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Chapter Text

ROANOKE ISLAND

JUNE 9, 13:04 EST

TEAM YEAR 4

Klarion cackled as members of the Justice League scattered in the face of his attack. The clearing was rife with chaos as his army of sentient trees wrought destruction and splinters upon the unfortunate heroes. “Look at them run, Teekl!” he said. “Isn’t this great?”

“Mreow.” She batted halfheartedly at the growing pile of projectiles-turned-cat-toys beside her. A green ball of yarn—one of the archer’s arrows—tumbled loose. She let it roll away. Klarion could sense her skepticism through their bond. We should leave now while we’re ahead, Master. This distraction has already surpassed The Light’s initial request.

“Oh, don’t be such a sourpuss.” He summoned more trees from the surrounding woods and delighted at the alarmed shouts of his enemies. “In case you haven’t noticed, I knocked Nabu out of the game. We’re winning.” Teekl looked up from her mountain of toys and fixed him with a blank stare.

Klarion glared back. “Don’t give me that look. You just don’t want to believe that my plans are working for once, and that the other villains will finally appreciate what I’m capable of. I know Poison Ivy will love to hear about how my army of trees took down the Justice League.”

CRACK! They looked up in time to see Wonder Woman cleave a massive tree in two with her sword. It toppled to the ground in splintered halves, incognizant once more. Klarion winced.

Teekl’s amber eyes glinted with mirth. I’m sure the plant woman will be thrilled at how you destroyed one of her precious forests.

“Shut up, you stupid cat.” He picked up the errant ball of yarn and tossed it in the air before catching it again. “If you’re not going to be supportive, why don’t you make yourself useful and return this to Green Arrow instead. He needs it more than you do.”

I don’t think he has much use for his weapon when it looks like that, Teekl remarked, sullen at the possibility of having her abandoned plaything taken away.

“Maybe he can use it to craft a better costume after you rip his to shreds.” Klarion dropped the ball of yarn and transformed Teekl into her terrifying, Horigal-sized form with a wave of his hand. Her hiss of discontent lowered to a menacing growl as she grew.

“Hey! Save that for the heroes. Since you don’t want to play anymore, you can help me wrap this up.” With a final, scorn-filled look sent in her master’s direction, Teekl stalked into the fray.

Klarion rolled his eyes at his familiar’s dramatics and returned his attention to the fight. Everything was going very well. Why should he stop now? The heroes were still struggling to regroup, and Teekl’s presence brought even more chaos to the violent disarray. He cheered as she swatted her attackers across the clearing with her giant paws. Her mood seemed to have improved significantly. His wretched soul drank it all up—the fear, the despair, the turmoil—but he still craved more. He started pondering more spells to crank things up a notch. Fire? Serpents? Fiery serpents?

Suddenly, a wave of frantic worry crashed through the bond. MASTER, WATCH OUT!

Something was sailing through the air at an alarming speed. He lifted his arms with inhuman dexterity and quickness to conjure a wall of glowing red energy and— “Ouch!” Klarion’s gaze darted from the crack in his mystic shield to the dagger now partially embedded in his torso.

Are you alright, Master?

“Everything’s fine, Teekl,” he said. With an irritated huff, he raised a hand to vanish the pointless, albeit pointed, distraction and reinforce his defenses. How had the simple weapon even breached them in the first place? The slight sting of pain was nothing more than a quiet echo of discomfort in the manifestation of his physical form, buried under the layers of complex magic that had transformed him from a mere witch boy into a being of pure chaos. Stupid heroes. What part of fighting an immortal evil sorcerer didn’t they understand?

His shield flickered as it umbrellaed into the shape of a dome around him. However, the dagger stubbornly remained. He tried to vanish it again by mumbling the incantation under his breath, feeling angry and embarrassed about having to resort to verbal magic. Still nothing. Or rather: still something. The dumb dagger refused to disappear. Klarion’s annoyance morphed into uneasy confusion, but he didn’t have time to ponder it further as he faced a renewed onslaught of attacks from Wonder Woman.

She was stronger than the others, yet her sword clanged uselessly against the dome’s surface. “Surrender, Klarion!” she shouted. “You won’t be able to keep this up forever!”

He rolled his eyes. “Why would I do that? I’m having so much fun! Aren’t you?”

BAM! A blast of chaos magic sent her tumbling backward. He grinned as she struggled to get back to her feet, but it twisted into a scowl when Doctor Fate rejoined the fight. He should have known that the old fart wouldn’t stay down for long. Nabu always had to ruin everything. Each strike of the Amazonian’s blade was now followed by a concentrated burst of golden light. Klarion continued to draw strength from the endless well of his chaos magic. The dome wavered slightly under the power of his enemies’ combined attacks, but the defensive spell remained intact.

He spared a glance at the rest of the clearing. The other heroes had stopped running in circles and were starting to triumph over the thinning army of trees. It appeared as if his source of entertainment for the afternoon was quickly coming to an end. Oh, well. Teekl had been right; the distraction had served its purpose. Soon, the Light would be ready to emerge from the shadows once more. Chaos would be soon to follow.

He paused when he spotted the whiny spawn of Fate’s current host several yards away. A massive pile of splintered wood and charred foliage lay scattered around her. She had fallen to her knees, too weak to remain standing. Their eyes met. He realized that the little witch had already been watching him. Her gaze held the same urgent determination from when she had foolishly donned the Helmet a few years ago and spoiled his fun. Something about it nagged at him. He made a face at her, letting his features shift into the fanged, red-eyed visage of the Chaos entity channeling through him, and moved on. It was time to collect his familiar and leave.

The dome around him sparked. Oh, right. He was still being attacked. Klarion used his magic to form a glowing red fist and sent Nabu careening into Wonder Woman. They sailed through the air before landing with a heavy thud at the edge of the clearing. That should give him enough time to make his escape. He looked down at the dagger once more, having nearly forgotten that it was still there, and decided he would deal with the embarrassment of struggling to remove it later once he was away from prying eyes. “Teekl!” Klarion called. “Playtime’s over.”

“Mreow.” Teekl, relishing in the power of her mighty Horigal-sized form, leapt from her perch atop Green Arrow’s chest and sought out her master. The archer groaned in pain and rolled onto his side. He wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon.

Klarion transformed her back into her pet-sized shape as she approached him. He began to open a portal, but she interrupted him. Master, something doesn’t feel right.

Then, he sensed it.

The unknown spell, triggered by his attempted escape, acted quickly; powerful magic wrenched Klarion’s tentative hold on reality from his grasp and turned it to quicksand, rooting him firmly in place on the mortal plane. Time slowed to a crawl. Klarion looked down. The dagger glowed. As if wielded by an invisible hand, it plunged even deeper and twisted. And twisted. Once. Twice. Thrice. Then, the tool of his destruction shimmered and disappeared into thin air. Klarion gasped as he clutched his stomach—a strangled, wet sound—and fell to his knees.

It had been a long time since Klarion last felt anything resembling fear. Then again, it had been a long time since anyone had made him bleed, either. Now imprisoned in a physical body for the first time since his recruitment to the Lords of Chaos, he felt it. He felt all of it. The pain was like fire as it scorched his senses. His chest burned as he gasped for air and stuttered it back out. Over the rushing in his ears, he could hear his shield shatter and dissipate. It sounded like fireworks.

Klarion’s hands shook as they pressed against the wound. Blood gushed between his fingers. He could feel his magic weaken as it tried and failed to stitch him back together. Was this what dying felt like? He couldn’t remember. He wanted to run away across time and space, far away from here. He wanted Teekl.

Blood and bile rose in his throat. It was all too much. The taste of iron flooded his mouth and he gagged as it bubbled on his lips and dribbled down his chin. He retched until he couldn’t hold himself up anymore. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes and trailed down his cheeks as he lay in the grass, burning, unable to move.

There was shouting in the distance. Teekl called for him through the bond, and she was afraid. A pained yowl sounded off to the side, and the bond grew quiet. Klarion jerked his head toward the noise and his vision tunneled. He shivered as another wave of nausea rolled through him. They had his cat. They were going to kill his familiar to banish him from the mortal plane. He needed… he needed to get to her. He gritted his teeth and used his arms to push himself forward, only to let out a sob as he fell back against the ground, white hot pain ricocheting through his entire body like a game of pin ball.

“Klarion,” a voice said. Nabu. “Order has been restored. You are henceforth under the custody of the Justice League.” There was a brilliant flash of golden light. The world around him blurred and echoed as his vision went dark around the edges. The darkness closed in. Then, nothing.

Chapter Text

GOTHAM CITY

JUNE 13, 6:38 EST

Bearing the curse of immortality had long since turned Jason Blood into a creature of habit. While his profession as a demonologist lent itself to encounters of all manner of things occult and demonic, rife with danger and hardly predictable, Jason started every single day the exact same way. He rose early, meditated, prepared the kettle, and enjoyed a soothing cup of tea in his favorite armchair.

Even Gotham City, for all its eccentricities, had its own routine. Traffic was already blaring several stories below as the sky shifted from dark to gray. Direct sunlight was a rare phenomenon here, the sun’s rays were often smothered by high levels of smog and nearly constant gloomy weather, and today was no exception. Jason sipped at his cooling tea as he looked over the city skyline. The overcast atmosphere held promises of heavy rain, yet the morning goings-on of the bustling city remained undeterred by the impending storm.

As he deliberated his plans for the day, the demon within him remained quiet, its presence having receded far into the corners of his mind over the past few days. Under different circumstances, Jason might have considered it a peaceful morning. A period of respite from Etrigan’s grumbling would typically be a source of contentment, if not for the unknown reasons behind his inner beast’s current fit of petulant silence.

For the third time, he watched through the window’s reflection as a ceramic vase on the end table beside him—not a magical relic or object of immense power, merely a gift from an old friend who had long since passed—toppled to the floor and shattered.

“Mreow.” The cat now sitting on his end table licked at its paws, indifferent to the destruction it had wrought.

With a sigh worthy of all the years Jason had shuffled along the mortal coil, he set down his cuppa and stood. The cat paused its ministrations to watch him with baleful, scarlet eyes.

“I have met dragons that were better behaved than you,” he told the grumpy feline, giving it an equally reproachful look. He waved a hand and muttered a quick incantation. Broken shards plucked themselves off the ground and whirled through the air as the vase put itself back together, and the cat hissed as a burst of magic nudged it off the table to make room for its rightful occupant.

Everything orderly once more, Jason set about his day. The insistent tap, tap, tap of rainfall started against the glass, soon to be swept up into a steady downpour. He moved swiftly from the living room to the kitchen and discarded his empty cup in the sink. Despite its earlier misgivings, the cat trailed after him.

Jason was no fool. He had felt a cosmic shift in the universe take hold a few days prior. When the creature had appeared in his flat shortly after this inexplicable change, he recognized the runic stripes stretching across its matted orange fur and the glowing red diamond adorning its collar. The large crack in the gem’s center and its flickering aura confirmed his suspicions: this was an anchor without its master.

He was initially wary of the anchor’s presence, especially with the strange fit Etrigan had thrown and refused to explain even now, but its master had yet to come calling. With little to do other than wait for the inevitable, he had treated its injuries—a difficult feat to say the least—and dropped by the local pet store a few blocks from his flat to purchase some necessary amenities. All the while, Jason was left puzzling over what could lead a Lord of Chaos to choose such a vulnerable connection to the earthly plane. The creature’s nature had clearly been warped by chaos magic, but it otherwise acted as any other cat was wont to.

“Mreow,” the cat said, and it swatted at his shins.

“What could you possibly want now?” Jason asked. Though he would never admit it, a small part of himself was enjoying the company. He had kept very few pets over the course of his immortal life. Most animals usually kept their distance, aware of the beast lurking beneath his skin, and Etrigan always threatened to eat the ones who dared to stray closer.

“Mreow.” It padded over to its empty food dish and looked back up at Jason, mustering an impressive level of indignance for such a small being.

“Ah, I see. Hungry already?” he asked. He strode toward the pantry. While the creature’s presence was disruptive, there was something strangely familiar about it that Jason couldn’t put his finger on. The cat’s cries continued as he grabbed bag of dry cat food from the shelf. “Patience, little beast,” Jason said, “You already have me waiting on you hand and foot.”

Jason emerged from the pantry as a brilliant flash of lightning illuminated the kitchen windows. The lights flickered and ceased with a loud POP! as thunder rumbled and rattled the building. The cat started to howl.

“Hush!” Jason said, but the cat only howled louder. It was a terrible, otherworldly sound that filled him with unease. Something more was amiss.  

The backup generator kicked on and the apartment was bathed in light once more. The cat arched its back and bared its teeth, but not at him. Its fury was directed at the figure lurking by his kitchen table.

“Jason Blood,” the figure spoke.

The cat hissed in response.

“Temper, temper,” Jason chastised, though he privately agreed with the sentiment. He topped off the food bowl with a generous amount of kibble and turned to greet the intruder with a frown. He hoped he appeared at his usual level of poise despite his ratty slippers and the frumpy robe he wore over his sleepwear.

 “Phantom Stranger,” he said at last. “I would say I’m surprised to be graced with your presence on this fine morning, but I believe I already know why you’re here.”

The Stranger fixed him with an appraising look. “Few come to me with answers,” he said. “Most only offer questions.”

“I have plenty of those as well, mind you, though I doubt you would suffer to answer them,” Jason replied.

The cat, for its part, was tense and ready to strike as it watched the exchange between the two immortals. It was with faint amusement that Jason noticed its position between himself and the Stranger, like a fearsome guard dog that had shrunk two sizes too small. “Please eat,” he told it. “Our intruder won’t bite.” It raised its dark gaze to Jason, searching, and upon finding what it was looking for, it darted for the food dish.

With that settled, he moved past the Stranger and took a seat at the dinette. He gestured to the empty chair across from him. “If you’re planning to inundate me with enigmatic diatribes at this hour, I insist you join me.” The Stranger obliged but remained silent. The storm raged on outside.

“Well?” Jason asked, growing impatient. “You’re here about the cat. Or has something equally troubling occurred to warrant your presence here?”

“What have you sensed?” The Stranger asked instead.

Jason sighed as the start of what was sure to be a frustrating conversation steadily approached. “The struggle between order and chaos persists,” he said. “However, I fail to understand how this merits my concern beyond the eventual retrieval of the anchor in my care. The demon has been silent on the subject as well, not that his insights are ever to be trusted.”

“Then you do not see the full picture,” the Stranger replied. “Your failure to understand is wrought by your failure to remember. It is you, Jason Blood, not the anchor, who makes my presence necessary. I am here to remind you of what you have forgotten because the balance of the universe depends on it.”

Jason arched a brow, thoroughly unimpressed. “Say what you mean, Stranger,” he said. “It’s far too early for this nonsense. If I wanted to hear mediocre proclamations of fate and fortune, there are a number of charlatans here in Gotham that I could turn to.”

“The hour is early, yet there is not enough time,” said the Stranger, his voice frustratingly measured and speech ceaselessly obtuse. “We must act soon, or all will be lost.” 

“We are kept here by your refusal to speak plainly!” Jason snapped. “Thus far you have accused me of ignorance and tried to set the weight of the world on my shoulders with little in the way of an actual explanation. My memory does not fade as a mortal man’s does. Tell me, what could I have possibly forgotten that would lead to such dire consequences?”

The Stranger’s all-knowing gaze shifted to the side, as if listening for something. When he looked back to Jason, his eyes were alight with the fire of the cosmos. It was a frightful sight; Jason started with a shout and nearly fell out of his chair.

“You have accepted the Witch Boy’s familiar back into your home.” The Stranger’s voice rang doubled, tripled, with power beyond mortal comprehension. “The Lords of Chaos insist that you accept the Witch Boy in turn.”

A loose thread woven into the fabric of the universe unraveled further, and Jason’s mind was suddenly far away. He was no longer sitting in his kitchen; he was drowning in memories nearly fifty years past. A time before his dear friend Harry Matthews had met an unfortunate fate. A time when Glenda Mark had been the love of his life. A time when a mischievous imp from Witch World first appeared in his apartment, equally troublesome familiar in tow, and insisted on calling him Uncle.

Impossible, is what Jason wanted to say. The Witch Boy should have returned home long ago. He should be a Witch Man by now.

Instead, he asked, voice hoarse, “And what do the Lords of Chaos care for Klarion?”

“You turned away a powerful magic user with a propensity for chaos. He didn’t go unnoticed.”

Jason turned away from the Stranger, unable to meet his piercing stare as the discussion turned to old mistakes. He watched the cat lick at the remains of its morning meal and marveled at how little it cared for the conversation taking place.  

“Teekl,” he called. Sure enough, the familiar lifted her gaze to his and mewed, eyes glittering with recognition. It was with a renewed sense of dread that Jason observed the runic stripes covering her fur and the scarlet hue of her eyes that matched the fractured crystal around her neck.

Jason closed his eyes for a moment. Had he been alone, he would have buried his head in his hands. “He was recruited into their pantheon,” he said at last. It was a statement, not a question, but Jason nonetheless despaired at the Stranger’s response.

“He was,” the Stranger agreed, “at the behest of Vandal Savage. From that moment, he had always been a Lord of Chaos, as they care little for adherence to time or continuity. It is why you didn’t remember.”

Yet another dreaded and familiar name. Jason’s revulsion mounted at the thought of the rituals and sacrifices that would have been asked of Klarion, but there were more pressing matters to be discussed.

“Why do you require my assistance?” he asked. “I’m not a hero. My days of chivalry and sword-waving have long since passed. Such is my lot that the curse I bear has relegated me to the role of jailer—nothing more.”

“Yet you felt a shift in the universe as I did. Klarion is all-powerful, chaos personified, but he has been weakened by a curse no one understands. The Justice League intends to turn him over to Doctor Fate, and the Lords of Chaos have threatened war if this occurs.”

It was a troubling state of events. Universe-ending, potentially. The demon within him finally stirred at the level of destruction promised by such a calamity.

Watch the earthly plane flourishing aflame:

Tis rapture in bloom, all mud and bloody bone

Of heroes felled with naught but heroes’ blame.

From ash and ruin, Chaos makes their throne.

O sweet suffering, a world asunder:

The mortals like songbirds doth shriek and scream.

Shall I reign o’er the pillage and plunder,

My shackles unbound from thy stale esteem?

He swallowed it all down, letting the demon’s gleeful, gruesome rhymes echo and fade in his conscience. Its words were a pertinent reminder of the burden he already shouldered. For centuries, Jason alone had stood in the way of one beast’s thirst for chaos; could he possibly temper another?

“Surely there are others,” he pleaded. “Those who are better versed in magic, who would understand the scope of what’s at stake. Why have I been chosen?”

“Your existence is defined by balance, Jason Blood,” the Stranger said. “The Lords of Chaos have sought this opportunity to remove their champion from under the thumb of Vandal Savage, but they do not want him to be stifled by Order. Your history with the Witch Boy and refusal to join sides has intrigued them.”

Jason recalled the moments leading up to the dreaded incantation Merlin uttered centuries ago. He was just as helpless against the inevitable now. “Very well.” His reluctant agreement was as damning as any spell. “I believe a change of attire is appropriate for what is to come. Only a moment longer, Stranger, and I’ll be at your service.”

Jason didn’t wait for a response before standing to retire to his bedroom. He took care to dress quickly, lest he be whisked off in his pajamas. He knew the Stranger to be fond of the sudden disorientation wrought by mystic teleportation, a quirk rivaled only by the being’s frustrating penchant for enigmatic speech.

When he returned, the Stranger had risen from his seat at the table. Teekl slinked over to wind between Jason’s legs. It was clear she intended to join them, and Jason was too tired to argue. “Shall we be off, then?” he asked.

“The universe demands it, though I’m surprised you agreed so soon,” the Stranger said. His lips turned faintly upward, and if it were anyone else Jason would have called it teasing.

He glowered. “You and I both know there is no choice here. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have come to me.”

“I always enjoy our conversations, Jason Blood.” With a swish of his cape, the flat was empty. The heavy rain calmed to a slow drizzle.

Chapter Text

THE WATCHTOWER

JUNE 13, 7:33 EST

The Justice League convened at the Watchtower for an official briefing on Klarion the Witch Boy a few days after his defeat. Even after nearly an hour of tense debate among the heroes present, they had yet to reach a consensus on the mysterious circumstances of their victory or come to any decisions about the Lord of Chaos now in their captivity.

Superman looked down the length of the u-shaped conference table; several grim faces stared back. He wished Batman was here. The man was ruthless in his ability to keep meetings brief and on task.

“Alright,” he said. “Several of you have raised great points about the matter at hand. Thank you for your contributions. Our discussion today boils down to this: if Klarion the Witch Boy is still a threat, how can we best mitigate that?”

Several different voices spoke up at once to join in a new round of arguments, but they were abruptly silenced as the door to the conference hall slid open. Doctor Mid-Nite entered the room and approached the gathered heroes. “If I may,” he said, “I believe we’re putting the cart before the horse.”

“How kind of you to finally join us, Doctor,” Wonder Woman said. He nodded and took a seat at the far end of the table. His usual uniform had been traded for scrubs, but the thick visor over his eyes remained.

“I apologize for my tardiness, but that is precisely what I wish to talk about.”

“Go on,” Superman said.

“As you know, I have been tasked with providing medical care to the Witch Boy since he first arrived under the Justice League’s custody. I find the state of my patient troubling, to say the least.”

“That’s hardly surprising,” Hal muttered, and John elbowed him in the side.

“Has he tried to escape?” the Flash asked.

“No, not at all. And while Nabu has assured me that the mystic bindings he cast are secure, I sincerely doubt their necessity in the first place.”

At this declaration, heated discussions ignited across the table and Superman’s calls for order went ignored. Nabu’s gaze from beneath the golden helmet was sharp as his attention pierced Doctor Mid-Nite. “Choose your words carefully, mortal,” he said, voice booming with power. “Klarion is a being of pure chaos, and his power will always be a threat to order and our shared goals.”

“As much as I hate to admit it, I agree with Fate,” Green Arrow said. The archer’s posture was unnaturally stiff; his head was held high with a neck brace and his right arm was fastened in a sling at his side. The evidence of his injuries added considerable weight to his statement. “I don’t remember seeing you on the ground that day, Doc, but the little bastard was wiping the floor with all of us before he was struck down. The last thing we need is him running loose up here.”

Doctor Mid-Nite held up his hands in a gesture of surrender to placate the sudden barrage of protests. “I acknowledge that the mystic arts aren’t my area of expertise,” he said as the swarm of voices started to die down. “I also understand everyone’s concerns, especially given the previous confrontations documented in our records and the ongoing investigation of the New Year’s incident a few years ago. However,” he paused to take a breath, “my primary concern is that Klarion has yet to regain full consciousness.”

Some heroes seemed startled by this news, but others were skeptical. “Are you sure it’s not a trick?” Wonder Woman asked. “We’ve seen Klarion recover from harsher blows in battle with no signs of injury before, on the rare occasion that anything lands. Besides, I thought his life force was tied to Teekl.”

“I’m certain. While I can’t speak for his bond with Teekl, the damage to Klarion’s person was shockingly severe. I assume it was his slower heart rate and the general hardiness of his species, whatever that might be, that kept him alive before I stepped in. Had he been human, he would have died before he made it to the operating table.”

There was a heavy pause. For once, the room remained silent.

“If I’m being frank,” Doctor Mid-Nite continued, “the injuries dealt were more in line with the conduct of our enemies than our own approach to justice. The wound to his chest was a little over an inch from his heart. All-powerful entity or not, our records as well as my own findings indicate that Klarion is physically and mentally an adolescent. What circumstances led to such brutal force being used against a teenager?”

Several faces turned to Doctor Fate. “Klarion is no more a boy than I am a man,” The Lord of Order said. “My image resembles the armor I wore in life eons ago, and my soul inhabits this helmet. His appearance and demeanor might reflect what his spirit once was, but Chaos, the power that sank all of Atlantis and toppled my civilization among many others, runs through him.”

He paused for a moment, his fiery gaze scathing as he turned to his fellow heroes. “If it is true, if he has indeed been returned to a mortal body, it cannot bode well.”

“It certainly hasn’t, for Klarion,” Doctor Mid-Nite said, appearing to be unfazed by Nabu’s warning. “His body hasn’t responded well to sedatives or attempts to induce anesthesia. Even standard pain relief medications have had little effect. I’m unable to provide adequate medical care without resorting to methods that would border on torturous.”

Nabu remained inscrutable, but the others winced at the implications of Doctor Mid-Nite’s statement.

“That is troubling,” Wonder Woman said. “Could his connection to Teekl interfere with his body’s ability to tolerate substances?”

“It’s definitely a possibility,” the Flash said. “If that bond boosts Klarion’s power, it may not be strong enough to heal him fully, but it could be stopping him from succumbing to sedation in ‘enemy’ hands, so to speak. Plenty of us have meta-abilities that interfere with standard medical care all the time. Can you adapt some type of treatment plan, Doc?”

“I’m loathed to further experiment on Klarion,” he said. “There are too many unknown variables at play. However, I could try incorporating the cat into his treatment. If it’s a matter of proximity, Klarion might be able to heal enough on his own to where he wouldn’t need to undergo more invasive procedures.”

“Um, about that,” Hal interrupted. “It’s a great idea, really, but Teekl is no longer under Justice League custody.”

All eyes turned to the two Green Lanterns present.

The Flash smirked. “This is going to be good.”

“What happened?” Wonder Woman asked.

“Well,” Hal rubbed the back of his neck, “Teekl was distracted after Klarion fell, so I generated a construct of a pet carrier around her. I had assumed that without Klarion in the picture, we were dealing with a normal cat, but John reinforced the construct with his own power just in case. Point being: there was no way that cat was going anywhere.”

“Clearly, you were mistaken,” Wonder Woman said.

Hal laughed nervously. “That’s the crazy part! I zeta’d to the Watchtower with the pet carrier, but when I got here it was empty. No cat to be found.”

“So you lost the cat?!” Green Arrow seethed. He looked ready to lunge across the table, broken collarbone and arm forgotten, even as Black Canary gently nudged him to lean back in his chair.

“We lost the cat,” Hal confirmed.

“We?” John asked.

Hal scowled at his colleague’s betrayal. “Look: it was a long battle and due to unforeseen circumstances, the cat was lost.”

“The cat no longer matters,” Doctor Fate said, effectively silencing all further arguments. “In his current state, Klarion has no need for an anchor to bind him to the mortal plane.”

“If that is the case, then Klarion is going to be under my care for a significant duration of time,” Doctor Mid-Nite said, face grim. He turned to Superman. “I know the budget isn’t tabled for this discussion, but the medical wing isn’t equipped for long-term care. I would like to hire more staff if possible.”

Superman sighed. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said.

That was another conversation he needed to have with Bruce eventually, but he doubted it would go over well, especially after the way their last conversation ended. And so soon after Jason… the empty seat to his right and growing amount of unanswered Justice League communications weren’t ringing endorsements.

From that point, the discussion trudged toward the logistics of Klarion’s captivity, stumbling over various debates and heated arguments along the way. After a time, Doctor Mid-Nite excused himself to return to his duties in the medical wing. Superman started pondering Clark Kent’s excuse for why he would be late to the office.

“Is Klarion expected to remain in the Watchtower?” Hawkwoman asked. She had remained silent for most of the discussion, but her distaste for the Witch Boy was perfectly clear in her recap of her participation in the battle at the start of the meeting.

“Given the amount of trouble he caused last time, absolutely not,” Green Arrow muttered darkly. His mood had only worsened as the meeting dragged on. Nobody blamed him; they were all feeling it.

Black Canary placed her hand over Green Arrow’s uninjured one. “No one here is going to forget what Klarion is capable of,” she said, “but I don’t think it’s wise to turn him over to an institution like Belle Reve. We still don’t know the extent of the Light’s influence, or even whom we can trust outside of ourselves.

“Besides,” she added, “he could be our ticket to finally getting answers. We still can’t account for those missing sixteen hours.”

“What other option do we have?” the Flash asked. “The potential benefits of intel aside, I don’t think it’s a good idea to keep him locked up in our base of operations either.”

“I request that you deliver the Witch Boy to me,” Doctor Fate said. “His crimes fall under my purview, and the Tower of Fate will be equipped to hold him indefinitely.”

The heroes mulled over Nabu’s request. There had been lingering mistrust for the Lord of Order since his dubious induction to the Justice League a few years ago, but some appeared to be more receptive to his proposal.

“Let’s cast a vote,” Superman said. “All in favor of relinquishing Klarion to the custody of Doctor Fate upon his recovery?”

It was then that the lights flickered ominously before puttering out. The room was bathed a in red glow as the emergency lights kicked on. Everyone was immediately on high alert.

“What’s going on?” Hal asked.

“Do we need to call the electrician?” the Flash joked. “Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled after receiving several deadpan stares.

A sudden whoosh of fabric from the center of the room drew everyone’s attention. Two figures appeared before the conference table. The Justice League reacted in tandem as they drew weapons and adopted fighting stances. The general fatigue and discordant opinions from the morning’s proceedings were forgotten in the face of an unknown threat.

“Intruder alert,” chimed the Watchtower’s automated system. “Initiating invasion protocols. All Zeta Beams are now disengaged.”

Superman recognized one of the figures. “Stand down, everyone. Flash, stop the invasion protocols.”

“On it!” He zipped away in a blur of red and yellow. Within moments, the lights returned. Hesitantly, the gathered heroes relaxed and lowered their weapons.

“Disengaging invasion protocols. All Zeta Beams are now active.”

“Phantom Stranger,” Superman said once the Flash returned. “What brings you and your… companion… here?”

“Your contemplation on the fate of the Witch Boy,” he replied. “We have come to quell the stirrings of war wrought by his captivity.”

Hawkwoman stepped forward, her mace held in a loose grip. Her seemingly idle grasp on the weapon was belied by its unearthly glow. “Do you expect us to set him free?” she asked. “Because that’s not going to happen.”

The Phantom Stranger remained expressionless. His silence only seemed to provoke her further as she tightened her hold on the weapon.

“Shayera, don’t,” said Wonder Woman, but she herself remained on edge as she took note of the second figure. “Jason Blood, is that you? Or would you prefer Etrigan?”

The other man stepped forward. “At your service,” he said to the group, his tone floating somewhere between politeness and something more sardonic. “And let it be made imminently clear: I am not Etrigan, merely his jailer.”

Mutterings stirred across the group, mostly from those who had been unfortunate enough to witness Etrigan’s particular brand of destruction in the past. “My apologies, Jason,” said Wonder Woman, “though your presence here remains concerning. You’ve previously made your distaste for heroics very clear. What brings you here, in the company of the Phantom Stranger no less?”

Jason sighed, presenting a similar level of exhaustion as the rest of the group. “It is as the Stranger has decreed: turning Klarion over to the custody of Doctor Fate will incite a war within the very heart of the universe.” His tired gaze shifted to Hawkwoman. “It is also true that Klarion should not be allowed to roam free. I’ve been escorted here to propose an alternate solution.”

“Which is?” she prompted, clearly impatient.

“Entrust the Witch Boy in my care,” Jason said. “It is my own complicated history with him and my ill-advised compassion toward the abandoned familiar who showed up on my doorstep a few days prior,”—at this remark, Hal received several more glances—“that have garnered my favor with the Lords of Chaos. They have since declared me as the only acceptable option. If you don’t comply with their demands, you will be at fault for unleashing their ire on the world.”

“Is that a threat?” Hawkwoman demanded.

“It is a fact, my dear,” he replied, face grim. Then he looked down and frowned at the empty space near his feet. “Deliberate on this if you must, however, it appears we have a more pressing problem.”

“What else could possibly be more of a problem right now?” Green Arrow asked. His tired irritation had given way to snark.

“Teekl traveled with us, and now she is missing.”

“She is not lost,” the Stranger corrected. “She seeks her master.”

Green Arrow paled. The room erupted into chaos.

Chapter Text

The feeling was beyond human comprehension. Klarion was chaos incarnate, and chaos existed in everything, everywhere, always in motion, never at rest. He had danced in the space between moments, in step with the ebb and flow of the cosmos, only to then stumble and fall like a meteorite crashing into the mortal plane. To be severed from a thousand bajillion possibilities and condemned to a single, crude form of flesh and bone—it was like trying to squash all the contents back into Pandora’s Box. A raging wildfire snuffed out like a birthday candle. It shouldn’t be possible, but, impossibly, it was.

This was as close as words could come to describing Klarion’s new existence. His consciousness floated somewhere in the void between sleep and sentience. The constant thrum of chaos in the base of his skull, an extradimensional heartbeat, had dulled to a distant echo. All that was left was dark and quiet. It was a great and terrible emptiness—a deafening reminder of what no longer was.

***

The first time Klarion regained consciousness was brief. He was pulled from the darkness into a too-bright, too-loud room. White-hot pain lanced through his chest. He burned. His muscles seized as the fire spread across his newly-formed nervous system. He couldn’t breathe. Blurry figures towered over him and held him down.

His mouth moved, forming the shapes of words, let go of me, leave me alone, make it stop, but no sound came out.

The fire in his chest flared. It was like he was doused in kerosene. He screamed.

He was set adrift once more.

***

Klarion dreamed. It was a recurring reverie. His magic, a part of himself more vital than the breath in his lungs, had been stolen from him. It was locked away in an ivory tower, entombed in thorny brambles. He stood outside the castle gate and slammed his fists against the ancient wood until they were bloody and raw. No matter how much he screamed and cried for the gate to lift, using a voice that once commanded tectonic plates to shift and the earth to crumble beneath his feet, the fortress held fast against his onslaught.

***

The second time Klarion regained consciousness was just as brief. His senses were hazy. The pain, less so. He heard voices in the room, but their words were garbled. It was like he was submerged in water, all sound distorted and distant. His chest burned. He needed to come up for air. He reached for the surface, fingertips outstretched, but the distance was too great. It continued to grow as he sank toward murkier depths.

He let himself drift.

***

Klarion had a home once, he thought. He had a mother and a sister, too.

Old memories swirled around him in the inky blackness like stray nebulas. The darkness was similar to the eternal dusk that enshrouded Witch World. It reminded him of Limbo Town, the humble mining village he hailed from, with its dwellings nestled in the crevices of cavernous tunnels. He came from a hardy people who thrived in the darkness. Even still, he wondered what became of them in his absence. How long had he been away? Months? Years? Centuries? Eons?

He remembered in jumbled bits and pieces. Nothing made much sense.

Freedom and adventure beyond the Wicked Gate. The novelty of it all was soured by hardship. Moldy, week-old food scrounged from bins. Bitter cold nights. Disdainful strangers. But Klarion was special. He had Teekl and he had magic, and he could fend for himself and take what he needed.

His actions gained attention. Vandal Savage was one of many who had approached Klarion in the streets, but he was the first person who listened. Klarion didn’t want more parents or school or responsibility. He wanted to eat sweets and play games and explore the whole world! They struck a bargain—Klarion’s magic, a simple ritual, and he could be a Witch Boy forever.

It was a dream come true.

No, that wasn’t right.

The Wicked Gate did not close behind Klarion when he left for a taste of adventure. He was let out, but others were let in. He cried out as his people, living and unliving alike, were butchered, bodies strewn across the village square by…

WRONG.

It all started eons ago.

The Lord of Chaos cackled atop a throne of corpses, all felled by his own hand. They had died so quickly, popping off like firecrackers, and it was so much fun! He reveled in it—blood, violence, chaos running rampant—and, oh wait, he missed one. The enraged survivor launched a feeble attack. Klarion dispatched him as quickly as the others, but he didn’t expect the mortal to rise again. Interesting. He watched in idle curiosity as he sliced and flayed and crushed and charred, yet the man continued to fight. Time passed. Eventually, his fun came to an end with a promise to meet again in a thousand years’ time. The immortal mortal thought he could tell him what to do. Ha! The world was still new and ripe for chaos. Klarion would be sure to show him how wrong he was.

… But that wasn’t correct either.

Intricate runes and symbols from every language carved into stone and again into flesh. An altar. A knife. A sacrifice. Glassy, dead eyes focused skyward, gazing, unseeing, into the cosmos. From that point forward, backward, sideways, upside down, it was impossible to tell where Klarion the Witch Boy ended and C̷̢͎̗͓̈́̈́͛̎̚H̷̳̺̺̔A̶͊̄̕͝ͅŐ̴͚͉̽͂̌́S̸̨͝ began.

***

Klarion winced at the too-bright lights and squeezed his eyes shut again.  Everything hurt. He took one shallow breath, then another. His throat felt like it had been scraped raw and stuffed with cotton.

Another breath. He opened his eyes. It was still far too bright. For once, he missed the perpetual twilight of home. He blinked the blurriness from his vision as his eyes struggled to adjust to his surroundings. Strange machines buzzed and whirred and clicked around him. He was dismayed to realize some of them were actually connected to his prone physical form with plasticky tubing. The flimsy restraints around his wrists and ankles added further insult to injury. Luckily, the room was empty at the moment, save for a familiar orange cat with runic stripes and scarlet eyes who stood guard at the foot of his bed.

“Teekl?” he croaked. “Is that you?”

“Mreow.” Her tail twitched. Their bond was weakened, but he could still sense the echoes of her sorrow and concern.

“It’s okay. C’mere.” She obliged and nestled against his side. He carded stiff, clumsy fingers through her fur as she started to purr. “Good kitty,” he murmured. He was already drifting toward sleep once more.

Chapter Text

THE WATCHTOWER

June 15, 5:48 EST

It was Jason’s third day aboard the Justice League’s Watchtower. The orbital station, an alien structure carved into the heart of an asteroid, was unlike anything he had encountered before. He surmised that its technological capabilities surpassed human advancements by centuries. Very few things surprised the immortal these days, and he was not one to tend towards distraction. In quiet moments, however, he allowed himself to marvel at his present circumstances.

He watched the world below from one of the large bay windows. Long ago, a noble knight had looked to the night sky in reverence. Half-forgotten tales of the heavens and the stars were entombed in the castle ruins of his ancient memory. In that other life, Jason never imagined he would one day stand among them. This space station was as close as he would ever dare to stray toward the Silver City. Etrigan agreed. The sentiment laid sour on his tongue. He washed it down with his morning tea, a complementary novelty housed in a paper cup from the fully functional cafeteria.

The Watchtower had quieted considerably after the initial frenzy wrought by his sudden appearance. Jason was convinced that Teekl’s vanishing act, a repeat performance according to the Green Lanterns, was on purpose. She seemed intent on sowing some chaos of her own in her master’s absence, and she had done an admirable job thus far.

He had turned to say as much to Phantom Stranger shortly after their arrival, only to find that the frustrating man had also disappeared. Of course, Jason should have expected this. The former Lord of Order seldom felt obliged to sort out the discord his words wrought, never mind that Jason was stranded an entire world away from his flat.

He cast his frustration aside and was quick to join the mob rushing toward the medical bay. Jason took in the escalating situation with a growing sense of unease. The anger stirring among the crowd seemed disproportionate to the stunts pulled by the Klarion he remembered.

Ah, a witch hunt—what fun! Will you step up, lest Klarion become undone?

Etrigan’s words must have echoed in the station’s grand corridors in the same way they echoed across his mind. He had felt their weight as though he had been the one to voice them. Yet, no one else had responded to the demon’s jeering. Jason chose to ignore the taunts as well. He pushed his way to the front of the group where Doctor Fate was leading the charge.

The Witch Boy was dead to the world upon their arrival. He remained unconscious despite the ruckus. Teekl was curled up by his side. One of his hands was burrowed limply in her fur. She watched them all with baleful, scarlet eyes but made no move to leave her master.

Jason paid the others no mind as he strode forward. His attention was fixed solely on Klarion. And this was Klarion. While his dark hair was just as unruly and wild as Jason remembered, he had clearly done some growing up since their last encounter. He was taller, and his face had lost some of its childish roundness. In its place were sharpened edges that bordered on gaunt and gangly. He was no longer a boy, but he was still so young.

He was too young to be the mischievous whelp who had antagonized Jason and Etrigan all those years ago. His frantic attempts to stretch and condense time, to rationalize how Klarion had aged just a few years over the span of half a century, fell apart in the face of this strange new reality. It was as though reality itself had been shattered and pieced back together all wrong.

The sense of wrongness was pervasive. The boy Jason remembered had been filled to the brim with energy, constantly in motion and getting into trouble, with impish glee and wide grins playing across his features. The body occupying the hospital bed was catatonic, a frail form entombed in tubes and wires connected to numerous monitors and other medical machinery.

Troublesome boy. What have you gotten yourself into?

Answers had been soon to follow, hailed by swift footsteps that thundered down the hall. Jason reluctantly looked away from his charge to see a man in scrubs and a lab coat storming toward them. The threat of his glare was palpable, even when hidden beneath the strange visor he wore. It was only then that Jason realized he had positioned himself between Klarion and the horde of battle-ready heroes. He was already braced for confrontation.

However, the man was quick to dispel the gathering. None seemed willing to argue. One by one, the heroes—some sheepish, others frustrated—left the way they came. Only Doctor Fate had remained behind. He turned to address Jason.

“The Lords of Order will be watching you, Jason of the Blood,” he warned.

Jason matched the entity’s gaze and felt a small pang of grief for the dull eyes of Giovanni Zatara staring back at him. “I would expect nothing less from those charged with maintaining the balance of the universe.”

Doctor Fate had considered him for a moment longer before he disappeared in a flash of golden light.

Etrigan sulked, as was his wont whenever they evaded bloodshed. Those pathetic heroes are all bark and no bite, he groused. They would surely lose against our might. A great shame! No friends nor foes for us to maim...

Jason sighed and closed his eyes as he did his best to ignore the demon’s antics. When he opened them again, he found the doctor staring at him curiously.

“Doctor Fate isn’t my biggest fan either,” the man said. His tone was noticeably lighter than when he had addressed the Justice League, but much of his expression remained unreadable.

“I imagine he isn’t one to be endeared by others at all,” Jason said.

The doctor smiled. “Probably not.”

Jason’s humor dimmed as his attention returned to Klarion. The boy remained fast asleep. Teekl snored softly at his side, having joined her master in the realm of dreams.

The doctor seemed to follow his gaze, and the tension from earlier returned. “I don’t believe we’ve met, but if the others have put you up to something, I’m putting a stop to it. Would you like me to escort you to another location on the Watchtower?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Jason said, offering his hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Jason Blood. I’ve been appointed as Klarion’s guardian.”

They shook hands. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jason Blood, though I wish the circumstances were different. You can call me Doctor Mid-Nite. I’ve been serving as Klarion’s primary care provider.”

“Thank you for your services, Doctor Mid-Nite,” Jason said. “The continued existence of the world as we know it is in your debt.”

“There’s no need to thank me. I took an oath, and I intend to uphold it.”

“Nevertheless, you have my gratitude.” Jason spared Klarion another glance. “Doctor, can you tell me if the boy will be all right?”

It was the doctor’s turn to sigh, and Jason could see the underlying stress and exhaustion that prompted it. “Nothing is certain. However, I’m hoping that the nature of his bond with the cat, whatever that entails, might lead to some improvements in his condition.”

“Teekl is Klarion’s familiar,” Jason agreed. “The connection between a witch and their familiar is sacred, profound. She will fulfill that role regardless of Klarion’s need for an anchor to the mortal plane.”

“Does this connection involve some sort of healing factor?”

Their conversation continued as Doctor Mid-Nite checked Klarion’s vitals. The man had several questions about magic, and Jason did his best to answer them. Jason also learned of the mysterious circumstances surrounding Klarion’s injuries. A stab wound, Doctor Mid-Nite hypothesized, but the weapon capable of taking down a Lord of Chaos hadn’t been retrieved from the scene of the battle.

It was a revelation that had troubled Jason greatly, long after the Justice League had requested his return to the main conference room. While the future remained uncertain, it was ultimately decided that Jason would remain aboard the Watchtower while Klarion recovered.

And so here he was. His tea had long grown cold, lost in thought as he was, but he continued to watch over the earth below. Somewhere, a very powerful magical artifact with a curse tailored specifically to Klarion was still out there.

“Enjoying the view?”

Jason hid his surprise behind the rim of his cup. “The Watchtower is aptly named,” he said after taking a sip. “What brings you here, Black Canary?”

“You’ve been keeping to yourself.”

“It seemed to be the best course of action.” Etrigan had been endlessly amused by the abundance of caution others aboard this vessel had expressed toward his presence. Most seemed keen to avoid him, and he had repaid them in kind. “Your colleagues don’t appear bothered by this arrangement.”

Black Canary clearly felt otherwise. She had come to stand beside him, and Jason’s senses prickled at the sudden proximity. He was accustomed to the barriers, seldom crossed, that separated him from the rest of humanity. Etrigan’s underlying presence often inspired a baser, instinctual sense of wrongness that encouraged people to keep their distance. This simple gesture of intimacy from a stranger left him feeling unbalanced. He suspected it was intentional.

“I hope we haven’t made you feel unwelcome,” she said.

“Think nothing of it. They’re right to be wary of me.” It was both an assurance and a warning.

Jason glanced at her from his periphery. She had taken to stargazing as he had been before her arrival. It seemed he wasn’t the only one who had a lot on his mind. “I was under the impression that it was Etrigan we had to worry about,” she said after a moment.

Etrigan peered through Jason’s eyes at the mention of his name. Being watched from within his own mind was a discomforting sensation, akin to the chill of heightened awareness when walking down a darkened street and the certainty that something lurks in the shadows.

“Many would take issue with that distinction,” Jason said. The demon was never far, after all.

“Do you?” she asked, keeping her tone light and her eyes on the stars.

“I believe it’s… unwise,” he decided. It was convenient to ignore what lay beneath the guise of the mild-mannered scholar and eccentric collector who mingled with Gotham’s upper crust on occasion. Etrigan may have been a demon from Hell, but Jason was a man who had earned his name over centuries of spilled blood.

“I guess I’ll take my chances then.”

Jason huffed in amusement despite himself. His gaze left the window and finally settled on the woman beside him. “I suppose the risk must be worth the reward. What fool’s errand have your people sent you on?”

She met his stare. “Our people,” she insisted. “We’re on the same side, Jason.”

He arched a brow.

She sighed and looked away, clearly exasperated, but a sheepish smile was winning out. “Was I that obvious?”

“You are far from the first to seek me out for information, Black Canary,” he said, though not unkindly. “What would you like to know?”

“What is your history with Klarion the Witch Boy?” she asked.

“A simple query to start,” Jason remarked in a droll tone. Her smile was insistent. Jason sighed. “Very well. If I’m to regale you with such a tale, let us at least make ourselves comfortable.” He strode toward one of the benches that outfitted the center of the room.

After a moment, she followed. They sat together in silence while Jason gathered his thoughts.

“When you live as long as I have, you come to regret a great many things,” he began. “Recently, I have been forced to reckon with what will surely measure up to be one of my biggest trespasses.”

Suddenly, Jason felt a maddening urge to start laughing. He swallowed it down, strangled it, and let it die in his stomach. Its ghost haunted the upward twitch of his lips. “It’s almost funny, I had… I had absolutely no idea of the shape or weight of it until that damned cat darkened my doorstep.”

He didn’t realize he had started shaking until Black Canary placed a gentle hand atop his. His empty paper cup was crushed in his balled fist. He unclenched his fingers and let it fall to the ground. She removed her hand, and he cleared his throat. “My apologies. The trials and tribulations of the past few days have left me feeling rather unbalanced.”

“Whenever you’re ready,” she said softly.

Jason started again. “I first met Klarion over fifty years ago. He wasn’t a Lord of Chaos, then. Just a boy. However, that didn’t deter him in the slightest. He appeared in my flat one day with his pesky familiar in tow and turned my life upside down.”

“It must have been one hell of a meeting,” she said.

“It was.” Jason’s smile felt like a bruise, as it often did when he recalled lifetimes that had long since passed. “He was as brilliant as he was troublesome. A prodigy of his craft, to everyone’s dismay. From what I gathered, he had run away from home, a dimension parallel to ours, and he wasn’t keen to go back.”

His smile waned as he continued his story. “Had I known what would become of him, I never would have cast him out. But at the time, his interest in Etrigan made him a threat. He had endangered the lives of my friends and colleagues on multiple occasions. I felt it was the only thing, the best thing, I could do. He called me ‘Uncle’ and I turned him away. And now… now, he is a Lord of Chaos with unspeakable power.”   

“That sounds…” Black Canary was clearly struggling to find the right words, but there weren’t any to be found.

“Quite.”

The silence returned. It blanketed the room as if the air itself was weighed down by his confession. Its comfort soon became constricting, suffocating.

“What happened to Klarion isn’t your fault, Jason,” she said eventually.

He shook his head. “While I was far from the first person to fail Klarion, I didn’t do right by him. He was just a boy. His soul should have never been offered to the Lords of Chaos.”

Black Canary had the grace not to offer her forgiveness a second time. After a while, she spoke. “It’s hard to wrap my head around it, that there are these all-powerful Lords that govern the balance of the universe. When Zatara was still with us, he explained some of it to me, but you’ve been chosen by them. Are the Lords of Chaos a threat?”  

“Would you raise a fist against an earthquake or a hurricane?” Jason asked. “The Lords of Chaos aren’t something so trivial as a villainous group. They just are.”

“If someone could control the power of an earthquake or a hurricane, then they would pose a threat.”

Against his bidding, Jason’s thoughts returned to his earlier conversation with Phantom Stranger. He had no desire to continue poking and prodding at his complicated feelings regarding Klarion, but he needed more information. “I take it that you’ve encountered such a threat?”

“Is this a quid pro quo?” she asked, amused.

“It’s a fair trade,” he replied, nonchalant.

She laughed like it had been startled out of her. “You know, I was warned against making deals with the devil.”

“Then it appears we are at an impasse. Or a crossroads, if you prefer.” If Jason’s wry grin was more befitting of a demon than a man, it was merely a trick of the light.

“Fine.” The humor of the moment dissipated. Black Canary sighed. “I’m about to tell you something I shouldn’t, but this is too important. A few years ago, The Justice League noticed a trend of coordinated attacks on a scale that surpassed any personal grudges and disparate motives. We believed there was a possibility of a collaboration between our enemies that we had never encountered before.

“We were proven right when it was too late. They called themselves The Light. Vandal Savage and Klarion the Witch Boy appeared to be at the helm of this shadow organization. They successfully infiltrated the Watchtower and used unknown technology to possess the entire League. They had us under their complete control for sixteen hours. If it weren’t for our proteges, it’s likely that would still be the case.”

“I’m sorry that happened,” Jason said. “It’s a terrible fate to lose oneself to the wiles of a malevolent puppeteer. I know the feeling better than most.”

“Thank you,” she said. “It wasn’t a pleasant experience. Most of us don’t recall anything that happened while we were under, but we know that some of our heavy hitters were deployed into deep space during that time.”

Then, Black Canary hesitated. “When we took Klarion into custody,” she said, “it was our hope that we could finally get some answers. Some of us are reluctant to give up on that chance.”

With those words, everything clicked into place. Jason knew what she wanted to ask and why she had sought him out in the first place. He stood abruptly and returned to haunt the windows. “My answer is no. The boy hasn’t even woken up yet,” he said. “I refuse to interrogate him for your cause.”

He kept his back to her even as she stood to join him. “Please, Jason. We need to know what happened during those missing sixteen hours. We need to know what the Light is planning.”

Jason scoffed. “I’m not one of your heroes. My motives are entirely self-serving. I am here, not by choice, but at the behest of the Lords of Chaos. I must ensure that Klarion recovers from whatever ailments plague him so that he may fulfill his function without undue influence. Nothing more. Nothing less. Should I fail, their wrath will destroy the universe.”

“That sounds pretty heroic to me.” It was a baffling and utterly ridiculous sentiment. When he turned to face her, he was reminded strongly of Glenda for a moment.

He sighed. “I’m not a good man, Black Canary. I never was.”

“You could be.” It was an act of mercy when she finally stepped away. “Just think about it,” she called over her shoulder. Then, she left. Jason was in solitude once more.

Just think about it. As he watched the Earth below, he could do little else.

Chapter Text

In the tumultuous space between then and now, time held little meaning for Klarion. Its impact, like all the other laws that governed the universe, was nothing more than a measly suggestion. There was a certain thrill in being able to bend and break everything to fit his will just because he could. Time was no different. 
 
Chaos existed tomorrow, yesterday, five months ago, thirteen years ahead…
 
But this time was different. 
 
The return to a linear existence was jarring. It was like the screeching jolt at the end of a rollercoaster. Inertia sent his body careening forward against the restraints buckling him in place. The ride was over. Klarion was stuck in the here and now, trapped in a physical body, which meant playing by all the stupid rules. 
 
Kaleidoscopic fractals of time and space—everything that is, was, could be, had been, would be, would never be—collapsed into a singularity. The chaos of the cosmos fell into a steady chronological march of seconds, minutes, hours, and days. Klarion was left to experience the singular present at a crawl. 

THE WATCHTOWER

June 19, 10:17 EST

Right now, Klarion was wide awake. He hated every second of it. 
 
Being awake was exhausting. Even worse, it was disgustingly mortal. When he was awake, everything hurt. Lucidity summoned a horde of estranged and ill-fitting sensations. Each one was more unpleasant than the last. Incessant hunger pangs soured his stomach. He shivered from the cold, and he shivered from fevers that left his hair damp and sweat drying on the back of his neck. The crook of his arm was tender from the strange plasticky tubing that tugged uncomfortably when he couldn’t remain still. Layers of scratchy, stiff bandages mummified his torso and made him itch—a swarm of angry insects writhing and biting underneath his skin. His entire body ached. It hurt to move. It hurt to breathe.
 
The worst part of it all, however, was the relentless calm in the absence of chaos. When he first woke up, the world had been quiet. It unsettled him more than his abrupt, agonizing return to mortality. He couldn’t remember existence on the mortal plane being anything but LOUD. In this hollow stillness, the noise was nothing but a whisper. 
 
His magic, too, had fallen silent. Muffled, no doubt, by whatever enchantments Dr. Fate had cast on this sickly form. He couldn’t feel it, but he knew it wasn’t gone. It wasn’t. This was just a game of hide and seek. Ready or not, Klarion would find it. He just needed to draw it out. 
 
He had tried several times already. To heal himself. To break the restraints on his wrists and ankles. To repair his bond with Teekl. To escape. When none of that had worked, he cycled through feats of magic he had been capable of since before learning his letters and numbers. Each attempt had left him gasping for air as the ever-present burning in his chest flared into a raging inferno. Amid the pain, he resolutely ignored the way his doubts festered and spread like rot. Clearly, he just wasn’t trying hard enough. So he would keep trying, and trying, and trying until it worked.
 
But, gods, he was exhausted of trying. All of it made him want to return to the haze of sleep. At least the soreness in his chest and the heaviness in his limbs were absent in dreams. But, no matter how much Klarion squeezed his eyes shut and urged himself to return to that state of floaty numbness, his stupid physical body wouldn’t listen. 
 
So, here he was. Eyes wide open. Seething. Fine. Rest was just a dumb mortal pastime anyway. 
 
He watched a digital clock on the opposite wall count seconds upward into minutes. There was nothing else to occupy his time in this dull gray room. The space was large enough to accommodate his bed and the hulking assemblage of machines and monitors surrounding him, but Klarion grated against the confinement of four walls and no windows all the same. He was pretty sure this wasn’t the Tower of Fate—his sparse accommodations lacked the stuffy decor and overabundance of gold that Nabu favored—but he was at a loss for where else he could be. Surely, the stupid heroes hadn’t thrown him in just any regular mortal prison on the earthly plane?
 
A vibrant pop of orange buoyed amid the sea of muted grays. Teekl, dozing at his feet. Her presence anchored him, a small comfort in his current circumstances. Where he was and who was keeping him here didn’t matter, Klarion decided. He would be free soon enough. He had his familiar and, somewhere, he had his magic, too.
 
The numbers on the clock soon turned to nonsense. Klarion was forced to think about his captivity beyond distant dreams of escape. He appeared to be alone, but he knew this wouldn’t be the case for long. Through the fog of pain and confusion that clouded his earlier waking moments, he could recall shadowy figures and muffled voices. There was also the doctor, his alleged healer, who had been there when Klarion first regained consciousness. He showed up frequently to ask stupid questions and fiddle with the strange machines, always insistently polite, but he never bothered to answer any of Klarion’s questions in turn. Furthermore, the visor obscuring his face made him impossible to read without magic. Klarion hated him. He hated everything.
 
His hateful stewing was interrupted when a hidden panel on the opposite wall slid open. He scowled as the doctor entered the room. “Oh, good. You’re awake,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
 
“Fine,” Klarion grumbled. “Now leave me alone.” He felt Teekl rouse from her slumber to stretch. She didn’t seem bothered by the enemy’s presence at all, but she was keeping a surreptious watch from her self-appointed post. Good kitty. 
 
The doctor was oblivious. Like every other time he had appeared, he moved to check on the various monitors, humming to himself. When he started asking questions, Klarion’s answers were short and angry, spit between clenched teeth. 
 
Through the indignity, he imagined in vivid detail what he could do to this foolish mortal if he had his magic. It would be so easy to rend and tear and break and maim. The possibilities were dizzying. Red energy crackling from his fingertips, forking through the air like lightning, watching the doctor jerk and spaz like a marionette dancing on strings, the smell of ozone and charred meat sharp in his nose, sharp on his tongue. Or, a concussive blast. A wave of magic with the force of the tides in a hurricane. The surge would send the doctor flying into the far wall with a resounding splat. Bones breaking. Skull cracking. Organs popping like balloons. A satisfying squelch, like stomping on a bug. Or—something even better. He could wield his power with the precision of a paring knife, spiralizing flesh from bone. The doctor’s screams would be short-lived, but the spectacle and spray of arterial blood from a body unwinding would be something to celebrate! Around and around and around they’d go, bloody ribbons of sinew and gunk glistening like confetti streamers. At the end, a mess harder to clean up than glitter. 
 
The doctor was still talking. He would sound better choking on his own severed tongue, but that wouldn’t be happening anytime soon. Klarion was resigned to continue ignoring him until a few choice words captured his attention: “—you have been cleared to receive visitors.”
 
Wait, what?

“Wait, what?”
 
“I have held them off for as long as I can, but your, ah, involvement, in the investigation is too important to accommodate further delays.”
 
“…Are they going to interrogate me?” Klarion asked, and he hated how weak he sounded. His mind had been unbearably sluggish since his return to mortality, but he was quick to recall how members of the Light conducted their interrogations. It was rarely about the information—Vandal Savage had taught him that. No, it was really about power. Fear was the key. It had to be fed, maintained, cultivated, Vandal insisted, otherwise it could be worn down to resentment. Luckily for Klarion, chaos and fear got along like a house on fire. He had felled many of the Light’s enemies under the guise of interrogation. Their screams as they were reduced to bloodstains on seedy dungeon floors echoed in his ears. However, now that he could be reduced to a bloodstain, the amusement laden in his memories twisted into a mockery of what was to come. 
 
“You won’t be interrogated today.” Klarion let out a breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding. He still had time, then. 

Time to do what? That traitorous voice in his head asked. 

Something. Anything. Make his escape with Teekl, hopefully. Certain parallel dimensions were lovely this time of year. Thoughts of where he would go only somewhat drowned out the constant underlying thrum of trapped-you’re-trapped-you’re-trapped-there’s-no-way-out-no-way-out-you’re-trapped-trappedtrappedtrappedtrapped   

“—Your appointed guardian has been adamant that he speak with you first. He’ll be arriving soon.”

Wait, now he had a guardian? Klarion bristled. Things just kept getting worse and worse. “I’m a Lord of Chaos, mortal,” he spat. “I don’t need a guardian. Do you dare to suggest that—” Before he could threaten to use his magic to make the doctor’s features go all topsy-turvy like a Mr. Potato Head doll, the wall slid open again and another figure entered the room. 

Klarion’s irritation with the doctor was immediately forgotten.  “Uncle Jason… is that you?”
 
“Hello, Klarion,” the man said. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t frowning, either. He just looked tired. And old. 

“I’ll give you both some privacy,” the doctor said, and made his exit. The wall sealed behind him with a snik.

Once the doctor was gone, Teekl abandoned her post, hopping down from the bed and darting toward the man where he stood rooted in place equidistant from the door and Klarion. She purred and twined between his legs in greeting, and the man—Uncle Jason—a shade from his fractured memories—finally looked away from Klarion to mutter a quiet hello to the familiar at his feet. When he didn’t stoop down to pet her like she clearly wanted, she abandoned him, irked, and started grooming herself in the corner. 

He didn’t make any attempts to come closer. He didn’t speak either. Klarion watched him drown in the silence. He looked uncomfortable, arms rigid at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching. His gaze travelled slowly around the room, looking anywhere, everywhere else, before reluctantly settling on Klarion once more.

Klarion grinned, something between manic and mean. “Ha! It really is you, isn’t it? It’s been a while.”
 
“Over half a century,” Uncle Jason agreed, frustratingly calm. Klarion was determined to change that.

“How is Etrigan? Will he be paying me a visit too?” he asked in a playful imitation of polite conversation, like they were discussing the weather and not a monster eager to crawl out from beneath his uncle’s skin. And there it was. The telltale flicker of hellfire in the man’s gaze. It flared, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it, before puttering out in the sudden chill that overtook his features. 

“The Demon has never been one for exchanging pleasantries,” Jason replied in a carefully measured tone. 

“You’re no fun at all.” Klarion sighed with gusto as he collapsed farther against the pillows and pretended to swoon in despair. “I bet you keep him under lock and key, just like how they’re keeping me here.”

When he cracked an eye open, he saw Uncle Jason was staring at him with a strange look on his face. “You’re still a troublesome whelp after all this time,” he said.

The barb was familiar, but the words rang hollow, lacking their usual  fiery vitriol. Klarion tilted his head back toward Jason and scowled. “Stop looking at me like that. You’re treating me like a stranger, Uncle. Do you really remember me after all?” 

“Of course I remember.” And of course he still had that stupid look on his face. Klarion rolled his eyes.

“Then why are you here?”

“I’m here for you,” he said, but the way he said it was so strange and hesitant and not at all what Klarion was expecting. It startled a laugh out of him. The jolt of it upset his wounds.

“Haha! That’s very funny, Uncle Jason.” Then the smile dropped from his face and fell back into a scowl. “I don’t believe you.” 

“It’s the truth,” he insisted. “You are to be my ward. My… nephew.” 

And now Klarion was angry. 

“Stop lying to me!” he snapped, voice growing shrill. “You’ve never wanted anything to do with me. You sent me away, remember? You cast me out!”

“I did.”

The simplicity of the admission made Klarion falter a moment. It wasn’t an apology or an explanation, and he couldn’t even tell if it was an indication of regret. Whatever. It didn’t matter. He pushed to regain his earlier momentum.

“So, what? Don’t tell me you had a change of heart.” The  sentimentality made Klarion sneer. “I sure haven’t changed mine. No siree! It’s just as black and rotten and shriveled up as yours.”

The words didn’t work. A cast spell sent awry. Jason  hardly reacted. “There is much that I must atone for, Klarion,” he started, and he still sounded so resigned and carefully measured and why wasn’t he getting angry? 

Klarion interrupted him. “Oh, boo hoo! This is why I like Etrigan better. I forgot just how mopey you can be—”

The calm, impenetrable surface cracked. “That’s enough,” Jason said, voice stern and his seemingly infinite well of patience finally running dry.

“No! You can’t tell me what to do!” he shouted, voice hoarse. It was Hell on his throat and chest. He didn’t care.

Jason grit his teeth and Klarion caught a glimpse of the rage roiling below. He wanted to watch the fractured tendrils spread. “I said enough, Klarion. As your guardian—”

“I don’t need a guardian!” The monitors and machines reacted to his rising temper with erratic beeps and trills. Teekl hissed at the noise and disappeared into the aether. “I’m Chaos personified! I’m stronger than you! I’m stronger than everyone!”

“You are without your powers,” Jason growled, “which makes you little more than a snivelling, obstinate brat in a world of trouble.”

Klarion hated him. He hated him more than anything. “Fine! If you want to be my guardian so bad, then get me out of here!”

Jason shook his head. His lips were pursed in a thin line.

“Why?” he pleaded, voice cracking. He felt his own traitorous tears threatening to spill over. 

“That is not up to me. You have gotten yourself into a mess that I can't wave away.”

“They took my magic! And you, you’re letting them!” Hot, angry tears trailed down his cheeks. “When… when the Lords of Chaos find out what you did to me, t-they’re going to—” 

“The Lords of Chaos have made you my responsibility, boy!”

Klarion stared at him with wide, startled eyes. He opened his mouth but no sound came out. His pantheon, his brothers and sisters, had forsaken him. After everything. He was alone and powerless and in pain and… 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have raised my voice when you’re in such a state,” Jason said, but Klarion wasn’t listening.

His breath hitched with a hiccuping sob, but it quickly devolved into an uncontrollable coughing fit. He was left gasping, heaving for air with broken lungs. Each strangled wheeze rattled his torso and  made his chest burn more than the last. He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. 

“Klarion!” Jason paled. He moved swiftly to Klarion’s side to try to prop him up. Being jerked roughly upright hurt. He sagged against the arms holding him up, unable to support himself as harsh coughs wracked his body. By the time the coughing subsided, Klarion felt faint. Exhaustion had seeped into his bones.

Jason was gentler as he helped him lay back down, but the movement still caused a pained exhale to escape between his grit teeth. “Are you alright, lad?” he asked, his voice full of concern. “Shall I fetch the doctor?”
 
“Get away from me,” Klarion rasped. 
 
“Klarion—”

“Get out.”
 
“Klarion, please—” 
 
“I said get out.”
 
Uncle Jason left.