Absolute Symbiote Chapter 3: Ruin In Gotham.

Chapter 3: Ruin In Gotham.

(General P.O.V)

The Watchtower was silent—ten heroes seated around the central conference table, the light from the Earth below casting long shadows across the room.

Superman stood at the head. Captain Atom had just finished his account.

“I gave him a chance,” Atom said, arms crossed, his voice flat. “He said shoot. So I did. I hit the bioship with a low-yield quantum burst, just enough to vaporize the core without tearing a hole in orbit. J’onn phased out before impact. I didn’t expect the ship to scatter.”

No one spoke for a moment.

Batman leaned forward, eyes unreadable behind the cowl.

“He was recovered just outside Gotham.”

This got reactions.

“How bad?” Green Lantern asked.

“He’s alive,” Batman said. “But unconscious. His right arm is gone—severed at the shoulder. Martian tissue usually regenerates in hours. It hasn’t.”

Wonder Woman added, “I tried using the Lasso to reach his mind. Nothing. Not resistance. Nothing. Like no one was there.”

“That’s not normal,” Flash said, shaking his head. “Not for J’onn.”

“We know,” Superman replied. “We just don’t know why.”

Flash brought up a display on the central table. A rotating hologram of a brain scan appeared, then another next to it. Both showed Martian neural patterns—complex, multidimensional, layered.

He pointed at the first scan.

“This is J’onn last month. Normal activity. What you’d expect from a Martian telepath. Their minds don’t operate the way ours do. Martian consciousness exists in two simultaneous states—physical and mental. Their physical body is basically an extension of their mental one. That’s how they shapeshift, phase through matter, read thoughts—hell, even survive most injuries.”

“And the fire thing?” Canary asked.

Flash nodded. “Psychological. Martians aren’t biologically weak to fire. It hits their mental form. J’onn told me once—it bypasses his body and strikes his mind. That’s why it paralyzes them. Fear response baked into their evolution.”

Green Lantern folded his arms. “All of this could’ve been pulled from the ring. Why are we going over it now?”

Flash tapped the display.

“Because this is his scan now.”

The second brain scan lit up. It looked empty.

No electrical spikes. No neural pulses. No flux.

“Flatline?” Lantern asked.

“Worse,” Flash said. “Martians don’t flatline unless they’re dead. But J’onn isn’t dead. His body’s still alive. Cells are active. But his mind is either offline—or outside any range we can detect.”

“Could it be suppression?” Wonder Woman asked. “Mental trauma?”

Flash shook his head. “No. This doesn’t look like trauma. It looks like... something’s missing.”

He switched views, pulling up comparison scans.

“Before, his brain’s in a constant flux—normal for a telepath managing multiple levels of perception. After the crash? Nothing. Or maybe... something we can’t read.”

Dinah leaned forward. “So what’s your theory?”

Flash hesitated, then said it.

“I think something took part of his mind. Ripped it out. Stole it.”

A heavy silence followed.

Then Batman stood.

“Some debris fell in Gotham during the reentry. I sent drones. Nothing found.”

“Are we sure?” Superman asked.

Batman narrowed his eyes. “If this thing got close enough to take a piece of J’onn’s mind and arm... it’s good at hiding. Very good. If it can sneak up on a telepath like him... we should assume it’s already here.”

The room changed.

Superman straightened. Diana’s fingers gripped the edge of the table. Lantern’s ring glowed brighter.

The mood had shifted.

“We’re on high alert now,” Superman said, his voice firm. “If this thing can disable J’onn, hide from scans, and survive Atom’s strike—it’s a threat.”

Flash turned back to the scans.

“Whatever it is... it’s not just powerful. It’s smart. And it wanted to reach Earth.”

(Ruin's P.O.V)

I’ve worn bodies before. But not like this.

This one wasn’t absorbed. I didn’t hollow it out or fold it into myself. I inhabit it. And it doesn’t fight me. It welcomed me.

That makes it… stranger.

Martian hosts were dead when I found them—shells. J’onn was powerful, yes, but I never truly wore him. I nested inside his mind like a virus. He was never mine.

This human form is different. Confining. The skeleton restricts movement I once had. The skin lacks flexibility. So many functions are external—vocal cords, lungs, temperature sensitivity.

But there is something freeing about it.

Language.

I can speak now. Not just transmit thoughts. Not just project.

I can form words.

Sounds.

I tested it earlier.

“Hello,” I said to a man on the street. He blinked at me and stepped back. I asked him for directions.

He gave them, cautiously. His eyes drifted down—my chest was bare. My skin still partially charred. One foot shoeless. The other was wearing what remained of a boot.

I didn’t care. He pointed toward a part of Gotham called Crime Alley. That word—crime—I recognized. The memories in this body remembered fear, and that place was the origin of it.

I followed the path.

The city smelled like chemicals and carbon and exhaustion. None of it mattered. I was looking for something specific.

Retribution.

I arrived at a crumbling warehouse with a sagging roof and rusted signage. Inside, I could feel them.

Laughter.

Dark. Human. Cruel. Seven minds. Loud, disordered.

Two others—quiet. Faint. Fearful.

I stepped to the door.

It had a lock. My arm moved without thought. The memory of strength embedded in J'onn's hand reminded me: Martians are strong.

I punched.

The rusted metal burst inward, the frame tearing from its hinges. The whole entrance collapsed.

They didn’t react at first.

But then the noise stopped. Every head turned.

I saw them.

The ones who broke the man I now wear.

Painted faces. Cheap suits. Guns.

The Joker Gang.

One of them had a crowbar. Another had a phone out, replaying something. It was video.

I recognized the screams.

Mine.

Or the man I now am. His pain. His helplessness. Turned into entertainment.

Something stirred in me.

Not hunger. Not curiosity.

Rage.

I stepped forward.

The first moved to draw a weapon. I was already gone.

I appeared behind him and drove my arm through his chest. Bone shattered. I pulled out something red and soft and dropped it. I turned invisible and moved through the others before they knew I was gone from sight.

They fired wildly.

Useless.

I reappeared mid-air and landed with a shockwave that threw three of them into the wall. Two hit steel beams and folded. One twitched. The last aimed a flamethrower—

Flames.

It hit me. My skin seared. Pain screamed through my now human nerves.

I staggered back. Not from injury—but instinct.

Then I remembered J’onn’s memories. The fire was fear-based. Not true damage. And whatever I consumed, only came with the strengths not the weaknesses.

So I pushed through it.

He pulled the trigger again. I became intangible. The fire passed through me.

Then I reached into his mind.

Telepathy.

His name was Rudy. He was already afraid. I amplified it. Showed him what I’d do next. Showed him the corpses he’d be part of.

He dropped the weapon.

I made him walk into the fire himself.

I looked around.

Three left.

One fired a rocket. I caught it. Crushed it in my hand, contained the explosion with a shroud of telekinesis. Walked through the smoke.

I extended my arm—shapeshifted it into a blade and cleaved through two at once.

The last crawled away, babbling apologies.

I stopped in front of him and reached into his skull.

I didn’t even want the mind.

I just wanted the fear.

Then it was done.

The warehouse was quiet.

Only the two small minds remained—children, hidden in a cage near the back. I looked at them through Martian Vision. Alive. Unharmed. Barely conscious. I didn’t approach.

This wasn’t about them.

This was about understanding what I am now. What I can be.

I walked to a broken mirror. Looked at my reflection.

The man I wore stared back.

He gave himself to me for revenge.

Now I carry him.

I speak with his voice. Move with his shape.

But I am not him.

I am Ruin.

And I have plans. Some just happen to coincide with his dying wish.

-0-

I hovered above the warehouse, watching the cleanup.

The law arrived six minutes after I left. They moved fast. I expected as much in this part of the city. Crime Alley. A place so soaked in death the locals stopped naming alleys—just added numbers to the bodies.

I made sure the children were easy to find.

They were afraid of me. I didn’t blame them.

But I didn’t harm them.

That wasn’t why I was there.

I waited until the officers cleared the perimeter. Then I lit the place.

A focused beam from behind my eyes—Martian Vision, J’onn called it. Enough heat to erase evidence without setting the whole neighborhood ablaze.

The warehouse burned fast.

I didn’t want the law—or worse, Batman—to find what was left of the Joker Gang. Or what wasn’t. Not yet.

I had consumed them. Fully. Mind, tissue, everything useful.

Their memories were crude, but informative.

Through them, I saw Gotham in a different light. A predator’s view of the city. Territory, control, chaos. But what caught my attention was the fear they had—for one man.

Batman.

In J’onn’s mind, Batman was calm, methodical. A mind not gifted with powers but sharpened by obsession. A planner. A detective. An enemy who rarely needed to be stronger—just smarter.

The Joker Gang didn’t understand him. But they feared him enough not to say his name at night.

That’s a problem.

Because my next destination is Arkham Asylum.

And Batman’s eyes are already there.

But that’s for later.

A consequence of this human form is hunger. Not mental hunger—my Symbiote side is still satisfied from the gang’s minds.

This is... different.

My stomach growls.

It demands food.

I search the man’s memories. He used to eat at a place nearby. A diner. Run-down, open late. The kind that doesn’t ask questions when blood is on your boots.

I fly there. Quiet. Low. Shift my form mid-air. The hand I consumed has made mastering these powers easy.

My face changes. Skin smooths. I mold fabric from my skin and over myself—jeans, shirt, shoes. Colors are approximate. Not perfect, but passable in the dark.

We can't have anyone recognizing me as Timothy Skinner and asking questions.

I land a block away. Walk in.

No one looks up at first.

I take a booth. The server approaches. Middle-aged. Tired. Fake smile. She asks what I want.

I answer without thinking. “Pancakes.”

She nods. Leaves.

I sit still. Human habits are odd. The need to chew. Digest. Process organic matter instead of neural information.

When the pancakes arrive, I eat all of them.

The sugar doesn’t feed me, but it calms the stomach.

Then the TV catches my attention.

A news report.

Local channel. Blurry footage. Someone’s phone camera.

It’s me.

Shirtless. Burned. One shoe. Punching through a steel door.

“A mysterious shirtless man with powers seen saving two children after attacking what appeared to be a Joker Gang hideout. Authorities are calling him a vigilante. Others are calling him a hero. We’re still awaiting confirmation from Commissioner Gordon—”

The screen cuts to the children’s parents.

Tears. Hugs. One mother calls me a “blessing.”

Another father says, “Whoever he is, he saved them. That makes him a hero.”

I feel… nothing.

No pride.

No warmth.

But I understand.

They need words to explain what they saw.

“Hero.”

“Vigilante.”

Commissioner Gordon appears next.

“...unregistered. Unknown. If he continues working outside the law, we’ll find him. But if he’s trying to help... maybe a trip down the precinct might iron out the GCPD's relationship with this new...eh, Enforcer.”

They’re trying to name me.

Trying to place me in a category.

But I don’t belong to theirs.

I am not a hero.

Not a vigilante.

Not a supervillain.

Tonight I was vengeance, yes. But I’m not their symbol of justice.

I remember something from the Joker Gang’s memories—graffiti scribbled on the wall of their hideout.

One of them had carved it in with a knife:

"We live for chaos. We live for carnage."

Carnage.

Yes.

I like that word.

It matches me more than “shirtless crazy man with powers.”

I am Ruin.

I rose from destruction.

But I think I could be something more.

Ruin or Carnage?

Why not both...

Ruin AND Carnage.

The name fits.

And Gotham will remember it.

Soon.

::--------------------------------::

So here's the deal, Absolute Symbiote is a mind fuck of a fic. You were warned.