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Title: Hard to be brave in this new world
Rating: G
Summary: Set in the would of Earth 2 – Society.
Tommy Grayson is lost and alone in a strange new world. The events that stole his parents have left many scars and he struggles to find his place.
Notes: Inspired by the artwork and ideas of Kurawastaken on Tumblr! (Remove spaces to use links)
kurawastaken. tumblr image /123684546240
kurawastaken. tumblr image /121369017750
kuradoodles. tumblr post/ 121908198530
There are two versions of Tommy's boarding the ship. In world's End he's handed to a random woman. In Convergence it's Barda. I went with the first version here.
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It was one of the shabbier buildings in the new city, constructed in haste with no real thought to permanence or homeliness. It was something they needed, rather than something they wanted. A mere handful of people staffed it, tending roughly to those within, motivated more by a paying job than any real sense of care or compassion.
In a dormitory that resembled a barracks more than the sleeping area of children, a small boy huddled alone on a sparsely covered bunk, his arms wrapped around a tattered and worn teddy bear as his small body shivered, caught in a waking nightmare.
In the hall he could hear orders being shouted, followed by running feet as the other children got into line, waiting to be marched to the dining hall, to be served whatever scraps had been offered that day. He didn't move. He'd long since stopped being hungry, only eating when they forced him to. That wasn't all that often, usually only when he passed out from lack of food.
The door banged open, making him jump and look up fearfully. Two older boys ran in, coming to a stop by his bunk. He edged back in fear, until his back was pressed to the wall.
"Oi, Teddy. Matron says you gotta eat dinner. She ain't wastin' another sick bed on you."
He blinked up at the boy and reluctantly started to move, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He'd tried to resist once before - it hadn't ended well.
"Get a move on, Teddy. Or I won't get mine!"
"Doesn't say much, does he?" The other boy comment, watching the small boy get off the bed.
"He don't say nothin'," the first replied. "Do ya, Teddy? That ain't even his name. We just call him that 'cause of that bear."
"Tommy." He wanted to say. "My name is Tommy." But the words wouldn't come, dying in his throat long before they could reach his lips.
Hugging the bear closer, he wondered briefly how they seemed so untroubled by all they must have endured. Surely it had been little better than all he had been through? Perhaps their parents hadn't been so caring, perhaps they hadn't endured seeing their mother die, or felt their father ripped away. He wanted to ask them, but words eluded him these days.
Getting up, he shuffled along miserably behind them, recalling the last words he *had* spoken, when he'd first set eyes on their new home and had been sure, so sure that his Dad was alive. He remembered that moment, treasured it. It was the last time he remembered anything close to happiness. Because then the ships had started to go down, had lost control and crashed into the surface of the alien planet.
He remembered pain, of clutching the bear and trying to hold the hand of the woman - Jill - who had been caring for him, then nothing, until the panicked cries of other passengers had roused him. He'd still been holding Jill's hand and he'd squeezed it tightly, but there was no response. She was dead, her neck broken from the force of the impact. He'd stared in horror at her prone form, at the wide, lifeless eyes. His throat had been dry as he pulled his hand from hers and tried and failed to scream, as he looked around and saw the carnage that surrounded him, saw the broken and battered bodies of so many who had nearly, so nearly made it. No sound had come from him then or since. It was the last straw and something broke within him. Always a quiet child, he fell into a traumatised silence. The months of loss and hardship finally taking their toll.
No mother. No father. Not even a friend. Why speak then, when words meant nothing? When they changed nothing.
The noise of the dining hall assaulted his ears as he went in, accepted the tray that was thrust into his hands, hardly bothering to look at the unidentifiable items on the plate as he sat.
"Now you eat all that, Teddy." Matron's firm voice said, before she walked away.
"Tommy." He wished he could say. He had tried to speak a few times. But he could never do it, so he sat and tried to force the food down. It tasted like ash in his mouth but he kept going, not wanting to anger anyone. They weren't bad people here, not really, but they were over worked and under paid, with few resources. There was no time for kindness.
After the crash he'd wandered aimlessly, with no idea of where to go or what to do. It had been chaos, with people taking refuge in any shelter they could. Eventually, someone had rounded up all the lone children and for months they'd lived in tents and huts until the 'home for displaced children' had been built.
They'd asked him his name once. He'd tried to write it down, but his hand had shook so badly he couldn't hold the pencil and he'd made himself sick from the anxiety of it. They hadn't asked again and there were no therapists here. So they had simply given him a nickname, a bed - and little else. He'd faded into the background for the most part, except when he was ill.
Some children, the younger, undamaged ones, got lucky. Were found by relatives, or taken in by families that had lost their own children. No one looked at him though, at the strange, silent boy. He wasn't sure he cared.
He grabbed for water as the food - some kind of meat - suddenly stuck in his throat. Don't make a noise, his mind told him through the panic as he struggled to breathe. Don't be sick. Don't let them see you like this. He gasped and coughed as the water finally forced the chunk of food down and his eyes watered from the effort of not choking. Looking up slowly, there was no one staring at him, so they can't have noticed, he thought with relief. But the fear was too much and he fled from the hall, no longer caring if matron scolded him, or even if they tried to force feed him - again.
He ran until he was back on his bunk, burrowing under the thin blanket in a futile effort to hide himself. He hated it here, HATED it. He, like many others, only stayed because it was safer than most other places.
It wasn't fair. He'd had everything, parents, a home, a good life. There had been talk of a sibling. And then the world had gone and ended. For him, in more ways than one. This place, the shabby room, the tasteless food, it was like a scene from the books his parents had used to read to him. Oliver Twist, he recalled. That's who he felt like now and - it just wasn't fair.
Oliver Twist was brave though, he thought sadly. He'd run away, survived on the streets. He couldn't do that - could he? It was dangerous out there, he knew that. Kids didn't run away from here because of how bad it was out there. Here they had a bed, clothes, food. None of that was guaranteed outside the gates. But he'd been here so long now and thought of staying here another night made it hard to breathe, made him grip the bear tightly and close his eyes. Maybe he would be better off out there.
He turned slowly on his bed, facing the wall. A single picture was stuck there, in stark contrast to the dull walls and bland furniture. Once, some six months ago, they'd been gifted art supplies. Each child had been given a single sheet of paper and a chance to use the colours. He'd almost been left out because of the writing incident, but he'd looked so pleadingly at matron that she'd relented. He'd savoured the time, chosen each colour carefully and forced himself not to cry as he drew the last good day he remembered, when they'd all been out together, as a family. Drawing their smiles had been the hardest part and he'd cried himself to sleep that night. Yet the picture gave him hope and comforted him when he woke from his frequent silent nightmares.
Looking at it now, he could see them, hear them talking, laughing and encouraging him. They'd been so strong. His mother had fought to the end, his father had sacrificed everything to keep him alive. They'd never given up.
He had to go. They'd never sat and let the world win. They'd fought it. So he had to.
He was scared, terrified, In fact. He was eight years old, an orphan and this was a world he didn't know at all. Some days he felt so young and very small. Other days he felt far too old to only be eight. Today - was one of those days.
Swallowing down his fear like he'd swallowed the meat, he reached under the bed and pulled out the small backpack he'd had with him when he'd left home for the last time. In it went the only clean clothes he had, his bear and the precious picture. There was nothing else. Like all the children here, he'd lost everything.
It was a risk to take his jacket from the pegs, but it was already getting cold and he knew he'd need it. Slipping it on, he didn't dare look back. Out the door and over the gate, keeping to the shadows to avoid the minimal security. It was easy, even for an eight year old. Shivering in the cool night air, he made his way into the city.
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It was hard. Harder even than he'd imagined and he soon missed the creaky bed, the thin blanket and the morning cereal. He hated himself for resorting to stealing food, stealing anything, because it was something his parents had always spoken against. It was steal or starve though and despite it all, he wasn't ready to give up. So he kept going, kept stealing, kept moving, kept living.
The self defence lessons his mother had given him came in useful more than once, though he preferred to run when he could. Against all the odds he survived, always keeping to himself, never trusting anyone and still, he uttered not a word.
Time passed – though he couldn't say how long - and he learned which parts of the still-growing city were safer, where food was most easily available, where he could sleep with the least risk. They were hard learned lessons and he was still so afraid, still dreamed every night of a family, for someone who cared. They would never replace what he'd lost but, more than anything, he wanted to be loved.
He'd never given much thought to the rumours of a new Batman. Some heroes from the old world had survived, others had sprung up since they'd been here. He didn't live in a world of heroes. He lived in a cold, harsh place, where you stole to survive and ate when you could.
So it was a shock one night, when he was making his way through an alley and came across a boy not much older than him being threatened by two thugs for the dog he held on a tattered leash.
Fearing for the boy he was summoning his courage, gathering the will to help, when the black figure swooped down from the sky. His eyes went wide as the vigilante effortlessly disarmed the thugs, leaving them moaning on the ground. Hardly daring to breathe, he sank back into the shadows as the Batman looked closely at the boy with the dog. Praying he wouldn't be seen, the Batman terrifying to him, he watched as the figure moved up again, swinging effortlessly into the sky.
"I had to check," he heard him say, the voice gravelly, as if distorted somehow. Like a robot. Then he was gone, the thugs still picking themselves up from the floor.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped out from the shadows, looking to where Batman had swung away. His heart was still racing from the near encounter with the man who had hardly even seemed human. Not for the first time, he wondered if this new world was just a world of monsters.
END