All-Purpose Superhero Fanfiction Thread

Why Don't you Just...?

During his training trips of his youth, Bruce Wayne ran into the legendary League of Shadows in the Middle East. Its leader, Ra's al Ghul, personally trained him in the ways of armed and unarmed combat, and by spying on him, Wayne learned of Ra's supernatural Lazarus pits, which granted life after death and had made Ra's practically immortal. After turning on the League and its criminal practices, Wayne escaped back to America with an incomplete sample of the Pits.

Trying to replicate the original pits, Wayne infiltrated the old Axis Chemical Factory with the well preserved unearthed corpse of his murdered father. There, he mixed what he believed a perfect duplicate of the original formula. And he dumped his father's body into it. If he succeeded, he would revive his mother next. For the first time since he was a child, he whispered a heartfelt prayer to the powers above.

He knew the pits had often unpredictable aftereffects, including temporary insanity. He knew they had never been used before on anyone who had spent so many years in death. He still had to do it. And pray. And hope.

A hand rose from the bubbling liquid. Wayne's heart jumped. Then, another hand. The hands' dissecated skin had regained vitality, but not color. Chalk white, like the rest of the body that pulled itself up, once solid black hair now hanging in wet, messy green strands. And the laughter. The insane, maniacal laughter of the thing that once had been Thomas Wayne.

—-

"Why?" demanded Jason Todd, aiming his gun at the Joker, while angrily facing the Batman. "I'm not talking about killing Penguin or Scarecrow or Dent. I'm talking about him. Just him. And doing it because... Because he took me away from you!"

"I can't. I'm sorry," the Batman muttered regretfully.

X-Men: Days of Futurama Past.

Logan looked out the window, overlooking the green grounds of the Xavier Institute below him, Jean, Scott, Storm and Mc Coy. Those grounds brimming with young promises for a renewed future, a future where the threat of Trask's dream had been quelled. And to think, all it took was saving Richard Nixon of all people from Mystique...

... then a giant Future Sentinel with a head in a tiny jar attached to its shoulders landed right at the middle of the grounds.

"NIXON'S BACK!!!!" it bellowed as it began stomping around.

— well, anyway...

The past week had been particularly rough on Ms. Jennifer Walters. Ever since Phillp Masters' trial began, the proceedings were continually interrupted by the likes of the Whirlwind or Stilt-Man, every single day. With the courtroom ending up wrecked, they'd have to drop everything and start all over the next day. Fortunately, the judge had noticed as well, and the police went to check Mr. Masters' cell to see if he had any more puppets he'd managed to avoid getting confiscated.

While crews tried to repair the damage wreaked this time by the Shocker, all Jen wanted to do was get to the gym and punch this frustrating trial away.

Both these issues wound up getting resolved at once, as all of a sudden, the Constrictor, Mr. Hyde, and Whiplash suddenly jumped her, then suddenly regained control of themselves as Masters desperately broke up his last remaining puppets to fit them in the commode. The beating that ensued was just as satisfying as the heavy bag, and gave much better feedback.

Rebirth.

It had been a revolutionary treatment in more than one sense.

The plastic surgeons only saw it as a chance to test their new, daring skin graft operation on a subject no one would miss or protest over even in the worst case scenario. If it succeeded, however, the possibilities for the future would be incredible indeed. Innocents all over the world, victims of deforming disease, heaby abuse or hideous accidents, could recover their former appearances and existence, their social acceptance. It would be Zsasz's legacy, ironically, the sole good thing he ever would do for mankind. Perhaps a late justification of his wretched existence.

But for Doctor Arkham, it was more than that. It also was a chance to observe Zsasz's reaction. Those horrible scars, mirroring every horrible murder he ever had commited, were the results of his twisted mission in life. They were what he had devoted his whole existence to. And now the operation had been a success, he had lost all of that. His reaction upon waking would be interesting, extremely fascinating, no doubt. Would he react with emotional pain and sorrow? With rage and denial? Either way, the man Zsasz had been would be effectively destroyed. His identity as a murder was everything he had, and now he had that taken away from him. The sum of all his efforts now equaled zero.

Maybe, Arkham dared to hope, he could rebuild something from the shattered remains of that monster?

He opened the right eye first. Then, slowly, the left one. He looked down at himself, at the smooth skin of the body on the bed.

And he grinned.

Against Arkham's expectations, the heavily restrained, powerless man grinned.

"I see. So it worked, after all. Thank you, Doctor."

"Thanks? Are you thanking me? Why? I thought you would be upset. Your scars. We took them all away, can't you see?" Could it be he was hallucinating? Zsasz never was that type. "So, why are you so happy? They defined you, they—"

"No. No, no, no. The scars didn't define me. I defined the scars. And now, fresh anew, I can begin again. Like a newborn. Innocent and pure, free to go bathe again in the filth of mankind. By my own choice. Do you you know how few of us are granted that chance, Doctor? Now I can do it all over again. With the experience of age, but with a reborn spirit. So my thanks will be eternal, Doctor."

And his eyes glinted perversely.

"Thank you for giving me a new grasp, both on life and death."

It Happened in a Playground.

Some time in the near future...

"I'm going to be Thor!" Little Timmy announced.

"Then I'm Iron Man!" Jimmy said.

"I'm Captain America!" Mark jumped on the chance.

"And I'm Hulk!" Joey grinned.

Then two men in black suits stepped in between them.

"Excuse us," one of the men said, "We represent Marvel Comics Entertainment, a subsidiary of The Walt Disney Company. You are about to engage into unauthorized recreational usage of The Mighty Thor, Iron Man, Captain America and The Incredible Hulk, all copyrighted trademarks of Marvel Comics Entertainment, a subsidiary of The Walt Disney Company. You are hereby requested to abandon this copyright violation, or else legal actions will be undertaken against you and your representatives."

The four children stared at them helplessly, then turned around and walked away, crestfallen.

"In moments like these," one of the men asked the other, "don't you ever feel like there is a painful emptiness in your soul?"

"What's a soul?" the other man asked in turn.

Of a Feather.

Oswald was short and chubby, he loved birds, and he was shy and well read. It was no wonder he would be shunned for his peers, and the umbrella did never help. That morning was far from being the first time he ever had been whacked with his own umbrella, but this new boy was fiercer and meaner than the others, even more than Sharky. When he finally stopped, however, he did something none of the others ever did. Instead of just keeping him taunting more, he asked a question.

"Why do you carry this thing around, anyway?"

Oswald looked up at him from his curent sitting position in the dirt. The boy was skinny, but what little muscle there was on his bones seemed firm and steady, and there was a nervous, manic energy about him even when he was standing still, examining Oswald's umbrella with a critic eye. His eyes were sharp and green, and his nose was the first one Oswald remembered as being as long and pointy as his own.

"My... My mom makes me," Oswald replied truthfully. "Can, can I have it back, please? She will get angry if I—"

The taller boy snorted. "Your old woman? Why would she do that?"

"She isn't old, she..." Oswald sighed. "My father died of pneumonia, you'll see, because he was under the rain, so..."

"Really? Lucky you," the boy toyed around with the umbrella, as if stabbing an imaginary enemy. "My old man never dies, no matter what. Drunk as a fish under the rain all night long, and he doesn't even sneeze. Strong as an ox..." he mumbled, using a hand to caress himself on a cheek, frown deepening. Then he asked, abruptly, "So, if I break this thing, your old woman won't make you carry it around anymore, and you won't have to be bullied over it anymore, right?"

"Actually, she'll just buy me another, money isn't a problem, and they always break mine..."

"Seriously? Oh well, worth a shot anyway," the boy chuckled, casually swinging the umbrella around and breaking it against one of the walls. "Money isn't a problem, huh? Buy me lunch, then."

"But—"

"C'mon, I'm hungry."

"Don't you have your own—"

"No," he growled, swinging the broken umbrella over his shoulder, which convinced Oswald.

—-

The next day, with a new umbrella, Oswald sat down with him again, after buying him another lunch. "Um..."

"Yeah?"

"I already bought your lunch, so..."

"So what?"

"So, um, why are you eating it with me?"

"Dunno."

"I mean, shouldn't you be eating with the others, who—"

"They don't like me, and I don't like them. I don't like you either, but at least there's a single one of you, and several of them."

"Ah."

"So, what's your name?"

"Oswald."

"That's a sissy momma's boy name, but if the shoe fits... I'm Jack."

"Oh." A common name, for a common boy. And yet, there also seemed to be something unusual about him.

—-

Over the next few days, they'd repeat the routine, although Jack grew tired of breaking his umbrellas after Oswald warned him his mother would start looking into the problem herself. He didn't want to admit it, but the perspect of having Oswald's mother talking to his father had scared him shitless. But either way, his measures only delayed the unavoidable, since the man would find an excuse one way or another, no matter what.

And so, one day, Jack stopped coming for more than a week, and when he returned he had an arm in a cast, and several slowly fading bruises on his face.

"What happened?"

"I fell down some stupid stairs."

"Ohhh," Oswald said. "Um, I'm sorry, but it can happen to anyone..."

"Don't bullshit me," Jack grunted, taking a bite from his lunch. "You aren't sorry at all, unless you mean sorry I came back to keep bullying you."

"... it was your father, wasn't it?"

"Do I look like a liar, stupid fat bastard?"

"I, I didn't mean that, it's just...!"

He bopped him in the nose with his good arm. "Ahhh, forget it. You ain't that stupid. Yeah, well, it was him, but no, I'm not lying either."

"I don't get it..."

Jack gave him an exasperated look and made gestures of pushing someone ahead.

"Oooohhhh..."

"Well duh, bird-brain."

"I'm sorry anyway."

"Yeah, I'm also sorry I had to come back to sit next to you."

—-

Weeks passed, and the routine never really changed, although the hits became less frequent, Oswald's at least.

They sat watching at the red twilight skies of Gotham.

"Hey, Ozz, whaddya want to do when you're old and stuff?"

"I'd like to be a dramatic actor. Performing the classics, all across the country. The Bard's works..."

"The Bard? The fat bitch from TV? So you want to crossdress?"

"The Bard! I mean Shakespeare! Hamlet! Othello! King Lear!"

"Oh, yeah, that stuff from Lit classes. I don't know, man, you're too fat and short to cut a heroic lead, you know?"

"I said it's what I'd like to do. Not that it's what I'll get to be. How about you?"

"I'd love being a comedian..."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously! Even my old man thinks I'm good at it. And he doesn't hand praise easily."

"I don't think I've ever seen telling you telling a joke."

"I don't waste my jokes around, Fatso. If you want to get a load of me, pony up with the money. That's going to be my attitude all through my—"

Oswald looked into his pocket, and offered him a few dollar bills.

Jack blinked, yanked the money away, and stood up, assuming a confident, smugly smirking pose. "Alright. Now you're taking my language. So, a Rabbi, a stripper and a cheerleader walk into a bar..."

Oswald didn't get most of those jokes. They dealt with themes he never had heard about, themes his mother would have screamed in rage against before ranting on the degenerate evils of society and strongly chiding Oswald against them.

They still made him laugh.

—-

"Moving away?" Oswald asked, perplexed.

He shrugged. "Yeah. Can't keep paying our apartment here, so we'll move back to The Cauldron."

"The... Cauldron? Do you mean... But, but that's the worst part of the city..."

He smiled, shrugging again. "It's where we belong."

"I'm sorry. If I could help..."

"Again with that? You aren't sorry, Fatso. You're only saying that so I don't give you a farewell beating."

"— it didn't work, did it?" he gulped.

He bopped his knuckles against Oswald's forehead. "Nah, it did. But only so you can owe me. So next time we meet, I can give it to you, with all the accumulated interests."

His bony, strong hand held his chubby, soft hand in a brief squeeze. Then he laughed at him, turned around, and walked away. Without one more word.

—-

"— and that," the Penguin reminisced, talking to the red and blue parrot he was feeding in the birdcage-filled confines of his luxury office, "was the last time I ever saw the closest thing I ever had to a human friend..."

The Batman stepped out of the shadows. "What an interesting story."

"WAAAUUUGHHHH! What, what the hell are you doing here—!"

"I came for information on the Rucka Avenue shootings."

"And you felt you had enough time to waste, hiding there while listening to my PRIVATE childhood memories?!"

"I suppose I couldn't help it. I don't have many of my own."

He sneered. "No, you surely wouldn't..."

"By the way, wasn't that boy..."

"I'm sure he's left town or died long, long ago!"

There was a shared pause.

"I'm sure, as well."

"Hrmph. Good to see we can agree on something..."

—-

End.

What If...? Featuring The Laughing Fish.

"So, what will it be, Mr. Francis?" he asked, grinning dangerously at him over the desk, gloved hands planted right before him. "Yes... or yes?"

The short bespectacled man, with remarkable cold blood, just handed him a tall stack of legal forms. "Very well. Just make sure of filling all of these. Need a pen? I have one right here."

The clown blinked. "Ah? Seriously? Aren't you going to object? Aren't you going to tell me the fish are valuable natural resources that can't be copyrighted or trademarked?"

"Is that a joke? EVERYTHING that isn't trademarked or copyrighted already can be. I should know damn well. Do you need the pen, yes or not?"

The Joker stared, mute and helplessly, at his face for several long moments before taking the pen, then supporting the first form on Harley's back and starting to write on it. It took him three hours to be finished.

By that time, his hand ached, a lot.

So he became mega-ultra-millionaire, with chains of Laughing Fish Snacks and Meals all across the country, and then he expanded over to Laughing Cows, and Laughing Fried Chicken, and he had to deal with the IRS for the rest of his life, and he had more money to burn than Wayne and Luthor put together, and he never was happy again.

Old and gray, he would always curse the day they took his trademark claim without any protestations.

Justice can't ever hope to kill the beast. It's the system that will always crush it between its hard cold coils.

Let's not even start on Mr. Freeze's Ice Cream in a Global Warming Era business...

Death Trap.

The Joker cackled madly, boasting to his struggling, heavily chained captives. "And so, when the hamster finishes chewing on the rope, it'll drop the weight on that lever, which will activate that mechanic boot, which will kick that bowling ball, which will hit that switch Buddy is standing next to, which will turn the saws around you, and then, SLASHO!!!, you'll both be—!"

The saws, right then, came alive with a massive and hideous sound that drowned Batman and Robin's agonic screams as they were instantly shred to bits, showering the Joker with blood and gore.

After a moment of stunned, horrified silence, the Clown Prince slooooooowly turned towards the hulking bald henchman in the tiny shorts, stripped shirt and beanie hat. "Buddy..."

"Duuuuhhhh, sorry, Boss, wasn't SLASHO!!! the signal for...?"

Joker began slapping him across the head.

Culture Shock

Captain America called the Avengers meeting to order.

"Here's the skinny: S.H.I.E.L.D. has detected some sort of secret base in the outskirts of Hokkaido. We're sending in a few of our own to assist the Japanese superteam codenamed 'Battle Fever'".

The screen showed a picture of Battle Fever. A blood-curdling scream filled the room.

"Obviously, Spider-Man will not be part of this mission.