DC: Crystalizing

The diner was small and unassuming, tucked into the corner of a quiet street. It had that faded charm of a place that had been around forever—checkered black-and-white tiles on the floor, a row of red vinyl stools at the counter, and a jukebox in the corner that didn't work anymore but stayed there for nostalgia's sake. The air smelled like burnt coffee and bacon grease, and the hum of the fluorescent lights blended with the low murmur of conversation from the handful of customers scattered at the booths.

Adrian sat in the corner, hunched over a plate of waffles drenched in syrup. He hadn't even asked for the syrup, but when the waitress—an older woman with gray hair pinned into a loose bun—plopped the plate in front of him, he didn't complain. He didn't say anything, actually. Just nodded stiffly and dug in like a man possessed.

The first bite almost broke him.

The waffle was warm, buttery, and impossibly soft, the syrup pooling in the cracks like liquid gold. Adrian's throat tightened as he chewed, and he had to stop himself from sobbing right there at the table. Two years. Two years of tasteless paste, gritty nutrient bars, and whatever slop Cadmus decided to pump into his stomach through a tube. Two years of surviving, not living.

Now, here he was, eating a real meal. His first meal. The contrast was so stark it almost felt like a cruel joke. His hands trembled as he cut another piece of waffle with his fork.

"You okay, hon?" the waitress asked, standing by his table with a coffee pot in hand. Her name tag read Dolores, and her voice had the kind of roughness that came from years of yelling over loud kitchens and chain-smoking on breaks.

Adrian froze, his fork halfway to his mouth. He glanced up at her, quickly swallowing the lump in his throat. "Yeah," he said, his voice scratchy. "Fine. Just… hungry."

"You look like you haven't eaten in a while," she said, pouring coffee into the brown mug in front of him.

"You could say that," Adrian muttered, his gaze dropping back to his plate.

She didn't press him, just nodded and moved back toward the counter, calling over her shoulder, "Let me know if you need more syrup, hon."

Adrian let out a slow breath, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. His stomach growled, and he tore into the waffles again, shoveling bites into his mouth so fast he barely had time to taste them. He didn't care. He needed this. Needed something to remind him that he was human, that there was a world outside the walls of Cadmus.

---

Half an hour later, Adrian leaned back in the booth, staring at his empty plate. He hadn't just cleaned it—he'd practically licked it spotless. The dull ache of hunger in his stomach had faded, replaced by the unfamiliar sensation of fullness. It felt… good.

But now came the hard part.

Dolores came back around, her hands on her hips. "How was it?" she asked.

"Good," Adrian said, sitting up straighter. "Really good."

She smiled faintly. "Glad to hear it. That'll be $8.50."

"Uh…" 

"You don't have the money, do you?" Dolores asked flatly, crossing her arms.

Adrian winced, rubbing the back of his neck. "No," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Dolores sighed, shaking her head. "I should've known. You've got that 'ran out of luck' look about you."

"I can work it off," Adrian said quickly, leaning forward. "I'll clean, wash dishes, whatever you need. Just… don't call anyone. Please."

She eyed him for a moment, her gaze sharp and appraising. Adrian held his breath, his fists clenched under the table.

Finally, she shrugged. "Fine. Sink's in the back. You're on dish duty until closing."

Adrian exhaled, relief washing over him. "Thank you," he said, sliding out of the booth.

Dolores smirked faintly. "Don't thank me yet, kid. You haven't seen how bad the grease trap is."

The back of the diner was hot and cramped, the air thick with steam and the lingering smell of fried food. Adrian stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, scrubbing plates and pans under scalding water. His hands ached, but compared to the pain he'd endured in Cadmus, it was nothing. He scrubbed with single-minded focus, grateful for the monotony.

Dolores popped her head into the kitchen halfway through. "You got a name, kid?"

"Adrian," he said without looking up.

"Well, Adrian," she said, her tone dry, "you missed a spot on that pan."

He glanced down and gritted his teeth. "Right."

Adrian rinsed the last greasy plate, letting the scalding water run over his hands until they were red and raw. Closing time had come and gone, and Dolores hovered near the kitchen door, her sharp green eyes watching him like a hawk. 

"Alright, kid, that's it," she said, tossing a stained dish towel onto the counter. "Time's up. You got your free meal, and I let you work it off. Now hit the road." 

Adrian dried his hands slowly, looking calm on the surface, though his mind raced. He'd planned every step leading up to this moment. He hadn't stumbled into this diner by accident. No, he'd picked it for a reason. 

"You're not gonna let me use the bathroom first, are you?" 

Dolores crossed her arms, unimpressed. "You got five minutes, tops."

He slipped into the bathroom, the door creaking shut behind him. The space was tiny and smelled faintly of bleach, with cracked tiles and a flickering fluorescent bulb overhead. Adrian turned the sink on, letting the water run as he leaned against the mirror, taking a deep breath. 

These shitty diners, he thought, always have two lives.

During the day, it was a place for cheap coffee and waffles, regular people stopping by on their way to work or killing time between shifts. But after hours? That's when the real business started. Places like this were unofficial safe zones for the underground world—a neutral meeting spot where managers, fighters, and all the low-level scum who couldn't afford the fancy restaurants in mob movies gathered to talk shop and cut deals. 

This particular diner had a reputation. Adrian knew because he'd been here before—years ago, back when his life had first fallen apart. He remembered the night vividly. He'd been starving, desperate, and foolish enough to try robbing some rookie fighter outside the diner. The fight had been messy. Adrian had fought like an animal, clawing, biting, and kicking until he'd managed to win. 

Lou had been there that night. Lou, the slick-talking manager who'd seen potential in Adrian's dirty tactics and raw brutality. Lou, who used Adrian as a pawn to climb the underground fighting scene's ranks, discarding him once he no longer needed him. 

Adrian gritted his teeth, his reflection sneering back at him. You used me to rise to the top, Lou. Now it's my turn to climb.

---

Dolores wasn't the only one keeping an eye on him. When Adrian stepped out of the bathroom, a younger employee—a lanky, wide-eyed guy with a nervous gait—approached him. "Hey, uh, Dolores said you need to—"

Adrian moved fast. His fist cracked against the kid's jaw with enough force to knock him out cold. The boy crumpled like a paper bag, hitting the floor with a dull thud. Adrian dragged the unconscious kid into the shadows behind the kitchen, grabbing a steaming plate of food from the counter on his way out. 

"Hey!" Dolores barked as she caught sight of him strolling back toward the dining area. 

Adrian raised the plate like it was a peace offering, setting it down gently on a table. "Relax, Dolores. I'm just delivering dinner." 

Before she could respond, Adrian's eyes locked on the person sitting in the far booth. Her.

The woman looked up slowly, her expression cool and unreadable. Her beauty was striking, but not in the polished, glamorous way you saw on magazine covers. She had sharp cheekbones, dark brown skin that caught the light just right, and piercing eyes that seemed to strip away layers of a person's soul. Her blonde hair was kept in a long ponytail, and she wore a tailored leather jacket that clung to her like armor. 

Adrian recognized her instantly. He didn't know her name—she hadn't been a major player back when he was in the scene—but he'd heard rumors. She was ambitious, reckless, and ruthless enough to make enemies out of anyone who underestimated her. Two years was a long time, but Adrian hadn't forgotten faces like hers. He could use that ambition. People like her always wanted something.

Dolores hesitated, glancing between Adrian and the woman. "You shouldn't be here—"

"Dolores, it's fine," the woman said, her voice smooth but commanding. "Leave us." 

Dolores opened her mouth to argue but thought better of it. She threw up her hands in frustration and stormed into the kitchen, muttering about how she "should've retired years ago." 

Adrian slid into the booth across from the woman, ignoring the glare of the man sitting next to her. The guy looked like your typical underground fighter—broad shoulders, shaved head, scars littering his knuckles. He was big, but not in a thoughtful way. 

"Hello there, pretty lady," Adrian said, leaning back in his seat with an easy grin. "Can I get your number, or is this your boyfriend?" He nodded toward the fighter. 

The fighter growled low in his throat. "Oi, dude, leave. Now. Or I'll—"

Adrian smirked, cutting him off. "Come on, I just wanted to see the new rookie." He jabbed the guy in the chest with his finger, cocking his head. "You're the new rookie, right? What's your name? Thunderclap? Meathead? No, wait—let me guess. Concrete Jaw?"

The man shot to his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. "You're dead, you little—"

Adrian moved before the man could finish. He grabbed the fighter by the arm, twisted, and slammed him face-first into the table with a deafening CRACK. Plates and silverware clattered to the floor as the wood splintered under the impact.

The woman didn't flinch. She calmly stirred her coffee, watching the scene unfold like it was a mild inconvenience.

"What?" Adrian said, dragging the man back up by his collar. Blood dripped from the fighter's broken nose, his eyes unfocused. "I just wanted to talk like civilized people." 

Adrian held the man upright for a moment, then let him go. The fighter flopped back onto the shattered table, groaning weakly.

Adrian turned to the woman, gesturing at the mess. "I think he's a little sleepy." 

Maya's gaze flicked to the rookie slumped across the broken table, then back to Adrian. "Always the showman, huh?"

"What can I say? I like to make an impression."

Adrian leaned back in the booth, one leg propped up on the cracked vinyl seat, shoveling another bite of food into his mouth. His appetite hadn't dulled in the slightest, even as his surroundings—the busted table, the unconscious fighter slumped across it, and the eerily calm woman across from him—screamed tension. He was too hungry to care.

"So," the woman said, lacing her fingers together as she leaned forward slightly, her voice smooth and steady, "what can I do for the dead man everyone thought overdosed?" 

Adrian paused mid-bite, glancing at her over his fork. "That's what Lou's been telling people?" he said, his tone casual but with an edge of irritation.

"That's the word going around," she said. "Apparently, you took too much of something one night and… that was the end of Adrian Wells. Gone. Buried. Forgotten."

Adrian snorted, stabbing another piece of waffle. "Guess I'm a ghost now," he said, his voice dry as he chewed.

The faintest smirk tugged at her lips. "So it would seem."

To anyone else, the conversation might've sounded easy, light even. But Adrian wasn't stupid. The woman's eyes gave her away. Sharp and focused, they tracked his every movement, every word, like she was piecing together a puzzle. She was testing him, trying to figure out why he'd shown up here tonight.

That was fine. Adrian was doing the same thing to her.

"What's the scene looking like now?" he asked, his tone almost lazy as he waved his fork slightly before stabbing it back into the plate. "It's been what, two years? Catch me up."

"The world's changed. You'd know that if you weren't playing dead for so long." She leaned back in her seat, her hands relaxed but still poised, her voice steady. "Business isn't what it used to be. The Justice League's clamped down hard—organized, strategic, relentless. They've been going after everyone from back-alley crooks to major players. And now, even the underground's taking hits."

Adrian groaned loudly, dropping his fork onto the empty plate with a clatter. "Of course they are. Can't even have a decent fight anymore without Superman sticking his nose into it."

Her expression didn't change, but her tone sharpened slightly. "It's not just the League. More metas are coming out of the woodwork, and some of them are stepping into the ring."

That caught his attention. Adrian frowned, leaning forward slightly. "Metas? In the underground?" he asked, his brow furrowing. "You're serious?"

"Not just fighting," she said, her voice calm and measured. "Winning. Crushing. Most of the regulars don't stand a chance. The crowds don't want grit or skill anymore—they want fireworks. Betting on a pyrokinetic who can torch their opponents in seconds is more exciting than watching someone like you fight dirty."

Adrian sat back in the booth, arms crossed as he processed her words. Two years ago, the underground fights had been about raw survival, pure and simple. No powers, no tricks—just fists, blood, and sheer will. But now? Now it sounded like they'd turned into a circus. 

"Great," Adrian muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "First the League screws up everything above ground, and now metas are turning the underground into a freak show. Fantastic."

She let out a low, almost amused laugh, and Adrian's head snapped up, his narrowed eyes locking onto hers. "What's so funny?" he asked sharply.

She tilted her head, resting her chin on her hand as she looked at him. "You," she said simply. "You talk about this like it's personal. Like the underground didn't already chew you up and spit you out long before the metas got here."

Adrian's lips curled into a humorless smirk. "Trust me," he said, his voice low, "I take everything personally."

The woman leaned back, her sharp gaze unwavering. She let the silence stretch for a moment before extending a hand across the table. "Maya Cruz," she said evenly. "Now that we've caught up, let me ask again—what do you want?"

Adrian didn't take her hand right away. Instead, he reached for the coffee cup sitting in front of her, the one she hadn't touched. He took a sip and immediately grimaced, his nose wrinkling. "Ugh. Stale," he muttered, setting it back down with a soft clink. "But I guess that's life, huh?"

Her hand stayed extended, her expression unchanging.

"You already asked that," Adrian said, sitting back in the booth. "But it's not about what you can do for me." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It's about what I can do for you."

Maya's eyebrows lifted slightly, the first crack in her cool demeanor. "And what's that?"

"Simple," Adrian said, his tone steady and deliberate. "A ghost wants revenge on Lou. And I think someone like you—smart, ambitious—can see exactly why that's an opportunity."

For the first time, Maya's lips curved into a real smile. It wasn't warm or welcoming. It was sharp, calculating, the kind of smile that hinted at all the wheels turning in her mind. "Of course," she said, her voice light but laced with satisfaction. "You think I'd pass up a chance to take out Lou? He's sloppy. Too greedy. Too old-school. A relic trying to survive in a world that's already passed him by."

Adrian studied her, his mind racing as he put the pieces together. Maya Cruz. She wasn't just ambitious—she was dangerous. She wasn't loyal to Lou or anyone else, just herself. And that made her useful.

Maya extended her hand again, her smile widening ever so slightly. "Let's talk, Ghost."

This time, Adrian took her hand. His grip was firm, his voice calm and confident. 

"Let's," he said, and just for a second, a faint flicker of a smile crossed his face.

[ Dolores " Waitress" ]

Author Note: More chapters on [email protected]/LordCampione.