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 5
.:N:.
Teenagers were not meant to drink coffee. Dick understood that it was the current “in” thing to do, more so than when he had been a teen at least, but understanding didn’t stop the twitch in his left leg or the buzz behind his eyes. The buzz wouldn’t allow him to even blink -- slightly helpful since he was attempting to read this Robin’s coded journal, unhelpful since the rest of his body was pulling him towards a nap. He vowed to only buy Tim caffeine free Zesti from that moment on; he was not going to be responsible for supplying the teen with drugs any longer.
Perhaps, for the sake of Tim, only this teen wasn’t meant to drink coffee, or at least the amount Dick had consumed without thought a few hours earlier that morning. Which brought to focus the asynchronous mind and body from which he was suffering; a body he was ignorant of behaviorally. But, if the caffeine induced currents running through his body were any indication, the body itself knew its own idiosyncrasies. Dick just hoped the lack of caffeine conditioning was not a sign of some larger “my body is a temple” syndrome. He did not wish to become ill from pizza, cheese steak, and cheap Chinese takeout, his three major food groups away from Alfred’s watchful eye.
He had found himself awake at oh-four-thirty with the discovery that, though he was distinctly aware he was misplaced, the feeling had dulled to wearing someone else’s clothes. Clothes which were still too tight in all the wrong places. Dick could not remember the last time he got out of bed instead of falling into it before sunrise . The change was welcome as the early morning did provide him an opportunity for a workout before the others discovered him mobile and tied him to the bed. A brief glance at his purpling shoulder indicated he would have to watch his upper body stretches, a fact he begrudgingly accepted as he made his way to the kitchen. One ransack of said room later and he had found no coffee, the second search proving that fact. The lack of coffee should have been a sign, with all his training should have at least made him contemplate the why of the situation. But starting the day at four in the morning was a foreign enough concept, without even factoring in the rest of his surroundings, that not having a mug of coffee was inconceivable. Unsure of this body’s limits, Dick had not planned to leave the tower for his workout. Collapsing somewhere in an unknown city was not an effective way to learn of his surroundings, but he decided to disregard the risk.
With the first step outside the tower into this world, Dick breathed in the ocean. Having lived in a harbor city for nearly two decades, he was unprepared for the assault on his senses. There was no surprise that the coastal cities of the Atlantic and the Pacific would have different atmospheres, that the humidity and pollution would hang differently in the air, or that he would be aware enough to notice the changes. His body breathed in the air, processing the salt and the fumes with practiced ease, though his mind was filled with new sensory information. He longed for the tang of salt water taffy and the New Jersey air.
His cheeks filled with an ashamed blush as he realized he had fallen victim to the typical east coast/west coast disgust for each other, a betrayal to his nomadic birth. Gotham had become home because it was where Bruce lived. New York because it was where the Titans lived. Blüdhaven because it was where Dick Grayson -- the tenant, the landowner, the bartender, the rookie cop, the vigilante -- lived. It was the city he ultimately died in, long before he heard of Alexander Luther, Jr., a death at the hands of Deathstroke, Blockbuster, Tarantula, and himself. He should hardly be falling into a location prejudice when he no longer had a home.
Once on the mainland, he chose a random direction and headed off in a light jog. When he felt he was beyond the tower surveillance, he slipped inside a phone booth. Unable to help his grin at the unoriginal thoughts of Superman as he removed his mask, he transformed himself into just another teen in sweatpants.
He passed eleven autocratic coffee houses before he found it: the small twenty-four hour diner most would describe as a hole in the wall. Six sets of eyes followed his progress inside, though five sets did so in a manner an untrained observer wouldn’t recognize. Those five belonged to police officers, though only four of them were dressed as street cops. The welcome was not unanticipated considering the diner was within spitting distance of the local precinct. Dick surveyed the room as well, numbering the people watching him and identifying all exits with a practice to which even most veteran officers would be oblivious. The three seats best suited for observation were taken, so he chose a poorly positioned seat at the counter which left his back open to the door. He tightened his shoulders when he sat, drummed the counter with his fingers, and let his eyes dart around the diner without making contact for more than a few seconds; a teen strategically seated and comfortable in a cop diner in the early morning would appear hinky. When the officers’ eyes shifted off him, the sixth set of eyes -- the waitress -- walked towards him. He knew he had been analyzed and accepted, at least enough to earn service and some privacy.
The waitress looked and sounded like every other small diner waitress, attempted to make small talk like every other small diner waitress, and settled his coffee mug in front of him with a wrist snap like every other small diner waitress. Dick gazed into his mug like every other small diner customer, losing himself in the role. The only mark of the passage of time was the small pile of empty sugar packets as he fought the battle between cup refills and the flavor which allowed him to drink his coffee.
Alfred had spoiled them at the manor with coffee from the freshest beans and brewed with some special method only known to the butler. Dick would not have sniggered to find out that the secret method was something like “love,” as he suspected that was Alfred’s every secret method. It was near sacrilege to drink Alfred’s coffee any way but black, therefore, Dick’s need for sugar came after he had his own apartment and embarrassing struggles with his coffee maker.
Most people off the street would need more than a few packs of sugar to make the coffee drinkable; a cop diner shared the precinct’s penchant for coffee sludge. Dick was convinced the department would fall apart without overly bitter, thick coffee with just enough grinds in it to add a crunch with every sip. He was unsure exactly how one set about making bad coffee; even he had mastered making decent coffee with the basic dump and pour method. Of course, he could have figured the how out, would figure it out if it was ever required for a case, but he hoped he would never would. An unanswered question like how to make bad coffee was rare for a curious mind like his, but he enjoyed not knowing. He doubted most people would ever even form the question let alone ponder it for so long without planning to answer it; no one was going to contemplate bad coffee like the meaning of life. Yet, bad coffee was all part of the mystic of the job, a job which most experienced people would never describe as having a mystic. Dick was, at that moment, adding an abnormal amount of sugar for himself. The first sip proved his addiction was more in his mind than his body, the pungent taste registering foreign to his tongue. He most likely should have stopped himself at that observation, would have saved himself a lot of trouble later if he had, but he felt more comfortable at the small diner -- one he had never been in before -- than in the tower -- a tower so similar to his own -- he was disinclined to care.
Having had four or so lives and obligations, Dick found himself highly reliant on coffee when he had been a uniform. Still, despite the wisdom of Bruce and Barbara when they told him to quit, despite knowing he would burnout, he was unable to give up the force. Not that he could do more good on the force, or -- despite the fact that Dick Grayson was far more than a mask -- that he needed something more to his name than heir to a playboy’s fortune, but something held him there. Maybe the police oath simply held a greater thrall over him than a child’s oath on a set of graves. He never saw himself voluntarily quitting the superhero gig, but he was aware of the incessant mission which would consume him as long as he was one, so similar and yet so different to the badge.
No one could deny he had a knack for the police job, all the way down to drinking the coffee. Even after his main objective of cleaning out the department had been accomplished, Dick’s commitment to the job had not waned. He could say without ego that the city had lost an assent when he turned in his badge. The sting of failure should have lessened over time, after all he had been fired from most everything he endeavored: Robin, leader of the Titans, leader of the Outsiders, an officer. Yet those same people who rejected him kept asking him back, or at least accepting him: Nightwing, a new team, unquestioning and immediate compliance with his orders, the offer of a returned badge and gun. Only Amy’s double entendre had kept him from accepting them back, the desire to return to that life almost overriding his other objectives. His body ached as he had to turn down his badge a second time, but that rejection did give him one thing. No matter how badly things had turned out because he had lost sight of the value of Roland Desmond’s life, he had never intended for Blockbuster to die. If he had, he would have taken the protection of the force when Amy had offered it to him, disguised with pretty words and a shiny badge. The thought wasn’t much, but it was something he could nurse with the coffee, something to help him remember the value of his own life.
He was under orders to do so.
The journal trembled lightly in time with his leg, the tremors transmitted through the bed on which Dick was resting. He had found the book after returning to the still sleeping tower and stretching out the fatigue in his overworked body. The journal, leather bound in black and marked with a golden VI on the spine, had only recently been started. The seven pages which were filled revealed little about his counterpart and gave no indication where he could find the first five volumes. Overall, the writing told him more about his counterpart than the words did.
He had recognized the code immediately as the one he had designed under Alfred’s tutelage. The script flowed evenly over the pages, sharp edges tempered by gentle curves, more a child’s scribble than a recognized written language. The code was one of movement, the shape of the design meaning less than the rhythm it was written with, the speed, angle, and pauses translated through the fountain pen. The words were weaved back and forth through the lines on the page, the pen never leaving the paper until the page was filled. The writer had know before beginning a page what was to be said as unplanned pauses would ruin the sequence and wreck the entire page. To that end, the journal was palm sized, but thick. As far as Dick knew, only he and Alfred could read the code. He was mildly curious how long it would take Batman to decipher it. Since a former member of the British Secret Service approved, Dick suspected it would take a decent effort.
The code’s true strength was not in its ability to hide what was written, but in preventing an outside party from giving false information. The writing process required a confident hand and a quick mind, the style difficult to forge. The code was most likely wasted on simple journal entries intended only to be read by the person who wrote them, but Dick recognized that strength would now help him leave something behind for his other self to trust when everything returned to normal. He pulled out a fountain pen.
Day Two
Ryeka,
Honestly, I’ve been thinking of you in my head as “this world’s Robin” for nearly a day now, just calling you Robin or Dick gets too confusing. I never took to the name “Ryeka” myself, but I hope you won’t mind it as much as I.
So what do you first say to the alternate version of yourself who is missing while you inhabit his body? Because that’s near as I can figure as what’s going on without having the slightest clue of the how let alone the why of the situation.
I’ve dealt with enough alternate realities and future timelines to know that, though the patterns are similar, my life isn’t yours. Implanting ideas in your head about your future based on my own would be unfair. I am nearly a decade older than you, the difference just pointing to time and space plotlines which are rather bothersome. My last memories are of a battle for the multiverse, which could be the most basic explanation. From what I’ve seen of this universe, I’d say your universe and mine diverged from each other recently, though most likely before you were born.
I haven’t spoken to your team about our situations yet, though I have reasonably ruled out any other possibility than the one I described above. Some time ago I had to accept that not all alternate versions of myself would share my same values, though I have no indications that this Teen Titans is morally on the other side. Soon your friends will realize I’ve only eaten Jello since I awoke, and they will hunt me down, and I’m not sure what to say to them. I’m not even sure they will believe or be equipped to help.
For the time being, I’m attempting to learn as much about your world as I can and why I was drawn to this particular time and place. I suspect it has something to do with that device Cyborg discovered and will ask for his report. I’ve also decided I need to retrain myself from the beginning, back to walking on my hands and to walking on wires, as I am more a liability than an asset with this body. I suspect as my mind and your body have gone though similar training, the process will not take long.
You might know all this, considering you could be as stuck in my body as I was in yours. I hope these words do not end up some odd letter to your family if you have indeed moved on permanently.
Dick
.:N:.
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 5
.:N:.
Teenagers were not meant to drink coffee. Dick understood that it was the current “in” thing to do, more so than when he had been a teen at least, but understanding didn’t stop the twitch in his left leg or the buzz behind his eyes. The buzz wouldn’t allow him to even blink -- slightly helpful since he was attempting to read this Robin’s coded journal, unhelpful since the rest of his body was pulling him towards a nap. He vowed to only buy Tim caffeine free Zesti from that moment on; he was not going to be responsible for supplying the teen with drugs any longer.
Perhaps, for the sake of Tim, only this teen wasn’t meant to drink coffee, or at least the amount Dick had consumed without thought a few hours earlier that morning. Which brought to focus the asynchronous mind and body from which he was suffering; a body he was ignorant of behaviorally. But, if the caffeine induced currents running through his body were any indication, the body itself knew its own idiosyncrasies. Dick just hoped the lack of caffeine conditioning was not a sign of some larger “my body is a temple” syndrome. He did not wish to become ill from pizza, cheese steak, and cheap Chinese takeout, his three major food groups away from Alfred’s watchful eye.
He had found himself awake at oh-four-thirty with the discovery that, though he was distinctly aware he was misplaced, the feeling had dulled to wearing someone else’s clothes. Clothes which were still too tight in all the wrong places. Dick could not remember the last time he got out of bed instead of falling into it before sunrise . The change was welcome as the early morning did provide him an opportunity for a workout before the others discovered him mobile and tied him to the bed. A brief glance at his purpling shoulder indicated he would have to watch his upper body stretches, a fact he begrudgingly accepted as he made his way to the kitchen. One ransack of said room later and he had found no coffee, the second search proving that fact. The lack of coffee should have been a sign, with all his training should have at least made him contemplate the why of the situation. But starting the day at four in the morning was a foreign enough concept, without even factoring in the rest of his surroundings, that not having a mug of coffee was inconceivable. Unsure of this body’s limits, Dick had not planned to leave the tower for his workout. Collapsing somewhere in an unknown city was not an effective way to learn of his surroundings, but he decided to disregard the risk.
With the first step outside the tower into this world, Dick breathed in the ocean. Having lived in a harbor city for nearly two decades, he was unprepared for the assault on his senses. There was no surprise that the coastal cities of the Atlantic and the Pacific would have different atmospheres, that the humidity and pollution would hang differently in the air, or that he would be aware enough to notice the changes. His body breathed in the air, processing the salt and the fumes with practiced ease, though his mind was filled with new sensory information. He longed for the tang of salt water taffy and the New Jersey air.
His cheeks filled with an ashamed blush as he realized he had fallen victim to the typical east coast/west coast disgust for each other, a betrayal to his nomadic birth. Gotham had become home because it was where Bruce lived. New York because it was where the Titans lived. Blüdhaven because it was where Dick Grayson -- the tenant, the landowner, the bartender, the rookie cop, the vigilante -- lived. It was the city he ultimately died in, long before he heard of Alexander Luther, Jr., a death at the hands of Deathstroke, Blockbuster, Tarantula, and himself. He should hardly be falling into a location prejudice when he no longer had a home.
Once on the mainland, he chose a random direction and headed off in a light jog. When he felt he was beyond the tower surveillance, he slipped inside a phone booth. Unable to help his grin at the unoriginal thoughts of Superman as he removed his mask, he transformed himself into just another teen in sweatpants.
He passed eleven autocratic coffee houses before he found it: the small twenty-four hour diner most would describe as a hole in the wall. Six sets of eyes followed his progress inside, though five sets did so in a manner an untrained observer wouldn’t recognize. Those five belonged to police officers, though only four of them were dressed as street cops. The welcome was not unanticipated considering the diner was within spitting distance of the local precinct. Dick surveyed the room as well, numbering the people watching him and identifying all exits with a practice to which even most veteran officers would be oblivious. The three seats best suited for observation were taken, so he chose a poorly positioned seat at the counter which left his back open to the door. He tightened his shoulders when he sat, drummed the counter with his fingers, and let his eyes dart around the diner without making contact for more than a few seconds; a teen strategically seated and comfortable in a cop diner in the early morning would appear hinky. When the officers’ eyes shifted off him, the sixth set of eyes -- the waitress -- walked towards him. He knew he had been analyzed and accepted, at least enough to earn service and some privacy.
The waitress looked and sounded like every other small diner waitress, attempted to make small talk like every other small diner waitress, and settled his coffee mug in front of him with a wrist snap like every other small diner waitress. Dick gazed into his mug like every other small diner customer, losing himself in the role. The only mark of the passage of time was the small pile of empty sugar packets as he fought the battle between cup refills and the flavor which allowed him to drink his coffee.
Alfred had spoiled them at the manor with coffee from the freshest beans and brewed with some special method only known to the butler. Dick would not have sniggered to find out that the secret method was something like “love,” as he suspected that was Alfred’s every secret method. It was near sacrilege to drink Alfred’s coffee any way but black, therefore, Dick’s need for sugar came after he had his own apartment and embarrassing struggles with his coffee maker.
Most people off the street would need more than a few packs of sugar to make the coffee drinkable; a cop diner shared the precinct’s penchant for coffee sludge. Dick was convinced the department would fall apart without overly bitter, thick coffee with just enough grinds in it to add a crunch with every sip. He was unsure exactly how one set about making bad coffee; even he had mastered making decent coffee with the basic dump and pour method. Of course, he could have figured the how out, would figure it out if it was ever required for a case, but he hoped he would never would. An unanswered question like how to make bad coffee was rare for a curious mind like his, but he enjoyed not knowing. He doubted most people would ever even form the question let alone ponder it for so long without planning to answer it; no one was going to contemplate bad coffee like the meaning of life. Yet, bad coffee was all part of the mystic of the job, a job which most experienced people would never describe as having a mystic. Dick was, at that moment, adding an abnormal amount of sugar for himself. The first sip proved his addiction was more in his mind than his body, the pungent taste registering foreign to his tongue. He most likely should have stopped himself at that observation, would have saved himself a lot of trouble later if he had, but he felt more comfortable at the small diner -- one he had never been in before -- than in the tower -- a tower so similar to his own -- he was disinclined to care.
Having had four or so lives and obligations, Dick found himself highly reliant on coffee when he had been a uniform. Still, despite the wisdom of Bruce and Barbara when they told him to quit, despite knowing he would burnout, he was unable to give up the force. Not that he could do more good on the force, or -- despite the fact that Dick Grayson was far more than a mask -- that he needed something more to his name than heir to a playboy’s fortune, but something held him there. Maybe the police oath simply held a greater thrall over him than a child’s oath on a set of graves. He never saw himself voluntarily quitting the superhero gig, but he was aware of the incessant mission which would consume him as long as he was one, so similar and yet so different to the badge.
No one could deny he had a knack for the police job, all the way down to drinking the coffee. Even after his main objective of cleaning out the department had been accomplished, Dick’s commitment to the job had not waned. He could say without ego that the city had lost an assent when he turned in his badge. The sting of failure should have lessened over time, after all he had been fired from most everything he endeavored: Robin, leader of the Titans, leader of the Outsiders, an officer. Yet those same people who rejected him kept asking him back, or at least accepting him: Nightwing, a new team, unquestioning and immediate compliance with his orders, the offer of a returned badge and gun. Only Amy’s double entendre had kept him from accepting them back, the desire to return to that life almost overriding his other objectives. His body ached as he had to turn down his badge a second time, but that rejection did give him one thing. No matter how badly things had turned out because he had lost sight of the value of Roland Desmond’s life, he had never intended for Blockbuster to die. If he had, he would have taken the protection of the force when Amy had offered it to him, disguised with pretty words and a shiny badge. The thought wasn’t much, but it was something he could nurse with the coffee, something to help him remember the value of his own life.
He was under orders to do so.
The journal trembled lightly in time with his leg, the tremors transmitted through the bed on which Dick was resting. He had found the book after returning to the still sleeping tower and stretching out the fatigue in his overworked body. The journal, leather bound in black and marked with a golden VI on the spine, had only recently been started. The seven pages which were filled revealed little about his counterpart and gave no indication where he could find the first five volumes. Overall, the writing told him more about his counterpart than the words did.
He had recognized the code immediately as the one he had designed under Alfred’s tutelage. The script flowed evenly over the pages, sharp edges tempered by gentle curves, more a child’s scribble than a recognized written language. The code was one of movement, the shape of the design meaning less than the rhythm it was written with, the speed, angle, and pauses translated through the fountain pen. The words were weaved back and forth through the lines on the page, the pen never leaving the paper until the page was filled. The writer had know before beginning a page what was to be said as unplanned pauses would ruin the sequence and wreck the entire page. To that end, the journal was palm sized, but thick. As far as Dick knew, only he and Alfred could read the code. He was mildly curious how long it would take Batman to decipher it. Since a former member of the British Secret Service approved, Dick suspected it would take a decent effort.
The code’s true strength was not in its ability to hide what was written, but in preventing an outside party from giving false information. The writing process required a confident hand and a quick mind, the style difficult to forge. The code was most likely wasted on simple journal entries intended only to be read by the person who wrote them, but Dick recognized that strength would now help him leave something behind for his other self to trust when everything returned to normal. He pulled out a fountain pen.
Day Two
Ryeka,
Honestly, I’ve been thinking of you in my head as “this world’s Robin” for nearly a day now, just calling you Robin or Dick gets too confusing. I never took to the name “Ryeka” myself, but I hope you won’t mind it as much as I.
So what do you first say to the alternate version of yourself who is missing while you inhabit his body? Because that’s near as I can figure as what’s going on without having the slightest clue of the how let alone the why of the situation.
I’ve dealt with enough alternate realities and future timelines to know that, though the patterns are similar, my life isn’t yours. Implanting ideas in your head about your future based on my own would be unfair. I am nearly a decade older than you, the difference just pointing to time and space plotlines which are rather bothersome. My last memories are of a battle for the multiverse, which could be the most basic explanation. From what I’ve seen of this universe, I’d say your universe and mine diverged from each other recently, though most likely before you were born.
I haven’t spoken to your team about our situations yet, though I have reasonably ruled out any other possibility than the one I described above. Some time ago I had to accept that not all alternate versions of myself would share my same values, though I have no indications that this Teen Titans is morally on the other side. Soon your friends will realize I’ve only eaten Jello since I awoke, and they will hunt me down, and I’m not sure what to say to them. I’m not even sure they will believe or be equipped to help.
For the time being, I’m attempting to learn as much about your world as I can and why I was drawn to this particular time and place. I suspect it has something to do with that device Cyborg discovered and will ask for his report. I’ve also decided I need to retrain myself from the beginning, back to walking on my hands and to walking on wires, as I am more a liability than an asset with this body. I suspect as my mind and your body have gone though similar training, the process will not take long.
You might know all this, considering you could be as stuck in my body as I was in yours. I hope these words do not end up some odd letter to your family if you have indeed moved on permanently.
Dick
.:N:.