I've missed seeing your dimilix art! I love looking back at your fanart of them it's like my comfort art and it always makes me happy. Don't take this as me begging you to draw them more again, I just wanted to let you know how much I love the art and how excited I was when I saw the small art you posted of them the other day.
genuinely this is so sweet anon thank u, here is a tiny dimilix just for u <3
There’s a kind of despondence that settles into the bones after a time. A helplessness that can’t be soothed by a hand reaching down. It eats away at a person’s character, rendering them little more than a husk of their former self. Hollowed out and mostly empty, with a shadow of a smile painted on their face.
You’ve been morose recently. Not sad, and not necessarily depressed; at least, not depressed enough to call it depression. You look at the world some days and wonder what life will bring you, what the day will become. Others, you look out at a cloudy sky and realize that your eyes are little more than mirrors into yourself.
There’s nothing to do about it, not really. You don’t enjoy things in the same way. Every task and every hobby is more of a chore than cleaning the house. But it isn’t depression, not really. It’s a cloying light grey, stuck to the inside of your skin and turning your bloodstream monochrome. It’s not depression, but something similar enough.
It’s more like fibromyalgia. Slowly eating away at your body. So slow that you don’t even notice it at first; not until the damage is already done and you’re stuck with a body that no longer feels the same, in a life that feels unfulfilling and you know nothing can change that.
You don’t want to tell anyone about it either. Because even if it is depression, even if this is what depression really is–this sticky, cloying muck–it’s not enough. Not enough to say you’re depressed, or morose, or what-have-you. Because everyone’s depressed nowadays, and with valid reason. It’s like saying the sky is cloudy some days and sunny other days.
The world isn’t really something you can look at or think about without becoming depressed right now. Wars ongoing and on the brink, tragedy everywhere you look. Rights are being stripped away, in danger, or were never given in the first place. Children are dying, animals are going extinct, people are being unhomed and deported. Oppressive militia are gaining in number.
The world is awful. So what right do you have to feel morose? To feel hopeful some days and so devoid of hope on other days that getting out of bed is the biggest chore of all. Maybe you are depressed.
You don’t deserve to be depressed. You have everything that so many others don’t have. You have friends who care for you, a partner who loves you, a best friend who’s constantly looking out for you. Or maybe you have every reason to be depressed. You have medical issues as long as a grocery list, most of which you don’t know the name of yet, and you can’t seem to hold down a job. You’re barely speaking to your parents or your little brother. You don’t know what to say to your other family other than “hi, I kind of don’t see the point anymore, how about you?” Small talk is physically painful now.
But oh well, right? Get up out of bed, maybe go to work, maybe stay home. Take care of the dogs. Make sure they don’t bother your best friend who works from home. Shove food down your throat for breakfast and lunch, and make sure dinner is made since you have nothing better to do. And in between all of that? You can’t really remember. Most days seem to blur by.
But it’s fine, right? It’s all fine. You’re not depressed, just a little sad, maybe. Or, not sad, but morose. Sad means crying, means frowning and expressing your feelings to those close to you. This is something different.
You don’t cry, or maybe you do sometimes, but not very often, and it always makes you feel worse than you did before. You barely feel anything anymore. All of your emotions are locked behind a wall of bubble wrap. You could pop it, could break that wall down, but what’s the point. It’ll be loud, and messy, and you’ll have to clean it up afterwards. Much better to just leave it and let it grow.
Much better. Yeah.
Except something else happens, and suddenly that wall is leaking. The grey sludge in your veins pours from your eyes and ears, and suddenly everything is worse. You see the wrong things, hear things differently, and suddenly everything is an attack against you. It’s all a battlefield, and what can you do but lash out?
Except then you’ve hurt the people close to you. You’ve hit them, you’ve yelled at them, you’ve snapped and they don’t understand why because they didn’t do anything differently. The only thing that changed was you.
So maybe it’s better if you leave. Actually, that sounds amazing. Except you have your friend, and your dogs, and your partner, and maybe you’ve racked up some debts that need paying off and you can’t really afford to leave. You’d feel too bad to leave, anyways. You wouldn’t want the people close to you to have to clean up the mess you’d make.
This is a direct continuation of my previous fic, The Clock Strikes One. This deals with the immediate aftermath of that fic, but can be read as a standalone.
I hope you enjoy!
Oliver did not want to do this.
He’d rather be anywhere else, rather than in front of Wayne Manor. He feels almost sick. It’s already been 5 minutes of him just standing there, unwilling to ring the bell. He’s not sure what he’s waiting for, whether that be some sort of sign or for someone to open the door.
Oliver takes in a deep breath, and raises a shaking hand to knock on the door. He doesn’t ring the doorbell. Maybe he’s hoping that no one will hear it; that they’ll be too deep into the manor, or even not home.
His heart sinks when the door is opened and Dick sticks his head out. One of his arms is stuck in a jacket sleeve, as though he were putting it on right before the knock. A flash of surprise crosses the man’s face, then a bright smile. Oliver already feels worse.
“Ollie! So nice to see you. Please, come on in!” Dick moves to the side, opening the door wider for him to come in.
Once the door is closed, Dick turns. His smile is still there, but it’s more serious. “I didn’t think we’d be meeting until later tonight; did something come up with the case?”
Oliver can feel his face twist, can feel the heat behind his eyes and the sting in his throat. It’s here, right now, that it really hits him; he’s going to have to tell a son that his father is dead. He’s done this before with others, had even volunteered to do it instead of Clark, but it never gets easier. The fact that this is Bruce, one of his close childhood friends, makes it even harder.
Dick notices the change in the air right away, growing somber and concerned. He steps forward and puts a hand on Oliver’s shoulder. There’s a glint of fear in his eyes, quickly hidden behind a mask of sympathy.
“Ollie, what happened?” The mask cracks, for just a moment, “Is it Roy?”
“No.” Oliver chokes on his next words, can’t get them out past the lump in his throat.
Come on Queen, pull yourself together, he chastises, and takes a deep breath before trying again.
“There was an incident in Gotham. Joker broke out.” Dick’s eyes widen, that fear returning at the mention of the clown. “We didn’t realize until after the Justice League was sent a video. Until I…until a civilian gave me a tablet with a livestream right to what Joker was doing.”
Dick barely seems to be hearing the words. His breathing has picked up, eyes staring vacantly. He fumbles for his phone, ripping it from his pocket and scrolling through to dial a number. Oliver falls silent, letting him do what he needs to do.
When Oliver hears the voice on the other line, though, he wishes he’d said something.
“What do you want, Dickhead?” Jason’s voice comes through crisply on the Wayne Tech phone. “I’m a little busy at the moment.”
“Where are you?” Dick’s voice is high and tight, strained with fear.
“At home, making food.” The response is instant, clipped and serious. It’s such a stark change from the mock annoyance from before. “Dick, what’s wrong?”
At that, Dick looks back at Oliver. He doesn’t look any less afraid after hearing his brother’s voice, and likely won’t be until he’s confirmed the safety of every one of his family members. Oliver wishes he could give that to him, wishes with all his heart, but he needs to say something before things spiral even further.
“Dick, can you put Jason on speaker? You both need to hear this.” Oliver tries to keep his tone calm and even. He’s not sure he succeeded.
With a click, the white noise from Jason’s end can be heard in the foyer. He’s so quiet on his end that he must be holding his breath. Dick is doing the same, just staring at Ollie with wide eyes. God, Oliver does not want to do this. He takes a deep breath and does it anyway.
“Joker broke out about 18 hours ago.” He ignores the sharp inhale from Jason. “No one knew because he’d bribed some of the guards. The Justice League is already conducting an investigation into who exactly it was, and they will be dealt with accordingly.”
He pauses for a moment, takes in another breath, and prepares himself for what he has to say next. Dick shifts, shoulders squaring, as though he’s preparing himself, too.
“Joker took only one hostage. He took Batman.” Oliver pauses again, desperately trying to separate himself from this situation, to blink away the heat behind his eyes. “He set up a livestream and had a civilian deliver it to the nearest hero, which happened to be me. When I brought it to the League, Superman took it and they found out where Batman–where Bruce–was.”
Olive has to stop again, has to clear his throat to keep it from cracking and betraying him. When he tries to keep going, a sob breaks out instead. His hand flies up to cover his mouth, head hanging low to cover up the tears now falling without his permission. Maybe he looks down to avoid looking at Dick, too. He can’t look at the man or he won’t be able to get the next part out.
“I didn’t find out what happened until after. They found where Bruce was and rushed to him, but it was too late.”
“No…” Oliver desperately ignores the watery word from Dick and the broken noise coming from Jason.
“Bruce didn’t make it, he…I’m so sorry” He can’t do it, can’t say that one word, can’t put it out there.
There’s a thump and a gasp, and Oliver looks up to see that Dick has fallen to his knees. Behind him, Alfred stands at the corner of the foyer. The older man has a hand to his mouth and tears in his eyes, body turned as though to hide himself from what he just heard. Oliver hadn’t even noticed him before now, hadn’t realized he’d be breaking the news to Bruce’s butler–to his father figure–as well as two of his sons.
Seeing the usually put together man breaking down, head bowing, is the last straw. Oliver can’t stop the sob from ripping from his throat again, and can’t stop the subsequent ones either. He sinks to his knees and grips onto the carpet, gasping and desperately trying to suck air into his lungs. He doesn’t notice that they have even more of an audience until he hears a sharp inhale and a confused hum.
When he looks up, he sees Tim and Damian. Tim is looking at everyone, eyes sharp as he takes in everything around him and tries to piece it together. Damian is only looking at Dick, eyes slowly widening as he takes in how the man has completely broken down. When Dick looks up, too, and sees Damian, he lets out a terrible keen. Something crashes on the other end of the phone, and then the line hangs up.
Dick tries to drag himself to his feet, and half crawls to Damian. He takes the boy’s face in his hands, then wraps him in a tight hug. Oliver can see Damian’s face from over Dick’s shoulder. The boy’s eyes are so wide, brimming with tears.
“Richard?” Damian’s voice is quiet, small, and he sounds so young. Too young to have lost a father.
Tim looks right at Oliver, eyes still calculating. It only takes a moment for them to widen, for him to realize that something terrible must have happened, and to add it to Oliver’s presence. Then, as he watches, Tim’s eyes narrow and his features harden. He turns and stalks from the room before Dick ever speaks the words aloud.
“Damian, god, Damian I’m so sorry.” Dick holds on tighter, wraps his entire body around the boy as though he can shield him from his words.
“What happened?” Damian’s eyes dart to Oliver, as if only just noticing his presence. “Where is father?”
Oliver opens his mouth to speak, to say something so Dick doesn’t have to, but he can’t. He’s already said it once, already torn this family apart. He can’t do it again.
Before he can do anything else, there’s a gentle hand on his shoulder. Oliver looks up to see Alfred there, tears still trailing down his cheeks, with such a hollow expression it makes Oliver feel a sharp pang in his chest. The butler gestures for him to follow, and so he does. He ventures into this home that will never be the same again, leaving Dick and Damian to have a moment alone.
He’s brought into the kitchen, and Alfred makes himself busy with making tea. The man’s hands shake, the teacups rattling against the countertop as they’re put down. After a moment of watching, Oliver can’t stand it anymore. He gets up and goes over to help, gently taking the teacups from Alfred and putting them on a tray. Alfred says nothing, just offers him a watery smile.
They work like that, in silence, for a minute. Then, the somber calm is broken by a shout coming from down the hall.
“No! You’re wrong!” Damian’s voice is shrill, panicked.
Oliver presses his hands against the countertop. Alfred places a hand over his eyes. Neither of them can stop their hearts from breaking when cries echo through the manor.
“No big, fancy rescue this time.” A cackle follows the statement, punctuated by the thump of a fist hitting flesh.
A subtle scrape of metal on concrete, then the choking gasp when a crowbar meets an abdomen. Chains clink, retraining movement around wrists and ankles. With the harsh yank of a loose chain, the attached ones are pulled taught, holding their captor up with arms extended and feet barely brushing the ground.
Dark gloved finger scramble for hidden lockpicks, only for his assailant to hold up the thin pieces of metal. The madman lets out a howling cackle, long fingers bending the lockpicks into useless twists. At his side are large pieces of protective armour that used to be on the hanging figure, now discarded like yesterday’s trash. Then, his white gloved hand grabs the crowbar again. A stalking gait brings him closer, until he can rear back and slam the crowbar into unprotected ribs, which crackle under the blow. A stuttered gasp breaks out from the hanging man’s throat.
The captor makes a loping circle around his victim, before stopping behind him. He crouches down and peers around the man’s stretched torso, grinning wide at a dark camera recorder across the room. His grin gets wider at the thought of the people watching. A laugh bubbles up, overtaking his body in convulsions. He throws his head back, howling his glee to the ceiling.
— — —
Business at the watchtower went as usual. Heroes came in and out, performing regular duties and patrols as laid out by Batman and Superman. Staff continued to operate the teleportation pad, fingers flying and voices chirping in their ears as they pulled heroes to and from disasters and back alleys.
It isn’t uncommon for heroes to come back bloodied, or for them to sound alarmed when calling for a pick-up. It is, however, uncommon for them to come carting a bloodied, injured civilian with a disarmed bomb around their chest and a small cardboard box clutched in their hands. So when Green Arrow beams up with exactly what situation, things get a little crazy.
The civilian is carted off to the medbay with a bomb disposal team scurrying after them, and Green Arrow starts yelling for Superman with the box beginning to crumple under his grip. His hands are slick with blood, the red colour covering the front of his suit and wetting the box. He waves off every attempt at being checked over, insisting that he’s fine.
“Superman! Get your big blue ass down here right now!” Other heroes pause to stare, watching as Green Arrow stumbles from the teleportation pad.
His eyes are wide behind his mask, hair disheveled and costume askew. His skin is pale where it can be seen, and his voice is pitched. Seeing civilians injured is one thing, but this screams of a different kind of desperation. A growing horror that something is terribly wrong spreads through the watching masses as a red and blue shape comes down from the observation deck.
“Arrow, what’s going on?” Superman touches down in front of the other hero, hands coming up to hold onto his shoulders. “What happened? You need to get to the medbay.”
But Green Arrow brushes off Superman’s hands and words, instead shoving the box into his fumbling hands. He leans in close to the larger man, saying something hushed and urgent. When big blue pales as well, onlookers begin to whisper and some come closer to investigate.
Before anyone can ask, Superman has flown off, hand to his communicator, voice hushed and urgent. Green Arrow collapses where he is and stares at his hands. From the crowd, Black Canary pushes herself forward and approaches the man. They share quiet words, Green Arrow slumping into her side. When a sharp gaze casts through the crowd, people begin to disperse, unwilling to incur her wrath.
Slowly, she manages to get Green Arrow to his feet and they shuffle along towards a changing room and the attached washracks. When they reach the closest one, Canary snaps at the few people inside to get a move on. Seeing the state of her companion, they don’t argue, and rush through changing to get out of the room. She locked the door behind them.
When she returns to Green Arrow, he’s pulled his mask off and started to tug at his gloves. He’s pulling in all the wrong ways, more likely to damage them than take them off. Canary gently grabs his hands, working the gloves off easily. Then, she moves to the rest of his bloodied uniform. Once he’s been stripped down to his underclothes, she sits beside him and cups his face with her hand.
“Arrow, Ollie, what happened?” Her voice is soft, but he still flinches at the sudden noise. His eyes meet hers, and her heart breaks at the fear in them.
“The civilian, she…I was in Gotham helping Nightwing with an op. He wasn’t with me but, I’ve been- been trying to help out more, around there. Roy and I, we- we’ve been better, you know-” He stops, takes in a breath, and starts again. “I was in Gotham, and a civilian came up to me. She had a bomb; it was timed. I disarmed it, and she told me that a Joker goon put it on her and told her to get a box to the nearest hero. She said that it had to do with Batman, and I couldn’t help it Dinah; I had to look, I just had to, because it’s Bruce and-”
Dinah takes his face in her hands and smoothes her thumbs over his cheeks, shushing him gently. He’s worked himself up to near hyperventilation, and she coaxes him into taking deep breaths. When his breathing has evened out, she moves her hands to his and gestures for him to continue.
“I looked in the box, and it was a tablet. It was on, and being livestreamed to from some other device. And it was him, Dinah; it was Bruce, and he was chained up. Joke was there, and I watched him hit Bruce with a crowbar.” He flinches at the word, mind going to a certain recently legally revived young man before he shakes himself back to the present. “It’s bad, Dinah.”
Canary takes some deep breaths, trying to keep herself calm. She wants to worry, wants to break down and rush into the meeting Superman is no doubt in; wants to take that tablet and crawl through the screen to help Bruce. But now isn’t the time. She needs to be here for Oliver, needs to keep him calm and get him cleaned up.
“Bruce will be fine. He always is. The others will rescue him, and he’ll be stubborn and refuse treatment, but he’ll be fine.” Dinah watches Oliver take in another deep breath, then rise to his feet.
“Well, no use sitting around here doing nothing.” He grabs his discarded uniform and moves towards the washracks to clean them.
Dinah lags behind a moment, allowing him to get ahead of her so she can press shaking hands to her face. She tries to believe her own words, but she finds it difficult. The Joker is always a dangerous thing when it comes to Batman.
She just hopes they’ll be able to get Bruce out, so they can give his kids some good news.
— — —
The meeting room is quiet and tense, all eyes on the small screen broadcasting a live image of Batman hanging from chains. Explanations have already been had, and now the founding members of the Justice League are waiting for the system to locate their captured member. Normally, Batman would be the one finding the location, fingers flying over the computer and mind analyzing every number coming up on screen. Except this time, he’s the one they’re looking for.
J’onn is the one at the large computer console, diligently working away at finding their missing teammate. Everyone else stands watch over the tablet, ready to relay any information they can garner from the recording.
It’s been 10 minutes, and they haven’t seen Joker yet. Batman hangs there, limp and breathing raggedly through likely-broken ribs. It’s disheartening to see the man like this. Normally, he’d be fighting tooth and nail to get free. He must have been there for long enough that he’d exhausted all ways of breaking loose.
Finally, the padding of footsteps comes out of the tablet’s speakers, and Joker makes his first appearance. He swaggers forward, something clutched in his left hand. When he raises it to the light, Clark sucks in a sharp breath. Everyone here knows how Jason died, and seeing the crowbar brandished towards his father brings with it a sinking dread. It feels far too much like things coming full circle.
When Joker gets to Batman, he turns to face the camera. His arms spread out wide, a grin plastered on his face.
“Welcome, dear audience. I trust you’ve gotten my little gift. Do thank the wonderful messenger for me, would you? I didn’t get the chance to meet them in person.” The Joker’s voice comes out tinny through the speaker, occasionally crackling with static, likely from the distance. “I do hope you all enjoy the show.”
With that, Joker turns and slams the crowbar into Batman’s ribs, earning a choking gasp and a full body flinch. Batman shakes where he’s chained up, almost convulsing. His body is locked up, chest fluttering without taking full breaths. They watch as he grits his teeth so hard they can almost hear them creak, fighting back whatever other noises he wants to make. When he finally takes in a proper breath, though wet and shallow, the watching members let out the breaths they’d been holding.
Joker rears back and swings again, this time at a shin. The sharp crack echoes through the room, causing more than one of them to flinch in sympathy. This time, Batman lets out a pained whine, unable to keep the noises at bay.
As the assault continues, Clark finds himself looking at the others. Barry has turned his head, unable to continue watching the assault on his friend. Diana and Shayera continue to watch, staring resolutely at the screen even as they fight to hide their flinches at every blow. Hal and John are talking quietly to themselves, discussing ways they attempt to aid the search; none of them sound like they’d be fast enough. J’onn hasn’t turned from his work at the console, a determined set to his shoulders.
When Clark looks back, it’s just in time for Joker to drop the crowbar and reach for something off screen. He rolls a canister of something attached to an oxygen mask. The idea of Joker helping Batman breathe to prolong his fun flutters through their minds before they see the label scrawled on in green paint.
Fear toxin.
Batman had been almost deathly still, but now he begins to struggle. Little growls and gasps of pain leave his lips as he kicks out with his good leg, catching Joker in the stomach once and the arm on the next attempt.
“Ah, ah, Batsy, you’re being very naughty. Now take your medicine like a good boy.” Joker grabs onto Batman’s broken leg, eliciting another gasp, and lurches into the hanging man’s space to put the mask over his face.
They all watch with bated breath, holding theirs as Batman holds his. He holds for nearly a full minute before his already-strained lungs break, and he lets in a shuddering breath. Green smoke fills the mask, entering Batman’s lungs and poisoning him. Joker laughs at the sight.
Clark’s fists clench, knowing what’s coming and bracing himself for it. He desperately wants to look away like Barry, but he can’t. He can’t let his friend suffer through this alone, even at this distance.
It only takes a minute for things to get even worse.
Batman continues to try and hold his breath, breathing as little of the toxin in as possible. However, what he’s already breathed in is beginning to affect him. His breaths are coming quicker, lungs expanding and sputtering against broken ribs, desperately sucking in whatever air they’re given. By the time that minute has gone by, he’s nearly hyperventilating.
They can’t see his eyes, but they can imagine how they dart around. His head twists, following shadows they can’t see. His legs kick, a broken keen leaving his lips when his shattered shin shifts. He starts to mutter to himself, voice so low that the speakers can’ pick it up. Joker decides that this is his moment to shine again, relaying Batman’s words to his audience.
“‘No, no, no’ says the little lamb. ‘No, not again, please not again.’ Oh Bats; poor, poor Bats. tormented by unseen horrors, left here alone to suffer and wallow. But don’t you worry, I’m right here.” Joker approaches, ignoring the frightened whimpers coming from Bruce, and cradles the man’s head in his hands. “I can make the pain go away. You just need to hold out a little longer and it’ll all be over.”
Clark feels the table beneath his hands give way, a large crack echoing through the room and the stone crumbling to dust in his fingers. No one says a thing, all too tense and worried.
“J’onn, hurry.” Clark can barely speak, voice strained and harsher than he means for it to be.
There’s no response, but the clacking of keys speeds up.
“Now Bats, I have a little game I want to play. It’s a bit overused, already had its time to shine, but it’s a classic.” He goes back over to the crowbar, then turns back to Bruce. “Now tell me Batsy, what hurts more?”
They all watch as Joker brings the crowbar down again and again, voice so laden with cackles that it's unintelligible. Clark finds himself flinching with every strike, eyes growing hot as he listens to the whispers that turn to cries or pain. Bruce is losing hold of himself, breaking down, and it’s impossibly hard to watch.
When Joker brings out the knife and hammer, Clark stops breathing. He doesn’t breathe as the white-skinned madman steps closer to Bruce, doesn’t breathe as he brings the knife’s tip to rest over Bruce’s heart, doesn’t breathe as the first bead of blood rolls over black under armour. Clark leans in closer, knowing his lungs won’t start aching for hours, and desperately wishes he were human so he could feel even an inch of Bruce’s pain.
Joker turns to look at the camera, smiles even wider, and brings the hammer down on the end of the knife. Bruce gasps around the intrusion, and then the hammer comes down again, and again, until the knife’s handle sits flush against Bruce’s chest.
Spots dance before Clark’s eyes, his vision swimming. The camera sways even more as Joker brings it closer to Bruce, setting it up so they can all watch as Bruce gasps and chokes. J’onn’s fingers have stopped moving, then they start up with a renewed ferocity. Blood runs in rivulets down Bruce’s lips. Someone in the room sobs, but Clark can’t look away from Bruce’ eyes.
He looks so scared. The toxin is still eating away at his mind, putting him through unimaginable horrors, as his body goes through another one. Joker can be heard cackling in the background, so loud they almost can’t hear Bruce’s breath whistling out through the hole in his lungs. But they can certainly hear the sucking pop as something gapes around the knife.
Bruce gasps again, and for a moment it looks as though his eyes clear, focussing on the camera. His mouth moves around words he can’t speak, obscured by the green smoke in his mask. His mouth moves again, and again, then slower. His eyelids droop, his head lolls against his chest.
Clark watches as the lights in his eyes go out. Watches as his best friend dies.
They don’t even know what his final words were.
J’onn’s fingers stop moving, and a hard mental shove sends them all careening for the doors. Directions lay themselves into their minds, sending them flying and running through the halls. No one stays in their way for long, but stares follow them.
They reach the teleportation pad, and they’re beamed down without a single word needing to be said, courtesy of J’onn’s telepathy. Clark is thankful for it in this moment. He’s not sure he could have said anything if he tried.
As soon as his feet hit concrete, he’s flying. The wind whistles by his ears, stinging his eyes and streaming tears into his hairline. He ignores all of it, following those mental directions to a warehouse near the Gotham docks. Of course it’s in Gotham. Where else would it be? Clark should have known, should have been searching down here the whole time. Maybe he would have found Bruce sooner.
He sweeps the area, looking for Joker, and crashes through the roof right on top of the madman. He doesn’t look at the rest of the room, doesn’t acknowledge the body hanging by its hands. Clark grabs onto Joker’s collar and stares into the gleeful eyes of a monster. He brings his fist back and punches the man in the face. When all he gets is a wide grin, he punches again, and again.
Joker starts to laugh, punctuated by coughs and gurgles as his teeth start to break and cut his tongue and throat. He laughs, then coughs up blood, then laughs again. His nose breaks and more blood smears his painted white face. He laughs as his jaw snaps out of place, he laughs as his cheeks shift, he laughs as bruises swell over his skin.
And all Clark can think about is the fact that he saved this man. Years ago, after Jason died, he stopped Bruce from killing him. Stopped Bruce from killing a murderer. He doesn’t regret his choice; he knows that Bruce would have broken irreparably if he’d killed Joker. But Superman wouldn’t have. Superman should have killed him, damn the consequences. He should have killed him before it was too late.
Clark hears the others enter the building, hears them find the room. He hears them gasp and sob and cry out for a teammate that suffered too much. The chains are released, and a body is gently laid on the ground. He doesn’t look, can’t look, can’t see the man he failed while the one who killed him is still breathing.
He could kill Joker easily, could snap his neck or burn his brain away. But this man made Bruce suffer, made him afraid and made him break. Superman may believe in mercy, may be benevolent and may have killed Joker quickly. But Clark? Clark just watched his best friend die. Clark has no mercy for this laughing clown. So he keeps punching him, slowly beating the man to death, avenging a lifetime of pain and suffering. No one stops him.
Hi, I'm back. This is another addition to the Killing Time series, set in a hypothetical world where the lovely librarian Mandus ends up...not so lovely. This is more of an origin story, but I intend to write more for this because it has invaded my brain. Mandus belongs to @hannrenn. I've added tags for the trigger warnings in this, so please heed those. I don't know is this is the heaviest short story I've posted, but it's certainly not my lightest. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy!
I turn my head as a raised voice snaps through the air. Gazing across a wooden fence, my eyes travel over to my neighbours’ house. In the mud of the street before a crooked, unpainted door, a man and woman bear down upon someone far smaller.
“-you useless thing! I should have thrown you into the well as a babe! Our lives would have been better for it.” The man marches forward and grabs onto a small arm. Olive skin bulges and whitens around thick fingers; no doubt it will redden before long. “Get up! You will learn what happens when you cross me. Mark my words, you won’t dare do it again.”
The woman watches with a smooth brow as her husband drags the child through that crooked, unpainted door. Her gaze drifts to mine. Her cheeks alight, hurried steps splashing through the mud as she scurries to the fence.
“Many apologies for the disturbance. Our son, he is well prone to mischief.” She looks back at the house, brows smoothing again when she catches glimpse of the small shape being dragged deeper in.
I look over. A small head turns, and pale brown hair turns into an even paler face. Small, wide eyes catch mine. I can see the liquid sheen from here, red already puffing lower eyelids, cheeks ruddy in anticipation.
I look away. A shard of ice pricks my chest as a door slams closed.
“I understand, truly. Children can be such fickle things, especially those with…deformities. I wish you luck in teaching those pesky tendencies away.”
The woman droops, hands clasping before her, breathing out a relieved sigh. “Yes, thank you so much. It has been such a hardship, as I am sure you have witnessed, living close as you do.”
I ignore the painful lump in my throat. I think of a child crouched in the dirt, hands pulling at tiny, fuzzy horns, completely ignoring the darkening skin of his cheek. My chest constricts as I recall muffled sobs drifting from a window crack, interspersed with pained whimpers.
I shake my head to dislodge the images, smile now strained. “It has been no hardship. Please do ask for assistance should you ever need it. A friend of mine is a priest; perhaps he could cure your child of his affliction.”
“If only it were so easy. A church was the first place we went after he was born. Though I thank you again for your kindness. I must be going; dinner will not prepare itself!” She gives a small wave, then turns back to that crooked, unpainted door.
I do not watch her leave. My skirt flutters around my ankles, steps so hurried that I nearly expose myself. The moment I press my palm against rough wood, the creak of a door behind me lets chilling cries pierce the air.
I throw myself into my home, slamming the door shut behind me. The sun-worn wood does not block out the aching scream torn from tiny lungs. A salty trail cuts through the dirt on my cheek.
Oh how I wish I could help that poor child. With parents such as that, who would find every fault simply for the way he was born, he truly never stood a chance. Perhaps the world will be kind and allow him to be taken away to the gods. They have interfered in mortal affairs before; I pray they will again.
I shuffle into my kitchen and set about cutting potatoes. I too have a dinner to prepare, no matter how my hands shake.
Later, when the cries stop, I let myself believe that everything is now right. Nothing has happened. I am sure that small child was only throwing a tantrum at being sent to his room. There is no reason for the sharp inhale and rush of dizziness that passes over me when I see the child exit his prison that evening. I am relieved only that he has stayed out of trouble long enough to be once again allowed to play.
When night falls, I climb in bed next to my husband. He has been so sweet to me this evening. Perhaps he could sense the guilt that clung to my bones, or perhaps he simply had a long day and was pleased to see me again. A bloom of warmth spreads over my chest at the thought. My eyes drift closed, content now to sleep and allow today’s events to fall from my mind as they always do.
Screams are what I awaken to. I shoot up in bed, my husband already on his feet and rushing across the room.
It is dark; the moon’s light barely penetrates the thin curtains over our bedroom’s window. I pull the sheet from the bed, clutching it to my chest in a tight grip as I shuffle in the direction my husband went. I peek out into the front room. The door is open, letting in the cool night air; the hinges creak as the door moves in the wind.
I can hear the crunch of dirt under boots. No doubt my husband has gone outside to investigate those awful noises. As his steps fade, my mind drifts.
I had heard screams already earlier today; the screams of a small child, surely accompanied by the sound of fists hitting flesh, though I could not hear it at the time. These screams had not sounded like those ones. They were… I shudder when the night air finally reaches me, cooling my skin with ease despite the bedsheet around my shoulders. My nightgown is not meant for the outside air; it is only for sleeping in, next to a warm body.
A scream rips through the air.
I race to the door, heart in my throat. That had sounded so familiar, but never before have I heard this voice sound that way. It is meant to be soft and sweet, rumbling deep and low in gentle tones as it tells me of its owner’s day. This sound was raw, high and terrified. Like a pig squealing as its belly is cut open.
My bare feet touch cold mud. The filth is quick to cover my skin and the hem of my nightgown. I stare across the wooden fence surrounding my house, to the next one over.
That crooked, unpainted door hangs open. The opening is dark. I have not heard another scream since the one that ran my blood cold.
My hands pull the bedsheet tighter around myself and slowly walk forward. Wet fabric brushes against my ankles. I will need to wash my gown and sheet before returning to bed. I am sure my husband will attempt to stay up with me, and I will need to send him to bed so that he is able to go to work in the morning.
Cold mud turns to cold wood under my feet as I pass the threshold of my neighbours’ doorway. Without the moonlight, my eyes are able to adjust to the darkness. There is a scent in the air. One I cannot place. It is so thick that my eyes begin to water; it clings to my tongue and pools in my lungs.
I nearly choke, then clap a hand over my mouth in an attempt to filter the stench. My breath comes quicker. I gasp and gag in the doorway, eyes drifting over the front room as I try to find the source of this smell.
My breath stops altogether when I see it. A pair of muddy boots, one turned to the side. White sleep pants extending past a wall; I do not need to see the sleep shirt to know that it is white as well, or the hair to know that it is shaggy and unkempt from sleep. There is a darkness spreading across the parts of the legs I can see. I am sure the source is from the pool on the ground.
The image before me blurs. I take a stumbling step forward. My heart is beating so loud I can feel it in my ears. A sob punches out of my throat and my knees slam into the wood floor. I care not for the ache of bruises forming, my only thought is of the man facedown before me. Numb fingers drop the bedsheet and instead grip onto still warm skin.
I press my face into the lower abdomen of the one I had been sleeping with not ten minutes before. I cannot fathom this, cannot understand how this could happen.
Screams.
We were woken by screams. My husband screamed.
My breath catches, eyes snapping open wide, freezing in place. I can still hear breathing.
Slowly, throat tightening and panic running like blood through me, I lift my head. I am kneeling in the opening to a living room. There are curtains halfway parted from the windows. Someone is standing in the middle of the room.
A step forward, and moonlight catches a face twisted in rage. There is a dark bruise covering half of his face. He has dark speckles on his cheeks and down his front, more of the same covering the hand clutching a splitting axe. I looked away from this face earlier today, and yet now I could not look away if I tried.
His arms raises, lips curling over sharp canines, eyes flashing the colour this room will be come morning. I recall the prayer I had made against my closed door. An axe strikes down.
More dnd doodles I shoulda posted a long time ago. In order of events: soveliss being a shit hunter and his friend Aiden ( @underfiends )trying to help him, soveliss being a dick while running from thugs trying to capture him, soveliss being possessed and made to say Very Mean things to his bestie Mandus ( @hannrenn ) about how they protect him. ‘Twas a session for the books…esp cause it ended with Mandus dying and Soveliss barely beating death saving throws. (It’s okay we’re good ish now)
Misc d&d doodles from back when my character decided to allow himself to be experimented on and gained retractable claws, small fangs, the necessity of eating raw meat and drinking blood once a day, insane base speed bump, and even better dexterity, oh and periodic short term memory loss. All unplanned for side effects by the way he was under the impression the evil scientist was just going to fix his lack of night vision from being resurrected a while ago. He…doesn’t think things through.
Good news, fellow artists! Nightshade has finally been released by the UChicago team! If you aren't aware of what Nightshade is, it's a tool that helps poison AI datasets so that the model "sees" something different from what an image actually depicts. It's the same team that released Glaze, which helps protect art against style mimicry (aka those finetuned models that try to rip off a specific artist).
As they show in their paper, even a hundred poisoned concepts make a huge difference.
(Reminder that glazing your art is more important than nighshading it, as they mention in their tweets above, so when you're uploading your art, try to glaze it at the very least.)
I told you there'd be more of these guys. Have another blurb of Ramal from the D&D campaign that @peppermintpinklemonade is DMing. There's just a small cameo of @hannrenn's little guy, but they're there. Couple triggers in this, so be careful and enjoy!
I’m making camp when the sound starts up: a steady chirp, high pitched and three in a row. My hands pause the familiar motions of starting a fire, ears straining to hear it sound again. There’s nothing for a while, just the silence of the forest. The hoot of an owl, but that’s not what I’m waiting for.
Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.
I swivel my head, trying to locate where it’s coming from. The sound is odd, echoing strangely. It isn’t a voice, or the squeak of a rusty cart wheel. It could be a monster of some sort, and in that case I need to be ready for when it attacks. I slowly put away the shard of flint I’d been about to use. I gather up my belongings into the small sack I’ve been using for the past few months. The bottom is beginning to strain; I need to replace it soon.
Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.
I whip around, teeth bared in a snarl, claws out and ready to swipe at anything that lumbers out of the dark. It really is dark, even with my natural ability to see everything in a brighter light. The shadows of the trees shift and stretch, yawning out towards me. Their bare branches reach out for me like grasping fingers. They curl towards my armour, and I feel a sharp sting where black touches leather. I scramble back, nearly falling over as I trip over my feet in my haste.
Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.
Something is wrong, so very wrong. This isn’t right. The trees are sharp, dark, dangerous things, reaching for me, trying to get their branches caught in my clothes and pull me towards them. Towards the ever growing black that makes up their trunks, a horrible gnashing of teeth made of bark. The world starts to spin, panic nearly blinding me. My breath comes in short, quick gasps, and a haze settles over my mind.
Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.
I pull on the warm magic in my bones, summoning a sword made of obsidian and rivers of magma. The red glow should light up the area around me, allowing me to see what it is I’m fighting. This must be some sort of magical darkness, and if I could just see where it’s coming from I can dispel it. My hand closes over nothing. Ice settles in my veins; I don’t need to look down to see that there is no longsword in my palm, no magic rushing to my fingertips at my command. I feel cold, so very cold. There is no hot breath in my ear, no warm touches dancing over my arms and shoulders.
Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.
She’s abandoned me.
Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.
My patron, my companion; the one who promised to be mine as I was hers. She’s gone. She left me, just like-
Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.
“SHUT UP!” I roar into the trees, fighting back the sting of tears. I feel choked, breathless, constricted, constrained. My claws dig into the skin of my palms.
Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.
This time, I clench my teeth until I hear something crack. I don’t feel the pain, everything far too muffled and distant. My eyes dart among the darkness as it closes in. Black ink spills out between the trees and swallows them up, dripping towards me. The thick liquid pools around me until I have nowhere to go, my frantic scrambling useless when a step in any direction would mean a step right into the waiting pool.
Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.
A hand lashes out of the darkness and I cry out in fear, flinching back; back right into the ink. My foot sinks right down to the knee, bringing me crashing down onto the only free bit of ground. More hands dart out in front of me, reaching for me. Sharp fingers stretch and strain as I lean back, barely an inch from my face. One of them grabs onto my wrist, sending shards of ice through the point of contact. As I try to pull away, another hand grasps onto my other wrist. A hand grabs my shoulder, and another latches onto the collar of my shirt. They grasp and they hurt, and they start to pull me towards the trees. The ink around my foot trails as I’m slowly dragged through the dirt towards the shadows. A scream tears from my throat as I thrash, throwing myself any way I can, and yet still the hands pull.
Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.
Something grabs onto the leg still submerged in the ink. In a blink, I’m ripped from the hands’ grasp, their nails tearing into my skin. And then I’m falling, thrown away from the safe ground, down into the black inky void. I can’t see anything; the dark far too oppressive. Wind whistles past, whipping my hair all around and tearing at my dress.
Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.
Impact with something hard and solid forces the breath from my lungs. I lay there, wheezing, staring up into a dimly lit ceiling of gold decorated with crystal chandeliers. A hand reaches for me and I flinch back, scrambling to my feet and looking around. I’m in a giant ballroom, surrounded by people in masquerade masks and fine clothes. The floor is sparkling marble, and the walls and ceiling are shining gold. There are round tables scattered about, draped with white tablecloths. Everyone is dancing.
Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.
A hand takes mine, and another settles on my hip. I turn to see a man of portly presence, tall and well built. His upper face hidden by a violet mask with light pink gems, a perfectly trimmed brown goatee framing grinning lips. My free hand settles on his shoulder. I stare into his green eyes and feel sick. I smile back at him.
Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.
He spins us right as a fast song begins. It’s one meant for one of the man’s clubs, not a ballroom. The people around us continue to sway in slow circles as we spin and step around them. He pulls me in close, until I can smell his rosey perfume and the pink fur of his collar tickles my nose. When he lets me pull back, he has his teeth bared. The sharp white needles send a spike of fear down my spine.
Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.
He leans in close, until his nose is pressed against mine. We are only spinning now, like a child’s top. His eyes are staring into mine. They’re green, so green. Green is all I can see, that vibrant green that makes bile rise in my throat and makes my lungs clench around the gaping nothingness in my chest. There is a necklace around my throat, something made of crystal and covering all of my throat and upper chest. It’s like a hand around my throat, squeezing. All of the air is sucked out of the room, and still all I see is green.
Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.
Quick as a snake, he pulls back and spins me. I turn into that child’s top, spinning round and round. The world melts, music warping and warbling into laughter and screams. The gold spins and warms. It gets hotter and hotter until it's dripping down and down, turning nearly red from the heat. I plant my feet to stop the spinning, and the room is on fire. The man is gone, and so are the dancers. I look behind me, see those white tablecloths charred to black as the flames rise higher and higher, licking up the walls and dancing across the crystal chandeliers.
Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.
I turn back around. There are figures in the flames. They are the ones screaming. I stumble back, and they lurch forward. Their screams rise, turning into howls and snarls. They reach towards me, faces long and mouths gaping as the flames melt the skin from their bones. Once again, I turn, this time to run, and slam right into the waiting arms of a corpse.
Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.
Its skin is blackened and peeling, clothes and hair long burned off, all distinguishing features lost to the fire. Its fingers are nothing but bone, grasping my face. I grab one of the hands, bare my teeth in a snarl, and surge forward to bite down on the burnt digits. A crunch and a crack, and warm blood fills my mouth. I rip and tear into flesh, spilling more and more red over the marble floor. I swallow it down, gulping greedily and snapping the bones that get in my way.
Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.
There’s a gasp and a gurgle. I freeze, the blood settling in my stomach like a rock and turning to ash in my mouth. The skin under my hands is pale, smeared with blood, but free of even a single speck of soot. My heart pounds harder, nearly bursting from my chest. I can feel the ice moving sluggishly through my veins as my eyes are drawn up. I stare into the terrified face of a child. White-blonde hair frames a familiar face.
Chirp-
I shoot up, then crash to the ground as restraints tangle around my arms and legs. I thrash around in a blind panic, ripping and tearing fabric shackles to pieces. I scramble against the hardwood floors, wide eyes darting around and panting breaths making far too much noise in the quiet room. I see walls painted a soft brown, and a maple side table with an unlit oil lamp on it. There’s a bed in front of me, black sheets tossed about and scattered on the floor in shredded strips. The room is a light grey, the light of dawn trying to stream in through the curtains that are drawn over the windows.
There is a pause as I stand there heaving, then a far too familiar twittering chirp. My breath stutters, mind going blank in panic. It came from outside.
I throw the curtains back, hissing and recoiling as light assaults my eyes. Blinking away the spots, I squint through it and desperately search for what’s making those noises. There, just outside the window of my room at Magnus’s tavern, is a tree whose leaves are still growing back from the winter that has just let up. Sitting among the branches is a small brown and grey bird.
I sigh and run a hand over my face, then press the heels of my palms against my eyes. I take a moment to breathe, then draw the curtains back over the windows and start the process of cleaning up my mess. It was just a stupid dream. It was nothing, only my mind playing tricks on me. And as I leave my room to go find new sheets, slamming the door in the process, I lock away the lingering images of green eyes and white-blonde hair.
Posting an actual story for the first time in months. The muses and I have been engaging in extreme combat and we have finally begun peace talks. Next we will band together to torment my friends with more angst. For now, have a fluff fic of yet another batch of D&D characters. Ramal is mine, Val is @hannrenn, and the DM for these two lovely dumpster fires is @peppermintpinklemonade. Hope y'all enjoy!
There’s a chill in the air; the softest of nips on an otherwise gentle breeze. A cloud shifts, golden light chasing away those cold touches, dappling ashen grey skin with a rare brush of colour. Oranges and reds bloom in the dark of closed eyelids, so much softer than the brilliant burn of flame.
A breath in, lungs filled to burst. A breath out, and with it goes a lingering tension through corded muscle. Fingers of warmth run over dark skin and chase the breeze through even darker hair. A puff of hot air against a pointed ear; a soft tap on one arm, then the other; an echo of laughter meant only for one person, only for them, just here in this moment of calm.
When their eyes open, there is only red. A red mirrored by the petals of scarlet catchfly scattered about, bundles of leaves and flowers growing on cracked boulders at the base of a rocky cliff. The hot breath and warm fingers turn into the press of hands on their shoulders, a constant companion showing that she is still here.
The wind picks up, whistling through the trees that have grown and thrived in this deep ravine between two mountains. The cold is more apparent now, raising goosebumps on their arms. They could don their leather armour, cover up to trap the heat against their skin, but it is peaceful here. The presence of an armoured warrior is not needed among the vibrant greens and browns of maple trees and buckthorn. There is no danger beneath the strangling vines twisting over wet earth.
Red eyes drift back to red petals. There is one patch of flowers close enough to touch, close enough to see the sticky hairs all up the stem. A memory floats to the surface, of a roughened voice one hot summer day.
“See those hairs, kid? They’ll sting you if you touch them, and your hand will hurt for days.” They remember Magnus had been crouched down next to a shallow riverbed, the heels of his boots dug firmly into the rocky ground as he pointed out the vibrant red flowers. Then, as if summoned through sheer outrage, a hand had smacked him upside the head.
“You idiot! That’s stinging nettle. They’re completely different, how could you have fucked that up?” Rhetta glared down at the man now rubbing his head, hands posted sharply upon her hips. Suddenly, like the flip of a switch, she looked over at them with soft eyes and a kind smile. She folded herself to hover at their height with her eyes trained on the flower. “This is a fire pink, Ramalek. Also known as a scarlet catchfly. Don’t worry, it’s safe to touch, however the stem is a bit sticky. That’s why people call it ‘catchfly’, because it catches flies on its stem and leaves to protect its nectar.” She reached out to brush against a petal, pulling it back just enough for them to see the sheen of liquid hidden in the flower. Then Magnus had said something–the words lost to time–that had left her sputtering indignantly, and the two bickered all the way back to Magnus’s tavern.
That had been years ago, back before they’d taken their new names by the blood of the slain. Before a ghost from their past had resurfaced, had turned out to be alive. Just the thought has them feeling winded and wrong-footed; as though the world is going to slip from underneath them and they’ll wake up to find it was all a dream. Panic begins to swirl just below their skin, prickling their mind. Their fingers twitch, and then a warm hand intertwines with their own, and heat presses all up their side.
A breath in, until lungs are fit to burst. A breath out, and with it the wave of panic settles.
They know where their travel companion is; the one who is a miracle. When they return, red eyes will fight off a swell of tears. The creature of dark grey skin and black hair will don their leather armour and settle back into the role of a savage beast. But for now, Valentine is off in the distance, crouched beside a small pool of algae-choked water, touching the surface every minute or so to watch the tiny tadpoles scurry away. Ramalavikfeng can stay where they are, and their armour can stay on the ground beside them.
There is no place for anything other than peace and calm here, among the green and brown and red. At the base of a cliff, backed by a forest growing in the ravine between two mountains, looking at a brilliant red flower that is close enough to touch with a sticky stem and leaves. Here, where the wind has eased back down to a gentle breeze.
There is a nip in the air. Summer is fading, and autumn is on its way. Perhaps Valentine would be willing to visit Magnus and Rhetta.
