Work Text:
An unusual silence has descended the usually chaotic battlefield.
Soldiers sit in their trenches, shaking hands cupped around glowing cigarettes, tin mugs of bitter lukewarm coffee are shared among companions and quiet but nervous laughter bubbles up as they recall half remembered text posts. Above their heads rise the walls of the trenches, muddy and stinking, hiding the carnage of the battlefield from view.
A young whovian sits on an upturned crate, spinning her regulation sonic screwdriver around her fingers as she awaits orders from her superiors. It has been two years since she was called up for service, forced to choose between her fandoms. Sometimes she wishes she had never been called on, the amount of bloodshed she has seen, but then she reminds herself it is an honour to serve her fandom and she powers on though time and space.
On the Supernatural front, rock salt and sawn off shot guns are being frantically handed out. A haggard looking officer, decked out in the uniform of the angels, pours over battle plans, trying to find a way though enemy defences. His fingers hover momentarily over a blank space on his map that he just knows harbours the Homestucks. Fire dances in his eyes and a knife is suddenly quivering on the spot.
The Sherlockian trenches are just a mass of glowing cigarette ends. One young man and his doctor sit huddled in a corner talking quietly, while one soldier sits alone and doctorless, retreating into her mind palace. The Sherlockian army is unusual in that each soldier is accompanied by a single doctor but due to the volatile nature of the fandom, it was agreed that anything that prolonged the sanity of the men was a good thing. The doctors are not just for medical attention either. They are friends.
The Merlin fandom is in tatters, their magic spent. Most of them no longer even attempt to hide the pain any more and more than one of the handful of survivors are openly sobbing. They just want to go home now. Back to their loved ones. To some it seems like a thousand years since they've been happy or safe and it's a thousand years too many.
A stark contrast to the wasted magic of Albion, is the Marvel fandom. Modern and advanced they sit quietly, not wanting to disturb the rare quiet that has fallen in place of the whining of sonic devices, sharp crack of shot guns and the screaming. The Marvel fandom is no stranger to tragedy like many of the other fandoms and relish in the fragile peace.
But of course peaceful moments in wartime never last long. The Homestucks and their unlikely allies the Hetalians are armed to the teeth and ready, strife specibi filled with all sorts of unusual, yet effective weaponry. Grey war paint is smeared on determined faces and although you wouldn't tell from looking at them, they are all terrified. They wait in the mud, cold feet protesting as the chill seeps through the cracking leather. They wait for the signal.
They charge.
The night isn't silent anymore.