WAR: What Is It Good For 1 (DCAMU/Celestial Nexus) (Patreon)

Pain first, always. First thing that hit was the throb, hammering behind his eyes like somebody took a crowbar to his skull. Kenneth made a low noise—half-groan, half-cough—and dragged his tongue across cracked lips, tasting nothing but blood-metal and spit that felt thick enough to drown in. Some part of him knew before he opened his eyes: this wasn’t home, and it sure as hell wasn’t safe.

Fluorescents buzzed and flickered overhead, too bright, too close, one of them sputtering like it might die any second. Good. Hope it did. He squinted against the light anyway, body stiff and wrong under him, like the paper-lined cot was trying to crawl up his spine. Everything smelled like bleach and old vomit and that nasty cheap soap they hosed the halls down with.

It smelled like school. Smelled like losing.

He shifted, immediately regretting the action as his whole body shrieked at him, ribs tight and bruised, muscles locking up. Bad call, bad call, bad call. The paper under him crackled loud enough to make him flinch, small sound in a room that felt way too big all of a sudden.

Snap. Fingers went off like a small firecracker, inches from his face.

Kenneth jerked back at the sound, almost falling off the cot, only to catch himself at the last second with a clumsy grab at the vinyl edge.

“’Bout time,” the voice said, dry and cutting, like somebody scraping a rake over asphalt. “Was startin’ to think you were lookin’ for a reason to stay here overnight.”

A woman stood over him, arms crossed, her face lined like concrete and scrubs washed out to a color you couldn’t even name anymore, maybe blue, maybe gray. The nametag hanging crooked off her chest read: L. Mercer.

Right. The school nurse. Blüdhaven Central’s version of health insurance.

Kenneth licked dry teeth, and tried to push words past the sandpaper in his throat. “‘M I… concussed?”

Nurse Mercer huffed like she got that question every damn Tuesday. Probably did. She leaned in with a little penlight he didn’t even see her pull, flicked it in each eye, way too fast and way too bright.

“You ain’t puked yet. Pupils ain’t doin’ anything stupid.” She clicked the light off, slipping it back into her coat like a magician ditching a trick. “You’re fine enough.”

Fine. Right. Everything in him still felt like hammered dogshit.

He blinked slow, trying to knit together the jumpy reel of memory that was barely hanging together in his head. Hallway. Somebody’s shoulder slamming into him. Someone bigger. The flash of a fist coming in low, dirty and fast. Then, lights out.

Kenneth scrubbed a hand through his hair—catching on half-dried blood at his temple—and let the burn in his scalp ground him for a second. “What happened?”

Mercer was already done with him, rummaging through a pile of forms like she might find one that made her care. “Jimmy Kostas put you on your ass, that’s what happened. You mouthed off, he made you eat floor. Security dragged you here. Principal gave Jimmy a slap on the wrist, detention or somethin’. Business as usual.”

He sucked in a breath, chest hitching tight before he could stop it. Shoulda seen it comin’. Shoulda ducked, shoulda swung first, shoulda—Shut up, he snapped at himself, grinding his teeth till his jaw popped.

Mercer didn’t even look up. “School’s been out for a while now. You ain’t got anybody comin’. Tried callin’. No one picked up.”

No surprise there. Mom was probably halfway through a double at the clinic. His stepdad—if you could call the bastard that—was probably sittin’ on his ass, drink in one hand, TV remote in the other, watchin’ the call ring out just for spite.

Kenneth sat up slow, the world listing sideways like a busted ship. His boots scraped tile as he swung his legs over the side of the cot. The movement tore at the thin layer of scab forming somewhere under his hairline, fresh blood prickling hot down his temple.

“Thanks,” he muttered, voice low enough she could pretend not to hear it if she wanted.

She wanted.

Nurse Mercer shrugged into her battered peacoat, one arm at a time, like the weight of it might drag her straight through the floor. She didn’t even look at him when she jerked her chin at the door. “Just get out.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Shoulder-first, Kenneth barrelled through a set of double doors hard enough they straight up slapped back into his ass, the busted hinge catching just in time to make the whole frame rattle. And it rattled for sure, loud as a motherfucker, loud enough to make the lazy-ass janitor at the far end of the hall shoot him a look. He ignored it, head ducked low, jaw still tight from earlier.

The floor smelled like bleach and old sweat, the janitor’s mop leaving greasy trails across the linoleum instead of clean. Not like the guy fuckin’ cared, of course, Bludhaven only hired the laziest people to work any job that mattered. Fluorescents overhead buzzed like dying insects, throwing jittery patches of light down the hall. Some of them flickered so bad it felt like the walls were stuttering.

Blüdhaven Central. Hellhole built on broken promises and budget cuts. Three public schools in the city and somehow this one still got the worst hand, year after year. New metal detectors last year because a freshman caught a shiv to the gut outside chem lab. They still couldn’t fix the heaters though. Gotta have priorities.

Kenneth’s sneakers squeaked across the floor as he moved past the security desk, empty now except for the ugly little TV bolted up in the corner, grainy footage flickering from a dead hallway cam. Officer Polanski’s chair sat spun sideways, still reeking like old coffee and cheaper hate.

The man waved at him as he walked past, the universal hand gesture of ‘keep it movin’.

He hit the front doors and braced himself. Cold air hit him like a cheap shot, slicing straight through the paper-thin jacket he was still wearing from the start of the year. He hunched into it on instinct, shoulders high, hands shoved deep into his pockets like maybe he could trap the heat trying to bleed outta him. Breath steamed up in front of him, thick and fast as he tried to think through the pain in his skull.

His name was Kenneth King.

Ken if you knew him. Sixteen years old, junior year, Blüdhaven born and maybe-blessed. He knew that deep, the way you know your own blood when it’s spillin’ outta you. Only thing was, some corner of his brain kept tugging at him like a kid yanking on a jacket sleeve. Wrong. Wrong fit. Like slipping into a pair of shoes you ain’t wore since you were ten and wonderin’ why your toes hurt.

I’m twenty-two. Thought flickered up and dropped straight back down, fast as a bad memory he didn’t wanna look at too close.

Nah. Nah, that wasn’t right. Sixteen. Sixteen since late last summer. Summer school, busted sneakers, jobs that paid cash under the table. No twenty-two here.

The streets stretched out, gray and cracked and mean under a sagging winter sky, streetlights coughing weak orange glow over the sidewalks. Kenneth started walking, letting muscle memory drag his ass forward. He knew these streets. Knew which corners you didn’t turn down if you wanted to keep your sneakers and your teeth. But something about the whole block felt tilted, like a deck of cards about to slide off the table.

Blüdhaven. New Jersey. Dirty concrete heartbeat of the East Coast.…Dick Grayson lived here, right?…Nightwing.

Green eyes blinked hard, and a half-second later, Kenneth flinched as a fresh spike of pain stabbed from deep behind his eyes. The sixteen-year-old stumbled in place and stagged a half-step sideways, his shoulder nearly clipping a cracked lamp post. Ken let out a groan before catching himself with a hand slapped against the cold metal. Names he didn’t know he knew, slipping loose from somewhere he didn’t wanna dig.

Brain damage, he thought, mouth twisting. That punch fucked me up. Gotta be.

Blüdhaven stretched out in front of him like it always did. Cracked sidewalks, half-dead storefronts with metal gates pulled tight and graffitied up. Pawn shops, payday loan joints, busted neon flashing CASH FOR GOLD like anybody had either.

Kenneth kept walking, hands deep, breath puffin’ out in front of him. Felt weird. He knew these streets, coulda walked ‘em blindfolded. So why the hell did it feel like he was trespassing in his own skin?

His head throbbed sharp when he tried to lock it down. Pain skittered behind his eyes like nails on metal. Hallways. Fist. Darkness. Flash memories. Then—nothing clean after that.

Looked like trouble even to himself.

He laughed without meaning too, the pain not leaving him much of any other choice but to, the sound coming out sharp and ugly as it bounced off brick and steel and on the other side of the street, an old woman walking her rat-dog flinched so hard she almost tripped.

Blüdhaven was a bitch-and-a-half of a place to live in. The whole city smelled like oil and old cigarettes, even the air was gray. Gotham’s ugly cousin nobody wanted to claim. Except here, you didn’t get a Bat crawling out the dark to save you. You just learned to keep movin’ and hope your luck held out.

His lowtops clapped against the sidewalk, shoelaces loose and undone as he crossed a busted intersection. Kenneth caught a whiff of diesel, wet concrete, fried onions maybe—some corner cart hanging on by a prayer. He kept walking, shoulders squared against the weight sinking down on him.

Home. He frowned, actually unsure if the headache he was feeling was all that serious and feeling like it was the longer it lasted. Where the hell was home?

The question felt like a sucker punch to the gut. His steps stuttered, heartbeat rabbiting up into his throat before he forced it back down.

He knew he had a place.Knew about Mom—scrubs stained with long shifts and overtime nobody paid her right for at the fucking shit hospital she worked for.Knew about the bastard who lived in the same house, drank the last paycheck, raised fists quicker than voices.Knew about a kid sister he’d catch a bullet for without thinking.

But no address. No block. No damn way to get there without just wandering until his feet remembered first.

Not good, man, he muttered under his breath, voice barely holding steady. Not good at all.

One of the worst parts of Bludhaven, apart from the crime and general disrepair and the forever enshittification of the whole city, was just how fucking cold it seemed to get, even in the spring. Long shadows leaned off the broken lamp posts, swallowing sidewalks whole. Kenneth hunched lower without thinking, head on a swivel. A part of him—an older part, a part that didn’t belong to sixteen—counted exits, clocked strangers, tagged possible weapons like he was gonna get jumped any second.

Ahead, a cruiser idled near the curb, cop slumped half-asleep inside, lights off, engine grumbling against the cold.

Kenneth paused, half-step frozen as he stared at the patrol car.

Nobody trusted cops in Blüdhaven, if you weren’t half-retarded at least. Doing that shit… Well, it was like playing Russian roulette with five loaded chambers. There was a half-good chance the cop might beat your ass too and shoot you for ‘resisting arrest.’But freezing his ass off, maybe with a brain bleed or something, wandering the streets blind?

Not a lotta choices.

Still, it didn’t really matter. He needed a street name, something to anchor him to anything, to convince him that he wasn’t losing his goddamn mind.

He jogged up to the cruiser, breath coming quick and tight, words already stumbling out before he could catch them, before instinct could claw ’em back down.

“Excuse me, officer? Could you help me o—”

The cop barely gave him a glance, already twisting the key in the ignition like Kenneth wasn’t even there. “I’d love to help ya kid,” the officer lied, a smile on his face, “but I just got a call.” The engine of the patrol car coughed as it roared to life, headlights bleeding sick over the cracked street. The guy hesitated, smile sliding a little off his face with one hand still on the gear shift. The muttered “Damn it” under his breath was confusing, but Ken didn’t really think much of it.

A second later, the cop looked over Ken’s way and jerked his chin at him, a tight look on his face like he was doing him a big favor. “Keep movin’. Ain’t safe out here after dark. Lotta bodies been turning up. Butcher’s territory.”

Without another word, the cop peeled off, back tires screeching like the city itself was shoving him away.

Kenneth stood there, cold gnawing straight through the thin fabric of his jacket, brain taking a second too long to catch up. Butcher. The word sat ugly in his head for a second before it dug its claws in deep. The Blüdhaven Butcher. That psycho had been cutting people up for years—stories so messed up even the rumors felt like they needed a shower after.

Some said he gutted folks like fish. Some said he drank them dry.

Kenneth swallowed, taste of copper rising up bitter against the back of his throat. Street around him felt wrong now. Too empty. Too quiet. Shadows crowding in just past the busted streetlights.

Not a place you wanted to be standing still in at a time like this, even with the streetlights on.

Kenneth started walking, at first moving normal then faster and faster with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. With his heartbeat banging against his ribs like a fist tryna break out, he couldn’t hel. Downtown glow was a smear in the distance, but it still looked like safety anyway—more people, more light, less teeth in the dark.

Yellow lights flickered on as he moved, the streetlightds but most of them were shot out or burning dirty yellow like somebody dipped them in piss. His boots slapped the cracked sidewalk loud enough it made him flinch, like he was shouting his location every step he took.

None of that did a damn thing to help that itch on the back of his neck got louder with every block. Somebody watching me or something? Maybe it was paranoia or something, but Ken couldn’t shake the feel that somebody was waiting just past the edges of what he could see. You know what they say, it ain’t paranoia if-

He spun once, quick, trying to catch something in the corners—but nothing was there. Just trash rolling lazy on the wind, old flyers stuck to chain-link like brittle skin.

He cut down an alley without thinking, eyes locked on the neon flicker of a liquor store sign a few blocks over. Shorter path. Quicker.

That might have been a dumb move to make, was the first thing he realized a few steps into the dark alley.

The back street behind the buildings was… well, it looked about as shit as it smelled, which was two degrees past what raccoons could tolerate.

Son of a b- He almost held his nose, but his hands were too cold to risk raising them out of his pockets right now. Fucking hell. Like a lot of the alleys in the Bloody Haven, this one smelled rank on a good day and on a bad day like today, when the garbage men couldn’t be bothered to get off their fat asses, it smelled like rot and piss, walls tight enough he coulda reached out and brushed both sides at once. Gang tags crawled up the bricks, old colors faded under newer ones, like scars fighting for space.

Halfway through, he heard it.

Rustling.

Behind him.

His fists came up without thinking, whole body snapping tight like a sprung trap as he whipped around fast, heart pounding fast. But it wasn’t a mutt, and it wasn’t some junkie either.

Ken felt half the tension bleed out of his muscles as his eyes landed on some Italian guy in a leather jacket two decades out of style as he stepped outta the cut alley to his left, the guy’s hands loose and wearing a smile as greasy as his hair.

He almost let out a breath. Almost.

The guy looked rough, sure, what with the gold chain glinting at his throat, dirty tank top stained dark across the chest with something that looked reddish-brown but rough he could handle. Rough was normal.

This was Bludhaven after all

It was the teeth that killed it, though.

The man smiled wider, lips pulling back too far, canines catching the weak light like broken glass.

Nope. Nope, not doing this.

Kenneth’s body moved before his brain could get in the way, instincts screaming RUN loud enough he felt it in his teeth. He spun and bolted for the far mouth of the alley, feet scrambling on broken glass, heartbeat hammering his whole chest hollow.

He got three steps.

The leather-jacketed thing didn’t run. It didn’t even try to fucking chase.

No, it jumped.

One second it was twenty feet away, the next second it was just there, landing light as breath in front of him, blocking the way like he weighed nothing.

Kenneth skidded, feet scrambling against the ground as he almost went down. At the last second, he caught himself with a hand slapped against the brick.

“What the—” He swung a fist, all muscle, all weight, all panic behind it—

—and the thing caught his wrist like it wasn’t nothing. Like Kenneth was an eight year old trying to punch his stepdad again.

“Hey, where the hell you think you going, huh?” The thing’s voice was syrup-thick and almost as sweet at the same time, teeth flashing again in a grin that stretched too wide. “You lost, lil’ man, or just stupid?”

Kenneth felt his throat close up, dry and tight. Words tripped up and choked before they could even get out right. “O-Oh no.”

The thing’s smile split wider, too many teeth, all needle sharp and glinting wet in the alley glow.

“Oh, yes.”

Something in the back of Kenneth’s skull screamed at him, all sharp edges and static, a voice that felt way older than he had any right to be. Not real. This ain’t real. Move. But his body wasn’t waitin’ for permission from the part of him still tryin’ to make sense of it.

Kenneth swung wild with his left, all weight and desperation, fist snapping out fast—and the second it connected, he knew it was bad. Wrong kind of give. Felt like he’d punched a cinderblock wrapped in skin. Pain screamed up his arm, white-hot and sharp, and he knew without even lookin’ that something in his hand cracked.

The thing in front of him laughed low, easy, like this was funny. “Look at you—swingin’ like you got a shot,” the man—nah, not a man—said, then backhanded Kenneth so casual it felt like an insult on top of the pain. His whole body twisted, vision blurring out as blood sprayed from his busted nose, copper taste flooding his mouth sharp and metallic, almost sweet in a way that made his stomach flip.

Kenneth staggered, boots scraping hard against the dirty concrete, arms flailing to catch his balance, but before he could do a damn thing the thing’s hand clamped into his shirt and yanked him clean off the ground like he didn’t weigh nothin’. His sneakers kicked empty air, hands scrabbling useless against a grip that felt like iron welded to stone.

This can’t be real. Can’t be real. His brain fumbled around trying to make it make sense, spit-firing shit he didn’t have time for. People don’t jump like that. Teeth don’t look like that. None of this should’ve been possible.

Didn’t matter. His hand was broke. His face was leaking. His whole body knew it was real in the ways that counted.

“Oh God—” Kenneth gasped, blood drip-drip-dripping down his chin, soaking into the stretched out collar of his jacket.

The thing tilted its head slow, eyes glitterin’ like wet marble. “You prayin’?” it drawled, tongue flickin’ out long and wet and wrong to lick a fleck of blood off its cheek. “Yeah, go ‘head. I like a little drama before dinner.”

Dinner.

The word hit Kenneth harder than the punch did. Slid a shiver straight down his spine to his toes. Butcher. The word clawed its way up from memory, grabbed him by the throat. Torn-out throats. Drained blood. Not some psycho with a knife.

Vampire.

Nah, nah, nah. That wasn’t real. Vampires were for movies. Stories. Bullshit made up to scare kids.

And yet here he was. Danglin’ in an alley in Blüdhaven, lookin’ at a goddamn horror story with too many teeth.

Kenneth tried to get words out, something, anything, but all he managed was a strangled wheeze. Wh-what the hell—

And then the headache that’d been squatting in the back of his brain all day exploded.

Felt like a railroad spike driven straight through his skull. Blinding, burning, too much. He couldn’t see, couldn’t think, could barely scream through the pain that set his nerves on fire.

Something heavy and bright slammed into his right hand.

Kenneth didn’t think.Hell, he couldn’t even breathe right he just moved on instinct. His busted fingers flared open and something… something happened.

It was like a goddamn sun ripped open between his fingers, blinding white and hot enough he swore the air itself caught fire. Light poured out of him, drowning the alley in so much heat and brightness that for a second he couldn’t even see the thing holding him.

Couldn’t see—but he sure as hell heard it.

The vampire shrieked, a sound so raw and wrong it scraped inside his ears and left something bleeding behind.

Kenneth hit the ground hard, the iron grip snapping open as the thing recoiled back into the dark. Pain spiked up his broken hand, flaring so bad he almost blacked out, but he shoved the noise down, gasping through gritted teeth, curling in on himself on the filthy ground like he could armor his body just by tensing hard enough.

By the time he could force his eyes open, the alley was empty again. Streetlights buzzed way down the block. No monster. No sun. No explanation.

Just a busted hand. A busted face. And some little fluttery thing in his lap.

Kenneth blinked dumb at it, still panting through his teeth, blood dripping in fat warm drops down his chin.

It was a napkin. Just a napkin. Thick and white cloth, not like something you grabbed off a counter with a side of fries, but real knitted or whatever and had some weird gold shit on the edge.

He stared at it way too long, almost sure that it meant something. Felt like he oughta throw it away, but his fingers moved before his head could finish the thought. He folded it up clumsy one-handed and shoved it into his pocket like it was a lifeline.

He staggered up, legs shaking, boots slipping a little on the slick concrete, but he didn’t fall. Not this time.

The alley stretched out in front of him, just as grimy, just as broken, like none of that even happened.

What, Kenneth thought, the word sticking in his throat harder than he wanted to admit. What the fuck man?– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

ROLL: Pocket Full of Sunshine (FREE) [Dresden Files]: “While it might look like a perfectly ordinary handkerchief, this is one of the rarest items in the world: Something made by a happy Wizard. Alright, maybe that was a little dark. Anyway, this folded-up napkin is filled with a beam of genuine sunlight, and when unfolded, it’ll release its payload in a burst of awe-inspiring radiance.

Or terror-inspiring, if you’re the sort of critter who dies in the sun. Refilling it is as easy as holding it up during a sunny day, but you’ve gotta be genuinely happy to make it work. If you can’t muster that, don’t worry, it’ll refill about once a week.”