crying-mybest

[crying-mybest]

Something that always devastates me to think about is the Gotham Rogues Gallery getting arrested. Not because I don’t want to see my favorites locked up, or because I have some vendetta against Batman; but because of what I know Gotham thinks of them when they do.

What made me start thinking about this was BTAA, specifically when Riddler was surrounded by Batman and the GCPD on the boat and how he genuinely preferred to jump into the filthy, freezing Gotham harbor than go back to Arkham. To the rest of Gotham he was having a ‘tantrum’, he was being ‘bratty’ and throwing himself a pity party. To Gotham, he was being a baby and refused to go back to Arkham because he was cruel and mad his fun was ruined.

But to him, this was his worst nightmare. The second Batman said the word ‘Arkham’ it was no longer about the scheme, it was no longer about failing. All he could think of was the abuse and neglect he would face as soon as he was back in the asylum and all the abuse trauma he had already faced from his father. It was desperate self preservation that made him kick and flail and yell. Because what else could he do in that moment? He was caught.

His ‘tantrum’ was a cry for help and as far as he was concerned, everyone was brushing him off and refusing to listen. It also explains why the Rogue’s despise Batman — because despite Bruce claiming he wants to help, he doesn’t actually listen to the concerns they have about their treatment and environment.

And this goes for ALL the Rogues. It’s heartbreaking and goes to show the sad reality that the reason Gotham isn’t getting better is because they want to forfeit the health of anyone who is different or struggles with mental health. It’s why Gotham has such a broken system. This, of course, doesn’t excuse any of the Rogue’s actions. But it obviously doesn’t encourage them to want to seek help either because Gotham never cared to see them healthy in the first place.

[crying-mybest]

I feel like "Batman" shouldn't be the supper hero name that bruce came up with.

I like to think that he made the Batsuite and wanted a creative name to strike fear into criminals but couldn't think of anything, or generaly didn't care what he was called. But criminals or the press just started calling him that.

Same thing with Robin, I feel like It should be a call sign assigned to Dick that became a mantle.

I want it to be something stupid to. Like his first night out, he got distracted by a robin and almost died or something.

[crying-mybest]

Dehumanized 

(Disturbed Part 5)

TW- descriptions of medical procedure, forced feeding

Tw change by part

WC- 2,187

Masterlist

He stands there in silhouette. You know it's him. His lanky, tall frame gives it away.

“How are you feeling this…” he stops to check his watch before continuing “... early morning…”

You stare at him blankly, taking in his appearance. He was wearing a white lab coat with several stains, a white t-shirt, and black pants.

“I see you're still in shock.” he states while approaching you.

“What happened?” you said hoarsely, the movement of your jaw pulling on the bandages wrapped around your head and neck. 

He sat at the edge of your bed and began examining you. “Those imbeciles couldn’t manage to catch you. Instead, they ran you into a trap I had set for the batman,”

He got up and walked to a table in the corner of the room. “That was 3 days ago, well– four now. You inflicted numerous injuries on yourself and ingested more than 5 times the recommended starting dose of my toxin.”

He turns, heading back to your bedside with a glass of water and a handful of pills. He offers you a straw to drink the water, you hesitantly drink half. Then he opens his hand and patiently explains what each pill is for. 

He puts his hand up to your mouth for you to take them. 

You refuse to open your mouth. 

He sighs, “If I hadn't found you when I did you would have died. I saved your life.” He gestured for you to open your mouth, and once again you refused, “If you do not take the pills you will only cause yourself needless suffering.”

You shook your head in defiance. 

He let out a long breath in frustration before suddenly gripping your throat and tilting your head back, holding your nose closed and waiting. You held your breath. The pressure in your lungs builds quickly into an unbearable burn until, finally, you gasp for air. 

He thrusts the pills into your mouth.  Then he covers your mouth and nose in one quick stroke.  The pills sit on your tongue, the bitter taste makes your jaw lock up. Saliva rising and your lungs burning. A tear slides down your face as you dry swallow the tablets. 

He removes his hands and offers you the straw again. Watching you like a hunter waiting for the kill as you gulp down the rest of the water. You indulge in the way it soothes your throat. He pulls the straw away as you finish, and he walks back to the table. Returning a moment later with a cup of applesauce and a spoon. 

"You need to eat. I suggest you cooperate with my efforts to keep you alive. Otherwise, I’ll have no problem forcing a feeding tube down your throat." His tone is devoid of sympathy, just a cold, clinical reminder that your well-being is purely an obligation. He feeds you like you’re some pathetic, helpless thing, and the humiliation burns hotter than your hunger.

"I can feed myself." you snap, muscles straining against the restraints.

"I know," he replies smoothly, lifting another spoonful to your mouth, completely unmoved. "But if you’re hoping I’ll take off the cuffs, don’t waste your breath. Frankly, I’d be concerned if you didn’t want to rip my throat out."

The worst part? He’s right. You want to spit the food back in his face, watch it drip down that smug expression—but your stomach aches for food. So you swallow the applesauce, your pride along with it, seething.

He finishes feeding you, adjusts your IV, and a few final vitals before he heads towards the door turning to face you before leaving “Rest, I’ll be back later to continue your treatment.” He gives you a clinical smile before leaving. A few moments later the light under the door is extinguished and you're left in darkness.   

You take a moment to look around. The room is small with bare white walls and one small window close to the ceiling that's been tightly sealed from the outside. A small round table sits in the corner of the room. A collection of medication bottles are on top of it. The rest is obscured by monitors that project the same sickly green light. It permeates the darkness, illuminating the white bandages that cover you. The soft cotton sends a spike of dread through you. The suspicion that Crane wasn’t telling you the whole truth. 

You laid in bed, your eyes half lidded as you fought to stay awake. The questions surrounding Crane's intentions swim in your mind. As you close your eyes, the horrors from previous nights taunt you.   

-

You wake suddenly in a panic, heart pounding, but the dream slips away like smoke. It was gone the moment you woke, leaving only a hollow weakness in its wake. You take a shaky breath, sinking back into the mattress. The space is still, and the subtle sounds of the equipment lull you into a relaxed daze. The past few days have taken their toll on you and your body. You felt like the aftermath of hell.

You can hear footsteps down the hall, and the light in the hall flicks on. You don’t bother to stir fully, letting your eyes wander around the bland room, blinking sleepily. Crane enters, standing in the doorway awhile, watching and observing you making notes in a journal. 

Your eyes are partially glazed over, meeting his sharp, scrutinizing gaze.

“How are you feeling today?” he asked 

You don’t respond, only now fully processing the pain of the last week- both mental and physical. He approaches your bedside, and his head tilts in confusion. He glances at the monitors, taking in the information. Your pulse is steady but slow, your chest rising and falling evenly and deeply. He grabs a chair that had been tucked in under the table and sits. He makes notes of your condition. Your eyes lazily follow the lines of the ceiling, occasionally drifting into a short slumber.  

Thirty minutes pass before he speaks again. “Can you hear me,” his usually cruel tone suddenly replaced by one of intrigue.

Without thinking, you nod. 

His eyes ignite as if he's realized some golden opportunity.   

He leaned onto his elbows and spoke slowly, “Do you remember what you saw back at the asylum? Any of it?”  

“Yes.” you say, nodding in a pained whimper. The terrifying images of that night, or maybe even nights, flash through your mind.

“Fascinating…” he whispered to himself before jotting something down before continuing.

“Do you know where we are?”

You were growing tired of his questioning. But your mind felt too heavy to retort to speak. You plop against the gurney and glare at him sleepily.

“I see,” he states with a chuckle that sends shivers down your spine. He stands at the small table. “Do you know how you got to Arkham, or more importantly why you were in Arkham?”  

You let out a shaky exhale, memories of the past filling your mind.  

“That's right, you committed yourself. The first person in over a hundred years to be willingly committed. But why?”

“You’ve read my file … you know why.” you manage to respond breathlessly.

“My dear, if you think I’m going to believe that same excuse you gave the others, then you're gravely mistaken.” he turns toward you now, holding a small syringe holding a clear liquid. With his free hand, he thoroughly wipes the crook of your elbow with an alcohol pad. 

“But I can see that you're struggling to stay awake. And I told you to rest,” his cold hands grasped your arm gently, his long fingers pressing at the thin skin. When he was satisfied, with a sudden motion, the needle broke the skin. He pressed down on the plunger.  

“This will help,” he declared calmly.

Your eyes close, and a soothing darkness fills you. 

- 

Crane watches your eyes flutter shut. Your breathing deepens as you fall into a deep sleep; he doesn't leave just yet. 

Instead, he lingers, carefully unfastening the restraints. His fingers brush over the faint bruises on your wrists, examining them with an almost deliberate gentleness. He makes no move to refasten them.

Shifting his attention, he inspects the bandages around your face and neck. The scratches have nearly healed, and the swelling in your jaw has noticeably faded. He notes your remarkable progress and reluctance to cooperate. 

-

He needs your cooperation.  He realizes he needs to shift tactics.  He does not want to push you too hard, too quickly.  If today's conversation is any indication, he may require more sedatives. He leaves the room and walks back to his makeshift office.

Seated at his desk, he flips through your file. No criminal record. Just a persistent undercurrent of guilt and anxiety. That’s what intrigued him.

Most people, when burdened by guilt, offer some clue—an admission, a hint at their sins. But you never did. You held it back, afraid to name it. That fear fascinated him.

He had hoped you might understand. That he could help break the suffocating cycle of fear.

But deep down, he knew—this would take far more than a few therapy sessions.

He set to work formulating something. A sedative that might make you more compliant. 

-

Your eyes blink open. You're curled on the bed, covered in old blankets. The restraints hang loosely from the gurney. You take a moment to process that your hands are free, and you take a second moment to fully comprehend your situation.  

In a sleepy daze, you attempt to stand, and instantly, your knees buckle beneath you, sending you face-first to the floor. You attempt to catch yourself, but your arms don't reach out in time. Your shoulder hits the linoleum with a hard thud. 

You bite down on your hand, attempting to muffle your cries of pain. Fighting through your vertigo, you manage to sit up and crawl to the door. It's locked from the outside. 

Remembering the small table, you crawl in hope of a key or something to shimmy the lock open.  Managed to stand leaning heavily over the table, there's nothing but a white bottle of pills sitting in the center of the table. 

The thought. A familiar thought crosses your mind. He's going to kill you, you're going to die here, you'd rather go out on your terms. You grab the bottle and pry open the child-proof cap.

“Am I interrupting something?” His voice is stern and almost expectant. You can’t seem to open your mouth wide enough to pour the pills in. He grabs the back of your neck with surprising strength. He throws the bottle of pills across the room as you struggle to escape his grip. 

“Am I going to have to pad this room….?”  

You scream and kick as he drags you back to the bed.  He throws back agents the mat and manages to cuff one of your hands. You throw a punch with your free hand which he catches. He holds your wrist and speaks with an exasperated tone “Why do you insist on fighting me?”

“Maybe because I don’t like being a guinea pig…!?”

“You are not my guinea pig, I'm taking the time to help you.”

“You tried to kill me!”        

“I have never once tried to harm you. If anything you’ve done more harm to yourself.” Crane responded steady and unwavering. 

You laugh bitterly, struggling against his grip “You treat me like a dog—chained up in the backyard until I’m useful. Am I entertaining enough for you?”

His Eyes darken, grip tightens just slightly before he exhales, regaining control “You’ve shown me what happens when I leave you to your own devices. I don’t think I’ll be making that mistake again,” he leans in slightly, his voice lowering, measured—almost coaxing. “If you're willing to be civil I might be willing to leave the restraints off for meals, but right now you're a danger to yourself.”          

You glare at him, chest heaving. “What. Do. You. Want!”

His response is immediate, unwavering. “Because you need it. And I need you.”

Your stomach twists at the weight of his words. “For what!?”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “All in good time, my dear.”

Your patience snaps. “I’m tired of your games, Crane. What the hell is your angle!?”

He doesn’t answer, Instead, he presses a dry, calculated kiss to your forehead.

Your thoughts spiral, panic clawing at the edges of your mind. Did he just—? No. What the hell is he doing? Your breath catches, pulse quickening. Is this another manipulation? Another test?

But while you’re lost in your thoughts, he moves. Swift. Precise. Your wrist is back in the restraints before you can react.

A glint of silver.

The prick of a needle.

A sharp hiss escapes your lips. “Ow…”

His voice is steady, and clinical. “I need to ensure the toxin is out of your system before I can begin your new treatment.”

Your blood runs cold. New treatment?

His fingers brush over the syringe as he adjusts the dosage. Whatever he has planned—it’s only just beginning. <<<Part 4 ..... Masterlist ..... Part 6>>>

[crying-mybest]

Asylum

(Disturbed Part 4)

TW- descriptions of medical procedure

Tw change by part

WC- 1,709

Masterlist

The riot at Arkham had been quelled, but in the chaos, several patients managed to escape. Now, it was up to Batman to track them down. Gotham never sleeps—crime never sleeps—and neither does he. His first priority was to get a full list of the escapees from Commissioner Gordon.

“We're still finding bodies on the ground but this is what we have so far.” Jim Gordon handed him a roster of  nearly 70 names. Most were low level thugs and medium security but 5 stood out to Batman: 

Maximum security 

-Crane Jonathan 

-Dent Harvey

-Linz Garfield 

-Nigma Edward 

-Tetch Jervis 

“I’ve got my work cutout…”

“You mean we. You're not alone out there. My boys will be on high alert until these lunatics are back in custody.” The Commissioner turned to face Batman but as usual he was gone. It didn’t surprise him anymore. After all these years he expected it.

Dent and Linz were the easiest to track down. Firefly wasted no time stirring up chaos, setting nearly half the industrial district ablaze on his first night of freedom. The GCPD and GCFD managed to contain the inferno, but not without cost—two lives were lost in the flames. Batman caught Firefly attempting to flee the scene, bringing his rampage to an abrupt end.

Dent, on the other hand, was more patient. He lay low for a week before making his move, robbing a bank in broad daylight. The GCPD took him into custody before he could slip away. By then, most of the lower-level escapees had either been rounded up or were presumed dead.

As for Nigma and Tetch, they were staying under the radar, but not without leaving a trail. Stolen equipment, missing persons—subtle signs of their presence.

Tetch was up to his usual depraved routine—kidnapping and torture, indulging in his twisted fantasies. Batman followed the breadcrumbs to a decrepit apartment in East Gotham, where the Mad Hatter’s latest nightmare unfolded.

Nigma, ever the showman, was undoubtedly constructing some elaborate death trap, a twisted challenge for the Dark Knight’s intellect.

But Crane—Crane was different. He hadn’t just gone into hiding. He had vanished. No trace of him at his old hideouts, no word from his usual associates, not even a whisper of suspicious chemical orders. It was as if the Scarecrow had evaporated into thin air. 

Nigma could wait. Right now, Crane's radio silence was far more concerning. It was down right unnerving; it meant he was planning something big.

In the Batcave, He sat. Eyes fixed on the screen, reviewing the footage from that night. He tracked Crane’s every movement.

At 19:00, the cell door opened. Twenty minutes later, Crane emerged, now dressed in the makeshift costume he’d spent the last three weeks assembling. His destination: the medical center. But the footage was cut to static. Corrupted. Someone had tampered with it.

The next clear sighting was at 23:30, in the minimum-security wing. He wasn’t alone. Two goons flanked him silent and deliberate as they pried open the lock to room 2461. They slipped inside. Moments later, the thugs stepped back into the hallway, standing guard. Fifteen minutes later, they left together, heading toward the visitor center.

Then, Watchtower 3. Crane appeared on the monitor, staring at something—something that sent him into a rage

Meanwhile, his men were in the southern wing, ransacking rooms, searching for something. In the background of the feed, a door creaked open. A figure hesitated, then bolted. The thugs spotted them and gave chase.

Batman flipped through camera angles, following the pursuit as the men tore through the hallways. Then, just as they neared the medical center, they stopped. A few moments later Crane meets them there, scolds and dismisses them before disappearing inside. The last sighting of the group was at the transfer bay. They hijacked an ambulance and disappeared into the night. Southbound.

Batman’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell were they doing?”

The medical center. That was the key. If he could restore the corrupted footage, he might have a lead. But right now he had a different lead to chase.

He assigned the task to Tim Drake, the third Robin; he was a real wizz with computers. He went to look through evidence at the GCPD. 

Whoever the goons had pursued was wearing a gray uniform—minimum security. Most likely the occupant of Room 2461. Most likely presumed dead. He had overlooked something. “But why would Crane go after a random low-level inmate? Something isn’t adding up.”  Batman mumbled to himself.

An hour in the GCPD evidence locker turned up little but dead ends—until finally, two clues surfaced.

The tracking signal of the stolen ambulance.

And a single photograph.

A missing patient file.

He returned to the Batcave to find Alfred waiting for him.

“Good evening Master Bruce, did your inquiry at the GCPD shed any light on the whereabouts of Dr. Crane,” 

Batman glances at the large blank monitor at the far end of the Batcave. The chair in front of it, empty.  “Yeah…where’s Tim?”

“Oh, master Tim has decided to go … ” Batman left. He already knew what that kid was up to. “Thank you, Alfred…” Batman exclaimed already hopping into the Batmobile That kid is so smart he’s stupid sometimes.

-

Robin thought restoring a handful of mp4 files would be a simple task. 

“This should be simple.” Tim muttered to himself, fingers flying across the keyboard. 

“Just a handful of corrupted MP4 files. No big deal.”

Five error messages later, he was ready to throw the whole system out the window.

“Okay. Fine. It’s a big deal.”

The red error text nearly mocked him as the Batcomputer beeped again in frustration.  With a deep exhale, Tim combed his hair and pushed himself back in his chair.

With a few more keystrokes, the raw data logs appeared.  Not only were the files accidentally corrupted, but they were intentionally jumbled.  Someone really didn’t want this footage to see the light of day.

“No shit..” Tim muttered rubbing his temples in annoyance, “This isn’t jumbled, it’s layered.”

The person responsible for this didn't simply encrypt it once and move on.  To make it impossible for someone like him to fix, they covered it with layers of corruption- a horrible webbed nightmare of corruption.

“Fine, I’ll try again.” he said with determination, cracking and flexing his knuckles. This will only take a moment he thought with some hope.

The Batcomputer let out another angry beep.

Maybe more than a moment.

A new window popped up, seemingly out of nowhere, lines of garbled code shifting before his eyes. Then, just as quickly, the screen blacked out entirely.

“Oh, come on!” Tim shouted, slamming his hands on the desk.

A message blinked into the dark screen.

You should’ve left it alone.

Tim froze.

“...shit.”

He exhaled, trying to steady his nerves. Whoever owned these corrupted files is now one pissed-off person. Tim shakily thought. 

After a couple of hours, he finally cleared whatever nightmare was on the Batcomputer. But now he has a choice.

He could tell Batman what happened. Or he could nip it right where the bud was placed- that being Arkham Asylum.

If he chooses to go to Arkham, he would have to act quickly to avoid being caught by the person hiding this. 

-

Robin stood in the security file room, the screen in front of him illuminating the small space in pale fluorescent blue. “What are you doing here?” a familiar voice called from behind him. Tim's heart skipped a beat. “I thought I told you to stay in the batcave and restore those files.”

“You did, but the files were encrypted.” Robin responded absentmindedly, fingers typing at keys.

“That doesn't explain why you're here?” Batman asked

“Someone intentionally restricted and corrupted the files. It needs to be opened from within the facility, I’m working on finding a back door into the system.” 

Batman moved him out of the way and proceeded to type in a password, the computer unlocked the files, plainly visible. Tim stares at him in bewilderment but knows better than to ask.    

He selects the video files that can’t be downloaded or exported. They have no choice but to stand in the dark room and watch.

The prisoner stumbles through the dimly lit halls of the medical center, their breath ragged. Their movements are frantic—turning corners, doubling back—panic driving them in circles. Suddenly, their legs give out, Their wide eyes lock onto something unseen. Something horrific. They crash to the floor, clawing at their own throat as if something’s crawling beneath their skin. Tears stream down their face as they choke.

Robin leans closer to the monitor. “What the hell is happening?”

Batman’s voice is cold and even. “Crane’s toxin.”

The prisoner convulses, mouth stretching unnaturally wide. Their jaw wrenches open with a sickening pop, and they collapse, retching violently. Blood drips from claw marks down their face and neck.

Robin swallows hard. “I knew it was powerful, but I’ve never seen it dislocate a jaw before.”

Batman doesn’t look away. “The mind has power over the body. They thought their jaw was dislocated—so it was.” The footage continues.

Scarecrow steps into frame, his movements deliberate, each step measured and unhurried. The inmate lies motionless on the cold tile, their body curled away from the camera. Every few seconds, a limb twitches —small, involuntary spasms, remnants of the toxin still wracking their system.

Crane kneels beside them, his head tilting slightly as he observes. Then, with an eerie sort of gentleness, he rolls up their sleeve and injects something into their arm. The needle slides in effortlessly. Whatever he’s administering, it isn’t meant to harm.

The prisoner convulses. Their limbs jerk violently, back arching as another seizure takes hold.

And Crane… holds them.

Not restraining, not forcing—just steadying.

Two thugs rush in with a gurney. They strap the prisoner down and wheel them away without a word. Crane lingers for a moment, staring down at the bloodstained floor before following them into the shadows.

Robin’s hands tighten on the console. “That was... messed up.”

Batman’s jaw sets. “Crane’s toxin is evolving. We need to move.”

Then, without hesitation, he closes the feed, exits the tab, and begins exporting the missing patient file.

<<<Part 3 ..... Masterlist ..... Part 5>>>

[crying-mybest]

Fear

(Disturbed Part 3)

TW- Graphic Body Horror, Psychological horror, Asphyxiation, Bugs

Tw change by part

WC- 1,137

You return to consciousness, staring down the hall. Moonlight streaming in through the windows casting shadows that bend and writhe with living things. 

The light turns to an angry red that begins to gradually warp into green and yellow eventually making its way through every color before lopping back to red like a child’s night light. The slamming of doors and distant maniacal laughter can be heard. There's a low humming like a million insects flapping their wings at once. It's getting louder.

Your body won’t move. 

Every muscle aches,

-

-

your jaw a pulsing knot of pain,

-

-

Each breath a struggle that comes in intermediate shallow gasps that feel like acid trickling down your throat. Your fingers twitch, but the rest of you is paralyzed.

You want to scream. You can’t.

Something moves in the hall. 

Watching. 

Waiting. 

Distinguishable yet one with the inky black tendrils of darkness. The figure moves slowly lurking and moving closer. You want to call out, to plead, to scream, but your body won’t let you.

The figure reaches out its thin fingers coiling around you as it emerges from the shadows, hands pressing against your skin, cold and clinical, its eyes glowing red and white spirals that captivate and terrify. Your gaze moves to avoid them as much as possible and your attention is grabbed by a voice—low, steady. The words jumble in your head, unable to understand or comprehend what's happening. 

The creature moves closer.

-

- 

You can feel its breath on your skin.

shifting between the light and dark, its glowing spiral eyes locking onto yours. you can’t look away now. Shadows curl around it, twisting, pulling, reaching. The air thickens.

The Colors shift violently 

Red

Orange

Green

Something deeper.

Something impossible.

The creature crouches, impossibly large, its limbs too long and bending at odd angles. A hum vibrates through your skull, static swallowing your thoughts. The light warps again, the air compressing, and now you’re gasping, drowning. The thing lets out a screech, a sound that digs into your bones. Your body convulses, seizing, your vision fracturing—

A hand grips your arm. The smell of something sterile, and sharp. It feels like a million spines stabbing into you. Then a hypothermic cold sets in, you're sweating but the chill of Siberia washes over you. A metal stab, no a lightning bolt, races through your system. 

-

Blackness.

-

-

When you surface, something is pressing against your face. The air is cold and dry, flooding your lungs. Beatles fly around the space, shadow figures loom over you, blurred, shifting, empty.

It's impossibly bright and the light only seems to get brighter. Panic fills you as you try to speak, to move to reach out for help. Bolting up and choking, coughing in panic. 

He remains calm. Shushing you with a familiar condescendence, hands guide you back to a firm mattress. The strength leaves you once more. It's hard to move. The pain, the aching, the bright unforgiving light as you feel your heart ripped from your chest.  

Hands, 

soft feathers, 

droplets of salty sweet sweat,

insect wings.

All moving  with an erratic yet harmonious rhythm —wrapping, pulling, prodding. You feel like a bug under a microscope exposed to your sins as beetles burrow into your skin, down feathers stuffed in your head and mouth.

A low murmur. A voice you almost recognize. As a focused light burns through your eyes rendering you nearly blind when it dissipates. Shadows of demons and angels dancing in the binding spectrum of rainbow hues.

Pressure forms around your jaw. You recoil from the white hot pain. A loud whisper rings in your ear and before you can process what was said.

A sharp pop. 

Pain running through your jaw. 

You try to jerk away, but hands hold you still. Holographic light flashes in your vision. 

Whispering of your sins and failures.

 -

Darkness coiling around you.

-

-

Dark Blue eyes.

-

-

-

-

Fading. 

You wake in a courtroom. Everything feels impending and large as if you were a child. A sense of Deja vu hits you, as the figure in a pantsuit next to you stands.

“My client, as proven by Dr. Bartholomew, was not in their right mind when these crimes were committed. Defense is advocating for them to be committed to Arkham Asylum for further treatment.”  The woman sat down mechanically.

You turn to look at the judge. The figure sat at the front of the room, long black robes flowed around the tall faceless figure.

A wave of whispers surges through the room like rushing water—then silence. The gavel slams down, a thunderclap that rattles your bones.

The judge leans forward, tension stretching the air to its breaking point. When they speak, it is not a voice—it is a raw, grating sound, a noise worse than nails on a chalkboard, worse than screaming metal.

"̴̧̛̱̬̓̍̅̓͝S̷̘͇̫̈́̈́͊͒͝ę̷͇̲̪̦̌̕n̵̡͓͈͈̍̂̅̽t̷̪̲͂ê̸̳̘͙͚̘͕̾̓͂n̸̙̖͗̾c̵̥̻̆̂̐į̷͖͔̗͉͖͂n̸͎̯̣͙̒̊͐͒g̴̪̻̙͒͒ͅ ̴̘̮̫̅̇͒͛̚i̶͇̱̾̌ͅś̵͇̖̈́̚ ̴͕͙̭͓͙͎̍͌̚̚͠c̴̺̹͂̚͝ö̸̱̣̭̿͐͛m̶̮̍p̷͇̰̈́͐̄̂͐͒l̶̞̭̱͍̱̿͗̀͠ę̵̘̽̿̉͛t̵̢͚̞̙̂̋̆͝ę̷̤̬͉͉̥̾̄́̈́,̷̛͈͎̜͕̼̀́̓̋͊ ̵̝͙̮̀͆͊͜͜͠j̸̢̭́͘ǘ̶̘̝͇͜ḑ̶̓͠ğ̷̛͇̞͛̌̓̔m̷̛̘͒̈́̑ȩ̴̭̣̰̯̏͝n̴̡̞͐̕͜ͅt̴̖̐̇͐̈́̕ ̵̢̢̲͇͒̿͊́̌͗ͅā̸̧̺̹̣̰̾̏̈́͜p̵̩͙̪̹̘̋̎̈́p̶̢̩̗͓͗͝͠ė̵͎̰̠̺a̶̳̣͍̓̌l̴̡̰̦̽̈́̅̀̕ś̵̨̺̺͕̝͙̌̀̄̎̐ ̶͚̗̺̀͋̚͘t̸͔͇͎͈̞̣͐̉͊͌͐o̸͓͈̞̐ͅ ̸̢͕̥̯͌͆d̸͍̻̮̅́͑̽͌͝ȩ̶̪͇̜͊̌̈́f̴͍̗̥͈̘̈́̉e̵̱̹̫̱̗̭̾̿̋͝n̶̢̜̰͝s̷̠̘̲̗̘̣̾̀́͆e̵̢̗̘̿̆͛̏̅ͅ"̸̡͍̋͗͐̿̓̚

The words burrow into your skull, vibrating inside you. You clutch your head as liquid oozes from your ears. Thick. Warm. Red. The first drops splatter against the cold floor.

Two hands seize you, yank you upright. 

Officers…

Their grips are steel. Your feet scrape against the floor as they drag you toward the door. You scream, you beg, but your voice is swallowed by the walls. 

You're thrown into a cell, the walls press in. The air thickens, clogging  your lungs. The black ropes of depression wrap tightly around your neck like a noose. The light fades slowly as it pulls tighter, squeezing until you choke on sobs as bloody tears run down your chin, your vision tunnels—  

You wake.

Strapped down.

Every muscle is raw, stinging, like you’ve been through a war. Your chest rises, falls—breathing, something you haven’t been able to do in years. The room glows sickly green, the monitors casting eerie shadows. The beeping of a heart monitor. The slow whistle of oxygen past your nose. 

The world is holding its breath.

For once you can take your time, but as you fill your lungs with oxygen you remember the nightmares. .

The panic hits like a shockwave. You jerk against the restraints. The monitor beeps frantically. The metal cuffs bite into your skin, clatter against the gurney. You thrash, but there’s nowhere to go, no way out, no escape—

Then, silence. The room is empty. Your breath rattles in your chest as the panic dulls into a hyperborean dread. The room is empty. No figures in the shadows, no faceless judge, no officers dragging you away. 

Just stillness. 

There is nothing lurking in the shadows, nothing was out to get you now.

You can hear a chair move in the other room. a light turns on and shines through the crack in the door. 

Footsteps. Slow. Heavy.

The door creaks open.

<<<Part 2 ..... Masterlist ..... Part 4>>>

[crying-mybest]

...𝐭ｈⓔ 丂𝐭𝒾ℕк

[crying-mybest]

Disturbed Masterlist

Part 1 (Hey you)

Part 2 (Voices)

Part 3 (Fear)

Part 4 (Asylum)

Part 5 (Dehumanized)

Part 6

AO3 LINK

[crying-mybest]

Voices

(Disturbed Part 2)

TW- Graphic Body Horror, Psychological horror, Asphyxiation

Tw change by part

WC- 1,235 

You inch your head past the door frame, scanning the dimly lit hall. The only light filters through the stained glass skylights, casting eerie, fractured colors along the floor. Every door remains shut, the silence stretching, oppressive. There’s no sign of life—yet the weight of unseen eyes presses against your skin.

Your cell’s broken lock dangles uselessly, leaving you exposed. There’s no barricade now, no safety if someone—or something—comes for you. But staying put isn’t an option. Crane was right. If the riot wasn’t contained, the freaks would be prowling.

A plan forms in your mind: slip out, find a weapon, return, and barricade yourself as best as you can. Simple. Doable. You ease the cell door closed behind you, hugging the wall as you creep toward the end of the corridor.

The staff room. You remember it from weeks ago, a fleeting glimpse through an open door while being escorted to therapy. A knife block had sat on the counter—small, but real, sharp. If it was still there, untouched, it could be your best shot.

The silence follows you, every footstep sending a hushed echo rippling down the hall. As your fingers brush the staff room doorknob—

BZZT!

A television crackles to life behind you. A puppet flickers onto the screen, its hollow eyes staring as it launches into a speech. The sound slashes through the quiet like a blade, making you jolt. Heart hammering, you mutter a curse and twist the knob.

The door swings open to a yawning void. Pitch black.

Stepping inside, you press the door shut behind you and edge forward, keeping your back to the wall. You move slowly, letting the darkness settle around you, letting your eyes adjust. Somewhere ahead, unseen in the abyss, lies the counter. The knife block.

One small steak knife remaining.You take it. As your fingers graze the knob, a muffled voice drifts through the hall. It’s not the monitor—it’s a conversation.

“So, who are we looking for?” a man's voice echoed through the hall.

“I don't know some low security guy. Don’t worry about it, just grab anyone running with a gray uniform.” a secondary man replied.

“Scarecrow said they'd be in this hallway right?” The first man said.

“Yeah, start looking in the rooms.” The two men started to open doors at the far end of the hall.

You couldn’t see them but assumed they were the same men that stood outside the cell door before. Once again you were given a choice to run or to hide.

If you hid, they would find you. The knife in your grip offered an advantage, but against two towering men, it was meaningless. You were ready to fight—but survival meant running.

Cracking the door open, you spot them down the hall, rummaging through rooms.

You hesitate. Then bolt.

Their heads snap toward you. A shout. Then pounding footsteps.

You run, tearing down the hallway, twisting through corridors, pushing your body to its limits. Your lungs burn, your muscles scream, but still, you run. The halls blur together, the silence behind you unnatural, suffocating. Even when the chase seems to fade, you don’t stop. You turn another corner—

And nearly stumble over a corpse.

A dead guard slumps against the wall, his vacant eyes staring into nothing. Your stomach knots.

Then the realization crashes over you—you’re lost.

You spin, scanning the halls. Every corridor is identical. Every door locked. The same sterile walls, the same dim lights. The same dead man watching you with unseeing eyes.

Panic grips you. You take off again, sprinting blindly, twisting and turning, desperate to escape this endless maze. At some point, your fingers slip, and the knife clatters to the floor.

You don’t stop.

But when the loss registers, fear tightens around your chest like a vice. You are unarmed. Exposed. The sudden vulnerability paralyzes you, a deer frozen in headlights. Your heart hammers, blood thrumming so hard your vision wavers. Your legs wobble, carrying you nowhere, stumbling through the void.

The silence is unbearable—broken only by your ragged breathing, each gasp echoing off the walls. And yet… it doesn’t sound like yours alone.

A shiver crawls down your spine.

You turn, expecting someone—something—to be right there.

Nothing.

But the feeling doesn’t fade. No matter how many times you look, it lingers. A presence just beyond sight. Breathing down your neck. Watching. Waiting.

You stagger around the corner, collapsing against the wall, your chest tight and constricting like a steel vice. Each breath is a desperate, shallow gasp, vertigo taking a hold of you. But as you lift your head, expecting another identical hallway, your stomach lurches.

A mound of pale, writhing flesh sits in the middle of the corridor.

Hesitantly you take a step toward it, seemingly forgetting about the pain in your chest. Getting a better look at it you realized It has no real features. No eyes, no mouth—just raw, naked skin, an amalgamation of stolen limbs, jagged and misplaced. 

Eight appendages sprout from its gelatinous mass, a twisted collection of human arms and legs, each grotesquely bent, contorted at impossible angles. Bone protrudes beneath the flesh, pushing and stretching, as if everything inside has been shattered and hastily reassembled. 

Then—it twitches. A single limb spasms, jerking upright before flopping uselessly against the tile. Another follows. Then another. A rhythmic, mindless pulsing, like a cockroach flipped on its back.

You stand in the middle of the hall transfixed in confusion, disgust, and terror not entirely sure what to do. 

Then it erupts into motion.

With a sickening crack, its limbs snap to life in unison. It hoists itself up, balancing on its broken, wretched limbs, and before your brain can register the movement—it lunges.

You run but it is somehow faster. Crawling like a grotesque parody of a spider, its limbs moving in impossible directions.

It reaches you and begins climbing up your legs, it doesn't matter how you struggle or fight, the creature's strength is three times yours despite its lack of muscle tissue.

It reaches your head and you continue thrashing and clawing trying in vain to get it off. Then—its hands clamp onto your jaw. Opening your mouth with immense strength. A sharp, wrenching pop echoes through your skull as it pries your mouth open, wider, and wider, far beyond what is humanly possible. Agony explodes through your head as your joints snap, your jawbone straining under the pressure.

It shoves itself inside.

It crawls it to your mouth and down your throat.

The writhing flesh forces its way down your throat, stretching it, tearing at the tissue as it slithers deeper. 

Clasping to your knees, fingers clawing at your own throat, desperate to pull it out, to stop the suffocating pressure. The cold tile swarming with insects pressing into you. 

You are choking, gagging, your body rejecting the intrusion. Bile surges up, burning your esophagus, but the thing only burrows deeper. Tears stream down your face as dark spots flood your vision. Your stomach twists, heaves—vomit spills from your mouth, but it keeps going, keeps pushing.

You collapse to the floor unable to breath, your body shaking violently as bile rises in your throat once more. 

our lungs scream for air.

But there is none.

Only the suffocating, writhing horror crawling its way inside.

The world had faded but your eyes remained open fixed on a light dancing in the distance. 

<<<Part 1 ..... Masterlist ..... Part 3>>>

[crying-mybest]

Hey You

(Disturbed Part 1)

TW- language, psychological horror, elements eldritch horror

Tw change by part

world count-2119

You couldn't tell if he hated, liked, or wanted to kill you. All you knew was that since you arrived at Arkham Dr. Johnathan Crane wouldn't leave you alone. 

The first month he just observed you. His eyes scrutinized everything, every move, every twitch and glance. It was fine at first you only saw him at meal time. He had two guards posted on either side of him. You couldn't confront him if you tried the seats in the cafeteria were strict; you could only sit and talk with patients in your unit. You went everywhere with them. 

The mixed group of 20 people that could barely be considered people any more were vegetables but at least it was quiet. One young girl was aware of her surroundings but never spoke. you didn’t know if she could or just refused. Another inmate was a middle aged man with bandages covering his face he kept to himself but would occasionally speak for a price.

The first time he spoke it was in warning he dropped his tray next to you, which slightly startled you. You were trying to eat, focusing on your meal trying to avoid the gaze of the mad doctor. 

“Avoiding him won’t do you any good.”

“What do you mean?”

“Give me that cookie and I'll tell you.”

You continued to look down at your tray judging whether you wanted to know, eventually after thinking a long while you gave him the cookie.

“The people he takes a liking to don’t tend to live very long, if you avoid him you’ll only intrigue him more. It's hard to get him to go away, only seeing one person live… well I don’t know if they lived, they just got away before he could get to her.”

“Thanks.”        

 The others  weren't very interesting. Not many of them had interesting stories when they spoke, they mostly murmured, but at least it was quiet, until nightfall of course when they would scream relentlessly.

Dr. Crane kept his interactions to just observing you, until he didn't. You were sitting in the library reading. To your knowledge only one unit was allowed in an area at a time with the exception of meals. But you felt his eyes, and suddenly you couldn't concentrate on your book. You looked up and sure enough there he was, his long legs crossed sitting in the shadows of the room, his glasses slightly obscuring his gaze and his mouth formed a thin smile. There were no guards with him; you were secluded in a remote part of the library only watched by security cameras. 

You stared blankly down at your book. He wanted you to talk first. You'd played games like this  before it was his challenge to you to stay quiet to bask in the uncomfortable silence. You knew who he was and what his deal was. He had taken a liking to you and that wasn't a good thing. 

You put down your book and took a moment to gather your courage before meeting his gaze. His subtle smile turned into a wild grin.

You stared at each other, no talking, no noise, he was unnervingly calm. His dark gray uniform seemed to make him blend into the shadow. He observed every aspect of you: the book you were reading, the way you were sitting, the way your eyes darted to the different aspects of his appearance, and the way you couldn’t quite sit still. It felt like an hour of silence before he stood and slowly walked out of the room. The interaction was deeply disturbing. You took it as a threat, a power play.

You didn't see him again until the riot. The high security wing was under riot watch and the entire facility was under lock down. You couldn't get out of your cell, and you thought that meant no one could get in. You laid in bed unable to focus on anything but the uneasy silence, and occasional distant screams. Most days you weren’t allowed to close the door as the technicians need to see each patient on their rounds, having the door closed seemed particularly unsettling now.

Then the door began to open. At first you assumed that the riot was over, that a guard was here to check in or a nurse was here to give you your meds. But as the nob turned slowly and the door creaked open you realized the riot was not contained, that the nightmare was only beginning.

His gaze now hidden behind the mask. but You knew what sick expression hid behind it. He approached you slowly and methodically. You tried to conceal your fear, you kept watching him waiting for his next move. 

"I tire of this game of ours. Let's skip to something more professional shall we." His voice was shrill and condescending.

"What do you want?" You barked

"Is it not obvious? I want to help you. The new hires are so unqualified for your case."

"We both know that's not true."

"I've read your case file. I managed to get a hold of it in the first week of your stay. A truly intriguing case, so unassuming I almost dismissed it at first. Tell me what torments you?"

"No." you state firmly

"Hmm, your resistance will only make this more difficult.”

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You're trapped in a cage. I too was once trapped in the cage society put me in. I broke it and now I am free. Of course that makes continuing my research exceptionally hard sometimes, but moments like this where I can find exceptional subjects like you make it worth the push back."

“What is this about Crane?”

“Oh my dear, you're very ill and I am simply here to treat you.”

“I’ve heard of your treatments, and I’ll pass.”

“Very well…”    

He proceeded to plop onto the floor and curl into a tangled mess of limbs. It was at this moment you made the striking realization that you had no idea how old he really was. The thought crossed your mind that if he was any older than 40  he was early nimble and fit but if younger than 30 his merit as a professor and a clinical psychiatrist was to be questioned. The idea that the man sitting on the floor in front of you was somehow ageless was something you hated thinking about. 

Jonathan Crane had an age, had a birthday and a social security  number but scarecrow was somehow an omniscient god with no discernible features or age that constantly contradicts itself. At that moment the scariest thing in the room was not the crumpled way he was sitting, not the looming inevitability of facing your greatest fears, the most terrifying thing in the room was a looming idea in your head that the man sitting in front of you he wasn’t a man at all it was a shadow a great eldritch god hiding itself with the body of a man. Jonathan Crane hadn’t lost his mind; he hadn't had one to begin with.  

“How are you feeling today?” his voice broke you away from the spiraling train of thoughts. You looked to the door hoping you could outrun him but now two large men stood blocking the door, blocking any chances to escape the thing in front of you. 

“You may leave us.” he dismissed them without moving or breaking eye contact. They left and the door slammed closed. Suddenly as if instinctually you bolted to the door and attempted to open it. The door was locked and as you realized this you turned expecting him to be there ready to attack but instead he remained as he was sitting on the floor in this awkward position. “Come now child, the session has only just begun. Are you already so terrified?” His tone resembled something of comfort but was undermined by his indifference and intrigue.  

“What do you want?” you snarald back pressed to the cold door.

“What do you think I want?” he cocked his head in your direction 

“How am I supposed to know?” 

“I did tell you.” he stood his lanky form casting odd shadows on the walls.

“Why would I believe that?” you began to press yourself into the corner trying in a futile attempt to put as much distance between you and it.

 He continued to stand in the center of the room unmoving so much that you thought his voice might not have been coming from him at all “This is why you need my help. You’re a deeply mistrusting and paranoid person.” 

“I'm definitely not the only person with that problem here.” you say slightly to yourself

His head moved to glance in your direction “Are you asking why I chose you? Well the answer is simple, you're smarter than the rest. You can understand the concept but you're not so belligerent as to ignore it. You are a promising prospect.” 

You felt slightly prideful that he thought so highly of you but declined to show such “Is that a compliment? should I feel honored?” 

“You can feel as you wish, it changes nothing.” his tone was one of malice as he turned to face you fully.  

You hadn’t taken in his full appearance; you were focused on the mask and the scrutinizing eyes that lay beneath it. But now you saw him properly in the light. He was tall and relatively thin with strangely muscular arms and shoulders giving him a very triangular shape. His clothes were a slightly modified version of the orange uniform you had seen before. The orange pants are tied with a string makeshift belt and stitched up in seemingly random areas. His shirt now half gone exposing his sickly pale arms and abdomen, the absent half wrapped around his head as a hood and a noose hung around his neck like a necklace or bolo tie. Mask itself appeared to be made out of several uniforms sewn together with respirators and a large gaping hole for what you can only suppose is athletics? Accompanying the ensemble was his gloves which appeared to be a mixture of vinyl medical grade gloves, gauze wrap, and spare pieces of fabric.

“Damn you’re fugly.”

“Like you’re any better.”

“I am…I’m ACTUALLY wearing clothes you slut!”

 “...for you.” He murmured under his breath

“What…”

“Perchance what do you mean by what?”

You stare at him blankly, utterly bewildered by the interaction- in fact “bewildered” is an understatement.

“Let’s go back to the question- what do you believe I want?” he said eloquently.

“Now I’m just confused.” beyond confusion now.

“Perchance we elaborate on your history with such experiences.”

“The fuck does that mean.”

“The language is unappreciated and unnecessary, perchance we start with your feelings of inferiority?”

“CAN YOU STOP SAYING PERCHANCE? What is this? The 18th century? Old crone.. Losing your damn mind and your nonexistent muscles along with it.”

“That's an excellent place to start, why do you feel the compulsion to insult me?”

“BECAUSE I WANT TO LEAVE! Hello!? The lights are on but nobody’s home!”

“What would become of you if I allowed you to go? You are in a locked down facility  on an isolated island as, well, no one is coming for you. If you think you’ll last a second outside of this cell you're gravely mistaken the island is overrun with murders and people who would love to tear you apart piece by piece.”

“Like in here is any better…”

“Ah yes, pain rises in my heart- I thought you understood? I have no malicious intent with you.”

“Right…. Because you stalking me for the last two months isn’t malicious at all ...okay.”

“Stalking? Merely obtaining baseline behavior. tsk people these days can’t tell between the pros and the amateurs.”

“Still fucking creepy.”

“ Do tell me how we could have met in such a present circumstance? I believe observing is the fate that ties your predicament to the clutches of my hands- lest of course there is a different belief”

“Why are you here? why not just leave me alone?”

“Simple, I’m solely here because you are interesting- a black sheep from all the simpletons within this cage. As for why I won’t leave you alone, I don’t see a problem referring to my presence here.”

“Well I do so just leave me alone, please.”

“Very well as you wish.” He left the room with a dramatic flourish. As he leaves, something within the pit of your stomach doesn’t sit well. It was as if he planned out our interaction. The door now open and unblocked you had a choice to leave or stay.

Masterlist ..... Part 2>>>

[crying-mybest]

I need answers!!!!!

My wife's ( @crying-mybest ) shower thought: "How old is Johnathan Crane in the Arkham games- and is Batman beating up an elderly man. Cause if he is- he's taking those punches like a champ..." Fellas, please help us this is actually torment.

[crying-mybest]

My wife made this 🥰

Let The Past Die

An old piece of work I did a while back. Pretty sweet, never really posted it. Here you go nerds.

[crying-mybest]

All Masterlists

Star Thief

Disturbed

One shots

[crying-mybest]

Star Thief Part 7

TW- violence, language

Word count- 1,700

Masterlist Part 6

The door opened and Ren approached removing his mask and placing it snuggly under his arm. 

My eyes remained fixed on the blade.

“Careful , it's more dangerous than it seems,” 

A thought came to me, an impulse that let the fear creep back in. I extinguished my blade. 

“You still want to kill me,”   

“Sometimes , when you're annoying… ”

“Oh, I'm the annoying one now. Last time I checked you were the one who insisted on fighting me,”

“You kept pushing, literally,”

“We don’t have time for this. We'll discuss it later, “ he huffed. He looked at me and I could see the conflict within him. 

“Lets not. Why do you insist on being an ass?”

There was a long pause “I have been nothing if not professional and understanding, you're the one who’s pushing right now ,”

“What, having second thoughts, again?”

“If I was, you’d be dead,”

Unflinching, I looked him in the eye “Your anger makes a good leash, it makes a you predictable,”

He paused, slipping his mask back into place. “Are you any different? I’ve transformed my anger into strength" he stated in a firm tone. "We use pain and rage for power, for strength. It has led me, let it lead you.

“But then they win, don’t they? Holding on to it only makes it easier to tie us down. Pain is not a guide; it is a master. It becomes more difficult to release the longer we hold it.”

Silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken understanding. The turmoil churned inside both of us, a quiet storm. 

“That’s dangerous rhetoric,” he said, his voice distant, as he offered his hand to me. “Allow me to demonstrate the true nature of the dark”

At that moment I felt true fear for the first time since I saw him in the office. I was genuinely afraid of him. I realized I had no idea who I was talking to, I realized that the truth. The clarity hit me with ruthless intensity. I knew what I was doing. It was not just about me. He was imprisoned by the same chains and caught in the same web of darkness that I was. I had to release him in order to free myself. But I had to do my bit, at all costs, to achieve that. I took his hand 

“You're trembling, have I finally put you in your place?”

“You said, you’d show me the dark” I pulled him closer “So, show me.” I tried to gain some form of control back. He was silent, his mask unreadable. I followed him into the hall and walked in silence as he gave me a brief explanation of my next task “The officers are lined up in hanger 4, your task is to identify the traitors if any,”. He came to a stop at a door, “Then you will execute them,”. My stomach twisted in and the uneasiness returned.

I stared at the door in pure terror. 12 officers stood at attention in the middle of a large hanger Hux and Phasma stood facing us as we entered. Every step seemed heavy as we made our way slowly down the line, and every second seemed to drag on forever. Ren's voice was steady and unflinching when he stated the meeting's goal, but it sounded hollow and distant. He stood next to Phasma and Hux.

glancing at each face as I tried to assess them and try to understand everything. My mind spun in disarray, recollections of losing control, the dread and the embarrassment of it. I tried to focus myself, to quiet the storm within, but it was like grasping at smoke. Desperate to hear it, to discover that rhythm, that connection, I reached into the Force. I concentrated on their heartbeats, the minute variations in their breathing, and the perspiration soaking into their garments. However, there was only silence.

I stopped at the end of the line and looked down at the row officers. Most looked terrified, others looked annoyed , but one stood out. A male admiral looked almost amused. I went down the line again and stopped in front of him, Nothing to grasp, nothing to read. 

I felt a surge of rage and frustration at my own frailty and incapacity. I shook my head in a tiny, dejected motion as I walked back to Ren's side, my hands shaking. He didn't say anything, but his comforting hand on my shoulder didn't stop the uneasiness that was eating away at my gut. He dismissed 5 of the 12 officers without saying a word. A group of stormtroopers carrying binding cuffs entered as they were leaving.

“You are being arrested on the charge of conspiracy against the first order” Hux announced with pride.

Kylo Ren ordered all but the admiral to be taken to the brig and await interrogation. The admiral stood alone now hands bound behind him, his smug expression gone, replaced by terror.  He begged for mercy as Ren and I approached. He had already given me orders. I knew what he wanted from me.  

I ignited my saber. The blue blade, reflected in the prisoner's eyes as he cried for mercy. I raised my saber and struck a fatal blow. His body had no resistance against the blade. His head fell to the floor with a sickening thud. The follow-through of the blade left a small gash on the floor. I stared at the gash, my eyes desperately trying to avoid looking at the body. As the thick smell of burnt flesh perforated my nostrils.

This wasn’t what I wanted, I couldn’t go back now. The doubt crept back to me within a matter of hours, I was afraid again, afraid of the conflict, afraid of the person I would become if the dark won. This isn't revenge or justice, this was killing under someone's orders. Luckily, I've been promoted to executioner.  I hated it, hated being treated like a dog on a leash. I had a purpose and in my mind, it was justified. If this is what it took to will his trust it was justified. I would destroy the First Order, and I would free myself. 

We arrived on Coruscant, the metallic capital sparkled with glittering lights. At the dock I gazed out at the horizon littered with buildings in various shapes and sizes, Ren stopped beside me. He was clearly confused, not angry or disappointed, but confused in a piercing way. His posture was rigid and unintelligible. I stared at the horizon, the cities stretching out in front of me indefinitely. But my thoughts were buried in the past and not on the here and now. With every breath, long-forgotten names, faces, and locations come back to life. Instead of looking for something right now, I looked over the horizon for something I could have overlooked.

Ren remained still. His piercing, calculating eyes were fixed on me. He seemed to be attempting to understand me and snoop into my private thoughts, but it was something else entirely.

"What are you trying to find?" I could hardly hear his voice above the din of the metropolis.

I didn't respond right away. How could I respond? How could I explain? I had no idea who I was. My head was filled with faces I couldn't identify and recollections of things I couldn't keep. Whenever I returned here, they always did.

After a while, his face was unreadable, yet beneath the hardness, there was a human element.

"Is it important?" My voice was quiet as I asked.

Ren's eyes stayed fixed and unblinking, as though he was anticipating a response that would never come. He didn't say anything else, and neither of us moved for a while. The space between us seemed inconsequential in comparison, almost like an afterthought. For the first time in a long time the world stood still, not in despair but in comfortable awareness of an uncertain future.  

We had to leave eventually and he was once again escorting me; he guided me through the halls of the senate building. I felt rushed, something felt wrong. We stopped in front of a set of double doors leading to the throne room. Before we entered, Ren stood in front of me. 

His mask was gone. Some part of me thought it might still be sitting out there by the dock. He looked at me and a small smirk crossed his face as if some form of understanding was between us now. His eyes were the most confusing thing; they were a pool of unseen and unheard pain. This gaze almost felt like a goodbye. I didn't know who was looking at me at that moment but it was certainly not the man I had been bickering with the last 2 days.     

The throne room of the Supreme Leader was grand in many ways. The decor was entirely red and gold with walls and floors made of polished obsidian black. Specialized guards lined up along a red carpet that ran the length of the long hall. The Supreme leader himself was dressed in decedent gold silk, his face and hands were severely disfigured. 

As we walked down the hall the supreme leader spoke “Finally, your late,”

We stopped just before the throne Kylo Ren and I kneeled as he answered for both of us “My apologies, there were many delays.” 

“Never mind that,”  his gaze shifted to me. “ You are the one I've heard so much about these last few days,” he paused a moment searching my mind, I resided the same as I had Ren. It was more painful but I held my ground. Resisting the urge to scream in pain I gripped the ground before he stopped. “You are stronger than you give yourself credit for, and you will do nicely for my plans. When Kylo Ren completes his training you will be his apprentice, In the meantime you will learn the basics of our organization. I'm putting you in charge of Intelligence Operations,”

I pushed out a meek “Thank you” and waited for whatever would happen next. He instructed Ren to stand and began to speak “Your duty is to serve by Kylo Ren's side be his guide when he loses sight of his true destiny and from this day forth you will hereby be known as Lady Arora of the dark order,” a mysterious crowd erupted in cheers as Ren took my hand and guided me to rise. My head was pounding as we left the room.

[crying-mybest]

Star Thief (Part 6)

TW- violence, language, motions of slavery and mental health issues

Word Count- 1,400

Masterlist Part 5 Part 7

I woke up still in my blood-soaked clothes. It was frankly disgusting, I thought back on last night's events, I did it again. I lost control. I wasn't thinking about the consequences. I let the impulses win. I looked down at my hands still covered in blood. I wasn’t proving any one wrong, I was proving them right. I was still sitting on the bed staring at my hands when Kylo Ren burst into my room. “Why are there 5 dead officers in conference room 7!”

“I don’t know what you're talking about,” I paused only for a moment. It was an instinct to lie, even though he could clearly see the blood. 

His tone softened “What happened?”

“They were a security risk, they were planning to assassinate The Supreme Leader, and you,” my eyes stared blankly ahead occasionally I glanced back to my hands.

“Why would you defend me?” there was a growing concern in his voice. 

“They threatened me to, I was defending myself,” I hugged my knees    

“There are better ways to deal with traitors, report it to me next time” 

I nodded.

“Get cleaned up, there is much to do today.” 

The shuttle was quiet. Ren's mask stared blankly ahead, not a word was spoken.

When we landed abroad the finalizer Hux was waiting for us. 

"Set a course to Coresont, and dock in Bay 2" Ren commanded. 

"We don't require any maintenance at this time," Hux retorted. 

"That is yet to be seen, I have reason to suspect Some of our officers are not loyal to the Supreme leader.”

"What are you implying?"

"Before we leave, round up all officers of clearance 10 and up,excluding yourself and Phasma. Line them up in the main hanger, "

The General gave a small nod and walked away. Ren then turned to me.

"This is your first test your training begins today"

He turned and gestured for me to follow. We walked silently before arriving at the door. The room was dark and almost looked unfinished. A single fire pit was the only source of light. There was a workbench and several pieces of scrap metal. He removed his mask and spoke.

"The first rule of this life is never let your guard down. From my observations this will not be a struggle for you. The second is to never be unarmed. Your style of weapon is your choice. I leave you here to make that choice."

“Wait.. wh- you’re just-”

“That’s right, you’re going to do this on your own, in this…room.” he spoke surely and unwavering.

Room? He made it sound like there’s more to it than just a glorified trash compactor. I was scared, to say the least. Kylo Ren left swiftly before I could complain. At least he left something, a single clear crystal that admitted a small blue light.

He was testing me, gauging how much I knew. The kyber crystal made his instructions clear to me. He wanted me to build a saber, with an unknown amount of time and limited resources. What could go wrong? In many ways I was still a slave, I had fewer chains but my life was still being controlled by outside forces, and had no freedom. And yet, every corner I was backed into was on me.

The process of building a lightsaber is complicated. Master Tano taught me the basics, in short how not to blow myself up but the rest is trial and error. For once in my life, I was almost grateful to her.

I thought about the irony, as I looked through piles of discarded droids. I thought about the scrap metal. It was a part of something at some point for a moment- who knows how long  ago and now it's scrap metal, Discarded left to rot. It reminds me of myself in a way. It reminds me of freedom. The only time I had true freedom was when I was running. The time before Jakku and after Asoka. In between being discarded and put to a different use.

scavenged what I could—makeshift circuit wires, broken metal plating. Making the best of shit situations was what I did best. I had lived only for myself, sometimes for the possibility of finding a master that would train me properly. But in between the desire for guidance was running from the republic from debt collectors. It was the most freedom I had ever felt. But sorting through junk is exhausting. And in the end the running was to, that's what landed me as a slave on Jakku.       

Constructing the saber offered no relief to that exhaustion. Just frustration. Explosions, fires, near misses that left my hands and face at constant risk. My hands were numb by the time the mechanism of the final saber was constructed.

I pressed the button salvaged from an old C1 droid. I prayed my hand wouldn’t explode. A heavy anticipation hung in the air. There was no explosion, instead something even more disappointing happened; nothing.

The hilt of the failed lightsaber rolled out of my hand. I wanted to scream, to cry, to yell in frustration, instead, I stood at the workbench and blankly stared at the hunk of metal. I let my legs give out and crumpled to the floor. Staring at the dark ceiling I tried to remember a time before running and relying on a gang or a master, but I couldn't.

Desperation hit me like a shot to the chest. I cried, my tears forming small puddles on the hard ground. I wanted to stop running. To just stop. I thought back to the day Ahsoka left—how I had cried for days, screamed until my lungs gave out. But now, I had nothing left. No more strength to give. It finally stopped for a moment. I forgot, I forgot any responsibility, bounties, any hunger or weakness. It was peaceful, a nothingness that almost felt like death. My mind was quiet for once. 

Then suddenly without warning, I opened my eyes no longer in that small room cutting through space. Instead, I was back on the Starkiller. The walls were crumbling and the ground was shaking violently. Alarms blared as I ran, and the landscape stabilized and warped until I was now in a throne room, many bodies scattered the ground including Kylo Rens. From behind me, a woman's voice screamed my name, my real name. I turned just as a blue lightsaber swung at me, and as suddenly as I left I was back.

 Gasping for air, I stabilized myself on my elbows, I was still lying on the metallic floor in the dark room. I tried to process what happened. It felt real but I eventually decided it was a dream. I calmed myself until a blue light illuminated the room. I turned ready to parry an oncoming attack. I turned to face my would-be attacker only to find an old man glowing with a mysterious aura standing smiling.       

“Are you giving up?” He spoke with a calm and welcoming tone.

I was awestruck and confused, frozen in my defense potion. The man had gray hair and a short beard, he was wearing jedi robes. Robes I had only ever seen withering in back closets.

“Don’t be afraid, these are your first steps.”

“I'm going insane,” 

“No,” he chuckled slightly 

“Am I dead?”

“No, you reached out through the force for guidance. I answered,”

“why ,”

“That's my question to you,”

“You're a jedi why help me,”

“Your path is yet to be determined, you are not in search of power, and your allegiance is not to the dark. Neither is his.”

“But things I've done. There not very Jedi like,”

“Those events are in the past, the longer you dwell on your past the further away your future becomes.”    

“Can’t forget it,”

“You don’t forget, you forgive. Yourself and those who hurt you. If you fear yourself your vision will only become more clouded.”

“That's harder than you make it seem.”

“It doesn't happen overnight, it takes time,” he glances at my unfinished lightsaber. “Your frustration blinds you, trust in the force and it will guide you.” the apparition dissipated as I stood. 

My attention fell on the lightsaber, I began to take it apart trying to reflect on what he had said until I found my problem. I held the saber once more and my doubt seemed to subside as the blue blade illuminated the obscured room.

[crying-mybest]

🤗

[crying-mybest]

Iightsaber because my brain has a hyper infection

[crying-mybest]

First time panting a portrait from a photo