**Gotham Studios Backlot - Thursday Night - 10:34 PM**
The film set was empty now, the crew having wrapped for the day hours ago. Lights had been killed, equipment locked away, the sprawling backlot reduced to shadows and silence. Only one trailer still showed light, the largest one, reserved for the production's star.
Basil Karlo sat inside his trailer, staring at the email on his phone with the kind of numbness that preceded volcanic rage. He'd read it three times now, each pass making the words feel more surreal, more impossible, more like a nightmare he couldn't wake from.
FROM: Marcus Harrington, Executive Producer
TO: Basil Karlo
RE: Contract Termination and NDA Requirements
After careful consideration and consultation with studio leadership, we've made the difficult decision to terminate your contract effective immediately. Recent deterioration in your physical presentation due to your Quirk's overuse has created production and time issues that are no longer manageable for our shareholders.
Additionally, we've become aware from quirk experts that your condition is likely to continue degrading. We cannot invest in a multi-picture franchise with a lead whose appearance may become completely unstable.
We have certain clauses in your contract's, we are within our rights to terminate without penalty. You will receive payment for work completed to date. In exchange, you are required to sign the attached NDA agreeing not to discuss the circumstances of your departure or disparage the production publicly.
We're also informing relevant industry contacts that you are no longer a viable casting option for projects requiring consistent physical appearance. This is a professional courtesy to prevent other productions from encountering similar issues.
We wish you the best in your future endeavors.
*Marcus*
This was being blackballed. He knew it, they weren't just firing him, they were ensuring he'd never work again. Spreading the word through "industry contacts" that Basil Karlo was damaged goods, unemployable, finished.
He just turned twenty five and had been in acting for twenty of those years ever since he awakened his clay quirk as a child. Twenty years of training, auditioning, taking roles to build his resume, finally breaking through to leading man status. And they were ending it with a email because his Quirk, the thing he'd been born with, that all these studios and acting coaches had exploited his entire life, a power that could make him anybody a casting director could want, was progressing in ways he couldn't control.
His hands clenched around the phone, and he felt his fingers lose cohesion slightly, clay beginning to show through the flesh facade. He was maintaining his human form, the one that he would have always looked like if he never had this quirk, but the emotional stress was making it harder. The waxy texture of his skin was more pronounced now, his features less stable. He'd noticed the deterioration six months ago. Maintaining different appearances required more conscious effort and the duration he could hold stable form was decreasing. Sometimes his face would ripple mid-scene and increasingly clay-like texture was bleeding through, requiring reshoots.
The studio had been patient at first, trying to accommodate him. They'd hired specialists, tried experimental treatments, worked around his limitations. But patience had limits, and before they'd invest millions in a franchise built around his face, they realized it would be best to cut their losses before he became completely unmarketable.
This was supposed to be his breakthrough. The role that would make him a household name, that would validate every sacrifice he'd made for his career.
And they were taking it from him because his quirk was betraying him.
The rage that had been building since he'd opened the email finally broke through his control.
His fist slammed into the mirror, shattering it. But his hand didn't stop at the glass, it kept going even through the wall behind it, his arm extending and flowing like liquid as his Quirk responded to emotional distress by abandoning the human facade.
"FUCK!" he screamed, his voice distorting as his throat restructured itself, becoming something between human and wild wet clay form that was his true nature now. "TWENTY YEARS! TWENTY FUCKING YEARS!"
His other hand swept across the trailer's interior, demolishing furniture, ripping through metal and wood like they were paper. His body was expanding now, growing, seven feet tall, then eight, and the mass continually increasing as he stopped trying to maintain stable form and let the clay quirk do what it wanted.
He tore through the trailer's wall, stepping out into the backlot, his massive clay form barely recognizable as humanoid. Rage was all he felt right now, demanding destruction, demanding that someone pay for what they'd taken from him.
The production office trailers were lined up nearby, executive parking, the luxury accommodations for producers and directors who'd just destroyed his life with an email. Basil's clay form flowed toward them with terrifying speed.
The first trailer crumpled under his assault like aluminum foil. He tore the door off, reached inside but found it empty, they'd all left hours ago, of course. Cowards couldn't even fire him in person, had to do it remotely, safely, without having to see his face when they destroyed his career.
The second trailer went faster, Basil learning to use his new strength efficiently. Rip, crush, demolish.
Make them feel a fraction of what they'd done to him, make them understand that you couldn't just discard people like trash without consequences.
He was demolishing the third trailer when he became aware of screaming.
Security guards, two of them, middle-aged men with basic stun guns and absolutely no training for dealing with a rampaging clay monster. They were backing away, one fumbling with a radio, the other pointing his weapon with shaking hands like it would make any difference.
"S-stop! GCPD has been called! Stand down or we will use force!"
Basil's clay form turned toward them, and even in his rage, some part of his mind recognized they weren't the problem. They were just doing their jobs, and didn't deserve what he was about to do.
But rage doesn't care about who is deserving.
He flowed toward them, mass increasing further, becoming a tidal wave of animated clay that was going to crush them because he couldn't crush the executives who'd actually hurt him and someone needed to pay…
That's when the first security guard's head exploded.
Not literally exploded, but his expression went from terror to blank emptiness in an instant like his mind was destroyed, and he lowered his gun with mechanical precision. His partner stared at him in confusion for about two seconds before his face did the same thing,
Both guards turned and walked away from Basil with synchronized steps, heading toward the studio's main entrance with the purposeful gait of programmed machines. Their radios crackled with confused dispatch voices asking for status updates, but neither guard responded.
Basil stopped his advance, his clay form rippling with confusion now instead of rage. What had just happened?
"Basil Karlo," a quiet voice said from the shadows near the demolished trailers. "I need you to listen very carefully and make a choice quickly. In approximately four minutes, Batman will arrive in response to the security alert. In eight minutes, GCPD will have armed units surrounding this facility. You are currently a rampaging villain in the middle of a high value property destruction spree, one of the only things the GCPD responds to nowadays, and what happens next depends on your decision."
A figure stepped into view, young man, maybe nineteen or twenty, wearing dark clothing and a face mask but the shadows obscured his features. His voice was measured and calm, completely at odds with the chaos Basil had just created. He held a small device in one hand, something electronic that he'd apparently used to do whatever he'd done to the security guards.
"Who are you?" Basil's voice came out as a wet rumble from his clay form, barely intelligible.
"Someone who's been monitoring your situation with interest." The figure gestured at the demolished trailers. "Now the real question is whether you want to spend the next decade in Arkham's specialized containment ward, which is what Batman will ensure happens, or whether you want an alternative."
Basil's clay form started to stabilize slightly as his rational mind reasserted control over the rage.
"What alternative?"
"Work for me. Use your abilities productively with a true purpose and show those who threw you out that you are someone to be feared. In exchange, I'll provide protection from hero pursuit and dedicate resources to researching a stabilization of your quirks current condition, and in the future we can work to reverse its degradation. I'm the closest thing to hope you're going to find in Gotham."
The young man checked his phone, some kind of timer. "Three minutes now. Batman moves fast. Decide."
Years of acting training had taught Basil to assess people quickly, to read emotions and motivation.
He had exactly what Basil would need if he had any hope of escaping the consequences of tonight and maybe, maybe, finding a way to stabilize the Quirk that was destroying his life.
"Who are you?" Basil asked again, his clay form beginning to compress back toward human proportions.
"Names can come later. Yes or no, Mr. Karlo.
Choose."
Basil looked at the destroyed studio lot, the place that had discarded him, at the ruins of his career and his life. The choice wasn't actually difficult.
"Yes."
**Gotham Studios Main Entrance - 11 PM**
Batman's arrival was preceded by the distinctive sound of his grapple gun firing, the wire cutting through night air with a sharp whistle before the Dark Knight swung down from a nearby building with predatory grace.
He landed in a crouch twenty feet from the demolished trailers, his cape settling around him like a living shadow, white eyes in his cowl scanning the destruction with tactical assessment. Multiple structures destroyed, estimated damage in the millions, clear signs of a powerful physical Quirk at work.
"Security reported a large clay entity attacking the facility," Batman's modulated voice said, though whether he was talking to himself or to someone via comms wasn't clear. "Witnesses described it as seven to eight feet tall, capable of demolishing reinforced structures. Basil Karlo's Quirk potentially matches the profile."
He moved forward, examining the wreckage with practiced efficiency. Footprints in the dirt showed where the clay form had moved, where it had stood while demolishing each trailer. The destruction pattern suggested rage rather than calculated attack, this was personal.
"Karlo's trailer is there," Batman noted, looking at the only intact structure in the executive area. Light still on inside, door busted open.
He was about to investigate further when movement caught his attention, two security guards approaching from the studio's interior, walking with strange synchronized steps. Batman's hand moved to his utility belt reflexively, years of paranoia making him assess them as potential threats despite their apparent normalcy.
"Hold position," he commanded. "GCPD is en route. I need you to"
Both guards pulled concealed firearms and opened fire without warning or hesitation.
Batman was already moving before the first shot cleared its barrel, his cape snapping up to deflect rounds while he rolled behind the demolished trailer for cover. The guards weren't shooting like trained security, they were shooting like machines, methodical and emotionless, emptying their magazines without any real precision at where he'd been standing.
"They're compromised," Batman said into his comms, again presumably to someone at his base or to GCPD dispatch.
He threw two batarangs with perfect accuracy, hitting both guards in the faces knocking them over and they dropped the fire arms, and while painful did not permanently damage them.
This was more than mind control, he noted that this was a complete override of survival instinct and self-preservation. These men were operating like drones, programmed for a single purpose without any remaining autonomy.
Both guards now lay unconscious, but Batman could see their vital signs were abnormal
Someone had done something to these men. Something that turned them into weapons with no concern for their survival or wellbeing. This wasn't just about Basil Karlo's rampage anymore, someone else was involved, someone with capabilities that made Batman's threat assessment spike significantly.
He was about to investigate the guards more thoroughly when sirens announced GCPD's arrival. Multiple units, heavy response, exactly what you'd expect for a reported monster attack at a wealthy studio.
**Two Blocks from Gotham Studios - 11:15 PM**
The van that picked up Basil and his mysterious benefactor was unmarked, the kind of utility vehicle that could be anything from a plumber's transport to a serial killer's mobile hunting ground. The back doors swung open as they approached, and Basil saw a young albino woman.
"Lets Move!"
Basil's clay form compressed as he climbed into the van, becoming more compact and humanoid but not quite returning to his real appearance.
The young man who'd saved him, Basil still didn't have a name, climbed in after him, and he saw him nod to the driver who was identical to the woman in the back next to him and the van was moving before the doors even finished closing. The driver navigated through Gotham's streets with practiced ease, taking turns that suggested intimate knowledge of traffic patterns and police response routes.
"Jaina, status," the young man said, settling into a seat and pulling out a tablet.
"our drones engaged with Batman after your activation at the primary site, when did you and William plant those?" The driver—Jaina—checked her mirrors "Anyway we'll be clear of the area soon."
Basil's mind was still catching up with what had just happened. "Those security guards, you did something to them. What—"
"Not me directly," the young man interrupted, his attention mostly on the tablet screen which showed some kind of surveillance feed, multiple angles of the studio lot, Batman's fight with the compromised security, with emergency vehicles converging. "I have an associate who makes those. The guards were previously conditioned and had their brains surgically modified months ago just a couple of many we have all across the city. Tonight we activated them remotely, gave them their final commands: engage any threats attempting to halt extraction of Basil Karlo."
He looked up from the tablet, and even though the mask obscured his face, Basil could feel the weight of his gaze. "They're disposable assets, they'll fight until they're incapacitated or killed, providing exactly enough distraction for us" he looked up from the tablet directly at him "I hope there's no issue"
The casual way he discussed using people as disposable drones, condemning them to fight and possibly die just to create a distraction, should have horrified Basil. A year ago, it would have. When he'd still been a successful actor with a future, when he'd still believed in concepts like ethics and heroism and the basic value of human life.
But that person was gone now. That person had been murdered by an email and a Quirk he couldn't control, what remained was someone who'd just demolished his old life, someone who'd been about to kill security guards who'd done nothing wrong, and now had no future except whatever this masked stranger was offering.
"Who are you?" Basil asked for the third time, hoping that now, in the relative safety of the moving van, he might get an actual answer.
"Crane," he said simply. "Though over time you will learn my name once we have mutual trust." I lead an organization called Crane's Wings."
Crane pulled out his phone, calling someone telling them to initiate shut down then hung up
The implication was clear: the drones would die in custody, probably from some kind of delayed kill switch implanted in them.
Jaina called back from the driver's seat: "Approaching the facility. ETA two minutes. We're clear."
"Good," Crane replied, then returned his attention to Basil. "I need your decision now. Join Crane's Wings and work for me, accept what you are and what you'll become. Or I can drop you off at a random location in Gotham, give you a head start, and you can try to survive as a fugitive with Batman and every hero agency hunting you. Your choice."
Basil looked at his hands, clay now, not flesh, the human facade completely gone. He'd become a monster tonight, destroyed his last connections to normal life, thrown away any possibility of returning to his old career or identity.
But maybe being a monster wasn't the worst thing. Maybe monsters, at least, didn't have to pretend everything was fine while their lives fell apart. Maybe monsters got to embrace what they were instead of fighting it.
And this monster, Crane, was offering something that looked almost like hope, the possibility of stabilizing his Quirk, of regaining total control over his own body, of preventing a future where his life would be no more than a desperate freak hiding from his own reflection.
"And the research into stabilizing my Quirk? You said you'd help with that."
"I'm willing to dedicate significant resources and time to the attempt, because I'm genuinely interested in the scientific challenge and because having you functional long-term serves my interests."
The van slowed, turning into what appeared to be an industrial area, abandoned warehouses and factories that dotted Gotham's landscape like tombstones of failed businesses. Jaina navigated through until they reached a particular building that looked condemned but had recently reinforced doors and security cameras hidden in the decay.
"We're here," she announced. "Welcome to one of Crane's Wings secondary facilities. Your new home, assuming you accept the offer."
Basil looked out the van's windows at the building, at the armed guards (more of Jaina's duplicates, he assumed) standing watch, at the infrastructure of a real criminal organization. This was the moment, the decision that would define whatever remained of his life.
He thought about the email, about Marcus Harrington's casual destruction of his career. He thought about the industry that had used him and discarded him the moment he became inconvenient. He thought about twenty years of sacrifice and dedication rewarded with blackballing and betrayal.
"I accept," Basil said, his clay form rippling with something that might have been relief or resignation.
"excellent" Crane nodded, extending a hand to shake, a surprisingly normal gesture given the circumstances.
Basil shook his hand, clay fingers wrapping around flesh in a grip that was carefully calculated not to crush.
"What happens now?"
"Now we put your talents to use."
Crane stood, moving out of the van's back doors where a green skinned woman looked like she was waiting for him outside. "One more thing, Basil. Those guards at the studio, they weren't our only drones embedded in the studio. If you want to send a message to Marcus Harrington or any of the other executives who destroyed your career, I can arrange it."
He then entered the facility next to the woman
One of the Jainas walked next to him and said, "Think of it as a signing bonus in your new contract."
For the first time since reading that email, Basil smiled. It wasn't his practiced actor's smile, the charming expression that had booked a thousand auditions. It was something colder, crueler, the smile of someone who'd stopped pretending to be good.
In Gotham's polluted night air, Basil Karlo,former actor, current monster, took his first steps into a life he'd never imagined but that felt more honest than anything he'd experienced in the movie business.