seen from China
seen from Australia
seen from China
seen from China
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from T1
seen from Yemen
seen from Greece
seen from Malaysia
seen from South Korea
seen from T1
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Brazil
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from Egypt
((this scene was going to go a little differently (as well as Tenna's outfit! He was going to wear a cravat but for normal reasons he's still got a tie) But I loved this sketch so much I figured you all would enjoy it too! Something about Spam's face being just so soft, his eyes so full of love...))
happy birthday cody... and happy last day of pride month. these things are unrelated
*gives you the badge of #1 Kentstantine shipper* Obviously it has two penguins on it!
Aw! Thanks man!
🪞Superman and Captain Marvel sort of blending together or going back and forth.
6:00 AM
[ The rain hadn't stopped.
Billy had been awake to hear it start. first as a hesitant tap-tap-tapping against his windowpane around 3:47 AM, then building into something steadier, something that meant to stay. By 5:00, it was a proper downpour, the kind that turns gutters into streams and makes the whole world smell like wet concrete. He'd lain there listening, counting the tapping like other people counted sheep, until the gray light of early morning finally pried his eyes open for good.
Now he was on the roof.
The metal stairs had groaned under his weight the way it always did. The chipping, rusted black metal complained, "It's you again." He'd climbed it anyway, barefoot. Which was stupid, probably, with all this wet metal, and settled onto the wet edge of the building, letting the rain soak through his thin t-shirt, his sweatpants, his skin, all the way down to something that felt like bone. All while the WHIZ sign shined down on him.
Below him, Fawcett City was waking up.
The streets were pretty. They were always pretty this time of morning, before the exhaust fumes thickened and made it much harder to see the street art from so high up and the afternoon light made everything look harsh and ordinary. Right now, the lamps were still on, casting orange pools onto the slick black asphalt, as chalk from kids ran away down the drains. The crosswalks shimmered like rivers. The awnings over the 24-hour diner and the old bookstore and the pawnshop with the flickering sign all glowed soft and warm, and every few seconds a car would pass, headlights smearing across the wet road like watercolors left out in the rain.
Pretty.
Colorful.
Bustling.
Pretty pretty pretty.
Billy watched it all with the kind of distant affection you might feel watching a movie about someone else's happy life. He'd grown up on these streets. Not literally, all of these ones were new and rebuilt with magic to make everything more livable in this nightmare but it was close enough. He knew which alley had streetlights that liked to flicker for fun. Which stoop had the loose steps that liked to trip people with dirty shoes. Which corner Mr. Henderson still sold newspapers from, umbrella or no umbrella. The city had shaped him like water shapes stone: slowly, relentlessly, leaving grooves he couldn't smooth out even if he wanted to. Though he had also shaped this city hadn't he?
And it would be so easy.
That thought came to him like a whisper in the wind. A pretty secret between friends. It would be so easy to join that prettiness below. To become a spot of color himself. A pretty red blooming on the gray pavement, something brief and vivid before the rain washed it away.
Wash washed washed away.
He'd make a sound, probably. A wet sound. And then the city would absorb him like it absorbed every other unwanted and unruly thing. The gutters would run pink for a little while. Someone would have to make a phone call. Someone else would have to hold a nice bright yellow tarp against the wind.
But mostly, it would be quiet again.
Billy leaned forward.
The wind pushed back. Raindrops hit his face, his eyelids, his lips, his chest, if he pretended hard enough it felt like the rain was holding him and he let them. He curled his fingers around the edge of the roof, not tightly. Not as tight as he should have. He took a deep breath that tasted like ozone and rust and crackling magic and something almost like peace. And then, slowly, so slowly it barely felt like a choice, he began to loosen his grip.
One finger at a time.
Letting the rain slick his palms.
Letting gravity become an invitation rather than a threat.
Letting the wash wash wash become a promise.
It would be so easy to just let go.
So easy to lean into the sound of the city that had made him, to become a brief percussion in its endless rhythm. ]
[ He was three fingers gone when the radio buzzed to life inside his apartment.
A caller.
Another caller. Someone with a request, a dedication, a story about their dog or their dead loved one or to curse him out for not saving someone or their terrible morning commute. Someone who needed to hear a cheerful voice tell them everything was going to be okay, even though it wasn't, even though it never really had been.
Billy sighed, a long, shuddering thing that came from somewhere deeper than his lungs, and pulled back.
His hands found the concrete edge. His feet found solid ground. He sat there for a moment, dripping, listening to the crackle of the radio through his open door, and then he stood up slowly, knees aching from the cold, and climbed back inside.
The apartment was warm. Too warm, maybe, after all that rain. The lights were still on from his early-morning broadcast prep, lamps and overheads and the soft glow of his soundboard, all of it making the space feel smaller than it was, or maybe exactly as small as it had always been. It's not like one kid needed much space. This did used to be just an office.
He crossed to the mic without drying off first, trailing water across the hardwood like a ghost leaving its own evidence. The caller's voice was still crackling through the speakers, some nervous-sounding kid asking for a song for his girlfriend. Billy laughed, confirmed his caller's request then waited for the line to die. He flipped his own mic on and felt the familiar mask settle over his face. It fit better than his skin these days. ]
Good morning to my lovely listeners!
[ His voice came out warm, rounded, believable. A good reporter's voice. ]
I'm hoping you're all having a fine morning! According to your 6:30 AM forecast, it's going to be another warm, dark, and rainy day. Soooooo! I hope you're not feeling too gloomy heading into work or school today. This morning our request list is preeeeeetty full, so I'll leave you all with my good wishes. I'll hear from you at our 9:00 AM host break. Hear you then, listeners. Thank you for tuning into the Hopping Bunny Radio.
[ He hit the cue button. Some pre-recorded pop song filled the air, upbeat, synthetic, aggressively cheerful. Billy let it play and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. His hair was still dripping. His clothes were plastered to him like a second, colder skin. Water was probably ruining his floorboards.
He should take a shower.
It's good for no one if you catch a cold, he told himself, and the thought was so practical, so borrowed from someone who might have once cared about him, that he almost laughed. He pushed himself up instead and padded toward the bathroom, leaving a trail of wet footprints like a sad Hansel and Gretel.
The bathroom was small. Tile floor, flickering light, and the mirror—
The mirror he'd covered with a black garbage bag six months ago, maybe seven, taped at the corners so he wouldn't have to see himself anymore. He didn't remember the last time he'd looked at his own face. He didn't want to. The bag rippled slightly in the draft from the window, and Billy turned away from it like he always did, grabbing a towel from the rack and a clean set of clothes from the shelf.
Scent-free soap. Deodorant. Shampoo that didn't smell like anything at all.
He'd been using the same brand since his first night at the Vasquez foster home, nine years old and terrified and so quietly grateful for a warm bed that he thought his chest might crack open from it. Mrs. Vasquez had given him a small bottle of everything in a pretty plastic blue shower basket with heart shaped holes to allow water to drain from it, he still had the basket. It was nothing fancy, nothing scented, just the kind of gentle stuff they used for kids with sensitive skin and possible unknown allergies. "Here, mijo," she'd said. "For you. You can use as much as you need."
He'd cried in the shower that night. He remembered because Freddy made fun of him for coming out looking more like a mess than when he went in.
Now he stood under the hot water, endless hot water, a luxury that would have felt like winning the lottery back then. And let it pound against the back of his neck. The steam curled up around him. The heat soaked into muscles that were so fucking tight from stress and work and everything.
It was funny. Funny in that hollow, aching way that wasn't really funny at all.
A few years ago, he would have killed to have access to a shower like this. Especially a shower with constant hot water. He'd gone days without, weeks sometimes, scrubbing himself with paper towels in gas station bathrooms and calling it good enough. He'd dreamed of hot water. He'd fantasized about it the way other kids fantasized about Christmas morning.
And now? Now he had it. Now he had warm lights and a working radio and a furnished apartments and a job. Now he had everything he'd once wanted.
Now he'd do anything to go back.
Back to the Vasquez house, where the hot water ran out after fifteen minutes because there were at least six other kids who needed showers too. Back to the crowded dinner table where someone always stole his bread roll and Mrs. Vasquez would click her tongue and give him another one. Back to the large room he'd shared with Pedro, Eugene, and Freddy, so the girls could have their own rooms and the smallest one was left empty for emergency placements. The room with the cracked window and the bunk beds and the poster of so many superheroes.
Back to when pretending felt like hope instead of performance.
Billy squeezed a small amount of soap into his palm, same scentless kind, just in a smaller bottle now because he didn't need to split a gallon-sized container into small dollar store ones anymore, because there was no one else to share with, because he was on his own and would be for the foreseeable forever. He worked the soap into his hair.
Billy closed his eyes and let the water run over his face, and for just a moment, he let himself pretend.
Pretend he was nine again.
Pretend Mrs. Vasquez was just outside the door, calling out to ask if he wanted extra pancakes for breakfast.
Pretend the house was full of noise and footsteps and the smell of coffee and the sound of someone else's life happening around him.
Pretend he wasn't alone.
Pretend he hadn't been alone for years.
Pretend the rain outside was just rain, not an invitation.
Pretend that everything was okay and his heroes were still heroes and tomorrow was just another day where he'd groan through school and homework just to rush off and pretend to be a hero.
Pretend he still wanted to hold on.
Billy turned off the tap and stood there for a long moment, dripping in the silence, before finally reaching for his towel.
He still had a floor to mop.
His towel was rough, thin, the same gray towel he'd had since the Vasquez house and started drying his hair with mechanical motions. Left, right, left. His eyes stayed fixed on the floor. The garbage bag over the mirror rippled slightly in the draft from the cracked window. He didn't look at it. He never looked at it if he had the choice
Just dry off. Get dressed. Mop the floor. Start the next segment.
His elbow bumped the wall.
It was nothing! Just a small thing, a clumsy thing, the kind of accidental brush that happens a dozen times a day. But the bag was old, the tape was weak from the steam, and the shards beneath it were still sharp. The plastic tore with a sound like a gasp, and Billy felt the sting before he even understood what had happened. A thin, hot line across his forearm where a jagged edge had bitten through.
He hissed. Pulled back. And then he looked up. He shouldn't have looked up
There he was.
Reflection.
His own face.
Not his face.
Not the whole face.
The mirror was too shattered for that but pieces. A sliver of his left eye. A triangle of his mouth, turned down at the corner. A fragment of his jaw, his cheek, his throat, all of them sliced apart by dark cracks that ran through the glass like lightning strikes.
Billy's heart stopped. Then it restarted too fast, hammering against his ribs like something trying to escape a cage.
No. No, no, no—
He stumbled backward, his bare heel slipping on the wet tile, and his hand shot out to grab the plastic to cover it again, to hide it, to make it stop but the bag was already compromised, already tearing further under his grip, and more glass fell. Pieces of mirror slid off the frame and into the sink below with a sound like breaking teeth and shattered windshields and being thrown through windows and explosions. And with each piece that fell, more reflections appeared.
More faces.
Superman. Billy Batson. Lord Kal-El. Kon. Captain Marvel. Superman. Billy Batson. Lord Kal-El. Clark Kent. Dad.
They flickered in the fractured glass not all at once but in fragments, in flashes, each shard catching a different angle, a different memory, a different version of himself and the people who had made him and unmade him and remade him into something he didn't recognize anymore.
Superman, Dad, Billy Batson, Lord Kal-El, Captain Marvel, Superman, Billy Batson, Lord Kal-El, Kon, Clark Kent, Captain Marvel—
And then the memories came with them.
Kal killing to prove his strength. The crunch of bones that wasn't his. The wet sound. The way the body had fallen and Superman had just stood there, fists still clenched, eyes still cold yet red hot, "Fear is the only thing these people understand. One day you'll learn.", like he was doing them all a favor. Like he was doing Billy a favor.
Mom's apartment.
The way she'd looked at him the last time, tired, so tired, with that crease between her eyebrows that never went away anymore. You look just like him, she'd whispered.
She hadn't meant it as a compliment.
Clark being kind to him as a would-be reporter.
A hand on his shoulder.
A smile that had reached his eyes.
"It's never as bad as it seems. You're much stronger than you think you are. Trust me."
Billy had believed him. God, he had believed him.
Kon and him laughing together. Late nights on a rooftop somewhere, trading stupid jokes, pretending they were just two kids instead of two weapons. We're gonna be okay, Kon had said. We've got each other.
Finding Mary. Her arms around him. Her voice cracking. "I thought you were dead. I thought you were dead, I thought—"
Kal killing him. The way the light had gone out. The way it had felt like nothing. The way it had felt like everything, all at once, and then nothing again.
He had nightmares of that death. His death that wasn't his.
Superman glaring. That chin. That cape. That absolute certainty that he was right, that he was justice, that anyone who disagreed deserved what they got.
Marvel's disappointment. The shake of the head. The sigh. You're not what I hoped you'd be, Billy. I thought you understood.
Memories of what was his family. A table full of faces. Laughter. Someone passing the potatoes. Mrs. Vasquez in the kitchen, singing along to the radio. All of it gone. All of it ash.
Superman being a hero. Saving a cat from a tree on a Tuesday afternoon. Smiling for the cameras. Waving at children. The same hands that had—
Marvel trying to lock him away. The Rock of Eternity, cold and indifferent. For your own good, Marvel had said. Until you learn control.
Sitting in the car with his mom as she screamed at him.
Memories of death and pain and fear and disappointment and joy all of it shattered into a mosaic, a kaleidoscope of broken glass and broken time, and Billy didn't want to think about any of it. He didn't want to see any of it. He didn't want to be any of it.
"Even the presidency wasn't enough for Luthor. He just had to have it all. And I let it get that far. Because of the law."
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere—from the shards, from his own head, from somewhere outside, crackling through his radio.
Billy's hands balled into fists. He swung at the mirror.
The glass shattered further. More fragments. More reflections. More him.
"It's never as bad as it seems. You're much stronger than you think you are. Trust me."
He swung again. And again. Making the pieces smaller and smaller until he couldn't see a whole face anymore. Just glittering dust, just meaningless sparkles under the flickering bathroom light.
"I gave you peace! I made them safe. Shielded them. But are they grateful?"
Superman beating him in a fight. That cold efficiency. The way he'd held back just enough to make it last. You could have been something, Superman had said, standing over him. You chose to be a problem.
Being placed in Dr. Sivana's care. The thin smile. The cold fingers on his chin. Don't worry, the doctor had said. I'll fix you.
Being abandoned. The door closing. The sound of a car driving away. The silence afterwards, so loud it made his ears ring.
The family stories Superman used to tell. Stories about hope. About truth. About a better tomorrow. Stories that had made Billy believe, once, that the world could be good. Stories that now made him so jealous.
Kal-El and his demon son killing his friends. One by one. The screams through the radio. The pleading. The way Kal had talked afterward, knowing Billy could hear, knowing Billy was listening, knowing there was nothing Billy could do to stop it.
"No... They whine. Complain. Side with those criminals."
Billy's knuckles were bleeding now. Split open, raw, smearing red across the broken glass. But he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. He kept beating the shards, pounding them into smaller and smaller pieces, trying to destroy every face, every voice, every memory that clung to the silvered backing of the mirror.
"I did love being a hero… but if this is where it leads, I'm done with it."
"It is unfortunate you could not see the necessary progress of things."
His radio crackled to life.
Billy froze, fist raised, blood dripping down his wrist.
"Arie?"
The voice came through the static. Familiar, mocking, dead. His uncle's voice. The one who had laughed at his father's funerals. The one who had taken everything.
"I always knew you'd turn out to be such an awful person. You were such a troubled daughter."
The dead, very, very dead man laughed through the radio.
"All those powers really got to your head! Huh, sweetheart?"
His sneer echoed through the speakers, wrapping around Billy's throat like a wire.
"I know more about you than you know about yourself. Just like I knew you were going to look just like your mother. Well, your mother after she fell from grace." ]
Shut up.
[ Billy whispered. His voice was shaking. His whole body was shaking.
"That's why you just had to change your appearance into that hero. You never could handle looking at your own reflection." ]
SHUT UP!
[ Billy screamed, slamming his fist into the glass again. The shards bit deeper. Blood welled up between his fingers. ]
You don't know jack shit about me, Sivana!
[ "Bad people often struggle with looking in the mirror.."
the doctor hissed, his voice curling through the static like smoke.
"Eye contact with yourself forces the brain to directly confront morality and the reality of an action. That must be so confusing for such a stupid little girl."
The words hit like hammers. Stupid. Little. Girl. The same words Sivana had used for years, every time Billy came back to that apartment, every time he ran out of money to steal, every time he dared to exist in Sivana's presence.
Sivana had bragged about being the reason his father and sister died.
Sivana had reminded Billy how much of a failed project he was.
Sivana had said no matter how many times Billy ran, he'd get him back.
Sivana had said he'd never contest to his own little girl.
Sivana had said stupid, ugly, girl, girl, girl, girl, GIRL—
"HOW DOES THAT NEW BODY FEEL, ARIE?"
The doctor's voice rose to a shriek.
"DOES IT FEEL GOOD TO LOOK LIKE THE MONSTERS?" ]
FUCK OFF!
[ Billy's voice cracked. The air around him sparked, not lightning, not yet, but something close. Something building. Thunder rumbled in his throat, a low growl that vibrated through his teeth and into his skull. Outside, the soft rain twisted, turned violent, hammered against the window like fists demanding entry.
He kept beating the glass. Over and over. His knuckles were ruined, skin hanging loose, blood spraying across the sink, across the floor, across the garbage bag that was now just tattered plastic strips. And still the reflections came.
Superman. Billy Batson. Lord Kal-El. Captain Marvel. Superman. Billy Batson. Lord Kal-El. Captain Marvel.
"Disobedient children will be punished."
Superman. Billy Batson. Lord Kal-El. Captain Marvel. Superman. Billy Batson. Lord Kal-El. Captain Marvel.
"And there will be peace. There will be peace when the people of the world want it so badly that their governments will have no choice but to give it to them."
Superman. Billy Batson. Lord Kal-El. Captain Marvel.
"I just wish you could all see the Earth the way that I see it."
Superman. Billy Batson.
"Because when you really look at it—"
Superman.
"—it's just one world."
The storm outside broke fully. Rain slammed against the building trying to break in. Thunder cracked so loud the windows rattled in their frames. And the radio dissolved into static, white noise, screaming noise, the sound of every voice he'd ever loved and hated and feared and lost, all of them bleeding together into one endless, grating shhhhhh.
Billy was screaming.
Because his heroes were monsters. Because he didn't know what to do anymore. Because he was stressed and scared and wanted someone to tell him it was going to be okay for once. He wanted a hug. He wanted reassurance. He wanted to go to school and be normal. He wanted to never touch any of this hero shit again. He wanted to go home. He wanted his friends back. He wanted his life back. He wanted to be in a world where being Billy Batson was enough. He wanted his mom.
Billy was still screaming.
He didn't know when he'd started. He didn't know if he'd ever stop. He just knew his throat was raw, his hands were wrecked, and the glass was finally, finally small enough that he couldn't see any faces anymore. Just glittering dust, just silver powder, just the aftermath of something he should have removed a long time ago.
He sat on his knees in the glass dust
The tile was cold against his skin. The blood from his hands and now his legs pooled in the grout lines, thin and red and already starting to dry. His chest heaved. His ears rang. The static from the radio faded into something softer. Just rain, just the memory of rain, just the sound of a city that didn't know and didn't care that he was falling apart because they needed him to be a hero.
But not right now. Right now was just this. Just Billy. Just the rain. Just a bloody bathroom and a boy who could barely remember how to breathe.
He stayed there for a long time. Kneeling in the wreckage. Breathing in gasps. Watching the water from the shower drip, drip, drip onto the broken glass, making the tiny fragments glitter like cruel stars.
The storm outside began to calm.
He still needed to mop. ]
WWE RAW - November 24, 2025
Aftermath of CM Punk and Jey Uso vs. The Vision
