#the writing just isn't good

[sirgwaiine]

the maze runner trilogy is the most bisexual shit in the world

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[wilteddreamsofbaldursgate]

Overindulgent father Astarion who tells his children they’re allergic to any kind of jewellery that isn’t made of the highest grade Dwarven crafted gold. 

It’s not even because Astarion might have a certain aversion to silver, no, he just raises his children to have standards, thank you very much. 

And it doesn’t end with shiny things, oh no… 

The Ancunín brood is known to be dressed in perfectly woven cotton, silk and soft leather clothes, no matter the occasion.

They’re seen playing with expensive toys, reading artfully illustrated books that certainly belong behind thick glass, not in children’s sticky hands. 

There’s even talk that one of the children is not as naturally inclined to music as his parents claim him to be, surely his lyre must be enchanted—the instrument certainly looks extravagant enough! 

And then there’s always this air of effortless haughtiness surrounding the Ancunín children whenever their nannies and servants are parading them through town as if they were perfect little dolls; objects to show off the wealth their parents acquired in quite the mysterious ways. 

So, it’s no secret that Astarion and Tav are pampering their children—some might say they’re even spoiling them rotten. 

And maybe they are, especially Astarion.

But he doesn’t see why he should raise them any other way, nor does he want to.  

When it comes to his children, Astarion has his own standards, and as long as Tav agrees with him nothing really matters. 

Because, these people, they don’t know anything about the Ancuníns. 

They don’t know that it’s not unusual for Astarion to wash out dirt and mud and strawberry stains from comically small finery, leaving behind only the memories of a day spent playing in the garden, chasing after ducks, picking flowers, lazing in the sun…

That any holes and tears the children’s clothes might suffer are quickly mended, making them look as good as new in no time. 

Nor do they know that Astarion doesn’t mind fashioning a brand new dress to match that of a favourite doll, either. Or to embroider a pretty vest with the likeness of that stray cat the children seem to adore, although their father would rather they don’t touch the mangy animal. 

No, those people know nothing at all...

“Not tired!” Astarion’s youngest cries; the vehement denial of her father’s earlier accusation is cut short by a telltale yawn.

The room still smells of fragrant lavender oil and peaches even when the bath water has already grown tepid, just one or two degrees above what Astarion would consider too cold to be enjoyable. 

Amused, he raises an eyebrow at the protesting toddler before he lifts her out of the copper bathtub with little effort. 

By now, he knows every step of this game.

“Tut-tut, my dear child, what did mama and I say?” Astarion kneels, quickly wrapping a soft towel around the child to keep her warm. “We only tell lies outside of this house.”

Unfazed by her father’s gentle scolding, the girl crosses her arms that haven’t yet lost their puppy fat across her chest, reminding Astarion a little too much of a very displeased Tav. 

Suppressing a sigh, he leans back to consider the pouting child, wondering what could possibly be upsetting her this time—the list is growing longer by the day, after all. 

“What’s the matter, dear?” Astarion asks gently, hoping it’s something easily fixable as it’s growing rather late. 

“Want apple!”

Decades ago, Astarion might’ve rolled his eyes—he knows exactly which stupid apple the child wants, it’s been haunting him all day—but once he started to treat his children’s problems as if they were his own, his life has grown somewhat easier. 

“Why, let’s get an apple on our way to bed, then. Would that be alright, Your Highness?” 

The girl promptly nods her head, allowing Astarion to pat her hair dry before dressing her in a clean night dress. 

She rests her cheek against her father’s shoulder as he carries her first to the kitchen to grab a fragrant apple and a knife, then to her bedroom where they settle on the cosy window seat, just like they do every night.

Soft moonlight is pouring through the windows; the child giggles at the way the knife’s blade is catching the silver light as Astarion peels and cuts the apple into even pieces.

“Here you go,” he finally says, giving the slice of apple one last examining look before surrendering it to the impatient little hands reaching for it. “A sweet treat for my little sweet. Doesn’t it taste so much better when we don’t eat it off the floor, darling?” And when it’s not crawling with ants…

The appeased toddler nibbles at the juicy fruit as Astarion carefully combs through her still-damp curls. 

Her hair’s getting long, he notices, knowing that taking care of it will become more time-consuming each day. 

Once, Astarion would’ve thought this task tedious, brushing out hair that’s not his own, oiling and braiding it for no other reason than knowing his children enjoy him doing it. 

But that’s why he loves doing it in the first place, he supposes.

Astarion can tell by his toddler’s heartbeat that sleep is about to claim her. 

The half-eaten slice of apple is still clutched in her little fist as he cradles the child to his chest, slowly rising from the window seat to put her to bed. 

He’s just about to lay the child down that the fruit drops to the floor, his daughter’s tiny hand clutching at his shirt instead.

“Thank you, papa,” she mumbles, more asleep than awake.

Astarion pauses.

He breathes in the clean, yet unique scent of the little girl that is forever engraved in his brain, the same way he knows under which exact constellation she was born. When she took her first steps, what her first word was. Soon, he will have to memorise her favourite colour, and what she likes to eat when dirty apples won’t be that appealing anymore. 

By now, Astarion knows this game by heart, knows that with every year that passes, he has something new to learn about his children.

And sometimes he wonders what it’s like to grow up with clean bed sheets and full bellies. Sleep filled with naught but warmth and happy memories. Ever open doors and tears that are dried by tender kisses. Living in a house where mistakes and anger are welcomed, safe. 

He wonders what it’s like for his children to know that their father’s love comes without conditions. Not now and not ever. 

Sitting down on the bed, Astarion holds his youngest a little closer to his chest, unwilling to let go of her, yet. 

He’s often accused of spoiling his children when most people can only just grasp the very surface of his love for them, the bare minimum of what he feels for his one and only, precious family. 

These baseless accusations are as unimportant to Astarion as the people voicing them.

He’s raising his children to have standards, wants them to take their father’s love for granted, to accept nothing less but pure devotion.

It’s the only way Astarion knows how to love them, the only way that comes most naturally to him. 

Astarion looks down at his little girl, now fast asleep, a gentle smile tugging at her lips. 

After all these years—all these children—he’s still in awe watching them sleep in his arms as if no harm in the world could ever befall them.

And it won’t—not if Astarion can help it. 

“No, thank you, my heart,” he whispers, pressing a kiss against the crown of the toddler’s head. 

When it comes to his children, Astarion holds himself to the highest standard.

[bluerosefox]

Once again. A new DPxDC idea/prompt.

(Deaged! Danny, Dan, Ellie, and Jazz!)

Enjoy my random ideas.

Look.

Selina....

Selina wasn't expecting this when she decided to have some fun and do what she does best.

She just meant to sweet talk her way into Master's gala/party. Flirt and get info, maybe some blackmail. Steal away the rare cat themed artifact he had recently gotten (and also steal away his actual cat, such a lovely little diva it is too). then she was going to disappear into the night like always.

So...

Selina casted her eyes into the mirror of her car and could see the tiny children she had rescued from Master's hidden basement lab. All but one was asleep, the oldest out of them, although she seemed to be losing that fight from the way her head was falling forward, eyes closing but would jerk herself back awake when she realized she was falling asleep.

Curled up as hard and as much as they could towards the little redhead was three dark haired children, Selina mused that they'd fit right in with Bruce and his little bats/birds.

Two were near identical boys, though one seemed to be much paler than the other and if she remembered right one had red eyes and the other had blue, and the last one of the sleeping kids was a tiny toddler, a girl she heard was named 'Ellie' from the others.

Selina took note that the red head, Jazz, had finally fallen asleep a few minutes later. With a deep breath as she drove further and further away from that... that insane Fruitloop (she overheard the two boys call him that as they ran to her car) Master's place, she blindly reached for her phone and pressed a single digit on the screen, knowing it will connect to her car and call up the only person she can trust to help her with this.

"Selina." came the gravely voice after a single ring, sounds like she caught him on patrol but he seemed to be in a spot where he was okay to say her actual name over coms or she caught him before his night shift started.

"Hello Darling, I need your help with some kittens I found and to help me... Put away their terrible old owner."

[teddybeartoji]

it's not often you get to see a sleepy suguru.

it's not like he's not tired – he's fucking exhausted; the dreams just don't seem to like him all that much. but he's usually toughing it out, trying to seem as composed and put-together as possible. the dark skin underneath his eyes betray him, though.

so you don't really know why today is different. is he just more tired? have all of the sleepless hours caught up with him? or is it just you; could it be that your body is the most comfortable place to rest his heavy head? or is it your perfume that's soothing him to sleep?

or is it the fingers in his hair?

he doesn't really let others play with his hair too ofter either. satoru and shoko had been the only exceptions but that was before you came along. satoru uses his hair as a stim, something to play with when he's bored. suguru has taught him manners though – a few slaps against satoru's fingers and chest to remind him to be more careful. and shoko is just more likely to brush a strand from his eyes or help him tie them up in a half-assed bun whenever his own hands are full with whatever.

you like playing with hair, always have and always will. it's relaxing and it's fun and it's calming and you love it. when you first met suguru, his hair was the second thing you noticed about him (his keen purple eyes being the first). an irresistible itch burned in your fingertips everytime you saw him, everytime he wore his hair down. it just looked so pretty and soft.

he takes very good care of his hair, you know that much. specific shampoos and conditioners, masks and all – he's all in. and nobody bats an eye. not that they should but satoru definitely gets made fun of because of his stupidly expensive collection of figurines and shoko gets teased for her silly mug shelf – and yet, neither of them ever comment on the bottles and tubs of fancy products that lay on his bathroom counter.

his hair also smells good. the compliment always hangs on the tip of your tongue but stays hidden in fear of coming off too weird. too creepy. but he doesn smell good. even with closed eyes and ears and you'd find him in a crowd. you wonder whether he knows that.

as you grew closer and closer, the now scorching itch only doubled in need. you never did gather the strenght to outwardly ask him – if you could play with his hair? if you could caress it? comb through it? it was an accident.

a simple gloomy friday afternoon: you're both lazing on your couch, staring at the screen. it's funny – you find yourself muffling your already quiet bursts of laughter, suguru alongside you. he's sitting close by, closer than usual. you don't ask him about it.

he asked to come over; something-something about being sick of his own apartment. you understand that, so you tell him that your home is his home (you'd tell him that even if you didn't understand). you hear the faint smile when he thanks you over the phone.

even when he looks like he hasn't slept in months – he looks good. you can tell he's overexaggerating his smile a bit but don't say anything about it, rewarding him with a grin of your own. his eyes flick to your lips and how they curve and he thinks about how warm it feels to look at you. maybe he's not exaggerating anymore.

your arms open wide, inviting him into you and he obliges, as always. he smells good. as always.

his hands lock behind your back and your behind his neck. your hearts meet and they greet each other with a fastened beat, eager to be in sync – to feel each other again.

he pulls back and the corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles. he's not doing it anymore and you're happy to relieve him even if it's for mere moments.

he's wearing a sweather and his hair is down. he has lip gloss on; you try to think whether he's more of a mint guy or more of a shea guy. it remains a mystery.

and now you're on the couch with two cups of warm tea waiting for you on the small table. he smells good. he's so close. he snickers at the screen and you can't take your eyes off of him. it's the same small crinkle of the eyes and the faintest pink tint on his cheeks.

you know he knows that you're looking at him. you've been told to have a staring problem and he's just an observant guy. it's a terrible match. or a perfect one.

he doesn't say anything though; instead he leans his head back and little to the side against the headrest (he's even closer now) and you find yourself shifting an inch aswell. perhaps magnets are involved? the iron in your blood pulling you together?

no, that can't be. you'd have to be polar opposites for that to work. warm-blooded and cold-blooded? would that work? you're getting too poetic and he's looking at you now.

it's an accident. it slips out on its own. you smell good. caught off guard by your own comment, you're about to apologize when a hand on your thigh almost makes you suffocate on the words stuck in your throat.

he laughs and it feels so good. he thanks you. he means it, you see it in his tired eyes. he likes the way you blush.

turning his focus back to the tv, you try to collect yourself. a deep breath in and a deep one out and a deep one in and a de—

a weight on your shoulder. he smells so good. he's so close. you peek down, curious as to whether this is a dream or not. but suguru's head is in fact laid on your body, sinking a bit more into you by the second. a deep breath in and a deep one out.

seeking for a more comfortable position, you snuggle closer to him. it's hard to focus but you're making it your sole mission to make him feel safe. your arm curls around his body, his shoulder, and rests right by a flock of his hair.

his cheek is now smushed against the top of your chest and the weight of love doesn't seem as bad as everyone keeps telling you. his hand finds a place around your waist; loosely – as if he's the one who's afraid to scare you off. silly.

his breath against you feels right and the butterflies in your stomach refuse to calm down. so you do what you always do when you get nervous – completely on their own, your fingers caress his hair. just smoothing over it at first but before you know it, they're combing through a strand and twirling the ends between themselves.

you wanna apologize, again, but the soft little grunt that emits from the man keeps you from doing so.

don't stop.

+ this is for @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat just bc it feels right

[celebrimborium]

Stop fighting me and together, let us fight them.

[lemon-3ds]

A Minecraft Movie (2025)

[psychologicalwarclaire]

Wu trained Morro at the same time that Garmadon was training with Chen which MEANS that Misako was around to see what the pressure of wanting and training to be the Green Ninja could lead to.

So later when she had Lloyd and KNEW that he would be the legendary Green Ninja, do you think she thought of the child Wu had once trained? The kid who became so obsessed with proving himself that he put himself in danger time and time again? The little boy who ran off into the night and never came back?

After seeing that, is it any wonder why she didn't want to leave her son-- the actual Green Ninja-- to be trained by Wu at such a young age?

Maybe a boarding school for bad boys would never make him want to be a hero. Maybe it would keep him safe from the destructive power of destiny. Maybe Darkley's was the only way to save her beloved son, Lloyd Garmadon, from himself.

Maybe Misako remembered Morro. And maybe, just maybe, she knew it would be best if her son never turned into someone like that.

[c-hrona]

Trigun body horror week

Day 3 - Lungs

Scream

Girls have butterfly in their bellies, when they are in love.

You have his feathers in your lungs, and his panic in your chest, and his cries in your voice.

[sinningtamer]

(the answer is probably both reasons)

[cor-lapis]

The Akademiya was defeated using a power they could never hope to attain- a group project where everyone pulled their weight.

Redesigns under readmore!

Al-Haitham: peonycats (tumblr)

Nilou: osteichthyens (tumblr)

Tighnari: peonycats (tumblr)

Dehya: oayr21 (twitter)

Nahida: fates-chosen-mess (tumblr)

Kaveh: My design, WIP

Masterpost with more redesigns

[inkskinned]

sure i find you in my hair and under my pillow and in the car. but i know in my heart you are picking me out of your teeth. i know i am burning through your sundays, sticking to your ceiling.

i hope i'm in every bitter cup of coffee and every candle wick and every bath. i hope my shadow flickers under your door so the empty hallway i have left behind is a swift dart of nothing more. i hope you find me in notebooks and stop signs and fleetwood mac - like i am marginalia on your life, i want my fingerprints burned into your days like acid.

i loved you, and you know i loved you, and for the rest of your life i will be the person you broke. for the rest of your life i hope the shame of that runs like a cattle dog, bites at your heels. i hope every time your cup is full or the moon is a toenail or a cat is purring or a laugh is in your belly or the sky turns pink while the sun is setting - i hope you remember that someone loved you, and you crushed them in your palms. you extinguished every future i lit. i hope that haunts you.

i hope you never fucking forget it.

[transmascutena]

the poor little meow meow-ifictation of saionji in this fandom has got to stop i can't take it any more

[pa-pa-plasma]

hey i feel like we're really sleeping on that time Danny possessed Vlad & framed him for assaulting a minor

Editing with the clip because people don't believe me. Episode is 41: Eye for an Eye.

[bonefall]

This AU is basically the Dungeon Meshi of Warrior Cats. This is a high compliment.

It's so funny, I get that a lot and I totally see it + appreciate it, but BB actually predates me being a fan of Dungeon Meshi! I've been getting that compliment since even before the anime dropped.

It makes perfect sense though. Dungeon Meshi uses food as a metaphor for communication across individuals, class, and most relevantly culture. It's something that brings people together, even when that's being addressed as a sinister thing when.......

Ah. No spoilers. You should go and read the manga to find out what I'm teasing ;)

I do something with a lot of overlap in BB. Food is an extension of the culture of the five Clans. I use it to characterize individuals too and as a metaphor for things at times (like Darkstripe's growth or cultural friction in Heartstar's Rise), but most of all, I try to emphasize the food as the product of the society that makes it. The biome, the diet, the behaviors of its chefs... so Dungeon Meshi and BB are naturally going to draw some interesting similarities.

Plus, Dungeon Meshi's a good ass series man, it's downright awe-inspiring. I hope I can make a narrative as satisfying as Ryoko Kui can, lmao. I love how much that girlie loves food

[wolfjackle-creates]

Hi!! I haven't been on Tumblr for a while but I used to read a fic you made out of a prompt (?) Someone else made about Danny who freaked out when he realized the Waynes are the Bats and accidentally shot Bruce(?) And if I'm not mistaken you made a part 2 of it (idr remember if it was a wip or finished) but do you have a masterlist so I can re-read it :D? So sorry if I sound weird (´⌒｀;)

It is absolutely never weird to ask an author about their works!!!! Thanks so much for sending this in.

It's been ages since I've worked on this one, but it's definitely on my short list to get back to. Especially since I'm pretty close to having it finished?

Here's chapter 1 on AO3. And the Subscription Post.

Chapter 2 is limited to Tumblr right now, only two parts currently. Part 1 can be found here.

Currently it's called Want to Hold on and Feel I Belong. However, when I do start updating on AO3 again, I plan to change the name. (I'm just waiting so people who have subscribed are more likely to remember what they're getting an email about.) Mostly I refer to it as my Bad Reveal AU. Though I get that's not a great working name as that's usually reserved for the Fenton parents reacting badly rather than Danny reacting badly.

Also, as a thanks for reminding me that it's been a while since I've posted anything about this fic (or, well, in general), have the next bit!

Here's a random 1.5k.

Previous

-----

Having a potential lead so close meant the hours until J’onn’s arrival were spent in prep mode.

Every uniform had to be checked for the slightest damage and upgrades done where possible. Supplies and go-bags were organized so they could leave the moment they had a lead. Fuel levels in every vehicle were checked and topped off where necessary.

And finally, the zeta tube activated and J’onn stepped out. “Good day to all of you. I heard my assistance was needed?”

Bruce went to greet him. “J’onn. Danny’s room is upstairs. Did Clark explain the situation?”

“Yes. He said that your newest ward has density shifting powers and left things behind in his walls and floor before running away a few days ago.”

Bruce nodded sharply. “Follow me. Clark will show you where the items are hidden so you can retrieve them.”

Dick happily zipped up what felt like the hundredth bag he’d had to pack and joined them. “Hey, J’onn. Welcome. How have you been?”

“Greetings, Dick. It has been a long time since our last meeting. I have been well. I want to wish you luck in finding your brother swiftly and easily.”

Dick nodded his thanks. “Same. We’re really hoping he left behind something to help because we haven’t had much luck so far.” Dick pulled out his phone and notified the family of J’onn’s arrival and requested they meet in Danny’s room.

On the way, Bruce and Dick filled J’onn in on the situation. At the implication of government experimentation, he face went hard and he vowed he would help them however he could.

Clark, Jason, and Alfred were already there when the group arrived and the rest weren’t far behind. With everyone present, the room felt crowded.

“Where should I start?” J’onn asked Clark.

“Behind the NASA poster. I think that’s where he keeps the weapons. One of them is an object that looks like it might be the same as, or at least similar to, the weapon that shot Bruce.”

Under Clark’s direction, J’onn removed not just two more energy guns, but also a glowing-green net, a boomerang, a tube of lipstick, what looked like a weird, high-tech thermos, and a wooden baseball bat with a sticker that said “Fenton” on it.

Dick couldn’t help but whistle at the pile. “Damn, he was packing all this?”

“Apparently,” said Damian. But Dick could tell his youngest brother was impressed and mentally reassessing his beliefs of Danny. “Perhaps he is not as helpless as I previously believed.”

“Why’s he got lipstick?” asked Steph as she picked up the tube.

“Don’t!” ordered Bruce even as she opened it and released a laser beam that left a small scorch mark on the ceiling.

She stared in shock before laughing. “Oh, damn! When he comes back, I’m so asking if he could get me one of these. That’s so cool!”

“Can I see that?” asked Barbara.

“Wait until we’re in the cave,” said Bruce with a sigh. Both women grinned at him.

Dick reached down and grabbed the net. Despite the color, it seemed normal enough, maybe a little smoother than most rope he’d handled. He pulled out a pocket knife and was able to slice through one of the ropes easily enough. Jason came over to look at it with him.

“Anything weird about it?” he asked as he reached out to touch it. “Huh, that’s odd.”

“What’s odd about it? Seems pretty normal to me.”

“It just… It feels weird. It almost hurts to touch.” When Dick looked at him sharply, Jason quickly added, “It doesn’t hurt, but it feels like it should. If that makes sense.”

“Feels normal to me.” Dick showed him the break he’d made.

Jason shrugged. “Dunno, then. I just get a weird feeling from it.”

Damian picked up the energy gun, Tim the thermos, and Duke the boomerang when Alfred cleared his throat.

“Before we get distracted, might I remind you that there is more to find? We can bring everything down to the cave to examine them with no more damage to Master Danny’s room.”

Everyone sheepishly put down the things they were holding. Dick bit back a laugh when he noticed Clark push the baseball bat away from himself with his foot.

“So, J’onn,” Clark said. “I think the next area of interest is behind this poster.” He gestured at a poster of the horsehead nebula. Dick had helped Danny find it and hang it up and the kid had talked about nebulae for over an hour as they did. The memory caused his eyes to burn.

From this stash, J’onn pulled some notebooks and two external hard drives, which Barbara took. Dick and Bruce both grabbed a notebook. Dick opened his to the first page.

Journaling is such a stupid idea. I don’t have any time for it but Jazz says I need to get my feelings out. Pointless. So what if I can’t sleep and Skulker attacked me again today during English getting me another detention. Its not my fault! Shit, haven’t done that essay for Lancer. If I miss any more assignments he’s gonna fail me for real.

Everyone knew Danny had been failing before he’d been brought to them, but he’d refused to discuss why. Once he was in school in Gotham, he’d gotten straight A’s. Even if he did ask for the occasional help in English from Jason.

But this raised so many questions. Who was Skulker and why were they attacking Dick’s little brother during English class. He flipped through the pages. Interspersed between journal entries were drawings of schematics. Dick thought he recognized some of the designs as the weapons they’d uncovered.

His eyes caught on an entry that started with a string of curses.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. My parents saw Dani today. In ghost form. They actually managed to hit her. Only her second visit and I couldn’t keep her safe. Some big brother dad cousin whatever I am. I did get her to the Far Frozen. Frostbite fixed her up. Taught me what to do if it happens again, too. And gave me the medicines and supplies to do it. I’m so glad I have friends in the Zone now. It makes it so much easier. I can’t get the image of Dani’s blood staining my hands out of my mind. Going to Tuck’s tonight. I can’t be around my parents right now.

Stomach dropping, he flipped a few more pages until he found one with a photo. It was a grinning Danny with white hair and wearing a jumpsuit standing on a curved balcony. Behind him, spire buildings rose into the air, many rounded in a way not often found on Earth.

Clockwork took me to Mars today! Holy shit it is so cool. Just, everything. We went back to when they were thriving and I had to stop an invasion. But that’s not important. Everyone here can go intangible despite being alive. Some of their buildings don’t even have doors because they’d be pointless! And the plants and animals are all so different, too. Clockwork helped me find some books on Martian history and biology and evolution. He’s also gonna show me where the Martians exist in the Zone so I can learn their language. Maybe one day I can go to Krypton or Tamaran as well?

Dick stared back at the picture. It did have that distinctive feel of wrong that extraterrestrial landscapes always had. He swallowed. “Uh, J’onn?”

“Yes, Dick?”

“Um, Danny. This is his journal. He said he went to Mars. Before… Just, before. He’s got a picture. Is this real?” He handed the photo to J’onn who hesitated a moment before taking it.

J’onn froze as he stared at the simple image. “I… Yes. This is my home. How…?”

Dick shrugged and wished he had an answer for the last of the Martians. “Someone called Clockwork brought him there apparently. To stop some sort of invasion? He didn’t discuss that much. He was too interested in the planet and people to talk about what he did. He was hoping to visit Krypton and Tamaran, too. Also said something about Martians existing somewhere he called the Zone. He wanted to meet them to learn the language.”

The look on J’onn’s face at the mention of other Martians existing somewhere was heartbreaking. Maybe Dick shouldn’t have said anything? When Danny came home, would he maybe want to talk to J’onn about Mars?

With clear reluctance, J’onn handed the picture back. “This is your brother in the photo?”

“Yeah. I mean, Danny usually has black hair and blue eyes, but that’s him. Do you recognize him?”

J’onn nodded. “Of course. He is the Omen. His coming foretells death and destruction which he will then try to avert. I know what invasion he is speaking of, it is, was, taught in our history books. He saved all of Mars that day. We thought him a god.”

Dick’s mouth fell open. His little brother? A god?

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