"I'll splatter you across the canyon floor!"

Vasto couldn't bring himself to focus on any one thing. His mind refused to perceive time linearly. Instead, he involuntarily flashed between scorched snapshots of various moments in his life. He saw glimpses of Plegia. Of rolling prairie and of sprawling deserts all witnessed on the back of an airborne wyvern. He saw himself knitting with his mother as a child. He saw his younger self training with the Plegian army. He was then a child again, watching the Ylissean troops depart the land as the war of Emmeryn's predecessor came to an end. For all the events Vasto flashed back to, the one recurring experience was a battle against Ylisseans at Breakneck Pass. Though Vasto's head was foggy, he knew this one was recent. Various scenes of the battle could be seen as his mental picture slideshow continued to roll.

A young man with blue hair and a golden sword. A red haired Pegasus Knight. Thieves, barbarians, and wyvern riders clashing with a small force while pegasus knights protect a blonde woman in green and white robes.

It was slowly starting to come back to him now. Vasto had been the commander of the Plegian force that day. It was his first time ever commanding troops, in fact. He remembered being so excited, but why was he attacking the Ylisseans? What was the fighting for? Vasto winced as his headache grew worse, but also as the mental images continued.

The sharp clashes of metal weapons. The roar of nearby wyverns. The screams of Plegian soldiers falling in battle. Vasto is beginning to worry. The Ylisseans are pushing towards him, and none of his forces seem capable of stopping them. He is distracted as his lieutenant calls to him, trying to warn him of what he already knows. When he looks back, he sees the red haired Pegasus Knight from before is flying towards him with her lance readied.

Forcing his eyes open, Vasto fell to his knees and coughed with a series of wet, painful heaves. Stumbling forward as he recovered, Vasto heard the slap of bare feet on the cold stone floor and was surprised to see his own. His throbbing head failed to properly register where his limbs were at any given moment, and he could only stagger around as the flashback finally faded.

The fighting is done, but Vasto's fate is little different from his men. The war is over for him. He lies mortally wounded in a growing pool of his own blood, but it's not too terribly agonizing. His mind is fading too rapidly to properly perceive the pain. "You doves think… killing me will change anything? Heh... even now, my brothers storm across your precious border... Go on, dear exalted coward! Run! Flee while they slaughter your subjects! Save yourself... Let their faith in you… bleed away… with the rest…"

Vasto finally gave up trying to walk and curled into a ball on the floor, realizing he was only wearing smallclothes as his bare skin recoiled from the cold. Deciding to focus on one problem at a time, he took deep breaths to speed the recovery and lied there until his head cleared at last. Now able to get a feel for his surroundings, Vasto noticed he was in a stone room devoid of anything but the small bed that he'd rolled out of, a sealed door, and a wooden crate. Curious, Vasto undid the lid and opened it to see a steel axe and an exact replica of his old wyvern rider armor. "W-What?" He sputtered. "What the–"

"There's your crap. Put it on."

A female voice of indeterminate origin broadcasted in Vasto's head. "Agh! The hell is this?!"

"It's not that hard."

Vasto furiously checked his surroundings, but he was completely alone, and the voice didn't come back. Shrugging, Vasto dressed and sheathed his newly gained axe across his back, and the door out of the room mysteriously opened the moment he did.

The wyvern rider wasn't alone in the strange building he found himself interned in. Six men, all armed and armored like him, stood around in a large but otherwise empty staging area, and a seventh was just stumbling out of a doorway same as him. Counting his there were eight doors along the circular wall, as if each man present had been kept in his own special room. "Well, this is getting creepier by the second…"

"Gah!" The other man to enter the main room, scrawny with notably blue hair, moaned as he looked around. "I've got the hangover, but I don't remember the party! Now let's see. Where has Ruger found himself? All men. Some of you aren't wearing shirts. Ugh, I didn't join a cult, did I?"

"Who are you people?" Another wyvern rider with brownish hair and a rather sleazy mustache spoke up. "And why were we all given our uniforms?"

A shirtless man, or rather, one of the shirtless men gave a thuggish smile. Vasto recognized him as a berserker, and the axe slung across his back certainly implied as much. "Eight doors for eight of us. Well, with the latecomers, I see the gang's all here. Time for everyone to get to know each other." With no other warning but the smugness dripping from his voice, the berserker used his axe to trip up the wyvern rider and brought the blade to his throat. "I'm in charge around here. Easy enough to remember, huh?"

Far from helpless, the wyvern rider staggered his larger foe with a kick to the knee and brought his own axe to his throat before he could recover. "Easy, tons-of-fun. This ain't a prison yard riot. I'm Plegian army, and I'm not that easy to push around."

"Hold on! Everyone hold on!" Another of the shirtless berserkers, readily disguised by a thick brown beard and a scar over the eye, raised his hands and stepped into the center of the room. His voice was stern and booming, and he immediately seized everyone's attention. "You two were Plegian soldiers?"

"Yeah." Both men replied, still holding their weapons towards each other.

"My name is Mustafa, and I served same as you. Now, instead of bickering, I suggest we work together."

"Make me!"

The berserker lunged at his bearded counterpart, but Mustafa caught his weapon in an iron grasp and stunned him with a quick strike to the head. "Enough, Garrick! I am a General, and I will not abide by prison rules."

The man named Garrick stumbled backwards, blood trickling from his nose. "How do you know me?!"

"I was aware of Gangrel's proxy attacks on Ylisse to draw Emmeryn into war. I know exactly who you are. What you did at Southtown. I know who a lot of you are." Mustafa pointed towards the wyvern rider, a white haired and very heavily armored soldier, and Vasto himself. "You're Orton, you're Campari, and you're Vasto. It looks like almost all of us were Plegian soldiers. There's only three of you I don't recognize." General Mustafa turned to the scrawny man, still nursing his headache. "You called yourself Ruger?"

"Why? Do I owe you money?"

The odd situation was getting to Vasto, and he had to speak if only to ease himself. "I've heard of you, Mustafa. You were one of Gangrel's best."

The bearded berserker nodded. "Thank you, young man."

"But… you're still serving, right? I'm still serving. Why… why did you say we were Plegian soldiers?"

Mustafa gave a grim look. "I heard about what happened to all of you. How you fell in battle."

Vasto gave a nervous laugh. "Uh, I'd think I'd know if I had 'fallen in battle', huh pal? Do I look dead?"

"Breakneck Pass, Vasto. Your ambush against Emmeryn. Your failed ambush."

"I… uh…"

"You had the dreams, didn't you? When you were waking up?" Mustafa looked to the other Plegians as Vasto's eyes widened in shock. "Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong. Orton, you were defeated at the Border Pass. When Gangrel kidnapped the noblewoman Maribelle."

Orton sheathed his axe as he slowly stepped away from Garrick. "Sounds 'bout right, lad."

"And Campari, you were trying to stop Chrom and the Shepherds from reaching Emmeryn at the courtyard of Plegia Castle."

The old soldier coughed as he struggled to stay alert. His body didn't seem to handle the grogginess as well as the younger men. "Neat parlor trick, Mustafa."

"You all fell in battle before I encountered Chrom and his forces. The reports I received said as much. Now, I saw images my own engagement with the prince flash through my head as I awoke here. Tell me, as everyone was regaining consciousness, did you all dream of your own clashes?"

One of the two men yet to speak, a sage with long, grayish hair, stepped forward. "I do recall a blue haired prick with a golden sword. He attacked me for no reason! He had his right arm bare. The mark of Naga was on his shoulder. Sound familiar to anyone?"

Several of the men present nodded, and Vasto recoiled as his mind involuntarily recalled his last battle. A young man with blue hair and a golden sword. The sharp clashes of metal weapons. The roar of nearby wyverns. The screams of Plegian soldiers falling in battle. He snapped back to reality as Mustafa captured everyone's attention again. "Not everyone here is Plegian, but there is something we all do have in common. We all encountered Chrom and his Shepherds, and we all lost."

Vasto looked over his own hands. "Are you saying we're all dead?!"

"Oh, that's crap!" Ruger's face soured. "Why is my afterlife filled with other dudes?! That's not my idea of a good time!"

"I don't think we're dead." Mustafa replied as he ran his hand through his beard, an inquisitive expression taking him. "Not anymore."

"So you all figured it out on your own, did you? You're all smarter than we thought." All eight men visibly winced as the female voice returned. "Though only a little."

"Alright! Finally a woman in this sausage fest." Ruger looked around. "Now where's the rest of you?"

"Take this seriously, boy." Campari grunted. "We need our wits about us to figure out what's happening."

"No need. I wouldn't want you to strain those empty heads of yours thinking." An ethereal entity manifested right behind Ruger, startling the diminutive trickster. The figure was vaguely feminine in appearance, but it was shadowy and difficult to focus on. Most disturbing of all, the entity's eyes shone solid red. Combined with the transparent body, it was impossible to tell what it was even looking at. The female voice emanated directly from the figure this time, though it was no easier on the ears. "I'd be more than happy to simply tell you. Mustafa was right about what you eight have in common. You all once stood against Chrom and his Shepherds, and you paid with your lives. You all were on the wrong side of history. Now you've been reanimated to serve the interests of Ylisse. You will be the herding dogs of the Shepherds. You will embark on a dangerous mission to atone for standing against them in the first place. This is your second and last chance to redeem yourselves."

"What?! WHAT?!" Vasto ran his hands over his own body. "I really am undead!"

"Pfft." Orton chuckled. "Cute story, lass. Now tell us why we're really here."

"Don't believe little ol' me, Orton?"

Mustafa thought about it himself. "It… would explain the visions we all had of our deaths. Besides, I know you were killed Orton. All of Plegia knows you to be dead. Same with Vasto, Garrick, and Campari. I think… I think we all really did fall in battle."

"Come now! She's putting us on, mate! There's no such bloody thing as zombies!" Orton began to walk away, uncaring that there was nowhere for him to go. "You lot may fall for this cheap trick, but I've got better things to do."

Vasto could almost swear he saw the figure smile. "I'm so glad we've identified our skeptic. Now I get to demonstrate."

Orton turned back. "Demonstrate wha–AAARGH!" Though nothing appeared to be wrong with him, the wyvern rider fell to his knees furiously scratching at his own ears. He collapsed as if a sonic boom was continuously going off right next to him, and blood poured from his eyes, nose, ears, and mouth, but no one else could hear anything.

"You don't really think we just expected you to agree, did you? We created your bodies from scratch when we reanimated you. We gave you life, and we can just as easily take it back. Return you eight to the dirt naps the Shepherds gave you. See, each of you has been given what our dark mage friend likes to call a 'Patriot Curse'. As the name suggests, it's designed to make you a little more loyal to the Ylissean cause. Talk back to us?" All eight men were treated to a horrible, soul rending screech that each heard in their own heads. Everyone except Orton fell to their knees in agony. Orton, on the other hand, managed to rise. The taste of the curse everyone else just got was relatively pleasant compared to the full on blast he'd been given. "We can do that to any of you at anytime. Disobey an order? Screech. Try to leave the battlefield? Screech. You all belong to us now."

Mustafa threw himself back to his feet. "This is barbaric!"

"You all forfeited your rights when you tried to kill Chrom and the Shepherds. You all were the villains of his story, and no one misses you. We're giving you a do over. The chance to actually give something back to the world. You eight will be turned into unsung heroes. You will be sent on a specific task that will aid the Shepherds in their fight to protect Ylisse and her people. This is off the books, and Chrom will never hear of it, but rest assured, you will be made to redeem yourselves."

Campari scoffed. "Or we die trying?"

"Now you're getting it. The task you will undertake is suicidal. The odds that all eight of you will survive are negligible. That said, if you complete your mission, and if you survive, we will give you your freedom. The Patriot Curse will be lifted, and you'll keep your new bodies. The way we see it, the slightest possibility for survival we're giving you is better than what you had. If any of you would like to go back to being dead, simply let us know, and we'll set your Patriot Curse to lethal. Now, do we all understand?"

The eight men looked to each other. No one was happy, but no one wanted the ear gangbang again. Vasto cleared his throat. "So… we're expendable shock troops to help the Shepherds on a mission from behind the scenes?"

"Correct. From now on, you all are part of Strike Team Second Chance. A fitting and easy enough to remember name, if you ask us. You will be sent behind enemy lines to hit a heavily fortified base that threatens Chrom and his forces. Succeed, and everyone who survives can walk away a free man. You can do whatever you want with the rest of the life we gave you. Fail, and at least you can soften up the enemies for when Chrom gets there."

Vasto sneered. "So that's it, huh? We're some kind of Suicide Squad?" There was an awkward silence as he looked around to see if anyone else smiled. "Really? No one else thinks that was clever? Just… just me?"

Campari firmly grasped Vasto's shoulder, silently imploring him to shut up. "What exactly do you want us to do?"

"No more sarcasm then? Finally ready to get to business?" The figure vanished, but the shadowy energy that made it up swirled around until it condensed in a floating sphere in the center of the room. Strangely, this sphere began to project moving images until everyone present could make out displays of Vasto. The sphere seemed to actually project the visions Vasto himself experienced earlier. "Now like it or not, all eight of you are a team now. You should all know who you'll be depending on. First up, Vasto." The sphere projected flashbacks of Vasto fighting in the war against Emmeryn. One notable scene had Vasto urging his forces to charge the enemy line, his axe raised and his wyvern preparing to incinerate the unlucky Ylissean soldiers below. "Wyvern rider noted for his eagerness to prove himself in battle. Loved his mother very much."

"Gee, thanks. That's a real intimidating descriptor."

The sphere began to project flashbacks of Orton, and one prominent scene showed him being pursued by two Ylissean pegasus knights. A sadistic smile on his face as he snapped on his reins, Orton's wyvern quickly pulls up to catch the wind and decelerate. As Orton flies backwards, the talon on his wyvern's wing catches one of the knights in the face and causes her to spiral out of control. Now behind the second knight, the wyvern sinks its talons into her mount's hide and bites down on the back of its neck. The pegasus knight can barely react before Orton has his axe bearing down on her. "And here we have Orton. A wyvern rider known for his flying skill as much as he is for his ruthlessness."

The man in question smirked. "Is this supposed to be the part where I feel guilty?"

The sphere shifted to Mustafa. In one scene, the General is standing his ground against a charge of Ylissean knights as Plegian forces all around him flee in terror. Single handedly holding the line, the berserker eventually inspires the others to come back and counterattack. "Mustafa. One of Gangrel's finest, and eternally loyal to the Theocracy."

Mustafa closed his eyes, perhaps not entirely comfortable with the thought. "A soldier's duty is to his country. That doesn't mean I always stood by the King's actions."

The sphere began to flash depictions of Garrick, most of them involving raids on villages and towns. In one scene, Garrick is approaching a village maiden rather aggressively when an Ylissean knight begins to sneak up on him. A smile creeping across his face, Garrick turns right before the knight can strike at him and throws him to the ground. His expression of wicked glee only grows as he goes for the beheading. "Garrick. A brigand who worked as a proxy agent for Plegia. Garrick here was part of history. He was the first foe the Shepherds faced after Robin joined as a tactician."

Garrick rolled his eyes. "Well aren't I special?"

The sphere depicted images of the sage. One scene showed him directing soldiers from horseback. Each soldier had identical armor, suggesting they were part of a larger organization. Another had him looking over a very disorganized force. Among them was a teenaged mercenary with long red pigtails, and a scrawny looking villager with a pot on his head. "Nelson. A former general of Emperor Walhart before he was kicked out. Eventually came to lead his own force of brigands."

Nelson shrugged. "I preferred to think of myself as a freelance peacekeeping agent."

The sphere flashed images of Ruger next. Rather than showing him in battle, the flashbacks implied he'd lived his life as a criminal and a conman. One scene had him chained up in a prison ship. A guard subtly slips him a throwing knife as he passed. A sly smile on his face, Ruger then patiently waits for the guard with keys hanging by his side to walk by. Getting his attention with an insult, Ruger sends the knife into his neck with a quick flick of the wrist. An instant later, he's already freed himself with the stolen keys. "Ruger. A trickster known for committing crimes across Valm. He once impersonated Prince Chrom himself."

Vasto raised an eyebrow. "And people believed you?!"

The blue haired trickster gave a smug grin. "I mean, it's not like there are posters of the guy hanging around."

The sphere displayed depictions of Campari next. There were countless images of the old soldier locked in battle against various foes. He was fairly young in some of them, implying he'd served Plegia for a very long time. Curiously, one simply had him working on a birdhouse. "Campari. An officer in the Plegian Army who has served his whole life. He likes to build shelters for homeless birds in his spare time."

Vasto teasingly elbowed him. "Aren't all birds homeless? I mean, they fly from place to place."

"You want to keep that arm, kid?"

Lastly, the sphere depicted the eighth man–the only one who still hadn't spoken. Yet another berserker, his head mostly shaven as part of a strange haircut, was shown raiding and pillaging much as Garrick had. However, this man was always shown with a nigh identical berserker. Not a single memory depicted him by himself. "Last and… well… quite possibly least, we have Victor, a brigand who used to always work with his identical twin brother. Victor and Vincent were both slain by the Shepherds, but only Victor here was brought back."

The others turned to the man in question. Though rather extravagant in the memories depicted, Victor didn't respond in any way now. He just slumped against the wall, staring at the ground. Ruger snickered. "Why's he such a sad sack?"

"Victor there never never went anywhere without his 'darling' brother. He's not used to being alone. 'Course, I wouldn't spend too much time trying to figure each other out. All of you should be just as concerned with your own hides." The sphere began to depict static images of a heavily fortified military installation. Vasto didn't recognize it as anything he'd seen on the Ylissean continent, and he noted Nelson's eyes widening at the sight. "Each of you have been handpicked for this mission for a very particular reason. Finding out what that reason is will significantly increase your odds of survival. Now, just to be nice, I'll give you one freebie. Nelson here was chosen because he's ex Valmese Empire. Now tell everyone, Nelson. Do you recognize this place?"

The sage nervously tugged on his collar. "Aw, dammit. I leave Valm only to get dragged right back. That is the Rig, a keystone of Walhart's power and his most infamous prison. Make yourself an enemy of the Empire, really piss him off, and you're sent there. Never to be seen again. Hell, it's probably where I'd be if I didn't leave when I did."

Mustafa studied the images. "I've heard of Walhart and his expansion. Let me guess, he invaded the Ylissean continent at some point after the war between Gangrel and Emmeryn ended. Now Chrom and his Shepherds are at war with Walhart, and you want us to neutralize one of his strongholds for them?"

The again disembodied voice chuckled. "I see at least some of you don't need to be babied."

"Hold on!" Vasto looked around, searching for support. "There's eight of us! How are we supposed to take down a fortress?!"

"You're not alone." The sphere depicted a young woman about Vasto's age with long black hair and segmented armor that accentuated elegant, form fitting robes. She instantly caught Vasto's attention. She was certainly easier on the eyes than anyone else present. "This is Princess Say'ri, the leader of a resistance organization dedicated to opposing Walhart's otherwise universal control of the continent. When Walhart invaded her homeland of Chon'sin, her brother Yen'fay chose to side with him. Determined to do good where he went wrong, Say'ri is the face of resistance in Valm. She's horribly outmatched, but she's the only help the Shepherds are going to get when they arrive."

Nelson smirked. "Hey, I remember her! Walhart hates her."

"Well she's your new best friend. About two weeks ago, Say'ri struck a major blow against Walhart. When the Emperor transferred most of his troops away from the Rig in preparation for Chrom's counterattack, Say'ri and her rebels hit the Rig and seized it. It would be an inspirational victory had a Valmese counterattack not surrounded them. The same defenses that make the Rig so impenetrable are being used by the rebels to hold the Imperial Army at bay, but they're otherwise stuck. You're going to want to do everything you can to help them out because, in turn, they're the only help you'll get."

Mustafa nodded. "Does Say'ri know we're allies?"

The entity laughed. "Nope! You'd better be good at sweet talking."

"I still don't get it!" Vasto complained, his voice less assertive than he intended. "If the rebels are so completely outmatched, how are we supposed to make a difference? Again, there's eight of us!"

"Who said anything about helping the rebels hold the Rig? You have a more specific objective. Nelson?"

The sage groaned. "I think I get what our new boss is saying. The Rig wasn't just a prison. It was a standard fortress too. Keeping people out was just as important as keeping prisoners in."

Vasto waved his hand dismissively. "And? Being cryptic doesn't make you more interesting, pal."

"I'm getting there, you little prick! The Rig contains a treasure! Something very important to Walhart."

"No need telling them exactly what it is yet, Nelson." The voice interrupted. "Let's keep it a surprise. Anyways, the sage is right. The ultimate fate of the Rig is unimportant. Your objective is something contained within. You will secure this item for Chrom and his Shepherds, denying it to Walhart. That is your mission, Second Chance. Breach the ongoing Valmese counterattack. Meet up with Say'ri and her forces as necessary. Venture into the deepest levels of the Rig. Secure the treasure. Win your freedom. The only alternative is death. Either you die fighting to redeem yourselves, or I trigger your Patriot Curses."

"This is insane. This is bollocks!" Orton protested. "What the bloody hell is so important about this treasure?! Hell, why do you even care about Chrom?! There's no way you know him! He would never agree to enslaving people to do his dirty work!"

Garrick nodded. "Gangrel briefed me on what Chrom is like. The prince is… what's a good word… moral. There's no way he knows about this. What the hell do you care about him?"

The entity activated the Patriot Curse on Garrick and Orton, stopping only after they'd fallen to their knees. "I answer questions only as is necessary. Now, you're all suited up. We'll be moving out immediately. Anymore stupid questions before then?"

"So…" Vasto stuck his hands out. "Was that your idea of a pep talk?"

Vasto's own Patriot Curse triggered, and an eardrum shattering noise bounced around in his head until he reflexively curled up into a ball on the floor. "No, that is my idea of a motivator. Don't want your brains to turn to mush? Do what you're told!"

Vasto smiled at the frustration in the entity's voice, even as his ears physically bled. "Heh. Temper, temper."

Mustafa cleared his throat, eager to move on. "I see a logistical problem. The Shepherds are in Valm already?"

"They're sailing to Valm Harbor as we speak."

"Are we in Valm now?"

"No."

"Then… how will we reach this fortress before they do? How could our ship overtake theirs?"

The entity outright cackled this time. It was a high pitched, disturbing sound. "Who said anything about sailing? Have any of you ever… teleported?"

Nelson was the only one to speak. "You mean, like, with a warp stave?"

"Something like that… give or take a few hundred kilometers."

Though the other men just stared blankly or disinterestedly, Nelson, the only mage, turned white. "That kind of teleportation isn't possible! No magic is strong enough!"

"Ah, but the Patriot Curse isn't the only spell I've developed for this little mission of yours. I have a wonderful new curse for traversing vast distances in a nothingth of a second, without all that tedious mucking about in physical existence."

Vasto dusted himself off. "Uh, do I still have blood in my ears, or are you really talking about shooting us across the pond to Valm?"

Ruger scoffed. "No friggin' way, wonder wench. Even dark magic isn't that crazy."

"It wasn't that crazy. Not until I came along." The air around the eight began to distort as the shadowy sphere dissipated into nothingness. Things began to visibly flicker, as if everything else in the room was becoming a heat mirage, before outright fading away. The doors in the room were the first to go. Three of them simply ceased to be, as if there had only ever been wall there. One exploded, launching wooden splinters across the room. One shifted a foot to the left, leaving only solid wall where it had been.

"Gah!" Vasto flung himself backwards. "This is a dream! This is a bad dream!"

"Don't worry." The voice boomed. "It'll be over soon."

The last thing Vasto remembered was a bright flash of light and the feeling he'd become incredibly… soft?

Though teleportation had long been known to mages, the staves enabling it only worked over short distances, and the energy requirements for sending a person across a significant stretch of land were supposedly beyond any human mage's capability. How then could a single curse send eight grown men several hundred kilometers west? Such a thing was incredibly improbable.

And that's exactly why it worked.

Second Chance's infinite improbability curse was a wonderful new trick of dark magic that utilized unlikely odds as a way of transportation. Once infinite improbability was reached, the curse caused those affected to pass through every conceivable point in existence until they reached the location the curse's creator specified. Unfortunately, a number of exceedingly unlikely outcomes could also occur before the curse winded down once the destination was reached. Side effects of using the curse include temporary (and sometimes permanent), changes to the environment and morphological structure, hallucinations, and the calling into being of large marine mammals.

As the eight members of Second Chance materialized on the Valmese continent from the teleportation curse, seven of them began to suffer improbable side effects from the infinitesimally small chance of simply appearing where they needed to go. The only one to stay normal was Nelson, precisely because the odds of the only mage being entirely unaffected by magic were incredibly low. Rubbing his head as he rose to his feet, Nelson turned to Ruger and found that three of the trickster's limbs had teleported a few centimeters away from where they were supposed to be. "Agh!"

"What?" Ruger rolled over and noticed his severed arms. "Well… I could already tell this wasn't going to be fun."

Ruger wasn't alone in his problems either. As Vasto himself regained consciousness, he saw that Campari had turned into a beautiful young pegasus knight, Mustafa had become three meters tall, Victor was holding his own severed head in his hands, Garrick had become a bowl of petunias, and everyone's metal weaponry had become custard. Vasto could just see Nelson going to Orton's side, but he couldn't turn his head for some reason. Actually, he couldn't even feel his head.

"Orton!" The mage said. "You're turning into a penguin. Stop it."

"That's beside the point!" Orton shot back in an increasingly squawky voice. "The point is that I'm turning into a 'perfectly safe' penguin, and my colleague here is rapidly running out of limbs!"

"No, no." Ruger said in a dissonantly deadpan voice as he extended his remaining leg. "I think this one is staying."

"Ha!" Vasto tried to point and laugh, though his arm was strangely unresponsive. "You all got messed up!"

"Look who's talking, mate." Penguin!Orton replied.

Nelson's face contorted as he turned to him. "Uh, Vasto? Do you feel… more padded than usual? Cushion-ier?"

"What?"

"Vasto… you're a sofa."

As his state dawned on him, Sofa!Vasto began to involuntarily vomit out of sheer panic. Being a sofa, this came out as couch stuffing. "What the hell did that ghost lady do to us?!"

"Impressed are we?" The shadowy figure returned, floating above the eight. "I came up with that curse myself."

Mustafa struggled to steady himself. "If I asked what you did to us, would I regret it?"

"Worry not. You're all perfectly safe. It's just that your constituent particles have been taken through an infinite number of possibilities and are now in entirely improbable states."

"Ah." Vasto spoke up. "I see this is obviously some new definition of 'safe' I'm not familiar with."

"The effects of the curse will wear off as soon as probability returns to normal. Any second now."

Sure enough, everyone returned to their prior states as the dark magic faded. Unlike before, Campari recovered first. "Aww. I finally knew what it was like to be pretty. Everyone alright?"

Orton smacked his lips as he sat up. "Why… why do I taste fish?"

Vasto had to spit out more stuffing as he regained his human form, but he was otherwise fine. "So, gah! So we're in Valm now?"

"Let me check." Nelson wandered over to a nearby road sign and inspected a poster. It depicted a bald, armored man with an improbably large mustache pointing at the reader. The text read 'I WANT YOU FOR THE IMPERIAL ARMY.' Nelson scoffed. "I'd recognize Cervantes anywhere. This is definitely Valm."

The entity continued. "If everything went well, you'll all be within ten kilometers of the fortress. Didn't want you to be too close lest you run into the Valmese siege. Task Force Second Chance, get to work. The mission starts now."

"Hold on." Custard had apparently gotten in Bowl of Petunias!Garrick's potting soil at some point. With Garrick back to normal, and with the custard having turned back into everyone's weapons, Garrick now had his own axe impaled through his shoulder. "Ah, Nelson? If I could kindly use your healing services?"

Fire Emblem Awakening: The Other Guys is a Suicide Squad inspired story where eight minor bosses from Awakening proper are brought back to life and forced to redeem themselves on a difficult mission to assist the Shepherds' fight in Valm. I plan on expanding on these characters and giving them meaningful backstories and interactions while telling a "heroes of another story" kind of tale.

That all said, this fic isn't meant to be taken that seriously.