Chapter summary: Jason learns more about his new stray, and Kei rediscovers the internet.
In the end, Jason didn't take his new acquisition to the doctor. It wasn't like he didn't want the kid to get better, but there were practical problems.
First, Jason hadn't been back in Gotham long enough to find a reliable medic free of Bat and mob influence. Oh, he'd get one eventually—through intimidation or bribery if he had to—but nobody was lined up yet. Dr. Leslie Thompkins was an option, technically, but her Crime Alley free clinic was linked to Bruce and besides, she knew Jason. She'd stitched Jason up three times before he'd even left.
Second, Hayate had exactly zero paperwork, of any kind. Didn't seem to know what anything was when asked. Any mandated reporter worth a shit would have the kid in foster care in a blink, or a cop would just arrest him for brandishing a katana in public, or a trafficker would have a fucking field day. All bad options.
Third, Hayate looked at the motorcycle like it was some kind of demon before realizing that, yes, it was their way to get around the city and no, Jason wasn't carrying him. Aside from aliens and people from totally isolated populations, almost everyone Jason had even heard of knew what cars were. And Hayate didn't. Which presented a bunch of weird implications about his upbringing that Jason didn't like.
The kid sat in the middle of a perfect Venn diagram of all the factors that made entrusting him to another person a fucking terrible idea. And if he dropped him with the Bats—an option of absolute last resort—the kid would probably be in kevlar and tights within a week.
So, out of the goodness of his heart, Jason decided to handle the problem the way he did most things nowadays: by himself.
The end result was that there was a teenage ninja sitting on Jason's third-best safehouse sofa. He had one leg propped up on the coffee table and a cushion while the hands were digging into a pint of matcha ice cream. Hayate sat through getting his wound cleaned, stitched, and dressed like a champ, so he'd earned a reward. Like an actual, average kid. And not someone who'd knifed two of Black Mask's minions barely three hours ago, after getting shot.
Jason had to take his helmet off to treat the injury in his bathroom's shitty lighting, and Hayate hadn't really reacted to that either. Sure, he poked the domino mask underneath with the mild floatiness of someone whose adrenaline had thoroughly crashed, but he didn't ask about it. Or about Jason's real name.
On the kitchen counter, a cheap radio buzzed about some gang shootout that wasn't Jason's problem, just for background noise, and the kid solidly ignored it.
It was surreal. It was also absolutely not how Jason planned to spend the back half of his evening.
Jason's actual plan for the night was a standard information-gathering run. Break into a warehouse, flip through all of their paperwork, and then probably set the damn place on fire because Black Mask wasn't running scared yet. But he'd come out of the office to a screaming security team and a kid getting shot at by drug-runners and goons, and then it was a running gunfight. With his Red Hood armor taking the hits he didn't outright dodge—a total of one—he'd wrapped up the violence in barely a minute and caught up to Hayate about ten yards from the front door.
And Hayate was such a weird kid. Offering some random gun-toting, helmeted stranger a bunch of explosives? Running around past sundown in Gotham with a katana and the self-preservation instincts of a wet paper bag? Who the hell did that?
Besides the Bats.
"It worked, didn't it?" was all the kid had to say when asked. Then he shrugged, shifted his weight a little, off his bad leg, and went back to the ice cream.
Jason had not been reassured. Even while cleaning and reassembling each of his guns in turn, which was normally the closest he got to meditation. "And you're sure that, say, ninja parents aren't gonna bust down my door when they realize you snuck out past curfew or something?"
"No, Akaboshi-san. I asked my sister to turn off the tracker last night, before we forgot," Hayate said, holding up his left hand and turning his wristband toward the light. "So I guess I'm stuck."
The kid wore one of those Japanese overcoats that was designed to make the wearer look either broader or warmer, but the effect was lost on a frame that didn't crack five feet. For a ninja, the kid also carried an unusual number of accessories; one leather band on his left wrist that apparently doubled as a tracking device, a tangle of metal and leather marked in Japanese on his right, two anklets, and a bandana with a metal plate stitched to it. His entire ensemble leaned dull red and dark gray with black—Jason approved—all the way down to the open-toed sandals. In a Gotham autumn.
Even League of Assassins traditionalists wore boots in the field. It was one of the biggest giveaways that the kid was something else. Besides not understanding League pidgin, which was the second language Jason tried on that initial encounter.
It was just a different flavor of weird than the usual spandex crowd.
"Why did you ask her to turn the tracker off?" Jason asked.
"It wouldn't be a fair fight if I wasn't allowed to sneak." Hayate clearly thought that over as soon as he said it, pinching his brows together. The kid's hair was long enough in the front that they were usually covered. "Sort of. We both knew she'd win."
Did this kid's family raise him in some kind of doomsday prepper bunker or something? Obviously not an American one, though. So maybe…ugh, maybe there were more secret ninja cults than the obvious ones. Talia wouldn't necessarily have known…
"Jesus Christ, kid," Jason groaned. Hayate ignored it, like the last five times he'd said something in English. Mostly while trying to haul Hayate up the stairs to this safehouse without attracting attention.
At least his Japanese was getting a workout.
"She doesn't get to spend a long time with me before her deployments, so I have to make it count." Like that was an argument. Hayate pitched the empty ice cream container and its spoon across the room, landing neatly in the trash bin. Then he looked down at the mess on the table and said, "What are you doing?"
Cleaning his guns, like he had been since giving a middle schooler sugar. Jason brought four of them to the warehouse, even if he'd only needed to fire two, and the slow, meticulous maintenance work was the closest he got to meditation these days. Quieted the thrumming rage in his throat and steadied his hands.
"Same thing you were earlier. Maintenance." Jason held up the bore brush as an example, even if he didn't explain it.
Even before Jason actually asked him, the kid's first five minutes on the couch were about disarming. Aside from the katana, which was hard to miss, Hayate carried a lot of smaller blades and edged weapons. All twelve of his shuriken were piled onto a corner of the table, next to three leaflike blades that the kid said were kunai, each with a ring at the pommel. Then there was the hidden garrote wires in Hayate's bracelets. And the paper-thin explosives, now that Jason had given the extras back.
Not a single one of them had an electronic component, when even the League of Assassins made cheerfully murderous use of tasers and tailored cocktails of drugs for pragmatic reasons. Hayate also didn't carry a phone, or any money Jason recognized, or really anything beyond a foreign MRE. And even he looked surprised to find it in one of his pockets.
And after all that, Hayate only got out the full kit—cloth, oil, whetstone, and so on—for the sword he'd avoided drawing. Cleaned it efficiently, like he'd been doing that all his life.
Maybe it was a deliberate choice for the kid, too.
Jason couldn't really judge. He'd brought four knives to the party too, but better footwear and gear let him store them a little more subtly than Hayate did. No flapping scarves or loose sleeves for this crime lord. No capes, either.
Never again.
"You can take all your stuff back, by the way. I don't need it."
Hayate looked from Jason to the pile of weaponry, then sighed. "Maybe later."
Jason kept his space meticulously clean when he had the chance, but he was very aware most teenagers were human typhoons.
"Just do it now. It's my table, not a weapon rack." Which Jason did have, just not where Hayate could access it. Ninjas didn't need his armory. "Hop to it."
Hayate rolled his eyes at the jab, but he did stick all his weaponry back into pockets, pouches, and hidden holsters. After that was over, Hayate stared at Jason as though trying to pull his thoughts out with psychic powers he didn't have, then settled back on the couch with deliberate ease. "So, why were you in that warehouse?"
Jason bit back the urge to ask the kid the same thing. He'd tried earlier, and Hayate repeated the same non-explanation as when they first met. No, he didn't know how he'd ended up there, and no, he didn't know where he was. He was worried about his leg, his immediate future, and his sister, but otherwise Hayate was unsettlingly calm about the entire situation.
"I needed information," Jason said at last. "And if I didn't need those gangsters dead at first, well, I'm not crying my eyes out that they earned those bullets." Even if Hayate was armed to the teeth, he was still a kid. "They'll learn."
"Learn what?"
"That I'm the one making the rules now."
Hayate blinked placidly at him. There were enough painkillers in his blood right now that someone normal might've just conked out, but the kid was only marginally calmer than he'd been in the warehouse. He wasn't even woozy.
Kind of worrying.
This kid, Jason realized, wasn't the slightest bit afraid of him. Wary, sure, but that was the caution of someone in pain who was being careful of the injury. Even with all their weapons on the coffee table, Jason had a whole foot and probably a hundred pounds on Hayate. Breaking people with his bare hands was less convenient than shooting them, and Hayate knew that, but the kid mostly just sat there and enjoyed the company.
"You know you've basically been kidnapped, right?" Jason asked, just to make sure.
Hayate eyed him, with the kind of look teenagers got when waiting for adults to get to the point already. Jason knew it all too well.
"Re— Akaboshi is a gang leader, kid." And maybe Jason shouldn't have given Hayate a near-direct translation, because hearing it out loud again mostly made Jason think of a fast food mascot. "Hell if I'll drop you with social services in this city, but hell if I can keep you. I have shit to do."
And after going to all this effort to keep Hayate safe and stabilized, Jason was very aware he didn't have a way to work "caring for an injured teenager" into his daily schedule. He also suspected, with the intuition of a Bat, that if Hayate hadn't been injured, he'd also be a pain in the ass to keep in one place.
"I can just stay here for now. It's not like this is my first time getting kidnapped."
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. This fucking kid.
"As long as you don't try to keep me when my sister catches up, we'll be fine." Hayate paused to yawn. "She'll probably be too happy to see me safe to worry about the details. Or slap you, once she remembers."
Jason snorted. Yeah, right. "Does this magnanimous sister of yours have a name, Hayate?"
"Kei."
Hayate said it like he expected Jason to recognize the name instantly.
Well, Jason didn't. Now he wondered if he needed to be on the lookout for more angry ninjas, one of whom had a name that was just a letter. Because alphabet soup ninjas were something that needed to exist. Another thing to add to the pile of concerns, on top of Batman, the hornet's nest that was the League of Shadows, the Joker, logistics of pulling a gang's worth of resources out of the city's scumbag drug-runners, and now looking after a kid.
A kid who'd already seen his face, even if he didn't have a name to go with it, and who couldn't safely be left anywhere. As docile as he seemed now, there was that killer instinct lurking not too far below the surface. He was a security risk and a half.
But—
Jason had the sinking feeling he'd fucked up. Because now he couldn't just toss the kid into the wind, no matter what trouble he might attract. Jason was a murderer and occasionally an asshole, but he wasn't a monster.
Not like some people he could name.
Jason finished cleaning and stowing his Red Hood gear over the next half hour, while Hayate fell into a light doze (finally) from the painkillers. Though Hayate stirred when Jason dumped a blanket over him, he mostly curled as far against the armrest as he could. Which was pretty far, actually; Hayate had a gymnast's unselfconscious flexibility. Even with the bad leg, he folded like origami.
Just like Dick used to.
Not that Dick hung around much, during Jason's stint in the cape, but it was hard not to remember things like that. Like a holographic overlay, only instead of a tiny teenager on a couch it was Dick Grayson at the Batcomputer, probably injured and sleeping until the commute back to Blüdhaven would be less shit.
Sometimes it felt like Jason was a ghost, wading through the past until his guns clicked empty in his hands.
Hayate let out a little snore.
Jason sighed to himself and walked from the saggy, busted armchair to the kitchen. It wasn't a great setup—even a single person of Jason's size was pushing its limits, never mind whenever he got Hayate to sit at the counter or something. Backup safehouses were exceptional if Jason bothered to stock them with anything more expensive and homey than a workbench and a mattress on bare floor.
This one even had a small stockpile of paperback classics, though Jason hadn't spent much time reading his secondhand hoard recently. It didn't seem like anything would change on that score soon. Not with ninja death cults being a completely unoriginal idea.
Thanks for literally nothing, Ra's. Toward the end of Talia's assassin training world tour, Jason had been very aware he was living on borrowed time in her old man's regard. Centuries hadn't taught that man real patience. The ability to endure the absolute nightmare that was other people's priorities. It was always his way or the highway, if highways involved ninja death squads.
That one white curl of hair stuck in his vision no matter how many times Jason pushed it back out of his face. Out of sight, out of mind. Don't think about it.
Jason got out the skillet before he could sink too far into that abyss. Familiar anger clawed at the edges of his vision until he got the stove working. Click, click, damn unreliable gas lines—
"Akaboshi-san?" Hayate's voice asked from across the room. The kid hadn't even been out for that long, but he peered blearily at Jason from his corner of the couch. Those dark, raccoon-ringed eyes were placid, but the lack of judgment was almost worse.
"Didn't mean to make that much noise. Sorry." But the gas on one burner worked, and Jason had stocked the fridge here with the basics earlier this week. They had options.
Hayate yawned into his sleeve, shuffling upright again. "It's fine. What are you making?"
"Midnight snack. Any allergies I should know about?" One of the leftover symptoms of suddenly being smacked in the face with a late teenage growth spurt was constant hunger. Jason had gone from five-foot-four to this without remembering most of the space in between, too busy being a zombie until his Lazarus Pit dunking. He'd mostly settled by the time his muscle memory was back in order, but his sleep schedule and metabolism were probably lifelong casualties by now.
"No allergies." Hayate folded up the blankets before he hopped off the couch, and kept hopping until he could take the wobbly barstool and claim a space at the counter. "I'm pretty bad with spicy food, though."
Okay, so the isolationist ninja cult had provided Hayate with a basic background in…immunology. Some sciences besides demolition. Why.
"I guess I can take it easy on you, then. Any feelings about eggs?" Jason kept hot sauce around, but it was opt-in.
Hayate made a face. "…Not really? I'm used to omurice, but I'm not that picky."
Jason took a second to parse that. It sounded like an English loanword, which was weird for reasons he didn't want to think about at two in the morning. He could picture an omelet wrapped around fried rice after flipping through recipes in his head, but he'd definitely come up short a ten-pound bag of rice when stocking this safehouse. And if Hayate was as Japanese as he seemed, it was probably the wrong kind anyway.
"Fried eggs it is. And toast."
"Thank you."
Before crashing for the rest of the night, Jason made sure Hayate was settled on the couch again and given at least one more blanket, because the central heating on this safehouse was unreliable garbage. Cleaning the kitchen was the work of a few minutes, and he left a glass of water and another set of painkillers on the coffee table. Then he headed to the bathroom to take a shower, change, and get ready for another session of screaming nightmares.
Hayate was already snoring again by the time he was finished, curled almost entirely around one of the ancient couch cushions like a cat. There was a degree of trust behind that slack, pale face that Jason definitely hadn't earned.
Guess you're my problem now.
Jason sighed to himself. He still tucked the blanket a bit more snugly around the baby ninja before retreating to the bedroom. Ended up lying on his mattress to no avail for way too long, no matter how he tossed and turned.
Sleep was a fitful, skittish thing that night.
Kei's first night in Gotham was a miserable one, but she'd gotten her feet back under her with the power of Isobu's constant presence. Using her reprieve from stress migraines to think, she scribbled a list of considerations for a shinobi operating in a modern city, without village resources at her fingertips.
It made Isobu sigh, but he was never the type to prefer subtler solutions to his problems.
First of these concerns was money. Cold, hard cash. The grease that moved the gears of a world run on capitalism. Which was a problem because her ryō notes were absolutely useless here. Having no ID or any records, Kei had few means of using a card when required, while very aware modern security features were going to fuck up her progress. She had to get around them.
She also had no interest in hurting anyone who couldn't call for help if they needed it. No matter her worries, Kei had advantages they didn't. She could afford to have some damn standards. No punching down.
With those facts firmly entrenched, Kei walked down the first stretch of gang territory she found.
And once there, she used Transformation to facilitate a string of reverse-muggings. It wasn't her fault if every creep with a knife or a gun thought street children and drunk teenagers were easy targets. She barely had to put her mediocre acting skills to work. It was kind of funny after a while.
The guy she'd stabbed with his own knife probably didn't think so, but she'd called an ambulance for him anyway. And left the knife in, because she'd gotten this far without a body count and didn't want to break her streak.
By the time the sky started to lighten, Kei was safely ensconced in a roadside motel whose night manager didn't care what happened as long as he got paid. Traveling to find it was a bit more annoying—even though cab drivers didn't ask questions in this town—but it helped her buy such modern wonders as aspirin. Which she took immediately upon getting into her room, stuck privacy and security seals everywhere in her new base of operations, and crash-slept for five hours.
By late morning, Isobu-hangover proved a minor concern. At least, compared to her other issues. Kei felt almost like a functional person and not a ball of anxiety forced into the right shape.
Now what? It was the thought that crawled into her soul and bit and bit and bit.
Hayate was a chūnin. Kei knew he could take care of himself. Could even command other shinobi to take care of themselves, even in combat. By promoting him in the first place, Konoha slapped a label on her baby brother that said people could trust his judgment calls on missions and in most official capacities. Sensei told chūnin to go on missions as high as A-rank all the time, with or without special jōnin to fill out the required arsenal. Hell, barring questions of personal durability, Hayate had enough training to outfight any baseline human back home.
It was just—fear. Of not knowing whether her brother was okay or even alive to yell at about not being okay.
Isobu thwacked her chakra coils with a tail as a wakeup call. He was not invited to her pity parties, except for the fact that he was basically the second host.
Hah. Jinchūriki joke privileges.
Kei really wasn't the best brain-roommate.
I can think of worse.
Kei ended up, eventually, in Gotham's Chinatown. It wasn't particularly planned; rather, Kei stared down the possibility of having to make her stomach adapt to Western food and gave up immediately. While she wasn't interested in a dim sum table all to herself, she did have high hopes for street vendors catering to the morning rush.
Somewhat poorer in dollars and richer in scallion pancakes, Kei paid for a couple of newspapers and settled down to read. Still in disguise, of course—this time as her memory of her dad—because Kei trusted exactly no one here.
She didn't really trust the newspapers, either. For one, she couldn't read Chinese characters as anything other than kanji. For another, the English newspaper was apparently two-thirds business news by mass. There was a note about a warehouse blowing up just outside of Crime Alley—officially Park Row—but it was mostly crowded out by endeavors by Wayne Enterprises. Apparently, they were on a hiring spree for a new charitable organization under their umbrella. And a company called Drake Industries was…having something to do with Argentina.
At least some of the countries were the same. Some things had to be—and anyway, there were too many weird ninjas in DC's properties for Japan not to exist.
Kei set down the newspaper, rubbing her eyes. There was some continuity where…the Joker became a UN ambassador. Maybe of one of the fake countries? She had no idea whether that particular piece of nonsense was a thing here.
What, exactly, is "the Joker?"
Here's an idea. Kei pointed Isobu in the direction of a memory blaring Mark Hamill's creepiest laughter. While her shoulder devil was distracted watching a rail-thin murderclown torture a child and taunt everyone who cared about him with the evidence, Kei finished off her breakfast.
…That was disturbing, Isobu said after a few minutes. Aside from threatening to maul people, Isobu didn't have any more use for mind games and sadism than Kei did. He had a temper, but it wasn't the same. No Macchiavellian schemes here, just stuff blowing up. He appears to be a blight on human existence.
Yeah. Closest comparison I can think of is Hidan. Killing because it's fun. And Hidan's an apocalypse cultist punk, not… Actually, Hidan was probably a child right now. He hadn't slaughtered all his neighbors yet. Weird thought.
And we do not know how close this world hews to what is in your mind?
Nope. Clearly, Kei needed to find better resources. And that, in a city like this, meant it was time to find a public library. While she certainly didn't pay taxes, residents did, and that was enough reason to take advantage of such an innovation.
Kei changed her appearance again in an alleyway with no cameras, then stepped out to the sidewalk with her arm raised.
I do wonder if it would be more effective to simply rush across the city on foot.
Don't have the energy today. And she needed all of it for the, hah, night shift. Get it, because it's a pun—?
Isobu grumbled loud enough to interrupt her explanation, like Obito would have with theatrical whining.
The homesickness punched her square in the chest. After an instant to recover and shove it down, Kei tried to focus on the driver she'd just flagged down.
Despite the aggressive stereotype of cab drivers in major cities, Kei remained un-flattened for another day. The trip to the library was as close to scenic as a midtown, midday traffic jam could really be, and Kei made sure to tip the driver generously. Any delay wasn't his fault. It wasn't like she really had anywhere pressing to be.
A memory bubbled to the surface, of a different city and a hot summer day and a man complaining in accented Mandarin that the round trip to the hotel was absolutely not worth it, leaving her family at the curb. It guided her hand.
Huh, Kei thought once the cab drove away. Haven't dragged that to the surface in a while.
The…life before? Isobu's tails curled in sudden uncertainty. They didn't talk about Kei's old memories, except to mine them for entertainment and media references.
Yeah. Wasn't really relevant most of the time. And maybe it still wasn't. Unlike her last multiverse trip, Kei didn't get a new life and new body in the process. Most of her thoughts were still running in circles.
Never again.
Kei walked into the library and took a deep breath. The once-familiar smell of books, old carpet, and the shifting tides of humanity was grounding in a way few things could be. Her Transformation in this moment was close to her real body, with the careful exceptions of her big scar and clothes. A comfy, stretched-out cream sweater and ripped-knee jeans could stand in place of her real outfit. If it had been real, the loose fit would've made her look scrawny despite her height.
Just a random Japanese teenager, nothing to worry about here… Kei paused. And thank fuck this place doesn't have metal detectors.
"Hello," said the librarian at the desk. "Is this your first time here?"
Kei automatically looked across the foyer at her own eye level, only to meet the woman's gaze somewhat further down. Caucasian, with copper-red hair tied loosely, and a pair of half-rimmed glasses. Wheelchair. Shrewd blue eyes carefully assessing her. The nametag pinned to her chest said Barbara.
"Y-yes," Kei mumbled, bowing slightly before she remembered that this was America. It still served to disguise her expression for the split second of recovery. "I don't know my way around."
"That's all right. Just like in any other library, the staff is here to help." And quite possibly Oracle, one of the most dangerous computer experts in the existence of comic books as a medium. Former Batgirl, up until that all changed one day.
Meanwhile, Kei's brain couldn't decide to make fangirl noises or shriek in warning.
Because Oracle was an indicator. A living timestamp, as cruel as that sounded. Her presence, here and now, meant that the Joker had gotten off that Killing Joke plot in some form. The clown was alive and had hurt multiple Bats already.
Not now, Isobu hissed in warning.
"Um—" The newspaper this morning said it was during the school year. A Saturday. Use it. "I need, uh, research time? It's too—loud, at home. Please?"
The way Barbara's expression twisted, just a bit, was enough to confirm Kei's suspicions. She probably thought "abused kid" or "social anxiety" before any of Kei's bigger secrets, which was a little embarrassing, but the best lies had a hint of truth. Made them easier to remember. And Kei was damn well self-aware enough to know she was a mess no matter who was doing the assessment.
"Of course. Just follow me this way and we'll get you set up on one of the public desktops." The wheelchair maneuvered around the reception desk without single whisper, though its occupant kept up her calm explanation. "Now, we have timers set on these so you'll only be able to browse for two hours at a time. If you need more time, we'll figure out something out. And always feel free to ask one of the librarians for any help."
"Th-thank you," Kei managed.
The library's public computers were all sleeker than the ones Kei remembered. Maybe the difference was down to better funding? Either way, each screen had a cover that blacked out the view for anybody who wasn't sitting in the correct spot. While Barbara explained that no one was going to try and spy on what Kei was doing, Kei nodded along and started trying to figure out if she wanted to try playing mind games with someone who was almost definitely smarter than her.
Using…totally atrophied computer skills from another lifetime. When technology had almost certainly marched on without her.
…Nah.
Once Barbara went back to the circulation desk, Kei opened a whole mess of tabs. One was about Gotham's Child Protective Services, immediately abandoned. Another, a domestic abuse hotline number. A Youtube tab, in case she wanted to use one the bulky set of headphones that had definitely been on someone else's ears a little while ago. (Not a chance.)
Then—well. The internet was something she'd always missed.
The highest priority was learning Gotham's recent history through news websites and photocopied articles. But between those curious clicks, Kei flipped back and forth partly to confuse an observer, and partly because she had to know.
Checking back on local resources every ten minutes or so, and then train tickets to Florida like she had any intention of running.
Dates of the last three known Blackgate breakouts. Apparently, the Penguin did a stint there. Arkham was still hell on earth, though, so Kei clicked out of that tab as soon as she confirmed it existed.
Weather reports in Tampa Bay, then Miami, then Pensacola because she liked the name.
LexCorp and Lex Luthor existed here. So did Superman, and Metropolis, and the Daily Planet. There was a photo credit for a Jimmy Olsen next to an article by Lois Lane.
Kei rested her head against her fist. Most of this shit doesn't help me. Though, given that five of her tabs were Wikipedia entries, she'd have run into trouble and eye strain sooner or later. It was her tax for using the internet before acclimating.
Only most? Isobu sounded distracted. Maybe he was looking at the travel banner ads that had popped up since the Florida search spree and advertised nice, scenic beaches. The white sand and blue seas. Tiny fish in the water, rushing in and out with every wave.
Kei couldn't really blame him. Gotham was a mess of rock, gravel, and at least four types of pollution. One of them probably made fish grow extra eyeballs and start glowing. She would've left the second she realized what city she'd landed in if not for Hayate's presence. Hitchhiking her way down the I-95 and all its damn tolls would have been easier than staying inside of this city's doom aura. If she had a Geiger counter equivalent for psychic scarring on the landscape, Kei had no doubts Gotham clicked constantly.
She probably wasn't the first person to think that the city was better off burning to the ground, but she didn't really mean it. There were worse sins than being inhospitable to world-hopping strangers.
At this exact moment? Unlikely.
Kei closed the Florida travel tab.
Petty, Isobu grumbled.
Click. Click. Apparently, Lois Lane and Clark Kent both won Pulitzers.
Isobu didn't withdraw his chakra's headache-dampening effects, but he did prod at her again.
Kei sighed. Maybe once she did find Hayate, she could take him to Metropolis. Something bright and shiny and way less likely to result in someone randomly getting shot.
Would the ocean be healthier there?
Probably? At least, it's unlikely to be worse. Her temples twinged again. It felt like a warning, even if Isobu wasn't doing it on purpose.
The remainder of Kei's reunion with the internet passed much the same way. While she burned the time between painkiller doses and continued to look up anything that crossed her mind, from immigration resources to the existence of the Justice League. Which was a thing, even if there were currently no planet-scouring disasters in progress.
I think it is time to leave.
On cue, Kei's stomach rumbled. She leaned back in the chair and stretched, then took the time to rub at her eyes. While the computer clock didn't say she'd spent two full hours here, her attention was wavering.
Okay.
Time to get out there and take a proper look at Gotham in grimy daylight. She bowed again to the librarian-who-was-probably-Oracle, thanked her, and walked out without looking back.
Notes:
Kei: "My brother's missing. Anything could be happening."
[smash cut to across town]
Hayate: "What is a 'chili dog?'"
Jason: "That's the saddest damn thing I've ever heard. Hey, vendor, we'll take three."
I feel like that sums up the vibe of this chapter.
