Author's Note: And we're back for Arc 2: Beyond Broken. If the first arc was about Jason's return and meeting Terry, this arc is about a possibility of redemption... maybe. This arc should be a tad shorter than Arc 1 given that there is only one main "problem" to solve. The story hinted at the end of Arc 1 and the Interlude is now coming together. Enjoy! ~ Tsuki
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I don't own any characters mentioned in this story. The rights belong to DC comics, Bob Kane, etc.
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Darkness Cannot Drive, Part 19/? (Beyond Broken: Chapter One)
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The first call is made near midnight, Gotham City time. Max has just stepped out of the shower and considers not answering the blaring ringing of her computer phone. But then she notices the number. "Hello?" she asks, keeping the screen off as she wraps her towel around her tightly.
"Maxine," Bruce Wayne's voice is serious and slightly scratchy sounding. "Is Terry with you?"
Max sighs and shakes the wetness out of her short hair. She hates it when Wayne calls her Maxine—she hasn't been called Maxine by anyone other than her mother since she was a kid. "Uh, no. Haven't seen him today—he had class this afternoon. He's not with you?"
The silence telegraphs a clear: I wouldn't be calling if he was. Max half-blushes in frustration. She also hates that Wayne manages to make her feel stupid—her, the girl who hacked her way into the Pentagon last week! She sighs, focusing back on the matter at hand.
"Did you try calling his cell?"
"Yes, there's no answer."
"Well… he's not with his mom. She and the squirt are in Star City for the weekend. If Terry's not with you then…"
"The suit is traceable," Wayne interrupts. "It's sending out a signal from near 5th Street and Ivory. Meet me there."
"What?! But, Mr. Wayne, I've got..." Before Max can finish her protests, Wayne hangs up with a loud 'CLICK.' Cursing under her breath, Max pulls clothes haphazardly from her closet. It takes another moment for her to feel the panic spreading outward from her breastbone into her arms, the fear radiating from the tips of her fingers as she zips up her Gotham U hoodie. What if... what if something really happened to Terry?
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Bruce stands in the shadows, his jaw clenched tight as he waits for Terry's friend to arrive. He can see the shadow of Terry's bag in the back of the alleyway and he wants to rush forward, to grab it and scramble madly for any kind of clue. But his hearing isn't what it used to be—he has been running diagnostic tests on himself ever since he passed fifty and he has documented steady sensorineural hearing loss—and, while this area isn't known for heavy crime, entering a dark alleyway to search for clues, without backup, would hardly be wise.
A buzz of a motorbike engine whirrs closer and Bruce turns just in time to see Maxine pull up on a garish yellow pod. She rips her helmet off of and the first thing Bruce notices is that she has changed her hair dye color to a turquoise blue since he last saw her. The second thing he notices is that she is panicked. "Any sign of Terry?" she asks. She is near out of breath, eyes wide.
Bruce turns back toward the alley. "Wait here and watch for trouble," he states flatly. Not waiting for a response, he shuffles further into the dark, his eyes drinking in every detail, analyzing, searching.
The first clue: there—right there on the wall—a scrape. It looks like a knife or a sword mark—something sharp, now dulled by missing the intended target and scratching down old brick. Bruce notes the angle, reconstructs different possible stances in his head. Yes, an attacker would have to be standing at a slight angle, weight on the back foot. Arm length shows that the figure was likely about 5' 8" and therefore his leg would have fallen about—yes, right there. At the point where the pavement hits unevenly, Bruce sees a smudge of mud. It could have been from anyone at any time, but there is little in this alley and the angle matches up perfectly. Perhaps it is a clue to Terry's whereabouts. A long shot, but it's something; Bruce scrapes the sample into a small evidence bag before continuing on.
Now he sees a dented trashcan, and then another over on its side. The dent is deep, one of impact. Too narrow for a vehicle—definitely caused by a body, one thrown at a notable velocity. There was definitely a struggle here—a fight. Bruce's eyes trace the ground. There—he can see blood drops, even in the darkness. It's not much—light splatter. Like the kind created when a fist hits a split lip. Still, someone bled here tonight. Bruce collects a sample.
He's next to Terry's bag now and Bruce's breath catches in his throat as he notes another sign of blood. Wider this time, heavier. A head-wound, most likely. Not large enough to be life-threatening, but the pooling pattern suggests that a body had fallen here, face to the side, bleeding onto the pavement. Bruce can't help but notice the proximity of the bag, see the image in his mind of Terry lying there. Unconscious. Bleeding.
'Pull it together, Batman,' he growls to himself. 'You're not doing anyone any good getting emotional. Calm down. Focus.'
The bag is still closed. The Batsuit is inside, seemingly untouched. Bruce scans the alleyway for a few more minutes before shuffling back to where Maxine is nervously standing.
"Well?! Did you find anything?" Bruce silently holds up the suit in response. Her eyes widen slightly, hand hovering in front of her mouth. "What do you think…?"
"There was some sort of struggle. Other than that, I'm not sure. All we know for sure is that Terry is missing… and the only way to easily locate him was left behind."
"So… what do we do now?" Bruce can tell that Maxine is trying to be brave, but the concern for Terry causes her voice to break ever so slightly.
"You go home," Bruce states flatly.
"But…!"
"There's nothing you can do. Keep your phone on and I'll let you know if I come up with anything solid. Until then…" Bruce frowns, his grip tightening on his cane. "…I need to make a few calls."
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Everything is fuzzy, distant and unclear. He tries to turn his head, but can't. His body feels heavy and inhibited, like he's encased in thick peanut-butter. There are voices, but the sounds are jumbled, unrecognizable. He wants to make a sound, to call out, ask where he is, but his tongue is unfamiliar in his mouth and his throat muscles are more of a faraway idea than a reality. He tries once, twice, three times to speak. On the final attempt, he succeeds in making a small gurgling sound. The distant murmur of voices halts suddenly. He thinks he hears something which resembles, "He's waking up. Give him…" something unclear "…sleep."
Then the certainty of a needle against skin and something fluid-like pushed uncomfortably into his neck. As Terry fades into blackness again, his brain gains enough clarity for a singularly bitter thought: "Some Batman you turned out to be…" Like many of Terry's more sarcastic and harsher thoughts, the tone feels distinctly like it is said by Jason. Terry doesn't know if he should feel depressed or comforted by that as he slips back into depth of unconsciousness.
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Jason groans as he peels his hand away from the side of his Kevlar covered torso, hot blood coating his hand. Fucking Brazil—one of the few places on earth where criminals still easily find solid bullets. They've been more expensive than chargers, but their deadliness made the price worth it for many in the region. He should have remembered to use thicker plating, but he has become used to the ease of movement that lighter body armor allows. 'Sloppy, Todd,' he thinks to himself. He winces as he peels the chest plates away from his skin. It would probably take the main side-wound a few days to heal, though another minor graze across his right arm would likely heal by tomorrow afternoon. Either way, beer was in order. Lots of beer. Enough to pass out and sleep some of the pain off.
Thankfully, the jerkoffs who had shot him weren't going to be bothering him again. Well, not unless some of them have a FastTrack pass back from the afterlife. Which hasn't been unheard of, of course, but Jason doubts the whatever-the-hell-powers-that-be had a lot of investment in a handful of Brazilian gang members and gun runners.
He catches a glance of himself in the mirror and half-winces, half-chuckles. He looks a fright. Blood splatter across his face, blood streaked across his chest. It looks kind of morbidly awesome, he thinks to himself. He cracks open a can of beer and toasts to himself in the hotel mirror.
It's then that his computer alarm sounds, the emergency line lighting up with a glaring, flashing message: 'E401'
"Pity be to the man who falls and has no one to help him up," Jason sighs to himself. Fucking Tim. He glances back at himself in the mirror. Whatever—Tim knew who he was calling. If he needed another favor, let him get an eyeful. Jason takes another sip of beer as he hits the 'answer' button. "You know, the whole 'you owe me' thing means that I should be asking you for a favor, not the other way around. I'm not sure what you're deal is, Tim, but…"
"Jason." Oh shit. The voice on the call is not Tim Drake. The beer gulp sticks in Jason's throat and a chill runs down his spine. Bruce.
Jason looks over at the monitor and into cold blue eyes. He suddenly feels naked, exposed. He sees Bruce's eyes flicker briefly over the streaks of blood on his chest and Jason can't help but remember what it was like to be caught trying to grab another bowl of ice cream from Alfred's pantry or sneaking out after curfew. Guilt. Embarrassment. Jason wishes he'd taken a shower or at least kept the monitor off—yes, even after all of these years, Bruce's gaze could still give him a head-case.
"Er…" Jason half-coughs, gesturing to the blood smears. "If it makes you feel any better, most of this is mine." A flash of something flickers across Bruce's eyes, but the emotion is indistinct and disappears as quickly as it had formed. Another moment of silence passes as Jason tensely sips at his beer again. "So, I'm assuming this isn't a social call. What's the deal? Come across a 90's punk rock question in Trivial Pursuit? Need someone to dog sit while you attend some sort of billionaire's convention? I don't know what you…"
"Terry is missing, Jason."
The silence now is almost tangible, thick and dark. Jason feels the beer can dent under his grip. "Define missing."
"It seems someone has abducted him. There are signs of a struggle at his last known location. It's been about 26 hours now since anyone has seen or communicated with him."
"I see." His throat is so tight now that it is painful. "Don't tell me that you called me first."
"No," Bruce admits. "I called Barbara. Then Clark. He and the Flash are going to do some rounds across Gotham and nearby cities to look for more signs. But…" the hesitation in Bruce's voice is clear and Jason finds it troubling.
"What? Spit it out, Bruce."
The man once known as Batman gives the briefest of glares before saying, "If Terry was abducted, it was as Terry. The suit was still in his bag."
"What? You're sure? But... who would want to kidnap the kid?"
"That's a question I was hoping you could help me discover," the old man states. His voice is cold and emotionless, but the tenseness hints at his own kind of fear. "Most of the Justice League knows who Terry is because they also know who I am. But not all of them. That was a decision based on security—and so this isn't a charge I can give them. Barbara can use police procedure to help me dig up information and clues, but she has a force to run and can't jeopardize that. And Dick and Tim aren't in this anymore. So… it's you. I need your help, Jason."
If it was anything else, Jason would currently be telling Bruce to fuck off. That Bat problems weren't his deal anymore. That he didn't owe the old man anything and to not expect any favors. But all Jason can see behind his eyelids is the look on Terry's face as he sleeps, hair askew and drool leaking from his mouth. He hears the sound of his laughter, feels the firmness of Terry's lips pressed to his.
Fuck.
"I have one idea," Jason finally spits through gritted teeth. "Get me a ticket to Shanghai, first flight out. I just need to get cleaned up."
Bruce nods. "I'll send you the information."
Jason lets out a shaky breath as the call ends and the screen goes dark. He then turns to go wash the blood off in a quick shower. He groans when the soap hits his gashed side. So much for letting that heal, he curses to himself. He just has to hope that he's in good enough condition to hold his own in a fight, and a tough one at that.
Just a half-hour later, Jason steps out of a cab at the Brasília International Airport. He is focused. He has to be, after all. The only person whom Jason can think of who might have answers is a certain meta enforcer who works for the Chinese mob.
Yes, Jason thinks determinedly. He has to go see Big Time.
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TO BE CONTINUED…