thejusticelounge | i done made the devil a deal

Hoodie moves when the scent is gone. He doesn’t linger where Kyle is, now that the magician had removed what he’d needed. There was no point. He leaves the knucklebones scattered across the floor, not bothering to pick them up as he shifts across space and time, buoyed by the power that is growing. The scent still lingers, there is still hope, and the promise of revenge whets his appetite.

Hoodie is, while the Magician and her Lantern mend what has been broken, across in San Franscisco, speaking to Diana, daughter of Hippolyta. Hoodie is, while the populace grows more and more content in their feasting—their FEASTING— tearing the sheet of metal from the armor he’d been denied access to, and when it peels back, like the soft skin of a grape, the hunt is on again and Hoodie—He—

Hoodie is, while the Magician and her Lantern mend what has been broken, across in San Franscisco, speaking to Diana, daughter of Hippolyta. Hoodie is, while the populace grows more and more content in their feasting—their FEASTING— tearing the sheet of metal from the armor he’d been denied access to, and when it peels back, like the soft skin of a grape, the hunt is on again and Hoodie—He—

Hoodie races across space and time on the currents of pure human energy bubbling under his fingers, his teeth bared and straining. Straining, because the boy has left. He can smell him.

Hoodie removes the fruit stolen from his uncle’s garden from within the pockets of his sweatshirt—that is where his hands have travelled, everytime— and leaves it upon the plate and waits. Waits.

Damian has snuck out of his prison for the second time this day. He glares up at the gray sky as if its caused him some great grievance, while he cracks the pomegranate open with his small fingers. The movements are precise, powerful. The boy picks out a few of the precious, staining seeds and places them on his tongue. Without a moment’s haste, he crushes them between his back teeth, not yet graced with twelve-year molars. The pomegranate was an appeasement, it seemed, for the longevity of his stay. The boy accepts it without hesitation.

There.

Hoodie steps onto the earthly plane, as if from nowhere, but does not approach the boy, Damianos. He who tames. He watches, eyes trained on the movement of his mouth, the swell of his lips, stained with red. He does not speak. He does not need to.

Damian turns at the sudden presence in his peripheral, dropping the pomegranate in his haste to pull into a defensive pose. It’s almost as if Hoodie can see his mother, her dark hair spilling over her shoulder, as she positions each little limb into the perfect spot. “Who are you?!” he demands, as the pomegranate rolls towards the stranger.

Hoodie slips the toes of his converse under the fruit, and kicks it up, to catch in his hand. He closes his fist around it, but does not press hard enough to damage the seeds. He tilts his head. “You are the one I’ve been searching for.”

Hoodie grins, and the motion causes his hood to tremble. “Your mother did an excellent job of hiding you.”

Damian frowns even more, not lowering the fist nearest Hoodie. “My mother—?” he asks without thinking, the softness of his mother’s mention seeping into his dark eyes.

Hoodie steps forward, towards the boy, emboldened by the sight of the red that stains the boy’s mouth. He reaches out, fingers curling against the soft cleft of his chin, pulling it up and towards him. “How many did you eat?” He asks, his voice a tremulous inking of sound, dropped against a blank canvas. “How many seeds did you eat, sweet angel?”

Damian struggles, slamming his fists towards the man, only to watch them disappear in the darkness of his coat. “Let me—” he hisses, struggling harder and harder, like his mother would want him to. “—GO!”

Hoodie curls his hands around the gentle slope of the boy’s twin shoulders before he drags his hands over his chest, against the heart that beats and swells with it. With power. Her power.

Hoodie “Damian!” He whispers, fervently, fingers pressing into the boy’s sternum, like he had the other man’s, before he had ripped the steel apart with his bare hands. “Damian, how many did you eat?”

Damian thrashes violently, fear overcoming his features. He tries attack after attack, but Hoodie only continues to pull him closer and closer with each blow. Finally, the boy looks up at the hooded figure, rage and fear and confusion shooting across his features, and shouts:

Damian “MY NAME IS RAMSEY!!!”

Hoodie sinks his hand into the center of the boy’s chest.

Hoodie pushes, a low groan escaping him, and closes his hand around his heart. The hood drifts, to reveal tendrils of brown hair at the edges of his cheeks, but nothing more than that: nose, chin, mouth. His teeth are stained with red—not juice—and he presses his fingers into organ, squeezing. Tightly.

Hoodie “..you will remain by my side, cupbearer, as penance for their crimes.” He inhales, and doesn’t release. “Ramsey.”

Ramsey screams at the top of his little lungs, thrashing and pushing and trying to escape. “MAMA!!!” he wails, “PA!!!” Something lower down, near Ramsey’s stomach, hurts too, like the three little seeds he swallowed are now burning straight through him, and when Hoodie speaks again, he cries out for his mother a final time.

Hoodie turns his head, when the ground explodes in a fury of earth, wood, rusted nails. The dimming afternoon light is filled then, again, with the sounds of flight but it is not ravens. Not this time. The hole in the ground, a covered well, shapes the funnel of bats that spill out of it, their squeaks filling the air.

Hoodie twists his hand, and when the veins of his arms fill with white-blue light, he laughs, and pulls his wrist out, to wrap around the boy’s hand. Bounding, it only takes a few steps for him to reach the doorway, the portal, and his grip tightens on the boy as he pushes into the throng of screaming, beating wings.

Ramsey is in Hell.