[ TEXT ] SENDING OUT AN S.O.S. TO THE WORLD

[goddamngrenades]

Quick Check in for Members of Project Freelancer, the UNSC, and our mutual associates- or anyone that wants to get word out about themselves having changed or not changed or...whatever. Has questions? This is Agent York and Delta, so far we're unaffected by this time ripple thing. Connie, North, Wash, Grif, Chief, Theta, Cortana, Locus, Azucar, Parker, Pidge, Fareeha, Amélie - and anyone else I'm forgetting, shoot me a text back, alright?

I'll deliver pancakes and blankets or other care package items if needed. If you'd rather come talk in person swing by my habitat, I'll be hanging in the bar. Directions are below. Also, Jason- buddy? Swing by, I feel like I owe you a beer.

[ In neat green lines there's a little holographic map showing how to get to York's dive bar from the recipient's current location, wherever they might be. ]

Specific refreshments are available upon request.

Comments

[nofortunateson]

Because the weather's better?

[He touches down a little more slowly and further back, ambling up the walkway and steps as he studies the place intently. This is still all new to him, and he's always been one to try to figure out the answer first even if it's going to be handed to him.]

[goddamngrenades]

You've got better beer.

[ He pops the door open, waving Gabe inside. It's not as plush as the house he'd woken up in, worn furniture, hardwood floors, frayed rug. Details that show it's lived in and comfortable, cozy. He can't settle with something too new all that comfortably. ]

Make yourself at home.

[nofortunateson]

Thanks.

[Shoes come off on habit - that white-carpet upbringing at work - and he pads inside, opting to follow Taylor presumably to the kitchen rather than flop on the couch and see what's on TV.]

Do all the superheroes get . . . what did you call it. A habitat?

[Creepy, but sure, if that's the verbage then fine.]

[goddamngrenades]

Yep. I mean we get quarters too, shit that's like a regular barracks- but I like living here better. Kinda had my fill of that during the war and especially on the Mother of Invention.

[ A bigass ship with too little heat and too much ambition. He toes off his boots at the front door, leaving them there while he heads into the kitchen. A slab of beef (real deal, he got lucky), and- what was that shit he'd looked at the other day? Gingersnaps? ]

Beer's in the fridge, I think I got some of what you like in there.

[nofortunateson]

No, this is a good deal. Fly around, save the world from the bad guys, come back home and make some pancakes . . .

[He reaches into the fridge and takes two bottles, handing the first one open to Taylor.]

So, uh. We win the war and start some kind of justice league thing? Or how does the whole soldiers-to-superheroes transition work, here.

[goddamngrenades]

Well...this ain't our universe for one. We win the war, shit goes down...a lot of shit goes down.

[ Shit he's not gonna go over with teenie North. Putting the dish together is- well he has Delta look up the recipe as his hands work, slow and careful. ]

We kinda got pulled into another dimension where we became superheros. Hence the powers and stuff.

[nofortunateson]

I guess it beats getting jacked up with some kind of super-science.

[He looks over Taylor's shoulder at what he's doing, curious.]

Anything I can do to help?

[goddamngrenades]

That still kinda happens. It's a long, weird story.

[ One that's sad and bittersweet, really. ]

Uh, sure. You can cube the beef?

[nofortunateson]

[Gabriel gives him an uncertain look, but goes for the knife block anyway, opting for a long chef's knife and setting it down next to the sink as he goes to wash his hands.]

Sure. How big?

[goddamngrenades]

Bout an inch on each side.

[ He measures out the rest of what he needs, gets a skillet going. ]

Doesn't have to be perfect, either. This is home cook'n, it's never perfect.

[nofortunateson]

What are you making?

[He sets to cubing the beef as directed, methodical if not the most efficient in his technique. He doesn't have a ton of experience making anything involved enough to require raw meat anywhere in the preparation.]

[goddamngrenades]

My notes say 'gingerbread beef' but I think it's...Saurbraten?

[ He mangles the pronunciation but that's nothing new. German's not his language of choice. ]

[nofortunateson]

Sauerbraten?

[He looks down at the beef he's been chopping, then carefully leans over and gives it a sniff, placing familiar flavors in the sharp, vinegar tang of the marinade now that he's looking for it.]

Geez. You have to marinade this for days, right?

[goddamngrenades]

Yep. [ It was his turn in the 'feed the bros comfort food' dance; North had managed some kinda chili approximation not long ago and this was York's return serve. ] I think I got it right.

Key word being think.

[nofortunateson]

You do know it takes forever to cook.

[Okay, so. Two hours and change from start to finish. That seems like forever when you spend most of that smelling it roasting and bubbling in gravy in the oven.]

[goddamngrenades]

Mhmm. I'm sure we'll think of something to keep you occupied in the meantime. We've got video games and movies and shit.

[ Or more flying shenanigans. Just. Hanging with his bro that's a third of his proper age. ]

[nofortunateson]

[Well okay then. Maybe he doesn't have awful tastes in friends. Gabe gives a lift of his eyebrows, smirking.]

What would we be doing if I was the older version?

[goddamngrenades]

Honestly? More of the same. We're chill bros when I remind you to dial it back and we don't have to train all the goddamn time.

[ It's a work in progress. ]

[nofortunateson]

I never thought about the training part of being a superhero. It's not a lot?

[goddamngrenades]

It is and it isn't. You go at it like we're still in the Project and you're scored by how well you do with bullshit arbitrary standards.

[nofortunateson]

Yikes. Gonna have to play a lot of video games just to break even.

[goddamngrenades]

Yeah, shit, that's gonna suck now, innit?