Distortions
Title: Distortions on an Empty Face
Fandom: DC Comics
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: DC abuses them more than me.
Summary: After being hit by Alexander Luthor, Jr., Dick has the opportunity to change things in Robin's life, though he is thoroughly stuck in his own.
Distortions Chapter 2
.:N:.
Over the years, Dick had suffered various injures: head traumas, broken bones; gunshot wounds; internal bleedings; knife, sword, glass, and random sharp object cuts; scraps; and bruises among others. There had been times when he was unable to move due to pain, but he had never actually been unable to move. That was something Barbara had used as a barrier between them. Even though she claimed she had moved on, he could not understand her wheelchair, or so she said. Until that moment, when he had stared at his left hand when he had intended to move his right, he had never felt so betrayed by his -- not his though -- body. Dick thought he understood better at that moment, the feeling of disconnect that made the next breath catch and he had to think for it to be forced out when it became painful.
As if the betrayal of his arm somehow sparked a mutiny in the rest of his body, his body began to shut down and forcing him to take over his autonomic functions. He had to force his lungs to expand to take in oxygen; he had to compel his heart to beat to pump blood to his body; he had to control every last cell of his body. But he couldn’t tell his body those things because his motor cortex had been cut off as much as his medulla oblongata. No amount of knowledge was going to fix that. He was only his thoughts without a way to express them. The thoughts were therefore irrelevant. He was irrelevant, even if only temporarily.
Air punched its way down his throat and he gasped greedily like he had been without it for minutes instead of seconds. His body was supporting itself again and Dick counted out one hundred heartbeats before the panic left him and he realized that his situation was nothing like Barbara’s. Figment Cyborg had assured him that his situation would only last a few days, and it was that which had made Dick take his first breath. Barbara had never had such promises, so her breath had to have come from something else.
A few days in this condition was completely unacceptable.
By the time Figment Starfire returned three hours after her initial departure, Dick had gained some control over his Bizarro -- bizarro, he was not thinking about Superman clones -- body. As she set up the computer and adjusted his hospital bed, she prattled on about what the others had been doing the past few days, the food fights, the video game battles, the training sessions. He listened more intently than he let on. When the Curtains logo filled the computer screen and Figment Starfire was busy telling him a story about something named “Silkie”, Dick realized his next problem.
“Starfire, would you mind logging into the database for me?” The spasm that jerked his right arm when he lifted it did not need to be faked.
“Oh.” She frowned, but attempted to cover it by biting her lower lip as she spun the laptop around on the side table she had moved for him. The keys clicked as she typed, and Dick memorized the sound each made much like someone would write sheet music for a melody they heard. Once he familiarized himself with that keyboard, he could translate the security codes back.
“Thanks.” The T logo on his screen was followed by simple prompts and Dick was certain he could navigate from there. Figment Starfire watched him as he moved the mouse at a snail’s pace.
“Do you need me to take the dictation?”
Something twisted in his gut, that same sense of wrong that Dick had experienced earlier. Something about this girl put him on edge, more so than even the other figments. Something that felt slightly like guilt. “No, I’ll stick to reviewing old case files until I can type again.”
“You spend far too much time in old case files.” Her tones was light, almost teasing, but he could still hear the accusation in her voice. She blinked at him, her hands clasped in front of her, and shifted nervously as she spoke. Dick understood she wanted to help and couldn’t find the right way to ask.
“If it wouldn’t trouble you, I haven’t eaten in some time.”
“Really?” The idea of a task seemed to cheer her up as she jumped to the air. “I will begin at once.” The list of food she was planning to make made his stomach tighten, but Dick knew better than to ask simply for lime Jello. Figment Starfire left while still making her plans, and the room became silent again.
Dick glanced at the screen again, slightly disappointed the answer wasn’t obviously staring him in the face. He decided to start with the earliest file.
The story was a fractured memory. The five teens teaming up to save Starfire from the Gordanian slavers, a race which sounded in many ways like the Psions. This team seemed to have joined up more by chance than design, no mentions of Trigon or failed attempts to contact the JLA. There was a good amount of property damage, but not a specific report of Grant and Carol’s apartment. Of course, his team hadn’t foreseen the troubles that bit of destruction would bring them.
The military style report was familiar: dates; names of those involved; mission parameters, restrictions, and objectives; relevant previous experiences; plans formulated, even if rejected; events of the mission; items utilized; results of the objective; estimated damages to property, teammates, civilians, and opponents; and suggestions for future missions. It was a form Bruce had drilled into him before he had ever been allowed onto the streets.
For his first year as Robin, he had to include another section, which included listing all other possible actions that could have been taken, comparing them to the chosen action, and evaluating the outcomes. No matter how many possibilities Dick wrote, Bruce would always point out a scenario he missed. “You failed to consider Gunman 3’s snakeskin shoes.” Then the ten year old would be forced to type in the cave another hour before then having to do some math homework. After over a year of extra paperwork, Bruce had grunted at his first draft report and never asked for that dreaded extra section again.
Since then, the few times Batman actually explained his thought process, Dick had made a game of checking off scenarios. “There are twenty-one possible ways to rescue the hostages, ten of which the hostages will remain unharmed, seven of which are not lethal to the criminals, five of which will minimize property damage, two of which will not likely cause harm to ourselves.” After leaving Gotham, Dick’s estimated numbers in his head were usually one off here or there as he wasn’t always caught up on the latest development. Tim would tease him about it whenever he was wrong and Tim had the audacity to be right, which simply earned the teen a head slap. But Dick had never been wrong while he was in the ‘Haven. At least not until he was in a stairwell with Blockbuster and Tarantula and there had seemed to be only one option.
But he was supposed to be forgiving himself for that, so Dick returned to the file.
Dick was slightly disappointed to see the file read more like Tim’s than style than his own, at least while he had been in the Titans. Tim’s files usually lacked a personal touch, only including feelings when he considered himself an expert in the field. Tim was not as bad as Bruce, who included too many minute details to consider leaving room for any emotions. Barbara had wanted to become a cop, and her reports reflected that, though she usually snuck in what she called her Fun Meter during her Batgirl days. For a brief time, Dick had rebelled against the emotionless reports, but when he was forced to write them all again that rebellion was squashed. Then he discovered footnotes and could have up to fifty or so on a single report just for his emotions alone. Bruce had raised an eyebrow when he first read the reports, but hadn’t deleted them. Dick took that as a victory.
The other Teen Titans had clearly not been as trained in writing their reports, such as Beast Boy’s, “There were explosions, we teamed up to stop bad people, I saved the day, read Robin’s crazy file.”
In the fifth case files, Dick noticed the Robin entry used the word “enjoy” once, which gave him hope for future files.
The more he had read, the less sure he was of his location.
For Dick, Limbo had been many things: emptiness filled with an image of his inner hatred, memories twisted to break his soul, illusions to hold him in place. One common thread had marked them all, the underlining simplicity of everything. The most complex phenomenon in Limbo were his direct memories, and the further from the truth, the less details the dimension could retain. He had been to Limbo enough to suspect that there was indeed a hallway behind this door, a tower encompassing the hallway, and a world in which the tower stood, and whatever that world was, it wasn’t Limbo. The place just didn’t feel like Limbo.
Though he wasn’t on Earth the last dimensional crisis, he had heard the stories of the world refugees, of the people from the destroyed dimensions who blinked into existence on their world. Barbara had been one. He had supposedly even been one. And he had seen people after death possess other people’s bodies, though not usually with the degree of difficulty he seemed to be having. Dick wasn’t quite ready to believe his spirit had been transferred to another dimension and stuck in a younger version of himself, but it wasn’t like he had a handbook for what happened when someone got shot by a death-ray in the middle of a dimensional crisis. Yet, this world seemed strangely untouched by that crisis, no one mentioning national disasters, countless deaths, or the string of worlds in the sky above Earth. Then there was the problem of what happened to this Earth’s Robin.
This Earth’s Starfire sheepishly entered, a light blush on her cheeks, and carried a tray with a bowl of lime Jello and a cup of ice water on it. “I was preparing our traditional meal for a wounded warrior, but it disappeared from the kitchen before it was done.”
Dick found the word “disappeared” interesting, though not enough to ask for clarification. It was tradition after all: trust a Titans woman in the field, not in the kitchen. Ask Wally to toss together a sandwich in two seconds, ask Roy to grill something, ask Garth to make sushi -- okay, that was just for fun -- he could whip up Alfred’s pancakes and make a mean funnel cake, but do not ask Donna to prepare food.
“This is sufficient for now. I mean, I haven’t eaten much and I should make sure I can keep this down.” He was going to regret this. “When I can, you’ll be the first to know.”
“I will make another meal for you later, after you get some rest.” She seemed pleased though.
“Don’t I always?”
“No, but you will this time.” With a nod, she left, seemingly satisfied with something.
Despite the slight shake of his hand, Dick noisily sucked the Jello off his spoon. Alfred would disapprove, “Young men do not make noises while they are eating and they certainly do not slurp.” Dick did it twice more before his inner Alfred got the best of him.
Dick watched the green Jello jiggle on his spoon, thinking of the green eyes that brought it to him. This Starfire was real. She was different, but real. And so was this Robin, and he had just taken over his body.
He realized, as he thought of eyes and body stealing, he had been wrong earlier. There had been one other time he had felt helpless inside his own body. When the sclera of green eyes went black -- black on green on black -- and his body was no longer his own. He hadn’t understood at first how his arms and legs could move without him. The Titans had power -- strength, magic, cybernetics, speed -- but Dick hadn’t been as overwhelmed by their first displays. He still was trying to understand his situation when Adeline gave the order. Please don’t argue with me, Joseph. There’s too much at stake. Hit him! His own right fist struck his chin and Dick had cried out in shock.
But there was a moment, after he began to fall to the floor but before Joey had left his body, that he felt entirely comfortable with the situation. Joey felt like an old stuff elephant, worn in sneakers, and the marshmallows on top of hot chocolate. The fear and the pain of losing his body was gone, and, when he had hit the floor, Dick instantly trusted the hand held out to him. I think I’d be proud to have your help.
The idea was cliché, childish, and way too chick flick, but he attempted to radiate warmth to his current body, and perhaps even his other self if that was where he was stuck. Because of where and seemingly when he was, Dick tried to remember the good times when he was in his mid teens, instead of seeing it as when it all began to fall apart. He concentrated more on the feeling of solving his first official solo case, of teaming up with Batgirl, of leading his own team of Titans. Not that he wanted to be a teenager again, but as he stopped fighting for control and reconnecting to his past he began to feel more at ease.
It was definitely chick flick, but he couldn’t argue with the results as he looked at his now steady hand.
He finished his Jello before deciding he had regained enough control to grab a shower. He swung his legs to the edge of the bed, taking into consideration for the first time the gray sweatpants and white cotton undershirt he was wearing. They both looked impossibly huge on his skinny body, making Dick wonder if he had ever really been this gangly.
He was able to stand and stretch, though his center of gravity was off and his limbs seemed to move freely without his usual muscle density and he was shorter -- when did he have that last growth spurt? The walk to the restroom was more like a toddler learning to walk than he would ever admit and he was grateful he only needed to travel a few feet. He let the door frame support his weight as he glanced around the small room, the sink, toilet, and thankfully a wheel chair accessible shower with a seat. The bathroom had a mirror above the sink and Dick glanced for the first time at his reflection.
There was indeed a Robin’s mask on his face with the white lenses he had come to see the word through. The lenses took up an improbable amount of the mask though, and seemed to change shape with his facial expressions more than any other mask Dick had seen. The black hair was short and matted to his head with a few days of sweat. His ears seemed too rounded and the lips were barely a thin line. But despite the differences, Dick could see the resemblance to himself.
A brief rummaging through the medicine cabinet produced a small bottle of solvent and Dick returned his gaze to the mirror.
This was where it all fell apart, he was sure of it. He was going to remove the mask and find he didn’t have a face. It would be blank and empty, his eyes and nose and mouth gone. It had all been a setup. He was now in his own personal hell; every mission he was forced on he would fail to step in front of bullets aimed at friend or foe; Barbara would be married to Jason Bard; Tim would join Jason on a killing spree in Gotham; his friends and teammates would all leave the planet to never return; Bruce would have replaced him with a Bat-Hound; and Etrigan the Demon would forever be there in his ear, rhyming about his failures.
Dick took a breath -- after all, how bad could a personal hell be -- and began to spray the solvent.
Fandom: DC Comics
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: DC abuses them more than me.
Summary: After being hit by Alexander Luthor, Jr., Dick has the opportunity to change things in Robin's life, though he is thoroughly stuck in his own.
Distortions Chapter 2
.:N:.
Over the years, Dick had suffered various injures: head traumas, broken bones; gunshot wounds; internal bleedings; knife, sword, glass, and random sharp object cuts; scraps; and bruises among others. There had been times when he was unable to move due to pain, but he had never actually been unable to move. That was something Barbara had used as a barrier between them. Even though she claimed she had moved on, he could not understand her wheelchair, or so she said. Until that moment, when he had stared at his left hand when he had intended to move his right, he had never felt so betrayed by his -- not his though -- body. Dick thought he understood better at that moment, the feeling of disconnect that made the next breath catch and he had to think for it to be forced out when it became painful.
As if the betrayal of his arm somehow sparked a mutiny in the rest of his body, his body began to shut down and forcing him to take over his autonomic functions. He had to force his lungs to expand to take in oxygen; he had to compel his heart to beat to pump blood to his body; he had to control every last cell of his body. But he couldn’t tell his body those things because his motor cortex had been cut off as much as his medulla oblongata. No amount of knowledge was going to fix that. He was only his thoughts without a way to express them. The thoughts were therefore irrelevant. He was irrelevant, even if only temporarily.
Air punched its way down his throat and he gasped greedily like he had been without it for minutes instead of seconds. His body was supporting itself again and Dick counted out one hundred heartbeats before the panic left him and he realized that his situation was nothing like Barbara’s. Figment Cyborg had assured him that his situation would only last a few days, and it was that which had made Dick take his first breath. Barbara had never had such promises, so her breath had to have come from something else.
A few days in this condition was completely unacceptable.
By the time Figment Starfire returned three hours after her initial departure, Dick had gained some control over his Bizarro -- bizarro, he was not thinking about Superman clones -- body. As she set up the computer and adjusted his hospital bed, she prattled on about what the others had been doing the past few days, the food fights, the video game battles, the training sessions. He listened more intently than he let on. When the Curtains logo filled the computer screen and Figment Starfire was busy telling him a story about something named “Silkie”, Dick realized his next problem.
“Starfire, would you mind logging into the database for me?” The spasm that jerked his right arm when he lifted it did not need to be faked.
“Oh.” She frowned, but attempted to cover it by biting her lower lip as she spun the laptop around on the side table she had moved for him. The keys clicked as she typed, and Dick memorized the sound each made much like someone would write sheet music for a melody they heard. Once he familiarized himself with that keyboard, he could translate the security codes back.
“Thanks.” The T logo on his screen was followed by simple prompts and Dick was certain he could navigate from there. Figment Starfire watched him as he moved the mouse at a snail’s pace.
“Do you need me to take the dictation?”
Something twisted in his gut, that same sense of wrong that Dick had experienced earlier. Something about this girl put him on edge, more so than even the other figments. Something that felt slightly like guilt. “No, I’ll stick to reviewing old case files until I can type again.”
“You spend far too much time in old case files.” Her tones was light, almost teasing, but he could still hear the accusation in her voice. She blinked at him, her hands clasped in front of her, and shifted nervously as she spoke. Dick understood she wanted to help and couldn’t find the right way to ask.
“If it wouldn’t trouble you, I haven’t eaten in some time.”
“Really?” The idea of a task seemed to cheer her up as she jumped to the air. “I will begin at once.” The list of food she was planning to make made his stomach tighten, but Dick knew better than to ask simply for lime Jello. Figment Starfire left while still making her plans, and the room became silent again.
Dick glanced at the screen again, slightly disappointed the answer wasn’t obviously staring him in the face. He decided to start with the earliest file.
The story was a fractured memory. The five teens teaming up to save Starfire from the Gordanian slavers, a race which sounded in many ways like the Psions. This team seemed to have joined up more by chance than design, no mentions of Trigon or failed attempts to contact the JLA. There was a good amount of property damage, but not a specific report of Grant and Carol’s apartment. Of course, his team hadn’t foreseen the troubles that bit of destruction would bring them.
The military style report was familiar: dates; names of those involved; mission parameters, restrictions, and objectives; relevant previous experiences; plans formulated, even if rejected; events of the mission; items utilized; results of the objective; estimated damages to property, teammates, civilians, and opponents; and suggestions for future missions. It was a form Bruce had drilled into him before he had ever been allowed onto the streets.
For his first year as Robin, he had to include another section, which included listing all other possible actions that could have been taken, comparing them to the chosen action, and evaluating the outcomes. No matter how many possibilities Dick wrote, Bruce would always point out a scenario he missed. “You failed to consider Gunman 3’s snakeskin shoes.” Then the ten year old would be forced to type in the cave another hour before then having to do some math homework. After over a year of extra paperwork, Bruce had grunted at his first draft report and never asked for that dreaded extra section again.
Since then, the few times Batman actually explained his thought process, Dick had made a game of checking off scenarios. “There are twenty-one possible ways to rescue the hostages, ten of which the hostages will remain unharmed, seven of which are not lethal to the criminals, five of which will minimize property damage, two of which will not likely cause harm to ourselves.” After leaving Gotham, Dick’s estimated numbers in his head were usually one off here or there as he wasn’t always caught up on the latest development. Tim would tease him about it whenever he was wrong and Tim had the audacity to be right, which simply earned the teen a head slap. But Dick had never been wrong while he was in the ‘Haven. At least not until he was in a stairwell with Blockbuster and Tarantula and there had seemed to be only one option.
But he was supposed to be forgiving himself for that, so Dick returned to the file.
Dick was slightly disappointed to see the file read more like Tim’s than style than his own, at least while he had been in the Titans. Tim’s files usually lacked a personal touch, only including feelings when he considered himself an expert in the field. Tim was not as bad as Bruce, who included too many minute details to consider leaving room for any emotions. Barbara had wanted to become a cop, and her reports reflected that, though she usually snuck in what she called her Fun Meter during her Batgirl days. For a brief time, Dick had rebelled against the emotionless reports, but when he was forced to write them all again that rebellion was squashed. Then he discovered footnotes and could have up to fifty or so on a single report just for his emotions alone. Bruce had raised an eyebrow when he first read the reports, but hadn’t deleted them. Dick took that as a victory.
The other Teen Titans had clearly not been as trained in writing their reports, such as Beast Boy’s, “There were explosions, we teamed up to stop bad people, I saved the day, read Robin’s crazy file.”
In the fifth case files, Dick noticed the Robin entry used the word “enjoy” once, which gave him hope for future files.
The more he had read, the less sure he was of his location.
For Dick, Limbo had been many things: emptiness filled with an image of his inner hatred, memories twisted to break his soul, illusions to hold him in place. One common thread had marked them all, the underlining simplicity of everything. The most complex phenomenon in Limbo were his direct memories, and the further from the truth, the less details the dimension could retain. He had been to Limbo enough to suspect that there was indeed a hallway behind this door, a tower encompassing the hallway, and a world in which the tower stood, and whatever that world was, it wasn’t Limbo. The place just didn’t feel like Limbo.
Though he wasn’t on Earth the last dimensional crisis, he had heard the stories of the world refugees, of the people from the destroyed dimensions who blinked into existence on their world. Barbara had been one. He had supposedly even been one. And he had seen people after death possess other people’s bodies, though not usually with the degree of difficulty he seemed to be having. Dick wasn’t quite ready to believe his spirit had been transferred to another dimension and stuck in a younger version of himself, but it wasn’t like he had a handbook for what happened when someone got shot by a death-ray in the middle of a dimensional crisis. Yet, this world seemed strangely untouched by that crisis, no one mentioning national disasters, countless deaths, or the string of worlds in the sky above Earth. Then there was the problem of what happened to this Earth’s Robin.
This Earth’s Starfire sheepishly entered, a light blush on her cheeks, and carried a tray with a bowl of lime Jello and a cup of ice water on it. “I was preparing our traditional meal for a wounded warrior, but it disappeared from the kitchen before it was done.”
Dick found the word “disappeared” interesting, though not enough to ask for clarification. It was tradition after all: trust a Titans woman in the field, not in the kitchen. Ask Wally to toss together a sandwich in two seconds, ask Roy to grill something, ask Garth to make sushi -- okay, that was just for fun -- he could whip up Alfred’s pancakes and make a mean funnel cake, but do not ask Donna to prepare food.
“This is sufficient for now. I mean, I haven’t eaten much and I should make sure I can keep this down.” He was going to regret this. “When I can, you’ll be the first to know.”
“I will make another meal for you later, after you get some rest.” She seemed pleased though.
“Don’t I always?”
“No, but you will this time.” With a nod, she left, seemingly satisfied with something.
Despite the slight shake of his hand, Dick noisily sucked the Jello off his spoon. Alfred would disapprove, “Young men do not make noises while they are eating and they certainly do not slurp.” Dick did it twice more before his inner Alfred got the best of him.
Dick watched the green Jello jiggle on his spoon, thinking of the green eyes that brought it to him. This Starfire was real. She was different, but real. And so was this Robin, and he had just taken over his body.
He realized, as he thought of eyes and body stealing, he had been wrong earlier. There had been one other time he had felt helpless inside his own body. When the sclera of green eyes went black -- black on green on black -- and his body was no longer his own. He hadn’t understood at first how his arms and legs could move without him. The Titans had power -- strength, magic, cybernetics, speed -- but Dick hadn’t been as overwhelmed by their first displays. He still was trying to understand his situation when Adeline gave the order. Please don’t argue with me, Joseph. There’s too much at stake. Hit him! His own right fist struck his chin and Dick had cried out in shock.
But there was a moment, after he began to fall to the floor but before Joey had left his body, that he felt entirely comfortable with the situation. Joey felt like an old stuff elephant, worn in sneakers, and the marshmallows on top of hot chocolate. The fear and the pain of losing his body was gone, and, when he had hit the floor, Dick instantly trusted the hand held out to him. I think I’d be proud to have your help.
The idea was cliché, childish, and way too chick flick, but he attempted to radiate warmth to his current body, and perhaps even his other self if that was where he was stuck. Because of where and seemingly when he was, Dick tried to remember the good times when he was in his mid teens, instead of seeing it as when it all began to fall apart. He concentrated more on the feeling of solving his first official solo case, of teaming up with Batgirl, of leading his own team of Titans. Not that he wanted to be a teenager again, but as he stopped fighting for control and reconnecting to his past he began to feel more at ease.
It was definitely chick flick, but he couldn’t argue with the results as he looked at his now steady hand.
He finished his Jello before deciding he had regained enough control to grab a shower. He swung his legs to the edge of the bed, taking into consideration for the first time the gray sweatpants and white cotton undershirt he was wearing. They both looked impossibly huge on his skinny body, making Dick wonder if he had ever really been this gangly.
He was able to stand and stretch, though his center of gravity was off and his limbs seemed to move freely without his usual muscle density and he was shorter -- when did he have that last growth spurt? The walk to the restroom was more like a toddler learning to walk than he would ever admit and he was grateful he only needed to travel a few feet. He let the door frame support his weight as he glanced around the small room, the sink, toilet, and thankfully a wheel chair accessible shower with a seat. The bathroom had a mirror above the sink and Dick glanced for the first time at his reflection.
There was indeed a Robin’s mask on his face with the white lenses he had come to see the word through. The lenses took up an improbable amount of the mask though, and seemed to change shape with his facial expressions more than any other mask Dick had seen. The black hair was short and matted to his head with a few days of sweat. His ears seemed too rounded and the lips were barely a thin line. But despite the differences, Dick could see the resemblance to himself.
A brief rummaging through the medicine cabinet produced a small bottle of solvent and Dick returned his gaze to the mirror.
This was where it all fell apart, he was sure of it. He was going to remove the mask and find he didn’t have a face. It would be blank and empty, his eyes and nose and mouth gone. It had all been a setup. He was now in his own personal hell; every mission he was forced on he would fail to step in front of bullets aimed at friend or foe; Barbara would be married to Jason Bard; Tim would join Jason on a killing spree in Gotham; his friends and teammates would all leave the planet to never return; Bruce would have replaced him with a Bat-Hound; and Etrigan the Demon would forever be there in his ear, rhyming about his failures.
Dick took a breath -- after all, how bad could a personal hell be -- and began to spray the solvent.