Critic took the first turn with the shovel.
First, last, and every turn in between.
The others would have helped, if only he'd allowed it. But he needed this, the blisters that rose and broke in bursts of bright, hot pain.
They buried the mother fox beside Mickey, a ragged scrap of bloodied fur. The raiders they dragged far into the desert, the first of the vultures alighting before they could turn their backs. It was close to dawn when they returned to Molossia and gathered at the grave.
And still they looked to Critic. Looked to him for a eulogy that would make sense of it, that would give them permission to grieve and remind them there would come a time when the grieving would be done.
But his lungs were tight with the dust of the grave, and Critic said nothing.
The systems room had been wiped down, wiped clean, restored to a place of pristine white. Critic took Mickey's tie from his pocket, the faded pink of it splattered with brown.
When the others filtered in and saw it nailed above the console their mouths twisted, pinched expressions of shock and horror. Chick patted his arm. Snob pressed a mug of water into his hand. Softly they suggested that the tie might be taken down, or at the very least washed.
And deep within Critic, the anger surged.
Because life was cruel, and they couldn't afford to forget it.
And if life was cruel, Critic needed to be that much crueler just to keep ahead of it. It was that realization that made him drop the mug to the floor and stand.
Spoony was close, and Critic took him by the shoulder. Not gently, taking full advantage of his height to loom over the smaller man. At first Spoony only tried to shake him off, more startled than panicked, and that impressed Critic despite himself.
But Critic dug his fingers in deeper, stepped closer, pressing Spoony back against the wall.
A blur, and fangs scraped Critic's throat, drawing a thin trickle of blood. Linkara pulled Lantern back by the collar of his shirt, shaking him a little like an unruly dog.
"No," he said, but his glare was for Critic.
He turned his attention to Lantern, and now his eyes were soft. "Wake up. Spoony, wake up."
But it was The Bum who rose, leaning in against Linkara and making him stagger. "Touched me," the alter mumbled, "Not nice."
"No, it wasn't," Linkara agreed. His voice was rising, falling into that strange singsong he used around The Bum, not quite patronizing but coming uncomfortably close. "I saw, but he won't do it again. Right, Critic?"
"I'm truly sorry," Critic said, soft and low, because he owed them both that much at least.
When he spoke again it was more loudly, playing to the larger audience even as he kept his eyes on Linkara. "I apologize for scaring him, but let's consider it a demonstration. We were invaded tonight. I let you have free access, Linkara, because I trusted you not to let him out without permission. You had no way of knowing the battle was over. If he lost control like that in the middle of a firefight, he could have gotten himself or someone else killed."
"Like you said, I had no way of knowing what was happening." Linkara was responding too quickly, with too much confidence. Had he been planning what to say even as they lowered Mickey down into the earth, muttering retorts instead of prayers? "I couldn't leave him helpless in an emergency. Doesn't he deserve a fighting chance if the rest of us are killed?"
"So you save him and risk the rest of us."
Critic didn't bother with sarcasm, just let the statement stand as simple fact. Linkara sputtered, and that made The Bum whine high and anxious. The trash was already gathering at his feet, unidentifiable bits and pieces that smelt of burnt plastic.
"No, but I can't….he's not the enemy, Critic!"
There was a raw patch at Critic's throat that said otherwise, and he tipped his chin up to better show it off, as Linkara had once paraded his own marks of passion.
Linkara flipped a dismissive hand. "He could have torn out your jugular," he said, "But he didn't, because he's in control. He's always in control, because he's always him. He's Spoony, Critic!"
But of course Critic knew that already.
The Bum, Lantern and the rest...their motives were Spoony's own, and that was why Critic had trusted him to show restraint when it mattered. But if Spoony was always Spoony, regardless of the body he wore, it meant that Spoony had been the one to pin Chick against a wall, the one to ignore her pleas, the one to bruise her mouth with cruel kisses.
"I warned you before what would happen if you broke the rules," Critic said, "I'll make sure you get time to visit every day."
"You can't…" Linkara breathed, but Critic was already turning away.
It didn't take longer to enter the commands into the computer. The silence behind him was like the silence after Mickey's death, brittle and thick, a horror movie hush. Critic allowed himself a deep breath before he turned back around, because he knew this wasn't over yet.
"Tom, take Spoony to his room. The door will be open for you, just make sure you shut it when you leave."
It was a test, and they must have known it. Tom took a step forward before wavering, look back at the others for direction, but they wouldn't meet his eyes.
But they didn't protest either, and Linkara was sputtering again. "You can't…" he tried again, but hadn't they already established that Critic could? That he could do anything he felt needed doing, because no one would stop him?
"Maybe we could talk about this," Liz said, and of course it would be her. Hadn't Critic known she would be trouble, that very first day, when she'd smiled a red tinted smile and lied to their faces?
"So let's talk. Tell me you'd want him at your back in a fight. Tell me you'd be comfortable in a room alone with him. Look, I should have done this from the start…that's on me. But the needs of the many…"
"If you quote Star Trek right now, you're doing down."
Linkara's hand glowed green, and Critic had no doubt the threat was sincere.
It didn't matter. He'd already won.
Even Benzaie only shuffled his paws when Tom took The Bum gently by the arms. "You're really going to do this," Linkara whispered, as if there had been some question before that moment, some chance he might wiggle away from the consequences of his own actions.
Joe and Phelous were there to restrain him when he stepped toward Critic, mumbling their own apologies. Linkara pulled against them, but if Critic had won, he had lost, and he knew it. He struggles were weak, accomplishing little more than stirring up the trash on the floor.
It was The Bum who exploded into violence when Tom tried to tug him toward the door. He shuddered, and Black Lantern flailed. SWS pushed in close, begging for a rougher touch. Insano threatened to take his vengeance with the power of science.
And then the cycle started over.
Before Spoony had accepted his captivity with beaten down dignity. Now his desperation was too great for any one alter to hold, his body flickering in and out of focus so fast it hurt the eyes. It was a chilling display, proof of just how easy it was to push the man past the threshold of control.
Critic couldn't have planned it better.
And still he found himself wincing along with Linkara, found he had to clench his fists to stop himself from reaching out. He could recognize love when he saw it, and Spoony's fear, his panic, was love at its worst, raw and all consuming.
It wasn't being locked away that made Spoony fight. It was a future without Linkara close at hand, a life in which visits would be restricted to when Critic had the time and inclination to allow them.
"It won't be like that," Critic repeated to each alter in turn, but he knew it was an empty promise. There would be times Linkara would not be there when Spoony needed him, and it would be Critic's fault.
Tom was struggling to keep his grip on the smudge of color and motion that the alters had become, handicapped by his own desire to be gentle. When the seizure came it ripped Spoony from his grasp and sent him crashing to the floor.
It was like watching Mickey all over again, the way he shivered and shook, body contorting in a brutal arc.
And there was an instant, a stretched out second, when Critic thought it would be a kindness, to do for Spoony as he had done for Mickey. To let the man rest, and hadn't Spoony earned it?
"Please." Linkara sagged back against Phelous and Joe, forcing them to either take his weight or let him fall. Tucked his head down to show submission, meek as a supplicant before a priest. "Please, Critic."
Critic nodded.
Released, Linkara scrambled forward on hands and knees. Pulled Spoony onto his side to keep him from choking on the foam that boiled from his mouth. Cushioned his head on his thigh to protect it from the tiles.
After that, there was nothing left to do but wait it out.
It took too long, close to ten minutes, long enough for Linkara to stop praying and start cursing. But when the convulsions finally stopped Spoony was Spoony again, glazed eyes blind to everything but the man who held him.
"It's okay." Linkara used his sleeve to wipe the froth and vomit from Spoony's face and did his best to smile. "We're okay. Don't…don't do this, okay?"
It was strange, how bitter victory could be.
"Tom," Critic said softly, and Linkara moved aside.
Tom cradled Spoony with the care afforded to fragile things. The others backed away when he passed them with his burden. Benzaie shuffled his paws, Snob focused on the monitor, and even Liz said nothing.
Critic hated them for it.
"Can I go with him?" Linkara asked.
So cautious in the asking, and Critic hated him for that, hated him most of all.
"Go," he said, "I'm not a fucking monster. You think I enjoyed that?"
"No, I don't know what you are anymore." Linkara had pretended compliance as long as he could, but here already anger was creeping back into his voice "I don't know who you are anymore."
"I'm not Spoony," Critic said, "That's the problem. I don't get to be anyone but who I am."