Murder Family Values

Whispers of Revenge

The appartement complex that Jonathan Crane and Edward "Ed" Nygma lived in is, in essence, cliché in almost every way imaginable. The metal fence blocking it off from the rest of Gotham was rusted in places where black paint had chipped off. Weeds grew out of cracks in the cement and the 'garden' consisted mostly of dead grass that hadn't been cut in a while. The wooden stairs creaked, and the lights flickered [much to Ed's utter annoyance, but Jonathan insisted the flickering lights stay.] To add the icing to the cake, the basement could be considered the neat version of a glorified meth lab and the attic was [naturally, of course] haunted.

Ed had given up their pacing about half a day ago now, but that didn't mean that they had let go of getting revenge against Hannibal Lecter, one way or another. Ashley Al'Ghul was THEIR protégé. After Ed had been diagnosed with terminal brain cancer, it had been ASHLEY who had managed steal a piece of the Golden Fleece, just for them. Granted, she had also needed the fleece to save Thalia's tree, but still!

To add salt to the wound, the realization that it was Hannibal who was pulling the strings had brought out a full dissociative break in Jonathan. Not even Scarecrow wanted to come out and play. He didn't eat. He didn't sleep. He just stared at the wall with an almost manic look in his eyes.

"Jonathan, love, maybe you should eat something." Silence. "You're scaring the girls."

The former psychiatrist turned and blinked owlishly. "Yes. The kids."

The genius Private Investigator grinned triumphantly. Three whole words! It might not sound like much, but considering that Jonathan hadn't talked in two days, three words was certainly a win.

"Where are they?"

"They've gathered the Muses to inform them about Ashley. No doubt they're planning something devious that we'll have to stop, but we can worry about after you've eaten and gotten some rest, ok?"

That seemed to spur the Doctor into an agitated rant. "Ed, they can't! Hannibal will twist them until they break, or he'd kill them. Tell me the kids aren't going after them. Tell me you wouldn't let them!"

Ed cautiously approached their husband and snaked his arms around the back of his neck. "Of course, I wouldn't. I made sure they invited boy blunder along. Besides, he might be more informed on the situation than we are, anyhow."

Jonathan grumbled incoherently but seemed to relax slightly.

Yes, Ed thought to themself, revenge against Hannibal Lecter will be very rewarding.

≈§≈

Ashley stumbled slightly before all but collapsing into a sweaty mess behind what used to be a blue sedan. It had been nearly ten days and 13 hours since Will Graham had been taken into custody. Nearly an entire week since she left Miami, Florida behind to return to Camp Half-blood. Nearly two days since her sixteenth birthday, and two days since all hell broke loose.

The brunette tried not to focus on the dead teens —no, kids— and just sit and breathe for a moment. They had won. Well, sort of. Does anyone ever win a war?

Luke was dead. Ashley had killed him herself, because he had asked her to. She'd watched Selina die in Clarisse's arms. She'd maimed and killed people to survive. Because she had to. And after all was said and done, she'd been denied the one thing Ashley thought was waiting for her: a heroic death.

Ashley closed her eyes and let her head hit the door of the mutilated car with a soft 'thunk.' Heroes die in battle. Everyone knows that. A proper hero dies in battle. She should be with Abigail right now, not burying KIDS.

She was tired, so, so tired, and not just because she spent two days straight in a nonstop sword fight. She was tired of everything. Tired of the gods picking petty fights only for demigods to end them. Tired of KIDS dying because the gods [their PARENTS] said so. Tired of everything always being her fault, whether it was murder, an explosion, or someone she had come to care about loosing his mind and being arrested because SHE miscalculated. Or maybe she truly hadn't cared until Abigail had been dragged in.

Ashley wasn't quite sure what she was [sociopath, schizoid, or something else entirely]. The psychiatrists at Arkham most likely weren't certified or at the very least, shouldn't be. False diagnoses were common. The only thing that sounded accurate was "emotionally stunted."

THAT was always what bothered her most about herself. Being emotionally unattached is great for an assassin, because it often increases one's capabilities for violence. It Ashley's inability to connect that scared her, more than her ability to kill someone with a crayon or her perfect aim.

Her eyes fluttered open. Will. She'd almost forgotten where he was at the moment. She had written multiple letters that she left with Dexter and Brian back in Miami, but only the gods know if they actually were sending them. She'd explained everything, to the best of her ability, anyhow.

Would he understand? If he didn't, if he simply couldn't ...

He'll understand, a small voice that sounded suspiciously like Abigail whispered.

"Well, there's only one way to find out..."

And with that, the exhausted teen slipped into the shadows once more.