true strength — batman secret files (2018) #1
(ID below cut!)
[ID: A short story with a guiding narration:
His knuckles ache with each blow, bone grinding into bone. The criminals shout what they always shout. And Superman comes from above. — We're shown Batman fighting against several men that are trying to overpower him. He blocks an attack as he strikes another man. Above him, in the far distance, Superman is soaring through the air to get to him and help.
Superman gives a speech. They've been friends for so long. Colleagues. Soldiers in the fight. Superman knows his soul, he says. He knows he's a good man, he says. — Now, in the safety of the Batcave, Batman sits in front of his computer desk. He's facing Superman, who's standing in front of him with his hand outstretched. He opens his fist to reveal what he's brought.
Inside the Phantom Zone there is an impossible universe. Inside the impossible universe is an impossible planet. On the impossible planet is a small, impossible rock. Platinum Kryptonite. — Bruce pushes his cowl off as Superman presents the radiant silver rock to him.
It gives you powers. Powers like Superman's. Superman tells him to touch it. “Just touch it, Bruce, just once, and it lasts a lifetime. Then you can fight as I fight, as you should fight. With true strength.” A smile. A whoosh. Superman leaves. — Superman leaves the Kryptonite on the desk before he departs. Bruce doesn't move any closer. He stares at it somberly, deep in thought.
He looks at the gift. His mind wanders. — A red-tinted multipanel sequence shows Bruce imagining a scenario if he did gain Superman's powers. A woman is being held hostage by the Joker. She has a gun pressed to her temple as she stares at Batman with fear. Silently begging him to help and to save her like how he's saved countless others. The Joker pulls the trigger. But before she can be another person he couldn't possibly save, Batman's eyes glow with red electricity. He vaporizes the bullet with heat vision before it can even finish leaving the barrel.
He keeps his hands at his side. His knuckles ache. At least two of them are broken. Footsteps echoing down the stairs. The smell of stirred milk and white sugar. A polite clearing of the throat. Alfred says nothing. Their routines are well established, words are unnecessary. — Bruce continues to stare intensely at the well-intended present as Alfred approaches him with a tray. Bruce finally tears his gaze away from the Kryptonite to look at his lifelong friend before looking down at the steaming teacup that Alfred hands him.
His hand shakes. His loose knuckles stab into his skin. He can’t hold on. He always has before. But now he can’t. — His hand continues to tremble and before he can take a single sip of the hot drink, the cup is shattering against the ground.
The pain is not great. Not as great as it has been. Not as great as a bullet burrowing, or a back breaking, or a knife sinking into his throat. This is nothing. But still. His knuckles ache. — Bruce grabs his own gloved hand, cradling the back of his broken knuckles. He looks up and quietly asks, “Alfred. Am I enough?”
END ID]
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“you really don’t have to do that, not for me.” ( for….van 🥲🥲😭 )
@clemencetaught | more random dialogue prompts | ♥
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Minute faltering.
There aren't a great many things Patrick and Van get to have in common. Pretending might be one of them, though. Patrick's entire existence, as far as Van's understanding of circumstances goes, relies heavily on pretending just in the right tone, in the right direction, with the right people, at the right time, to make sure he gets to live long enough to be forced to try again.
In contrast, Van's pretending is... well... it's like pretending he hasn't stubbed his toe, while Patrick pretends he hasn't been stabbed.
But pretending he still does. He pretends he likes it around here, pretends he genuinely gets it, that he more than empathizes with the plight of being a so very bored Capitol citizen he must continue to surround himself with Victors, because who else could invigorate his so very dull and rich life?
Van pretends in front of Patrick as well. What else is he supposed to do? He's supposed to function as a benefactor here. As selfish as it may sound, as disgustingly privileged to even get to pick and choose, Van doesn't want in on this gun's blazing.
He wants to help.
His feet are firmly planted on the line, he does what he can within the confines of his own gilded cage. He uses money and names, he tugs and playfully curls the strings of someone's mind around his fingers and makes them wonder, oh, aren't there better things to do? Don't the Victors deserve a little more?
It's not an easy task, hell, hell hath no deafer than the madmen who want to own others. But it's not... well, it's a stubbed toe compared to a dagger in a heart.
He pretends in the way he looks at Patrick, polite and frozen smile, it's easier to not accidentally drop the act if he always keeps it up. Their exchanges are rarely verbal, Patrick is more than smart, it isn't difficult to get what point he needs to get across to actually reach the Victor, let alone watch it implemented much better than he could have on his own, what with his lack of intimate knowledge on the matter.
And then... he doesn't anymore.
Because if Patrick says 'not for me', perhaps, just for a small, dangerous moment, they're done pretending.
And Van can be done pretending to himself as well, that he's truly that careful of a person. That he wouldn't do ridiculous things for a person who looks like that.
For the Gentleman, who looks like he's dangling from fishing lines made of electrical wires, exhausted and bled out, and still smiling politely to all those who want to poke at his bleeding purple wounds.
"I'm going to be very direct now," Van starts, and the smile's gone. The polite air is gone. Probably also the reason why he steps closer as they stand outside in the corridor leading to Van's door, why he lowers his voice.
"One, you're very important to the people you surround yourself with, whether you want to be or not. You're not always here when the Victors you tell me to call for arrive, so you don't see their faces or hear their words when they speak of you, but I do. Strategically speaking alone, if you're unsafe, how will they ever be, how will they ever try to be. A martyr works, a survivor works better. Two," he takes a breath, tries to remind himself he shouldn't... he doesn't have the right to care this much...?
"You're my primary contact to Victors, I need to prioritize you, I need to talk to you and hear from you. Three, and I don't know if I'm crossing a line here by saying this, so I'll extend my apologies as soon as we're done," Van turns to smile, all sharp falsehoods in a row as a neighbour walks past and doesn't even bother hide the knowing, appreciative gaze. Victors are the finest on the menu, aren't they?
Van steps back into his flat, opens the door a little wider.
"You deserve the reprieve. Now, if you don't want to come in and want me to stop calling for you so often, I will. If you want out of this arrangement, consider it done. Otherwise... would you like to come in and have something warm to drink?"
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I purposely put myself in situations that inspire and stoke less than healthy patterns or put myself closer to said situations and then wonder why im feeling all insane. I think I want to convince myself that it's 'all temporary' and that whatever happened before in my head won't happen again. But it will. If only I could go off the deep end in one fell swoop in every way ever. Even that horrible thing you're thinking about, whatever it is. Yes, even that one. Just do everything terrible ever and then end it with suicide which is also Terrible Thing bc God forbid someone has autonomy over a life he not only didn't ask for but was given little reason to stay in. Ruin everyone's opinion of me. Inspire only fear and vitriol. Hatred and hurt and pain pain PAIN. Sure! I am a bad person! What are you going to do about it! By the time you figure out enough to send a mob after me, I'll already be long dead. You'll have to wash the smell of rot out of your fucking walls. Bitch.
Wish I could just. Grow from morbid into truly heinously unforgivable like that corpse flower. Despite what anyone believes, it would be growth. Just in a different, undesirable form. But wouldn't it be rad just to go apeshit? For a final trigger to send me bouncing round the walls intent on seeing blood? Everyone would hate me. That would be ok. I don't mind. People can feel how they feel. I know I unnerve people. It's like they can see the thoughts behind my eyes. Tick-tock, tick-tock; counting down into the next impassioned tirade. Is it about music or hurt? Or both? Breaking or building. Corruption or innocence. Life, death, rainbows and bloodbaths. Madness pulling at the corners. "Why are you staring?" I don't know. Your left forearm has taken a starring role in my next idea. It's not personal. Or maybe I like your smile. Or maybe I actually do just wonder how you look when you bleed. You'll never really know. Might be all of the above.
Sometimes the demon overtakes. I wouldn't say I have a split personality disorder, I don't really fit the criteria. I gave him a name though. Anyway he does that. And then suddenly I am not in a harmonic split of choice and rationale. A correct and healthy balance of right and wrong, good and bad. Suddenly I am tilted, the entire world is tilted, I feel dizzy and I don't know if it's somewhat physical or all mental. Everything shifts. Things mean something different. I'm more alien and darker. And that little voice (not an actual voice, no hallucination) is urging urging urging like it's the end of times, and we only have 24 hours left on Earth and nothing to lose. That whim? Do it. The other one too. You know you want to. What? Too pussy? Coward. Come on. You know me. I'm you. What's stopping you?
And then rationale and logic and all that are on the Defensive. No. Don't do it. Fight it. [More of the demons temptations.] Okay. Maybe do it a little but only in a really roundabout way that doesn't hurt anyone. Okay. Let's maybe go for a smoke. Let's close our eyes and fantasize. Think think think. Fight it. [More More More.] Hey maybe we should talk to someone? [Who is there to talk to? You're a freak. You say any of this shit to anyone they'll try to put a stop to it by treating you worse than farm animals. Worse than garbage. They deserve to die. They think you deserve to die. Doesn't that make you angry?] Okay so that's not an option. Um. Just hit something solid really hard until you're too tired to fixate. I don't know. [Aw. Is it not working? Little tired of rationality, aren't we? Relax. Let go. Don't think. Just do. Shoot first, questions later. Imagine how easy and simple things would be. They already are. Let me take care of you.] Tired tired tired. War.. Bed. Now. Don't look at anyone. Don't touch anything. Don't speak. Don't THINK. Shh quiet quiet quiet. [You can't silence me, idiot. I am you. What's the point of this? Who are you appeasing? There is a hell but there is no God. This isn't a war. There are no sides.] [Indulge.] Indulge. [Give.] Give. [Take.] Take.
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