#The Crime Alley Kid

[therealbeachfox]

The Perfectly Normal Adventures of a Crime Alley Kid

The Crime Alley Kid Meets Jason Todd Chapter 2 is finally out!

Which is also Chapter 1 of "Tim Drake Meets the Crime Alley Kid". It makes sense in context, I promise. Regardless, come for 1990s Tim Drake getting kidnapped by Two-Face's goons, stay for Conrad's dad being the absolute worse! With occasional commentary from the Bats and the Outlaws because both Conrad and Tim are telling their respective sides of the tale on this one.

Again, I swear it makes sense in context.

[therealbeachfox]

"Why do we make laser grids like these?" came the chirp from across the table.

"What do you mean?" Otto responded without looking up.

"I mean, instead of a messy random arrangement of lasers that a nimble intruder might be able to jump through, why not a simple grid wall with no gaps large enough to allow a person to pass?"

Otto sighed heavily and looked up from the blueprints he'd been amending and reworking to focus on his nephew. One of his nephews. One of his multitude of nephews because none of his siblings understood the concept of wrapping it up. He was at Mykola's place, so probably one of his. Too young to be Aiden, too old to be Eric. A, B, C... Connor? Conway? Conrad? One of those. At that extra annoying age where they're too curious for their own good, and have started to believe they actually know something, so get real argumentative about it when you prove they don't.

There's a reason why Otto didn't have kids. Or deal with kids. And tried to talk the Boss out of putting kids into his deathtraps. Fucking kids. Ugh.

"Because if we did that, it'd be impossible to get through." he said, hoping it'd satisfy the kid.

"But isn't that what you're trying to do?" Mykola's boy had his head twisted around to try and look at the blueprints from his uncle's perspective and was tracing out the twisting pathways with his eyes. "This whole thing is a giant 'You Can't Get In Here' tunnel. I don't understand why you're leaving holes in the security."

Well, the kid had actually asked, instead of just flat out stating that his way would be better. Otto grit his teeth and settled himself back for a proper lecture. "You're thinking too mundanely, kid." The boy looked up curiously and brushed a tangle of near-black hair out of his eyes. Slightly mollified, Otto continued. "This isn't like designing security for a bank or vault or something. This is something for my Boss. So we're already not designing like we would for the public sector, right?"

"Yeah? Yeah." Con-whatever agreed, though still looking just as confused.

"So, our issue is, whoever comes looking for whatever it is that the Boss is gonna put at the end of this is already going to be uniquely skilled and driven. Not just your average jewelry robbers or beat cops, right?"

"Right, yeah, you're going to be dealing with capes or cowls and stuff, sure. But wouldn't that mean you'd want it all extra locked down?" The kid was now looking directly at him. But with the intense look of someone who didn't understand but wanted to. It was by far more annoying than if the kid had just been flat-out disparaging of the whole process. Now Otto couldn't just tell him to shove off without feeling bad about it. Ugh.

"Well, here's the thing. If this was something the Boss really wanted to keep away from people, he'd have it put in some indistinguishable bank vault lock-box by a patsy that one of us underlings had hired through a third party, leaving two whole layers unaware of who even wanted the thing in there, and at least three whole layers who have no idea what the object even is besides. But he's not doing that, he's putting it at the end of a long tunnel of traps, alarms, and obstacles. Which means, what he wants is for whoever's coming after him to go through the whole thing. Which means it's gotta be at least theoretically possible to get through the whole thing. If you were a cowl and you came across a perfect laser grid that there was no way to squirm your way through and no way to work around, what would you do?"

Mykola's kid frowned down at the blueprints, eyebrows furrowed in tweenage concentration. "Start cutting through the walls, I guess. Either to find a way to cut the power, or to bypass the tunnel all toget-OH! Ooooooh, okay! I see, I see!" Otto grabbed the edge of the table to steady it as the kid started bouncing a little in his seat. "If you make it impossible, the cowls will start thinking outside the box and start looking for ways to end-run around the whole thing. If you make it difficult, but still possible, they're going to be too busy focusing on how to do the almost impossible thing so they're still playing by your Boss' rules instead of making up their own!"

Otto grunted and bit back the hint of a smile that wanted to cross his lips. Last thing he wanted to do was encourage the brat; then he'd be stuck answering questions all day. "Now you've got it. Make it hard enough that they waste as much time getting through it as possible without breaking out their bat-themed metal cutters or retreating and finding another way to come in altogether. Same reason why museums do it this way. Otherwise, the only way to get at shit would be to blow a hole in the floor, and that'd damage way more artifacts than whatever the thief was targeting originally."

"Okay, I think I totally get it. Is that why the HVAC ducts are big enough for sidekicks to get through? In case they can't work stuff out?"

Otto blinked and scowled back down at the blueprints to figure out what the kid was talking about, "No? No! I've got them as small as they can get without leaving the air rank, and we've got mesh grids every five feet just in case they try anyway."

The kid pointed down at one point in the blueprints and traced out a line that went way from one-third of the way through the hallway to right near the end, "Not on this one. And it's got this other branch that leads out to the bathrooms in the laundry mat you're using as a front, even!"

Otto squinted down at what the kid was pointing out. It was a second branch of the air circulation network, focused mainly on the above ground business, but with a few pipes down below ground as federally mandated backups to the system he'd been focusing on locking down. "No. That's not for the sidekicks." He growled and grabbed for an eraser and pencil and got to work grinding out alterations.

"Huh. So what about the-" the kid started.

"One thing at a time. Let me get this fixed, then you can ask the next one, okay?"

"Yeah, sure, okay!" The kid shrugged and grabbed up one of Otto's old notebooks that had the first iteration of designs for the Boss' main vault and started reading while kicking his legs.

Otto just ground his teeth and focused on his work. Only thing worse than a kid was a precociously bright kid with an honest interest in your work. Worse thing in the goddamn world.

He should message Mykola and let him know he needed to get one of his other kids to bring up snacks for the brat. He was at that age where he was going to get hungry long before Otto was done.

"Why do we make laser grids like these?" "What do you mean?" "I mean instead of a messy random arrangement of lasers that a nimble intruder might be able to jump through, why not a simple grid wall with no gaps large enough to allow a person to pass through?"

[redsray]

the funniest part of any Robin meeting the JL is that every Robin is so distinctly different from the previous one in terms of personality and vibes that the league literally gets backlash. and like, I don't blame them. not to mention that they are non-meta children that dress as a traffic light and fight crime alongside batman in gotham on a nightly basis. i'd also be a bit concerned. Batman, literally The Night of Gotham personified in the League's eyes, coming into a JL meeting: This is Robin, my crime-fighting partner. 11-year-old Dick Grayson, dressed in the brightest primary colours possible, vaguely hidden murder behind those eyes, never stops moving even for a moment: Hi! Superman: That's a child. That's-- Bats that is a child. You let a child--? Batman, deadpan: You try to stop him. Would you rather he try and murder a grown man with a wire?

Batman: This is Robin. 12-year-old Jason Todd, with the biggest grin on his face, about 3 books in his hand, stars in his eyes and a distinct street-kid drawl: Hey!!! Green Lantern: That's ... that's a different child. What?? Jason: I stole his tires :) Batman: Tried to. Jason, stage whispering to the League: basically did. Green Lantern: that is a different kid, right?? I'm not seeing shit??

Batman: This is Robin. 14-year-old Tim Drake, bo staff clutched in his hand, a wary and tired expression on his face, more on the quiet side, the literal walking definition of don't judge a book by it's cover: hello Flash: Where do you even find these-- Tim: I found myself.

Batman: This is Robin. 17-year-old Stephanie Brown, literally blonde, with a shit-eating grin, eyes full of nothing but mischief and the most explosive personality you've ever seen: hiya!! Superman: I give up. Stephanie: I know, I have that amazing effect on people.

Batman: This is Robin. 13-year-old Damian Wayne, a literal wet cat that will hiss at you, has a sword, the most judgemental stare you'll get from a teenager, ready to jump anyone there: Green Lantern: WHY DOES HE HAVE A SWORD?! Batman: ... he came with the sword.

[midnightorchids]

Heavily tattooed Jason who brings you a box of washable markers when you’re bored to colour in his tattoos <3

[therealbeachfox]

*stumbles across a tag nominating his own work in the wild and gets all lower-lip wobbly*

"Gotham is Just Like That" is a major undercurrent in my Crime Alley Kid stuff, but it usually takes a back seat to "I swear I'm -not- a Hench -nor- am I crushing on a feared crime boss" shenanigans.

Gotham is Just Like That specific pieces you might enjoy, however:

Legends of Gotham, where we learn what theories Gotham's kids have about where Batman and the Robins/Batgirls come from:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/53769745/chapters/143741794

r/Gotham - Job Hunts and Henchwork: Where we get advice on how to avoid accidentally becoming a Henchman in Gotham, and various Gotham-specific jobs you might try applying for.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/47627515/chapters/123923356#workskin

And finally, the opening section of The Crime Alley Kid Meets Jason Todd is an extended bit about what kinds of dining establishments are able to succeed in Gotham and why there's only like three McDonalds in the entire city. (Then it returns to the normal gay goon/Jason Todd hijinks)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/54663994/chapters/138528661

As for Gotham Life works I enjoy...

Continuing on the subject of "Gotham from the POV of Mooks who work for Red Hood", there's He's Ours Now, where Jason's gang band together to protect their boss because -somebody- has to, the big adorable idiot.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/46965049

Also on the criminal side of Gotham life: turn the beat around, following the lives of goons who've carved out a niche as Professional Bruce Wayne Kidnappers. For whenever you want to try and kidnap Bruce Wayne for whatever reason. They love the guy, honestly.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/37624642

And also Lucky Shot, featuring more professional Henchmen in the aftermath of accidentally actually managing to shoot Nightwing despite their best efforts not to.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/51722458

Shifting over to other professionals in Gotham, we find:

A newly arrived Physical Therapist who is aghast that the APTA does absolutely shitall in Gotham in you've walked a hundred times before

https://archiveofourown.org/works/54857077/chapters/139052734

The f'ing -hilarious- and I Cannot Recommend This Enough tale of the adventures of an overworked Child Protective Services agent in Gotham who's got a whole Powerpoint presentation to force Batman to watch if he ever catches him on the many many ways making kids be Robin is immoral and illegal, Ain't No Compass, Ain't No Map

https://archiveofourown.org/works/38048365/chapters/95037589

Something about Tim Drake lends him to AUs where he's a non-Batfam professional of some sort. Two that intersect with WTF Gotham shenanigans are The Accountant (where he's Red Hood's accountant)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/34141567/chapters/84945439

and Executive Assistant to the Batman (where he's EA to Bruce Wayne and retains an incredibly flimsy and acidic plausible deniability when it comes to his boss' nighttime activities).

https://archiveofourown.org/works/6046332/chapters/13862979

And finally, IRIS Log #1548, which is more Batlife Shenanigans rather than Gotham Shenanigans, but makes the cut because it is utterly hilarious.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/51647209

*jazz hands* Enjoy!

Does anyone have any Gotham Is Just Like That fic recs? Anything from a major plot point to something that’s stated as understood worldbuilding, nothing to see here.

What I mean by Gotham Is Just Like That:

-this fic I once read where a random old lady beat the joker to death with her purse and approximately 200 witnesses pretended to have not seen it

-yeah, yeah, the chemicals in the water, everyone’s heard of them

-Justice league tries to come to Gotham but the vibes are so rancid they have to leave

-“you got everything packed? Lunchbox, homework, gas mask, steel toe boots, pencil case?” “Oh no I forgot my pencil case”

-my prof was out so she called her friend from grad school Poison Ivy to teach class today and honestly she was a pretty good teacher

Etc.

[writing-nothing-but-spilled-ink]

Okay but like imagine Jason Todd living in Crime Alley and he has numerous safe houses in gotham some of witch just aren't for him and in fact are apartment complexes that he bought out for cheap possibly due to a little life-threatening scare by Red Hood and any time he's in crime alley and he notices that especially in the winter months that the kids are sick or don't have a dry place to live he just starts setting them up in the apartment complex, and none of the kids ever talk about where exactly that complex is because they love redhood... Also, I imagine that once a week Jason makes like a really big dinner and he just goes outside and serves it to the kids around crime alley, the kids all love him and feel safe with him. I imagine it gets to a point where if the kids are in danger or are worried or scared they just go running over to Red Hood some of the kids have taken to calling him dad, uncle, and other various family references.. And one day on the way back to one of his safe houses he just hears one of the younger street kids yelling dad and he turns to where its coming from and theres just this small kid holding another small kid in his arms and red's just like what happened and the kid just goes shes sick and idk what to do and red just kinda sighs and goes yeah alright follow me kid and he walks over to one of his main safe houses puts his bike away and gets the kids into the car but before continuing to the doc office he calls out through crime alley of if anyone's sick yall better come here i don't wanna do numerous trips and suddenly theres a small group of kids coming out of the shadows and he ushers them all into the car drives them all to gotham general and the receptionist doesn't bat an eye at the gaggle of sick kids or the fact redhood is checking them all in because he and the hospital have an understanding so he gets them all treated and seen and has to sit in with every nurse and doctor, at one point he gets a call from bruce asking why he's not on protrol and jason thinking nothing of it just goes i'm busy im at the hospital have dickface cover my patrol and then he hangs up to speak to the doctors and check on his kids..

bruce shows up at Gotham general just to find red surrounded by numerous children with various flu's colds coughs one of them has pneumonia and was just diagnosed with asthma and he's just taking notes while there's one child in his lap crying cause she's scared and he's just rocking her gently while writing down various treatment plans for each kid and what safe house he's putting them in because he'll be personally taking care of them... and one of the docs spot Bruce and is like excuse me mr. wayne you can't be back here patients only and redhood can be here because he's there acting guardian which makes Bruce's brain short-circuit entirely

Also alfred 100 percent knows about this and has helped red set up the rooms for the kids and everything and some of those big family dinners Jason has for the kids yeah he's using Alfred's recipes

How Jason got guardianship of these kids is because of Harvey dent he got the proper legal advice from Harvey

[therealbeachfox]

The Crime Alley Kid Saves Christmas!

[[A semi-noncanonical tale of that time Conrad got conscripted into a bunch of bullshit he didn't sign up for, and his Boss With Benefits didn't fare much better.]]

Twas the night after Christmas, and all through the Nest Not a creature was stirring, except for one guest. While the wind howled outside, blowing snow to and fro A certain hench worked by computer screen glow When up from above, there rose such a clatter He shot from the chair to see what was the -UNGHHPH!-

     There was a sound not unlike a rapidly approaching motorbike, but before Conrad could even process the impossibility of that scenario he was no longer standing up from his chair, but instead embedded into the far wall of the Nest’s main chamber. His head bounced off hard enough to send explosions of light across his vision and he was certain that the metal paneling had crumpled slightly from the impact of his body.

     He cursed from the pain, but all that came out was a gurgling squeak. He couldn’t breathe either. A heavy pressure was wrapped tight around his throat and keeping him a good foot off the ground to boot. A steel beam wrapped in a leather jacket if his fumbling attempts to grab it were anything to go by.

     Someone was speaking to him, but his brain refused to make sense of the words. His vision was starting to clear, though. Details began to filter through the piercing brightness of the Nest’s overhead floodlights. A shock of black curled hair. Sunglasses? Sunglasses. Inside. At night. Ear-piercings that caught the light and glinted like daggers into his eyes. A snarling face. Black leather jacket. Blue shirt with a yellow and red pattern he couldn’t quite process.

     The steel beam wrapped around his throat lifted him another inch and shook him, which just made the no oxygen problem even worse. No helping it. Conrad swung his legs forward and slammed his boots against the gut of whoever was pinning him to the wall.

     It was like trying to kick through a concrete wall.

     Conrad swung again, further this time, bending himself almost double to wrap his legs around the arm pinning him in place. He managed to keep his grip for almost a full second before something grabbed his entire body and slammed him flat against the wall. His arms and legs went flat against the wall, spread out and pinned like he was strapped into-

Momentary panic. Memories of a soundproofed room with walls of alternating black fabric and mirrors. So many different angles to see himself from. Strapped down across a giant X, every whip welt displa-

Just a moment of panic. He barely noticed either the flash of memory or stuffing it back down into it’s box in the back of his mind.

     Conrad squinted his eyes and fought through the headache to get a better look at his assaulter. The symbol across the guy’s chest was the first thing to flicker into focus.

     Oh.

     Oh no.

     “You need to get down here, Rob!” Superboy called over his shoulder. Because that was Superboy, floating(!!) a few inches off the ground and pinning Conrad in place with a single finger against his forehead. Somehow. “You’ve got an infestation in your Nest!”

     Wow. Rude. Superboy should count himself lucky that he had a weak spot for pierced punk boys in leather who could kick his ass. Although… He scanned the floating kid up and down and frowned. “Weren’t you older than me?”

     Superboy’s head snapped back to him, black eyebrows furrowed in anger. “What?”

     Conrad tried to gesture between the cape’s face and his own, but his fingers barely twitched. Shit, he used his hands a lot when talking, didn’t he? “When you first showed. You were older than me. By at least a year or two. But now you look…” he let the rest of his thought drift into silence. The stormy expression Superboy was giving him would’ve been unnerving even if it wasn’t coming from someone who, Conrad was near certain, could shoot lasers from his eyes.

     He coughed and broke eye-contact as he caught motion from the staircase in his peripheral. Red Robin was coming down the stairs, frowning at a slim pane of black glass that looked stupidly expensive. “That doesn’t make any sense. There’s no sign of an intrusion, just a couple of pings from-” He looked up, and the faintly glowing white eyes of his cowl widened slightly before he facepalmed. “Goddamit, Con.”

     “What?” Conrad exclaimed in perfect synchronicity with Superboy. Con blinked in surprise as the other boy glared back.

     “I can’t deal with this right now. Con, keep him there, we’ll figure out…” Red Robin trailed off as he took in the over-screen of the Robin-computer or whatever he was calling it. He stood like that for several seconds before turning towards them with enough force it left his cape swirling around him. “Con, what the hell is all this?”

     “How the hell should I know?” Superboy asked.

     “Pretty sure he’s the one keeping me here.” Conrad replied at the same moment. The two of them returned to exchanging bewildered-slash-suspicious glares.

     Red Robin gave a sigh that was all Batman while massaging his temples. “Oh for… Conrad, also known as Con, meet Superboy, also known as Kon-El. Kon-El, my truest friend and companion, meet Conrad, some guy my brother’s banging. Who somehow broke into my stronghold while I was out.”

     “You gave me the keys ‘in case of emergency’! And you weren’t answering your bat… pager.. thing when I was trying to get permission!” Conrad tried to explain in a way that didn’t come off too much like he was trying to convince an older sibling they shouldn’t sell them out to their parents over some infraction.

     “Wait, which brother?” Superboy asked over him. “Because that hair’s not nearly red enough for Nightwing, and I know Batman would never let someone his age anywhere near Ro-”

     Conrad wheezed as the pressure around his throat slammed back full force. Superboy was close enough their noses were nearly touching. All he could see was the other kid’s eyes. Piercing unnatural blue, with bright red pinpricks glowing in the center of his pupils. Where did his sunglasses go? “He’s fucking Red Hood?!”

     Oh god, Superboy was choke-pinning him against the wall with his lips close enough to kiss. “I wished on a monkey’s paw when I was 15.” he choked out, muscles straining against whatever force was keeping him immobile. “It’s the only explanation for this.”

     The last came out more gurgled whine than actual words, but that was apparently enough to earn his release. Gravity returned with a vengeance, and the very familiar sensation of landing ass-first on cold hard ground shot up his spine. Conrad made the executive decision to just stay there for a quick bit. Partially to massage at his throat and catch his breath, mostly to come off as utterly nonthreatening and not worth the bother of slamming up against anything else.

     “What the fuck?” Superboy was a foot off the ground and several feet distant by the time Conrad could look up.

     “When you first showed up,” Conrad hacked out, “you were older than me. You’re allowed to have fantasies about people older than you! But now you’re younger-” Conrad broke off and shook his head firmly. “You know what? No. I’m not even asking. Not my business, I don’t need to know. Now or ever.”

     “Kon-El got decanted ahead of schedule and one of the side effects was a lack of aging until we figured out how to get that kickstarted. He’s been alive for about six years, is about 17 physically, and mentally…” Red Robin trailed off and waggled his hand with a shrug.

     Conrad bit back an exasperated sigh. “I just said I wasn’t going to ask.”

     “Okay, why are we telling one of Red Hood’s mooks my tragic backstory? And why is he here?”

     “Because Red Robin gave me a key!”

     “Con! Kon! Focus. Conrad. What. Am I. Looking at?” Red Robin pointed firmly at the screen which was currently taken up by a map of the greater Gotham metropolitan area. Specifically, he was pointing at the dozens (two dozen and three, supplied the part of his brain that sounded vaguely like his mother and never shut up) of routs that crossed, looped, and spread across the breadth of the city.

     Con bit his lip and debated. This was something that was almost impossible to explain to someone who hadn’t had to live on the streets as a kid, even before you brought in all the… side details.

     But Red Robin was a Bat. Perhaps the most Bat’esc Bat aside from the original. Con might not get dangled off a building during the process, but he’d still get interrogated a dozen different ways until he gave up every detail. Better to just bite the bullet.

     “Okay,” Conrad pulled himself off the floor and squared himself into his most ‘I am a professional and am delivering a professional report’ stance. “Before I start, I just need to say: I promise I am not fucking with you or making anything up. I know how it’s going to sound, but-”

     “Oh my god, dude, I spent last week having a fistfight with a version of me made out of sentient crystal that was trying to take control of the world’s beetle population. Just spill it, already!” Red Robin placed a hand gently on Superboy’s shoulder and lightly pushed him down until his feet were against the ground. Unreadable mask eyes turned back to him.

     “Please. Just tell us.”

     Con took another deep breath. “Okay, so. There’s this, um, care package… thing that homeless kids get around this time of year. Sweaters, cold-weather gear, snow-rated sleeping bags and shit like that. But it didn’t show up this year and we-”

     “Oh &*#$ me, it’s a Santa thing!” Superboy exploded, suddenly two feet off the ground again. “I swear to whatever gods Krypton had, I’m going to go full Grinch if they pull this shit ever again.”

     Red Robin ignored him and stepped forward closer to Conrad. “Santa’s presents weren’t delivered to the homeless kids in Gotham, so you’re trying to arrange deliveries of those supplies yourself. Thus…” He waved at the screen. “this whole thing to hit every location in Gotham in the minimum amount of time. Right?”

     Conrad just stood there with mouth slightly agape for a second. Not at Red Robin figuring out what was going on just from examining the map and getting a sentence of setup. He was a Robin. Robins were smart. It was the Santa thing that’d clotheslined him. That’d always been the hardest part of the sell, even with the BossJason. He’d never once encountered easy acceptance of it from anyone over the age of maybe twelve. It took a light throat-clearing from Red Robin to snap him out of it. Superboy was up in the rafters now, mutter-ranting to himself. Red Robin was ignoring him, so Conrad did as well.

     “Right. Um. So, this actually happened once before about-”

     “Four years ago, when nothing showed up until late February, middle of March.” the vigilante inserted.

     “Early February, but… yeah. We were lucky it was a mild winter that year or it could’ve been… Real bad.” Conrad shrugged off the echoes of dread from that long month that still lingered. “It’s something I’ve always tried to have a plan for in case it ever happened again. So when Christmas morning arrived with no deliveries...”

     Red Robin nodded decisively. “Kris Kringle was abducted by forces unknown into a splintered off timeline tangent two days ago.” He said like he was just filling Con in on a few extra details about a shoplifting plan. “The elves didn’t contact us until yesterday; just hours before deliveries should’ve started.” The wrinkle of his nose showed just what Red Robin thought about that particular choice. “Most of the team’s followed the abductors into the timeline splinter, but a few of us stayed here to try and get Christmas deliveries taken care of.” He gave a rueful snort, looking back up at the big screen. “We’d come down to use the Nest’s mainframe to calculate our optimal routs. Guess you had the same idea.”

     That was. A lot of information. Conrad shoved most of it on the back-burner to process when he had the time and focused on the important pieces. “I really just needed the Nest’s databases.”

     Red Robin turned back to him, head tilted slightly, featureless white eyes watching. Conrad hurried to elaborate. “Hood’s got a lot of supplies saved aside for things like this, and if it was just the Alley kids we needed to look out for it’d be more than enough, but we’ve got a whole city to cover.” He waved his hand at the map like the vigilante didn’t realize just how fucking huge Gotham was. “I tried getting information on which companies or warehouses would have cold weather gear in stock that we could ..buy,” there was barely a millisecond of stumble over the quick word substitution, “on my own, but no one’s publishing their exact stock figures online and I don’t know how to acquire that kind of information directly from their systems.

     “I tried asking Oracle for help,” that is, he’d turned on his webcam and mic, loaded up an empty Zoom call, and asked for the ghost-in-the-machine’s help every five minutes for an hour “but I don’t have any direct way of contacting them and my signal flares went unanswered. I pinged your…”

     “Batpager.” Red Robin supplied the moment it looked like Con was struggling with the word. “Just call it the Batpager. Most of us do.” The faint undercurrent of exhaustion in his voice suggested that he himself was not one of them.

     “Batpager, but I you were busy... with elves?”

     “Rabble-scabble frigging elves.” Superboy muttered as he slowly drifted back down into the conversation. “Zap us away from Christmas dinner with demands, then refuse to let us use any part of their mission control setup-”

     “Because lil’Lobo tried to set it all on fire with a flamethrower.”

     “Which brings me to my next complaint of why was lil’Lobo brought on in the first place!”

     “They were pretty liberal with their definition of ‘Young Justice Members’ when casting the summons, it looked like.”

     “He hasn’t been on the roster for years,” Superboy continued like Red hadn’t even spoken. “I don’t think he was even with us the first time we had to fill in!” He stopped, furrowed his brow, and turned to Red. “Was he?”

     “Dude, I don’t even know. My memories of those three months are completely shot.”

     This was a situation Conrad was comfortable in. The guys in charge had gotten distracted by a conversation/argument about shit he had no knowledge of. He just had to hang out and be part of the background until they circled back around to him. Normally, this would’ve been the part where he also turned all the audio into static until he heard his name, but HoodJason kept being real insistent about not doing that anymore, so he didn’t. Instead, he just focused on the name lil’Lobo.

     Lobo sounded like a mirror-inverse of Lupu, honestly. That combined with the lil’ gave Conrad the vivid mental image of a mirror-universe version of one of his cousins. Evil. With a goatee. God, evil Caleb with a goatee and a flamethrower. He could see it all a little too well, honestly. Mirror-flipped so his skin was super white and his body was super jacked. Hair so faintly brown it was nearly white? Or still a dark brown, just with blue-highlights where it caught the light? Some sort of meathead asshole just barging through things without a second thought about anything. Fucking terrifying.

     “Anyways,” Red Robin broke into Superboy’s ranting, making Conrad snap back to attention. “You couldn’t get in contact with anyone, so you broke into the Nest.”

     “You gave me a key!” Conrad’s explanation was getting a little more strained with each repetition.

     “For emergencies.” Red Robin replied.

     Conrad’s expression went blank. “We have blizzard conditions expected within the next 36 hours,” he said evenly. He wasn’t going to shout at a Robin. Definitely not when they had someone next to them who could punch through his spine. “with as much of five feet of snow and temperatures down to 5 degrees Fahrenheit. Kids will die without cold weather gear. Even if every shelter threw their doors open, there aren’t enough beds across Gotham to house more than maybe a quarter of us. Them.” It’d been almost three years, and it still took effort to remember he wasn’t one of them anymore. No longer homeless, definitely no longer a child.

     “Kids are going to die from this and there’s not much shit I can do about it; but I can make sure that the death toll is in the low dozens instead of the low hundreds. I know it doesn’t count as an emergency by Bat standards – there’s no one to punch to make it stop – but it counts as one to me. And all I needed was information on where in Gotham additional supplies were located so the volunteer runners could pick up shit between stops. It was going to be a quick in and out. I’d only been here about half an hour and would’ve been gone in another twenty if you hadn’t shown up.”

     Red Robin frowned and moved to the keyboard. A flurry of quick keystrokes and electronic blips and the symbols on the map Conrad had put down to mark warehouses and army surplus shops where additional gear could be acquired lit up. Con watched as the younger man tracked the various routs, seeing which ones passed by one of the restock points and which didn’t, which ones were sent out with all the gear they’d need and their paths verses the ones who’d be getting most of their supplies along the way.

     “You have the usual districts divided up further into…”

     “Gang territories. Most homeless kids are hooked into one street-kid gang or another. It’s almost impossible to stay alive and not snatched up by CPS or unmarked vans without support. Kids age out as quick as they come in, so the territories and numbers and even names of the gangs are always in flux, but I do my best to keep track of ‘em. I’ve no idea how to track down whatever kids are running independent, so I’ve got to focus on using the gang leaders as the point of contact to drop shit off with. There are a few groups,” He gestured to the larger circles centered around the Tricorner Tunnels access and the plaza around “Simon’s Church” on the southernmost island as examples. “where there’s more of a joint gathering spot for all the local street kids, so those drop-offs are a lot more straight-forward.”

     “And you’ve got each path here making no more than five dropoffs-”

     “The runners are gonna have to roll some diplomacy and spend time convincing them the gear isn’t some sort of trap, so we can’t be rushing people. I’m just glad so many volunteered to help.”

     “Each route has a bare minimum of turns or side-streets required-”

     “Needs to be easy to remember without having it written down. Not everyone can read that good.”

     “Though there’s some weird changing around with the streets and notes about times that I don’t quite get…”

     “Enough people’ve got work that there’s going to be the usual traffic. Plus, we almost always have someone pulling shit at the Steel Gables bridge in the first few days after Christmas, so we can’t rely on that being open.”

     “And the neighborhoods on each side of it are getting taken care of by routes that follow the shoreline. There’s just…”

     “Twenty-seven routes. We had sixty-odd volunteers and I wanted there to be at least two riders on each route so they could back each other up in case of trouble. A few of the least experienced I tripled up with an old wolf because there was overflow.”

     Red Robin shook his head slowly before turning back to look at Conrad. “And you set up the algorithm for this in just thirty minutes?”

     Conrad blinked again, eyes darting over to Superboy for a second (he was still scowling at him, damn) then back. “Ah. No. I… Don’t know how to do that. I already had the rough routes plotted out, then once I knew where supplies were located I just had to tweak things to account for them.”

     “And you just… what, did that by hand? In half an hour?”

     Conrad didn’t like that tone of voice. It wasn’t Red’s fault, he’d just heard it too many time from assholes (parental and otherwise) growing up. The ‘Pretty sure you don’t know what you’re talking about and are too stupid to even realize it’ voice.

     He might be being unfair to Red. Probably wasn’t even what that voice meant coming from him. It was an effort to keep his hackles from rising, though.

     “I had most of the routing already mapped out, but the adjustments for supplies, yeah. I was going over everything to make sure I hadn’t made any mistakes when, um,” he rubbed at the growing bruise around his throat distractedly, “you arrived.”

     Red Robin was giving him the exact same look that Jason had many times at the start of their relationship. Like he was trying to pull up Conrad’s source-code for a deep dive to figure out exactly what was going on in there. He tried not to shift under the attention.

     “So how did you plot the original routes?” He asked in a mild voice that Conrad did not trust in the slightest.

     “It’s just something I work on in my head during downtime while security guarding. I update it as the various kid gangs change, that sort of thing. It’s just back burner shit.”

     “So you worked all of this out in your head.” Red Robin continued in the same mild voice. Conrad nodded cautiously. “Then you reworked it to account for having to hit up places to restock. Also in your head. In half an hour.”

     Conrad took a deep breath. He was pretty sure he knew where this was heading. He let it out in a slow exhale and nodded again. Red Robin made a small hmm of interest and turned back to the map.

     Superboy landed with the faintest sound of sneakers against floor and slid around to break Red Robin’s line of sight. “You alright there, birdbrain? You’re doing that squint thing at the corner of your eyes you do whenever you’re upset someone’s done a smarts thing you couldn’t.”

     “He does it in his head.” Red Robin said in a quiet even voice.

     “That’s what he says…” Superboy gave Conrad a dubious look over Red’s shoulder. It wasn’t a glare, at least.

     “It’s the prototypical NP-Hard problem, arguably what computer programing was invented to solve, where even the best quantum-exact algorithm can’t do better than 1.8 to the n’th power. And he’s just… ‘doing it in his head’.”

     Now it was a glare. And he’d been doing so well. Conrad just shrugged helplessly back.

     “Alright.” Red Robin snapped out of whatever disassociation he’d been in between one moment and the next making both Conrad and Superboy jump in surprise. “Kon,” he helpfully pointed at which of the two of them he meant, “grab the portable computing setup and the mega-atlas from Reference. I’ll get what the elves gave us onto the system so we can actually look at it and grab arctic gear for the three of us. Con,” this time the finger was pointing at him, “call whoever you need to and let them know you’ll be out of town. Hopefully just for a few days. Assuming lil’Lobo hasn’t burned everything down by the time we get back.”

    “Where did he even get that flame-thrower?

     “Uh, sure thing, boss.” Conrad answered instinctively, already pulling out his phone. “What exactly should I be telling them?”

*****

     “ So let the guys know we don’t need the volunteer riders after all; I’ll sort out getting everything back to the supply caches when I get back, sorry for that too. And let Elina know she’s on the line for keeping the gremlins in line for a few days. I think that’s everything. Again, I’m real sorry about this, Boss, but at least it's gonna be a way more cost-effective way to get all the Gotham street kids bundled up for the year. And the rest of the world’s street kids, too .” (‘and every other kid!’ someone shouts in the background) “Sure, and also that , I guess. They’ve promised to get me flown back once I’ve worked out a usable flight plan for,” a small sigh, “the entire world. I’m just hoping that by the time we get up there, the others would’ve already rescued Santa. Fingers crossed. Love you, babe. Stay frosty! And sorry again, Boss. ”

     The message ended with a beep. Jason looked up to Bruce from where he stood over the table with hands braced on each corner, his phone resting between them. “So yeah. Care to explain exactly why I woke up to a phone message telling me Tim shanghaied my boyfriend because of Santa Claus?”

     “When was this call made?”

     Jason blinked at the ice cold growl in Bruce’s voice. The man was still in the very exact way he got whenever he was keeping himself from vibrating in place. “Really don't think that's the thing to focus on, Bruce.” The man growled in response. Jason resisted rolling his eyes. “Three hours ago.”

     Bruce – no, it was solidly Batman now, cowl or no – strode away without another word. Jason cursed and hurried to catch up. Whenever he was in this state, Batman’s grim stride tended to outpace anything slower than a quick jog from Jason. He followed the asshole across the main floor of the cave to the matted black cases where he kept his ‘specialized equipment’. Jason didn’t know what he expected to get pulled out, but a flip-phone that looked like it was made out of glittering ice and colorful tinsel was not it.

     The entire world except for him had gone insane, then.

     Batman had flipped it open and was already growling at whoever was at the other end by the time Jason caught up. “No, what I’m asking, Merrytwinkle, is why I had to find out my mentor had been kidnapped fourth-hand?” Jason couldn’t help the utter disbelief that crossed his face. Batman just held up a hand towards him. Though he did stick up one finger, then curled his thumb in the ‘one moment’ signal that’d developed between them back in the early days.

     Jason was not going to dwell on the fact he still remembered it.

     “It doesn’t matter if they’re the only other people in existence with experience running the Sleigh if they never got any training for it!” Another moment of silence during which Batman shook his head and shot Jason a ‘can you fucking believe this asshole?’ glare. Jason nodded back, brain spinning too fast to do anything else. “No, Merrytwinkle, that actually makes it worse.”

     Batman’s nostrils flared at whatever ‘Merrytwinkle’ was saying. His lips thinned and jaw set and Jason nearly groaned out loud. The idiot on the other end had hit one of the Do Not Touch buttons. Everything was about to get Batman’ed up.

     He was still listening, but Batman’s attention turned towards unlocking and flipping open storage cases from the Specialized rack seemingly at random. His free hand flashed a series of quick signs that had Jason already moving before he’d consciously translated them into “Collect contents. One for each of us. Time critical.”

     “No, I’m already on my way. If I arrive and find nothing but ice-flows, I wont hesitate to force my way through the Normalcy Shield. … Yes, that’s exactly what would happen, which is why it’s not going to be up when we arrive.”

     Jason didn’t recognize half the stuff he’d pulled out of the cases, but it was easy to tell where they were supposed to be equipped. Batman had already stalked off to Outfitting. There was nothing left in him to be surprised when the old man returned with arctic gear that matched both their current uniforms. The extra fur padding across his chest was even stained red with a scrawled bloody bat.

     Batman snapped the phone shut and shoved it into one of his belt pouches as he strode past Jason towards the plane. Jason followed without even being directed to. Only the smallest part of him could make the effort to be pissed about it.

     The engines were firing up as Jason hauled himself in, locking and sealing the doors for takeoff by muscle memory alone.

     “Okay, old man.” he said as he dropped down in the copilot seat, only slightly disquieted to discover a winterized version of his helmet already waiting for him on the console. “What, respectfully, the fuck is going on here?”

     Batman glanced over at him, and Jason would swear there was the slightest hint of a smile on the asshole’s lips. “What else? We’re going to save Christmas.” The faint smile vanished under the much more familiar scowl, “And those little bastards can just try to stop us from doing it.”

     Jason groaned as he let the G forces of their takeoff push him back into the seat. He shouldn’t be here. He should be home. Or at headquarters. Planning shit. Prepping his holdings for whatever bullshit was going to get sprung for New Years like it did every year. Not in a supersonic jet with a possibly insane problematic father'esc-figure on the way to face off against non-existent children's stories.

     Conrad was so fucking lucky he was hot.

[therealbeachfox]

Conrad's Tips To Avoid Accidentally Henching #17

"Keep one of those Encyclopedias of Myths and Legends - or a few of them, honestly - on hand and quickly look up any unfamiliar names or terms you come across before applying to a company or specific boss. Learned my lesson after that "Janus Security" debacle. How the hell would I have known that Janus was some ancient Two-Faced God? And even if the company in question wasn't set up by the Rogue it's name points to, then that just means the Rogue's going to target it at some point for infringing on their trademark or whatever."

I bet the GCPD learns so much random trivia as they study a Gotham villain's latest hyperfixation crime scene.

Metropolite, losing at Jeopardy: "How the fuck did you know what that day was? You're not even religious!"

Off Duty GCPD officer, shrugging: "Calendar Man."

Metropolite, having lost again: "Okay, how did you know Lewis Carroll's real name?"

Officer: "Jervis Tetch used it as an alias once."

[littlefankingdom]

It's kind of annoying (and weird) how DC keeps trying to rewrite how Jason and Bruce met to paint Bruce in a worst light.

Originally, Batman finds Jason stealing the Batmobile's tires, the kid runs away, and Batman finds him. Discovering the kid is homeless, he gives him to the authority and Jason finishes at Ma Gunn's school. Ma Gunn is actually teaching the kids to be gang members, so Jason tells Batman. Together, they win again Ma Gunn, and Bruce takes Jason in because he sees himself in him.

Well, in Nightwing: Year One, they change it for "Batman kidnapped Jason when he found him stealing his tires and forces him to become Robin", with Jason ATTACHED AND GAGGED in the batcave. (I like this comic except for that because wtf)

In Red Hood and The Outlaws (2011), they changed it for "Jason stole drugs from Leslie and Batman was ready to beat and throw a young teen in jail, but Leslie begged him to give him a chance", which again, wtf. Batman beating up a child. Okay.

In Red Hood and The Outlaws (2016), they changed it for "Bruce put Jason in Ma Gunn's school because he couldn't handle him after taking him in". The only good addition they made is "when Batman caught Jason stealing his tires, he bought him food".

I do not understand why they need to make him awful to this 12 years old so bad. What do they want to make it as if Bruce forced that life on Jason but also didn't want to deal with him. Why they cannot let it as it is, with Bruce having fun dealing with this lil shit that stole his tires and being there for him when he needs him later on, until he finally craves and takes Jason home.

And that's why I am so critical on how Batman and Bruce is written in Nightwing and Red Hood stories, because the writers are incapable to make their main character have conflict with Bruce, without changing his character and their story to make him abusive. They need him to be the bad guy of Jason's, and sometimes Dick's, story because they don't know how to make you side and care for their character without making the other side a monster.

[prlssprfctn]

I've been brewing this post for far too long in my drafts, but I need more doomed!Bruce and Jason throughout universes. And it is not even always about the same Jaybin, dying in the warehouse scenarios!

Sometimes Jason is just a kid, who died in front of Batman, who maybe jumped in between Batman and the villain recklessly, to keep him safe, and whose blood stuck under Bruce's nails. His face haunts him in nightmares, still.

In other realities, Bruce meets Jason as a teen, and they never even get to become father and son officially - but they slowly get into each other's lives, until something awful happens, leaving a ghost of a smirking kid stroll behind Bruce's hunched figure for the rest of his life.

Or maybe it is one of these realities, where Jason crawls out of the Alley Crime himself, and manages to become famous in Gotham; the one, where he opens a charity fond, dedicated to people, who fight with the drug addiction. Bruce Wayne is sympathetic of a kid he meets during some of the events, and as they slowly start contacting each other more often, getting closer, he promises himself to protect him. Expect, Batman is late to save Jason Todd from the hands of yet another villain.

It could be the priest Jason Todd that meets bleeding out Batman on the stairs of the church, and who helps him out, for what he later pays with his life. Or they are not really vigilantes in any of these universes - just father and son.

And in some of these universes, they reconcile. In one of them, some of the medics connect the dots that a catatonic boy, who is covered in dirt, calling for his dad, for Bruce is Bruce's Wayne dead son, and try calling him. In another, LoA!Jason with his memory still being in a haze, crosses his path with Batman, before getting dipped in the Lazarus Pit.

But the point stands.

In all of them, Bruce Wayne is too late. In all of them, Bruce Wayne fails to save Jason Todd.

[redhoodisgod]

Does anyone else think that the alley kids have an almost familial affection for Red Hood? Like, imagine that a giant man saves you and makes your home safer. It is obvious that at first they will be scared, but after saving them so many times and being affectionate, the children already love him, they will even give him nicknames.

Red Hood who just defeated some guys who were threatening the children.

Hood: Is everyone okay?

Random kid: Yes! thank you for saving us Tío hood!

Jason is already used to all kinds of nicknames and in all languages, he even memorizes a couple.

Random girl: You where so cool in there mom!

But it seems that he had not heard all of them

Hood: Sorry, I think I heard wrong.How did you just call me, little girl?

Sara: My name is sara! Not little girl!

Hood: Ups sorry sara, but how did you call me a second ago?

Sara: Mom!

Jason is left speechless and has to process the information

Hood: Why that?

Sara: Well because you always take care of us and talk nice to us! like a mommy.

Jason doesn't know what to respond to little Sara and her look full of hope.

Sara: What do you not like?

A small pout formed on the girl's lips.

Hood: NO! I love it! I absolutely love it!

Sara: Yeey! Mom hood like it!

And that's how mom Hood was the new nickname that the alley kids gave him. The bats tried to ask about it but a bullet answers a thousand words.

[therealbeachfox]

r/NoStupidQuestions is there a style guide/dress code for gotham rogue henchmen out there somewhere

u/RaddicalCon

"I mean, not something that's written down or printed out.

(Unless you're from my birth-family, in which case it's all written down, mostly in ancient books that stink of dry-rot and leather where Hench're called things like 'Servitors' and 'Beholden' and there's a lot of rules about which parts of the manor you're allowed to drag bodies through at what particular times of the day.)

Otherwise, it's not like there's a HenchCo HQ that puts together an employee dress code or anything. As with most things Hench-related in Gotham, it's all about unspoken rules and running tradition. Vibes, you know?

So here's some of those unwritten rules written down, because fuck the not-police.

A lot of bosses are going to have their own style and Hench-branding already in place. In this case, you wear what the Boss tells you to. Hopefully, they'll supply you the uniform so you don't have to go down to the army surplus and hunt for body armor in the exact right shade of purple or something. Be careful of any Boss who has you buy/rent your uniform with promises you get your money back when you return it. Gotham is hell on clothes regardless of who you are, and there's no way you're going to keep that uniform clean enough to be given your 'deposit' back. Fortunately, these sorts tend to be flash-in-the-pans. They usually wind up dead after they piss off one of the bigger fish, or they don't have anyone willing to bust their cheep-ass out after the first time their cheep ass gets locked up by the capes'n'cowls set.

Even if the Boss doesn't have specific uniform for their hench, they almost always have a certain theme/style of their own going on, and you'll want to play into that. When you join up, take a quick look around. If everyone's decked out in a certain style (jaunty green caps, black leather jackets, red shirts), it's probably a good guess you want to dress similarly if you don't want to draw the Boss' attention (It's almost never a good thing to have the Boss notice you as an individual as opposed to just One of the Minions).

Alright, so you found yourself hooked up with a crew where there doesn't seem to be any theming going on. Here's where the unspoken rules come in. You get to make your own outfit, but if you want to come across as a professional Hench, or at least one who knows what the fuck they're doing, you're going to wanna stick with the standards. These will depend on exactly what kind of outfit you've landed in.

Organized: 'This is a professional operation, boys, and we expect you all to look professional when on the clock.' You're working with one of the crime families, henching for Two-Face on Mr. Dent's side of the room, or fronting for Sionis because you're an unmitigated asshole or a raving idiot. Regardless, you're going to want to get yourself a nice suit. Nothing too fancy, you're not trying to imply you're as good (or rich) as one of the big players. Something off the rack at one of those Fancyish Clothes wholesalers should do you fine. Add a fedora or something if you need to keep your hair warm, consider growing a pencil mustache if you're able, or go for the classic full-eyelashes & red lips makeup if that's more your thing. You might even be able to get away with a trench-coat. Just keep it all either black, grey, or very subdued colors and you'll be fine. And make sure you know how to fight in them. There's nothing worse than watching some guy who can normally tear it up in a street fight get a knife to the gut because he wasn't used to the way tight slacks constrained his ability to throw a kick or leap out of the way of something.

Heavies: It's easy to tell if you're in one of these outfits. If you're spending all your time moving unlabeled crates from one place to another place, standing guard over nondescript warehouses and abandoned factories, or showing up in back alleys to clarify the boss' intentions to some hapless Gothemite, than you're in a Heavy crew. None of the excitement of the others, but you don't have to dress up for it. You're not in the 'Public Facing' part of the Boss' operations, so you don't have to worry about keeping on-theme or even wearing something without holes in it. Conrats. My main suggestion and the most popular getup for this gig? Cable-knit turtleneck and knit cap. Gotham nights are piss-cold nine months out of the year, and it's 9-10 odds you're going to be doing all your work after sundown. Steel-toed boots are also a must. Basically: good, durable, sout, able to handle roughness and keep you warm. Don't try and be cute and wear ugly christmas sweaters or multicolored patterned hats or anything. The only ones there to appreciate your kicking swag are going to be your coworkers (and who gives a shit what they think) or the Bats. Who're going to use the fact that you're distinctive to pick you out for the first to get face-punched. Not worth it.

Street: The Default level for Henching as a whole. Wear what you want. Something that'll keep you as warm and protected as you feel like keeping yourself that you're comfortable beating up assholes and getting your ass kicked in. Some form of tank-top/open-jacket combo is popular these days, as is the Tight Black T-Shirt and Ballcap getup. We're still not letting our freak-flag fly high, here. If you're Henching, the point is usually not to have the cops and everyone else immediately notice you when you walk down the street. If that is your purpose, the Boss probably already has uniforms prepped alongside the gas bombs and explosives. The only thing I wanna stress is to keep up on your laundry. Too many guys take the chill of this setup as an excuse not to keep up on that, and there is nothing worse than having to work with someone who stinks like month-old foot-mold and shit. You are not earning yourself a breakout out of Blackgate if you're putting your coworkers through that.

Wild: Okay, now you can let your freak-flag fly. This is what you want to go with if you're henching for Two-Face on Harvey's side of the room, or in one of those 'are we foot soldiers for a Rogue or are we a street gang?' situations. Let's be honest, you probably don't want to sign onto one of these unless you're comfortable blasting your brain chemistry to pieces on shit you've never even heard of before. In exchange, you can wear whatever the hell you like, so long as it's eye-catching. Combine your mesh tank-top, pink camo cargo pants, and an army-helmet with a dozen spikes, studs, and dyed feathers. Break out your midriff-baring leather jacket, fishnets, and combat boots. Take a trench-coat and wrap a street's worth of road signs around it. Drill elk antlers into a hockey mask and drop the whole thing into neon green paint. Just realize that if it's fragile, it's going to break in your first fight. And you will be in fights. Either against rival Rogues' crews, or with the Bats. Learn how to take a punch, and for the love of god learn how to stay down after you've taken that punch. The only thing getting up over and over again in a blood-frenzy will get you is an ever increasing stay in the ICU.

Of course, the easiest way to make sure you're wearing the right shit for Henchwork is to NOT DO IT.

I'm fucking serious, y'all. Just don't. If you want a snazzy uniform and an excuse to beat people up, join a private security company. If you want to fawn over an evil megalomaniac while furthering their plans for world domination, both Amazon and LexCorp have plenty of job openings. And if you just want to tear shit up for the hell of it, join a street gang. At least then the people by your side might actually give half-a-shit about you at the end of the day.

You can find more of my 'how not to be an idiot and die in Gotham' advice here if you're really in the mood for that.

And to answer the most frequent question: You can find piles of discontinued hench outfits at any Gotham thrift-shop. They've almost always got their own rack you can dig through to your weird little heart's content.

is there a style guide/dress code for gotham rogue henchmen out there somewhere

[dark-dragon-8]

A Supernatural × Batman crossover where the Batfam are actual cryptids and the brothers are sent to hunt them, only to find out that these guys are pretty much immortal, god like beings whose only weaknesses are each other, the sun and some weird sentient manifestation of their home city that they seem to care about, and most of them already grew out of the second one, since, apparently, the sun only affects them when they're newborns/newly transformed/changed.

The whole reason they ended up in Gotham in the first place was because of some online rumors saying that there is a demon cult in the city, as well as Blüdhaven [it's true, partially, the Bat clan has had several cults and/or religions painting them as godly beings/saviours of Gotham throughout the years, still do (imagine the colonies from F'ing Demon Bats, only this time the cryptid part of them is actually real)] along with shrines for human sacrifices.

At first they thought the locals sold themselves to a Pagan God in exchange for their safety, that the shrines and "holy grounds" spread throughout the city were for blood and human sacrifices and the creatures were feeding on the souls of their followers or something.

Turns out, that couldn't be further from the truth. Yes there were bloody sacrifices at the shrines, but most of the time those were just grieving kids bringing their dead pets to silence's holy grounds for them to be healed, or taken care of, by the spirit and have their souls at peace. But, again, that was rare, and only occurred at the holy grounds themselves rather than the shrines people attended to daily.

Majority of those shrines were filled with books, art supplies, music boxes with ballerinas and, sometimes, you could even find a few trinkets and computer parts, as well as the occasional plates and plastic boxes filled with home cooked meals, sometimes they even put pots and kettles filled to the brim with savory goods and nice tea. Nobody ever touched the food, not even the poor and desperate, when asked why all the brothers received were looks of horror and hushed whispers about how "The bats don't like thieves" and "They'll stop coming by the shrine, maybe even destroy it if we do that"

Dean didn't like it, neither did Sam, they didn't like how the locals, people who barely even bat an eye when they see a dead body on their way to work, get so scared and terrified as soon as they hear of something that might displease the Bats. They tried asking around, trying to figure out what is it that makes them so scared of their dearly beloved deities, after all, they talk about them like such a wonder, like they're the best thing that ever happened to them. Hell, one of them is named Mercy and was revered for its compassion and understanding of those around them.

They only got their answer when investigating a place called Crime Alley. They locals were all the same, if not even more reserved than their city's counterparts, but there was one person, a young girl who couldn't be older than ten that said she'll be willing to answer their questions in return for some money and stories from their time as hunters. They were reluctant at first, but seeing as they haven't had much of an option, they agreed.

"So, Masey" Dean started

"Missy" she corrected

"Right, sorry, Missy, you said that you could tell us what's up regarding those demons"

"Deities" she said sternly, the man simply nodded "And yes, I can do that, but you'll have to do something for me first"

"And what would that be?"

"You said you were a hunter, right?" He nodded "And you also said you have some money. So I want you to give me two hundred dollars, cash, and a written story containing at least three of your adventures with your partner. You can't use big fonts, lie or omit any details from the story, it needs to be one hundred percent real and legible and needs to be at least fifty pages, understood?"

Dean was confused, confused and worried. Why would this child need a story about them hunting monsters? And why did she need it to be so long and accurate? Was she trying to sell them out to the Bats or something? Why was this so important?

A million questions flooded his head and looking at Sammy, he could tell the feeling was very much mutual.

"Um Missy" it was Sam talking to her this time "Why would you want a story of us hunting like that? We could tell you about our time together on the field, if you want, but why do you need that written so meticulously?"

The little girl shook her head before he even finished speaking "No, no, I need it written"

"How so?"

"For Passion, of course"

"Passion?"

"Yeah, Passion, the component watching over Crime Alley, it loves reading stories but only when they're worth it. It doesn't like when people give them stories only to please it or for it to give them undeserved attention. It needs to be good and interesting, a story about two hunters will definitely do that"

The two hunters met each other's eyes, both their expressions filled with worry, apprehension and suspicion.

"And why all the other rules? Why does have to be so long and accurate?"

The girl tilted her head, looking at them as though they've said something stupid "Because you're introducing yourself, maybe"

"I can't just tell you guys all there is to know about the Bat without at least one of the components acknowledging you guys and giving me permission to share that information with outsiders"

"And what makes you think it won't just kill us as soon as it realizes what we do for a living?" They might've been desperate, but that doesn't mean they're going to give an essay about their weaknesses and hunting methods to a freaky, probably homicidal spirit on a silver platter

"Because they like people like you, people who put their lives on the line in order to help those around them. Also" she leveled her gaze with Dean's, which was pretty impressive considering she barely reached his hip "Had it wanted you dead, you wouldn't have been able to take two steps inside Crime Alley without having a heart attack, or your head magically disappearing"

The two brothers tensed, the taller's eyes rapidly scanning their surroundings, hands fishing out a weird cellular device, probably an EMF reader or maybe a bottle of holy water, as the shorter failed to keep up his confident facade in front of the (probably) ten year old (because Dean isn't going to be spooked by a kid that hasn't even reached the double digits yet, he's 𝘯𝘰𝘵)

The little girl laughed, completely ignoring their - very justified!!! - panic "Relax, would ya? Passion doesn't kill people unless they feel like it's necessary"

They didn't seem to be very relaxed, she didn't care, she just told them to meet her again on the border of Crime Alley and its neighbor city in a week, before leaving.

Two hours later, Carrie Kelley was skipping into the main living room of Wayne Manor, where several of her siblings played video games and with their father reading the newspaper on the side, the perfect illusion of a normal, happy, completely human family.

She walked up to Bruce, sitting on the arm of his sofa as the last of her illusion magic slipped away

"Did you do it?"

"I offered them the deal, still not sure if they'll end up actually agreeing to it"

"Mn. You did well"

The young teen preened under the praise, thanking her father before going off to boast and scheme with the rest of her siblings, they were up planning contingencies and devising plans until Sundown.

[blog-moved-lol]

AJSHAJAJASJS WAIT- I keep imagining the kids Jason takes care of calling him 'Tiger' because of his scars 😭✋

Like one of the street kids happens to catch him with his jacket off so they can see the scarring on his arms and their first reaction is basically "Wow! You have stripes, like a tiger!"

And Jason is obviously a little surprised considering the usual response to scarring in general is far less positive, but he just kinda shakes it off and is all "Yeah, sure kid.. Tiger.." And doesn't think anything of it.

Until all of the kids suddenly start calling him Tiger and keep asking to see his 'stripes' and now the majority of them greet him with a little tiger 'Rawr!' Whenever they see him, and he's honestly flattered af because he thinks it's adorable-

[spacedace]

Got inspired by the below tiktok and the idea of the Rogues killing the Joker in revenge for Jason instead of Bruce and had to write about it.

Here, have probably way too many words (with more to come most likely, this really won't leave me alone) of the Rogue's feelings about Jason's death at the Joker's hands and everything that followed.

(also I know the timeline is a bit screwy, shhh just go with it, we're going on vibes with this one lol)

-

Childhood was not held universally sacred in the dark streets of Gotham.

The city was hard and cruel and she didn’t care about the ages of those that were ground up and spit out in her oily black heart.

A kid could slit your throat as easy as a man grown in a place like their fine city, maybe easier even for those who still fell for the ideal of children being incapable of anything but innocence and sweetness. Children learned from the world around them though, they learned from the savagery that filled their world, the hard scrabble desperate attempts to survive. They learned what dark corners to avoid, which ones were safer to skitter down.

It didn’t mean there weren’t still some rules of decency to be honored though.

Most folks, even those in the circle of the Rogues, largely left kids out of the equation. Crossfire happened of course, hitting busy city centers always meant some kind of collateral. But there wasn’t much that they got out of purposefully hurting kids outside a black mark on their name in most levels of the grungy underbelly of the city and one hell of a big target on their back. Both from the Bat and those criminals in the dark with them that took offense to those kinds of things. They were crooks, but with few exceptions they weren’t complete monsters.

Robin had always held an interesting place in their grungy little ecosystem. Anything to do with the Bat was generally ruled as gloves-off, do what you do without hesitation. And Robin - both of ‘em - had no problem hitting hard and being ruthless. The first one in particular had a feral sort of rage to him that was a terrifying thing to be on the business end of.

But they were still kids.

Defending yourself from any kid swinging on you was fair game, a person had the right to defend themselves. Grabbing up Robin to hold hostage or bait Gotham’s local cryptid, that was all fine and dandy. You could even get away with roughing the kid up a little here and there, so long as you made sure not to go too far and always kept hits to where the kid’s armor was the thickest. No hard and fast written rules, mind, but general rules of thumbs. Lines indistinct due to the shaky ground a child dancing through the night as a vigilante left all of them on, but ones clear enough that you knew when you were at risk of going too far.

Besides, the Robins were good kids. Fucking feral little shits, of course, able to leave you bleeding just as easy from a kick as they were a sharp word. But good kids. Even most the Rogues in the Gallery liked em. It was hard not to be at least a little fond of a gutsy little punk like that.

Though they were all maybe a tad less nervous around Robin II than they were the original.

Robin I had a lot of anger burning in him, a lot of anger in him, but he was still a cheerful boy with a bright attitude that was refreshing in a world so bleak and dark as the one they all lived in. It was up in the air which was scarier about the kid: The smiled he gave when he was about to give a hands on demonstration about how much force a tiny ten year old could put into a kick when they had half a dozen spins shoved into a flip to wind up to 80 miles an hour, or the flash of his teeth when he was demonstrating the knife sharp brilliance of his belief that Batman was only as frightening as Robin was hopeful.

They weren’t sure if he realized that sometimes they felt a helluva lot more hope at the sight of the Bat when the little bird was putting the hurt on them, or if he’d simply folded that fact neatly into his core philosophy without issue.

Robin II on the other hand had this kind of quiet shyness to him - even as he was shouting the most inventive swears ever heard by human ear at someone while he kicked them in the balls hard enough to make ‘em see not just the face of their own god but a few dozen besides. He was just as unhinged as the Robin before him - seemed to be a requirement for the job really - but there was a distinct different in how the two birds flitted about the darkened skyline of the city. Where the first Robin’s smile was as much danger as it was dazzle, a fanged declaration of victory against the dark, Robin II’s was a sunny, stubborn declaration of perseverance. Kid was sassy and smart, and never - ever - flinched away from extending a hand to those he thought in need of it.

Even if the folks he offered that hand to were in the middle of an attack on some fancy Gala or Wayne Enterprises or whatever target of the week it was. Even knowing the offered hand was likely to be slapped away and followed by a right hook. Kid still always tried.

They all knew why.

The Bat was big on offering chances, on rehabilitation rather than damnation. Some of Robin II being the way he was came from the broody cryptid he followed around. But Batman couldn’t claim to be the sole reason for Robin II being the way he was, couldn’t even pretend to be the cause of most of it. Nah, they knew why the little bird was the way he was.

That unmistakable thick accent. That frame that was always a little too thin even as he got older and stronger. That unshakable, headstrong spirit.

Robin II was an Alley Kid.

A true child of Gotham.

Her polluted waters in his veins. Her smoggy air in his lungs. Her shadows clinging to his edges less like a beast looking to swallow a small bird up and more like a protective mother hiding her hatchling. He understood the world most of them came from. The one they all lived in. Knew it in a way anyone who hadn’t been swallowed up by the dark never really could.

Everyone had their favorite, but even those that claimed the first Robin as theirs couldn’t deny that Robin II was someone to be respected. Nor could they deny a fondness for the chain smoking, classic lit referencing, perpetually baby-faced little shit. They’d all had knock out drag out fights with the kid and knew how fucking unhinged the puny motherfucker could be in a fight, but he always tempered it with offers of resources, of a listening ear, of understanding.

He visited them after they’d been arrested sometimes. In Arkham, or Blackgate or wherever else they’d been locked up in after being stopped by the Dynamic Duo. The little bird would make the rounds whenever he had a broken wing or was stuck waiting as the Bat interrogated someone else or for any other reason he wasn’t out flitting about the city skyline at night. He’d bring cookies or snacks and even cigarettes from his own secret stash on the rare occasion, mask unable to hide the furtive glances around to check for the living shadow that was the disapproving Bat.

The Rogues and their Goons always had a soft spot for the Robins. And Robin II made it especially easy to let fondness bleed out of them from time to time. He was a good kid.

But childhood was not held universally sacred in the dark streets of Gotham.

Bad things happened to good kids all the time.

And some of the monsters that lurked in the city’s darkest shadows took the black mark of a kid killer as a point of pride.

Robin II disappeared one day. Just after that piece of shit Garzonas took the fast way down from the top of a tall building. There were a lot of Rogues with doctoral degrees to their names but even those Goons that dropped out of school before they learned to spell their own names could do that math.

The big bad Bat had benched the boy after the fierce little bird had done what any decent member of the criminal underbelly would have. There were those that thought maybe it’d been an accident, that the kid was pulled off duty because of being too upset at unintentionally crossing the heavy line the Bat drew in the sand. Those voices were drowned out pretty quick though.

Sure, Robin II was all about second chances, of doing better, of redemption. But Garzonas had chances to spare and only ever spat in the face of those offering them. Doubled down on being a monster in a way very, very few of the Rogues Gallery would. The kid was a sweetheart, but he wasn’t no push over and there were some things so heinous that there was only one way of handling them. Crime Alley had its own kind of justice system, and when faced with a monster that was beyond even Batman’s jurisdiction, Robin II did what he always did: fell back on his roots.

Or so the rumors said, at least.

That was the thing about Gotham’s seedy underbelly. It was a grimy, wretched nest of vipers and cut-throats, but it was also worse than any beauty parlor when it came to gossip. No one actually knew anything other than that piece of shit motherfucker took a dive while Robin was chasing him and that he’d not been seen on the streets since. But most had a fondness for the kid, and a distaste for the kind of cruelty Garzonas reveled in and there was no proof that Robin hadn’t gone and done the world a favor by drop kicking that barbaric sack of shit off a roof. So as far as most in the Gallery were concerned, the little bird had stepped up and been a hero.

Time passed. Not a lot. But enough. The Bat disappeared too, popping up on an entire other continent in a way that was awfully tempting. Even with other Masks playing baby sitter while the local cryptid was away. Rogues were scrambling to set plans in motion, Goons getting hired en masse, weapons and weird chemicals getting delivered to shady places across Gotham by the truck-full. The criminal underbelly was abuzz with the same excited energy of children the day before a big birthday party.

And then the news came in.

There were people in the dark who made their living finding things out. Knowing things that no one else did or could. Some even specialized, keeping tabs on Batman and Robin better than anyone else in the business were able. And when the information they found wasn’t anything handy to have tucked into a back pocket or a secret they were paid extremely well to keep? They held on to with the same tenacity a sieve clung to water.

Robin II had run off across the globe and ended up in Ethiopia. Something to do with a doctor doing aid work, the same something that had the Bat end up there was the assumption. Kid ran off to handle things himself or was sent on a separate path on purpose for some plan or other the Bat had cooked up on his hunt.

Whatever the reason, the kid crossed paths with the Clown.

Alone.

Childhood was not held universally sacred in the dark streets of Gotham. The city was hard and cruel and she didn’t care about the ages of those that were ground up and spit out in her oily black heart. But Robin II was hers, the child of her heart, an exception to the rule. And besides, most folks - even those in the Rogues Gallery - largely left the purposeful harm of kids out of the equation.

The Joker wasn’t most folks.

And the little bird was a long way away from the protective shadows of his mother city.

The Rogues and their Goons always had a soft spot for the Robins. And Robin II made it especially easy to let fondness bleed out of them from time to time. He was a good kid.

When the news broke, it broke most of them right along with it.

Plans stalled. Schemes ended. Gotham, for an unnervingly quiet stretch of time that neither its civilians or the world at large understood, went still. Crime continued, of course, but the big names weren’t seen. It was only right, by the standards of those that lived their lives in the dark, that they hold off and give the man that fought them all so relentlessly over the past years the time he needed to focus on hunting down the monster that killed his son. He didn’t need the distraction, and they all owed it to Robin II not to interfere while the Bat at last put a final end to the Clown.

And the hellish cryptid would need his full focus on this one. The Joker wasn’t one to take lightly at the best of times, but he’d set himself up neatly in the middle of a nasty bear trap. Ugly and complicated in the way everything with the Clown was. Interference from the CIA, from the UN, from Superman.

Shit went down. People heard about the Bat and the Clown throwing down in a helicopter plummeting from the sky in one hell of a water landing. Big Blue fished Batman out of the drink before he could drown but there’d been no sign of the Joker.

But the Bat would find him.

They all knew the relentless bastard would find him. It was just a matter of time. With the hellish drive of a demon straight from Gotham’s darkest shadows, the Bat would track the grinning, child killing ghoul down and make right the terrible wrong the evil motherfucker had done. Batman would hunt him to the ends of the earth and enact the justice he held up so fiercely. Robin II would have the vengeance the kid so rightly deserved.

It was just a matter of time. So they waited. And waited.

Days.

Weeks.

Months.

The Clown still lived.

The world, impossibly, began to move on. The Bat returned to his lurking in the night, picking off gangs and petty crooks and no-name gangsters as if nothing had happened at all. More vicious, more savage, but failing to turn that rise in brutality into the killing blow against the one figure that so rightly deserved it.

No one knew what was happening. There were rumors and theories, as there always were in the underground. Some thought that it wasn’t the Bat at all back in Gotham but someone else pretending for awhile, looking after his neglected city while he continued his pursuit of the Joker. Other held that it was the Bat but the whole thing was a ploy to draw the Clown out into the open. A pretense at not caring meant to get under the Clown’s skin, make the asshole mad enough to get stupid and sloppy and reveal himself.

That the man simply had given up was beyond comprehension. Beyond what any upstanding Rogue could accept. So it simply couldn’t be true. There was a trick being played. Some brilliant game of 4D chess that none of them had been able to parse out. It’d be revealed in time, and they see the brilliant trap that had been set. The Clown would be lured out, the Bat would put him down for good, and then they’d all at last raise a glass to the little bird that had been shot down far too soon and smoke shitty cigarettes and quote literary masters and mourn the loss one of Gotham’s own true children.

They just had to play along. Stumbling forward back into their usual habits, pretending that it was a choice and not the world just forcibly dragging them along. It’d make sense, eventually. The Bat had a plan. Robin II wasn’t forgotten, his killer not left free to roam and ravage unpunished for what he’d done.

And then one day there was a new bird flitting across the rooftops.

Chasing the Bat’s looming frame like a reverse shadow. Bright flashes of color in contrast to the bleak darkness of Gotham’s grimy nights. Small and thin and young.

Not the first Robin. With his showman bright grin and bloody rage and unwavering belief in the terrifying power of hope. Not the brilliant, vicious little boy that they’d seen grow over the years into the fierce and fearless Nightwing.

Not Robin II either.

Not Gotham’s soft hearted little bruiser with his unshakable belief that people could be better if given the chance, shinning so bright in the dark as he held out a hand that even the Rogues had no choice but to believe right along with him sometimes. Not the tough little songbird they’d never get to see grow up. Unavenged and unhonored. Put in a box and buried in the ground with a name none of them would ever know carved into a stone they’d never be able to visit.

No.

It was a new Robin.

A new child with the R emblazoned upon his chest.

Sharp and quick and young in the way the birds always were when they started flying at the Bat’s side. Every inch of the boy’s tiny frame a tragedy and an insult. One very, very few of Gotham’s vicious underbelly were willing to tolerate.

Childhood was not held universally sacred in the dark streets of Gotham, but there was a damn big difference between holding something sacred and not giving a damn about it at all. There were rules unspoken but understood, a way things were done. Nothing so solid or concrete as a code of conduct, more a collection of time honored traditions. Blood for blood was among the oldest and truest, and the more precious the person taken the more vital and vicious payment was to be made in kind.

The Clown had killed Robin II.

Beaten the kid half to death and then finished the job with a bomb.

Everyone knew he’d done it laughing all the way.

The Bat should have done the same in kind. Done worse. It was justice, it was what was right. You kill a kid you’re marked forever. You kill one so well liked and kill ‘em like that and you’re destined for a cruel and cold death. The Bat had first dibs. It was his kid. It was his right to put an end to that awful laughter and let his son have peace at last.

But he never did.

Nightwing had. For a bit. For a moment.

Robin I, who half the time had scared them all more than the Bat ever could. Dazzling and dizzying and dangerous. Gave back the pain and hurt the Clown had forced upon him with clenched fists and bone shattering hits. They were glad for him, that he was able to beat the monster who had taken his little brother from him to death, that he was able to have such justice.

And then the Bat stepped in.

Revived the fucking Clown.

A slap in the face. The snapping crack of a spine beneath one straw too many. The final, unforgivable insult the man had dared visit upon not just the child taken from him but the entirety of Gotham.

The Rogues and their Goons always had a soft spot for the Robins. Respected their ferocity, admired their moxie, marveled at their ability to keep shining in the dark like they did. Robin II made it especially easy to let fondness bleed out of the city’s dirty criminal underbelly from time to time.

He was a good kid.

He deserved better.

Better than the silence and peace he should be granted in death to be marred by the mad cackles of his killer still running around alive and unpunished. Better than his father giving up, returning to the same old routine as if nothing had happened at all. Better than the Bat snatching up a new bird less than a year later.

Gotham and her Rogues had given the Bat time enough to do what needed to be done.

It was their turn.

[therealbeachfox]

(This all here played a big part in having Conrad be just an inch or three shorter than Jason, almost as thick, several shades darker, and a switch.)

And as a life-long gay, I cannot -begin- to stress how whenever you see a 'big n burly' man with a 'little n lithe' man, more often than not the big and burly one isn't the top in the relationship.

i'm so tired of the yaoi-ification of mlm ships where people feel the need to make one of them (usually the fandom-assigned bottom) into a teeny tiny waifish twink and the other into a huge musclebound super aggro guy (usually the fandom-assigned top) i know this is like a thing many people have been saying for years but i just feel like it has never actually gotten better in fandom spaces. the fatphobia of it, the gender essentialism, the homophobia, it's all so fucking annoying it makes me want to scream