Jaegers that Weren't!AUs

See also Jaegers that Never Were!AUs

## Broke

 Setting
 Initiating author

**Part One**

>Chuck meets Jackson and Chuck is a brat<

Jackson, armed with the latest, most AI-managed sim, arrives in DriftSci exactly two minutes early.

And the person in the chair, back mostly towards him, quite nearly steals his breath away.

Their hair, a stroke of dull, dark brown against the blue of their coat, speaks of former greatness, of shining like polished rosewood in the faintest light—but that feels so impersonal. Cold. Unfriendly.—now left to hang limply and withered.

"You're beautiful," blurts Jackson.

The person turns a degree in his direction. "Fuck you."

"Okay."

Someone please direct him to the nearest noose so he could die, like, now.

The person sneers.

""Jones!""

Jackson jumps.

""Stop flirting with the patient—""

The person flinches.

Jackson flushes a stunning crimson.

""—and get back to work!""

"Y-yes, sir!" Jackson hollers over his shoulder. Back to the person with the hair. "And I wasn't— though you're /**very**— it's not like I— I mean, I /**would** flirt if you weren't—"

"You done?" they growl.

Jackson eeps, hangs his head. "I'm done. S-sorry to bother you." He slinks off.

.

The next day, Jackson sits down with the model DriftSci gave him at a row of computers.

"That's my spodt," snaps the beautiful person with the hair.

"Sorry," says Jackson. He moves his stuff over a seat.

The person scowls, says, "That's my chair.

"Sorry." Jackson surrenders it.

The person is not the least bit impressed and grumps back to the couch, dragging the chair behind them.

Jackson smiles disarmingly at their back, hoping they'd turn around and they could restart, but the person doesn't, so he sighs internally and pokes at his tablet, prodding lines here and there for an hour, trying to coax the model to life.

Then the data inhales and blooms into a gleaming, tattered galaxy.

"Wow," he breathes.

Something pointy bounces off his head and /*clump*s to the floor.

""/**Chuck!**"" scolds Lightcap.

Jackson glances over his shoulder, rubbing the spot.

Chuck glowers from the couch.

Jackson looks to his side.

An alphabet block sits there all innocent-like.

"/**Ow.**"

Chuck huffs and scowls deeper into her blanket.

"It's really pretty, though," insists Jackson.

""Don't you dare, Chuck!""

Something whizzes by his ear and another alphabet block wings off the monitor and clatters down amid the cables.

Jackson risks a peek at the couch.

Chuck gives him a dark look.

Jackson elects to finish the model in the lab, despite the knives getting glared into his skull.

.

The timer for Jackson's stretches flashes and he puts down his stylus.

Chuck takes it away.

Jackson does his exercises, picks another stylus from a tin of writing implements.

"Mine." Chuck snatches it from his hand.

Jackson gets up, goes to another desk, finds a mouse, and returns to his spot.

Chuck adds it to her collection.

Jackson smiles, heads out the door, keenly aware of the smug vibes rolling off Chuck.

.

Jackson returns forty-five minutes later with a new messenger bag. He rests it against his chair and pointedly takes out a new stylus.

A dark cloud gathers by the couch.

.

Chuck bustles about, rearranging and labeling cables with painter's tape, and knocks over Jackson's bag.

"Sorry," he says pleasantly, scooping the bag into his lap.

Chuck lays down a square of tape around his chair, then hurries back to the couch and burrows into the blankets.

.

Jackson returns from the update briefing and nearly walks into Chuck.

"You're too loud," says Chuck.

"I'll be quieter," Jackson promises.

.

"I thought you said you were going to be quiet."

Jackson queries.

"You're breathing too loud."

"I'll try harder."

"You talk too much."

"It's a real problem," Jackson admits, colouring his voice like mad with a laugh.

Chuck glowers.

.

Around tea, Jackson cautiously approaches the fridge (having been told by Doctor Lightcap to help himself) and peeks inside.

"Would anyone like a cookie?" he calls.

"Those are mine," says Chuck.

Jackson hands over the box.

Chuck takes it with a downright murderous look and retreats to the couch.

"Yea, I wouldn't eat those," advises Lightcap. "They're great if you're underweight and losing muscle mass but otherwise—" She shudders.

"Thanks for the heads up," says Jackson.

"No problem," Lightcap replies cheerfully and then she notices the tape. "Chuck! What are you, twelve?!"

Chuck sulks.

.

An hour later—and praise the twelve for autosave—Jackson's computer dies.

After a brief moment of panic, he follows the power cable back to the outlet to find it unplugged.

"You're using the wrong outlet," explains Chuck.

"Which one should I use?" asks Jackson.

"You're using too much power," explains Chuck.

"Should I switch to a different breaker?" suggests Jackson.

"The printer needed the plug," explains Chuck because of course the printer was plugged in, which it wasn't.

"I'll use a laptop," says Jackson, pushing to his feet. He heads to the computer cupboard and pulls one down at random.

"You can't use that laptop," says Chuck.

"Here you go," says Jackson, laying it in her arms.

"You can't use that one, either."

"Okay." Jackson puts it on top of the first, then takes a third computer from the cupboard and Chuck seems to realize she can't carry three notebook computers, no matter how little they weigh, her right side especially which also has a cast so Jackson tucks the third computer under his [arm] and relieves her of the other two—

Chuck snarls, clutches them to her chest, and scurries to the couch.

.

At three P.M. on the nose, Chuck emerges from her nest, arms herself with a cloth, and starts her chores. She moves things out of the way, one by one, as she dusts.

Jackson moves, inch by inch, out of the way, though despite his best efforts, keyboards, chairs, pencil holders, stress balls, tissue boxes, and a dispenser of Spinal Tape encroach on his space.

Space he soon finds himself out of when Chuck sets her sights on what's left of his little bubble and starts dusting with a special kind of fury.

"I'll go some place else," says Jackson after she knocks his head with her elbow.

Chuck fumes and stomps away.

Jackson nudges aside an old monitor and settles back in.

Chuck pushes over the vacuum cleaner, turns it on, and leaves it there.

"For Christ's sake, Chuck!" snaps Lightcap, snatching it away and turning it off.

Chuck flinches and huddles awkwardly, having no real place to cower.

Lightcap wheels the vacuum back to the general area of the closet, then hauls Chuck to the couch and sits her down.

"I don't like him."

"Well, if you hadn't chased off half the techs in this facility and scared away the others, you wouldn't have to deal with him."

"I don't want him here."

"You don't want anyone here, least of all yourself. Behave or I'll send you to that rehabilitation center in the city."

Chuck looks somewhat contrite and the rest of the day passes without incident, save for the occasional alarm bell ringing in Jackson's head which, almost without fail, coincides with Chuck glaring at him. (The anomaly occurs when Jackson tries to heat his tea and nearly blows up the microwave. Chuck gives him a dirty look and points him towards Doctor Aloe, then sets to replacing the now-dead circuit board.)

Jackson powers down his computer and stretches. He asks, "You going to din—"

Chuck has apparently given up on sentry duty and instead sits on the couch, sleeping the sleep of the dead.

"I will assume you have food taken care of and will see you when I see you," says Jackson. "Sleep well." Lets himself out.

.

Chuck trudges back from her weekly checkup at Medical.

Something tickles the back of her brain.

She stops, follows the ticklish sound down a secondary corridor. Peeks in a door about halfway down.

The crazy tech who called her— a paperback in his hand, reading in a low voice to a pale, still form on a bed.

Chuck shakes her head, tiptoes (she's not sure why) away.

.

Jackson, ten minutes early to his first day on permanent assignment to DriftSci, hovers outside the door of the central lab, convinces himself he's not eavesdropping because Lightcap and Chuck are screaming at each other.

""No!""

""But, the software—""

""I'm not Drifting again!""

""Chuck, we've figured out how to compensate—""

""I'm not enough of an experiment for you?""

""Chuck—""

""That’s it, isn’t it!""

""Chuck, it's not—""

Stomping—

A collision—

And Jackson and Chuck are down in a tangled heap.

"Uh, hi?" he ventures, very conscious his hands are resting on Chuck's hips.

Chuck growls, throws herself to her feet, storms down the hall.

Jackson flails upright, hurries in pursuit.

At a door in the residential wing, Chuck swipes a keycard, flings herself through, braid swinging.

"Chuck! Wait up!"

Chuck doesn't.

The door slams shut.

Jackson /*thunk*s his forehead against it, mumbles, "You're beautiful and I know ...."

.

Chuck doesn't see Crazy at all that day until supper, when he slides into the spot across from her in the canteen, smiles, greets, "Hi, again."

Chuck hacks at her beets.

"I just want to say—"

"/**What** is your problem?" snaps Chuck.

Crazy startles, gestures 'surrender'.

Chuck glares.

Crazy ducks his head, rubs the back of his neck. "I know—" Swallows. "I know what it's like when a Drift goes bad."

Chuck grunts, returns to her meal.

"Me and my younger brother were on the Ranger track a couple years ago." Pokes at his salad. "They hooked us up and ... he went away."

Chuck’s peripheral goes grey.

Whispers, "He's still in Medical. Well, what's le—" Deep breath. "They say he'll probably never come back."

Chuck forces herself to move.

Crazy clears his throat. "Where's your partner?"

"In /*Striker Eureka*."

"Oh." Pushes lettuce around. "'m sorry."

Chuck scoffs.

**Part Two**

>settling in to a routine; if I wrote this right, Chuck's microseizures will be increasing in frequency (one in the first couple sections, then a set of two<

Chuck arrives in the lab before even the lights come on so she flicks that breaker, turns on the powered-down computers and wakes up the sleeping ones, and puts on the kettle. She cleans the leftover cups in the sink, starts a pot of tea and queues the coffee, then organizes the table and wipes it down.

Chores done, she pours herself a cup of tea and settles on the couch with her current book.

Jackson wanders in a few chapters later, pokes his computer, and asks permission to approach the couch. Or her. Probably both.

Chuck puts down her book.

Jackson shuffles forward a few, anxious steps. "Do you, uh, well, obviously you read a lot. Do you have a lot to read?"

"Library gives me stuff."

"Do you take recommendations for books-movies-TV-media in general?"

"Sure."

Jackson lights up; Jackson's lighting up has a damper. "Is giving you a list okay?" >i'm used to calling the light intensity-controlling knobs a 'dimmer'. is 'damper' the Commonwealth term?; I use 'dimmer' too. 'Damper' was in the sense of 'to put a damper on things' (like a parade or a mood)<

"Yea ...?"

"You didn't say anything when I offered, that's all."

Shit.

"Maybe 'cause it would be a stupid list," snaps Chuck.

"Probably too nerdy for you, yea," Jackson replies softly, rubbing his neck. "I have to—models, stuff, you know, work."

"K." Chuck pushes herself to her feet, sways.

Jackson slinks back to his computer.

Chuck heads deeper into the lab in search of Caitlin. "I think I'm microseizing."

"Brain scan time!" Caitlin squees.

Chuck sighs and follows her to Imaging.

>this is definitely first in this section, but I feel Caitlin can interpret the results in less than a day, may be resolved tho with the scene below<

.

[need something here; possibly Chuck getting kicked out of Imaging because Caitlin's called on patrol, Chuck's is a pissy mood with a terrible headache, and she drops her tea all down her shirt and Jackson lends her a jumper]

.

Chuck trudges back from her weekly checkup in Medical, heads down a secondary corridor and into a long-term patient room.

No greeting.

Fine with her.

Chuck plunks down in the chair. "Lump."

Crazy's brother keeps lying there.

"You know you're taking the easy way out, ay? Just lying there?"

Ambient Shatterdome sounds.

"You don't know how easy you've got it. Rehab /**sucks**. But instead of actually trying, you do nothing but make your crazy brother sad."

Distantly, AGNIS relays health codes.

Someone seems to have broken a limb.

"Whatever." Chuck lurches to her feet. "Good riddance if that's all you're gonna do." Tromps from the room.

.

Caitlin wanders into the workroom, studying a sheet of EEG paper.

Chuck attends.

"You are due for another big one," Caitlin murmurs.

Chuck sighs, sits herself off the couch and onto the floor, and starts pulling down cushions.

"Probably not today but within the next week. Good news, though," Caitlin rolls up the plastic. "They're getting farther apart, and..." Grins at Jackson. "We have someone around this time who might actually need the 'Seizure dos and donts'!"

Jackson blinks, rallies, "I don't think I ever got that memo."

"You did not as I never gave it to you. It used to be part of the standard welcome brief but no one stuck around long enough for Chuck to have a seizure which is saying a /lot considering she-you were having them every day. Little ones, though, not like this guy. I'm partly to blame for that, I'll admit--the people leaving, not the seizures except that one time but hey! data! Where was I?"

"Dos and donts about seizures."

"Right!" Twists. "Do you want to try [meds] again or...?"

Chuck shakes her head.

"Yea, they suck." Returns to Jackson. "So. Seizure. Brain firing completely and totally with abandon. Number one, do /not touch Chuck. Do not move Chuck, do not restrain [Chuck—"

"Broke my arm once that way," adds Chuck.

"Yea, I didn't like that monkey anyway." Looks back at Jackson.

"No restraining."

"Thank you. No touching, no moving, no restraining, and do not] under any circumstances take measures to ensure Chuck won't swallow her tongue." Turns to Chuck. "You won't swallow your tongue, that's impossible."

Chuck stares blanklly.

Back to Jackson: "[She'll snap out of it in a sec. Anyway, at most, get] a flat pillow under her head but beyond that, stay out of it. I know it's hard, but just /don't. Unless there's stuff around, in which case /do move the stuff out of the way. Got it?"

Jackson says to Chuck, "When you have a seizure, I [will] approach only to give you a pillow or to move obstacles out of the way."

Chuck narrows her eyes.

"Pinky promise?"

Chuck huffs.

"Awesome." Caitlin drums the plastic. "Next thing, because the brain's going all weird, one of you is going to make a mess so," Skips to a filing cabinet. "Towels! At your disposal."

"Towels are good."

"Yes, yes they are." To Chuck: "You have your button?"

Chuck digs out her chain.

"Batteries?"

"Ninety percent as of last week."

"Excellent." Surveys the lab. "We'll probably want to get as much against the wall as we can..." Frown. "Sure I have a plan in here somewhere..." Wanders from whence she came.

.

Chuck jumps—because something touches her fingers.

"Any sixes?" asks Sergio, withdrawing his hand.

Chuck shakes the static from her head, sighs. "And so it begins."

"Caitlin said you were due for a big one."

Chuck hands over a card. "Yea, sometime in the next week. Any queens?"

Sergio surrenders a spade, frowns at his cards. "Decided against meds?" Sips his tea.

Chuck wrinkles her nose. "Don't like how they make me feel."

"Mmm." Puts down his cup. "Nines?"

"Go fish. Eights?"

Sergio passes her a heart. "Any appointments?" Studies his hand.

"Could get my cast off, but I don't really want to break anything again."

"Might hit yourself in the face and break your nose. Tens?"

"Go fish. I'd rather break my nose. Eights?"

"Cursed child."

Chuck grins.

.

"Chu-uuUuck~!"

Chuck drags her eyes around. "--that?"

"What?"

Chuck tries again. "Why're you talking like that?"

"You didn't answer the first three times--are you feeling okay? Should I get Doctor--"

Chuck shakes her head.

"Right, okay." Jackson's posture shifts and he takes up a bag at his feet. "So, after yesterday, I decided to interpret your opinion of the recommendation idea as 'fuck off, Jackson, I'm worried about something' instead of as a rejection so I took the liberty of bringing you a selection of books from the library."

"I have a book."

"I may have been overzealous in my book getting so I will put these on...that table. Is that okay?"

"The table's good, thank you."

"You didn't answer the first time, is why I ask. To the table with me!"

>possibly needs more of an ending<

.

Jackson's screen looks awfully colourful for DriftScience.

Chuck squints at it from the couch and gets (what feels like) a nail in her brain for her trouble.

Ten seconds with her eyes closed doesn't help resolve the image, so she wobbles to her feet, pads over to that computer bank, asks, "What's that?"

Jackson squeaks.

Chuck gloats internally.

Jackson pushes away from his desk, folds his hands in his lap. "It's a trailer for a new game that's coming out which is partially why I asked about recommending books because I wanted someone to squee with."

Chuck squishes down a lot of things she can't quite name. "Don't you have work to do?"

Jackson's looking worried.

Chuck squishes down irritation. "Go finish your stupid trailer."

"It's so cool," says Jackson. "It's like you have a 'pause' button or something."

Chuck rolls her eyes.

>i'm wondering if this should go later since, while Chuck has given up on getting Jackson to quit (I like the idea of Chuck offering him a cup of coffee as 'i have accepted you're not leaving'), she 'doesn't quite like him yet'.<

.

No lights in the lab.

Jackson doesn't know where the breakers are.

"Seem to be lacking in Chucks this morning," muses Lightcap.

Jackson squeaks.

"Breaker's down the far hall. I'll go see what's keeping Chuck." Sighs. "Sims won't run themselves."

"I'll go," offers Jackson.

"Know where her room is?"

"By accident. But yes."

"Fantastic, good luck!"

So Jackson retraces his steps (though at a much less frantic pace) and knocks on a door in he residential wing.

The door echoes 'unlocked'.

"May I come in?" asks Jackson.

No answer.

"I will come in to make sure you're not here."

Still no answer.

Jackson carefully opens the door.

Too. Much. Hair.

Jackson squeaks and excuses himself to the hall.

Jackson takes a deep breath, returns to Chuck's room.

Chuck stands besides her bed, exactly where she stood ten seconds earlier, wearing her splash pants and a tank top, hair brush in hand and hair unbraided.

"Your hair is /awesome," says Jackson.

Chuck stares blankly into the distance.

"Chuck?"

Nothing.

Jackson approaches.

The hair on one of her arms stands straight while on the other arm, it lies flat.

Jackson waves a hand in front of her face.

Chuck doesn't blink.

"Okay. I am going to say this is a microseizure and--"

Hairbrush--

Jackson dives behind his hands.

Chuck bounces a hand off his arm, swats again with her brush--

"I'm going! I'm going!" Jackson scurries for the door, stumbles down the stairs.

Chuck stops on the threshold.

"Doctor Lightcap was going to come look for you but she wanted to get the sims running so I offered and you didn't answer. Was totally not invading your space."

"Lightcap's space?"

"You're seizing and it's after eight."

"Okay." Chuck turns away, pulling her hair back.

"Can I do anything?"

Chuck's hair is in a braid. When did that happen.

She puts on a tee, then one jumper, then another, and wanders into the washroom.

"I will walk you to the lab, how's that?"

>needs more of an ending<

**Part Three**

>Chuck feels Jackson could be a potential friendly<

A steaming cup materializes at Jackson's elbow.

"Thanks, Chuck, but I don't do coffee," he says, looking up sheepishly. "Caffeine makes me twitchy."

Chuck grunts, plucks up the mug, plods out the door.

Jackson watches her go. Scrubs a hand down his face and sighs.

.

And of course, Chuck suffers a grand mal seizure when no one's around.

She finishes her current book, and the latest bunch from the library--and from Jackson--sits on a table two paces away.

If Chuck felt brave enough to walk, that is, which she doesn't (she knocked out a tooth the last time she stood up before a grand mal).

Chuck cautiously shuffles off her patch of cushions in a crouch and scuttles to the table.

So far so good.

Chuck sits down, reaches up for a book.

Knocks the stack over.

One book slides right off the table to Chuck's right.

Chuck fumes.

This is /ridiculous.

She pushes herself to her feet, scoops up the books, wrinkling her nose at the taste of smoke--

Throws herself away from the table, "Cait!", the ground rushes upand she lands on her cast because of course she does--

>the problem with putting this here (and 'Cake' where it is) is that the different parts reflect snapshots at different times, and by putting this here, it glues Two and Three together, making Four seem much closer to the beginning of their relationship when it feels like it should be later.<

.

Sergio links his arm with Jackson, steers them towards Sergio's desk. "Chuck's asleep and I need a 'Go Fish' partner."

"Okay," squeaks Jackson.

Sergio sits him down between Doctor Aloe and Dwayne the Rock, takes the seat on the other side of the desk, deals them both a hand. "You like working here."

"Yup."

They arrange their hands.

Doctor Aloe photosynthesizes, Dwayne the Rock sits sedentary.

"Any tens?" asks Sergio.

"Go fish, sorry. Eights?"

"Go fish. Why do you like Chuck?"

"She's awesome and amazing and inspires me to do better."

Sergio nods. "I don't need a go fish partner anymore, these two'll do."

"Can I stay?"

"Sure."

.

"One cake for one cast-less code monkey," announces Sergio.

Chuck beams as he sets down the tray, curls clumsy, shaking fingers around the pastry knife.

"Would you like help?" offers Caitlin.

Chuck smiles, nods.

Caitlin adjusts Chuck's fingers, wraps her hand over hers, and guides them to the cake. "There we go!"

Sergio claps.

>more words eventually<

.

A steaming cup materializes at Chuck's elbow.

"I don't do coffee," she says.

"It's cocoa," replies Jackson.

"Oh." Chuck wraps her hands around the mug, inhales deeply. "Thanks, Jackson."

Jackson beams. "You're very welcome."

**Part Four**

>Chuck and Jackson have a positive relationship<

Jackson digs himself into the visitor's chair, tucks a paperback beside him. "Hey, Logan."

No greeting.

"Still napping, ay?"

Logan doesn't acknowledge.

"So ... Chuck remembered I like decaf today. First time." Smiles faintly.

Ambient Shatterdome sounds.

Jackson leans forward, twists his hands. "Lightcap asked me to try Drifting again. Says the new software makes it safer than ever."

Distantly, AGNIS relays health codes.

"What do you think? Should I do it?"

No answer.

"I don't know, either." Jackson sighs. "Have a new book for you. The librarian thinks you'll like it." He opens the book to the first chapter, clears his throat.

.

"Cait says she talked to you about Drifting again."

"Any fives?"

"Go fish. She really has improved the software." Sergio frowns at his cards. "Added another five percent to our sync rate. Sevens?"

"Go fish. Aces?"

"Go fish." Rearranges his hand. "You know who she has in mind, right?"

Chuck shrugs.

"Twos?"

Chuck tosses down a card.

Sergio takes it, sets aside a pair. "It'll be even easier on you than with the triplets."

"Fours?"

Sergio passes one over.

Chuck sets down her pair.

"He's completely in love with you."

Chuck scoffs.

"He really is, Chuck. Drifting'll feel like coming home."

Chuck rolls her eyes. "What are you fishing for?"

"Oh. Have any twos?"

"You just asked that."

Sergio grins. "Oops."

Chuck sighs. "Go fish."

**Part Five**

>The Drift<

Jackson squeezes her hand, smiles reassuringly.

Chuck offers him a watery one, squeezes back.

His eyes prick, so he closes them and braces for the Drift.

[""Neural Handshake: initiating.""]

Chuck's mind is a maelstrom of thorny red, knife-edge silver, and colours with no names.

It's as beautiful—

Oh shit.

.

Sergio was right.

Chuck's light—/*safe-warm-protected*—lets herself sink into a pool of gold, rich like a sunset.

And then it all goes apart.

.

Jackson takes a deep breath.

Lets go.

.

Chuck slams back into her body—down on all fours—wrenches off her headset, doesn't smash her face on the grating.

A huddle of Caitlin and techs where Jackson should be.

Nonononononono—

Someone's got her in a bear hug and's hauling her out of the lab and—

.

She doesn't know how [long--]

Streaks of red on the door, screaming in her ears; her fingers hurt and there's blood in her mouth and something snaps in her shoulder that makes breaking down the door /*crunch* in time with spurts of wet down her front.

The metal swings open—

She—

—for the white coats coming in and she doesn't like white, she wants gold but they have needles and her fingers are slippery and she can't stick them back so she doesn't and she sleeps.

**Part Six**

>Chuck adjusts to a lack of Jackson<

Chuck trudges back from her daily trek to change the dressings on her hands, heads down a secondary corridor and into a long-term patient room.

No greeting.

Fine with her.

Chuck plunks down in the chair. "Idiot."

Jackson keeps lying there.

"I stole all your jumpers."

Nothing.

"You know you're taking the easy way out, ay? Just lying there?"

Ambient Shatterdome sounds.

"You don't know how easy you've got it."

Distantly, AGNIS relays health codes.

Someone seems to be having a heart attack.

"Whatever." Chuck lurches to her feet. "It's your own damn fault." Tromps from the room.

.

["Good news," chirps Caitlin.

"Data?" offers Chuck.

"You bet~! Bad news, though, the neural handshake threw a wrench into your seizure pattern. Worse news, you've got a really big one coming."

"Should you just cut out my brain?" asks Chuck.

"We'll see how you look after this one."

Chuck sighs.]

.

Chuck trudges back from her twice-weekly trek to change the dressings on her hands, heads down a secondary corridor and into a long-term patient room.

No greeting.

She swallows.

Chuck plunks down in the chair. "Idiot."

Jackson keeps lying there.

"Why the hell did you do that?"

Ambient Shatterdome sounds.

Looks down her nose at the other bed. "That what you did for him?"

Distantly, AGNIS relays health codes.

They're trying to track down an xray technician.

"Whatever." Chuck grinds the knuckles of one hand into her eyes. "The librarian gave me some sci-fi thing they think ... well—" Nods to Jackson. "—you'll probably like it." Chuck fumbles the book open to the first chapter, clears her throat.

**Part Seven**

>Chuck doesn't like this reality<

/*Beep*!

Chuck sighs, swipes into the lab email on her tablet, skims the research report—

Blinks.

'Echoes' isn't a word you see often in sci—

""Monkey!"" hollers Caitlin.

Chuck grunts, drops the tablet on her [desk, wonders what's burning--

Burning.

Chuck shoves the chair out of the way, "Cait!", lowers her center of gravity--]

.

Chuck nestles on the couch with her tablet, mindful of the arm still in its sling and her achey collarbone, and calls up the paperwork queue. She likes paperwork because there's no guesswork, it's all formulaic, and she can never get it wrong, even on a bad day (like today).

The first few forms finish themselves quickly, but the fourth takes some work. An 'informed consent' thingy for one 'Holly Eady' with regards to 'Logan Jones' who has the same last name and hometown as Jackson.

Chuck looks over at the empty workstation sadly and tucks herself deeper into the too-big jumper, pretending she can still smell glycerine soap. Maybe she should start using it and make the jumper smell more like—

"You've already asked that," says Caitlin. "And I said 'no' because your skin'll dry out more than it already has."

Chuck wants to cry.

"Oh, Chuck." Caitlin hugs her head. "I'm sorry."

"It doesn't smell right," bawls Chuck.

"I know, darling, I'm sorry. Maybe we'll get Sergio to wear them—he can use glycerine soap."

"Okay," says Chuck wetly.

.

Chuck trudges back from her weekly checkup in Medical, heads down a secondary corridor and into a long-term patient room.

No greeting.

She [sighs, plunks] down in the chair. "Hey."

Jackson keeps lying there.

"Are you still inside that thick skull of yours?"

Ambient Shatterdome sounds.

"Where the hell did you go?"

Distantly, AGNIS relays health codes.

One of the short-term care rooms needs cleaning.

"Fuck you, Jackson." Chuck lurches to her feet. "Fuck you." Tromps from the room.

**Part Eight**

>Chuck gets Jackson back<

Oh-three-hundred on Jackson's thirtieth birthday finds Chuck forcing clumsy, shaking fingers to connect the 'improved' Pons to the analysis rig.

She shoves up the too-long sleeves of her jumpers.

Jams on the headset.

Sets the autodisconnect for one minute.

Chuck takes a deep breath—the smallest hint of mint and leather and glycerin soap from the wool.

She stabs 'go'.

.

Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease—

.

Chuck blinks back into her own mind—flat on her back—no headset, someone holding her neck still.

A huddle of Caitlin and techs staring down at her, relief singing in their eyes and worry tight in their mouths.

But it's okay, says Chuck—

Someone's sliding her onto a gurney and they're hauling her out of the lab and—

.

She doesn't know how [long--]

Everything's really slow and terribly heavy and the white coats keep coming in and frowning and her right hand doesn't work right (again) but she's got a droplet of gold so she doesn't care and she sleeps.

**Part Nine**

>Chuck has gold<

She's not allowed to work in the lab alone anymore—not that she can, yet, what with frying another percent or two of her brain—so when gold stretches and yawns, Sergio's around, sprawled on the couch with a book.

"Chuck?" he asks.

She just smiles.

.

Caitlin has Chuck hooked up to a sim running a graphics check, not that Chuck would use 'graphics' to describe the scenery; everything looks out of a campy sci-fi—

Gold perks up.

"It's nice," says Chuck, hoping she doesn’t sound too strangled.

Gold settles into a vague memory of /*Transmorphers*.

""Oh, good, I was worried it was too eighties. Carry on!""

.

Chuck flops on the couch, cracks open a book, pretends to read.

Thinks of every movie she's ever watched.

Sorts out anything someone could pass off as speculative fiction, offers them to gold.

Gold gobbles them up, growing brighter and heavier, puddles in the back of her mind, dozes off.

"Chuck?" asks Sergio.

“Good book,” croaks Chuck.

.

Chuck trudges back from her weekly checkup in Medical, heads down a secondary corridor and into a long-term patient room.

"'--stirred--'" A neatly-dressed older person looks up from their book, poised in a chair beside Jackson's brother's bed. "Hello, dear."

Jackson's not lying there and his bed's gone but there's a second chair.

"Are you here to visit?"

Chuck startles, takes a step back--

Jackson's not there--where--why--

"Pardon me. I'm Holly, the boys' grandmother." Holly smiles reassuringly. "She-her-hers."

Gold glows brighter, squees.

"They've moved Jackson to the next room." Turns her attention to Jackson's brother. "The doctors worried seeing Jackson ... like that right away would stress Logan too much." Squeezes Jackson's brother's pale hand.

His thin fingers tighten around hers.

Gold wibbles.

Chuck's chest hurts.

Holly wipes her eyes with her free hand; she takes a deep breath. "He can't do much more than that right now, but Doctor Lightcap thinks, over time, we can coax him almost back to what he was before."

Gold whimpers, dims.

Chuck swallows, nods. "Th--" Clears her throat. "Thank-thank you." Motions to leave.

"You're welcome, dear, have a nice day."

Chuck nods, backs from the room, flees to her quarters.

**Part Ten**

>Chuck gets Jackson back<

"Chuck!" snaps Lightcap.

Chuck starts and whatever memory she'd been thinking about flits away.

Gold whines.

"—ve you been? Is this a microseizure? Should we go down to Imaging?"

"No!" Chuck squeaks. Clears her throat. "No, it's fine."

She calls up as much of the Simulacrum as she can remember.

Gold meeps, buried under among representations of elves which kinda look like Picasso paintings.

"Chuck?"

Chuck blinks.

Gold shines brighter and larger than ever, light creeping into her peripheral and her head growing heavier and heavier—

"Are you sure? You've been really distracted, spaced out. I don't mind--"

Chuck slaps on a smile. "Procrastinating. I'm just procrastinating."

"You don't have to work here, you know—"

"No, I want to," insists Chuck—

.

Chuck lies in a bed in Medical, the scent of blood thick in her nose and mouth and everything's hazy and kinda red.

"What aren't you telling me?" demands Lightcap. "They scans say you either have a dissociative identity disorder or there's someone else kicking around in your head—"

Chuck hurls her pillow—"You're not taking him away from me!"—throws herself out of bed—

A spark of fire in her wrist.

"Medic!" hollers Lightcap, lunging for the button.

—makes it out the door, dodges a nurse, hits the floor, grabs a needle pen and sticks a white-clad arm, gets her teeth into something and bites /hard, scratches someone else (but her nails are too short)—

A prick in the back of her shoulder.

Static fills Chuck's eyes almost immediately and she shies and shields and keeps her head from them—

.

""Hey, Chuck.""

Caitlin...?

""You don't have to give him up.""

Chuck can hear, can understand...

""You're not going to have to give him up.""

She feels she should be scared and angry and screaming but...

""You're just putting him back. It'll be okay, I promise.""

Chuck can't seem to bring herself to care.

""Neural handshake: initiating.""

Gold sings.

.

Chuck becomes vaguely aware of someone squeezing in between her and the guard of her bed in Medical.

"That was really dumb."

Jackson grunts, pulls her into his arms.

"You're mine, and you won't ever do that again."

"No promises."

Chuck presses her face to his neck and inhales.

Jackson squeezes, rests his cheek against her hair.

Chuck manages to twist her lower half over, gets an arm around Jackson's side.

"Are you wearing my jumper?"

### Break

Chuck pushes Jackson back towards his bunk.

"Wait--what?"

"First thing I said to you?"

"What? Oh! Right! Are you sure--"

"Shut up."

"Yes, ma'am. Good god that's dumb we're not--"

Chuck shoves his head down and puts his mouth to better use.

.

Chuck can feel the electricity in the hand on her hip, in the tendons against her thigh, in his tongue and the secrets he spells with it to make her demand more, to grind down harder, to come against his teeth and his smile with a barely contained squeal.

Jackson eases her down against the pillow, thumbs twitching tiny circles over her ribs.

She can feel his heartbeat pound just above her knee and she pushes just a bit upwards for a groan that could go directly past her stomach if she so felt like it.

Breathlessly, "So, uh, do you want to have sex again or ...?"

Chuck tugs his hair.

Jackson obliges.

Chuck wraps an arm around his neck, gets him close, kisses him, and while he's doing that, fumbles with his trousers--

"I can--" He does. "But are you sure--"

Chuck huffs, rolls her eyes.

"This is important--and it occurs to me you're making it abundantly clear what you're after without using words."

Chuck wraps both arms around his neck, kisses him deeply, and while he's doing that, arranges him between her legs.

Jackson gets a hand down there, too.

Chuck sighs contently, rolls her hips.

"I'm sorry, I don't think--"

Chuck kisses him again, scratches his nape.

Jackson's hips jerk, stutter--"What can I do--"

Chuck pushes him off, stuffs him under his pillow, drapes herself over his back, and kisses his shoulder.

Jackson peers out. "You should probably use the washroom--"

Charlie pats the pillow back down, stretches out.

""Chuck--""

She's less tired now; she rolls off onto static and jello and the floor rushes and she lands on her left hand and doesn't break her right arm again with it tucked against her chest.

""Are you okay?""

Chuck takes her time finding her feet, makes it the rest of the way. She uses the washroom, hears the promise of hot water, pulls off her two jumpers, and lets the shower suck her in.

""Chuck? You've been in there for twenty minutes,"" Jackson reports.

"I lost track of time, sorry," Chuck pries herself free, finds a towel--

"Changed the sheets," Jackson says proudly.

--ushers Jackson back to bed, builds a nest, and basks in the smell of laundry soap.

Jackson adjusts one of the blankets over her shoulder.

She smacks his hand away.

"Okay, okay." Kisses her cheek. "Goodnight, Chuck."

She hums, kisses his arm, goes to sleep.

.

"It occurs to me we didn't use a condom," Jackson says uneasily.

Chuck looks at him blankly.

"We may have given each other something? Or I may have got you pregnant?"

That ... rings a bell.

Chuck squints at her left arm.

"May I ...?"

Chuck offers her wrist.

Jackson studies her Medical Alert bracelet. "So, if I'm interpreting this properly, besides the risk of seizures, this says you're on two kinds of birth control and you have no STIs as of last week's checkup which you would have done voluntarily if you didn't already undergo STI testing as a mandatory part of your status as a Vulnerable Person."

A number of things flit across his face which, a part of Chuck's brain reports, given an hour, she would know what he's feeling but her current synaptic population's stretched thin as it is.

"I didn't take advantage of you, did I?"

Chuck shakes her head.

"You're prepared for anything," says Jackson.

Chuck nods.

A deep breath. " Just by being around you I want to be a better person."

Chuck shrugs, but she also smiles.

.

When tea time rolls around, Chuck carefully brings Jackson a cup of Earl Grey.

"Oh, thanks, Chuck." Accepts it. "You didn't have to do that."

Chuck doesn't get it.

"For last night?"

Chuck looks at the clock.

"You don't have to ... no salutation needed?"

"It's tea time," says Chuck.

Jackson smiles, sits up straight. "Thank you very much for the tea."

Chuck looks at him like he's nuts (he's gotten good at picking out that particular expression), but: "You're welcome." She wanders back over to the tea station and makes up a cup for herself.

## Odds Are

"Congratulations, you lot," sighs Doctor Regas. "You've made a mockery of modern reproductive science and succeeded in getting pregnant."

.

"Knock, knock!"

"'ey, Jules," drawls Andrea.

"Nurse said you three were /**finally** up for visitors?"

"Sure ... c'mon in. They're sleeping just now."

Juliet tiptoes over, breathes, "They're so cuuuuute!"

"Yeeaaaa," agrees Andrea.

Juliet cocks her head. "Ray?"

"Yea?"

"Someone's pointed out the obvious already, right?"

"Wha?"

"Thing One is adorable, pink, and blond, while Thing Two is adorable, brown, and black-haired."

Andrea blushes. "Umm, yea?"

"Does that mean what I think it means?"

"Heteropaternal superfecundation?"

Juliet blinks.

Andrea grows increasingly pink, trying to contain an impish smile.

"Not /**quite** the words I had in mind, but I'm pretty sure it means the same thing." Grins. "I win the pool!" She pats Andrea's tummy. "You're the bestest overproductive ovaries /**ever**! I'm treating your person to a fancy dinner for this!"

.

"Answer me this," says Juliet, somewhat contorted between the side of the bed and Andrea. "Did you have sex with Jason and then Lachlan, Lachlan then Jason, or both at the same time, and if so, who was in the front and who was in the back?"

"/**Jules!**"

"Wha? I'm curious."

Andrea looks away, ears and cheeks pink. "Any or all of the above."

"You don't remember such a momentous occasion?"

"Takes a couple days for things to get where they're going," Andrea mumbles.

Juliet grins. "I'm teasing, Ray." Kisses Andrea's stomach, throws an arm over and hugs her middle. "Thank you for winning me so much money and giving me such cute niblings!!!"

.

Juliet tracks the brothers Jones down in the canteen, plunks into the seat across from Jackson.

He mumbles a greeting. Or something like one.

Logan keeps squinting at his mobile.

"I bring you pictures of Andrea's twins," announces Juliet, sliding /her mobile into Jackson's field of view.

He grunts, tries—fails—not to glance at it.

Juliet inclines her head, waits.

Jackson heaves an exaggerated sigh, takes the mobile, swipes.

Juliet chin-hands.

Jackson keeps swiping, expression softening with each new image.

Juliet snickers.

Logan frowns.

"Don't they look like their dads?"

Logan blinks, leans over—

Jackson offers a better view.

—blinks rapidly. Shudders.

Juliet snorts.

Logan scowls.

"You know, Jackson, if you and Chuck—"

"Don't—" warns Jackson.

"—were to ever have kids, betcha they'd look like Sunny."

"Which one's that?" grumbles Jackson.

'Really?'

Jackson huffs, passes back the mobile.

## Feral

 Setting
 Initiating author

(new here)

Blossom tracks Buttercup down at his favourite park, announces, "The Professor wants to see us tomorrow at nine."

Buttercup grunts.

"What d'you think it's about?"

He sits up, crosses his legs. "Nothing good."

Blossom snorts.

The next morning, they're all on the couch in The Professor's office; Blossom perches between Bubbles and Buttercup.

That's not The Professor behind the desk, not the familiar thug working the door.

PPDC's there in their places.

They rave about their skill as a fighting team and what a good fit they'd be for the Jaeger program, how it would be a chance for them to make something of themselves, give back to society.

Buttercup laughs, pushes to his feet, strolls—

The PPDC behind the desk clears their throat. "Of course, I'm sure we could find a permanent placement for you in the prison system, Mr Jones."

—stops mid-step, pivots, slumps back onto the couch.

They sign the papers when the Suit offers.

In Kodiak, Buttercup and Bubbles shift into what Buttercup calls 'round peg' mode; Blossom mostly keeps her head down.

DriftSci pokes about in their brains.

A few days later, they poke about some more.

Scratching their heads in confusion, the PTBs say Buttercup's Drift Compatibility score is so far outside the safety margin that sharing headspace with him will likely turn all their brains to pudding.

The PTBs promise to find Buttercup a different oh-two.

He shrugs.

Blossom and Bubbles Drift—

/*Magnesium-blue-white* coils around /*sunny-violet-warm* and everything feels /**right**.

Bubbles and Blossom live even deeper in each other's pockets than they used to.

It's nearly a month before—

"Bubbles?"

"Hmm?"

"When did you last see Buttercup?"

Bubbles squints. "Right before we Drifted the first time, I think."

"Same here." Blossom rolls a lock of hair between her fingers. "I'm worried about him."

Bubbles shrugs. "He's better at taking care of himself than anyone I've ever met. 'm sure he's fine."

Blossom hums in the noncommittal, winds her hair more tightly.

.

Their third time in the Academy sim, the Kaiju is /**wrong**; too clever by half for the AI and, midway through the fight, sits down right in front of them and stares as they bury a shot in its skull.

Blossom and Bubbles exchange glances, shrug.

Computers.

It happens again the sixth run: the Kaiju frantically dodges them, deflects every punch without even trying one of its own.

Bubbles and Blossom corner it, bring it down anyway.

/*Something* about that Kaiju nags the back of Blossom's mind.

The seventeenth sim run, the pieces click—

The too-clever Kaiju is back a third time, ducking their strikes, desperately refusing to fight.

—Blossom and Bubbles' Drift fills with shared memories of blocks and evasions.

The Kaiju cowers, belly pressed to the ground, where they've cornered it between buildings.

They urk their Jaeger to a halt, exchange a Look.

""Cadets, what're you doing? Kill that thing!""

"No," say Bubbles and Blossom together.

""Cadets. Do. Your. Job.""

The Kaiju gently noses their shin.

""/**Cadets.**""

Blossom and Bubbles swallow, "Yes, Ma'am," and execute the Kaiju with a shot to the brain stem.

""Good job, Cadets. Shut down and disengage.""

Bubbles and Blossom stare at the Kaiju's corpse until a tech finally pulls the plug on the sim, dumping them back into bland Academy space.

In the showers, Bubbles finds her voice first. "We've gotta help."

"Mmhmm. Where would you hide him?"

The answer flickers across the fading link between them.

"Of course," they say together.

.

While Bubbles runs interference back at the dorms, Blossom bluffs and sneaks her way into the depths of DriftSci, finds him in the second cell along a quiet hallway.

A peephole; he can be seen without seeing.

He's curled tight on himself at the foot of the bed, knees to chest, arms on knees, head on arms.

She blinks at the fastening.

They've trapped him with a simple sliding bolt and a chain.

She undoes both, slowly opens the door, slips inside, whispers, "'ey, Buttercup."

He raises his head—dark rings 'round his eyes—blinks, croaks her name.

She swipes at her eyes, heart closing off her throat.

"'s good t' see ye," rasps Buttercup.

Blossom floats across the tiny room, crouches beside the bed. "W-what are they doing to you?"

"Killin' me. Five, ten times a day." Shudders. "Feel ev'ry one."

Pink traceries—mild burns—from a circuitry suit swirl across skin pale as milk on his hands, arms, neck, even his feet. His feet? He's /**barefoot**.

"The sim?"

Affirmative grunt.

"But ... you didn't fight us, why didn't you—"

"They're mean if I don't." Catches her eye, smiles weakly. "Hoped you'd get it."

"We got it, we got it." Swallows. "We're gonna get you outta here." Touches his—

Cringes. "/**Don't!**"

Blossom stills.

"Don't wanna hurt ye." Rubs his neck, ill-fitting violet scrubs /*shuffing*. "Hit ev'rythin' now."

She bites her lip. "I'll get you outta here. Just sit tight."

Rusty chuckle becomes a cough. "Ain't got much choice."

.

Blossom calls in every favor she's ever been owed and gets a text in return:

/**blocked:** transplanted yesterday

She sags in relief. A deep breath and she heads in search of Bubbles with the good news.

.

He spends weeks in a place full of Chinese people learning—

A hand—his arm—he strikes—

Can't—

Can't move.

""Yes, tickle him, that's a /**great** idea,"" says a voice over his face.

Gentle fingers over his ribs—

He lashes—

""Wheee!"" cheers a voice by—/on—his feet.

He saves his strength.

""This is pretty comfy,"" remarks a voice off his shoulder.

—not to hit out at anything brushing his skin (the triplets help considerably), learning not to be a Kaiju, learning he can sleep and wake up without nightmares.

He's more or less human again (at least as human as he's ever been) when The Narrator hands him plane tickets, IDs with his picture and a name he doesn't recognize, and a duffel and Sunglasses drives him to the airport.

.

At first, Cecilia isn't sure what to make of the latest stray to wander onto the ranch.

He's almost twice the average age, for starters, and he shifts uncomfortably in a bog standard tee and trousers, but he's just as skinny as the usual newcomer.

Cecilia shrugs and explains the terms of employment to him.

He bobs his head, drops his duffel on the porch, and sets to work.

He doesn't say much and when he does his voice creaks from disuse and bears a Sydneysider's accent. He won't even tell the hands his name.

They quickly tire of calling him 'Heyyou' and christen him 'Scarecrow'.

He smiles faintly, answers to it immediately.

His only real problem is Tilda.

Both refuse to back down and Scarecrow comes away with a wedge-shaped bite on his hand. After that, there's a grudging truce.

He doesn't start trouble, but if anyone starts some with him, he sure as shit /**ends** it: quickly, viciously, and with an animal's toothy grin.

Mostly he does his chores, eats his meals, sleeps in the loft, and vanishes to some secret spot when he's not needed.

One morning the second week, a feral kitten starts following him around.

By afternoon, the cat's riding on his shoulders and they're inseparable—except for mealtimes, when the cat hops down and goes mousing among the sheds or in the bush.

.

It's Little Mike who finds the secret spot one hot afternoon, catching sight of Scarecrow basking in the dry wind and heat under a scraggly tree two hills away from the house, the cat curled up in his lap. Little Mike ambles over, plops beside him.

Scarecrow cracks an eye, raises an eyebrow.

"You're crackers, sitting out here like this."

"Makin' up for lost time." The eye closes.

Little Mike squints. "You in jail or something?"

Scarecrow grunts.

"What was it like?"

"Bad." Opens his eyes, turns to Little Mike. "Like me." Grins his awful, feral grin. "Now, shoo."

Little Mike shoos.

.

Word goes around: someone Important's coming.

.

As dinner comes to a close, Red nods at Scarecrow and another stray, starts clearing the table.

Scarecrow gets soap and water going in the sink.

The rest of the table—minus Cecelia—wanders back out for a last check before bed.

Red moves a stack of plates to the counter, asks, "We know when Kirra's getting here?"

"Sometime tomorrow," replies Cecelia, indicating an empty serving plate.

The other stray busses it to the counter.

"She bringing that boy of hers? Johnson?"

"Jackson's coming—"

Scarecrow perks up a little—

"—but his little brother's staying behind."

—shrugs, vanishes back into blandness.

Red grunts, nudges Scarecrow from in front of the sink.

Scarecrow picks up a towel, collects cutlery from the table.

The next morning, Cecilia watches the car roll up the drive from the porch.

Charlie and Jackson pile out, waving and grinning.

Cecilia smiles widely, waves back.

Jackson snags their suitcases and they walk toward the house.

Scarecrow, cat draped across his shoulders, strolls by on his way to repairing the busted lock on the far paddock.

Charlie stares at him.

Jackson squeaks, drops the suitcases.

Scarecrow stops, blinks, finally says, "The fuck're /**you** doing here?"

"/**Me?!**" yelps Jackson. "What the fuck are /**you** doing here?!"

Scarecrow rolls his eyes. "I live here."

"Live—?!" Jackson's voice cracks and he flies across the space between them, wraps—

The cat squawks and leaps to the ground.

—Scarecrow in a hug. "We all thought you were /**dead**, ye bastard!"

Scarecrow hugs back tentatively, says, "Nope. Still tickin' over."

Cecilia steps over to Charlie, eyebrow raised. "You two know him?"

"That's Jackson's brother, Logan."

""Why didn't you /**call**?! Nanny's been worried /**sick**!""

"Ah. He /**does** have a name."

Charlie furrows her brow.

""No mobile and there aren't payphones here.""

Cecilia shrugs. "He doesn't talk much."

"That's different," snorts Charlie. "How's he been working out for you?"

""Cecilia has one!""

"Pretty well. Does what we ask, stays out of trouble—"

Charlie scoffs.

""Wouldn't wanna impose.""

"—and's nearly as good with locks as a skeleton key."

Charlie chokes back a laugh, then gives in and doubles over.

""/**Imp—** You won't borrow a phone, but you'll break—""

Cecilia cocks an eyebrow at her. "I take it he's got a backstory I don't know?"

Charlie nods through her laughter.

""You can let go'a me any time, Jack.""

""Not yet, idiot.""

Logan sighs loudly.

.

The seasons go 'round again and Blossom, following directions from Little Mike, tracks Logan down at his favourite spot, calls quietly, "'ey, Buttercup."

He sits up—

The cat oozes off his chest, moseys over to Blossom.

—crosses his legs, "'ey, Blossom," gestures for her to sit, offers a canteen.

Blossom settles beside him, accepts with a hum.

The cat flows into her lap and purrs.

She hands back the canteen, absently scratches the cat's ears.

"They let ye go?" ventures Buttercup.

"Guess you don't get the news up here—"

Buttercup rolls his eyes.

"—'cause there was a whole blow up in the press about 'enhanced recruitment techniques' and, to save /**some** face, the Powers-That-Be voided all Ranger contracts, offered us a choice of signing up again or going home." Shrugs. "Bubbles and I went home."

Buttercup grunts.

Blossom tracks the clouds scuttling by, murmurs, "This's beautiful."

He shrugs.

She rolls her eyes. "I'm thinking of leaving Townsville for someplace quieter. Kinda tired of being a city girl."

"Pretty quiet 'round here."

"It better be. You're kilometers from /**anything**."

Buttercup glances over, eyes crinkling. "Haven't heard th' emus fighting yet."

Blossom snorts. "I'm sure it's impressive." Deep breath. "Giant featherdusters aside, it's a little /**too** quiet right here for me. I'm thinking about a smallish town."

"Got one in mind?"

"Mt Isa seems nice." Twists her hair around a finger. "Problem is, I don't know anyone there."

"Won't take long t' make friends."

Blossom sighs. "I was kinda hoping you'd move with me."

Buttercup blinks. "Ye planning on keepin' me as a pet?"

"Nah. I expect you to work—"

He frowns.

"—and every town can use a locksmith who keeps eccentric hours."

Buttercup raises an eyebrow.

"Mrs Cecilia told me about your 'talent'," grins Blossom. "Apparently you're developing a reputation as a miracle worker with locks around here."

He huffs. "What're /**you** gonna do?"

Her grin widens. "I figure I'll keep your books—"

"Oi!"

"—and you'll teach me some of the tricks so I can help the unfortunate souls locked out of their houses when you're 'indisposed'."

Buttercup frowns harder.

Blossom nudges his shoulder. "C'mon, sharing a flat with me is /**totally** a step up from the barn loft."

"Mrs Cecilia tell ye /**that**, too?"

"Yup. She's also worried about what it's doing to your back, old timer."

Buttercup pouts, "'m not /**old**."

"You're just old/**er** than the rest of the strays on this place." Blossom leans against his side. "You deserve an /**actual** bed in an /**actual** house, Buttercup."

Deep breath. "Don't wanna owe ye any more, Blossom."

The cat slides out of Blossom's lap and into Buttercup's.

"Wha?"

He ducks his head. "Ye saved me from ... that place. Th' Narrator told me." Rubs his neck. "I owe ye."

Blossom rolls her eyes. "Life's not a checkbook, Buttercup." Pushes to her feet, tugs at his arm. "Let's go, you. I promised I'd have the car back by dinner."

Buttercup nudges the cat onto his shoulder, lets Blossom pulls him to his feet. "Ye already rented a place, ay?"

"Yup." She walks toward the house. "Furnished, two bedrooms, pet-friendly.

The cat squints at Blossom, /*frrp*s in approval.

"Took a big chance there." He falls into step.

"Nah. I knew you'd come."

Buttercup snorts.

.

"Rise 'n shine, Buttercup!" chirps Blossom, whipping open the curtains.

Buttercup groans, buries his face deeper in his pillow.

"Wrong response," she chides, pokes the back of his head.

Buttercup tucks his head /**under** his pillow. "Go 'away."

"Nope." Blossom huffs. "Your breakfast is getting cold."

Lifts the corner of his pillow, peeks out at her blearily. "Cereal?"

She grins. "Pancakes and jam."

He flings the pillow at her—

"Hey!"

—throws back the covers, leaps out of bed, sprints through the door.

"Oh my god, Buttercup! Put on some clothes!"

""/**Pancakes!**""

Blossom rolls her eyes, snags a pair of boxers from the floor, strolls to the kitchen.