#they bring chaos to Metropolis

[obsessedwithstarwars]

Can you IMAGINE if he had to call Lex Luthor by name and didn’t know it???

I feel like he’d call him a cheerio, because he’s fruitloop’s beige cousin. Or say it’s because he’s a bald/bland flavor.

Lex would get mad, but the guy’s interesting and has connections. Plus he saved his life and made fun of Superman TO HIS FACE so… you win some you lose some.

DP x DC prompt #106

Dan, in desperate need of a job(he doesn't want to mooch off Vlad and Danny forever), decides to work as a security guard for some bald billionaire he forgot the name of.

[wonderlandsakura]

Everlasting trio but Ellie is their daughter and Dan is their estranged adult son that they're trying to build a relationship back up with and Danny and Vlad have a weird divorced-but-still-co-parenting relationship over both children where Vlad pays maintenance and takes the kids on weekends and holidays.

That is to say, Everlasting trio move to crime alley in Gotham and set up a family restaurant with their kids that are much to old to be their kids and enough money to throw around to and give to street kids and create boarding towns and generally revitalize the area they live in like mob bosses without the need for protection money or bank robbing and it's enough to flag them, even with Sam's family money.

Also Danny is the Ghost King, so more random money.

People ask where the kids are and they say they're with their other father and everyone is weirded the fuck out and it's wonderful chaos :3

More Random Ideas below the cut

Ellie lives with them most of the time but Dan has a job at the Daily Planet and lives in metropolis.

However he's known to come by for the sole purpose of messing with Black Mask for some unknown reason (that I also don't know, maybe it's courting, maybe it's revenge) and often rolls up to the shop with him tossed over his shoulder gagged up or with a bag of his left socks or mentions having to leave soon to steal X item he just replaced and Everlasting trio don't blink an eye.

Jason is a regular and he and the goon union (cause Sam gave them the presentation and set them up with the representative) love and protect the place and it's owners (though they don't need it).

Ellie goes to Gotham U and terrorizes Dami and Jon and also confuses them with her tales of traveling and hints at her Tragic Backstory TM.

Jazz lives nearby and works at Arkham and works with her sister-in-law to try and get the higher ups to start the Rogue Rehabilitation Program where rogues like the Riddler, Poison Ivy and Harley can feed their obsessions in a healthier way that doesn't harm society.

Sam also has tea and cakes and bitching at the industrialisation time on the second Sunday of every month (or once a fortnight when something especially shitty crops up).

Tucker may or may not moonlight as the tech support guy for some of the rogues.

Danny doesn't patrol, he's retired for a reason, but he became the part-time caretaker of the Gotham Observatory, which is right next to the Gotham Cemetery which he is also the part-time caretaker for and he has a reputation as that crazy, creepy but also genuinely kind and helpful dude that runs that restaurant in Crime Alley.

Maybe he also converses with Lady Gotham from time to time and just walks into endless silent shadows and walks right back out.

Vlad visits occasionally and he and Danny tend to end up in a shouting match that often leads to a brawl which always ends with them injured and holed up in a corner booth of the restaurant with their respective drinks quietly, furtively and civilly discussing something as if the fight had never happened. (The adult Fenton-Manson-Foleys just ignore it and if you ask, say "bonding" and move on)

The Fenton Parents sometimes... visit. It's Chaos.

Danny has very publicly brawled with Killer Croc at least once and can be seen bringing down food into the sewers for Grundy every evening after the shop closes.

[charmingsoa]

■ Bring it On Home to Me (one) ■ John Egan x OC ■ ■ Multi chapter story ■

⚠ Chapter warning ⚠ Sexual content, physical and verbal abuse, mention of sexual assault, cursing, sexism. Please be advised when reading.

🚨 A/N: Hello and welcome to the first real chapter of Bring it on Home to Me! So, this will start at the very beginning of Vanessa and John's journey and I found it important to focus the first chapter on Vanessa's life before John. It will feature some moments that are tough to read and the warnings have been posted above. It will also feature German and British words - Google was my friend for this chapter! I hope you all enjoy the update and I would love to hear your thoughts, opinions, anything really! My DM is open and ready!!

📣 If you would like to be tagged, please let me know 📣

The atmosphere in the room was thick with a mixture of desire, desperation, and a touch of melancholy. The women moved gracefully among the patrons, their painted smiles hiding a myriad of emotions – from weariness to resignation to a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, tonight would bring a reprieve from the harsh realities of war.

The soldiers, their uniforms worn and dusty, bore the weight of the battlefield on their shoulders. For a moment in time, they sought solace in the arms of these women who offered fleeting moments of respite from the chaos and carnage that awaited them outside.

The women, too, carried their own burdens – stories of loss, of shattered dreams, of lives upended by forces beyond their control. Yet in the dimly lit room, they transformed into sirens of solace, offering comfort and companionship to those who sought it amid turmoil.

For these girls, the prospect of spending the night with a soldier meant more than just a temporary escape from the harsh realities of war. A chance to rest their weary bodies and minds in the comfort of a warm bed. The opportunity to freshen up and tend to their basic needs was a luxury in a world where survival often took precedence over self-care.

I was one of the fortunate ones with relatives who still resided in the small town where many of us had sought refuge. My aunt’s house giving me shelter when the night was over. There were times when I would accept the gentleman’s offer to stay until morning, most of the time sneaking out before the rooster had time to crow.

My home in London, once a bustling metropolis teeming with life and energy, now lay in ruins – a somber reminder of the indiscriminate nature of conflict. The streets I had once walked with purpose and pride were now buried beneath layers of concrete and ashes, the echoes of past laughter and conversations drowned out by the deafening silence of destruction.

My family – or what was left of family now only consisted of my aunt – my earned money keeping the bank from taking the house from under her feet. She didn’t agree with what I was doing to make the money, but that didn’t stop her from pushing me to leave every evening, making sure that I wore the dresses that would get the most attention.

“Slow night, huh?”

The bartender smiled as he poured the glass full of the brown liquid that kept my courage high enough to get through to the next day. “Seems that way.” I gave a nod as I nursed the glass.

My last client was over an hour ago – a poor RAF soldier – married to his secondary school love. I could tell he was a nervous wreck, his hands shaking like a leave in a thunderstorm. He explained to me that his CO had sent him to us – to take the edge off before he was sent off into the air. He didn’t want to do much – just talked about Lucille and his hope to finally get back to her once the war was through. Like many of the soldiers that had crossed my path, I wished them the best, saying a silent prayer as they walked out the door, back to a hell that no one could escape.

"Nessa – you're up!"

The words pierced through the subdued ambiance of the room, a sense of purpose stirred within me, pulling me from the comfortable numbness that had settled over my thoughts. With a quick glance in the direction of the older man who requested my service, I took in his features – a strong jawline, broad shoulders – devoid of any telltale signs of military service.

Finishing the last remnants of my drink in a single smooth motion, I slid off the stool with a practiced grace, the fabric of my dress whispering softly against my skin as I straightened it with deliberate care. The air around me seemed to crackle with anticipation, a silent energy that hummed beneath the surface of the room.

Louella, the madame of the establishment, offered me a brief nod of approval before turning her attention to the other patrons. With measured steps, I made my way towards the man, my movements a delicate balance of confidence and allure, honed through years of navigating the intricacies of this world.

"Hello," I greeted him, my voice dipping an octave lower, the cadence laced with a hint of sultriness that mingled with the lilting notes of my native accent. In that moment, as our eyes met, I stepped into the role that had become second nature to me – a performer on the stage of desire, where masks were worn, and truths were whispered in the shadows.

He chose to stay silent, simply nodding his head, his hands in his pockets in a defensive manner. There had been men like him that stayed silent for most of the evening, only speaking when asked what they would like to do. This man felt different – his demeanor feeling like that of an ice block.

I hesitated for a moment, pushing away my gut feeling that this was going to end badly if I continued. I – Aunt Beatrice needed the money. I could do anything for a short amount of time, whether standing up or flat on my back.

Walking into the back bedroom, I stepped inside the dimly lit room, jumping slightly as he slammed the door shut behind us. His eyes boring into my soul. I cleared my throat, breaking the suffocating silence that enveloped us. "So, um, what exactly did you have in mind?" My voice sounded small and insignificant against the backdrop of his brooding presence.

He just stood there, never breaking eye contact as he evaluated me – searching for any cracks that he could fully break. "Take off your dress," he commanded, his German accent adding an edge to his words even though they were barely audible.

Taking a deep breath, I slowly reached up to the neck of the dress, my fingers pulling at the knot as the two pieces of fabric fell. The humid air hitting against my bare skin as the man’s eyes devoured my exposed chest. My hands pushed the remaining portion of the dress down to the floor, carefully stepping out of the ruched fabric as I now stood in nothing but a pair of heels in front of the stranger.

His long, slender finger pointed towards the bed, the dim light casting eerie shadows across the room. Silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the soft rustle of fabric as I followed his gesture, my heart pounding in my chest. I approached the bed, feeling a sudden wave of self-consciousness wash over me as I carefully took a seat on the crisp linen.

“Lie down and touch yourself.”

My eyes furrowed in confusion at his demand. "Excuse me?" I stammered, taken aback by the unexpected request.

His throat cleared in an annoyed manner, the sound cutting through the tense silence like a knife. I could sense his impatience, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. The atmosphere in the room shifted, the air suddenly charged with a palpable tension.

“I told you to lie down and touch yourself like the whore you are.”

As I held his gaze, I could see the hatred coursing through his piercing blue eyes like a raging river. The intensity of his emotions was almost tangible, a seething anger simmering just beneath the surface. It was as if a storm brewed behind those icy eyes, ready to unleash its fury at any given moment.

Gulping nervously, I gradually positioned myself on the bed, the creak of the mattress beneath me breaking through the hot air. With a trembling hand, I reached up to fan my hair out around me as I laid flat on my back, the cool touch of the sheets a stark contrast to the heat of the moment.

As I stared up at the moldy ceiling above me, a wave of despair washed over me, mingling with the fear and uncertainty that churned in my gut. The damp patches on the ceiling seemed to mock me, their distorted shapes dancing before my tear-filled eyes. Each droplet of water that dripped down felt like a painful reminder of the situation I found myself in.

“I told you to touch yourself, you stupid slut.” His anger spilled over, a palpable force that filled the room and washed over me like a wave. "Are you deaf?" I flinched at the harshness of his tone, the venom in his words striking a nerve deep within me.

I suddenly felt dizzy as I took a few deep breaths, my eyes tightly closed as I tried to compose myself. My hand shook violently as it moved down my body, resting atop my pussy as the first tear rolled off the side of my face.

“Mach es jetzt!” The german words crashing through the room like a loud clap of thunder. “Dumme hure!”

A stifled sob escaped through my quivering lips as my trembling fingers found my clit. The air growing heavy, the silence broken only by the ragged sound of my uneven breaths. I kept my head turned away from preying eyes of the man, my eyes tightly closed as the panic of the situation and the sensual feeling of my own touch conflicted my thoughts.

Soft moans formed in the depths of my constricted throat. Each heartbeat drummed a frantic rhythm in my chest, a desperate plea for escape echoing in the confines of my mind. The rustle of fabric filled the room, amplified by the deafening silence that hung between us, as the man’s hand slowly pulled at his trousers. The metallic rasp of the zipper being pulled down cut through the air like a blade, its sharp sound reverberating in my eardrums with a chilling finality. With each article of his clothing hitting the floor, every nerve in my body screamed in protest, a primal instinct urging me to flee from the impending unknown that lay before me. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as I heard him step closer to where I laid, each passing moment stretching into an eternity of fear and uncertainty.

With a trembling breath, I braced myself for whatever fate awaited me, already resigned to the harsh reality that my body would bear the brunt of this twisted exchange – the finale being a crumpled up 10 note thrown on my bruised body like I was a piece of rubbish on the street…

“Holy shit-“As Aunt Beatrice took a drag from her cigarette Her gravelly voice cut through the tense silence like a knife. “What in the heavens happened to you?” Her eyes narrowing as they assessed the bruises that adorned my face like a grotesque mask.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, acutely aware of the judgment that seemed to emanate from her every word. The memories of the horrific night flashed before my eyes – the yelling, the shoving, the pain. I clenched my fists, trying to push back the rising tide of emotions threatening to engulf me.

Louella's callous words echoed in my mind as well, her nonchalant attitude towards my suffering sending a chill down my spine. "It's the name of the game, dear. Just make him happier next time," she had said, as if my pain was a mere inconvenience to be brushed aside.

The image of the newsstand attendant’s horrified expression haunted me, his eyes widening in shock as they took in the extent of my injuries. I had muttered a barely audible thank you, my gaze fixed on the ground as I hurried away, desperate to escape the prying eyes of strangers.

And now, facing Aunt Beatrice's mocking laughter, I felt the last shreds of my composure slip away. The weight of her words – dripping with disdain and superiority – crashed down on me like a ton of bricks.

"Here's the money from tonight," I said, tossing the notes onto the table in a messy wad. They fluttered down haphazardly, some landing askew. "I think there's close to 30 there or should be at least."

She reached out to straighten the crumpled bills, her brow furrowing as she quickly counted them. “Looks like you’re four pounds short, sweet child.” The use of adoring nicknames not masking the shortness of her tone. “Four pounds short and the bank wants to collect today – are you trying to make me lose my precious home?”

Glancing between her and the money on the table, confusion was etched on my face as I knew there was enough when I counted this morning. "That can't be –" My voice wavered, uncertainty creeping in. "I could've sworn there was 30 there this morning."

Beatrice's head lulled to the side, her dismissive tone cutting through the tension. "You were never the best at counting money, sweetheart," she quipped, a puff of smoke from her cigarette swirling lazily in the air before being exhaled right in my face. The sharp scent momentarily overwhelming my senses.

"I think it's best you get out there and get the money – wouldn't want you to be back on the streets again," she added, her words carrying a hint of warning.

She slowly pushed herself up from the table, the notes disappearing into the depths of her worn nightgown. Her dirty housecoat dragged along the floor as she shuffled towards her rotting chair, the frayed fabric whispering against the dusty floorboards. I stood dumbfounded, my mind racing as I tried to piece together where the cash could have disappeared to.

"Best get going, darling Vanessa," her raspy voice reverberated off the newspaper-covered walls, "Make sure to powder up before you leave – don't need those soldiers looking at you like a punching bag."

My shoulders slumped in defeat as I started walking towards the small room that held all my earthly possessions. Everything I could salvage from the rubble of my London home was now crammed into a space resembling a broom closet. The dresses I had collected through the years hung in a row, most too conservative for the line of work I found myself in.

Among the clothes were photos of my childhood – snapshots of my mother and father, frozen in time, their smiles forever preserved. In those images, there was no evidence of the sadness and despair that would later come to define my life. The young girl in the photographs had no inkling that in just a few short years, her father would be gone, leaving her at the mercy of an ungrateful aunt who would exploit her for the sake of paying the house notes.

“Chop chop, Vanessa – time's not stopping," Beatrice's voice called out. I rolled my eyes at her words, a mix of irritation and resignation washing over me as I reluctantly acknowledged the urgency of the situation.

As I made my way over to the vanity, my heart sank into my stomach at the sight that greeted me. The reflection in the mirror revealed the extent of the damage inflicted by the German's hand. My once carefully painted lips were now split at the top, a deep purple bruise spreading under my left eye. His fingerprints were scattered like dark constellations across my skin, leaving behind dancing indentations that served as a painful reminder of his violent touch. The marks on my neck and upper chest bore witness to the brutality of his actions, his decaying teeth leaving behind their mark.

With trembling hands, I reached for the makeup on the vanity, determined to conceal the physical reminders of the night's brutality. As I applied layer upon layer of foundation and concealer, I pushed the events in the back of my mine, determined to put on the facade that everything is fine and get the money that Aunt Beatrice needed. I readjusted the dress that I had worn through the night – giving myself a small smile in the mirror – the bruises faintly showing through the mask.

My heels clicked against the wooden floor with each step I took back to the main room. Beatrice's gaze trailed down my body as she took in my appearance, her eyes assessing and judging. "It's a real shame," she spoke, her voice cutting through the air as her eyes met mine.

"Pardon?" I replied, a sense of unease creeping into my voice at the ominous tone of her words.

A sickening smirk twisted on her wrinkled face as she continued, her words like venom dripping from her lips. "It's a real shame that American soldier never came back to fetch you." Her words landed like a heavy blow, my heart sinking at the cruel reminder of a past hope that had long since faded. "He was quite a looker – could've gotten you out of this hellhole and away from the hands of all those men," she continued, her tone laced with a bitter edge. As she lit another cigarette, the smoke curling lazily around her, her words hung heavy in the air. “Guess you’ll just have to be another whore on the street who has nothing to show for her life.”

My eyes moved towards the ceiling as I fought back the tears that pricked against my lower lids. "You're gonna ruin all that work if you start crying," her voice gruff and devoid of any trace of empathy. "These men aren't gonna pay for ya if they see those bruises,” The harsh reality of her words cut through me like a knife, leaving a trail of raw emotions in its wake.

"Wouldn't that be a shame," I sarcastically chuckled, the bitterness of my words hanging in the air like a heavy fog. The tension in the room crackled with unspoken resentment and suppressed fury. "I guess no money means no house, right?"

Her eyes shot daggers at me, a silent promise of retribution simmering beneath the surface. "Guess you'll have to join me on the streets, Auntie Beatrice," I continued, my tone cutting and cold. The same sickening smile that she'd give me mirrored on my face, a twisted reflection of the familial bond that had long since fractured beyond repair. "Get those hoses washed and ready,"

This time she chose to stay silent, her rigid posture and clenched jaw betraying the storm of emotions brewing beneath the surface. I could sense the turmoil festering inside of her, the knowledge that kicking me out of the house would sever her only source of income. There was no way she would go and find a job. No one was gonna hire a crippled old woman, especially with a war raging on like it was.

"Don't come back without my money," she finally spoke, her voice cold and distant. I rolled my eyes in response, a gesture of defiance and resignation mingled into one. I stormed out of the house, the door slamming shut behind me with a finality that echoed in the empty hallway…

I grimaced as he pulled out of me – his sweaty body collapsing off to the side as his large stomach rose and fell in a fast pace. The whiskey that I had consumed earlier now wearing off, the image of the man lying next to me making me groan internally – the way of his touch making my stomach churn. “Goddamn girl –“ His American accent thick. “Where’d you learn to fuck like that?”

I stayed silent, trying to play off like I was sleeping. The rustling of his head turning on the pillow as he looked over at me, making my heartbeat faster, the prayer that he would just leave repeating in my brain. The feeling of the thin sheet being pulled away from my body caused a shiver to run down my spine as his fingers lightly danced across my breast.

 “My oh my –“His smoker laced voice whispered as his mouth closed over my nipple – his teeth tugging on the sensitive skin causing a moan to slip past my lips. "I knew that would wake you up," he chuckled, his rotting teeth revealed a mischievous smile before finding the bud again.

I kept my hands pressed tightly against my side as his callused hands, weathered by countless months of war, pulled me closer to his body. The lingering scent of the day's heat clung to his skin, the smell causing my stomach to roll with nausea. Just as his hands reached between us, a sudden commotion outside the room shattered the moment. The sharp sound of hurried footsteps echoing on the wooden floors jolted him back to reality, breaking the seal that he had on me. His body moved to a sitting position, muscles tensing as his gaze fixated on the wooden door The commotion outside persisted, casting a shadow of unease over the room.

Feeling uneasy, I too rose slowly from the bed, hastily pulling the sheet tightly around me Thoughts raced through my mind, fueled by fear and the chilling rumors that circulated through the town. Whispers of German soldiers raiding taverns, killing the men and taking the women prisoners.

“I'm getting the hell out of here," the man muttered urgently, his movements swift as he practically threw himself to the floor in a rush to gather his clothes and make his escape.

As he frantically gathered his belongings, my concern shifted to a more practical matter. "What about my money?" I blurted out, stumbling out of the bed with the sheet trailing behind me like a makeshift gown. Determined not to be left empty-handed after our transaction, I followed him around the room, my finger jabbing into his shoulder to emphasize my point. "This wasn't free, mister."

His stocky body pushed past me, a look of fear etched on his face, his eyes darting around the dimly lit room. As he reached for his jacket hanging on the back of the chair, I saw my opportunity to grab what I came for – the money that was rightfully mine. After everything I had been through with this man, the betrayals, the lies, the deception, I wasn't about to leave empty-handed.

With determination fueling my actions, I lunged forward and seized the other end of his jacket, my hands frantically searching the pockets, desperate to find any trace of cash. The fabric crumpled beneath my fingers as I dug deeper, my heart pounding in my chest.

“Get your fucking hands off my jacket, slag!” His voice boomed through the room, a mixture of rage and panic, as his grip tightened on my arms, his nails digging into my skin.

Pain shot through me, but I refused to let go, driven by a mix of anger and desperation. The struggle escalated, our bodies twisting and turning in a chaotic dance of conflict. With a sudden burst of strength, he pushed me to the ground, the impact reverberating through my bones. Gasping for breath, I watched as he made a hasty escape, his heavy footsteps fading into the distance.

I ran out of the room, the adrenaline pumping through my veins, my heart racing with a mix of exhilaration and apprehension. The curious gazes of onlookers met mine as I scanned the hallway, searching for any sign of the man who had just slipped away from my grasp.

As I stood there, trying to catch my breath, Louella appeared at my side, her presence always bringing me a sense of dread.

"Well, at least there's some good news in all of this," Louella remarked casually, her tone tinged with a hint of mischief.

I turned to face her, my eyes meeting hers in a moment of silent communication. "And what might that be?" I inquired, my voice hinting with skepticism.

With a nonchalant gesture, Louella reached into the pocket of her nightgown, producing several crumpled notes. I watched intently as she smoothed them out and began to count, the sound of rustling paper filling the tense silence between us. Finally, she held up four bills, neatly arranged between her fingers.

"Germany has surrendered," Louella announced matter-of-factly, her words carrying a weight of significance that resonated in the air. "And there's a gentleman asking specifically for you down in the lobby."

She slipped the bills into the top of the sheet, patting the area lightly before she started walking away. The crisp sound of the bills sliding into place seemed oddly loud in the hushed room. I watched as she started walking away – her signature cane leading the way.

“Oh –” Her voice was soft yet carried a hint of playful suggestion. She paused, slowly turning to face me once more. “I would suggest leaving the sheet on – I don’t think you’ll be wearing it for very long.”

With a coy smile, she sauntered out of the room, my mind racing with thoughts of who could be waiting and her suggestion of keeping my body covered only in the thin, white sheet. Usually, Loella wanted her girls dressed to the nines – giving the man something to fantasize about before they seen what we were hiding underneath.

I snatched the money out of the cloth, feeling a rush of adrenaline as I walked back towards the bedroom. The crisp notes rustled as I stuffed them deep into my purse. Taking a deep breath, I was somewhat relieved that I had gotten the money for Beatrice. The weight lifting from my bare shoulders as I took a seat at the vanity. Checking out my tousled appearance, I did my short routine, giving my face a quick powder and running my fingers through my tangled hair. I needed to compose myself, to present an air of confidence in myself.

Once satisfied with my appearance, I took a deep breath and gathered the bottom of the sheet, preparing to descend to the bottom floor where the mystery man awaited. Each timid step down the staircase seemed to echo in the hushed space, heightening my sense of anticipation. The soft fabric of the sheet whispered against my skin, a reminder of my daring choice to leave behind the trappings of modesty. As I reached the lobby, a rush of emotions washed over me – excitement, curiosity, a touch of fear.

As I entered the room, the crackling fire cast a warm and inviting glow, despite the balmy weather outside. The man, with his back turned towards me, seemed completely engrossed in the dancing flames. His worn brown leather jacket, weathered by time and use, exuded a sense of comfort and familiarity.

I couldn't help but notice the way his short brown hair fell against the nape of his neck. A ruggedness exuding from his stance. His broad shoulders, tense with an unseen burden, hinted at a strength that belied his gentle demeanor. The dark slacks he wore hugged his hips perfectly, emphasizing his sturdy frame.

My bare feet made no sound as they padded softly against the floor, bringing me just inches away from the man. With a silent resolve, I took a breath and extended my hand towards him, the cool leather of his jacket meeting the warmth of my palm. His muscle tenses under my touch, my body backing away slightly as he began to turn to face me.

John Egan

My heart nearly shattered into hundreds of pieces as the face that invaded my dreams nightly stared back at me – the same blue eyes that caused me to melt in the back of that bar all those years ago now stared back at me. Memories flooded my mind like a relentless tide, carrying me back to that fateful night when our paths first crossed. The fear that he had died on the frontlines haunted me daily as I would picture us together. His promise to come back for me and take me away from this world was something I held onto – praying to the Lord above that he would be the one to fulfill that promise.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, months into years, and still, there was no sign of him. The war raged on, claiming the lives of so many brave souls, and I was left to wonder if he had become just another casualty of the brutal conflict. But deep down, a flicker of hope remained, a tiny flame that refused to be extinguished.

 His callused thumb reached up, wiping away the tears that had fallen. His towering figure loomed over me, his eyes filled with a mix of weariness and determination.

"I told ya I'd come back for ya,"

[thegildedbee]

Experiment/Chaos: May 16 & 17 Prompts from @calaisreno

Periodically, Greg Lestrade reflects on the chaos leading up to and surrounding the arrest of Sherlock Holmes and his subsequent death – in the privacy of his own mind, Lestrade refuses to use the word “suicide." If he is relatively certain – balance of probability – that the actions that Sherlock executed resulted in his demise, that’s not the same as being able to arrive at the conclusion that he committed suicide. Lestrade is too good a detective to let an obvious-on-the-face-of-it-story get in the way of the facts. Needs must, facts first. The tricky part is how to work through tricked-out feints, when solid facts are scarce on the ground.

It's not quite correct to say that there are few facts to consider – rather, there are too many facts, and the vast multitude of these originated with Moriarty, in service of Moriarty’s tale of being ruthlessly used by a detective who would have to have been so seriously demented that he would be a head case worthy of sending Freud himself on week-long benders of 7% solution.

Over the months since the chaotic clusterfuck of the final days of Sherlock Holmes, Lestrade has advanced through several iterations of a thought experiment he has challenged himself to complete: how to account for Sherlock’s innocence, if such it was, and the unrelenting perfidy of Moriarty, if it was he who was bearing false witness to the alleged crimes under scrutiny. On those weekends when his daughter is at home with his ex-wife, on those weekends when he isn’t fighting his way through a relentless blizzard of paperwork, at those times when the streets of London are relatively silent beyond the routine crime that plagues a large metropolis -- Lestrade engages in "what ifs?"

In between his last iteration of his thought experiment and tonight, he’s had a frustrating encounter with Anderson, after having agreed to meet the fellow, who is in dire straits, for pints. Despite Lestrade's dismissive response, Anderson had insisted, despite all appearances, that Sherlock is alive and can be observed to be at work on the European continent, if one only knows what signs to look for. What a field day Freud would have with the daft bugger, given the outsize role that Anderson himself had played in bringing Sherlock to ruin!

Lestrade is under no illusions about Anderson's brainpower, and is not discounting the large role that guilt may be playing in the man's story. But he finds himself inclined to perhaps interview Anderson as witness: if there is one thing that Anderson is an expert on -- and, lord help them all, it isn’t the details of his forensic work in the field – he had become an expert, of sorts, on Sherlock Holmes, at work. There was nothing that Anderson had given anywhere near the same amount of attention to in the last years, than to his obsessive observation of Sherlock Holmes.

Lestrade has his own data points – not based on what may or may not have transpired after Holmes’ burial, like Anderson, but from looking back at the months preceding the climax of events between Moriarty arriving on the scene, and beginning his jousting with Sherlock, to however it was that they both came to be on the roof of Bart's on the day of their deaths.

Lestrade believes that Moriarty's story didn't gain credence because of its validity, but as a fortuitous consequence of the chaos churned up through his theatrics; if you take a close look, Moriarty's claims have the substantiality of tissue paper. Any investigative effort greater than the level of Kitty Riley’s credulous affirmations that are nothing as much as they are taking dictation in the pursuit of her own aggrandizement are tenuous.

Lestrade keeps returning to the phone call of the elderly woman, when Sherlock had been running down the puzzles he was being made to solve by Moriarty while the clock was ticking fast away. If Sherlock had set all of these up to show off his brilliance, killing the woman who was trying to give him details of her kidnapper doesn’t fit the pattern of master-minded orchestration. If Moriarty had just been a hired actor, there would have been no need for that tragedy to have occurred, and, in fact, if Sherlock was aiming at demonstrating infallibility, then that was quite an error. But beyond these aspects, Sherlock had been truly distressed at what had happened.

He also thinks about Mycroft and his cctv network, and his overbearing oversight of his brother. That somehow Sherlock had been consorting with "Richard Brook" in concocting a series of faux murderous confrontations without his knowing beggars belief, and then to think that Mycroft would allow such fakery to continue instead of plucking Sherlock from 221B and snatching him off to a safe house for rehabilitation or sectioning at some faraway clinic makes zero sense, no matter how convoluted the governmental git's machinations in regard to his hush-hush enterprises might be. If Mycroft didn't care for his brother's sanity, he would at least care not to have his own reputation sullied by such a bizarre public humiliation of the Holmes name.

Lestrade had also arranged some off-the-books investigating, under the radar of his superiors, Mycroft, and the press. This business of "Richard Brook" allegedly being a performer with some sort of record was the most obvious point to probe, he had thought. He'd arranged for Wiggins, Sherlock's aide-de-camp from the street network, to spend time in Southbank at the publicly available video archives at the British Film Institute, poring over the titles to see if any evidence of Brooks's work could be shown to have existed and aired. Nothing had been found. The hysteria over the accusations in Riley's story had scarcely engendered any scrutiny of her Moriarty-supplied fake evidence.

He finds it exceedingly unlikely that Sherlock wouldn't have fought back, knowing the truth as he did. He might have had to disappear for a while as his own investigation commenced, but Lestrade has no doubt whatsoever that Sherlock would have been able to solve "The Case of the Arachnid Actor & the Consulting Criminal," and be able to clear his name. None of it adds up. He himself might have to continue keeping his head down for the near future, but that doesn't mean he can't be scanning the ground for clues, in search of evidence of fraud of a very different sort than has been being assumed to exist.

........................................................ @calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @friday411 @peanitbear @original-welovethebeekeeper

@helloliriels @a-victorian-girl @keirgreeneyes @starrla89 @naefelldaurk

@topsyturvy-turtely @lisbeth-kk @raina-at @jobooksncoffee @meetinginsamarra

@solarmama-plantsareneat @bluebellofbakerstreet @dragonnan @safedistancefrombeingsmart @jolieblack

@msladysmith @ninasnakie @riversong912 @dapetty

[wildcactuskat]

I wanna talk about joker war and Jason Todd

So let’s talk

The whole joker war run there’s been a running theme of the future. It flips from Batman’s idealized unrecognizable utopia of a Gotham city and the joker’s view of it wanting to inherently return to violence and chaos and slip back to how it was before batman. Bruce’s future hinges on there being a Batman and joker’s hinges on batman being out of the picture. Joker during his showdown with Batman brings up several points about of Gotham is all perfect and sanitized and exactly how Bruce wants it to be is it even Gotham anymore? Or is it “metropolis with a few less aliens”? Both views are unrealistic and idealized as fuck. That’s about all the context you need to understand this next part

So. Intentionally or not, this arc creates a parallel between Jason and Gotham city

How?

Here look at this scene

Does any of this look familiar to you?

It should

Bc it’s eerily similar to Jason’s big confrontation with Batman when he first comes back to Gotham.

Only this time, batman isn’t being asked to choose between Jason or the joker. He’s being asked to choose between Gotham and the joker.

That’s where the parallel is. Recall the bit I mentioned in the context paragraph about Joker asking if the perfect version of Gotham is even Gotham anymore? You can say the same about Jason.

Bruce keeps beating the everloving shit out of Jason whenever he steps a toe out of line in the comics. He acts out? He gets his shit rocked. The thing is, like Gotham, Jason is wildly fucked up and that’s part of him. He’ll never be the perfect shining hero Bruce expects him to be just as Gotham will never be a perfect utopia

Both can always get better if you put in the work as seen by Gotham crime having gotten better with Bruce’s efforts and Jason has been shown many times to crave acceptance and family, Bruce just isn’t putting in the work, hasn’t been. Even when he first found out Jason was alive his response when speaking to Alfred about it was “this changes nothing”

Jason’s core is love and devotion. He wants to give and receive those two things. It’s why he reacts the way he does to anything he perceives as a betrayal and closes himself off so hard. Anger is a secondary emotion. To get angry about something you have to care in the first place. And he’s so so angry

About Gotham. About batman. About the joker. About all the events he’s seen as unjust wether to him or another

He’s not perfect. He’s never gonna be perfect same as Gotham won’t, but he’s not pure evil just as Gotham isn’t. They’re helpable tho if someone puts in the effort

[geekcavepodcast]

DC Comics' First "Absolute Power" Titles

DC Comics' "Absolute Power" event will pit the Trinity of Evil - the Brainiac Queen, Failsafe, and Amanda Waller - against the heroes of the DCU in a battle for the fate of all metahumans.

Fans can get a prelude into the events of "Absolute Power" in Absolute Power 2024 FCBD Special Edition. The free comic book day release will contain an original story from Mark Waid and Mikel Janín, a recap of the lead-up to "Absolute Power," and a sneak peek of Absolute Power #1.

Absolute Power 2024 FCBD Special Edition releases on May 4, 2024.

Absolute Power: Ground Zero #1 is a oversized prelude to the saga. The "key to capturing all metahuman powers on planet Earth will finally be unlocked" bringing "Amanda Waller’s total dominance to the doorsteps of DC’s Super Heroes, using the combined might of Failsafe, the Brainiac Queen, and the Suicide Squad." Creatives for the one-shot include Mark Waid, Nicole Maines, Joshua Williamson, Chip Zdarsky, Gleb Malnikov, V Ken Marion, and Skylar Patridge.

Absolute Power: Ground Zero #1, featuring a main cover by Dan Mora, goes on sale on June 25, 2024.

Absolute Power #1 (of 4), from Mark Waid and Dan Mora, sees the Brainiac Queen and Failsafe giving Amanda Waller the ability to capture metahumans' powers. The Super Heroes and their allies will face chaos on the streets, the Suicide Squad commander's methodical attacks, and a massive disinformation campaign.

Absolute Power #1, featuring a main cover by Dan Mora and variant covers by Mora, Jim Lee, Stephen Bliss, Puppeteer Lee, Chris Samnee, Chrissie Zullo, Wes Craig, and John Timms, goes on sale on July 3, 2024.

Absolute Power: Task Force VII is a biweekly companion series to Absolute Power that will be from the Super-Villain's perspective "as the Trinity of Evil co-opts the combined powers of Amazo and the technology of Failsafe in their quest to eliminate all metahumans."

Leah Williams and Caitlyn Yarsky's Absolute Power: Task Force VII #1, on sale July 10, 2024, will introduce the Last Son, who has attacked Superman and his Metropolis allies and is now heading for the Shazam family.

John Layman and Max Raynors' Absolute Power: Task Force VII #2, on sale July 24, 2024, will introduce Depth Charge, who has stolen Aquaman's powers and taken over Atlantis. But Mera and the rest of the Aqua-family are ready to launch a secret revolution.

Absolute Power: Task Force VII #3, on sale July 31, 2024, follows the Amazo robot Jadestone, who has gone after the powers of the Justice Society of America. However, Jadestone has been compromised by Green Lantern Alan Scott's willpower and may now be able to execute his own free will as opposed to obeying Waller's orders. Meanwhile, the remaining JSA members are mounting a rescue and an attempt to flee to the Tower of Fate.

Absolute Power: Origins, from John Ridley and Alitha Martinez, is the history of Amanda Waller. "Find out what has led her to this place in a tale of how Waller suffered a catastrophic loss, and how she forged her powerlessness into a path to vengeance, fueled by two words that changed her life, and the lives of everyone in the DC Universe: NEVER AGAIN."

Absolute Power: Origins #1 (of 3) goes on sale on July 24, 2024.

July 2024's tie-in comics for Absolute Power are Batman #150, on sale July 2, Wonder Woman #11, on sale July 17, and Superman #16, on sale July 17,

(Images via DC Comics - Covers of 2024 Absolute Power Free Comic Book Day Special Edition, Absolute Power: Ground Zero #1, Absolute Power #1, Absolute Power: Task Force VII #1, and Absolute Power: Origins #1)

[riddle-me-ri]

It's something that just came to my mind

Clark Kent is talking to the Batman while Riddler and S/O are spying on him and S/O is like "What is Superman doing here?". And since people in DC didn't know that it's him, Riddler gives her a weird look saying she must be mistaken. But S/O gives him a long, silent stare "You're kidding me, right?". It comes to the point where she holds a picture of Clark and Superman next to each other, pointing glasses out and Riddler is like "..... 'DING!' YOU HAVE TO BE JOKING!" The man is kicking himself for not seeing it.

For all Riddlers.

A/N: ooohhh the denial is strong in this one

The Riddlers React to Finding Out Superman's Identity

Arkhamverse Riddler:

Oh please.

Do you really think he’s that idiotic? He’s that ignorant?

(this is not the time to mention he dismissed Bruce Wayne being Batman)

He berates you a couple more times, so he left you no choice.

When you pulled out a picture of the Man of Steel and a pair of glasses up against the real-life Clark Kent below

Edward was silent. 

No…NO that’s too obvious! 

Although the pictures are damning. 

He snatches the photos and huffs. 

He admits the two are uncanny, but surely it’s some alien-like cloning technology. 

Besides, it doesn't matter! He’s smarter than Kent or Superman anyway

Reevesverse/Dano Riddler:

It takes him a minute to even realize there is a “superman”

Do you mean to say that Metropolis has its own hero too? 

But not just a man of the people? A vigilante? Like a full-on hero with powers?!

The last thing he’d suspect afterward is that this Superman…was a journalist? 

He was curious as to why Batman would be discussing something with a random journalist from Daily Planet.

Yet when you exclaim how the civilian looks like Superman, he’s pretty skeptical. 

Until you pull up a picture of Superman on your phone. 

Edward does a double take. 

In hindsight, it’s so obvious…

Ed wonders if Batman knows this…he has to right?

Gotham Riddler:

This was the last place he expected to end up when following Batman. 

On the roof of a building a couple buildings away from Daily Planet. 

Why is Batman talking to a reporter? Surely, he’d go to a more reliable source like…well Gordon is all he could think of. 

He also wasn’t sure why he brought you along exactly but the assistance was appreciated. 

Ed didn’t expect the next thing you’d bring up though. 

Something about how the journalist looks like…Superman? 

The Superman? The Kryptonian? 

Yeah sure, right…

Ed practically snatched your phone when you exhibited the evidence. 

With his usual tight-lipped expression, he hands you back your phone.

He deems it another scheme for another day.

BTAS Riddler:

It may just be me playing favorites…lmao

BUT I do have evidence from the BTAS Writing Bible that says, this Riddler is most likely to figure out Batman’s identity if he actually wanted to that is…

So with that, I’d like to think that Ed would have already figured it out?

Like you may have been helping him do some recon and you’re listening in on the conversation between Batman and Clark. 

After a moment a lightbulb goes off in your head. 

When you mention the resemblance between Kent and Superman…

Edward chuckled. 

Why did you think you two were listening in on their conversation? 

He is proud that you were able to spot it though. 

Some rogues still don’t believe him when he brought up the most likely secret identity to the Man of Steel.

Zero Year/Capullo Riddler:

Ed only hacked into Daily Planet because he already caused chaos in Gotham City and Star City, so why not Metropolis? 

He was surprised to see Batman there and not brooding somewhere in Gotham. 

You walked in while Ed was surveillancing the newsroom. 

You were about to joke with him about how much of a Batman fanboy he must be to watch his every move. 

Until the journalist the Dark Knight was talking to caught your eye. 

You mentioned the striking resemblance to Superman. 

Edward scoffed at your observation. 

Oh, please a journalist? Really? 

He will never admit it, but he was kicking himself mentally for not seeing it first. It’s blaringly obvious now.

Twojar Riddler:

Edward doesn’t really care for the Kryptonian. 

What good are all those superpowers if he’s not intelligent? 

Not to mention his alias would be simple to solve. 

Which is why he never entertained the conundrum, what advantage would it do him?

He had much more thrilling and productive puzzles to ponder over. 

That doesn’t stop you from shoving two pictures in his face in the morning. 

You made the proud declaration that Superman was the featured journalist, Clark Kent of Daily Planet. 

Edward was thinking about how he can disprove your claim…gently until he glanced down at the images. 

There was Kent, a proud grin to the camera…and Superman smirking to the side…with hastily drawn glasses around his face. 

Ed was silent for a moment. 

No…there was no way it was that obvious…

They both resided in Metropolis, and had a similar build and face structure…

He bites his lip. 

He can’t tell if he should be proud of your deduction skills or hit himself in the head with his cane for not seeing it sooner.

Gotham City Sirens Riddler:

Another Edward that I think either knows or has figured out Superman’s identity.

He doesn’t really care for the Man of Steel. 

Ed will just stay in his lane in Gotham City. 

Yet when you two chase down a perp into Metropolis. 

You two got to see Superman in action. 

It was you that brought up how he looked oddly familiar. 

Intrigued, he asked you to elaborate. 

You said he looked an awful lot like that journalist you two bumped into when interrogating an editor at Daily Planet. 

You told him to imagine if Superman had a dress shirt and glasses on.

Ed smiled as you put two and two together.

Ed had long since deducted Superman was likely tied to Daily Planet, a photo of a certain Clark Kent proved as much.

However, to have you reach the same deduction, he couldn't help but beam in pride a little bit.

You have been learning some skills from him after all.

Young Justice Riddler:

Sure he pondered the aliases of all his enemies. 

He couldn’t get distracted by that however, it could take months or years to figure it out. 

He could have defeated them by then…don’t laugh he could have.

The two of you are reconning outside Daily Planet.

Ed was complaining about not being in Gotham where you both had prior experience with the city. 

You rolled your eyes as you kept an eye on Superboy talking to some dude in a white button-up and glasses. 

You were about to doze off until you got a good look at the journalist’s face. 

You tap Ed on the shoulder, interrupting his rant when you asked if that journalist looked familiar. 

Ed mentioned something about how that was probably Clark Kent, a celebrated journalist, and partner to Lois Lane. 

You asked if he noticed anything else. 

When he shook his head you began listing out his physical features…and how if you just remove the glasses and put him in a blue suit with a giant S and a cape…

Ed’s jaw dropped as he snatched the binoculars away from you. 

There’s no…you’ve gotta be kidding him?!

Clark Kent is SUPERMAN?! 

Eddie practically rage quits and you’re steady on his heels as he storms off.

Telltale Riddler:

He is aware of the Kyrptonian invader. 

And his rather obvious alias…

You would think the Superman would come up with a lower profile.

However he has bigger fish to fry in Gotham. 

Apparently a certain Clark Kent was visiting Gotham and was having discussions with the Batman. 

When you saw the interaction the moment clicked-

If you just removed the glasses…

You won’t lie, you were rather excited about your deduction.

He cruelly teases you when you mention the likelihood of Superman’s identity.

Edward, practically condescendingly pats your head. 

You’ll never be as smart as him, but perhaps at least smarter than the average civilian.

Hush (DCAU) Riddler:

(I realize this Riddler may very well also know who Superman is...but I just wanted to try and change it up, rip lmao)

He realizes that Superman and Batman…seem to be close allies. 

He may have a hunch about Batman’s identity but if he could solve Superman’s identity…THE Superman. 

One day, Ed may just have the upper hand. 

You two were steadily following Batman, gathering whatever sliver of information that Batman may slip out. 

Right when Ed was about to give up and just focus his time on another scheme…

You noticed something. 

Batman was discussing something, something serious with a journalist that stood toe to toe with the Caped Crusader. 

You looked at the journalist, he’s stupidly buff for a journalist…that jaw…and that little curled bang...

Wait a minute!

It took some convincing for Ed to see Clark Kent was Superman…but once you slapped some glasses on a Superman photo, a lightbulb went off. 

He’s simultaneously disappointed in himself for not seeing it sooner…he blames it on the burnout. 

But he does show gratitude to you, but of course, it was thanks to him you were able to pick up on it too…

Just let him have this one…he needs it.

[weepingfoxfury]

"Nothing good, nothing bad, nothing ventured, nothing gained" sings Gilbert O'Sullivan ... the man on the radio talks again of Easter and makes pleasurable sounds as he opens the latest parcel of edibles sent in by a listener ... the traffic lady is busy rounding up the traffic jams, collisions and breakdowns.

There's something irresistible as an olive oil bottle empties out ... brings out that inner pattern urge. The seconds drop one way, the last glistening drips fall this way and that ... half controlled, half chaos. A squat little green bottle ... the next will be clear, swanlike necked.

Sunshine and birdsong and the weekly call of the shiny metropolis as I sip my coffee ... I think you can guess at one of the items on my shopping list ... and maybe I'll even remember to take it with me this time ...

[radioactive-earthshine]

Steelworks #2

Not going to lie I did not expect to see Jay in this but Mr. Dorn really is bringing in the whole superfam for his series which I am living for.

In light of Jay's hero identity being leaked and his precarious situation both politically while being "Superman's Boyfriend" there doesn't seem to be many options for employment honestly if he wanted to remain in Metropolis. His role as the 'face' of The Truth (an Anonymous equivalent) also appears to be either compromised or nebulous. I can't remember if it was revealed who he was in relation to The Truth or if this was just a detail that was dropped as that conflict is now over.

Jay being a Press Officer for Steelworks is interesting and I am curious to see how this is going to fit in with his character. I would never have guessed him working in public relations was something on the horizon but considering the chaos his life was he deserves something more calm and normal.

Also, I am loving his banter with John.

Steelworks #2

Not sure if his Anonymous style reporting days are over but it was nice to see him slip into something normal.

[gangrenados]

An idea I had recently, think that because of an apocalyptic and yandere event Dick ends up losing reader, but you were pregnant and with all the chaos reader manages to find refuge in a large metropolis in a very neglected area, but they manage to relatively establish themselves. A lady who acts crazy so no one can disturb her realizes that the reader is very scared and welcomes her, making it easy for her to support herself with a job as a cook in a reasonable cafeteria where no one sees her face, she interacts enough with the mothers at her son's school not to seem strange. But one day Dick found you quite by chance, to his shame, even though he was hunting you like crazy, the only thing that stopped him from attacking was the little carbon copy cooling his anger, he knew he was going to have to get closer and win him over first. Bring it on. helping him with his throws or praising his drawings while he was at the cafeteria counter, helping him with his homework and when his confidence is done, an accident will happen to this lady while reader was working and Dick will help her by taking her to the hospital and taking care of the boy . Now you've seen the film Gladiator when Maximus discovers his sister's betrayal and reveals it to her while he is with his nephew, completely oblivious around him, reading a story about how traitors and fugitives were punished at Maximus' request in the case at Dick's request, while staring with hell in his eyes

Dick is ruthless and would never stop looking for you. He's not the type of yandere to hurt you physically, but is down to break you mentally if that means you'll behave.

He's scary because he'll get tired of hunt you down, and also because he has a plethora of superheroes and villains to call if he needs some help with bringing you back to him.

You're screwed

[orthodoxydaily]

SAINTS&READING: SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 29, 2024

september 16_september 29

St. SEBASTIANA, DISCIPLE OF St. PAUL THE APOSTLE, MARTYRED AT HERACLEA (86).

The Holy Martyr Sebastiana was a follower of the holy Apostle Paul. During a persecution against Christians under the emperor Dometian (81-96), she was on trial as a Christian before the governor named Georgios in the city of Marcianopolis in the Mizea region.

Saint Sebastiana firmly confessed her faith in Christ, and for this she was subjected to cruel tortures. At first they beat her, and then they threw her into a red-hot oven, from which she emerged unharmed. They sent the saint to the city of Heraklea, where sentence was pronounced on her a second time.

The governor, named Pompian, gave orders to tie the saint to a tree and lacerate her body with roof tiles. The martyr remained unbroken in her faith. Then the governor gave her to be eaten by wild beasts. The Lord also preserved the holy martyr, and the beasts refused to touch her. Then, by order of the governor, Saint Sebastiana was beheaded. Her body, thrown into the sea, was taken by angels to the island of Rhodes (in Thrace, in the Sea of Marmara).

Source: Orthodox Church in America_OCA

TRANSLATION OF THE RELICS OF ST ALEXI OF MOSCOW (2001).

...not seeking mine own profit but the profit of many, that they may be saved (I Cor. 10:33)

These words were spoken at the funeral of Archpriest Alexey Mechev who, in the years proceeding his death in 1923, was popularly esteemed among Moscow' s outstanding pastors. He was a rare example of a married priest endowed with clairvoyance, a gift which enabled him to heal countless battered souls, in the tradition of the great Optina elders whose spiritual offspring he was. And like St. John of Kronstadt, another of his mentors, this skilled physician operated in the midst of a great metropolis with all the complexities that this brings to life.

Although no formal biography exists, memoirs left by his spiritual children reveal a wealth of pastoral experience and counsel that can be effectively applied even now to souls oppressed by the multiple distractions and demands of today's world.

Fr. Alexey was born in 1860, the son of a choir director in the service of the great Metropolitan Philaret of Moscow (+1867). The family lived in modest circumstances. "I never had a room of my own," Fr. Alexey recalled. "All my life I've lived with people around!" Judging from the only extant letter to his wife Anna, he was happily married; they had several children before her tragically premature death. None of the children appear to have remained close to their father with the exception of a son Sergius who succeeded Fr. Alexey as priest at St. Nicholas' church on Maroseyka street, before joining the ranks of Russia's New Martyrs in 1941.

Fr. Alexey's success did not blossom overnight. Describing the early years of his pastorate he said:

"For eight years I served the Liturgy daily in an empty church. One archpriest said to me: 'No matter when I pass by your church, the bells are always ringing. Once I went in--nobody. Nothing will come of it. You're ringing in vain." But Fr. Alexey steadfastly continued serving--and the people began to come, many people. He would tell this story when asked how to establish a parish. The answer was always the same: "Pray."

"In his domestic life," writes one of his spiritual children, "Batiushka was extremely simple and humble. In his study, in his little room, there were piles of books--some lying open, letters, lots of prosphora on the table, a folded epitrachelion lying together with a cross and Gospel, and little icons. The general chaos indicated that Batiushka was always busy, that he never had spare time, that there was always waiting for him--at home, on the street, in church--some great task calling for his love and self-sacrifice."

"Live for others, and you yourself will be saved." This was Fr. Alexey's motto. "To be with people," he would say, "to live their life, rejoice in their joys, sorrow over their misfortunes ... herein lies the meaning and way of life for a Christian, and especially for a pastor."

Fr. Alexey's own life was consumed in the service of others, The same spiritual son writes: "Outside his apartment the line of laboring and heavy-laden stood from early morning. And Batiushka managed to have a talk with each of them, to caress, to console ..." "Never, it seems," recalls another, "was he ever alone. He was always with people, and in sight of people; it was as though the walls of his room were glass -everything was visible ... He told me two or three times toward the end that he'd like to be off by himself, that people were getting the best of him. But that was just two or three times--no more. “Let' s all go to a monastery!” he'd say half in jest. 'You, me--all of us together!'"

Many people, particularly intellectuals, had difficulty understanding and accepting Fr. Alexey's approach because, quite simply, they didn't understand the essence of Christianity. This is well illustrated by the case of Vladimir S.:

Knowledge puffeth up, but charity edifieth

"I became acquainted with Batiushka soon after the February Revolution of 1917. I remember that when I first went to the church on Maroseyka, there was a lot there that bothered me. It was, in fact, a real conflict between the mind and the heart, between adherence to the law on the one hand, and a profound love--covering and fulfilling the law--on the other hand ... I was bothered because my love for God was weak, because I saw religion simply as a path towards satisfying a thirsty and curious intellect. I liked the strict, well-ordered and harmonious system of dogmas, I delighted in the beauty and universal conformity of the ecclesiastical rites. I believed in God, I was devoted to the Church, but I had little love for the Lord. And this cold, rational attitude towards religion subsequently ruined me, and even led me to leave Batiushka ...

"When I came to Maroseyka ... I saw the following: a priest of small stature, with a lined face and tangled beard, was serving together with an old deacon. The priest wore a faded, violet kamilavka; he served somehow hurriedly and, it seemed, carelessly: he was forever coming out of the altar to give confession at the cliros; sometimes he talked or searched for someone with his eyes; he himself carried out and distributed the prosphora.

"All this--and especially the confession during Liturgy--had an irritating effect on me. And the fact that a woman read the Epistle, and that there were too many communicants, and the uncalled-for Blessing of the Water [after Liturgy] ... None of this agreed with my conviction that conformity in church rites was absolutely essential. /.../

"[But gradually] I became involuntarily attached to Maroseyka; I became accustomed to the church services, and their deviations from the Typicon no longer bothered me. On the contrary, nowhere could I pray so fervently as at Maroseyka. Here one sensed that the walls were permeated by prayer, one sensed a contagious prayerful atmosphere which one didn't find in other churches. Some people, whether by tradition or out of desire to hear a deacon and choir, go to wealthy and renowned churches; here people came for one reason alone--to pray ...

"It happened that one would come to Father Alexey with some complex dogmatic problem. He would say with a smile: 'Why are you asking me; I'm an ignoramus' ... 'You're forever wanting to live through your mind; you should try to live as I do--through the heart.' This 'life through the heart' explained many of the deviations in church service which Batiushka permitted. When reason said that it was necessary to observe the prescriptions of the Typicon--not to confess during Liturgy, not to take out prosphora after the Cherubic Hymn, not to communicate late-comers at the north door after Liturgy, etc., etc.--Batiushka's heart, burning and overflowing with love, caused him to disregard reason.

'How can I possibly refuse someone confession,' he would say. 'Perhaps this confession is the person's last hope, perhaps by turning him away I may cause the ruin of his soul. Christ didn't refuse anyone. He said to everyone: "Come unto Me ..." You say, What about the law? But where there is no love, the law does not work unto salvation; true love, however, is the fulfillment of the law (Rom. 13:8-10).'"

Vladimir's comments may leave the impression that Fr. Alexey didn't particularly care or wasn't well-versed in the Church service rules. This isn't true:

"A first-rate expert on the Typicon and the services, he noticed everything, saw everything, all the mistakes and omissions in the service, especially with those young people with whom he served in his latter years (and he loved serving with them). But he left the impression that he saw nothing, noticed nothing. After some time had passed, at a convenient and appropriate moment, he'd bring up the matter and correct it. The more glaring errors--or the ones which had some bearing on the service--he'd correct himself in a manner so discreet that it passed unnoticed by the server who had erred, much less by the congregation: he himself would start to sing in the proper manner, or would do something that someone else was supposed to have done. This is a very rare quality among the clergy."

Fr. Alexey often said that "each person has his own particular path to salvation. One mustn't set a common path for everyone; one mustn't try to workout a formula for salvation which would apply to all people. People are born with different natures, different abilities, intellects and constitutions--so, too, they each go towards Christ at their own pace, each on his own path. Because of this, Christianity considers equally soul-saving the chaste monastic life and marital life, the priesthood and laity, the rank of soldier and the rank of judge--as long as Christ dwells in the heart ... And the task of an elder or a spiritual father is to uncover a person's calling and to point out to him the path which he should take towards the Lord."

With his gift of clairvoyance, Fr. Alexey had no need to speak to his "patients" in order to diagnose their maladies. And his "treatments" showed this masterful physician to be a man "not of words, but of spirit, of power:"

"It seemed that Batiushka didn't really say much; from his face alone, his smile, his eyes, there streamed such gentleness, such understanding, that this in itself comforted and encouraged a person without any words ... He actually, as he himself put it, 'unloaded' people's sins; he transformed people from despairing, oppressed pessimists into Christians constantly rejoicing in the Lord. One had only to glance at his commemoration book, checkered with hundreds of names of both living and dead, a book he always had with him, and one understood the words which he spoke, pointing to his heart: 'I carry you all here.’”

The scope of Fr. Alexey’s pastoral influence may be judged by the tens of thousands who gathered for his funeral. The liturgy was served by Bishop Theodore Pozdeyev (later, archbishop and New Martyr), attended by 80 clergymen--hierarchs, priests and deacons. The imprisoned Patriarch Tikhon, freed for a few hours, met the cortege at the St. Lazarus cemetery, where he served a lity for the deceased. Altogether, it was a fitting tribute to this remarkable pastor who had been, for so many, a stepping-stone to God.

(Quotations translated from Otets Aleksei Mechev; YMCA Press, Paris, 1970)

Source:

Galatians 2:16-20

16 knowing that a man is not justified by the works of the law but by faith in Jesus Christ, even we have believed in Christ Jesus, that we might be justified by faith in Christ and not by the works of the law; for by the works of the law no flesh shall be justified. 17 But if, while we seek to be justified by Christ, we ourselves also are found sinners, is Christ therefore a minister of sin? Certainly not! 18 For if I build again those things which I destroyed, I make myself a transgressor. 19 For I through the law died to the law that I might live to God. 20 I have been crucified with Christ; it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me; and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself for me.

Mark 8:34-9:1

34 When He had called the people to Himself, with His disciples also, He said to them, "Whoever desires to come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow Me. 35 For whoever desires to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for My sake and the gospel's will save it. 36 For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world, and loses his own soul? 37 Or what will a man give in exchange for his soul? 38 For whoever is ashamed of Me and My words in this adulterous and sinful generation, of him the Son of Man also will be ashamed when He comes in the glory of His Father with the holy angels.

1 And He said to them, "Assuredly, I say to you that there are some standing here who will not taste death till they see the kingdom of God present with power."

[allthebrazilianpolitics]

‘Navigating’ the Brazilian summer

São Paulo, the city that never sleeps and Brazil’s bustling business and innovation epicenter, is currently experiencing a literal downpour of challenges. The rainy days seem to transport us back in time, to a time when technology and energy were… simpler. The irony is as thick as the rain clouds hanging over our beloved metropolis.

Brazil’s “summer” days are notorious for bringing heavy rains that expose the city’s underlying infrastructural problems. Despite being one of the most technologically advanced cities in the country, São Paulo is plunged into darkness by these torrential downpours, leaving its residents to deal with both technological and literal blackouts. 

Power cuts at events hosted by Enel, the controversial Italian multinational in charge of power distribution in São Paulo, have gone viral.  

Recent weeks have mirrored the chaos of months and summers past, with relentless rains causing power outages and flooding. The city that prides itself on innovation is now struggling to keep the lights on and the roads clear for Paulistas, making both work and daily commutes an arduous task.

Continue reading.

[xalygatorx]

Worthy (2015) | Chapter 12, "In Glory or Ruin"

Disappearing sporadically in public spaces quickly becomes Cora Dempsey's least concerning problem when suddenly she captures the attention of the forming Avengers Initiative, the World Security Council, and Asgard's fallen prince all in one week. And the universe is only just getting started with her.

Worthy is a slow-burn SFW Marvelverse (films) romance between Loki and a female OC. For additional details on what canon is used, see the Prologue post.

Summary: Loki and the Chitauri’s onslaught of New York draws to a close. His plan to rescue Cora’s capsule takes unexpected turns as the Other intercepts it. Loki is captured and entrusted to Thor in anticipation of their return to Asgard.

Pairing: Loki x Fem!OC

Warnings: None

Word Count: 3.2k

It had been difficult to leave the capsule where it sat, but it had not been time to put his plan into action just yet. It wouldn't be until the reptilian Chitauri filtered from the splitting sky and chaos scorched the budded metropolis, spreading like fire over Midgard. "Ant. Boot," Loki quietly repeated with a darkly smug air.

He had escaped the Helicarrier just an hour before, already beginning to bring ruin to the mortal city where he could. He was growing impatient. While he was aware that part of his mercilessness came from the alien energy intermingling with that of the Tesseract, which had resumed its infiltration of his form from the scepter, that didn't matter. The day for war had come and all would kneel before his might. His day was finally here; the day he would be king and keep the throne he won.

The mere sight of him wrought havoc amongst the citizens who had seen newscasts and photos of his show in Stuttengard or simply knew who to cower before and, from that fear, a grin of anticipation crossed his face. He sent blasts of raw energy from the scepter at the supports of buildings, at sniveling humans, at a taxi which flipped twice and then smashed against the front of a bank. He was elated, he was alive, and he would not stop.

Fires from ruptured machinery climbed over walls and traveled over spilled petroleum leaking from overturned vehicles, a gradual panic flooding down the streets. Faint sirens rang and then split the air as three police cars swerved around the corner, having to dodge a few wayward mobs of pedestrians sprinting from assorted buildings.

Loki gave a bored groan and shook his head as he raised his scepter and blasted them onto their noses, sent them twirling like a child's tops before slamming onto their backs or sides, only a few of the officers dragging themselves out over a street lined with shattered glass. Screams of pain and terror ricocheted off the walls constructed of limestone bedrock, up to the highest skyscrapers, only marred by the sharp squeals of four more pairs of tires as an additional two cruisers flew in behind the fallen prince, the maneuver surely meant as an attempt to surround and contain him.

"I do not have time for you!" Loki shouted in irritation as he whirled and sent the two new arrivals toppling end over end down the street, which was swiftly being closed off by barricades. People scattered left and right out of the way of the airborne vehicle, only a few returning to aid the officer inside.

He turned to see a group rushing past him and a malicious grin split his face as he fired at the asphalt beneath their feet, causing fissures to form and trip them into a mad, writhing mess. One face caught his eye, however; a man of dark blond hair and brown eyes, which narrowed as he tried to shove his way to his feet at the expense of the others, Loki drawing ever nearer. The man froze when he locked eyes with Loki, who tilted his head incrementally. Why do I know your face?

Then it hit him, a flashback which took only a few seconds' time to unfold, but that was more than enough. He'd still been curious about her phone, the day in the warehouse when they'd coerced each other into working with her abilities, seeing how well she could channel them. They'd never gotten much farther than that. "Who is that?" he'd asked, and he'd seen her startle, literally fade into the background, and then reappear, looking as if she'd rather she'd stayed gone. She'd been evasive and unsure.

"We were in a relationship once," she'd said. He hadn't understood his own reaction to that.

"Why aren't you any longer?" 

"He didn't react well to things."

Loki's jaw tightened and his fingers flexed into fists as the rest of the exchange cycled through his head, some parts more emphasized than others as they mingled with the beat of his kindling rage. His gaze remained fixed upon the man in front of him, who stood as unwavering as a mouse before a striking snake. James.

Both remained very still for a long moment until a smirk of deadly, predatory calm shaped Loki's lips, his eyes gradually growing ablaze with vivid green fire as he slunk forward. "Oh, but I've got time for you…"

"I don't know how many times I have to tell you sons-of-bitches, stop sending squad cars! This is above even a National Guard level response, all you're doing is upping the body count! Evacuate, do not engage!"

Muttering a few more choice words as he leaned back from the control panel, Fury nearly snarled with frustration. Prisoner escaped, agents dead and seriously wounded (Coulson included), their only hope in the form of the Avengers Initiative (scattered across the damn region for all he knew), no idea where to find the Tesseract, and the World Security Council breathing down their necks worse than ever before. Things had never gone to shit so perfectly.

"Fury," Tony called, causing the director in question to turn. "It's my tower."

"Stark, for the love of God, the world is in the hands of a tyrannical alien terrorist, and all you can think about is—"

"No, not that! I have an ego, not a complex!" Tony interrupted with an agitated wave as he walked up the steps of Fury's podium.

"Debatable," Steve remarked, though the jab was a friendly one. As he joined them, he elaborated, "He means that's where the Tesseract is positioned."

"How did you—"

"It's the highest point in the city," Tony pointed out with an air of haughty pride. "Pretty simple, really. Surprised we didn't see it sooner."

"Go. Steve, get Natasha and Clint, too, if he's up for it," Fury ordered, all business as the facility around him hummed with tamed panic, agents rushing left and right. "Depart immediately. If Banner and Thor manage to haul their asses there in time, they can join the party, too."

"How will they find us?" Steve asked, prepared to plan out every detail; he was back in his soldier mindset in full-force.

"I'm sure that won't be a problem," Fury said warily before going back to his podium's control panels, giving an altered set of orders with the new developments as Tony and Steve turned tail to head toward Stark Tower.

Loki hit the back of the Chitauri hovercraft, sliding a bit with the force of his fall as he rode away from Stark Tower, leaving Thor behind with a dagger in his side, not quite so deeply plunged as it could've been.

He heard the whirrs of his reptilian soldiers joining behind him and he signaled two over closer to him, reaching out to place his hand upon the closest Chitauri's forehead. He could still feel some of the residual magic from the scepter flowing through him and, using that, Loki showed the creature the way into the Helicarrier, into the storage rooms. Then, at last, the capsule it needed to find.

"Take one or two of your comrades with you," Loki said over the wind rushing around them as he retracted his hand. "See that it stays safe until all this is over."

The Chitauri gave a nod and waved for two others to follow it as it turned a sharp corner, heading toward the large ship now hovering far out from the bay, a speck in the distance to human eyes.

Loki watched for a few seconds before turning away and leading the remaining Chitauri through the city. He lacked his scepter, but it didn't matter. His army was in full-force, hundreds within the city and a steady flow of more coming through the portal, fueled by an infinite energy source in an indestructible barrier. He glanced toward the sky as one of the plated, monstrous eels slithered through the wormhole alongside yet another Chitauri fleet and he felt rejuvenated in confidence. How could they possibly stop this?

And yet, how everything was so going according to plan. And the dull creatures enforcing his victory hadn't the faintest idea that, no matter what, he would win.

The rule of Midgard was very likely at this point. Should the nine realms be put under Thanos' bulbous red thumb, Loki would have this realm as his own. Yet that would not stop him from attempting to gain all he could… Asgard was—and would always be, as far as he could see—his prize and he would have it in glory or ruin, he cared not which. It was his right, given by succession. Odin was incapable, a fool, and his brother only slightly sharper. Thor had been banished, Odin had nearly fallen were it not for the meditative Odinsleep which had saved his feeble life time and time again. Loki knew beyond all doubt that he should be the one on that golden throne.

It will be me.

The Chitauri soldiers made it into the Helicarrier undetected, going the route Loki had shown to the leader of the trio. Two of the soldiers infiltrated the lowest level and slunk through the storage units, growling and crackling their voices at one another in the strange tongue they shared. When they found the capsule, they were able to pull it off the metal floor, which it had been nailed into along with a few other larger objects in the belly of the craft.

They stealthily took the capsule to the edge of the ship, the Chitauri who had remained outside pulling up to them, and attached it between two of their armored vehicles, securing it before letting it go and remounting their hovercrafts. They shot off, rocketing away from the Helicarrier toward the wormhole in the sky, taking a path through the city to avoid being conspicuous.

As they approached the wormhole, they heard the Other's voice in their heads. "Bring it to me."

Glancing at one another, they obeyed without question, breaching the portal and moving around the waiting fleet of their kind, swarming and rearing with anticipation, to get to their leader in the gargantuan ship above. The Other stood upon a walkway, watching their progress until he could get a look at the capsule. The lid was frosted over, but he'd seen the contents when Loki had given his Chitauri underlings the route through which to obtain the odd container. It was foolish to channel even fragments of my power. It is not yours to wield.

The Other looked toward the wormhole, seeing the Midgardian warriors thrashing through multitudes of his soldiers, damaging their chances because his appointed leader was incompetent and selfish. He growled lowly in his throat as he looked away, peering at the capsule and listening as one of the Chitauri before him informed him that they'd been ordered to keep it safe.

"It is important to him, whether he accepts it or not," the Other observed knowingly as he slid a small panel open on the side, which revealed a heart rate monitor, rhythmically peaking every few seconds, and a meter measuring the oxygenation of the capsule. Though he did not know for certain what these little mechanisms meant, he could feel the life force inside the casing. His eyes lifted back to the portal as their ranks continued to fall, the Earth warriors now organized and gradually taking out the present fleets.

He shook his head; he'd have to inform their overlord of this. "He will fail us," the Other murmured softly before looking to the Chitauri before him. "He does not give orders. He should have learned that long before now with my teachings… He has no right."

The Other took one more glance over the frost-lined capsule before dismissively commanding, "Cast it into the barrens of Jotunheim. Let irony take its course. He will learn of this, feel punished by his own kind, and then he will pay. We will attack once again without his interference." He walked back into the ship, intending to return to Thanos to report the Asgardian prince's eventual loss in Midgard. It was only a matter of time.

With their final orders, the Chitauri made their way inside to send the capsule to the Jotun realm, detaching it from their crafts onto a metal pad made of a material similar to their exoskeletal armor, blue energy swirling around it before it dissolved into thin air. It reformed inside Jotunheim's borders, hurtling down before crash-landing on its side in the distant, frozen land, the lid shattering and spilling out its occupant into the ice and glass-riddled snowscape.

Everything changed within so short a time span. Chitauri still came in droves, but they fell so much faster. The World Security Council, impatient to end the chaos which had consumed the whole of New York, continued to press Director Fury to take action and nuke the city. When he continuously refused and showed no signs of letting up, they deployed the bomb themselves.

Knowing there was only one option in order to save the city's residents and anyone in at least a three-mile radius, Tony had taken up the airborne bomb and angled it to utterly lay waste to the Chitauri ship through the portal, Agent Romanoff shutting the Tesseract down just before the man in the iron suit plummeted through the near-shut opening in the sky. The Chitauri still on Earth, no longer sustained by their life source linked through their armor to their mothership, had fallen to the pavement and Loki lay battered and breathless in Stark Tower after a run-in with Banner.

Now under arrest and completely purged of the Other's power, Loki sat in chains in a less-impressive cell on the Helicarrier, his binds forged of dwarfish steel of a different make than that of Mjolnir and Gungnir. His scepter taken, his army fallen, and even his speech restrained by a plated piece covering his mouth, he was angry, but not entirely surprised. In the last of the battle, he'd seen the defeat of the Chitauri, the Other, and Thanos beginning to become more clear as the result of this mayhem.

He was to remain there until Thor finished up a few loose ends with SHIELD and his Avenger colleagues, then they would both return to Asgard, where he would face his true verdict, which would surely have loopholes for him to wriggle through and claim what was rightfully his.

Loki's eyes shifted over as he heard those familiar footsteps again, Thor soon appearing outside the cell. "We will remain here for three days' time so I may make peace with what Midgardians you left alive," he said, his voice cold and angry. "You dishonor our entire race, brother."

"Your race," a doppelgänger of Loki said as it shimmered into being, given that Loki, himself, could not speak at the moment. A bitter smirk. "Not mine."

"We grew up together. I loathe to say that we were fostered beneath the wings of the same parents. You are as Asgardian as I, yet you lack the empathy to understand what my words mean."

"It's drivel from a juvenile dream," Loki snapped, his illusory puppet pacing the bars while the true Loki sat against the wall, his eyes never moving from the crown prince. "You have no idea what I have suffered."

"Your suffering is largely born of your carelessness," Thor said calmly and the lack of passion in the accusation made Loki realize just how distant he'd become. Any hope he'd seen in his eyes while fighting him earlier that day had died. It left Loki feeling wary and unsure.

"What of the Chitauri?" Loki asked curiously, playing off the carelessness Thor accused him of. "Send them off with their tails between their legs?"

"All destroyed."

Loki's eyes narrowed faintly. "How?"

"The Midgardian weapon which was sent toward New York was redirected through the wormhole. Everything within the ship's area has been demolished. Your allies are ash," Thor replied before turning away. "Do not cause needless mischief during your stay here. You have lost."

He then left Loki with his thoughts, which he presumed lay along the lines of indifference or perhaps some injured pride. Loki's gaze was stony until Thor left the area entirely, which was when his jaw clenched inside the armor which restrained it, his eyes moving to his cuffed hands, where his knuckles were white with tension after fisting against his lap. He cared not for the scaly creatures lost in the blast, the ship which had been lain to waste, the battle which had been lost. Midgard had never been a tantalizing prize anyway.

Loki felt the burn of hurt pride, but he felt the unexpected lance of loss that hit him even more. All over a woman. A mortal woman, at that, at least as far as he could tell. A mortal woman with powers beyond her, with tragedies, with pain and suffering, and yet with a bright, understanding disposition. She'd irritated him until he felt mindless with frustration, but, when he was being truly honest with himself, he knew he hadn't minded. "We're not as different as you think." 

He'd endeavored to save her once he'd known it was still possible and he'd failed her a second time. Loki remembered the day she'd been taken, remembered the conflict and the anger that had welled up when they'd put hands on her and shuffled her out of the warehouse. His reaction had been near-primal, his immediate instinct to tear them apart for disregarding her will and taking what he'd come to look upon and think very distinctly, Mine. His reaction to that memory had grown ever more primal as his sanity had slowly unraveled.

They would have used her. He knew that. His plans would have never come to pass had he revealed himself that day. Everything would have crumbled to pieces, every moment he'd used to make strides toward understanding and obtaining the Tesseract would have amounted to nothing.

They would've had a weakness pegged for him and he would have either caused her death or been bent by his own will to prevent it. He'd done them both a favor by letting SHIELD take her away, though the betrayal in her eyes had made him feel genuine guilt for the first time in many years over anyone but his mother. He'd gone the lengths to ensure her freedom—because she was a useful ally and not the danger her kind saw in her, not even close—and she'd burned along with the Chitauri scum.

Loki had known he'd failed in his mission in Midgard this day, but he hadn't known just how elaborately until now.

"Foolish are you to have grown soft for that girl," his illusion muttered just as he was dispelling it, and didn't he know it. She'd come into his life at a time when he was insufferably vulnerable and had stuck with him in memory throughout the many, many days in which he was hardened into his current state. His mind was addled and he could barely remember the finer moments of his childhood, which he'd so cherished, but he could still very clearly remember how she'd punched him for startling her.

He smiled faintly behind the metal restraint; he was truly mad.

Far off in the frostbitten plains of Jotunheim, that same woman twitched a finger.

Next chapter: Chapter 13, "Waking Up"

[superman86to99]

Superman #90 (June 1994)

"THE BATTLE FOR METROPOLIS," Part 3! Things are BOOMING in Metropolis! Last issue ended with Lex Luthor (we can probably drop the "Jr." by now) remotely detonating a bomb right next to Superman and the badly injured Guardian. In this one we quickly find out that there have actually been several Lex-triggered explosions (Lexplosions, if you will) all across the city. Lex watches the mayhem from his yacht, maniacally shouting that if he has to die, he's taking the whole city with him.

Meanwhile, from the safety of his comfy office in Project Cadmus, wily ol' Director Westfield decides to take advantage of the chaos to get rid of those pesky Underworld clones once and for all. He secretly launches a series of missiles that spread deadly gas throughout the city's sewers, killing several peaceful Underworlders who were just chilling there (when he could have waited a few days for the Clone Plague to get them). Renegade geneticist Dabney Donovan, who has hidden cameras all over Cadmus, notices what Westfield is doing and doesn't like it, not because he's the Underworlders' "father" but because he wants to keep experimenting on them.

Meanwhile meanwhile, Superman takes the unconscious Guardian to Cadmus and bumps into Westfield, who rudely invites him to leave. Superman, who has never liked Westfield, lets him know as much and warns him that as soon as the current mess is over, he's letting everyone know exactly how much he sucks.

Westfield brushes him off and is like "No one will ever bring me down! I WILL LIVE FOREVER!" Then, while Superman is distracted dealing with one of those missiles, Dubbilex's telepathic powers suddenly pick up "a presence in Cadmus" he "hasn't felt in a very long time..."

That's right, you guessed it: it's freakin' Psi-Phon and Dreadnaught!

Wait, no, that was Dabney Donovan. And yes, he just murdered Paul "King of the World" Westfield with some poison gas. Official cause of death: irony. CONTINUED NEXT WEEK (or whenever we write that post) IN ADVENTURES OF SUPERMAN #513!

Character-Watch:

And that's the end of Director Westfield, who has been a pain in the ass since 1991's Superman #58. It says a lot that, unlike everyone else who dies at Cadmus, they've never brought this jerk back via cloning... or have they?! (Geoff Johns: "No, they haven't.") I'm not sorry to see him go, but I do think that his death makes certain future revelations regarding the character kinda anticlimactic.

Don Sparrow says: "Quite a fall for Westfield. In the Bloodhounds storyline he seemed like a tough, if flawed leader. But in this book he’s exactly as bad as Luthor." Yeah, he seemed like a somewhat reasonable authority figure until "Funeral for a Friend," when he started his slow descent into supervillain status. Maybe a more satisfying ending for him would have been turning him into an actual supervillain, perhaps via Dabney's ironic experiments... It's not too late to tell that tale, DC!

Plotline-Watch:

The best part of the issue is Superman saying he "almost hates" throwing one of those poison gas missiles into the stratosphere because "half the time I throw stuff into space it comes back even more dangerous!" We've been documenting that tradition for years, so that was satisfying to read. To my knowledge, that missile never became sentient and came back as "Missile-O" or something, but I could be wrong.

Superman tells Westfield that "cloning ruined my home planet." We saw that story (with sweet, sweet Mike Mignola art) in the World of Krypton miniseries.

Dabney Donovan says he wants to continue studying the Underworlders to "create new life that will survive the coming apocalypse." I'm not sure if by "apocalypse" he means this storyline or a... future one. Also, keyboard, multiple monitors, a big and probably expensive microphone -- is Dabney a Twitch streamer?

Westfield teases Superman because he can't be in multiple places at once, musing that maybe he'll create a being who can do that as his next experiment. So if he hadn't died, the next Cadmus creation would have been Madrox the Multiple Man.

Some impressively dumb Lex-Men chase Lois and shoot at her for "ripping off corporate secrets" (actually that tape of Lex killing his trainer from last issue). When she says they're making a big mistake, they laugh at her and one says "You ain't got a prayer, lady! Not unless you got yourself a guardian angel!" Are they... not from Metropolis? That would explain why one bothers trying to blast Superman "to smithereens" once he inevitably shows up.

After Superman takes care of those goons, Lois notices there's a camera in one of the helmets and uses the opportunity to tell Lex that he's screwed. He shouts: "NO! Who's her informant? Packard? Happersen? Or somebody else?" Lex, you've got exactly three recurring employees in this era. Come on, it's not that hard.

Patreon-Watch:

This post was brought to you by Aaron, Chris “Ace” Hendrix, britneyspearsatemyshorts, Patrick D. Ryall, Bheki Latha, Mark Syp, Ryan Bush, Raphael Fischer, Kit, Sam, Bol, and Gaetano Barreca, the Superman '86 to '99 Patreon Gang!

And also by everyone's pal Don Sparrow, who wrote the section after the jump...

Art-Watch (by @donsparrow):

We begin with a great cover, of an anguished Superman in the rubble of Metropolis.  I’m gonna assume that this is moments before Superman leapt into action, and helped all those people behind him with the recovery effort, but you gotta take a minute or two to grieve.  Joe Rubinstein is a legendary inker, to be sure, but his inks never fully jibed with Dan Jurgens pencils, it seems to me, and this cover shows a little bit of that.  The rim lighting on the arms going so far from the edge makes Superman look almost excessively lean/defined, but that’s only noticeable when you stare at it as long as I have.

Inside the book we have guest pencils from Brent Anderson, whose art can be hit or miss for me, over the years.  His Astro City stuff, for example, was terrific, like a modern Curt Swan, but at times, but in other instances—like this issue—there can be an unpleasantly rushed feel to his art.  The surface detail is always terrific, and Neal Adams-like, but sometimes his forms can go a bit wonky.  The very opening splash page is a good example of this. 

At first glance, this seems like a terrific page, a great montage of different things happening over Metropolis.  But then when you zoom in on both Guardian and Superman’s faces (particularly Guardian), things seem a little asymmetrical.  This is not to say that there aren’t some excellent moments—there are!  Page 5 has a great tall panel of Superman soaring into action.  Dabney Donovan is looking quite Dr. Robotnik-like as he surveys Westfield’s final solution for the Underworlders.  Page 12 unfortunately boasts another wonky Superman face, almost saved by the surface detailing.  The absolute weirdest Superman face appears a little later, during the guardian angel exchange, where Kal-El is looking like he sproinged off the pages of Mad Magazine.

There’s another good flying shot comes on page 17, where Superman darts out of a sewer pipe.   On the whole, a pretty inconsistent looking book, with backgrounds being a particularly weak point (apart from the extreme perspective shot of Metropolis early on). Story-wise, not a ton happens, apart from Superman zig-zagging to and from disasters, though we do get a little movement on the clone illness (that Guardian is apparently immune) and a recap of last week, revealing that Lois has damning evidence against Luthor.

STRAY OBSERVATIONS:

Lex’s soldiers are pretty sexist, in addition to being willing murderers.  How does a guy list when hiring for that position?

Funny note as Superman launches the poison gas missile into space, as he muses “half the time I throw stuff into space, it comes back even more dangerous.”  Certainly true of the Eradicator, but I’m trying to think of other examples.  [Max: Off the top of my head, there's the time he threw that living cemetery into space and it turned into a murder cloud, the time he left a lab suspended in orbit and it eventually spawned the Cyborg Superman (who did his own space-tossing with Doomsday), and, hmmm, does the time he threw himself into space and came back with a deadly artifact count?]

Very Obi-Wan-like reaction from Dubbilex, as he senses Dabney Donovan’s presence.  I always thought that Donovan was somewhere nearby as it was, so it’s odd that Dubbilex would only now sense his brainwaves.

How does the gas hurt Westfield to the point that he’s choking blood, but not at all affect the maskless Donovan? [Max: Maybe he was a poison gas-immune Dabney clone who only thought he was the "one and only"?]

[whoopsieismelldaisies]

The Horns Do Not The Devil Make

In Which: Marley comes to New York but ends up in the wrong place at the wrong time and Harry needs to make sure her pretty little lips stay sealed.

TW: Mentions of !Gun violence, Bad Language, Mentions of mental instability, Crude remarks about female anatomy, !Murder

WC: 1,871

___________________________________________________________

New York—an unexpected chapter in your life's story. The bustling streets, thick with humidity you could practically taste, aren't exactly your cup of tea. Every turn feels like a test, a trial you have to conquer to avoid whatever threats the city holds. You're the embodiment of a small-town girl, and this city, brimming with crowds, vices, and pollution, feels like an alien world to you. You yearn for home—the vast fields to lose yourself in and the crisp, pure air that carries the scent of peace and oats. Yeah, it might sound trite, but that's how you feel. If it were up to you, you'd have stayed put, but destiny has different plans. NYU has welcomed you with open arms, a fact that still seems like a dream—a full scholarship to one of the nation's most prestigious schools. As you stand there, waiting for a taxi to whisk you away from the life you left behind, you can't help but reminisce about what led you here. There are memories you're fleeing, wounds you want to heal. Perhaps, in this sprawling metropolis, you'll find the answers. You glance at your phone; the time reads 9:53 PM. The area around the train station is oddly serene for New York, a peaceful interlude amid the chaos. Then, out of nowhere, a thunderous succession of bangs erupts from the nearby alley. Your heart races, and you instinctively seek refuge behind a weathered trash can, peering out, prepared for the twists and turns your new life has in store. You hold your breath, your eyes locked on the entrance to that alley as though something might leap out at you. If it did, you at least wanted to see it coming!

"This is fucking ridiculous!" you murmur to yourself, the frantic beating of your heart still echoing in your ears. You were well aware that New York could be challenging, but this exceeds all expectations for the very first day—no, the initial hour, in fact! Just as you were preparing to get back up, convinced the immediate danger had subsided, a cohort of men emerged from the alley. They were uniformly attired in black, evidently following the lead of a tall man with shoulder-length chestnut curls, clad in a sleek black suit. His face remained concealed by an intriguing mask, crafted from golden material and adorned with two distinctive horns rising from the forehead, although the exact design remained enigmatic due to the distance. Your gaze shifts towards the two men at the rear of the group, who are struggling to drag something along with them. Dread settles in your stomach as you realize it's a body—a victim of what must have been the gunshots you heard earlier. A deep sense of unease propels you to step back cautiously, your primary goal being to distance yourself from this nightmarish scene as swiftly as possible. But in your retreat, you inadvertently collide with a stack of cans concealed behind the trash can. Time seems to slow down as you watch in terror as all six men snap their heads in your direction. Your body freezes, a spine-tingling chill coursing up your back. Even though the man in the mask's eyes remain hidden, it's as though he's making direct eye contact with you from where he stands. ‘It's a devil,’ you think to yourself, finally able to discern the design of his mask now that his piercing gaze is locked onto you.

"Get that woman and fucking bring her to me, do not make me wait!" you hear mask-man growl at his men, his voice deep and flavored with what, in any other circumstance, you'd consider an extremely alluring British accent. The men immediately spring into action, charging in your direction as their leader strides toward a black sedan that you hadn't even noticed parked across the street from their initial position. It takes a moment for you to gather your wits before you break into a sprint, trying to put as much distance as possible between yourself and the five imposing figures closing in on you. Regrettably, that moment of hesitation proves costly, robbing you of your chance for escape. You barely manage to cover five feet before you're abruptly yanked backward, colliding with a solid chest with a harsh thud. Desperation floods your senses, and you futilely attempt to fight off the man's grip. However, your efforts prove to be in vain; you're no match for his sheer size and strength. "No, please! Please, let me go! I swear I'll keep my mouth shut!" you scream, but the man remains unfazed. He simply drags you along, as you flail about, desperately trying to break free, and escorts you back to the rest of his group.

"She's a feisty little bitch, this one. H is going to have fun with her," the man mutters to his companions. His hand snakes up your body, enclosing your neck with his massive paw. His rough, unpleasant skin brushes against your own. "It's unfortunate, darling" the other man across from you remarks, pausing to study you. "Wrong place, wrong time...so very wasteful of a pretty thing like you. Imagine the cunt on her, lads, almost makes me sad to know where you'll end up." he continues, drawing nearer and sliding his sweaty hand along your cheek, his gaze shifting to the lifeless body they had been hauling out of the alley, leaving no room for misinterpretation. Your mouth goes dry as you struggle to find words. "Please, don't hurt me," is all you manage to utter, and the group responds with a chilling, dark chuckle. You sense the man holding you lean in, his voice a low whisper in your ear. "Night, night, Little Bird. Time to take you to meet the boss… no hard feelings, hmm?" he murmurs before his grip around your throat tightens, cutting off your air supply. Your head grows increasingly woozy, a result of the constricted blood flow, and it isn't long before everything fades into darkness.

___________________________________________________________

As consciousness slowly returns, your head throbs, and your vision struggles to adjust to the dimly lit room. The darkness does little to alleviate the strain on your eyes. You attempt to open your mouth, but the strip of tape across your lips prevents any significant noise from escaping. Panic sets in as you realize your inability to move. Initially, it seems as though you're alone in the inky abyss, but soon, you detect his presence. The sound of metal scraping against metal forces you to turn your head in the direction of the noise. There he stands, still donning his black suit, albeit without the jacket, just a few feet away, silently observing you. You can only make out the upper half of his figure, bathed in moonlight, his face concealed behind the eerie golden devil mask. His hands, adorned with numerous rings, are occupied with sharpening a knife that appears grotesquely large. Panic and fear surge through you at the sight of the weapon. "You know, you've really made my night a lot more difficult than it needs to be, poppet," he mutters, his accent weaving through your ears, intensifying the eeriness of the situation. "What a pretty little thing like you was doing out there all alone at 10 PM, God only knows... Now look at you. Tied up while I contemplate how I'm going to make sure that pretty little mouth stays shut." He tilts his head slightly to the side, almost mockingly, as if he's merely toying with you and has already decided what horrors await you. He begins to advance toward you, and with every step, an odd 'clink' resounds. Glancing down at his feet as he steps further into the faint moonlight, you notice his black Chelsea boots adorned with tiny golden spurs. 'What is with this guy?' you ponder in silent dread.

He halts in front of you, and all you can do is stare up at him in terror. He's an imposing figure, easily six feet tall with broad shoulders that strain against the button-up shirt he's wearing—a clear indication of his strength and bulk. Slowly, he extends his hand towards you, gripping a corner of the tape covering your mouth. "I do so hate one-sided conversations; let's rectify that," he mutters darkly, just before he ruthlessly tears the tape from your lips, leaving behind a searing sensation where it once adhered. "There, much better. What's your name, poppet?" he inquires, peering down at you through the small openings in the eyes of his mask. You can't muster the courage to speak, and you shake your head, adamant about not revealing your name to this sinister individual. He emits a deep sigh, sets his knife aside, and abruptly seizes your throat, exerting just enough pressure to emphasize that he means business. "Now, see, I distinctly remember that I mentioned my aversion to one-sided conversations. Tell me your bloody name before I take out your fucking tongue and give you a genuine reason not to talk," he hisses forcefully through clenched teeth. Panic instantly engulfs you, and you comply with his demand, utterly convinced that he isn't bluffing. "M-Marley, my name is Marley!" The words tumble out of your mouth in a rushed stumble as you seek to appease him. He releases his grip on your neck and taps your cheek in approval. "There's a good girl, Marley. See how simple that was?" he mocks.

The abrupt shift in his mood is incredibly unsettling, and his mocking response fuels a burning anger within you. "Fuck you! Who the hell are you, talking tough while hiding behind that ridiculous devil mask like a coward. If you want to ask personal questions, at least have the decency to look me in the eyes, you bastard!" Your outburst does little to deter him; if anything, it seems to amuse him. "The horns do not the devil make, my dear. It's actually a goblin, a common mistake, I assure you," he chuckles maniacally. "I'm no coward, though, and since I find myself presented with a challenge, I can't help but accept." His faux light-hearted tone does nothing to alleviate your growing fear of this clearly deranged man. He leans forward, placing his hands on the armrests of the chair in which you're seated. For a moment, the two of you just watch each other, neither making a move. Then, slowly, his hand leaves the armrest and begins to ascend toward the base of the mask. With deliberate slowness, he starts to lift the mask from his face, and what he reveals is almost divine. Emerald-green eyes meet your gaze, their vibrant hue discernible even in the dimly lit room. His jawline is sharp and adorned with rugged yet undeniably attractive stubble. As those piercing eyes finally lock onto your own, you find yourself utterly speechless, your mouth as dry as a desert. He smirks slowly, revealing a dimple in his cheek that leaves you utterly bewildered. He leans in closer, his face mere inches from yours, and whispers a two-word greeting that leaves you breathless for reasons you can't quite comprehend. "Hello, poppet."

[apocalypsewriters]

I posted this snippet a few days ago and thought I should release the whole poem into the world. Enjoy!

I am not a Romantic.

That’s Romantic with a capital R.

But there is something to sunrises. I’ve seen hundreds 

And still could watch a thousand more. 

Pale golds stretching fingers into clouds, 

spinning them into sugar across an indecisive sky. 

The air is made young by morn 

And sweet by birdsong, 

Even among concrete trees far 

From metropolis of forest. It is inevitable and infinite, 

Infantilizing in nature, starting the world anew.

But sprawling forests, drowning 

Plains, mountains, and valleys steal my breath 

Before giving it back a hundredfold. 

A simple symphony of trees whispers 

To their shrilling occupants. Company rustles 

In every bush following ghosts of the millions 

That came before them, treading the same trail. 

Among green so dense, I can pretend there is nothing 

But wind and rain shaping the earth, sparing none in its path.

But there is something gloriously equalizing 

In the silence of a waterfall. 

With gentle frenzied hands, it carves 

Through mountains and their peaks until freefall. 

Mist kisses rocks, teasing ferns and algae into bloom. 

Dragonflies flicker like stars 

Among froth and reeds in wordless synchronised chaos.

I am not a romantic. 

That’s romantic with a little r. 

But if I could wake up to my family 

Snoring in a glorious cabin every day, I’d feel 

Carnally home. Under cotton and down sheets, 

A dozen or more of us coexist in a blanket 

Of care and comfort. I’d lay there forever, the only one 

Awake, knowing contentment, knowing love.

But the midnight after prom makes me believe in love. 

I went alone with the closest family I found 

At school, all two of them. 

Alcohol and sleepiness loosened my mask, 

Sent my tongue flying to spew words I held 

Behind barred lips. Brain fuzzy, phrases tripping, 

I laughed myself to sleep with my best friends. 

Their presence sits with me in anything 

I do, itching to share with them both.

But turning pages to reunions and first times and hand-holding 

Makes my heart swell. Whether 

The fictional are destined to find each other or 

Coincidence writes them to find their mirror, 

I burn through books

At breakneck paces. The human experience 

Immortalized in ink, echoing authors' desperate 

To be remembered. Their togetherness 

Brings a smile to my eyes and tears to my chin.

I am aromantic.

That’s aromantic, one word.

But I am afraid of being alone. Connection is 

Heralded as inevitable, inescapable. But my connections 

Aren’t seen as enough. But I might be left behind 

For romance, tossed aside in friendship. 

But even though there are people, I won’t have 

My person that I’m supposed to bring everywhere. 

But I’m afraid that I will be left with a hole in my chest, 

Trying to fill it with butterflies that flit away to be together.

But there are few like me. 

I wasn’t born speaking the language 

Of four out of five people my age. 

But there are others who don’t understand 

That language, yet I get lost 

In their conversation. We are unaddressed and left

Undressed and alone, together. I tug 

On the sweater sleeve and it all turns to yarn 

In my hands as I lose the thread of conversation. 

And I am adrift in a colourful sea, threatening to drown.

But I will find company in platonic romance. 

My love multiplies, dividing my heart into infinite 

Treasured pieces, unencumbered. 

Because there will never be The One 

Because there are so many to love. 

We found friendship first and I will hold it 

Forever. My feelings won’t be fickle, instead 

Flourishing in gardens of affection. 

While romantic happenstance escapes me, 

Platonic suits me fine.