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#hes fun. i love him.
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sorry im coping with aus again oopsie daisy. anyway here's my take on a fantasy au
it all started with me rewatching the D&D movie and thinking "hm. what (broad) classes would the neighbors have?"
and after much thinking i came to the conclusion: Barnaby = Bard / Eddie = Paladin / Sally = Sorcerer / Julie = fighter / Frank = monk / Howdy = Artificer / Poppy = Healer / Wally = 'Wizard'
those seem fitting! BUT i don't like restrictions or rules so in this very light worldbuilding for a casual (strongly glaring at myself here) CASUAL au, it's only dnd-esque. not actually dnd yk yk
in my head, they're not technically puppets for this au. they're flesh and blood, they've got bones, etc. they're actual Creatures, though they still look like Them! Julie's still pink w/ candy-corn-horns! Frank is still a gray tube! Barnaby is a big blue dog! they're just... not puppets. it's the same for the other beings in this fantasy world - they all keep the style, but they're all flesh n' blood if that makes sense. a cartoony fantasy world
so they have their little found family adventuring group titled, of course, The Neighborhood. because when they were first forming, Wally went "oh! are we a neighborhood? i've always wanted neighbors!" and it Stuck. so they all lovingly refer to each other as neighbors, even though the closest they get to being actual neighbors is pitching their tents next to each other & staying at an Inn in neighboring rooms
like your classic group of adventurers, they're almost constantly on the move. the longest they stay in one place is a couple of months - the rest of the time they're wandering! they take quests, get roped into general Shenanigans, etc. they adventure! and get into a lot of battles of varying severity
so Barnaby is still kiiiiind of a bard? best i can describe him is jack-of-all-trades moral support! he provides battle music, keeps the mood light, and stands off to the side to offer quips and tips. he prefers not to fight, and only Gets Involved when the others need Backup. even then, he usually takes the role of defending his neighbors. he has a good eye for whether or not physical support is needed - he never needs to be asked when there's a legitimate need for him! unless he's thoroughly distracted from the goings-on. he does have magic, but it's more for show / defense-based
Eddie's still pretty classically a paladin. healing powers, armor, there to be on the front lines and Protect! the group's sword and shield! he technically serves a god but he forgot who <3 he just makes the occasional general offering and mumbles some vague prayer. he's super friendly! super helpful! super willing to dive into the line of fire! Will disregard his own safety without a second thought! his magic is pretty much restricted to healing, and it's weak healing at that (maybe because he can't properly serve his god...), so it's mostly good for quick mid-battle heals and little wounds. temporary fixes!
Sally has innate fire/light magic, and she's very showy with it! she puts Flair and Pizazz into all of her casts and is very dramatic on the battlefield - she manages to turn her fights into a performance. She tag-teams keeping the Neighborhood entertained with Barnaby. he handles the humor/lightheartedness, she handles the escapism/encouragement. she writes scripts & stories in her off-time, and often reads them (or spins a new one) after dinner. when they have weeks / month breaks in one spot, sometimes she'll recruit local thespians to create a play
Frank is all about that hand-to-hand combat babey! he wants to feel bones break under his fists! he wants those split knuckles! he very often starts fights, and even more often finishes them - what he lacks in raw power he makes up for in vicious tenacity. he just Keeps On Going! he seconds as the group's Knowledge Guy. while his hobby is studying insects, he also catalogues/studies monsters and enemies and terrain so that the Neighborhood can always be prepared. the only time he stays out of fights is when he's researching or note-taking. he tries to micromanage the battle from afar anyway
Julie is like... put a druid, a fighter, and a barbarian in a blender. she's got a big sword! she's got seemingly endless energy in battle! she can talk to plants, especially flowers! her flora magic is very minor, so it's not like she's making giant roots burst out of the ground and strangle people. but plants can give her information, and if she asks nicely and they feel like it, sometimes they'll help her out. in battle she's a force to be reckoned with! nothing will stop her and her sword! she's usually the second (closely following Frank, with Eddie hot on her heels) Neighbor charging into battle - but she's the one with the stellar war cry! & where Sally and Barnaby tend to the Neighborhood's emotional wellbeing & entertainment, Julie keeps things fresh with Physical Activities during their downtime!
Poppy is a powerful healer! she draws on an individual's energy (often taps into her own as well) to convert it into healing power. it's draining but it's damn good healing! she also takes the role of the Neighborhood's cook (the others still like to help, especially Frank who is essentially her sous-chef) and makes sure they're all healthy. she hangs back during battles, waiting to (and hoping that she doesn't have to) heal a wounded Neighbor. if one of them is badly hit, she forces herself to run into battle and drag them to safety before working on their injury. she has a tiny bit of illusion magic, which she'll cast from afar to assist her Neighbors. she tries not to use it outside of emergencies - it takes a lot of energy, which she tries to conserve just in case.
Howdy has Zero Magic! none! four hands and none of them are magical! however, he's a damn good inventor & a whiz at potion making. he can Use magical items like there's no tomorrow - he just can't wield it himself. he supplies the group with potions, helpful items, all sorts of goodies - given that they can trade for it with anything he'd accept in-canon. the only exception is when they're mid-battle - he hands stuff out when needed without haggle. he supplies the group with their cash when they're not getting it from looting/quests - he has a magic backpack that can unfold into a fully-stocked merchant stall! he sells at towns, on the road, anywhere he can! In battle he hangs back with Poppy and, yes, supplies items, but he also uses ranged attacks - magical weapons that cast for him, magic 'bombs', that sort of thing! but there's a little secret - he's the Neighborhood's secret weapon. he invented fantasy guns! four magic revolvers that, when the 'second safety' is turned off, multiply into a giant clusterfuck of guns (with ammo ranging from magic 'bullets' to essentially rocket launchers). unfortunately he can only use this setting once & for a limited time before the guns overload & have to be manually repaired. so he either uses them off of the first safety (i.e, they're 'normal'), or not at all. you know shit is Really hitting the fan when he joins a fight
and Wally! Wally Wally Wally... you may have noticed that i put his class 'wizard' in quotes. that's because he says he's a wizard, but he's not! he just says he's one due to the automatic stigma and fear of what he really is - a Warlock! his patron is Home, an eldritch horror that many would classify as a demon. they have a very special, codependent pact that neither of them can live without - Wally wears their 'seal' as a house-shaped pendant on a choker (necklace) hidden under his clothes. Home is extraordinarily powerful, but Wally barely taps into that power. he has a grimoire that Home inscribed with a bunch of sigils that convert into spells when drawn & then cast in the air. the only other powers he uses are seeing-in-the-dark, seeing-magic, and opening teleportation doors! Wally can't sleep, but he can doze - though he's never fully unaware of his surroundings (its kind of like how dolphins only sleep with one half of their brain). he still eats with his eyes, which both feeds him & acts as a form of providing daily energy to Home, since Home can't exactly consume souls every day. If Wally uses too much magic, he has to rest inside of Home's house-form, which is the only time he actually fully sleeps. no one knows about Home, or that Wally is lying about his wizard status.
Home is a lovecraftian being with three forms. the first is the lowest power level - a cute one-room house with Eyes! i.e: Home Classic! Wally's pendant unfolds into it, and it's the main way Wally and Home physically interact & communicate. the second is possession - if Wally explicitly allows it, Home can completely take over his body and kind of 'tuck him away' to have a nice deep nap while Home takes the reins (Home can technically force this, but it's very difficult and would not go over well w/ Wally - it would also be an unstable possession). the third is Home's true form - a massive shadowy eldritch monster made of writhing darkness and nightmares that no one in their right mind would look at, let alone fight. Home has very complicated feelings about Wally & the Neighborhood. they are also, quite literally, Wally's heart - which is part of their pact.
i have some scene ideas & little Plot Concepts (most notably the times the Neighborhood learns two Very Big Secrets about Wally, one of which being the warlock/Home reveal).
but yeah that's moooostly it. basic stuff yk, not very in depth! just fun things to feed my maladaptive daydreaming & escapism
#warlock-masquerading-as-a-wizard wally is fun#cause youve got this funny little guy! in his little wizard outfit and his staff and classic wizard eccentricities!#but he has a lovecraftian horror curled up in his chest excited for its next opportunity to consume souls#home when making wally's body: ah fuck how do people eat again??? with their eyes right??? that sounds right... thats how i eat...#home a week later: shitshitshit their MOUTHS they eat with this Mouths goddamn it.... too late to fix it now#cut to wally internally panicking while watching other people drink/eat normally#hm i Realized that like... half the Neighborhood more often than not doesn't outright fight#poppy hangs back. howdy hangs back. barnaby rarely joins. frank is often busy researching#and then you've got eddie & julie going full-tilt nonstop absolutely mowing down enemies like there's no tomorrow. sword besties <3#wally and Sally casting from the middle ground...#wh fantasy au#maybe the howdy enthusiast in me is jumping out lately but hes soooo good in this au i swear#he's out here bargaining over a potion with his own neighbor mid-battle#bc he Will be funny about it when the stakes aren't high#forcing them to go through transactions even though he'd give the goods to em anyway#him vibing with poppy & barnaby while explosions go off in the background#and then when shit hits the fan he gets to be a Certified Badass and whips out the big guns with the cockiest grin you've ever seen#hes fun. i love him.#they're all fun. i love them.#home & wally make me especially Ough in this au. their relationship is so messy and you literally cannot have one without the other
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golyadkin · 3 months
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it's because i wouldn't let you kill the bounty hunter isn't it
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idiotsonlyevent · 24 days
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i wonder where the idea of chilchuck being a deadbeat came from when theres like. no textual evidence for it ?
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he knows what all of them are up to; he still writes to flertom and she sent him his neckwarmer, so that to me implies that they at least have a somewhat positive relationship?
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its more ambiguous with meijack and puckpatti, but since meijack is also a picklock, i wouldn't be surprised if he taught her himself, considering how trades are often passed down through families, and because he talks about sending people to her if he dies.
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also the way he talks about puckpatti is very like... it's obvious he wants her to take things more seriously, but he's accepting, and his tone here reads more fond to me than anything else.
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like, he keeps his daughters' old toys under his desk? that doesn't scream 'deadbeat' at all, it screams 'empty nester' who doesn't know how to reach out or is scared to do so
EDIT: i know a lot of the 'deadbeat dad' stuff is jokes, but some people are Not joking and genuinely think chilchuck is a bad dad. this post is not saying that you cant joke about it; it is just outlining what canon shows regarding his (clearly positive) relationship with his kids.
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FNAF movie Mike meets Jeremy Fitzgerald
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amygdalae · 12 days
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triona-tribblescore · 1 month
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Concept from a few days ago that has been ROTTING my brain. BIKER ANGEL BABYYY!!! Something I didn't know I needed in life-
Hes so cool and like, idk I just need to consume more media where angel is being badass. DGMW!!! I LOVE HIS PRETTY FEM SIDE. But also I think ppl forget he's a chaos maker/ prankster/ turf war participator who will run you down without hesitation if in a fight uvu
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windwenn · 3 months
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u guys r never gonna guess what i've been doing
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kidovna · 1 month
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manifested mileven at the snowball in 2016, so now I’m manifesting byler at senior prom🪻🌻
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aliengoose · 2 years
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i desperately need my moots who aren’t doctor who fans to see this PLEASE
edit: this is NOT EDITED. it may seem like a stupid fan edit but i don’t know shit about video editing. this is 100% real
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emotinalsupportturtle · 2 months
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David Tennant opened the BAFTAs with a fuzzy swaeater, pride pin and a dog, subjected the cream of Hollywood to a staged skit and gay flirting with Michael Sheen, wore a slutty kilt, insulted trump and nobody else, spoke French, delivered puns like a pro, thirsted over Andrew Scott and Paul Mescal, flirted with Bradley Cooper, wore 3 of the most flamboyant outfits - all which slayed, fanboyed over Michael J Fox and was aggressively Scottish the whole way through
I’m sorry if you’re watching the BAFTAs for any other reason you’re wrong
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beif0ngs · 23 days
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PEAK SILLINESS 👀😵‍💫🖐️🍑
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suntails · 15 days
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toot toot!
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thapunqueen · 8 months
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SO I SADDLE UP MY HORSE AND I RIDE INTO THE CITAAYY !!!!!
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charlietheepicwriter7 · 2 months
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H̵̩͋o̸̹͒l̶̢̑ď̸͕ ̵͔͛T̴̲̄h̶͙͋e̶̤͘m̵͍̋ ̷͓̈D̵̯͛o̶̡̅w̵̖̃n̵͝ͅ
Get in the Water AU: Original Post Ruthlessness
Ghosts were physiologically different from humans.
It was something Tucker and Sam didn't understand. They saw Phantom as "Danny with superpowers," not as a fundamentally different being.
Sometimes, Danny didn't understand either.
But his parents did. Utter disregard for the scientific method aside, the Fentons were the ones who learned how inhuman ghosts were: "Just emotions and electricity imprinted on ectoplasm, Danno, nothing to be scared of!" Snapshots of people at the moments of their deaths. The past and the present, incapable of contemplating the future.
And with his duality, Danny struggled to understand either of his halves.
As a human, Danny could move past his nightmare of a childhood, compartmentalize and think to the future, when he was fully healed and his past couldn't hurt him anymore. So when Dora, first elected Queen of the Infinite Realms - long may she reign - asked him to collect all the resurrected humans for a health check and assessment... when he'd noticed Damian Al Ghul-Wanye on the list... He'd thought up a little prank to pull on his long-lost brother. A cruel one, perhaps, but nothing harmful.
As a ghost, Danny couldn't move on. He could never forget that Sam led him to his death, that his parents negligence allowed for the stage to be set, that the lab they loved so much held both his home and his grave. Just as Danny would always be that fourteen year old, caught in that moments, he was still the 7-year-old Danyal Al Ghul who trusted his brother not to hurt him... and ended up poisoned.
Phantom wanted his murderer to suffer.
And Danny, much to his shame, had allowed it.
For a few weeks, Danny managed to ignore it. He'd gone after Damian first, so there were tons of resurrected on his list. He started with the more extreme cases first, like Constantine, but soon enough the next on his list was Ra's Al Ghul.
He'd asked Queen Dora to send someone else, anyone else. That he wouldn't be able to control himself if he saw his grandfather again. Instead of relieving him, she'd given him a knowing look and told him to follow his core's desire.
She never mentions it, but Queen Dora had been a murder victim too.
There was no showmanship, no dramatic reveal. Just Danyal, his grandfather, and the Pit.
Despite all Ra's Al Ghul's power, he was no match for a spirit hellbent on drowning him.
That's what Danny did to his grandfather. He'd thrown up afterwards, once he was human before. But the ghost in him relished the act; he could still feel Grandfather's throat under his hands, pulse fluttering against his palm as Danyal held him down. He struggled and shook as the Lazarus waters filled his lungs, burning away healthy tissue. Fingernails morphed into claws that sliced through the tender skin, blood leaking into the water, and water leaking into the blood.
It took a long time for Grandfather to die. Deep within Danny, next to his core, he knew it was what was deserved. That the murdered finally had justice. He was content with never speaking of it again, a secret between him and the waters.
And now it was going to happen again as Phantom's impulsive mind overtook Fenton's tactical one.
He'd known Damian was looking into him. Knew another confrontation was inevitable, what with two more of his siblings needing their health checks. But as Danny was stalking their mother, searching for the best way to abduct her (she was still his mother after all, he didn't want her dead... yet), Damian and his family confronted her.
Relief washed over him as only a normal amount of rage bubbled up at the sight of Damian, instead of the overwhelming, all-consuming fury he'd felt. Danny laughed at their arguments, at Constantine thinking he could put a living ghost to rest, at his siblings-unmet and his father-unknown, until...
Damian confessed.
His murderer confessed, yet as he continued to speak, to explain, the fury rose in him again. Because it wasn't a betrayal. He'd always thought Damian betrayed him, but no.
Through his own ruthlessness, Damian gave him the only mercy he could manage. And there was only one thing Danyal wanted now.
""̸̲̈́T̶͘͜ä̵̢li̸a̶̬̓ ̴̬̐A̵̛̪l̸̲̚ G̸̛̫h̶̺̏u̸̢̚l!̴̳̈́ D̷̩̕o̸͛ͅ ̶̝̍y̴͙͘o̵̙͐u̵̬̓ ̴̤͂k̸̡̑n̵͓̈́o̷͈͝w̷͖͂ ̷͓͑w̴̧̄h̵̲͌o̴̮̔ ̵̼́Ị̷̂ ̷̣̽a̵̳̓m̷̩̓?̷̝͒"̷̧͠"
It was her fault. She was the reason why he was dead, nothing more than a coward who couldn't go against her father for the sake of her children. She abused them, she struck his brother, it was her fault-
"Danyal," she answered. And Danyal grinned, fanged and sharp.
He approached, the waters of his birthplace lovingly brushing against his legs, consoling him the only way they knew how. They whispered revenge into his ears, madness into his heart, just as they had when he'd confronted Damian, when he murdered Grandfather. "You have much to answer for, daughter of the Demon Head," he said, voice echoing around the room.
Unrestrained greed filled her gaze. "You've returned to me, my son."
Danyal laughed, brutal and rough. "I've returned for you, Mother," he corrected. "Don't think this reunion will end well for you."
"You mean to hurt me, Danyal?" she crooned, all false hurt and fake love.
"I mean to kill you."
Genuine anger flashed across her face. "My son would never-"
"Y̵̺̆o̴̩͂u̸͉̕r̷̰͝ ̴͔͝s̵̡̉o̶̡̎ň̵̞ ̶̗̈i̴̘̍s ̸̦̐d̴̯̚ê̶͚á̶̩d̷̻̈́," he snarled, and Damian flinched. He was too close to Talia. "You wanted me dead... for being weak. For having mercy." He stared up at his mother's shocked form. "I killed Grandfather. Tell me, is that ruthless enough for you, Umi?" Talia flinched with just her eyes. He hadn't been allowed to call her Umi since he was three.
Their father stepped forward, the naked distress on his face contrasting with his battle armor. "Danyal," he plead. "You don't have to do this-"
"Stay out of this, Baba." The man's breathing hitched. "This doesn't involve you."
Constantine tried to talk him down next. "It does, kid. A Siren on your level can't stay around for long. It's time for you to rest."
Danyal threw back his head and laughed. "As if you could stop me, exorcist." No more delays. It's time for action. "I will drown you all before you can."
Danyal lunged. And despite his mother's decades as an assassin, she couldn't kill what was already dead.
He held her down by the throat, the attacks from Damian's family bouncing off him. "This is mercy," he cooed as she desperately clawed at his hands. "For me. For Damian. For everyone you will try to hurt in the future. Ruthlessness is the only mercy I can give you now." Her face turned red as she gaped for air and Danyal-
Was thrown back into the water.
Reorienting himself, he found John Constantine standing over his mother, protecting her from him. "̷̪͂E̷̺͐x̷̝̑ŏ̶̺ȑ̴͉c̷̟͘i̸͔̋s̶̮̀t̶̯͝."
And the Pit's water began to rise.
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confessedlyfannish · 26 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!"
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lazycranberrydoodles · 6 months
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english translation book 5 baby we are in the ‘people assuming kid form hua cheng is xie lian’s son’ era 🔥🔥🔥 / follow for more hualian silliness
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