welcome to the justice lounge

Kyle hovers over a large hole in the ground on North Brother Island in New York. The hole goes deep into the ground (Kyle can’t see the bottom, it’s that deep) and is about 500 metres in diameter. Even more interesting, it’s situated on the grounds of an old, abandoned hospital. No one knows how it appeared there (hence Green Lantern being called to investigate) but the sides are smooth and featureless, clearly not naturally-made. Kyle float there, debating whether or not to fly in. He’s sorely tempted; especially because the last time he saw a hole like this, it was created in the Antarctic, by that extremely destructive fire salamander. He sends an initial recon report up to the Watchtower databases, complete with green-tinged photos taken with a construct camera.

"Yep," Mar’i intones wisely over comms from the Monitor Womb, where Captain Atom is eating what looks like caviar on crackers next to her, "that’s a big hole." She squints at Kyle’s picture. "You need to update the megapixels in that camera, GL. Or maybe invest in a…what, red filter maybe?" She looks over at Captain Atom, who shrugs and continues eating and monitoring a Thai channel.

"Nightstar?" Kyle’s voice crackles through the comms, and he sounds surprised for some reason. "Y’know I was just thinking about that?" He doesn’t elaborate on what ‘that’ is, and instead Kyle constructs a floating camera, letting it float by his shoulder as he flies in closer. The camera follows obediently, reality TV/mockumentary style. Kyle is busy touching the edge of the hole, marveling at its smoothness when Mar’i and Atom see Kyle/his camera look up suddenly, his breathing getting faster. He looks around the abandoned hospital grounds, camera scanning as well. "This place gives me the creeps. I could SWEAR I saw something move on the second floor." 1

Mari glances over at Atom, before she switches to a headset to let him focus on other matters. “Maybe you did. Abandoned hospitals are great places to rest for homeless populations. Or maybe it’s some amateur journalist or dumb kid trying to get a scoop? Can you construct a camera that shows all directions? Or at least the cardinal ones?”

"Cardinal…" Mar’i can hear Kyle’s grin as he keeps talking. "I never heard of it said like that! Ay chido…" The camera splits into four and Kyle adds wistfully. "Honestly I was hoping it was a ghost. I bet this place is hella haunted, but…yeah you’re right it’s probably just some urban explorers or something. I don’t know how or why anyone homeless’d wanna be here. Or could live here. Unless they’re like hermit farmers or something!" Kyle rambles, still looking around, clearly glad he has someone to be talking to at this moment.

( cue the steadycam )

When he had been a child, and had devoured every book his father had owned on Greek mythology, Bruce had always imagined Hell to be hot, and Elysium to be golden-white, shimmering like the inlaid gold of his mother’s ark, his father’s cross.

He was surprised to find that the dewy grass was a dark, verdant green; it was soft under his hands. Bruce was also surprised, upon opening his eyes, that those hands were small, smooth. Child-sized. No knife and bullet scars, the jagged teeth of a near-loss of a finger laced the tops of his hands. Untouched. Undamaged.

A willow tree. Above him, it swayed, gently, the tips of long tendrils brushing his forehead, reminding Bruce too much of his mother’s kiss when he was ill, or just too sleepy to wake up. He lifted himself to his feet and looked around, where he was.

There was a pool, to the side of him, and while Bruce knew he would not drink from it, he moved over on hands and knees—Alfred hated trying to get grass stains from his shirts and shorts—and peered down into the water.

Staring up at him, was his eight-year old self.

Interesting.

Rising up, unsteadily—his legs felt weak and unused—he looked across the pond and spotted the girl on the other side, asleep as he had been. He made his way over.

The girl had been sleeping much longer than Bruce, that much was clear. No older than three or four, her tiny body was clothed in a tremendously, almost comically, puffed white dress, layers and layers of tulle filling the space between where the dress’ hem ended and the short, stout orange limbs poked out. The fabric itself was iridescent, catching the too-bright sunlight and sending it off in little flickers of rainbow purples and blues. A hint of pink. A shock of yellow.

Someone, somewhere, had attempted to tame her long, dark hair into two loose buns atop either side of her head, but somewhere in her sleeping, the little girl had rolled over and around, and the right bun had spilled down the aubergine locks in thick, spiraling curls. They were too long, too thick, much more hair than one would expect from a child her age, but the strands themselves were testaments to her heritage, her background. A little girl whose mother had tumbling, too-long locks. A little girl who came from womb with all her hair already twisting and curling around her little pinkened ears, her little bloodied face.

Her cheeks weren’t bloodied now, though. They were round and apple-bright, pushing her little moon-eyes up even more, and they curved down to the fatness of her lips, the roundness of her tiny chin. And there was wetness there, on her cheeks, on her lips. A child who slept with her mouth open; a child who cried often.

As Bruce approached, without waking, the little girl—Mar’i Grayson, age three-and-a-half—murmured: “엄마…”

Instantly the word translated in Bruce’s head. Mommy. Mom. The cadence and the language registered for Bruce as only one person—Mar’i—and, yes, as he looked down at her, it was obvious, despite her age, her Tamaranean heritage. She was darker as a child than she was as an adult.

Settling on the ground, Bruce reached out a hand and gently touched the girl’s shoulder.
“Mar’i,” he began, his voice crackling. Bruce stopped, frowned, and cleared his throat. Too high. Too.. soft. He tried again, and pushed his hand against the soft roundness of her shoulder.

"Mar’i, wake up.”

Ever the fitful sleeper, Mar’i slapped lazily at Bruce’s hand, the chubby fingers on her own pushing, then gripping his. Her entire hand wrapped around three of his fingers, and the size difference was still astounding, even in a place like this. She snuggled her cheek against the cool grass, nose scrunching up momentarily before it relaxed again and her mouth went even more slack.

At Bruce’s second call, she pinched her entire face up, letting out a high, keening whine. ”아니…” But, just like a child being awoken by her parents, Mar’i raised her head up, eyes swollen from sleep, and rubbed at her cheeks, looking up at Bruce. If she had visible pupils, they would’ve contracted as she stared up at the older boy.

She sat up, tulle settling down around her knees like the base to some exotic cupcake, and the little girl asked, voice bird-chirping: “Where is Mommy?”

It felt impossible.

The doorway opened in the kitchen of Wayne Manor, beckoning him - and Kyle refused to go in. In all of Kyle’s wanderings through the entire universe, it was one place he’d never imagined needing to go. Yet - little Catholic boy - the idea of it was stuck to him, always present, like something constantly scraping in the back of his throat:

Hell.

It conjured up fantastical images from (who else?) good old Hieronymous Bosch, favored artist for over-imaginative kids. Kid-Kyle pored over countless large-scale prints from library books and later online, giggling with friends (only a couple; not everyone shared Kyle’s macabre, fantastical obsession) over the howling naked white people twisted in soft yellow-ochre torment.

( down once more )

the crack between worlds appears

Hell wasn’t really a place Dick knew about too well. He knew about it, of course, knew all the different versions and myths surrounding it. He knew what the Greek underworld should look like, what he should have to cross to enter it, what he would face to get there. Yet, when he stepped through the fissure following Bruce, Hell was nothing like the Hades he’d seen and read about in stories.

The Hell he’d walked into was Blüdhaven.

That seemed pretty rude and unfair. Sure, Blüdhaven wasn’t the best of cities, but it wasn’t Hell. Dick looked around. He was on an apartment rooftop in what appeared to be the East side of the ‘Haven, but the geography was a bit wrong. From where he stood, he shouldn’t have been able to see Gotham across the bay, but there it was off in the distance. He’d recognize that skyline anywhere. All of Blüdhaven seemed a bit off, as if it was missing some buildings. Off in the distance, he could hear trumpets playing, something big and dramatic and patriotic he couldn’t quite make out. Blüdhaven didn’t have many parades.

Well, any parades, really.

( try to make it )

the crack between worlds appears



둥지에서 떨어지는 아기 새

and falling and falling and falling and that place between dreaming and nightmaring what’s that called what’s that called

and once your grandfather took you by the hand and said 자두 꽃 he said 자두 꽃 once in an alley a man took my parents away from me to hell you asked he shook his head and said there is no hell you don’t believe in hell

and belief is different from knowledge because you can know something without believing in it

and why would you believe your mother came from hell your planet was in hell you spent a year running across hell-planet itself watching your hell-aunt stare down at you from her throne and when do i get a throne mommy

and he says with his golden eyes i will you give you a throne and you take his hand and you run from your fear because if you don’t believe it it doesn’t matter if you know it

( one chance out between two worlds )

Dun. Beige. Ecru. Taupe. Eggshell. Putty.

Off.

Kyle has Poppy on the large oak table in the kitchen of Wayne Manor, swaddled in a fleece blanket - it’s a child blanket that Mister Pennyworth gave him, Kyle notes idly, uninterested - staring with her lizard eyes as he leans his chin on the wood and stares back at her. She blinks one eye lazily, the inside-lid clicking sideways, then retracting.

Neutral movements.

When Kyle had given Poppy to Mar’i, the lizard’s skin emanated all sort of colors - not reds or greens, blues or violets, though. Those were Lantern emotional spectrum colors. No instead, Poppy rippled in colors that Kyle remembered thinking Mar’i would enjoy: chartreuse and puce, vermilion, teal and lavender.

Poppy chirps, like a mix of a baby crocodile and a zebra. And like something (someone?) else, that Kyle can’t quite place right now.

He contacts Oa, and Salaak asks, “Why on Oa do you care about the originating planet of one animal species?” Kyle responds: “Aren’t we Green Lanterns supposed to take care of everything in the universe, right down to the smallest creature, Salaak?” Exasperated, the Slyggian snaps back, “That is not what I mean, Lantern Rayner. I did not think you — never mind. I shall transmit the file archive to your ring. Do not contact me about this again, Salaak out.”

Here is the information Kyle gets: The planetoid was classified in its galaxy as V223s.ddfd463*6^^, loosely translated. It was an agricultural planetoid, used by the surrounding planets as a resource and food source. It was also a hotspot for the Nyrellian pirates, who habitually raided and stole creatures and plants to be sold in the galaxy black market. Kyle already knew that part; he’d encountered a crashed Nyrellian ship on V223s.ddfd463*6^^. The planetoid was close to complete destruction (interplanetary civil war, yadda yadda) and Kyle had been assigned on rescue detail, just in case he found any lifeforms worth saving.

Two Nyrellians clung to life in their crashed ship; but Kyle left them and instead salvaged only one thing before the entire planet imploded: a cramped cage with a small, mewling lizard. The last survivor of her planet, on the brink of being stolen for some tyrant’s exotic pet collection or worse.

"C’mon, Poppy," Kyle coaxes, and Poppy responds with a little throaty chirrup. "I know you miss home. I’ll bet Vehtwothreeess-dot-defedfoursixthreeixiehathat was full of little spitfires just like you, little cacti too, huh?” He pushes over a potted cactus to entreat the lizard. The GLC file gave a very cursory list of life-forms that cultivated on V223s.ddfd463*6^^, and some of the plants looked rather succulent. Poppy crawls out of her swaddle and boards the cacti, but her color doesn’t change. No russet, no emerald or coral or sage. Just…dull.

Kyle sighs, on the brink of sending Mar’i another text about Poppy, if only to say there’s been no change. He knows Mar’i’s busy with the rest of the League, handling Talia and now Cheshire, but. Truth is he kind of also wants an ETA as well; and Poppy’s lack of status is a good excuse.

Poppy raises her head to look at him, trills, and bursts into flame.

"Dios mio!" Kyle exclaims in a panic, hands flared in shock as he stares at Poppy. She’s trilling, or screaming - something, Kyle can’t tell but it’s enough to make Titus in some distant room start to howl. He hastily constructs a fire blanket and grabs for the twitching lizard, trying to tamp the flames; instead his hands crush though her crumbly fiery skin and body, as if it’s made of hard ash. "Ohmigod," Kyle breathes in horror, opening the blanket and finding the remains of Poppy: brown clumps of dust that smear greasily into the blanket. Kyle is already imagining the many ways that Mar’i will either rip off his head, never speak to him again, or perhaps both. No wait what is he thinking. Definitely both —

—- except. tok

The flat of his thumb rolls against something hard in the blanket; exhaling a shaky breath, Kyle pushes through the ashes, eventually revealing a hard stone. No - it’s not a stone - it’s an egg. The shell is colored, bright swirls of grass and sky, peach and plum, blood and sun that shift constantly in reply to Kyle’s fingers.

He forgets to breathe for a moment as he hears the chirrup noise again - once, twice. Except it doesn’t come from Poppy or the mysterious egg she’s left behind. And this time, it’s accompanied by a distinct scent of fall apples in the air.

Zee drops her hand from Roy, “Alright, someone wanna make the call to get us in?”

Mari stares up at the iron-wrought gate. She looks at Dick, then nods at the security pass. “You or me?” Poppy makes a soft noise and she tucks the little lizard closer, cooing softly. “Don’t worry, I’ll take you to your favorite little girl in just a second.”

"No need." Batman appears out of the shadowy trees behind them. "What are you all doing here?"

Roy huffs when Zee drops his hand and smooches an air kiss at her too. “Hey, I thought it was pleasaa-aanaana, hey.”

Dick smiles and steps forward. “We’re here to help look for Ramsey.”

Zee narrows her eyes at Batman, before noticing the jaw doesn’t quite match up, “Weird.”

"Whoa only hours out of jail and you’re already in—" Kyle cocks his head to one side, as if listening to something. "Oh. You’re not - oh." He looks kinda grossed out. "No beard, huh." Ollie doesn’t respond for a moment, then punches Kyle square in the jaw. “He stays out here,” he says brusquely. “The rest of you can come in.”

Zee arm is almost yanked back by Ollie’s slug at Kyle, “God DAMMIT, seriously? Seriously!?”

Dick rubs his eyes and sighs. “We can’t just leave him out here.”

Mari starts rubbing her head again, because oh X’Hal. Roy looks to Ollie. “He says it’s outta him.”

Kyle sprawls on the ground. “Hey!” he starts to protest, then he considers and remains in place where he is. “Yeah, okay fine. It’s fine Zee, I’ll wait here, I’ll - I’ll keep watch.”

Ollie points at Kyle. “Cause any more trouble, and I’ll be back out here to take you down myself.” He snaps at the others, “Kyle’s been compromised enough times in recent memory to make him more of a risk than I’m willing to take with my /wife’s son/.”

Zee stretches her arms out, “You think I’m that fucking irresponsible? Oh my god, come on.”

"You guys know everything I know anyway," Kyle says helpfully to Dick and then the ache sets in on his jaw; damn that Arrow arm. His ring starts to compensate. "So g’on, I don’t need to be around the kids - the - the kid. Around Lian." He looks ashamed suddenly and then gives Zee a kiss on her forehead and abruptly steps away from the group, looking around the road as if metas are going to jump out of the bushes.

Zee frowns sharply as Kyle kisses her forehead, “I hate this fucking house.” she whispers harshly.

( i fell for you like a child )

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.

( six seeds )

Despite it being the first time, Alfred was not, in fact, surprised to find Ramsey where he was—half buried under a large book in the large armchair in the library—but he was a.. bit taken aback at the tome the boy had chosen and was thumbing through: The Art of Making Bread.

He chuckled, a low dry sound, and moved over into sight with the tray he carried: tea, biscuits, and a small platter of apples, the remainders from that year’s haul. The butler set it down, on a small table near Ramsey, and scanned for Lian. Hiding in the stacks, more than likely. He proceeded to cut one of the apples, then another, as he stood next to the boy, and nearly chortled as he spoke next.

"Sating your appetite for knowledge, young Master Robinson?"

Ramsey stuck his entire hand between the entries on “challah” and “chapati,” marking the page and smiling up at the older man. The smell of the apples as Alfred cut them was tangy and sharp, and for some reason Ramsey’s mind went straight back to that awful place with bungalows and monsters who took mothers in the middle of the night. Unconsciously, his fingers on his free hand rubbed at the spot where his moon-scar had once been. The bread book had been no coincidence either—it had elicited the same memories.

"Mr. Bruce let me help him coo—bake bread over the summer," he responded helpfully, spreading the book out on the ottoman in front of him—a footrest to a man, a table to a child—-and flipped the pages until the loaves of bread Bruce had baked and he had delivered came into sight. "I saw this too…" he began again, flipping more pages until he found the thing he was looking for. Ramsey hoisted the book up, entirely too bulky in his tiny hands, and squinted at the page, reading in his best fourth grade voice.

( the staff of life )

The Batman crouches atop the high parapet on St. Gabriel’s Roman Catholic Church, watching intently as a small group of shorn-headed people wander through the short patch of grass that serves as a yard for the building, within its black wrought-iron gates. They move in a seemingly erratic pattern, individuals breaking off from the group to disappear into the church or to the narrow historic graveyard along its side, only to rejoin moments later. He grunts when a new person enters the scene, from the open front gate. A nun in an elaborate wimple, white and winged.

Kate needs about ten drinks of mulled wine. Gotham is fucking cold—yes, her suit keeps her warm, but it’s a weird feeling, the way she can sense the air on her body like she’s nearly naked, while not freezing her ass off entirely, and it has the tendency to make California Kate psychosomatically freezing. She speaks softly into the comm. “That’s not the official habit for any of the orders near here. Keep an eye on her.”

Batman starts when her voice comes through the built-in comm of the cowl’s earpieces, dropping back from the ledge onto the flat surface. “Yeah, she looks like she’s about to start flying into the air any minute now. How’s it going on your side?” He tiks the lenses on the cowl to normal, blinking behind them as the enhanced vision switches off.

Kate snorts. “She might, considering how things have been going lately. Be careful.” She stretches a little, getting stiff in the knees from the weather and staying put for so long in it. “Absolutely fuck-all, Batman, sir. Which is either a sign that something’s gonna hit, or that everything is going to drop on your side.”

Another grunt. “Yeah, well — I’m still waiting for some of the locals to figure out that I’m not Batman Classic. Not even New Batman.” Ollie flicks at one of the pouches in the belt with his thumb, but misses the particular, fiddly little catch and skids his thumb sideways between two openings, twisting it for his troubles. “Batman Lite, maybe.” He gets the damn thing opened properly and attaches a tiny camera to where he’d been perched before moving to the side of the church without the graveyard, hooking a grapple so he can lower himself down the side. “Gonna get closer, maybe nab one’a these kids. If you hear unmanly shrieks over the comm, it means I need you pronto.”

( heavy is the head )