"How Do You Calculate BAC for EVOs?"

FRIDAY - 9:25 PM

So, technically, he wasn't even supposed to be at the party anyway. And Noah was drinking, along with everyone else (yes, this was probably where the whole peer pressure speech came into play but again, he never got it). And it was a little rude to refuse a bottle of beer that was probably a bitch to sneak. And, well, there was also the matter of: why the hell not? The whole reason to go to the party was for Rex to feel normal, and this . . . thing he was funneling down his throat was normal. Disgusting. But normal.

So when somebody with more hair plastered across his chest then Bobo had on his entire body offered him another, he didn't refuse; just downed it in two gulps as two girls (one blonde, tall, nice legs; the other a redhead, which pretty much said it right there) laughed.

Noah however just stared. And as Rex wiggled his eyebrows over the raised can, he stepped over and said

"Uh, Rex?"

Rex wiped his mouth and plucked another can off the table. "Come on—" he snapped the tab "—little showing off never hurt anyone." He took a sip and eyed the girls, who giggled again.

"Yeah, sure," was the sarcastic answer as Noah sat down on the table next to him, but he didn't waste time in launching into responsibility mode again with, "Have you even drank before?"

"Nope." Pointblank, no hesitation, as Rex took another sip.

Noah sighed. "Then shouldn't you be slowing down there, big guy?"

"I think the blonde one's got a thing for me."

"I think she'll get over it when you puke on her shoes."

Rex gulped the rest and grinned. "Relax. I probably can't even get drunk anyway."

". . . 'Probably'."

"Yes, Commando Sarcasm. Where's the Coke? I'm mixing something."

"You don't even know how!"

FRIDAY - 11:49 PM

'Probably' turned out to be a hopeful estimate. It made perfect sense, logically-speaking. Even Noah, for all his sarcasm, had to agree. Rex's nanites could break down knockout gas. Knockout gas was made of chemicals. Beer was made of chemicals. All totally reasonable.

Logic, however couldn't prepare Rex for beer pong.


Or maybe Rex just didn't actually have any logic to begin with, because, logically speaking? If Rex couldn't get a basketball through a relatively large net sober, he was as likely to get a ping pong ball into a solo cup while heavily intoxicated as Frosty the Snowman had a chance of surviving a trip to the sun. So now, with ten losses sitting tight in his stomach and a roaring crowd gathered to egg him on as he went down a line of cans and cups on a chugfest, Rex was textbook, grade A drunk—and Noah couldn't do a thing. Because Rex was grinning. Laughing. Winking at Little Miss Blonde Bombshell in an impossibly dirty fashion and damn it, put it all together and Noah had the whole point of this escapade right in front of him. After the originally-hopeful-but-soon-disappointing results of the Rylander affair, Rex deserved this. Deserved fun.


"More! Bring it on!"

. . . But maybe not alcohol poisoning. Yeah, definitely not alcohol poisoning.

Noah squeezed through a pack of football players to the center of the crowd, where Rex stood, swaying left and right but very intently staring as a group of twenty cups in front of him were filled to the brim. Seeing Noah though he broke out in a grin, slapping him across the chest.

"I'm breakin' a record, Noah!"

". . . Okay. Cool. But don't you think you might have done that already?" Like, ten times over?

But Rex just gripped his shoulders, leaning in until alcohol-contaminated breath crawled through Noah's entire skin. "You can't break it until you drink the most!" he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Like, the most most. More than everybody else's most."

. . . What? "Jesus fucking Christ, you're plastered."

The blonde from before smacked him in the head as she stepped in front, clinging to Rex's arm. "God," she said, rolling her eyes, "speak for yourself, Noah. Two beers in you and you act like a prissy little bitch; and you are, like, so more than two beers bitch right now."

" . . . Do I even know you?"

"Rexy," she said, ignoring the comment, "we're starting this one off with a shotgun."

"He really shouldn't," Noah started to say, but he was cut off as Rex pulled back, bellowing, "Bring it on!"

She grinned and passed him a can, while Noah pushed in again at Rex's other side.

"You don't even know what it is!"

"It's, like, so easy. Just poke a hole and drunk as much as you can before it pours out the sides. I'll get the key—"

"Oh, I can do that!"

So he did. The crowd stopped, jumping back a foot from the table as Rex held up the can, just barely hanging off the edge of the BFS as beer dripped down the blade. He looked around, still grinning, as the blonde shrieked.

"Oh my God, is that a sword?"

"And now we leave," Noah said, pulling Rex by the shirt out of the room.

FRIDAY - 11:53 PM

"I dunno," Rex said, once they got halfway down the street, "why we hafta go." He leaned in on Noah, hugging his neck as the ground gave way, moving forward like a treadmill and leaving him behind. Stupid ground, he thought. Betraying him like this? Now? Uncalled for. Oh, wait, now he was tripping. His legs too? Bad day.

"Because," Noah said, pulling him back up,"parties tend to break up when someone EVOs out and starts swinging a sword—"

"—BFS. Bee Eff Ess. Like Big, Fat—Big Fat Fuc—"

"—Yeah, I get it."

"'s clever, right?" Rex swung that arm in front, hoping it'd drive the point home, and Noah swerved back, nearly knocking them both flat on their backs.

"Put that thing away, dumb-ass!"

Guess he doesn't get it. Sadly, he willed it back to normal.

"Thanks! Wait. Hold on."

Noah stopped. Teetered a second, then slowly dropped Rex on the curb, careful to keep him on his butt and not his head. He stood back upright and started fishing through his pockets for his cell phone.

Aha. Smooth metal brushed against his skin and he pulled it out. He made it halfway through his contacts before he realized:

"Shit. Who am I going to call?"


". . . God damn it, Rex."

Rex pouted and looked at the ground, forcing Noah to crouch down and wrench his head back up to look at him. "No, Rex," he said, "look at me."

"You're being a prissy bitch and 'm sorry."

"Rex. Seriously. I only have White and Six's numbers. Those are bad, bad numbers. Who else can I call?"

Rex thought. And thought. But even his answer sounded more like a question, and Noah had to wonder if Rex even really understood what he needed (short answer, not really):

". . . Holiday?"

"Whose number is . . . ?"

"Her number is . . . I don't know."

"Anybody else?"


"Does he even have a phone?"

"No. But if he did? His number. We should call his number."

"Fucking . . ." Noah groaned, but he let go of Rex's face. There wasn't another option now. He couldn't drive, and whatever ride he was planning to get was a lost cause now. And asking Rex to fly them home would only result in them dying horrible, screaming, horrible deaths. So he gritted his teeth, lifted the phone and moved to 'S' in his contacts list. "Six it is then." At least this way his death would mean something. Killed by the world's sixth most dangerous man? Totally a good way to go.

Rex blearily picked his head up from between his knees at Six's name. He saw the phone in Noah's hand, and somewhere, deep in Rex's booze-addled brain, a lightbulb flickered pathetically into life.

And he wasn't happy about it.

Rex shot up. "Wait! No, Noah, you can't call Six!" But, standing having become a lost art, he toppled forward immediately, knocking them both to the ground. There was a quick lunge for the phone but Noah dodged, pushing Rex's arms away without much trouble.

"Well, what am I supposed to do? I can't take you home like this; do you know how much trouble I'd be in?"

"But Six can, like—he can, like . . . he can hurt you."

Noah pushed the call button and put the phone to his ear. "Well, technically he's going to hurt you," he pointed out.

"Aw, man. He's going to be so aggro."

"Keep the buzz, man. You're going to need it."

FRIDAY - 11:58 PM


Here were the things that Six liked to do on Saturday nights.




Polish his blades.








Maybe, just maybe, do some reading.


But most importantly: sleep.


Here was something Six did not like to do Saturday nights:

He picked up the phone.

"Where is he?"

"Six, we—uh?"

"Tell me where he is."

"Well, he's with me—"

A rustle cut him off. There was muffled swearing, and a faraway shout of "Rex" before Six heard the throaty but unmistakable voice of his charge.

"Don't be mad, 'kay? 'Kay, Six? I really don't wanna mad."

"Rex? What's wrong? What did you do?"

"Don't be mad, 'kay?"

"I'm not—wait." Six paused, his eyebrows furrowing together, as it clicked. "Are you drunk?"

From somewhere in the background Noah broke in. "Give me that—he's mad—Well, duh—I think he can smell my breath through the phone."

Another rustle, and the phone came back to Noah. "Okay, it's me."

"Tell me where."

Six could practically hear Noah's Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallowed. "Uhhhh . . . trees, trees, so many fucking trees, wait. I see a number. 39 Maple St. It's downtown."

"I'll be there in ten minutes," he said, and hung up.


"What'd he say?"

Rex looked up from the curb, hugging his knees to his chest as he waited for an answer, and Noah had to laugh. "Can't you guess?"

He sat down next to Rex, leaning back on his arms, before continuing, "You have ten minutes to get your nanites to start breaking down that alcohol."

The arms hugged tighter, head falling forward to rest on the kneecaps, as Rex muttered.

"Aw, man."

"Sorry, big guy.

"Aw, man. Man, I am in such trouble."


"Like. A lot of trouble. Like, a lot."


"Will you be in trouble wifme?"

Noah decided to lie down—or fell. One of the two. Same end result, really. He smirked, but his answer was honest: "Already there, man."

They fell silent, enough that they could almost hear the music from down the street—that party got going again fast, Noah thought—until Rex said:

"Maybe he won't notice."

"Oh, I think he's going to notice."

"But, maybe. I mean, I'm okay. I am okay, right? I didn't puke on the blonde shoes. So, I'm okay, right?"

". . . This is going to be a long ten minutes."

Silence again, until Rex again broke it.



"I feel . . . you know that feeling? Like you're about to puke?"

"Like puking?"

"Yeah." And so he did. Noah cringed, shutting his eyes, but that couldn't stop his other senses from going. It splattered against the street and the wind kicked it over, sending the smell directly into his nostrils, and he swore.

"Rex, how much did you even drink?"

"I didn't count."

"Oh, God. It smells like a hobo exploded."

The splattering continued for a few minutes, with occasional breaks of coughing and gagging. When it finally quieted down, Rex wiped his mouth. Lay back. Turned to Noah and said:



I don't know, actually. There was a whirring sound distracting him. He restarted, hoping that'd help. "Noah?"

Noah opened his eyes. " . . . Yeah, Rex. I'm here. What?"

". . .I'm okay, right?"

Noah sighed. He looked up at the stars and Rex followed his gaze, not really seeing anything but okay with pretending.

". . . Yeah. You're okay."

Then Six arrived. In a helicopter.

"And now you're fucked."

Noah scrambled to his feet while Rex rolled sideways into the shadows. He sensed rather than saw Six drop from a dangling ladder and land on the ground next to them.

"He passed out?"

Rex answered before Noah could: "Yes."

Nice going, man. Noah snorted, and said, "No."

Six smiled, which while from anyone else would be encouraging, just made Noah shiver. "Good," he said, and he looked down at Rex, who was unsuccessfully trying to bury his head in the dirt. "Can you stand?"

"I'm an earthworm."

". . . Fine." Six reached down and hauled Rex to his feet, where he remained for precisely two seconds before falling over into Six's arms.

"Told you. Lemme go, I'll make your fingers slimy." He proceeded to squirm but Six pinned his arms down and threw him over his shoulder, seemingly effortlessly despite his size. He walked back to the ladder and—


Six turned. Noah stood, cellphone held out in front of him, though he quickly moved it behind his back when he caught Six's glare.

"You're finding your own ride home," he said. And with that Noah watched as Six walked away and, without a sound, trundled Rex up the ladder and into the helicopter. He wondered if—

Wait. Wait a second!

"Wait—but how am I supposed to—" Noah lunged forward, shouting up at Six's foot (the only part still visible), "Hold up! I need a ride too!"

"Called your parents," Six shouted back as the helicopter veered away. "Don't worry. They're taking care of it."

". . . Aw, shit."

He stepped back and collapsed onto the curb. With a smirk though, he pulled out the cellphone, opening it to photos—and a blurry but still obvious shot of a drunken Rex draped over Six's shoulder like a wailing two year old.



The toilet is my friend. The toilet is my friend. The toilet is—

His stomach, however, was not, and once the echoes of the splashing had faded away, Rex heard Six's voice boring through the door.

"—No TV."

Dios mio.

"No Noah."

Por favor.

"And extra training. We'll be doing that starting tomorrow morning. Six o'clock sharp. I'll even bring music."

Ten piedad. Rex spit, desperately trying to cleanse his mouth, before asking, "Why are you so mean?"

Six instinctively shrugged, arms brushing against the door, before he realized Rex couldn't see it. I'm running on too little sleep for this. Shaking off the error, he said, "Brought you to the toilet when I could have left you in bed. You owe the monkey a new hat, by the way."

"Really?" Rex didn't remember. The whole trip back was just a blur of light and yelling and, oh right, puke. He'd gone in the bathroom. That was first on his priority list, he remembered that much. Then his bed. Then back and forth and back and forth so many times he couldn't keep it straight. Which all only really ended up making one thing clear to him, even as his eyes shut and consciousness left him.

". . . Six?"


"Normal sucks."

Six shifted, fighting the urge to smile.

". . . You don't mean that."

"Yeah. No I don't," was the immediate—if contradictory—answer. "But puking?" Rex went on, "puking . . . sucks. Like, really sucks. Colossal suck."

"You done?"

"Mmmnnnnn..." So tired . . .

". . . Is that a yes?"

Silence. Six chanced opening the door, just a crack, and sure enough: the kid was passed out, hair plastered against the toilet seat with what he could only hope was sweat. At least his head's not in the toilet, he thought. Maybe things were looking up. Opened the door farther, he crept in and pulled Rex off. With some effort, he managed to pick the kid up again, cradling him while he flushed the toilet with a foot.

He'd take care of him tonight; he was okay with that.

Because it'd all be worth it tomorrow.


The first thing Rex noticed on his reluctant return to consciousness was pain. Throbbing, "shot in the head with a bazooka twenty-four times" pain that curled him up in a ball. Then he realized the pain had words.

"Twenty-twenty-twenty four hours to go I wanna be sedated."

"Rise and shine, bub," he heard Bobo shout over the music, "Six's standin' outside."

"Nothin' to do and nowhere to go-o-oh, I wanna be sedated."

He felt a kick to his stomach and he balled up further, nose practically crammed against his knees. This was it: the end. No EVOs after all, not even a cool bullet wound. Just Bobo's unwashed monkey feet poking at him and a split-open head and god-awful music threatening him with oblivion that he couldn't actually have because it wouldn't. Stop. Playing.

His eyelids pulled apart, opened by furry, sticky hands and he jumped back, light shattering his defenses.

Before he could shut his eyes again, he caught Bobo's smirk. "Wake up call. Don't ya hear the birdies singin'?"

Rex groaned, the words barely distinguishable through it: "I hate you so much right now.

"You threw up on my favorite fez. Ramones is me bein' nice. Next time? Bring me, you moron. Come on, Six's gettin' antsy. Oh, and by the way?"


"The Doc did a check while you were sleepin'. Nanites were actually doin' their job all along."

Wait. "But—"

"You just drank so much they couldn't keep up. Took them a lot longer to break it all down."

Rex thought about that. It took him a while, but finally he said, "That's not necessarily a bad thing."

"We'll see if you still think that when your liver jumps out and tries to strangle you."

"Ba-ba-bamp-ba ba-ba-ba-bamp-ba—I wanna be sedateeeeeed."

Lyrics from The Ramones' "I Wanna Be Sedated", which I do not own.

Generator Rex is also, shockingly enough, not owned by me. This fic is written for fun, nor profit.

SO MANY THANKS TO AUDLEY. For betaing, for ideas, for lines. SO MUCH LOVE.