Chapter IX
Authors' Note: Thank you for all the comments. We truly enjoy reading them. We apologize for the years of wait. With any luck, this fanfiction will be finished relatively soon, as it was never intended to be very lengthy in either word count or duration of writing it. Please enjoy the latest installment of the classiest fanfiction on the planet—now with 100% more pancakes!
When Hermione and Raynor returned from their erotic rendezvous in the Forbidden Forest, they found Deckard Cain brandishing a bottle of whiskey and shouting drunkenly at a nearby cluster of marines. They kept their distance, as the elderly stuff indentifier was flailing his staff around at anyone unwise enough to approach his immediate vicinity. The marines, despite their massive armored suits, shot nervous glances at each other.
"This guy's real uppity," grumbled one marine as Raynor and Hermione came within earshot. "He thinks just because he can identify stuff, he can push everyone around.
The marine's comrade narrowed his eyes. "Yeah. But I really don't want to piss him off just now. Guy said he was a Whore-drum or some shit like that. Sounds wizard-y. He might be able to curse your balls off."
The men nodded solemnly. Giving one's balls for one's country was a price perhaps too steep than even one's life.
"I can hear you!" Deckard Cain drunkenly slurred. "I can identify the stuff coming out of your mouths! You better believe if you young men don't respect me, you can kiss your balls goodbye!"
The marines edged away. Raynor, however, just raised his eyebrows and looked at Hermione.
"Darlin', please tell me he can't actually do that."
"I don't know. We certainly could." Hermione reflected on how many times she had been tempted to use the spell against Ron. She then silently thanked fate for having delivered her an infinitely better man. "His universe is different, however. So, it could be an empty threat."
Raynor grimaced at Hermione's admission that ball-zapping curses existed, and then sighed as Deckard Cain stumbled and then barely prevented himself from tumbling over through the intervention of his staff.
Raynor cleared his throat. "Deckard Cain, sir. We still may need some of your lore while on the battlefield. We need you riding along with us to confront this Dia—Lord of Terror fellow and stop him from making this universe even more . . . special."
Hermione wondered why this man who fought alien horrors on a regular basis would shudder at the thought of her universe. Why, just because they had to attend a school where student casualties were 50% due to magical mishaps, and where winged raccoons tore the young to pieces, and where top hats could serve as personal sex dungeons, and where any number of hideous transformations of man or beast could occur, it did not mean that her universe was bad. Well—all right—it was special. But in a good-kind-of-dangerous way. Like a bottle of vodka that will either get you to confess your feelings to your true love or cause you to tumble down the stairs, fall through a window, roll into a dumpster, fall asleep there, and then be carried away to be crushed by a trash compactor. It wasn't always bad.
Deckard Cain gave Raynor the middle finger salute. Hermione pondered whether it was a common gesture in his universe, or it was through the power of stuff identification that he knew the traditions of this and Raynor's universe.
"Watch your balls, you Terran dipshit!" The wizened old man hiccupped and then cackled like a madman. "You can't make me do anything!"
Hermione rolled her eyes, gestured with her wand, and then shouted, "Ova evanescet!"
Cain's eyes widened with horror as he groped where his family jewels ought to be. "My balls! My balls!" He rushed at Hermione but stumbled over his own feet, falling face first onto the ground.
"Give me back my balls," he groaned from his position on the ground and started sobbing. "The demons took all my friends and family! And now you took my balls! I have nothing left!"
"Darlin', maybe you should give him his balls back." Raynor interjected. "That's just about the most pitiful thing I've ever seen."
"If he agrees to come with us and stop being an asshole, I'll consider it."
Cain nodded and sobbed some more. "I'll come with you on your hunt for Diablo. Just give them back. My stuff identification cannot compete with your ball cursing."
"Very well." Hermione relented. "If you agree to behave."
Cain nodded from his groveling position on the ground.
Hermione gestured again with her wand at the sad excuse for an old man. "Ova videtur."
Cain confirmed the return of his two momentarily lost comrades and rose, once again, to his feet. He belched without any trace of embarrassment. He glanced longingly at the abandoned bottle of whiskey and then returned his gaze to Hermione's wand. He slumped his shoulders and then sighed.
"Good thing the Lord of Terror does not dwell far from here. I've already told you most of what I know. I don't see why you need me to come along," he grumbled.
"I'd prefer to have someone able to give us an update on the situations we may encounter." Raynor stated. "We may have forgotten to ask you some details about certain things. These days, we never know what's around the next bend." Raynor shuddered. "Impromptu stuff identification can save lives."
Deckard Cain puffed out his chest at those words. Hermione hoped that stroking his ego wouldn't come back to haunt them.
Just then, Harry and Ginny materialized from a magical vortex emanating from Harry's top hat. He chuckled and pinched Ginny's ample bottom while she grabbed the bulge in his trousers.
"Glad to see you're back. Looks like you had a good time." This time, Hermione's words carried no hostility.
"We most certainly did!" Harry exclaimed. "It was preposterously good! So many titties!"
"Two?" Hermione wondered.
"Ha. No, Hermione." Ginny placed a delicate finger on her ruby red lip as she purred a response. "For someone as smart as you, I'd think you'd have more imagination. Transfiguration can do amazing things."
Harry stretched out his hands as far as possible. "So! Many! Titties!"
Deckard Cain sighed and hiccupped as he gazed longingly at Ginny. "I'd like to identify her stuff, if you know what I mean!"
"Hey, perv!" Raynor snapped at Cain. "Leave the monocle-guy's girlfriend alone. She didn't come out to the battlefield to be harassed by an old fart two heartbeats away from croakin'!"
Ginny gave a sultry chuckle and strode over to Cain, kissing him fully on the lips. "That better?"
Raynor gaped. Hermione shrugged. Harry grinned.
"That's some good stuff!" Cain pronounced.
"I can show you some more after we're done with the battle."
"You're a lucky man," Harry interjected. "She's the most tantalizing woman in the world—like the goddess Venus incarnate."
"You're too kind, my dear," Ginny slipped into position beside Harry, breasts all a-jiggle. Hermione wondered how they had cast aside all jealously in their open relationship. Hermione knew she could never let her man be taken by anyone else. If anyone touched Raynor, someone would be casting corpus cleanupicus to pick up the leftovers.
"Do you want me to identify your stuff?" Cain asked Harry.
"No," Harry chortled. "I don't swing that way, but maybe we could team up with Ginny later."
"No." Cain shook his head. "I meant your monocle, top hat, and cane. I sense great power within them."
"Sure."
"It's going to cost you, however. I can't identify stuff for free, you know."
"Hey!" Hermione rounded on Cain. "I thought we needed you for the battle. The least you can do is identify his stuff!"
Deckard Cain shrugged. "This has nothing to do with the battle. This is just a side job. Well, do you have any coins?"
Harry checked his pockets and then groaned. "I must have dropped them at some point."
Ginny checked her pockets and shook her head before reaching into her breasts to withdraw a large gold coin.
Cain took it, examined it, and then handed it back. "I can't take this currency. It's a pain getting this exchanged in my universe. You might as well just pay me in beaver pelts!"
"When we get back, I'll see what I can do," Harry replied.
Hermione crossed her arms, not believing the stingy old man. Well, she doubted it mattered much anyway. She couldn't see how stuff identification could be that important today anyway.
"One more thing." Deckard Cain, the scent of whiskey still heavy on his breath, turned to Raynor, who studied the old codger with a look of barely concealed irritation. "I want an SCV."
"What-now?" Raynor asked, a frown forming.
"I need to stay with everyone during the battle," Cain hiccupped. "And I've always wanted to drive an SCV."
"Why?"
"When I was just a young Horadrim, I always dreamt of becoming an SCV pilot. I could identify stuff and build stuff!"
"That makes no sense. You grew up in a different universe! How did you even know about that?"
Cain sighed. "Being a young Horadrim is a confusing time. You have so much stuff identification flowing through your blood and yet no outlet for it all, so you turn your ethereal eye towards the realms of infinite possibilities."
"Whatever. You're drunk. You can't pilot an SCV."
"Dominion regulations only apply within the Dominion," Cain insisted. "And these wizards here—anything goes."
Raynor rolled his eyes. "Fine. You can sit in the cockpit."
Cain giggled like a schoolboy and followed Raynor as he headed to one of these "Space Construction Vehicles." They were odd machines. They had the appearance of a two-legged walker slightly larger than a dump truck. One arm ended with a drill and the other with a grasping claw. They moved with thrusters but used the legs when the thrusters weren't engaged.
A confused SCV pilot exited his vehicle at Raynor's prompting and then they watched the old man drunkenly clamber up the ladder to the cockpit. He started pressing buttons as if he had grown up in the vehicle.
Raynor shook his head in astonishment, turning to Hermione. "Don't tell me stuff identification allows this old coot to pilot anything he's in."
"It might," Hermione conceded. For the first time since meeting the elderly man, she wanted more information on this "stuff identification" magic. Sure, she could zap away balls, but she couldn't obtain knowledge just by being around certain items.
Cain hiccupped and closed the cockpit. He then immediately backed up. A brief howl emanated from below one of the legs. The SCV lifted its foot to find a squashed second-year student underneath it.
"Shit!" Raynor shouted and then spoke into his radio. "Get out of there, you crazy old bastard! You squashed some poor kid!"
Hermione eyed the flattened student. He was very dead. He resembled a pancake more than a person now. If you put some syrup on him, it would be hard to tell the difference.
"Don't worry, Jim." Hermione told Raynor. "He was just a second-year. We lose a lot of them. We'll just call this a magical mishap and move on."
"You can't be serious."
Hermione shrugged. "Some casualties are always expected at Hogwarts. It's just part of being a wizard. And, really, that student was being a dumbass being so close to something he doesn't understand. Most wizards barely understand the concept of cords and plugs, let alone futuristic construction vehicles. Survival of the fittest! That's the real motto of Hogwarts!"
James Raynor studied the remains of the second-year student with profound sadness. Hermione didn't really see why he was getting so worked up about a rather typical incident of collateral damage, but her man had a compassionate soul, and she needed to help assuage his pain in whatever ways possible.
She flourished her wand at the squashed student. "Corpus pancake-ify."
The second-year's body transfigured into a stack of pancakes—complete with butter on top. Hermione had to admit he looked much better now in this form. Instead of blood, there now existed syrup. It was a positively delicious looking arrangement. Hermione had to admire her handiwork. She could take up baking if she wanted to!
Raynor raised his eyebrows. "Why did you turn him into a stack of pancakes? And why is that even a spell?"
Hermione tried to frame her answer in the least disturbing way. Well, disturbing to Raynor. She didn't really care all that much. You either killed and survived or died and became a stack of pancakes. It was the way of the wizarding world. "In this way, his death is less gruesome. His parents can see an idealized form of their son. And, really, this battlefield could use some pancakes on it, couldn't it?"
"Yes," he admitted. "And he doesn't look so sad now." Raynor sighed, shook his head, and spoke into the radio. "Cain, get the hell out of that SCV before I blow it up with a siege tank!"
"You can't make me, you pansy-assed bastard! Try to take my balls now!" Cain accelerated the Space Construction Vehicle. It went surprisingly fast for its size. For a moment, Hermione was impressed that he could drive it so well in his inebriated state, but then he began to zig-zag back and forth. The disaster was coming any second now.
And it did come.
The SCV slammed into a tree, knocking it over. Smoke gushed up from the vehicle.
"Damn stuff!" Deckard Cain griped over the radio. "Can't compensate for a little alcohol!"
"Dumbass!" Raynor swore. "I've had enough of his bullshit!" Raynor turned on his radio. "Siege tank Alpha-39, lock onto the position of that crashed SCV."
"Roger," crackled a voice over the radio.
"I need help getting out of this damn thing," Deckard Cain slurred over the radio. "This stuff is bullshit!"
"I told you to get out of that SCV or get fired upon by a siege tank, Cain." Raynor answered over the radio. "You have until the count of three."
"What?"
"One . . . two . . . three! Siege tank Alpha-39, open fire!" A deafening roar filled the air, and Deckard Cain's SCV exploded, shrapnel and chunks of it launching hundreds of feet into the heavens. Hermione found the raw command and destruction at Raynor's fingertips enticing. She wanted him all to herself even more.
Hermione grinned in joy.
"Did he make it?" Harry asked, scratching his walrus moustache.
"I don't know," Ginny bit her lip nervously and placed a hand over one of her ample breasts.
Like an 80s action hero, Deckard Cain stumbled out of the fire and burning wreckage, somehow miraculously alive. His robes were singed and scorched so much that they barely concealed his junk. Part of his beard was burned off and still burning. His staff had been broken in half, and he kept coughing up black smoke. One of his sandals had been lost in the explosion, and nonetheless, he hobbled over to James Raynor and company.
Deckard Cain gave a feeble salute to James Raynor. "You're a man of your word. Commander James Raynor, I do believe I'm sober now."
"Glad to hear it," Raynor replied, smiling. "Now, will you do us the honor of accompanying us?"
"That I can do. Where do I ride?"
"Siege tank Alpha-39. I believe the crew is already familiar with you. Make sure you monitor the radio and the screens to watch what's going on. We'll be needing your stuff identification."
"Affirmative, commander." Cain hobbled in the direction of a siege tank, stopped to cough a few times, and then continued along his way.
Raynor gasped when he turned around.
"Now, why the hell are there two stacks of giant pancakes?"
Hermione knelt to examine the suspicious pancakes. One had been the original stack of pancakes—the erstwhile second-year. A small chunk of it was missing, as if someone had torn off a piece to eat. The second, fresh stack of pancakes, was whole, though this one came with whipped cream and strawberries on top.
She immediately knew what had happened. But before she could tell Raynor, another second-year student made his appearance.
"Gee whiz! I sure wish we had something to eat out here! I sure am starving!" The chubby young student's eyes widened with delight upon seeing the giant stacks of pancakes on the ground. "Hey, are any of you eating this?"
"No." Answered Hermione, Ginny, and Harry. Raynor was about to say something, but Hermione stopped him from speaking with a pointed look. He raised an eyebrow, and Hermione shook her head.
Ginny, Hermione, and Harry carefully wiped all expression from their faces as the second-year tore a chunk off the strawberry-covered pancake stack. He popped it into his mouth and exclaimed.
"Gee! This is the best thing I've ever ea—" His jubilation was cut short by a popping sound and brief flash of light. In the second-year's place was a fresh stack of pancakes with banana slices and whipped cream on top.
Raynor jumped back in horror. "The hell was that! What happened to him?"
"He's dead. And pancakes. In no particular order." Hermione replied. "Don't worry. It's a perfectly natural process."
"Like hell it is!" Raynor clapped his armored hand against his head. "This is horrifying! Why did you just sit back and let him eat it if you knew what was going to happen!"
Harry cleared his throat. "There's an unwritten rule in the wizarding world. It goes something like this: If you're dumb enough to randomly eat a mysterious, obviously unnatural piece of food that presents itself to you, you deserve whatever happens to you. In this case, he became dead. And pancakes. By wizarding law, it wasn't our fault that he's so stupid. In Hogwarts, they actually discourage helping the younger students make these sorts of decisions. It weeds out the ones who are too fucking retarded to be around magic."
Hermione nodded her agreement. "Harry's right. The only reason Ron survived as long as he did in Hogwarts is because I was around him all the time. The older students never gave advice on such situations. So, it was up to their peers and their own judgement." Hermione put a finger to her lips in thought. She really should have just let Ron eat that levitating black cake with razors coming out of it all those years ago. She had interfered with the natural order of things that day. Oh, well. The past was the past. Unless, of course, you had a convenient time-traveling plot device shoehorned in at the last second.
Ginny sighed. "Harry, I hope our children are never that stupid. I don't want to raise pancakes."
Harry patted Ginny's hand. "Don't worry, Ginny. If they are that stupid, we can always make more. Both pancakes and children. And children are a lot more fun to make, anyway."
The perverted couple chuckled. Hermione secretly dreaded the day they became parents.
"I miss my old universe." Raynor grumbled. "Worst thing that could happen there was you could be infested. This here, though," he gestured at the pancake parade of deceased wizarding students sprawled at their feet, "this is grade-A preposterous!"
