonely.

She remembers the younger ones, not yet in school properly, mostly faces and names and impressions of eager youth more than any exact story–Agnes and Delilah and Ulrich and Bertrand and Ivan and Sylvia and–

She finds herself lying back against the sofa, blankly staring at the stark white ceiling, television off. Her feet are raised, propped up by her hideous and hideously uncomfortable throw pillows. She feels a little sticky, damp, as if she had just run a marathon out in the muggy humid heat.

“Wally?” She chokes out, calls out, bracing herself on her elbows to get vertical.

“Are you feeling better?” He asks, face as infuriatingly placid as always. In his hand is a glass of water which she reaches for and drinks from gratefully. She finishes it off with a sigh, handing the empty glass back to him, which he sets on the coffee table in the middle of her living room.

“What was that?” She asks, clutching at the collar of her t-shirt, stretching it out away from her throat.

“That, Geneva, was an awakening.”

~

A/N: Whoa, mysterious past and pilot episode of an action mystery television series? Hahahaha. Well, I had fun. I need to work on my descriptions, I think.

The Jade Chan [and Paco] Adventures, 2/? (2015-06-20)

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In an unbelievable series of events, Jade and Paco end up using all twelve of the talismans in Beacon Hills. Yes, even Sheep.

“We never use Sheep,” Paco stared, befuddled, as Jade carefully packed the talismans into their secure container, “Why are we bringing Sheep with us?”

“We’re bringing all of them with us, Paco. It doesn’t matter if we don’t use Sheep. It’s there so we’re bringing it,” Jade bit out before locking the container with a sharp twist of her wrist and then slapped on seal which glowed briefly before subsiding. The only ones who would be able to open the case now were Jade, Paco, Uncle, and Tohru.

“You’re bringing Sheep with us because you’re mad at the Captain?” He asked, beginning the shut down process for the vault.

“He’s sending us to the middle of nowhere!”

“Beacon Hills is, like, four hours away by car. That’s not nowhere.” He reasoned, dodging a swipe from the case as Jade turned around at him angrily.

“It has a population size of less than five thousand! It’s smaller than our high school! I bet you they don’t even have a Starbucks!” She spat out, a barrage of words.

“But you hate Starbucks.” Paco argued because he was right and they both did actually hate Starbucks. With a passion.

“That’s not my point!” She flung her arms in the air, only her steel grip on the container preventing it from flying down the hall.

“Your point is that you’re angry and you’re taking all of the talismans with us, even Sheep which we never use.” Paco didn’t even understand why the Sheep talisman existed.

“We used it in Amity once.”

“Once, and mostly out of curiosity, not because we actually needed it.” They had thought that astral projection would be similar enough to being a ghost that it would be relevant. But apparently it was more of a psychic thing than an undead thing.

“And yet that still counts,” Jade crowed her victory before remembering she was mad and stomping away, “Anyway, it’s already packed.”

Paco followed, because that’s what partners did. And anyway, there was only one route to follow from the vault, “I thought you’d like this. It was my idea.”

“What?” She sounded betrayed.

“Well, I know you were getting restless what with us staying back to do school properly. And that was really my only requirement. I thought you’d like having a mission where you could investigate weird shit and still let your partner enjoy normal high school life,” he clarified, most grateful that she was willing to suffer through school with him yet somewhat annoyed that she didn’t appreciate his efforts at compromise.

“Oh,” Jade stared at him, abashed, “I thought this was–I guess it was kind of dumb of me, but it reminded me of…” she couldn’t say it.

“Of when your parents sent you away to live with your Uncle Jackie?”

“Yeah.”

The silence bloomed.

“Well–” he tried to reassure her.

“–Okay, let’s get going, the SUV isn’t going to drive itself–” she restarted their exit away from the vault, in the innermost part of Section 13 headquarters, towards the garages.

“–I’ll be…” he let the topic change slide, “Technically the SUV can drive itself.” Kepler made the auto-pilot when he had the flu–it was functional, because Kepler was an actual genius even when sick, but it had the strangest tendency to refer to it’s passengers as fruits and vegetables.

“It would pointless if it did so when we weren’t in it,” Jade said, just to be contrary; but that was just how they were with each other.

“Are you even done packing? Clothes, not ancient magical artifacts.” Neither of them wanted a repeat of that week in Gravity Falls when they had four shirts and three pants between the two of them. Fortunately (or perhaps not) hygiene was not very high up on Gravity Falls’ priorities.

Wordlessly, Jade shoved the talisman container into his arms and did an about face towards her room. Ostensibly to pack.

Thirty minutes later, after they’ve loaded the SUV with their luggage, their gear, the talismans, and more than enough snacks for the road, Paco slid into the passenger seat and looked over at Jade. She grumbled, cursing whoever drove it last for being ridiculously tall and messing with the setting, readjusting the seat and the mirrors.

“Thanks for sticking with me,” he said, because Jade wouldn’t.

“Thanks for choosing the high school in the one town that has a higher death count than number of citizens,” she snarked back in heartfelt agreement.

“That doesn’t even make sense!”

They spend the next hour of the drive arguing about nonsense, the two after that rehashing what they know about the situation in Beacon Hills, and the last hour guessing increasingly ludicrous theories for the cause and wild predictions for what they will encounter.

Neither of them guessed werewolves. Neither of them thought they’d end up using all twelve talismans, including Sheep.

~

A/N: Hahahaha, I said maybe and then my brain was like… you fool. And then this happened. I dunno how long this train ride will last for, but let’s see where it goes.

The Jade Chan [and Paco] Adventures, 1/? (2015-06-19)

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Jade tumbled into the alleyway, unmindful of the gross slime covering the ground, barely avoiding a bright green explosion. With her back up against brick, she allowed herself to pat out the embers from her hair.

Beside her, Paco looked up, snorted in amusement, and quickly went back to his tablet. She wouldn’t say he’s a better hacker than she is–not because she’s so prideful–but in this situation, when it’s a matter of stealth not speed, it’s better to let him do it than her. And anyway, Paco is her support team, she’s the one better suited to throwing themselves in between dragons and megalomaniacal humans. She was practically raised that way.

“I hate New York, hate it. I always end up needing a haircut.” Jade muttered, readjusting her gauntlets and checking to see if the talismans are secure. She’s only allowed two at a time, sometimes four during particularly dangerous missions–which a routine check up of New York shouldn’t be, but she’s always proven wrong–and while having Ox and Rabbit really was the best choice she kind of wished she also had Dragon or Pig. Just so she could fight fire with fire.

“Well, if you didn’t always egg Jake on, we would’ve been on a flight out of here yesterday, instead of battling twenty Huntsclan members!”

Jade glanced over at him, still working away at the tablet. While the Huntsclan tended to have state of the art technology, it was never anything beyond Paco’s abilities. Which meant, “Are you mad because I’m still friends with your ex? Because you said the breakup was–”

“It was fine! And that’s not it,” Paco hissed back, glaring at Jade now that his virus was beginning to upload. In about forty five seconds, all of the Huntsclan gear would mysteriously short out.

Speedily, she poked her head out of the alleyway and finds the giant red reptile that is Jake Long taunting the hunters left standing. He’d be fine.

“So? What’s up?” She asked, because Paco is her partner, but also her best friend; maintenance is important. She stared straight into his eyes, as if she could hypnotize him into feeling better.

He sighed heavily, turning away to watch the loading bar instead. “I’m just… I dunno. Tired? A little jealous, maybe.”

That’s unhelpful. “… Because?”

“I don’t really want to do this anymore,” He admitted in a mumble, rubbing his knuckles against his cheek.

“What?” Jade, the girl who literally lived in Section 13 headquarters during her formative years, squawked incomprehensibly, “But we do so much good! We stop crimes and get to do magic and– and– is it me? Because I could tone it down, you know, try not to antagonize twenty racist assholes during our weekend to New York.”

“That’s the thing!” Paco shouted back, gaze swinging back to her, ignoring his tablet chirping in completion.

“It’s me?” She’d never been one for showing her hurts, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t feel them.

“No, no,” He assured, tugging gently on her sleeve in apology, “It’s the other. It’s–today’s Monday, right?”

“Sure,” Because that was true, even if she didn’t see Paco’s point.

“We were supposed to be home this time yesterday,” he continued.

“Right.”

“I had a physics test fourth period today,” he finished. Which didn’t help explain anything at all.

“You’re worried about school? You know Section 13 has someone to call the school and give excuses, right? You’ll get to do a make up when we get back.”

“That’s my point!” If he weren’t holding his tablet, he’d probably be flapping his hands angrily, “Do you know how many times I’ve been absent from school? Seventeen. How many make up tests I’ve had to do? Six. It’s November, Jade. November!”

“I keep telling you we could just get GEDs and not have to bother with school,” she said dismissively, checking back with Jake to make sure he hadn’t been captured by de-powered hunters in the last minute, “Ugh,” she complained, “he called Thrall for back up. That creep.” The wizard, while a competent enough asset, somehow thought himself a charming ladies’ man. His flirting just made her want to punch him in the face.

“Ugh,” Paco commiserated, before getting back on track, “I want to bother with school, Jade. I want to hate Mondays because I have a physics test fourth period, not because I’m helping dismantle a splinter group of Huntsclan. Jake got to go to school today–”

“–I know, that’s why we had to do the recon ourselves–”

“–and I bet you Juniper got to go to school today. And Danny. And the Utonium sisters–”

“Okay,” She interrupted before he got lost in a spiral of listing their known allies… who happened to also be school age, “Okay, I think I understand now.”

Paco grumbled, but subsided.

“We’ll just tell CB that we need a break. We can’t go flying around the world at the drop of a hat anymore. School is important.” Jade declared, as if she were standing in front of Augustus Black right that second.

“That last part sounded very convincing,” Paco rejoined, but tugged at her sleeve again in thanks.

“We’ll work on it on our flight home. Now, come on, up,” Pushing her weight against the wall behind her, Jade stood up out of her crouch and held out a hand to her partner, “I need you to play human shield between me and Thrall.”

“I’m glad all my Section 13 training is going to good use,” Paco mocked, but clasped her hand firmly and let her pull him up.

~

A/N: Nostalgia for Jackie Chan Adventures mixed with the potential for all sorts of crossovers. My favorite. Jake Long, the Huntsclan, and Niall Thrall all come from American Dragon. Juniper is from The Life and Times of Juniper Lee. Danny is from Danny Phantom. The Utonium sisters are the PowerPuff Girls.

Not gonna lie, I’m maybe considering throwing them into a Teen Wolf crossover. Like a “here’s this mission where you can go to school, instead of skipping school” and then there’s freaking werewolves and kanima and crazy shit happening. Basically, instead of the FBI, Section 13 gets called in. Or maybe both?

Also, I will work on a better title.