A/N: Here's the second chapter. Again, nothing too serious. Just having fun here. Hope you enjoy!
Family Dysfunctions
Venture squints at the generic soda bottle in his hand. "Three dollars for a lousy bottle of pop? Ridiculous. Do they think I'm made of money or something?" He puts it back on the shelf and moves on. "What do you even bring to these things?" he asks when Billy and Pete appear with a bag of chips. "And more importantly, what kind of function even is it?"
"I don't know. The cryptic message just says to bring snacks," says Billy. "I think it's a reunion of some kind."
Pete shrugs. "My guess is quinceañera."
"Reminder to customers: one sample per person, please," announces a tired worker nearby.
Venture turns to see Hank stuffing his face with mini corn dogs as the worker looks on in horror. "Hank, honey, quit stuffing your face and help us find a snack for the quinceañera."
Hank takes one last corn dog for the road, then happily moves toward his father.
"Three dollars for pop ?" says Billy, examining the shelf label. "That's outrageous!"
"Exactly what I said!" Venture agrees. He pauses and takes a good look around. Pete and Billy are fighting over which soda pop to get. Hank munches on the last bit of corn dog. And Sergeant Hatred appears suddenly with cupcakes to put in there cart. "I wonder where Dean is? Haven't seen him in a while."
A drunk fool wobbles from person to person slurring his words until, finally, someone throws him out. Everyone cheers, minus the disgruntled bartender, as window glass shatters. He hits the concrete outside with a hard thump.
Dean sits quietly at the bar sipping on a Peachy Keen. He comes here to unwind after long days, but it's more stressful these days with the biker gang now having moved in. But he keeps peace with them, for the most part.
"Didn't think I'd see you anywhere near here," says a familiar voice.
He turns to him, unbothered. He's older now and fatter with a patchy set of hair. "Dermott."
"I'm surprised to see you in a place like this."
"I, uh, help them with legal jargon," Dean says. They think he's some kind whiz kid. And he is, actually, when lined up with them.
"You're a lawyer?" To Dean's dismay, he sits.
"Not exactly…"
As if on cue, a large woman, Fat Pat, in a spiked leather jacket shows him a wooden bat with nails in it. "Hey Dean, if I hit Old Vic a bunch of times in the back of the head with this thing, do you think I'd go to jail?"
"Probably," answers Dean.
"Thanks, little buddy." She ruffles his thinning hair, then moves to the man at the end of the bar. "Hey, Old Vic, c'mere a sec!"
He turns back to Dermott. "What are you doing back here? I thought the OSI sent you up in space or somewhere."
"Just here seeing family," he says. And he hits Dean's shoulder playfully.
Dean grunts and rubs his forming bruise. "Right. The whole half brother thing…"
"Oh, dude, you know about that?"
Fat Pat hits Old Vic with the bat, and the whole bar erupts in cheers. Dean stands, more than ready to go home now. His father's secrecy about the whole Dermott thing causes him a lot of anxiety, especially since Hank still remains oblivious. "Yeah… I know about that."
Dermott stands too, wrapping his arm around his half brother. "Man, that's great. You can help me get ready for the party."
He allows himself to be led out the door as Fat Pat starts a near riot behind them. "Party? What… party?"
"What? I'm not going to some stupid birthday party at the Venture Compound," Monarch says, crossing his arms like a stubborn child. "It's not even his birthday!"
"It's not at the Venture Compound," says Kelly as Twenty-one scrolls through the invitation on the large computer above them. "The coordinates show it's in some abandoned mall nearby."
"I went there all the time when I was hanging around the compound, dude. Hank and I used to buy pretzels and large chocolate milkshakes every Saturday at the food court. Eight bucks and a quarter for all of that," says Twenty-one. "Can't believe they closed that place down."
The yellow metal doors swing open and Dr. Mrs. His Wife enters the lair. "Yeah, yeah, the 1980s are long behind us. Get over it," Sheila says sourly, then turns to their son. "Bedtime."
"It's only 8:30!"
"Bedtime, Kelly Don Fitzcarraldo," she repeats in a motherly tone not meant to be challenged.
But Kelly likes to be a rebel. "You never let me stay when you wanna talk about arching, or the Guild!" He stands his ground. "I'm a member now, remember?"
"So you're not quitting?" asks Twenty-one.
He straightens, then crosses his arms. "I've decided to quit the Delinquent Duo, not arching. Maybe I can tag along with you and Gary—"
"Not a chance," says Monarch. "You'll get your head blown off or something."
"What? No I won't!"
"Dude, you totally will," says Twenty-one. "It happened to Sal last week. Hank's robotic arm transformed into, like, a canon. Blew the thing right off. It was pretty cool, actually." Dr. Mrs. The Monarch clears her throat to note her disapproval of his wondering words. He corrects himself: "But totally unsafe. His brain was, like, everywhere."
Theres a quick pause before Monarch asks, "Who was Sal again?"
"Henchman Forty," says Twenty-one. "The one with the lazy eye."
"We sent his family that Edible Arrangement," reminds his wife before turning to their son. "We've already talked about this, Kelly. You're not going on level ten arches at thirteen. It's just not safe."
"You heard the councilwoman," says Monarch and his wife visibly tenses. "Guild rules are solid."
He huffs, kicking the ground below him. "Guild rules suck."
His wife points to the door. "Your room, now . I don't like repeating myself."
He agrees begrudgingly, grumbling about something with a special dose of teenage angst. His mother ignores the lip, for now, but watches as he leaves to be sure he doesn't linger.
"Woah, dude, we're supposed to bring, like, cupcakes or something to this thing," continues Twenty-one, his focus returning to the computer.
"We're still on this?" says Monarch. "I'm not going to Rusty Venture's stupid birthday party."
"Actually I think it's, like, somebody's quinceañera," says Twenty-one.
"Quinceañera? What the hell! Does he have another kid we don't know about?"
"I don't know," continues Twenty-one. "It's all very vague."
"No, it can't be that. Venture doesn't get laid."
"Dude, he does. The last time we arched him, he had some weird sex robot thingy in his laboratory."
"That's not getting laid, Twenty-one," says Monarch. "That's just masturbating with a few extra steps." They stand in awkward silence for a quick moment before he smiles wickedly to himself. "I bet he cries afterwards."
"Oh, dude, yeah. He totally cries about it afterwards."
His wife loudly grumbles at their banter, then turns her heel to go back inside their house without a word. He shrinks. "Fuck, dude, she's really pissed. I gotta go deal with this."
Brock sits inconspicuously on a park bench, casually reading an outdated newspaper: Princess Diana and Lover Dodi Die in Paris Car Crash —the best prop he could find at such short notice. Why Doc kept this newspaper for so long, he didn't think to ask. Besides, it's dark, and only those who are looking hard enough would really know that it's off.
After a few minutes, Shore Leave takes a seat beside him. He puts his phone up to his ear. "Such a tragedy isn't it?" he speaks playfully to his old friend, though looking away.
"What is?" asks Brock softly, subtly turning to him.
"The people's princess," he says. "One of the worst tragedies in gay history. She had so much life ahead of her."
"Shut up," Brock mumbles with a smirk. He turns to the crossword where some boxes already have answers in them; Doc's handwriting is messy and faded, and… wrong. He put down "cold" as the answer for the hint, People of Canada. "What's the intel?"
"Oh, definitely an inside job," Shore Leave says. "The boxes were stolen from HQ a month ago, along with a few other harmless trinkets."
"So, it's leading them into a trap?"
"Possibly," he says. "But maybe not. The boxes by themselves are harmless."
"It's who sent out the boxes that worries me," says Brock. Doc had countless enemies out there. Monarch being the top contender—but his wife wouldn't let him break Guild rules so easily.
"I'm sure it's all fine," says Shore Leave. "But trust no one. You know, just in case it isn't."
Monarch follows Sheila up the stairs. "Pookums, what's wrong?" he practically whines.
She gets to the top step. "I'm tired," she tells him when she spots Kelly in the bathroom with the door wide open, brushing his teeth. He looks on at them, curious. "I'm going to bed."
"Is this about the Venture thing? It's stupid. Let's just forget it."
Her stomach twists. It always has to be about Venture, doesn't it? Why can't they have other problems outside of arching Dr. Venture? "Who am I to you, Monarch?" she asks abruptly.
"What? You're… you're my wife—you're Dr. Mrs the Monarch ," he says. "The sexiest woman alive!"
"Gross," says Kelly, now in the hallway with them.
"You're also… um, a councilwoman to the Guild?" he continues in a questioning tone when she continues to look unsatisfied.
"My mom," chimes in Kelly. Monarch nods in agreement. "And the eventual Dr. Mrs. The Dowager upon my succession onto the Monarch throne. After dad's untimely passing, of course."
"You see, you're a lot of things, swe—wait." He turns his attention back on their son. "What do you mean by untimely passing?"
"Didn't I tell you to go to bed?" Sheila interjects.
"You guys followed me up here!"
"Fine," she says, no longer wanting to argue. She enters their bedroom. Monarch follows her, closing the door him. She sits on their bed and takes a deep breath before letting it all out: "I was there from the beginning, minus the four years I took off to have Kelly—but I was always just a phone call away if they needed me."
"This… isn't about Venture. It's about the Guild?"
"Of course it's about the Guild, Monarch." He sits down beside her and puts a comforting hand on her shoulder. "It's not that I don't think Phantom Limb isn't a good candidate—he is, I guess, but… I don't know. I just feel like I don't have a purpose there anymore. They obviously don't need me…"
"They so obviously do," says Monarch as she wipes the tears from her eyes. "They're a bunch of bumbling baboons without you. And I would know." She smiles as he moves to hold her. "Sweetie, you're the reason that place isn't underwater. The Guild would be the OSI's bitch if it weren't for you."
"I was thinking about going back to just being Sheila for a while."
He masks his shock terribly. "You mean… quit the Guild?"
"I don't know. Maybe," she says with uncertainty. She hesitates. "What if… we go to this Venture quinceañera, or whatever the Hell it is, as the Fitzcarraldos instead of the Monarchs for a change." He pulls away at her gentle touch and looks at her in disgust for even suggesting such a ridiculous notion. "He is your—"
"Don't say it!" he says, standing abruptly. "Don't fucking say it!"
"Sorry, I know it's a touchy subject for you, but—"
"If I'm going anywhere near that thing, I'm going there to kick Dr. Venture's ass. Not form some stupid bond with him."
"I'm not asking you to bond with him. I'm just asking for one night of… normalcy. No Guild, and no arching," she says. He turns from her stubbornly; she rolls her eyes. "Okay, fine. You can kick his ass before we leave. Happy?"
He turns back to her with a wicked smile, a plotting smile she knows not to trust. "Ecstatic."
A/N: Honestly would have loved to see a Sheila storyline where she explores her identity outside of being in the Guild and being the Monarch's wife.