“Oh no,” Kate whispers, the postcard still in hand. “Oh no.”
“Oh my god, what?” Clint slaps down his piece of pizza, knowing it will be cold by the time Kate deals with whatever crisis came in his mail for her.
“She’s doing this on purpose,” Kate says, still wide-eyed and red-cheeked, staring at the postcard. She traces the picture on it with one purple-polished fingernail. “She’s sabotaging me from an entirely different dimension.”
“Let me see,” Clint says, reaching to snap the mail out of Kate’s hand, but she shrieks and ducks, holding the card tightly to her chest. “Jesus, Kate, what is it?” He shuffles her under one arm, ignoring her yelling and slapping, and wrenches the postcard free.
He stares, then blinks, exhaling slowly. His face turns about as red as Kate’s, which is red. “Oh no,” he says, handing it back to Kate. “Things have been seen.” He’s seen a lot of weird stuff, a lot of good-weird stuff, but he’s never seen that much of America Chavez before and thinks he can go the rest of his life without seeing it again. “So that’s how you kids do long-distance relationships nowadays?”
“Shut up,” Kate mutters, stomping off into the kitchen. “Apparently a good old-fashioned pin-up isn’t enough in Battleword. What even is Battleworld?” There’s a pause. “Do you have any tape?”
“You are not putting that up on my wall,” Clint says, and also wonders where Battleworld is and how they were not invited.