"Look, it's a really common tradition where I'm from."

"I don't care, Cass."

"But I thought you'd love to take part! You always say how much you're intrigued by my homefic, this is just what we do!"

"Yeah, intrigued. Right. Totally. Definitely not 'terrified' or 'horrified' or 'why is this bucket of crazy even like this'. Intrigued."

"Well, if that's how you felt, you should have said something before we started."

"It was a surprise! Which, gurl, you know darn well I don't like."

"This from the girl who planned my surprise birthday party."

"Hey, yo, don't try and make this complicated. It's super simple. I like planning surprises because I like being in control of a situation. When I'm not, I panic. You, on the other hand, love surprises, so I planned your birthday party."

"For four in the morning."

"What'd I just say about making this complicated?"

"... Fine."

The two surveyed the burning wreckage of the corridor. A skinny man with a mop rounded the corner, had a brief argument with a vending machine, and decided this was someone else's problem.

"Cass, your homefic doesn't really have a tradition of moulding fire with your bare hands, does it?"

"... Iiiiiiiiiiiit actually does."

"You're paying for my new wardrobe."

"D'you mean the clothes or the item of furniture?"

"Today. Sucks."

Tiger waited until he had reached the very top of the roof before he looked down. The view was certainly spectacular and the weather was lovely: a bright blue cloudless sky and a cool breeze blowing gently across the rooftop.

Last week this would have been the last place he’d expected to be, but things had changed an awful lot. As wonderful as the view was, there was only one place he wanted to be, and that was the one that he’d been foolish enough to leave.

There was no way he could go back now, not now he’d completely ruined everything. At least she was still alive: that was the one good thing.

He was on the rooftop because of the Division One initiation – each of them had to do a dare. Most of the time it was quite easy, but his had been particularly hard, mainly because his sister had been the one setting it.

She had been able to justify herself by saying most of the people joining were younger and less experienced than him and he needed to do something harder. But he knew that wasn’t the real reason.

He had been made to climb all the way to the top, despite his protests that he was scared of heights. He felt a little vertigo now as he looked down, but there were a good few metres between him and the drop.

Not far below him, what he had thought was just another bit of roof swung up and his sister’s head poked out of the gap.

“How did you get up there?” he asked, annoyed.

“Stairs,” Holly said, glaring at him.

“Oh, of course! Can I come down that way?”

“No.” And with that, Holly ducked back in and slammed the hatch shut.

Sighing, Tiger began the long climb down again.



Note: This is from the same universe as my last prompt.

“Why the hell did he choose the third floor?” Creed complained. “It's an abandoned office building, surrounded by nothing but fragging abandoned office buildings. Couldn't he hold the meeting on the ground floor?”
Blades ignored the stocky rigger. The stairs didn't particularly bother him anyway.
“Maybe you should ask Schmidt for compensation,” Scathach suggested with a grin.
“For the record, that was sarcasm. If you actually try that, I'll personally kick you out the window,” Dragonfly said, and glared at them. “Anyway, we're here now, so if all of you could act professionally, please?”
She opened the door. Inside, Herr Schmidt was already waiting.
“You're late,” the Johnson said, looking at his watch. “I hope you at least have the package.”
“Took us more than enough to get it,” Dragonfly grumbled, but handed the device over to him. “I prefer to know beforehand if a run is going to land us in a Zero Zone.”
“You'll get your reward soon enough,” Schmidt said, taking a closer look.

Then everything happened at once. The Johnson blinked, and turned his back to the large window that took up one of the walls. A fraction of a second later the window exploded into a hail of shards. Schmidt straightened back up, decked Dragonfly in the face, and lunged out of the window.
Blades started moving before Dragonfly finished shouting “Get him!” from where she was lying on the floor. The Johnson had jumped six metres across an alley, and through a missing window into a neighbouring office building.
Blades grinned. The magic was flowing through his veins, strengthening his limbs, carrying his body. He drew his sword from its sheath as he started running. Six metres was almost nothing to him. He pushed himself off from the edge, sailed through the air... and realized with a start that his trajectory was off. He just had time to spit out a curse before crashing into the plastcrete half a metre to the left of his target.
His fingers grasped uselessly after some kind of ledge or windowsill as gravity made itself known and he started falling towards the pavement. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs and bruised his ribs. He silently thanked both his armour and his magic for lessening the impact and preventing serious injuries. He rolled onto his knees while gasping for breath. Despite his helmet the impact had made him dizzy, but he focused on his sword, which was lying a few metres away from him. Finally managing to draw a breath, he pushed himself to his feet, grabbed his sword and made his way to the door of the building he'd intended to jump into. He drew another deep breath, opened the door and started running up stairs as fast as he could.

In the end, it had turned out he needn't have hurried. They had found the Johnson cornered by one of Creed's drones and had managed to get a good amount of money out of him.
Scathach alternated between rewatching a video of Blade's chase attempt and looking at him as Creed took a look at his bruises.
“You know, I think I've got a good name for you,” she said. “The way you flew through the air like nothing could ever happen to you right before crashing gloriously gave me an idea.”
“You're still going on about the name thing? Can't you give me some rest?” He asked.
“For the last time, calling yourself 'Blades' makes you sound like an edgy 14-year-old. You need a proper nickname.”
Blades sighed, “What are you thinking about?”
“Icarus.”

/Really, Nautilus, are you sure this is wise?/ CLUNK.

"Wise? Hah. This is tradition!" thunk, thunk, clank.

/Not any I've heard of,/ came the dark reply.

"... Will have been tradition, then? In five years' time?"

A long, long-suffering sigh. /I suppose. Really, though, this is more complicated than it needs to be, I am certain of it./

"Piiiip-lup!"

/And switching to Pokespeak to dodge the question is dodging the question, not an answer-!/

"Shhh! We're here." Creeeak-aTHUNK.

Pause.

/So, just for future reference, this series of ducts wasn't here before./

"Rule of Drama AND Rule of Funny, my dear Bobo~"

Another sigh.

/I confess to feeling intrigue - but please, don't say 'my dear' ever again./

"Fine. And now, time to set up the clingwrap!"

The sting of the needle was nothing compared to the agony he’d felt over the past sixteen years. He was a warrior now—no, more than that. He was a champion. He'd earned his tattoos at long last—the mark of a favored gladiator.

“You did good out there today, kid,” Mako said. The older gladiator was leaning against the wall to watch the progress being made on 8386071’s skin. Already, both arms, legs and his torso had been adorned, and his face was almost finished.

“Thank you,” 8386071 said, smiling up at him.

“The Master’s pleased for now, but don’t get ahead of yourself,” the attending overseer, Harkon, grunted. “Just because you got those marks doesn’t mean I can’t still whip you, boy.”

8386071 resisted the urge to duck his head. “Of course, sir.”

Internally, he was seething. He knew Harkon couldn’t take him in a fight, but the overseers held all the power thanks to the explosives implanted in the slaves.

One of these days, he thought to himself as the needle was finally removed from his face. One of these days, I’ll earn my freedom, and I’ll cut you down where you stand.


"Lorson?" Dax said, shaking him out of his reverie. "You alright? You looked like you were spacing out."

"Hm? No, I'm fine," Lorson said, bending over his knee again. A flap of skin had been peeled away to let him work on the implants within. "What were you sayin'?"

Dax shrugged. "Just wondering if there was a story behind the tattoos, that's all."

Lorson glanced down at his remaining arm, at the 8386071 etched into his skin.

"I just thought they looked nice," he said.