Peanut gallery & The sleep of reason...Gives birth to monsters
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In the moments after the battle, the gods and Amazons, though victorious, felt an unnatural heaviness press upon their spirits. The fatigue of maintaining the magical fortress against the ceaseless assault of Bruce Wayne's mind weighed on them, their divine focus blurring as the last remnants of his technological presence vanished from the Astral Plane.
Amidst this, in a quiet space between wakefulness and sleep, Morpheus—Lord of Dreams—felt his opportunity.
Unlike the gods and goddesses, Dream was neither bound by the physical world nor confined to the realm of the day or night. The Olympians, exhausted by their efforts, had drifted into a state of half-sleep, their consciousnesses slipping ever so slightly into the Dreaming. It was here that Morpheus chose to act.
With a whisper, he entered the dreams of Olympus.
In Hera's ethereal sleep, the queen of the gods found herself in a space that seemed both vast and intimate. She stood within the confines of Bruce Wayne's mind, though it did not resemble the chaotic mess of mortal thoughts she had expected. Instead, it was an organized battlefield of intellect. A myriad of strings, notes, and calculations filled the dream, laid out with meticulous precision. Chalkboards covered in symbols lined the walls of this dreamscape—maps of physics equations, diagrams of the human body, and the known laws of magic, each arranged in perfect order. Every detail had been committed to memory, the precision of a man trained to process information at inhuman speed.
Before her, Morpheus appeared, his figure ghostly and pale, the blackness of his cloak merging with the shadows of the room. His dark eyes gazed intently at her, filled with the knowingness of what was to come.
"Welcome, Hera," Dream spoke softly, his voice like a whisper carried on the wind. "I thought you might wish to see what lingers in the mind of this mortal."
Hera narrowed her gaze, sensing the gravity of his words. "You bring me here for a reason. Show me."
Morpheus extended his hand, and the dream shifted. Hera now stood within Bruce Wayne's Batcave, though not the physical one. It was a manifestation of his thoughts, a nexus of memory and strategy. She saw it all—the calculations, the maps, the lines connecting the points of attack. Wayne had traced the moment he sensed the Amazons' scrying magic, memorizing the feel of the spell's energy, the rhythm of its casting, and the subtle pulse it left behind. In his mind, this fleeting sensation was not dismissed but cataloged, examined, and studied with the cold logic of a detective.
Wayne had used this memory as the foundation for his calculations. On one wall, Hera saw diagrams of magical signatures from every known civilization—Atlantean, Kryptonian, even those of the mystical realms. Each had a unique speed, a different frequency, and left a distinctive residue that Bruce Wayne had learned to analyze through sheer force of will.
"Every magic has its own fingerprint," Dream murmured as Hera watched in disbelief. "Wayne is no magician, but he is a master of observation. He has found patterns where others see only chaos."
The queen of the gods watched in silent alarm as Bruce's calculations grew more precise. He had measured the exact speed at which the Amazon scrying spell had reached him, using its feel to estimate the distance from which it had originated. Latitude, longitude—he had broken the ancient secrets of Themyscira down to a series of numbers and coordinates, each inching closer to the island's hidden location.
"He's getting too close," Hera muttered, her voice filled with frustration and disbelief. This was a mortal—yet his mind seemed to push against the barriers that even gods had set in place. The notion of a man challenging their secrets with nothing but logic and technology was intolerable.
Suddenly, Hera felt the weight of dread press upon her. She reached out with her divine senses, even as her sleeping mind drifted in the dreamscape, sending an urgent call to the gods of Olympus.
The Furies.
In an instant, the skies of the Dreaming darkened, and the three winged spirits of vengeance—the Erinyes—descended. Their screeching cries echoed through the realm, their twisted faces filled with the fury of divine retribution. Hera had summoned them to torment Bruce Wayne, to make him pay for his arrogance in daring to approach the threshold of Olympus.
But Morpheus, standing calmly amidst the growing storm, raised a pale hand, halting their advance.
"Be careful, Hera," he warned, his voice carrying the weight of his authority over this domain. "You walk a dangerous path. His mind is unlike any other mortal's, and if you seek to torment him, you may only harden his resolve."
Hera's eyes blazed, but deep down, she knew Dream's words held truth. Bruce Wayne was not a man easily broken. His will, once set upon a goal, was nearly unshakable. He had come closer than any mortal to uncovering the secret of Themyscira. And now, he was on the verge of discovering the magic that had shielded the island for centuries.
In the physical world, Bruce Wayne lay unconscious in his Batcave, his mind calculating even in sleep. He was unaware of the Furies' approach, but Morpheus knew the danger they represented.
"I will not allow him to be tormented in his sleep," Dream declared, his voice like thunder in the dreamscape. "This is my domain."
Hera glared at Morpheus, but she could do little within the Dreaming. She knew the rules here—Morpheus held power even over the gods when they entered his realm.
In the distance, the Furies hovered, their wings twitching with the desire to unleash their wrath upon the mortal who dared to defy the gods. But Morpheus' will held them at bay.
"Let him dream," Dream said softly. "For it is within dreams that he finds his strength, his vision. And when he wakes, the balance of power between magic and technology will be tested once more."
With a final glance at the strands of Bruce Wayne's intricate thoughts, Hera reluctantly withdrew. The Furies faded into the shadows, their cries silenced, for now.
As the dreamscape began to dissolve, Morpheus looked down upon Bruce Wayne, a faint smile touching his lips.
"You will dream again, Bruce Wayne," he whispered. "And when you do, the gods will have much to fear."
In the waking world, Bruce Wayne stirred, his mind still buzzing with the knowledge he had gleaned in his dreams. His pursuit of Themyscira was far from over, and though the gods had sent their vengeance, it would only strengthen his resolve. The duel between technology and magic had just begun, and the Olympians, for the first time in eons, felt the stirrings of fear.
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Zeus sat in his throne atop Olympus, staring down through the clouds at the mortal realm below. His stormy eyes crackled with tension. Even as the faint resonance of Bruce Wayne's technological intrusion began to dissipate from the Astral Plane, Zeus could feel the mortal's presence lingering—a mind so sharp it felt like the cut of a blade, even from this great distance.
Beside him, Hera was more focused than ever, her own mind spinning in the wake of Morpheus' warning. They had underestimated Bruce Wayne. Now, they faced something far more dangerous than technology or tactics: his dreams.
"Morpheus has interfered long enough," Zeus rumbled, his voice as deep as thunder rolling across the skies. "Let us see if Wayne can withstand the full weight of his own fears. The Furies will not be turned aside so easily."
Without waiting for approval, Zeus summoned the god of dreams.
Morpheus appeared in the throne room of Olympus, stepping from the shadows as if he had always been there, his pale face impassive, his cloak billowing like a void around him. The king of the gods glared at him, his form crackling with power, but Dream merely stood, unmoved, knowing well that his domain lay elsewhere.
"Lord Morpheus," Zeus began, his voice measured but laced with irritation, "you have kept the mortal safe within your realm. This... Bruce Wayne... has defied the natural order, and now his dreams serve as weapons."
Morpheus regarded Zeus with calm indifference. "He has mastered his mind. And in dreams, one's mind can become more powerful than any weapon. You may break his body, but his mind will not shatter easily."
Hera leaned forward. "Then let us see how his mind handles true nightmares."
A pause followed, thick with tension, before Zeus continued, his eyes narrowing. "Let his dreams turn to nightmares. If you will not break him, we shall."
Morpheus gazed at the gods before him, eyes unblinking. "You know not what you do," he whispered, though the warning went unheeded. With a slight nod of his head, Dream faded back into his realm.
Xxxxxthe Dreamingxxx
The peaceful, orderly dreamscape that had been Bruce Wayne's mind began to distort, shadows lengthening, reality twisting at the edges. Bruce, still unconscious in the Batcave, felt the shift—his analytical mind immediately sensing the change.
The Furies, summoned by Zeus and Hera, had descended into his dreams. Their forms were monstrous, their wings twisted and sharp, their cries echoing with the promises of pain and terror. They sought to break him by summoning his greatest fears—failures, losses, moments of weakness. Visions of a broken Gotham, of dead allies and loved ones, of his parents bleeding out in the alley, all played out before him like cruel theater.
The dream shifted, plunging into deeper and darker realms of horror. But instead of falling into despair, Bruce Wayne stood amidst the nightmare, his figure shadowed and growing darker with every wave of fear they conjured.
"You think this is new to me?" Bruce's voice cut through the chaos, low and unwavering. His dark silhouette, larger than life, loomed over the battlefield of his mind. "I was born in darkness. I've seen horrors you can't even imagine. And I'vesurvivedthem all."
The Furies faltered for a moment, their confidence waning as they summoned more horrors—more grotesque monsters, more twisted realities. But Bruce only seemed to grow stronger. His eyes, once clear, now glowed red, a sign of the internal transformation. He fed off the fear, not as a victim, but as a master of it.
"You think this will break me?" Bruce growled, his form towering above the Furies. "Fear isn't my weakness. It's my weapon."
As the nightmare deepened, Bruce used his analytical mind as a shield, deciphering each horror like a puzzle to be solved. Every vision the Furies created, he dissected with cold precision. He could see the cracks in the illusion, the manufactured terror behind it, and with each calculated move, he dismantled their attempts to unnerve him.
The Furies, enraged, summoned more terror, reaching into the darkest corners of the Dreaming, but nothing could shake Bruce's growing strength. In the heart of the nightmare, he had become more than a man—his form growing monstrous, his face darkened by shadow, with glowing red eyes piercing through the blackness. He was becoming the very thing the Furies sought to create: a creature of pure fear.
Realizing their efforts were backfiring, the Furies' screeches grew desperate. As they conjured more horrors, they noticed something terrifying: Bruce Waynewantedthe nightmare. He welcomed it, embraced the darkness they threw at him, and each time they tried to push him deeper, he emerged stronger. His towering form, wreathed in shadows, now stalked them, feeding off the fear they themselves had created.
"We cannot break him," one of the Furies whispered in terror, backing away from the ever-growing figure of the dark knight.
"You've made a mistake," Bruce said coldly, his voice rumbling through the nightmare like a distant growl of thunder. "You don't understand fear the way I do."
With a sudden surge, Bruce lunged forward, his shadowy form enveloping the Furies. The winged spirits, once agents of divine retribution, shrieked in terror as they fled from his dream, their wings tearing at the night sky, their forms scattering into nothingness as they abandoned their task.
XxxxxOlympusxxxxx
Hera and Zeus had been watching, their forms hovering over the realm of dreams. As the Furies fled, Hera's face grew pale. They had underestimated Bruce Wayne in a way they could not have anticipated.
"Hefeedson it," Hera whispered, her voice filled with disbelief. "He draws strength from the fear. We've only made him more dangerous."
Zeus sat back in his throne, the realization dawning on him as well. "Morpheus was right," he muttered, his thunderous voice now quieter, laced with a rare sense of unease.
Morpheus appeared beside them, his expression as calm as ever. "Fear is not a weakness to everyone. Bruce Wayne is not like other mortals. He has faced nightmares far worse than anything the Furies can conjure."
Zeus turned to Morpheus, his stormy eyes burning with a mixture of anger and grudging respect. "What is he, then?"
Morpheus' pale lips curved into the faintest of smiles. "He is the Bat. And in dreams, even gods should be cautious."
With that, Morpheus turned and walked into the shadows, leaving the gods of Olympus to contemplate the warning that had come too late.
The nightmare had not broken Bruce Wayne. It had only made him stronger.
In the heart of Olympus, Zeus sat brooding, the stormy clouds surrounding the peak of the mountain crackling with frustration. He had watched a mortal, Bruce Wayne, endure the trials of the Furies and not only survive but grow stronger from them. It had shaken the foundation of the gods' confidence. Fear had been their weapon, and now even that seemed powerless against the mortal's indomitable will.
Morpheus stood before him once more, his dark form blending into the shadows of the great hall. The god of dreams remained calm, his expression unreadable as he awaited Zeus' response.
"He cannot be allowed to remember what has transpired," Hera said, her voice tense with both anger and unease. "This man... this mortal... he is dangerous. If he recalls the battle, he may grow more curious, more relentless."
Zeus nodded in agreement, but there was a flicker of something more in his eyes—something akin to respect for the mortal who had withstood the wrath of gods. Yet his pride would not allow him to accept defeat.
"Morpheus," Zeus spoke finally, his deep voice reverberating through the halls, "you will erase all traces of the duel from his mind. Bruce Wayne must believe it was nothing more than a fleeting dream, a trick of the subconscious. We cannot afford his curiosity leading him back to our realm."
Morpheus tilted his head slightly, considering the command. "I can dull the memory, obscure it within the fog of dreams. But know this: I cannot erase everything. A mind like Bruce Wayne's—ever sharp, always probing—will hold onto the faintest echoes, the lingering doubts. He may not remember clearly, but he will never fully forget."
Hera stepped forward, her eyes narrowing. "We must ensure he does not act on those doubts. We must protect Themyscira, Olympus, and our secrets."
Morpheus glanced at her. "I will do as you ask, but this will not come without a cost. Bruce Wayne will continue to dream, and those dreams may give him new insights. They may inspire him in ways you cannot predict. Are you prepared for that possibility?"
Zeus leaned forward, his eyes flashing with a final surge of divine authority. "Do what must be done. Ensure he forgets."
Morpheus inclined his head. "Very well."
The Dreaming
Bruce Wayne slept soundly in the Batcave, though his mind was anything but quiet. His dreams were a swirling vortex of half-remembered horrors—visions of the Furies, of Gotham falling, of shadows that consumed everything he had ever known.
But as quickly as the nightmares had come, they began to fade. Morpheus entered the dream, his presence like a soothing wind that gently blew away the remnants of fear and darkness. The chaotic images blurred, dissolving into a mist of forgotten memories.
Bruce stood at the edge of the dreamscape, his form no longer monstrous, but his usual stoic self. He stared out at the fading remnants of his nightmares, his keen detective's mind trying to grasp at the slipping images.
Morpheus approached, his voice soft but firm. "You have faced much in your dreams, Bruce Wayne. But not all dreams are meant to be remembered."
Bruce turned to face the god of dreams, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. "This… feels too real. Like more than just a dream."
Morpheus smiled faintly. "Dreams often blur the line between reality and imagination. But there is no need to dwell on them. Your mind is sharp, but even you must rest."
Bruce hesitated, his mind whirring, trying to make sense of the feeling that something deeper had occurred. But as Morpheus waved his hand, the thoughts began to scatter like dust in the wind. The detective in him still grasped at the edge of understanding, but the dream was slipping from his mind, becoming nothing more than a haze.
"You may wake now," Morpheus whispered, his form beginning to dissolve. "And know that it was just a dream."
Bruce's eyes fluttered open in the Batcave, his heart pounding. The faint echo of something dark lingered in his mind, but when he tried to grasp it, it eluded him. He exhaled, shaking his head, dismissing the thoughts as the remnants of a vivid dream. Yet, a lingering doubt remained, like a whisper at the back of his mind.
Olympus
Morpheus reappeared before Zeus and Hera, his task completed. "It is done. Bruce Wayne will not remember the details. The duel is nothing but a shadow in his memory now."
Zeus leaned back in his throne, satisfied. "Good. Now let the mortal return to his world of gadgets and shadows. He will trouble us no more."
Hera, however, was not as convinced. "What of his technology? His computers were tracking us, analyzing our magic. His tools were getting closer to uncovering our secrets. Even if he cannot recall the battle, his machines may still hold traces."
Morpheus nodded. "I anticipated that. His systems have been tampered with. The data he gathered during the duel has been erased. It will be as though none of this ever happened."
Zeus looked pleased, but Hera still frowned. "And yet... Bruce Wayne is not a man who simply lets things go. If he ever grows suspicious, if he begins to remember... he could become a greater threat than we realize."
Morpheus' expression remained impassive. "That is always a risk. But for now, the immediate danger has passed. He is none the wiser."
Back in Gotham
Bruce Wayne sat at the Batcomputer, running diagnostics on his system. He had awoken with a faint feeling of unease, something just beyond the edge of his understanding nagging at him. As he reviewed the data from the last few days, he found nothing unusual. No anomalies, no traces of magical interference—nothing.
Still, the dream continued to linger in his thoughts. He couldn't shake the feeling that something had happened, something important. But every logical check told him otherwise.
Shaking his head, Bruce leaned back in his chair. "Just a dream," he muttered to himself, but the words rang hollow.
A new thought sparked in his mind, born of the lingering echoes of the dream. A movie idea—something about a secret brainwashing program using dreams as a weapon, a kind of James Bond meets Inception thriller. He made a mental note to bring it up to his contacts in the film industry. It wasn't his usual focus, but it could make for an interesting diversion.
And yet, as Bruce sat there, staring at the flickering screen, he couldn't help but feel that the truth was still out there, just beyond his reach. Something about the dream, the nightmare, felt unfinished. But for now, it would have to remain a mystery, one more puzzle he would solve—eventually.
For now, he turned his attention to Gotham once again, his thoughts already shifting to the next threat.
But in the depths of his mind, the faintest echo of fear—and the strength he drew from it—remained.