Alfred Pennyworth has in fact, perhaps, in the slightest of chances.
Picked up his Master's habit of collecting children as if they were on sale.
He was spending his time on one of those rare vacations he decided to take, it was nice, to relax with only the vague overhanging worry of something going wrong back at the manor that he's gotten very good at ignoring.
Only to come across a child bleeding out in an alley, heavily injured.
He would not be able to live with himself if he didn't at least try to help them however he could.
Such is how he acquired a child he later found to be a meta who whished to learn the ways of a butler.
---
Danny had escaped from a GIW compound, after having been handed over by his family a while after his reveal. He felt, completely and utterly betrayed, when it happened. His parents, while hurt, he was at least capable of actually seeing them do it, but never would he have thought Jazz would do so as well.
They did it so happily, that he wondered if letting him go really was the greatest thing to happen to this family.
He chained, muzzled, all the ways to bind him they pulled all the stops too, knowing how dangerous he was. He wouldn't have even done anything then, too stunned by his families apart willingness at handing him over to the government.
He hated them.
He hated them so much.
The GIW facility was a terrible, cold, unfeeling place. One where they drilled thoughts into his head again and again until he found himself unconsciously repeating them when his head felt empty, one where his body gained a new mark day by day and pushed through tests, he had no clue of even hoping to comprehend what they would gain out of it.
It was a cold, unfeeling place. Placed in a cell of white and nothing else, with low walls and chains binding his body in place until the time came for another experiment.
It was a room he grew used to. One he even held some kind of strange, twisted affection for.
It was a room that held a tiny piece of safety, of rest. It was a room that taught him to hate.
A deep, powerful, disgusting, twisting hatred that crawled from the depths of his cells, corrupting his blood and carving itself deep into his bones. Forcing it's out of his pores until it practically oozed from his flesh.
It drowned his mind, tainting each and every thought, every memory, every dream, every waking moment until he could feel nothing but hatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehate.
When he was taken out of that he could feel nothing, with the drugs swimming their way through his blood that snapped the thin string keeping him between a person and an emotionless puppet.
He thinks that's what the GIW thinks he is.
And when he was placed back in that room, he could only hate.
It was a cycle. Stuck between feeling either nothing or hatred.
He hated feeling nothing, it made him feel like he wasn't real. Like it snapped the thread that held him between what a real person was and a dream.
So, he allowed himself to drown deep into his hatred. Until the white walls of his far to small room seemed to fade, until whatever sound he could have heard became nothing but dull noise.
Until the passage of time seemed to become just a blink.
He didn't know what day it was, when he saw it. Saw them. He didn't know the time, the date, the day, the hours. He knew nothing.
But he could recognize his family. Recognize one of the objects of his intense hatred that he forced his thoughts too. The people who willingly gave him up just like that and one of the causes for his current life.
He didn't know why they showed him them, he felt it some sick, utterly cruel joke. A joke he didn't know the punchline for, a joke the universe sent his way to make his life all the more miserable.
There were multiple of them. Multiple clones of his family. Som within test tubes, some being pulled out from the tubes, some walking around in lab coats. A waste of talent, they called it in his dad's case, a waste of intelligence in his mother's, and a waste of intellect in his sister's case.
His original family was already dead, he was told. Replaced by clones, clones that took over the legal decision to change his guardianship. Clones walking around twisting and desecrating his family.
'At least it was painless.' One of the clones said, talking with his mother's face. 'Far more than they deserved for having keeping a thing like him' spoken by his father's imposter.
The drugs pumping through his system to keep him calm, to keep him feeling nothing was suddenly pierced through by an intense feeling of horror, hate and self-loathing.
He should've known it wasn't his family. He should've done more! More to protect them! To keep them safe! The could've still been alive if he just knew.
In that moment, watching imposters speaking, walking, talking, breathing, with his families faces. He exploded. Exploded with a power fueled by nothing but his intense hatred for every. Single. Living being in this goddamn facility.
He killed whoever stood in his way. Managing to get his hands on relatively newly designed weapon, an ectoplasmic scythe (that also apparently could revert into an everyday item). Which he used to rip and tear throughout the entirety of the facility. He got injured, of course, he couldn't dodge everything, but he didn't care.
A body stuck between life and death, incapable of fully going one way or the other no matter what happened. Gifted supernatural powers fueled by wrath and twisting hatred and a weapon made by man yet in the range of the supernatural.
They didn't stand a change. He killed them all. No matter who it was, man, woman, clone. He didn't, couldn't care. He could only kill, only maim, only hurt.
And that's what he did.
It was then, when the facility was blanketed with silence tainted by despair, death and hysteria. When previously white walls were covered by blood, and the halls turned into rivers of blood and corpses. That he broke down, the overwhelming hatred he felt replaced by relief then sadness then self-loathing.
His family didn't give him up! But they were killed. Kill because of him. He couldn't stand being in this place, anymore. His body felt as if it were moving on unseen strings as it walked through the halls, the scythe shrinking back what it was when out of combat, his mind too occupied by thoughts and feelings.
It walked through a portal, one to the ghost zone, and then promptly into another portal and spat him out into an alleyway. Which he then promptly collapsed and curled into a ball, curing the shrunken scythe in his palm and he was out like a light.
A few days after he woke up, he found himself growing attached to the human that found him in that alleyway. An old man, maybe, but a nice one. He didn't want to meet anyone, besides that man, so he turned invisible when anyone else come into contact with him.
Alfred Pennyworth.
It was a name he clung onto mentally and a man he clung onto physically as well. He wanted to be like that man, someone so nice and caring, someone who didn't mind that he turned invisible at the sing of another person, who let him cling onto him both invisible and not whenever he wanted to.
He did panic when he heard Alred saying his vacation was over, and such that he had to leave. He didn't want to be left alone again, he didn't know what he would do if he was left alone again.
Until Afred said we were going home.
We. As in, him plus another. Alfred plus Danny.
Home.
Heat blossomed in his chest, seeming to replace the constant, low hum of hate sitting beneath him skin.
Home.
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Inktobertale day 20: 4 panels comic. I like to think if Error ever joined the star sanses, then it would be a matter of no time before he and Ink became the most chaotic duo ever.
This gives Dream a lot of grief.
It took me a long time to figure out what I wanted to do for this specific prompt. I knew I wanted to do it, I just didn't know what. Then, this cursed idea came to life while I was trying to sleep one night and here we are.
If I knew the second panel was going to be as glorious as it ended up being, I would have made a full on picture for it. But here's a cropped version of it 'cus I couldn't get over how vapor wave or freaking something they look lmao
Fun fact; the canonical reason why Ink is holding his shades up is because they ran out of tape. They only had the three. So him holding them up constantly has a stupid, in canon reason asides from just looking cool-
Additionally, I like to think how this all played out was because Ink was sad that Dream wouldn't let him dress up when they went on missions.
Ink: Dream said I couldn't dress up for the next mission! I tried telling him I'd look neat! But he said it wouldn't be very... intimidating to people we're going to fight. :( Since when did we have to be "intimidating?" I thought we were the good guys...
Crossing his arms, he adds with a grumble: I have serious doubts I'm even considered "iNtImIdAtInG" to begin with, but that's another story...
Error, having listened intently with a thoughtful hand on his chin this entire time: .....Yeah, but hear me out. What if... there were two people dressing up-
Ink: *GASP-*
The moral of the story is that Error does demonstratively have more brain cells than Ink, but he uses those brain cells to perfect and refine Ink's arguably stupid ideas.
Whether this comes back to make him appear like a dumbass too is up to interpretation.
Special shoutout to a special commenter on ao3 that referred to Error being bad bitch buddies with Ink on a comment one time. That just stuck with me for some reason. Also to @honeybubbletea33 for their art that depicted Error with the exact same fluffy boa and heart glasses that just. Imprinted into my brain or something, idk man-
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Writing this at ass o’clock in the morning so excuse any incoherency but I can’t stop thinking about how important it is (for me personally) to view/headcanon qFit as entirely perfectly 100% human, and by extension, qCellbit as well.
Like I’m sure ppl have talked about it before but there’s just something so intriguing about having FitMC be Just Some Guy who was hardened by the Wasteland, sculpted by the atrocities he witnessed and committed, no claws or wings or horns or tails to help him. No extra arms for when he lost a limb, no enhanced hearing to make up for his damaged eardrums, no tough scales for when explosions melted his skin, no powerful hybrid instincts to guide him through his life. He is doing everything (hurting, helping, building, tearing, creating, destroying, strangling, soothing, hating, loving, killing, healing) with nothing but his one human hand, which he’s hardened with callouses until it became a set of claws in its own right. He’s been guided by a gut feeling for over ten years now, because it’s all he’s got.
Now. qCellbit. I love cat hybrid qCellbit soooo much, don’t get me wrong. When I think of qCellbit or when I’m writing him, he’s usually a cat hybrid. But just like with Fit, choosing to view qcellbit as 100% human is just as enriching. Small little kid, defenseless and soft and alone, thrown into a warzone. Had to eat his own kind and kill with his teeth and nails and bare hands to survive. Became the most feared thing within the prison walls. Had to learn late in his life how to be a “normal” person in society, something that takes so much time and effort and therapy that sometimes he doesn’t think he is a person. On his bad days, and even on some of his good ones, he views himself as less than human, a creature incapable of loving and being loved. He looks at his hands—tender, naked flesh and blunt nails, ten fingers and two palms—and still sees the claws of a monster.
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