I'VE GOT NO STRINGS
Summary: Drabble for "Ancient History." John wants to fight fate, huh? Two can play that game.
It wasn't a choice. It was instinct.
Bad guy with big laser gun. Teammates in trouble. Jump between. Absorb the blast.
Seemed like a pretty stupid idea in retrospect.
Metamorpho knelt by Shayera's head and stroked hair from her eyes. His mouth opened, but he couldn't seem to get any words out. A "you'll be okay" would be a lie.
The advantage of having a laser take out most of one's chest is the lack of blood. The trade-off is the pungent stench of scorched flesh and feathers.
"Not..." she forcibly exhaled the last air in her trachea, "...destiny's puppet."