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confessedlyfannish · 14 days

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Writing Prompt #12

Bruce is reading the paper when the pour of Tim's coffee goes abruptly quiet. It would be hard to pinpoint why this is disturbing if it wasn't for the way the soft, tinny sound the vent system in the manor makes cuts out for the first time since being updated in the 90s. The pour, Bruce realizes, has not slowed to a trickle before stopping. It has simply stopped. And there is no overeager clack of a the mug against the marble counter or the uncouth first slurp (nor muttered apology at Alfred's scolding look) immediately following the end of the pour.

Bruce fights the instinct to use all of his senses to investigate, and instead keeps his eyes on the byline of the article detailing the latest set of microearthquakes to hit the midwest in the last week. Microearthquakes aren't an unusual occurrence and aren't noticeable by human standards, which is why this article is regulated to page seven, but from several hundred a day worldwide to several hundred a day solely in the East North Central States, seismologists are baffled.

Bruce had been considering sending Superman to investigate under the guise of a Daily Planet article requested by Bruce Wayne (Wayne Industries does have an offshoot factory in the area) when everything had stopped twenty seconds ago. That is what he assumes has happened (having not moved a muscle to confirm) in the amount of time he assumes has passed. His million dollar Rolex does not quite audibly tick but in the absolute silence it should be heard, which confirms the silence to be exactly that—absolute.

While Bruce can hold his breath with the best of the Olympian swimmers, he has never accounted for a need to remain without blinking without being able to move one's eyes. Rotating the eyeballs will maintain lubrication such that one could go without blinking for up to ten minutes. But staring at the byline fixedly, he estimates another twenty seconds before tears start to form.

These are the thoughts Bruce distracts himself with, because he doesn't dare consider how Tim and Alfred haven't made a (living) sound in the past forty-five seconds. About Damian, packing his bag upstairs for school after a morning walk with Titus that was "just pushing it, Master Damian".

There is a knife to his right, if memory serves (it does). In the next five seconds—

"Your wards and guardian are fine, Mr. Wayne," the deepest voice Bruce has ever heard intones. For a dizzying moment, it is hard to pinpoint the location of the voice, for it comes from everywhere—like the chiming of a clocktower whilst inside the tower, so overpowering he is cocooned in its volume.

But it is not spoken loudly, just calmly, and when he puts the paper down, folds it, and looks to his right, a blue man sits in Dick's chair.

He wears a three piece suit made entirely of hues of violet, tie included. He has a black brooch in the shape of a cogwheel pinned to his chest pocket, a simple chain clipped to his lapel. Black leather gloves delicately thumb Bruce's watch (no longer on his wrist, somewhere between second 45 and 46 it has stopped being on his wrist), admiring it.

"You'll forgive me," the man says with surety. "Clocks are rather my thing, and this is an impressive piece." He turns it over and reveals the 'M. Brando' roughly scratched into the silver back. He frowns.

"What a shame," he says, placing it face side up on the table.

"Most would consider that the watch's most valuable characteristic." Bruce says, voice steady, hands neatly folded before him. Two inches from the knife. To his left, there is an open doorway to the kitchen. If he turns his head, he might be able to get a glance of Tim or Alfred.

He doesn't look away from the man.

"It is the arrogance of man," the man says, raising red eyes (sclera and all) to Bruce, "to think they can make their mark on time."

"...Is that supposed to be considered so literally?" Bruce asks, with a light smile he does not mean.

The man smiles lightly back, eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks to be in his mid thirties, clean-shaven. His skin is a dull blue, his hair a shock of white, and a jagged scar runs through one eye and curving down the side of his cheek, an even darker, rawer shade of blue-purple.

The man turns the watch back over and taps at the engraving. "Let me ask you this," he says. "When we deface a work of art, does it become part of the art? Does it add to its intrinsic meaning?"

Bruce forces his shoulders to shrug. "It's arbitrary," he says. "A teenager inscribes his name on the wall of an Ancient Egyptian temple and his parents are forced to publicly apologize. But runic inscriptions are found on the Hagia Sophia that equate to an errant Viking guard having inscribed 'Halfdan was here' and we consider it an artifact of a time in which the Byzantine Empire had established an alliance with the Norse and converted vikings to Christianity."

"The vikings were as errant as the teenager," the man says, "in my experience." He leans back in his chair. "I suppose you could say the difference is time. When time passes, we start to think of things as artistic, or historical. We find the beauty in even the rubble, or at least we find necessity in the destruction..."

He offers Bruce the watch. After a moment, Bruce takes it.

"The problem, Mr. Wayne, is that time does not pass for me. I see it all as it was, as it is, as it ever will be, at all times. There is no refuge from the horror or comfort in that one day..." he closes his hand, the leather squeaking. And then his face smooths out, the brief severity gone. He regards Bruce calmly.

"You can look left, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks left. Framed by the doorway, Tim looks like a photograph caught in time. A stream of coffee escapes the spout of the stainless steel pot he prefers over the Breville in the name of expediency, frozen as it makes its way to the thermos proclaiming BITCH I MIGHTWING. Tim regards his task with a face of mindless concentration, mouth slack, lashes in dark relief against his pale skin as he looks down at the mug. Behind him, Bruce can see Alfred's hand outstretched towards the refrigerator handle, equally and terrifyingly still.

"My name is Clockwork," the man says. "I have other names, ones you undoubtedly know, but this one will be bestowed upon me from the mouth of a child I cherish, and so I favor it above all else. I am the Keeper of Time."

"What do you want from me?" Bruce asks, shedding Wayne for Batman in the time it takes to meet Clockwork's eyes. The man acknowledges the change with a greeting nod.

"In a few days time, you will send Superman to the Midwest to investigate the unusual seismic activity. By then, it will be too late, the activity will be gone. They will have already muzzled him."

"Him."

"There is a boy with the power to rule the realm I come from. Your government has been watching him. The day he turned 18, they took him from his family and hid him away. I want you to retrieve him. I want you to do it today."

"Why me?"

"His parents do not have the resources you do, both as Batman and Bruce Wayne. You will dismantle the organization that is keen on keeping him imprisoned, and you will offer him a scholarship to the local University. You and yours will keep him safe within Gotham until he is able to take his place as my King."

This is a lot of information to take in, even for Bruce. The idea that there could be a boy powerful enough to rule over this (god, his mind whispers) entity and that somehow, he has slipped under all of their radars is as frustrating as it is overwhelming. But although Clockwork has seemed willing to converse, he doesn't know how many more questions he will get.

"You have the power to stop time," he decides on, "why don't you rescue him? Would he not be better suited with you and your people?"

"Within every monarchy, there is a court," Clockwork. "Mine will be unhappy with the choice I have made," he looks at Bruce's watch, head cocked. "In different worlds, they call you the Dark Knight. This will be your chance to serve before a True King."

Bruce bristles. "I bow to no one."

"You'll all serve him, one day," Clockwork says, patiently. "He is the ruler of realms where all souls go, new and old. When you finally take refuge, he will be your sanctuary." He frowns. "But your government rejects the idea of gods. All they know is he is other. Not human. Not meta. A weapon."

"A weapon you want me to bring to my city."

"I believe you call one of your weapons 'Clark', do you not?" Clockwork asks idly. "But you misunderstand me. They seek to weaponize him. He is not restrained for your safety, but for their gain."

"And if I don't take him?" Bruce asks, because a) Clockwork has implied he will be at the very least impeded, at worst destroyed over this, and b) he never did quite learn not to poke the bear. "You won't be around if I decide he's better off with the government."

"You will," Clockwork says, with the same certainty he's wielded this entire conversation. "Not because he is a child, though he is, nor because you are good, though you are, nor even because it is better power be close at hand than afar.

"I have told you my court will be unhappy with me. In truth, there are others who also defend the King. Together we will destroy the access to our world not long after this conversation. The court will be unable to touch him, but neither will we as we face the repercussions for our actions. I am telling you this, because in a timeline where I do not, you think I will be there to protect him. And so when he is in danger, even subconsciously, you choose to save him last, or not at all. And that is the wrong choice.

"So cement it in your head, Bruce Wayne," the man says, "You will go to him because I tell you to. And you will keep him safe until he is ready to return to us. He will find no safety net in me. So you will make the right choice, no matter the cost."

"Or, when our worlds connect again, and they will," his voice now echoes in triplicate with the voices of the many, the young, the old, Tim, Bruce's mother, Barry Allen, Bruce's own voice, "I will not be the only one who comes for you."

"Now," he says, producing a Wayne Industries branded BIC pen. "I will tell you the location the boy is being kept, and then I would like my medallion back, please. In that order."

Bruce glances down and sees a golden talisman, attached to a black ribbon that is draped haphazardly around the neck of his bathrobe, so light (too light, he still should have—) he has not felt its weight until this moment.

Bruce flips the paper over, takes the pen, and jots down the coordinates the being rattles off over the face of a senator. By his calculation, they do correspond with a location in the midwest.

"You will find him on B6. Take a left down the hallway and he will be in the third room down, the one with a reinforced steel door. Take Mr. Kent and Mr. Grayson with you, and when you leave take the staircase at the end of the hallway, not the elevator."

The man gets up, dusts off his impeccably clean pants, and offers him a hand to shake.

"We will not meet again for some time, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks at the creature, stands, and shakes his hand. It feels like nothing. The Keeper of Time sighs, although nothing has been said.

"Ask your question, Mr. Wayne."

"I have more than one."

"You do," Clockwork says. "But I have heard them all, and so they are one. Please ask, or I will not be inclined to answer it."

"What does this boy mean for the future, that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for him?"

There is a pause.

"So that is the one," Clockwork says, after a time. "Yes. I see. I should resolve this, I suppose."

"Resolve what?"

"It is not his future I mean to protect," the man says. "It is his present."

"You want to keep him safe now..." Bruce says, but he's not sure what the being is trying to say.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork repeats, stops. His expression turns solemn, red eyes widening. In their reflection, Bruce can see something. A rush of movement too quick to make heads or tails of, like playing fast forward on a videotape. "Superman reports no signs of unusual seismic activity. With nothing further to look into, you let it go in favor of other investigative pursuits. You do not find him, as you are not meant to. He stays there. His family, his friends, they cannot find him. His captors tell him they have moved on. He does not believe them, until he does. He stays there. He stays there until he is strong enough to save himself."

Clockwork speaks stiffly, rattling off the chain of events as if reading a Justice League debrief. "He is King. He will always be King. He is strong, and good, and compassionate, and he is great for my people because yours have betrayed his trust beyond repair. He throws himself into being the best to ever Be, because there is nothing Left for him otherwise. We love him. We love him. We love him. My King. Forevermore."

The red film in his eyes stall out, and Bruce is forced to look away from how bright the image is, barely making out a silhouette before they dull back to their regular red.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork says slowly, "To this future."

"Because of what it means in the present," Bruce finishes for him. "They're not just imprisoning him, are they."

"They will have already muzzled him."

Clockworks is right in front of him faster than he can process, fist gripping the medallion at his neck so tight he now feels the ribbon digging into his skin.

"Unlike you, Mr. Wayne," and for the first time, the god is angry, and the image of it will haunt Bruce for the rest of his life, "I do not believe in building a better future on the back of a broken child."

"Find him," the deity orders, and yanks the necklace so hard the ribbon rips—

Clack!

"sluuuuurp!"

"Master Timothy, honestly!"

"Sorry Alfred!"

#i feel like I'm going to reread this and want to add other stuff #but I also just want to post it and get it out there #fun fact i scribbled a bunch of lines down at 2am bc i didn't want to forget them #im bad at multiple drafts #my writing #dp x dc #dp x dc au #dp x dc prompt #dp x dc crossover #danny phantom #batman #i live to make everybody dramatic #but also i subscribe to a world where clockwork doesn't know how NOT to be dramatic #lol he's a ghost from all of time he doesn't know how to speak to humans and tailor it to the century let alone the decade #and his favorite little girl who calls him clocky loves how he speaks so #he doesn't need to change for nobody #nor feels inclined to #also I feel like as god he's way more inclined to threaten to get what he wants than like...be vulnerable #jazz: let's unpack that #clockwork: we never do #jazz: are you saying that because it's true or because that's what you want to be true?#clockwork: ...#also I cannot take credit for BITCH I MIGHTWING #wish i could #that is cash money right there #shoutout to 11thsense

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hedgehog-moss · 4 months

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9am: Pirlouit & I are waiting for the farrier; it's Hoof Day! The farrier always tends to run late so I have a thermos of tea and a breakfast pastry to eat as we wait. Pirlouit has been offered some hay and has refused to eat it because he's sulking because it's hoof day.

Isn't it nice to get a pedicure, Pirou?

9:10am: The farrier is late and Pirlouit is worried, wondering what we're waiting for here on the road. Maybe he has been sold? to a sadistic new owner? who's going to shove him into a crate and send him to the salt mines like the donkeys in Pinocchio? Plus, he's more stressed than usual today because one of his hooves hurts (hence the farrier appointment), he's been limping for a few days and he doesn't know what the farrier will do to the hurt hoof. I told him there's only a 30% chance that he'll amputate it.

9:15am: Pirlouit's family is here to support him though! Or, in the case of Pampérigouste, here to puzzle out a vexing mystery.

9:17am: The llamas have grown bored of standing there in support and have started eating the brambles near the gate (supportively). Very good initiative, I approve. Also I thought Poldine was trying to eat the brambles outside the gate (greener on the other side and all that) but no, she was trying to fit her head through the bars for a little kiss </3

9:20am: Even Merricat is being supportive. (Well, she's waiting for me to go home so she can finally take her first morning nap in my lap.) Also Pirlouit has found some grass under the leaves and temporarily forgot all of his worries.

9:22am: Poldine is determined to kiss this cat.

9:24am: The farrier is here! As always he starts doing Pirlouit's hooves right there in the middle of the road, and if a car shows up well, "they can wait a few minutes... On n'est pas aux pièces" (this is a phrase for "there's no rush" that I've never heard anyone but my grandma use, it's nice to hear it again!) There aren't any cars anyway.

9:27am: Pirlouit's hurt hoof has been diagnosed: he has an abscess. Since this autumn has been relentlessly rainy I thought perhaps it was a fungal infection—but the farrier told me he's been treating a lot of abscesses lately, as the very wet weather softens hooves which allows bacteria to enter.

9:30am: The abscess was successfully drained and Pirlouit is now wearing a fashionable hoof bandage. He was very calm and brave throughout <3

9:35am: The farrier left his car by the side of the road, and after releasing Pirlouit we crossed the pasture to go home have a cup of coffee.

9:45am: The farrier is gone; end of the post :)

10am: Pampe is gone, too.

Well, she probably left around 10am but I didn't immediately find out as I had more pressing problems. After the farrier left I went to get a small apple to reward Pirlouit, and when I returned to the pasture and he came over for his treat, I realised he was limping. But on the other side. We've just treated his right front hoof, and he is now holding up the left front hoof...

9:57am: After giving Pirlouit his apple I go home in a hurry to call the farrier and ask him to come back. But there's almost no mobile service around here and I can't reach him. This is so frustrating, he can't be very far... On a hunch I call a horse farm not far from here, maybe it's hoof day for their horses as well?

10am: It's not, they have no farrier appointment today, but when I explain my predicament the woman on the phone goes "if it's just to drain an abscess I can send you a guy who'll do it, no worries!" Every time I've had someone from this farm on the phone to ask something or other, they've offered to Send Me A Guy. It's never the same guy too, they have an endless supply of guys.

10:05am: Having accepted gratefully, I return to the pasture to catch poor Pirlouit again, who thought I was done bothering him for today. As I wait for The Guy, I find a spot with some unexpected mobile service and start googling hoof hardeners, because maybe if Pirou's prone to abscesses it's worth having something in prevention for wet months?

10:15am: I receive a text from the guy.

"Is it normal that your llama is on the road with a dog? They are going to [village]."

10:16am: I reply to the guy.

"It's neither normal nor abnormal."

10:17am: I tie Pirlouit to a tree and run back to the barn to get some muesli. Then start running on the road, trying to figure out how Pampe escaped, and the answer seems obvious: after his coffee the farrier crossed the pasture again to get back to his car, and he knew about the Special Anti-Pampe Safety Knot 3000 but either forgot and closed the gate like a normal person, or didn't do it correctly. Pampe in her little llama brain knows very well that most visitors don't know about the Anti-Pampe Knot so she hurries to check the gate after a stranger leaves her pasture. Meanwhile I was busy noticing Pirou's limp and trying to call the farrier back and I didn't check the gate as I usually do.

10:20am: The guy has found me trotting on the road with my muesli and picked me up in his car. We go back to where he last saw Pampe. I apologise for wasting his time and he tells me "I've heard of your llama" in a tone half-sympathetic half-fatalistic.

10:24am: Pampe & Pandolf have been located; are having the time of their lives. Pandolf is a bit sheepish when I call him, though. He loves going on adventures with his best friend so much but he knows it's a bad dog thing to do for some reason :(

10:34am: The Guy is trying to push Pampe forward with his car while I try to attract her towards me with my muesli in a carrot-and-stick routine; Pampe occasionally veers off-road to eat some leaves, inspect the mud in the ditch, pretend to admire a cloud while secretly brainstorming strategies.

Guy's commentary: "This is worse than dealing with an escaped horse. I feel ignored. I feel powerless."

10:39am: Pampe is home! She didn't actually go very far. But since she hadn't locked the gate behind her, when we arrived we found Pampelune on the road as well, just sort of waiting for us like a sentinel. Pirlouit was still tied to his tree staring at his inexplicably orange foot, and Poldine was panicking because her mother had abandoned her for the millionth time and her grandma had left the pasture too and she couldn't figure out how :((( All she had to do was fiddle with the gate with her nose really, but it never occurred to her to do so, she's too innocent. She only inspects gates in order to figure out how to kiss someone through them. So she was alone in the pasture trotting in circles, making undignified sad goat noises when Pampe & I returned.

10:53am: Pirlouit's other hoof has been treated, hopefully he'll feel better and stop limping soon... I'll have to remove the bandages with scissors, clean both hooves and re-do the bandages in a couple of days which is probably going to be a whole Thing, considering he's suspicious of buckets of water and scissors and objects in general. But as for now everyone is in the pasture having some celebratory hay and Pampoldine is deeply relieved to find that she hasn't been abandoned by everyone forever (as she assumes every single time.)

Also I realised I only paid the farrier half of what I owed him... I had prepared the exact sum but I had half in one pocket and half in another which was a risky idea. And neither of us checked what I was handing him, or noticed. He called me back when he arrived in a place with mobile reception and I told him about the whole affair and he said it's a good thing I accidentally paid him half because he didn't see the other abscess and failed to make the Anti-Pampe Knot 3000 so "it's a fair discount." So I got a half-price farrier visit thanks to Pampe (partly)... I won't tell her because she already thinks she's doing the world a favour by escaping (free fence integrity checks, free cardio training for me by forcing me to do interval running, free entertainment for everyone, plus her modest contribution to cosmic chaos.)

11am: I meant to take an "all's well that ends well" photo of the whole family but I realised Pampe is making her angry hammerhead shark face because her adventure was very short-lived and I didn't even take a picture of her escape, as I'd left my phone in my coat pocket under Pirlouit's tree (& supervision) when I went after her. (I figured I was about to run for 15min and would not need my heavy coat)