OPEN

[ahousedivided]

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.

Comments

[righteously]

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.

[ahousedivided]

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?

[righteously]

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.

[ahousedivided]

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?

[righteously]

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."

[ahousedivided]

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.

[righteously]

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.

[ahousedivided]

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.

[righteously]

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.