In the Wings
Roman bustled backstage, grinning at some of the stagehands before his cue. It was the last dress rehearsal, and he was Mercutio. His death scene was soon, but he didn’t mind too much. He only had to be in character for a little bit before he was an extra with nothing but a few general lines and choreography. An easy role. He could do better. A necessary comic relief, if he knew the story at all. And he did. It was far too depressing.
Act three had begun. He swept onto the stage with Benvolio, a page, and a few servants.
“I pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire: The day is hot, the Capulets abroad, and, if we meet, we shall not scrape a brawl; for now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.”
Roman grinned. “Thou art like one of those fellows that when he enters the confines of a tavern claps me his sword upon the table and says ‘God send me no need of thee!’ and by the operation of the second cup draws it on the drawer, when indeed there is no need.”
“Am I like such a fellow?”
Roman laughed. “Come, come, thou art as hot as a Jack in thy mood as any in Italy, and as soon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved.”
“And what to?”
He spoke his next lines, looking into the laughing crowd at Mercutio’s antics, and smiled, for he was on the stage.
He was home.
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Tony was typing frantically, trying to get this done. If he was able to make it work- they might have a chance, if Strange had told him anything.
He had to get this to work.
He pressed start on the program and hit the chestplate twice. The nanobots slowly spread out, stopping just over the tips of his fingers and above his knees. He scowled and retracted them, trying to think his way through the problem. Were there just not enough? No, that didn’t make sense. He had plenty.
Was it something with the algorithm? Maybe.
He rubbed his eyes. He was tired… but he wouldn’t sleep until this was done.
He shook his head and went back to work.
The messages from Thor and Fury lay forgotten on his phone.
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They drew their prop swords. The extras scattered.
“Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk?” He spat out.
“What wouldst thou have with me?” Arrogant. He was impressed at the pure aloofness that hung in his words. Great actor.
Roman flashed Tybalt a wry grin. “Good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine lives; that I mean to make bold withal, and as you shall use me hereafter, drybeat the rest of the eight. Will you pluck your sword out of the pitcher by the ears? Make haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out.”
“I am for you.”
Tybal drew his sword just as Romeo did to try and stop the ‘fray’. “Gentle Mercutio, but thy rapier up.”
He jabbed his sword at Tybalt. “Come sir, your passado!”
They fought, swords swinging. His sword practice had come in handy.
Romeo tried to stop them to no avail. “Draw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons! Gentlemen, for shame, forebear this outrage! Tybalt, Mercutio the prince expressly hath forbidden bandying in Verona streets! Hold Tybalt! Good Mercutio!”
Roman stiffened as he got ‘stabbed’ with the sword. Tybalt ran offstage, leaving just the four of them.
“I am hurt. A plague on both you houses! I am sped. Is he gone, and hath nothing?”
“What, art thou hurt?”
He collapsed into Benvolio’s arms. “Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch; marry, ‘tis enough. Where is my page? Go, villain, fetch a surgeon.”
The page ran off and he was lowered more to the ground.
Romeo helped Benvolio haul him to his feet. “Courage man; the hurt cannot be much!”
“No, ‘tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church-door; but ‘tis enough. ‘Twill serve: ask for me tomorrow and you shall find a grave man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world. A plague o’ both your houses! ‘Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat to scratch a man to death! A braggart, a rogue, a villain, that fights by the book of arithmetic! Why the devil came you between us? I was hurt under your arm!”
“I thought it all for the best.” Romeo said sadly.
He gripped Benvolio harder by the shoulder. “Help me into some house, Benvolio, or I shall faint. A plague o’ both your houses! They have made worms’ meat of me: I have it, and soundly too: your houses!”
He ‘hobbled’ out with Mercutio, grinning at each other when they reached the back. The stagehands gave him thumbs ups in approval.
“Great job out there!” One whispered. He smiled back at her- Aimee, right? He barely got enough time to spit out a thanks before he was ushered off by Costume and Makeup to get into his other outfit.
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Anti looked at the clips he’d gotten that day. Nice, nice… might want to re-do that one tomorrow… he made a note in his notebook then turned back to the screen. Alright… that looked pretty good so far. He stretched.
That was enough for tonight. Even he couldn’t work on stuff like that for too long without getting antsy.
He turned off the light and flopped into bed.
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Logan printed out the new copy of notes and walked them over to Gaster.
“Your notes?”
He nodded and handed them to the skeleton. “Not shredded this time.”
“Excellent.” Gaster’s eyes lit up and he looked over it with superhuman speed. “These look good. Do you wish to start running diagnostics?”
Logan’s eyes lit up with excitement but he simply nodded. Gaster chuckled.
“Alright, alright. Don’t get too excited. Would Lab 3 suffice?”
Nod. Gaster handed him his notes and remembered something. “If you would like you can have your siblings and/or cousins help with your recreation. They were all present, and the more information the better. The book should be in Lab 3, yes?”
Logan nodded. “That should have the main instructions. The main thing is turning the natural magic source into something mechanical. I’ll keep you updated as I go.”
“Wonderful. If you need assistance, don’t be afraid to ask.”
Logan nodded and moved towards the door. “Alright. Unless the door says otherwise you can come in anytime, as I do not believe I will be working with volatile substances.”
“Tell me if that changes, but I may take you up on your offer.”
Logan nodded and left the room.
He had science to do.
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Frisk was worried.
While nothing bad had happened in a while, that was great and all, it was too… tense. Like there was something that should be happening.
The battle was over. The day was won.
But… that seemed to be it. No consequences? No karma? No… nothing?
They looked at the clock. It was getting late. Time for bed.
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Loki looked at the teen passed out on the counter with amusement. Then he sighed, remembering what he had to do.
He didn’t want him to hurt later…
With a small sigh he opened his book and set it down next to him as he sat up straighter and placed a hand in the space above Dee’s head.
Vowels and crisp consonants in a language unknown to most in Midgard floated through the air. Dee shifted slightly but was still. A haze of green magic hung over the teen’s head before settling upon him like a faint mist, disappearing soon after.
With a snap of his fingers it was done. He closed the book with an air of finality and went to wake the teen.
It was getting late after all, and his siblings were sure to worry.
He hoped that the spell worked.