#dc ficlet

Janet glances up from her workphone to acknowledge Tim's question. Slipping the phone into her suit's pocket, she nods. "We are, dear. We have a matching mark." With two fingers of her right hand, she taps her left inner wrist where a trowel and small brush are depicted.

The furrow between Tim's brows only deepens. "But... You and Dad fight a lot. Soulmates aren't supposed to fight."

For a long moment, her crystal blue eyes peer down at her son. She tilts her head to the side before she crouches down to be eye level with her son. "You are correct in that your father and I tend to have a lot of disagreements. We are both stubborn, strongly opinionated people."

She tucks a strand of hair behind Tim's ear with a small smile. "We argue because we care. We care about our work, our image, our findings, and, most importantly, we care about you."

Shyly, Tim glances away with a grin.

"Tim, the universe may decide who can complete you, and you are lucky to be granted so many marks." Her tone becomes stern but not unkind as she declares, "But that is not the end all be all. You may be assigned romantic or platonic soulmates, but the universe can not force your relationship to work. It will require time, effort, and dedication. It will not be an easy, simple task to stay with these people."

"Ms. Mac says soulmates are destined to love each other and be together."

Sighing, Janet shakes her head. "You will love your soulmate, but love isn't everything." She pokes Tim's forehead. "It will be up to you and them to maintain the bond, to cherish it. You can not rely on destiny to do your work in nourishing your relationship. Do not be fooled by the stories others say about soulmates."

Tim peers down at his ribs, where a collection of marks is hidden under his shirt. He's lucky to have ao many people he's destined to meet, to love. As he glances up at his mother, it's with determination. "I'll keep them. I'll do what it takes to keep them."

The world falls into place, one sluggish blink at a time. That obnoxious WayneTech alarm pierces into his skull, and yet it is the only anchor to reality he has. Sleep and the fading remnants of his dream coax his consciousness back under with the aid of his pervasive exhaustion. If it wasn't for that damned alarm, he wouldn't be able to ignore rest's tempting call.

Just five more minutes, his body pleads with him as he drags himself from his bed's loving embrace. The alarm had done its predesigned trick, however, and roused him from the confines of collapsing into the sleep of only an hour. Past-Tim, who knew how seductive sleep can be without adequate rest, was a productivity-obsessed sadist; Current-Tim really wants to find that guy and punch him in the throat.

His violent tendencies especially stem from him stumbling out of bed, his lungs seeming to shrink, his vision blurring, and his whirling, fizzling head. Being this affected is a blaring red sign that he should crawl back into his bed until his eyes no longer burn. A sign he can not heed, not with the pressing burdens laid upon his shoulders and the weight of lives depending on him.

He fumbles through his twelve-digit kill code for the alarm even as blind as he currently is; he is far too used to moving under such conditions. It's only when that incessant, ear-splitting sound has stopped that he becomes aware of several things in rapid succession: the carpet smells like stale espresso, the empty void where his spleen should be is aching again, and he’s missing a sock.

Huh.

Should he be concerned about the static edging his vision? The encroaching grey is flickering and floating in an uneven narrowing of his field of view.

Ultimately, he decides to ignore it. Considering he’s not dead yet, it can’t be that bad.

Patting beside his alarm clock for his phone, he sighs at the plethora of notifications he notices upon unlocking it. Every time Tim opens his phone, Bruce has a new task for him just like he does right now.

Meet at WE at noon, Bruce’s latest text says. Short, simple, precise. An order, like always. Tim doesn’t have the choice to say no.

He tosses his phone aside.

A further fluttering of static across his vision distracts his stumble to the bathroom - his symptoms worryingly getting worse. It's almost enough for him to consider getting a health check.

Almost.

Crashing into the bathroom counter, he peers up at his own reflection. The person staring back looks like a background extra in a low-budget zombie flick. His skin has a distinct greyish undertone that he’s pretty sure isn’t just the gleam of fluorescent lights, and the dark circles under his eyes have progressed from college-student tired to sickly Victorian child locked in the attic.

And there’s that static again when he looks down at the sink. Like too much blood rushing to his head all at once, just… more intense. It does nothing to help the pounding behind his temple.

He sends a longing glance at his bed, too tired to remember exactly why he needs to go to work except that it was important. Important enough to trudge through washing his face and brushing his teeth.

As he raises his gaze back to the mirror, his vision swells into the staticky gray of a poor TV connection or as though he was seeing the world through a VR calibration page. He could see his hands clearly, even if the world around him was still muddled. Rubbing his eyes, Tim noticed that he still felt real, even if the world around him seemingly didn’t.

He startles at a floating and translucent box abruptly popping into his vision, accompanied by a loud ding that fills him with more dread than his alarm ever could.

>System integration complete. Welcome, New Player!

“What the fuck—” Tim turns quickly to see where that is coming from only to frreze when the box follows him.

It stays in his vision.

He moves his head around a few times, then just his eyes. Slowly, then fast with disbelief. The message stays in front of his sight.

Shit.

What the hell has he gotten himself into now?

The message continues to stare at him – the floating box certainly a herald of doom. That's how it always is in his line of work.

>Due to being a new player, you are currently in the training arc. Some penalties are inactive and some restrictions are applied. Complete the training arc to unlock more properties of the system!

Tim blinks at the weird retro game-style graphics that are, for some reason, hijacking his vision. Is this some new level of sleep deprivation he’s just unlocked?

He tries poking it. His hand meets no resistance as it passes through the box. Squinting at the translucent message, he muses, “Training arc? How do I complete it?”

>Arc One will begin in 23:51:47

>Complete 3 objectives before Arc One begins.

>Success: Unlock some features of the system, ???

>Failure: ???

Like a cold hand settling on the back on his neck, Tim eyes the question marks with a frown.

“Why can't I see what the consequences are?”

>You do not have clearance to view this information. Unlock more of the system to raise your clearance level.

Of course Tim won't even get a straight answer regarding what would happen to him if he didn't obey the will of the system. How is he supposed to adequately plan around the consequences or decide whether to disregard these messages if he doesn't know the extent it can affect him? The only path he can take at this point is cooperation.

“Okay, system. What objectives do I have to complete?”

>Scanning for current objectives…

>New objective discovered!

[“Select one of the following options: Ignore text and don't go to work, postpone meeting and don't go to work, postpone meeting and go to work, confirm meeting and go to work]

Now even his choices are limited by the system? What happens if he doesn't choose? Can he opt out?

As if reading his thoughts, another message pops up:

>Success: ???

>Failure: ???

He has to choose. With the limited information he has, it's inadvisable to reject the system at this point.

So, what should he do?

Dick knows that something is wrong and that he knows he isn't supposed to be a dog but can't connect the dots because of the limited mental capacity of the hardware he is running on. But he does know that he is missing someone, or more than one?, and that he needs to find them now.

He finds Jason in Crime Alley and would not leave him alone, following along until he actually gets kicked by some thugs that threaten Jason for his wallet, which is so stupid in hindsight. As thanks, Jason brings the dog to a vet clinic (because Damian would blow a gasket if he didn't repay the dog in some way).

Good news! It's a boy. Bad news, the dog actually needs some monitoring due to a concussion. Jason is given some pain meds, a bill and a very good boy attached to a blue leash.

So, bleeding heart that Jason is, he brings the dog home and takes care of him. Give him a bath and some chow before having to fight the poor thing to take the pain pill. There was a lot of whining and crying before the pill went down, but the dog was nice enough to not bite him.

The dog, named henceforth Goldie, is a nice dog, super friendly and clingy and it takes Jason's mind off of the family drama happening right that very moment. Of Batman and Red Robin working themselves through the sleepless nights, of Spoiler and Batgirl taking more on patrol, of Robin being more ruthless and Oracle running herself on empty. The whole clan is searching and hunting for Dick Nightwing's missing soul, his body safe and sound in Gotham General, a tube down his throat to help him breathe, hooked up to wires and IVs, alive but empty. His older brother is not there.

He falls asleep on the couch, Goldie on his chest, a warm comforting weight.

As the dog falls asleep, Dick is able to understand the situation a little better. In the realm of dreams, he knows that he's human, that he's stuck in a body that isn't his own, and that the dog's soul is also there with him, they're copiloting? cohabitating? sharing the body in a way where both overlap on top of each other, they only separate in sleep , both existing in dreams, and somehow Dick also gains comfort from the dog.

Things are foggy still, in the dreams and very much in the waking world. So it takes a few nights before he figures out that he's connected with someone in his family. The more time he spends as a dog, the more 'awake' he becomes in the real life, more intelligent, more aware but still missing some puzzle pieces and the full picture.

"You know, I always did want a daughter"

Talia isn't sure what prompts her to speak. Maybe it's the proximity to the Pit, the unnatural way it glows. Their holding cell is cool but dry, just another sign that this Pit is beyond their understanding. Everything in her body screams at her to move, to get closer to its waters and slip beneath the virulent green. If she drowns out the thoughts with something, anything, she stands a chance of making it back home.

Her fellow captive tenses at the sound of her voice. Or maybe it's the words. Her daughter in this universe- she'd introduced herself in the brief second before they'd both been ambushed and taken captive by either an errant branch of the League or one of its many enemies.

Not one but two Talia's made into pawns this time. She almost laughs at it. What a sad universal constant.

"I imagined how she would look. My eyes, my nose. Her father's smile, maybe"

Talia glances over at her daughter, drinks the sight of her in with a critical eye.

She really doesn't look much like her at all. Her features, her hair, everything is her father's. Well, her mother's, here. Talia is her father. Or something.

It's a little bit amusing that Damian looks so much more like her than his sister-counterpart does.

"I take after my mother", Talia Kane says, and leaves it at that.

You are not my mother, she doesn't say, but she doesn't have to. Talia can feel the weight of her gaze, burning holes into her neck, her shoulder. They're observing each other greedily, looking for hints of themselves that aren't there.

"I suppose you do", she hums, considers what Bruce would look like in this universe. Were his eyes the same too-blue shade here? Did the sweet, almost pretty, tilt to his mouth fit right on a slimmer jaw? Her heart pangs as she remembers him, that night at the desert in Khadym when he'd cradled her face just so and she'd thought his long, slender fingers were meant for something less violent than this life they'd both been bestowed.

To think she'd found him again in a different universe. To think she'd lost him again nonetheless.

"Do you hate me?"

Damian is only ten. Talia Kane is a little older than that. Either ways, it's too much vulnerability to force upon her shoulders. Her sort-of-mother, chained to the ground, falling to pieces. It's humiliating.

"Do you?" Her daughter counters, the set of her jaw visible in the weak emerald light.

"No, never"

It's the truth. It would have been easier. Everything would be easier if she could hate her. What she represented, what she meant. But she doesn't. Can't.

"Loving you is like breathing", Talia says, "I never understood why my father needed me, my voice, after the Pit. But talking to you, seeing you, keeps the voices at bay. No matter where or when, no matter what name you call yourself, you will always carry my heart with you"

Talia Kane let's out a strangled sob, buries her face in her hands, the silver of her chains glinting from the water's light. She knows she's made mistakes, but to have made the same ones over and over again…it's madness. A curse.

The Pit trembles next to them, water frothing. No, not just the Pit, she realises, everything shakes, like an earthquake.

Her father. The portal that had brought her here in the first place.

"Oh", she realises, so startled she says aloud, "my father-"

There's too much noise, the sounds of the Pit and struggling from outside their holding cell bearing down on them. Are they above them or next to them? The sounds echo, pinging back and forth so it's impossible to pinpoint their source.

This place will come down at this rate. It's too rough to have been anything but a temporary structure, carved around the Pit for convenience.

If they stay here, they'll die. But leaving isn't an option. It hasn't been since she landed in this universe and found a girl who shared her name.

"Will you stay?" Talia Kane asks softly, voice wet with tears and scared. Like she has to ask. Like it's a favour.

Everything in her burns. The Pit feeds on her rage, strengthens her resolve.

"For as long as you need", she assures her, moving as close to her as she can with her own wrists pinned down.

She doesn't know what she must look like, the Pit's power coursing through her veins. Talia Kane meets her eyes unflinchingly, crawls on her knees towards her, so they're almost face to face.

"One day", she promises, her voice catching as she meets this reflection of herself, "one day you'll understand why I did everything I did. Maybe you'll even find it in yourself to forgive me"

"That's just it. I already have"

She has no claim to Talia Kane's eyes, her nose, her mouth. But that smile? It's hers.

Try and take me, she dares, everything around her a cacophony. She's more powerful than whatever army is killing itself outside. They can't take her anywhere she doesn't want to go.

Janet turned to face her semi-regular visitor, an alternative version of her son, and boy, wasn’t that a sentence?

“Different from the ones I’ve been asking, I mean?”

“Oh course, birdie.”

It had been rather awkward for the both of them the first time Janet had instinctively used a pet name that she used for her own Tim, one that his Mother had also used for him.

He had blinked away tears so quickly that if she hadn’t known all versions of her son so dearly she would have thought she had imagined it.

From that point on she made sure to only call him Tim or Birdie, a pet based off his hero identity, (and it still took the breath out of her lungs to think about any version of her baby fighting criminals with nothing but a belt full of tools and a metal staff. Her fear for him was not at all canceled out by her pride). The name deemed safe since her own Tim was a civilian.

Though, even “Tim” got confusing sometimes when trying to differentiate between her son and the son of dead version of herself.

She had asked if it would perhaps be better to call him Jackson and he had frowned at the suggestion, suggesting Alvin or Carl as alternatives instead with a sudden, sly smirk and a snicker when he saw her expression.

He smiled at her now, a soft, gentle thing, that spoke of comfort but his eyes were sad.

“Do you think…” he paused, “Do you think, if things were reversed between our worlds and you had passed, sorry, this is, uh, um a pretty heavy question...”

Tim trailed off, eyes glued to the bare white wall across from him and Janet walked over and sat beside him, not touching, just silently offering support.

“It’s okay, it’s obviously burdening you, let me carry some of the weight. What’s on your mind, Birdie?”

“If it were you that had die-passed, and your Tim had access to trans-dimensional travel, would it… would it make you sad or hurt your feelings if your Tim was to visit my mom?”

Janet paused, thinking it over.

Tim didn’t look at her, allowing her to consider her words carefully.

“A little bit, I think. Not hurt, but sad, because of course my preference would be to be a part of his life. However, even if it would make me a little sad, it would mean the world to me that another Janet was able to open up her arms to my son, that he had found a way to ease his pain, even if just a little bit.”

He smiled at her and it was watery.

“You know, when I come to visit, I take the information you give me and I go though my Mama’s stuff, almost like I’m gathering clues here and putting the pieces together there.”

He paused, trying and failing to not fidget.

“I had no idea, about the Emily Dickinson poem, until you told me and then I went home and she had used that poem in a couple of her poems and social media posts.”

He leaned in to her space.

“It’s nice, getting to learn about her, even now that she’s gone… I appreciate you, you giving me the chance to do so.”

Janet gently bumped shoulders with him, “Of course, Birdie.”

“It also kind of feels weird,” he confessed, “to investigate my own mom like this.”

Janet hummed, and took a chance, “Well, you are two anthropologists’ son, investigating the dead is kind of in your blood.”

Tim choked out a laugh, “Yeah,” he huffed out, voice low and rough but still amused, “guess you’re right.”

He leaned back against the sofa, “She’d love that, I think, being an anthropological revelation.”

“I’d be flattered, certainly.”

Tim snickered at that.

“Do you think your Tim is gonna be an anthologist. Like you and his dad?”

Janet hummed, “Maybe. He enjoys coming out to digs on holidays and summer vacations. But he also enjoys his photography and he keeps making jokes, that I’m not entirely sure are actually jokes about becoming a professional skateboarder.”

Tim snorted in amusement, “Well, I’m rooting for him if he goes for it.”

Janet grinned. “I will too, if that’s his passion in life, though I will expect him to have a backup plan, of course.”

“Of course.” Tim agreed.

“Anything but vigilante!” She shook his shoulder gently, “I already have one of those to worry about!”

He laughed, and he didn’t sound like her own Tim when he laughed.

He sounded like her, or well, she thought, another version of me.

——

I wrote a lot of words just to say I’m not over Batman (2016) #134 & I never will be ^.^

"No," he really hopes they'll attribute his racing heartbeat and sweating face to nervousness and anxiety, and not because he's blatantly lying through his teeth.

"Who is he then?" He's sure that if he could see his face, Batman would be raising an eyebrow.

Or maybe not, maybe he's just as expressionless without his mask.

"Well..." Ok, Billy. You can do this. You've lied to police officers for harder things to hide. You have the excuse of magic this time. You can do it. "I guess you could say he's... My dad...?" That's surely not going to come back to bite him in the ass anytime soon.

Fuck Batman and fuck his face recognition software.

"You don't sound too sure yourself." Dammit Supes, you're supposed to be on his side, not poking holes in his story!

"It's kinda complicated. It's magic bullshit." He can feel the judgemental stares at his swearing, but he's freaking out too much to care about what the Justice League thinks of his politeness.

"Basically," he continues, not giving them the chance of asking questions again, "think about it this way. He's the one with the powers, and- and nothing actually happens to me if he gets hurt." Ok, technical truth. He can do this.

"So do you... Like... Switch places then?"

"Yes, that's exactly what happens." He thanks Superman mentally.

"What happens to you then?"

"Uuuhmmm." THINK THINK THINK. "It's like- well, basically... Only one of us can exist on any give plane of existence." Are those words too big for an 11 years old to know? Possibly. But he does learn a thing or two by being Marvel and constantly being surrounded by adults who spoke like they came out of a dictionary.

Or a court case.

"So you go... Where?" 'Flash if you don't stop asking questions,' Billy mentally threatens, 'I will make sure there is no food for you at the Watchtower or so help me Gods. I'll become the biggest annoyance you've ever had the displasure of dealing with'

"The Rock of Eternity." Probably his best lie yet.

"And it's.... Safe for you in the... Rock?" Diana, you beautiful, wonderful woman. Why would you do this to him?

Billy nods. "Yes, only we can go there. Well, and people we allow inside. But we don't do that." And Freddy doesn't count.

Neither does Darla.

And Mary.

And Pedro.

Eugene.

None of the rest of his family counts, let's leave it at that.

"As long as the Champion of Magic is there to protect it, it's the safest place one could be in"

'If you strong enough to resist the temptations of the embodiment of the Seven Deadly Sins, that is' he didn't say. He thought it, though.

Gosh he hopes Martian Man Hunter hasn't been reading his mind this whole time.

That would be awkward, to say the least.

"But why are you two like this- what happened?" Well Flash is not going to eat in the tower for a good while.

Billy fidgets. One last lie. Can he 'technically the truth' his way out of this one?

"Well... Marvel is not... Really my dad. He's more like...." C'mon words, c'mon. "His ghost or-or his... His legacy! Yeah. And a few years ago- there's a Wizard involved. We got the blessings of the Gods and- I don't actually know the details." Mostly because the details don't actually exists.

But they don't need to know that.

The other heroes share a glace.

He knows they're not happy about the whole situation. He doesn't even want to imagine what they'd say if they knew he was lying.

Vaguely, he remembers about a conversation Robin and Superboy had. Something that Nightwing and Hood brought on. Something about Batman and his tendency of pulling children under his wing.

Suddenly, Billy becomes self conscious of the holes in his clothes, the dirt-stained jeans, his hair that he clearly cut himself, the bruises and scrapes under the fabric that the other heroes can't even see.

He must really look like something alright.

"Can we talk to the Captain, kid?" He's surprised that throughout all of this none of them had even asked his name.

Necrosis

The thing about being undead is that you don’t come back with the body you died in. Where there were once sapling boughs there are now biceps the size of Bristol families’ Christmas hams. Your stomach, once bloated from three years of gorging after thirteen of near starvation, breaks knuckles when punched. Now your pecs look like they could be milked and your thighs crush watermelons. You don’t have to tilt your head up to look your dad in the face anymore. This body is stronger, faster, bigger than the one you had, and it’s not yours.