Prompts

gun to temple | “Say goodbye.” | impaled

Chapter 3: a hair's breadth from death

“See how good he can be?” 

Superwoman’s hand trails across his face. Sharp fingernails trace his temple. His cheek. His jaw. His chest. 

Dick breathes in. 

Close—your eyes. Close your eyes. Close your eyes.

She doesn’t want him to close his eyes, so he doesn’t. 

“He doesn’t like that,” Superwoman says. She sounds amused. Dick wants to—curse her. No, he wants—he wants— “But he’ll take it. You’ll take anything, won’t you, sweetheart?” 

The lasso keeps him still. Looped around his neck and wrists. Both ends in Superwoman’s hand. He doesn’t know how long he’s been here. He doesn’t know why she brought him here. But this is where she wants him, in the Watchtower control room. She wants him to stand on display, where she can show him off. Where she can touch him. 

Her hand trails over the ripped edges of his suit. Tracing the scars on his chest. Cupping his pectoral muscles. 

Dick wants to—

Close your eyes. Close your eyes. Close your eyes.

His eyelids flutter. 

Repeating things helps. Finding a thought and looping it over in his brain. It doesn’t beat the lasso—but it helps keep his conscious mind awake. 

“This is a distraction,” Ultraman says. He stands next to their cyborg, watching something on the hijacked screens. His voice fills the room. Even the air vibrates. “What use is he to you?” 

Ultraman. Superwoman. Dick knows their names. He doesn’t remember hearing them, but he knows. Ultraman. Superwoman. Twisted reflections of the heroes he knows. Invaders from another Earth. They have him now. He’s theirs. 

“He’s awfully pretty,” Superwoman says. Her hand trails lower. 

He belongs with her— Superwoman—no—no—no—

“He’s breakable,” Ultraman says. He looks over his shoulder. He looks at Dick.

No—no—no—no—  

“They admire him,” she says. “Call him a hero. And look at him now.”

The lasso keeps him still. The only thing—the lasso—it’s hot against his skin, his neck, his wrists, where he stands in the middle of the floor. She wants him to stand still. So he does. 

No. No. No.

He wants to make her happy. He wants—he wants—

“Superwoman.” The air shakes with Ultraman’s voice. “I don’t want him broken.” 

No—close your eyes—no—

Dick keeps his eyes open. He sees Superwoman’s mouth twist in displeasure. He tries not to feel a pang of worry, of longing, at her expression. He wants to make her happy—he wants—he wants that. He wants to do what she says.

She looks past him, over his shoulder, at—he doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is her. 

No—no—

“He won’t be,” she says. “Don’t you see? You have someone here who will always fix him.”

Now Ultraman looks past Dick. His pale bright eyes, like shards of ice, land in the same place. 

A new voice speaks. “What is this? What is he doing here?”

“Proving a point,” Superwoman says. Then she stabs Dick through the stomach. 

He bends over double. He staggers back, the lasso loose on his neck, burning and burning as the knife bites deep inside of him. He can feel it. It doesn’t hurt—he thinks it should hurt—but he can see it sticking out of his abdomen, out of his shredded suit, and blood gushes down his front. It clings to his suit. It drips to the floor. 

He doesn’t realize the lasso is gone until he hears himself wheezing. 

She wouldn’t have let him make such an ugly noise. 

His knees fold. He falls. Someone catches him from behind and he starts forward—trying to get away—but he has a knife in his stomach. He has a knife in his stomach.

The hands guide him to the ground. They cradle his back. His bare shoulders. 

“No. No—” 

Dimly he hears himself speaking. He feels the vibration in his throat. She wouldn’t have let him do that, either, which means the lasso is gone. He’ll die free. He’ll die with a knife in his gut, far away from anyone he loves, but he’ll die free. 

“Hush.” A gruff voice quiets him. Calloused hands hold him away from the floor. “You’ll be alright.” 

It’s not real. Dick knows that. He lets himself believe it anyway, as blood dries on his fingers and he finally slips from consciousness.

“Bruce,” he whispers. 

Bruce is here. Everything is going to be alright.