#he knows what it's like to be discriminated against

[bolters-and-rivets]

"it leans more towards an American southern accent than it does towards a modern British RP."

I just just wanna clarify this because I feel this is a gross simplification that's based upon the "the english all used to talk like americans" myth that posits that everyone here in England were so enraged by the revolution that they all decided to change how they spoke out of spite. I hate to post a wall of text in a rant but to be quite blunt it's one of my fucking bug bears and gets by back up every time I encounter it.

it convienietly ignores two un-ignorable facts: That England itself has some of the most accents per square mile of anywhere in the English speaking world, things have become more homgoenous as people move about more over the last century but in the 1950s it was recorded that there was a major vowel shift in entrenched populations occuring something rediculous every 20 square miles, I can telll you that iun the city I live in of less than 300 thousand

That england had and still has an enormous class divide, the upper class I'll grant you changed their accent, but they always did that to elevate themselves above the working class and re-enforce the class divide so it's hardly unique reguarding america, accents still play a role in discrimination in this country with accents spoken by the working class associated with low inteligence leading to people being refused jobs on this basis alone similarly to how AAVE is discriminated against in America.

Do you expect me, as someone who is part of the working class that has lived here and heard the variations in this island's acents firsthand for nearly 30 years, to accept that 1. a miner in 1600s yorkshire who has never stepped foot outside of the moors in his life is going to know about the events of a land he's never going to visit in any form of timely manner when news travelled at the speed of a sailboot and on foot, 2. He knows how they talk in a land he's never visited or met anyone from, and 3. he and every single person around him going to decide on a whim to care enough to decide to alter his accent just so to spite these americans whilst somehow retaining traits of a dialect that dates back to the fucking Norse occupation?

when those two facts are laid out the rediculous of the statement "the English all talked like americans" becomes apparent. and I can tell you first hand that the working class would not have given too shits about what was happening in a colony thousands of miles away because they needeed to care a lot more about crop rotations, harvesting seasons, and the quality of the nearest coal or ore seam. I would argue it's not closer to any one english accent today, since it's from the 1600s and languages change radically in that sort of timeframe, rather it's the last common ancester of many rhotic English accents and dialects that still exist today on both sides of the Atlantic, if I had to place the accents that sound closest to original pronounciation I would actually say that the dying Ocracoke Brogue in america and the Norfolk, Potteries, and Mummerset accents in England are closest in different ways. I would argue southern is not as close since it's had centuries of being influenced by african and caribian dialects which have imparted a quality all of their own upon the south. here's Hamlet's "To Be or Not to Be" spoken in OP by one of the people who has done a lot of work to research how shakespere's English might have sounded and pushed for it to be adopted in shakesperian productions, note that there are sounds which have since been lost in English entirely, such as E being an "ae" or "ei" sound

and for compariso, existing english accents that I personally feel have traits in common, but note how they all still have subtle nuances that differ from one another. Ocracoke Brogue

Norfolk

Potteries, the dialect local exclusively to where I currently live, this dialect still uses many phraises that appear in in shakespere, for instance in Midsummer Nights Dream Shakespeare uses the phrase ‘O dainty Ducke: O Deere!” as a term of endearment, whilst today if you walk around Stoke you will often hear people greating each other with a distinctive "A'right, duck?". no where else in the country uses this phraise. try explainging that away whilst claiming we all changed how we spoke to spite you

and Mummerset, this is what most people would recognise as the "pirate accent", because Robert Newton played up his native mummerset accent for Treasure Island.

all of that aside, the acting skills in the video are absolutely phenominal, as others have said it takes real skill in acting to not just speak in a given accent, but also include the specific nuances of body language associated with that accent that outsiders would miss, and even many native speakers would not necceserily think to incorperate if they were reciting that speach

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZTdQuxw52/

I think I found my new favorite rabbit hole. This voice actor does Shakespeare scenes in a southern accent and I need to see the whole damn play. Absolutely beautiful

[winters-on-the-wing]

can snape stans for the love of god please shut the fuck up

here are some things i’ve GENUINELY seen snape stan’s say today and i have receipts:

1. that lily only fell in love with james because he gave her a love potion. i…i don’t even know what to say other than that this is obscene.

2. that james’ actions could be compared to what death eaters do. i’m sorry, has james ever killed or tortured anybody purely due to their race/ethnicity? does james think that all minorities deserve to die or be controlled? and do i need to remind people that snape literally WAS an avid blood supremacist and death eater?? jesus fucking christ…

3. like 3000 people saying over and over that james sexually assaulted snape. first of all, comparing pantsing to sexual assault is extremely disrespectful to anybody who’s been s/a’d, myself included. second of all, that only happened in the movies, dipshits. clearly you didn’t read the books if you obsess over that argument.

4. that lily, sirius, remus, james, and peter are all worse people than snape. i’m sorry, did any of them grow up to torment innocent children? did any of them grow up to find pleasure in the pain and suffering and fear of little kids, using their position as a TEACHER to express prejudice? did any of them grow up to use a child’s DEAD DAD’s actions from DECADES AGO to justify cruelty? peter grows up to be awful, but the other four make childhood mistakes that they learn and grow from in adulthood. snape never learns and grows. he just gets worse, and that’s nobody’s fault but his own.

5. that minerva and hagrid are just as bad as snape. first of all, hagrid never discriminated against students for their race or identity and neither does minerva. hagrid and minerva are tough but fair. they don’t enact cruelty. when they see bullies or cruel students get what’s coming to them, then they turn away because they’re witnessing natural consequences. i won’t deny that minerva and hagrid have favorites but they aren’t blatantly cruel to people who aren’t favorites and their only acts of cruelty are ones in which the students ACTUALLY INSTIGATE something worth punishing. snape punishes neville for existing. he punishes hermione for daring to participate in class. and malfoy goes off scott free because he’s a pure blood.

moral of the story, snape stans are delusional. if y’all weren’t so INSANE, then maybe i’d actually like snape. but you are. so i don’t, and i doubt i ever will!

[dumbgoondog]

Hi there! I was thinking of a weird scenario

How do you think the jjk men would react to their darling getting slapped by another man in front of them?? Like their darling got in a fight with someone and then boom they get hit in the face💀💀

Take Out Take Down(Part 1)

Cw/Tw - non specific discrimination, Violence, blood, and gore(Geto)

Ft. Gojo, Geto, Nanami, and Toji

GN!Reader, Short fic style, dating for about 5-6 months, reader isn’t helpless/it’s not specified, the first few paragraphs are the build up and context for everything else. Next up - Sukuna, Mahito, Choso, and Kenjaku

What was supposed to be a quick pick up was now an awful argument between you and whoever this guy was. You’d ordered food for pick up, coming from after some shopping with your man, he was waiting out front but here you were. The bag of getting cold food, blocked, by this Neanderthal of a man.

Why you might ask, why the hell was he blocking you? Because there’s no way this was your order, that’s clearly not your name either, and that’s too much food for someone like you. Was he fat shaming, assuming you’re poor, all of the above?

Then this guy has the audacity to after making his points continuously interrupt you every time you tried to say anything. “That’s my boyfriend’s na-“ and he starts talking about how this place doesn’t even have good food that it’s just full of posers who can’t appreciate real Japanese food. It takes everything in you to not laugh at that, because what the absolute fuck is he going on about?

So instead while he’s busy, yappin, you lean to reach around him for the bag. Besides your lover was probably getting curious what was taking so long and might come in! Rather than wanting a big fiasco in public you just grab it and are about to turn to go when.

SMACK.

SATORU GOJO

Your passenger Princess was wondering, what had to be taking so long? The app said it was ready for pickup, you’d been in there for almost 10 minutes now too! He’d already gone through the glove box and console so now with nothing else, Gojo would come wait with you!

He was half expecting that when he pushed those doors open you’d bump into him with the food, but not you having just been cracked across the face falling into a nearby table. His cursed energy cracked and spit like hot oil as he rushed to lift you up, your lip busted and nose bleeding. You’re pulled into his strong arms still having to blink coming back from shock.

Gojo on the other hand looks to the guy, takes his phone out and takes his photo. Dave or whatever his name is, tries to puff up his chest to not seem intimidated. Gojo however is just smiling, and tucks his phone away after snapping the pic with a laugh, “Dang, our food is all over the floor, guess I’ll order us some more yeah lovely? I’ll get your favorite!”

Dave scoffs, crossing his arms, and kicks one of the spilled boxes of food, “you must be the supposed boyfriend huh? Honestly really disgusting what this world is coming to, look at you two! Also you can’t take my photo without my consent that’s ille-“

“Zip it. You’re lucky I’m not handling you myself,” Gojo says, his voice smooth and even, “go ahead though, tell me how a photo is illegal versus you harassing and hitting someone.”

You look between the two swallowing, a hand touching at your tender lip and nose feeling the warm blood on your face. Gojo looks down to you with such a sorry look, you knew he’d be blaming himself for this for a while. Dave however doesn’t seem to know when to quit cause he starts marching forward to stick a hand to gojo’s chest- caught by infinity.

Gojo sighs, looking to the other man who’s so surprised his hand isn’t moving and his lip twitches annoyed. Then, Gojo starts walking forward, infinity pushing Dave back and holding him to the wall. Gojo keeps walking forward the pressure crushing Dave against the wall more and more, broken wheezes coming from his blubbering mouth.

“I like to think I’m pretty fair! I gave you a chance to run, told you off, and am letting the proper people handle you. All of this because they wanted to grab our food.” Gojo gives a laugh shaking his head brushing a hand through those beautiful white locks, “C’mmoooooon you’re not even worth my breath! What, you visiting to see a maid cafe? To go hound on Japanese teen girls like in your hentai? Get a life or die.”

Almost in a flash The world is squishing with reality bending, morphing like those bad Ai generated videos. Then you’re outside the doors to Gojo’s apartment, and he’s still carrying you. He looks down with such a big sad puppy dog look and starts kissing you all over whining, “my baaabbbyyyyy! Oohhh I’m so so sorryyy!!!! I promise that won’t ever happen again!”

SUGURU GETO

You know he doesn’t like leaving you alone where there are monkeys. You know he doesn’t like being left alone where there are monkeys. He’s a patient man, very patient, but only to a degree.

He moves pushes open the doors watching the initial crack to your face and then you start to fall. He’s there in an instant catching you, pulling you to him chest an arm wrapping around and hiding the offending man. He’s gently cupping your cheek offering such a sweet smile when the horrid sounds begin.

A sickening crunch, the scuttling of chitin against the floor and other surfaces, something like crunching into a juicy watermelon- the scream. Geto lifts you up, keeping an arm in way of your view of what was happening as he softly smiles asking, “My love, let’s just have Miguel or Larou make something hmm? Miguel just got an order in to make some ugali and beef wet fry. Then Larou is always looking to cook for us.”

You can see the blood starting to pool towards Geto’s feet, and a hand clawing at the tiles. The horrified shriek of the woman behind the counter as she runs into the back again, and the pained groans of the man. You felt sick to your stomach, your face hurts, but Geto still tried to hide the sight of his curses devouring the man.

You curl into his arms and he sighs rubbing your back kissing the top of your head, “There there, let’s get your face cleaned up hmm? Lover, I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

You both begin to move out, backs to the horror behind. You swallow, trying to calm yourself, you’ve seen the horror of being a sorcerer but still it gets you sometimes. Geto always is so sweet, you often forget that in the end he’s considered the worst jujustu terrorist for a reason…

KENTO NANAMI

He’s patient, calm, collected, and- okay he’s worried. Maybe he doesn’t show it often but he’s a bit clingy so when what should’ve been 5 minutes at most turned into a full 10 minutes he’s up.

He’s in that door looking like he’s not worried at all but the moment he sees you trying to catch yourself on the table after being hit? Another resounding CRACK with clattering echos in the restaurant. You jolt and jump up looking around just to see Nanami rolling his wrist and flexing his hand with a huff.

The guy who’d hit you, was now over the cashier counter knocked into the cups that were stacked by the coffee pots. Cups have fallen everywhere and he’s got a busted lip that’s already swollen and bruising hard. Nanami only has slightly red knuckles, he’s crouching, kneeling to you like a prince offering his hand, “Lover of mine, come here. We’re going to mine and I’m running you a bath. I’ll see if Shoko is available to heal you.”

You smile and take his hand, he’s pulling out a handkerchief and wiping at your face with such tenderness and concern. The guy behind the counter is fully knocked out, and girl working the register has no clue what to do other than sigh with defeat and grab a broom. Once standing Nanami takes out his wallet laying down a wad of bills apologizing, “sorry to have caused such a mess, I’m glad you’re alright miss.” With that you two leave.

TOJI FUSHIGURO

Toji is happy to wait in the car, have the hot food brought to him to be sat in his lap so he could snack on it as you drove them back to your place. Except, where were you, and where was the food? He wasn’t particularly paying attention to how long you’d taken but whatever.

He’s pulled down the mirror to pick at something in his teeth, when you open the door. “Heya babe, what took-“ he cuts himself off his brows pulling down when he sees the busted lip, the tears in your puffy eyes. He clicks his tongue and opens the door starting to get out, “one sec, be right back.”

His slippers slap against the pavement as he comes into the shop eyes lazily looking over the food scattered on the floor and the man who’d hit you talking off the ear of the girl behind the counter about how people can be so disrespectful these days to “culture”. He nods to himself looking about and walks slow to stand behind the guy, the girl’s eyes bugging out of her head seeing Toji and he gives her a charming smile. He leans forward putting a hand on the counter blocking on of the guys exits and starts to speak, “damn bud, you love hearin yourself talk huh? Hey sweetheart, this guy jus hit someone?”

The girl stutters while the guy turns around trying to shove Toji off and miserably failing. He’s just got his hands squeezing and shoving against Toji’s fat tits. Toji doesn’t even acknowledge him, still looking at the girl who finally nods.

“Aye atta girl, all I needed to know!” One swift motion, a crunch, a pathetic scream. You stare at the door hearing the scream only to see Toji walking out with a messy bag, he’s smiling at you so proud of himself. You sigh and start the car knowing you better get driving quick, he probably made that guy eat shit…

[maxdibert]

Wow, and here I was thinking his reasons were:

1. That his father was an abusive man who hit him, and that every other Muggle he had ever known had treated him like crap (like Petunia making classist comments, for example).

2. That on his very first day on the train, the rich, white, aristocratic kid started picking on him.

3. That the rich, white, aristocratic kid and another rich, white, aristocratic kid made his life a living hell for seven years—one of them almost killing him, and the other publicly humiliating him by stripping him naked in front of a whole crowd.

4. That the so-called “bad guys” in Slytherin actually accepted him and gave him a safe space, a place where he wasn’t constantly facing violence and abuse, while the supposed “heroes” made it their mission to make his life miserable every time they saw him in the hallway.

5. That, of course, he wasn’t going to follow the “good guys” who had spent years tormenting him—because what fucking sense would it make for him to join the cause of his abusers instead of siding with the people who had actually given him a place where he felt safe? Do you guys use your neurons, or are they still in their Amazon packaging?

The idea that Eileen was a pureblood is fanon—pure speculation that is never mentioned anywhere. What is mentioned is that Severus came from an extremely poor background, to the point where he didn’t even have money to buy clothes, and that the canonically rich, upper-class kids with a higher blood status than his spent years bullying and humiliating him. Do you want them to be the racialized ones? The white, aristocratic kids who tormented a boy who was economically and socially far below them? Would that be better to you?

Since when is Severus Snape an incel? Your lifelong best friend cutting you off, and you never going after her, never harassing her, and only mentioning her name again when you know she’s about to die—that makes you an incel? Have you ever met a real incel in your entire fucking life? What the fuck are you even talking about?

Severus Snape is a character whose entire life was shaped by abuse, oppression, a class dynamic that worked against him, and guilt—guilt for making a wrong decision that was directly caused by the horrible life he had lived, and then spending twenty years of his life trying to atone for that mistake in order to free himself from that guilt. If you have no fucking clue what his character is actually about and you want to paint him as a villain while talking about one of the three most important adult characters in the series, who played an essential and fundamental role in Voldemort’s downfall and the salvation of the wizarding world—well, that’s your problem.

But stop using racism as an excuse to hate on a character who, in fact, has way more in common with the discrimination and social exclusion people face due to race than any other character in the series.

Yeah, it makes total sense that they chose Snape, of all characters, for that change. And the fact that you’re surprised or horrified about it has nothing to do with any real concern about racism—in reality, deep down, you know Snape suffered a lot of unnecessary shit. But since nobody gives a fuck about classism or body shaming, you could keep bashing the character all you wanted.

Now, that discrimination—based on background and appearance—is going to be a lot more obvious, and suddenly you’re not going to be able to hide the bullshit that’s been going on in your head.

ooooooh my God the whole reason Snape buys into the death eaters rhetoric when he's young is because he hates that his rich full-blooded mother married his poor abusive muggle father. he thinks he's biologically 'ruined' because it effects his social standing in both the muggle and magical world. with this casting I just. I KNOW if they get into snape's backstory they're gonna cast a white woman as his mother and a black man as his father. there's no way the showrunners don't know what they're doing by casting a black man as the incel nazi child abusing teacher who has a rushed as shit redemption arc in the eleventh hour. Snape is not a character you can race blind cast without it effecting his story. this is like actually the worst thing they could have possibly done lol!!

[froginmygarden]

Got a little brain worm on the way home and have a need to write it down. Just a drabble because I'm not good at writing.

DC x DP Just a (clone) couple

Joung Adult!Team Phantom for some reason end up in the DC universe. For reasons, there aren't any equivalents of them here. Danny and Sam are together and Danny and Dani have a familiar relationship. Whatever the reasons they stay in this universe.

So Sam, Danny and Dani start making a life together as a family, Tucker goes on to make a "small business" involving VPN's and tech in general (finds an anthropomorphic girlfriend on the way or something), Jazz goes to uni (JL members city of choice, although I advise against Gotham or Metropolis, because that would make this too short).

For some MORE reasons unknown, although they might be by the making of our favourite clock-man, the DP people's DNA has by default markings of being clones in DC (I don't know if this is canon or fanon but Connor had something like that ╮⁠(⁠＾⁠▽⁠＾⁠)⁠╭). The thing is here Jack = Bruce, Maddy = Alexander and Jeremy = Clark, Pamela = Lois! Do you see my vision here??

So *JL member from the perspective city* meets the Fenton/Manson/Nightingale?? family accidentally when they are visiting Jazz, and has a sweet deja vu moment. Some time passes and the off handedly mention it to someone in the JL.

Batman being the paranoid bastard that he is goes on to check this thing out, because he can smell the fish from a mile away. Thinks the couple are clones, gets very paranoid again and starts making plans, plans get found by his kids, kids tell the JL and friends. So starts the collective discussions of what should they do, some say that they should get rid of the clones, some others that they don't have proof for anything nefarious and shouldn't do anything at all, someone points out that they have literally showed up out of nowhere and that it is reasonable to be suspicious. And Connor is also there.

Meanwhile Team Phantom is going about their lives like normal, but with a "I know that you know" mindset, and don't really bother with hiding themselves.

In my opinion the part that has to be the most glaringly noticeable about them should be that Danny (Batman's clone apparently) should wear a lot of flannel and have a "Midwestern Nice" personality" (the stuff of legends I have only heard about in passing) and over all should resemble Clark in fashion sense. For Sam (Superman's clone apparently) the exact opposite - she can put the GOTH in Gotham.

And all JL angst/drama/confusion happens in the background as we follow Connor Kent's/Superboy's POV and him dealing with having two half siblings and the half siblings being together and them having a child and this is too much for him oooooooooo noooooooo nononoonononoonononononno what in the sweeet home Alabama whhhhhyyyyyyyy!??!

So it's like a metronome tick's between the POVs of fluffy new life/potential threat to the JL I mean the child of Bruce/Lex and child Clark/Luis having potential super-smart, super-powered (potentially evil??) children. But overall it's crack.

Maybe I'll plan it out and actually try to write it, but meanwhile you can enjoy my half-ill/fever induced brain worms and play in the brown dirt puddle I call my creative thinking.

To who ever finished reading this

Good night! ;P

[undistortedworld]

was meant to start the birthday art yesterday but was overcome with thoughts of rusong instead oops but also ive had persistent visions of jgy reading jrs bedtime stories and sitting with him until he falls asleep and its been fucking me uppppp

[anotherpapercut]

if you think there should be an upper age limit for holding office your politics are based on finding the right people to discriminate against and you're annoying. there are other far better ways to determine if a person is competent enough to hold office

[theheadlessgroom]

@beatingheart-bride

"No, it doesn't, judging by the sound of it," Callahan nodded, before smiling to Lon and Erika, saying warmly, "But it could always use more Paces in it, I feel."

Even as breakfast continued to wind down and many of the spirits began to break away from the tables to begin their day, the Pace-Burke family remained seated a while longer, enjoying their drinks of choice and some much lighter conversation, the topic gradually shifting towards plans for the day: The Pace brothers were planning on further exploring the mansion and hanging out with some of the graveyard spirits, who they'd met and hit it off with the night before.

"You been teachin' these folks any games, Willy?" Colin asked, at which Wilhelm nodded as he set down his coffee mug, saying, "Oh yeah, I've taught 'em Rings, Crookey, Darts...been teachin' Lon and Erika as well, they've really taken to 'em!"

"Good to hear it!" Colin grinned, as Callahan rubbed his chin, saying, "Well, if anyone wants to join us, you know where we'll be-met those three odd fellows down in the crypt last night, was thinking about playing a little blackjack with 'em!"

"Just watch your wallet around Ezra if you do," Randall chuckled, as Josephine said, "Well, I'd like to spend a little more time getting to know my grandbabies. Is there anything you like to do together? Maybe something we can all have fun doing?"

"We like to watch movies!" Lon proclaimed proudly and excitedly, with Erika brightening a little at this suggestion. "We watch movies, and Papa likes to knit or sew while we do! Sometimes we all play board games while we watch!"

"Oh, that sounds like fun!" Josephine grinned, as Randall looked back down to Erika, who looked back up at him in turn. The question now was what she'd rather do: Play out in the graveyard with Uncle Colin and Uncle Callahan, or watch a movie with Grandma Josephine? Whatever she chose, he would go along with her for, as promised.

[theflyestwhiteboyofthemall]

idk but i don't understand why cisgender is a slur according to musk is a bad thing like ok you wanna call your identity a slur that's on you go off i guess at least transgender isn't a slur idk i'm genuinely confused 😭

[thedeathscar]

Ok so I love so much of this and have so much that I could add but for now I’m going to focus on one section of this only; the section regarding Erik’s parents and his powers.

I 100% agree that the gate scene was not even close to the first manifestation of his powers. Assuming Erik is about 13-14 when I gets taken into the camps, I want to say that the first manifestation of his power ever was when he was 10-11. There are a couple different possible triggers - nightmares, escalation of the war, a brawl, being brought into ghettos - but the possibility that I resonate with most is that his powers manifested as a result of Jakob’s death.

The Camps: When Erik first arrived in the camps we see his screaming out for Edie but not for Jakob at all. He isn’t even mentioned. There’s no “where’s my father?” or screaming out for Dad, only Edie. This could be read as Erik having a closer relationship with his mother - possibly due to views on his powers, as you stated - but I personally think that for a young boy like Erik in a situation this desperate, any quarrels would likely be forgotten on favour of staying with the familiar above all else. However, if Jakob had already died - whether from disease, gunshot, anything - then Edie is the ONLY person he has left to call out to at all.

Emotion: We already know that an extreme loss - specifically of a parental figure - is what triggered Erik’s first big use of his powers and taught him that anger was the only way to access them. So, it would be logical to assume that a likely trigger for his power in to manifest at all would be a similar emotional blow. In addition, Edie repeats to him “allés ist gut” everything’s alright. This to me shows that she has at least been trying to understand how to help him with his power. This “everything’s alright” can also act as a “Don’t worry, you can do it, you are good, you have skill. Stay calm, we will be fine” something comforting, something to tell him to focus on the good. Then, he fails, Edie dies, and he just has what he’s already known about it this power confirmed. This comes from anger. This comes from pain. If you want power, you must sacrifice your comfort. This idea would only be reinforced by Shaw. In fact, it would continue to be reinforced for over a decade by truly his entire life, right up until he meets Charles.

Happiest Memory: Why did Jakob then not appear in Erik’s happiest memory? Good question. If Erik was younger when he lost his father than his mother - especially if that then lead to the manifestation of his powers - it’s more likely that he associates Jakob with negative feelings and memories, even if he still deep inside had good memories with him. In addition, he would have known for certain that Edie accepted his powers. He would have known with complete certainty that she would never reject him. With Jakob, he wouldn’t have known. Of course he would have hoped for his Dad’s acceptance. Of course Edie would have likely told him that he was loved no matter what. But he never got that same certainty that he did from Edie. There could have always been that small sliver of doubt that any good memory with Jakob would have been tainted if he never accepted Erik’s power. This is what I think edges out Edie to be the only person in his happiest memory. Charles: If Edie knew about his power, she was likely the only person that he knew for certain would not discriminate against him for any part of it. That is, until Charles. Charles who would likely, eventually, also become part of Erik’s happiest memories. The first person to give him answers. The first person to give him a life. The only person after Edie that he known with complete and utter certainty will always accept him and love him.

Incredible to think about how - as if he hadn’t already gone through enough - Erik spent the first 32 years of his life with absolutely no idea why he had his powers or where they came from.

He didn’t know there were any other mutants out there. He didn’t even know that mutation was the reason he had those abilities. All those years, he must’ve really thought of himself as a freak and an anomaly. This probably gave Shaw’s cruelty that much more sway over him, since for so long he really believed something was wrong with him. It very well could be that he mentally associated his outburst of power upon his mother’s death with Shaw so closely that he came to believe it was Shaw’s experimentation that increased his abilities in the first place. Maybe he thought this weird anomaly within himself would’ve gone away in time if it weren’t for Shaw. Frankenstein’s monster indeed.

The fact that Edie shows no surprise or confusion at his efforts to move the coin for Shaw is a significant detail, because it indicates that she was aware of his abilities. Most likely he accidentally moved metallic objects around the house when he was most afraid or upset. (I imagine he unknowingly bent the headboard of his bed while having nightmares as a kid, and his mother saw this while comforting him.) Contrary to popular belief, Erik moving the gate at the camp was actually NOT the first time his power manifested.

And it’s quite clear that Edie, though probably just as confused about his powers as he was, accepted her son just as he was and never feared him or thought of him as a freak. I do wonder if this contributed to the closeness of their relationship, especially in comparison to Erik’s relationship with his father, who is never mentioned nearly as often and doesn’t even appear in Erik’s happiest memory that Charles uncovers. Perhaps Jakob never knew about Erik’s powers, as Edie decided to keep it secret. Or perhaps Jakob did know, and his reaction to it was not so positive. Who knows if Edie and Jakob discreetly had conversations about it, if their marriage was possibly strained by their differing opinions on what was happening to their son? Who knows if other, more superstitious people in their community found out about it and accused him of being some kind of demon? We can only speculate. But it would certainly have deepened the bond between Edie and Erik if she was in fact the only person who knew about and accepted his powers.

This adds such weight to “I thought I was alone.” He really did. For so long, he had no context or knowledge to understand why he could control metal. He learned to accept and use that part of himself, yet he still didn’t understand it. Nobody else could do that. Why could he? He had no answers. And the loss of his mother perhaps meant the loss of the only person who didn’t judge him for it. The old N*zi in Argentina asks him “who…what are you?” reinforcing his thought process of being a thing rather than a person.

And this is such a crucial component of how much Charles really changed Erik’s life for the better, and explains why he fell for Charles so deeply. Charles gave him the answers he’d been longing for. Charles showed him that his power was not an anomaly, not a sign that he was a demon, not something wrong with him at all. It was, in fact, a scientific miracle, the next stage in human evolution.

Imagine thinking for so long that you were born some kind of one-in-a-million monster, and then suddenly a beautiful man with eyes that the sky can only mimic saves you from drowning and tells you you’re not alone and he’s written an entire thesis about how you are actually one of many and a sign of growth, of improvement, of evolution.

It’s really no wonder that Erik becomes so obsessed with mutant superiority. The fact that there is a whole subspecies of mutants in the world who have evolved beyond human normalcy is something he clings to. It comforts him. It’s the antithesis of everything he always believed and feared about himself before he met Charles. He’s determined to ensure that no other mutant feels as alone and confused as he was for all those years.

[dearreader]

something is not right about a 26 year old adult picking fights with 14 year olds and lying about people being racist and antisemitic and suicide bating because they rightfully called you out and you like the drama

[queenlua]

@skullypettibone—i'm answering your question in this reblog instead of in the replies because i couldn't answer without being long-winded, lol, hope that's ok

skullypettibone said: can you explain what you mean about 5-4 has a flexible relationship to facts? I don’t know a lot about the legal system so I’ve just been taking them at face value while listening

with the caveat that it’s been a while since i listened to 5-4 (this is an old post!), so my memory of specific instances are going to be a bit fuzzy—

—i remember getting pretty irked, early on, when i was listening to some episode about, like.  man idk how this even comes up in a supreme court case, but it was something about one of those “inclusive workplace” training things, right

and peter slams in with some very categorical statement to the tune of “there’s no reason to be against these trainings unless you just hate inclusion; all they do is make things a little better for not-that-large-a-cost, and everyone against them is just disingenuous”

which rubbed me the wrong way because i’d gotten curious about this exact thing a week prior & had done some cursory reading on “how effective ARE those trainings, actually”

(and to be clear i wasn’t coming at the question from some kind of anti-DEI angle or whatnot.  i wanted to know because i think “is this thing actually effective in achieving its stated goals” is a good question to know the answer to.  if i’m doing [x] because i think it’ll achieve [y] and then find out [x] doesn’t do [y] then i should find something else to do to achieve [y], right?)

and based on an academic literature review i’d found + some other reasonable sources, i got the impression that the evidence for how useful these trainings are is pretty mixed—the review was like “look, here’s some limited cases where it seems to have had a demonstrably positive effect, but the effect is pretty weak, and only seems to work in a pretty narrow set of circumstances, these other studies turn up neutral or even negative results, we should look into this more”

and that, combined with the fact that these trainings are often utilized by companies to protect themselves from discrimination lawsuits that maybe they should in fact get slammed with (“oh, that manager was racist *all by himself*, see, we did a training! we told them not to do it!), and thus undercuts larger inclusion-related aims…

…well, i think that opens up plenty of space for good-faith critique?

(it was only later i found out peter was an employment lawyer, which only makes the statement all the MORE baffling and galling.  like surely the dude’s observed at least one (1) instance of some shitty corporation using their trainings as legal cover?  i’ve heard other lawyers talk about that sort of thing happening!  hell i first thought to RESEARCH the question because i read an article by a socialist lawyer on the topic)

so yeah, to hear this guy being so strident and confident when he was in fact *wrong* really rubbed me the wrong way

after that i listened to a couple more episodes, but whenever one of the hosts was EXTRA strident or unequivocal about such-and-such claim, i’d look into it and… yeah, i’d learn they were really unfairly mischaracterizing something, claiming something was simple when it’s more complex than that, etc

and that can be true *even though* i basically agree with a bunch of the larger claims of the podcast.  like i do think the 5-4 ppl are basically right that legal “originalism” isn’t based on a particularly coherent or intellectually rigorous school of thought and is mostly a veneer for advancing a particular set of right-wing policies; i do think the image a lot of people have of the Supreme Court as this apolitical group of enlightened philosopher-kings delivering enlightened judgments is due for a correction

but i can learn all about that & conclude all those things by reading or listening to someone who isn’t so obviously willing to bend the truth or simplify certain complexities just because it makes a better dunk or a cooler joke or whatever, heh

it kinda irks me that michael hobbes seemed to get a lil more of the "breakout star" status after the You're Wrong About podcast—while he & sarah have a p entertaining dynamic *together*, without sarah to balance him out, he becomes kinda obnoxious (see: Maintenance Phase), and (crucially) hobbes is the one with a much more, ah. flexible. relationship. to facts. and i like facts. so that bums me out

similarly i am annoyed that peter shamshiri was the breakout star from 5-4 because like. ok that whole *podcast* has a flexible relationship to facts, haha, but rhiannon at least offers some pretty legit #realtalk on-the-ground experience, and i always thought michael liroff's commentary was the most measured/interesting/detailed, like, i can't count the number of times liroff would be in the middle of making an interesting & nuanced point only for peter to cut him off halfway with the quick & lazy dunk

i mean yeah peter's very funny!!! i understand that's what gets listeners or whatever!!! but also: why this

[marvelsmostwanted]

There are people – some in my own Party – who think that if you just give Donald Trump everything he wants, he’ll make an exception and spare you some of the harm. I’ll ignore the moral abdication of that position for just a second to say — almost none of those people have the experience with this President that I do. I once swallowed my pride to offer him what he values most — public praise on the Sunday news shows — in return for ventilators and N95 masks during the worst of the pandemic. We made a deal. And it turns out his promises were as broken as the BIPAP machines he sent us instead of ventilators. Going along to get along does not work – just ask the Trump-fearing red state Governors who are dealing with the same cuts that we are. I won’t be fooled twice.

I’ve been reflecting, these past four weeks, on two important parts of my life: my work helping to build the Illinois Holocaust Museum and the two times I’ve had the privilege of reciting the oath of office for Illinois Governor.

As some of you know, Skokie, Illinois once had one of the largest populations of Holocaust survivors anywhere in the world. In 1978, Nazis decided they wanted to march there.

The leaders of that march knew that the images of Swastika clad young men goose stepping down a peaceful suburban street would terrorize the local Jewish population – so many of whom had never recovered from their time in German concentration camps.

The prospect of that march sparked a legal fight that went all the way to the Supreme Court. It was a Jewish lawyer from the ACLU who argued the case for the Nazis – contending that even the most hateful of speech was protected under the first amendment.

As an American and a Jew, I find it difficult to resolve my feelings around that Supreme Court case – but I am grateful that the prospect of Nazis marching in their streets spurred the survivors and other Skokie residents to act. They joined together to form the Holocaust Memorial Foundation and built the first Illinois Holocaust Museum in a storefront in 1981 – a small but important forerunner to the one I helped build thirty years later.

I do not invoke the specter of Nazis lightly. But I know the history intimately — and have spent more time than probably anyone in this room with people who survived the Holocaust. Here’s what I’ve learned – the root that tears apart your house’s foundation begins as a seed – a seed of distrust and hate and blame.

The seed that grew into a dictatorship in Europe a lifetime ago didn’t arrive overnight. It started with everyday Germans mad about inflation and looking for someone to blame.

I’m watching with a foreboding dread what is happening in our country right now. A president who watches a plane go down in the Potomac – and suggests — without facts or findings — that a diversity hire is responsible for the crash. Or the Missouri Attorney General who just sued Starbucks – arguing that consumers pay higher prices for their coffee because the baristas are too “female” and “nonwhite.” The authoritarian playbook is laid bare here: They point to a group of people who don’t look like you and tell you to blame them for your problems.

I just have one question: What comes next? After we’ve discriminated against, deported or disparaged all the immigrants and the gay and lesbian and transgender people, the developmentally disabled, the women and the minorities – once we’ve ostracized our neighbors and betrayed our friends – After that, when the problems we started with are still there staring us in the face – what comes next.

All the atrocities of human history lurk in the answer to that question. And if we don’t want to repeat history – then for God’s sake in this moment we better be strong enough to learn from it.

I swore the following oath on Abraham Lincoln’s Bible: “I do solemnly swear that I will support the constitution of the United States, and the constitution of the state of Illinois, and that I will faithfully discharge the duties of the office of Governor .... according to the best of my ability.

My oath is to the Constitution of our state and of our country. We don’t have kings in America – and I don’t intend to bend the knee to one. I am not speaking up in service to my ambitions — but in deference to my obligations.

If you think I’m overreacting and sounding the alarm too soon, consider this:

It took the Nazis one month, three weeks, two days, eight hours and 40 minutes to dismantle a constitutional republic. All I’m saying is when the five-alarm fire starts to burn, every good person better be ready to man a post with a bucket of water if you want to stop it from raging out of control.

Those Illinois Nazis did end up holding their march in 1978 – just not in Skokie. After all the blowback from the case, they decided to march in Chicago instead. Only twenty of them showed up. But 2000 people came to counter protest. The Chicago Tribune reported that day that the “rally sputtered to an unspectacular end after ten minutes.” It was Illinoisans who smothered those embers before they could burn into a flame.

Tyranny requires your fear and your silence and your compliance. Democracy requires your courage. So gather your justice and humanity, Illinois, and do not let the “tragic spirit of despair” overcome us when our country needs us the most.

Sources:

• NBC Chicago & J.B. Pritzker, Democratic governor of Illinois, State of the State address 2025: Watch speech here | Full text

• Betches News on Instagram (screencaps)

[alex51324]

So, the NDA signed by producers of The Apprentice just expired, and one of them has published a tell-all article. Most of the article is about how they used standard reality-TV tricks to portray Trump as being wealthy and intelligent, when in reality he was, and is, a deeply indebted buffoon.

The money shot, however, comes when Trump and the producers are preparing for climax of the final episode, when the winner will be decided.

Per the FCC's rules for game shows, producers could not be involved in deciding who would be fired each week, or who would ultimately win: it had to be Trump's decision alone, like contestants and viewers were told it was. The producers could, and did, give him a presentation about the strengths and weaknesses of the contestants each time he had to make a decision. These were recorded, in case questions ever arose about whether the producers had crossed the line.

So, for the final episode, there were two contestants remaining. Both were men, one white, the other Black. They'd both done well in the final challenge of the competition. As the producers were summarizing the points for an against each candidate, this happened:

“Yeah,” he says to no one in particular, “but, I mean, would America buy a n— winning?” Kepcher’s pale skin goes bright red. I turn my gaze toward Trump. He continues to wince. He is serious, and he is adamant about not hiring Jackson.

In the finished program, Trump chose the white contestant as the winner.

(Four years later, Trump would propagate the baseless conspiracy theory that Barack Obama was not a native-born US citizen and therefore had not legitimately won the presidency.)

The article also describes how women working on the production faced discrimination based on whether or not Trump wanted to look at them while they did their jobs:

While leering at a female camera assistant or assessing the physical attributes of a female contestant for whoever is listening, he orders a female camera operator off an elevator on which she is about to film him. “She’s too heavy,” I hear him say. Another female camera operator, who happens to have blond hair and blue eyes, draws from Trump comparisons to his own Ivanka Trump. “There’s a beautiful woman behind that camera,” he says toward a line of 10 different operators set up in the foyer of Trump Tower one day. “That’s all I want to look at.”

And there's a third anecdote where he pressures a woman producer to break the FCC rules, while being casually misogynistic toward a contestant:

Trump corners a female producer and asks her whom he should fire. She demurs, saying something about how one of the contestants blamed another for their team losing. Trump then raises his hands, cupping them to his chest: “You mean the one with the …?” He doesn’t know the contestant’s name. Trump eventually fires her.

This information is pretty unlikely to persuade anyone who wasn't already persuaded by any of the other things Trump has done and said, which would for anyone else be a career-defining scandal. But it is a useful reminder of who we're dealing with.

(Link is to Slate, an x-number-of-free-articles-a-month site, but the incognito window trick works.)

[trans-axolotl]

also in regards to that last article about varied ways of thinking about psychosis/altered states that don't just align with medical model or carceral psychiatry---I always love sharing about Bethel House and their practices of peer support for schizophrenia that are founded on something called tojisha kenkyu, but I don't see it mentioned as often as things like HVN and Soteria House.

ID: [A colorful digital drawing of a group of people having a meeting inside a house while it snows outside.]

"What really set the stage for tōjisha-kenkyū were two social movements started by those with disabilities. In the 1950s, a new disability movement was burgeoning in Japan, but it wasn’t until the 1970s that those with physical disabilities, such as cerebral palsy, began to advocate for themselves more actively as tōjisha. For those in this movement, their disability is visible. They know where their discomfort comes from, why they are discriminated against, and in what ways they need society to change. Their movement had a clear sense of purpose: make society accommodate the needs of people with disabilities. Around the same time, during the 1970s, a second movement was started by those with mental health issues, such as addiction (particularly alcohol misuse) and schizophrenia. Their disabilities are not always visible. People in this second movement may not have always known they had a disability and, even after they identify their problems, they may remain uncertain about the nature of their disability. Unlike those with physical and visible disabilities, this second group of tōjisha were not always sure how to advocate for themselves as members of society. They didn’t know what they wanted and needed from society. This knowing required new kinds of self-knowledge.

As the story goes, tōjisha-kenkyū emerged in the Japanese fishing town of Urakawa in southern Hokkaido in the early 2000s. It began in the 1980s when locals who had been diagnosed with psychiatric disorders created a peer-support group in a run-down church, which was renamed ‘Bethel House’. The establishment of Bethel House (or just Bethel) was also aided by the maverick psychiatrist Toshiaki Kawamura and an innovative social worker named Ikuyoshi Mukaiyachi. From the start, Bethel embodied the experimental spirit that followed the ‘antipsychiatry’ movement in Japan, which proposed ideas for how psychiatry might be done differently, without relying only on diagnostic manuals and experts. But finding new methods was incredibly difficult and, in the early days of Bethel, both staff and members often struggled with a recurring problem: how is it possible to get beyond traditional psychiatric treatments when someone is still being tormented by their disabling symptoms? Tōjisha-kenkyū was born directly out of a desperate search for answers.

In the early 2000s, one of Bethel’s members with schizophrenia was struggling to understand who he was and why he acted the way he did. This struggle had become urgent after he had set his own home on fire in a fit of anger. In the aftermath, he was overwhelmed and desperate. At his wits’ end about how to help, Mukaiyachi asked him if perhaps he wanted to kenkyū (to ‘study’ or ‘research’) himself so he could understand his problems and find a better way to cope with his illness. Apparently, the term ‘kenkyū’ had an immediate appeal, and others at Bethel began to adopt it, too – especially those with serious mental health problems who were constantly urged to think about (and apologise) for who they were and how they behaved. Instead of being passive ‘patients’ who felt they needed to keep their heads down and be ashamed for acting differently, they could now become active ‘researchers’ of their own ailments. Tōjisha-kenkyū allowed these people to deny labels such as ‘victim’, ‘patient’ or ‘minority’, and to reclaim their agency.

Tōjisha-kenkyū is based on a simple idea. Humans have long shared their troubles so that others can empathise and offer wisdom about how to solve problems. Yet the experience of mental illness is often accompanied by an absence of collective sharing and problem-solving. Mental health issues are treated like shameful secrets that must be hidden, remain unspoken, and dealt with in private. This creates confused and lonely people, who can only be ‘saved’ by the top-down knowledge of expert psychiatrists. Tōjisha-kenkyū simply encourages people to ‘study’ their own problems, and to investigate patterns and solutions in the writing and testimonies of fellow tōjisha.

Self-reflection is at the heart of this practice. Tōjisha-kenkyū incorporates various forms of reflection developed in clinical methods, such as social skills training and cognitive behavioural therapy, but the reflections of a tōjisha don’t begin and end at the individual. Instead, self-reflection is always shared, becoming a form of knowledge that can be communally reflected upon and improved. At Bethel House, members found it liberating that they could define themselves as ‘producers’ of a new form of knowledge, just like the doctors and scientists who diagnosed and studied them in hospital wards. The experiential knowledge of Bethel members now forms the basis of an open and shared public domain of collective knowledge about mental health, one distributed through books, newspaper articles, documentaries and social media.

Tōjisha-kenkyū quickly caught on, making Bethel House a site of pilgrimage for those seeking alternatives to traditional psychiatry. Eventually, a café was opened, public lectures and events were held, and even merchandise (including T-shirts depicting members’ hallucinations) was sold to help support the project. Bethel won further fame when their ‘Hallucination and Delusion Grand Prix’ was aired on national television in Japan. At these events, people in Urakawa are invited to listen and laugh alongside Bethel members who share stories of their hallucinations and delusions. Afterwards, the audience votes to decide who should win first prize for the most hilarious or moving account. One previous winner told a story about a failed journey into the mountains to ride a UFO and ‘save the world’ (it failed because other Bethel members convinced him he needed a licence to ride a UFO, which he didn’t have). Another winner told a story about living in a public restroom at a train station for four days to respect the orders of an auditory hallucination. Tōjisha-kenkyū received further interest, in and outside Japan, when the American anthropologist Karen Nakamura wrote A Disability of the Soul: An Ethnography of Schizophrenia and Mental Illness in Contemporary Japan (2013), a detailed and moving account of life at Bethel House. "

-Japan's Radical Alternative to Psychiatric Diagnosis by Satsuki Ayaya and Junko Kitanaka

[marcyvamp1re-blog]

Pt.3 SILLLY LITTLE BAT.

pairings ⸺ Yandere! Platonic! Batfamily x Anti-hero! Fem!reader.

sinopsis ⸺ There are only memories, fragments of a past that, like shadows, will haunt you until your last breath, whispers of what was and will never be. Gotham cries out for a guardian, a soul to face the darkness, to challenge fate in its shadowy alleys.

But tell me, who will rise to protect you, traveler of scars and broken dreams? Who will watch over your light when the world swallows your hopes?

In the eternal night, amidst the echo of fear and longing, there is only one path: to confront the monsters and become the hero this city needs, even if the price is the forgetting of oneself.

warnings ⸺ Dark Themes, Dead, Religion, murdering,Disturbing Content, Unhealthy Obsession, Discrimination, Street Fights, Gaslight, Violence, Blood, LGBT Content, Child Abuse, Kidnapping, Implicit Sexual Content, Mental Illness, Addiction, Torture, Corruption, Isolation, Trauma, Phobias, Paranoia, Manipulation.

Chapter guide! Pt.1 Pt2. Pt.4

A/N — English is not my first language—Spanish is— Here is the continuation of the other parts. There will be a few more parts but you should know that we will soon reach the end, but there are still things to clarify and so on. I don't know if you would like me to do another Batfam yandere series in the future or similar. Send me your ideas if you want :3

They are upset because I left

Where they never included me.

The car moved slowly under the gray sky of Gotham, as if the universe itself understood the weight of the pain you carried in your small figure. Commissioner Gordon, with his firm hands on the wheel, cast furtive glances at the rearview mirror, where he saw you curled up in the back seat. Wrapped in an old blanket, the same one you had hugged for days, your face was hidden among the folds, but the silent tears that fell could not be disguised. There were no words that Gordon could offer to heal the recent wound of losing your mother, but his empathy, though silent, was there, wrapping around you like the coat that couldn't quite warm you.

In your lap, a small Batman doll rested, pressed against your chest, as if that fabric toy could protect you from the world that had just destroyed your innocence. Your eyes, still swollen and red, looked out the window without seeing, watching the city that seemed so distant, so foreign.

"You will be loved and cherished," Gordon whispered, breaking the silence that had weighed like fog in the car. "Bruce Wayne... he will take care of you, I promise."

But you didn't respond immediately. The name Wayne felt strange, distant, as if he spoke of someone living in a story, not in your reality. You looked up, your eyes meeting Gordon’s for a second in the rearview mirror.

"And if they don't want me...?" you murmured, insecurity clouding your childish voice. "I don't know them, Commissioner... and they don't know me. What if they leave me in an orphanage? Mama always told me those places aren't nice."

Gordon swallowed hard, understanding the depth of your fear. "You were just a child, but you had already learned that love was not a guarantee." The world had taught you that cruel lesson too soon.

"The Waynes..." he began, searching for the right words, "are good people. You might not understand it at first, but I assure you they have suffered too. Bruce..." he paused, recalling the losses that man had faced. "He understands what it is to lose someone. He will do everything he can to make you feel safe, to help you find a home again."

But you kept looking at the doll in your hands, your fingers squeezing it tightly, as if it were the only stable thing in a world crumbling around you.

The silence grew heavy, uncomfortable, as if the words wanted to come out but didn’t know how. Again, Gordon spoke, his voice low, almost afraid to break the stillness.

"And/y/n... what was your mom like?" he asked softly, not taking his eyes off the road, as if by doing so, he could give you space to be honest, to not feel pressured.

You fell silent for a long moment, your small fingers nervously playing with the edges of the blanket. The world outside the car seemed a reflection of what you felt inside: cloudy, cold, distant.

Finally, you exhaled, as if gathering the courage to speak. Your voice came out shaky at first, filled with a mix of sadness and a hard-to-accept truth.

"My mom..." you murmured, not taking your eyes off the window. "She wasn't a good person, but... she wasn't a villain either."

Gordon nodded slowly, without interrupting you. He knew things were rarely black or white, that life had that cruel ability to mix the two.

"She... told me she grew up in an orphanage. She never had anything that was really hers." You paused, your eyes glassy as you recalled details that now seemed more painful than ever. "Well, except for me."

"Gordon felt a knot form in his throat." He knew that loss was a terrible burden to bear, but there was something more in your words, something suggesting that, amidst it all, there had also been love. An imperfect love, but real.

"She always dreamed of having a little house..." you continued, and for the first time, a faint smile appeared on your face, though it was tinged with melancholy. "A house with a garden, lots of Barbie dolls, and a little dog. She didn't need more. She just wanted something that was hers."

You stopped for a moment, as if the simple act of recalling those dreams your mother had hurt you. You knew she would never have them. That the world had been cruel to her, denying her even the small things she wished for so fervently.

"But... she never got it. We were always moving around, fleeing, searching for something better. And now... she doesn’t even have that."

The car seemed to shrink, the air denser. Gordon felt a wave of compassion for that woman who, though perhaps not perfect, had dreamed of something so simple, so human, and yet had not achieved it.

"I'm so sorry, Y/n," he murmured.

"Commissioner, what if... what if I can't forget her?" you asked, almost in a whisper. "What if I can't stop thinking about Mom?"

The silence in the car became heavy, almost tangible. Gordon wanted to tell you that you didn't have to forget, that it was natural to carry that pain. But the words didn't come, and instead, only a long sigh escaped his lips.

"It's not about forgetting, Y/n," he finally said, his voice low but firm. "It's about moving forward, even though it hurts. Your mother would want you to find happiness again, even though it may not seem possible now. And I’m sure Bruce will do everything in his power to help you."

The car turned onto the long, dark road leading to Wayne Manor. The trees formed a tunnel of shadows, as if the road were wrapped in the same mourning you carried within. The mansion, with its imposing grandeur, appeared in the distance, its walls as high as the secrets it held. "You were so small in the face of the immensity of this new life that awaited you."

"We're almost there," Gordon said softly, as he slowed down. "The wind outside whispered through the trees, like an echo of everything you had lost."

You didn’t know it at that moment, but that house would be full of stories, some broken, others in the process of healing. And although you felt like a stranger in a strange land now, Gordon hoped that, one day, that place would become your refuge.

The car stopped in front of the enormous gates. Gordon looked at you one last time before getting out. In his eyes, you could see a mix of sadness and hope, an empathy that went beyond words.

"You are not alone, Y/n," he said, his voice now firmer. "You will never be alone again."

You remained silent, gazing at the mansion as you clung to the blanket and the Batman doll. The weight of the world still rested on your small shoulders, but for the first time, there might have been a glimmer of relief in knowing that someone, even if he was a strange and distant man, was waiting for you inside."

And in that moment, although you still felt the burning pain of your loss, a ray of hope began to break through the shadows of your heart.

Y/n was sitting in the BatCafé, that corner of the city where the tables wobbled and conversations were woven into murmurs, as if the place knew how to keep secrets that even you wouldn’t dare to share aloud. The walls, a mossy green, were filled with stories that no one had asked for. She looked at her lukewarm latte as one looks at a future that hasn’t quite arrived, a liquid mockery evaporating before it could warm her hands. It had barely been a month since she left her family home, but she already felt that independence was more of a myth than a fulfilled dream. At first, the heroism of having thrown herself into the world had filled her with pride, but now reality lurked like a treacherous chill seeping through the cracks, and the fact that she was waiting for her potential roommate didn’t help matters.

“Well, at least the rent will be cheaper,” she told herself, or rather to the coffee, as if the dark liquid could reply with something sensible.

Sharing an apartment was, for Y/n, the only way out. Her salary barely covered survival, but only if she fed on fresh air and broken dreams. And there she was, waiting for someone named Pamela Isley, who, according to the ad, didn’t even seem to be from this planet. "I hope she’s not one of those people with invisible cats," she thought. Of course, the alternatives weren’t very promising: people who collected Batman figurines or guys who made friends with cockroaches in the kitchen. She had seen it all; after all, her apartment was in one of the most dangerous areas of Gotham, and she knew it all too well.

You were born in that area. One could say the neighborhood chose you before you had a chance to choose it. You didn’t remember exactly which apartment; in that hive of broken windows and half-painted bricks, all the floors seemed like a blurry copy of the previous one, each with the same square footage and an air of silent resignation. In the end, it didn’t matter, because in a way, everything was the same. Dust in the corners, worn tiles, cracks in the walls that seemed to form a map of some invisible and secret city, a place that only you could decipher if you stopped to observe long enough.

It was an unpretentious place, where people rarely smiled, but neither did they let themselves be trampled. There was something in the air, a kind of poorly disguised pride, as if every neighbor, every stray dog, knew that surviving there wasn’t a matter of luck but of will. Heroes didn’t exist in that corner of the world, but villains didn’t dare impose their law without facing some gaze that, without saying anything, said it all. It was rough terrain, where kindness camouflaged behind growls and complaints, and malice grew tired before it could fully settle.

And yet, you loved it. It was absurd, but you loved it with that devotion reserved for things you don’t choose, for roots that sink into your chest without asking for permission. The place was filled with memories you didn’t ask for, stories you never wanted to hear but that seeped into your skin. Tales of people who vanished in alleyways, of broken promises around the corner, of loves that drowned in factory smoke. And yet, those same tales were like echoes that held you, reminding you that you were born there, in that half-hell where life was always a fight but never a complete defeat.

The clock in the BatCafé struck six ten when the door opened. What happened next was hard to explain, like when you dream and you don’t know if it’s the pillow or the universe holding you. Pamela Isley walked in, and it was as if the wind, that autumn wind that brings memories, had gently pushed her in. Y/n looked up, and the first thing she noticed was her hair, a red that was out of this world, more fire than pigment, more nature than dye. The roots tangled as if they were living branches, and for a moment, Y/n wondered if the sun had made a mistake and was shining only on her.

Pamela walked as if she had a pact with the earth. Her steps were slow but firm, as if her feet waited for the ground to respond before settling. She wore a jacket that was impossible to describe without sounding crazy: green vines and small buds peeking out, as if at any moment the plants would grow over her. "Where does this woman come from?" Y/n thought, feeling something beyond mere curiosity. There was something she couldn’t deny, an attraction that felt unsettling, like those waves that, without warning, sweep you away when you think you can still touch the bottom.

Pamela approached the table with a calculated calm, a calm only nature or time can sculpt. And then she smiled. In that smile, Y/n felt something familiar yet strange, as if she were facing a younger version of her mother, but instead of being terrifying, it was comforting. What was happening?

“Y/n L/n?” Pamela said, her voice reminiscent of the whisper of dry leaves underfoot.

“Yes, that’s me,” Y/n answered, trying to make her voice sound normal, even though everything inside her felt out of place.

Pamela sat down across from her, crossing her legs with an almost feline elegance. The BatCafé seemed to conspire around them; the air smelled of wet earth and freshly brewed coffee, a strange mix, like the combination of what was about to be born and what had already died.

“I didn’t expect you to be…” Y/n began, not knowing exactly how to finish the sentence. She wasn’t even sure what she was expecting.

“Strange?” Pamela completed, with a playful smile that left Y/n with a sense of defeat and fascination in equal parts.

“Something like that,” Y/n replied, looking at Pamela’s hands. Her long, slender fingers were covered in small green spots, as if she had just planted a forest with her own hands. There was something almost magical about her, as if every part of her being was connected to the earth in a way that Y/n couldn’t quite understand. And there, amid that confusion, was the fine thread of attraction.

Pamela let her gaze fall on her own latte, turning it between her hands as if it were about to reveal some hidden secret in the foam.

“So, what do you do? I mean… aside from, you know… looking like you walked out of a Tim Burton movie,” Y/n said, attempting a bit of humor to ease the tension she felt in her stomach.

Pamela glanced at her and laughed softly, a laugh that felt like an unexpected breeze on a hot day.

“I’m… a caretaker. Of plants.” She paused, gauging Y/n���s reaction. “And other things.”

“Other things?” Y/n asked, intrigued but also amused by the way Pamela toyed with the mystery.

“Yes, like people who don’t know how to water a plant without drowning it,” she replied, arching an eyebrow mischievously.

The response made Y/n laugh, a laugh she hadn’t expected, as if Pamela had found a way to touch something deep within her, something that hadn’t bloomed in a long time. And without being able to help it, she felt drawn, not just by the way Pamela moved, spoke, or even by the air of mystery surrounding her, but because there was something more, something familiar, something that reminded her of her mother, but without the shadows of authority and judgment. It was like a wild, free version of what had once been security.

“So… are you going to save my cactus or criticize it?” Y/n said, trying to sound casual while feeling that her heart had started playing a game of chess with her emotions.

Pamela smiled again, and this time it was a different smile, one that seemed to carry a promise.

“It depends. Would you let me stay to try?” Pamela said, with a playful seriousness that left Y/n unsure whether the question was about the cactus or something much larger.

Y/n blinked, trying to process the phrase, but deep down she knew that any answer would sound awkward. Pamela’s question hung in the air between them like a leaf falling slowly, right at the perfect point where it was neither entirely a joke nor completely serious. And there she was, caught in that space, wondering whether she should laugh or just blush.

“Well… you can try,” she finally said, trying to hide the warmth creeping up her face. “But I can’t promise the cactus will survive. I’m something like… a serial plant killer... When I was younger, I had time to care for them as they deserved, with help from… from my father. But now work consumes me a lot, and the truth is I’ve neglected them too much… they must feel the same way I felt when… sorry, I talk too much about myself, don’t I?”

Pamela raised an eyebrow, with a smile that seemed to say more than either of them dared to voice at that moment.

“Oh, no, keep talking about yourself; I’m used to it. I have very… eccentric friends, to be honest.” She leaned a bit closer, as if about to share a secret. “Though I prefer not to work under threats, so don’t look at me like I’m going to be your next plant murder victim. But I doubt a little scared bat can kill even a fly.”

Y/n laughed nervously, surprised at how easy Pamela made everything. She, who had always been clumsy with conversations and glances, felt like the words flowed with Pamela in a way she didn’t quite understand but didn’t want to question either.

“...Little Bat?” Y/n asked, with a clumsy and blushing smile as her fingers nervously toyed with the edge of her cup.

Pamela let out a low giggle, that laugh that always seemed to carry the sound of dry leaves being trampled in autumn. With a gentle gesture, she pointed to her clothes.

“Is it that obvious?” she said with a half-smile, raising a playful eyebrow as she leaned a little forward.

She wore a dark fur coat, enormous, with a wide fall that, under the dim light of the BatCafé, seemed to have the precise shape of bat wings extending. The high, well-fitted black boots completed the image of a figure that seemed to have emerged from the very shadows. And for a moment, Y/n didn’t know whether to laugh or get lost in that air of mystery that Pamela seemed to wear like a second coat.

“Well…” Y/n diverted her gaze with a shy smile, “it’s not like you’re hiding it much.”

Pamela smiled with that touch of mischief that characterized her.

“Does it bother you? I’m sorry, it’s just… I’ve been fascinated by bats since I was little.” she asked, her voice low and slow, as if measuring every word, as if the world were a delicate plant that required to be touched with the tips of her fingers.

Y/n let out a small nervous laugh, feeling the heat rising to her cheeks again.

“No, not at all. I think it’s…” she hesitated for a second, searching for the right word, unsure how to avoid the obvious, “I think it suits you well.”

Pamela watched her for a moment, and then, with that look that always seemed to go beyond what words said, added:

“You’re turning red, you know?”

Y/n’s eyes widened a bit more, surprised by Pamela’s directness, but all she could do was laugh at herself.

“Well, it’s just that, I’m not really used to… this.”

“This?” Pamela repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Sharing coffee with someone or bats?”

“Both,” Y/n admitted, shrugging, which provoked another smile from Pamela. “I always wanted one as a pet… but I have a vegan little brother who’s very… spooky… so I’ve always been afraid he’d steal it from me or accuse me of having exotic pets.”

Pamela settled into the chair, not taking her eyes off Y/n.

“But you’ll get used to it,” she paused, letting her words float calmly.

Y/n felt a shiver run down her spine, a mix of nerves and a spark of something she couldn’t quite define. Pamela’s dark coat and relaxed smile were a disconcerting yet strangely familiar contrast, as if they had always been there, waiting for her. And suddenly, all she could do was wonder how soon that would happen… getting used to it.

“Although I can’t promise my apartment isn’t… a battlefield,” Y/n said, trying to sound confident, but noticing the slight tremor in her voice.

Pamela looked at her intently for a moment, with that mix of flirtation and something deeper, something that seemed impossible to decipher completely. Then she relaxed in the chair, as if the game had just begun.

“A battlefield, huh?” she said, playing with the spoon of her coffee. “Well, I like challenges. And chaotic places have their own charm if you know where to look.” Pamela let the phrase slide smoothly, like someone throwing a stone into a lake and waiting for the ripples.

Y/n couldn’t shake the feeling that every word Pamela spoke carried a double meaning, but far from making her feel uncomfortable, it sparked something akin to contained laughter, as if they were sharing a private joke that she was just beginning to access.

“Don’t you have plants at home?” Pamela suddenly asked, as if the question had sprung from the foam of her coffee.

“Well, there are a couple of cacti… and a fern that I think hates me,” Y/n replied. “But I always forget to water them. Or I overwater them. Seriously, it’s like plants come to me already doomed.”

Pamela smiled, one of those slow smiles that seem to grow little by little, like a sprout deciding when the perfect moment to emerge into the light is.

“It’s not just about water, Y/n,” she said, with that voice that seemed to carry the calm of the wind and the weight of centuries of nature. “Plants need attention. Patience. Sometimes they just want to know you’re there, even if you don’t say anything.” She paused, letting Y/n’s gaze get lost in her eyes. “Sometimes, like people.”

Y/n felt a little shiver. It wasn’t what Pamela was saying, but how she was saying it. There was something in her voice that disarmed her, as if every word had been calculated to penetrate a defense that Y/n hadn’t even realized she had up. And then, almost without thinking, she let slip a truth she rarely shared.

“I’m not very good with people.” The confession came out of her mouth before she could stop it. She said it without drama, almost as if she were talking about the weather. But something in Pamela changed, barely perceptible, like a leaf moving without the wind touching it.

“Really?” Pamela asked softly, but without an ounce of pity. Just curiosity.

Y/n looked down for a moment, fiddling with the edge of her cup, before daring to continue.

“I grew up in a huge house, but… empty. My father… well, he was busy with his things. Business, parties, the usual. Shrugging it off, wanting to downplay it, even though inside she knew it wasn’t something that could easily fade away. Alfred, the butler, raised me. And yes, he was amazing. But it was always just him and no one else. It’s not the same as having… friends.”

Pamela listened in silence, but not in that awkward way where people listen just to see how you respond afterward. No, there was something in her attention that enveloped Y/n, as if she were giving her space to bare herself without fear of being judged.

“You never had friends,” Pamela asserted more than asked.

Y/n shook her head.

“Until now,” Pamela said, with that same softness that seemed to have become her trademark, and something in Y/n’s chest stirred, as if she had just heard the most important thing in the world.

There was a moment of silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a silence that somehow connected them. And then Pamela broke the spell, with a mischievous smile that lit everything up again.

“So… are you going to let me be your first friend, or would you rather keep killing plants?”

Y/n couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her lips, a sincere and liberating laugh, as if something inside her had broken an invisible chain. After all, it was clear that Pamela wasn’t just another person passing through her life. There was something different about her, something that made the air feel lighter, that made the future seem less uncertain.

“Well, if you can survive the cactus…” Y/n said, leaving the sentence unfinished, but knowing Pamela would understand.

And then, for the first time in a long time, Y/n felt that everything might be okay. That maybe, just maybe, Pamela Isley wasn’t just a roommate, but the first person in a long time with whom she could imagine a less lonely future. She was already caught in that web, and the worst, or perhaps the best part, was that she didn’t care at all.

Bruce Wayne was sitting in the mansion's garden on a gray afternoon that seemed to drag memories along like the wind drags fallen leaves. In his hands, a cup of black coffee, still steaming, its strong and bitter aroma mingling with the scent of damp earth after the rain. In front of him, on a small wrought-iron table, rested a piece of dark chocolate cake topped with melting strawberry ice cream, forming a pink puddle around it. But he found no pleasure in the view. It was more of a bitter symbol of a routine he once believed unbreakable.

In the garden, where the wilted flowers swayed gently, a little girl flitted about with contagious energy, as if the chill of the afternoon did not exist for her. Her laughter, so innocent and pure, filled the air, breaking the sepulchral silence that seemed to reign in that old home for a moment. She wore a pink dress with small white dots, an 80s style that would have been charming in another time but now seemed out of place with the scene. Her patent leather shoes shone as she ran back and forth, chasing her dolls.

In her small hands, she held action figures, one of the Batman her father portrayed and another of the Joker, his eternal rival. The girl, no older than six, organized her battles with adorable seriousness. In a high-pitched, mischievous voice, she brought the characters to life, staging an epic duel between hero and villain.

“You won’t defeat me this time, Batman!” she exclaimed, raising the Joker figure with a malevolent laugh.

“I will stop you! I always do...” she replied with her other hand, giving voice to Batman, but with a childlike touch that contrasted with the darkness of the character.

Bruce watched the scene with a mix of tenderness and pain. He knew she wasn’t really there, that this vision was nothing more than a distant echo of what never was. Y/n, his little Y/n, had vanished months ago. And he… he had never given her the love she deserved, always wrapped in his own shadows, in his endless struggle to protect a city that never rested.

The air felt thick, heavy with nostalgia and regret. The girl continued to play, laughing, talking to her dolls, oblivious to the weight of the years, to the loss. And Bruce, although he knew it was an illusion, couldn’t look away; he couldn’t stop imagining what it would have been like to give her what he never knew how to offer. What it would have been like to see her grow, to laugh more, to run through those gardens with the carefree spirit only childhood allows.

Suddenly, the sound of soft footsteps interrupted the daydream. Alfred appeared at the garden entrance, always elegant, always with that air of discretion and understanding that only he possessed. He approached slowly, placing a hand on Bruce’s shoulder as if he understood the pain that kept him trapped in that scene.

“Mr. Wayne” he said in a low voice, filled with compassion, “it’s time to come back.”

Bruce closed his eyes for a moment, letting Alfred’s words seep into his consciousness. He knew what they meant. He knew that girl, in her 80s dress and her dolls, was nothing but an idealized memory, a distorted reflection of what never was. Because Y/n wasn’t like that. She didn’t like those old dresses; she had always preferred the fashion of the 2000s, with its vibrant colors and comfortable clothes. And she never enjoyed the chocolate cake now sitting in front of him. She liked carrot cake, simple and sweet, but he had never paid attention to those details when he still could.

How did he know those little details about his daughter? Bruce often wondered. It wasn’t because he had learned them by being close, because proximity had been a luxury he never allowed himself. No, those small fragments of her life he had discovered in the album that Alfred kept with an almost reverential discretion. That album was more than just an object; it was a silent refuge where Alfred had archived what the big house, always filled with shadows and echoes of footsteps that never came, had refused to hold.

The day the children learned of the album’s existence marked the beginning of a chaos he still remembered with a mix of exasperation and a contained smile. They had decided, like little conspirators, that treasure belonged to them. A kind of all-out battle had ensued in the mansion, something that over time acquired the quality of family legends.

Bruce, standing in the study, could still see the sparkle in Damian’s eyes, the intensity, the almost playful fury with which he had taken that assault as a personal mission. Damian, with his perpetual impatience, had been the fiercest of all. He vividly remembered how his youngest son had burst into the room wielding two katanas, with the cold precision of a millennia-old warrior, even though his hands were still too small to fully grasp the handles.

“It’s mine!” Damian shouted, with that mix of stubbornness and vulnerability that only the youngest possess, as if he could cut not only the air but the very uncomfortable silence that always floated between them.

“It belongs to all of us, Damian” Bruce had tried to intervene, with that authoritative voice that, curiously, never managed to control his own children as he did with the chaos of the city.

But Damian wasn’t listening. For him, the album was not just an object; it was a relic, a bridge to something he felt but couldn’t name. His sister Y/n, so distant in daily life, was closer in those pages than in any superficial conversation they had ever had. She was his sister, but not enough. He wanted those photos, those notes that Alfred had kept, he wanted to understand what it was about her that slipped away from him daily.

Bruce watched from the threshold, not really intervening. He let the chaos unfold, as if it were necessary. The children fought, but it wasn’t just for the album. They fought for something deeper, a kind of silent reclamation of what they had never been able to have: time, connection, perhaps even love. Alfred, from a corner, merely smiled with that quiet wisdom, knowing that those battles of childish katanas, of shouts and disputes over photos and notes, were actually the way they tried to find each other in a house full of absences.

Bruce sighed, remembering. Alfred had always known more than he did, always understood those invisible things that Bruce, no matter how much he wanted to, could never quite grasp. And so it was that he himself, at the end of it all, also ended up snooping in that album, with a silent curiosity he would never admit. There, in those carefully tended pages, he found his daughter. Or at least, he found the idea of her, the pieces of a life he hadn’t shared but that, somehow, had always been present in those photos, in those little notes that Alfred, more of a father than he was, had kept with such love.

“She won’t come back, Alfred... I lost her... maybe forever... ” Bruce murmured, his voice barely audible, as if admitting it aloud would make her absence more real—“and I… I was never there for her as I should have been.”

The old butler sighed, his tired eyes filled with infinite patience.

“It’s never too late to remember, sir. It’s never too late to honor her memory in the right way.”

Bruce opened his eyes, looking again at the scene, but this time more clearly. The girl had disappeared.

The wind blew gently through the Wayne mansion's garden, carrying away the murmur of the dry leaves. Bruce remained motionless, as if the weight of the years, of the mistakes, had turned him into another statue in that landscape. The aroma of coffee had dissipated, and the cake before him remained untouched. Y/n’s figure still floated in his mind, her laughter like a distant echo that wouldn’t fade but also wouldn’t console him.

Alfred, with the patience only a father at heart could have, stood by his side, his firm hand on Bruce’s shoulder, as if in that gesture he could transmit strength to face the pain that gnawed at him.

“Mr. Wayne” Alfred began, his voice soft but laden with meaning, “the kids have gone looking for Y/n again.”

Bruce closed his eyes, allowing those words to sink into his consciousness. He knew all the Robins and Batgirls had been following leads, searching for answers in the darkest corners of Gotham, but the emptiness he felt remained overwhelming. They had failed so many times… what did another attempt matter? The city, always hungry for its heroes, seemed more a trap than a cause.

“It doesn’t matter anymore, Alfred” Bruce replied, his voice rough, worn down by years of struggle. “None of this will change what happened. Y/n… is gone.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Alfred interjected, this time with a firmer tone, “Y/n is still out there. And as long as there’s a single chance to find her, you cannot allow yourself to give up.”

Silence stretched between them. Bruce’s gaze remained fixed on some point in the garden, lost in thought. But Alfred, with his usual insight, knew he needed more than empty words to awaken him.

“There’s something else,” Alfred added, taking a breath, “a new figure appeared last night during a robbery in the East District. They call her Kerosene. The White Bat. She was seen taking out a group of assailants in seconds.”

Bruce didn’t react. Kerosene. The city had always generated figures willing to fill the void he had left every time he stepped away, every time Gotham lost the light of its vigilante. But this time, he didn’t feel the urgency to learn more. What did it matter? He repeated to himself. Gotham already had its heroes.

“I don’t care” he murmured, his voice empty, as cold as the air surrounding the garden—“Let others deal with Gotham. Kerosene, the Joker, or whoever… the city doesn’t need me anymore.”

Alfred tightened his grip on Bruce’s shoulder, almost like a father refusing to see his son give up. He stepped forward, and this time his voice was lower but more incisive.

“This isn’t about Gotham, sir,” he said with an intensity Bruce hadn’t expected—“It’s about Y/n.”

Bruce lifted his gaze, his eyes finally meeting Alfred’s, as if those words had ignited a spark within him.

“If you don’t want to protect this city, do it for her ” Alfred continued—“Because you will find her, sir. I’m sure of it. And when you do… how would you want her to find you? Destroyed? Defeated? No. You need to be ready, you need to be strong, for her. Wherever she is, Y/n is still waiting for her father.”

Bruce felt the pain in his chest intensify, a constant reminder of his failure, but Alfred was right. Y/n was somewhere out there. Alive or not, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that as long as he didn’t find her, he couldn’t give up.

“The kids have done everything they can to find her,” Alfred said, softening his tone—“They’re still at it. Every day they search for new leads, explore new corners of Gotham… but there’s only one man who can put everything in order. There’s only one father who can bring her back.”

The air tensed between them, and for the first time in a long time, Bruce felt a slight tremor inside. He remembered the moment he decided to become Batman, driven by the guilt and pain of losing his parents. Now, that same guilt, that same pain, called to him again, but this time, it wasn’t for Gotham. It was for Y/n. His daughter.

“Tell me, Alfred, who is this Kerosene?” Bruce murmured, finally reacting to the information Alfred had given him.

“Yes, sir. Her abilities are astonishing, according to reports. Agile, fast… but her true identity remains a mystery. Some say she’s just another vigilante trying to fill the void you left. But the important thing is that she is acting with lethal precision.”

Bruce stood slowly, leaving the cup of coffee on the table, already cold and forgotten. He looked at the empty garden, but this time, with a new determination blooming in his chest.

“If this Kerosene is connected… if there’s any link to Y/n, I will find out,” he said, his voice firmer, closer to the one Alfred had known for so many years—“And if not… then I’ll find her myself.”

Alfred nodded, a mix of relief and satisfaction reflected on his face. He had managed to awaken the man Gotham needed, but more than that, he had awakened the father Y/n deserved.

“ Very well, sir,he replied with a slight smile, always the unwavering servant—“The Batcave is ready for your return.”

Bruce turned toward the mansion, but not before glancing once more at the garden, where Y/n’s figure, so real in his mind, faded like morning mist.

Wherever you are, I will find you.

Richard “Dick” Grayson knocked forcefully on the old apartment door, the echo resonating in the narrow hallway of the building, where dust gathered in the corners like forgotten memories and the lights flickered as if trying to perform one last dance before going out. Beside him, Barbara Gordon, the commissioner's daughter, crossed her arms, staring at the door with an intensity that could have splintered the wood.

Jason Todd, restless to his left, kept his gaze fixed on the doorknob, his body tense, as if each passing second brought him one step closer to breaking through that wooden barrier. Above, on the roof, Red Robin, The Spoiler, and Batgirl waited, shadows in a world that seemed to ignore their pounding hearts, ready to act.

“I don’t know why we always have to deal with the worst specimens of humanity,” Barbara murmured, adjusting her coat as she shot a sidelong glance at Dick, who seemed to have a plan in mind.

“Because we’re lucky,” Jason replied, sarcasm lacing his words, a crooked smile on his lips that didn’t quite fit the situation. “And when I say ‘lucky,’ I mean we’re carrying someone else's karma because we… are screwed.”

Dick knocked on the door again, this time with more force. The echo reverberated through the hallways, a declaration of intent.

“We should break it down. You know it’s not going to open just from a gentle knock,” Jason said, stepping forward, his intention clear and palpable.

“Calm down, Jason. Not all problems are solved with violence,” Barbara retorted, though a part of her knew that idea faded every time they found themselves in a situation like this.

“Sure, as if we have another option. Do you want me to schedule a tea date instead of kicking down the door?” Jason frowned, the tension palpable.

Finally, a sound came from behind the door. Chains, the metallic echo of locks being unlatched with a maddening slowness, as if someone on the other side knew that every second of wait was boiling the blood of the three standing before the door. At last, the door opened just enough to reveal a face: the landlord. A short man with small eyes and a slimy smile that seemed to ooze like dirty oil through his yellowed teeth.

“What do you want?” he asked in a thick voice, looking at Dick with suspicion, but his gaze soon dropped to Barbara, lingering unpleasantly on her figure, and then to Jason, who had already tensed the muscles in his jaw.

“We’re looking for Y/n Wayne L/n,” Dick said, trying to maintain his composure, the heat of anger threatening to overflow. “We know she lives here. And we know you know where she is.”

The man let out a laugh under his breath, a rusty squeak that resonated like a heavy joke.

“Ah, the pretty girl… yeah, yeah. And who are you all, huh?” he asked, his slimy tone sending chills that seemed to crawl over Dick's skin.

“It’s none of your concern. We just want to know where she is,” Barbara said, her voice firm and resolute, although the tension in her body betrayed her impatience.

The landlord tilted his head, like a cat playing with its prey, and smiled with a disturbing mischief.

“Well, if you haven’t found her in five months, maybe you don’t want to know,” he said, letting the words drop like stones in a pond, creating ripples of discomfort.

“I warn you, this isn’t a game,” Jason interjected, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t make me remind you what can happen when a man plays with fire.”

The man shrugged, trying to appear unconcerned, although the glint in his eyes betrayed him.

Jason's hand rested near his belt, right where he kept his gun, and although he hadn’t drawn the weapon yet, the threat was clear.

The landlord noticed but instead of being scared, he wore a repugnant smile, like a predator that had just spotted a wounded prey. His gaze shifted back to Barbara, and then, without the slightest respect, murmured something that made Dick’s fists clench.

“Ah, Y/n... yeah, I remember her. She came around when she had just turned eighteen. Good material, if you catch my drift. She looked innocent, but... those are the most interesting ones, right?” The man's gaze darkened, scanning Barbara again, as if evaluating merchandise.

“Say that again,” Jason growled, drawing his gun in a motion so quick that the landlord barely had time to blink before feeling the cold barrel pressed against his forehead. “And I swear I’ll blow your brains out right here.”

The words hung in the air, sharp, loaded with contempt and a lust that twisted like a snake inside him.

The man let out a cynical chuckle, relishing the moment.

“The last time I saw pretty Y/n was a while back. I don’t know what she’s up to now, but I kept some pictures of her and her friend.” His tone was defiant, almost mocking.

Rage was bubbling in Jason. His fists were clenched, a deadly spark in his eyes.

“What did you say?” His voice trembled between anger and control, like a string about to snap.

The landlord, feeling invincible, continued. “I don’t know if they’re lesbians, but seeing them together was quite the spectacle. Both of them were hot, you know?”

Jason could no longer hold back. The anger erupted like a volcano.

“Shut up!” he shouted, and the sound echoed like a gunshot in the tense silence that had invaded the room.

Before the landlord could react, Jason pulled his gun, aiming with precision.

“I’m going to give you one chance. Tell me where Y/n is. Now.”

The man’s laughter faded, his eyes widening in shock. “Wait, wait, there’s no need to…”

“WHERE?!” Jason's voice thundered, firm and filled with rage, like a storm rumbling in the atmosphere.

The tension became palpable, the air thick with promises of violence.

“Alright, alright!” the landlord stammered, but Jason’s voice turned even colder.

“I’m not going to ask again.”

“She just left for work at night and that’s it…” he started to say, but Jason could no longer hear. The man had photos of Y/n. Compromising, crude, and that simple mention ignited hell in his chest.

In an instant, the sound of an explosion resonated in the hallway, and the man fell to the ground, his silly smile erased by the terror that had overtaken his face. Blood gushed forth in a dark torrent, staining the floor and nearby walls.

Barbara covered her mouth in shock, while Dick stood frozen, stunned.

“Jason!” she exclaimed, but the image of the landlord lying on the ground with his vacant stare was etched in her mind.

Jason holstered the weapon, his breath rapid and uncontrolled. He had crossed a line, and in that moment, he realized there was no turning back. Anger had found a way to break free, but at a terrible cost.

“I won’t let anyone hurt Y/n again,” he murmured, his eyes filled with determination. No one else would stand in his way to find her, no matter the price he had to pay.

The room was saturated with the echo of the gunshot, and the silence grew heavy, almost palpable. Barbara took a deep breath, the anger sparking in her eyes as she looked at Jason, who still seemed dazed by the act he had committed.

“What the hell were you thinking?” she said, her voice contained but sharp as a blade. “That’s why we didn’t bring Damian along, because he would have gone off just the same, but in a much more reckless way.” Her gaze fixed on the corpse, lying in a pool of blood, a scene that could have come from the mind of a disturbed artist.

Jason, with his chest heaving and jaw clenched, simply shrugged.

“I couldn’t just stand by. He knew something, and I wasn’t about to let it slip away.” The fervor in his voice didn’t hide the confusion that was beginning to seep in, like the cold of the night creeping through the windows.

Barbara didn’t respond, but the silence that filled the room grew even denser when the others entered, alarmed by the gunshot. Tim, Stephanie, and Cass arrived, their expressions filled with concern that quickly transformed into indignation.

“What happened here?” Tim asked, his eyes widening at the scene. Blood slid across the floor like a dark river, and the landlord’s body faded beneath the flickering light.

“Are you crazy, Jason?!” Steph exclaimed, disbelief palpable in her voice.

Cass crouched down, her expression grave as she looked at the fallen man. She didn’t need to speak to convey her disapproval; every glance said more than a thousand words.

“It doesn’t matter how we got here,” Dick intervened, his authoritative tone trying to restore order. “We need answers. Let’s investigate.”

With a determined movement, Barbara approached the body, while Jason still breathed irregularly, as if the weight of his actions began to settle on him. Barbara looked around; the apartment was a dusty and sad place, filled with shadows that seemed to whisper secrets.

As the others searched, Tim found a series of photos pinned to the walls, each one showing Y/n and other women from the area, frozen laughter in time, trapped between moments that should have been happy. However, there was something unsettling about the way they were arranged, a disorder that seemed a declaration of possession.

“Look at this,” Tim said, pointing to the images. There was Y/n, always smiling, but next to her was a figure that couldn’t be ignored. The silhouette of Pamela Isley, better known as Poison Ivy, stood beside her, her red hair like a fire that seemed to consume the sadness of the place.

“Pamela…” Cass murmured, her voice almost a whisper. “She’s been in Arkham for three months.”

Barbara moved closer, examining the photos more closely. “This is more complicated than we thought. Ivy has been involved, and that changes everything.”

Jason, still trying to comprehend the chaos he had unleashed, ran a hand through his hair. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll find Y/n. I don’t care what I have to do.”

Barbara looked at him, her expression one of challenge but also understanding. “We can’t do this recklessly. We have to be smart. Silent.”

The group nodded, realizing that the road ahead would be filled with dangers, but also promises of redemption. They were all willing to kill for Y/n, but they had to do it quietly, like shadows slipping through the streets at night.

“Listen, we’re going to find her,” Dick said, his voice resonating like a mantra. “No matter how many doors we have to break down, how many truths we have to drag into the light.”

And so, in the echo of the silence that followed the violence, the five united in a tacit pact, intertwining their destinies in the search for Y/n. Each lost in their thoughts, each remembering that shadows sometimes have the power to conceal not only secrets but also the light that clings to hope.

The shadows stretched as they moved away from the apartment, leaving behind the vestige of a dead man and the echo of trapped laughter. The search had begun, and Y/n’s fate hung in the balance, a thread of light in the darkness that promised to bloom amid the ruins of despair.

The city lights flickered in the distance, like lost stars in the asphalt.

The tears of Y/n fell onto the slippery ground, forming puddles that blended with the blood, a dark ruby staining every part of her thin body, as if sins were being tattooed onto her skin. The humidity of the place smelled of iron and fear, of broken promises and a destiny she had chosen but didn’t quite know how to accept.

“It doesn’t feel good, little one?” said the Doctor, his voice a bitter whisper echoing off the damp walls of the room. He, with his dirty blonde hair falling messily over his forehead, wore a white coat that looked more like a rag than a symbol of authority. A cynical smile spread across his lips, revealing teeth that seemed sharper than the fate he had designed for her. “Bathing in the blood of enemies, isn’t it an exquisite pleasure?”

Y/n, her gaze lost at a point on the floor, nodded slowly, as if each movement cost her an eternity. The blood, warm and sticky, slid between her fingers, a sensory experience that drowned her in contradictions. On one hand, there was a dark delight in the power that image conferred upon her, a power she had learned to wield. But on the other hand, there was an abyss of pain threatening to consume her.

“It’s…” she whispered, barely able to form words. Her voice trembled like a leaf in autumn, indecision etched in her features. Guilt suffocated her, and each tear that fell was a reminder of what she had lost, of what she had left behind.

“What is it?” asked the Doctor, leaning toward her, his eyes lit by a glow that was not exactly compassion, but rather a cruel satisfaction. His gaze seemed to pierce through the layers of her being, scrutinizing the dark corners of her soul. “Is it pleasure you feel, or is it fear?”

Y/n recoiled, feeling her skin burn under his gaze. The Doctor’s words tangled in her mind, forming a knot that seemed impossible to untie. Her voice, almost a cry for help, resonated in the air.

“I don’t know! I don’t know if it’s pleasure or pain.” The words shot out like arrows, but only managed to embed their tips in the empty air, finding no destination. She trembled, caught between repulsion and the desire to free herself from the invisible chains that kept her anchored in that place.

The Doctor let out a cold laugh, as if he were enjoying the spectacle unfolding before him. With a careless gesture, he threw another bucket of blood onto the floor, creating a small puddle that slid toward Y/n.

“That is the beauty of your situation, my dear. You have been chosen to cleanse Gotham of the scum, and along the way, you will discover that pain and pleasure are two sides of the same coin.”

“Chosen?” replied Y/n, her voice shaking with the fierce mix of disbelief and rage. “Chosen for what? To be your puppet?”

The Doctor stepped closer, letting the distance between them fade. His presence was oppressive, like a shadow that swallowed light.

“You are not a puppet, Kerosene” he said, pronouncing her name as if caressing it. “You are the spark that can ignite the revolution. The tears that fall now are the ashes of the old you, and it’s time you embrace what awaits you.”

Y/n felt the air grow dense, as if the Doctor’s words were trying to envelop her, to convince her. But there was a truth in his voice, an echo of what she had longed for deep within her being. Hadn’t she been searching for purpose, a place to belong?

“No… I don’t want to be what you’ve made me.” she said, though her voice sounded more hesitant than determined. It was as if reality slipped around her, like the slippery ground she stood on.

“Of course you do, Y/n.” He smiled, and there was something unsettling in that smile, something that made her feel she was on the brink of a revelation. “Your pain is the echo of the city, and you, little one, can be its savior.”

The Doctor’s words resonated in her mind, and Y/n felt herself teetering on the edge of the abyss, the possibility of becoming Kerosene, the force of vengeance and power. She fought against the idea, but there was a part of her that was beginning to awaken, to open like a flower in the desert.

“So, what do I have to do?” she asked, finally facing the reality that surrounded her. The tears, instead of being a sign of weakness, now seemed a recognition of her new identity.

The Doctor looked at her with a mix of satisfaction and complicity, like a teacher who sees the spark of greatness in his student.

“First, you must accept that the past does not define your future. The blood that surrounds you is only the first step toward freedom. Become what you have always been. Your destiny is to burn, and in doing so, illuminate others.”

Y/n felt the weight of her decision slowly fading away. By accepting her destiny, she had found a new way to free herself, a purpose that shone like fire.

“Then I will do it.” she said, her voice now firm and resonant, as if she were finally embracing the darkness that had always dwelled within her. “I will be Kerosene.”

The Doctor smiled, and in that smile lay a world of possibilities. Together, they could shake the foundations of Gotham.

“That’s right, my dear Kerosene.” He stepped back, allowing his figure to fade into the shadows..“And remember, every decision you make will be a step toward glory or toward downfall. The line is thin, and you are destined to cross it.”

“What about them?” Y/n asked, pointing to the shadows surrounding her, referring to the Waynes who remained silent in their luxurious prison of silence. “Where is Batman?”

The Doctor paused, his gaze turning serious and contemplative.

“Since your appearance, the Waynes have become shadows of what they once were. Batman has vanished, as if fear has locked him in his own game. They don’t want you to know the truth, and I wonder if, deep down, he fears what you are capable of.”

“Fears?” repeated Y/n, incredulity splattering her voice like a rain of dead stars. “Why?”

“Because the truth is that there is no longer space for the good in this city.” The Doctor stepped closer, his tone low but filled with fervor. “Soon you will go after the Court of Owls. We will expose those monsters in the streets, as they deserve, and they will have no one to defend them. Not even their beloved bat.”

A chill ran down Y/n's spine. The idea of stepping out into the night, of facing the villains who had ravaged her city, filled her with a strange power. She remembered Pamela, laughing amidst the shadows, her voice like an echo urging her to fight.

“I will not be their puppet. I do not want to be a pawn in a bigger game.” The words erupted from her with the force of an approaching storm, and the vision of Pamela dancing among the flowers filled her with a sudden sweetness.

“You will not be a pawn, Kerosene.” The Doctor smiled, and in his eyes was an air of admiration. “You are the queen in this game. Your vengeance will not only bring down those villains, but it will also seek the man behind the mask of Batman. We need to end him.”

“End him?” The question hung in the air like a trembling whisper. Her heart stopped for an instant, remembering the nights spent with Batman, the unspoken words, the caresses of an absent father.

“Yes. Because he, like them, has become a legend that needs to fall.”

Y/n felt the darkness looming over her, a shadow whispering promises of power and pain. But there was something more, a spark igniting within her, a fire burning with the strength of a new dawn.

“Then I will do it.” said Y/n, her voice resonating with a clarity that surprised her. “I will expose the Court of Owls and make my father see.”

The Doctor watched Y/n with palpable satisfaction, as if he had finally ignited a spark deep within her being. With a gesture of his hand, he made the invisible shackles that kept her trapped fade away. In that moment, a strange freedom slipped over her skin, a freedom laden with dark responsibility.

“Come, Kerosene.” he said, his voice now a hypnotic chant rising among the shadows. “There is something you need to see.”

He led her through a labyrinth of damp hallways, each step resonating like an echo of past decisions. The walls seemed to whisper forgotten secrets, tales of those who had fallen into the abyss before her. As they advanced, the light of day faded, and the gloom became an accomplice to their thoughts.

Finally, they reached the balcony of the building, a place where time had stopped its march. The Doctor gently pushed Y/n toward the railing, forcing her to look out over the vast expanse of Gotham that stretched before them. The city was a canvas of flickering lights and deep shadows, a portrait of intertwined chaos and order.

“Look, little one.” the Doctor whispered, his voice wrapping around her like a veil of mystery. “This is your city, a monster that feeds on the secrets you hold in your chest. The blood that stains your skin is a symbol of the struggle that lies ahead.”

Y/n leaned over the edge of the balcony, feeling the cold wind caress her bare skin. The city glimmered like a sea of dying stars, each light a story, each shadow a whisper of betrayal. The vision enveloped her, and for a moment, she felt like a spectator of her own destiny.

Her bare skin, still stained with blood, prickled at the chill of Gotham, a freezing breeze sneaking through the cracks of crumbling buildings, as if the city itself reminded her that she was alive, that darkness embraced her with its mantle of forgetfulness and despair. Each small contact of the air made her more aware of her vulnerability, and at the same time, of the power that blossomed from within her. It was a reminder that, amidst chaos, she was the spark of a new flame.

The puddles of blood that had stained her skin, silent witnesses to her transformation, shone like a dark ruby under the dim light of the moon. In that moment, each drop was an echo of past decisions, a symbol of the life she had left behind. And yet, in her mind, the Doctor's words echoed: “You are the spark that can ignite the revolution.” The irony of her state wrapped her in a sweet and bitter confusion; deep down, her nakedness felt like a release.

The city stretched before her, a vast ocean of twinkling lights and lurking shadows. Gotham, in its complexity, seemed to breathe, a living being pulsing with stories of pain and longing. The streetlights flickered as if about to go out, and Y/n felt that each flicker was a whisper calling her, a reminder that she was destined to be part of something much larger than herself.

As she gazed at the horizon, her mind filled with images: the faces of those she had lost, those she had loved, and those she had to confront. Her heart wrestled between the desire for vengeance and the longing for redemption.

“What do you see?” asked the Doctor, his eyes shining with an unsettling intensity.

“I see…” Y/n began, but the words slipped away like sand through her fingers. The city was a labyrinth of emotions, a stage where pain and pleasure intertwined in a macabre dance. It was a reflection of her own internal struggle, her desire for vengeance and her yearning for redemption.

“I see a sea of shadows, a stage where illusions collapse like houses of cards.” she finally replied, her voice echoing. “Each light, a hope; each shadow, a whisper of unhappiness.”

“Perfect.” The Doctor smiled, his face illuminated by an almost fraternal satisfaction. “Gotham is a mirror, and you are the light that can break the darkness. You must be able to see beyond what shines.”

The Doctor’s words resonated in her mind, tearing through the veil of confusion that enveloped her. In that instant, Y/n understood that every tear shed had fed the city, that every drop of blood on her hands was an echo of what she had lost. And yet, vengeance offered her a new purpose, a path into the unknown.

“The city cries for change, for a fire to purify it” she whispered, her voice gaining strength in the night breeze. “And I… I am that fire.”

“That’s right, dear.” The Doctor nodded, a mix of pride and malice in his expression. “The fire that will purify Gotham and, in its wake, consume everything that stands in your way.”

Y/n felt the air fill with electricity, a palpable current connecting her to the city, to its pain and desire. Deep within her, something began to change. She was no longer just a puppet; she was no longer merely the shadow of her past. She was Kerosene, the spark that would ignite the flame of change.

“But, Doctor, what about those who love the darkness?” she asked, her voice now an echo of what she had learned. “What if they cling to their shadow?”

The Doctor stepped closer to her, his penetrating gaze filled with complicity.

“Darkness is a possessive lover, but there is always a price to pay. The truth is that they cannot hold onto it forever. And when the fire burns, only those ready to be reborn will be saved.”

Y/n felt a mixture of anguish and determination. The city before her became a symbol of her internal struggle, a stage where light and shadow intertwined in an eternal game. Every street, every building, every corner whispered her name in a song of warning and challenge.

“And when the fire consumes everything in its path, will there be anything left of me?” she asked, her voice trembling with the fragility of a leaf in the wind.

The Doctor smiled, a smile that seemed to mock the questions still dancing in her mind.

“Perhaps, dear Kerosene, you will find yourself in the act of burning. Or maybe, you will fade into the ash. That is the enigma of transformation: in the fire, death is merely the prelude to a new beginning.”

As she gazed at the city, Y/n felt her identity fragment and fuse, in an endless cycle of creation and destruction. The image of Gotham before her became a metaphor for the human soul, a reflection of the struggles everyone faced in the darkness. The city, with its chaos and its heartbreaking beauty, enveloped her like a hug.

With one last look at the flickering lights and lurking shadows, Y/n stepped back, a firm decision rising within her.

“There’s no turning back now” she murmured, her voice an echo of her new reality. “I will be the fire that illuminates this eternal night.”

The Doctor, with a gesture of approval, retreated into the shadows, leaving her alone in her revelation. As the city spread before her, a mantle of mystery and power, Y/n knew that the true journey was just beginning. The line between fire and ash was thin, and in her chest burned the certainty that by crossing it, nothing would ever be the same.

“So be it, Kerosene” she said to herself as the wind enveloped her in secret whispers. “Let the fire speak in your name and let the night receive your lament.”

And looking at Gotham, she understood that, in the end, her destiny was not merely to be a spectator, but an unstoppable force, a storm that would unleash chaos. And so, with her heart beating to the rhythm of the city, she prepared to embrace her truth, her fire.

☆

A/N — Here is the long-awaited third part of this series. Thank you for all the support and love you have given me. I decided to make this part longer (at the cost of not being able to include the last image :( ) so that you can enjoy it more.

I was reading your comments where you were asking if Y/n and the Doctor would have a romance (which horrifies me a bit :d, but it gave me an idea) or if he performed a lobotomy on her. Well, that will be answered in the next part or in a headcanon, whatever you ask me.

By the way, in the tag list, there are some users I couldn't add, sorry about that 😔. I really appreciate your understanding and patience. Your enthusiasm keeps me motivated to keep creating and sharing these stories. I hope you find this installment engaging and that it brings you the excitement and emotions you’ve come to expect from the series. Enjoy!

Don't hesitate to ask me anything if you want.

take a bath!

Tag list! ◇ — @amber-content @toast-on-dandelioms @feral-childs-word @sweetconnoisseurgardener @victoria1676 @toasted-cat18 @nosyrobin @beeaskewwrites @yandere-enthusiast @telltaletoad @dhanyasri @vanessa-boo @m3vl0vesu @jellypotato66 @midnightgrimoire @cherryxxxxyoongi @imnotdumbimstupif @plsfckmedxddy @h0neysiba @mybones537 @erikasurfer @sheepintherain @pix-stuff @yan-rai @uniquecutie-puffs @arlandvery @theblonde777 @alishii

@maicenitas @ti-girl1226 @vanilliona @chickenwings435 @thedramabrotherss @bat1212 @imnotdumbimstupif @somebodyrandom-613 @aelxr @jsprien213 @sheepintherain @lovebug-apple @zenychwan @starsdotalk @holylonelyponyeatingmacaron @misdollface @clementinesyummy @bunbunboysworld @lunaluz432 @kiarst @meowmeeps @adeptusxia0 @mettatons-number-1fan @fairygardenprincesss @nervousalpacalady @mottysith

Inspiration: @acid-ixx with his Again & Again series, @gotham-daydreams ' work, @i-cant-sing's work and @klemen-tine's work, be sure to check them out!