Author's Notes:

So today is the day Jack is canonically abducted and reborn as Jekyll.
We thought we'd have some fun with it and recreate the intro using ourselves as the characters, each writing their own lines. It was a blast.
I hope you all enjoy reading this bit of non-canon fun as much as we did making it, even though it's a bit on the short side. Chapter 21 is coming along well and should be done soonish.

The man walked as though he was late for something, even though he was wandering. Under the lenses of his sunglasses, his eyes darted from face to face; ever watchful for both danger and the ones he sought. In ages past, his six foot height would’ve been enough to see over the people around him. But even with the one inch boost his dull tan boots provided, he could’ve been blind for all the good it did him. What little of the man’s face that could be seen through his thick beard was locked in an easy smile, stubbornly refusing to let those around him know how uncomfortable he was. He hated crowds, too many people, too many unknowns, not enough room to maneuver if one of these strangers moved to attack.

Though none but others like him would notice, the man knew the mark left by violence. His sunglasses had been provided when the sun beat upon him, his boots given to him during a time of learning and camaraderie. The man knew violence because that had been his job until an injury took it from him. Though he had fought and trained until he had recovered, the damage was done, his country no longer required his service. In his despair however, he happened across an unlikely source of support and over the years felt a growing desire to give back to it.

He now searched for those who had been helping him return as much as he could to the community that had helped him so much.

“Hey! Weapons! Over here!” A voice called with a slightly Australian accent. Sitting on a park bench, a lengthy teen, clad in a tee-shirt and jeans, seemed to be hailing him.

“Did you just call me by my username in public?” the man asked with a blank stare that could be felt through his sunglasses.

“It got your attention, didn’t it?” The teen teased with a smirk. Standing a five foot ten, he wasn’t far off the six foot mark himself. As he took off his tan fedora, the teen brushed his dark brown hair out of his eyes. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t show.”

“Drive was a bitch. Crossing half the country in one night isn’t easy, you know,” the man rebuked, “I think I earned a bit of sleep somewhere in there.”

“Fair enough. Though, I did get off my ass to fly over here. So, I think it’s about even.” The teen admitted with a slight undertone of snark. “Any idea when Militia is gonna get here?”

“No idea where he is, but he does live the closest. I’d guess that he’s probably inside, with those fucking crowds,” the man replied, his voice dropping towards the end.

“Probs’. You alright mate? I know you aren’t a big fan of people…” The teen asked, trailing off.

“I’ll be fine. Fair warning though, I’m going to bitch at every opportunity while we’re in there. Might as well get this over with, eh ‘Eric?’” the man replied, trying to stifle his grimace.

“Might as well. Heh, seems like I’m not the only one calling us by our username.” Eric chuckled, before raising from the bench. As he fixed up the strap of his tan satchel, the Australian motioned for the pair to get moving, “Alright. Lead the way.”

“So what’s with the purse?” Weapons asked lightly as the pair began walking towards the convention’s entrance.

“H-hey! It’s not a purse! It’s a satchel, you know, Indiana Jones wears one.” Eric cried with mock offence. “Plus, I don’t know about you, but I want to buy some stuff.”

“Personal philosophy, I won’t buy anything I can’t or won’t carry in my hands,” Weapons argued sagely. The casual banter was doing wonders for his anxiety.

“So you don’t want a ‘Cresent Rose’? I think it might be a bit too heavy.” Eric shot back,

“More of a shotgun punchy thing guy myself, maybe someday I’ll actually remember what they’re called. You know, I thought about making a functional set once...but the licensing on two SBS Saigas was more than I could afford. Sad times, but what are you gonna do?” Weapons mourned.

“What about a power fist? Maybe stick a rail on it, then a underbarrel shotgun.” The Aussie suggested, ‘Well… a underbarrel Mini nuke launcher would be overkill.’

“Fallout ballistic fist kinda thing? I can dig, but the same issue still applies. What about you? What are you hunting?” Weapons asked.

“At the moment? Cool shit. Maybe see if I can find some neat props, meet some of the Horse Fame, and have a good time.”

“The fuck is a horse fame?” Weapons asked, confused.

“It’s like a celebrity status, but for bronies. So people like, Kkat, Knighty, etc.” Eric replied with a shrug. “Hell, you might even get there one day.”

“I doubt it, but even if I did you wouldn't see me hitting this deathtrap every year,” Weapons griped.

“Eh, we’ll see. Maybe you’ll enjoy it.” Eric replied, with no small amount of cheekiness.

“Just for that, I’m going to find the worst Adventure Time cosplayer in the place and tell them your name is actually Finn,” Weapons threatened jokingly.

“For the love of all things holy, don’t!” Eric pleaded, “I value my sanity too much for that!”

“Ha, you should see your face right now!” Weapons laughed. The teen walking next to him had a look that could redefine terror, though there was still some mirth in his eyes, “Seriously though, thanks for keeping me distracted. This would be hell to walk through alone.”

“That’s what friends are for,” Eric replied, sharing a slight chuckle. “Now, where did Militia run off to?”

Around them, the main event hall was jam packed. From Con-goers, to merch stalls. The whole place was abundant with things to do, there were even a few cosplayers running around. If either of the pair had more than a vague description of their third member, they might’ve noticed the tall, dark dressed, pale skinned teen walking towards them through the crowd.

“Gentlemen.”

The pair turned around, or rapidly whirled around in the man’s case, toward the sudden verbal intrusion.

Standing at easily six foot three, the tall teen was dressed in a black motorcycle jacket, dark blue jeans, and black vans. The dark ensemble was contrasted by the person’s pale skin, leading up to a clean, young face, adorned with clear glasses framing the sight of two bright blue eyes, with a freshly done military-style buzzcut. The only asymmetrical feature on the youth’s face was a faint scar on the left eyebrow.

The teen’s grin slid into a smirk, “Took you by surprise, huh? My bad.”

“Militia?”, the Aussie and bearded man asked.

“In the flesh,” the two-tone teen confirmed as he took a bow, the emphasis and mock grace gaining the attention of nearby passerby, much to the anxious adult’s dismay, “Militia Man, at your service.”

“Well, now that the gang’s all here we can actually head towards the good shit,” Weapons suggested, forcing himself into a more relaxed pose, “Seriously, we can’t fuck up the day Jay gets abducted at his abduction site, it’s impossible. We could wander around all damn day and it would work for me.”

“Noice. Now, where to first?” Eric asked, before admitting shyly. “This is my first con, soo… yeah.”

“Same, I have no idea where we should go. Plenty of prop-shops between here and the actual entrance,” Weapons suggested.

“I wonder if anyone will be dressed up as the Merchant… If I was selling shit, that’s what I’d do,” Eric asked out loud, “For shits and giggles.”

“You’d make bank off dumb people too, trying to get sent off to other worlds and shit. It’d actually work really well if you had the patience for it,” Weapons mused as the trio wandered towards the stalls.

“Until it doesn’t work, and they become… vindictive.”

The trio shared a nervous agreement to that; many people wouldn’t appreciate that brand of eye-wool, especially at an event that functions as a veritable magnet for the passionate.

Soon, they began a slow meander around the grounds, eyeing the stalls and services for anything that caught their attentions. Though after a few hours, the group’s responses had dulled to temporary interest at best and, on occasion… varying degrees of disgust.

Eric let out an explosive sigh,”Can we go to one of the panels? We’ve been walking for hours!”

“Wait!” Militia silenced, before slowly raising a finger, close to his chest to avoid attention, through a break in the crowd. There was a small open lot, where there was what appeared to be a rapidly, and equally shoddily, assembled shop; a waist high wooden bench with items on display, a few stands with more supposed merchandise, and a dirty teepee in the back, although the amount of junk/merch spilling out from the tents barely-latched opening suggested it was intended more for storage than actual residence.

However, Militia’s rapt attention wasn’t focused as much on the tent nor bench, but rather the two people on either side of it. On the consumer’s side stood a pair of cosplayers, specifically a Mark Whalberg lookalike and a small child in a teddy bear costume.

“Wow, a ‘Ted’ cosplay? Who dresses their kid up as Ted? What a douche,” Weapons commented as he eyed the pair. Even from the distance between the trio and the stall, they could clearly see the parent buying a cashier’s outfit that was about the right size for the child. At this point, all three got a good look at the saleman, “Damn Finn, you called it. We’ve got a Resident Evil Merchant peddling random shit to dumbasses.”

Finn paused for a moment before commenting with a chuckle, “Well shit. I can tell the future.”

“You know, I’ve always lowkey hated the Merchant. Seemed to me that the whole Displaced thing was just a new kind of human trafficking. If that kid vanishes, my ‘security blanket’ and I might just have words with this creep,” Weapons growled quietly, shifting his jacket in agitation. From where they walked, Militia and Eric could see the faint outline of an ‘L’ shaped object underneath Weapons’ armpit.

“Really Weapons? Did you have to bring… that?” Eric half complained, “Cons have a security team to deal with… those problems.”

“I am in San Diego, California at one of the softest targets on the planet, of course I’m going to ignore the local laws and bring my own protection,” Weapons scoffed, thinking this would be obvious. As far as he could tell, that’s what the locals did.

As though the universe was attempting to call Weapons’ bluff, the child turned teddy bear dropped through the cement sidewalk. Four sets of eyes widened at the sudden disappearance, three from the writing team and one from the douchey parent.

“Honestly, he’s probably better off now,” the creepy vendor droned, cutting off the customer’s shocked accusation before he could begin. And then the Mark Whalberg lookalike was gone too, though angry shouting down the walkway revealed that he hadn’t been moved very far.

“I...fuckin’ seriously?!” Weapons exclaimed as he shot forward, his slight country accent showing in his anger. Weapons stopped short of the stall and desperately looked around for any sort of trickery, finding none. The unfortunate child was nowhere to be found.

“Nice seventies hippie outfit, the bandana is a bit much though,” the merchant critiqued as Militia and Eric caught up to their team member, “I have a tie dye one that might fit your look better.”

“Burn in hell, fucker,” Weapons spat absently, lifting the canvas at the front of the stall in his search for answers.

“Weapons,” Militia said through gritted teeth, “Calm. Down.”

“Mate, being like this won’t solve anything…” Eric murmured, troubled at the lack of scientific reasoning behind this… insanity. ‘Maybe I should stop taunting murphy…’

“Yes, just relax and see if I have anything to suit your fancy,” the Merchant taunted. Every member of the small group was now sure that this was The Merchant.

For one of the three, time stopped. Memories flooded through the bearded man’s mind as his vision locked on the kidnapper. His first day on a shooting range with his father’s handgun, age six. His first tactical pistol competition, age ten. Training to be better. Faster. Draw, aim, fire, one second. Draw, aim, fire, half a second. Draw, aim, fire, quarter second. Draw, aim, fire, zero point two-two seconds. First place IDPA trophy, age thirteen. Training. Training. Training. Enlistment. Basic training, instructor berating him for shooting so quickly, every shot in the ten ring. Instructors stop and let him shoot. Competition in the ranks, a rival. Striving to be better. Faster. Never stop, always faster, more accurate.

Six hundred muscles, long trained for fast twitch movements, snapped into action, then eight, then three. The first round left the barrel and passed through the otherworldly vendor’s chest, embedding in the wall behind. Corrections occurred before the slide could return forward, sending the second shot through the enemy’s forehead. No damage.

The world went black for the trio as the final shot was fired. An impact could be heard, though none of the three could see yet, and a mix of concern and pride is felt by one. Did he kill the one that got them, or did the shot go wide as his vision faded and hit another? No, not at that range. Fifteen feet was far too close to miss by by that margin.

Just a quickly as darkness overcame them, it was gone. But, something was wrong.

The exact same sense of wrongness was felt by each of the three as their new proportions became apparent.

‘Oooooh fuck, that does not feel right…’ Eric mentally complained,

“What the fuck?” Weapons groaned as he reached a left hand he didn’t recognize towards his face. Even the sleeve of his camouflage jacket had changed to black leather, merging into a simple tee shirt at the shoulder before returning to his familiar jacket at the right shoulder. The chimera tilted from gravity taking effect on its mismatched legs, but a new development wouldn’t allow the new being to panic for long.

A dark blue shape hit the ground in front of them with a thud, revealing the spray of red and gray liquids across the ground. The exact shot aimed at the Merchant, but turned on another.

Militia was quick to come out of his stupor, ‘Wha...what is that? Is that… Luna?! Did we… did we just shoot Luna?!’

A black and red biped next to the corpse looked at the horrifying amalgamation in confusion for a full second, “You are so fucking dead.”

‘Well fuck, I'm gonna die like a bitch while merged with two other dudes. I'd say this was my hell, but it won't last long enough.’

‘I always wanted to die in good company. May not be what I had in mind, but it could be worse.’

‘Noooo! I can’t die a virgin! I survived Australia! At least give me this!’

Any further thought or action was rendered impossible as the familiar shapeshifter shot forward and sunk long claws into their torso, though they weren’t in pain long as the next swipe cleaved their bearded head in two.

“Fuck me running, the hell was that thing? Hey Lu, look at...fuck. Damnit damnit damnit, I needed you alive. I fucking needed...someone that wouldn’t die on me. Maybe I can put you back together, just scrape up all these bits of...of...occipital lobe here and...fuck. How am I supposed to tell your sister, how am I supposed to tell the world?” Jekyll wondered aloud as he knelt by the body of his friend and accidental wife.

Real Author’s Note:
Fun fact: the random bits of dialogue in this...thing were actual conversations we were having during writing. And yes, the firearm training bit is a real part of my history. A reminder, this is not cannon.

Eric’s Editor’s Note:
Extra fun fact: This was the first time Weapons gave me writing perms on Gdocs.
* Headless noises *

Militia’s Editor’s Note:
Had a lot of fun with this collaboration, even if it turned into a conglomeration abomination only to suffer an evisceration.