Chapter 351 - My SI Stash #51 - Its An Unliving by Gromweld (YoungJustice) (1/2)
-I do not care what anyone else thinks Black Lantern ring is the baddest and coolest of them all, also this fic do be giving out that Doom vibe which I f_u_c_k_i_n_g love~
Synopsis: You can tolerate a lot of bad assignments when your boss is drop-dead gorgeous.
Rated: ???
Words: 29K
Posted on: forums.spacebattles.com/threads/its-an-unliving-young-justice-si.865009/ (Gromweld)
PS: If you're not able to copy/paste the link, you have everything in here to find it, by simply searching the author and the story title. It sucks that you can't copy links on mobile (´ー｀)
-I'll be putting the chapter ones of all the fanfics mentioned, to give you guys a sample if you wan't more please do go to the website and support the author! (And maybe even convince them to start uploading chapters in here as well!)
Chapter 1-3 (exceptional)
Happy Harbor, RI, USA, Earth
18th July, 2010
1:02 PM EDT
The trouble with superpowers that operate best on hard, unfeeling logic is that you get very good at rationalizing poor decisions.
Sitting cross-legged on the power station's rooftop, I idly spin the ice-cold ring on my right hand's middle finger. I've not even had it a full week, and already I'm about to throw myself into a plan that the me-of-last-week would have considered the height of insanity. Granted, Death does change a person's perspective.
Not that she can help herself. But I guess that's where I'm supposed to come in. Eventually. But that's never happening if I just sit here and watch a bunch of plainclothes-dressed teenagers getting wailed on by a robot in a fancy power-suit, rationalizing that no, this all plays out well so I don't need to get involved... just yet-
<<WE ARE AN EXISTENCE BEYOND FEAR.>>
The voice of an eldritch, omnicidal machine-god echoing in my head is comforting in its familiarity - still amusing enough of an inside joke that it smothers any resentment at myself or it. Far better than the creepy text-to-speech monotone the Ring had to start with.
*WHOOSH* *CRUNCH* *CRASH!*
In a blast of compressed and twisting air, a dark-haired teenaged boy in a black t-shirt and jeans - apparel which somehow hasn't been torn to shreds from the force of his movements or being thrown through reinforced concrete and industrial metal framework - rockets out through the power plant's grey wall and into a nearby aged sedan… only for him to immediately jump up and leap back into the fray.
And just why are there still so many cars here? I've counted sixty-eight cars and trucks, but there's only forty-three workers corralled over on the far edge of the power station's parking lot-
<
>
Oh. Long-term parking for the nearby national park for those that don't want to pay the park's fees. Thanks, Ring.
Judging by the wails of dismay I'm picking up from the gawking crowd of power station workers, it's only dawned on them now that they should have just gotten in their cars and left instead of stand around uselessly.
… and I'm distracting myself again. Sigh.
Time to get this-
<<RESOLVE IS THE SHIELD OF THE WEAK.>>
…
Mmrhm. Right. Still not completely used to the mental gymnastics required for this particular flavor of madness. Spent over a full day sitting out in the asteroid belt piecing some of this out, three days floating in space above Earth scanning everyone and everything, and then nearly two days of low-key practicing in various nighttime back-alleys, but knowing how to do something is a far cry from it being an ingrained thinking pattern. Even if much of what comes next is going to be the Ring moving me like a puppet and acting along what I've programmed into it.
<<INSUFFICIENT APATHY.>>
Very well.
Righteous anger won't help me here, as much as this plan was definitely formed from a kernel of spite. I don't really want to get involved here, either, since I know this would be a critical moment for ”The Team,” showcasing just how much they have to actually work as one to succeed.
Undeath shaves off much of the fear that I should definitely be feeling now, and while a little bit of it is generally a good way to avoid suicidal levels of overconfidence… I've at least gleaned that devising initial action and contingency plans beforehand drastically helps prevent my lingering (and justifiable) wariness from diminishing the Ring's power to act.
Plans are why I shouldn't need to hope it'll all work out alright. Cold, pragmatic calculations take into account the wellness of others when I originally fashion them, in both the short term and the abstract, but I can't afford to let sentimentality get in the way when boots hit the ground. An odd paradox, yes: to effect compassion, I must eschew it.
It was a bit disturbing to realize that undeath has only marginally impacted my capacity for… carnal feelings. I blame Death. She was clearly not wearing a bra under that tank-top, and she knew exactly what she was doing, leaning over me like that to wake me up in my bed. Regardless, I'm alone and adrift in a crap-sack universe that is effectively run on narrative weight just as much as causality; not finding a lot to love right now.
But, truthfully, those emotions aren't why I started making plans.
It's because it's far too easy to fall into the trap of will. To be… determined to see my actions through, pushing through my distaste for what must be done with a power that most would (rightfully) consider evil. No, to wield this Ring effectively it can't be about my strength.
I spent days floating in low-Earth-orbit gathering data for this. Apart from a few noticeable (and expected) blank spots in magic-heavy areas, there was no digital or analog database on this planet that could stand against a fully-unleashed Power Ring. Predictive models have been built for all the heroic actors on tonight's stage, and the robotic supervillain (and his master remotely observing the scene through his eyes) hasn't even recognized that he's been suborned. This level of preparation and force for what is effectively a ”training wheels” fight for a bunch of teenaged superheroes is complete and utter overkill.
Standing up from my position on the rooftop, an unnatural kind of anti-light bubbles out from the onyx ring on my purposefully-decayed left hand; staring directly at the growing pool there's a strange kind of lensing effect around its edges that gives the energy a whitish outline, but the energy itself is the kind of black only seen in black holes. The energy flows up and over my body, but as my part in this requires my form to be easily legible, the personal barrier…dims?... lightens enough that I can still be seen clearly through it even in the night sky.
<XECUTING PLAN 'PRESENTATION! ALPHA.'>>
With its actions pre-programmed, the ring isn't held back by my speed of thought; dozens of microscopic strands of blackness streak out of the ring at the speed of light, out over the roof's edge, and down into the ongoing super-brawl. The first step is shutting down the camera feeds that are still live inside and around the power plant - those interested in what's about to go down will find out eventually, this is comics-land after all - which is accomplished a b_a_r_e fraction of a second before the second stage of the plan engages.
From the point of view of Robin, Aquaboy, Superboy, Kid Flash, and Miss Martian, one moment they're in a pitched battle with the oversized-power-armor foe ”Mister Twister”... and in less than a heartbeat everyone on the battlefield is entirely wrapped up (save for their faces) in Black Light constructs shaped like clawing, grasping, and constricting claws, hands, and tentacles, each modeled after the various appendages of races in this universe. The restraining constructs aren't hurting them, not directly, but even with its gentlest touch the Black Light of Death drains the energy of any living cells on contact; it's about as damaging as a light, open-palmed smack, but a ”chill” effect akin to a cold breeze lingers until the body's regenerated the dead cells.
Yes, this means I can now Lich Slap people.
With everyone bound, a micro-second later my constructs then move to step three: controlling the battlespace. After all, if I have easy access to offensive FTL transportation, why fight anywhere that isn't prepared exactly how I want?
My environmental shield extends to everyone through my constructs, and-
<<TRANSITIONING.>>
A lurch, a moment of disorientation as the world around us all compresses and then snaps back in barely a second of travel.
Sea of Tranquility, Luna
18th July, 2010
1702 UTC
When the effect ends, I am standing behind a tastefully-cut stone lectern which is facing an open-air, college-style auditorium - all five of the ”teen” superheroes deposited into some of the comfortable metal chairs arranged behind the first row of ascending desks. Behind me is a large slab of pure basalt cut into the style of a massive college chalkboard. Beside me is ”Mister Twister,” still bound in disturbing black light constructs, but I've powered down the android within the power suit... as well as disabled the bombs inside him that Dr. Morrow will soon try to remotely trigger when he realizes he's lost connection to his puppet.
Above us, floating half-visible amongst a dizzying starscape is the humbling view of Planet Earth.
I still keep my environmental shields on the five heroes via thin black light filaments - extending from my Ring, up my arms, down my legs, and looping along the ground - because they both need to be able to hear me in this near-empty vacuum and none of them would last very long unshielded on the Moon's surface. I'd rather them not be dead just yet. I've got a lesson plan to go through.
And now for the hardest part of all this: emoting while still trying to keep a… dispassionate mindset so as not to disrupt the Ring's macros.
I ignore the startled, pained, and terrified yelps from the heroes as their brains catch up to the rapid-fire series of events that just occurred. Glancing down, I absently brush a fleck of nothing off my dark, tailored suit's b_r_e_a_s_t, then straighten my tie and re-secure it with a silver clip adorned with the same emblem that adorns my ring - a downward-pointing triangle with five vertical lines emerging from its 'top'. Looking back up at my ”students” as they all pause to stare upwards in awe-struck and terrified confusion about where they now are, I smile as much as I can without a lower jaw and my eyes blazing with black light energies.
”Good evening, Titans,” I greet with as much joviality I can muster, raising my right hand to motion them back to the chairs they've lept up from in their panic. I also pointedly ignore the sensation of my loose, ragged tongue flapping in time with the facsimile of speech my Ring is vocalizing through my exposed trachea. It's all part of the plan.
”Please, return to your seats. We have much to review.”
Chapter 2
Sector 2814, Sol System
Sea of Tranquility, Luna
18th July, 2010
1703 UTC
”AAAH!” / ”...What was-?!” / ”HOLY SHIT IS THAT-!?”
The screaming and confusion are expected, even accounted for in my script, despite my calm declaration. To be fair, even with the Clarketech super-magic-computer of my Power Ring, I don't have their exact reactions planned out word-for-word and their every action predicted; my own spotty memory of clips from the Young Justice cartoon, combined with all available video, audio, and written recordings scr_a_p_ed from Earth - most helpfully, the Batcomputer - has allowed me to build percentage models both for how each will react on their own and as a… well, they're barely ”the Team” right now, so more as a ”group.” Taking all that into account, I worked with the Ring's AI to build a script and set of macros for what to say and do to achieve the ends I want.
Then I scrapped that first script the Ring's simple AI gave me because it was only three words:
<ND. RAISE. PUPPET.>>
I'm not sure what I had expected, but somehow I was still disappointed.
That had led to several hours of tinkering with the Ring's AI to give it a more useful personality - a decision which has drastically increased my ability to wield the Black Light of Death far beyond my own levels of technical, mental, and emotional skills… but has commensurately decreased the Ring's tolerances for me exhibiting anything that would constitute a normal emotional range. My preliminary, covert testing in back-alleys in various cities around the world breaking up violent crimes has largely proved the efficacy of this decision for small-time matters, so this will be the first big-time test on whether the trade-off is worth it.
And now that I've got a solid set of overlapping scripts, plans, and contingencies for this entire… act...
”AH! ZOMBIE!”
Kid Flash is the only one to point at me dramatically while shouting, the rest dropping back into their combat stances after the momentary freak-out caused by their sudden ensnarement and then abduction to a classroom on the surface of the Moon. Well, except for Miss Martian - she's still backing up against the stone desk behind her, wild-eyed and terrified by what just happened.
As I suspected, the sudden cut-off of Earth's ambient ”background noise” of human minds must be triggering her memories of the loneliness of deep space that she only recently just suffered through.
”Please,” I offer drolly, holding my hands up in surrender behind my podium. ”I am technically a lich, not a zombie; I still have all my mental faculties. And-”
The muscle-bound Superboy launches himself at me, the low-gravity of Luna combined with his superstrength turning him into a blur for mortal eyes. He crosses the twenty feet between us in a heartbeat, fist aiming for what's left of my face-
<<TRANSITIONING.>>
-only for him to suddenly be deposited back in his chair, in a seated position, with all his momentum bled off. Everyone here is still covered by my Ring's environmental shields, after all, and that means offensive FTL repositioning is only a thought away. And I've got contingency macros in the Ring now, so I don't even need to think it.
It takes all of two seconds for the mal-adjusted bruiser to realize what just happened… before he tries it again-
”Rargh!”
<<TRANSITIONING.>>
-to the same results. It takes a few more seconds this time for him to consider another attempt-
”Superboy!”
-but a barked rebuke from Aqualad causes the hybrid Kryptonian clone to pause half-way in his rise from his seat. He growls in frustration while casting an enraged glare at the teen battlemage for a tense moment before finally slumping back into his chair and crossing his arms over his c_h_e_s_t, fuming and giving me a death glare in turn.
Aqualad had the highest chance of stopping him in my predictions, given his natural leadership tendencies and the way things would fall out in the original timeline, but it's still nice to see my plans working out.
”-... that was just rude,” I huff, causing my ragged, dangling tongue to waggle despite any actual breath coming up from the exposed hole where my throat begins. I turn my gaze to give Superboy an unimpressed glance. ”Expected. But still: rude.”
I've kept the Ring's visual effects to a minimum for these FTL hops, and the glow of the environmental shields are tuned down the to lowest they can go (if only to reduce the discomfort caused by black light exposure to an easily-dismissable chill). Since none of them have enough experience with the Green Lanterns of Earth to key into what's going on, this whole opening charade is making it appear as if I'm casually warping reality to render their toughest fighter effectively impotent.
”Necromancer,” Aqualad hisses, his military discipline keeping the sneer off his face. I can see the fear roiling beneath his dark, tattooed skin as he feels not only the lowered gravity but the lack of ambient magic and water this far from Earth, but he manages to keep his arms raised in a defensive posture as he glances at his teammates and then back to me. ”Explain yourself! What-... Where have you taken-...?”
He pauses, looks again to the rest of his teammates, then swallows roughly and steadies himself. ”Who are you, and what do you want with us?”
I calmly nod at the tattooed teen, then turn and gesture with an open palm to the smallest of the five - stopping the small, boy's panicked glances around the lunar auditorium and causing him to turn and face me directly.
”Excellent questions, Aqualad. Robin, if you could be so kind as to share your running analysis with the class?”
As expected, even though I've deliberately shaped and dressed this area in the trappings of a college classroom - 'realistic' wear and tear covers much of the furniture, functional power outlets in the desks, there's old gum stuck on and under various fixtures, etc. - the question finally makes the admittedly-bizarre situation… click for them.
I'm not surprised most of them initially missed the 3-ring binder labeled with their respective logos sitting on the first-row desk in front of each of them, though; they're still coming down from the fight's adrenaline high, and it's been a long night.
To his credit, the Boy Wonder only needs to blink once before his gaze sharpens on me in consideration.
”...Sure.”
…
There is no sound up here on the surface of Luna, so the lack of any follow-up is jarring in its silence.
The remaining upper half of my facial muscles twitch in an approximation of a smirk, but to get my 'amus_e_m_e_nt' across, I direct the expression to reach my glowing-black eyes.
Everyone else besides Aqualad just looks lost, though that's mostly because Aqualad is still schooling (hah!) his expression. Kid Flash glances between his friend and me. ”...Huh? Rob? What's going on?”
”Well-caught,” I chuckle, nodding to the barely-five-foot teen superhero. ”Would you please explain what you've deduced?”
Robin stops hiding his grin and shrugs a non-committal response, only for Kid Flash catch on and groan in aggrieved understanding.
”Grammar jokes? Really?”
”Cheer up, KF,” Robin snorts, still in a loose, defensive posture but falling back into his usual combat-banter routine, ”you're pretty good at gallows humor, too.”
”Yes, no need to be such a stiff, Kid Flash,” I add cheekily, despite missing most of my cheeks.
The speedster-teen relaxes in his combat stance to give his shorter friend a flat look, then turn to me with an even more disappointed frown. ”Dude... that was bad, and you should feel bad.”
”Um, excuse me?”
Everyone turns to the left-most hero in the group, only to see Miss Martian already appropriately seated at the desk. Additionally, she's now opened her binder to the college-ruled blank paper inside, her right hand is gripping the mechanical pen that was also held within, and her left hand is partially raised to ask a question.
”What are you doing?!” / ”Really, Miss M?!”
The green teen shrinks away slightly in embarrassment when Robin and Kid Flash make unhappy noises at her compliance with the scenario I've engineered. Still, she hastily points across the curved front-row desk to the hero on the opposite side of the group.
”But Superboy's sitting down!”
The black-haired teen is indeed still sitting where I placed him, but his mood clearly hasn't improved judging by his continued glare and crossed arms. And he hasn't even touched his binder.
I ignore the amusing byplay and gesture with my left hand for the 'young' shapeshifter to speak.