Disclaimer: I do NOT own DC Comics, or, anything associated with said franchise.
Author Announcement(s): The names of ANY/ALL Tamaranians, in this chapter, will be referred to, in the TAMARANIAN language, and, NOT English, because they ARE on Planet Tamaran, after all! The names of the Tamaranians are as follows: Earth Name: StarFire, Tamaranian Name: Koriand'r; Earth Name: BlackFire (StarFire's Older Sister), Tamaranian Name: Komand'r; Earth Name: WildFire (StarFire's Younger Brother), Tamaranian Name: Ryand'r; Earth Name: NightStar (StarFire's Daughter), Tamaranian Name: Mar'i. You MAY want to (OBVIOUSLY OPTIONAL) read the stuff on this link (WEBSITE [REMOVE SPACES, COPY, AND, PASTE, INTO ADDRESS BAR]: www. titanstower source/ whoswho/ tamaran. html), to refresh your knowledge of Tamaran's history. ANYWAYS, this is NOT a filler chapter, and some SERIOUS stuff will be discussed here. If you don't like remembering the deaths of superheroes, then you may not like this chapter. I STILL ENCOURAGE you to read it. You'll like it! I PROMISE! Here's Chap. 3! Enjoy!
III. Remembrance
The man stood, looking over the edge of the balcony, as he had often done many times over the past twelve years. It was snowing. It was always snowing. It was cold—as it always was, and it was deathly cold. But he either did not notice, or he did not care. It was more likely than not the latter option. He could get acclimated, or adapt, to almost anything. He could withstand almost anything. Just like she could.
'Ughhh,' he thought to himself. He was thinking of her again. He was always thinking of her. Usually people thought of someone who had tried kill them—and almost successfully on so on so many occasions before—in a hateful or vengeful way. That's not how he thought about her though. Granted, he had tried to kill her almost as much, but then again, she had deserved it. Perhaps he did to—at the time. He chuckled at a joke that only he heard.
Damn, if he wasn't careful with the jokes that "only he could hear," he might end up in Arkham too. He chuckled to himself at the thought. He did it again. Maybe he was already insane. It was only a matter of time. It did run in the family, after all. They were all crazy. Damn crazy Bats. He chuckled once again. Now he was sure of it. He had a spot in Arkham Asylum waiting for him when he got back to Gotham.
He looked out upon the vast snowy white wonder that was the terrain before him. It would have looked like a beautiful painting, had he not been able to visualize—and clearly visualize at that—all the massive amounts of blood and gore that had often drenched the snowy fields before him. He continued to look on at the vast blankness before him, his deep blue eyes scanning the tundra that was far too large for him to take in all at once.
His view shifted from hill to hill, slope to slope, and it finally ended at the crest of the large mountains that were some distance off in the far forward direction, and whose sheer face looked like it was giving him a death glare—one that would have killed anyone else. It wouldn't kill him, though. He had been through far too much, to be killed by a simple look—especially one from an inanimate object.
He scanned the top of the never-ending dark abyss separating the large mountain from the large snowy white field in front of the balcony he was on. He sighed. He knew every feature of that mountain by now. He had spent far too long looking at it. He should have been training right at that very moment. His mind was elsewhere though. He was thinking about all that he had left behind—thinking about all the people he had left behind—about Terry, about Laura, about Dick, and about…Rose.
Why did he even bother with that last train-of-thought? He wasn't even sure if she was alive anymore. It was hard to tell who was left alive after the "Hero Hunting" "Extermination" had taken place. He cringed every time he thought about that—and Damian Wayne did not cringe. He didn't cringe this time, though. He was used to it—used to the thought.
He sighed again. It was such a simple plan—so simple, that it had to work, and unfortunately, for the most part, it did. Almost all those who put the planet before themselves had died trying to defend it. A few remained, but it was too few to make a valid threat to the deteriorating human condition or the villains that caused it to further deteriorate. This time, the villains had won. Damian sighed, and he remembered another time that villains had won. It was the event that had caused him to exile himself, and caused him to come here—here to train, to get better.
It was so simple, and Damian cursed himself every damned day for not seeing just how simple it was. His brother would have seen. Dick would have seen. 'Damn,' he thought. He was doing it again—comparing himself to his brother. He had done that a lot, since Bruce had passed. He didn't aggravate and insult Dick—constantly—because he thought he could better than him, but because he was jealous of him.
He had never admitted that to himself, until very recently—that is, if someone counted twelve years ago as recently. Dick was the son that his father always wanted, and he wasn't even blood! Bruce passed away, with all of his "sons," and any and all of "daughters," at his side, blood or not. The only one of his "Bat Bloodline," that was absent on this day, was Helena; had she been alive, she never would have missed it. Damian erupted at Dick. How could his own father leave the Batsuit to Dick? Damian was more than ready for that responsibility. However, his father apparently did not see things the same way. This was a "business" that took everything from someone. Bruce Wayne was hero. He had jailed, killed, or otherwise eliminated, numerous threats to both the world, and its inhabitants in general.
Yet, at his funeral, there were a substantially low number of people in attendance. The reason for that was simple. Bruce Wayne had died, but Batman had not. He could never die. He was immortal. He was a symbol. He was a symbol that Damian was ready to take-on. His father, however, thought otherwise, and after the "official" will of Bruce Wayne had been read by his lawyer, Alfred read his "sons," and his "daughters," the will that he had drafted separately—his "Will of Warriors," as he called it. This will gave the task of continuing the role of Batman to Dick.
Damian couldn't handle that. He just let Dick have it. He let everything out. He told him about his insecurities, about his need to win his father's approval, and about his very recently developed heated hatred towards his brothers. Jason, Tim, Terry, Steph, Cass, Barbara, and Dick were shocked, stunned, and speechless; only Alfred could speak, and he took the opportunity to do so. At this moment, Alfred, as usual, had chosen an excellent time to share valuable information.
He handed Damian a letter that Bruce had written exclusively for him. He had written a goodbye note for each of his sons, but only Damian got a letter. The others were neither surprised, nor jealous. He opened and read the letter, and almost immediately, he regretted everything that he had just said. His father did not want his son to go into this "business." There was a simple reason for that: it would kill him, while Batman would live on. He would always live on. He had trained the others to handle that, and although Bruce knew that Damian could handle it, he did not want him to.
Damian was raised to be in costume, constantly fighting, and always expecting danger, but that was not the way that Bruce wanted his son to be raised. The fact that he had spent so long with his mother and grandfather, before Bruce even knew he existed, however, prevented Bruce from raising Damian, like a "normal" child. In his last letter to his son, Bruce said how proud of him he was and how he was sorry for not being the father he deserved. Damian wished that he could have told him that he was sorry that he was never the son that Bruce deserved.
Bruce went on to explain that he only ever continued being Batman, to save Damian from the burden. Bruce reasoned, that because Damian was his own flesh and blood—and by an extension, part of himself—Bruce wanted nothing more than to see Damian pain-free, and being the Batman required experiencing pain—and a lot of it. If there was one thing that Damian could do, it was handle pain. His father knew this, but he reasoned that he had taken enough pain for the two of them. Bruce had tried his best to create a world that was better than the one he was raised in—one his son could have a normal life in.
He had failed, and once again, he apologized for it. Every apology that Damian read in that letter was like a stab through the heart for him. Damian could take pain—and a lot of pain, at that—but, this…this was like hell for him. He had never experienced this before, and, he wasn't sure how much more of it he could handle. Bruce had trained four others to take-on his mantle, and he only wanted his son to be…well…his son. He didn't want his son to be the symbol. He wanted his son to be his son and nothing more.
Damian realized then that his constant attempts to better himself, and to earn Batman's suit was what had put a strain on their relationship. After this, he apologized to his brothers, and he left Wayne Manor in haste, seeming very distraught. Jason had tried to kill almost all of his brothers in one way or another before, and even though he was a little psychotic, even he knew that he could not handle what Damian was now going through. Although Damian had left the Manor far too quickly to hear any of their responses to his apologies, he knew that all of his brothers had all accepted his sincere and sorry apology.
Two weeks later, when the "Venom Virus" had "infected" Gotham city, Batman returned and sprung into action. The five brothers decided that, if he had wanted to take the risk, Damian should return as Batman. Damian was happy for their symbolic acceptance of his apology, and he readily accepted the offer. He was aided, however, by seven other vigilantes—by seven other heroes.
Damian had donned the Batsuit, and Dick as "Nightwing," Jason as "Red Hood," Tim as "Red Robin," Stephanie as "Batgirl," Cassandra as "Black Bat," and Terry as "Robin" (he drew the short straw—no one wanted to be the original Robin) had accompanied him into the depths of hell. It was no understatement. If anything, it was an overstatement. Gotham City had actually become hell—that is, if it wasn't already.
With Barbara, as the omniscient "Oracle," and supplying the heroes with a never-ending stream of important information, the "Bloodthirsty Bats," leapt into the decaying pit of damage, destruction, and devastation that was gruesome Gotham City. And Gotham's hell became hell for its enemies, as a swarm if bats descended on them. There had been a death in the family, but they seemed stronger, smarter, and swifter than the family had ever been.
The Virus had infested Gotham with ease and efficiency. It was a gaseous form of the "Venom Drug," and it made almost everyone in Gotham crazed with power, a thirsty for battle, and superhuman, with superhuman strength, speed, and limits—that is, if they had any limits.
The only way to cure them was to take the "Antivenom Antidote," mix it with blood of the original carriers, and then administer the gaseous form of this new solution back into the atmosphere of Gotham. Damian's insatiable need to prove himself, however, now not only to his father, but also to his brothers as well, was his greatest downfall in those two weeks that it took to restore Gotham to normal.
The "original carriers" of the Venom, were the henchmen of Gotham's old foe, Bane, and they were ruthless.
Bane had released the "Venom Virus," as a means for the city to destroy itself, and he had very nearly succeeded. It was very close to working. His henchmen were well-trained in combat and control—control over both their abilities, and over their addictions to Venom. Taking their blood "samples," to create the curing solution proved to be a terrible task, and as such, Damian was the first to volunteer for the task.
His brothers often had to bail him out though, and had he not been so overconfident and eager to prove himself, he would have succeeded without their help, but he was far too overzealous. It took Damian almost getting his back broken by Bane, and Jason having to save him, for him to see that he was not ready to accept the mantle of Batman.
Although Damian saw it, he never admitted it, and all throughout the weeks of the "Venom Virus," incident he continued his tactics, as if nothing were wrong. In the end, Jason Todd had to sacrifice himself to save Damian, an act that Damian would never, in a million years, have predicated.
Jason died, all-the-while, taking most of Bane's mutant monsters—and the vast majority of the original carriers—with him.
Damian had caused Jason's death, and it continued to eat away at him. The death of one of his brothers would cause the death of another, though. Jason had drawn the blood of the "original carriers," but he didn't contain it or mix it with the "Antivenom Antidote." That task was left to Tim, and when he went to mix and administer the "Antivenom Antidote" to the pipelines of Gotham, Bane confronted him.
Having his back turned, and being completely vulnerable, Tim had Damian there to watch his back, but being distracted, distraught, and feeling immensely guilty over Jason's death, Damian failed to stop Bane from attacking and maiming Tim from the back.
Had Tim actually seen the attack coming, he would have easily stopped it, but that night he depended on teamwork, on someone else—on his brother—and Damian had let him down, just as he had let Jason down. Jason was a psychotic psychopathic murder, and yet, even he still came to his Bruce's funeral—to his father's funeral—and assisted his brothers in this suicide mission.
Damian wasn't like that. He wasn't a team player. His years on the "Teen Titans" should have hinted at that.
With Tim lying helpless on the sewer floor, Damian proceeded to charge Bane, and he then defeated him. Damian then kneeled down and began to apologize profusely to Tim. Tim was bleeding, and he choked on his own blood, but even through this, he managed to see Bane rising from the spot where Damian formerly laid him to rest.
Unable to speak, and thus, unable to warn Damian of the threat behind him, Tim used his bladed scythe to pick himself up, and using the weapon, he catapulted himself up and over Damian. He landed right in front of the charging Bane, and he took the full force of the monster's blow, but, skillfully, Tim managed to not go flying in the opposite direction.
Tim had hooked his scythe into Bane's Venom mask, and thus, with the force of the blow, he swung himself up around Bane's head, and he pulled the mask off of him.
Bane—having already gone through withdrawal from Venom—felt almost no immediate effects. Tim landed on the ground—hard—and he was immediately pummeled by Bane, but just as Bane jumped back and attempted to leap on the broken and battered "Red Robin" once again, Tim's scythe found its way through Bane's back, and thus the hero would sacrifice himself, dying with his enemy on top of him.
Damian approached Tim, and his last words to his brother were simple ones, but they made Damian—the Dark Demon, the unbreakable child, "The Dark Knight," the man who did not show emotion—cry. Tim's last words made Damian cry.
"Don't apologize. There is only one Batman. It's in your blood, kid. Not mine. 'Sides, Batman doesn't need a 'sidekick'. You always had it in you. Don't let this stop you. My mistake—not yours." Tim chocked up, having lost whatever blood was lodged in his throat, in his aerial confrontation with Bane. A single tear left the Bat's eyes, and they landed on his brother's lifeless body.
After that event, Damian couldn't afford to stay in Gotham. His father was right. He was not the next Batman. He wasn't Batman, period. He need his own name, and needed to go someplace secluded to find it—some place where he wouldn't be risking anymore of the lives he cherished, even if he would never admit to cherishing those lives. He wanted to help make this world better—that was a given. Damian Wayne was messed-up—really messed-up—but, he still saw goodness and potential in this world.
His father had given everything to ensure that he could live in a better world. Bruce thought that he owed the world something, because it had given him his son. Damian thought that he owed the world something, because it had given him a home, four brothers, and a father. Thus, the "Demon Son," being the determined person he was, set-out to find the secluded and desolate place that he so desperately sought.
Unfortunately, the only secluded place that Damian could think of to train, was with his mother. That thought made him sigh a little. He thanked, and apologized to, Terry and Dick, and he packed his bags and left. He was bound for Russia, and he would not return until he was capable of making this terrible world a better place—until he was the man his father knew he could be.
Damian now found himself thinking about all of the other events that had taken place before that "Venom Virus" had hit Gotham. They were all sad events, though. Well, all were sad—all except a few. Those events that weren't sad were the ones with her in it. The "Hero Hunting Extermination," as the "Fearsome Foursome," called it, however, was another memory that was forever ingrained in his mind.
Brother Blood, Madame Rouge, Dr. Lethal, and Vandal Savage had gotten what they wanted, but they had gone too far. They called themselves "The Fearsome Foursome," or "The Four," for short. They had a terrible team name, but they had a good plan. Too good. Too good, because it worked. He regretted how well their plan had worked every day he was here—here training, training so that, maybe, he could fix himself, and be the person not only his father wanted him to be, but that he wanted be to as well.
All of the materials that "The Four" needed to make their plan work was what they already had—willing and loyal servants, trainees, killers. They pooled these trainees from the former students of the former "H.I.V.E. Academy," and they used them as their pawns.
They simply took those poor, demented, tortured youths, and turned them into mindless minions. They implanted the idea that, because the world "gave them life," that they had an "obligation," to give back to the world. And, these young ones then believed that there was no better way to give back to the world, than eliminating the ones "responsible," for a the rifts in society, the ones who felt they had the "right" to judge others, and as such, take away their rights—the ones who called themselves heroes.
It was simple. Through years and years of intense fights, conflicts, and battles, with any and all of the remaining heroes, or hero-teams, "The Four" gathered the DNA and genotype information of any and all heroes that they had come in contact with. They then implanted that information, along with the DNA of several heroes, into their well-trained killers.
"The Four" then sent their young killers each after a specific hero in turn. Each "Hero Hunter," as "The Four" called them, had a specific target.
Every hero was chased, hunted, and otherwise tracked, by a "Hero Hunter," whose powers, and abilities perfectly matched that hero's abilities. Of course, the "Hunters" had one advantage: they had been observing and studying their prey for some time. Thus, they knew their enemies better than they knew themselves. Many heroes had been killed in the "Hero Huntings," such as Helena Wayne.
Helena Wayne, the blood-bonded sister of Damian, the woman that had used the alias of the deceased hero, Helena Bertinelli, had been killed in the "Hero Huntings." Helena Wayne was the child of Selina Kyle—better known as "Cat-Woman"—and Bruce Wayne, and she had been acting as "Huntress," after the old "Huntress," Helena Bertinelli, had been killed. Barbara Gordon had also been killed in these "Hero Huntings,"—albeit not until after the "Venom Virus" had affected Gotham.
Barbara had been killed, but she had survived the initial waves of the "Hero Huntings," and she had used her covert connections—all over the world—to track, trace, and terminate almost all of the organizations that had made deals with the "Shadow Sectors," of different governments all of over the world. These organizations had dealt with these "Shadow Sectors," of different corrupt countries, such as Bialya, in return for recognition, progress, prowess, and powerful partnerships. These organizations—as well as the "Shadow Sectors," that they financially funded—had been responsible for helping "The Four," by supplying their equipment, monetary funds, and young "interns"—the same young "interns" that would later be turned into "Hero Hunters."
Barbara Gordon and her team had discovered, disarmed, and destroyed many of these organizations, and in doing so, she attracted attention to herself, and to her effectively efficient team, the "Birds of Prey." Thus, in the later waves of the redesigned "Hero Huntings," she was targeted, and she was killed, but she did manage to take her enemies with her, and expose those governments that were supporting this "Hero Hunting." Thus, the "Birds of Prey" had effectively ended the "Hero Huntings," although they had sacrificed themselves so that they could accomplish that task.
The effect of her deathly demise was most visible in Dick's emotionless expression. They had always been there for each other, always aided and assisted the other. They loved each other. The only thing that Dick and Barbara couldn't help each other with, was their truly terrible tenacity. That stubbornness caused Barbara to reject Dick's proposal.
That stubbornness caused her to become cold to him, to think that he had better things lying in wait than a washed-up cripple. That stubbornness caused their son, Tristan, to become aggressively angry at both of his parents. That stubbornness caused Dick Grayson to leave Earth, and venture with the newly-created "Intergalactic Investigation," Division of "The Justice League,"—which was led by Dick at the time—to the planet of "New Tamaran," after the original planet Tamaran had been completely devastated, demolished, and destroyed.
There, he learned that the woman he thought was dead was still living. There he had encountered stubbornness that would have rivaled Barbara's steely stubbornness. There, Dick Grayson encountered the alien princess, whom he had fallen in love with as a teenager. There, he tried to tell her that his feelings had not changed. There, she would listen. Thus, there he was forced to speak with actions, instead of words. There though, he would eventually have to leave, without reconciling, repairing, or rekindling the relationship he had hoped he would. Dick Grayson had loved three women in his life. He had married one. He had lost all three. Even his own son seemed unreachable—if, he was even still somehow living. Now, he had only one girl that he loved. He had only Laura left. He had only his daughter.
Though, throughout the time that Dick had spent in space, the "Hero Hunting," was still being executed on Earth. Though this "Hero Hunting," was a great plan, and execution, for "The Four," there was still the problem of super-powered freaks running around, after the heroes had been "dealt with." "The Four" had easily solved this problem, though.
The genetic codes of "The Hunters" were designed to disintegrate after some time, thus killing them and eliminating any evidence or "hassle," for "The Four."
Many of the heroes who were hunted died. Some survived. Some simply kept running, until their Hunter's genetic code unraveled, and he or she died. Some actually managed to defeat or kill their Hunter—albeit not many.
Damian Wayne had survived, and his hunter had been killed, but he was not the one who had killed him. Rose Wilson had killed his Hunter, and he had killed hers. He had thought she was dead, and seeing her again was something that the tormented, tortured, and drained boy needed to see. He had to admit, it was a little weird having her try to save his life, rather than end it—as she usually did—but it was a refreshing change.
Dr. Lethal—being of blood relation to Lex Luther, and as such inheriting his hatred of the Kryptonians—stole a great deal of the data, and retreated to his lab, most-likely to begin his own experiments and plans. Vandal Savage, however, had other plans, and with his own personal copies of his formulas and data, he began a plan to attack and destroy the Lantern Corps. As far as Damian knew, Savage had either not been successful in that plan to eliminate the Corps, or he had not attempted it—yet.
Damian sighed once again. He missed the old days, but he knew that they weren't coming back. They were gone—gone for good. But, now, as he stood here and looked out over the ice-cold fields below him, he thought—no, he knew—that he could make new days like that—a new era of peace—but, only if he truly pushed himself beyond his limits, if he truly wanted to make this world better. He had been training for the past twelve years, and he had experienced pain that was beyond his wildest imagination—pain that was too painful for even Damian Wayne to withstand. He had been pushed to his breaking point—to his limits—and beyond them.
He was surprised at this revelation, though, because he was sure that he broken any limits or boundaries he had long ago—when he was just a child. Both his mother, and his father, had pushed him to, and beyond his limits, and, even as a child, his skills far exceeded the abilities of the average well-trained assassin. This training that he was experiencing now, though, was far more intense that anything he could have ever imagined. But, then again, it had to be that difficult. Damian was already great, but, he wanted to be better. Being better than he already was, though, was something that was truly a great goal—a goal that was damn-near impossible, unless he pushed himself as hard as he was currently doing.
His mother, to his surprise, had been reluctant to train him at first. After he explained his situation, and the experiences that had driven him to want the League's help, of all people, his grandfather and mother heard him out, and had agreed to train him. Since he was already in top form, though, the kind of training he was in for would be the kind that could kill him.
He relished the thought of it—the thought of a challenge. When he began to train with his mother, however, he realized that even though she was pushing him, she was holding back. He then requested that his grandfather take over his training, and Ra's agreed. Damian had never known such pain, until his training with Ra's Al Ghul had begun. He had survived it all, though, and he had become stronger—much stronger. In fact, in his attempt to try to become the man his father wanted him to be, Damian had rekindled his relationship with his mother and grandfather. They both respected him—deeply respected him—and they both saw how quickly he progressed.
The past twelve years had been filled with fairly few happy occasions. One of those occasions, though, was the time he had spent traveling the whole world—to further progress his technical training, so he could learn the entire Earth's geography, from every small pebble in every small state, to every large country that existed and thrived on Earth. During that time, he had found a friend—a friend he had been sure would hate him. She did hate him. But, hate wasn't the opposite to love. It was precursor to love. Damian learned that fact, and many other facts, in the time he had spent with Iris West. She could always teach him something. It was one of the reasons that Iris West was one of the few people that Damian had openly admitted that he loved.
Damian continued to scan the vast terrain around him. The killer chilly wind whipped around him, shuffling his jet-black hair as it did so. He sighed once again. He really should be training. Just as conjured this thought, Damian felt a hand on his shoulder. He smirked. He knew whose hand it was without even making a sound.
"You should be training." Ra's spoke to his grandson.
"You sure you want another ass-kicking, 'old man?'" Damian responded, jokingly.
"If you manage to 'kick my ass,' then you will do so, using a broken foot, 'young boy.'" he replied, a subtle smirk forming on his own lips. Ra's Al Ghul was making a joke, and Ra's Al Ghul did not make jokes. Damian had really done wonders for the old man's outlook and disposition. He hadn't changed him completely, though. In general, Ra's still detested humanity. Still, though, it was nice to know that he wasn't going to try to destroy Gotham or go on a "slaying spree" anytime soon. Perhaps Bruce's death had affected more people than he had imagined.
"I'll be in, in a second." Damian responded.
"Your mother wishes to see your new skill set demonstrated against me in person." he stated, addressing his grandson. "She is growing impatient." Ra's finished his plea.
Damian nodded and understood. People did not keep Talia Al Ghul waiting. He followed his grandfather, as he led them both to the interior of the League's mountain hideaway. The gore stains that Damian had remembered from earlier would be clearly visible after their match. That was a good thing, though. "What you lose in body fluid, you gain in pride." Talia had said. Damian smirked. He was about to walk out of the ring, feeling very "proud," indeed. But then, so would his grandfather.
The girl looked up at her attacker. Her face was muddied, and she was injured, but she refused to give-up, to quit. She was sprawled out on the cold, dusty floor—the floor of the training courtyard of the palace. The girl looked up at her mother, at her attacker. Koriand'r had a sad, sullen expression on her face.
The girl with dirt on her face and her blood on the floor rose from her defeated position and assumed a fighting stance, her brunette hair slightly singed. She shook the fire out. She spit the blood that had pooled in her mouth onto the floor beneath her feet, and the liquid landed directly in front of her mother's feet. Upon seeing this, Kori's expression changed from a saddened one to a semi-smirk. She knew her how much her daughter could take, but she was more-and-more impressed at every peak she reached, and how she always managed to ascend higher than that peak. Mar'i looked at her mother, and she smirked to herself.
Koriand'r's hands lit up, and they began to glow with an emerald luminosity. Her daughter followed suit, and proceeded to perform a similar action. Mar'i's hands flared up with violent violet aura, and she charged at her mother, gaining speed, and leaving the ground as she did so.
Kori was prepared for the attack, though, and she put her hands up in a defensive blocking position, and the two women collided in a fury of heat, flames, and smoke.
The resulting explosion slowed neither of the women down though, and they both retracted from the epicenter of the bang, and both—now completely airborne—charged at the other, and the resulting battle took place at a pace that continued to increase, as the two fatal females grew in intensity, violence, viciousness, and speed. The explosions grew louder and louder.
The smoke became suffocating, but neither slowed down. They continued to go at the other, but it was clear that Mar'i was tiring before her mother. It was obvious to anyone watching the fight, that, had it continued to its entirety, Mar'i would tire long before her mother. That is exactly what happened. Mar'i shot a starbolt, but her mother deflected it, and returned fire.
Mar'i had no energy left to doge the oncoming attack, and it hit her directly in the chest—a square shot. She toppled backwards, and, just before she hit the ground, she stopped herself, and the repulsive force of her aerial acrobatic maneuver caused the dirt and dust on the gritty floor below her to scatter. She stayed airborne for a minute longer, before she lost all of her will, and toppled to the ground, seemingly unconscious. Koriand'r descended to the ground, a few feet in front of her daughter. Her face returned to its former sad and sullen expression.
She saw her daughter's chest rise and fall, and then, just briefly, her eyes fluttered open and then quickly snapped shut again.
"That will do for today." Koriand'r addressed her daughter. She turned to leave, and, just as she began to walk away, she heard a sound that made her do a full turn-around. Her daughter grabbed a fistful of dust, and she slowly but surely, rose from the small impact crater that had been created by her "graceful landing." She stared her mother defiantly in the eye.
"No! We are finished when you knock me unconscious, or when I drop dead!" Mar'i challenged her mother's order, obviously trying to get into a fighting stance. She tried her hardest, but her body failed her. Her mind was strong, but her body simply couldn't keep up. She failed at getting into a fighting stance. She fell, now completely unconscious. Her mother was there in a second, though, and she caught the falling girl.
"I think I just knocked you unconscious." Koriand'r spoke to her daughter, knowing that she could not hear her, as she lovingly stroked her hair. She flew the two of them to the interior of the palace, and she was met on the balcony of the training courtyard, by the impressed expression of her older sister, and the knowing expression of her younger brother.
Kori set her daughter down on the hard, yet supportive, mattress in her room. She exited the room, shutting the door behind her. She turned around to see her siblings still standing there, their expressions now unreadable.
"…What…?..." she asked the two.
"You're pushing her too hard." Ryand'r stated blatantly.
Koriand'r sighed. She was ready to agree with him, that is, until her sister spoke up.
"No, you're not." Komand'r intervened, giving her brother a warning glance, as he stood his ground, returning her glare. "She will be better for this in the long-run." she finished her explanation.
Kori nodded. "It's just, that, sometimes, I feel like she might grow-up to hate me like how you hated me." she replied, looking at her sister.
Komand'r looked taken aback. Koriand'r did not bring up that terrible part of their past—not unless she was making a point, a very valid point. "Yes, but the fact is, that even after all I put you through, you forgave me. I could never have done that. I imprisoned you. I tortured you. And you, you forgave me. She has your genes, Star. Not mine. I'm the crazy one, remember?" Komand'r addressed her sister.
Now it was Kori who looked taken aback. Her sister had meant every word that she had said, but, that was not what had stuck-out to her. She had not been referred to as "Star," or "Starfire," in quite some time. It was a term of endearment between the two. Kori had to agree with almost everything that her sister had just said—all except one crucially untrue statement.
"She may not be your daughter, but she still has insanity in her genes." Kori replied to her sister's last comment.
Komand'r raised an eyebrow. "…What…?" was all she could muster in response. Her purple irises gleamed with curiosity; they looked directly into her sister's emerald eyes, her "snake eyes," as their soldiers often referred to them.
"Did you forget who her father is?" Kori asked, looking deeper into her sister's eyes.
Komand'r chuckled. No, she remembered who the father was. Yeah, the kid was doomed to go insane. The entire half of her father's family was insane—brave, but insane.
"Yeah, I remember—" Komand'r started, but she was cut-off, by a young messenger, who ran into the palace's main hall, where they were currently situated. The long, ornately decorated, hall was a ways for the young boy to travel, but he made it to the three at the far end of the hallway without losing a single breath. He was trained to do so—as most Tamaranians were.
"YOUR HIGHNESSES!" the boy shouted at the top of lungs, just as he reached the three.
Ryand'r rolled his eyes. "…Ughh… What is it, Vart'y?" he asked the boy, slightly annoyed at the interruption.
"The one know as 'Sun-Storm,' has shown himself once again. He has amassed a larger following than he had during the last conflict. He is invading the Rann region! If we do not assist the forces there, he will overrun them! The 'Council of Conflict,' calls for your great intervention!" the boy finished, bowing as he did so, and leaving the same way he came.
Ryand'r spoke up first. "Alright. Let's go." he said, attempting to leave his sisters' sides. He was stopped, as Komand'r grabbed his wrist.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?" she asked him, in a protective tone that seemed both protective, and threatening.
He snatched his hand away from her grip. "To kill SunStorm." he responded somberly.
"Do you have short-term memory loss? Don't you remember what happened the last time you fought him?" she asked her apparently-insane younger brother.
Ryand'r grew a little more furious. "Of COURSE I do!" he said, and, as he did so, he pointed to the noticeable scar above his right eye. His amber eyes glowed with fury and hate, just as his fists illuminated with an amber aura, and his temper peaked. "Why do you think I want to kill him?" he asked her angrily.
She narrowed her eyes at him. "Fine. But, you're not going alone. You can take "SunStorm." But, I got his psycho girlfriend." she replied, smirking. Ryand'r remembered the bloody pulp that "FluxFury" had put his sister into the last time they had fought. She smirked at thinking what she would do to get revenge. He nodded in response. The two siblings turned to their other.
"You gonna be okay watching things here for a while?" he asked Koriand'r.
Koriand'r nodded. "GO! Before the entire Rann region is demolished!" she yelled, and the two siblings took off, running.
"…And, don't forget to take the 'Fifth Fatal Fighters Division!' They are the most well-equipped, to handle SunStrom's armies!" she yelled after her two retreating siblings. Ryand'r gave her a thumbs-up, as he and his sister rushed down the large main hall, and straight into battle.
Kori turned her attention to her own bedroom door, which was some distance off the main hall's main corridor, in its east wing. She entered the room, and she silently shut the door behind her. She gazed up at the picture of her deceased parents, and she remembered all of the terrible and tough decisions that they had to make to ensure their people's safety.
They had even had to sacrifice her—their own daughter—to savages to end a losing war. They had regretted it every day since, but she had forgiven them, although they never stopped feeling guilty. It wasn't their fault though. It was her sister's fault. She chuckled.
She didn't know why, but she actually chuckled at the fact that her sister had sold her out to a band of bloodthirsty alien invaders. She really hated her sister. But, then again, she loved her too. Her sentiments towards her sister didn't make sense, but, then again, after Kori had spent so much time on Earth, almost nothing she did made any sense. Perhaps she was insane.
She was too nice for her own good. Dick had often told her that on many occasions. Her eyes widened in realization. Dick. Richard. She turned her attention to the item on her dresser. She gently picked it up and inspected it. It was a small yellow device inscribed with "TT" on its central surface—her Teen Titans Communicator. She sighed, hoping that things were in better shape on Earth than they were on Tamaran. She hoped this. But, her hopes were futile. Things were truly terrible. Everywhere.
A blonde-haired girl walked throughout the streets of Gotham City. Her cold blue eyes scanned the streets around her. One of those cold eyes looked like it did not belong, like it was a correction to a mistake. Above her right eye was a barely noticeable scar, and upon closer inspection, it looked as though it was formerly a trivial injury. Those who knew her, though, would guess otherwise. She had not been to Gotham City in a very long time. She did not come here. She did not know why she did not come here—or so she told herself. The truth was, however, that she knew exactly why she did not come here. She was not afraid—never afraid.
What did she have to be afraid of? The creatures of the night? No. She was one of those creatures.
She continued to walk the lonely streets, seeing no one and hearing nothing, yet knowing where, how, and when everything was. She was well-trained to do that—observe everything, without even acknowledging anything. She felt awkward without a mask—naked, almost. Although, feeling naked was not an awkward feeling for her. On the contrary, she was happy to make others feel uncomfortable with her lack-of-embarrassment. She chuckled.
She dug her hand into her pocket, and she felt some solace in grabbing the lighter contained therein. But it was not much comfort. She had a lighter, but she had no cigarettes. She sighed. She wondered why she had quit. The she remembered, and she nearly kicked herself for asking in the first place. She had quit because he had asked her to.
Why the hell did he even care? She sighed again. She had a hunch about that, but she felt it best to not take that path. She had already experienced psychosis once. She had no need to do it again. He was probably dead. Then, if that was the case, and she truly believed that, why was she here—here in Gotham?
This city had enough criminals. It needed a hero. No. This city ate its heroes. It needed something…more. She sighed again. She was no hero. She was barely human anymore. Physically, she was all and only human. But, mentally, she was far from human. She had experienced things that few others could withstand, especially while keeping their humanity. She had withstood those things, though, and it had only served to make her stronger.
She knew of only one other person who not only could withstand similar things—but who did. She knew that train of thought ended painfully, so she pushed it from her mind. She sighed. Why was she sighing so much? She hated sighing. It showed an air of uncertainty, of doubt, of weakness. She had been trained, ironically by two mortal enemies, not to ever show either uncertainty, or weakness.
She reached into her pocket again and found the lighter.
'Dammit! I shouldn't have listened to him!' she thought to herself. He was dead, anyways! What did it matter if she kept her promise? It was the last piece of him that she had, but she wanted no part of it. It was too painful for even her to think about. She cursed herself for feeling this weak—this pathetic. She could handle pain—a lot of pain—but this was more painful than even she could have fathomed. He had tried to kill her! Who would miss someone who had tried, and almost successfully so, to kill them?
She would. He gave her a challenge, and, using that challenge, she pushed herself, hard. Without that need to push herself, to drive herself, she felt herself slipping, and the part of her that she liked—one of the only parts of herself that she liked—was the part the he pushed her to improve upon.
He liked much more than that part of her, though, but he would never admit it. She was angry now, as her emotions flew through her head. She knew of only two things that could quell her anger: a cigarette or someone's head to slice off. She continued walking and she soon found her saving grace; it was the latter: a head to slice. Her blade had a new target, one that she would be happy to kill.
She knew that she would find the target of her blade, but, before she could do so, she had to attend to the victim in front of her. The girl was near death, and she was lying in a pool of her own body fluid—not just blood, but saliva and vomit as well. The sight of it made the blonde angry, and she had never been angrier than right now.
All of her anger, all of her contempt—for the world, for her father, for herself—exploded, and she approached the girl. She bent down, and she checked her vitals. She was still alive—barely. Her dirty brown hair had noticeable reddish-black highlights. The highlights were natural, and the blonde immediately noted this as unusual. The odds of having natural hair in that fashion were unlikely, to say the least.
She looked closer at the girl, and, although the grime and grit that had accumulated around the girl's face, hair, and mouth was plentiful, the blonde still reasoned that she was somewhat "cute." The blonde shouldered the girl carefully, and she proceeded to make her way—quite quickly—to the nearest hospital.
She entered the emergency room, and the nearest triage nurse—although they were obviously swamped—immediately began attending to the wounded girl. The small girl looked to be about ten years of age—perhaps a little older. The blonde stayed with the girl, until she regained consciousness. It was nighttime by that point. Perfect.
The girl was in her bed in her hospital room, her tubes attached, fluids flowing to her body at different points, and through different vessels. The blonde was beside her on her hospital bed, and she tried her best not to move or disturb the girl.
The sight of seeing the girl this weak reminded the blonde of a terrible time from her own childhood—if she could even call what she had been subjected to a "childhood," that is—and the blonde's anger flared up, once again.
The girl squirmed, and her eyes gently came undone, as they opened, to reveal the dark brown irises that starred intently at the blonde's brutal blue eyes. The blonde bent down, and she gently asked the girl, as softly as she could, who had done this to her.
Her response came slowly and chopped-up, but it came, nonetheless.
"A few big guys… …Wearing big metal masks…" the young girl whispered, trailing off. The blonde removed her ear from by the side of the young girl, and she removed herself from the girl's bedside. She got up and attempted to leave the girl's hospital room. She knew who she was after: Venom addicts. Good, she needed at least a slight challenge. She was at the threshold of the room's door, when the girl's small voice made the blonde turn around.
"…Wh-Where are y-you going?" she asked the blonde, using all of her remaining energy—which wasn't much—to turn and face her.
The blonde smirked at the girl. She liked this kid, and she didn't like too many children. "Don't worry. I'll be back by the time you wake up." she replied honestly.
The girl nodded. "Th-Thank you." the girl said, softly.
For the first time in a very long time, the blonde cracked a smile. "You're welcome. Now get some sleep." she ordered the girl as gently as she could. She seemed to take it kindly, though, as the girl nodded, and rested her head on her pillow, closing her eyes. 'Good,' the blonde thought to herself. She walked out of the hospital, and she went to do what she did best: kill. Rose Wilson left the hospital, and for the first time in many years, Ravager stalked the streets of Gotham.
It was the day after she had read the headline, and she still couldn't get his picture out of her mind. She just couldn't. He had made an appearance in her nightmare last night, and, as disappointed as she was in herself for doing it, she had woken up screaming. Her father had rushed into her room, and she was eagerly embarrassed. Laura Grayson did not get frightened.
Still, though, there was a reason that he plagued her so much. She was determined to find out why. Laura sat there in class, thinking of nothing else—nothing else, but that man's face. She had spent all her time in the library looking up articles, news, and other media, concerning The Joker. She had most of his past crimes, partners—although, he mostly ended-up "ending" his past "partners"—and his general MO memorized, right down to the dates.
He was cruel. He was efficient. He was insane, yet he was somehow sane, very sane. He was skilled, very skilled. She hated that she was this obsessed. She couldn't help it, though. It was just…him. The way he looked. His makeup. His knife. His expression. The way he…looked. It was scary, she had to admit it, and she hated admitting that she was afraid—afraid of anything—but, there was something else that had grabbed her attention as well. He was just…
"…Laura…?..." a voice snapped her out of her reverie. She looked up to see Matt's face a few inches from her own. He was so close to her that the heat that radiated from him washed over her face. She had to hide that small amount of blush that crept into her cheeks. She did so by acting rude and abrasive. It worked—it always worked.
"…WHAT?" she roared in response. Her blush from before had now completely visibly vanished from her cheeks, and Matt drew his face back a few inches. He was surprised at her outburst, but he was not insulted. He was used to this. He smirked.
"…Sorry that I interrupted your 'deep train of thought.'" he retorted. She rolled her eyes.
"What do you want, Maxim?" she replied, using his last name to emphasize the fact that she was annoyed with him.
"Well, I just wanted your opinion on something." Matt responded.
It was then that Laura noticed a girl that was currently behind Matt, her face anxious and apprehensive. It was the face of Lucy Myola. She was afraid. She was always afraid. It was endearing, but it was also a quick way to die in this city. Laura really wanted to be disgusted by the girl's constant fear of everything, but she just couldn't. She was too sweet to be angry at. Instead, Laura had taken to being more of a "protector," towards her. "What's the matter, now, Luce?" she questioned her timid friend.
Matt spoke on her behalf, as she was obviously too shell shocked to respond. This—whatever "this" was—was serious. Lucy was acting too weird and too afraid—even for her. She seemed to be unable to talk.
"…Well… …Luce was just kind of wondering…" Matt trailed off.
"Spit it out." she commanded. He chuckled. He loved her abrasiveness.
"...Well… …She was wondering, what you thought about Batman coming back?" he stated, making her question seem like his own.
"…What?" she responded, unsure of what the question was.
"…Well… …She was just kind of freaking out about The Joker—you know, Lucy—and she was wondering if Batman would come back, just like The Joker did, to stop him." Matt replied.
Laura looked at him.
"How the hell am I supposed to know?" she questioned him.
"…She doesn't want you to give her a definite answer, but, you know how much she respects you, and she just wants to know what you think." Matt said, trying very hard to make his point clear.
Laura turned to face Lucy, her hazel eyes staring deep into Lucy's golden ones. "…You respect my opinion that much?" she asked her friend.
Lucy nodded.
Laura sighed.
"…Well… …Statistically speaking—and, this is only going by what the records, and past events have shown—whenever The Joker returns, so does Batman." Laura explained to her friend, and Lucy let out a deep sigh—apparently one that she had been holding in for ages and the slight breeze she created blew a strand of her red hair from her face.
Matt looked at Laura in thanks, and she returned his stare, but her stare said, 'Just you wait. I'm not done, yet.' Matt saw this expression and he gently shook his head, so as to give Laura a signal, but not to have Lucy see. Lucy constantly needed to be told that everything was going to be okay.
That got really annoying at times, but, surprisingly, Laura had managed with her pretty well. However, there were some—more like many—occasions, where Laura simply wanted to "snap" Lucy out of her fear-induced state, and thus, when Laura felt like giving her friend a scare—one that she felt Lucy had deserved—she did so without hesitation. The problem was, that it usually made Lucy go slightly insane, or worse, cry. Matt never wanted to see Lucy cry—for multiple reasons. Laura was unstoppable when it was one of those times, though. This was one of those times.
"…However…" Laura trailed off, and Lucy picked up on her tone almost immediately.
"…However, WHAT?" Lucy asked her friend, her anxiety now skyrocketing.
"It won't do much good." she replied.
Matt turned to face his friend, with an odd expression on his face. He couldn't believe what she was saying. Although Matt didn't want to Lucy cry, he did want to hear what Laura had to say—especially after the comment she had just made.
Lucy looked at her friend, wide-eyed. "…What won't do much good?" she asked.
"Batman." Laura responded.
"…WHAT? What do you mean?" Lucy asked, now very interested, and, at the same time, very petrified.
"Batman won't help with The Joker. …Actually, he won't help with any of it—the crime, the poverty, anything." Laura explained. Lucy got up from her seat, and dismissed herself from the class, storming out of the room, starting to cry.
Matt wanted to go comfort her, but wanted to hear what Laura had to say more. Mr. Donavan looked at the door, where the crying girl had just disappeared through moments before, and his confused look disappeared, as he continued giving his biology lesson. Matt turned back to Laura, who was, once again, thinking of the man with the makeup.
Matt looked at her notebook. It was empty and devoid of notes. That was very unlike her. She always took notes. She must have been very preoccupied to not be taking notes. He was about to speak to her, when Mr. Donavan addressed Matt and told him to turn around, and stop talking to Ms. Grayson.
He obeyed, grudgingly. He wanted to hear what Laura meant by her earlier comments, and, while he knew that she could have been joking, he knew that she wasn't. She meant every word that she had told Lucy, and that's what scared him. She really didn't think that Batman could help. Matt had to disagree. But, he had never gotten the chance. Mr. Donovan continued giving his lesson, and, although Laura was zoned-out, something Mr. Donovan said grabbed Laura's attention, and she suddenly perked up. She looked intently at her teacher, and he stopped speaking for a moment. She raised her hand.
"…Yes, Laura?" he asked her warily.
"What did you just say about viruses?" she asked him.
"…Ahem… …Yes, well… …I was discussing the general characteristics of a virus, and the—" he was interrupted by the girl, once again.
"…Yeah… …Um, would you mind stating that part over again?" she asked him. As she posed her question, she untied her ponytail, and ran her fingers through her long raven hair. It was an unconscious action, and she did not even realize that she was performing the action, but someone did. Matt could not help but stare at her like she would vanish in a second. Matt quickly caught what he was doing, and he turned away, a very noticeable amount of blush creeping into his cheeks.
If she thought her blush earlier was bad, she would have mocked him for weeks for seeing him do that. He cursed himself for letting her do that to him, especially when she wasn't even trying. She quickly retied her ponytail, not noticing the inflamed boy in front of her.
Mr. Donavan repeated what he said about viruses. He said that they were not actually living organisms, because they could not reproduce without having a host to reproduce for them, and, thus, they did not fit all three of the fundamental characteristics of life. He said that they were referred to as "agents," instead of "organisms." He said that they could spread like wildfire, and he also said, that, because they never "alive," that "killing" them would be impossible. Laura processed everything just as fast as he had said it. She responded just as quickly as she had processed the information.
"…So… …Would you say that 'violence' is a virus?" she asked him. He looked at her in disbelief, and he was about to respond in the negative, until he caught himself, and she saw his face contort into an expression of deep thought.
He was slow to respond at first, but he did so, nonetheless. "…Well… …Yes, I suppose that it actually could be considered a virus, as it does meet all of the characteristics of a virus." he replied, a little shocked by the implication of his own words.
"…And what, exactly, would you say is the best way to eliminate a virus?" she asked him. He answered this one quite quickly.
"…Ah… …Now, that one, I can answer. The best way to rid oneself of a virus, is with a cure, or with an antivirus." he replied.
"…And, would you say that an 'anti-virus,' although very different from the original virus, would act in almost the exact same way, as the original?" she inquired, her eagerness and interest growing with each new question and answer.
He thought for a second. "…Well… …Yes. In a matter of speaking, an antivirus, although it is designed to kill the original virus, does exactly what the original virus does, but the only difference is that, instead of aiming its malicious attempts at the host, it aims it at the original virus." he explained. He looked at her face. She understood, but he could tell that she wanted more out of his answer, but she would not ask for it, so he continued. "…And… …If we were talking about your example—violence, for example—then the appropriate antivirus for 'violence' would be—"
"More violence?" she finished for him.
"…Yes. Of course, it would have to be aimed at the direction opposite the original virus, but yes, you get the point." he finished, and he continued to move on with his lesson.
But he was right. She did get the point. This city had a virus. And it needed a cure. The joker didn't use violence. He was violence. He was a virus. That's why Batman hadn't been effective on him. He was hero, and a good one at that, but this city didn't need a hero. It needed a cure. An antivirus. Someone who was just as violent as The Joker—only in the opposite direction. The same, but different. Laura went back into her thoughts—most of them concerning a clown and a virus.
A/N: Well, THANKS for reading! PLEASE Rate, AND, Review! Oh, and, I know what you're thinking! Has NightStar (Mar'i—StarFire's Daughter, Who Is NOT An OC, So Look Her up!) ever been to Earth? Does she know who her father is? Do you? Well, stay tuned to find out find out. Anyways, please R&R, and stay tuned for the next update!