I think the characters of Ragdoll (Jnr.) and Junior are really interesting. That's why I decided to write a fic that expands on their past. There isn't a whole lot of information given about them in cannon (which probably just makes them more interesting). If you haven't read any of the Secret Six stuff (do!) they are the (youngest?) children of the original Ragdoll (a super villain and cult leader). It is heavily implied that they were abused and also that they had an incestuous relationship. They both end up very fucked up (Junior probably more so.)

This story so far is not graphic but it is still upsetting because of the subject matter. Hence the rating.

OOCness at this stage in this fic is due to characters being very young and is intentional.

The characters of Peter and Alex Merkel were created by (the very talented) Gail Simone and probably belong to DC. I'm not making any money from this.


Peter held the rat's small corpse close to his chest. He wouldn't cry this time. He WOULDN'T. Carefully he stood. His right leg wobbled. It looked as though the slightest push would leave his seven-year-old body sprawled on the dusty floor. He was the size of a young toddler. His hair was a grubby, matted strawberry-blond. His eyes were round and blue, bright with unshed tears. One was encircled by a fading bruise.

Slowly he made his way along the dark corridors of his home. The building had been a factory once, a long time ago. It had been due to be demolished when the boy's father had moved in and established himself there.


A woman in a patched, patterned skirt smiled vacantly as the child past her, still clutching the dead rat. The woman held a doll. Her baby was gone a year now.

Stepping outside, onto the compacted dirt of the old factory yard, Peter could see the infant's grave along with those of the first three rats he'd tamed. Each was marked with whatever debris he'd been able to find; old bricks and broken glass for the most part. Where the baby was buried strips of coloured fabric were tied to a rusted steel pole. They hung limply in the still air. Slowly he began to scrape out another grave.


"Hello Peter."

His sister Alex sat in the center of their room, dust staining her patch-work dress. She was only six but already beautiful. Her hair was flame red and her skin was as pale as porcelain. She looked like a doll and her big blue eyes were as lifeless as if they were made out of glass.

Before her lay a naked barbie doll. She was in the process of pushing drawing pins through its plastic limbs, crucifying it on the stained floorboards. Her brother did not mention the dead rat. He sat on his bed - little more than a wooden pallet really - and hugged his blankets to his chest. Alex pushed pins into the doll's painted eyes and, finally, into the smooth plastic between her legs.


The sun was setting when their nanny - an older woman - brought them dinner; cereal and powdered milk. Peter ate quickly, scraping his spoon around the bowl to get the final remnants of the watery fluid. Finished, he sat quietly while his sister ate the last of her meal. He watched their nanny's pendulous breasts, entranced, as she collected the empty dishes. "Your father wants to see you," she told the boy.


He moved with small shuffling steps to the room that had once been the main factory floor. That was where his father, the Ragdoll, held court. He sat on a throne of rusted steel girders. "In!" he ordered when he saw Peter's head poking around the door-frame. Only two other men were present, both with guns. The air smelt of incense. "Come to me worthless child." He moved forward immediately, knew hesitance would be punished. "Remove your clothes." He stripped quickly. His skinny body was covered in scars and welts. Peter felt relief when his father reached for a whip. There were so many worse things he could have chosen. Today would be a whip.

He tested it first, cracking it lightly against his own hand. Then he drew it back.


It was many hours latter when Peter crawled back into his bed. Alex was awake, her wide eyes bright in the dark room. "He'll come for me," she said, "now that he's finished with you." There was an undercurrent of anger to her words.

"I'm sorry," he whispered in reply. Painfully he stood and climbed into the bed with her. They held each-other tightly.


It was some time before the door creaked open. A figure stood silhouetted in the light from the hallway. He stepped into the room. Alex squeezed her brother's hand so hard her fingernails drew blood.