"Are you ready, Kessler?"
Stryker seems almost too eager over the line to ask. Cameron knows that he's there for his own ends, to study the mutants out here that he can. Across universes, he understands him. For him, however, this is about more than that. It's about succeeding over the person at the center of it, the man who wasn't a man. It's about weakening him, making sure that his cult could never get stronger, making sure that he could never do any more harm as the mutant scum he was.
The desert stretches on, and he takes a deep breath and says, "Start the trigger dose now."
Stryker seems almost too eager over the line to ask. Cameron knows that he's there for his own ends, to study the mutants out here that he can. Across universes, he understands him. For him, however, this is about more than that. It's about succeeding over the person at the center of it, the man who wasn't a man. It's about weakening him, making sure that his cult could never get stronger, making sure that he could never do any more harm as the mutant scum he was.
The desert stretches on, and he takes a deep breath and says, "Start the trigger dose now."
Lysergic acid diethylamide, commonly known as LSD (from German Lysergsäurediethylamid) and by the nicknames acid and Lucy, is a semisynthetic hallucinogenic drug derived from ergot, known for its potent psychological effects and serotonergic activity. Swiss chemist Albert Hofmann first synthesized LSD in 1938 and discovered its potent psychedelic effects in 1943 after accidental ingestion. It became widely studied in the 1950s and 1960s. The drug was initially explored for psychiatric use due to its structural similarity to serotonin and safety profile. It was used experimentally in psychiatry for treating alcoholism and schizophrenia.It's taken months to make this dose perfect. Cameron and Stryker have pushed their teams to the limit over weeks to perfect the dose. Mutants are not suspectible to the same dosage levels that human are for things as simple as aspiring. Cameron figures that the LSD will be no different.
Then there is infiltrating the cult. One is ejected a week in, another found with their throat slashed in the desert. The last one is someone who's so low on the totem pole that he is not noticed as he slowly introduces the drug into various amenities in the facility. By the time the dose is set to kick in, he's long gone.
At 9.06PM, it all begins.
The distress calls as Connor's resting up from a thanklessly long week. Michael should honestly be resting himself—even though he's been back in the game for a few years now due to Connor, he's still feeling as if he's not who he was before everything with the League falling apart. Sometimes the paranoia crops up too closely, sometimes he replays events to make sure he remembers them properly and sometimes he just finds himself almsot wanting a case.
This is different though, when he picks it up: this is somewhere out in Sedona, Arizona and the code is coming across so frantically that it can't eb anything other than human. It keeps on blinking, and as he traces it, he wonders just why Sedona?
Then, the coordinates drop. Michael feels his fingers freeze, and then he's flying into action and makes the Batplane within ten minutes.
This is different though, when he picks it up: this is somewhere out in Sedona, Arizona and the code is coming across so frantically that it can't eb anything other than human. It keeps on blinking, and as he traces it, he wonders just why Sedona?
Then, the coordinates drop. Michael feels his fingers freeze, and then he's flying into action and makes the Batplane within ten minutes.
Michael Wayne had been five years old when he'd first met Joseph Warren III and it hadn't been a meeting that had been arranged by their high society parents—no, he had seen him climbing a tree, away from the rest of the class, blonde hair easily seen against the warm day, the expanse of trees, and the flowers blooming there. He'd watched him from the windows, knowing he shouldn't stray for from his mother or father as they talked with guests. He'd never seen a child his age climb trees like Joseph had done, fascinated by it.
He hadn't been paying much attention as to why his parents were at this place. It's one of the many, many places full of people his parents all seemed to know. No mention of another child had bored him until he'd seen him. Joseph had come down from the tree only minutes later, arms full of apples, and Michael had watched him almost sneak back inside. He'd known then that Joseph wasn't supposed to be out there, and when the window had creaked to alert the adults, Michael was the one who made a noise to cover it up.
Instinctively, Joseph must've known he covered up for him, given how quickly he shut the window and ran back into another room.
Not that it helped; he'd been caught by the dirt he'd been tracking in.
It was enough, though, that despite him getting into trouble, Joseph—no, Joe now—had offered one of the apples to Michael.
They were fast, honest friends after that, for a long time.
He was in fact, the only friend Michael really had for years. They always were at each other's houses, going to the same school. Joe always taller than him who carried his back oddly while Michael was small and quiet, letting Joe talk for him sometimes or letting his mother guess what he wanted. He only felt comfortable talking more when they were alone, reading Peter Pan together or Treasure Island. Always, Joe liked the parts about Peter Pan flying while Michael always wanted to know more about the pirates. They were only separated when it came time to go to school—Joe crying and upset when Michael told him he'd have to go to boarding school instead of the one Joe had been hoping for. That Michael had been hoping for.
He'd thought he'd see Joe again, during summer. He had no idea how horrible his time would be or that when he finally could come back, his parents would be dead within three days.
He hadn't even had time to ask if Joe had sent him letters.
After that, life changed drastically. Joe faded from his mind between the trip to Arkham, the days in other schools, the anger, and the Mission.
He only comes to his mind when he sees that he's on someone's social media feed one day. It's shocking, for Michael to recognize him on that rooftop, in between advising Connor. Forcibly grounded by a rib break and a concussion, he'd been regluated to the chair, trying to help Connor with Spellbinder.
Except instead of finding the man's social media accounts, suddenly it was Joseph onscreen, in tattoos, with hair long, voice deeper and rougher with a bloodied back.
Connor had heard him gasp, yet he'd covered it up with, Later. We need to help your friends now.
He'd never explained once Connor had gotten to work. Just scrolled through feed after feed after feed until he'd been so upset that Ace had alerted him.
After that, he'd just tried to figure out what to do, and then, well. Then more things took his time and Michael had felt guilt eat him up from time to time. Always checking, always sick at the videos of him destroying his wings over and over again, wondering if he could help.
He hadn't been paying much attention as to why his parents were at this place. It's one of the many, many places full of people his parents all seemed to know. No mention of another child had bored him until he'd seen him. Joseph had come down from the tree only minutes later, arms full of apples, and Michael had watched him almost sneak back inside. He'd known then that Joseph wasn't supposed to be out there, and when the window had creaked to alert the adults, Michael was the one who made a noise to cover it up.
Instinctively, Joseph must've known he covered up for him, given how quickly he shut the window and ran back into another room.
Not that it helped; he'd been caught by the dirt he'd been tracking in.
It was enough, though, that despite him getting into trouble, Joseph—no, Joe now—had offered one of the apples to Michael.
They were fast, honest friends after that, for a long time.
He was in fact, the only friend Michael really had for years. They always were at each other's houses, going to the same school. Joe always taller than him who carried his back oddly while Michael was small and quiet, letting Joe talk for him sometimes or letting his mother guess what he wanted. He only felt comfortable talking more when they were alone, reading Peter Pan together or Treasure Island. Always, Joe liked the parts about Peter Pan flying while Michael always wanted to know more about the pirates. They were only separated when it came time to go to school—Joe crying and upset when Michael told him he'd have to go to boarding school instead of the one Joe had been hoping for. That Michael had been hoping for.
He'd thought he'd see Joe again, during summer. He had no idea how horrible his time would be or that when he finally could come back, his parents would be dead within three days.
He hadn't even had time to ask if Joe had sent him letters.
After that, life changed drastically. Joe faded from his mind between the trip to Arkham, the days in other schools, the anger, and the Mission.
He only comes to his mind when he sees that he's on someone's social media feed one day. It's shocking, for Michael to recognize him on that rooftop, in between advising Connor. Forcibly grounded by a rib break and a concussion, he'd been regluated to the chair, trying to help Connor with Spellbinder.
Except instead of finding the man's social media accounts, suddenly it was Joseph onscreen, in tattoos, with hair long, voice deeper and rougher with a bloodied back.
Connor had heard him gasp, yet he'd covered it up with, Later. We need to help your friends now.
He'd never explained once Connor had gotten to work. Just scrolled through feed after feed after feed until he'd been so upset that Ace had alerted him.
After that, he'd just tried to figure out what to do, and then, well. Then more things took his time and Michael had felt guilt eat him up from time to time. Always checking, always sick at the videos of him destroying his wings over and over again, wondering if he could help.
It's eerie in here, even for Michael. It's clear that whatever happened here has unleashed utter chaos, from overturned tables to maniacal writing on the walls. He keeps the breathing apparatus on his face—the plane had detected something in the air close to toxins enough that he'd attached the mask on before he'd gotten out. Even in the armor he has now, it feels like a good precaution.
In some rooms, people are laughing, rolling around, crying and saying things that are strange. In others, they're just lying on the floor, looking at nothing. Each time, he tries to check their vitals—they're all over the place, yet none are life threatening. Just, as he puts it together, the behavior of people probably exposed to a neurotoxin or something close to it. The variations are all too scattered, but by the time he finds a room where even a dog seems to not realize what Michael is saying, he finds all of it too disparate in scope.
And yet, he's still not surprised for the scan of the material in front of him to come back as lysergic acid diethylamide. Certainly in not such an alarming dose, either.
Even in the depths of his madness, his uncontrollable grief, Michael doesn't believe Joe would ever do this on purpose to anyone.
In some rooms, people are laughing, rolling around, crying and saying things that are strange. In others, they're just lying on the floor, looking at nothing. Each time, he tries to check their vitals—they're all over the place, yet none are life threatening. Just, as he puts it together, the behavior of people probably exposed to a neurotoxin or something close to it. The variations are all too scattered, but by the time he finds a room where even a dog seems to not realize what Michael is saying, he finds all of it too disparate in scope.
And yet, he's still not surprised for the scan of the material in front of him to come back as lysergic acid diethylamide. Certainly in not such an alarming dose, either.
Even in the depths of his madness, his uncontrollable grief, Michael doesn't believe Joe would ever do this on purpose to anyone.
Get away from me! Get away from me!
Sometimes he forgets how effective this suit is. The last one he'd made before he stopped publicly being Michael Wayne. This suit meant for Gotham more than places out here, and Michael knows it's a detriment and at the same time, the woman fighting him isn't human by a long shot. Not with how she's hurling energy at him at will from her finger tips, not with how she seems to have greater strength than normal.
She's fighting him, destroying things and it takes a long time to finally subdue her, to try and make her understand she's having a bad trip.
Whoever did this, did too good of a job.
She's fighting him, destroying things and it takes a long time to finally subdue her, to try and make her understand she's having a bad trip.
Whoever did this, did too good of a job.
In all their years apart, Michael is taller than Joseph now, and even taller in the suit. Joseph has gotten a lot skinnier, too, his arms covered in tattoos, and Michael can smell the LSD he must be sweating out. Of everyone, he's consumed the most, probably—he's the one with a higher calroic intake than a human, and who all of this probably was for.
Michael looks at him for a moment, how he's curled up, shaking on the floor. He can hear words sometimes, hear him give ragged pants, and even though he should be careful, he isn't. He says gently, through the helmet, Joseph. I'm here.
He hooks his hands around the helmet, as Joseph seems to pause, consider sounds outside of his own mind. Slowly, he takes it off, stepping into some of the meager light that floods the room. Letting Joseph see his face, letting him hear his voice saying, "Joey. It's me. It's just me, okay?"
"Michael?" The vulnerability, the crack in his voice is heartbreaking as his eyes—blown far too wide—take him in, as recognition flickers there. "You're—"
"Here to help my friend," Michael asserts, offering his hand. Knowing that if Joe is like how he remembers, he kept up with the news like people keep up with weather. Knows that Michael, to the public, got into an accident. Got awfully hurt, retreated. Was spoken of as unstable, unwell. Not the man here, in a frightening batsuit, offering his hand. "Please. You're safe with me. Let me help you."
Years have gone past, but Joe still takes his hand. Still allows Michael to help him to somewhere quiet, and safe.
Michael looks at him for a moment, how he's curled up, shaking on the floor. He can hear words sometimes, hear him give ragged pants, and even though he should be careful, he isn't. He says gently, through the helmet, Joseph. I'm here.
He hooks his hands around the helmet, as Joseph seems to pause, consider sounds outside of his own mind. Slowly, he takes it off, stepping into some of the meager light that floods the room. Letting Joseph see his face, letting him hear his voice saying, "Joey. It's me. It's just me, okay?"
"Michael?" The vulnerability, the crack in his voice is heartbreaking as his eyes—blown far too wide—take him in, as recognition flickers there. "You're—"
"Here to help my friend," Michael asserts, offering his hand. Knowing that if Joe is like how he remembers, he kept up with the news like people keep up with weather. Knows that Michael, to the public, got into an accident. Got awfully hurt, retreated. Was spoken of as unstable, unwell. Not the man here, in a frightening batsuit, offering his hand. "Please. You're safe with me. Let me help you."
Years have gone past, but Joe still takes his hand. Still allows Michael to help him to somewhere quiet, and safe.