#she’s a mute assassin who’s trademark

[quillsareswords]

could u do a damian wayne x reader where the reader is a titan and damian and her are friends and where the reader has a really crooked smile and crooked teeth and damian just adores it but the reader hates it because everyone makes jokes about it even though they’re just kidding she’s just really insecure like maybe a fellow titan makes a joke about it and damian defends her

Thank you for requesting! This is written by someone who two snagle teeth that sit more like tusks that I despise, so I get where we're coming from here 😔

Prompt List • Masterlist (in bio)

He's always liked your smile. Yeah, it's lopsided and looks more like something torn straight from an evil swamp witch in a storybook, but he adores it.

He loves it because it's yours. Trademark yours. Nobody in the world has a smile exactly like yours. He loves it because it means you're happy. It isn't something torn from a billboard and slapped across someone's face—it's your happiness, in all its realistic and lifelike glory. Nothing any orthodontist can recreate.

He remembers when you first joined the Titans. Barely two weeks after he did, himself. You'd smiled broadly back then, laughing openly at his quips and jokes too dark for you to repeat.

After so long spent around rich people with perfect teeth and catered smiles, your crooked grin stole his heart right out from under him. He hadn't noticed at first, when his heart toppled into your hands: he was too busy admiring your mouth and wondering what'd it could feel like against his.

It took a long time for him to come to terms with his feelings for you. Years, actually. But even while he was trying desperately to suppress an emotional attachment that ran much deeper that just your smile, he couldn't deny himself the pleasure of seeing it. He continued hissing comments in the middle of meetings and pinpointing the things you thought were funniest, cutes, sweetest. Anything to earn a smile.

Unfortunately, he suspects not everybody felt the same glimmering warmth that came with your smile. At the years dragged on, your grin shrank. It was gradual at first, fewer and farther between, until one day they stopped altogether. No more teeth peeking out between the break in your lips. You still smiled plenty, at all his jokes and barbed comebacks, but never showing any teeth. Close-lipped smiles only. When you laughed, it was with a hand or wrist over your mouth. No teeth.

It was late, the night he asked about it. You were sixteen, and he'd given up on shoving away emotions. He still refused to admit anything to you, but he'd allow himself to call you a close friend—one of his two best friends (not that he'd ever said that to your face). It was in San Francisco, and you were laying beside him on the roof of Titan Tower.

You were chuckling still chuckling about watching Beat Boy spurt fruit punch put of his nose when Raven kissed his cheek on a dare (your dare, simply because you wanted to see how hard you could get her to blush).

He was staring up at what stars could be seen through the city's light pollution. He was smiling and listening, but he was only really paying you half his attention. He was thinking about the pictures you'd been in throughout the night, the close-lipped smiles, the hands covering your laughter. That one time you covered your mouth again because you couldn't help grinning at him from across the room as he deadpanned, listening to Dick drawl on about celebrating the successful mission you'd all completed the night before.

He let's your chuckling die down before he rolls his face toward you. "Can I ask you something?"

You look his way, an uncovered, tooth-flashing smile still settled across your mouth, though it starts to fade at the seriousness in his tone.

You still smile for him. Just him.

"Why do you cover your mouth when you laugh?"

Your smile becomes lopsided. You aren't totally sure how to react, and it's written across your face, despite trying to play it off. "What?"

"When you laugh, you cover your mouth with your hand," he reiterates. "And you don't smile around people like you used to."

Your smile droops again. You turn away, to face the stars again. "I dunno. I just do."

He knows there's something else, but he's learned to recognize when you don't want to talk about something. He wants to press you, he wants to figure out what the problem is so he can fix it. Hedyfix all your problems, if he could.

He shoves the thought away before it advances on as to why. "How many Titans can pass out in one room?"

You recognize the tone he uses specifically for a joke. You're already starting to smile. "I dunno, how many?"

"Let's go back inside and find out."

It's a good week afterward that he finally gets his answers. You're sandwiched between him and Raven, focused more on the movie than Beast Boy trying to get Cyborg to spit out his mouth full of water. Some bet they'd made, you've gathered. Why they'd chosen a horror movie is beyond you.

Damian's got more out of you that Garfield has gotten out of his target so far, and it's already halfway through the movie. Raven even giggled at the few she overheard.

It's all fun and games, until Garfield looks up at the screen, and barks out a laugh from the other side of Raven. "Look, it's (Y/N)!"

He's referring to the clown on the screen. The original Pennywise. With rotten, crooked teeth and a chilling grin that probably made kids cry.

Damian rolls his eyes and scoffs. He turns toward you to snicker something about Gar projecting his own issues, but stops cold when he sees the look on your face.

Your eyes are still on the movie, but they're unfocused and your face is twisted with hurt. You try to wipe the expression away when you realize he's looking.

Oh. That's the problem. He should have guessed. Suppose he was too caught up in his own opinion to really consider what any ignorant rodent might think or say about you.

Cyborg groans something, completely unintelligible with a mouthful of water, but it sounds like it was supposed to be scolding. Raven doesn't seem to have heard it.

There are tears in your eyes when you absently scratch the side of your arm and stand up. "I'll be back," you brush off with a forced half smile that's meant to look playful, but comes off pained. You make for the kitchen too quickly to be subtle.

Damian watches you go, but his attention hones on Garfield the moment your out of sight. The green boy is still staring questioningly at Cy's glare when Damian whacks him with the remote.

He swears, reaching up to rub where the hard plastic made contact, turning to tell Damian off and to make him pick up the batteries that came flying out, but Damian's on him first.

"Looks like (L/N), does it?" he growls, jerking his head toward the paused imagine. "Are you always this idiotic or just an asshole?"

Damian watches the confusion turn to pained understanding as he looks between Pennywise and a very angry ex-assassin.

Cyborg spits his water back into the cup on the table. "Dude, come on. That was such a dick thing to say..."

Damian doesn't sit around for the rest. He shoulders the kitchen door open with an empty glass in hand.

You're staring into the yellow light of the microwave, listening to popcorn kernels pop, with your back to him and tour hands braced against the counter.

He hesitates by the door, steps forward suddenly slow and unsure. He glances the sink, remembers the glass, and makes for the faucet. He doesn't want to make it terribly obvious that he knows you're upset, for fear of upsetting you further.

"You shouldn't stand in front of the microwave like that," he grumbles, twisting on the cold water. "Radiation, and all that."

You don't reply. Forty five seconds left on the timer.

He sighs. He pulls his glass from the sink and switches off the water. He leaves the half-full dish on the counter.

You feel his hand on your shoulder without hearing him move. Your head jerks toward him reflexively, but you're quick to turn back to the microwave.

Not quick enough to hide unshed tears and red rimmed eyes.

His hand slides down to your shoulder blade. "Hey. Look at me."

"I'm fine," you mumble, shaking your head dismissively. "I'll be back in a second, just wanted–"

"(Y/N)." His voice is soft in your ears, softer still on an emotional wound. "Look at me."

You release a deep breath, steeling yourself as best you can. His hand is warm on your back, and all you can think about is how badly you want to be held by him. You drop one hand from the counter and turn.

His hand glides with your movement, resting now on your arm. "It was a stupid joke. He's going to apologize. He didn't mean it."

You consider faking another smile and brushing it all off, but you can't seem to bring yourself to do it. Instead, you take a new interest in his shoes. "He wasn't wrong."

"He was." There's enough conviction in his voice to draw your eyes back to his. "He's said enough dumb things to convince mute man glad to be, but that was possibly one of the stupidest."

You chuckle, despite yourself. "That's an awful joke to make," you scold. Still the corners of your lips are tilting upward.

"I know," he admits. "But I'll tell an even worse one if it means you'll smile for me."

Your face falls slack. Eyes wide, surprised.

His free hand finds your other arm. "You have the happiest smile I've ever seen, (Y/N). You don't have to look like a orthodontic aligners commercial to have the prettiest smile in any room. And if anyone tells you otherwise, I'll knock their incisors out."

You've got tears in your eyes again, but your wobbling bottom lip is still tilling toward the ceiling. You sniffle once, shuffling forward just enough to wrap he your arms around him.

His arms come up around you like they've been waiting his whole life for you. And the way you fit against him so perfectly, he wonders if they have.

You bury your face in his shoulder. "Thank you," you mumble against his shirt. "Nobody's ever said that about my smile before."

"No one?" He sounds genuinely surprised, and your body gently shakes hon his arms and you chuckle again.

You pull away slowly, but you can't convince yourself to step away just yet. He doesn't seem to mind, arms still so secure around you. "No. But I shouldn't be surprised," you smile again, wider, "considering you're the only person I've never felt so self conscious around."

He smiles right back. "Good. I couldn't stand it if you tried to hide from me like you do everyone else."

Your teeth disappear again, but it's not behind tight lips and self conscious dread. It's something soft, made solely for him. "No. I don't think I could hide it from you if I tried."

He doesn't remember who moved first. If it was your hands on his cheeks or his arms around your waist, or who leaned and who met them halfway. All he does remember is how many times he imagined tour lips against his, and how many times he'd guessed it all right.

[acourtofsnakes]

Of Crowns and Armour, part 2| Bodyguard! Mando x Royal! Reader

Summary: Will Mando be true to his word about sneaking you out? Or will everything go wrong at the last moment

Warnings: Swearing, drinking, brief mentions of death, subtle references to sex (not explicit), not completely canon

Pairings: Bodyguard! Mando x Royal! Reader

Word Count: 4.3k+ 

Square filed: Bodyguard AU/ Taken Captive (hinting and leading into it ahead of next chapter) AN: @mandalorianbingo 

This is the outfit for the bar and here is Din’s car! And yes, that IS Billy Russo’s car from Punisher

Bingo Masterlist

Of Crowns and Armour: Part 1| Part 2

Permanent taglist: @greeneyedblondie44 @mamacitapascal​

The following day, you both had a meeting with your Grandma about public appearances and such, and then the Mandalorian escorted you back to your room, and promptly disappeared. 

You didn’t see him for the rest of the day.  

He wasn’t present at dinner and you couldn’t find him anywhere. 

By the time 8 o’clock rolled around, you had decided to believe he’d changed his mind about getting you to the bar. 

Still, maybe you should just sneak out. Everyone was expecting you and like Hell were you going to let them down. 

Besides, you weren’t afraid of the Mandalorian, or his threats. Your grandparents had already said the worst things they could have done, so what else did you have to lose? Short of locking you in a tower, they couldn’t do much else. 

And so, that’s why you were sat at your dressing table, finishing off the last of your makeup when there was a knock on the door. “Darling?”

Your grandmother. Shit. 

Hurriedly, you rose from your dressing table, looking for your robe, anything to cover your outfit. If she saw you, you’d be thrown in that metaphorical tower quicker than expected. 

“The Mandalorian said you weren’t very well, that you’d taken ill after dinner. I just wanted to see if you needed anything.” 

That froze you. 

The Mandalorian had lied to your grandmother? The Queen… on his first day?

He had lied. To cover you so you could go out with your friends. 

Just what kind of game was he playing? Was this an attempt to get you to like him? Did he just... not care? Or was this all some big elaborate trick designed to see if you would finally listen to your grandparents. 

Before the conspiracies could suck you too deep, you realised you should probably answer her. 

You worked to make your voice sound muted, tired, “Yes, he’s right… I was out for a walk in the garden and took a turn. I almost fainted.” You shrugged helplessly at the print of a forest hung on the wall, not knowing what else to think of. 

“Fainted? Oh, darling, do you need me to call for the nurse? I can have her here straight away to check you-“

“No! No, that’s okay… I think… I think I just need some rest.” You bit your lip, praying that would be enough and then you threw in a very believable yawn. 

You heard your grandma hesitate, “Okay… But if you aren’t any better by the morning, I’ll call for the nurse. Sleep well, darling.”

“Thank you… I will.” You knew she remained unconvinced, but her footsteps retreated from the door, leaving you bewildered still. 

Why on Earth would he lie on his first day? 

Shaking your head, you finished off getting ready, wondering if you should put on your heels or trainers – would you be going there like a normal person… or sneaking out of the palace gardens? 

Just when you were about to reach for the trainers, there was another knock, freezing you in place. 

“Princess?” Your bodyguard’s deep baritone rumbled through the wooden door. 

You sighed in relief, instead grabbing the heels and padding barefoot to the door, which you pulled open, “Hey.” 

Mando stood there, dressed in a similar dark suit to yesterday, same boots and same gloves. 

And the same helmet. 

You really needed to ask him about that.  

It was still facing you, and the Mandalorian was… silent. 

You raised an eyebrow, cocking your head, “Uh, can I help you?” You waved a hand in front his visor, and a tingle passed over your skin, almost as if… as if someone had raked an eye down you. 

The Mandalorian’s gloved hands flexed, “Your outfit…” His voice… was it a little huskier than usual? 

You looked down at your outfit, a pair of slim black jeans and a sheer mesh top embroidered with flowers. “Is there something wrong with it?” It wasn’t over the top, or even inappropriate. Sure, it bared off your belly and the very top of your waist, but it was tasteful. 

Mando’s helmet glinted with the light as he shook his head, “No, no, it’s…” He trailed off, clearing his throat and then he shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers, “Ready to go?” 

Strange. 

You nodded, raising your heels, “One second.” As you stooped down to put them on, you couldn’t help but ask, “Can I ask why you lied to the Queen on the first day of your job?” 

You heard, rather than saw him shrug, “You asked me to find a way to get you to see your friends. So I did.”

Not a good enough explanation. 

You cast a glance up through your eyelashes as you secured the stap of one heel round your ankle, “But you’re my personal protection officer. The whole point is keeping me in and doing what my grandma asks you to do.” 

Mando tilted his head down to look at you, the movement oddly…. Attractive, “No, my job is to keep you safe. And your grandma asked me to also keep you cared for. And if finding a way to get you to see your friends safely where I can watch you every single second, is keeping you cared for… then I’m not breaking the rules. I would rather know where you are than encourage you to sneak off.” 

You contemplated that as you strapped up the other ankle, “Hmm.” Rising to your feet, you shut your bedroom door, “You’re an odd one, aren’t you?” 

It felt like Mando may have flashed you a grin under the helmet, but instead, he just offered you his arm, “Likewise, princess.” 

He led you out of the palace, avoiding the butlers and guards, and took you out the way you snuck out yourself. A long-forgotten door behind a willow tree in the garden. 

Of course he knew. 

But that didn’t matter because…

On the street outside, was parked an absolutely gorgeous sleek black car, sitting pretty and beautiful in the dusky light. 

The soft squeak of joy that escaped your lips was inevitable, “You drive a Wraith?!” You slipped your arm free of his, hurrying over to examine every inch of the car. 

“You like cars?” The Mandalorian couldn’t hide his surprise, watching you move around his vehicle and carefully touch the gloss paintwork. 

You peered over the bonnet at him, raising an eyebrow, “Surprised?” Turning your attention back to the car, you nodded, “Always. I used to go to car shows with my dad all the time…” You looked at the car again, thinking back to those times. 

Mando cocked his head slightly, a move that you were starting to recognise as a sort of trademark for him, but he didn’t push what you said “It’s not my everyday car. This is for work.” He walked to the passenger door, opening it for you and standing behind is as he watched you almost reluctantly make your way to his side. 

“It’s beautiful…” As you walked round, you paused as you noticed the number plate. You frowned at the letters and numbers for a second, before realising what they spelt, “Razor Crest? What’s that?” 

He merely shrugged, motioning for you to get in, not giving anything away.

Another thing to add to the list. 

Still, you settled into the car, watching him come around to the driver’s side. 

He moved with easy grace, a confident walk that was both balanced and silent. All of his movements were graceful, actually. Like he was moving to some inner tune only he could hear. Each sweep of his arm, shift of his body seemed perfectly choreographed, even with the helmet that you knew would block his peripheral. 

“You’re staring.” He closed his door, turning the engine on and it purred to life, earning a sigh of delight from yourself. 

“You move like you’re trained in dance. Or battle.” You mimicked his pondering head tilt as you watched him put on his belt. 

How could he even drive in that thing? Surely it was illegal.

The Mandalorian let out a soft huff that might have been a laugh and lifted his hand to the wheel, “That might be the first compliment you’ve given me since I started.” 

Your reply came late, because immediately, you had zeroed in what had just been revealed by his movement. 

The angle of his hands on the wheel had caused the sleeve of his suit jacket to rise up, exposing a strip of tanned, olive skin before it flowed into his leather glove. 

It sent a lick of heat through you, making you aware of the small space, the smell of is cologne, and the darkness around you. 

You just… couldn’t stop staring. 

Sure, you’d only known him a few hours, but… that strip of skin was almost like he was naked. It was smooth, the tendons of his inner wrist jutting out in a way that almost made your mouth water, before you realised exactly what you were doing. 

Quickly, you scrambled for a response, “Well, it hasn’t even been a day. Give it time.” It was an almost herculean effort to tear your eyes away from his skin. 

God’s above, get a grip. You’re not some repressed Victorian catching a glimpse of a lady’s ankle.

~~

~~~~

The night was shaping up to be really quite lovely. 

Before going to the bar, the Mandalorian had parked in the next street over and introduced you to the team he had handpicked for the night. 

No palace guards of course, since this was all strictly hush-hush. 

His team was small, consisting of two women – one who was broader built and wore a few braids in the side of her dark hair whom Mando introduced as Cara and the other slender and built almost like an assassin from the books you loved to read. She was called Fennec. They both seemed lovely, and respectful. 

There had been another man, wearing a similar helmet to Mando’s, who simply called himself ‘Fett’ in a gravelly voice. 

The final member of his team was a tall, older looking man, with rich skin and an even richer personality. He was open and bold, very friendly and didn’t stop complimenting you, and introduced himself as Greef. 

They had also informed you that your codename was Nova. Which you had to admit, did thrill you. Just a bit. 

You had a codename.

Mando and his team had watched you go in, staying a few steps behind in the line before nodding to the bouncer at the door and heading in themselves. He’d taken up a position in a shadowy alcove, and… you actually didn’t see much of him for the rest of the night. 

He stayed pretty well concealed, even when he was out in the open. Even with that helmet on. 

His team had too. The only time you noticed any of them, was when you really tried hard to look. 

Maybe… maybe it wouldn’t be that bad if they had to stay. At least these guys knew how to keep the distance and not hover over you like some kind of helicopter. It allowed you to feel… normal. 

Finn’s performance had been amazing as usual, and you’d all gushed as much when he’d returned to the table with a round of shots. 

Casting a glance round for them out of curiosity, you met the gaze of the woman near the stage, her chin length red hair flashing green for a moment as a laser light passed over it. 

You’d noticed her quite a lot tonight, starting from almost as soon as you walked over to your usual table to meet the gang. 

She’d been standing near a potted fir tree and looked dead at you as you approached. 

You put it down to someone who recognised you as the princess – it wasn’t uncommon. People had a habit of staring at someone well-known. 

Turing your attention back to your friends, you re-joined the conversation.

“So, grandma really won’t let up with the PPO thing then?” Finn sipped his beer, crossing one leg over the other and he looked at you. 

Groaning, you shook your head, “Nope. Not at all.” You had just given them all a quick rundown of what had happened yesterday – Poe already knowing of course. “She says this is it now. The Mandalorian is here to stay.” You sighed, swirling your cocktail around its glass. 

Rey let out a thoughtful hum, “My step-dad told me about something a little while ago… He said back when he was an agent, there were a group of people who were like… major under-cover Special Ops. Sort of like bounty hunters, I guess. They were trained to take out any threat before it even happened, with no trace or evidence” 

Poe snorted, “So, you’re saying her PPO is an assassin?” He laughed, looking at you, “Careful you don’t piss him off, he might slit your throat in the dead of night.” 

Rey threw an olive from her drink at him, “No, you asshole. They’re not assassins. They were sent out on some of the most dangerous missions. Not a lot of people knew about them, they were like ghosts. Luke said he knew some, and the stories he would tell were… horrific. They got caught up in some really brutal things. Lots of people hated them, and there was this big scandal between the Mandalorian’s and this other group. They released hundreds of secure files, revealing the identities of the Mandalorian operatives. A whole bunch of them were killed and so were their families. That’s why they keep the helmets, even now. So no one knows who they are… so they can protect their families back home.” 

Your drink turned a little sour in your mouth as Rey finished speaking. You had called him a circus freak, laughed at his helmet… what if he was one of those operatives? What if he had been… tortured… watched his family killed? 

A cold sweat licked down your spine, bringing with it the memories of blood, of that awful, awful night you lost your parents. 

Quickly downing the rest of your cocktail, you stood up, “I’m just gonna run to the bathroom, don’t start the next round of shots without me.” You pointed at Finn, who had a tendency to be an eager beaver when it came to shots. 

“Want me to come with you?” Rey looked up from her drink, tilting her head curiously, her eyes showing concern. 

You laughed, brushing it off and scooping up your bag, “Rey, this isn’t Hutt’s.”

Hutt’s was one of the more… interesting bars you and your group often frequented. 

It was more on the side of what your grandmother would call, ‘unsavoury.’ But as long as you didn’t cause too much trouble for the guards, it was a fun night out. It also came with the guarantee of no-one looking too closely at your ID and realising who you were – of course, you had a fake ID. Not fake for the age… just the last name.

Poe laughed, shooting you a grin, “Oh, honey, you know how to have a good time at Hutt’s.” He dropped you a wink, referring to the night in question that had gotten you into that final point of trouble. 

The night of the body shots and table dancing. There had been more, but thankfully, your grandma didn’t know that. 

You raised your eyebrows, wearing a matching grin to Poe’s, “And so do you, if I recall correctly.” Amongst you all, Poe was known as… not exactly a player, but he did have a certain way with the ladies – and the occasional man. 

Finn laughed, clapping, “Ooooh, she’s right! Do you remember – “ 

Before you got sucked into a game of reliving your messiest nights, you slipped away to the bathroom. 

Just before you reached the door, you noticed the red-headed lady standing near a large potted plant, watching you again. 

Weird. Maybe you should go and see if she knows you. 

You shrugged, pushing open the door and heading inside. 

~~

~~~

God, Mando hated parties. 

Well, you couldn’t exactly call this a party. 

This was… actually kind of better than most of what he’d been stationed in previously. 

This place, Tano’s, was rather inviting, with rich décor and open spaces. There were lush plants everywhere, softening the sleek lines of the furniture.  The warm lighting was reminiscent of a sunset, providing a lovely ambience. It helped that he knew the lady who had once owned it, before passing it on to a friend. 

The bar was wide, a big sort of U shape with lots of seats. There were multiple raised seating areas, and a sunken area that faced the big stage where the princess’ friend has sung a little while ago. He was actually pretty good. 

But everything else… the clustered groups of people, the changing music, the flashing lights… 

He had never come to care for it. 

Give him open space and gentle quiet any day of the week. 

Too much noise and movement brought him back to that place. 

Reminded him of the things that had been done. 

Maybe he should go out for a breath of air. 

He almost laughed aloud at that thought. Like he would take off the helmet here. 

Too many people to see him, too many phones and cameras which might capture his face and release it to the world – to his enemies. 

God, he was on edge tonight. 

Of course, it had everything to do with the surroundings and nothing to do with the grins and flirting that the princess had exchanged with her dark headed friend. 

Or the way they had danced earlier. 

Or the way he casually slipped his arm round her shoulders as they watched Finn perform. 

He was aware that Dameron was a close friend of the princess’ but… something had flickered inside him as he’d watched. 

But that was to do with the surroundings. 

Suddenly, Fennec Shand was at his side, “Is Nova with you?” She leant against the bar casually, head tilted up like they were just having a normal, easy conversation. 

Mando straightened instantly, turning his head to her and he tried to keep his voice steady, “What? No. She was going to the bathroom. I can’t exactly go in there can I. You were going in with her.” 

“I watched her go in, but I thought you had someone in there? So… where is she?” Fennec was reaching for her comm’s earpiece, listening to the volley of updates from everyone stationed around the room  

Mando looked sideways at Fennec, his eyes almost burning holes through the visor of his helmet, “What do you mean ‘where is she?’ You were supposed to be tailing her into the bathroom.”

Fennec stared at him, shaking her head, “No, you told me to watch the door and wait for her, so it didn’t attract attention.” She scanned the room, searching the crowds of people for any sight of the Princess. 

Mando growled, his hand coming up to the top of his helmet, like he wanted to rake his gloved fingers through his hair, “I didn’t… Fuck! It doesn’t matter. We need to find her. Go.”

He practically flew across the room on a storm cloud, eyes focused on the group of friends. 

The clock began, your safety at the top and the hands od danger getting read to mark away seconds of your life.

The other girl, Rey, looked up when she saw Mando approach, “Oh! Hey, are you-“

Mando cut her off, not to be rude, but because that clock was already beginning to tick, “Have you seen her? Has she come back from the bathroom?” His voice was tight, slipping out through gritted teeth and the helmet made it sound rougher than he intended. 

Rey blinked a few times, a small frown appearing between her eyes and she looked around, realising, “I… No. She hasn’t. We thought she’d gone to find you.” Her eyes were confused, at the urgency. 

Mando stifled a hiss of annoyance, “No. I haven’t seen her come out.” 

Finn looked at him next, laughing a little, “Relax, man. It’s not unusual that she slips off at some point in the night. We’re always losing her.” He shared a laugh with Rey, who nodded affectionately. 

Did they not realise what was happening here? How were they being so… so blasé about this?

Finn was still talking, “She shows up eventually, usually with some wild story that puts us all to shame.” He grinned, a grin that said exactly what kind of story you came back with and Mando realised it wasn’t that they didn’t care, it was that they were used to her running off. 

But this feeling… the pricking in the back of his neck… 

This wasn’t just some romp in the night with a stranger. 

It was more than this. 

He knew it was. 

Some wild part of Mando snapped, and he grabbed Finn by the front of his leather jacket, hauling him up out of the chair in one fluid mood, “This is not a fucking joke.” His voice was a rough snarl, that beast poised and snapping its teeth, “Your friend is missing, and you’re sitting there laughing about it and thinking she’s run off for a quick fuck with a stranger? You really think so little of her?” Mando’s free hand twitched, a cloud of fury surging over him and almost choking him. 

“Hey!! Hey, let’s not start fighting with ourselves, here.” Poe had jumped up, and was facing Mando, tapping his arm, “Relax, okay? I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for this. Finn never once said she sleeps around, or even implied that. She just… really lets it all go some nights, which you can’t blame her for. She wouldn’t have run off for no reason, so just… relax.” He raised his eyebrows, his voice calm, trying to diffuse the situation. 

Mando blinked behind his helmet, the haze clearing from his vision as he saw Finn’s wide eyes, the faint tracery of concern and a little fear in his expression. 

Horror overtook the fear, wiping it out and Mando let Finn go quickly, soothing his jacket and he raised his hands, “I’m sorry. Just… Text her. Please.” He stumbled back one ungraceful step, and then turned, almost lurching with the uncharacteristic, unsteady gait as he walked away, feeling her friend’s eyes on the back of his polished head. 

The urge he had to throttle Finn almost terrified him and he realised with a shock that in merely fifteen hours, he had become that protective of the princess.

But that was his job. 

And this… this wouldn’t be the same as last time. 

He pressed a button on his helmet which activated the comms system, “I need eyes on Nova. Now. She was last seen heading to the bathroom. Fennec is checking there, making sure she didn’t get out. 

Fett, I want you on the terrace.” He moved through the crowd, trying his hardest not to shove people out of the way, “Cara, Greef, cover both doors. No one in and no one out until we find her.” 

~

The clock continued ticking down, each second signing away another portion of her life. 

The princess had just… vanished. 

I will tear down this whole building. 

Mando raked his eyes over every single face he came across, and that wild, untamed part of him wanted to scream at everyone, threaten them until they gave up where she’d gone. 

The minutes ticked by, each one feeling like an hour. 

I will tear down the whole city. 

How could he have been so stupid? He had his best team, his most trusted people in the room tonight. Not the palace guards or security, his handpicked agents from his highest team. 

And they had still managed to lose her. 

~The sounds of screams filled the room, echoing over and over along with the unspoken truth that would haunt him until the day he died. 

He had failed.~

The Mandalorian began to make his way through the crowd to the bathroom. 

Maybe Fennec would tell him she was in there, or even that she had slipped out of the windows like an alley cat and snuck away into the night. 

Yeah, that’s probably what happened. Maybe she had… maybe she had gone to meet someone. Didn’t want babysitters trailing after her. 

The Queen had told him that she’d be a handful, that he would have to always have one eye on the surroundings and one eye on her. 

~He’d been too late. 

Too late to realise, too late to get moving. 

Too late to save them.~ 

She’d escaped, that’s all. 

The feeling in his gut told him otherwise. 

He met Fennec as she came out of the bathroom, “No one in there. None of the windows were busted either, they’re too small to let anyone out. She didn’t escape.” 

Fuck.

Trying not to think too hard about the cool sweat beginning to prickle his skin, he turned, giving the room one last sweep. 

Dameron and the others were clustered at their table, looking at their phones and shaking their heads, concern on their faces. 

They hadn’t heard from her. 

It was true then. The sinking feeling in his bones, in his heart… it was right. 

Mando reached to activate his comms, a coloured spotlight from the stage bouncing over the bar. 

If he hadn’t been so alert, he never would have seen it. 

A flash of light, like metal reflecting. 

Mando walked across the floor, slipping around a laughing couple and reaching the bar, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling in anticipation – and dread. 

There, lying on top of a discarded beer mat, was a small, metal object. 

Mando scooped it up, holding it up in his gloved palm so he could see it through the visor. A tiny little thing, smaller than a keychain…

But it felt like he was holding a live grenade. 

The object was shaped a little like the letter V, but the top sections were flared out, sort of like an arrow. 

To anyone, it would mean nothing. 

To a certain few, they would be able to notice that it looked similar to the Mandalorian’s own visor. 

But, to a select handful of people… They would know this symbol. Know which woman is belonged to.

Which was why Mando felt the world slip out from under his booted feet, the noise of the bar turning into the sound of screaming, a child’s screams, his child, begging and pleading. The lights reflecting off the wall turned into flames and the burst of a gun, flashing across his vision. He saw blood, saw the bodies littering the floor. Felt his own failure and sick terror turn his blood to ice. 

It was happening again.

She hadn’t slipped away. 

She’d been taken. 

By Bo-Katan. 

Previous| Next

[violetsmoak]

no safety or surprise [2/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18035168/chapters/42616919

( See First Chapter for full Disclaimers & Warnings)

Summary: A haunting broadcast reveals the Joker’s final act and sets off a chain of events that will destroy the world. Terry finds himself collaborating once more with the estranged members of Bruce’s former team. As the end nears, however, he and the other Bats are faced with hard choices about survival—and forgiveness.

Rating: T (may change depending on the amount of graphic/details I decide on)

________________________________________________________________

chapter two: laughter is the best medicine

Neo-Gotham, Friday, June 13 2042 9:10 AM

GRAYSON

The laughter hasn’t stopped.

Even as the television whites out, it continues to vibrate through him. Pain slashes across Dick’s hand, hot coffee, and blood from the crushed ug in his hand. The pieces fall to lie, forgotten, on the counter and floor.

Dimly, he shakes the injured appendage, not judging it worth immediate treatment, and creeps closer to the windows of his apartment. The laughter continues to get louder, echoing up from the streets, bouncing off the glass and bricks of the skyscrapers, and mixing with the sound of explosions and people screaming.

From his vantage point, he watches cars veer off-course and masses of pedestrians on the street altering their everyday routes to suddenly teem in every other direction. They crowd together in a frenzy of indescribable movement; there are explosions and more screams, but somehow, it’s all muted by the persistent presence of the laughter, which isn’t just inside anymore.

Whirling around, Dick recoils as Black appears in the hallway, completely nude. She lurches forward, the movement a parody of her usual slinking gait, but Dick’s attention is on her face. It’s pulled into a grin that causes obvious pain, judging by the tears dripping trails of smoky mascara down her cheeks. Her pupils are wide and sightless, and the disturbing giggles rasp like they are being torn from her throat.

“Well, this isn’t good,” he mutters, edging away from the window and automatically looking for a spot in his apartment that has the most maneuvering space.

The minute he moves, Black lunges forward, splitting herself into nine cackling doppelgangers that consume the remaining space of his apartment.

________________________________________________________________

DRAKE

9:15 AM

Tim rocks back and forth, stomach clenched with dread and nausea that threatens to send bile spilling up his throat.

‘Hush little baby, don’t say a word,

Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.’

He stumbles from the kitchen, needing air, needing to escape—

His laptop lies on the floor, a mass of smoking screen and wire, while outside the television is blaring again.

Except no one’s talking.

It’s just the laughter; the blue, humanoid shape has morphed, the identity filter warbled and stretched over a grin that isn’t human.

‘And if that mockingbird don’t sing,

Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring.’

His knees buckle, hands clapped to his ears to drown out the echoing memory of Harley Quinn’s mocking singsong. He’s already folding forward in a reflexive fetal position, waiting for the crackle of electricity or the shock of cold water in his face.

He needs to get out, he needs distance, needs a shield—

What the hell do you think you’re doing, Replacement?

Tim startles, hearing a sneer in his mind just as loud—louder than—the other voice. He can almost imagine him standing in front of him—the ancient Robin suit torn and bloody, morphing into the Kevlar armor, red helmet beneath his arm.

The image of white-streaked hair and challenging smirk is the bastion against the monsters in his head.

Tim has never questioned why his mind’s defenses against the pull of insanity took the form of Jason Todd. It makes a certain, lopsided amount of sense—they were both victims of the Joker, both ruined by him,

The Robin who died, and the Robin that went insane.

To this day, Tim couldn’t say which was which.

Are you seriously going to let him get to you again ? The fucker’s dead.

“No,” Tim says out loud, taking a trembling breath and forcing himself to stand straight. He has to keep his head, has to get his wife to safety, has to figure out how all this happened—

“Arlie,” he remembers, though it comes out more like a croak. “Arlie, we have to—”

As he turns, he catches a flash of movement in his periphery, and his long-buried reflexes kick in, allowing him to narrowly dodge the butchers' knife being lobbed at his head. It shatters a red vase of flowers in the living room.

His wife stumbles toward him from the kitchen—when did she come downstairs? —her face twisted into a replica of the one that has haunted Tim’s dreams for decades.

________________________________________________________________

GORDON

9: 15 AM

It’s not just her work computer, but the screen of her cell and tablet as well.

Every screen that she can see—each one she can hear from beyond the thin walls of her office—has been commandeered by the Joker’s likeness.

The video might have paralyzed others with inactivity, but Barbara immediately throws herself into action. Puzzling this out means ignoring that horrible voice, not getting sucked down into a morass of memory and pain.

“Williams! Fillmore! You’d better be ready to trace this thing!” she snaps over the intercom and starts typing commands into her computer, trying to wrest back control of it from whatever has taken over her system.

She might not have been Oracle for decades now, but it’s like riding a bike.

“And get a quad out on the street, now! I don’t want chaos in the streets!”

Especially not after the last Joker-related attack.

She regains control of her system halfway through the video and has started tracking IP addresses even as the clown’s hair-raising cackle and tinny music fade away. On another screen, she pulls up every file that exists on the Joker, his pretenders, the gangs, known snitches—

She will not allow this city to fall into chaos because of a damn video.

Except, maybe she won’t have time to worry about the chaos outside, because it hits her suddenly that the laughing hasn’t stopped. Only now, it’s coming from right outside her office and not from her devices.

Narrowing her eyes, Barbara has her service weapon in hand and the other hovering over her belt where she secretly keeps a Batarang (just in case). She’s barely n her feet when the door to her office opens and there’s one of her lieutenants, shoulders shaking and teeth bared in a pained grin.

She can’t fight the momentary sliver of terror that ripples up her back—

Gunshot. Spilled tea. Falling, falling back. Glass table shattering. Dad crying out—pain. So much pain.

—before returning to herself.

The man in front of her now, his eyes are vacant but there’s enough intelligence remaining that he’s able to raise his own gun at her and disengage the safety.

“Davis,” she says slowly, a warning and a plea despite knowing it’s futile at this point. She doesn’t want to have to shoot him. He has a wife and three kids. They attended his commendation ceremony, the youngest daughter wants to be a cop— “Davis, put the gun dow—!”

BANG!

________________________________________________________________

WAYNE

9:15 AM

There will always be a part of Bruce Wayne that freezes to the core when he hears that voice.

Instantaneous reactions have always been a trademark of Batman, drilled into him by years of training at the hands of assassins and thieves alike. But when it comes to the Joker, there is always that fraction of a second that gives way to hesitation—something born of fear or disbelief, he doesn’t know—before he throws himself into action. Before his brain registers the immediacy of a threat.

Maybe that’s why the maniac got away. Maybe that half-second was all he needed to dictate the entire course of their encounters; his defeats included. The clown always had the same ability to predict several moves ahead, more so than Bruce; sometimes he wondered if the Joker wasn’t a little bit precognitive.

That won’t happen now—that shouldn’t happen now—because the Joker is dead.

Batman buried him.

He destroyed the chip linking him to Tim, he ensured that no one would ever hear that high-pitched, pitiless cackle ever again.

And yet, here it is, filling the underground caverns and startling the roosted bats into a shrieking frenzy as the video feed goes blank.

Bruce starts toward the computer, half-a-dozen plans of action coming together in his head, to trace and deal with whatever this threat is—whoever this pretender is. Before he can reach the command station, however, his field of vision goes brown.

Hundreds of the tiny, flying creatures surround him, screaming; their tiny claws slicing the exposed skin of his hands and face.

He stumbles, hiding his eyes in the crook of his elbow, while his hand digs into his pocket; it’s difficult with the tiny creatures clinging to him, clinging to wrist and fingers and sinking their teeth into him in distinctly non-bat behavior.

Fingers catching on his prize, he takes a deep breath and then depresses the button on the quarter-sized device.

The nerve agent is meant to disorient an opponent or, depending on body weight, knock them out for the few seconds needed to subdue them. For the tiny creatures attacking him, it will render them unconscious for a lot longer.

They drop and tumble around him in a circle, and when he can’t feel anymore slashing at him, he carefully navigates through the tiny bodies and out of the area affected by the nerve agent. Only then does he allow himself to take a breath, considering the strewn bodies around him in concern; they are still alive, but he doesn’t know exactly how the chemicals will affect them.

It makes no sense. The bats in here never attack, not unless he engages the subsonic alarms, which he hasn’t had to do in decades.

Bruce doesn’t believe in coincidences and knows that somehow, there’s a connection between the video and the bats. He just doesn’t know—

There’s a gasping, snorting sound behind him.

He realizes it was hidden by the shrieking of the bats before, but now it’s clearly discernible.

Turning around, he stares in horror as Ace, staggers forward on shaking legs, mouth-frothing and ears pulled back against his head. The dog’s lips are pulled up high over sharp canines in a grin that should not be possible on an animal. 

“Ace,” Bruce croaks.

The beast huffs, the sound a painful, morbid facsimile of a human laugh, and then snarls, throwing itself bodily at Bruce.

________________________________________________________________

MCGINNIS

9:15 AM

It’s not the Joker, Terry tells himself, teeth clenched and hand already fumbling around his phone to call Bruce. It can’t be him. It’s just a copy-cat.

But the laugh…he will never forget that sound in his whole life. And that’s real.

“Mom, I have to—” he begins, only to choke when he watches his mother collapse. “Mom!”

He hurries to her side just as seems to go into some kind of seizure.

“Matt, call an ambulance!” Terry snaps, tossing his phone in the vicinity of his brother’s blanket-wrapped body. He is on his knees then, carefully turning his mother onto her side while she shakes and curls into herself.

There’s a gasping, wheezing sound from behind him, but he can’t pay attention to it, too busy trying to keep his mother from clawing at her face. Her skin begins to drain of color as if all the blood in her body has disappeared, and he finds himself seeking some kind of wound that might explain it.

Then his eyes land on her face, and his stomach clenches.

Mom’s eyes have gone blank, her face twitching violently as if there’s an electric current running through it. Her lips part over her teeth, mouth lifting at the corners until the muscles strain to an unnatural degree. Her lips have gone violently red, and her breathing changes from gasping to a stunted, wheezing rattle.

And then there’s laughter.

It echoes behind him and Terry jerks his head to one side, watching in horror as his little brother shuffles from the couch, giggling madly with an identical smile on his face.

Joker toxin, he realizes before something smacks into his face and he tumbles back on his heels.

Mom’s hand trembles—broken thumb, she hit with a closed fist—but she still crawls toward him with an insane gleam in her eye.

She is laughing, and Matt is laughing and—

Then Terry feels hands around his throat, as tiny but strong fingers curl into his throat, cutting off his air supply.

________________________________________________________________  

WAYNE

9:17 AM

Bruce has a fleeting impression of teeth and bared claws before the giant body comes down hard on his. It’s only the reflex of a lifetime of brawls with larger, stronger opponents that saves him. He jabs outward with knees as he falls, curving to hit against the backside and shoulders while kicking up into the ribs of the animal. Bruce then thrusts the triangle between his thumb and forefinger into the dog’s throat as he boosts Ace over his head.

There’s a pained whine as the dog hits the ground, but he’s not unconscious, already struggling to his paws with the grace of a sleepwalker and determination of a piranha.

He’s just going to keep coming.

Bruce’s body screams in protest—muscles he hasn’t used in far too long, the incision from the transplant stretching—and he feels dizzy. But he forces himself to focus.

First the bats. Then Ace. Something that just affects animals?

It would certainly cause chaos, which the Joker was always trying for. But this particular trick has been done before.

The clown never revisited his jokes.

And the way Ace’s features are twisted, eyes white and sightless. When Bruce squints at the downed bats, sees that they seem paler, their faces also bent against their natural shape.

Joker toxin. It has to be.

Except, there was no delivery method and it’s not affecting Bruce. Maybe it is just animals.

He hurries toward the lab as quick as his body allows, depressing the panel in the cabinet that keeps his stock of antitoxin safe. Thumbs past vials until he has the right one, and fits it into the modified tranquilizer gun,

By the harsh panting behind him, he knows the dog is bearing down on him once again,

Calculations tear through his sluggish brain, dosages and body weight and differences between human and canine anatomy—

Ace leaps again, snapping at Bruce’s neck, and he fires, aiming for the cluster of muscles closest to the dog’s heart. He doesn’t see if it connects, forced to throw up a  fist to protect his throat.

Teeth shred his hand, sending sharp lances of pain through him, but he keeps his arm up, aiming a nerve strike near the solar plexus and kidneys.

The dog continues snorting and snapping at him for longer than he’d like, before going limp.

Bruce struggles out from beneath Ace’s weight, sparing a moment to check breathing and pulse rate and then arrange the dog into a recovery position on its right side. Then he staggers to the comms, grabbing a roll of bandages on his way.

“Terry!” he barks as he wraps his shredded hand to staunch the bleeding; he’ll need to stitch it, and soon—the blood thinners he takes won’t allow it to stop on its own.

Once at the computer, he brings up CCTV footage and any voice recordings from the last ten minutes; at the same time, he repeats, “Terry!”

________________________________________________________________  

MCGINNIS

9:17 AM

Terry hears the comms in the cowl go off, but it’s too far away, stuffed into his schoolbag. That, and he’s a little busy dodging his mother’s wild attempts to claw his eyes out while shaking his brother off without harming him.

Their laughter is loud and pained in his ears.

Straining, he finally manages to flip Matt onto the couch while dodging his mother’s grasping hand. He vaults across the room to his bag, digging desperately through it until his fingers close on the utility belt.

He has more than enough sedatives there to put them down. At the last second, however, he pauses, because they aren’t infected with just anything—it’s Joker toxin. Who knows what complications adding unknown sedatives could have on that.

So instead, he gabs the tiny vials he’s been carrying with him since the encounter with Tim Drake’s insane alter ego.

It’s a careful dance of evasion and trying not to break bones, avoiding his mother—and Matt, who even as some kind of mindless Joker automaton has an innate ability to evade Terry’s grasp. Eventually, he manages it and then he’s panting on the floor, mother and brother unconscious heaps beside him.

Heart still beating anxiously, he watches as their faces ease back to normal, free of the sinister rictus.

He’s already shrugging out of his coat as he reaches for the costume.

Looks like test or not, school’s not happening today.

The cowl is on now and his comm frizzes to life.

“—rry?”

“Bruce, what’s going on?” he demands. “Mom and Matt just went nuts. And their faces—it looks and acts like Joker toxin, but—”

“I know,” Bruce interrupts. “There’s no origin, no delivery system.”

“Exactly.”

Terry uses the magnification option in his mask to check his family. “If it’s not airborne, there should be injection points, but I don’t see any.” He does a sweep of the room. “There’s no vents or grates where it could have come in. Air filter's not picking up anything, either.”

“As near as I can tell, there won’t be. This is something new.”

“The word ‘new’ should never be used with the Joker.”

“Hm.”

“So why aren’t I affected?”

“I guess the dermal implant is doing its job.”

“Good thing,” Terry says, swallowing at the idea of what he might have done if hopped up on that chemical. “So, where’s it coming from?”

He grabs a pen and paper from his mother’s desk and jots down a note.

“That’s what we have to figure out. In the meantime, the goods news is the usual anti-venom appears to be working. It’s just a matter of mass-producing and getting out there.”

You guys fainted from the bug going around. Got a medical alert from Mr. Wayne, had to go check on him. Don’t leave the house!

He underlines that last bit and circles it several times before signing his name.

“I’ll be back soon, I promise,” he tells them, and heads for the window, tapping his comm again. “So, what’s the ‘but’? Because with you there’s always a ‘but’.”

“But it’s not just Gotham,” Bruce says, grim. “I’m looking at CCTV feeds from Tokyo, London, New York—it’s everywhere. Satellite imaging’s showing even more conclusive data: the entire planet’s been exposed to this.”  

Terry doesn’t even get a chance to swear when a new voice interjects, “And the longer you’re exposed to it, the longer it takes to recover.”

________________________________________________________________  

GRAYSON

9:17 AM

Dick grunts as he evades and dances out of the way of Catwoman’s doppelgangers.

“If you even do,” he adds on an exhale as one of them lands a hard blow to his chest.

There are twin intakes of breath across the line.

“Mr. Grayson?” the McGinnis kid asks, sounding choked. Dick doubts it’s about him. He caught the bit about being attacked by his family, and he knows from experience what it is to have to subdue loved ones.

“You’d think after all this time you’d eventually switch frequencies, B.”

“Nightwing,” the old man grunts, voice as inexpressive as ever. “Seems like you used the tech I sent you after all.”

“Only after I made sure you didn’t include any nano-surveillance devices.”

“You’re welcome.”

Dick rolls his eyes.

“Well, it’s working for me, but not for—” Something sharp slices across his chest, sending him flying backward. One of the doppelgänger’s grab hold of him and flips him over with the intention of sending him through the window and a fall several stories down. He recovers in midair, lands on his hands and tosses himself away from the bodies. “Hold that thought.”

He tries to find the original Black, the one who laughs and gasps for breath a millisecond before her doppelgängers. The sound is grating in his ear, echoed everywhere and drifting up from the city center below, in the apartments around him—

“Is there someone there with you?” Bruce wants to know.

“No, I’m alone in my apartment beating myself up,” Dick snaps.  

“Who am I to judge what you do for fun?”

“Regular anti-toxin works on whatever this is,” McGinnis repeats like he’s trying to be helpful.

“Well, I don’t exactly carry that around,” Dick mutters, though he knows it’s in the background. Getting there will be a pain in the ass, and fighting in such close quarters with so many opponents, even if it’s technically only one…

It takes several unsuccessful feints and a few sucker-punches before he can grab hold of the original Black, holding her throat in the crook of his elbow while enduring her clones’ attempts to take chunks out of his kin.

Bruce and McGinnis are saying something—to him, to each other, he’s not sure. He blocks them out for now.

Walking backward, he keeps close to the walls of the hallway leading to the bathroom, ignoring the way Black struggles and claws against him before finally going limp.

Immediately, the doppelgängers vanish, but he knows he doesn’t have long. He practically smashes the bathroom mirror going for the anti-toxin, fits it into an injector and jams it into her thigh.

He lets her fall to the floor in an ungraceful heap, panting as he examines the bloody welts on his chest and arms.

“Wrestling with you was a lot more fun last time,” he informs the unconscious woman, before returning to his bedroom and opening the secret space in the closet behind his clothing.

His spare suit is there, and he scowls at it.

“You said this was all over the planet,” he says into the comm as he reaches for the material. “If that’s the case, we’re going to have every living thing ripping itself to pieces within the next few hours.”

“Frag,” McGinnis mutters. “I need to find Dana and Max before something happens to them.”

Predictably, Bruce says, “They’re not priority right now.”

“They’re priority for me, alright?”

“Flexible as ever, aren’t you old man?” Dick mocks.

“We have to focus our energy on reversing whatever happened,” Bruce retorts, unapologetic.

“Yeah, well, we look to our own first, Bats, or there’s no hope of fixing anything.” His tone turns sharp. “And you’d better hope Tim’s okay.”

________________________________________________________________  

DRAKE

9:17 AM

Tim is not okay.

He is so far from okay, he thinks he might have lost feeling in his extremities. Which is problematic, since he’s trying to fight off both a panic attack and the wild swings of his wife.

She staring down at him with that horrid grin, gripping another huge kitchen knife in hand.

Tim’s chest feels close, and he wants to throw up, but he also knows he has to help Arlene. And to do that, he needs to calm down and think logically.

There was no gas anywhere, no traps. Joker liked the kind of traps that were showy and made noise.

But there’s no weapon, no delivery system, no broken windows the toxin could have come from. It couldn’t have been the coffee, otherwise, he’d be affected as well.

Why haven’t I? Out of anyone, it should be me.

But no—the dermal implant he helped Bruce design. Apparently, it works, filtering out the toxin before it even enters the bloodstream. It had been a wing and a prayer that it would work, a failsafe only, and now that it has, he wishes he’d thought to make more than the prototypes.

One for Arlene.

“Hon, I’m real sorry about this,” he apologizes, knowing she can’t hear him now. And then he surges forward, swooping beneath the arc of the knife coming toward him, gets behind her and uses a nerve pinch to knock her to the ground.

Outside, he hears cars colliding and frantic cries, turning to laughter and then agonized shrieking.

What the hell is going on?

He carries Arlene to the couch and hurries to his study to locate this last batch of anti-toxin. When the Joker returned, he’d spent hours every day mixing it up, and though he sent most of it back to Bruce and Barbara for their stocks, he kept enough.

It’s quick work to inject his wife; it will take a little longer before she wakes up again.

That done, his brief burst of battle-calm vanishes and the spirit of Robin that prompted him to action begins to fade. He begins to shiver, swallows back a hysterical sob or giggle.

The noises from outside get louder and he sits on the couch, hauling his knees up to his chest and leaning into his wife’s shoulders. He almost relishes the pain of his joints in the unfamiliar movements, trying to counteract the legitimate terror trying to creep upon him.

His eyes catch on the red vase, broken, its rounded bottom lying among the shards. It’s the same shade as a familiar helmet.

What the hell do you think you’re doing, Replacement? Jason’s voice is back, angry and frustrated. Going to curl up and cry? The bastard wasn’t supposed to beat both of us.

Tim swallows and closes his eyes, taking a further moment to ground himself, and then goes looking for his cellphone. He’s not far gone enough to reach out to Bruce—yet—but he’s not the only one who can help.

The speed-dial to Barbara’s personal line rings out.

________________________________________________________________  

GORDON

9:17 AM

The gunshot echoes, but it isn’t from the lieutenant’s gun. Instead, a stray shot from behind them both barrels through Davis’ body and into the wall. He crumples, and Barbra whirls around, taking in the sight of the entire police force in the pit, dissolving into madness.

They’re all crazed grins and mad giggling, grabbling with each other and shooting their service weapons with wild abandon.

They’ve all been infected.

Her phone is ringing—not the office, but her cellphone. She spares a moment to see that it’s from Tim, but she can’t answer him right now. Not with the chaos threatening to destroy her building.

Hurrying around the pit, dodging grabbing arms and bodies being thrown in her path, she makes a beeline for the master computer responsible for all automated functions of the department. Fingers flying, she enacts the protocol for emergency safety.

It was original installed to stop another massacre from having in the middle of the police stronghold, and as far as she’s concerned, that’s exactly what’s about to happen if she doesn’t act fast.

“Sorry, boys,” she mutters, opening the panel hiding the lever, and yanks it down.

Instantly blue sparks explode all around the pit, creating a facsimile of a faraday cage. The charge isn’t enough to kill, just to incapacitate; every man and woman in uniform drops to the ground, stunned.

The sudden silence in the wake of the laughter is chilling, but not complete; in the offices and on the floors above she still hears signs of struggle, meaning all she’s managed is a brief reprieve.

Her cellphone is ringing again; this time she takes the call.

“Barbara, it’s not me!” he gasps right away, voice tight with fear. “It has to be a copycat, I swear it’s not met!”

“Never even thought it was,” she informs him honestly.

“What’s going on?!”

“I don’t know. Going to find out.”

“All I can think is that whatever this is has to be airborne.”

“Like a neurochemical attack?”

“Actually, I think it might be more like a virus. Some bacterial strains are still able to evade air filtration technology,” Tim says, taking measured breaths. Having to solve a problem has always been the best way to keep him calm. “Otherwise the city sensors would have detected it.”

“Unless it was a toxin designed specifically to evade those sensors.”

“It’s possible…”

But he still sounds preoccupied.

“Well, it’s a starting point,” she says. “Thanks, Tim. Is Arlene alright?”

“Knocked out on the couch,” he sighs. “I’ve dosed her. The usual strain against Joker toxin seems to be effective, at least.”

“Good to know.” Something outside explodes on the street, and she winces. “Listen, Tim, we’re going to handle it. Just stay put and take care of yourself and Arlene. Call me if there’s anything, but otherwise, keep the line clear.”

“I know. It’s everywhere, isn’t it?”

“It looks like it.” She hangs up, dials Nissa first, but the heir to her cowl doesn’t pick up.

Crown Point’s probably a war zone. Can’t think about that right now.

Next, the Cave. Just as predictably, he picks up on the first ring.

“What the hell is going on, Bruce?”

________________________________________________________________  

WAYNE

9:20 AM

“At this point, your guess is as good as mine,” he replies, forwarding the call to the Bat-Computer.

Barbara’s voice is tense. “Is it really him again?”

“I don’t know.”

He navigates through multiple windows on the computer, examining the security footage of the chaos erupting around the globe. Through the comm in his ear, he hears Dick muttering something about his suit, while Terry keeps him updated on his flyover of the city.

Apparently, there are a lot of people falling or jumping off high-rises.

Bruce has a blood sample from Ace in the corner of the screen, running a diagnostic to find any clue how the toxin was spread.

There are differences in composition, which accounts for it working on the animals.

“I’ve got a program tracing the origin, but that’s taking a backseat to deploying an antidote,” he informs her. “I’m synthesizing it using Tim’s program from the last time.”

“Is it just me, or are there too many ‘last times’?” Terry wants to know, sounding winded.

Bruce ignores that, addresses Barbara, “I’ll send the first wave of Bat-drones to emergency service hubs.”

“That’s appreciated since I’ve got a precinct full of unconscious cops right now.”

“Emergency protocol worked, then?”

“Don’t be smug. It’s not a good look on you.”

“Once we’ve restored emergency services, I’ll send a second contingent to help the rest of Gotham.”

And then, somehow, the entire planet.

“But is it him?” Barbara asks.

“No. He’s dead.”

“I don’t think that’s what she meant,” Terry says. “Did the Joker really set all this up? Before he died?”

Bruce glances at another small window on-screen, where he captured a recording of the video that started all of this. “Judging by the resolution, the video footage is archival. That’s definitely him. I’d say it’s from forty years ago. Someone’s remastered it, but there are tells.”

“So why’s it being released now? He couldn’t have known exactly when he was going to die.”

“I suspect something specific happened to trigger its release. Some criterion was met.”

“So the Joker is definitely not back, but this is definitely his work,” Barbara concludes with a sigh. “Any idea on how to stop it?”

“Still looking.”

“Tim thinks it’s airborne. Like a virus.”

Bruce’s fingers pause in their typing, a sudden wave of concern washing over him. “Is he—?”

“He’s okay,” Barbara says. “Shaken, but he’ll hold up.”

Bruce nods to himself, tabling his relief to concentrate on the current conundrum.

“Batman, while I’m perfecting and sending out the antidote, patrolling. Help where you can.” To Barbara, “He’ll need backup.”

“That’s going to be hard since I just had to tase everyone here. I don’t want to know what’s going on with the officers that were patrolling outside.”

Law enforcement is trigger-happy on a normal day; we both know that means there’s going to be a lot of police-related deaths at the end of this thing.

“How much anti-toxin do you keep at the precinct? Didn’t Tim send you a batch recently?”

“Still probably not enough for everyone on the force.”

“Doesn’t matter. Inoculate everyone you can; once I get more of it spread around the city, there’s going to be even greater chaos. Right now, the population is mindlessly violent—once their wits come back, that’s when the real violence starts.”

“Hm.” She doesn’t argue; she knows it’s true.

“This is going to take as many people as we have to pitch in. Keep a comm on you—I know you have one on you. If some poor Jokerized fool takes out the power grid, you’ll lose access to all conventional communication.”

“We have back-ups, you know,” Barbara says dryly, but he hears her shifting around and then the squeaking feedback as she puts a comm in her ear and hangs up the phone.

“Not as good as mine.”

“So what exactly are you expecting I do in the meantime?” Terry wants to know. “Patrol is kind of a broad term.”

“Try to keep the peace as well as possible.”

“…I’d think you were joking, except you don’t have a sense of humor.”

“Oh, he does, kid,” Dick remarks. “But if you haven’t found it yet, better pray you don’t.”

________________________________________________________________  

MCGINNIS

9:25 AM

Terry dodges what feels like the hundredth car that’s flipped over an overpass, only just managing to get the passengers out and back on the ground. They immediately start grabbing at his throat and trying to gouge his eyes and he’s forced to take off again.

So far, the short trip between his apartment and the school has taken three times as long as it should have.

And every second means Dana and Max could be…

He doesn’t want to think about it.

Down below, people are actually tearing each other to pieces, scratching and biting and using everyday detritus to whale on each other. There are two many for him to stop them all, and the fact he’s all-but useless until Bruce manages to deploy the antidote doesn’t make him feel any better.

“This is insane.”

“I believe that was the point," Bruce grunts.

“Even if I had enough anti-toxin for the entire city, this isn’t exactly a one-man job,” Terry complains.

“In case you haven’t noticed, you’re not the only one still cognisant.”

“Yeah, but that’s still just a handful of us. And if this stuff is in the air, even any anti-toxin we have is only going to be temporary.”

“Once we figure out what’s delivering this toxin or virus, it’s just a matter of tweaking it to deploy the antidote instead. Until then, be grateful your device is working properly.”  

“Is there anyone else out there with one of these, except your chosen?”

“Anyone who had access to the anti-toxin and was able to dose themselves before it took over.”

Terry snorts. “So, maybe three people? Great. I feel so comforted.”

“You shouldn’t. They’ll be out of commission for a while.”

“You’re such an optimist. What about Su—”

“He’s compromised.”

“Compromised like…?”

“Trust me when I say it’s not something you ever want to encounter.”

Terry shivers at the idea of a Jokerized Superman. “I can’t even picture that. I wouldn’t even think it was possible. How did you—?”

“Dumb luck.”

“Frag.”

“Just don’t attract his attention and hope you don’t need to use the last resort.”

Meaning Kryptonite.

“And how do you propose that?”

“Don’t call for help.”

“Of course,” Terry sighs, and then grumbles, “This is not my best day ever.”

It’s another ten minutes of fighting through the smoke of several wrecked cars, stopping a bunch of thugs from beating on a frazzled, confounded kid crying despite her Glasgow smile, before he makes it to Hamilton Hill High.

Probably going to need some help, he decides, remotely activating the Batmobile’s onboard computer to track his location.

It might as well be a warzone, the way the staff and students—kids he’s been in school with for years—are attacking each other. Everyone’s bleeding in some way, a number of bodies litter the ground, some still twitching, some not. Terry tries not to think too closely about it as he speeds through the hallways to his second-period classroom.

Inside, the light panels have been destroyed, creating a strobe light effect that Terry winces at. He adjusts the screen in his mask to account for the light, and looks desperately around.

The teacher’s dead, bleeding from what looks like a shard of someone’s tablet shoved through his throat. His classmates are grouped off in individual melees, all of them laughing hysterically as they beat on each other or take blows.

Chelsea Cunningham straddles Nelson Nash and repeatedly strikes his head against the ground, giggling shrilly as his blood spatters her once crisp white shirt. Nelson’s not quite laughing anymore, making choked-off noises like he’s trying to breathe.

Terry doesn’t think twice about using two of his anti-toxins on both of them—it’s about all he can do—before moving on.

Dana and Max are near the back, seemingly in the midst of trying to choke the life out of one another. Dana has several patches of hair torn out, and Max has an ugly gash down her cheeks from Dana’s nails.

“Okay, time to break up this girl fight,” he declares, materializing behind them and knocking them both out before inoculating them.

The other students have taken notice of him by now, and begin to close in.

“And that’s my exit,” he murmurs, hoisting a girl over each shoulder.

There’s an explosion beside him, as a blast of concentrated fire opens a hole in the ceiling. A cord extends downward and he steps into the foothold, holding tight to his best friend and his girlfriend as the Batmobile yanks them upward and away from the high school.

“Oof,” he mutters once inside the cockpit, laying the girls gently in the passenger seat.

“Everyone alright?” Bruce asks.

“They’ll live.”

“Good. Time to get back to work.”

“On it.” Terry jumps out of the car and hovers beside it for a moment, keying in commands to take it back to the Batcave. “Special delivery. Maybe you can figure out how this thing is spreading to human victims and keep them safe.”

“We’re not a relief center,” Bruce grumps.

“Tough. I’m not leaving them to get ripped apart or rip each other apart here, or in their homes.”

“Then drop them off with your mother and brother.”

“No time to double back,” Terry replies. “And the Cave’s the safest place within two hundred miles. They know about you anyway, so deal with it.”

He considers the school beneath him and dives back in, trying to see how many he can incapacitate before they all kill each other.

________________________________________________________________  

GRAYSON

9:30 AM

“Think I’m really starting to like this kid,” Dick tells Bruce as he digs through his medicine cabinet again. A medicine cabinet that’s more of a fully stocked home hospital.

Old habits die hard.

“Where the hell are the reinforcements?” he demands. “You know, the ones hanging out on high?”

“Watchtower’s dark.”

Dick pauses; that actually startles him. “Even for you? How’s that possible? You put so many backdoors into that system.”

“Hence my concern.”

Dick finds the tube he’s looking for, good for a concentrated shot of adrenaline and makes his way back to Black and doses her.

There’s a beat, and then she gasps awake, shooting into a sitting position.

“Sorry,” he says, “but the city’s going to hell. There’s no time to play Sleeping Beauty. Suit up.”

“Sure know how to show a girl a good time,” she groans, accepting his outstretched hand.

"What can I say, I'm the life of the party." While she shimmies into her clothes and checks her gear, Dick asks Bruce, “Speaking of your ‘chosen’, who else have you immunized, besides you, me, the kid and Babs?”

“Who are you calling a kid?” McGinnis demands.

Bruce ignores him. “In an ideal world? The Family.”

“You mean the Family you’ve pissed off and distanced yourself from for the past forty years? That Family? Hell of a time to reach out.” Dick grunts. “What about—”

“Red Robin is fine.”

Dick huffs out a bitter chuckle. “Now there’s a handle I haven’t heard in a while.”

“No real names on the comms.”

“I’m pretty sure anyone we’d have to worry about names with is roaming the streets laughing their heads off right now,” McGinnis says. "Maybe literally." 

“Kid’s got a point,” Dick says. “Speaking of people roaming. Who else do we have in our corner? And by that I mean, who’s not dead, geriatric, off-world or part of the Jokerized masses?”

“Anyone with a superior metabolism or who can burn off the toxin before it takes hold. Flash is working Central City right now, but she’s got her hands full. Same for Static out in Dakota City.”

“That's it? What about everyone else?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“And the Justice League still isn’t answering.”

“No.”

Which is…not good.

Black reappears from the bedroom, mask on and hands on her hips. “You ready to roll, soldier?”

“Make sure you take some anti-toxin with you. What I dosed you with will eventually run out, and I’d rather not have to worry about you going after me when you’re supposed to be watching my back.  

“I’d love to know how I went from a thief to saving the city on a regular basis,” she quips.

“The first Catwoman used to ask that all that time." 

________________________________________________________________  

GORDON

9:30 AM

“Whoever’s doing this was thinking ahead,” Barbara says as she goes from officer to officer and injects them with the anti-toxin. “Way ahead.”

She wasn’t kidding when she said there wasn’t enough for the entire force; as it is she’ll be lucky if it’s enough for the ones in the bullpen. The rest are going to have to be put in cells until help arrives.

“Hm.”

“But it also…” she trails off.

“What?”

“It doesn’t feel like the Joker. Besides the video and the toxin, I mean. Other than that…”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Bruce agrees. “The theatricality is him, but the rest…I’m still analyzing the video clip for clues.”

Barbara purses her lips. It should be a relief to hear that it’s not him, but it’s not. The legend of the Joker makes even his imitators a force to be reckoned with.

Just as the first of her officers begin to stir, she pulls out her cellphone and runs an encryption program to secure the line. It’s a program Maxine Gibson set her up with when she expressed a need to get in touch during emergency situations...especially when the new Batgirl doesn’t want her to.

This time, the line connects to the biometric communicator Nissa always carries on her. Barbara waits until her protégé’s blasé voicemail starts playing and listens through the recording.

“I know you’ve probably been hit by the toxin,” she says after the shrill beep, “but that’s going to be dealt with soon. The minute you’re conscious, get your gear on and get your butt into that city. Even if this all gets fixed in the next ten minutes, Gotham’s going to be pulling herself apart for days. We need all hands. Consider this your debutante ball.”

She disconnects and then reaches for her service weapon, checking her ammo, and mentally decides what orders she’s going to give the men and women getting back on their feet. None of them know what’s going on, and it’s not going to be an easy explanation.

Her eyes fall upon the photo of Sam on her desk, and she swallows. There are still two more calls she needs to make before she goes out on the street.

“Sam? When you get this…Just know that everything’s going to be alright. I’ll see you at dinner, hon…”

________________________________________________________________  

DRAKE

9:35 AM

When the phone rings again, Tim jumps, having forgotten it was in his hand. He’s been trying not to twitch at every sound from outside when he’s not checking his wife to make sure she’s still breathing.

He knows she is—he’s watching her chest rise and fall—but he keeps having visions of her seizing and dying on his watch.

“Babs?” he chokes.

“It’s me,” she confirms. “The Bats are working on a toxin and doing crowd control. You should have drones incoming within the half-hour.”

Tim exhales. “That’s a relief at least.”

“How are you holding up?”

“I’m managing,” he replies. “Arlie should be waking up soon. Then we’re getting the hell out of Gotham supposing I have to hitchhike.”

“It won’t help,” Barbara replies grimly. “From what Bruce says, this is happening all over. There’s nowhere to escape to.” Tim’s heart sinks. “Believe it or not, Gotham’s going to be one of the safe zones for a while.”

“Gotham is never safe,” he deadpans.

“I know. Tim…I’m sorry you have to go through this, with everything you’ve been through. The best thing for you to do is batten down the hatches. Stay put and stay safe—or as safe as you can manage. I’ve got some of my force up and about again. As soon as I can spare the manpower, I’ll send someone over to protect you.”

“Yeah…”

Tim stays still for a while after she hangs up, staring down at the phone in deep thought.

Something about that bothers him, niggling at some long-buried part of him.

Didn’t you used to make a big deal about people trying to protect you? Jason’s voice wonders. When did you become such a burden, Timbers?

“About the time a lunatic crown tried to lobotomize me,” he mutters to no one.

Maybe. But just because you’re out of the game, doesn’t mean you’re completely useless. You’re not Bruce…but you’ve still got contingencies on contingencies.

He wants to argue that—ignoring the fact he’d be arguing with himself because Jason’s not here—but then he really thinks about it.

He knows his house isn’t fortified, isn’t defensively in any way against his Jokerized neighbors or whatever other chaotic groups will emerge as the Bats try to spread the anti-toxin.

But…I still know where all the safehouses are.

The ones that were built to stand the test of time and outlived the breaking of team bonds. He’s thinking of one in particular—his old haunt beneath his former apartment in the old theater district. The apartment was demolished ages ago, bought up with the rest of the block and replaced with a high-rise parking garage.

But the Nest beneath it was never found, and there are still one or two secret entrances to get in. If there’s nowhere safe in the world to flee, then he must look for safety in the city he knows.

Maybe…I can be Red Robin one last time.

He gets up, plans coalescing in his mind.

As soon as Arlene wakes, they’re leaving.

⁂

________________________________________________________________

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Next Chapter

[camillemontespan]

girls like you [drake walker x mc, trr gang]

This is so fluffy, I got really into it and now it’s really long. I hope it’s not boring! I got carried away with all of the fluff!

@jovialyouthmusic @pug-bitch @drakesensworld @moonlightgem7 @tacohead13 @notoriouscs @katedrakeohd @be-still-my-aching-heart @drakewalkerisreal @iplaydrake @sirbeepsalot @ifyouseekheart

‘Are you sure you can handle this? I mean, I can always cancel, it’s no problem,’ Camille babbled, pacing the kitchen. Drake chuckled and focused on getting Lily dressed. 

‘Babe, you’re panicking. I’ll be fine,’ he told her. ‘Lily, stop wriggling.’ 

His six year old daughter beamed up at him, her eyes sparkling. ‘I’m too excited!’ 

Drake gave her a wink and gently buttoned up her pyjama top. ‘There, you’re ready for your pyjama party.’

‘PYJAMA PARTY!’ she screamed, jumping up and down. She was fizzing. Lily had wanted to hold a pyjama party for weeks and her parents had finally found a gap in their diaries for the party to happen. That was, until this morning, when Camille realised she had looked at the wrong diary date and had gotten mixed up - not like her at all, since she was usually so organised. She had forgotten that she was scheduled for a girls night out with Hana, Olivia and Savannah tonight. So, it was up to Drake to supervise the pyjama party and keep Lily and her friends well fed and entertained. 

‘Okay fine, but please, call me if there’s any issues,’ Camille said, slipping her rose gold heels on. She was wearing a rust orange satin dress and her makeup was highlighted and smokey; Drake thought she looked gorgeous. ‘I’ll keep my phone on the table, just in case.’

Drake pulled her gently to him and looked into her brown eyes. ‘Breathe. It’s going to be fine.’ 

Camille gave him a small smile then pointed at the fridge. ‘Feed them something with vegetables, please,’ she said. Lily wrinkled her nose in disgust. Camille pulled Lily in for a hug. ‘Have a brilliant time, honey,’ she said. Lily twirled around. ‘Do you like my pyjamas?!’

She was wearing a fluffy white pyjama top with a polar bear face embroidered on the front and white fluffy pyjama bottoms. Camille’s best friend, Hana, had given them to her as a random present and Lily adored them; she had wanted to save them for something special. Tonight was special.

It was her first time throwing a pyjama party. She had been to many pyjama parties before but she had never had one herself. 

‘Which friends are coming again?’ Drake asked Camille as she shrugged on her brocade coat. 

‘Violet, Harper and Katie. They’re lovely, really polite and Lily adores them,’ Camille said. She leaned in close. ‘Just be careful; Violet has a little crush on you,’ she whispered. Drake’s eyes widened. ‘What?’

Camille let out a giggle. ‘It’s so obvious. She blushes whenever she sees you. Watch out for it, it’s adorable.’

‘She’s six.’

‘Yeah, adorable. All six year old girls get crushes, don’t worry Drake.’

She kissed him goodbye. Drake gulped. What had he let himself in for?

                                               **************************

Camille, Hana, Olivia and Savannah were sat in the private roof terrace of the cocktail lounge No. 5. Camille's security team were standing by the door, just to be safe. Part of Drake's conditions of them accepting the King's offer of becoming a Duke and Duchess was that they would have a high end security team. After a few too many assassination attempts, Drake did not want any risk, especially now that they had Lily. He had also obtained a court order against the press, which meant they were not allowed to camp outside their estate, ambush Camille on her publicity events and they were certainly not allowed to take pictures of Lily going to school. That had happened one time and Drake and Camille were furious.

Olivia beckoned over the waiter. 'Can we have two bottles of Dom Perignon please, ' she told him, her voice like silk. The waiter bowed.

When the champagne was opened and the fizz poured, Hana raised her glass. 'To Camille - for finally getting out of the house for some fun!'

They all cheered. 'I am offended!' Camille laughed. Olivia rolled her eyes. 'Oh please. You're such a workaholic. You never come out with us for drinks anymore. You used to be so fun.'

Camille stared her down and casually brought her champagne glass to her lips. She downed it in one. 'You were saying?'

Olivia raised an eyebrow, a smile pulling up a corner of her mouth. 'Camille came out to play!'

They all laughed and toasted their glasses together. 'So Drake is by himself tonight?' Savannah asked. Camille nodded. 'God help him.' Hana giggled. 'Has he ever supervised a pyjama party before? Ooh, more importantly, is Lily wearing the pyjamas I got her?'

Camille smiled. 'She's kept them for a special occasion. She's wearing them tonight.' Hana clapped her hands together, delighted. Olivia sighed. 'Must we talk about children? Surely you want away from the life sapping cretins as soon as you have them.' Savannah's eyes widened. 'Olivia!' She adored babies and her own son, Bartie, was her pride and joy. Camille squeezed her hand. 'Olivia's joking.. I hope. But she's right. Enough kid talk.'

Olivia took a sip of champagne and arched her eyebrow at Camille. 'Thank you. Let's talk about important things. You and Drake still having enough sex?'

Hana spat out her champagne in shock and coughed harshly. Camille clapped her on the back.

'Olivia! I'm not answering that!' she protested. Olivia shrugged. 'At least tell me if he's still a raging beast under the sheets, give me some gossip. You once told me he was insatiable.'

Savannah grabbed a passing waiter by the arm. 'Can I please have a vodka in a tall glass with an olive? Just keep them coming.'

                                  *******************************

The doorbell rang and Lily started squealing. 'Daddy, they're here!'

Drake chuckled and started to walk towards the front door. Suddenly, Lily grabbed his arm and pulled him back. Drake frowned. 'You okay honey?'

She bit her lip and wrung her hands together. Drake smiled softly. 'Are you nervous?'

She nodded mutely. Drake crouched down and placed his hands on her shoulders. 'This is going to be the best pyjama party ever. You've got the best polar bear pyjamas too, you look so fluffy! Do polar bears get nervous?'

Lily thought hard. 'No?'

'No way they don't,' Drake said. 'They're fierce. They are bad ass! They also throw amazing pyjama parties.'

Lily giggled. 'Polar bears wear pyjamas?'

Drake stared at her, aghast. 'Of course they do! How do you think they stay warm in the Arctic?'

Lily grinned. 'Polar bears are awesome.'

'I know right?!' Drake cried, picking her up. 'Come on, let's get your friends inside and they can admire your pyjamas.'

He opened the door and the three girls and their mothers were standing outside. Lily waved and her friends waved back. 'Hi Lily!' one of them shouted. Drake beckoned them inside. 'You're so fluffy!' another of her friends squealed, running her hand down Lily's arm, admiring. 'I'm a polar bear!' Lily shrieked, jumping up and down again. The girls giggled and Lily led them through to the living room.

Drake turned to the mother's. 'It's just me tonight but I promise, I'll keep them entertained and out of trouble,' he told them, a bashful smile on his face.

One of the woman leaned forward to shake his hand. 'My name's Sarah, I'm Violet's mom. Got to say, I love how you and Duchess Camille have improved Valtoria. We were just saying that outside, weren't we ladies?'

The other two mothers nodded. A brunette leaned forward next. 'You're more than welcome to come to mine for a play date,' she whispered, winking. Drake reddened while the other two frowned at her brazenness. 'Um, that won't be necessary,' he answered. 'So yeah, the girls will be well fed, have a good bedtime and I've got breakfast in.'

The mother's waved goodbye, with the brunettes eyes lingering on him longer than was necessary. Drake swallowed and shut the door quickly.

'Pyjama party, assemble!' he bellowed. The girls ran into the hallway, panting. Drake grinned. 'Now I've got you here, do we want to decide what we want for dinner?'

He guided them into the kitchen and looked in the fridge. 'Okay, so mom said you need to eat vegetables,' he told Lily. 'Hmm. Fish fingers and vegetables? Chicken and vegetables?'

He turned to get a verdict. One of the girls, who he assumed was Violet, was watching him with a blush on her cheeks. Lily screwed up her nose. 'Harper's allergic to vegetables.'

The tallest girl with blonde hair nodded. 'I will die.'

Drake crossed his arms and leaned against the fridge, studying them. Violet looked down at the floor. Lily nudged a dark haired girl wearing a unicorn onesie. 'Katie? You're allergic too, aren't you?'

Katie frowned and played with her hair. 'I don't know what allergic is...'

Lily sighed dramatically. 'Harper and Katie are both allergic so if you give us vegetables, they'll die. Forever.'

Drake stared at his daughter. 'Right. So if I just called their mom's to check.. They would tell me they are allergic to vegetables?'

Lily blanched. Clearly she had not thought this through. 'Um..'

Drake thought. 'What if we just ordered pizza then?' He knew he was giving in but he didn't want to make them eat something that was going to cause such an issue. He basically couldn't be bothered to fight this one. Besides, Camille made Lily eat vegetables all the time. The girl was full of vitamins.

'PIZZA PYJAMA PARTY!' the girls squealed. As Drake found the pizza delivery leaflet, he spotted Lily giving him the trademark Walker smirk. It was the one visible thing she had inherited from him. She adopted it whenever she was naughty or got her way. Drake would have told her off but he was wrapped around her little finger. He always had been.

'Right who likes pepperoni?' he asked. They all raised their hands. Drake thumbed through the leaflet. 'Shall we also order cookies? I'm thinking cookies.'

He knew in Lily's eyes that he was earning Dad Points. He just wanted her to have a good time. As the daughter of a Duke and Duchess, her life wasn't exactly normal. A pizza pyjama party was one normal thing he could give her.

Thirty minutes later, two pepperoni pizzas and cookies were delivered. Lily gave Drake a cuddle. 'Thanks daddy,' she whispered, pecking him on the cheek. The girls sat down in front of the TV with the pizza boxes open on their laps. Drake had put on Disney's Hercules in a bid to keep them happy. Clearly it was a good idea as they sang along to the Muses and argued which of the Muses they were. Drake settled down in the kitchen next door, deciding to catch up on work emails. This was good. This wasn't hard.

                                       **************************

Savannah was drunk. The four vodkas she had drank, on an empty stomach, had given her the desired effect of not caring when Olivia asked Camille more probing questions about Drake's performances in the bedroom. Camille had managed to steer the conversation to Hana, who was casually dating Maxwell. She had been seeing him for two months and Camille was so excited about it. Her two best friends dating!

'He's really sweet!' Hana told the group. 'He took me to an actual chocolate restaurant where we just ate all these samples of chocolate. So yummy!'

'What about sex, Hana?' Olivia sighed. 'Tell me about the sex.'

Camille raised an eyebrow. 'Olivia, are you super thirsty right now? What's got into you? You're not usually this.. Nosy.'

Olivia downed her champagne. 'Ugh, fine. I've not been laid in months. I'm getting frustrated. I just need to hear some stories so I can live vicariously through you!' Savannah hiccuped. 'Have you tried hook up apps? Might settle your itch.' Olivia wrinkled her nose. 'I am not degrading myself by joining a dating app. God, I'm a Nevrakis. The men come to me.'

'Clearly not right now,' Camille teased. Olivia groaned. 'They do but they're all such babies. I want a man. Like a red blooded, rugged man. One who likes knife play preferably.'

Hana blinked. 'Knife play?' she asked, her voice small, dreading the explanation. Olivia chuckled. 'It's a step up from the usual foreplay, I must admit. Adds some more... Excitement.'

Savannah was bored with sex talk. 'Let's go to a club!' she suddenly suggested. 'Ooh that would be amazing!' Hana agreed. She was more giddy than usual when she had been drinking. Camille shrugged. 'Why not? I'm out the house, may as well make the most of it. Where do you guys want to go?'

The group thought. 'What about Temple?' Savannah asked. Temple was the newest club in the Old Town. 'Let's do Temple!' Camille decided.

                                          **************************

It was not good.

Drake had found Violet sat on the stairs, crying, because Harper had promised she would save a cookie for Violet, but she ate it deliberately. As a result, Violet had missed out on a cookie.

Drake brought Violet down to the kitchen to find her something else that was better than a cookie. After he sat her down on a chair, he called in Lily. When his daughter saw Violet, who's eyes were red rimmed, she paled. 'Violet? Are you okay?'

Drake looked at her. 'She's not, Lily. You have to look after your friends when they're over, especially if they get upset. Violet hasn't been saved a cookie.'

Lily reddened. 'That was Harper.'

'I know. What did you do when Violet left the room?'

Lily scuffed her feet on the floor. 'I stayed with Harper and Katie..'

Drake sighed. 'It's not fair if one is left out. You're an only child so you're not used to it but it's good to share. Sharing is grown-up and it makes people happy-'

'I would have shared!' Lily protested. 'It was Harper.'

'I know honey but it's your party. Violet is your guest. Now, I've found Violet a chocolate biscuit. Here Violet.' He handed her a biscuit. She snuffled and whispered, 'Thank you.'

Lily stepped forward and took Violet's hand. 'I'm sorry I didnt look after you, Violet,' she said quietly. 'I hope we're still best friends.'

Violet looked at her. 'We're best friends?' She sounded so hopeful. Lily nodded furiously. 'You're my favourite friend.'

Violet's face broke out into a grin. Lily took her hand and pulled her gently off the chair. ‘Let’s go play.’ The two girls ran off, leaving Drake in the kitchen. Crisis averted.

Or not. Fifteen minutes later and the girls were experiencing a sugar rush they didn’t need from the cookies. They were running around, screaming. Katie banged into a side table, which held one of Camille’s antique vases. Drake felt like the world had turned into slow motion as he watched the table jolt and the vase fall. He had tried to grab it but it was too late; it broke into shards. Katie then broke down into tears at the sudden shock, which turned Drake’s attention away from the antique and onto the second child to cry that evening.  ‘Hey, its alright!’ he soothed her, crouching down to look at her face. ‘It’s just a vase, nothing important. You okay? You haven’t hurt yourself from the shards, have you?’ He inspected her hand and gave her a smile. ‘All good here.’ She sniffled and wiped her nose on her sleeve. ‘I’m sorry...’ she said quietly. Drake shrugged. ‘Nothing to be sorry for, Katie. Come on, let’s see what the others are doing.’

He looked back regretfully at the vase. He hoped it wasn’t one of Camille’s grandmother’s antique vases from Versailles. He really, really hoped not. 

He was exhausted from putting out fires in every direction. He snapped when Lily screamed, ‘Dance competition! Daddy, you have to judge!’ He locked himself in his study and sat down, thinking. What would Camille do? 

Dance competition. Dance. Judging. Dance. Maxwell.  Responsibility. Dealing with a hundred things at once. Who was good at that, like really good? Liam. Answer. Call Maxwell and Liam.

He called Liam. ‘Hey Drake, you okay?’ ‘No. I thought I could handle babysitting four children but Jesus Christ, I’m shit at it. Any chance you can come over for support?’ Liam chuckled. ‘I’ve just finished my meetings so yeah, sure. I’ve got Maxwell and Bertrand here too, mind if they come along?’ Drake breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Please. The more the merrier.’

                                 ***********************

They arrived half an hour later. The girls had been upstairs practicing their routines, which allowed Drake to have a breather. He had downed a glass of whiskey. Irresponsible, yes. Needed? Absolutely.

‘I’m so excited for a dance competition!’ Maxwell said as he entered. He gave a twirl. ‘Show me the contestants!’ Bertrand sighed and hung his coat up, nodding to Drake. ‘This should be... interesting.’  Liam held in a laugh and clapped Drake on the back. ‘We’re such good friends to you, Walker.’ Drake reddened. ‘I am fully capable, it just got a bit... much.’

They wandered into the living room where the girls were getting set up. Lily squealed when she saw her new guests. ‘Uncle Liam! Uncle Maxwell! Uncle Bertrand!’ She jumped up and gave them each a hug. ‘Do you like my pyjamas?!’ she asked Maxwell. Maxwell turned her around to look. ‘You are so fluffy, I LOVE IT!’ he cried. Lily jumped up and down again, clapping her hands. Drake noticed her eyes were huge; way too much sugar.

‘Right, so we’re judging?’ Liam asked. Lily nodded. ‘You have to sit on the sofa and score us. Look, we made point cards!’ She handed out a pile of cards  with numbers written in glittery gel pen. ‘Uncle Bertrand, I’m making you Head Judge because you’re really serious.’ Bertrand chuckled. ‘An excellent judge of character you are, I must say!’ They sat down on the sofa and waited as the girls prepared. They each danced their own routine and Lily went particularly crazy to Can’t Stop the Feeling by Justin Timberlake. The judges were easy on every girl, since they were only six and this was a game.  ‘Fabulous!’ Maxwell shouted after each routine. ‘Visionary! ASTOUNDING!’ Liam would hold up his chosen score slowly, creating suspense then whipping the card round to show the number, making each girl laugh. Bertrand treated it like he did everything; far too seriously and like House Beaumont depended on it.  Drake was particularly kind when scoring Violet. She was naturally shy and not great at remembering steps.  She kept looking over at Drake, looking like she wanted the ground to swallow her up. ‘Where did you learn to dance like that?! Ten!’ Drake asked her after she finished twirling awkwardly. She gave him a huge grin, her eyes dancing. 

                          *******************************************

‘Cause girls like you Run around with guys like me 'Til sundown, when I come through I need a girl like you, yeah yeah!’ Camille, Hana, Olivia and Savannah were singing along to Maroon 5′s latest single at the club, holding hands and swaying. Hana threw her arms around Camille, singing drunkenly. ‘I love you, Cammy!’ ‘I love you too!’

                          ******************************************

‘Girls like you Love fun, yeah me too What I want when I come through I need a girl like you, yeah yeah Yeah yeah yeah I need a girl like you, yeah yeah!’ Lily, Violet, Harper and Katie were now bounding around, singing to Maroon 5′s latest single. Maxwell joined in at Cardi B’s rap, which delighted them. ‘Best pyjama party EVER!’ Harper shrieked. Lily looked so full of joy, she could burst. 

                                  ********************************

It was 1am. Drake was up waiting for Camille to get back safe. He was watching late night news when he heard a floorboard creak. He looked round to see Lily. ‘You okay, Lil?’ he asked. She nodded. ‘I can’t sleep. Harper snores really loudly.’ Drake beckoned her over and she nestled into his chest. ‘Thank you for letting me have a party, daddy,’ she said. ‘It was really fun.’ Drake squeezed her. ‘Glad you had a good time, honey.’ ‘Will you dance with me, daddy?’ she suddenly asked. Drake chuckled. ‘I’m not a great dancer. Ask your mom, she’ll agree.’ Her face fell and his heartstrings tugged. ‘Sure, honey. You pick the song.’ 

When Camille got home ten minutes later, she found her husband holding their daughter on his hip, twirling around as they both sang together.

'Cause girls like you Run around with guys like me 'Til sundown, when I come through I need a girl like you, yeah yeah

Girls like you Love fun, yeah me too What I want when I come through I need a girl like you, yeah yeah

She stood in the doorway, smiling, as Lily wrapped her arms around Drake’s neck, singing in his ear, her smile wide.  Her little polar bear and her big marshmallow.

[sergeantrosabellaswan]

Follow Me Down- ANON REQUEST

SUMMARY: “Hi! Can I please request a soulmate AU where the words their soulmate speaks first are tattooed on their arm with Pietro pretty please with all the toppings on top?” from anon. Inspired heavily by @floral-and-fine’s Silent Treatment.

You huffed out a sound in between a sigh and a groan as you came out of the shadows. Ever since you could remember, you had always hated parties- especially parties that your “uncle” would throw- this one was no exception. You glanced around the room, hoping to spot Natasha’s flaming scarlet curls, but only spotting a young man who had silver white hair. It was obvious that he was flirting with six girls at once, judging by how they all crowded around him, smiling and laughing at whatever he was saying.

            You only scoffed and returned to search for your friend as you pulled your trademark leather jacket tighter around your petite frame, seeking comfort rather than shelter from the chill. The heels of your motorcycle boots softly clicked on the floor as you wandered around, making it a point to not look friendly as you looked for the Russian assassin. The thick crowd of party goers parted for you as you stomped through, thinking of the long rant you was going to unleash onto your friend once she was located.

                        For the second time that night, your eyes flitted in the direction of the silver haired flirt, and he caught your eye, sending you a flirty wink and a cocky smile. You only rolled your eyes and fought the urge to stuff her middle finger as far up his nose as possible as you strutted over towards Natasha, having spotted her at last.

                        “There you are!” the Russian redhead greeted you with a beaming smile. “Have you seen Tony?”

  Do I look like a babysitter? You used your hands to sign out the sarcastic response, shifting your weight onto the balls of your heels as you rocked uneasily back and forth several times. Have you seen dad anywhere? Natasha’s response was to point up at one of the balconies, where you saw your father, Clint Barton, AKA Hawkeye, perched as he watched all the boisterous festivities.

  I think I’d better get him some food or something, you signed, hugging your friend and mother- like figure before making a head start for the buffet.

  As you was filling a plate with food to bring to your father, a sudden gust of wind almost made you drop the plate. You turned your head and saw that it was the silver haired flirt.

  “Where have you been all my life, krasivaya?” a heavily accented voice purred into your ears and you violently jumped as your hearing aids began to whistle shrilly in your ears. You yanked them out, fiddling with the program switch as you waited for the angry sounds to die down. Ignoring the looks on surrounding people’s faces, you stuck them back in before turning to face the young man.

  Are you nuts? ‘Cuz apparently, you are! You just don’t walk up to people and nearly scare the living crap out of them! You screamed, using your hands to give him a lecture. As you continued to yell at him, you could see random people glancing in your direction and laughing. Hopefully, not at you, otherwise, you’d be doing more than just giving out a silent lecture.

  At last, you spun around, with the plate of food gripped tight in your hands and stormed off, leaving behind a very amused silver haired speedster. As you went up the stairs to where your father was situated, you found yourself shaking. You wanted to scream out your frustrations, however, the only problem was that you were at a party and didn’t want to cause further embarrassment to yourself. So you settled for standing next to Clint and handing him his food.

  “So I see you met Pietro Maximoff,” he commented with an amused sparkle in his eyes.

  So his name is Pietro, you thought.

  “The little shit saved my beef in Sokovia last week- he took several bullets meant for me and a little kid,” he continued on.

  You didn’t say anything as you leaned into the railing of the balcony, knowing why your father preferred being up high- to spot danger more easily.

  Like father, like daughter really.

  He tried to hit on me, you informed her dad, a smirk toying with the edges of your mouth as he growled from deep within his chest, a truly frightening sound, if directed at anyone, really. Don’t worry, dad- I gave him a piece of my mind.

  “I should hope so,” he grumbled, finishing off the plate in no time at all and leaning over the banister with you. “Do you want me to hunt him down and give him a lecture as well?”

  No thanks, you smiled at your father, spying the silver speedster looking up at the two of you. I’m a big girl. I can wipe my own ass and everything.

  Clint belted out a loud thunderous laugh, making you giggle as well.

  “Barton! Barton Junior! Get down here and meet the new recruits!” Tony Stark suddenly screamed, nearly making Clint topple from their high vantage point.

  “Shall we?” Clint smiled down at you as he fired off an arrow with a zip line attached to it.

  We shall, you grinned happily, letting your father descend first before taking a deep breath of air and jumping from the balcony. You grabbed onto the line and slid down with many years of practice under your belt, a face splitting grin on your face as you let go before your feet had even touched the floor and spun around to smirk at Natasha, who was shaking her head at you.

  “Clint Barton and his daughter, Barton Junior,” Tony introduced them to a tall red and green man and a pretty brunette with streaks of red running through her hair. A blue and silver streak zipped into the equation to reveal that it was the silver haired flirt. “This is Wanda, Vision, and Pietro.”

  You turned to Wanda with a shy smile on your face

  “Oh, now she smiles,” Pietro groaned, rolling his eyes dramatically, earning a dirty glare from Clint.

  Can I punch him now? Please? You begged, causing for your father to snort with amusement and Tony to roll his eyes.

  “Only if you can catch him, sweetheart,” smirked Clint, secretly delighted in the way your eyes lit up at the challenge. You marched right up to Pietro and landed a solid punch to his jaw, making him fall down, more in shock then with pain.

  Wanda stared at you with amused shock in her eyes as you shook out your hand, turning to walk away. For the first time, Pietro noticed that you were wearing a back quiver with teal blue and cream fletchings with a compound bow strapped onto the leathers.

  The silver speedster smirked as he stood and zipped to stand in front of you, where he took you into his arms and whisked you off onto the dance floor.

  “So, are you deaf?” he asked nonchalantly and got a shake of the head. “So you’re mute then?” A lazy shrug met him and he grinned brightly at you. “Ah. Makes sense. Why are you mute?”

  This question made you frown and pull away before turning to leave the party. But your escape wasn’t quick enough- Pietro saw the tears pouring down your cheeks.

  ~xoXox~xoXox~xoXox~xoXox~xoXox~xoXox~xoXox~xoXox~xoXox~xoXox~xoXox~xoXox~

  Over the next two months, Pietro kept trying to get close you, only to be pushed further and further away from the alluring mystery that was Clint Barton’s daughter. He and Wanda had both learned enough sign language to hold a conversation with you, however, you mostly talked to Wanda.

  Is he always this much of an ass? You complained to Wanda one day after having the silver haired speedster try to talk you into training together.

  “If I’m right, and I’m always right about these things…” Wanda trailed off, a mischievous twinkle in her soft brown eyes, making you lean forward in anticipation. “I’d say that Pietro has a crush on you!”

  You nearly fell over at your friend’s words.

  Why would he possibly like me? You scoffed, folding your arms and looking bored.

  “I do have to give you credit on your poker face,” the brown haired woman said with a smile. Pietro had appeared and settled himself down onto the chair behind you.

  “Well, for one, if he’s not with me, he’s with you,” Wanda began. “Second, he’s trying to get to know you- why are you pushing him away?”

  Because I was hurt by someone I thought loved me! You exploded, spinning around to leave, only to bump into Pietro, who was pretending to read a book.

  “Please explain,” Wanda begged, taking your hand into hers and rubbing comforting circles into the back. You squeezed your eyes shut as tears began to fall once more and fled.

  Wanda’s eyes flew open and her hands went directly towards her mouth as she rushed after you.

  “Wait! Please!” She caught up to you as she was entering your room. “I’m your friend- please tell me why you refuse to trust my brother!”

  You took a shuddering breath before opening her door more, allowing Wanda to enter. You then closed the door and pulled your jeans down to showcase your soulmark.

  “Where have you been all my life, krasivaya?”

  The words that your soulmate would first say to you, written in messy cursives, branded into your right hip.

  “Pietro said those words to me when we first met,” a muffled snort escaped through your nose as your voice, rough from not being used in so long, whispered through the air. “I’m not ready- I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.”

  “Pietro will be so happy!” Wanda all but squealed in delight. “He’s been looking for you his entire life- I kept telling him that he needed to slow down- that he’d find you when it was time-”

  “Please don’t tell him!” you begged through tears.

  Before Wanda could speak, a voice made you both jump.

  “Hawkeye, Scarlet Witch, Artemis, please report to the launch bay for missing briefing.”

  ~xoXox~xoXox~xoXox~xoXox~xoXox~xoXox~xoXox~xoXox~xoXox~xoXox~xoXox~xoXox~

  After the briefing, you came out of the meeting room in your seemingly skintight leather jacket, your quiver and bow flung onto your back, heels clicking loudly as you strutted your way out to where the quinjet was waiting for its passengers.

  “Ready?” Clint grunted, planting a protective hand onto your shoulder. You smiled up and him and nodded, groaning in your mind at Pietro, who’d came to see his sister off.

  “Ready as always,” you muttered quietly, your father taking a surprised step back at your words.

  Steve caught word of your little exchange and a grin lit up his face as he took you in for a brotherly hug.

  “You ready?” he asked.

  “Roger, roger, copy you loud and clear, cap,” you peeled yourself away from Steve’s hug, wincing at Pietro’s sharp intake of air coming from behind you. “Ready when you are.”

                        “You are not going out on this mission.”

                        You slowly turned to face Pietro, who was staring at you with something that could only be described as wonder in his eyes. You could only scoff at him as you placed one foot into the quinjet.

                        “Who the hell do you think you are trying to stop me from doing my job?” you hissed out in a dangerously low voice.

                        “Your soulmate,” he answered, reaching out with one hand to touch your pale face. You only scoffed and smacked his hand away.

                        “Yeah, no,” you all but sneered before getting into the quinjet and starting to close the doors.

                        “Then I’m coming with you!” His jaw was stubbornly set. “No, you don’t understand- I’ve been looking for you my entire life!”

                        “Evidently, you haven’t been looking hard enough!” you snapped irritably before shutting the doors and taking a seat. “Ready, Steve? Dad? Wanda?”

                        “Yup,” Clint answered as he powered up the quinjet and lifted up.

                        “How did he take it?” Wanda asked as you strapped yourself in.

                        “About as well as you’d think,” you answered sarcastically, kicking back your heels and taking an arrow out of her quiver. You began to nervously play with its fletchings as the destination came up quickly.

                        “Okay, so here’s the plan,” Steve told called out from the co pilot’s seat. “Scarlet Witch and Artemis- you two distract the guards while Clint and I destroy the compound- is that manageable?”

                        “Hell yes,” you smirked as you cracked your knuckles. You stood with Wanda, and the two of you exited the quinjet into a rainstorm of bullets. You began releasing arrows, always hitting her target and killing HYDRA agents left and right as Wanda used her telekinesis to wreck havoc.

                        “Just like old times,” you smirked, releasing another arrow without even looking and killing a man who was getting ready to shoot out Wanda.

  “Thanks!” Wanda yelled as she heaved a boulder up and crushed three men at once.

  “You’re welcome!” you shouted back as you used one of your many trick arrows- this one being an exploding arrow- to make a jeep explode, the sudden flames killing everyone who was inside.

  “Okay kids- time to run!” Clint yelled, bursting from the compound with Steve close on his heels. Wanda and you both took up the rear as a loud explosion nearly rendered the four superheroes momentarily deaf.

  ~xoXox~xoXox~xoXox~xoXox~xoXox~xoXox~xoXox~xoXox~xoXox~xoXox~xoXox~xoXox~

  Pietro was a nervous wreck as he waited for word from his sister that everyone was okay.

  “We have two injured coming in!” Clint’s voice thundered over the intercom, making the silver haired speedster’s heart start to jackhammer in his chest.

  “I’m fine- good God in heaven dad, it’s nothing more than a tiny, benign papercut!” came your exasperated voice. “I’d be more concerned about Wanda- that explosion knocked her up pretty good.”

  “Both of you are going to be checked out,” Steve ordered. Pietro could practically hear the eye roll from you- his soulmate.

  “Steve, I hate to break it to you, but Wanda and I are not library books!” you sassed him and her words were directly followed by laughter from Clint at his daughter’s well timed joke.

  At that moment, the quinjet landed, and a crash team rushed out with a gurney at the ready.

  You stepped out first, supporting Wanda with an arm wrapped around the brunette’s waist and an arm slung over your shoulder.

  “She was hit with a flying brick to the head, the wound has mostly clotted, but I’d still take X- rays and possibly a MRI just to be on the safe side,” you told the head medic, running to keep up with the team as they took Wanda and headed straight towards the onsite hospital. “She’s been in and out of consciousness for almost about an hour now. Her blood pressure is 179 over 26- I think her body went into shock about ten minutes ago...”

  Pietro stayed behind as he listened to you rattling off words and terms he didn’t even know existed, outside of the occasional medical sit com.

  “You need to be checked out,” Clint told you as he came up to you. You opened your mouth only to be cut off with a stern look.

  “Okay, fine, you win,” you dramatically huffed, heading over to a vacant bed and shrugging off you leather jacket, tugging you dark grey tank top up over your head.

  All that Pietro could do was stare at the delicate inked artwork that decorated your body. The eclectic tattoos seemed to form a story that only you could tell- mermaid scales in shades of teal blue and silver, a yellow teddy bear and a pink pig holding onto a balloon, the words “Once Upon a Time…” in fancy calligraphy, and random music notes on a staff were some of what Pietro could pick out.

  “Hey, Maximoff?” He turned and gulped at the look that Clint was giving him. “Take care of my little girl, will you?” He didn’t bother waiting around for an answer as he marched off.

  “Can I help you with something or are you gonna continue staring at my back like some kind of creep?” you sighed heavily, rubbing your face with one hand.

  Pietro snapped himself out of his thoughts and walked to stand in front of you, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He was suddenly at a loss for words as he refused to look anywhere but at your unflinching face.

  The two of you settled into an uncomfortable silence, neither one wanting to break.

  “Are you injured?” Pietro was the first to crack, his eyes scanning your body, looking for any pain. You wordlessly showed him your hand, which had a small burn scarring the skin. It looked painful, but you weren’t showing any signs of discomfort.

  “I got it while pulling Wanda onto the quinjet,” you explained in as few words as possible. “She was hit in the head and lost consciousness directly afterwards.”

  Pietro smiled at the unemotional expression on your face. He reached up to touch your cheek, only a twitch of your eye made him stop.

  “I mean it.” His words were soft and full of love. Your eyebrow shot up and this was all the encouragement he needed to continue onwards. “I have been looking for you everywhere, ever since I was old enough to know what soulmates were.”

  You scoffed, but remained silent, your eyes full of distrust and fear as he stepped closer to her.

  “What happened to you?” he asked, his voice nothing more than a soft whisper.

  You chuckled humorlessly, breaking eye contact and looking down at your fiddling hands.

  “Ten months ago, I found out that my now ex boyfriend worked for HYDRA,” you explained, wiping away the tears in your eyes. “He actually killed children- little babies, only hours old. All because they weren’t “perfect enough”, whatever that means.”

  Pietro’s eyes filled with horror at what you were telling him.

  “In the end, it was either him or me. I had no choice but to kill him,” you sniffled loudly, wiping away more tears as they fell from your eyes.

  “I’m so sorry you had to go through all of that, moya printsessa” Pietro said, gathering you up into a hug.

  “What does moya printsessa mean?” you asked, your nose scrunching slightly at the words.

  “Moya printsessa means “my princess” in Sokovian,” he translated with a deep red blushing his cheeks.

  “Already with the pet names?” you dryly asked. He shrugged silently. “Look, I’m not ready for another relationship. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.”

  “Okay,” Pietro said, his words making you look at him sharply. “I understand what you’re saying. I can wait until you’re ready- I don’t mind. Anything for you, moya rodstvennaya dusha.”

  You made a face at his nickname for you.

  “You aren’t going to stop, are you?” you muttered.

  He smiled down at you as he stepped in between your legs and kissed the top of your head.

  “Never,” he murmured gently against your curls.

                              krasivaya~ beautiful

  moya printsessa~ my princess

  moya rodstvennaya dusha~ my soulmate

  taglist

@captain-ariel-barnes

@propertyofpoeandbucky

@invisibleanonymousmonsters

@thedevilwearsvibranium

              If you liked this, then please consider buying me a coffee HERE (http://ko-fi.com/A0A4A4UD) It only costs $3!!!

[dagm-graniel]

Dragon Age Tabletop Continuation

Because there’s been some demand, I’ll be posting recaps of the Dragon Age Tabletop story that my friends and I have been RPing for the better part of two years. These are heavily glossed over but with the help of my players we may also post more detailed retellings of certain critical scenes from the game. I’ll be doing these by location because it’s been two full years of weekly 4+ hour sessions

(All of the campaign takes place three years past Trespasser and as such there will be spoilers for the full series).

Chapter 1: Kirkwall

Three years after the incorporation of the Inquisition into the Chantry, the Grand Tourney was reinstated on a warm fall day in Kirkwall. Under the watchful eye of Varric Tethras, the new Viscount, the city agreed to host the Tourney as a show of strength and stability. Warriors and observers throughout the land gathers, from kings to kingmakers and peasants alike. The Dalish, The College of Mages, The Inquisition, and even the Grey Wardens sent representatives to make a show of unity at the end of the troubled days of Blight and rebellion now past. The Tourney would, for the first time, bring a promise of nonlethality thanks to Grand Enchanter Fiona and her college warding the grounds that were once where Kirkwall’s grim Gallows stood.

It was at the last minute of the tournament’s registration period that Damien Kinton, newly minted Warden Commander of the Free Marches, found himself without a team to represent himself and his Wardens in the group melee. His top trainee, a city elf mute named Harel, was supposed to report back to him an hour before. (Katari: He was busy begging me for half my lunch.) Instead of getting impatient, he goes to the Hanged Man for a drink. He drinks alone there for a while, inching ever closer to the end of the tourney’s registration period.

On his third or fourth tankard, a group makes a ruckus coming through the Hanged Man’s door. At their head, Kinton sees a slight elf he recognizes as Harel. The boy elf is already on the shorter side but is completely dwarfed by one of his current companions; he wears a tattered poncho over warden armor as something of a trademark. Harel has a habit of playing the beggar around others, finding some odd humor in it. Immediately behind him is a mountain of a man. The crowd in the bar eyes him suspiciously as he enters, as he has the unmistakable grey skin and horns of a Qunari. Something like a walking armory, he barely fits through the human sized door of the tavern. Chatting gruffly with the qunari warrior is a diminutive, red bearded fellow in heavy armor; a dwarf obviously long accustomed to both battle and the surface from the telltale signs of wear on his armor and body. Following them slightly uncomfortably is a masked man in extremely fine, fashionable clothing. He is a gaudy standout compared to the crowd frequenting the Hanged Man, an Orlesian obviously far from home for the Tourney. The last to enter is a man in perfectly normal clothes. There is only a single sign that he might be anything other than a normal citizen of Kirkwall, and that is the long, singular piece of wood strapped across his back. If you had asked him, he would have likely claimed it to be a bow out of habit. However, to anyone in the bar, especially someone like Damien, it was clear this man was a mage.

The entire group was reluctant to introduce themselves, having been brought here under chalkboard scrawled coercion by the mute elf. With the wardens so drastically understaffed throughout the continent, Kinton would explain, the recently instated First Warden ordered him to find recruits. Further, he was given explicit orders to conscript whoever he deem worthy, putting the group to an obvious threat. The way out was clearly stated: If the group fought for him in the melee, he would conscript the people they lost to and ask nothing more of them. If they won, which he considered to be unlikely, they would be free to go. Under these obvious constraints, the four agreed to work together.

The Qunari introduced himself as The Katari and the dwarf as Oswulf Tevis. Both of them had been members of the same mercenary company, the Black Wyverns, during the Fifth Blight and had served together in the Emprise du Lion during the Inquisition’s conflict with Corypheus. They were the only ones of the group to know each other prior, and clearly shared a strong bond. The Orlesian introduced himself as the lordling of some house no one had heard of, Dalfelic Vertilius. The mage only gave his first name, Khallum, and mentioned that he had lived in Kirkwall his entire life. Kinton listed off his credentials and formally introduced Harel and the group. All involved made their way to the Gallows.

Once at the tournament grounds, Kinton bowed out to attempt to find the First Warden, a former Denerim elf named Ciaran Tabris, in the crowd of visiting former dignitaries. With Harel as a lead the group was left to fend for themselves through the process of registration. It was around this time that the entirety of the Dalish delegation left the grounds with only a few warriors and a Keeper’s apprentice left behind trying to persuade their comrades to return. The apprentice, for her part, was more shouting at them and calling them cowards for choosing not to participate. Harel offered, once she had calmed down some, a place for her on the Warden’s delegation. She had a crop of white hair atop her head and a perpetual scowl, but she introduced herself fast enough as Revelas. Surprising everyone, including themselves, the party as a whole were one of the only teams to survive their rounds of the melee. Even more surprising, the entire group made it into paired rounds and then later into individual fights. Eventually, the open entry division of the tourney came down to the semifinal round. The fights were between Katari and Khallum, and two elves. One was a mage who had won every previous round without moving from his initial spot, named Ryein, and the other was an unexpectedly capable hooded figure going by Stabbs McGee.   The fight between Katari and Khallum went surprisingly even for the longest time, with Khallum the healer keeping his wounds healed while attempting to blast Katari at a distance with arcane lances. The two continued duelling for a while before Katari was able to close the distance completely and deal a stunning chest blow with his maul. Khallum was knocked unconcious and into the wall of the arena, and Katari was deemed the victor. Meanwhile, the fight between Ryein and the unfortunately named “Stabbs” was considered to be a no contest, as before the fight King Alistair Theirin of Ferelden stepped in after he recognized “Stabbs” was First Warden Tabris himself, banned from the Grand Tourney due to the risk of potential assassination attempts. His disqualification left the final round of the open division left to Ryein and Katari. This fight lasted only a few seconds, as the other mage almost killed Katari with two layered force cages compressing his body inward. Ryein was considered the winner of the Tourney that year and was offered the chance to fight the winner of the invitational melee, The Iron Bull of the Chargers. The fight with The Iron Bull was the most competitive any had yet seen from this elven man, with Ryein’s arm being severely injured by The Bull before he stepped back and withdrew a bizarre orb from his robes. The orb seemed to hang in the air for a moment and glow before a jet of fire shot out from it directly and physically impacted The Iron Bull. A scorched hole bore its way through his sternum and he was thrust against the arena wall. As people rushed to help, the elf blasted the medics away and proclaimed himself to be Elgar’nan, Elvhen god of the sun. Making a dangerous lightshow, he pronounced himself to the crowd to be a servant of Fen’harel and a harbinger of a new, final blight. He ominously gave a deadline of Saturnalia for the world to prepare, and panic broke loose in the stadium as he vanished in a flash of fire, burning the vallasin of Elgarnan in the arena floor as he left. Damien reappeared and brought the party to a secluded spot after some of the panic had settled down. At the spot, several of the most powerful people in Thedas had gathered. The First Warden and King Alistair were having a heated argument about the validity of the apparent god’s claims but both agreed that the show of force was worth paying attention to. The former Inquisitor Lavellan voiced concerns about the servants of Fen’harel and the plotting of the Evanuris. Once the disagreements were done, the First Warden, Varric, and Lavellan sat alone with the party in the room. All were impressed by their showing in the Tourney and extended a request to the party: Join the wardens and gather allies to the north. Most of the northern countries needed to be informed of the danger and the conflicts with Corypheus and between the southern wardens and Weisshaupt left the order severely understaffed for a Blight (much less the blight to end all blights). The party did not take exceptionally long to agree to join with the Wardens and upon doing so they were given marching orders to rendezvous with Lord Seeker Pentaghast and travel to Cumberland and then Nevarra for recruitment purposes. Kinton agreed to escort the group at least as far as the edge of the Vimmarks and gave the party thirty-six hours to meet himself, the Lord Seeker, and a representative of the college at the city’s east gate. The party members each chose to spend their time in different ways. All gathered supplies needed before they left, but other than that they splintered off. Oswulf and Katari chose to get plastered for most of their prep time with Harel at the Rose. Dalfelic begrudgingly joined them. Khallum and Revelas, lacking the desire to participate at the Rose and not having anything else to do, visited Khallum’s parents. The two Kirkwall natives were concerned to hear the story the two party members had to tell, but were clearly proud at the responsibility their son was taking on. They presented the two with a gift basket of supplies from the family shop. As the thirty-six hours drew to a close, the party reconvened at the city gates, where they were greeted by a hooded mage, Cassandra Pentaghast, and Viscount Tethras. The viscount granted boons to each of the party members in the form of enchanted arms. While the mage remained quiet, the Seeker introduced herself to each of her new travelling companions and they departed along the short highway to the Vimmark Mountains.

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WARNING: MINOR SPOILERS AHEAD

“JENNIFER WALTERS has survived the Civil War…barely…and having risen from the rubble, she re-enters the world a different kind of hero. Fueled by a quiet rage, she is determined to move forward, to go on with her life, but the pain of the past and all she’s lost is always there – an undercurrent, a pulse, waiting to quicken and trigger Jen’s transformation into the one thing she doesn’t have control over…”

–From the Marvel Comics website

Ah, Hulk. I’ve been waiting for this one. Strange to say since my general attitude toward Marvel and DC comics is mostly derision. Can you blame me? One company protects a serial sexual harasser while firing women who dare speak out. The other is run by a Trump lover, making Hydra something of an all too poignant allegory for the company. I don’t care for the majority of their comics, especially their world events that operate as a way to temporarily spike sales, ultimately crashing and burning while receiving the hissing, clawing displeasure of both fans and critics. With Marvel, the recent blunder is Civil War II, a gimmicky cash grab for an enjoyable movie based on terrible source material that got delayed so many times that the books taking place after the event came out before it even concluded.

Just like the original Civil War, the sequel is guilty of character assassination, unnecessary conflict, unnecessary death, and ruining a whole bunch of comics people were enjoying. NEVER FORGIVE THEM FOR WHAT THEY DID TO CAROL DANVER! I mean, I don’t care about her, but turning her into a fascist ruined her relationship with Ms. Marvel, by far the best, most relatable Marvel character to come out since the Runaways. She was my generation’s Peter Parker, and now she’s lost both her idol and her friends as a result. Marvel ruined her. RUINED HER, I SAY!

Also, why was Tony Stark against Danver’s Minority Report shtick? I mean, this was a man who in the original series OK’d a metahuman registration program that probably made Trump cream his pants. Tony is practically a fascist himself. God, even Captain America is a Nazi now! I mean, so many of the heroes have turned into villains themselves and…

Aw, forget it. I could go all day long about everything wrong with Civil War II, but naw. I avoided that garbage and I don’t want to waste time talking about it either.

So, why in the world would I be reviewing Hulk, a comic that happened as a direct result of this nonsense? I should be angry given Bruce Banner, one of my favorite Marvel characters, died. I should be with the Marvel Zombies grabbing their axes and lead pipes smashing windows and burning cars over it. However, after reading about the series from Mariko Tamaki and Nico Leon, I had to check it out.

Oh, I know. There are those that don’t want Jennifer Walters to be angry, traumatized Hulk. They love her as She-Hulk! Big green lawyer lady that breaks the fourth wall, cracks jokes, and goes on crazed hijinks with Patsy Walker. Now, I haven’t been a lifelong fan of She-Hulk. The first thing I read starring her was the short-lived series by Charles Soule and Javier Pulido. That comic was fun! Like watching your favorite Saturday morning cartoon show while listening to your favorite indie rock band. I can see why people are so attached to happy Jen. She’s a blast.

However, I must defend this new, darker approach to her. As much as I love ladies having fun, I prefer when they’re angry monsters. In fact, it seems recently that a new breed of female lead comics that center on women being some kind of monstrosity has risen: Monstress, Insexts, She Wolf, Cry Havoc, and even the mass murderer Gertrude from I Hate Fairyland. These women are angry, broken by whatever is afflicting them, and they’re ready to let it out in a wave of unprecedented carnage. The best part about this trend is how subversive these monstrous women are. Their monstrosities might at first seem like afflictions, but they slowly develop into a form of empowerment.

Happy is good, but monstrous is better.

So, how does this route go for Jennifer Walters? Well, I’m happy to say that Hulk is a bold new take on the character that will draw readers in not with endless action, but atmospheric art, character-focused drama, and a unique horror tone tackling trauma head on.

The covers of Jeff Dekal take a unique approach in conveying monstrous rage. Instead of showing actual destruction, as was Banner Hulk’s trademark, Cover #1 shows Jen grasping the logo tightly, seemingly on the cusp of crumbling it to pieces. Yes, it’s a violent image, but not in the sense of catastrophic physical violence, but poignant emotional violence. Jen is trying to hold back her rage, resisting the urge to destroy. After all, that’s what Bruce did, a man who couldn’t control the beast within. Jen is supposed to be different, supposed to be healthy and balanced. However, given the trauma she suffered in Civil War II, Jen’s on the breaking point. This is what Dekal masterfully conveys. Also, have to give huge props for coloring Jen gray. I suspect it’s a callback to Gray Hulk, a version of the character that I sometimes prefer over the Emerald Giant.

Cover #2 also takes a unique approach to violence in showing its aftermath. The punch-cracked window, Jen’s hands clawing upward, indicates how she momentarily lost control and there was a negative consequence. She’s trying to hold it back again. Slip-ups happen, right? However, when you’re a gamma-radiant monster, slip-ups tend to end up sucking for everyone around you. The coloring of Jen is quite interesting. I don’t understand why her skin is pink (call back to the Red Hulks, maybe?), but I love how there is a creeping network of gray veins slowly covering her body. To me, this symbolizes the Hulk inside of Jen, the one she’s trying to hold back. It’s also symbolic of the negative emotions she feels: anger, depression, and helplessness.

I think it is important to note how green has more prominence than Cover #1. The glow is notably on the walls. It seems to mean Jen’s control is slipping. Again, so much about the conflict of the comic, the overriding theme of struggling with anger and trauma is masterfully conveyed on the covers. I’ve recently talked about the importance of covers conveying a story’s theme and hooking a reader at the same time. For the covers of Hulk, Jeff Dekal hits a bullseye twice.

So, how does the interior art hold up in comparison? Nico Leon’s style creates a deceptively quiet atmosphere that aches with tension. Matt Milla’s coloring adds to this with a soft color palette. In issue #1’s opening scene, Jen’s apartment has a gray tone to it. It’s a huge space, some objects built to accommodate She-Hulk’s size. However, now that Jen is in human mode, the objects are hilariously oversized. In this empty apartment, with its many objects, Jen seems tiny and isolated. It’s strange because it is both calm and tense at the same time. It has to do with how Jen’s inner monologue, full of polarizing emotion, turns the plainness of the apartment into a mask. Leon’s depiction of Jen’s mute expression further pushes this idea of plainness as a mask for turmoil. Reading the comic is the same as visiting the hospital for an urgent report. You’re sitting in the waiting room, made as nice and homely as possible, but you’re still tapping your foot because once the doctor enters, it could be life or death. This is the atmosphere of the comic. Sometimes, it’s suffocating, but always poignant.

Leon and Milla also shine in their portrayal of New York City. Instead of trying to recreate it as the grim concrete jungle it no longer is, they showcase the city in its present decorum of bright colors, modernized architecture, and streets full of yuppies in designer clothing. These are also the scenes where letterer Cory Petit gets creative. A scene in a subway has big letters crowded with the sea of bodies, demonstrating the overpopulated, noisy experience of living in New York. Just like with the apartment, Jen’s isolation is noticeable and just as emotionally complex, simultaneously calm and tumultuous.

Although the art team certainly excels in environmental atmosphere, they fall a little short with character design. They’re not bad, but not memorable either. It might have to do with the lack of detail. Leon’s faces are simplistic, most of them eerily similar. I noticed this when contrasted with the art of Dalibor Talajic in issue #2, pages 4-6. Talajic adds more details that make faces distinguishable. Also, ages are recognizable. I couldn’t nail Jen’s age with Leon, but Talajic easily places her from late 20s to 30s. Another thing that I don’t like about Leon’s characters are the eyes. When closed, they look like a cutesy style anime character. Leon might be influenced by anime and manga to a certain extent, but this element of the art clashes with the tone of the comic.

However, there are exceptions, most notably the amazing designs of metahumans. They are creative, unique, and diverse. Already, one of these metahumans, Miss Brewn, has become an important side character. In fact, just like Soule and Pulido’s run, I hope Jen ends up representing a number of crazy characters and exploring their back-stories.

The hallmark of Hulk is Mariko Tamaki’s writing. I was interested to see how a writer well known for her indie drama work like This One Summer and Skim would do with a mainstream cape comic. Can she bring the same complex, emotional drama? The answer is almost. There is still the limitation of a 20-21 page-count that prevents extensive development, not to mention some campy elements, such as a sketchy landlord character that acts like a Sopranos extra.

The rest of Tamaki’s writing pulls off an astonishing feat of taking the concept of Hulk and bringing it down to reality. Now, this isn’t impossible and has been done before as evidence by Bruce Jones’ amazing run. Here, however, it is even more so because instead of starting off with a tale of espionage, it’s one of recovery. I will admit to having been trepidatious about trauma as a central theme, not because I doubted in Tamaki’s writing abilities, but worried that funneling it through a cape comic would make depictions over the top or offensive. Thankfully, that’s not the case. There are no gross scenes of Jen crying in a shower naked while chugging bottles of whiskey, and moaning about how she can’t go on without Bruce! Oh Woe is a world so cruel and unfair! HAWTHRONE HEIGHTS RULEZ!!!

That nonsense is absent. Instead, trauma is depicted accurately. Jen gets up each day and tries to live a normal life. She goes to work, eat bagels at a café, and have a coffee while watching children ice-skating in the park. She doesn’t interact much with people. Currently, Jen feels the need to be alone. This will probably be disappointing to folks that love Jen as a snappy joker with lots of friends, but it’s relatable to some people that have experienced trauma. It is important to reach out and let people aid you, but it’s also helps to be alone sometimes. Being alone is a time to be at peace, to clear your mind and experience life instead of over-thinking it.

The few interactions Jen has with people are still supportive. There is Patsy who sends positive text messages, and Bradley, Jen’s gay secretary, who keeps her busy and provides her a packet of nuts after a bad spell of rage. There is also Miss Brewn, Jen’s client, who brings out the best part of the character: her heroism. Even if Jen’s no longer fighting along with super folks, she still dedicates herself as a lawyer, protecting clients from harm and making sure their justice. This is important again in approaching trauma from a mature, complex angle. Tamaki shows that there is room for positivity, to be able to function and be happy, even while in the midst of coping. There is even humor, both laughs and heroism balance out the darker parts of the comic.

As for trauma, the core of the story, Tamaki & Co. explores it in a unique way. Jen’s trauma is triggered when mentions of Bruce and the Hulk are made. It reminds her of the pain she has been through, of the fact her own Hulk form is now uncontrollable, something welling up and ready to burst. In these scenes, green becomes a dominant color. At their worst, Jen’s eyes turn green, the veins around them glow, and she glares and grits her teeth. The Hulk is trying to claw out, but unlike Bruce who always lost control automatically, Jen is able to force it back down. Unfortunately, this resistance clearly causes her pain. This pain symbolizes the agony of trauma itself, how it takes it toll on both the mind and body. Also, how long can Jen’s efforts last? It seems to be only a matter of time before her control slips completely.

The way these scenes are depicted is best described as atmospheric horror. The darkness, the intensity of glowing green, Jen’s contorting face of anger, are images that make the reader feel uneasy, ready to jump out of their seat as they prepare for the worst. This is how the best horror scares its audience, not through jump scares or extreme violence, but the dread of anticipation. It’s the feeling of walking alone in a street at night and there are either footsteps or strange noises trailing behind. You keep walking. You don’t dare turn around out of fear that it will be the moment the stalker strikes, yet at the same time its agonizing not knowing who or what it is. The creative team nails this type of horror down, with the added emotional resonance of knowing these scenes symbolize Jen’s trauma. It agonizes the reader into caring for Jen, if that makes sense. They know how much pain she is, and now want to see her persevere and survive. It’s similar to the final girl trope from slasher films.

The comic manages to balance out both the light and dark parts of Jen’s story. Seeing her both in pain and triumphant when the time comes is a satisfying emotional wheel for those that like protagonists to go through a personal trial before getting a happy ending. Sometimes, it can feel a little over the top, but never exploitative. Best of all, the story is told without the overuse of action that’s prevalent in modern superhero comics. Each issue unfolds like the chapter of a book, focusing on character development and dialogue. This approach reminds me of the masterful Vision series by Tom King and Gabriel Hernandez Walta. Both series read more like literary horror than superhero adventure. This style is not for everyone, and there will still be people that don’t enjoy this type of story, especially those who don’t want it happening to Jen. However, I have to take a stand and say it is executed expertly. Tamaki, Leon, and everyone else involved obviously understand people’s concerns for the character, and from what I have seen so far are giving her the respect she deserves.

One last thing I want to comment on is both the title of the series and that of the current story arc. It’s called “Deconstruction.” Why? My theory based on the content is that this arc, and the series as a whole, is attempting to deconstruct the character. Hulk, in relation to Bruce Banner, has always been associated with pain, destruction, and mental illness. His death can be seen as the finality of those negative attributes. It is something seen in stories time and time again. The monster, symbolic of the things that bother humanity, must die. Jen was different. Yes, she started off just as savage, but eventually attained control of her other self, even going so far as live daily as She-Hulk. That gift was taken away from her with the death of Bruce, and now her Hulk form afflicts her just as much as it did him.

Perhaps this is necessary. Now that Hulk is dead, and Jen claims the name, it’s almost saying that she has to be stuck with the original meaning of the name, not empowerment but destruction. It should be noted how the events that caused the scenario were mandated by a mostly male creative team. So, while it is easy to give praise for titling the series Hulk instead of She-Hulk to erase gender labels, it could also be said that the old male meaning behind Hulk is now inflicted upon a woman. As I mentioned before, monsters are often symbolic of everything that is wrong with the world, and anyone or anything labeled as such tends to be set up for elimination. After all, society can’t have an ugly manifestation of its dark side stalking about.

However, there is an opportunity for the monstrosity to become a form of empowerment. In the female monster titles I mentioned, monstrous women are immediately put in the box of wrong and afflicted by (mostly male) society’s perceptions of monsters. Jen is similarly afflicted, dealing with her cousin’s legacy, one of contempt from the world at large. But she’s not letting this legacy hold her down. Jen is still being Jen. Furthermore, the series would be smart in showing a transition of Jen reclaiming control of her hulk form and, on a larger scale, breaking down the old concept of Hulk and reconstructing it as something positive. Being a monster can become empowering rather than afflicting.

Only two issues in, Hulk is full of potential. If it lasts long enough and the creative team grows Jen in the right path, it may become an engaging tale of trauma, monstrosity, and reclaiming one’s identity. With atmospheric art, an emotionally complex story, and unique horror tone, I would recommend this title to anyone that loves the character. She might not be the She-Hulk of old, but she is no less fun to read.

Story: Mariko Tamaki Art: Nico Leon, Matt Milla, Cory Petit, Dalibor Talajic Story: 9.5 Art: 8.5 Overall: 9 Recommendation: Buy

Make Me Angry: Hulk #1-2 Review #comics #marvel #hulk WARNING: MINOR SPOILERS AHEAD “JENNIFER WALTERS has survived the Civil War…barely…and having risen from the rubble, she re-enters the world a different kind of hero.

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Loki: A Character Bio

Name: Loki

Appears In: Lacuna, Sky Children, Whispering Gods, La Vie en Bleu, Wild Earth, Mechi

Character Summary:

Star sign: Leo

Personality type: ENFJ-A

Appearance: Loki has long unnatural silver hair, the ends of which some describe as black flames creeping into the silver. His eyes are grey and bright as all Mechi eyes are. He’s a tall being, made to look like a gentleman in his early thirties. When he went rogue from the Terah system he warped his appearance in defiance and one of his trademarks are his old world leather vests and top hat. He loves surrounding himself with antiques and memories of the world before the nuclear wars. He has a love of history and gave himself the name Loki after his years of service under the Terah.

Breakdown:Loki is simply known as Loki, he took no surname from a human family as he was created for the commercial world. Loki is pushing two-hundred years old by the time the Lacuna Chronicles begins, a first generation sentient AI, and he’s seen and been through the wars and yearns for a world he can be free in. In his early life he was separated from his sister Naia and sold as a salesman, and so he was programmed to be charming and personable. He uses those personality traits to his advantage when he breaks his own code and goes rogue from the Terah monitoring system and starts selling odd trinkets on Zenith’s black market alleyways. All of the Underground Zenith network knows Loki as he travels from town to town, selling passports and dreams. You see, he has a bit of an odd quirk. Mechi can’t dream, but Loki does. His trinket selling is only a front for his prophetic dream reading and passports for the ones that can afford such a freedom. He gives hope to the tired, beaten population of Zenith and in turn becomes a beloved figure.

Relationships:

Miel “Blue” Vauquelin (romantic)

Details: Blue starts out as a friend to Loki.  Caught stealing from another vendor in the Alley, Blue also catches Loki’s eye.  Blue sells a very different sort of ware in Zenith but what Loki truly craves is companionship and Blue gives him that because it is the one thing that Blue craves in turn. They connect through a physical desire but also a deeper emotional and intellectual desire that Loki has never experienced as a Mechi, a race that isn’t trusted or seen as having human emotions in Zenith. Blue sees Loki as human and as his equal in every way and he becomes an integral part of Loki’s life. They love one another for the traits that the world around them condemns them for and that drives Loki to watch over Blue in his often times dangerous life. This bond lasts a lifetime for both of these tragic characters and they come out stronger for it.

Mikas Ikeda (nemesis)

Details: Loki tolerates the tough talking thief who is Blue’s closest friend and is often seen as family member. He knows that both Blue and Mikas harbor a hidden romantic interest for one another beneath their fiercely loyal friendship. But being Mechi allows Loki to see situations for what they truly are. He understands that Blue’s affections for this troubled boy are not fully returned and he has forever to earn Blue’s loyalty unlike some human nemesis’ he has. He does love a good jab at Mikas who is often hot headed and dangerously spontaneous. Loki’s interactions with Mikas are usually barely noticeable bites beneath a pleasant smile. He gets a bit of pleasure from Mikas’ tumultuous human emotions but you can forgive that in him can’t you?

Katya “Nero” Stepanov (friend)

Details: Nero becomes Loki’s closest friend and ally through a series of tumultuous events. Hired as a hit-woman to the wrong client gets her thrown into a Terah prison where no one makes it out alive. Loki with his connections is able to free her and she becomes a fiercely loyal friend and eventually bodyguard under Loki’s employment. Who better to have a rogue Mechi’s back than a highly trained human assassin? Their bond is tight-knit and often comical due to their very different personalities. Nero is a tough woman, used to a hard life, and her humor is dry and often cutting, whereas Loki takes life as it is. His motto is why stress when the world is burning all around them? It makes for an interesting duo.

Naia Addington (sibling)

Details: Loki was created with Naia and watched his sister sold to a family as their maid. He spent a good half of his life wondering about her as he was forced to work in the commercial industry and once he took his freedom into his own hands he went looking for her. Through her, he finds a way to survive and together they begin a covert business of stolen passports through her corporate family. They keep their bond strong through both of their lives and see one another as family in a world that would label them machine.

Excerpt:

A woman who was probably taller than himself, her brown hair shorn boyishly short, sat with her polished boots propped up on the counter in the stall he had been eyeing since he’d stepped into the Alley an hour ago. She laced her fingers behind her head as she sucked on the end of a thick cigar and watched the evening crowd flooding in. She looked like she would be able to crush him with one hand if she wanted to. There was a ruggedness to her that was intimidating. She caught him staring and held his gaze.

“You looking for something?” she asked him, chewing lightly on the end of the cigar.

Blue faltered for a moment under her hard gaze. Her rough accent was one he couldn’t quite place. Here in Zenith where so many people from all over the world had been relocated, displaced, it was sometimes hard to remember what had been before, the separate countries and their separate accents and ways of living.; they were all one slowly dying entity now.

“If you’re not looking, move along,” the woman said brusquely and turned her face away from him, back to the thickening crowd.

His gaze swept the empty stall critically. There were a few old world, dusty relics sitting on the counter by the woman’s boots, but nothing else in the stall. It was odd that the tent was so empty when every other vendor was packed floor to ceiling. A covered tent stood at the back of the stall, closed, but he could see a warm, glowing light coming from within, and shadows moving on the other side of the cloth.

“Are you deaf? I said move along,” the woman reiterated, this time more forcefully, and she kicked her boots from the counter to thump them down on the ground heavily, hands braced against her knees.

Blue frowned at the aggressive stance and thought about doing as she had said and moving on, but the shadows flickering on the other side of the tent interested him. There was no signage hanging above the stall, no indication of what could possibly be sold here, but he remembered clearly the strange Mechi and the way he had strode back to this tent through the swirling dust days ago.

“What exactly goes on here?” Blue asked the woman, knowing he was testing her patience as she looked him over in distaste.

“We have nothing for your kind around here. The boss reads dreams,” the woman answered him rudely and he felt a flare of indignance at the easy way she had insulted him.

“My kind?” he wondered with a curl of his lip, and though he didn’t understand what the woman had told him about her boss reading dreams, he stood up taller, hand on his hip and looked her over with the same air of hostility. He had taken an instant dislike to this woman who so easily judged him, “I think I’d like to talk to the boss,” he said stubbornly.

“Suit yourself,” the woman growled, kicking her boots back up on the table so that he was forced to move away or get kicked by her, “but you’ll have to wait. He’s busy.”

She sighed under her breath as she sucked on her cigar and commenced to ignoring his presence, but Blue stood his ground and waited around despite the heavy, angry tension between them.

Luckily, it was only a few moments before the tent flap was thrown back with an air of drama and the Mechi he remembered had been named Loki stepped from the tent. There was a moment where the Mechi seemed startled to see Blue standing at his stall, his elegant composure slipping for the briefest of seconds before his lips quirked into a grin.

An older woman stepped from the tent behind him and a transaction was made between them before Loki smoothly fixed his attention back on Blue. Blue forced himself to keep Loki’s gaze, even as his heart began to pound in his chest under the Mechi’s perusal.

“He wants a reading,” the woman explained, indicating to Blue with a lazy flick of her hand, but Blue was past caring what this Mechi’s assistant thought of him.

Loki tipped his hat, an old world gesture that was out of place in this dying future. Everything about Loki seemed out of place, and Blue found himself oddly captivated.

Loki swept the cloth covering the tent out of the way and Blue took the invitation, ducking and entering the tent. Instantly his senses were filled with the exotic smells of sandalwood burning on a table in the corner of the tent, a lulling scent. There was only a small table in the middle of the tent, and a single light hanging from above, muting the atmosphere, and making Blue feel light-headed.

“Nero said you wanted a reading,” Loki’s low, rich voice filled the tent, and Blue was reminded of why he had decided to seek Loki out. He had almost convinced himself it was because he owed Loki some sort of thank you for getting he and Mikas out of the threatening situation Mikas had pulled them into days ago. But in actuality he knew it was only because he was curious about this Mechi who seemed not like other Mechi he had encountered. There was no mechanicalness to the being standing in front of him, a perfection that transcended human, yes, but the very air around him seemed electrified with a tempting eccentricity.

“Do you remember me?” Blue asked, forcing a little smile he hoped was teasing and not anxious. His fingers trembled the slightest bit as he took a seat at the small circular wooden table. He tried to still the trembling of his fingers by touching the fine cloth covering the table, rubbing the material absently between thumb and forefinger.

“Of course,” Loki gave him a smile in return, one that seemed too knowing for Blue’s taste.

“I received a monitor out of our little meeting,” Loki chuckled softly and showed Blue his wrist where the thin silver monitor Mikas had tried stealing now rested against the red triangle on Loki’s skin. Blue looked away uncomfortably, reminded of the social gulf between the two of them with that harsh branding.

“Gaveryn’s stall was shut down and packed up yesterday,” Loki continued, retracting his wrist and catching Blue’s wandering gaze again, “seems the old bastard finally got what was coming to him. I decided to keep the monitor of course. These things are so expensive.”

Blue laughed at that, surprising himself. He found Loki’s bluntness, his light and teasing attitude refreshing.

“Blue,” he introduced himself and Loki smiled at that. He supposed he should remember his manners.

“I’m sure you’ve heard my name passed around here by now. I’ve been going by Loki for at least a century,” Loki tapped the rim of his hat and then leaned against the table between them, long, slender fingers intertwined.

“So, what sort of dream are you coming to me about?” Loki asked and Blue’s smile faltered as he mentally scrambled to make up a dream, or at least remember a recent dream he had had.

“Well,” he began, but his mind remained blank, and he realized he might as well drop the charade, “the truth is, I didn’t come here to have a dream read.”

He wasn’t sure how a dream could be read in the first place, and how a Mechi would be able to understand a human’s dream when they were not capable of dreaming themselves.

“Oh?” Loki asked, grin lengthening as he rested his chin on a curled hand and looked to Blue as if he found him endlessly entertaining. Blue shifted in his seat and shrugged a shoulder.

“I wanted to… thank you… for stepping in and helping the other day,” he finally uttered, “you didn’t have to do that.”

“I saw someone in need of help and felt obliged to offer a hand,” Loki explained, and then he passed a finger over his bottom lip thoughtfully before laughing under his breath, and Blue frowned, wondering at the amusement Loki seemed to find in him.

“Forgive me, I feel I should be honest as you have been with me…” Blue tilted his head at the odd comment, “I found you to be incredibly beautiful and I saw an opportunity to talk to you,” Loki admitted, “I could scarcely pass it up.”

Loki then sat back in his seat and hooked his thumbs in his vest pockets, a habit of his, it seemed. Blue’s breath caught at the statement, and he felt an odd sense of pleasure wash through him at the honest admission. He should have been used to men complimenting him by now. He’d been yelled at by sleazy older men time and again in the streets, heard the same thing whispered into his ear night after night as he lay beneath some panting, sweating man. He wished men’s compliments were money instead of mere words, because if they were, he’d be ridiculously wealthy by now. But there was something different in the way Loki had handed him those same words he was so used to hearing, something that made him almost believe they had substance to them.

“I’m glad we’re being honest with one another,” Blue replied.

If you would like to know more about the series this character is from, stay tuned to this writeblr. I’m going to put up many more character bios and short stories, or stop by my website https://amdailybooks.com/ for more info and many freebies/short stories that will be popping up soon! I’m always up for asks and will talk nonstop about these beloved babies.

If interested, the book this excerpt is from is available on the site :)

[miseensceneofthemind]

Melancholy Mix Vol. INFINITY

The music of melancholy - 13 choice cuts that turn pain into beauty.

I’m going to level with you, kiddo: heartbreak sucks. There’s no avoiding it, and the thing is, it’ll keep on coming. HEARTBREAK, FOREVER AND FOREVER, A HUNDRED YEARS HEARTBREAK.

I know, I know, it’s an incredibly bleak viewpoint, but fortunately it’s not all whiskey benders and facepalms (poor, poor Bogie). Luckily, us humans have an uncanny talent for turning pain into something practical, even managing to transform suffering into statements of beauty, whether in the form of paintings, films, novels, or whathaveyou - the list is as vast and infinite as there are causes of heartache (RIP TANGY FRUITS).

If you are anything like me (and for your sake, I hope you’ve made peace with that), you’re inexorably drawn to the melancholic in life, especially when it comes to music that poignantly expresses it. So, in the name of melody and melancholy, here are (in no particular order) 13 slightly left of field songs that you should probably avoid if you’re in the midst of heartbreak (hang in there, you can do this!):

Steve Conte - ‘No Reply’

This particular song weaselled its way into my life at a time that couldn’t be more unfortunate (WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS, FOLKS). How does that happen? Autoplay - the cause of, and solution to all of life’s misery. Anywho, this track comes off Future Blues, the soundtrack to Cowboy Bebop: The Movie, and is that rare mix of song that if were personified, would be crying while smiling triumphantly. BITTERSWEET. Come for the angst, stay for the sweeping strings and accompanying tears. Listen here

The Fairfield Four - ‘Lonesome Valley’

The Coen Brothers are good at many things. Who am I kidding, they make the masterful seem effortless. Therefore it comes as no surprise, that they knock it out of the park with their music selections in O Brother, Where Art Thou. ‘Lonesome Valley,’ a traditional American gospel folk tune, is performed mournfully by The Fairfield Four. Their acapella rendition is enough to petrify the hairs on the back of one’s neck - if you do not, I repeat, DO NOT want to be moved to the core, avoid this song at all costs. Listen here

Slint - ‘Washer’

It almost feels like an intrusion to listen to ‘Washer,’ the most somber track from Slint’s 1991 album Spiderland. The stark production of the record is so naked and intimate, that one would be forgiven to feel uncomfortable when listening to Brian McMahan reveal lyrics that are tantamount to reading a secret journal entry. If you can accept this (and oh my gosh, you should), the reward is one of the more interesting displays of the quiet loud dynamic that was so emblematic of early nineties alternative music. Listen here

Calexico - ‘Missing’

“She notices a chunk bleeding from your chest.” Wrap me in a warm blanket, and bury me in this song. Perhaps the most lyrically poetic entry on this list, Calexico hauntingly evokes the forlorn landscape of inner loss and longing - a barren desert if ever there was one. Essential listening, ESPECIALLY when things are getting you down. Listen here

Shawn Colvin - ‘The Facts About Jimmy’

You may be familiar with Shawn Colvin from her hit ‘Sunny Came Home,’ the main single off her 1996 divorce concept album A Few Small Repairs, but whereas that song details the painful end of a marriage, ‘The Facts About Jimmy’ paints the destructive world of a man oblivious to his own emotional carnage. For those who have had divorce creep into their life (that goes for children too), many of the songs on the album will resonate, but the muted and delicate instrumentation of ‘The Facts About Jimmy’ particularly underscores the quiet, devastating environment of a failing marriage at its lowest point. Listen here

Little Dragon - ‘No Love’

“No love in my soul left for you.” One of the more bitter entries featured on this list, Little Dragon’s ‘No Love’ wastes no time in burning bridges. If you’ve ever been jilted by love (*hugs*), this track would otherwise strike too strong a chord were it not for the soothing, self-assured vocals of Yukimi Nagano. Make this your new anthem for moving on. Listen here

Chris Whitley - ‘Assassin Song’

Criminally unappreciated, Chris Whitley is one of the greatest singer-songwriters you’ve never heard (if you have, LET’S BE FRIENDS). ‘Assassin Song,’ from his 2003 album Hotel Vast Horizon, is a perfect encapsulation of what makes Whitley so special in the canon of melancholy. From the dusty honk of his resonator guitar, to the plaintive lyricism channeled through his ghostly voice, Whitley creates an allegory for the solitary and transient life of a musician through the tale of an assassin who “slide[s] through town.” Let this song crawl under your skin, and make a permanent residence. Listen here

Chuck Ragan - ‘Don’t Say a Word’

Who would have thought that singing punk music would be a perfect training environment for the weathered yarns of Americana? ‘Don’t Say a Word’ relates a stoic acceptance of worldly pain, resolute in finding the strength to endure regardless. Chuck Ragan’s raggedly worn vocals (honed through his years in the punk band Hot Water Music), convey the experience of someone who has been through the ringer, and are a perfect fit for a song that just wants to hold and reassure you that everything will be alright. Recommended listening beverage: sweet tea. Listen here

Citizen Cope - ‘Sideways’

This song is deceptively simple, but therein lies its power. If a random solo musician covering the song in Vietnam can bring you to tears, you know you’ve found something special (and yes, that happened and I cried BUT HE WAS JUST SO GOOD). Much like the lyrics proclaiming that ��These feelings won’t go away,” ‘Sideways’ has a singular musical focus that cuts to the core. Although the version featuring Santana may be more well known, the unadorned sparseness (are you noticing a trend here?) of Citizen Cope’s original iteration is far more effective as a personal statement of grief when unshackled from Santana’s guitar trickery. Plus, the song prominently features the flatted fifth musical tritone, more affectionately known as ‘The Devil’s Interval,’ so bonus darkness points! Listen here

Pelican - ‘Final Breath’

“And I will love thee still, my dear. Till all the seas run dry.” It’s not often that a metal band will create a breathtakingly beautiful song about unconditional love, but when it happens, you better hold onto it for dear life (I mean come on, IT’S A METAL UNICORN FOLKS). Such is the result of ‘Final Breath,’ instrumental band Pelican’s first foray into music featuring lyrics. With Allen Epley (of Shiner fame) providing the dreamy vocals required to make one’s heart flutter, ‘Final Breath’ musically beds lyrical sweetness with a wistful sense of finality. All that is good in life, must eventually end. Listen here

Neurosis - ‘The Road To Sovereignty’

Neurosis (for my money) are the undisputed kings of doom and gloom, but ‘The Road To Sovereignty,’ the final track from their classic album Times Of Grace sees them easing back on the grinding intensity just enough for their folk side to shine. Thankfully, none of their trademark off-kilter dissonance is lost in the process, but the effect is markedly different. Instead of creating a musical storm as is their usual calling card, ‘The Road To Sovereignty’ is rather a meditative reflection in the wake of destruction. Listen here

Phillip Glass - ‘Metamorphosis 1′

When it comes to ‘Metamorphosis 1′ by Phillip Glass, the less said, the better. Find yourself a quiet place, dim the lights, put on some headphones and let the composition wash over you (fetal position optional, but advised). Listen here

Bernard Herrmann - ‘Scene D’Amour’

How does one make an impossibly great film a masterpiece? You hire Bernard Herrmann as your composer, that’s how. Personally, I find it difficult at times to even handle ‘Scene D’Amour,’ a showstopping composition featured in Alfred Hitchcock’s seminal work, Vertigo. Without a doubt, one of the most heartachingly melancholic things I have ever heard in my life. Oh my word, when the string section gets quiet?!? I’M NOT CRYING, YOU ARE. Listen here

You made it! *high five* Hopefully, you feel a smidgen braver for having stared into the abyss. It can be a dark and lonely place sometimes, but the most beautiful things often are.

[tiniisms]

Someone send me some writing prompts for my character Dragica. I’m supposed to be writing her novel for my creative writing module for uni, but I can’t find my muse for the plot atm. All my love ❤️