Chapter Text
He didn’t even know where he was going, just that he needed to keep going. If he stopped, then the Jokerz were going to catch up to him and he was good and thoroughly slagged . He was already pushing his bike to the extreme, and god, he knew Dana was going to kill him for this even if he did make it out alive. A lose-lose situation, really. Either the Jokerz did him in or his girlfriend did.
The wind was roaring , he didn’t know how fast he was going, and with how fast it was, he didn’t dare look down at the speedometer. He was sure it would be flat. This was as fast as it could go. He was starting to regret not having time to shove on a helmet. If he wiped out, he was as good as an egg cracked on the sidewalk. A lose-lose- lose . Jokerz, Dana, bike malfunction. He really wasn’t getting out of this, was he?
His dad would probably throw a fit if he saw this. Slag , his dad. If he died, the last thing he’d have told his dad would’ve been an argument. His mom would be mighty upset too, and he really wouldn’t want to upset her. But he was almost definitely dead, riding up some old road that probably didn’t have an end that wasn’t “turn around and go back the other way”.
Aaaand he was right. Dead end. Slag . He was dead, he was so dead. There was no way he was getting out of this. This was so not schway. He was dead. He might as well say a final prayer and say goodbye to everything. They were going to catch up. There was no way they weren’t going to block the way out. His bike was a piece of junk, his dad bought it back in 2’68, it wasn’t going to be able to plow through four guys’ bikes.
There was also no way that he’d be able to climb the rusty gate without getting tetanus and probably dying. Lose-lose-lose- lose . The only way out of this would be on the off chance that he could take on four gang members at once and somehow make it out alive. And while he was only two years out of juvie and Hamilton Hill High’s wrestling champion, he still knew his limits. He was nowhere near good enough to take on four thugs at once on his own.
He was so dead. He could hear the bikes coming around the bend, he had only one choice now. Die now, or risk tetanus and maybe die later . He was sure that a tetanus shot was going to be preferable to this, so he did the smart thing. He ditched the bike to start climbing. He didn’t have the chance to start climbing.
The leader of this little Jokerz outfit skidded to a stop before his lackeys, kicking off his bike and letting it fall, not bothering with the kickstand. He pulled a blade out of his jacket pocket. Nothing special, from the looks of it. An old-timey switchblade without any tricks. He wouldn’t think much of it, if the other guys didn’t all dismount their bikes with blades of their own. Yeah, he was right. He was so dead.
This was definitely Karma, with a capital K. Karma for the kid he beat bloody and landed in the hospital. Karma for turning a school yard fight into a battery charge. And now he was going to get killed by a gang that 14 year old him would’ve joined in an instant. Joy.
He didn’t have any kind of weapon on him. And call him stupid for that, it is Gotham after all, he usually relied on his fists. But his fists were nothing against four guys his size with blades when he had nothing. He was dead.
If they moved first, they’d kill him before he got a chance to fight back. If he moved first, he’d get overpowered after he made the first swing. The only thing that could save him was a miracle dropping an asteroid on their heads. He was so slagged. Slagged and dead.
Lose-lose-lose-lose, like he’d said. He was dead. They were stuck in a standstill, no one wanted to move first. He couldn’t tell why, they clearly had the upper hand here. Why not just get it over with? He could climb the gate. If he moved fast enough, they wouldn't have the time to react and catch him before he was over it and could run further out into the property. He didn’t think the owner would care. Or notice, really. It was a big lot. He could hide until they left and he could go home-
The rusted iron gate was creaking open. That was why the Jokerz had been stalling. Someone was there. Either he was about to be even more dead, or he'd just gotten his miracle.
“What's going on here,” a firm voice demanded, cutting through the frigid silence like one of the switchblades. It had a grit to it, but also a sort of tilt to it that only came with age. He shot a glance behind himself for only half a second. He needed to see who was behind without losing track of the gangbangers in front of him.
Square jaw, liver spots, severely hunched over with a cane in hand. That's about all he could gather with one glance. He looked like he'd been a big guy, at one point or another.
“We don't want any trouble, Xer, we've got a bit of an issue with this punk who thinks he can mess with the Jokerz ,” the leader said, taking a step forward. He took a careful step back, walking right into the gate. Slag.
The Jokerz leader smirked, lunging forward with his blade in hand. More out of instinct than anything else, he threw up an arm to block, biting his tongue as the blade sliced through the sleeve of his jacket and into skin. He didn’t let out a scream. The old guy behind him seemed surprised. The other two Jokerz didn’t seem to care, simply surging forward into the fight.
He wasn’t going to get out of this without putting up a fight, he knew that much. He couldn’t be trying to fight clean here, fighting according to the rules would only land him dead in a ditch. He had to fight dirty if he wanted to survive. That was the way of Gotham City. If he didn’t want to die, he needed to fight dirty.
He took a shot for below the leader’s belt. He screamed , pulling his knife away as he recoiled and bent over. He took full advantage of this, using all of his strength to shove him back and into one of his lackeys and his bike. As they toppled backwards, the other two grabbed him by the arms in an attempt to shove him to the ground.
He hit his head on the concrete on the way down, his ears ringing as they overpowered him. He was officially dead. He said a silent prayer under his breath as the pain started to mask all higher thinking when the yelling started. There were spots dancing in his vision as a wrinkled hand picked him up off the ground, the old geezer coughing as he stood between him and the Jokerz.
The leader of their little outfit wasn’t lying in the same place he was when he’d knocked him down. The old man looked like he’d done more than just pull him up off the ground if the quickly darkening bruise he could see on his face said anything. So he may have been right about that miracle, it seemed.
He sucked in a deep breath, bracing himself to take a hit and drawing back to throw one. Lunging forward and into the space between the Jokerz and the old man, he threw himself at the nearest still standing Joker. He laid into him, not holding back as he swung for the face. He felt something give under his fist, almost certainly a tooth being knocked out of the skull.
His knuckles stung , but he wasn’t going to stop. He needed to do this, if he wanted to scare the other three off. One of them tried to step forward. He didn’t stop, snapping his head up to look the Joker dead in the eyes, flashing him a wolfish grin as he picked himself off the guy’s friend.
“Now get away ,” he spat, backing away from them. He was done. He’d one and he wasn’t going to humor them anymore. He saw the leader swallow as he scrambled for his bike to get away. The rest of his outfit wasn't far behind.
He sighed, leaning back against the gate as he turned to look at the old man. “Thanks for the help there, man. They would’ve cut me up and left me to rot if not for you,” the geezer didn’t respond, clutching at his shirt with eyes glazed over instead. “Hey, man, are you good?” he asked, moving from the gate and towards the man.
“I need my medicine,” was the man’s response, his voice far raspier than before. He took a few steps towards the gate, opening it and walking onto the property before stopping. “Come with me, I need help.”
He didn’t really know how to say no to the old man, so he followed. The house the man led him up to felt like something he should remember. It was grand, some early 1900s architecture, and massive . Big enough to house several dozen people comfortably, he was sure. And yet, it seemed no one had lived here in decades , based on how most of the furniture was covered with sheets. There were a few pieces left uncovered, namely the tube and a single armchair.
It smelled like a dog, too, so he assumed there was one of those around here too.
The old man collapsed into the armchair, still clutching at his chest. He dragged a hand down his face, beckoning him closer. “Okay, kid. I don’t think I have much time left so you’ll just have to do. My name is Bruce Wayne, and everyone else I would have picked to succeed me is long dead. For forty years, I was the Batman. Gotham has gone too long without one, and you, I think you could do it. In the office, there’s a grandfather clock that doesn’t work. Push it aside. Behind that door will be a staircase down. Everything you need will be down there. You can do that, right?”
“I-”
“What’s your name, boy,” Wayne said, a suddenly very firm grip on his arm, even as he could feel in the air that the man was dying.
“Terry. Terry McGinnis,” he said, uneasy, trying to take a step backwards.
“Do me proud, Terry McGinnis.”