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Chapter Text

It was six in the goddamn morning and the team was packed together in the modest living room. Clint, irritated, was smushed into the corner of the couch by Quire’s intrusive elbows resting on cushions behind them. He turned to Chavez, who stood behind the couch, and gave a silent plea for help. Two seats away, Johnny was listening to the girl lecturing them with rapt attention, meanwhile Gwen sat criss-cross applesauce beneath them, fidgeting with the drawstring of her backpack.

“Gwen, are you listening?” Kate huffed.

Quentin lightly kicked Gwen’s back. She shifted her gaze upwards: “No.”

Kate pinched the bridge of her nose. “Guys, if we want to continue doing these trips we need to set ground rules. We cannot have a Disneyland repeat. I’d like to not get kicked out of the park this time.”

Chavez objected, “We didn’t get kicked out of the park. Only Quire did.”

Quentin turned to Chavez and raised a brow. “And you guys could’ve stayed. You just chose not to.” 

“Because we’re a team you guys!” Kate shouted. “We are supposed to be having fun together.”

“The ride home was fun,” Gwen helpfully supplied. “If it wasn’t for Quentin getting kicked out, we wouldn’t have gotten In-N-Out for lunch.”

“Exactly,” Quentin grinned, reminiscing over the strawberry milkshake and double-double with extra pickles he’d ordered on Kate’s dime. 

Kate’s eye twitched. “Please, for the love of god, all of you, please behave. We’re going to be in public and we can’t afford more bad publicity. It threatens our show and our salary.” Kate sighed, “You guys don’t know how long it took for me to convince them to give us VIP passes.” She turned to Quentin and Gwen. “I don’t need you guys fucking it up. So no wandering off, no fighting with other guests, and no getting physical. Got it?”

Everybody except Quentin nodded. 

“Like…no punching or no making out?” Quentin queried.

“Both,” Chavez and Kate said simultaneously. Quentin rolled his eyes.

“Hi everybody!! My name is Jenna and I’ll be your tour guide for the Universal Studios Hollywood Studio tour! Before we begin I’d like to remind you all of a few rules for our fun tour today: no smoking, no children under forty pounds on the ride — which won’t be a problem for this group,” the brown-bobbed girl chuckled, staring at the six people in front of her, “also, some bits of the ride can get intense, so please don’t stand while the tram is in motion. That means you, guy in the back!” Quentin groaned and slumped down with his arms crossed. “We don’t want an incident do we? Ha. Haha. Anyways…”

Kate and Johnny were sitting in the second row, Johnny’s arm relaxed in its place around Kate’s shoulders while she stared ahead at the screen Jenna spoke from. 

Johnny turned to Kate, “The trip’s going well so far. Nobody’s punched a mom yet and it’s nearly noon. That’s a new record for us,” he lightly chuckled.

“Yeah, I guess,” Kate mumbled. “I’m just exhausted from the walking we did already. It’s not even the afternoon yet and my feet are killing me.”

“…Also, please keep your body inside the tram at all times and if you need any assistance just pull the cord above y’all or holler my name!”

Gwen leaned forward. “What’s her name?” she whispered to Chavez, who sat alone in the third row. Chavez glanced back and shrugged. Gwen turned her head to the right, hoping Clint could solve this conundrum. With sunglasses low on his nose, Clint was poorly disguising the fact that he was secretly sleeping. Gwen sighed defeatedly and redirected her gaze to the short but animated women upfront. 

“Let’s begin shall we?!”

The next thirty minutes of the tour were pure torture for everyone involved. Quentin had war flashbacks to the Savage Land during the King-Kong Portion and tried to get into an argument with the tour guide who told him to sit down again. Gwen was bored out of her mind, and had at some point straight-up zoned out to tune into a conversation with Quentin about tiger sharks in her head. Johnny was truly only there so he could see The Good Place set again and Clint couldn’t fall back asleep with all the chaos going on. Chavez, on the other hand, was put to sleep by the comforting and despairingly boring studio effects.

The tram went past some indoor sets and turned into one of the ginormous studios. Interest peaked by the new addition to the tour, Johnny turned to Kate.

“This is new,” he whispered, excitedly. “They didn’t do this last time I was here.”

“Huh.” 

“Oh! Here we are at the Mojo World Studio where they are filming a new competition show!” Jenna quipped excitedly.

Quentin and Gwen both sat up straight and turned to each other with looks of confusion on their faces. ‘What the fuck?’ Gwen mouthed.

“Oh look! Here’s our host Major Domo! Hiii Major Domo!!!!” 

A tall gray-haired man appeared far in the distance holding a mic, a camera man facing him. 

Major Domo grinned into the camera, “Ah, look! It’s Minor Domo and our contestants.” The host shifted towards the tram’s passengers. "Welcome to the show.”

Chapter Text

“What the FUCK,” Quentin shrieked, storming towards the large exit doors. 

The team watched the telepath stomp across the ludicrously capacious room. Strangely, the path to the exit seemed to be unending—Quentin hadn’t seemed to notice this yet and he was quickly running out of steam.

The now small speck of Quire turned to the group. “WHAT THE FUCK,” it echoed. 

The Domos glanced at each other.

“While we wait for him to get back here, shall I explain the rules?” the tall man inquired. 

“Ye-”

“Great. Today, you six will be put through a series of challenges that test a variety of skills and abilities. You will only be allowed to use your powers on a few challenges; if you’re caught cheating you will be eliminated from the game entirely and face severe punishment.” The tall man clapped his hands together. “Any questions?”

“MY QUESTION IS WHAT THE FUCK,” screamed the pink speck in the distance.

Clint raised his hand, “Uh, yeah. What’s the severe punishment?”

Completely ignoring Clint, Minor Domo began herding them towards the dressing areas. “If you please, follow me into the changing areas so you can get ready for your first challenge!”

The five of them stood awkwardly on a field of faux grass in bright white jumpsuits with a ring of purple around their waist. A team of make-up artists surrounded them, dousing powders onto them. Go-away-green curtains formed a tall square fence around them, creating a claustrophobic atmosphere as the production crew frantically got the set ready. 

Major Domo came into view alongside Minor Domo, his own makeup crew, and a cameraman. He gave the contestants a glance before lighting grazing his earpiece and quickly looking down. The five watched for a minute as he nodded and began walking towards them again. 

Out of breath, Quentin finally joined the group and was bombarded with a beauty crew. As he tried to shoo off the stylists, Minor Domo walked up to the host. “We’re ready for shooting,” she loudly whispered. 

The Major rolled his eyes and mumbled under his breath. He flailed his arms to the people surrounding him and the production team rushed off set and into their designated places. Cameramen began surrounding the contestants and the studio went silent.

“Hello and welcome back to the show. Today’s contestants are the West Coast Avengers. Let’s give them a round of applause shall we?”

Gwen clapped, while the rest of the people on the set stayed silent. 

“Our first challenge tonight will be… an obstacle course!” All four curtains dropped to the ground, revealing a series of obstacles spanning over a pool of water. “The group will be split as they work to pass each obstacle independently. Whoever makes it to the end first wins the challenge while whoever doesn’t complete the course will be eliminated from the show entirely. Players, are you ready?”

“Yes!”

“Yup.”

“Sure.”

“No.”

“Go!”

A loud horn blared. The team sprinted to the first obstacle of the course: a line of blue big balls, which the contestants would have to jump across to reach the next platform. 

Order of contestants who? The first members of the team lept for the first ball simultaneously. Quentin, Johnny, and Chavez collided atop the ball and bounced off of each other and into the water, making noises of indignation along the way.

Kate rubbed her temples and took a deep breath. Pumped up on adrenaline, Gwen passed her in a flash, causing Kate’s black hair to whoosh in tandem. With her eyes on the prize, Gwen sprinted straight towards the obstacle and leaped into the air. Sadly, just like Icarus, Gwen flew too close to the big blue ball and crashed head-first into it—plummeting straight into the water as a result. 

Kate felt a nudge on her ribcage. 

“I think it’s your turn,” Clint remarked while backing up.

She sighed. “Fine.”

After a brief hesitation, Kate lunged into the air and miraculously landed on the ball—letting out a small ‘woo’ as she stabilized herself. Kate glanced up, tucking a stray hair behind her ear, and jumped again, officially making her the first person out of the six to reach the second ball. 

The gang let out a cheer from below.

Kate turned to Clint to check if he saw what just happened, but in her excitement, she began to wobble and endured a suspenseful battle with gravity to keep her place on top. For a good minute this occurred, making Kate look insane to those without context—which the editors would definitely abuse later on in post-production. Sadly, she won. Womp womp.

Clint now hung in a precarious position. Was he to attempt the blue balls, or walk back off the platform to preserve his dignity? Did he have any dignity left? Perchance.

The question is not

It rattled around in his brain like a marraccaa. Kate watched expectantly from the second ball, still utterly still in concentration. He couldn’t let Kate down! But he also didn’t want to faceplant on the blue ball because that would be embarrassing. Choices, choices. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Domo² gazing at him like he was a slab of super duper delicious meat. Which reminds him of that delicious deli back in New York he would go to weekly for a delicious bologna sandwich sided with steak fries. Oh, how he misses those fries…

To the others, this stoic inner monologue just seemed like a late-thirties man salivating into the abyss. But to him, this conundrum was much more serious than that. 

Far-away cries passed by him as quickly as they came as Clint pondered like every hero did about the concept of sacrifice and connotations of trading lives. The very pinnacle of heroism was about trading yourself, your wellbeing and livelihood, for the sake of others. Does that make it prostitution? Staring down the big blue balls, he wondered for the very first time if this was his limit. Was this the ceiling he never thought he’d reach? Was this the end to his era of avenging? Was he truly just a knock-off avenger now? Was he just a man reaping off of his peak success? Was he just another Tom Felton talking about something that happened years ago? His emotions whirlpool in his head like that circular amusement ride that jerked around as the operator tried to set people up: despair, anger, perseverance. They flopped around and on top of each other as the operator cried, “CLINT OH MY GOD JUST JUMP ALREADY.” It sounded suspiciously like Chavez.

Clint let out a wince. 

“Oh my god for FUCKS sake.”

 Clint locked eyes with a pink-haired monster he dared to call his “friend.” The boy below pressed his lips together and squinted at him. If you looked hard enough, you would find anger surfacing in Quire’s narrowed eyes. What the hell is wrong with him, Clint thought to himself. 

Without consent, Clint was shoved into the water by an invisible force, missing the blue ball entirely. 

It took a moment for Clint to recover from the fall, but once he did, he was able to vaguely see what was in front of him: a yellow and pink blob shoving a pink candle back into the water. 

“IDIOT,” Gwen screeched at Quentin.

“Please don’t make out,” Johnny pleaded. 

Quire groaned trying to get back up. “I was trying to save our asses,” he mumbled while wiping blood off his nose. 

“Well you just screwed us over,” Kate yelled from above. “Hey! What happens if I fall, too?” 

The team turned their gaze to Domo² who both turned to each other, mouth agape. 

Major Domo brow furrowed in deep concentration as he tried to come up with a convenient answer. “Well-”

Kate jumped.

Panic rushed through Domo² faces’. Stuttering, Major Domo quickly turned to the nearest camera and sputtered out, “What a turn of events! All six superheroes failed to pass the first obstacle! Let’s see if they can make it past the second course, which will challenge a different set of their abilities when we come back.”

“Cut!” a voice yelled in the distance. Major Domo immediately scoffed in defeat and got ushered away by crew members. Minor Domo slumped along behind the group as Major angrily shouted at anyone who would listen.

The team treaded water in tense silence, all looking like they were about to say something but holding back. Johnny lifted his head. “Do any of you guys know if they’re going to come back and get us out of here or…?”

Chapter Text

After the disastrous first round, Major Domo was eager to move onto the next round. They needed to pull their shit together soon; Major Domo shuttered at the thought of what Mojo was thinking of his work right now. 

“Welcome back to the show. This next round is called Slay or Be Slayed. We hope you brought your boom boxes because we have a pop legend joining us! Please join me in greeting our surprise guest host…Sugar Cane!”

A bleached blonde thirty-something-year-old wearing a mink coat and red sunglasses walked onto the stage, coming to a halt next at the end of the stage as she waved. She popped a hip out and tore off her coat to reveal a red latex tube top paired with a matching mini skirt. 

“Hi everybody! Did you miss me?” she grinned. 

The curtains flew up to reveal the contestants standing in an undignified line on a life-size Barbie runway. Bewildered, the crew peered out into the dark abyss of the set. Gwen silently giggled in delight when she noticed that Quentin’s hair blended into the backdrop, making him look bald. 

“I know why you’re laughing and it’s not that funny,” Quentin whispered, glaring at her. 

“Chicken,” she mouthed. He flexed his hands into fists. Maybe Andrew Tit was right. Or maybe Mr Darcy Was right. As if reading his mind, she clucked: “Bawk bawk.”

“Who the fuck is that,” Kate hissed to Clint.

Gwenpoole leaned over. “She’s a one-hit-wonder pop star from Britain,” she whispered loudly.

“She also used Chamber as arm candy because he was a mutant,” Quentin mumbled.

Sugar Kane whipped her ponytail back and gave the team a harsh glare. “Now are you guys ready to Slay or Be Slayed?” As quick as it came, Kane reverted back to a grin as she faced the cameras. “The theme today? Popstars!” she said, throwing her hands up in the air. 

To the side, Major Domo gave a golf clap. 

“The rules are simple,” Minor Domo said at the judges' table. “The West Coast Avengers will have two hours to curate a drag look based on the theme. Whoever ranks last will be eliminated from the show…” 

“What is this?” Johnny asked as Minor Domo continued to monologue.

“We have to dress up according to the theme,” responded Kate.

“Like Drag?” questioned Gwen.

“Like Dress to Impress,” Quentin affirmed.

Johnny nodded knowingly.

“Are you guys ready?” Minor Domo smirked.

“Fuck, no,” Chavez groaned while Gwen jumped on the balls of her feet. 

“Begin!”

The team was hard at work trying to create their outfits. Sugar Kane’s heels clicked as she slowly made her way around the different tables. 

“What’s this?” the washed-out popstar asked, pointing to the table littered in makeup products.

The blond girl turned her head up to Sugar and grinned ear to ear. “I'm doing Lady Gaga at the 2009 MTV Awards!” she cheered.

Sugar Kane squinted her eyes. Or at least Gwen thought she did. It was hard to tell with the Botox. “What made you choose this look?”

“I feel a lot like her right now.”

Kane’s eyes widened. An awkward silence filled the air. Slowly, she turned. “Oh...Kay. And you?”

Kate didn’t look up from the dark mass of mesh she was sewing ribbons onto. “Katy Perry.”

“Little on the nose don’t you think?”

Kate pressed her lips together. “No.”

Sugar Kane was running out of patience.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the dressing room, Clint and Johnny attempted to do drag makeup. However, things were not going in their favor as the makeup kept balling up on their faces. 

Clint slammed his hand onto the table, startling the products as a result. “Oh my god this is impossible,” he groaned. 

“You just gotta keep going dude,” Johnny replied, mouth wide open in concentration as he tried to put on mascara. 

“I need to take a break,” Clint said. Almost immediately he fell back into his seat. “This damn dress is too tight” he looked at his legs and tried to pull his dress down “and too revealing.”

“Skill issue,” Gwen yelled from across the room.

Quentin let out a cackle in response.

Clint whipped his head back, causing his wig to get in his face. “You’re not even doing anything!” he shouted.

This was true. Quentin was sitting with his feet up on an empty table beside Gwen, slurping a carton of strawberry milk from a spiral straw. The only thing that had changed from his appearance was his shirt, which went from saying “I shaved the sides of my head for this” to “The Real House Wives of Xavier's Institute ”

Where the fuck did he get that? thought Johnny.

Meanwhile, Chavez was half-heartedly digging through bins of clothing in the back of the room. On her table was a pair of black skinny jeans tight enough to cut off anyone’s circulation and a grayish shirt. The vision? That was between Chavez and God, actually.

“What are you looking for?” Gwen asked her, trotting over in a white leotard.

“Blue button-up,” Chavez huffed, face deep into the bin. “And a dog tag.”

“You’re going to be furry?” Gwen asked curiously.

Chavez’s body stilled. She slowly looked up at Gwen, only to glance at Quentin behind her. Come get your girl , she thought loud enough to interrupt Quentin’s slurping. He just let out a sly grin. 

Gwen happily skipped back to her table. 

Quentin put the carton down as Gwen lifted a knife and looked down at herself quizzically.

“…Gwen.”

“Mm.”

“What the fuck are you doing.”

“I’m recreating Lady Gaga’s 2009 MTV awards ‘Paparazzi’ performance look.”

“No, no, I get that.” Quentin thought back to all the times they were lying in bed and she forced him to watch the performance on her shattered iPhone screen. “What’s with the knife?”

She rolled her eyes. “How else am I going to get the blood, Quire? No one’s going to shoot me on stage.”

Quentin tilted his head and blinked hard. Behind them, Chavez had looked up from the bin to listen to their conversation. “Gwen, do you think that Lady Gaga was actually shot during that performance.”

Gwenpoole was silent. 

“Lady Gaga’s a method actor,” she said meekly.

“No the fuck she is not.”

What the fuck, Sugar Kane mouthed while watching from a distance alongside the camera crew.

“Have you guys seen my skinny jeans?” Chavez shouted, beginning to rummage through the costume bin once more. 

“Welcome back everybody. Last time you saw our contestants they were scrambling to create the best rendition of a popstar. Now, we finally get to see if they slayed, or if they will be slayed. Today, I am joined by our lovely guest host and world-renowned popstar…Sugar Kane! And as always, we have Spiral.”

An unamused, tall, white-haired woman sat next to Minor Domo with all six of her arms crossed. 

“First up we have…Clint Barton!”

The lavish pink curtains draped open revealing a muscular silhouette in either a very long tank top or a very short dress. He struggled down the runway with false confidence as his straight blonde wig bounced in tandem. Across his body was a flag of the United Kingdom—this nod pleased Ms. Kane very much.

“Who are you, Clint?” Sugar Kane said with a smile.

“The Spice Girls,” he said confidently.

“Which one?” Spiral added.

“The British one.”

“They’re all British,” Kane said with concern.

“They’re all British??”

Backstage, Kate sighed.

“Alright… Strike a pose, Clint.”

Clint struck a pose.

“Oh, God ,” Kate hissed. Quentin’s mouth lay agape in horror despite the one hand he had over his eyes and the other over Gwen’s. Chavez had turned away completely, while Johnny looked on curiously.

“Go back. Undo, undo!” cried Sugar Kane. 

Embarrassed and defeated, Clint dragged himself off stage.

Minor Domo sat there horrified by what her Minor eyes just witnessed. “Next up, we have America Chavez,” she managed to speak out shakily. 

With the utmost swagger of a young thirteen-year-old boy, Chavez strutted down the runway like a champ in a blue button-up, baggy jeans, and a shiny dog tag that gleamed in the studio lighting. Once she reached the end of the runway, she wrapped her thumbs around her belt loops and stood menacingly. 

“Oh, wonderful! Who…are you?”

Chavez shook her head. She stormed off through the curtains and reappeared after ten seconds of murmuring with a bowling ball. Chavez swaggered back on stage, this time with one hand through her belt loop and the other holding the heavy ball to her thigh.

“Oh! Lovely. Justin Bieber.” Sugar Kane said with contempt.

Backstage, Gwen whispered the lyrics of “Baby” to Quentin, who nodded solemnly.

Minor Domo let out a chuckle. “Now we have Quentin Quire!” 

Quentin let out a wide grin before strolling on stage. 

“Are those my fucking jeans?” shouted Chavez backstage. 

“And who are you?”

“I’m Quentin Quire.”

“Are you kidding me right now,” Minor Domo exclaimed.

The pink-haired man shook his head in enjoyment.

“You had two hours to create a look and all you did was change your shirt and put on jeans?” 

He nodded. 

Minor Domo let out a huff and waved her hand. “Next.”

Kate appeared in a dark purple gown, dark hair pinned back and falling in waves. Her heavy cape trailed behind her as she stepped forward and the ribbon of her cape lay just under the hollow of her throat. She held a lantern in one hand and a strawberry in the other. 

The judges let out quiet oohs and ahhs. Johnny made heart eyes at her, as did Gwen and Chavez. Clint, unfortunately, was still in the changing room and barely holding back tears of shame.

“‘Wide Awake,’” noted Gwen, wiping a tear out of her eye. “Fabulous.”

“You know you don’t have to tell me who each person is,” Quentin remarked.

Kate said nothing, but crushed the strawberry in front of the judges, who gasped and applauded as she walked off ominously.

“Ok, here we have Johnny Watts.”

Out walked Johnny with a pale face and dramatic, but messy makeup with a red wig done in a messy bun. He wore a teal floor-length prom dress that dragged on the floor as he walked cautiously. Once he eventually hit the end of the runway, he let out a model pose. “I dressed up as Chappell Roan,” he said proudly. 

The panel of judges applauded. 

“Great work,” Kane remarked. With a raised eyebrow, she murmured, “H-O-T T-O G- O. ”

“I'm impressed,” Spiral added on. 

“And last, but most certainly not least, we have Gwenpoole!”

In an almost skip-like manner, Gwen walked out with a feather mask and bright red blood that stood out against the all-white ensemble of clothing. Her hair was styled into a very curly bob and her pink tips could be seen peeking out behind the mask. Giddy, she gave a dramatic pose. “I’m Lady Gaga from the 2009 MTV Music Awards.”

The room filled with sounds of approval.

“Hell yeah.”

Sugar Kane snapped her fingers with enjoyment.

The contestants were lined up in a similar manner to the way they were at the beginning of the round. This time, however, they were dressed up in costumes ranging from Katy Perry’s “Wide Awake” music video gown to Ginger Spice in what may be a speedo. The judges sat before them.

Minor Domo stared into the camera in front of her. “Previously, we saw six contestants fight to impress the judges in popstar-related outfits. Now, we will find out whether or not their hard work pays off, or if they are on the chopping block.” Minor Domo turned to America, “Let’s start with you Chavez. Your idea was excellent. However, your execution was lackluster at best.”

The judges nodded in agreement.

“Your outfit fails to embrace the style that the 2010’s is known for,” Sugar Kane added. 

“Well if Quen-”

“Ah!” Sugar Kane raised her finger. “No excuses for your shortcomings.”

Chavez absently cracked her knuckles. As a retort, Spiral cracked all six of her hand’s knuckles.

“Next, we have Clint.”

Spiral let out a sigh. 

“Your idea was brilliant,” Mrs Kane remarked. “However, your indecent exposure led to a bad taste in our mouths.”

Clint nodded in agreement, shame written all across his features. “Sorry, again.”

“Johnny, we weren’t expecting much from you,” Minor Domo said.

Watts furrowed his brow in confusion and sadness.

“But what we saw was excellent,” Kane cheerily remarked. “You really put your best foot forward in your rendition of Chappell Roan and embraced what it means to be the Midwest Princess.”

“Bravo!” exclaimed Minor Domo.

“Kate. We absolutely adore your outfit. The attention to detail is jaw-dropping and your presence on stage really tied the whole piece together.” 

Spiral smiled, “I liked the strawberry.”

Kate grinned softly. “Thanks.”

“And Gwen—Oh Gwen. Your commitment to dressing up as Lady Gaga is truly admirable; you did such an amazing job,” Minor Domo said.

“But next time, please just ask for fake blood,” Sugar Kane added.

“And that leaves us with Quire. Who didn’t even bother following the theme.” 

Everybody turned towards the end of the line where Quentin stood with his hands pinched impossibly tight in his pockets. Chavez was giving him an impressive glare.

“For somebody who willingly signed a contract to participate in our show, you sure do hate following our orders,” Minor Domo chuckled with anger. 

Quentin’s face dropped.

“What?” he said. 

“Y’know, the contract you all signed when starting a reality TV show? It had a section saying you all would participate in our show.”

“Quentin, what is she talking about?” Chavez said angrily.

“I-I don’t know,” he said worriedly. 

The line began shouting at Quentin angrily. Desperately, he turned to Gwen to find solace, but she just stood there with her arms crossed and her face in the other direction.

Spiral raised her hands. “Okay, okay everybody. Settle down.” 

“As I was saying…Your failure to even try for this challenge will make you the first to be eliminated from the show. Now please get you and your fuckass skinny jeans off my stage”.

A group of mysterious men walked on stage and forcefully escorted Quentin away. Slowly, his shouting became a murmur, and then nothing. 

“Now that we’ve gotten the hard part taken care of, let’s get to the happy part shall we?” Minor Domo said, turning towards Sugar Kane.

“After a hard consideration, we decided that the winner of our Popstar dress-up challenge is Kate! Your dedication to the craft has led you to become the first victor in the competition. Congratulations!”

Kate beamed in excitement and jumped to hug Johnny. The teamteam surrounded and congratulated her happily.

“Don’t change the station just yet! Next up is Late Day with Jimy Faloon featuring interviews with Sugar Kane, Shatter Star, and Quentin Quire!”

Chapter Text

Jimy Faloon soaks in the spotlight from his place behind the desk. A Red Bull sits on the surface of it in place of a mug, and he smugly sips from it as the audience’s laughter dies down. He is so Funny. He is God. He is … Jimy Faloon.

“Tonight’s last guest is someone y’all don’t know very well unless you keep tabs on the US Domestic Terrorist Register. Please welcome Mr. Quintavius Quirinius Quire!”

Scattered applause fills the room with quiet murmurs. Jimy knows why. No one can compare to Jimy. The biggest star of them all is already in their midst.

Quentin walks out in yet another pair of fuckass skinny jeans. Somebody in the audience lets out a groan. 

With a laser death-stare, Quire pinpoints exactly who dared groan and telepathically sends them death threats—he would never allow them to come into fruition of course, but its fun every once in a while to have somebody cower over him—for old times sake. 

The bald-headed beauty stomps over to the guest chair, actively avoiding Jimy Faloon’s attempt at a handshake in the process. Jimy gives him a look of contempt.

“Now that the man of the minute is onstage, let’s see some of his best moments.”

Quentin slumps into his chair, pussy facing the world.

The screen cuts to a clip of Quentin failing the Wipeout course, sound effects booming at his big splash into the pool. The clip replays several times before the montage moves onto Slay or Be Slayed: Quentin lounging in the green room, Quentin making out backstage, Quentin flexing onstage, Quenin getting kicked off the stage, Quentin struggling to take off his fuckass skinny jeans and hitting his head on a wall during his plight. In the distance, voices of forced laughter can be heard. 

This is a rendition of the Stanford Prison Experiment. 

“Wow! Those are in fact clips that we just watched right here and now!”

The pink-haired man rolls his eyes to the back of his head. 

“So Quentin—Can I call you Quentin?—is it true that you really didn’t know that the show was a part of your contract?”

“Well—”

“AHAHAHAHHAHA” Jimy slams his fist onto the table, nearly dying of laughter “AHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAAHAHAHHAAHHAAHAHAH”

Everyone else in the room is scared. 

Jimy falls underneath his desk and a sound can be heard. Is it him taking a hit of his asthma inhaler or a line? No one knows. 

Like a bunny, Jimy pops right back up and grabs a card on the side of his desk and flips it to the audience. The card shows a young sixteen-year-old Quire being escorted out of the United Nations building by an army of soldiers. “So you’re a wanted terrorist?”

“Legally-”

“HAAHAHAHAAHHA. HA. Ha. Okay, let’s talk Slay or Be Slayed.”

Quentin presses his lips together as a bead of pink sweat seeps from his hair. “Let’s not.”

“Mojo dojo casa house viewers want to know: What exactly was going through your mind when you decided dressing up as yourself was a good idea?”

Quentin glances to the side, briefly allowing the roof to fill with silence before he lets out a small smirk and turns back to the interviewer: “I am an icon.”

Someone in the audience boos.

Quentin glares at them again. I’m exploding you with my mind.

Jimy Faloon hums. I am the bigger icon , he assures himself. I heard that.

The two lock eyes with each other. Fear fills Jimy’s face as he faces his worst critic. Quentin lets out a smile, forcing himself to not be the one to break the tension. 

“Uh” Jimy slips out. Slowly Jimy turns to face the barrel of a camera wide-eyed. “Well, that's all we have for tonight folks! Thank you for tuning in!” Tears begin to poole in Jimy’s doll eyes. “Please watch tomorrow,” Jimy’s voice breaks, “for even greater guests.”

The camera moves out, eventually fading to black.

“Hi, my name is Gwendolyn Poolenski and my talent is tap dancing.” A clip plays of Gwen in a wife-beater and biker shorts staring at herself as she taps away in a rehearsal room. “I’ve always loved tap dancing,” Gwen’s voice says cheerily over the video. “It’s one of the things I’m best at!” 

“Gwendolyn hopes to wow the judges,” an omniscient voice says, “with an illustrious tap routine to Crusin for a Brusin from Teen Beach Movie.” 

The audio fades back into Gwen aggressively tap dancing in the rehearsal room. When doing a turn she steps on her foot, almost falling over before regaining her balance. She stomps, heels clicking in an inappropriately comical way against the floor. The cameraman hurries invasively for a closer look, but Gwen buries her face into her palms before the lens can focus on her face.

The camera cuts to an enormous stage with the pink-haired girl in a purple tulle skirt and frilly top. She takes center stage and looks down. Akin to a music box doll, she springs to life once the music begins.

From backstage, Kate squints. “She’s dressed like a ballerina,” she remarks. “To do a tap routine.”

Chavez nods approvingly. “Never let them know your next move.”

Suddenly the music stops, the audience can be heard giving an almost roaring applause. But in a great sweeping motion, the music starts up again and Gwen begins to dance once more.

Alas, the music ends once and for all with a big bang as Gwen's death drops. Chavez lets out a whistle.

The camera zooms into the exhausted dancer taking a grandiose bow before trotting off stage. 

“You did amazing!” Kate squealed, grabbing the trio into a hug. 

“I didn’t know you could do that,” Chavez quipped.

Gwen lets out a flustered chuckle. “Oh, it’s just something I picked up along the way.”

“Is it on? Oh! My name is Clint Barton, and my talent is playing guitar,” Clint says to the camera. The scene cuts away to Clint sitting on the beach wearing palm tree swim trunks. He strums the guitar in his lap. His quiver of arrows and bow are staked in the sand behind him. “Music is a great way to channel energy and emotion in a meaningful way. I hope I never lose my passion for it.”

“Clint Barton hopes to win over the judges by playing guitar at them. His song of choice? Wonderwall.”

A cut to Clint, in a different pair of swim trunks, tuning a guitar. His gaze is pensive. “ToDA-” he begins to sing before abruptly stopping.

“TOd-”

“TodAY-”

“To d ay-”

“That’s enough of that,” the ominous voice reasons.

The camera changes to Clint sitting on a child’s purple plastic stool center stage. He’s now wearing a different pair of trunks and a leather jacket. His feet are bare and his toes cling to the bottommost rung of the stool. He clears his voice and begins to strum.

“Oh, god,” Kate murmurs.

“What’s the matter?” asks Gwen curiously.

“Just…Watch.”

“-That anybody feels the way I do, about you-”

“Oh, god ,” Chavez cringes. Gwen inches away from the speakers unconsciously. Upon further inspection, the trio notices that Clint is making direct eye contact with one of the judges as his voice staccatos erratically. 

“Make it stop,” Johnny whispers.

“You’re my wonderwall llllluh- ”

ZZZ-ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!

“That’s enough of that,” the first judge announces, hand still resting on the buzzer.

Clint’s brows furrow as he looks up glaring into the red light.

“Thank fuck .”

(Backstage of the Jimy Faloon set, Quentin frowns. “I thought it was pretty good,” he tells the camera, confused.)

“Next up is America Chavez with…bird whistling!” the ominous voice announces.

The gang is surprised. “Bird whistling?” Johnny asks Chavez, who is unwillingly walking onstage. 

“Hi my name is America Chavez and I’ll be whistling,” the unamused hero says slumped in the interview chair. A producer can be heard silently telling her to go on. Reluctantly, Chavez adds “I liked to do it on my home planet.” 

“You may begin whenever you’re ready” a distant voice calls. 

Chavez squints her eyes as tries to look out to the crowd. As her lips form an ‘O’ shape she takes a deep breath and begins. From one bird to the next Chavez’s voice soars throughout the theater invoking a serene atmosphere. Brutally, she’s interrupted by the sounds of confetti shooting onto her, causing her to let out a scream. 

“Congratulations America Chavez you have just won the golden buzzer!” 

Chavez’s eyes widened. She turns to the team in the wings and sees them jumping and smiling at her. Clint, still in trunks, gives her two thumbs up. “Thank you” she says to the panel, before walking off stage towards her friends.

“My name is Kate Bishop and I…” she pinches the bridge of her nose, “don’t have the energy for this.” Multiple clips of Kate sleeping in random spots, such as in the passenger seat of a van and beside her Slay of Be Slayed station, play. “From a young age, I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up: asleep.”

“Kate Bishop plans to impress the judges by doing something,” the voice muses.

A shot of Kate sitting against a wall in the preparation room, stretching her legs and doing the Wordle on her phone. She looks up and scowls at the cameraman. “Get out,” she says, brows narrowing. The cameraman slowly backs out of the room.

Onstage, Kate walks up to a bowl of something placed on a table. She squints beneath the glare of the spotlight but marches on regardless. She plucks the item from the bowl and holds it up to the light. It’s a bright red cherry, still on its stem. 

Kate bites the cherry off and holds up a finger in a hold up motion. Then, she puts the stem in her mouth and looks up in concentration. After a long, silent pause, Kate produces the stem once more, this time with a knot in the center of it. She holds her masterpiece up again for the judges and audience to see.

“You know what? Hell yeah,” a voice echoes from the seats. The auditorium slowly fills with applause. Kate bows. 

“She’s amazing,” Johnny murmurs.

“A god among men,” agrees Chavez. 

(“I could do it better,” Quentin says. No one is listening and no one cares.)

“Hi, my name is Johnny Watts and today I will be speed running 2048. It all started when I was in middle school,” the camera switches to pre-recorded footage of Johnny backstage vigorously tapping away at his computer. “I was really bored in class and my friend introduced me to the game and I was instantly hooked. As the years went by my skill increased and I arguably have found the best strategy to achieve 2048.” 

“Johnny hopes his agility and level of expertise will wow the judges today.” 

Johnny slowly approaches a laptop set on a table in the middle of the stage. Behind him stands a screen connected to the laptop. As his fingers hover over the board the voice booms “Your time begins…now!”

Tap tap tap goes his furiously shaking hands. A bead of sweat begins to form on his head as his pace quickens. The audience sits in awe. 

“Done!” Johnny shouts backing away from the device. 

Johnny stands there, cupping his shaky hands over his mouth as he soaks in the cheers from the crowd. “Thank you” he mouths while walking off stage. 

A loud buzz can be heard, indicating that they are at an ad break. The crew huddles around each other, clapping, hugging, and praising each other for their technical abilities. 

“You all deserve to win,” Gwen says, holding her arm around her waist. “Except for you, Clint…Sorry”

“You just don’t see the vision,” he chuckles. 

“I don’t think anyone sees the vision,” Chavez retorts, causing a sea of giggles. 

“Welcome back, everybody! With you, the people's votes all tallied up, we now have the final results on who wins M-Factor and who will be sent home. Drum roll, please… America Chavez has won this competition!”

Chavez grins excitedly as her friends push her on stage. “Thank you,” she shouts. 

“Sadly, this means Clint Barton has been eliminated due to a lackluster amount of votes and a lackluster amount of talent. Make sure to join us next time where we will put the player’s cooking skills to the test!”

Clint's eyes widened. “Oh, shit .” 

Chapter Text

“Welcome back! I hope you missed me because I sure missed you,” said the desperate man of a talk show host. He is Jimy Faloon. He vill be windicated.

“Fresh out of the slammer, we have superhero heartthrob and Olympic-level archer who goes by the name Hawkeye: Kate Bishop, everyone!”

The audience erupts into applause. Screams from left and right and north and south and from other ways, too. Oh my god it's Kate Bishop, my favorite straight gay person, somebody shouts from the crowd.

Another shrieks, Kate Bishop? Oh my god, I love her tongue!

I bet you do ;)

A bulky foot steps out and the crowd goes silent. Oh. It’s the other Hawkeye. 

Scattered applause lingers from the crowd as Clint makes his way to the seat, awkwardly smiling and waving in the process. The camera pans to the audience. A grown man wolf-whistles. The tongue girl is devastated.

“Give it up for Kate, everybody,” Faloon cheers. 

“Uh,” Clint clears his throat. “I’m actually the other Hawkeye…Clint Barton,” he says meekly in his chair.

Faloon's smile drops. “Oh…okay.”

Clint grins, a single tear falls from his eye onto his cheek as he powers through the pain. I miss her too.

“Oh-kay, Clint. I was only prepared to interview the famous and wonderful Kate Bishop today, but I guess you’ll do. How is your day going now that you’ve ruined mine?” Jimy says with contempt.

“It’s fine,” Clint said squeakily.  

“Can’t give us more than that?” Jimy asks, rolling his eyes and glancing at the audience. Get a load of this dumb fuck. “That Wonderwall performance was something huh?”

A glimmer of hope ignites in the archer’s green eyes. “You think so?”

“No. Get the fuck off my stage. That's all the time we have today. Tune in after the ad break for a better guest.”

“Can’t give us more than that,” Clint said mockingly in his dressing room. “Fucking jackass,” he murmured, sniffling. “No-good, boot-smelling, bob-having piece of shit. Why. Why? Whyyy. Give me a break. What the hell. A guy can’t pay tribute to Oasis anymore without the wok media calling him a dumb fuck behind his back?”

“He is a jackass,” a voice behind him said in agreement. 

“AHH, GOD,” Clint gasps, holding onto his heart. Oh. It’s Quentin. “Jesus. You scared me.” 

“I do that a lot,” the stick bug said with pride. 

“What do you want,” Clint gritted out. 

“Retribution.”

“This is The Cooking Show, where people cook. Live from Mojo World TV,” Major Domo said, standing at the end of a large kitchen with multiple stations, a West Coast Avenger behind each one. Each station is accompanied by an identical set of stainless-steel mixers, cooking utensils, and measuring cups. Against the pale yellow walls hangs an assortment of cutting boards. In front of the kitchen is a long table with two people sitting at it: a petite brunette with a F.A.B (fuck-ass-bob) and a six-armed-samurai woman. Next to them was an empty seat. 

“Today, our panel is joined by guest judge…Quentin” Major Domo grimly announces.

Quentin slowly enters the stage, awkwardly walking underneath the sterile fluorescent lights with his head down. 

None of the remaining West Coast Avengers clap at this announcement. The live audience is as silent as a lamb that has been silenced by the silencing of the lambs. The only sound that can be heard is the clanking of Quire’s Hot Topic belt chains. aprons. 

“Hey, guys,” the sickly young adult says. His jeans are suspiciously baggy.

“Get off the stage!” Chavez yells.

Quentin presses his lips together and does not get off the stage, but rather slowly sits himself in the empty seat at the table. “What up?” he asks Minor Domo, whose eye twitches as she says nothing.

Major Domo side eyes this man for trying to talk to his partner in crime. “Today you will be cooking up a protein-rich dinner course for our judges. Due to budget cuts we couldn’t afford to buy enough cooking supplies for everybody… so you will have to share.”

“Sharing is caring,” Gwen mutters to Johnny across from her.

“What did I do to you?” he whispers back.

“Since Chavez won the previous round, she will be able to pick her ingredients first.” 

In the back of the kitchen was a giant stainless steel pantry that had only the middle shelf stocked of products. The team crowded around the scarce supply. 

“Ok, what is everybody making?” Chavez said, turning to the team. 

“A recipe I found on TokTik!” Gwen says, happily. She does not elaborate.

“Lobster Bisque,” Johnny replies. “I saw LEGO Batman do it once, and I can do it better.”

Kate’s eyes crinkle with excitement. “I’m going to make something with tofu. I refuse to cook with meat since I'm vegetarian and I hope to wow the audience into realizing vegetarianism is good.” 

“Okay.” America turns to the shelf and picks out an assortment of meats. “Good luck y’all.” She nods her head and leaves the room.

Chaos ensues.

“I NEED THE SPINACH MORE THAN YOU DO” Johnny screeches. 

“NO YOU DON’T!” Kate shouts back, tackling him.

Gwen lets out an “uhm.” A pause. “When you’re done with the tomatoes can I have them?” 

While the crew is vigorously working at their independent stations, the judges walk around.

“What are you making there, Gwen?” Quentin asks over her shoulder.

“Shut up.”

He leans in. “The producers told me I have to get you guys to talk.”

She glances at him and snarls.

“Please,” he mouths. 

“You want me to talk? Fine.” She finds the camera from across the room and stares into it. “Six inches.”

“Okay, that’s enough-”

Gwen cackles as Quentin gets into a physical altercation with the cameramen. Meanwhile, Minor Domo checks up on Johnny Watts.

“What are you making, Johnny?” she perked curiously.

He adjusts his posture, standing proudly. “Lobster bisque,” he confesses. 

Her smile fades. “With those ingredients?” she asks, pointing to his lackluster countertop.

“It’s not that difficult to make. Honestly! I’m just making some adjustments to the recipe and making up for parts with fun twists! Like look here,” Johnny says, moving out of the way to let the camera get a glimpse. “I didn’t have the correct broth, so I put some garlic powder in bone broth to make up for it.”

Unfortunately, that was not the most concerning part of Johnny’s situation. Minor Domo shakes her head, causing her fabulous bob to wiggle. “Where the hell is the lobster?”

“Oh. Shit.” he says, frantically searching. He stops suddenly, looking up at the station in front of him. Chavez. “You stole my lobster!” he shouted.

“You let me borrow it,” America yells back, not even bothering to turn around.

“I let you take an arm! The whole thing is just sitting on your counter! Give. It. Back. Now.” 

“No, I’m not done with it yet.”

Before you could say QuentinStopAttackingTheCameraMenThatsAViolationOfUnionWorker’sRights, Johnny was at America’s counter snatching the lobster.

“Hey!” she shouted, grabbing an arm. Gritting her teeth, she says, “I’m using it.”

Johnny’s eyes began to fill with rage. “I need it more than you.”

“No you don’t.”

Kate watched from a distance, horrified. As she watched the situation unfurl, she began seeing her partner and Johnny in a new light. How could they? How could they play tug-o-war with the carcass of a living being like that? It was too much for her. “I need some fresh air,” she announced, storming away. 

“Where is she getting fresh air, we’re locked in a sound studio?” Gwen asked the cameraman who had finally restrained Quire.

“Kate,” America pleads, trailing behind her. They were now on a separate sound stage in a grassy field. The clouds above them are painted gray, and thunder booms distantly. “Please.”

“What?!” she asks, whipping her hair back.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Chavez says, grabbing Kate’s hand.

“Don’t bother,” she coldly replies, yanking her hand away. Chavez’s arm falls limply to her side and with another clap of thunder, rain begins to fall. “I’ve seen you now, for who you really are.”

“No, Kate! That’s not who I really am. Who I really am is-is…”

“What, America?”

“Who I really am,” she whispers softly, “is a girl, standing in front of her team captain, asking her to love her.”

“What?”

“I know I’m not perfect, but hell, neither are you. I love you. And I accepted you—all of you—a long time ago, and I just want to be. I just want you to.” Chavez sighs, tears welling in her eyes. The wind and rain weigh her hair down and she shivers as her jean jacket gets soaked through. “I just want you.”

Kate reaches out, tucking a stray curl behind America’s ear before cupping her face with one calloused hand. “America…”

The rain stops with a flicker of the lights. “CUT. Wow… good stuff, guys. That’s a wrap for the day.”

Kate grins, dropping her hand from Chavez’s face to catch the water bottle her assistant tosses her. She takes a long swig and caps it. “Thanks, Cindy. See you later, Chavez,” she calls over her shoulder. “I’ve got tofu to cook.”

Chavez wipes the tears from her face. No one hands her a tissue. “See you, Kate.”

“We have to do the segment again,” Quire says wearily. 

“Absolutely not,” Gwen huffs, leaning against the countertop. 

“Look, I know you’re mad at me. I get that and I promise I’ll explain everything and make it up to you. But now we need to just go along so we can get the fuck out of here.”

The blonde rolls her eyes. “Fine. But you owe me a trip to the comic store,” she says, jabbing her pointer finger into his chest.

“Deal.” After a brief pause, Quire waves his hand for the cameramen to come closer, reluctantly, they agree. The two quickly adjust themselves. “So what do we have here?” he says blandly. 

“I am making a recipe I found on TokTik,” Gwen grins, tilting her head to the side. “I’m not sure exactly what it is since I couldn’t find the video, so most of this is from memory.”

“That’s great,” Quentin says, forcing a smile. He knows he’s going to pay for his sins in the bathroom later that day. “Have you taste-tested it yet?”

“Of course! How else would I have known to add more vodka?” 

Oh my god she’s insane. And maybe a little tipsy, Johnny thought from afar. 

“Welcome back to The Cooking Show.” Major Domo says, standing in front of the seated judges. “At last, all the meals have been prepared and served to the judges. Now, we will witness the taste test.”

The four contestants stood in a line with their hands in front of them as the judges grabbed their forks. Shakily, they all took a bite out of a mysterious beige chunk.

“Very…meaty,” Spiral remarks, continuing to chew.

“So many textures…” Minor Domo adds.

“And so little taste,” Quire snarks, pushing the food on his plate around with a fork. 

“Whose is this?”

“Mine,” Chavez sniffs. She has not recovered: her eyes are still rimmed red, her face as bland as her dish. 

“Alrighttt.” Minor Domo warily holds up a plate of white cubes. “Next up we have…more mysterious chunks…mm. Great.”

Quiently, the judges all take a bite. After a minute of silence, Spiral throws down her fork and breaks the silence. “All I taste is soy sauce.”

“And isn’t that a wonderful thing?” Kate asks, smiling.

“If you’re an obnoxious millennial in L.A.,” Quentin retorts, wiping his mouth on his jacket. “This tastes like denial.”

“West coast best coast, whore,” someone backstage yells. Quentin shrugs.

“You’re an obnoxious millennial from L.A.,” hisses Chavez.

“Erm actually, I’m from New York. Where culture lives and breathes—something you wouldn’t know anything about.”

“Really?” Chavez scoffs. Quentin Quire, a white boy seasoned with the fucking audacity.

Major Domo clears his throat loudly. “Moving on,” he announces.

“Tomato paste?” guesses Spiral while pushing her other plates to the side. 

“TokTik recipe,” Gwen corrects proudly. 

“Mmm…so…good,” Quentin forces out. His two judges look at him with annoyance.

Gwen glances at the camera again and begins to mouth: “Five i-”

“ILOVEIT SO GOOD. GREATJOB GWEN.”

She grins at the camera.

“And last—but hopefully not least—we have Johnny’s lobster bisque!”

Before she takes a sip, Spiral quickly chugs down a glass of water. “Okay, I’m ready for this.” 

Sluurp

Quentin slams his spoon on the table. “Why is this so bad? Are you trying to poison me? This drink’s like sludge and tastes like I just got waterboarded by the ocean.”

“It’s very salty,” Minor Domo politely adds.

“I don’t like it,” Spiral says bluntly. 

“Yikes,” comments Major Domo.

“You didn’t even try it!”

“I know, but. Yikes.”

After that fiasco of a taste test, the judges and hosts now sit alone at a circular table. 

”This is going to be a very tough decision to make,” Major Domo remarks. 

“Very—especially since none of the dishes tasted very good,” Spiral adds.

Across from the tall woman sat the pink-haired loser of a man. “Well, I like Gwen’s.”

“No, you didn’t,” Minor Domo said. “You’re just saying that because you like her and she threatened you.”

Quentin scoffs, leaning his chair back and balancing precariously. “Psh. No. I’m saying this out of my own free will.”

The other two judges side-ye each other. 

“Well out of them, I think Johnny’s was the most like what he initially planned. It tasted oceany and at least could be identified as a soup,” Minor Domo said.

“But Kate did say she was going to make tofu. And that was definitely tofu.”

“It tasted like gentrification,” Quentin interjects. 

“I’m going to hit him,” Minor Domo announces to the table, before hitting Quentin hard in the shoulder. The loser loses balance, toppling backwards with his chair and smacking his head on the floor. He groans loudly. The conversation continues as normal:

“Chavez’s meal had heart,” Spiral concedes, “but it wasn’t very good, was it?”

“It’s impressive how she managed to find and cook all those meats.”

“But she was too busy confessing her love to season them quite right.”

“Yeah. Shame.”

They aren’t talking about the meats.

“I liked Gwen’s,” Quentin says from the ground.

Minor grits her teeth. “What exactly did you like about it.”

“That it was Gwen’s. I think I have a concussion.”

“Womp womp,” Major Domo mocks. He high-fives Minor Domo, the scene reminiscent of a sick and twisted reimagining of eiffel towering.

“Loverboy and hatergirl have got to go,” Spiral sighs.

“I think bias and bribery should disqualify contestants.”

“I second that.”

“Mmmngh. Ow,” Quentin affirms.

“Then it’s settled,” Major Domo smiles. “To the chopping board!”

Back in the kitchen, Major Domo greets the team. “Contestants. You all tried what I hope was your best. But sadly one of you must leave us.” 

Minor lets the tension ruminate in the air for a minute before beginning to speak. “Gwen. Your subpar recipe and boyfriend left a bad taste in our mouths. And because of that, we sadly have to see you go.”

“What?” she cries, frowning. Her teammates group in to give her a hug.

“I’m sorry, honey, but you really need to find someone else,” Spiral advises, patting her back.

“Sorry, Gwen,” Quentin says sullenly from his chair.

“It’s ok. I’m really grateful for this experience.”

“IT’S NOT OK!” Gwen yells in her dressing room. 

“I know. I know,” Quentin says from the couch. 

“MY FOOD WAS GOOD. I DID EVERYTHING RIGHT! THIS SHOW IS STUPID!”

“I know.”

A knock comes from the door. “Gwen, you’re on in one,” an assistant says from behind it. 

Gwen aggressively composes herself while straightening her suit jacket. “I’m gonna terrorize that talk show host.”

Chapter Text

The Very Believable Gwenpoole and the REAL Gwenpool step into the stop light. Jazz hands. Oh yeah.

The crowd roars as Gwenpoole fosse-ies over to her chair. She twirls. The ground opens up and swallows her whole. “NOM NOM NOM. YUMMY!” yells the ground. Eat shit mouths the REAL Gwenpool to the Very Believable Gwenpoole, but the Very Believable Gwenpoole is NOT listening. She just keeps doing her twirly dance and the ground sucks her into the tenth circle of hell to be chewed on by Satan along with Judas, Brutus, and Cassius. The Very Believable Gwenpoole is okay with it because she knows her flesh tastes very good. It’s full of sodium because of the soy sauce. The REAL Gwenpool dances on her grave once the hole in the ground closes with a THWAP .

Just kidding. But wouldn’t that be crazy if that did happen? 

Anywhoose…

Gwen gracefully sits down in her chair and leans back, crossing her legs in the process. She’s dressed in a light pink flapper dress and shimmers beneath the studio lighting. “Hello, Mr. Faloon,” she says sweetly. 

“Quite the entrance you had there, Gwen,” Jimy says, baffled. 

“Only the best for you,” she grins. 

“Heh.” 😏

Quentin does not like this

The blonde taps her heel on the ground, awaiting her first question very patiently.

“How do you feel about your brutal elimination this round, Gwen? Do you think it was fair or unjust? Any regrets?”

Her eye twitches. “You know, things happen for a reason. I am so grateful for the experience. I have no regrets—honestly. Like all reality TV, everything I did was real and raw.”

“What do you mean by raw?”

“I just can’t believe that Mojo would hinder the games like that.”

Jimy leaned in. “What?”

“Oh, you didn’t know? Mojo secretly swapped out and hid items to make players lose.”

The remaining players stood in a semi-circle in front of the T.V. in a green room. 

“What is she talking about?” Chavez said, crossing her arms.

“He swapped my bok choy for tomatoes,” TV Gwen confides. “I was trying to make… bok choy paste.”

Jimy’s eyes widen. 

“Oh and the blood? They told me there was no fake blood.”

On the other side of the green room, the sounds of the crew can be heard yelling and panicking. “Oh, the treachery!” someone shouts.

“What?” Johnny asks, scandalized. (He is scandalized.)

“Yeah, and they blackmailed—” Before the lustrous Gwen could finish her statement, the TV cut to an ad. 

“What just happened?” Kate said, turning to her teammates. 

“No clue.”

A knock comes from the door. “Did you guys see Gwen’s interview?” Clint wonders, walking in with Quentin behind him. 

Johnny steps forward until he’s standing right in front of Clint. “Did you have something to do with this?” he accuses, leaning to the side to get a better view of Quire. 

“What?! No. All she told me was that she was going to terrorize Faloon!”

“Oh. That tracks,” Johnny remarks.

“And you let her?” questions Kate. 

“She’s her own free person,” Quentin counters stubbornly. 

“She’s putting herself and us in danger. Mojo could be after us right now because of that interview!” 

“This wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t make us sign those damn contracts,” Chavez interjects.

Clint steps in the middle of the group. “Guys, calm down. I’m just as mad at Quire as you are about the contract, but we need to focus on getting out of here first. I’m sure there’s a responsible explanation for why Gwen did that, and she didn’t mean to put us in danger.”

“Well, she did,” Johnny retorts. “All these challenges have been easy, but what if they start getting harder? What if they strand us on an island or make us fight to the death? What’s going to happen to the people who are eliminated after these interviews?”

“What if!” Quentin shouts, throwing his hands up.

“That’s not gonna happen, Johnny,” Kate says exasperatedly.

“MONTOYA POR FAVOR.”

Kate rolls her eyes. 

“Hey, guys!” Gwen smiles, her dress beads clanking as she steps in. 

“What was that?!” Kate yells. 

“An interview, Kate,” Gwen says kindly. “Did you like it?” she grins. 

Johnny pinched his nose. “Did you forget what channel that was airing on? Mojo definitely saw that and is going to put us through some heinous shit now.”

“Welcome toooooooooooo…………MOJEOPARDY!!”

The Jeopardy theme song plays, except for it’s not the Jeopardy theme song, and every fifth note is wrong because Mojo World Studio does NOT want to be sued. The music plays obnoxiously loud and only seems to ring louder as the contestants take in their surroundings.

“Jesus.”

(“What if they strand us on a desert island?” Quentin says in a high-pitched voice to Gwen in the wings. She frowns.)

Mojo smooths his ill-fitted button-up down before looking up and giving the camera a (not so) charming smile. The screen behind him flashes the word “MOJEOPARDY” in big gold letters. The crowd (s)creams in delight. “Ah ha ha. Please, please. None of that. Let us welcome our contestants! At podium one, we have…Johnnnyyyyy Watts!”

Johnny struggles to find the right camera before Chavez points him in the right direction. He mouths, get help repeatedly until the shot changes to America.

“At podium two we have……America Chavezzzzz!”

Pointedly, Chavez does not look at the lens.

“And at podium three………Kate Bishop!”

The audience goes wild.

“Have my children!” a woman cries.

“Flash us your tongue,” another yells.

“Impregnate me,” someone else begs.

Johnny does not care for this

“Today our contestants will be answering questions from these six categories to win a chance at a fantastic prize: Superhero Fun Facts, Chemical Compounds, Taylor Swift, My Favorite Foods, and People I’ve Killed!”

Cheers from the crowd.

“We’re gonna circle back to that once we get out of here, right?” Johnny mutters. 

“Alright, Johnny. You can start us off, pick a category, any category,” Mojo grins from his stand.

“Uhmmm…Superhero Fun Facts for three hundred?”

Ding!

“Name three Guardians of the Galaxy!”

“Gamora…Mantis..and uhm,” Johnny chokes. He glances at Kate. Fuck. He only knows one other guardian but doesn’t want to say it. 

“You have fifteen seconds, Mr. Watts,” Mojo belches out. 

He rolls his eyes and lowers his head. “Noh-Varr” he mumbles. 

Ding ding!

“Correct! That’s three hundred to you, Johnny. Pick ‘nother one!”

“I’ll do Taylor Swift for one hundred please.”

“Alrighty.” The blob cackles. “What is the name of Taylor Swift’s fourth album?”

ZZZzzz

“Red,” answers Kate, confidently. “Sorry,” she mouths to Johnny. 

Ding ding!

The camera pans back to Mojo, awaiting the next question. But the viewer’s eyes are met with him having a hysterical coughing fit. For a good minute, the ghastly figure wheezes, trying to catch his breath before the cameras cut. 

BRRRNG

A crew of people rush towards Mojo, adjusting his wires as he groans. Meanwhile, Kate, Johnny, and Chavez watch from their podiums in disgust. 

“Great job, you guys. You truly are prodigies,” Quentin says, walking up to the podiums. “I almost forgot you guys share a brain cell for a second. It looks like your stupidity is killing the Globglogabgalab. Look at the old shit.”

“Elder abuse,” sighs Johnny.

Mojo keeps coughing. 

“I think you guys did great,” Gwen says softly.

“Well, if it isn’t the drama queen herself…” a voice croaked from behind Gwen. “If I knew you were so good at interviews, I would make you guys act as real housewives. The viewers crave queer people in their 20s starting shit.”

Kate steps down from the stage. “We won’t let you trap us here,” she says, passing Gwen. 

“POP A TITTY,” pleads someone from the audience. Chavez shoots them a death stare.

“You’ll stay for as long as I want,” Mojo chuckles, leaning in. “If I recall correctly, you all signed contracts agreeing to this.” In the glob’s hands appears a stack of hologram paperwork, all displaying the crew's signatures. Quentin sticks out his hand to try and grab it but Mojo shifts too quickly, causing him to stumble. “Uh-uh. Not today, weather boy. Be careful, or I might just make you cover the meteorology morning segment. Only on the west coast.”

Quentin gasps. No, not the west coast! His fidelity lies with the east coast. New yolker 4 lyfe.

Major Domo taps Mojo on the shoulder, startling him. “WHAT?!” he csreams, whipping himself around. 

“We’re back on in a minute.”

Mojo shifted. “Oh.” He turns back to the crew. “Better get back to your places,” he grins. “Or you might get put in your place,” he says, locking eyes with Gwen. 

“He wants you so bad,” another audience member shouts.

“Shut UP,” Chavez yells back.

“Kate, pick a category.”

“Uhm…‘People I’ve Killed’ for one hundred please.” 

Ding!

“Great. Who did I kill.”

Kate looks at her peers. “What the hell?” she mouths to Chavez, who shrugs. The time ticks on intensely. Johnny looks on, pondering. In the final second, he slams his hand down on the buzzer.

“Princess Diana,” he yells confidently. The crowd is appalled. They boo a little bit and stamp their feet angrily. The masses are large and fickle. A red light flashes. 

“Awww, so close,” Mojo pouts. “The correct answer was…Stacy!” 

On the side of the stage, Clint joins the pink-haired couple. “Guys, guys how's it-” 

“Stacy, I knew it was Stacy!” Gwen loudly whispers while shaking Quentin. She turns to Clint and a glimmer of light appears in her eyes. “I have an idea!”

“I'll do ‘People I’ve killed’ for 200, Mojo,” Chavez cuts in. 

“Alrighty! Who did I kill.”

A wave on the side caught Kate’s eye. Gwen was whispering into Clint’s ear as he fingerspelled: “L-O-N-G-S-H—”

BUZZ!

“Longshot!” Kate shouted.

Ding ding!  

“You are correct Ms. Bishop! Pick the next category.”

“Taylor Swift for two hundred.”

“Which famous singer is Taylor Swift named after?”

BUZZZ

“James Taylor,” America Chavez, says nonchalantly. “What?” she says, turning to Bishop. “I listen when you talk about Taylor Swift.” 

“Correct! This leads us into our final round of the night! For this question, you will have to write down the correct answer. Whoever answers wrong will be eliminated from the game. Players, are you ready?”

“Wai-”

“Fantastic. Superheroes for eight hundred: What is “Kid Omega’s” legal name?”

Johnny furiously begins to pencil in his answer, at the complete contrast of Chavez, who mutters, “Who the hell is Kid Omega,” as the timer begins. 

Kate glances to the side. “Q-U-I-....” quickly, she loses track. “Again!” she signs. Frantically, Clint begins from the top, however, she still fails to understand what he’s saying because of his fast pace. “Again, again.”

“HEY!” Kate's eyes widen. “NO CHEATING!” Mojo screams. “Enough, stop the time. STOP THE TIMER! Kate Bishop is eliminated from the show for conspiring with the eliminated contestants.”

Johnny's jaw drops. “What?!”

“And due to that, America Chavez and Johnny Watts will automatically be moved onto the final round. Thank you for joining us tonight, we will see you next time!”

(Chavez stares at her blank answer card. Nice, she thinks. I was never going to remember who Kid Omega is, never mind what their legal name is. Johnny smiles approvingly at his card, which reads Quirinius Quintavius Quire .)

“Cut!” yells a voice.

“I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU!” Mojo shouts, charging towards Kate. Quickly, the rest of the gang surrounds her in a ready position to fight. 

“WE’LL FORGIVE YOU IF YOU POP THE OTHER TIT-”

(This audience member is forcibly escorted off the premises.)

“Let’s calm down,” Major Domo says, holding back Mojo. “Why don’t we do some of those breathing exercises we learned?”

“Fine,” Mojo huffs. “But I’m watching you,” he snaps, giving a death stare to the team over his shoulder. “The next round will be impossible to cheat.”

Alone in a dimly lit dressing room sits Kate Bishop with her head in her hands. She let out a dejected sigh before slumping back into her chair. Her mind swirls with possibilities of the future and how she could stop them. Before she can get sucked into a scenario, she’s interrupted by a gentle knock on the door. 

“Kate, can I come in?” Gwen asks from the other side. 

“Sure,” Bishop sighs. 

Gwen steps into the room, closing the door behind her. “I just wanted to come in and say sorry,” she says, looking down at her pink shoes. “I didn’t mean to escalate things, I was just trying to help.”

Kate tilts her head, causing her ponytail to pool at her shoulder. “It's ok, Gwen. I know you were coming from a good place.”

“I know, but I got you eliminated,” she says, glancing up through her bangs. “And I made things more difficult for the team.”

“You didn’t mean to. You were just trying to help us. That idea with Clint was a great idea! I just need to work on my poker face.” A small smile forms on Gwen’s face. “When we get out of here—which we will,” Kate assures, “we can work on thinking more realistically in these sort of situations.”

“Ok,” Gwen nods. “I would like that.”

“I don’t know if you notice this, but you act as if the world will just bend to you.”

“Usually it does; we’re comic book characters.”

Chapter Text

“Chavez?” a familiar voice beckons.

 America glances up. Standing in front of her is Quentin Quire in his stupid fuckass skinny jeans and leather jacket. She lets out a scoff.

“Please. Just hear me out.” She rolls her eyes in response and begins to walk away while crushing the soda can in her fist. Before she could make it far, she’s pulled back. America swings her head around, glaring at the arm on her shoulder. “Please,” he pleads. 

“Fine, but you have a few minutes. I need to be at the arena soon.”

Quentin lets out a sigh of relief before quickly switching to a serious face as he fidgets with his hands. “It is true that this whole ordeal was a part of the contract I got you guys to sign,” he admits. “But I didn’t know that this was a part of the deal. I know it’s a shitty explanation but they purposely made it hard to figure out—the contract was like a billion pages!”

Chavez raises a brow. “Is that seriously all you have to say?”

“No,” Quentin sighed. “I’m… sorry for putting you guys in this situation. I should’ve read the contracts I gave you guys to sign.”

Chavez blinks. “You should have,” she agrees before aggressively hitting him on the shoulder, “But it was a mistake we made together. We should have known not to trust you with the contracts.”

Quentin rolls his eyes, but grins nevertheless. “Break a leg.”

“It’ll be yours,” Chavez promises, brushing her hands off on her jeans and getting ready to enter the arena.

“Have fun in there. But not too much fun,” Quentin winks. 

What the fuck is wrong with him? “Don’t wink at me,” she says, disgusted. 

Quentin rolls his eyes and sighs. “We’re gonna stop Mojo,” he says bluntly.

“You could’ve just said that.”

The final game was set in a futuristic Colosseum: the circular encasement was composed of white screens that periodically lit up neon, and the tiles beneath their feet emitted ripples of color as they wandered around the arena. Bright pink lasers occasionally shot across the room to the beat of some awful fuckass techno music that blared from speakers above them. Chavez hoped the music was for the benefit of the waiting spectators, and not a permanent fixture of the arena.

She faced Johnny in the center of it while the production team bustled around them. Someone from hair and makeup was filling in his eyebrows while what may have been an intern polished her shoes. Chavez was fighting the urge to kick them, but she was cool in that she didn’t fuck around with the unpaid and Quentin had warned her not to make waves that might ruin their plan. She looked up to the sky and prayed that they actually did have a plan and that this would all be over soon. 

“Kate?” Jimy Faloon beckons. He steps into her dressing room. “I’m here for the pre-show check-in.” Kate was nowhere to be found. Instead, Quentin was manspreading on the couch while Gwen sat on top of the dressing counter. “Uh. I don’t feel safe.”

“You shouldn’t,” Clint says, blocking the door behind him. 

Major and Minor Domo have a casual conversation as they walk to the next arena. The short brown-haired girl carries a tray of coffee on top of a clipboard while Major Domo strolls with his hands clasped behind him.

“And that’s how sunfish still manage to survive even though they’re difficult sea creatures,” Minor Domo cheers.

“Reminds me of someone I know,” Major Domo mumbles.  

All of a sudden, they could hear loud panting coming from behind them. Fearfully, they whip around to find a frantic Clint Barton charging at them. 

“Gwen….Quentin…” he gasps, bending over his knees while catching his breath. 

The Domos look at each other, confused. “What about them?” Major asks. 

It takes Clint a good minute before he’s able to coax out a response. “Broom closet,” he says, pointing behind himself.

Minor Domo clasps her hands together. “Ah, yes, that is the direction of the broom closet. Good boy, Clint!”

Major Domo rolls his eyes and heads towards the hallway. Clint and Minor Domo follow suit. “This better be important,” he says, turning his head towards Clint. “We have places to be, unlike you talentless beings.” 

“What if the broom closet exploded?” Minor Domo whines. “Or what if there was an earthquake and all the stuff just fell—or—or what if they got locked in there—or tried to climb the shelves and died—or—or—or—”

“That's enough,” Major Domo commands, putting his hand up. “Enough of your spiraling. That’s Spiral’s job.” 

“But what if…”

“Okay, here we are. What exactly is the issue, Clint?”

By this pont, Clint was finally back at a regular breathing rate. “They’re in there,” he informs them. “Doing,” he says emphatically, moving his arms.

Major Domo sighs and shoves a hand into his pocket, pulling out a key. Before he can enter the tiny room, he feels a push on his neck and collapses to the ground. 

“WHAT DID YOU DO TO HIM?” Minor Domo cries out in shock before charging towards Clint. She swings at the archer, who manages to dodge her. As she whips herself back around, he sticks out his foot and trips her to the ground, causing her to let out an oof as she face-plants on the floor. 

“Now, where is this thing?” Clint mutters, patting down her shoulders and neck.

“Up my ass and around—”

“There it is,” Clint said, letting go of the back of her head. “Time to get you locked up,” he says, dragging the assistant by her ankles to the closet. 

“This is very dehumanizing,” Faloon says, jerking around in a chair. “Let me out this instant; I have a show to perform!”

“We’ll untie you once you tell us where the editing room is,” Quire said, hovering over Faloons' shoulder. “But until then, you can stay right here.” 

“Please. You don't understand,” Faloon pleaded. “I have to go out there.” Tears began welling up in the interviewer's eyes. “Mojo will kill me if I fuck up. I can’t do that,” he sniffles into his shirt. “He’ll get me,” he quivers. “He’ll kill my parents, he’ll decapitate my dog. He’ll crash every stock in the market but Tesla.”

“Then tell us where he is,” Gwen grittily says, gently yanking his head back.

“I can’t.” 

“Yes, you can, you are more than somebody under Mojo’s control.”

“No, I’m not,” Faloon sobs. “Ever since I took this job, I haven’t been a person. I have no wife, no kids. I just live vicariously through others' stories.”

Quire squats down to his level. “If you tell us where the editing room is, we will take you with us.”

“No!” Jimy sobs.

“Fine, then I’ll have to find it myself,” Quire says, bringing one hand to his temple. 

Quentin Quire fingers Faloon’s brain—but worse, causing the washed-out star to let out a shriek of fear. Meanwhile, the telepath hums to himself. “No..no… oh my god no ….Why are all of your memories so sleazy dude?...no..no…You don’t even have a dog?….ah..there! Got it.”

Quentin glances up at Gwen. “Stay here and stand guard over Faloon. I know the way to the editing room.” 

Gwen gives a thumbs up before turning to Faloon. “Why would you lie about having a dog?” she frowns. 

The arena was now empty of production staff, only the final two contestants remained on opposite sides of the arena. In the center stood the grotesque Mojo with his hands clasped together. “The rules of the Mojo Games are simple,” he said to the camera, “don’t die. It’s time to introduce our contestants for the very last time tonight. On the right, we have… America Chavez, Kate Bishop’s girlfriend! On the left, we have…Johnny Watts, Kate Bishop’s boyfriend. And is that…yes! My lovely spectators, on that back wall is the timer counting down to the beginning of our very last game! Let’s count together, shall we?”

The spectators in the stands began to cheer as Mojo ascended to his super special VIP box. Right as the countdown hit the final five seconds, he finally adjusted into his seat, leaning over menacingly in anticipation.

A hush fell over the crowd as the timer blared and the arena’s lights flickered in sync, the entire floor lighting up, illuminating the figures of the two contestants. Neither Chavez nor Johnny moved, but the floor where Mojo once stood caved in as a new surface began to rise: a table covered in a multitude of weapons, from nunchucks to a morning star.

“FIGHT,” yells Mojo enthusiastically. One must imagine Sisyphus as a man kicking his feet at the prospect of twenty-year-olds fighting to the death to techno music.

The two players stood paralyzed in fear (and also maybe probably annoyance).  

Mojo slammed his hands down on the ledge. “I SAID FIGHT!”

Kate, Clint, and Quire reconvene at the previous kitchen soundstage. Unlike last time, the set is barren and dark. 

“Got the directions?” Clint asks wearily.

“You know I do ;)” Quire grins.

The two Hawkeyes give him twin looks of disgust, repulsed. “Gross. Take us there,” Kate finally says. 

The infinite halls were nearly identical from the pale walls to the dull fluorescent ceiling lights. After aimless wandering and the fourth I swear this is the right way followed by a It's not my fault all these hallways look the same 😂😜  the trio finally arrive at the editing room. 

“Remind me to never get lost with you again,” Clint sighs as he inserts the keys into the steel knob. As Clint pushes the door open, three silhouettes instantly turn towards the door. All three men looked gaunt and tired. The closest one to the door eyes widened in fear before beginning to charge at the group, screaming. Easily, Quentin slams him into a giant computer with the lift of his hand. 

The pink-haired man turns to the remaining two workers. “Who’s next?” he grins.  The two men shake their heads. Like the same magnetic poles, the men push their chairs further to the corner of the room in relation to Quentin’s steps closer. 

Meanwhile, Kate and Clint approach the complex technology running the show. Several screens display the final fight occurring in the arena at different angles, while on others, soundbites and action-packed clips from their previous games play on repeat. Clint furrows his brow at a massive whiteboard hung on one wall of the room. Dates and times align with the names of each challenge the team competed in. Obstamojocle Course and Slay or Be Slain are circled in green, seemingly queued up and ready to air very soon. “How do we stop this?” Clint wonders out loud.

“Like this,” says Kate, before smashing her fists into the massive soundboard in front of her. Clint follows suit, pushing monitors off a desk and stomping holes through them in succession. Not to be outdone, Kate throws a chair at the biggest screen in the room, exhaling through her nose as it shatters.

“If you want to do actual damage you have to hit these servers and monitors over here,” Quire advises, still looming over the editors with a weirdly shark-like grin (that’s where Jeff gets it from). Before you could say QuentinStopAttackingTheCameraMenThatsAViolationOfUnionWorkers’Rights, the Hawkeyes were jabbing their arrows into the monsters of machines—subsequently destroying hours' worth of footage as a result. After lots of screaming, arrows, and mind-manipulation, the room was littered with bits of plastic, metal, broken arrows, and editorial tears. As the editors laid unconscious in the corner, the three quickly made their way towards the arena. 

Mojo watches approvingly as Chavez approaches Johnny with an aggressive countenance, shoes making heavy thuds on the neon floor. There aren’t any weapons on, but Mojo has seen firsthand what people can do to each other when it really comes down to it. From fisting to flipping each other off, humans are nasty.

And then they start bitch slapping each other, which completely throws him off. The slapping evolves into wacking each other's hands with their own, demolishing the art of fighting to the death. “What the fuck,” he says, alarmed.

“You’re immature,” Chavez says casually, voice picked up by the multiple microphones concealed in the arena and on her person.

“Your mom’s immature.”

Adding to Mojo’s devastation, one of hidden doors to the arena gets busted open, and fucking Quentin Quire appears in his fuckass skinny jeans. “Nooooo,” Mojo whines like a very sad cow.

“Kate!” Kate’s partners say in tandem. 

Johnny runs to Kate and hugs her. “I missed you,” he says quietly. 

“I missed you, too,” she says, rubbing his back. 

“I don’t mean to ruin such a nice moment,” Clint interrupts. “But can we please get it off here.” (Neither the writers have an recollection of what this was supposed to mean)

Out of the side of his eye, Quentin notices that Mojo left his balcony. “Guys…I think Mojo’s coming,” he warns. Like clockwork, the gang picks up weapons and gets into fighting stances, but after a minute of posing, Chaves slams her sword down.

“Where the fuck is he?”

“I’m coming!” Mojo’s voice ominously screeches from somewhere. “This lift is just very slow.”

“Unbelievable,” Quentin murmurs.

“Hi guys!” a familiar voice cheers. The team turns toward the sound and sees Gwenpool running at them through the busted door frame with Jimy Faloon draped around her shoulders like a terrified scarf. “I heard you guys were down here and I wanted to get in on all the fun!” she says, gently slinging Jimy off her back, causing him to let out a groan as he rolls on the floor. “What’s happening?” she says, dusting off a katana from the floor. 

“We’re fighting Mojo,” Clint informs her.

“Cool,” she replies happily. Gwen nods, looking around. Then: “Where is he?”

“Gimme a sec,” Mojo’s voice echoes from somewhere in the walls, agitation in his tone.
“I think I’m stuck.”

“Jesus Christ,” Chavez screams out of frustration. “Come here you disgusting asshole,” she says, punching down the walls of the arena, leaving only the frames to remain. “Got ya!” she shouts, flying straight towards the now vulnerable Mojo. Like a fly, Mojo swats Chavez down, causing a thud to echo through the deconstructed arena. 

“America!” Kate shouts running towards her. “Oh my god are you okay?” 

Chavez groans. “Never been better.”

And then they FIGHT.

The crew puts in their best effort to weaken the giant; grinning like a megalomaniacal goblin king, Quentin hovers himself a good ten feet in the air and begins hurling debris at Mojo with his mind fuck powers while Gwen below charges with her katana.

Clint backs away like a rat and uses the bow he pulled out of his ass to fire arrows at Mojo. They’re just regular arrows btw. Can they puncture Mojo’s skin enough to so hardcore damage? Perchance. Mojo uses one appendage to shoot LASERS at Clint so Clint is kept busy by dodging.

“Arg,” Gwen cries like a pirate when her katana merely glances off Mojo’s metal frame.

“I don’t think that’ll work, Gwen,” Quentin yells, unhelpfully. 

“Fuck off!”

Meanwhile, Johnny turns into steel through the shiny rebar strewn across the floor and battering-rams into Mojo’s legs, trying to unbalance the TV host. Behind him, Kate and America continue to have a Moment.

Eyes alight with a new idea, Gwen holds her katana with her teeth and begins to scale Mojo’s metal bottom-half. She makes it up to the platform where his blob begins and manages to stab his side with a furious cry before he tries to laser her, too. Luckily, Mojo misses on account of Johnny’s ramming efforts. Quentin hits him with another chunk of concrete and Mojo’s attention is redirected to the terrorist.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Kate asks breathlessly as she drops to her knees at Chavez’s side. “America? Oh my god. Your leg—it’s broken.” 

fuckyou quentin

Leaning back on her elbows, America regards her with a guarded and pained expression, clearly not having forgotten their last conversation two chapters ago. 

Kate’s brow furrows in shame. “I know things between us have been…different, lately, but when you fell, it really scared me. This whole thing, the trip to Universal, the studio tour…I’m so tired of the cameras and being forced to play someone else’s game.”

“Then let’s play our own,” America tells her. Kate sniffles sadly, eyes shining with affection and also tears. Chavez reaches up to wipe a tear from her face, but recoils in pain. Worried, Kate shuffles them until America’s head rests on her thighs. Something heavy in the air lies between them. The two gaze at each other, a million emotions swimming in their eyes, for a few moments before Kate speaks:

“The idea of anything bad happening to you is too terrifying to think about.”

“Why is that, Kate?” asks Chavez softly.

“I want you to be mine…I want you, too, America.”

“AHHHHH,” screams Gwen as she sails above their heads, another scaling attempt thwarted. Beside her quickly lands Johnny and Clint, all parties groaning in pain. Quentin zooms like a hot pink fidget spinner above them, cackling.

“I don’t think we’re winning this one,” Johnny admits, panting.

“Hold on, I have one last arrow,” says Clint, his tone brimming with hope as he holds it up. Then, a laser fires in their direction, which obviously reduces Clint’s last arrow to a small stub in his hands. “Johnny’s right; I think we should consider a tactical retreat.”

“You guys get to what’s left of the door,” yells Quentin from above them. “I’ll hold him off.”

“I like that plan,” Clint informs them.

“It’s good enough for me,” grunts Chavez as Kate helps her stand. Her broken leg has been splinted with two arrows, but she leans heavily on Kate as they hobble towards the group.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be close behind,” Quentin assures them, though no one needed to be persuaded to leave him behind.

Gwen leads the way out of the arena and the four of them follow, ducking the flying debris and weakening between Mojo’s spider-legs. They ignore Quentin’s shouts of victory and squawks of surprise, which echo throughout the warehouse as they make their escape.

[let’s pretend there’s a montage of them walking through the different game show sets in reverse-order Barbie-style]

Eventually, the hallway opens up to a ludicrously-capacious room and a familiar large set of double doors. 

“The escape,” Kate gasps.

The five hobble towards the exit. Gwen slices the bicycle lock holding the doors together and ushers each of them through them, following as soon as Johnny is through. Turning back, the team stares in awe as the warehouse begins to collapse before the railways, the entire structure shuddering and swaying. 

Gwen drops to her knees, face falling while Johnny sighs very sadly. Kate lowers Chavez and herself to the floor, covering her mouth in horror. Chavez grimaces (pain or grief?). This is gonna ruin the studio tour , thinks Clint.

Bursting into tears, Gwen gasps, “I left Jimy behind!”

A new layer of grief settles over the group. God, Jimy. He was so young, with his wife and kids that may or may not exist and his made-up dog. Johnny sighs even more sadly. 

The rubble, or what’s left of the warehouse studio, is shrouded by a thick dust cloud as sirens ring in the distance. Clint murmurs, “I think we need to get out of here before we get kicked out of another theme park.”

“But-“ Kate cried.

“-Jimy, I know. It’s a hard pill to swallow, but we should let the firemen take it from here before we do anymore damage.”

“...No…Quentin…Quentin is also in the rubble.”

“Oh my god Quentin is in the rubble.”

The group began shouting at what to do. As the sun came to set on the decimated studio a figure rose from the rubble—like a phoenix emerging from its ashes as the dust was displaced in its wake. With staggering steps, it grew closer and closer.

“Is that… is that …?”

“Jimy!”

“Quentin.”

The phoenix was not a phoenix at all. It was Quentin Quire, former Phoenix (there’s a big difference), with Jimy Faloon on his shoulders!

Kate and Gwen rush forward to help, Gwen taking Jimy from Quentin’s shoulders as Kate lets Quentin balance on her while navigating the rubble. They make it back to the railways safely, the little group huddled in a circle with Jimy at the center. Almost like they’re about to eat him. They’re not gonna, but wouldn’t that be funny? Yes it would be. So anyways, 

Gwen sniffles and brushes the tears off her face, sniffling. Kate wraps an arm around her shoulder comfortingly and Chavez pats Quentin on the back.

“I didn’t know you could lift more than ten pounds,” she says appraisingly. “Nice.”

“I think Jimy is hollow,” Quentin whispers back.

Chavez’s eyes widen as she leans back uneasily. She presses her lips and begins to say something before-

“Can we do the Harry Potter ride again?” asks Gwen.