![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seriousficTitle: Duality
Fandom: Nolanverse Batman, Superman Returns
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3,244
Characters/Pairings: Dick/Babs, Jason Todd, Tim Drake
Acknowledgments: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
damo_in_japan for betaing this.
Previous Part: Chapter 7
Next Part: Chapter 9
Summary: Gotham gears up for a night like no other.
The nightmares weren’t melodramatic replays of past events, but a feeling of dread and powerlessness. No details, just fear. Barbara didn’t wake up screaming. She wasn’t sure she woke up at all. The feeling persisted even after she stripped off her sweat-soaked nightgown and got under a warm shower. When she looked at her body, the ugly bruises she’d received stood out like an outbreak of some virulent disease. She quickly covered them up with a shower robe. Brushed her teeth, gargled mouthwash, considered make-up before deciding to go without.
When Barbara opened her closet to find something to wear, she almost screamed.
The costume she’d made last night hung in her closet like a criminal at the gallows, stirring organically in the breeze from the air duct. Barbara reached out to still it. It was leather, meant for her costume at the next Renfaire. She’d turned it into… armor, almost in a fugue state. Like a primal scream woven into existence.
Barbara checked her clock. It was early, everyone was still asleep. She tried on the costume. Her hair ruined the line of the skintight cowl, so she let out the headpiece in the back. Needed a cape (to keep people from ogling her butt if nothing else) but as was, she felt powerful. Even with bare feet, she felt powerful. She’d need boots, yellow to match the symbol and the belt… she’d need one of those too, maybe a spray-painted gun-belt from the army surplus store.
But… why? Thoughts of animal totems and avatars flowed through her head. No! She shook her head. She was too old to play dress-up.
It wasn’t until Barbara went downstairs for breakfast that she saw the invitation to Bruce Wayne’s costume ball.
***
The leader of the Wonder Boys was a guy who claimed he was Batman’s kid. He said his name was Justin Thomas, although he didn’t say Batman’s last name was Thomas. And he seemed a little scrawny to be the Bat’s blood, with wiry hair and a neurotic face that scrunched up when he was displeased. His voice was usually genial, almost stuttering, but when he got real mad it became frigid, like there was a wild animal or something digging around in his guts. Jason liked him well enough…didn’t like him well enough to sleep on the dude’s couch, but unlike a lot of “philanthropists” Jason’d met, Justin never offered. Jason wasn’t sure he slept anyway. Dude’s eyes were permanently bloodshot when they weren’t behind mirrored sunglasses.
Wonder Boys also didn’t do half the shit people said they did. They weren’t a bunch of ex-GIs who set bums on fire or a rape gang that chased down the no-speaka-engrish types. Mostly they just hung out, shooting dice and playing cards. Course, they did it on sidewalks and stopes where they could give the evil eye to any dealer or buyer that showed. Pukes ran like their butts were on fire soon as they saw the colors: Red on green. Wonder Boys.
When they weren’t on patrol (Justin’s words), they went to one of the for-hours and worked in groups. Bossman might gyp one guy, but not twelve. But that wasn’t on the agenda for today. Today’s mission: Some tycoon, name of William Earle, hadda plan to gentrify Gotham Park. No more shantytown by the lagoon. Parkers were xenophobes, which could be expected of anyone that banded together for survival. Even if they weren’t any good to outsiders, they didn’t deserve to get thrown out of their homes.
Gordon was saying he had better things to do than rouse a few bums, so Earle had brought in Luthor Security, a private army with badges. Rumor had it they were parking tear gas, and plenty of it. After seeing what a wonderland they’d made of Metropolis, wasn’t any doubt Team Luthor was there as animal control ‘steada riot control.
So they marched. Jason thought it was a bunch of reheated sixties bullshit, but it wasn’t like it could do any harm. Besides, when the protest fell through and the riot batons came out, Justin would need good soldiers to fight back. Good soldiers always followed orders, even when it was boring.
Course, soldiers also got R&R. Jason skipped the fourth round of Creedence Clearwater Revival to find some peace and quiet. What he got was a water fountain where the chanting and slogans were only a distant pounding. After a nice, quenching drink, he noticed the guy sitting on a bench nearby. Kid, really, bout his age, mebbe thirteen or older, but dressed in a windbreaker ‘n’ striped tie like a private schoolie. Maybe Brentwood, up north. It would fit the whole “preppie padawan” look he was rocking. Schmuck was even wearing glasses. What, like mommy and daddy couldn’t afford contacts? Nerd.
Still, the geek had good taste in reading material. His Gotham Gazette was flipped to Chloe Sullivan’s column, Wall of Weird, formerly Batwatch. Supposedly they’d changed the name because of all the other freaks that were popping up, but Jason thought it had more to do with those wristwatches with the Bat on their clock faces.
Jay was in luck. Today’s edition had a big picture of Sullivan to go with the story and she was sporting some fine Chloevage. Jason let out a wolf-whistle. Nerd-boy lowered the newspaper to look at him.
“Sorry, you’re not my type.”
Jason sat down next to him, effeminately crossing his legs and folding his hands. “Gold-digger. Relax, house boy, I was talking to the lady.”
“You’re not her type either.”
“I’m every woman’s type, Poindexter.”
“If you’re going to talk to me, at least get my name right. I’m Drake. Tim Drake. And you’re unbelievable. Events are going on that are reshaping the world and all you can think about is sex. Batman and Superman, arguing. Aren’t you the least bit curious what that’s about?”
Jason pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, clapped the end of it to settle the nicotine. “Maybe it’s dif’rent for you, Timmy, but a Supes-Bat lover’s quarrel ain’t gonna rock my world. Now Chloe Sullivan’s world, that I’d like to rock.
Tim noted the brand of cigarettes. It was manufactured with the cheapest of tar. Not that it took a detective to figure this one out, but every little bit helped. “You like being poor?”
Deadpan, Jason rolled the cigarette between his lips with the end of his tongue, until it was hanging from the corner of his mouth. “What do I look like to you, the fucking Buddha? Course not.”
Tim resolutely folded his newspaper closed. “You don’t learn to think with the big head, you’re never gonna stop being poor.“
Jason lit a match off Tim’s cheek. Tim started and cocked his head at him, the flame between them.
“Yeah, I get an A on the multi-choice, they make me a real, middle-class suburbanite boy.” Jason brought the match back to light his cigarette, then shook it out. “Jesus Christ, the teachers must love you.”
“Least I go to school.”
“Least my little head gets a hat once in a while.”
“Was that an euphemism?”
Jason blew smoke in his face. “No, I was talking ‘bout sex.”
The newspaper waved between them, knocking the cigarette smoke away. “I get plenty of action.”
“Which base?”
“All of ‘em.”
“Where?”
“Backseat of my dad’s car.”
“Whazzer name?”
“Ariana.”
“Liar.”
“She’s Russian.”
Finished with his cigarette, Jason flicked the butt away. “You should’ve said Roy or Conner. Would’ve believed ya.“
A thin tendril of smoke was still oozing out of the cigarette butt. Tim stood up, folding the newspaper under his arm, and stepped on the cigarette. He gave Jason a hard look.
“Haven’t you ever gotten the feeling that something big is happening, coming?”
Jason just looked at him. “The biggest thing that will ever happen to us is dying.” Then he shrugged. “Well, me, anyway. Maybe you’ll marry Jessica Simpson, I don’t know.”
“Hey, you Jason Todd?” a gruff voice asked from behind.
Jason looked over his shoulder. A solidly-built man of about fifty was marching toward them, a protest sign slung over his shoulder. His hair was shot through with gray, as was his thick mustache. His midsection was doughty, but the set of his shoulders and the way he carried himself marked that he had been at least somewhat athletic before going to seed.
Tim, who’d been slouching back on his heels, jerked to attention in the man’s presence.
“Justin wants you,” the man continued, gesturing with his sign. “Tim, what’re you doing lazing around here? The media just got there, we need every warm body in the picket line.”
Tim jerked his head up and down, then climbed over the bench to accompany him back to the protest. Jason growled at him, then twitched up to follow them. He fell into lockstep with Tim, who was trailing behind his father.
“You’re here to save the park?”
“My dad’s idea,” Tim said, gesturing forward. “Liberal street cred.”
Jason grabbed his hand and gave it a quick, jiving shake. “Jason Todd.”
“Still Tim Drake.”
“But now I care.” Jason walked past him, turning to address him before they hit the protest crowd. “Don’t get to know people like me. Not if you want to stay Tim Drake.”
Tim watched him disappear in the crowd. After a moment, he broke from his father’s side and ran after him. Jason was easy to find by the patched army jacket he wore, a size or two too big for him, the sleeves folded up to let his hands out, clad in fingerless gloves.
“Whaddya want, my number?” Jason barked.
Tim held out the newspaper. “Get to know your world. Consider it a favor.”
Jason looked from the newspaper to Tim, then reluctantly took it. “I’m only taking this for the funnies. After that, it’s TP.”
“Whatever.”
“Tim, goddamnit, I turn my back for five seconds…”
Tim looked over his shoulder. “Gotta go. And you know there are places, right? That help people like…”
“Stop right there.”
“Tim, come on!” Jack Drake shouted.
“So that’s what they call a family these days,” Jason said as Tim went back. He looked at the newspaper’s headline before jamming it into his jacket. “Must be nice.”
***
“You still got your wallet,” Jack Drake asked as soon as Tim returned.
Tim considered turning out his pockets, just to prove the point, but instead he just patted his back pocket. “He went ten whole minutes without robbing someone. Downright polite of him.”
Jack threw up his hands in surrender. “I get it, I get it. You just can’t be too careful in this city, with these people. Maybe it’s not politically correct, but it’s a fact.” He reached into his pocket. “As long as you’re growing a social consciousness, maybe you can go as Oliver Twist. Mr. Wayne just gave me this.”
He held out an invitation to Bruce Wayne’s costume ball.
“Dana’s even getting some time off from the hospital, so the whole family’s going. I hope that includes you.”
Tim’s eyes lit up as an idea occurred to him. “I get to go as whoever I want?”
Jack smiled warmly. “Just so long as it’s not Madonna.”
“One Halloween and you never let me forget it!”
“Oh, I’m young, I’ve got lots of Timothy-embarrassing years left in me. C’mere!” Jack grabbed Tim and gave him a noogie. “Just wait until you start dating!”
***
Dick had that familiar feeling, that familiar skin-don’t-fit feeling. He felt like he could burst out of his clothes and rocket into the sky. The bus was grinding down the street so slow and if only he had enough money to buy a good, fast car… and keep it fueled…
At last, the bus clunked to a stop outside the Lake Gotham Housing District. Artless monoliths of housing complexes rose up around the polluted shores of Lake Gotham, its sole redeeming feature the tourist trap miniaturized version of the Lady of Justice that was erected in the middle of the lake. For some environmental reason, the sludge-like water now came up to her ankles. From the bus, Dick could see her torch down the long, straight shoot of a main street.
“I’ll walk from here,” Dick said. He was the only person getting off.
The sidewalk was cracked, as if the decades-old concrete had developed a network of varicose veins. Tufts of grass shot through the cracks. They brushed Dick’s sneakers as he ran. His parents had told him to be home thirty minutes after school. With roadwork and traffic, the bus ride took twenty minutes. If he took a short-cut, he could make it home from the bus-stop in five minutes. That just left the phone booth.
He skidded to a stop in front of it. The glass was spray-painted black where it wasn’t broken. With some effort, Dick unstuck the door. Unsurprisingly, there were wild animals inside. Dick jumped back as a murder of crows flew out of the phone booth. Thankfully, the handset was undamaged except for some chipping in the black enamel. Dick dropped his coins in the slot and dialed Babs’s cell. On the fourth ring, she picked up.
“Barb… Barbara Gordon’s phone,” she said haltingly, like she hadn’t expected to use her voice that day and had thrown it on in a hurry.
“Barbara? It’s Dick.”
Her voice warmed a little. “Oh. Hey.”
“I know what happened. One of the guys at school has a police-band radio. Babs, I’m so sorry.”
There was silence on the other end, except for the hoarse strain of her breathing. Higher than before.
“I told him not to tell anyone else. You can tell the school whenever, or not at all. Either’s cool.”
He could tell her throat was dry. “Thanks.”
“So, you wanna talk about it?”
“What do you think?”
There was another long silence as Dick’s precious seconds ticked away.
“Why are you calling from a pay-phone?” Barbara asked.
“The ‘rents took away my cell-phone privileges. I have to go straight home after school. But I can still see you in class, between classes, lunch…”
“Daddy’s insisting I take the week off from school. Pretty funny, huh?”
Dick didn’t laugh. “Baby, I can’t tell you how much I want to be there for you…”
“You are there for me.” Barbara said, as vehement as he’d ever heard her. Dick’s clutch on the phone tightened. “Just hearing your voice… it helps so much.”
“I’ll bum a cell-phone from one of the freshmen. Call you every minute.”
Over the phone line, Barbara sniffled. “Could you get my homework for me too? I don’t wanna fall behind.”
“My pleasure. Anything else I can do?”
“Just… be you.”
Dick squeezed his eyes shut. There were a lot of things he was trying not to think about. “I’ll try.”
“These last few weeks have been—“ she trailed off.
“Yeah, me too. I gotta go. You’re the coolest person I’ve ever met,” he added.
“Thanks.”
“Gotta go.”
“Bye.”
“I swear I’ll call you.”
“No big.”
***
Shaking off his umbrella, Oswald Cobblepot got into his limousine. It was white as ivory and long as his sins.
That goddamn Batman! Again! That caped clod had intercepted a shipment of designer “party favors,” risking the patronage of his more elite clientele… the social high-class to which Cobblepot aspired.
He tapped the hook of his umbrella on the divider. “Driver, home.”
The limo slid into motion. Oswald had once dismissed Batman as an obstacle… the vigilante was good for tourism and made people feel safe. Safe people asked less questions. But now the Bat was interfering with his business, which could get undue attention coming from Cobblepot’s boss.
The limo sped through an intersection.
“Driver, you missed a turn.”
The limo didn’t slow down. In fact, it sped up. Cobblepot’s idiot chauffeur was humming zippily.
“Maury, what’s wrong with you!” Oswald cried.
The black glass divider slid open, revealing the familiar chauffeur’s uniform and the very unfamiliar man within. His skin was drained of whatever color it might once have had until it resembled nothing so much as the polished white of a death’s head. Toxic green hair poked out from beneath the cap, which the man tipped to Cobblepot.
“Maury couldn’t make it on account of a slight case of death. I’m your new driver. Road trip!”
He stomped on the gas. Cobblepot was slammed back in his seat by the sudden acceleration. Through the sunroof he saw them pass under the red stoplight. Car horns exploded in angry protest.
“Who the devil are you?” Cobblepot demanded, scrambling to buckle his seatbelt.
“Who the devil? Who, the devil… snappy, but taken.” He smiled slowly, displaying a truly gruesome grin – one that seemed to stretch his face to the breaking point and show every tooth in his shark-like maw. “Voltaire said that God was a comedian playing to an audience too afraid to laugh… I’m the man who laughs, the finger in the French fries, the wild card in the deck— the Joker! Pleased to meet ya, Pengy!”
Cobblepot huffed disdainfully. “I am not a penguin. I am a human being!”
“Oh, like that says anything in this town. ‘Human’ is a rather loose definition these days,” Joker said, mock-sadly… even pouting. “All those freaks out and about, how’s an honest crook like yourself to feel safe? Ooh, jaywalker.”
There was a sharp, sudden thump just before the Joker stomped on the brakes. Cobblepot was thrown forward, gagging on the seatbelt before it threw him back against his seat. The Joker leapt up in his seat to try to see over the hood.
“Must’ve been my imagination,” he said, scratching his head. “On we go.”
“No, wait---“
The car jolted upward twice.
“Speed bumps: They’re getting bigger each year.” The Joker howled laughter, banging his fist on the horn. The honking gave a bass line to his insane cackle.
“You’re out of your mind,” Cobblepot said casually.
“I’m profoundly in it, actually, although I must confess to a few bats in my belfry. But that’s a point in my favor! Send a loon to catch a loon!”
“What are you talking about, you colossal cretin?”
The Joker threw the limousine into a dime turn, running through a crosswalk. A pedestrian’s legs were knocked out from under him. He rolled onto the car hood, up the windshield, across the roof, and finally landed on the trunk. Cobblepot gnashed his teeth as he saw the victim cling to the rear pinchweld. Frowning, the Joker adjusted the rearview mirror, then stepped on the brakes. The pedestrian was rammed into the windshield, cracking it and his head. Joker stepped on the gas and the pedestrian rolled off.
“Batman!” the Joker continued, as if there’d been no interruption. “What else is worth talking about? You want him, I want him, why not split him 50/50? With my brains, charisma, daring and vision; coupled with your… money, the dork knight doesn’t stand a chance!”
“And why should I hire you instead of someone…”
“With the toy still in their Happy Meal?”
“Quite so.”
“Well, for starters, I’ll kill you if you don’t. Second, because I might cry.”
The Joker sniffled and made doe-eyes at Cobblepot. Then leveled a gun at him. His voice was deathly serious. “So how’s about it, Ozzy? Shall we kill the Batman?”
Fandom: Nolanverse Batman, Superman Returns
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3,244
Characters/Pairings: Dick/Babs, Jason Todd, Tim Drake
Acknowledgments: Thanks to
damo_in_japan for betaing this.Previous Part: Chapter 7
Next Part: Chapter 9
Summary: Gotham gears up for a night like no other.
The nightmares weren’t melodramatic replays of past events, but a feeling of dread and powerlessness. No details, just fear. Barbara didn’t wake up screaming. She wasn’t sure she woke up at all. The feeling persisted even after she stripped off her sweat-soaked nightgown and got under a warm shower. When she looked at her body, the ugly bruises she’d received stood out like an outbreak of some virulent disease. She quickly covered them up with a shower robe. Brushed her teeth, gargled mouthwash, considered make-up before deciding to go without.
When Barbara opened her closet to find something to wear, she almost screamed.
The costume she’d made last night hung in her closet like a criminal at the gallows, stirring organically in the breeze from the air duct. Barbara reached out to still it. It was leather, meant for her costume at the next Renfaire. She’d turned it into… armor, almost in a fugue state. Like a primal scream woven into existence.
Barbara checked her clock. It was early, everyone was still asleep. She tried on the costume. Her hair ruined the line of the skintight cowl, so she let out the headpiece in the back. Needed a cape (to keep people from ogling her butt if nothing else) but as was, she felt powerful. Even with bare feet, she felt powerful. She’d need boots, yellow to match the symbol and the belt… she’d need one of those too, maybe a spray-painted gun-belt from the army surplus store.
But… why? Thoughts of animal totems and avatars flowed through her head. No! She shook her head. She was too old to play dress-up.
It wasn’t until Barbara went downstairs for breakfast that she saw the invitation to Bruce Wayne’s costume ball.
***
The leader of the Wonder Boys was a guy who claimed he was Batman’s kid. He said his name was Justin Thomas, although he didn’t say Batman’s last name was Thomas. And he seemed a little scrawny to be the Bat’s blood, with wiry hair and a neurotic face that scrunched up when he was displeased. His voice was usually genial, almost stuttering, but when he got real mad it became frigid, like there was a wild animal or something digging around in his guts. Jason liked him well enough…didn’t like him well enough to sleep on the dude’s couch, but unlike a lot of “philanthropists” Jason’d met, Justin never offered. Jason wasn’t sure he slept anyway. Dude’s eyes were permanently bloodshot when they weren’t behind mirrored sunglasses.
Wonder Boys also didn’t do half the shit people said they did. They weren’t a bunch of ex-GIs who set bums on fire or a rape gang that chased down the no-speaka-engrish types. Mostly they just hung out, shooting dice and playing cards. Course, they did it on sidewalks and stopes where they could give the evil eye to any dealer or buyer that showed. Pukes ran like their butts were on fire soon as they saw the colors: Red on green. Wonder Boys.
When they weren’t on patrol (Justin’s words), they went to one of the for-hours and worked in groups. Bossman might gyp one guy, but not twelve. But that wasn’t on the agenda for today. Today’s mission: Some tycoon, name of William Earle, hadda plan to gentrify Gotham Park. No more shantytown by the lagoon. Parkers were xenophobes, which could be expected of anyone that banded together for survival. Even if they weren’t any good to outsiders, they didn’t deserve to get thrown out of their homes.
Gordon was saying he had better things to do than rouse a few bums, so Earle had brought in Luthor Security, a private army with badges. Rumor had it they were parking tear gas, and plenty of it. After seeing what a wonderland they’d made of Metropolis, wasn’t any doubt Team Luthor was there as animal control ‘steada riot control.
So they marched. Jason thought it was a bunch of reheated sixties bullshit, but it wasn’t like it could do any harm. Besides, when the protest fell through and the riot batons came out, Justin would need good soldiers to fight back. Good soldiers always followed orders, even when it was boring.
Course, soldiers also got R&R. Jason skipped the fourth round of Creedence Clearwater Revival to find some peace and quiet. What he got was a water fountain where the chanting and slogans were only a distant pounding. After a nice, quenching drink, he noticed the guy sitting on a bench nearby. Kid, really, bout his age, mebbe thirteen or older, but dressed in a windbreaker ‘n’ striped tie like a private schoolie. Maybe Brentwood, up north. It would fit the whole “preppie padawan” look he was rocking. Schmuck was even wearing glasses. What, like mommy and daddy couldn’t afford contacts? Nerd.
Still, the geek had good taste in reading material. His Gotham Gazette was flipped to Chloe Sullivan’s column, Wall of Weird, formerly Batwatch. Supposedly they’d changed the name because of all the other freaks that were popping up, but Jason thought it had more to do with those wristwatches with the Bat on their clock faces.
Jay was in luck. Today’s edition had a big picture of Sullivan to go with the story and she was sporting some fine Chloevage. Jason let out a wolf-whistle. Nerd-boy lowered the newspaper to look at him.
“Sorry, you’re not my type.”
Jason sat down next to him, effeminately crossing his legs and folding his hands. “Gold-digger. Relax, house boy, I was talking to the lady.”
“You’re not her type either.”
“I’m every woman’s type, Poindexter.”
“If you’re going to talk to me, at least get my name right. I’m Drake. Tim Drake. And you’re unbelievable. Events are going on that are reshaping the world and all you can think about is sex. Batman and Superman, arguing. Aren’t you the least bit curious what that’s about?”
Jason pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, clapped the end of it to settle the nicotine. “Maybe it’s dif’rent for you, Timmy, but a Supes-Bat lover’s quarrel ain’t gonna rock my world. Now Chloe Sullivan’s world, that I’d like to rock.
Tim noted the brand of cigarettes. It was manufactured with the cheapest of tar. Not that it took a detective to figure this one out, but every little bit helped. “You like being poor?”
Deadpan, Jason rolled the cigarette between his lips with the end of his tongue, until it was hanging from the corner of his mouth. “What do I look like to you, the fucking Buddha? Course not.”
Tim resolutely folded his newspaper closed. “You don’t learn to think with the big head, you’re never gonna stop being poor.“
Jason lit a match off Tim’s cheek. Tim started and cocked his head at him, the flame between them.
“Yeah, I get an A on the multi-choice, they make me a real, middle-class suburbanite boy.” Jason brought the match back to light his cigarette, then shook it out. “Jesus Christ, the teachers must love you.”
“Least I go to school.”
“Least my little head gets a hat once in a while.”
“Was that an euphemism?”
Jason blew smoke in his face. “No, I was talking ‘bout sex.”
The newspaper waved between them, knocking the cigarette smoke away. “I get plenty of action.”
“Which base?”
“All of ‘em.”
“Where?”
“Backseat of my dad’s car.”
“Whazzer name?”
“Ariana.”
“Liar.”
“She’s Russian.”
Finished with his cigarette, Jason flicked the butt away. “You should’ve said Roy or Conner. Would’ve believed ya.“
A thin tendril of smoke was still oozing out of the cigarette butt. Tim stood up, folding the newspaper under his arm, and stepped on the cigarette. He gave Jason a hard look.
“Haven’t you ever gotten the feeling that something big is happening, coming?”
Jason just looked at him. “The biggest thing that will ever happen to us is dying.” Then he shrugged. “Well, me, anyway. Maybe you’ll marry Jessica Simpson, I don’t know.”
“Hey, you Jason Todd?” a gruff voice asked from behind.
Jason looked over his shoulder. A solidly-built man of about fifty was marching toward them, a protest sign slung over his shoulder. His hair was shot through with gray, as was his thick mustache. His midsection was doughty, but the set of his shoulders and the way he carried himself marked that he had been at least somewhat athletic before going to seed.
Tim, who’d been slouching back on his heels, jerked to attention in the man’s presence.
“Justin wants you,” the man continued, gesturing with his sign. “Tim, what’re you doing lazing around here? The media just got there, we need every warm body in the picket line.”
Tim jerked his head up and down, then climbed over the bench to accompany him back to the protest. Jason growled at him, then twitched up to follow them. He fell into lockstep with Tim, who was trailing behind his father.
“You’re here to save the park?”
“My dad’s idea,” Tim said, gesturing forward. “Liberal street cred.”
Jason grabbed his hand and gave it a quick, jiving shake. “Jason Todd.”
“Still Tim Drake.”
“But now I care.” Jason walked past him, turning to address him before they hit the protest crowd. “Don’t get to know people like me. Not if you want to stay Tim Drake.”
Tim watched him disappear in the crowd. After a moment, he broke from his father’s side and ran after him. Jason was easy to find by the patched army jacket he wore, a size or two too big for him, the sleeves folded up to let his hands out, clad in fingerless gloves.
“Whaddya want, my number?” Jason barked.
Tim held out the newspaper. “Get to know your world. Consider it a favor.”
Jason looked from the newspaper to Tim, then reluctantly took it. “I’m only taking this for the funnies. After that, it’s TP.”
“Whatever.”
“Tim, goddamnit, I turn my back for five seconds…”
Tim looked over his shoulder. “Gotta go. And you know there are places, right? That help people like…”
“Stop right there.”
“Tim, come on!” Jack Drake shouted.
“So that’s what they call a family these days,” Jason said as Tim went back. He looked at the newspaper’s headline before jamming it into his jacket. “Must be nice.”
***
“You still got your wallet,” Jack Drake asked as soon as Tim returned.
Tim considered turning out his pockets, just to prove the point, but instead he just patted his back pocket. “He went ten whole minutes without robbing someone. Downright polite of him.”
Jack threw up his hands in surrender. “I get it, I get it. You just can’t be too careful in this city, with these people. Maybe it’s not politically correct, but it’s a fact.” He reached into his pocket. “As long as you’re growing a social consciousness, maybe you can go as Oliver Twist. Mr. Wayne just gave me this.”
He held out an invitation to Bruce Wayne’s costume ball.
“Dana’s even getting some time off from the hospital, so the whole family’s going. I hope that includes you.”
Tim’s eyes lit up as an idea occurred to him. “I get to go as whoever I want?”
Jack smiled warmly. “Just so long as it’s not Madonna.”
“One Halloween and you never let me forget it!”
“Oh, I’m young, I’ve got lots of Timothy-embarrassing years left in me. C’mere!” Jack grabbed Tim and gave him a noogie. “Just wait until you start dating!”
***
Dick had that familiar feeling, that familiar skin-don’t-fit feeling. He felt like he could burst out of his clothes and rocket into the sky. The bus was grinding down the street so slow and if only he had enough money to buy a good, fast car… and keep it fueled…
At last, the bus clunked to a stop outside the Lake Gotham Housing District. Artless monoliths of housing complexes rose up around the polluted shores of Lake Gotham, its sole redeeming feature the tourist trap miniaturized version of the Lady of Justice that was erected in the middle of the lake. For some environmental reason, the sludge-like water now came up to her ankles. From the bus, Dick could see her torch down the long, straight shoot of a main street.
“I’ll walk from here,” Dick said. He was the only person getting off.
The sidewalk was cracked, as if the decades-old concrete had developed a network of varicose veins. Tufts of grass shot through the cracks. They brushed Dick’s sneakers as he ran. His parents had told him to be home thirty minutes after school. With roadwork and traffic, the bus ride took twenty minutes. If he took a short-cut, he could make it home from the bus-stop in five minutes. That just left the phone booth.
He skidded to a stop in front of it. The glass was spray-painted black where it wasn’t broken. With some effort, Dick unstuck the door. Unsurprisingly, there were wild animals inside. Dick jumped back as a murder of crows flew out of the phone booth. Thankfully, the handset was undamaged except for some chipping in the black enamel. Dick dropped his coins in the slot and dialed Babs’s cell. On the fourth ring, she picked up.
“Barb… Barbara Gordon’s phone,” she said haltingly, like she hadn’t expected to use her voice that day and had thrown it on in a hurry.
“Barbara? It’s Dick.”
Her voice warmed a little. “Oh. Hey.”
“I know what happened. One of the guys at school has a police-band radio. Babs, I’m so sorry.”
There was silence on the other end, except for the hoarse strain of her breathing. Higher than before.
“I told him not to tell anyone else. You can tell the school whenever, or not at all. Either’s cool.”
He could tell her throat was dry. “Thanks.”
“So, you wanna talk about it?”
“What do you think?”
There was another long silence as Dick’s precious seconds ticked away.
“Why are you calling from a pay-phone?” Barbara asked.
“The ‘rents took away my cell-phone privileges. I have to go straight home after school. But I can still see you in class, between classes, lunch…”
“Daddy’s insisting I take the week off from school. Pretty funny, huh?”
Dick didn’t laugh. “Baby, I can’t tell you how much I want to be there for you…”
“You are there for me.” Barbara said, as vehement as he’d ever heard her. Dick’s clutch on the phone tightened. “Just hearing your voice… it helps so much.”
“I’ll bum a cell-phone from one of the freshmen. Call you every minute.”
Over the phone line, Barbara sniffled. “Could you get my homework for me too? I don’t wanna fall behind.”
“My pleasure. Anything else I can do?”
“Just… be you.”
Dick squeezed his eyes shut. There were a lot of things he was trying not to think about. “I’ll try.”
“These last few weeks have been—“ she trailed off.
“Yeah, me too. I gotta go. You’re the coolest person I’ve ever met,” he added.
“Thanks.”
“Gotta go.”
“Bye.”
“I swear I’ll call you.”
“No big.”
***
Shaking off his umbrella, Oswald Cobblepot got into his limousine. It was white as ivory and long as his sins.
That goddamn Batman! Again! That caped clod had intercepted a shipment of designer “party favors,” risking the patronage of his more elite clientele… the social high-class to which Cobblepot aspired.
He tapped the hook of his umbrella on the divider. “Driver, home.”
The limo slid into motion. Oswald had once dismissed Batman as an obstacle… the vigilante was good for tourism and made people feel safe. Safe people asked less questions. But now the Bat was interfering with his business, which could get undue attention coming from Cobblepot’s boss.
The limo sped through an intersection.
“Driver, you missed a turn.”
The limo didn’t slow down. In fact, it sped up. Cobblepot’s idiot chauffeur was humming zippily.
“Maury, what’s wrong with you!” Oswald cried.
The black glass divider slid open, revealing the familiar chauffeur’s uniform and the very unfamiliar man within. His skin was drained of whatever color it might once have had until it resembled nothing so much as the polished white of a death’s head. Toxic green hair poked out from beneath the cap, which the man tipped to Cobblepot.
“Maury couldn’t make it on account of a slight case of death. I’m your new driver. Road trip!”
He stomped on the gas. Cobblepot was slammed back in his seat by the sudden acceleration. Through the sunroof he saw them pass under the red stoplight. Car horns exploded in angry protest.
“Who the devil are you?” Cobblepot demanded, scrambling to buckle his seatbelt.
“Who the devil? Who, the devil… snappy, but taken.” He smiled slowly, displaying a truly gruesome grin – one that seemed to stretch his face to the breaking point and show every tooth in his shark-like maw. “Voltaire said that God was a comedian playing to an audience too afraid to laugh… I’m the man who laughs, the finger in the French fries, the wild card in the deck— the Joker! Pleased to meet ya, Pengy!”
Cobblepot huffed disdainfully. “I am not a penguin. I am a human being!”
“Oh, like that says anything in this town. ‘Human’ is a rather loose definition these days,” Joker said, mock-sadly… even pouting. “All those freaks out and about, how’s an honest crook like yourself to feel safe? Ooh, jaywalker.”
There was a sharp, sudden thump just before the Joker stomped on the brakes. Cobblepot was thrown forward, gagging on the seatbelt before it threw him back against his seat. The Joker leapt up in his seat to try to see over the hood.
“Must’ve been my imagination,” he said, scratching his head. “On we go.”
“No, wait---“
The car jolted upward twice.
“Speed bumps: They’re getting bigger each year.” The Joker howled laughter, banging his fist on the horn. The honking gave a bass line to his insane cackle.
“You’re out of your mind,” Cobblepot said casually.
“I’m profoundly in it, actually, although I must confess to a few bats in my belfry. But that’s a point in my favor! Send a loon to catch a loon!”
“What are you talking about, you colossal cretin?”
The Joker threw the limousine into a dime turn, running through a crosswalk. A pedestrian’s legs were knocked out from under him. He rolled onto the car hood, up the windshield, across the roof, and finally landed on the trunk. Cobblepot gnashed his teeth as he saw the victim cling to the rear pinchweld. Frowning, the Joker adjusted the rearview mirror, then stepped on the brakes. The pedestrian was rammed into the windshield, cracking it and his head. Joker stepped on the gas and the pedestrian rolled off.
“Batman!” the Joker continued, as if there’d been no interruption. “What else is worth talking about? You want him, I want him, why not split him 50/50? With my brains, charisma, daring and vision; coupled with your… money, the dork knight doesn’t stand a chance!”
“And why should I hire you instead of someone…”
“With the toy still in their Happy Meal?”
“Quite so.”
“Well, for starters, I’ll kill you if you don’t. Second, because I might cry.”
The Joker sniffled and made doe-eyes at Cobblepot. Then leveled a gun at him. His voice was deathly serious. “So how’s about it, Ozzy? Shall we kill the Batman?”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2008-08-17 04:05 pm (UTC)Can't wait for the next chapter!
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Date: 2008-08-17 04:07 pm (UTC)...
Wanna chat?
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Date: 2008-08-17 04:10 pm (UTC)And sure! I've been wondering when you'd come on.
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Date: 2008-08-17 04:46 pm (UTC)I like timmy patting his pockets to show Jason didn't rob him... and Babs whee! Great chapter!
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Date: 2008-08-18 11:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-18 02:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-19 04:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-20 04:33 am (UTC)perfection!! the joker is so..... joker-y. in a totally non-heathledger way which is SOOOO refreshing. :)