Fic: Lost
In the words of one of our local DJs, "Iiiiiiiit'sssss Friiiiiii-dayyyyyyy!"
Title: Lost
Author: Katzedecimal
Rating: T
Characters: just Pipster
Summary: Since Piper ducked out on him, Trickster's back to searching again.
He put on his blue suede shoes and boarded the plane. It didn't touch down in the land of the delta blues, but it was pouring rain. James sighed and went to rent a car. While he waited, he studied some maps of the area the Question had indicated, trying to intuit where in this section of Rocky Mountain boondocks Piper would have gone. Dammit, Hartley! Why'd you leave? Where'd you go? At least he was still in the states. This area was way too far south, so Piper probably hadn't gone to that five hundred dollar a night kilt palace he'd talked about.
The rental was too perfect. He'd paid extra for it, but once he'd spotted it on the lot, he had to have it. It'd make the search considerably more entertaining, at least. He drove for a while, until he started feeling hypnotised by the sushing of the rain and the rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers. He found a cybercafe and stopped to get a coffee and to surf the web for anything, anything that might indicate which of the area's little villages and hamlets might be hiding a sonics genius with a rat fixation.
One of them had a comics store. Not just a second-hand bookshop that decided to take advantage of a niche market, but a bona fide comics shop. It had only a second-hand music shop but it did have a high-speed internet node. Piper had had an iPod, so he was no stranger to downloading his music, and he was as much of a comics nerd as James was. He drew a circle around the village then went back out to the rental. Tomorrow, then.
* * * *
"Hi there, I wonder if you could help me? I'm looking for a friend of mine..." He could tell he'd hit the jackpot by the way people reacted when he flashed Hartley's picture. The eyes of each person he asked flashed recognition, then hardened as their owners denied knowledge. Hartley was here, people knew about him, and wanted to protect him. Good. It was nice that Hart was somewhere safe, after the hell they'd been through. Now he just had to wait.
Not for nearly as long as he'd anticipated, as it turned out. He hadn't expected to find him so fast, but the clerk in the coffee shop would never win at poker -- her face had given away much, and a few careful questions produced the non-answers he was looking for. He walked the streets for a while, staying alert. It was new-issues day so he figured the comics store would be the most likely place to find Hartley. Then he noticed the bike parked in front of the grocery store.
It was a Harley Davidson, sleek and powerful and kitted for travel. It was a dark, dark green, so dark it looked black. And it had a decal of a flaming rat with burning eyes. Rat out of Hell, James thought, grinning widely, Now that's a Pipcycle! He turned on his light-refraction generator and waited. The door opened and he felt his pulse race.
Piper!!
And not dressed like James had ever known him. He thought about his favorite picture of Piper, about its dark, almost erotic magnetism -- Hartley's current civvies had the same quality. Tight black leather chaps over jeans, silver studs gleaming. A green mesh shirt just visible under the studded black leather jacket. He bent to put the groceries into the saddlebags of the bike and James bit off a laugh -- on the back of the jacket was a picture of a little skeletal rat Grim Reaper, complete with robe, scythe and glowing blue eye sockets. Ahhh, that's Hartley for you... Even at his most menacing, there's still something quirky going on there, James thought fondly. All this time searching, he'd thought about what to say, what to do, but now that he'd finally found his prey, something entirely different came to mind.
Hartley had super-sensitive hearing. He could hear the Flash's approach. I am so going to get beat up for this and it'll be worth every punch, James thought. Under his breath, not even audible to himself, he whispered, "Hey Hartley, wanna get lucky tonight?"
Hartley's head snapped up and whipped around, then turned as he focussed his hearing. James stayed very quiet, not daring even to breathe.
"What's with the outfit, Hart? You goin' all YMCA on me?"
"Oh no..." Hartley groaned under his breath, "Not this again."
"Sa'matta, Hart?"
Hartley passed a hand over his face, "Not hearing this." He gunned the engine to life and glanced in the mirrors.
And saw the Trickster standing behind him, grinning.
He whipped around but there was no one there. Great, just great. He put the bike in gear.
* * * *
"You okay, Hartley? You look a bit peaky."
"I'm fine," he lied. He took the cappucino and pushed the bill across the counter.
"By the way, I thought you should know... There's some guy going around asking about you. He was in here this morning."
"Great. Just great," Hartley sighed. Normally he enjoyed his mid-week outings - as much as he could enjoy anything, these days. But suddenly he'd started hallucinating Trickster's voice again and this time that wasn't all -- he was seeing the guy everywhere he looked, too. Pass a guy on the sidewalk who, out of the corner of his eye, looked just like James, but when he turned to look, there was nobody there. Picked up his comics and glanced up to see what might have been James's sunny wicked smile, but when he looked, it was someone totally different. And there was that fight with the Scarecrow...
At least, he'd thought he was hallucinating, but if someone was actually looking for him... After Scarecrow, he wasn't so sure. Someone might be trying to unhinge him. Waller maybe, or that idiot kid, or maybe someone after vengeance for Mirror Master. But if it was an impersonator, they were damned good -- they not only looked like James Jesse and sounded like James Jesse, they moved like James Jesse.
James's muscles had never forgotten his early circus training. His every movement was precise, flawless, with no wasted motion at all. He was light on his feet and could turn on a dime. His grace was unconscious. Hartley had admired it for years, since they were both young Rogues. It would be exceedingly difficult to imitate convincingly, to someone who'd known James for so long.
This was cruel, though. He missed James Jesse. Even though their relationship swung wildly between constant petty bickering and Hartley trying desperately to keep whatever he was drinking from spraying out his nose, he missed it. He almost - almost - missed the gay jokes. But not yet.
"You get one for me, Hart?"
"You're dead, James," Hartley murmured, "You don't drink coffee."
"Hey, that's prejudice, that is!"
"No, it's a statement of fact."
"I prefer 'vitally challenged,' thankyouverymuch."
"I'm sure you do. It doesn't change the fact that you're dead."
"You just forgot the hazelnut shot and don't wanna admit it."
Hartley finished the coffee and went out to his bike, "James, if you were alive, I would most gladly buy you coffee. But you're not alive. You're dead."
"Y'know, it's pretty ironic, a guy like you being prejudiced against us differently-incarnated."
"Oh for pity's sake..." Hartley pulled on his helmet and gunned the engine, "Y'know, James, you're even more annoying dead than you were alive."
"Awwww, Hartley, that's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me."
He glanced in the mirrors and saw the Trickster with a polka-dot bag on a stick over his shoulder, leaning against a blue and yellow Smart Car. This time he didn't bother to check. He just shook his head and took off.
* * * *
The voice had stopped by the time he got home. Yesterday's rain had returned in the form of a grey drizzle but it was looking to storm towards evening. Hartley sat on his chesterfield and cuddled the Trickster puppet to his chest. He wasn't doing anything - not working on his gizmos or reading his new issues or even playing with his rats. He just sat on the chesterfield, in silence.
Twelve feet up a tree, James had his binoculars out and was scoping out the ramshackle single-wide trailer hidden up the mountain some miles from the village. Evidently Piper had decided to take "living in the sticks" rather literally, as there was hardly any yard space at all, the whole house was hemmed in by towering evergreens. Around the back was the bike, under a tarp, and a generator. All the furniture looked like it had been bought second-hand. The only new items were the mattress and, of course, the sound equipment, currently silent.
And that was how James knew that the Question was right. Piper hated silence, he couldn't stand it. The only time he could bear silence was when he was listening to his environment, focussing his incredible hearing. This place wasn't just quiet, there was no music!
This place clearly wasn't intended to be lived in; it was for existing in. It was a place to pass the time while Hartley waited for the last of his rats to die. Then, when there was no one left to need him.... Well that's not going to happen, James thought firmly, aiming one of his gadgets, I can't erase the pain, Piper, but I can make it worthwhile. You're gonna beat the crap outta me when you figure it out.
Hartley's eyes flicked up towards the sound system. It had started playing by itself. He got up, still holding the Trickster puppet, and went over to examine it as the strains of Simple Minds' "Alive and Kicking" wound gently into the room. He touched the stop tab and the silence closed back in. It stayed off and Hartley turned around to go back to the chesterfield, only to spin back around when the music inexplicably resumed. He sat on the chesterfield and stared at the stereo speculatively.
Several of his rats crawled up his legs and into his arms. He cuddled them and stroked them, then frowned as the music changed to the theme from "The Greatest American Hero." Now that's odd, Hartley thought, I didn't think I had that song. ...I don't have that song. He sat on the chesterfield, cuddling the rats and the Trickster puppet, and wondered if he was going insane. Or equally likely, someone was trying to drive him insane, making him think he was seeing James.
Another rat slipped in and clamboured up onto the chesterfield. Hartley stared at it, "There is?" He stared some more, listening to something only he could hear, "Are you sure?" Then he leaned back and looked thoughtful.
Well now, that changed a few things. Made him more certain of his sanity, for one. Project CADMUS? S.T.A.R. Labs? Lexcorp? Who else is making working clones? Or in the case of Lexcorp, android duplicates. .... oh god, a robot RealDoll of the Trickster, wouldn't he just love that. But why would anyone clone Trickster? Although for S.T.A.R, the answer would just be 'because they could.' Batman, sure, Superman, definitely, even Flash.. but Trickster didn't really have anything special going for him, not in a way that would make him a person of interest to the cloning labs.
Unless....... unless......... That stunt hadn't actually worked, had it? But it's been so long! But... how long do these things take? If it hadn't been done before, who'd know?
Hartley glanced up as Billy Squier's "Rock Me Tonight" fingersnapped its way into the room. If it was James, would he be dicking around with Hartley's mind like this? Hell yes he would!
The sky was rapidly darkening and a peal of thunder rumbled. The storm would soon force whoever was out there to make a move one way or the other.
* * * *
It was dark and stormy, alright. Lightning flashed, followed immediately by a sharp crack of thunder. It rolled on, sounding like someone pounding on the door. Hartley turned his head and focussed his hearing -- someone was pounding on the door.
"Hartley, open up! C'mon, dude, I'm freezing my nadgers off out here!"
Hartley flung the door open and stared. The Trickster stood there, polka-dotted bag-onna-stick on his shoulder, beaming at him like sunshine on a cloudy day.
"Hiya, Hart! Didja miss me?"
Title: Lost
Author: Katzedecimal
Rating: T
Characters: just Pipster
Summary: Since Piper ducked out on him, Trickster's back to searching again.
He put on his blue suede shoes and boarded the plane. It didn't touch down in the land of the delta blues, but it was pouring rain. James sighed and went to rent a car. While he waited, he studied some maps of the area the Question had indicated, trying to intuit where in this section of Rocky Mountain boondocks Piper would have gone. Dammit, Hartley! Why'd you leave? Where'd you go? At least he was still in the states. This area was way too far south, so Piper probably hadn't gone to that five hundred dollar a night kilt palace he'd talked about.
The rental was too perfect. He'd paid extra for it, but once he'd spotted it on the lot, he had to have it. It'd make the search considerably more entertaining, at least. He drove for a while, until he started feeling hypnotised by the sushing of the rain and the rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers. He found a cybercafe and stopped to get a coffee and to surf the web for anything, anything that might indicate which of the area's little villages and hamlets might be hiding a sonics genius with a rat fixation.
One of them had a comics store. Not just a second-hand bookshop that decided to take advantage of a niche market, but a bona fide comics shop. It had only a second-hand music shop but it did have a high-speed internet node. Piper had had an iPod, so he was no stranger to downloading his music, and he was as much of a comics nerd as James was. He drew a circle around the village then went back out to the rental. Tomorrow, then.
* * * *
"Hi there, I wonder if you could help me? I'm looking for a friend of mine..." He could tell he'd hit the jackpot by the way people reacted when he flashed Hartley's picture. The eyes of each person he asked flashed recognition, then hardened as their owners denied knowledge. Hartley was here, people knew about him, and wanted to protect him. Good. It was nice that Hart was somewhere safe, after the hell they'd been through. Now he just had to wait.
Not for nearly as long as he'd anticipated, as it turned out. He hadn't expected to find him so fast, but the clerk in the coffee shop would never win at poker -- her face had given away much, and a few careful questions produced the non-answers he was looking for. He walked the streets for a while, staying alert. It was new-issues day so he figured the comics store would be the most likely place to find Hartley. Then he noticed the bike parked in front of the grocery store.
It was a Harley Davidson, sleek and powerful and kitted for travel. It was a dark, dark green, so dark it looked black. And it had a decal of a flaming rat with burning eyes. Rat out of Hell, James thought, grinning widely, Now that's a Pipcycle! He turned on his light-refraction generator and waited. The door opened and he felt his pulse race.
Piper!!
And not dressed like James had ever known him. He thought about his favorite picture of Piper, about its dark, almost erotic magnetism -- Hartley's current civvies had the same quality. Tight black leather chaps over jeans, silver studs gleaming. A green mesh shirt just visible under the studded black leather jacket. He bent to put the groceries into the saddlebags of the bike and James bit off a laugh -- on the back of the jacket was a picture of a little skeletal rat Grim Reaper, complete with robe, scythe and glowing blue eye sockets. Ahhh, that's Hartley for you... Even at his most menacing, there's still something quirky going on there, James thought fondly. All this time searching, he'd thought about what to say, what to do, but now that he'd finally found his prey, something entirely different came to mind.
Hartley had super-sensitive hearing. He could hear the Flash's approach. I am so going to get beat up for this and it'll be worth every punch, James thought. Under his breath, not even audible to himself, he whispered, "Hey Hartley, wanna get lucky tonight?"
Hartley's head snapped up and whipped around, then turned as he focussed his hearing. James stayed very quiet, not daring even to breathe.
"What's with the outfit, Hart? You goin' all YMCA on me?"
"Oh no..." Hartley groaned under his breath, "Not this again."
"Sa'matta, Hart?"
Hartley passed a hand over his face, "Not hearing this." He gunned the engine to life and glanced in the mirrors.
And saw the Trickster standing behind him, grinning.
He whipped around but there was no one there. Great, just great. He put the bike in gear.
* * * *
"You okay, Hartley? You look a bit peaky."
"I'm fine," he lied. He took the cappucino and pushed the bill across the counter.
"By the way, I thought you should know... There's some guy going around asking about you. He was in here this morning."
"Great. Just great," Hartley sighed. Normally he enjoyed his mid-week outings - as much as he could enjoy anything, these days. But suddenly he'd started hallucinating Trickster's voice again and this time that wasn't all -- he was seeing the guy everywhere he looked, too. Pass a guy on the sidewalk who, out of the corner of his eye, looked just like James, but when he turned to look, there was nobody there. Picked up his comics and glanced up to see what might have been James's sunny wicked smile, but when he looked, it was someone totally different. And there was that fight with the Scarecrow...
At least, he'd thought he was hallucinating, but if someone was actually looking for him... After Scarecrow, he wasn't so sure. Someone might be trying to unhinge him. Waller maybe, or that idiot kid, or maybe someone after vengeance for Mirror Master. But if it was an impersonator, they were damned good -- they not only looked like James Jesse and sounded like James Jesse, they moved like James Jesse.
James's muscles had never forgotten his early circus training. His every movement was precise, flawless, with no wasted motion at all. He was light on his feet and could turn on a dime. His grace was unconscious. Hartley had admired it for years, since they were both young Rogues. It would be exceedingly difficult to imitate convincingly, to someone who'd known James for so long.
This was cruel, though. He missed James Jesse. Even though their relationship swung wildly between constant petty bickering and Hartley trying desperately to keep whatever he was drinking from spraying out his nose, he missed it. He almost - almost - missed the gay jokes. But not yet.
"You get one for me, Hart?"
"You're dead, James," Hartley murmured, "You don't drink coffee."
"Hey, that's prejudice, that is!"
"No, it's a statement of fact."
"I prefer 'vitally challenged,' thankyouverymuch."
"I'm sure you do. It doesn't change the fact that you're dead."
"You just forgot the hazelnut shot and don't wanna admit it."
Hartley finished the coffee and went out to his bike, "James, if you were alive, I would most gladly buy you coffee. But you're not alive. You're dead."
"Y'know, it's pretty ironic, a guy like you being prejudiced against us differently-incarnated."
"Oh for pity's sake..." Hartley pulled on his helmet and gunned the engine, "Y'know, James, you're even more annoying dead than you were alive."
"Awwww, Hartley, that's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me."
He glanced in the mirrors and saw the Trickster with a polka-dot bag on a stick over his shoulder, leaning against a blue and yellow Smart Car. This time he didn't bother to check. He just shook his head and took off.
* * * *
The voice had stopped by the time he got home. Yesterday's rain had returned in the form of a grey drizzle but it was looking to storm towards evening. Hartley sat on his chesterfield and cuddled the Trickster puppet to his chest. He wasn't doing anything - not working on his gizmos or reading his new issues or even playing with his rats. He just sat on the chesterfield, in silence.
Twelve feet up a tree, James had his binoculars out and was scoping out the ramshackle single-wide trailer hidden up the mountain some miles from the village. Evidently Piper had decided to take "living in the sticks" rather literally, as there was hardly any yard space at all, the whole house was hemmed in by towering evergreens. Around the back was the bike, under a tarp, and a generator. All the furniture looked like it had been bought second-hand. The only new items were the mattress and, of course, the sound equipment, currently silent.
And that was how James knew that the Question was right. Piper hated silence, he couldn't stand it. The only time he could bear silence was when he was listening to his environment, focussing his incredible hearing. This place wasn't just quiet, there was no music!
This place clearly wasn't intended to be lived in; it was for existing in. It was a place to pass the time while Hartley waited for the last of his rats to die. Then, when there was no one left to need him.... Well that's not going to happen, James thought firmly, aiming one of his gadgets, I can't erase the pain, Piper, but I can make it worthwhile. You're gonna beat the crap outta me when you figure it out.
Hartley's eyes flicked up towards the sound system. It had started playing by itself. He got up, still holding the Trickster puppet, and went over to examine it as the strains of Simple Minds' "Alive and Kicking" wound gently into the room. He touched the stop tab and the silence closed back in. It stayed off and Hartley turned around to go back to the chesterfield, only to spin back around when the music inexplicably resumed. He sat on the chesterfield and stared at the stereo speculatively.
Several of his rats crawled up his legs and into his arms. He cuddled them and stroked them, then frowned as the music changed to the theme from "The Greatest American Hero." Now that's odd, Hartley thought, I didn't think I had that song. ...I don't have that song. He sat on the chesterfield, cuddling the rats and the Trickster puppet, and wondered if he was going insane. Or equally likely, someone was trying to drive him insane, making him think he was seeing James.
Another rat slipped in and clamboured up onto the chesterfield. Hartley stared at it, "There is?" He stared some more, listening to something only he could hear, "Are you sure?" Then he leaned back and looked thoughtful.
Well now, that changed a few things. Made him more certain of his sanity, for one. Project CADMUS? S.T.A.R. Labs? Lexcorp? Who else is making working clones? Or in the case of Lexcorp, android duplicates. .... oh god, a robot RealDoll of the Trickster, wouldn't he just love that. But why would anyone clone Trickster? Although for S.T.A.R, the answer would just be 'because they could.' Batman, sure, Superman, definitely, even Flash.. but Trickster didn't really have anything special going for him, not in a way that would make him a person of interest to the cloning labs.
Unless....... unless......... That stunt hadn't actually worked, had it? But it's been so long! But... how long do these things take? If it hadn't been done before, who'd know?
Hartley glanced up as Billy Squier's "Rock Me Tonight" fingersnapped its way into the room. If it was James, would he be dicking around with Hartley's mind like this? Hell yes he would!
The sky was rapidly darkening and a peal of thunder rumbled. The storm would soon force whoever was out there to make a move one way or the other.
* * * *
It was dark and stormy, alright. Lightning flashed, followed immediately by a sharp crack of thunder. It rolled on, sounding like someone pounding on the door. Hartley turned his head and focussed his hearing -- someone was pounding on the door.
"Hartley, open up! C'mon, dude, I'm freezing my nadgers off out here!"
Hartley flung the door open and stared. The Trickster stood there, polka-dotted bag-onna-stick on his shoulder, beaming at him like sunshine on a cloudy day.
"Hiya, Hart! Didja miss me?"