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mighty-ant · 3 months ago

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A Good Landing, chapter thirteen

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The Drake of three years ago never could’ve imagined that he’d be someone’s husband one day.

To be fair, a wedding would be tough to plan when one didn’t technically exist. He had Drake Mallard erased from record nearly a decade ago, reduced him to less than a ghost, less than a footnote. It wasn’t particularly difficult to do, with as little impact as Drake Mallard had made on the world. A rejected son, a failed actor, a selfish, bitter, friendless loser.

He fell into SHUSH by chance, by sheer, brilliant happenstance.

As a former stuntman, he knew how to throw a punch. And a lot more than that. He wasn’t proud of it, but after the 8th pointless audition for a toothpaste commercial with no callback, he took to slipping out of his crummy basement apartment in a ski mask and whaling on petty criminals in his neighborhood, St. Canard’s East End. He tried not to punch above his weight, going after would-be muggers or your typical creeps, and every dawn, as sickly, gray sunlight spilled out over the city, he would trudge back home with sore muscles and a gaping chasm in his chest that no amount of violent retribution would be enough to fill.

But he was getting pretty good at beating up crooks, to the point where regular people took notice. He started showing up in the news as ‘the dark masked duck’ more than Drake Mallard ever did, and even as the emptiness yawned within him, he liked it. The attention, indirect as it was. And he wanted more.

Beating drug dealers bloody didn’t pay the bills unless he wanted to turn into some sort of hitman, so he kept up his stunt work during the day. His after hours activities kept him sharp, and there was no end to the mindless action flicks in need of nameless stuntmen.

There was one flick, some old school vampire thing, that had him flying around on wires for Vampire Thrall #1-4 and the Vampire King. The costume department put him in a cape, a long, flowing thing that flared with his movement, made him look bigger than he really was. He startled more than a few techs with a perfectly timed swing of his cape, the snap of fabric especially jarring when all else was silent.

And just like that, Drake knew what he had to do.

As a former student of a theater department with a dwindling, near-nonexistent budget, he’d performed in every role, from lead actor to stagehand. And borrowing one of the vampire capes from set to use as reference, he made Darkwing Duck’s first costume.

The gas guns and the catchphrases developed over time, through trial and error. He flubbed his lines more than once and set off his apartment’s fire alarm an embarrassing number of times. Until one night, when Darkwing Duck became fully realized.

He started noticing a pattern with a certain number of thieves, most of them teens or kids barely out of high school. He followed them for about a week, not interfering since they never actually hurt anyone, before they led him to the warehouse where they were dropping everything off.

Drake burst in, expecting to beatdown a few scary gang types who thought it a swell idea to recruit kids to do their dirty work, only to stumble headfirst into a smuggling ring that (he’d later learn) spanned the entirety of Calisota. With his cover blown and the exit blocked, Drake did the only thing he was good at. He fought.

As he launched one of their own tear gas canisters back at the last of the goons, SHUSH agents came storming in. Apparently he’d interrupted what had been a multi-part sting five months in the making, but in doing so caught the gang so off guard that nearly all of the bosses were there to meet his fists, and the rest were caught when their business partners squealed on them.

“We’ve been watching you,” the lead agent said. He held his hand out to Drake. “How would you like to continue your work somewhere other than a basement?”

He accepted, barely waiting for the agent to even finish speaking, and Drake Mallard disappeared into Darkwing Duck’s shadow, gleefully casting aside everything that made for a normal life in favor of casefiles and chemistry sets. Who needed friends or neighbors when Quackerjack was robbing the federal gold depository? Or Megavolt was stealing the city’s power, or Bushroot was turning everyone into vampire potatoes (you get the idea)?

Darkwing Duck had the tech, and the secret base, and the costume, and the fear. By design, the average citizen was meant to consider him a myth; the criminal underworld, they knew who he was all too well.

The years went by, years of living out his secret, selfish fantasies, and…he felt nothing. That hollow, carved out space inside him didn’t go away, or heal at all. If anything it became a constant companion, a pain that festered into numbness.

After the adrenaline high burned itself out, he felt the ache of his bruised, bleeding body, drowned in the yawning emptiness of the Tower. There was so much crime in St. Canard, not just supervillains but cruel, petty evils that made it feel as though he were battling the tide with a bat and a cardboard shield.

But he couldn’t go back now. Back to small, sniveling Drake Mallard who nobody gave a damn about. Who would have him? Who would want him?

And then.

A Darkwing-shaped hole in the roof of a plane hangar. A jet, presented as a gift. Smiles over coffee and warm hands holding his aching body close.

Launchpad, who had far more reason to turn jaded and cruel than Drake ever did, but stayed good despite the way the world chewed him up and spat him back out. Launchpad, who offered his bruised heart with trembling smiles, trusting Drake even as he risked further pain.

Launchpad, who made Drake want to try.

Try to be good, too. Try to be whole. A worthy partner.

And then.

An orphan with boundless spirit. Lullabies, hugs that left him breathless, a blazing red portal and a tiny, fragile hand clasped in his own, trusting him when everyone else had failed her.

He never saw Gosalyn coming. How could he? Fatherhood was a foreign concept, a cruel joke, his frame of reference poisonous and pointless. But then Gosalyn fit into their life like a missing puzzle piece, as if he’d been waiting for her all along and he’d only just glanced down and taken notice. Her happiness began to matter more than any number of stakeouts or foiled plots. To keep her safe, he would kill and die for her.

Before his eyes, the empty numbness inside him transformed into a well of rage, of love, so powerful it made him wonder if he’d ever truly been alive before now.

For them, his heroes, he had to do more than just try.

Then of course Launchpad just had to show him up by proposing first, but that was just par for the course. And Drake could admit that a moonlit flight in the Thunderquack was probably more romantic than anything he could’ve come up with.

All that mattered was the end result was the same. A family, his family, unlike anything he would’ve been capable of imagining for himself. Just the thought of how he used to be shamed him, and on especially bad nights, he worried about regressing into that shell of a man, a cold, caustic version of himself and the bitter loneliness he enforced.

But that fear seemed insignificant when they were flying to Des Moines for their wedding, and for Gosalyn to meet her new grandparents. When they went house hunting and found a two-story marvel with a lovely kitchen backsplash and a tree out front for Gosalyn to give him a heart attack by climbing.

They still had their rough days, obviously.

Something might remind Gosalyn of her grandpa, and the life that was stolen from her, and she would lash out over any little thing in dramatic teenager fashion.

Launchpad’s nightmares about his old life could keep him from sleep for days at a time and in his exhaustion he would turn withdrawn in their own home, hesitating before every kiss, every hug or high five, staring at Drake and Gosalyn as if they might vanish if he were to dare reach out and touch them.

Drake would get overwhelmed by the muchness of it all—fighting crime had nothing on back-to-school shopping, meal prepping, hockey meets, and the dreaded potlucks. PTA meetings made him want to give up on this whole ‘reenter society' schtick and lock himself back in the Tower for good.

The crime fighting part was no walk in the park either. For all that Gosalyn was growing into the role of Quiverwing, making it her own, with the help of the two best teachers she could’ve asked for, there was a lot she just still wasn’t ready to face. Things that Drake hadn’t been ready to face, and haunted him still. Demons, alternate dimensions, a monster carrying out evil while wearing his face, Bulba lumbering back from the dead, more machine than man.

Safe to say they saw their fair share of danger, and weirdness, in St. Canard. But sitting in the Thunderquack with Launchpad’s boss, his former SHUSH handler, and a fellow worried father was…something else.

For almost two years, Launchpad’s job in Duckburg had been just that: a job. One that came at the request of SHUSH, and more specifically the buff Mary Puffins currently sitting in the copilot seat. The life of the richest duck in the world was apparently in danger, at risk by FOWL and their shadowy machinations, and everyone knew McDuck wasn’t the same man he was a decade ago.

Drake didn’t care about McDuck, much less whatever was going on in their perfect sister city of Duckburg. As great as a second income would be for Gos’ college fund, he wasn’t about to pressure Launchpad into accepting a SHUSH assignment now, after everything he’d told Drake, and all the worst bits that he’d probably left out. If Drake’s own SHUSH stipend as an independent contractor wasn’t enough to suit their needs, then Launchpad could open another garage in the city, or an online shop for his knitting, or even a damn lemonade stand.

But no. As a favor to Beakley (who didn’t deserve Launchpad’s time of day, but that was just Drake’s opinion), he accepted the position as McDuck’s chauffeur. And it was…fine.

Launchpad drove the old coot to and from his meetings, collected dry cleaning, the usual. He would pick up Gos from her hockey practice on the way home, nap with Drake for a while, and then they’d either suit up as a family or someone would stay behind to help Gos with her language arts homework. It was their routine, and amid various potentially life-altering catastrophes, it was nearly perfect.

And then McDuck got it in his head to start adventuring again at the ripe old age of 800 years old, dragging an entire spontaneous gaggle of children and Launchpad along with him. Suddenly, Drake could go entire days without seeing his husband, or Gos her father, as he gallivanted off to parts unknown at the beck and call of an old man who’d never appreciated him in the first place.

Now, Launchpad was the kindest soul Drake had ever met, open with his affection, and ready to make friends with everyone from derelict superheroes to business-minded witches. But Drake’s darling, beautiful husband was not the most forthright individual, and this was coming from the reigning champ of emotional stuntedness.

Launchpad liked to feel useful. Scratch that. Launchpad needed to feel useful. It was a compulsion born from his years at SHUSH, where his skills were all that mattered to people. Even allies, friends (and some more-than-friends), would drop him as soon as the mission was complete, the day was saved. Launchpad would be left in the lurch, told to pack his things, move onto the next mission, and wonder why he hadn’t done enough for them to let him stay.

So Drake, grudgingly, understood why Launchpad hadn’t just told McDuck to buzz off and find himself another pilot. He cared about the miserable old miser, and he cared about the kids, who sounded nearly as spirited as Gos from the way he described them.

More than once, Launchpad actually floated the idea of holding some kind of get-together for all of them, but Drake had been…resistant. He didn’t like meeting new people at the best of times, and he was still so traumatized by the Muddlefoots that he would’ve forced them to move years ago if it wouldn’t mean earning ‘Worst Father of the Year Award’ for separating Gos from Honker.

Of course, Launchpad’s disappearing act forced the dreaded introduction anyway, because Drake’s life was nothing if not a series of jokes played at his expense. At the very least, once he entered the coordinates into the Thunderquack’s navigation system and the cockpit sealed, none of the three other ducks on board had much interest in smalltalk.

From the copilot’s seat, Beakley turned toward him sharply, expression tight and any indication of stress tucked away. Back to business then.

“Who is this enemy of yours that you suspect to be responsible?”

Beneath them, Duckburg blurred past in shades of ochre as the distant sun inched toward the bay. Drake stared straight ahead, gripping the yoke just to have something to do with his hands, as the autopilot took care of the actual flying.

Technically he could only suspect who might be responsible. If based on a simple process of elimination it was almost a foregone conclusion, taking into account who wasn’t currently in jail but also had the cunning and/or intimidation factor to gain access to SHUSH systems. Not to mention a single-minded hatred of Drake that would motivate them to ignore every bit of actual highly sensitive and ultra-classified intelligence up for grabs.

For once, Drake desperately hoped he was wrong. He prayed they’d get to this SHUSH blacksite and find Lilliput lying in wait instead. But he could never be that lucky.

“Negaduck,” he muttered, the name escaping him on a breath. In his peripheral vision, he saw McDuck and Donald stiffen at his tone, more apprehensive that he would’ve liked.

“He’s me,” Drake explained haltingly. “Sort of. At least, he’s a version of me from an alternate dimension.”

Behind him, Donald dropped his head into one hand. “Of course he is…” he despaired quietly. “Cuz being from this dimension would be too simple.”

“McDuck.” Drake turned his head slightly without facing the quadrillionaire directly. “Do you remember a scientist who worked for you three years ago? Thadeus Waddlemeyer. He was trying to create a machine to access other dimensions.”

“A-aye,” McDuck said slowly. “But he…passed, and his device was deemed too unstable after it was stolen and nearly destroyed St. Canard.”

Drake scowled at the windshield. ‘Passed’ was a kinder way of saying murdered, and as much as the reminder burned him, he distantly appreciated McDuck’s tact if nothing else. “Yeah,” he grunted. “Our dimension’s Waddlemeyer wasn’t able to crack the code, but the Waddlemeyer of the Negaverse did.”

“Negaverse?” Donald repeated.

Drake thought for a moment of how Bellum and his kid had first explained it to him, reeling after his first and last disastrous visit.

“Think of it like a mirror of our dimension, but the funhouse kind. Almost everyone, everything, is twisted so that they’re the opposite of who we are here, now. There, Waddlemeyer was a mad scientist, willing to sell the Ramrod to the highest bidder. There, SHUSH is trying to take over the world, while FOWL is a peacekeeping organization working to stop them, yadda yadda, you get the picture.

“There, the Negaverse version of me terrorized St. Canard. He stole the Ramrod, plus Waddlemeyer’s granddaughter, and used it to cross over into our dimension to try and take over here too. I found where he was hiding his Ramrod about six months ago, and destroyed it, trapping him here. Which he, uh…extra hates me for.”

“What can we expect from him?” Beakley demanded. Drake had noticed her expectant silence up until now, and his aggravation had been building steadily For all that she was ‘retired’ from SHUSH, clearly she still had access to mission briefings—his and Launchpad’s in particular, seeing how she just couldn’t leave his husband alone. She could probably guess Negaduck’s MO, if she didn’t already have his full psych profile memorized.

“Well he’s insane, for starters,” Drake said for the benefit of the ducks in the rear of the plane. “But don’t underestimate him—he’s dangerously smart, too, and just plain dangerous. He hides all kinds of weapons on his person: knives, guns, chainsaws, whatever you can think of that causes maximum pain.”

Donald’s breath wheezed out of him, and that got Drake to finally turn around. The duck was clutching a hand to his chest, looking ashen beneath his feathers. McDuck was reaching out to him but hesitantly, his hands hovering over his nephew’s shoulders without touching.

“What about the kids?” Donald asked shakily, and Drake accepted a rare pang of guilt.

He didn’t know Donald, had never cared to know him, but Launchpad always sang his praises as a father. How despite whatever nonsense McDuck dragged them into, Donald’s first priority was always his kids, whether that meant driving to every Junior Woodchuck troop meeting or fighting actual Greek gods to keep them safe. And now two of those kids were gone. Taken, purely through bad luck and worse timing.

Drake didn’t know how Donald could possibly be holding himself together as well as he was. Knowing Launchpad’s life was at stake because of him had Drake’s leaden stomach turning on itself, his hands trembling around the yoke and terror swimming poisonously through his veins. He could see Launchpad’s bedhead and sleepy smile in his mind’s eye and wanted to scream. Knowing Gos was safe in that damn mansion was the only thing keeping him sane. He couldn’t well imagine how he’d feel if she’d been taken too. Just the thought was enough to pour red-hot rage into his bones, enough for him to tap into the darkness that Negaduck wholly embodied and rip and claw and tear until he got her back.

But here, now, at least he had an idea of what to expect. Donald was going in blind, and the uncertainty must’ve been eating him alive.

“He won’t do anything to them, or to Launchpad, until we get there,” Drake tried to reassure, not sure if he was all that successful. This was usually more Launchpad’s wheelhouse. “Fortunately, he’s your typical megalomaniacal supervillain in at least one way: he likes an audience.”

He didn’t mention that Negaduck’s hatred of him was borderline obsessive. Creating this whole convoluted scheme just to lure him out by way of kidnapping Launchpad probably spoke for itself. But Negaduck had gone after Gos before with bombs and a shark on her first night out as Quiverwing, and that was before he learned she was part of his team. And now after that hack, he had to know who she really was.

Drake’s only guarantee was that Negaduck wouldn’t kill Launchpad or the two missing children (Dewey and Webby, he reminded himself), but he had no idea what state they would be in when he found them. At best, he hadn’t laid a finger on them, but Drake knew Launchpad, knew that beneath the surface of the gentle giant was Double-O-Duck, the spy, the bruiser, with all of his focus and skill. He wouldn’t have taken the kids’ capture lying down, so if anyone was already injured and especially at Negaduck’s mercy, it would have to be Drake’s husband.

Negaduck had no more love for Launchpad than he did for Drake, but this time he hoped to use it to his advantage. Once he knew Darkwing was in the building, he wouldn’t care about anyone else, beelining for his dimensional counterpart with fire and brimstone in his eyes and a chainsaw aimed for Drake’s neck. A brawl would be the perfect distraction while Beakley and the others searched for their kidnapees.

Then, once Launchpad was safe in his arms, he would be taking a leave of absence from the McDuck family, effective immediately. Drake was taking him and Gos to their cabin out by Launchpad’s parents’ house and barring the door, because Drake had been missing his husband and Gos needed her Papá. For too long, he’d been letting Launchpad burn the candle at both ends, journeying back and forth between home and Duckburg, jungle adventures and night patrol, because he knew how much Launchpad loved both of his families. But Launchpad always had more love to give than there were hours in the day (or night), and Drake had to put his foot down before Launchpad gave all of himself away.

And not to be petty, but Drake and Gos had first dibs.

He watched the gray arches of the Audubon Bay Bridge rise into view through the windshield, painted in shades of gold that only deepened the shadows cast by the towers. Relief flooded Drake at the familiar sight.

“Almost there,” he muttered aloud. The Thunderquack banked to the left, in the direction of the harbor. Launchpad’s last coordinates was leading them toward the spookier part of the docks that tended to have ‘MURDER’ written all over them, where the warehouses were crumbling and seemingly long-abandoned, but nearly all served as a front for some kind of smuggling ring or demon-worshiping cult or devout Quackerware salesmen. Just the place SHUSH would think to settle down in, for reputation’s sake if nothing else. But in the process of building their prison, they would’ve cleared out the surrounding riffraff too. Instead, neither had happened.

Drake glanced at Beakley. “Do you know anything about why this place was shut down?”

“I believe it was something to do with the foundations of the pre-existing structure,” she explained unhappily. “The prison was decommissioned and left unfinished as further construction put the entire building at risk of collapse.”

Drake grimaced. “Perfect. I think I’m gonna park on the warehouse next door.”

Just hold on, Launchpad. We’re coming.

“Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey!”

A voice that sounded like it belonged to someone who gargled razor blades dragged Launchpad back to aching consciousness. Even before he opened his eyes, he was struck by the overwhelming pressure in his head, as if someone had put his temples in a vice. His chest felt tight, like his lungs didn’t have room to expand, and his breaths were short and labored.

When he managed to crack his eyes open, he found himself looking out into darkness. He thought he could see shapes moving amidst the black, formless and indistinct. But a spotlight switched on directly above him with a heavy clang, temporarily blinding him. He winced, jerking his hands up to shield his face, but all he managed was to make his body sway in place. Thick rope bound him from his arms up to his ankles and a latch of some sort on his back held him suspended several feet off the ground, upside down, like a worm on a hook.

“Look who finally decided to join the land of the living,” Negaduck crooned, his voice preceding him into the circle of light spilling out on the ground around Launchpad’s head. The shadows clung to Negaduck like oil, reluctant to leave his already dingy feathers and unpleasant smile.

Launchpad glared at him. At this height, they were nearly eye to eye. “Where are the kids?”

This dark reflection of his husband tsked, shaking his head. “Straight to business with you hero types, ain’t it?”

Negaduck didn’t stop moving, instead pacing around him, slow and quiet, just on the edge of the circle of light. Launchpad tried to hide how he tensed when Negaduck stepped behind him, out of his peripheral vision. It gave Negaduck the perfect opportunity to attack him any way he wanted: a knife to the ribs, a blow to the head, take your pick. Launchpad was bound like a mummy, unable to defend himself unless Negaduck got close enough for a headbutt.

But Negaduck leaned back into his line of sight without laying a finger on him, his smirk a mean, methodical thing. He knew exactly how rattled Launchpad had been. It was the intent. “No time to sit back and enjoy the moment?” he crooned.

“I’m not playing, Negaduck,” Launchpad bit out, struggling to keep his cool. “I’m gonna ask one more time. Where. Are. The kids?”

Negaduck snorted, less than intimidated. “Eugh, touchy, touchy,” he said mockingly, and gave Launchpad a hard shove that sent him careening back on the rope he was hanging from. Fortunately, he’d been bound in the center of the room, and didn’t smack his head on any of the walls. This time.

Launchpad swung forward with just as much momentum, and Negaduck smoothly stepped out of the way. “Fine then, if you’re gonna keep being a killjoy! The brats are fine. Still sittin’ pretty in their comfy cell waiting for rescue from old man McMoneybags.”

So Negaduck wasn’t so far gone as to hurt a member of the McDuck family. The relief that settled over him was short lived, but better than nothing.

The last thing he remembered was checking Dewey for a concussion, and then nothing. Negaduck must’ve come back for him at some point during that missing time; maybe Launchpad should be tested for a concussion. All the crashing he did had given him a strong stomach and a skull like concrete, but with the blood rushing to his head and pounding behind his eyes, all this spinning wasn’t doing him any favors.

He closed his eyes as his swaying slowed to a less extreme speed, trying to focus his scattered thoughts. Webby and Dewey were counting on him. They didn’t understand what was happening, what they were up against, because Launchpad never told them who he was, never warned them about the monsters that might follow him. Dewey didn’t even trust him anymore, and Webby couldn’t be far behind…

“What do you want?” Launchpad muttered, opening his eyes in a squint.

Just in time too, as any trace of levity vanished from Negaduck’s weathered face. He lunged forward with a snarl, grabbing a handful of the ropes binding Launchpad and dragging him close, until Negaduck’s bloodshot eyes bored into his own from inches away.

“What do I want? What do I want? What I’ve always wanted since I set foot in this craphole,” he hissed, razor teeth flashing yellow in the harsh light of the spotlight above them. “I want to see your world burn. Consider it payback for locking me outta mine.”

Time worked funny sometimes when you crossed dimensions. A few hours in their reality amounted to a week in the Negaverse, but it might as well have been a year for all that he and Drake saw, what they were forced to do. Enemies wearing the faces of friends, a desolate world overcome by evil and defended by a dwindling few. The brilliant little light they had no choice but to leave behind.

Launchpad sneered right back, thrashing uselessly against his restraints. “‘Your world’ is better off without you! Gosalyn is better off without—”

The glint of light reflecting off metal, and Launchpad became aware of the cut on his cheek at the same time he recognized Negaduck’s machete pressed against the tip of his beak. He had to admit, Negaduck had been quick about it. Launchpad hadn’t even seen him draw the blade.

“Keep her name outta your mouth unless you wanna lose your tongue!” he growled, expression gone cold and still with rage except for his eyes, which contorted and flickered. His own madness, made worse by the dimensional shift? They still weren’t sure. “She’s my daughter. Mine.”

“She was terrified of you,” Launchpad snapped, never one to back down even while staring death in the face. Not when it came to Gosalyn. Any Gosalyn. “And with good reason! You killed Bulba right in front of her—”

“That pathetic, wannabe hero was trying to take her from me!” Negaduck threw his hands in the air, machete and all, thankfully without slicing Launchpad up further. The cut on his cheek had started to weep, a trail of blood moving worryingly close to his eye. “He got what was coming to him,” Negaduck grumbled as he turned around, storming into the darkness that continued to loom around the narrow triangle of light surrounding Launchpad. He lingered there, all but consumed in the shadows, the lurid yellow of his suit a scant outline and only his machete occasionally catching the light.

Negaduck kept muttering to himself, but in the dark, Launchpad couldn’t be sure where he was, or what he was saying. Only that Negaduck was moving, circling Launchpad again, but more focused on talking to himself than actually intimidating him.

“All those heroes…ruining my city…”

And for a brief, tiny, inconsequential half-second, Launchpad almost pitied him.

He blamed the blood rushing to his head.

This poor facsimile of his husband, a black hole masquerading as a person, who only knew how to take: money, lives, peace. A monster who hurt others for his own pleasure because violence was all he knew. It was as terrifying to experience as it was exhausting.

Launchpad glared at a random spot in the dark, his head pounding and chest growing tight. If he stayed up here much longer, he was going to pass out. It was only a matter of when.

“What are you expecting to get out of this?” he asked plainly. “You know I can’t just give you the Solego Circuit, right?”

Negaduck came back to himself with a scoff, reentering the circle of light. He’d hidden the machete again at some point.

“Piece of junk wouldn’t even do me any good. SHUSH and FOWL are sayin’ the same thing—can’t use the damn portal without destroying this trash heap and my world in the process,” he declared, waving his hands theatrically. “So, until I can find a scientist willing to put their back into it, I’m still stuck here. Watching you and that cheap copy play house.”

Launchpad glare met Negaduck’s baleful glower unflinchingly, but internally, a rush of guilt left him breathless as a knee to the gut. He knew he shouldn’t have followed that distress signal. But what else could he have done? Communications were down, and Launchpad had begged Drake time and time again to just call him when he needed him, Darkwing didn’t have to be alone anymore. And Launchpad, terrified of being abandoned again, just couldn’t risk it.

He just wished that he hadn’t dragged Webby and Dewey into danger too.

“You made a mistake taking the kids,” Launchpad said, fighting against a wave of dizziness. He tried to keep his tone steady, like Double-O-Duck used to, his gaze piercing and locked on the wet shine of Negaduck’s eyes, cast in the shadow of his hat brim. “Instead of just Darkwing coming after you, you’re getting Scrooge McDuck. This is a guy who fights gods on a regular basis. How do you think you’ll do against someone like that?”

And Negaduck…laughed.

And not one of his long, rambling cackles that he followed up his evil monologues with. Negaduck snorted with laughter, expression one of mild amusement rather than incandescent rage or insult.

“Ah, doesn’t really matter,” Negaduck breathed, a chuckle still trailing on his words. He pretended to wipe a tear from his eye. “This was all more of an experiment.” He stepped forward, until they were eye to eye, and grabbed a handful of the ropes over Launchpad’s heart. He was too dazed to even try headbutting him now, and by the razor smirk that split his beak, Negaduck must’ve known it too.

“The big, bad Double-O, scourge of SHUSH, turned into a pitiful little sidekick, and now completely at my mercy,” Negaduck murmured, shaking his head in exaggerated disappointment. “I could kill you so easily right now. But where’s the fun in that? It’s one and done, until I can jump into a dimension where I haven’t killed you yet and do it all over again. There’s slow and painful, quick but bloody…we could do a round where I only use my knives, the really little ones. You ever heard of death by a thousand cuts? Cuz we can make that happen!”

Launchpad’s skull pounded like a second heartbeat had taken residence in his brain, and the bright bulb above him scattered fractured stars across his vision, bright to the point of pain. Overwhelmed and dazed, he sputtered, “So what was the point of all this? Hacking SHUSH, kidnapping us—”

Negaduck pushed Launchpad, with just the one hand on his chest, walking forward at the same time. They moved out of the circle of light and into the surrounding darkness, Launchpad’s stomach lurched as Negaduck kept moving, until his back nearly touched the far off wall. Negaduck only stopped when the rope keeping Launchpad suspended pulled infinitesimally taut.

He tilted his head to look at Launchpad then from under the brim of his hat, backlit by the lone, scorching lightbulb behind him. Negaduck didn’t smile as he spoke, all his twisted enthusiasm from earlier snuffed out between one blink and the next. His growl was quiet, a seething hatred beneath every word.

“I might not kill you right now, but make no mistake, I will kill you. And until that glorious day, I want you to go about every day of your insipid little lives knowing that you’ll never be safe from me.”

Launchpad clung to consciousness with a racing heart and a flagging will, his horror tempered by delirium.

“You’re insane,” he gasped.

Negaduck shrugged. “We’ve all got our part to play in this crazy game called life.”

Launchpad’s vision was beginning to tunnel when the deafening blare of alarms startled him back to partial awareness. Outside the door to his cell, the hallway was ablaze with strobing crimson lights. The distant pounding of running feet heralded the organized departure of the Eggheads, converging on the threat.

“There’s our hero,” Negaduck crowed. “Fashionably late, as usual.”

Before Launchpad could properly brace himself, Negaduck let go of him. Without the support pinning him against the wall, he swung forward in a graceless rush, letting out a yelp as bright spots burst across his sight.

Even in the midst of his disorientation, Launchpad caught a different flash of light, reflecting off the silver edge of a serrated dagger in Negaduck’s grip.

With a flick, he threw it upwards at the apex of Launchpad’s swing, severing the rope holding him suspended from the ceiling. He had the barest second to brace himself, tuck his head and curve his back so he landed on his shoulders instead of his head.

It still sent a painful jolt through Launchpad’s body, jarring every bruise and sprain at once, and the immediate drop of pressure on his skull left him lightheaded and woozy as his body set him to rights.

He rolled onto his side with a groan, forcing his eyes open in a narrow squint, looking up at Negaduck from upside down.

Making a show of straightening his suit, Negaduck reached inside and pulled out a shotgun. He grinned down at Launchpad with a mouthful of sharpened teeth as he loaded a round.

“Make yourself comfortable now, sidekick. I’ve gotta go and welcome my new guests.”

#posts this and runs #i did NOT mean to let 5 years go by #oops??#ant writes #ducktales #ducktales fic #ducktales 2017 #launchpad mcquack #darkwing duck #drake mallard #negaduck #donald duck #scrooge mcduck #bentina beakley

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fractualized · 1 year ago

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I finally got around to reading through another classic batjokes story: Lovers & Madmen, which takes place in Batman Confidential #7-12. I highly recommend it, particularly if you are interested in stories about Jack-era Joker. Batman first meets Jack at the tail-end of his first year as Batman, and we get all the batjokes goods, including plenty that aren't evident from the isolated panels that go around. (Plus cameos from aspiring med student Harleen Quinzel and aspiring asylum administrator Jonathan Crane.)

This isn't a full recap, so I hope my rambling will spur you to check it out.

(Beware of gore and suicidal ideations.)

The key thing to know from issue #7 is that Bruce's mission has been going incredibly well. He has been operating for only 42 weeks, and he can feel the city quieting down. He's so proud! So content!

And we can't have that. Enter Jack, goon for hire. Bruce comes across one of his murders and becomes obsessed with how clean the scene is, how little a trail there is to follow. He investigates and investigates and investigates and comes up with nothing to his dismay.

Meanwhile Jack is also having a sad at a bar because there's no challenge or entertainment to his job anymore. :( Luckily a nice server gives him a little pep talk.

Jack does give things another go at a bank robbery, but it's still no fun. He trips the alarm on purpose, but a shootout with the guards is no fun for him either. He's literally in the middle of asking a guard to kill him, when Batman finally shows up.

"He's an idiot. I love him." Nothing like infatuation to restore your will to live. #8 opens with Jack being sure to leave Batman a thank you note before he escapes.

And Jack must see the Bat again, and of course the only way to ensnare him is to commit a series of awful but perfect crimes. And Bruce is infuriated! Here he is taking out his frustrations on a mugger— with Jack watching from afar.

Bruce is just so mad he's been unable to stop Jack, like, "All those books! All that preparation! But crime man keep criming?!"

Batman and Jack next meet at a charity gala planned by Bruce's love interest in this story, Lorna, and boy do things escalate. Jack picks Lorna as his hostage, threatening to shoot her so he can get away, and Bruce ends up grabbing another gun and shooting Jack's gun out of his hand. But then Jack just stabs her good, and while Bruce can't leave her to die, he doesn't just let Jack escape.

Jack isn't even the goddamn Joker yet and Bruce has intentionally given him a Glasgow smile as punishment. And even more insane, is that Jack appears to verbally respond to Bruce's inner monologue.

With Lorna slowly dying in the hospital, Bruce goes to a professional to try to figure out what it is about Jack that makes him seemingly unstoppable— and of course that professional is Jonathan Crane, and his professional opinion is basically, "dude that guy is clearly just insane and you're doomed to fail lol."

Oh yeah? Would an insane man be this untroubled about his face being cut open?

"He'll have to pay for that. Then again… it's nice to feel something." Just summing up Joker's cycling feelings about Batsy in the years to come. lol

And here's the plot point that sticks out to me most, after years of reading Bruce stalwartly refuse to kill Joker, including in other versions of their first meeting:

Bruce has been Batman for less than a year and he's already like, "Fuck it! I give up! This guy stabbed my new girlfriend and made me lose faith in books! He has to die!" In a short time, Jack has burrowed so deep under Bruce's skin that Bruce tosses away the one solid crime-fighting principle he has. It's oddly refreshing??

So Maletesta, who is a crime boss Jack stole from, takes some goons and captures Jack at the doctor's while he's unconscious from surgery. They then take Jack to a pharmaceutical plant, and Maletesta starts beating him while he's still out. Except Jack is actually awake and just kind of bored by the torture attempts and slipping back into ennui. This issue, #10, really goes into Jack's struggle between wanting to live but not feeling there's anything worth living for.

As you can see, Jack does eventually escape his bonds to fight back. As he and Maletesta fight, they end up in the bottom of the vat.

Meanwhile, Bruce is being quietly insane.

Bruce. Bruce, what the fuck are you talking about. I have to unspool this because like, Bruce knows Jack has killed lots of people. But what he's fretting about is the ways Jack's madness has metaphysically harmed the world, maybe, and thinking, "I know he's caused so much damage, but what about the damage to my moral integrity?!" and putting that above all the material harm. I know Bruce already does this all the time, but it feels so much more explicit here, and it gets worse, and just... Sir. Sir. You are not well.

So Bruce arrives at the plant too late to save Jack but just in time to see him get doused in chemicals.

Jack spends more time thinking on whether or not he wants to survive, but we know how this goes.

Jack ends up on the riverbank, and there's a wholesome edge to his psychotic break.

And so begins the criminal career of… the March Hare!

Kidding. The issue ends there, with Bruce lamenting that his change of heart came too late, that even if Jack is still alive, something awful has happened.

But then when issue #11 starts, Bruce finds he's not sure what he saw on the bank, if anyone. He gives chase but…

But if Jack is still alive, then Bruce's soul may be intact. He keeps searching well into the day, but finds nothing.

When he returns home, though, he learns that Lorna will survive after all. He immediately heads to the hospital, to "the only good news in the world."

Ah, Bruce is finally anchoring himself to the bedside of his ladylove. After he colluded to get someone murdered and seemingly succeeded. And it's the fear of what that says about him that sent him to Lorna. Almost like he's turning to her less because of his affection and more to hide from his moral failure. Romance!

Jack does soon appear in his new clown persona, and Bruce keeps his word and refuses to leave the hospital despite the multiple horrors Joker commits. Joker is not happy that Batman is MIA.

Some idiot Joker's captured feels it's necessary to inform him that Batman tried to have him killed, and of course Batman doesn't care. Joker scoffs, because Batman doesn't kill.

Faith restored!

Back at the hospital, Alfred verbally kicks Bruce in the ass, pointing out that committing himself to an unconscious Lorna isn't helping anyone.

Bruce finally suits up to respond to the bat signal, but it turns out Gordon isn't the one who lit it.

My Telltale-loving ass like:

In issue #12, their fight commences, and after some mutual stabbing, we get Joker's real plan.

It's like a dozen Lornas! Only this time Joker is telling Batman to come at him instead of trying to escape, and instead of taking action, Bruce suddenly feels overwhelmed.

Joker says something similar earlier about Gothamites. They're "poor sickies" who can't even see the bunny on the moon. They need the same "medicine" that Joker got to see the big picture, to find true joy. Of course he wants to do that for Batman too!

But once Batman shakes the poison off and starts rescuing the civilians, Joker is also pretty cool with killing him.

Bruce survives, as expected, and Joker isn't really upset about it.

And destined to do this forever, you might say!

Joker goes on to say that Batman gave him a purpose, a world of color to live for. Bruce reiterates that Joker is murdering people and asks why. Joker asks why Batman saves them.

(This panel goes right to left, btw.)

Joker's got a ways to fall, so Bruce has time to contemplate letting him die. "Let it happen… Let chaos prevail for the six more seconds it will take for madman to meet pavement… or the rest of my life will be spent picking up the pieces."

Bruce has already had a moral crisis about what it would mean for his soul if he let Joker die. In the end, he simply doesn't accept there's a meaningful difference between someone who takes a life for personal gain and himself taking a life to prevent the suffering of others. The vat is the same as his parents' graves. Letting Joker hit the ground is the same as pulling a trigger. Bruce chooses Joker over countless future victims. He choose Joker over Lorna, who he'll soon break up with at the hospital, weaponizing the carelessness of his socialite persona. Bruce decides that, amongst all options, taking responsibility for the monster he created means spending his life picking up the pieces.

And he immediately accepts that fact, what's to come. Gordon talks to Batman about the total dead, saying, "Would've been worse without you," and Bruce responds, "Don't be so sure." Don't be so sure today and for the decades to come, because Bruce believes that if that clown dies, then so does his own soul.

Joker sees that future too, and he is delighted!

Interesting detail, the Jack and King visible in the hat, side by side. Brings to mind how not too many years later, Snyder will have Joker crown his Bat King.

So there's Lovers & Madmen. Again, much more goes on in this story, particularly Jack's suicidal ideations and how he links the "enlightenment" Batman bestowed upon him to his contempt for regular people and his need to separate himself from them (and reconciling that with a good deed he does for a future henchgirl). The issues are collected into one book, and if you enjoyed this post, I encourage you to pick it up.

#lovers & madmen #batjokes #batman #joker #my jibber-jabber

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snakeredbirdbatkatana · 1 year ago

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The Dragon of Gotham

The second Robin's death was the beginning of the end.

Gotham was shaken.

Batman broke, beating down every mugger as if they were the Clown Prince of Crime. Rogues who had turned a blind eye were worried, and decided to move underground, sending goons packing.

See Gotham on it’s best day was precarious, a revolving door much like Arkham, when it came to who was really in charge. As much as Joker boasted, the throne wasn’t his.

In almost any other universe a bird would come pulling Batman back on track. Lead teams become a hero, the stuff of legends.

Except the Butterfly never made it out of the cocoon. It rotted until all that remained was a trampled fossil.

Timothy Jackson Drake did not chase Batman across rooftops. He found Jason Todd hunting for food and sent him with a tire iron to a new life.

He found a home in Crime Alley carved a place starting building his people. Jason was one of them.

You never steal from a dragon's hoard they guard they possess but more importantly they burn.

#tim drake #batfamily #jason todd #damian wayne #dick grayson #bruce wayne #batfam #crime lord Tim drake #it's more of an idea than anything #bamf batfamily #bamf tim drake #Tim is gonna murder a lot of people

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afoolandathief · 10 months ago

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Sharing my original works before I possibly take them down from AO3

I was probably going to take these down eventually but the news of fanworks being stolen by shit publishing companies on Amazon has made me more apt to take these down now. But before that happens, might as well share them again:

The Friendly Visitors

Benjamin Tuttle is a simple insurance salesman, just trying to make a life for himself and his wife in the Roaring 20s. That all changes when two goons show up the morning after a mugger attacks and bites him, introducing him to a gang of bootleggers and some dark, bloody secrets.

Basically, vampires and Fae folk and witches and werewolves meet 1920s gangsters. Unfinished. Dead Dove Do Not Eat.

Hymn to a Washed-up God

After a drunken night, Dionysus, god of wine and mania, blackmails god of craftsmen Hephaestus to embark with him on a wild journey to the Underworld.

A cross-country road trip featuring Greek gods that gets into the loss of loved ones and twink death. Unfinished. Dead Dove Do Not Eat.

#my writing #writeblr #ao3 #htawug #fire & wine #the friendly visitors

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thedupshadove · 1 year ago

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Lois + Clark roleswap AU (interpret this however you will)

Kala Jor-El lands in rural Colorado, only a scenic drive away from the U.S. Army base where General Sam Lane happens to be serving...

After bringing her back to their residence, Sam felt it was his duty to alert Washington to this clear extraterrestrial presence, and hand the baby--and the shuttle that brought her--over to Area 51 for further investigation. His wife Eleanor had to rather strenuously argue him out of it. What neither of them knew while having this discussion was that one of the abilities granted to Kryptonians by a yellow sun is near-perfect infant recall. After this initial reaction gave way to a childhood of overall better treatment, Lois does love her foster-father. She supposes. But she'll never entirely trust him.

It was also Eleanor who pulled a few favors from her own mysterious circle to have the remains of the shuttle moved to somewhere safe until Lois was old enough to claim it.

Having been raised in crowded environments full of brusque, no-nonsense people, Kala's mask didn't develop in the same way that Kal's did. She tends much more toward overt charisma and force of personality, because surely no one so in-your-face could be concealing anything about herself, right?

If anything, it's Superwoman who's the less assertive persona, since a woman known to be able to crack mountains with her bare hands has to carry herself carefully if she wants people to react with anything other than fear.

Given her renowned beauty and staggering list of accomplishments, it's unsurprising that Superwoman has received romantic overtures from some of the most rich, famous, and powerful men on the planet. But she doesn't want any of them. She wants Clark Kent, the sweetheart of a Kansas-born sci-fi nerd whose overall lack of physical prowess never seems to stop him from trying to talk down a mugger, or pull a child out of the remains of a building ruined by Brainiac.

"I'm not brave, Clark. Nobody with my inbuilt armor and arsenal can be called 'brave'. You've got nothing but your fragile human skin, and you still faced down a squad of Lexcorp goons in the name of letting people know what Luthor's 'charitable donations' were really going to. That's brave."

Clark's background is mostly the same, save for being Jonathan and Martha's biological child. Not needing to hide his powers or cultivate an easily-overlooked persona might make him a little less timid and stammery, but he's still a farm-boy in the big city for the first time, still ridiculously kind-hearted, and still an absolute dork. Also the glasses are real in this version.

Rather than chasing after Superwoman and ignoring Lois, I think the conflict here is that Clark is deeply smitten with both Superwoman and Lois, and his moral code won't allow him to be with either of them while he knows his heart would still be drawn to the other.

As a stepping-stone before telling the truth, Lois might suggest that they go the polyamory route. Clark is skeptical, but says he's willing to try it...as long as the three of them can meet to make sure everyone is on the same page. Whichever persona didn't make the suggestion has to feign unwillingness in order to keep the secret from crashing down too soon.

Lucy would take the role of the Imperiled Civilian more often, I think, now that her position relative to the hero has gone from "My girlfriend's sister and my best friend's girlfriend" to "My sister (and my best friend's girlfriend)". Clark, Jimmy, and Lucy probably get Damsoled about equally (Lucy knows the secret; the other two don't).

#Superman #Yes I know I went well over five things here but ssssshhhh

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lollipencil · 1 year ago

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In The Pale Moonlight

Ok, so I was going about my day, then I saw this. And I just knew it would not leave me alone unless I did this. So, @harleyification I did a thing with your thing. Hope you don't mind. Everyone else, enjoy and be gentle.

---

Thunder cracked loud enough to made the windows shudder. But that was not what woke Steven Grant up. The answer alluded him as usual, but not its source. "Marc," he softly called out, tears still trickling in thin streams down onto the bum bag acting as his pillow. No reply.

Sitting up, he blearily checked the watch Jake had found and managed to get working. 10:26 eventually came in focus. A sigh synced with a gust of wind that russled the tarp acting as a blanket.

"I'm up," Steven said into the seemingly empty warehouse, "I'm up." Shaking the stiffness out of his legs, Steven winced as his stomach complained: "Did we eat before sleeping?" "Somewhat," came the familar echoing voice of Khonshu, "three medium salted crackers and a... 'babyccino'." "Well, it's better than yesterday." "There are five of the crackers in the front pouch." Sighing half in contentment half in reluctent acceptence, Steven pulled two out of the pocket.

It had been a while since any of them had eaten a full meal, let alone three of them in a single day. Ever since arriving in Gotham. Jake and Marc had swore to him that they also had no memory of running away to Gotham, they had implied that they had plenty of reason to run away (something which, combined with the knowledge of having to share a body, took a while to digest), but hadn't actually done it. Steven suspected Khonshu had something to do with it.

Silently, he chewed as Khonshu made himself visible, seated on a dented barrel in front of him. "So," Steven began once finished, "We heading out?" "Indeed." At his very thought, Steven's suit hid their tatty hoodie and jeans from sight. "Best not keep everyone waiting then."

The first thing that he saw was the bat-signal lighting up the sky where the moon would normally be. "Looks like the big bad bat's about," Jake piped up, "Think we might got a cookie from him?" "More like a scolding," Marc added, still sounding a bit choked up. For most of the evening, nothing out of the ordinary happened. None of Batman's rouges was so much as faintly heard as they patroled, only low-level goons and muggers. Marc and Jake saw no reason to step in, Jake even falling back asleep as Steven dealt with a girl more nervous than her attempted victim.

Until midnight.

Two men cornering a kid in an alley. Only the tuff of dark hair was visible from behind their backs. Taking them out was the easiest thing that night; thrown pole for one, a punch for the other. "Hey," Steven soothed once he noticed the kid had used the distraction to hid behind a bin, taking off the suit, "It's ok. They're out cold. You got a phone to-?"

The kid had stepped out with a look of awe. Dressed in a domino mask and with a very notable traffic light colour scheme. "He's so little," Marc breathed, haunted by a similar image. "I haven't seen you before," Robin said with a wide grin, "Who are you? How'd you do that with the eyes and the white suit? Can you teach me the thing with the poles? How's Gotham treating you?" The rapid-fire questions suddenly stopped as Robin pulled out his phone and sent off a text before blinking back up at Steven: "Someone will pick these guys up when they can. You hungry?"

Steven almost said no. Then Khonshu appeared from the shadows behind Robin. He nodded. Which is how, just after midnight, Steven found himself following Robin into a all night diner with the promise of a burger.

"It's on me," Robin had assured before going in, showing a wad of cash discreetly. "Um, yes, hello? We would like two burgers. Uh, please?" Steven awkwardly ordered as Robin smiled by his side. If the sight of Robin standing and ordering food with a random boy was strange to the cashier, he hid it well behind a bored expression. "Do you want fries with that?" "Um, hold on, give me a sec," Steven ruffled about his pocket. The familer shard of mirror, edges blunted by duct tape, showed Marc waiting in his reflection. "What do I do?" Steven whispered to him. "Get the fries. You'll need the energy in the coming days," came the rather dramatic reply. "Yes, please," Steven turned his attention back to the cashier, not noticing Robin's expression, "the fries would be great."

The rain had finally started when their food came out. Jake crawled up near the front as the plate was set down in the table while Marc slinked away. "So," Robin popped a fry into his mouth, "Powers?" "Yeah, that's one way of putting it," Steven forwent decorum and went for the biggest bite he could. "What would be the other way?" Robin said around a smaller bite of his own.

Steven swallowed and thought. "What do you know about the egyptian gods?" he eventually asked. "I know that there were a lot of them," Robin slowly, almost shamefully, replied. "Well, a long, long, long time ago, they ruled in the open. And when they did, it was common practice to take up a avatar. Someone to carry out their will on this realm." "Like a butler?" Robin asked. "Yeah, close enough," Steven nodded between bites, "Priest would be closer, actually. Spreading the word and all that. After Egypt stopped worshipping them, most withdrew from humanity." "Most?"

For a moment, that night felt like it had just happened. Blood leaking through clenched fists, and a voice offering a deal. A promise for a promise. "All but one," Steven finally said, letting his eyes glow with power, "People still travel by night, and Khonshu refused to leave them unprotected. Even when it led to him being banished."

Silence stayed with them after that. Somehow, Steven managed to eat the whole burger plus some fries, with Robin happily picking up his slack on that front. A ping shattered the silence between them. Robin looked down at his phone, then back up: "He wants to talk."

It wasn't far, which in itself felt unfair. As the Batmobile grew more and more visible, every statement Steven, Jake, and a hastily woken Marc could come up with seemed to fall apart. "Just keep calm," Marc tried to sooth, "If things get bad, back off and we'll handle it." "Yeah," Jake tried to summon his usual bravado. Then the top opened with a hiss.

Smoothly, as if made from the shadows that covered the alley, Batman exited and stood before them. "Heya B," Robin grinned, "Remember what I asked for last week." "Hmm." "I mean, come on, he's perfect. Could use some training, but he's got a suit already and everything." "Wa-wait," Steven struggled to keep up, "What's going on?" Robin looked both smug and utterly innocent: "No offence, but based on your clothes I'd assume you're either homeless or in a bad situation. I want a brother, you need a good home, and you're already doing the whole 'mask' thing. It's a win for everyone!"

Jake laughed loud and sudden, almost making Steven flinch. "Little Birdie's good," he managed out through his giggles. Meanwhile, Batman had pulled out three pictures: "Which is you?"

Swallowing, Steven decided to be honest, "In a way, all of them, but me specifically, this one." The Bat tilted his head as he took in the one Steven had pointed at. "'In a way'?" "It's not something to be dicussed out in the open," Steven slowly stated, eyes flicking around as if someone else was going to pop out.

The three of them waited for him to push, to demand an answer. But he backed off. "Is he right?" Batman asked instead. At their lack of a reply, he held out his hand. Baffled, they stared at it as if the concept of a hand was foreign to them. "If he is right, you can come with us. It can be for as long as you want, even if it's just for a night." "Yeah, under that cowl, B's just a big ol' teddy bear," Robin added with a cheeky yet still genuine smile.

Emotions swirled and mixed inside them. Distrust. Confusion. Fustration. Hope. Khonshu sat the Batmobile, looking at them. He nodded again. And Steven's hand slid into the Batman's as though it had been made for it.

#my fics #crossover fic #moon knight (2022)#batman #steven grant #khonshu #jake lockley #marc spector #dick grayson #bruce wayne

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catastrophicalcat · 6 months ago

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Gotham head canons

Superpowers don't work in Gotham like they do anywhere else. Sometimes they work, sometimes they don't, sometimes they work badly. Unclear why, potentially has to do with the curse. Like gravity, no one really questions is, although the occasional cults arise to try to exploit it. (But really, the "closer" to Gotham you are, the more likely it is that your superpowers will work as normal).

There are a lot less guns in the world. Different gun regulation laws, I guess? Enough guns that it's not reality breaking for a mugger in a dark alley to have one, but not so many that any violent confrontation instantly becomes a shoot-out.

The world has a LOT more teen vigilantes, and other viable (or not) death-seeking career options for motivated teenagers. Between all the cults and secret societies and plain old goon squads, becoming Robin isn't completely wild or crazy.

Bruce becomes Batman at 21. Don't care what Frank Miller wrote; that was a long time ago, we have like 10 Robins now! Bruce traveled and trained in his teens, and put on the cape & cowl barely or even before he was of legal age.

#gotham #headcanon #dc #batman #just random ideas for the comics world to work for me #will edit this later

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villainous-ace · 2 years ago

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BorosxSaitama Mafia AU

Based on the drabble posted by @onerabong.

This is how I imagine a Gym teacher Saitama and a Mob boss Boros would meet.

Ch1. A Fated Encounter (meet cute)

Its not easy being a mob boss.

But for Boros, head of the Dark Matter group, it became too easy. In fact as of late its just plain boring. Just the same old petty squabbles and obvious schemes. Not even beating up the goons trying to take him out was fun anymore. What was the point when half could barely even approach without pissing themselves.

Out of boredom or perhaps desperation he visited a fortune teller. She told Boros that “he would find his match in City A”. Finally hope. But it was just another disappointment. He had let that fortune teller build up his expectations, That City A offered a challenge. He'd heard that there were some heavy contenders, Atomic Samurai and Puri-Prisoner for example were rumored to be tough opponents.

And perhaps they would've been, had the power structure of City A's gangs been more stable. Unfortunately City A wasn't ruled under one distinct group but rather several different secs, hence why it was called the "Association". Maybe the so called "Association" could've won if they had organized themselves effectively. Takeover was easy and left Boros unsatisfied. He hadn't even needed to get directly involved.

"I've grown too powerful"

He thought to himself while taking his now frequent walk around City A. He wandered aimlessly around the back streets. Searching for something He looked down at his phone debating whether he should get somebody to take out that phony fortune teller. He cussed and put his phone away. I guess somewhere part of him still held hope. That's why he continued to loiter around City A. But it's been a month since the takeover and besides minor resistances from the former City A gangs, nothing major had happened.

(not yet at least ;)

He was broken from thoughts as he heard muffled yelling from an alley.

He turned and started to walk towards the sound

"Perhaps I will find some adequate entertainment"

When he finally came to the source of the commotion, he only felt more disappointment.

"HEY! ARE DUMB OR SOMTHING I TOLD YOU TO TAKE OUT YER WALLET AN YER PHONE!"

"YOU GOTTA DEATH WISH OR SOMTHIN?"

"yeah we're just helping you out, giving you less to carry snicker"

It was nothing more than some small time thugs mugging some poor bastard on his grocery run.

Despite his disappointment that there wasn't a brawl happening he continued to watch to see if maybe, something would happen.

"listen guys I told you I just spend my cash on groceries, I only got ¥200 left. And I can't give you the phone, I got it for my job and if I have to replace another one they're gonna take it out my paycheck"

The guy being mugged said.

"Now will you just buzz off yer starten get on my nerves and I got frozen stuff I need to get home"

Now that was slightly interesting.

This guy is getting robbed yet he's reacting like he's being hassled my salesman on the street.

His face was as devoid of expression as his head was of hair.

He was wearing a garish hoody, cheap shorts and slides. To anyone and these robbers he just seemed like your average dope.

"But there's something more. something...else"

Boros thought.

His eyes were dark and had an emptiness to them, an emptiness that Boros recognized all too well.

Boredom beyond boredom. The type of apathy that seeps into your soul and deprives your life of any sort of feeling leaving only numbness.

Yes he could see it.

-"LISTEN UP BALDY! CUT THE BULL AND FORK OVER YER SHIT!!"

The main mugger snapped, pointing his blade at his target aggressively.

It had seemed that last comment triggered something, as veins on the mans head started to pop and his face and head started to flush.

"WHO YOU CALLIN' BALDY!?"

the clearly bald man snapped

His sudden burst of anger startled the knife-man and he lunged.

The guy was just lucky enough to move out of the way (or did he dodge intentionally?).

The thug couldn't stop his momentum in time and ended up becoming rather intimate with the pavement .

"Watch it, don't you know you shouldn't run with a knife in yer hands, 'could hurt somebody"

The bald *ahem* Bored man scolded like he would a child, his expression returned to it neutral state as if his sudden outburst never happened.

The Thug held his face as his nose started to bleed.

"This might get dangerous"

Boros thought

The Thug was now seething in anger after being embarrassed like that. The other two lucky were also getting ready to gang up on the bald bored man.

"I guess...

"I should step in.."

His eyes focused on the odd man

Each step echoed down the alley, somehow trumping the ruckus of the impending scuffle. The air turned stale and heavy with his presence, all attention was on him.

The thugs began to tremble.

"I've never seen a daylight robbery go this wrong before"

He mused

His deep voice seemed to reverberate down the alley surrounding them

"Though I suppose incompetency is to be expected from peons like yourselves"

The thugs knew this man was dangerous and quickly they booked it down the alley to escape.

Boros looked impassively down the ally at the fleeing vermin

but he didn't really care about them,

no he was more interested in...

"Woah, you made them bug off quick, thanks!"

Boros snapped his attention back to the man in the oppai hoodie.

He had started to walk towards him, clearly intent on going on his way like nothing happened.

But Boros didn't move to let him pass. The man looked at him incredulously.

"Hey can you move? Or are you gonna start hassling me too?"

Boros didn't budge instead taking the opportunity to study the man more closely.

Indeed even though he sounded annoyed his eyes remained empty. As he stared more deeply into the man's face it was like staring into a mirror. "Indeed I was not mistaken, he is similar to me".

"Oi what’s up with you dude? You gonna move or what? listen I don't got anything of value I only got ¥200 on me for real! Look here you can have this."

He began to rummage through his grocery bag

He held out an ice cream stick

"Its probably almost melted but take it anyway as thanks alright? Now I really got to go!"

Boros took the ice cream and looked back at the man

"What you not like that kind? I also got a taiyaki one"

He reached back into the bag to grab it.

Boros eyes lit up in amusement and he chuckled lightly.

"You, what is your name?"

The man looked back at Boros dumbfounded, making him chuckle more.

"Saitama, why?"

He still answered despite his confusion, or maybe in-spite of it.

"Saitama huh..."

Boros repeated

"Yeah so can I leave yet or are you just gonna keep starring at me all creepy"

Boros smiled

"My apologies I hadn't meant to make you uncomfortable, I was just intrigued"

"Huh?"

Saitama quirked

"You've piqued my interest"

"Sorry I don't swing that way, see ya"

he said as he brushed past Boros to leave

Now it was Boros's turn to be floundered. He burst out in a laugh.

”Whoa creepy”

Saitama though as he started to hasten his steps

"My apologies Mr. Saitama"

Boros said calming his laughter

"That isn't what I meant"

(though he couldn't deny that maybe that was part of it).

"I just mean, well..."

he paused calling after the retreating figure

"Just I hoped you could answer a question"

Saitama seemed resigned, he wasn't gonna be able to leave until this guy was finished, he sighed and turned around

"Make it quick, my food is starting to thaw"

Boros locked eyes with Saitama and bore deep into them.

"Are you bored?"

Saitama once again looked confused.

"Do you feel exhausted, like you emotions have been numbed?"

His eyes grew deeper, duller

"Do you miss feeling... exhilarated~"

Saitama’s eyes were now deep pools of emptiness.

"...Look"

Boros’s breath hitched.

Saitama’s voice was cold and detached and made Boros shudder.

"I don't know what you're trying to get at but, seriously, I'm not interested"

Saitama turned away and resumed walking.

Boros could feel his blood rushing through his veins, its sudden speed making his fingers tingle and his throat burn.

"That's what I feel"

Boros called after him, Saitama stiffened in place. Boros resumed his approached.

"That's how I am"

"and I think..."

Boros stepped into Saitama's space.

"You might be a bit like me..."

"Empty..."

He waited to see if Saitama would turn around and look at him. See the same emptiness he felt, that he could also see that he was like him.

"Your name.. what is it"

Saitama finally spoke

Boros felt him mouth twisted in a grin as his anticipation built.

"How impolite. I had forgotten..."

"Boros, my name is Boros"

"Boros..."

Saitama repeated

Boros's hands twitched

"That ice-cream is melted"

Saitama finished and finally left.

Boros was left stunned.

#i love onepunch man #one punch man #opm au #opm saitama #opm boros #opm #one punch #ao3 #opm fanfiction #saiboros #borosai #saiboros fic #fan fic writing #fan fic prompts #lord boros

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