Disclaimer: I still don't own Teen Titans, though I did get some new manga from my favorite series. Among other things if I owned Teen Titans I would have ended on a different note than the finale they used. I have seen worse, but still; I do give props for the less orthodox wrap up though.
Betaed by the ever dependable Zim'smostloyalservant.
What a World What A World
Somewhere in New Hampshire:
It would never pass for a typical church, a fact that pleased both those that belonged to typical Churches and those who assembled in this structure. A breaking from tradition was part and portion of their goal, though rather than chaos it was instead a new order and tradition they sought with such vigor.
The building was round, though the true structure was only roughly three quarters of the circle; the remainder was a courtyard centered about a glorious fountain hemmed in by the outer wall. Windows dominated the structure, letting the light of the sun pour in through stained glass windows telling the triumphant saga of their god like the world's most ornate comic book. His crest was engraved with a simple elegance over the main entrance, which led immediately into a sanctuary that stretched the length of the building to where a pulpit stood elevated against the backdrop of the Plexiglas wall looking out on the courtyard. The statue that served as the fountain would be mistaken for Atlas in another age – it depicted the object of the their veneration holding the world aloft, though unlike bound Atlas his chiseled face looked upon those assembled with an easy friendly smile.
The Church of Krypton could be found lovely or discomforting depending on who you are.
By comparison, the congregation might be a let down to the visitor. Ordinary people to look at them; some dressed just a little better than normal, others wearing what would easily be labeled Sunday best. There was the odd attendant who came in tights of some variety, but they were endured by the regulars with an air of long suffering patience. They were confident if words of reprimand were needed the priest would see to it. He was also rather unassuming; with balding salt-and-pepper hair he looked like how a young grandpa might be imagined. His robes were blue and held the crest, but beyond that he was unremarkable as he took his place looking over those assembled.
"The light be upon you all," he greeted the worshippers, his hands raised, microphone carrying his voice to the furthest recesses.
"The light grant him strength," he was answered by the mass.
"It is a glorious day we come together! I see so many familiar faces, and so many new ones as well.
"As you may know, today is a special day, today we announce a new deacon to our temple. But in light of the many new faces here, before we announce him let us share with those guests who have braved the tension to witness our worship.
"We are not a cult, a collection of rejects and madmen as so many portray us. Rather we are those who see the writing on the walls and chose to take those words to heart.
"Where others throw themselves on the words of long dead prophets, invest their hope in vague prophecy, and kneel before silent distant deities, we embrace the miracle in our midst.
"Kal El, the last son of Krypton, Superman, savior of our world many times over. He is not a hope on the horizon, or a legend; he watches over us from the Watchtower above, he can be glimpsed in the sky, and he descends from the heights to punish the wicked and defend the righteous! In what way, I ask of you, is this great being who does so much and demands nothing in return, beneath reverence?
"My children, speak and be heard, on how the Last Son has touched your lives!" the priest called out jubilantly.
Several people stood and announced their close encounters of the cape kind:
"He caught the plane I was on when it was crashing."
"Stopped aliens from burning down my office while I was in it."
The process carried on for a few minutes when a gray-haired gentleman with a Superman lapel pin stood to have his words and was interrupted by the sound of breaking glass. The left window flanking the entrance was shattered, the depiction of the man of steel holding a raven-haired woman of flesh ruined. The object landed in the second to back row of pews; frowning an old woman leaned forward, already reaching for the offended object.
When it exploded she was hurled back, already dead. The grenade claimed six other lives in the blast – and more would die in the hour. The screams drowned out the shattering of the window to the right, showing Krypton splitting in twain while a red sun loomed ominously in the background; with the grenade's passage Krypton was destroyed once more. The priest saw the shattering through the din and cried out a warning. But his voice was lost as death burst forth again.
The priest was a middle-aged man, and despite his profession pursued with enthusiasm, he would by most be described as a man of moderation who refrained from extreme emotion for the trouble it brings. Now his face contorted and reddened in a blinding rage that strangled any fear that dared draw near his heart.
The entrance was kicked open, six men rushing in wearing green windbreakers and ugly green ski masks. Somehow you could tell none of them were comely beneath the cloth. The one with the least unflattering posture lifted his rifle and fired a shot into the ceiling.
"Nobody move, we don't need to kill any more today, but try anything funny and the world won't miss a few more race traitors. Those pigs in Washington may think it's right for you traitors to gather like decent folk and kowtow to a goddamn alien, but if you think real Americans will sit by and-" the lead mask was interrupted when the preacher emerged from behind his pulpit holding a pistol at ready.
The leader dived behind a pew, while the priest fired rapidly without any trained skill. One went down as two bullets slammed into his chest, and the others took cover until the pistol clicked empty, the enraged priest still pulling the trigger. The leader popped back up and held down the trigger set on auto; the priest's head exploded in a hail of lead, the bullets denting the Plexiglas behind him.
"Fuck! Louis is dead, you said they wouldn't be armed!" one of the thugs called out as the leader marched down the aisle towards the battered pulpit.
"I said they probably wouldn't be. Now shut up and cover these bastards, they so much as breathe funny, perforate 'em," the leader ordered. His remaining men tried to do just that, glancing over the surviving worshippers, fingers pressing against triggers, though truth be told both sides were too rattled to do anything without further coaxing. The leader reached the pulpit and reached out to finger the blue banner displaying Superman's crest, and after a moment's thought released it. Unzipping a pocket in his windbreaker he pulled out a spray can and shook it.
"I got your message of hope, right here," he growled as he sprayed two letters over the crest.
A sound of thunder filled the temple once more; the leader took one step back, then fell, his covered face obliterated by the blast, dead as he took his last step. The deacon-to-be stood in the side door, trembling as he held the smoking shotgun. He fell to his knees and vomited as he saw both the punk and the priest lying dead, divided by the pulpit.
The surviving attackers exchanged heated words and ran, leaving their dead. There was no more killing to be done, but a message had indeed been sent, perhaps two.
Shell-shocked people looked to the pulpit now vacant of its keeper. Its banner was sullied, the letters LL slashed across it in green as a man's final act. To the survivors who now rose from behind the pews the statue of Superman while still smiling seemed somehow weary now as he looked down on the ruined sanctuary.
Washington D. C
"The simplest explanation for the problem is the Freakshow. While many metahuman communities have sprung up over the last ten years, this area of Chicago is easily the largest in population and has gained notoriety for producing meta-criminals while attracting still more Metas and artificial beings as public pressure against metas continues to rise.
"Regardless of the truth, the Freakshow and its residents have become the choice target for laying Chicago's problems on. Everything from crime to the recession is directed at the residents. It has reached the point where even individuals with blatant anti-metahuman platforms have managed to gain entrance to the city government. Moderates remain in control, but with the ongoing polarization a failure to side against the Feaskshow may soon be costing officials their offices.
"Chicago was brought to a boil nearly a year ago with the Parker-DeVau Incident. Anna Parker, daughter of former Congressman Parker, attacked and killed Charles DeVeau. The underage metahuman, depending on your side of the divide, was either unjustly convicted in spite of extenuating circumstances or allowed to escape true justice due to the system coddling freaks.
"While it's true she wasn't a resident of the Freakshow – having lived her twelve years up till then a virtual gilded captive in her family home to hide her existence from the world – that community's support for her during the trial brought out passions on all sides.
"Despite our fears the tension remained just that and cooler heads prevailed, preventing any large scale violence.
"However, now just weeks after the anniversary of that tragic accidental homicide, we find ourselves in an even more critical situation.
"It began one week ago when Warren Petit, a metahuman with what we now know to be pyrokinetic capabilities, self-destructed in his classroom, killing seven students and wounding several others, including the teacher. Investigation shows he was a victim of bullying, and it was a premeditated murder-suicide. No one even knew he was a Meta – he was bullied due to being overweight.
"But again it brought up anger and fear against the metahuman community, people seriously calling for segregating the city, even African-American and other minority citizens claiming that their children would never be safe in schools that allowed living weapons past the doors. The Human Defense League is actually holding rallies; they marched through the Freakshow in what many are calling the Spirit of '33.
"And yesterday things got a whole lot worse. Karl Rosckinzy, a Presbyterian Pastor in the Freakshow, metahuman, and formerly known as the villain Ironhide, was murdered in his home. Rosckinzy was a well-respected community leader in the Freakshow, an example of a villain who was able to reform and escape a destructive lifestyle. He was in charge of a youth outreach program dedicated to preventing young metahumans from turning to crime.
"Considering his highly durable nature we do not think HDL killed him; the sonic grenade that caused his death seems more like the work of a villain organization trying to shut down his operation. Regardless, HDL slogans were spray painted in his home and the Freakshow is blaming them and its residents are demanding arrests. In the midst of the powder keg HDL is playing with matches and our people are fresh out of water," the General recapped for those present. The atmosphere in the Oval Office was tense with the presence of power and the looming crisis that power would be directed towards. The cheery sunlight pouring in behind the President seemed quite inappropriate.
"Thank you for the recap General Eiling, now the question is, what can we do to save Chicago from ripping itself apart?" The Chief Executive demanded. He looked over the two others that would influence the federal government's response to the gathering storm.
General Wade Eiling, Director of Operation Cadmus since the death of founder Amanda Waller. He was the image of an old soldier, the remainder of the hair that ringed his head was white to match his mustache, and his face was deeply lined. Yet his eyes were hard as steel and seemed to constantly be measuring everything, and find it wanting. A hardliner, true, but sadly he was the only man for the job. While the President had not always seen eye-to-eye with the late Waller, he did miss her less radical approach to Cadmus.
The next man was little better… assuming it was a man. Cadmus was basically a public secret these days; most people knew it existed but its exact extent and activities were a mystery. Project Prometheus, by contrast, was truly classified, and the identity of Director X was a secret even to the chief executive. True to their namesake, they strived to steal fire from the gods. Or, more accurately, use science and technology to place humans on an even footing with the metahuman menaces. A stylized X drifted across the computer screen beneath the web cam, showing the enigmatic genius was present in a sense.
"To be frank, Mr. President, defusing the situation may not be the solution," General Eiling volunteered. The soldier didn't waver under the glare he received that demanded an explanation.
"If it's not a has been villain-turned-preacher murdered this year, it will be something else next year. Too many people are spoiling for a scrap and there is nothing we can do to make the two sides not want to kill each other. But the longer we wait the more pressure will build and the more prepared the troublemakers will be. So we let Chicago explode now while the situation can still be handled.
"We position ourselves to intervene so that when the balloon goes up we can put out the fire before too much goes wrong. Chaos will grip the city and we will be in a position of strength to influence the new situation and make it less volatile," Eiling stated.
"X, what do you have?" The President inquired, turning his attention to the letter floating around the computer screen.
"I agree with the General; it is best to let events take their natural course and use the ensuing chaos to reestablish control. However, there is a key flaw to his plan of action.
"If the US government intervenes it will be required to use excessive force to restore order, and we will be blamed for every life lost and piece of property damaged. It will be seen as validation that we are strongmen with an agenda, as opposed to the sainted Justice League in the eyes of our detractors. It will also be seen as an act of support for either the metahuman community or the HDL, damaging the administration's attempts to be seen as neutral in this.
"The last thing we need is more Patriots in Congress. What we must do is observe and allow the Justice League to intervene in Chicago. We have files full of reasons we would not be able to, and no one that matters will care when the scenario plays out.
"Calm yourself General, we will merely give Superman the rope to hang himself with. The League will also have to be heavy-handed and we will place the blame on them for the disaster. They will lose credibility with the metahuman community and we will avoid being further stigmatized by the anti-meta elements of the populace. And in the end the League will return to the sky and we will be free to pick up the pieces to do with as we please," Director X outlined in digital monotone.
Yet another expert told him that he needed to let a city burn for the good of the nation, the President thought. He wasn't sure what upset him more, that it was something like this the two of them finally agreed on, or knowing he would approve one of these plans. He actually found himself missing Waller.
The President rubbed his brow; how had it come to this? Photos were laid out across the desk, two showing Ironhide in his gaudy old-fashioned villain regalia, the other him as an old man in civilian clothes. Others showed the devastated classroom, a picture of a blonde spider-like teenage girl in handcuffs and a muzzle, HDL rallies burning superheroes in effigy, and the graffiti left in Ironhide's home: "ONE NATION, ONE RACE!", "FREAKS OUT", "TALLY UP", "HUMAN RIGHTS" and repeatedly in green letters, "LUTHOR LIVES!"
Titans Tower:
Cyborg looked at the engine in disbelief. The reason he was having trouble adjusting the component was that he had installed it backwards. This was not a mistake he would make – it was practically written. Putting down his tools he lifted his wrist to his face as a plate slid back to reveal a digital clock screen.
"That explains it, time for Cy to take care of himself. Don't go away baby, Poppa will be back to set you right before you know it," Cyborg patted the mechanism affectionately before standing upright, something clanking in him.
Leaving his workshop, Cyborg's plan was raiding the fridge for what looked good, then a wash and recharge. Wondering if the hoagie was still unclaimed he failed to notice Jinx walking down the hallway reading a book with runes scrawled across the cover. The two bumped into each other, alerting each to the other's presence.
"Sorry Jinx," Cyborg mumbled, his mind already turning back to food. Jinx, however, looking at the grease stain on her top and pants from the run in, looked after the filthy Cyborg in disgust.
"What are you doing, you're tracking grease everywhere," Jinx told him in a huff. Cyborg turned and realized he was leaving a half-foot print of black stuff in his wake.
"That's not grease, it's oil," he corrected her in all seriousness.
"That's not important," Jinx maintained, tucking her book away to cross her arms.
"Look, I'll clean it up later. I just want some R&R before finishing up my project, and then this mess gets wiped off the Earth. Cool?" Cyborg asked, getting a bit annoyed.
"Project? Don't you have enough tech already?" Jinx sighed.
"Hey, tech's like barbecue, there's always room for a bit more," Cyborg retorted with a tired smile.
"Well, I guess you have to go with quantity since it's the only option," Jinx rolled her eye behind her glasses.
"Yeah… wait, what was that?" Cyborg snapped to full alertness.
"What kind of project?" Jinx asked in answer.
"No before that," Cyborg demanded.
"You're tracking grease – I mean oil?" Jinx ventured.
"That crack about quantity and quality. Are you dissing my tech? !" Cyborg demanded.
"Oh, that. Well, it's great as far as tech's concerned. But when it comes against magic, the best you can do is bring more and hope it trumps the magic by that," Jinx stated.
"Last I checked I outrank you with all this inferior tech," Cyborg pointed out.
"That's because Robin likes you better than me. I always beat you in spars because my magic trumps your toys," Jinx answered with a sigh of mock long suffering. The word "toy" brought a twitch to his organic eye.
"Toys? ! They were good enough to beat Guerra mano a mano while Plasmus had you running for your life!" Cyborg exclaimed.
"I'm not saying it's useless, but you go through all this trouble to make gizmos to do what a mage can do with just a word and a gesture. What's more, your toys are bound by the laws of science, magic is about imposing your will on the world in opposition to its natural flow," Jinx stated narrowing her concealed eye. She emphasized the word "flow", twirling on one foot with a ballerina's grace, her hands aglow, gathering violet energy in her palms.
"Yeah, and it all goes fizzle with a little garlic, silver or whatever gets the mojo you're using. Tech works, it doesn't need rituals or mystic pacts, you put in the work and you get the prize for nothing more than the time and effort it took to make it. Did you have to trade your eye or something for the sparkly stuff?" Cyborg asked, fuming. Jinx did not connect the reason for his anger went beyond a master crafter's pride in his trade; as for Cyborg, the insult hit straight home, enough that he reciprocated in kind. Jinx scowled at the last remark, and let loose the magic in her hands. Cyborg came on guard but relaxed into puzzlement when the magic dispersed into the air.
Cyborg glanced up as he heard creaking before the roof tiles overhead came down on him. Tossing the tiles aside he saw Jinx disappearing down the hall, her face already back in the book.
"I am NOT cleaning this up!" he called after the retreating witch.
Three Days Later:
"So Cyborg, you wanted to show us something?" Robin asked. The Titans had gathered at the second-in-command's request in the garage that doubled as Cyborg's workshop. A corner of the garage had been curtained off, no doubt concealing the secret project Cyborg has been amercing himself in.
The lights shut off, leaving the garage in darkness, until a sole spotlight illuminated Cyborg – now dressed in a light gray suit – before the curtain, holding a microphone.
"Ladies, gentlemen… and Jinx. Since man first dreamed as he looked up to the stars, he has yearned for the day in which that most pure and basic of all dreams would be realized. It is my honor to tell you today is that day," Cyborg boomed with solemnity.
"You found purple wanbdergoot? !" Starfire joyfully exclaimed, popping up into the air. All was silent and Starfire blushed, calming down and returning to the floor.
"Anyway, today the dream is real. I give you the T-Car!" Cyborg grandly boomed. He threw the curtain aside revealing a Volvo with the same blue tech sections as himself.(1)
"Sweet!" Beast Boy yelled.
"Ah yes, the T-Car, equipped with the latest and best the automotive industry has to offer and some things the industry hasn't thought of yet.
"But don't think it's just a sweet ride!
"The T-Car comes battle ready with weaponry beyond what can be carried on one's person, and storage units for retooling in the field.
"And, inspired by recent events, with the push of a button the trunk unfolds into either a cybernetic repair station or portable medical unit for fast treatment on site!
"And did I forget to mention the sound system?" Cyborg asked. The car transformed to demonstrate each point; the last one heralded absurdly large speakers popping out of the T-Car and letting loose a wave of base. When it retracted, Cyborg looked to his teammates for affirmation and noticed their hair was quite messed up as they massaged their ears.
"Well, what y'all say?" Cyborg asked, ripping off the suit.
"Best... thing... EVER!" Beast Boy shouted with starry eyes.
"Your land vehicle is definitely low temperature!" Starfire cheered in the air again. While she did not follow her friend's logic, she was happy that he was so happy. Robin smiled and rubbed his chin thoughtfully, but was far more restrained in his enthusiasm.
"Impressive, this could really improve our effectiveness in the field. How is it for rough terrain?" Robin asked. Cyborg made to answer, but whirled on hearing a car door open. Jinx had opened the driver door and was leaning inside looking around.
"Jinx, can I help you with something?" Cyborg asked with a grin, coming up behind her.
"No, just checking out our new ride," Jinx answered casually. She squeaked, much to her shame, when Cyborg reached in, grabbed her shoulder and set her aside, facing away from the car.
"Our ride? Oh no, no, no. This is my ride, built by me, on my time with parts and tools paid for on my dime. And surely a lowly tech-propelled means of transportation is below a witch of your refined stature," Cyborg remarked, affecting a bad British accent for the last part.
"Uh, Cyborg?" Robin spoke up before Cyborg kept going.
"Besides, you were right that you are a walking tech hazard, so I have decided never shall the twain meet. In other words…" Cyborg remarked, leaving the last sentence hanging. Going to be the back of the T-Car, Cyborg turned himself with his arm extended into a stance and followed through with a dramatic motion, slapping the bumper with a resounding chime. He withdrew his hand to reveal he had placed a round bumper sticker with Jinx's face crossed out on it. Jinx's eyebrow twitched at the sight.
"You can't be serious," Jinx gritted out.
"You're some kind of witch, go get a broom and fly," Cyborg grinned down at her. Her retort was cut off when the alarm went off, proclaiming trouble in the city. Cyborg and Beast Boy piled into the T-Car while Robin got onto his bike and tore out of the garage.
"Star, you coming?" Cyborg called, rolling down his window.
"Thank you, but I think I must be giving Jinx the lift," Starfire answered cheerily. She floated over to Jinx and made as if to lift her from under the shoulder before the witch shoved a hand up and back, leaving the palm just short of Starfire's face.
"Get in the car, you are not carrying me," Jinx growled, causing Starfire to wilt.
Jump City, ARES Warehouse D:
Raven looked it over with a predator's eye, searching for the slightest weakness or flaw that could be exploited. While perfection was impossible it was something to stride for, and this inherited belief showed in her now completed side project. 14 months ago, Slade had allowed her to pursue a project solely of her choice. It was a sign of her preparing for journeyman status and that he no longer believed her to require total time monopolized by training to continue to advance.
This technology was a personal triumph for her. After all, hailing from a magic realm and seeming to possess fey blood for her powers, science was something she lacked aptitude at. "Lacked," past tense, being the key word. Her discomfort and awe at even the rudimentary tech of this world was unacceptable; so she had been set to not only understand but to gain a degree of mastery.
She doubted this project, which she saw as a culmination of that progress, is what Slade had in mind. But her father's lack of objection she interpreted as approval, of some degree.
Yes, she decided, it was ready for a field test. And fortunately, she had already located a proper endeavor in which to find out what her creation could do. It promised to be an eventful night.
Jump City:
The Titans watched as the Special Response unit took possession of Overload's AI circuit; it really was quite pathetic without the energy body. The mood was fairly cheery with the heroes; the battle had been challenging but not rally threatening, Jinx had gotten him on the ropes with her hex blasts and after that it had just been keeping the villain from escaping till they found how to take him down.
"Well you know what goes well with winning? Milkshakes, and the T-Car just so happens-" Cyborg exclaimed, walking off only to stop stock still midsentence. The other Titans whirled, alert for some other threat, only to see… nothing. They were confused and Beast Boy was the first to realize that was exactly the problem.
"Dude, where's your car?" Beast Boy asked the slack-jawed Cyborg. Jinx covered her mouth as Cyborg ran around shouting out curses while the other Titans tried to calm him down. All those anti-theft devices and he forgot to lock it, how unlucky.
Elsewhere in Jump City, Later:
"Oh man, this is sweet!" The tall punk shouted as they tore across the track. His grin was almost touching his eyes and his little buddy wasn't far behind. They had swiped some sweet rides in their time, but this took the cake. No scatech that, it took the whole freaking buffet!
The Underground Rally was Jump City's roughest, and, in many peoples' opinion, best place for racing. Very off the books it was known to attract companies for unauthorized testing, villains testing their vehicles, and enthusiasts whose funny cars would be booted to the curve by any decent track admin. And of course there was the gambling and assorted vices; in short, for the likes of these two it was a little slice of Heaven.
"I can't believe a hero left his car unlocked," the small punk announced, for like the fifth time. Usually his greasy haired partner would be on him for his bad habit but right now he was just feeling the burn of the road.
"Man, those losers can't even touch our wheels," he boasted, overlooking the fact that aforesaid wheels were hardly his. Murphy heard and answered his challenge, apparently. A black car slipped around the pack and steadily closed the distance. It was a low-rider, sleek but sharp on the angles, and all the glass was pure black, matching the paint job – it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. The sole color was on the hood, a silhouette traced in burning red of a bird in flight shown from above.
"Well, looks like someone has yet to learn their lesson," Tall Punk grinned as the challenger approached. Swerving to block the black car's path, he pressed one of the few buttons he had figured out and let loose a slick. To little effect, as almost as soon as the slick hit the road the opposing driver flipped their own switch, and blades slid from the tires and dug into the ground, slowing progress but keeping course true before they were retracted.
It was all the edge that was needed, Tall Punk having slowed down to better watch the wipe out only to find himself neck and neck. Flooring the pedal despite spirited resistance, the black car pulled ahead as the g's began to press them back. In a checkered flash the race was over to thunderous applause, the audience watching the playback, which proclaimed Blackbird the winner.
The black car slowed and came to a sedate stop. The T-Car span three times as its inexperienced driver tried to stop, slowing down enough that it was only dented when the passenger side slammed into the dividing wall.
The black racer silently glided to a tasteful distance parallel to the T-Car as the driver's door of that car swung open. As if on cue, Tall Punk flung open the driver's side door and stumbled out, his shades having slide down his nose, revealing a pair of beady eyes. The punk stumbled and steadied himself with his back against the T-Car as his buddy shamelessly crawled out via the same door and plopped on the track.
Tall Punk saw his opponent had pulled up and scowled, pushing his shades back into place with his free hand. Glancing down to his bud he resisted the urge to kick him; that was so close he would have probably won without the deadweight, he thought. Seeing the door of the black car swing up and open he braced himself for the gloating of the bastard that had robbed him of a sure win. And he would have made so much money on his cut of the take too!
Thoughts of money quieted as the opposing driver climbed out, without any of the problems the two punks had been having if her fluid movements were any indication. And it was definitely she – the dark gray jumpsuit, while too loose to be risqué, teased and taunted at her figure in a way many would find more alluring than a more blatant display. When she took off her helmet it was worse. Not exactly conventional beauty, moon pale with lips untouched by lipstick and long hair tucked into a bun behind her head. With her features it was mostly a sum rather than any one thing, though her eyes were dark and twinkled with mischief.
At some point Punk Number 2 pulled himself up and dusted himself off while Tall Punk assumed a more cool pose leaning against the car he had crashed. This was no longer defeat, they decided as the babe walked over to them. This was now unexpected opportunity!
"Hey, you handle a wheel pretty well," Tall Punk told Raven as she walked up to them.
"Yeah sweet ride too, black is always classy," Punk Number 2 added. His friend frowned at his shorter comrade – didn't he realize a babe like this was way out of his league? Though in truth that statement extended to Tall Punk as well. Both were oblivious to the fact that the object of their desire was looking over the car with an appraising eye and that she frowned when her attention fell on the pair. Closing her eyes, she gave her best fake smile as she finally spoke.
"This is a really awesome car!" she exclaimed with a bubbly tone that no man thinking with his brain, and most others, would believe to be sincere. Sadly these two fell outside those lofty expectations.
"Oh yeah, the T-Car is awesome, that little slick was nothing compared to the real big guns. Maybe later you'd like to see what I've got, under the hood?" Tall Punk answered suggestively, hitting his buddy on the head when he almost spoke up. Raven's expression didn't change.
"It really is an awesome car. Since you aren't rich enough to afford something like this or smart enough to make it you must have stolen it," she answered in that same sweet voice. After a moment's reflexive nodding, they heard what she said and stopped before springing forward; even a dumb rat knows to bare its teeth when cornered.
"Hey, those are some serious accusations to be tossing around girly!" Tall Punk loomed over her.
"Yeah, and you have those blades hidden in the wheels? How legal is your ride?" Punk Number 2 demanded, pointing an accusing finger at her chest. Raven opened her eyes and while she kept smiling her expression was far more discomforting. They now realized the mischief in her eyes may mean the joke was on them.
"Donald," she spoke mildly. The punks blinked in confusion at the word as a shadow fell over them. A large pair of white-gloved hands seized their heads and in one smooth motion knocked their skulls together. As the punks collapsed unconscious, Raven gave a sincere smile to Donald before turning her attention back to the car.
Cyborg was so angry he would bet steam would come off him if he were doused with ice water. The crowd parted before him; a ticked of Titan was not something to cross under the best of circumstances, much less in a semi-legal venue such as this. And he was without a doubt ticked off, grumbling inarticulately but clearly angrily. His right forearm was held out in front of him, a plate having slid back to display a screen that showed him the location of the T-Car. His mood darkened as he got closer, taking no real notice of his surroundings as he looked up from the screen.
"Gonna be payback, and a beat down, gonna be a paydown," Cyborg grumbled as the screen declared his car to be only meters away. Looking up again the anger lines on his face dissolved at the sight of his baby in one piece right before him. Then a scowl darkened his mood as he saw the hood was not only popped but someone was messing around with his engine, his ass the only thing in sight as he leaned into the T-Car. Cyborg had been having a rough night, because normally he would never mistake that posterior ever belonging to a guy, despite loose fit.
"Get your filthy paws off my baby, you damned dirty-!" Cyborg shouted, stomping up to the T-Car and making to yank the thief out from the engine. But he was interrupted in his paraphrasing when a pair of powerful arms wrapped around his chest, arresting his progress. The Titan had a moment to be confused before he was flying back and his opponent slammed the top of his head into the pavement. Cyborg's attacker was already on his feet when Cyborg picked himself up, brushing of fragments of cement.
The man was tanned, bald, and on par with Cyborg in size and bulk. All human though, suited up too, older from the crow's feet peeking out around his sunglasses.
"I don't know who you are, but say hello to misplaced aggression," Cyborg growled, but smiled to have a problem he could tackle head on now. The other guy seemed unfazed; he reached into his sport jacket and pulled out a metal cylinder, which he flicked into extending into what looked like a fancy cattle prod.
"That's quite enough Donald!" a firm and light voice called out. Both men looked to the side, and saw a teenage girl with dark hair and pale skin looking irritated as she stood before the T-Car. The suited muscle, Donald apparently, stepped back and shortened his prod with another flick, but did not replace it in his coat. Cyborg was getting confused; he came here expecting to kick some punks' asses, what was going on exactly?
"I'm sorry about Donald, he gets paid to keep me safe and takes things a bit too far. Father just doesn't get that I don't need a babysitter," Raven told the Titan, walking up to him.
"Uh, well this isn't exactly the best neighborhood. What are you doing with my car?" Cyborg asked, rubbing the back of his head.
"Oh, I raced against those two punks there. I realized they must have stolen this car and had Donald beat them up. I never thought it belonged to a hero though," Raven answered, pointing to where the two banged up punks were tied up.
"I wanted to do that… oh, I'm Cyborg by the way. Thanks for rescuing my baby," Cyborg thanked.
"I'm Raven, Raven Wilson, and did you say baby? Well, I guess there is a family resemblance," Raven smirked, glancing back to the T-Car. Cyborg flushed at that play on words. He needed to change the subject or lose his cool rep. Glancing around he saw another car parked in spitting distance.
"So, is that your racer?" Cyborg asked a little too hastily.
"That's my Blackbird," Raven agreed, beaming.
"Your name's Raven, and you call your car the Blackbird," Cyborg deadpanned. At some point he had moved over to the black car and shook his head at the avian design; a picture of her namesake, so predictable.
"Oh, and what do you call your ride?" Raven asked tapping the blue tech lines.
"It's the T-Car," Cyborg answered reflexively. He regretted it as Raven cocked an eyebrow and gave him a look that said, "oh really?"
"Well, name aside, it's a nice car, almost as good as mine," Raven stated, turning away. He couldn't see the slight smile as she mentally counted down to his objection.
"Say what? ! Your ride may be pretty, but the T-Car is the most badass set of wheels to ever touch rubber to road," Cyborg declared after her. Raven turned so he could see her face in profile, and half a catty grin.
"Yet, it came in second," she stated, emphasizing the last word. Cyborg's jaw dropped at that bombshell; he quickly rallied and with a fierce look pointed at the two punks.
"Well even a great car can't be expected to be at the top of its game when driven by losers. That race doesn't count!" Cyborg exclaimed.
"You asking for a rematch?" Raven inquired, now facing him fully and looking quite amused.
"Nothing re about it, you ain't seen nothing from my ride yet," Cyborg proclaimed. She answered him a grin that announced her own confidence with no need for words. The spectators were going to get a treat tonight they realized, as the Titan got into the runner up car and the nights champ got ready for another round.
Titans Tower:
Cyborg stepped out of the garage into the corridor, humming a happy tune as he walked on. The T-Car was a little banged up from those punks' abuses, but his obsession was subdued for the moment, so he would leave that for tomorrow.
"Cyborg, the computer said you'd come in. I take it you got your car back?" Robin asked as he stepped out of a side corridor to walk alongside the larger Titan.
"That and more, I stand by announcement, this was a great day," Cyborg grinned from ear to ear. Robin stopped, as he could guess from the far away look on his teammate's face that he wouldn't appreciate questions right now. Still, even for this team this was quite the mood swing from earlier; he hadn't even asked about the remainder of the patrol, very unusual.
As the sound of humming faded away Robin decided he might have to look into this himself.
Somewhere Beneath Jump:
Midnight typed away at the terminal while humming Beethoven. Planning was a practice her father had driven home in her, but perhaps because of her youth she saw impulse and intuition as being valuable as well.
Tonight was such an example – without any planning, a golden opportunity had fallen into her lap. Raven had only meant to have some fun testing her car, and instead she had gained an invaluable foothold for intelligence.
She closed her newly updated folder on Cyborg, now featuring a subsection on the T-Car. She wondered how she could get information on the other Titans from him without arousing suspicion. That bumper sticker had a tale to tell, and she was interested to see if there was dissent in the enemy ranks. Later, of course, for now she would have to establish herself as someone he truly felt was trustworthy. Time for the infiltration and acting lessons to pay off.
Truly things were going well. She decided to finally ask if she could have Razor transported to Jump; her apparent luck might carry over to that wish being granted. She did miss her faithful pet so, and after tonight no one could deny she was making progress towards the end of the Titans.
1). I know it is early for the T-Car. I offered some thin justification for its appearance, but if that's not enough just know it is moving the plot along.
AN: Well sorry for the delay. Hope the wider world pieces weren't too annoying. Next Chapter we are back in focus on Jump, in which Midnight and some robots cause trouble with a capital T.
Till then, be well!
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What a World, What a World