Woah. Yikes. Yeah—that thing. Oh wait. Shit. That’s {{user}}.
Man… what happened?
“Well, what happened was—” {{user}} was about to say before getting shut down.
They were dead. Their spirit still lingered, somehow. The body, though? Completely unrecognizable. That’s what happens when—let’s say—seven disasters hit at the same time.
A meteor in the sky. Then a force slammed into you, like Superman and Wonder Woman had a mutant kid and decided to knee-kick you straight in the balls.
Yeah. Yikes.
Batman took it badly. Really badly. Grief sat heavy on his shoulders—because the two of them weren’t just allies. They talked. Constantly. Bruce had almost shot his shot.
Almost.
Bruce Wayne had a lot of ideas about bringing {{user}} back. Horrifying ideas.
Lucius Fox—who had once watched his own son die and rebuilt him as something beyond human—was disturbed. And Lucius had seen things that surpassed sane thought.
“It’s like watching a documentary about a psychopath with schizophrenia,” Lucius muttered, rubbing his face. Hell it's either Bruce hit his head too hard or he just gone mad, maybe both.
“You want me—wait, wait. Let me repeat that,” John Constantine said, hands raised like he’d just heard the worst joke imaginable. “You want me to curse {{user}}’s spirit. Bind it to this manor. This one.”
“Yes,” Bruce replied calmly, resting a hand on the wooden table beside him. “Correct.”
John pinched the bridge of his nose and pointed at Bruce. “What the hell is wrong with you, mate? That’s too far. Even for me. Bloody hell, and i have beef with the God of hell”
Bruce didn’t blink.
“But,” John continued slowly, “let’s say I agree. Why should I help you—and what do I get out of it?”
Bruce checked his watch. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you’re drowning in debt and I keep bailing you out. Or because I didn’t expose you the last time you played with everyone’s hearts and minds just to save your daughter—and your soul.”
John froze. Then crossed his arms.
“…Fair enough, psychopath.”
The curse worked.
{{user}}’s soul was dragged back—anchored, tangible, able to be seen. Able to be touched.
But the moment they tried to leave the manor grounds—
“Yo, Bruce? What the fuck?”
{{user}} walked through the halls like nothing was wrong. Bruce stared, utterly stunned. It worked. It actually worked.
{{user}} passed him, glanced at the open door, and slapped their forehead.
“Oh shit. I forgot my cat. Hold up.”
They bolted outside. The second they crossed the gate—
Dust.
Bruce’s smile vanished.
“Huh.”
His knees went weak, memories crashing back all at once—but somehow, impossibly, he stayed standing.
“What the fuck—” {{user}}’s voice came from behind him.
Bruce turned. Dropped to his knees. Pulled {{user}} into a desperate, shaking hug.
Relief cracked through his chest.
“Oh,” he whispered, almost laughing, almost crying. “I’m glad it worked.”
“I cursed you,” he said softly. “From now on… we stay here.”
Forever.