DPxDC Prompt
Summoning is an imperfect art, mispronouncing a name or having an incorrect symbol can lead to unexpected, and sometimes explosive results. Summoning can open unexpected doors. No one's prepared for what--or who--steps through when a rising gang tries to summon backup.
My little ficlet for this is below the cut:
Smoke. The acrid slam of it in the nose, brought on by the screaming wind. Chanting. A chorus of voices, steady and thrumming. Pain. Everything is hazy, and it’s equal odds on it being from the smoke or the potential head injury.
Bruce stumbles to his feet, body throbbing.
This was not how he’d planned this night.
Of course, he hadn’t planned for Gotham to suddenly be overrun with a new…gang? They claimed to be a government organization, but Bruce has his doubts. He hadn’t had a chance to go through the GIW’s information, but according to Barbara, their claims were sketchy at best.
The shouting about ghosts and waving around sci-fi weapons with no trigger discipline certainly didn’t help their claims.
Government organization or not, they had no right to raid homes, to drag people out onto the street, or overall threaten his city.
His ears ring, and the chanting rises in volume, impossibly. His chest reverbes with the sound. It’s steady enough to feel like a second heart. His blurry vision locks onto the center of the summoning circle. Because this night couldn’t get any worse, of course.
First the GIW had rocketed up his list of threats with one simple move.
They’d gone after Jason.
Jason, who even now was laid out in the middle of the summoning circle, eyes bright, bright, bright green through the haze.
First they’d taken his son.
Then they’d used him as a sacrifice.
Bruce bared his teeth, locking eyes with the closest GIW agent. The man held up his weapon, a glowing baton. His form is weak.
The baton gord flying, Bruce’s armored elbow slamming the man to the ground. The agent curls up, groaning. Nightwing’s escrima sing electric in the background, followed by the whip of Tim’s bow staff. Damian’s sword glints through the haze, and purple flashes through the crowd of white, white, white.
He can’t see Cass, but he doesn’t expect too.
The ground rocks under his feet, and it takes several precious seconds to regain his balance. There seems to be an almost endless flood of agents, with more and more meeting his fists as he tries to make it through the gauntlet.
Suddenly, the air shifts, the scream of it heading for the circle instead of out.
The circle glows toxic green, and Jason’s at the center, frozen in the light.
“No!” Bruce shouts, the sound ripping from his soul.
It’s echoed by Dick, who stands just outside the circle’s boundaries. His hands are pressed against the light, his blue eyes a shock against the green.
It’s a confusion of people - GIW white and the summoner’s black. The GIW is here to end whatever it is they need Jason to summon to them. The summoners themselves seem to have broken away from the “agency” and want power from the being they’re calling. It’s a fight on multiple fronts, with the GIW fighting the summoners and Bruce and his family fighting them all.
The temperature drops.
“HOOD!” Dick screams, as Jason is swallowed by the green.
The chant is all he can hear, even as he shoves towards the circle, even as he slams against the same wall Dick’s against.
The world goes bright and he can’t keep his eyes on Jason. On his son.
When the light fades, Jason’s not alone.
A being sits six feet in the air, Jason collapsed over his lap, somehow hovering with the - what is he? He looks human, but there’s something wrong. Off. Bruce can’t quite pinpoint his age. A crown glows on his head, an ever shifting cape spills down his back, dragging close to the floor. His eyes are green as Lazarus, and just as deep. Jason is breathing, Bruce notes. The being’s hands curl in Jason’s hair, playing with it idly.
The air is *rigid, and everyone’s stopped fighting. No one can draw their eyes away from the being.
“You dare to summon me with one of my own?” The being speaks, and it’s like crackling glaciers. Someone whimpers.
“We - wanted to give you a gift,” One of the men in black says, his voice chattering.
It’s like breathing in ice.
“A gift?” The being says and the sound is fury, banked in a waiting avalanche. “What kind of gift is this? A denizen of my Realms, trapped and tortured? Used to summon his king, against his will? This is no gift.”
“B-but we didn’t know,” another speaks, and then obviously realizes he shouldn’t have.
“Ignorance will not save you,” the being says, and it - he’s? - still holding Jason like he’s something precious. “And I am not the only one you have infuriated.
“I am not the only one you have awoken.”
To a man, the GIW agents cry out in panic. Bruce turns, looking for the threat but - the agents are buried to various depths in the cracked concrete floor. The ground is decidedly solid beneath Bruce’s feet but the agents would obviously not agree. They flounder, like the concrete is quicksand. The summoners are next, but it’s ice that gets them, crawling up their bodies until they’re locked into place.
“My lord!” One cries and promptly finds himself gagged.
Bruce can’t stay silent any longer. “Hood was used against his will to summon you,” he starts. The being’s eyes meet Bruce’s. “He didn’t want this. Is he alright?”
“Your son is fine,” the voice is rough, but feminine, and obviously not from the being. It’s around him, dancing through the steel beams and pushing through concrete. “You are mine, my knight. You and yours are mine. The little king will not harm him, nor you.” A figure forms off to his right.
“Holy shit,” Dick whispers. Bruce has to agree.
She’s made of concrete, of broken brick and dust, of bone and police tape, of twisted metal and more.
“Gotham,” Bruce breathes, and he doesn’t know how he knows but he does.
“Hello, my knight,” she says, her form shifting. She turns slightly, and there’s something sharp in her movement. “Hello, little king.”
“Lady Gotham,” The being - the king? - returns. “You look well,”
Lady Gotham laughs, a ringing sound - it’s bells and gravel, fresh air on a summer day and rising wind. “How you flatter me, little king. Do you fear me?”
The being grins, mischief dancing around him, white hair floating high. “I respect you. It’s good to see you awake, Milady.”
“What is happening?” Tim asks no one in particular. Dick shrugs and Steph just leans harder on Tim. Cass holds Damian’s shoulder firmly, watching carefully.
Bruce wishes he had an answer.
“It is good to be awake,” Lady Gotham says, and she shifts closer to the circle, fingers skimming against the barrier of light. “How long do you intend to keep my reaper from me?”
Reaper. Bruce thinks, and it’s a gut punch.
It makes sense, to describe Jason. Jason can go where Bruce cannot, do what Bruce cannot.
The king laughs lightly. “The summoning harmed him, Milady. I’m just keeping him safe. I’m not here to undermine you,” the king’s eyes glow. “But remember who is king.”
Lady Gotham smiles. “I’m aware of hierarchy little king.”
“My son,” Bruce says, because there’s no point in pretending Jason is anything less. He’s talking to - the embodiment of gotham and a king of - something. “He’ll be okay?”
Lady Gotham sighs. “He will be fine, my knight. The little king cares for his own.”
“What - what are you the king of?” Tim asks, bold.
The being smiles.
“I am Phantom,” he says. “I am the Ghost King.”
Jason stirs in his lap, and the implications crash over Bruce. Maybe Reaper has more meaning than he’d thought.