Cross Crisis (A Interconnected, Multicross Short Story Collection)

[Dead Beyond]

Yo, here's the header that's also a placeholder.

This has been a project of mine that has been, I think, years in the making. Forgot when I started this project. The original idea was that I was going to post it once it was finished, one snippet per day in order to hold reader retention. But I kinda just threw up my hands and want to start posting.

So here we are. This is it's an interconnected, standalone snippet, multi-cross. Lots of buzzwords, huh? It means, every snippet series has been written with the intent that it can be read standalone, but also give a sense of a larger metaplot. An optional metaplot, really.

The fact that I'm posting this while it's unfinished means it's going to be the greatest stress test whether it can stand alone. There was a certain order that I wanted to achieve, but there's a gap between my outlines and the snippets I actually have written. The actual meat of the metaplot hasn't been written yet, but if you squint, you can probably see a few strands of it and the hint that all the snips share continuity. After my backlog, everything that comes after will be properly asynchronous, even though I will be ordering them in the right sequence within the threadmarks.

Backlog has been posted. So look around and see if something here fits your fancy.

Special, special thanks for @Ziel for withstanding my nonsense and making sure my snips were up to snuff.

 

[Dead Beyond]

A/N: Timeline Troubles is supposed to be a collection of Marvel stories to establish a "timeline" while giving me the excuse to the versions of characters that I find most optimal, even though they might be different in the current continuity. See: Ben Reilly and Chasm. Anyway, I only ever got around to Superior Spider-Man, having read that original run as it was coming out. As always, special thanks to @Ziel

Spoiler: What is Marvel: Superior Spider-Man

Superior Spider-Man is the identity that Doctor Octopus took on when he stole the original Spider-Man's body and later when he gained his own spider-powered body. While initially for malevolent reasons, he was forced to endure the brunt of Spider-Man's memories and mantra of great power comes great responsibility. He has taken it upon himself to be a Superior Spider-Man, using far more brutal measures than his namesake.

It was because of his vigilance that the city of San Francisco remained free from the simple crime. Because Otto Octavius suffered no tomfoolery of any sort in his city. And when he spotted a predictable, cliched mugging, Otto felt exasperated at having to put in the effort. Did these fools not know of the consequences he would inflict on them?

The scene was one of a dirty, ratty looking man holding a woman at knifepoint. He tuned out the incessant threats as he dropped down from the sky, webbing the knife-hand to wall. The woman screamed as most did, but smartly took advantage and ran off.

The Superior Spider-Man bared down at the quivering man who struggled to free himself.

"Your next few words are going to dictate your fate," he declared.

The mugger let out a sort of scared moan. Doubtlessly, he heard of how the Superior Spider-Man.

"Are you robbing to feed a despicable habit? Because that doesn't get you much sympathy from me."

He would hold his punches somewhat. The failure of the rehabilitation system was not his problem.

"I'm… I'm… behind rent… and it's… I have nowhere else to go…"

Behind his lenses, Otto had a scan of the man's biometrics and the conclusion made it unlikely the man was lying.

Otto pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. Of all the foolish reasons… but it was not entirely the man's fault. He had so much less than everyone else… but his struggle to survive took a criminal turn by his own actions. And that was something Otto could blame him for.

He pulled a wad of cash from his utility belt underneath the suit and a vial of chemicals that would dissolve the webs.

"I'm assuming, based on your proximity, this would probably cover your rent and other living expenses for the next four months." Otto held out the cash to the mugger, who stared at it wide-eyed. "Take it!"

The man snatched it up as if it would burn him. While the man gaped at it, Otto freed the man with a quick slash of the fluid. Otto held the man in place with a strong hand on his shoulder.

"Do not dare abuse my generosity here. I have given you a reprieve of four months without any stress of the financial sort. I fully expect you to find a solution within this timeframe. If I see you pulling a stunt like this, I will treat you like any other criminal and you know how I deal with them. And I will remember your face!"

"Yes, yes…. Spider-Man," he stammered out.

"That's the Superior Spider-Man, to you." He shot out a web and yanked himself into the air. "And don't you dare forget it!"

It was time to head back home and get some well-received rest.

XXX

With great power came great responsibility.

It was the foundation of Parker's ethos and creed, but a mere corner stone of Octavius's.

With superiority came responsibility.

It was a small, but substantial change that shifted the overall meaning. Otto knew himself, unfortunately. He had been a supervillain, wracked with arrogance, marginal insanity, and the intelligence to act on them.

Otto Octavius had committed numerous crimes and other heinous actions. And though he had a life as Elliot Tolliver, it did not change the sins of the past. He once planned to exterminate the majority of the human race for some plot or another.

He needed to vocalize this to himself, because he would forget or bury it with excuses.

And as much as it annoyed him, Otto had to admit that it was only due to the efforts of others that he was not worse off. That he wasn't like that freak Carnage, who somehow turned himself into a herald of a god-like being.

The consequences of his plans may have borne no fruit, but he still planted the seeds. He needed to be better, because he was better than the common civilian. They had their worth, of course, even if they couldn't match his peerless intellect. They had to make do with what they had in a frightening and terrifying world.

Whereas he had the superior intellect that needed to be wielded responsibly, because as annoying as Parker was, he had the superior heart. If Parker acted like Otto did during his first tenure as Spider-Man... Otto Octavius would not be alive.

He would never, never vocalize this thoughts aloud, but he had to acknowledge them. If he wanted to claim that he was free of his mental insanity, he had to make strides in his emotional maturity.

After all he missed nothing, but Otto had a habit of dismissing certain matters out of hand. And he would be a poor protector of San Francisco if he missed...

Wait... how did he know that Carnage was acting as the herald of Knull?

Who was Knull?

He shook his head furiously, not knowing where this information was coming from.

That didn't match up with his current surveillance!

"Activate!" he shouted with annoyance.

His apartment transformed from a lavishly humble abode to a more base befitting his profession. Shutters slammed the windows shut, blocking out the sunlight, but the momentary darkness didn't last long as computer screens lit up the room. They unveiled themselves from the wall like framed paintings, but instead of displaying wasted effort, they showcased valued data and analysis.

His Spider-Man suit rose from the floor, suspended in its display case. He paused in front of it, debating whether this current situation necessitated suiting up. It was far superior version with a slimmer spider-symbol on the chest. There was still the tell-tale red with a large web patterning, but that was mainly concentrated in the head, chest, and shoulders area.

The rest of the outfit was a neat, slimming black that elected a far better response than the red-and-blue buffoonery of Parker's costume. It made him too silly, whereas Otto's suit demanded people take him seriously.

Two metal pieces ran down the forearm, holding his web-shooters and other much needed tools. But the real power was in the little red pack on the suit's back, where he could call about a more versatile weapon: his spider-legs.

A little too close to his days as Dr. Octopus, but one had to admit that the science and inventions were brilliant. They just weren't used correctly.

"Is it mental tampering?" he mused. "There are more than enough mutants in the world with such ability."

Then he scoffed. "My shielding would have counteracted any intrusions of the sort. If I had become aware of the tampering when the shields went down, then it would confirm my theory. As it stands..."

His eyes flickered to the date on the computer and his heart skipped.

Somehow... impossibly, the timeline had been sprung forward. He was not so foolish as to think he himself was thrown forward. That would have required a more... personal touch.

He looked back to the suit.

The die had been cast and it was time to sort through the odds.

XXX

The Superior Spider-Man was ready for action, though what type he did not know. He flexed his claws free, making sure that their effectiveness was not diminished. His vision cycled through various modes of scanning, different hazes of color and sections of data flitted across his gaze.

Diagnostics were an important step in making sure everything ran smoothly. He would tolerate no less than perfection.

"Perfection," he echoed.

Otto flexed his muscles, allowing himself a moment of gratification. The cloned body was a marvel. Yet... anybody, if they were smart enough, could transplant their consciousness into a spider-powered body. The risks were mostly minimal save for the possibility of encountering interdimensional vampires that feasted on spider-powered people throughout the multiverse.

But the point was made.

He was not special. Parker had been a weird dichotomy of accident and fate. Either it was chance that a radioactive spider bit him or he was fated to be some sort of weird spider-totem of the universe.

Bah.

The initial process that created Spider-Man was not the same set of circumstances that created the Superior Spider-Man. Otto had chosen this fate — in, some might say, a fit of arrogance — and it was up to him to prove he was could prove his superiority. He went up to one of the many consoles and started typing, cross-referencing dates and events to the best of his memories.

In, well, superhero academia, there was a theory posited that events had a metaphysical weight to them. Events that should take years could be condensed.

With the existence of timelines and universes and multiverses, consistency seemed to take a backseat to logic.

Fools.

There was a pattern to the madness. A complex, complex pattern that required at least several degrees and a few doctorates to unravel, but it was there. With his advanced mind and knowledge, it only took half an hour to decipher the current mess. To put it for simpler minds, the pattern was becoming recursive. It was crossing in on itself.

Certain events, with their metaphysical weight, had dragged portions of the present down to past. Which meant, given that the forward momentum of time, portions of past were actually transplanted to the present.

It made sense! Because if black holes could form when space got too dense, could the same not occur with time?

As far as he could gather, it might mean subtle shifts in personality to cases like himself: transplanted wholesale. And there wouldn't be any temporal backlash as far as he could discern. In the right scenario, the damage could be mitigated to the multiverse in the form of alternate timelines and other universes. After all, there were several different characters running around, each from their own far-off future.

However, there was a threshold for the strain if one continually changed the timeline from a shorter and more nearer point in time. It would probably turn catastrophic if certain universes and timelines rubbed and flaked swapping individuals like trading cards. Not really all that problematic, perhaps, save for said individuals. The problem, however, were the calculated projections. Small-scale incidents like him were going to become frequent. Which would have been an acceptable cost.

What wasn't acceptable were the larger scale events that had long since past. There were any manner of crises that the heroes had to deal with. And what problems they had thought finished would arise once more. Maybe it would provide Otto a chance to offer a superior solution, to reduce the cost and causalities.

But that was his ego talking. He would be showboating when he really should have been preparing. Because the more weights added, the more the chain of timelines was tugged and future problems would become dreadfully apparent. Or rather the present day crises would soon be his problems along with all the others.

He rubbed his temples in exasperation.

Otto was dancing around a rather personal issue. He looked around, making sure there was no one around to see this moment of personal weakness.

Satisfied, he took a deep shuddering breath.

If he was pulled to the present, then it stood to reason that another past incarnation of himself would come along. Just him being here created a resonance of sorts. A version of himself that was still Dr. Octopus, deluded with shortsighted hate and ambition.

He looked at the monitor again, noting the gathered data. The damage had been extensive enough that the timeline twisted itself into a sort of freefall at the moment. The future cannot affect the past, but the past could most certainly affect the future in the form of a loose time loop.

It meant that carte blanche with dealing with any past Dr. Octopuses. He could, hypothetically, kill them and be free of paradox. But he couldn't truly fault the past version of himself.

Instead he was going to drag them kicking and screaming into superiority, if he had to. A spider-bot relayed his instructions to one of the computer stations and slotted itself in, ready to receive the data.

Otto shot a black-tinted web upwards and yanked down a large metal helmet that was connected to the ceiling via a series of wires. He fit his head snugly within the device and his brain tickled as it scanned his memories and brain waves.

Once it was done, the copied personality and memories were now transferred into the spider-bot. And it made its way back to him, snugly inserting itself into pack on his back. He pressed a button on the forearm guard, allowing a holographic screen to spring in front of him. From here, he had the option to lobotomize his target and completely overwrite it. But that was the coward's way.

Plus, Parker would get on his case about the ethics of such an act. Even if it was himself. Or rather a version of himself. So, it would merely be a stronger form of subconscious that would correct any failings of his past self. He quickly programmed a search algorithm to notify him about any mention of a Dr. Octopus in the news.

Before he could start make any strides toward the larger problem at hand, the computer dinged with a notification.

So soon?

Otto Octavius read news and felt a tinge of annoyance that this was happening. And then he read the date. His claws raked the keyboard to shreds and stupid, illogical tears burned his eyes.

Dr. Octopus was at large.

A future version of himself had reverted back to villainy. It... it boggled the mind that Otto would revert, would regress.

But in the photo, clear as day, was Otto Octavius. In that wretched body with its flab and deterioration, with forced upon, gimmicky limbs. He could feel them now, like phantom limbs blooming behind him like chains tying him to this fate.

The die had been cast...

... and the outcome did not favor him.

XXX

He swung through the city erratically, mentally charting the fastest way to New York so he could confront his future. Bring that future to an end. Because Otto Octavius as a villain was too dangerous to be kept alive. He flung himself through the air, self-control dwindling with his rising anger.

Web after web, he spun with a careless, righteous fury. The superior webbing was designed to be wielded with finesse. It was far, far stronger than Parker's. It lasted longer, clung tighter, and — if he wasn't careful — far more deadlier.

And that theory was being proven true.

With every swing, he tore brickwork down, shattered glass, and ripped apart walls. He had no time to waste by stopping and making sure that this public displays of destruction were rectified.

However, as he noticed that one of the falling debris narrowly missed a civilian, he forced himself to reevaluate. His expedience cannot be deterred and the erratic swinging was going to be the cost. But Otto had to be careful lest he cause an accidental death.

Slowing down might mean losing the exit window, but... he called upon the majority of his spider-bots placed within the city and called them to his path. They scaled the buildings and reinforced the areas where he shot his web.

The bots were low-powered with a short battery life and were created to harmlessly self-destruct once their energies were expended. Most of them were mere failsafes: to be activated only once. The mess with the Green Goblin during his first tenure as Spider-Man had proven that his tools could easily be turned against him.

So, he did what cliched super-villains did and installed a self-destruct mechanism.

He needed to focus and be unrestrained in that focus. Otto lacked the self-control to contain himself, but had the measures to ensure that nobody got injured by him.

I think you're just stewing in your resentment, Parker would have said, And looking for excuses.

Silence! Otto thought loudly. I do not suffer any more of these 'memory ghosts!' The real deal is more than annoying enough!

Otto fell himself freefall in body and mind, letting the rage guide him as a dam would a river... ecosystem be damned.

And then a phone call started buzzing inside his ear.

He grunted in annoyance, until it registered that it was Anna Maria Marconi. One of the most brilliant people he knew. Someone he had dated while he was Peter Parker, which led to a falling out once the truth came out.

Even if she didn't... couldn't love him anymore, Otto cared for her. He would sacrifice himself for her. He did sacrifice for himself for her. More than once.

Otto paused. Another temporal smudging with his memories?

No matter.

He answered briskly and efficiently.

"What is it, woman?"

There was a brief, tense pause and Otto knew he messed up, letting his emotions.

"Wow. Okay. When I saw on social media that San Francisco had its Spider-Man back, I didn't know if this is some sort of backup clone plan, an imposter, or it's actually you, but you don't talk to me like that. Supervillain genius or not."

He gritted his teeth. "I... apologize, Anna Maria. But my mental state is currently... taxed."

"Otto?" she whispered.

"From a point in the past."

"Oh..." She took a deep breath. "I assume you saw what you become. Became?"

The tone was inquisitive, perhaps even hopeful with the interplay of definitions and tenses. But it was all semantics. Stupid, pointless semantics. It would not save him.

"I doubt the timeline would appreciate me meddling from this end. It doesn't matter." He paused, taking a sharp swing toward the airport. "But what happened?"

"You sacrificed your heroism to beat some crazy spider version of Norman Osborn."

Otto cursed, nearly ripping off a gargoyle and flinging it into the street.

And he cursed some more. This was an entirely self-created problem. Already, he could comprehend the need to become worse off. Because, as preachy and stupid as it was, heart tended to beat the depraved... no matter how intelligent they were. Why else would Parker succeed against him time and time again?

And Otto's heart was oh-so very weak.

To beat the cruel, he had to become crueler.

Yes... yes... he could see it before him.

He was not the Superior Spider-Man he purported to be if he couldn't even beat a Norman Osborn rip-off!

There was chattering in his ear and he realized that he had been ignoring Anna Maria.

"What happened?" he asked, cutting through most of the drivel. On any other day, he would happily tolerate this sort of thing from her.

"Mephisto. You made a deal."

Otto went dead silent. Mephisto... a being that wasn't the devil, but may as well have been. Magic was an aberration in the face of logic. An inconsistent field of study that resembled artistry more than science.

And it could do the impossible far quicker than any other means.

Dirty deeds done cheap, Parker probably would have said.

And what do you know about making a deal with that blasted devil? he howled to the recesses of his mind.

He was spiraling. Without focus, without drive... he was succumbing to madness. Was it the affect of the temporal distortions? Was the madness from his previous self infecting him? Or... worse... the madness was always there?

"I have to go, Anna Maria. I have to deal with him."

"You're going to kill him," she realized.

"I am."

"Otto! You're still a hero now —"

"But I will not remain one!" Otto finally landed, skidding to a halt on a building that overlooked the airport. He drew his voice low. "Look, Anna... when I was still Dr. Octopus enacting my final scheme that involved killing 99.92% of humanity... I was genuinely fine with it. Sure, in my actual plan, it was but a single step to trick Spider-Man so I could steal his body... but if he failed... I was perfectly fine with leaving that sort of legacy! If I was dying, then I would make sure everyone remembered me!"

She remained silent, letting him gather his thoughts as to properly end this tirade.

"But I'm not that sort of man anymore," Otto continued. "And I don't want to be that sort of person ever. As the Superior... as a Spider-Man, I have to be responsible. My superiority means I have a duty to others, rather than them having a duty to me. But if I forget that fully... I am a stone's throw away from being that sort of man again."

"Please! You can find another way! You've been giving this second chance —"

"Who knows how it's gonna last? I need to make this a fixed time loop. By killing him, I ensure my fate and prevent any future danger he may pose. The ethics at play here are one of assisted suicide. Dr. Octopus is still me, but clearly infirmed by insanity."

"But the deal Mephisto said that if there was any brain damage, it would have been healed. I don't trust this devil-guy, but Dr. Octopus... it isn't so cut and dry. Ignoring the fact that he is you, that man is of sound mind and judgement. And deserves a chance."

"If... if someone does a presently and objective deed, knowing that it will cause tremendous distress to everyone involved down the line.... is it still a good deed? To save someone only to let them live their lives, suffering?" He paused, letting it sink in for her. "I thought not. Goodbye Anna Maria. I'm sorry that I couldn't stay a good man."

Otto hang up on her before she could say anything else.

It was time to leave and face his destiny.

XXX

Journeys tended to blur together when one fixated on the destination. When he arrived in New York, he did not announce his presence by swinging wildly about. Even if there were several spider-people swinging around, he would still draw attention and would most likely be drawn into some escapade or another.

Instead, he marched underground. If he knew himself, and unfortunately he did, then Dr. Octopus would notice the temporal blurring and hole up in one of his old bases. He paused in front of heavy metal doors and scowled at it. He had no time to input the code in the keypad. Plus, the security was still keyed to his old biometrics.

No matter; he was prepared.

Four mechanical spider-legs sprouted from his back as he forced open the doors. The sliding mechanisms screamed until the gears broke and something gave. As he shoved the two doors back inside the walls, the interior rattled like broken toys. The sense of wholeness was irrevocably shattered, despite the exterior looking untouched.

Something had been broken inside.

He continued his death march down the long hallway, where machine gun turrets and laser beams fired upon them. Otto twisted and turned without breaking his stride, as his mind knew the exact targeting algorithms that were designed for the more bombastic Parker. However, the barrage was only going to grow thicker and more impenetrable.

With but a thought, he fired back in a steady sequence with the spider-legs. The sharpened tips gave away to barrels that shot their own beams of energy. Otto walked, creating destruction ahead of him and leaving ruins behind them.

And finally, he stepped through retracting his spider-legs and saw his past... saw his future. It was disconcerting to see his old self. The general shape of the body was all wrong and the demeanor.... That... person was just wrong to see. Dr. Octopus had that bowl cut, the thick visor, and the green bodysuit with the yellow gloves and boots. And of course, the four metal tentacles that served as additional limbs.

He stood amongst rubble and fallen machinery.

"Spider-Man!" he shouted.

"Not quite." Otto exhaled, feeling the rage infuse in his chest. "Today, you face a quite inferior Spider-Man... but quite a superior foe!"

Before Dr. Octopus could make a move, Otto shot a web at the upper right tentacle and took a firm hold with one hand.

"You think your webbing can stick my tentacles?!" Dr. Octopus shouted.

"Yes! Because it's of a superior quality!" Then Otto fired webbing at his feet, cementing him down to the ground.

Dr. Octopus immediately sent two of his tentacles to tear himself free and left a split-second opening for Otto to exploit.

He grounded himself and threw his weight, his strength to the right. And Otto ripped off one of Dr. Octopus's tentacles clean off. The limb thrashed as if he were a fisherman and this was his catch. But at the very tail end was a blob of flesh, red on one side.

Otto had pulled hard enough to yank flesh.

Good.

The biomechanical feedback must have been immense and Dr. Octopus howled with pain. The hurt would only distract him for a few brief seconds before Dr. Octopus channeled that outrage conducively.

It would not help him.

Otto, despite Parker's memories aiding in his agility, would not be able to dodge all four tentacles.

But he could do three.

Otto took a running start and sprung toward Dr. Octopus. The tentacles came flying toward him, looking to grab him and crush him into mush. He spun through the air like a thrown dart, yet with infinitely more elegance. No matter how fast or coordinated the tentacles were, spider-reflexes trumped most opponents.

No wonder why he had lost against Parker.

As he was but a few feet away, Otto threw his fist out. He could feel the fear from Dr. Octopus, the way his body drew itself... sucking in his gut, bracing for impact.

The tentacles moved fast. Now that he was past their claws, his back was exposed. It would grab him like one wrung a kitten by the neck. He activated his spider-legs again, letting them fall into range. And they were crushed in turn. Otto disengaged the prosthetics before the tentacles could halt his momentum.

He struck.

Parker so often held back, but Otto had no such compunctions.

He obliterated the jaw.

Dr. Octopus fell, knocked out by the force of the blow and onset blood loss. Otto stood victorious over himself and felt nothing.

Some strange part of him wanted to rant, to proclaim his superiority over Dr. Octopus. But what would be the point? Maybe if this was a past version of himself, Otto would feel justified and allow himself the vindication of actively improving himself.

And yet... all he could see in his future that he would regress to a deplorable point again. Otto pulled off his mask, staggering back... remembering before all this. When he was just a scientist hoping to change the world for the better.

How could he become so astray?

This was going to be the legacy he was going to leave behind. One of super-villainy. Except, as he recalled the data he scanned, this Dr. Octopus had committed no true crime. Oh, doubtlessly, Dr. Octopus was plotting one thing or another...

And it was just a matter of time before Dr. Octopus went crazy again.

Otto didn't want to have any legacy.

His brief time as the Superior Spider-Man would be serviceable enough. It wasn't even close to the impact he wanted to leave on the world... but here... in the dark... this was going to be the only truth he needed. Otto Octavius needed to be stopped, by any measure.

He would do this dark deed and let himself be forgotten.

It was the only way.

Yet... why did he hesitate?

Was it because Dr. Octopus looked like a pathetic old man, dying in the dark... utterly forgotten save for himself? He wanted to say that it was the sense of responsibility. That would be the right answer. The superhero answer, but it was a selfish reason... Until he remembered that he had it in him to sacrificed himself.

So... why couldn't he do this?!

He ripped off his mask and stared hard at his fallen self.

"I'm not doing this as a Spider-Man; I'm doing this as me," he muttered to himself.

Otto exhaled. Squeezed his fists, visualizing beating his old self to death. His new self... It would be nothing less than deserved.

Except, he could remember it all now. He, Otto Octavius, wasn't quite the original, but rather a copy of the consciousness that implanted himself into a clone body. And he couldn't really accept that his initial death was one of sacrifice. Even when he came to terms with it, Otto wasn't really acknowledging it. Such was the nature of bitter, unaccepted truths.

But he remembered now.

Otto couldn't beat Norman Osborn and in order to save Anna, to save everything... he conceded the body to Peter Parker and died. He sighed and sat on a piece of machinery, watching Dr. Octopus die from his indecision. Blood loss was a slow, but sure killer. Otto had to face the truth. That he was in-fact not superior, at all. The most inferior, most despicable course of action was to let himself die. Kill the future to preserve the past.

Otto reached for his resolve...

Dr. Octopus croaked out, looking nothing more than a confused, doddering old man.

... and found nothing.

Otto closed his eyes, playing back the deal he made to Mephisto. There was no overt condition that would have reverted him back to Dr. Octopus. Just a return to a flawed starting point. People were never inherently good. Even Parker was bit of a twit when he first became Spider-Man. Because it was the conditions around them that makes or breaks them. Some people were just more resilient toward their darker impulses and thoughts.

Parker had that core of goodness to him and it had forced its way through despite all the misery. He had been raised with love and devotion. Whereas Otto... did not have a loving father and a mother that loved too much... to his detriment.

If his Mother was happy for him, if she just didn't get into his head and he could have married his sweetheart, Mary Alice Anders. They could have been happy. He wouldn't have gotten involved and Norman Obsorn wouldn't have killed her with AIDS.

When he looked back on all of his life, Otto realized that somewhere along the line he exchanged a normal, happy life for a great, nonsensical life. Where it seemed stupid on the surface and utterly terrifying underneath.

Ifs... ifs... ifs...

Otto Octavius had no need for ifs, especially with the unreliability of changing the past. Or at the very least, his personal past.

All he could do was move forward.

He was one of the finest minds on Earth and an utter failure.

But...

His ego couldn't let him give up. Even if he hated himself... no, especially if he hated himself, Otto had to beat his own worse enemy.

Not Spider-Man.

Not Norman Osborn.

Himself.

"Damn you," he said to himself. "And damn me."

He reached underneath the costume, fingers dancing over the pouches on his belt and finally pulling out a vial of modified web-fluid. He popped the current cartridges out from his left and slotted it into his web shooter.

Otto Octavius bandaged his future's self jaw, the webbing acting better than any medical bandage science could muster. He breathed, hating himself still, but... it was less intense. And then he had the spider-bot inject its payload. Even halfway through the process, Otto still had a chance to lobotomize his future self and replace his mind with a more proper consciousness.

But he held off.

And when it was done, Spider-Man put on his mask again.

Just as that fool Parker arrived. Anna Maria must have called him.

"Otto, don't kill yourself —" he shouted, zipping in behind him. Parker landed right behind, obviously taking in the scene. And he said, somewhat shocked, "You did the right thing..."

"Of course, I did!" Otto proclaimed. Another breath, another squashing of the rising hate. His voice was considerably more calmer now. "If I'm to be the Superior Spider-Man... then I have to be better."

Parker stood next to him, hands on his hips like he was trying to force out a tough truth.

"Even if it seems inevitable you won't?" he asked, quietly.

He knew Parker well enough that he would have said something along the lines of 'especially then.'

But he was Otto Octavius, the Superior Spider-Man, and he refused to give up again.

"I will find a way to beat this odds. I can't, I won't go back to being what I was. I had given up, ceded the mantle far too many times." Otto turned to look at him. "And it's clear that I know where the fault laid... by going at it alone."

"You, asking me for help?" Parker exclaimed.

Otto huffed and looked up to the ceiling. "I will say this once and only once. You have the potential to be the best. Even surpassing me in certain fields. But you sabotage yourself. That makes you a stupid, selfless man that will help a selfish, self-deluded fool like me. I'm going to plateau sooner or later... and I won't survive it alone."

"Of course, I'm going to help." Spider-Man put a hand on his Otto's shoulder. And then utterly ruined the moment by saying, "So, are you going to rebrand yourself now? I mean, you can't call yourself the Superior Spider-Man anymore."

Otto shrugged off the hand. "The name is a promise now. Either I be the best I can be or I don't be anything at all." Then he turned and pointed a finger at Parker's face. "And you don't tell anyone I said any of that!"

"Sure, sure. And I won't tell everyone about the time I had to fight you in a giant fishbowl."

Otto flapped a dismissive hand as he walked away. "Only an insane person would come up with such a plan and I do not meet the medical requirements to be labeled insane."

"Did you make a funny? I mean, it's a bad funny, but come on!" Spider-Man called out.

The Superior Spider-Man stopped, turned back, and looked. It was almost eerily reminiscent of the days of old: him knocked out and webbed while Spider-Man stood victorious. Hence him trying to leave before it started to set in, but that was the pride talking.

Parker looked from Otto to Dr. Octopus, clearly misreading the situation. "I wouldn't worry about him. SHIELD's on its way."

"I wouldn't either. I ensured he has a fair chance to be better."

Parker cocked his head suspiciously. "Whaddaya mean?"

"I gave him my memories."

"No memory ghost, right?" he asked, clearly thinking on his own experiences as one.

Otto snorted. "Of course not. It would probably go rogue and try take over the body. But the memories will be a good enough subconscious for him, giving me the space to do what needs to be done."

"And what needs to be done?"

"What do you think? The Avengers or whoever else clearly should have noticed the troubles with the timeline."

"Yeah, there was bit of a toss-up with that and everyone with the know-how were called in, still trying to sort things out."

"I shall go too."

"Really? Doesn't seem like your sort of jam." Otto gave him a flat stare and Parker raised his hands placatingly. "Okay, okay. Just play nice with all the other eggheads."

Otto gritted his teeth. "I shall take that under consideration."

And he was going to tolerate this, play nice.

Because this was what it meant to be superior: to constantly better one's self, for others and for yourself.

 

[Dead Beyond]

A/N: Special thanks to Ziel for looking this over.

Spoiler: What is Hit-Girl?

Hit-Girl is a character from the comic book series, Kick-Ass. She is a little girl who was trained by her father to be a vigilante. Her father faked a tragic backstory in order to induct her into the vigilante lifestyle, emulating a comic-book like life. Unlike the titular character, she succeeds at being a vigilante through extreme methods involving violence and death. After the events of Kick-Ass, she has spun off into her own series.

Spoiler: What is DC Comics: Robin?

What is DC Comics: Robin — Damian Wayne is the fifth Robin, the side-kick of Batman. He is the blood-son of Batman and Talia's al Ghul, the daughter of the Demon's Head, who runs the League of Assassin. Raised on his mother's side, he has been trained since birth to become an assassin but has since shunned that life and has taken the mantle of Robin, working with his father as a hero.

Mindy McCready stared up at Wayne Tower with its big fuck-off 'W' and wanted to breakdown right then and there. Looked like all those shitty Sunday PSAs about drugs being bad were true. She shook her head. She was being fucking stupid.

It wasn't like her being a little girl who dabbled with nicotine and alcohol and that one time she totally didn't do a hit of cocaine would affect her mental facilities. Those types of withdrawals didn't result in spontaneous mental breakdowns.

She took one step back, then another, until Mindy spun on her heel and started to pace away from that big phallic momentum to one man's ego. She stuffed her hands to her pockets and stuck close to the alleys, as she revised her options.

Mindy McCready, better known as Hit-Girl, refused to believe she was in the fucking DC universe. Sure, she was labeled as a 'super-hero' in some perverted sense, but that was because, to every nerd and geek, any two-bit vigilante and Punisher-wannabe were like superheroes to them.

And she was pretty sure she could beat Frank Castle's teeth in.

Given this whole strange turn of events, there stood a good chance that might actually happen. Y'know, provided she didn't have an acute mental meltdown, but even if she did, she was pretty sure her subconscious mind would drape her delusions over acceptable targets.

But denial would get her nowhere.

If comic bullshit was in-effect, then she had to determine whether there was a full-blown Crisis going on or just weird crossover shit. She traced back her steps, trying to find the point of origin that led to her to this city.

She was in the city for business, after some of her escapades around the world. And it was only just now that she could recall the name of the city: Gotham goddamn City. Up until she first stepped into this city, it was like this place didn't even exist.

Hit-Girl had been raised on a steady diet of red meat and comic book factoids. There were a few places named Gotham out in the world, but there were all hick places and villages. New York had a nickname of Gotham, but this place was clearly not New York City.

She just hoped that all her equipment was still at the hotel she booked. Mindy did not want to go out as Hobo-Girl.

XXX

Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition, all her shit was still hidden away in the hotel room. She strapped in and strapped on, putting on her body armor and then her purple super-suit. She clicked her cape on with the padlock around it and slid the domino mask with the accompanying purple wig.

She was ready to go out and do some work.

By which, she sat on the bed with a laptop and started googling things. What was a super-suit for if not for wearing it in every available moment? Either way, she had to be careful with her searches on the google equivalent.

Even if Brother Eye wasn't a thing or had been a thing, Hit-Girl was pretty sure Batman would violate civil liberties if she pushed the boundaries too hard, her being an extradimensional immigrant aside. She sat cross-legged, binging all the information she could like a depraved fanboy discovering rule34 of all their favorite comic book characters.

There was more than enough information and video and a bunch of other needless details that confirmed, surface-wise, that she didn't have a breakdown. The information present wasn't immediately factual, as these were a people that didn't have metaknowledge. But seeing was believing. She just needed to see with her two eyes to utterly confirm her predicament.

If she was in Metropolis, all she needed to do was throw herself off a building by the Daily Planet and wait for Superman to swoop in. Of course, she would make sure the fall was survivable, but Superman wouldn't need to know that.

But she was in Gotham. Dealing with Batman, if Batwank was in-effect, was going to be an exercise in frustration. She set aside the laptop and fidgeted around in the bed.

What were even her plans here?

Be a fucking Gwenpool?

Barf.

She massaged her temples. As much as she wanted to go out and show those pussies that killing was the only way to put the filth down permanently, she had to remember comic-book logic. The public here were nothing but sheep. If she somehow turned the paradigm on its head, then she might cause a Kingdom Come scenario.

Besides, her research indicated that people have tried to kill all these supervillains. Take the Joker for example, given she was in Gotham. Either the stinkin' animal died and somehow came back with vengeance or he executed a 5D chess move in the process.

She would have called it bad writing and contrivance and the universe bending over backwards to accommodate the Joker. However, if she truly existed in the same reality as Joker, then she better tread carefully. No matter how stupid he appeared, his insanity belied all the machinations he had up his sleeve.

As much as she wanted to gun down the bastard, it might end up with an Emperor Joker scenario. And that motherfucker would totally rez her dad just to kill him again to make her tango with his corpse.

Honestly, emulating comic-books were so much fucking better than experiencing them. It wasn't fun to think of all these scenarios when they might actually happen. Hit-Girl closed her eyes, wishing she actually had a breakdown.

She breathed out.

Hit-Girl slid off the bed, wondering where she should start. The night was young and there might be any number of vigilantes out and about. Encountering Batman was atop the very worst possibilities and meeting Nightwing was the best possible outcome.

She didn't get anywhere without any risk.

Plus, Hit-Girl wanted to steal at least one grapple gun. It was such a bitch to climb up buildings with her current equipment. She went out into the balcony, having already scouted it out as a blind spot for any outside observation.

It took her five minutes to find a safe way off this building from this height and onto. She had been trained in free-running, but the architecture here was unconducive to her own style. It practically seemed like it was built around the use of a grapple gun.

She hopped across the rooftops, taking in the polluted air. Right now, she felt directionless. And if she tried to engage in her usual stress-relieving activities, it would bring down actual superheroes down on her head.

Again, all of this was semantics. She needed a cold hard slap of reality, whatever that may be. Finding a nice secluded, shadowed spot, Hit-Girl settled down and pulled up the police scanner app on her phone.

This was the boring part of operating as a vigilante. You couldn't dismantle a criminal network without surveillance, without knowing who to kill and when to kill. It was a sequence, when properly applied, could cripple entire organizations.

And if she wasn't careful, going in gun-ho without any semblance or structure of a plan. It only worked on a few occasions by the skin of her teeth.

Finally, something beyond petty domestic disputes rose from the white noise.

"… repeat, we have a 203-c! Killer Croc is rampaging the 67th! Oh, shit!" The audio cut out for a few seconds before being replaced a ragged breathing. It rose rapidly before steadily out. "It looks like Nightwing and Robin are on the case."

Hit-Girl grinned. It looked like cops were just as useless in every conceivable reality. At the very least, she would be able to see live superheroes in action and see how she held up.

XXX

She settled into her makeshift sniper's nest and watched the ensuing battle through the scope. Killer Croc was huge and watching the two vigilantes dance around him was like art. They maneuvered so skillfully that Hit-Girl knew she couldn't compare. Killer Croc swung wide and the two vigilantes dodged.

Nightwing pulled off that signature flip that outed him as Dick Grayson by Tim Drake. It didn't even seem humanly possible. She would have snapped her spine trying. Hit-Girl debated whether she should lend a hand. But firing into an ongoing fight would surely endear her to the Bat-Family. Now, if it was Red Hood, it might be a different story...

Plus, she probably needed something like an elephant gun to even punch through Killer Croc's hide. But what would even be the point? It was pointless. The rifle in her hands started to shake as stupid emotions overtook her.

For the sake of gun safety, she set it aside and curled into herself.

What was the fucking point?

Even if she did kill every stupid supervillain, not only would she marked as a supervillain, her kills would eventually come back. Then she'd be marked by the universe as a one-off character that would be fridged sooner or later. Her Hit-Girl was nothing more than a shtick, one that had already been done before. The latest had been the Grim Knight, an edgy Batman with guns, and he clearly didn't have staying power.

Would she be killed to maintain the status quo or would she be swept under the rug, locked away to be forgotten, forever destined to lose? She was on comic-book logic now. If everything she did was pointless, then what was purpose of Hit-Girl?

Something stirred in the corner of her eye. Someone settled next to her without making a sound. Mindy knew who it was. Her dead Daddy. Logically, she knew it was all a hallucination, but some part of her hoped that it was actually her Dad speaking through a mental illness.

"Hey, Daddy," she whispered.

"Hey, baby doll." He wrapped a comforting arm around her. "So, you're in a comic-book, huh? I beat Dave would have creamed his pants."

"He's not Kick-Ass anymore. He would have left it all behind. I don't think he would have this problem I'm having."

"Thinking about hanging up the tights?" he asked.

"Yeah… I'm redundant. And even if I don't agree with the heroes, I can't go against them."

He sighed, pulling her closer. Or maybe she just leaned into empty air. "But, baby doll, this is everything you've been raised for."

Yeah, raised on a lie, but that didn't matter. She didn't want to be like any of the girls her age. Harpies, the lot of them. They would never get to go around the globe, killing all the bastards that deserved it. But how would that hold up here? In a world with beings so much greater than herself. What was she going to do to Darkseid? Kill him?

Don't make her laugh.

This wasn't Hit-Girl Kills the DC Universe, though now that she was in the prime universe that stray thought was probably now a possibility in the Dark Multiverse. And wouldn't that be a kick in the teeth if an edgy, evil Hit-Girl popped up to supplant her?

Of course, assuming she was even important enough to warrant such a thing.

Oh… goddamn it, she was turning into a Gwenpool.

"You're afraid of whatever irrelevance brings you," he said, breaking her out of those thoughts. "Be it death or imprisonment or even just a normal life."

"Yeah..."

"You just gotta find your kayfabe."

She turned, staring into his eyes. For a few seconds, they resembled nothing like all the positive memories she associated with him. They blacked and bruised and in her mind's eye, his brains were blown out and she was too slow to stop it.

"What do you mean?"

"Every villain has a gimmick that they revolve around, right? Mr. Freeze, for example. He has that sick wife as his motivation. It made him iconic. Even when the iterations that followed didn't have that motivation, he had staying power until a return to form occurred."

"Until the universe or whatever resets itself."

"It isn't like the heroes would be able to do anything about that."

And what about Superboy Prime? she thought bitterly.

He continued, "You just have to make sure you stay, so some version of you continues on."

"And how would I do that?" She turned around to plead with the hallucination, but he was gone.

Hit-Girl stood back up, slamming a fist into the brickwork. She was going to have to pull a Gwenpool. But if, to be honest, if she tried to recreate the Gwenpool plot, all of it would fall flat. Their two stylings would be like fire and ice.

To be honest, that role might as well be filled in by Ambush Bug. And she couldn't flint around like Gwenpool did in a desperate need to ingrain herself to continuity. No, she was a squishy human. Might even be even squishier… given that she came from 'real-life' and subjected to said real-life problems these heroes didn't have to deal with.

Honestly, fuck comics. She didn't even know why she liked them.

The closest niche she could fulfill was in Red Hood's Outlaws. The problem was reaching that stage. It wasn't like she could stroll up to the Bat-Family and unveil all their secrets in the hopes of securing a position.

If she blackmailed them, they came down on her head. She briefly mused on the notion of other heroes, but they held much higher entry bars. Why the hell did she have to start off in Gotham? Maybe she'd have an easier go if she started off in Themyscira…

No.

For all their faults, the Bat-Family was the easiest barrier to cross.

What had Daddy said?

Kayfabe.

She had to construct a compelling enough backstory and reasoning to stick around the Bat-Family. And the best way to do that was be a foil.

Hit-Girl smiled as she remembered who the current Robin was.

XXX

A week passed and Hit-Girl had done enough scoping about to enact her plan. She managed to narrow down Robin's patrol route. In turn, she spied on him spying on a drug ring. Batman was most likely not in Gotham given that Nightwing strayed out of Bludhaven for the time being. She had to move fast, while conditions were still optimal. Her escape route was already planned out and all variables had been accounted for.

She stood above the drug-pushers, balancing on a beam and waiting. There were ten scumbags to take down. As far as she could tell, they worked for Two-Face. And she just thanked high heavens they didn't wear tacky outfits that were black on one side and black on the other.

Hit-Girl would have scrapped her current plan and just bisected all of them. Out of habit, she rested her hands on the swords strapped to her sides. But her plan required these dirtbags to be alive.

She smirked. Nothing about her plan required about these guys coming out unscathed. Hit-Girl decided to be merciful and give them a small heads-up. She brandished her two brass knuckles and smacked them together with a clang.

"Hey, what was that –"

Hit-Girl stepped off the ledge and landed boot-first into someone's face. His skull cracked and she was pretty sure the way his neck snapped back, he would be paralyzed for life. Hit-Girl surged forward, breaking one person's ribs with one honed punch. It exposed her left side to a thug, who pulled out a .45. She may not be able to dodge bullets, but she sure as shit could move quicker than the guy's aim.

One shot, two shots, the eruption of gunfire caused confusion and panic in the undisciplined. Some of the other thugs dove out of the way and a few others decided to frantically firing into the fray. Nothing like screams of pain to send fools into a frenzy. She punched one thug so hard in the face that he spat out all of his teeth with such force that it blinded another, giving her an opening. The gunfire continued to whiz by as she made short work of the rest.

She struck without care, bruising kidneys. Six left. Testicles were ruptured. Five left. An eye was sent flying like a snapped yo-yo. Four left. A kneecap to cripple a man down to size. Three left. Crushed windpipe. Two left. Dislocated jaw. One left.

He saw the fates of his fellows and had stumbled back on his back. She just thanked her lucky stars that he didn't crap himself. That was one thing the comics left out: the smell of blood, shit, and piss. She started to chuckle to herself at the thought that the people here didn't crap themselves when they died.

It further served as a psychological tactic to the trembling man. Hit-Girl circled him as a shark would do to its prey. As she past the cargo they were shipping, Hit-Girl covertly planted two IEDs on them before she straddled him, pinning him down.

"Probably the first time a girl ever got into this position with you willing, huh? You freaking pedo." She leered at him with a grin. "But I want you to scream like the women you hurt."

"I, I, I –"

Whether it was a denial or a build-up to a threat, it didn't matter. Hit-Girl started to whale on him, beating him black and blue. She pivoted one fist after another, like a machine, leaving him just enough time in-between to scream.

It was fun admittedly to do so, but it was quickly becoming boring after the tenth hit. There had to be some variety in her life, otherwise she would be a dull serial killer and not a kickass vigilante. Then something flew in on her raised right fist and broke her wrist.

She slumped off the man, only slightly dazed by it all.

Fuck! Then she realized what had happened. The power and aim behind the throw was impressive. Fuck, he's good.

Hit-Girl had been paying attention and he still caught her by surprise. Her eyes fell upon the batarang. Was the amount of force proportional to her own? Or was Robin having a bad day? Or dare she dread that she was actually weaker than the baseline humans here?

The time for fangirling was over. She threw herself toward the batarang in a roll, pulling out the detonator with her wounded hand. The roll was imperfect, the pain throwing her off her game and her desire to possess the batarang making the trajectory less than perfect. Her back smacked against one of the cargo crates. She tucked the offending hand underneath her armpit whilst concealing the detonator.

Robin landed in the midst of her carnage, surveying the damage with cool disdain. Did the al Ghul grandchild really think he was any better than her? Hit-Girl smiled at Robin, admiring his super-suit. Practical yet still held homage to the classical colors.

"Like what you see?" she asked.

"Sloppy," he retorted.

"Only if you care about these scum. Brutality is only sloppy if you look through the scope of morality."

"You think it'd be so easy to put on a mask and do our type of work. Frankly, it's insulting. And it will undermine the people's trust in real heroes. Trust is something not easily gained, yet it is so easily lost."

"Like you'd know," she sneered.

He didn't so much as flinch. Oh, he was really good. It should grate on him, his heritage, a fear of losing his trust and going back to what he had been born for. Unless she was off-kilter and was in an Elseworlds, but that possibility had been dismissed during her research.

"The name's Hit-Girl."

"I don't care. I'm taking you in."

"You can try."

Then she pulled the trigger on the detonator. Smoke poofed into the room, concealing her. He would probably have some bullshit to track her through the smoke, but she just needed that one second of surprise.

Hit-Girl shot toward her exit route, hopping on the crates to reach a window and jumped through it. Glass sprinkled all around her, but did not slice her to ribbons due to her training. She landed on a lower, adjacent rooftop and quickly switched out a detonator for a syringe. It was for emergencies only and she only planned to use it if she was losing. But the broken wrist was not part of the plan.

She stabbed the syringe into her veins before sprinting across the rooftop so fast that she was afraid of actually losing Robin. She slowed down, much to her good favor as Robin tried using his grapple gun to ensnare her legs. Hit-Girl easily dodged it with as spinning hop, landing on her feet to face Robin.

Now, the next bit was the hard part: getting into a brief physical skirmish with the Boy Wonder.

It was both to partly test her skills against a genuine superhero and to advance the kayfabe.

Hit-Girl smiled as the adrenaline began to rush into her heart. She unfurled her fingers, letting the brass knuckles clatter to the ground. They had been scrubbed down for any possible fingerprints, but who knew what they could gleam from it with supertech? But they were from another universe and should only add to the mystery of the character she was building.

She settled into a mixed martial arts stance and Robin fell into his own stance. She waited for him to come to her. He did, striking several quick jabs in succession. She managed to bring up her arms to block it, but then he redirected their torrent to her ribs.

A small oomph escaped her lips, but she swam forward, getting him into a complicated lock. They were in close contact for a few seconds. More than enough to try something stupid and more than enough to feel the perverse sense of intimacy that only grapplers knew. She forced the arm she grabbed up, to sidesweep his legs out from under him. He rolled back onto his feet, throwing out several batarangs.

Hit-Girl pulled out her own stolen batarang, deflecting one and weaving under the other two. She launched herself at Robin, wielding the batarang like an underhanded knife. Robin pulled out two more batarangs, blocking several of her blows in a controlled fashion.

The swings started off wildly, erratic, forcing Robin to take a more defensive position. He adapted so quickly and switched into the offensive so seamlessly that Hit-Girl nearly tripped over herself, overwhelmed. So, reasonably, Hit-Girl switched it up, adopting the actual knife style her Dad taught her.

The change caught Robin off guard and the slice across the wrist would have been near-fatal if it weren't for the armored fabric. Before she could be elated in her victory, the two damn batarangs came hurling back like boomrangs and bashed her backside. She stumbled away as Robin broke away.

Okay, it was clear that Robin was better than her. Leagues better than her. It was to be expected, but her pride took a beating in admitting that. Any advantage she would have would be in trickery and treachery.

"You fight like someone trained by the League," she threw out. In truth, she couldn't fucking tell and just pulled it out her ass.

He settled into another fighting stance, but made no move to attack. "And how would you know?"

"Here and there. I've been around the world, ya know?"

It was all half-truths. She didn't want him to pick up on micro-expressions or whatever other bullshit they had to pick up on her lies.

"Well, you haven't been trained by the League. I can tell."

"The League doesn't like competition."

Robin clicked his tongue in annoyance. "Care to elaborate?"

"Only if you want to explain why Batman has an ex-assassin as his Robin." Hit-Girl paused at the appropriate dramatic moment and tapped her chin. "Or did you get one over him, the Great Detective? Hm? Wouldn't that be a shit-stirrer? To find out his precious Robin is a killer."

"You know nothing."

"I know enough. Even if we're both the same, deep down, I can't understand why you care for these scum. It's only out of some modicum of respect that I have towards you heroes that I didn't kill them." Another dramatic pause. "Of course, that's up to you. You know. If you aren't an assassin posing as a hero."

"What do you mean?" he snarled.

"This was intended as a failsafe, but now I want to know what you're gonna do. To see if you are a hero." She knew already, that he was going to be a goody two-shoes. But he didn't know that. She clicked the detonator again. The warehouse errupted into flames as Robin spun around. "There must be a few too grievously wounded to move. What are you going to do, hero?

He turned around to glare at her, before rushing back into the building.

Just as planned.

She stared at her pickpocketed prize in her hands: a grapple gun. Hit-Girl didn't know if she was that good or Robin let her have it. It was most likely the latter and there might be a tracker inside it. Hit-Girl wasn't about to go back to her base of operations until she was sure that her prizes weren't bugged.

But all in all, she counted this as a win.

It lifted her spirits up, until she remembered she had yet to face an actual superhero with actual powers. This had been only the first battle, if it could even be called it that. It might as well be a minor skirmish, a precursor to the actual conflict.

She had yet to win the war.

 

[Dead Beyond]

The blown-up image of Hit-Girl was taunting him. It was caught on a security camera and was now prominently displayed on the Batcomputer. Hit-Girl had looked directly in the camera and was holding out both middle fingers at it. She stuck out her tongue, mocking him. It especially grated when he found the tracer from the grapple gun in the sewers. Robin steepled his fingers, watching the computer analyze her face and try to find a match in every known database.

He had gotten lucky.

Most domino masks, despite their lackadaisical appearance, actually tended to distort search algorithms. Any vigilante or villain worth their salt would invest in material that, while capturing most of their visage on camera, would still protect their identity. Or the masks were charmed with magic.

Hit-Girl utilized neither and the super-computer generated what was most likely her face. A blonde girl that was roughly the same age as him.

Robin leaned back, working through the most likely theory.

She was trained as an assassin of sorts. If Robin had to guess, it would have been her father. And said parent would be deceased, silenced in the grim business of assassinations. The League of Assassins wouldn't stand any competition if they got in the way.

If this hypothetical father did get on the League's bad side without directly opposing them, there could only be two options. Either he stumbled and bungled into one of their operations or he was actively cutting into their profit margin.

The question was whether he should make an effort to investigate these circumstances. Doing so, no matter how trivial, risked drawing the League's attention back onto him. And as a result, it could somehow reignite his mother's interest in him.

Robin had no interest in dying again.

Besides, it was a much larger scale that required more than a single Robin. Father was still on that extended mission, but it did not yet beggar the need for a Batman stand-in for the city of Gotham. A job that would doubtlessly fall onto Grayson's shoulders.

And it was very auspicious that a matter drew Nightwing's attention away from Gotham. Was it a matter of circumstances lining up against them? In which case, there might be some force manipulating them.

For what?

A solitary vigilante?

He unclenched his fists. Hit-Girl was someone too much like him. Someone that didn't understand the appropriate amount of force. It hearkened to the times before he became Robin. Violence only bred more violence, and in the end it only made things worse. It just created an inescapable feedback loop.

Because unless people were shown there was a better way, they would merely contribute to the cycle. It was a bitter truth to swallow at times. Because there were some people that Robin thought were deserving of death. It was a slippery slope. One that he saw Hit-Girl was already tumbling down.

But she didn't understand, not fully.

The line hadn't been crossed, because she was only fearful of the consequences. Yet, it didn't stop her from crippling one man and nearly killing the others. Either she would kill by accident or stop caring about holding back. The name, Hit-Girl, didn't exactly inspire mercy. It was very vocative of the term hitman. Perhaps more credence to his theory about her past?

And it was the damnedest thing, he wanted to extend the smallest of olive branches to her. If only because he didn't want to see someone set down the road he narrowly avoided taking. Yet, what if it was some sort of misdirection?

A cup of tea was settled on the armrest.

Robin took it with a tentative sip. "Thank you, Pennyworth."

"I trust it is up to par, Master Damian?"

"Impeccable as always." Robin took another sip, watching the screen bring up no matches. Alfred waited, already knowing that he wanted to ask a question. He set aside the cup, not looking Alfred in the eyes. "How did Father initially deal with, urgh, Catwoman?"

"Do you mean whether he saw if Miss Kyle was worth pursuing redemption?"

Robin glared at the screen. "Yes."

"And I take it, this relates to the young girl on the screen."

"Yes, Pennyworth."

He shook his head. "You are so very much like your Father."

"Of course, I am. I am the blood son of Batman."

"With all the faults that it entails," Alfred commented dryly.

He scowled before turning the screen off. "You haven't answered my question."

"You will know."

"How brief, Pennyworth. But what if this is a ploy of sorts?"

"Do you question your own judgment?"

"No."

"Then there is your answer."

Alfred took his leave with the now-empty cup. It did make sense. Father kept all these contingencies on his fellow super-heroes, but held the proper judgment whether or not to use them. The screen suddenly lit up with an alert at Wayne Enterprise's. Someone had broken in. Robin got up and grabbed his sword.

XXX

Robin crept into the office of the break-in. There were any number of important files that could be stolen at this level and in the wrong hands, it could range from damaging to the catastrophic. He looked up, seeing the lights shattered above.

He crept in, drawing a batarang and furthered into the room. His eyes wandered, taking care in assessing any potential threats. When he confirmed there were none, they settled into the center where a message was left. He was ready to bolt, because in most cases, these places were rigged to blow.

Robin took out a pocket flashlight, illuminating the wall.

All those important files were plastered in a haphazard collage. A message was burned onto them.

On the roof, bird-boy.

Robin quickly checked the wall, making sure there were no hidden surprises. Satisfied, he went to the broken window. He hopped out, twirling around to aim his grapple gun toward the very top and fired.

There were a few seconds of weightlessness as gravity began to take grip. Then the hook connected and Robin adjusted his body's equilibrium. It was as graceful as he could be, but there was a fluidity he would never have. But he was still leaps and bounds better than Drake, who only somehow survived the rigorous requirements that befit the aerodynamics of a grapple gun.

He free-fell in reverse, letting the forces wash over instead of tensing up and making it worse on his body. When he reached the top, the grapple hook disconnected and let the momentum carry the last leg.

His feet landed on the edge and there he spotted Hit-Girl, looking all the worse for the wear. Of course, it wasn't so obvious to the casual glance. But Robin had been trained by the best and it was akin to being a shark in bloodied waters.

It was all blunt force trauma. Robin briefly suspected it came from a bout of harsh training. But who would train her? The rudimentary psyche profile he constructed accounted for a dead father, who had worked on her in solitude. A sort of predatory tactic to isolate and indoctrinate. She wouldn't let herself be trained by anyone outside that paradigm, unless she had been coerced or forced into it.

And her rough tactics that she had demonstrated indicated Hit-Girl was a free agent.

He spotted the stolen grapple gun clipped to her utility belt. It looked significantly more beaten than before. Then it occurred to him – that it was the result of her own training, trying to get use to the grapple gun.

She blew a puff of smoke from the cigarette she was smoking. It seemed forced, like it came from bad acting rather than addiction. Hit-Girl looked over to him, lazy and cocky, before flicking the cigarette over the edge.

"Good. You're here."

Hit-Girl rested her hands on the twin pair of swords at her sides.

Robin fell into a stance, ready to draw his sword.

"Why?" he asked.

"Why not?" At his glare, she shrugged, started circling around on the rooftop. "All the fat cats profiting off the suffering, a thin fucking veneer of corporate PC wokeness that gives lip service that ultimately ends up amounting to nothing."

Every word, while dripping with casual disdain, was absolutely insincere.

"You're being nothing but a disingenuous Anarky. And every sentence you just spoke was annoyingly false."

She nonchalantly threw her hands back, mockingly. "You got me. But that's the way the world should be. Every goddamn company should be like LexCorp, fucking over the little guy. That makes sense. But instead. Fucking. Wayne. Burns. So. Much. Money." Each sentence was punctuated with her hands thrusting out toward the city. "And it doesn't matter! He gives so much to charity and earns even more. He could give away nearly all of his money and earn it all back in no time at all. And the cycle repeats. Over and over again! When would you realize that it is all it's a sunk cost fallacy? What is the point?!"

"The point," Robin gritted out. "Is that it's worth doing, to fight the good fight."

"Even if it's never-ending?" Her voice was bitter.

"Especially then."

"Fine." It was a whisper for some unseen concession. "Fine. Fine! We'll do this song and dance." Hit-Girl drew both her swords. "But there's no real stakes to it. The pieces are taken off the board and put back with such frequency, it distracts from the fact that the board is built upon the nameless dead."

Her tone, and the distress laced within it, had peaked when mentioning the stakes, but not the death that this life caused. There was a clear line in this line of duty and it had been a harsh lesson to learn that being the heir to mantle was more than just fighting. That he not only had to fight for the people of Gotham, he had to save them as well.

"You don't care about the civilians, whether they live or die. Not truly," he said, coldly.

She laughed, even more bitter like she had been forced to self-reflect. "Of course, I don't. Not truly. When some scum tries stealing a purse from some old lady, she should pull out a gun and shoot them. It didn't happen then, because it didn't even occur to them. But here? They would just wait for a hero to save them. And that might even be worse."

Robin's grip tightened on his sword, sensing the impending violence. There was an allusion to his place of origin and how her viewpoint was formulated through a lens of violence.

"Seems you're just blaming the victim here, for things they can't necessarily control."

She smiled. "Of course I can blame them. I tried the normal life, be a nice Barbie girl for a fuck-ass Barbie world. And I hated it. Because when everyone's normal, nobody's really special. The wheat has to be cut from the chaff and when those who try to be special are cut down, those who remain are really something. I'm sure you would know… al Ghul."

Then she struck, swinging both swords at him. The mention of his blood caused the barest of stutters in him drawing his sword. Two blades met one and Hit-Girl took more ground than he had expected with that stunt.

She withdrew one sword and tried skewering his chest with it, but he broke off and flipped back. Hit-Girl laughed, clearly intent on not holding back. But there was a resignation to it all, a hopeless inevitably that came when facing a vastly stronger opponent.

Yet she still fought all the same.

She slashed wildly, but it was directed. It was the homegrown type of fighting. Bits and pieces taken from what worked immediately and discarded what didn't. Whereas Robin knew so much more and could pull from a vast repertoire to fit the situation.

He curved the blade's stroke to slip past her guard, invading into her stance and shoulder-checking her hard. She stumbled back as Robin continued forward, maneuvering through. He stared forward at the city, sparkling with life, and behind him, there was only the sightless certainty of his sword at Hit-Girl's throat. An inch or two deeper and she would have had steel embedded in her throat.

"You're good," she gasped.

He only clicked his teeth, refusing to acknowledge her.

"It only makes sense given who your father is… Damian Wayne."

The knowledge of his actual identity caused him to pull away, to spin around to grab her, and interrogate her. It was one thing to know him as a former al Ghul, but an entirely different matter to know him as he was now. It caused a slip-up, a second of opening that she exploited with a cold-cock blow to his face. Hit-Girl hopped back with a manic laugh, standing on the edge.

"How do you know?" he shouted. Because she had seemed so ignorant during their first encounter, this was like whiplash, leaving him reeling and afraid to look deeper in fear of further damage.

"Come now. Does it matter?"

He gritted his teeth, raising the sword to level with his eyes, letting it steady him.

"It matters, because only few know. And I can deal with them. But you?"

"I'm a wild card, aren't I?" She smiled. "But you want to know what's funny? Is that no matter how much I may or may know you, to be able to predict all your rote patterns or development, I will always lose. In the end. And then… and then, I will become known as little more than a footnote in your story."

"So, you're nothing more than a pathetic attention-seeker," he spat.

The smile turned brittle. "I once knew an iron-clad surety in my life that I was cleaning out the trash, the scum, and the waste of humanity. I'm sure you knew it too. It was with your destiny to inherit the League of Assassins. Now, it changed and you don't have to deal, it is your destiny to one day become the Bat. Even if that day may never come, it still remains a possibility. How simple it must be and how grand it must have that possibility. While I may remain the same until I am forgotten."

Then a strange, sad sort of pity fell over him. How lucky he was. Annoying as his time with parts of his family were, they made him better than he had any right to be. Father… Grayson… But here was someone that could not change. He had seen what her definition of nonlethal was and she was even more of a lost case than Todd was. There was a listlessness to her actions like trying to pick a direction to swim toward, all the while she drowned in a vast ocean with no land in sight.

"Your father went to the ends of the universe to save you. Not even death can stop him from saving you. Your father taught you how far he would go for your sake."

Robin's heart clenched and he raised a shaky fist over it where the shard brought him back to life.

"When my father thought me dead, he was lost and I couldn't save him. You know what my father taught me? You would think it would be not to overreach. But it taught me that dead is dead. A bullet to the head is a bullet to the head. If he should die, then so would all the rest."

"Is that your answer then? To lash out like a petulant child?"

"Hey, hey, we're the same age here."

"And yet, I'm more mature than you."

She sheathed one sword and brought up the other one to rest on her shoulders. "I think I'm more mature than you. I know enough about myself to know the futility of it all. That this world is not meant for me. Not if I want to stand on the side of good. How many edgy assholes do you Bats have to deal with, hmm? Like Red Hood, who think they brutalize for truth and justice? And yet, for all of Batman's ruthlessness and paranoia, it is he who stands with the Justice League, with paragons like Superman. Batman knows where the line has been drawn, Red Hood scoffs at the line, but me? I don't see the line, Damian. I don't understand and I can only infer from what you heroes stand for."

"Is that what you think? Might makes right?"

"In a sense. It's respectable; it's honest. But what heroes do with it: the leniency, the mercy, the kindness… that doesn't make sense. It should undermine their might. But they still stand strong. Enough to know to go against them is suicide."

Her soapbox rant petered out and she glanced toward the edge.

Robin honestly didn't know what to say for something so wrong. It was a world where violence seemed to be an end of itself. Like she wanted to live in a martyred, hopeless world. That was all she had known and all she believed in.

Grayson would have the right words. Even Father would do so much better, in his own way.

Robin and Hit-Girl both understood violence, but only Damian knew beyond that. They shared a trek through a trackless steppe, but only Robin had found a path to guide him to better pastures. It was like the saying: you can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink.

"Then if it's suicide to go against the status quo, what other recourse is there?..." Hit-Girl sighed, tired and resigned, as she sheathed the last sword. "What is the point of my existence here?"

Robin sensed the intent and started to move, as Hit-Girl stepped off the edge and started to fall. He threw his sword to the side and chased after her, swan-diving through the air. Their eyes met and Hit-Girl's face was annoying blank.

Like she just hadn't thrown herself off one of the tallest buildings of Gotham.

Robin scowled, quickly closing the distance. He was aware that this could all be a ploy and he could end up with a knife in his chest for his troubles, but he simply couldn't ignore the vigilante's plight. There was a burning need to prove her wrong, not to let her have the last laugh that would come with her death. Because it would always grate at him, like the failure would turn into a life-long disease.

For a damning second, he was in the role of Batman and her the Joker. Was this one of the reasons why Batman refused to let the Joker to die? Beyond the altruism, there had to be a petty determination to keep on winning.

He slammed into her, wrapping his arm around her and reorienting themselves around until they straightened out like a spinning top. The ground rushed towards them and Robin pulled out the grapple gun, shooting it at a nearby building.

Their descent shifted suddenly, but not so sudden to snap them like twigs. They cut through the air as the grapple disengaged, causing them to hit the rooftop. They rolled and parted in their tumble. Hit-Girl's back slammed into a wall, while Robin flopped onto the rooftop.

He spat and coughed, forcing himself to get up before Hit-Girl did anything. It would be perfectly in character for her to ruthlessly exploit these precious seconds. But she just remained in her current position as though in a daze.

"Why?" For a fleeting instance, it almost sounded like she knew the exact answer he was going to give.

"I couldn't just let you die."

"But why? What does it matter if I die now rather than later."

"I have to believe that everyone can change."

"What makes it worth it then, huh? If nobody takes that chance?" Hit-Girl asked. For once, it almost felt like she was genuinely curious. But Robin didn't trust his judgment at the moment. She had proven herself to be a vexing nuisance, one that might have been so broken that the line between truth and delusion blurred.

"Everybody knows the repeat offenders, because so much deeper into the dark than all the rest, but nobody knows the little people who stop and change their lives for the better. And even then, among those super-villains, some do change. That woman, Quinn, still remains the most annoying and disturbing woman I ever had the displeasure of meeting, but she changed."

He breathed out, striding toward her and thrusting his hand toward her, like a half-finished punch.

She eyed it carefully. Then looked up. "Will you fight me if I don't? Stop me if I don't conform?"

"You're trying to make it my fault that there would be consequences, when really, it is all up to you."

"Answer the question."

"Yes."

She nodded, as if that made sense. Hit-Girl wouldn't change, because of ideology, but of necessity. Would that even count as victory? If people didn't commit crime because they were afraid of the consequences? It would be an injustice to the world if people listened to Superman because they feared him rather than respected him…

Hit-Girl pulled herself up, standing face to face with Robin. "If I'm going to die, might as well die trying to actually be better. I am not going to die like a stupid cunt, that last stunt notwithstanding."

"Well, then you can start by telling me how you know me."

She smiled coyly, the demeanor once again flipping on its head. "I have my ways."

His grip tightened, ready to pull her in and disable if need arose. "You will tell me."

Another switch was flipped and the coyness turned to anxiety. Was it real?

"I… I feel if I do tell you… things will change on a bigger scale. Not from the information itself, but the dominoes that will inevitably fall as a result."

"I don't believe you."

"And yet, you're going to let me go. Because you are not your father. You would no sooner muzzle yourself; we're too much alike for that, unless you want to be a boldfaced hypocrite. You can always go the way of your grandfather, claiming to save the world with genocide. And because you are also like your father. I mean, how is Catwoman doing nowadays?"

He scowled. "Tell me why I should let you go. So far I have seen a loose cannon who only has given lip service into changing. There are rules –"

She flapped her free hand and somehow managed to slip her other one free. "Yeah, yeah. Don't kill, don't go too far, blah, blah… I'll follow them."

Did he believe her? How quickly her tune changed. He was afraid that if he pushed like Batman would, she'd snap and end up a super-villain. Or she'd kill herself. Because no matter how infinitesimal, some part of her was okay with dying. And somehow, it would be on him if she did the deed.

"You're lucky that Batman is busy and away from Gotham. Because when he returns, I expect you to be presentable. And maybe he won't kick you out of Gotham. If you dare to abuse my trust, well, I may not kill you, but I will ruin you."

She smirked. "Nothing less than I expected."

Hit-Girl leaned in close, too close. She could easily slide a knife between his ribs here. "And that's why I like you, why you're my favorite Robin."

He could feel her smoky breath, so close. Nothing pleasant in theory, but somehow pleasant in practice.

She pulled away and he slipped a communications device onto her. It was also had trackers inside it, but Hit-Girl would probably figure it out. He didn't need to say anything, because her smile was knowing. In a way, it was comforting in the way that they didn't need words.

Hit-Girl turned away, leaping off the rooftop and swinging away.

He felt like he somehow made a mistake.

When he returned to the Batcave, it came with the news that Nightwing had disappeared and a sinking feeling that Batman was gone as well.

 

[Dead Beyond]

A/N: Special thanks to Ziel for looking this over.

Throwing shit at the wall and seeing what stuck was basically gambling, albeit less rigged. But suffice to say, she had many irons in the fire. From that idiom, her mind hearkened back to an inane webcomic, a stray thought rushing by her brain. If she tried using references from any sort of comics, that would be a chink in her credibility.

Even as something as strange as say, Homestuck, no doubt Batman would figure out whether or not there was any authenticity or canonicity to her offhanded references. If she pulled an 'Avengers Assemble,' (fucking God, was that crossover still canon to this universe?) and Batman followed up on that offhanded remark… well, her nerd cred would be shot and she would tilt further on the insane scale instead of being merely eccentric. And she didn't have the time to check every individual pop-culture dreck in her head. After all, that fucker knew about Sailor Moon, so who knew what else he knew.

She couldn't afford to be a killer with the trappings of a comic book hero.

Now, she actually had to play at being a super-hero. Had to play up her redemption, her reformation. Being a foil had enormous staying power. The trick, however, was know when to slip up and titter toward the line, but never actually crossing it. After all, she wasn't a main character and wouldn't bounce back.

There laid the ways of flanderization and would firmly cement her as a villain. At worst, she'd be a forgettable villain. What were her moments in-between the pages going to be? Locked up in Arkham? Sure, she'd break out… eventually, but she'd actually go mad in the mean time. And what happened when the universe decided to reboot itself? Would she fade into the ether?

She needed to carve herself into continuity. Because Mindy McCready did not want to be forgotten.

Hit Girl entertained the idea of controversy. It would almost certainly burn bridges in-universe and would fuck her over down the line, but she'd memorable. As memorable as that Tarantula woman and the whole 'is it rape' controversy with Nightwing … but that left a sore taste in her mouth.

She was already pushing the line when she blew smoke laced with a very, very diluted form of Ivy's pheromones at Robin. It was hard as shit to buy off the black market, especially since Poison Ivy was sorta wavering between the line of good and evil at the moment. It wouldn't last… and wasn't that a bitch. Like if some writer decided that she was more iconic as a villain, then contrivances would happen to enforce that idea.

Which was what she was banking on. Hit-Girl couldn't exactly condition Robin with just a whiff of smoke, but hey, comic book logic was a thing. With the way she rolled the cigarettes, she would have got good ole tobacco while it blew out pheromones.

She didn't quite understand it, but that was comic books for you. Hit-Girl remembered the sleepless hours trying to come up with several contingencies and then invested too much fucking time on such a small idea. How the hell Batman found the time to formulate proper countermeasures? Maybe it would give her a slight edge, maybe it wouldn't, but she needed an advantage, no matter how trivial. She tried properly recollecting how she pulled off the bullshit cigarette. It had taken hours, that much she was sure of. Especially the limited timeframe Robin imposed on her… a trial run of sorts… and so she scrambled.

Was it sleep-deprivation or just a moment that had fallen between the cracks of the pages… a moment not worth illustrating?

Or maybe it was all in her head, ascribing actual comic book logic to a reality merely adjacent to that type of logic. She went through shit as a kid and all the pain and the occasional hardcore drug must have wrecked hell on her body. And she was a therapist's wet dream with all the trauma she went through.

She simply just didn't deal with it any more than she had to and she wouldn't even dare consider it here. Even with DC at its best and most optimistic with rainbows flowing out of its ass, the entire mental health field was shot to all hell. Disregarding all the fucking psychiatrists that turned into supervillains, the heroes here thought a fucking computer system was a better alternative.

Though given the aforementioned supervillain therapists, it might have actually made sense at the time.

Christ…

She stopped halfway through assembling the bomb and rubbed her tired eyes. Stained hands tainted the eyes, burning with chemicals. It just led her to drag her hands up until the heels covered her eyes.

What she doing?

Truly… Hit-Girl wasn't one for retrospection. That was for fucks who thought they were much deeper than they actually were. And those were the most boring people out there, puddles acting as though they were lakes. Kickass… Dave… had a much better excuse: a volatile combination of loneliness and despair in a boring fucking life.

And then he shipped up, shaped out… before quitting the game entirely. A bit of a cop-out, but hey, it was respectable. The guy did his time, more than any other dweeb in a mask, and knew he wanted out.

Truth be told, even after all the shit they went through, if Dave was here instead of her… he would have creamed his pants at least six times before going off to jerk off to pictures of the real Wonder-Woman.

The heels dug in, messaging her eyeballs until they felt like marbles caught in a rut.

Maybe that comment was a bit too meanspirited… but in these idle moments, Hit-Girl had to ponder why the fuck was she even in the DC universe. She was only tangentially related to the nerd culture, having been raised in a rather extreme form of it.

Mindy knew of the laughable notions of Self-Inserts that acted as just another form of escapist masturbation for the downtrodden and the sexless. And then a certain thought came crashing through with all the chilling clarity of acceptance. That tingling sensation that refused to be denied.

Fuck.

Her dad… fuck… what was him being Big Daddy but another form of escapism? Jesus fuck… Even though the man went balls deep into it, the underlying root of it could not be denied. Despite the brief, passing derision of Kickass's initial reasons, Mindy never truly put it to thought about Dad's.

Why think about it when she could continue on like she always did? The path she traveled, despite its hardships, was familiar. It was easy to fall back on, much like a sinning, diddly priest that went crying to an empty confession booth and absolved themselves.

They could trust in the framework provided, to do what it had always done: be a ceaseless stone in front of a roaring river. Rather than recognize the problem, they proclaimed it a stumbling block or perhaps even a feature of the framework.

Hit-Girl looked back at the tattered remnants of the framework, seeing that it would not be able to bear the weight of what was to come. The only way out was to pull out and self-examine everything that led to this moment, before forging a new path through uncharted waters.

"Character development…" She finally pulled her hands away, feeling the smudges around red-rimmed eyes. Then she chuckled. "It would never last… not here…"

Christ.

There was something deeply wrong with her to persist under this assumption. Yet, she couldn't stop. The best she could do was keep on trucking until she left a pretty corpse onto the world. It wasn't like death meant anything in this hellhole. It might even give her proper meaning. And when she was dead or gone, another version of her would flit on.

Hit-Girl, immortalized.

Truthfully, back in her universe, she would have kept going on and on until she was killed. There was no other alternative, except she might actually make it mean something. Nothing as mundane as making herself a "legend" (fucking Bigfoot was a legend, but only idiots cared about him)… but something persistent.

The only logical endpoint…

She found herself yawning, the world slipping away into the unreality of the unwake. With blurring whirls and sliding angles, perception dimmed as light spiraled in the center of version. Until a shot of adrenaline pushed back the tiredness to the edges, where it remained present but not quite dominant.

Even though it wasn't the right genre, she was suddenly afraid of dipping into sleep, into the Dreaming and would have to deal Gaiman bullshit. She could, probably, handle actual supervillains as long as they were Batman-flavored.

Rationally, Mindy knew she could hang up the cape and fuck off. There was no real reason to persist on this dangerously suicidal course of action. Except she couldn't get the idea that it was futile out of her head. She had already distinguished herself in the world and to bow out now into obscurity… there would be a time of peace.

Except that would most certainly sign her doom forever and ever. If the spotlight was off her, then she lost whatever status she had, then she'd be a relative nobody. The sort of character that would languish away in nothingness before the universe or a writer or whoever picked them back up.

And then she'd be like chattel. If her luck was crap, then she'd be like some underused character a writer like Gaiman would pick up and be utterly expendable in the face of. A series that involved a madman warping reality in a dinner for twenty four hours.

It was one thing to torture and maim and murder, but at least there was an endpoint. The body could only stand so much in the face of mundane means… but reality-warping gems? There were literally no limits.

Why the hell did people complain about the Joker when there was other scary shit around?

Mindy groaned into her hands, knowing she had actually sealed her fate with whatever smidgen of freewill she might have had. As Destiny was literally a thing here and she wasn't so full of herself to think herself an aberration in his Book.

There was no other recourse now.

The ink had already dried on the page and the lettering was halfway done.

XXX

Robin was waiting for her, one foot on the ledge, him leaning that tiny body forward. For an instant, it seemed to her that he was a boy playing dress-up. Then the details started to fill in… the stuff that normal people couldn't hope to replicate. The hardness in his eyes, the toned muscles that the armor tried to hide, the way he was coiled to pounce at every little thing…

Crack a joke about him and he'd punch your teeth in, and Hit-Girl wouldn't have it any other way.

She squirmed only briefly. Just long enough to become painfully aware of her age and the dread beast called puberty.

No! She murdered that thought with all the zealousness of a crusader. It'd be really fucking weird to crush on an actual fictional character… that she might have had a infinitesimally small chance with… Like the ultimate sexless fangirl she was…

"What's the sitch?" her mouth blabbered to soothe away the embarrassment.

Fuck. When did she become a pop culture cracking asshole? She was supposed to be a murderous, precious vigilante amongst dweebs… yet, this role-reversal had her spinning out. And she just slipped up on her vow to cut back the nerd crap, which might undo everything.

Thankfully Robin just grunted.

Hit-Girl walked up to him and matched his pose.

"Where's the B-Man?" she asked, brazenly.

Throwing out such a term strongly associated with Harley Quinn of all people was a gamble of six faces. A veritable dice roll. On the off chance that Robin did associate it with Harley, then that could mean just about anything.

It all depended on how he took it. Perhaps it would further this little kayfabe of hers, by reminding him how close she strayed toward 'villainy.' Or maybe it would be a red herring, making Robin search for a connection that wasn't there, thus skipping over other details.

Or maybe she was overthinking it.

He turned to look her over, white lenses focusing on the twin pistols at her waist and the shotgun poking from her cape.

"Rubber bullets and bean bags," she said, forestalling any half-hearted protests.

He gave a tight nod. It was almost funny to consider that rubber bullets and bean bags were actually nonlethal here. Whenever she wanted a challenge, she used this type of ammunition. Because, with rubber and bean bags, if you hit people in the right spot with them it could crack their skull open or stop their heart respectively.

"Follow my lead," he declared, brusquely.

Then he leapt off the building, landing on a smaller building in front of them. Hit-Girl huffed, took a few steps back, and, then with a running start, followed him off the brink. Years of training and experience had taught her the best way to break a fall into a roll and she still came up with just a hint of breathlessness.

Robin had merely landed on his two feet and skirted toward the door atop the roof. He hunkered to the right side and she took up arms on the opposite side. The shotgun was a steady weight in her hands.

"So, who we beating on? This just looks like a rather lower-class apartment. We beating on the homeless?"

Robin held back a sneer. "The Penguin owns the building through various subsidiaries. Nothing that can be proven in court, but we know that his thugs often use this as a safehouse. And in some instances, they store contraband here."

"But not after tonight, right?"

"Maybe, maybe not. They have multiple safehouses and they might consider continuing using it. If only to misdirect us later."

"Makes one wish arson was a solution."

He chuckled darkly. "If only. But we do that, we risk the fire spreading to the less fortunate. And Cobblepot would make a killing off the insurance."

"Lose-lose."

"But we could certainly inconvenience him."

Hit-Girl smirked. "Go in loud?"

He nodded with a small matching smile.

Then he stood forward, kicking in the door and rushing down the steps with Hit-Girl in his wake. She only lagged behind by five seconds and when she came onto a landing, three thugs were already knocked out.

Robin was in the amidst of a melee, fending off one thug with a brandished batarang before ducking under two wide swings of metal and wood. Relieving Robin of the pressure, Hit-Girl shot the two of them in quick succession, the cocking of the shotgun music to her ears.

The Boy Wonder flipped the last man over his shoulder and he landed with a resounding thud. This was far-cry from the usual cloak-and-dagger M.O. from the Dynamic duo, but Hit-Girl knew what the point of this was.

Fear.

It all came down to fear.

By crashing into this place like a natural disaster, it fostered a sense of doomed inevitability into their targets. They could do naught but cower.

Robin stopped by a corner. Without looking at her, he outstretched his arm back and held up two fingers in the shape of a gun. After a beat, he spread them out. The message was clear: two gunmen.

Perfect.

Hit-Girl took up his place and adjusted her grip on the shotgun, holding up a few feet above her head. She poked the gun a few inches past the corner before suddenly reeling it back as if she made a mistake.

Then she rushed out from cover, crouching low with the shotgun poised. The two gunmen were side by side and Hitgirl knew she'd only have enough time to pop off one shot. So, she made it count, firing at the man's crouch.

His curses of pain were drowned out by the sudden gunfire that whizzed high above her. Perks of being midget-sized. Before they could correct their aim, Hit-Girl had already moved. In a smooth one-two-three sequence, she threw herself to the wall, replenished half her grip on the shotgun, and drew a pistol with her left hand.

The impact was abrupt, nearly throwing her focus off. Where her conscious mind stuttered, instincts took over. The gun snapped rim-rod straight and nailed the man right between the eyes. There was only the whuff of impact rather than the crack of brain damage.

He fell atop the other fallen man, each of them groaning. Robin hurried past them, stepping over them without a care. Hit-Girl hopped over them and, out of habit, double-tapped the downed foes. They grunted as the rubber bounced against their spine.

Robin's shoulders twitched at the sounds. It was probably a tell of some sorts, but Hit-Girl couldn't be bothered to unravel the complexities of body-language. She holstered the pistol and followed Robin until he came to a stop.

"Cover my back. I don't know if the rest of these tenets will muster up the courage to confront us. However, I do need time alone to conduct a proper interrogation."

"Awww, I don't get to watch you work," she cooed sweetly. At his dark look, she changed tone to something more blithe. "Break a finger or two for me."

He didn't do anything but burst through the door. Hit-Girl resisted the urge to peak in. With a valiance unbecoming of her, she closed the door to let Robin have some privacy. Hit-Girl hummed quietly over the sounds of meaty slaps and harsh crashes. Her eyes darted left and right, but nobody did anything.

Finally the cries died down and there was a heavy pause. Hit-Girl strained to listen, but only heard a few murmured words. Then there was one solemn snap and then a scream.

Robin stepped out, sealing something in a blacked-out zip bag. He, with the air of secrecy, hid it away into his utility belt.

He marched past her, stopped, and looked over his shoulder.

"You were adequate. I'll be in touch."

Before he could walk off, Hit-Girl's hand shot out and grabbed his forearm.

"Hey. Considering I helped you out, I deserve a little tidbit."

His shoulders squared and his face looked forward with an unwavering conviction. With muted words, he said, "This was the last known location of Batman before he disappeared."

The cape whooshed as he fled the scene. Hit-Girl tried following him around the corner, but he was gone.

"Motherfucker!" she hissed. "I never thought I'd get the disappearing treatment pulled on me!"

Then she digested the words. Batman… gone. It wasn't cause for concern in the grand scheme of things. Unless she was an elseworlds universe, Batman was going to return sooner or later. No, her concerns crystallized into one blaring thought.

Oh, fuck. I'm the B-plot.

Her hands were shaky with barely concealed frustration and fury.

Well, then… that's why I have Plan B.

XXX

When planning potential acts of terrorism, it was best to keep it simple, stupid. Any grand plans that required multiple wheels to spin would quickly blow out, breaking axles and launching projectiles all over the place.

Back when she had her shit-list full of mobsters, she -- as children were wont to do -- made it needlessly complicated with ironic killings and witty one-liners. Right up until her mom was threatened by the mob… and then she knocked out all the names off the list in one single night.

It was a valuable lesson.

Just get that shit done.

Of course, that was back in her universe, where things made some sense. This was DC, where masterminds like Lex Luthor plotted and thus an element of complexity was needed to get somewhere. She wasn't dumb enough to think she could get away with too much, but Hit-Girl needed to get away with just enough.

And that was a problem.

Any mystery here would be uncovered, any deception would be undone… eventually.

Plant a bomb and try to pin it on someone else would only mean that the blame would be undone. Try to falsify her heroics in such a blatant manner and it became a matter of time before the big reveal came. It was a common trope: new and shiny hero appeared on the scene, was more beloved than the normie hero, and then was eventually uncovered to be a sinister fake.

Tale as old as time, really.

Her hands worked the controls to the bomb, the message warning Robin of the bomb… all of it part of a rather hamfisted, but kinda plausible plot.

If she had a grander introduction, then there would be little need for this plan. She wasn't thrown into the fray like a Cassandra Cain -- who nailed the landing -- or wormed their way in like Harper Row.

Even if Cassandra Cain went from Batgirl to Black Bat to Orphan, she clearly had staying power. Harper had a brief stint as Bluebird or whoever and was now retired. But she was still somewhat present.

Such options were probably denied to her, considering she was just plopped here and forcefully inserted herself into current events.

Especially this whole stunt: blowing up the Iceberg Lounge. Or, rather, pretending to blow up the Lounge. If she went whole hog with the Bat Family, too perfect without any faults… well, she could hear the words 'Mary Sue' blaring in her head.

Didn't matter if she actually struggled or that her life was really on the line, but the perception of gelling too easily could be her undoing. Plus, in terms of integration, it should absolutely not be smooth-sailing. There should and would be road-bumps in almost any endeavor.

Training Kick-Ass wasn't easy and despite her best efforts, it didn't turn out great. Not a complete a disaster, but far from a good experience. If something as simple as that was rocky, then the kayfabe needed a little more.

Hence, she needed to backslide… just a little bit. Nothing too irredeemable, nothing that reeked of massive character assassination to railroad her to villainy.

There was no real intention for the bomb. Merely a ploy to get Robin running along. Half-formed justifications had swirled around her noggin, each with its own merits and downsides. She could have gone the whole 'mind control' route, but that meant bringing in Martian Manhunter in and then the jig would be up.

The best lies were ones based in truth and the only real thing that could rile her up was Mom. Who was a whole world away, who Mindy might never see again.

See, Robin, "they" are making me do this, otherwise I might never see her again.

She tasted the words in her mouth, feeling the spit shape and dissipate in unequal measure. It was a rather short-sighted plan, nothing substantial, but it was enough to craft the next link in the chain. Hit-Girl primed the bomb just as a strange, silent sort of hum shimmered behind her. Like the rumble of a jet, but something that came from within.

With an uneasy tension, she turned around.

Standing astride a white, motorcycle-looking glider was a roughly feminine form. She was wearing a white bodysuit and cape combo that was rather bland. Any different shades of white would blur together, but the lackluster suit paled in comparison to the parts that mattered.

The figure had two oversized gloves, lined with studded spikes and a large bulky headpiece adorned it all, heavily mechanical-looking at the side. Two sharp, red lenses stared back at her, two small nozzles jutted from the chin, and two sharp points topped it all off, shooting to the sides. At first, they could be mistaken for something similar to Batman's own cowl, but they looked more lynx's ears on closer inspection.

For a moment, Hit-Girl's mind stuttered.

Who the fuck…

<I don't do this hero shit often, so I'll tell you once: knock it the fuck off,> a modulated voice declared.

She delved in deep into memories, sifting through all the training and murders to recall the slimmest of comic book details. Dad had quizzed her on some of the stuff as way to train memory retention. Afterwards, she only kept up with comics out of habit and a schadenfreude desire to laugh at how stupid comics were.

Not so stupid now… a part of her whispered.

As she found nothing, a panic started to set in. If this was a new character, be it literally this universe or another, then Hit-Girl was on uncharted ground. How would she deal with someone else's OC? Or maybe her being an OC… DC oh so loved its meta-narratives.

Strangely, she focused on a single word from her inner spiel and the wires crossed from her earlier thought.

Panic.

Mom…

She clenched her fists and stood straighter.

Stupid Gerard Way.

The vigilante in question was Mother Panic and she was everything that Mindy feared would happen to her. A forgettable comic run that culminated in Mother Panic being shunted over to another reality and then… discontinued. Nothing more and not even dweebs wrote fanfiction about her.

Who heard about Violet Paige, an edgier, bisexual rip-off of Batwoman? Nobody cared about Mother Panic. And if Mindy wasn't careful, nobody would care about Hit-Girl.

Still… if Mother Panic was here… then she could, probably, suss out where she was on the timeline. But… Hit-Girl couldn't give too much away.

"Mother Panic, is it?" Her hands danced over her swords, before remembering the vigilante was cybernetically enhanced. Hit-Girl couldn't remember if it extended to durability or not. Her only hope was the magnum tucked in her belt behind her. "Heard you were gone."

<I was. Now I am not.>

Was she just being coy or did Mother Panic actually come back from that dimension? What did that mean for Hit-Girl? Two occurrences of dimensional transfers… hell no, it couldn't be coincidence. It had to be building up to something…

Hit-Girl hesitated, trying to figure out how to keep the kayfabe going. She couldn't progress without using some degree of metaknowledge, but that might break the kayfabe. Even if Robin wasn't here, the information could back to him. And she needed to talk, to drag this out in the hopes of Robin showing up to get this show back on track.

"Must have been tough on you. Universe travel, I mean."

<You with those freaks that turned Batman into a priest?>

Jesus, fuck. The more she actively tried to imagine living and breathing in this universe, the more she wanted to piss off and let this be all a bad dream.

"Nope. Just a little more in the know than everybody else." Hit-Girl paused dramatically, trying to rally her thoughts. Mother Panic had this plot about some church school that had human experimentation in attempts to be the future or some shit. Could she claim to be part of that? No… that would convolute her 'backstory' too much. She continued, "I know this isn't your M.O. Aren't you a little revenge bent?"

<I'm no hero. But… being in another universe tends to make you rethink your priorities. So, I guess I'm doing this. Disarm the bomb.>

Fuck, things weren't going her way. Her smile was brittle.

"I can't do that. It is beyond me."

Mother Panic hopped off the glider-bike and landed a few feet away from her.

<Swear to God, this better not be more cult shit.>

Crap, crap. Her hand circled behind her waist, gripping the revolver. Didn't Mother Panic have a sick mom or something? Was that something she could use?

"See, Mother Panic, they are making me do this, otherwise I might never see her again." The words came out just as full as pathos as she intended. It was just a shame that Mother Panic looked clueless. So, she had to belatedly tacked on, at the end, "My mom."

Mother Panic tilted her head and then spoke those damning words.

<I don't believe you.>

"Tough titties. That's the truth."

She ripped out the magnum and tried to pop off a shot. But Mother Panic jutted her head forward, the two nozzles spraying acid. It struck true, dissolving the gun and splashing onto her hand.

Hit-Girl cried out, stumbling into a charge toward her opponent. Two butterfly knives slipped out from hidden sleeves. Her right hand fumbled, the burning nerves unable to grab ahold. But where the right failed, the left held true.

The stab was practiced, but sloppy in its execution. Mother Panic sidestepped the attack and delivered an equally sloppy blow.

Pressure exploded beneath the meat and all the air was whooshed out. Hit-Girl couldn't even cry out as she felt the ribs splinter into many different pieces. Most of them punctured her lung. From that chilling panic, Hit-Girl threw everything into one desperate fling off the roof.

Freefall greeted her like a car crash, all panicked flailing and slow, slow eyes that couldn't process what was going on. Somehow, impossibly, Hit-Girl found within herself to pull out the grapple gun with her off hand and fire a random shot.

Luck was with her and a sudden tug stopped her descent, but not her momentum. As the grapple gun found its mark, it yanked her arm out of her socket but she still held on. Unable to scream, unable to do anything, she let herself be swung across the streets.

If she was in the proper mindset, she would have recognized that Mother Panic couldn't have gave chase without letting the bomb blow up.

But when Hit-Girl crash landed onto a rooftop, she broke off into a hobbling run, a skittish animal limping away.

XXX

Near a cold, unfeeling ocean, Mindy McCready couldn't breathe. The air leaked out of her and she couldn't feel her right hand save for painful tingles that only signaled the destruction of her nerves. A sobbing laugh spilled from her as she crouched down, as if by lowering herself could she escape the choking smoke wafting through the air.

She laid on her side, curling up like she was some sort of child… like the child she was. Smothering her wounded hand in her armpit, she managed to roll on her side, still gasping for breath.

Any and all fantasies of a super-heroic bent came half-mast. Even if robo hands were a possibility for her, it didn't change the fact that her hand was utterly ruined. This wasn't something she could just train away. Fucking Batman could train away a broken back, but Hit-Girl couldn't even deal with a punctured lung and acid-burned hand combo. Going to the hospital meant compromising her identity, going to the Thompkins clinic meant breaking the kayfabe.

All she could do was lay here.

Pathetic.

It just occurred to her that she was a Barbie Girl in a grindhouse world. Her knees scraped at the ground as she tried to stand back. Scratch that, she would settle for a hobbled, wobbled kneel, but her body didn't even that.

Only a brief surge of hate and adrenaline manage to propel her back to her feet. That magnanimous effort rewarded with a bullet smashing through her neck. Without any breath, there was no surprised gasp that preluded everything else.

Without any conscious thought, Hit-Girl pulled a pistol and twisted around, before crumbling. The action caused her to drop to one knee, but she positioned herself in a prime firing position. Before she even knew what happened, the trigger was pulled.

A shadow loomed on the rooftop next to hers. Then it stuttered forward, a flash of an American flag unwrapping to reveal a bald dome. The moonlight glittered red across the surface before the thing flopped over the edge.

The gun fell from flimsy fingers as she applied pressure to the wound.

Hit-Girl collapsed near the edge, the sweet release of unconsciousness denied to her. Short, ragged breaths marked the passage of time. She could scarcely move save for the occasional twitch that felt like the first stirrings of rigor mortis.

Eventually, after six hundred and seventy-seven half-formed breaths, voices rose up from the alleyway grave.

"Shit, man… that's a dead body."

"No shit. It's Gotham. The only question is if there's anything to him." A pause. "Look. He had a rifle on him. Which means this was either gang violence or the Hood, if you know, he's slipping again. Either way, those two are not the looting types."

"Hey… doesn't that guy look familiar."

"Oh, crap, crap, crap. That's Cory Edgars! Don't touch anything!"

"Who?"

"You know? The radio guy who hates Batman and vigilantes?"

"And?"

"He's well-known and those types of corpses tend to draw attention. And we do not want to be connected to this. Because at worst, we'll have to deal with the Bat."

"Then let's scram man!"

All of it… went over her head and her part in this play was so, so minor. Was this some old, unfinished plot that she couldn't be assed to remember? Or was the world actively flowing in ways she couldn't fathom? Or was she just delusional about how this place worked, having stumbled into this via odd chance and circumstance, and thought it narratively induced?

Did it matter?

Did she matter?

Hit-Girl… Mindy McCready had gone up against the DC universe and was found wanting. Tears stung her eyes as the stars twinkled above. She couldn't even handle a D-list nobody. How could she even fathom any real machinations within this universe with actual powers, with actual superintelligence.

Through this whole misadventure, she felt like there was a thread that her fingers grasped before it suddenly slipped through her fingers.

She wasn't a normal human becoming a vigilante; somehow she was an even weaker human trying to be a vigilante.

Whatever story she was in… it was one of utter failure. The rise before the crippling fall. Who was she to think that she had a chance at fitting in her? No… there was plenty of chances of integration.

Who was she to force it?

Mindy McCready found herself standing over the sullen waters. Her delirious mind chuckled, knowing how common it was for people to fall into the waters and resurface later. Another narrative trope… But her decision wasn't really based on that logic. Some dim part of her recognized this as the suicide attempt that it was.

Her feet wavered on the edge, the ocean calling to her below. After all, from this height, the waters would be like concrete and would break her even further.

Though a more hopeful part of her desired this to be her baptism. She would disappear into the depths and reemerge anew. Maybe if she disappeared for a bit, Mindy would be different somehow.

Or maybe she would be dead.

At least that would save her the embarrassment of basically being crippled by a D-lister. One foot hovered past the edge, standing on invisible ground. It was dumb to hope that if she survived this, there'd be a metamorphosis of sorts. Whether this experience would change her or some nebulous organization used her body for experiments or -- out-of-universe -- a new writer picked her up to make something out of her…

All of those were idle thoughts and baseless speculation.

This was a piss-poor ending for someone like her, but what else could there be for someone like her? Joining the Bat-Family, shipping herself with Damian, somehow becoming a superhero… hah. That reeked more delusion than anything else.

Delusions she hoped to silence, because she knew how poorly she fit into this world. She couldn't fit in and if she tried to wedge herself in, she'd break.

Mindy looked at her ruined hand, seeing the destroyed muscles and half-buried bone. She would have never recovered back home and she might not find a proper avenue to fix herself her.

No… this was the best option. If there was one trait she shared with the Bat-Family, it was that she couldn't really quit either. Not unless she was gone.

"This is it," Mindy whispered.

A beat.

"I don't really want to die," Hit-Girl muttered.

Nobody really did, but her presence here was an anomaly and there could be no rectification. She had already lied about herself and going back on that felt like a mistake. Even if she came out with the truth and somehow the Justice League got her back home… she would forever be tainted by this place. Nothing back home would feel real. She would never consider her home to be the real world – just a different type of comic book.

She tried pressing her ruined hand to her face. Felt nothing underneath her palm and felt the warm sting of sizzled meat.

Who's to say this will be a definite end? She pulled her hand away, not even feeling a crystal-clear resolve. This is just me going through the motions.

With a quiet exhale, she closed her eyes, trying not to think of this as death. This was merely the build-up to the end of the book. The conclusion of an arc that went nowhere and she could only pray that whatever happened next, she would fit into place.

Mindy McCready stepped out into the air and Hit-Girl fell into the waters below.

 

[Dead Beyond]

A/N: Special thanks to @Ziel for looking this over.

Spoiler: What is inFamous?

InFamous is a Playstaion exclusive series, focusing on superpowered protagonists called Conduits. A staple of the games is the karma system, allowing players to be good or evil, which affects both story and gameplay. The first two games focus on the electricity-wielding Conduit called Cole MacGrath as he deals with the looming threat of the Beast. The third game switches protagonists to Delsin Rowe and takes place several years after the second game. Conduits are hunted down by the Department of Unified Protection and labeled as bioterrorists. As they abused their authority in pursuit of Conduits, it puts Delsin at odds with them. Armed with ability to copy powers from other Conduits, Delsin fights against the corrupt government.

The last thing Cole MacGrath remembered before he saved the world was how his fingers ached from gripping the RFI. The last thing Cole saw was Kuo, apologetic and afraid for what was to come. She had been scared, in the end, and sided with the Beast -- John -- who had been trying to save the world in his own way. It seemed perverse, somehow.

The Beast was trying to kill the many to save the few.

And Cole had to kill the few to save the many.

It was dilemma on who would inherit the earth: humanity or conduits. At least, that was how it appeared on the surface. That was the flaw in John's argument -- that humanity was inseparable from Conduits. All Conduits were humans, but not all humans were Conduits.

It wouldn't surprise him if Conduits started to pop up, long after the RFI's activation. But that shouldn't have been a thought. Cole should have been dead. The ache in his fingers returned, growing as he sought leverage beneath him.

He groaned, feeling the crackling power inside him awaken. It fizzled and fuzzed like a lightbulb struggling to turn on. Cole rolled onto his side, spitting blood. He blinked, seeing tendrils of electricity dance along the spat red.

Against all odds, Cole was alive.

Panic pushed against the inside of his chest, making it hard to breathe. Had he failed? Was Zeke dead? Was the rest of New Marais dead? Was the world destroyed?

After everything, all the crap he went through… was it all for naught?

Cole hissed, finally pushing himself up. His vision was darkened, shadows sinking all around him. It took him a moment to realize it was the downcast clouds that messed with his sight. He shook off the exhaustion, stumbling up a nearby crest.

Too dark to see.

He fell onto his knees, hands gripping the edge off the cliff. He blinked. The rolling dark was coming toward him, signifying that something was coming. A pulse of energy bloomed in his head, a power that he used as a crude radar to sense enemies among other things.

At this distance, he couldn't make out the exact, individual bio-electrical signatures. But he could feel something big, weighty, like the sun's light pushing through a thin layer of fog. It should have consoled him, but unlike the sun's warming rays, it merely unnerved him. Something big, something powerful was coming.

He shook off his weariness and fear that if he survived, then so to did the Beast. He turned around, stumbling to the other side of the crest. Cole looked around, suddenly aware that he was on a suspended tower of dirt and stone. Like the earth had punched up and froze half-way through the uppercut.

Vertigo struck, wobbling and teetering, as if his feet registered the shakiness of this platform. This shouldn't be a problem for him. He had been doing parkour and urban exploration for the longest of times, even before the Blast that gave him his powers. Why would he suddenly falter now?

Was he really that drained of energy?

Cole made his way to the opposite end and his heart lodged up in his throat, unable to breathe, unable to hear the beat of his heart.

All across the horizon, havoc and rampage had ran rampant. A destroyed city, buildings crumbling and fallen apart like wood wore down by termites. Collapsing, fragile, and liable to fall apart at the faintest breeze. It looked like Empire City after the Blast, but instead of waking up at Ground Zero, he was on the outside, looking in.

He failed.

Game over.

He fell to his knees, feeling the weight of his failures. His fingers grasped the muck, clawing through until it curled into fists. He started to rip the turf apart and hammering at it. Sparks crackled from his fists as he had mourn everything he had known once again. More electricity traced down his face in two parallel lines.

It was like waking up from the Blast: confused, disorientated, and utterly alone. His whole world had been uprooted. It seemed to be a recurring theme of his life: the Blast, Trish dying, finding out Kessler was him from a bad future, losing to the Beast… the revelation that he would have to die to save the world.

He had been alone, but never for long. Zeke came back, even after his betrayal, and things had gotten better. For a few passing moments, he scrambled to find the RFI and activate it once more -- just so he could cease and tell himself he did all he could.

Cole patted his pockets then his arms rummaged through the sling bag on his back. His hands wrapped around the Amp. A weapon designed by Zeke to help him. He let out a slow breath and drew the device.

It sprung to life, extending out like an old friend meeting him with a handshake. The Amp practically shone, clean and pristine. Care was inscribed into the very creation and the continued maintenance almost seemed like a promise, even now, even so far from home. He sent a small surge of power through it, watching a string of blue dance between the two prongs.

These were the moments that defined a person, what they did against the impossibility of overwhelming failure.

Cole couldn't just give up. He wouldn't give up.

He holstered the Amp and stepped to the edge. The drop was about a thousand stories high. Cole felt the rush of freefall, letting his current worries and problem slide off him like the air rushing at him. They fell beside him in the freefall, tangibly connected, but not directly related to the ongoing momentum.

Reorientating himself, he pressed his hands down and static electricity rumbled out, slowing his descent down considerably. The momentum started to fizzle out and Cole glided through the air, taking in the horrific sights. He almost wished he just jumped off and gathered energy for an explosive landing. But he couldn't risk it, not in this unknown environment.

For all he knew, it would break the natural tower at the base and crush someone.

So, he bore the sight of red skies, filled with ash and smoke. The ruined landscape where the earth was torn apart like the cracks on concrete. For now, his goal was to figure out what happened and worked from there.

If the Beast was defeated and this was the damage wrought before he croaked, then… maybe… maybe this would be… bearable to swallow.

Half a story away from the ground, he cut off the power from his palms and dropped the rest of the way. A shock ran through one of his legs, rattling inside the limb. He staggered, falling onto one side.

Cole clenched his fists. This just confirmed it. He was really out of it, considering that he survived way worse falls than this. He really needed to drain some energy to boost him back to snuff. As he looked around, Cole did not see anything he could absorb from. His powers were much more suited for an urban environment. The absence of electricity was making him weaker.

Place him in a nature-inclined area, even as ruined as this one, and he was especially weakened with him being drained as he was. He held his hands apart and let a lash of energy pass between them. The glow was bright, but not as bright as it could have been. As it stood, he had a limited quantity of energy. He was a battery three-quarters dry. And when he ran on empty, there was very little he could do.

Right now, finding a source of power was his secondary objective.

He set off walking.

Cole would figure out what his primary goal would be later.

XXX

Eventually the destruction wore away, revealing a beaten and battered path. An old road rested beneath his feet, almost unrecognizable. Cars hadn't driven down these roads for a long while.

Cars…

Now that was a lark. He hadn't been able to ride in one since he tended to cause the fuel to combust. But they tended to be a familiar sight. Without them, everything seemed barren, lifeless. Combine that with the supreme lack of electrical systems and his body feeling like utter garbage in response, Cole didn't exactly like the great outdoors. Yet, there he was in the thick of it.

He never felt more alone.

He walked with a slight limb, putting more weight on his unwounded leg. After nearly an hour of broken roads and shattered trees, he found a sign. Nearly illegible as it stood tall, the only thing standing in a forest of broken trees.

Salmon Bay.

Even if there was nobody there, he hoped the power was at least still be running, so he could spruce himself up.

The first step didn't get much farther before a gunshot nearly blow his brains out. Cole moved, throwing out his right and casting a circular screen of frost. The next few bullets pattered against the shield. It wasn't energy-extensive, considering it wasn't even part of his normal powerset and was transferred from Kuo.

With his actual powers, he drew most of his energy into his palm and collated it into a ball. He shaped its power, its effects, and waited. He would have only one of these shock grenades and maybe just enough juice for a few blasts.

"You bastard!" the shooter called out.

He continued to hold up the shield, facing toward the source of gunfire. Following half-instinct and half battle-born reflex, he found the enemy and lobbed the ball of energy. It struck true, evident by the sudden shout of panic and the explosive crackle seconds later.

Cole dismissed the ice shield and walked up to the shooter. The shock grenade had knocked him back and lashed him to the tree with ropes of electricity. He strained against, hissing all the while.

"I've been told that it hurts less if you don't struggle," Cole commented idly.

He stopped in front of the man, taking in his features. Looked like to be in his late 20s, with dark hair, and Native American features.

"You're a monster," the man spat.

"Actually, it's demon. The Demon of Empire City if you want to insult me correctly."

The man glared at Cole. Then he shook his head, whether from agitation or to clear his head, Cole couldn't tell. "No, it's the Beast."

Cole froze, taking a step forward and then back as his mind tried to process what just happened. Him? The Beast? Unreality tried to set in, but met the crazy, reality of his life. It almost seemed reminiscent of the moment when Kessler forced his memories onto Cole. That split-second of impossibility before he accepted the truth.

His stomach lurched before flashes of light pitched him across the forest. Cole tumbled and smacked his back into a stump. The flashing, rave lights formed into a dark pink-haired, punk woman in a green coat. Clearly a Conduit with light-based abilities. Joy.

"I got you, fucker!"

Cole rubbed his jaw. "So, you did."

She threw her hand out, shooting a beam of colorful purple light at him. Cole rolled out of the way and returned fire with a precise bolt of lightning. He didn't catch any scent from the light, before the smell of ozone filled the air.

He took a stab at a guess at her powers. Was she using neon? She dodged the bolt, transforming a bright, translucent figure. The Conduit moved so fast that he could only catch glimpses of her vague after-images, taunting him with his sluggishness.

Cole spun around, trying to keep track of her position. He stopped trying to catch up to her and instead aiming for where she was going to be. She circled around at him and he fired, but the Conduit was too fast.

She clocked him in the face with a fist of neon, causing the bolt to fire askew. He was bashed into a tree and he directed the momentum into a mad scramble. The Conduit's follow-up swing sent chips of wood and splashes of neon scattering on the floor.

Cole barely had enough time to put his fists up before the Conduit zipped up to him, delivering a furious barrage of purple-coated punches. Cole blocked best he could, but she was too fast. They were Conduits, equal in durability, but unequal on footing.

He swung an energized fist at her and in that time, she weaved under it and pummeled his back. The force caused him to fall to his knees, where she switched to kicking his ribs. Cole, in one swift and angry motion, drew the Amp and brained her hard.

She fell to the ground, but Conduits were tough. What would have been fatal to a human would have been merely painful to them. He quickly pinned her by the throat with the Amp, the two prongs touching the skin.

"Don't move or you'll fry," he said.

"Like you did with Eugene?" she shot back, shimmering with energy.

He sent a small pulse, causing her to flail in response. "I don't even know who that is."

Outrage shuddered through her, causing her very mass to vibrate half-way into neon. Cole dissuaded that with another charge of the Amp.

"Of course you wouldn't know their names," she gritted out, angry tears brimming in her eyes. "Not my friends, not my brother…"

"I don't know what you're talking about. I really, really don't. Okay? I don't know what's going on. I prefer diplomacy right now, because my self-restraint only goes so far." He paused, taking a ragged breath, and then called out, "That goes for both of you!"

The Conduit scowled and he could feel the intensity of the glare from the shooter.

"Fine!" the man eventually shouted.

Could he trust them? Honestly, Cole felt so… tired. Not just physically, but mentally. It seemed like a whole other lifetime, the years when he didn't have his powers. And once he did, there was that insurmountable mountain that was the Beast.

What would he have done, if he had won without dying? Maybe… maybe just hanging out with Zeke, with only having occasionally needing be the hero. Without that one big pressure, he could have handled all the other smaller pressures. Life would go on. Go back even further with these hypotheticals, he had to wonder… without the external threat of the Beast where would Cole MacGrath be?

Married to Trish, with two daughters…

And Kessler stole that possible future away, saddling him with the task of stopping the Beast.

Damnit. He couldn't think about that. Instead he had to ponder the insinuation of an internal threat of the Beast.

The Beast. Kessler traveling through time. The RFI activation…

The dots connected and the conclusion seemed insane, but there was little logic in his life, post-Blast. It was like that saying: life was stranger than fiction, because fiction needed to have some sort of logic. He looked at the two, knowing he need to confirm certain details.

He really preferred not to fight, because he doubted he had enough energy to be non-lethal. Cole sighed, pulling the Amp free from the ground and walked over to the ensnared man. He kept glancing back at the Conduit, making sure she didn't stab him in the back.

Cole drained the bonds, gaining a diminishing return from the expended energy. It was about a quarter of the power he used for the shock grenade. Cole stepped back, seeing the Conduit rub at her throat. He maneuvered himself to cover his back with a tree. He leaned against it, palms pressing against, ready to push himself away from any possible attack.

"Who are you two?" he asked.

The two shared a wary look. The Conduit was ready to move, but whether to fight or flee, Cole couldn't tell.

"Fetch," the Conduit relented. "Just Fetch."

Cole nodded, looking at the man. He looked like he chewed on something sour, but he still said, "Reggie. Reggie Rowe."

He said his last name like it would have meant something to Cole.

"I assume you both know of me?" Cole sounded unsure, trying best how to phrase the next sentence. "But not as Cole MacGrath, the Demon of Empire City or the Electric Man, or whatever dumb name people give me. No. You know me as Cole MacGrath, the Beast."

Another shared look, another conceded nod.

"What year is it?" he asked.

Reggie looked confused, while Fetch looked at him like he was an idiot.

"What year is it?" he repeated.

"2018," Fetch said.

Damn it. Damn it! Just another point in his current theory's favor. It had been 2011, when it all ended.

Cole ran a hand over his scalp. Despite the burgeoning gravity of the situation, he started feeling a little more steady. Even if these two were against him, at least he found the starting line for this long journey.

"What happened in New Marais? In 2011?"

"How would you not know?" Fetch challenged, pressing down as though it was a weak point.

"Humor me."

"There were sources about what happened in New Marais, the start of the Beast's… your rampage," Reggie explained slowly, as though each word pained him. Like he should have continued his suicidal attack on him.

"What about the RFI? It was suppose to destroy the plague."

Reggie let loose a bitter laugh. "A plague's not much of a problem when everyone who has it is dead."

"And I take it the Beast is still a problem."

"Yeah, I'm looking at him."

Cole sighed. Somehow, his counterpart here was either too cowardly or just plain callous enough to go through with John's plan. A course of action that had been unacceptable. After all, he himself had been empowered by the Blast. The cost of his powers had been the death of thousands. The Beast planned to repeat that heavy cost so far that the scales would have broken under the weight of lost lives.

And this… timeline's Cole continually rolled those odds.

"Look. This isn't what you think it is."

"And what would this be?" Fetch challenged.

Might as well rip the band-aid off, he thought.

He took a deep breath. "I'm actually a Cole MacGrath from a different timeline, one where I didn't go with the Beast… the first Beast's plan of activating Conduits. I went with activating the RFI, that's the Ray Filed Inhibitor, in an attempt to cure the plague at the cost of all the Conduits dying. And somehow I ended up here."

"That," Fetch started, "Is the stupidest thing I ever heard."

Cole shrugged. "Lady, my life took a turn for the crazy and the only reason why I even came to this conclusion is because I have some experience with time-travel."

"You." She raised an eyebrow. "Traveled through time before?"

"Well… not me me." He shook his head. "That's beside the point. If the plague's no longer the problem, then the Beast is. Clearly, he's still wrecking havoc."

"That's an understatement," Reggie muttered bitterly.

"Why? If the plague's gone --"

"He started a war," Reggie interrupted, incensed and stood taller than before. A rallying point for his anger. "Doesn't matter if some insane way he was justified, he started a war on humanity! Did he not expect us to retaliate? And the bombs dropped. We all lost."

Some of the fight left him and his shoulders drooped, but he tilted his chin up, looking directly at Cole. "But they lost less than us. A whole lot less."

There was a silence as each of them tried sifting through the revelations each had espoused.

"Do you believe me?" Cole finally asked.

"I don't know. I don't know what to think. You… the Beast, whoever… they give no quarter. Even to the Conduits. If they aren't with them, then they are against them. And the few Conduits that protect humanity are killed."

He glanced at Fetch and an unspoken sorrow passed between the two.

"Someone you knew went up against him and they lost." The words felt like an intrusion on holy ground, sullying it and trampling all over their feelings. But Cole needed more bearings on what just happened.

"My… my brother," Reggie admitted, quietly. "He had the best chance of defeating you… the Beast. He absorbed all the powers he could and he still lost."

Cole turned away. At the end, he managed to bring down the Beast. Not wholly defeat him, but managed to knock him down. In a prolonged fight, he might not have won. But it was clear that somehow this timeline's Cole had been empowered by the Beast. Power atop of power.

"Is the Beast the only thing standing in the way of rebuilding everything?" Cole asked.

"Yes!" Fetch exclaimed.

While Reggie shook his head sadly. "He is a big obstacle. But there are many factors at play. It wouldn't be as simple as taking him down and everything gets better."

"But you have to admit that everything would be better if he was dead!" Fetch continued.

Reggie pursed his lips, waited, and then gave a tight nod.

Cole sighed. "Then that's what I've got to do: kill the Beast."

"I don't trust you," Reggie said, stepping forward. "You have to have some sort of ulterior motive."

"Partly," he admitted. "I'm… I'm hoping, by the time the fight's over, that I siphoned a chunk of the Beast's power in the fight and use it to somehow head back to my time."

"So you sweep in and save us before promptly leaving us with the bill," Fetch said.

"I'm fully prepared to die trying. As far as I know, this might as well be a stay of execution. I activated the RFI. I should be dead. But what else is here for me here? How can I help reconstruct civilization? I might be able to help out with powering some stuff with my powers. And everything else? I was a bike courier and maybe I could deliver packages again. But with this mug? The mug of someone that helped destroy the world? Nuh-uh. I won't leave without trying to help, but don't expect me to stay here forever."

Reggie looked away, while Fetch stared. Finally, she said, "Fair. You know, if you're telling the truth and if you do defeat the Beast."

"Is he nearby?" he asked.

"Yeah," Reggie added. "He's been staging attacks on our community with his Conduits. We're on our last legs. All the Conduits except Fetch here are dead."

"So… we all don't have long then." Cole looked away, trying to think what to do. "I think I can keep the Beast's attention on me, give you guys a chance to flee if things turn to shit."

If I die, went unstated.

"A lot of the community are not able-bodied."

"I might be able to help with that. If you have any sources of electricity -- hell, even batteries will do, I could heal some of your guys. Don't know how much it would help, but it's better than nothing."

A tight nod from Reggie. It was a tight rope that Cole was balancing on. Even now, with such precarious plans made, they didn't trust him. But what else could they do? To them, if he was really the Beast, then trying to kill him would get themselves killed. And if Cole was telling the truth, they just lost an ally that stood a chance against the Beast. They still waited for the knife in the back. It didn't matter -- Cole was used to it.

There was nothing more to be said and they started making their way back to the community. It must have been a surreal experience for the two of them and doubtlessly still thought it a ploy of sorts. Even though they were outmatched by the Beast, who wouldn't do anything so elaborate when his MO had been overwhelming force.

Fetch was behind him, ostensibly to blast him to bits if he stepped out of line. Reggie led the way, always looking over his shoulder, at Cole. He wondered if Reggie was merely fearless with his trust in Fetch or wanted to be vindicated with Cole betraying them.

What a world this was.

He looked up into the sky. The dark clouds had spread, trailing behind them slowly.

"Are the clouds the work of a Conduit?" he asked.

Reggie turned around again, scrutinizing Cole's face, before he nodded. "Yeah. The clouds are used as, well, a conduit for other powers. I heard they use it soak up the radiation for a Conduit with the Beast, but I never seen that. What is undeniable is that they use as a delivering mechanism for their Blasts."

"All the more reason to hurry then."

XXX

When they finally arrived, Cole expected an outrage, rocks thrown at him, and everything but pitchforks and torches. What he got was looks of fear and resignation. The people here came from all walks of life and they all shared the same despair. Cole hung back, watching Reggie explaining what had happened. He was not vouching for Cole, but merely explaining the circumstances. A proper decision had not been made.

There was one Asian woman who hung back near a ruined wall, folding a piece of paper over and over into a pointy-looking slice. She looked at him dispassionately, yet utterly unafraid of him. She pocketed the piece of paper and immediately took out another piece, staring at Cole while she started folding again.

Fetch had walked off to a nearby shed, rummaging through a bunch of unlit neon lights. Picking up a 'Open' sign, she plugged in and started draining. Cole took a deep breath, feeling the electricity in him respond to what little energy was still here. Slowly the fatigue bled away and now he only felt mildly winded.

When he finally noticed the silence, everyone looked at him like he was a bomb about to go off.

Cole waited patiently, because making the first move might be too presumptuous.

The small crowd parted to let an older woman through. Reggie deferred to her with a respectful nod. Looking at the diminished population, it was clear she was only the leader only by virtue of age and continued survival. He heard someone mention her name, Betty. Which was good, because he doubted she would introduce herself to him.

"So, you claim to be a different Cole MacGrath," she said.

"That's right. Um, ma'am." He didn't want to overdo on the flattery, but didn't want to be insensitive.

"You know he could be a Conduit that has the powers to disguise himself for some weird ploy," Fetch said, her right hand shimmering with light. The purple sank into her skin and Fetch looked much healthier.

"That's more plausible than me being from a different timeline?" he asked.

Fetch took a moment to think and then replied, "Yeah."

Betty walked closer, expecting Cole with a wary look. She nodded with a grim conclusion, not pleased, but not dissuaded either. "I saw… the Beast, when he took Delsin away from us forever. He did not look as hale as you and the pallor on his skin… you look very much like him, but so different. I heard of your plan and I approve. But… it hurts looking at you. So, I would ask that you accept what we can give you and then leave."

Cole nodded. Uneasily the crowd shifted and a few people brought a bundle of proffered items. There were bags of batteries, car batteries, and even a few broken electronics still with a charge in them.

"This all we have," the woman said. They were only ceding because they feared reprisal.

Unbidden, he sensed the rest of the town's power. They had far more than what was offered. He could easily drain more. These were a beaten down people and Cole might need every edge he could get against the Beast.

But that was the wrong choice to take.

"Thank you."

They dropped the bags and other items on the ground. Cole outstretched a hand to it and pulled the power into himself. Slowly, lethargically, he started to fill up and ended up half-full.

It would have to do.

With one last look at the frightened people, he turned away and left to face off with the Beast.

XXX

Fetch was following him. That much he was sure of. He didn't know if she was following him to help out or to make sure Cole actually left.

It didn't matter much.

Cole was used to crossing the finishing line alone.

He walked down the road, entering into the dark and foreboding land. The clouds grew thick, rumbling with unseen energy. Unlike the lack of electricity in the woods, Cole feel the power up in the clouds. But instead of feeling negative from the lack of energy or positive from an overabundance, he merely felt neutral. Static.

Then he entered the ruins of Seattle, sensing a small gathering in the distance. A bald, scarred man with barbed wire wrapped around his arm guarded the road. He perked up, eager and ready for a fight.

"You came to the wrong place, pal."

"I doubt it," Cole replied.

The Conduit lashed out with a tendril of barbed wire. Cole blocked with his arm as it wrapped around it, tightening and digging into his flesh. He growled and wound more barbed wire onto his arm, getting a tight grip on it. He whipped out the wire, sending a current of electricity through it. It traveled along the metal, passing back into the man and frying him.

He tried groaning and crying out, but Cole kept the current running. The man shook from the attack, limbs spasming and curling. Cole stopped just short of killing the man. Steam rose from the Conduit's skin before he finally slumped forward down to the ground.

Cole walked past him, but not before restraining him to the ground with brands of electricity.

There was a small crowd surrounding a raised dais of concrete and ruin, where his counterpart stood. He was significantly paler than Cole, with gray skin, and a dark red shirt. Black and red energy laced through his body. He didn't look at Cole, instead staring up at the sky. The air thrummed with power, the moments of fear and dwindling seconds before a Blast. Cole spotted Kuo, standing with the Beast. Her blue hair was disheveled and her arms were covered in a layer of frost.

She stood with him, tired and exhausted, but committed to the Beast's course of action. This was a Kuo who went off the deep end, the point of no return. The rest of the Conduits began to notice Cole's presence.

And finally the Beast looked down, features twisting into distaste as he looked at Cole.

"Kessler?" he called out angrily.

"Hell no! But being Kessler would be better than being the Beast!"

The Beast leapt off and landed with a thunderous drop, sending shockwaves of dark-red electricity rippling across the ground. Unlike Cole, the Beast carried no Amp, instead just brimming with John's former power.

"So," Cole started. "You went with John's plan. What happened to him? You kill him, stole his power?"

"I sided with him. It was the only way!" Anger started to diminish slightly. "It wasn't my fault that he didn't have the heart to continue."

"Or the lack of a heart," Cole replied.

"At least it worked! But you…" He jabbed a wagging finger at him. "You activated the RFI, didn't you?"

"And how would you know?" Cole smothered his shock on how quickly the Beast came to the conclusion.

The Beast smiled, pulling out a clear-white shard the size of a large phone and presenting it to Cole. "Do you know what this it? Power."

"Ah…" Cole smiled fearlessly. "Your little plan backfired, didn't it? Didn't have enough power to go against the world."

"Yeah… I managed to save the US from the plague. But they won't let me save the rest of the world."

"No small wonder, huh? That they won't let you commit genocide."

Kuo glided down next to the Beast. "But it works! We had no idea if the RFI would even work!"

"I still did it."

"Did you even know it worked?" Kuo asked quietly. Then she turned to him with determined eyes. "How would you even know? You died!"

Cole had no answer to that. In truth, he really didn't know, but somethings had to be taken on faith.

"So… you're going to use that shard somehow to empower yourself? What is it? A Blast shard? Or a Blast core?"

The Beast smirked. "I don't know what it is. But it is power. It came from the sky and struck me. All of us can feel it, but none of us can take it. When it hit me, I thought I saw double, a delusion that I took a different path. But… I saw you, activating the RFI. And now you're here. Now, I know what this is for: to destroy you and take your power."

Cole didn't know what the shard was, but it seemed to be the answer to his travel problem. All he had to do was take that shard and do what the Beast was planning to do to him. The Beast looked around, raising a hand to the Conduit crowd. There it was -- same sort of pride and anger that made Cole fight the Beast one last time before he activated the RFI. One on one. Kuo didn't step away. Well, then… two on one.

"You're welcome to try," Cole said.

Cole channeled ice to his feet and had a pole of ice shoot beneath him, launching him at the two. He unsheathed the Amp, ready to strike at the Beast. Kuo raised her hands, ready to stop Cole cold. But a charging neon light slammed into her, tackling Kuo further into the ruins.

The Beast swung wide, red energies forming into a blade underneath his arm. The swing was casual, powerful. The blade met the Amp and nearly tilted Cole off his axis, but there was a second of contact. Zeke's design worked wonders, acting as a good enough buffer for Cole and allowed him to absorb up the blade. The Amp cracked hard into the Beast's forearm, bone breaking.

The Beast growled before drawing both arms back and thrusting them out. The shockwave blast was so much stronger than Cole's ever was. His body tried to mitigate the damage, two electrical natures going against one another. If they weren't so similar, every bone in his body would have broken and he'd be dead within seconds.

It didn't stop the blast from searing into his skin and launching him into a wall. Cole fell onto staggering knees as the Beast launched a stream of lightning at him.

Cole rolled out of the way, but the stream followed him. He circled around the Beast, firing bolts of blue electricity at him. They struck true, one, two, three, and forced him back a few steps.

But the Beast was barely fazed, flying toward him like a vulture on fiery, napalm wings. Cole's eyes widened. Nix's power? How different was the Beast was from Cole? The Beast slammed into him, further driving Cole into the wall.

A flurry of electrified and burning fists beat Cole, who found it increasingly difficult to hold onto the Amp. Cole started to slump against the wall, as the Beast grabbed him by the throat and uplifted him into the air with a single hand.

The Beast raised the white shard and Cole stared down the pointed end, seeing countless images splitting and colliding like a kaleidoscope. Thousands of realities crashing into one another, endless deaths of the Conduit named Cole MacGrath. They were the branches of a tree, reaching toward the sky. All of them insubstantial, nothing more than flitting thoughts and what-ifs. They were the branches that withered and died, falling apart from the tree, and rotting on the ground.

Yet, among all the decay, there were two lone branches left. Full of life, hearty and healthy with leaves, blossoming. But the two were not entwined, instead they were competing to reach the stars.

Without a doubt, this shard would cut him down and leave the Beast the only one left. The branch that would be a tree.

Everything that he was would be undone, reduced and rotted to feed the roots below. The Beast tried to stab the shard into Cole's chest. Aching fingers grabbed onto the Beast's wrist, trying to push the point away.

Each inch lost was just making Cole more and more winded. He needed a boost or he would perish. Cole met the Beast's dark eyes, the malice and eagerness in him. Not only the Beast relished in his power, he was more than willing to destroy any possibility of him being better.

Cole focused, prepared to use an ability he didn't like using, but there was little recourse. He freed one hand and pressed it against the Beast's face, pulling what laid beneath. The Beast screamed, trying to pull back, as Cole ripped the bioelectric energies from the Beast's nervous system. It fueled him like he just sapped an entire city's worth of energy.

Long after the point where it would have killed a normal human, the Beast still stood, suffering, before he delivered a shockwave blast to separate them. It was weaker than before. Manageable. The Beast stumbled back, covering his face and swatting at the air. He howled and the rest of the Conduits began to converge on Cole's position.

So, Cole did the only reasonable course of action.

He threw a tornado at them, burning through about a quarter of the energy gained. Everyone screamed as they were flung into the air. They swirled around in the air as if they were caught in a whirlpool.

The Beast roared, finding purchase where so many did not. Red energies flooded from his hands, anchoring him place as the tornado raged behind, casting blue lightning onto the people caught in the vortex. The Beast flew higher and higher, alongside the growing tornado. The clouds above fed into it, fueling his vortex far longer than normal and keeping it anchored in place.

Cole launched himself at the Beast with another ice jump. He started to fly, the static thrusting beneath his palms, and thundered toward his counterpart. They slammed into one another, grappling for dominance as they rose higher and higher into the eye of the storm.

"You can't ever win!" the Beast hollered. "You never had the guts to use the power we were given! I can see it now! Too cowardly to take what is rightfully ours! But not me! I will tear out your soul and feast!"

The Beast raised his arms and Cole shot through the air, flying to avoid the oncoming attack. He expected it to come from above, but the earth shuddered as pillars of magma shot from the earth. Cole's eyes widened as the Beast drew power from the very core of the earth.

Cole rocketed from left to right, dodging the flames. The Beast fired off unwieldy rockets of napalm at him. They were far from precise, but utterly overwhelming in their numbers. It served their purpose, cutting off Cole's options. His flight turned turbulent and his concentration on his thrusters wavered, sending him off into a tailspin. The trajectory led right into a column of lava.

Taking the last of the Beast's energy, an icy explosion bloomed from Cole. It couldn't freeze all of it, but the output of power was more than enough to overwhelm the surface. A thin ice wall formed and the outline of a plan formed. He needed to be smart, because the Beast could afford not to be. He pushed off it, speeding back toward the Beast, following his instincts.

He unsheathed his Amp in his charge while the Beast pulled out the shard, supercharging it with red energies. The Beast pulled back, redness spilling off the shard like a river against a boulder.

Cole enhanced the Amp, channeling two bladed tips along the prongs, flying ever so closer to the enemy. Six feet away and Cole was just on the stroke of no return. No backing out now. He threw out his left hand, letting loose an electrical tether that latched onto the shard.

He tore it from the Beast's grasp, outrage writ upon his face.

"No!" the Beast screamed.

He swung the budding blade of red at Cole, who only had enough time to snatch the shard and could not commit to a proper, two-handed swing. Instead he tanked the blow, letting it sear his insides. But he managed to skewer the Beast with the Amp. The blades of electricity made the opening volley, allowing for the two prongs to pierce the skin.

The Beast gasped and they began to plummet. Cole threw his weight onto the Amp as the fall passed in no time at all. He barely registered the impact to the ground. Just the feeling of shock rumbling underneath as he flopped to the side, exhausted beyond belief.

He turned his head to the side, seeing the Beast slain. The Amp lodged in his chest, sticking out like the sword in the stone. Cole blinked, unable how to comprehend how easy this was. But they were both Cole MacGrath, equal in skill, but not in power. And yet the Beast preferred the latter, while Cole was relegated to the former. It had proved a critical difference, in the end.

Cole got up, limping toward the Beast's corpse, and saw the shard stabbed into the abdomen. Someone shouted Cole's name and he turned, seeing Kuo in a headlock by Fetch. She screamed again, slow streaks streaming down her face. Fetch wrangled her back, her hands clasping Kuo's face, brimming with neon.

And then she evaporated Kuo into nothing but bright light.

Cole turned away, not wanting to see Kuo die for a second time, but it was too little, too late. His last memory of Kuo wouldn't be with the sorrowful regret in the end, but her dying defiant in the name of the Beast. He focused on the shard as it pulsated and absorbed something from the Beast. He reached down to reach it and it responded, reaching out with elongated fingers of white.

Fingertips almost touched and Cole received flashes of the Beast's life. Him being selfish with his powers, Trish dying and hating him, the grab for power by activating the Ray Sphere again… Oh, how their lives differed.

Without a doubt, if Cole grabbed the shard, the two of them would merge and the Beast's power would be his. But Cole did not want to share a headspace with that psycho. Still, power held enormous temptation. All it took was a single choice that took less than a second to make and a lifetime to undo.

Against all odds and everyone against him, Cole somehow managed to be a hero. And it didn't make him impervious to these thoughts. His fingers strayed, lingered, and then something grabbed at his wrist, trying to drag him.

He hissed, pulling back his arm, but he was being reeled in like a fish caught by a fisherman. Cole grunted, trying to yank himself free. And then he made the mistake of looking at the shard. It had fed on the Beast, the clear-white twisted into red.

In his mind's eye, he saw a sickened version of himself with blacken veins on a deathly pallor, a road-map of disease writ upon skin. With pointed ears and red eyes, it was clear how much farther gone this Cole was. Their eyes met in this vision, his counterpart baring his teeth. Pointed, vampire-like teeth. The creature lunged at him. Despite it, debatably, being in his head, Cole knew that if they touched, something would happen.

Would he rip another him from space and time?

Whatever this shard's purpose was, it couldn't be good. He needed power, but not this power. He opened his eyes, seeing wispy, white tentacles wrapped around his forearm. He laced it with electricity, arcing it over to the shard and severing the connection.

Everything whiplashed out, shunting that vampiric him out of his mind and into the void. Cole shuddered as he lowered his arms, exhausted. Before he knew what he was doing, he kicked the shard out of the corpse, grabbing the Amp as he did, and then started to smash it against the shard.

He battered at it and after four swings, Cole realized that it had little effect. Holding the Amp to his side, he knelt down and stared at it. Whatever active power had, it was gone now, but it still laid dormant. There was a small charge left, barely enough for Cole to take. If he had accepted the merge, it would be less of a gamble.

But these thoughts were all smoke, no real fire to it.

He picked up the shard carefully, ready to chuck if it started acting up again. A tiny bit energy flooded into him and he got the strangest sense that a weak thread had formed, connecting him to a greater web.

Fetch appeared at this side in a streak of neon. "Well, damn. Looks like it all turned out fine."

Cole looked at her. "Surprised I was telling the truth?"

"A bit." She smiled brittlely. "I'm more surprised that you won. But it makes sense. Same powers, same person."

"I only won because I took enough to make things even." Cole pocketed the shard and grasped onto that fleeting sensation of the shard's charge. "Even then, if the battle went any longer, I would have been crushed."

He didn't elaborate how extremely lucky he was that the Beast wanted to skewer him with the shard, otherwise there wouldn't have been much of a fight in the first place.

"You leaving?"

"Gonna try." He tried shaping the charge inside him, following in Kessler's footsteps. But it wasn't one to one, as Cole had to veer away from actually traveling back in time. It was more like taking a step to the side. "Not much for me here."

"It's probably for the best."

"Yeah." Something clicked inside him, the right wires crossing. However, Cole would have only one shot at this, because it would fry the wiring, never to be used again. Probably the reason why Kessler didn't time-travel more than his initial jump to the past.

"Well… good luck I suppose."

Cole wished the jump would happen soon to escape this after-battle awkwardness.

And then he was gone in a flash of light.

 

[Dead Beyond]

A/N: Special thanks to @Ziel for looking this over.

It was only a few months after the Department of Unified Protection had been taken down — exposed as the corrupted organization that it was — and the Conduits of Curden Cay had been freed. Brooke Augustine had been exposed as the tyrant she was. All happy endings, right? Well, barring a few incidents where there were a few rowdy Conduits looking for revenge, Delsin Rowe had managed to keep the peace.

While there was a little bit of that hurrah-hurrah happily ever after, the peace between Conduits and humanity was still in its infancy. And they couldn't risk straining the peace. He'd seen more than his fair share of discrimination from his Native American heritage. Even more when his Conduit nature revealed itself.

He always refused to back down in the face of such things, because all the blowback would be on him. After all, if the system was set against people like him, then he'd make them work for that privilege. Not with violence, but with a hundred different misdemeanors. Delsin had stepped it up when he finally had the power to fight back.It was oh-so tempting to dish out some payback, to be proactive. Even now, hearing and seeing that discrimination still existed in the hearts and minds of certain people, it made him want to throttle them.

But the reason why this problem was so insidious in all forms. They looked for excuses to exercise the power they had over others to abuse it. Yet, now, they suddenly couldn't. Eventually, the tension was going to fray and snap.

He hoped to calm the waters enough, so the tide crashing down on them wasn't a tsunami.

Right now, however, he was leaning against the dinky ball wall, watching the door.

He adjusted his dark-red beanie and scratched at the chain wrapped around his arm, trying to stave off bordeom. To the bartender, he just appeared to be a cleaner type of punk, what with his white hoodie and clean denim jacket with a possible gang symbol on the back.

How a blue and white symbol of an eagle spreading its wings invoke suspicion was beyond him. Delsin saw the shifty eyes the bartender was shooting him and almost wished he was recognized as the Conduit who liberated Curden Cay.

What he actually wished for was the ability to say he was here on pleasure.

It had been business after business, lately.

Oh, if his brother could see him now, being all responsible and stuff.

Reggie would probably be smug about it... but he'd also be proud.

His eyes switched to the TV screen playing a documentary, hoping to distract himself. Not too long ago, such material would have never been seen fit to air, what with its Conduit sympathies. It had been made long ago, yet the DUP had censored its debut.

Yet, here it was, a documentary about the Patron Saint of New Marais, slightly updated to keep up with the times.

Cole MacGrath.

"I really should have a producer credit on that thing," a voice said beside him.

Startled, Delsin whirled around, smoke dancing in the palm of his hands. But he relinquished it once he saw who it was.

"I helped get the ball rolling, after all."

A somewhat thick man in sunglasses was standing next to him. He wore an open green button shirt and a white undershirt underneath. The gun in the shoulder holster was far more eye-catching. Zeke Dunbar, an underground rebel for the Conduit cause. They'd had a brief interaction before, over the phone.

"I didn't even see you come in," Delsin said.

"I may be an old hound, but I still got some tricks up my sleeve."

Delsin glanced at his small-but-noticeable gut. "No offense, but I don't think you can pull off stealth."

Zeke threw up his hands. "Alright, fine. I was here before you and I was just taking care of business in the bathroom."

"Alright, alright," Delsin said before they could get side-tracked, "Why'd you call me? I thought you couldn't afford to risk a face-to-face."

"Well, you changed things. Something Cole could never do, because he was always on the backfoot, always being smeared. But you? You took the fight to them, in the realm of PR, and changed the game." He paused. "That, and the current social media landscape was on your side. Anti-fascism sells."

Zeke gestured to a nearby table and the two of them settled in their chairs, staring across from one another.

"But that's not why I'm here." His voice drew tight, solemn. He looked around, lights flickering across his sunglasses. "You're pretty much the apex Conduit around these parts. With your power-copying."

Delsin shook his head. "I do my best not to go around doing that. Without a steady access of core relays, I'd be locked in with those powers for awhile. So I only have the four powers at the moment. And besides, too much power, you know?"

"And you're still the most qualified for this."

He took out a mechanized canister and slammed it down on the table. Through the glass, Delsin could see a big white shard that seemed to pulsate with some sort of energy.

"What is this? Some sort of core relay?" Delsin asked, tapping the glass.

"You mean a blast core? No. It's not a typical blast shard either." Zeke took a deep breath, leaning back and gripping at the table with both hands. "When I picked it up, I got... visions."

Delsin groaned in sympathy. "I know the feeling."

"Yeah, well, I got visions of a future. A bad future. One where Cole went evil." He rubbed at his eyes with a tired hand. "I felt myself die. How I tried holding up my gun, futilely trying to shoot down a Conduit."

"Okay... so, you got a shard of a crystal ball?"

Zeke stared at him. "No, you don't understand. I merged with that dead version of myself. I actually flatlined when I touched it. I was lucky that I was near a hospital. I don't know what this is. Maybe it's some sort of multiversal ray sphere that exploded in a different universe, but sent its shards across the multiverse or timelines. I don't really know. Maybe it's something entirely different."

"That sounds something straight out of a comic book."

Zeke chuckled to himself. "Yeah... but either way, there's something that we can be sure of. That this is a shard of a greater whole."

"How do you know?"

He shrugged. "It's just the way of things. It looks like a fragment, it glows like a blast core, and I found it in a somewhat conspicuous place. I heard more than my fair share of bitching from Cole about collecting this type of stuff."

"Yeah... I know about the blast shards. The DUP used them to power some of their stuff."

"I hate to tack this onto your list of responsibilities, but you need to keep an eye out for this type of thing."

"And I'm guessing I can't touch it?"

"Definitely not. I'm just an average joe. But you Conduits are a bit different. With this shard, someone might either accidentally or purposefully become a problem."

"Got it, got it. Keep an eye out, contact you for pick-up?"

"Yeah. Until I find someone smart enough to figure out this stuff out, that is. Right now, I whipped up some doo-hickies to contain them. Don't know how much help it'll be but better safe than sorry."

Delsin sighed. "Alright, I got a fetch quest on the docket."

Inspiration struck at him with that sentence. There was no need for him to trawl through the city of Seattle on a maybe. After all, there was no guarantee that the shards were here. Especially if that nonsense about timelines or whatever was real.

"Mind if I call a few friends? They might be able to help."

Eugene especially, since he could use his video powers to create some angels to cover more ground. And Fetch was always good for back-up.

"By all means." Zeke gestured at him. "But make sure they don't touch them."

Before Delsin could call them to help him with this side matter, they were interrupted by the sudden sensation of static in the air. Their hackles rose, hearts quickening in their chests. Delsin raised up his arm, preparing to fire volleys of smoke if needs be. Zeke drew his gun, but kept it pointed down.

Then bolts of electricity shattered into existence, rending space into a messy circle. Then it gained depth, the surface rippling like water. Just like that, it became a portal. The bartender ducked down behind the counter, leaving only the two of them to deal with this. The television screen glitched out, becoming stuck on a single image.

A man stepped out of the portal, huffing and puffing with exertion. The portal burned bright behind him, obscuring his features. But Delsin could see that he had some sort of weapon sheathed on his back, but that was secondary to what the man was holding.

In his hands was one those shards, gripped tight.

Then the portal faded and with it, the light. Delsin blinked back the dancing dark spots in his vision. At first, he thought he somehow was staring at the television screen.

But no, his eyes didn't deceive him.

He was staring at what should have been a dead man.

Cole MacGrath greatly resembled his video visage, even though he looked a little worse for wear. He heaved with exhaustion, eyes wary and skittish. Until they settled on Zeke.

"Cole?" Zeke whispered.

"Hey, man..." He squinted at Zeke, as if he were scanning him for something. Then, he asked, "We won, right?"

"Hell yeah, we won, brother," Zeke replied quietly.

Then the two were caught in a tight, manly embrace. Delsin felt out of place, like he was something a little bigger than a fly on a wall. And then... a sting of jealousy jolted him, followed by the hard drop of guilt.

They let go of each other and Zeke took a few steps back, in a daze.

"But how?"

Cole shrugged. "I dunno, but I just escaped from a bad future, one where —"

"You became evil," Zeke finished.

"How'd you know?"

Zeke took a step to the side, showcasing the contained shard. Cole lifted up his own shard, then glanced at the one on the table and sighed.

"Things can never be simple." Cole looked at Zeke again. "You got old."

"Hey! I'm still in my thirties," he protested lightheartedly. Zeke wiped his hands nervously, clearly still rattled by the return of his best friend from the dead. "This is Delsin Rowe. He continued the good fight when you were... well, you know."

Something flashed on Cole's face. Guilty, maybe? It flashed too quickly to see.

"What?" Delsin asked.

He shook his head. "You were dead in that bad future. I met your brother."

"Oh..." Delsin spiraled in the span of that syllable. A desperate urge to seize Cole nearly overtook him. Not to steal his powers... but gambling that he would be able see his brother one more time in the vision that accompanied the power-copying.

But Reggie was gone... he had to deal with that; yet, Cole MacGrath was back.

It wasn't fair.

He met Cole's eyes. Saw how tired the man was. It was almost a curse for him to be back, because the man didn't seem capable of stopping. Either the world would force him to continue fighting or the man's own conscience would.

But Delsin saw the documentary, the truth that Cole had chosen to kill himself and 90% of Conduits to save the world. How could someone come back from a sacrifice like that? To know the worth of your life…

No... Delsin couldn't violate Cole's trust. Not for another glimpse of his brother.

"So..." Delsin clapped his hands together, banishing the melancholy. "I'm guessing Zeke's little theory about the shards being scattered across the multiverse, or timelines, is true."

Cole huffed, setting the shard next to the canister. "I dunno. Evil me didn't know where it came from. But somehow, he knew he could summon a version of me, or us, or whatever... He summoned me so he could stab me with the shard and absorb me. How he knew this when I was supposed to be the first victim, I don't know."

"But with this shard," Zeke interjected. "I merged with my dead self. Maybe it's different with Conduits?"

"Maybe..." Cole chuffed to himself, suddenly.

"What?"

"I just remembered something. When I first picked it up, it still had a charge of sorts. I saw another version of myself. A vampire-looking fucker. He tried coming at me in my mind's eye, but I managed to throw that vision off. We might have merged or it could have summoned him."

"Wait, a vampire you... like that story I told to that chick I was trying to pick up?"

"Yeah, you were pretty hammered; you thought she was a vampire."

"Could've been a vampiric Conduit," he muttered.

"So... these shards either summon evil versions of us from other universes or merges us with them..." Delsin summed up. Then, with a cheeky smile, he said, "Man, this is something out of a comic book."

Cole dragged a hand down his face. "Yeah, well, just be thankful you don't have to deal with a future you. They just always turn out to be murdering assholes."

"Thanks for that pro-life tip."

Delsin examined the two shards. They seemed to resonate together in some sort of sequence now that they were nearby. Delsin could see flickers of images.

"Is it safe to keep them close by?" Delsin asked.

"Who knows," Zeke said. "But it's probably better to err on the side of caution."

He pulled out another canister and held it by the edge with one hand. Then with the other hand, he used the canister to nudge the shard off the edge. Cole looked at the antic with a nostalgic sort of fondness. Delsin, however, heard a light thump against the bar's window. Then another and another and another.

Delsin turned around, seeing the window suddenly being covered by sheets of paper. They pressed and pressed against the plane of glass, until it began to crack.

It broke, before Delsin even get a word out. Both glass shards and pointed tips of paper shot towards them. Cole stood in front of Zeke, holding up a shield of polarity that burnt the papers to a crisp. Delsin dissipated into smoke, letting the paper spikes pass through him.

Cole held up the shield, inching forward to the broken window while Delsin reformed next to him.

"A paper Conduit?" Cole hissed.

"Yeah, her name's Celia Penderghast. She used to be an assassin of sorts for the DUP."

"And now?"

"A radical Conduit terrorist."

"Swell."

Zeke had just managed to contain the second shard when the paper spikes that Delsin dodged began to vibrate. And then they collided into each other like magnets, before melding together like some sort of paper transformer.

It formed into a vulture-large origami shape that swooped at Zeke. He got off a few shots one-handed, but was focused on shielding the second canister. But its claws weren't trying to maul Zeke, that was a mere feint. Its true target was the first canister.

The bird of prey flew past the three of them and into the open air. Cole moved to intercepted, but another barrage of paper missiles fired into the bar, targeting the bartender. He was forced to shift hard to the left, using the barrier to block.

"She's on one of the rooftops!" Cole shouted to Delsin. Then to Zeke, "Get the bartender out!"

"On it!" Delsin shouted, dashing into smoke and reforming outside. Celia was indeed on the rooftops, still in that schoolgirl uniform and paper bunny mask. The vulture origami was heading towards her with terminal velocity.

He darted after it, firing blasts of smoke with a heavy side of ember with one hand. On the other, he was quickly firing off a text message.

The bird's trajectory warbled from the damage, proving deadly as it tailspun out of control. Right into a brick wall, sending the canister soaring through the air. Celia leapt off the rooftop, trying to catch it up. She breezed through the air, the wind aiding in her flight. Delsin kept dashing in short bursts as smoke, but he was quickly losing ground. The smoke stuff wasn't meant for such... forward momentum.

The road stretched and stretched with lines of buildings waving up and down beside it. All of them to tall to scale quickly. The traffic was light and he hopped from vehicle to vehicle when they got in his way that slowed him down little by little. Judging by the way that Celia hopped down from building to building, it seemed that Celia faced no such obstacles.

He spotted a neon sign blaring in the distance, too far off to switch powers.

Celia was just about to catch the canister, fingers just about grazing the glass.

Not on his watch.

Delsin hopped onto a car, exploded the exhaust beneath his feet, and reoriented himself in the air into a more horizontal position.

He relinquished most of his energy reservoir to shoot himself into the air, his body splitting into three streaks of smoke. Delsin normally reserved this move for his little orbital drops, to unleash a massive wave of damage, and here he was trying not to do that. He could feel the energy get stuck like a piece of food caught in his throat.

Delsin was probably one of the most flexible Conduits in existence with his 'main' ability. But he certainly was inflexible in all the small ways. He didn't know if this was just inherent to the copied abilities or if he couldn't just quite catch up to the original Conduits' skill level, but it didn't change the outcome.

He reformed with an explosive bang! right next to the canister and Celia.

The canister went back up into the air, Celia slammed into the brickwork, and Delsin was propelled down to the ground with a hearty slam onto the pavement.

He groaned, pushing himself up just in time to see Celia disappear into a mess of paper. Delsin squinted, seeing her reform on one of the buildings to the left. Then she disappeared again, reappearing back on the right rooftops.

Celia bent over, taking a breath to recover before disappearing again.

Delsin saw the canister land in the crook of some rain gutters. About half a mile away. He had bought himself some time; time he couldn't exactly use. He tried getting up, but his body just ached in response.

He couldn't move!

Then all of a sudden, he was back upright, spinning around in a whirl of bright purple. Something was pressed into his chest and he started absorbing neon into himself. Delsin could feel his powers shift away from smoke to neon.

"Up and 'em, Delsin," Fetch said, reforming beside him.

He smirked, looking at the device in his hands. It looked like some sort of battery pack, but with a pole of neon right in the middle. Certainly did solve the problem of needing energy sources to switch.

"Little pick-me up from that sunglasses guy. Said you might need it," she explained.

Delsin spotted Cole on the rooftops, leaping from building to building. When he was faced with a building taller than his own position, he threw out an electric tether to yank himself up to the ledge. He was making good headway, but not enough.

"Let's go, Fetch," Delsin said.

And then they were streaks of light, brightening up the world as they passed it. They scaled up the walls, sprinting across it.

"Now, that's just cheating!" Cole called out, as they quickly overtook him.

Delsin smirked to himself as they started gaining ground.

"Think we need Eugene for this?" Fetch asked in-between the blurs.

"Not unless she gets that shard."

Celia and the two of them managed to catch up with her. She had scooped up the canister and was caught flat-footed by their arrival. Delsin channeled the neon into his chain, causing it straighten and stiffen into a weapon fit for clubbing.

He lunged.

But she was trained. Celia tossed the canister into Fetch's hands, who caught it surprised. Celia covered her fist in pulp and hardened it. She smashed the canister and Fetch's face in with one clean blow. Then she ducked under his swing and pressed her hands to his face, forcing him to absorb her powers and locking him with it.

With her paper powers.

The world burned away into a vision. Delsin had already known her story secondhand. Through Augustine's memories, through Celia's own words... but now he saw it through her eyes. The awakening of her powers amidst the Beast's rampage, meeting Augustine and then being betrayed by her. The imprisonment, her first murder that doubled as faking her death... being Augustine's secret agent... and then the revelation once Augustine was defeated.

That the only way for freedom was force, no matter the cost.

And he learned how she knew about the shard. She had spied Zeke picking it up and connected it to her knowledge of blast cores, thinking it was a quick avenue for power.

Delsin stumbled back, hand clutching his forehead and fighting for consciousness. Celia, however, looked unbothered aside from a brief exertions of breath.

Fetch was on the ground, nursing a broken nose. Celia stalked toward the fallen shard that was among the broken pieces of glass. But before she could pick it up, Fetch's hand shot out and grabbed it.

She screamed, her body wrenching and wracking with explosive energies of purple. Threads of white shot out from the shard, intermingling with Fetch's glow. Celia summoned a paper blade that ran from her elbow and past her hand into a sharp point, aiming for her heart.

Desperation seized him.

Delsin outstretched his hand desperately, trying to shoot her down. But there wasn't even a fizzle. There was only the sensation of paper cuts running his arm. Instead of forcing something out, he started pulling in.

Celia was thrown off as her blade was drawn to him. He dodged the blade as Celia hissed, trying to wrangle back control. She stumbled past him, before she decided to go with the flow, trying to skewer him.

He reversed the feeling, adding some resistance to her charge.

"Olé!" he declared, as she missed again, stumbling across the rooftop.

Before they could continue this little dance, a beam of light shot into the sky. They both turned, seeing the source coming from Fetch, who was floating a few inches in the sky. The clouds in the sky parted and something began to drop from orbit.

Fetch was lowered back to the ground, her grasp on the shard gone. It rolled off her hand and clattered loudly. There was a beat before Delsin suddenly felt the lack of paper around him.

That was when Celia pulp-punched him down to the ground.

Cole arrived, hopping onto the roof's railing and firing bolts of electricity at her. She dodged the attacks, but could make no progress to the shard. They stalemated.

Until someone finished falling from the sky, sending a shockwave of neon across the rooftop. Delsin and Fetch tumbled into the railing, Cole was thrown off, and Celia stood her ground.

Standing in a crater of scorch marks was Fetch, nearly identical to the one beside him. But there was a harshness to her. An anger in her eyes that refused to be abated. It was terrifying how different a person appeared when their face took on impressions far from the norm.

"Fetch?" Delsin asked.

"What's going on?" Mirror-Fetch growled out.

Celia looked to regular Fetch and Mirror Fetch, seemingly catching on far quicker than he expected. Or maybe she was familiar with this sort of cliche from manga or whatever.

"Conduit revolution. Those two are too weak. They let the demagogues vocalize their hate. Justice has been denied here."

Delsin took this moment shoot text for more help during Celia's little monologue.

That was when Fetch regained consciousness, blinking bleary-eyed. "Oh, shit, am I seeing double?"

"You're me," Mirror Fetch breathed out disbelieving. That hatred in her eyes seemed to lightened for the scantest of a moments before they double-downed. "Are you weak?"

"What?" Fetch slapped at the railing for a moment before pulling herself back up. "What the fuck do you mean by that?"

"I can see it in your eyes." Celia inched toward the shard, but Delsin managed to whip her back, controlling the pulp around her fist. She turned to glare, while Mirror Fetch continued, "Somewhere along the way, you lost your hate. What would our brother say?"

"That doesn't mean I lost my love for Brent. Even though he's gone, I will always remember him. He's gone... but he always cared for me. He would want me to be better. But looking at you, I know that I'm better than I was. You're pretty much indistinguishable from the times we were high!"

Cole had just climbed up behind them when Mirror Fetch screamed in rage and tackled Fetch off the roof.

"You have got be kidding me!" Cole shouted as he was caught in their tumble.

Flashes of purple and blue light up the world behind them as Celia and Delsin faced off. If one took a step, then another followed. They circled around the shard.

"You don't have to do this, Celia."

"I admire what you have done, Delsin. But this peace is unstable."

"Of course it is! Progress is always slow! But hearts and minds are always needed! Things take time…"

"And in that time before, we suffered. I suffered. So many imprisoned, stripped of rights. And you tell us to lay down and submit."

"I'm telling you to wait."

"That's what everyone says throughout history. Wait when things are more progressive, wait, while the north hems and haws over the south owning slaves... wait, wait while injustice persists!"

"Do you really think I am going to stand by when injustice happens?" he challenged.

"No…"

"They have been prisoners. They need to live again, so when they change things, they make it better. Improve this country, improve this world for everyone. Not wipe it out wholesale and replace it with Conduit supremacy. Because everyone's talking about humanity and Conduits like they are two separate species. But they are not. Like it or not, we're all in this together."

Celia wavered and Delsin pressed, "I can help you, Celia. I don't want to fight."

Her rabbit mask dissipated into pieces of paper. She was so young... and yet so jaded, so old with those eyes.

"I'm sorry, Delsin. There is no world where you can sway me from this path."

Then a storm of paper swords fell upon him. He swore, knowing that the banter allowed him to get her projectiles in place. He threw out his hands on both sides, preventing him from being skewered. The swords vibrated in place as he fought for control of them.

Celia wasn't even trying as she stalked toward the shard.

She inhaled quietly before she picked it up. Celia gritted her teeth as tears fled down her eyes. Those threads of white from the shard stabbed into her veins. She lurched onto her knees and the swords fell down to the ground.

Delsin ran up to her, prepared to pry the shard free but paused. In all likelihood, he was about to deal with two Celias with a newly-gained power. And if he touched that shard, Delsin might add an evil-him to the mix. And he shuddered to think of how evil-him could turn out. Delsin wouldn't stand a chance.

Celia exhaled loudly, signifying the end of the process.

She turned around, super-charged by the whole experience. He glanced up to the sky, expecting someone else to be dropping. Clouds obscured the sun, blotting out the blue. It grew darker and darker, almost unnaturally so.

"There won't be another me," Celia said quietly.

"Why not?"

"Like I said, there wasn't another world where I wavered. Even in another world, a power-hungry you was disgusted with me. That you probably didn't like the competition, though."

"And me?"

"You can join me. You and your friends."

"I THINK NOT!" a voice boomed from the sky.

Eugene Sims, in his He Who Dwells forms descended from the skies. It was a large, armored angel with transcendent blue wings that loomed over the two of them. Clutched in his hands were two core relays. He needed them to bump up his powers back to snuff and allow him to swap powers again.

Celia's lip quirked upwards.

Then she raised her arms and papers started flying from all corners of the city. Delsin held out his hands trying to add resistance to her efforts. But he was pushed aside so easily. Where before he had been a toddler with these powers, now he was a weak newborn.

Paper wings formed behind Celia as the air thickened with paper sheets. She shot toward him on a tsunami of paper, which formed into a giant, shapeless monster with maw and claws charging toward the angel.

"Oh, shit, she's like Konan on steroids!" Eugene cried out before being tackled.

The paper form shifted into that of a tiger, sinking its teeth into the angel's armor, but it was all theatrics hiding the feint. Two paper spears snaked their way out of the rippling mass and skewered the core relays he was holding. One was dropped unceremoniously down to the street, pulverizing the asphalt. As they tumbled in the air like a paper bag caught in a leafy gust, Eugene did his best to keep the other way safe, but had to toss it aside to grabbed a hold of what he could.

"Sorry, Delsin! The fight's gonna turn messy if I stay too low!" Then he dragged the fight skywards, pieces of paper falling from their forms like exhaust.

The core relay smashed down on the rooftop. The blueish energy leaked out of them and into him, energizing his powers. He hovered a few inches of the ground as he could feel his powers expanding. The sheets of paper that was left behind started fluttering around him in a circle.

"Well, ain't this something."

The paper swirled around him like a vortex. He approached the edge and stepped off, floating as the paper somehow kept him aloft. He spied the battle below. Cole and Fetch were double-teaming Mirror-Fetch, as he smacked her across the face with that amp weapon while Fetch followed up with a flurry of body shots.

Mirror-Fetch staggered back before the two of them pelted her into submission in a light-show of purple and blue.

Delsin landed next to them. Fetch had taken off her jacket and wrapped it around her waist to differentiate herself from her copy.

"Celia merged with herself, becoming more powerful. I need more core relays if I want a chance at countering her."

"Ah, blast cores," Cole said, nodding.

"With Eugene occupied, my little back-up plan of him bringing stocked core relays is shot."

"Where are they?" Cole asked.

"Eugene's little hideaway." Delsin sighed. "We need a plan."

"Take her in the bay. Water's a bad place to fight in. I should know."

Delsin nodded in thought.

"Okay, so we call Eugene, get him to take the fight to Elliot Bay... then someone delivers the core relays to us there."

"Or you can go to the hideaway, absorb the cores while Fetch and I hold her off," Cole pointed out.

"That's the thing, there's no guarantee that the powers I'll get would help me with transportation. Might drag out the fight."

"She still has the shard," Fetch added. "And since there isn't a second of her running around, what's stopping her from absorbing more power?"

"Okay, okay..." Delsin rubbed his face vigorously, working through the anxiousness. "The core relays aren't really suited for mass mobility —"

A truck pulled up with Zeke behind the wheel. "Need a hand?"

"Okay..." Delsin was nodding his head, the inklings of a plan coming together. He faced Zeke. "Got anything for containing a Conduit?"

"It depends on the Conduit." Delsin gestured to the unconscious Mirror Fetch. "Yeah, I might have something."

He rummaged on the passenger seat before tossing a heavy set of cuffs to him. They might as well be two large cylinders welded together, but it looked like it would do the job. He tossed it to Fetch, who went to detain her counterpart.

Delsin called Eugene.

"Little busy, Delsin!" he shouted among the sounds of paper fluttering violently.

"Take the fight into the bay. Fetch's gonna assist you. And hopefully by the time I get there, Cole will be on his way with the core relays."

"She's... urk... very clever. She keeps creating these paper bird monsters and my angels are busy keeping them in check. I think she knows what you're doing. If I drag her to the bay, then I'm gonna need them to help contain any damage the impact's gonna make. And then she's probably going to send those monsters after the core relays."

"I can take them," Cole said.

Delsin breathed. "Do it. Take it to the bay."

"Got it."

The call ended and a few seconds later, the world shook. Car alarms went off and the buildings seemed to tilt like they were quivering from a quake.

"That's my cue," Fetch said before disappearing into a neon streak.

Delsin texted the directions as Cole hopped onto the back of the truck. Zeke pushed Mirror Fetch into the passenger seat before getting into the driver's seat. The truck roared to life, speeding off just as paper creatures swooped down from the sky.

The air crackled as Cole fought them off with bolts of blue before taking a hard right turn and disappearing behind a concrete forest.

Delsin hopped up and down, trying to get the blood pumping. This was why he didn't go around absorbing powers all willy-nilly. Because of moments like these. Any new power brought him down low and necessitated him to get strong enough to switch out powers again.

"But paper... seriously?" he muttered to himself.

Well, as Celia could probably attest, it was more versatile than he expected. And most people probably underestimated it. But still... it was paper.

"Enough feeling sorry for myself."

He broke off into a run, scaling back up to the rooftops. The journey was no different than his usual hasty treks around the city, except now he could glide.

"Woop-di-do," he said, dryly.

Well, this gliding technique was far superior to him using his powers as thrusters. At least, in the sense that he didn't lose altitude, it was still far slower.

By the time he got within sight of the bay, Eugene was doing his best to shove the paper goliath's head underwater. But sharpened limbs shot out from the thing's back, warding Eugene back. The goliath turned. The parts that were submerged looked like meat sliding off the bone, dripping white slops into the water. Water churned white as the waves crashed upon the beach, shedding clumps. The source of the mess was a giant, almost reptilian thing that just screamed Godzilla. It mimicked a roar, soundless yet terrifying with the amount of teeth it was sporting.

But it was just trying to distract them from the weakness soaking into its paper hide from the waist down.

Fetch fired at that weakened sludge, doing significant amounts of damage until Celia reinforced it with a flying shipment of paper that melded into the wounds.

Only for it to become sludge once again when Eugene clocked Celia back into the water. That was when another freight train's worth of paper came barreling through the air. Delsin bolted towards it, each step pushing up a few inches. At this speed, he would never catch up to it. So, he took a flying leap, grabbing a hold of the paper wall.

His fingers started to peel away at the exterior. It seemed like Celia was letting the form collapse rather than let him take a hold of it.

"Come on, paper powers!"

He willed solidarity and solidity through the palm of his hands. The paper straightened and formed under his will, manifesting foot-holds beneath him and leverage above him. Delsin clambered atop the flying paper block and willed it to glide away. Through the goliath's face, Celia watched on, dispassionately.

Delsin raised his hands and started pulling from her paper mass, adding to his own little makeshift vehicle.

She raised all of her limbs, easily redrawing those papers. Until Eugene slammed into her, punching at her stomach. Except instead of feeling the impact, the paper body parted and ensnared his arm. Then the entire goliath shifted upward, snapping Eugene's arm.

He screamed, his giant angel form flickering with blue video particle effects until it disappeared. Eugene, now back to normal, fell towards the bay.

"I got him!" Delsin shouted, ramming his block of paper towards him.

It was so much faster than his normal gliding, but he could feel it shedding paper for propulsion. Celia turned her eyeless gaze toward him and he knew with but a thought, she could collapse his ride.

Fetch covered his ass by throwing a condensed ball of energy at Celia. It exploded like a neon black hole, taking a good chunk of the right shoulder and the arm sagged. Delsin caught Eugene, who slammed into the paper surface, denting it pretty heavily. Delsin forced his flying paper shape to turn back to shore. Eugene stumbled at the motion, throwing off his hoodie and causing his glasses to go askew on his face. as he turned back around to the shores.

"You okay, Eugene?"

The young man huffed before fixing his glasses with one hand. "Yeah... yeah... but this is the first time I ever broken a bone before... it's kinda scary."

"It is. But you're a Conduit, my guy. Just start sucking up that video."

"Heh... yeah. Still... I don't like getting hurt."

"You did well."

"I'm gonna need ten minutes to get back up to snuff. Maybe even more if I'm to become He Who Dwells again."

"Take all the time you need. We'll take it from here."

Eugene stood up on the shaky surface and gave him a salute, before stepping off the edge. Despite his demeanor, he had come far from that introvert he first met. Every Conduit could survive a fall from several stories... provided they actually landed on their feet.

His phone chirped.

"I'm here, Delsin! We're kinda circling around the street here! And those paper creatures aren't letting us park without being swarmed. I'm going to throw the relays at you! Just come closer!" Cole shouted.

"Got it!"

He pulled back, near the streets. A lone stretch of road saw a truck looping around the two lanes with Cole was standing in the trunk, four core relays stacked next to him. He raised his right arm, a circle of electricity burst from his feet and then one of the core relays started to float.

Then he thrust his arm out, launching the core relay at him. Delsin managed to swing the platform to its destination and it landed with a thud.

"She's trying to escape guys!" Fetch said, through the phone.

Delsin turned around, seeing Celia restructure her paper monster. It grew slimmer, shedding sludge and forming paper wings.

"On it!" Cole shouted.

Delsin tore open the relay, absorbing the power within while lightning from the sky dropped onto Celia. He couldn't even hear her scream among the crackling in the sky. Delsin finished absorbing the relay and he didn't feel any new powers. But he felt his range, his strength expand.

The lightning ceased and Celia roared, a tiny thing, but full of rage.

She swung her right arm, letting it detach and be launched to the city. He raised his arms to catch it. That was when she retook control of the arm and rammed it toward him.

He still wasn't strong enough!

"Oh, shit!"

It crashed into him and he smashed into the ground. tumbling into sands and sheets, but Delsin managed to roll back onto his feet. Until he stumbled and landed on his ass.

"You good for another relay?" Cole asked, through the phone.

"Make it two," he breathed, getting up.

Fetch was busy hammering Celia with neon bolts, trying to keep her occupied. Two core relays slammed on both sides of him. He pressed two hands against them, double-teaming the absorption. He howled as the energy was thrust into him, rampaging around his genes.

As he hissed and strained, he could see another lightning strike hit Celia. But she tried to circumvent the damage by changing the wings into an umbrella attached to her back. It was no use. Water and electricity did mix in the most disastrous of ways.

"Fetch! Get the last core relay while Cole keeps her distracted!" Delsin shouted.

"On it!"

"Better be quick," Cole added. "I only got so much juice to keep her pinned down!"

It took a minute. A minute that felt so stretched out as Delsin got lost in the awareness of all the paper in front of him. Like staring into a night sky and knowing each and every star with but a glance. He tried wrestling control, but he just wasn't quite there yet.

Until Fetch appeared beside him, wearing a harness and lugging a core relay next to him.

He nodded his thanks, practically collapsing on the core relay. The energy surged into him for one final time and he gritted his teeth, feeling his power finally be completed. Something clicked inside of him and it was like working out a kink in his back.

"Hold off on the lightning, McGrath," Delsin said, stalking up the shores and to the bay. "I think I got this."

The lightning stopped and the goliath wavered in its stance. Having been battered, submerged, electrocuted, what strength Celia must have had was now gone. He felt the paper structure in his mind, as myriad as a starry sky and as bright as the sun. Then he pulled.

The paper monster collapsed as Celia was flung toward him. The bay was littered with sheet after sheet of papers. The girl tumbled across the shores and to him. She raised her head weakly, holding up a hand and trying to summon up her powers.

But Cole, Eugene, and Fetch arrived, standing next to him.

A clear deterrent.

She lowered her hand, a clear admission of defeat. Then they heard it. The sounds of the crowd behind them. A large volume composed of so many smaller voices, but united in purpose.

At the sound, Celia looked... startled.

"They're cheering..." she whispered. Then she met his eyes. "Do you think this will last?"

"Does it matter? I'll fight for what's right," he answered. He knelt down to her level and offered a hand. "I'll still help you."

"I'd still have to pay for my crimes. Do you really think imprisoning me will be the best choice?" He hesitated for the barest of moments and she continued, "And I refuse to be imprisoned again. So, I'll spare you the moral dilemma."

Out of nowhere, she conjured up a paper blade and slit upon her throat.

"No!" Delsin shouted, trying to reach her, but it was too late.

She collapsed onto the ground, bleeding out. "Delsin... don't... don't let something like Curden Cay happen again."

"I won't," he promised, holding her hand so she wouldn't be alone when she passed.

When it finished, four Conduits stood over her corpse amid the cheering crowds of humanity.

 

[Dead Beyond]

A/N: Special thanks to @Ziel for looking this over.

Zeke Dunbar knew the good times wouldn't last. They never did. The memories of them, however, burned bright long after the lights had gone out. Even though he got his best friend in the whole world back, he couldn't help feel like there was a timer ticking down somewhere. Nothing too dramatic like Cole suddenly disappearing because science voodoo nonsense.

No.

It was going to be much more realer than that. Zeke could just tell. It was in the air, like static, and it started to underscore their interactions the moment the immediate crisis was over.

But that was okay.

For now, in the present, he could hang out with his best bud.

"Seems like a bad comic plot," Zeke commented idly as the two of them sat on a roof's edge.

"I think that ship sailed a long time ago. But I can't complain."

"Not saying I was, if getting you back's part of the package." Zeke popped open a beer. "But I think shit's gonna get more weird from here on out."

"Probably." Cole opened his own bottle of beer. "I'd rather not think about that right now."

A lull seemed to shock the conversation into a shaky sort of pause. A break in conversation between two long-time friends that were trying to bridge the gulf that time created. There was just that brief gap, bringing forth a thought that things were different now. That time had changed them. Or rather time had changed Zeke with Cole being this static thing from the past.

"What have you been doing since… well, everything?"

"Fighting the man, man," Zeke said, easily.

Cole had to smirk at that. "You're clearly doing well for yourself."

"Don't need superpowers to spread the truth. You didn't deserve going down as a bio-terrorist, though the people of New Marais made you their patron saint. Small mercies."

"Me?" Cole had to chuckle at that. "I ain't very saintly –"

"You saved the world, stopped the Beast… very saint like you, MacGrath. You even got your own unofficial holiday there."

"Tell me it's not too prudish and people use it as an excuse to get drunk."

"Oh, they absolutely do. And I happen to know firsthand. You should see the festivities next time we're in town."

"Perhaps I shouldn't. If I'm a saint, they might see it as me pulling a Jesus."

"Hah! Wouldn't that be something. Either we'd ruffle some religious feathers or get to party like we never did before."

"Wouldn't that be something."

Zeke held out his bottle and Cole reciprocated with a clink. They drank and talked about a future they could imagine. A simple, simple future, but one they would like to see.

Just for a while, they could pretend that they would be able to see it.

XXX

Deep in one of Zeke's safehouse basements, the group was trying to figure out these shards. They didn't even know what to call them. Eugene suggested any number of names: time shards, mirror cores, and multi-blast shards (a somewhat far reaching reference to the multiverse), but none of them stuck.

Though they had superpowers, this was an entirely new ballpark for them. Even though, to some, it made sense for them to deal with such issues. They all had confidence in their abilities to deal with any outward-type of problems, but the actual mechanics underneath would be lost on them.

And that was the problem. Who was to say that someone else could exploit these shards and ruin the current Conduit peace? Or worse, they would have no idea what they were doing and end up causing a Blast, like Empire City. Except, it happened to the fabric of spacetime and they only had speculation on what would happen then.

After Eugene talked to Zeke after the fight, he had an 'idea' and flew off. He promised this way would bring both an expert and answers.

But it still left them with their own questions.

It started with figuring out how these shards worked. Chiefly, why did Fetch gain a whole other counterpart while Celia just gained more power. While they somewhat understood that she absorbed a similar timeline, what differentiated Fetch?

Was it merely personalities and possibilities?

Fetch didn't want to admit that there was a chance that she could have gone bad… but it was starting to look that way.

Delsin and Fetch were staring through the reinforced glass, keeping guard over the latter's counterpart. Mirror-Fetch paced back and forth, her hands still locked away.

"We're not going to keep her contained forever," she said, her voice just a little hollow.

"Ditto. But how do we know that she isn't going to go wild once we let her out?"

Fetch huffed, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "If… if I was just a little more discriminatory and a little more reckless, I think I wouldn't be too much of an asshole to bite the hand that feeds me. Provided they were a Conduit hand. But I think… I would have very, very idle hands."

Delsin hummed, crossing his arms. "Sounds like we give her a chance, let her help out on the small stuff, and make it clear that we won't abide a repeat offense. Hopefully, somewhere along the way, we change her mind."

"Sounds like a recipe for disaster."

"Best to bite the bullet then."

And with that, he strode into the room. Mirror Fetch backed up a few steps when Delsin entered, with Fetch trailing behind him. She settled her nerves and looked at Delsin.

"Despite your poor fashion choices here, you're still some hot stuff."

Delsin coughed at such a blatant flirt in this absurd situation. He glanced over to Fetch. She was also embarrassed, because what the fuck was even her life now. Especially with her counterpart hitting on someone she may have had feelings for. But she recovered quicker, looking over to Delsin and raising her eyebrows in a suggestive succession.

Delsin laughed and it washed away them being caught off-foot.

"Listen, uh, Mirror Fetch –"

"Mirror Fetch?" she questioned.

"If you want to pick a different name, then go for it."

Mirror Fetch threw her head back and sighed. "Screw it. Just call me Abigail."

Delsin clapped his hands. "Okay, Abigail. This situation's really, really weird with you being from a different timeline or whatever, but we don't want to imprison you."

"And you can't exactly hold me forever. Not legally or practically anyway, unless you're planning on starting up Curdun Cay 2.0."

Fetch glared at her counterpart. "The alternative is killing you. I mean, I doubt it's unethical if I do it."

"Fine. Whatever. It beats a cell. I assume you're going to keep watch over me?"

"Yep," Delsin answered, "I believe in second chances and you haven't really did anything wrong here. Technically. I want to keep it that way."

Abigail smirked. "I guess I'll be on my best behavior, warden."

Delsin didn't respond to that, instead stepping forward and unlocking her handcuffs.

Abigail rubbed her hands but didn't have much time to exult in her freedom before Fetch lobbed a bottle at her. She got it with a glare at her goody-two shoes counterpart. Her fingers twisted the bottle around so she could read the label.

"Red hair dye? It's gonna fuck up my look."

"Don't care. I don't want anyone to confuse the two of us."

"Plus," Delsin interjected, "Eugene was adamant on avoiding the whole confusing who's evil twin shtick."

"Whatever," Abigail sighed, "I'll dye my hair this stupid color."

XXX

Eugene came back a whole day later, carrying a body wrapped in a tarp. He was a bit peevish when he came back, because he had been flying long distance as a very large angel from a video game. The Conduit kept worrying that he was gonna get the airforce called on him or something.

They just had so little options to take and though they should probably leave it to the 'experts', said experts were the government. And none of them wanted to make any agreements with them, not with them letting the D.U.P. run rampant with unchecked human rights violations. Even Cole, who predated the D.U.P., wasn't very inclined to consider going to them.

Unfortunately, this led them to the unfortunate act of grave robbing.

So, when Eugene laid down the body in the basement, everyone shared a cautious and uneasy look. While Fetch was out keeping watch on Abigail, Cole and Delsin were present. They hung back, seemingly at ease, but ready to take action at the first sign of trouble. Eugene carefully pulled back the tarp, revealing the mess of bones vaguely forming the shape of a man. He stepped aside, allowing Zeke access to the body. In his hands were one of the shards they recovered, still in its container.

"You sure about this Zeke?" Cole asked.

"Not really. It's kinda one of my worst ideas, actually." Zeke exhaled. "But it can't hurt to try. And we do need the information. Worst case scenario, something goes wrong and everyone here puts him down. Best case, nothing happens and we just add grave-robbing to the list of crimes we have committed."

He uncapped the container and poured out the shard, letting it flop out onto the body. At first nothing happened, then the shard began to spark. Flickers of image danced within those sparks too quickly to be seen, but there was one constant.

An older-looking black man with glasses was the one clear constant in all of them.

And before anyone could make any sort of move, the shard flared a bright, blinding light. Everyone shielded their eyes until the light died down and when they lowered their arms, Sebastian Wolfe – a scientist who helped build the Ray Sphere – was resting on the slab.

"What happened?" he asked, sitting up.

The shard slid off his body and started to fall. The instance it stopped touching his body, there was another flash, except it was somehow darker like they had been forced to blink. The sensation was alien and intrusive, like the world was covering their eyes like a mother shielding them from something perverse.

The clink from the fallen shard seemed to signal the end of this strange effect.

All four of them saw Sebastian reverted back to a pile of bones, except it was sitting up before it collapsed forward.

Eugene sucked in a tight breath. "Is this good or bad? I mean… it'd be very… big if those shards could resurrect people all willy-nilly. The implications for society at large alone…"

"There still some implications. I think people will still fight over the possibility of speaking to the dead," Cole said, "And they will most definitely fight us if they know we have these shards."

Delsin replied, "Well, I wouldn't worry too much about it. This seems like a problem and once it's solved, everyone has to go home afterwards."

Cole looked away, looking troubled by deep thoughts.

"And what about yanking someone back from the dead, in a sense?" Eugene wondered aloud, "How ethical is it? I mean, I'm pretty sure this is more timey-wimey than after-life-y."

"We're using these shards to fix this mess," Zeke interjected, "So, I'm pretty sure we have the moral slash ethical right to use them."

He stepped forward, picking up the fallen shard with a pair of tongs, and carefully placed it in one of the corpse's hands. The whole lightshow process repeated and Sebastion Wolfe was alive once more.

"What happened?" he repeated, straightening himself.

"Keep a hand on the shard," Zeke advised firmly.

Wolfe shook his head in confusion, but his grip tightened on the shard.

"Doctor Wolfe," Cole said, stepping forward into his vision, "What do you remember?"

"I remember getting hit by a truck and then…" Wolfe flinched with the urgency of a forgotten thought. "What about the Beast? And the RFI?"

Cole chucked with a bittersweet tone.

"That's yesterday's problem; today's problem might be much worse."

XXX

With Wolfe working tirelessly on figuring out these shards, there wasn't much for the Conduits to do. Cole and Zeke decided to have a night on the town, Fetch didn't want to hang with her counterpart, and Eugene decided to patrol. Which left Delsin with Abigail, who was now sporting red hair.

Since there was no one else around, she seemed to take the opportunity to stare intently. Delsin caught the look and stared right on back. As if chastised, Abigail drew back, stepping into view of Seattle's skyline. The lights of the city glowed behind her, giving off the illusion that she was glowing with neon.

"Let's go on a run," Abigail said quickly, "Catch me if you can."

She sprinted off into a neon streak before Delsin could even reply. Her streak was more of a pinkish-orange than Fetch's, but in the end, it didn't really matter. She still ran off. He sighed, before reaching out to a neon sign over the edge and absorbing the energy. With his powers now swapped, he chased after her through the city, two streaks of color in the night.

He was familiar with Fetch's own habits and easily caught up with her. Not in terms of speed, but merely by guessing where she tended to go. As they weaved through stalled traffic and up the walls and across roofs, Delsin waited for Abigail to tire herself out.

Or rather, for her to get bored and stop.

And eventually she did, on the rooftop overseeing a protest against Conduits. She stopped with a harsh glare of neon, hands squeezing the railing over the edge. Delsin stopped next to her, seeing the numerous signs protesting the Conduits released from Curdun Cay.

"You're just gonna let them spew their bile like that?" Abigail asked quietly.

"Unless they turn violent, then no." Delsin held up a hand to forestall any argument. "I'm not all that opposed to putting bigots in their place, but you know how they work. We strike first, then they paint as the aggressors, and with the current climate, the government is looking for any excuse to throw Conduits in prison all over again."

"So, we do nothing?" Abigail spat.

"That's the thing, Abigail, who says we have to sit on our asses about this?" He pulled out his phone, took a picture of the small crowd, and started typing. "Ever since I helped overthrow the D.U.P., there's been a lot of eyes on me. I don't really use social media all that much except to post the artwork I'm really proud of. There's even one right behind you."

Following his gesture, Abigail saw stencil art of an artist seeing blue butterflies fly free off his canvas.

She hummed. "That's different."

"What is?"

"In my world… timeline, whatever the fuck, it's a giant bear shooting lasers into the city."

"Isn't that something." Delsin put away his phone. "See, I considered that image, but I thought it sent the wrong type of message."

"Instead of this artsy-fartsy crap?" Abigail walked up to the graffiti. "I mean, if there's anything that my Delsin taught me is that you have to be a little mean."

"And where did that get him?"

"It made him the most powerful Conduit ever."

Delsin's breath caught his in throat and he marched over to her.

"He exploited the Conduits of Curdun Cay, didn't he?"

"Yep," Abigail said, popping the p.

Delsin scowled. "What's he even going to do with all that power?"

"Whatever he wants."

"And what would his tribe say about that?"

Finally, a flicker of doubt wormed its way on her face.

"They're gone," she said simply.

Delsin closed his eyes, easily connecting the dots.

"He killed them." Abigail said nothing and Delsin pressed on, "I know you blamed yourself for your brother's death, but you are entirely blameless. But him… this version of me? He killed them. Is that someone you wish to align yourself with?"

"He's loyal to me!" she snapped.

"No, you're loyal to him. He does whatever he wants and where is that line of thinking going to lead when you displease them?"

Abigail squeezed her fists, neon burning bright in them. "I think our interests are too aligned for that to ever happen."

"But somewhere in the back of your mind must be afraid."

"I am now," she gritted her teeth.

Delsin held up his hands. "I don't want to come off like I'm badmouthing, well, me, but I just want you to think about where that path leads."

"And where does your lead?"

He heard the commotion from the crowd below and walked back over. The Conduit protesters were severely outnumbered by the new crowd, who were spurred on by Delsin's public social media.

"Anyone of us can be a Conduit and I sure as hell don't want to be locked up just because I have powers!" someone shouted.

"My brother's a Conduit and he didn't deserve to be imprisoned just for the crime of controlling plants. Seven years, he was locked up like an animal!"

And on and on it went. There was some half-hearted protest from the Conduit protesters, but it was drowned out. When they were confronted head-on, they decided to disperse. They were heckled and hassled, but otherwise started to disappear into the city.

"See," Delsin said, just a little smug, "Proportional response."

"Fine. Whatever." Abigail deflated somewhat. "You've proven your point. But what happens when the going gets tough?"

"That's why we're here."

One of the anti-Conduit protesters caught Delsin's eye. There was just this glower to him that belied a malevolent aura to him. He just had a bad vibe and started to tailing one of the counter-protesters, the one who shouted about his Conduit brother.

"See. Like that guy. We're going to make sure he doesn't do anything."

"We're going to kill him?" Abigail asked, just a little too eagerly.

"Not premeditated. If he dies while we stop him." Delsin shrugged. "But I doubt it's gonna come to that, is it?"

At his pointed look, Abigail raised both hands in mock defeat.

"Okay, okay. I won't go all kill-happy on him."

The two of them trailed after the Conduit bigot, silent lights in the night. The bigot followed the counter-protester to his car and got into a shouting match with him. It didn't take long for him to pull out a knife, but a quick blast of neon from Delsin knocked him out.

It wasn't anything at all; Eugene would have called this a side-mission, but Abigail would have called it a blip on the radar. Wasn't fun checking in the police, though, but they wanted to make sure there was a clear record on what went down. Delsin didn't want to be public enemy number one again. Still, Abigail had to admit it wasn't too bad when she saw the grateful look on the counter-protester.

It was a much better look than fear.

XXX

Nearly two weeks later, Wolfe had news for all of them. Zeke and the five Conduits came back to the safehouse, seeing a large portal built into the wall of the basement.

Cole raised an eyebrow at the device and Wolfe moved to explain.

"I may have went overboard when I discovered the severity of the problem."

"How bad is it?" Zeke asked.

"First off, I had to consult outside help, because I could only ever work on my piece of the puzzle."

"Were there any problems?"

"No, no. I just had to convince some of my former colleagues that I faked my death." Wolfe took a deep breath. "First off, the name shard is aptly put. Whatever this was, it was clearly part of a larger object. Perhaps even a set of objects. But that's part of the problem. The hypothesis me and my colleagues have put forth is that these are merely remnants of an explosion. An explosion that's still happening."

Eugene raised his hand. "So… like… these shards are symptoms of a much big problem?"

"Very astute. Now, the next bit is admittedly conjuncture based on what limited data I have, but this shards have different effects based on the individual in question and how differently they can end up. For someone like me, there is very little chance of divergence in my life and if I were alive, there'd be little change and it merges much like bubbles would. The difference in timelines is what anchors the alternate counterpart. This is because the shard isn't bound to linear time, that moment of living is sufficient enough for the discrepancy. And when it isn't enough, you get cases like me."

"So… what decides the reason why some people summon counterparts is…?" Abigail asked, rolling her hand.

"Like, I said, it's probably based on the person in question. For example, it's probably different with Conduits. And not because of the Conduit gene, but because of the nature of power. It changes and corrupts in equal measure. Cole and Kessler, for example."

Everyone looked at Cole, who scowled back at all of them.

"So… evil copies are more likely?" Fetch asked, to which Abigail scowled.

"Evil is reductive. Selfish would be the proper word."

"Okay, so we have confirmation about why it's so different. But hearing 'shard' and 'explosion' is not boosting my confidence," Delsin interjected.

"Yes… that. Since this is an entirely new field, our terminology isn't accurate. Universe is just a valid term as timeline. Either way, these shards are acting as magnets for the explosion. Their presence in our world does not harbor good tidings. There may be any number of them in here or nearby worlds, to the point where it's almost impossible to collect them all. And they certainly signal our doom."

"Is it apocalyptic?" Cole asked.

"For our world, most certainly. For whatever else is in existence? Most probably."

There was a heavy silence now. Cole looked tired, while everyone else seemed to stand still with a shock as the weight of the situation fell upon them. They didn't have to deal with the possible end of the world as they knew it. The problem they had to deal with was almost political in nature and dealt with the fate of Conduits.

"What can we do about this?" Cole asked.

Wolfe pointed with the shard at the machine. "It is almost hilariously easy to utilize the shard to make a portal into other worlds. The problem lays with getting to the source of the explosion. It's easy to hop around worlds close to ours; much harder to get out of that range. Not only because of the theoretical, atomic distance, but the explosion is still happening. It's highly likely going against this 'wave' it's going to briefly scramble your memory."

"You haven't answered my question."

Wolfe sat down on the slab from which his bones first laid. "Because I don't have an answer. I can tell you the consequences of the wave is grave, but I can't give you the specifics. Anything can happen. The same thing applies to any solution: I can tell you that you need to get close, but not what to do. The energy's easier to manipulate at the source, all the data suggests that. One thing's clear: to fix this, you have to be close."

All the Conduits shared a look, a silent debate on which of them would go into the great unknown to try to existence.

Zeke, however, asked, "Is there anything we can do on this end?"

Wolfe shrugged. "You can try to find the shards and use this machine to dispose of them. It might buy our world more time, at the cost of another. Remember they're like magnets and the more there are, the quicker the explosion's going to head for them."

Zeke took off his shades and stared hard at the portal. Wolfe looked too, then his grip on the shard weakened. He walked over to the portal, where a console jutted out from the outer ring.

"It takes a shard to open a portal and I know you have a spare, but… there's nothing really here for me. My brother's dead here and there's no point clinging on." He slotted the shard into the machine, but his fingers still lingering, grazing on the shard's surface. Wolfe turned around to face them. "Just push the button to turn on the portal. If you have any other questions, you have my notes. In any case, good luck to you."

Then he let go, vanishing in a flash of light and leaving only a pile of bones on the floor. Except they just crumbled to ashes, denying further half-baked resurrection. At the sight of the ashes, something seemed to resolve in Zeke.

And then there was only silence.

"Well, okay," Delsin said, clapping his hands to clear the tense mood. "Obviously, I have to go, since I'm the most valuable with my power absorption."

"What about me?" Eugene asked, "I'm pretty versatile –"

"I'd rather you stay here, Eugene. If I'm reading the room right, we can expect weird shit to happen while we're gone and we need someone that's able to cover much more ground in a quick fashion. Now –" he turned to Fetch and Abigail.

"I'll go," they both said in unison.

The two of them glared at one another.

"I do not want you with me! I can barely trust you here, so why should I trust you in some unknown world?" Fetch spat.

"Because, idiot, the whole of existence is at stake. And like Wolfe said, I'm selfish, not evil!"

Delsin cleared his throat. "Why do you want to go, Abigail?"

She looked over at Fetch angrily, then back at Delsin with a softer look.

"I… I just want to feel like I'm doing something right," she muttered.

"I'm not opposed to you coming along, but what's wrong with keeping the homefront safe?"

"There's less ambiguity. I mean, world might end. It wouldn't be hard to get it wrong."

"I think you would do fine wherever you are."

"Even if I get it wrong?" she asked, quietly.

"I got some stuff wrong in the beginning too. But if your heart's in the right place, then you're never really wrong, you just have to adjust."

"Adjust," she echoed.

Her eyes flickered to Fetch, then Delsin. She seemed to be watching some unseen connection weaving through the air. Something seemed to change in her stance and it seemed like she was the odd one out.

"Fine… fine… I'll stay here."

Fetch gave Eugene a subtle look, to which he reciprocated with a nod.

"And I guess I'll go too," Cole said.

Zeke's head whipped over to him. "Do you really have to, Cole? It seems like the new blood can handle this."

Cole spread his arms a bit at his side halfheartedly. "What else am I going to do?"

"Yeah, yeah…" Zeke shook his head. "But I just got you back, brother."

Cole smiled a little. "Last time it was very final. Here… now, it's unclear. So, you can be damn sure I'll do everything I can to get back. That I promise."

"That's all I ask for."

They clasped hands that drew into a very tight hug. When it ended, Zeke went over to turn on the machine and a glaring white portal intersected into reality. Abigail and Eugene watched together in the back as the three Conduits stepped onto the razor's edge of reality. Fetch and Delsin stepped into the portal easily, while Cole turned around and gave Zeke a thumbs up before he disappeared to the void. Zeke's finger hovered over the button. Turning it off would feel too final… but he had to. He switched off the machine.

A promise wasn't always final, exact. They could be broken, failed to be upheld, and any number of negative outcomes. There was no guarantee that they were coming back.

Promises were like hope.

And it was something he didn't have before.

 

[Dead Beyond]

A/N: Special thanks to Ziel

Spoiler: What is Parahumans?

Parahumans is a duology of two web serials, Worm and Ward. The first work focuses on Taylor Hebert, better known as Skitter who begins her descent into villainy with good intentions. She struggles and fights against increasingly mounting threats that culminates in a threat not just to her world of Earth Bet but all worlds. The sequel focuses on Victoria Dallon, the hero formerly known as Glory Girl, and her own team in the after of said threat.

Spoiler: What is DC Comics: Joker?

The Joker is the iconic archnemesis to Batman. He is the Clown Prince of Crime, the antithesis of Batman. The one who believes that everyone just needs one bad day to be like him. He has had many differing portrayals due to the long history of DC, but he is consistently portrayed with chalk-white skin, a wide red grin, and green hair.

As a matter of principle, the Joker tried to find everything and anything funny. In doing so, the irreverent treatment of what should be sacred was the ultimate joke. To put any weight to any ideal, any belief was just asking for someone in a clown mask to come up and smash it to bits with a golf club. (Yes, he was aware of the irony of him putting so much meaning to his eternal dance with the Bat, but he'd do something drastic if someone brought it up.) He had tap-danced on countless graves, snuffed out thousands as easily one blew out a candle, maimed many more in the form of masterful artistry.

But there was a craft to his work, chiefly its mutability. (He made a mistake once, in taking himself too seriously. It became funny in hindsight, when that lead to the War of Jokes and Riddles. But he had been so morose beforehand…) A repeated joke was a stale joke; he had to switch it up: it was kid gloves with Robin #1, a crowbar with number two.

Rinse and repeat, yet the stronger Batsy's resolve was, the darker his had to be. It was a game the brain played, smoothing out and deepening with unstable brain chemistry. It was probably partly possibly why Bats kept trying with him: because he wasn't a complete monster in the beginning.

Batman <and god did he know that man> struck him as someone who couldn't let things go. And Joker's first impression had to be memorable, even if he himself had forgotten what it was. Joker giggled to himself, as he strolled leisurely down the hallway. His cane twirled around and his clicky-clacky shoes tapped out a neat little staccato. A few feet behind him, the dragging drudgery of his minions threatened to ruin his beat.

{shoot him, shoot him, get your hands dirty and do your own work} But that was the thing. He was only as horrible as he needed to be.

That was the irony of success: he had to be bigger and badder, if he wanted his jokes to land. A comedian without an audience was just a pitiful thing, but a joke without any fitting context was disgusting. {You didn't tell a dead baby joke anywhere but a nursery or a funeral, for crying out loud.} Although he couldn't remember if the turn toward the dark and edgy was because of how bright the heroes were or because he needed to fit in with the general mood. Or maybe he was all wrong-wrong-wrong.

Joker paused in front of a red-stripped door, the pattern all splatter-y. He tucked his cane under his arm and plopped a gloved hand on some purple fedora he stole a few hours before. His fist balled up the hatwear and he kicked open the door, throwing it into the room. Almost immediately it was eviscerated by a shotgun blast from the ceiling.

He chuckled to himself, snapping his fingers. His minion quickly hurried up. The Joker could just hear his thrumming, thumping heart {oh-god-oh-god-oh-god, it went.} and turned around, widening his smile. The boring man forced the struggling bound man into Joker's outstretched hand. Then his darling little minion ducked his head, stepping back and trying to shrink into himself.

Working for the Joker was a very high-risk proposition. (Either they got dead or got rich, and such odds attracted the desperate, the risk-takers, and the ignorant.) The man before him was the first one and the Joker took in his fear, relishing it. All the death, all that 'bad business' of killing his henchmen so wantonly had culminated to this: One desperate man in particularly dire straits, needing all the cash he could get his hands on. Cash that the Joker was more than willing to throw his way.

The punchline was going to be one of two things: either the man wasn't smart with his money and got caught like Al Capone or he got away scot-free. But he would always be looking over his shoulder, expecting the Joker. Although he would never come, the Joker had already planned on mailing him several personalized postcards. For years and years. <you know, if he didn't die in his service.>

He bit back his laughter, before letting it rip as he threw the bound man into the room. Another blast rained down from the ceiling, hitting the prisoner in the shoulder. He crumbled down one knee, before stumbling right round like a dreidel circling a drain.

Then he collapsed, still alive. Ragged breaths of air wheezing out from the bleeding form.

Joker looked at his minion. "Drag him back to the car. Leave him on the curb."

He nodded vigorously. "Y-yes, sir!"

His delightfully expendable minion stepped into the booby-trapped room, paled at the horrors within, and took a big gulp of air. Holding his breath, he yanked onto the writhing prisoner and slowly passed the Joker, who made sure to flash him a nice, frightful smile. The minion suppressed a shiver and continued to drag the body, a red trail following in its wake. A human brushstroke.

Again a fit of laughter nearly overtook him as he stepped into the room. Despite the darkness, the rancor of an abattoir had hit him hard. He breathed it in, closing his eyes and savoring it. The Joker didn't need superpowers or 'genius-level' intellect to figure out what happened. What the Joker did have was experience.

He tasted sharp nihilism, the texture of someone having gone through that one bad day. The Joker would have been pleased, but this was the fifth crime scene he visited. The cuts were different each time and the differing types of despair just tickled him. He would have been jealous… but with each crime scene, there was just this sense of staleness.

The Joker sensed that there was this incessant, almost pathological need to make everyone have that one bad day. (a joke that everyone knows has no punchline) He tortured Commissioner Gordon, trying to get him to break. Because a strong-willed, righteous man… breaking. That was the height of hilarity, especially the sound of someone's world-view breaking.

But to extend that effort to everyone? That was just nonsensical and edgy. Not even the fun, over-the-top edgy that the Joker was forced to employ against the Batman. <he cut off his own face for a lark, just to keep things spicy between the two!>

Normally he wouldn't give a damn unless this serial killer and him crossed paths… but the Batman was gone. Disappeared into the ether, probably on some alien business for the Justice League. The Joker, however, could read the room. He may not always heed the room, but he could certainly read it.

The Batman was gone. Not dead, but gone. While the idea of the Batman fighting tooth and nail to come back, only to find his Bat Family in ruins held a cruel cosmic irony of sorts… the Joker didn't want him to come back to dealing with the Joker and someone kinda like the Joker.

A frown threatened to worm its way on his features.

So, he danced it away. Twirling in place, eyes still closed, he didn't need to see the details of ten deaths. The Batman would care. Have to care. Would care. But the Joker? He was merely… attuning himself to the crazy wavelength that allowed him to, occasionally, step above his weight class.

After all, the line between genius and insanity was quite thin. All that mattered was success. He swirled around, ducking under the tripwires that ran through the room. Dead bodies were propped underneath some of them, a handful of them placed in precious, little poses. {what type postures? didn't matter. what mattered is that only some of them were.}

There was an escalation here. Whoever this serial killer was, he was gathering a band of merry men. The first four crime scenes were the height of passion, of misplaced anger. Beautiful and raw, at first, but then it gradually settled into compliance. Boring, boring compliance.

The traps were new, if a bit amateurish. (the question is whether it's a rush-job or a matter of aesthetics.) The Joker did a hop and a skip, snatching the shotgun from its perch above. He held it like a dance partner, caressing it like a lover. At first, it seemed like a Riddler type of move. {if the fool was working on a budget} But the Joker dismissed that.

Even if the Joker kinda, maybe, sorta hated the Riddler's guts, he afforded him a supervillain's respect. The man was an insane genius, with a compulsion to leave clues to his crime to prove his own intelligence. Plus, he had bit of an ego and would never serve a serial killer in a subservient position. If this was the Riddler's work, he'd leave snide riddles that would point to a future reversal of roles.

The absence of outright clues was a clue in of itself.

The Joker smirked, tossing the shotgun out the window, and rubbed his hands together. Cluemaster, had to be. Though the Riddler had an ego, he had the smarts to carve out and dominate his niche. Whereas the Cluemaster was hungry. A vulnerable type of hunger. Either he'd be wooed by obvious snake-oil tainted words, or he got himself forced into a secondary role.

He sniffed the air and stretched out his hands, letting them feel out the wire. The Joker followed them to a wall, feeling out the knot, probably to some sort of explosive. The knot was… twice-tight. Hasty, yet with some manner of care. Indeed, answer to the question of the Cluemaster was little bit of a, little bit of b.

The Joker nodded to himself and bent down to pick up the shot-up hat. It fell to pieces in his hands, but enough of it remained to take shape. The shape of Batman's cowl, with two eyes hole and pointy ears. Didn't look like much at all, but to the Joker, it was a sign from the universe.

"He-hehe-hehe-hehahahahha!" he belted out, pressing the fabric against in his face.

With Batman gone and someone starting to fit in a Joker-shaped niche, it was high time for the Clown Prince of Crime to reinvent himself for this encounter. The laughter died down to a sinister chuckle. A clown criminal… dealing out vigilante justice in clear homage to the Batman?

Could there be anything funnier?

 

[Dead Beyond]

A/N: Special thanks to @Ziel for looking this over.

Spoiler: What is DC: Bluebird?

Bluebird, also known as Harper Row, was a new introduction to Bat-Family, utilizing her electric engineering skills and gadgets to aid her in crime-fighting. After a particular and personal case, she has retired from crime fighting but has kept in contact with some of Batman's allies.

Spoiler: What is inFamous?

InFamous is a Playstaion exclusive series, focusing on superpowered protagonists called Conduits. A staple of the games is the karma system, allowing players to be good or evil, which affects both story and gameplay. The first two games focus on the electricity-wielding Conduit called Cole MacGrath as he deals with the looming threat of the Beast. The third game switches protagonists to Delsin Rowe and takes place several years after the second game. Conduits are hunted down by the Department of Unified Protection and labeled as bioterrorists. As they abused their authority in pursuit of Conduits, it puts Delsin at odds with them. Armed with ability to copy powers from other Conduits, Delsin fights against the corrupt government.

Harper Row didn't consider herself retired from vigilante work, but she certainly wasn't active. She spun around her chair before stopping its gyration with a calculated slam of her foot. It caught on her desk and she was jerked to a stop, right in front of her closet. Through the blinders, the outline of her Bluebird suit was visible. She ran a tired hand through the shaved part of her head, before tugging at the blue-dyed strands at her hair. Her eyes flickered to her communicator, where it was dully blinking.

A missed message from Oracle… and she wouldn't call if it wasn't serious.

Drawing her legs back, she scooted forward and drummed her fingers along the edge. Too many things seemed to be happening at once. Real life business and worldwide stuff that would trickle down back to her. She just wanted to hunker down, wrap up schooling, and figure out where to go from there.

Except every time she looked at the news and heard from the Bat grapevine, the world just seemed to be going crazier and crazier. She could pretend she was not going to call back all she wanted, but at the end of the day, Harper was going to get involved.

Picking up the communicator, she spoke, "Oracle, what's up?"

Almost immediately, there was a response.

"Bluebird. We have a problem," the modulated voice said. By using her codename, this was no social call or a phoning a friend for some advice.

"When do we not?" she sighed.

"I wouldn't call upon you if it weren't for the unique circumstances that's happening right now."

"What type of unique circumstances?"

"Batman's unavailable. And the current situation is a fit for your skillset."

Harper hummed. "Electrical engineering? Not exactly in high demand in the hero biz. So, what we dealing with? Something tech-based or an electrical meta?"

"The latter."

Damn, I was only joking. Harper shook her head. "Got any details?"

Her computer pinged as it was loaded with reports, windows opening out of their own accord.

"You could have just emailed it," she groused. Really, it was her fault for using Windows. Harper really should switch to Linux or something.

"I could have."

Harper chuffed. "I'll keep you updated while I work this case."

Then she hung up, spinning around in the chair once again before topping it by kicking herself over to the closet. Rummaging through it, she pulled out her mask. It was a blue domino mask with two straps near the bottom to connect to the costume. She put on the mask and spun back to the computer, the straps smacking against her cheeks. Even now, despite everything, it made her feel cool, but she wouldn't ever say that aloud.

With the optics turned on, she downloaded the prevalent details to the case into the visor.

The fact of this case, when boiled down, was thus: at three AM on a Wednesday night, there was an explosion that put fifty-two in the hospital. She played back the initial video, seeing the electrical energies fry those poor people. The video quality was grainy, but it was clear enough to show the perpetrator behind the act. The only identifiable features was that he was a white male with a shaved head and some sort of weapon on his back.

He stumbled in the aftermath, clearly dazed, but he reached down and shocked the people even more, letting loose a wave of electricity beneath him. Harper wasn't sure if it was the result of the concussion or sadism. Frankly, it was a miracle that nobody died. The recording finished off with him taking one last look before he stumbled away, hidden from the camera's sight.

Further compounding this were more reports of this mystery man attacking numerous gangs.

It had all the makings of a criminal trying to take on the underworld with no care in the world. That was the only plausible theory at the moment. Of course, she couldn't go in metaphorical guns blazing, Batman would have her head. Preparation was the difference between a prospering vigilante and a dead vigilante in hockey pads.

The Batman would get down to brass tacks and figure out if the soft or hard approach was needed. Granted, he was a bit of an asshole in either approach, but he could get away with it. Or if it went to utter hell, he could roll with the barrage of punches. And he had to really roll for some of his screw-ups. For someone like her? She only had one shot.

Cracking her knuckles, she pulled open the drawer and started flipping through old schematics that she brushed up on as a hobby. Since she wasn't an active vigilante, it wouldn't have been right to use the Batcave resources for any of the projects.

Only one shot.

She, being a damn fine engineer, could easily whip up some of these countermeasures before nightfall. The problem was that there could be any number of variables that could screw up in the field. Even if this wasn't super-duper, advanced tech that was highly dangerous in untrained and uneducated hands, she still needed to properly test it.

No matter how well-crafted or intricate the design was, it would be inadvisable to field-test tech on the first go. It was liable to go bunk on her, right at a crucial junction.

The solution was obvious: create them in bulk.

XXX

With her costume bundled under her arm, Bluebird arrived to a Batcave prepping for war. Or at least, the few there were. Red Robin was already on his way out and besides a tight nod, a swish of his cape, there was no acknowledgment. There was only a serious look on his face. That was what sealed the deal.

Something serious was really, really going down and maybe everything was about to change. Harper suddenly felt a pang of longing of how things should have been. She should have been teasing and relating to Tim for coming out. There shouldn't be any tension between her and Cullen, with him slowly being radicalized. Or was radicalized… they danced around that topic too often. Some days it seemed outright normal with her brother.

The world didn't seem to make sense before and she just felt in her bones that it was only going to get worse.

There was a bump against her shoulder. She looked over to Cass, who smiled softly at her, and placed a hand on her shoulder. Words weren't needed for a message as clear as this: she wasn't alone. Harper returned the smile as best she could. And then Cass had to leave, putting on a black bat mask with stitches near the mouth.

When did she start being Batgirl again? Again? Or was it Black Bat? Who?

Her head was too jumbled up. She sighed, staring up at the rocky ceiling where innumerable bats stared at her.

The maudlin thoughts were cut short by a yelp.

Up ahead, near the Batcomputer, Alfred was attending to Steph, stitching up her sides. Most of her Spoiler outfit was gone from the waist up, revealing old scars and new. The armor was placed next to her, blood staining the purple bat symbol. Next to the examination table was one of those high-end 3D printers.

She put in her access code and started manufacturing her much-needed parts. Of course, the printer would catalog everything for the paranoiac that was Batman, but that didn't matter. She then pulled out some of the tools from the workbench.

Harper glanced at Steph. "Hey, what happened to you?"

"There was a guy with a knife," Steph grumbled.

"A common occurrence in our line of business, but shouldn't your armor have covered you?"

"No, no, no. He –" Steph pantomimed a slash. "And then, wham! I was gutted."

"That is usually how it goes when one is attacked with a knife," Alfred commented dryly. "Perhaps, for clarity, you should elaborate more?"

"Nah. It's too embarrassing." She turned to Harper. "If you really want the deets, you can read the case file. You know, when I get around to writing it."

"I'll pass." Harper started piecing together the initial chassis, making sure there was enough room for the wiring. "Do you need backup? I can lend a hand, if I'm going to be back in the game for now."

"Right now Alfred's benching me," Steph grumbled with Alfred merely humming in response.

"Like that stopped you before."

"But that was Batman, this is Alfred. Totally different ballgame."

"Point." She stopped, staring at the device's insides. Right now, it was little more than an empty chest cavity, devoid of any organs. Gonna be fun wiring this stupid thing, she thought.

"What are you working on?"

"There's an electrical meta on the loose, so I'm finally making some old countermeasures I had in the works."

"Already had the designs rearing to go, huh?" she teased. It was common knowledge that Batman developed countermeasures for just about everyone he met and had contingencies for just about every situation. Harper didn't really know whether to take it as a compliment or not.

"Nah, it was just stuff I messed around with in my spare time."

Alfred finished up the stitches and bowed out of the conversation, leaving the two girls alone.

"Something up?" Steph asked.

"Just weird. You know." Harper gestured vaguely with one hand. "And right now, I just want to focus on this. I can understand this. Even if it involves going up against an unknown meta. It's something simple, you know?"

"I get it. Even if everything changes, some things in the world will always be a vague constant. Kicking my dad's ass will always make sense." She winced, clutching at her side. "No matter who he works with."

Laying her costume down on the workbench, she looked at Steph.

"Mind handing me a welding mask?"

Steph obliged her and Harper set out on work, attaching bits and pieces. This was nothing more than a metallic version of Velcro. Except a little more sturdy, a little more permanent.

"I'm going to head upstairs. The manor is actually quite nice without Bruce skulking about."

"Meaning you get to lounge about without consequence."

"If Alfred wasn't the one who cleaned up, I would bleed all over the furniture. All over."

Harper chuckled as she resumed her work. The printer finished up the much-needed circuity and she began to apply it. She had managed to attach three, boxy countermeasures by the time that Alfred came back down to the cave.

"Master Harper," he said, "I have something for you."

She turned around, seeing a small computer chip in his gloved hands.

"What is it?" she asked, taking it into her hands. It was the same size as the slot alongside her mask.

"Master Bruce has prepared a program for you were to ever come back to this line of work."

"In what capacity?" she asked, feeling a little uneasy. It was more about feeling like she never had any choice in coming back rather than a decision she made on her own.

"Any capacity. He believes it would aid you even in an R&D role and said you'd figure out how to use it."

She switched out her masks, pressing a portion underneath to unlock the slot. Inserting the chip caused the optics to blank out before it booted up again. The world came back in shades of blue, lines of electricity running through the cave, both above and below. Clicking a button on the side of the mask, the intensity of the streaks lessened.

It was a derivative of Batman's own, what most of them jokingly referred as his Detective Vision. She continued to fiddle with it. This would certainly be nifty for diagnosing some problems and would almost certainly helping in tracking down the electrician meta. She narrowed down the settings down to a fine point and stared at her hand.

Faint bio-electrical signals pulsed in the palm of her hand. It was a marvelous piece of tech. All the parts were already in the mask's optics, but didn't mean anything until now. How long was this in the works? It was probably prepared near the very beginning. The chip was a gift in that emotionally constipated Batman way. An unspoken sign of faith and trust, as much as Batman allowed.

It lessened the feeling, that impact of inevitability that she would always be a vigilante. Or at the very least, her involvement in this life. She had support, mask or not.

"When will he be back?" Harper asked, switching back to normal vision. "So I can thank him in person?"

She expected nothing more than a gruff acknowledgement, but it was the principle of the matter.

"I do not know. All I can do his have faith that he will return, from wherever he has disappeared to."

Harper nodded. "Yeah, I get it. But you're here, despite everything. So, I'm sure he'll be fine."

"I am no stranger to his habit of disappearing on the mission, but the distress will never not be fresh."

She took off her mask and stared at the white lenses.

"Best thing we can do is keep the hearth going, right?"

"Quite." Alfred looked at her. "Do you need anything while I'm down here?"

"Nah. I can handle myself. Thank you though."

When the butler left, she pulled out her rifle from underneath. By design, it was big and bulky, to make it more different than normal guns. It did have an actual reason for its bulkiness, allowing it to be packed in. But besides the Red Hood – and boy wasn't that a contentious topic – Batman didn't exactly permit any sort of gun paraphernalia.

No matter how it looked, she made it work. Harper added a secondary firing mood, this one designed to suck up electricity rather than firing it. But as roomy as the rifle was, it wouldn't fully offset the electrical surges. Not without compromising its primary firing mode. So that meant stuffing some cables in the grip, which could be attached to her suit. Modular capabilities were really in, at the moment.

All in all, the bones of the countermeasures finished, but it felt unfinished. It would have to do; she had spent too much time on this as is. As she turned to leave, Harper spotted a prepped utility belt nearby. It seemed Alfred left it for her and she didn't even notice.

It does run in the family, it seems. She chuckled to herself as she clicked the belt around her uniform.

Bluebird was ready to take on the world.