entrancelogs

Entry tags:

OPEN

Who: America, Dean Winchester, and open to anyone else who wants shenanigans
Where: THE CITY OF ~~TOWNSVILLE~~ WONDERLAND
When: Over the course of the superhero event (Oct 19-21)
Rating: Mostly silly dumb stuff but one thread will contain violence so… whatever the Dark Knight franchise is rated. PG-13? R??? Somewhere in that ballpark yeah
Summary: For interactions with Alfred (aka the "secret identity" and worse version of Peter Parker), press 1 for Friday. For epic battles of good versus evil (or just fucking with the weirdo in PJs), press 2 for Saturday. If you are Dean Winchester, please press 3 to insert knife into kidney on Sunday.
The Story:

Backstory: The 'I Looked This Up On Wikipedia So I Could Skip To The Good Stuff' Version

Alfred F. Jones was left on the doorstep of a New York orphanage with only a note saying "GOOD LUCK." The boy developed special powers early on, including super strength, incredible durability and healing, aim that would make a professional baseball player jealous, and a strange ability to have reality throw up its hands in exasperation and say "fuck it" in his presence.

By day he's merely Alfred, the nerdy kid obsessed with U.S. history, not too many friends, and 13 followers on Tumblr. By… other days, days when he doesn't want to study, or nights when his foster parents are being particularly neglectful and/or insomnia gets the best of him, he's AMERICA, a superhero with poor fashion choice and as powerful as the country he's named after.

(In this life, America--Alfred--can easily understand pop culture references. This will undoubtedly be exploited by his mun.)

And now you have all you need to know. Congratulations! You are now free to skip to a thread that is relevant to your interests.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The day for Alfred starts at an ungodly hour called High School O'clock. It is a place close to hell that we are all familiar with: a place where alarms scream for you to wake up even though the sun itself is having trouble clawing its way up to the gray, foggy horizon; a place where you dress in a zombie-like state, grab a backpack with a vague hope that you didn't forget anything but too few fucks given to double-check; a bleary sort of nightmare that we all long to wake up from.

At 6:30am he stands at the bus stop. His foster parents don't splurge on the good stuff, so his coffee is from the corner 7-11. It tastes like water saturated with French Vanilla but hey, as long as it keeps him from slipping into a coma by third period, it's good enough. The sky is dingy and the world is a washed-out pale gray. In his sleep-deprived mind, Alfred thinks that the city looks like a Dementor sucked all live and color and joy out of it.

The day ambles by with Alfred sleeping through half his classes. Only when the AP history classes roll by is he suddenly awake, jittering like a crack addict about to get his next fix. He suggests that The Great Mouse Detective is "practically Shakespeare" in English while getting unnervingly defensive over Whitman's prose. So everything is normal.

Since he's never invited to parties so once 2pm rolls around and angels emerge from the heavens to usher teenagers to the weekend, he's left clutching his backpack, hunched over and smoking a cigarette in his browline glasses, desperately wishing he was at home watching anime. But no. His foster parents don't get in until later and ever since an incident with a fire extinguisher, he is no longer allowed to be a latchkey kid.

(You are free to encounter him at the bus, school, or somewhere around the city. This is a free reign if you wanted to get to know the kid behind the mask, torment him about his woefully obvious identity, or have your hero/villain/person treat him as a normal civilian!)

When Saturday rolls around, the world is a brighter place. Metaphorically. It's still grey and gross outside (is there any other weather in this city?) but he doesn't have to wake up at asshole o'clock and can blissfully ignore his homework until Sunday night.

IT'S TIME FOR SAVING THE MOTHERFUCKING WORLD.

GONNA START THAT SHIT BY SORTING HIS FOSTER PARENT'S RECYCLING WHAT SON WHAT. REALLY GET THE BALL ROLLING BY LIFTING AN AMBULANCE OUT OF ITS PLACE IN GRIDLOCKED TRAFFIC AND DRAGGING IT TO THE HOSPITAL. TIME IS CRUCIAL THIS MAN NEEDS TO GET TO THE O.R.-- oh hey it's a kid from his class and he's got something stuck up his ass wow this is awkward. BUT ONCE THEY START AVOIDING EYE CONTACT and they mutter and cough a few "thanks" and "your welcomes" EVERYTHING IS BACK ON TRACK. YEAH!!!!

For a hero, America is a novice, but his heart is in the right place. He smiles and waves at fans or people he's rescued (whether they're grateful or not). He does his best to do the right thing. Follow his heart. Taking on the big baddies and really saving the world from doom has always been a dream of his, but you have to start somewhere, right? And since he can't join the army until he's out of school, he may as well get a head start with all that righteous justice stuff.

In his downtime when there's not an obvious crimes happening he's usually loitering around police cars or coffee shops in his garish outfit. Seriously, it looks like this kid Googled "American clothes," threw on some American flag tights, put some boxers over those, and then winged the rest of it. He wanted to go with a cowboy theme but the authentic stuff is expensive and the Halloween costumes just don't hold up against the wear and tear of battle.

By day, he is A.J. Crowley. By night he is usually A.J. Crowley too. Sometimes he is the mysterious hero/villain Serpens, but only when he sees a shiny object he really wants or when some jerk convinces him to help save the world. Usually he's just too lazy for all that. He doesn't even have a costume, aside from the usually tailored suits. And some demonic body parts, but that's only when he gets serious, which is rare. I mean come on, it's Crowley.

Anyway, he's currently sitting outside of a Starbucks with a Venti Earl Gray, because it's hard out there for a grown-ass British man in America. You take your cuppa where you can get it and you take it fucking Venti because it's the only thing that drowns out the shrieking, writhing, farting mass that is America. He's also poring over a brochure to some museum, because apparently they're having an exhibit on some country's crown jewels and Crowley can totally get behind the idea of stealing some of that shit.

He glances up in time to see Kid America coming down the block and sighs heavily. Get a load of this asshole, tho. He raises the brochure to block his face like every spy in every cheap movie ever made. Ain't nobody got time for this shit.

And then America walks by and orders his pumpkin spice latte, not recognizing Crowley or acknowledging his presence.

Yeah right like Crowley's life is that easy.

While he does walk by the two-in-one hero/villain combo because he's so hellbent on getting some caffeine into his body (without which he would surely wither and die), the line is long and Alfred is left loitering around waiting for his drink. That's when he spots him.

There's a nudge against the brochure Crowley is trying to obscure his face with. That would be America's nose. He doesn't have superhuman speed so no one knows quite how he managed to get across the room so fast or move into position so silently. The young hero's face is pressed right against the brochure and his gaze slowly, slowly slides up until piercing blue eyes are peering over the top and directly at Crowley.

"Hello, Snake Eyes," he whispers. He doesn't move. Only stares intensely. Trying to see if he can telepathically exorcise the demon? Perhaps.

Crowley sees him walk by and for one heavenly (lol) moment he thinks he might be safe. Then he sees the indent of a nose against his brochure and no. No. No, why is this happening. He just wanted some goddamn tea. It's like how in that last tag I said that tea was the barrier between him and the shrieking mass that is America, except now the brochure is literally the barrier between him and the literal mass that is America, literally even.

The sort-of-demon glares at the kid from behind his shades trying to telepathically exorcise him back into his father's ballsack.

"That's not even remotely my name, you prepubescent little twat."

There's an excited gleam in America's eyes. Confronted with his greatest foe (or the man he is convinced is his greatest foe, unfortunately for poor Crowley) brings a thrill to his otherwise dull teenage life. He's almost reckless enough to start some shit here and now, but-- well, there are innocent people in the vicinity, and he'd at least like to give them a chance to get a decent distance away before an inevitable clash. Already a few customers have started to nervously eye the exchange and hurry to a safe rubbernecking distance. A seemingly indifferent barista just sighs. Yep, same shit as always.

America snorts. "What, like Serpenso-- Serpensio-- Sargento, like whatever you call yourself is any better? Snake Eyes is way better. I won't be havin' no nemesis with a dumbass name."

Another barista calls out his order. Not moving, he merely lifts a hand in the air. After an awkward pause someone passes the drink along and cautiously places it in his open hand. America remains crouched in the same position, never breaking eye contact.

Crowley doesn't want to fight. He doesn't like fighting--it's just super annoying and way too much effort--but this kid always insists on it. Crowley has no idea what he even did to be labeled this little idiot's nemesis. Maybe that's just what happens when you sell your soul to save your own life. Bad luck and all that.

"It's Crowley." He really actually thought the Serpens thing was cool at first, but now he just doesn't care. Tell that to the populace, though.

"And I'm not your bloody nemesis. If I was going to be anyone's nemesis, it wouldn't be some hyper-nationalistic brat's."

He notices people starting to vacate the vicinity. Sigh. This is going to come down to another pointless fight, he just knows it. Maybe he can get away before then.

"Can't you just let a bloke drink his tea in peace?"

There is a very real possibility that this is all orchestrated by some very clever forces of Hell. It was probably a happy accident; someone low level demon stumbles upon this perfectly crafted disaster, looks at Crowley, and realizes that all he has to do to fill his Torment Quota is nudge the boy in the Brit's direction. Everyone wins! Except Crowley, of course, but that's kinda the point.

From Alfred's standpoint it's solely because Crowley is the first "villain" he's ever encountered. Oh sure, he's had a long (and sometimes very personal) history with bad people, but taking those on was never much fun and the good he did was usually a hollow victory. There's little enjoyment in capturing a robber driven to steal by poverty or leaving the kids of drug lords to that well-known hell called foster care. But Crowley--a man dressed to the nines with demonic powers and motivated by (from Alfred's view) nothing but greed--he's a worthy foe that's exciting to fight. The first time he encountered the Brit, he'd been starstruck. It was like the opposite of love at first sight. In that moment he'd sworn he'd found his destiny. The Joker to his Batman. Or so he'd like to believe.

Whatever the reason may be, he's obviously not backing down. He drinks (slurps) his pumpkin spice latte with a leveled glare.

"Not Crowley either," he insists. "That's like... secret identity stuff. I'm not supposed to know your real name! Snake Eyes--c'mon, it's like, a gambling reference. Makes you think of sin and selfishness and that Rolling Stones song. Perfect for you!"

More annoying than his self-proclaimed rivalry with Crowley is his attempts to cultivate an over-the-top persona for the Brit. You're not doing it right, he squawks almost every time he talks (argues with) Crowley. At least he's not moving to really rumble yet. Until his coffee is gone he's going to keep up the pointless, dumb banter.

"And let's be honest here, there ain't nothin' peaceful about you. You're just plotting in silence while you sip on--what is that, Earl Grey? You couldn't even go for the Green Tea Latte? Diabolical."

Because on top of being a hyper-nationalistic brat he is also halfway to Hipstertown. Your life just gets worse and worse Crowley.

That's all very sweet and poignant, but all Crowley has ever wanted is to get on with his life, get what he wants and not be bothered, least of all by children. In the grand scheme of things America isn't really all that bad--not as bad as some of the proper supervillains out there, or the agents of Hell constantly nipping at Crowley's heels. The main problem with America is that every time Crowley thinks he has a moment to relax, America's suddenly there like one of those mosquitoes you can't squish no matter how hard you try.

He hisses at the mention of a green tea latte. "You mean that sugary sludge that looks like something you find in the bottom of your Tupperware after your leftovers have gone dodgy? Perish the thought."

"Blasphemy," Alfred growls. How dare you insult the glory that is the Green Tea Latte. Next you'll be saying iced tea isn't real tea.

Angrily downing his own drink, he finally stands up straight. "You may not be doin' anything now, but there's plenty you've done in the past I can still take ya in for. You gonna come quietly or am I gonna have to get physical?"

He already knows the answer. The Starbucks on this street is insured for far more than its worth with how often America picks fights here, so he isn't too worried about property damage. The city probably has a Damage Caused By Budding Heroes And/Or Villains fund anyway.

"That latte is the blasphemy."

He glares up at the kid, annoyance shifting over into frustrated anger. He really doesn't want a fight, least of all in public, least of all when there's a chance he might go all demon. It's not very much fun, and it tends to alert his enemies Downstairs.

"Can we not? We both know you don't have a shred of evidence." He made sure of that.

"Your face is a blasphemy."

A retort expected of any immature kid running around in bright spandex. America's self-imposed rivalry with Crowley has to be an effort on Hell's part to make his life as embarrassing as possible. There is no other explanation. No one else can be this unlucky.

Part of Alfred wants to haughtily claim that evidence isn't his job, but a little something called Innocent Until Proven Guilty makes him balk. It's one of this grand country's core principles. By that logic, Crowley is still an innocent man. And yet... how many people have been denied justice because of a technicality? He doesn't want to be a pessimist and bitterly wonder if anyone is really innocent, but surely if Crowley hasn't already committed a crime, he will in the future.

"Well, it worked in Minority Report," he thinks out loud. The fact that he is incorporating fiction into his perception of law speaks either to an immature understanding of the world or mental instability. It's really hard to tell with him sometimes.

"Anyway," he continues, "Evidence is for the courts to decide. You'll be judged by a jury of your peers and they'll decide your sentence. It's only my job to bring you in."

A suitable answer that solves his inner struggle. And though Crowley may be right and he will walk free, the nightmarish red tape of court dates, parole, appeals, and hours spent in interrogation rooms will at least be enough of a nuisance to keep Crowley from committing (more) crimes.

"Wow. Top notch response, there."

No seriously, it's true. No one can be this unlucky.

It's kind of entertaining, watching America try to decide what to do. It's entertaining just watching him try to think. He always makes it look like it hurts.

Still, eventually the kid comes to a decision, and Crowley knows from experience that it's impossible to change America's mind when it's set on something. He sighs in a long-suffering way and sets the brochure down. He still has half a cup of tea left.

"Can I finish my tea before our pointless fight?"

Technically it would be pretty unheroic and lackluster to let him finish, but...

"Ain't it cold by now?"

That's his way of saying yeah sure go for it. May as well take a seat while he waits. Alfred's drink is already gone and has to really fight the desire to order another. Last thing he needs is the urge to pee in the middle of a fight. He's left sitting across from his ~arch nemesis~ in heavy silence. Staring. Waiting for him to finish his tea.

He scoffs. "Of course not. Not when you don't foul it up with milk."

He drinks the rest of his tea as slowly as a Brit can. The sacred art of faffing about. In another life, Crowley pretty much invented the concept.

Crowley is extremely good at this faffing about business because it's only two minutes in before Alfred starts to get antsy. He squirms in his seat, checks his phone, motions to confused citizens that yes, they should continue to mull about a safe distance away.

Finally he just gets too frustrated and snatches the cup out of Crowley's hand.

"OKAY YOU'RE DONE."

Listen.

Listen bro.

You don't fuck with an Englishman's tea okay. You just fucking don't.

Crowley's on his feet on the next moment. That's the cue for everyone still in the area to flee.

"What exactly is your problem with me, boy?" he snarls, his eyes starting to glow, his fingers starting to turn into claws. "I've never done anything to you."

To most people the transformation might be alarming, but to Alfred--well it sure scared the shit out of him the first time, though by now it only gets his blood pumping in excitement. A battle as old as Earth. Good versus... maybe not evil, Crowley doesn't seem all that evil, so more like Good versus Amoral Selfish Prick.

He grins right at those glowing eyes, pouring the rest of the tea out and throwing the cup in the newly formed puddle. Not quite as effective at sending a message as the Boston Tea Party but he had to improvise. Close enough.

"My problem is that you always manage to slip by the law," he says, pointing an accusing finger at Crowley. "You think you're above everyone else, that just 'cause you got some underworld connections and money you can just waltz around and do whatever you want without consequence! I may not be able to stop you permanently, but I can sure as heck slow you down."

Out comes the tail and the bat wings, all stereotypical as Hell. Literally. His own blood is pumping with hellish power and anger.

A cliched demonic supervillain has to have a cliched comeback to that little speech there.

"Mate, you have no idea how underworld."

He swipes at the air with those claws and a streak of fire blasts toward America.

A million years later, a tag rises out of the ashes of my inbox. It claws out of the bowels of NYCC, wading through the muck that defines my free time and shoving me face-first into a reality I am reluctant to face. In response I huddle on a couch and whisper, "no. nononono it is time for a beautiful superhero AU."

And here we are.

Alfred watches the transformation with awe. Watching those massive wings unfold, the tail lash out like Indiana Jones' whip, he actually has to take a step back and use his fingers to make a square frame to squint through. Imagine how cool Crowley would look in the dark corridors of an ancient church, the stained glass behind him shining the colors of Biblical figures down on his mighty visage... holy shit what a photo that would be! It would be so perfect for his blog--

Maybe he should consider that later though. You know, when he's not in the middle of battle. A good swipe of those claws is enough to knock him out of his fantasies and go crashing butt-over-head into a nearby table. His hand reaches out to spring back until he feels a sharp pain in his side and hears something tear and in that split second he actually prays that it's only clothing and not skin.

He's relatively lucky this time. The good news it was his goofy costume ripping to reveal skin, some of which has some older bruises on a crash-course to healing. The bad news is that those claws still struck home and he's bleeding from shallow gashes in his side. Well fuck.

Crowley was successful at wiping the arrogant smirk off of his face. Now he's just glaring like a punk who'd been itching to lash out all day (which is less of a simile and more of an actuality). Spitting some blood out on the pavement, he throws the metal table he'd fallen on directly at the demon. Without missing a beat he dodges some fire and rips a parking meter out of the ground.

Which he's now wielding like a baseball bat.

Which he's now attempting to slam into Crowley's back.

Welcome back, my precious little kawaii America bean.

Crowley would be pretty pleased to know that America was admiring him, but right now he's just very irritated. He still doesn't want to actually kill the asshole--he's just a kid, after all, albeit an asshole--so he's holding back. A little. He could have swiped at America's throat instead of at his midsection.

The table throw is actually a pretty decent tactic. It's solid enough that Crowley has to pay attention to it and knock it out of the air, an it also obscures his vision. So he doesn't see the parking meter coming until it's too late to dodge.

He rolls his body a bit so that the parking meter hits the meat of his back instead of his actual spine. He snarls in pain as the blow crumples one wing and the parking meter itself shatters, sending a beautiful and annoying scatter of quarters everywhere. Oh man there was like fifty bucks in quarters in that thing, what a waste. Maybe if Crowley has time after the fight is over he can come back and scoop them all up. That's a nice dinner and some wine, that is.

He spins and lashes out with his tail, aiming to either sweep America's legs out from under him or maybe even lift him by an ankle and toss him somewhere. Preferably through the plate glass of the Starbucks.

u will never be rid of me my sweet demon babbycakes

If only that weird guy with the mask hadn't suddenly disappeared. Alfred could really use one of those purification bats right now. Oh if only. But there is no time now to bemoan the wonderful bats that could have been; the second that parking meter explodes into a shower of dazzling coins, Alfred is on the search for a replacement. Isn't metal supposed to dent, not shatter? What the in the hell sort of meat does Crowley have on his bones?!

The self-proclaimed hero doesn't get very far, not with that tail snatching him by the ankle. On reflex he curls into a ball to minimize the impact of whatever he's about to crash into. Or do a canon-ball, whichever.

All things considered he can't tell if smacking into glass or brick is worse. Brick definitely hurts worse, but it's does arguably less damage than glass shards. Cuts everywhere as he smashes into that window. At least they heal fast and there isn't any real damage this time, not like that one fight where he ended up with a big shard of glass in his eye. It did not help his already terrible vision.

He doesn't emerge for a few moments. Hell, it doesn't look like anything is moving in that Starbucks for a few moments. With all the blood on the window it's looking like Crowley might have actually killed him.

But Crowley is never that lucky.

With a shard sticking out of his leg, Alfred hobbles out with a defiant glare. One hand clutches a book, likely something from the Barnes & Nobles this Starbucks is attached to, while the other carries a big bottle of salt. He has no idea how demons work, but he figures chucking a Bible at his head will at least leave a bruise and, if his aim is right, a little salt in the eyes will slow him down.

let's run off and make horrible babbies

If only Zacharie would come backarie then America might have a chance. Sadly, life is hard. Crowley watches America sail through the window of the Starbucks, feeling pretty good about himself, since it's like "take that Corporate America," almost literally.

He takes the opportunity to spread his wings and rise into the air, though he moves a bit clumsily--that parking meter's gonna leave a mark, ow. He's starting to get a little worried when America takes his sweet time coming out. He didn't want to actually kill the brat.

But it's basically impossible to kill America, and here he comes wielding a freaking Bible, wow, where did he even get that?

"You have absolutely got to be kidding me."

Fortunately he's pretty sure America doesn't know which passages to read.

The first rule of being a good superhero is to never reveal your secret identity. Alfred is still new at this and is a little careless about taking off his mask, but nine times out of ten that doesn't pose a problem. Much to his disappointment he's only on the peripheral of most "legitimate" villains, and even if they spotted him without his mask, seeing his face is pretty useless. Being an unknown, unpopular high school student has its perks.

It's been a rough weekend; he's earned a few bruises, a few more serious wounds that are on the mend, but nothing he can't hide by the time school rolls around tomorrow. (Most people don't question bruises on him. They never have, even when they probably should have. He isn't sure whether to be grateful for that or not.) But such is life. And let's be honest, scrapping with the city's dangerous criminals is still less painful than math homework. Which he hasn't done yet. Fuck.

Instead of being responsible and slipping back into his room to do that shit, he decides to take a break at the edge of a local park. Like everything in Wonderland it's pretty dark and foreboding, but he likes it. Going off the path is fun and for a while he can pretend he's exploring the mysterious woods in a far-off frontier. At least until he starts to remember all the urban legends about woods and Slender Man and shit, then he casually (heroically) turns tail and quickly runs to the safety of the inner city. (Villains are nothing compared to the monsters of his imagination.)

It's dark and ugly out but fear hasn't struck him yet. The woods are small and not so far from the heart of the city, yet it's almost unnervingly quiet, the sirens and cars and white noise of Wonderland drowned by wind and the rustle of dead leaves. His mask is off and he's checking the state of a bruise with an Iphone camera and its glow. Not too bad. Almost impressive actually!

This is how horror movies start.

Some part of him realizes that and then quickly hopes he gets a chainsaw hand.

The fact of the matter is, Dean doesn't know or care who most superheros are. In or out of their mask. He's not exactly a dastardly villain that runs around causing trouble just for shits and giggles, he doesn't have any vendettas (save for one with an old partner), he doesn't have any reason to give a fuck, hell, he doesn't even have a rep. He's got absolutely no incentive to chase down Alfred and give him a nice little steel enema.

Until the kid wanders in on something he shouldn't see.

Namely, Dean crouched over a body, driving a blade in between ribs, spearing the man in the heart and lowering him to the ground. The dying gasps of a businessman fill the otherwise quiet air, bring a hush to the chirping of crickets and other totally stereotypical wilderness sounds. Congrats, America. It's Horror Movie silent, and a stream of blood slip-slides over leaves, rocks, twigs, flowing right up to the tip of one super patriotic shoe.

Dean tracks it's movement with his eyes until they fall on the shoe, then travel up the leg, stomach, neck, right up to the kid's face.

Witness.

He's so focused on taking selfies and checking the pictures for damage that he almost doesn't hear the odd rattling noises over the shutter sound of his iPhone. (Creepy.) Sounds like it might be coming from a human. (Even creepier.) An uneasy feeling crawls up his spine.

"Hello?" He hates how his voice wavers. What's there to be scared of? He's a super hero with remarkable strength and healing! And yet, and yet...

Alfred holds up the phone into the dark. As any phone owner knows, this is an incredibly futile gesture. It fails to light up anything further than a few inches in front of him and only serves to make him an easier target. He spins around, squinting into the dark. There's something just up hill, probably just a rock. Every part of his being is screaming run you idiot run but he swallows that feeling because that's what heroes do, right? They don't let their trembling legs stop them from going forward to confront their fears.

"Hello?" he repeats, louder, firmer, even as his stomach flips. The ground is wet. The creek is the other way. That isn't water, and the smell of copper--

Ah hell, just what did he stumble into?

For a long, disturbing moment, Dean's sure he's been seen. That he's been caught, and he's going to have to deal with the police, or a texted friend, or something. Until that wavering hello? hits his ears, and he lets out a low breath. Hasn't been seen yet, then, not really. The piercing light of a cell phone blinks through trees and shrubs and foliage, and Dean slips away from the body in the path.

He thought about letting the kid go, he did, but... well, that cell phone is a liability. Who knows what he might've caught on video, what he might've accidentally snapped a picture of, what body parts or blades might come to light under further review somewhere with better lighting.

No, the fact of the matter is the kid's got to drop and the phone's got to go with him. Fortunately, this contract doesn't say anything about multiple bodies. It does say no living witnesses, which is good enough for him. He moves quietly through the trees, clothed feet clearing branches and twigs so as to not make a sound, twisting around the path with his blade in his hand, circling behind the light of the cellphone

The body, however, lay just as visible as always, eyes open and unfocused, chest exposed, limbs sprawled there just a few feet from Alfred.

Unlike the assassin, Alfred is about as quiet as a blind elephant stumbling through the brush. He shuffles in place, trying to feel around the terrain with his feet. He kicks something solid, but soft. Not a rock or tree.

This isn't the first dead body he's seen. It's not even the first that met such a violent end. But those handful of occasions, those were accidents. Overdoses. A car crash. Not even those have prepared him for this, haven't dulled his reaction. At his core he's still a kid that's gotten too ahead of himself. His heart thumps and he swallows hard to suppress the bile burning at the back of his throat.

The light of the phone slowly moves over to the man's face. An involuntary whimper escapes, a sound not unlike a wounded fawn crying for its mother. No one he recognizes. It isn't a relief though, not with that expression frozen in terror and pain, not with the the cooling blood seeping through Alfred's shoes.

To his credit he doesn't vomit. Legs shaking, head light, he stumbles back until he hits a tree. Take a few deep breaths, then call the police. That's the plan.

It doesn't enter his mind that the killer could still be in the area. He's too busy trying to calm himself, wondering why he's so worked up it's just a body it can't hurt you you don't even know him why are you so upset?

Hate to break it to you Alfred, but that sturdy thing you're bumping into isn't a tree. It's the oh-so-hunky brick wall of man meat folks 'round these parts are calling Reaper, and he just happens to be six feet two inches worth of barkless goodness, standing completely unimpressed behind the would-be hero having a little bitty panic attack over the dead body before him.

He's still for a moment, one eyebrow arching slowly as he stares down at the kid.

...It's sad, really. A damns shame, but he just can't afford to have witnesses. Not. A single. One.

So he ducks in slowly, lowering his face until it's right beside Alfred's ear.

...

"Shhhhhhhh."

Hunky isn't exactly the word that comes to his mind right now. It's more along the lines of OH SHIT.

Except he can't even get those words out. On TV, there hero always faces these situations with jaw set, steeled nerves, and fists ready for a beatdown. That's the sort of hero Alfred wanted to be. Not this. Not, when faced with a killers breath at his ear and back turned, reacted like a wild animal. He'd like to say his shout is an act of defiance to the killer's demand for silence, but it's a flimsy explanation; it's more of an involuntary screech, like a fox who has just wandered into a trap and heard the cage slam shut behind it. Alfred jumps, tries to spin around. His elbows fly back to push the man away, or at least break some ribs so he can escape.

Fuck it, let the police handle this one. He just wants to make it out of here alive.

If Dean was ever even the slightest bit convinced of Alfred's abilities whatsoever, it goes flying out the window with that screech. He can't help but pause as one eyebrow arches, completely and totally unimpressed by the reaction. Really. Really. The dead guy didn't even squeal like that, and he was getting stabbed. (To be fair, the dead guy did get stabbed in the throat, but still, the quiet dignity of death was much more... dignified.)

On the bright side, that elbow does hit his target, shucking breath from his chest in a soft, muted oof. He doesn't draw back, though, doesn't let much space pass between them. Instead, his own hand shoots out to wrap around the offending arm.

God damn, kid, you scream like a girl and elbow like a man.

Bewildering people with his hilariously pathetic or just plain absurd actions is a common (if largely unintended) tactic for Alfred. He's like one of those baby birds that vomits on enemies to gross them out into leaving (something that Alfred himself is not above doing should the opportunity arise). The panicked squirming and screeching only intensifies when he finds himself constrained. This time, at least, it culminates into something useful.

He digs his heels in and slams his body backwards in an attempt to crush the killer against a rock or tree, bucking and twisting like a wild horse trying to throw a cougar off of its back. Without a pause he then lunges forward into a a fucking roll by using Dean's body as a nice cushion against the ground.

Sorry Dean. As obviously unprofessional as this kid is, it'll take some effort to silence him for good.

Holy good goddamn tuck and roll, Batman.

He manages to hold on to this apparently lunatic drug addict kid what in the hell are they taking these days through the tree and the rock, though it winds him plenty enough that his goddamn fucking roll has him emitting a rather unpleasant guh noise as his back hits the ground. His hand stays clenched around his knife, but any grip whatsoever on Alfred is completely, utterly gone.

He scrambles in the dirt, shoves to his feet as quck as he can manage, biting back a groan.

What the fuck, Kid? You're supposed to be easy.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

OPEN

FRI. OCT 19 - Alfred F. Jones

SAT. OCT 20 - America

u wot m8

ARE YOU WIMBLY FOURS MATE!? IM CRIMBO NINAN SAX APPLE SMIBBLY DIN BIBBLY CHAP

U 'AVIN A GIGGL THEA M8 U 'AVIN A LAHF AHL BASH UR FOOKIN 'EAD IN

OI GIT ITS SIX-A-BONG

YE WANKERS IT BE CRIMBO SIX-A-BONG

SIX FECKING BONG???

BANG UP THE KNACKERS AND SMACK YER MUM

OLL IN THE STREETS ITS SIX A-BONG!

OLLY JOLLY IT'S SIX-A-BONG

i hate us

we are magical unicorns

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

SUN. OCT 21 - DEAN: the fresh prince of shanking

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject