Slum
I wasn't born in Gotham, something you think I'd be more vocal about considering the ridiculous level of crime and my dark past living on its streets, but I'm not. My mom had me in Bludhaven, a shit-hole even worse than my current address. My parents moved to Gotham when I was about two because my old man needed work. Since he'd already floated in and out of prison a few times before, my dad couldn't get regular minimum wage jobs. So he got a minimum wage job as an enforcer for a bookie in The Narrows. My mom had it easier; she got a gig as a secretary in some advertising agency for something a little better. So, between them, they managed to scrape together a living for me. I can't say for certain I was always warm, fed and clothed, but since I survived past ten, it's a safe bet they did their best. Then my mom got cancer.
You want to know the worst part of living with someone who has cancer? It's not knowing they're going to die and there's nothing you can do to stop it; its how fucking fast it takes them away from you. No sooner had she broken it to me, she was already on her deathbed. I was barely eleven when she died. We cremated her, only because we couldn't afford a burial plot. My dad scattered her ashes in private and never told me where. He never really recovered from that, not really. One thing about my old man though, he did love me. That's why he took that job running with Two-Face's gang, to feed me. I dropped out of school after my mom's funeral and was never going to go back. My dad knew that so he sent me to earn some bread too.
I was always bad for imitating people. My dad smoked so I did. My dad's 'friends' hung out in the gambling dens and the pool halls so I did. I did what they did; I lied, I cheated and I stole from almost everybody. Even though I was just like him, my old man wanted me on a straight and narrow path. He must've fixed me up with a dozen part-time jobs. I worked in a kitchen, a bakery, a newspaper kiosk and some other equally mind-numbing operations. I never quit any, but I was fired from all of them. Pretty sure that, back then, I was a kleptomaniac in the extreme. Somebody left something and I lifted it without thinking twice. That's kinda why it was so easy to fire me; all you had to do was leave something decent unattended and watch from the shadows. All things told, I probably made less than twenty bucks in a whole year towards my upkeep. So my dad socked me a few times. He wasn't a bad guy at heart; he just wanted me to grow up better than he did. That just didn't work out.
Bruce always asked me if I saw Two-Face kill my old man. I've never given him the answer, not because I want secrets, but because I don't want him knowing EVERYTHING about me. It's bad enough he knows about me prostituting myself for food and shelter without him knowing that too. Truth is, I didn't see my dad get slotted by that psychopath. I was hustling people on the pool table when Mr Dent stuck two bullets either side of his chest. I found out later, when I staggered home the next morning. I was good at hustling and I was a decent runner when things turned ugly, but if you got hold of me, my game was over. I remember that night two guys chipped three of my front teeth and almost broke my arm after I scammed them out of three-hundred bucks. Long story short, they got their money back…and then some.
Social Services tried to take me away and put me into care. Looking back now, I wish I hadn't run so fast. I never even gave them a chance to state their case; I just fled into the alleyways and the condemned buildings to live out my days as a free man. That just didn't work out either. And now where am I? Right back where I started, hustling pickpockets and murderers for small change in some decrepit pool hall, deep in The Narrows. Except of course the minor details of being both a billionaire's ward and a teenage superhero. But I don't feel any different now than I did as an eleven-year-old wise guy biting off more than he could ever possibly chew. I'm still not afraid of anybody else and I'm still a kid hardened by life and death in these very streets. I'm still tougher than everybody else my age. The only real difference of any significance now is that, when push eventually comes to shove, I can shove harder than anybody else in this whole district. And let me tell you, the way I'm knocking these chumps off, the shoving is coming pretty damn soon.
"Fucking no way!" The bigger, angrier chump yells when I screw off three cushions to pot the black at the opposite end of the table. I'm up four hundred bucks from sweetening these guys to the limit with my pocket money, roughly three hundred bucks. So, after losing the first five games, I've now won six-in-a-row to put seven hundred dollars on my side of the table.
"Goodness…" I say innocently scratching my head, "I can't believe how lucky that shot was. Well, I think it's past my bedtime now gentleman, so I'm going to go. It was a pleasure playing with you." As I go to gather up my winnings, the big ape-like specimen slams his fist down to rattle the table legs and draw everybody's attention. Shoving time has arrived.
"You cheated us. Hand over the money and we'll let you go." He offers like it's a fair deal. I smile at him genially.
"Nah, I don't think so, King Kong. This money's got my name all over it." I reply, stuffing the bills into my jean pockets. His ugly friends have begun to close ranks on me. Ape Man shakes his head and puts a fist into an open hand as he bears down on me.
"Hand it over or I'll make you earn it on your knees for me and my buddies." Why are these guys ALWAYS perverts? Isn't it bad enough they're criminals without adding sexual deviant to their resumes? I roll my eyes.
"I wouldn't even kiss you for seven hundred bucks, let alone suck your dick." He grins at me with a chessboard of rotting and yellow teeth.
"We'll see about that."
As soon as he goes to swing, I've struck him twice; once in the face and one in the stomach. Before he can sink to his knees I've kicked and fractured his jaw with the heel of my sneaker. The others descend on me like locusts, attacking all at once, but it really makes no difference. I just flow from one finishing blow to another, chaining a spinning heel kick into an elbow strike into a throat jab into a hip throw followed by an arm breaker and then into a sickening head-butt. Within ten seconds of threatening me, King Kong and six of his 'buddies' are crawling round my feet like cockroaches. I stamp on Kong's groin to make him howl and smirk. "Welcome to the jungle, tough-guy."
The manager yells for me to get out before he calls the cops. I flip him the bird and wander out with all my winnings. It's about midnight now on a Saturday night. The Narrows are quiet for once; everybody's still inside the gin joints and gambling dens getting wasted. Things usually liven up around four when most places kick out. Bruce will come out on patrol around then, backed up by the GCPD patrols that are also too familiar with this population's habits. Even if I wasn't who I am, I'd still be in no danger walking down the streets on my own at this time of night. Most people in Gotham never know that. At certain times of the day on certain days of the week, The Narrows is safe to tread around. I light up a smoke as I get into the subway station. There's an old-looking bum huddled in a corner near the men's room watching me as I wait for the next car. He looks haggard and miserable, dressed in about five frayed coats and some moth-ravaged jogging pants. I know the feeling. Poor guy must be around sixty-five. I walk over to him.
"Hi." I say leaning down and offering my cigarette, "You smoke?" The bum nods and reaches up for it. I watch him take a long, slow drag. He closes his eyes and nods his head repeatedly in appreciation before blowing out a few smoke rings.
"I know you from somewhere, boy. Where do I know you from?" The bum replies, shaking the cigarette at me. I shrug. "I've seen you on the newspapers. You were wearing a tuxedo and standing with a big fella and some fancy-looking people. Are you famous?" Most guys would dismiss this man as crazy if he came out with something that specific, but I know what he's talking about. Bruce made me attend a charity ball with him a couple of days ago. He insisted I pose with him and his affluent snobs or 'friends' and the stupid papers ran that one photograph to print. I think they even captioned my name and took a remark I said out of context for the article. The article apparently reported me as saying 'This is what's important, helping people who can't work to support themselves'. What I actually said was 'THIS is what's important? Helping people who can't work to support themselves by giving them free fucking hand-outs? Half of them are benefit cheats and lazy bastards! They don't deserve a cent!'.
"Nah, the guy who adopted me is famous though. You heard of Bruce Wayne?" The bum scoffs at me as he takes another drag.
"Have I heard of Bruce Wayne? Who in this city hasn't? The guy's got more money than the population's got sense between them! So how come you're way out here, dressed like that if you're rich?" The way I'm dressed is how I used to when I was younger. There's no designer labels or imported fabrics, fancy colour schemes or overpriced accessories to hide behind; I'm wearing black Keds, worn jeans with holes in both knees, a faded Gotham Knights T-shirt and an old army jacket with the ribbons and rank still sown on. I picked it up at a thrift store in the Upper-East Side for fifty bucks; apparently it belonged to the winner of a Purple Heart and Silver Star in Vietnam. I tell people who ask that it was my grandfather's. It'd be suicide to dress like I do with the big guy down here. I would literally be mugged inside of a second. There's no product in my hair either; Al insists I use it even though I hate the feel of it on my scalp. Truth is, even though I've been domesticated by Bruce to conforming to his expectations, cutting loose on a weekend and just being normal is to me a greater freedom than being Robin.
"Sometimes I like to slum it." The old man smirks at my answer.
"You've never been anywhere near a silver spoon, have you boy? No, I can tell just from the look in your eyes that you and me are cut from the same cloth. How long did you live on the streets for?"
"About eighteen months."
"That's good going. Me, I've lived on these streets for twenty-eight years. I know already I'm gonna die on these streets. I've got lung cancer you see, from the smoking. I started when I was about your age."
"You trying to get me to quit, old man?" I inquire sparking up another smoke. The bum dismisses it with a hand gesture.
"Hell, son, I'm nobody to be giving advice to a kid. I was somebody once, you know." I take a drag.
"Oh yeah? Who'd you used to be?"
"Chief of Police." Okay, that's a little bit of a stunning response. I stop smoking for a moment in the aftermath.
"You're shitting me."
"No, Sir, way back when, I was the Chief of Police in this city. They call it a commissioner now, but the principle's the same. You're the big man calling the shots." That is one impressive fall from grace. I have to know more.
"And what happened?"
"My family was killed in an arson attack on my house. I went to drink and I wound up sitting here talking to you three decades later." To most people, a story like that would be shocking, but unfortunately I've heard that kind of tragedy too many times now to really be affected. I let out a sigh that at least sounds sympathetic.
"Well, that sucks. You just couldn't pick yourself back up or something?" The bum nods.
"Pretty much."
"Well, have this." I toss him about five hundred bucks rolled up and tied with a rubber band from my jean pocket. "See if you can't make your last days more comfortable and I'm not talking about a hospice." I give him a sly wink as my train rocks up.
It's about one when I finally reach North Gotham. From here, it's only about seven miles as the crow flies to Wayne Manor. I can jog that in under fifty minutes. I'm about to start when a car pulls up alongside me. I stand still and wait as the driver's side window is rolled down.
"Hello, Mr Todd." Jim Gordon says to me. I incline my head and give him a sheepish smile.
"Hiya Jim. Nice night, huh?"
"Yes, it is, but you shouldn't know about that. You should be in bed." I shrug my shoulders.
"I have insomnia." Jim feigns surprise.
"Really? I hear there's a pill for that. "
"I hear it's a suppository. No thank you."
"We got a call through about an hour ago from Larry Markowitz down at Nine Ball Limit pool hall in The Narrows. Apparently, some young punk hustled one of his best customers and then sent seven guys to the emergency room. You want to hear the description of this guy?" I grin.
"Is he black?" Jim Gordon hates casual racism. He narrows his eyes at me in stark disapproval before shaking his head.
"No. Funnily enough, he was your height, your weight, approximately your age and wearing your clothes." He begins drumming his fingers on the outside of the car door. Is he waiting for a confession? From ME? Sorry, Jimmy, no sale.
"Well, the downtrodden and disenchanted youth look is very popular this season." He gestures to my feet.
"Jason, I can see the blood on your sneakers. If you get in the car and let me take you home, we'll say no more about it."
"What's the alternative?" Jim slaps the car door as he replies, sounding a little less than kind.
"Alfred picks you up from the cells again."
"Touché." I get in the passenger seat and we begin to drive off. Jim Gordon and I go back. Before I was Robin, Jim was the police officer kind enough to let me go after I was brought in on prostitution charges. They should've banged me up in care and mental hospitals with psychiatrists and cold-handed doctors, but they didn't because he turned me loose. It nearly cost him his job. I owe him a lot for that favour. Then there was the charity ball a couple of days ago. Jim hates those damn gatherings as much as I do, because he's been in the trenches too. We spent almost the whole night chatting. It was nice to speak to the man without needing a mask, although I think getting that close with him for that amount of time was pretty much a spoiler for my secret identity. Jim's not stupid, not by a long way and quite frankly I suck at acting like anyone else but myself, no matter what I'm doing. I don't even disguise my voice when I'm Robin and I behave the same as I am right now. The only difference is the level of damage I cause and who to. This little stunt tonight probably sealed the deal. From here it doesn't take a genius to figure out who I answer to underneath the cowl. He won't say anything, but I think he knows.
"You just finish your shift or something?" I ask.
"Something like that." Jim mutters back. Right then I know he's been working overtime to stave off loneliness.
"You really think I'm a punk, Jim?" I ask after a couple of minutes. He smirks.
"No. Markowitz said you were a punk, I was just reiterating what he told me. So, seven guys huh? The lightest one must've been two-hundred and twenty pounds; what do you weigh, Jason?" I shrug my shoulders.
"A little less than that."
"Try fifty pounds less. One of them said it was like being hit by a cement truck."
"People exaggerate, Jim, you know that."
"What were you doing in there anyway? Why would you risk your neck like that? You like causing trouble?" God he sounds like a real father. Too bad I'm not HIS teenage tearaway; I might turn over a new leaf with a man this straight and honest to look up to.
"Old habits die hard. Sometimes I just need to go back there. I like the familiarity, you know? It feels like home."
"And Wayne Manor doesn't?"
"No need to play broken records, Jim. That place is NOT my home; it's just where I sleep. Look, I promise I won't do this again, okay? This was the last time, honest."
"I know that's bull, Jason. I worry about you, son. It's not good for you to be out at all hours and socializing with that class of criminal. Not alone anyway."
"Listen, no offence, but I'm not a middle-class white kid from the suburbs with 4.0 grade average and no common sense; I can handle myself on the streets just fine." I'm snippy with him because I can get very touchy about my habits. If I want to wander the length of this city's underbelly in just my street clothes and hustle guys I probably would avoid even in costume, I will. I'm impulsive and short on patience; that's who I am. I like being that way. Jim shakes his head.
"This isn't about handling yourself in a fight, Jason. This is about succumbing to their level and becoming one of them. I don't want to see a bright kid like you spending his best years behind bars because he got carried away one too many times." I have to balk at that.
"Jim, I spent six months in Juvie when I was nine. I spent eighteen months living on the streets. I already lost my childhood to crime and violence. I was already an adult when I was twelve. You ever think I can't be saved? Sometimes I think life behind bars is a matter of time rather than a possibility." He slams the breaks on and we shudder to a halt. He turns to face me and sighs lethargically.
"You know you're cheerier in the cape." I roll my eyes and offer up a small smile.
"You could've kept that one to yourself you know." He smiles back.
"I like to think we're friends, Jason. To be perfectly honest with you, I don't care who you are and I never cared who your boss was either. What mattered to me was that you two chose to uphold the law rather than exploit it. Now I admit, when you first showed up, you were a bit wild and more than a little reckless, but now you're almost better than your predecessor. You've worked hard to be this good and you should be proud of yourself for all you've accomplished. I couldn't imagine what hell you were put through to reach your current level of ability, but that you were willing to sacrifice everything people take for granted to fight on their behalf shows me that you are someone destined for better things. I'm sure it must be hard to live with him, but you've managed it so far. So don't just go back to the way things were because the going gets tough and it's an easier ride. Keep fighting and you'll get your reward. You'll do great things if you just keep yourself together." This kind of buttering up should make me think of Hansel and Gretel, getting all fattened up by praises only to get eaten alive later on, but I really just think how nice it would be to hear this from Bruce. As arrogant and egotistical as it sounds, I expect this kind of pep talk from Jim Gordon. He's the one guy who's always in your corner, always willing to hear your side of things. Just like Al, Jim's got a heart of gold. The city's definitely throwing him a parade when he retires, no question.
"You're a good guy, Jim, one of the best." I tell him sincerely.
"I do what I can, son. Sorry to lay it on so thick just now. Barbara says I have a tendency to preach."
"Advice is always appreciated. Sometimes I really don't know what I'm doing out here."
"We all feel like that sometimes, Jason. You probably know more about being lost than most. If you ever want to talk, my door's always open. You can either walk through the door or climb through the window, whatever you prefer." That is some subtle humour he's just thrown at me. There's a serious underlying message too, a hand offering friendship and understanding to a guy who is young and wild and pretty blunt with his view of people. I should say thanks at this stage, but I don't do that sort of thing too many times in one night. So I just give him the ambiguous reply.
"I'll think about it."
He drops me off outside the front gate less than five minutes later. I say goodbye, he drives off and I scale the gate without any difficulty. I jog the quarter-mile path to the front door, go round the back and use my key to deactivate the alarm and security system in place when opening the service entrance door. I go in to the kitchen, eat two chicken breasts, broccoli and some other greens before scaling the main staircase. I go in my room, shower and then get into bed. Bruce is lurking in the shadows, but thinks I don't know he's there. He'll be in full costume, ready to deal with the weekend crowd in The Narrows. He hangs around another couple of minutes before soundlessly leaving the room via the window I always leave open during the day. He'll be shouting at me tomorrow. I said I'd be good and I lied. I said we'd try to start over, but I just can't be a good boy and play nice…
Being bad is just too much fun.