Hey, me again! This plot bunny has been particularly vicious this past week, so I'm getting to down now so that I can work on my others stories, which is what I'm supposed to be updating next. That being said, this is one of the ideas that I'm feeling particularly keen on, so there's a good chance that this one will end up a story… eventually. So here we go!

Summary: A new metahuman has appeared, one whose skill with a brush is matched only by his desire for to achieve peaceful reality for the world. By any means necessary. And if the Justice League and others don't like his plan? Then he and those who join his side will fight to bring forth their ambition. Rated T for now, likely to go up in the future.

Justice League: Painted Ambition

Each change in history can be drawn back to the actions of a single person.

While the young man standing before his work of art was unsure who had originally said that quote, he felt that it was truer now than ever. The world was a sum of its details, and so a single change in detail changes to world. Kill a dictator, lead a movement, save a life, all were ways to change the image of the world. Each one making it better than before.

The man, whose name was Ximun Sollertia, moved his brush with fast, precise strokes, adding another layer of paint of his artwork. His build was thin yet lithe, with skin as pale as marble and oily black hair that fell in a disheveled pattern to his chin. His eyes, oddly enough, were a kaleidoscope of a varying colors, moving from one shade or blend to another as he moved. This, combined with the sheer intensity in his gaze and slightly gaunt expression led an image of madness to him. The fact that he was grinning like a someone who was insane didn't help.

"Justice" can be seen as a thing of beauty. Well, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Despite the fact that he was carrying no source of paint, Ximun painted the roses red, red as freshly drawn blood. Behind him, around two dozen mobsters were tied up and gagged, X's painted over their eyes with comical teardrops on their cheeks. They were all sitting on top of a large pile of money, money that they had all been counting right before he had dropped in from the window and beaten them all to a pulp.

The power of a movement lies in the fact that it can change the habits of people.

Specks of paint splattered onto his already ruined apron, causing Ximun to pause for a few seconds. Then he abruptly spun the brush in his hand and stabbed the wooden end into the wall, shattering the brush. The bristles had become too stiff, too easily broken by its users whims. One could even call that a metaphor. For what? Good question. As it was, he pulled out another brush and added green to the eyes of a cat lying on a branch, hissing angrily back at him. A bit more detail and it would be as if he had actually made a cat out of thin air.

Ximun paused again. Hmm… Why not?

With a mental push, the painting glowed and abruptly leaped off of the wall as if out of a mirror. The cat, now very real indeed, landed on all fours and hissed at Ximun, glowing green eyes glaring at him. Ximun regarded his creation for a moment, examining its features as it stayed low to ground and ready to pounce. Then, with another mental push, the cat exploded in a shower of paint that got all over the floor. How messy.

When morality comes up against profit, it is seldom that profit loses.

Ximun was very well aware that some of Gotham's greatest crime lords—particularly Black Mask, Salvatore Maroni and the Penguin—were all going to be very displeased when they learned that someone had not only whacked several of their guys, but had also stolen around a hundred-thousand dollars from each of them. And just as the three of them Were about to start doing business together.

That was, in fact, exactly what Ximun had deliberately interrupted. A three-way arms deal between the three gangsters, one that would have had the potential to double the number of illegal guns on the street. Being the good Samaritan that he was, there was no way he was going to allow that.

Once word got out that someone had stolen from three of Gotham's most infamous crime lords at once, everybody from GCPD to Batman to the gangsters themselves would be looking for who was responsible. And the ones affiliated with the criminals might be looking to end his life. Not that he was particularly worried; people had tried to kill him before, and they were all dead now.

If given the choice between peace and righteousness, I choose righteousness.

Some say that ending a life is wrong, yet others cry out like infants when criminals are allowed to live on. The morality of the world is indeed a complex paradox, and who knows? Anyone could be right. But the hard truth was that killing crime ended crime. People may not like that truth, but it was truth. And to achieve a peaceful reality, Ximun was more than willing to take lives.

Ximun filled in the vein of several leaves. Just a little bit more…

If an unstoppable force meets an immoveable objects, which prevails? No one, not until the force is either stopped or the object is moved.

Finally finished, the young man moved back and wiped the sweat from his brow, looking around at him. The entire warehouse, which had been derelict and completely devoid of color before Ximun broke up this arms deal, was covered with various paintings of every style, from Gustav Klimt's Tree of Life to Andy Warhol's Soup Cans to Hieronymus Bosch's The Last Judgement. All of it done, even when the originals weren't, in oil paint that Ximun had generated himself.

Indeed, if it wasn't made clear by now, Ximun was a metahuman. His ability? To generate and manipulate paint via his own energy, and bring that which he painted to life.

With his work done, Ximun discarded the apron and walked into a side room in the warehouse, changing out of his ruined outfit. When he came out, he was wearing an odd mixture of armor and work clothes, with a fresh white apron over a black sleeveless Kevlar vest with multiple pockets, and underneath that was a simple white T-shirt. On his lower half was a pair of brown heavy-duty painter's pants—also with several pockets—and black steel-toe boots. To top it off was the assortment of brushes sticking out of the various pockets he had on, as well as black leather gloves that shined in the fluorescent lighting overhead.

Ximun looked over at the bound thugs. "Do you gentleman want to know why I specifically used oil paint?" he asked smoothly, gesturing to the artistic chaos that was all around them. The thugs, of course, couldn't respond due to their gags. Even so, Ximun sighed and pulled out a silver Zippo lighter.

"It's actually rather simple. You see… this particularly blend of oil paint that I made was one that I wanted to test out on just this occasion. And it's all very flammable," he said, suddenly grinning from ear to ear. Their eyes widened; it didn't take long for them to realize what he was implying. They began struggling even harder, but it was no good; the ropes kept them bound like iron bars.

Tutting, Ximun put away the lighter and instead pulled out both a chisel and a frag grenade from the pockets on his vest. "Relax, you guys. I'm not going to kill you," he assured them. That calmed them down slightly, and Ximun approached them, taking care not to slip and the stacks of cash as he climbed on top of the pile. Quickly he held up the grenade and pulled the pin out, before placing it in the hands of one of the thugs, whom he mentally decided to call "Poor Fellow".

"And it's not going to be you that kills you, either. But instead, it'll be simple, natural biology," he said, before taking the chisel, shoving it into Poor Fellow's stomach and ripped it back out. Even gagged, his cry of pain was audible, but Ximun ignored it. Standing up and tossing the chisel away, he brushed himself off and began walking off. However, he stopped and looked back.

"You were all sure to die eventually- that, or be locked away in a cell until your bosses inevitably got you out. But now you guys have until Poor Fellow there dies from bleeding out, and then you all go 'boom'. And since this is going to keep Maroni, Penguin and Black Mask from doing business together, the wallets of this city's crime take a hit as well. So don't feel as if you died for nothing," he said, before quickly running and exiting out the front door, bold as brass.

The thugs were left sitting there, watching one of their own hold onto the grenade with everything he had, even as he bled out. But like Ximun said, biology killed them, and the Poor Fellow lost the ability to keep holding on once he lost enough blood. The grenade fell from his hands, clattering and bouncing down the pile of money they were on until it landed right beneath a portrayal of The Scream.

When the blast went off and the warehouse roared with flames, "scream" is exactly what they did.

Ximun walked away and moved through the back alleys until he was back on the sidewalk of Central Avenue. No one questioned his odd attire, especially considering the outfits of someone of their heroes and villains. Actually, that caused him to think. Almost every good or bad guy in the world had someone sort of moniker, if only to make a statement. What was his? He thought about even as several GCPD squad cars shot past his, sirens blaring as they raced towards the warehouse he had just blown up. Then Ximun grinned once more.

Baptism by fire. Not always the best way to make an entrance, and certainly not the subtlest. But for an artist who will change the world, what could be better?

That was the night that The Painter began his worldwide masterpiece.

And there's a wrap on that one. This one came after not only starting an art class, but after playing both Batman Arkham Knight and watching a few episodes of the Justice League TV show (which is actually pretty good, in my opinion). Like I said, this one has a very good chance of someday becoming an actual story, so this might not be the only plot bunny I get that's related to that. Who knows? Either way, let me know what you all think and offer constructive criticism.

Please review! If you flame me than Bruce Lee will smash you with his nunchaku. (I'm just kidding… or am I?)