It's odd. How time soars. One moment, life is a bramble bush of untameable chaos; the next, rolling green plains stretching for straight miles as far as the eyes can see. Of course, there lies a grey space in between, a purgatory of sorts. Those 'it could be better, but it's not terrible' instants. It's just...grey.
Those inhabiting Wayne Manor were stuck in a grey period. A grey, grey, grey period. The pursuit of a certain maniac jester persisted through the bitter snows of the New Year as life continued. A key lesson one learnt from living in the life of a hero, anti-hero or villain, is that life (no matter the circumstances) always continues. Despite death, heartbreak and loss, the world moves on, people learn to move with it.
To move on from The Joker's attack on Harley.
To move on from the Council's potentially illegal dealings.
To move on from the occupation of the realm of Hell.
...
Nah, I'm fucking with you, this lot will hold a grudge till they pop their clogs. And then they come back to kill the jackarse who messed them about.
Talk about a chip on the shoulder.
Forgive? Pah!
Forget? Ha. Hilarious.
Forgive and forget?... how about 'Fuck Off'?
Following this broken moral compass, Jason twitched his finger, firing a single, smoking bullet between the man's eyebrows. Lip curling as the led slashed through the man's head-spraying The Redhood with blood and squidgy worm-like brains- Jason stepped around the man, not waiting for his deceased body to hit the ground.
It had been a dead end.
Misinformation.
The Joker hadn't used that hideout in years, hence, it had been teeming with locusts and people not worth anymore than the insects they lived among: these weren't the regular, unfortunate souls who wore dirt like a second skin; these were the scum who put people in those positions, flashing gold teeth as they stole daughters and shot sons. To add icing to the cake, the majority were gold-chained ex-accomplices of The Joker (gods be damned if Jason didn't wrap those chunky valuables around their necks, tightening and tightening till the struggling stopped).
Beating around the red smoke clouding his mind (anger or some other driving emotion, perhaps satisfaction?) the crimson-soaked Redhood registered a sound akin to floors being scrubbed, or squeaky clean teeth. Stowing away the hand gun, Jason kept an ear open, itching to find the source of the noise.
Attempting to make as little noise as possible, Jason trod over decaying wood, rusty doors opening beneath his feet with every cautious step. Creaking pace by creaking pace, the sound grew louder.
Warm.
Warmer.
Warmer still.
BOILING.
In a single, powerful blow, Jason kicked the locks of the door (locks, plural, for there were many locks of all manner of shapes and sizes littering the side of door). Upholstering the gun in a practiced jerk of the hand.
In a millisecond, the weapon hit the floor.
Casting aside the sights in his periphery (the depressingly common setting of a dingy room tainted with growing mould and feeling of poverty, an imitation of a home), Jason crouched low, his fingertips touching the floor. A mishmash of rage, indignation and empathy setting his eyes afire, Jason inched towards the poor creature huddled before him, whimpering.
Like a kicked puppy, the child whined, curled in to itself, attempting to cast the world and the pain away. With hair so stained Jason couldn't tell it's colour, and skin stretched over bones and poking through the thin shirt it wore. The child evidently hadn't witnessed the blessings of life, nor the mercies for that matter.
In the murkiest depths of the ocean of Jason's memories, a single image swam to the rippling surface. Struggling against the red-masked sharks attempting to devour it (a metaphor for the feeling of numbness that Jason forced upon himself), the memory broke through the water, flying in to his mind.
A muddy-faced, tattered, scrawny little thing. Unfed, unhoused, unwanted. Yet still grinning cheekily as he removed the hubcaps of the great hero's car. At times, retreating to an unresponsive shell due to the lack of nutrition he faced.
There, curled at his feet, was a reflection of his younger self. Before Batman- Bruce. Before death. Before all the anger. Underneath all that...life...lay a small, quivering child, shaking like a leaf in the breeze with cold and hunger.
As though a spirit had guided his hands, The Redhood's disguise clattered on the floor. Viewing the child with his bare eyes, Jason brushed the hair away from the child's face, retracting his hand like it had been shocked.
Gently as could be, Jason spoke, "It's...it's alright.", sighing, he reached out, taking all the care he could muster in to a single movement, and stood, cradling the child in his bloodstained arms.
"I get it.", he murmured. "Don't worry...I know..."
Against his chest, the boy made no sound other than the light sniffling, and opened his watery, brown eyes.
******
"In simple terms, the Joker has returned and appeared to have -once again- a vendetta against Quinn. No information has been obtained to aid in understanding the motive behind his actions.", Batman trailed his steely, calculating gaze over the Justice League. "No issues besides that situation and regular petty theft."
Per usual, the JLA congregated in the Hall of Justice, informing the rest of the team about the affairs of the regions under their control. To the surprise of none, Aquaman had been a no-show ('selfish bastard!', Hal thought, 'we have to be here, why doesn't he?!') and Shazam hadn't been seen in months, though most of the Justice League were in on his little secret.
Diana nudged Barry in to wakefulness, prompting a slurred, "Oh! Huh-um... 's it my turn now?...M'kay...", he yawned, stretching out his arms and legs like a cat, sprawled over his designated chair around the table.
Eyes narrowing, the hard set of Batman's mouth became even more rigid (if that were possible) as he threw eye-daggers at the Flash. Caught between snickering or sighing at the exchange, Clark buried his face in his hands, a precise imitation of his son caught in a war of verbal barbs between Robin and Raven.
Report upon report passed through the ears of the Leaguers, as menial as usual with nothing of extreme significance being told- though Cyborg did relate one incident wherein a hybrid hippopotamus-ostrich attempted to rob a corner shop (though it was suspected that he did so to simply lighten the flat mood, and, to his credit, there were a few snickers).
"The lab accident has been safely detained.", Vic hid a smirk. "I'm glad to say that no other incidents of this nature are suspected to occur in the near future."
Taking his seat, Cyborg gestured to Green Lantern, indicating that it was his turn. Blinking with sticky eyes ('hey, it was a rough day at work!'), Hal shoved his seat back, rising to his feet and regretting life. Sometimes, it was incredible being a Justice Leaguer -fighting against those with plans to rule the planet and receiving the love of the public (especially the ladies)- but shit these guys were boring!
This day, as a matter of fact, had been drawn out and mentally draining. Why, if one interesting thing were to happen today, Hal would-
CRASH'
The Leaguers were in action. All of them out of the building in seconds. With the bright city lights glaring and the waxing moon grinning down at them, the heroes raced forwards across the stone courtyard (the Flash reaching the commotion first).
Superman was the first to see it. The group. All breathing, beating, speaking like humans. The shaky, adrenaline-altered du dum.du dum.du dum of their hearts thumping out of synch. The swirling, white tendrils exhaled through their noses and mouths. All of it was human.
Yet, accessorising these attackers was an arsenal of weaponry emanating power. Not kyrptonian, or any other alien power Clark had come across in all his years; something different. In their arms, these would-be assailants cradled what appeared to be guns (monsters of burnished metal mounded in to chunking weapons with glimmering white peeking out at odd junctions). What the whitish parts were, Clark didn't know, though he figured that had something to do with the energy surging from the group.
Come to think of it, that was a heck -rather, Hell- of a lot like the power radiating from the Titan's empath. Purely coincidental? Perhaps.
Not entirely crossing to meet the black-clad group (twenty-seven individuals), the Justice Leaguers present faced them, striking one of those fabulously powerful poses they managed to pull of flawlessly every single time.
"What is if that you want?", Wonderwoman opened, her voice as forceful as the lasso at her waist.
A man steeped forth from those before them, tall, plain, angry, noting so special. With a full audience of passers by and police- at a safe distance- the man responded in an ill-tempered shout.
"YOUR DEATH!"
And he charged. The stupid man.
Did he truly believe that a gun could prevent Superman from flattening him.
Soon to be followed by his 'friends', the man ran at the Kryptonion, gun in arm, scream leaving his mouth. Meeting the challenge with little enthusiasm, Clark stepped off the courtyard floor, striding leisurely towards the riled mob as his fellow teammates launched at the gun-carriers.
Holding all faith that his bullet-resistance would prevail, Clark drew nearer to the man who'd spoken, one arm raised, palm flat.
"Why don't you just-"
The Southern-Alien was cut short by a rippling pain striking his shoulder, tearing the flesh and forcing red to seep from the wound.
That was no bullet.
Clark's eyes travelled from the gaping wound to the man, thinning as they pinned the individual with a glare fitting of Superman's power. Cocking his head, the Kryptonian moved like a viper, striking the man in a millisecond. A well-placed blow (light enough so as to only render the man comatose) and he was unconscious.
Aware of the potential of the guns that their challengers wielded (with fumbling hands), the present Leaguers focused their attentions on disarming the weapon-holders, dodging blasts of blinding white and ducking under swinging arms. A valiant effort on the part of the attackers, however, no matter the power of a weapon, in inexperienced hands, a tool is useless.
Suffice to say, the Justice League had most of them sufficiently subdued within a few moments. Confident that the two or three remaining conscious attackers could be detained by the police (and not wanting to handle the coppers at the moment) Batman gave the signal for the Leaguers to exit the situation. For the time being.
The last to step on to the grey courtyard floor, Hal looked over her shoulder, surveying the damage done: surprisingly, not a lot, the shots hadn't damaged the surroundings whatsoever. Intriguing. As the Lantern was about to take another step, one of the men slumped on the floor rose like a reanimated body.
He snatched a gun from the floor, levelled it at the Leaguers, and shot. The Flash, and Superman spun, swooping low. The others have similar reactions, ready to dart if need be. Already, police had jumped on the man, the 'gun' sliding out of his hands.
To the bewilderment of all, the blast of... whatever it was never passed the Justice League. It didn't reach anywhere near them. Instead, the streak of platinum struck dead in the air, slamming in to a wall.
Rippling like an ocean of magic, a dome encased the Hall of Justice, flickering in to existence as though it had always existed. Translucent, the force field glinted a shimmering emerald and amethyst, shining in the night lights. A mesmerising, holographic hemisphere of power, the forcefield winked at the awestruck onlookers before it blinked out of sight.
Had that not been witnessed by so many, one might have thought that it never happened, for the air way as transparent as usual -though tainted by the industry of the area.
"What in the unholy Hell was that?", Hal raised his eyebrows at the others, receiving nothing but blank looks.
Batman brought his constant rationality to the situation, ordering with aplomb, "Go inside, we'll sort this issue systematically."
Taking the instructions as they did all of Batman's commands (with slight reluctance), the Justice League returned to the base, passing through the doors with furrowed brows and curious minds.
Inside the Hall of Justice, waiting in the conference room they'd sat in priorly, the Leaguers awaited Batman's return, speculating in dulcet tones. Less than thirty seconds later, Bruce strode through the doors, grasping one of the bulky, gem-infused guns. In his typical style, Batman set the object on the table in front of him, fixing each Leaguer with a cold stare. One. After. The. Other.
Unsettling, was the word.
J'onn was the first to break the silence.
"What are your suspicions?"
Batman regarded the gun for a moment, taking in the rough sides and jagged, pale stones embedded within the metal-like frame, before he raised his gaze to the Martian, "First, we need to collect what we know for sure. Speculations after."
"So what,", Barry snorted, "some freaky dudes decide to attack us with weird weapons that can make freakin Superman,", he jerked his thumb in Clark's direction, "bleed."
"And then a force field-of-sorts appears and blocks one of the shots.", Cyborg added, arms folded and he stood behind his chair.
Clarke placed his palm firmly on the table, drawing attention to him.
Concentrated on the subject of the guns, he said, "Whatever they were firing was mighty powerful. It wasn't Kryptonite, but it was damn strong."
This opened the opportunity for the others to express their speculations. Most of which seemed improbable. Evidently, the situation was going nowhere and they'd only left themselves with more questions than answers.
Once Hal had concluded his idea that the blasts were beams of sunlight, Cyborg perked up, unfolding his arms and knitting his brow.
Slowly, as though measuring his words, Vic said, "That power...it's not alien. There's nothing on my database on it to link it to any creatures we've fought. But...something familiar..."
"What is it man, spit it out!", Barry groaned, achieved a glare from Diana which put him right in his place.
Licking his lips, Cyborg continued, "Well, I've run a quick scan of the gun and the energy it emitted- the energy the blast emitted- was really similar to...", he met Batman's sturdy gaze, "To your son, Damian."
Cue the eye widening, tea spitting, and general outbursts of 'HUH?'.
Batman blurted, "Damian? What does he-"
Victor amended, "Not just him! Raven too-"
"The Titans?", Diana raised an eyebrow.
"-and her brother. They all carry this similar...", realisation hit Cyborg the same time as it struck Bruce.
The force field. Protection runes painted on the courtyard. Part-demons. The preternatural. Magic.
The protective dome had appeared because the blast was a magical threat to the Hall of Justice. And that forcefield was the one Constantine, Zatanna, Adyn, Raven and Robin had crafted less than two months before.
***
"And breaking news: the Hall of Justice has been under attack by a group of approximately twenty-five individuals. They attempted to strike at the Justice League and the Hall but were unsuccessful, however, there have been reports that Superman was wounded. Not only that, but witnesses say that a dome appeared to cover the Hall of Justice when an attacker fired at it. The police have not yet been able to identify a motive of the attack as of yet. More on this story in-"
Damian's eyes shot to Raven's, whose then shot to Adyn's who looked like a deer caught in headlights. Not a word was exchanged between them as Damian switched the living room TV off. Not thinking twice, Raven twisted her hand, tugging on the magic in her centre, and a portal spiralled in to existence.
Already garbed in his uniform , hence needing no change of clothes, Damian made haste to slip through the portal, travelling alongside the other demons.
Miles away, the Justice League spoke in strategic terms on the best course of action to take. A truly intellectually invigorating conversation that came down to, 'should we call them in now, or should we call them in tomorrow ?'.
The solution was provided when a flurry of purple specks solidified in to a shifting portal and Robin, Raven and her brother stepped through.
The demoness cast an eye to the object in format of Damian's father, her lips twisting wryly. Shutting the portal with an instant clenching of her fist, Raven uncharacteristically challengingly opened.
"You have quite the situation on your hands."
Damian smirked, "It figures you'd require assistance."
A.N:
So, my darlings and lovelies (and not) some major shit is going on ;)
Though, I would like to casually let you all know IT'S THE FUCKING WINTER HOLIDAYS FAM! I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS SINCE I CAME BACK TO MY SHIT HOLE OF A BRITISH SECONDARY SCHOOL AFTER SUMMER! TURN ON THE MARIAH CAREY NOW BIATCHES!
*cough* now that's out of the way, I'd like to thank you all for just. Being. Fabulous.
Thank you.
-Bats 🎅