Jensen’s Day Out (with Superheroes)
They are going to die.
They are in a jungle, there’s gunfire everywhere and they are going to die.
They are in a jungle, the bad guys have weirdly distorted faces, and are on some really, really whacky shit and they are going to die.
Jensen is only twenty-eight and he’s never see Niagara Falls and he’s too beautiful to bite it, but he’s going to anyway because they’re in a fucking jungle with fucking freaks, who have big fucking guns and -
“We are going to die!”
Pooch howls something that might be agreement. Jensen would ask, but he’s a bit busy with the big, freaking psycho with the grey snakeskin everything on top of him, trying to claw his face off.
Maybe he should give the guy his gun back so he can get shot, nice and clean. Death by gunfire seems less awful than having his face ripped off. It’s such a gorgeous face, too, and his goatee is just finally growing in and he fired an entire clip of ammo into the fucker, but he’s still moving and –
Roque is nice enough to take a second of slitting one of the psychos from collar to crotch to give Jensen a little motivational speech. “Shut the fuck up, soldier, and get off your damn ass!”
Jensen has the sudden impulse to salute, and nevermind the enemy on top of him. Roque has that effect on people. The ones who don’t run screaming, that is.
“Yeah,” a perky voice says somewhere above Jensen’s head, “What’s with the defeatist attitude?”
And then a slim, booted heel crashes into Psycho’s head, flinging him backwards. A second later Jensen gets a full-on crotch-shot of a really hot, really small blonde wielding a really big machete. She steps over him like he’s part of the landscape, punches Psycho in the face as he tries to come back up and then swings her bigass knife just once.
Psycho stops moving with a snarl on his face.
Blondie places a delicate foot on his chest and pushes.
Psycho’s head says goodbye to his body and goes the other way.
Blondie looks at Jensen over her shoulder, grins and asks, “Neat, huh?”
Then she turns toward the main fight where it’s still four Losers against a dozen snakeskin freaks and hollers, “Take the heads off, gentlemen!”
Since they’re kind of busy and trying really hard not todie , the Losers don’t question where that piece of advice comes from. They just go for the jugular and Jensen gets a bit unsettled by the look of glee on Roque’s face, but that’s neither here nor there.
He pulls his boot knife and gets to his feet.
“Whoever you are,” he tells Blondie, “I owe you a beer.”
She grins again. “A man with manners. How refreshing.”
Then she launches herself into the fray and… ends it. She takes the first guy head-on, one blow of the blade and he’s down, kicks another one into a buddy and takes care of both of them.
Jensen takes on a straggler and by the time he finds her again, she’s using one dead snakeskin guy as a springboard over Cougar’s head and landing, feet first, on one of the baddies that was sneaking up behind Jensen’s favourite sniper.
“Two beers,” he amends, loudly.
She cleaves a head like it’s an overripe melon and for a moment, Jensen isn’t sure whether he’s supposed to be turned on or freaked out. Then she beams at him across the clearing, blackish blood spatter on one cheek and hollers, “Can I trade them for a cocktail?!”
Jensen reflexively grabs his chest. Finally! Someone who appreciates the fine cuisine that is violently colored, alcoholic beverages!
He settles for turned on.
Roque, passing by with a serrated ten-inch blade and an unholy grin, cuffs him on the back of the head. “Put your boner away, Jensen!”
“You’re just jealous,” the tech sings.
In response, Roque takes the head of one of the last psychos without losing speed. Blondie, Jensen notices, perks up at that.
Finally, the fighting stops. Jensen scans the underbrush and finds himself relaxing a little because, hey, looks like he’s not going to die after all.
Roque lowers his knife, Cougar and Pooch straighten from their fighting stances and Blondie pulls her machete out of the last skull she split with a wet sound. Behind Jensen, something rustles.
The entire unit, plus blonde Amazon, spins to face the threat, only to slump when Clay, covered in mud and looking severely pissed-off, comes stumbling into the clearing.
Blondie does an audible double-take.
Clay stops wiping mud from his face, blinks and echoes her.
Apparently, Clay did not step from a pod fully formed and ready to take on any and all enemies of the American government and all it stands for.
He actually has family.
Jensen is sort of disappointed.
“Buffy?!” Clay cries, staring at the blonde, who stares back at Clay, who stares back and…
This might take a while.
“Buffy?” Roque blurts, and Jensen is grateful because that means he doesn’t have to, and also, the Mexican standoff breaks.
“You have a niece?” Pooch asks.
Blondie – Buffy – grins blindingly at the driver and then holds up a finger. Wait a second.
She throws herself forward.
For about half a second it looks like she’s going to hug Clay, mud and all. But then she rears back with one arm and lands a right cross on his chin that would make a boxer green with envy.
Clay goes down like a bag of rocks and everyone else goes for their weapons.
Buffy switches her machete to her left hand and turns it so the blade runs along her forearm. She lets the arm dangle loosely. Not a threat, but willing to answer one. Apart from that, she ignores the weapons aimed at her to glower at Clay.
“That’s for not bothering to come to your own sister’s funeral, asshole,” she says and Jensen’s gun kind of lowers itself without his say so.
Their fearless leader, working his jaw with one hand, gives her a sullen look from the ground. He kind of looks like the Swamp Thing. “I didn’t know until two months after,” he defends and wow, la-ame. The ‘I didn’t know’ excuse never flies with females. Jensen would know. His sister taught him the hard way.
Jensen makes a tsk-ing sound and then bites his tongue because his sister always makes that sound and he hates it, but he thinks Clay might deserve it if he didn’t go to his own sister’s funeral. Maybe. There were extenuating circumstances. But Jensen also knows the bossman, and the Colonel probably didn’t fix that faux-pas afterwards.
And anyway, no-one even knew Clay had a sister and Jensen would pay good money to know how the hell the Colonel’s niece landed in this jungle. And why she’s apparently Rambo’s love child and also, what the fuck’s up with the scaly mothers with the big guns and the super Kevlar skin or whatever the hell, and also, Jensen’s day sucks and he would like to go home now. Maybe with a quick detour to kill the fucker that put those things on them, but then… home?
Buffy-Blondie snorts. “Yeah, well, seeing as how I was twenty and suddenly had a kleptomanic, grieving fourteen-year-old on my hands, two months late would have been awesome.” She crouches down so she’s eye-level with Clay and really takes it home. “Remember how you used to tell mom how much of a deadbeat Hank is? Congrats, you’ve sunk to his level.”
Roque makes a hissing sound. “Burn,” he growls and then waves his gun around a little. “When we’re done with the reunion, how about you tell us where the fuck you came from and what the fuck is going on here, Blondie.”
“Roque,” the Colonel growls. He gets back on his feet, drops his hand from what’s going to be a really impressively swollen jaw and says, “Back the fuck off.”
He doesn’t take his eyes off his niece. “I’m sorry,” he says and that’s a) the first time Jensen has ever heard the man apologize to anyone, ever, at all, and that includes the one time he got Pooch shot in the ass, and b) Clay does not ever get to give Jensen shit about his niece ever again.
“Jake,” Cougar growls, very quietly and very close by. Jensen jumps and glares and Cougar glares right back. “Shut up.”
Has he been talking out loud again?
“Yes,” the niece supplies. She’s staring at Clay as intently as he’s staring at her. It’s a stare fest. Apparently the squinty glare of doom is a family thing. “You have.”
Jensen whimpers a little. Cougar cuffs him upside the head.
Roque stomps his foot and repeats, “What the fuck is going on here?!”
Maybe if they wait another minute, he’ll throw a tantrum, Jensen thinks, and then cringes because a Roque tantrum would involve knives and probably severed limbs. Ouch. Although… he looks at the body parts strewn all over the clearing. Yeah.
Shutting up now.
Finally, finally, the Mexican standoff between Clay and Niece breaks up. She nods, once, and turns away from him like she didn’t just yell at him and hit him in the face and he lets her. She points her machete at one of the dead guys at her feet.
“These guys are demons. Every monster that ever freaked you out is real. Well, probably. Do you count Bigfoot as a monster? Cause that one? Yeah, no. We checked. But these guys? Definitely real. They’re not wearing suits or masks, they’re not on PCP, they’re not deformed. I suggest you freak out later. I was on vacation when I got a call about a whole demon clan on the move and could I please take care of it, cherry on top. I came, I saw, I found a long-lost family member.”
“Does that happen a lot?” Pooch asks, conversationally. No-one’s pointing weapons at anyone else anymore because this is all very strange.
She shrugs. “More than you might think. Details, we should probably ask the guy trying to crawl into the bushes over there.”
The snake-freak thing stills and Jensen is desperately trying to make out a zipper on its back or something. Anything to prove that the Niece is just fucking with them, even though he knows she’s not because she’s very serious, and, also, he’s got blue-ish green blood all over him and that shit is. Not. Normal.
Just call him a believer, Halle-fucking-lujah. He’ll slot his freak-out for after the killing stuff.
Niece – Buffy, he should probably call her by name – steps over, hauls the guy to his feet and pins him against a nearby tree. His feet dangle in the air. Whoa.
“Buffy?” Clay asks. “I thought you’re studying psychology?”
She looks at him, eyebrow raised. “Yeah, well, my mother died. I needed cash.”
“So you turned, what, mercenary? You?” Clay sounds utterly disbelieving.
After getting a good look at the girl, Jensen can’t help but agree. If he hadn’t seen her in action, he’d have pegged her for beach-bimbo material.
She snorts. “No.I didn’t. Moving on.”
Buffy bangs Scales against the tree once and then lets him slide to the ground, coughing. “You guys are desert people. What the heck are you doing waving M-16s around in the middle of the jungle?” she asks.
The - okay, let’s face it, that’s actually a demon, Jensen will absolutely make time for that freak-out - the demon spits blood at her feet. “You don’t scare me, slayer.”
“Oh, goodie, no introductions necessary, then. That’s always such a hassle.”
The demon sneers. “Yeah, so what? Your kind’s a dime a dozen these days. You ain’t her, bitch, and you don’t scare me.”
Buffy beams at him. Just… stands there and grins at him like a demented pixie or something, waiting.
Scales’s sneer falters. “You’re not….”
And suddenly he’s scrambling to get the hell away from a hundred pounds of tiny, blonde killing machine. “You’re her, you’re fucking her, you’re the Alpha…”
Buffy-Blondie-Slayer-Niece stomps a foot down on the thing’s neck and keeps him – it? – there. “It’s your lucky day,” she sing-songs. “Now answer the question.”
The demon thing breaks like a toothpick.
Half an hour later, Jensen has learned the following things:
1. Demons apparently work the same as anyone else. The scaly bastards that tried to eat his face are working as mercenaries for some big wig. They clear a two mile radius of jungle around his Super Secret Lair TM in exchange for big bucks and virgins to snack on, or something.
Jensen doesn’t ask and, mercifully, neither does Buffy. She just snaps the guy’s – thing’s – neck when she’s done and drops the corpse neatly with the rest.
2. Clay’s niece is apparently some mystical super warrior chosen to fight evil in the world. Like, literal, hooves and horns evil. And Jensen thought his niece was the shit.
3. The guy they’re after is the big wig the demons worked for, which means they’re close, but also that the fucker employs demons. Which means they’re taking Buffy along for the ride, because she’s the expert and they need her.
4. Clay doesn’t like that.
5. Fuck passive aggressive, the Clay clan goes straight for aggressive aggressive and Buffy out aggressive-s her uncle by several miles and orders of magnitude. Every time he tries to talk to her about anything not monster related, she shuts him down in less time than it takes Jensen to put down his shit and lean back to watch the show. Although that might just be because she’s a women. Women are masters at shutting shit down. Again, Jensen speaks from experience.
6. It’s disturbingly hot.
7. Cougar, who, for some reason no-one asks or tells about, knows exactly what Jensen’s turned-on face looks like and he’s been looking decidedly unhappy with Jensen for the past twenty minutes.
Maybe the tech should stop watching Clay’s niece’s ass in those pants.
“So,” he finally blurts, “when Clay’s done groveling in vain, can we maybe go somewhere that’s, I dunno, not filled with corpses and do something, like, maybe blow a fucker up?!”
Everyone stares, so he adds, “Pretty please?”
They blow shit up.
No, okay, they don’t, but it’s in Plan C and, since they usually plan up to Plan G, Jensen’s chances of getting to explode something are pretty decent. Jensen likes that.
Clay is still sweltering under the oppressive heat of a disappointed family member.
Roque has stopped glowering and finds that shit almost as funny as Jensen does, true fact.
And Pooch and Cougs trail after them all, exchanging exasperated looks as they whack their way through the jungle, following a trail only Buffy can apparently see.
She claims the demons stink.
Clay asks how she can smell that. She answers, perfectly politely, that she has a very good sense of smell.
He asks how her sister is doing.
She tells him if he cared, he would have come to their mother’s funeral.
“Burn,” Jensen quips, repeating Roque’s earlier assessment, before someone can put a sock in his mouth.
That’s about the point where Cougar seems to catch on to whatever freaky monster-trail Buffy is following, and takes over the lead, merrily whacking away at the underbrush.
Buffy drops back to walk beside him, happy to give up point, and beams. “Thank you,” she says. “Jake, right?”
“Jensen,” he answers and his voice doesn’t even squeak. “Call me Jensen. Although you could probably call me Jacqueline and I would’t mind. Which is not to say that I’d want to be called Jacqueline, because, let’s face it, that’s a horrible name and anyone calling their kid that is probably naming an oops-baby. Not that oops-babies are bad, no, sir, I mean, I’m pretty sure Pooch was an oops-baby, what with a name like his, but I was generalizing and the whole thing just got away from me, please don’t kill me, I’ll shut up now, Cougs, you’re supposed to stop me from doing this when I’m around pretty girls, I hate you and, finally, running out of air.”
He stops with a huge gasp.
Clay… glowers more. “Do not flirt with my niece, Corporal.”
“Jensen?” Buffy beams at him. “Jensen. Do you have nieces?”
Around them, everyone groans. Jake nods. “One.”
“If her mother died, would you skip her funeral and then pretend you’re dead for, oh, six years after that?”
“Good answer. You can keep flirting with me.”
She gives Clay a look that says, see why I am pissed-off as hell at you, and then resumes walking.
Jensen swallows. “Cougs,” he mutters out of the corner of his mouth. “Cougs, please help me?”
Cougar, the bastard, just hitches his rifle higher on his back and keeps going.
Somehow, Roque ends up falling in step next to Buffy and asking where she got the machete, which starts a twenty-minute-long conversation about knives, blades, and places to hide them. Buffy wins in the hiding-place-department, but Roque remains the unbeaten champion of big-and-serrated. Buffy actually coos over his favourite blade.
When Clay orders Roque to stop hitting on his niece, Roque gives him the finger. Buffy fiddles her machete suggestively.
Clay falls back to sulk in the vicinity of Pooch, who is the only person decent enough to at least pretend to not be amused.
Once they reach the compound their bad guy is nesting in, they hunker down to talk strategy. Again. Jensen is still waiting for the ‘blowing shit up’ portion of this trip.
And by ‘talk strategy’ Jensen means, ‘Buffy tells them how it is and no-one complains because she’s not suggesting anything they wouldn’t have done anyway. Well, no-one except Clay’.
Who is, apparently, still not getting the message.
“You can’t just go in there!”
“Half of their guards are already dead, no thanks to you guys. Anyone up for taking care of the other half?” She gives them all expectant looks and Jake strongly suspects that she was a cheerleader at one point in time.
“You’re not going in there!”
“Why? Because you suddenly realized that you care?”
“Because it’s dangerous!”
If they keep shouting like this, either the monsters will hear them and come calling, or Jensen will have a flashback to his parents rowing in the living room at three in the morning.
“Christ!” Roque finally throws in. “Just give it the fuck up, Clay. Let’s kill this fucker and go get drunk.”
Jensen is pretty sure he winks at Buffy. He might need to bleach his brain.
“Awesome idea. The babbly one owes me an appletini, let’s go.” And with that she simply stands, turns and starts walking again, apparently not caring if they follow or not.
The Colonel sets his jaw and hurries after her.
There’s a chainlink fence set around the perimeter and they let Pooch at it. He’s got the thing cut wide open in under a minute and then they’re inside, trying to get where they need to go without being noticed. Buffy insisted on killing the critters, but that comes after. First their objective, then complete mayhem. That’s Plan A.
It’s a good plan.
Jensen and Pooch have a standing bet on how long it’ll last.
It hold up right until a guard comes around a corner he’s not supposed to be at and all hell breaks loose. One day, Jensen will devise an algorithm that allows for foot soldiers taking smoke breaks in dark corners.
Just as soon as he’s done fighting for his life.
He swings his gun around to his back, going for his knife instead. Close quarter combat. Yay. They all go back to back as the demons start pouring in from every side. Cougs has a knife in each hand, Clay is going in bare handed because, let’s face it, the man is a nightmare with a knife, and their guns are useless. He does have fists of steel, though. Maybe the superhuman thing runs in the family? The Pooch has begged a blade off of Roque.
Roque and Buffy are next to each other, both crouched low like a football player getting ready to run. When the first demons get within range, they lunge forward and from there it’s all blood and panic.
They pair off instinctively, Jensen ending up with the bossman. Clay beats the freaks stupid and then propels them at Jensen, who deal with them via knife to the spine, ear, or, on one memorable occasion, up through the roof of the mouth.
It’s messier than it looks in a computer game.
Then, suddenly, during a lull in the fighting, Clay spins sideways and toward his niece, yelling over the din, “I didn’t want to stay away.”
The blonde bats a demon’s gun away and severs its spine. Jensen blinks twice, to get rid of that image. Wow.
“Now?!” she shouts. “You want to do this now?!”
Clay, unperturbed, delivers a quick one-two combo and kicks a monster back out of the fight. “You didn’t listen earlier!”
“Because I didn’t want to!”
“No choice now,” he returns and he actually sounds satisfied. Jensen takes a fist to the face and things go a bit wonky for a moment.
By the time he’s seeing something other than stars again, Clay’s hollering something that sounds like, “-messed up at the time. Didn’t want you to have to deal with that,” – punch, kick, duck, “- on top of Joy’s death.”
With a growl, Buffy launches herself sideways into a gaggle of three that’s huddling and talking like they’re trying to come up with a game plan. Yeah. Not gonna happen. How many of those fuckers are there?
“That wasn’t your decision to make!”
“E-mail,” she starts counting off after a minute. “Telephone. Mail! You were just scared!”
Clay shoots around, furious at the implication – even though it’s probably true, the man’s a pussy when it comes to people, sometimes, and Jensen has a theory about how that’s why he always picks the most violent women to fall for – and completely misses the enemy that’s going for his jugular.
Jensen doesn’t and throws himself forward, taking the thing down in a text book tackle.
The only problem with that is that they’re suddenly both on the ground, grappling for a hold, trying to gouge each other’s eyes and throat out. And then Jensen’s not listening to the daytime drama anymore because he’s flat on his back and it’s taking all his strength to keep the fucker from his face - déjà-fucking-vu - and he’s dying again and –
And the thing disappears, replaced by an irate Cougar who takes the time to wipe green blood from his hands before he grabs down to haul Jake to his feet. He lets go as soon as Jensen has found his footing and rounds on the thing that tried to kill him.
Kicks it. Punches it. Slams his knife up through the chin and straight into the brain, killing it instantly. He kicks the body off his weapon, rounds on the next two and slashes their throats with a single motion and two knives. They drop. He breaks their necks with his boot and moves on, whirling, ducking, spinning, killing, and Jensen knew Cougar was deadly, but he’s never seen the sniper in close range combat like this, has never seen him like this, period, because Cougar is furious and cleaning up the whole damn place by himself and then the last guy goes down and he rounds on Clay and punches him in the face, no fanfare, no warning.
This is becoming a thing.
“Pay attention,” he demands, blood dripping from his blades, hair in his face, hat askew and Jensen has never been this turned on in his life.
Clay makes a choked-off sound that might be a question. Instead of a verbal answer, Cougs extends an arm toward Jensen, pointing at the nice scratches along his neck that feel more like gouges. The demon thing left them when it tried to claw his throat out.
“Pay. Attention.” Cougar repeats, still breathing hard and looking so, so, so angry.
Because of him.
Jensen looks around at the carnage. A good part of it was done by others, but the last half dozen kills go to Cougar.
Because of him.
Cougs just went fucking psycho to protect Jensen.
He killed all those things. For Jensen.
Jake rubs at his neck distractedly. “I feel like I should run off and pick you flowers and shit, now.”
Pooch snorts. Roque makes gagging noises and gets not-so-discreetly elbowed in the guts for his trouble. He gags louder.
Buffy looks from Cougar to Jensen to Cougar to Jensen and then shrugs. “And here I thought I could seduce you to piss of Uncle Frank.” She sighs. “Go on then, I’ll keep him from asking.”
She mutters something about ass-backwards military brass and waves a hand at Jensen, her attention already turning toward Roque with a not-so-coy expression.
Jake considers her offer for a moment and then launches himself at the sniper and, without screwing around, shoves his tongue down Cougar’s throat in gratitude for being a badass motherfucker on his behalf.
He’s in the middle of a pile of demon bodies in the jungle, there’s guts in his hair and blood on his glasses. But he’s also making out with the most terrifying thing in the world – sorry Niece – and Clay’s finally met a woman who won’t fall for his shit. Or try to blow him up.
Cougs suddenly lets go of his knives, grabs Jensen by the neck and rolls them over.
Not even Roque can ruin that.