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Eight Crazy Nights 5: Revenge, Fringe, SPN, Real Genius/Iron Man
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daria234: Revenge, character's favorite myth.
Nolan would admit to the cliché, if pressed: Loki was a poor choice of role model. For one thing, it was a preference that gave too much away. Better to say Prometheus, or Icarus. Or Pyramus and Thisbe for that matter.
But Loki had such adventures. Even if they ended badly, what stories he could tell! And Loki didn’t let anyone else define him. He changed, usually faster than the world did. A good metaphor for technology, the only love Logan had he trusted not to desert him—and also his version of Loki’s wizardry.
Loki never let a disadvantage slow him down. Forced to atone for his prank cutting off Sif’s golden hair, he talked the dwarves into making hair from true gold, and other amazing objects besides. And when that led to a wager with other dwarves about whether they could best the first set’s offerings, he did his best to make them fail (since the wager was the loser’s head). Having lost the wager, he escaped death by pointing out that, while the winner was owed his head, he had no claim on Loki’s neck, and the Aesir had to agree with him. So Loki was Shakespeare’s Portia before her time, a lawyer as well as a magician. While the dwarf did sew Loki’s lying mouth shut in revenge (he was entitled to Loki’s head, after all), Loki didn’t stay silent long.
But Emily had been drawing him more towards Loki’s more effective and damaging plots. Just as Achilles was beloved of the Greek gods, Baldur had been of the Norse ones. Faced with a prophecy that Baldur’s blind brother would soon cause his death, the gods closed ranks and made everyone and everything—even Loki—swear not to harm him. Arrows fired at him would turn away in their course. Secure in his safety, arrogant in their power, the gods learned to enjoy the game of throwing different weapons at him and enjoying how they broke the ordinary rules.
(Nolan would call that poor understanding of the design. One tests to failure on things one is willing to lose. The unbreakable is only unbreakable until it isn’t.)
Loki, engaging in classic social engineering, disguised himself as an old beggar woman and learned that a strand of mistletoe wrapped around a single oak tree outside the gates of Valhalla had been overlooked in the great vow to protect Baldur. Loki took a twig of mistletoe and gave it to Baldur’s brother, inducing him to participate in the gods’ new game by promising to guide his hand as he fired the mistletoe arrow. Nolan liked to imagine how Loki had whispered, pointing out that Hödur was being excluded from this charming new pastime, only because of his disability, and that this was entirely unfair. Could Hödur be as completely in love with his perfect, beautiful brother as the rest of the gods? It seemed unlikely. Perhaps there was just a little aggressiveness in the hand that Loki aimed on his behalf; perhaps a second of fantasy—what if it worked?—in the moment before it did work.
Baldur died at his brother’s hand, just as prophesied. Nolan imagined that being the tool of fate, and of Loki, was cold comfort when poor blind Hödur imagined how his mother must have been looking at him, afterwards.
Maybe Loki was more like Emily than like Nolan. Nolan didn’t need people to be complicit in their own destruction the way Emily did. He’d assuaged most of his resentment of the people who’d laughed at him early on by getting rich enough to make them feel poor, and that was enough. Well, that and screwing their daughters and sons, if said offspring were attractive enough—and the wealthy ones so often were, or seemed to be, wrapped in privilege and tailored clothes and plastic surgery where necessary.
He liked to think that he would have been a conquest Loki deemed worth making. Only in the course of some greater plot, naturally, but Loki knew how to mix business with pleasure.
If only Emily knew the same.
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wendelah1: How about fix-it fic for Fringe 4.4, "The Bullet that Saved the World"?
If she was wrong, she’d kill Etta. Olivia sighted the weapon from Broyles’s car and fired.
The Observer turned, but not in time. He spasmed and fell. Maybe dead, maybe not, but they needed to run. She had to help Etta, who was limping and in obvious agony. This was what she’d always feared: forced to watch her child suffer instead of taking the pain on herself. It wasn’t unendurable. It was worse, because she could endure it, just as she’d continued on after believing Etta dead.
“I nearly lost you,” she said that night, knowing that there was no way Etta could understand what that meant.
Sure enough, Etta reached out her hand and put it over Olivia’s, reassuring. Taking care of her mother, because she was an adult and that was part of her job now.
So many were dead. Olivia had her husband and her daughter; she had Walter and Astrid and even Philip. Compared to the rest of the world, she was in heaven.
But that wasn’t a comparison she could afford to make. They’d so barely escaped this time.
“I’ll be fine,” Etta said, and Olivia wanted to cry, because Etta believed it, because Etta had no idea what fine was. The world she’d grown up in didn’t have room for fine.
Olivia didn’t cry, of course. She nodded, and smiled, and put her own hand over Etta’s.
She had to have faith: in Walter’s plan, in the Fringe team, in humanity. That was a choice she made, every day, even before the invasion. Etta was the product of that faith; she was the hostage to fortune Olivia and Peter had given willingly.
“I love you,” she said, because the one thing she could do right now was to make that clear.
“I love you too, Mom,” Etta said, still with that freshness, that rediscovered joy from twenty years apart. Sometimes Olivia thought her heart would burst from it, if not from terror first.
“You should get some sleep,” she advised. Etta was their contact with the outside world, the only one of them who understood how it worked. She’d be out again, at risk, in the morning, and once again Olivia would be unable to take her place. “I’m going to turn in.”
“’night, Mom,” Etta said.
Olivia left her there, at the tiny kitchen table. The whole world, in a brave and amazing young woman. Miraculously still here, despite all the Observers’ attempts.
Olivia never let herself think that it would be better if they’d all died before having to face this altered world. Easier wasn’t better. They’d move, and they’d fight, and maybe they’d die. But they’d do it as humans, and they’d do it together.
... and foralexseanchai: Supernatural, dealer's choice of character(s):
This is the moment when the gods expect me to beg for help
But I won't even try
I want nothing in this world but myself to protect me
But I won't lie down, roll over, and die
“He told us,” Sam said, and swallowed. He looked away; Dean hadn’t even met her eyes once. “He told us we could get back someone we’d killed. One each.”
Jo wasn’t that surprised, under the circumstances. It seemed like the kind of thing that happened to Winchesters.
Sam continued, sounding like the words were being pulled out of him with hooks. “Dean said no. We weren’t playing that game.” She couldn’t tell if that was resentment or gratitude in his tone; he’d never liked following Dean’s lead that she could see, but on the other hand she’d understand why a hunter would want to be relieved of the burden of that choice. “He read our minds.”
“Like in Ghostbusters,” Dean said, though his lack of aw-shucks smirk said he wasn’t deeply into the joke.
She didn’t want to ask, but she might need to know: “Who did you choose?”
She was expecting Sam to name his fiancee, the poor dead girl who brought him back into the life, before the demons revealed their plans. Instead his shoulders slumped further. “There was this nurse. Right before I released Lucifer, I—”
“He had no right,” Dean interrupted, fire in his voice. “No right to put that on you, Sam.”
“Not his fault there were so many to choose from,” Sam said with a mildness suggesting he’d had this argument before.
Jo wasn’t getting into the middle of that. “Okay.” She’d tracked the Winchesters down because she’d figured they were somehow involved in her return to the land of the living, but they didn’t seem in any more need of company than before. “Well, you have my number now. Call me if you need help with this prophet thing.” Phones had changed a lot while she’d been dead. It was kind of freaky. Reality TV still sucked, though.
Dean caught up with her before she was out of the bar; Sam was still at their table, staring out over his beer into nothing. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but—you’re not gonna go on a vendetta because we ripped you out of Heaven, or anything like that?”
Jo examined him. He was still gorgeous, of course, and the nerviness that sizzled in the air around him now was mild compared to his despair the last time she’d seen him alive. She thought about that last kiss, things that would never be, and about how, no matter what she said to him now, he was going to go back to his brother and work on closing the gates of Hell. “Honestly, it’s all pretty fuzzy. Perfect happiness is boring, I guess. You don’t need to worry about me.”
That was probably the wrong thing to say, given the wince that crossed his face.
“Dean,” she said, and didn’t reach out, just in case he reacted badly. “I’m okay. I’m hunting, I even found that weird guy who thinks he’s Bobby, which he is not—” the look of appalled agreement Dean gave her was the funniest thing she’d seen all week—“and I’m gonna be fine.”
“You don’t owe us anything,” Dean said, like it hurt, like he thought it was the most important fact.
Jo gave him her steadiest look. “I know that. And you don’t owe me, okay?” She waited until she saw the concept at least touch down in his brain. Whether it would stay wasn’t up to her. “But if this gates to Hell thing works out, you call me or I will kick your butt.”
“Sure,” Dean said. And if she didn’t exactly believe him, well, that was hardly a new thing.
Jo went out into the night and the resurrected world.
... and forkinetikatrue: Okay, because Real Genius didn't make it into Yuletide, a prompt for it -- how about 'Chris Knight is secretly Tony Stark's son'? (Note that the timing means that Tony Stark has to be a fair bit older than Chris Knight; the setting is basic Real Genius eightiesish.)
Mitch approached Chris with the care he’d ordinarily devote to positioning a laser. The expression on Chris’s face resembled nothing so much as the one he’d had right after he’d been fired from his fellowship, back before they’d figured out their epic revenge. He was staring at a piece of paper. Mitch couldn’t imagine what words could put that look on his face—was the army exercising some kind of secret power to draft him? Had Professor Hathaway been rehabilitated and put in charge of the department (Chris’s department, now).
“Are you okay?” he asked, then cursed himself for how his voice squeaked.
“Apparently,” Chris said, and waved the piece of paper as if Mitch could read it from that distance, “I’m a billionaire. Or,” before Mitch could react to that, “I’ll be a billionaire when my biological father kicks it. Did I ever mention that I never knew who my dad was?” No, that wasn’t exactly the kind of thing that Chris tended to bring up, but Chris was continuing anyway. “Mitch, you’re my friend, and I need you not to react the way everyone else in the world is going to react to this, okay?”
He waited, and Mitch realized that this was possibly the most serious thing Chris had ever said to him, more serious than ‘we can’t let them make a weapon.’ “Okay,” he said, hoping that he would have a single clue what the right reaction would be.
“Many moons ago, a spoiled young playboy slept with a waitress. Actually he slept with a lot of waitresses, and anyone else who’d hold still, at least that’s the public image, and if we take me as the apple then let’s just say the tree had a lot of seeds. With this waitress, however, there were technical difficulties, and nine months later there was me. Now, she didn’t know who this upstanding citizen really was—I don’t know if she even looked for him—and she and I did fine without him.”
Mitch didn’t know what he was supposed to do with his hands during this story. Chris glanced at him for a second, then away.
“Fast forward several decades, and it turns out that Sherry Nugil has a side project sequencing the DNA of America’s best and brightest. It’s good tech, you should check it out, but anyway, lo and behold, Sherry turns out to have on file samples from a father and a son—don’t think too hard about those samples, I know I don’t want to. Sherry believes in the dissemination of knowledge, among other things. Thus this letter.”
Mitch still didn’t get it.
“My father,” Chris said, “is Tony Stark.”
By virtue of clamping his jaw shut, Mitch managed not to say the first things that came to mind. Yes, obviously, that Tony Stark. No, there didn’t seem to have been much regression toward the mean when it came to brainpower. But what did Chris want from him? More, what did Chris need? There was a reason he’d dropped his psych 101 course after two days of class. He wasn’t Jordan—who thought that feelings were squishy and needed to be factored out of the analysis—but he was almost the most socially awkward person in the dorm, which was saying a mouthful (often with braces).
Okay, what else did he think about that news? “You’re a lot better looking,” he said.
Amazingly, this seemed to work: Chris smiled, the dazzling one that made Mitch’s higher judgment turn right off (proving his point, in fact). “Well, of course,” he said, and took a deep breath. “Upshot, Sherry sent the same letter to dear old dad, or at least to his company, and I assume it’s eventually going to make its way up the hierarchy to the CEO. I’m going to need your help dodging the old man, all right? I don’t have anything to say to him.”
Maybe it would be healthier for Chris to confront his heritage. Maybe Tony Stark even had some insight into the misuse of technology for military purposes, and the potential for cheap, peaceful energy instead. But Chris was his friend, and Mitch wasn’t going to stop following his lead now.
“What do you need me to do?” he asked, and Chris’s smile grew intimate.
“I have a plan,” he said: the scariest four words in the world, and also the best. Mitch let Chris take his arm and lead him towards the lab.
daria234: Revenge, character's favorite myth.Nolan would admit to the cliché, if pressed: Loki was a poor choice of role model. For one thing, it was a preference that gave too much away. Better to say Prometheus, or Icarus. Or Pyramus and Thisbe for that matter.
But Loki had such adventures. Even if they ended badly, what stories he could tell! And Loki didn’t let anyone else define him. He changed, usually faster than the world did. A good metaphor for technology, the only love Logan had he trusted not to desert him—and also his version of Loki’s wizardry.
Loki never let a disadvantage slow him down. Forced to atone for his prank cutting off Sif’s golden hair, he talked the dwarves into making hair from true gold, and other amazing objects besides. And when that led to a wager with other dwarves about whether they could best the first set’s offerings, he did his best to make them fail (since the wager was the loser’s head). Having lost the wager, he escaped death by pointing out that, while the winner was owed his head, he had no claim on Loki’s neck, and the Aesir had to agree with him. So Loki was Shakespeare’s Portia before her time, a lawyer as well as a magician. While the dwarf did sew Loki’s lying mouth shut in revenge (he was entitled to Loki’s head, after all), Loki didn’t stay silent long.
But Emily had been drawing him more towards Loki’s more effective and damaging plots. Just as Achilles was beloved of the Greek gods, Baldur had been of the Norse ones. Faced with a prophecy that Baldur’s blind brother would soon cause his death, the gods closed ranks and made everyone and everything—even Loki—swear not to harm him. Arrows fired at him would turn away in their course. Secure in his safety, arrogant in their power, the gods learned to enjoy the game of throwing different weapons at him and enjoying how they broke the ordinary rules.
(Nolan would call that poor understanding of the design. One tests to failure on things one is willing to lose. The unbreakable is only unbreakable until it isn’t.)
Loki, engaging in classic social engineering, disguised himself as an old beggar woman and learned that a strand of mistletoe wrapped around a single oak tree outside the gates of Valhalla had been overlooked in the great vow to protect Baldur. Loki took a twig of mistletoe and gave it to Baldur’s brother, inducing him to participate in the gods’ new game by promising to guide his hand as he fired the mistletoe arrow. Nolan liked to imagine how Loki had whispered, pointing out that Hödur was being excluded from this charming new pastime, only because of his disability, and that this was entirely unfair. Could Hödur be as completely in love with his perfect, beautiful brother as the rest of the gods? It seemed unlikely. Perhaps there was just a little aggressiveness in the hand that Loki aimed on his behalf; perhaps a second of fantasy—what if it worked?—in the moment before it did work.
Baldur died at his brother’s hand, just as prophesied. Nolan imagined that being the tool of fate, and of Loki, was cold comfort when poor blind Hödur imagined how his mother must have been looking at him, afterwards.
Maybe Loki was more like Emily than like Nolan. Nolan didn’t need people to be complicit in their own destruction the way Emily did. He’d assuaged most of his resentment of the people who’d laughed at him early on by getting rich enough to make them feel poor, and that was enough. Well, that and screwing their daughters and sons, if said offspring were attractive enough—and the wealthy ones so often were, or seemed to be, wrapped in privilege and tailored clothes and plastic surgery where necessary.
He liked to think that he would have been a conquest Loki deemed worth making. Only in the course of some greater plot, naturally, but Loki knew how to mix business with pleasure.
If only Emily knew the same.
... and for
wendelah1: How about fix-it fic for Fringe 4.4, "The Bullet that Saved the World"? If she was wrong, she’d kill Etta. Olivia sighted the weapon from Broyles’s car and fired.
The Observer turned, but not in time. He spasmed and fell. Maybe dead, maybe not, but they needed to run. She had to help Etta, who was limping and in obvious agony. This was what she’d always feared: forced to watch her child suffer instead of taking the pain on herself. It wasn’t unendurable. It was worse, because she could endure it, just as she’d continued on after believing Etta dead.
“I nearly lost you,” she said that night, knowing that there was no way Etta could understand what that meant.
Sure enough, Etta reached out her hand and put it over Olivia’s, reassuring. Taking care of her mother, because she was an adult and that was part of her job now.
So many were dead. Olivia had her husband and her daughter; she had Walter and Astrid and even Philip. Compared to the rest of the world, she was in heaven.
But that wasn’t a comparison she could afford to make. They’d so barely escaped this time.
“I’ll be fine,” Etta said, and Olivia wanted to cry, because Etta believed it, because Etta had no idea what fine was. The world she’d grown up in didn’t have room for fine.
Olivia didn’t cry, of course. She nodded, and smiled, and put her own hand over Etta’s.
She had to have faith: in Walter’s plan, in the Fringe team, in humanity. That was a choice she made, every day, even before the invasion. Etta was the product of that faith; she was the hostage to fortune Olivia and Peter had given willingly.
“I love you,” she said, because the one thing she could do right now was to make that clear.
“I love you too, Mom,” Etta said, still with that freshness, that rediscovered joy from twenty years apart. Sometimes Olivia thought her heart would burst from it, if not from terror first.
“You should get some sleep,” she advised. Etta was their contact with the outside world, the only one of them who understood how it worked. She’d be out again, at risk, in the morning, and once again Olivia would be unable to take her place. “I’m going to turn in.”
“’night, Mom,” Etta said.
Olivia left her there, at the tiny kitchen table. The whole world, in a brave and amazing young woman. Miraculously still here, despite all the Observers’ attempts.
Olivia never let herself think that it would be better if they’d all died before having to face this altered world. Easier wasn’t better. They’d move, and they’d fight, and maybe they’d die. But they’d do it as humans, and they’d do it together.
... and for
alexseanchai: Supernatural, dealer's choice of character(s):This is the moment when the gods expect me to beg for help
But I won't even try
I want nothing in this world but myself to protect me
But I won't lie down, roll over, and die
“He told us,” Sam said, and swallowed. He looked away; Dean hadn’t even met her eyes once. “He told us we could get back someone we’d killed. One each.”
Jo wasn’t that surprised, under the circumstances. It seemed like the kind of thing that happened to Winchesters.
Sam continued, sounding like the words were being pulled out of him with hooks. “Dean said no. We weren’t playing that game.” She couldn’t tell if that was resentment or gratitude in his tone; he’d never liked following Dean’s lead that she could see, but on the other hand she’d understand why a hunter would want to be relieved of the burden of that choice. “He read our minds.”
“Like in Ghostbusters,” Dean said, though his lack of aw-shucks smirk said he wasn’t deeply into the joke.
She didn’t want to ask, but she might need to know: “Who did you choose?”
She was expecting Sam to name his fiancee, the poor dead girl who brought him back into the life, before the demons revealed their plans. Instead his shoulders slumped further. “There was this nurse. Right before I released Lucifer, I—”
“He had no right,” Dean interrupted, fire in his voice. “No right to put that on you, Sam.”
“Not his fault there were so many to choose from,” Sam said with a mildness suggesting he’d had this argument before.
Jo wasn’t getting into the middle of that. “Okay.” She’d tracked the Winchesters down because she’d figured they were somehow involved in her return to the land of the living, but they didn’t seem in any more need of company than before. “Well, you have my number now. Call me if you need help with this prophet thing.” Phones had changed a lot while she’d been dead. It was kind of freaky. Reality TV still sucked, though.
Dean caught up with her before she was out of the bar; Sam was still at their table, staring out over his beer into nothing. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but—you’re not gonna go on a vendetta because we ripped you out of Heaven, or anything like that?”
Jo examined him. He was still gorgeous, of course, and the nerviness that sizzled in the air around him now was mild compared to his despair the last time she’d seen him alive. She thought about that last kiss, things that would never be, and about how, no matter what she said to him now, he was going to go back to his brother and work on closing the gates of Hell. “Honestly, it’s all pretty fuzzy. Perfect happiness is boring, I guess. You don’t need to worry about me.”
That was probably the wrong thing to say, given the wince that crossed his face.
“Dean,” she said, and didn’t reach out, just in case he reacted badly. “I’m okay. I’m hunting, I even found that weird guy who thinks he’s Bobby, which he is not—” the look of appalled agreement Dean gave her was the funniest thing she’d seen all week—“and I’m gonna be fine.”
“You don’t owe us anything,” Dean said, like it hurt, like he thought it was the most important fact.
Jo gave him her steadiest look. “I know that. And you don’t owe me, okay?” She waited until she saw the concept at least touch down in his brain. Whether it would stay wasn’t up to her. “But if this gates to Hell thing works out, you call me or I will kick your butt.”
“Sure,” Dean said. And if she didn’t exactly believe him, well, that was hardly a new thing.
Jo went out into the night and the resurrected world.
... and for
kinetikatrue: Okay, because Real Genius didn't make it into Yuletide, a prompt for it -- how about 'Chris Knight is secretly Tony Stark's son'? (Note that the timing means that Tony Stark has to be a fair bit older than Chris Knight; the setting is basic Real Genius eightiesish.)Mitch approached Chris with the care he’d ordinarily devote to positioning a laser. The expression on Chris’s face resembled nothing so much as the one he’d had right after he’d been fired from his fellowship, back before they’d figured out their epic revenge. He was staring at a piece of paper. Mitch couldn’t imagine what words could put that look on his face—was the army exercising some kind of secret power to draft him? Had Professor Hathaway been rehabilitated and put in charge of the department (Chris’s department, now).
“Are you okay?” he asked, then cursed himself for how his voice squeaked.
“Apparently,” Chris said, and waved the piece of paper as if Mitch could read it from that distance, “I’m a billionaire. Or,” before Mitch could react to that, “I’ll be a billionaire when my biological father kicks it. Did I ever mention that I never knew who my dad was?” No, that wasn’t exactly the kind of thing that Chris tended to bring up, but Chris was continuing anyway. “Mitch, you’re my friend, and I need you not to react the way everyone else in the world is going to react to this, okay?”
He waited, and Mitch realized that this was possibly the most serious thing Chris had ever said to him, more serious than ‘we can’t let them make a weapon.’ “Okay,” he said, hoping that he would have a single clue what the right reaction would be.
“Many moons ago, a spoiled young playboy slept with a waitress. Actually he slept with a lot of waitresses, and anyone else who’d hold still, at least that’s the public image, and if we take me as the apple then let’s just say the tree had a lot of seeds. With this waitress, however, there were technical difficulties, and nine months later there was me. Now, she didn’t know who this upstanding citizen really was—I don’t know if she even looked for him—and she and I did fine without him.”
Mitch didn’t know what he was supposed to do with his hands during this story. Chris glanced at him for a second, then away.
“Fast forward several decades, and it turns out that Sherry Nugil has a side project sequencing the DNA of America’s best and brightest. It’s good tech, you should check it out, but anyway, lo and behold, Sherry turns out to have on file samples from a father and a son—don’t think too hard about those samples, I know I don’t want to. Sherry believes in the dissemination of knowledge, among other things. Thus this letter.”
Mitch still didn’t get it.
“My father,” Chris said, “is Tony Stark.”
By virtue of clamping his jaw shut, Mitch managed not to say the first things that came to mind. Yes, obviously, that Tony Stark. No, there didn’t seem to have been much regression toward the mean when it came to brainpower. But what did Chris want from him? More, what did Chris need? There was a reason he’d dropped his psych 101 course after two days of class. He wasn’t Jordan—who thought that feelings were squishy and needed to be factored out of the analysis—but he was almost the most socially awkward person in the dorm, which was saying a mouthful (often with braces).
Okay, what else did he think about that news? “You’re a lot better looking,” he said.
Amazingly, this seemed to work: Chris smiled, the dazzling one that made Mitch’s higher judgment turn right off (proving his point, in fact). “Well, of course,” he said, and took a deep breath. “Upshot, Sherry sent the same letter to dear old dad, or at least to his company, and I assume it’s eventually going to make its way up the hierarchy to the CEO. I’m going to need your help dodging the old man, all right? I don’t have anything to say to him.”
Maybe it would be healthier for Chris to confront his heritage. Maybe Tony Stark even had some insight into the misuse of technology for military purposes, and the potential for cheap, peaceful energy instead. But Chris was his friend, and Mitch wasn’t going to stop following his lead now.
“What do you need me to do?” he asked, and Chris’s smile grew intimate.
“I have a plan,” he said: the scariest four words in the world, and also the best. Mitch let Chris take his arm and lead him towards the lab.
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(Anyway, absolutely no pressure, because I love every word of this and even thinking about how it would go is super great. Because, well. CHRIS KNIGHT. AND TONY STARK. And now the thought isn't just in my brain.)
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