AN: You know you want it.


September 13th, 1984

Privet Drive was in a neighbourhood that could be described as peaceful.



Picturesque, evenly.

Its inhabitants were all quite normal, with neat and tidy gardens like any good Englishman should have, with neat and orderly houses, all nicely arranged for a reasonable balance between aesthetics and functionality.

So it was, on the whole, rather uncharacteristic to find a pair of cars screaming through the intersection with Magnolia Crescent onto Privet Drive at speeds well in excess of the 45 KPH speed limit, their passengers exchanging fire with fully automatic weapons.

The screamed obscenities were rather out of character for the inhabitants of Privet Drive as well.

"YOU'LL NEVER TAKE ME ALIVE!" One of the men in the leading car, a rather pock-marked BMW, screamed, emptying a full clip from his MP5 at the pursuing car.

"AHAHAHAH," Shouted the passenger of the second car, a custom model with what appeared to be a face taking up the space customarily occupied by the front grill of a vehicle, "THAT'S WHAT THEY ALL SAY UNTIL I PUNCH THEM IN THE FACE!"

If the passenger of the first car had been any less insane, he probably would have found his pursuer's complete lack of concern about the bullets whipping past his body unnerving.

Even when one of the round nearly took the corner off his pointy orange sunglasses.

"LET'S DO THIS, PARTNER!" He shouted, and the his partner nodded, then grinned like a man whose acquaintance with sanity was comparable to a friend you haven't seen since second grade, before downshifting and flooring the gas pedal.

In the meantime the gunman in the lead car emptied another clip at the face-car, but it was only marginally more effective than spit-balls at actually impeding the car's progress. To his surprise, rather than return fire, the gunman in the second car appeared to be holstering his gun, and climbing out the window.

He turned to shout a warning at his own driver, but it was too late.

The face-car's engine screamed, screamed like a raging Scots berserker chasing after a pant-suited English businessman with a dirty great claymore and nothing on but woad and a torc forged from the bones of his slain enemies.

What occurred when the face-car caught up with the BMW was of remarkable similarity to what happened when the Scot caught up with the man in the pants-suit, with the gunman taking the role of the businessman's head, and the man in the orange shades taking the role of the Claymore, by removing him from the BMW half a second after the face met the rear bumper of the BMW.

The method of removal was mid-air flying tackle, leap beginning at the moment of impact, continuing to body-slamming the gunman, taking a slight detour through the living-room window of Number 4 Privet Drive, and terminating on the back of the big-screen television in a hail of glass shards.

Meanwhile, the face-car, having introduced its front to the back of the BMW, sternly escorted the BMW through Number 4's front door, down the entry hall (tearing out the sheet-rock on both sides along the way), before grinding it rather permanently into the stairs, crushing half the stairs, and an equal portion of the BMW's engine compartment in the process.

For several long moments, there was silence, save for the sound of gas falling, sheet-rock rubble settling, and splintered wood raining lightly about the interior of Number 4. The near-silence was ended by the melodious sound of fist meeting face, then hand-cuffs being snapped into place.

"Hah!" Flying-window-tackle-man said after a moment of thought, "Your days of slaving are over! If you like German cars, you should have gone with the Flying Dutchman."

The Dursley family, who had been sitting on the couch watching the TV that Flying-window-tackle-man was now seated in the remains of, groaned at the bad joke.

"Hey Partner!" Crazy-car-driving-man shouted from where he was sitting on the ruined hood of the BMW, the cuffed hands of the other driver in one hand, his other pushing aside some of the remaining planks of the stairs to look in the cupboard underneath it, "What do people usually keep under the stairs?"

"I dunno," Flying-window-tackle-man said, shrugging as he hauled his rather mangled perp out of the ruins of the TV, "Cleaning stuff? Shoes?"

"This totally is not shoes," Crazy-car-driving-man said, "Looks like a little kid with a bloody forehead."

"Wait?" Flying-window-tackle-man said, dragging his perp over with no apparent effort, "Lemme see."

He looked into the shattered remnant of the stairs to find a frightened four-year-old child with black hair and a bloody cut on his forehead staring up out of the stairs at him with frightened eyes. Flying-window-tackle-man also noticed that he appeared to be wearing rags, and sitting in a small, beaten up crib.

"Hey Partner," Flying-window-tackle-man said.

"Yeah?" Crazy-car-driving-man said.

"You got your backup cuffs?" Flying-window-tackle-man asked.

"Yeah," Crazy-car-driving-man said, "Why?"

"Because," Flying-window-tackle-man said, turning to stare at the still-too-shocked-to-move Dursleys with a ferocious grin, "Looks like we're making a couple more arrests."


The Times, front page, September 14th, 1984.

Child slavery ring busted in London suburbs!

Two days ago, in the early afternoon, an international task force took down a child-slavery ring that had been operating in the London Metro area after an eight-month investigation. During the take-down, the leader of the ring, Ragnus Von Spartakus Von Gremlinson, managed to fight his way past members of the task force and London police, but was pursued by Detective Lieutenants Kamina and Kittan.

After a running gun-battle that lasted more than a day and a half (during which in excess of ten thousand rounds of ammunition were fired), passing through every major thoroughfare in London, and many in London's suburbs, Lieutenants Kamina and Kittan finally forced the fleeing Ragnus Von Spartakus Von Gremlinson to ground in Little Whinging, Surrey.

"Yeah, the wuss totally fled right to one of his sleazy customers," Detective Kamina said when interviewed, "Some slug called Dursley, maybe he thought the wuss had connections that could help him. Didn't help him though, we just rolled Dursley and his chick up along with Gremlinbutt and his driver."

"Partner and I totally took those assholes down hard," Detective Kittan said, "I smashed their weak-ass BMW right through the front door, while Partner tackled Von Lameson out of their car through lard-butt's window. Landed right on their TV, it was awesome."

While The Times has yet to receive independent verification of the reported aerial maneuver, we were successfully able to interview a few of their compatriots on the task force, under condition of anonymity.

"Those -censored- are -censored- CRAZY!" Reported a male co-worker, "The Dursleys are lucky they survived the Double K's visit to their house! How they haven't gotten someone killed I have no -censored- clue!"

"I can totally believe they did that," A female co-worker said, "Kamina and Kittan are like the manliest men ever. My only regret is that with the task force's purpose fulfilled, they'll be going back to Teppellin Beach, and I don't have the travel budget to date a boyfriend in America."

Detective-Lieutenant's Kamina and Kittan, as mentioned, hail from Teppellin Beach, but have spent much of the last three years on deployments abroad, where they have racked up a phenomenal record for making difficult arrests.

"I'm simply happy to allow detective's Kamina and Kittan's special talents to be appreciated in other, far distant parts of the world," Police Chief Genome of Teppelin Beach said when interviewed over the phone about their many deployments overseas, "I believe their record speaks for itself, and I am happy to grant as many requests for their distinct service as I receive from Scotland Yard, or Interpol, or the Gendarmerie Nationale, or the Bundesgrenschutz, or the NKVD, or the Ministry of Public Security, or..." (quote abbreviated due to extreme length.)

Also discovered by Detective-Lieutenant's Kamina and Kittan during their take-down of Ragnus von Spartakus von Gremlinson, was that the Dursley family had been keeping a child slave in their house to perform household chores. The child had been informed that he was their nephew, however, as he bears no resemblance to any member of the Dursley family, has no known birth certificate, medical or dental records, and is never recorded to attend school, this is believed to have been a lie the Dursleys told the child. The boy could not give his name when asked, and, on top of physical scars, bore signs of abuse, malnutrition, scurvy, stunted growth, vitamin deficiency, possible...


Genome, Chief of Police for Teppelin City, dropped the paper onto his desk, and gazed coolly at the pair of detectives seated in his office. Off in the corner of his office, his daughter Nia veritably glowed as she cradled the sleeping black-haired, green-eyed child in her lap, gently stroking his hair as she did so.

"So please, detectives," Genome said with a painfully cordial tone of voice, "What, precisely made you think it would be a good idea to bring a child with no identification, no passport, and in need of medical treatment, across the Atlantic ocean with no warning?"

"Well, see boss," Kittan said, grinning brilliantly, "We after bro and I finished beating Dursley down-"

"Fat tub took a lot of beating," Kamina put in.

"Yeah," Kittan said, "Got to use my brass knuckles on him. Good times. Anyways, so the kid was watching all of this through the smashed staircase, and once we've finally got the blubber-butt on the floor and cuffed, we let the kid out, and he latches onto Partner's leg, and won't let go."

"Not like, we had to pry him off," Kamina said, "Like, we couldn't pry him off. Three officers pulling on one end and Partner and I on the other, couldn't pry him loose, just managed to almost dislocate my hip."

Genome turned to look at the child in his daughter's lap briefly, then return Nia's glowing smile, before looking back to the Double K skeptically.

"Yeah," Kittan continued, "Like, even when he was asleep we couldn't get him off. It was like he was glued to Partner's leg or something."

"I've been wearing these pants for three days straight now," Kamina said, "Kid would not let go. So anyways, just when the task-force boss over in London was getting ready to throw us on a plane-"

"Boy, was he eager to see us gone," Kittan said, elbowing Kamina in the ribs and laughing.

"Yeah," Kamina said, smirking, "Good Times. Anyways, I was trying to think about how to get the little limpet off, when I realized hey, I know someone who's great with kids. Totally can make them melt in her hands."

"Nia," Kittan said, turning to give the girl a thumbs-up and a huge grin, "Totally the best chick with kids I've ever seen."

"Yep," Kamina said, "And hey look, we're not in the door for ten minutes, and she's got him off and sleeping in her arms. I was totally right!"

Genome simply stared at the pair of detectives, waiting for something more.

"Daddy?" Nia said, "I think the young man needs a proper bed to sleep in, do you think it would be alright if I take him home?"

"Of course sweetheart," Genome said, "But we still have important questions for the boy, and he's an important witness on the case Detectives Kamina and Kittan were involved in over in London, so I'll have to send an escort to make sure nothing untoward happens to him."

"Of course daddy," Nia said, smiling brilliantly at her father, "I'll just go wait down in the break-room for you to send someone along."

"Okay, muffin," Genome said, smiling back at his daughter, "I'll send someone right down."

Genome continued to smile as his daughter waved goodby, and walked out of the office, taking care not to jostle the child she held. Kittan and Kamina grinned at each other, and while their boss was still distracted, slipped small earplugs into their ears, and got ready for their real debriefing.


October 28th, 1984, undisclosed courthouse in London.

"So, ah, Iron Hands," The prosecuting attorney said, feeling slightly awkward about the child-witness's new name, "Can you identify the man who claimed to be your uncle?"

'Iron Hands,' attending the courtroom via an expensive video relay from Teppelin city, where he was seated in a smiling Nia's lap, immediately pointed at Vernon Dursley.

"The large man turning purple in the defendant's seat," He said, and Nia patted his head for being polite and not directly saying that Vernon was hideously fat.

Vernon Dursley, who had been gagged due to prior outbursts directed at the green-eyed child who was 'attending' the trial during this session.

"Can you tell me his name?" The prosecutor asked.

"Vernon Dursley," Iron Hands said, then looked around curiously, "Where's Aunt Petunia and Dudley?"

"Petunia Dursley's trial will be taking place at a later date," The Prosecutor said, "Now, could you give me a description of what your average day was like at the Dursleys?"

"Well," Iron Hands said, "I'd wake up, and cook breakfast, bacon, pancakes, waffles, toast, sausages, hash browns, and tea. Then, if I didn't burn anything, I'd get a piece of toast before it was time for gardening, where I could usually sneak a few drinks of water from the hose, then it was time for dusting, the living room, dining room, kitchen, downstairs hallway, stairs, upstairs hallway, Dudley's first bedroom, Dudley's second bedroom, Aunt and Uncle's room, the guest room, then vacuum everything except for the bathrooms and kitchen, then mop the bathrooms and kitchen, then it was time to cook lunch, and if I didn't burn any of that I'd get an apple or an orange. Then it was time for either painting the fence, or the house, or the garage, or the shed, or if I'd painted those recently enough, washing the walls inside, and then it was time for a shower and I'd get to use the loo. After that, I'd cook dinner, and if I didn't burn anything I could eat some of the leftovers, unless Marge was visiting, then they'd go to Ripper, her dog. After that, it was either other chores, or they'd put me back in my cupboard for the night."

Vernon, thoroughly purple at this point, chewed on his gag and glared at Iron Hands. The Prosecutor smirked triumphantly. The Advocate desperately wished some other poor schmuck had been forced to to take this defense. The Jury glared at Vernon. Nia held Iron Hands closer, and soothingly stroked his messy hair.

"Did he ever beat you?" The Prosecutor asked a bit more cautiously, rather aware that it was Spiral Genome's daughter that was holding the boy, and it would not do to upset the living legend's daughter.

"Um," Iron Hands said, "Did he ever not beat me?"

The Juries glares intensified.

"One last question, Mister Iron Hands," The Prosecutor said, "In order to spare you unhappy memories. We have a detailed medical report on you; do you remember any injuries or scars that you did not receive from your uncle?"

"Sure!" Iron Hands said brightly, "The ones I got from Aunt Petunia! She's pretty fast with a frying pan."

"No further questions," The Prosecutor said.


October 31st 1988, Teppelin Beach.

Eight year old Iron Hands McAwesome, named by his own request by the pair of detectives that had rescued him from child-slavery (they chose the names while drunk based on his grip when they met him and what sounded cool), stared intently up at his 'Uncles.'

"Partner and I are going on a long undercover mission overseas," Kamina said seriously, "So remember, Iron Hands, don't let anybody put you down. Believe in me that believes in you!

"Kick reason to the curb!" Kittan roared, "Go beyond the impossible!"

"And remember, Iron," Kamina said, grinning wildly as he slipped on his pointy orange shades, "You're invincible, bro!"

Iron Hands nodded seriously, fully believing what his beloved 'Uncles' were telling him, that he would go beyond the impossible, that he could kick reason to the curb, and that he was Absolutely Invincible.

Deep within the last scion of the Potter family, his magic responded to his total belief in what his Uncles had told him.


July 31st, 1991, Teppelin Beach.

"Hey, mama!" Iron Hands said, waving an odd letter in the air as he ran to join her in the family's living room, "Guess what, I'm a Wizard!"

"Oh!" Nia said brightly, taking the letter and examining it, "Just wait until Simon and your Uncles hear about this, they'll be so proud!"


September 1st, 1991, Platform 9 ¾, Kings Cross Station, London.

Platform nine and three-quarters was an isolated hold-out of the Wizarding world, cleverly hidden behind an enchanted barrier to isolate it from the muggles, and their strange new, and ever-changing, ways. Its isolation especially helped the mental peace of those who preferred to ignore the muggle world.

When the Gurrenrod, a sleek custom-built roadster with a face on the front and more horse-power than half of Kentucky screamed through the barrier and streaked across the platform before spinning to a stop at the far end, a few wizards and witches nearly suffered from heart attacks.

"Whoo!" Kamina said as he leapt out, "Classy place, got that old-timey antique feel to it."

"Oh," Nia said as she climbed out of the Gurrenrod's back seat, "It's classic late-nineteenth century industrial architecture! It's too bad this place isn't open to the public."

"What's that mean, mama?" Iron Hands asked as he climbed out beside her.

"It's quite old," Nia said, smiling and ruffling Iron Hands messy hair, "And very nice. I'm sure some of that will be explained in the history books I got for you."

"Yeah, sure," Kamina said nonchalantly, "Now let's get the squirt onto the train 'fore all the good seats are taken."

Some luggage moving, a little of wizard-freaking-out, and many heart-felt hugs and tears from Nia (and a few man-hugs and manly tears from Kamina) later, Iron Hands was aboard the train, and saying his final goodbyes through the open window.

"Remember to write home, and study hard!" Nia said, "We'll miss you!"

"Yeah, shrimp," Kamina said, "But remember, you're invincible, go bust some heads!"

"I will!" Iron Hands said, "I'll make you all proud!"

Nia and Kamina nodded, Nia smiling wetly up at him, Kamina giving him the big thumbs up and the grin that terrified criminals in prisons all across the world. Iron Hands smiled and gave them the big thumbs up in return, then the train began to huff and puff and pull itself out of the station.

Heart set on making his time at Hogwarts as awesome as he possibly could, Iron Hands sat down and began trying to decide just how to do so. He completely missed the Gurrenrod jumping off the platform, down onto the rails, in order to follow the train out of London a couple minutes later; he was, in fact, distracted by the arrival of a scrawny red-head who looked decidedly nervous.

"Er," The redhead said, "Everywhere else is full, do you mind if I sit with you?"

"No problem bro," Iron Hands said, causing the red-head to blink in surprise at his American accent, "What's your name? I'm Iron Hands McAwesome Genome, from Teppelin Beach."

"Uh," the boy said, dragging his trunk into the compartment Iron Hands was seated in, "Ron Weasley, from Ottery Saint-Catchpole. You're American?"

"Nah," Iron Hands said, hopping to his feet to help Ron stow his trunk, "I'm originally a Brit, but my uncles brought me over to America, where I got adopted by mama Nia and pops Simon after they rescued me from a child-slavery ring."

"A child-slavery ring?" Ron said, staring in disbelief, and nearly dropping his half of the trunk.

"Yeah," Iron Hands said, easily lifting the trunk himself with inhuman strength, "It was in the news and everything, Kamina and Kittan ended up chasing some schlup called von Gremlinson all the way across London, before he tried to hide out with some scumbag called Dursley, where my uncles totally kicked their asses and dragged them off to prison. I only remember a little bit, but what I do remember was awesome."

"You," Ron said seriously, "Have got to tell me all about it."


After half an hour of swapping stories, Iron Hands about his uncles' and father's exploits with TBPD, Ron about his older brother's antics and shenanigans at Hogwarts and in the wider world, they were interrupted by a serious girl with bushy brown hair entering the apartment with a shy, somewhat chubby, boy in tow.

"Have either of you seen a toad?" She asked, "Neville's lost his, and-"

"A toad?" Iron Hands asked, staring at the shy boy, "Why would you have a toad? I thought toads were a witches thing, like cats?"

"Not really," The girl said, "According to what I've read about Wizarding culture, no particular familiar is associated with either gender. Are you American?"

"By adoption," Iron Hands said, shrugging, "I was born a Brit, but after I was rescued from a child-slavery ring, my uncles took me to America to be adopted. I'm Iron Hands McAwesome Genome, who're you?"

"Hermione Granger," The girl said, "It's-that was you?"

"Which that?" Iron Hands asked, raising an eyebrow at the girl with a smile.

"The child that was rescued from the Dursley family seven years ago?" Hermione said excitedly, "Part of that big slavery bust that was all over the news?"

"Yeah," Iron Hands said, smiling at the girl, "That was me. My uncles are awesome."

"But you're famous," The girl gushed, "Is it true you got adopted by the daughter of the legendary Spiral Genome himself?"

"Yeah," Iron Hands said smugly, "My whole family is made out of Win. We're just too awesome for words."

"Ohhh," Hermione said jumping up and down and practically squealing in excitement, "This is so exciting, I've never met anybody famous before. What was it like being rescued by the famous Double K?"

"Awesome," Iron Hands said, happy to strike up another conversation about his favorite subject, his family, "Let me tell you about the time-"

Toad quite forgotten, Neville and Hermione sat down beside Ron, spell-bound by Iron Hands' story-telling.

For the next few hours, every time that Iron Hands finished a story, Hermione would spew off a massive series of new questions, which inevitably lead to another story, keeping the cycle going. They were briefly interrupted by a visit from a cart full of food, which sparked a discussion about Wizarding food and candy, which Ron and Neville took considerably larger part in since they were the only ones who knew anything about it. It was when Hermione was quizzing Neville on the finer points of etiquette in the Wizarding world that they were interrupted by the arrival of three newcomers.

"I hear Harry Potter is supposed to be on the train this year," A pale blonde said as he surveyed the compartment, clearly not impressed by what he saw, "Have any of you seen him?"

"Not yet," Hermione said, standing to greet the boy, "I'm Hermione Granger, and you are?"

"Malfoy," The boy said, sneering, "Draco Malfoy. I don't recall your family name, you're some kind of mudblood aren't you?"

"What?" Hermione said, some hurt showing in her tone and body language, as while she didn't understand what Draco meant, she could clearly tell she had been insulted.

Iron Hands eyes narrowed, and he glared at the blond boy.

"Hey," He said, rising to stand menacingly over the slightly smaller boy, "It ain't nice to hurt a lady's feelings."

"And who," Malfoy said, sneering, as he gestured for his pair of thugs to move up behind him, "Are you?"

"I'm Iron Hands McAwesome Genome," Iron Hands said proudly, and my family told me not to put up with pretentious little spit-heads hurting my friend's feelings."

"Idiot American," Malfoy sneered, "Crabbe, Goyle, teach him a lesson."

The pair of thugs moved up to grab Iron Hands, but he laughed, then proceeded to headbutt them both, sending them flying out of the compartment to crash into the far side of the corridor.

"You're the idiot," Iron Hands said, grabbing Malfoy by the front of his robes, and pulling the now-even-paler blonde up to his face, only using one hand, and not even straining visibly.

He then brushed aside his bangs with his free hand, and pointed to a pair of crossed scars on his forehead that vaguely resembled a drill bit.

"Do you see this?" Iron Hands asked, and Draco nodded mutely.

"This," Iron Hands continued, his voice rising with Burning Passion, "Is the Drill that will PIERCE THE HEAVENS."

His words echoes up and down the train car they were in.

"And you," Iron Hands said, "Will now be introduced to it."

Then he slammed his forehead into Draco's face, breaking his nose and knocking him unconscious, before chucking him onto his dazed minions, then slamming the door to their compartment shut.

"Well," Iron Hands said, wiping the blood off of his face, "He doesn't get to ride with the cool people."

The others just stared at him.


Later that evening, Great Hall, Hogwarts.

"Abbot, Hannah!" McGonagall declared.

"A hat!" Ron groaned, "The twins were going on about wrestling a troll, I'll kill them!"

"I know," Iron Hands said, patting Ron's shoulder reassuringly, "I'm disappointed too, but maybe we can find one to wrestle with later."

Ron stared at Iron Hands, not sure if his new friend was crazy, or awesome. Neville was pretty sure Iron Hands was pretty awesome, as he seemed to be the embodiment of all courage, whereas Hermione was becoming increasingly certain that Iron Hands was insane, and was thinking about trying to get a competent psychiatrist to Hogwarts to evaluate him.

No more words passed between the four new friends, though Harry smiled encouragingly at Hermione and Neville as they went up to be sorted, then gave them the big thumbs up after they were sorted into Gryffindor. Then the name that everybody (except for Iron Hands) had been waiting for was called.

"Harry 'Iron Hands McAwesome Genome' Potter," McGonagall said, staring down at her list of names, certain that it had not read like that when she read over it before the sorting began.

Iron Hands, absolutely confident in himself, strolled across the Great Hall just like Uncle Kamina had taught him to do when dealing with 'the public,' and plopped himself down on the stool, before smiling up at McGonagall and gesturing for her to place the hat on his head.

Slightly unnerved, but maintaining her composure, McGonagall did so.

Well well, mister Potter, the Sorting Hat said, It's nice to meet you; now where shall we put you?

I dunno, Iron Hands thought at the hat, Doesn't make much difference to me.

Well, the hat said, What do you dream about in life?

Being the Awesomest Detective EVER, Iron Hands thought at the hat, and remembering the manners that his mama had taught him, decided to ask the hat in return, What's your dream?

You know, the hat said after a long pause, nobody's ever asked me that before.

Well, Harry said, making himself comfortable, Why don't you tell me all about it then?

Well, The hat began, ever since Godric first enchanted me, I've been rather fascinated by the stars...

Half an hour later:

"By jove I will!" The hat shouted, startling the assorted students and staff watching, some of whom had fallen asleep while waiting for Iron Hands to be sorted, "I will be the first hat in space. My blood Burns for The Great Wild Yonder! I will go BEYOND THE IMPOSSIBLE! TO INFINITY AND BEYOND!"

And so saying, the Sorting Hat blasted off of Iron Hands' head, trailing fire as it smashed its way through the roof of the Great Hall, and rocketed off into the sky.

"DON'T FORGET TO WRITE!" Iron Hands said, the only apparent effect of the hat launching off his head being that his hair was now sharply swept back, waving up at the rapidly diminishing rocket trail of the Sorting Hat, "TELL ME WHAT MARS IS LIKE!"

That said, Iron Hands looked around the hall, seeing every single other individual in the room standing slack-jawed as they stared up at the hole in the Great Hall's ceiling, before spotting a new table which had magically appeared, with a banner that showed the Sorting Hat trailing flames as it soared through space. Deciding it must be for the house he had just been sorted into, he strolled over to it, then sat down, and turned his attention back towards McGonagall, to watch the rest of the sorting.

"Oh dear," McGonagall said, "How will we finish the sorting?"


AN: I intend to add bits and pieces to this as the fancy strikes me, mostly how Iron Hands McAwesome Genome handles various well-known scenes from canon differently. I will not promise any schedule, and it will not flesh out into a full-on story though. This is crack with BURNING BLOOD, plain and simple.