Dead Man Walker #11: Best Picture

==The Arkham Auditorium==

 

Bleeding and broken, Delbert Billings scoured the ground for his fallen hip flask, in the futile hope that he might numb the pain of his latest affliction. As he tried to advance, it quickly became apparent that any movement might sever the remaining stands of sinew connecting his thigh and crus. That, Billings decided, was worth the risk. Just as he had located his flask, however, Leonard Fiasco picked it up off the ground, and walked slowly towards him, keeping the flask out of his reach. He held it aloft, and a steady trickle of dark rum dripped onto Billings’ open wound, filling the hollow that once housed his kneecap. Billings yowled, rolling back and forth, unloading every insult in his repertoire.

 

“Eraser, that’s enough,” Needham warned.

 

“Fine,” Fiasco obliged, carelessly tossing the flask over the balcony, its remaining contents staining the carpeted floor. Billings let out a high-pitched yelp as his longtime crutch soaked through the floorboards. Needham shot a red web over Billings' redder, capless knee to halt the blood loss, then took an exaggerated step over his screeching, profanity-spewing form, making his way downstairs to join the other Misfits, all gathered in anticipation around Drury. As Drury turned around, the light from the projector illuminated his face, highlighting the collection of purple bruises and deep cuts that were absent in the illusion. His face was glistening from dried blood and fresh tears and one eye was swollen shut.

 

“Drury,” Joey gasped.

 

“Christ, who stole your lunch money? You look almost as bad as-”

 

Fiasco caught Gar’s eye, and finished by mouthing ‘him,’ gesturing in Gar’s direction.

 

“Subtle,” Gar noted.

 

“It’s nothing,” Drury lied, wincing as Ten ran cold fingers across his swollen skin. “I hit a wall.”

 

“I mean, yeah, we’re all in a bit of a slump, but that’s no way-”

 

“An actual wall, Joe.”

 

“How’d that happen?” Fiasco frowned. “You chase a roadrunner through a painted tunnel?”

 

“Not a roadrunner,” Drury answered, swatting Ten’s hands away as the man sought to dress his worst wounds. “Not exactly.” Understanding not to press the subject further, the Misfits stood by as Drury opened Gar’s duffel bag and sorted through its contents.

 

“How many Outcasts are left?” Drury asked, not looking up as he riffled through the bag, retrieving several metal cannisters from within and affixing the first onto his cocoon gun.

 

“I- I don’t know,” Chuck realised. “I only ever saw Zoom and last I saw, The Flash was fending him off.”

 

“Which Flash?” Needham inquired.

 

“The kid,” Chuck explained.

 

“Impulse?” Gar asked.

 

“No, the kid Flash.”

 

“Impulse.”

 

“I liked the one in the tin hat and the bird wings,” Gaige grunted.

 

“Mercury,” Ten helped.

 

“No, it was tin.”

 

“Well, I don’t trust the second one. You can smell pig on him,” Fiasco stated.

 

“He smells like bacon?” Joey asked.

 

“No. Lynns smells like bacon. Flash smells like cop.”

 

Ten cleared his throat. Drury hadn’t said anything in a minute; not a joke, not a shutdown, not a grumble of disapproval. He was single-minded, and that clarity made him dangerous. “Drury, Norbert has been working tirelessly. He’s got good lawyers. Great lawyers. When this is all over, and it will be over, you can go home.”

 

“Home?” Drury blinked twice, finally facing him. “Ten, I can’t go home.”

 

“I thought… I thought that turning myself in would break the cycle; that I could do my time and you’d all be safe. So, I complied, I cooperated, I did everything I was ‘supposed’ to do, to protect my family. To protect you. And did it make a difference?”

 

Ten didn’t respond. So, Drury answered for him.

 

“No. It never makes a difference. Because no matter what I do, it doesn’t ever stop. They never stop. I can try and keep my head down, serve my time, pay my dues, but for every Carson, there’s a Joker, a Zoom, a Thawne standing behind him, waiting to take their shot. And there’s no boundary, no law, no unspoken line they won’t cross. Hurt my friends, to get to me. Harm my family, to get to me. And I’m- I’m just so tired. Of them. Of this. Of dragging you down with me.”

 

“That’s what you think?” Gar exhaled.

 

“It’s what it is,” Drury snapped.

 

“What, that we’re all hapless innocents in all this? That I am?” Gar laughed, a little unexpectedly. “Drury, you handed yourself over to the cops, and the first- the first thing I did was burn Sionis’ warehouse down, with Franco in it.”

 

“Franco was a pillock,” Drury deflected.

 

“No argument there,” Gar agreed. “But my point is, the point has always been, that whenever one of us has fucked up; whether they’ve banged Volcana, joined the Society, set themself on fire; the rest of us have been there to pick up the pieces. Because that’s what you taught us to do. We lived our entire lives as misfits, but you gave us a place of belonging, a supportive shoulder and an attentive ear; a seat at your table regardless of our shitty shortcomings and short fuses. So, maybe the reason you can’t break the cycle, is that you’ve been trying to alone.”

 

Now it was Drury who met Gar with silence.

 

“Gaige’s sub is waiting outside, Dru,” Joey placed his hand on his shoulder. “Your kids are too.”

 

Chuck eyed the ground, then interjected. “About that...”

 

Joey gasped. Drury’s mouth wobbled. Gar shot Chuck a dirty look.

 

“Right, shouldn’t have paused, my bad. They’re fine. I mean, Axel’s a little lighter and they’re all a little damp, but aside from that-”

 

“Aside from that?” Gaige pushed.

 

“We might need a different exit route,” Chuck mumbled quietly, scratching the back of his head.

 

“The fuck you mean, sunshine? Where’s my sub?”

 

Again, Chuck paused. “Blew up.”

 

Before Gaige could stick a spear in Chuck’s stomach and fly him like his namesake, Needham stepped forward, calmly redirecting them back on track. “Enough. You wanna know about the Outcasts?” he asked, looking upwards at the balcony. “Why don’t we ask them?”

 

~-~

 

“Fu-uck,” Billings moaned, stretching the word to an extra syllable, as a conglomerate of unfriendly faces encircled him. He had rather hoped that The Misfits had forgotten about him.

 

“Chin up, son,” Gaige smirked, rattling the hip flask in Billings face, like one might jangle a set of keys in front of an infant. “I reckon there’s just enough left for a nightcap.”

 

Still immobilised, Billings limply stretched his arm out, just for Gaige to retract it from his reach. “Uh uh, Christoper No Legs, first tell us what we want to know. Where are your buddies? Given the lack of retaliation, I assume you’re stretched thin, yes?”

 

“Fucking- skip the prologue, would you?” Billings snapped. “I’ll talk. I’ll talk! It’s not like I’m going anywhere,” he added bitterly.

 

Accepting his logic, Drury nodded to the group. With some reluctance, Joey put the flask to Billings lips as though he was hand-rearing a calf. “Cobb went dark. Crane fell out his chair. The Cat King took a sword through the sternum. Sims... fled and Hayden’s brains are splattered over Arkham West.”

 

“And Joker?” Chuck pressed. “What about him?”

 

“Holed up in the Arkham Mansion. We don’t have much facetime; He only contacts me when he needs someone to laugh at his jokes. Which I do, under duress, threat of death, an anvil on a frayed rope...”

 

“The mansion’s not far,” Gar said. “Security’ll be pretty low, especially with their heavy hitters down; any one of our fliers can get onto the roof and extract him.”

 

“Not our problem,” Needham argued. “We got Walker. Bats’ll send in the rest of his people, and they’ll take in Joker.”

 

“Same shit, different day, huh?” Fiasco asked.

 

“S’the way it’s gotta be, Fiasco,” Needham stated. “The hard part’s done. Now we go home.”

 

“Sorry. So sorry to interrupt,” Gaige tapped Needham’s shoulder, singing sweetly into his ear. “But WASN’T WALKER ADBUCTED ON THAT BAT-FACED BASTARD’S WATCH?”

 

“’Walker,’” Ten interrupted “is still in the room. Shouldn’t we ask him what he wants? Drury?”

 

He pointed his prosthetic back, then frowned.

 

“Drury?” Ten repeated, waving his hand at the shadows.

 

His cry went unanswered. It had taken years, but The Anti-Batman had finally learned his idol's greatest trick.

 

==Arkham North: Courtyard==

 

Simon’s chest pounded like a drum; before him stood Eobard Thawne, and in his grip was the man Simon was certain would stop him; the only man he was certain that could. The Flash; his face was as red as his crimson costume, torn in a dozen places, scarcely concealing anything. Thawne’s hand released, and Wally dropped from his grasp, rolling down the stone steps.

 

The Rogues stared on; they were putting on brave faces for the Walker siblings, but from the way their hands shakily held their weapons, it was clear this latest development had snuck up on them. Lord Manga hadn’t looked up; he was wiping dirt off a pile of fallen merchandise, passing them over to L-Ron to iron, then fold. Multi-Man woozily summoned a spork; his eye red and swollen from his last attempt.

 

Simon felt something brush against his left forearm, then felt Kitten’s hand against his, pressing tightly; Axel responded by clutching his brother’s right with his remaining hand, bracing for the worst. Their uncle stepped forward, shielding them behind his body. They all knew it wouldn’t be enough. Not against Thawne. It had been a Christmas just like this when Simon had last seen him. They had been on the same side then, though only out of necessity. And Simon knew from experience that opposing him was a death sentence. This was it, he understood. Death had come knocking a second time; only now, Simon was dressed in a partially damp t-shirt.

 

As Thawne approached, a body dropped at his feet; drenched in blood, wrapped in iron. Its head missing. He looked up, mildly bemused, then smiled. “A professor outranks a doctor, you know,” he spoke up at the interloper. Doctor Polaris floated above him, cape flapping in the wind, his metal faceplate stained with dried blood.

 

Hayden’s blood.

 

“The dead outrank no one, professor,” Polaris replied sternly. “Save your sermons for the grave.”

 

Thawne reached for the belt’s phone-like dial, but Polaris was quick on the draw, quicker than even Thawne had anticipated. The crimson wingtips adorning Thawne’s mask twisted inward like pointed knives. Thawne tore his mask off; a long lock of strawberry blonde hair danced across his forehead, caught in the winter wind. Lying still at the base of the stone steps, his blood dyeing the snow beneath him, Wally’s emerald eyes opened. He caught sight of Thawne, and his glare sharpened.

 

As Doctor and Professor dueled, a brass bell was wrenched from the clock tower and propelled towards Thawne, only to be intercepted by a golden portal. A second vortex opened and a 20-foot-tall bronze statue of The Flash tore through it. Polaris caught it, straining, then sent it crashing against the Intensive Treatment Building. Debris rained onto the battlefield; Wally shoved would-be victims out of the path of the falling bricks, with little regard for his own well-being; grit and glass scratched his face, but he endured. After all, he had the luxury of speed healing the others did not.

 

A third portal opened directly above Polaris; an endless stream of hot sand direct from the Hindu Kush Valley cascaded down the portal like the contents of an hourglass filled to fill eternity. The more weight added to Polaris, the less he could bear, and slowly he lowered to the ground as the sand enveloped him completely; his knees buckled, his muscles strained, but there was little he could do.

 

Little, not nothing. For the deserts of Nanda Parbat held many secrets, hidden in the sand. Violet eyes narrowed, as the faintest signal of metal called to him through the avalanche of dirt. A single dagger; a long-lost knife of a dead assassin. But enough. The knife tore through the curtain of sand and found its mark in Thawne’s forearm; the portal shut, and a weary Polaris took his leave.

 

Polaris had proven Thawne could be wounded, could bleed, and that was the call to action The Rogues needed. Mardon lifted the sand with his wand, carrying it with a howling gale; the sand transformed into a sandstorm under his skillful hand, and he quickly turned to entrapping Thawne within the enormous wall of silt. Rory emptied his Heat Gun into the funnel, heating the sand until it was a vast glass prison. “Nice job, Wiz. We’ll bake the bastard!”

 

“Who, me?” a voice asked.

 

Rory’s head whipped around just in time for Thawne to punch him unconscious. The Professor smiled, stroking the dial on his belt, then stepped over him, taking care to knock the Heat Gun out of reach. Thawne’s respite was brief; a ribbon slashed the air beside him, cleaving the nearest tree in twain. He turned back, chuckling to himself. “What’re you so smug about?” Lisa hissed, her dual ribbons dragging along the ground like whips.

 

“Oh, nothing much,” Thawne said, rolling his fist. “I’m about to make history.”

 

The ribbons shot at Thawne, graceful, golden razors; Thawne threw a punch, but Lisa turned intangible. Ice skates extended from the soles of her boots, catching her, as she glided along the frigid grounds. Mardon covered her with a pale mist, returning Thawne’s attention back to him.

 

“Check on Mick, Lis. Thawne’s mine.”

 

The winds howled, the force of a hundred hurricanes blasted from his wand, but Thawne dug in his heels. A portal opened between him and the wind, and its sister portal redirected the gale back at the Weather Wizard. Mardon fell backwards, but caught himself just in time, remaining airborne.

 

Acid rain pelted down, unleashed from rumbling storm clouds; Mardon’s wrist danced like a conductor’s to their orchestra, as his black clouds traced The Professor’s movements, refusing to let up. Thawne attempted to evade but, despite his speed, the corrosive downpour began to eat through his costume. Finally, he ran up the side of the building, launching himself at Mardon, dragging him to the ground. With a single snap, the wand broke in two. With a boot on Mardon’s chest, Thawne tossed the splintered halves onto the ground, and advanced.

 

==Arkham East: Botanical Gardens==

 

The survivors of the Cat King’s reign had spent much of the time since his forceful abdication in silence. That calm was broken with the appearance of The Batman’s first son. Nightwing had entered through the cracks in the enormous glass dome and was now sidling up to Thomas Blake. “We have got to stop meeting like this,” Dick said, offering his hand to the squatting Catman. Blake’s eye squinted, then he stood up, sidestepping Nightwing’s outstretched arm.

 

“You have got to put a disclaimer on that thing,” he muttered resentfully, as he moved past him.

 

Dick bit his lip, realising his attempted tension breaker was ill-timed and in poor taste. “I’m sorry,” he apologised. “About Cavalier. I’m-”

 

“Yeah, course you are,” Blake frowned, his gaze averted, his finger pressing on the tip of his knife until blood began to draw. “He was braver ‘n you, you know? He didn’t wait until the dust’d settled.”

 

“Blake, I-”

 

“Nightwing,” Selina cut him off, for his own sake. “Any update?”

 

Dick nodded, relieved to have been given an out. “Oracle’s sent Batgirl on ahead; she’s searching Max Security; retrieval only; we’ve got a couple of strays unaccounted for. With Jim recovering, Captain Sawyer’s acting Commish. She’s good; Batman’s told her to standby for now. The main fighting’s in the grounds, looked to me like another Reverse-Flash, but he’s got some kinda upgrade, some sort of ‘porter tech. I’m heading there once I’ve got you all patched up.”

 

“You go,” Selina offered. “I’ll be along in a minute.”

 

“Yeah?” Dick asked, his voice getting quieter. “Sure you’re ok?”

 

“Me? Sure,” Selina shrugged dismissively. “Blake and Chancer got it worse than I did.”

 

“Hey, you sure you’re ok?” Dick repeated the question, with greater emphasis.

 

Selina looked at Dick, back at Blake and Sharpe, and at the cape shrouding Drake’s body, then nodded appreciatively. “I will be.”

 

Dick departed, grappling up through the hole he’d entered. Selina recoiled her whip, then clipped it to her belt. Blake, flicked the blood off his knives, then sheathed them. Sharpe, muttered petulantly. “And how come he gets two sticks anyway?” he complained. “I told you they think they’re better than us.” Selina scoffed, resting her boot on the edge of one of the garden’s wooden benches, as she adjusted the side straps.

 

“Hey,” Blake approached her. He was moving a little shakily, not yet adapted to his missing eye. “What the King said, before, y’know…”

 

He ran his finger across his throat.

 

“I don’t think it’s particularly conducive repeating it,” Selina replied. The straps tightened.

 

Blake scratched under his eyelid. “I know, and I won’t, but you… got a kid in there? How far along?”

 

Selina sighed. Tommy Blake and Montgomery Sharpe were about the last people she thought she’d be talking about this with. Certainly, the last people she’d want planning a baby shower. “Six weeks. Any further, and I’d need a bigger catsuit.”

 

“Har har. You don’t think you should, I don’t know, sit this one out?”

 

Selina stared through him.

 

“O-kay. You, uh, picked out names yet?” Blake shuffled closer. Selina rolled her eyes at first then, detecting the sincerity in his tone, replied earnestly.

 

“Picked out names? I haven’t even told the-”

 

“How’s about Tabitha? Tabby for short,” Sharpe suggested.

 

“What about Cullen? Or Bella?”

 

“There’s Kat, there’s Kitty... Kitten’s a non-starter, obvs.”

 

“It’s not even really a name,” Blake admitted.

 

“Bro! I know!” Sharpe agreed

 

“Maria.”

 

Blake and Sharpe turned to look at Selina, staring blankly.

 

“Maria, if it’s a girl,” she smiled softly. “And Thomas if it’s a boy.”

 

Immediately, Sharpe cheered. “Bro, congrats,” he beamed, his fist tapping Blake’s arm supportively.

 

“I’m honoured,” Blake blushed.

 

Mortified, Selina looked over at Blake, smiling broadly and tickled pink with pride, and she tried her damn hardest not to laugh in his face. “Oh, no. No no no no no.”

 

==Arkham North: Penitentiary==

 

As he and Karlo walked together through the underbelly of Arkham’s penitentiary, Otis Flannegan turned, as a brown rat emerged from a crack in the wall then scratched at his muck-covered wellies. Without hesitation, Flannegan scooped it with both hands, and brought it to his ear. “Uhuh. Mm. No kidding? Don’t you worry, Bran; yer pal Otis is on the case.” And then, he did something that gave even Karlo pause; he lowered his gasmask, and nuzzled the small creature’s furry face, then tenderly set it back down. Karlo, let out a derisive mumble at this saccharine display. The gasmask clicked back into place, then Flannegan turned back to Karlo, a resolute expression just visible behind his visor. “Duty calls,” he said, performing a two-fingered salute in an admittedly last-minute attempt at reverence to the mud man. Karlo rolled his yellow eyes, then broke away from Flannegan, trudging onwards. Then, Flannegan stopped him.

 

“Hey, Karlo?”

 

Exasperated, Karlo twisted his head back, waiting for The Ratcatcher to finally give him his leave.

 

They locked eyes then, surprisingly, Flannegan gave him an encouraging nod. “Happy hunting.”

 

Karlo, nodded back. “Likewise.”

 

==Arkham West: Forests==

 

The Injustice Trio trudged through the snow together, in an unheard-of demonstration of solidarity. Bright lights lit up the sky behind them. A beggar in a torn coat shuffled past them, hands deeply entrenched in his pockets. Booker paused, for a moment, catching sight of the man’s grey hair and a familiar smoky aroma. “Hey,” Booker called after him. “Don’t I know you from someplace?”

 

The man paused, small clouds of hot air billowing from his nostrils. “No one knows me,” he said cryptically. ‘Four bullets,’ he reminded himself. ‘Just four bullets.’ He nudged past Booker, and disappeared into the forest. Booker scoffed, cussing performatively under his breath, and for a time their walk went uninterrupted.

 

For a time.

 

The rumblings had gotten louder, the lights brighter, now impossible to ignore. Bruce turned back, watching closely as Major Disaster stood transfixed by the fireworks-like display. And then, as if hypnotized, he dragged his feet in the direction of the blasts.

 

“Maj?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Tradition dictates we run away from the deadly sky-beams of unknown origin.”

 

“Yeah,” Booker exhaled, pinching his nose. “But this time, I ain’t leaving with a participation trophy. I’m going for gold.”

 

~-~

 

Bridget Pike made her way up through the Asylum, Jeremiah Arkham’s emaciated arm draped across her back. He had been a quiet companion, his spellbound delirium not yet dissipated. One of Flannegan’s rats scurried on ahead, leading them through corridors marked with dust and blood, squeaking warnings Bridget couldn’t possibly decipher. Finally, they reached the entrance hall; Bridget guided Arkham’s hand onto the scanner, and the doorway whirred into life. Moonlight crept through the widening gap and panicked voices on the other side grew louder, the smell of burning timber stronger.

 

Then Bridget’s heart stopped.

 

“Hello, Bridget. My, haven’t you been busy?” Thawne sneered, casting his eye to the last Arkham, muttering quietly to himself.

 

Bridget didn’t get a chance to answer. The ground quaked as, tearing through the trees, came Major Disaster atop an enormous podium of rock warped around him like a throne. Big Sir and The Mighty Bruce ran beside him, the latter clearly lacking the stamina of his peer but making up for it in firepower. Booker leapt off his perch, releasing a primal cry that those who knew him best thought him incapable of. Thawne set him off course with a portal; dropping him at the other end of the grounds. Bruce covered Booker, emptying his assault rifle; Thawne zipped across the battlefield to evade. However, Bruce was careless, unfocused, and untrained. His marksmanship was abysmal; if not for Wally’s intervention, his hailstorm of bullets would have claimed several unintended victims. As Bruce went to reload, Thawne took the clip, and before he could comprehend what was happening, The Professor cracked it across his head. Ratchett outstretched his arms to catch Thawne, but he was gone again in seconds.

 

Setting Arkham down, Bridget cocked her wrist shooters, then shot into the air, an orange vapour trail tracing her flight path. She unloaded her gauntlets; orange flames licked Thawne’s heels, but she still couldn’t keep up. Booker, could. He raised his arm and the ground beneath Thawne warped upwards like a ramp, knocking him back into Booker’s path. The Major cracked his knuckles and stone wrapped around his fists like jagged boxing gloves. He threw a couple of punches; one even connected, stunning Thawne long enough for Booker to strike a second time. By the third throw, Thawne had wised up. He sent his fist into Booker’s stomach, and he bowled over. Bridget reloaded, sending an inferno Thawne’s way. Thawne spun his arms like cyclones, extinguishing the flames, and knocking her back.

 

Otis Flannegan stuck his head from out of the maintenance hatch and snorted, taking a second to process the present pandemonium. Searching for a familiar face (preferably, one not currently fighting for their life), he trotted towards Big Sir, then tapped his elbow. “Ello, big guy, don’t suppose you can fill me in?”

 

Ratchett‘s large brow furrowed, casting a shadow over his eyes as he rehearsed his words in his head. “The Yellow man hurt Kite-Man and Multi-Man then Metal Man got sad and ran away and Mr Major and Mighty Bruce and Big Sir went to find the Metal Man but we couldn’t find the Metal Man but we met a very nice pirate but Mr Major said he was a bad man then Mighty Bruce pew-pewed him and the pirate got frightened and-”

 

“Holy run-on sentence, Fatman,” Flannegan cut him off, later than he probably should have. “Y’know what? Just throw me,” he instructed Ratchett. “And you better not Hippopota-miss.”

 

Ratchett cupped Flannegan’s bony backside, held him over his head, then flung him at Thawne. Thawne stood in place, but phased; Flannegan passed right through him, and rolled into a heap behind him. Before Thawne could decide what to do with him, a voice yelled out to him. Well, he assumed it was aimed at him.

 

“Hey, Ayo Edebiri!”

 

Perplexed, Thawne frowned, looking up at the ridge where a trio of fresh challengers stood assembled. At the front, Thomas Blake was gesturing wildly at him, as though Thawne was an exotic zoo exhibit.

 

“Eobard Thawne,” Selina corrected him, tapping his shoulder supportively.

 

“That’s the one!” Blake yelled with the same gusto.

 

“It’s cool, he has brain damage,” Sharpe added apologetically.

 

Blake threw his knife at Thawne. Thawne stayed still, calmly watching as the blade landed several metres from its target. His lack of depth perception did not dull Blake’s enthusiasm; he slid down the hill, emptying his utility belt. Thawne dodged Catarangs and smoke bombs; though he didn’t have to move very fast nor far to avoid them. By the time Blake himself reached Thawne, he was incapacitated with a chokeslam. Next, a white baton bounced off the trees like a pinball, ricocheting towards Thawne. His eyes tracked its movements, then, he caught it. He glanced across at Sharpe with an expression that clearly read ‘Was that it?’

 

“And that’s why I need two,” Sharpe crossed his arms.

 

“How would that help? He’s got two hands, dummy.”

 

“Fuck.”

 

Rubbing the back of his grazed head, Flannegan whistled, and the bushes around Arkham rustled with activity. Thawne backstepped; hundreds of brown rats emerged from the undergrowth, squeaking and snarling, and on a direct course towards him; too numerous to avoid entirely. He kicked at the rodents, and in the pandemonium, The Killer Wasp found an in. Norbert’s fist connected, and Thawne’s jaw swung out of place. It was a brief break from the Professor’s taunts, but one welcomed by all. Norbert wrapped his forearm around Thawne’s throat; Flannegan grabbed his right arm and Booker his left, the trio working together to keep him restrained. Thawne vibrated his body, generating a shockwave, scattering the battlefield. He took a hold of his jaw, then clicked it back into place.

 

Flannegan’s mask hung loose; he sprinted forwards, then sank his front teeth into Thawne’s forearm. “Vermin!” Thawne hissed, smacking him aside. His teeth stayed embedded in Thawne’s arm. Flannegan grabbed his lantern off the ground, and tripped Thawne up. He jumped onto him, holding the wooden bar against his throat. Thawne clutched the rod, pushing Flannegan off. He snapped the rod in two, and when Flannegan went back in for another bout, the rod pierced his stomach. Thawne grinned, then pushed the splintered staff through his back. Flannegan retched blood, then Thawne pulled the wood loose. A hand on his stomach, Flannegan keeled over, his rats retreating to his side. Blake roared, ramming his knife through Thawne’s boot. Thawne pried his foot loose, then reintroduced Blake’s head to the ground.

 

“THAWNE!” Wally bellowed, running back into the fray, kicking up a dust trail as he sprinted forwards. He threw a punch, striking Thawne. Thawne fell back then put a shaking hand to his split lip, examining the damage.

 

“Right on cue,” Thawne lapped the fresh blood off his lip. “Protector of the innocent. Oh, oops. How far you’ve fallen,” he taunted him. Wally threw another punch, but this time, Thawne was prepared, catching his fist.

 

“Oh, but where are my manners?” he spoke. “I believe congratulations are in order. I do hope your wife’s pregnancy goes smoother than last time.”

 

“You son of a bitch-” Wally hissed, cut off by an elbow to the jaw.

 

“Temper, temper. Such misplaced vulgarity! You’re lucky your mentor isn’t around to hear that… You know mothers are a sore subject with him.”

 

Thawne tutted, dodging Wally’s next flurry of punches with ease. “I kid, Flash. You know, I always had a soft spot for your Aunt Iris,” he smiled, running his finger across his forehead in a circular motion. “Right here. Perhaps I’ll pay her a visit.” Wally flung his leg forward; Thawne grabbed his boot, then hurtled him to the ground. “Once I’ve snapped your scrawny neck, of course.”

 

“Hey, bozo!” Axel exclaimed, raising his middle finger. “You mean you’re gonna waste this poser, and the real Flash isn’t gonna see it? Where’s the fun in that?”

 

Thawne paused. He knew full well that Axel was just buying Wally time; the Trickster was many things but subtle wasn’t one of one, yet in the back of his mind, he realised he was right. What use was killing the apprentice here? Alone? Without Allen around to bear witness?

 

“A point well made,” he conceded, driving Wally’s face deeper into the snow. “I’ll be right back,” he promised the bloodied West.

 

Springs extending from the soles of his trainers, Axel bounced overhead, spitting out a chunk of chewing gum. The gum hit the floor, then erupted into a fireball. Thawne dodged the explosion, simultaneously parrying an attack from Simon. “You look healthy, Simon,” he sneered. “That, can be remedied.” A backhand shattered Simon’s visor, and he cast his mask aside to see.

 

Axel wasn’t the only Walker to adopt their father’s affinity for gadgetry. The lit ‘stalks’ of Kitten’s Cherry Bombs burned downwards, the innocent-looking projectiles exploding into pink, sickly sweet clouds. The large red heart she launched onto the ground with a similar enthusiasm sprang up, ensnaring Thawne’s boot like a bear trap. The fighting paused temporarily, Simon and Axel exchanged concerned looks about their sister’s unexpected aptitude for violence. Thawne winced, phasing his leg free of the trap. ‘Don’t underestimate the pink princess,’ he noted, as he proceeded to grab a fistful of blonde hair and plant her face into the ground. A crackling beam of high voltage energy shot from Simon’s blaster; Thawne dodged, of course, and again turned his attention towards his long-suffering victim.

 

“Oh, Simon,” he sang back. “I know I said I’d wait for daddy but the anticipation is killing me and, besides, your corpse will keep.”

 

Norbert flew forwards, wrapping his claws around Thawne’s forearms and stinging his flesh. Thawne winced, then phased out of the lock. He reappeared behind the eldest Walker, and taking a hold of his shimmering wings, tore them from his back. Norbert screamed, batting him away, as brown, sap-like blood dripped down his back. Covering his uncle, Simon fired his blaster at Thawne; he zig-zagged past the bolts, then knocked Simon down. Axel jumped into action, but Thawne caught his ankle and dragged him back to earth, reuniting him with his sister in the dirt. Simon shuffled back, firing his blaster; Thawne walked calmly towards him, boredly deflecting his blasts with portals, then vibrated his hand.

 

Across the battlefield, The Flash and his Reverse locked eyes, and Wally knew what he had to do. Channeling the Speedforce in his veins, Wally fired a blast of lightning, everything he had, at the pair. Thawne grinned, pulled Simon close, and using him as a human shield, flung him in the path of the gold bolt. The lightning hit Simon like a wave; Manga’s novelty t-shirt disintegrated immediately, a damning indictment to its quality. The lightning clung to his body, then seeped through his suit, sinking into his skin.

 

“Missed,” Thawne sneered, dropping Simon’s singed body. He hit the cold grass, slow, shallow breaths just barely escaping his lungs.

 

Bridget came to a stop. “Oh, no,” she gasped, dropping her helmet to the ground.

 

“SIMON!” Kitten wept. She rushed towards him but was intercepted by Norbert, who swept her up in his arms. “Let me go! Let me go!” she shrieked, pounding her fists against her uncle’s forearms, begging him to release her. Norbert’s face darkened, but he remained strong.

 

“What did you DO?” Axel shrieked at Wally; The Flash staggered back, weakened, as he took a knee. “That’s my brother! That’s my-! You’ve only gone, and fucking killed him!”

 

Thawne’s hand vibrated, his fingers flexed with sadistic anticipation and, immobile, Simon braced, accepting the inevitability of his demise. Few could say they had died twice, even fewer could say they perished the same way both times. His wedding ring cold against his skin, he closed his eyes with one thought. Emi. Thawne’s gloved hand dived forwards, and he plunged it deep into Simon’s chest.

 

Nothing happened.

 

Simon opened a single, brown eye. There were certain expectations about the afterlife, myths reinforced by the revived and the resurrected. Death was supposed to be solitary, cold; as one of those fortunate few to return, Simon himself could attest to that, but he wasn’t cold. And he wasn’t alone. He was warm; a comforting kind of cozy; like he’d been swaddled in a golden blanket, embraced in a golden hug. The lightning hadn’t stung; it’d tingled. Tickled. And that hand planted in his chest? He couldn’t feel a thing. His heart raced, nay, sprinted, beating even faster than before; faster than humanly possible. Badum. Badum. Badum. The beats merged together into one, flat lining, but not as the herald of death, but a cry of rebirth.

 

Thawne retracted his hand, and his confusion quickly turned to rage. Simon’s own body was vibrating, counter to Thawne’s frequency, Wally’s lightning still crackling around him, a flash of yellow dancing across his brown irises.

 

“You,” he stared down Wally, murder in his eyes. “You gave up your speed for a boy you barely know? You pawned it off like a pair of old boots? Your speed! Your legacy!”

 

“The one move you couldn't anticipate,” Wally panted, laughing through the fractured ribs and bruised skin. “The sacrifice play. Because you're vain, Thawne. You're cruel. You're selfish. And where it counts, you're so damn slow.”

 

Simon’s eyes dashed back and forth; it was as though everything had stopped moving although, of course, they hadn’t. They were just very, very slow. He watched the snow drift downwards, one crystal at a time. He raised his hand out, and caught a pristine, unsullied snowflake on the tip of his finger. “It’s beautiful…”

 

Thawne scoffed. “It’s snow.”

 

“You mean, this is what you see? This- This is how you see the world?” Simon asked.

 

Thawne’s gaze returned to him; his eyebrow raised as though unable to discern the meaning behind the question. “Yes,” he answered at last, with detached honesty.

 

“And you still choose to maim, and kill, and torture?”

 

“That’s right.”

 

Simon cast his eyes down. “You’re an even bigger monster than I thought,” he said in quiet condemnation.

 

Thawne's smile returned, darker than before. “You flatter me. But I’m still faster than you, Baby Bug.”

 

==Arkham Penitentiary: Patient Property==

 

A verifiable Rogues Gallery worth of mannequins lined the walls, like a museum to The Batman’s storied career. Surrounded by soulless statues, Harry Sims rifled through wooden crates, searching for something, anything; Butchinsky’s gloves, one of the Bug’s blasters... He had spent what had felt like a lifetime standing by Karlo’s side and, in that time, he had kept a note of all his weaknesses. Which hadn’t done him a lick of good… The lens. The lens should have killed him, why didn’t it kill him? Sims continued his frantic search; Lynns and Walker had near-emptied the place when they were last here, but some of the weaponry remained. It had to. He reached in deeper, and his spirit lifted, marginally. Freeze’s ray. Not enough power left in it to kill, but aimed precisely, it would incapacitate Karlo long enough for Sims to make his getaway. Alas, Sims’ aim was never particularly precise. He’d preferred to leave the violence to his partners. He preferred to watch. He pocketed his revolver, removed his white gloves, and gripped the barrel of the silver ray gun.

 

Rising to his feet, Sims’ back hit something; solid, humanoid, but lifeless. He turned around, then jumped. Staring back at him, with empty glass eyes, was a mannequin, dressed just like he used to. A velvety, purple suit. A wide-brimmed fedora to match. And completing the look, a grotesque, wax-like mask. Sims chuckled at the mannequin, a mix of nervous relief, and sinister nostalgia. Playfully, he aimed the freeze ray at its head, and mimed firing it. “Hah,” he sneered beneath his helm. “Almost had me scare-”

 

A clay-like arm shot out from the mannequin, pinning him against the furthest wall. The mannequin squelched and shifted, warping into its natural form; an eight-foot tall, grotesque, sagging terror. Sims panicked, firing the ray in blind frenzy. The beam froze The Terror’s arm; brittle lumps of clay crumbled to the ground, dropping Sims in the process. His mask slid off, intact, but dented. He attempted to crawl away, but The Terror unleashed a kraken-like flurry of tendrils, wrapping around its prey’s legs and dragging him backwards. Sims shrieked; his fingers stuck into the ground, as he tried desperately to escape. Concrete was wrenched loose by his exposed fingernails, which chipped and broke and bled as they were scraped along the floor. The mud-like appendages lifted Sims up, so he was directly at eye-level with the monster’s sunken gaze.

 

“Y-you were supposed to be-”

 

“Dead? Like The Shape? Like Vorhees? Like Krueger and the rest? And I thought you a cinephile,” Karlo laughed coldly; an unpleasant, joyless gurgle, like he had a throat full of mucus. “You know as well as I that the dead remain so long as there is business left unfinished. And ours is a business whose conclusion is long, long overdue.”

 

Restored, Karlo’s other hand reached into Sims’ mouth, muffling his words. The mud travelled down his throat, smothering his lungs. Harry Sims choked. He spluttered. He cried tears of clumpy mud and sneezed brown snot. Then Karlo lifted his camera-like mask off the floor and took his final photo. He retracted his arm and Sims dropped to the ground with an inhuman ‘clunk,’ heavier than before. The clay within him had hardened. Solidified. Empty glass eyes, frozen in terror, stared up at the ceiling, their tear ducts blocked with dried mud.

 

It was only until all light had left Sims’ glass-like eyes that Karlo realised he wasn’t alone. A young woman in a black batsuit watched on, in horror and shock.

 

“Basil-” the girl in black gasped.

 

Karlo’s yellow eyes softened; he stepped back, then morphed into a friendlier shape; that of the purple-suited visage of his mannequin. He tipped his hat to her, to his Cassie, then shifted himself down the floor grate, disappearing into the sewers below.

 

~-~

 

Simon ran faster than he had ever thought possible, skidding across layers of snow and ice. His siblings, the Misfits, the Rogues, and all the others seemed like statues as he passed them by. Channeling their shared connection to the Speedforce, Simon blasted lightning from his fingertips, releasing years of frustration, of anger, at his one-time killer. Thawne had quietened. No longer so eager to tease and taunt, his focus had shifted to the swift immobilisation of the Lightning Bug, a name that had never held as much meaning as today. As Simon and Thawne’s speeds levelled, their fight shifted to hand-to-hand combat. The better fighter, Simon’s punches were harder, informed by an early life of petty crime and a few weeks of League training. Thawne’s were faster, more precise; over a decade’s worth of combat against more seasoned speedsters ensured that he knew exactly where to hit.

 

With the two combatants locked in combat, Lord Manga Khan had the perfect opportunity to offload his less-popular products. “Merchandise! Paraphernalia! Accessories of all types and sizes! Bartering encouraged!” his tinny voice roared. “Any takers? How about you, young human? A foam catcher’s mitt for the low-low price of 15.99!”

 

Sharpe gingerly approached; his eyes drawn towards the creased cardboard box laden with foam mittens. “That in dollars?” he asked, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

 

“Credits! The accepted currency of 70% of the planets in space sector 2814!”

 

“Sweet,” Sharpe nodded, as he reached into his pocket. “I have a nickel. That do?”

 

“It will indeed!” Manga yelled excitedly as he accepted the payment and handed Sharpe his prize. “Look, L-Ron, my first sale!” he announced gleefully to his robotic assistant. “I believe this is what the rods and mockers of today are calling Nickelback!”

 

“That’s a button, m’lord,” L-Ron spoke.

 

“Aha! How many credits is that worth?”

 

As L-Ron attempted to explain the minuscule value of Sharpe’s tribute, Doctor Polaris drifted above the pair, his head cocked. “How much for the hand?” he asked, in the tone of someone unwilling to pay.

 

“Ah, the catcher’s mitt? Keen eye, my friend! It's our best sell-"

 

Polaris, raised his palm. “No.”

 

Red and yellow lightning engulfed the dueling speedsters, stray bolts trailing off their bodies. Simon pushed harder; though he was quick, impossibly so, his speed was still dwarfed by that of the Reverse-Flash. Despite his best efforts, his blows stopped connecting as Thawne adapted to his strategies. Desperate, he pawed at Thawne’s waist then, at last, the Professor sent him crashing downwards with an overhand punch.

 

“Uhnff-!”

 

Thawne straddled Simon’s torso; Simon threw a few feeble punches with his left hand; Thawne cast his arm aside, then unleashed his fists upon the broken bug. He threw punch after punch, reducing Simon’s face to shades of reds and purples. Simon took the blows in stride; no yells, no screams, just silent endurance. Thawne was almost disappointed. “Now, where were we?” he asked, raising his vibrating, bloodied hand.

 

“H-hey,” Simon spoke through puffy lips.

 

“Tricked ya.”

 

Thawne’s eyes flicked downwards. Held tightly in Simon’s grasp was the red belt that he had wrapped across his waist moments ago. Then he turned back. Already, the beginnings of a coloured portal had started forming.

 

“No.”

 

Thawne lunged for the belt, but Bridget forced him back with her wrist shooters. Flanking her, Rory aimed his heat gun and Sharpe his dragon staff, and the three sent him to heel with their inferno. Thawne ran the length of the island to avoid the flames, but Lisa’s ribbons caught his ankle and tripped him over. “You shouldn't know those coordinates...”

 

A single silhouette, black at first, then blindingly white, appeared amidst the screeching of an unsettled, untamed wilderness framed by the fizzing portal. They were stood atop a single round disk, a platform keeping them airborne. And surrounding them like stars were hundreds of spheres, each a different colour, each a different, deadly design. The group gazed on, in wonder, in relief, some in confusion. And as man and disk exited, surrounded by a constellation of spheres, the portal snapped shut. The white-suited man grinned, and raising his pair of goggles above his head, addressed his welcome party.

 

“Alright, lads, wipe off the precum. S’only me.”

 

What happened next lasted less than thirty seconds; Simon threw the belt into the air; Thawne moved to intercept, but Selina’s whip caught his arm, binding him just long enough for Bridget to catch the belt, and hurl it upwards out of Thawne’s reach. Phasing out of the whip, The Professor turned to Krill; The Polka Dot Man achieved elevation by jumping onto a series of steps made by his dots; Thawne sped after him, but the podiums became deadly landmines under his soles; the explosions sent him backwards, and his path clear, Krill clutched the belt from the air.

 

Thawne wasn’t finished; rushing forward, he made a beeline for Krill, his hand vibrating. Raising his fist, the golden glove of Manga Khan clamped over his own, then jerked his arm backwards. Thawne attempted to fight against Polaris' magnetism, but in the end, the doctor prevailed; the hand moved, the forearm faltered, and the bone within snapped. Another man might have screamed; Not Thawne; he phased the fractured bone back through his skin and held it until his speed-healing rejoined the broken bone.

 

“I am not going back to that hell,” Thawne snarled, clutching his forearm.

 

“One of us is, mate. And I’ve got the keys to the bloody kingdom. What have you got? 'Side from a receding hairline and the same parasocial psychopathy that killed John Lennon.”

 

“That's right. Fuck all.”

 

And with a click of the circular belt buckle, Abner Krill was once again the most powerful man on the planet.

Done