Chapter Text
Chapter Three — The Glittering Doom Marches On
Wayne Manor, 3:47 AM
The storm had not passed.
It had evolved.
Somewhere in the plumbing, a kazoo orchestra played the Jaws theme in D minor.
Jason could hear the pipes crying. The walls hummed with malicious energy.
Tim's eldritch cackle echoed through the house like a deranged carousel of doom.
And the plushies were still farting glitter.
Jason crept from the bunker with the expression of a war veteran who’d just been told that his greatest enemy now had a clear shot on his back.
He had two knives, a flashbang, and a can of dry shampoo.
The hallway greeted him with silence.
“Okay,” he muttered. “Just grab B and tell him to leash his magic raccoon before the house explodes.”
He took one step.
A mirror popped up on the wall. He wasn’t there. Just a long string of past Jason haircuts projected into the void—like ghosts of barbershop crimes past.
There was bowl cut Robin.
There was Helmet Hair 1.0
There was That One Time With Frosted Tips.
“Hell no,” Jason snarled, turning—only to be hit in the face with a cloud of glitter foundation and contour powder.
“HELLO GORGEOUS!” sang a dozen disembodied voices in unison.
He turned to run. A trapdoor opened under him.
He dropped into what could only be described as a nightmare out of RuPaul’s Drag Race.
Spotlights. Mirrors. Runway music.
Jason Todd, Red Hood, former assassin and current living corpse, had been dragged into the Catwalk of Judgment.
Robo-mannequins, each styled like Tim in various “Fashion Disaster but Make It Arcane” outfits, began circling him. One smeared lip gloss across his face. Another glued on glitter lashes.
He fought.
He screamed.
He lost.
Minutes later, the manor security camera caught Jason kicking down Bruce’s door wearing:
- A full drag outfit named “Glam Penance”
- Knee-high stiletto boots
- Contoured cheekbones sharp enough to pierce the veil
- And a perfectly snatched cherry red lace front wig
Bruce, finally awake, blinked once. Then again. Then stared.
Jason panted. “Control your hellion. NOW.”
Damian knew something was wrong the moment he stepped outside.
The yard… sparkled.
No. Not sparkled. Glimmered. Like the ground had been bedazzled by an eldritch raccoon on a Michael’s spree.
He followed the strange humming to the barn.
Inside, a tea party was in progress.
At the head of the table was a Tim-shaped haunted doll, complete with glowing blue eyes, a tiny sweater vest, and a murderous aura.
It banged cymbals together like a metronome for pain, while humming “Starships” by Nicki Minaj in a minor key.
Around it sat…
Damian stopped cold.
Titus. Batcow. Alfred the Cat. Jerry the Turkey. Ace.
All of them.
Bedazzled. Wearing party hats.
“...You traitors,” Damian breathed.
Then the doll turned.
“VENI, BELLUM LUDICRUM INIQUITATIS,” it croaked. (“COME, GLITTER WAR OF WICKEDNESS.”)
Damian turned to flee.
Batcow kicked the barn door shut behind him.
“Wait”
Ace tackled him.
Titus threw glitter.
The animals descended in a glimmering fury, bleating and barking and gobbling to the tempo of Tim’s cursed cymbals of doom.
Damian’s screams were muffled by a sparkly party hat jammed onto his head.
Steph tried the hallway. Normal. Quiet.
Too quiet.
She opened the first door.
A heart-shaped bed. Rose petals. “Careless Whisper” playing softly.
“Oh hell no,” she muttered.
A mannequin stood beside the bed. It was… her ex. One of them. She wasn’t even sure which. They kind of blurred together. It held a bouquet of dying roses and a heart-shaped pizza box that said "Our Love is Extra Cheese."
The door slammed behind her.
Welcome to Rom-Com Hell
Sponsored by Chaos Magic and Regret
Room after room, scenario after scenario.
Beach Disaster Date.
Prom Night Redo.
Fake Dating at the Wayne-Gala.
Mannequin after mannequin appeared. Each worse than the last.
“Why did I date a guy who wore three polos at once?” she wailed, slapping a bachelor mannequin labeled ‘Kyle: Likes Crypto and Juice Cleanses’.
Finally, a mannequin in a Red Robin hoodie leaned forward.
It looked like Tim. Spoke in a cursed robot voice.
“Tuus gustus in viris est putidus,” it droned. (“Your taste in men is garbage.”)
Steph threw a cursed teddy bear at him.
"OH, I dated you, you haunted IKEA display!"
The lights flickered. A hundred mannequin Tims chanted:
"It's not me, it's you."
"You could do better, but you won’t."
"Latin is sexy, you coward."
She screamed. And kept running.
Meanwhile… In the Attic of Tim the Terrible
Tim floated in mid-air, glittering in soft lunar glow.
He had summoned a rubber duck.
It was glowing.
Its name was Gregory.
Behind him, a glowing battle map of Wayne Manor shimmered with LED stickies and cursed pathways. A list of completed pranks floated next to him in neon pink cursive.
- Dick: Ball Pit of Shame
- Jason: Drag Me to Hell
- Damian: Betrayed by Barn
- Steph: Love Is a Battlefield
Below it, two names remained.
Cass. Duke.
Tim's eyes gleamed. His voice whispered like a whispering book in a haunted library:
"It’s your move, my beloved prank nemeses."
The duck honked.
The manor trembled.
To Be Continued…