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inversionimpulse · 5 years

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there’s a difference between ‘internal consistency’, ‘canon’, and ‘faithfulness.’

Internal consistency is necessary to the suspension of diselief. Your story needs to be consistent with itself to be believable, and a story that isn’t believably is hollow. ‘Believable’ doesnt mean it has to mimic reality exactly, it means it has to portray its own reality effectively.

Internal consistency is incredibly important and not really up for debate. You can bend it or break it when it’s necessary to make the story more effective, but you shouldn’t do that too much lest the audience stop believing.

(everything below this point might be a bit of a hot take, I actually dunno. Also, this is just me trying to work out some recent thoughts by putting them on a page, I might change my mind next week, who knows. Hell, I’m not even sure I agree with all of it now. Also I’m gonna slap it under a readmore because I have anxiety)

Canon is something that’s very silly to get too caught up in. While I don’t encourage some of the more extreme uses of Death of The Author I’ve seen, the fact remains that personal experiences and interpretations are extremely valuable. Every story means something a little different to each person who reads it. The author’s intent is, of course, still very important, and knowing what it was can enhance the experience. But the thing that matters most to the reader is the reader’s own engagement. Canon is not your god - treating stories like mathematical problems with only one proper solution is what high school English teachers do, not what you should be doing.

And then, when ‘canon’ extends past the creator, what does it even mean?

I think I should illustrate with an example. The Killing Joke by Alan Moore, one of the most famous Batman stories ever written. The ending is a common subject of debate. Did Batman kill the Joker? The ending is open-ended. I don’t know what Alan Moore intended, and I don’t care to look it up - and I don’t think he’s ever said, anyway. I don’t think Batman killed Joker, other people (such as Grant Morrison, one of my favourite comic book writers) think he did - both these interpretations are completely valid, even though they create radically different stories - one where the Joker’s nihilistic view isn’t entirely wrong, and one where, as Gordon says, they “show him our way works!”. These two endings are completely different and they change the meaning and themes of the story, but saying that only one is valid is rather wildly missing the point. What’s important is the story that you read (it’s still possible to be wrong, though. You’re still working within the constraints of the written word - if your interpretation goes completely against the text, it’s still wrong).

Now, ‘canon’ agrees with me. The comics continued on, and Joker kept breathing. But why is this ‘canon’? Why is this a more valid an interpretation than that of people who think Joker died? These continuations, they weren’t written by the same person as Killing Joke, they were appended on to it by other people. Why is their writing a more valid continuation of Moore’s work than, say, a fanfic? Because executives at DC said so? What gives their approval so much weight? They didn’t create Batman, Bill Finger did. These corporate suits don’t have anything to do with Batman outside a court of law. What makes Moore’s work more valid than a fanfic, even? Bill Finger created Batman, not Moore, and Finger was too dead to give his approval to Moore’s work, and again, the corporate suits who say what goes and what doesn’t never had anything to do with Batman’s creation.

So what i’m getting at here, is this: why are these things ‘canon’? Even though Batman comics kept rolling and Joker kept breathing, why is that more ‘canon’ than Joker’s death? Why is The Killing Joke more canon than a fanfic? Because Copyright law says so? First of all, that copyright would have expired long ago if not for a certain mouse’s all-consuming greed. Second of all, that’s all just words - the only person to have a moral right to authority over Batman is Bill Finger, and he’s gone.

So if we look at this, what is ‘canon’? By the strictest definition, the only canon Batman work is Finger’s and everything else is invalid. But I think a more appropriate answer would be that ‘canon’ is something entirely up to the reader’s interpretation. The stories you like are part of your canon, and the ones that you don’t, aren’t. Because it’s more important that a reader has a good, meaningful experience than that you can slot everything into some strict timeline. It’s modern mythology, not in the hands of any corporation, but in the hands of anyone who can tell a story. Every Batman story is technically valid, whether DC published it or not.

And my use of the word ‘technically’ just then brings me to my third point, what ‘faithfulness’ is. Even if every Batman story is technically valid, that doesn’t make it good and it doesn’t mean people have to like it. The character of Batman is malleable, having been passed through as many hands as he has, but there’s still a core to it. if your Batman story has him as, I dunno, how about, a Yakuza dude who kills people with a bat-shaped knife, why is that a Batman story? You really think people are going to see Batman in that? A Batman story at the end of the day should still be a Batman story and people who love Batman should still be able to see the character they love in it. And if they don’t see that, they have every right to hate it.

The example I’m going to use here is MCU Spider-Man, who I’ll try to be as neutral as possible because otherwise I’m just going to piss everyone off. For a lot of older Spider-Man fans, Spider-Man is a working class schmuck who claws his way to greatness entirely under his own ability, who is a hero because he knows it’s the right thing to do, even though he’s so often tempted to use his powers for selfish short term gain. And a lot of them don’t see that in MCU Spider-Man - what they see is someone whose suit was made for them by Iron Man, they see someone who rarely faces real consequences, they see someone who cares more about being a hero than doing the right thing. These people have every right to hate MCU Spidey; if they can’t see the character they loved in this new character, they have no obligation to love the new one just because of a shared name. I’m not making any judgments on MCU Spidey himself, I’m just laying out some opinions people have about him. And if you do see the Spidey you fell in love with in MCU Spidey, you have every right to argue the point with those people.

(Confusing canon and faithfulness is silly, too. Just because, I dunno, Ra’s Al Ghul isn’t actually immortal and doesn’t have supernatural powers in some adaptation doesn’t mean it’s not a faithful adaptation of Ra’s Al Ghul if you can still tell immediately it’s Ra’s Al Ghul, if you still see the parts of Ra’s Al Ghul that really matter. Canon is the little nitty-gritty details that don’t matter as much as some people think if the whole is still faithful - more than the sum of your parts, right? Maybe a character doesn’t quite look the same, maybe they don’t quite have the same backstory - but if it’s still recognizably that character, if it’s still faithful to the spirit, I think it’s usually still good. When arguing about faithfulness, you’ve gotta learn to pick out the details that really matter and not worry about the ones that don’t)

So when making a story using a pre-existing character, you really ought to be as faithful as you can - not to some nebulous idea of ‘canon’ but to what you interpret to be the spirit of the character. Because at the end of the day, if you’re making a Batman story, it’s for Batman fans, isn’t it? If you’re making a Spider-Man story, it’s for Spider-Man fans, isn’t it? And it’s for the people who would be Spider-Man fans if they had been exposed to it - which hopefully your story will do. What’s the point of radically changing Batman to appeal to people who don’t like Batman instead of people who do or who would? If they even bother to bite the bait you’re dangling for them, which doesn’t happen often... what then? Now you have people who expect something that isn’t really Batman and you’ve lost the people who like things that are Batman. You’ve got Johnny-Come-Latelies who are after something very different from what other Batman stories offer who will leave when they realize that and you’ve lost the loyal, established fans. This sort of thing can work out and be mega-profitable, but not often.

And leaving aside all talk of profit and fans... if you’re writing a Batman story, shouldn’t you be trying to write a good Batman story? Not something entirely else you’ve put the name Batman on? Snyder.

Basically what I’m trying to say is this: If the original author has left the figurative building (and only if. While the original author still has a hand in things, their word is pretty much law), then everything appended to it by anyone is equally valid, no matter if the law says so or not. But that doesn’t mean it’s good or that people have to like it equally. Also copyright law is bullshit and Disney should not be allowed to fuck it up any further.

Oh, and I should add that a bad story doesn’t erase the good stories. If a video game you like is remade and the remake is bad... well, the original game is still there, isn’t it? And even if the remake is good, the original might just offer something different that’s still worth experiencing. Nothing can negate the original work’s quality. So if, say, I think the most recent Spider-Man film is bad, then, well, no skin off my neck - as much as I’d like new good Spidey films, the old good ones are still there and so are the comics they’re based on.

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jilliancares · 7 years

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Cat and Mouse: Chapter 5

Word Count: 4k

tw: injury and blood

ao3 ; wattpad

masterlist ; next chapter

CHAPTER FIVE:

Dan wanted to break something. Or kill somebody. Or blow something up.

All he knew was that he was full of this horrible, restless energy, and it was Phil Lester’s fault. In the span of five minutes, Dan felt like his entire world had been flipped, his reality now resting on the edge of a coin. It just didn’t make sense.

Sure he’d known, when he was ten, that Phil was moving to London. He’d even known as he himself was moving to London that it was likely his childhood friend still lived somewhere in the city. The knowledge hadn’t done anything to deter him, nor to encourage him. He’d just acknowledged it, and then set it aside, uncaring. Where Phil Lester lived was no care of his—except for now, now that the man himself had come up and invited Dan for coffee.

As a little kid, Dan had had a massive crush on Phil. The kind of crush that came with butterflies in your stomach and pink dusting your cheeks, with sweaty palms and stuttered words and embarrassing truths. He’d gone as far as to keep a diary, simply so he could tell something about how he felt.

But that had been then. That had been his ten year old self, full of completely different ambitions and dreams. This was now. And twenty-two year-old Dan didn’t need to go on a date with his childhood crush—twenty-two year-old Dan needed to not talk to anyone ever, preferably. It made the whole not caring about things much easier. Made the ignoring his underlying morals and turning a blind eye at the inklings of guilt he felt much more feasible.

Not to mention the fact that talking to people made him anxious. Not in the general, anxiety-disorder kind of anxious—though Dan had had that too. It’d taken a long and annoying amount of time for him to stop sweating and shaking at the thought of asking a barista for a coffee (not talking for several years, it turned out, could carry lasting effects). But no, this wasn’t like that. Especially not with Phil—the first person Dan was able to speak around after his period of selective mutism. This was different. This was anxious in the way that his mind whirled, wondering if talking to Phil, to a person who had known him then, could see a difference in him now.

Being the Panther was his biggest secret. It was the secret of all secrets, the type you tried to carry to your grave, though Dan was aware that it rarely happened like that for the bad guys in the movies—they almost always got caught. But still, he didn’t feel inclined to let anyone know that he was the Panther, the person terrorizing the city and causing chaos and uproar at every available opportunity. That knowledge was solely for him to enjoy.

Dan shivered at the thought of Phil finding out about about him. Sweet, smart Phil. He remembered him from sixth grade, two years his senior but about level with him in terms of intelligence, which had been one thing that had drawn Dan to him immediately. It’d been rare for him to find someone who could match his brain, his thought processes, and Phil hadn’t just matched it; he’d aided it. They’d worked as a wonderful team—most of the time, anyway. There’d, of course, been those moments when Dan had sulked and ignored Phil for days on end. But when he wasn’t avoiding Phil, they were working together like Batman and Robin, like Sherlock and Watson, like two meant to be a team if there ever was one. And then Phil had moved. And Dan had become the Panther (not immediately, of course. There’d been a bit of a transitional period, but still).

It was odd, to think that while Dan was out terrorizing the city, Phil was one of its inhabitants, likely cowering in his apartment and hoping that Dan didn’t blow up his complex. Not that Dan ever would. He only blew up things that needed to be blown up, obviously. Some people had recognized this, too. There were those out there who advocated for the Panther, who Dan regarded with a mixture of perverse satisfaction and unease, because really, who would be advocating for him? The bad guy?

He wasn’t sure if reconnecting with Phil was a good idea. His best bet would be to go out for this coffee with him, consume his caffeinated drink as quickly as humanly possible, and disappear back into the shadows forever and lose touch with Phil once more to safely resume his practices as the Panther. He couldn’t afford to be close to someone, after all. He had no interest in having to plan his more nefarious activities around the plans of another living, demanding person.

“I know this really neat little coffee place just around the corner,” Phil said conversationally. As they walked, their shoulders accidentally bumped. Dan flinched, but Phil didn’t appear to notice. “It’s actually the perfect location if you think about it. You can get a book from the library and then read it there.”

“Do you go to the library a lot?” Dan asked quietly. It felt weird to speak without wearing his mask. He spoke a lot as the Panther. He held long, winding, taunting conversations with the Raven, and he persuaded citizens and yelled at police. But without his mask, as a simple young adult, he rarely spoke. He spent the majority of his time in his apartment scheming and planning, and otherwise tended to hang out in the library, consuming books by the dozen. Though he’d taunted the Raven about harming the library, he never would've actually done so. The fact that so many could convene there and gather knowledge for absolutely no cost at all seemed incredible to him. Today Dan had only stolen a book, a mental fuck you to the Raven, if you will.

“Not really,” Phil answered, sounding almost abashed. “I don’t really read much—don’t have time. Today was kind of a fluke. I was just curious if… someone else… would be there.”

Dan hummed. “Who were you looking for?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Phil said, turning to look at him with a soft smile. “‘Cause I found you instead.”

The effect of those words on Dan was immediate. Blood rose to his cheeks, and Dan found himself having to avert his gaze. “Doesn’t seem like a very good trade off to me,” he laughed.

“Trust me, it was,” Phil promised. “That other guy’s a bit of a dick.”

“Can’t imagine why you’d be meeting him then,” said Dan, and Phil grinned.

“I have so much I want to tell you,” he said reverently. They were waiting at a crosswalk now, people gathered all around them. The white signal flashed, and they stepped into the street with everyone else.

“Oh really?”

“Of course,” Phil breathed. “I wish it hadn’t been so long. It’s crazy—I almost feel like I’m dreaming.”

Despite himself, Dan wasn’t dreading every word Phil said, wasn’t finding him annoying or wishing he was gone. He was—dare he think it—enjoying himself. It was absurd and ruinous, but he couldn’t help what he felt.

He also couldn’t help noticing the fact that, as an adult, Phil was incredibly attractive. In Dan’s fuzzy recollection, he was tall (taller than Dan, anyway), scrawny, and wore glasses almost too big for his face which insisted on sliding down to the end of his nose, resulting in Phil constantly shoving them back up again.

Now, Phil was still taller than Dan, except he was much taller. He’d grown like a weed, meanwhile Dan had stopped growing in the eighth grade. He was bigger in general too—broader and stronger looking. He had well defined muscles everywhere Dan could see; he must work out a lot. Dan knew he wouldn’t be in the shape he was if he weren’t constantly running all over the place in costume.

“You’ve stopped wearing your glasses,” Dan observed, having been studying Phil out of the corner of his eye.

“I have,” Phil responded. “Most of the time, anyway. I still have my glasses somewhere in my flat if I want to wear them.”

“I liked your glasses,” Dan admitted. “They made you look smart.”

“And now I look dumb?” Phil joked. Dan was quick to share a grin with him. It was scary, how natural this felt, how familiar. He’d heard about friends not seeing each other for years and years, until they were reunited and clicked just like two puzzle pieces, but he never would’ve expected that for himself and Phil. To think that all this time he’d thought that, given enough time, he and Phil would’ve drifted apart anyway, when now it was seeming exactly the opposite. Perhaps they would’ve grown closer. Way closer.

“Totally,” Dan giggled.

“I missed you,” Phil said, some minutes later. He bumped his shoulder into Dan’s.

Loathe as I am to admit it, I did too, Dan thought as he smiled at his friend. His friend.

—

Dan rushed up the steps to his shabby flat, unbuttoning his shirt with one hand as he unlocked the door with the other. He kicked off his shoes once he was inside, slamming the front door behind him and sliding down the halls in socked feet to get to his bedroom. There, he stripped completely and struggled into his latex, protective suit and threw his clothes to the floor.

He had plans for tonight. He’d already persuaded a few people ahead of time, and if he didn’t hurry he wouldn’t be there when everything came to light. It wasn’t his fault, of course—it was bloody Phil Lester’s!

Phil, with his charming smile and bright eyes and deep laugh. Phil, with his “oh, you have to leave already?”s and his “I could buy you another coffee…?” Phil, with the small, stupid, adorable cheer he’d done when Dan agreed for “just one more” three separate times.

Dan was running late. And the Panther never ran late—the Panther was punctual; always on time and always ready to do something menacing.

Huffing, Dan ran a hand threw his hair and stepped in front of the mirror. It was already getting dark outside, so he put in his cat-eye contacts, blinking as his eyes adjusted, becoming ten times sharper. Colors looked weird and different, but once he was outside, in the night, he would be seeing better than anybody else. Next he slid on his cat-ears, shaking his head as his hearing suddenly sharpened. Putting on the ears felt like stepping out of a fog, one where everything was strangely muffled.

Hurrying now, Dan secured a small chip inside his mouth behind one of his molars. It was impossible to feel or detect in any way, but to anyone listening to him, his voice would appear different to how it naturally sounded, which was all that mattered.

Lastly, Dan settled his mask onto his face. It gripped his skin with minuscule gripping fibers that wouldn’t release until Dan pulled his mask off at exactly the right angle—kind of like a magic trick he’d once seen as a kid, where a man had put a box down on the ground, asked an audience member to lift it, and then laughed when the volunteer was unable to do so.

Suitably costumed, Dan rushed through his house, glancing at his watch and cursing under his breath at the time. It was five past eight, and he was supposed to be on the way side of town in about ten minutes, which wouldn’t be the easiest feat to manage. Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Dan decided that he would have to take a taxi.

With a surreptitious glance out of his apartment door, he hurried up the stairs and continued through the building until he was on the roof. There were few people that lived in the same complex as him, and for some extremely odd reason, Dan was sure, they’d all decided to purchase the apartments below Dan.

Once on the roof, Dan jumped to another, and another, until he was a good few buildings away from his home and was climbing swiftly down a brick wall into an alley. Outside of it he could see several people bustling by, who didn’t notice him as he slunk through the shadows.

One girl, who looked a few years younger than Dan, had her arm raised to hail a taxi. Dan leaned back and waited. He had eight minutes left.

It took thirty seconds for a taxi to pull over for the young, pretty girl, and that’s when Dan struck. He sprinted out of the alley, shoved her out of the way, and dived into the taxi.

“Drive,” Dan commanded. “Take me to West 22nd Street, and make it fast.” The man was staring at him in the rearview mirror, his eyes wide with fear. Dan sneered at him. “Or i’ll make you regret it.”

With that, the man was speeding off into the traffic, the girl left on the sidewalk watching with wide eyes. As Dan watched, her figure shrinking as they drove farther away, she pulled out her cell phone and raised it to her ear.

Good, Dan thought, uncaring. Let the police come—I’ll give them a show.

The taxi driver didn’t make small talk with him as he drove, which Dan thought was a definite plus. He’d always hated that, and it made him feel uncomfortable more than anything else. Dan peered anxiously out the window at the passing buildings. They were already almost there, thanks to the man’s fear propelling them so quickly. He was weaving between cars recklessly, running red lights and passing people even when the road didn’t call for passing. Dan was pleased—he was in a hurry, after all.

It was soon apparent that Dan was also careless. He was still staring out the window anxiously, thinking that they just might make it in time to his destination. They were almost there now, and he still had three minutes to spare.

It was only thanks to Dan’s enhanced hearing that he was still alive. He heard the small click, and his head snapped around immediately, staring down the barrel of the gun as it was pointed at his face mere milliseconds before the man pulled the trigger.

Adrenaline shot through Dan’s body, making his blood thunder past his ears. Instead of disarming the man, or slapping the gun away, Dan’s arm struck out without thinking, smacking the gun downward. And then he heard the bang, and the very next second felt it—splitting through his thigh. Pain erupted from the wound, as did blood, and Dan growled.

“Fuck!” he spat, shaking his head to clear it of the hurt. He didn’t have /time/ for this! Normally, his suit would have repelled a bullet, but not even a bullet vest could defend against one fired at this range.

Angered, Dan lunged forward and slammed the man’s head into his steering wheel. He then jumped out of the car, still slowly rolling forward, and sprinted around the last corner to his destination.

His thigh throbbed with every step, but he ignored it as best he could. His suit was designed to hold tight to his skin, even after an injury, so hopefully that was doing enough to keep him from bleeding freely.

Dan only had a minute to spare, and in the distance he could hear police sirens. They were calling his name, Dan was sure.

With no time to waste, he scurried up the side of the building, eroded stone crumbling and falling beneath his fingers. It didn’t take him long to reach the roof, but by the time he did, he was breathless, bleeding, and in pain. Luckily, his subjects were already there.

“Oh good,” Dan panted. “You’re here.” He took a step forward, eyes roving over their expressionless faces.

“Hold it,” a familiar voice snapped. Annoyance flared through Dan, which wasn’t his usual reaction to hearing the Raven. He guessed it made sense, though. Here he was, running late and bleeding, and he hadn’t even gotten to cause any trouble yet.

“Now’s really not the best time, Raven,” Dan informed, twisting to look at him. The Raven rolled his eyes. Dan could hear the sirens growing closer.

He’d been planning a good, elaborate speech, but it was starting to look like he wasn’t going to have time for that. “Fine!” Dan snapped, now staring at his three subjects. “Just—go. Do it now.”

“Yes sir,” they answered in unison, and then they were sprinting towards the edge of the roof.

“Fuck!” Raven hissed, and he sprinted forward after them. His cape wings shot out, and he flew towards the end of the roof, gathering speed. Wind buffeted Dan as he passed, and the Raven managed to grab two of the three subjects and restrain them—two, but not all.

Dan allowed himself a small smile as the remaining man jumped, plummeting off the edge of the roof.

“No!” the Raven cried. He jumped off after him, still carrying the two other men in his arms.

Given a moment to breathe, Dan hunched over, clenching his eyes shut. His leg was really, really throbbing now, and he was starting to suspect that that driver had hit bone. He wouldn’t be able to go to the hospital, of course—doctors and nurses everywhere would be on the lookout for injuries that matched the taxi driver’s description—and so he’d have to do something about it himself.

Despairingly, Dan realized that his suit wasn’t exactly performing its job very well either. Blood was steadily pouring down his leg, and when he tried to press down on it, to staunch the flow, he couldn’t maintain the pressure. It hurt too much.

Luckily, the Raven likely wouldn’t be able to see the puddle of blood forming beneath Dan and wouldn’t be able to sense his weakness because of it.

The sirens reached a crescendo, and Dan sat down on the edge of the roof, wincing, to watch everything unfold. Police piled out of their cars, looking all around and scanning the rooftops, Dan’s signature place to be seen. He must’ve been well tucked into the shadows, however, as their gazes slid right past him.

The Raven emerged from the alley way, then, his arms still secure around two of the men, the third one trailing slowly after him, looking lost. Dan grinned.

“It’s the Raven!” one of the policemen cried, and Dan heard a mix or reactions, even from several stories up. Generally, people were delighted and relieved that the Raven was there to help, but there were the few that grumbled under their breath of the stupid, attention-stealing, unneeded hero. Dan didn’t think the Raven was unneeded—he thought he was the only match for him.

“You’ve done it!” another policeman cheered. Raven stopped, surprised, and glanced at the men he held.

“I have?”

“You’ve caught the Panther’s accomplices!” the officer exclaimed. “How’d you do it?”

Raven looked bewildered, and rightfully so. None of these men were Dan’s accomplices, and none were wanted criminals either, which was exactly what all these officers thought. See, Dan had snuck into the sheriff’s department not too many days ago and told just a few of the right higher-ups that these three men were extremely wanted subjects, so high profile that their faces couldn’t be projected on the news, couldn’t be shown to the general public. Now, the entire police force, as was apparent, knew their names, their faces. And the Raven had captured them himself.

“I’m not sure…” the Raven was saying quietly, but the officers were already hustling forward and handcuffing the three confused men. This would keep the Raven busy a while. It wouldn’t take him long, wouldn’t take him much investigation, to realize that these men were innocent. And then he’d have to convince the head of the police department of that fact, because there was no way he would let three innocent men rot away in their cells. And while the Raven was so wrapped up in that, Dan would be using his free-time to devise his biggest plan yet.

Deciding that he’d seen enough, that his plans were already rolling smoothly, Dan got stiffly to his feet. His head gave a sudden throb at the quick motion and his stomach lurched. Dan stumbled forward, and for a sickening moment, he feared he might accidentally pitch himself off the roof.

Just in time, Dan regained his balance and scrambled backward. He had to get out of there—had to return to his apartment, had to find the right serums.

Limping worse with every step, Dan walked and then ran towards the edge of the building, leaping from one roof to the next. When he landed, pain shot up his leg, jarring him and making him unable to hold back a hiss, emitted between clenched teeth. He whimpered as he stepped then, doing his best to hold back gasps and whines as his leg pained with every step, seeming to spread up and down his body.

Belatedly, Dan wondered if that bullet had been a normal bullet, or if it’d been coated in some kind of poison. Some people were known to do that, to ensure that their victims died even if their shot hadn’t hit a vital place.

Now, fear was twisting in his stomach like snakes as he tried desperately to pick up his pace, to get back home.

Apparently things weren’t looking up for him. The sound of footsteps exploded into existence on the roof behind him, and Dan groaned, realizing it was the Raven. He was likely here to demand to know what Dan had done and how he’d done it, and then, of course, he’d try to capture Dan. But now he really wasn’t in the mood.

Not wanting to be captured, Dan forced himself to run again, ignoring the hot tears that gathered in his eyes due to the pain. He jumped again, and despite being aware of the Raven behind him, hearing and seeing his every movement, Dan cried out. And then he stumbled forward again, running and running and running.

“I’ll catch you, Panther!” Raven cajoled, and Dan shook his head feverishly. Never before had he felt like he might actually be defeated, but now things were beginning to look really, truly grim.

Dan jumped again. Perhaps though, his body and mind couldn’t stand the thought of landing on his leg a third time, as he jumped short. He slammed into the wall of the next building, his thigh colliding with the wall and hurting even more than it had with every previous jump. Sobbing, Dan scrambled to hold onto the ledge, though his fingers were sweaty and bloody and he could feel himself slipping.

The Raven landed mere inches before his fingers, and he grinned down at Dan triumphantly.

“Give me one reason not to step on your fingers,” he demanded, his arms crossed victoriously. If he were in less pain, had lost less blood, Dan might’ve said something about the Raven’s morals, about how he was the hero. But Dan couldn’t. He could barely concentrate on anything, his entire mind pinpointed to the tips of his fingers, barely holding the rest of him up. His arms were shaking.

His gear was designed to make him land on his feet, yes, but right now his pantleg was ripped from the bullet, and Dan wasn’t sure if that would affect its functioning. Not to mention the fact that he was pretty sure he would pass out from the pain if he landed on his feet from this height, his leg still hindered. No, falling was not an option.

Neither is not falling, seemed to whisper his fingers.

“Falling,” Dan whispered, delirious. The Raven squinted.

“What?”

Dan closed his eyes, feeling his fingers slipping, slipping, slipping. The pain was too great, the struggle too much. He simply couldn’t anymore.

“Falling,” Dan repeated.

And then he fell.

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#cam #cat and mous #mouse #fuck #oh well

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