Chapter Text
Journal 74 — Entry #1 — Sunday, 9:00 AM
A new journal felt… imperative.
So many things have happened.
So many irreparable, logic-defying, emotionally draining things.
And I have no one to blame but Daniel.
Certain events have transpired. I will attempt to document them before my blood pressure rises to new and “exciting” heights.
- Manson and Foley now have “forms.”
In comparison to Daniel’s “ghost form”, they have gone through their own transformation.
I hesitate to call them ghost forms, as that would imply some degree of elegance or restraint.
Manson’s was first.
It occurred during what I can only describe as a creative disagreement over the placement of potted plants in the atrium. She insisted that additional greenery would “soften the vibe.” I remain unclear on what that is supposed to mean. Foley, however, took immediate offense and argued that we already had more than enough plant life and that no one needed “any more ancient-damned greenery in the rooms.”
And then things escalated.
The lights flickered.
The temperature dropped.
And the plants exploded.
Not figuratively, but literally.
In the span of seconds, her hair had thickened and twisted into living coils of vine and thorn, dark green veined with black. Leaves unfurled where strands should have been, some sharp-edged, others blooming with faintly glowing flowers that pulsed in time with her breathing. Her skin took on a bark-like texture along her arms and collarbone, veins visible beneath like roots pressing against soil.
Her eyes glowed red.
She lifted off the ground without realizing it, hovering several inches above the marble floor as the potted ficus behind her exploded into aggressive, fast-growing ivy that cracked the wall.
Foley screamed.
I was mildly surprised.
She did not appear aware of her transformation until I informed her, very calmly, that she was in danger of bringing the building down on us, and could she please de-transform, as I quite enjoyed this atrium.
She responded by shattering every window in said atrium.
In her defense, she later claimed it was “an accident” and that she “couldn’t be held liable for structural damage after suddenly gaining extra superpowers.”
Foley’s manifestation followed shortly thereafter. Less destructive, but far more unsettling.
Like Manson, he had gotten into an argument. With her, naturally. However, instead of destroying my very carefully decorated office, he elected to turn my security system and nearly every electronic device in the building sentient.
A golden glow overtook him, his posture straightening into something that closely resembled self-confidence. At the same time, a black mask materialized over his eyes, angular and severe, styled like an ancient pharaoh’s funerary shroud.
Personality-wise, the arrogance was immediate.
Both of them continue to insist that this situation is “no big deal.”
It is a very big deal.
- Daniel has gotten involved with a troublesome group called “The Justice League.”
An absolutely ridiculous name.
It sounds less like a governing body and more like something shouted by children during a playground dispute. I initially assumed it was satire. I was disappointed.
Half of them wear capes. This is not a metaphor. Actual, flowing fabric, worn into active combat environments filled with fire, wind shear, high-speed impacts, and industrial machinery. I am told this is “symbolic.” Symbolic of what, exactly, I cannot say.
This observation was, irritatingly, directed back at me.
Daniel asked if I intended to include myself in this critique.
I informed him that my cape is not a cape in the conventional sense. In my ghost form, it is an ectoplasmic construct. It cannot be caught on machinery, seized by opponents, or used to restrain me in any meaningful way. It phases with me, obeys my movements precisely, and exists entirely at my discretion.
It is, therefore, a purely aesthetic choice.
Daniel suggested that this somehow made it worse.
I disagree.
I will not apologize for good design.
The other half, on the other hand, dress like they lost a fight with a military surplus store.
They claim to be protectors of the planet. Their definition of “protecting,” however, appears to involve catastrophic property damage, extensive collateral casualties narrowly avoided, and long, sanctimonious speeches delivered mid-conflict to villains who are, by all available evidence, not listening.
I have witnessed at least three confrontations. Each followed the same pattern.
Explosions.
Shouting.
Moral posturing.
More explosions.
Cleanup is someone else’s problem.
Daniel, of course, has integrated seamlessly.
He insists he “just helps when he’s nearby.” This is a lie. He is always nearby. He appears out of thin air, disables threats with experienced efficiency, then looks vaguely embarrassed when praised. This seems to endear him to them immensely.
They like him.
I do not.
Like them, that is. Daniel is my son in all but blood. I have no choice but to like him.
Daniel downplays himself deliberately. He refrains from correcting them, he lets them believe he is simply another unusually strong asset rather than what he actually is.
A king.
I suspect this is intentional. He enjoys being ordinary among them. Just another fighter, another hero.
This concerns me.
I suppose his life with those two has hindered his self-confidence.
I will need to find a way to fix this.
Perhaps Jasmine will help.
Daniel says they are good people.
That does not mean I trust them.
If and when they realize exactly what Daniel is, what he represents, and what answering to him would actually entail, their tone will change. Reverence curdles quickly into fear. I have seen it before.
For now, Daniel remains fond of them.
- Jasmine, who I had hoped had more common sense, has enrolled in “Gotham University.”
Set in Gotham. A cursed, miserable, haunted city.
The city ghost has a peculiar personality.
It does not like me.
It has, however, taken a liking to Jasmine.
I am deeply, deeply concerned.
- Danielle has disappeared.
Not in the traditional “kidnapped” way, no. That would at least allow for a dramatic rescue. Instead, she’s off on what she calls her “backpacking dimensional-soul-searching tour.”
She sends postcards and souvenirs from cities across this world. Coastlines, deserts, ruined industrial centers, places I would strongly prefer she did not know how to reach alone. Some of the trinkets she sends are a bit… odd. I am reasonably certain that some of them are cursed, though she insists that they’re “just weird.”
We know she is alive. We know she is uninjured. She calls every other day to assure us she is fine, usually from some rooftop or bus terminal, and occasionally to ask if I can wire her money without asking unnecessary questions.
She sounds ridiculously happy.
This is, frankly, unacceptable.
I would feel significantly better if she were somewhere I could see her. Somewhere with walls. Somewhere with doors. Preferably with at least three tracking devices installed, redundant failsafes, and a satellite trained on her at all times.
Daniel says this is unfair.
He claims she needs space, freedom and experience.
I claim she is sixteen, technically a clone, and has already joined at least seven gangs she described as “educational.”
Neither of us has won this argument.
She has promised to come home eventually.
I find that insufficiently precise.
All in all, I do not enjoy this world of capes and masks.
It’s noisy. It’s chaotic. It’s full of vigilantes with moral superiority complexes and a penchant for causing citywide crises on Tuesdays. I wake up to explosions and people shouting, “This isn’t over, Lex!”
And yet— and this pains me to admit— DLAV Corp has grown surprisingly popular.
Legally.
Painfully, tediously legally.
In a completely above-board, regulation-compliant, paperwork-filled way, as I have been firmly warned by Daniel and the rest of this motley crew to refrain from my “usual tactics.”
I feel a bit offended.
But, my zero-point energy stabilizers and spectral shielding patents are in high demand. The stock portfolio has quadrupled. I have been invited to more charity galas than I can comfortably sabotage.
The Daily Planet requested an interview.
I declined.
Perhaps I should not have settled in Metropolis. There seems to be an unreasonable amount of drama in the caped world.
Ah, but I did buy a skyscraper.
So at least there’s that.
There was also a visit from a very strange man.