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ty-talks-comics · 5 years ago

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Best of DC: Week of February 26th, 2020

Best of this Week: Batman: Curse of the White Knight Book Seven - Sean Murphy, Matt Hollingsworth and AndWorld Design

Batman is Dead.

The last issue of Curse of the White Knight gave us the last in the story of Edmond Wayne and revealed that the man that Bruce thought was his ancestor, turned out to have been the family to Jean-Paul Valley instead. Bakkar of the Order of St. Dumas killed Edmond after betraying and stealing Gotham from under him, thus assuming the name of Wayne and forming the city to his vision. With this newfound information, Batman has found himself a man with a lineage of thievery, especially after finding out that Gotham’s Elite have been funding their crime through Wayne Enterprises.

This issue begins with a somber flashback to a moment before the funeral of the Waynes. Bruce cries and blames himself for their deaths because he wanted to see The Mask of Zorro. He had always wanted to use the rapiers that his father kept on display and figured if he learned to use them from the movie, then he would be able to impress his father enough. Alfred, always so caring, tells him that if he’s able to go to the funeral, then he can hold a rapier. He then vows to teach young Bruce how to use it for the next danger he may face.

Matt Hollingsworth colors this flashback in a cool blue hue, emphasizing both the sadness and the hopefulness of the moment. Murphy portrays Alfred as being caring and shows that even with the tears, Bruce shows his ability to rise up and become the hero that people need. Though the rapier is far too large for his kid body, Bruce holds it firm in hopes of protecting Gotham in the future.

As we cut back to the modern day, Bruce faith in himself and his dreams of becoming Gotham’s knight are shaken. He was never a Wayne by blood and he sees himself as part of Gotham’s cuse. Many would be right to see him as such given Gotham’s crime initially started off as petty stuff and eventually escalated into battles with The Joker, Two-Face and others with Gotham being caught in the crossfire every time. He didn’t even know that his company was being used by criminals because of his singular focus on fighting crime.

Murphy draws Batman as being tired and ashamed of himself for only just now understanding Jack Napier’s vision and why Batman is just as bad for Gotham as The Joker was. His expressions are melancholic, Murphy makes excellent use of shadow to try to hide some of his shame and body language to make him look like an old man that’s been sitting on a lawn chair for eighty hard years. Harleen Quinzel acts as his voice of reason during his pity party and actually shows concern for him.

Harleen has been a central character in this world since the very first issue of the original White Knight and that doesn’t change here though her own personal arc is over. The last issue saw her do her best to bring Jack Napier out of Joker’s mind for one last time for information and to save her children. In the end, she had to shoot Joker in the head to let Jack rest and rid herself of the monster that had been plaguing her for years. She still finds herself at Batman’s side as one of his most trusted friends.

Bruce still has one thing that he can do to make sure that Jean-Paul doesn’t get away with his crimes and Harley convinces him that Gotham will forgive his transgressions like they did for the former Joker in Napier. At the same time, Azrael is still out there and Murphy and Hollingsworth give readers an AMAZING shot of the villain in his updated Knightfall costume. He grabs onto the nds of his cape as he soars backwards into his hideout. The lights of the city contrast with his blacks, yellows and blues to just give us a pretty damn good shot of how powerful he feels in the suit.

This is contrasted by the next few set of panels where he’s puking out of his mask after escaping from the GTO (Gotham Task Oppression Unit). This version of Azrael has been diagnosed with terminal cancer and as such needs medicine to live and suppress the symptoms. With little dialogue and some telling panels, we see that Azrael has empty bottle after empty bottle of pills in his cabinet. He’s starting to look a bit more gaunt than the first time we saw him. He’s withering away slowly and only has one more pill to spare for his coming battle with Batman.

I love the details that Murphy and Hollingworth add here. There’s blood in his vomit and it maintains after he pukes on his leg. His ribs are starting to show and we’ve seen just how jacked he was in the issues prior. His hair doesn’t appear as long as it did, even pulled into a bun/ponytail and there’s just something so final about the “shit” he gives after finding out that he only has one more pill left. In that singular moment, his mistakes come back to haunt him after killing his, admittedly, treacherous employer.

Soon after, Bruce makes amends to Barbara Gordon after inadvertently causing the accident that almost saw her completely lose use of her legs and effectively getting her dad killed. Barbara has always been resilient and we all feared that that issue #5 would be yet another Killing Joke, but here she is, using crutches to try walking again. The scene takes place during the bright Gotham day and this signals a brighter future for their relationship.

Bruce had always gone to Jim Gordon for advice on what route he should take, but without him, Bruce is missing one of his moral compasses. Barbara is the next best person because she has always been smarter than her father and Bruce has a ton of guilt to get off of his chest and Barbara handles everything like the mature adult that she is. She doesn’t blame Bruce for what happened, even though she said horrid things in anger, but can anyone blame her? She cries at the mention of her father and embraces Bruce, encouraging whatever his decision may be.

Of course, with this being the penultimate issue in this particular storyline, it only makes sense that we see a grand revelation come out of it. Murphy and Hollingsworth set the stage with Hollingsworth coloring the afternoon skies of Gotham with an orange-red kind of hue. We see various shots of different places in Gotham from public libraries to the streets themselves as Batman appears on the giant monitor of Gotham Square. Everything feels hot and sort of uncomfortable.

Bruce gives his appreciation and thanks to the people of Gotham for allowing him to serve as their protector and we continue to get these various shots of people. There’s auto mechanics watching the broadcast in their shop, people in a bar and kids watching on a cell phone with their dog. Murphy uses this to illustrate that Gotham is far larger than we think it is and that there are many people that Batman has saved from every corner of his beloved city, but he hasn’t done enough yet. So what’s the final step?

Batman reveals himself to be Bruce Wayne and dismantles WayneCorp.

Bruce finally becomes the knight that Gotham needs by giving back to the people. By destroying his company, he gives back to the people of Gotham by giving all of his money to nonprofits, schools, homeless shelters etc. It’s everything that Batman detractors have been saying Bruce should have done for ages. In doing so, he offers Gotham a better future than he could have as Batman, but he only asks them to stay off the streets of Gotham for one night while he takes care of the Azrael business. Murphy shows Bruce holding his cowl one last time, standing tall by his heroic decision.

Back at the GCPD, he gets lambasted by Commissioner Montoya for going off and doing his own thing again, but counters by saying that he trusts in the people of Gotham and they all formulate their battle plans. It’ll be his last time taking the reigns before he turns himself in as well, so he might as well make sure that everything goes according to plan.

As Montoya tells Batman that Azrael destroyed most of the other Batmobiles in his assault on bruce in Book Four (I think), she reveals that one survived and I see that Sean Murphy is a Batfan after my own heart. The Batmobile that survives is the badass one from the Animated Series, what this book is supposed to be the “sequel” to. It's sleek and well designed thanks to Murphy’s own love of cars. From the presentation, readers can tell that this is one of the pages he took serious time with as the Batmobile is given so much respect.

After a short conversation with Dick about what Bruce is going to do when he catches Azrael, Batman drives away, leaving his sidekicks concerned about his state of mind and we get one last splash page of Batman standing in the middle of Gotham Square without his cowl and the sky is a blood red. The Batmobile looks sexy in the background and this was all just so amazing.

Sean Murphy is a comic book treasure. His art and his writing truly made this an experience and a Batman story worth standing the test of time. It had the action, the drama, the stylish sequences and several twists and turns that make a story great. He’s made Batman his own in a grungy style much like how Scott Snyder and Greg Capullo have in a heavy metal manner. Murphy’s Gotham is a masterpiece in crustpunk with social problems that Batman’s always had in the periphery of his character and every issue has been better than the last.

Matt Hollingsworth brings it to life with his perfect colors; Whether they’re making use of the blues of Gotham’s clear skies or the light purples of the night sky, Hollingworth makes Gotham look distinct no matter the time of day. Scenes are given hues to match the tone of the pages whether they’re full of intense anger or incredible sadness, Matt Hollingsworth sets the mood no matter what

I really enjoyed this series, but I can’t wait for the next and final issue of it just to see that confrontation between Batman and Azrael. It’s been a long time coming and the fallout from Bruce’s decision as well… it’ll be too much, but yeah High recommend!

Also, support me on Patreon:

patreon.com/TyTalksComics

#batman #curse of the white knight #azrael #barbara gordon #harleen quinzel #sean gordon murphy #sean murphy #matt hollingsworth #dc comics #dc black label

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bangtaninspired · 6 years ago

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Jimin Joker (AU) Chapter 1

(AU) Jimin Joker: Chapter 1 of 3 Genre: Thriller (angst, smut, violence e.t.c) Letting out a sigh you lean back in your patrol car, letting your head slam into the leather cushion

“L/N, did you hear what I said”, your radio blared out.

Extending your arm out, you snatch up the transmitter.

“I read you, and I’m telling you for the last time I’m on the case, out”, you speak into the microphone.

“L/N the joker gan-”, the radio starts but you quickly shut it off.

You look to your right and remember that you brought the case file with you.

Grabbing it, you open the folder and take out all of its content.

[Case File] Park Jimin

Born: October 13th, 1995 Height: 5'9 Blood Type: A

January 11th, Assisted 6 other men with 1st degree murder of (38 people) -

You close the file and throw it back onto the passenger seat.

You groan in annoyance. By this point, you had seen so many different profiles and case files of so many criminals. It’s starting to take a toll on you mentally.

Placing your hand on your head you sigh again. "It's getting really annoying that they keep calling me in on stupid cases like this, I should have been promoted by now", you mumble.

The only reason you insisted on taking this case was so you’d be one step closer to getting the promotion you have wanted for years. You look out the window and notice that its starting to rain. "A joker gang... ha... what crazy shit have I got on my hands this time.", you say while opening the door of the car.

The door unlocks and makes a loud buzzing noise. Tihgib psychiatric hospital, a place that 'fixes and finds purpose for those in need'. Sounds kind of cult-ish, not gonna lie.

They confiscated all of your 'toys' so that no one in the facility would be able to use it against you or be triggered by it.

The room is dark and boring. Nothing much to it. A bed, couple o' chairs, dresser and luckily a window.

"Park Jimin, officer Y/N L/N is here to ask you some questions, play nice", the nurse says and gives you a small head nod.

You walk in and notice that Jimin is sitting in the chair staring off into the distance like a crazy person in those horror movies.

The door slowly shuts behind you and for some reason, you feel uneasy.

Something felt different about this situation.

"Hello, Park Jimin", you say with a powerful voice while walking towards him. He didn't move, or respond, he just continued to stare off into the distance. "I'm here today to ask you about the mass murder that was committed January 11th, you recall that event, don't you?", you ask while pulling up a chair nearby so you could sit with the man.

But still. No response.

"It'd be helpful if you'd cooperate, the more you answer, the sooner I leave", you say, hoping that he'd give in.

"I bet you wanna be alone, so why don't you answer.", you add, slowly losing patience.

Patience was never your strong suit.

Jimin didn't move, nor did he speak, but this time a smile began to grow on his face and you couldn't help but feel repulsed by his sudden emotion.

His smile grew wide as he stared off into the distance.

"Why are you smiling at a time like this? You helped murder 38 people", you said intensely.

"I smile, because it confuses people", he says

"I smile, because it's easier than explaining the truth", he adds on, but his voice is quieter.

His voice. It sounds like honey, yet, his words are being spoken in a weird pattern.

You don’t have time for any of this crap. "Jimin. In all honesty, I don't care about your mental bullshit, you're lucky you got admitted to this hospital rather than put in a jail cell and locked up for whoever knows how long", you say. You motion to yourself and then continue, "I just need you to tell me where the other 6 guys went and why you did it.", you say harshly, looking at him.

His eyes finally move and he looks at you dead-straight in the eye.

"Now, why would I tell you that", he smirks.

You feel the energy shift a little, he looks a little bit motivated now.

"I need the information and if you help me, I can help you", you say honestly.

"How would you help me", he asks, leaning back in his chair and running his hand through his hair. "The more useful your information is, the less time you'll have to stay in this place", you say and fold your arms.

"You see, there is a reason for everything", he starts and you lean forward in your chair a bit.

“But in this case, there is none", he laughs.

He suddenly stands up in a swift motion and drags his chair closer to you so he's less than arm's length away.

"I don't need the help, sweet pea", he says as he reaches up and caresses your face. You immediately jerk your head backwards and stare him down.

You couldn’t read him at all.

"What do you think you're doing.", you say aggressively.

"Seducing you. Is it working?", he laughs and you start to have a bad feeling in your stomach.

You don't respond and you just give him a glare and get up from your chair.

"I guess it is working", he mumbles and laughs again.

You start heading towards the door.

This was going nowhere and he wasn't going to give up information anytime soon.

Suddenly you feel hands around your arm, grabbing you and slamming you against the wall.

Jimin pinned each hand on both sides of you.

You immediately raise your arms but then he takes them and holds them below.

He looks you in the eyes and smiles once again.

It was haunting.

"What the fuck", you say, as you try to make him release your hands from his grip.

You raise up your knee so you could kick him in the groin but he quickly stopped you from doing that.

He’s a smart fighter.

If that’s the case, then how the hell did he get caught, unless-

You realize his face is getting closer to yours and you start to panic a little.

He moves so his head is beside yours.

You can feel his breath brush against your ear and you shiver.

"I'm going to have a lot of fun with you", he says and you can feel his lip brush against your ear.

He lets go of your hands and walks backwards, still staring at you.

You quickly walk over to the door and knock on it.

Looking back one last time, Jimin had returned to his chair and returned to his original position, staring off at who knows what.

The door buzzes and then it opens, you quickly make your way out.

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violetsmoak · 5 years ago

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Appetence [9/?]

AO3 Link:https://archiveofourown.org/works/20251420/chapters/47997634

Blanket Disclaimer

Summary: Red Robin is investigating the disappearance of a friend and stumbles into a spot of supernatural trouble. He doesn’t expect to be saved by Jason Todd, miraculously alive five years after his death and now with the inexplicable ability to commune with the dead. Meanwhile, when Jason returned to Gotham he meant to maintain a low profile and not get involved with Bat business. That was before he found out how hot his Replacement is.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: #cemetery #haunting

First Chapter

Author’s Note: More dialogue from Under the Red Hood, just moved around a bit and tweaked to suit the situation.

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Bruce stares at him in silence for a long while and then seems to shake himself.

“No,” he says at last. “It…can't be.”

But his tone is less certain.

“Can be and is. ‘There are more things in heaven and earth’ and all that jazz,” Jason quips. “But I know you. I can’t just talk about collecting first editions with Alfred or going to races with you or Dick teaching me to train surf. Someone could be using telepathy to lift that from your mind, right? Nah, you’ll be wantin’ proof, so here—”

“Here.” Jason crouches and takes off his gloves, picking up the discarded Batarang from earlier and whips it expertly at Bruce, who catches it without anything changing in the exposed part of his face. “My blood’s already on that. Fingerprints, too. Maybe even some skin-cells if you cut me deep enough.”

“It won’t make me believe.”

But there’s doubt in his voice, and he pockets the blade anyhow.

“Yeah, it will,” Jason replies. “You’re Mr. Logic and Science. It’ll tell you exactly who I am—or rather, it’ll confirm exactly who you know I am.”

Bruce’s jaw works furiously.

“How…how did this happen to you?” he asks softly, cautious. “Were you—was there a Lazarus Pit involved?”

“Not as far as I know. If there was, don’t you think your baby mama would have taunted you with it by now? She always liked to fuck with your head.”

Bruce tenses.

“Oh, yeah, I got the full 411 on what’s been happening since I 'ran down the curtain and joined the bleedin’ choir invisible',” Jason says irreverently. “Mazel tov, but the way. Is it too late to send an arrangement of blue balloons?”

No response.

“What’s that bring the total up to now, anyway? Three? Four? When exactly did collecting orphans become a compulsion for you, chum?”

Jason sneers that last word, and yet something about it seems to physically jar both man and Bat. The cowl is off then as if somehow, Bruce can no longer trust the lenses of the cowl and needs his own eyes.

Jason’s irritation wavers for a moment, replaced with a lump in his throat as his own gaze roves over the man’s face with a hunger of their own, tempered by disbelief.

Bruce looks older. He could still pass for at least a decade younger than his actual age, but the look in his eyes speaks of a lifetime of fighting. There are wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, grey flecks around his temples and a few more scars than Jason remembers. Skin stretches just a little bit thinner over his cheekbones and jaw.

His eyes are sharp as ever, cataloging every detail of Jason, no doubt comparing it to his last memories of the boy he was.

The boy that’s dead.

Bruce tentatively moves forward, and Jason’s instinct is to take a step backward, to avoid letting the other man into his personal space. He has no interest in Round Two or the prick of a needle leading to him waking up in a cell in the cave hours from now.

But then his eye catches on two figures watching the proceedings from several feet away, and he’s so surprised he forgets about Bruce for a minute.

Martha Wayne is polished and put-together, the only indication of anything amiss being the broken string of pearls hanging from her neck and the blossoming red stain at her breast. Thomas Wayne looks exactly like every picture Jason’s ever seen of him, Bruce’s spitting image but somehow…lighter. The wound that killed him is hidden beneath a thick overcoat, but trails of blood dripping down to stain his white gloves is telling.

For a moment they are a perfect portrait, and then in another blink, they flicker, clutching at their wounds. In another, they lie on the ground gasping and reaching for each other, trapped in their death echo. And then they’re back to standing, watching Bruce with pained expressions on their faces.

Guess the family plot’s a bit closer than I thought it was.

Any further ruminations on their semi-invisible audience vanish when arms encircle Jason, and it should be a reflex to pull away, to knock the grasp away. Self-preservation and all.

And yet, he knows these arms, knows the smell of cologne and the specific brand of Kevlar in a way that bypasses every bit of training he’s ever had, which causes him to remain perfectly still as Batman—Bruce, Dad—holds him tightly to him.

For whatever reason—an impossibly rare break from his usual paranoia, perhaps—Bruce doesn’t dose him with any kind of sedative or go for a nerve-strike.

He just…

Holds him.

Jason’s back is beginning to ache from how straight he’s trying to keep it, and at last, he can’t take it anymore and pulls back. Puts several steps between them so that he can regain his equilibrium.

Bruce takes a step back as well as if remembering himself. He lapses back into his tense but alert stance, but his eyes are suspiciously bright in the moonlight.

“When?” he asks eventually.

“By all accounts about six months after I died.” Bruce’s expression becomes calculating, even as he continues to study Jason. “Wouldn’t happen to have any idea how that could’ve happened, could you? John and I never figured it out, and you have all those fun League resources.”

Bruce recoils almost imperceptibly.

“John?” he repeats, eyes flicking over Jason again. His nose twitches and then his brows draw together. “Constantine.”

It should not surprise Jason that Bruce makes the connection so fast.

“Got it in one.”

“He would have said. He’d have contacted me—”

“No, he wouldn’t,” Jason interrupts. “Because he didn’t know. Not until weeks after he found me. And by the time I remembered everything, I didn’t want him to. Say what you want about his morals, he stays out of other people’s personal business.”

Bruce ignores the dig.

“Why?” Bruce croaks instead. “Why didn’t you come home?”

“Didn’t think there was anything for me to come back to. Figured you’d be happier with me gone. I mean, you hauled a new kid into the thick of it within like three months, so obviously I wasn’t that hard to replace.”

“It didn’t happen that way.”

“I owe you a broken jaw for that, by the way. After I died, no one else should’ve worn that cape.”

“And now?” Bruce challenges. “All this time, you’ve been alive. You’ve avoided Gotham. But you choose to return now. And do things like this.” He gestures at the graveyard. “This crime—violating others’ final resting places—human remains, for god’s sake, Jason! If you wanted to get my attention, there are easier ways!”

Jason’s jaw drops a bit, and he feels his hackles rise.

And there it is.

“Are you serious right now?” he snaps. “You think this is about you?”

Bruce raises an eyebrow as if to say it’s exactly what he thinks, and Jason bursts out laughing. There’s a bitter edge to it, and the older man flinches for some reason.

“Damn, I knew you were conceited, but this just takes the cake,” Jason snorts. “Contrary to popular belief, not everything that goes on in Gotham is about Bruce Wayne. Or Batman.”

“You’re evading the question.”

“Bullshit! This is my fucking job,” Jason snaps.

“Desecrating graves.”

“Helping people move on. Stopping people from getting hurt. Put that thinking cap of yours on, ‘detective’. Why the hell do you think Constantine took me in in the first place?”

The way his eyes narrow at the challenge, considering their surroundings and the gear Jason is wearing, the tools and the specifics of what he was doing and what he’s just said. And then understanding flashes across his face.

“You’re an occultist.

“Ding-ding-ding! Right again. Guess dying and coming back from the dead leaves a guy predisposed to certain, huh? Unless I’ve always been this way and just never knew. I doubt it, though. You’ve analyzed my blood a hundred times and you never mentioned any metahuman or magic genes. And I never saw dead people before I was, you know, dead.”

That causes a wince.

“You know I was in Arkham, for a while?” Jason asks conversationally. “For like half a year. Bet you visited the place a lot, considering the revolving door of nutcases. You were probably standing on the same floor as me a dozen times and didn’t even know it.”

Bruce tries to disguise the pain that flashes across his face at that direct hit, but Jason sees it nonetheless.

“The mentally ill are of no interest to Batman, though, right? Not unless they’re criminally insane.”

“I know…I know I failed you, Jason…I tried to save you. Whatever it is that’s happening to you now—I’ll keep trying to save you, and if I had had even an inkling that you were still alive—”

“Is that what you think I’m pissed off about?” Jason demands. “You letting me die? I don’t know what clouds your judgment worse, your guilt or your antiquated sense of morality. I forgave you for not saving me, Bruce—forgave you years before I forgave my own flesh and blood. But why…why…” His voice breaks a little here, “the hell is that pasty-faced pile of human excrement still alive?”

Bruce’s expression becomes like stone. “Joker.”

“The Joker. Yeah, B, him. If you’d just killed the fucker years ago—whether anything happened to me or not—you know what hell you would have saved the world?” Jason snaps. “But no. Punching that piece of shit’s ticket’s just one of a long list of sane acts you still refuse to commit.”

“I can’t cross that line,” Bruce says tightly.

“But I can,” Jason says. “And I will. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last five years, death comes to those who deserve death, B. It’s probably why I clocked out early. I wasn’t exactly the golden boy like Dickiebird, was I?”

“Jason, no—”

“But that’s fine. I’ve come to terms with it. Someone somewhere must have even decided I deserved a chance to make up for it because here I am.” Jason spreads his arms wide. “And I’m going to make up for it. Lot of dead people out there that need to be avenged. And a lot of monsters out there, standing in the way.”

“Monsters like Felipe Garzonas?” Bruce challenges.

The name hastens memories of a woman’s lifeless body hanging from a ceiling and a man’s sneering, triumphant smile.

Jason clenches his fists.

“If they get in my way, sure,” he replies. “In another life, maybe I’d even make it my mission. To take out the scum you refuse to. But these days, I’m on a different playing field, and the stakes a higher than some rapist that fell out a window.”

“If you’re saying you intend to go after the Joker—I can’t let you.”

Jason almost chokes in rage and disbelief. “Why the hell not?!”

“Because I won’t have my son become a murderer for him.”

“Didn’t you hear, old man? Your son died a long time ago. I’m a completely different person now, and you’re a few years too late. I’ve killed a lot of people and slept like a baby right after because those fuckers deserved it.” Jason clenches his fists, recalling the torn and mutilated bodies murderers that would never be caught by traditional means—legal or vigilante. Capping monsters like that was a civic duty. “Lot of people don’t get any kind of justice once they’re gone, and I’m it.”

“Jason, that’s not your call to make.”

“Says the man who dresses up as a bat and fights crime,” Jason shoots back. “All of your adult life, you’ve fought to save Gotham. Save her from herself, but you never ever understood her. You’ve never seen what I see now.” He casts his eyes around the graveyard, at the torn remnants of humanity in their various stages of self-torture. “She’s evil. Poisoned by the dead that clog her foundations—that have been piling up here since the first nutjob spilled blood in her earth. You have to fight her where she lives, B, and it’s not just the rooftops at night.”

“That might be so,” Bruce allows. “But it’s one thing to seek justice on behalf of the dead…if that’s what you intend to do. But going after a human being, even one as depraved as the Joker—"

“How can you still call him a human being?! Even ignoring what he’s done in the past—blindly, stupidly disregarding the entire graveyards he’s filled—” He points toward the various specters in the distance, who Bruce can’t see but who scream and cry and laugh hysterically through the smiling rictus that is the Joker’s signature, to the dying echoes of Thomas and Martha Wayne, “—the thousands who have suffered, the friends he’s crippled—” He remembers Tim’s expression and makes an educated guess, “—the family he’s tortured.”

Bruce’s wince is the confirmation he needs.

“I thought that him killing me, that I’d be the last person you ever let him hurt,” Jason admits in a soft voice, his rage quieting behind pain and sadness. “If it had been you he beat to a bloody mess...if it had been you that he left in agony...if he had taken you—I would have done nothing but search the planet for the pathetic pile of evil, death-worshipping garbage and sent him off to hell!"

“You don’t understand…I don’t think you’ve ever understood…”

“What? Your moral code just won’t allow for it? It’s too hard to cross that line?”

“It’d be too damned easy!” Bruce snaps.

There would be a ringing silence between them if not for the ghostly moans in the night.

“All I have ever wanted to do is kill him,” Bruce continues, eyes blazing. “For years, a day hasn’t gone by where I haven’t imagined taking him and spending an entire month putting him through the most horrendous, mind-boggling forms of torture. All of it building to an end with him broken, butchered and maimed…pleading—screaming—in the worse kind of agony as he careens into a monstrous death.” He grows quieter here. “I want him dead—maybe more than I’ve ever wanted anything. But if I do that, if I allow myself to go down into that place, I’ll never come back.”

Jason takes several seconds to parse all of that, examining the reasons and justifications that are so different than what he expected, before registering the problem with that.

“Why?”

Bruce blinks. “What?”

“You wouldn’t feel guilty killing a cockroach, or wiping out a bacterium that could destroy millions,” Jason points out. “And that’s what he is. All he exists to do is destroy. It’s not like Cobblepot or Crane or Dent or Nygma. Much as I always thought they all deserve the death penalty, there’s something in them that at least resembles having been human at some point. The Joker has never—will never—be human. You can’t judge filth like that by human standards.”

But he can already see by the obstinate set of Bruce’s jaw that he is unmoved by this argument.

“I can’t, Jason,” he says. “I’m sorry. I just can’t.”

“Then don’t. Just don’t get in the way when someone else tries to do it.”

“Someone being you? I can’t let that happen either. I won’t let you sully yourself over the likes of him—”

“He killed me!” Jason roars. “I was sullied the second he brought out the crowbar. If anyone on this planet has a right—has a duty—to be the chlorine in that maniac’s gene pool, it’s me!”

“Jason—!”

“He took me away from you!”

The words echo, not as sharp or reprimanding as Jason meant, but laced with a vulnerability he hasn’t allowed himself to show since before he died.

He needs to take a few moments to breathe, to gulp down the sob that’s threatening the back of his throat, hysterical and pained and scared the way he hasn’t been in years.

“He took everything,” Jason concludes. “He took my life. He took my future. But worst of all, he took me from the first person I ever really believed gave a shit about me. And that…that’s just me. How many other kids got to die gasping for breath, waiting for their fathers to rescue them?”

And for a split second, Bruce’s entire façade shatters and he looks—lost. Frightened. Agonized.

“Jason…” he says after a beat, more broken than Batman has any right to sound. “Just…come home. We’ll figure this out—all of it. Together.”

And Jason…he’s tempted.

But he came back to Gotham for a reason, and it wasn’t to mend relations with anyone.

“And when the Joker breaks out again?” Jason asks quietly. “When he hunts you and everyone you care about down and puts you through another round of mental and physical torture? When you have to bury another kid? Or two? Or Alfred? Will 'figure this out together' mean you’ll step aside and do what needs to be done? Or are you just going to cart him back to Arkham?”

There is nothing but silence at this, but Jason already has his answer.

He exhales, shoulders slumping a bit.

As tempting as it would be to fall back into what he lost—as tempting as it would be to be Jason Todd-Wayne again in some way—this is something he can’t compromise on.

And he learned from the best that the only way to keep from compromising is to establish clear, immovable boundaries. And if that’s impossible, then burn down whatever bridges might traverse them.

“The manor was never my home, any more than it was yours,” Jason says dully at last. “Those streets you patrol every night, the people on them—people the Joker’s going to keep killing—that’s home. And if you’re not going to defend it, I am.”

Bruce appears to hear what he isn’t saying, and that seems to take the fight out of him. As if he understands that no amount of arguing is going to change either of their stances today, if ever. Instead, he straightens his back and looms into his most imposing Batman stance and pulls the cowl back on.

“I won’t tolerate criminal conspiracy in Gotham. Occult or otherwise.”

“Tough shit,” Jason shoots back. “This is my town. Probably more than it’s yours since I actually came up on these streets.”

“If that’s how you want it to be, that’s your choice. But if you cause any disturbances of that nature—if I catch you desecrating any more graves—if you go anywhere near the Joker—I will bring you in.”

“That threat would be more effective if I couldn’t rattle off the names of every cape in town, and you know it.”

“I never said you’d be going to jail.”

And Jason knows that this will lead to another fight, one he’ll no doubt lose—

Except there’s an explosion in the distance.

They both look up reflexively, watching Gotham’s skyline illuminate with electric blue light.

“Looks like the office is calling,” Jason points out. “My money’s on Freeze. He never did like the summertime.”

Bruce’s jaw clenches, eyes flitting from Jason to the city.

“Can’t let the bad guys get away, old man. Mission before family, right? The way it’s always been?” He turns, keeping Bruce in his periphery. “I’m going home. I’d give you the address, but I’m pretty sure you’ll find it on your own anyway. Wouldn’t want to give you the impression that you’re welcome there.”

“Jason…”

“Maybe we can do this again sometime like normal human beings,” he continues. “But I swear to everything hellish and holy, if you drag me back to the cave for interrogation or lock me up, I will get out. And I will make the rest of your life a living hell. Until then, fuck off. You don’t get to talk to me unless you decide to do something about the clown.”

He turns away, casting a frown at Thomas and Martha Wayne’s shades, wondering if he should say anything to Bruce about them just now.

He decides against it.

It’s a whole other rabbit hole to get pulled down.

Instead, he tips a salute as he walks away. “Say hello to the pretty bird for me. Kid keeps his word. Didn’t think that was possible for anyone in the Family.”

⁂⁂⁂

To Be Continued

________________________________________________________________

I want to know what you think of my story! Leave kudos, a comment or if writing comments isn't something you're comfortable with, as many of these (or other emojis) as you want and let me know how you feel!

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#jaytimweek2019 #jaytimweek #jaytim #fanfic #prompt: supernatural #jaytim fic #jason todd #drama #mystery #angst #supernatural #horror #cemetery #haunting #bruce wayne #emotionally stunted family reunions

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weaselsblaugh · 6 years ago

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The Castlevania series in one sentence each - remastered chronicles requiem edition

Castlevania: Go kill Dracula and every single Universal Studios movie monster.

Castlevania [C64]: Playing "Vampire Killer" through a SID chip doesn't _always_ make it cooler.

Castlevania [Amiga]: You'll be fighting the control scheme more than you'll be fighting Dracula.

Castlevania [MSDOS]: Simon attains a skin tone more commonly associated with department store mannequins.

Vampire Killer: Go kill Dracula, if you don't get lost first.

Vampire Killer, take 2: Go kill Dracula's portrait painting.

Haunted Castle: Go kill Dracula, now with only one life and no continues.

Simon's Quest: Resurrect Dracula from spare parts just so you can kill him again.

The Adventure: Go kill Dracula, really slowly, because otherwise this blurry screen can't keep up with you.

Dracula's Curse: Two hundred years ago your ancestor looked exactly like you.

Dracula's Curse, take 2: Go kill Dracula with the Power of Friendship!* (Void where prohibited, party size not to exceed two members.)

Dracula's Curse, take 3: Go kill Dracula with the help of his rebellious son, a mage, or a landlocked pirate that climbs ceilings.

Belmont's Revenge: Your son was supposed to kill Dracula, but Dracula nabbed and brainwashed him, so it's all up to you again, because vampire hunter parenting is hard.

Castlevania 4: Go kill Dracula from any of eight directions you like, or waste all your time twiddling the whip around because it's fun.

Dracula X: Go kill Dracula in the most anime way you possibly can, at age 13, with all your cute animal friends.

Dracula X, take 2: Go kill Dracula with this key! (What do you mean it doesn't do anything?)

Dracula X, take 3: Castlevania's Greatest Hits album.

Peke: Go buy a Super CD-ROM² system card, _then_ we can talk about killing Dracula.

Peke [PS4]: Your favorite cheat code doesn't work.

X68000: Castlevania's other Greatest Hits album.

X68000, take 2: Is "bathead" supposed to be a pun on butthead?

Bloodlines: Go kill Gary Oldman's character from the hit Hollywood film, Bram Stoker's Dracula.

Dracula X [SNES]: The fire is prettier and the music is nicer but killing Dracula is way harder than it usually is this time.

Dracula X [SNES], take 2: Wait, haven't I seen this level before?

Castlevania 64: Go kill Dracula, assuming you're facing in the right direction first.

Castlevania 64, take 2: Go kill Dracula, provided you aren't hypnotized by the beautiful violin music on the title screen.

Symphony of the Night: Go kill Belmont...?

Symphony of the Night [true ending]: ˙ɐlnɔɐɹp llᴉʞ oפ

Symphony of the Night [Saturn]: Go kill Dracula and also the frame rate and any semblance of difficulty balance this game ever had.

Legacy of Darkness: The closest thing we'll get to a video game adaptation of Teen Wolf.

Legends: Go kill Dracula, but first, reproduce with his son, in what's arguably a way cooler origin story than Lament gave us (until Sonia got stricken from canon).

Resurrection: Sonia Belmont could have been in another game if only this one hadn't been cancelled.

Circle of the Moon: Go kill Dracula, provided you're able to see what you're doing and aren't tired of hearing The Sinking Old Sanctuary by the time you get there.

Harmony of Dissonance: Dracula's castle is stricken with a dissociative identity, or something, so go kill Dracula's WIP body (but not before you've finished decorating his guest bedroom for no particular reason...?).

Order of Shadows: Go kill Dracula and probably also your cell phone bill.

Aria of Sorrow: Go kill Dracula...wait, Dracula's already dead? Wait, this guy might be Dracula reborn? Wait, *I'M* Dracula?

Lament of Innocence: The Belmont Clan origin story gets totally retconned as Leon must go kill some vampire that isn't Dracula, since Dracula hasn't been born yet. (So what's he still doing here anyway?)

Lament of Innocence, take 2: Belmont May Cry (and probably does).

Dawn of Sorrow: Go kill these two jokers who think they're Dracula but can't possibly be because you're still Dracula, while the Belmont du jour keeps insisting that you Go Home and Be a Family Man.

Curse of Darkness: What was Lament missing? That's right: a furniture collecting sub quest and a pet raising metagame.

Portrait of Ruin: Dracula comes back because World War 2 was really sad. (Yes, really.)

Portrait of Ruin, take 2: Castlevania: the thrilling two on two on two tag team match, only on pay per view!

Portrait of Ruin, take 3: We make an attempt to reconcile Bloodlines into the canon by turning the bishounen Spaniard into a ghost cowboy and injecting a heaping helping of anime teen angst.

Portrait of Ruin, take 4: The Whip only works if you spend a couple minutes flinging custard pies at the ghost of Richter Belmont.

Portrait of Ruin, take 5: He's not Dracula but he's still a vampire, so please go whip the crap out of him with the help of your schoolgirl friend who slaps skeletons with books and sometimes turns you into a frog.

Dracula X Chronicles: Go kill Dracula, and in a twist exclusive to the remake, your girlfriend who is now a succubus.

Order of Ecclesia: We're supposed to kill Dracula with these fancy spells, but the only other guy here stole all of them and kidnapped the entire nearby village, so go beat him up and take them back so we can resurrect--I mean, KILL Dracula. It'll work, trust me!

Order of Ecclesia, take 2: go kill Dracula, but first, make the jeweler fall in love with you and take a picture of Bigfoot.

Judgment: Our timeline has so many holes and retcons in it that the only way to solve it is to have Death's brother Time show up and make everyone fight each other, which doesn't solve anything, but somebody had fun with it, I'm sure. (Probably only the artist.)

The Adventure Rebirth: The Castlevania game that nobody can buy anymore because it's marooned to an online service that closed down.

Lords of Shadow: Because Castlevania really needed to be more like...what was the big popular grim dark fantasy thing back then?

Harmony of Despair: Because clearly everybody's favorite part of SOTN was spending literal hours grinding for Crissaegrim, only now they can do it with friends.

Mirror of Fate: Go kill Dracula with crippling frame rate issues and falling damage.

Castlevania Puzzle: What do Castlevania fans want the most? Puyo Puyo, of course.

Lords of Shadow 2: Take me down to the Castlevania City, where the grass ain't green and the story ain't pretty.

The Arcade: It's like House of the Dead with whips.

The Pachislot: Wherein Konami refocused their efforts to appeal the franchise to only their most dedicated and loyal fans... Japanese gamblers.

The Netflix Original Series: Trevor is a foul mouthed drunk, there are frequent references to goat fucking, and somehow it's still better than the franchise has been for just shy of a decade.

Grimoire of Souls: What do Castlevania fans want the most? Fate Grand Order, of course.

#castlevania

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wykart · 6 years ago

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A Crack in the Mask

Summary: “Yasmin wasn’t sure who the Doctor was anymore. Everything she thought she knew about the woman – the happy-go-lucky, hyperactive joker, that could melt the resolve of the universe with her compassion – only now was that image pulled away to reveal the struggling, broken, husk of a being underneath. A crack in the mask.“

Ryan, Graham and Yaz get a glimpse of the Doctor’s true nature when she comes to rescue them from the clutches of malicious aliens.

*warning: some pretty graphic violence described*

Check it out on ao3 here

Chapter 3:

“What?” Ryan breathed, turning to Graham and Yaz, all of which were wearing equally confused expressions. “They made a mistake or something?”

“When the guard cam past earlier, he mustn’t have detected us, he said it was clear.” Graham explained, trying to make sense of the situation.

“Never mind that, we have to get her attention, now!” Yaz said, trying not to panic. “What if she blows up the ship or something?”

“She wouldn’t do that Yaz,” Graham replied, masking his doubt with a friendly grin, “she wouldn’t hurt anyone if it weren’t necessary.”

“Yeah, and she don’t like guns remember?” Ryan added. Yaz nodded in compliance, but still couldn’t shake the idea from her head, couldn’t stop seeing the Doctor’s face gone cold and still, couldn’t stop remembering her courage and determination. If the Doctor thought they were dead, and she really had done all those things the overseer talked about, she would probably destroy this ship without a second thought.

Yaz was pulled from her thoughts at the sound of the Doctor’s voice ringing out through the entrance hall, louder than ever. “Here’s one for your history books,” she said, calm and clear, “I think you’re about to learn how I got my names.” She wore a mask of steel, a terrifying calm barely holding back the storm of icy rage brewing behind her eyes. She was going to kill them. In that moment, Yasmin wasn’t sure who the Doctor was anymore. Everything she thought she knew about the woman – the happy-go-lucky, hyperactive joker, that could melt the resolve of the universe with her compassion – only now was that image pulled away to reveal the struggling, broken, husk of a being underneath. Cracks in the mask. “You see,” she continued, “I was just going to destroy your business and report you to the nearest galactic authority for the trafficking and slaughter of countless level 5 sentient beings – but then, like I said, you went and made it personal."

She stepped forwards slowly, each stride seemed to cause the temperature to plummet another few degrees. The three human captives were mesmerised, and their plan to get the Doctor’s attention lay forgotten. The soldier were teetering on the edge of retreat, their backs flattened against the walls, poised to run – but there was nowhere to go.

The overseer croaked, an involuntary escaping of dread. “W-we were only doing our jobs, that’s just how the business goes, we didn’t know!” It’s voice lowered to a clicking whisper “please, show mercy, please.” Surely now, Yaz thought, you’ve scared them good and proper, now please, find us.

The Doctor ascended the stair case leading up to the overseer’s raised platform. Her battered boots leaving scraps of mud on the clean white surface. Despite the fact that the creature towered at least two feet above her, it shrunk in on itself, and the Doctor’s presence seemed to loom over it like an imposing, immovable statue. “You know,” she chuckled, “you really should have thought of that before you murdered my friends.” She pulled her sonic screwdriver out of her coat pocket and waved it in front of the creatures ever-bulging eyes. “While we’ve all been standing around chatting, I’ve been scanning this ship for structural weaknesses, and –“ she added, as the pointed the glowing tip of the tool right between the creature’s eyes, “I’ve been studying your biology. Now,” she clapped her hands together, pivoting around on her ankles to face the expectant alien crowd, “I’m a stickler for being kind, but I’m not perfect. My friends have always been the best of me, but you’ve taken them away, and now there’s no one here to stop me. No one to keep promises to, no image or example to uphold.” She sighs – even in her silence, the room is deathly still – she takes a deep breath, letting grief out, pulling rage in. “See this,” she indicates her screwdriver, waving it above her head, “I’ve attuned this device to the genetic frequencies of your bodies, think of that – a signal with the power of time lord dimensional engineering cast out and contained within the orbital radius of this ship. Every molecule in every cell in your entire body will start resonating, oscillating in time, brewing with kinetic energy so powerful it will burn. You will unravel.” She explains the concept with sinister enthusiasm, as if this were just another scientific marvel to rattle on about with enthused passion. “Everything you are tangling up together, scrambling the precise sequences that align to allow your existence. It’s a process of it’s own, just like your ‘processed’ my friends!” She was seething, the mounting volume of her voice still hanging in the air.

A heavy clicking sound resonated from the crowd of guards, and the Doctor whipped around to the source, pointing her screwdriver. One of the aliens had drawn its weapon, which sparked and smoked with a deafening crack, and now lay at its feet in a smouldering ruin. “Don’t even think about pointing your guns at me. You must know it won’t work, I can’t die.” The Doctor said, matter-of-factly and with such indifference that Yaz felt a shiver run through her. “See Yaz, pretty good hey?” she whispered, smiling faintly, and for one beautiful moment, Yaz thought the Doctor could see her strained expression, hear the thoughts pounding in her head, screaming ‘no.’ Instead, the Doctor raised her sonic up above her head, and pressed it.

At first, it seemed like nothing was happening. Then, slowly, a haunting feeling began to swell in the space around them. It was a low hum, so low it was difficult to pinpoint it as a sound at all – they felt it, though – it rattled in the spaces between their bones, quivered through their bodies and plucked at their spines like a musician to a pizzicato string. The aliens, however, were more than a little shaken up. They writhed in pain, clutching their heads and rolling on the ground, convulsing. In the centre of it all, indifferent to their whittling, insectile shrieks, stood the Doctor. The three captives watched, horrorstruck, as their dark, scaled skin began to fester and fold away, revealing melting, oozing flesh beneath. Yasmin tried to stop herself from imagining human bodies, boiling and bouncing to the noise – from imagining red blood in place of yellowed flesh. Far off in the bowels of the ship, a crash sounded, sending the ship creaking and jaunting in response. Yasmin thought of the pilots, the guards, all of them reduced to pulp and unable to maintain their course. As the chaos unfolded, the Doctor didn’t move an inch – she simply stared into the building ruin, as if she were looking past it and into another world.

“Yaz, the glass!” Ryan yelled, indicating the one-way mirror, its powerful shielding flickering into non-existence as the ship began to lose power. He reached out, cautious at first, and upon meeting no resistance, he began pounding on the glass, trying to get the Doctor’s attention. Graham and Yaz joined him, all of them screaming, their strangled cries muffled by the sounds of explosions and crumbling metal.

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hysterialevi · 7 years ago

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Lotus pt. 12 (Batjokes)

Author’s note: *winks*

From Bruce’s POV

A FEW HOURS LATER

“I know you’re trying to create a myth,” Alfred warned, his tone sharp yet soft with care, “but be careful you don’t turn into a monster. Don’t let tombstones be your family legacy, Bruce.”

What? I thought to myself, trying to make sense of what was going on.

Why could I hear Alfred? Why did all this seem so familiar? ...Was I...was I dreaming? I couldn’t even remember the last thing that happened before I passed out, and right now, the entire world around me was black.

All I could see was Alfred himself standing in the middle of the darkness, tending to an ornate fireplace with his back facing me. I began to approach the butler, but before I could even take two steps, a vicious fire instantly consumed him and incinerated his body, replacing him with a new figure:

Harvey Dent.

The District Attorney glared nefariously at me, his dead eyes narrowed with hatred as a coin shimmered in between his fingers. He looked exactly as I remembered him, and the closer I got, the more I could see fresh embers dancing around him.

“...H-Harvey?” I called out, admittedly missing my old friend. But the feeling wasn’t mutual.

“Up until now,” he growled, “Harvey’s been weak. He’s been afraid.” The man peeled off his prosthetic, unveiling the charred, grotesque flesh underneath as he pointed at me.

“This...this is the monster they all know that you are. EMBRACE IT!”

Harvey’s expression immediately changed to remorse as he grabbed his hair in frustration, averting my gaze out of guilt.

“No...no! Oh god, this is what you wanted to see, isn’t it? The FREAK!”

Once again, violent flames burst around him and engulfed his body, unveiling yet another familiar face in his position. Though this time, it was someone I had hoped to never see again: Lady Arkham.

The woman let out a low, wicked chuckle, her disturbing mask barely visible through the shadows.

“Bruce Wayne,” Lady Arkham mocked, her voice echoing in the emptiness. “He’d never be the man Batman is. He only looks out for himself. Ah, but of course...now I understand. As Batman, you can prey upon the weak. The defenseless. Just like your father did. A true Wayne!”

The fire reappeared more and more frequently now, practically flying through every person I’d ever encountered in my whole life as they all said their own piece to me, their voices mashing up into one giant mess now.

“Take a gander at us now. Night and day. You’d hardly recognize us, would you--?”

“--The paths may diverge, but they end in the same place. Face down in an alley. Shot in the dark by criminals, in some godforsaken corner of Gotham--”

“--Maybe Batman’s made Gotham more dangerous. Kinda upped the bar for these freaks--”

“--Such a pretty way of sayin’ killin’ a person. I hadn’t taken you for such a ruthless fella--”

“--Wake up, Bruce. You need to wake up--!”

“--Bruce! ...BRUCE!”

Snapping my eyes open with a jolt, I was greeted by a pale face looming over me as its eccentric green eyes stared at me curiously, leading me to immediately recognize them. John.

“Buddy!” He exclaimed out of relief. “You looked like you were having a nightmare there...thought I should wake you up. Though, I suppose I’ve only brought you into another one, huh. How do you feel?”

Glancing at my surroundings, I sat up and found myself in a bed, all bandaged up and taken care of. The room around me was vibrantly colored with green and purple, and on one of the walls, I spotted a collection of framed photos arranged in the shape of a smiley face. Some of them included people like Dr. Leland, Harley, and even Batman...but the majority of them were pictures of...me.

How long had he been gathering these photos? A few of them looked like they dated back to a number of years ago, and I was pretty sure I hadn’t even met John yet. Had he been following me all this time? Just...watching my life? Frankly, I didn’t know if I was flattered or freaked out. But that wasn’t the only thing John had of me.

Sitting on a desk underneath the mounted album, there was a handmade doll next to a music box, its button eyes staring blankly at me as a haunting melody chimed in the background. Red paint had been smeared all over the doll’s face, and a piece of black cloth covered its nose and mouth...just like me.

“Where...where are we?” I croaked, still in pain from the shock Waller gave me.

“Don’t you recognize it?” John asked. “We’re at the Funhouse. This is where you found me after those Agency pigs tried to kill me and Harley. This was the last time you and I were ever friends. But then you had to go and...blow it all up!”

I glared at John, coaxing an apology out of him.

“Sorry, sorry. Dr. Leland says I have a hard time letting things go. I know you were only doing what you thought was right. No one can blame you for that...even if it did almost get me shot.”

Ignoring his previous statement, I threw my legs over the edge of the bed and braced myself, only to have a concerned John block my path.

“Hey, hey -- be careful” he comforted. “Even though I’ve tended to most of your wounds, I still don’t know if you’ve completely recovered. Do you feel okay, buddy?”

I couldn’t deny that John’s compassion threw me off-guard a bit, and the more he fretted over me, the more I started to suspect what his true motives really were. I paid no mind to his question, and instead, got straight to the point.

“Why are you being so kind to me?” I asked, remaining on the bed.

John seemed baffled by that. “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t I be? I told you before, Brucie. I love you.” He gave me a warm smile. “...You’re my better half.”

I let out a breath, trying to understand the clown’s logic.

“It wasn’t too long ago that you wanted to kill me. Why do you suddenly care so much? Why haven’t you given up on me like the rest of this goddamn city?”

John frowned. “I never actually wanted you to die! If I did, I wouldn’t have given you that gas mask. I was just so...angry and so annoyed with everything you had done -- I wanted to get some revenge. But murdering you was never on my to-do list. You...you mean too much to me. I’m not sure I’d ever be able to sleep again if I killed you. Though...I guess you’ve already died once, haven’t you. Thanks to Harley.”

I scoffed, shaking my head. “...No. I wasn’t that lucky.”

Searching around the room for a second, I came to a pause when I noticed that a certain someone was missing.

“Where is Harley, anyway?”

The other man fell silent.

“...In a cell, probably.”

That took me by surprise. “What are you talking about?”

“Waller tried to arrest you back at City Hall,” John explained, “so Harley and I jumped in -- quite literally, actually. At first, things were going swell, but somewhere in the chaos, Harley got overwhelmed by Waller’s people, and you were still unconscious after being zapped. I tried to save both of you, but there wasn’t enough time, so I...I...”

“...You gave her up to rescue me.” I concluded.

“Do you believe me when I say I love you now? I’d do anything for you, Bruce. Anything. Especially if it means burning Gotham to the ground.”

John leaned forward, laying his hand on top of mine. “I promise...I’ll never abandon you again. Ever. You...you do believe me, don’t you? You still have faith in me -- your old buddy, John? U-Unless...the stitch is truly broken. In that case, just say the word...and we’ll just go our separate ways. You’ll never hear from me again. It’ll be as if I don’t even exist. Just like old times.”

Without even thinking about it, I mindlessly tightened my grip on John’s hand and pulled him closer, afraid he’d slip away if I let go.

The action caused the lovestruck clown to gaze at me in a hopeful manner, his eyes widened with surprise as he wondered if there was a chance I’d finally forgive him. I didn’t even realize I was holding the man so close until he took a seat on the bed beside me, patiently waiting for a response as I tried to hide the tears that threatened to spill.

“...Bruce?” John softly asked, still as a statue. I glanced upwards, unable to restrain myself from breaking down.

“You know,” I whispered, “when I woke up in that morgue a week ago...no one was there. Not Waller, not Tiffany, not Avesta...not even Alfred. I was all alone. Just some botched science experiment who had been left for dead, and couldn’t even be given a proper burial. This...this is the first time I’ve woken up with someone at my side. And it’s the man I had the least amount of faith in.”

John caressed my cheek, stroking affectionately. “Well, it’s not like you had no reason to doubt me. I know I hurt you a lot at Wayne Enterprises, but I won’t leave you alone again, Bruce. I’m here till the end. You know that.”

“I’m not afraid of being alone,” I corrected. “...I’m afraid of being forgotten.”

The other man brought me into an embrace, resting his head on my chest.

“Then there’s no need to be scared. Because no matter how this ends, I guarantee that ‘Joker’ and ‘Lazarus’ are gonna be two names Gotham will never forget. It’s possible we could die, I know, but at least we’ll go out with a bang! And I’ll have you right next to me, whether we’re in the Funhouse or in the grave.”

I smiled at him. “...Thank you, John. I just...I don’t want to fight alone anymore.”

He returned the smile, scooting closer. “You never were.”

Before I could say anything further, John suddenly guided me into an amorous kiss and tied his arms around me, gradually pushing me down to the mattress underneath.

At first, I was frozen with surprise and simply lay still, unsure of how to react. I certainly wasn’t expecting our conversation to lead to this, but as time passed on, I eventually warmed up to it and kissed John back, combing a hand through his hair while the other tugged at his collar.

For a while, the two of us stayed like that and continued to shower each other with kisses, not worrying about the outside world. I had no idea where Waller was, or if Bane had even succeeded in blowing Gotham Bridge to hell -- and at the moment -- I didn’t care. Right now, all that mattered to me was John. Nothing more, nothing less.

Breaking the kiss for just a second, I rolled over and flipped our positions so that I was above the other man. Almost instantly, I felt John’s curious hands roaming up my back as they brushed over every ridge and savored the warmth, steadily making their way up to my shoulders.

By now, John had slid off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the porcelain skin beneath as he tossed the obstacle aside. It was pretty clear he had been wanting this for a while, and with every passing minute, more and more of our clothes found their way onto the floor, leaving nothing between us.

Hooking an arm around John’s bare waist, I smothered my lips on his own and practically flattened myself on top of him, locking our bodies together. His face and ears were flushed pink now, and the lower I worked my way down his frail chest, the more he seemed to drift into another world.

“I love you, Bruce,” John suddenly breathed out. “More than the world.”

I paused mid-action and climbed over him again, pecking a tender kiss on his forehead.

“...I love you, too, John. You’ll always be my light outside of Arkham.”

#telltale games #telltale batman #the enemy within #bruce wayne #john doe #joker #batjokes #fanfic #story #lotus

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black-th1rt3en · 7 years ago

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hA hA Holiday

A short holiday one shot which features the Joker angsting over a Christmas alone in Arkham. (Writing is mine and so is the edit!).

“Patient 0801, stop moving!”

“Someone grab his neck, get him in the strait jacket!”

But it was useless. He was thrashing wildly, arms and legs held down each by one guard as they wrangled him into a chair - the Joker. His body popped up and down like a wild animal as he hooted between threats (‘If you don’t lay your hands off me I’ll turn them into ornaments and sell them on Amazon!’), when otherwise he thrashed and seethed in anger. Backup was forced to intervene in reigning in their own resident clown to a wheelchair so transportation to the extreme isolation wing.

He’d been particularly violent in the rec room, a luxury his peculiarly calm behavior had earned before he’d tried to burn down the sensitized Christmas tree with some inmates tied like pretzels underneath. One had been found with their throat slit, and the others were sent to the infirmary with similarly fatal injuries. They were still wondering how he’d done all that with the Charlie Brown-esque four foot measly little tree.

But he hadn’t surrendered when they came for him, which they did. Many cuts and black spots later and he was still thrashing around. Then when the white coat came into direct view, the Joker somehow began to struggle harder.

“Someone hold his head, I can’t safely administer the medicine if he’s moving.” The Doctor said, readying the mix of the sedative and muscle relaxants and whatever else with a few loud taps. Cash managed to grab the clown by his temples, hands weeded in the green hair as he held it still enough for the needle to enter the vein so the plunger could be emptied.

“Doc I sssswear I’ll use your skin as wrappin’ paper—!” But it had already pierced his skin, and the straps were secured around all his limbs when Cash released him to thrash more, as if he was trying to refuse the medicine coursing through his bloodstream. He bared his teeth like a wild animal.

“Oh Doc! I you shouldn’t have—! Ho ha heEEEe hA hA!!” He laughed breathlessly, though unlike the guards around him he had hardly broke a sweat. “Have a merry Christmas! Don’t forget to save me a glass of champagne, and tell your wife ‘hello!’ for me.”

The insinuation didn’t go unnoticed, and delivered by the Joker it carried double the weight.

Peels of laughter followed him down the hall as they moved him to extreme isolation, but it was not cheerful or mocking; the laugh echoed menacingly, cold and chilling like a threat itself. Inmates passed and did nothing. They saw his lips, how they were right and unnaturally in a smile — more-so than usual — but his eyes were slits, the most telling of it all and his brows pulled down with them.

Cash tailed behind, wisely also silent. But he had always been the smartest of the guards, just not enough to deny the position as the head of them.

The cell door was bolted shut with rubber underneath to block out any light, all metal and a single small cot in side with a mattress more of springs than actual mattress.

Cash reached for the restraints but pulled back, nodding at the guards to be ready before going to unlock them again. “Don’t get any ideas, clown.”

The sedatives had diffused in him, and the Joker’s movements would be sluggish at best if he did try and attack. It would last just for another thirty minutes if that, but Cash was appropriately cautious. The Joker threw his head back and made a noise reminiscent of a growl and a giggle at once.

“Shouldn’t you be back home, Cassshhhh?” He hissed, voice like a snake’s as it slurred. “Isn’t your wife missing you, or better yet, your little brat children?”

Cash offered no savory reaction, only unbuckling the clown and escorting him into the cell and watching as he fell limply onto the bed once he was released. The points of tazers following the Joker’s body the whole way down. Down down down...

“Gotta admit, I never pegged you as the Scrooge-type.“ He stepped back, allowing a few more moments of light.

“And some of us have do have families to attend to but people like you keep us away from them, just not all of us.“ Cash didn’t smile as he continued, but later he would enjoy the look of pure contempt on the Joker’s face. “Your Bat-lover might not have come tonight, but you’ve always got New Years to look forward to.”

A black void enveloped the room when he did lock the door, and the Joker’s anger came to muffled light in the darkness. His teeth grit viciously together as blood fell down his forehead and dripped steadily onto the Arkham uniform, which had already been smeared in red.

No visitors tonight, not on Christmas. Looked like Batman had better things to do than deal with him, and the bitter normalcy of the situation made him sick.

It was hard to imagine him not prowling the night for trouble, to think that he would be curled by a fire with endless presents, his little bat Family just a little ways away nursing eggnog and gnawing on peppermint candy canes with music playing softly in the background. He could taste it between the waves of numbness, that horrible sour complacency with which he was no longer acquainted.

Apparently the the job of being Batman didn’t extend to holidays, but the madness of being the Joker would always be with him.

He snarled, “Boy wonder is somewhere making Christmas cocktails as little Robin trapezessss around with new weapons unsheathed, or maybe they’re sharing hot chocolate around as they play pin the tail on the reindeer.” He sneers into the darkness, turning on his side as if to hide from his own imagination in the void of this room. It’s so dark and quiet and his mind is running and running and running away from him with visions of sugar plums dancing around a sleeping Bat Family, happy and content now that he’s locked away all desperately alone.

“And I suppose Harley has thought little of me, either.” He murmured into his arm, the noise muffled by the material, “Smooching on her grrrreeen girlyfriend who probably tastes like peppermint just coz she can.”

He moved again onto his stomach, deciding that he wasn’t moping over being alone as much as being bored when he was supposed to be out, enjoying the holiday in his own s p e c i a l way. But he wasn’t, instead the closest thing to a gift that he’d gotten was a nice kiss to the face from Burlow’s fist. He’d remember that later, but at least that damn peppermint flavor was gone.

He shifted again because the lack of anything was allowing the thoughts to creep in like the vines—

Oh, blast it all!

His closed fist connected with the sharp metal corner of his little cot, and contemptuously he noted that besides his red lips and green hair he was only festive by the blood spilled on his white skin. He wanted to yell but all he made was a long grrRg̶R̶rRr̶r̶R̶r̶U̶uUugG̶h̶h.

Somewhere in his stifled musings he heard a voice drifting down the hallway. Had there been a sliver of illumination it would’ve danced in some obscene color with carols and garish stripes to celebrate some abstract holiday of its own. But there was only black, and no amount of medicine could warp that deep absence of light.

So his other senses flourished, and the singing grew louder, until the nostalgic sound of Stevie Wonder’s voice rolled into his cell and took over the darkness. He curled his legs to his chest, open palms clamped over his ears and eyes screwed close as the past cut closer, ghosting it’s fingertips over his neck to strangle him.

The sounds he made didn’t drown it out, so he stopped making them and tried to remember that it wasn’t there. If there was one thing that copious amount of medicine did do, it is to inflict an equal amount of resurrection of dead ghosts, to wake them and rile them until they tore at your mind more than his was already lost.

But since it was Christmas he couldn’t help but let out a dry wheeze of a laugh as he conceded he might be the Ebenezer of this era. Cash might be happy to know he’s right for once! Ha!

He’d strangle his ghosts before he let them haunt him.

Still, the music played on.

⠀

Someday at Christmas man will not fail

Hate will be gone love will prevail

Someday a new world that we can start

With hope in every heart

Maybe not in time for you and me

But someday at Christmastime

Someday at Christmastime....

⠀

#the joker #one shot #im bad with tags #angsty #angst #batman #dc comics #fanfic sorta

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thejokersenigma · 7 years ago

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Christmas Fanfiction Advent Calendar 2017 - Day 4 - Strictly Business Part 6

Ok, so I know quite a few people have been asking for the next part of this series, so I decided to the next part of it for the advent calendar - its hardly ‘Chrtistmasy’ but, oh well! haha

Hope you Enjoy!

MASTERLIST

The cold air whipped past my window, I could hear it hollowing against the panes of glass, and I thought - though it was hard to tell through the murky glass and the dark streets - that a snow flurry had begun. I hugged myself tightly. It wasn’t cold in the room, but just the sound of the weather outside made me shiver.

I had been left in the room now for probably at least 6 hours – though I had no way to tell. My stomach was empty and pulling at me sharp and painfully, and I was bored out of my mind. I had explored my room a bit, but found very little of interest – the contents of the wardrobes and dressers only entertaining me for the short time it took to empty them.

I had managed to fall asleep for a few hours, but something unknown had awoken me, and now I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the grimy window, unable to sleep thanks to my protesting stomach.

I had even tried knocking at the door in the hope of getting an answer, but received nothing back. I don’t think the joker had even bothered to post guards on the other side of the door – there wasn’t like there was anyway I get out of this room.

It was definitely snowing, I thought to myself as I watched something white float past the window, then another, and another, the white smudges dancing and twirling around each other, catching the light just enough to let me see them before they dashed back into the darkness. First snow of the year. That was nice. And where was I? Trapped in a dressed-up warehouse cell, I thought bitterly to myself. The view would have been much nicer from the top floor of the office block, at my desk with a cup of coffee and a bagel or pastry.

The idea of food made my stomach pang again and I tried to block the idea from my mind. “So much for being a bloody guest,” I grumbled to myself, “doesn’t even bother to offer any food service.” Maybe I was going to go loopy in this room. Maybe that was his plan.

And so, I continued to watch the window, focusing on the gradual layer of white that built up on the ledge outside, wishing I could open the window somehow and touch it. I settled instead on placing my hand against the cold glass, imaging what it would feel like and leaning my forehead against the window pane as I tried to think about anything other than being stuck in this room, or how hungry I was.

I sighed loudly, my breath hitting the cold glass and spreading outwards, obscuring a large circle with fog. I moved my hand, now placing in directly in the centre of the fog, then removing it, smiling childishly at the hand print left behind.

I exhaled another large rush of air and began to doodle randomly. Some were just simple swirls or shapes, but soon joking with myself by writing help backwards even though I knew no one could see it. I felt like an idiot, taking such fun from such a trivial thing, but at least it was taking my mind off everything else.

I don’t know how long I had banged around in that room when I eventually heard someone. I practically jumped out of my skin when I finally heard the sound of footsteps - not having heard anything for over 8 hours. I had been lying on my bed, praying that I could take a nap to let the time pass quicker and must have dozed off because I now shot bolt upright, slightly disorientated and gripping the covers and sheets under me tightly. It flooded back quickly enough though, but my heart remained in my throat, pounding wildly as listened with strained ears to the footsteps in the corridor outside.

The sound was at my door now. Then the noise of metal on metal. The lock clicking. Then the door opened.

The man in the doorway was unknown to me, and he barely acknowledged my presence, simply stepping one foot into the room, saying, “This is yours.” And then throwing a small, but heavy satchel at me that thunked on the floor by my feet ominously.

Then, in the short time it took me to glance down at the bag and back up to the guy to ask him what it was and what he meant – having never seen the bag in my life – he was gone. The door snapping sharply shut behind him and there was the distinct sound of the door mechanism locking behind him once more.

Alone. Again. Great.

I peered into the bag only to find it full of wads of money, each held together tightly with an elastic band. I threw the bag to the foot of my bed in disgust. Fat lot that would do me, I thought bitterly. Not that I would keep it - I could guess where that money came from – the heist I had ‘helped with’ – but even if it wasn’t, this was the Joker we were talking about. All his money way stolen.

It didn’t matter anyway. I had no need for it whilst I was locked in here.

He could give me all the money in the world – right now all I wanted was something to eat.

Eventually food was delivered to me, though it wasn’t until after a long painful night of hunger. Now it was a regular thing. Though I remained locked in my room, I had access to water from my ensuite bathroom and food delivered morning, midday and evening by large burly men that unlocked the door, handed me and tray and disappear, the door being locked after them.

I never tried to sneak out or attempt to get pas them, there was no point – they alone could probably deal with me judging by the amount of muscle on them. I soon began instead to offer them the previous trays in return as otherwise they never bothered to collect them and I would have ended up with a large pile of crumbs slowly decaying away.

So, I was fine. I was surviving. And I wasn’t tortured. But I was trapped and felt like a prisoner, despite the luxurious accommodation. What I couldn’t comprehend was why the Joker hadn’t spoken to me in over a week now, and I was confused why he bothered to keep me alive at all, let alone keep me here like this.

After wondering this every day, I was then very surprised when the door sounded out of the usual hours of my meal deliveries. I had been lounging on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, entertaining myself with daydreams, when the knock sounded, and my gaze now immediately snapped to the door. I didn’t move, watching the door warily, but the knocking only became louder and more persistent.

Eventually I opened the door, revealing the Joker stood looking rather unimpressed at the delay, in the doorway. I raised an eyebrow, in question, equally unimpressed with his sudden appearance after all this time. “What?” I asked shortly. I was getting use to treating this room like my own, with no one else around, and took my recent apparent safety for granted.

“Is that a way to greet your host, doll?” Ask J in mock outrage, though I could hear the warning in his words. I rolled my eyes at him nonetheless.

“Do come in.” I said, overly politely, opening the door wider to him and flourishing my hand in a mocking gesture.

“As witty as ever, doll.” He observed dryly, striding past me into the room. For a brief moment I looked out the door and into the empty concrete hallway beyond. He hadn’t ensured the door was closed after him, and now I had a view of my freedom before me. But was I fast enough to outpace the Joker? And what were the chances of getting out of this warehouse, or managing to hide, before I was intercepted by one of the henchmen that I knew must patrol around.

“I wouldn’t, doll.” Came the Joker’s voice behind me, easily reading my thoughts. I knew he was right and I begrudgingly let the door fall shut, turning, instead, to face my captor instead.

“In that case, I’ll ask again. what do you want?” I demanded, annoyed that once again I was still stuck here against my will. Not that It was a bad room, no. Now I was being fed I was even slightly content, but I hated the idea I was stuck here – plus I was bored out of my mind.

“So hostile.” Tutted J, looking offended. “I’m just here to give you some entertainment.” He grinned with a knowing smile, holding out his hands to either side, palms towards me in a welcoming gesture.

I eyed him suspiciously. “No thanks.” I muttered.

“Aw, come on, doll.” J persisted. “You don’t even know what it is yet.”

“If it’s you, then no thank you.”

“Whilst that is tempting, kitten.” The Joker teased with a sinful grin and glint in his eye, “I’m afraid not.” Stuck in his hand into his smart jacket – the action making me flinch, immediately jumping to the idea of him drawing a gun and finishing me – grinned at my reaction, and instead pulled out a folded piece of paper. He seemed to consider the document for a moment, before passing it over to me.

I hesitated slightly before taking it from him. “What is this?” I asked without opening it, only looking at the blank folded side.

“A present.” J said simply.

“Why?”

“Because its Christmas, doll. That’s what people do.” He said slowly like he thought I was slow in the mind. I raised an eyebrow at him and he let out one of his haunting laughs. “Well, close enough!” He amended. “Come on, doll, just accept it and get on with it.” He told me impatiently, waving his hand at the paper in my grip. “A thank you wouldn’t go amiss either.”

I wasn’t about to go thanking him until I knew what I was holding, so I opened up the piece of paper to find several sheets, all full of details and plans for another heist. I frowned at the documents in confusion.

“I’m still waiting, kitten….” J whined.

“I don’t understand…” I said, confused.

“Has all this time away from the office numbed you’re mind?” He demanded, irritated by my slow uptake. “They’re the documents for the next heist” He explained, jabbing his hand at them “ – seeing as you seem to enjoy the last one so much.”

I continued to frown down at the documents, yes, I had enjoyed the planning of the last heist – problem solving all the little kinks and flaws - but I couldn’t do another one. I had aided in a robbery – and a pretty lucrative one at that judging by the amount of money that had been in that bag delivered to me!

That bag now sat at the bottom of my wardrobe. I had tried to return it, attempting numerous times to give it over to the men that brought me food, but they just completely ignored it. So, in the end, I had moved it out of sight to the wardrobe. I didn’t want anything to do with it and keeping it out of sight helped to keep it off my mind.

“I can’t.” I said finally, handing it back to him. But the Joker didn’t reach for it.

“Sorry, doll, no returns.” He sneered and made towards the door. “Keep it. Maybe you’ll change your mind whilst your stuck in here with nothing else to do.” He teased with an evil grin. I scowled at him.

He was halfway out the door now, “Oh, by the way doll, if you don’t help, you’ll probably just be contributing to a whole lot more death.” He pointed out with a manipulating smile, before slamming the door closed and I heard the lock go.

I let out a cry of frustration, throwing the paper, though it hardly got far before it fluttered limply to the floor.

I was trapped again.

And he was right. If I helped I was aiding a crime, but I would also be able to edit it enough to minimise the amount of damage was done – property and people wise.

I sighed heavily as I looked over at the papers now sprawled on the floor, tossing back and form on what to do till my mind ran itself round in circle and I threw myself face down on the bed, screaming my frustrations into the pillows.

I did.

I gave in.

I was felt quite ashamed by my choice, but in the end, I couldn’t help it. Or maybe I could. But either way, I didn’t. I had sat on my bed for ages, the boredom - and knowledge that I didn’t have to be bored - was like torture. The lure of the papers and my curiosity for the plans eventually overpowered me however, and soon my brain was listing excuses as to why it was ok to help.

And so I did it.

I sat at the armoire, rubbing out and pencilling in my edits as the snow flurried past my window. The plan this time was for the hijacking and stealing of a lorry of chemicals. I wondered what the Joker was up to, but soon decided that I’d rather not know – it made helping easier.

When I had done all I could do – and reread it at least 5 times – I knew I now needed to get the plans back to the Joker. So I waited, until my meal arrived that evening, and – as the large henchman handed over the food I in turn handed over the papers.

The man looked at it, but refused to take it, instead he gave a single nod and then closed the door in my face. I scowled in annoyance at the door. Why couldn’t he just take it from me?

I spent the rest of the evening alone until I thought about finally trying to get some sleep, when I heard a familiar loud and persistent knock at the door. This time I didn’t hesitate and opened the door to the Joker on the other side, the papers already in my hand. I handed it out to him, but he ignored it as well, pushing his way into the room.

“Evening, doll, I see you’ve been busy.” He grinned triumphantly as he turned back to face me, his eyes on the paper. I hadn’t even bothered to consider making a bid for freedom this time, automatically shutting the door behind him.

“Yes.” I answered. “Now just take it and leave me alone – or better yet – let me go.” I said, thrusting the paper at him. He didn’t grab, instead he grabbed me, his large pale hands easily wrapping all the way around my wrist and stopping me in my tracks.

“Why thank you, doll.” He said, plucking the paper from my fingers, but not releasing his grip on me. He tugged at my wrist and I was forced to step closer to him to keep my balance. “As for letting you go, doll, no can do – you’re quite a lucrative investment.”

I scowled darkly at him. “I am a person. Not a money-making scheme.” I snarled.

“Oh, I know, doll…” He sneered, “Which is why I have a little proposal for you…” I watched him suspiciously, I hadn’t been this close to him since the kiss and I could feel his breath on my face, the distinct smell of whisky and man. I could feel my body becoming aware of his and my temperature rose a few degrees.

“I am not sleeping with you.” I said firmly, though my voice didn’t sound as strong as I wanted it to.

The Joker grinned wickedly, “Ah, princess, that wasn’t what I had in mind, though I wouldn’t say it hadn’t crossed it…” He said, his eyes roaming my body sinfully. I should have felt disgusted, but I just felt every inch of her body burn under his gaze and I desperately tried to resist the urge to squirm under his scrutiny.

“What then?” I snarled.

He ‘Oooo’ed silently at me snapping at him before his face went neutral. “I want you to work for me, doll.” He stated simply.

I felt my eyes widen in shock. I hadn’t been expecting that. “I-I can’t.” I stuttered in surprise.

“And why not?” He enquired politely, his invisible eyebrows raised in question.

“Well…” I sought for my reasoning, but found my brain wasn’t quite working, “Because you’re a criminal! And I’m – I’m not…” I finished lamely.

He laughed at my pathetic attempt of justification. “Doll, you don’t have to be a criminal to work for me – besides you’re practically doing good.” He said slyly – “think of all the people you’re saving by helping me – and you’re not even losing me any money, so I don’t care.” He shrugged nonchalantly.

I desperately searched my mind. I couldn’t have this job, I knew that, but he was speaking sense - I was kind of helping people by working for the criminal, in a mixed up twisted way. There had to be a comeback to that, but my mind was mush.

“I – I already have a job!” I pointed out.

“I’ll pay you more.” J said, simply.

I sighed, “It’s not for the money – that is my own company, it’s worth more than any amount of money.”

“Last time I checked, doll, it was your husband’s business – at least that’s what everyone been saying.” He said slyly, knowing that would make me react, but I’m not sure he realised how much of a stab in my chest that was. Something snapped in me at that and, taking J completely by surprise, I violently wrenched my hand free from his grip and stormed out of the room to the only other place I had access to - The bathroom.

I slammed the door behind me and sat with my back against the door – as it had no lock – and felt the boiling rage quickly subside into a hot flood of tears and I was soon sobbing into my hands.

It had been a fear of mine that when the merger between my company and Mathew’s had taken place I would lose my company to the man, but the contract had seemed so clear - that though the companies had merged, there was still two distinct sides – his and mine. The two companies still existed separately but we took the same losses and gains together – a close knit team like I thought our marriage was supposed to be. But I also thought our marriage would mean that much to Mathew, that he would value me more as a person than a business partner – and that he would notice – and care – about my feelings towards my company, the struggles to build it and make it thrive, and exactly the reason why I hadn’t wanted a complete merger of the two businesses.

Clearly not if he was now actively encouraging people to believe it was all his company. Especially people who still seemed to be believe that women were no more than pretty trinkets on a man’s sleeve.

Eventually the tears subsided, though I still felt raw and my temper didn’t feel far from the surface. I wasn’t just mad at Mathew now – though he was the person I was most fuming at – but I was mad at the whole of society for thinking they could do this to me and get away with it. They had known me before I was Mathews wife, they knew me to be the powerful business woman I had been before the rings and ‘I dos’, they knew, as well as Mathew did, what that company meant to me, yet they’d happily call it his the minute we were an item. Like I was suddenly inconsequential.

I clenched my hands into fists, gritting my teeth together. I wished they were in this room with me right now, I would like to punch their smug, painted faces. I growled at myself, trying to find another outlet for the rage.

I hadn’t heard J move on the other side of the door for a while and I wondered if he’d left - yet I wasn’t sure I had heard the bedroom door go either – but I might have drowned it out under all of my sobbing.

I got to my feet, catching a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror, grimacing in disgust and splashing water on my face in a poor attempt to make myself slightly more presentable before I went back out.

When I stepped out of the bathroom, I found J staring out my window at the snow that seemed to constantly fall at the moment.

“Not much of a view, is it doll?” He observed, his eyes not leaving the grimy glass. I didn’t say anything in return, stood awkwardly and still sniffling slightly, whilst J was on the other side of the large bed to me. We stood silently together for a moment, me watching him, whilst he kept his eyes on the window.

“I’ll pay you double.” J said eventually, repeating the offer from earlier.

“No.” I said, walking over to the wardrobe and pulling out the bag of money. I moved back to my original position and threw it on the bed between us. “You’ll that that back” I negotiated, “and I’ll take the money you’re making off those people from my ‘kidnapping’.”

His eyes snapped to money when it landed on the bed, but they moved to my face. His face was deadly serious and seemed to be surveying my face, running through my demands. He moved slowly and deliberately around the bed until he stood in front of me. “Deal.” He said with a wide grin, holding out a hand for me to shake.

I eyed his pale, muscular hand warily, my eyes lingering on the ink painting his skin. My eyes flicked up to his icy blue ones. “Strictly Business?” I asked firmly, think back to the kiss and his teasing, let alone the eyes that were now piercing mine.

“Strictly business.” Agreed the Joker with a sinister grin. But I trusted him. And I gripped his hand.

tags: @carouselcurls @aqswdefrgthzjukilop @toxic-ink @viraldragonrider @6fish6 @arkhamsurviour @theartistdetective @white-chocolate-mocha-fan @blondieinthecity

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dollofdeath · 8 years ago

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Insufferable [1/1]

Series: Joker Game

Characters: Kaminaga/Miyoshi

Rating: G

Summary: Miyoshi finds many things insufferable, such as the wind, extremely sunny days, and Kaminaga.

Words: 1109

Notes: Set in the Middle School AU from the Drama CD, based on paranoid-rhythm’s translations; life has been,,,, Really Shitty lately so I wrote something really really really really really self-indulgent over the weekend just to relieve some stress I guess. So, uh, fair warning, I guess this is pretty cheesy (but i luv cheese so ye) haha

You can read this on AO3. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy~ （＾³＾）～♪

Miyoshi does not hate; no, hatred is for those who can't get a grip on their emotions. Miyoshi is a young man of class so he simply finds things distasteful or unpleasant or -- what's the correct word? -- right, insufferable. Like when the wind blows especially hard and messes up all the work he put into his hair or like when it's too sunny outside and he needs to put on extra sunscreen and bring his parasol lest he suffer a sun burn.

Or like Kaminaga, the thorn piercing deep into his side.

Miyoshi doesn't know where to begin with Kaminaga. There's a lot of things about him that really ticks Miyoshi off.

Such as the fact that he lives so close to him -- they've been next door neighbors for as long as Miyoshi could remember. Kaminaga always insists on going to school together, always banging on his front door yelling, "Rise and shine, sleeping beauty~" in a sweet sing-song. If Miyoshi hadn't already trained himself to wake up at five o'clock for his morning routine, he would've been even more annoyed at all the ruckus.

What's worse is when he opens the door only to be greeted with that boyish smile of Kaminaga's, complete with pearly white teeth and dimples, and Miyoshi feels his stomach do a little flip. If it'd been only that, Miyoshi could deal with it just fine, but then Kaminaga starts speaking and his stomach does somersaults. In a vain attempt to block Kaminaga out, Miyoshi takes out his hand mirror and pretends he's not listening. It's easier whenever Jitsui joins them on the way to school, because it takes his mind off how much he enjoys hearing Kaminaga's voice.

Another thing that gets Miyoshi is how Kaminaga raves on and on about meeting his "fated one" but owns at least three cell phones dedicated to messaging girls. The constant pinging from Kaminaga's LINE going off haunts his dreams and he swears he's going to get wrinkles from frowning so hard whenever Kaminaga scrambles to answer his messages. What Kaminaga does in his free time isn't any of his concern, but for some reason he can't stop thinking about it. The one way Miyoshi knows how to get rid of these thoughts is to confront them up front.

"If you're so insistent on being with your 'fated one,'" Miyoshi says as they loiter around in cooking club one afternoon. "Why do you waste your time on all these frivolous affairs?"

After finishing up his current text, Kaminaga tears his eyes off his phone screen and stares right into Miyoshi's own. Miyoshi manages to keep his expression blank somehow, but he blames the warmth that rushes to his cheeks on Fukumoto's cooking (never mind that Fukumoto hasn't even turned the stove on yet).

"I suppose I'm just waiting for my fated one to realize we're meant to be," Kaminaga tells him with a wink at the end.

Though Miyoshi only gives him an unimpressed look, he tries to find a rational reason as to why his heart had just skipped a beat just then and why seeing Kaminaga immediately return to texting bothers him. It's not like he needs Kaminaga's attention, he tells himself to put an end to these thoughts. But then he finds himself wondering about Kaminaga again and the cycle continues.

What really gets on Miyoshi's nerves, though, is how Kaminaga has the gall to make fun of him, claiming him a "narcissist" just because he spends some time doing his hair or saying that he's "extra" just because he corrects people's misinformation. Someone has to be perfect to make up for everyone else. Besides, it's not like Kaminaga has the right to be saying anything, not when he lets his crotch make his decisions.

At the same time, Miyoshi has to admit there's a sort of rush when they banter -- it's sort of exciting, even, especially when he's surrounded by helpless idiots like Amari and Mr. Sakuma. While Hatano and Jitsui are good conversationalists, Hatano's fuse blows too quickly and Miyoshi has learned a long time ago not to cross Jitsui or else something could happen to his face. With Kaminaga, however, it's like playing a game, where they constantly go back and forth and neither of them are willing to lose. Miyoshi may pride himself on his perfection, but he can't deny there's some fun to being challenged every now and then.

But the most insufferable thing, Miyoshi thinks, is how he doesn't actually find Kaminaga insufferable at all. In fact, Miyoshi thinks he may even... like him ("like," not "love," because people like him don’t need love despite what the tiny voice in his head says).

Because even if Kaminaga can get overwhelming, Miyoshi likes how Kaminaga is always there waiting for him in the morning, always ready to start the day with that smile of his; he likes the way Kaminaga looks at him when he talks about his so-called fated one with a sparkle in his eyes; and he likes the way Kaminaga always pushes him, always keeps him on his toes because he'd be damned if he lets Kaminaga ever get the upper hand on him.

So despite being a constant thorn in his side, or maybe cause he is a constant thorn in his side, Miyoshi decides that he lov -- likes Kaminaga and that perhaps what's truly insufferable is how he hasn't done anything about it yet.

Miyoshi makes his move one day, when it's just the two of them walking home together. There's nothing new about the scene: Kaminaga chatters on about his day as they walk shoulder-to-shoulder and Miyoshi pretends as if he doesn't care about a single word he's saying. But when their fingers brush against each other's, Miyoshi catches Kaminaga's fingers with his and intertwines them. Whatever Kaminaga's saying trails off and his steps slow to a stop when he realizes what Miyoshi's just done. He stares at their joined hands for a moment before looking up to Miyoshi with a grin growing on his face.

"So you've finally realized it, huh?" Kaminaga asks with a teasing lilt, raising their hands like it's proof of their love.

"I don't buy into your 'fated one' business," Miyoshi says rather indifferently, but even he can't stop himself from returning Kaminaga's smile. "But maybe if you stop thinking with your crotch, I'll consider going out with you."

Despite how harsh his words come off, Miyoshi tightens his grip on Kaminaga's hand and steps just a little bit closer to him as they resume walking. Kaminaga may be an insufferable idiot, but he's his insufferable idiot.

#good night~#i thought twice abt posting this but u kno what u guys r gonna get all my cheesy ass kamimiyos #joker game #kai tries to write #kamimiyo #knock tf out #okay anyways no one from my group is responding to me with what the hw was so i'm just gonna #otp: it's rare that we think the same thing

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spacebearwithagun · 8 years ago

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Panic

The first time it happens it’s seemingly out of the blue. She’s standing in the little room they’ve assigned her, a cell really but honestly, it’s not so bad. It’s a bit bigger than her cabin on the first Normandy. It’s been just about a month since she’s been under military custody and while things could be better, they certainly could be worse. She’s finding being still for once a godsend, that and the fact that no one is actively trying to kill her makes this imprisonment seem more like a vacation really. She’s not even sure she can really call this imprisonment. The alliance isn’t really sure what to do with her, she may have destroyed a mass effect drive and stranding millions of Batarians in the corresponding system, but her motives were sound and it seems likely that with too much investigation the whole incident can be tied to higher ups in alliance command. Really putting her on trial would threaten the alliance’s position in the galaxy and so soon after they gained a council seat. Plus there is her hero status. She not only saved the citadel two years ago but she also dealt with collector problem plaguing the terminus colonies. First human spectre and Terran heart recipient also held some clout. Still she had worked with that terrorist organization, cerebus… though she did send the alliance all the information she could about them and brought back the sr2 and willingly gave it up to alliance forces. In short she was a problem, one without a simple solution. The worse thing about all of it was the isolation. She had been able to disperse most of the remaining crew before turning over the Normandy into Alliance hands. Only a few refused to budge, the two human engineers, Donnelly and what’s her name, stayed on. They were now in alliance custody. Joker of course refused to leave the Normandy, Shepard had a feeling that it had less to do with the ship itself and more to do with EDI, the ship’s AI whom he had grown attached to. At any rate Shepard was able to convince the alliance that he had only been involved at her insistence and that he was far to valuable a pilot to throw him in jail. Chakwas also stayed, refusing to leave her patient until she was handed over to alliance Doctors. Shepard had survived the attack on the collector’s base but at great cost. She tried to hide it but she had been in a great deal of pain. Ribs fractured, dislocations, internal bleeding. It all took a toll, even with the cybernetics installed by cerebus helping her heal. Worse than the physical pain was the mental. Somehow, during the months it took to deal with the reapers, she had been running on adrenaline. The nightmares had come regularly but still she would sleep out of sheer exhaustion at times. Then there were the few stolen nights where she had been able to share her bed with someone and sleep the night through. The last time she had slept the full night was the night before they entered the Omega 4 relay. She had slept surrounded by her remaining crew, curled up next to grunt, one hand holding his and the other hand holding Jack’s. Now that she was standing still though, everything was catching up to her. Dying, losing the ones she loved because of it. She had never figured out how to tell Ah Jah and Sara’s parents about her rise from the dead. Then there was Kaiden. His rejection still hurt, no matter how much her logical brain accepted it, understood it, the emotional part was still reeling, still hurt, still wanting to lash out. She missed her crew too, missed being surrounded by people she could care for. She had to deal with people on a daily basis now but she still felt isolated. The alliance investigators and psychiatrists were no substitute for real connections. The only friend she had seen was Anderson, who had apparently resigned his position as councilor and was now involved heavily in her investigation. He was her lifeline, visiting once or twice a week, bringing her tidbits of information about her friends and crew he had gathered. At times Shepard felt that his presence was the only thing keeping her from going completely insane. The first week had been rough. She had barely slept because every time she closed her eyes the nightmares and visions would start. She lived in terror of them. It hadn’t taken long for the alliance Doctors to catch on though. They tried everything they knew, multiple combinations of drugs to try and alleviate her symptoms. They diagnosed her with ptsd, anxiety, even schizophrenia at one point but finally came to the conclusion that her brain had been irreversibly altered by either the encounter with the prothean artifact or by cerebus’s experiments. They resorted to tranquilizing her every night. It did nothing to relieve the dreams but it did allow her body to rest and to heal. Still she lived in terror of every night, terror of being trapped in the nightmare, terror of watching her friends die again and again. She began to disassociate during her waking hours, staring off into the middle distance, her brain somehow not thinking or taking in the world around her. The doctors found this worrisome too but they were reluctant to keep throwing chemicals at her and she was reluctant to submit to talk therapy. Finally 3 weeks in there was a breakthrough. Ah Jah was able to gain permission to visit Shepard. It had been an emotional reunion but it was enough to rock Shepard back into herself. The dreams continued but she beared them. Two days later Sara’s parents came and her recovery back to herself was nearly complete. Then the panic attacks started. The first one about a month in taking her completely by surprise. She had been standing in her room, looking out the small window at the cars that whizzed by the new York skyline. She had been thinking about Anderson and the news he had brought that day when a thought flitted through her mind. “You will lose it all” Dreadful buckled her knees and sent her crumbling to the floor. A sweat broke out across her skin yet at the same time she began to violently shiver. She could not breath, she tried but her lungs seemed unwilling to take in the air. She clawed at her arms, leaving angry red streaks across them, trying to pull herself out of it, whatever this one. She was breathing to hard, hyperventilating. Her heart pounded in her throat. She was going to die and she couldn’t save them. A nurse finally rushed into the room, alerted by the alarms from her wristband. He’s gentle with her, and he keeps his voice calm. “ just breath commander, it’s okay, you’re just having a panic attack, it will pass.” and it does slowly, leaving her exhausted in its wake. It’s the first, but not the last. Shepard learns to keep herself distracted constantly. She reads a great deal, studying everything from asari history to quantum mechanics. She takes up knitting, to keep her hands occupied. Music plays constantly in her room, filling the silence. Three months in Anderson comes for a visit. He brings letters from Ah Jah and Sara’s parents. He brings news of Kaiden. “Alenko has requested permission to visit you.” Shepard jerks in her seat. Anderson continues. “It’s likely that the board will approve the request. They’ve only denied Joker’s so far on the basis you might manipulate him again. I am sure they feel that Alenko is beyond your easy influence.” “Can you do me a favor?” “Depends on what it is, Shepard.” “Can you make sure that the request gets denied?” “Are you sure?” Shepard nods. “I can’t see him right now.” “Why? I know you were once… close.” “ that was a long time ago, linger for him than for me… when you first met with me, the first time back on the citadel, after cerebus had apparently raided me from the dead, did you ever once doubt that I was, well me?” “When I first heard about you showing up, I had my doubts but the moment I saw you fave to face I knew it was you.” “How?” “I don’t know how to explain it, there is just a certain quality to you though, sort of fills up a room.” “See, that’s what everyone else said, something similar at least. Tali, Liara, Garrus, Wrex, Joker, Dr. Chakwas all of them who knew me from before said they had no doubts about me being me from the moment they met with me again… except for Kaiden. The one person who I thought knew me the best couldn’t trust that I was me. We’ve changed too much, him more than me I think. He’s had two years to get over losing me, I have had 5 months, it’s not enough yet. There’s no going back for us, there’s no trust anymore,, no familiarity and with everything, me being under investigation and all, perhaps it is better if he keeps moving in a direction away from me. We are too far apart now to ever come back together and I would just hold him back.” Anderson nods “ Okay. I am not saying I agree with you completely because I think you both need some sort of closure but I will see that the request gets denied.” “Thank you.” Three months later the alarms go off and Anderson collects Shepard from her cell. They race walk through the corridors towards the admiralty board as Anderson appraises her of the situation. It has happened. The thing that Shepard has been warning them about, the visions in her head, the reapers have arrived. They pass by a group of people and Shepard’s eyes skitter left and collide with Kaiden’s gaze. He nods at her. “Shepard” She nods almost imperceptibly back at him and returns her focus to Anderson. Now is not the time to explore old heart breaks. The man next to Kaiden turns to him. “You know the commander?” “I used to.” It’s the truth. The woman who soon disappears from his view seems to barely reassemble the woman he fell madly in love with a mere two years ago. There’s a haunted quality to her eyes now, a sense of disconnectedness. She doesn’t trust him anymore. Three months ago he had put in a request to see her, to maybe square away some of the lingering feelings from their last encounters but it had been denied. He had been disappointed but he had learned that the request had been denied because Shepard did not want to see him. He had been confused, then angry. Why would she not want to see him? Was she hiding from him again? Those feelings were quickly replaced with understanding though, she didn’t trust him anymore. One moment of doubt on his part and he had lost every ounce of trust she ever had in him. There would be no bridging that, not easily, especially if she didn’t want to try. Without trust he would never know Shepard like he used to again.

#my shepard #fics #mass effect

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lizardpersonyknow · 2 years ago

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I am once again adding to my own post but

Damian is FERAL

And Bruce has to go to multiple galas every couple of months. Why on earth would Damian choose that over the acclaimed archeological family that goes to three galas a year at BEST????

He can learn so much about this new climate!! In nanda pardat(idk the spelling) he knew all the bugs but here there's NEW ONES???!?!!? What if he's stranded? He has to LEARN!!

{No he is definitely Not autistic Coded even if I relate a little too much to him.}

Anyways he rejects the Wayne's bc

1. Bruce's public image

2. Jack just lets him do what he wants

3. Tim views castrating rapists as a fun family bonding activity

4. Tim doesn't give too much affection, he gives hair ruffles, forehead kisses, an arm round the shoulder, a quick elbow squeeze. But never one of those way too tight, uncomfy hugs that you don't know how long to hug for and oh god let me go...

Listen. If Damian hadn't joined the batfam and Tim stole him from Ra's while Bruce was lost in time? Tim would be his Actual Idol. He outsmarted his grandfather AND blew up the league?? Clearly the superior fighter. Father got himself lost in time. Dick would be so incredibly jealous. TIM can ruffle his hair but dick can't?? Is this because Tim thinks murder is a family bonding experience???!

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violetsmoak · 5 years ago

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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.

⁂

________________________________________________________________

Next Chapter

#batfam #batfam fanfic #batman family #batman beyond #batman #fanfic #terry mcginnis #bruce wayne #barbara gordon #tim drake #dick grayson #dc universe #dcau #action #adventure #angst #drama #race against time

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