A/N: Hello again! Welcome back, and accept my (sorta-)apologies for the lateness of this. Daylight savings hit me hard, and I've been exhausted all day. Pretty much all I could do to focus myself enough to write my thousand words.
So, this is a mashup of the current canon new-52 universe, and Batman Beyond. Now, I admit, I haven't read any of the BB comics, but I know some of the backstory bits it features through wikia pages and such. This is after the BB movie, and the end of the show, but not by much. For Jason, it's a bit more of an unspecified point, since continuity in comics is... hard. The important parts being that he's still teamed with Roy and Kori, but Damian's death/resurrection hasn't happened yet. (I am still so pissed, by the way, that this was not made a much bigger deal in the comics. Jason should have flipped out at Damian dying, and definitely been a lot more adverse to resurrecting him damnit. Jason knows the kind of crazy resurrection can make happen. On that same vein, how absurdly bitter should Jason be with Damian? He gets resurrected all nice and clean and gets super powers out of the deal?)
Anyway, this happened because while I was watching BB, all I could do was slowly grow to like Terry, and be really frustrated that apparently he really never learns to dodge. That boy gets hit with everything, seriously, even after his 'training.' So, this is a mix of frustration over that, irritation that Bruce apparently doesn't care that Terry depends on the suit, and, I admit, a desire to see Terry get his ass handed to him by a (real)ex-Robin. Also, wondering where exactly Jason went in the BB universe. We get Dick, and then it jumps straight to Tim, and the exclusion of Jason in media always bothers me.
Warnings for this first chapter are: pretty much nonexistent. Some slightly more violent than normal Jason, but he's got his reasons. Later chapters (I've got two written) only feature some really nasty back and forth between Jason and Bruce. Enjoy!
When I open my eyes to an alley floor, and the gritty feeling of dirt and asphalt pressing against the skin of my wrists, it probably should worry me more than it does. Normal people get freaked out when they wake up in random places, especially in random alleys. But, since I am definitely not normal, instead I push up and turn, scanning the alley around me and deciding two things, after a moment.
One, I'm alone, and two, this is one of the cleaner alleys I've been in, in at least the past few months. It's honestly a little weird; I'm kind of used to Gotham's grime, not that most of the world is any better. Being in any alley that doesn't stink — half the reason I adopted my helmet design was for filtration — or feel like it's got years of dirt, blood, and fuck knows what else ground into it, just doesn't feel right. Gotham never disappoints though, right?
I might be on bad terms with pretty much everybody in Gotham, and it might be a total shithole of a place, but it's still home. Can't change that.
I evaluate myself next, taking a glance down and making sure I'm at least basically in one piece. Waking up in random alleys probably isn't as unfamiliar as it should be, but there's usually some kind of reason behind it. Nothing I can see though. Nothing hurts, I'm completely in costume including my helmet, and apart from a few scuffs of dirt on the inside of my wrists from how I was lying on the ground, I'm totally untouched. A quick pat down confirms that I've still got all my weapons too. What the hell?
Is this a prank? Roy and Kori wouldn't do this to me, but maybe a Bat got hold of me? I can imagine Damian doing this, the little shit, or maybe Dick. But if it was Dick, I'd know it. It would be way more than enough for him just to have pranked me at all, he wouldn't leave me clueless in an alley. Especially because he knows that when I don't know what's going on, people tend to get hurt until someone tells me, and I'm not real choosy with who gives me that info.
I don't remember anything. Roy, Kori, and I were on our island, we'd kicked some ass and it was a nice relaxation between that and whatever we chose to do next. I'm pretty damn sure that all I did was just go to sleep in my own room. That's it.
Poof, apparently. Poof and I'm in all my clothes again, which is even a little more disturbing.
I look up, but whatever two skyscrapers I'm between are too close together to give me any clue of the city beyond a black sky. Night then. Same night, or a different one? Our island isn't real close to any kind of major city. Nothing with buildings this tall, anyway. No visible stars, so there's some serious light pollution here. No surprise. Cities aren't known for their good views of the stars, and I can definitely hear the ambient noise of a full on city in motion. Can't see the moon from here, so it's hard to know exactly what time it is, and I haven't got anything on me that's nice and convenient to check that on. Being off the mercenary life but still on the 'all law enforcement wants me in chains' list kind of nixed any idea for a cellphone, and watches break easily. The point being, it's firmly night and the city is still going, so it's a big one.
Well, might as well figure out where the fuck I am.
I head for one end of the alley, what looks like the busier end, and slip out onto the street itself. I'm suddenly really glad that my helmet is on, and no one can see the expression of what must be pure shock on my face.
What. The. Fuck.
Alright, so the massive skyscrapers aside — it could be Gotham, or Metropolis, if I didn't look that closely — and the concrete under my feet that looks just like any other sidewalk, this city can't be on Earth. There are humans walking down the streets, sure, and their clothes are even basically normal if you ignore the weird hair cuts, but those are hovering cars, and there are more above me that are flying.
Okay, wait. Think rationally for a second. Those are still humans. So maybe not an alien planet, maybe just the future? An alternate universe? There was just that whole thing with those Earth-3 clowns — morons actually thinking that I'd work for them — so it's not like it's that far out of the range of possibilities. I don't know why I'm wherever the hell here is, or how the fuck it happened, but there's gotta be an explanation. Shit like this does not just happen.
But then it could all be some kind of trap. A bad drug trip, a mental world created by my own fucked up head from some injury, or maybe some kind of virtual reality world. Magic, maybe? This would be a lot of trouble to go to just to take me out of play — probably not — permanently. There are a lot of worlds, or just scenarios, that would be a lot more believable; this is pretty out there.
Well, before I go slitting my own throat to see if I wake up, I should probably at least look around and see if I can figure out where I might be. Or when. If there's any clues about why I'm here, or who did it. There's gotta be something, right? Nothing like this is ever totally devoid of clues, and I'm not the detective kid — Tim is, the little bastard — but I'm decent enough at it.
Weirder shit has happened, I guess. Besides, I'm not so new at being out of my time, if that's what this is. A lot of Ducra's teaching wasn't really in a time at all.
One of the people walking by me — a young twenties woman, short dress, decent legs but not great — does a double take, dark green eyes widening, and then gives a sharp shriek of fear and takes off in the opposite direction. Pretty fast, actually, for the heels she's wearing. Of course, she draws attention, and after a few seconds I've got the attention of pretty much pedestrian on the street.
Great, awesome; just what I didn't want. Well, at least people in wherever-the-fuck can still recognize us masks when they see us. It's not like I'm real subtle though, even if I'm actually on the more subtle end of the costumed freaks. No bright tights for me, thanks anyway. If I ditched the sheath on my right thigh and the holster on my left, zipped my jacket up, and took off the hood and domino under it, I could totally pass for a civilian. I know, I've done it before.
Too late now though, and even in my fake civvies I wouldn't fit in with this style of clothing. Shit.
The screaming starts, and I watch the pandemonium spread. I resist the urge to throw my hands in the air and instead just snarl behind my mask at how easily normal people scare. I was just standing there, I didn't even do anything. I didn't even go for a weapon, come on. Yeah, this is just great. Ten feet into wherever I am and I scare a street into hysteria, that's just wonderful.
This is ridiculous. I miss Gotham civilians. At least they knew to just melt into the background or stay the fuck out of the way of anyone with a mask, villain or hero. They knew that screaming, unless you were in immediate, about-to-die danger, only got you on the radar of people you didn't want to mess with or be around. If the villain isn't actively fucking with you, for the love of god don't get his attention. What is wrong with people, don't they learn?
Yes, I am totally aware that I look like a villain. Guns, knives, and leather jackets aren't usually a normal hero thing. Like I care. I'm not really a hero either, am I? Not for a while now.
Well. Fuck. I suppose, at least, causing a ruckus is a decent way to get whoever the fuck is in this city to come after me. Almost everywhere has got a hero or two, right? And heroes come after anyone in their city, if they've got the time. We can talk things out. Or, I can beat the fuck out of them and then we can talk things out. That's more likely.
So, heroes or cops. Which one's going to show up first, and how big of a mess do I want to cause to make it happen?
I'd like to keep my ammunition — who knows where I could find more in a place like this? — but I can do some decent damage with just my knife and fists. Probably. I'm not much for fucking with civilians though.
Or, better idea, I can go find the seedier parts of town — there are always seedy parts of a city, doesn't matter how 'great' it thinks it is — and beat the shit out of some bastards down there. There's gotta be crime in this city somewhere, right? Nothing brings a hero out faster than somebody else fucking with their job; they tend to get territorial about that kind of stuff. Especially when their 'job' ends up a little more broken than they like.
Then the only questions are where is it, and how do I get there without causing a riot or something? Not that that's a bad way to get attention either. I suppose I should stop somebody and have them point me in the right direction, maybe even steal one of those fancy flying cars. Roy's the pilot, but I learn fast and it can't be all that different from a normal car, right? Just one more direction. Sounds fun to me.
I crack my knuckles, take a look around for the nearest pedestrian, grin behind my helmet, and shove off the concrete sidewalk in a run.
"Hey, you picking these reports up?" The information flashing at me from the Batmobile's readout is pretty basic, transcribed police chatter. They're talking about some kind of vigilante on the streets who apparently stole a car, crashed it into the side of some building, and took off into the lower sections of Gotham's streets. No one they recognized. Could be good or bad.
Bruce makes one of those 'hnn' noises that means 'why yes, Terry, I saw the reports and they do interest me,' and I roll my eyes. Someday the old geezer's gonna figure out how to actually communicate, and not rely on me understanding his grunts and stares. I hope. Yeah, not happening.
"I'm gonna check it out," I tell him, turning the Batmobile to dive through a couple buildings and towards the section of city that the reports are coming in from. "Slow night anyway."
"You'll have to look for him, police lost track," Bruce says after a moment, and I've gotta assume that he's reading or listening to the actual chatter and must have more information. "Reports say he's armed, a knife, but no one's been hurt. He doesn't seem to be targeting anyone."
"So what, some random guy with a knife, but he's good enough to dodge the cops?" I tilt the handles, easing the car into a dive down past a few roads and towards the bottom of some of the buildings. Tighter down here, can't go as fast, but whoever the new guy is he's supposed to be down here. Gotta be something more if they're calling him 'a vigilante;' guys with knives aren't exactly chatter-worthy. "Got any ideas?"
"Some," and that's the tone of 'but I'm not telling you any more'. Great, schway.
You'd think that after his whole 'don't tell the new kid anything' idea nearly got me killed by the Joker the first time around, that maybe he'd actually start giving me information that might be important. Nope; never. Guaranteed he's got ideas about who this guy might be, but am I gonna get to know them? Of course not. Why would I?
"Any I should hear?" I press, gritting my teeth for just a second. No answer, and I shove out a breath in something a little like frustration. "Alright, nevermind. I'll let you know when I find him."
It's kinda dumb, and Bruce is going to bitch me out later, but I shut off the comms in the suit. I breathe where he can't hear me, taking a corner just a little faster than I need to. Just a few minutes. Once I'm on the ground I don't have to think about any of Bruce's habits of keeping me in the dark, it'll just be me and whoever this new guy is. Who runs around with a knife these days, anyway? That's kind of old school, why not have a gun or some kind of other tech weapon? Everybody else does.
Might actually be kinda nice to fight somebody who doesn't have some kind of bizarre tech advantage — I am so done with fighting Shriek — or is a meta. Just a nice, normal guy with a knife, who stole a car. Sounds pretty good, sounds easy. Easy is so rare these days. Gangs are always in groups, and anybody with a name is always a pain.
Maybe I'll actually get a decent amount of sleep tonight.
Since no one can hear me, I snort. Yeah right. I'll get a decent night of sleep the same time Gotham doesn't have any crime, and even then Bruce would totally force me to patrol anyway. Wouldn't trust the silence. He's so…
I shake my head and shove out another breath. It doesn't matter. Bruce is never going to change, so I've just gotta deal with it. I'm so not dumb enough to think that I can just be Batman on my own. I need the suit, and like it or not I might not do much good without the old man backing me up. I've got Max, but that's not the same. I don't want to put her in any more danger anyway, she's in this too deep as it is.
I turn another corner, slowing the car down as I match up the streets with the last reported location of this 'vigilante with a knife'. Right, and from here it's just searching until I find him. Guess I'm on my own with that one. Cops lost him, and I'm not in the mood for Bruce's half-answers. I'd rather get this done myself than have to wait around to go to wherever Bruce tells me to, without him ever actually telling me why I'm doing it.
Slag his 'no time for explanations in combat' thing. When I'm not in combat, I'd like the explanation.
Alright, well, the reports said the guy was headed into the lower streets of Gotham, and if I just follow the pattern of his sightings… No, too easy. This guy lost the cops, and they'd have thought of that. Alright, so he didn't keep going the direction he was. But whatever he was doing he was definitely headed a specific way or place, so he wouldn't go too far away from it would he? But the cops — at least Gordon — would have searched whatever area he was clearly headed to. If he lost them, he knows that too.
Am I thinking too hard into this, giving this guy too much credit? Better to overestimate him though, right? He's probably just some crazy guy with a knife who got lucky, but…
I bring the Batmobile to a midair stop.
"Computer, show a heat scan. Three blocks in all directions."
I wait while the computer works, humming around me. This is probably dumb. There's gotta be a ton of people within the three blocks and I don't know how I'm supposed to tell one guy apart from all the others. It's not like a heat signature will read any differently for some nutjob than a regular civilian. But I've gotta try something, right? If he wasn't just lucky, if he really did lose the cops on purpose, then it would never be this easy to find him anyway. Would it?
"Request completed," the computer chimes at me, and I take a look as the results of the scan pop up on the readout.
Yeah, that's a lot of people. Apartments, streets, all displayed as little red dots moving about their business. I'm never going to find one person in all of that. I mean, are there any of the dots moving oddly, or something? I'm really not so great at this seeing patterns things. Usually when I notice things they just kinda, click in my head. I don't do the collect clues thing like Bruce does. Either I've got something or I've got nothing. Bruce calls it 'subconscious recognition' or something.
All it really means is I end up feeling useless until I've got everything I need, then it clicks and I'm rushing off to go stop something.
Speaking of stopping things, that's actually an interesting looking group of dots down on street level. In an alley, of course. Eight, three to each side and two in the middle. Looks a bit like someone blocking off escape routes. It's not my guy, but I'm already down here so I might as well check it out. Bruce said no one had been hurt, so apart from wrecking a car and wasting some of the cops' time, the guy with the knife hasn't actually done anything yet, has he? He can wait.
I glance down before disengaging from the car, dropping through the hole and snapping out my wings. They're about a block away, but the rocket boots make short work of the distance and soon enough I'm clinging to the side of the building above the alley, looking down. Well whaddya know? Jokerz, lousy dregs. Seven of them, three blocking each side of the alley while the last one messes with a guy in the middle, some middle-aged man in a suit. Poor sucker probably just got ambushed, or dragged out here. You never know where the Jokerz might show up.
I click my comms back on, watching the 'fight' below. At least they're not hurting him, yet, just chasing him around with what looks like a tube of red paint. He might get some stains on his suit, and mouth, but it shouldn't hurt him.
"Terry," Bruce says almost immediately, and I can hear the disapproval behind my name, I wince. "Did you find our suspect?"
"No," I admit, "but I ran across a group of Jokerz. I'm gonna take them down first, then keep looking. Figured you should know."
"I appreciate you keeping contact," he says dryly.
"And I appreciate you telling me your theories," I snap back, and then lean my head against the wall and wince again. "Slag. Can we not do this right now?"
"Don't waste any time," Bruce answers, his tone flat and cold like it always is when I've said something I shouldn't have. Slag it, I didn't mean for things to go like this. "You have work to do."
I fumble for words for a second before shaking my head and dropping down off the building. I'm not in the mood to offer any kind of mercy, or a chance for them to just get out while they can, so I drop straight onto the ringleader. The guy in the middle, tormenting their victim of the night. I can feel his shoulder snap under my foot as I slam him into the floor, and he cries out in pain, but all it makes me feel is a little satisfied. He won't be getting back up, and maybe the hospital trip will make him rethink his life.
"Who's next?" I ask, shifting my weight off the Jokerz' leader and straightening up. One runs, but the rest are as dumb as I've come to expect and charge straight at me. Some have weapons, small things, but it doesn't matter.
The victim gets out while he can, and I take the remaining five Jokerz down hard, and fast. Alright, maybe I draw it out just a little bit to get in one or two more punches. It's therapeutic for the frustration, but at least I know that I'm doing it. I could be ignorant of my own slagged behavior, that'd be worse. One scores a lucky hit against my back that stings a bit, knocks me off balance for a second, but it's barely even enough to hurt. It's definitely not going to leave a bruise, not through the suit.
The last one goes down with an uppercut to the jaw, hitting the ground with a solid thwack, and I send an alert to the Commissioner before snapping my wings out and taking off. Her cops shouldn't be far, not if they're still hunting tonight's mystery man. The Jokerz shouldn't be there for more than ten minutes, tops. It shouldn't be enough time for them to even be awake, let alone out of there. Don't even need the evidence to convict them, being in the gang is enough of a crime in the law's eyes. Fun how that works.
I get an alley or two away — it's a nasty part of town, there's gotta be more would-be criminals around here somewhere — before I catch a flash of red and a figure darting around the edge of a wall. I react more than I think, taking a sharp turn and following. Could be legal, could be not, best to check.
I get around the wall, and movement snags my focus as that same figure ducks around the other end of the wall, maybe a hundred feet away. A boost of my boots takes me there, and I skid to a stop against the concrete floor, looking down the section of alley. There are way too many alleys down here, seriously. It feels like every one leads to another two. It's ridiculous. This one's fairly well lit, with a stairwell on one side and one thick metal dumpster on the other.
I scan briefly, and then my mystery figure straightens up from behind the dumpster, stepping out into the center of the alley. He's tall, muscled but not with the same bulk as the pictures I've seen of Bruce when he was younger. He's covered neck to ankles in black armor, with heavy looking combat boots and what looks like an upgraded red motorcycle helmet with white lenses for eyes. Not so different from a mask. There's a dark brown leather jacket over his torso and a… is that a red bat symbol on his chest?
This has gotta be my guy.
He brings his hands — covered in thick gloves that glint at the knuckles with what might be steel — together in a slow clap, head tilting a bit to one side. "Decent work with the gang over there. Slow, kinda sloppy, but decent." He sounds fairly young — maybe early twenties? — and there's a distortion to his voice, through the helmet, that sounds really purposeful. Guess the cops weren't wrong about pegging this guy as a vigilante.
Good or bad, though? And what's with the bat? Don't tell me this guy is some kind of fan or something. That'd be beyond creepy.
"You got a name?" I ask, watching him, and he shrugs carelessly, hands dropping. Hands dropping dangerously close to a knife in a sheath on his right thigh, and a closed holster on his left. So, not just a knife then. I tense.
"Everyone does. I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours, kid."
"I'm not a kid." The answer is automatic, and I grit my teeth for a second before spitting out. "Missed the world recently, dreg? I'm Batman."
His head tilts further, I get the impression that he's staring at me through his helmet, and then he flatly says, "You've gotta be fucking kidding me." My teeth grind together, and then he's laughing. Okay, as if I wasn't in a slagged mood already. Getting mocked and then laughed at by some complete stranger in a red helmet is pretty high on my list of things I'm not in the mood to deal with. Not right now. "Oh, kid," the guy says, and I stop myself from flinging something at him just because I'm pissed, "I know Batman. You're not anywhere near him. Pick somebody smaller to impersonate, kid."
What is this, like another Joker come back? Some old villain from Bruce's past? Haven't there been enough of those already? When the hell are his mistakes going to stop coming back to bite me?
"I don't care if you believe me; I'm the only Batman in Gotham, dreg."
I fling a batarang at him, and he moves. The knife comes out in his right hand, and he slices my batarang out of the air like it's nothing, like it's habit. What the—? It ricochets off the alley wall, skittering to a stop on the ground between us, and he flips the knife in his hand. Idly, spinning it through his fingers without a glance or what even looks like real attention.
"Gotham, huh?" His voice is quiet, and then he snorts. "City's let itself slip, if they call you Batman."
"Terry?" Bruce says in my ear, and I flinch just a little bit. Oh, slag, I forgot to tell him that I'd found our guy. Or he'd found me. "What's going on?"
"Now how about you be good, little bat, stop pretending you can even try owning that name, and you take me to the real Batman before I decide to cut that costume off you bit by bit?" The guy's voice is dangerously low, and he's stopped spinning the knife. He looks… poised, ready, and honestly a bit like Curare. Is this guy an assassin like she was?
I hear a noise from Bruce, a strange, half-aborted gasp. "Terry! Get out of there, now!" Just the tone jerks me backwards — Bruce doesn't usually shout like that, and he sounds frantic — but then the mystery guy is moving and leaping at me, and I react.
I fling another batarang at him, following it close up with a second, and he slashes away the former and ducks under the latter, and then he's in my face. The knife swings at my chest, and I gasp and scramble away as it slices through my suit like butter.
"Slag!" I spit, as wires spark across my chest, exposed circuitry bright, red, and almost a perfect horizontal slash through the symbol on my chest. Intentional? If this is an old enemy of Bruce's it'd make sense if he hated bats, I guess.
I kick up at him, blasting my boot to try throwing him back, but he slips around me like water, moving with an easy grace that kinda freaks me out. A second slash opens a line on my side, and then he's behind me and there's the press of something against my low back a second before I get blasted, electricity dancing and clinging its way up my frame.
I shout in pain — oh I hate getting fried like this, the suit needs better electrical protection for its user, slag it — and jerk away, crashing to my knees and bracing against the ground with one hand. On the plus side, at least the suit always still works after getting shocked. I turn and fling one more batarang at him, not surprised when he leans away and it vanishes harmlessly behind him, and he kicks me in the side. He's fast, but while I can't block the kick it doesn't hurt that much. Not much strength behind it. I recoil a bit, but then return fire with a roll backwards, blasting both rockets up at him for a second as I do a handspring back to my feet, keeping him off me.
"Is that it?" I taunt, and he gives a dark laugh that sounds straight up vicious.
"Terry, listen to me. You will not win this fight, you have to run. Run!"
"Suit gives you some protection does it, kid?" the guy asks, clearly not expecting any answer. "Good."
He leaps at me again, crossing the distance with two steps of his long legs, and I fling smoke pellets at my feet. They crack, explode, smoke filling the air around us and blocking vision, and I slip to the side and jump, spreading my wings to get off the ground. Bruce doesn't freak out like this often, and he pretty much never tells me to run. If he is… this could be bad. Whoever this guy is he's obviously dangerous, even if he seems to not have much more than some basic weaponry.
Something slams into my throat as I rocket up, and I choke and collapse back down, into the smoke and against the ground. Slagging hell I can't breathe. I can't… Slag! I heave for air, turning on my side and gasping, choking. Something cracks into my jaw, sending me spinning up and back down on my other side with the force, and it hurts even through the suit. Badly.
"Sorry, kid," the guy mocks from somewhere above me, and the suit's vision is flickering a bit with static. "No visibility doesn't mean much for me, and the helmet's got filtration. Does the suit? Looks like your mouth's open to me; must suck to be breathing in all that smoke, huh?" What I'm pretty sure is a boot presses down on my shoulder, shoving me against the ground chest first. "Or I guess you'd need to be breathing, wouldn't you? Let me know when you can speak again, kid. I've got a question or two I want answers for."
"Terry!" Bruce shouts, and my first half-successful gasp at air drags the smoke into my lungs, which burns like a bitch. I cough it out, feeling the press of the stranger's boot against my shoulder, and then his hand around the back of my neck.
"How about we get you out of the smoke, kid?" he taunts, letting me out from underneath his foot as he drags me up off the ground and then down the alley by my neck.
"Get off me," I snarl haltingly, getting a foot underneath me and twisting, jerking away from his grip. His fingers lose purchase, and I kick out at where I'm pretty sure his legs are. The smoke is thinning out, but it's not thin enough for me to get more than a vague outline of him. Still, I'm pretty sure I'm aiming the right way.
I don't hit anything, but nothing hits me in the next second either. I don't bother getting to my feet, I just activate my boots, fling out my wings, and get the slag out of there. I clear the smoke fast, heading pretty much straight up as soon as I even out. Bruce is right, this guy is a little past what I can handle and I like being alive. I don't know if he was going to kill me, and I don't want to find out. Chances are good it's a yes. Bruce doesn't get this loud over people who just want to beat me up; only when I'm in serious danger.
There's a loud bang that makes me flinch, and something hits my left boot. It knocks me off balance, making me veer, and I wince at a sharp, burning pain along the side of my ankle. I recover, reactivating my boots, and then the suit flickers warnings at me as the left boot doesn't activate. The sudden lack of balance veers me sharply over to that side, and I slam into the side of the building with all the force of my rockets behind me.
Hitting the ground almost feels softer.
I groan, Bruce shouts in my ear again — what it is I have no idea — and a shadow falls over me. I force my eyes open, glaring up at the dreg standing over me, trying to ignore the aching left side of my jaw, and my still really sore throat. What has he even been hitting me with? Is he another enhanced guy? Meta? Bionics? Humans don't get that strong, do they? The suit can take a whole lot of damage before any of it gets through to me; I don't even bruise that often. This is going to be a whole lot of nasty bruises tomorrow though. If I make it to tomorrow.
"Uh-uh," he says, shaking one finger at me. His other hand is holding what I'm pretty sure is the gun from his holster, but it doesn't look like anything I've seen before. Not that I can remember anyway. Dark metal, with an obvious barrel, but it just… Got it. It looks like the ones in history museums. Was that the 'bang?' Did he shoot me with it? "Questions, remember? Guess you can breathe now, that's good enough for me."
The suit's vision sparks a little bit, fritzing out so I lose sight of the guy for a second, and I drag myself up to my elbows, thinking of what I've got in my belt. Smoke obviously isn't going to help, it hurt me more than it hurt him, and he said the helmet had filtration so my gases aren't going to do anything either. So I've got specialty batarangs, anything to shock him with, and… and Bruce. I've got Bruce.
"Any ideas?" I hiss under my breath, as the guy above me shoves the gun away and draws his knife in the same breath, never looking away from me.
"Terry, you have to get out of there. You can't fight him." Yeah, no kidding. But what am I supposed to do? Can't fly with the other boot fried, and I've got this sneaking suspicion that just running is going to work about as well as it did the first time. I'm going to get hit, hard, and end up right back where I started.
"Can't," I say shortly. "Boot's fried." The guy's head tilts, considering me, and I draw my legs up, getting myself together for… whatever I might be able to do. Being at least able to move will be good regardless of what he's going to do.
"Then you'll—"
"Got someone in your ear, kid?" I flinch, Bruce cuts off, and the guy takes a step forward towards me. I was quiet; how the hell did he just guess it just like that? "I'm going to give you two chances to tell me where the real Batman is, then it's going to start hurting. Understand me?"
"Slag you," I spit, and he crouches down with an ease that reminds me of Stalker. "I'm not telling you anything."
"That's your first," he says calmly, and he draws something out of his jacket with his free hand. Some kind of smaller metal device with a handle and two points. "Trust me, kid. You don't know pain the way I do, and I can make you tell me anything I want. Last chance before we get nasty."
"Terry—"
"No!" I snap, at both of them, clenching my hands. This is probably — no, definitely — going to hurt, a lot. I'm not selling out Bruce, it's not going to happen. The last time he had to come save me he nearly got killed by Inque, I don't want to do that again. Not ever. Old man deserves to die on his own time, doesn't he?
The guy's hand snaps out, and I jerk backwards but he's just plain faster than I am. The two pointed ends of the device dig into my calf, and I have time for a sharp breath in before electricity arcs over the suit. I shout and arch, the heavy whine of the suit trying and failing to compensate driving into my ears. It hurts, but I knew whatever the guy did to me would. Pain's not a real new thing to me anymore, and I've been shocked before. A lot. I can deal.
It feels like a long time before he pulls the thing back, and I drag in a thicker breath, tasting blood in my mouth. I'm still twitching, and the suit is blinking all kinds of warnings at me, but I'm alive, and I'm not unconscious. Those are definitely pluses, right? Well, maybe the unconsciousness might be better, but I'll stick with at least being alive is good. I groan, clenching my hands and trying to pull enough strength back to throw a batarang, move; I'll take just about anything right now.
"Terry, listen to me." Bruce's voice is strong in my ear, quiet and firm. "Repeat exactly what I tell you to, alright?"
"Let's try this again." The guy's voice is just about as firm, almost flat, and he's flipping his knife in his other hand. At least he's not using it, yet. No illusions there. "Batman, kid. Tell me where he is and I'll just tie you up, knock you out, and leave you somewhere safe till my business is done. Otherwise, I can do this all day. Have before, actually."
I swallow, listening to Bruce's first sentence, and then force it out of my mouth. "Jason, stop."
The guy stills, catching his knife as it falls and studying me. Or, I think he's studying me. That helmet makes him hard to read. At least he's not shocking me again; I'll take creepy stillness over getting shocked any day. So this guy is 'Jason,' huh? Not a name I recognize, no one I've heard Bruce mention, or Barbara. But it's somebody who knows Batman, who doesn't like me being Batman. Kinda feels like the Joker all over again. I am really sick of being told that I'm not Batman. I have the name don't I? I've been working in this suit for a while now, and I worked with the Justice League. Doesn't that give me at least a little bit of credit?
There's a moment of silence between us, and then 'Jason' shakes his head and gives a laugh that sounds bitter, almost hollow. The next second he's got that thing pressed against my leg again, and I swear to god it's higher this time. I seize, teeth snapping together, and scream. The suit's vision reds out, slinging static across the screen as the circuits cut out, as it shuts down around me under the stress. Just for a minute, long enough for the excess electricity to bleed off and to guarantee it won't get damaged. The suit's designed to protect itself.
I think he pulls whatever it is away — the feeling from the outside of the suit is somewhat cut off — and slowly my vision comes back. My own breath sounds loud to me, ragged, and my pulse rushes in my ears. Too loud, too close.
"So somebody's listening," he comments, as I try and catch my breath. "Enjoying the soundtrack? How long are you going to sit there before you come after me, listener?" I pry my eyes open, moving and trying to draw into myself, away from him. He snaps forward, knife pressing tight against my throat before I can really react with more than a flinch backwards. "So who is it? Dick, Tim, Damian, or Bruce? None of the girls would bother talking through someone like you, they've got more pride than that."
I clench my teeth to snarl up at him, debating how fast I can punch him in the ribs and if I can do it before he slits my throat. Probably not, gonna try anyway. I twitch up, and Jason makes a sharp sound and jerks the knife a little bit. I can hear it slice through the outer layer of the suit, feel the heat at my throat from the exposed circuitry. I don't move.
"Try it, kid," he dares me, in a low growl. "I'll put this knife through your shoulder before you even touch me." I glare at him, and he gives a rough laugh that sounds like it comes out of a grin. "I haven't stabbed a Bat in a while, but you're tempting me. Now how about you say something, listener? Or should I make the kid scream again first?"
"He can't," I spit, careful to not move my neck any higher against the blade. "Doesn't broadcast outside the suit."
"Terry, ask him what he wants."
I swallow, hearing the knife bite a little deeper into the suit at my movement. "What do you want?" I ask, parroting Bruce, and he snorts and leans back on his heels. The knife stays against my throat, but the rest of him pulls away from being quite so in my face.
"Answers to my questions, like I said. Beyond that, it's mine to know and yours to find out." The thing in his other hand spits sparks from its two points at the press of a button, and I pull in a sharp breath. He lets it go, pulls the knife away from my throat, and straightens up to stand over me. "So who's talking to you, and where's the real Batman?"
"Tell him it's Tim," Bruce says flatly, and I hesitate. Tim, really? If this guy knows enough to know all the names, and a few I haven't heard — who's Damian? And 'girls'? More than Barbara? — he's gotta know that Tim's never coming near a suit or any of this business anytime soon. No way this guy falls for that. "Now, Terry!"
"It's Tim," I answer, bending my knees and getting my arms under me in case I have to move.
The guy stares down at me, and I really wish I could see his face underneath that helmet. Maybe I could actually predict some of what he's going to do. Maybe I could figure out who he is. He worries Bruce, almost scares him, and he's dangerously trained, deadly without a doubt. Plus there's that bat symbol on his chest — not so different from mine — and his obvious experience fighting against batarangs. Who is this guy? How come Bruce calls him 'Jason,' and not whatever other name he must have? Guys in costumes, with weapons like these, don't go by their real names.
This time I actually see him start to move, and I blast my one boot in total reflex to get out of the way. It spins me on my back, and I almost knock his leg out from under him with the sweep of mine except then he's jumping over it. I roll and start to stand, and he's on me. The hilt of his knife smashes into my head, on the side of my jaw that already aches, and I turn with the impact. It stuns me for a second, but I call a batarang to my hand and fling it at him anyway.
I don't have the capacity for anything more than total shock as his knife comes up to intercept it, catching the curve of one wing to hook it and using it's own momentum to fling it back at me. Some part of me says I should try and dodge, but by the time reflexes kick in it's too late. I cry out as it sinks into my right shoulder, and that hurts, recoiling and clutching at my arm with the other hand. Is this what I've been doing to people? Slag.
"You know, it's interesting," he comments, and I snarl up at him, breathing through my mouth and trying to ignore the feeling of blood slipping down my arm, inside the suit. "I've got no problem believing that, but right now? From you? You're a lying little shit, pretender, and I don't like being lied to."
"Terry, I'm sending the car to you. Get out of there."
Yeah, that's awesome advice. Get away from the crazy man with way too much training and insider knowledge. Just somehow, whatever, no tips or anything. Great.
I rip the batarang out of my arm, grinding my teeth down on another shout, and let it drop to the floor of the alley. Huh, my blood. That's a first. "Get used to it," I manage. "I'm not telling you anything, dreg." Maybe I'll actually get to make good on that too. If I can get into the car, there's no way he can follow me, right?
"We'll see," he says, and I can hear the grin in his voice. "Wonder how long that voice in your ear is going to resist coming by to say hello? How many times do I have to make you scream?"
And Bruce will. Slag it. Bruce will come down here to find me, to save me, and this guy's going to kill him. He'll never have a chance. I'm not being responsible for that. I grit my teeth — regretting it when the left side of my jaw and cheek send me twin bolts of sharp pain — and clench my hands for a second. "Sorry," I whisper, "don't come after me."
"Terr—"
The click of me turning off the suit's comms feels louder than it is, but I manage a grin even past the fear burning in my chest. This guy's gonna kill me, but I did what I could to not lead him back to Bruce. I gave him time to get out, right? I did something at least. The guy tilts his head and just looks at me, and I spread my legs and slip sideways, raising both arms in readiness.
"Guess he'll just have to not hear, huh?" I say, with way more bravado than I actually feel. I can fake confidence, no problem. Been doing that a long time.
"Oh, kid, bad idea."
I go on the offensive this time, diving at him, and he shoves the knife into its sheath and meets me head on. He takes a running step, slipping to the side of my punch and leaping, his hand bracing against my shoulder and taking his full weight as he does a slagging handstand flip over me, using me as a springboard. I grunt under the weight and force, turning to follow him with a backhanded blow, and he catches my arm and throws me through the air. I smack into the side of the dumpster, and he's there what feels like instantly, that electrical device pressing against the center of my chest.
I scream again, pinned against the dumpster and bent backwards a little over the top of it. I'm pretty sure I black out for a second or two somewhere in the middle, because then the shock is gone and I'm falling to my knees in front of Jason. I feel his hands on either side of my skull, and then he pulls my head down and pain explodes in the center of my face. I give an aborted cry of pain, and his hand is wrapped around my throat, dragging me up and slamming me back against the dumpster. I hang in his grip, and I can't think past the pain in my bones, my face, my shoulder. It's too much, I can't.
"You're lucky I don't need you, kid," he snarls, and is he really as close as he sounds? He sounds like he's hissing it right in my ear. "But not that lucky."
Something hits the side of my head, and I—
The kid collapses to the ground, out cold. I tuck my taser away, and crack my knuckles. Huh. Interesting.
Yeah, the kid — 'Batman' my ass — is a little bastard, but he's got spirit at least. Not many people brave enough to cut off the only chance of rescue they have. Not that it'll do him any good. It's definitely not going to stop me from finding whoever he's got in his ear. Still, give the kid points for trying.
So it's not Tim. Weird, because Tim feels like the first person I'd believe would build a suit as advanced as this kid's, and send someone out fighting in it. Bruce runs a close second, but someone as green behind the ears as this? No, no way. This kid's not just new, he's barely trained. Bruce may be an asshole, and he might put kids in the field that are too young — son of a bitch — but we get trained first. He makes sure we've got a fighting chance, even if it's slim, and he makes sure we get better as time goes on.
This kid is not trained. He's got some basic ideas of how to throw a punch, and how to move, but it's not enough to even be a Robin. It's obvious that he's relying on that suit and the advantages it gives him. I watched him take out that gang, and the suit definitely at least increases his strength by a lot, along with the tricks it's got up its sleeve.
Collapsible batarangs; didn't see that coming.
Dick would be out here himself, and so would any of the girls. Even Damian would never hide behind someone else; the kid would be a Robin for him, not a Batman.
So maybe it's not a Bat at all. Maybe it's someone who found the tech, or something like that. That might at least be why he's this untrained. Makes me feel a bit better to think that this is just some random kid, and his friend, who found some leftover Bat tech and made use of it. This definitely does feel like a future, not just some messed up fever dream, but if this is the future — or, a future, Ducra would kill me for assuming there was just one — then where are all the Bats? What year is it, and what happened to all of us in between this year and mine?
Bruce probably died — all of us always knew that'd happen someday — but the rest of us? Gotham needs a Batman, we all know that. Dick took over last time, but we'd all do it if we had to. I'd do it, if there was no one else left. I'd hate every second of it at first, but I'd do it.
Well, whoever it is — Bat or not — there's an obvious place to start looking.
If this is really Gotham — and from everything I saw on my way down here, it is — then Wayne Manor has to be here somewhere. When you want to find a Bat, head by the cave, right? Things can't have changed enough that that's not true anymore, even if all the Bats are dead this new kid would get a great home base out of the manor.
If things have really changed, it might not be there. But it's a good place to start.
I nudge the collapsed kid with my foot, and huff out a breath. I suppose I should take him with me. I'm not quite enough of a bastard to just leave him unconscious in an alley; could get him killed. His total lack of training aside, the kid probably doesn't deserve to get murdered when he's out cold. Besides, I might need him if the manor turns out to be a bust.
So I'll need to steal another car, shove the kid in the back seat, and head out for the manor. The cars actually aren't all that different from driving an automatic, with the up or down on stick shift controls. I crashed mine for the attention, not because I couldn't fly it. There are also definitely bikes — saw some of those on my way down here — but while those would be easier for me to drive, they won't be as easy to carry the kid on. So, car it is.
There's a whir of electronics, systems, and I look up as — absolutely no doubt — the Batmobile pulls into the air above us and stops. The bottom opens up with a circular hole, and I stare up at it. It's a little sharper, a little sleeker, and it's got hints of red in the design now, but it's definitely the Batmobile.
Very tempting, but no way.
"Nice try," I mutter, leaning down to pick up the kid and hoist him over my shoulder. He doesn't weigh all that much.
I wonder if the kid called it, or if whoever is in his ear sent it for him. The kid was definitely trying to get away from me more than he was trying to fight me, and there'd be no way I could catch him if he made it into that thing. Well, almost no way. I'm sure I could have improvised something, or at least flung a tracker on him and gone from there.
Fun as the idea of flying a future version of the Batmobile sounds, I'm really sure I can't. Even in my time, the jet had all kinds of security measures to keep anyone not authorized from flying it. I'm sure those have only gotten better with time, and there's no way I count as one of the people allowed to fly that thing.
Well, there's a small chance, but not enough to risk it. Besides, the kid might have shut down his communication with the voice in his ear, but I'd bet the jet has its own communication, and almost definitely a video link too. I'll skip getting nailed or caught in a jet I can't fly, thanks. I've done a lot of crazy things in the name of fun, but falling to some wannabe Batman because I was stupid enough to get inside his flying car? I'm not that crazy, and I've got better common sense than that most of the time.
It's not like a car will be hard to steal, anyway. The first one was easy enough, and now that I'm not looking for attention I should be able to do it under the radar. Assuming that the cops are as easy to lose as they were the last time, and I don't doubt that at all. I've had a bit of practice dodging cops, and generally they don't just get better at hunting people down for no apparent reason. They were easy to lose before, so they'll be easy to lose again.
I'll find whoever sent this kid out on the streets, and find out what the hell they think they're doing sending an untrained kid like this out to fight. Batman my ass.
A/N: Like I said, Jason's got his reasons for being a bastard. No family loyalty for someone you've never met and don't consider worthy of the symbol they're wearing. Also worth noting, Jason is overly critical of Terry's abilities. Terry can fight, even decently well, he's just not Jason's match and Jason takes extra offense to him calling himself 'Batman.' He's not up to Jason's standards of what even a Robin should be trained in. Anyone making faces, do you really want to put a 'one unspecified martial arts master' and old!Bruce, hands-off trained Terry, up against at-his-prime!Bruce, Lady Shiva, Talia al Ghul, and All-Caste trained Jason and tell me Jason doesn't kick his ass?
Because if you do I call bullshit.
Anyway, I'll post the next chapter up next weekend, when I've got a bit more of a brain. Featuring Bruce-Jason sniping, some tiny hints of my version of the BB universe's background, and lots of Jason refusing to call Terry by his name. See you later!
