There are several things Martyn realizes, all at once, when he opens his eyes:
He is dreaming.
It's one of those in-between dreams, the ones that aren't quite dreams.
He is sitting at a green felted table. It is sitting on a stage. The lighting is dim, and no one is watching, but out of the corner of his eye he can see the stagehands dressed in black, waiting.
He is not the only one sitting at the table. There is a Watcher, draped in purple. There is a Listener, draped in yellow. There is someone he recognizes in a red sweater. There is someone he thinks he should recognize, but can't quite, shuffling a deck of cards.
"Right. What's all this, then," he mutters.
We are playing blackjack, the Listener says.
We are deciding the rules, the Watcher says.
"It's not like we have anything better to do. Honestly, I'm glad you're here. Do you know how boring these guys are?" Grian says, and Martyn decides to quietly file Grian away as a dream-Grian, as opposed to real-life-Grian, so he doesn't go insane and/or stab him when he wakes up. He waits for the almost-familiar dealer to say something. He does not. After another few moments of awkward nonsense dream-silence, Martyn sighs and leans forward on the table.
"Sure, this might as well be happening," Martyn says. "Deal me in. How's the betting work, again?"
"You put your bet on the table. If you beat the dealer, you get to add it to the game," Grian explains. "If you don't beat the dealer, it takes it."
"Yeah, but like, that's abstract, isn't it? What does that mean, exactly, me losing what I bet if I don't beat the dealer," Martyn says.
Grian shrugs. "Don't ask me. To be honest, I'm hardly the storyteller you are."
"Me? Why are you acting like I have any control over these things when you're--"
Are you ready to play?
Martyn shuts up, looks at the Listener, and sighs. "Yeah, sure, I'm ready to play. Why not."
The dealer looks to its left. Grian sighs. "Why are you making me bet first. Again. We should rotate where we're sitting--fine, fine, I know it's an advantage because I'm the worst at this. Uh. Hm. No trading or giving away lives again. Not even as time or something. It makes the dynamics all weird, and I think we could use a nice straightforward death game next time."
(Martyn wants to roll his eyes. Nice and straightforward. Sure.)
The Watcher goes next. I would like there to be deep and wonderful bonds between the players. I would like those bonds to seem unbreakable.
"Coming from you, that's ominous," Martyn says.
Can I not just miss the alliances of the early days? the Watcher says.
"Never left the desert," Grian says, rolls his eyes, and looks at Martyn in commiseration. Martyn just stares back. So sue him, he's a bit more worried about this whole concept than an eye roll and a pithy phrase. Things Watchers want are rarely good.
When the bonds are enforced, they're less interesting, complains the Listener.
Martyn looks over sharply. Hey, wait, he thought--
I didn't say they had to be enforced by rule. I said they had to be deep. Encouraged, as opposed to discouraged.
Just saying. You'll never recapture Third Life.
Martyn swallows. His throat is dry. Weren't the Listeners supposed to be the good guys, here?
Besides, what I want is for each death to be meaningful again. They've felt too meaningless, lately, the Listener continues.
Martyn thinks the dealer raises an eyebrow, but it strikes him he's not exactly sure. Grian snorts. "Meaningful deaths. That's rich for you to say. I mean, I guess they're meaningful sometimes? I don't know, Martyn's the one who understands dramatic sacrifices, I just like killing things."
"Why do you keep on looking at me when you say those things," Martyn says.
"Look, you wouldn't be here if you weren't helping write," Grian says.
"What?" Martyn says.
We're here to play our cards for the story, the Watcher says. Aren't you also one of the authors?
"Me? What? No, I'm--what are you talking about," Martyn says.
Oh, well. I also hope your meaningful deaths make it in, the Watcher says the Listener.
Thanks, even if I disagree on the bonds, the Listener says.
"They hardly ever talk about real, concrete rules they want," complains Grian. "It's easier to understand the consequence if they bring up actual rules. Like boogeyman or no boogeyman."
"We're all just betting on cards!" Martyn says, throwing his hands up. "You're giving me a headache!"
It's your bet.
"Fine!" Martyn says. "Fine! You know what? Screw all of you. I hope this is the last one. I hope we never have to go back to that stupid death game. I hope it's miserable to watch or to listen to or to play and everyone just gives up. How's that for a bet?"
You're no fun.
Is that what you really want?
"Suit yourself," Grian says. "Honestly, if I still had that to bet, I guess I probably would."
"What do you mean, if you still had that to bet?"
"Well, I mean, that's not how blackjack works, is it? I don't just get back my in when I play it."
The dealer nods, and then silently, with a long bony hand, deals the cards.
Grian is dealt the four of diamonds. The Watcher is dealt the nine of spades. The Listener is dealt the five of clubs. Martyn is dealt a jack of spades. The dealer deals itself a seven of hearts. The dealer deals Grian a six of clubs--
"Hey, isn't that supposed to be face-down?" Martyn asks.
"Not here," Grian explains. "They're all face up so we can't touch the cards. So we don't have to. So we can't cheat."
"Who said anything about cheating?" Martyn says.
"Please," Grian says.
The dealer makes a hand motion. Martyn, grumpily, falls silent. He supposes they're playing by casino rules, then. He hasn't been in a casino since--he wouldn't know. Hard to remember anything that isn't this, isn't it? Isn't killing and dying and things out of his control and things very much in his control and, apparently, bizarre dream sequences designed to make him want to strangle Grian.
Anyway. Grian is dealt a six of clubs, giving him ten. The Watcher is given an eight of spades, giving it seventeen. The Listener is dealt a king of hearts, giving it fifteen. Martyn is given a six of clubs, giving him sixteen. The dealer deals its own second card face-down. Martyn stops to try to speak, and then shuts his mouth. Right. Dealer's advantage.
He stares at the numbers.
Grian sighs. "Well, I've got to double down, don't I? Fine. I want the whole 'red lives can kill' thing to be enforced somehow. I don't care how. There's my double down."
The dealer nods.
"Why would you want that," Martyn says blankly.
If we all win, that will be interesting with the bonds, the Watcher says mildly.
Grian shrugs. "I mean, we've enforced red names not befriending green names, but not the murder thing before. Figure we should switch up the game, right?"
"Why?" Martyn says again.
Well, it wouldn't do for it to be boring.
"No, not that. Just... isn't it easier to handle when the rules are laid out properly?"
Martyn throws his hands up, but stops arguing. The dealer gives Grian a face-down card. The dealer moves to the next party at the table.
The Watcher looks over at the dealer and makes a cutting-off motion. I stand.
The dealer moves on. Hit me, the Listener says, and is dealt the queen of diamonds. The Listener gestures to Martyn. It seems I bust. Pity. I suppose there will be no guarantee of meaning, then. Not what I'd prefer.
The dealer looks at Martyn. Martyn looks at the other hands. Martyn pauses.
"Wait, this is like, casino blackjack, yeah? I'm only playing against you, not the whole table?"
"Why would you be playing against us?" Grian says. "Writing's a collaborative process."
Martyn looks entreatingly at the Listener, but the Listener is a little too caught up in the bad hand it has been dealt. Martyn looks entreatingly at the Watcher, but the Watcher just looks somehow confused.
"I was under the impression that, I don't know, you all were adversarial."
Why? All we want is the same thing as you: the story to be told a certain way.
Martyn's not sure if he's furious or just numb.
"Fine. Got a sixteen, don't I? Hit me."
Two of spades.
He's furious. He wants to win against the dealer. He wants to win against everyone. He wants his idea to make it through. He has an eighteen, though. There are only two numbers in the deck that will not bust him, and he's no fool. Hitting on sixteen is a risk enough; if he wants his stupid bet of everything finally ending to make it through, he's got to hold here.
"I hold," he says through gritted teeth.
The dealer silently deals itself another card. A three of hearts. Distantly, Martyn's ears rush. He could have taken that. He could have taken the hit. He could have won. He could have had blackjack, and he doesn't know what the extra payout for blackjack even means in a game like this one, but he could have had it, and he held back, he didn't take the risk, he didn't--
The dealer flips up its cards. Seven, eight, three. Eighteen.
Martyn's heart pounds. A stand-off.
Grian flips up his own card and groans. It's a five of diamonds. "There goes that bet," he mutters.
The dealer makes a sweeping motion around the table. The Watcher smiles, a terrible, terrible thing. Martyn, all at once, realizes that he can't ask again. He can't say 'this is guaranteed to be the last one' again. He backs out of his chair. To the sides, he sees the stagehands change the lighting. A spotlight, on him and the dealer--
"That isn't fair," he says. "It's a tie. I should get my bet back, right? It's a tie!"
THAT IS WHERE WE DIFFER FROM THE HOUSES IN VEGAS, the dealer says, and Martyn's heart stops.
(The voice is familiar. Familiar, but he cannot place it.)
YOU SEE, IN THIS GAME, THERE IS ALWAYS ONE THING THAT HAS AN ADVANTAGE. ONE THING THE STORY IS ALWAYS PLAYING AGAINST. ONE THING, THAT INEVITABLY, AFTER LONG ENOUGH PLAYING, WILL WIN.
There, the dealer looks Martyn in the eyes, and Martyn, all at once, knows exactly what the dealer must be.
AND THAT IS ME.
Martyn stares Death in the eyes.
Then, in a cold sweat, Martyn wakes up.
He does not sleep again for a long time.
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DP x DC Writing Prompt #8
The day Bruce Wayne knocks on her apartment door Sam knows it's going to be a doozy.
"Mr. Wayne, I really do hope no one saw you," she says, ushering him in. "And for the record, a text ahead of time would be appreciated."
"I parked the car a few streets away," Bruce says, sticking a finger in his heel to peel his polished leather shoes off. Sam raises an eyebrow. "It's a sedan, not a Lamborghini."
"You own a sedan?"
"Taught Dick to drive in it...after he crashed the Lamborghini."
Sam snorts despite herself. The charm Bruce Wayne exhibits would usually rub her the wrong way, too reminiscent of wealthy men that feel comfortable placing a hand on the small of your back at a crowded gala, but Bruce is honest enough about his playacting that she has come to find its insincerity comforting. She's actually sought him out more than once, leading to several annoying headlines that can't seem to decide if she's aiming to date him or one of his eligible sons. None of whom are eligible by the way, as they are a) taken, b) legally dead, c) practically a minor, and d) an actual minor.
Sam's generational wealth is peanuts compared to Wayne Industries, so naturally her parents have been thrilled and rooting for option c.
"I also didn't want Danny to see I'd texted you. Or force you to lie to him."
Sam doesn't quite tense, but it's a near thing. She does slide to the other side of her kitchen island, under the context of finishing prepping her feta fried eggs, laid on a bed of smashed avocado and warm tortilla. She pulls a bottle of crunchy garlic oil out of the fridge and drizzles hot red crisps across the runny yolk. She takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully, not so much as offering him a glass of water.
"You realize, Mr. Wayne, I have no intention of lying to Danny now?"
Bruce sits at the stool on the opposite side of the island. "I understand. And if you want to ask Danny to return home before we continue, I'd understand that as well. I didn't mean to discomfit you--"
"Please do not lie to me now, Mr. Wayne," Sam says, rolling her eyes. "By your own admission you showed up at noon without warning knowing my superhero boyfriend wouldn't be present. If I am discomfited, all the more likely you get your information, right?" Golden yolk runs down her fingers, and she sacrifices it to the napkin rather than lick up her arm in front of her boss, with no small amount of resentment. The yolk is the best part.
"Get to it then," she demands.
Bruce straightens in his stool, chin raising and firming in a jawline she most often sees under a cowl. His eyes attempt to pin her in place, but Sam has stared the Master of Time in the face and demand he reschedule so she is built. different. She takes another bite of egg taco.
"I was not aiming for you to feel threatened, and moreover, I doubt you could be."
Except a smart person should always feel threatened by a threat, no matter their capability of handling one. It keeps them alive.
"Can you tell me how I'm not like all the other girls after lunch? You'll spoil my appetite."
Bruce clears his throat. "I'll get to the point--"
"Thank you."
"--Danny has been exhibiting paranormal behaviors beyond his baseline. We welcome all biologies; human, alien, and paranormal alike, but I have observed actions unlike what he had previously established as his, for lack of a better word, 'normal'
"I want to make sure he is not experiencing any unwelcome outside influence. Or, if this is merely a facet of his evolution, I'd like to know if this is something we or his family should be monitoring."
Sam has been an eco-consultant with Wayne Industries and unofficially, the Batfamily, for half a year now and this is the most she's ever heard the man speak in one sitting.
"Wow," she says. "How long have you been rehearsing that one?"
"A while." Bruce grunts, voice finally taking that final drop into Batman's gravelly rasp. "I see you're not surprised by any of this."
"No, not really," Sam says. She pours him a tall glass of lemon water from the pitcher, freshly sliced that morning, and he takes a polite sip.
"So what can you tell me?"
"Probably a lot. And Danny would probably prefer that I do, knowing him, the big baby," Sam sighs. "Listen Mr. Wayne, I can appreciate that you came here from a place of caution rather than intrusion. And if Danny was undergoing something negative or from an 'unwelcome outside influence' that would be the right call, and I, albeit begrudgingly, encourage you to do so in the future."
"But he's not."
"He's not," Sam confirms. "And in fact, I think he could really use someone to talk to about it. Outside of his family."
"I see..." Bruce says, shifting.
"If you want to tag team this one with one of the higher EQ players, such as Superman, I give you permission." Sam does not think she's imagining that slight sag of relief.
"Thank you," Bruce says, sliding off the stool. "I don't suppose you have material we could consult...?"
"Actually yes, I happen to have a pamphlet right here. 'So your ghostly body is changing, and how.'"
"You're being more sarcastic than usual."
"You interrupted my lunch, Mr. Wayne."
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