View allAll Photos Tagged thwip
It's not easy stopping an arrow in mid-flight. The velocity is an issue. The object itself is small. How do you do it then. You set a high shutter speed and listen for the *thwip* of the bowstring. Release the shutter then and, if you are quite lucky, you get a shot of the arrow seen here. It's just suspended there between the first and second large targets to the left of frame.
Photo shoot with Dynamite Webber Cosplay as Spider-Man on Sunday afternoon of New York Comic Con 2014. Thwip!!
Moments later, the Scarlet Witch started singing, "Bird, bird, bird. The bird is the word."
No, I'm not kidding.
At WonderCon 2012 ← writeup
Title: Thwip
Artist: Dave Whittemore
Size: 8"x10"
Medium: Watercolor & Comics on Poster Board
This artwork is part of Bear and Bird Gallery's "Small Stuff 2" exhibition in Lauderhill, Florida. Exhibition runs November 29, 2008 - January 10, 2009, for more information visit our website www.bearandbird.com
The Non-Violent Boxer
Robert Priest
From: Resurrection in the Cartoon. Toronto: ECW Press, 1997.
He came from nowhere. The quickest ducker in the world. The fastest chin in existence. The non-violent boxer, just deeking and dodging, while his opponent flails away. Thwip! Thwip! Look at that guy move! Look at the way he pops that lightbulb-like head straight down, almost as though into some turtle hole in the top of his torso. Shhzooopp! And a fist cuts through naked air, the little guy's legs shooting wide apart. Five rounds and he hasn't been touched.
If you listen you can hear him over the ring mike trying to persuade his opponent. "Do you think it would be a victory if you beat me?" Thwip! "That would be just one more loss for both of us." Thwip! Thwip! "The greatest victory of all is in our grasp, but I need you my brother." Thwip! Thwip! Thwip! Thwip! Thwip!
found two of these while cleaning. got them out of the cereal around the first Spidey movie. you submerge the web shooter in water to fill up the red tank thingy.
it came in real handy in high school when some skank in drafting class was trying to get under my skin and called my g/f a slut, so I turned around and unloaded the full tank at her chest. she got sick =D
Everyone's friendly neighborhood webslinger hardly needs an introduction. Peter Parker, radioactive spider, with great power comes great responsibility, all adds up to one of the most iconic superheroes in history.
Spider-Gwen, on the other hand, needs a little explanation.
In an alternate universe, Gwen Stacy got bit by the radioactive spider rather than Peter Parker. She got the powers and became Spider-Woman. Peter, not knowing that his girlfriend is Spider-Woman, decides to develop a super-serum so that he can join her in crimefighting--and can stop the bullies that make his life miserable. Unfortunately, it turns him into the Lizard, and Gwen eventually ends up killing him by accident--just as the more well-known Spider-Man accidentally killed Gwen in "our" universe. Unlike Spidey (who was never blamed by the police for Gwen Stacy's death), Spider-Woman is blamed for Peter's death.
Spider-Gwen premiered in 2015 in the "Spider-Verse" story arc, and eventually did meet up with her counterpart in his universe. It became a huge success for Marvel, and its alternate take on the Marvel Universe in general has been well-received.
Spider-Man and Spider-Gwen made an appearance at GFGR 2018, and did a great job. They took time out of protecting the con to throw me a thwip or two.
==The Bowman Estate. Below==
Vreep. Vreep.
Vreep. Vreep.
Vreep. Vreep.
Once more, the bunker was quiet; the clacking of its sole occupant’s fingers tapping away at the keyboard had subsided and had been replaced by the rhythmic ringing of a faraway phone. The Riddler could barely contain his excitement; he was exuberant. Giddy. The progress bar was getting fuller; the download quicker. 67%. 68%. 69%. 70%. Soon he would be victorious, and every insult, every setback, every abject humiliation would be a mere footnote in his path to glory. But his victory rang hollow without an audience. Without him.
Vreep. Vreep.
Vreep. Vreep.
Vreep. Vreep.
Click.
Across the country, a gloved hand picked up their purple phone and placed it against their chalk-white skin. "Hello, Room Service,” their voice echoed from the speaker. Mirthful, but malicious. Amused, but annoyed.
A relieved smile broke across Nygma’s face, and he sang into the speaker, bending fully over the console to ensure that not a single spoken word was missed, misheard, or misinterpreted.
“Red and yellow but feeling blue,
No third dimension, so two will do.
He nuked a city, big and large,
So why was battery the charge?
Stripped of flesh and stripped of bone,
Bowman Mansion is where he’s home.
So, sign up, enroll accept your betters,
Or Arkham’s choosers will soon be beggars.”
Nygma paused, basking in the joy of a well delivered poem. He only wished that he could see the clown’s nose crinkle, watch the edges of his mouth droop downwards and his eyes flash with emerald fury. “I trust I have your attention now, Joker,” he addressed the monitor, fingers steepled, prideful tears filling his eyes.
The Joker responded, with his trademark irreverence. “Eddie? Eddie Ligma, is that you? I read your diary! I burned your diary,” his playful voice rasped through the speakers.
Nygma’s composure crumpled instantly, paragraphs of pre-planned banter vanished from his mind, and his proud smile turned to scornful rage. ”Nygma, you cackling cretin. It’s Nygma,” he hissed.
“Ligma taint, you dirty dog!” Joker cackled back.
Nygma stared hopelessly into the blank screen. He’d hung up.
==The Mothcave==
Drury lay something heavy, swaddled in a tartan blanket, in the trunk of his ‘mobile, then slammed the door shut. He patted Merry on the head one final time, then slid into the driver’s seat beside Gaige.
“Alright, ‘Baby,’ you sure you can drive?” Gaige asked.
Drury lowered the key, a puzzled expression on his face. “Of course, I can drive, why wouldn’t I-”
“I’m just saying, the last time you got behind the wheel, you created an arch nemesis,” Gaige reminded him.
“That wasn’t- that wasn’t the last time. I’ve driven since,” Drury muttered defensively, as the car revved into life.
“They let you keep your license?” Gaige leaned forward; his mouth open.
“No, they didn’t let me keep my license; I was a supervillain, I broke the law all the time. Besides, it was my first offence. Y’know, behind the wheel.”
“You killed a guy.”
“Yeah,” Drury conceded. “But I never got a DUI.”
Dissatisfied, Gaige leaned back in his seat. “No wonder you got into politics.”
They spent the next twenty minutes driving through Gotham’s backstreets in silence. The streets were empty; no cars, no civilians. Drury theorised Billings was redirecting energy elsewhere. It made sense; there was no point in wasting resources on assets that Drury would ignore anyway. As they neared the precinct, the eerie quiet was replaced with singing; a sopranos’ song echoed through the car, and Gaige’s attention turned to the dashboard.
“You turn on the radio?” he grunted.
Drury frowned. “No, I-”
He looked up, and his heart stopped. A man was standing in the middle of the road, head cocked inquisitively; and before Drury could change course, he had shot a wave of white light from his cane.
“Look out!” Gaige bellowed, taking the wheel. The car swerved, then flipped over; Drury climbed through the broken window, across shards of broken glass, then staggered upright. When he next looked up, the man was gone.
“How- how far’s the precinct?” he groaned, holding the back of his head.
“Four blocks, and company’s inbound,” Gaige answered, clutching the side of his chest and eyeing an amorphic mass on the horizon.
“Then we get to higher ground,” Drury resolved, as he opened the trunk, cast the blanket aside, and tied a huge, moth-shaped stencil to his back with a set of bungee cords. Gaige grabbed their weapons, pulled the ladder down on the nearest fire escape, and the duo began the ascent.
==The Bowman Estate==
Jenna reached the bottom of the shaft first, then helped guide Mayo down. They exchanged a few whispered words, then looked through the opening; Nygma sat at the console, his green jacket was placed over the back of the chair. Less neat was Kuttler’s body, which remained sprawled out at his feet. By now, the skin had turned pallid, and the muscles had begun to stiffen. That did not appear to bother Nygma however. Rather, it appeared to add to his jovial mood. Jenna knelt on the floor, frantically rubbing the ground in a desperate search for Tockman’s firearm, a task made more daunting in the dark.
“I believe you dropped this,” Nygma cut her search short, holding his arm out to reveal that the gun was back in his possession. “You really should be more careful about where you leave your toys. They’re a choking hazard. Mr Mayo could swallow them. In fact, I recommend it.”
Mayo looked at his feet, crestfallen. Jenna didn’t respond.
“Another time, perhaps,” Nygma smirked, swivelling his chair around. “Now, riddle me this.”
“The smartest man alive, he thought
He slighted me, though he forgot
My memory’s strong, thus I did not
And that is why I let him rot
These metal walls will be his cot,
Who was he?”
“Come now, it’s an easy one! Even your potbellied pickle-licker of a partner in crime can answer it, and he’s as brainless as a Moai, and twice as heavy!”
Jenna took a step forward, then Nygma tutted, the corners of his mouth ever-so-slightly downturned. “Please, I have an eidetic memory, did you think I couldn’t recognise a satchel?” he sighed. “Place the bag against the wall, I can’t abide untidiness. Carefully,” he ordered.
Askance, Mayo looked to Jenna for affirmation; she nodded firmly, and he positioned the bag against the South Wall.
Nygma gave a slight, approving smirk. “Now take one out. Quick as you can. Yes, pass it to Miss Duffy.”
Mayo’s shaking hands removed one of Tockman’s Time Bombs from the bag, then he handed it to Jenna.
“Show me the display. Good. Slide it across the floor, there’s a good girl,” Nygma said, intentionally condescendingly. With one hand still holding the gun, he picked up the Time Bomb and rubbed his free thumb across the interface, chuckling as he confirmed the light was out. “See, now wasn’t that easy?” he chuckled.
“You see what comes of accepting your betters? How hassle-free and painless it is to simply raise your hands in defeat, admit your cognitive shortcomings, and relinquish your free will to your intellectual superiors? But no, you sought to usurp me. You and all your ilk, with your tasteless gimmicks, and ridiculous costumes designed by that lecherous hippie. If not for the diluting of the costumed criminal, Gotham would have submitted to me years ago. The Riddler used to mean something. Supervillainy used to mean something. Now every insect with a dream, every child with a toolbox, every imbecile with a condominium worth of condiments thinks THEY CAN DO WHAT I DO?” The gun swung back and forth as Nygma’s rant reached its crescendo. The screen behind him glitched, and shifted, but he didn’t care to look.
“You’re a fraud,” Jenna responded, unfazed by his immature outburst.
“Hm?” Nygma snapped.
“Everyone thinks you’re a mastermind. A genius. But I’ve seen you for what you are,” Jenna stated. The panic was gone. It had never been there.
“And what is that?” Nygma humoured her.
“You’re the guy who flips the chessboard and says you’ve won. The guy who yells victory, after he shoots his enemies in the back. Go on, genius, where’s the brilliance in that? Heck, you’re worse than the Joker! At least he’s funny,” Jenna said mockingly. She looked at the screen, past Nygma’s eyeline. The bar had stopped at 87, and was now retreating, one percentage at a time.
“I’m not meant to be funny.” Nygma’s face had turned a deep puce.
Jenna laughed. “Well, at least you’ve got that right. Really, you’re just pathetic. I can’t tell if you were bullied too much or too little in school. I get it, I was a theater kid too, but you don’t see me calling myself the bloody Riddler.”
Nygma was dumbstruck. His mouth hung open, and his gun hand shook. And for the first time since donning his green suit and tie, The Riddler was speechless. It was brief, yes, but Jenna was certain she would never forget that gawping expression on his face. He could shoot her right now, and she would die satisfied. And as he contemplated what to do next, the monitor pinged. ‘Finally,’ Nygma thought. ‘Finally, he had breached Cobb’s firewalls.’ He regained his composure and rested his back against the console.
“Now, that is funny,” he smiled. “All those words, and none of them mattered.”
“So, what shall it be first? Shall I drain your bank account and leave you penniless and destitute? Oh! Shall I message the GCPD with some very pertinent information regarding the Franco homicide case? Or shall I skip the preamble and send a missile to Arkham Island, wiping the board in one, brilliant masterstroke?”
He pressed the keypad, and nothing happened. An error message flashed on the screen, and his face fell. “What? The ping- I thought-”
He looked down at the Time Bomb and saw the blinking light. A blinking blue light.
“No!” Nygma flung the bomb forwards; Jenna and Mayo dropped to the ground, and the puck exploded into an orange fireball. The monitors glitched, replaying the same seconds over and over again. Kuttler’s final words blasted through the speakers like an anthem.
“YOU’RE NOT AS SMART AS YOU THINK. YOU’RE NOT AS SMART AS YOU THINK. YOU’RE NOT AS SMART AS YOU THINK.”
“What is this?” Nygma howled, pounding the keyboard, as he sought to turn off the screen, to no avail. His query was answered by a calm voice, attached to a holographic spirit.
“Your reckoning. Didn’t you see the signs?”
Riddler screamed, hurtling his chair at Cobb. Well, Cobb’s hologram.
Cobb looked back, with a look of pity, if anything. “I thought you were at least smarter than that.”
“It’s funny,” he smiled. “All of those words and none of them mattered.”
At once, Nygma realised the magnitude of his failure; if Cobb could control one bomb, then-
Boom. The strategically placed satchel erupted in one gigantic blast. The weak infrastructure gave way as seawater poured through the freshly made hole. Nygma stared on, near-paralysed by despair, as water creeped up his ankles. The servers groaned and fizzled as water dripped and poured through their processors. Jenna ran to the ladder, and Mayo followed. Snapping out of his trance-like state, Nygma raced to intercept them, but a metal limb latched onto his ankle, dragging him back. Thick blast doors slid shut on Cobb’s command, separating him from his targets. “Unhand me! Release me you mechanical mongrel! I am The Riddler, and you will obey me-!”
“Obey you?" Cobb's voice crackled. "I lived and died following the orders of would-be conquerors. Never again.” By now, the water had reached Nygma’s shoulders, and his mouth was surrounded by seawater; with each protest, more saltwater slid down his throat.
“NO! I’M SUPPOSED TO WIN! I’M SUPPOSED TO WIN! I- IT’S NOT FAIR!”
==Above==
The bedroom; undisturbed since McCulloch had first dropped them off at the manor. The door creaked open, as the exhausted pair entered; Mayo flopped onto the bed, his arms limply lying at his side. Jenna lay against the mirror’s surface, content to wait for their extraction. For the nightmare to be over. The door opened a second time: Tockman entered the bedroom, his approach heralded by the unfortunate squelching of sauce-spoiled soles. No fight left in him, he fell against the bedroom wall, and he caught his face in his hands. Just as weary as he was, Jenna stayed sitting on the floor, watching Mayo’s chest rise and fall atop the king-sized mattress.
Once more, the bunker was quiet.
~-~
Drury reached the top of the fire escape first, then gestured for Gaige to stay put. He closed his eyes and exhaled as he approached. Their assailant was sitting atop an AC unit, tapping his cane against the ground as he hummed Jonathan Freeman’s villainous reprise of ‘Prince Ali.’ The Music Meister. Sly. Sonorous. Sociopathic. The architect of Blackgate’s bloodiest prison riot. And the reason Drury couldn’t walk straight.
“Did somebody say encore?” Meister teased, caressing the inbuilt microphone on top of his staff. Gone was the music teacher’s long scarf and knitted sweater, replaced with a long purple overcoat with lime accents and a large, feathered hat.
“This is just another illusion,” Drury continued onwards.
“Is it? Is it really? Tch, you take one tumble off a balcony, and it’s like they forget every lesson you ever taught them…” Meister tutted. “You’re in my world now, not your world. Have you met my friends on the other side?”
An all-too-familiar fluttering of mechanical wings from above caught Drury off guard; what blindsided him further was their wearer. The suit was a darker shade of purple, the silver mask had a sharper brow, and the lenses were a ruby-red, but the figure was unmistakenly Killer Moth. Ruling out an out-of-body experience, that left only one option:
Drury gritted his teeth. “Twag.”
Daniel ‘Danto’ Twag. In life, he thought of himself as the original Killer Moth; in reality, he was a sick man whose obsessions got him killed, resurrected, and finally, driven to suicide. Drury was getting real sick of these reunions, and he suspected the worst was yet to come. Running for cover, Drury dove behind the AC unit the Meister was previously sitting on. The dual barrels of Twag’s wrist-mounted guns shone with yellow energy, then set the rooftop alight, unleashing an unrelenting barrage of high voltage projectiles. Drury stayed hidden, desperately screwing a cocoon capsule onto the base of his gun, but it was too late. Twag flew above him; wrist guns pointed squarely at his head. Then, he stopped.
A rusty hook buried itself in Twag’s sternum, grayish blood trickling from the wound. Cautiously, Drury peered over the edge; Gaige was in his wetsuit again, holding the speargun presently embedded in Twag. And with a firm nod, Gaige pulled.
“Get the FUCK over here.”
The cable receded into the gun with such force that Twag was torn in two; his waist careened off the roof onto the empty streets below, his torso landed on top of the AC unit, wetting it with gray blood.
“How many more are you expecting?” Gaige asked, keeping watch as Drury looted Twag’s person.
Drury sighed, strapping the second of Twag’s guns to his wrist. “Enough to fill a graveyard.”
As it turned out, Drury’s estimate wasn’t far off. Whilst they were battling Twag, the mob had climbed the fire escape on the neighbouring buildings and were now close enough for Drury to identify the faces in the crowd. Some he knew better than others, but they all held a significant axe to grind against him, his friends, and his family. Among them were:
Roy Reynolds. The Getaway Genius. Spent all his life running; died trying to escape the Secret Society’s judgement.
Christopher Weiss. Slipknot. Classic case of wrong place, wrong time; took an elevator ride with Drury, paid for it with a black arrow through his skull.
Jim Garth. The Blaze. Oh, Jim. His only crime was his concern for Drury’s unorthodox parenting. And Drury had responded by defenestrating him out of a Gotham High-Rise.
Elliot Caldwell. Wrath. A cop killer who allied with Drury’s old man to take over the Gotham Mob and had ended up sleeping with some very big fishes.
Clifford Walker. Mr Moth himself. An abusive father and a power-hungry gangster, Walker’s short-lived alliance with Ted Carson had jaw-dropping consequences for everyone involved.
Onomatopoeia. Though Drury’s stepfather, his loyalty seemingly lay with whoever could hurt his stepson the most, having partnered with Charaxes, Mr Moth, Carson, Twag and the Secret Society across his explosive career.
Arthur Brown. Cluemaster. Not dead, but after a run-in with Bane, he might as well have been. Currently strapped up to a life support machine in a supermax prison; concurrently, throwing a dozen gas pellets in Drury’s direction.
Bartholomew Meagan. Doctor No-Face. The face-switching surgeon who’d taken Carson’s mug to replace his own. Bridget Pike had thrown him from The Belfry during a fist fight for her father’s face.
James Carter. The ill-named Mr Incognito; Gaige’s right-hand man, until the Black Mask made him a better offer, then had him dissolved by:
Preston Payne. The third Clayface, after Karlo and Hagen, and three times the threat they posed, thanks to his protoplasmic touch, although it did little to defend himself from an axe to the dome.
Lightning Bug I. Simon’s predecessor with a penchant for frying his victims from the inside. His tenure as a Misfit ended prematurely and bloodily when he blew up an apartment block to get Batman’s attention.
Zodiac Master. The self-proclaimed arch enemy to the Human Magnet, and whose frequent professions of love to Magpie, were at best unreciprocated, and at worst, met with vomit-inducing disgust. After various unsuccessful attempts to win her heart, he had his back blown out by the supervillain Codpiece.
Irving Norbet. Planet Master. Zodiac’s chief cheerleader, lackey and, although he would never have admitted it, his only friend. That didn’t stop him from erasing Norbet’s mind and hijacking his body though.
Professor Hugo Strange. The monster who experimented on Drury's brother and let Arkham fall to ruin.
There were others too, of course; Ray Salinger, the Birthday Boy; Telman Davis, The Hooded Hangman; Deacon Blackfire, who had officiated Drury’s wedding and half a dozen sacrifices in God’s name; Davey Franco and Iron-Hat Ferris, even Jumbo Carson had made it in. Billings had evidently been watching closely, counting the dead, slowly adding them to this macabre parade of corpses.
And they were all standing between Drury and freedom.
“I can see your future.”
“It’s written in the stars.”
“Jss fc ih.”
“You’ve no fire.”
“No spark.”
“And if you think you can walk away-”
“You’re clueless.”
As Drury raised his gauntlets in front of him, a single red web latched onto Arthur Brown's capsule, enveloping the rooftop in smoke.
“What-?”
“I can’t see! I can’t see!”
“Fuck that, I can’t breathe!”
“Get him! Get that fucking-!”
Just as quickly as they had formed, the clouds parted, cleared by the twin turbines of Garfield Lynns’ wingsuit. He was followed by Chuck and Joey in the air, and Ten and Fiasco on foot. Needham dropped down from a web-line, then rejoined the rest of the group. Just as Drury had begun to process this, Gar lowered himself to the ground and made a direct beeline for him.
“Gar-” Drury stammered, the only word he managed to get out before he was embraced in a tight bearhug.
“Don’t ever do this again,” Gar warned, hugging tightly.
“Do what?” Drury wheezed.
“All of it? None of it?” Gar laughed, then squeezed even tighter.
“Gar- Gar- You’re pressing really fucking hard,” Drury grunted, as he finally broke free of his grip. "What are you all doing here, what- Len!” he gawped, looking at the assembly of mercifully friendly faces and suddenly feeling a similar urge to hug; one Fiasco did not reciprocate.
“Hey, ease up on the PDA, would you?” he teased. “I don’t know where you’ve been.”
"What’s the play, Walker?” Needham asked.
“I have to get to the GCPD,” Drury replied, twirling around to show the group the metal moth plate he had made. “If I can get this onto the signal, I think the spell breaks.”
“Oh, that’s not so bad, the GCPD is just over-”
Joey’s eyes followed the light from the spotlight over to the precinct, past the sea of undead supervillains, and immediately realised Drury’s dilemma, ending his sentence with a much less optimistic ‘there.’ Gaige patted him on the back.
“Dru, we could be talking Elm Street rules here. If we die here, we could die in real life,” Gar theorised.
“Or it’s like Inception. We die in the dream, we wake up in Arkham,” Drury countered.
“Is that how it worked? I never really got that film,” Joey admitted.
“Believe me, it’s a lot more difficult when you can’t see the screen,” Ten responded.
“Alright…” Chuck paused. “What are we thinking?”
Gar rolled his shoulders and adjusted the nozzle of his flamethrower. “That it's cheaper than therapy.”
Chuck nodded to Drury, lowered his visor over his eyes, and with no words needed, but two in his head, led the charge against the damned. The eight of them fought with everything they had. Nothing held back, no holds barred. Gaige plunged two knives into Zeiss’ eyes. Needham’s spinning kick knocked LaMonica off the ledge, then webbed him up against the side of the adjacent office block. Fiasco stood on Jumbo, then cleaned his shoe with a wet wipe with insulting indifference. Joey’s blade tore through Ramsay Rosso’s wrist, cauterizing it, then he speared him through his chest. Zebra Man was engulfed in a fireball; black, gray, and charred all over.
Drury kept moving.
Chuck dodged a punch from Artie and responded with a furious haymaker. ‘Arm’s still broken,’ he remembered a little too late, holding his stinging shoulder. ‘Of course, why wouldn’t it be?’ Suddenly, a burly arm reached out, and lifted him up by his neck, wide eyes poking out from behind the assailant’s burlap sack. Salinger. Chuck shone his chest light in his eyes, blinding him temporarily. Stunned, the Birthday Boy dropped him. Chuck staggered upwards, shooting him a quiet glance, then flew back into the fray, carried by his kite.
Reynolds fell off the roof, cracking his head off the fire escape as he plummeted. Weiss misjudged the distance between one roof and the next and hung himself with his own ropes as he too fell.
Drury kept moving.
Needham’s web latched from Gar’s wingpack to Joey’s to Chuck’s kite; propelling him forwards, he leapt onto Comb’s jetpack, fired two web-bombs into his jet turbines, then dropped to the ground; watching as Combs crashed through the nearby skylight. His respite was short-lived, however.
“Blam Blam. Blam. Blam,” Onomatopoeia telegraphed his ambush, firing bullet after bullet until Needham found a window, and clogged up the barrels of his twin pistols with his webs.
“Click.”
“Click?”
“Thwip-Thwip, motherfucker,” Needham hissed, before a roundhouse kick knocked him down.
Drury kept moving.
Blackfire’s knife went through Ten’s palm. He didn’t feel it. “Oh, shut the hell up,” he snapped, cold cocking him with his free hand. Next, a stun baton to his ribs took him by surprise. Instinctively, Ten swung his fist backwards, hitting something. Hard. There was a squelch, then a thud, as Lyle Bolton hit the ground, a pronounced crater in his skull. “God,” Ten gasped, shaking the blood off his prosthetic, then chasing after the others.
A blade stuck into Fiasco’s calf. Gagsworthy chuckled, waggling a second butter knife mischievously. Fiasco grunted in mild amusement, then grabbed the scruff of the jester’s neck, and threw him down a ventilation duct.
Drury kept moving.
A skeletal hand grasped Gar’s ankle, and with superhuman strength, plucked him from the sky; Gar rolled across the gravel roof before colliding with a cell tower. The creature approached the stirring Firefly and grabbed his arm. “Lynns.”
“Al,” Gar replied groggily.
Gar’s suit was heat resistant, but only up to a point. Doctor Phosphorus was that point. As his fluorescent claw squeezed Gar’s wrist, the suit melted away, and fresh blisters burst forth from his cracked skin. If he had held on for much longer, Gar’s hand would liquify like ice cream in the midday sun.
Fortunately, Phosphorus didn’t get that chance. His hand went limp; he spat up irradiated blood, and as Gar looked up, he saw a still-melting crowbar protruding from his hollow eye socket. Gaige harmlessly knocked Phosphorus to the ground, then helped Gar to his feet.
Drury kept moving.
Zodiac summoned a large bull, a Taurus, from his costume; Drury ripped the Monarch’s cape off of his shoulders and waved it like a red flag, redirecting the faux bull into the path of another dozen approaching villains. Norbet suffered the brunt of it; even now, paying for Zodiac’s mistakes. Fiasco sprayed an aerosol can into Zodiac’s eyes, blinding him. He clicked his heel into the ground, and a blade sprung from his shoe, slashing his knee. Zodiac ripped a Pisces from his suit, but all it did was hasten his own end. Fiasco ripped it from his grip and smacked the silver fish against the conman’s head. He tasered the Monarch with his own scepter, then cracked the staff across his knee. Gaige slammed his head against Hangman’s with savage repetition, caving in his skull with his diver’s helm.
Carter howled as he was shoved headfirst into Payne’s awaiting palm. Gaige didn’t stick around. Meagan gurgled as Drury’s fist struck the place his nose should have been, uttering an incomprehensible cry of “Uueh. I fce,” as he hit the floor. Meister’s cane flew into his face, demolishing his already crooked teeth and preventing him from singing another ballad.
Drury kept moving.
Gaige lodged his knife into Mister Moth’s throat and twisted it. Drury winced as he watched his dad gurgle bloody breaths but kept fighting; encasing Blaze with one cocoon capsule and melting through The Moth’s shin with another. Gaige grabbed Cliff Walker’s pistol and tossed it to his son. Putting it to good use, Drury ducked behind a hi-vac unit and shot The Tally Man between the eyes, then traded his dad’s gun for the hitman’s twin uzis. Seeking retribution, Billy Garth instead swallowed a flurry of ammunition, courtesy of his father’s killer.
A Wratharang cut one of Gar’s fuel lines. Caldwell. They exchanged blows for only a few seconds, before Gar grew tired and set his cape alight, then kicked him into the stampede, igniting the crowd. Next, Franco swung at Gar; he flew out of the way, smoke spurting from his wingpack, and Franco fractured his hand on Ferris’ iron-hat. Before he could respond, Ferris was broiled by napalm from Joey’s wrists. Chuck and Ten grappled with Strange, the latter finally knocking him out with a glasses-shattering strike.
Just as The Misfits had regrouped, a yellow lightning blast put them on the backfoot. Lightning Bug. Joey held his firesword in a batting stance, prepared to swat away any more lightning blasts, Gar’s sticky bomb tore open the Bug’s helmet. A web bound one arm; a cocoon charge caught the other. And Fiasco’s shotgun did the rest. Drury saluted his Misfits, unbuckled the metal, moth-shaped symbol from his back, tucking it under his arm, then began the final leg alone. Killer Moth leapt from rooftop to rooftop, the light of the signal reflecting in his eyes like silver moons. He jumped onto the GCPD roof; arm outstretched in preparation.
But The Demon’s Head had other plans.
His blade tore through stretched ligaments, then twisted. Drury’s momentum was halted, and he collapsed mere feet from the signal. The silver stencil fell from his arm; a black shoe kicked it aside. The Demon stepped in front of the spotlight, a thin smile on his gaunt features, then he twisted the lever downwards. “It appears your escape plan, was defective. Not unlike yourself.”
Drury had stopped moving. He couldn’t move. Blood spurted from his leg like a fountain, and as he struggled to drag himself forwards, The Demon raised his sword above his head like an executioner’s axe. Drury closed his eyes, his thoughts on his Tiger Lily, as he silently prayed for her understanding. Her forgiveness.
His prayers were answered with a sword through Ra’s Al Ghul’s chest.
The Demon’s blade clanged onto the ground, green eyes widened in shock, as he tilted his head back towards his attacker. “You betray your oath?” he hissed, blood trickling down his chin.
“I’m beholden to a far greater vow, Great One,” The Demon Slayer answered. She swung her blade upwards, and split Ra’s from belt to brain in a single stroke.
“I said ‘I do,’” Miranda finished, stepping over The Demon’s bisected body, and collecting the metal moth sigil. As she finished fixing it to the police spotlight, Drury finally spoke up.
“You can’t- You’re not… You’re an echo, Tiger Lily,” he croaked, eyes brimming with tears.
Miranda knelt beside him, lifting the helm off his head, and running a gloved hand through his brown hair. “We are both echoes,” she said softly. She guided Drury’s bloodied palm onto the lever, and they pulled it together. Blinding light filled Drury’s eyes and when it faded, he was standing in the concrete confines of Arkham's auditorium.
Peering over the balcony, Billings panicked. Still clutching his severed prosthetic, he was kept upright only by clutching the metal railing before him. “Really now, I had no idea this was what they- I mean, uh, have you ever tried saying no to Joker? Because I-”
“Billings?” Drury asked, not shifting from his spot. “Run.”
His delivery was low, in a tone Billings had never heard Drury use before; not with Thawne, nor with Sims. Billings understood him completely, that it was not Drury talking, and it wasn’t the moth. It was the killer. And that 'run’ wasn’t a request, or even a warning. It wasn’t a threat; threats are extortion, a warning by another name, and Billings had nothing to offer. “Run” was an order, because the alternative was slow, excruciating, and utterly, utterly deserved.
“Good idea,” Billings nodded, his bottom lip quivering. “I- Oh.”
He had turned right, directly into the path of the Misfits. Fiasco pointed his shotgun squarely at his chest, and Billings flinched, beads of sweat dripping from his uncombed orange hair. “Ah, hell,” he lamented glumly. “No one appreciates cinema nowadays.”
“Hey, Del,” Fiasco replied. “Cheers.”
Fiasco lowered the gun away from his torso, a motion that lulled Billings into a false sense of security, then he blasted through Billings’ kneecap. He let go off the railing, collapsing into a screaming heap on the ground, nursing his bloodied leg; askew, the fractured bone protruding at a 45° angle from where it should have been.
Suddenly; the lights switched on, canned applause filled the room, and the curtains parted, projecting a flickering image of a handmade puppet of-
“Drury-?” Chuck gestured to the screen. Drury spun around; his expression hadn’t changed, he didn’t say a word, but his fist tightened.
“This episode has been brought to you by unprocessed trauma, uncensored violence, oh, and the letter M. If you or your loved ones have been affected by any of the issues raised tonight, please seek out your nearest icepick, pistol or Smylex Distributor! You’ll feel so much better.”
Drury walked slowly up to the screen, his face cloaked in shadows, and he whispered a single, hate-filled word.
“Run.”