AN: Also on Tumblr (answer to a prompt by reallyssa)

x.x.x

The low hum in the air warns you about what is to come.

You're not ready yet, though. There are still some things you have to do before the inevitable occurs, some things you've not yet taken care of. You swagger down the hall, determined albeit drunkenly so. You need some fortitude, some liquid courage to keep you going.

The cupboards are still stocked as she left them long ago, though the stores are becoming more depleted as time wears on. You stand on your toes and reach to the very back of one of the shelf, to where you know she kept something special.

Ah, there it is.

You pull the fine-necked bottle of champagne from its hiding hole and regard it fondly. Yes, this will do nicely.

The low vibrations disturb the surrounding atmosphere like the rumbling that warns a storm is about to come.

You know what is going to happen. It's that time, the time you had been expecting for years. Your hand slides over the hilt of your sword, grasping it in anticipation. No, not yet. You still have a couple things you must do before you face your fate.

Like grab your so-called "Juju". What the fuck is a juju anyway, seriously, is that even a word?

Of course it fucking is. You know all of the words. Every last one. Most of them were put to good use in the final chapters of the Pony Pals epic you sent to your friend, but you suppose that's gone now, lost in the sands of time and also that explosion.

Man, today could not be any shittier.

You sit in your mother's study, in the chair by her desk, looking at all of her things like you have hundreds of times before. The neat stacks of paper, the copy of Complacency of the Learned, and, hidden in the corner, a small photograph of the two of you together. It had taken you a long time to find that photo, far too many rootings around of the desk to count. But you had found it, sure enough, well hidden and well cared for in a secret cubby of the desk.

You've moved it to a better spot since then, obviously. What's the point of a photograph if no one's going to see it?

You pop the cork from the bottle and it flies across the room in a graceful arc. The top of the bottle foams a little, but it's nothing like you've seen in the movies. You're a little disappointed at the lack of theatrics, but maybe it's better this way. You'll get your fill of excitement soon enough and then some.

Pressing your lips to the mouth of the bottle in the kiss of the alcoholic, you pause. In the corner of your eye you small a curled tail and a green tongue and the corners of your lips twitch upwards.

You can't stay mad at him for long.

The buzzing drone becomes louder and you can't help but notice the poetry in those words. They'd make a good rap, you'd think, except you'd have to captchalogue one and that's too much of a hassle for too little payoff. It would probably make a shitty song, anyway, you realize. People need escapist absurdity about sex and money, not about the cold, hard futuristic facts.

You pick your "juju" up and head to the living room. You can't help but view the little shrine you've built for your brother with a feeling that is not unlike fondness. You say a shrine, of course, but it's really more of a pile of shit. That was his corner before, anyway, you just added a couple of things to it over the years. An ironically shitty comic or two, a second copy of the Pony Pals, a worn photo of the two of you at a movie premier with both of you rocking your suits and shades.

Your fingertips graze the tattoo on your arm, the Hella Jeff to his Sweet Bro. They don't make a pair anymore, but it does present some nostalgia. Between the two of you, you're pretty sure he was the more apprehensive one when it came to getting the tattoo. It was difficult to tell behind the shades and the ever-present poker face, but you knew him pretty well and he had seemed kind of antsy under all those layers of perfected irony.

After seeing you, the little kid, take it like a man, though, he had gone through with the whole thing. Afterwards, you had both gone out to eat a smorgasbord of the most artery-hardening foods you could find. It had been a pretty good day.

The throbbing hum brings you back from your trip down memory lane.

You don't have much time left.

The GCat just sits there, licking himself with a solid indifference that makes you wonder if he can even hear the humming at all. If he can, he doesn't show it.

You turn back to the desk to take a hearty swig, but something catches your mind once more. It's an old tradition, very old, and your mother would never approve in a thousand years.

That's why you have to do it.

You stand up and tip the bottle over the desk, letting the bubbly flow from its glass confinement and splash out over the desk. Pouring one out for old mumsy. She would hate this on so many levels, you can't help but smile.

Halfway through you tip the bottle back up and finally have some for yourself. It tickles your throat and you cough, but it's pretty quality stuff. You watch as the discarded champagne soaks through the blank sheets of paper and drips onto the floor. The GCat flashes over and begins to lap some up. You can't be sure, but you think he probably likes it. He's always had good taste.

The whole house is starting to vibrate now. You can hear the rattle of wizardly ornaments echoing throughout the house. You guess it's time.

You begin your ascent to the roof.

With Lil Cal in tow, you take one last sweep of the apartment. You give a little nod at the various self-important movie posters your bro had set up, and give Stiller a little fistbump. You still aren't sure you approved of his acting, but you have to admit, the guy had some pretty good taste in tinted specs.

Not as good as yours, though.

You press the noseband of your shades up with your middle finger, casually flipping the bird to any nosy bitches that might be watching. It's a small act of defiance, yes, but it's those small acts that define a guy.

You can physically feel the rumbling now, tremors running up your legs, filling your stomach not with fearful butterflies but with fearsome electricity. This is what you've been waiting for. You might be alone now, but you're alone and pissed.

You rest your hand on the hilt of your sword, give one last approving nod to the apartment, and begin the walk of the warrior up the steps.

Outside, the sound is far worse. It permeates the air around you, thick with sound and thick with what you briefly consider to be electrical current. Your finger rests on the trigger of your gun and you take your place as defender of the castle. It's not the time for fear, but something inside you seems to be quivering, unsure. You don't want to do this alone.

As if in answer, the wind picks up and your mom's scarf fans out behind you, dancing in the breeze. You smile. Thanks, mom.

All too soon, the outside is a cacophony of angry buzzing. To any other person, it would signify certain death. Not to you, though.

To you, it's the start of your chance to shine. To prove yourself. To avenge.

You adjust the scarf at your throat and know you are not alone. Time is subjective and, somewhere, your mom is waiting for you. You ready your gun. It's now or never.

You hold your head high and face the oncoming swarm.

The railing makes a strange humming noise all in its own, low and brassy, as you make your way up the stairs. It's shaking too much to provide any support, but you don't need it. You've walked this path a thousand times before and a bit of architectural trembling is no sweat off your back.

You kick the door open and step into the hot air. The seagulls have left now, startled by the noise and probably cowering somewhere now, safely out of sight.

You draw your blade and get into your stance. If you weren't so stylish, the beating sun would limit visibility considerably. You are stylish, however, and your shades block the insufferable brightness from affecting your perfect eyesight.

There is no wind. The day is still and calm and there's nothing that will make your hand stray from its position. You've been waiting for this since the day your brother died and nothing—nothing—will take this away from you. Not even a Batterbitch and her minions.

Your blood courses hotly through your veins and you allow yourself a defiant little smirk. You hope she can see you now. You hope she knows what is coming. You hope she's scared.

She probably isn't. Not of some teenage brat alone on a roof. No one would be.

But she's wrong.

You aren't alone.

You're Hella Jeff and you're about to show everyone why they should have fucking listened when you warned them about the stairs. You know that your Sweet Bro is waiting somewhere, too, probably laughing his nonexistent ass off at the whole show. Silently, of course. Because that's what cool dudes do.

You're ready.

You hold your head high and face the oncoming swarm.