With all the strength they had left, the hero crawled into the villain’s apartment through the window. After surviving the superhero, this should have been easy but it turned out to be exhausting.
The hero had landed in the bathroom and without wasting another second, they pulled themselves up and searched through the cabinets. Unfortunately, their bloody hands left enough evidence of them breaking in already. They supposed they’d have to face the villain sooner or later, even if that meant the villain was going to throw them out again.
For now, they found something close enough to practical — a razor — and opened the first aid kit the villain usually stored under the cabinet. Before they could take out the blades, the villain opened the door.
“You’re not as quiet as you think.” The hero looked at them and smiled softly. Teeth stained with blood, heavy limbs.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” they said. With no hesitation, the villain helped them up and took the razorblades out of their hands.
“What happened to that pretty face?” they asked. With one hand on the hero’s hip, they reached for a clean towel and turned on the sink. They let the soft fabric drench in warm water and gently cleaned up the hero’s face.
It all happened so fast. The villain didn’t seem to mind that the hero was here in the middle of the night.
And they were close. So close.
Whereas the villain was focused on the hero’s face and getting rid of all that blood, the hero stared into their eyes. Maybe it was this cruel change: brutal violence coming from someone they had adored to gentle tenderness from someone they had loathed.
The villain looked down at them. Their thumb traced the hero’s jawline and the hero looked away, almost ashamed.
“You look like shit,” the villain whispered. “And you woke me up.”
“I’m sorry,” the hero said. They looked at the villain’s clothes — their underwear and a shirt. The hero blushed a little. They took the villain’s hand and reached for the razorblades. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
The hero let go of them with a gaze that lingered a little too long.
“They chipped me,” the hero explained. They cleaned the blade with some rubbing alcohol and took in a deep breath. “Chipped me like a fucking dog.”
They cut into their own forearm, watching as the blood ran down their skin. It burnt even more than the open wounds on the hero’s back. They supposed they just had gotten used to that sort of pain, even if that was impossible.
With the blade, they dug through skin and muscle, clenching their teeth until they found the little tracker. They cursed when they pushed their fingers into the wound to fish it out.
Once they had the bloody device in their hand, they let it fall to the ground and crushed it under their boot.
“I knew trackers are useless at your place. You’ve slipped through my fingers quite a few times that way.”
The villain didn’t say anything. They just stared at the hero who cleaned their arm.
It wasn’t exactly easy to crawl to their nemesis and beg for shelter. The hero was too proud to do that anyway and they had planned to leave after cutting out the microchip.
“I’m sorry to have bothered you,” the hero said.
“You didn’t bother me.” The villain took a step forward and took the hero’s hands. “Are you alright?”
The hero frowned.
“Of course I am. I’m fine. I’m doing great.”
“You’re sure about that?” The villain let their fingers intertwine and suddenly, the hero felt very tired very quickly. “You’ve been so busy these last few days. I barely got to see you. They sent over some other lame heroes.”
The hero chuckled tiredly.
“I mean, why would they think I am satisfied with all the other rabble?” One of their hands glided down the hero’s forearm where they put pressure on the wound. “You always wanted to be a hero. When did that change?”
“I don’t know,” the hero said but the desperation and the hopelessness were already settling in. It didn’t even buy them time to lie to the villain. One way or another they found out anyway and most of the time, they asked the hero questions they already had the answers to.
The hero couldn’t really take it anymore. The pain was too much, their mind was breaking more and more.
“Oh, so many tears on such a pretty face,” the villain said. They pulled the hero closer and wiped their tears away with the back of their hand. “Don’t you know it’s not your fault?”
“They turned against me,” the hero said. Their voice trembled. “All of them. They chipped me, they put a bounty on my head. They’re trying to kill me because I don’t agree with…with all this shit.”
The villain cupped their face. “With what?”
“With all this stupid collateral damage and these dumb advertisements. Most of the time I feel like a mascot, I’m barely saving any people.”
“Oh, darling.” The villain tilted their head. Their presence was comforting in a way the hero hadn’t had experienced before. Whatever they’d done to each other in the past, the hero didn’t care. They were familiar, they were warm. The hero wasn’t going to let anyone take this moment away from them. “And who exactly beat you up like this? Your boss, I assume?”
“…yeah.” They could play pretend. They could pretend the villain was closer, that they were more than acquaintances. Even if it wasn’t real, even if the villain was using them, the hero needed some affection right now. They’d gladly give the heartbreak to their future self.
“My poor hero,” the villain said softly. “Would you let me stitch you up?”
The hero nodded.
“I’ll protect you,” the villain promised. They pulled them close to hug the hero. The hero didn’t understand why they were so gentle, so kind. Most of the time, they insulted each other like children. But the hero needed this. They really did. “They will pay for this.”
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"Mr. Bubbles, Mr. Bubbles-"
A little boy's voice--the first little boy that Tim had discovered in the labyrinth city below Gotham--echoed through the cavernous halls. Tim crept over the rubble of a broken stalagmite that had fallen through the ceiling, destroying the white and gold decor and dripping water inside. The room up ahead was lit only from glowing green tubes of liquid that lined every wall of Amity, the ectoplasm that powered the entire city.
"Are you there? Are you there?"
He peeked out from behind a crumbled wall. On his own, the little boy was crouched over corpse, fresh enough that it's blood was still wet on the floor. The boy's giant needle, the go-to weapon of all the Little Sisters that Tim had seen so far, was jabbed into the corpse's stomach and, slowly, ectoplasm and blood filled the glass jar on the end.
"Bring me a lolli-"
There was no sign of a Big Daddy, but Tim knew there was one nearby. These children were never without their protectors after all.
"Bring me a toffee-"
And at this point, Tim had killed enough of them to know for certain that one was around.
His left arm, marked all over with the needle marks of constant Plasm and ecto-dejecto injections, tingled, like there were ants under his skin. Or more accurate, he mused grimly, electricity-
Don't Think About It.
"Teddy bear, teddy bear."
He kicked his bare feet excitedly as he finished harvesting ectoplasm. Screwing off the jar, the child lifted it up to his lips like a cup and drank the viscus liquid down in huge, chest-heaving gulps like his life depended on it. Unlike Little Sisters who wore gore-covered dresses, the Little Brother was dressed in a white medical gown, relatively clean considering his filthy surroundings. His arms and face were free from dirt or blood, and even his hair looked suspiciously washed and combed.
Tim tightened his grip on his gun.
The Little Brother sighed, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Brushing off his skirt, he yanked the needle out of the corpse. Then, like he could sense him, the boy looked straight at Tim. He froze.
Blank eyes covered in a green flim stared at him... and the Little Brother smiled at him, his teeth stained brown from the muck. "Mr. Helper! There you are, I've been waiting soooo long! Big Sister thought you'd never catch up!"
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