When she had come to him, offering fame, fortune, and the power to wipe out the shambling monstrosities that were taking over the city (his city, his turf), well - he had refused, of course.
He knew in his bones that the dame wasn't to be trusted.
He should have known that she wouldn't take 'no' for an answer.
The worst part wasn't the weapon, though that was bad enough - it had none of the cold simplicity of his knives or pistols, didn't deserve to be mentioned in the same sentence as even a butterknife - hell, the thing had tassels for god's sake. The worst part wasn't even the costume, disgustingly frilly as it was.
No, the worst part was how, in order to use his powers - his bright, sparkling cleansing beam - he had to smile.
She had set up his powers this way just to spite him, he was sure. And he swore he wouldn't do it. He swore that, no matter how dire the situation became, he would not give her the satisfaction of knowing that he had debased himself by using her "gift".
But when the things had the hideout surrounded, and there was nary a weapon in sight (she had taken them all, the bitch - magicked everything away, down to the last penknife) - when they battered down the door and swarmed in, and he was engulfed in rotting flesh and the stink of death - in that moment, with yellowed teeth about to sink into his arm, he gave in, and smiled.
The explosion of bright bubbles and bits of rotting flesh that resulted might have been enough to make him think it was worth it, if he'd been a simpleton like Deuce. (Who was he kidding, it wouldn't even take that much - Deuce would have jumped at the chance to wear this getup.)
But he was no simpleton, and so he was left only with the burning, bitter thought that, no matter how gruesome a death he would have faced, saving himself had not been worth sacrificing his dignity.
Only one other thought could burn even hotter than that one -
FILL: TEAM ECTOBIOLOGY
He knew in his bones that the dame wasn't to be trusted.
He should have known that she wouldn't take 'no' for an answer.
The worst part wasn't the weapon, though that was bad enough - it had none of the cold simplicity of his knives or pistols, didn't deserve to be mentioned in the same sentence as even a butterknife - hell, the thing had tassels for god's sake. The worst part wasn't even the costume, disgustingly frilly as it was.
No, the worst part was how, in order to use his powers - his bright, sparkling cleansing beam - he had to smile.
She had set up his powers this way just to spite him, he was sure. And he swore he wouldn't do it. He swore that, no matter how dire the situation became, he would not give her the satisfaction of knowing that he had debased himself by using her "gift".
But when the things had the hideout surrounded, and there was nary a weapon in sight (she had taken them all, the bitch - magicked everything away, down to the last penknife) - when they battered down the door and swarmed in, and he was engulfed in rotting flesh and the stink of death - in that moment, with yellowed teeth about to sink into his arm, he gave in, and smiled.
The explosion of bright bubbles and bits of rotting flesh that resulted might have been enough to make him think it was worth it, if he'd been a simpleton like Deuce. (Who was he kidding, it wouldn't even take that much - Deuce would have jumped at the chance to wear this getup.)
But he was no simpleton, and so he was left only with the burning, bitter thought that, no matter how gruesome a death he would have faced, saving himself had not been worth sacrificing his dignity.
Only one other thought could burn even hotter than that one -
this was all her fault
and he would make her pay.