Apotheosis part - 2

Words 3,134

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"Don't be so modest, if it wasn't you taking the time to stab me in the back we wouldn't be in this situation." you bite back. "If you're trying to teach me the futility of helping others you're making a really convincing argument. Next time some demon looking for some entertainment comes knocking, I'll make sure to not move a hand when that plane comes tumbling out of the sky."

Something akin to sympathy flashes across her face before it crumbles away. "Do not discount our concern for us being ungrateful. Your aid was invaluable as attested by our 'team of sidekicks'." she wryly.

Wonder Woman just admitted they're sidekicks. Dick's never going to hear the end of this from you next time he breaks into your apartment. Oh, fuck if you only got that on tape.

"But we know what you did in Gotham, there is blood on your hands."

You force yourself up in your seat ignoring how your body screams in protest as barely-healed wounds break open once more.

"And you don't, Amazon?" you hiss. "I know the stories and I don't think that sword on your hip is just for show. What's the saying, don't throw stones from a glass house?"

Her fingers dance off the pommel softly, and she stares over your shoulder as though lost in thought, before returning to you.

"It is true," she begins. "I am no stranger to death. But I have never slain another out of anger or when it was unjust."

The utter fucking gall of this sanctimonious bitch. Does she think you're some kind of psychopath that likes to go around killing people for the thrill of it?

You can feel the currents of Time, endless golden threads all around you, but they do not react to your rancor. It's a different kind of pain to feel something close to yourself suddenly inaccessible. You can feel your eyes burn. Wonder Woman's eyes widen by a fraction.

The strength leaves you and you collapse back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

"And you think I have? If you think I am lying, use that lasso of yours Clearly I'm guilty until proven innocent here."

"If you desire a trial, I would be happy to oblige you, but amongst the Amazons is it considered dishonorable to engage against the injured."

"Think of it as me giving you a fair chance." Your words may have had more of the intended effect if half your body wasn't covered in bandages or wrapped in gauze, but it's the principle of the thing.

"Perhaps you are right," she begins as she steps away, her receding footsteps sounding like thunder in the sterile silent room.

"I do not need the lasso to know sincerity, and I do not always need it to sense lies. You are hiding secrets from me, but I will not pry it out of you."

You continue to examine the ceiling for a long moment before speaking.

"You won't do it until your patience with me has run out, will you? Is that how this will go? You play the role of the honorable princess until it doesn't suit you? When do the gloves come off and you become the terror of the trenches that you were so long ago? How many Germans did you kill then? How many of them really even stood a snowball's chance in hell against you?"

"A fair few," she says dispassionately. "I am not a daughter of Apollo or Hades."

"No, just the supposed daughter of Zeus himself, who we all know is so renowned for being just and fair."

"You would do best to respect the King of the Gods."

"Sorry, but I don't respect myths."

"And I do not need the lasso to know you hide truths from me."

You stiffen. How could she possibly know when you discovered it only minutes ago? But if she thinks it's true, then the chances of it being real are...nearly absolute.

You suddenly realize if everything is true, that makes Zeus your brother, and by extension, Wonder Woman...your niece.

She looks at you strangely when you burst into a fit of laughter. Her lips purse. "This is the end of our conversation, then. A thoroughly enlightening one, it was. But know this Cadmus Othrys, I do not hold you truly at fault for any of this. It is simply in our nature."

"Ours?" you suddenly ask.

She smiles for the first time, it's a cold and brittle thing. "The blood of gods or Titans is not something to trifle with. Destruction comes easy to all of us. Some more than others."

You can't just let her leave without one last parting gift. After all, what kind of uncle would you be?

"Oh and niece," Wonder Woman goes stock still, and her back stiffens. "do send in the next well-wisher, it's not like I have anything better to do."

She lingers for a moment, hand clenched tightly around the pommel of her blade as though contemplating on turning around and running you through. She'd be welcome to try, but you'd do your damn best to take her down with you.

Luckily, it doesn't come to that and she stalks out of the room, slamming it loudly on the way out.

No matter how much you dislike her, damn it was nice to watch her walk away.

Mood significantly improved, you finally allow the tension in your body to bleed away and allow yourself the rest you so desperately need.

The only other interaction you have with another person for the next four hours and seventeen minutes is when you're given a cold meal of fruit and oatmeal by a stuttering orderly who immediately flees the room.

You glare at the plate laid haphazardly on the table next to your bedside and then at the cuffs that keep you locked in place.

"Depriving me of food is a violation of my rights!" your protest of the violation of your constitutional rights goes quietly unheard.

"Great, guess I'll just starve, then." Your stomach rumbles in the complaint. "You know what? I'm going on hunger strike!"

"There will be no need for such rash ultimatums."

Standing at the entrance of the door is a man dressed in black armor outlined with gold, and around his neck hangs a golden amulet in the shape of an Ankh. His face is fully covered by a familiar shining helm, and iridescent light emanates from where eyes should be.

You hadn't even heard the door open, and there's like much for you to do, it's like he's just appeared.

"I'm going to take a wild guess and say you're not Fishnets."

The last time you'd seen that golden helm, it had saved your life from Klarion, so you could afford to be at least a little respectful, emphasis on a little. You're still tied up and starving after all.

The man crosses his arms over his chest and looks at you impassively. "Zatanna Zatara is no longer the host of Fate." He declares with an air of unbrooked finality.

"Huh, is she, you know okay?" you ask with only a bit of care for the answer. It'd be just a shame to deprive the world and your eyes of those fishnets.

"Her father, Giovanni Zatarra, has claimed the Mantle of Fate in her place." He tilts his head slightly as though listening to someone far away. "and he is most irate in the manner by which you address his daughter."

"Oh-oh," you mutter as the realization finally sets on you and a little shiver of something like fear runs up your spine. "he can hear me?"

"Most acutely."

There are many things you could say to the father of the girl who kind-of, sort of, just maybe saved your life.

A heartfelt thank you would have been most assuredly in order and even expected, maybe even the promise of turning over a new leaf with your new lease on life in a sudden bout of self-introspection. At a minimum, one could expect the slightest bit of deference from a heavily injured human (Titan but that's still up for debate) that was handcuffed to a hospital bed and was directly in the crosshairs of one of the Justice League's most formidable members.

But you're...well, you, and introspection is very overrated.

"Well tell him it's his fault for dressing his daughter like that in public. What else am I supposed to call her, top hat? leotard, maybe?"

Fate's fists clench audibly and his eyes glow like supernovas. A foreboding heavy presence falls over the room choking the breath from your lungs. You are instinctually tense in preparation for a blow. Time's golden threads hang listlessly and unresponsive to your adrenaline, and you belatedly realize you are quite literally helpless in this very moment. You wouldn't take a word back, though.

Just as suddenly as it had come, the pressure dissipates and the incandescent lights that are Fate's eyes dim. His fists slowly unclench.

"Clearly your injuries have done little to dull your insolence."

"It's a gift," you admit.

"One of the few that remain intact it seems." He looks pointedly at the half of your body wrapped in gauze and bandages. "The blight of Chaos festers in your wounds."

A little bit of hope glimmers up in your chest at his words. Could Fate possibly know what's happening to you? You don't ask him so nicely.

"Poetic, but could you spell it out for those who didn't take Shakespeare? You know what's wrong with me?"

His next words, instead of inspiring hope as a hero should only serve to leave a yawning chasm where your stomach would be.

"The Witch Boy is a Lord of Chaos, a powerful one at that, and you suffered under an undo torrent of his magic. Any mundane mortal would have been instantly incinerated. Any of those heroes with you would have died slow and agonizing deaths. But you… it has left perhaps irrecoverable damage to your body. Chaos mutates and distorts such as its nature, and your powers will so too be changed towards Chaos's destructive influence."

Learning that the source of your troubles is possibly permanent damage done to you by a daemon and his pet cat has the profound effect of dampening your already sober mood by quite a bit.

"Oh, that sucks. When will it leave then?"

"Months, years, perhaps never. Chaos is loathed to release its grip."

"Well that's fantastic, is there any bright news you'd like to add on besides that? Maybe 'ol Giovanni would like to give me the shovel talk? If not, could you be a bit useful and do something about these cuffs? I need to eat after all."

Fate ponders your question impassively and then waves his hands. The cuffs shimmer and morph in a ray of golden light before revealing a similar pair of handcuffs that are mercifully only tied to your wrists, and not to the bed.

Without prompting, you grab the plate of food from your bedside and begin scarfing it down with abandon. All the while, Fate watches silently.

It's just when you're finishing up the last bit of applesauce that Fate finally deigns to speak again.

"We do have one more thing to speak about, Cadmus Othrys, Gotham."

"If you're here to give me the same moralistic virtue-signaling spiel, don't bother. Dear Diana and Bats have already given me that long ago. You're not getting a single word out of me."

"Fate is well aware of your actions on the night of Saturnalia, and unlike our compatriots, Fate does not chastise you for your actions."

"Yeah, well fuck you-wait what?"

You have the feeling that if a helmet could smirk, it'd exude the same self-assured superiority radiating off Fate right now.

"For all the good Batman does, and there is much good that he does do in the service of Order, his morals and ideals are unfalteringly...mortal in their scope."

For the first time since you've woken up in this sanitized hellhole, you feel vindicated, and dare you say, even a little bit understood.

"That's exactly what I'm saying!" you declare, tossing the plate to the side and gaining a disapproving look from Fate in response. "You know what Fate? I think I like you."

"What our problem is with your execution."

And just like that, the moment is gone.

"I rescind my last statement. Alright, lay it on me then. What did I do wrong?"

You didn't know what to expect Fate to do, but it's definitely not producing a gold-tinted map of Gotham in thin air.

"Oswald Cobblepot's death alone would have inspired chaos within the ranks of his criminal empire. Going as far as to kill his lieutenants and foot soldiers, curbed the extent of such a civil war, and the chaos that would ensue from such. As Fate suspects to your ultimate goal, his kingdom collapsed overnight. But you were short-sighted in your goals, for not even a week later, the many gangs of Gotham spread chaos through the streets as they tore apart the corpse. Your actions left wanton destruction as well when it was unnecessary, so much so, it suggests your actions were driven not by duty but by need. Your actions fed Chaos and left Gotham worse off."

The map shifts and morphs, and the checkered-in part that represented Penguin's empire collapses into a myriad of colors.

"So what? Are you saying I didn't go far enough? That I could have been more precise, cleaner?"

"Precisely. Instead of ending a crime empire, you spawned a dozen petty kings amidst the ravaged and burning ruins of an empire, with little of the order that their predecessor had. Gotham's streets are burning day and night. A night of Order for a year of Chaos is not a trade one should ever accept. When one embarks on such endeavors, they must see it completed in its entirety. No loose ends, so to speak."

"...You have to be the most confusing hero I've ever met."

Fate looks almost insulted, which is impressive considering the helm has no facial features.

"We are not a hero, we are a Lord of Order. Fate sides with the Justice League because our current aims coincide with theirs. Good and Evil are trifling and short-sighted ideals best left to mortals. Order and Chaos and the Balance between is all that matters to the universe."

"Very...new-age spiritual, I'd write that down if I had a pen." One suddenly pops into existence in your hand. "Oh, and there's one in my hand, would you look at that?"

"Though your previous actions may have produced more Chaos than Order, your battle against Klarion has done more than enough to wipe the slate clean in such regards. To fight a Lord of Chaos in single combat is the height of bravery and service in the eyes of Order."

You'd have the temerity to look ashamed if you were capable of such a thing. "Thank you, I pride myself on punching above my weight."

"Hmm," Fate hums noncomittally. "Whatever comes next, you have Fate's support, Son of Time, so long as you stay on the side of Order. Tread elsewhere, and know Fate's wrath."

He claps his hands together, and you shield your eyes as he disappears in a blinding flash of light.

"Err, thanks, I guess?"

It's only moments after Fate's abrupt departure do his words finally sink in.

You don't weep or fall into a deep and introspective mood. All you feel is anger, anger that burns like smoke in the back of your throat and fills up your lungs like the rushing rapids of a river.

Crippled. An invalid. All because of your own fucking pride.

You'd been too brash, too headstrong. Your actions were controlled more by your ego than your head and where had that gotten you? Cuffed and confined to bed like some back alley thug who had the sorry luck to be caught by Batman.

When was the last time you felt so weak, so humbled? When the diner had gone up in flames, maybe? But even that felt like nothing in comparison to this. All that anger building up in you like a volcano ready to burst, it had to be directed somewhere, or you'd just implode.

Klarion had done this to you, and you all had to show for it was some dead overgrown fleabag and his last shrieking words as he disappeared in a red mist. I'll be back, he had declared with such certainty that you didn't need precognition to know that he would be. But what would you do when he inevitably did? What would be different?

Who could you have to blame but yourself for where were you are now? Strapped to a hospital bed like some homeless tweeker who got his hands on a shiv?

You could blame the star-spangled holier-than-thou capes that Shanghaied you to wherever this gods-forsaken place this, and you'd be justified in doing so. You stuck your neck out to help them. Hell, you're the sole reason why Gotham isn't the number one producer of child-sized caskets right now.

And what did you get for that, to show for your heroics? Bland cafeteria food and chafing prison cuffs.

But then again, that wouldn't have happened if you'd just worked with the rest of the team, the annoying logical part of your mind reminds of you.

You can't find fault in that statement, no matter how much you want to. After all, it'd be entirely your own choice to try to fight someone called a "Lord of Chaos" one-on-one.

The fact that you technically won notwithstanding, of course.

Introspection has never been one of your strong suits, seeing as you have never had a use for it when all of your actions up to this point have been completely justified- And you're doing it again.

Pride had gotten you here, and it would land you somewhere far worse next time. That couldn't happen.

So with a slowly brimming resolution, you recline back in the bed and close your eyes, preparing yourself for the challenging endeavor of self-reflection.

You get a good forty minutes of napping, err, meditation before the door slams open and ruins your concentration.

Looking up, you come face to face with the tall figure of a man standing in the doorway. His skin is the color of leaves and his eyes are a glittering red.

"The Martian Manhunter," you whistle lowly, unmindful of the complaint your lungs give. "what a surprise. First Wonder Woman and Fate, and now you. Should I expect Big Blue himself next?"