TwiLyghtSansSparkles

Nathan still hadn’t gotten used to the sunrise. He lay where he was as it came up, watching it stain the sky with pink and orange, holding the curtains forward over his face so he could get a decent view. Funtimes was still hugging him and he didn’t want to wake her. He would rather enjoy the sight on his own. With the sun came concerns. He worked for an Emperor now, although that wasn’t the best description. Any alliance that could be dissolved with the Emperor’s shirt was less of an employment arrangement and more of a contract lasting until Funtimes grew bored. Still, as long as the alliance lasted, Nathan would have to live and work with two men who would end his life in an instant if they learned the truth. He had pondered this fact until he fell asleep, and each round of pondering led him to the same conclusion. He watched the sun through the sliver the window afforded, steeling his resolve. If Lightwards shot at him, he needed to shoot back. If Nighthound came after him, he needed a way to slow him down. He needed Remington Springfield. Traveler was late to breakfast, but Remington was right on time. No one seemed to have suffered any bodily harm in the night, which was more than Remington expected from an Epic with four helpless humans in her house. If anything, Samantha and the hippie looked well-rested, and the Unicyclist….well, it was hard to tell through that mask, but he seemed to have a spring in his step. He hadn't taken that thing off. He must have taken it off when he slept, but Remington hadn't seen it happen. He had been wearing it when Remington fell asleep, and he had been wearing it when Remington woke with the sun. How would he even eat with that thing on? Funtimes didn’t cook breakfast so much as make it appear. She brought plates and bowls in from the kitchen, all decorated with polka dots and stripes and filled with food. Remington wasn’t sure where all of those boxes of cereal and stacks of waffles and pancakes had come from, but he knew he’d have to eat at least some of what was offered. The Doctor seemed slightly more decent than that fool of an Emperor, and next to Nighthound she was practically Mother Theresa. It seemed unlikely that her waffles and pancakes would explode on impact with his stomach. Remington was still considering the implications of such a death when she set another plate on the table. It was red, it was striped, and it was filled with bacon. To Calamity with exploding food. The bacon would be worth it. Remington had just reached for a piece when Funtimes put a hand to her mouth, eyes wide, and waved her free hand at the bacon. It vanished, replaced by another stack of waffles. A moment’s thought revealed her reasoning. Remington sighed. He had to get the one Epic who cared about some stupid remark. “Look, Doc, we know you ain’t a cannibal.” She paused. The chocolate cereal stopped flowing into her bowl as she tilted her head curiously, her eyes as hopeful as an Epic’s could be. Sam and that hippie stared at him as well. “If you were, you’d have shown off when you had an audience.” He let that sink in, then revealed his motive: “Can I get the bacon back now?” Funtimes grinned, and the bacon reappeared. Remington took a handful and reached for a waffle as Funtimes poured strawberry milk onto her cereal, topping it off with a drizzle of maple syrup. “Besides,” he added after a moment of mute horror, “people don’t have near enough sugar in ‘em.” At least he knew where all that energy of hers came from. She giggled. The Unicyclist grabbed a pancake and lifted the vent on his mask. So that's how he does it. That was when Traveler walked in. He wore his usual suit and tie, though his duster seemed to have remained in the closet. He smiled pleasantly at the five of them, then put his hands in his pockets and looked pointedly at Remington. “I have a favor to ask of you.” Remington cocked an eyebrow. Epics didn’t ask favors; they demanded them. “So ask it.” “In private, please.” He tilted his head toward the kitchen. He took a bite of bacon. Either what Traveler wanted was truly heinous, or he really was an oddball. “We’re all friends here.” Traveler stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets and drew a breath. “We’re not friends. We’re—“ He paused, as though thinking of the right word. “Associates.” Remington barked a laugh. “Associates? That’s what you call us?” “You’d prefer I called you something else?” “Call us what we are.” Traveler looked as though he wanted to say more, but he pressed his lips together. Out the corner of his eye Remington could see Funtimes’ head turning from him to Traveler as though watching a tennis match, her grin dimmed somewhat but still in place. “If you’ll step into the kitchen, I’ll ask the favor and you can go on your way.” “Ask it here.” The teleporter took a breath. His cheeks flamed a bit. “I want you to teach me to shoot.” The request silenced everything Remington could have said. He stared, openmouthed, trying to make sense of it “You—an Epic who can’t shoot? And you're saying so?” He laughed, long and loud. Traveler’s cheeks became nearly as red as his hair. “Kitchen. Now.” Remington stood and gave his most mocking salute, and went to the kitchen chuckling. Traveler closed the door and spoke in a ferocious whisper. “I asked you nicely.” “And what’re you gonna do if I say no? Shoot me?” “I said I’m new at this, and as I recall you were in earshot at the time, so you must have—“ “New? Calamity, no.” Remington narrowed his eyes, taking a menacing step toward the teleporter. “You ain’t new at this.” Traveler swayed back from Remington’s shaking finger, but he didn’t give ground. Remington lowered his voice to a whisper. “I don’t think you’re even an Epic. I think you’re just some guy who found a suit and said, ‘What the heck, I’ll see how long I can fool ‘em,’ and you….” And then it clicked. Remington couldn’t explain how or why all the pieces chose that moment to fly together and settle into an image, but they did. Traveler wasn’t an Epic. He couldn’t even shoot. He was just a guy in a suit. Who couldn't shoot. And he had fooled Lightwards. Nighthound. They thought him an Epic and he let them think it. The Emperor had believed him. Lightwards had declared himself Emperor of Light, thinking all along he had four Epics on his side when one was just pretending. A human. A regular guy, and he had fooled them all. Remington’s laugh threw him against the refrigerator. He covered his mouth to keep it from spilling over into the next room. Nathan had experience with many strange things, but an Oregon redneck discovering his secret through threats was not one of them. At that moment, one thought and one thought only was very clear in his mind. That thought was Um. Another followed: What the sparks do I do now? He at least had the presence of mind to keep his voice to a whisper. “Are you okay?” Remington nodded, arm thrown over his mouth, shaking with silent laughter. “You gotta hit me.” “What? I’m not going to hit you.” He paused to let another laugh subside. “You’re the Epic here. Put me in line.” “You just said—“ Before Nathan could finish his sentence, Remington peeled himself off the fridge, grabbed the freezer door handle, and slammed the door into his forehead. Nathan stumbled back a step. “What on earth are you even doing?” Remington covered another laugh, then said, louder: “That all you got?” Seeing a man burst into laughter, then slam his own head into a refrigerator was surprising enough to drive most men to silence, but that remark—and the urgent, expectant look Remington coupled with it—told Nathan that was his cue. He glanced around, saw a plate, and threw it at the wall. “You think that’s—“ he covered a laugh—“the worst I’ve seen? Had one guy—“ Remington was covering for him. He had discovered his secret and was covering for him, in a way the hunter found less painful than hilarious. Nathan didn’t have time to decide whether he liked it or not. Not knowing what else to do, he threw another plate, ensuring it missed by a wide margin.

Or Eye of the Tiger, so they can play that song.

Agreed. Thanks! And yeah, it would be extremely difficult. I tried to come up with a short passage where she chooses a breakfast cereal, but even that was too insane for me. It's much easier to write from the perspectives of her baffled sidekicks. I loved the scene from the raptor's POV, by the way.

All right, I found an icon for Nathan: Remington: Scorch: I don't know that I'll use them in every post, but there they are. I didn't get one for Funtimes because I don't plan on writing from her perspective any time soon. I don't know if I could handle that.

There are none from me O Voidus, feel free to write A scene in morning.

Ah…. You know, I really have no idea. Speculation in spoiler tags because spoilers are ahead.

Take THAT, Quota! Your reign of terror over the forums cannot last! GAZE UPON YOUR WEAKNESS AND TREMBLE!!!!!! Yes, I do. Which might be unfair, did you not have insider knowledge of what will happen after breakfast the next morning. (Although no one except for me can tell you what Doctor Funtimes will eat for the most important meal of the day. )

Does he wear a mask that looks like this? I for one enjoyed the hint.

Curse you, upvote quota. You prevent me from giving this line and its associated post its rightful due. Your power cannot last forever, O upvote quota….

The quota is bad When I thought I had two left Alas, I had one.

That's awesome! Glad it all worked out. I will do the same once I have an upvote to give.

Success is a thing That does not come easily If she wishes death On her tormentor She must not lose hope or heart For then she will die. No, she must befriend Lady White and Man of Rifles They will grant vengeance.

Nighthound is not good For seeking allies, and not Skilled at mending ties. Still, though, there are two People who want him dead—one Has long hair of white. The other is a man Named for rifles—two, not one May he long destroy.

To my dear Voidgaze, Please keep your sweet head—oh, wait I smashed that for you. Say—does it hurt now Reading of that time when I Helped you lose ten pounds? Your head grew back, yes Death was not forever, but This letter will be. I wrote it on black Paper, in silver ink for I want it to last.

Dear Voidgaze, ​I am ssoo sorry about the wayyy i…. Nighthound burst out laughing and fell to the floor, leaving a long line of ink trailing down the page. Lightwards snatched up the unfinished apology note and crumpled it in his fist. "Never mind," he said irritably. "I'll just forge it." "She—won't—believe—you," Nighthound choked out. "I'll add a few typos and misspell your name. Then she'll believe it."

Go ahead and do all the awesome pony stuff now, if you want. I'm actually writing stuff I need to upvote and the page numbers where that stuff is found on a Post-it, so I'll remember to prioritize them when my quota refills. (No, really. I actually do have a Post-it with "Korra pony (131) written at the top.)

How did I fill my upvote quota already? It's only 10:30 where I am! Edit: AND THERE IS AN AWESOME KORRA PONY CALLING FOR AN UPVOTE! WHHHHYYYYYYY?????

He hates coffee now, too? As a Washingtonian, I am horrified at his barbarism.

Yeah, if dropped from a building, Funtimes would turn her sweater into a parachute or a hang glider. If trapped in rubble, she'd just turn the plaster and cement into pudding. Nighthound's least favorite flavor, in case he survived. That IS a good idea for Lightwards, Edge.

Would you like to find out?

Wait—how does the newspaper hold together if it's drenched in acid?

*chants* Pink hat! Pink hat! Pink hat! I'm starting to think she did something similar at the casino to someone he wasn't fond of. But since she liked Fortuity less than the owner of the brand-new pink hat, she saved a more….showy trick for him. I like the Fortuity pony.

Barbarian. Well, if everyone is bound and determined to destroy their eyeballs, does this mean Fortuity III will have a pink hat, a la Timmy Turner?

Sorry. In the interest of public safety, I have made the toothpicks into a fantastic work of art that would be destroyed by removing a single component. Take a toothpick, and you will destroy ART.