#lines of credit

[catsmenow]

The Fastest Way to Repair Your Credit

Check your credit report for errors The first step to repairing your credit is to check your credit report for errors. Errors can occur, and they can negatively impact your credit score. You're entitled to a free credit report every year from each of the three credit bureaus. Review each report for inaccuracies and dispute any errors you find.

Pay off your credit card balances Credit card balances can significantly impact your credit score, particularly if you're using a large percentage of your available credit. Paying off your balances or reducing your credit utilization rate can improve your score quickly.

Become an authorized user If you have a family member or friend with good credit, ask them to add you as an authorized user on their credit card. Being an authorized user can help you establish a credit history and improve your score.

Use a credit repair service Credit repair services can help you identify errors on your credit report, dispute inaccuracies, and negotiate with creditors to remove negative information from your report. However, be cautious of scams and do your research before choosing a credit repair service.

Make payments on time Paying your bills on time is crucial to improving your credit score. Late payments can have a significant negative impact on your credit, so make sure you pay all of your bills on time.

[heritagefinancialcreditunion]

Discover lines of credit at Heritage Financial Credit Union. Understand how they work, the advantages, and how to apply for flexible credit options for personal or business needs. With competitive rates and personalized service, Heritage FCU helps you access the financial support you need when you need it. Learn more about lines of credit and take the first step toward financial flexibility today!

[alcazzarcapital]

Alcazzar Capital

Alcazzar Capital is a one-stop-shop for residential real estate financing with its full suite of REI products including; Ground-Up Construction, Multifamily Bridge, Fix & Flip, and 30-year Rental Loans.

Address: One World Trade Center 285 Fulton street, Suite 8500, New York, NY 10007, USA Phone: 646-820-7003 Website: http://www.alcazzarcapital.com

[chloesimaginationthings]

What do yall think the FNAF Faztalker is for,,

(Original post @/Dawko on Twitter)

[arkashas]

Hannibal and Will + rejecting potential murder buddies

and the reason why:

[ficbandit]

hahahhahahahaARE YOU KIDDING ME (cc: @art_by_crazytom on X)

[notllorstel]

like who hasn’t thought about killing their party member?

ever heard of a prank applebees

where was the debate Brennan?

_😔_

[mother-lee]

alone

@burtoo

[mintystea]

hey yeah sorry i cant go out tonight im rewatching leverage (2008-12) and leverage: redemption (2021-). yeah its time for me to indulge in the fantasy of karmic justice through heists and found family, unveiling greed and corruption of large corporations, and death to capitalism again. sorry about that.

[cowboylikeyouu]

in germany, chris evan‘s roles (including steve) are mostly voiced by dennis schmidt-foß, but as johnny storm he‘s voiced by benedikt weber, and it made for a really cool moment during dp&w. bc wade’s super convinced that he‘s steve, but all the german people who watch the german dub of marvel movies religiously are already like huh??? bc that‘s NOT steve rogers‘ voice, and then when it’s revealed that he‘s actually johnny, wade‘s like "ah yeah, i should’ve known from the voice". and idk, it’s not hilarious or anything, but it just made me soo happy that they used wade‘s 4th wall breaks differently in different languages. just felt the need to share this

[wardensantoineandevka]

2.104 // 2.105 // 3.102

the cast never learns why you don't three-way Boulder, Parchment, Shears

[banana-dawg]

₊˚♡The Stanley Parable: Userboxes, Blinkies, and Stamps

All f2u, no credit needed // requests open ♡₊˚

[aquacomet]

The 2024 DCA Reveal-versary magma collab has been wrapped up and here are the final results! ☀️🎉🎂🌙

A super big thank you to all the amazing artists that attended the collab to celebrate! We've broken way over 2023's record of attendees with a overall number of 59+ artists! It really is a lively celestial party in there, they're probably going to need more cake!

An additional thank you to all who stopped by, shared the event, expressed their interest and to the Daycare Friend Pick Up mods for also allowing this in their discord server!

(Due to being over the tumblr tag limit for the full credit list, a reblog will be added onto this with the second section of credits!)

⭐Here's the list of all the artists that participated!⭐

@aquacomet - @crystalmagpie447 - @pure-plum

@thatmooncake - @flinxypie - @eggcromancer

@nexerist - @crabsnpersimmons - @zamjd

@darlingdeer21 - @agent-darkfest - @piowasthere

@nighternex - @gyxtar0luvs - @sulfadimethoxine

@pluck-heartstrings - @starshinenoa - @enduu115

@tvboxi - @tinkpumpkin - @marshmallowcat666

@luckyyyduckyyy - @m-mints - @sunshinehare

@ping-ski - @lil-artist-blog-fandoms-ocs - @sipnoot

@synthrobeat - @galaxysugarr - @alynwrench

(I took care to note down everyone who participated and added their credits, but if I missed someone let me know what you made and I'll add you to the list!)

[alcazzarcapital]

Alcazzar Capital

Alcazzar Capital is a one-stop-shop for residential real estate financing with its full suite of REI products including; Ground-Up Construction, Multifamily Bridge, Fix & Flip, and 30-year Rental Loans.

Address: One World Trade Center 285 Fulton street, Suite 8500, New York, NY 10007, USA Phone: 646-820-7003 Website: http://www.alcazzarcapital.com

[ravens-bird]

Midnight Warmth – Sylus.

Pairing: Sylus x F!Reader

Tags: Established relationship, starts with Sylus' pov but changes to reader pov, fluff, based on Midnight Warmth Tender Moment, slightly suggestive towards the end, kissing, hickeys/marking. Let me know if I missed any!

wc: 2k.

Note: This has been rotating in my mind for ages 😭 Not really Beta'd 🤚

IT WAS A FRIDAY NIGHT.

The week had stretched on endlessly, time dragging its feet as if conspiring against him, and keeping you from him.

Normally, Sylus had little interest in the passage of time.

To him, it had simply passed then – without notice. Quietly.

His world had been perfect before. Perfectly monotonous? Perhaps. But perfect nonetheless.

Until you crashed into his life like chaotic, explosive sunshine – like a splash of colour onto his otherwise monochrome canvas.

Now? He was perfectly content. Happy. 

With you in his life now, the way time slipped between his fingers felt significant. Alarming.

He had to fight against his draconic instinct to keep you hidden away, like the most precious treasure in his hoard. He managed — barely.

How dare you barge into his life like this? Stealing his peace of mind, his heart, his very soul?

No one dared to steal from him.

(“He's lying,” Luke would whisper conspiratorially to you. “He got his bike stolen once.”

What? 

“And a money tree!” Keiran added helpfully. 

What??

“Caw!” Mephisto agreed.) 

… That said, Friday Nights were sacred to him. 

(He wouldn't be caught dead admitting it, of course. Perhaps he can be coaxed into it, though. Maybe.)

Because Friday Nights often meant you time. 

And that was why, despite the dull movie playing in the background, the warmth of your body wrapped around him combined with the peacefulness of the moment was so precious to him.  

The room was bathed in the warm glow of the ceiling lights, while a comforting scent of cinnamon lingered in the air. With a fuzzy throw blanket wrapped around your shoulders, you nestled against him as you rested your head against his shoulder.

Your legs draped lazily over his lap, while his arm curled securely around you, holding you close. His other rested on your knee, the cool metal of his rings make your skin tingle.

In a haze of drowsiness, you don’t bother paying attention to the TV, instead fixated on the touch of his fingers on your leg as he traced slow, absent-minded circles over your skin.

The sound of his heartbeat – though comforting, chased all remnants of sleep. You sigh, shifting slightly to find a more comfortable position.

Sylus’ fingers flex against your back in response, and a quiet hum rumbles from his chest.

“You’re still awake?” His voice was soft, lazy, laced with affection as he adjusted his hold on you, chuckling when you fidget again. “You’re fussy, kitten.”

The smooth timbre of his voice sends a delicious shiver down your spine, and you nestle closer to him, fingers curling in his shirt.

God, he smelled so good.

“Why did you move closer?” His smirk was evident in his tone, and you didn’t need to look at his face to know he was watching you with that teasing glint in his crimson eyes.

He knew you got clingy when sleepy, and yet he liked to point it out as if it were something new each time.

With a huff, you lightly dig your elbow into his side as he sighs, relenting.

“Okay, okay. You’re spoiled rotten, that’s for sure,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the crown of your head as his arms tightened around you further.

Silence settles again, save for the faint hum of voices and music from the movie playing in the background like white-noise, and you shut your eyes breathing him in. You give in to the drowsiness, letting yourself drift off.

But sleep remained elusive.

The steady thumping of his heart – though usually comforting – sounded like drums in your head until sleep abandoned you. After a few moments of futile attempts, you cracked your eyes open, giving up on sleep.

Tilting your head slightly, your gaze traced the faint crease between his brows, the ghost of a smile on his lips, and the dips and sharp curves of his face. Silver hair falls over his forehead, and you reach up to push it away when he grabs your wrist.

He raises an eyebrow questioningly, and you blurt out the first thing that comes to your mind.

“I have some ideas for what we could do tomorrow,” you say, pulling your wrist from his grasp. He lets you, and you immediately reach up again, to ruffle his hair – messing it up further.

He captures your wrist again, bringing it down to place it over his heart as his eyes flicker down to your lips for a moment, taking in your smile, before looking away.

“I’ll leave the planning to you.” He says after a beat. “I’ll see what you’re planning first, and then decide whether I’ll come.”

You roll your eyes. Liar. You knew he was going to come no matter what, and yet he liked to pretend otherwise.

Still, he remained quiet as you began listing the things you had been wanting to do with him – some were little plans that had lingered in your mind for some time now, and others just some crazy ideas that you know he would grumble about.

His fingers trail up your shin as he listens, fingers grazing the curve of your knee, the slope of your thighs and back, and the warmth of his hands seeping through your clothes chases away the light chill.

“That’s a lot,” he chuckles softly once you finish, mirth dancing in his eyes. “Can you really do all of that in one day?”

You scoff, and pinch his side lightly in response.

His smirk widens. “You just want to spend time with me,” he says more than asks, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. “You’re a sly one, kitten.”

Before you could fire back a retort, he leans down, brushing his lips against your ear.

“But if you get tired and start complaining halfway through…” his breath fans over your ear, heating the skin. “I won’t accept that.”

Your cheeks burn at the insinuation, and you bite your lip as you turned your head, pulling the blanket tighter around you and over your face in a feeble attempt to escape his knowing gaze.

Your thoughts had taken a decidedly… southward turn, and you knew that he had done it on purpose. That sly crow.

He lets out a quiet laugh, shoulders shaking slightly as he tugs on the fuzzy fabric covering you.

“Don’t hide under the blanket, kitten. I remember everything you said.” His voice was warm honey, and you knew that he could have you anywhere – anyway – he wanted you.

And that you would let him.

But he was also being insufferably smug right now. So, you just grumble, keeping your face turned away. “I’m not hiding. I’m just going to sleep.”

“But your eyes are still open. Can you fall asleep like that?”

You stubbornly refuse to respond, a small pout on your lips as you flop your head back against his shoulder. He exhales in mock exasperation, shifting you both so he could rub a large hand down your back – as if you were a tantrum throwing child whom he had to console.

Your lips thin, but you continue to ignore him.

But when his hand slips higher, fingers threading through your hair in slow, soothing strokes, you sigh, melting into his touch.

After a few more moments, you forget all about sulking.

“Can’t you sleep with me?” you mutter against his shirt.

“Do you even know what time it is? For me the day has just begun.”

Despite his words, he doesn’t budge. Eventually, he concedes. “Since you can’t sleep, I’ll tell you a story. Might be a little boring, by the way.”

You listen quietly as he launches into a tale that he claims he heard from an old man. His voice wove a quiet lullaby, painting vivid imagery of an old, towering castle and a young girl who started living in it. His words flow easily, and you try not to interrupt.

Eventually, the conversation shifts towards nocturnal creatures, until eventually – Sylus’s uncanny resemblance to vampires.

“Pale skin, red eyes, very active during the night…” You trail off, grinning mischievously.

“I do sound like one, when you put it that way.” He shakes his head a little. “What else?”

You sit up now, letting the blanket fall away as you squinted at him.

“Sharp teeth, tendency to bite,” you list, as you poke lightly at the corner of his mouth, before adding, “Bullying people.”

He seems amused. “How does a vampire bully someone exactly?” 

You roll your eyes about to retort when he suddenly shifts, pulling you into his lap so you can straddle him, bringing his mouth down to your neck.

“Like this?” He speaks against your throat as your heart flips, hands immediately bracing themselves against the back of the leather couch, though there is no need. Sylus has you firmly in his grasp, and it seems… he won’t be letting go of you anytime soon.

He sniffs your neck lightly, the tip of his nose brushing against sensitive skin as you tense, squirming at the ticklish sensation. “Your scent... I want it.” His voice is low and deep, and his touch is so warm that your mind goes blank of all thoughts except ones of him.

“I’ll just nibble this…” he nips at your throat, and the sharp twinge is instantly met with a warm swipe of his tongue, and your breath hitches. “Is that it?” He asks, still holding you in place. You squirm again, moving your arms to his shoulders, your fingers pressing into his shirt.

He bites again, and you push one hand up to thread your fingers through his silky hair. This time, it stings a lot more – though it has your stomach fluttering.

He leans up to peck your lips softly, before he speaks again. “Answer me.” A small chuckle. “Was I too rough?” Another peck. “Is this what they call bullying?” 

You grip his hair as he dips his head again, kissing the spot he’d bitten. “I didn’t do it on purpose. You’re the one who said I look like a vampire.” 

The space between you crackled with heat as you shifted closer, pressing against him deliberately, feeling the solid warmth of him against you.

“You weren’t rough enough,” you tease.

His crimson eyes darkened as his hands gripped your hips. “Keep doing that,” he warns, “and you’ll be getting punished.”

Your fingers curl around his collar, tugging. “And what would that be?”

His gaze flickers down to the reddening mark he had left on your neck. “Perhaps I’ll just have to mark you,” he muses, thumb brushing over the bruised skin, “like the girl in the movie.”

Before you could fire back, he pressed a quick kiss to your lips. Too quick. Not enough.

You frown frustrated, when his fingers cup your jaw, palm pressing lightly against your throat as he stops you from kissing him.

“Your intention wasn’t to help me sleep, was it?”

“It was,” he replies, though there is no sincerity in his voice. “But now I regret it.” His fingers trailed lower, featherlight. “You’re not sleepy at all. I need to try something else.”

You barely had a moment to react before he effortlessly shifts you off his lap, getting up and scooping you into his arms. You gasp as you wrap your arms around his shoulders.

“We won’t wake up in time to pick strawberries in the morning, will we?” you muse, arching a brow as he carries you to the bedroom.

He smiles, and the tips of his canines gleam like fangs. “The strawberries aren’t ripe yet, he murmurs, setting you down on the bed before he climbs in, the mattress dipping under his weight. “And,” he adds, voice dark with promises, “I still have to show you the rest of the story.”

And show you, he did.

The last thing you hear is, “You’ll get everything you ever ask for. Just be patient.”

masterlist.

[confessedlyfannish]

Writing Prompt #12

Bruce is reading the paper when the pour of Tim's coffee goes abruptly quiet. It would be hard to pinpoint why this is disturbing if it wasn't for the way the soft, tinny sound the vent system in the manor makes cuts out for the first time since being updated in the 90s. The pour, Bruce realizes, has not slowed to a trickle before stopping. It has simply stopped. And there is no overeager clack of a the mug against the marble counter or the uncouth first slurp (nor muttered apology at Alfred's scolding look) immediately following the end of the pour.

Bruce fights the instinct to use all of his senses to investigate, and instead keeps his eyes on the byline of the article detailing the latest set of microearthquakes to hit the midwest in the last week. Microearthquakes aren't an unusual occurrence and aren't noticeable by human standards, which is why this article is regulated to page seven, but from several hundred a day worldwide to several hundred a day solely in the East North Central States, seismologists are baffled.

Bruce had been considering sending Superman to investigate under the guise of a Daily Planet article requested by Bruce Wayne (Wayne Industries does have an offshoot factory in the area) when everything had stopped twenty seconds ago. That is what he assumes has happened (having not moved a muscle to confirm) in the amount of time he assumes has passed. His million dollar Rolex does not quite audibly tick but in the absolute silence it should be heard, which confirms the silence to be exactly that—absolute.

While Bruce can hold his breath with the best of the Olympian swimmers, he has never accounted for a need to remain without blinking without being able to move one's eyes. Rotating the eyeballs will maintain lubrication such that one could go without blinking for up to ten minutes. But staring at the byline fixedly, he estimates another twenty seconds before tears start to form.

These are the thoughts Bruce distracts himself with, because he doesn't dare consider how Tim and Alfred haven't made a (living) sound in the past forty-five seconds. About Damian, packing his bag upstairs for school after a morning walk with Titus that was "just pushing it, Master Damian".

There is a knife to his right, if memory serves (it does). In the next five seconds—

"Your wards and guardian are fine, Mr. Wayne," the deepest voice Bruce has ever heard intones. For a dizzying moment, it is hard to pinpoint the location of the voice, for it comes from everywhere—like the chiming of a clocktower whilst inside the tower, so overpowering he is cocooned in its volume.

But it is not spoken loudly, just calmly, and when he puts the paper down, folds it, and looks to his right, a blue man sits in Dick's chair.

He wears a three piece suit made entirely of hues of violet, tie included. He has a black brooch in the shape of a cogwheel pinned to his chest pocket, a simple chain clipped to his lapel. Black leather gloves delicately thumb Bruce's watch (no longer on his wrist, somewhere between second 45 and 46 it has stopped being on his wrist), admiring it.

"You'll forgive me," the man says with surety. "Clocks are rather my thing, and this is an impressive piece." He turns it over and reveals the 'M. Brando' roughly scratched into the silver back. He frowns.

"What a shame," he says, placing it face side up on the table.

"Most would consider that the watch's most valuable characteristic." Bruce says, voice steady, hands neatly folded before him. Two inches from the knife. To his left, there is an open doorway to the kitchen. If he turns his head, he might be able to get a glance of Tim or Alfred.

He doesn't look away from the man.

"It is the arrogance of man," the man says, raising red eyes (sclera and all) to Bruce, "to think they can make their mark on time."

"...Is that supposed to be considered so literally?" Bruce asks, with a light smile he does not mean.

The man smiles lightly back, eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks to be in his mid thirties, clean-shaven. His skin is a dull blue, his hair a shock of white, and a jagged scar runs through one eye and curving down the side of his cheek, an even darker, rawer shade of blue-purple.

The man turns the watch back over and taps at the engraving. "Let me ask you this," he says. "When we deface a work of art, does it become part of the art? Does it add to its intrinsic meaning?"

Bruce forces his shoulders to shrug. "It's arbitrary," he says. "A teenager inscribes his name on the wall of an Ancient Egyptian temple and his parents are forced to publicly apologize. But runic inscriptions are found on the Hagia Sophia that equate to an errant Viking guard having inscribed 'Halfdan was here' and we consider it an artifact of a time in which the Byzantine Empire had established an alliance with the Norse and converted vikings to Christianity."

"The vikings were as errant as the teenager," the man says, "in my experience." He leans back in his chair. "I suppose you could say the difference is time. When time passes, we start to think of things as artistic, or historical. We find the beauty in even the rubble, or at least we find necessity in the destruction..."

He offers Bruce the watch. After a moment, Bruce takes it.

"The problem, Mr. Wayne, is that time does not pass for me. I see it all as it was, as it is, as it ever will be, at all times. There is no refuge from the horror or comfort in that one day..." he closes his hand, the leather squeaking. And then his face smooths out, the brief severity gone. He regards Bruce calmly.

"You can look left, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks left. Framed by the doorway, Tim looks like a photograph caught in time. A stream of coffee escapes the spout of the stainless steel pot he prefers over the Breville in the name of expediency, frozen as it makes its way to the thermos proclaiming BITCH I MIGHTWING. Tim regards his task with a face of mindless concentration, mouth slack, lashes in dark relief against his pale skin as he looks down at the mug. Behind him, Bruce can see Alfred's hand outstretched towards the refrigerator handle, equally and terrifyingly still.

"My name is Clockwork," the man says. "I have other names, ones you undoubtedly know, but this one will be bestowed upon me from the mouth of a child I cherish, and so I favor it above all else. I am the Keeper of Time."

"What do you want from me?" Bruce asks, shedding Wayne for Batman in the time it takes to meet Clockwork's eyes. The man acknowledges the change with a greeting nod.

"In a few days time, you will send Superman to the Midwest to investigate the unusual seismic activity. By then, it will be too late, the activity will be gone. They will have already muzzled him."

"Him."

"There is a boy with the power to rule the realm I come from. Your government has been watching him. The day he turned 18, they took him from his family and hid him away. I want you to retrieve him. I want you to do it today."

"Why me?"

"His parents do not have the resources you do, both as Batman and Bruce Wayne. You will dismantle the organization that is keen on keeping him imprisoned, and you will offer him a scholarship to the local University. You and yours will keep him safe within Gotham until he is able to take his place as my King."

This is a lot of information to take in, even for Bruce. The idea that there could be a boy powerful enough to rule over this (god, his mind whispers) entity and that somehow, he has slipped under all of their radars is as frustrating as it is overwhelming. But although Clockwork has seemed willing to converse, he doesn't know how many more questions he will get.

"You have the power to stop time," he decides on, "why don't you rescue him? Would he not be better suited with you and your people?"

"Within every monarchy, there is a court," Clockwork. "Mine will be unhappy with the choice I have made," he looks at Bruce's watch, head cocked. "In different worlds, they call you the Dark Knight. This will be your chance to serve before a True King."

Bruce bristles. "I bow to no one."

"You'll all serve him, one day," Clockwork says, patiently. "He is the ruler of realms where all souls go, new and old. When you finally take refuge, he will be your sanctuary." He frowns. "But your government rejects the idea of gods. All they know is he is other. Not human. Not meta. A weapon."

"A weapon you want me to bring to my city."

"I believe you call one of your weapons 'Clark', do you not?" Clockwork asks idly. "But you misunderstand me. They seek to weaponize him. He is not restrained for your safety, but for their gain."

"And if I don't take him?" Bruce asks, because a) Clockwork has implied he will be at the very least impeded, at worst destroyed over this, and b) he never did quite learn not to poke the bear. "You won't be around if I decide he's better off with the government."

"You will," Clockwork says, with the same certainty he's wielded this entire conversation. "Not because he is a child, though he is, nor because you are good, though you are, nor even because it is better power be close at hand than afar.

"I have told you my court will be unhappy with me. In truth, there are others who also defend the King. Together we will destroy the access to our world not long after this conversation. The court will be unable to touch him, but neither will we as we face the repercussions for our actions. I am telling you this, because in a timeline where I do not, you think I will be there to protect him. And so when he is in danger, even subconsciously, you choose to save him last, or not at all. And that is the wrong choice.

"So cement it in your head, Bruce Wayne," the man says, "You will go to him because I tell you to. And you will keep him safe until he is ready to return to us. He will find no safety net in me. So you will make the right choice, no matter the cost."

"Or, when our worlds connect again, and they will," his voice now echoes in triplicate with the voices of the many, the young, the old, Tim, Bruce's mother, Barry Allen, Bruce's own voice, "I will not be the only one who comes for you."

"Now," he says, producing a Wayne Industries branded BIC pen. "I will tell you the location the boy is being kept, and then I would like my medallion back, please. In that order."

Bruce glances down and sees a golden talisman, attached to a black ribbon that is draped haphazardly around the neck of his bathrobe, so light (too light, he still should have—) he has not felt its weight until this moment.

Bruce flips the paper over, takes the pen, and jots down the coordinates the being rattles off over the face of a senator. By his calculation, they do correspond with a location in the midwest.

"You will find him on B6. Take a left down the hallway and he will be in the third room down, the one with a reinforced steel door. Take Mr. Kent and Mr. Grayson with you, and when you leave take the staircase at the end of the hallway, not the elevator."

The man gets up, dusts off his impeccably clean pants, and offers him a hand to shake.

"We will not meet again for some time, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks at the creature, stands, and shakes his hand. It feels like nothing. The Keeper of Time sighs, although nothing has been said.

"Ask your question, Mr. Wayne."

"I have more than one."

"You do," Clockwork says. "But I have heard them all, and so they are one. Please ask, or I will not be inclined to answer it."

"What does this boy mean for the future, that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for him?"

There is a pause.

"So that is the one," Clockwork says, after a time. "Yes. I see. I should resolve this, I suppose."

"Resolve what?"

"It is not his future I mean to protect," the man says. "It is his present."

"You want to keep him safe now..." Bruce says, but he's not sure what the being is trying to say.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork repeats, stops. His expression turns solemn, red eyes widening. In their reflection, Bruce can see something. A rush of movement too quick to make heads or tails of, like playing fast forward on a videotape. "Superman reports no signs of unusual seismic activity. With nothing further to look into, you let it go in favor of other investigative pursuits. You do not find him, as you are not meant to. He stays there. His family, his friends, they cannot find him. His captors tell him they have moved on. He does not believe them, until he does. He stays there. He stays there until he is strong enough to save himself."

Clockwork speaks stiffly, rattling off the chain of events as if reading a Justice League debrief. "He is King. He will always be King. He is strong, and good, and compassionate, and he is great for my people because yours have betrayed his trust beyond repair. He throws himself into being the best to ever Be, because there is nothing Left for him otherwise. We love him. We love him. We love him. My King. Forevermore."

The red film in his eyes stall out, and Bruce is forced to look away from how bright the image is, barely making out a silhouette before they dull back to their regular red.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork says slowly, "To this future."

"Because of what it means in the present," Bruce finishes for him. "They're not just imprisoning him, are they."

"They will have already muzzled him."

Clockworks is right in front of him faster than he can process, fist gripping the medallion at his neck so tight he now feels the ribbon digging into his skin.

"Unlike you, Mr. Wayne," and for the first time, the god is angry, and the image of it will haunt Bruce for the rest of his life, "I do not believe in building a better future on the back of a broken child."

"Find him," the deity orders, and yanks the necklace so hard the ribbon rips—

Clack!

"sluuuuurp!"

"Master Timothy, honestly!"

"Sorry Alfred!"