Fic: Rip In Soul Part1
Title: Rip in Soul -- Part One
Author: AiyokuSama
Fandom: Batamn, comics/DCAU crossover
Characters: Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne.
Warnings: References to RotJ and torture. Swearing.
Rating: Pg-13
Word Count: 3218
Summery: Jason hates universe hopping. The Universe seems to think it's a great joke.
Jesus fucking CHRIST! On a goddamned pogo-stick! He KNEW he should have stayed the hell away from S.T.A.R. Labs and let the meta types handle it. Except that the metas were nowhere to be found. So what had Jason done? He'd gone in with guns blazing. There were way too many things in there that could fuck over the Earth six ways from Sunday in the wrong hands. And there were a LOT of wrong hands in the world. Even some of the so-called good guys fell into that category.
So when Bane, Livewire and Solomon Grundy decided to make a bid for it, he just HAD to stick his nose in. Stupid. Supremely stupid. Especially since he had no clue if he’d actually stopped them...
There had been an explosion. A weird explosion with colours that had no name. He vaguely remembered someone standing by the computer console (had that been him?) and then a fire... somewhere?
Huh. He can't actually get it to coalesce in his head. Well, fuck it. It doesn't matter at the moment. The only thing that matters is that he's back in Gotham. But not HIS Gotham. The blimps against the night sky are a really good indication of that.
Jason frowns behind the hood. Great, just great. He wonders if people are going to try to kill him on sight in this world. Now, a smart thing to do would be to go to ground, keep his head down and put out his feelers to figure out what this world is all about. A very smart thing. He has no idea if there even is a Jason Todd in this world. If there isn't that will make things both easier and harder. Jason tries not to think about how he'll feel if he never existed in this world. Those kinds of dark thoughts are something he's been working hard to move past.
Whatever. He needs to move, get a base of operations and think. And the helmet has to come off. He doesn't want to be attracting attention just yet. Of course walking around with it under his arm isn't exactly subtle either. So some poor kid at the first late night cafe he passed was no doubt surprised to find his back pack gone. Shouldering the ratty bag, he starts looking around. The devil is in the details after all. And the details here are all wrong.
The cars for one thing; they look like they belong in the fifties. The thirties? Dated, definitely dated, whatever period they are from. Then there were the clothes. Some of them could be from his time, but a lot of them look like the things seen in old black-and-white photographs. That’s just bizarre, yet not nearly as bizarre as the architecture. It’s Gotham alright. Complete with gargoyles. Well, no, this place has even MORE gargoyles then his does. But the lines are just plain wrong. Flowing and almost space-aged, while at the same time looking dated, like the cars. Like... a drafter's concept of a stylized city or.... something. He stops thinking about it; it’s making his head hurt.
Wherever the hell this was, it wasn’t home. Which could be a good thing. There was serious appeal to the possibility of starting over. He wouldn’t think about that either. Okay, it was time to find a place he could claim. An abandoned building would be best and Gotham usually had plenty of those.
As he walked Jason made a mental note of the city's layout. It wasn’t that different. Most of the streets were the same in the downtown core, where he currently found himself. But some things were missing. Just missing. Or not quite right. Like how the Hovenar building was only eight stories tall, rather than sixteen. And the Gasburg Memorial library was missing. That was what made him wonder if this world's time was slower than his. He remembered when the library was being built fifteen years ago. It was a pretty thin theory, but it was something to work with. Of course that begged the question, had Bruce even been born in this world?
A flash above catches his eye and he looks up. “Heh.” The smile is tight and self-deprecating. The bat symbol currently running across the sky seems to answer that question. Well fine then. At least he knows where to go, after he's got himself established. Now, about that building...
@@@
Bruce Wayne watches with a worried frown that is all too honest through the two way mirror. In the other room are the psychologist whom Leslie has suggested, and Tim. The slight boy is frowning, his arms crossed as he ignores the woman, and instead looks accusingly at Bruce through the mirror. Bruce accepts that. It’s certainly better then the smile. Or the laugh. The billionaire knows his ward doesn’t want to be here, but something has to be done. He can't let this continue. This... pretence.
It's his fault that Tim was captured. Tortured. All his fault. His responsibility. So it's up to him to see that the boy gets the help he needs. The problem is that Bruce has no idea what that might be. He knows the theory, has name after name of specialists, yet none of it seems to matter. Tim remains silent and icily withdrawn-when he isn’t laughing and standing on the parapet of madness.
And then there are his eyes. The blame in them, the unvoiced accusations-dark eyes that rip through him those few times the child actually looks at him.
Bruce knows he's never been a good father. Not to Dick and certainly not to Tim. He tried but he could see himself failing even as he pushed them harder. Alfred had tried to get through to him many times, but Bruce hadn't listened. What fool allowed children to fight alongside him?
The first time he found Tim down in the Cave after... after he'd forbade the boy to enter was the first time Tim looked at him. With anger, so much anger. He'd thought the boy would launch himself at him, going for his throat like a wild animal, but then the laughter had started, echoing.
That sound broke both of them and it also strengthened Bruce's resolve. Tim would never be Robin again. Somehow, Bruce had to help him, fix him. And see to it that Tim got something resembling a childhood, though at this point it was likely impossible.
So. Here they are, at a therapy session that was doomed before it even began. The twitch of the lips was the first clue and Bruce was moving out of the observation room before he could think about it. He was running for the exam room door when the laughter started and he was grabbing the boy bodily as the batarang descended toward the stunned therapist, pulling him back. Holding him.
Bruce doesn't realize it, but he's whispering to the boy, begging Tim to stop, to let Bruce help him. To forgive him. At first he’d tried to pry the weapon from the child's hand, but Tim had it in a death grip so tight that blood began to drip down his wrist.
“No. Nonono,” the teen mutters. Thankfully, speaking means the laughter has to stop and Bruce seizes the opportunity, still rocking him.
“It's over, Tim. It's over.” His focus is on the boy as the room swarms with people, most of them focused on seeing the blessedly unharmed therapist out. But one orderly tries to approach, reaching for Tim's hands. Bruce waves him off with a shake of his head. He'll handle this, it's his responsibility. He can't let anyone else get hurt because he failed. Time to take Tim home.
@@@
Tim hates it. All of it. All the NICE that seems to want to suffocate him. All the GOOD that is trying to drown him. Doesn't anyone understand? He's not worth it. He failed, the Joker won. Twice. First when he broke him, and then when Tim killed the sick bastard. It didn't matter why Tim did it; he wasn't supposed to kill-Bruce didn't like it. But he'd killed. He'd failed. He wasn't good enough. No one could possibly want a broken, useless boy.
So why do Bruce, Alfred, and the rest keep pretending? Like this woman who keeps talking, asking questions. Why doesn't she get it? He doesn't want to talk. He doesn't want to show, yet again, what a failure he is. He KNOWS! Everyone knows.
Everyone. The Joker knew. The Joker made him, reforming him into the person he truly is. The laughter starts up again, and he lets it wash over him, thick and horrible. It's him, but it's not. How can it not be him? He feels it, wants it. It's freedom. He can hurt and not care. It's good to not care. Not caring means it doesn't hurt.
He doesn't even remember where he’d hid the batarang, but it's in his hands and he's lunging at the woman whose voice is so grating. He'll cut that voice out-then he won't have to listen to it; maybe he can put it in a jar. But he can't do that because Bruce is there and has him and is holding him. Too tight! Too tight! Not again! He needs to get free.
The boy unthinkingly repeats a single word continuously as he struggles. But he doesn't fight, because he's not Robin. Or the Joker's boy. He's not anything, so there are no nerve strikes, no attempts to shatter the man's knee-as he knows he could. He just... flails. And as he does the sharp edge of the batarang slices into his hand. Blood, pain. Sharp. He can focus, he can remember.
The woman isn't there anymore, though he can still smell her fear. Her delicious fear. Joker would have liked her fear. No! No no no! Joker is gone because Tim killed him. Tim failed. Gone.
He's sobbing in the billionaire's arms as he holds all the more tightly to the sharp edges slicing him open, inside and out.
@@@
Four days, six thefts, and a lot of fucking work later Jason has made his chosen hideout-an abandoned bottling factory-into something serviceable. Stolen computer equipment means that he can fleece the offshore accounts of some very dangerous men-not that he's concerned about anyone coming after him. The tech level in this world is not the same as it is in his. It is, in fact, quite a bit behind his. So, even his merger hacking skills mean that his activities won't be traced. Interesting.
What's even more interesting is what he's learned of Bruce Wayne and company. Barbara is still walking and really fucking YOUNG. Not to mention hot, but that's not a surprise. Batgirl has been quasi-active in the city, though not lately.
Bruce is Bruce of course, which means he’s a fucking PAINFUL idiot in public. Dick isn't in the city; he's currently down in Bludhaven, which is really weird to think about. By all reports, though, Nightwing makes the occasional appearance in Gotham, so whatever.
It's something of a relief to find references to Al. What kind of a fucked up world would it be if the butler weren't part of the craziness? So far, though, no mention of any Jason Todd. And a look through the various city systems turns up no mention of him whatsoever. Maybe this world really doesn't have a Jason? Yeah, still not thinking about that.
Bruce DOES have a kid with him. Tim Drake, apparently an orphan, though what he can find on the kid's parents is seriously screwy. It sure looks like Drake, the pictures he has of the shrimp. But. But. So many damned buts. Oh, how he fucking loathes the universe. Goddamnworldhoppingfuckup.
Once he's got things to his liking at his base and he's secured himself a spiffy little arsenal, Jason decides that he has cabin fever and that a night patrolling his new digs is the solution. It will also be a good way to see what kind of Bat this city has. Given what he's gleaned from word on the street it sounds like same-old, same-old, but one can never be too careful. Besides, busting heads is fun.
Sadly, the patrol is disappointing. This place is soooo damned respectable, compared to his Gotham. Not even a Killer Croc to be found. Or a Joker. Two-Face is apparently locked up tight in Arkham, which is really too bad. No one has seen Ivy for a couple of months and damn, it's just quiet. A couple of muggings and three robberies give Jason a chance to crack some skulls. A drug dealer selling to kids gives him a workout when the mook turns out to have friends with guns. Even so, it's just dull. And there is no sign of the Bat.
According to the whispers that Jason's overheard, no one has seen him in over a week. And that's just weird. Maybe he's with this world's JLA? Still, the Bat staying out of Gotham for so long is practically unheard of. And there isn't a Robin around either. Actually, there are whispers that Robin is dead, since no one has seen him in over a month. Whatever ; Jason is going to have to rethink how he wants to approach this.
Much as he hates it, Jason'll have to talk to Bruce and get him onside if he is to talk with Supes, or this world's S.T.A.R. labs, or something. Someone has to have a way to send him home. Someone had BETTER have a way to send him home.
Well. He could go to Bludhaven. Dick is generally more approachable then Bruce, even if the goody-two-shoes IS fucking annoying. But that means going to Bludhaven, where he doesn't have any digs to work from. Yeah, not such a hot idea. Maybe if things don't pan out in Gotham, but for now he’s shelving that option.
That means he has to find Bruce. If the guy is in the city that'll easy enough; there are only so many places the playboy will be. Or so the theory goes. Brucie has also been conspicuously absent of late. Of course he has been, the fucking contrary bastard. Jason's fucking luck.
He heads back to the factory for the night, feeling annoyed and somewhat cheated. It would have been nice to run into someone he had a real reason to gut. But the city hasn't cooperated, and maiming hands just isn't the same.
Sleep when you can, you never know when you'll get another chance. It's a lesson he’d learned on the street, long before he’d ever thought to steal the tires off Batman's ride. Putting himself out isn't hard, but it means the dreams come. Fucking dreams.
Blackness, absolute blackness, and yet it's so small, pressing in on him. So small, too small. Has to get out! Has to...
He wakes up gasping, his eyes wide and his heart pounding in his chest. For a moment he feels the wood of the coffin he doesn't actually remember. Then he breathes and frowns hard as he sternly marshals his runaway fears. There is much he doesn't remember about coming back, but what he does comes out in his nightmares-as well as a really fucking annoying case of claustrophobia. The nightmares aren't nearly as intense as they once were, which means that they are a lesser level of annoying. Or so he keeps telling himself. Dreams, useless dreams. He's too fucking old for this shit. So he ignores the lingering images, like always.
Coffee is in order, and so what if he randomly punches walls on the way to his little kitchen setup? A couple of holes just give it character. And beating the heavy bag into submission? Totally part of normal training. It has nothing to do with the fucking dreams. They aren't REAL; they have no power over him! The walls of the main area are NOT closing in on him! And he's not going outside because of anything other than wanting to... to get some fresh air.
This part of town is one of the areas where things-and people-are easily forgotten. Ignored. Which is perfect for his needs. Nosey neighbours are a liability. Except that this is Gotham, even if it isn't his, and there is an unwritten rule: keep quiet, keep to yourself. That way, maybe the assorted psychos will overlook you and you can carry on with your life for another day. Or maybe not. This city isn't as bad as the one he knows. So far, at any rate.
It's not really morning. Closer to noon. But when you live the vigilante lifestyle, morning is a relative thing. Noon is a good time to go bug a billionaire. And it will get him out of the factory. Out of small spaces. Not that he needs to get out of small spaces, of course.
The yard is a cemetery for long-forgotten machinery, much of it cannibalized by the opportunistic types years-decades?-before his arrival. It's the perfect hiding place for his Harley. The bike isn't anything fancy, which is all to the good. A ride that attracts attention is a ride that gets stolen. And at the moment, he doesn't have the gear to give any bike of his some real teeth. Not yet. There are times when he yearns for the sweet ride he'd had as Robin, even if it would be too small for him now. It had all the toys, including traps to make sure would-be thieves went elsewhere-after they woke up.
Right. Back to business. He needs to find Bruce and somehow convince the fucker to not haul him off to Arkham. And how exactly is he going to do that? For all he knows this world hasn't seen any time/space distortions, so the claim of being from another Earth really could get him a padded room of his very own. And no, he's NOT thinking on what kind of small room he might get stuffed in.
Stop stalling, Todd, he scolds himself, scowling. He's not a punk kid. He can do this-whatever this is going to be. With a sigh, Jason heads over to his bike. The nice thing about his uniform is that without the hood or domino mask, it just looks like street clothes. No one will look at him twice. Perfect. Except that he can't help putting the bike through its paces, and so he gets more than a few horns honking at him in the process. It makes him smile.
Eventually, after a circuitous route taken to give himself time to think, the loud bike pulls up through the Manor's open gates. This, at least, looks the same as it does in his world. Old, Gothic, imposing. The stone building has an oppressive feel of history to it. Expectation. Or maybe that's just him.
Stopping the bike before the stairs that lead up the main doors, Jason gets off and sighs. Well, why not? Batman hasn't been patrolling, so what else can he do? He's not about to make an appointment at WE. He'd rather deal with Alfred anyhow.
So he raises his hand and knocks on the sturdy double doors. When one leaf opens, a very solemn Alfred Pennyworth blinks at him. Jason gives the elderly man a lopsided grin. “Hi, Alfred. Could you tell the Bat that there's a temporal anomaly at the front door?”
End Part One
Author: AiyokuSama
Fandom: Batamn, comics/DCAU crossover
Characters: Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne.
Warnings: References to RotJ and torture. Swearing.
Rating: Pg-13
Word Count: 3218
Summery: Jason hates universe hopping. The Universe seems to think it's a great joke.
Jesus fucking CHRIST! On a goddamned pogo-stick! He KNEW he should have stayed the hell away from S.T.A.R. Labs and let the meta types handle it. Except that the metas were nowhere to be found. So what had Jason done? He'd gone in with guns blazing. There were way too many things in there that could fuck over the Earth six ways from Sunday in the wrong hands. And there were a LOT of wrong hands in the world. Even some of the so-called good guys fell into that category.
So when Bane, Livewire and Solomon Grundy decided to make a bid for it, he just HAD to stick his nose in. Stupid. Supremely stupid. Especially since he had no clue if he’d actually stopped them...
There had been an explosion. A weird explosion with colours that had no name. He vaguely remembered someone standing by the computer console (had that been him?) and then a fire... somewhere?
Huh. He can't actually get it to coalesce in his head. Well, fuck it. It doesn't matter at the moment. The only thing that matters is that he's back in Gotham. But not HIS Gotham. The blimps against the night sky are a really good indication of that.
Jason frowns behind the hood. Great, just great. He wonders if people are going to try to kill him on sight in this world. Now, a smart thing to do would be to go to ground, keep his head down and put out his feelers to figure out what this world is all about. A very smart thing. He has no idea if there even is a Jason Todd in this world. If there isn't that will make things both easier and harder. Jason tries not to think about how he'll feel if he never existed in this world. Those kinds of dark thoughts are something he's been working hard to move past.
Whatever. He needs to move, get a base of operations and think. And the helmet has to come off. He doesn't want to be attracting attention just yet. Of course walking around with it under his arm isn't exactly subtle either. So some poor kid at the first late night cafe he passed was no doubt surprised to find his back pack gone. Shouldering the ratty bag, he starts looking around. The devil is in the details after all. And the details here are all wrong.
The cars for one thing; they look like they belong in the fifties. The thirties? Dated, definitely dated, whatever period they are from. Then there were the clothes. Some of them could be from his time, but a lot of them look like the things seen in old black-and-white photographs. That’s just bizarre, yet not nearly as bizarre as the architecture. It’s Gotham alright. Complete with gargoyles. Well, no, this place has even MORE gargoyles then his does. But the lines are just plain wrong. Flowing and almost space-aged, while at the same time looking dated, like the cars. Like... a drafter's concept of a stylized city or.... something. He stops thinking about it; it’s making his head hurt.
Wherever the hell this was, it wasn’t home. Which could be a good thing. There was serious appeal to the possibility of starting over. He wouldn’t think about that either. Okay, it was time to find a place he could claim. An abandoned building would be best and Gotham usually had plenty of those.
As he walked Jason made a mental note of the city's layout. It wasn’t that different. Most of the streets were the same in the downtown core, where he currently found himself. But some things were missing. Just missing. Or not quite right. Like how the Hovenar building was only eight stories tall, rather than sixteen. And the Gasburg Memorial library was missing. That was what made him wonder if this world's time was slower than his. He remembered when the library was being built fifteen years ago. It was a pretty thin theory, but it was something to work with. Of course that begged the question, had Bruce even been born in this world?
A flash above catches his eye and he looks up. “Heh.” The smile is tight and self-deprecating. The bat symbol currently running across the sky seems to answer that question. Well fine then. At least he knows where to go, after he's got himself established. Now, about that building...
@@@
Bruce Wayne watches with a worried frown that is all too honest through the two way mirror. In the other room are the psychologist whom Leslie has suggested, and Tim. The slight boy is frowning, his arms crossed as he ignores the woman, and instead looks accusingly at Bruce through the mirror. Bruce accepts that. It’s certainly better then the smile. Or the laugh. The billionaire knows his ward doesn’t want to be here, but something has to be done. He can't let this continue. This... pretence.
It's his fault that Tim was captured. Tortured. All his fault. His responsibility. So it's up to him to see that the boy gets the help he needs. The problem is that Bruce has no idea what that might be. He knows the theory, has name after name of specialists, yet none of it seems to matter. Tim remains silent and icily withdrawn-when he isn’t laughing and standing on the parapet of madness.
And then there are his eyes. The blame in them, the unvoiced accusations-dark eyes that rip through him those few times the child actually looks at him.
Bruce knows he's never been a good father. Not to Dick and certainly not to Tim. He tried but he could see himself failing even as he pushed them harder. Alfred had tried to get through to him many times, but Bruce hadn't listened. What fool allowed children to fight alongside him?
The first time he found Tim down in the Cave after... after he'd forbade the boy to enter was the first time Tim looked at him. With anger, so much anger. He'd thought the boy would launch himself at him, going for his throat like a wild animal, but then the laughter had started, echoing.
That sound broke both of them and it also strengthened Bruce's resolve. Tim would never be Robin again. Somehow, Bruce had to help him, fix him. And see to it that Tim got something resembling a childhood, though at this point it was likely impossible.
So. Here they are, at a therapy session that was doomed before it even began. The twitch of the lips was the first clue and Bruce was moving out of the observation room before he could think about it. He was running for the exam room door when the laughter started and he was grabbing the boy bodily as the batarang descended toward the stunned therapist, pulling him back. Holding him.
Bruce doesn't realize it, but he's whispering to the boy, begging Tim to stop, to let Bruce help him. To forgive him. At first he’d tried to pry the weapon from the child's hand, but Tim had it in a death grip so tight that blood began to drip down his wrist.
“No. Nonono,” the teen mutters. Thankfully, speaking means the laughter has to stop and Bruce seizes the opportunity, still rocking him.
“It's over, Tim. It's over.” His focus is on the boy as the room swarms with people, most of them focused on seeing the blessedly unharmed therapist out. But one orderly tries to approach, reaching for Tim's hands. Bruce waves him off with a shake of his head. He'll handle this, it's his responsibility. He can't let anyone else get hurt because he failed. Time to take Tim home.
@@@
Tim hates it. All of it. All the NICE that seems to want to suffocate him. All the GOOD that is trying to drown him. Doesn't anyone understand? He's not worth it. He failed, the Joker won. Twice. First when he broke him, and then when Tim killed the sick bastard. It didn't matter why Tim did it; he wasn't supposed to kill-Bruce didn't like it. But he'd killed. He'd failed. He wasn't good enough. No one could possibly want a broken, useless boy.
So why do Bruce, Alfred, and the rest keep pretending? Like this woman who keeps talking, asking questions. Why doesn't she get it? He doesn't want to talk. He doesn't want to show, yet again, what a failure he is. He KNOWS! Everyone knows.
Everyone. The Joker knew. The Joker made him, reforming him into the person he truly is. The laughter starts up again, and he lets it wash over him, thick and horrible. It's him, but it's not. How can it not be him? He feels it, wants it. It's freedom. He can hurt and not care. It's good to not care. Not caring means it doesn't hurt.
He doesn't even remember where he’d hid the batarang, but it's in his hands and he's lunging at the woman whose voice is so grating. He'll cut that voice out-then he won't have to listen to it; maybe he can put it in a jar. But he can't do that because Bruce is there and has him and is holding him. Too tight! Too tight! Not again! He needs to get free.
The boy unthinkingly repeats a single word continuously as he struggles. But he doesn't fight, because he's not Robin. Or the Joker's boy. He's not anything, so there are no nerve strikes, no attempts to shatter the man's knee-as he knows he could. He just... flails. And as he does the sharp edge of the batarang slices into his hand. Blood, pain. Sharp. He can focus, he can remember.
The woman isn't there anymore, though he can still smell her fear. Her delicious fear. Joker would have liked her fear. No! No no no! Joker is gone because Tim killed him. Tim failed. Gone.
He's sobbing in the billionaire's arms as he holds all the more tightly to the sharp edges slicing him open, inside and out.
@@@
Four days, six thefts, and a lot of fucking work later Jason has made his chosen hideout-an abandoned bottling factory-into something serviceable. Stolen computer equipment means that he can fleece the offshore accounts of some very dangerous men-not that he's concerned about anyone coming after him. The tech level in this world is not the same as it is in his. It is, in fact, quite a bit behind his. So, even his merger hacking skills mean that his activities won't be traced. Interesting.
What's even more interesting is what he's learned of Bruce Wayne and company. Barbara is still walking and really fucking YOUNG. Not to mention hot, but that's not a surprise. Batgirl has been quasi-active in the city, though not lately.
Bruce is Bruce of course, which means he’s a fucking PAINFUL idiot in public. Dick isn't in the city; he's currently down in Bludhaven, which is really weird to think about. By all reports, though, Nightwing makes the occasional appearance in Gotham, so whatever.
It's something of a relief to find references to Al. What kind of a fucked up world would it be if the butler weren't part of the craziness? So far, though, no mention of any Jason Todd. And a look through the various city systems turns up no mention of him whatsoever. Maybe this world really doesn't have a Jason? Yeah, still not thinking about that.
Bruce DOES have a kid with him. Tim Drake, apparently an orphan, though what he can find on the kid's parents is seriously screwy. It sure looks like Drake, the pictures he has of the shrimp. But. But. So many damned buts. Oh, how he fucking loathes the universe. Goddamnworldhoppingfuckup.
Once he's got things to his liking at his base and he's secured himself a spiffy little arsenal, Jason decides that he has cabin fever and that a night patrolling his new digs is the solution. It will also be a good way to see what kind of Bat this city has. Given what he's gleaned from word on the street it sounds like same-old, same-old, but one can never be too careful. Besides, busting heads is fun.
Sadly, the patrol is disappointing. This place is soooo damned respectable, compared to his Gotham. Not even a Killer Croc to be found. Or a Joker. Two-Face is apparently locked up tight in Arkham, which is really too bad. No one has seen Ivy for a couple of months and damn, it's just quiet. A couple of muggings and three robberies give Jason a chance to crack some skulls. A drug dealer selling to kids gives him a workout when the mook turns out to have friends with guns. Even so, it's just dull. And there is no sign of the Bat.
According to the whispers that Jason's overheard, no one has seen him in over a week. And that's just weird. Maybe he's with this world's JLA? Still, the Bat staying out of Gotham for so long is practically unheard of. And there isn't a Robin around either. Actually, there are whispers that Robin is dead, since no one has seen him in over a month. Whatever ; Jason is going to have to rethink how he wants to approach this.
Much as he hates it, Jason'll have to talk to Bruce and get him onside if he is to talk with Supes, or this world's S.T.A.R. labs, or something. Someone has to have a way to send him home. Someone had BETTER have a way to send him home.
Well. He could go to Bludhaven. Dick is generally more approachable then Bruce, even if the goody-two-shoes IS fucking annoying. But that means going to Bludhaven, where he doesn't have any digs to work from. Yeah, not such a hot idea. Maybe if things don't pan out in Gotham, but for now he’s shelving that option.
That means he has to find Bruce. If the guy is in the city that'll easy enough; there are only so many places the playboy will be. Or so the theory goes. Brucie has also been conspicuously absent of late. Of course he has been, the fucking contrary bastard. Jason's fucking luck.
He heads back to the factory for the night, feeling annoyed and somewhat cheated. It would have been nice to run into someone he had a real reason to gut. But the city hasn't cooperated, and maiming hands just isn't the same.
Sleep when you can, you never know when you'll get another chance. It's a lesson he’d learned on the street, long before he’d ever thought to steal the tires off Batman's ride. Putting himself out isn't hard, but it means the dreams come. Fucking dreams.
Blackness, absolute blackness, and yet it's so small, pressing in on him. So small, too small. Has to get out! Has to...
He wakes up gasping, his eyes wide and his heart pounding in his chest. For a moment he feels the wood of the coffin he doesn't actually remember. Then he breathes and frowns hard as he sternly marshals his runaway fears. There is much he doesn't remember about coming back, but what he does comes out in his nightmares-as well as a really fucking annoying case of claustrophobia. The nightmares aren't nearly as intense as they once were, which means that they are a lesser level of annoying. Or so he keeps telling himself. Dreams, useless dreams. He's too fucking old for this shit. So he ignores the lingering images, like always.
Coffee is in order, and so what if he randomly punches walls on the way to his little kitchen setup? A couple of holes just give it character. And beating the heavy bag into submission? Totally part of normal training. It has nothing to do with the fucking dreams. They aren't REAL; they have no power over him! The walls of the main area are NOT closing in on him! And he's not going outside because of anything other than wanting to... to get some fresh air.
This part of town is one of the areas where things-and people-are easily forgotten. Ignored. Which is perfect for his needs. Nosey neighbours are a liability. Except that this is Gotham, even if it isn't his, and there is an unwritten rule: keep quiet, keep to yourself. That way, maybe the assorted psychos will overlook you and you can carry on with your life for another day. Or maybe not. This city isn't as bad as the one he knows. So far, at any rate.
It's not really morning. Closer to noon. But when you live the vigilante lifestyle, morning is a relative thing. Noon is a good time to go bug a billionaire. And it will get him out of the factory. Out of small spaces. Not that he needs to get out of small spaces, of course.
The yard is a cemetery for long-forgotten machinery, much of it cannibalized by the opportunistic types years-decades?-before his arrival. It's the perfect hiding place for his Harley. The bike isn't anything fancy, which is all to the good. A ride that attracts attention is a ride that gets stolen. And at the moment, he doesn't have the gear to give any bike of his some real teeth. Not yet. There are times when he yearns for the sweet ride he'd had as Robin, even if it would be too small for him now. It had all the toys, including traps to make sure would-be thieves went elsewhere-after they woke up.
Right. Back to business. He needs to find Bruce and somehow convince the fucker to not haul him off to Arkham. And how exactly is he going to do that? For all he knows this world hasn't seen any time/space distortions, so the claim of being from another Earth really could get him a padded room of his very own. And no, he's NOT thinking on what kind of small room he might get stuffed in.
Stop stalling, Todd, he scolds himself, scowling. He's not a punk kid. He can do this-whatever this is going to be. With a sigh, Jason heads over to his bike. The nice thing about his uniform is that without the hood or domino mask, it just looks like street clothes. No one will look at him twice. Perfect. Except that he can't help putting the bike through its paces, and so he gets more than a few horns honking at him in the process. It makes him smile.
Eventually, after a circuitous route taken to give himself time to think, the loud bike pulls up through the Manor's open gates. This, at least, looks the same as it does in his world. Old, Gothic, imposing. The stone building has an oppressive feel of history to it. Expectation. Or maybe that's just him.
Stopping the bike before the stairs that lead up the main doors, Jason gets off and sighs. Well, why not? Batman hasn't been patrolling, so what else can he do? He's not about to make an appointment at WE. He'd rather deal with Alfred anyhow.
So he raises his hand and knocks on the sturdy double doors. When one leaf opens, a very solemn Alfred Pennyworth blinks at him. Jason gives the elderly man a lopsided grin. “Hi, Alfred. Could you tell the Bat that there's a temporal anomaly at the front door?”
End Part One