Arkham Asylum
Dhalpin author's note: Time for another fine installment. I contributed some small input as I had a hankering to write some analyst comments about Illyana which apparently fit right into LordGrise's nefarious plans.
Part 7a
Illyana found herself in the dining room of Yorgies. For a moment, she thought she'd slid thru time again, or better, found herself adrift - but no, the infernal summoning still had her anchored, and she was still in the same reality. She glanced thru the window - whenever she was, it was morning. From the sounds in the kitchen, someone was already astir. Thoughtfully, she summoned her cell phone, powered it up, and waited for it to boot up and synch. The tone it made as it came online she couldn't avoid, so she muffled it by slipping it under her arm and up into her armpit. When it vibrated, she counted to five, and withdrew it to check the date.
She was back to when she had left from - lost less than five minutes, apparently. Good. She looked at the bit of parchment, sealed with an unmarked bleb of plain white candle wax, and tucked it away. Not for the first time, she wondered about alternate universe versions of herself - she'd never met one, but she honestly could not think of anything that would induce her to leave a note for a younger version of herself, so for the moment she let it be. Thoughtfully, she turned off the cell phone and dropped it back into Limbo, and opened a portal.
"Good morning, miss." A female voice greeted her in English. The voice had a bare trace of a Russian accent. "Took a wrong turn at Albequerque?"
Illyana looked to the kitchen, where a woman who was most definitely not the babushka from the night before was standing, and smiled. She liked the woman's spirit. "Something like that. I apologize for intruding. I did not mean to disturb."
The woman smiled. "You haven't disturbed. The dining room is a public room, even if the door is locked, and I was hoping to have the opportunity to thank you for protecting my family last night. Please feel free to come by again; you know your food, and my mother tells me you speak excellent Russian. It would do my children good to have some practice speaking with someone new, and - "
Illyana raised her hand, and the woman stopped speaking on cue. "I really have to go. My cell phone was probably traced, and in a minute or so you're just likely to have a Superman sized hole in your wall - or worse - if I don't go. So please forgive me, and I'll try to come again during normal business hours, when that isn't so likely. Ta!" So saying, a portal opened, and she stepped thru.
Not even a minute later, the Martian Manhunter phased thru the front door of the restaurant, followed by Superman, Wonder Woman, and the Flash, who had brought them thru the wall without doing damage to the building. They all looked around, and focused on the by then highly amused witch. "Good morning. I am Marya. Welcome to Yorgie's." She gazed upon the Martian Manhunter. "I can feel you scratching about at my mind, sir. That is not how heroes are reputed to behave... but I shall answer your question, unspoken though it be. She has left."
The Manhunter's face did not change expression, although he was taken aback at Marya's statement. He had been subtle, and had barely touched her - only enough to determine lack of hostility. "A pity. Perhaps when she arrives another time you could let us know? She does, after all, seem to frequent your establishment for at least one meal a day..."
Marya continued to smile, but the Manhunter could sense his suggestion had been offensive to her. "She has eaten here once, saved my husband from a beating or worse, demonstrated to my children that guardians do exist and will come when needed, and said this morning was an accident. Could I ask what it is that she's done that you are looking for her?"
Flash spoke up. "She's the one who burned down Arkham Asylum. She's also torched a man's home upstate. She's dangerous, lady."
Marya nodded, seemingly unimpressed. "And yet, not a single person killed, is it not so? The media is full of the miracle - no staff harmed, all the patients evacuated. And all the very, very dangerous inmates - nothing has been found of them, true?"
Superman took a step forward. "Yes, that is true. But, ma'am, we have reason to believe - "
"And I would wager no one has even attempted to ask her just why she did such a thing - if indeed she did. I cannot say. The man whose home was burned - that would be the home of Georgi Tsulkov, no?"
Wonder Woman spoke in respectful tones. "Mother... how do you know this?"
"Because it was his thugs that threatened my husband! She went to his home to impress upon him that our restaurant was off limits until they learned better manners. If his home burned, then it is because he was too stupid to listen!"
Marya took a deep breath, and visibly calmed herself. "She has protected my family - twice. Once last night, and again this morning, by departing without eating, rather than bring the prospect of damage to my home when you lot arrived. Know you this: this is Accorded Neutral Ground, and we do not discriminate here as long as the peace is kept. She is welcome here... as are you, as long as you offer no violence is initiated on these grounds. Now." She tossed the startled Manhunter a set of keys. "Unlock the doors, if you would; breakfast is just about ready, and we'll be opening in ten minutes anyway. You all may sign autographs and take selfies with my children."
Looking very much nonplussed, J'onn did as he had been directed, just as three children burst from the kitchen, the eldest carefully carrying a cell phone.
Amanda Waller stood in her office and watched the footage of Georgi Tsulkov's fortress-mansion burning as though it was made of charcoal briquettes and balsa wood instead of reinforced cement and steel beams, and was venomously silent.
She would not shed one tear for the relocated ex - KGB officer; he was Mafia, and that meant he slept in his big-boy pants. He'd deal, or sink; it was none of her concern what happened to him.
What would happen later in the day when all the other oligarchs of various organizations started calling their Congressmen and Senators... That was tiresomely predictable, and the distilled essence of all those calls was going to land squarely on her plate, she was mordantly sure.
And she had absolutely no idea how she was supposed to address that steaming pile of political pressure and semi - legitimate national security interest when it landed.
She held eighteen B - and C - list wannabe supervillains, and three genuine A - listers. Unfortunately, the one she needed most - Enchantress - was currently unavailable. And the other two - Gorilla Grodd and the Brain - were masterminds, not occultists or powerhouses.
Waller went back to her desk, and opened the file on Darkchilde. There were updates, she saw; but as she skimmed thru them, her headache deepened.
From the classified Department Defense Darkchilde dossier:
In the comics, Illyana Rasputin is portrayed similar to any other teenager. In typical comicdom fashion there are endless thought bubbles about social and teenage angst. Excessive emotional outburst and social tension.
That all vanishes upon her resurrection in comicdom after over twenty years after her published death. Never a thought bubble. Never a hint at what she is actually thinking. You only get her words and deeds, never her thoughts. This was apparently quite deliberate according to the publisher Marvel. 'We wanted her to be an unknown. You were not to ever understand just what was going on inside that head of hers. Just how she viewed things and why.'
The take-away being, one that her comic teammates learned well, was they you could never fully trust what she did as you had no idea why she was doing it.
I do not believe I am reading a classified report on a comic book character was Waller's thought, as she ruthlessly quashed the impulse to throw something across the room. She refocused her attention on her computer screen and continued with the update.
Another interesting facet is her lack of the classic comic book nemeses. Most comics reflect the reality of the super hero experience in that heroes have repeating villains: X-Men against the Sentinels, the Hellfire Club, the League of Evil Mutants. Captain America against Hydra, Thor against Loki, the list goes on and on.
But not the Darkchilde. It is a very disturbing facet of her narrative that she has no nemesis since her resurrection in the comic books. She has foes… but she tends to kill them, particularly if they are actually striving to kill her. One shot, that's all they get.
Sounds sensible was Waller's thought. How we ought to do business with all metas, on any offense! She flipped to another update, this one for a psych profile.
How does she think? What are her decision making processes? The comics only offer clues at best. One chilling sequence in the comics is when she leaves Kitty Pryde (the before mentioned childhood friend) alone with Scott Summers (aka Cyclops, and frequent team leader) after he had killed Prof. Xavier. Ms. Pryde had homicidal desires and fantasies in regards to Mr. Summers; the Subject was aware of this, and not only left Ms. Pryde alone with him, she prevented any intervention by anyone else.
Ms. Pryde and Mr. Summers did come to an understanding, after Ms. Pryde almost killed Mr. Summers via her phasing powers. When confronted about the incident, the Subject says "Things needed to be worked out. Now they are. We can move on."
One can only imagine just how uncertain Mr. Summers was in regards to the Subject following this incident. And did the Subject know that Mrs. Pryde would, in the end, not kill Mr. Summers? Did the Subject truly believe, or in some manner know, that Ms. Pryde merely needed the opportunity to share her grief with Mr. Summers? Unknown. But if the actual Subject is in any way similar to her comic book version, then we are faced with an entity with potentially vast powers, the will to use those powers, a low empathy index, and what appears to be, at least at times, an irrational decision making processes.
That is not a good combination.
Better and better... Waller thought. Professional ass-covering, doomsaying, and Captain Obvious level summation, all in the same set of paragraphs. She flipped to another profiler's report, and extracted a bottle of chilled water from her office refrigerator.
The Subject demonstrates profound emotional detachment to almost everybody, even her brother, whom she allowed to be infused with 'demonic energy' in order that he might gain some insight into her worldview. The stated reason for doing this, in the source materials, was the Subject's stated love for her brother. To call this 'very disturbing' would be a gross understatement. It must be kept in mind that the source material of this act is, after all, a comic book, which is written and edited for sensationalism; however, taken at face value, this episode would indicate a very damaged view of reality, extremely poor socialization, a weak grasp of consequence, and a profoundly debased sense of self esteem.
And this is the best insight professional profilers can give me. Waller thought while her stomach bubbled with acid frustration. She typed in a random page number.
Her planning ability at both the tactical and strategic level is first class, and there are numerous examples of the Subject throwing fights in order to either get to where she wishes to be, or to manipulate people. Her level of power varies significantly in the source materials provided. This may just be writer plot artifacts, or may also reflect her afore-mentioned tendency to throw fights and generally conceal her true capabilities.
One consistent indicator of power level and also her emotional state of the moment throughout the source materials is her physical appearance. The more demonic she appears, the greater her demonstrated capabilities. One could hypothesize that the guise of mortality either hinders her abilities, or her ability to express those abilities. With that as a reference, the Subject's appearance during the destruction of Arkham Asylum should only be considered a reference level of power and not the upper limit. The comics have the Subject take forms that result in even greater power.
One could hypothesize that the guise of mortality either hinders her abilities, or her ability to express those abilities. Waller reread that sentence three times, turning it over in her mind and attempting to draw some subtle insight from it. What was the functional difference the writer was trying to express? She wondered. She keyed in another, lower page number.
Weaponizing the fire that the Subject deployed at first appears to be greatly desirable. But then one must note, it already appears to have been weaponized. And just what do you do with fire that can consume anything... and how do you turn it off? It would be most unfortunate to accidentally incinerate the entire planet while simply trying to blow up some insurgents.
Wow. Just... wow was all Waller could think. And we pay people for these insights. Just howinhell are we supposed to accomplish this? Develop the Department of Defense Sorcerous Operations Unit? She went back to the original, first threat evaluation report, the one that was now practically public information, and went to the summation.
The psychological Red Team (worst case analysis team) review is very alarming. A sociopath when calm, a raging psychopath when her temper is aroused; strong and repeated implications of profound and untreated physical and emotional abuse, calculated and intended to bring about a damaged personality with the intrinsic nature to act without regard to consequences. Now combine that with the powers and abilities demonstrated, and we find ourselves with a creature that may well have apocalyptic potential. Accordingly, the Darkchilde is recommended to be considered a Threat Level Omega.
Idly, Waller paged to the citations section... and her eyes widened in shock and then narrowed. Comic books were bad enough, but fan fiction websites? She opened a new document, and sent forth her instructions.
I want facts, not fictions. I am aware our source materials are comic books, but fanfiction site materials are not to be used unless it can be shown to have been written by someone attached to one or another of her properties or titles at some point. Even then, I want those materials considered separately.
Petition the National Security Court to covertly subpoena all written materials generated in the development and the later redevelopment of the character Illyana Rasputin, AKA Magik, AKA Darkchilde, particularly the video game materials. We need to know what the limits of her powers are, and what her weaknesses and vulnerabilities might be.
I do _NOT_ want any of the actual individuals involved in the aforementioned character development projects contacted in any way whatsoever. There are far too many people to sequester; any attempts at interviews or interrogations will inevitably and rapidly erode what media and public awareness control we have over this situation. We will confine ourselves to documentary materials only.
Having done so, she sat back and finished off her water. It wasn't enough, she knew. She was going to be ordered to commit, she could feel it coming; the only question was when. It was her responsibility to have a menu of options available for when that call came.
Illyana approached the building housing The Daily Planet, expecting security guards, cameras, and metal detectors. Cameras there were aplenty, but only two security guards, both manning a reception desk central to the lobby.
"Daily Planet offices? Forty three is their front desk, ma'am. Elevators right there to twenty, switch to the elevators across the hall there, and then again on forty, and then off when you get to forty-three. The Planet has that whole floor, so you can't miss 'em, ma'am. Have a good day!"
Illyana approached the elevators, then spun on her heel and returned to the security guard. "I'm sorry, but... bathrooms?"
"Yes, ma'am, right over in the corner there. Not at all. Have a good day!"
Illyana suspected they said that a lot.
The bathroom was reasonably clean, pleasant smelling... and the entrance was in the view of no less than three cameras, by Illyana's estimate. That was fine; she wasn't staying that long. Illyana took a stall, sat without undoing anything, and began assessing the timelines of previous users. In one eternal moment, she followed a staffer in reverse up to the bullpen of the Daily Planet, and she had the timeline of her true quarry: a janitor. And just like that, she had every nook and corner no one else ever went into on the floors. She even knew where Clark Kent's glassed-in office was, with his name on the door. She returned her consciousness to her own present, focused on a particular supply closet, and found it dark and quiet. She stepped out of the stall and washed her hands to maintain tradecraft against the always-assumed-present, and to wait for the moment no one else was in the room... and stepped thru.
The supply closet was surprisingly roomy, for a closet; it was also surprisingly well - ventilated. A glance upwards showed why: an airshaft, almost four feet on a side, went up uninterrupted to a skylight however many stories above. Grilles could be seen at regular distances on two sides, and a ladder mounted to the wall ascended a third, making it obvious what the shaft was there for... But Illyana knew what it's real purpose was.
She grinned, the smile of delight that no one ever saw anymore, and toyed with the idea of simply waiting for Superman to literally drop in. A moment's concentration put paid to that idea; it was far too likely he would interpret the situation as an attempted ambush, or worse, an attempted kidnapping or other attack upon his wife and/or extended family. So the original plan it would be: literally leaving a note on his desk with her cell phone number. She composed herself, conjured her note, folded and warded it, and stepped out into the hallway - and followed the sounds of organized bedlam.
"Mr. Kent's desk?" She asked a random fellow-traveler as she entered the room. "Over there, can't miss it." was the reply, accompanied by a wave at a wall of glass.
Illyana made her way over; Kent's office had it's lights turned off, and was unoccupied. Illyana took a moment to set the moment in her memory, and slipped the note under the obligingly spacious sill of the door. Mission accomplished, she turned to go...
"Hi. Been a while since Clark had anyone sticking notes under his door - these days it's usually telephone messages. Who're you?"
Illyana cursed mentally as she met the piercing eyes of none other than Lois Lane - the woman Illyana wanted least to encounter in the entire building.
"Who I am is none of your concern. Please excuse me; I have places to go and people to see." Illyana answered coolly, withdrawing a step. Lois just stared at her, and Illyana hoped the shock of being addressed so would stick for just a second more as she turned and walked away -
" Stop, if you please. " Lois said clearly, in Russian. Illyana stopped; if she didn't, it was overwhelmingly likely Lane would shout her name, and things would go downhill very quickly from there.
Lois walked up to Illyana in an almost predatory fashion. " I thought so. Illyana Rasputin. You're a wanted woman, lady. Why are you here? "
Illyana answered her in Russian, since it seemed the best way to maintain some semblance of privacy. " Because Ba - Bruce isn't opening his mail. I have a prisoner transfer to arrange, Ms. Lane. If you know who I am, then you must understand that you are absolutely the last person in this building I wanted to meet. Your husband will think I have accosted you, or that I am stalking you, and nothing could be further from the truth. Walk away, and let me go in peace. Please. "
If Lois was at all intimidated, she didn't show it at all. "Alright, I will. As soon as you answer three questions for me."
Illyana sighed. "Ask."
Lois turned away. "In my office. In return, I put in a good word for you. I have coffee; you look like you could use a cup."
In her office, Lois busied herself for a moment with her coffee machine, but not wasting any time. Where the hell is Clark? she thought as she poured what she had into two cups and set the machine to brew a fresh pot. She turned, and found that there were a dozen donuts in three distinct varieties of white donuts on her desk, neatly arrayed on a plate. Illyana raised an eyebrow, selected one coated in powdered sugar, and took a bite.
"By my word, these are free of any taint." Illyana said formally. "Powdered sugar, french vanilla, and peppermint. White, for the color of a truce, or a parlay. From Barclay's, in Gotham."
Lois knew that in certain Eastern European traditions, truces were marked with food and drink; it appeared Ms. Rasputin was very traditional in certain respects. She offered both cups. "The coffee is just coffee, as far as I know. I have real cream and sugar, or honey, if you like. So, first question: Why did you burn down Arkham Asylum?"
Illyana accepted the cup on her left, and sipped it black, raising an eyebrow at the strength: Mrs. Lane liked her coffee weapons-grade strong. It went well with the donut, though. "Because the place was a reservoir of arcane energies that was used as part of the Joker's ritual to summon me. Such things, once they are successfully done, become - imprinted, you might say, on the site; it becomes easier to repeat the ritual, and requires progressively less energy. I am not here of my free will, and I do not wish to be forced to return at the whims of others."
It was Lois' turn to raise an eyebrow at the candor of the response, even as she bit into a french vanilla donut. It was heavenly, and Lois promised herself an extra session at the gym to work it off. Smoothly, she mentally reshuffled and went to the next big one, sensing that three questions was literally all she was going to have. She was suddenly glad she hadn't asked Illyana where Clark was. "What are your immediate intentions while here?"
Illyana smiled mirthlessly, and Lois berated herself for how openly she had worded her question. But Illyana answered. "I'll go with the spirit of that question, rather than a literal interpretation. I intend to find the author of the ritual that was used, express my extreme displeasure at being so used, and then undo the ritual so that I can leave. Without harming anyone innocent in the process."
Lois' reporter reflexes pounced. "Without harming anyone innocent in the process. What does that mean?" The instant the words were out of her mouth, she could have slapped herself. That was her third question...
Illyana drew forth a golden locket from somewhere, and offered it to Lois. "Please be careful with this. I will need it back." Almost despite herself, Lois accepted it.
The locket was warm, and covered on both sides with an inscription that almost resembled some sort of solomonaic seal. There was a sense of presence - it opened, and Lois gasped at the mental impression she received of a terrified young woman, somehow spread across a dark well like some sort of sacrifice, awaiting the moment she would be rent asunder and consumed...!
The impression cut off, and Lois blinked to find that Illyana had taken the locket from her hands and was closing it gently. Before Lois could formulate a question, Illyana explained.
"That young woman was the human sacrifice Joker performed; her life force jump-started the ritual. Such rituals always have a condition attached that, upon completion, makes available the second portion of the ritual that returns the summoned being to whence they came, at their will. Need I explain what the power source for that return journey is supposed to be?"
Lois shook her head in horror and revulsion, and Illyana continued. "Precisely. I won't do it. I will not consummate the summoning, I will not be responsible for Edna Mae Smith being obliterated. To say nothing of the condition that was set, which I won't do either. I will find another way."
Illyana finished her donut and the partial cup of coffee, and stood. "And those are your three questions, Ms. Lane. Well bargained, and done." Lois also stood, and they shook hands. Illyana took a vanilla donut, and fresh steam wafted from her cup as it refilled. "I will take my leave now." And then she fell thru a portal that opened beneath her and was gone.
Lois grabbed her cell phone, and physically stopped herself from hitting the panic button. She instead hit a preset, and a moment later was talking to the Watchtower.
