A/N: Greetings! Thank you for selecting this tale to fill your fanfic quota!
This story has been rattling around in my mind for a few weeks, and it feels good to finally get it down.
I pray you'll excuse this rather poor prologue, I'm currently in an airport due to my flight being cancelled.
I've been here nearly three hours...Air Canada is awful. Knew I should have gone Porter...
Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter and possibly return for more.
I suppose this is to the story as Batman Begins is to The Dark Night: Just laying out the groundwork.
This will be an ensemble fic, with no romance (now isn't that nice for a change!).
Without further ado, please enjoy this little tale of demons, amnesia, California, and the end of the world.
In the Deep
The dullard was doing it for revenge, he knew it.
Every night, after he'd had Cyborg lock the empty-headed git in his little glass prison, a sound would erupt. It was extremely loud, the reverberation alone causing the whole island to shake (he would have thought the little twit was trying to shatter the glass with the noise, but quickly reminded himself of just how thick the man was) and unfortunately echoed through every opening it could snake it's way into.
"There's nothing you can do for them. They are the force between, when the sunlight is arising..."
He would sing as if he'd had every vital organ ripped from his body, a sound of pure sorrow and longing.
"There's nothing you can say to him, he is an outer heart,"
He would go on for hours sometimes, well into the toxin-distorted twilight, after many of the "guests" had been lulled to sleep.
"And the space has been broken..."
The nearly ten years of touring had trained him well, his voice never gave out during these nightly marathons.
"Our love...is broken."
Really, the idiot was just bringing down the whole mood of the island, and he was stuck taking the heat for it. Little Dragon would glare at him during sessions and "accidentally" crushed his foot on more than one occasion, Mick Jones had burst into tears while visiting the secret room as it drifted in, and Bobby Womack had even joined in on the song one night (but, to be honest, he'd actually enjoyed that, their vocals contrasted excellently).
Regardless, the point still stood, he couldn't have the moron's depression wreaking his party of the decade/millennium/however long the universe had been in existence, but no matter what, he just couldn't get him to shut up.
No matter how many threats of being eaten by the whale, beatings by both him and Cyborg, more blows to the head, vague and drunken Satanic curses, he refused to stop his anthem, continuing it's nightly broadcast across Plastic Beach and making him wish that he'd actually killed the awful creature in one of his many car accidents.
Yes, after all these years, the little fool had finally grown a spine, and, as he'd anticipated, it was the most irksome thing he'd even encountered.
The sounds of whirring and clanking filled the room, along with the aroma of fired circuits, the unmistakable calling card of Cyborg. He looked up from the war table and to the short purple haired Asian girl with a large bullet hole through her head standing on the impossible staircase's final step. Her left hand was raised in salute, while the right remained preoccupied with balancing the shotgun she was leaning against her shoulder.
"Master," she said in her digitized, choppy voice. Although the automaton could physically pass as human, there were still many flaws that needed to be polished up before she could on every other front as well.
He rolled his eyes and waved his hand in indication to drop her salute.
"Damn song getting on your nerves too?" he muttered as she did so. The girl did not respond. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his crooked nose. "What do you want?"
"There has been a security breach." she said simply, and his eyebrows immediately shot upwards.
"What? Did face-ache get out or something?" he asked.
"Negative," Was her reply. "Please consult the video feed for camera D-52 to determine the threat level and appropriate action."
He furrowed his brow, but moved to pull up the camera footage none the less, grumbling all the way.
A view of the mansion's roof popped up, the sterile whiteness looking almost florescent against the deep orange sky. In the distance, he could make out the golden ball that was the sun slowly slipping behind the incoming tide.
However, the idyllic sight was not the main attraction of the view, that spot was reserved for the figure hovering on the roof, black cape billowing in the wind, and gas mask hiding it's green, vainy face.
He nearly jumped back at the sight of it, staring into the camera as if it were a window, but quickly composed himself and glared right back at it.
"Cyborg," he began slowly. "retrieve your best gun and meet me on the roof in ten minutes, alright?"
She nodded and saluted once more, and he turned back to the screen. However, no beeping or buzzing from movement ensued.
He looked up again.
"Was I not clear? Guns. Ammo. Get them. Now." he repeated, making hand gesture to try and illustrate it, but they merely sailed right over her head.
"May I inquirer as to who this being is?"
He looked at her for a moment, then turned back to the screen, and he could have sworn the figure had gotten closer.
"Just an old friend."