A few years ago I wrote my first fanfiction on this site under a different account. It was my intention to create a story about the turmoil that certain characters face when faces from their past come back to haunt them, as old friends find themselves on opposite sides of the law. I never got around to finishing it due to an ever-growing schedule in my life. And, whenever I took the time to look over it again, I didn't like what I read. I've recently lost access to the email address under the previous account, and so, I saw this as the perfect opportunity to try again with this story—to do it correctly if you would. I've rethought character motivations over the years, and I'd like to think that my writing has improved. Let us hope, yes?
Forgive me for the longwinded explanation. Without further adieu, I hope you enjoy.
Disclaimer: I do not own the Teen Titans or other affiliated materials.
"This must be that excellent Paris weather I've heard so much about."
It was nightfall, a waning crescent overhanging the Champ de Mars, as the banshee wind shrieked, violently swaying trees and scattering leaves like a volley of arrows. A scurry of panicked would-be picnickers rushed to pack their evening plans: several baguettes filled with pesto and egg, two bottles of sparkling wine, and a tray of pink macarons. The men of the disoriented group barked at each other as the wind whipped their backs, their clothes flapping at a pace that even a hummingbird could appreciate. One let loose a swear as the breeze claimed the macarons and hurled them away, lost to tomorrow's scavengers. Seeing this, one of the more focused women of the group worked hard to save the sandwiches, only for the gust to rip the necklace from her neck, sending her in a mad dash after it.
Leaning against a distant building, a figure watched with mild amusement. He raised a cigarette to his mouth, holding it there as if pondering whether or not to actually inhale. He finally made up his mind, allowing the vapors to flood his body as the cigarette emitted a faint glow. As he released a puff of smoke, one of the retreating picnickers tripped along the pavement, triggering a slight chuckle followed by a wheeze. He observed the cigarette with a marked agitation.
"Bah. So disagreeable."
He discarded it to the side and took his leave into the building he was leaning against prior. His eyes were greeted with a dimly lit chamber, with a bedlam of debris as far as one could gaze: broken tiles, rotted wood, rusted metal scaffolding that has long since crashed to the ground—all relics of a now derelict construction project. What it was intended to be? It was anyone's guess.
The figure cautiously glided across the room until finding the item of his interest, a hatch leading down below. He brushed away the dust from the corroded iron handle and, surely enough, found a just visible etching, a skull sitting above a triangular pattern. Satisfied, he raised the hatch and disappeared into the depths. Using the walls to guide him in the darkness, he continued down the steps into a narrow corridor leading into catacombs. Occasionally, his guiding hand would find itself within a gap in the wall, brushing up against skeletal remains. No doubt these recesses were built into the wall to house the catacomb's original inhabitants. He imagined that nowadays they also lodged those who made the Brotherhood's list. As he proceeded, the architecture grew more modern. Roughly chiseled stonework to neatly lined bricks, mounted torches to overhead lights.
He soon found himself within the grand hall, its scale not unlike the broad amphitheaters of the Greeks and Romans of old. Banners bearing the same insignia from before dotted the walls in an overbearing presence, a testament to arrogance. More of them lay on the floor in tatters, in complement to the mass of disembodied animatronic pieces littering the place—the remains of the Brotherhood's army, he imagined. This was the site of a great conflict, that much was for certain. Aside from the leftover rubbish, the floor was garnished with scorch markings and humanoid indentations, ranging from a few centimeters to an entire three-quarters of a meter deep. Plateauing above him were several platforms, acting as shelves upon which rows upon rows of ice sculptures rested. At least, they were sculptures until one decided to examine them more closely.
It would seem that the rumors were indeed true. When superpowered crime experienced a marked decrease a month prior, people began to offer their explanations for the phenomenon. To some, it was the work of a righteous God, smiting down all those cradling evil within their hearts. Other took note of the ever increasing presence of the Teen Titans, whose membership had skyrocketed around that period. To them, it seemed that the villains were rehabilitated at the sight of decreasing odds, ditching cape and weapons for the mundane life. And then there was talk of an epic clash between the world's superhumans, in which the positive portion of the moral compass incapacitated the negative. It would appear that the lattermost explanation was closest to the truth.
The figure grabbed the items hanging from his side and fumbled about with his face until he was satisfied with how it felt. He allowed himself a deep breath as he stepped away from the safety of the shadows into the embrace of artificial lighting. There were two particularly peculiar traits regarding his appearance:
Firstly, his large stature. His height was well above that of the normal man, and indeed he did tower over most "abnormal" people he has encountered. And although he did not maintain the bulky frame of a bodybuilder, it was apparent that he was muscular, slender as he was. These two characteristics, when combined, pervaded what some around him would come to dub "a brutish vibe".
Secondly, his attire. From the neck down, he looked very much like a man who had stepped out of Victorian England. His chest was embedded within layer upon layer—at the very core a tight-fitting white dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar and cuffed at the ends of the sleeves; beyond that a red waistcoat, left untucked, its lapels folded over to provide a better view of the dress shirt underneath; beyond that a dark overcoat, unbuttoned and reaching down to his knees, its lapels likewise folded over and fastened upon the shoulders to provide a dignified appearance. Paired with these were dark trousers, which reached down to his ankles, covering the tops of his black leather boots, the tips adorned with a white swirling design. Upon each hand he wore a black leather glove.
Wrapped around his head (leaving but his face exposed), and reaching down beneath the collar of the dress shirt, was a coarse black fabric. Stiffly attached to this garment—much to his discomfort—was a beaked mask, made from a blanched porcelain, save for the eyes, which were made from glass of a crimson hue. To complete the outfit, he wore upon his head a wide brimmed dark leather hat, upon which ran an ebony ribbon.
He reached within his overcoat, producing from it a wooden cane, cut from oak in such a way to provide him with a perpendicular grip at the top. He tossed it into the air, catching it at its base. Looking back towards the bottommost shelf, he made a vertical swing, the grip catching the top of the platform. With a yank, he embedded it there, the tiles and underlying foundation cracking with little resistance to the brutal force. He gave another gentler tug to ensure its stability before hoisting himself up. He then retrieved his cane, undamaged from his violent climbing tactic. Resting it upon his shoulder, he sauntered across the platform, inspecting the encased villains.
The first one to catch his eye was the Brain. The figure cocked his head at the sight: a lifeless jar trapped within a pillar of ice. Even the glob of fat within did not move. He took note of the lack of the Brain's usual transportation vessel. It would appear that an escape attempt was made. It piqued his interest. Who else tried to get away? And did they succeed? Much to his satisfaction, as he looked further down the line, he found Immortus, Monsieur Mallah, and Madame Rouge all likewise trapped with expressions of terror forever frozen upon their faces. He smiled and took a step back to admire the irony of it all. Not too long ago, they had intended a similar end for him. Fate is fickle, it would seem.
Continuing onwards, he found himself stopping again for another familiar face: the H.I.V.E. Headmistress. Of course, that was all figurative, as her face was buried within the chest of another elderly gentleman clad in white. Her attire was a dead giveaway, however. He stared at the two, mulling over his breath whether or not to release them. A year ago, he'd have done it in a heartbeat. But with his tenure at the Academy having been terminated for some time now, he owed no loyalty to the organization and those associated with it. Furthermore, freeing them would do little if anything to advance his agenda. With this in mind, he left them to their icy tombs.
It took time for him to find another that captured his attention, though he had passed several villains on the way. An overweight man who looked as if he had stepped out of a sci-fi television program. A slim blue man in the garb of a stage magician. A giant artificial heart. None of them were what he was looking for. The same question burned in his mind as he wandered along: did anyone manage to escape?
He stopped again by a group of villains unceremoniously heaped upon each other. Yes, he recognized this miserable little pile of rubbish. Gizmo, See-More, Kyd Wykkyd, Billy Numerous, and Mammoth. He was surprised a group as exclusive as the Brotherhood would allow students fresh out of the Academy to join them, especially students as unfocused as these. But, what was he saying? These days, even a jaywalker could acquire membership in the organization. His interest lost, he walked away from the group. She was not amongst them.
He continued searching amongst the iced villains, occasionally using his cane to reach a new platform. Yet, for all his searching, he still could not find her. He was aware that it was her very dream to join an organization as prestigious as the Brotherhood and that she was indeed ambitious enough to garner their attention. Yet she was nowhere to be seen amongst the encased villains. Could she have escaped? It would be to his relief if she did, but the point still stood. He wanted to find her. Sensing his options growing limited, he moved towards the machine maintaining the stasis of the villains and released the miserable little pile of rubbish.
…
Gizmo was the first to regain consciousness, his balded head perking up and groggily analyzing every aspect of the room, much as a person waking up from a heavy night of drinking would, trying to remember what had happened before passing out. His head swayed somewhat, indicating that he was still woozy—either from the month-long stasis or the beating that had preceded it. His eyes finally fixated on the figure.
"Dracul?" he managed to croak out.
"Sleep well?"
The tyke shook his head rapidly, his eyes widening as he began to realize the implications of what he was seeing. He fell backwards from the pile out of fear, squeaking out, "Dracul!"
The figure rolled his head in exasperation.
"Yes, yes, Gizmo. How very observant of you."
The boy was visibly shaken. Surely, he did not expect to be released from his frozen prison, let alone by his least favorite professor. No doubt, he'd have expected Dracul to number amongst those locked in an icy stasis, if not amongst those old bones in the catacombs. Indeed, Gizmo was there to witness Dracul be unceremoniously dragged away by Brotherhood soldiers. Brother Blood made sure to make it a public event. When all was said and done, Dracul would need to remember to thank Blood for that, personally.
The boy's compatriots began to stir, each following a similar transition to Gizmo's, scanning the room as they tried to piece together what happened. And much like Gizmo, when their eyes trained on Dracul, they were launched into a fit of stammering and disbelief.
"Good evening, gentlemen."
They continued to babble, aside from Kyd Wykkyd that is. Dracul let out a heavy sigh.
"Certainly a month's slumber did not leave you all incoherent as well as inept."
See-More was the first to shape up, hopping up into a stiff salute, stuttering out, "No sir!"
The others soon followed his example. It was a rather grand display, the five of these teenagers whipped up into a disciplined salute. Why, even Billy displayed a sense of soldierly class. Mammoth as well, though, admittedly, Dracul always had a bit of a soft spot for the giant. Whenever he was around, nobody noticed Dracul's own staggering size.
"I see fortune has been kind to you…" Dracul began, gesturing to the other encased villains and the shambles of the Brotherhood base.
That was a mistake on his part. The illusion of discipline shattered, as the boys all began bickering amongst themselves, forcing blame upon each other for the predicament they had been in.
"You dragged us into this, Gizmo." Mammoth growled as he picked up the pint-sized boy genius by the neck of his onesie.
"Put me down you crud-muncher! You were the one lazy enough to not finish the job with Cyborg."
"How was I supposed to know he'd get out of that ditch?" the giant lamented as he dropped the boy.
"That's why you go down there and make sure he doesn't, pie-for-brains!" Gizmo barked back.
Billy had doubled, he and his clone pounding accusing fingers into See-More's chest.
"And where were you when we were skedaddlin'? We could have used your help." he demanded.
See-More's eye rolled, revealing a question mark.
"When did you guys try to leave?"
The Billies turned towards Kyd Wykkyd.
"Why in the Sam Hill didn't you give him the memo? Had something better to do?" one asked.
"Maybe he was busy flirting with Angel, Billy." the other chimed in.
"Good one, Billy."
Both began giggling to themselves. The mute glared at the two without amusement, before smacking the original upside the head.
"Ow! What was that for?
"He's mute, dummy." See-More chastised.
"That don't give him an excuse."
"Are you normally this stupid or is this just a special occasion?"
They continued with this for a good five minutes as Dracul stood observing with annoyance. It was easy to see why these five failed to escape. He thrust the end of his cane towards Gizmo in one swift movement, stopping just at his Adam's Apple, before raising the boy's chin to look back towards him. The boy, sensing the erratic convulsions of the stick, took a nervous gulp. The others dropped the discussion completely and stiffened up.
Dracul took a deep breath, regaining his composure before trying again.
"I see fortune has been kind to you. But it appears to me that it was kinder unto misfortune."
They did not seem to follow. A more blunt approach, perhaps?
"One of your friends is missing. I'd like you to enlighten me as to why that is."
Gizmo seemed to be the first to catch on to Dracul's meaning, and appointed himself as the group's spokesman.
"Jinx? We aren't friends with her anymore. She decided to swoon over some wannabe track star. Because 'Oh, he can run fast.'"
He made gestures in the air as he impersonated her.
"Those two barf-brains are the only reason we got stuck here in the first place. Why, if she were here right now, I'd—"
The boy was cut short, feeling the cane pressed against his Adam's Apple.
"Spare me the bravado, if you would." Dracul hissed.
"Yes sir."
"So she and this other individual, they left you here and escaped?"
"Escape? What escape? She's in cahoots with them. Those good-for-nothing Titans. Her 'new friend' is one of them." Gizmo responded bitterly.
"Oh?"
Dracul flung his cane back over his shoulder. Now this was an unexpected turn of events. It most certainly was not what he wanted to hear. Much had happened in the course of his absence, it would seem. He paced back and forth, mulling over the repercussions this would have on his plans. At last, he decided it was of little consequence. It was not likely he'd encounter her, perhaps for the better. At the very least, her safety allowed him peace of mind. That being said, he still found himself curious about her whereabouts. He turned back towards the group of graduates.
"Where do you suppose she is now?"
Gizmo shrugged.
"If I had to guess, probably with Kid Flash in his hometown. Keystone City."
The location hit Dracul like an upset punch to the stomach.
"Damn it all," he thought to himself, "Of all the cities in the world, why'd she choose to reside there?"
He strolled over to the edge of the platform.
"Thank you kindly, gentlemen."
Gizmo called out to him, "Wait! What about us?"
"What about you?" Dracul retorted.
"You're going to see Jinx? Take us with you."
"Whatever for?"
Gizmo did not answer. See-More spoke up meekly.
"For… revenge?"
The rest of them hopped onto the bandwagon, half-heartedly expressing their approval for the suggestion. Dracul sighed. They certainly were a sentimental lot, especially for someone who had just abandoned them. He supposed it couldn't hurt. If anything, he might be able to find some use for them in his own agenda, once the damage control with Jinx was said and done.
"Very well. You boys may come along. For the sake of 'revenge'."
They began to celebrate jovially amongst themselves, high-fiving and grinning at the news.
"However, in choosing to follow me, you bind yourselves within my employment."
"A job?" one of the Billies interrupted in disgust.
"Adequate compensation shall be accommodated to you, do not concern over that. But you will follow my orders to the letter. No matter how unpalatable it is to you. No matter how confounding or pointless it may seem. When I tell you to jump, the response I expect is 'How high?'. Are we at an understanding?"
"What exactly are you planning?" Gizmo asked skeptically.
"As of now? Consolidation." Dracul replied.
"For what?"
"Do not fret over those details as of yet, Gizmo. For now, I say it is time that we dropped in on dear Jinx."