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nightwingmyboi · 5 years ago

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Pt 1) I'm ngl, if this Ric Grayson arc ends with Dick finally going off on the rest of the batfam for only showing him affection when they need something, it will almost be worth it. You mentioned in the meta about his relationship with the batfam that to recover from the gunshot he cut every one off (ngl, I stopped reading as soon as his memories were wiped), and I think that means now is the perfect time (or when his memories finally return fully next issue) for him to blow up

Pt 2) I want him to go off on Bruce for never seeming satisfied with what he does. I want him to go off on Tim for running away when everything was going to shit while Bruce was stuck in time (there's evidence that he remembers pre reboot stuff with that one panel that has torque and tarantula and him proposing to Babs so I'm going to say that's all still canon). I want him to lose his shit with Babs for constantly being mad at him when he's trying so hard (I love Babs, but this is annoying)

Pt 3) when he gets his memories back I want him to finally blow up. Like??? His life has been in a constant state of falling apart since he became Nightwing (hell, even before that), but he still always put others first. And now Roy is dead, Donna is evil, Wally is who knows where after killing Roy, Jason and Bruce are back on the outs, etc, etc and people were saying they need him back to fix things when he's recovering from being shot in the head. If they let him point this out, the Ric arc

Pt 4) will have been validated in my eyes. Still fucking terrible writing wise, execution (I was excited for Talon! Dick but christ what I read of it was bad), one of the worst decisions they've made recently, and they've made a bunch of bad ones, but it will be validated in its existence to me.

Yeah, Dick takes a lot of crap from the members of his family; a lot of the things you listed are things that I am very much not a fan of, lmao. And I’d even add that, with the Ric stuff you mention, it wasn’t even that Dick “cut everyone off” so that he could recover; I should have made this clearer--Bruce and the rest of the family should take a lot of the blame for pushing Dick away. See, initially, Dick was open to the idea of getting to know his family. He visited the manor and then Bruce, impatient with the lack of progress Dick was making on regaining his memories, decided to take Dick down to the Batcave, show him the Nightwing suit (that still had the freaking blood from the gunshot wound on it Jesus Christ), and traumatize Dick with the video of him getting shot in the head in order to stir up some memories. Alfred and Damian help Bruce do this:

Nightwing: Rebirth Annual #2

And Dick is obviously horrified. After this, why in the world would Dick want to be Nightwing? Why would he want to associate with his “family”? Staying away from the manor wasn’t Dick cutting out people in his life who cared for him and were trying to help him; it was about, in Dick’s mind, staying away from people who were willing to hurt him, people who cared more about his utility and how they needed him to be Nightwing then they cared about his safety and wellbeing. It was a desperate move to protect himself from people he could no longer trust. It is clear that implanted false memories and other brainwashing was done from the very beginning (by the doctor Bruce specifically hired no less) in order to ensure that “Ric” would not be comfortable with Bruce and would be inclined to leave, but it was Bruce’s actions that had Dick running literally right into his brainwasher’s arms:

It’s also not even like afterwards Dick hid himself in some unknown location, completely out of contact. Barbara easily tracked Dick down to talk. And yet, when Barbara talks to him, she doesn’t ask Dick if he’s alright. She just tells him that they want him to regain his memories (umm...yeah you’ve made that clear), comments that he’s not acting like himself, and tells him to come back to the manor. So...it’s all about what the family wants. Dick says no, and there are zero attempts at a compromise. Maybe the family could have used the millions of dollars at its disposal to set Dick up elsewhere outside the manor so he doesn’t have to, uh, live in a cab? Maybe they could agree to occasional check-ins instead of the overbearing babysitting they were suggesting, that Dick is uncomfortable with? Maybe they could ask Dick what he wants? But, no. As soon as Dick doesn’t do exactly what they want him to, he’s on his own. People talk about how this arc is making Dick look bad, but beyond that, really it's making all of the family look like uncaring, selfish assholes.

That aside, about how I want this arc to conclude...it would be nice, as readers, to see Dick finally put his foot down and stand up for himself a little. But honestly? Him going off on everyone like you describe? I feel like that would be out of character. I could maybe see Dick telling off Batman, but I can’t even imagine Dick truly blowing up at Damian or Tim, or really even Barbara. People really over exaggerate Dick’s temper a lot; in reality, it usually takes very extreme circumstances, and often an insane amount of stress and/or brainwashing to make Dick lash out. Bruce is one of the few people that can make Dick lose his temper, so maybe. But I also think that when Dick is truly upset and emotionally compromised, his first move is to go somewhere to be alone. He doesn’t tend to lash out; he tends to retreat and isolate himself if he’s able. You’ll often see him hole himself in his apartment when everything becomes too much. Two good examples of this are in Joker’s Last Laugh and in the Outsiders. After Dick kills the Joker, he immediately retreats to his apartment to be alone, and likewise after Donna dies, he spends months isolated from his friends in Bludhaven:

Teen Titans/Outsiders Secret Files

And not only all that, but I really don’t think Dick yelling at everyone would be cathartic for him. If he did something like that, he’d feel terrible and guilty about it. He’d apologize. And I really don’t want him to have to apologize for anything in the aftermath of all this horrible stuff he’s been through. I don’t want any of the responsibility for making things right to be put on his shoulders. Though he’ll probably feel the need to try to fix things anyway, I’d actually prefer him to just...stay away from the family. Not avoid them, but let them be the ones to reach out to him for a change. Especially recently, Dick has had to do all the emotional work in his relationships; it would be so gratifying to have his friends and family put the work in on their own and be the ones to initiate so Dick doesn’t have to do all the heavy lifting.

And hey, I’d love even more for one of the numerous friends he used to have to step in and stand up for him instead, so he doesn’t have to. If the rest of the Titans were not currently being put through depressing arcs themselves (or being dead, RIP Roy), I think they definitely would’ve knocked some heads together. I think the only possible solution...is Uncle Clark coming to the rescue! Surely if Superman knew what was going on, he’d come down to the cave and give a good old fashioned tongue lashing to Batman for his pseudo-nephew’s sake! I’m not caught up with the Superman comics so idk what he’s up to rn, but please tell me this can happen and if not let me dream.

Thanks for the ask! I feel your pain, was pretty disappointed with Talon Dick. I really want to just reach into the comics and wrap Dick up in a blanket or something, give him rest!

#ask #dick grayson #ric grayson #nightwing #batman #bruce wayne #barbara gordon #damian wayne #negative #character analysis #meta

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detectivedreameater · 4 years ago

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Cut To The Chase || Cutler and Marley

TIMING: Current PARTIES: @clarkesconvenience and @detectivedreameater SUMMARY: Cutler’s name keeps popping up in Marley’s files, so she decides to pay him a visit.

Marley hated paperwork, and that was all her job had been lately. Paperwork. Case file after case file. She’d gotten to interrogate a few suspects, but nothing that exciting happened in the precinct. This wasn't a place of mass murderers and drug lords-- it was a place of mystery and intrigue! And supernaturals working underground, hiding behind prying eyes! She wanted to be out in the field, she needed to be out there. But they would never let her. Queenie would never let her. And she knew, somewhere deep inside, she knew they were right. It was dangerous for her to be out there, not just for herself, but others. But she still craved it, like another part of herself. It had just been another piece of her being that Roy had taken away from her, and she was still fighting to reclaim that.

And that was when a file came across her desk and for the third time the same name had popped up. Cutler Clarke. Several people had seemed to visit his shop just before the incidents had happened, and some of them had been carrying strange objects with them, now sitting in evidence lockers. One man had even had a wad of cash in an envelope with Clarke’s name on it, scrawled in shitty handwriting. People were so stupid sometimes.

After digging back through the evidence files, Marley had a decision to make. Something was going on here, something shady. All of the files that had Clarke’s name referenced in them were “cold”, with no clue as to what happened next or what the suspects were. It was clear to Marley though, that these were supernatural incidents. Which meant this was something she needed to take care of. She was the only one that could, after all.

It was with that that the decision was made. She grabbed her jacket and her glasses, and tucked the files away in her desk, before heading out, the thrill of a chase already exciting her.

The shop was closed by now, but that was no problem for someone who could turn invisible. Though her abilities were still faltering every now and then, Marley had enough focus to change herself and slip through the doors, past the alarms and towards the back of the store, where she noticed a light on. There seemed to be another door in the back, and she’d bet it was locked. Again, no problem for someone like her. She stepped through the door, peering around, and found herself in what looked like a makeshift hospital room. And in the middle, the man himself. Marley grinned wickedly before deciding it was a good time to reappear, standing next to the “exam table”. She tapped her fingernails loudly on it, and when the man turned, she tilted her head. “You know, I’m pretty sure once your license is taken away, you’re not supposed to keep practicing,” she said, brushing her jacket back to expose her badge as she put a hand on her hip. “In fact, I think that’s illegal.”

Cutler peeled the surgical gown from his body like he was shedding a second skin, deep grimace set into stone features. This had been a hard one, touch and go for a little while. Even after he had practically begged his patient - no, client - to take it easy in their recovery, they had insisted on walking out of there and driving themselves home. The envelope of cash sat heavy in his back pocket, dragging his spine into a guilty slouch. He dropped the gown into the wastepaper basket at his feet, where it drifted to meet the plasticky refuse of the operation.

The tapping of fingernails on the table behind him snapped his posture back upward, feet leaving the ground in a terrified jump for a split second. He was absolutely sure he had locked the door behind him, and yet, there was a woman standing in front of him with a predatory look on her face. I guess that makes me the prey. As she spoke, the bare fluorescents above them flashed off her police badge and his heart sunk even lower, resting in the acid pit of his stomach.

“Officer.” Sour fear lingered at the back of this throat and he swallowed it back down, vocal chords scraping together dryly. “I didn’t see you come in.” He nudged the basket away from him with the toe of his work boot, metal scraping against the unfurnished cement. Each action was slow and practiced, an illusion of ease. As he turned to face her head-on, he busied himself with the methodical rolling of his sleeves up his forearms. “I also didn’t see a warrant. Or catch your name.”

A wicked smile spread on her face as fear pulsed through the air. Marley couldn’t help it. At her core, this was who she was. She fed on fear, she needed it, she craved it. It satisfied her like nothing else. Taking in the gulp of fear, she ran her hands along the cool table as she began her saunter over towards the man. “You wouldn’t have,” she said, shrugging, “but that’s not the point.” Ah, so he knew his rights. Too bad those didn’t always exist in the supernatural world. Her fingers clicked against the table again. “It’s a good thing I’m not here for an arrest, then, isn’t it?” She took a moment to look around the space, confirming her previous thoughts when she’d first found it. “I really just wanna talk. Because, you see…” she lifted her hand from the table and pointed at him, “your name has come up in quite a few of my files. And I thought, well, isn’t that strange?” Arms folded across her chest. “So, why don’t you tell me yourself, why exactly that is. And what, exactly…” she gestured around her, “this is. And we'll go from there.”

There was something unnerving about the grin on the face of his impromptu guest. It didn’t fit here. She was much too relaxed for the situation at hand. Her expression was light - joyful, almost - but something else slithered underneath, flashing behind dark eyes. Hunger. “If you’re not here for an arrest, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Cutler busied himself with the familiar motions of post-op cleanup, hoping the rote repetitions would mask the rising fear in his chest. She looked around the room, and he looked at her, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“This is exactly what it looks like.” He felt her pointed finger like a laser beam, drilling past his friendly facade with ease. This was her job, after all, if she was to be believed. “A store room, modified for my needs.” A hand raised to his chest, distractedly scratching away the discomfort. Bugs under a microscope were less exposed. “I-I’m sorry, what-?” He blinked away the stutter, tight tongue betraying him. “ What are you hoping to get out of this? You want money? I have money.” The envelope of money landed on the operating table with a dull thud as he threw it toward her. “Yours, if you want it.”

“But, you see,” Marley said with a slick tongue, sliding around the side of the table and stepping ever closer to him, “I don’t want to leave. And, well, can you imagine how tragic it would be if someone left an anonymous tip at the station? About some backdoor surgical center with an unlicensed doctor working out of it?” She watched the envelope flop onto the table with disinterest, frowning. They always tried this. Still, she picked it up, looked inside, then dropped it back on the table. “I don’t need your money, nor do I want it. I’m not here for that. I’m here to determine whether or not you’re a problem. So, tell me,” her voice was getting more harsh now, lower. She was done playing around. His fear was egging her on, it was so palpable, so enticing. It wasn't enough to fill her up yet, she wanted more. “What do you do here, and why have you shown up in so many of my files?” Her hand curled tightly around the envelope of cash, tearing the outer paper with sharp nails and grip. “And if I were you, I’d choose my words carefully.”

Cold sweat prickled at Cutler’s temple as he watched the money drop back to the table. He could feel it pooling at the dip in his collarbone and sticking his shirt to the curves of his back. The only thing more terrifying than knowing what she wanted was not knowing. He had paid off a cop or two since he started the operation, but she seemed utterly disinterested in bribery. “Tragic.” He echoed her flatly, stalling for time. Running through his options in his mind. There weren’t many. When he spoke again, the slight crack of his voice betrayed him. “I feel like we might have, ah, gotten off on the wrong foot.”

He took a half step backward, desperate to put space between them. Her fingers tore through the envelope in a decidedly inhuman manner, setting his teeth against each other. “Officer. You’ve got the upper hand here, clearly. But I’d like to at least know who I’m speaking to before I incriminate myself. It sounds like you’ve already got some idea of my operations.” His eyes flicked between hers, looking for some semblance of empathy, and finding none. “I’m Cutler, obviously. Maybe we can help each other out, somehow. This isn’t what it looks like.”

Marley inhaled the fear wafting off the man, running her tongue along her lips. This had turned out to be a lot more satisfying than she’d thought it would, but his refusal to answer her questions was beginning to grate on her. “I think I’ve been pretty clear about what I want here, Cutler,” she said, arms folding tightly across her chest. Long nails drummed against the leather of her jacket and she wondered if she would be the center of his fears if she gazed at him right now. “I’d hate to burst your bubble so early on, but there’s nothing you can help me with that I need from you right now,” she pointed out, “now answer my question, or I’m going to have to expedite this whole…” she waved her hand around, gesturing between the two of them, “process.” She wasn’t going to kill him, no-- his fear was already proving to be of more use than anything else. Maybe she’d finally found a steady meal source outside of Miriam, it certainly seemed like he was a prime candidate. She didn’t want to play her hand so soon, in case he happened to know about the supernatural, but her glowing red eyes were glaring at him through her glasses, and she was so close to showing him her true nature. Here was to hoping her head stayed straight long enough for it.

Cutler felt the tapping against her jacket in the back of his own skull, skittering any rational thought back into the corners of his mind. He had rarely heard his name delivered with such contempt, and the fluorescents reflected in her glasses were giving her eyes an unnerving reddish tone. At least he thought it was the fluorescents.

“Alright, alright.” His eyes followed her hand as it moved in the space between them. “I help people.” The lie was sour on his tongue, flipping his stomach. “People who need medical attention and can’t seek it through more conventional means. So, that’s, uh, sometimes that’s people who don’t have insurance or-or, you know, people who you might have come across in your files. Who don’t have a great relationship with law enforcement. A lot of gunshot wounds, stabbings, that sort of thing.” He chewed at the inside of his cheek, resisting the urge to continue running his mouth. He was well aware that she would love nothing more than for him to release the anxious words behind his clenched teeth. Against his better judgement, he added, “It’s not technically legal. But it’s not hurting anyone.”

Marley had to balk at that. “Not technically illegal?” She’d have been a hypocrite had she really chastised him for that, but the pure audacity of the statement in front of someone who was technically an officer of the law made her laugh, loud and hollow. “An illegal clinic, operating in the back of a convenience store. I feel like I’ve just walked in on a Breaking Bad spin off,” she chuckled, shaking her head. “Wait, no, that one was about drugs. Which show was the one about the doctor’s doing illegal things? Sorry, I don’t watch a lot of TV.”

His nerves were filling up the room, almost stiflingly so. Marley didn’t want his nerves, she wanted his fear. And while she didn’t disagree with his little operation, she wasn’t happy about it, either. “What about those who can’t see a real doctor? Do you treat them? Those with...special afflictions.” Like her blue blood, or someone else’s lack of iron. Was this a supernatural doctor operating behind closed doors, or a human getting in over their heads? Either way, this man thought himself above the law, and Marley had made her decision-- he needed to be punished, and she knew just how.

Cutler responded before he had a chance to think. “House? Or Rush-” He cut himself off, teeth grinding slightly against each other as she kept speaking. She doesn’t really want to know the name of the show, Cut. If she was going to arrest him, he would rather she just got it over with. And if she was going to carry out some kind of vigilante justice, well… I guess karma is real after all, he thought to himself miserably, trying against all hope to remain focused on what was being said to him.

“Special afflictions?” His tone was light, unburdened by the implications she was throwing at him. As the words hung in the air, he thought briefly of Chloe and her mysterious illnesses, of the unnatural bone structure and brutal fang marks of some of his regulars. Strange scar tissue and injuries with no logical explanation, disturbingly inhuman-looking substances in place of bodily fluids. “I help anyone who comes to me for help. I don’t ask questions. There’s a surprising amount of medical anomalies for a-” The word doctor stayed on his lips, unspoken for fear of invoking further wrath. “-person with my skill set. Things regular doctors wouldn’t treat, or wouldn’t understand. I offer a solution that doesn’t involve being treated like a test subject.”

It all sounded a little too good to be true. Whatever this Cutler really did behind closed doors, Marley was hard pressed to believe for a second that someone would treat the supernatural without having some sort of fallback in place. Especially someone so human. He had to have been doing something to them, threatening them, using them, exploiting them-- something. But if he didn’t want to tell her, that was fine. She had other ways of figuring these things out. Her lips twitched as she tried to fight back the anger building in her stomach, licking her lips and moving away from the desk again. “Right,” she slid her finger along the top of the table, as if to check to make sure it was clean, “out of the goodness of your heart.” Rubbed her fingers together, making sure they came up clean. “I’m curious,” she said, though her voice showed no sign of the feeling, “how’d you get started with all this? What was that spark that pushed you into pursuing this?”

Cutler felt steely guilt settling in his stomach. Strangely, the thought of being arrested was almost as stress inducing as airing his dirty laundry for a stranger. This woman was the first person to see through his facade. To understand that his job wasn’t out of some misguided sense altruism. It was penance. “Not the “goodness of my heart”, exactly. I make money from this. The store doesn’t see nearly enough business to stay afloat.” He watched her fingers, anxious to see the result. He knew he had sanitized all the surfaces, but he had also just performed a procedure. What if she found something he had missed? “You know I don’t have a license. So I’m assuming your background research told you why.”

His voice was cold and detached, the weight of his unspoken misdeeds dragging it down into a lower register. “I have the skills, that’s never been questioned. There’s a need, I fill it.” He breathed deeply, digging deep for some level of courage he didn’t possess. “I’m about to finish up here, and then I’m going to go to bed. I’m tired. Are you going to stop me?”

“Ah,” Marley said, smiling satisfactorily to herself, “there it is.” And really, that was all the proof she needed. She certainly didn’t owe this man an explanation, even if she knew he wanted one. “I do, you’re right,” she tacked on, “I know a lot more about you than you’d ever know about me.” And it was a threat, and her sharp gaze told him that, even if she was staring from behind blacked out frames. She wanted so bad to taste his real fear, but patience was a virtue. Instead of a small dose now, she’d wait until later, when she could get a full meal out of him. He was already looking worn and exhausted, and his suggestion to go to bed only made her smile. It curled up her lips like broken tree branches. “You know what?” she said, strutting by him, giving him a stiff pat on the shoulder, “I don’t think I will.” Headed for the door, turning her head to look back at him when she got there. “Sleep well, Mister Clarke. I heard guilt can be a real...nightmare.”

#chatzy #wickedswriting #cut to the chase #chatzy: cutler #cutler #//ahhhh nice to have marley back in her element

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novaviis · 5 years ago

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Did you have any more ideas or head canons for the JLU dickwally au?

OH BOY DO I

Initially, Dick stays out of the JLA because he and Bruce eventually come to the agreement that they need to have a sort of outside perspective if things go wrong - be it mind control of the league, the league itself becoming corrupt, etc. On a more personal level, Dick feels that he’d be stepping back into Bruce’s shadow. The other Heroes, the ones who’ve known him and Bruce for years, all respect Dick as his own man and his own Hero, but there’ll always be that association.

The Titans were a team long before the Justice League, back when Dick and Wally were teenagers. The team wasn’t outright ridiculed, but it was seen at the time as a sort of juvenile club, both by some Heroes and the media. The originals (the Fab 5 ofc) were all there. In this AU, Donna (whose origins are retconned every two seconds and confusing as shit anyways so we’re going this over) would have left Themyscira on her own. She was Wonder Girl first here, no I don’t take criticism. Garth came to the surface world, and Roy was Oliver’s apprentice, and they all found each other because they knew nobody else their age understood them. The Titans were their own thing, and they did it first. And you know that when the League came around, they were all sort of rolling their eyes.

But that’s also partly why Wally is just so natural as part of a Team. He’s done all this before. His experience of working on a Team was with all of his best friends! Of course he’s stoked.

Wally took the Mantel of The Flash after Barry died, when he was in his early twenties. And, for the most part, no one really noticed. Sure, The Flash seemed a little different, but hey, Superheroes are fuckin’ weird. No reason to ask questions. Adding to that, it just helps to mask his identity better.

The decision Dick and Wally make to keep their Hero lives separate is mutual and something they’re both pretty serious about both in the early says of their Solo careers, and the early days of the League. They keep those two worlds split apart. They don’t plan on doing this forever, some day they do want to settle down, but this is what is going to protect them in the mean time, the way they see it.

But it’s not like they’re distant with each other. The core of them is that they have always been best friends first. That’s still true. They love each other, they’re playful when they’re together, and everyone who knows them can see that.

Now, I want you to imagine Dick’s reaction to the aftermath of “Divided We Fall”. Imagine that he saw pretty much all of it on CCTV, watching a bird’s eye view of Wally vanishing into the Speed Force after taking down Luthor. Imagine him fucking frozen and terrified because he can’t do anything about it. Imagine those few minutes when Bruce is standing there, already heavy with the devastating burden that he failed his family. Imagine, when it’s over and Shayera and the others bring Wally back, Bruce taking Wally with him back to Gotham under the pretense of monitoring him.

Some of the Leaguers already know. Most of them don’t.

Imagine Bruce bringing Wally back to the Cave. Imagine Dick already waiting there with Tim and Barbara, wearing a hole into the floor from his anxious pacing. Imagine the moment Bruce and Wally enter, Bruce helping him walk with his arm pulled over his shoulder. Imagine Dick just rushing over and launching himself at Wally, holding him almost tight enough to bruise if only to hide the way his arms are shaking.

Wally is a bit slow to react, but he wraps his arms around Dick and they sort of sink to the floor like that. And scared as he is, Dick’s first reaction is anger, lashing out at Bruce, because he promised to look out for Wally, to keep him safe, but Wally manages to get him to calm down, because it’s not his fault. Bruce doesn’t say much at first, just sort of walks away because stopping and saying that it is. It’s the whole League’s fault. Their hubris lead to this disaster with Luthor and Braniac. The League needs to end. So, it’s Bruce’s idea, and not Clark’s to disband the Justice League. But still, Bruce takes the blame for what nearly happened to Wally on himself - because he did promise.

And even though the League doesn’t disband after all, he’s never going to let himself forget that.

#hyperactive-lectiophile #dickwally #birdflash #jlu!dickwally

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dottie-wan-kenobi · 5 years ago

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A @batfam-christmas-stocking fic written for @renecdote!! happy holidays <3

----

Alternate universes suck so much. Tim has always known that, but he’s never really grasped it, not until he and Dick were forcibly thrown into one a week ago.

Gotham feels different, even though it doesn’t appear that way on the surface. The violence is more personal, less showy, and as far as they’ve seen, there are almost no super villains. Somehow, though, there’s more crime on the whole, every corner of every street host to pimps and drug dealers and traffickers.

Tim tries to fight it, tries to intervene, but Dick pulls him back. “We can’t risk it, you know that.”

He does. But that doesn’t make it easier. “They need our help,” Tim fires back, everything he’s ever been taught about bettering the world, the pressure of saving people, battering around in his mind.

“It’s not our world or our place,” Dick explains, and for all that he sounds apologetic, his eyes don’t stray away from the shadowy parts of the street where they can hear people being hurt.

Dick is a good actor, but Tim can read him like a book. He’s following the protocols put in place for dimensional travel, playing the I’m The Big Brother And I’m In Charge card, but he doesn’t like it anymore than Tim does.

The rules are what they are for a reason, and Tim knows that. Grudgingly, he lets Dick pull him away, go back to their own little shadowy corners. They sleep on cardboard they find in dumpsters, huddling up for warmth. In the mornings, they go to the local library, hoping to fill out some of their knowledge on this world, since no rescue or way out otherwise is forthcoming.

There, sitting at the outdated computers, they find out that Martha and Thomas Wayne are still dead. Bruce wasn’t 8 when it happened, though—he was 16. He got shot too, making it painful and difficult to walk or move in general. According to one interview from a few years before, he’s kept on bedrest a lot, and has been in and out of physical therapy ever since it happened, now fifteen years prior. When he’s not doing that, he’s campaigning for control of Wayne Enterprises and tweeting about coffee.

There’s no Batman. Not like how they know him, at least.

One day, Dick flirts with a cop and Tim pickpockets the man’s scanner, and they learn that whole case files, suspects and evidence all neatly put together, have been sent to the GCPD over the past six years. They never see anyone fly overhead, though. At first, they think it might be Babs, but when they try to look her up, Tim finds that she’s been locked up in Arkham for at least the last four years.

Neither one of them want to know why, so they just don’t look into it any further. “This isn’t our Babs,” Dick reminds himself, and Tim, too. But mostly himself. “She’s not .”

They share a look, and don’t have to say anything to know it’s time to compartmentalize. This Babs isn’t their Babs. This Bruce isn’t their Bruce. This world doesn’t have the Joker or Poison Ivy or any of them except Two Face and the Penguin. This isn’t their world .

“Come on,” Dick murmurs, sticking close to his side as they leave the library. As they head to their latest alley, they pass all kinds of drug deals and gang members beating the shit out of people. By the time they actually get to where they’ve been staying, they’re both so tense, one smartass comment from Tim is all it takes to snap them into an argument.

”I’m sorry,” Tim says after they’ve gone back and forth a few times, sounding hostile even to himself. “I’m so sorry I can’t see things the same way you do. I’m sorry I’m not perfect Dick Grayson , who always knows what to do without even having to think about it, who always does the right thing, who is totally fine letting all these people suffer, because it’s in the protocol!”

He doesn’t even believe his own words. Tim’s just upset, unable to handle living on the streets for a week in a universe where everything is unfamiliar and grim, lashing out against one of the only things he can control. Dick is all he has here—and spending that much time with someone, let alone one of his brothers, would be hard even in the best of circumstances.

Dick flinches, and Tim only has a second to feel bad before the flash of a reflection from a gun in the window above them catches his attention. He moves on instinct, stepping forward and trying to pull Dick down even as Dick tries to move towards the mouth of the alley, protective to a fault. The bullet hits Dick’s left shoulder with a sickening and familiar crack-thwack .

For a moment, everything is silent, slow motion. Dick sucks in a pained breath, stumbling back a few steps, and Tim hopes and prays the bullet hasn’t hit an artery.

And then Tim twists to face the mouth of the alley and books it towards him, jumping on the bastard and bringing him to the ground. He rips the gun away and lets all of his pent-up anger and stress out, punching and punching. It’s only Dick, gritting his teeth and clutching his shoulder, calling out his name that saves the guy’s teeth from actually being knocked out.

Panting and shaking with fury and adrenaline, Tim stands. “Are you okay?” He demands.

“Fine,” Dick replies. “We—we should go.”

“Yeah, okay.” But he bends down instead, patting the guy’s pockets until he finds what he’s looking for: a wallet. As he rifles through, searching for a driver’s license or state ID, he explains. “We need to know who he is. If he’s working for Harvey….”

They both shudder at the thought, but the truth is worse. The name is Italian, familiar to Tim from a bust a few years before. He’s one of Maroni’s men.

Another thing they learned during their hours of research at the library: seven years ago, Haly’s Circus came through town. Bruce Wayne didn’t attend, or more likely, couldn’t. Mary and John Grayson fell to their deaths, and once it became clear that little Dick Grayson, only eight years old, knew something about the murderers, he ran. He’s been missing ever since, and if he’s still alive, then the Maronis are probably still on the lookout for him. Tony Zucco, apparently, is still alive. Still working Gotham’s underbelly, terrorizing and murdering. The Dick Grayson native to this universe is a threat to them.

They probably heard me say Dick’s name , Tim realizes, tucking the wallet away in the man’s pockets. Which means he was shot because of me. Fuck.

----

Big brothers, Tim finds, are fucking heavy. Especially when they’ve been shot and are steadily losing blood. When they’re dead weight, fading in and out of consciousness. When they’re relying totally on Tim to drag the both of them to uncertain refuge in an unfamiliar city.

And Tim…he wants to be someone Dick can rely on. (Obviously, he already is, but his anxiety says maybe this is just who Dick is. Tim could be anyone and the situation would be the same. Still, it would be better for Dick if Tim was Damian, instead. Or Bruce. Or Donna. Or anyone but himself, really.) But more than anything, he wants someone who can help Dick, who can keep him alive. Living on the streets the way they are just doesn’t lend much in the way of medical supplies.

Tim drags Dick all the way to the clinic, based on a vague awareness that it exists here, too. When they get there, though, the building is obviously abandoned, Leslie nowhere to be found. Wherever she is, he doesn’t know, but he hopes she’s okay. He can’t think of a situation that would keep her from helping the people of Gotham. Still, he sets Dick up against the wall and breaks in, hoping for something useful, and finding nothing inside but rubble and evidence of homeless people using the space for shelter.

He goes back to Dick, feeling like the world is ending. They don’t have any first aid supplies, and even if they did, even if a first aid kit fell out of the sky right now and Tim could patch Dick up, it wouldn’t mean anything. This only happened because Tim wasn’t paying attention, wasn’t thinking to be careful. It could happen again. What does he do then?

What would Bruce do? Roy? Wally? Diana or Clark? Hell, Kon ? Any of them could help Dick so much more right now. More than Tim can or will ever be able to. And really, what good is Tim if he can’t even keep his brother alive?

Aware the thoughts aren’t helpful right now, he shelves them for later and looks back at Dick, cataloguing everything he sees like Bruce taught them to do. Dick’s still steadily bleeding out, and though that’s most concerning of all, Tim finds the only thing he can think about is how they don’t have clean clothes so Dick can walk around in something not soaked in blood.

With a strangled shout, Tim kicks the wall. It doesn’t affect him, much—thank god he’d been wearing steel-toed shoes when they were transported here—but the brief release feels good. Sort of. It’d be a lot better if he were still laying into the Maroni guy, if he’s honest.

“Tim,” Dick says, both reproachful and concerned.

“Shut up,” Tim replies, dragging his fingers through his hair. His mind is racing. He wants to go home so badly his chest aches with it.

Dick knows him well enough that he can sense what Tim is thinking. Slowly, he shakes his head. “No, Tim. No . We can’t.”

“Where else are we supposed to go?” Tim cries out. It’s a stupid idea, it’s against the protocol, and they’ve already talked about it anyway. They’d agreed it’s stupid and they can’t do it and moved on. But he can’t help feeling the impulse, especially now.

“Stephanie’s,” Dick shoots back immediately. But they both know it’s not possible—here, Steph is another face on the dozens of missing persons posters that litter the city. He realizes it a second too late, and stumbles over his next words. “Just, anywhere but there.”

Jason is dead, has been for years now. Damian doesn’t exist. Cass is in Star City with Dinah Lance. Luke and the other members of the Fox family have never lived in this Gotham. Duke’s parents are still alive—they recently moved to Blüdhaven, and took their young son with them. Harper and Cullen are nowhere to be found, but Tim tells himself that’s a good thing—it means they aren’t in the obituaries. Kate is overseas on a honeymoon with her wife. Half of the Titans and Justice League don’t seem to exist, and the ones that do wouldn’t step foot in this cesspit of crime and drugs.

‘Anywhere but there’ means nothing. Nowhere. There’s no place for them to go, no one who can or even would help.

The words, or maybe the thoughts that come with them, wear Dick out. He starts to fade again, eyes slipping closed, and that means Tim’s in charge.

And Tim? Tim wants to go home .

He grabs Dick, keeping him from sliding down the wall, throws his brother’s arm over his shoulder, and starts off towards the Manor with every ounce of determination he can muster.

----

Several hours later, when it’s dark and Dick is pale and mostly silent, barely keeping up, they make it home. Everything feels different: the security that allows them to get all the way up the drive (after only a little effort on Tim’s part), the trees oddly placed and the doors and shutters all painted a light blue instead of the rusty red he’s used to. It’s disorienting and upsetting. Home is supposed to be familiar and it’s not and he hates it.

Tim knocks on a side door that only family knows about, hoping against hope it won’t be Bruce that answers. He doubts it, but he’s positive he won’t be able to keep his composure in front of his dad. It’ll be a little easier with Alfred. Probably. In any case, Alfred is the better option of the two.

While they wait, Dick mumbles, “This is stupid.”

Tim presses his hand against the wound, trying not to be impatient. Trying not to feel sick with nerves. He doesn’t reply, knowing Dick isn’t really paying attention right now.

When the door finally opens, Tim could collapse with relief. Alfred stands there, one hand hiding his rifle out of their sight in an all-too-familiar pose, while the other holds onto the doorjamb. His hair is darker than Tim is used to, his face less wrinkled. He’s staring at them like they’re weird, strange boys, standing at what’s supposed to be a virtually unknown entrance to a private, secure home in the late hours of the night.

Blood covers Dick’s upper body and Tim’s hands, and they both look and smell rough. They don’t make a pretty picture, and Tim knows that, but there’s nothing he can do except get Alfred to let them in somehow. He’s been thinking about what he wants to say, what’ll appeal to Alfred’s compassion or curiosity or both. Please, help my brother before he loses too much blood. Please, don’t tell Bruce about this. Please, I’m so exhausted and I need a cup of your chamomile and a cookie and also maybe a hug or I’m going to explode.

What he says instead is, “ Alfred .” It’s a relieved sob, leaving him without permission, and Alfred’s shocked and confused reaction is much more noticeable than it should be. “I—we didn’t know where else to go. He’s hurt.”

There are more words on his tongue, an avalanche of them wanting to come out, but Alfred stops him there with a raised hand. He doesn’t put the rifle down, but he says, “Come in, then,” and opens the door wide enough for them.

Dick groans when Tim drags him up the steps. Blinking sluggishly at Alfred, he says, “Alf…?”

“Yeah, it’s Alfred. Come on, help out here a little bit. We’re just gonna sit down and hopefully get you patched up, alright, Dickie?”

“Hrn.”

Tim bites his lip at the Bruce noise, stupid tears stinging in his eyes.

He’s home. It’s unfamiliar. Dick is hurt. He’s in charge.

Now is so not the time to cry.

Alfred leads them to a nearby couch in a sitting room they’ve never used in all the years Tim’s known Bruce. Rifle still in hand, he seems much more unsure than their Alfred, who would’ve already had the situation on lock by now.

“We need a first aid kit, please,” Tim says. He glances at the weapon, and adds, “We won’t cause any trouble, I promise. I—I know this is probably super weird, but….”

But what? Tim can’t think of a way to end the sentence so he just doesn’t. Instead, he turns to Dick and starts pulling his brother’s shirt off, something they really should’ve done hours ago. While he uses the fabric to put pressure on the wound again, he hears Alfred moving around behind him.

If this Bruce is anything like theirs, a first aid kit shouldn’t be too far away. There’s one in every bathroom back home.

It’s not long before Alfred is back, shooing Tim away and setting a large first aid kit on the couch. His rifle is gone, but Tim knows it can’t be far. There’s no way this Alfred trusts them enough to not have it close at hand. “Do I dare ask what happened?”

God, it’s good to hear his voice. “My brother got shot,” Tim says, reverting to his natural instinct to reveal as little as possible. Normally Alfred is someone he can give a full mission report to, but Tim is just Tim right now, not Red Robin, and this is not his Alfred, so he’s going to keep his mouth shut up tight.

“Well, my word. You wouldn’t know it from looking at him.” And there’s that Alfred sass. It doesn’t make him laugh like it usually does—no, it just reminds him again that he isn’t actually home. “Care to explain more? Should I be concerned you were followed?”

Tim thinks on it for a minute, but really, there’s no way Maroni’s guy got up in time to tail them. The rest of the mob family have probably heard about them by now, but Tim isn’t too worried about it. He can’t find it within himself to be. All he can really think about is Dick, Alfred, Bruce. If coming here was a mistake after all. If they’ll ever make it home to see their Bruce and Alfred. Eventually, he says, “No. We weren’t followed.”

Dick groans as Alfred starts to prep the gunshot wound to get the bullet out. He sways a little, dizzy, and mumbles an apology when Alfred has to readjust him.

Alfred says, “Just hold as still as you can, and you’ll be alright.”

Hearing the tenderness in Alfred’s voice does something to Tim. This is Alfred , he thinks. He can help us with more than just this.

He blurts out, “It was one of Maroni’s men.”

“Sal Maroni?” Alfred sounds suspiciously uninterested, not even bothering to look away from his work. “The mob boss?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmm. Alright, young man, I’m going to get this bullet out now.”

“Tim,” Dick grits out, reaching out his hand. Tim takes it, sitting down on the other side of his brother. He forces himself to watch as Alfred goes through the familiar motions. Dick doesn’t actually squeeze his hand that much, too used to this kind of pain, but Tim thinks maybe they both feel better having the lifeline.

He stays there until Dick is stitched up and accepts a dose of Tylenol—no matter how much Alfred gives them concerned looks and insists on something stronger, a Bat doesn’t take hard drugs.

Not quite huffing in exasperation, Alfred acquiesces and leaves Dick alone, sitting back against the cushions. Then he turns to Tim. With his hands on his hips and his sleeves rolled up, he’s honestly kind of intimidating. “Now you, young man,” he says.

“Um. What? I’m fine. I didn’t get shot, I don’t need anything.”

Alfred raises an eyebrow. Tim can out-stubborn almost anybody, even his other family members, but Alfred Pennyworth is not one of them. Everyone bows down to him.

Tim sighs and scoots a few inches away from Dick, and when Alfred shoos him all the way into the other corner, he goes. Surprisingly, the older man sits next to Tim, between him and Dick, and instead of reaching for the kit, he just. Puts a hand on Tim’s shoulder. Which Tim finds extremely weird, considering how British and physically distant Alfred is. Oh sure, he hugs them all. He catches them when they fall, he reassures them with arm pats and shoulder squeezes. But it’s unlike him to just... sit here and rest his hand on Tim’s shoulder, looking him in the face with an expression Tim finds he can’t read.

Not being able to read people, especially someone he knows so well, freaks him out.

Tense, Tim says, “What?”

Alfred is quiet for a moment, then asks, “Where have you boys been staying?”

Oh. Yeah, okay. He’s suspicious of them. Tim can understand why. “We have a place.” It’s a disgusting alley behind a pizzeria they can’t afford to eat at, scraping by with the last of the money they had on them when they were sent here, but it’s not a lie.

Alfred backs off, picking his battles and probably recognizing this one for what it is: unwinnable. He’s more than perceptive enough to read between the lines anyway, add up all the clues—their clothes are dirty, their hair greasy, and Tim knows he’s looking pretty gaunt. And considering how jumpy Tim is acting, it’s likely Alfred thinks they’re homeless. Which they are.

“Are you injured anywhere?”

Tim holds out his hand, his knuckles split and raw from earlier, and ignores how badly he’s shaking. Alfred takes his hand, and grabs alcohol wipes from the kit. He dabs at the wounds, glancing at Tim’s face like he’s expecting a reaction. And yeah, it stings a little, but he’s had much worse. This is nothing.

“Hmm.” Alfred moves Tim’s hand around, looking for other wounds, finding a few little cuts. “So your brother’s name is Dickie?”

“Dick,” Tim corrects. Bruce and Jason are the only ones who call Dick that usually, and Jason almost always does it because it’s his ‘little brother duty’ or something. The only reason he said it earlier is because he hoped it would be comforting. “Short for—”

“Richard, I assume.”

“Yeah.” Tim falls silent, trying to keep his hand still. When a few moments of silence go by, he looks up at Alfred, finding him making an expectant face. “Oh! Yeah, sorry. I’m Tim.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Tim. You seem to already know my name.”

Yeah. Shit. Unable to think of a lie beyond ‘you look like my grandpa’, Tim laughs nervously. “Lucky guess?”

Dick snorts. “You jus’ look like our gran’pa, that’s all. His name’s Alfred. Yours too, huh?”

Alfred doesn’t look convinced, but he goes along with it anyway. “Yes, mine too.” What an odd coincidence , he doesn’t say, but Tim hears it anyway.

It doesn’t take long after that for Alfred to finish up Tim’s knuckles. He offers to put some band-aids on, but Tim shakes his head. “No, no, I’m fine. Thank you.”

Dick gives him a look, and despite the fact that he’s still acting loopy, there’s a strength to it. Tim can tell what he’s thinking—that if the cuts weren’t on the knuckles, a very awkward place to put bandages, Dick would be insisting on it. Well, whatever , he thinks, resisting the urge to stick out his tongue. You’re not in charge right now anyway.

Alfred stands and looks them over for a brief moment, hesitation obvious in the way he pauses, inhaling deeply. Then, with determination, he says, “I will prepare you something to eat. Do either of you have any allergies I should be aware of?”

“Sulfites,” Tim says at the same time Dick says, “Shellfish. And pet dander.”

“Dick, man, I’m pretty sure they don’t have pets. And even if they did, pets aren’t allowed in the kitchen under any circumstances.”

“Oh yeah,” Dick says with a faint chuckle. “Forgot.”

“Mister Tim,” Alfred cuts in before Tim can reply. It’s unspeakably weird to be called Mister Tim instead of Master Tim, even though Alfred called him that for years. “Will sandwiches suffice?”

The thought of eating Alfred’s food—and even more than that, something they haven’t fished out of a dumpster—is drool-worthy. Quickly, he agrees, “Yes, that’s perfect. Thank you.”

Alfred nods and leaves, probably thankful to get the heck away from them for a few minutes. Once he’s gone, the brothers fall quiet, both a blessing and a curse. Not having Alfred asking questions that Tim has to evade is great, but it does give him the opportunity to keep freaking out.

What do they do next? Alfred might not let them leave while Dick is healing, and that means the chances of running into Bruce raise astronomically. Tim knows that he won’t be able to handle that. Not at all.

“Stop it,” Dick whispers, loud in the overwhelming quiet. “I can see your forehead vein from here.”

“Shut up. I’m trying to think.”

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

Tim sighs, letting the banter drop for a moment. “Look, I’m sorry you got shot. I know it’s not my fault,” he says, speaking over Dick’s immediate protest. “I know that. But I’m still sorry.”

“…Thanks. I’m accepting your apology but not your responsibility.”

“Duh.” Tim fiddles with his hands, satisfied but also knowing, in his heart of hearts, that it is in fact his fault and Dick is totally wrong. “I’m not sorry I brought us here, though.”

“Duh,” Dick repeats, sounding more than a little peeved. Not that Tim can blame him, really. If Tim and Damian had agreed to something, and then Damian went back on it… that’d be really annoying.

Still, that little brother duty Jason talks about means he has to defend himself. “Dick, we were gonna end up coming here anyway, don’t you see that?” He shoots to his feet and drags his hands through his hair, pacing in front of the couch. Despite his earlier flip-flopping, he’s sure now. This was the right decision even if it does suck a lot. “Where else could we possibly go? We don’t belong here. The only way we can get home is by ask—”

Tim cuts off immediately when footsteps echo down the hall. They sound different from Alfred’s, a third tap that sounds a lot like a cane.

This Alfred doesn’t use a cane. The only person who could is—

Both Dick and Tim tense as the doorway is filled up by Bruce freaking Wayne.

“Um,” Tim says.

Bruce looks different. Not just in the sense that he is, in fact, using a cane, but just. Everything. He looks younger, a neat beard covering much of his face. There’s barely any salt in it at all. The scars that litter the skin of his face and arms, mostly bare considering he’s wearing only a t-shirt and pajama pants, aren’t there. Worst of all, there’s no recognition in his eyes.

His sons have become strangers. But no, this man is not their father. Tim has to shout it at himself. He’s not! Bruce Wayne would never look at them like this. Especially not Dick.

Dick makes a noise, a small and sad little whimper, and Tim thinks, shit. Shit shit shit. Unable to do anything to help, Tim shuffles closer to him, hoping it’s enough to comfort.

“Who are you?” Bruce asks, moving further into the room. He says it casually, like this is a totally normal situation, but there’s steel there, too. Of course there is. This is Bruce Wayne. He doesn’t mess around, especially when it comes to strangers invading his home. And as much as that feels like a knife to the chest, that’s what they are. Strangers . The word lingers in his mind, leaving a bad aftertaste.

Tim gets the distinct feeling that the cane, for all that it serves to help Bruce walk, is a weapon. One this Bruce will have no issue using against them. “Um. We—we’re homeless,” he blurts out, trying to push the thought away. “And my brother got shot, so we came here looking for help. We’ll be gone soon, I promise. Don’t worry about us, this is just a one time thing, and we won’t tell anyone else. I know this is a house and not a triage center.”

Bruce is already looking at him like he’s an intruder, but at that, the man’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. Oh, right. That’s something the other—the right —Bruce would say. Has said many times. Because it’s something their Alfred has always said, and apparently this Alfred too.

Scrambling, Tim keeps going, pasting a fake smile on his face. “Alfred knows we’re here. He’ll be right back. It’s okay, we’ll just wait right here and not steal anything, so you can go back to bed. Goodnight.”

“Tim,” Dick bites out, obviously trying to communicate that he thinks Tim is being a weirdo, and that he’s doing nothing but tipping Bruce off to the fact that something is wrong.

“I’m freaking out, okay?” Tim exclaims back, curling and relaxing his fingers in an effort to control himself. It’s impossible, though—this is their dad , for crying out loud. Their dad, who they haven’t seen in a long time, not since before they were attacked as civilians and flung through the wormhole that deposited them here. Their dad, who Tim really, seriously needs a hug from right now.

Bruce comes closer, leaning against one of the two unused chairs. Where Tim tenses further, unsure of what he’s about to do or say, Dick relaxes. He’s really out of it now, the blood loss and medicine finally catching up with him. He’s blinking heavily and listing to the side. “Hand me that, will you?” He asks Bruce, gesturing to a throw blanket resting on the top of the chair.

Suddenly feeling very protective of Dick, Tim says, “I can—”

“No,” Bruce interrupts, the corner of his mouth curling up like he thinks this is funny. “I’ve got it.”

He grabs the blanket and walks over to the couch. Tim stumbles back a few steps to give him room. For a second, it seems like none of them breathe—but then Bruce leans on his cane like a crutch, bends down, and lays the blanket over Dick.

Tim has seen Bruce tuck people in before, usually Damian. All those times, he either didn’t care much, or a swirl of jealousy had tightened in his stomach. He can remember wondering why Bruce didn’t tuck him in. Why his parents never did it, why Mrs. Mac and all the nannies hadn’t either.

This time, his eyes sting with tears. He forces them back, biting the inside of his cheek.

Dick snuggles into the cushions behind his back, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. “Thanks, dad,” he mumbles, slipping off into a nap.

Bruce and Tim both freeze.

“Um,” Tim says, because something has to be said, this needs to be nipped in the bud and stopped right now before Bruce can ask anything. But really, the chances of Bruce Wayne not asking questions? Less than zero. And Tim’s brain is screaming, because what the hell could he possibly say to explain that ?

Alfred enters the room again before anything can happen, carrying a tray holding a few sandwiches. He sets it down on a side table before looking up.

“Oh,” he stops short when he sees Bruce, hands hovering above the food. “Master Bruce, I thought you were downstairs.”

“I was just doing some reading,” he waves off, but he can’t quite manage to sound casual. “Now… did he just call me dad ?”

Oh fuck , Tim thinks. Awkwardly, he laughs, “No! What? No, that’s ridiculous.” Seeing that this tactic isn’t working—Bruce and Alfred both have legendary ‘bitch please’ looks that go beyond the confines of time and space, apparently—he shifts gears. “I mean, okay, yes he did. But—but it’s just because you look like our dad! A lot like him, actually. Haha.”

Bruce and Alfred stare at him, concern building as he keeps laughing, spurred on by a week of non-stop stress and the pressure of being in charge— maybe , he thinks, this was a bad idea all along and we shouldn’t have come here and Dick was totally right. It’s only when his laughter turns to hiccuping sobs that either of them move, Bruce managing to grab his bicep in time before Tim can sink to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. Alfred hurries to his other side, fretting, “Come on, young sir, just sit down now.”

They lead him to one of the chairs, where he collapses, his head in his hands. Dick is better at this—at leading, at interacting, at not breaking apart. It should all be the opposite: Tim sleeping off a GSW while Dick lies through his teeth as he explains what’s going on. Not that Dick would’ve gotten them into this situation, anyway.

“I’m sorry,” he sniffles, refusing to look up. They’re both staring at him again, clearly unsure what to do with a strange, crying teenager.

After a moment, Alfred says, ��You boys say I look like your grandfather, and now Master Bruce looks like your father. By chance, what is his name?”

“Bruce Wayne,” Tim replies to the floor. “But… not him. A different one.”

“A different Bruce Wayne?” The confusion and curiosity is clear as day in Bruce’s voice, and Tim can’t help but snort a little.

“Yeah. Um, this is going to sound really crazy, but my brother and I are from a different universe.” He peeks at their faces, not surprised at all by the blatant disbelief he sees. “I can prove it.”

Alfred and Bruce share a wide-eyed look.“How?”

“I know you’re the one who’s been sending the GCPD all those case files. And before you say you’re not, you just said you were doing some reading. Downstairs. In the cave below this property, right? Back home, it’s called the Batcave and you’re Batman.”

“Go on, Mister Tim,” Alfred says after a moment. “We believe you.”

Relief crashes down on him and more tears slip out against his will. “I need your help. We need your help. We’ve been here for a week, and—and—and we have no idea how to get home. None. There’s no one else we can turn to, ‘cause the people who would usually help us either can’t or wouldn’t, since they don’t know us here. And god, this world is nothing at all like ours…. I just want to go home. I don’t know what to do. Please,” he begs, desperate. “I need advice.”

Bruce hesitantly sets a hand on Tim’s back, rubbing up and down in a motion that is, wow, extremely soothing. “We’ll figure this out, Tim. I promise you, Alfred and I will help you boys any way we can.”

Before Tim can ask if it’s just because they’re his sons in some other universe, Alfred clears his throat. “It may take some time, mind you. But you and your brother will need to stay here anyway, seeing as that wound needs time to heal. I can’t, in good conscience, let that happen out on the streets.”

Tim wants to refuse. Wants to say thanks but no thanks, you can put us up in a motel or something until everything is worked out. Wants to cry and cry and wake up from this nightmare. Instead, mentally and physically exhausted, he just says, “Okay.”

Both men are concerned by the response, he can tell. Though he isn’t looking, he can practically hear the silent conversation they’re having over his head. Then Alfred stands. “I will make up two of the guest rooms, then, sirs. Mister Tim, could you help bring Mister Dick upstairs?”

“Just set up one, we can share,” Tim replies. It’s late and he doesn’t want Alfred to have to do anything more than he’s already done. Than he’s already doing.

“If you’re certain….”

“I am. Thank you.”

He’s not gone for long, and thank god, because Tim can hardly stand to be alone with Bruce without spilling even more. He’s already said so much tonight, he feels empty and hollowed out, kind of like a balloon that’s been blown up only for all the air to wheeze out of it, leaving it sad and stretched. Holy shit, that metaphor. He needs to go to bed, and he needs a mattress instead of another cardboard box laid over hard cobblestone and concrete.

Shaking his head to stop his thoughts, he moves over to Dick and wakes him, a hand on his uninjured shoulder. “Dick, wake up,” he says a few times until his brother is blinking heavily at him.

“Wha’?”

“We’re gonna go upstairs and sleep. Come on, I’ll help you.”

“Hrn,” he says again, and this time, Bruce hears it. Tim glances at him, almost surprised to see the emotions on Bruce’s face. Apparently that’s a Bruce noise in this universe too, and it only helps to cement Tim’s story.

Tim helps Dick stand up, swinging Dick’s good arm over his shoulders. Together, they slowly ascend the stairs, something Tim is more than familiar with considering how many times something like this has happened at home. At the top, they meet up with Alfred, who takes them to a guest room that is thankfully unused in their version of the Manor.

Alfred helps Dick get settled into the mattress, his shoes and belt shed. “I could get you both some pajamas,” Alfred says when he sees the way Tim flops down, both of them still in battered, dirty, expensive chinos.

“We’re okay,” Tim says, aware that the only pajamas in the house must belong to Bruce and Alfred, and that neither size would fit them. He’s not sure he could handle it right now even if they did. “Thank you though. For…for all of this. It means a lot.”

Alfred graces him with a gentle smile. “Of course, young sir. I would like to think that your Bruce will appreciate this.”

He leaves, and then it’s just Tim and Dick. They’ve shared a bed plenty of times before, on nights when there was no one else around and they didn’t want to be alone. Dick was the one who taught Tim one of the best parts about having siblings: cuddles. Dick is a cuddle monster, but maybe tonight Tim won’t wake up being held protectively to his brother’s chest.

Under the covers, Tim stares at the ceiling. His mind refuses to shut off even though they’re finally somewhere safe. Somewhere he can sleep and not worry about what might happen when he’s not paying attention.

He feels a little better, now that there are actual adults in charge, who are going to help. Who can keep Dick from getting hurt again, especially from Tim’s carelessness. But it makes him miss home, just reminds him how far away he and Dick are from their real family. He’s curious, on some level, about this Bruce Wayne. He trusts him to take care of them long enough for them to return home. How long that’s going to take is a question, though, one that he thinks can probably be answered by: a long time.

It’ll be good for Dick, at least. Give him time to heal.

God, Dick shouldn’t have been hurt in the first place. But of course he did, and of course it was because of some dumb argument, because of Tim—

“’M not perfect,” Dick whispers, making Tim, who was certain he was asleep, jump. When he turns to look, he finds Dick’s eyes are closed. Squeezed shut. “’M not . I don’t know what I’m doing, Tim. I didn’t wanna come here ‘cause of the rules, and ‘cause it’s hard… hard to see them. ‘M lucky I getta sleep through it, I guess.”

“Dick—”

“I woulda done the same thing, okay?” And now he opens his eyes, meeting Tim’s head on. “This was the right choice. Coming here. Alfred gives the best advice.”

“Yeah.” Tim’s throat feels thick, the word hard to get out.

Dick reaches out his good hand and rests it on Tim’s cheek. “Thank you for bringing me here. You saved me. Now go to sleep,” he says, and then teasingly smacks him. “I can hear you thinking all the way from here.”

“You’re like two feet away,” Tim points out, but he tries to listen anyway. He closes his eyes, thinking maybe he will be able to rest. Dick is the best at comforting people.

“Shhhh,” Dick says, grinning. “Doesn’t matter. Sleep.”

“Yes, mom.”

“ Shhh !”

Tim laughs, and for the first time in a while, it’s real. He feels safe and warm and not alone, and while he can’t exactly say he’s happy right now, he’s a lot closer than he was just a few hours before.

Tomorrow , he decides, settling down, I’m going to take a shower and eat a real meal. And then, then I can finally start figuring out how to get us home.

#bcs19 #tim drake #dick grayson #alfred pennyworth #bruce wayne #batfam #batfamily #batfam fic #fanfic #my writing #renecdote

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bluboothalassophile · 5 years ago

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Hey who would you pair up Mar’I, Lian, terry and Helena with??

Hello,

Team ups you mean or actual ships? Because I do have a team line up all set up to go in the HfaB Universe…

Below the cut are MASSIVE SPOILERS for Hopes for a Bastard Universe.

Terrence ‘Terry’ McGinnis - Robin, Nightwing, Batman; team leader, tactical leader, thief, expert hacker, escape artist, forensics expert, undercover operative, detective

Terry is the team leader, starting his career into the vigilante world as Jason’s Robin. He is very close to his older brother, Jason, and takes a lot of Jason’s tactical advice. However, he does stick closer to his father, Bruce’s, rules and ideals, but he’s more realistic and pragmatic about the roles he assumes and grows into. He is very close to his entire family, his best friend is Max Gibbson who has assumed the role of Oracle. He frequently complains about being surrounded on all sides by women; his childhood friends were all girls, and he’s surrounded by sisters and nieces for his long time age companions; Lian, Helena, Mar’i, and Max all take great glee in tormenting him about this. He’s also the JL resident ‘advice on girls’ man, though he has no idea what to do about his own love life; for which Mareena torments him for.

Mar’i Ervin-Grayson - Nightstar; second in command, she’s the QRF and heavy fire power too

Mar’i is Terry’s second in command, she is their heavy fire power when they are trapped and she always down plays her abilities and power levels so people underestimate her. She’s very close to her younger brother, Jake, her step-brother; Amistad Ervin-Grayson. Despite many years of unease and distrust between herself and her father, Dick Grayson, they have become close, though she still feels a very special bond with her Uncle Jay. She is also very close to her step-mother, Raquel Ervin-Grayson; however, she is very close to her mother, Koriand’r Grayson. She is frequently the flamboyant distraction when need be on missions, and doesn’t do much undercover because she’s so recognizable between her modelling and acting careers as a civilian.

Helena Wayne - Robin, Catgirl, Catwoman, Huntress; thief, expert hacker, escape artist, forensics expert, undercover operative

Helena is the wild card of the team, frequently following in her mother’s and older brother’s ambiguous morals of right and wrong and is known to frequently operate outside her team. A highly trained, skilled and dangerous young woman, she’s known to take down crime syndicates on her own with little to know help, but when she does operate on a team she works closely with her older brother; Terry. She has a very close relationship with her parents and siblings. Helena is very close to former MI6 member, Julia Pennyworth, and has learned many espionage tricks from Julia.

Lian Thea Harper - Speedy, Overwatch; over watch and weapons expert, sniper, long range cover frequently

Daughter of Roy Harper and Jade Nguyen, raised by Jason Todd and Roy, and Roy’s wife, Queen Donna Troy, Lian is the tactical expert of the team and frequently the overwatch. She is an expert marksman, brilliant tactician and revered hand-to-hand combatant. She is very close to her families, both the Queen and Wayne families, and considered Amazonian royalty through her step-mother Donna.

Amistad Augustus Ervin-Grayson - Rocket; engineering genius

Son of Raquel Ervin-Grayson, he is a brilliant engineer, frequently improving upon all the tech the team has. He is responsible for suit designs and life support systems of his teammates. He is also known for his hero work, frequently on the position of the team to run interference between the battle and civilians. He is very close to his family; his mom and step-father, and his step-siblings, Mar’i and Jake, while also holding a close relationship with his adoptive grandfather; Augustus Freeman.

Max Gibbson - Oracle; hacker and tech support, completely behind the scenes; only Bats know who she really is, rest of the team just calls her Oracle

Max joined the team when she was very young and tried to help Terry piece together the murder of his father, Warren McGinnis. Has been Terry’s best friend since they were ten. Max is not very close to the Bats, outside of Terry, Lian, Helena, and Mar’i, having grown up with them. She assumed the mantle of Oracle after Barbara Gordon-Fox’s death when she was twenty and has furiously avoided becoming a true Justice League member, only working with the team through the comms.

Princess Mareena Curry - Aquagirl, Aquawoman; usually the team diplomat, if that doesn’t work, first one to start the fight

Not the first in line for the throne, Mareena is the younger sister of Arthur Curry Jr ‘AJ’. She is the Atlantean diplomat, and the team frequently sends her in to negotiate before fighting. Mareena is a master of 360 degree combat, while also possessing her mother’s skillset with hydrokinesis, and a master of triton combat. Unlike her brother, Mareena also possesses their father’s rare ability to communicate with all the sea creatures, her best friend is Beth, the depressed dolphin who she personally liberated from Sea World. She is a close friend with Terry, and looks up to Kaldur’ahm.

Lara Lane-Kent - Supergirl; back up usually and team PR person; public thinks she’s the team leader

Clark and Lois’ daughter from the same world as Tommy Gordon-Grayson, Lara barely survived the collapse of her universe and making it to this Earth. She is the public face and publicly acknowledged team leader of the Justice League and this team, given that the Bats do not like to be seen in the spot light. She is best friends with Nora Allen, fellow refugee of a collapsed multiverse system. She has developed close and yet strained relationships with the Kent family.

Nora Allen - XS; recon and speedster

Nora is a survivor of a collapsed multiverse universe, having unwittingly been written into this universe by her father and mother; Barry and Iris Allen. She is a fast speedster, one of the fastest, but acknowledges that her cousin Irey West is the fastest known speedster. She is very close to Lara Lane-Kent. She is also the recon person of the team, because of her speed, she is also very close to Lian Harper because of the Arrow-Flash family alliances, and will frequently team up with Lian when they do small team missions.

Rex Stewart - Warhawk; usually recon and voice of reason

Son of John Stewart and Shayera Hol, he is retired USMCs, having served his time and following in his father’s footsteps. He was raised by his father after his mother was murdered by her ex lover, Cater Hall. Rex works closely with Terry’s team, and is a good friend of Terry’s; Terry’s guy best friend according to Terry who’s surrounded by women. Rex rejected going to the Green Lantern Corps and adopted his mother’s culture as a Thanagarian to become known as Warhawk.

Jacob Free - Mr. Miracle; escape artist

Son of Scot Free and Big Barda; Jacob grew up in Australia with his three foster siblings; Melvin, Timmy and Teether; and is very close to his ‘aunt’ Raven who is akin to a mentor when he joined the Justice League. Jacob is a big animal lover, and took after his father as an escape artist. He is not a fan of fellow New Gods, having been abducted by his grandfather to be groomed as a member of Darksied’s personal guard. He is a massive fanboy of the Flying Graysons, the other members of the Justice League, and is the resident geek of Terry’s team filled with obscure pop culture references.

Tai Pham - Green Lantern; galactic expert

Tai is the youngest member of the team, and the resident Green Lantern. Creative artist, and aspiring comic book writer, Tai is a close friend to Lian Harper, and Jacob Free while also being the Team’s galactic expert. He was trained by his grandmother and Kyle Rayner; he is considered one of the greatest Green Lanterns. A quieter member of the team but a crucial member; he frequently clashes with fellow Green Lantern, Kai-Ro.

The only ship I have set in stone for the future though for any of these characters is Terry and Mareena.

#bluboothalassophile #hello reader #ask me anything #ask me questions #feel free to ask me anything #hopes for a bastard universe #hopes for a bastard spoilers #spoil me

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racingtoaredlight · 5 years ago

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The Gibson ES-335

“Yeah this guitar is the one that I played the majority of my sessions and solo records on. The choice to get the 335 was actually a very practical choice for me. So I play a lot of different styles of music and I wanted to get a guitar that could cover a lot of bags, so I didn't always have to switch to a bebop guitar for this...blues guitar for that...this one covers most of the bags that I want to play or was called on to play.

So that's how I ended up picking the 335, and the little store I went to in 1969 to buy a 335, there were three hanging on the wall and I chose this one because it sounded the best to me, and the rest is really history, isn't it? Brand new...yeah 1969...although I ended up carrying everything but this one seemed to cover most, so I didn't have to keep pulling a new guitar out."

-Larry “Mr. 335″ Carlton

***

The “big three” of the electric guitar are the Fender Stratocaster and Telecaster, and the Gibson Les Paul. The extent to which these three models dominate just about every era is about as close to complete as possible.

The Telecaster has had an almost total lockdown on country music since the 1960′s. I’ve since deleted the posts, but in my rundown of the greatest guitarists ever, a legitimate 2/3′s main guitar was a Stratocaster. And the louder music became, the more the Les Paul came into play...the guitar which, thanks to Jimmy Page and Slash’s iconic imagery, might be the defining guitar of rock music.

Of those three, the two Fenders would be on most guitarist’s lists of most versatile...with some compromises. The Les Paul can get around ok in cleaner settings, but not like the Fenders. It’s just too thick of a sound and, combined with the humbucking pickups, overdrive amps at lower volumes. Where the Fenders are crystal clear, the Les Paul is muddy.

Enter the ES-335. Arguably the most versatile electric guitar.

***

There are variants of the ES-335 that I’m going to lump in just to make things easier. The ES-345 and ES-355 both had fancy things that the 335 didn’t...mainly a variable tone switch that was fucking stupid, and a Bigsby tailpiece that knocked you out of tune and was fucking stupid. Oh, the 355 had an ebony fretboard with block inlays...you’d know this one as BB King’s “Lucille.” They all sound about the same.

If you want a rundown of notable users of the ES-335 and its variants...Eric Clapton (above), BB King, Freddie King, Chuck Berry (and Marty McFly), Dave Grohl, Rich Robinson (Black Crowes), Otis Rush, Alex Lifeson (Rush), Chris Cornell, Roy Orbison, Alvin Lee, Larry Carlton (Steely Dan and a million other people), Duane Allman, Eric Johnson, Joe Bonnamassa. If we include Epiphone variants, we can add Gary Clark Jr. and Robben Ford to the list too. I guess the Beatles too, if we’re doing that, but fuck them.

What makes the 335 different than the Les Paul...even though many guitarists consider them relatively interchangeable (as long as you’re not playing anything high-gain)...is, obviously, that it’s hollow. Kinda.

***

“Semi-hollow” refers to the solid block of maple running down the middle of the body, which the pickups and neck are mounted to. The top, bottom and sides are made of layers of laminated maple, the two parts are pressed together, and there you have it.

A kinda solid body, kinda hollow body, hybridy type thing.

It still has a lot of that heft that a Les Paul has, and adds a sweetness the Lester sacrifices power for. And while they absolutely cover a lot of the same ground...personally, I consider them interchangeable...the biggest differentiator is if you play jazz, it’s the 335, and if you play high gain stuff, it’s the Les Paul. Solely due to the 335′s feedback issues from being hollow.

That sweetness is what makes the 335 so versatile. That heft the Les Paul brings to the table is a liability in lighter styles of music. Not light in terms of “smooth jazz” or whatever, but in terms of requiring a musician to be nimble. Genres like funk and R&B and country don’t need a guitar sound that’s huge and heavy and in your face. But the 335 has clarity, and that clarity is what makes it a more versatile instrument.

***

youtube

So if you’re reading this and thinking that I’m setting this up as some sort of “335 is the greatest guitar” type thing, you’re not far off.

Everything that Larry Carlton said about the 335 at the very top, I said when I bought my Fender Stratocaster. The reason I went with a Strat over a 335 was a value proposition, more than a musical one...I got my Strat and a professional-quality leather gig bag for $1,500 while you’re going to spend about $3,000 on a 335 (average-condition used 335′s from undesirable Gibson eras start the pricing around $2,300). Combine that with the Fender not having Gibson’s fragility issues*, again, it was almost purely a value proposition...you can’t play a guitar if it’s in the shop.

*The Gibson headstock is angled backwards in order to ensure a proper break angle for the strings passing through the nut. While this gives every string the proper break angle, it creates an Achilles’ Heel where these beatifully crafted instruments that feel like they could go through war, can actually be rendered useless with nothing more than a fall from a couple feet.

But make no mistake, essentially from my 2nd year of music school, I knew the 335 was the guitar for me. I’ve played hundreds of 335′s and its variants. Played a ‘59 with mini-block inlays in Dallas, a ‘62 sunburst at the Dallas Guitar Show, a Memphis Custom Shop gold top in Nashville, a ‘69 ES-345 here in Cleveland...

Not to mention countless “regular” and Custom Shop models at various guitar stores through the years. The 335 is a natural landing spot for jazz guys who play rock and blues, and it was where I naturally gravitated towards. Before I bought my Strat, I had passed on opportunities to get a 335 because I knew how well they suited my style of playing, and how many opportunities I’d have down the road to pick one up.

I could say that “I miss nothing when I play my Strat” but that’s not true. I miss that heft and control you get with humbuckers, and with the 335 I get some of those Strat qualities without the Les Paul’s muddiness. It’s just...again...the Strat was half the price and I can beat it to shit without feeling bad.

***

The 335 doesn’t have the stardom of the Les Paul, which is fine.

While there are some stars who used a 335 variant, in reality, the 335 was designed for the guys behind the star. Despite it being a huge instrument in either red or super glossy black, it’s an instrument made for the background. The stars can pick and choose what they want to play, but if you’re hired to support that musician and cover a ton of bases, you want something that gives you the most bang for your buck.

Things are different today, but back in the good old days a professional backup guitarist might be asked to play jazz, country, blues, rock and maybe even disco in the same night. There are really only two guitars that can cover all of those bases and not miss a beat, the Strat and the 335.

Now, I haven’t included many sound examples on purpose.

Philosophically, I boil guitar down into two macro “tones”...clean and dirty. This is in reference to level of overdrive...you can play clean but still dirty, like funk rhythms...as well as dirty and clean, like playing precise leads with a lot of overdrive. But if we’re talking about music in the middle...i.e. not extreme metal or sterile minimalist stuff...you can break it down into clean or dirty.

Effects, processing, all that shit that goes down with pedals and modelers and simulators...all that stuff is, is a more convenient way to improve a lacking sound. The better your playing and note choice is...something only possible with hours and hours of experience...the less reliant you are on these things, and the more the equipment you do use shines.

Larry Carlton is known as “Mr. 335.” His biggest solo hit was titled “Room 335.” His home studio is known as “Room 335.” He reached the pinnacle of the session world, despite not really playing on as many sessions as his peers, because of how incredible his skills as a musician, producer and bandleader were. And he did almost all of it on a 335.

He’s the perfect guitarist to use as an example of what the 335 is capable of. These tracks have no effects, are just Carlton straight into a Fender Tweed Deluxe. The first track “Josie” is a clean example...just listen to the beginning gutiar part and then the fills during the last 45 seconds of the song...beautiful clean tone. The second is “Kid Charlemagne”...the comping during the verses has great clean tone too, but focus on the leads. Especially the closing solo during the last minute. It’s very overdriven, very saturated, but still clean where the notes are distinct.

That’s the beauty of the 335.

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mizmahlia · 6 years ago

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It, uh. It got a little angsty. You’ve been warned.

Dick followed Damian out of the theater and through the lobby, smiling softly as he listened to him talk about the movie.

“I wonder if they have any clue how close they came to telling his actual origin story,” Damian mused, pausing at the main door to wait for Dick to catch up. “Do you think Billy’s seen it yet?”

Dick shrugged and pushed through the door before holding it open for Damian.

“He’s been with the League since before the movie opened, so I bet he hasn’t.”

Once outside, he inhaled deeply, savoring the lungful of fresh air. The theater was stuffy and warm, so the cool, early evening breeze was refreshing. The storm that dumped heavy rain on them when they got there must have quit only a few minutes ago, based on the puddles everywhere.

“I hope someone takes him to see it.”

Dick smiled as he fell into step next to Damian, heading back toward his apartment for dinner. Damian was recovering from a bout of bronchitis and wasn’t allowed to patrol until Friday, so he was staying with Dick on his mid-week days off.

“Clark likely has it planned already, so I wouldn’t worry.”

Damian nodded and jammed his hands in his pockets, taking in the city around them as they waited at the corner for the light to turn. Rush-hour was finished and now that it wasn’t raining, people weren’t in such a hurry to get back inside. There was a young woman with a toddler standing in front of them, and the toddler was staring over her mother’s shoulder at Damian with wide, green eyes. He pulled a face and she giggled, hiding in her mother’s long hair.

Dick glanced down at him, raising an eyebrow and trying not to smile too widely.

“Careful, D. You might give people the impression you’re a softie like me.”

Damian’s cheeks turned pink and he rolled his eyes, not giving Dick the satisfaction of a reply. He was trying really hard not to smile but when she looked at him again, he stuck his tongue out. She shrieked and it made her mother turn and laugh, too.

“She likes you,” the mother said fondly. “She’s usually shy around people she doesn’t know.”

“She has good taste,” Dick replied, nudging Damian with his elbow and grinning when his face reddened further.

The light turned green and she stepped out into the crosswalk, glancing both ways first. Dick and Damian followed, Dick now recalling how he babysat for Roy once and he hadn’t had a clue how to take care of a colicky Lian. Damian paid him no mind, continuing to make faces at the little girl. They were walking a little faster than Dick and Damian, so they were further out into the street when he saw it.

There was a red sedan approaching the intersection way too fast and it turned sharply toward them, forcing two other vehicles to slam on their brakes and swerve. The screech of locked brakes and the blaring of multiple car horns frightened the toddler and her eyes went wide as they met Damian’s.

In the seconds before the sedan entered the crosswalk, Damian lunged forward and grabbed the strap of the carrier secured around the mother’s shoulders. He pulled her toward him as hard as he could, then swinging them back behind him, toward Dick. His momentum got them out of harm’s way, but it put him directly into the path of the sedan.

He focused briefly on Dick as he wrangled both mother and daughter behind him, relieved they were out of the way. Dick had turned away from Damian to make sure they were safely on the sidewalk, and that’s when he heard it.

The sound of the car colliding with Damian was loud and Dick flinched. He spun on his heel, trying to spot Damian in the chaos.

“DAMIAN!”

He heard someone shout to his left.

“Over here!”

“Someone call 911!” he barked. “NOW!”

“I’m already on the line with dispatch,” came a reply.

“Tell them Bruce Wayne’s son was hit by a car,” Dick ordered, pushing through the crowd. He didn’t care about the obvious name-drop, if it meant help arrived faster. His breath caught in his throat when he finally got a glimpse of Damian.

He’d come to rest in the middle of the street about twenty feet from where the car struck him. Dick sprinted out into the street and his shoes slid across wet pavement as he came to a stop. He kneeled next to Damian, his hands frantically trying to find a place to touch him that wouldn’t hurt him further.

Damian was lying on his side facing away from Dick, his arms and one leg contorted in such a way Dick knew there was no way he’d ever get full use out of them again. Instead of rolling Damian onto his back and risking further injury, he crawled around to his other side so he could see Damian’s face.

His eyes were open, and he was staring off into the distance, but he managed to focus on Dick when he gently touched his fingers against Damian’s neck. His pulse was faint and sluggish. Dick’s stomach lurched at the puddle of blood spreading beneath Damian’s temple, and the angle at which his head rested against the asphalt.

“Are they okay?” Damian asked, the three words taking a great deal of effort. Despite the slurred speech, his voice was steady. He managed to focus on Dick’s face, though Dick noticed immediately he wasn’t turning his head to look up at him. Trying not to scare him, Dick bit his tongue so hard it bled. He nodded and felt the tears fall to his cheeks before he swiped at them with the back of his hand.

“Yeah, kiddo. They’re okay.”

“Good.”

Damian coughed and choked, closing his eyes for a moment as he tried to catch his breath. Seconds passed, and he hadn’t drawn a breath or opened his eyes. Dick rested his hand against the side of Damian’s neck again to see if he was still breathing when he opened his eyes and wheezed. There was still no movement in his arms or legs, however, and Dick’s heart sank even further.

“Are you okay?” Damian asked, his voice dropping to a ragged whisper.

This time Dick was unable to smother his sob and it tumbled past the hand he’d been using to cover his mouth. He nodded again and combed his fingers through Damian’s rainwater-soaked, tangled hair.

“I’m fine, D. You should have let me save them, though. I would have left a bigger dent in that asshole’s car.”

“Tt. Not enough time, Grayson.”

His eyes were more focused on Dick’s face now, searching for any sign of what was going on around them. Dick noticed that familiar, intense stare, and while he was grateful Damian was lucid enough to stay with him, he knew what was coming.

“How bad is it?” Damian asked. A small trickle of blood began running from his nose and Dick used his sleeve to wipe some of it away.

“I think it’s safe to say you won’t be on patrol this weekend,” he joked. He was trembling uncontrollably and his eyes left Damian’s face, moving down his body, taking an inventory of how badly he was injured.

“Don’t hold back. I can take it.”

Dick’s eyes widened as he looked down at Damian again, piercing green eyes demanding to be treated like an equal. Dick opened his mouth to try and give Damian an answer, but he couldn’t find the words as he took in the broken bones and distinct lack of movement anywhere. He was pulled from his thoughts when Damian spoke again.

“Richard, please?”

Dick took a deep breath and grabbed Damian’s left hand, the one nearest to his field of vision, and squeezed, keeping his eyes locked with Damian’s. When there was still no response, he shook his head.

“It’s bad, Damian.”

Damian’s eyes darted from Dick’s face down his arm, landing on his hand wrapped in Dick’s, his thumb stroking Damian’s palm. He felt nothing and blinked back tears, looking up at Dick once again.

“Are you in any pain?” Dick asked, changing the subject while his other hand softly caressed Damian’s forehead.

“No, I don’t think so.” His words were slurred and heavy. Though he was still able to look at Dick, there didn’t appear to be much recognition in his eyes any longer. The intensity they held moments before was gone.

Dick glanced up in desperation as sirens wailed in the near distance. They were only two or three blocks away from the sound of it. Someone mentioned the driver was drunk, and several people said they’d stopped him from trying to leave the scene. He squeezed Damian’s hand. Whether he was trying to reassure Damian or himself, he wasn’t sure.

“The ambulance is almost here, just hold on.”

When there was no response, Dick looked down. Damian’s eyes were still open and though there was a pulse against Dick’s fingertips, the beats were few and far between. Panic bloomed in his chest and he lowered himself into Damian’s line of sight. His breath hitched when he was met with an empty stare.

“C’mon, kiddo. Stay with me,” he whispered.

No response.

“Damian?”

Mortal Kombat Sentence Starters

#Damian Wayne #Dick Grayson #MizMahlia's Fanfiction #Fic Request

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chromium7sky · 6 years ago

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Facade of shaded winter part 5

A/N: it's been a long time I haven't update this story lol and you guys can read this story under the tag of damirae and facade of shaded winter. Enjoy!

Jason and the blight team which consist of Roy Harper, Arthemis and Bizzaro the Gigantia guarding the west gate of titan wall. "I wonder who'll be in charge guarding the North gate if Damian and Mr. Wilson goes to Phoenix Pavillion to hunt the Queen? " Roy asked Jason as it disturb him ever since it's been 4 days Damian and Mr. Wilson away fron the Gotham bay.

" There's Jon, Collin, Maya and new Member, Katie. So no worries." said Jason as he polished his shotguns after he assembled his riffle back. " Cass will be in charge from now while Damian is away and believe me, no demon shall escape from her sight. " Jason added.

"Talk about experties in combat and assault, I heard that she could defeat a Knight-level Demon only by herself. " said Arthemis as she's on her binocular watching the forest and meadow field. Today is her turn to stake out. "hahah, I wish we could defeat them one on one but yeah, that Bishop class really worn us out. Good thing the wall repaired well in two days." said Jason as he put all of his weapon on black shelf.

‎"Bizarro sense something. A door! " Bizarro suddenly sprang to action as the shimmering red light start to appear in the middle of the meadow field. " Looks like the devil didn't give us some rest. " said Roy Harper as he loaded his arrows and a couple of hand grenade. "They wait for no one except for their queen. " said Arthemis as she settle down her binocular grabbing her giant battle axes. Jason quick on his feet, doned on his armor, the Red Hood and grabbing his best sling gun and rifle. "It's onslaught time!" Jason put on his red mask and slide down the pole from their safe house at their tower.

-----

Bruce were mortified as he received Tim's report from the south gate. He said the front line officers were in serious injury after there's a Knight Class demon appear out of nowhere in the city. In the city. It seems someone has summon them from the inside though the Sentinel of magic have cast their Anti -demon barrier within the city.

"Looks like there's a thorn within the Gotham Demon hunters. " Bruce commented as he read the report. "This is bad. Has the situation been settled down?" Clark came into the room after his trip with Barry from another heavy guarded city, Metropolita. "Good thing Con was there when the situation happened. " said Clark as he read the communicator.

"So, how's your research, Barry?" Bruce turn his gaze at Barry hoping there's any news on how to terminate the link between the demon dimension to their's. "Still can't figure it out, man. I did try to cut it using speed force and one of Viktor's Motherboard device but no. There must be connection that can't severe through electromagnetic or electric current. " said Barry as tried to relax his shoulder after 3 sleepless night doing the observation. "I think it has connection with the Queen in Phoenix Pavillion as I was been informed by one of our frontline officer, Mr. Wilson." said Bruce as he remember the conversation he's having with Mr. Wilson.

"Frontline officer? Mr. Wilson? I wonder who.... " Barry gesture himself as the thinker trying to recognise the officer that has been mention by demon hunter that has been entitled as Dark Knight.

"Anyway, I need you to be aware and be careful. We need to prevent things that happening just like the south gate incident. If we could detect the culprit who did the summoning or something, that person will face their consequences." says Bruce as he studied the map and some pictures from the communicator.

"Right on. I will spread the words of it. " said Barry as he doing salute and dashed from the room with his speed force. "What's the matter, Clark? " asked Bruce while he's working on his tactics and strategies for other cities as he received report from other big cities like New York, San Francisco, Los Angeles and etc. "How in the world can a demon hunter summoning demon? I mean we knew this creature came out of nowhere right? " Clark expressing his doubt towards Bruce. "Unless... " an idea suddenly came to Bruce's mind.

"Clark. You know that this creature and their leader?" Bruce asked Clark to test his theory. "What we know is there some hot spot appear in the city and the demon with class we specify by their shapes, strength and ability. But the sentinel of magic did say there's more higher rank but they didn't receive any sign the leader will appear to our world. " Clark explained. "Oh. " Bruce murmured. His face grew more suspicious.

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Rachel now in her shop, doing check list some of her oitment, candle, potion stock before she lock the door. However suddenly she heard knocking. Solid, heavy, a man strength perhaps. She wonder who the hell is lurking in these time but ironic, she's also the creature of the night.

Slowly she open her door, leaving the chain intact as a precaution from the door getting bulge by unwanted visitor. A pair of green eyes gazed at her behind the door, her heart skip a beat as that visitor look into her eyes, with icy cold stare. "Oh, uh, can i help you, Mister? " she tried to keep cool her composture. "I heard this shop sell some oitment, medicine some sort. " she attentively listen to his voice. Stern, deep but somehow there's a touch of gentlemen. Perhaps he's an upperclass? A royal family member? "I wanted to ask a few question if you don't mind. "

Rachel look at the floor thinking is it best decision to unhinged the door, let the mysterious person in. "I'm a demon hunter, you don't have to worry. " as if he read her mind. "Well..." as she doesn't want him to suspect of anything, she unhinged the door and open it wide.

There he stood in his demonhunter dark leather armory clothes, his hair were neatly combed back but a few strand seems to fall on his window's peak forehead. He straight up his pose as Rachel open the door widely. " Well, come in, Mister... " Rachel invited him. "Damian." he introduce himself, short. "Damian. " she repeat the name, herself. The name fit for the person in front of her, she mentally note. "And you are? " as Damian came in open his heavy leather coat and put on the coat hanger. "Call me Rachel. " she smiled then went to her mini kitchen prepare for drinks. "Tea? "

He noded in response then sit at the nearest stool. Rachel then pass the cup to Damian as she take another stool and landed opposite of him. She took a sip of her tea as soon as she landed her rear on the stool. "So, what is the question, officer? " she maintain her cool composure.

#damirae #damian wayne #raven #demonbirds #rachel roth #batman #dc #damian raven #damian x raven #damianxraven #facade of shaded winter #fanfiction #damirae fanfiction #fanfic #damirae fanfic #raedami #enjoy #fanfiction mode

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ao3feed-brucewayne · 1 year ago

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Icarus and the Sun

by interprehendere Every year Panem would round up one girl and one boy ages 14- 19 from each district for their annual hunger games. A tradition kept for nearly 100 years. It was five years ago that Darla Aquisita died in the games at only 14. Bernard knew this because he knew her. And it seemed that was the year things began to change for him. Darla, though only a year older than him, was one of three. The other, a boy by the name of Tim Drake. The son of a victor- Janet Drake, who had won the games a year before Tim was born. They met not long after Bernard's father was placed as the district Mayor. He, Darla and Bernard grew close very quickly... nearly as quickly as it was lost. It was only the next year when an accident set the Drake home on fire and both his parents were found dead in their beds. Both friends lost to him in just under a year. He's been alone ever since. But every year he thinks of them. Fond in memory. Words: 1624, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English Fandoms: Batman - All Media Types, The Hunger Games (Movies), Young Justice - All Media Types Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death Categories: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi Characters: Dick Grayson, Kon-El | Conner Kent, Garth (DCU), Damian Wayne, Virgil "Static" Hawkins, Bart Allen, Avery Ho, Roy Harper, Kara Zor-El, Jules Jourdain, Terra, Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne, Lex Luthor, Clark Kent Relationships: Bernard Dowd/Tim Drake, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne Additional Tags: Hunger Games AU, but make it timbern, Angst, very little comfort, Abuse, Murder, injuries, Death, Minor Character Death, Heavy Angst, depictions od mental illness, depictions of trauma, depictions of ptsd, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Humor, Falling In Love, Explicit Language, Non-Explicit Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Semi-Canonical Character, Graphic Description of Corpses, Graphic Description, Grief/Mourning, its gonna be long maybe, i do apologize for the angst i have in mind., Trans Tim Drake, Bisexual Tim Drake, Gay Bernard Dowd, It's important to remember Tim is trans, dead robin: do not eat, no beta we die like jason todd via https://ift.tt/whrMIkn

#IFTTT #bruce wayne #batman #the dark knight #the caped crusader #gotham #dcu #dc #ao3 #ao3feed

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bangkokjacknews · 4 years ago

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The Weekend Mystery - The Great Loch Ness Con Trick

If the Loch Ness Monster doesn’t exist, how come there have been so many pictures and sightings? And is Nessie really Nellie? The first documented sighting of a monster inhabiting Loch Ness was by Saint Columba in AD565. According to this, the Christian missionary was travelling through the Highlands when he came across a group of Picts holding a funeral by the loch. They explained that they were burying a fellow tribesman who had been out on the loch in his boat when he had been attacked by a monster. Columba immediately ordered young Lugne Mocumin, one of his own followers, to swim across the loch to retrieve the dead man’s boat. Detecting lunch was on its way again, the great beast reared up out of the water, at which Columba held up his cross and roared: ‘Thou shalt go no further, nor touch the man; go back with all speed!’ And with that, the terrified monster apparently turned tail and ‘fled more quickly than if it had been pulled back with ropes, though it had just got so near to Lugne, as he swam, that there was not more than the length of a spear-staff between the man and the beast’. The group of Picts, very impressed by all this, converted to Christianity on the spot. However, as evidence of a monster living in the loch for the last 1,500 years, this account seems about as reliable as the story of the tooth fairy. Not least because St Columba also claimed, a tad implausibly, to have had various other successful run-ins with Scottish monsters, once even slaying a wild boar just with his voice. Nevertheless, many were convinced by the Loch Ness tale. Then there was silence on the monster front until some strange sightings were reported in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. But the Loch Ness Monster, as we have come to know and love it, it wasn’t really ‘born’ until much later – not until 1933, in fact, when (prosaically enough) the A82 trunk road had finally been completed along the western shore of Loch Ness, connecting the western town of Fort William with the busy port of Inverness on the North Sea. Providing easy access for tourists and industry alike, the road also offered a route past the picturesque loch for the first time. Nearby Inverness had a long-standing and hugely popular tradition of hosting an annual circus. In 1933 Bertram Mills took his circus to Inverness along the new A82 for the first time, where his road crew would have stopped along the banks of Loch Ness to rest and feed the animals. Coincidentally that was when the sightings of the Loch Ness Monster began. Bertram Mills, ever the entrepreneur, quickly used the local story to his advantage by offering the £20,000 (nearly £2 million pounds today) to anybody who could prove that they had seen the great beast. It was a sum Mills seemed suspiciously unable to afford to pay out. But the public flocked to the area nevertheless, sightings soared and more people than ever before attended his shows in case the monster might make an appearance. But how could Mills have been so sure nobody could legitimately claim the reward? My theory is that he must have seen the famous photo of a plesiosaur-like creature taken in 1933 near Invermoriston by a Scottish surgeon and had known that it was no monster. At the time, sceptics claimed the photograph was a fake: the creature it showed must be an otter or maybe vegetation floating on the surface of the loch. It was even said to be an elaborate hoax created using a toy submarine. But Bertram Mills had seen an elephant swim before and must have realized the photograph taken was most likely of one of his animals bathing in the loch. Although the financial benefits of staying silent about this were obvious. Soon afterwards, on 14 April 1933, a Mr and Mrs Mackay claimed that they had seen a ‘large … whale-like beast’ idling in the loch and which had then dived under, causing ‘a great disturbance’ in the water. They had immediately reported the sighting to local gamekeeper Alex Campbell. Campbell, conveniently enough, also turned out to be an amateur reporter for the Inverness Courier. His embellished account of the sighting, entitled ‘Strange Spectacle on Loch Ness’, appeared on 2 May 1933 and brought him instant fame. The world’s monster hunters, not to mention the media, then descended on an remote area of the Scottish Highlands, only previously known for its fishing. The dial of Loch Ness Monster excitement was then cranked up even further by the Daily Mail, when they sent in a professional team of monster hunters headed by the wonderfully named big-game hunter Marmaduke Weatherall. The Mail ran a daily piece on his efforts to lure the monster from its lair and to bag the beast. And within just two days, the headlines announced he had found unusual footprints on the shoreline. A cast was sent to the BritishMuseum for identification and the Scots were revelling in the global attention their country was receiving. But the following week they were hanging their heads in shame when the cast proved to be the imprint of a stuffed hippopotamus foot, probably an umbrella stand from some local hostelry or tavern. Weatherall denied any mischief making and it was never proven whether it had been hunter or hoaxer who had laid the false tracks. The two most compelling photographs of the ‘monster’ are world famous. One depicts a creature with a long greyish neck that tapers into an eerie thin head rising out of the water, followed by two humps. Roy Chapman Andrews, an American explorer and director of the American Museum of Natural History upon whom Indiana Jones was based, went on record in 1935 arguing that he had seen the original picture and that it had been ‘retouched’ by newspaper artists before being published. He firmly states the original picture is of the dorsal fin of a killer whale. Most other experts disagree. As do I: to my mind, it is clearly the trunk of an elephant, with the first hump being the head and the second its back, almost certainly one of Bertram Mills’s, taken as the circus elephants swam in the loch. Hugh Gray was the photographer; ‘I immediately got my camera ready and snapped the object which was then two to three feet above the surface of the water. I did not see any head, for what I took to be the front parts were under the water, but there was considerable movement from what seemed to be the tail.’ This photograph has been declared genuine by photographic experts and shows no signs of tampering, unlike so many of the others. And that is because, in my view, it is a genuine photograph – of a genuine elephant. No retouching required.

The Surgeon's Photograph But the best-known photograph is the one taken by surgeon Robert Kenneth Wilson on 19 April 1934. Indeed it must be one of the most instantly recognizable pictures ever taken. From a distance of two hundred yards what has come to be known as the ‘Surgeon’s Photograph’ shows a grey ‘trunk’ of around four feet protruding from the water with a hump directly behind it and clear disturbance in the water around. Once developed and declared genuine, the picture was bought and published by the Daily Mail and the Loch Ness Monster industry was properly born. Curiously enough, when asked what he thought he had seen, Wilson claimed to have been too busy setting up his camera to take proper note, but thought there was certainly something strange in the loch. The next question then should have been: ‘Why didn’t you wait around for a while to see if it returned?’ because then he may well have seen the elephant surfacing, as it would have had to sooner or later. Then again, perhaps he did, but greed rather than valour influenced the better part of his discretion. As recently as March 2006, Neil Clark, curator of palaeontology at the Hunterian Museum in Glasgow, has stated (thus confirming something I have believed for many years): ‘It is quite possible that people not used to seeing a swimming elephant – the vast bulk of the animal is submerged, with only a thick trunk and a couple of humps visible – thought they saw a monster.’ Dr Clark also notes that most sightings came around the time of Bertram Mills’ reward offer for evidence of the monster. He himself believes that most other the sightings could probably be explained away by floating logs or unusual waves. More Mysterious World with Albert Jack But just as it seemed the eminent professor was about to finally blow the Loch Ness Monster out of the water, so to speak, he was asked by the BBC whether he believed there was a large creature living in the loch. To which he responded: ‘I believe there is something alive in Loch Ness.’ And he’s not wrong, is he? There must be ‘something’ alive in the loch; in fact there are lots of living things swimming around in it. But at least he didn't go on to say it was a 1,500-year-old sea monster, which it would have to be, as that is the premise upon which this whole story has been constructed. But to be fair to Dr Clark, the Loch Ness Monster is big business for Scotland. Consultants have estimated it to be worth in the region of £50 million per annum and rising. More that 500,000 tourists travel to the area every year in the hope of sighting the beast, despite Bertram Mills’ reward expiring with him. Some claim the industry has even created 2,500 new jobs. And the Monster Spotting Tour comes in at £15 a head. Dr Clark would not be popular in his home country if he finally dispelled the myth many love and even more rely upon. Since the elephant-heavy 1930s there have been dozens of sightings of objects of varying shapes and sizes. Even if paddling pachyderms are no longer the likeliest explanation, other theories are possible. Loch Ness is actually a sea lake, fed from the Moray Firth in the North Sea via the River Ness. Furthermore, the Moray Firth is one of the areas of British seawater most frequented by porpoises, dolphins and whales. Indeed seals and dolphins have been filmed in the loch many times. If the mind wants to see a monster, three partly submerged dolphins swimming in a row could easily provide the illusion of a thirty-foot, three-humped creature in the gathering gloom – especially after a few drams of the local malt. I have myself encountered a few three-humped monsters after a lively evening out before now. The BBC has used sonar and satellite imagery to scan every inch of the loch and found ‘no trace of any large animal living there’. But, as it has always been the case with myths, legends and fables, while it is possible to prove the positive by producing irrefutable evidence, it is never possible to prove the opposite argument. We could dam Loch Ness and drain it. We would then be able to take everybody still perpetuating the myth down into this vast new dry valley and show them every nook, cave and rock cluster, but still the hardcore believers would reply: ‘Ah, but Nessie may well be out in the North Sea at the moment just limbering up for another appearance.’ But of course that is not the reason at all. Everyone from Columba (who told that miraculous story, embroidered or otherwise, which led to his canonization) onwards has profited from retelling the tall tale of Loch Ness. The only surprise is that so many people have, and still do, strongly believe there is an unidentified prehistoric monster living in a Scottish loch. Some argue that is a historical fact; I know it’s just a hysterical one. I’m here to inform you, kids – there is no such thing as the Loch Ness Monster. Just don’t tell anyone it was me who told you. - Albert Jack Albert Jack AUDIOBOOKS available for download here

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