Chapter Text
2:08 am
Burchester Museum,
Gotham, New Jersey
[POV Tim Drake]
VIA THE LAWS OF PHYSICS, energy can neither be created or destroyed. In that way death is unique, a purely mortal concept that sparked humanity's obsession with gods. One might argue the crumbling of stone is death, the forgetting of time, the dust of bone. But energy transfers, energy lives where beings do not.
Naturally, if something is alive, that something must also die. If something is alive, that something must do something; the act of nothing an action in itself. Creation is death's gift, neither can exist without the other.
Staring into the thing's eyes leaves Tim Drake to ponder on death. Can something die without being alive?
No.
Death is life in the same way there can be no color without the absence of color. There can be nothing without its opposite.
The thing, in a cruel imitation of human, looks like it hasn't lived--can't. Tim cannot fathom the idea of it taking a breath, of the same oxygen sharing their lungs. Of it wailing a newborn's cry. And who knows with alien anatomy; maybe it--they--it doesn't breathe.
Tim thinks of Kryptonians. Of the stronger bones, the faster heartbeat, of all the differences between man and alien. Of man and God.
If Connor is a God when compared to the average human, Tim wonders what the thing is.
It sets off every single warning signal ingrained into Tim's body, even the ones he didn't even know he had, just by looking at the mass. Bilions of years of evolution go into keeping Tim from even attempting to meet its eye. Tim doesn't know what he's looking at, or if it is even a what. The creature could just as well be short as it could be tall, wide as it could be thin, male and female.
Tim can distantly hear--through the com link--Nightwing take a breath. It's an exhale, of shock? Of wonder? It's all emotions Tim is feeling.
Interesting. He catalogues, but its more distant than usual. Emotional manipulation?
Nightwing is the first to move, it's barely a step, but the scuff of usually silent shoes echoes like a gunshot. The beings eyes--one, two...five...eight?--snap to him.
There is silence. And fear to break it.
Then the mouth(mouths? Mouths. holyshit--) Open and a gutteral sound is pulled out. It slices the air, Tim can feel his hair stand on its end. The windows rattle, the emergency lights flicker before dying.
The thing sounds like waves crashing against Gotham harbor, like ambulance sirens and reverent prayers all the same. Like everything and nothing in one breath.
It is wrong. There is something so unbelievably wrong about it. The answer evades Tim at every turn.
What is dead cannot be alive. What is alive must die.
And suddenly Tim is sick.
He's six years old.
Saddled with the responsibility of taking care of himself while heavy with the flu. He's wrapped himself in sweltering blankets in June, because that's what people in cartoons did. He's six and he's dying. Suffocating under the blankets and pillows.
He feels close to death, close enough to smell the rot on its breath. He can't breathe. He can't--
It's gone when his mother walks in and lifts it off his head.
She rushes him to the hospital and he can't feel anything but pure bliss as cold air fills his lungs.
But this burden doesn't fade, the weight only doubles, triples, and multiplys with every careful second. He is reminded just how close he came to slipping. The first of many. But somehow, this is the one that comes to mind when he thinks of death.
He gags, almost vomits but someone else beats him to it, the sound of dry reching comes from Robin--who snuck on this mission, much to Bruce's anger.
The sound stops his own bile from escaping. It felt like coming down of fear gas; pervasive, systematic, wrongness built to go exactly against the body's nature.
The wires and tech on his suit buzz. It spazzes, then with a dying flicker comes back only to shut off. The moment this creature--beast--had shown itself all tech cut out. Barbra was probably working her hardest to figure out what happened. For a moment Tim thought he saw the redhead on the screen of his arm computer. It faded just as quickly.
A shadow steps forward, and Tim is thankful for the shift; the man is no longer Bruce, he is Gotham's knight, the myth, the protector, bloody, bruised, alive.
A few eyes, five(?) Tim can count, slide to the Caped Crusader.
"Being." It's mouth(the biggest one), or the imitation of a mouth, pulls into a pearly white smile. Tim thinks something tears in the reality of space time. Something tells him they have seen what they should not have. "We mean no harm."
Tim knows the words by heart, ripped straight out if contingency 116630227. He can hear the lesson in every word, 'keep your words concise when dealing with the unknown. Leave no words to be misunderstood.'
He hears Jason snort from behind him. Leave it to the failed Robin to find something to bitch about.
When the thing opens its maw, thousands upon thousands of rows of Joker sharp teeth appear from the inky black abyss. The language comes out quite similar to English, but just a bit off. And Tim doesn't have time to think about the implications, because English shouldn't be possible with a mouth like that, before the next words shock him.
It sounds like his spine snapping, the crunch of Red hood's boots on his back, it sounds like pain, it sounds like rage. "What have you been doing Gotham? Your city runs rampant. So few are your knights; these dear champions?"
It's rain on pavement, a slippery baptism that tides like guilt and filth. It's the crack of his bone under his flesh. It's life and death in one breath. Tim can't breathe. Tim can't breathe. Tim can't--
The very world around them seems to respond. It ripples like a stone on a lake. The air thins as whatever entity--Gotham itself if they are to trust the being's words--tightens it's grip.
Tim gets the distinct feeling the message is not meant for them despite it being in English.
"To your own knights?" Comes it's too casual response to what feels like a threat.
The air loosens at that. Thunder strikes loud and sudden. Rain pours, it bangs against the hollow museum roof.
Out of his peripheral vision he can see Robin reach for his blades--twin katanas he babies excessively. Wipe and sharpen, shine and sharpen, he does, more consistently than anything else. More often than he wipes the Gotham Prep uniform shoes(much to Alfred's reluctant relief), more often than he trains.
In a second they vanish from his hands but Tim doesn't risk looking over, nobody does. Every single Bat is still locked onto this, thing(?)
Batman shifts to shield Robin with his imposing back. Tim can remember being in Damian's position more times than he can count. And he knows, much like him, Robin will not appreciate it.
Something is familiar about the entity. It nags at him.
There is breath(can you breathe without being alive?), or really vapor, that curves out the maw of the beast. In the smoke, twin blades appear. Robin's blades. The air freezes.
Tim is now distantly aware Bruce is now angled in such a way to easily be able to jump infront of him. It does not soothe his haywire nerves.
There is something about the green that envelopes the abomination.
It clicks for Tim as lightning flashes outside. Green, Lazarus green.
What is dead must have been alive.
Lazarus water.
What is alive must die.
An inhale. A few of the being's eyes are fixed on him, almost hypnotic in their depths. Green--green. He risks a glance at Jason, the man is locked in place. Eyes fixed on both past and present. His teeth grounded together like it might block the every present sound of a Crowbar meeting flesh.
Tim silences his curses.
"We bare no ill will towards you." It is Nightwing that speaks next. It seems Batman had reached his word limit for the night.
Despite his words, Tim watches Dick reach for his weapons. It's not sudden, it's a move of practice, gliding disguised as friendliness.
Two more of the beings eyes latch onto where Grayson's hands have migrated, pinning him in place. It's a dare in it's pupils.
The being tosses the swords at Nightwing's feet at his words. And in that moment Tim couldn't hate Damian more. Actually he could, has, and probably will.
Tim forces his legs to firm. A quick glance around tells him everyone is doing the same.
He mentally runs through contingency plan A - Z. Weapons? Currently useless.
Kryptonite? The thought rings empty in his head. He can't rely on it, not even as it sits heavy in his lead lined pouch.
Best approach, diplomacy.
And prayer. Alot of prayer.
His spine cracks, or maybe thats just in his head, as he straightens. "Your...summoning was, accidental."
And it was.
Gotham teenagers doing Gotham teenage things, like summoning a potential God. Yep. Gotham.
The comm link buzzes. No one moves.
The beings' eyes roll, like an annoyed teenager, then its smirk pulls into a threatening smile. "Is anything really an accident?"
Then it's gone. And with it, the crushing weight leaves. Sated but not calmed.