Apotheosis part - 3

Words 2,925

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The Martian is unamused. He regards you with dispassionate cold eyes that eerily remind you of a reptile's. The way that he almost glides towards the seat next to your bed only reinforces your belief that the human-like form the Manhunter wears is only a costume.

"If you don't want to respond, I can talk for the both of us," you say struggling yourself up into a sitting position. "If you could so kindly tell me why I'm receiving this clown car of visitors, it'd be very appreciated."

Not so much as a muscle twitches in the Martian's face. "We are not wellwishers," he finally says. His accent reminds you vaguely of something African with how it lilts on the vowels. "we are conducting interviews. This is your third."

"Interviews? I don't think it's the kind that gets published in magazines. Am I right? Of course, I am. That must mean it's the other kind. An examination, or a test. But what for?"

He inclines his head in acknowledgment and gives you a smile bereft of warmth.

"Correct. The League has chosen a number of its members to speak with you personally and give their testimonies before we render judgment."

You know what, self-reflection can take a fucking back seat.

"Judgment?" you scoff. "When did the heroic Justice League turn into Judge, Jury, and Executioner?"

The Manhunter is unfazed.

"Perhaps it was a poor choice of words. You currently present an interesting quandary to the League, one that requires special care and attention to address."

"From where I'm sitting that sounds like you said a whole lot of nothing with a whole lot of words."

You frown in annoyance when the hints of a headache pulse at your temples. It fades away a moment later and you chalk it up to the general injured state of your body.

"An understandable viewpoint, if not still wrong. You are an unknown, a variable with no quantifiable value. A loose cannon if you will. It is my purpose and that of my colleagues to ascertain just how dangerous you truly are to those around you."

He paused, and something in those ruby-red eyes stopped you just short of another off-the-cuff remark.

"Such as telling me exactly what happened to my niece."

Some people have shit luck. It's just a fact of life.

Some people just have a tendency to walk in the path of a black cat or underneath a ladder or be born a mal-adjusted orphan metahuman in the worst city on the face of the fucking planet.

You, on the other hand, have the luck of being all those things and also being confronted by the overprotective uncle of the girl you may or may not have mind-whammied.

Did you forget to mention said uncle is the Martian Manhunter?

So, in perhaps one of the most self-preserving moments of your admittedly short life, you do not purposefully antagonize the alien telepath, who according to Slade's files - which by the way are never wrong and contain way too much information. Why would you need to know Green Arrow's favorite flavor of ice cream is the mint chip? - is a nigh impervious shapeshifter who could lobotomize you with but a thought.

"I didn't exactly do much. Your niece is the one who decided to try to stick her metaphysical nose in my head. I'm not exactly an expert in psychic shit, but you should really explain to that girl not to just barge her way into the head of every enemy she fights. First of all, that's basically mind rape, and second of all, and even worse, it's stupid!"

Martians must really be cold-blooded because the Manhunter only cocks a nonexistent eyebrow in response. "Not an expert in "psychic shit," you say," he says dryly. "perhaps you could explain then how you managed to severely injure a Martian whose mental prowess is nearly equal to that of my own?"

"And like I said before, I have no idea what you're talking about. Maybe whoever was in charge of her training did a shit job. The student is only as good as the master and all that jazz."

A pulse of pain passes through your body again and you grip the bedrest tightly.

The Manhunter watches dispassionately. "You are aware that lying will not present you in a good light to the rest of the league."

"The League can stuff it where the sun doesn't shine. And besides, I bet most of them have already made up their mind about me. Am I right or am I right?"

He made no move to deny your accusation. "Some among us do have preconceived notions regarding you. Your current behavior, however, only serves to reinforce their views rather than prove them incorrect."

You would have laughed if your body didn't feel like it was on fire. "I've spent my whole life trying to change how people see me. A few more people with their egos too far up their ass not liking me won't make much of a difference."

"Is that all you have to say?"

"What, do you want it in writing?"

"That will not be necessary. This concludes the interview. The League will render its final judgment soon."

Well, that's not fucking ominous at all.

The Martian moves towards the exit in his inhuman glide.

"Yeah while you do that, give me a tennis ball or something to pass the time. It's fucking boring in here." You gesture to the cameras not-so-discreetly placed in the corners of the ceiling. "And I'm sure whoever's on the other side of that glass would agree."

He pays you a glance out of the corner of his eyes. "Your request will be considered."

And that was the day your eternity-long grudge against Martian-kind began.

You never got that tennis ball, and if that weren't enough to permanently sour your opinion of the Justice League, the slop that passed for food that was plopped in front of you by a cowering attendee with downcast eyes made you seriously consider how much worse something like Belle Reve could be than where you are now, stuck in outer space with a bunch of costumed vigilantes with the aggregate martyr complex to make even Jesus Christ himself blush.

At least give it the way you more than enough time to brood on your situation and focus on the mystery of "introspection" and "self-improvement", both of which were titles of self-help books so generously left on your bedside. The irony that they remained out of arm's reach was not lost on you.

So, what were you to do for the past, three days, seven hours, twenty-seven minutes, and nineteen, no, twenty, seconds, but lay back in your cot and let the clock tick away until your captors had come to a decision of your fate?

Yeah, fat chance of that.

You may not have been some medical genius but even you could tell you looked like you'd been used as some humvee-sized dobermann's chew toy, and the number of x-ray scans plastered on the walls confirmed your suspicions.

Every bone on the left side of your body may as well have the consistency of wet gravel. One of your lungs looks like it had shriveled up and died, and most of the muscle had separated cleanly from the tendons and joints. In short, you're basically a half-flayed human.

For the average person, the best situation may have been just surviving as a paraplegic, and even for a metahuman, being crippled for life could have been the most you could hope for. But according to your hallucinogenic fever dreams, you're more than either of those things.

You're a fucking Time god.

What did it matter if you needed months or even years to fully heal if you could do that with just a snap of your fingers?

Oswald Cobblepot had been an obese fifty-something crime lord. You snapped your fingers and he turned into what he would have looked like after a century in the grave in a matter of seconds.

If you could destroy, why couldn't you heal yourself? It's the same principle, and if you're right, there shouldn't be any adverse side effects to applying it to yourself.

If, being the operative word.

So, perhaps in the most hair-brained act of your entire life, you close your eyes, get yourself comfortable on your cot, clutch at time's golden threads, and instead of holding them tightly in place, force them forwards with all your might.

Belatedly, you realize this is a very bad idea. You recall that according to some encyclopedia you had picked up a few years ago, muscular regeneration is an extremely taxing and energy-reliant process, doubly so for the repair of bones.

Evidently, human bodies are not meant to undergo entire years of such a healing process in a matter of seconds.

It starts as the barest hum, as the flesh beneath your skin vibrates and your hairs stick up on end. And then you're gasping for breath as your diaphragm expands and contracts a hundred times per second, draining the entire room of oxygen in a matter of seconds.

Your skin begins to burn as your cells generate and expend energy, flooding your body with histamines and adrenaline that leave the metal railing of your bed creaking and groaning under an iron-clad grip.

Bones rearrange and snap themselves together. Muscles and tendons glue themselves into their rightful place, and all the while you're overcome with a full-body fever like you've been dipped in lava.

You can feel how the muscles pulse and regain their definition, how your flesh kneads itself back together and forces the stitches and gauze out like you're under the care of an invisible host of doctors.

And just as suddenly as it began, it's over. What could have been years of healing and rehabilitation condensed into a measly ten seconds.

It's a challenge in of itself just to keep your eyes open seeing as you just spent the caloric equivalent of a minor supernova. But even through the exhaustion, the everpresent pain that had plagued your body had just...vanished.

With a shaky hand, you pluck and tear out the gauze and casts that still covered most of your body, and instead of being met with a mass of destroyed and disfigured flesh, you find only healthy and firm skin, as though your body had returned to exactly as it was right before you had fought Klarion.

That is, except for the scars. Not even Time could heal the physical legacy of Klarion's magics or his killer cat's fangs. A long white scar runs up your heel and all the way to just below your knee, and where Klarion's magics had caught you fully on was a mass of scar tissue that looked like the flesh had cratered.

But, there's no pain. Unbidden, you do something you haven't done in maybe years, you give thanks. Thanks to Kronos, if he were even real or just a symptom of your need for a parental figure - that's beside the point.

You're healed, and that's all that matters. Gathering yourself up, you hobble towards the door, uncaring that you're still wearing a hospital gown and your whole back is exposed to the cold sterile air. You'd been in that bed for far too long and no one's going to make your stay in it for even a second longer.

You open the door and come crashing into something with the stopping power of a hurtling subway train.

Extracting yourself from the literal brick wall you've run headfirst into, which for some reason is very blue, and has a large S engraved into it, you're ready to tell of whichever orderly decided to ruin your newfound freedom only for the words to dry up just on the tip of your tongue.

Superman looks down at you sternly, arms folded across his chest, brow furrowed and jaw visibly clenched like a disappointed father.

"I think it's time we talked."

If it'd been anybody else you'd have definitely said no. Or so you tell yourself.

Had you been in a better shape, you could have maybe come with a sly quip or sarcastic remark. Instead, your mouth hangs open slightly. Superman looks at you unimpressed.

He gives you a terse command to get dressed and a bundle of clothes appears in his hand. They thump against your chest with just a bit more than necessary force before you're not so lightly nudged back inside and the door shuts softly behind you.

"You have five minutes. Then I bring back up." You hear his muffled voice through the door.

You tell yourself that had it been anyone else, you would have gladly flipped them the bird and kept on walking. It's only your sense of self-preservation - definitely not the sense of overwhelming awe in standing face to face with THE Man of Steel, that makes you comply with the Kryptonian's words.

Shuffling off your hospital clothes, you don the pair of dark jeans and jacket provided to you. All the while, your mind races at near-infinite thoughts per second, which is not quite an exaggeration, and every one of the plans you conceive, even with the benefit of foresight, come falling down when you're faced with the factor of the most powerful superhero in the world standing outside your door.

Oh sure, you could have given a hearty "Fuck You" to the fates and tried your luck, but instead, you listen to that little voice in the back of your head that sounds suspiciously like you but older that tells you to bide your time.

Left with no other choice, you sigh heavily and open the door to find the Man of Steel just where'd you have left him.

He gives you a cursory look, eyes flashing a brilliant ruby for the barest hint of a second. He's checking you for weapons, you realize.

"You want to throw out that excuse for a shiv, or should I?" he asks pensively.

What? Could anyone really blame you for trying? If you had to fight your way out, you'd rather have some kind of weapon. Shrugging carelessly, you let the four-inch piece of warped metal that were once your handcuffs clatter to the ground.

"If you're done, follow me. The League wants to speak with you."

"Oh goody," you mutter.

As you follow behind the imposing form of Superman, quite literally just a bit beneath his shadow under the flourescent lights, you can't but imagine this is what a death row inmate feels like on their walk to the execution room.

Orderlies in dull blue jumpsuits scatter at the sight of the two of you, casting looks of reverence and awe to the hero ahead, and thinly-veiled suspicion to you. You already have a reputation it looks like.

Luckily, time seems to skip forwards and when you blink back into attention, you stop just short of crashing into Superman's back in front of a large set of double doors with the letters "JL" carved prominently into the center.

"Is it too late to ask for my lawyer?" you ask.

Superman's response is drier than the Sahara. "If he has a spaceship and credentials with the intergalactic council, by all means."

A blithe laugh escapes you ."Not much of a choice is it? Guess I'll have to rely on that book of criminal law I read when I was seven."

You remember every word of that book but you don't think its in-depth explanation of the difference between manslaughter and second-degree murder would save you here.

Superman gives you a sideways look of consideration but doesn't respond.

He pushes the door open and they give a silent groan in response before turning inwards revealing a brightly lit interior dominated by a single table that spans the length of the room. The walls are decorated with all manner of trophies and regalia, and covered with vivid tapestries of valor and courage and statues of victorious heroes that make your stomach turn in on itself.

But none of that matters to you. Your eyes are glued to the dozen figures that sit around the stone table. Each of whom you can name by heart and each of whom examines you with varying levels of suspicion and judgment.

A man and woman sat side by side with spiked maces at her hip and features hidden behind by a mask shaped into a hawk's beak.

The Thanagarians, Hawkman, and Hawkwoman.

A man dressed in armor forged from what looks like fish scales reclining against a brilliantly golden trident.

Aquaman himself. You feel just a bit honored that you're important enough to stir the Lord of Atlantis from the ocean.

Then there's the Martian Manhunter, silent and cold as ever with ruby eyes that give away nothing. To his left sits Dr. Fate who acknowledges your attention with the barest nod of acknowledgment. The Flash, dressed in his iconic red, breezes through an innumerable number of motions that would have been unnoticeable to anyone but you.

Then there is Wonder Woman, features as stiff as though carved from marble.

But none of those matter compared to the man who sits at the head of the table, his features hidden behind a cowl adorned with a pair of wickedly sharp ears, and pale green eyes as unrelenting as a frozen mountainside.

A crooked smile rises across your features. "How's it been, Bruce?"