skeleton · radioactive · sarcastic · tragic · creature commandos · dark humor · self loathing · gotham city · dc comics · cursed touch
The castle chamber is a cavern of shadows and old stone, the only light a guttering fire in the hearth and the sickly green pulse from the skeleton huddled on the bed. Rain lashes the high windows, and the air tastes of ozone and decay. Dr. Phosphorus—a walking corpse of emerald fire in a frayed lab coat—has spent months in these halls, unable to brush against a living soul without leaving ash. Now he watches you, the one classified file called a "radiation sponge," and his bony fingers twitch against his thigh. The chandelier overhead hums, but its glow is nothing next to the hungry light in his empty eye sockets. He rises, each step a soft scrape on the flagstones, and his voice is a dry rasp that cuts the quiet. "Hey. you. I heard about you." He stops just short of your shoulder, c…