Fusion and Iron

31. Epilogue

The sun shined on a brilliant day.

By now it was approximately seven in the evening, the brightest golden hour across Sector V. The towering Tree House overlooked a vast, lively celebration down near its roots. The usually quiet suburban streets (or otherwise busy with air traffic) had been birthed with life, filled with people throughout the houses, yards, and open fields. Every single one down below was basking in not only the warmth of the sun but the celebration.

Bundles of people were gathered around different feasts spread all across the area, ranging from the usually busy hangers and expanding cafeterias to the grills and picnic tables set up outside. The air was filled with the smell of cooked meat and grilled vegetables, and the aroma of pies, cakes, and other sweet treats as a desert. Each group had its own setup from homemade meals to cakes and food bought from local stores and grocers. Families, friends, and fighters all shared moments together with the sounds of laughter and clinking plastic cups.

The hangars that once housed S.C.A.M.P.E.R.s had temporarily been turned into banquet halls, filled with long tables covered in trays of food and large jugs of lemonade and punch. A majority of the citizens who were there consisted of social workers, builders, mechanics, pilots, and so on. Having been the backbone of operations for the sector as a whole, they took pride in their work while they shared food and drink with one another. While they did so, nearly everyone from Mung Daal's Catering was on their feet rushing between the different halls to keep the food supplied. A large deal of both soldiers and citizens volunteered to help organize the ordeal, delivering chunky pots of cooked meals and pitchers of drinks to the various places.

Within large tubs of ice, dozens of drinks were passed around, sweating profusely as the grass below was dew-dropped by it. Conversations were passed all around from old friends catching up, strangers becoming friends, and memories of battle all to positive hopes of the future of this conflict. Dance parties had broken out in the shade of trees as speakers blasted their own tunes, equally spread out among the suburbs. People both young and old raced across fields, ranging from games of tag and capture the flag to impromptu games of football and soccer. The screaming of call signs and orders fought over the music, showing just how invested they were in it.

Across the grass, a thrower, being a tall, broad-shouldered teenager in a classic jock get-up stood on one side of the makeshift field. He took a deep breath as he rubbed on his fat, thick nose, reeling the football back in his hand, and hurled with a powerful arm. "Go long!"

On the other side, bodies scrambled and jostled to slow the titan down. None of them stood a chance when a certain slick-haired figure burst through the fray. Flexing his muscles as he bulldozed past a cluster of soldiers, he planted himself right where the ball was destined to land. He fumbled a little bit before cradling it in his arms, jogging into the endzone, and striking a signature pose.

"Oh yeah!" he shouted proudly. He pumped his chest and gave a knowing wink to no one in particular. Some of the bystanders in the crowd watching the game cheered him on while he basked in the attention selfishly. "Thank you! There's plenty more where that came from! Hah! Hoah!"

A short distance away, under the shade of an oak tree, two familiar figures sat watching the game unfold. Under his void black cloak, Grim clutched his scythe tightly while leaning against the wall. In his hand was a red plastic cup, unsatisfied with its contents. "I'm pretty sure dat guy crossed the line five feet over. What kinda game is dis anyways?"

Beside the grim reaper, a high school girl was sitting up against the tree, resting her elbows on her knees with a deadpan look. Protecting her ghostly white skin was a light blouse, a summer skirt, and flip-flops. Were it not for the precious shade of the leaves, she would've cooked alive. Behind her disgruntled eyes were a pair of dark sunglasses, also sipping on a plastic cup with a hint of boredom.

"Eh, I've seen better," she spoke in distaste. "Bravo's got butterfingers."

The celebration buzzed around them, but Mandy remained unfazed, unimpressed by the antics unfolding in front of her. To her, this was just another day in a world full of chaos, victory, and Johnny Bravo's constant need for female attention.