A/N: Kept you waitin', huh? Ha. That's a joke. Nobody was waiting. But I came back anyway, this time bearing an especially bloated chapter. It was high time that the story got rolling in earnest, hence the high word count, but I did split it up into multiple parts (from multiple characters' perspectives), so that should hopefully make things more digestible. I will mention that one band of characters are particularly foul-mouthed, so if you are sensitive to that sort of thing, be warned.

Often was the claim that art imitates life: a proposition that most would be inclined to agree with. After all, what else would one associate with an impressionist such as Monet, who captured countless scenes of lakeside venues and flowery fields—always with an eye towards establishing naturalistic lighting? And of course, one need only look at the portfolios of proponents of the realist movement, sporting such bombastic classics as The Stone Breakers or Young Girl Reading. Even the surreal works of Salvador Dali incorporated objects from the real world, warped beyond recognition though they might be. Naturally, such a thesis would spawn a counter thesis that is compelling in its own right: life imitates art. While there are surely countless ways to interpret such a statement, it is well-applied to the modern world. For instance, several contemporary fictional texts have offered a grim yet prophetic vision of the dystopian conclusions of human excess. A more lighthearted example would be the typical coming-of-age film, which imprints itself upon the lexicon of an entire generation of individuals.

The latter thesis does raise an interesting question: can art be used to train an individual for a real life situation? Does a martial art flick offer an adequate simulation of a real street fight? Does a person's recognition of pitch increase after reading a book featuring an aspiring prima donna as the protagonist? What of the situation at hand, replicated to death in cinema, where one awakens to restraints in a dimly-lit room—piss and liquor and burnt tobacco pervading the air—a single flickering lightbulb swaying precariously overhead? The answer, as far as Jinx was concerned, was a resounding no.

To be fair, in deviation from the common trope, her hands were not bound. Whoever jumped her in the street didn't seem overly concerned with the prospect of being hexed. That, or they assumed that whatever they dosed her with would keep her unwittingly pacified for the time being. If the tenseness percolating through her body was any indication, they assumed correctly. Jinx surveyed her surroundings. The dark space was cramped, not unlike her own apartment, though it was dank and poorly-kept. The tiled floor beneath her seat exhibited many cracks, each housing its own exotic variety of mold, and the decorative plaster lining the walls had long since started peeling away. It was difficult to imagine anyone having lived here.

What happened? One moment she was gaining on that runt, and the next she's out cold, waking up in some house flipper's personal Hell, struggling to move a muscle. She pondered Gizmo's words. I hope things work out between you and him. Too cryptic to be useful. Who? Who would go through the trouble of premeditating such an ambush? Reluctant as she was to admit it, she didn't have those kinds of enemies—not with this level of sophistication. Not anymore.

Her thoughts were cut short by the sound of writing from one of her corners. The strokes were firm, the pace quick. As if an onerous amount of pressure was being applied on the pen. She craned her neck. A silhouette sat at a desk, faced away from her, dutifully scribbling away, undeterred by the lack of illumination. From what little she could make out of the figure, she could tell that they were large. Frighteningly so. Almost on par with Mammoth.

She felt a cool breeze caress her cheek. A telltale sign of an exit. She craned her neck the other way. Surely enough, there was a fire escape in the corner opposite the figure. All it would take was a few quick strides and out the door. It would cause a commotion, to be sure, but certainly someone of that size wouldn't be able to maneuver their way down a rat maze of stairs and ladders that quickly.

"Neither can you," Jinx bleakly reminded herself.

And what happens when they're both street level? Try to outrun him? She couldn't even keep pace with Gizmo, and that was prior to getting drugged. Not ideal. Still, it was better than crying for help. Or waiting. Her blood iced at the idea. Had she stayed out too long? Backtalked Antoine too much? She thought back to the man in the beanie tailing her earlier, or the local marshal found dead in his home. Did Antoine plan a similar fate for her?

She didn't intend to find out. Shifting her weight, she prepared for a mad dash to the door. Almost immediately, her seat betrayed her with a creak of protest. She froze in place. The writing stopped. Shit.

"Try not to exert yourself," a deep baritone instructed.

She blinked. It didn't sound like one of Antoine's boys, nor overly malicious. But there was something intensely familiar about it—something she couldn't quite place yet. The sound of pen on paper resumed. She resigned back to her seat, her muscles reprimanding her for her botched attempt at locomotion. A couple of minutes passed before the silence was broken again.

"What did you inject me with?"

She was glancing over her shoulder at him now. He owed her at least this much.

"A very mild strain of botulinum. It is wearing off. Try to relax."

Make no mistake about it, Jinx had heard that voice before. Numerous times. Curt as his response had been, the sample was enough to detect certain idiosyncrasies in his speech. His intonations and pronunciations were not that of a native English speaker. Although his grammar and syntax were impeccable, there was a certain… stitched-together quality… to the way he talked, as if he had picked up his English from multiple disparate sources, speaking multiple opposing dialects—some long since dead and forgotten to modern linguistics. There was only one person she knew who spoke like that.

Her heart skipped a beat. She turned to face him more directly.

"Dracul?"

There was an ever-so-slight pause in the sound of the pen at her query. It resumed at an accelerated tempo. She rose to her feet. Whatever tenseness plagued her joints was now secondary to the wave of emotion washing over her. One step, followed by another. The writing grew faster still. She had to know. Was this a specter? A dream? Or some cruel joke at her expense? One step. Then another. The writing was swifter than swift. The burden on the pen was unbearable. One step… and another…

Snap! The pen was in pieces. She was directly behind him now. His head hung low, one hand laid bare along the parchment, the other resting upon the wide brimmed hat seated on the desk. Even now, he was face level with her. She reached out to touch him. He was tangible. Real. His beaked visage turned to her. There was only one way to know for certain. She felt him recoil slightly as her slender fingers ran along the cool porcelain, gingerly dislodging it from his face, tears welling up as she did so. Would she even recognize what she saw? The mask dropped to the floor. She clicked her tongue, trying desperately to maintain her composure. A pair of sad eyes greeted her.

She buried herself in his arms, wailing unabashedly into his chest, each sob dripping with vulnerability, drawn from a pool left to simmer unacknowledged for far too long. Beneath her, she could sense his own breathing becoming shallow and irregular. His arms tightened around her, threatening to lock into place and never let go. Nor did she want him to.

If but for a few brief moments, all was right in the world.

Father and daughter. Reunited. As it should be.

"Don't play with your food." What a bizarre turn of phrase. For Wally, it never seemed to be necessary. Voracious an eater as he was, there was hardly any sense in delaying the delivery of delectables to one's oral cavity. It was inexpedient. Irrational. Suboptimal. As such, he typically treated mealtimes strictly as business affairs (excepting in the presence of a certain pink-haired sorceress), maintaining the ever-pertinent agenda of engorging himself on as many morsels as physically possible. Meanwhile, concerned onlookers would quietly contemplate whether this might be their last day on Earth before the resident speed demon achieved singularity and swallowed the universe. Such was the natural order of things, and Wally was quite satisfied with it. But perhaps, to some extent, he suffered from not receiving this mantra throughout his life: when it came to chasing villains, he played with his food a lot.

Billy Numerous was the first to go—him and his clone being propelled face first into a nearby tributary after receiving a supersonic courtesy tap from the fastest boy alive. After a quick game of Fish-a-Hick, Wally had both of them in restraints. As he prepared to zip after the other three, one of the Billies sneezed, eliciting a slight sense of guilt in the redhead. The water was a bit nippy… he ran a few laps around the two in a crude attempt at airdrying. Effective, if a bit disorienting for the receiving party. They could thank him later.

The others made poor use of their time. Even with the diversion and a hefty head start, the remaining villains had only managed a measly two block's distance. Clearing that would take milliseconds. It was almost agitating: his first bout of superpowered action in weeks and it would likely end within milliseconds. There was hardly any room for self-expression when these encounters concluded so quickly—hardly any art to the chase when the chase never began in earnest. How could he be expected not to play with his food?

As if answering his internal pleas, the three villains were suddenly struck with the inconceivably bright idea of splitting up. Mammoth and Kyd Wykkyd stuck to ground level, bolting off in disparate directions, while See-More took to the sky with a makeshift eye blimp. Wally wondered how the teen managed to keep his eye hydrated when it was exposed to high winds for such prolonged periods. Furthermore, what happened if he encountered a bird?

Mammoth was his second—albeit, inadvertent—catch of the day, having made pitiful progress despite his large strides. As Kid Flash homed in on the giant, he lamented, "No, no, no! How are you gonna go and split up like that? Haven't you guys seen any scary movies?"

"You ain't in a hockey mask!" the villain quipped back before finding himself faceplanting into the sidewalk after stepping into a misfortunately placed stretch of freshly laid cement.

Wally froze in place as a stray hand jolted up to his mouth to contain his shock. It was like watching a car crash: horrible, yet strangely captivating.

"Big guy?"

After a few bashfully aborted attempts, he meekly jostled one of the villain's disproportionately sized biceps, earning a resigned groan from the giant. With a sigh of relief, the speedster set off after Kyd Wykkyd.

The mute had proven faster than his larger compatriot, and he was also the first of the bunch to fight back. As soon as Wally entered tackling distance of the teen, he detected an abrupt shift in the air around him. With a moment to spare, he ducked under the villain's razored cape, before finding himself in a frenzied dance of bobbing and weaving as Kyd Wykkyd continued to swipe at him. In between dodges, Wally tried to reason with his opponent.

"Whoa there— Could you not— Stop man! Hey— That is very rude!"

The mute did not let up on the barrage, unperturbed by the speedster's chastising on etiquette. Out of the corner of his eye, Wally took note of a halted train—one of a few still in commission in Keystone's Stockyards for the transport of grain and other food products. After a few more split hair dodges, he dug his shoulder into the surprised villain's abdomen and sent both of them hurtling into one of the rusted railroad cars. While the resulting collision was not gentle on either party, Wally seized the transitory window to incapacitate his opponent. With Kyd Wykkyd still dazed, the redhead hurriedly opened the door of the violated cart, engulfing the other teen in a cascade of rotten oats. Four for three, Wally tallied. See-More was the only one left.

He turned his attention upwards, scanning the obsidian backdrop for any signs of his quarry. A large inflatable eye was hardly the spitting image of effective camouflage. Surely enough, within seconds, Wally had him, hovering not too far above one of the district's taller buildings. The redhead allowed himself a break to roll his shoulders and flex his neck—eliciting a horrendous litany of pops. It had been a while since he had run up a building.

After a few more moments of mental preparation, the speedster threw himself at the behemoth of bricks, everything reduced to a blur save for the bullseye he had set for himself: a piece of graffiti that ironically spelled "PUKE" in colorful bubbled lettering. With a last second hop to accommodate the perpendicular shift, he found himself zipping up the wall, no doubt disturbing many of the building's inhabitants as he darted past satellite dishes and windowsill gardens. He'd stop by to apologize afterwards.

Before he knew it, he was on the roof—his less-than-stellar landing alerting See-More to his presence. The hovering teen squeaked at the intrusion before moving to clear the building: it was now or never. Propelling himself towards the building's edge, Wally made the first of two very stupid decisions that night, leaping through the air, arms outstretched, praying to God that his hand would make contact with something. He pondered how anticlimactic it would be if he somehow whiffed and ended up splattering against the ground. Jinx would snark him to no end at the funeral. Luckily, he didn't need to follow this macabre train of thought too far, as he was soon dangling from an agitated See-More's ankles.

"Bro! You got a death wish or something? You'll make us both crash!"

"They never said that this flight was at capacity," Wally quipped back.

"Well, it is. So let go!"

Thus initiated a vicious cycle. As Wally's grip tightened around the villain's legs, the latter would earnestly flail his feet back and forth in an ill-advised attempt to shake the hero off. Predictably, this only produced more turbulence, flustering See-More further, and prompting him to kick his legs even harder, causing them to flounder around the sky in a precipitous manner. They had just narrowly missed a stray billboard when Wally called back up to him.

"I suppose now is a bad time to mention that I don't like heights?"

"Bruh…"

Maybe it was a little silly for him to get worked up by it—especially considering the other forms of punishment that his body had grown accustomed to, like brute-forcing his way through barriers at lightspeed—but he couldn't help but feel like plummeting face first into the earth was something that he wasn't all too keen on experiencing for himself.

"Just land somewhere See-More."

"Dude… don't look down."

Invariably, this advice had the opposite effect, and Wally soon got a dizzying view of the streets so far below them.

"Alright, See-More, this isn't fun anymore."

"You tellin' me?!"

"At least float over a body of water, man!"

"Well, it ain't exactly easy to steer with you hanging from my boots. Hold still!"

Their bickering was cut short as they noticed the wall of concrete closing in on them.

"See-More…"

"I see it."

Despite the villain's claims, it appeared that he most definitely did not see it. If anything, their course of collision sped up. Wally took another glance at the ground below them.

"See-More. Just descend."

"Stop thrashing around down there!"

"I'M NOT!"

"YOU ARE!"

Deer in headlights: that's what they must have looked like. Mere moments away from smashing into the side of a building and finding themselves inconveniently reacquainted with the asphalt at terminal velocity. In a way, it was entirely appropriate—the redhead would die doing what he loved most: going fast. It was enough to give a man conniptions…

Miraculously, there was no impact, nor any pancaking into the earth. Rather, Wally found himself being hoisted up with startling momentum as the teen above him uttered out one of the most impressive, most drawn out renditions of the word "sheeee-it…" that had ever graced his ossicles. In an instant, they were strewn out on the building's apex—which had been converted into a social pavilion complete with a bar and two pickle ball courts. Not that either of them was in the mood. Wordlessly, they brushed themselves off and took the elevator down to the gracious ground. With the only sounds being that of heavy breathing and royalty-free music, it was See-More to finally break the silence between them.

"Dude… eat a salad next time."

Within a few minutes, Wally had all four—er, five—of them bunched together in a bouquet of delinquents. None of them looked particularly worse for wear save for Mammoth, whose goatee was absolutely caked in cement.

"Now you guys are going to have to answer a few questions for me," Wally announced as he paced, "Reason being that you have just caused me a lot of paperwork."

The villains merely snorted in response, unapologetic to the fact that numerous No. 2 pencils would soon meet their demise as result of their actions.

"First off, how did you guys manage to escape cryo stasis?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" one of the Billies piped up.

"Well, yeah, that's why I asked. Secondly…" the speedster began, keeping tally on his fingers, "How did you know to come to Dyson's? Third—"

All six of them jumped as a shrill mannish scream perforated the air, cutting the speedster off. That did not sound good. The noise was seemingly sourced from the nearby substation—who could possibly be in there at this time of night? Wally craned his neck to look at the substation, then back to the villains, then back to the substation, and back to the villains again. They didn't seem to be in on it either. See-More spoke up for the group, impatiently demanding, "Aren't you supposed to be a hero? Whatcha still doin' here, man?"

Wally broke from his trance. See-More was right.

"Well said, my friend. I'll be back in a jiff."

Despite an industrial nature, the modern substation manages to maintain an unmistakable air of whimsy about it. Imagine this: a forest of metal coils, cloaked within shade, wires strewn here and there and everywhere like lush vines among trees—transforming forest to jungle and jungle to fucking dangerous place to be. Brush up once against the vines and you were dead, but, at the end of the day, did the palpable atmosphere of peril not serve to elevate the charm? That was not to discount the glow of warmth radiating from the transformers, sheltering a man from the cold on even the breeziest of nights. All while lulling him to sleep with a low, perpetual hum, nice and easy… until Icarus—witless prick that he is—flies too close to the Sun.

"Ah fuck!" a treble voice yelped, "My fuckin' hand, man."

"Shut the fuck up, rookie!" a second voice reprimanded, "Do you wanna wake up the entire subdivision?"

"Dude's a dick," a third affirmed, "Let me place the fuckin' charge."

"I can do it," the first protested.

"Y've done enough, rook."

"I can do it, I says!"

"Would both of you politely shut the fuck up?"

The second man glared at the other two, brow furrowed in exasperation. He snatched away the payload from the first, who proceeded to nurse from his injured palm like a calf to its mother. The third, seeing this, murmured his disapproval as he retrieved a pack of smokes from his pocket. Tapping one end of a cigarette against the carton, he scrutinized the second man, who was now hunched in front of the transformer, fingers working nimbly to manipulate the web of colored wires into position.

"This is horseshit, Mort. Why'd you even drag us out here if you're just gonna set all the charges yourself?"

"I want the newbie to get a bit of field experience," the second man called back, gesturing with his head towards the first.

The latter weaned off his inflamed hand.

"Well, here I am in the field. What the fuck am I experiencing?"

"What happens when you place your hand directly on a transformer, for one," Mort replied, eliciting a dry chuckle from the third man.

"How was I supposed to know it'd be hot?!"

Mort's hands stopped working. He cast an incredulous glance over his shoulder at the recruit, who was still peevishly clutching at his wrist.

"It's a fucking transformer, rookie. Induction generates heat."

"God help us," the third man puffed from his cigarette, "He's makin' up words again."

"Fuck yourself, O'Malley. Which one of us has got a degree?"

The third man produced a comb from his pocket, brushing aside the thick chestnut bristles of his mustache from his upper lip. No doubt, the act of self-grooming while on the clock gave him an inflated sense of self-importance. Mort never had the heart to tell him that it made him look like a complete jackass. Let O'Malley act as high and mighty as he wanted. Apply as much cologne as you like. Dress it up as best you can—Hell, put a fucking bow on it. At the end of the day, shit is still shit.

"I'll have you know that I'm workin' towards a Bachelor's in finance," O'Malley announced in a haughty tone.

"Yeah. One credit hour down. Welcome to Gotham University."

"I'll fuckin' knife you, mate."

Mort only shook his head in response. How it was that he always found himself in the company of the intellectual equivalents of driftwood, he did not know. He must have been an utter degenerate in his past life.

"Just keep the fuckery to a minimum while I finish laying the charge, yeah?"

"What's got you on edge? We're the only ones out here."

The rookie was behind him now, pulling out his own pack of cigarettes, dutifully observing as Mort soldered the last remaining wires into place.

"Don't bother with him, rook," O'Malley dismissed, extending a lighter to the gracious recruit, "There's a reason we call him Worrywart Mort."

"And there's a reason we call you Cunt O'Malley," Mort retorted over his shoulder.

The rookie turned to O'Malley, bearing upon the latter man a gaze consumed with childlike curiosity.

"People really call you that?"

Both men stared into each other's eyes for what seemed to be perpetuity—time coming to a standstill. Not a chirp. Nor a breeze. Only the buzzing bass of the transformer. It was as if the cosmos themselves had collectively gathered at the edge of their seat, mesmerized by the prospect of whether or not the two might kiss…

"Shut the fuck up, rook."

Satisfied with his handiwork, Mort stood up from the transformer, grimacing as his knees popped from the sudden shift. He waved the other two over—mostly for the benefit of the new recruit. Mort wanted to make sure he got a close inspection of what a fully-armed device looked like.

"How do we know it works?" the rookie queried.

"How do you mean?"

"Y'know. How do we know that it'll… uh…."

The rookie sheepishly extended his hands apart in a mock explosion, delivering a low-pitched whistle as he did so.

"By all means, rookie, put a bullet in one of them and let's see."

"Should I?"

Mort took a deep breath. Two deep breaths. O'Malley tapped out another cigarette next to him at a furious pace. He could already imagine the latter man pulling him aside at base: he's worthless! Fuckin' worthless! Someone needs to tell him! Not that Mort would have any compelling counterargument. It was initially his idea to sign on somebody local. Years had passed since Mort had last set foot in Keystone City, and many parts of it had become nearly unrecognizable to him. Poor neighborhoods had been gentrified. Outlet malls had been built. Unremarkable side streets were now bustling main drags. It only seemed prudent to have someone more up to date on the local goings-on. Yet, the more time Mort spent with the kid, the more he was convinced that latter had actually been raised near a nuclear waste dump. Nobody lacked this much common sense.

"Let's just get the fuck out of here already."

"Didn't realize they were airing reruns of the Three Stooges."

All three men jumped upon hearing the fourth voice. Leaning against the chain linked fence behind them, right beside the makeshift entrance they had cut, was a redhaired youngster offering an amicable wave hello. Mort cursed under his breath upon seeing the boy's regalia. Caught with their pants down. By none other than Keystone City's resident speed demon. The other two men drew their carbines, prompting a skeptical raise of the brow from the costumed youth. Mort just stood there. They were unequivocally fucked.

"You're local, right rookie?"

"Yeah?"

"So you know who this guy is."

"Yeah…"

"And so you know that your trigger finger's not as fast as you think."

Mort raised his arms high in defeat before dropping to his knees. The recruit lowered the barrel of his rifle, his shoulders deflating with a sigh. Certainly, he did not expect the night to be so eventful. Getting pinched with a fried hand: a truly memorable "field experience". After a few moments, he followed suit with Mort. O'Malley was the odd man out, orbits defiantly trained on the speedster with every intention to shoot.

"Well I don't fuckin' know him."

The boy smiled, sensing his cue to interject. Within an instant, O'Malley's rifle popped out of existence, replaced with a small slip of paper, prompting an alarmed "wha?". Upon closer inspection, it became apparent that the paper was a hastily-scrawled imitation business card, featuring a spiky-haired stick figure proudly pointing to the title:

Kid Flash, Esq.

Fastest Boy Alive (or some such)

in blue penmanship.

"Kid Flash," the teen said with a bow and a flourish, "Encantado."

O'Malley crumpled the paper in hand, much to the dismay of the young hero. Discarding it to the side, he brandished his handgun, which he proceeded to point directly at the boy's jaw, malice glinting in his eyes like a rabid animal. Did the man not just witness firsthand why firearms were useless in this situation? What was he going to do with it, Mort wondered, shoot himself? Cunt O'Malley indeed.

"Call it a day, you stupid bastard," he ordered from the ground.

O'Malley's outer lip was twitching now. His caterpillar mustache seemed to spring to life, though more in the sense of a sudden onset of seizure than any coordinated crawling motion. Meanwhile, his finger continuously pulsated on and off the surface of the trigger while some great storm of debate raged in his head. Mort could only pray that logic would prevail over pride. All the while, the speedster just stood there, leaning against that fence—the same friendly smile plastered on his face. Smug bastard.

"This is fuckin' horseshit!" O'Malley finally exclaimed, tossing the gun aside.

He collapsed to his knees with a huff, kicking up a modest dust storm in the process, much to the chagrin of the other men's nasal cavities. Not a second later and Mort could already feel the familiar abrasive texture of a zip tie sliding around his wrists.

"Glad we could settle this quietly, gents," the speedster said, his tone obnoxiously chipper, "Now, let's assess the extent of the damage."

The youngster paced over to the transformer, stroking at his chin with an audible "Hm…" as he studied the wiring of the adhered explosive device.

"You reckon I should snip the red one?" he quipped.

"You've been spending too much time in the cinema, kid," Mort replied, earning him an amused chuckle from the teen.

Next to him, O'Malley continued to fume, grumbling the occasional off-color comment about the boy's poor mother. Meanwhile, the rookie was staring out blindly into space—his face consumed with a newfound pallor, as if the prospect of spending a few nights in the slammer had prematurely slashed away a decade of his life. The lad had never done time before, Mort recalled.

"You guys really do have no sense of self-preservation," the redhead mused as he playfully prodded at the array of wires—any one of which, if tugged a bit too vigorously, would violently blow all four of them down to Hell.

"None at all," Mort answered.

There was no need to make a scene, he reasoned. Not yet, anyway. Better to just take their licking and try again when suspicions had died down. As of now, they were just a few incompetent lowlifes—lowlifes packing some serious heat, granted, but who in America wasn't?—and, for better or for worse, incompetent lowlifes did not attract much attention from the powers that be.

"Well gents…"

The speedster, with a casual flick of his thumb, clipped the sole wire responsible for the explosive's armed status. Gently removing it from the transformer, he presented it to the three men:

"No harm done."

Mort felt a palpable sense of relief course through his veins. At the very least, the other charges were safe—he had done his best to place them in an inconspicuous manner. Tonight would not have been a complete waste…

The redhead offered him a cheeky grin, briefly blipping out of existence before returning with five more disarmed devices. Mort drooped his head in resignation.

"Fuck, man!" O'Malley seethed beside him, "Fuck!"

It is hard to believe that anyone would ever come to describe the pervasive musk of piss and whiskey as idyllic. Indeed, even the most silver-tongued of minstrels with the blackest, most debased of hearts—men who managed to romanticize the act of hitting the tavern to drown one's woes in cheap grog, only for one's digestive tract to tumultuously spurn the morning's eggs and toast—would be offput by the current choice of venue. Hence, it was all the more absurd that Jinx—a girl who spent much of her time keeping up with fashion vogue or reading magazines about home decor—found the damp, molded apartment to be quite enchanting.

Perhaps it was in the way he laughed, filling the room with a boisterous reverb as she recounted the Titans' shock to her sudden reform. She loved it when he laughed. To see the mask behind the mask peel away, removing with it a cryptic persona that had been meticulously crafted over the course of decades, leaving behind something… human. The Butcher of Brest, former member of the Brotherhood of Evil and heir apparent of the Hive Academy, was capable of laughing. Not in the maniacal manner of a mustache-twirling desperado, but genuine. It was forbidden knowledge that only Jinx was privy to, and she guarded that privilege judiciously.

Perhaps it was in the way that he absentmindedly handled his cigarette, which impatiently disintegrated between his fingers—his attention firmly fixated on her tale. The other girls at the Academy would often ask her what he looked like under the mask, waiting with bated breath for her to confirm their suspicions that he was a silver fox. He looked young for his age. Dark curls swept back neatly around his head—betrayed by unruly frays protruding at the edges: imperfect; unkempt; but regal. Paired with this was a coarse stubble, bespeckling his olive skin, and an intense gaze that communicated equal parts tragedy and mystique. Yes, he could be considered quite a looker. Not that she paid it any mind: to her, Dracul was just Dracul.

Perhaps still it was the quiet pride that twinkled in his eyes as she recalled the way she stood up to Madame Rouge. God knows how tirelessly she had worked to receive his acknowledgement—a Herculean task given the man's admittedly aloof nature. During the Academy's yearly physical examinations, she'd often exert herself to the brink of passing out with grand acrobatic displays. And indeed, many of the weekends that she should have spent partying with her colleagues were instead spent hunched over textbooks detailing the intricacies of matrix algebra—all to showcase her eagerness for the Alter Ego Department. Even her aspirations of joining the Brotherhood were molded in part by her desire to emulate him. Yet, for all of the work Jinx had put into paving her path as villainess, she could not recall a time that the pride in his eyes burned brighter than they did now: ironically, after she had turned over a new leaf.

"You aren't upset at all, are you?"

She carefully scanned the giant seated across from her, searching for cues. A twitch of the mouth. A shift in posture. Anything that might disclose his invariable disappointment. Alas, even without a mask the man had a poker face.

"Speak your intentions, child," he instructed unyieldingly, expression neutral as he puffed from his cigarette.

Damn him. He always did have a way of extracting an admission of guilt from her, taking a process that felt like pulling teeth, and making it look as simple as plucking a blade of grass from the ground. With Dracul, there was no pleading the fifth.

"It's just that…" she paused to carefully consider her words, "We spent a lot of years talking about how to transform me into the next great. All that time we had invested into training. The blood. The sweat. The tears."

She felt herself come under scrutiny of that intense gaze, visually dissecting her with the precision of a surgeon.

"After you left, I tried to keep up that fight. To live up to what we had worked towards. What you had wanted for me. But… you were gone. I was tired. I had met someone…."

She was rambling. Dancing around what she actually wanted to say—what he was waiting to hear. She took one last deep breath to collect her thoughts into a succinct thesis.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is, I didn't turn out the way you had hoped."

Dracul tilted his head back, briefly opening his mouth to deliver a quick response, before seemingly deciding against it. He ran a free hand through his stubble, as if meditating on his words, cigarette gripped vertically like a smokestack billowing in the horizon. In a way, the image suited him. Given his dress and demeanor, he would not have looked out of place amongst the likes of Carnegie and Rockefeller. Finally, he gestured towards her.

"Back at Darkway Prep, every Friday—like clockwork—I would pick you up at exactly two and 38 minutes past to buy you ice cream. Do you remember which flavor you always wanted?"

She smiled instinctually at the memory. The laughably absurd image of some teenaged clerk on his first summer job gaping up as an absolute colossus of a man waltzed in asking for a fresh batch of:

"Cookies N' Cream."

Dracul murmured in affirmation.

"Exactly that. Cookies and Cream. And every Friday I would sit at the swing set with you as you ate and listen to you jabber on and on about how Angel and Kyd Wykkyd keep cheating at hopscotch. Do you remember all that?"

"Yeah, I remember."

Satisfied with this aside, he drew the cigarette back to his lips.

"Joining the Brotherhood of Evil was always your dream. Not mine," he said, smoke surging from the corners of his mouth, "Yes, I worked hard to march your banner and to fly it high, but it was always yours to decide for which cause. That has not changed."

Jinx internalized that thought. Self-determinism was admittedly a concept that she was still grappling with. Before Kid Flash, it was practically foreign. Spending your childhood surrounded by figures larger-than-life had a way of doing that to you. Little people didn't forge their own path: they got there hitching a ride on the coattails of giants. Yet, in hindsight, Dracul had absolutely no reason to sponsor her ambitions—especially in light of his own misgivings with the Brotherhood. In a way, it was comforting to know that she had been steering her destiny this entire time. On the other hand, it inspired a sort of dread. When the only one governing your fate is you, the consequences of your actions were yours to bear alone. Before she could delve too much further into existential philosophy, Dracul broke the silence.

"This boy. This Kid Flash. What is he like?"

The question surprised her. Dracul typically maintained a 'don't ask, don't tell' policy when it came to what he dubbed "frivolous teenage melodrama". Indeed, he spent the better part of her relationship with Leo pretending that the boy didn't exist—not that she could blame him. Jinx smirked.

"You'd hate him."

He rose a single eyebrow.

"He's dumb. Cocky. Headstrong. A complete and utter dork. He can't dress worth a damn, and he spends most of his time thinking with his stomach. It's embarrassing to take him anywhere."

The man continued to inspect her quizzically, no doubt waiting (for her sake hoping) for a But… moment. As much as she savored any opportunity to give Wally shit, she'd be remiss to disappoint.

"At the same time, he's got a nice smile. Soft hair. And this cute little way of instinctually tapping his foot whenever he hears music. Most times it's in his head."

As she continued to describe the speedster, she could feel butterflies churning in her stomach, a goofy grin crawling stupidly across her face.

"He's gentle. Perceptive. Warm. He's got this uncanny way of saying exactly what you need to hear in a situation—not that I ever let him know it. And there's this constant cheeriness and optimism about him. It's contagious."

Another scan of Dracul's face indicated that he was satisfied by her answer.

"He sounds lovely, Jinx."

"Maybe I should arrange a family dinner," she coyly suggested.

The man did not seem nearly as tickled as she was by the notion, no doubt balking at the hideous idea of attempting to make small talk over burnt meatloaf. As her own giggling subsided, she was greeted with a vacant expression. Her teasing rapidly converted to alarm. His skin was practically translucent—inky vessels visible beneath it, pulsating at a labored pace, as if filled with tar. His respiration had hastened, undercut by his chest and abdomen no longer moving in sync. Each breath was a shudder.

"Dracul?"

The cigarette slipped from his fingers, assuming a disproportionate gravitas as it pattered against the tiled floor. He was convulsing now, his chair creaking in anguish as it rocked about precipitously below him. She jumped into action, grabbing ahold of his shoulders as she tried in vain to steady him. Any attempt at vocalization on his part was reduced to a repetitive clearing of his throat, quickly spiraling into a death knell of coughing. It was an alien composition: fast in tempo but subdued in amplitude, as if intended for an emaciated choir—reliant on razor blades for nourishment. She had never seen him in such a state.

"What's wrong?! Dracul, talk to me, please!"

He was going to die. She could sense it. He was going to live exactly long enough to reenter her life and die. Unceremoniously. Like a house centipede come in from a frigid winter. He was going to die. This would be the second time now, and she was just as powerless as the first. Incapable of saving him. Incapable of trying. Incapable of anything, not even crying. He was going to die. And she had made poor use of their time. So many things left unsaid. So many apologies still to be paid. Regrets to be shared. Promises to be made. He was going to die. And there would be no reunion this time. He was going to die...

And just as abruptly as it had started, it came to an end. Jinx found herself back in her seat, gasping for breath as Dracul watched with great concern, cigarette still in hand.

"Child?"

Her eyes darted to the giant's figure. No shaking. No pallor. No panting. Not even a hint of weariness in his face. Not a single shred of evidence acknowledging what had just happened.

"You look as if you have seen something frightful."

Jinx leaned forward, closing off her gaze as she breathed long and deep. Certainly, it couldn't have all been in her head. Not when it was so visceral.

"I…" she found herself trailing off, the thought cut short as she pondered how she was meant to explain to the man that she had just watched him die.

His eyebrows only raised in response, unsure of how to parse information out of a single syllable.

"I had a vision," she finally managed.

It sounded farcical coming out of her mouth. She was literally holding him as his body twisted and contorted, threatening to snap his own neck as he retched. How could that merely be a vision?

"Premonition," he mused, seemingly unfazed by this admission, "And?"

"You were sick. We were just talking and you… got so pale…. Coughing, shaking—I thought you were going to die."

Each word took a great effort to choke out—the guilt hounding at her as she revealed her forbidden knowledge. For his part, Dracul sat and listened, a somber expression etched onto his face, though it seemed to be more out of pity for her than for himself. He allowed himself one last drag from the cigarette, flicking it aside to a dull tap as she finished her recount.

"I will admit that smoking has become disagreeable in my old age," he jested, "I suppose now is as good a time as ever to kick the habit."

He offered a reassuring smile, though her doubts must have been manifest, as he continued, "I am fine, Jinx. Perhaps what you have seen is some deep-seated fear of yours—which, if true, I am flattered. Perhaps, it is something that will come to pass. In either case, I am not one to ruminate over my own mortality, and neither should you. It will only lead to a wholly unfulfilling life."

As if to signal the finality of the topic, Dracul moved to put his mask on, disappearing once again behind the beaked visage, reassuming the cryptic persona that no one—not even Jinx—could ever imagine laughing. She knew what she saw (and felt) in those brief, charged moments, but she knew better than to press the matter further. When Dracul put a conversation to bed, it was comatose. No use in trying to rouse it. Rather eagerly, she changed the subject.

"So, how long are you planning on staying in Keystone?"

He never really offered a good explanation of how he managed to escape the Brotherhood, let alone locate her in Keystone City. With difficulty, he had responded when she asked. Again, Jinx knew better than to press the matter. Though, judging on the H.I.V.E. Five's recent reemergence at Dyson's, she had the answer to at least the second part of her question. It was somewhat ironic—though in a way, entirely appropriate—that her old team would find their release contingent upon Dracul's whims. He and Gizmo famously never got along. Those sorts of things were bound to happen, she supposed, when you asked a pint-sized super genius to study Hermitian eigenfunctions in place of doomsday theory.

"As it is," Dracul began, pausing briefly, "that is precisely what I wish to speak to you about."

His hesitation did not go unnoticed, nor did the way that he shifted about in his chair, as if what he had to say was unpalatable even to him. Red flags immediately went up in her mind.

"This city is no longer safe for you. It is imperative that you leave."

The directive struck her like a semi. Unprompted. Unprovoked. Unapologetic. How was she supposed to respond?

"What?"

"A terrible fate awaits this place," he continued, lowering to a hush, as if to soften the impact of his words, "I do not wish to see you come to harm."

"What kind of fate?"

"I can only surmise so much from what my sources have told me. To my understanding, a group of upstarts, looking to capitalize on the vacuum left behind from the Brotherhood's recent collapse. I have it on good authority that they intend to make their debut here, in the city. Far from the watchful eyes of the main Titans. They have already laid the groundworks for some sort of cataclysm event: an explosive entrance to establish their newfound monopoly. Fire and brimstone. That is what they have concocted for this place."

Jinx craned back in her seat, resting her head against her palm as she contemplated this information. Fire and brimstone. Coming from anyone else, she would have dismissed it as blowhard theatrics, but there was a certain sobriety that came with hearing it from Dracul. If this new group was dangerous enough to worry him, then things most certainly boded poorly for Keystone.

"You must leave before that happens. Take the boy with you. It is needless that either of you dies in this place."

Jinx's eyes instinctively trailed down to the metal collar enwrapping her ankle. She could feel the cold red glass of Dracul's mask following in tandem.

"What is that thing?"

She couldn't stand to offer a response, to admit to the perpetual state of humiliation that she had been subjected to. Then again, her silence would suffice. He had been so supportive of her decision to reform—so proud of the woman she had become—but she feared that the honeymoon period had drawn to a close. Even as she looked away from him, she could sense it: a quiet fury, palpable even beneath the mask, with each word he spoke dripping with acrid revulsion.

"They are holding you captive?"

"Not the Titans, no. My, ehrm, my probation officer."

"Probation," he muttered, tone emanating equal parts amusement and disbelief, "Very well. You will show me to this man. I will kill him. Then you will leave."

"No. No, that'll just dig me into a deeper hole. The feds already don't trust me. Going and killing a government official won't help the situation. Just make the people who do believe in me have second thoughts."

Her mind raced back to Kid Flash. To Robin. To Raven and the rest of the Titans. To all the people who had taken great pains to stand at her side in spite of her past actions. If she had lost their support…

"I can't take that risk."

Dracul huffed, and in it, Jinx could finally detect that invariable disappointment that she had scanned for earlier.

"Besides, Wally wouldn't leave. This is his hometown. I can't take that away from him. No, I'm stuck here, until Antoine dies of old age or gets bored and kills me first."

She nearly chuckled at how casually the last sentence left her mouth. Putting it that way, it was a wonder that she ever managed to maintain any pretense of optimism about her situation. Maybe she was already resigned to her fate the moment Antoine laid bare the true gravity of it all. There was never any way that she'd get out of her servitude alive—whether she died by his hand or by fighting this new group of villains, as Dracul suggested. Unless… she thought back to the clause in the federal contract that Robin had secured for her: "The defendant will face a probation period lasting no more than five years, or until the termination of a hazard of notable threat to Keystone City's citizens". She perked up. A light at the end of the tunnel.

"If you already know about these guys, then you can help us stop them."

The man seemed taken aback by her suggestion, murmuring unintelligibly to himself, as if his intentions had suddenly backfired upon him. She paid little attention to this, however, as excitement began to bubble within her very essence.

"I could introduce you to Wally. You could funnel us information from the other side."

"I think that you misunderst—"

"The three of us together! These wannabes wouldn't stand a chance!"

The ideas left her mouth before they had ample time to form. She was freewheeling now, drunk on the implication of salvation. Any caution she had been exercising was flagrantly deserted in the wind. Dracul's agitation was marked, yet invisible to her.

"And once we trounced these losers, Antoine would have no choice but to cut me loose."

"Jinx, please listen."

His protests were imperceptible now. Her neural circuitry reduced everything to white noise. One thought to the next. One idea to another. The only common thread was freedom. Yet she homed in on something else. A different concept. Something more. Something she found herself longing for.

"You could stay here with us."

"…"

"You've always said how you wanted to settle down."

"…"

"It'd be like a family—"

"ENOUGH."

She shrunk at the deafening command, meekly peering up at the dour figure towering above her. In that moment, she knew that she had committed the cardinal sin: she pressed too much. Dracul glowered down at her before returning to his seat. The armrests were still in his hands—violently detached from the base with his unexpected jolt upwards. He released his vice grip, sprinkling the floor with splinters and dust.

"There are no upstarts… I am the threat."

And just like that, it all dissipated within seconds. Any positive thoughts. Any buoyancy she had conjured up. Any hope that she had gathered. All swallowed up by the abyss.

"I don't understand."

He merely shook his head.

"I had hoped to spare you of that knowledge."

It made no sense. Dracul never displayed any initiative towards developing his own criminal agenda. Not for as long as Jinx knew him. The man was ancient. Past his prime. And far more content serving at an academic capacity. He had said so himself so many times. Yet here he was, reemerging in her new place of residence, promising to raze it to the ground. To torch any chance she had of creating a new life. It was almost mean-spirited. She desperately searched his face for answers but was met only with indifferent porcelain. She felt her own brow furrow as a wave of complex emotion rolled over her.

"Child…"

She tuned his voice out, rocking back and forth incessantly—questions hounding at her psyche from every corner. How? How could he possibly put her into such a position? After everything she had just confided in him. Betrayal. What was this supposed to be? Retaliation for her desertion? After he had shown so much approval for the decision. Hypocrite. Was that all a ruse? A game for him? He lied just now, didn't he? About his role in all of this. Why would he do that? Why? Why does he lie so much? What else was he misleading her about? His feigned interest in her love life—some cruel joke at her expense? Could he be so petty?

She stopped rocking, and her expression instantly soured. Yes he could. He proved just as much the last time they had spoken, before he was taken away. The way he had mocked her for her heritage—or lack thereof….

With this newfound context, she reexamined what he had told her today. He never gave a definitive timeline of his escape from the Brotherhood. Even if it had happened in the middle of their clash with the Titans, why didn't he visit her sooner? What was he doing in that intervening month? Did he not know where to find her? Fire and brimstone. That is what I have concocted for this place. He had to have known. How else would he pull a cataclysm event out of his pocket?It was premeditated. It had to have been. He had to have chosen Keystone on purpose. To jab at her. It was a game for him. Of course it was. It always was…

…or, perhaps she was just being paranoid. The way she had seen him laugh today, the pride that glittered in his eyes, and the way that he seemed to know all the right things to say—he couldn't have faked all of that. Could he? She stared back at the source of her turmoil, her gaze meeting the red glass obfuscating his orbits. Dismissive. As always. He wouldn't even grant her the courtesy of saying these things to her face. No. Who was she kidding? It was the man beneath that was the mask.

In that moment, she could feel the outrage boiling over, and with it, the question that burned hottest in her mind was given form.

"So why are you really here, Dracul?"

"I did not mean to—"

"Is it really that amusing for you to pluck at people's emotions?"

The accusation gave him pause. He was frowning now—she was sure of it—eyes narrowed in indignation at her audacity to suggest such a thing.

"What are you saying?"

"I mourned you, you asshole! Even after everything you said, I mourned you! It killed me to watch them take you away. And it turns out, you weren't even dead."

"Would that conclusion have been more to your palate?"

"Don't give me that! You played absentee dad for nearly a year. At any point you could have reached out—I was praying for you to reach out. But you didn't. You left me to fend for myself. And just as I was making peace with the fact that I had lost you, here you come waltzing back into my life proclaiming how much you care about my safety and happiness as you threaten to destroy—my—home."

"Are you really so concerned over a few buildings in the dirt?"

"That's not the point!"

"I was predisposed at the time," Dracul objected, prompting a scoff from her, "And you should know that your residence here played no role in my selection."

"Ah, well it seems awfully convenient that you settled on Keystone of all places. Right? I mean, what are the chances? I really must be bad luck."

There was no further retort to her jeering. It seemed that he considered himself above this conversation and instead elected to sit silently and take whatever verbal abuse she could hurl at him. No doubt he thought he would just wait out her tantrum. Self-aggrandizing bastard.

"You know what I think it is, Drac? You just can't stand that I managed to move on. All this time, you were perfectly content to kick your feet up and watch while you thought I was damaged goods. It must have been a real ego boost, huh? Only now did you decide to come back and pretend to be a father as you yank out the ladder from under me."

No response.

"'Oh, but I'm sure it's all coming from a place of love, right? 'Building character': that's what our last meeting was all about. Right?"

Jinx's eyes glistened as his taunting remarks played back in her head—almost as crisp and vividly as if he had just made them five minutes ago. Your parents loved you, Jinx. They loved you so much that it killed them to give you away… is that what you expect me to say? Hm? Don't be naïve. They were terrified of you. They couldn't wait to be rid of you. And who could blame them… she pushed it out of her mind. Right now, the only thing that mattered was verbally crucifying the bastard sitting in front of her right now.

"And all of the distance… the sudden threat to unravel my life. That's all just part of the 'formative experience', right?"

No response.

"Haven't you got anything to say?"

Still no response. It felt like talking to a wall, utterly unmoved by any attempts to goad a reaction, content to be still and take in her intense pink glare with a marked detachment, robbing her of any means of catharsis. For a minute they sat there in silence before a soft voice, tinged with melancholy, manifested from the porcelain.

"I do not know what to say. You have tinted my actions with such malice."

She felt her expression soften, tears welling up with the threat of running rampant down her cheeks. She clicked her tongue as she tried in vain to hold them at bay.

"I raised you as my own flesh and blood. Every step of the way I prioritized your wellbeing. Cheering for your victories. Grieving for your woes. Did I make mistakes along the way? Of course I did. I am… cognizant… of my callousness the last time we spoke. But you must know, child, that even in those lowest of moments… I adored you. I still do."

It was a ruthless blow to the waterworks. She turned away from him, burying her face in one hand to save her dignity: she had already given in to her emotions once tonight. He allowed her a brief moment before beginning again, this time his diction slower.

"Be that as it may, I am too far gone now. I cannot afford to renege on my word any longer. And should you choose to stand in my way, I will not hesitate to remove you from the equation. Thatis a promise."

And with that concluded, the hat was back on, the cane was out, and he was on his way to the door—ready to disappear from her life all over again. She grabbed ahold of his sleeve as he brushed past. The gesture was meagre. Pathetic. Weak. But it was still enough to make him stop.

"At least tell me the truth," she pleaded, "About you. About your situation. What did you renege on that you have to do all this? You owe me that much."

He merely huffed at the inquiry, not bothering to return her gaze.

"No I don't. No… I don't owe you anything anymore."

He pulled his arm away, her longing fingertips relinquishing the dark fabric with minimal resistance. She didn't care anymore. There was no coming back from that.

"You haven't changed at all."

It was the most scathing remark she could offer. Behind her, the departing man uttered an almost inaudible response—likely meant for his ears alone, "And so we depart as strangers."

She ruminated on that sentiment. It was naïve for either of them to have believed otherwise. After everything that had been said between them—after everything she had experienced since—Dracul would never be able to live up to the pedestal she had crafted for him. Perhaps he never did. As this bitter thought occupied her mind, she did not notice the footsteps behind her growing irregular. She did not notice the breathing becoming rapid and labored. She did not notice any indication that someone's body was failing him. It was not until the death knell sounded again that she recognized a refrain of the last episode. She whipped her head around. He was leaning against the wall, body jerking erratically as one of his hands desperately clamped around his throat. She bolted after him.

"Dracul!"

Hearing his name seemed to buy him a modicum of awareness. As he saw her moving towards him, he brought his cane down hard against the tiled floor. Tap. Tap! Within an instant she was sent careening towards the ground, a sudden riptide of fatigue overpowering her. He began to shamble towards the fire escape again, each step a concerted effort between the coughing fits. She tried to reach out to him, but her arms had grown numb and heavy. Over his shoulder, he rasped out one final diktat:

"Leave this place, Jinx. For when next we meet, it will be as enemies."

Her eyelids began to drape down over her vision, obscuring it just as his body went limp over the railing. As the void claimed her consciousness once more, she could just barely make out the sickening crack of a body hitting the pavement below.