Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/ works/13914111. Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage, Major_Character Death Category: F/F Fandom: DC_Comics, DC_Universe, Superman_-_Fandom, Wonder_Woman, Batman_-_Fandom, The_Flash, Green_Lantern_-_Fandom Relationship: Cheetah/OC, Barry_Allen/Iris_West, Sherry_Squires/Bo_Griggs Character: Lex_Luthor, Superman, Cheetah, Wonder_Woman_-_Character, Steve_Trevor, Scarecrow, Batman, Scarecrow’s_Grandmother, Sherry_Squires, Bo_Griggs, Eobard_Thawne, The_Flash_-_Character, Iris_West, Nora_Allen, Sinestro, Hal_Jordan, John_Stewart, Kyle_Rayner, Guy_Gardner, Kilowog, Guardians_of the_Universe, Black_Manta, Aquaman, Arthur_Curry_Jr. Additional Tags: Stream_of_Consciousness, philosophical, Villain_Protagonist, Villain’s Point_of_View, First_Person, Dark, Internalized_Homophobia, Mentally_Ill Protagonists, Mentally_unstable_characters, Homophobia, Attempted_Rape, Violence, animal_cruelty, Insanity, Lesbian_Characters, Unreliable Narrator, Disturbing, Torture, Death_of_Animals, Fear, Abusive Grandmother, Death, Murder, Referenced_School_Shootings, Bullying, death of_teenagers, Not_porn, No_Sex, tragic, Time_Travel, Sympathetic Villains, Racism, Slavery, Child_Slaves, Rape, Mentioned_Child_Rape, Underage_Sex, noncon, Child_Death, Infanticide Stats: Published: 2018-03-09 Completed: 2018-03-14 Chapters: 6/6 Words: 9496 ****** Rogues’ Gallery ****** by StannisTheMannis Summary Six of the greatest villains in the world. Lex Luthor. Professor Zoom. Sinestro. And more. You might think you know them. You might think you understand them. You might think there isn’t much to understand. But there’s so much more going on inside the minds of these killers and conquerors, monsters and madmen, than you could imagine. Come and see. ***** Ubermensch ***** Behold, I bring you the Overman. The Overman is the meaning of Earth. A concept invented by Friedrich Nietzsche, one I’ve grown quite interested in these past few years. The Overman. The Beyond-Man. The Superman. Man is something that shall be overcome. What have you done to overcome him? It’s been five years. Five years since this alien, this outsider, showed itself. Five years since humanity decided to throw in the towel. I know, I know, you’re just going to say that I’m being pessimistic. Cynical. Paranoid. You’re just going to say that he’s done nothing but help. That he only wants to make things better for us. Maybe that’s true. Maybe that isn’t. But honestly, it would be even worse if it was. A monster is something we can deal with. A threat who wants to kill us or conquer us is a threat that can be overcome. The true enemy, though, the true threat, is the kind that damns us by offering us salvation. Like he did. Take my hand, he says, and I’ll carry you up, up, and away. Never fear, because this looks like a job for Superman. Faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to doom an entire species just be existing. You see a savior. I see a safety net. Jump off the building. Run into traffic. Don’t look both ways before crossing the street. Don’t worry, he says, because I’m here. I’m always here. Always there to catch us when we fall. How can we grow? How can we evolve? How can we improve when he’ll always be there to make sure we don’t need to? We’ll always be safe when he’s here. Watching over us like a guardian angel. Always safe, and never strong. Call me a monster. Call me a maniac. I’ll tell you what I really am. A visionary. A prophet, and my prophecy is one of a fate worse than death. Humanity will grow fat. Complacent. Lazy. With no need to better ourselves, because after all, we all know we’ll never be better than him. He talks of Truth, Justice and Liberty for all. Pathetic lies. I’ll give you Truth: The Superman is the single greatest threat to life on Earth since the meteor that killed the dinosaurs. He’ll kill us too, by ensuring that the species never needs to learn from our mistakes, because as long as he’s here we can keep making them again and again with no fear of repercussions. I’ll give you Justice: Superman has guaranteed that our very existence is purposeless. His presence erases the concept of Survival of the Fittest. He is the fittest. No one else can hope to surpass him. So survival itself becomes meaningless. And this cannot stand. Something must be done. The scales must be balanced, by any means necessary. Humanity must be reminded that we are at the top of the food chain. I’ll give you Liberty: This Overman. This Beyond-Man. He’s stood above us for too long. Far too long. I offer you freedom. Freedom from a being who overshadows all of us without even trying. Does that make me evil? Does that make me insane? No. I don’t think so. It makes me the only human on the planet who is willing to do what needs to be done. The Superman must be overcome. ***** Hunger ***** I’ve known I was cursed since I was thirteen year old. What other explanation is there? For how someone with such kind, loving, devout parents could turn out the way I did? There’s something wrong with me. Deep inside. Something broken and misshapen and twisted. When I was thirteen years old, I met a girl. She had long black hair, the color of ravens, and she was beautiful. So I kissed her. I didn’t think anything of it. It was... nice. It was simple. Until, at church that Sunday, Father Hannigan gave his sermon on something called Homosexuality. Growing up in Idaho in the 1980s, that wasn’t a word I heard very often. But it was clear enough what it meant. Lust. Debauchery. Depravity. And as he spoke, I could swear he was looking straight at me. His eyes piercing deep into my mind, reading my thoughts. He knew. And if he did, God did too. I knew what was waiting for me. I’d seen the paintings. Fire and brimstone and demons with pitchforks in their hands. Ready to punish. Ready to torture. The next day, at school, the black haired girl passed me a note, asking me to meet her in the playground after school. I wanted to go, I really did, but something stopped me. Instead, I watched from a classroom window, as the girl waited and waited and waited for me to show up. In the end, she just left. Disappointed, maybe, but I was satisfied in knowing that I had done the right thing. I had saved her soul, and hopefully immune as well, from eternal torment. That wasn’t the end, of course. I’ve found that you can’t deny who you really are, no matter how hard you might want to. There were more girls, more kisses, and eventually more than kisses. My parents found me. Found us. Her name was Danielle. We had met at Mathletes. My parents were away for a wedding, so I decided to invite her over to my house after school, ostensibly to study for the next competition, and, well... It was wonderful. It was perfect. Until my dad’s red pick-up truck pulled into the drive way. Turns out they had forgotten their gift, and were just dropping by to pick it up. They found the two of us, lying together. My father was livid. He screamed until his face was red, as Danielle hurriedly darted away, leaving me to face my punishment alone. My mother just cried, sobbing incessantly as much as I begged her to stop. How could you do this to us, she asked. How could you hurt us so. And I was living on the street, no home to call my own, with nothing but the clothes I wore and a single suitcase full of my belongings. Homeless at the age of sixteen. I went to live with my aunt and uncle, hitchhiking my way across the state until I reached their house. They were the only ones willing to take me in. The only ones who could still stand the sight of me. Once, a truck driver who’s breath reeked of booze tried to assert himself on me. Claimed it was only fair, after he drove me a few miles closer to my destination. As he grabbed me, I lunged forward, digging my fingernails into his eyes. The eyes that looked at me with such barely disguised hunger. Then they were gone, and there was nothing but red. I still have dreams about it sometimes. Not nightmares. Dreams. Things settled down, after a while. My aunt and uncle were good to me. As long as we never talked about what had happened with my parents. My mother and father never talked to me again. A few years passed. I was accepted into every college I applied for. My parents never seemed to value intelligence very much, not compared to piousness. But as time went by, I began to see that my parents’ values didn’t always coincide with my own. I began to find out who I was. As a person. Without them. I was smart. I was witty. I was pretty. The first of those gifts helped my education. The second and third helped with my social life. Finally, I could act the way I was meant to act. Without worrying about what my parents thought. Without worrying about what God thought. And soon, my fear of his judgment faded. Silly stories about resurrection and magic and life after death were meaningless to me, though ironically I did major in Anthropology with a focus on ancient religions. The old Gods, the primal ones that fed on blood and sacrifice, those that took the form of animals and killed those who didn’t believe... those interested me. But the helpful God? The kind God? The God who loved us all equally, except the gays and the strong women and the independent thinkers? A child’s dream. If there was a God, He was cruel. And callous. And cold. I didn’t believe in God. But I did hate Him. After college, I joined up with ARGUS. My job was to track down and study various artifacts that were believed to possess mystical powers by the countries they originated from. And it was simple. It was fun. Until I realized some of the magic wasn’t just rumor and superstition. Until I realized the universe wasn’t as small or as easily understood as I thought. And then she arrived. Diana of the Amazons. Wonder Woman. A princess. A hero. A goddess. Could you really blame me for falling in love with her? Colonel Steve Trevor, the man who discovered her island, worked with me and the rest of ARGUS to get her acquainted with American society. Its beauty, and its ugliness. She was as eager to learn as I had been when I was growing up and discovering that there was a world beyond the one my parents’ made for me. We became friends. Confidants. Allies. I didn’t believe in God. But I did love her. And she rejected me. We had been celebrating the one year anniversary of her coming to what she called Man’s World, an apt description if there ever was one. It was a little ladies’ night at the local bar. And afterwards, we went back to her place. We talked for hours, Diana opening up about her fears, her doubts, her feelings that she didn’t belong. In that moment, I felt like I knew her. More than anyone else in the world. So I leaned in. I closed my eyes. My lips brushed hers, just for a second, and it was intoxicating- Then she flinched away. In disgust. In hatred. In judgment. I left as quickly as I could, heading not towards my apartment, but towards the ARGUS labs. I tried to lose myself in my work. But I couldn’t ignore, couldn’t forget, the look on her face as she refused my kiss. It was all a lie. All of it. Delusions, and nothing more. Trying to trick myself into thinking I was normal? Idiotic. Childish. I was sick. I was twisted. I was wrong, deep inside, a flaw built into my soul some time long ago. My parents were right. The Father was right. She was right. Disease ran through my mind and my heart. Some dark corruption. I stumbled towards the vault where we kept the most dangerous artifacts. The ones with proven power. There was a dagger. One belonging to the goddess Bast. It had been calling out to me. In my dreams. Something inside me was broken. The universe’s cruel practical joke. In my arrogance, I’d denied it for decades, but the dagger reminded me. I wrapped my fingers around its handle, wrapped in some strange leathery material. The second I made contact with it, the world faded away, and I was lost in a deep dark fog. From the mists strode a cheetah with eyes like embers, strong and powerful and beautiful. I raised the knife, pressed it to the cheetah’s skin, and- I’m a vegetarian. I love animals. But even still- When I was done, the hide was formed into clothes. A uniform, almost. Like the robes ancient priests would once wear before carrying out a sacrifice of flesh. I stepped into it, and I raised my quivering, bloodstained hands to my face, creating war paint from the flowing crimson, over my forehead, my closed eyelids, my cheeks, down to my jaw. And I opened my eyes. Why try to trick yourself into thinking your illness is nonexistent? What’s the point of keeping your depravity, and debauchery, and lust locked deep away? Why not unleash it? Why not accept that you are, and always have been, Cursed. I don’t believe in God. But I do hate her. ***** Phobophobia ***** Hello. My name is Dr. Crane. Are you here for your appointment? Don’t be afraid. I don’t bite. Iatrophobia. The fear of doctors. Maybe when you get to know me, you’ll relax a bit. I haven’t had someone to talk to in so very, very long. Sit down. Lean back. Just... listen. And don’t mind the mask. It’s just part of an experiment. Nothing to be afraid of. Maskaphobia. The fear of masks. I grew up on a small farm, in Iowa. My parents passed away in a car accident, and I was raised by my grandmother. She was a strict woman. But as long as I did my chores and kept out of her hair, I wouldn’t be punished. And so I did my jobs around the farm, and I tried not to be a bother. Things were fine like that. Not great, but fine. Until one day, she told me to fetch some spare straw from the basement, for a scarecrow. The basement where the only working light swung on a cord, throwing harsh shadows over the walls. The basement so cold you could see your breath, even in the middle of summer. The basement where the boiler gave off sounds like a monster’s growl, just waiting for little boys to walk into their lair. I stood at the top of those long, creaky steps for what felt like hours. I was a smart child. I knew the monsters of my nightmares were only that. Nightmares. But still... Nyctophobia. The fear of darkness. I didn’t do it. I couldn’t do it. My grandmother was furious. She screamed at me until her voice gave out, and then, suddenly, she smiled. Without a scarecrow, my grandmother told me, the birds will come and eat all our crops. I can’t walk down those stairs with my busted back. So, Johnny, I guess we’ll have to find a different kind of scarecrow, huh? She brought in a makeshift wooden cross, two long planks tied together. Planted in the soft dirt in the middle of the cornfield. Had me dress up in old, baggy, torn clothes. And as I protested, my grandmother tied my arms to the cross, out there amongst the crops. There, she laughed when she was done. You’re certainly skinny enough for the part? Still laughing, my grandmother reached behind her back and pulled out the last piece of the ensemble. A burlap saps, with three hastily cut holes in it: Two up high, and one bigger one down below. When she pulled the mask over my head, I was in almost complete darkness. Just two little circles of light gave me a glimpse of my grandmother’s back as she walked away. For the entire night, I stood out there. Crows fluttered high above, but never came down. I guess I did play the part well. It as the middle of August, and the sun beat down on me relentlessly, until my clothes were stained with sweat. I was so hungry, so thirsty- But I knew that once my grandmother decided on something, she didn’t change her mind. I didn’t bother screaming, or pleading. I just tried my hardest to ignore the dull, throbbing pain in my legs, or the sounds that seemed awfully like voices echoing through the corn field. When she finally came to free me, I was unconscious, held up against the cross only by the ropes binding me, my jeans soaked in my own piss. Disgusting boy, she told me, as I fluttered back into the waking world. Dirty boy. I didn’t mind the insults, though. I didn’t mind when she left me there for another hour, as penance for the sin of soiling myself. Because that night, that night had been an awakening. In the dark and sweltering heat, I had felt as if I was in the presence of something truly magnificent. My grandmother had often talked about God. The old God, the vengeful God, the cruel God. And that night, I felt Him all around me. And inside of me, too. The God of Fear. It was thrilling, like getting drunk, getting high. I was high, in a way, high on the endorphins buzzing through my body. I felt afraid. So afraid I thought I was going to die. But at the same time... It was awe-inspiring. To see how powerful, how all- encompassing, fear could truly be. I wanted to come close to that power once more. I wanted to know fear again, but this time, not my own fear. So I carried out experiments. On squirrels. Cats. Crows. I saw what made them afraid. I saw how to drive them mad with pain, making them wish for death, but never allowing it until they had reached their breaking point, and then, only them, would I grant them the mercy they so desired. Or at least, I sometimes would. Unfortunately, I was also often on the opposite end of this Tormenter-Tormented relationship. School was a nightmare for me, as I’m sure you could imagine. Four eyes, they’d call me. Poindexter, they’d call me. Scarecrow, they’d call me. Rob Griggs. Sherry Squires. The king and queen of the school. If this was Hell, they were Lucifer and Lilith. They’d pull cruel pranks on me. Pants me in front of everyone. Squirt water on my crotch so it looked like I had pissed myself. Grab my books and throw them into the woods. I hated them. Because I envied them. Because I saw the way they so expertly inspired fear, amongst me and people like me. And I wished more than anything I could do the same. There was one trick. One I still remember clearly, though it is now almost three decades later. It was at the prom. My grandmother had forced me to go, saying I was embarrassing myself by staying. Or maybe she just wanted me out of the house. I sat on the bleachers in a suit too big for me, a suit that was my grandfather’s, as around me the others danced and twirled and bopped to the music. I was unaware she had sat down next to me until she spoke. “You look so lonely here all by yourself, Johnny. You sure you don’t want to dance?” I turned to see Sherry Squires, beautiful Sherry Squires, terrible Sherry Squires, sitting next to me, a sympathetic smile on her perfect face. Mumbling something about not being good at dancing, I started to get up and leave. Talking to the popular girls, or even any girls at all, was never my forte. Gynophobia. The fear of women. But Sherry grabbed my arm, and I turned to her, and as she leaned forward I saw straight down her neckline. “Come on,” she whispered sultrily. “Just one dance?” Who was I to say no? She held my hand, leading me to the dance floor, and I wrapped my shaky arms around her. There was a slow song playing, something by Frank Sinatra or Elvis or someone like that, and so we dance slow, my arms around her and her arms around me. It was- It was wonderful. And from the closeness of her body, from the way she would occasionally press herself against me, I couldn’t help but begin to- you know. Down there. I looked down at her, making eye contact, trying to look apologetic. But she just smiled, and kept dancing. Like it was okay. Like she didn’t care. Like it made her happy- Then she shoved me away with all her might, knocking me to the floor. “Jonathan Crane has a boner!” she shrieked, and the dance floor erupted into laughter and screams. I stumbled to my feet, and ran as fast as I could away from her, away from all of them, and everywhere I looked I was met with stares of disgust, of scorn, of hatred. I looked back, just once. Just like Orpheus, when he was in his own version of Hell. And I saw Sherry, Rob now at her side. But unlike Eurydice, she didn’t fade away. She was still there. She was laughing. Like the rest of them. I ran all the way back to the farm. My grandmother stood in my way, but I barreled past her, almost knocking her to the ground. Climbing down those basement stares that had once scared me so much, I reached the long wooden box that had once belonged to my grandfather. I opened it up. And when I pulled out the item I had known was inside, I smiled. In my hands, I held fear itself. And with that fear, I possessed power. My grandfather’s Winchester 70. Thanatophobia. The fear of death. I won’t fill you in what happened the rest of the night. I’ll spare you all the gory details. Let’s just say Rob Griggs and Sherry Squires won’t be bothering me anymore. Neither will my dear sweet grandmother. They never caught me. Never found out who did it. I wore a disguise, you see. A mask. Scarecrow. They called me Scarecrow. Luckily, I was smart enough to get into a good college without completing the school year. Gotham University For the Sciences. I studied psychology. The inner workings of the human mind. And in my free time, I studied fear. You see, I developed a formula. A toxin. It stimulates the amygdala, sending hormones through your body that makes your muscles clench up, that makes sweat pour down your forehead, that makes your brain prepare for either fight or flight. I’ve been able to manufacture fear. Just like before, I tried it in animals first. Just like before, I eventually moved on to people. After college, I became a professor, teaching about the workings and origins of fear at the very school I just left. Impressive, no? The news may call me insane. But could an insane person achieve what I have achieved? Could an insane person have been able to successfully bottle pure terror? I tried it out on the homeless, mostly. Lured them to an abandoned warehouse with the promise of free food, instead giving them a taste of my very special medicine. Hookers were also easy targets. Anyone society wouldn’t bother to investigate the disappearance of. Anyone the world didn’t care about. Sometimes, though, I couldn’t help myself. Sometimes, when kids in my class were disrespecting me to my face, insulting me, laughing at me, I’d ask them to stay after class. And I’d put on my mask. The school got wind of what I was doing. They didn’t have proof, of course, but they knew too many students had gone missing for it to be a coincidence. The staff had always hated me. They’d always been envious of my genius, my success at such a young age. They’d always been afraid of me. But anyhow, I lost my job, and my findings. So I had to resort to... alternative means, to continue my research. I wore my mask, and a make-shift costume, like the one my grandmother put me into all those years ago. I used an aerosol version of my Fear Toxin, and it worked even better than I could have ever hoped. I stole money with which to pay for my experiments, and at times drugs or chemicals I could use to improve them. The news, they called me Scarecrow. And I must admit, I relished the attention. The fear. Then he came. Like a bat out of Hell. He stopped me. Again. Capiophobia. The fear of getting arrested. And again. Scopophobia. The fear of getting exposed. And again. Agliophobia. The fear of pain. But it was alright. It was more than alright. Standing in front of the Batman, being in his presence, watching as he swooped down from above like the Angel of Death- I was closer to fear than I had ever been. And it was wonderful. There was a problem, though. One I had noticed the beginnings of for years, but that I had ignored in my vanity and my pride, hoping it would go away. I had exposed myself to the Fear Toxin continuously over the years, building up an immunity. Each time, I saw my grandmother, and Sherry and Rob, and a dark swarm of crows circling me, flying down to pick at my flesh and tear out my eyes. Each time, I woke up feeling a little closer to the power I coveted. The holiness of fear. And in time, I had become immune to my poison. It no longer made me feel afraid. The problem was... Neither did anything else. Unwittingly, ironically, my attempts to master fear, to learn to control it, had instead made me closed off from it forever. I could still provoke it in others, with just a whiff of my marvelous chemical, but I was doomed to merely watch as they experienced the dread I enjoyed so greatly. The horror, I was now unable to reach. Except from him. That was the funny part. That was the part that made me certain that the Scarecrow was what I was meant to become. Death didn’t scare me anymore. The dark didn’t scare me anymore. Women didn’t scare me anymore. But he did. When I looked at the Batman, I felt that primal, instinctual rush of fear. Striding towards me, eyes pure white, black cape billowing around him- he made me feel afraid. When nothing else did. Thank you, Batman. You have taught me the meaning of true fear. You have reminded me of its power every time you walk into a room. That’s why, even after my Fear Toxin has been perfected, I continue with my crimes. For him. All for him. Earlier this night, I gathered a dozen homeless men and women from the streets, and brought them here, to my little base of operations. I gave them each a very powerful dose of my Toxin. Enough to make their hearts give out. And I threw them into the river. He’ll find them, soon enough. He’ll come looking for me. The Batman is the monster that lurks under your bed. In your closet. Down in the darkness of the cellar. A demon with a human’s face. Vengeance and wrath and the night itself given flesh. Heading towards me. I can’t wait. Chiropterophobia. The fear of bats. ***** Fanboy ***** My name is Eobard Thawne. I was born in the year 2454. I’ve worked tirelessly to ruin The Flash’s life. I made him what he is today. I am his greatest enemy. And I am his greatest fan. Allow me to start at the beginning. About four centuries from now. I grew up in Central City, in the New Federation of the Northern States. Times were hard. Times will be hard. The East Coast was locked in a permanent summer, temperatures rarely dipping below eighty degrees even in the dead of winter. The world was torn apart by the War of the Americas, and I grew up in poverty. My father died in combat. My older sister as well. I was raised by a mother too addled by Xanax and MDPV to give a damn about me. But that was okay. I didn’t need her. I learned everything I needed from someone else. Someone who had been dead for centuries. Barry Allen. The Flash. The Fastest Man Alive. He was my hero. At every available opportunity I would sneak from my home to visit The Flash Museum, where he and his allies were honored. I saw the chemicals that gave him his powers. The weapons and technology of the Rogues. His time-traveling Cosmic Treadmill. Newspaper articles dating back to the early 21st Century, describing his battles with Gorilla Grodd, with the Black Flash, with the Anti-Monitor. I read about his heroic death, and his eventual resurrection. I read about his friends, his sidekicks, his wife, his family. I read about Zoom. The man in the yellow suit. The Flash’s greatest enemy. The one man who the Flash had no choice but to kill, to protect the woman he loved. Professor Zoom, as he was often called, was perhaps the most intriguing figure in Barry Allen’s life. His name, his origins, his motives, all were lost to time. All that was known about him were the atrocities he committed. When I looked at the newspaper clippings about him, at the mannequin wearing a replica of his uniform, the mirror image of the Flash’s, I felt disgust. Who was this man, this monster, that he could hurt one of the greatest, most selfless men of all time so terribly? I hated him. But, in a way, I supposed I envied him. To be a part of something greater than yourself... to be forever immortalized in the legend of The Flash. What an honor. What a privilege. As I grew older, I tried to model my life after my hero’s. I became interested in the sciences, with a focus on chemicals and their affect on physiology. In my spare time, I attempted to live up to the example he had set for all of us. I worked at soup kitchens. I donated my old clothes to charities. When I saw bullies at my school picking on younger kids, I stepped in to defend them. Sometimes I got hurt, but I wouldn’t give up. Because he never did. He represented a different time. A better time. An Age Of Heroes. By the time I was born, heroes were extinct. After high school, I got a job at a small research lab, Ardeen Advancement. But I spent virtually all of my free time at the Flash Museum. Learning about him. My hero. My idol. One night, when I was twenty one years old, I found an old newspaper article in the Museum’s archive. It was an exclusive interview with Barry Allen, from near the end of his career, after he had revealed his true identity to the world, in which he went into detail about what drove him to become the Flash. For whatever reason, it wasn’t on display, but by luck or fate, it ended up in my hands. And I learned the truth. When Barry Allen was eleven years old, his mother was murdered by a living blur. His father went to prison for the crime, dying there despite Barry’s best efforts. The article revealed the year. The date. The time, down to the minute. Seconds after I finished reading the article, the lights flared bright for a second, before turning black. Thunder crashed outside. It seemed there was a power surge. And now the lights were out in the museum. Along with the security system. It couldn’t just be coincidence. First the article, then the blackout? Someone, or something, was sending me a sign. I was never meant to die on the front lines like my father, like my sister, or to kill my brain with drugs like my mother. That was clear to me then. I was meant to be something better. I was meant to be a hero. I was meant to do the one thing the Flash never could: Save his mother’s life. I knew didn’t have much time before security arrived. Everyone else had fled when the power went out, but I barricaded myself in the Trophy Room. The chemicals that washed over Barry Allen all those centuries ago stood before me, the force shield protecting them having disappeared along with the power. I stood on from of them, just as he had. Rain beat down hard on the windows, thunder rumbling, and then, from the sky- It was painless, the lightning. It destroyed the shelf of chemicals, shattering the vials and test tubes, and the formulas mixed as they splattered through the air, showering down on me like rain while electricity pulsed through my body, changing me, bettering me, making me just like him- The odds that lightning would strike then and there were one in a trillion. The odds that they would affect me the same they had him were infinitely small. But regardless, I felt something inside me open up, the power of the Speed Force flowing through me, connecting to me to the same energy field he was once connected to. It was improbable, virtually impossible. And yet it happened. Because it was meant to be. Though my body was undamaged, my clothes had been torn to shreds. If I wanted to protect my body as I entered the time stream, I would need a uniform built to withstand extreme speeds. I did not put on any of The Flash’s suits. I didn’t deserve that great honor. Not yet. Instead, I wore the outfit of the enemy I was planning to stop. Wouldn’t that be the ultimate irony? Saving Nora Allen from Professor Zoom wearing the villain’s own costume. Strangely enough, it seemed to fit perfectly. I went to the Cosmic Treadmill, strapped myself in, and without thinking, just feeling, I began to run. It was incredible. The speed, the power... I felt like a hero. I felt like him. And as I ran, arcs of electricity emanating from the machine, white lights flickering around me, the Speed Force reached out to me, giving me the velocity I needed to fulfill my destiny- With a sudden splitting sound, the air around me was ripped open, forming a vortex of spiraling light, and I ran through- And I was in a house. A real, old-fashioned house, not the massive apartment blocks that populated Central City in my time. A house with shag carpeting and photographs on the wall and a fireplace. So quaint. I knew then that I had succeeded. I was in the past. The day Nora Allen died. Right on time. “Who... who are you?” I turned, startled, to see a woman with long red hair, looking at me with terror in her eyes. I smiled comfortingly, raising a hand, trying to calm her down. “Don’t worry. I’m here to help. Someone’s going to be coming soon, to hurt you. But it’ll be alright now. You’ll all be alright now.” But her expression didn’t change. I glanced at the clock, confirming that Professor Zoom was supposed to show up any second now, and I readied myself, preparing for a fight, for he would soon appear, the man in the yellow- Oh. Oh. Nora Allen must’ve seen the change in my expression, for she backed away nervously. “Is something wrong?” she asked, her hand reaching towards a long and sharp kitchen knife on the counter next to her- “No,” I mumbled. There was a ringing sound in my ears, like my head was breaking apart, my vision was growing blurry, and I closed my eyes, but the pain only grew. “Everything’s,” I began, before breaking off, feeling like I was about to be sick. Of course. Of course. Of course. “Everything’s the way it should be,” I whispered, and then I lunged at her, a living blur, Nora lashing out with her knife in slow-motion, but I caught her wrist, breaking it with ease, catching the knife as it fell, driving it through her white blouse- She collapsed, a dark red stain slowly growing on her chest, and I caught her, holding her lifeless body in my arms, and that’s when I heard the voice. His voice. “Mommy?” I turned, and saw him. My hero. My idol. Barry Allen, the Fastest Man Alive, eleven years old, wearing red pajamas- “Barry Allen,” I croaked, my voice dry and shaky, and then I was gone, running fast, as fast I could, out of the house, out of the neighborhood, out of the city, tears streaming down my face, my hands drenched in blood- And as I ran, windows into the past and future alike opened up for me, and I saw- Barry Allen sitting on the front steps of his house, sobbing as the police lead his father away- Barry Allen, older now, studying forensics and crime scene analysis- Barry Allen struck by lightning, doused by chemicals, becoming the Flash, fulfilling his destiny, as I have fulfilled mine- Barry Allen, dressed in the red and yellow of The Flash, stopping villain’s, saving lives, being the hero he was born to become, the hero I made him Barry Allen facing his mirror image, his reverse, the man who killed his mother, and looking at him with pure hatred, pure disgust- Looking at me with pure hatred. Pure disgust. I see myself moving my hand through Iris West’s skull, killing her in an instant. I see Barry cradling her broken body in his arms, sobbing like he did the last time he lost a woman he loved- And I see myself again, later, running towards Barry’s new lover, ready to kill her, as I killed Nora, as I killed Iris, a sadistic grin on my face, and mere inches away from reaching her I stop suddenly, my smile fading, for Barry has caught up to me at the last second, grabbing me, wrapping his arms around my neck, and- Do you know what it’s like? To watch a man you’d admired since you were nine years old murder you in cold blood? When all you wanted to do was help him? No. No, I don’t think you do. Then, finally, I saw the Flash Museum, the day I went back in time. I saw myself looking so young, so innocent, reading the newspaper article regarding Nora’s death intently. And I reached out, through the rift in time, and I released a tiny jolt, the smallest spark of red electricity. It was enough to fry the lights, the security system. And then, I let loose a bigger blast. Lightning emanated from my body, pure pent-up Speed Force power. I watched as the bolt struck my past self, knocking the chemicals on to him, giving him (me) the powers he (i) was destined to possess. When the visions faded, when past and future separated once more, I was somewhere in the Sahara Desert. I knelt there, in the sand, and I laughed. And I cried. And I screamed. It all made sense now. All of it. I was not meant to save Nora Allen. I was meant to doom her. I was not going to be Barry Allen’s friend, or ally. I was going to be his greatest enemy. The man who made him what he will one day become. The man who ruined his life. It’s kind of funny, isn’t it? Do you want to guess what I did next? Go on. Guess. I started planning. I started preparing. I was going to hurt Barry Allen. Any way, every way, I could. I was going to torture him. I was going to take everything away from him, as he took everything away from me. Not because I was destined to. Not because I had no choice. Because I wanted to. Because I was just trying to help. I was just trying to live up to the example he set for all of us. And what did I get? I was stranded in the past, away from my family and my friends and my life. I tried to sacrifice myself, like he did, for the greater good, but instead a cruel and callous universe doomed me to live for decades, as a murderer and a maniac. He was going to kill me. The Flash was going to kill me. The Flash had always killed me. And so I became the monster fate had chosen for me to become. Why not? I am Zoom. I have always been Zoom. I will always be Zoom. I have killed Nora West, like I always will. I will kill Iris West, like I always have. And I will die at the hands of my hero. My idol will snap my neck. And that’s okay. That’s good. Because I will, at long last, be part of something greater than myself. I will die eventually, but in a sense I will live forever, immortalized in the Flash’s legend as his greatest foe, the one man who drove him to commit the sin of murder. And even four centuries from now, my name will remain on a plaque in a museum. Not Eobard Thawne. Zoom. And one day I will meet the Flash again. We will fight, the first of many battles that shall be remembered for centuries to come. He will come to know my name. That’s all I wanted, really. That’s all I ever wanted. To spend time with him. You know what they say. Never meet your heroes. ***** Will ***** Make no mistake. This is not a confession. I have nothing to confess. That’s not to say I deny my crimes. On the contrary, I both acknowledge and accept the fact that I have done terrible things. That I will continue to do terrible things. But I feel no guilt. For everything I have done was for the good of the universe. I joined the Green Lantern Corps when I was twenty seven, in your Earth years. I was idealistic. Hotheaded. Naive. Just like Jordan. But it’s impossible to spend two decades working for the Guardians of the Universe without eventually growing cynical. I have witnessed horrors beyond human comprehension. My optimism died soon enough, after witnessing my third or fourth species-wide genocide. And along with my optimism, I lost my foolish, gullible loyalty to those arrogant little men with their unlimited power and permanent scowls. If I had to pin my transformation down a single moment, it was a few years before Jordan joined the corps, after I brought down an intergalactic warlord directly responsible for the deaths of thousands. I raised my ring, watching it glow with pulsing emerald light, and I tried to kill him. I wanted to kill him. But the ring didn’t let me. Instead, he was simple knocked out by the blast meant to be fatal, and other Lanterns arrived to take him in. It was a travesty. A mockery. Soon enough, the warlord escaped. He lived to kill another day, and millions more died due to the Guardian’s childlike adherence to tradition, to old-fashioned rules that could no longer exist in the dark and tumultuous state of the universe. Order cannot exist without justice. Justice cannot exist without the punishment of the guilty. And the only punishment that does a single thing against true monsters, the kind I now surround myself with, is the only punishment they can’t walk away from. I tried arguing with the Guardians. I tried to make them see reason. I clearly expected too much of them. They told me killing was the prohibited. As it always has been. As it always will be. I told them this idiotic way of thinking would lead them straight to their own demise, that they might as well surrender themselves to the forces of tyranny and injustice. They didn’t listen. They never do. When Jordan came along, I thought... I’m not sure what I thought. Perhaps that I found a kindred spirit. A natural rebel, one who refuses to follow any sort of code, who resists authority whenever possible. And I thought that, perhaps, he could help me persuade the Guardians to change their ways. To ensure that law and order would be maintained by any means necessary. But the Guardians broke him. Soon, he was all too eager to follow their every command, no matter how ridiculous. Worse yet, he began to see himself as some kind of superhero. How arrogant. How stupid. Doing good is not heroic. Doing good is not something to be proud of. Doing good is a responsibility. Every being in the universe must do what is right, whatever is right, for the protection of all that is just and righteous. Hal Jordan is not a true hero. He’s not even a true Lantern. He’s little more than a sad, pathetic man still stuck in adolescence, desperately trying to live out his childhood dreams by playing policeman. Being a Green Lantern is something sacred. Something special. He doesn’t understand that, as much as I’ve tried to make him see. Nor do the Guardians, not truly. So I rebelled. I tried to take over the Corps, alllying myself with the Manhunters of old. Under my command, the Lanterns would be what they were always meant to be. The protectors of the innocent, but also the punishers of the guilty. I failed. Jordan and the other drooling sycophants stopped my revolution, exiling me on the other side of the universe. And I kept trying. Again and again and again, for years. With every failure, my resolve only strengthened. I became the evidence to my own claim: If the Guardians had changed their infamously unchanging minds, if the Lantern Rings were able to inflict fatal blows, my threat would’ve been stopped long ago. To no avail. Each defeat ended only in imprisonment or banishment. Hardly the most permanent of punishments. I persisted. For nearly a decade now. Lanterns fell, and Lanterns rose. Jordan turned to evil, died, and returned. I worked with self-professed super villains, lowering myself to their level, submerging myself in the grime of chaos and disorder because it seemed the only way to overthrow the old regime, led by the puppet Jordan, and being about a new world order. One where any criminal would receive no mercy or compassion, for they deserved none. This continued for far longer than it should’ve. But I found a new way. A new path. Forged from Anti-Matter itself. Built from the ground up in the wastelands of Qward. Fueled by the soul of the Fear Entity. The Yellow Lantern Power Battery. With it, I crafted Power Rings of my own. And I found the most cruel, the most malicious, the most terrible of monsters to gift them to. Mercenaries, maniacs, and mass murderers. An army of evil, armed with the greatest weapons in the universe and the power to use them to their fullest potential. My Sinestro Corps. It’s clear what you’re thinking. You believe I’ve become so confident that I am right that I’ve given up the values I once held close. You believe I’m just another hypocrite, a fallen hero who turned to evil because it was so easy, so tempting. He who fights monsters, I believe they say on Earth, often become a monster themselves. That is not me. I am not a monster. I am a savior wearing a monster’s skin. I sit now, on my throne in the tunnels of Qward, watching my army invade of Oa through a holographic viewer. I watch them slaughter people I once considered allies. Even friends. I watch the Green Lantern Corps pushed to their limit by a threat greater than myself, greater than the Red Lanterns, greater than even Parallax. I see the Guardians gathered around their table, arguing as they always do whenever something terrible happens. Even as their headquarters collapses around them, still they squabble. I see Hal Jordan and John Stewart and Guy Gardner and Kyle Rayner, beaten and bloody and bruised, the best of the Corps still no match for the perfect fighting force I have constructed for one singular purpose. And I see something I have never seen before. Something that it’s entirely possible no one has ever seen before. The Guardians agreeing on something. The Guardians changing their minds. An assassin belonging to a species that secretes fatal poison through their skin is blasted by the Green Lantern Kilowog. Before, they would simply have been rendered unconscious. Live to kill another day. Now? Now the energy beam leaves a hole in their heart. One by one, my Lanterns fall. With their advantage gone, with the enemy no longer held back, my Sinestro Corps has no chance, its members disorganized and scattered, with no strategy or teamwork. But the Green Lantern Corps... They kill as if they’d been doing it for years. So efficient. So wonderfully without compassion, or mercy. My Lanterns were no freedom fighters. No great rebellion. They were, shall we say, a dragon. A fearsome beast dangerous enough to convince the proud, lazy knights to finally sharpen their swords. Carefully designed to be enough of a threat to shock even the persistently stubborn Guardians of the Universe into realizing that if they wish to survive, if they wish to maintain balance, they must change their ways. And now my greatest enemies hold the power to kill. And now I feel a great deal safer. A military is nothing without firepower to back them up. So tell me true. Do you really hate me? Fear me? Do you really feel disgust when you hear the things I’ve done? Or do you want to thank me? For sacrificing my values, my morals, to insure that the universe is safe from those like the warlord I once failed to kill? Never again will injustice be allowed to exist, in any place, in any form. Never again will monsters be sent back into the shadows with nothing more than a stern warning and a pat on the back. Never again will the Green Lantern Corps choose to let countless innocents die, rather than end the life of one murderer. Thanks to me. And my sacrifice. So no, I don’t feel guilty. No, I don’t believe I have anything to confess. For I have given your world, all worlds, a great gift. I have made sure that the forces of evil will always beware Green Lanterns’ light. ***** Depths ***** You want to understand me, don’t you? That’s the point of all this? You think that, if you can comprehend why I’ve done the things I’ve done, once you can grasp the motivations behind my atrocities, I will cease to be a threat. Is that it? Do you think that explaining the monster will make the monster go away? Do you think that when the lights are turned on, the nightmare will be over? I could play along, I suppose. I could tell you how I grew up in Somalia, raised by penniless parents. I could tell you how my father, desperate, starving, sold me to pirates when I was nine years old for a few hundred thousand shillings. How I was kept as a slave. Abused. Beaten. Raped. How I grew up knowing no home but the vast ocean, knowing no family but cutthroat killers and mercenaries who treated me like a wild animal. Do you want to hear more? I wouldn’t think so, but you’re still listening, aren’t you? I could add how I used to dream of freedom. Of a hero coming down from the sky, or perhaps up from the sea, saving me from their cruelty and their chains. But no salvation came. And what if I told you that, one night, a few years later, as I lay on the deck of the ship, in so much pain I couldn’t move, I saw something in the water? A flash of chainmail. A sudden glimpse of a hand. If I wanted to play along, I would tell you how I screamed and screamed and screamed until my voice was hoarse, until the pirates heard and came to me. How, when I said what happened, they laughed and dismissed it as a child’s dream. And how I swore it was real, that I truly saw it, that I stood up to them for the first time in my life. Or I could share how they hurt me even further, calling me a liar, a hopeless fool. Maybe I’d tell you how, when I was fifteen, I strained against my chains until I bled, and used the blood as a lubricant to slip through, before slitting the Captain’s neck and taking control of the ship, killing all those who refused to pledge their loyalty. I’d tell you how I rose in power and fame, as the coldest and most merciless of criminals. Smuggling drugs and guns, though never children. I’d tell you I immersed myself in great literature and art. By the time I was eighteen, I could speak fluently in five languages, and I had a better understanding of the works by Shakespeare and Faulkner than most so-called experts. I’d tell you how much I learned of the torment and the sorrow afflicting so many of my kin. The horrors of slavery and genocide and fortunes built by the whites from the hard work of the blacks. And maybe I’d mention the research I did, into the figure I saw in the dark ocean waters all those years ago. I cultivated stories and legends and supposed eye witness reports regarding mermen, kelpies, sirens, the Yacuruna, the Nommo- Atlantis. Only my closest and most loyal soldiers knew of my investigations. They considered it an eccentricity, nothing more. Strange, perhaps, but simply a symptom of such a horrific and traumatizing childhood. But it was real. I knew that. There was something in the water that night, and it looked straight at me, with cold blue eyes, straight through me, as if I wasn’t even there- I was thirty one years old and the indisputable ruler of the seas when the public first learned of him. Aquaman. Orin. King of Atlantis. Ruler of a race that’s been hiding in secret all this time, in the darkest depths of the ocean, just waiting, waiting and watching- Blue eyes. Blonde hair. White skin. It was clear to me then. When I was twelve years old, trapped inside a living hell, one of these Atlantans saw me. It heard me begging for help, it must have. But it ignored me. Because I was inferior. Because it had no use for dirty, wretched things like me. An Aryan Race. Do you really wonder why I hated him? Why I’ve tried so long and so hard to hurt him and everyone he cared for? If I wanted to play along with your little game, that’s what I would tell you. The reasons behind my hatred and fear for Aquaman and his kind. I only want to protect my people from yet another race convinced of their own superiority, fueled by xenophobia and jingoism. This would be a lie. The life I described is real. The horrors I’ve suffered are real. My instinctual, protective disgust towards this new white race was real. But I didn’t do what I’ve done because I wish to keep those with my skin color safe from the Atlantean armies. As much as you want to comprehend me, understand me, there is nothing to comprehend. Nothing to understand. There is only hatred. My hatred for him, for the Atlanteans, for any who would call him friend. Is it not yet clear? I am not another Luthor, driven mad by envy but still deluding myself into thinking that my motives are selfless and pure. I know exactly what I am. I understand exactly what I am. Perhaps part of the original source of my rage was the fact that Aquaman and his civilization so closely resembled the overman race dreamt up by Adolf Hitler, fantasized about by the Ku Klux Klan, worshipped by the Neo-Nazis and the Alt-Right. But my rationale is irrelevant. For nothing, no past tragedy, no matter how life-changing or world-shaking, could defend my actions. I murdered his son. Did you know that? His infant son. I watched him suffocate to death in a trap of my own creation. I forced Aquaman to watch as well. Helpless to stop it. I felt no remorse. No pity. Only satisfaction. And a kind of pride. I have no delusions. I do not think that what I’ve done is right, or even justified. My past may be enough to drive a man mad, but I still fully understand every terrible crime, every monstrous sin, I’ve ever committed. My motives may be sound in theory, but I do not deny the fact that my response to them is completely disproportional. And yet. And yet I have no qualms. No doubts. No regrets. I am a monster. I know that. And I have tormented a good man, a kind man, a hero, for the last decade. For what amounts to no good reason. You wish to understand me? An impossibility. For I am not what I am. There is no hidden heart of gold. No frightened and abused child just trying to lash out. No misunderstood hero attempting to save his race from oppression any way he can. There’s just my hate. And it is as vast and dark and cold and unforgiving as the ocean we both arose from. Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed their work!