Author's Notes: This fic has been eating at me for months now. I've rearranged and restarted it in so many different ways, so many different times since the idea first came. So I apologize for whatever you eventually see here, because I'm still very much up in the air myself on many things. But to keep some sanity, I think I finally have decided where to start at least. But please don't be dissuaded by the strangers you initially find here, or even the ones peppered through later on. This is a story about Bat Lash, though I'm sure there will also be other familiar faces soon enough.

The original idea came from reading Susan Hillwig's ongoing Jonah Hex story Shades of Gray over at DC2 (also crossposted here now in the DC Elseworlds section, so give it a read!). But seeing her Jonah Hex brought back after the events of Blackest Night in the modern day DC universe, made me wonder what had ever become of Bat Lash as well. It would just seem impossible that Lash wouldn't have had at least some descendant with all the women throughout his life. But then if he did, what would be the story there? And how did Bat die anyway? We really don't see much of his full life in the comics, besides his parents' deaths, his aimless wandering in his prime, and himself as an old man abruptly in China, under assumed self-exile for some reason in the later Guns of the Dragon miniseries. So, being the sort that I am who can't leave well enough alone with my favorite characters, I wanted to see how much I could try and fill in. Leading all the way up to the events of Blackest Night as well. And just for the record, though I'm sure it'll be evident soon enough, I did go with Bat's original origin story, making him a Louisiana native as per the old comics. It just always seemed a better fit to me. Though I don't negate any bit of bias myself, being born and raised there as well.

But yes, whoever may stumble across this, just be kind if you can. I'm not always sure of my direction, but once this was in my head I just had to attempt it. It wasn't going to let me go. I just hope it turns out as something mildly decent...

Baton Rouge, Louisiana: 1937

It was already half past noon as Timothy Rodrigue first reached his office. He could only be grateful that there was no one in the hallways to spectate this time as he was then forced to perform his usual juggling act, harrowingly balancing this morning's exams on one arm while he fought the rusty lock to his office door with the other.

In his imagination, there could certainly be nothing but a special type of pity reserved for the sight of a balding, pasty little man, now on the bad end of forty, being conquered by a simple lock that he had notified the campus' maintenance men of time and time again.

But with a little perseverance, and at least some favorable application of that bit of extra weight he still resented his body for achieving, he managed to force the door open with a final pop without letting a single paper flutter from his grasp.

That small victory was relished with a cathartic inhale of breath, the man taking in the familiar smells of his humble safe haven as he entered it. The window was still cracked open from this morning, the cool February breeze wafting gently in over his stacks of papers and leather-bound books. The small potted azalea in the corner contributed its own unique fragrance to this calming environment as he gladly dumped his burden onto the desk before opening one of the bottom drawers to search out his lunch.

By the time he'd settled down in his chair with a now unwrapped roast beef sandwich and a thermos of tea he'd brewed hours earlier, little else was on his mind but the vague idea of some weekend ahead. He could envision his students' potential amazement to learn that even their unassuming professor could still place some untold mystique to the concept of a Friday afternoon now near half over.

The man's idle daydreams of perhaps finishing some more of his writing from a crisp, Saturday morning perch near the river's edge, became distracting to the point that he didn't even register that first knock to his door. It wasn't until the second, almost more hesitant knock actually, that the professor abruptly looked up from his mental wanderings.

"Come in," was of course all he could say at the interruption, expecting at most a colleague with some tidbit of news, or at worst, a dissatisfied student come to completely derail his lunch hour with whatever was the latest perceived cruelty in their current assignments.

But the surprise on the other end of the door quickly revealed Rodrigue wrong on both counts as it swung further open. The professor only looked a bit confused to be truthful, as he found his eyes meeting those of a quite out of place looking young stranger hovering there in his doorway. The boy absolutely couldn't be a day over seventeen, tall and slim, and with a look of uncertainty about him that spoke for likely never having set foot near this building at any point prior.

It was only belatedly that Rodrigue also realized the boy was holding a decidedly western style hat level with his stomach, as if he had just removed it in some reflexive gesture of respect mere seconds before.

"Mr. Rodrigue?" The young stranger questioned abruptly, light blue eyes watching the older man from under a tousle of dirty blonde hair.

A rather ignorant sounding, "Yes?" was about all the professor could provide in return however, a quizzical expression still forefront on his own face before the boy tried again.

"I'm Lucas…we corresponded." He offered somewhat more hopefully. "You said that any time after noon today would be as good a time as any to talk, sir…"

And at that, some realization finally struck. The surprise was more than obvious as it flashed across Rodrigue's face while he gave the boy yet another bewildered look over. He'd literally forgotten all about that little fiasco over mail a few weeks prior, with the letter and the questions that he hadn't at all taken seriously at the time. He'd thought it a joke plain and simple, a prank he'd mentally dismissed not hours after mailing his own somewhat sarcastic response in return. He could only assume now that someone had just been wholly more dedicated to this poor attempt at humor than he'd originally thought.

Despite the stranger's dubious intentions however, Rodrigue stood from his desk regardless then, carrying that heavy suspicion along even as he extended his hand to greet the boy.

"So you wrote me that letter?" Rodrigue inquired boldly, though perhaps slightly regretting his decision to come so close when it made the true disparity of their height difference all the more apparent.

"Yes, sir," the boy just answered so simply though, returning the handshake firmly, unabashed in whatever mistrust plainly lingered. "I know you probably weren't too sure about all that, but I was hoping you might decide to help us after all…I brought a few of those writings that I mentioned. The ones he'd been doing off and on."

But before Rodrigue could even consider further reaction to that preposterous statement, the boy had fluidly reached inside his coat to indeed pull out a small bundle of papers as evidence. He offered them to the professor without hesitation. "The rest are still at the house, sir."

The professor's mind was abuzz as he barely contained the natural desire to immediately protest such assured forgeries. But he could still only take the papers when they were forced in front of him in that manner. He had no choice but to look at them reflexively, only glancing down enough to realize that the pages were indeed filled with paragraph after paragraph of handwritten prose. But which of his prankster students, or even his peers could really be creative enough to take something this far?

Even the handwriting itself was almost overly decorative in the way it flowed. Not at all a resemblance to the scratchy penmanship he would have come to expect from the majority of those young minds he currently dealt with. There was a craft to it, a flair even. But he still couldn't fully believe…the implications would have been far too alarming. Surely a joke could only go so far…

Rodrigue wasn't the confrontational type, truly he wasn't. He looked to the boy with some embarrassment, just hoping the other would be satisfied that he'd already gotten whatever rise that he expected. The professor didn't wish to participate as the butt of this any farther.

But when the boy still just stared back at him, not showing an ounce of guilt or contrition in those too light eyes, Rodrigue knew there was only one immediate way to end this.

"Hold on," The professor just asserted abruptly, nervous though even as he then turned away from the stranger.

He only felt a curious stare at his back as he hurriedly approached his desk to fumble for his keys yet again. When he had them, he took just a few more quick steps across the office to one of his filing cabinets. He unlocked it before digging somewhat harshly through one of the bottom drawers. He'd collected so very many documents over the years. Some stored here at the university, some in his study at home. Things he'd researched for previous publications, things he'd hoped to write about in the future, and yet even a few more that'd simply goaded his curiosity undeniably.

After a few more moments of sorting effort, he'd retrieved a specific folder to bring back to his desk. With this little treasure he was far more gentle, opening it carefully to reveal yet another stack of papers. But these were all severely yellowed, mottled and dog eared at the corners as he softly flipped through them.

He abruptly stopped with the retrieval of the one paper only he knew as the target, immediately placing it side by side with some of the newer ones the boy had brought.

It didn't take long for professional habits to take hold. But even Rodrigue didn't believe there was ever truly such thing as a "handwriting expert". He didn't claim to be one. That skill was only a matter of practice and personal judgment. He'd seen an innumerable amount of handwriting samples throughout his academic years, from men and women of all walks of life, each and every one so unique in its own right.

An uncanny forgery of anyone was still always possible he supposed. But to him, one of the strongest deciding factors in judging that authenticity was the likelihood of such a farce. How many pages would someone be willing to create? How probable would a motive be for this much effort? Why would they choose to do this? Why would they need to do it?

Rodrigue knew that the one who could best answer such a question on motive would likely be the very one who'd first delivered the controversy. But even as the professor struggled to think of a proper line of questioning for the stranger, he'd already noticed just how intently the boy was also staring at the papers. As if confirming to himself the validity of the document Rodrigue had just unearthed for comparison.

Though whatever the boy's standards were in making that positive identification, it evidently didn't take him nearly as long to do so as a wry grin abruptly broke across those young features.

The boy's voice was so casual then, almost upbeat as if it'd only rekindled a fond memory. "He told me about that once. A train robbery in Wyoming that they tried to pin on him. It was twenty grand in government gold being transferred, but he only knew the ones that lifted it. And the sheriff didn't pay him near enough to tell."

The professor felt his stomach fall, as if his insides had gone to his feet, and his heart to his throat. He only stared, unspeaking as those words washed over him. He told me…

The aged paper from the filing cabinet had been something Rodrigue had come across years ago, of guilty interest of course due to their own local folklore and the name involved. But the legal affidavit gave no mention of the territory the crime had occurred in or even the items the writer was being accused of taking. All it really was, was the vague, almost taunting excuses of a briefly jailed man accounting for the reasons why he wouldn't have been at all interested in the effort required to disturb Union Pacific property.

It was such an obscure thing. Certainly not a story that would still be recounted about him today, not with so many that were far more dramatic. It was only a snapshot in time, a single night in a far off jail long before either Rodrigue or this boy had ever been born. But the boy had still known the exact amount. Twenty thousand worth in gold from the federal reserve…

The professor suddenly wished the mild breeze through his office window had been something more akin to a storm gust. Beads of sweat were beginning. He tugged at his tie absently, the idea of a simple joke rapidly disappearing now. And if this was all real, then the stranger before him was no longer truly harmless either.

The boy was one of them.

A notion that only grew more alarming all the while as they remained alone in such small quarters. Only so few minutes ago he'd been calmly eating while contemplating a quiet weekend ahead. And now this young messenger, so unassuming at first, had delivered a windfall at his doorstep. Rodrigue knew so many writers who would have literally run through fire for such opportunity.

But was that him? Anything to tell the story first? He knew the gist of what had happened, they all did. It'd been in all the newspapers, and even before then…

The older man tried not to let that inner distress broadcast so plainly to his face, even as he finally mustered his voice once more, "Why?" He heard himself asking at last. "Why would you…why me?"

For once, the boy briefly looked almost as uncomfortable as Rodrigue felt. His hands tightened on his hat still in front of him. "I've read your other books, sir," He insisted quietly. "About lots of people. Whether they were like him or not…it just seemed…more real. You kept the good and the bad…like you only cared about the truth…" A little bit of frustration flickered in those eyes then, as if he had so much more to say, but didn't quite know how to express it. "You were born and raised here…you know about what people say. What they've always said…especially now. Trying to make a profit any way they can…embellishing it all until he's not even a person anymore…"

Rodrigue couldn't deny that accusation of course. They'd all grown up with those morality tales. Folklore told of a greedy heart, one with a complete absence of accountability, but swollen with the devil's own charm. There was the thievery and gunfights, the lust and murders and tragedy. Yet all those fables had eventually faded alongside so many others as the old South had reluctantly began the crumble towards industrialization and modern day problems like the rest of the country.

It wasn't until last December when the papers had been awash with the realization that there yet remained one more chapter to be told. Sensationalized accounts detailed one last run of blood on that same stretch of Louisiana land that'd seen so much through all those years beforehand.

There'd even been the pictures that'd escaped into print…death had brought all those stories back with a vengeance. But now, Rodrigue could only be forced to accept the realization that behind all that fanfare and chaos, there had of course been real faces like this boy's all along. But even him…even this boy had acted that day according to the reports. The police had closed the case now; they were satisfied that nothing more could be done. But that didn't erase what decisions were made in those final moments.

"How many more are there…" Rodrigue just heard himself asking to break the silence, sounding weak to his own ears as he motioned his hand back to the papers the boy had brought.

"A good bit," the boy just answered quietly though, glancing down again. "But he talked about a lot of it too…the things that didn't bother him as much I mean. I could tell ya all I know. She'll be back in town soon too though, she said she was willing to talk to someone if it was for the right reasons…"

Rodrigue felt an odd sense of embarrassment mix with his already heavy anxiety as he again realized the depth of what was truly being offered here. So many things he'd written had always come secondhand…a necessity when most things only became historical once fully buried or forgotten. But here would be a man's thoughts, a man's actual words in front of him. As well as those of the few people who must have cared enough for his memory despite everything that had happened. Cared enough to ask for this...

What other choice could he possibly have?

"Did your grandfather want a book written about him?" Rodrigue finally mumbled awkwardly, in lieu of any better final response.

The boy hesitated a bit at that, before surprising the professor with a sheepish smile. "To tell the truth…I think he always was a mite jealous that no one thought to ask him before the others..."

One Week Later

Rodrigue's superiors hadn't surprised him much in their instant willingness to let him depart on a research sabbatical even already this far into the new semester. The history department hoped to attach their own name to this he was sure as they'd practically sent him off like a shot after he'd approached them with the initial explanations. He'd already assured himself that he would stay with the family no longer than was absolutely necessary though. He needed only the time to gather their personal accounts and see the actual settings so much of it had taken place at, before returning home to begin typing up his drafts with whatever notes he had gathered.

As he didn't own a car himself however, he'd had to depend on being driven by another coworker out into the country. Bouncing up and down the dirt roads all the way, unsettling his stomach even more by the time they'd finally neared the plantation grounds.

He'd seen numerous pictures of the old home before of course, and only tried to think of the pleasant ones now as he first began unloading his bags from off the car's floorboards. But his friend, a math instructor about a decade his junior, seemed less able to keep with those easier thoughts. Rodrigue noticed the other man just eyeing down the footpaths that led to those towering white columns, as if the whole thing were some gaping maw between the two rows of centuries old liveoak trees off the levee.

"Are you expecting it to sneer at you, Mark?" Rodrigue finally commented, unable to ignore his own discomfort even as he inwardly assured himself that every old house developed an imposing quality at one time or another. It was the stories they were thinking of, not the home itself. A building on its own was simply inert, just an arrangement of bricks and wood and plaster. But with the expression on Mark's face, Rodrigue could still only imagine his friend somehow driving just a bit faster as soon as he was on his way. As if the land itself would somehow roll up to pull him back.

"Couldn't pay me to sleep in that place, Tim." Mark just answered unabashedly though, confirming that line of thinking. All those years of higher education were apparently still not enough to fully distance a man from such primal superstition.

"They aren't paying me," Rodrigue only countered though, still keeping himself busy with his suitcases instead of inviting his own imagination to further join in that foolishness. "The school is, and after that I suppose I'll get the smallest percentage off the book as well." It tended to work that way from all prior experience anyway.

Usually Mark's relative youth and the ideas that came from that were part of his charm. But the younger instructor could also showcase not yet being one of those old guard elitists with moments of surprisingly vulgar humor. And he did so then, taunting lightly. "Well, are you at least going to lift the rugs to check for blood, Tim? If you're going all the way in, you might as well see it all for the effort. They say they never got it all washed away."

Rodrigue just offered his friend a somewhat helpless look at that however, trying not to honor the off-color remark with too much reaction. "Would you like me to stay up counting the midnight footsteps as well? Documenting every groan and creak, and the wind against the clouded window panes, just for you?"

The other just shook his head then though, smiling lightly, but still not really apologetic. "I don't care how old we get, Tim, and what we know shouldn't be. Some things are still older than all the books in the world. And I have to assume that evolution put certain fears into us for a reason. I'd still think I wouldn't want to tempt it."

"I didn't come to tempt anything." Rodrigue protested as well as he could have, a futile effort when logic had already departed here. "I'm simply writing a book. Because I've been asked to. I didn't invite myself, and I'll be gone soon enough. So thank you for the ride, I'll stay in contact to keep you posted."

"Well, make sure of it. Or else I may have to organize a rescue party." Mark agreed half-seriously, laying the last bag down at the edge of the road before shaking hands with his friend. He stepped gingerly back up into the driver's seat with another wave.

Rodrigue obliged with a nod, though admittedly somewhat wishing that the younger man would have also helped him in taking his luggage down the lengthy walk to the house. He hadn't really tried to ask though, only reaffirmed in his belief that it would have been too much to hope for as Mark had hurriedly gotten back into the car.

It was only a house. Bricks, wood, and plaster.

But Rodrigue thought he could even hear the car's engine whining at a slightly higher pitch than it had before as the vehicle, and his only friend here, disappeared in a haze of dust back around the bend.

to be continued