So, I'm writing Young Justice again after my 10-month-hiatus. I guess I've gotten better...? Oh, well. Robin and Red Arrow are OOC for a reason.
Five Years After
Perchington Estates was a neighborhood that housed the average class citizens of Glanger County. After school days, it was a typical suburban paradise, each house with a white-picket fence to complete the look. Kids played kickball in the culdesac with bases drawn on in chalk and aging soccer balls, their mothers would sit sipping green tea from plastic bottles and trade harmless gossip, while their fathers may be cooking a barbeque for dinner or working on a woodshop project. Every house participated in the neighborhood bonfires and food drives and other such social celebrations, every house except for 258.
258 was something of a sore-thumb next to the other houses. While it did maintain its flawless white picket fence, the grass was terribly neglected, and the driveway was piled high with newspapers dating all the way back to four years ago, carefully coated in saran-wrap to keep the harmful effects of the elements irrelevant. Rotted trees that didn't fully decompose had downward gazes and their branches hung like paralyzed limbs. A grotesque layer of syrupy leaves gathered from each fall covered the ground like molasses spread across toast. Some kids say, that at around nine every night, you can see a ghost sitting in the porch swing. A young ghost. A ghost with raven-hair and cobalt eyes. It's true that a couple kids have seen him, and even entertained the thought of trying to catch him, but most everybody leaves the abandoned house alone.
Well, most of the kids at least. Their parents and grandparents know that there is actually someone living in that house, each meeting him through their own unique experiences. He's an odd boy, claims Mrs. McClellan, an old withered lady from a few doors down. Her husband is always quick to remind her that he's no boy. He couldn't be less than nineteen-years-old. He couldn't be more than nineteen-years-old, she corrects. They settle him at age nineteen. As to whether he's a ghost or not, no one likes to answer. If he's alive, he has terribly pale skin, and if he's dead, he doesn't smell too much like decay. Though some neighbors have reported that he does carry a distinct odor.
And no matter by death or life's standards, he is loud when he wants to be. He also has an innate sense of knowing when a kid has accidentally kicked a ball into his yard. If the kid is smart and runs away when he sees the ghost, then there's not a lot of trouble besides a lost ball. If he's too shocked to move, or dumb enough to go and get it, then that is one booming voice to come from a deceased spirit. It's crystal clear he can't stand children, or old ladies, or middle-aged men — or maybe it's just people in general. He's not very sociable, to put it lightly.
Despite his temper and badly kept lawn (or his blessed scarcity), nobody in the neighborhood really hated him. Most adults felt sorry for him, or thought of him as misled to be that hardened at such a young age, and most kids thought of him as cheap entertainment, and to some degree captivating. There was a story to be found there at 258.
It was eight o'clock and the sun had just barely started to set when they heard the shouts. Kickball games that were beginning to wind down stopped in an instant. Meat sizzled alone on grills. Lipton sat abandoned on porch tables. Almost the whole neighborhood had wandered to see what 258 had conjured this time. It was startling at first, all the weird activity at the house, but as time went on, it became familiar and anticipated.
Of course, no one expected this.
There were two cars resting in the foliage-flooded driveway. Parked next to the gray Malibu was a shiny black Volvo that appeared utterly misplaced among the unnavigable terrain of the yard. A redhead who looked around 24 was dragging the ghost by the foot across the ground, kicking up years-old leaves and nesting bugs as he plowed onward.
"Stop! Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing!"
"I could do this the easy way, but I'm not in the mood. Besides. You deserve this."
"How?"
The mystery man turned a sharp left right at the tree, and the ghost smacked right into the putrid trunk with a satisfying thump, his breath ejected out his mouth in a jagged gasp.
"Let…go…of…me…!"
"No."
"I am a U.S. citizen! I know my rights!"
"So you know that you can be tried as an adult for what you've done."
"You can't be charged with unruly behavior as an adult!"
"Man," he breathes before slamming him into the pristine alabaster fence, "you're still pretty light. Have you been eating?"
"You keep changing the subject!"
"Hey, you're the one who deprived me of four year's worth of conversation. I can't help that."
"It's not my fault you don't have any other friends to talk to!" The ghost says 'my fault' with a shudder. It's evident on both of their faces that it's a lie. The redhead stops and let's go of his foot.
"It's about time you —" the ghost complains angrily through the tears in his eyes as he stands, but he's cut off when the redhead turns around and envelopes him in a hearty embrace. It's a sudden and fast motion, and the hug is savored for every last feel.
"I missed you." The redhead breathes.
"I hate you." The ghost replies.
"I know. That's okay."
The raven-haired boy pushes him away.
"You're here to take me back."
"As much fun as a full-length reunion would've been, yes."
True trepidation flashes across his face and he takes a staggering step back, ready to turn and run at any given moment.
"Listen. You have to hear me out, he just —"
"Shut up!" he screams, suddenly taking on the appearance of a feral, cornered animal, "Stay away from me!"
The expression on the redhead's face turns from pleading and compassionate to analyzing and disapproving.
"Do you know how long it took to find you? Do you know how hard I worked? I'm not going to just let you slip through my fingers again, you little brat!" he reaches out to grab his wrist, but the ghost is flying expertly through the air in no time, landing gracefully in one of the two trees.
"Oh my gosh." He says in monotone, strolling casually to the base of the tree, "My cat's stuck up in a tree. Whatever will I do?"
"Watch yourself, Harper, I haven't had anything breathing to hit in a long time."
"Then why don't you come at me?"
"Fine, then. But arrows where I can see 'em."
"Don't have any."
"I don't trust you. And is it just me, or have you picked up a bit of a bipolar disorder?"
"Is it just me or have you picked up a bit of a temper? What happened to the cool-headed Grayson?"
"What happened to the one-track Harper?"
"For Pete's sake, get out of the tree." He commands exasperatedly. The ghost jumps from the tree and sets off running, pushing through startled bystanders as he goes. The redhead doesn't waste any time catching up to him, and with one full-body tackle, he's on the ground squirming as the redhead sits on his chest.
"Get off of me." He growls.
"Man, you are rusty. Was that supposed to be a sprint?"
"Get off!" he whimpers lowly.
"Are you going to come quietly, or are we going to have to deal with one of these nice folks calling the police? And I know what you're thinking, but trust me. It's not going to help."
"Okay, fine! Please, just get off!" Once he stands, the ghost turns on his side and vomits right in the middle of the street.
"Dick…"
The ghost stares at him caustically, face flushed with embarrassment.
"You haven't been eating, have you?"
"None of your business, Harper."
"How many layers are you wearing?"
"None. Of. Your. Business. Can we just go?" he subconsciously folds his arms, a manifestation of his sudden self-consciousness.
"Answer the question." He yells.
"I don't know! A couple shirts, maybe… I just want to get this over with, so can we hurry this along?"
The redhead fixes him with a hard glare.
"Just get in the car."
AN:
Review. O_O