Extraordinary Girls

and so the story begins...

#MUSESMYWAY. a multi-fandom multimuse. featuring: SUPERMAN/CLARK KENT, ABSOLUTE BATMAN, THOMAS WAYNE/FLASHPOINT BATMAN, ROBOCOP (1987), AND THE DOOMSLAYER/DOOMGUY && more.

written and beloved by Fox (30, they/them, Australian EST). indie, selective but non-mutual.

Sit down. The words draw ears to flatten, further, a nose to wrinkle, teeth to bare (In some manner of DISGUST,) disapproval, a clear disagreement with the means by which she speaks. Whatever she feels is HER DUTY, like some mismanaged doctor who could not find the CONFIDENCE TO ACT, Sinestro holds little respect for it- (in this moment, at least-) In this, his show of POWER, strength, in his  n e e d  to be a thing SELF SUFFICIENT.

                                    His hand snaps upward, pulled away from cracked ribs,                                   (in act of anger, perhaps-) like unsheathed claws,                               like a threat to ATTACK-  that loses its fire,                           that turns, instead, to a long gesture (DISMISSIVE.)                         Waving her away.

His body turns, turns away, as if to leave- (testing the limitations of his own ability,) the extend to which he may push his own strength. Muscles tight, bruised, a hand that feels at the curve of his own body & tries for what is not  OBVIOUS. Bruises, here, breaks, there, lacerations that wet his fingerstips & draw his breath as a sharp hiss through his teeth.

                                     & then HER  W O R D S.

His chin, turning over his shoulder, his gaze cast, sidelong & narrowed. Sinestro considers her words, even if his INTENT is not to LINGER, (even if he prefers to abandon her here, leave her to her own MOPING-) a thing he did not care to BOTHER HIMSELF UPON-  Ignore him in   a g o n y  - the phrase draws a barking LAUGH, a sharp, cruel sound. His eyes turn, AWAY. His face hides itself from her view.

"An idiot's consideration."

His left hand, continuing its self-assessment. Exhaustion, settling heavy on his shoulders.

"You have brought only further ire upon you, for interfering with the GREEN LANTERNS' WILL. If I was to be CAPTIVE, if I was to suffer DEATH, it was best you had LET IT BE." 

She seemed so confused at the idea of just letting an injustice happen, of standing by and watching Sinestro be beaten into the ground, captured, and executed. As if that was right and reasonable.

"But... You didn't do anything wrong." Well, not this time anyway. "You lost the fight because your ring shorted out momentarily, I got out of that bubble to intervene because Lantern Nyko's ring shorted out momentarily. According to the intel I was given, this has been happening to both Green and Yellow lanterns... All day. That's a first hand witness report, Henry and Milton Shearer, died 1929 in a construction accident..." She muttered into her notebook before looking up at him.

   DESPITE THE GUARDIANS CULPABILITY, IT HAD BEEN HAND-  Hand, whose efforts had twisted the very nature of the world, who had turned life UPON ITS HEAD, & set into motion events that had torn the Emotional Spectrum asunder. Hand, whose interference had allowed for the interception of the GUARDIANS- the release of the FIRST LANTERN,

                                                        ...The Destruction of Korugar.

Hand, another pawn in a greater scheme, given, so briefly, the conductor's baton. Disagreeable, loathsome, SORRY TO THE VERY CORE. & This- this girl, who SIMPERS & curls upon herself like a KICKED DOG, tucks their tail & watches with eyes whale-like at their master- who mutters ADMITTANCE OF RELATION as if it was the very command to execute.

Sinestro's expression holds, a still, icy thing- long lines & age that tugs at the corners of gleaming eyes. Aggression, perhaps... or simply means of CONTAINMENT, of holding together that which threatened to burst OUTWARD from his chest, & rip apart all about it. His fingers curl in, test at the curve of his ribcage, feel the FRACTURED RIBS THERE, painful, (trying.)

                                   Share a bloodline. His eyes shimmer- (an ember, in the dark.)                              & She- who nearly gives to EMOTION.

"That is enough   s e l f   p i t y."

He is steadying himself- stretching his spine upward, lengthening, TALL. To draw himself to his full height is an AGONY, pain that sears & burns within him, & nearly threatens to topple the carefully placed cornerstones of his SELF-CONTAINED COUNTENANCE- but he MANAGES, presses through, until he has gathered himself entirely.  His fingers, wiping at the blood upon his upper lip- his expression, held tight, to avoid a sense of WEAKNESS.

He continues.

"The Green Lanterns display their cowardice in their MISPLACED RAGE. They speak strongly of that which they do not UNDERSTAND, by nature of such being that with which they FEAR. Black Hand was a threat neutralized not once, but  T W I C E - a man, whose weakness is known well enough already. Should you be amongst his ranks-"

                                   & from her sorry countenance-.... well-

"You would prove no threat to them. They remain STUBBORN FOOLS- their word is not to be taken with any sincerity." 

"Well, if you aren't going to kill me, you... Really should sit down. There's a bench over there." It's about the only thing that remained standing in the carnage. "I won't think any less of you, if that's what's stopping you. Are you sure you don't need anything? I think I have some water in my bag... Is there anyone I can call to pick you up?"

It was duty of care, clearly. While she was unsure what her legal liability was with an intergalactic despot, she tried to maintain good practice at all times. No matter what side of her career (so to speak) she was occupied with, it was on her to make sure that she did all she could to prevent further harm.

He was to LEAVE, leave, with shoulders turning & face tipped away, with wounds held tight & Ring burning, (preparation, to tear him from this atmosphere,) & deposit him BACK into the antimatter universe, where he would doubtless be tended to (by his SOOTHSAYER,) with words of simultaneous taunting & ease at her lip- when it is the voice of the Green Lantern that CUTS, breaks past the heavy atmosphere.

Body is moving, slinking, shoulders curved & ribs expanding with a deep breath in, the Ring hot as (power surged,) throbbed through veins, ebbed through him- & then Thaal Sinestro (stops.) He halts. Ears turn- words are taken in, absorbed. An argument.  His eyes turn, tip, over his shoulder, &   L I N G E R.

Amber hues narrow, a brow tightening, lips pressing together in a thin, long line- Ghosts. The Emotional Spectrum. This girl-

Fear, anew, coursing through the air. Sinestro's body, tensing, the feeling of it surging, burning, sulphur in his veins. Like hackles raised, like hair on end, burning (only greater light) behind his eyes, he watches, watches as the Green Lantern wrenches her wrist upward- & then the name. Black Hand. (William.) William Hand, whose actions had set a great train forward in motion, ( & changed the Universe, )

Black Hand, whose fervor had resulted in Korugar's Destruction.

& Then, as quickly as it had started, the Lanterns have (vanished,) in arcs of brilliant EMERALD that cut through the night air, & leave the two, ALONE, in darkness. Sinestro lingers, a great cat, lanky, (ready to vanish into the Night-) & then the girl turns. Her eyes meet his own.

"Enemy."

The words slip from his teeth, a hiss. His ears lay, flat- his body twists, draws itself up into PRIDE once more, despite the agony of bruise, laceration, (defeat) that SEARS through him. A hand presses to his ribs- a WINCE drags along his teeth.

"Your opinion means little. But your PURPOSE-"

His eyes, flashing. Bright, savage. Cruel.

"The Lanterns spoke of Black Hand. Elaborate- lest I end your existence where you stand." 

Her parents were first, soon after she turned 18, when the darkness crawled from the tips of her fingers down to her wrist. The horror in their eyes, the anger that despite their efforts they had failed to lock the curse away. So they needed to lock her somewhere no one would look for her: Arkham Asylum. Lest she ends up like...

Anyone who wore a ring gave her an evil eye, even the Guardians in their infinite wisdom looked at her hand and ignored the young woman, the trained counsellor, the trusted medium attached. After all, it looked just like...

Her cousin, William Hand. Black Hand.

Even this stranger, who she had helped, who she tried to look after, was threatening to kill her. She looked genuinely disheartened at that, more than before. At the threat, a ghostly rat loomed over Mona's shoulder, glowing eyes staring wide at him.

"We're related, distantly. We are distant cousins. I-I can't remember if we're first cousins once removed, or second cousins, or second cousins once removed, or even third it's one of those." Mona wasn't a Hand, William was a Mallory. "We haven't met, I don't even want to meet him. But we share a bloodline which was cursed well before either of us..." She sighed.

"I didn't ask for this. I do all I can to help others, to do good, be good. I really didn't want anyone to get hurt, and I know you don't believe me but... I tried, I really did try. " Her legs looked about ready to give out. In her eyes, inky black, brimming with tears, was both misery and certainty. A tragic sense of inevitability.

To get rich. A huff, like a scoff, that bounces off his teeth, falls flat upon the earth & seems to sink into it- unimpressed. A theme, it seems, for this girl, for this s t r e e t r a t who had been handed to him. Little more than utility. The air quivers, silence broken under the sound of her (anger,) a heavier breath, a snarl on the teeth. His ear twitches, turns, catches the sound of it, though little else appears to respond. His eyes remain turned away, posture unbending, unyielding. Her opinion, after all, mattered (little-) a lamb held no place to speak against the maws of a lion. Want it all- but never got it. "It is fortunate, then, that I am quite different from any man you have met prior." The gang-leaders, drug-lords, petty thieves & villains of Gotham- their numbers were high, scurrying vermin vying each for a place in history. Some claimed influence more than most, it was true- but in the end, it was each & every one with a Will broken. A lack of vision, to make their desire reality. But Thaal Sinestro did not suffer such weakness. Thaal Sinestro did not bend. Renegade. Despot. King of Fear. His eyes, now, back upon her face. The silence, breathing tense, between them. Tension thick & viscous, vitriol against her tongue. His lip curls- a smile. He speaks. "Because, my dear: The fate with which befalls those who fail me is quite worse than death, & will afford me answer regardless."

The flash of red was so instant and blinding, bright and sudden like an alarm going off, there wasn't even time to register the flunky's head making swift and crunchy contact with his orbital bone.

CRACK!

It was like getting smacked by a piece of hardwood, bone far more dense than an ordinary person's. Not 'man-of-steel' hard, but Charlie was more than people think.

"Fuck. YOU. I'm already there." There wasn't even a bruise on their head, but there was rage, instinct, pure instinct. Charlie stood over him, knuckles already clenched white. Burning red, a sudden change in temper... A mood swing. In their eyes one could see something a little lost and vacant.

"I see you. I see what you are. What you want. Bring order? Bullshit. Fuck the poor, right? The weak. The sick. You get rid of them, you big men."

Charlie was poor, Charlie was sick. Strong, maybe, but constantly fighting from underneath, without and within.

Fear pulls a deep rush of warmth, roaring adrenaline that sears its way through Sinestro's body, burns at his veins- nearly (overwhelms) his senses. Would it have been a winning fight, perhaps he might have been grateful-

But with body bruised, beaten,  with blood (deep violet) blossoming at the sharp curve of his cheek & working its way in large splotches across his ribcage, with pain deep & jabbing, coursing through muscle & rattling him to the core, perhaps the Lantern did not feel so (pleasant) about it.

His left hand, raising- the Ring, burning hot. He grasps at the place above his heart, feels the fabric of his flightsuit, the broken & bloodied flesh there... & something, deeper, far deeper. Something that curled against his soul & coiled itself like a great serpent within the cavity of his chest. A thing that raked at his ribs, that gnawed at sternum, that punctured his lungs & took from him his breath, (daily.) It shifts, uncomfortable, large inside of him. It turns against his soul. It threatens the tight leash by which he holds it, & watches, with hungry eyes, to see how far he gives.

For a moment, he seems unsteady, a wavering presence dripping with hot blood, a weak light- but it is with Emerald Will that he steadies himself, forces body upright, powerful. If Atlas could hold the world upon his shoulders, so, too, could he.

                        & Then the shift. The change,                               The alteration, made in bravery.                                                                                                        …. Or stupidity. 

Sinestro's eyes, turned to the girl, (as her coat is laid upon him.) A tightness in his lungs, a shuddering round of disbelief, (grief,) that turns itself over within him. Her words, an offer, a kindness. But the eyes of the Green Lanterns remain. Their cold judgement. Their hatred.

                              Kindness does not comfort, with Indigo compassion,            but turns, instead, any feeling to a crimson rage, (burning hot & bright within him.)

Lips curl back, draw against pointed canines, an animal. His shoulder shifts, his hand moves, brushes the jacket from his shoulder, as he turns on his heel, as his muscles shift, as he takes a step away from (them,) & her- A wise man knew when it was best to flee. A wise man knew when to lick wounds.

                      & it was not now, attended by one no more than a child                               under the eyes of those who wished him dead.

"You will halt your attempts to bring  a i d."

His voice is a snap, correction. Vitriol, on the tip of his tongue.

"I need none to attempt COMFORT. You need only mind business your own." 

"Mona Mallory of Earth! Cavorting with the enemy after wasting time talking to the air? What is your major malfunction?!" "I wasn't talking to the air, I was talking to some ghosts in the park. They died there in the 1920s, and spent all day..." She flicked through her notebook to find a quote. "Watching fellers in green and in yellow running around like chickens without heads... So whatever is going on effects the both of you, and whoever is truly responsible may be counting on you all fighting amongst yourselves-" "Now, listen here. You may think you know everything, but you're only here as a favor to the Justice League." "I'm here to learn about the emotional spectrum, sir. And with all due respect, all I've learned about is your lack of impulse control! You can't seem to trust me with anything beyond the most blatant, base, PR for-"

The Green Lantern grabbed her wrist then, tight. A flash of yellow, specks of red, a black left hand. Surging with necrotic energy, greyish-bluish skin, with inky veins. She cringed, but tried not to react, but there was more distress in her eyes than what she had with Sinestro. "This is why. This is why we will never trust you. I know better than to tell anything to another Black Hand."

She shuddered, that seemed to cut her deeply, cleft lip quivering for the shortest moment, before pulling herself together. "... It wasn't him. Being nasty to me won't change that."

Another tense moment passed, before she was carelessly released, pushed back. As the lanterns made their return to the Guardians. Mona looked up at them leaving. Her breath was shaky, she clutched her jacket tight to herself again. The medium wanted nothing more than to crawl up into a ball under her bedsheets. A million fearful thoughts running through her head, but still, she looked back at Sinestro.

"I don't think we've met." He's quick to put on the act, suave and charming. Foolish to an extent, and certainly reckless, but not without heart or compassion. A smile completes the look, making it seem like Bruce Wayne is a functioning member of high society. A member of the idle rich, of course, but not so idle that he can waltz through the world without a care in the world.

He takes his hand out of his suit pocket and extends it.

"Not in person, no... Mr. Wayne, sir." The funny thing was, Batman had come to know her quite well, that was the reason she was outside of Arkham now. A supernatural case that only the young lady's necromancy could solve. She helped in through the bars, and in turn he learned she shouldn't be behind them.

Skittish and tormented she might be, but she wasn't dangerous. She needed support, and how very generous of the Wayne Foundation to offer it. He also knew why she shook with her right hand, keeping her left firmly in her pocket. She probably didn't have time to put on gloves.

"But... Your foundation has done a great deal for me since..." A pause, he probably didn't want to hear all of that. "Umm... Welcome to the Gotham Historical Society. I'm Mona, I'm.. the only one here today." Batman also knew why she omitted the name Mallory, a name Bruce would also know.

She usually hid away in the library, unsure of what to do with herself she sunk into Gotham's history, mostly because she kept running into unliving parts of it. "I am happy I finally got the opportunity to thank you, for everything, really." She smiled back, not as easily, but she tried.

A scoff, on the girl's breath. Sinestro's gaze, lingering out of the corner of his eye, disgruntled. His lips tug down- his expression sours. What (boldness,) for her to act in such way, before the King of Fear. Ignorant is she, in the power at his hand. Foolish, in the face of a world which suffers the very same disease that he has eradicated (once before.) It would only be a matter of time. He passes her, walks beyond her, gaze turning out. Disinterest, perhaps- or (disappointment.) The loyalty of fools was hardly loyalty. But who was he to deny a moving hand, an extension of his reach? "Your highest bidder, then." His fingers curl, tighten against one another, behind his spine. The Ring catches light, brief, glimmers. Its light could churn one's stomach- could convince another of a whispering paranoia. "I hold no such interest." There were many ways to lead a people- he cared not to follow the route of those duly elected. No choice of the people could do what was needed for the (whole,) after all. "Your duty to me will require you run amidst the circles with which you do already. Their names, their locations, handed to me directly. There will be no loyalty to any you may have once called ally- You will not be allowed flinch to familiarity." To stomp chaos out at its source. A rat, to infiltrate where he need them. "Refusal will result in termination. Are we clear?" ( & what was a rat, if not another pest to be snuffed out?)

"I don't do this to get rich." Charlie shot back. They didn't look rich. Besides, assassination was where the real money got passed around, this punk was nothing more than a henchman, a minion, a flunky. Keeping the lights on was the only motive.

The glint of the ring got a curious tilt of the head, as if catching a strange scent. There's a part of Charlie that might be scared, but it felt so far away from the rest of her that it might as well not be there at all.

When he told them of his plan, their eyes seemed to... Darken, somehow even more than before. The feeling of agitation rising up inside the scrappy little anomaly. He could almost hear it, so quietly. A growl, so much like a dog's growling when an annoyance gets too close, ready to bite at a prodding hand.

Charlie took a seat, clearly thinking, considering something, more her words than his offer. "I've been working ten years, round about." That would place their first job in childhood, they looked 20 at the oldest. "I've seen so many big men want it all, and they never got it." The Falcones wiped themselves out, every city ending threat stomped out by the Bat, and Batman was never able to keep order for long. Gotham was an untamable beast, chaotic but unbroken.

"I'll be fucked either way, looks like." Either killed by him, or completely eroding her life for him. "He's not paying me that much." Charlie got close, he could hear that growl even closer, and at this distance he could see Charlie's canine teeth were a little sharper than a normal human's.

Disapproval rests heavy on the Korugarian's features, sharp lines drawn across his brow, wrinkled at the corners of his mouth, (cold gaze falling down, down the curvature of his nose toward this individual below him.)

An anomaly, perhaps. An oddity. An intrigue. Parallax cranes its head, turns its long neck & observes- & gains nothing. But Sinestro is no fool. There was no living thing that did not [ f e a r. ] "In Gotham." The words roll from his tongue, repetition, affirmation. His chin rises, his breath leaves him, hissing between his teeth. Powerful chest rising, as it is replaced, deep, centering. "This city is a root of chaos, a blot upon the planet. I see it apt to begin here. To right what this damnable place may wrong." Ah. There. An answer. Sinestro's eyes, narrowing. The Scarecrow- a fool at best- playing (stray pup) yet again. But who was he to deny free loyalty? "Scarecrow. So- that is your employer, mmn?"

She couldn't even stifle a cynical scoff at his words, now he was really sounding like Batman, or Raj Al Ghul, or any other melodramatic fuck who Charlie had met in ten years, wanting to 'fix things.' Rid the world of whatever is wrong with it. They all had the wrong ideas in different ways, they were all doomed to fail. And so was he.

"Heard that one before." So what did this one want? To wipe out the poor? Wipe out the rich? What the hell did an alien know about the deeply rooted systems that screwed Charlie from the very start?

"One of 'em." A freelancer, then. She'll work for who pays her. That's how you survive in this city. That's how someone with no documentation is able to pay rent, cash in hand.

AND THEY SHALL KNOW NO FEAR.

semi-selective indie Warhammer 40k multimuse featuring headcanon-based God-Emperor of Mankind.

scribed by ken interacts from @kcnhub.

please reblog ⟳ if you'd like to interact! VERY OPEN to crossovers!

"With body armor underneath," but there was a measure of truth to what Abigail is saying. The plates he was wearing in the armor were strong, sure, but the body armor was only so strong. And all that force had to go somewhere when all was said and done. Once in a while, someone will know what theyr're doing, and bring out something stronger than the armor.

He grunts, listening to Abigail list the things that should be wrong with Frank. And physically, there should be more wrong with him. Even accounting for the bloodstone getting rid of old injuries and revitalizing his body to its thirties, that doesn't account for all the injuries sustained since. And the pain... even as he's stitched back together, he can still feel the old pains. Not that he'll ever say it to anyone.

"And you won't." He responds, so sure of himself and his mortality. He will die one day. The only thing called into question is when his body will slump onto the ground, bloodied and lifeless. But he knows what he's good at. He knows the rules of the life. He knows damn well it'll be a long time before something ever puts him in the dirt.

"You sound like my mother." Abigail muttered with a fond little smile to herself, she would gently secure the bandage on his hand. Bloody knuckles were no big thing to him, but she could at least try to help some of the lasting damage on his hands. He'll need them, after all.

"She near insisted that my confirmation name would be Caterina, after Saint Caterina de' Vigri of Bologna. A patron saint of artists, because of how I would sing in the choir and play piano... She wanted that for me, really." She wondered where she would be now if she took that path, definitely not with Frank. "Catholicism was her way of keeping home with her, and she's the only one who can call me Abigail Stella Caterina Cain."

"No, I don't think it's God. Or the devil, before you go there... I don't know. Destiny? Fate?" Her working her ass off to keep him alive, once or twice.

"I know you can't promise me that I won't find you in the morgue." Her hands stopped when the bandage was fully secure. "But... Thank you for your attempt to assuage my worries... I think."

She raised her eyebrows at his response. This was usually the point when she'd be shrugged off, Milton not interacting with her again except to bark at her for case notes. But... There was just this moment, she looked at him, both brown eyes, but his were like a great black pit that he avoided inflicting on anyone. But Abigail's were inquisitive, soft, expressing relief, understanding.

He was a good man, a truly good man.

"Thank... Thank you, Agent Dammers." His words meant a lot to her, truly. Being so uplifted was uncommon for the scientist. Not since Herbert. Few showed respect for her mind. Or her at all. And for him to say that the thoughts of the sheriff, who wasn't shy in pointing out her irregularities to Milton, or really anyone in that station? Abigail Cain was genuinely a bit moved, enough to clear her throat.

He couldn't decipher the look she was giving him. On the surface, maybe. Compassion. Gratitude. Something in the category of positive feedback. He wondered if it was genuine and then found himself thinking that everything she did was probably genuine. She struck him that way.

He nodded in response to her words. "A small town might be helpful for our purposes. Even if they are able to blend in, we can review security tapes, perhaps conduct interviews if we are able to find enough of trail to follow..." He was thinking too far ahead now. following the investigation was likely not her job. He might have been volunteering her for work she wasn't supposed to do.

"Well, officially I'm the coroner. I determine method of death through biological analysis. But in a town this small, I take over most forensic duties. So in that sense, I assist, we're a small team here." She looked at the silhouette of the sheriff through the door. A most ill-tempered and chauvinistic man.

"The chief... Usually leaves me in here, alone. Says that we're all better off for it. But... If you're worried about being new to the town, I'd be happy to help you. I've warmed up to the place, I think... I hope, the people here have warmed up to me too. If you need someone to accompany for interviews..." Abigail shook her head, remembering herself.

"No, there's no way he'd give the okay for that. He was hesitant enough to have a woman in the lab." Stupid old fossil. "He'll probably pull some officer to help you, and I likely won't see you again unless another body turns up."

She seemed almost a little forlorn by that. This case interested her, and she was barred from helping despite the station needing all the help they could get.