Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

💛

February 20th.

It's been thirty seven years.

I attended a gala last night. It was held in my honor, for It was my birthday.

It was an event of great import, unfortunately. It was paramount that the entire family be there. I only barely got Stephanie to attend. Blackmail is immoral, but sometimes necessary. All of the incessant headlines… 

Sometimes, when I sit up on stage, and watch the supporting reassurance in Dick and Tim's eyes, or the self assured princely, though entitled and oftentimes selfish, manner Damian carries himself around the guests he deems as beneath him, or the boredom and standoffish nature of Jason and Cass, speaking softly with each other in the corner of the room, or Duke nervously chatting with a rapturous reporter with a glazed over look in their eyes, or the Kent's making small talk with some of the staff, I don't feel like I'm playing pretend when I'm Bruce Wayne.

Stephanie had bailed when I wasn't looking. I'm hardly surprised, but she's going to regret it.

Thankfully, some charity was done while we were all there. I felt like I wasn't wasting my time. The surprise Valentine's Day breakout at Arkham molded this birthday bash into a opportunity to help the people affected. Work like this is just as important as our nightly patrols.

It's been thirty seven years.

I never thought I would make it this far. I had always thought that somewhere, in the midst of the long war I wage when the sun falls, that the shadows I have made a home in would consume me as it does everything else. That the cowardly lot that had taken them, would take me as well. 

It was reassuring.

But I'm still here, with my family. 

And sometimes, I find myself thinking that I'd have it no other way.

Earlier in my crusade, I had considered those thoughts a betrayal of everything I stood for. A grossly treasonous idea, a backstabbing of that promise I made after Zorro. It was only supposed to be me, alone. I was putting others at risk. This… family. I had never prepared myself for the possibility, so I had to learn. My shortcomings only failed those that trusted me most. Scars heal, but they are not forgotten.

But no. My cowardice, my fear of interpersonal connection, is not a necessary tool in the fight against the criminal element.

I recognize that now. But it's still hard to incorporate that knowledge into my great crusade.

But I have to try. For them. For this city. For-

“Father?”

Damian.

“Are you writing in the war journal?” 

He approaches me with a stroll, quiet as a mouse and Alfred in his arms, the feline leaning into his touch. He's bothered by something, but he's trying to hide it, distract himself. 

With a soft click, I pressed the push button on my biro and placed it inside the journal, closed it. I then swiveled the chair looking at the BatComputer over to him. I give my son my full attention.

“Yes, Damian, I was.” 

I can see Alfred’s hair all over his sweater.

“Pennyworth requested a welfare check. And also to inform you that dinner is ready. His gruel has improved markedly since I made this manor my own two years ago.”

I've requested Alfred - No relation to the canine in my son's arms - to bring dinner to the cave too often lately. I don't think he'll accept it again. I can't handle his passive aggressive sass in such high doses.

I know he just wants me on the dinner table because he thinks it's good for me. I'm trying to be more active in the family, less distant. I sigh, accepting of my fate, though I wish I could keep writing.

“Well, I'm just about done with my entry. Let's go.”

“Hm. It is imperative that you finish your entry. You said that-” 

“I know, son. But I can finish later tonight.” 

“...Understood, Father.”

The cave is left silent then. The ever present background noise of the echoing flapping of Bat wings, a downright nostalgic set of sounds, is all I can hear.

Alfred, not getting enough affection from his distracted owner, leaps out of Damian's arms and scampers into the shadows.

Can't imagine he'll do well out there.

I'll find the cat later. But now I have my now slightly disappointed son to talk to. He's still bothered. I sort of dread the words that are going to leave my mouth - I'm not good at asking people how their day was.

“Did you get that issue with Mrs. Nguyen resolved?” 

The sadness on his face is quick to be replaced with a sneer and a roll of his eyes. Damian folds his arms and looks to the side, unrepentant entitlement evident in the simple flick of his hand. “Tt. Why she insists on recruiting me with useless fools instead of letting me work independently is beyond my understanding. I take a monumental lead in every metric in the class, so what would be the benefit of-”

“Damian.” I say once again, slightly clipped, my grip on the arms of the chair tightening. My son has the tendency to go on tirades regarding his superiority to the people around him. If I don't stop him, Damian could go all day.

Damian's mouth forms a line, and he sighs, looking down at the cave floor.

“Can you at least try?” I nearly beg.

A pregnant silence follows, and I still see a fight play out within him. A battle wages within his mind, no doubt agonizing over scenes of trying - and miserably failing - to connect with his classmates and despairing. But slight eye movements also tell me he's considering…

“Tt. Fine…” Damian tries to impart a dismissive and aloof tone, but I can hear a slight waver, despite everything.

I sigh, and give him a little smile. Just a few months ago this would have exploded into a shouting match of biblical proportions, but not anymore. I'm not one to indulge in little victories, but we all need exceptions.

I don't follow up on it. I only nod at him, escape from the padding of the chair like that had me trapped there, and I can tell he's grateful that I'm not letting this discussion hang over him for too long. None of us like to hear about how we need to change. Especially at that age, we want to feel like we're making the decision for ourselves.

He's only twelve.

Neither of us talk as I pull Damian by the shoulder out of the cave, and into the memory ridden manor above.

💛 

I've barely woken up, and already my day is going just fine.

A week and a half: around ten days. That's how long I've been a guest here. And I can say, I am not going to miss it.

First thing I did was wake up on the mattress. That wasn't the best, because I was still stuck in IKEA, but there's no sense crying about what you can't change. My eyes still haven't adjusted to the fluorescent lighting visible even with the tent above me, so I squinted and rubbed my eyes. 

Then, just as I was yawning and mentally preparing myself for another day of… this, I heard Him.

HARK, O MY CHILD IN THE MIDST OF THE HOUSE OF SWEDISH CARPENTRY. A DAY WITHOUT PRAYER IS ONE WITHOUT BLESSINGS, AND I HAVE HEARD THY PRAYERS AND INVOCATIONS. YOUR DAYS IN THIS COUNTRY HAVE MET AN END, AND NOW YOU SHALL GO TO ANOTHER LAND I SEE FIT. LEAVE THIS DWELLING, AND YOU SHALL LEAVE THIS PIECE OF CREATION. GO FORTH, AND HAVE FAITH. SO SAITH THE ANCIENT OF DAYS.

First of all, I can't underestimate how jarring it is to be just lounging about then having the word of God blasted into my ear without any warning. It's not as bad as it used to be, but goodness. Secondly, YEEHAW! Free at last!

Anyhow, seeing as I already had all of my belongings in my bag, I didn't need to collect much. I was so giddy telling the uh… “queen” that I was gonna head out, but I had to practically fight her on it!

I floated over to her in her tent, I was so so happy to be leavin’, and I said to her, “Imma catch you later, yer highness. I'm outta here!” This is the happiest I've been since getting here.

She was sitting at her desk, but my announcement shocked her out of her work sprawled out on it. “‘Outta here’, they say. What in the world could that mean? There's nothing outta there! You're just a KID, you can't go out into the wilds alone!” Oh yeah. Uh…

“It's time for me to go.” I try to explain to her slowly, walking over to her work station. “Look-”

She doesn't let me finish. “If you leave alone, you will die alone. You might have that weapon at your waist, but that changes little. Simple numerical advantage has those demons overwhelming you. I'm afraid I would be a lousy Queen if I were to allow that.” She sounds less shocked now, and her decisiveness is only growing. She stands up, then creeps up to me as she says this, with an oddly haunted look in her eyes. 

Dam- I mean, Dang it. She looked half convinced to put me under lock and key rather than let me leave! How could I convince her…

“I'm sorry ma’am, but…!” I hesitate. I don't want to pull out the religion card, but… “This is a direct order from God. If I don't, I would be disobeying God. Y'know, that's the height of arrogance.” 

Queen Christina only balks at that. She steps back and says nothing, only squinting at me, analyzing me to check if I'm lying or trying to punk her or something. I begin to doubt my strategy. Soon enough, The Iron Lady leans on the table, covers her face, and laughs sardonically before finally responding, “I did not know there was a God in this place.” 

Yeah, that probably wasn't gonna work. I sigh at her response.

“I don't mean to worry you, your highness, but I must leave! Look, I'll uh… I'll send a letter to let you know I'm safe and sound. To ease yer worries an’all.”

Having said that, I reach into my bag and pull out my bible.

I close the gap between us, and take her hand. “You have my word. My hand on the bible, I assure this to you.” I held the book up to the air, and said those words.

Her brow pulls up, and her hands are wringling together. “I-Hm. Again, where will you be going? There's nothing out there! Except those demons.” Pure horror is drawn in her eyes. She must have seen a lot during her… stay in this labyrinth.

“Look, all you gotta know is that I'm leavin’ this IKEA mess behind me, and Ill never return here again. You don't have to worry over me, promise!” 

She's lacking confidence in my words, but I can tell that even the idea sounds heavenly to her. “Leaving… I'm not sure that is even possible. But… seeing as you have proven yourself capable with that .44, I suppose it would not be too bad…?”

It's not a .44 magnum, it's not even a normal firearm, but I elect to let it slide.

She battles with herself for a second longer then, perhaps a bit too long for my tastes. After a moment, she finally makes up her mind. She looks melancholic to the side. “I concede. You can go. But, I shall prepare a leaving ceremony.” 

Now it's my turn to balk. “Oh, really ma’am, that's not necessary-” 

She suddenly whips her head to me again, and she gives me “The Look”. I'm sure that Toriel gave it to me often, when I lived with her in all of those timelines I only remember a second hand source of.

“Do you doubt me? And it is ‘Your highness’, not ‘Ma’am.’” 

Cowed, I only mumble. “Yes, your highness.” 

So I was allowed to leave.

Around 30 minutes later, after all had woken up to another day of living in this terrible place, Queen Christina gathered everyone at the front gate, that's around seventy people, to watch me leave. Me! Again, I don't know why they're giving me the first class treatment. Small towns, I guess.

“Citizens! I have brought you here today to announce something of great import. One of our new arrivals, the Cowboy child, is leaving Stockholm.” She holds her baby in her arms, with the tone of a commander or something. Wasn't she in the army? I sit beside her, wanting to hurry this along and leave this awful place but also feeling obligated to have proper etiquette and say goodbye.

The crowd reacts strangely. The crowd murmurs, and I see sad faces grow on the ones I can see up front. Sadness, with an obvious trace of unease. Even the guards at the Queen's sides look shocked at the Revelation. They all look… genuinely worried. I don't know any of these people!

“I understand. But Clover has assured me that they will send a signal that assures our settlement they are shielded from the dangers of the outer walls. Isn't that so?” She turns to me, and silently lets me know it's my turn to speak to the crowd. 

Ugh. I tried to prepare for this, but even standing up here saying nothing was really hard. I take a breath, and try to remember the line. 

“Uh…” I cough. Great start. I try to raise my voice. “I'll- I promise to write to y'all. Pinky promise.” I hold my finger out, just to show how serious I am.

I'm not good at talking to crowds.

I guess the Queen expected me to say more, because she lets the crowd hang on that for a little while. She holds her hand to her forehead for a split second, but then accepts what I have to say.

“And so it shall be. I know it is a sad day to see a dweller leave our settlement, so finally, if you have anything you want to say to them, come up and let your voice be heard.” 

And so it went like that for around fifteen minutes. Seventy seven people all coming up to just me and saying goodbye. Some simply shook my hand, others gave me crushing hugs, and others still gave long-winded speeches to me and held up the line. Including that guy that info-dumped about his life before coming here. 

About two days ago this guy just came up to me, sat me down and introduced himself as Jeremy, then began regaling me on the wife and kids he unwittingly abandoned by coming here. In the middle of it he simply collapsed into a sobbing fit, and the only thing I could think to do was rub his back and try to reassure him. It was kind of awkward.

Anyhow, after all the goodbyes were said and done, I stood before the Queen now. She spoke to me. “Farewell. I do hope you shall keep to your word.” She says confidently, but I can hear a trembling voice in her.

I really don't understand. Why is she doing this pomp and circumstance ceremony? I've only been here for a week. The only thing I've done in this place is be tormented by “Trifolium” and help around with the scouting parties in Stockholm.

But their hearts are only in the right place. Really, this whole event has only felt like a funeral. Like everyone here already knows I'm gonna die.

“I will. God Bless, and farewell.” I tip my hat to her.

At that, the Queen hands Anna over to the guard next to her and crushes me with a hug. All of these hugs. I suppose it feels nice, but I'm starting to get flustered.

But the hug is brief, and her Majesty says to me, “Say your farewells to my daughter.” 

The Guard, who I recognize but for the life of me can't remember the name of, gives Anna to me.

I look at the little girl in her blue eyes. The only thing I can think to do is hug her close to my chest, and whisper some prayers for her.

And with that, I left.

I've been walking for a while. Thinking about my time spent in this store. Thanking God for finally getting me out of this hellhole. Having complicated thoughts about that little plant imp I met, that was actually me. I hope I don't meet another version of myself, wherever I'm going. Historically, meeting them has just been tiring.

My thoughts are interrupted by me reaching my destination. A gray door, sitting in the middle of the store. Heh. That rhymed. I breathe a sigh of relief, and follow after my escape hatch.

Before I open the door, I take a look around. Just getting a feel of the scenery, one last time. I try to collect my thoughts.

I spit on the floor. May God damn this horrid place. Hopefully, one day, everyone stuck here can leave.

Without further ado, I open the door and enter through. (I'm rhyming a lot today.) I hear the theremin sound of the door disappearing, and savor it. No more IKEA.

First things first, I feel the gust of wind. Fresh air! How I've missed you.

Secondly, I'm in yet another alley way. It's a little wet, so it must have been raining recently. Which is unfortunate, because it's also pretty dirty and dingy. There's litter EVERYWHERE! Ebott City was pretty clean, as much as the town barely qualified as a city. I'm not some kinda clean freak, but it's abysmal.

That reminds me. I need to figure out where I am. Time to do a little detective work.

As I walk through the dull urbanity of this unknown city, I hear the sounds of its residents, in their homes with the windows shut tight, and outside of the alley itself, doing whatever big city folks do.

There sure is a lot of graffiti around. Most of it is incomprehensible to me, but I suppose I appreciate the artistry in a cosmic sense. Why do people draw on public buildings? Why don't they just use paper? I feel like I would appreciate the art more if they didn't do that.

My musings regarding city culture are all that fill my head until…

What could that be? I hear a ruckus.

Is it…

I try to drown out the noise of the city and focus on what I'm hearing.

“P-P-Please, man, I-I'm not-” 

“Look, just shut the fuck up and give me whatever you got. This isn't frickin, whatcha call it? A debate.” 

I hear crying voices, two of them. Three scared voices, and a bully. That's all it sounds like to me. Although, I'll say the bully doesn't sound so sure of himself. It sounds like he's in a hurry. No matter. He's not getting what he wants out of them.

I try not to draw too much attention to myself as I hurry on over to the source of the disturbance. Clearly, Justice is needed.

Finally, I turn the corner and I see the four of them, illuminated by the raised fixture of a street light straight out of the Victorian times or something. 

Three innocent people, filled with fear. A man and a woman, and a little girl. A family, obviously. They're all wearing pretty normal looking clothes. The little girl is wearing a raincoat, and her parents are wearing big fluffy sweaters. They look expensive.

I stand behind the perpetrator. His skin is as pale and sickly as his decaying sweater, and he has bite marks around his wrist. His shorts are too short, and he's wearing flip flops of all things. Who heard of a mugger in flip flops? 

He terrorizes the family with a 9mm, maybe a Sturm Ruger? I can't make it out with how dark it is.

It's time to do what's right.

I unsheathe my sidearm, and shout. “Attention!” I hope my voice isn't as unassuming as my stature.

All eyes on me. I march over to them, and I can only see the dilated eyes of the mugger. His facial expression doesn't give much to work with, but his cold stare looks… he doesn't look well.

“Let ‘em go.” My command is made plain.

The mugger suddenly shifts his whole body over to me, and begins to breathe heavily. *You-What?” He laughs, and it sounds uneven, like glass breaking. “You're a kid. Yeah. That's not even loaded, I bet.” He seems to have a smarmy attitude. His voice is not pleasant.

“Now.” I cocked and aimed my gun at him, and I could hear his breath hitch. Looking down the barrel of a gun isn't so fun, huh?

He groans, and he seems to have completely forgotten the family he was just victimizing. “God- That thing looks real…” He then holds his gun back up, shakily. It looks like he's never held one before. He's holding it weird.

He stumbles over his words. “Ok- Fine! If that's how you wanna go, t-then-” 

Before he could finish that thought, the father who he was holding up suddenly ran up and served him a left hook to the back of the head.

Woah! Did not expect that. The mugger makes a pretty severe sound, too. Try not to think about that too much. While I do that, I notice his gun fall to the floor and jog over to the weapon and kick it to the man, and he catches it and aims it at the criminal.

The mugger groans and tries desperately to get himself up off the floor. But with how frail he looked already, he couldn't even do that. He looks behind him, and me and the father, with our guns aimed at him.

“Get out of here! G-Go! Before I… pop a cap? Yeah, before I pop a cap in your ass!” He sounds a little more brave now.

The criminal's dead eyes glide over to me. 

“Git.” I gesture with my gun for him to leave.

The mugger seems to contemplate his life choices for a second. With his mind made up, he hastily gets up off the floor, cradling the back of his busted head. He quickly runs off into the distance, the only things I hear out of him are the sticky sounds of him trying to run in his stupid lime green flip flops, and his echoing cries, “Fuckin Redneck brat!” He slurs out sloppily.

Wait. Hey! 

Oh well. Who cares what some cussin’ bandit thinks anyway? 

With the outlaw running away with his tail between his legs, I refocused back on the family I had helped. The father still had the pistol in his hand, looking into the distance where the mugger ran off to. He's shaking profusely. I wonder what's goin’ on up there. I look behind me, and the Mother and daughter are still frozen in shock. It's like time stopped for all three of them.

This must have been pretty scary for them. I'm not gonna pretend I'm Davy Crockett or something, but I've probably dealt with more life threatening situations than these people have. 

I try to keep my voice unassuming as I look up at the man and question, “...mister? How’re you holdin’ up?” 

“WOOOOOO!!!!”

His fists fly up into the air, and he lets out a guttural roar of triumph. I take a startled step back.

“YEAH! YUH! I'M- URGHHHYEEAAHH!” 

The Man launches himself over to his family, and hugs them furiously. 

They're all in celebratory moods. The woman's smile is so wide her cheeks look ready to break, and the little girl is hugging the man's leg for dear life, laughing.

Huh.

I holster my gun and take a few cautious steps closer to the three of them. I don't know what to say, really. I try to let them have their moment. They seem relieved beyond comparison. I don't want to stick my nose in their affairs… More than I already have, anyhow.

While I was spacing out, trying not to be nosy, I heard the man call out to me. “H-Hey! You, Kid. Who… Who are you?” 

Surprised, I responded, “Um. It's Clover. That's my name.” 

“Well, Clover…” He quickly closes the distance between us and put his hand which isn't holding the gun on my shoulder. “You're amazing, seriously! Where'd you learn how to hold a gun? You didn't shake or anything!” 

I blush. “Uh, shooting ranges and practice. It's just kinda natural to me.” I twiddle my thumbs, reminding myself internally that the humble rule the earth. I'm only allowed to feel good about myself unless I actually did something. I just stood there and pointed a gun at him!

“No shit.” He lets out a relieved breath.

“Language!” I hear the woman whisper-shout, holding her hands to her daughter's ears. The father mouths a “sorry” to her, and looks back to me.

“Look, I don't know how to say this, but you really came in clutch back there. Whatever you want, I'll try to find a way to give it to you. Seriously.”

Came in clutch… I don't know about that. I furrow my brow as I respond. “That's not necessary, sir. And you hit ‘em on the head, I only helped! That being said…” I clap my hands together, and I decide to cash in on his promise. “I was wondering if you could answer a few questions I got.”

He's a native, probably!

“Heh, you're right, you're right… Go ahead. What do you wanna know?” He responds good-naturedly. He seems proud, and I think he deserves to be. I anticipate before asking…

“Y’all wouldn't happen to know where I am, would you?” 

Now's when I start getting strange looks. That must be a strange thing to hear from the kid who interrupted your getting mugged.

“You don't… We're in Crime Alley.” He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. 

Crime Alley.

“Crime Alley,” I repeat. That's actually the name of this place?

The woman speaks up. “We're in Park Row.” She says it very pointedly. “None of those… stupid hood nicknames.” 

“Billie, that's what everyone calls it.” He rolls his eyes, and looks back to me, and he looks genuinely worried. “Do you… get lost, or-” 

“Maybe they're from another state.” For the first time, the little girl speaks up.

How am I gonna explain away this alternate universe stuff? I don't think they'll take me seriously if I say I'm from another reality, so…

“Yeah, I'm from Texas. I'm not from around here, so I'm not familiar with… this city or anything.” It's technically true. I was born in Texas, and I'm not from around here. So I didn't lie. God's happy with me right now, I know it.

Understanding dawns on the adult’s faces. “Ohhh. But where are your parents, or a guardian? Do you need directions home? I've got-” 

I'm not in the mood for this. “Look Ma'am, I appreciate the sentiment, but I'll be alright. Thank you.” I say it in a harsher tone than I intended.

“Oh. Sorry.” 

Awkward silence. I feel their gazes on me. With that look adults always give when they feel sorry for you. It's exhausting, truly.

Ugh. I'm too sensitive. I need to get over questions like that. I grumble, and scratch the back of my neck.

“Um, apologies. But that's not what I meant. I was askin’ more… what city, state… country, am I in.” It never hurts to be more knowledgeable.

The lady, who I think was called Billie, raises her brow so high it might as well have fused with her long curly hair. The father purses his lips and looks to the floor, unable to respond to such an inquiry. Luckily for me, the little girl doesn't look bothered at all and takes the liberty of responding.

“We're in Gotham City. It's in New Jersey!”

Gotham City? I've never heard of it. But I'm not exactly a geography expert. I don't even know one city in Jersey off the top of my head. Aren't people always saying bad things about New Jersey?

I sigh. “Well, thanks. I'm not gonna hold you up any longer, so-” 

“Are you a superhero?” 

The little girl, who can't be older than Frisk, marches right up to me and demands an answer. I'm pretty caught off guard. “Excuse me?” 

“Are you a superhero? Like Wonder Woman?” 

Who's… what?

“Naw, I ain't a superhero.” I don't even know what's going on.

The little girl seems frustrated by my reply. “Yeah you are! You even have a costume and everything!”

“Costume? These are my clothes!” I cry indignantly. I know she's really young, but… the audacity! Her parents need to teach her some manners. If she's so sure that I'm a superhero then why did she bother asking?

The father laughs awkwardly, and pulls the little girl towards his direction. “Heh, heh, yeah sweety, please don't… Don't do that, that's not nice.” He then cleared his throat. “Look, if you want to reach out to us…” 

The man reaches into his pocket and writes something down on a lime green paper slip (my favorite!) and handing it to me. “We’re the Washingtons. If you want to contact me, that's my number. I owe ya, son.” 

With that, the three of them leave. I hear a distant playful argument about taking the “Crime Alley” shortcut, and I see the little girl still giving me the evil eye.

Alright. What a warm welcome to… Gotham City, I think the girl said.

“To think, I had my life saved by a nine year old.” I hear off in the distance, and-

What!? Nine!? I am CLEARLY almost thirteen! 

How am I even gonna contact them? I don't have a phone! I pinch my nose bridge. What a sorry state of affairs I am in. What am I gonna do?

I guess I'll have to find out.

Hold on. I look at the dirty concrete floor, and… Did Mr. Washington drop the mugger's gun on the floor? That's what that is, definitely. I kneel over and pick up the handgun off the ground and…

Wait.

I hold it in my hands, and… it's practically weightless! Let me check something.

Press the magazine release… check the mag and…

Empty. There are no clips.

Then… pull the slide back… empty the chamber…

Nothing falls out. 

I can't believe it. Finally, I rack it back and scrutinize the chamber.

This gun is functionally worthless, except maybe as a blunt weapon. There's not a bullet in this thing, or any kind of… creative ammunition, like I've got. That cowardly weasel actually went up to someone with a non-loaded gun and held them up! He didn't even have the guts to ACTUALLY be a scumbag, he had to fool people. He literally would have been better off using a bat. This is what I'm getting hung up on. It's disgusting, honestly. What a coward.

Uh. Anyway, I decided to keep the Sturm Ruger for safe keeping. And definitely not because I'm gonna start some kind of collection. Into the bag it goes.

With my first official encounter with these city dwellers done with, I continue on. There's not much else I can do except… search for my purpose in being here. God sent me here for a reason after all.

I walk along this dark alley, distant music playing in someone's home, some odd carnival waltz. Who would want to listen to that? Peculiar.

Crime Alley. What a very direct name. I'm sure it would be something Asgore would come up with. 

Heavens above. I feel like I met that tyrant months ago, but that was only a few weeks ago now. Time moves too quickly and too slowly, I think.

My form of auto-entertainment (talking endlessly to myself) is abated as I come across something strange in this alley.

I look down, and I see a chalk outline. It looks like two people, one collapsed on top of the other. The silhouette is strange. Like an amalgamate. Beside the chalk drawing is, what looks to be, a bundle of flowers.

Just as well, there's a single red rose on the opposite side.

…💛 

I feel strange. I feel like I'm intruding on something. Kind of like when I was in the Ketsukane Estate. Memories floating around me…

My SOUL jolts at the memory.

This is a memorial. I… I suppose it never hurts to pay your respects to the dead. They deserve it, whoever they were. 

I take off my hat, and take a moment of silence.

…

And with that, I put my cowboy hat back on to venture onward.

I really hope I didn't take a moment to respect a serial murderer or a cannibal or something. Oh, well, it's a private moment.

I venture off into the city lights.

With all said and done behind me, I can only think of one thing.

Just who in the Sam Hill is “Wonder Woman?” 

💛 

I think I would've heard of Gotham City.

So obviously, this city exists in this world and not in mine.

This city is massive! It has to be around the same size as New York or so. I've been wandering around for hours, aimless in the most profound way, and I don't think I've begun to scratch the little crumbs of the surface of this metropolis.

Park Row, “Crime Alley”, is in the Bowery, which I think is a part of an island named Somerset. Gotham seems to be a system of islands connected by bridges.

I've got to say. It is very crowded. It may not be that bad for people used to it, but I feel like an ant. I feel like I can't talk to anyone without being a right nuisance.

This city is strange. Especially the way it looks. It's like… Victorian London, Old 40s style Noir movies, and those weird German horror movies made in the 30s, all mixed together in a cauldron of Gothic architecture. Gotham has an identity, I'll give her that. 

What's even weirder is the weather. I feel like I've been here for hours and the sun hasn't come up. It's just been dark and gloomy, like in a movie set.

Honestly, it kinda reminds me of New Home. As little of the city that I did see. I was occupied trying to get Ceroba to not split my head open with her staff thingy to admire the unique architecture.

Maybe I just don't understand, because I grew up in the mid-sized city - Town, more like - of Ebott, but I can't keep up with all this noise.

There's theaters, and hotels, there's a park somewhere around here, there was a clinic somewhere, and I just don't know where to start.

Exhaustion creeps at my aching bones.

From the directions I've gotten from the exasperated locals, I brought myself somewhere in the East End. I've no idea though.

I don't think there'll be some quadrillionaire to adopt me Annie style, so I think I'm going to have to make due with sleeping on the streets for now.

Tomorrow's only a day away. Maybe if I emphasized my… ugh. Cuteness. Then maybe I could have had a Daddy Warbucks guy come and let me live in his mansion! But then I'd have to sing a whole bunch, and be a redhead. I don't know if I have the chops for that. Oh well. I don't have time to get adopted! The opportunity for that has long sailed.

I wish I had a bed.

Scratch that, I wish I had a bed that wasn't in a Swedish furniture store.

After many minutes of foraging for a spot to sleep for the night, I finally found a place. A… dry, mostly empty and clean alleyway. Good to go to sleep for the night, and a trashcan to dig for food when needed.

My tired legs carry me to the empty alley, hungry and shivering.

I'm totally out of my element. I have no idea how to traverse a big city like this! Maybe I should get a map. Maybe there are places that’ll let me sleep on a nice bed until I get on my feet? 

I slump down, the brick wall behind me not doing well for my back.

I'm thinking of a homeless shelter. That's what I am: Homeless. I'm a bum. I suppose Vagabond is the word I'm looking for. I'm a dirty, lonely, hungry little urchin.

I feel worthless.

…

I sigh. No use feeling sorry for myself. In fact, I've been a Debby downer lately. The Super IKEA really spoiled my mood. I think it's about time I started counting my blessings!

First of all, I'm still alive. Not many people who've died get to come back. Well, except Flowey. But he was a soulless husk. And Jesus. But he's God, or something. All in all, for the average Joe's standards, I've gotten lucky. 

Second of all, I get to talk with my friends! Even though I died, and I'm in another universe! If you really think about it, God is SPOILING me. Even if… ink on paper can't replace actually talking to them or spending time together…

No! Now's not the time to get sad! Besides, even if I'm a homeless, solitary creten, I have to do God's will in this land. Whatever that turns out to be. Prophets don't give up! I'm a prophet, I think. I must be strong, and optimistic.

Yeah! Cowboys don't give up! 

I slap my face a bit, I repeat that mantra.

Cowboys don't give up! I need to cowboy up!

With that prep talk done, I decide to do something worthwhile before I hit the hay. Or, as I should say, hit the cold concrete.

I have no patience for writing, so reading some of God's Book suits me fine. 

I briefly consider ringing the bell for the mail, but then I think better of it. This is a massive city. There is no way someone doesn't see and start a panic. I'm not in the mood to deal with that right now.

It's kinda funny, thinking about it. If you look at it from a certain angle.

I do like this book of Exodus, though. Moses is a disgraced Egyptian-Hebrew prince who retires to the Land of Midian for basically his whole life, and when he's eighty years old God calls on him to…

Wait. This seems pretty familiar.

A burning bush… He calls out to him… In a cave…!

Huh. I guess I'm not so special.

Anyhow, Moses then goes off to Egypt to free the enslaved Hebrews, God almost murdered because him because his kid wasn't circumcised, and then-

“BARK!” 

Huh? What was that? Who's disrupting my storytime?

“Woof.” 

I look beside me to the source of the disturbance, and I see…

A small white dog. He has his tongue out and his head tilted. His tail's wagging too.

I am thoroughly displeased.

“YOU!” I point an accusatory finger at the mangy mutt. “You jacked my gun when I wasn't looking!” My outrage drowns out the thoughts in my head regarding manners and screaming in public.

He lets out a soft whine at that.

“Don't you start with me!” I'm sure I've seen this dog before my encounter with the Trifolium, somewhere in the Dunes? I can't remember where exactly. “That is an insult of the highest order. Get from my sights.” Wherever it was, he ain't welcome on these streets!

The Annoying Dog then has the audacity to come closer to me and nudge my hand. He wants head pats! Unbelievable.

I sigh, dreading the inevitable. “How did you even get to Gotham? Aren't you supposed to be back home?” Traitorously, I can't help but cave in to the canines' pleas. I really am hopeless.

The Dog smugly barks, somehow aware of the arcane power he holds over mortal men.

“Why am I even asking you… You can't talk.” I look at the little guy more closely now, and… he looks a little dirty. His fur isn't exactly spotless or dirt free. I can't imagine I'm much better.

“Are you a vagabond too, boy?” The Dog pants at my touch. “Don't you have an owner, or a home? Maybe you don't want all that. Maybe you're happier not tied down to anyone.”

The Dog responds to none of this, simply enjoying the luxury of having someone pay attention to him.

“I guess we're both just strays…” 

I'm so tired. And honestly, petting this dog has been the most therapeutic thing I've experienced all day.

I guess dogs are okay. But still…

“Just so ya know, I forgive, But I NEVER forget. Are we understood, doggie?” I say sternly. The Dog completely disregards what I have to say by jumping into my lap and laying down on it. 

And… yeah. Pretty much immediately he falls asleep. I should be following his lead, I guess.

I put the book away, as interesting as it was getting, and took out a blanket I borrowed (stole) from one of the showrooms from IKEA.

Once again, I use my bag as a pillow, this time with a yellow blanket, cardboard beneath me, and a little companion beside me. I feel a little better. At least I've got a dog to hang out with.

It's better than a dirt hole, at least. Count your blessings!

💛

Chapter Text

💛 

Being homeless is quite terrible. Controversial statement, I know. I don't know if living out in nature for two weeks is more tolerable or not. I was very lonely, sure, but that was comforting in its own way. Plus, I got to eat lots of fish and chickens. Homelessness sure beats IKEA by country mile, that's undisputable!

It's Day 2 of Street living for me. I have been waltzin’ around the East End all day, and nothing has come of it. I've got to say, this area is really… How to describe it… It's like someone's guts were cut open and spilled all over a city district.

This place is nasty! That mugging I intercepted yesterday is a dime a dozen in this part of town. There's litter everywhere, people are aloof and indignant regarding strangers, there's all these people with strange needles and stuff. What they could be doing with them is beyond me. And then there was this time I saw this guy in this really fancy outfit around a bunch of girls. They were… scantily clad. But they also looked really sick, and a few were… young. Young looking. But before I could go over to them, some limo (GOD knows how they could afford it in a neighborhood such as this!) came over and collected them all like a clown car.

All in all, I don't really know what's going on. I've seen a lot of things that are just weird and freaky, and I don't know what to do to help. 

How am I supposed to bring justice when there's an avalanche of corruption coating the very streets? I don't know.

It's times like this where I really begin to doubt myself. I'm just… some nobody kid. I went to Mt. Ebott because I couldn't care less about what happened to me, and the only reason I lived beyond the ruins was because Flowey is/was a scoundrel. I feel out of my depth. Powerless to stop injustice.

This city does not make a lick of sense to me. But honestly? That doesn't matter right now. The most important thing on my mind?

I need to use the restroom.

I managed to hold it all day, but during my wanderings the problem has only gotten more and more intolerable. I feel like I'm gonna explode! I promised myself I would go back to my living quarters and write some letters to my friends, but I had to keep wandering to look for some relief. So that's what I'm doing.

Ugh. Every second feels like I'm stuffed in a barrel. It's times like this where I really miss Martlet, or Ceroba, or Star, or anyone! Even Flowey, honestly. Someone who I can talk to to ground myself. 

The worst thing about being homeless? Not having a reliable bathroom. I can't just do it on the street! I've got to have a little more dignity than that! And I'm pretty sure I would earn myself a spot on a certain list for doing such a thing. But for the life of me, I just can't find one. I think I'm starting to enter some kind of manic state.

At least the Underground has the courtesy to have a lot of “outdoor” areas, not part of a big metro. Then I could do my business! 

Hold on now. I can't remember exactly, but… was Flowey ever watching me when I was…

I shudder at the thought. Mentally moving along, thank you very much.

As I walk along these dingy streets, I consider my options. I don't think those high end operas or hotels are gonna let me use their bathrooms without giving them some dough, and I'm in short supply of any flour or liquid. They would probably throw me out if they saw me in the state I'm in anyway. And a lot of smaller places had signs on that said stuff like “NO LOITERING” or “RESTROOM NOT AVAILABLE W/O SERVICE”.

“Loitering.” I can't say I haven't heard that one before.

After almost an hour of excruciating pain and searching, I came upon a sidewalk that led to yet another alleyway. Except this time, there were all these adults - well, young adults - in a line. 

I had no idea what they were in line for, but I decided to take my chances and see what the hub-bub was about.

There was this guy in front of me talking loudly on the phone the whole time. While usually I could just tune it out and mind my own business, with my predicament I felt like I NEEDED to eviscerate his phone with my soul beam just to get him to shut up. He was talking to his girlfriend on his weirdly flat phone, but he had it on speaker and was holding it out. I swear, he was talking all gushing like she was right there in front of him! He even growled and clawed at thin air, at one point, whatever the hell that was about. I felt like my ears and eyes were bleeding.

From behind me there was this friend group of girls who seemed really… unabashed. They were pretty loud, and although harmless, truly annoying. They kept on using stupid made up words like “skrunkly”, or “scrimblo”, and it was driving me up the wall! What does any of that even mean!? It was more obnoxious than the lovebird on the phone, frankly.

And all of this while REALLY needing to use the bathroom. God was punishing me for something, I knew it. What did I do to deserve this?

After another half hour of torment, the line finally carried me to its end.

There was this guy dressed in all black, with a head as hairless as his eyebrows. He's also wearing sunglasses and has a skull on his shirt. He looks like a bouncer! And there was this deafening thud shaking my bones coming from inside, so I can only assume I was in line for some kind of club.

Finally! I'm sure that clubs have bathrooms, so I might finally find some salvation! Like God tested Abraham at Mount Moriah, God tested me by having me sit in line for 30 minutes while really needing to use the bathroom. And I passed the test, because here it was!

The guy on the phone was let in after he showed the bouncer some card he had on him, and he was let in. The blaring music was heard for only a second before the door was closed shut.

And finally, it was my turn. And-

“What? Who are you?” The bouncer’s voice is gruff, and kind of intimidating. I barrel through these concerns and squeak out my reply.

“I-I'm Clover… C-Can I use your bathroom?” I am shaking like a leaf, and my guts are turning every second. I NEED to use this restroom.

“...Is this a joke? Who's kid is this? He looks around, looking for… whoever. He then scoffs and looks down at me. “I'm not gonna letta eight year old bambino into the Capucha Roja Night Club.” 

“H-How rude! For your information, I am almost thirteen! And I don't know what that other word means.” I can barely get it out with my absolute biological state.

“Run along, cowboy. Halloween was five months ago.” This punk only laughs smugly! I'm lifted into the air and placed to the side, like I'm just a little pup! I can hear the no-goods in line titter at me.

Humiliation. Degradation. Anger. Abdominal Pain.

By the glory of God and His Grace, I will use that bathroom.

I stick around for a little longer, and wait. The bouncer is not bothered by me. My physiological need throbs throughout my body.

The next in line is the “Skrunkly” posse, whom I find displeasing on an objective level.

Before the blonde girl in the front can get a word in, the bouncer sighs. “Hrn. Like I told the five of yous the last… FIVE. TIMES. You have to have an ID to enter. It ain't that complicated.” He seems really frustrated.

The girl in front, wearing a beanie with a horrid looking picture of a mongoose on it for whatever reason, puts a hand to her chest all offended like, and responds diplomatically. “Um, FYI, that was twice. And also fuck you let us in, worstie!” 

Suddenly, all five of them immediately devolve into a bloodthirsty hounding session, throwing untold amounts of verbal abuse at the man. Calling him all sorts of names, threatening his family, and telling him to go ahead and do awful things to himself. Naturally, I'm taken back. I didn't know they had it in them!

The bouncer doesn't respond, but his expression tells me that he would be a real happy camper if all these girls were reduced to a red mist.

How strange. Oh well!

While all of this is going on, I decide to take advantage of the bouncer's grief, and run inside. I rush over to the door, slam it open and try and quietly close it before the bouncer notices.

I wait for a second to see if he did…

Nothing happens. I slipped through undetected! I celebrated my stealth skills with a little victory dance.

But now's not the time for prideful displays. I have a mission. I begin looking.

One thing that hits me walking through this place is the SMELL. It smells sickly, really, like onions burning and rotting at the same time. Don't ask me how I know what that smells like. 

I'm not the best cook.

Anyway, I also noticed how loud the music was. I felt like my bones were shaking. Horrid.

But that's not what I'm concerned with. I NEED the lavatory, I am aching.

I shuffle through the countless bodies and evade the droplets of alcohol falling from the taller people, ignore the bright flashing lights, and finally, I find the bathrooms.

I say a prayer before entering, because I do not have fond memories of any kind of public restroom. There was this one time at school… it was all over the walls…

Traumatic experiences aside, I enter through the door on the right.

“Oh, PLEASE, SPARE me!” 

What's with all this commotion? I hide behind the stall and start to eavesdrop, as I am want to do. The guy who was yelling paces around the nasty lookin' bathroom, the dim blue tint lighting up the public restroom and making my eyes water a bit.

“Y-You- I thought…” 

The demure sounding guy’s voice catches as the other one, blaring and commanding, groans before he can finish his sentence. “Think? You think? That's a new one. The last time you THOUGHT about us and what we were, you lied and- and you cheated and you misdirected!” 

Exasperated, the guy with the smaller voice responds, and he seems rather hurt by the other one's words. “Levi, what are you going on about? You were the one who-” 

“Shut up. Just shut up, Jason. I thought this would be fun, but it's obvious you just can't control your insecurities enough to have this one night out.” Levi sure likes to talk over this Jason fella. He hasn't let him finish a single sentence. What are they arguing about anyhow? I heard the word “cheated.” Were they playing a poker game or something?

“You made me do it. You weren't there for me. You know this, we went over this. I'm tired of the manipulation and the deceitful tactics. Have fun in this shit covered bathroom. I'm leaving.” This sounds awfully heated.

“...i'm s-sorry… I l-lo-” Jason breath catches before a sob leaves his mouth. Poor guy. Must have been a really important game. He probably lost a lot of money!

“I don't. I don't. Fuck you.” And with that, Levi storms out, and doesn't notice me as he slams the bathroom door open and goes off into the crowd. 

…What in the world was all that about! I can't imagine that whatever they were so heated about was deserving of a fight in a public restroom. Couldn't this have waited for back in the car?

I decided to go check up on this Jason fella. He doesn't sound like he's in a great place.

I look over the stall and finally see Jason. He's really skinny, tall, and has a massive pink sweater on. A black mop of hair covers his eyes. Unfortunately, he's collapsed into a weeping mess on the floor. 

Poor guy. He probably put his life savings on that game. This is why people shouldn't gamble. I wonder what the Bible has to say about the practice?

His sobs, while disheartening, aren't very loud. Jason is so lost in his sorrow he doesn't hear, or perhaps doesn't care about, me stepping closer to him.

He has his face buried in his hands. I decided to do a check-up. “Are you alright, friend?” 

Startled, Jason spasms and lets out a little “Eep!” before flipping his hands through his hair, and I caught a glimpse of his eyes. Oh man. I guess he didn't see me. Behind his round glasses, his eyes are all red and puffy. Anyone who's anyone would notice he was cryin’. 

“What…” His voice is very breathy, I think. He looks confused. I can't imagine why. “What are you doing here?” 

“Well, I came on down here to use the John, but I overheard y'all's argument. I heard you was crying, so I wanted to make sure you were okay.” 

With that, Jason's face now sports a smile. “I'm… I'm okay. You don't have to worry about me.” His voice holds a strange mix of grateful and questioning.

I tilt my head. “I don't mean to be rude, but you are actually weeping on the floor of a public restroom. Not the best display, I reckon.”

Flustered, he looks down at the floor he's sitting down on and winces, and gags. “Bleh. Yeah, I should probably get up off the floor…” And he does, in record time.

As Jason dusts off his pants, he sniffles before saying, “I didn't know they were letting kids into clubs now.”

I puff my cheeks at the insult. “I am NOT a kid. And uh, they didn't let me in, exactly. I kinda…” I hesitate, before shamefully admitting it with a whisper. “I kinda snuck in.”

“You're blushing!” Jason titters at that. “That's so precious.” 

“Aw, shat up, skinny boy.” I don't know God's position on sneaking into nightclubs to use their bathroom, but I can't imagine he'd approve.

Skinny boy, which will be his permanent name from now on, giggles softly before sighing, pulling at his hair and making an anguished face. “You're good at cheering me up. I was such a mess...” 

“Oh yeah, I was about to ask, what was-” A grumble from my intestines interrupted me. If I don't use the toilet immediately, this will turn into a medical emergency. 

“Excuse me for a sec-” I immediately RAN into one of the stalls, and jumped up to my salvation, held onto the porcelain throne for dear life.

Mercifully, I didn't need to spend too long on it. Before long, I pushed the stall door open and let out a loud and satisfied “Ahhhhh…” 

Salvation had finally come. At that moment, I had forgotten all my woes and that which despaired me, and I felt on top of the world.

“Um.” Oh yeah. Jason was here the whole time. I kinda forgot about that. Oh well. If I didn't do my business at that exact moment, I know I was going to die for a second time. I'm not about to meet St. Peter! Not yet, anyhow.

I burp before heading over to the sink and lathering my hands in soap. “So, what's the dramatic story behind you and your poker buddy, Skinny boy?”

“Um, it's Jason, and-” He suddenly pulls a face, seemingly to register what I said, and chuckles. “Poker…? Uh, sure. ‘Poker buddies.’” 

Huh? Did I get something wrong? 

His face gets a bit more severe. “I don't know if I should be talking about this with a little kid.”

I roll my eyes and turn the cold lever. “Don't be like that. Just tell me, I can handle it. And my name's Clover.” 

“Well, Clover… Let's say that…” Jaso- I mean Skinny Boy pauses for a minute before answering. “Me and Levi, um, went out tonight, and… I might have accidentally mentioned him cheating on… our poker game.” 

Huh. I turn the lever and grap a paper towel. “But he said that you did.” 

He pulls at the sleeve of his sweater. He looks uncomfortable. Like he's thinking about a subject he really doesn't want to. “Levi… he likes to… when he's confronted with something that upsets him he feels threatened so… he tends to turn it around and say that I did it or it's somehow my fault.” 

Unbelievable! “Sounds awfully pig-headed. Why do you put up with that?” 

Jason winces. “He's… a good poker buddy, really. But…” He doesn't finish. He's biting his lip, and looks conflicted.

“Well…” I adjust the badge on my vest, and think of the responsibility it holds. “I don't mean to give input where it's not wanted, but here's my two-sense. If you can't trust the guy you're playing with to play fair, then you might as well be throwin’ yer money away. And if he has the gall to turn it around and accuse you, then he either thinks you're stupid or weak. And at that point hanging around this Levi fella is a form of masochism.” 

I cough. Rambled a bit there. “Ahem. Anyhow, yeah. That's what I think.” 

Jason's mouth forms a line, and he lets out a pitiful chuckle. “You're very precocious. And probably right…” 

I let Jason sit there a bit and contemplate things.

“Uh, maybe we should get outta this bathroom. Surprised no one's popped in.”

“Oh! Yeah. Totally. Um, I actually don't know if that's a good idea or not…” Jason loses even more steam than before.

“Why not? Oh, wait, are you worried about Levi?”

Jason suddenly bursts out, “No!” I blink, before he loses steam yet again. “Yeah, that's totally it.”

“Aw, you don't gotta fret. I know that poker games can get violent. Lucky you, I got just the thing!” 

Stylishly, I pull out my sidearm and do a spin with it! 

Immediately, Jason's eyes bulge out of his sockets, and he takes a massive step back from me. “Wow. Uh, I REALLY don't think that's okay. That's not a real gun, right?” As he says it, he's still moving towards the wall.

“Course it is!” What's he getting so worked up about? Don't tell me Jason is one of THOSE people…

“I don't think you should be bringing that into a club. You weren't going to… hurt people in here, were you?” Huh? Suddenly Jason begins to breathe really hard and is sweating, holding onto his sweater for dear life. This might be more serious than I thought.

“What? Of course not! Like I told you, I needed to use the toilet.” How offensive! “Just because I bring my gun here doesn't mean I'm gonna shoot up the place… How preposterous!”

At that, Jason begins to relax, though he's still very tense. “That's not really an unreasonable assumption… So you just carry that thing around whenever you go?” 

“Of course I do. How else am I gonna defend myself? Jujitsu?” I guess I could use my Justice pellets. But I don't think that would be any better. Any taking my SOUL out in public is not going to be a recipe for success, I can already tell.

Jason titters nervously at that, and runs his hands in his massive mop of hair. “Of course. Obviously. I mean you have cowboy clothes, so you'd have a gun, right!?” 

“You know it. An armed society is a polite society, as they say.” I don't know who ‘they’ are, but they got the right idea I feel.

Jason seems awfully nervous around firearms. Nobody else had such a fit when I had mine. I guess they just didn't notice? Hm.

“Do you have a history? You seem really nervous around the gun. Very odd.” I know some people don't like guns, ‘cause they got bad memories associated with them.

“Yeah. So weird.” Jason has the gall to stare at me like there's something’s wrong with me! “Look, how about I look after you for a bit? Make sure you… don't get into trouble. And! I won't report you, because you were nice when I was crying on the floor of the bathroom like a baby. Deal?

“Alrighty then, If it makes you feel any better.” At least Jason doesn't seem bothered by Levi anymore. I holster my gun.

As Jason and I walk out of the toilets, I have a look around. My spatial awareness is functional, now that I'm not going insane with bladder trouble, so huzzah.

There sure are a lot of bright flashing lights. And loud music. Lotta people dancing as well, on a huge dance floor! I'm sure El Baliador would love this place. I should send a letter his way. Maybe he works in a club. Or as a dance instructor.

To our left, I notice a bar, with all kinds of substances I'm not allowed to have. Maybe one day. Cooper was drinking that whiskey, so maybe I could have some? We are the same person, so maybe I'd like it! Besides, every cowboys gotta drink whiskey, or some kind of alcoholic beverage. Well, the cool drinks anyway. Nothing like wine or mimosas or anything lame and fruity like that!

Coffee's a good substitute for now. Tastes good too.

While I'm thinking about this, the DJ suddenly turns to the mic and shouts into it. “Ladies and gents… We have a new song. Uh. I hope you like it. It's uh, Bad Romance. Y'know, by Lady Gaga…. God I hate this. Here's the song.” 

“What a terrible DJ.” 

Yeah, he doesn't seem to have a lot of confidence. But still! “Don't be like that. And besides, the song might be good.” Wasn't there a ghost that made music underground? Something like that. I think I still have their spam letter. They didn't have much confidence either. 

“I guess so.” And with that response from Jason, I decided to step in.

“Um, you're going to dance?” Surprised, Jason hastily chases after me.

“Of course I am. I'm practically a professional! My life depended on learning.” When you have a knife to your throat, you start learning how to dance.

El Baliador was such a bastard. I almost had my skin flayed by beams of music so many times. I was not surprised to see how many times I died to him in Flowey's memories.

No hard feelings, though. He did teach me how to dance, after all!

“Okay? What the hell does that even mean?” Jason makes pitiful attempts to catch up with my energetic spirit.

I choose to ignore those inconvenient questions. “Anyhow, it's been a while. I thought I might see if I've gotten rusty.” 

“Go off, I guess…” 

I don't know exactly what I'm “going off” about, but alrighty then! With that, we've hit the dance floor. There sure are a lot of people around. This must be a popular place.

“Watch and learn, Jason. I've got practice.” I say it all confidently like, because I have the right.

“Whatever you say. Um, I'm not very good, so don't make fun of me.” 

“Don't sweat it.” I'm probably not going to pay any attention to whatever dancing skills he does or does not possess anyhow.

I wait patiently for the song to start.

Just a bit longer now…

And…

…

It's like I'm not even conscious.

I risked my life to be able to dance like this. All in one moment, it's like I'm not even around a crowd of people.

I'm not alive, I'm not making decisions. The music is making the decisions. And I only follow.

I'm not smart enough to think through the moves I'm making, but I'm smart enough to not care. All I know is that my body's moving and groovin’ so I don't gotta worry about it.

And the song… Usually, I would be listening to country music, if I had the choice. Western ballads, to be specific. But a catchy tune is a catchy tune! What did the DJ say the song was? I was barely paying attention.

I honestly feel like I'm floating. The lady's raspy voice makes me feel like I HAVE to keep going. Every synth, I feel it. Every note and cord, I feel that too. I can't stop, and I wouldn't if I had the choice.

I wonder if this is how everyone feels while dancing. I'm not very educated on the subject. I don't even know if I'm dancing well, but my very SOUL compels me to continue. No matter what, I must continue. My very essence blazes with passion!

My mental facilities and the rhythm of the beat of the song coalesce, and my SOUL works in concert with my heart to dance as hard as I can.

Simply put, I was having heaps of fun! Just throwing myself around, spinning and kickin’, it was a real hoot!

I don't know how long I went like that. Time and space seemed to freeze for me, like the Lord Himself let me have my moment. And with all of my might, I danced before the Lord.

At the end of my little performance, I was sweating like a pig. That… honestly took a lot out of me. My legs are tired. Maybe I should cool it next time I want to dance. I huff and puff, fan myself off with my hat, and looked about me.

There's… a crowd of people? I don't know what they're cheering about. I can barely hear anybody, like all of the attendees of this establishment became one speaking mass. They've made space for me, it seems. A little circle.

I wipe some sweat from my neck with my bandana. Why do they have their phones out? Were they… recording me?

What a strange sight. I can't have been remarkable enough to pull their phones out of their pockets to record. What are they even doing?

I'm spent. I shouldn't have gone all out like that. I was a bit too excited to dance.

“Having fun?” 

It's him.

I look behind me to see the bouncer, glaring down on me.

He doesn't look pleased with my performance. He's probably pretty mad that I snuck in while he wasn't looking. I decided to see where being honest got me.

“...Yeah.” He stares at me through his sunglasses, unimpressed. He seems pretty piffed. Maybe if I turn on the charm he'll let me off easy? “The moon’s sure pretty tonight, ain't she?” 

He doesn't respond. He only picks me up by the scruff of my neck, by my bandana, and carries me out of the Club. Strangely enough, I could have sworn I had that stupid noise that Ed made when he manhandled me. That stupid squeak noise...

The bouncer marches off to the entrance, chucks me out, and I land square on my butt.

“If I see ya again, I'm gonna be callin' ya parents. Don't come back.” And he slams the door on me with a thud. Jokes on him, I don't HAVE parents! 

…

Yeah.

Anyway, I guess I got to use the restroom like I needed to. That sure was more eventful than I signed up for. I dust myself off a bit.

“Um, are you okay…?” 

Oh! There goes Jason. I didn't even notice him. “Howdy. That was quite the show, wasn't it?” Dancing was fun. I sure am tired, though.

“You… You were wild!” He laughs a bit before pushing some of his hair out of his eyes. “Everyone was cheering for you, they were recording you…” 

“Really?” 

How did I miss all this? Must have been “in the zone”, as they say. Again, I have no idea who “they” are.

“Yeah, and you acted like you didn't hear any of them! W-Where did you even learn to dance anyway? Must have had a crazy teacher!” Jason looks at me like he's seen God! Was I really that good? I just had a lot of passion, is all. Just like he taught me…

“I wouldn't use the word crazy. He only wanted to spread some joy around.” Yeah. Even if El Baliador killed me 11 times, all he wanted to do was show a sad world some happiness. And dancing's fun! I can't blame him for being so passionate about it. 

And like I said, I DID kill him too, technically. So we're even.

I can also understand why people like Decibat don't like being loud or dramatic like that. It takes a lot out of a person, and some just don't have the energy.

“The only music talent I have is playing piano.” Jason says glumly, like that's lesser in comparison.

“I can play the harmonica.” I wheezed and laughed. “I'm not sure how good at it I am.” I wonder where that thing went off to… I'm pretty sure I ‘lost’ it back in the Dunes… Flowey/Asriel didn't like my playing so much, miserable curmudgeon that he is. Plant probably threw it away.

“If you're half as good as you are dancing, you'll be great.”

A comfortable silence forms between us.

I take this moment to wipe my face with my bandana. Night clubs sure are exciting! I can see why people would dedicate so much time to events like concerts and such. But I feel like I would go feral if I spent too long in ‘em.

When I look back to Jason, I notice Jason's eyes hidden behind his hair. He's… staring at my face, subtly touching the left side of his face.

“What’re you starin' at?”

“Oh. Um… Nothing!” 

Right. Don't know what his problem is. Shrugging off whatever that was, I decided to serve him a smile. “Uh huh. Well, what'd you wanna do now, city slicker?” My back hits the wall of the club, and I sit and wait for his answer.

Jason stares at me, puzzled.

“Ain't you the one that said you was gonna…” I make quotes with my fingers, “‘Watch after me?’” 

“OhyeahIdidsaythat, um…” Jason is scatterbrained, I've noticed. “What were you gonna do before you… met me?” 

“Let me see…” Not much really. “Get on back to my alley way. Or just wander around.” My time in Gotham City has proven aimless, so far. I mean, it's been two days.

“...Your alleyway?” Jason's voice gains a strange quality to it, as he fiddles with the string on his sweater.

I blink at that. “I mean… Yeah! I don't exactly have a bed to get back to. I had to rough it on the streets yesterday. I gotta tell ya, all this civilization is quite overwhelming!” 

Jason looks… sad? “Did-Did you run away?” He sounds worried now. Oh no…

“Uh…” I've just realized how that might sound. I just admitted I was homeless! I've gotta get out of this awkward mess. “What's it to you?”

My rhetorical skills stun him. Success! 

Jason then seems possessed by something. “I… When's the last time you've eaten? Or… or showered!?” He's certifiably panicking now! This is not a success.

“Aw, you don't gotta worry! I ate a burger that I took out of the trash a few hours ago. I didn't know people threw away their fresh food like that. And I washed myself in a lake, like, a week and a half ago. I'm practically spotless!” I don't know how safe cleaning oneself in a river in the woods is, but I did it anyway.

That does not ease his worries. This situation is falling apart. “Ohmygodthiskidishomeless… Um. Okay. How about… I call the cops or whatever. I'm sure they'd-” 

“Nuh uh! Don't you start, buster!” I know exactly where this is going and I am having none of it. In the heat of the moment, I get up in his face and scream at him. “I am NOT going back to one of those homes. You don't get to make that decision for me, understand?”

I did not jump down a hole in the ground just to go back to one of those places. If the cops were to see me, I'd definitely get thrown back in the system. 

I don't even know how that would work. I'm not even from this reality, (assumedly) and therefore not in their system. I'm not in the mood to find out. I don't know if I can trust the cops of this town either…

“Okay! Sorry, I know some people don't trust cops, especially the GCPD, but I thought…” Jason squirms, overwhelmed, and gulps down whatever else he had to say. “Gotcha. Sorry, Clover…” Seems he didn't expect that out of me.

“Apology accepted. And I'm sorry for hollerin’.” Well. I'm not, I had to put my foot down on this, but manners are the only thing that holds society together. “I get you're just tryna be helpful, Jason. But I'd rather shovel horse droppings than get forced back into an orphanage. I doubt I'd be better off in the system than out here anyway.” Years of experience have taught me that.

“I guess you would know.” Chastised, Jason clears his throat. “Ahem. Well, I guess if you don't want to do that… then maybe you'd like some food?” 

Huh?

“Uh. You'd… You'd do that?” Just the thought…

“Yeah! I know a guy who owns a food truck around here, and uh…” 

A whole food truck… I can't even imagine! Well, I can imagine, that's why it's so enticing. The burgers, the tacos, everything…

Wait, what's he staring at? Oh, I'm drooling. I wipe my face, and blush at what I've been reduced to.

“I mean… that'd be nice and everything, but you don't gotta-” 

My stomach interrupts me. I look down at the organ, and shake my head. What a shameful display.

“Offer accepted.” I'm not proud enough to shoot the offer down.

💛 

“So what you say this place was?” 

“It's called a Halal food truck.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“Um. It's like… Food thats approved for Muslims to eat.”

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.” 

A riveting conversation.

As we both approach the food stand that Jason was talkin’ about, I take a look at it. It's painted green, with this cheery cartoon pig on it. There's also this flag waving on the top of the truck, waving a red triangle with black, white and green stripes. I don't recognize it, and therefore elect to ignore it. I guess that's the flag of Gotham?

The middle aged man running the thing, sporting a stylish mustache and a net hat, looks kinda bored, until he catches a glimpse of us walking towards him.

“Abibi! Alhamdulillah, how have things been with you lately?” He seems charming. I have no idea what those words mean though. I'm starting to think I'm a bit ignorant.

“Terrible, Uncle Abdul. Terrible.” 

“Yes, yes…” Mr. Abdul's eyes focus on me, and his eyes shine with delight. “Oh, and who is this!” The large man laughs heartily at me, and I can't imagine why.

“Howdy. I'm Clover.” I tip my hat at him.

“Who is this, Nephew? Are you supposed to be a superhero? L-Look at that badge! And the feather and the belt buckle with a little heart on it… what's your hero name, hm?” He practically coos at me.

I hate this. Twice now, someone has called me a “superhero.” Why? I'm obviously a cowboy! Maybe it's something in Gotham's water supply.

“Uh, no sir. These are my clothes.”

“Khal…” Jason whines to him, more than I did.

“I'm sorry, I apologize!” Mr. Abdul then clears his throat. He doesn't SOUND very sorry! “Now. What did you wish to eat?” 

I look to Jason for guidance, because I don't even know what the word “halal’ means, let alone what that entails food wise.

“Don't look at me like that. Um…” What am I looking at him like? “Uh. We'll both just have one gyro, uncle.”

“Like usual, huh? That'd be 23.84.” That seems mighty expensive! For two gyros. What's the word for it… Inhalation?

Jason pales at the mention of a price. “Oh… Um. IforgotIactuallyhadtopay. Uncle, would it be too much trouble if I were to place a tab?” 

“Ibnu Al-Ukht. La takhtabir sabri.” 

Jason shamefully mumbled put, “Sorry Uncle. Uh…” as he searched through his wallet fruitlessly. That thing is empty, plain and simple. Jason seems pretty strapped for cash. Wait!

I have completely forgotten about this, but didn't I get ALL of my gold from the Underground back from the second bastard plant in my life? Yes. I sure did.

I reach into my pocket and pull out my wallet, which is also somehow dimensional. That's the only way I could have thousands of gold coins in there.

I pulled out ten pieces of the stuff and waved it at Mr. Abdul. “Mister? You reckon this would fit the bill?”

“I- IS THAT G-GOLD?” 

“...Yesirre.” 

Mr. Abdul suddenly pulls out a magnifying glass. Suppose he just had that for safe keeping.

He gets a good look at the coins I gave him. I can hear the results of his appraisal under his breath. “No shine… or discoloration… and yes, a purity Hallmark!” 

“Coming right up!” The man immediately runs off into the truck and, most likely, begins preparing our food.

That went well. I forgot that I even had a wallet which contained gold coins collectively worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Perhaps my time in Gotham will be easier than I thought…

I suppose I should thank my plant self. Knowing them, they're probably watching me right now. Psycho!

“H-Holy… Crumbs. Is… I can't believe you gave away all that gold!” 

“Eh, it wasn't that much. I have thousands of those.” I wave away his concern.

Jason balks at the number I gave him. “I thought you were… I didn't know I was babysitting Bruce Wayne!”

BABYSITTING?! “Babysitting?!” 

“Where did you even… get it all?” Jason subtly accused.

An underground cavern filled with magical creatures.

“The Internet.” 

“Don't tell me you stole it. I mean, I wouldn't actually be able to do anything if you did, but I'd get real anxious about it.”

“How dare you! I'll have you know, I earned this gold entirely through entirely legitimate means.” I mean… the monsters just kind of dropped gold when I spared them. I don't know if they have any consent for my gold collection, it's not like they handed it to me… but they did almost kill me, so I take it as some form of compensation. So it's okay! 

“Your evasive attitude says otherwise.” 

I roll my eyes. “If I did tell you, you'd say I'm tellin’ tall tales. Read between the lines, Jason.”

“...okay.” Jason then starts getting sheepish. “C-Can I have some?” It's an innocent request.

Of course. Because I am so merciful, I will. “Sure thing, partner! Here ya go.” I reach into my wallet and put some in his cupped hands. “Don't spend it all in one place.”

“Wow…”

Sometime after that, the man in the truck finally gives us our food. Jason and I settle down on a bench nearby and finally, I get to eat. Granted, I ate only a few hours ago, but I have a big appetite.

I gaze upon my meal. I don't have a varied palette at all, so I've never heard of a gyro in my life. But it sure does look good…

While Jason starts munching down on his, I suddenly remember. I have to thank God before every meal. I haven't read far enough into the Bible to know if it's a rule necessarily, but I've heard of it before. It doesn't hurt to get all the help I need.

I clasp my hands together, and begin praying.

Oh, Sweet Elohim, God on high, Author of life. Thanks for making food. That was a mighty fine decision you made, to bring food into the world, if I do say so myself. That burger you blessed me with earlier was pretty good, and now I'm getting another meal in the same day! I don't know why someone would throw away a fresh, uneaten burger that THEY bought, but I waste nothing you make. Uh, I'm rambling. Anyway, thanks for the food, and peace.

“Are you alright?” 

Oh! “You startled me. And yeah, I'm fine.” I get on with my food and start rapturously gnawing on it. 

“I could've sworn you were whispering something.” Jason continues to nibble on his food like a little rabbit.

I take a massive bite. “Uhm?” I swallow my food before speaking, as you do. “I was praying before I ate.”

“That's what that was… Kinda weird.” 

Before I could dig in, my brain registered what he just said. “And what makes you say that?” I lace an accusatory tone to my words. I aim a glare at his skinny twig face.

Jason starts to sweat badly. “Not to be, like, offensive… but, uh. Aren't you like… non-binary? I don't know a lot of those people who are religious at all.” 

I- Huh?

I'm baffled by the word Jason has just pulled out of thin air. I have never heard that phrase in my life. What does it even refer to? I scratch my head, and put my plastic plate down on the bench. I'm so befuddled by what Jason has just said that food has become a low priority. I must address this. “What in the world are you yappin’ on about?” 

“I was just curious cuz-” 

“That word. ‘Non-binary’. That's not a real word. You made it up.” ...Like a computer? I'm not a computer, last I checked! Computers don't spend hours of their time looking for a place to relieve themselves. Do they? I should ask Axis. Or maybe I shouldn't, because that sounds disgusting.

“Wha- No I didn't!” 

“Did so.”

“Did not!”

“Did so.”

“Did not!”

“Did so.”

“Did not!”

“Well I've never heard of it.” 

“But aren't you like- Ugh.” Jason actually sounds frustrated. “Nevermind.” He seriously has the gall to make up a word and pretend it has any meaning at all. I stare at him, for a long period. Jason falters under my gaze for a still awkward second.

“You are peculiar.” That is all I can come up with for this strange person who I've befriended. I remember my gyro and get to munching on it.

“Same to you… Anyway! What do ya think of Gotham so far?” At least he has the sense to change the subject and act like it didn't happen. I indulge him.

I gulp down my lunch. “Well. It's dark and moody, for one. Y'all have a lot of outlaws and banditry around these parts. I've never seen a gargoyle until I came to this town. And uh… that's about all I can say.” 

“Nothing else?” 

I think. I've only been here for like, a day and a half. What else could I be missing? 

“Um. Naw. Not really.”

“Hm. Where are you from again?”

I told Jason on the way over to his uncle's truck that I wasn't from around here, and little else. “Texas.” Though he probably didn't need me to tell him that I wasn't native, with my accent and all.

Jason looks me up and down. “Yeah, I figured. No offense, but you're a walking stereotype. At least you're not from Metropolis.” 

Walking Stereotype… Now just what the hell does that mean!? Oh, I mean… What the heck. What the HECK does that mean? Excuse me, God.

I haven't heard of that city either. I don't want to sound like a lunatic, so I'm not about to ask Jason about something I'm supposed to know about. Is there some kind of rivalry between Gotham and… whatever this metropolis place is?

I shrug it off. I'll cross that bridge when I get there.

I bite off the rest of my lunch and wipe my hands on my jeans, because to be frank they just aren't that important to me compared to my hat or bandana. “Welp. I think I'm done for the day.” I hop off the bench and serve Jason up with a smile. “Imma go run off to my stomping grounds.”

“Wait!” Jason suddenly blurts out.

Huh? “What, what happened?” 

Jason relaxes, and tells me what was so important. “T-Thanks. Y'know, for helping me when I was in my… darkest hour. And the actual gold you just handed to me was pretty nice. I really do owe you. It's pretty pathetic to need some kids help with my own problems, but honestly you've taken my mind off my shitty life.” 

“Aw, it's nothin’.” I try to take it all in stride, but I can't help but be flustered when people get like this.

“It's not. I know you can take care of yourself, but be careful. See ya around. I have a bug ridden apartment around here, so I'll probably see you again.” Jason gives me a little wave, and I tip my hat at him.

“Same to you. I'll catch ya later, friend. Ditch that Levi fella. Seems like a rotten egg.” 

And with that, I journeyed off back to my hut.

💛 

Greetings, Clover!

It's been a while. Not very long, but I must admit that me and the others have gotten restless, considering the situation you described in your letter.

I hope you're okay, in that strange store. If you can keep a secret, I have a small fear of enclosed spaces. Every time I try to sleep in a coffin, (which might I add are a very strange human invention) I break out into a mess of blubbering! I couldn't imagine the situation you are in. If I was stuck in that place, I feel I would simply lay down on the floor and cry.

It's kind of connected to what you asked in your letter. I did not talk about this when you visited in my sleep, because I did not want to ruin your time dealing with my personal issues, but reintegrating into a larger monster society, after a year of self imposed exile, was… bad.

I had to take these medications that I couldn't pronounce, I was still dealing with occasional hallucinations, every time I was in a small room I would panic, I was a sorry mess. At certain points, I made a fool of myself in public during my shows. I didn't know how to talk about this with anyone. We monsters have a hard time talking about serious subjects. We may refer to them, we may joke about them, but we never TALK about them. Only through our shared hurt could Star, Martlet, Ceroba and I feel comfortable talking about serious subjects. We monsters stuff all of our problems in a gas tank, hoping that they may go away.

Hold on. That metaphor is slightly strange. Who stores anything other than gas in a tank? Perhaps a better metaphor would be an exploding soda bottle. Except not opening a bottle at that stage would be good, because then it won't explode? This letter is getting away from me.

What I am trying to say is that bottling up your emotions is not good for you. You should talk to us about your problems! Or maybe even whoever you may meet in that IKEA, or wherever that deity brings you to next.

Farewell and be careful, 

-Dalv

“What are ya readin, sonny?”

Startled, I put the letter back in the mail bag. “A letter from a friend.”

“You got friends?”

“Yup.”

While my left hand picks up the last letter from Chara and Frisk, my right caresses the head of a stray black cat, who's awfully well manured for a street animal.

…

Greetings, Clover. This is Chara instructing Frisk to write for me.

My partner and I read the letter you sent. You went into an awful amount of detail on that imp you met. They seem to be like Azzy in a lot of ways, except that they seem irreverent about all subjects, even themselves. Like Azzy, they sound obnoxious. I apologize that you had to deal with those awful hallucinations.

But that's not what this letter is about. After several days of planning, I have managed to convince that cowboy friend of yours, using Frisk as a front of course, to give you a gift. 

You will find a sublime example of a blade in the envelope. The knife is useful for cutting all things. I trust your judgment to pick your battles. :)

This thing was expensive, by the way. Frisk and I had to hash out the details with the Rodeo Star (get it?) extensively, because at first Frisk was oddly adamant that we not tell him why we wanted it. But in the end all we had to do was tell him it was for you. I mean, it is close to Gyftmas around here, and you're NOT around here. Isn't it fair that everyone gets a gift?

Well, that's what I told him. Frisk doesn't exactly approve, out of some kind of guilt I assume, so as usual I had to take control. No other adults would get the right model I thought was right for you, so I had to haggle with Starlo. 

And before you ask, yes, Frisk is very offended as they are writing this out in real time. Trust me, they're doing that thing with their face where they're trying to seem like they're taking it all in stride. It's a funny look for them.

With regards, 

♥️ Chara and Frisk. Stay Determined.

My name is Chara and I'm a big fat meanie.

Very colorful.

Ignoring that, I look further in the envelope that I callously discarded on the floor, the gift. I'm already becoming more like a Gothamite by the second!

My hands are careful as I bring out a real, actual knife. I gasp.

I bring the thing out, and it glimmers in the moonlight. I hold its ebony handle, and gaze in awe at its reverent beauty. How did I not notice this thing in the letter?

Chara has a strange fascination with blades and knives. Not at all like my completely normal and obviously casual interest in firearms. But looking at the fine craftsmanship, I can't help but understand where they're coming from. Look at the shine, the curve, the edge! And the beautiful handle…

I don't know where to put this thing. I don't exactly have a holster for it. Maybe I should invest in one.

“Did your friends give you that knife?” 

“They sure did.” I take another second to admire the weapon, before throwing it in my bag with my growing list of guns, swords, and knives.

The person to whom I speak is a homeless guy. His name is Notorious Overlord. But he said because we're friendly, I get to call him Overlord.

When I ventured off back to my sleepin’ spot yesterday, I discovered that a rival homeless person had taken it during my adventure looking for a place to do my business. Overlord and I agreed we'd share the spot. He said that I wouldn't take up too much space with how small I was. Smart ass.

Anyhow, my new homeless friend stares at me with his one good eye, as I read the letters I received. Probably because he doesn't have anything else going on. 

“...That's nice of them.” Overlord puts it succinctly. That's basically how all of our conversations go. We don't talk much, but Overlord and I make for steady friends.

Overlord pulls his blanket closer, it's cold out. That reminds me to do the same. As I do so, yet another one of those black cats I see prowling around the streets come over and lay down on my lap, along with the one from before. Where did all these beautiful, well trained cats come from? No idea. I'm not complaining, though. They're so cute!

It's been a long night. I think it's time to write to my friends. And to the Queen of IKEA. And maybe even Cooper…

💛 

Chapter Text

💛 

Day 4.

I hold a plastic bag in my right hand. I ventured to a strange convenience store, which is considered a holy site by locals in Jersey. It's called a Wawa.

The cashier didn't seem to mind my payment method. I placed a single gold coin on the counter, and she just accepted it and moved on. I grabbed a whole bunch of items for me and Overlord. It was practically a steal!

In my left hand, I hold a cup of Joe. My coffee as dark as the Gotham skyline. I haven't felt the savory, bitter taste of it in what feels like weeks.

In the busy environment of a big city, nobody seems to notice me.

As I walk along these cluttered streets, I can't help but think of how strange it is. In the underground, I was a big deal. A human! I was constantly being stopped along my journey by monsters who either wanted my soul, for me to get out of there alive. I was finally someone important to anyone, for better and worse. But now, I'm just one of a million again.

I didn't exactly WANT to be “important”, whatever that means. I just wanted to help people... And also have people that cared about me. And the only way that happened was when I was somebody important enough that I had to be paid attention to? I don't know how to feel. 

I'm probably overthinking it. Sometimes things just happen. And not everyone interacted with me because I was a human. A lot of them didn't even know! There's not a whole lot of people in the underground, so naturally any new person would draw attention.

But that's not all. Lately I've just found it easier to talk to people. Like that Surfer dude at that bar, or Jason, or Overlord. Before jumping down Ebott I hadn't felt as… confident, for lack of a better word. Now, I feel like I've lost any inhibitions I've previously had. Maybe my experience underground has something to do with that. I mean, I chopped it up with every monster I met like it was nothing, and plus I got into a whole lot of fights and lived! I was hardly that social at school or anything. But now… it's just so natural for me. 

It's even odder, because, in the world where I choose to kill all that I met instead of sparing them, I became an asocial man who can barely go outside. What does that imply? How much do the resets have a role in this development?

I have no idea. I'm not a psychologist. Or a... Reset Understander.

Anyhow, While I'm musing to myself, I notice a pill bottle fall from a man's pocket.

Oh no! I immediately run to the orange bottle. But my hands are occupied with groceries! Oh wait. I can just put them in the bag. Silly me.

With that over with, I grab the bottle and run to the stranger.

I reach the man, wearing a red polo shirt and grey dress pants, and tug on his hand. “Mister, I think you dropped thi-” 

Before I can finish, the man whirls around and meets me with a displeased frown. “What? What? What do you want? If it's not important, leave me alone.” His voice is scratchy and high pitched. His voice goes off a mile a minute, and I could barely understand him at first.

“Well?” 

“I- Your medicine. It fell on the floor.” I held the bottle up to him, only to have him snatch it out of my hands.

“Give me that!” He reads the bottle, and indeed finds that it does belong to him. “You stole it, didn't you?” 

“No! I told you, I-” 

“I knew it. It's little zoomer shits like you that make Gotham an unlivable hellhole. Don't steal my medicine, you little twerp.” He barks out as he skulks off to wherever rude jerks hang out at.

Oh well. Can't have everyone be nice to you. Even though I was just tryna give him his stupid medicine!

I try to brush it off and move on. 

My mood soured, I force my feet to carry me off to my sleeping spot. But as I walked along, I noticed someone was following me. 

“It's you.” That is my muted response as I catch the annoying little white dog following me along. 

“BARK!” 

“Do ya want some food or something? I don't exactly have any treats for you.”

The Annoying Dog whines. If this dog tries to steal my bag, I'm gonna lose it.

“Maybe I just stop calling you by names like that. Like mutt, or annoying dog. Would you like a name, boy?” 

He stops for a second, seeming to genuinely consider it, before following me again. I guess that's a yes. “Let me see…” What's an annoying name? “How about Sebastian?” 

He growls. Yeah, that's TOO dumb of a name. “How about…” I have no idea. “Toby?” 

His tail wags. I suppose… Toby likes it. Christened as Toby, the mutt leaps into my arms when I'm distracted, nearly toppling me over and getting me nasty looks from the bystanders walking on the street. I've got to say, the citizens of Gotham haven't made a good impression on me these last few days.

“Would you watch it? Ya scared the crap outta me.” I mutter dangerously to the fluffy white animal in my arms, but the dog is immune to any remark or reprimand. I got no choice but to carry the lazy dog back to my makeshift homeless encampment.

This dog is surprisingly heavy, might I say. What the he- heck is this little guy eating all day? Maybe I need to steal from his book. My foraging techniques aren't up to snuff, if I'm not as heavy as Toby.

The long march back to my hut is the lengthy ride. I could've sworn it didn't take this long to get to the Wawa. I read the nearby street sign, only to find I'm on a boulevard I can't hope to pronounce. I think it's French, or Dutch, or something. I'm nowhere near my destination. 

I grunt in frustration. May God strike me down.

Self defeating thoughts aside, I think I need to get a map.

Hefting the now sleeping dog up on my shoulders instead of in my arms to conserve energy, I get on my favorite activity: wandering about, aimlessly hoping for direction.

I'm lying, of course. My favorite activity is shootin’. Regardless of any of that, I get on conducting some reconnaissance. 

The dog's snores provide an unorthodox sense of comfort as I wander, hoping I don't get stabbed or something out here. My dominant hand is occupied carrying this fat boy, so I worry about being quick on the draw.

But those fears prove unwarranted, because these streets are quiet. As theatrical as it might sound, it's a little too quiet for my tastes. Where is everybody? Decibat would love this place.

My boots clank along the ground, the sound the only thing keeping me company in this broken boulevard. Barring Toby. But he's asleep. I rub my hands against his soft fur, white as snow, feeling his chest rise and fall as he slumbers. 

I shudder as the wind blows through my thin clothes. I anxiously adjust my hat.

I don't feel right being alone like this. Maybe momma's shouldn't let their babies grow up to be cowboys after all, if these are the situations I find myself in. Too bad I have no idea where my mama is. Not including Martlet…

“They'd rather give you a song, than diamonds or gold…” I whistle the tune, and it is comforting.

My melancholy is abruptly cut off. A loud blaring siren of a speeding police car swerves in from the right of me in the intersection, blowing countless papers, postings, and candy packings behind it. Among other miscellaneous street garbage. The car drives off into the distance, leaving me wondering.

The dog wasn't disturbed, unlike the cowpoke carrin’ him. Just what was that about! It must have been urgent. I debate whether to follow the law man's path, until I suddenly remember that I have a sacred duty to right wrongs and fight injustice, given to me by God and my own personal hang ups. I don't have a choice BUT to see what's going on! I'm on the car like a magnet to a fridge.

After a long bout of walking, the drought of eerie silence is over. I find a crowd huddling near a dilapidated building. It looks like it's going to be torn down sometime soon. But that's not the most distressing sight I find. 

There's a horde of police cars, with a light fixed to a singular window, and I can hear one of the cops talking into a foghorn.

“Trust me, Mrs. Weston. You don't want to do this. If you come out here, we can talk and work something out.” He says it matter-of-fact and monotone, like they'll just be ironing out the details of a cattle drive.

What in the world… The spectacle drives me to investigate further.

I drive into the crowd, my unfortunate size helps me get past all these people and their transfixed gazes. I can't say I'm any different from them, honestly.

I see in the corner a news van, sporting the name ‘Gotham News.’ This must be a massive scandal, somewhat important at least.

“Clover?” 

I whizz around, and behold, it's Jason!

“It's you! And you're wearing a strange outfit.” 

“It's my uniform. Starbucks pays my tuition.” Skinny boy grimly responds. His green apron looks messy, like countless spills were made today. “Cute dog.” 

“I don't know about cute…” This dog has caused me enough grief for me to be at least surly around the pup. I shake my head. “That's not important! What in tarnations goin' on! What're the police doing out here?” 

“I don't know, some kind of hostage situation? I just got off and I got bored, so I followed everyone else. Something to do with a middling celebrity and twitter. That's Gotham for ya.” Jason seems oddly unconcerned. How often do things like this go down in Gotham?

A hostage situation! That's why they got the megaphone. They're negotiating and such. That answers some of my questions. 

Except whatever the heck a “twitter” is. I suppose I'll find out in due time.

This all sounds awfully serious. Who's being held hostage, and for what purpose? 

Maybe I should… get involved. Yeah! I'll help. I'm capable, I'm sure I can work something out.

“Alrighty, then. Wish me luck, Jason. I'm goin’ in!”

Alarmed, Jason tries and fails to grab onto my shoulder to stop me. Foolish. I'm too quick for him, even with Toby snoozin’ while I'm cruisin’.

I drive forth, forcing myself past the crowd. Before I know it, I'm behind the cop cars. All the officer's attention is aimed up at the third story window above, where only now can I see a hint of someone there, watching the crowd, eyes dilated, filled with fear and conviction.

Strange.

I quickly run-walk to the front of the apartment building, run up the steps before slamming the door open and quietly closing it shut. This is it. The point of no return.

The dusty complex’s air quality is lacking. This place looks like it was built in the 40s or something, with wooden flooring and ancient lighting being my only guide. I see signs of life, of struggle. Several doors are open, the front desk is burglarized, it's hardly recognizable.

I can still hear the commotion from inside.

Mrs. Weston is the abductor's name. She was on the third floor window. I've got lots of stairs to walk up. I don't think the elevator even works. This place is a ghost town! There's no one here, except her.

I must venture forward. Injustice awaits!

I eventually find the stairs, in a web infested corner. Never was a fan of spiders. They're just more creepy crawlies to deal with. They eat the other ones, but as far as I'm concerned, those things are just as bad.

As if adjusting himself to fit the mood, Toby's snores have quieted down as I go up the staircase. I can't believe I'm actually calling the dog Toby now. Oh well. It's already stuck.

The creaking of the staircase frustrates me to no end. 

I feel my heart thunder in my chest, and a flutter in my stomach. I don't know what's gonna happen when I confront this lady. I don't know if I'll do a good job. I want to do good. I want to help people. Fairs fair, and if that's true, good people need to be there.

I was nervous when fighting Dalv too. And Martlet. And Starlo. And Axis. And especially Ceroba. But I knew I needed to be brave. Bad things happen when people with Justice in their hearts stand by while evil is done. 

Am I the right person to be doing this? Maybe this is the same mistake I made when I gave my soul to Ceroba. Risking my life for nothing.

But I must proceed. Justice has to be done! Cowboys don't give up, and If I'm not a cowboy then what am I?

I whisper silent prayers for my endeavor to bear fruit, for everyone involved to come out safe and unharmed. That's all I want…

The third floor.

Oh yeah. I'm still carrying this dog. Gently, I lay Toby down in one of the busted chairs. Thankfully, it doesn't creak much as the peaceful dog nudges into the faded, teared cushions.

It's time. No more puttin’ this off. There's danger, and I gotta do somethin’ about it. Remember, someone innocent is in danger. Justice must be done.

I creep silently, to the door. I put my ear to the door, but I can barely hear anything. Silence. Uncertainty fills my spirits, and I can't help but feel I should have done some more research before stompin' up here and fixing up to break the doors down, but one does not cease what they have already started.

I am filled with a sense of Justice.

My stomach turns. Here goes nothing…

3…

2…

1…

Bam!

I kick the door down, and draw my gun. The feel of the grip in my left hand is the most reassuring feeling in the world. I'm left… atonished by what I find.

Mrs. Weston looks crazed. Her makeup is smeared all over her face, crimson lipstick going off into the farthest reaches of her cheeks and down into her chin. Her tears run, creating a washed out black ring around her eyes. She looks possessed! Her hair is all over the place, she's wearing a torn up nightgown… She doesn't seem well.

But the worst part is what she's holding in her hands. She stands at the window, shaking profusely, with a gun aimed directly at a little boy's head. He's blindfolded, earmuffs bound around his ears, and a rope binding his hands behind his back. What in the world…

Most people would have taken note of my entrance, and so did she. The gun which was previously aimed at the boys temple was automatically redirected at me. The sight of a barrel aiming directly at you… it's not a comforting sight. Oblivion, surrounded by metal.

While her other hand snakes around the boy's shoulders, she speaks to me, her voice scratchy and wavering. “I… WHAT. Who in the fuck are you!?” 

“Why are you doing this…” I say it without thinking, a pure unfiltered thought. I can't believe my eyes.

This stuns the already confused woman into silence. The boy doesn't move much, so zero signs of resistance or panic. Is he even conscious? God. He looks so young. He has to be only four years old.

“If you're not here to give me the 500K then leave. I…” Something catches in her throat, and she forced her eyes closed, her aim faltering. “I'm not tryna hurt. ANYBODY. I just want the money, so…” She can't finish her thought.

How aiming a gun at a child's head could be anything less than trying to hurt someone is anybody's guess. But I don't say that. She's unstable, and maybe unhinged. I don't want to… make any mistakes. I take a few cautious steps towards her.

Mrs. Weston forces her eyes open, and stares at me. She looks for something, and what she finds confuses her. What's her issue?

“What the hell is going on… Who are you, what are you even doing here!? Do you even know what's going on, who I am? You-You're just some nobody kid!” 

She's right. I don't really know what's going on. I just wanted to help. I take a breath, preparing to respond. My voice isn't as strong as I want it to be.

“I… I saw that there was something wrong, and…I wanted to help. That's it. I don't really follow the news, so.” I finish lamely. I curse myself. Not a good impression, Clover.

Mrs. Weston cackles ruefully. “You think you're fucking Batman. That's what this is. You…” She suddenly remembers that she was supposed to be pointing the gun at me, and corrected her mistake. But… Who's Batman? A question for later. “You really don't know who I am.” 

“I'm not familiar with you, no.” Shamefully, my voice shakes. Despite it all, I keep my aim true. 

Her tone changes then. Something passed across her face. She looks introspective. Everything seems to set in. “You don't… So why…” Again, she trails off, her voice breaking. 

I think it's time I get to the root of this. “Please. Answer, why are you doing this… There has to be an explanation.” 

I'm reminded of the Sakura tree… my confrontation with Ceroba. Yes, what she did was wrong, and it hurt. But… she only wanted to save her child, and redeem the memory of her dead husband. And I was able to snap her out of it, by being strong and not giving up.

There's always an explanation. Even if it's not a good one, it's a start.

Mrs. Weston’s eyes fall on me, studying my face, trying to gouge my intentions. Her gun is still aimed at me, but at least not at the kid anymore. He still hasn't reacted to anything. It's unnerving.

“You're not gonna be the tough strong man with the gun and beat me? I… I'm the one with a gun to my own son's head. What's with the good cop routine?” That's her own son!? I try to keep my facial expression stone faced as always, but I don't expect that!

Two things. That's her son, she's demanding money, and - judging by her words - she has some kind of guilty conscience. Okay. I can reason with her!

“I don't want anybody to get hurt, Mrs. Weston. God knows there's enough of that in the world. I- I want to understand.” 

She sneers. “Don't call me that. That's not my fucking name. Call me Cathy, or Catherine. Those fucking pigs outside keep calling me that and still expect me to ‘deal’ with them.” 

I'm taken aback. Oops. “Uh. Alrighty then, Miss Catherine.” 

“Whatever.” She sighs, and briefly her arms fall to the floor. She's clearly exhausted, in all senses. “I'm not gonna explain my full life story. Do you know Burt Weston? My scumfuck ex? The C-List failure?” 

That rings zero bells. I silently shake my head no.

“God, you don't know anything.” You're telling me.

I'm very distracted by how she's holding that gun. Her fingers are constantly on the trigger, and she's waving it around like it's a toy. Any slight movement could make that thing go off. She obviously has no experience.

“Well. I'm his crazy ex. The one the media has endless stupid gossipy trivia to bullshit about.” Her emotions, already running high, start to really take her over. Tears begin to fall, and I can barely hear her past her gritted teeth. “They… They never fucking took me seriously. Never believed me. I was just some C-Lister’s druggie wife! I…” 

She's out and out sobbing now. I can't make heads or tails of anything. Maybe venturing through a cave filled with magical beings was less to endure than all of this. And what was that about a ‘druggie?’ She's… addicted? What in the Sam Hill…

She's not even trying to aim the gun at me anymore. Despite that, I keep my Big Iron out, though I aim it low. This is really flying off the rails. I didn't expect the hostage-taker up here to start crying! Though, I don't know what I expected. A villain? Not really.

“I JUST WANT SOME MONEY SO I CAN LEAVE THIS SHIT BEHIND US, OKAY? That smug son of a bitch sat in his stupid upscale condo with my son, faking like he isn't a fucking psycho on air, while hittin’ me and treating him like shit!” 

She explodes with sorrow and frustration, her nails digging into her palms. Her blue dress rips at its ends, she bizarrely starts tearing at it in rage.

I don't say anything. What could I say? I'm not sure if any of this is even true. But she sure seems to think so. And with how she's acting, I don't think she's faking it.

“So…” I try to make sense of what she's saying. “Your husband's… abusive-” 

“A deranged dickhead, more like.” 

“Abusive. So you kidnapped your kid and… put a gun to his head? What's that supposed to accomplish? I… You're just putting him in more danger!” 

Her breath evens out, her outburst contained. “Kid, you can fuck off if you think I want to hurt Evan. If I didn't do all of this, then they wouldn't give a damn, wouldn't give me the money. I'm not a fucking freak, okay?” Her tone suddenly turns more towards bargaining and regret. “This is the only way. I'm sorry… I know this is bad. But this is the only way for everything to be made right.” 

“That ain't true. It doesn't have to be this way.” 

“What would you know?” She tiredly drones out. “You're a kid! You didn't even… watch the video on Twitter. Or X, whatever the fuck it's called.” 

I elect to ignore the comments of me “being a kid.” Not to mention, there's that “Twitter” thing again. Is that some kind of social media website? Okay, so from what I can gather, she posted a ransom online, threatened her son, and now all of this is going down.

I took a gamble. This might not work, but I try to make it so. “You don't want the money.” 

She can't seem to believe her ears. She blinks, and responds aggressively. “Excuse me?” 

“You don't want the five hundred thousand.” 

“I-” She breaks out in a laugh, and then begins coughing. Badly. She probably inhaled the dust coating the walls of this place. The substance distracts me, reminds me of things that I don't want to think about right now. When she turns back to me, she spits out her words, offended.

“Eueuh.” She restarts, “If I didn't, I wouldn't be holding a gun to my son's dome. There are no other options. Is-Is this supposed to be-” 

“You want help, Ms. Catherine.” 

This stuns her into silence. Saying definitive statements with false bravado seems to be working, so I continue on with my speech.

“This is a cry for help, isn't it? People who are okay don't do this. You only want people to listen, to take you seriously. You… wanna be with your family, right, with Evan?” 

“...Y-Yes.” Her voice breaks, and her gun is facing the floor now. She looks dejected at the floor, and I can't gouge how she feels because her wild hair covers her face. 

“Yeah. You only want the best, is all. I mean, you're willing to listen to a nobody like me! You… You're just making a mistake. I understand… being at a certain point where everything's falling apart, and feeling like you gotta do something about it, do something drastic. But how… how is this making things right?”

I remember after I fought Ceroba, everything felt so intense. I felt, in an almost religious way, a larger sense of things. I thought of everything in the bigger picture, everything but myself. With history, the future, my friends, my journey, and the greater scheme of things flashing before my eyes, killing myself felt like the only sensible option.

But it wasn't.

It hurt.

A small squeak is all that leaves her mouth. My words don't set her off, thank goodness. Her knees buckle, and she falls to them. She holds on to the gun, like it's an anchor of stability, and lets go of her son. The young boy stands still. Unless he's a horse or something, that proves he isn't unconscious.

Miss Cathy delves into a sobbing fit. Her voice cracks, and she nearly sounds like she's drowning. Snot drollops leaves her nose, and I wince at the sight. One could classify Ms. Cathy as an ugly crier. I feel like I'm in a soap opera or something. That's not a very appropriate thought, but it's true.

“I wasn't gonna shoot em, I swear…” Despite the oppressive volume of her cries, her voice is smaller than it was just a minute ago. “There's nothing else. I have nothing else. I didn't want it to be like this, please…” She begs to the ether, looking up at the broken dusty ceiling fan.

I feel the mood of the room change. I don't think Ms. Cathy's gonna do anything drastic now. I feel some relief go through me. But I'm not out of the woods yet.

I cautiously approach the woman, my gun still drawn, even though at this point she might as well not be holding the weapon. “Please, Ma'am. It's gonna be okay, I swear.” 

“How can you even say that…” She sobs out.

“...With my lungs?” 

With that, she stares at me, her eyes coated in liquid. She looks at me like I'm crazy.

“Oh, you mean like…” Egg on my face. I clear my throat. “Well, it's because I'm… decently sure of it.” I decided to lie, a little. Some hope never hurt anybody. Except when it has.

“What am I gonna fuckin do… They're not gonna let me be around Evan anymore. I… I can't go to jail. I can't be away from him! I'm all he has!”

“That's right… Well, I suppose there's his dad, but you said he was a bit of a bad egg, so…” I think out loud, my off-handed comment floats through the air, my hand on my chin.

“I killed him.” 

I- what???

“Huh?”

“I killed him, I said.” She echoes louder than she did the first time.

“Oh, man! You didn't say he was dead! Sweet Jesus...” 

She is really in it now. This is a little more serious than it was before. I thought before that she hadn't actually done anything yet, but no! I don't know how guilty her husband was. I'm not exactly getting the other side of the story anytime soon either. Did he deserve to DIE? I'm not qualified to make a definitive judgment on that. I barely know this woman! But…

“Well, what's done is done. You sit before God in judgment of your deeds. If what you did was just, then you and your SOUL can rest easy. If not…” I didn't finish my sentence. Ms. Catherine stays silent.

This is a mess. “Ma'am, I'm gonna be straight with you. You need to turn yourself in.” 

It's this that had her attention. She wipes her hair out of her face, her eyes swollen. “What? No. I can't do that. Evan… I'm his only parent! What’ll he think when he hears I'm in jail? It'll ruin him.”

“No offense, but you've done worse. You threatened to kill him! And given that, the police obviously aren't going to give you the money. This is the only way to take responsibility, and maybe with good behavior they'll let you back into your son's life. Besides, he already knows that you did all this!” I look at him, standing there. He's unnaturally still, in his black and gold basketball jersey. I can only wonder what's floating around in his head…

“No. He doesn't. There's a reason he has all that crap on. The muffs, the blindfold… I want him to stay ignorant on all this bullshit. I told him to stay calm, and still. That when it was over, we'd be okay. We'd both run away to… Iunno, Turkey or some shit. He wouldn't have to deal with celebrity gossip ass-wipes.” She really seems to hate the media.

Turkey, the country? Probably. I wonder why they would name their country after a bird… Ope. That's not relevant.

I shake my head. “That's not realistic. You can't hide him from the world. Regardless, the only way for you to make things right is to turn yourself in to the cops outside. You'd get the chance to redeem yourself. Make right by your… less than savory actions.” Besides, she's not very qualified to be his legal guardian anymore, to say the least. Not without repentance.

Uncertainty is painted across her expression. “I… I've never been to jail. I'm a rich kid, I’ve never-!” Ms. Cathy becomes overwhelmed, and begins ranting. The possibilities start bouncing around her head.

“I can't miss Evan growing up! That's… I wouldn't even be his mother by the time I'm out. I would be a faint memory, one best left forgotten. I've barely raised him in four years! God… I almost killed him. I could have used an empty gun, but I didn't! I can't deal with this. It's too much. I don't want to go to jail. I want it to stop. Please.” 

Things are heating up again. She regains a crazed look in her eye. Her sweat drips down her forehead and face, further ruining her makeup. Her eyes light up, and she has had a great epiphany.

“There's another way to make things right. All I have to do is…” Oh no. I don't like the way she's lookin’ at the piece in her hands.

I feel things slow down, and I gain a heightened sense of things.

What do I do!? I don't want her to make any mistakes she… can't take back. I try to think back through Flowey's memories. Flowey always had a way with words. He had centuries of practice getting people to do what he wanted. I've kinda been reading from his book this whole time. Maybe I should thank him. Although, knowing him, he'd get all arrogant about it, so maybe I shouldn't.

I've been playing gentle and non-judgy this whole time… but Flowey didn't always do that. Sometimes (a lot of the time), he would play on people, their emotions. Make them feel guilty, hopeless, delusional, anything to do whatever tickled his fancy. He would get mean! Maybe I could get like that…

“Really?” I say it with disbelief, with a hint of anger. “That's it? No foolin’?” I scowl at the woman, like the very idea of what she's doing fills me with disgust and hate. I really hope this works.

Ms. Cathy looks up at me, unable to do more than mouth words I can't hear. She looks at me, puzzled and scared. I lose my resolve for a brief second, before pummeling through my doubts.

“How cowardly, selfish! Didn't you say that you cared about Evan so much that you couldn't FATHOM not seeing him grow up? How magnanimous of you, to kill both of your son's parents.” She cringes at my words, and her deeds.

I'm not one for chastising and taunting distressed people who are thinking about doing inconceivable things to themselves, but maybe this'll work? I'm gambling right now, and I hope I don't come out with snake eyes.

“No… I've gone too far! I can't come back from this. Evan will be better off without me. He's… I'm- Isn't this the only way? I… I can't go to jail...” Hopelessness and dread coats her small voice.

“You ever hear of visiting hours, pardner? If you want the best for Evan, you'll be here, in this world, instead of uselessly raking yourself over the coals in the next one. You don't get to take the easy way out, rambler! You got a responsibility, you must repent, you must earn forgiveness. For yourself and him. Anything else would just be a waste.” 

With that, her eyes return to the splinter ridden floor. Her dress barely covers her legs. That can't be comfortable.

I hope I'm good at these speeches. A cowboy has to be charismatic, to get themselves and others out of hairy ordeals. Violence must come when all options have been exhausted.

And I can say, I am very exhausted. I really hope that worked. I look at Ms. Cathy again, and she doesn't look like she's gonna do anything extreme again. I take a breath, and hope she'll relent after all I have said to convince her.

“... Ma'am? Can you please give me the gun?” Once again, I try to be tender.

She's silent for just a second. I sit in silence. I hold my breath for her response. The lights of the police cars break through the windowsill, and I can practically feel the termites in the wood floor dancing underneath my boots, but after a moment…

…

…

Before long, she's made up her mind. “Okay. I… I'll turn myself in. Okay.”

…

Thank. GOD.

“YEEEEEEHAW! I'VE GOT THE MIDAS TOUCH!” 

I'm so excited, I throw my hat in the hair and my hands reach to the heavens. Heavens to Betsy, that was stressful! I laugh a little as untold relief floods through me, grateful to the power above that my prayers were answered. I'm so happy I just might thank Flowey for his unwitting help in this whole situation after all. I mean, I was able to get people to lay down their arms on my adventure underground, but nothing like this! My negotiation skills have proven to be top notch! 

Oh yeah. She's right there. Ahem.

“Uh. Sorry.” That was a little insensitive. “Here, I'll take the side arm.” I carefully take the gun from her hand, relief flowing through me, all at once. The cold touch of iron, although sullied by the warmth and sweat of Ms. Cathy's thin bony hands, is as comforting as always. 

Her hands are shaking terribly. It's now where guilt starts to eat at me over my celebrative outburst. I can't believe I did that. This is a very traumatic and transformative moment in her life! I need to handle matters like this more… subtly and grace in the future.

“Alright then.” I holstered my pistol and held the… would you look at that, a 1911. Unlike my last encounter, this thing is actually loaded with some .45s. I hold it by the barrel.

My eyes find Evan now. The poor kid has just been sitting there, deaf and blind, while all of this nonsense was going down. Careful as a mouse, I head over to the boy. I try not to upset or suprise him. How long has he been like this?

As I touch the rope around his hands, Evan flinches. I don't want to freak him out, so I decide to untie him and leave the more revelatory aspects for another second.

Oh yeah. I was never given expert boy scout untying training, so I don't know how to do this. Think. How to untie a knot…

I got it! When all else fails, use weapons. I reach into the infinite handbag, and take out my gift from Chara, brandishing it. I can definitely thank Chara for this. They'd probably have some pride, but be all mature about it. This should do the trick. I cut off the binds almost frighteningly quickly. This thing works like a charm! I gaze at the tool, and nod approvingly.

Evan moves his hands a bit, being tied up for God knows how long can't be good for the nerves. I even see some red lines on his hands! Poor kid.

I put the knife away, and in no time at all, I removed the earmuffs and gag. I don't know what to do with the items. I hold them in my pockets, except for the muffs, which I wear on my neck.

My eyes meet Jason's, finally. He's actually conscious, which might be good or bad depending on perspective. He blinks, and tilts his head to the side. 

“W-Who are Y-You?” He stutters out, his innocent eyes staring into mine. He takes a step backwards, uneasy. I guess he has a speech impediment.

“Howdy, pardner. I'm Clover.” I give him a friendly wave, with the 1911 still in my hand. Thankfully, he doesn't seem bothered by it. Probably because he can't recognize it.

“Where's m-my m-mommy?” His question is answered immediately, his mother blocking her face out of shame. She doesn't look well. Evan is obviously unnerved by the sight.

“I-Is it over? T-the um… neg… neg-neg… negations…” 

“Negotiations.” I finished for him. “And… yeah. Pretty much.”

With that, I head on over to his mother, and whispered a few words to her. “I think you should explain to him the events about to transpire.”

Still on the floor, she nods, slowly picking herself up. She shuffles over to her child like a zombie, spiritually dead. And I would know, because I've seen zombies. Thankfully, they're not very quick on their feet. I've seen conflicting accounts in movies…

Yet again, she kneels down, and begins to speak to him. 

I don't want to be nosy, so I don't listen. I wait for them to be done with it.

I take this opportunity to look around. This place is a huge dump. There's no furniture, only a single mattress on the floor, with a single can of baked beans laid next to it, spilled onto the floor. Other than that, there's nothing. Except a boarded up window. How long was Ms. Catherine and Evan holed up here? However long it was, it was too long.

When they're done with their heart to heart, both of them, but especially Mrs. Catherine - or uh, as it should it be Ms. Catherine, since she's not married - eyes are running like nothing else. She's been crying a whole river! Her eyes have to be tired after all this.

Evan looks scared and confused. I sit there in contemplation. All that has happened, in the last few minutes. I thank God this didn't snowball into a huge fight.

I assume that she didn't tell him EVERYTHING, at least. But the knowledge that everything in his life is about to change must be overwhelming. What will his life be like? Who's gonna take care of him? 

“How are you holdin’ up, friend?” I bend down a bit to get to eye level with Evan. 

“...I don't know.” Yeah. That's reasonable. This is really a no win scenario for everyone. How could I make this better… I got it!

“Ya like dogs?” I take the little feller by the hand and out of the tiny apartment. Outside, I pick up the still slumbering pup off the chair I left it in. 

“Lookie here. This here is Toby. He's uh…” An annoying street dog. “Look at him! Ain't he cute?” 

“W-Wow…” It's already working! He practically has stars in his eyes! “D-Doggie… Does he do any t-tricks?”

Uh. “Come on. Sleepytimes over, sleepyhead. Do something cute!” I shake him a bit for good measure.

Finally, Toby wakes up. He seems unbothered at being woken up like this. “Now lick ‘em in the face. That'll cheer him up!” 

Despite my directive, Toby does nothing. Even when I put up close to Evan's face, he just sits there, blinking. This mutt has not a brain cell in his head. I look him in the face, evaluating him like he's a busted car engine.

“What? What's the issue? Just-” 

Wait.

I feel a weight suddenly appear in my pocket. After a second, the size of the burden doubled. What the hell?

I check my pocket and…

“SON OF A-” 

There's… an unspeakable substance filling my pocket!!! What am I looking at?? At first I thought it was shit, with how soft it was and the smell it gave off, but seeing it gave me pause. It's covered in white fur, smells like a dog, and-

“Get outta here you damn hound!” I nearly threw the animal. The nerve! I know it was him! I forgive Toby for his insolence back in IKEA and he treats me like this. He runs off, no doubt to traumatize and terrorize more innocent people.

I look back at Evan after my outburst, and he's giggling like a madman. Oh well. At least Evan got some kind of value out of my torment. Mission accomplished…?

“You're f-funny!”

“Don't I know it. Let's just get out of here.”

After throwing the nasty garbage dog residue into my dimensional bag, the abductor and the hostage follow me downstairs. 

We make the long trek in silence. Mrs. Catherine isn't really fit to be near her son, so he holds my hand during all of this, his mother trailing behind us in single file. Poor kid just seems despondent and confused about everything.

Before long, we're almost at the front door. Mrs. Catherine stops at the front desk, seeming to think of the events that have led her to this point.

I considered saying a few words to her, and decided that it could help some. I pat young Evan on the back and motion for him to stay put, and make my way over to her.

She's making lines in the dust of the desk, her finger now coated in the mess. I've gotta say, dust tastes well enough, but the source of it is very important. For example, sawdust kind of… gets stuck. In the throat. But normal indoor dust tastes well enough. I'd put it below packing peanuts quality wise. It's pretty much a worse version of gunpowder.

Why am I thinking about this? Oh yeah, I'm just sitting here looking at Ms. Catherine. I tug at her dress, which startles her pretty bad. She spins her head towards me, and I'm startled in turn, due to her sunken, bloodshot eyes and ruined makeup. She does not look her Sunday best, surely. I clear my throat before letting my thoughts be known.

“Ya can't take back whatcha did. What's done is done. But you can try and make the best of your circumstances. Trust me, getting lost in the adversities of life isn't a recipe for success… Look, I've met some people who've done monstrous things.”

Is that racist? Saying “monstrous”? It feels weird saying it now. I'll have to ask later.

“And you have the power to make things right, because you had the sense to stop before you went too far. Remember that! You must have faith and stay determined.” 

If someone like FLOWEY can change into even a slightly better person, then honestly there's hope for everyone. 

Thankfully, the little cheer up speech seemed to work. She doesn't seem so lost in the weeds of it all, as it were. She takes a shuddering breath, then gains a stern look, one filled with determination.

“Let's go then.” 

With that, the three of us head over to the entrance. The door remains closed. I don't know exactly what will happen when I open this, but I hope that everything turns out okay.

I take a quick breath. And swiftly open the door.

Agh! Too bright! I quickly cover my eyes, because damn! I mean, dang. I've really been trying to cuss less often. Prophets don't cuss like I used to.

Anyway, me and Evan descend the apartment steps towards the police, who seem awfully confused, paralyzing their decision making skills. The crowd erupts into a fervor of interest, everyone clambering to see just a hint of what's going on. The cameras click and start recording.

All these eyes… not very comfortable. 

Behind us, I can only barely hear the clicking of Ms. Catherine’s shoes follow Evan and I. I see she has her hands held up high, she has surrendered. She gets down on the floor now, her hands behind her back and awaiting arrest.

The police immediately close in on her, and begin putting handcuffs on her, and reading her Miranda rights. It's done.

“Hoo-wee.”

Evan predictably looks horrified. He doesn't do much beyond crunching my hand with his little kid grip and scream-crying. This is an ugly scene. Better than him having a gun shoved at him, though.

“Hey hey hey, it's alright, pardner. It's okay.” I bend down to talk to the little guy, but he can't seem to hear me. I simply pat him on the back and try to reassure him. 

God. What is going to happen to him after all this? Who'll he live with? His dad's dead, and his mom going behind bars! Maybe a Grandma or a cousin? Family friend? I have no idea.

As I'm thinking through the implications of the day's events, someone comes up to me. A cop! Oh no. Okay, Clover. Stay cool. Don't let them get to you. They don't know you. This man might find you suspicious but you can't let them get to you! Just gotta… put the charm on is all.

But I gotta say, with this one, it's not easy. As he approaches me, he quickly stuffs the last of a donut down his throat and sucks on his fat fingers. He wipes off some food off his beard and stomps over to us, and his loud, boisterous, and slovenly voice booms.

“Hello! And whose is this?” He sounds incredulous, with his yankee Italian accent making this weird lisp spit come out of his mouth.

Okay. My nerves are acting up. Keep your wits about you, Clover.

“I'm Clover. This is Evan.” I say evenly, my best impression of a professional. Evan, however, isn't in the right space to speak to anyone. So I decided to speak for him.

“Right… Ugh I'm not so good with kiddos…” I hear him mutter under his breath. He summons enough will to kneel down as I am, and looks towards the both of us, and has the face of one who can't be bothered to deal with the situation in front him, but has to. “You're real cute. Have fun playin’ dress up?” 

I scoff at his words. Unbelievable! “I ain't cute!” If I hear someone call me anything resembling cute again, I'll shoot them. “And Evan is the hostage. Isn't it your job to retrieve him?” 

“Wow. We've got a smart mouth here. Look, let's say you tell me what youse doin’ here and we won't have problems. Because 12 year olds don't belong in scrapes like this, huh?” 

What's his problem? I went into the building and did all the work, and now he's coming down on me! At least he got my age right.

“I'm Lieutenant Harvey Bullock.” He thumbs at his badge on his chest. “First things first. What do you think you're doing here? Shouldn't you be at home?” 

I am short of one at the moment. “I was on my way there! But I saw that something was wrong. So y'know. I had to make it right.” Actually, I wonder how my buddy back at the camp is holdin' up. 

The cop lets out a shuddering sigh. “Not this again! Look wannabe costume freak, dangerous situations like these are the affairs of the police. Ya can't just barge in Rambo style when you're feelin’ particularly chivalric.”

“Don't call me a freak! And I had it sorted out, didn't I?” 

Bullock opens his mouth to make a retort, but then pauses. He takes a minute to judge his perimeter. Mrs. Catherine is being escorted to a police vehicle without a fuss, everything's orderly, and I did pretty well, considering the circumstances.

“Point taken. But if I gotta play by da rules, so does everybody else!” He snaps his finger and and gestures towards the ear muffs. “Just pawn the crap off your neck, Billy the Kid.” I glow at the remark. Although Billy the Kid wasn't exactly a hero, but he was a charmin’ rogue!

Oh! I take off the earmuffs, and get the rope and gag out of my pocket. I hand them all over to him, and his massive fingers cradle the evidence. “This here's all the stuff Mrs. Catherine constrained her son with. And uh. Here's the gun.” 

Someone from off to the side comes in, and grabs the evidence from Mr. Bullock. “Hm. You seem comfortable around this thing, huh?” He shakes the weapon a bit, and he stares at me all suspicious like.

“Uh. Nope. I couldn't even tell you what model that is.” Of course, it's a Remington 1911. But it's okay to lie when it's convenient, right? God is forgiving.

“Yuh huh. And-” 

While he's saying that, his hands slip and the gun lands on the ground with a hardy thwack!

“Whoops.” 

It nearly gave me a hard attack! “You nincompoop! That thing coulda gone off! Don't you know how to handle a simple handgun!?” Aren't cops supposed to have, like, intense training? What a fool.

Bullock squawks at my words, before more spit leaves from his shouting, chapped lips. “Who do you think you're talkin’ to? I handled pistols when you was in diapers, Woody!” 

“I would bet billions I had a better grip as a toddler than you as a grown man, butterfingers.” 

“You betta take that back, pipsqueak-!” 

“Ahem.” 

Our argument is interrupted by the other cop next to the nincompoop. “Lieutenant? People are starting to look.” And they are. A lot of the bystanders, some of the other officers, and even Ms. Catherine in the backseat of a police car.

The Nincompoop named Harvey Bullock looks flustered and frustrated. It's a look that suits him. He stumbles over himself getting the gun off the floor and aims his fat finger at me with a final warning. “Go home, kid. And somebody get the other one!” He skulks off into parts unknown.

The woman next to Bullock then comes up to Evan, and whispers some comforting words to him. He seems surprisingly receptive. Or maybe the fellas just woozy from standin’ around all day.

I take that as my cue to leave. All in a day's work! Just let Overlord get a load of this. Maybe I should say farewell to Jason before I leave, though. I decided to pay my gyro buddy a final visit before then…

💛 

I'm not one for late night news, or news in general. But when I am, Vicki Vale is the reporter.

Vicki Vale and I have a history. She's one of… MANY romantic partners I've had as Bruce Wayne. None of my ventures playing the playboy have gone anywhere serious, and it was appropriate that they didn't.

Vicki was the only one who suspected anything about me. In one instance, lying in bed together, she made an off handed remark to a friend on the phone that had a certain look in my eye, like I was hiding who I truly was. She must have thought I was asleep. For the life of me, I can't figure out what she meant by that.

Thankfully, Vicki is only a gossip reporter, so no one believes her sensationalist headlines about who Batman is behind the cowl.

But her story regarding the Westons grabs my interest in particular.

The breakout on Valentine's Day has created much grief for the family in the last few weeks. I haven't had the time to engage with more “domestic” crimes. I had only learned about the case just an hour ago. Tim had the manners to “spill the deets”, as Dick sometimes remarks.

Burt Weston, an actor captivated by villainy and corruption, was murdered by his former wife in California. Their son had gone missing around the same time. The authorities have conducted a weeks long manhunt for Catherine DuBois and Evan Weston, but after a ransom post on social media, she's engaged in a standoff with the GCPD. Because she just had to run off to Gotham. Only the work of God can make this city rise above her reputation. Trouble just seems to look for you, doesn't it?

I'm currently conducting a forensic investigation on the recent case regarding multiple murders of several crime bosses, orchestrated by who I suspect to be the Sionis Family. With all the bloody threats sprayed on the wall? It has Roman written all over it. He always did like to play with his food.

“This is Vicki Vale, reporting live on the ever developing Weston story. We have just received word that the standoff between Catherine DuBois and the GCPD has come to an unexpected close.” 

That catches my attention. While catching a glimpse of the monitor across from me, I review my contacts footage from the other screen. The Batcomputer analyzes the strip club's vandalized bar room.

“The abandoned North Star apartment building's doors were unexpectedly slammed open just as police were phoning SWAT. The startling exit of Evan DuBois and a strange child dressed in a cowboy costume awed spectators just as Catherine DuBois also came out of the darkness, with her arms raised and surrendering to law enforcement.” 

I raise an eyebrow. I'm usually excellent at multitasking, but this story has officially piqued my interest. What was that about a child in a cowboy outfit? I swivel the Batchair to the monitor from behind me.

Vicki's coat is green, matching her eyes, and vibrant red hair contrasts the serious expression on her face. It's cold out, so she shivers a bit before continuing. “By happenstance, we have gained contact with the daring whippersnapper, and would you like to introduce yourself?”

The camera whips over to two people.

One of them is a dark skinned young man, wearing a Starbucks apron and cap. He must have just come off a long day at work, judging by the bags under his eyes and exhausted stance. If he isn't careful, he'll fall over any second.

And the other… is…

A… boy? I'm honestly not sure. I'm… I don't know if that's offensive. Granted, they were called a cowboy, but I elect to stay safe and just remain neutral.

Either way, they look to be very young. Only twelve years old at the oldest. Although malnourishment could very easily be why they seem so small for their age, judging by their lacking of any muscle mass. They also seem slightly fatigued.

It's not helped by their general uncleanliness. Their cowboy hat can't hide the untamed animal on their head, or dirt all around their fingers. Not even mentioning the obvious injuries, scars and burns, they have on their face and hands.

They possess a stark, firm neutrality in expression, which just might be the nerves. Despite it all, I can see their… yellow eyes glimmering with pride and jubilation, but also a quaint awkwardness and confusion.

They sport the full ensemble, it would not surprise me if they raided their nearest Party City for the textbook clothes a cowboy would wear. Belt buckle, ill fitting blue jeans, boots, a brown vest with various patches pinned to it, a shining yellow sheriff badge, a bag wrapped around their shoulder, a yellow and blue checkered bandana, and of course, a cowboy hat with a feather on it.

But the most alarming thing is the gun they have holstered.

I continue watching. 

“...Howdy, everybody at home. I'm Clover.” They offer a shy wave. 

An awkward silence ensues. The young man rubs his eyes and Vicki begins grinning at the child.

“You're not so good in front of the camera, are you?” 

“Naw, I ain't… I'm sweating up a storm like this, Ms. Vale, despite how cold it is.” Their small voice and Texan accent seems to charm Vicki, who offers them a giggle. I have to admit. They seem rather cute. “I can imagine all them eyes on me.” 

“Well you certainly have a face made for TV. Well, I have to ask, what brought you to such a scary situation?” 

The kid scratches their head, and begins recollecting. “I was on my way… home… from Wawa, and I strayed off course. I saw a police car speeding over to God knows where, so I followed and saw all this commotion.” 

“And how did you find yourself inside the building?” 

“Well, first I met this guy, who I met a few days ago.” The kid elbow nudges the young man, who seems half asleep. “He's Jason. I got him and I some gyros. But uh, he seems awfully tired at the moment.” 

“Sorry…” The Jason boy drowsily moans out. 

“Anyway, I met him, then I decided I felt compelled enough to involve myself. So I just walked in.” 

…What?

“Y-You just walked into the apartment building?” Vickie seems as confused as I am.

“Yeah. Nobody seemed to notice. Suited me well enough.” How in the world did the GCPD allow a child to sneak themselves past them and into an active crime scene and not notice?

“Soon enough, I was on the third floor, and… and when I bust through the door I saw… Miss Catherine holding a 1911 to little Evan's head. It was quite awful.”

My stomach drops. I feel the humidity of the cave overwhelm me now. I watch the screen so closely I can nearly see the reds, blues, and greens that make up the image on the screen.

Vicki gulps down her nerves, and says with a somber tone, “That must have been horrifying.” 

“You bet! I was so worried I was gonna mess everything up. This is kind of a victory lap moment for me right now.” Pure relief is drawn on the child's face.

Vicki's brow furrows in confusion. “And how did you manage to get out of this in the end? It must have been quite frightening for you!” 

The cowpoke raises a brow, and crosses their arms. “I mean. Kinda? But Evan was a more pressing concern. I knew I was gonna turn out fine.” 

Such confidence… What makes them so sure of themselves? They must think themselves invincible with that gun.

“Wow. So heroic!” Vicki practically coos to them, and the child almost winces at the word.

“I really don't know about that. But yeah. I managed to talk Mrs. Catherine down. I got her to stand down, and turn herself in and everything.” 

“...You're saying you managed to successfully negotiate with the abductor!?” 

“...Essentially. I ain't gonna get into it, because that's private, but I got it done.” 

This is where things take a turn for me. I recognize something in this child. No average eleven year old could do that. If what they're saying is true…

“I've got some history with peaceful resolutions and such. I, for one, am grateful I didn't have to get in any kind of brawl or tussle. Those really take a lot outta me.”

So they have experience?

“... Interesting. Very- Interesting.” Vicki looks positively overwhelmed. After a moment, she takes a deep breath and forces a smile back on her face. “So… Me and the audiences at home can only assume that someone your age took inspiration from costumed vigilante superheroes by the likes of Superman, the Green Lantern, or especially Batman, to pull off this feat of courage! Is that true?” Vicki tries to veer the topic into more familiar territory.

But… this is the strangest thing of all. Clover tilts their head, and says the most perplexing thing in the entire interview.

“I don't… Who are those people?” 

Real, honest, genuine confusion is written on the child's face. This is when I realize just how peculiar this situation is. What ten year old doesn't know SUPERMAN? 

Vicki doesn't even know what to say. For once, the ever exhausted Jason peers at Clover in bafflement. That seemed to wake him up.

“I… That's a gun.” Vicki finally noticed, and she seems done. With everything.

“No?” Clover offered to Vicki, looking like they were aware of just how much this was flying off the rails.

The child's eyes shimmy left to right, and they look ready to book it. They clear their throat as an uneasy expression passes over them, gingerly stepping to the side. “Right. This has been fun and all Ms. Vale, but I think it's high time I said good night and went on back to my alley- I mean House. That I live in.” 

Alleyway.

“I gotta skedaddle on out of here!” The child hastily sprints off camera, like they were just caught taking cookies out of a cookie jar instead of accidentally admitting they were a gun toting homeless child.

I think that's enough for today. I press the key to turn off the news footage, and am left in the quiet ambience of the Bat cave. The moist air, the squeaking of my most irrational fear, and the bored mooing of the Bat Cow.

I digest everything I have just learned.

…

…

That was on Gaiman Boulevard. Why on earth is that kid in Jason's territory? I sit still, knowing what I have to do. I don't know if I have the strength to do it, however.

The comms light up, and I steel myself for what comes next.

“What's up, Bitch Man?”

💛

Chapter Text

💛 

I should not have done that. I should have just ran off, back to the camp, and not dealt with those news people. I didn't need to do an interview on live TV. But no! I just HAD to be courteous and say my farewells to Jason.

What was I even thinking!? I wasn't, really. Jason was basically sleep talking to Ms. Vale, and when I waltzed up to him, then somehow - without my noticing - it turned into an interview. One moment it was: “Hey Jason, I'm heading out,” then Ms. Vale was talking about, “Oh hey!!! Wanna do an interview?” I was so taken aback I automatically supplied her with a “Uh alrighty then.”

I can't believe this. I just ran! And I'm still running. As fast as I can go, away from what I know is coming next.

Now, all of these people know about me. The police will be looking for me, trying to collect me and put me back in one of those stupid orphanages! I'd be back to the days of sleeping on jangly couches, cooking burnt chicken, and hearing that blasted smoke detector making that beep noise all night because my indifferent caretaker is too much of a cheapskate to replace the batteries!! At least, for a while.

This is bad. What will they do when they find that I don't legally exist? Will they deport me, ‘cause I ain't a citizen!? Uh, probably not. But still! I'm not gonna find out.

And who is Batman? or Wonder Woman, or Superman, or Green Lantern? They sound like wrestler names or something. The reporter lady said they were “costumed vigilantes.” 

Superheroes.

Well. Maybe I am a vigilante, with that stunt in that apartment building. But I am NOT wearing a costume, and I ain't a superhero. These are my CLOTHES. Did she think I was some kind of imitator of these people? I don't even have superpowers.

That nincompoop cop Bullock also mentioned something about it, just as Miss Catherine and the Food Truck guy and the little girl in the alley…

Hm.

After untold amounts of sprinting, (I actually have alright stamina) I thankfully find myself back at my hut.

I'm exhausted, physically and mentally. I sat there panting for a good minute, just trying to collect myself before entering the alleyway.

I heave, my body exhausted from the long day's events and my Olympic sprint, and I finally see Notorious Overlord after all that mess with the hostage.

“At night, I think of you… I want to be your lady, maybe~!” There he is, singing again. For a random old homeless guy, Overlord has a very soulful voice! I wonder if he's just naturally talented or if he had training or something. Finally, he opens his eyes during his emotional serenade, and sees me.

“Hey, Clover. Where were you at? I was jonesing for some-”

My delirium interrupts whatever he had to say. “OVERLORD! Ya gotta help, the cops are after me!” I blurt it out, restless over the implications of what I've just done.

Lazily, Overlord scratches his scruffy beard. “...Why?” He prods.

“Well. They're not after me, per se, but my future prospects ain't lookin so hot.” Overlord's question gives me pause, and calms me down. I stumble over next to Overlord, and slump onto the cardboard bed.

I reach into the dimensional bag, and pull out Overlord's sunflower seeds, and I throw it to him. “Here ya go, mister.”

“Thanks, son.” 

I go on ahead and pull out my cup of Joe, and sip it before Overlord lethargically inquired, “Is that what took ya so long?”

I sigh, both in the relief of my coffee going down my beleaguered throat, and in the mental weight of dealing with all this hogwash this afternoon. “Well.” 

As I regaled Notorious Overlord on what went down, I could tell he spaced out halfway through. Although, at this point I could hardly care because it felt good to tell somebody about this.

Finally, I told him everything. And as I gulped down even more hot bean juice, I felt relief.

“So. Whaddya reckon I do?” 

“Hm.” Overlord shuffles about in his cardboard bed, and looks to the heavens. “I've been in scrapes with the poh-lice before.” 

“Really?” My voice is filled with hope. Guidance! “How'd ya make it out in one piece?” 

“I didn't. I spent 8 years in Blackgate. Worst period of ma whole damn life.” 

“Oh.” Disappointed, my face falls. I don't know where Blackgate is, but I assume it's a prison.

“But ya know why they sent me to the big house?” 

I shake my head no. I lean in, eager to soak in his knowledge. I subconsciously scoot closer to Overlord.

“Cause I didn't have no disguise.” He nods sagely to me, and he authoritatively points his index finger with those fingerless gloves right at my face. “Ya see all those heroes with their goofy ass costumes, capes n’shit. If I woulda worn any of that, I'd still be livin it up at my cousin's place up on Coventry.”

“A… disguise?” I try to think. What could I use as a disguise? I go sift through my thoughts, and eventually my dimensional bag, trying to find something.

I have… Cooper's shades. That's something. What else? I only got the clothes on my back! And I'm not wearing pajamas on the streets. My options are limited.

A sudden burst of inspiration comes to me, and I remember: My bandana! I jump in the air in excitement, and all I gotta do is pull the majestic fabric over my nose, and I feel like a proper outlaw! My eyes are then encased in the shadow of my racist doppelganger's gift, just like the cloudy streets in which I dwell, and I KNOW, without a shadow of a doubt (or a mirror) that there is no possible way that anybody could recognize me. I feel like a true outlaw, Red Dead Style!

I make a pose, and do several tricks with my gun, hearing the twirl of my expertise. I feel invincible.

“I guess that's good enough.” Overlord's enthusiastic endorsement only cements this feeling in my gut.

Unfortunately for me, my impeccable cowboy aura doesn't negate the fact that I. Am. SPENT!

I collapse back onto the cardboard, the thud of the paper fiber beneath me reinforcing my exhaustion. I reach into the bag once more, and I pull out the IKEA blanket. The fluffy blanket envelopes me, and I yawn.

Disguise successfully equipped, I turn my attention back to my homeless buddy and prepare myself. “Thanks for the tip, pardner. But what's that about heroes n’ costumes?” I hope I don't sound too crazy.

Overlord oddly pats his packet of seeds, and cradles it like a newborn baby. But my question puts a halt to that, and he slowly turns his head to me. He raises a brow, puzzled. “Explain.” 

“W-Well…” Slightly nervous, I stammer out my first words. I click my tongue in frustration. “Screw it. Do you know who Batman is? I'm goin' bananas not knowing at this point, I'll tell ya what.” 

Overlord gives me a look.

He busts out laughing. It's small at first, but then it builds into something louder and more destructive. I'm flush with embarrassment. My next words come out small and pleading.

“Just spill the beans, wouldja?” 

“How the hell you gonna be in Gotham and not know who Batman is? Heheha!”

“Well…” I hesitate. I've barely known Overlord for a day. Has he earned the trust needed for me to spill my guts on this nearly sacred knowledge?

Eh. Probably.

I look around first, to make sure nobody's listening. With the coast clear, I lean in and whisper, “Don't jaw about this to nobody, but I ain't of this world, if you get my drift.” 

He gasps. “Like Superman???” 

“Wha?” There's that name again. I don't even know what that refers to.  “Naw, I'm from another dimension. So ain't acquainted with your culture or nothin’.” 

“So where you're from people don't have Batman?” His voice rises, seeming astonished at the idea.

I nod my head affirmatively. Overlord purses his lips and gums at this juicy bit of knowledge.

“Well. You REALLY wanna know who Batman is?” 

“That's why I asked, mister.”

“Sit down for this one.” We're both sitting down? But I listen closely. Overlord has proven reliable so far.

“Batman… is a myth! An invention of the GCPD! Jim Gordon made him up so folk'll stop selling me that good off brand Newports that I like. I think they laced some wacky shit in there, but it hit different. Anywhos, People’ll lie and say they saw The Batman, but that fake animatronic ain't foolin' nobody! On GOD, I've seen footage on Facebook, and I saw the GCPD logo on the soles of his boot, and CIA wiretaps under his metal plating!”

…Seems reasonable.

Is any of that true? This is the most animated he's been since I've met him, with his hands flailing about and gesticulating widely. I don't even know how to respond. “You've given me quite a lot to think about, Dynamic Overlord.” I guess I'll have to ask around more.

“Anytime, Clover. Anytime.”

Right. I yawn again, making sure my new disguise is on right. These sunglasses… I feel a little uncomfortable wearing them. Makes me feel a little too much like Cooper. But it's necessary to maintain my freedom. “I'm gonna take a nap. If anyone asks, call me by… Gun Hat.” I declare it very dramatically, almost like Clint Eastwood! 

If I had a cool western outlaw name, it would be Gun Hat.

“Goodnight, kid.”

And I immediately fall to slumber.

💛 

It's empty.

Walking into the endless abyss, a mockery of my memories, the purple corridors of the catacombs replaced with a dull, ashy gray. There's no signs of life, neither from me or my surroundings. I feel no blood in my body, no bones under my skin, no eyes in my eye sockets, no nerves in my brain, no skin on my muscles. It hurts. I want to cry, but I have no eyes.

It's so foggy.

I should be feeling something, but I can't. Only the demanding pull of automatic movement, twisting my right foot ahead of my left. I have to keep moving.

There's nobody here. 

The eerie silence of a ruined past, brick laid in decrepit memories and best left forgotten tragedies is replaced with the wet rot of snow. The trees are barren and lifeless, without leaves, fitting of their still infuriating shade of gray. It almost makes it hard for me to distinguish the trees from the snow, but for a reason I can't contemplate, it doesn't matter. I keep moving.

Somewhere without my knowledge, the snow melted and the dark cavern above was awash in false sunlight, dazzling and warm but still gray. I trot past several homes, indistinct and still devoid of life. My throat is dry. Despite everything, I'm still thirsty. I'm driven insane by the mirage, so I can't even register the tourist trap I walked past.

I drive on and on. Past the offices of a defunct company, the warehouse of a former industrial juggernaut, the steam of a decommissioned power plant and other laboratories, all of it. It's all as monotonous, dreary, and gray as everything else, so why bother?

Finally, I'm here. It's the end.

The city which I had journeyed through it all for. I never knew it before, but the knowledge comes to me all at once.

The bliss of the blackness, of something other than gray, is what awaits.

I walk past the empty streets, the abandoned vendors, the pseudo skylines, for it doesn't matter. There's a specific path I must follow.

I see a bridge, leading towards my path forward. To Justice.

For once, my labored trek is sped up even slightly. I claw forward, my nails dragging into the brick, making marks. It's right there! It's nondescript and the pitch black fog blocks my view, but it's there, I know it!

But… It's not coming to me, evading my grasp. The bridge stretched on, almost conscious, brick growing beyond the eye can see. I grew frustrated, my brow furrowing, my frustration blinding me to my body disappearing without my knowledge.

I'm so desperate to reach the end that I don't notice it. My physical form vanishes, replaced with the only color I can see, the golden glow of my SOUL bouncing off the darkness around me. I have retreated into my essence.

I want to scream, but I have no lungs. Or anything else, to think of it.

There's nothing. Where is it!? 

Two vines stab me, from the right and the left. I don't feel pain, only the drain of my source of life. It's almost worse. At least with physical pain, I am present in the moment. 

The dirty green vines crush me, in an intolerably slow way. The red spikes dig into me, like it's trying to get me to squirm, for its own amusement.

I feel the electrifying shock of thunder, the snap of my essence derailing my thoughts.

My metaphorical stomach twists as the swift blue feathers are flung at me, and I feel that I must be bleeding. They are more knives than quills.

A burning gape in my shape forms as scorching hot bullets fly through me, the nostalgic bangs of gunfire now used for my destruction.

Plasmic spheres of burning efficiency slam into me, burning my remaining thoughts to a crisp. After a brief break, I think it's finally over.

But no.

From the depths, from nowhere I can see, the unknown slashes at me. I feel my essence crumble, then split into twine, before finally dissipating.

I feel my breath leave me, my lungs collapsing. My vision blurs then narrows, I feel like I'm about to throw up, and I'm so weak. I can't move.

It's all crashing down. It's done. I'm dying. I'm dead. I should have expected this. I can't breathe. It hurts. Please. Please. Please. It hurts. Stop.

💛 

I'm ashamed to admit it, but I wake up screaming.

It's a shrill thing too. And I'm out in public! Not a very dignified awakening.

Startled and confused, I looked at myself, checking my pulse to see that I'm still alive. I'm still in Gotham. I'm not dead. It's okay. Everything's fine. I don't need to cry over my problems like a little baby. Who ever heard of a crybaby cowboy? I'm not Flowey! How pathetic…

I hold a death grip to my chest, and try to think. What was I even dreaming about? I can't seem to remember. Oh well. I don't wanna ponder about it anyhow. It would probably make me weep more than I already am.

From out of nowhere, a cruel pressure throbs on the right side of my head, and then travels to the left, trying to ruin my day. I groaned, and held onto it for dear life. Of course, I have a headache.

That smarts!

Miserable, I suddenly remembered that I was crying. I quickly work to wipe my eyes and nose with my stolen blanket, before remembering that I have the shades on. How tough I am! Crying in a dirty street corner. I take my shades and bandana off to wipe down my shame. Thankfully, the checkered fabric isn't messy.

I look beside me, to find Overlord asleep as I was. I breathe a sigh of relief. My one solace: I'm the only one who will know this happened.

I see that his tattered old blanket isn't covering his feet, so I do him the favor of covering him up. He stops shivering.

I twist my head up, towards the starless night sky. On the right and left, the heavens are blocked by two slabs of brick called buildings. But I can still see the light of the neon moon.

I don't know how to feel.

…

I feel a thud in my head. Actually, I do know how to feel. Aggravated.

I start to remember my dream, at least, the last moments of it.

Like bits of chopped up meat, served to me in itty bitty bites. I barely recollect a massive canvas of gray. It's fuzzy.

Unfortunately, the only part I remember with certainty is the climax. 

Damn it, look at me. I'm starting to tear up again.
Dyin’ ain't so pretty. Why am I dreaming about this? I didn't used to agonize over the details of my death like this before. Yeah, I've regretted it, but I've never… I've never…

What am I supposed to do with these feelings?

I don't want to bother my friends with my baggage. If I did, it's just make all of them feel bad everytime they got an update from me. Martlet would just feel bad, Ceroba would feel terrible, Star would probably just be supportive…

Flowey would probably laugh.

And seeing as my fellow homeless companion is dead asleep, I'm not about to wake him up to tell him I frew up and am scawed like when I was five.

Not doing that again.

I swallow.

I quash these thoughts, and lay back down. The headache hardly goes away, but I am prepared to stubbornly ignore it. If I do, it'll probably (hopefully) just go away.

Thankfully, that black cat that seems to find me these last few days arrives again. She's the only therapy I'm getting. She meows, and stretches, her body moving like elastic.

Didn't Dalv talk about this in his letter? Something about stuffing your problems… Well, unlike him, I'm not around any of my friends. And Dalv has the right to talk about his issues. He didn't choose to be attacked, and to develop schizophrenia. But I made that choice back in New Home. It's pathetic to whine over the consequences of your own actions. Who wants to hear some stupid kid whine about problems they own all the culpability for? Nobody! ‘Sides, aren't I supposed to be the one helping people?

My emotional issues punch me inside my head, and I wince.

Enough of that. I can't go out today, because the cops are after me. So I pull up my blanket, the cat purring on top of my torso.

It hurts. My head hurts. Everything hurts.

💛 

“And afterward, Moses and Aaron went in, and told Pharaoh, Thus saith the LORD God of Israel, Let my people go, that they may hold a feast unto me in the wilderness.” My voice comes out slightly muffled with the silky smooth bandana over my mouth.

Overlord chews incessantly on his seeds, and pays rapt attention to my dollar store sermon. He reaches into the green plastic bag, chewing on the snack, shell and all. He hums, letting me know to continue.

“And Pharaoh said, Who- Ugh.” I halt, feeling that gosh darned dull pressure in my head bother me yet again.

Overlord says nothing, because I asked him - all polite like - not to mention it. I steel myself through the pain, grunting, trying to drown the pangs. I reoriented myself, and found where I previously was reading. But I can see Overlord looking at me like adults always do, with that pitying look. I clear my throat and push forward, like nothing was wrong.

Because nothing was.

“...Who is the LORD, that I should obey his voice to let Israel go? I know not the LORD, neither will I let Israel go.” 

On one hand I hold His gift to me and read from it, and with the other I pet the - as of now unnamed - black cat's head, and she purrs so dainty like, and leans into my touch, her head on my leg as I sit criss-cross apple sauce. 

Despite the terrible start to my Saturday, nothing has happened, and no one has found me. Thank God. I don't think this migraine I got would be made any better otherwise.

I've been dreading tomorrow, because I know I'll have to go out and find a Church or something. A promise is a promise!

Wait. Is Overlord chewing on the shells of the seeds? “Mister, I don't think you're supposed to be eating ‘em like that.” I inquired, interrupting myself.

Overlord has no shame. He bites into another one. “Don't let nobody lie to you and say the shell ain't the best part of sunflower seeds. ‘Sides, weren't you eating moss earlier?” 

“I don't see how that's relevant.” I've never had sunflower seeds. “Aw well… then let me try!” 

The old man pours some in my palm, and I pull my bandana down to eat, my shades still covering my eyes. I chew on it whole as he suggests. The salty flavor, the crunch… he's completely right!

“And… now fo thuh beft part.” He says with his mouth full, before spitting it out on the floor. “Makes a man feel manful.” 

Overlord hasn't lied to me so far. I do as he says, and I feel a rush hit me as my salvia and the shell hits the floor of Gotham. I gaze in awe of this man. “Yer a real smart cookie, Overlord.” 

“Don't tell nobody that. I've got a reputation to uphold.”

“Boo!” 

From out of nowhere, a new voice appears!

Definitely not spooked at all, I quickly pull up my bandana and jump off the floor, and make a battle stance, because any good cowboy is ready for anything! Unfortunately, I groaned, as I stood up too fast, making my headache act up. Still, I remain vigilant!

“Motherfuck! Ya scared the shit outta me, Hood!” 

Who… I look up, and see who has made a disturbance of themselves on this fine Gotham night. I see a figure at the end of the alley.

He's… awfully tall. About as tall as Cooper is, thinking of it. And he's a gen-uine tank! He's so massive he blocks out the light pouring in from the street, even as he's all the way at the end of the and we're sitting by the trash.

He has this weird metal helmet on his head, stark red and being hit with the lights of the street lamps that are on 24/7. The white slit eyes of the helmet are constantly furrowed, creating the impression of persistent and sustained annoyance.

He wears this brown leather jacket with countless pockets on it, sleeves rolled up and showing off his pale arms. The jacket houses black armor, which weirdly has abs on it, and some red weird symbol I can't place decorated the chest. Dark gray cargo pants and these military boots adoring his legs and feet. He stands, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He's strangely relaxed and at ease with how… decked out he is!

And! He has his dual pistols holstered. It looks cool, but I can't let that distract me! I put my Bible back into the bag. Yet another distraction from God awaits.

“That was kinda the point, pal.” The costumed weirdo smugly says, straightening and rolling his shoulders back, while also cracking his knuckles. He takes several measured steps towards the both of us then. “Now. Time for what I'm actually here for.” 

He stands reasonably far enough, about halfway down the corridor, just enough to make me feel boxed in. He crouches down, and meets me eye to eye. Or unglasses to eye slits. “Hey, cowboy. What are you doing out here all alone?” 

“W-Who are you?” I finally find words, and I step back from the man with a red bowl on his head.

“That's Red Hood. He runs these streets!” Overlord supplies, pulling tighter on his dirty green beanie.

“Damn straight I do. But that's not why I'm here.” He says it with a lot of bravado.

He runs these streets… What does that mean? Is he a… is he here to collect me!? For the police? Oh no. I start panicking, and hold onto my hat tightly.

“You're a mercenary.” I accuse, and I must remain strong.

“Sometimes? Yeah. But right now, I'm your friend. I know it's hard to trust people, but I'm gonna need you to trust me. So why don't you tell me your name, buddy?” 

Sometimes, he says. How reassuring! “Leave me alone.” I can't trust him. I don't know who he is. I hear the cat scamper up the side of a drainage pipe, and I'm left here on my lonesome.

“Hey, you can trust Hood, Clover. He ain't like Two-Face or none of them other crime lords. He doesn't hurt kids.” Overlord pipes up, and-

CRIME LORD!? I start shaking now. And Overlord just gave my name away! “Overlord! It's Gun. Hat! We talked about this!” I emphasize, as my voice shakes more, stress rattling my bones.

“Sorry.” 

“And don't compare me to Harvey Dent.” Red Hood, if that is his real name, turns his head over to the man, sighs, and cradles his head. “Look, Clover. I only want to help. I understand the hostility, because I've been in your situation. Let's talk it out.” The criminal uncrouches and creeps closer to me, and I can't let it end like this!

“Don't take another step!” I draw my gun from my fancy holster, and point it at his shiny helmet. “I'll shoot! No hint of a lie!” 

“Whoa nelly!” I hear Overlord swear, concern filling his voice. “Y-You shouldn't do that, Clover.” 

“I got it, man. Don't worry.” Red Hood waves a hand in Overlord's direction, sounding completely unconcerned. Just leave me alone, ya bastard...

In what world am I gonna trust him? He's a self admitted mercenary, and Overlord called him a crime lord, and he voiced no arguments against such a view! If Ceroba, Flowey, and even A PLANT VERISON OF MYSELF tried to punk me, what in Sam Hill makes this varmint more trustworthy?

He's gonna… I don't know. What will he do? The uncertainty eats at me. What if he decides to steal my soul or something!?

I've made myself clear. If this bandit tries anything, it's on him.

“Listen. I'm gonna take a step forward, and you're not gonna shoot, okay? I know I came off a little strong, but you've got nothing to be afraid of, kid. Let's have a civil discussion here.” 

I'm not a kid.

Red Hood does nothing. He sits there, and I do the same. My aim remains true, and I can hear Overlord's breath hitch and the sounds of cars and distant police sirens.

I see next to the criminal, a metal trash can.

Dead eye.

Red Hood puts his right foot forward.

Instantly, I fired two friendless pellets from my trusty gun, and they ricochet off the garbage and hit his freaky helmet on the forehead in succession, and he staggered back. The first shot reveals a crack in the helmet, while the succeeding pellet made an audible pop noise, his black hair spilling out from the hole. His hand immediately goes to the injured area, surprised. 

I take the opportunity to fire off four more shots. Two to both his hands, and two more to his legs. My chambers are completely empty, but they'll come back later. Magic bullets and all.

I hear him swear something or another, but I have greater cares.

I am outta here! I sprint past the Red Hood in his moment of weakness.

Once again, I’m running for my life. Overlord's cries quickly fade away as I make my daring escape.

I thought I was done running, but the thought of being kidnapped by that varmint Red Hood and being scurried off to parts unknown filled me with so much adrenaline I felt like I had downed 40 coffees in one go. The ache in my head becomes less noticeable as I run, further and further from that alley. The dull pain is replaced by survival instinct.

Unlike last time, I have no destination. My only port of call is Freedom! Cowboys are free, dang it! 

I rudely shove many blissfully ignorant bystanders who don't even know the kind of nonsense I'm knee deep in.

I ran down the sidewalk, and scanned the perimeter. I'm desperate for somewhere, anywhere to escape. My unfortunately short legs leap in succession, hopping like a rabbit, to achieve that end.

“Hey!”

I hear him again, growling behind me. He sounds pissed! He's sure to tear me apart if I let him. I rapidly turn the corner, accidentally bumping into an innocent random person who I don't have the opportunity to apologize to. My life is on the line here!

I have no idea where I'm going. I start to panic. I can almost hear him gaining on me, the stomping boots coming to stomp on my neck or something! He's more restless than Axis! 

From the corner of my eye, across the street, I see an opportunity: Gotham Subway, written in white, rising above a staircase leading to a subway station where I can hide.

How am I gonna get across? I already passed the street light and there's a veritable stampede of cars between me and freedom.

I guess I'll just have to run past them.

And that's what I do.

The road congestion is so bad that none of the cars are gaining or moving at all, so I take advantage. I shimmy my way across the hulking masses of steel and gas. A lot of them are so surprised by the sight of me on the road that they say and do nothing, making funny faces as I pass.

Most of them, however, don't care.

With exception to the very last vehicle I maneuvered past, of course. I hear the loud blares of a car horn as I reach the finish line, also known as the side walk.

“Madone. HEY, KID FROM THE NEWS! I'm tryna fuckin drive here, if you would be so kind as to let me do so.” The man in the brim belligerently yells, taking out his frustration in traffic on me. Oddly enough, I find myself stopping my escape to listen. He has a certain way with words. Or at least, that's what I tell myself.

That's before I hear a loud creak from the small yellow car, it shakes. The Red Hood had jumped on top of it, squatting. The gangster addresses me, his fist clenched. “You're a real pain in the ass, ya know that?.” He's so heavy I can see the car earn several dents on the roof.

“...I feel an acute wetness traveling down my leg right now.” The road rager gives his outstanding input on these developments.

Ain't that just?

I quickly pivot to the subway, almost tripping down the steps to enter the dark and gloomy station, the fluorescent lighting flickering for whatever reason, and there's even a bulb that fell on the floor.

Who cares?! I gotta move! Gotta get a grip…

I ignore that random guy - Just pissing in the corner, while I'm running across the steps. Incredible. I guess that's what I should have done. Seriously, what's wrong with city slickers?

Irrelevant!

Before long I suddenly found myself confronted with these… silver metal detector things, with Entry A and B emblazoned on the sign above. I have no idea what they are, but I run under the bars and act like I don't hear the beeping. Because there's no one there to stop me. I had thought there would be more people crammed in this subterranean transport, but apparently not.

Now, if only HE weren't down here. God, he's quick. I felt like I was going pretty fast, but I can already hear that no good crime Lord and his stupid jacket making so much noise, gaining on me. Is he an Olympic athlete or something? How is he moving so fast! He's like 6 feet tall and built like a semi truck.

Through this entry…

I ran down a long hallway, ignoring the few people I saw, confused at what I could be running from. If only they knew…

Where do I hide now? I had assumed I would have gotten rid of the Hood by now, but he's still chasing me! I gotta think, how do I-

Yes! I could hide in the tunnels. He'll never find me in those. 

I know it to be dangerous, but I jump down to the tracks below. I hear the people waiting for the train gasp as they see me do it, but I'm confident I can escape all this without getting flattened. I think.

I land on my feet with a loud clunk.

I waste no time running, the lights of the subway slowly disappearing into the tunnels. I can barely see anything, but I must keep running.

I don't know how long I'm running, the clacks of my boots reassuring me that I have the strength to keep it movin. But at a certain point, I can no longer run. I'm exhausted, and don't know where I am. I stop running, my momentum nearly sending me tripping headfirst into the tracks before I catch myself. I stare at my hands, and I can't see them. The subway lights are flickering, and I get an uneasy feeling.

But I can't give up! I don't hear Red Hood anymore, so maybe that's a sign that my strategy worked.

At this point, I'm just walking. Not towards anything in particular, just moving my feet so I feel like I'm making progress. It's like inertia. At least all my stuff is still in the bag. I wonder how Overlord is. Or Jason. Or that family that got mugged.

My thoughts are mostly empty. I'm too tired to think. The silence makes for good company.

I continue walking along, steering clear of the tracks, staying off to the side.

After an unknown amount of time, my eyes are laid upon a sight to behold: an intersection.

It's massive! More of a warehouse room than a simple tunnel space. This must be an important station if it's THIS big.

Pillars as far as the eye can see, with graffiti all over the walls and… homeless people!

I turn the corner, and on the space not occupied by tracks. I see a group of them, numbering a dozen, huddling around a bonfire in an oil drum. They put their shivering hands near the source of warmth, and they suddenly hear me. They all turn their heads to me.

“Whose kid is that?” One of them says, wearing a full black suit. Is he throwing documents in there? It's certainly helping the fire build. “What's with all that crap they're wearing?”

“Who cares?” Another, older homeless woman says, nearly burning herself alive with how close her hands are to the flame.

And they get back to their warmth, turning their heads away. Stupendous.

Well if they're gonna be like that, then I'll ignore them as well! Oh well. At least Red Hood's not chasing after me anymore. 

I feel the throb of my headache. Just when you think it's done, it boomerangs back even harder than before. I search around, searching for a distraction from it. And just when my life isn't in danger anymore…

There's a couple other people, resting on mattresses and fabrics and dressers besides the tracks. But one stands out among the very dispersed crowd of vagabonds.

Most of the people here are wearing heavy hoodies, hats, gloves, sturdy shoes, anything to help protect from the elements and the draft. But… sitting on a mattress writing in a spiral notebook, is a man decked out in a lab coat, of all things.

He even has a pocket protector! That's how you know he's a professional.

He wears torn up blue jeans and busted sneakers. Everything about him just compels me to walk to the man, naturally curious as to what his deal is.

“Howdy, mister.” Once again, I ignore the throb in my head.

The scientist, like a startled animal, turns over in the bed unnaturally quick, and makes this… uncanny distorted screech as he frightfully tries to hide his notes from me. Like I was fixing to snoop in on it… to be fair, I do snoop a lot in other people's houses. How else could I have found that secret basement in the Ketsukane Estate? I would like to say that's because I have good attention to detail, but I'm just nosy, aren't I?

But quicker than that, he soon forgets his fear and fixes me with a deranged grin.

“H-Hello there, young boy.” He swallows. “S-Say, do you like science!?” He suddenly says, sounding like a snake oil salesman.

Wait. Why did he call me a… boy? “That's COWboy to you, pardner.” 

“Yeah, sure, whatever. Do you like science or not!???” He retorts, sounding less persuasive now and just seeming desperate and mad. Mad in both senses.

“Uhhhh.” Do I like science? I mean. Not particularly. I was never good at it in school. The only subject I really excelled at was history class (because of cowboys). Also, Science has kind of irked me recently. With all the determination serums, Flowey creation… Okay, maybe the only bad things about science have been the DT extraction, but that's a pretty bad mark on Science's record in my books!

Eh, but the Steamworks robots were cool… “It's alright, I suppose.” I reply noncommittally. Sure we fought. But Axis is swell.

“GREAT! Now, do ya want to help an old, sick zoologist - spit out of the psychopathic maw of society, treated like trash by unimaginative cretens who despise innovation while claiming otherwise - to finally achieve his most auspicious dreams!?” 

…What?

“That depends, rambler. What’re yer… dreams?” I probe, staring at his unfortunate receding hairline. Is that gonna happen to me one day? The idea nearly makes me shudder. Cooper didn't seem to be missing any hair at least. So until I'm 27, I'm in the clear.

“Ho ho! Dreams are usually vague things, self serving and unachievable. But mine?” 

The red headed man reaches into his coat, and cradles a syringe, like it is the most important thing in the world.

“My dreams are more like plans. Carefully, ingeniously schemed plans, to create a world where humanity can not only survive, but THRIVE!” His voice deepens, sounding captivated by his vision, and almost… Needy?

I'm put out, to save the least. He scratches his wrist widely, and I can see…

How did I not notice it before? His face seems distorted, like his skull was broken apart, then put back together again. He looks mostly normal, but his nose bridge is… uncanny of nature. What happened to him? 

My silence perturbed him, and he… wiggled his ears!? I grimace at the sight.

“Oh! Nearly forgot to introduce myself!” His laughs are empty, and broken. He offers his hand, for a handshake. “I'm Doctor Kirk Langstrom. Well… former doctor, after they revoked my degree I worked EIGHT LONG, GRUELING YEARS FOR…” His hand is squared, and he crumples into himself, clearly in a kind of mental anguish.

He quickly recovers. “But no matter. They didn't understand me. But they won't have to. Innovation will come. Whether they like it or not…” He shows a sickening smile… Did he file his teeth? What in tarnation…

“Uh, my name's Clover. Look doc, I don't understand what yer tryna sell me on.” I put my hands in my pockets, with my thumb sticking out.

“Oh. Got carried away! Yes yes, I simply needed a… volunteer. Someone willing to help me perfect my serum. See, the last variant of the formula was weaker, more temperamental… Unstable. But now, I believe I've introduced just enough Bat extract to make the mutagen which will metamorphose man to his next stage in evolution!” He blabbers to me, his enthusiasm dripping from every word.

I scratch my head, and my lips form a line. His grandiose language makes me feel very uncertain. “Bat extract?” Not to mention that, of course.

Kirkland blanks, before covering his mouth with his hand. “Ope. Me and my big mouth, eh?” He snickers, pretending it's funny.

He quickly shrugs this off, leaning into my personal space and showing off the blue serum housed in the tube of the syringe. “Now then, Clover. Will you be my assistant, saving man from himself in the next evolutionary cataclysm?’ 

The blue syringe… it ignites memories. Memories of sacrifice. Of a child risking her life, and her mother honoring a legacy, in the cramped basement of their estate. My desperation was the only way I could've seen that traumatizing scene.

I nearly gag. But I steel myself, keeping a stone face. It doesn't matter how I present myself with my shades covering my peep holes, but it's more for my piece of mind than anyone else.

I would be the most foolish cowpoke to eat packing peanuts if I were to put that anywhere near my body. Kanako, without any prompting, has started tellin’ me more about her status as an amalgamate in her letters. How she can't stand to look at herself in the mirror sometimes. How stupid she feels, thinking it's her own fault for how “ugly and scary” she looks.

I always shoot down such ideas as a bunch of hogwash, of course. She's prettier than a… 

Not gonna finish that sentence.

Anyhow, I'm not gonna be stupid enough to repeat a mistake I witnessed before my very own eyes. “I'm not sure, Doc. Are you sure this is safe?”

His moods switched quicker than a hiccup. He grows enraged, his face changing to a terrifying shade of red, as red as his hair, and his breathing becomes uneven.

“Safe. Are you serious? I've tested this on myself COUNTLESS times. What're you, scared of needles? You don't trust science? I'm trying to create the ultimate specimen here. Don't you care about making the world a better place?” 

Tested by his outburst and verbal abuse, his last words struck a nerve. “Of course I do! But you're not conveying what you're trying to accomplish here! What are the effects of this drug?” 

His abnormally long fingernails scratch at the mattress, leaving impressive tears in them. “DON'T CALL IT A DRUG! IT'S NOT A FUCKING DRUG. IT'S A-” 

“What the hell's going on over there?” The homeless woman pipes up, with her posse of vagabonds gazing upon the scene.

I hiss, and cradle my head. Doc's yelling made my headache come back in full force.

“Nothing, nothing!” Kirkland shrilly yelped, seeming much more conciliatory.

“...Okay.” Their apathetic attitudes bring the confrontation to a screeching halt. They return their fire like nothing happened. 

Kirkland returns his focus to me, seething with fury. “Fine. You don't want to help, then I don't need you. I'll inject myself.” 

I balk, and take a measured step towards the man, still harboring the vestiges of pain in my head. “Mhmn. Dr. Kirkland, that sounds awfully dangerous-”

“Shut up.” He shuts me down immediately, and begins grinding his teeth. I can feel things escalate. “I've always been weak as far as men go. Francine hates me now, no one in the field respects my contributions anymore, I can't live or work anywhere without harassment or idiots gawking at me.”

Both corners of his mouth widen, and I can see the menagerie in his mouth in full. Violent, glistening things. His fangs, molars, and wisdom teeth don't look like they belong to a human.

They would be more fitting on a bat.

“But as a monster? I'm bigger than those concerns.” 

Without any warning, Kirkland takes the syringe and jabs the needle right into his arm, and places his thumb to the rest, the blue plunging into his blood.

He starts transforming.

It's slow at first. But like a fire, it builds quickly, and sustains on which it burns.

His bones make these disgusting cracking sounds, and his face and whole body contorts to a new shape. His skull gains a muzzle, his ears shift closer to the top of his head than his sides, his fingers grow longer and longer, until they build into horrifying bat wings, eventually joining his sides.

He grows brown fur, and his clothes are destroyed and ripped apart by his growth in size.

And the worst part? He looks like he's having the time of his life. He shakes in ecstasy throughout it all.

Before long, he's unrecognizable from the unstable scientist I had met only a second ago. He's something else. The only sign he had been a creature of society are the ripped jeans stubbornly clinging to his legs. Guess this bat skipped leg day.

Is this who The Batman is? Because I'm not liking this.

I'm reminded of my doppelganger's memory, of Martlet’s transformation. I'm filled with an alarming fear.

The bat shifts its leg in the cramped space of an intersection. He spreads his wings, the span of which blinding me, and letting out a sickening trill, a battle cry! His razor sharp teeth bared, his soulless eyes gazing into my own; He has made his intent plain: He will hunt.

Sweet Jesus above.

What in God's name is that thing!? I'm helpfully provided an answer by the horrified screams of the homeless collective behind me. “Oh shit! It's the Man-Bat!!!” 

Not Batman, but Man-Bat. Goodnight Irene!

They all run for the hills, but I'm too preoccupied being stunned by the demonic screams of him. Like a buffalo standing in front of train tracks, I can't understand what's happening or prevent what happens next.

Despite my most primal fears, the beast has no interest in me. He glides over me and through the air, primed to feast on the innocents in here.

He grabs one, the man wearing a suit. He holds him by the torso, his strength taking the man off the floor while his compatriots leave him to his fate. The Man-Bat savors the groans of fear he lets out, before preparing a bite, saliva falling out of his mouth.

I can't let this happen! If I don't act, he'll kill this man. I know he's a person, but there's no reasoning with what he's turned himself into! He has forced me to fight, just as Ceroba did.

My fear forgotten, I drew my pistol and cock the hammer for the second time in an hour. Every second counts, but I aim carefully so as to not hit the oddly well dressed man.

Breathe in…

Breathe Out. 

Pellet after pellet hits the beast, in the eye, arms, and wings. The beast reacts immediately, dropping the man he had thought to be bat food and Instead has his hand fly to his injured right eye, letting out a pathetic howl. Do Bats howl?

The Man is not one to kick a gift horse in the mouth, turning his back on this whole affair and running off into the tunnel which the other, quicker homeless people had previously fled.

My self satisfied smirk is short lived. The bat faces me with a glare, and growls. His eye is bleeding. The Man-Bat hunches his shoulders, looking ready to pounce.

Uh oh. Though I've gotten the bat’s killer instinct off the man, all I've done is call attention to myself.

This Man-Bat isn't Decibat, nor is he like the monsters I'm familiar with. He isn't made of Magic. He's made of flesh, blood, and nightmares. If he gets his hands on me, he'll tear me to shreds.

I better skedaddle.

I turn my back on Man-Bat and run in the opposite direction, back from where I emerged. I don't care if the Red Hood finds me anymore. I'd rather not get my face eaten. Whatever Red Hood does to me, I don't think he's a cannibal.

I run like my life depends on it, because it very much does. The darkness grows deeper, but I don't care. The thing is still chasing after me, and I can hear Man-Bat carry his massive weight around, eager to kill me as any animal would be.

I no longer care that I'm running on tracks which carry trains that would roll over my guts if they came along. I run on them, hungering for escape and safety. The bloodthirsty Man-Bat feels the same in the opposite way, only caring for my death.

This thing wants to kill me.
This thing wants to kill me.
This thing wants to kill me.
Run. Run. Run.
If I don't, I will die. Again. This time, I doubt my death will be as peaceful. And I don't have Flowey resetting when I get myself killed.

I try to shoot some pellets at the Bat behind me as I run, but I hear the horrific click of an empty gun. Dagnabbit! I really need to stop emptying my chamber everytime I fire.

I run so far, but the bat does not catch me. I'm so frightened I'm almost hoping he'll just catch me and get it over with. 

But not quite. I've got to get out of this mess.

In the midst of my running, the tunnel serves me with a way out. Off to the side, there's a space for steps leading to a higher platform, and to my freedom.

I run up to them, but the Bat follows.

After a brief chase across the platform, I'm nearly to the exit, and a way out. I don't know what follows into that corridor, but it has to be good!

But before I can make it, the beast uses all his might to slam me into the wall, and I do. I slump down onto the floor, groaning and folding in on myself as I feel the ceramic tile hit me full force in the back. I see the shades fall off my face and to the floor. I hear the silent buzzing of the fluorescent light behind me.

And now, I see the Man-Bat.

He creeps up to me, looking pleased with himself. He shows off his fangs and his claws, like he's trying to psych me out. He's even smiling! I would prefer if this thing made up its mind on if it's intelligent or not.

He stands over me, silently asking me if I am ready for what's next. His jaw opens so wide it looks like it is dislocated, and he lets out sadistic scratchy squeaks, ready to get his revenge on me.

His ear wiggles.

This is it. It's done. I'm gonna die. It's been fun, and I've lived a few more months than I deserve, but it's done.

I shut my eyes, force them closed, silently apologizing to my friends for leaving them hanging on their letters. I also remember my promise made to God, and clasp my hands together. I mutter a quick, silent prayer.

“Our Father who art in heaven hallowed be thy name thy kingdom come thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our traspasses as we forgive those who trespass against us lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil for thine is the kingdom the power and the glory for ever and ever Amen.” I barrel out the words out of my mouth, hoping they deliver me a quick and painless death.

In any other world - one without mercy, without a righteous God - I would have died. But a guardian angel comes to my rescue.

My eyes are closed, I don't see what makes the striking sound, nor the yowl which succeeds it.

Confused as to why I'm not in the next world yet, my eyelids flip open.

And who else do I see except the Red Hood, his fist lowered and unholstering two… Maxim 9s. Although, they look like collages with the butt load of mods and attachments glued on them.

He points to the hallway to my left, and hollers. “RUN!”

His echoing instruction is undercut by Man-Bat, slashing a massive tear into his jacket and throwing him onto the tracks. The Bat follows him, having forgotten me and now eager for a new conquest.

The Maxims scatter to the side of the tunnel, outside of Hood's reach. Despite this, the gangster clambers off the floor, clenching a fist and aiming square for the Bat's nose.

The hit connects, but the beast takes the hit well, following it up with two more swipes and a kick aimed at Hood's legs.

But Hood is quicker on the uptake than that. He ducks under both swipes easily, and by some miracle of God is able to heft his 6ft, 200+ Pound, hulking mass however many feet in the air, and swing his foot to aim for the Bat's neck. The creature makes a choking sound and falls to the floor like a ragdoll.

Red Hood spares a glance in my direction, and sees that I've just been standing here this whole time dumbfounded by what I'm watching.

“CLOVER! Didn't I tell ya to-” 

His roar, with accent in full force, is interrupted by the much louder, more immediately distressing honk of the horns of the incoming train. The yellow blinkers of the sleek subway train bounce off the broken Red Helmet on his head.

The train runs across the elusive material which tracks are made of, the riders of the transport having to be ignorant of what they're interrupting.

I see the side of the train pass by quickly, and my breath hitches. I can't see the train, only that blur seen when something moves very quickly. But I didn't hear any kind of collision…

I wait and see what happens. At this point, I'm just a spectator.

Wow!

By some quick thinking, Red Hood had hid under the train, completely unharmed by the pass of the train. I didn't know you could do that. Oddly enough, he holds the crumpled up body of the Man-Bat, shielding him with his body.

He saved his life. Man-Bat would have had his head crushed like a berry under the train's wheels if not for his involvement.

Why? Why would Red Hood save this beast's life? I mean, the Man-Bat is (was) a person and I wouldn't want him to die. I just wanted him to leave me and other innocents be! But I would think a no good Crime Lord wouldn't be shy about letting this winged monstrosity bite the dust.

I wonder…

While Red Hood is recovering from the little drive-by, the previously thought defeated Man-Bat has more fight in him. He takes a massive bite into the shoulder of him, his fangs digging into him, and Hood has no choice but to cry out a thunderous yell.

“JESUS FUUUUUUCK!”

His profane blasphemy bounces off the tunnel walls.

And the Bat will not let up, savoring his pain and blood and flesh. It grabs Hood by the shoulders and won't let go, flapping its wings and carrying him a few feet in the air, clearly intent to let this fight drag on and on until it reigns supreme.

I think that's enough standing around. What to do… What makes bats tick?

I know from science class, (which I mostly slept through) that bats really like the dark, which is why they like to make themselves at home in caves and basements and such. And they also got a thing for… sound. Which is why they make those squeaks all day. This is where my memory fails me. I think they have an aversion to loud noises? But just what can I use to…

I got it!

While the bat whales on Red Hood as much as it can, I reach into my dimensional bag and pull out the glorious golden church hand bell. Still marked with that strange symbol, glowing under the light of the subway tunnel.

I hold it by the handle, and nearly toss it around. I try to make as much sound as possible, and disturb the beast.

But the ring is a lot more… deafening than when I rang it last.

The bell tolls. Its deafening sound is much, much, MUCH louder than ever before. How is this tiny thing even doing this? No clue. It sounds more like a massive tower bell peal, rather than the humble ring of beforehand.

The Lord works in mysterious ways, I suppose. I ain't complaining, cause it works wonders!

The Man-Bat stops in his assault, being too busy clamping his dirty hands to his ears to try and drown out the noise assaulting his ear drums. He's obviously failing, because he writhes in pain, but I won't let him hear his own groans of distress over my pretty music.

I smile.

Recovering from the damage the bat had done to him, the Red Hood rolls his shoulders, narrows his eye slits, and delivers an elbow to the stomach as punishment for not paying attention. It's so devastating it knocks the wind - and whatever lasting rebellion Man-Bat had in him - right out, and then some!

I continue ringing my bell.

Hood decided it wasn't enough for him. Before the bat had even hit the ground, He uses his other hand to swing his arm up to strike his chin with his palm, slightly curling his fingers. 

And finally, like an encore to a thrilling performance, he delivers one last move before a total knockout. He grabs the bat by the waist, before mercilessly throwing up onto the platform with me.

I dodge out of the way of the massive beast's trajectory, and the unconscious body of the bag uselessly crumples into the floor beside me. I finally stopped ringing the bell. Eventually, the tunnel walls stop ringing too.

And…

I count one.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine….

Ten.

He's down for the count. It's finally Clover. I mean over. It's finally over. I take my shades off the floor, and put them in the bag.

I am careful around the beast. I feel like it's about to wake up any second! I mind the gap, and carefully examine the beast which I had shot. 

He looks worse for wear. Bleeding, swelling in parts which Hood had clobbered him, a broken nose, and he just doesn't seem well. The implications of this… are monsters real in this world, then? If a creature like this could be real, why not magical creatures? All of my self control goes into not poking the Man-Bat.

The victorious party takes no time off to celebrate or do a little victory dance. He simply goes off to the opposite side of where I stand, grabs both of his guns, and stomps back. Clearly, he is not happy.

There's still a little thing of hair sticking out of his broken helmet.

Despite the numerous injuries he has earned over the last several minutes, he grabs on the ledge and effortlessly pulls himself up, climbing onto the platform.

He holsters his Maxims angrily - like the weapons were the cause of his woes - and stomps some more. He walks up to the Man-Bat, and crouches down. Hood takes his furry arm and places it behind his weary neck, then grabs onto his bat-knee and bat-forearm. Finally, he stands.

It's a bizarre thing to witness. This weirdo dressed up in all this gear holding up this bat creature - who's even bigger than he is - like it was a wounded soldier at war.

I actually think the Underground was less confusing than the rodeo I've just watched without paying a ticket for.

I place the bell back into the dimensional bag. 

“You come with me.” Red Hood gruffly orders, not even considering the possibility that I would not assent to his demands. To his credit, I'm so spellbound by it all that I can't help but listen.

It's quiet for a moment. The Outlaw guides me up the steps, and it builds inside me.

Until I have no choice but to blurt it all out.

“Whooowee! That was- Incredible! How in the world did you do that!?” I had completely forgotten my previous antagonism towards the Red Hood, now just stupefied at his display of combat.

Hood grunts as he continues having Kirk up the stairs. “Training.”

“I tell ya sir, I haven't seen such a showing in… ever! That was like right out of a pay-per-view!”

Some sparks fly out of the lights we walk past, but I pay them no mind.

“And you didn't even use your Maxim 9s! You beat the complete snot out of that massive Bat with yer bare hands!” 

“You recognize my gun model?” He sounds slightly impressed, but mostly baffled.

“Well, of course I do! With that weird drum look of that integral suppressor, how couldn't I? Although I guess that's a small price to pay fer not having ya eardrums ruptured when shootin’.” 

“You were like those Mongolians who wrestle horses, or those bull riders! You must be… the greatest fighter in the world, to beat that creature so easily!”

“Damn straight.” He hums.

“You were more unflappable than the bat!” 

He groans at that one. I had to.

“You had the strength of a gorilla, the tenacity of a buffalo, the cunning of a serpent, and the acrobatics of a robin!” 

He flinches at my words, for whatever reason. My amazement floods through me, and my gushing continues.

“And- And… You saved my hide, pardner! I woulda been bat food if it wasn't fer you! I guess I really misjudged you. Yer a real pal.” I remove my hat in respect and courtesy, scratching my scalp.

He stops before the door which leads to the streets of Gotham. He holds the bat still, his back to me. He says nothing.

He turns head back to me, and wryly says, “Flattery will get you nowhere, kid. But thanks. Now open the door. My hands are occupied with Bat ass.” I notice him staring at me intently without my hat on, even with the eye slits. I can see as well, his hood isn't as damaged as I thought it was.

“Sure thing, mister.” 

I hear him grumble out a “Don't call me a mister” as I do as requested.

Immediately, as I open the door and take a step, I get whiplash.

I feel a gust of wind, and a chill goes up my spine.

I see a shadow brought to life. A hulking silhouette, he is somehow taller and wider than the juggernaut who brought down the Man-Bat. The only indication he is a human is his cowl, hiding his face save for his chin and mouth. The twin ears of the mask point to the sky like knives, and a dark, flowing cape hangs down to the floor.

He… he looks like Dracula!

His eyes, white as the Red Hood's broken mask, stare me down. Like I had unwittingly entered a staring contest. I can't help but stare up at him, in awe and fear.

“W-What are you?” The words come barreling out of my mouth.

Red Hood seems totally unfazed by the Man. He walked ahead of me, walking behind the man and placing the Man-Bat on the hood of a… truly massive car. It's more of a tank, than anything!

“Did you bring an antidote?” Red Hood says, voice filled with barely concealed frustration, and much under the surface of his words I can't place.

“Of course.” 

The Man opens his cape, and reveals even more of himself. He wears gray body armor, made of some kind of soft fabric. He wears black boots and black gloves, with the gloves having some guards on them.

On his chest, is a symbol. I don't know what it's supposed to be.

Also he has black underwear, for whatever reason.

A yellow ring of various gadgets hangs around his waist, indecipherable to me. A belt. He brings out… yet another god-forsaken syringe.

The Man waltzed up to Man-Bat, flicked the syringe a bit, before finally injecting him in the leg with the touted ‘antidote.’ Does it turn him back into Kirkland? Probably.

I'm so confused. They both seem so used to this! They hardly seemed concerned about the massive bat beast… existing! It's nearly mundane, how they're acting. What in the world is wrong with Gotham?

Hood, satisfied with the end of the whole thing, turned away from the Man-Bat and towards me. He crosses his arms, and scoffs towards me. “Are you a fan of getting yourself into trouble?” He looks down at me, in both senses.

I don't know what to say. My mind is caught up in the surreality of it all. The Man-Bat, the crime lord, the costumes, the city itself. It all just leaves me speechless. Red Hood continues.

“Sneaking into my club, getting yourself trending on fuckin’... TikTok.” His raspy voice drips with disgust, holding one finger up.

He must be talking about the club, which I forgot the name of. I have no idea what a TikTok is or why I would be trending on it, but I know if I were to voice these questions that would spur him on even further. Just… somehow. Probably more weird Gotham stuff.

I gotta ponder if these gaps in knowledge is just alternate universe shenanigans or just simple knowledge I haven't taken the time to learn in my own world.

“Running headfirst into a dangerous crime scene and getting caught up with this freak of nature.” As he lists them off, another finger is raised. His other hand points to Man-Bat, oddly with his pinky out. “Not to mention shooting me in the face, which is gonna be a bitch to fix by the way.”

I feel remorse for the act. I didn't know Red-Hood was a good guy! He basically admitted to being a crime lord. Regardless, I pull my hat over my eyes and sulk, soaking up my shame. “Sorry, pardner.” 

That stops him in his tracks, for just a second. He sighs, letting his hands fall to his torso with a flap. He takes a step closer to me, putting a hand to my shoulder.

“Look. Kids like you… How old are you? Ten?” 

I balk. Sweet, Merciful… You have to be kidding. I take umbrage with this. “I am almost thirteen years of age, you idjit!” 

“What?” He smugly scoffs, and responds. “So you're twelve.”

…I begrudgingly nod.

“No. You're not. Look at you! You're practically an infant. You're so… puny and compact, and so much baby fat hangs on your cheeks that you might as well be a chipmunk.” He has the absolute gall to PINCH my cheeks. I have a feeling he forgot where he was going with this.

I considered shooting him again. A CHIPMUNK.

The stare I aim at him has to be pretty severe, because he immediately backs down and goes to another angle, both hands raised. “Okay, okay. When were you born?” Is he… humoring me, by asking me this?

Regardless, I defiantly answer, “20XX. March 17, 20XX.”

“...Is that supposed to be an answer?” Taken aback, he takes a step backwards.

What? I don't get the issue.

“I think that's enough, Hood.” The creature growls, suddenly inserting himself into our discussion, and I feel the fear grip me again.

Red Hood whips his head around at the speed of light, and any levity his voice had a second ago vanished into a broody temper. “Last I checked, I wasn't your sidekick anymore, B.” Red Hood objects, and- Sidekick?

The Man, apparently named B, ignores this. “Kirkland has returned to normal. I've contacted authorities and they're on their way to arrest him and wheel him back to Arkham.” Once again, another place I'm not familiar with. Is there a book around here, where all this can be explained to me? There always did seem to be something Underground which told me all I needed to know.

Oh. Man-Bat turned back already? Guess I was too caught up in… everything else going on.

He's unconscious. “Is he alright?” I ask, remembering what I saw and heard down in the intersection. He seemed to not have a very enjoyable life, judging by his… sleeping there.

“He will be.” The Man curtly replies, shuffling closer to me. The way he says it, I can't help but believe him.

“Greetings.” The Man says, finally addressing me. 

“Who are you?” I'm proud of myself. I don't tremble as I say the words.

“I'm Batman.” He says simply.

Huh. Okay. So THIS is Batman.

Batman (OOOHHH, that symbol on his and Hood's chest is supposed to be a bat. Okay.) reaches back into his belt, and pulls something out. He crouches down next to me and holds out a…

A lollipop.

“Wha- A sucker!? Whaddya take me for! I ain't a-” 

I gasp. “Wait. Is that a Root Beer Float sucker?” Oh my… I haven't had one of those in years! It was only once at a county fair I snuck into, but it tasted amazing. It was the best candy I'd ever had. And look at the color…

I humbly take it out of his hand. “Well. Since yer offerin’ it would just be rude to not take it.” I immediately unwrap the treat and get a few licks in. And… yeah. It's the best candy ever. So creamy…

“Really?” Red Hood mutters, baffled. 

“It worked, didn't it?” Batman says, sounding much too satisfied with himself.

I decide to jump in before they start talking over me. Like they are literally, because they're much much taller than me. “Hey! This don't change anything, y'hear!” 

“Of course.” Batman says, and it looks disturbing to see him smirk.

The Red Hood lets out a long suffering sigh. “Okay. I think I'm done here. I'm pissing off back to my safehouse. Don't call me for a week.”

“Goodnight, son.” Batman whispers, terse.

A tense silence, before Hood finally responds. 

“...Goodnight.”

He turns his back, and starts his steady walk to his mysterious safehouse.

Son? What was that all about… Oh wait!

“Hold on!” I call out, impassionate and hoping to have a few words with him before he leaves.

He turns his back as he is startled. “Did you need something?” He says, expectant.

“I just wanted to say that I'm awfully sorry about shootin’ you in the head an’all. I thought you were gonna… I don't know. Kill me and then steal my SOUL.”

Red Hood narrows his eye slits in confusion, but then nods. “A reasonable assumption.” 

“But! Ya saved my life, and I gotta say, dying in a decrepit old subway station woulda been a nasty way to go. So… Much obliged.”

I put the sucker in my mouth, flashing him a wink and finger guns. I take out my wallet, reach in, and grab a handful of gold coins.

“As a form of reparation, I've decided you should have this. Y'know, so you can fix yer helmet.” I said, with my mouth full.

Red Hood seems to not understand what I said, but he takes the gift gracefully, making a cup with his hands. He weighs the element in his hands, and I can actively see the gears turning in his head. The conversation ends there, but not before Hood awkwardly mutters a “Thanks” and walks off. I wave to him.

Well.

That was a successful day! I think I can pat myself on the back for that one. I made another new friend, even though we fought beforehand! That seems to be a running theme throughout my new, more adventurous life.

I take more licks out of my sucker.

I feel a glove place an authoritative - but purposeful - hand on my shoulder. “You and I should talk.” It's Batman. My pupils dilate.

I voice no argument with this development.

💛

Chapter Text

💛 

“One night a wild young cowboy came in, wild as the West Texas wind…”

Marty Robbins is a lyrical genius, and a masterful storyteller. I sing along to his smooth ballad, in the… Batmobile, I think he called it. My subpar vocal chops are muffled. I chew on the stick of my sucker, which I had finished a good while ago. Honestly, it tastes pretty good. It takes my mind off my headache.

It's less intense than earlier, honestly. So I should just deal with it.

I lounge about in the fine leather passenger seat with Batman driving us to the unspecified ‘rendezvous’ as the fancy-pants so fancily described it.

After Red Hood rode off into the sunset, (moonset?) Batman asked me, very politely, to get in the passenger seat of his tank-car, and because he's really scary and tall, (and he also gave me a sucker) I said yes.

Is that weird? Have I been kidnapped? Naw. I mean… I don't FEEL like I've been kidnapped. Eh.

After the cops came and picked up the still slumbering Doctor Kirkland out of the Batmobile, (Batman had said he wouldn't wake up for hours after devolving) he asked if I was hungry. It was kind of awkward. I explained that I already ate and I was okay, thank you.

On a side note, the dimensional bag is a surprisingly good place to store food. Strangely, it kind of… freezes things in time? So when you take something out, it's literally in the same state as it was when you put it in. Just as warm or cold or whatever, as it was. It's… odd. I sometimes ponder over just what is inside the bag and how it works, but I always dismiss it and move on to more important things. 

Like singing along to Western music.

When I stepped into the car, I could hardly believe it. I was half-convinced I needed to take my boots off to enter.

It's so nice in here! Sweet AC blowing in my face, all these fancy high tech buttons on the console and massive screen on the dashboard, and a stickshift. Like I said, Batman seems really fancy.

He let me choose some music to listen to while on the road. I haven't been able to listen to much music after I ran away from ‘home’. Back then, I usually borrowed my caretaker's old iPod nano without his knowledge. I took advantage of Batman's offer, starving of a music listening experience. The volume is low, because Batman set it low and it's his car.

Batman activates his turn signal, and turns right. He hardly spares a glance at me. I'm half convinced he doesn't know I exist, he hasn't acknowledged me at all for an hour, seemingly contemplating. But of course, I have some Marty Robbins to listen to. I can't worry about that!

“From out of nowhere Felina has found me, kissing my cheek as she kneels by my side…”

I don't know where we're going exactly. I'm too small to look up through the window. But I've been listening to Western music for a long while now, and we're suddenly going up, like we're at an incline.

Unfortunately for my ear holes, the song ends.

“We're here.” The first words that Batman has said since we got in the car. His voice is very gravely, now that I think of it. Kind of like Clint Eastwood. This revelation makes me trust Batman, at least a little.

The doors slide open, vertically. Very fancy! I jump out, and my boots are welcomed with cold arms by the coarse soil and rock of a mountain.

Another mountain, for Pete's sake. Sheesh.

I turn behind me, to see Batman look at the stunning view ahead of him. His cape flaps in the cold breeze, and…

Look at that skyline!

The entire city is laid before me, the bright city skylines gleaming with life. Ads on screens, distinctive shapes of buildings, the small dots of cars passing by, all of it. It's like one of those miniature replica of cities, right before my eyes.

I spin the lolly stick in my mouth. It makes me feel like I have a wheat straw in my mouth, just chewing on it.

I see many islands, separated from each other. Hey! That's the theater I walked past… or was it an opera house? Don't remember.

Batman stands before it all, before the cliff. I look into his face, and he holds a certain adoration. Just looking at the skyline, he seems to be in a kind of tranquil state.

I look him up and down, once again, slightly wary but also… strangely fascinated? He's a superhero! I've never met a superhero before, to be sure. Just like how I had never met a… talking fox, or bird, or a vampire.

Or a talking bat.

“You must be wondering why I brought you here.” 

He growls it out, surprising me. He really does have an intense presence.

“Oh! Uh, not really. I was just admirin’ the view, an’ all. She's sure pretty, ain't she?” I fix him with a grin, and think to myself how strange it is that I've come to this point.

Gotham sure is prettier from this angle. Down on the ground, it's kinda dirty. Maybe that's why rich folks always live on hills and all. So they don't have to look at it!

“She is. I've never found a place that was quite like her. Her soul captivates me, still. Blemished and tormented, but still tenacious and beautiful all the same.” 

“...That's quite the flowery way to put it. I wouldn't know, I suppose.”

My reply does nothing for him, I guess, because he doesn't respond.

My uncertainty returns, reminding myself that a strange, real life superhero took me on a joyride around Gotham and now we're here.

“Urgh.” That gets my headache acting up. I rub my forehead, frustrated that my totally reasonable hypothesis that ignoring it would simply make it vanish now fails me. I bite down hard on the stick, bending it.

“What's wrong?” He says, genuine concern filling his voice.

“...Ngh. Nothin’. Just a headache.”

Batman hums at that, and he suddenly throws me a curveball. “Where are your parents?” 

…I don't know what to say.

My first instinct is to play it off, ignore it, ask what it matters to him. Anytime someone would ask such a question before I jumped down Ebott - Which feels like a million years ago now - I would simply roll my eyes or pretend I didn't hear it.

But now… his question eats at me. I have no choice but to be truthful with him. He's quite intimidating. My teeth grate against the stick. The taste of paper on my tounge makes me remember all these years…

“...I-” I sigh. I'm already regretting this. “I don't know. I have… faint memories I can't remember, but that's about it. They could be poor, and felt they didn't have the means to take care of me. Maybe they just couldn't be bothered, and they're sippin’ on champagne in Tahiti. Or maybe they're six feet under. Who knows.” Well, except God.

I haven't even thought to ask God of their whereabouts. But as always, the present always takes more precedence over the past.

“I'm sorry.” Unlike most adults, Batman doesn't have the… usual tone. His voice holds a kernel of understanding. His growl is scratchy, like putting the words out there is bringing him physical pain. He brings a hovering hand to me, sympathetic.

“You don't got nothin’ to be apologizing fer.” I say earnestly. I shake my head, willing the thoughts to go away. They've never been a factor in my life. “Whaddya care so much anyhow? Why did you bring me out here?” 

Batman has mercy on me, and lets me change the subject to something less existential. “You weren't exactly keeping a low profile, Clover.”

I wince. Tactical namedrop, huh? I'm really starting to regret doing that stupid interview. Guess there's no need to be trading names.

Batman barrels forward, pressing his advantage. “How long have you been in Gotham? How long have you been living on the streets, alone?” 

“...A week. I've held my own, so far!” I say defensively.

“No. You haven't. If Red Hood hadn't intercepted Man-Bat in that exact moment, you'd be dead. If things in Gaiman Boulevard went wrong, you could've gotten shot. Gotham is not safe at night, let alone for a child who can't control their impulses.” 

I feel the dull pressure at my head eating into my frustration at his words. ‘Impulses.’ I already know where this is going. I can practically hear it already.

“I ain't goin’ back to no homes or orphanages or whatever. I don't care what you say.” I growl back at him, stealing his chance to talk over me. 

Batman sharpens his gaze, trying to make me feel stupid. His gaze is piercing. “Is this the life you envision for yourself? Honestly.”

…

My breath overtakes me. I swallow, but I fail to calm myself. I force my eyes shut, feeling a hotness in my stomach. My hands block my eyes, My head hangs low, ignoring the look he gives.

This is my life. This is the best I could ever hope for. What's his problem? He doesn't know me.

I feel a wetness in my eyes, entirely unrelated to the subject at hand.

I take a shuddering sigh, and I gather my resolve. I opened my eyes, finding Batman had not moved or reacted whatsoever. He's sickeningly silent. It bothers me greatly.

“N-None of this is yer business.” I state, my voice cracking shamefully. “I d-don't… I can't go back. I refuse.” I glower at the hero, painful memories flooding my mind.

Life in an orphanage is a meaningless one. I was alone, useless, and had no direction in my life. I was nothing. I was poor. I had no one. No family, no lasting friends. Why would I EVER want to go back to that? It's “Dangerous?” Who cares? I don't. I've died before, so I'm pretty sure I can handle whatever comes my way.

“I won't.” Despite my passionate thoughts, my words come out pleading.

I'm caught by surprise when I feel the massive man bringing his arms around me.

It's… surprisingly warm and comfortable, despite the massive costume. I reluctantly embrace it, with my… unbearable emotional vulnerability making me more accepting of such a thing.

He says nothing. He crouches down, and hugs me. But he does not make me speak. I squeeze him, in a show of appreciation.

He pulls away from me, still holding on. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I'm slightly disappointed. I haven't really gotten many hugs in my life. Well. Not before I jumped down Ebott, anyway.

“You don't need to be scared anymore. You don't need to be alone. Why do you insist on this lifestyle?” 

“...I’m better off than I should be.” 

I almost shrug my shoulders, but that would downplay how important that is to me. I should be dead. I'm grateful I'm alive. Being alive is better than being dead.

Besides, now I've got a goal. Something to strive for.

“You deserve much better.”

I feel a pulling at my chest, my very SOUL. It… it does feel good to hear. But I know it to be false. I don't let these thoughts be known to Batman.

I've made my choices. There's only one person responsible for my current condition. Why shouldn't I be forced to live through what my decisions entail? Should I get off easy, living a charmed life, back home with my friends, despite my foolish mistake? Like it all never happened?

I know the answers to these questions. That's not how the world works.

Batman sighs, and pulls away fully now. He spared a glance back towards Gotham, before turning his cowl towards the mountains. He flips his cape back, covering his massive frame.

He huffs. “Clover. Can I ask you a question?” 

I nod my head silently, not trusting my voice to give me any sort of dignity. I look up at him, straight in the eye, and only now does it set in just how tall this sunnuva gun is. My feet shuffle across the dirt and rock.

“If I were the kind of man you expect me to be, and I did decide to place you under the care of a residential institution, you wouldn't make any rash decisions, right? You wouldn't go out and… try to be a hero, would you?”

I remember my first night in this city. That family, held at gunpoint by an outlaw looking to do harm. Then the next, when I met Jason at the club. And again, just a day ago, when I confronted Ms. Catherine. 

I could not help but help!

“It is my duty to protect and bring Justice to the innocent.” My voice gains a little of its strength, and I clench a fist, conviction rocking my senses. It is my divinely ordained duty, after all.

But despite that, I am confused. What does he care what becomes of me? He doesn't know me, as I don't know him. It sounds like he's NOT going to force me back into a children's home, which is mighty swell. But what other option is there?

Batman hums. He seems to have expected that answer. I feel the atmosphere shift. “Then I have a proposition for you.”

I see the sky open up above us, and I hear the distant squeaking and howling of animals in the distance somewhere. Batman puts his hands on my shoulder, and I feel something come over me.

“Whaddya mean?”

“Ahem. I… Let me preface this by saying that you are under no obligation to agree.” Batman starts, staring off into the city behind me.

“I would support you financially. I would adopt you as my ward, and your future would be secured. As per your discretion, I would provide you the world's finest education in martial arts, acrobatics, the sciences, mathematics, anything you need to realize your full potential. You would live under my care, and I would house and feed you. I promise to you that your needs will be met. You would join me in the fight against chaos and crime, and bring hope to the people of this city you stand in. You will hone your skills, developing past your wildest dreams.”

He holds out a hand to me. “That is my proposition.”

…

I'm struck silent.

I… What do I even say to that? It's overwhelming. I feel a rushing feeling, like water in my ears. I can barely process it all. I take a moment to do so, and Batman is left hanging. There is a stillness in the air, like the whole world is waiting for me to make my decision so it can go on like business as usual.

I laugh a little. Then that feeling just keeps building. I'm wheezing now, slapping my knee. My laughter isn't very loud. I'm not, like, MANICALLY laughing. Just having a little chuckle.

How ironic is this? After everything I've been through. Now? Now, I'm getting adopted, or at least taken in. And it's by… this Batman guy. What is my life.

I recover from my little breakdown. I catch my breath, and exhale all the energy generated from the emotions I felt listening to that.

“W-Why? Why are you helping me?” I say, a sense of inevitability coating my breathless reply. What am I gonna do, say no? I mean… He's a superhero, isn't he? A genuine, real life superhero. And he's offering to… train me.

“...Because I know what it's like.”

He doesn't specify or elaborate on what ‘it’ is. But… ‘it’ kind of speaks for itself, doesn't it?

With nothing else to do or say, I finally give my answer. “I… Deal, I guess.” I say, almost without thinking.

I raise my hand, and gesture for a handshake, to seal the deal.

He accepts, with a strong grip. This is so surreal.

“Okay. Back in the car.”

I nod along, pulling on my belt and-

Wait.

Something's wrong.

I reach into my holster, and nothing's there. I turn my neck down, and my eyes confirm for me that's it's true:

It's gone.

“Oh no no no…” I mutter, panic soaring through me. I look at the ground in my vicinity, and start searching vigorously near the bushes, rocks, and other elements of the mountain side. Full dread introduces itself to my stomach, along with desperation at its side.

“Shit! Shit,” I whisper, forgetting my vows to not curse. But I have more pressing concerns.

Where did I put it!? Did I lose it!? “Oh no…” I whine, not wanting to believe what happened.

I lost my revolver. Blackjack’s gun that Star spent 400 or so gold on. All that money, just for me. A precious gift, so very dear to me, and a method of self defense to boot. And I have lost it, like the Star’s generosity meant nothing to me.

I grit my teeth, and my throat burns with disgust at my behavior. It is not helped by the searing heat splitting my thoughts.

“What's wrong?” Batman says, standing at his vehicle door, confused as to why I'm not entering.

“Its nothin”, it's just-” Why am I trying to play it down? I nearly growl, and my foot taps, a true sense of urgency coming at me. I bite so hard on the stick that I break it, and I spit it out on the ground. “I lost it!” 

My outburst doesn't seem to bother him. “What did you lose?”

“M-My sidearm. I… I must have dropped it when I jumped in yer car. Or… when I was walking with Red Hood out of the subway.” I recite, struggling to remember if I could have heard or remembered when I lost my weapon.

“What a shame.”

“I'll say! How selfish…” I mutter the latter words to myself, berating myself for my mistake.

“Hmh. Let's go then.”

I whip my head around at his words, the disbelief in my words come hurling at him. “Are you kiddin’? I ain't going nowhere until I find it. I'll be in the city all night if I have to be.”

“The city is not safe. Where I'm taking you is.”

I scoff. “Yuh huh. Well, that was a gift from a very good friend of mine, and I ain't going nowhere without it.” Imagine how Star would feel, hearin’ that I lost it. He was so guilty over losin’ it the first time in the dump, and he would feel even worse now. All because of my own carelessness.

The corners of Batman's lips turn down, and he glares off to the side. “What immature fool gifts a gun to a child?” Batman barks, disgust radiating off him.

Excuse me!? “My friend, that's who! I don't see what yer problem is. Just a second ago you were all about this whole rigamarole, and now when I mentioned my gun you got ticked off?”

Batman sighs, and pinches his nose bridge. He recovers, and gives me a hard look. “We can look for it at a later date. Now please, come in the car. It's not safe out here alone.” 

“No! I said-” I pause, and analyze the situation. I turn back, and rest my hand on my chin.

I definitely had the gun when I was in the station. But somewhere between them and now, it vanished.

The way Batman is about my gun… smack talkin’ Starlo, trying to get me to leave it behind. What is his deal!

I've only been in his car for the last hour…

It comes to me all at once. I straighten up, and indignation floods through my gut.

Whipping around, I aim a single accusatory glare at Batman. I try to will some laser beams to manifest through my stare.

“You stole it.”

His silence is deafening!

That confirms it. I stomp around the front of the car and towards the other door, and stop right before the thief, and make my demands. “Give it back. It doesn't belong to you.” 

He hides his body with his cape. He has it stashed under there!

I make a jump towards Batman, pulling on his cape as an attempt to steal my Big Iron back. Startled, Batman grabs me by the wrist before I can do so.

He holds me six feet in the air, and I grunt and move about uselessly as Batman holds me up effortlessly.

I kick my legs back and forth, trying to loosen his grip, but Batman's hold on me gets tighter. It starts to irritate my wrist. 

Frustrated, I grumble out a few words, still making an effort. “Give it back to me you… No good… Yellow bellied, deceiving varmint…”

“Guns are dangerous.” His voice tells me, sounding oh-so sure of himself.

My chest tightens as a rage enters my stomach. How dare he! “And you shouldn't be takin’ my shit! Now-” My other hand, unburdened by the grasp of the Batman, hits and punches his arm.

He doesn't make a peep. This creature has no sort of reaction to any of my daring attempts. He holds all the cards in the situation, and to him I must look like a baby throwing a tantrum.

It's not fair.

Defeated, my emotions overcome me. I dangle in the air.

It's not fair!

“HAND IT OVER!” 

I scream at him, my voice shaking.

My voice echoes throughout the wilderness where we stand. I will myself not to shed any tears, to be strong. My voice is blubbery as I give the Batman a piece of my mind.

“You're just another adult tryin' to mess everything up. You were pitching this whole rigamarole about me achieving my potential, but you just… HOODWINKED me! You don't care about what I want! You just wanna… tell me what to do! If you can't accept me for who I am, then your proposition is stupid, and I want no part!”

I should've known it was too good to be true! Try and watch me get kidnapped after this, if these are the scrapes I get myself into!

Batman stares me down, and says nothing. I can't get a read on his thoughts. This drives me to rant even more.

“A-A-And, Isn't this America!!!? Ain't I allowed to own a gun? It's my right to do so! Shall not be infringed, ya tyrant!” 

“It is not legal for a child to own a gun.”

Bah! Small details. “It's my property. And It was from my friend Starlo. It's one of my only possessions. I need it.” Unfortunately, my voice cracks.

There's a stillness in the air. Batman looks on, still not responding.

He opens his mouth, before closing it. He looks off to the side, considering. He looks back to me, and finally says, “Is it really that important to you?”

“...Yes.”

I'm left hanging, quite literally. Batman gently places me back to the floor, and grunts out his next few words. “I understand that the gun is very near and dear to you. I… I suppose I can make an exception. But until we can come to an agreement…” 

He reaches into his cape, and behind his back. He pulls out my Big Iron, and it glistens in the moonlight. I have half a mind to snatch it out of his hand.

“I will keep it for the night. Okay?”

So he's… holding on to it. Just for safekeeping. “This is only temporary, right? I'll get it in the morning?” 

“...Yes.” The words come out hushed. He doesn't feel comfortable. This must be a major concession for him.

I considered my options. I have nowhere else to go. And he did promise to help me fulfill my promises to God more easily...

“...Alrighty then, Batman. Let's go.” Oh well. At least I still have the 9mm in my bag. What Batman doesn't know won't hurt him.

I turn back to the other side of the car, and step inside, sitting down slowly.

The proceeding car ride is short, and uneventful. We don't speak to each other, just as we did before, but there's no music playing, so there's no cushion for this awkward tension between us. Not to mention, I still feel incomplete without my sidearm at the ready.

But Batman brings us somewhere peculiar. He takes us off the road, and towards an abandoned path. He barrels past the shrubbery and the trees, and towards an obscure seeming path.

Finally, he drives us towards… a cave? I look at him. Is he alright? Is he tryna kill us? Maybe I shouldn't have yelled at ‘em.

The car is enshrined in darkness, as we drive inside. There's a road in here. Where are we going? I don't voice these concerns. I mean… Superheroes got to know what they're doing.

The headlights glare off into the narrow passage, and It feels a bit claustrophobic.

But before long…

Bright fluorescent lights hit me through the windshield, and the road reaches an end, at a parking spot.

Batman does not get out of the car immediately. For a brief moment, he sits in the driver's seat, hands still on the wheel like he's waiting for something, and I get confused. Eventually, he turns to me, and says a few words to me, and they come out slightly clipped. “I'm sorry for taking your weapon.”

Oh! I honestly didn't expect that. I felt some of my tension melt away. “Oh… Well, it's okay, I suppose. You said we would come to an agreement?”

“Yes, I did. I…” He sighs, and lets go of the wheel. “I understand that sometimes I can be stubborn. But… it is not right for someone so young to hold such a… COWARDLY device.” 

Batman seethes, but then collects himself. “You could have hurt yourself.”

I did not expect for him to honestly care this much. He doesn't even know me. He basically just met me and he's already decided he would take me as his… ward? 

Ward. Only rich people talk like that. Is he rich or something?

I brush off the comment about my ‘cowardly device’ (guns are cool, okay!?) to get my two senses out there. “Do you have a bad history with guns?”

“...Yes.” 

“Well. I understand havin’ some wariness an’ all, but… guns have always been… Empowering. To me. Old cowboys and sheriffs using 'em to… get themselves out of tricky situations, or make things right. Guns take finesse and skill. They… it made me more than just some nobody kid from Texas and a goofy accent. So…”

My eyes roam around the car, uncaring for a specific path. Eventually, I closed my eyes. “Just… I promise mister, I know what I'm doing! I ain't gonna try and hurt no innocent people. I try my best to bring about peaceable solutions. I know you have a kind SOUL, caring enough to even say yer sorry and all. Lots of older folks wouldn't have given one iota about what I thought. So…” 

I tip my hat down, over my eyes. “I'm sorry about yelling at you and calling ya nasty things.”

Batman is silent, for a moment. But eventually his lips form a small smile, and he looks at me. “You didn't do anything wrong.”

“But you're gonna give it back eventually, right?” I make sure to keep it crystal clear with Mr. Batman.

“...Yes,” He says.

Satisfied with that answer, (For now. I SWEAR TO MY LORD ABOVE IF I DON'T GET MY BIG IRON BACK) I give Batman a big smile.

“Well alrighty then! Let's go, Mr. Batman!”

I open the car door, and launch myself out feet first.

I'm not prepared for what my eyes are bore witness to. Holy moley…

A terrifically sized cave, with cave walls stretching into a dark abyss below me. The imposing sensation is a mixture of fear, awe, and beauty. Out of the walls and ceilings and floors of the cave, various steels and metal protrude out of them, making walkways and surfaces to walk on. Across the base, there's technology, appliances, and other computers scattered about, serving unknown purposes to me. 

I look around me, and see the various other cars surrounding the Batmobile, all in a little circle. This is the parking spot.

My wonder struck me silent. Where did he even get the funds for all this? Is this his superhero lair???

“Evening, Master Bruce. I understand that Langstrom’s compulsions have been dealt with?” An unfamiliar voice pops in my ears somewhere behind me, and I'm startled.

“They have. And I've managed to kill two birds with one stone.” I wonder how Martlet would feel about that turn of phrase.

“Did you mean to…” The posh British accent fades, and I turn around to see who it is.

A tall, elderly man, dressed in a fancy suit and a bowtie. Sporting a pencil thin mustache and balding gray hair, forming a ring around his head. He holds some kind of remote, and I don't know what the purpose of it is. Same could be said for the entirety of my stay in Gotham so far, to be honest.

The older gentleman, looking like a butler, takes careful steps towards me, and fixes me with a simple nod. He raises a brow. “By jove…”

He takes off a simple white glove, and stores the remote in his shirt pocket. He studied me, for a moment. “A brunet… yellow irises!” He says mildly. He glanced to the side, with a sarcastic smirk and lidded eyes. “Feeling adventurous, Master Bruce?” He raises his voice, sounding amused.

Batman, however, looks decidedly not amused by… his butler? They exchange a look, and they communicate without speaking or gesturing at all. They must be familiar with each other. He turned back to me.

“Variety is the spice of life, one could say. Regardless, may I ask to whom I owe the pleasure?”

“You don't gotta…” I trail off sheepishly. Despite my new found bravery, I'm not THAT good around new people. The monsters didn't count, because they were... accidentally killing me. And also Starlo and Ceroba kind of swooped in on me as well…

“I'm afraid I must. It simply does not do for the servant of the house to not know the names of all those that dwell in it.”

Okay. So he is a butler. “Clover.”

The older gentleman gives me a bow. “And I am Alfred Pennyworth. I serve as butler of the Stately Wayne Manor-”

Alfred interrupts himself, sniffing. He grimaces, and steals a look at me. His eyes widened in horror. “Oh dear. When did you last bathe, young one?”

“Uh…” Remember, the ninth commandment. “A week ago, mister.” Okay, a little more than a week. In fact, it might be more like two weeks, back when I was in Clover’s World.

“Please, I am no mister of this home, no matter how much I may deserve it!” He says, sardonically but also overwhelmed, and pulls an over dramatic back of the hand to his forehead. “I'm afraid you've compelled me to prepare you a bath, young one.”

Huh? “Oh, mister, you don't gotta do that for me, I'm just a-”

“No. I INSIST, truly. Now. Are you partial to bubble baths, Master Clover?” 

MASTER!? 

I blink rapidly, not believing my ears, nor my eyes. My name and the word ‘master’ simply being in the same sentence provoked my complete astonishment.

My thoughts derailed, I answered simply, “Yes, please.” I've never HAD a bubble bath, enough to be ‘partial’ to them.

“As you wish.” And he brushed my shoulder, before disappearing off to the shadows, assumedly to a bathroom.

As he passed Batman, the man in the costume spoke up. “Thank you, Alfred.”

“Who else would you be thanking, Sir?” He says with snark, though in good humor and affection. I think.

Batman sits at a chair, overlooking the biggest computer I've ever seen. All of these screens… and they're so flat! This lair is mighty technically sophisticated.

“What do you make of what you see?” Batman asked, sitting comfortably in his chair. 

“You're a real life, bonafide superhero, huh?” I mutter absentmindedly.

This is a whole lot to process. I feel like I've been waterboarded.

Batman fixed me with a qualitative stare then, seeming to stare past me. “Yes.” He's straight to the point, isn't he?

Wait. He heard me. That must seem pretty weird. Aren't superheroes supposed to be… real in this realm? Seems to be, from my limited knowledge. Try to think of a way to play this off!

“Well, cause, uh…” I can't think of anything. “Superheroes! Ain't that a trip…”

Screwed the pooch on that one. He stares at me even harder. He looks to be staring right in my SOUL! He grabs a mysterious needle and tube type device off his desk.

“Where are you from.”

“...Texas.”

“Which part of it?”

Cripes! He must be a master detective! I hadn't even thought of that as a possible question people would ask. I mentally scramble to muster up a good response, and I squeak it out. “Ebott.”

He quirked an eyebrow. Somehow, it comes out through the cowl. “...Never heard of it.”

“Ah well. It's a small town, y'know.”

He says nothing. He sits there a moment, flicking the needle of his strange device like a pro. Again, with needles. I think I've developed a sort of phobia with them now.

“Are you being forthright with me?”

A beat of silence. I've dodged his question, what more does he want from me! Well, except the truth.

Why am I even getting caught up on this? God never specified if I had to keep my world hopping status a secret or anything. He's basically allowed me to figure out things on my own. I thought God would be a bit more controlling of a figure, honestly.

It's not a necessity that I keep this a secret. It might even help to share it. I sigh. “Yer not call me crazy? Cause I ain't in the mood. I’ll tell ya, but you gotta promise me that.”

Batman nods sharply, professionally. He doesn't seem to waver for even a minute. Okay. He seems to take you at least semi-seriously, Clover. Don't botch this.

And so… I told him what my deal was. Everything I felt comfortable telling a man I just met. Batman sits still, humming at different tones and intervals as I regale him.

I don't tell him a lot. I am an orphan, who lived at an orphanage. I jumped down a mountain, died, then came back through divine intervention. Now, I'm a… drifter, for lack of a better word. I suppose rover would be a good word too. Heh. Clover the rover.

Or in other words, I'm from another universe.

And finally, I'm done. He sits still, gathering his thoughts. He digests the information, until finally, his… mind stomach(?) is full.

“I see. So… Hmmmmm.” Batman hums, his face is filled with extreme skepticism. But contradicting that, he doesn't seem to think I'm lying at all. He sure likes to hum.

“Thank you for telling me this. I… I understand you haven't laid bare the totality of your life.” 

Woah. “So you don't think…”

“Believe me, I've seen much worse.” No idea what that implies. What could have gone down in his life where my tale is banal to him? Superheroes have crazy lives, I guess.

Batman swallows something down. “Regardless, It took a lot of trust and vulnerability to tell me these things. Trust is… a very valuable thing, worthless without reciprocity.”

Without much warning or fanfare, Batman reaches for the back of his mask, and pulls off his cowl.

He's revealed to be… just some guy. He has black hair, blue eyes, and a strong jawline. Fair skinned, might even be even whiter than me. I blink. This is pretty important, but… I have no idea who this is.

I guess Notorious Overlord's theories were wrong. Or maybe he's a duplicate, hiding the truth! Hah.

The look on my face must have amused him, because Batman(?) looks at me and chuckles wryly. “Now I know you can't be lying.” Batman(?) seemed much older than he was a second ago, about middle aged. I mean, a mask would help with that. Some of his hair seems to be graying as well…

Again with my fear of losing hair.

Batman recovers, and begins. “My name is Bruce Wayne. I was born on February 19th, 1979. I'm a Gotham native, just like the rest of my family for centuries.”

His brow creases, and he looks off to the side, lost in memory. “My parents were named Martha and Thomas. They were… kind. They thought the best of people, and of me.”

“One evening, when I was eight years old, my parents took me out to a movie. The Mark of Zorro. It was wonderful.”

“After two hours, We finished the movie, and walked out of the theater. The chauffeur was getting awfully late, and my father thought it best we walked to a better location than the side of a movie theater for us to be picked up.”

“I remember everything about that day. It was dark out. Mother was arguing with Father, just a bit. She didn't feel comfortable going through Park Row.” That name lights up alarms in my head. Where have I heard that name before?

“We were walking along the alley, and I was still enraptured by Zorro. Again, I was even younger than you are. But sometime during that, a man… came from the shadows, armed. He had dead soulless eyes, voice like glass, and greed etched upon his gritted teeth and tattered suit.”

“He demanded Mother's pearls. That's all he wanted. When my father spoke up, tried to stop him, he immediately opened fire. Mother screamed bloody murder. So he shot her too.”

“He left then, startled, and scurried off back from whence he came. He didn't even take the pearls, which he had destroyed my world for.”

“I remember their blood spilling on the ground, making a puddle beneath them. Their tortured faces, frozen in time, as their last moments. Their mouths wide open, their gazes glassy and dead. They laid upon the floor, and I had my mother's blood on my hands.”

“A year later, I stood before my parents' grave. There was a storm. I vowed revenge against the monster that did this. But even more than that. I declared my Vengeance to all that sought to destroy the innocent, and war on the injustices of the world that make the deaths of Martha and Thomas Wayne possible.”

“When I was 14 years old, I traveled the world, seeking knowledge and skill from every corner of it. I needed all the skills necessary to fight crime. When I returned to Gotham, I became Batman.”

“Over the years… Many have joined in my crusade. Things changed. And I'm not the same little boy that witnessed tragedy before his little eyes.”

He loses steam, then. Batman - Or should I say, Mr. Wayne - loses the fire in his voice. His leg bounces.

“This life is not for everyone. This… Superhero work, as you call it. I want you to understand that this is a commitment. It will change your life. And not always for the better. But you will do good. You will save lives, and make this world, this city, a better place.”

…Okay.

After his parents died… he made an oath to fight crime, to fight injustice and evil. I guess that's why he doesn't like guns very much. I suppose I can forgive his prior attitude. 

I think over Batman's… origin story, for lack of a better term. So… he's just some (rich) guy, with no powers, (I had thought a superhero would have superpowers. Is that a stereotype?) who dedicated his life to fighting the evils of the world, with world class training and mastery of all kinds of fields. He's basically the world's greatest crusader.

This is a very sensitive secret, I must imagine. Batman’s taking a huge risk telling me this. This deserves the utmost reverence and respect possible.

…

On the other hand…

“Wow-That's… That's amazing!” Fighting crime, defending innocents from bullies, it's basically what I've wanted to do my whole life! And he wants me to be a part of it. I'm filled with gratitude, and something within me swells.

“Can I, Mr. Wayne? That would be something else! You would train me to do all these kung fu moves or whatever, and I'd help all these people… I’d be a hero!” My hands fly to my cheeks, in awe at the possibilities.

This is what God wanted me to do, wasn't it? To fight off evil and help innocents? The world can be a cruel place sometimes. And I'd be there to make it better. That's the dream!

Batman smiles. “Yes, you may.”

Incredible! “Do I get to use my guns?”

He immediately frowns. “No.”

“WHAT.” 

“We'll discuss that another time. But… I'm glad you feel so enthused.” 

Life as a superhero… What would my superhero name be? I gasp. I've been hit with an epiphany.

“What if I was the world's first cowboy superhero? That's a wonderful idea! I'd be like the Lone Ranger, or Bass Reeves! Maybe even with a little mask or somethin’. I could even have a cool name, like Starlo has North Star! Oooooh, I should let him know about this! He'd be ecstatic.” I pace, already jotting down some mental notes.

“You can't tell a single soul about this.” Mr. Wayne puts his foot down, glowering at me.

Oh. Was talking to myself there. “Aw, don't you worry, Mr. Wayne. Star is in another dimension right now. I know you Superheroes have secret identities and such.” Still! I gotta brainstorm some ideas with him. I'd be like a sheriff! 

Mr. Wayne hums. “Very well.” 

“So! When do I start?” I run up to Mr. Wayne then, vibrating excitedly, as I think of all the amazing things I could do to help.

“In 4-6 Months. Vigilantism is dangerous, and you have a lot to learn.” 

“What? Aw, man.” Months… It's been ONE (1) month since I fell down Ebott, and that's felt like an eternity. But… I suppose I do need to be taught some things. I am a foreigner to this world, after all.

“Your training starts next week.”

Suddenly, I hear the squeaking of bats, and of something else. I whip my head around to the source of it, but I see nothing. Must be somewhere off in the darkness. Bruce flinches at the sound.

“Master Clover? Your bath is ready.” That must be Mr. Pennyworth. His voice calls in the darkness, somewhere above us.

I return to the state of shock and disbelief over the assigned title. Why is this fancy British guy calling me… that? I humbly replied, “Sure thing, Mr. Pennyworth.”

“You can go on ahead. I'll undress and you can… make yourself presentable.” Mr. Wayne says, looking down at his costume. He looks less threatening with his face out in the open, I find.

I'm very presentable! But I suppose a bath would do me some good.

Suddenly, Mr. Wayne seems to remember something. “But before you leave, could you please roll up your sleeves?” Mr. Wayne says, grabbing the elastic band.

I begin getting queasy. “What for?” 

“A blood test. It'll help me measure and diagnose disease and other conditions you might have. I doubt you had much health care.” 

Hm. “Alrighty then. But uh… watch where yer pointin’ that thing!” Look at me. Scared of the doctor. I'm able to fight bat creatures, but this is what gives me the heebie-jeebies?

“Of course.”

I roll up my brown sleeves, as requested. All the way to my elbows. Mr. Wayne gently ties a band around my upper arm, and I feel a pressure build.

Mr. Wayne then takes the needle, and it is tied to a vial, with nothing inside. He stuck the needle into my inner arm, right where my… vein is? I feel a sting as the needle is inserted in me.

I suppose instead of inserting something in my system, this is more extracting. That makes me feel a little easier about this procedure and all. No… whacky science nonsense going inside my system.

The blood is collected from me, and it goes inside the tiny vial. It's weird to see your own blood outside of your body. I don't like it.

Mr. Wayne takes off the band and takes out the needle. I feel a little woozy, and also relieved that the procedure is over.

Batman then takes a bandage and wraps it around my arm, and it sticks handily, soaking up my blood from dripping all over the place.

I look at the blood in the vial. My eyes switch the large man I see before me. With his cape. And bat features…

“Yer not takin’ my blood so you can drink it, right?” 

Mr. Wayne stares at me like I'm stupid.

“No. This sample will need to be analyzed. With the hints from your DNA, we can also get more data for documentation or proof of citizenship. With the equipment on standby, that'll take until tomorrow. Until then, you can rest.”

“Sir? Have you been knocked on the head one too many times? Has a latent concussion impacted your hearing abilities? If not, then I might bring Clover into the bathroom like they so clearly need, sir?” Mr. Pennyworth says, practically spawning right behind me, and chastising Mr. Wayne.

Doesn't this guy get paid by Mr. Wayne? What a way to talk to your boss. Mr. Wayne stares at Mr. Pennyworth, sheepishly.

“Yes, Alfred. Until then, Clover.”

“Come now.” Like a whirlwind, Mr. Pennyworth drags me by the shoulders, up some stairs and towards an elevator, our shoes clacking against the metal of the floor.

Mr. Pennyworth pressed some buttons on the elevator panel, before entering. The doors close, and the zoom of the elevator goes up the shaft.

It's a familiar sound. I remember listening to it with Ceroba, in the Steamworks. Five missing children…

Try to take my mind off that now. What a stressful night. Or day, whatever. I don't know what time it is.

“Long day, I take it?” Alfred suddenly says, probably reading my expression.

“You can say that again.” 

“And what use would repetition serve? I see no reason to.” 

I chuckle slightly, and I feel a little less overwhelmed by everything that's gone on. Mr. Pennyworth smirks a bit, and pats me on the shoulder kindly.

“So… Yer British, correct?” I've only dealt with one British person, and she was a robot, and a jerk. Back in Axis’ dream/visit/whatever. What was her name again? Her accent was kind of hokey, compared to the Butler’s. Maybe that's why I found it annoying.

Nah. It's probably just me.

“Indeed. Essex county, England.”

My expression twists. “I didn't know they named places after vulgarity over there.”

Mr. Pennyworth’s mouth opens, but it closes just as fast. “My countrymen are nothing if not creative.”

Finally, a ding notified us that we had reached our destination. The doors widen, revealing a short, dark corridor before a staircase. Small lights are hung on the ceiling. Despite that, it's very dark here.

The gentleman pushes me along to the end of the hallway, and up the steps. We reach a seeming dead end, a blank wall, before Mr. Pennyworth inputs even more codes into a terminal on the wall.

The entrance opens, and Mr. Pennyworth guides me through. Behind me, I hear the loud thud of it closing. I look behind me, and I find a grandfather clock. The time rests at 10:47.

Mr. Pennyworth fiddles with the clock arms, and it is no longer 10:47.

Wow… what an elaborate exit! Even had a fake wall, and all. Really have to take it all in… Where am I again? I look around me. 

I find myself in a study. Numerous… bookshelves line the wall, all filled with massive tomes and such. (bleh. I think some of them might be IKEA brands. Heavens to Betsy…) 

There's a desk, and sat behind it is an appropriately massive desk chair, overlooking a window to the outside world.

It's mighty impressive. Whose house am I in again?

“This way, sir.”

I flinch, and follow dutibly out of the room. The door opens and…

…

I walk out.

Jeez Louise. Look at it!

This has to be the biggest house I've ever seen. I walk to the railing, my boots hitting the soft carpet, and have a look around.

The chandelier hangs over the… foyer, I believe it's called? It's so big I almost worry it might fall! Several classy paintings hang on the walls, depicting natural environments and figures I don't recognize.

(Unrelatedly, why would one look at a painting about nature when they could just go outside and see it? It always seemed odd that rich folks would be so interested in such things. I'm pretty sure they have enough money to buy the rights to grass.)

Just who did I agree to train under? Mr. Wayne has to be loaded! I think the massive man cave was an indication, but now it truly sets in.

“I have had enough of your inadequacy, Drake!” I hear someone shout from downstairs, away from view. He sounds around my age, almost regal. I instinctively pull away from the white rails, reminded that I must be intruding on other people's homes. What the…

“Well maybe if you didn't try driving the motor bike with your short stubby legs, you wouldn't have crashed.” Another voice, apparently named Drake, sounds exhausted and spent, but has other's outburst rolls off his back. 

“I took initiative. I understand your neurotic mind cannot comprehend valiance, but-” 

“I'M neurotic??? I'm not the one shouting at the rooftops about how my oh-so impressive family lineage, okay.” 

“That is understandable, because your lineage is unimpressive and unremarkable. Also, interrupt me again, and I solemnly swear I will cut off your hand.” 

Another voice groans, loudly. “Damian! You're gonna- Upset your wounds. Sit down!” He seems stressed out of his mind, and trying to keep a hold of himself. He grunts, supposedly trying to get Damian to settle down. “Will you two stop arguing!?” He sounds dog tired!

“Stay out of this, Thomas,” Damian says.

He must be a real piece of work. What in the Sam Hill are they even talking about?

“Oh how I wish Dick were here… I suppose I will have to sort them out in due time.” Mr. Pennyworth sighs, fiddling with his black bow tie, and turns to me. “If you are concerned for your sanity, ignore them. Now, just down this hall.”

Mr. Pennyworth helpfully guides me away from whatever that was.

As we walk along the hallway, I look up, down, and all around, looking at the luxurious sights before me. The fine wallpaper, the carpeting, the almost endless paintings. Doors flash by me, and several vases, cases, and other decorations fill the hall.

I feel like more an outsider HERE than down in Mr. Wayne's literal man cave. I've never been in a house this big.

Something turns in my stomach.

“Is it to your liking, young one?” 

“...It's very bougie, I guess.” That's all I can force out.

Mr. Pennyworth hums, and leads me through a door on the left.

We hurry past a large room, looking like some kind of master bedroom, and towards a bathroom. Mr. Pennyworth takes hold of the handle, and opens it. He glanced back at me, and gestures to the bathroom invitingly. I step inside the squeaky clean, fresh bathroom, and marvel at it.

“Your bath is ready, sir.”

Before he closes the door, my mind hangs onto his title for me. I blurt out the question thats been itching into my head. “Why do you call me that, Mr. Pennyworth?” 

The older gentleman suddenly opens the door again, and I am surprised to find a look of uncertainty etched into his expression. My ears are quickly serviced to him rambling. “Oh dear. I was not sure what to call you. I am of an older generation, and in my day we hardly thought of these things! Please tell me, what would you prefer to be dubbed as?” Though I would not call it rambling in the traditional sense, because he says in a very collected and articulate manner.

I'm confused over what he means. “Uh. I'm more confused on why you call me by any kind of address like that. I'm not nobody special.”

Mr. Pennyworth blinks, and tuts. “...I see I was mistaken. I had thought this was a matter of my… insensitivities.” 

What is he goin’ on about?

“Worry not, Master Clover. If you are to live in this house, then I am to serve you. Whatever your esteem has to say, there is nothing more that would please me. A higher salary notwithstanding.” He says cheekily.

“Please, leave your clothes in the hamper.” Alfred supplies, tapping on the compartment on the wall, before shutting the door and leaving me to my own devices.

I'm left to consider his words.

…

I take off my boots, and see the wall thingy. 

That must be the hamper, I suppose. So fancy… it looks like it goes through the other side of the wall!

I see the tub, and as promised, there are indeed bubbles and bath water and such. I take my bag and hang it on one of the towel hangers, and put my clothes in the hamper after I undress. I almost forget to take my wallet as well.

I stop for a second. Do hats belong in the laundry? I don't think so. I elect to put it on the countertop, along with my bandana and boots. They might be able to afford world class detergent, but I don't trust mortal washers with my cowpoke paraphernalia! 

I climb over the tub, and I ease myself into the water.

I sat there for a long while. Thinking over everything. Letting the foamy soap and warm water envelop me up to my neck, like a blanket. Messing around with the rubber duck.

This is sure relaxing. I'm bone tired. This whole day, really. Meeting Red Hood, Doctor Langstrom… and Notorious Overlord! I hope he's doin’ alright. After all, I'm in some kinda… palace.

Batman/Mr. Wayne must be one of those yankee billionaire types. I never thought I would meet one of those specimens! He seemed really nice, for a rich person.

Come to think of it, don't Kanako and Ceroba live in a pretty big house? Or whatever Japanese houses are called. Wonder how they pay for that house. Does Ceroba work? I'll be real, I don't remember if she told me. Maybe they still got some severance pay from the Steamworks company thingy. Wait. They kind of don't exist anymore. 

My stream(works) of consciousness eventually drifts away from those subjects, and towards my more immediate situation. How would being a superhero even work, realistically?  I'm more of a Western movie person, obviously. I've never thought much about superheroes, except tangentially through other people. Like, Jacob was always goin' on about something nerdy or another. 

Little Jacob… I wonder how he's faring. It's been a few years (for him) since I was living at the orphanage.

…

I'm sure they're fine without me, wherever they all are. They didn't need me. I hardly broke any hearts leaving for Mt. Ebott.

I had been neglecting my showery duties, I realized, and began washing my skin with a sponge I found nearby. How long have I just been sitting here, thinking? Too long, probably.

The repetitive movements, up and down, side to side, deep and soft. These things stop my mind from wandering to uncomfortable places.

My hair must be a mess. I decided to be efficient and dunk my entire head into the bath water. Some soap gets into my hair, I'm sure.

I gasp for air as I pull my head out, my hair slapping against my face.

Might wanna get out soon. I think I'm gonna fall asleep, and I don't know how long I've been in here. Don't wanna overstay my welcome in these people's bathrooms.

M’not tryna get pruny either…

After I climb out of the tub, I find myself attacked by the stunning cold! I rush to get a towel on the bar, and look at myself in the mirror.

I see I still have those scars on my face, from those… things back at Super IKEA. They're pretty visible too! They make me look… tough! I smile.

I dry myself, and dig into the dimensional bag and pull out my pajamas.

After putting the thing on, I take my hat and bandana, along with my bag, and go to empty the tub of bath water. I sit there for a minute, and watch it empty in the drainage abyss.

I'm done here.

Before long, I'm back out in the hallway, waltzing about, not knowing what to do with myself.

I pull on my hat and shift my weight, my bag swinging as I walk aimlessly.

Wonder where Mr. Pennyworth went? Or uh… Mr. Wayne. Or those people I heard arguing downstairs. 

This is weird. Being lost in someone else's house just seems wrong.

I turn my back and- WOAH!

I must have jumped two feet in the air, because right behind me stood this older girl!

She hovers over me, and pushes some of her short black hair out of her face. Her eyes pierced through me, calculating. Her expression is immovable.

She's wearing a costume. All black, with a yellow belt and bat symbol outlined on her chest. She isn't wearing a cowel, like Mr. Wayne was. She must be a superhero.

I stand there, awkward. Does she live here? Probably.

I'm silent. So is she. We stand here, looking at each other, like some unspoken staring contest.

This is getting kind of weird.

“Howdy, pardner.”

Still silent. She keeps her hands behind her back. Still staring…

Wait! I remember this one little orphan girl, back when I was ten or so. She wasn't able to speak, or make any sounds come out of her mouth. Medical issues, trauma, I dunno. Mute, I think it's called. Anyway, she had to learn sign language. But uh, none of her peers had the time or resources to learn.

Or the heart to care, honestly.

So she just shut up, and stared at people, because that's all she could do.

I remember feeling awfully bad for her. I've got to admit, sometimes I…  I lose my voice, for a variety of reasons. So I tried my best to learn… ASL, I think  it was. I remember she was so happy to see someone say hello with their hands. My signing is pretty clumsy but…

‘Nice to meet you!’ I slide my palm across my other hand, place two fingers in front of each other, and point at her. I stick my tongue, focusing on the intricate technique.

I did it! 

She giggles, putting a hand to her mouth. Evidently, I was wrong.

“Nice… to meet you too. Clover, yes?” She says, sounding hushed.

I make a face. How does everyone know my name? Now that I think of it, didn't Red Hood holler my name, even though-

Wait. The news. Yeah.

“Ugh. You betcha.”

“Okay. Hi. I am Cassandra. People call me Cass, because it is shorter.” She says, her words chopped up. She continued to stare. “Are… you okay?” 

“Uh. I don't really know where to go. Mr. Pennyworth sent me to take a bath, and he has all my clothes.”

“No, I mean. You are very stiff. Nervous… unsure. Do you… wish you were somewhere else?” 

How could she have gotten that from looking at me for ten seconds? Maybe she has the power to look into people's SOULS. Regardless, I don't know how to answer her. I feel my bare feet against the rug. “I don't got nowhere else to be.”

She looks sadly at me. But then she recovers. “Alfred… downstairs.”

I nod and follow Cass.

She brings me down the steps, and I almost fall down them, my eyes drawn to the opulence before me. This is MUCH bigger than the Ketsukane Estate. And I thought that den was impressive!

Cass suddenly swerves to the right, and I get my mind off such trivialities.

Before I can process the next room we fly through, Cass brings me to a kitchen.

It's… about as big as a normal kitchen. I don't know what I expected. Maybe one of those massive ones you see on TV, with hordes of chefs yelling and cussing at each other and being British.

I see Mr. Wayne again, dressed like a normal person. Well, if you can call turtlenecks normal. He sits at a table, alongside several people, all speaking to each other. This is his family, I reckon.

Cass goes off to fetch something for herself, and I approach the room, slowly. Like I'm stepping to a den of wild animals. I don't know these people, and this is their house! I don't wanna…

I stand off to the side, watching everyone go about their business. I think the term is ‘people watching.’ 

Mr. Pennyworth reaches into the oven, and pulls out a baking pan, with dozens of cookies, brownies, and other confections. Looks pretty good…

I glance back to the table, and see Bruce sitting beside a boy, looking about as old as I am. He looks piffed, certainly, staring off into a cup of juice. He scratches his spiky hair, and his gaze lifts up to me. He glares, slightly.

Spooky. Is this the Damian I heard so much about earlier? He must be Mr. Wayne's son. He looks like him. Black hair, blue eyes…

I glance off to the side, and see Cass standing creepily behind this other guy, filling his coffee mug. Wouldja smell that!

He has a costume on as well, and a cape, but also this bandolier thing? It looks stylish, I'll say. He also has a black Domino mask on. Like the Lone Ranger!

Does she have a habit of just staring at people like this? Odd. I come to the realization that I'm doing the same thing, right now.

She pokes him in the side.

“Gah! Cass! You're gonna give me a heart attack!” 

She says nothing, and gives the mug in his hand a look. 

“Mhm. Not you too, Cass. I have a meeting tomorrow…” He says, drowsily sipping from his mug.

I see Mr. Pennyworth sneak behind Mr. Wayne, and whisper something in his ear. Suddenly, his eyes are trained to me. He stands up off the table, and announces, “Everyone! There's someone I want you to meet.”

He walks from the table, and towards me. He stands behind me, placing a hand on my shoulder and looking towards them all.

“I’d like you all to meet a new member of the family. As some of you might know…” 

Bandolier guy looked incredulously at Mr. Wayne. Then to me. What's his deal? Is he one of Mr. Wayne's kids? He's pretty old. Bandolier guy kinda looks EVEN MORE like him.

“They are Clover.” 

Wait. What?

“I- I should have expected this, honestly.” Bandolier guy says, gulping down his mug with ‘Don’t talk to me unless I've had my coffee’ written in cursive. What an aggressive and tough drinking container! Maybe the cup would have a chance at being part of the shufflers gang with me.

Enough of that! I need to address this. “Whaddya mean, ‘member of the family'? I ask, squinting up at him.

“Father…? What is the meaning of this!?” Damian yells, outraged, and gets out of his seat, and storms up to me and Mr. Wayne. “A replacement!? You're tired of handling me, so you went and got a…” 

He looks up and down, disgust radiating off him, and he sneers. “Unkempt street urchin, that you could mold into your own image! Do you detest me so?” 

“Same to you, pardner! Besides, I just took a bath.” I react, in what I feel is a reasonable manner. I may be unkempt, and I may be a street urchin, but… uh. He said in a rude way!

“A little water on your skin does not change what you are.” He is just full of it, isn't he?

“You know that is not true, Damian.” Mr. Wayne sternly states. I don't know if he refers to the insults to my person, or the accusations laid at his feet.

“Don't be such a sour-puss, ya little edgelord!” An older blonde girl dressed in purple says between munches of her cereal. “Maybe you'll get along and you'll actually make some friends?” 

“Do not be ridiculous, Brown! I could never even speak to such an unsophisticated gutter rat in a stupid hat!”

I can handle the insults to my appearance and other such things. But I will not stand for insults to my HAT! I put a hand to my chin, and try to think of a clever retort…

I got it! “Well, ya know what?” 

“You're. Ugly.” I interrupt him, and emphasize my biting comeback with two jabs to his forehead.

It's tame. But it gets him to shut up, surprisingly. Damian looks at me like he wants to maul me to death.

“Oh snap.” Cass says, snapping a finger. Damian looks at her, saddened and slightly betrayed. Validated, I give her a bright smile.

“Thanks, miss!”

“DAMIAN. CLOVER.” Mr. Wayne places very authoritative hands on Damian's head and my cowboy hat. Uh oh.

“Damian. You are not being replaced. You are my son, and I would never… throw you out. I don't know where that came from, but I cannot even fathom hurting you like that. And I thought I told you that we don't talk down to people like that. You have been improving, haven't you?”

Damian looks down at the floor. Mr. Wayne sighs. “We will discuss this later.” 

He turns his head to me. “And you… please don't egg him on.”

“Okay.” I say blankly. Wasn't I wound up about something before? Can't recall.

I see a guy dressed in a yellow sweater coughs awkwardly behind Damian. Everyone's staring at us. Is everyone in this room just Mr. Wayne's kids? They all seem younger than him. Excepting Mr. Pennyworth, obviously.

“Why don't you two sit down.” Mr. Wayne orders, and I do that, because it's his house, and I'm a guest.

The room is much quieter than it was before. Damian and I stare at each other. Well, it's more accurate to say that I looked at him while he tried to psychically crush my head with his imaginary mind powers. Or at least, that's the impression his glare gives off.

The ‘Brown’ girl has her elbows on the table, staring at the two of us. Just smiling.

I look to my side, and I see myself seated next to the yellow sweater guy.

“Hey… How's it going? I'm Duke.” He says slightly awkwardly, holding out a fist. I am physically compelled to not leave him hanging. 

He makes an explosion sound as our fists connect, and does a little thing with his hands as he moves it away. I smile, and his becomes a little more genuine.

“Should've figured. Tell Bruce about a high profile case and next thing I know I get a new little gremlin in the house for my efforts.” Bandolier guy says into the air, sipping on his cup of joe.

“Hey!” I'm not a gremlin. At least… I don't think I am. At this point in my life, it wouldn't be too out there for me to find out I have 8% gremlin DNA.

“Go to sleep, Tim.” Brown sticks her tounge out at him. “Or I'll put sleeping pills in your coffee when you're not looking.” 

That's a worrying statement. What kind of people have I stumbled into living with?

“Heh. Really, Steph? That weak sauce? No effect on my system. I've taken so many of those stupid tablets, I've developed an immunity.” He gains a smug look, as if he has described an impressive feat which is recognized by anyone but him as worthy of gloating.

“Don’t you have a date with Bernard tomorrow?” Duke speaks up, taking a bite out of some granola bar.

Tim looks ashamed for half a second, seeming to have completely forgotten, before doubling down. “...Yeah. I do. What of it?” 

“I'm gonna smack you, man.” Duke sounds serious about that.

I zone out of this conversation, endowed with many new ideas and people sitting in my head. I can come to only one conclusion…

What a bunch of weirdos.

💛

Chapter Text

💛 

“PLEASE!!”

She screams helplessly.

“WHAT DO I DO!?” 

Her howls are distorted and her bawling is thick with determination. She's melting onto the floor.

“STOP!!! SOMEONE!” 

“H E L P M E. . . .” 

But nobody came…

It's all so loud. The cackles of a dead prince, my very best friend, dance in my skull. Other voices join in the fray, now.

“I would've been a good friend. I would've…”

“Let my parents know… I'll be away for a while.” 

“HOLD ON. PLEASE. I AM SORRY.”

“Thank you.”

“You hear that?

“Y O U R ’ E  D E A D. . . .” 

💛 

I sit at the edge of the bed, my hands wringing around each other.

It's still dark out. I listened closely to the crickets of creeping things, and chirps of the fowls of the air, distant rumblings of the beasts of the earth, and the tree blowing winds. The moonlight shines through the glass window, into my brand new room.

I get up off the bed.

I twist my head robotically to the alarm clock. It's 5:27 AM. It's either frighteningly late, or unthinkably early, depending on one's perspective.

I lean down, onto the wooden floor, and pulled out Mr. Wayne's compromise: My gun case. I retrive the key from my dimensional wallet, and unlock the metal case.

My Big Iron, trapped in brown foam. I rescued it.

Leaving the case under my bed, I head over to the closet and pull out the dimensional bag, my bulky P89 leaving its hold, making sure to slide the safety on. I don't have any actual bullets, so I filled the Ruger with nails a few days ago. Surprisingly, it worked.

Duel wielding and with both guns aimed towards the sky, I take a quick vacation to the window.

The driveway is big. Big enough to support Mr. Wayne's Mercedes, less impressive than the car stored however many feet under the ground, which sits beside Mr. Pennyworth's limo. A fountain rests in the middle, and beyond my current field of vision is a long road which stretches to the black gates separating the manor from the outside world.

A small blue bird rests on a tree branch. She sits in her nest, sleeping.

It's been a crazy week.

Later today, Batman will officially begin my training under him. I'll be taught all kinds of things. Chemistry, Martial Arts, Engineering, Detective skills ‘to the peak of physical and mental capability,’ as he said. Sounded kinda impossible to me, but I've learned that skepticism is basically worthless for me nowadays.

I'm not exactly an expert in… Any of those things, to say the least.  I'm not sure how I'll be able to learn or master any of those feats. But I'll try my hardest to be… passable! 

With these tools at my disposal, with these methods in my grasp, I will do great things. That is why God delivered me to this world.

That's nuthin’ but the truth. There's nothing more to it.

…

I'm tired. I don't sleep good anymore.

I pull out my Wayne Tech phone - Yes, Mr. Wayne makes phones - from my pocket and my earbuds off the desk, turning on the lamp. I searched up a history documentary about Jonah Hex - A great outlaw legend from this world - and educated myself on the other Jonah.

In the back of my mind, my consciousness reminds me of the week's events.

💛 

I patiently wait for the water to boil.

I sniff.

…

I hear the bubbles burst against the surface of the water, and the fancy red light thermometer sounds off. I climb up the chair to the stove, and I take off the lid of the top of the pot, accordingly. I peer inside to see the chicken thighs stacked on top of each other, fully cooked to perfection(?)

Finally!

I reach out to the tongs besides me, carefully removing the thighs from their watery graves and placing them on a baking sheet - which seemed to be brand new.

I cover my hands with the mitts, and place the dead chickens in the oven.

For ten minutes or so, I waited. Then, I stopped doing that.

Finally, I pulled the oven door open, and brought the thighs onto the oven top. Look at that bronze. It's crisp. I made it myself. Didn't have to mooch off of other people's food and hospitality.

I worried I would be a little rusty. Haven't cooked for a couple months. But I've got my ducks in a row. Small yeehaws leave my mouth. Makin’ bacon! Or chicken… Checkin’ chicken?

“Hey.” 

I react a little strongly. My head flips to the kitchen door. I reach for the revolver I don't have. Oh! It's just… Tim, was it? “Fancy seein' you here, friend.” 

“In the kitchen? At two in the morning? Couldn't be me.” 

Tim then sniffs the air. Intrigued, he decided to investigate the baking sheet. His brows raise, and he looks back to me with an impressed look.

“Chicken thighs. Pretty cool. Did you make that?”

“No.”

His face crunches up. “What? You clearly did!” 

“I…” My nerves eat at me, and I feel a mental block grab hold of my vocal cords. I look down to see I still have the oven mitt on. I place my hand behind my back.

“Please don't tell,” I pleaded meekly. A strange, unknowable sense of shame creeps up my spine. I don't know why I feel the way I do. It's just stupid chicken. And it's not like Tim is an adult. He's barely 17.

“...I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.”  Passively, Tim plucked a thigh from the baking sheet, ripping it apart with his teeth. Surprise flashes before his eyes as he takes a second look. He licks his fingers a bit, before swallowing his bite.

“What do you have to be embarrassed about? Not many kids - hell, grown adults - know how to cook nowadays. I sure as hell don't.”

I feel a blush coming on. “Aw. Well.” I don't know how to take compliments.

“Did you have to cook for yourself, often?” 

I glance back at Tim, surprised at his perception. “Yuh huh. Hadta make supper fer all the little kids too. They stopped the after school lunch program a while back, so I had to learn myself to cook. None of the adults were about to start, I reckon.”

He sighs. “Can't say I haven't heard that one before.” Tim’s expression gets a What-can-you-do quality to it, although there's a sadness buried in there somewhere.

I joined Tim in eating my Chicken thighs. The thyme and smoked paprika do its job well.

Tim and I share a look.

“You look tired. Couldn't sleep? Those bags under your eyes make you look like a mirror to me right now.”

“Nah. S’More like… don't want to.”

He nods, understanding. “Well… Sleep be damned. You wanna stay up a little longer?” 

“Whaddya mean?”

“What's your professional thoughts on coffee?” 

“Hm. I dunno. I really need to go lay down and read…”

“Hey, if you're not interested…”

“Oh, stop playin’ with me. Course I want some!”

💛 

“Is it ready yet, Mr. Batman?” 

“No.” 

…

“Is it ready now?”

“Don't ask me that question again, please.” 

“Sheesh. Yer the boss, I suppose.” 

I lay back down on the floor of the Batcave, bored out of my mind. I pick at the patches on my vest, and stare at the Deltarune.

I wish an Angel would come and empty me out of THIS cave, right about now.

“I'd get off the floor, if I was you. The bats gotta poop somewhere, ya know.” 

What in Sam Hill!?

I launch myself off the floor, and sweep my jeans clean! I check my vest, to make sure I didn't-

“Hah! Just kidding. Alfie sweeps all the crap up.”

I deadpan, then aim a glare at NightwinglDick/Whatever-his name-is, performing a hand-stand, and an accompanying upside down shit eating smirk on his face. His long black hair hangs down to the floor.

Dick, (His name is Richard. But uh… everyone calls him Dick for whatever reason??? I don't get it) otherwise known as Nightwing, had taken it upon himself as my… ‘new older brother’ - his words, not mine - to show me around the Batcave while my super special blood is being processed by… something. Look, I don't know what's goin' on, only that my blood is involved.

I was kinda put off by Dick's… enthusiasm, not gonna lie. But my tune changed once I got a taste of Mr. Wayne's bizarre collection.

He gave me a tour of the ‘trophy room’, as they called it. It had all sorts of things! There was a massive joker playing card I thought Ace would get a kick out of, a suit of samurai armor, roman armor, a giant flippin’ penny, and an animatronic dinosaur! The thing had very fearsome teeth.

I also saw this small suit, hung up behind a display case. The plaque in front of it read, ‘JASON TODD, A GOOD SOLDIER.’

Dick acted like he didn't see it. I didn't ask any questions.

Poor kid.

Shared the same name with the fella I met at that club too. I wonder how the skinny boy is? I kinda left him to fend for himself live on air. I gotta get in touch.

Anyway! Dick’s cheeky grin shifts into a more apologetic one, and he shifts into the ground-breaking, physics defying acrobatics maneuver known as the ‘feet-stand’.

“Ain’t nice to tease, ya know.” I reminded him, because it isn't!

“Aw, how can I make it up to you?” He snaps his finger, finding an answer. “I got it. Check it out!”

This better be good.

Dick… does a running start, before jumping up, and… Wouldja look at that, doing a backflip, four times in the air! He perfectly lands on the floor with a thud, two feet on the floor.

“Hoo-wee! That was somethin’ else!” I exclaim, forgetting… whatever I was getting hung up about. I have half a mind to shoot my gun in the air, but I don't have it.

“I know.” He flexes, looking deservedly proud of himself.

I ran up to him, pulling on his black spandex suit.

“How'd you learn to do all that!?” My eyes must be glimmering, and I smile at him all stupid, filled with awe and amazement. 

“By being incredibly tall and handsome. And crap tons of training. Maybe one day you'll learn how to do a quadruple backflip!” Ain't that a trip…

He sounds sorta cocky. Now that I think of it, Dick kinda reminds me of that MTT fella that really got under my skin. His hair, his demeanor…

His… legs.

Disturbing. Axis is still a better robot.

“I DIDN'T KNOW 5’7 WAS TALL, NIGHTWING.” A feminine voice, slightly distorted and played through a filter, calls out from the Batcomputer, rescuing me from these thoughts. “SHAMELESS!” 

I look at the flat screen, and a flat image of a green head, presumably depicting a girl, pops out.

“Still handsome though.”

“UH HUH. BATMAN, I HAVE THE REPORT READY FOR YOUR COWBOY. I'VE ANALYZED THE SAMPLE YOU SENT, AND INCLUDED EVERY TEST AND VARIABLE YOU REQUESTED.” 

“Thank you, Oracle. Tell your father I won't keep him waiting.” Batman nods to her. 

“SO LONG. I'LL HAVE THEIR DOCUMENTS PREPARED BY THURSDAY. TELL CASS AND STEPH THE NIGHTS ON ME.” A ping shows up at the corner of Batman's screen. With that, the green robot lady's voice fades away.

“Who’s that?” I look up at Dick/Nightwing. (Dickwing? Nah. That just sounds nasty.)

“That's Babs. She's the smart one.” I assume her actual name is Barbara. Dick saunters up to Batman, and calls out to me. “Come on, maybe the paranoid old geezer has something important to show you in his super creepy blood test.”

Batman remains pointedly silent.

Dick responds to his silence. “What kind of guy does a blood test for the new kid he just adopted? Batman, that's who.”

“Preparation is a crucial part of the process, chum.” Mr. Wayne seems a whole lot more dismissive and detached when he's Mr. Batman. Or maybe he's like that all the time, and he just hides it. Or maybe the suit has creepy supernatural effects on his mind.

I head up to the computer, and take a gander at my digital DNA profile, as it's named. All this data about me, all in one place. The wonder of modern science is laid before my eyes.

The screen is filled with all kinds of health stuff and other mumbo jumbo I don't understand.

Type B, No heart issues. In fact, I DON'T have leukemia or lymphoma! I guess that's something worth celebrating. It somehow got my age… 12 years and 11 months. I didn't know blood tests could read that. I dunno, I ain't a professional. Something about Scotch-Irish ancestry… Like the drink?

‘NO LIVING MATERNAL OR PATERNAL DNA MATCHES ON FILE.’ 

I guess that makes sense. I am in another universe, after all. I don't know what I expected.

“Wait. B, what does that imply?” Nightwing points at the left monitor, showing a graph. Several curved lines, going up and down, and then up again, with several dots plotted at different intervals. It's one of those…

“That sound wave graph.” Yeah, that's it! “This is for measuring vibrational frequencies of parallel earths! So why would…” 

“Earth-999999999,” Batman reads out. “That's the world they hail from. The sound waves of that world traveled through their blood, and the frequency was measured in the report.” 

If I knew what that meant, that might be pretty impressive. Mr. Wayne didn't tell me he would do that… timeline rigamarole. I thought this was a medical test! That's uh. Kinda sneaky.

“...Holy spacetime!” Dick exclaims, looking down at me like I had changed somehow in the last second.

I'm put out, my origins revealed to another. “That's not a huge deal, right?” Nightwing doesn't seem judgemental, but I would rather have this revealed on my own terms.

“Eh, not really. Just between you and me, my girlfriend's an alien.” He winks… wait.

I'm not allowed to even digest that, because Batman scrolls down on the screen, and makes a humming noise. He turns to me, showing very muted shock. “You also have… Metahuman capabilities.” 

“That a medical issue needing taken care of?” I'm not a fan of the doctors, but I'm also not a fan of dying. I'm willing to do what it takes.

“Uh, no. It means you have powers, homeslice.” Nightwing explains to me. I give him a blank stare. He soon qualified, “Superpowers?” 

I fix him, and Mr. Wayne, with a befuddled gawk. “Superpowers!? Wha- I don't got no-”

Wait.

…

DO I have superpowers?

Naw. But…! This Justice Blast doesn't count as a power! Or does it? Is the memory reading ability a superpower? Is CHECKING a power? 

It hasn't felt like it. I don't feel like I can do something no one else can. I mean… Would I be able to teach anybody how to interact with magic like that? That's all it is, interaction with magic.

Am I a magician?

Are those techniques just any John Doe can figure out if they interacted with monsters? 

…

“Huh.” I look to the floor, my realization comes to an end. Mr. Wayne scratches his chin, and lets out a pained huff. Like he just has so much to deal with.

“We can discuss this when your training begins.” I nod to Mr. Wayne, trying to put these thoughts on the backburner for now.

Guess I'm a little more qualified to be a superhero than I thought. I have superpowers!

Bully for me, I suppose. I look towards Nightwing, and he gives me a thumbs up.

💛 

I lay down on the floor, feeling like garbage.

I am not in the guest room of Mr. Wayne's mansion. I am among the ether. I see stars, and galaxies, and nebulas, and the endless expanse of the last frontier. 

I still don't know how to feel about it all.

Why? Why me, of all people? The more I think about it, the more… inane it is. What's the statistic of orphans getting adopted by mega rich billionaires, given fancy living quarters, all the food they could ask for, and all? Not very high, I don't think.

Wayne saw me on the news. So what, he just felt bad for me? Enough to… adopt me, genuinely? Mr. Wayne doesn't seem like the type to take me in as a stupid publicity stunt, like in Annie. Heh. Guess I really should start singing classes, huh?

I… I'm abandoning my friends. All of them. I'm never gonna see them again, only read about them through those stupid letters. How long am I gonna be in this world anyway!? A month? Two months? Half a year? Ten years…?

I'm not part of his family. I can't be. I don't… I don't deserve it. It doesn't make any sense.

“Enjoying yourself, Master Clover?” 

So long space cowboy. The eternal visions vanish. I shift my head up to see who interrupted my quality me time, and I see Mr. Pennyworth, staring at me in the door frame. “How long have you been standing there…?” 

Mr. Pennyworth glanced at his watch. “A measly fifteen minutes. I'm glad you feel so comfortable in your new room.” He steps over me, and sits down on ‘my’ bed.

We sit in silence. I brush the hand-me-downs Dick gave me. (apparently wearing the same cowboy clothes all day, everyday is ‘unhygenic’) 

“Are you up for telling me why you are laying on the floor like a sloth?”

“Oh well. Ya see, it's a meditation technique I learned about from my friend Frisk. They learned it from this Ghost DJ fella named Napstablook. It's supposed to make ya FEEL the cosmos swarming around you. It's a family tradition for them.” 

Mr. Pennyworth might have X-ray in his peepers, because the look he gives sears right through me. “Intriguing, but that is not what I asked. Do you have more deflections to offer me?”

Darn. Thought that would work. “You don't hafta fret over me, Mr. Pennyworth.” 

“Don’t I? Sir, I am paid to. Fretting is practically all I do!” Well, some people are paid to get murderers out of jail, so.

My guts turn, as does my head, away from him.

“Master Clover? Please tell me what is the matter.” 

Slowly, I turned my head back.

Mr. Pennyworth comes off the bed, and has both his knees to the floor. He sits beside me, and says, “I am no telepath. I do, however, have enough experience to clue in on what is troubling you.”

After a moment of consideration, I caved in. “I don't understand. Why me, of all people?”

Mr. Pennyworth glances up at the ceiling, and has a moment to contemplate things, before answering me. “Simply put, Bruce felt responsible for you. He is a good man, and I feel nothing but pride for him, but he is very troubled. He lives vicariously through his children. He wants you to grow up better than he thinks himself to be.” Mr. Pennyworth’s eyes are stormy, and he seems to be overcome by memories.

“So… But.” The words are caught in my throat, and Mr. Pennyworth lets me finish. “Okay. But then why did he say I was part of his family? I'm not related to him. I'm not one of his kids.”

“Bruce refers to the team of costumed troop of hooligans he's amassed.” Oh.

Mr. Pennyworth then catches something, and raises a brow. “And- You must be aware, almost none of his legal children are related to him, barring his youngest, of course.” 

…Excuse me? I make a funny face, and finally get up and really treat Mr. Pennyworth with some respect.

“Which of 'em?” I thought… they look so much like him! Dick has to be related to him, surely! None?

“All except Damian,” Mr. Pennyworth answers solemnly. Sweet Lord. It can't be.

“Naw. That ain't it, ain't it? I swear, Dick almost looked exactly like Mr. Wayne! The black hair, the blue eyes…” I cradle my head, my mind now forced in a prism of pain and confusion. I glance back at Mr. Pennyworth. “Can I get a total amount?” 

“Four legally, eight practically.” 

EIGHT. “So does he, like… Just adopt any kid he finds on the street???” I say, trying to psychologically delve into the twisted psyche of the man I just agreed to live with for the foreseeable future.

Mr. Pennyworth pleads the fifth.

…I decided to lay back down on the floor.

Eventually, Mr. Pennyworth lets me cope in peace, leaving me to my own, but not before ruffling the hair on my head.

💛 

I've been getting a lay of the land.

I haven't had much to do. I've been waiting while Mr. Wayne does whatever he needs to do.  I've thought about talking to the people I'm living with now, but every time I see them I have the overwhelming feeling of being an invader. It's awkward.

And Damian's been low key looking for me. I don't think there was one instance when I interacted with him he didn't lay down some subliminal hint that I didn't belong in HIS house, have the right step foot on HIS property or how I was a just dirty unwashed gutter rat and probably didn't even earn anything legitimately in my life.

He hasn't been helping my complex about staying in Mr. Wayne's house, to say the least. I've been trying to ignore him, or treat him with some basic civility at least. I haven't talked to the others much. So I'm bored.

I haven't felt ‘bored’ in months. Nowadays, my life is a rollercoaster of adventures I either did or didn't ask for. 

What to do to kill time? But then it hit me: Do what I always do! Run around aimlessly. Well, not AIMLESS, necessarily. I wanted to educate myself. I was gonna take a look around my new living quarters.

And… It’s big.

Like, over 100 acres big! I think you could fit… twenty of Ketsukane Estates in the place, or maybe eight of Asgore's Castle. I think I finally, truly GET why monsters DESPERATELY wanted to go to the surface. There's… way more room. No one's a fan of cramped spaces.

Let me just…

There's a dining room, a kitchen, a literal ballroom, a greenhouse, eleven bedrooms, seven bathrooms, a study, many panic rooms, laundry room, a garage the size of a grocery store parking lot, a movie theater (YES, A FULL THEATER), a wine cellar, gym, basketball court, recreational room, a room filled to the brim with all kinds of games, gallery, spa suite, an attic, a tennis court, a pool house, and not to mention the grounds or gardens!

At a certain point, it just got ridiculous. I don't think there's enough people in this house to justify its size.

I need a break.

I took a stop in the theater, ran ragged by the decadence of this whole property, and pushed open the twin doors.

“YOU'RE A BITCH, JESSICA!” 

What the-! There's people here!

“Stop throwing the popcorn, Jace, you're wasting it.” Stephanie whines, but who is the other one?

“Oh no, All the delicious stale, non-buttered popcorn.” He does a pretty spot on impression of her. “Get real. This crap is better suited to the screen than your mouth.” 

Wait. He sounds familiar…

I walk up, silently. I mean, the show they have on the projector is pretty loud anyway so it's not like I'm being sneaky. On the big screen, I see various women, one in a wedding dress and multiple others yelling at her for going over budget or something.

Dresses are dumb. That's my take on the whole affair.

“I wanna snack on SOMETHING, gosh.”

They're in the middle row, sharing a popcorn bucket between them. Popcorn… I could use some corn chowder right about now. Is there a way Ceroba could… send food to me? That would just be just dandy!

Enough of that. I sit beside them quietly, thinking of just how to get their attention.

I whistle, pretty loudly.

They both immediately whip their heads towards me. Stephanie leans out of her seat to get a better look at me. She sits behind…

This pretty large guy wearing a Red sweater. He's got freaky hair, curly black except for a white streak in it, like the Bride of Frankenstein.

Mr. Bride of Frankenstein looks befuddled at me. “Clover!? What the hell are you doing in my house?” He hollers over to me.

”Red Hood!” I instantly recognize his voice, hollering as well. What's he doin’ here?

He curls a beckoning finger over to me. 

As I pass the entire row and take a seat next to him, he fixes me with a deadpan expression, his green stare disbelieving, resting his head on his fist.

“Oh yeah. I forgot to mention. See that? Say hello to the newest addition to the family! Bruce introduced them at breakfast a few days ago. Damian had a meltdown about it.” 

“The demon brat having a conniption fit? No shit.” He sighed, and removed his now gloveless hand from his face. “I can't believe I helped Bruce… Oh, whatever. How's it going?” 

“Well. It's been a lot.” 

“Yeah, I getcha.” Red Hood absent-mindedly munched on the popcorn he literally just said was more fit for the floor than his mouth. I see Stephanie give him the evil eye.

“There's so many rooms and places… it feels like a maze!” 

“Tell me about it. I remember getting freaked when Bruce kidnapped my sorry ass. Don't worry. I don't think even Alfie uses or cares about, like, at least 40% of the square miles this place gots on it.” 

“Hey… that costume!” Stephanie butts in, leaning over Red Hood, and snatching the bucket away from him. “I thought I recognized you. You're the dancing cowboy kid! From that TikTok! You know how to bust it down, little bro.” 

Wait. Those people were recording me for a video…? Wow. “Uh. Thanks, miss! I got kicked out on my butt though.” It was worth it.

“Mmmhmm. That was in your nightclub too, wasn't it? Great security you have!” Stephanie pokes at Red Hood’s cheek, and he swipes her away. 

“Yup.” He pops out. “A little shit, like I said.” 

Hey! “I'm not a little shit!”

“Yes, you are.” He states, like it's an empirical fact.

“Nuh uh!” 

“I- Whaddya mean NUH UH!? The second I tried to help you, you shot me in the head!” He squawked. He gesticulated wildly, pointing first at me, then the spot on his face I took aim at.

Stephanie laughs. Whether at me, Red Hood, or the general situation at hand, I dunno.

Oh yeah. I guess he has the right to call me that. “Sorry.”

“Ah, don't sweat it. Thanks for the cash, by the way. Let's just say the struggle has been real this month.” 

Despite the low visibility in the theater, I can tell Stephanie rolled her eyes. “The struggle, he says. Jason, literally just ask Bruce for some pocket change and he'll solve all your financial problems.”

“What do I look like, a beggar?”

“You give off strong beggar vibes, Jace.”

“You give off strong punching bag vibes, Steph.”

“Your name's Jason?” I butt in, astonished at the possibility of more than one person having the same name. “I know a guy named Jason.” 

“Hm? Oh yeah. Fruity dude has some issues~” He sings the last part.

…Wait.

“Before you ask, yes. I interrogated the guy. He's kinda how I figured out what dirty street you were sleeping in.”

“You didn't hurt him, did you?” I say, crossing my arms. The guy's pretty sensitive. I'm pretty sure he was about to cry because he couldn't pay for that gyro.

“I'm a fan of punching my problems, but I'm not a brute.” Jason says, slightly offended.

Stephanie snorts, and Jason gives her the evil eye. Okay… “How am I gonna set you two apart? I can't call you both Jason.”

“Call me Ishmael.” 

“Don't be a nerd.” Stephanie says, her mouth full,  whacking him on the shoulder. He winces pretty hard. “His last name is Todd. Last name basis.” Yeah, the thing about that is I don't-

…

Jason Todd. That's his name. I studied him, for as good as I could in the dark theater. His eyes… They glowed green, slightly. Almost like…

No! He can't be a zombie. I've met zombies, and they're real slow, and have green skin. And they can't talk.

Is he actually Jason Todd? Then who in the world is that memorial in the Batcave supposed to be for?

Jason Todd glares back at me, and I must've been staring really hard. I finally come up with, “Could you repeat that?” Perhaps it's something on my end. 

“Todd.” Jason says, flipping his curly hair out of his face.

“...Todd.” I repeat. Y'know, just to be sure.

…I hesitate.

“You’re supposed to be dead!” 

Stephanie spits out the water she was drinking.

“Fuckin’…” Jason Todd(?) lets chuckles escape his mouth, bafflement taking over his tone. “Excuse me?”

Embarrassment comes over me, and I begin to flush and stammer. “I- I saw that memorial, down in the Batcave, and it said you were a good soldier, and…” 

Stephanie covers her mouth, but several… deflating noises escape the cages of her fingers. Eventually, that fails. She laughs uproariously, clapping her hands and nearly crying, and she gives a mocking point to Jason Todd(?) 

“What're y'all…” I trail off, confused. 

“Yeah. I am supposed to be dead.” Jason recovers, sucking in a breath. “Unfortunately for me, I got dipped in a vat of Baja Blast by the demon brat’s terrorist mother, so I'm still roaming the earth. Life's been just fucking dandy these last few years.”

Guilt creeps up my spine. “Oh- Uh. I… Apologizes mister, I didn't mean to offend. I was just confused, ‘s all.” I rub my arm. I know I wouldn't like it if someone brought up the incident in New Home.

Jason takes a big breath… and breathes out. “Don't mention it. You didn't know. Life sucks, but I'll live.” 

The audio of the show plays for a moment, undeterred by the thickness of the air. Jason and I sit in silence.

Stephanie decides she doesn't care to uphold it. “Look what you did, Jason. You killed the mood and bummed the kid out. You're a real jerk.”

“Hey, it's my death, asswipe.” Jason reflexively bites back.

“Yeah, and you don't stop bringing it up.” Stephanie rolls her eyes. “Ya don't hear me moaning about my death all the time.”

“You didn't actually die, blondie. I think you're forgetting that small detail.” 

“Black Mask didn't make it feel that way.” 

He opens his mouth, before closing it and eventually nodding in agreement. “A fair point.”

WHAT ARE THEY TALKING ABOUT.

Have they both died!? How is this something they're so comfortable talking about!? I didn't think so much of it, once upon a time. It was just my duty, something that needed to be done. But now? Just the idea of it… It makes me feel sick to my stomach. But both of them just blurt it out, out in the air, like it's nothing!

“Dead Robins Club.” They whisper, and share an intricate secret hand shake.

I'm feelin’ some kinda way, and I must look like it, because Jason and Steph look back at me, looking filled with some regret or shame. I couldn't imagine why.

“Hey uh… How long has this episode been going on?” 

“Dammit!” Jason curses, whipping his head to the big screen, his jaw tenses. “We missed the whole episode.”

“Hey, Clover… Wanna watch some trashy reality TV with us?” She offers, holding the remote and staring at me with a sympathetic (and guilty) look.

“...What's it about?” I ask, though I wasn't about to get up from my seat anyway.

“Ladies getting married looking for the perfect wedding dress!” Steph says, emptying out the last of the popcorn by letting the whole bucket go bottoms-up in her mouth. Most of it lands in her jaws, to her credit.

My face is skeptical. “Sounds kinda boring.” If there ain't no repeaters or outlaws, what kinda story is it? A boring one, that's what.

“That's the stupidest shit I've ever heard, Clover.” Jason waves his hands about, “This show is nonstop - completely manufactured - drama. Trust me, you're gonna love it.”

I can't believe a self professed crime lord is sitting here and trying to sell me on watching dumb trash TV. “Is that why you were screaming and throwing food?” 

“...The bride's mother called her fat. I had to take a stand.” 

“I think you have anger issues, Jason.” Stephanie voices, checking up on her purple fingernails. Uh,  not purple because she's sick, but because she painted them that color with polish.

I'm not getting up from this seat. “...Alrighty then,” I shrug.

“That's the spirit! Rewind, Steph.” Jason celebrates uproariously.

The rest of my evening is spent watching ‘Say Yes to the Dress’ with Stephanie and Jason as the peanut gallery. Or popcorn gallery, as the case may be. Eventually, the troubles ailing my mind are drowned out by their company.

💛 

“Jason. Did you REALLY mean it when you called the manor ‘your house?’”

“...Shut up, Steph.” 

“That's so sweet.”

💛 

I've been doing some research.

I'm tired of listening in on the conversations people have in this house. They talk about patrol out on street names I don't recognize. People I've never heard of, with bizarre names. Like… Condiment King. I was eavesdropping on their suppertime while I hung out upstairs, and I heard Tim really swear up a storm, talkin’ about honey mustard oozing off of him. 

The Justice League, the Titans, Metropolis, all these things I didn't know!

That's when I discovered I actually had a pretty useful tool at my disposal.

I've barely used the Internet before. All the computers at school were super old, so I just used them to play solitaire. 

But now… all of this information, right at my fingertips. And no dial up. I decided I was gonna do some light reading. I went off to the library in Wayne manor, determined to learn all I could. I have good memories of libraries. Reading old scans of 18XXs dime novels about Jesse James and ‘accidentally’ stealing movie DVDs… This should be something relaxing, at least.

M’not gonna learn everything there is to know off of newspaper headlines, but I want to get familiar with the world God pawned me off to.

Those innocent aspirations quickly derailed.

I've been sitting at the computer for three and a half hours now, going down the rabbit hole. My eyes are bloodshot, I'm robotically left clicking every article, summary, post, and anything else I could find. My mind is frantic.

Is this what the Internet does to you? Cause I don't like it. I think there's such a thing as… learning too much. Having too many facts swirling around in your brain. I'm sure Flowey gets what I mean, with his thousands of resets.

Aliens are real.

One of the most famous people on the planet is something called a Kryptonian. He has the power to shoot lasers out of his eyes, lift buildings, punch through titanium, fly, and breath ice! All with no magic, either. Superman, they called him, the Man of Tomorrow.

I watched a live feed of the president of the United States fistfighting him. He was wearing a green space suit.

THAT was my limit. That's when it all stopped bothering me. At this point in my life, I don't think I can be surprised by anything.

I learned a few things about Mr. Wayne. He's a founder of the Justice League. He owns that satellite I saw the President and that Alien fight on: The Watchtower.

They protect the universe from all kinds of alien threats. Good Lord.

Wonder Woman: an Amazonian princess over five thousand years old. Quite literally older than Methuselah! I watch a phone recording of her thrusting a sword through a giant worm.

The fastest man alive, a literal Robin Hood, space cops, Atlantis, Shazam… A Martian. What have I gotten myself into? 

With all the fantastical things of this world, magic people living under a mountain doesn't sound so crazy, does it?

It gets me thinking… If humankind can live alongside aliens and other civilizations in this world, why not back home? I think Chara or Frisk might find this worthy of note. Would monsters count as aliens? If your working definition of ‘alien’ is ‘anything that's not human,’ then maybe. But they're made of magic, and I'm definitely sure they're actually from earth. 

It's all very thought provoking. If my mind wasn't so fried from the light particles beamed into my retinas, I might have actually been provoked to think.

In the corner of my eye, I catch a small white dog staring up at me. Toby tilts his head, and gives me a dopey expression.

“You seein’ all this, Toby?” I mutter, incensed at the absurdity of this world. 

Toby circled the ground around me a bit, before lying down beside the chair I sat on. He responds to me by woofing.

“Do ya think they got any cool cowboy heroes in this world, boy? Like, ones we don't got back at home.” 

I'm met with another woof. Some of his drool falls to the floor.

“I really should be chewin’ you out for what you did to me with that residue. It smelled awful.” I had to dump it out in the grounds behind Mr. Wayne's manor. He nearly had a heart attack, but I had nowhere else to do it.

At this point, I begin to actually think about this dog, really.

“You are odder than anything else. You always make me WAIT before I get to see you again, for days at a time! I swear, yer more cat than dog. How did you even cross dimensions, anyway?”

I looked into Toby's literal puppy dog eyes, before…

He WINKS at me???

That settles it. That is NOT a normal dog. 

Frightened and startled, I blink rapidly. The next second Toby is asleep, with cute snoozing sounds coming off him.

I go back to my research.

For a few hours more, I decided to stick closer to my surroundings. Research is done on Gotham, it's history, important people from here, all of it.

I also take the time to snoop over the MOUNTAINS of shlok written about Mr. Wayne. Apparently he's loose with women, because half of what I find are tabloid covers with him holding one lady or kissin’ another. 

And the look on his face… He looks so uncanny! He must be an actor, cause I've been under this roof for a few days now and I haven't seen him make any of these faces. It's like I'm looking at another person in the same skin.

I spent thirty minutes reading an internet thread about Batman's true identity. It's amazing how absolutely none of them even considered Bruce Wayne as a possible answer.

Then... I saw it, only for a brief moment, but...

I was innocently browsing the image search on the computer, looking for any headlines or theories about Bruce Wayne, and then... I saw it.

It was... a horrific image. It was an artists rendition of Bruce Wayne and Batman - The artist presuming they were two separate people - kissing. Very passionately. A bit of tongue is involved. Okay maybe it was a little more than kissing. I'm putting it very mildly, and vaguely, because I don't want to think about it too much. It was admittedly very realistic and well done, in matters of anatomy, lighting, framing, etc. But in the case of obeying Gods commandments? It receives a big fat 0/10 from me.

It goes without saying, but I was very troubled. That's when I decided I was done for the night.

I shut off the computer, having gotten my fill of Gotham's mental illness, and hop off the chair, and rub my exhausted eyeballs. I head upstairs to ‘my’ bedroom, and Toby’s eager, enigmatic steps follow mine. That mutt doesn't know half of the things I've seen, that I now can't un-see. Sometimes I see Batman's speechbubble say 'You might be Gotham's Prince, but I'm your KING' when I close my eyes. Without fail, it makes me want to claw them out. every. single. time.

I hope whoever made that is happy with themselves.

💛 

“Sit still! Please.” Cass says in her whispery cadence, holding onto my head like a bowling ball.

“I am! I am!” I say through my teeth. And to be frank, in a whiny way.

“Ease your grip, Miss.” Mr. Pennyworth instructs, chillin’ on a lawn chair and sipping on a warm cup of green tea in a delicate piece of fine china.

I needed a haircut. Cass wanted to learn how to do haircuts. Mr. Pennyworth makes me a guinea pig for the evening. That's the long and short of it.

More snips come from Cass, and I twiddle my thumbs under the cape thingy. I've been sitting here for a long time. I've filled the time making up western stories in my head.

It's a beautiful day outside. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and it's a wonderful day out to sit and relax under the sun. Too bad Gotham is darker than a Neo-Western. 

Mr. Pennyworth said he didn't want to clean up the mess inside, so we're out on a bright, clear March day. For Gotham standards.

Cass grabs hold of a handful of my ‘mop’, as Mr. Pennyworth described it, and combs it semi-gracefully. After doing so, she cuts the promised last bit, and I can hear the small smile on her voice. “Yay.”

“Well done.” Mr. Pennyworth congratulates Cass with a modest round of golf-clapping. “Now, let Clover witness your talent.” 

So she does. I reach out under the barber cape, and appraise the ‘trim’. I'm not familiar with barber parlance.

Wow! I've got to admit, my scalp looks - and feels - a whole lot less burdened. I know nothing about hair, but the little dangly bits at the sides are much shorter and thicker. The mirror shows me my big grin and- Is that a chipped tooth???

I elect to ignore it, for my own sanity. “Yer sharper than those scissors, Cass! I've got to hand it to ya.” I've never cared about my hair that much. It was usually covered under my Cowboy hat, so I didn't care to get it under control. Besides, a rough and rugged look always suited me, as it does any cowpoke! But Mr. Pennyworth decided ‘rough and rugged’ was more like ‘neglected and distressing.’ 

I swear, Mr. Pennyworth is more of a momma bird than… Martlet. Funny, cuz… Martlet’s a bird.

That's too depressing to think about any more.

Cass interrupts my inner dialogue. “Oh! I… appreciate compliments. But I'm not finished.” Cass taps her lips, and comes to a decision. She grabs the hair tie from her respective mop, and it falls to her shoulders. Like mops do…? Imma stop calling hair mops.

After a brief moment, the long part of my hair at the back is tied up in a ponytail.

“Woah…” I breathe, and I begin to choke up. No one's ever cut my hair before…

“Y'know, you don't gotta give me yer…” Uh. I forgot what the name for those things are…. Hair Tie! That's it. “You don't gotta give me yer whole hair tie. I can't have this.” 

“It's okay. I have… many hair ties. A lot.” She says, nonchalant.

“I-” Something comes through my throat. “So yer just gonna hand it to me, like it's nothin’?” I remember this bothering me greatly when Star or somebody gifted me something or another. I justified it as a gift from a friend. Is… Is Cass my friend?

“If I need some… I purchase them. Material things… they are not end-all-be-all.”

That statement irks me. “...It's easy to say that when yer richer than a cattle baron.” I hope it comes out less bitter than it probably does.

“I know.” She nods, less gloating and more matter-of-fact. “You… helped me practice. Feel like a normal person. That's payment… okay?”

“...I don't know how to feel about that.”

“Why? You are… unwell. You’re… vastly underweight. Than you should be. And you make yourself small... When you do talk. To us. Tim says you do not sleep… and you don't eat what Alfie gives you.”

I glance over to Mr. Pennyworth, and he seems sad.

I don't know what to say, so I am silent. I look up, and see Cass with a stoic expression.

“You deserve… to live here. I think so. Please do not think you don't. That is all.” Cass removed the cape from me, and gave me a small smile. 

Suddenly, I saw Stephanie run up to her. “Cassie! I need ya for something! Don't ask any questions!” She hollers belligerently, dragging off to parts unknown. Cass doesn't look bothered at all. The scissors and comb fall to the grass.

I'm left there with my thoughts. Mr. Pennyworth had gone already.

…💛?

…I feel a disturbance in the air.

I swivel the chair, the breeze hitting my face, and Lo-and-behold, standing there menacingly, was Damian. He said nothing, aiming me a glare under his brow.

Oh, brother. It's Damian Wayne. I think I'm reaching a boiling point.

I huff, and prepare myself for whatever load he has to drop on this fine session of feelin’ sorry for myself I had going on. “Howdy. Nice weather, huh?”

“I am tired of tap-dancing around this! You have trespassed on my home for the last time. Lucky for you, I have decided to have mercy on you. Instead of ruthlessly and effectively taking you down, bringing you a devastating defeat, I will give you a chance.” 

Damian must have some dimensional bag, because he reaches into his back and magically pulls out a… wouldja look at that!

“That's one purty lookin’ weapon.” Uncaring for whatever Damian was yapping on about, I jumped off the chair and closed in on him, trying to get a closer look.

“H-Hey! Are you crazy! Don't touch it, you fool!” 

I point at the writing on the blade, and ask, “What language is that?”

Damian sighs, and answers in exasperation, as if he didn't bring out the sword. “Tt. It's an engraving. The language is Arabic… I am not ashamed of my heritage. Now-” 

“Look at that curve… What kinda sword is that?” I say, feeling the smooth, coldness of the blade. Very precise.

“I…” Damian seems confused. He hesitantly answers, “It's a katana.” 

“Wow! So yer a samurai?” 

Damian looks at me stupid, like I didn't ask a completely reasonable question. “No! I am a hero. And former assassin.”

“Ooooh. So you're a ninja?” 

Damian opens his mouth, but then shakes his head furiously. “Enough of this!” He aims the katana right at my face. 

“Clover… Whatever your last name is! I hereby challenge you to a duel!” Duel. Not Dual. An important distinction.

“Hey!” 

Dick calls, standing behind us. “Dami… What uh. What're you doing?”

Damian loses his focus on me, stepping before Grayson laying a very regal stray hand on his chest. “Stay out of this, Grayson. I must earn my rightful place as Father's protege.” A stray gust of wind blows, having his hair flow in the breeze. It's very cinematic.

Dick has his head in his hands, as one does when their little brother challenges the house guest to a duel. “You've been living here for years. Every word you just said was wrong!”

“Is Damian finally trying to kill Clover?” Tim appears from thin air, seemingly, beside his older brother.

“No!...Yeah.” Dick relayed, defeated.

“Demon held out longer than I expected.” Tim mumbles, before absolutely demolishing a pack of sour Skittles.

Damian makes a weird sort of growling noise. “Leave, the both of you! I must have this matter sorted and I don't have the time or patience to have my plans foiled. Clover and I are going to enter into a duel, I will obviously reign victorious, I will bathe in their blood, and that will put an end to this ridiculous notion of ever being worthy to compete with me over the affection of-” 

Damian stops himself. “...I meant to say, compete with me for the rightful place as Father's successor.” That was certainly a look he gave off. Don't tell me blue blood is one of those… sun dairy people I've heard so much about.

“There is no MUST. Family isn't a competition, and neither is love. Clover is completely within their right to turn down your… weird duel.” These words ignite a fire in me.

“Says who?” While those three were talking, I brought out my P89 Ruger from the dimensional bag I had laying around, and stepped into the ring.

I walk up close to Damian, feeling some confidence enter my gut. “I accept your challenge, blue blood. And I'll damn sure win.” What kinda cowpoke turns down a duel? 

Dick looks flabbergasted. Tim stuffs a handful of sour Skittles in his mouth, like popcorn.

A competitive smirk reaches the edges of Damian's lips. “Ah. Finally.”

Damian then looks down, at the 9mm in my hand, and makes a face. “A firearm is a weakling’s weapon. We will use blades.” 

Excuse you!? “Gunfighter duels have been a staple of the American West for centuries, and it is an honorable practice!” 

“Only children and man-children engage in such things. There's little sophistication to be found in it.” 

“You take that back! There's quick drawing, codes of conduct and the code duello, and there's a whole thing about prestige and honor about gunfighter lore that really-” Damian's clearly not listening. I huff, frustrated at the insult. “Whatever. I would expect a know-it-all like you to say that. You're just being a scaredy cat. I bet you don't even know the first thing about guns.” I cross my arms, turning away from this sad case.

The shoes on the other foot, because now he looks offended. “I am master in all theaters of conflict!” 

“Oh? Who designed the 1911?"

"John Browning."

"Which gun is called the Chicago Typewriter?"

"The Thompson Submachine gun."

"First gun made mostly of plastic?"

“...This is irrelevant! We will use swords, and that's final!” Something comes across Damian's expression, and he suddenly inquired, “You do not own a sword, do you?”

Wordlessly, trying to prove him wrong, I reach into the dimensional bag, and pull out the iron sword I brought along with me. Damian's face gains a grimace at the immediate sight of it. “Horrendous. Where could you have received this short sword?” 

“The middle of nowhere.” 

“Exactly as expected. Your grip is flawed and you are terribly stiff. Do you even understand the basic fundamentals of swordsmanship?” 

“Uh. I got a friend of mine who does. I tried askin’ them how it worked, but I didn't understand the letter they sent. I think they had a rapier or somethin'.” Moray hadn't even used a sword in like, four years. Either way, I couldn't decipher whatever in God's name they wrote. Something about... index fingers. Too technical!

Damian sits silently, for a moment. He studied me closely, before making a show of it. He huffs and puffs, turning his head from me.

“It is clear you are too amateur to engage in single combat.” I have survived literally dozens of people who tried to kill me, including my own friends, but okay. “The duel cannot be officiated under your insufficient skill. As such, the duel will be postponed until you have broken the threshold of basic understanding under the combat arts. It would be dishonorable otherwise.” 

“That's kinda why I'm here, pardner.”

“Silence! I will be on my way now. Remember my mercy, and be grateful to me. Speak to me again when you're capable.”

Damian pats me on the shoulder, and walks away his nose turned up high. Very strange. I look to the side, and see Tim and Dick. Assumedly, they saw all of that. Tim smuches up the empty Skittles bag and stuffs it in his pocket.

“Don't tell Mr. Wayne I have these,” I say, referring to the Iron sword and P89 hiding in my dimensional bag. With a lingering point at both of them, I ran off into the house.

“I guess Damian made a new friend.” Dick says, cautious hope in his voice.

“Don't get your hopes up. Damian just has a new target.”

💛 

“-And swear that you will join us, in this family's war against crime and corruption, to shoulder the burden of evil, and to NEVER swerve from the path of Justice!” 

The Batcave sits in darkness, no lights pour down on our heads. The only light being the humble candle at the table beside Batman and I.

I never want to move on from them, my friends. It's… It scares me to think about.

One day, I'll start forgetting small details, like things Martlet said when I was traveling with her. Then bigger ones, like the details of my fight with Star or Ceroba. Then one day, without any warning, I'll only have vague memories. And then I'll be able to move on.

…

I have to keep writing to them. No matter what. They're the first people to ever give a damn about me. I can't let them go. Maybe I'll make some friends here. But they won't be around forever.

I want to help people. That's why I agreed to… this. That's why God brought me to this dimension. Not to… ‘find my forever home’. This is a professional partnership. I'm his ward. His trainee.

I rest my hand on my pocket Bible, and say the words, “I swear it, so help me God!” 

Tim blows out the candle, and I see nothing.

That is until the loud thud of the harsh industrial lighting whir to life, and I'm greeted to the family, clad in their gear and costumes, closing in on me.

Dick holst's me up in the air, and says in unison with everybody else…

“WELCOME TO THE FAMILY!” It echoes across the cave walls.

“Been a while since anyone's done the creepy cult blood oath thing.” Jason’s modulated voice snarks, while Dick puts me down to my feet.

“Don't be cynical, Little Wing. It's called tradition.”

“Still culty.”

“Yeah, probably.” Then, he suddenly recovers, throwing me some finger guns at my (unfortunately empty) holster. “Welcome to the club, little buddy. You're gun-na love it!” 

There are groans heard across the cave. I, personally, thought it was pretty funny. 

Batman puts a hand to my shoulder as the rest of his family talks among themselves. “Do you have any last thoughts, Clover? We all lead perilous lives.”

I look up at him, stubborn as the day I'll die. “I ain't afraid.” It's not true, but it needs to be. I've let my fear and anxiety hamper my stay in Mr. Wayne's house. Only by stuffing these unnecessary angsty feelings down can I move forward.

Batman nods, no hint of celebration in him.

A big smile spreads across my lips at his lack of words.

“We'll help ya the whole way through. Y'know, when we don't have something else going on.” Duke/Signal says, before raising a fist in the air. “Meta solidarity!”

“Cass and I promise to give moral support!” I hear Steph hollar, though its supportive quality is kinda sullied by Cass watching something on Steph's phone. Cass rectified this by giving a peace sign.

Tim says nothing, looking up to the cave ceiling. Wonder what's up with him.

“Welcome aboard.” Batwoman greets, giving me a firm handshake and a measured nod. “Honored to have you part of the team.” 

“Esteemed guests.” I hear Mr. Pennyworth tap a spoon to glass, catching everybody's attention. He sits atop the staircase, looking expectant. “Dinner is ready.” 

“First one at the dinner table gets the first cookie.” 

The collective eyeballs of the caped crusaders in the room bulge.

There's suddenly a frantic energy among the Bat-Family, and a whirlwind commences as everyone tries to get out of costume and get to supper.

I ain't wearin’ a costume. I pull down on my cowboy hat, and with the clank of my boots against the floor, I go upstairs to get my prize.

💛 

Damian beat me to it. He smiles smugly at me, munching on the last cookie. There's none left. I fell to the floor in despair.

Goddamnit.

💛

Chapter Text

💛 

I watch on the sidelines.

A long session, training them on the basics of boxing. I've almost got it down to a science, now. Dick, Jason, Tim, Stephanie, Damian…

Though I doubt they would want to wear Dick's colors. Damian would raise hell if I even considered it. And they've made it explicitly clear they wish for some kind of… western themed persona. 

Regardless. 

They're not as… angsty, for lack of a better term, as perhaps the others could be, at times. 

A lot of the time.

Most of the time.

Dick was not so subtle about his wish to kill Zucco. Jason, though grateful and cooperative, was… sometimes hard to work with. The impact of his upbringing, for as little as his parents were in his life, made it so he barely knew what to do with himself. Out of control, sometimes. Tim felt constricted. Alfred, Dick, and I kept him on a tight leash. He ran off with Lady Shiva in France. I never could predict that boy. Stephanie… I made a lot of mistakes with her. Just… all across the board.

And Damian… Well, I didn't have to train him. I didn't even let him take up the Robin mantle. He was… not under the right state of mind, I thought. Dick convinced me otherwise.

Clover has surprised me. I had expected more difficulties with them. Their… eccentricities made a strong first impression, to be honest. Truthfully, I expected a little more Jason out of them. They grew up similarly… unfair conditions.

But no. Clover is motivated, doesn't get easily distracted, is always trying to interact with their lessons, is receptive to criticism, actually takes the lessons seriously, and most importantly, doesn't blow up at me due to some unresolved trauma.

Though, I will say they have the opposite problem. They are excessively worried about ‘intruding’ or ‘bothering’ those in the house. They don't feel truly comfortable here. Perhaps… Survivor's guilt? Politeness gone too far? I don't know what to say to them. It's gotten a bit better in the past few days. I think something happened between them and Damian. Though I am not sure. 

As always, Alfred is right. Perhaps I am too distant.

I sigh, letting my always running mind slow to a more manageable pace.

I tune a few dials and press some buttons on the control console of the simulator holograms. The turquoise figures fade back into view, the projector overhead getting into my eyes a smidge.

Clover looks over to me, wearing NIKE blue shorts, a yellow tank top, blue headband, and boxing gloves with the Dallas Cowboys emblazoned on them. I am very certain they know nothing of American football; They just wanted the glove with ‘cowboy’ written on it. Clover is probably the simplest twelve year old I've ever met. In a good way. I thank the heavens they are.

“Remember. Pull back your hand quicker than you throw. Guard yourself,” I remind them, and I see the gears turning in their head, before they nod resolutely. They don't talk when they're ‘in the zone’ as they say. Clover puffs up their cheeks and shifts to a Southpaw stance, loose knees, elbows tucked, fists up.

“Separate your feet more and put more pressure on them. Keep your shoulders in parallel with your stance. Balance is key.” They adjust their stance accordingly.

The hologram lifts up its hands, and attacks. A swift right hook is thrown at Clover from it, but they remember to swiftly dodge out of the way. At first, they had trouble shifting their weight. But Clover is developing a more agile fighting style.

Clover retaliates with a few quick jabs, and turns their hips to do a cross, then a one-two combo, then a hook. Finally, they end off with a six punch combo. Each punch is as hard, fast, and accurate as a twelve year old can muster.

The hologram is thrown to the floor, and does not get up. Clover stares at the boxing gloves in pride, a smile breaking out on their face, beads of sweat pouring onto their face and on their headband.

Impressive. I turned off the system.

Clover seems confused. They look at me, wordlessly, like a lost puppy, their gloves hanging down. I reconsidered for an embarrassingly long moment to reverse my decision. “That's enough for today.”

“Wha-” Their voice cracks from multiple hours of disuse. Yes, they have gone hours without saying a single word, or even letting a solitary noise leave their mouth. I was similar at that age.

They clear their throat, and say, “What’d you do that fer, mister?” 

“We've been training non-stop for hours.” 

“So? That's what I signed up for,” At long last, some attitude comes out of them. They cross their arms.

“Aren't you tired?” 

They look around, searching for a good answer that doesn't exist. Finally, they deflect the issue, “You do it, don't you? You hardly even sleep! How come you're allowed but not me?” 

Everytime. They always see it as some sort of… insult or challenge. Clover is obviously capable. I wouldn't have brought them under my tutelage otherwise. Limits exist to be broken, yes, but breaking the limit doesn't mean willfully ignoring the speed limit sign and getting your car wrecked.

Yes, I know, I'm a hypocrite. But Clover isn't the one who started this entire… family in the first place. That is my responsibility, and no one else's.

Besides, I doubt Clover is even aware of the Uberman sleep schedule. I don't need that much sleep.

Arguing back and forth like this is fruitless. I go for the classic ‘arguing with my sidekick’ strategy. I hum lowly, and give them the best disappointed look I can make. 

Their face falls. It appears I haven't lost my touch. “Aw, don't rain on my parade, Mr. Wayne! I'm feelin' tough as Muhammad Ali! I could go at least another hour.”

“But you're not going to.” I start to clean up the bags, gear, and other training equipment from around the facility. 

Clover seems disappointed, and comes at me while I'm picking up several mats. “Please listen sir, I-” 

“No, Clover. You need to build yourself up to be able to do any longer sessions. Overexertion will take you out well before your opponent can.”

Clover looks offended slightly, and starts, before I cut them off. I've heard this many times from previous Robins over the years, and the frustration seeps through the surface.

“I'm providing the resources for your training. You're my ward, and I'm your legal guardian. I have to take responsibility for your health, and I say you're done.” 

My glare silences them, and they slump slightly. A look of fierce guilt passes on their expression, and they look down at the floor. “M’ Sorry…” They pitifully tear off the adhesive of their left glove, and take the other off.

…Now I feel bad. I let out a sigh.

I crouch down, and put (what I hope is) a reassuring hand on their shoulder. “I understand your frustration, but hard work doesn't transfer to better results.” 

They nod slowly. How to fix this… ”How do you feel about pancakes? I can get Alfred to-” 

“Really!!? No word of a lie!?” Their emotional state immediately changes, with the largest, chip-toothed grin I've ever seen on them, and stars in their eyes.

I was nearly startled.

“Yeehaw! Thanks a bunch, Mr. Wayne! Mr. Pennyworth makes ‘em amazin’, like them ones at the Honeydew Resort. They have little cinnamon particles on ‘em and everything!” They jump about, hyperactive and excited, shadow boxing mid-air.

I remember when I first saw Clover in that interview with Vicki. Wearing dirty clothes that didn't fit. Skinny, and malnourished. But now… they look clean, energetic, fit. Like they weren't digging in a trash can to feed themselves. Which, they unwittingly told me. Clover found a whole, uneaten cheeseburger in a trash can, no wrapper, and they had no qualms about stuffing it in their mouth. They sounded proud of themselves. I found it very worrisome.

I didn't know they liked pancakes so much. That's… good to know. As always, Alfred is a lifesaver.

They looked prepared to skip out of the cave, but I called out to them. “Hold on. I'm going to have to keep you for questioning.”

They look back, eyebrows raised and face scrunched up. “Did-Did I do something bad?”

…Force of habit. “No. I need more information about your legal identity.”

“Oh. Well, alright then. Shoot.”

“Last name?” I haven't gotten around to asking them yet. I'm very busy.

They frown slightly, like I brought up something they're slightly ashamed of. “Uh. I’m short of one, mister.”

Hm… Well, then-

“WAIT! Forget I just said that!” Clover waves their hands in my face, as if they had mind manipulation abilities. They puff their chest out, seemingly proud of themselves. “Eastwood. Clover Eastwood. That's my name. Don't wear it out.” They offer me a wink.

…Strange. Though I guess that would be the pot calling the kettle black, in my case. “Are… you positive?” I'm not able to hold back the pleading skepticism in my tone.

“Mhm hmm!” Clover nods rapidly, their eyes closed.

Okay… “If that's what you want.” It seems like they put some amount of thought into it, at least.

After another few questions, I finally nod to myself, and bury the information in my mind. A photographic memory is the only way I've gotten this far. “That'll be all. Thank you.”

“What's with the questions, mister?” They tilt their head at me.

“I just needed some final details for you to get enrolled in school,” I say, heading to the changing rooms.

There's a brief silence behind me. And then… “Aw, man…” Yeah. They sound crestfallen, and slightly betrayed.

Clover will be okay. Besides, I'll make it up to them. Their birthday is just around the corner, after all.

While I'm changing, I get a sudden beep from the comms. I answer it immediately.

“Bruce. Hypothetical question. You wouldn't happen to have any theoretical bugged lamps I DEFINITELY didn't… not place in the Pentagon building, would you?”

“...Why, Tim?” I frustratingly muttered, pinching the bridge of my nose, wondering how many of my colleagues in the League have to deal with their partners behaving this way. Not many, I would presume. Clark doesn't.

He hung up, without a single word in response. I stare at the ear device, for a moment. I'm getting too old for this.

💛 

I'm officially a celebrity.

That's a news article, on a website. And look! That's a picture of me. It's a freeze frame from my disastrous interview with Vicki Vale. I'm not very photogenic. I remember being pretty uncomfortable. I should have listened to my gut. But I guess it got me to this point, so… God works in mysterious ways.

‘Bruce Wayne releases press statement: 12-Year-Old hero comes under his wing.’

Heh. Under his wing. That's funny. Like his cape!

“Whatcha lookin’ at?” 

Gah! I look up to see Stephanie ignoring my personal space, peering onto my phone screen, like an ostrich. I take a significant move away from her, startled as all get out. 

Recovering while she laughs at my expense, I finally say to her, “D-Don't do that!” Why does everyone in this house need to jumpscare me when I even dare to sit down and enjoy some peace?

“I don't take orders,” Steph snarks smugly, sporting a shit- Uh, I mean, crap eating grin. She also sticks her tongue out.

“Very mature. Aren'tcha supposed to be doin’ that yoga hogwash?” I mumbled resentfully, sinking into the couch cushions. Honestly, the couch might be… too nice, if that makes sense.

“I was,” Steph sits down on the mat on the floor, the sunlight bearing down through the glass of the Conservatory. “But then I decided messing with you would be fun. You wear your heart on your sleeves, like any true pisces would.” Steph likes to tease people about star signs and other stuff like that. It's nothing super serious or superstitious, but God said engaging in astrology was prohibited. So I don't acknowledge it.

I try to be the bigger person and forgive her teasing. Unfortunately, some of the sun gets in my eyes, and I squint under its oppressive glare. “Dumb ol’ conservatory. Dumb… eugh.”

“You are being such a negative nancy right now! What's your deal?” Steph tosses and catches some shark plushie into the air.

“Mr. Wayne forcin’ me in school.” I grumble it out, annoyed at the unabashed injustice going on in this house.

“Not a fan?” 

“School sucks! It's boring, and annoying, and I missed it like I missed a pebble in my shoe.” I speak, impassioned. “I'm already getting all the education I need! Just a whole waste of time, for no reason.”

“Preach! School fucking blows. I'm supposed to be studying right now. But like, I'd actually rather do anything else. Like yoga. Trust me, it gets worse before it gets better, Clover Schlover.” She says this as she… performs what I think is called a cobra pose.

I don't know why she keeps calling me that. 

Although, it's nice to find someone who I can trust to back up my own biases and not question or challenge them. Rather than go, “Oi, Master Clover, you cannot possibly spend all your precious time in the manor! You need to go out, be normal, and socialize at some highfalutin private school. I'm English and I love tea and crumpets!” 

Or somethin’ like that. “You said it, sister.” 

She cackles like a witch. Literally, she sounds exactly like that witch that threw that potion at me in My World. “You talk like such a cornball.”

What? That's just how I talk.

With not much else to say, the conservatory delves into a comfortable silence. Stephanie continues fiddling with that dopey lookin’ shark plushie, and doing miscellaneous stretches and stuff. I don't understand what the point of yoga is.

I will continue reading the article.

…

Hm. ‘Eyes are drawn to Bruce Wayne's use of ‘they’ when referring to Clover Eastwood in the press statement. Is this proof of their…’ 

…What are they even talkin' about? I read on, and they mentioned something about… pronouns? I didn't pay attention in English, so I don't remember what those are exactly. But what does that have to do with me?

I scroll down to the comments of the article, and try to find out more. Maybe that'll make it make sense.

…Uh.

@X_chad6969420_X says: ‘BRUCE WAYNE is just another lame and gay liberal letting his new charity case indulge in his little fantasy. Stop with this nonbinary crap. Unfortunate times we live in!!!’

His? Whose this fella talkin’ about… And there's that ‘nonbinary’ word again. Guess Jason 1 didn't make it up. Maybe I should get him on the horn, and ask him what it means. I’m on a Google detox. The last time I went on a research binge, I saw horrors beyond my simple comprehension.

Hey, it just occurred to me. What does this X_chad6969420_X care anyhow? This is none of his business! This is my life! I read some more of the comments, and they're in the same vein. No stranger's ever cared about me this much before. And now that they do, they're all mad about… I don't even know what!

Or at least, some of them are. The other half of the comments are… support, I guess. For what? Just… being what I am. I didn't know I needed approval to just exist normally, but alrighty then.

Then there's the other comments, talking about the celebrity gossip. The article itself focuses mainly on this, going into detail about Ms. Catherine and little Evan, and what happened to them. I remember standing in that abandoned apartment building, the things I said… Maybe I should pay a little visitation to her.

Being a public figure is confusing. This must be what Frisk feels like, with that whole ambassador junk. I would not walk a mile in their shoes, certainly.

“You okay, buddy? You're making a whole bunch of faces right now,” Stephanie says, concerned, laying her feet flat as she does the bridge pose.

Not knowing how to respond, I flip the screen over to her, and she takes it from my hand gently. Her eyes scan the screen, and as she reads, a heated scowl grows on her face.

Next thing I know, she throws the phone back at the couch, seeming pretty steamed!

“Hey! That technology is mighty expensive.” I reprimanded her, cradling Mr. Wayne's gift to me. Rich kids just don't get it.

She ignored this, and collapsed down on the mat, steam coming out of her ears. After a hot minute of steaming on that mat, she gets up off the floor, and sits down on the couch beside me, her bright pink yoga paraphernalia standing out from the white couch. 

“You holdin’ up good, pardner? What's the matter?” 

“I should be asking you that!” Stephanie barks, looking in another direction from me, choking that shark plushie to near death. “It's not right that they're talking about you like that. You're just a kid.” 

“I ain't a kid.” I've never seen her so mad… Stephanie is pretty light-hearted, most of the time. “You shouldn't get too worked up about it. I don't even get what all those internet people’re going on about anyhow. It's like they're talkin’ a whole buncha… gobbledegook.” 

For some reason, she makes a sort of pained face at that comment. She responds to me, adjusting the strap on her yoga jumpsuit. “Don't take anything they say seriously. They don't even know what they're talking about, and they're proud of it. That dude would boast about wiping his ass wrong. ‘What’ is more important than ‘who’ to these ignorant assholes.” 

I guess she must be speaking from experience. Regardless, this is getting a little intense for something I don't even understand all the way.

Stephanie finally looks in my direction, and she cools down when she sees me. She takes a breath, and finally says, “Just remember… You're too important for anybody to stomp on your shoes. That's all I'm trying to say.” 

Too important? Something deep in my SOUL disagrees heavily with that. “Oh, I-I ain't nobody.”

She shakes her head. “Sometimes… I feel like I'm just a sideshow. Like I'm nobody important, and I should just accept that. I'm just Cluemasters little daughter-minion. But it's not true. I'm the Spoiler. I'm a member of the Bat-Family. And that means, I deserve a certain level of respect. Tim isn't just some kid following Bruce with a camera. Cass and Damian aren't assassins or terrorists. Babs isn't just some girl who got shot by the Joker. Jason isn't a street thug… Uh, nevermind that last one.” 

I blink, still not knowing what to say, or feel. Steph brought up a whole bunch of things… who’s the Joker? Like the card? Or the character in that movie about Vietnam?

She sighs, the passion coming down and leaving her slightly exhausted, apparently more than the yoga did. 

We sit there, in a second bout of silence. After a minute of waiting for her to relax, I finally say, “M’Sorry, Steph, fer showing you that article. ‘Cause… y'know, you got really ticked off.”

“What are you apologizing for? I'm not mad at you. And I was the one who… yeah.” She cradles her head, and wipes her eyes. “I guess if you're not mad It's useless to be on your behalf. It's just a stupid rage bait thing. That's how people online are. Don't worry about it.” 

“If you say so.” Emotions are flying high about now. Maybe I should try changing the subject…

“Uh… What's that thingy?” I say, pointing to the shark plushie. 

Steph gives me a look. My attempt is pretty transparent, but she seems grateful. She fiddles with the soft fins of the plushie, and says, “It's a Blåhag. Got it from IKEA, I think. It's pretty cute isn't it? I think…” 

…What.

I remember… roaming around an empty furniture store. For days. Being tortured by an extra dimensional being, which turned out to be me. Mantises picking at my brain. Randomly moving geometry…

Trifolium.

My stare is blank, and I can't hear what Steph is saying. I don't think she's paying much attention to me…

“...And it became, like, an icon, which I think is pretty cool for-” While she's beguiling me on the interesting history of the thing, I hold a hand out, to finally stop her.

“Hold yer horses.”

“...Uh. Something up?” 

“W-Where'd you say you got it from?” 

“IKEA. Is that…”

“Get that thing away from me.” I point at the vile creature, it's dead beady eyes staring back at me. “I don't like that look it's givin’ me.” 

“What?” Clueless and clearly not understanding the danger she's in, she stares at the thing, unsure if she's missing something. “What's wrong with it?” 

“It's from- It doesn't matter why, just… make it go away!” 

Stephanie makes a scrutinizing look at me, and she cracks up, clearly reveling in my potent fear. “Are you SCARED of it!? Hahaha! Transphobic, much?” 

“I ain't scared of nothin’! Knock it off, Stephanie, I'll shoot that thing!” It would be the first time getting my SOUL out since moving to Gotham, but MY HAND TO GOD I will blast that thing to smithereens. And Steph along with it, if she keeps this up.

She says nothing. She slowly, like a wild animal waiting to pounce, rises from her sitting position. 

I'm not in the mood. I jump off the couch, and make a beeline for the door, away from that God forsaken thing.

I hear Steph cackling at me, again, like a witch. She has quite a lot of witch-like qualities, now that I think of it.

💛 

This manor is massive. Truly.

This grass is very green, I've also noticed. I've been laying on it for twenty minutes. I don't feel like getting up. I'm too good for that. I hear footsteps, heading in my direction. They stop, before I see a shadow on the path beside me.

…

I'm so tired. I can't move. My chest heaves against the grass. I try to move my foot, but a cramp acts up again, and I can't subject myself to that. Once again, I sit down and try to close my eyes.

“You good?” 

“I'm right as rain, Duke,” I reply automatically, not even really registering what he said.

“...I don't think you know what you look like right now. ‘Right’ is a very strong word you're using.” I don't. But I can imagine I don't look the best. 

“I needed a break,” I excused, breathing hard.

“From what? The sidewalk?”

I huff, rolling my eyes at his sass. “...exercising, ya wiseass.”

I really wanted to prove to Mr. Wayne I could handle longer sessions. The sooner I can get back out on the streets of Gotham and help people, the faster I can fulfill my duties.

So, to get my endurance up, I really went in on push-ups, did around forty of them, before getting bored of that and doing four minutes of planks. I felt pretty underwhelmed from doing that, so I also decided I would jog the estates perimeter two times. After I did that I decided I wasn't done yet and around twenty minutes of jump rope and ten minutes of jumping jacks. It was around then that I started getting a little woozy. I ignored that, and during my third attempted jog, I felt flat-faced on to the grass of Mr. Wayne's garden.

I don't think I can get up. I've tried. They say ‘feel the burn’, but right now I'm feeling so much burn that I've turned numb.

I relayed this to Duke, and he responded simply. “Unfortunate.” He sips down some of his drink. I can't angle my head to see what it is.

Sweet silence. Duke watches me as I try to catch my breath and let out some energy.

…

“Would you be partial to some assistance?” 

“N-No!” I squawked, already feeling my pride go down the gutter. “That will NOT be necessary.”

“I can't leave you on the ground like this. I think you need a pick-me-up.”

Without skipping a beat, he free throws the empty cup of whatever into a nearby trash can. “Kobe!” I assume he makes the shot, because I can literally hear him pat himself on the back.

With that out of the way, he swoops me up in his arms, and I have literally no means to challenge this state of affairs. He holds me in a princess carrying sort of way. Look at what my hubris has reduced me to. God does truly despise the proud.

“See what I did there? Pick-me-up? Also, you're kinda light. I feel like I'm pickin’ up a little kitten right now.”

Spare me. “Would you kindly take me to my room, Duke? And please pick up the water bottle I dropped on the floor?” 

He does both of those things, and while I'm being shipped from one corner of the manor to the next, Duke decided to give me some professional advice as a former newcomer to the unpaid vigilante business.

“Are you tryin’ to get a heart attack? Cause that's what's gon’ happen to you, if you keep this up. You don't gotta do… ALL THAT to prove you belong with us, Clover! Take it from me: the harder you try to get people to really like you or take you seriously, the harder you make it on yourself.” Duke hauls me up the stairs, lecturing me.

“You fellas are the most talented people I've ever met… I gotta keep up.” I've regained some power in my voice, but not enough to sound like I usually do.

Maybe he's right. Even just the smallest amount of exercise and I fall on the floor like a little baby. Maybe I have too much free time. Besides, I don't think I can do any physically demanding tasks until school starts again. I shudder to myself and feel a morose tension fill my headspace.

Duke hums a bit as we get to my room, and stops before my door, his hands constricted by carrying me. “Don't be stubborn. Look, I get wantin’ to better yourself, but… Yo! What IS THAT, bro!?” Duke suddenly seems very alarmed, covering his eyes. I look up, and what a sight to behold.

The door opened by itself. In my room, is a collection of rings and wings and eyeballs.

“BE NOT AFRAID,” The singer of the Lord's praises announced.

I gasp! “Nikieal!”

They stand in the middle of my room, their rings swirling around, blowing strong winds throughout the room. My window curtains and bed comforter are hit by the breeze. Their idiosyncratic eyes stare at me, and I find comfort in the gaze. So understanding. I forgot my fatigue, and I wanted nothing more than to run to them again.

Suddenly feeling the whole of my strength return to me, I jumped out of Duke's arms and ran to Nikieal's non-existent ones. I give the angel a big fat hug, my hands somehow go around the stars, bushery, and other divinities, and I feel pure relief flood through my SOUL. Small tears fall down my cheek, and I feel no shame.

“It's… been a hot minute, huh? Not that I mind seein’ you, but… Where's Mail Whale?”

“HE FLOATS ON HIGH, WHERE OUR FATHER DOES ALSO ON HIS THRONE IN HEAVEN.” Ah, so he's in… the big room with the rainbows and lake and the choir. Okay. 

“Clover!” Duke calls me, and grabs the hoodie off my blue sweatsuit, pulling me away slightly from my divine ally. “Why are you so close to that freaky ass thing!? 

Oh yeah! Duke was here too. I smile. “Hey, Duke! This is my friend Nikieal!” I wipe away my tears, gesturing to God's messenger, feeling so giddy and friendly I might explode. 

“Friends? THAT’S your friend. Okay. What is THAT.” Duke anxiously demands from me, the… overwhelming sense of panic leaving his voice somewhat, at my nonchalance.

“I RANK HIGH AMONG THE SERAPHIM. I SING IN HOLY COMMUNION, A GREAT CHOIR OF HEAVENLY PRAISE TO THE GLORIOUS FATHER OF MERCY, THE LORD OF LIGHT, ETERNALLY GRACIOUS, YHWH.” I feel their voice shake as they say the Lord's true name.

I happily tell Duke what they mean. “They're an Angel! Ain't they pretty?” 

“No, actually. I thought angels were, like, white people with wings and ugly gowns. Not a multi-eyed abomination! That light it gives off…”

Doesn't Duke have some power regarding perception of light? It must be overwhelming, the radiance of an angel.

But I don't care. “Hey! Mind yer manners, pardner!! They might look pretty weird to you, but that's not what matters. What matters is what's in here.” I place a hand to my SOUL. Do angels have souls? I shake my head at my stream of consciousness. 

“I don't take kindly to you talking about my friend like that!” I know Nikieal doesn't give a hoot what a mortal thinks about their appearance, (they're an Angel, they probably have bigger cares) but I had to defend their honor anyway.

Duke’s tune changed, looking slightly sorry for what he said, and slightly(?) fearful at Nikieal. Well, behind his hands, at least. “Okay. Sorry. My fault, Clover, that's my… prejudice working against me.”

“Don't apologize to me.”

Duke clears his throat, and holds hout a hand for a hand shake. I don't get the thought process behind that, seeing as Nikieal doesn't have arms or hands. “Hey man, how's it going? I know we got off the wrong foot, but I'm-”

“DUKE THOMAS. THY MOTHER AND FATHER LOOK DOWN ON THOU IN HEAVEN. THEY GAZE UPON THEE, PRAY FOR THEE, AND GIFT TO THEE BLESSINGS. THEY BEQUEATH OF ME TO RELAY THIS TO YOU.” Nikieal answers preemptively, the nebulas inside their giant form shining with the birth of stars and elements.

Duke doesn't know what to say. He stands there like a gazelle. “Uh, Word. Good meetin’ you. I'm out.”

He does as promised, signing off with a peace sign before sprinting off to his own room.

…I wonder how Duke feels about that. Not knowing what else to do or say, I decided to just move on from that for the time being. “Didya get my delivery, Nikieal?”

“AND THEN SOME. GAZE UPON THE TREE, WHICH LAY NEAR THY BED.” 

Goodnight Irene! It's a whole Christmas tree, with lights and ornaments and candy canes, even with a little angel ornament on top! Look at all those presents. There's even a little mini-nativity scene.

“Isn't it March? Whose is all this?”

“THESE GIFTS ARE YOUR POSSESSIONS, PROPHET. THY BROTHERS AND SISTERS IN EBOTT GAVE THEM TO YOU, FOR IT IS THE CHRISTMAS SEASON IN THEIR TIME AND SPACE.” Oh yeah. I kinda forget that we're in two different time zones. Or the equivalent in between universes.

Regardless, I'm pumped. “All of ‘em? Don't that beat all!” Amazed and excited, I bend down to take a gander at the crazy amount of gifts sent to me, just counting them all. They even have wrapping and everything!

It's incredible… I've never gotten Christmas presents like this before! Only cheap crap at charity drives. But this is somethin’ else. These are gifts my friends specifically got just for me. Because they care about me…

An incredible mixture of homesickness, appreciation, and love (not LOVE) soar through my SOUL, and I feel the words being caught in my throat. I look back towards Nikieal, and I give the angel just a hint of my gratitude for their delivery. “Thank you so much.”

“IT IS BUT MY DUTY TO YOU AND GOD THAT I DO THIS. I AM YOUR SECOND MOST GUARDIAN ANGEL, FOLLOWING THE WHALE. I WILL ALWAYS BE THERE TO EASE YOUR BURDENS AND CHASE AWAY TROUBLES FROM THY HEART, CHILD OF GOD.”

With that, Nikieal vanished into thin air, their essence leaving the very earth. Their words echo in my mind as I open the amazing gifts from back home.

💛 

I talked to Duke later. He said it was alright. He also said he's seen worse stuff than that, so I shouldn't worry. I shared some of Ceroba's corn chowder with him. He asked me why it healed him, and I told him to not worry about it.

💛 

I sit down on the dining table, reading more of my pocket Bible. While doing that, I was also opening the gracious gifts I received from Earth… 999999999. Nine nines. It tickles a certain part of the brain, that number.

I've already opened some of them. Pops, the balloon person, is tied to the chair I'm sitting in. Dalv sent him to me, saying he wanted the bag of air to experience more of the world. But I'm pretty sure he just wanted to get rid of a reminder of days where he would literally talk to a balloon with a sharpie drawn face on it for a hint of companionship.

Dalv also gave me a few free copies of his new book: Larry and Larpy. It's a storybook about Interracial harmony between Monsters and Humans. I looked through it, and the art was pretty cute.

But I'm reading somethin' else right now.

‘And the women answered one another as they played, and said, Saul hath slain his thousands, and David his ten thousands!’ 

They sing about David, who killed Goliath and turned the tide of battle against the Philistines somewhat. King Saul is very salty about the entire affair. The Book makes it pretty clear David is about to replace Saul as king of Israel.

Thinking about it, I didn't expect the Bible to be so graphic. All the murderin’, and slavery, and politics, and such. How come preachers don't talk about this? From what I remember, they always talked about the Jesus parts.

Anyway, I read on, and Saul is in a tussle with the Philistines on a mountain named Gilboa. The Philistines killed three of his kids and shot him with arrows. He asked the fella carrying his armor to kill him so he wouldn't die a painful death. Understandably, the guy is scared stupid and just stands there like a deer in headlights. So Saul decided he would end his suffering himself, and committed suicide with his own sword.

In the end, every member of the LORD’s army that was present in the mountain died that day, and David mourned their deaths through a song.

…

Yeah. Saul wasn't exactly the best person, and didn't listen to God all the time, but that's a gruesome way to die. And… I kind of relate.

Eventually, David is anointed king. Or at least, I'm decently sure of it. I'm leaving Second Samuel for tomorrow. The last chapter kinda depressed me. I leave the ribbon on that page.  

“Eastwood.” 

I'm so used to the Waynes getting the drop on me at this point that I don't even flinch. I'm strangely proud of that fact. I turn around and see Damian looking over my shoulder, his arms behind his back. What a goober. “Whatchu want?”

“Whoever made that sweater has no idea what they're doing.”

Excuse you!? “Don't be talkin’ smack about Martlet! She made this with love in her heart. And she got me a brand new, artisanally crafted harmonica!” I pull it out of my pocket, and show off the beautiful creation. “And twenty dollars because she was really nervous and didn't know what else to get me.” I also pull out the twenty bucks from my wallet. I was kinda confused, ‘cus Mr. Wayne has said he would buy literally anything I asked for, and it's not like I'm in a shortage of cash, but it's a Christmas gift from Martlet so it's sacred.

Creepily enough, the sweater looks the exact same as one Ms. Toriel had me wear in my Ruins day in that other timeline. Stripes and all. I try to ignore that. 

“Hm.” Damian stares down at me, uncaring. “Studying for our duel, I hope? And who's Martlet?”

Damian's been really on my ass about that duel. Of course, my sense of honor won't allow his invocations to remain unanswered. I've been getting into books about swordsmanship. A really cool one I've been reading is the Book of Five Rings! Mr. Wayne already put it in my reading curriculum anyway.

I didn't know Samurais could be so cool… Ronins, I think they're called. They wander around the countryside helping anyone they can, and they have cool swords… It's incredible! They're basically cowboys. The only downside is that they never have any guns…

“I'm reading.” Regardless, I patiently ignored his prodding. If he wants to bad mouth Martlet's handiwork, he doesn't deserve to know.

“Oh? You're literate?” He responds, not missing a beat. Incredibly, he seems genuinely surprised.

“Oh, shut up, Damian.” Exasperated, I roll my eyes to the ceiling. Will this rich boy ever stop?

“No, seriously. Considering you were raised in a disgusting hovel and you're… qalil al’adab, to say the least, it's impressive.” Damian shows a particular talent for twisting any topic of conversation into a way to insult me. And using Arabic against me. I don't know what he said, but I can guess he called me a stupid in some way.

I cradle my nose bridge and try to let the comments go through me. Turn the other cheek, and all.

Damian hums, looking over the black leather of the holy book in his hands. He finds the label on the spine of the pocket Bible. Damian's gaze goes to mine, and a slight surprise greets me. He still says nothing, but starts flipping through pages and…

…Confusion starts to grow on his bratty face. “How are you- When did you learn this?” 

I groan at his obstinate rudeness. “Oh, come off it! Wasn't born in the middle ages, ya know.”

“No I mean-” Damian starts to look almost offended. “Tt. When did you learn Hebrew?” 

I tilt my head.

“Look!” He shoves the book in my face, as if I wasn't just reading from it. “The written language on this page isn't English. That's Biblical Hebrew. When did you learn to read it?”

“That's what that language is? I just looked at the weird letters and it just makes sense to me.”

Damian gives me a death glare. “That is impossible. You did not automatically translate Hebrew to English without any education whatsoever!”

I shrug my shoulders. “God works in mysterious ways. S’ probably magic or somethin’.”

He groans. “You’re clueless. What's your progress on the book?”

I'm taken off guard by the sudden change in topic. “What is this, a book club? And- And of what concern is it to you? I'm just a lowly poor person according to your uppity sensibilities.”

“Tt. At least you acknowledge it. Answer the question.”

Not knowing how else to proceed, I entertain Damian’s question. “Uh, I just started Second Samuel.”

He hums, much like his pa. “Interesting. I have always held a fascination with religious texts, since my days in the League. I liked to read from the Quran and the Bhagavad Gita. But… well, Grandfather did not exactly entertain such interests, to say the least. He focused my education towards other matters.”

That's kinda silly. If that's what he cares about, why didn't he let him learn? “Like what?”

“Purging the world of decadence and corruption through violence and terrorism.” Damian shrugs his shoulders, seemingly indifferent.

Oh. 

That's sad, I suppose. I've heard of kids whose parents controlled their lives and forced them to do what they were into. Haven't encountered any former terrorists, I reckon. Unless I'm just unobservant.

“Well, now yer living with Mr. Wayne and yer a superhero, right? That's all in the past.” Despite everything, I don't think Damian is a bad person or nothin’. I mean, he's a superhero, and he's helped more people and saved more lives than I ever have. It's just…

Damian's a massive asshole, and there's no sugarcoating that fact. Forgive my language God.

“I am not a mere superhero.” Damian scoffs, haughty. See? “But… yes.”

Eventually, the conversation petered out, and Damian returned to his book about programming. I returned to unwrapping more presents from my friends.

Opening one from Starlo, I take the lid off the box, and there's a letter inside. The handwriting is crude, but functional.

Howdy, Deputy!

It's me again, Starlo. I would say it's yer favorite sheriff North Star, but I ain't a sheriff, I never was, and that's not my name. I am a fine actor though!!

Tis the gyftmas season, and I'm in the giving mood! As is everyone else in town. I've been wearing my trusty Santa poncho Dalv graciously gifted to me last year. It works like a charm, and I love to wear around everywhere cuz Dalv was the one that-

Ignore that last part.

But this is my great gift (or is it gyft? I never know how you spell it) for you. A LASSO! The same brand I got as well. We can be lasso buddies, across universes! Take this as an apology for tyin’ you up and trying to steal your SOUL.

The rope is strong on that one. Yer some kind of superhero now, with that blue blood Brucie Wayne, right? Well, this should help you catch no-good bandits and other outlaws! 

You'll make a fine superhero, Clover. You're basically already one! If you can outlive Ceroba at her worst, you'll be a force to be reckoned with. I believe in you.

Happy trails!

-Starlo ★

PS: I also gotchu a little somethin’ else ;)

I can almost hear his voice from here.

I look inside the box, and as promised, it's a bright yellow lasso! I can feel the polyester rope, the grip in my hand. This is great! I should really try this out later. I might need some lassons though. I don't know how to work this thing. I hope Star’s right about me.

Hold on, what is this? I noticed another box in the package, and I reached for it…

Goodnight Irene! I whistle as I look upon the magnificent weapon. A double-barrel shotgun! 12 gauge, and a CZ Hammer coach. This must have cost Star an arm and a leg! I sigh… he really is a great guy. I need to pay him back somehow.

I noticed, off to the side, Damian's eyes started to wander. “I don't need you snitchin’, now.” 

“It's of no interest to me what you get up to.”

Hm. Despite it all, Damian doesn't seem the type to snitch to his daddy. Besides, from what I've heard, Damian’s done some wild things. Like driving Mr. Wayne's batmobile into a ditch. Hm. It's probably fine. “Shoot. Alright then.”

After a session of admiring my new gifts, I put it aside and open a small box, which says it's from Kanako. The font is that cooky font you can select on phones. Kanako types up all her letters. Makes it easier for her to do those emoticons she loves so much.

Hi Clover! ~ヾ(＾∇＾)

I hope you're having fun in that huge mansion you're rooming in for a while. If I was in your boots, I would run around like no tomorrow! And probably get my tail corn and fur stuck in the rug. I don't think your fancy butler would like me.

         Merry .｡❅*⋆⍋*∞*｡*∞*⍋⋆*❅｡. Gyftmas!

I was really excited for this year, cuz now I had another friend to give gifts to. (Psst. That's you!) Mommy has been celebrating with lots of egg nog.

I wanted to give you something special. Mommy helped me get it for you! She has all the money so…

<( •̀ᴖ•́)> I'm kinda mad the guy you're living with beat me to the punch on the phone. But I wanna give you the next best thing: A watch! 

A smart one, to be specific. It's been super useful for me since I came to the surface. It monitors your health and stuff. It tells me when I need to take my medicine. Ms. Alphys built it. Oh, and you can turn it into a jetpack!

Also… Don't worry. I'm not gonna get all sad about being an amalgamate in this letter. It's Gyftmas, so I should just be happy, right?

Anyways, I'm sure a smart watch could help you too. And yours looks super cool. It makes you feel like a spy with gadgets. Mines green and gray, like the Omnitrix! 

Bye for now. I'll tell you what I got in my next letter 

     /\__/\

<(⊃｡•́ω•̀｡)⊃ ← This is me giving you a hug!!!!

-Your friend Kanako

I smile at her cutesy letter. She attached it with a picture of her and Ceroba smiling next to a Christmas tree, wearing Santa hats and chowing down on a bucket of KFC. Kanako looks nice… Well, I mean, they both look nice!

I'm hopeless.

I put the watch on my right wrist, and connect it to the Internet and all the other nonsense associated with modern technology. It looks pretty snazzy! Kanako sure has taste… what was that about a jetpack again? I'm pretty sure that's impossible… basic laws of physics, I reckon.

I hope she's doing okay. I stuffed her letter and accompanying photo in my mail bag. “Who are these people that are giving you christmas gifts in the middle of march?” Damian says, eyeballing the discarded wrapping papers and the names on them in confusion and derision.

“Mind yer business, pardner.” 

I open up the one signed by the Feisty Four. The handwriting is slightly rushed.

To: Clover

Written by: Moray (I don't know why I still include this part. I write every single letter. NOTE: Remove this part later.)

Merry Christmas. Or is it Merry Gyftmas? Happy Hanukkah? Happy Holidays seems like a good compromise.

How's Gotham treating you? I hope things are okay for you. I couldn't imagine being in a big city like that, with all those humans around. Uh, not that I have anything against humans. It's just. You get it.

Oh yeah! Presents. I got you a bedroll kit, because I remember for those two weeks you spent half of your letter complaining about sleeping on dirt. Got the idea from Kanako. Honestly, this thing is your main gift from all four of us. I didn't know these things were so expensive. Uh, sorry for complaining about the price of the gift. That's pretty rude. I just realized that I'm writing in pen right now.

Ace gave you a pack of playing cards. Ed gave you a ‘combat Yo-Yo’ and a Rubik’s Cube. Mooch… Well, you can see for yourself.

Signing off: The Feisty Four

Stay safe, and STAY FEISTY!

Moray really did get me a bedroll kit! That's quite useful, actually. When I inevitably turn my back on civilization, this could come in handy.

Ed and Ace’s gifts are pretty cool. Playing Cards, yo-yo, and my favorite, a Rubik's Cube! I'm gonna get a lot of value out of this thing. I cradle the thing in my hands.

Inside the box, I found a lone piece of paper. There's nothing else in here, so I guess it has to be from Mooch. I picked it up and flipped it over…

It's a piece of printer paper with an IOU and her signature, both written in sharpie. Classy.

I pick up the box labeled ‘Dreemurr… & Toriel.’

Greetings, Clover.

Just kidding! I'm writing this letter. I'm Frisk, by the way. Missed you, pookie bear.

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! I hope you're in the Christmas spirit. Because I'm not! I'm happy it's going to be over soon. 

Why? Well, I had a little bug in my ear telling me ‘Christmas is just a week away’ all year. Noel (that's the bug) is unnaturally excited about Christmas for no apparent reason. She thinks it's her whole life or something. I think she's officially ruined the holiday for me. Noel's nice, but UGH. But I'm getting off topic, aren't I?

How are you? How's being famous? I told you it was terrible. At least you're not the ambassador for an entire race of people.

On the plus side, you get to live in that mansion. Even though I live with the supposed former queen, Kanako and Noel’s houses are way bigger than mine. And now you do too! I think I'm starting to develop a complex. Don't get me wrong, Mom is the literal GOAT as far as parents go, but it's just a pattern I've noticed.

I'm skirting around the main point of Christmas: Stuff!

Me: You always seemed like a massive nerd. I mean, the obsessive knowledge about westerns, guns, and actually reading books? You rival Alphys. Don't worry. It's one of the things I like about you :p So I bought you a book from an old geezer I know. Enjoy yourself, dweeb.

Mom: Greetings, dear. This is Toriel writing to you. I just know you have been good this year! I hope you're ‘smitten’ for mittens, because I knitted a pair for you! Alas, I cannot take credit for such wit. My very good friend Sans told me that ‘zinger’. It perplexes me how he always has new material, just as I did putting this pair together. Merry Gyftmas. Be good, stay safe, and please keep away from strangers. ]:)

Flowey: Don't ask me for anything ever again. 

C: I already got you your gift. Happy Holidays.

SPECIAL GUESTS SANS AND PAPYRUS!!!! (Paps really really wanted to be included. sorry.)

Sans: bro asked me to chip in cheers (sic)

Papyrus: HI CLOVERY. I JUST KNOW YOU'LL APPRECIATE THIS. AFTER ALL, IT IS A VERY PRESTIGIOUS GIFT THE GREAT PAPYRUS DEIGNS TO GIVE TO ONLY HIS CLOSEST COMPANIONS. IT SPEAKS TO MY DEEPEST NATURE. 

Merry Christmas

XOXO, Frisk (& Friends) 

PS: I'm the one giving the hugs and kisses. No one else is allowed to. I'm keeping you all to myself.

♥️

‘Pookie bear.’ That's a new one. Every single letter from them. I guess flirting is just Frisk’s way of messing with me.

Anyway, I put on the silver mittens Ms. Toriel got me, and after appraising them, they fit very well. She's good at knitting stuff. I'm way past staying away from strangers, though.

Next up, is… Flowey's.

This little… he got me a plushie. Of himself. A recreation of the same one he used when he tortured me. Specimen: patchworked, he called it. How… How strange. I don't know how to feel about it. I should be offended. Or at least, some kind of negative emotion. But the thing strangely gives me a sense of peace.

Frisk got me… oh boy. ‘A Complete History of Monsterkind: Ultimate Remastered Definitive Battle Edition HD DX Final Remix… By Gerson Boom’

Hey! I know that tortoise! I happened upon him in some forgotten corner of the Dunes Mines. He seemed like a real hero, apparently he used to go by the name of the Hammer of Justice. Much to my frustration he didn't remember a dang thing of those days. Maybe the old coot actually remembered something for this hardcover book to be printed.

And I am not a nerd.

Sans got me… a bag of crisps. Heh. I get it. Chip in. It's a good pun. The chisps tasted okay.

Papyrus on the other hand? He got me a dog bone. I waved it around a bit, and more bones magically manifested out. So… infinite dog bones. I guess that's useful, for when Toby is around. Those skeleton fellas seem kinda goofy, but… who ain't, in this crazy world?

Along with their gift, Frisk sent a few photos, one of them a group photo of them with all their friends. They look happy. My eye is automatically trained to the former King. Asgore looks less depressed than he was with Cooper.

…Maybe I should write to him too.

I opened Mo’s greeting card, and… Hot Dog! A gift card at Mo’s! ‘Lifetime free dealio for the kid who got the ball rolling,’ written on the inside. Yeehaw! How much greater of a deal can you… hold on. 

This is completely worthless. Mo's shop is an entire universe away from me. I can't use this thing at all!

…Eh. At least the art on the card looks good. It's an artist rendition of the big guy with a thumbs up.

And… that's it! Those are all the stinking presents. 

I look beside me, and see Damian had long gone. How long have I been doing this? I'm tired.

I ran back to my room, Pops in hand, exhausted from all the present opening. I mutter silent thanks to my friends, while taking off the Christmas sweater. It was getting so hot…

💛 

“You're free to go in,” The guard says, before opening the door to the visiting area.

Mr. Wayne follows me in, a severe look drawn, and a professional black suit. I wear a simple yellow flannel. Sort of like Cooper, now that I think of it. 

But that's not what I'm supposed to be thinking about right now.

I take a seat, and on the other side of the glass is Miss Catherine, now sporting… dreads and drab blue prison get up. Half her face is covered in the shade of the harsh lightning. “H-Hello.” She coughed out, looking unsure of what to say or do with herself.

“Howdy, ma'am.”

“Hi.” Miss Catherine is antsy, she wants to get straight to the point. “I just wanted to thank you. Ya know. For… everything. Oh, Hi! Bruce Wayne…” 

“Hello, Ms. Dubois. I'm hoping things are better for you.” Mr. Wayne’s expression calms, becoming more welcoming, and he gives her a wave, adjusting his expensive watch.

“But um. Yeah, Clover. You said some real…” She paused, probably to censor herself. “Some real stuff. In that apartment. Honestly- It hurt my pride. Ya know, you're a seventh grader and have more sense than me.” 

I scratch my neck, feeling slightly bashful. “That's quite nice of you to say that. But I was flying by the seat of my pants. I said whatever I thought might work. Including some uh, things I kinda regret.” Like at the end, where I started berating her.

“No. Don't… Don't feel sorry for me. I hurt my own son. I nearly killed him. I'm selfish. How can I even call myself a proper mother? God is too smart to forgive me. I’m a murderer…” Familiar words.

“Oh, don't be like that, Miss Catherine. I… I was just like you, at one point. Look, we all got bad days, where nothing seems to go right. We all do. I don't think yer evil just cause you made bad choices.” 

And besides. I looked up Ms. Catherine and her relationship with that actor whose name I can't remember right now. Seemed like a clear cut case of self defense to me. So on that front? I would think she's in the clear. From what I've read from my Bible, God isn't OPPOSED to killing, exactly. Can't say Mr. Wayne would agree with it though.

Her other deeds? Eh… “You can't let this one bad day… days, ruin your life! You're not all bad, you don't deserve that. Yer supposed to learn from your mistakes, not let them rule over you. Where’ll that get ya? There's a best version of yourself in your heart, all ya gotta do is let that person take over.”

I look back at Mr. Wayne, and he still has the freaky public persona expression he does. The look he gives her… It unnerves me, so I look back at Miss Catherine.

Some of her nerves are gone, but seemingly paralyzed, she stares blankly at the glass. “Maybe.”

A small bout of silence ensues. We don't have too much time with her, I realize.

“So uh, how's prison life for ya, miss?” 

“Huh?” She gets out of whatever funk she was in, and that question seems to get her attention. “It's mostly boring, kid. I spent all day with nothing to do. The other girls talk about me, but they don't fu-mess with me. I've started learning religion recently…” 

Wow… That's incredible! “That's good to hear ma'am! Uh, unrelated, but I gotta ask, what happened to yer hair? It's all different now.” My subconscious is distracted.

“Oh. When… when you saw me. I was wearing a weave.” When my expression makes it clear I have no idea what that means, she clarified. “Wig.”

Ooooh. I didn't know celebrities wore wigs. Well, regardless, “I think you look real nice.”

“Thank you. I see you've cleaned up.” All the bad energy she had seemed to carry with her goes away somewhat.

I assume she's talking about my haircut. Or, uh, the lack of dirt. “Yeah. I'm Mr. Wayne's ward now. He's kind of a gun grabber, but he's a nice fella I suppose.” I realize I talk about him like he's not right behind me and he's not the sole reason I could even visit her.

“Uh, sorry Mr. Wayne.” I look behind me and apologize to him.

He waves a hand, seeming unbothered.

“But yeah. It was good to catch up with you, Miss Catherine.”

“Before you leave… you wouldn't happen to know more about Evan, would you? They haven't told me anything.”

Mr. Wayne volunteers. “Evan is living with your mother in California. He's living a quiet and peaceful life.” 

Miss Catherine smiles slightly, and nods.

Eventually, we ran out of time and the staff led us out of the facility.  Mr. Wayne educated me on the injustices of the ‘prison industrial complex’ while Mr. Pennyworth flew on his helicopter to come pick us up.

While I'm admiring the view out of the helicopter, I'm remembering my memories of flying with Martlet in that dumb baby carrier in her dream. So much wind in my face… Lotta fun though!

I can barely hear him over the sound of the helicopter blades moving in circles, but Mr. Pennyworth makes some small talk as he flies it in the cockpit. “I TRUST THE PRISON VISITATION WENT SWIMMINGLY, MASTER CLOVER?”

I have to yell as well, in the passenger seat with Mr. Wayne. “IT SURE DID! I WAS KINDA WORRIED THAT SHE WOULD BE WORSE FOR WEAR, BUT I WAS RELIEVED.” 

“OF COURSE.” Strangely enough, it doesn't even sound like he's yelling. He's just… talking louder. Mr. Pennyworth is classy like that. 

I don't have to yell nearly as loudly, talking to the billionaire who tried to steal my gun. “What do you think, Mr. Wayne? Did I do a good job?” 

He looked at me for just a moment, surprised that I asked a question like that. I don't know where that came from. I've been… kinda looking for his approval lately. I begin to second guess myself, adjusting my hat to cover my gaze, before Mr. Wayne answers me.

“You did an excellent job.” 

I give him a proud smile.

💛 

The training dummy stands there, inanimate and in the middle of the Batcave training area. This training dummy is a criminal. It uh… It roped a lady onto train tracks! How malevolent. He needs to be captured and turned into the appropriate authorities.

“Stand a little farther, hun.” Ms. Kyle reminds me, holding her black whip in her hand.

Oh yeah. I do as instructed. Alright, let's try this again. I made a small loop with the lariat Starlo gifted me, and held it tight in my left hand, just as Ms. Kyle told me. Hold the coils in the right hand. Lasso technique, don't fail me.

I raise the loop up high, and start swinging with my wrists in a circle. Faster, faster, faster…

Now! I throw the lariat at the dummy, and it lands over its neck. I jerked the lariat back, and I successfully caught the dummy. The thing falls to the floor in defeat. I would hog-tie the thing, but it don't got hands or feet.

Regardless, I emerge triumphant. “Hoo-wee! Finally. I'm a beast!” I boast at the cave ceiling.

“Well done.” She does modest golf claps with her all black gloves at my success.

“And I couldn't have done it without you, miss. Thanks for the much-needed lassons, Catwoman. I mean, you got a whip, but whips are kinda like lassos.” Hm. Maybe I should have got Mr. Wayne to get Wonder Woman to educate me. She actually has a lasso. But, she is her own superhero, over in… bleh. Washington DC. I'm sure she has better things to do.

“No need to thank me.” Ms. Selina Kyle ruffles my unfortunately hatless head. “I owed your new papa anyhow.” 

I raised an eyebrow. “What do ya owe Mr. Wayne?” 

“Thousands of dollars worth of rare valuables from this mansion. No biggie.” She flashes a smug grin, filing her nails. Ah. She is a burglar, after all. 

“Now, If you'll excuse me, I need to link up with Bruce. He hasn't licked my kitty in far too long~” Ms. Kyle purrs, curling her hand. I know she's CATWOMAN, but how did she make that sound with her… wait.

I finally caught what she just said, and I'm utterly confused. My face twists. “That's weird. Why would Mr. Wayne lick yer CAT? He would just get fur all over his tongue.”

Ms. Kyle blushes, then laughs. “Oh my. I said that out loud, didn't I?”

She pats me on the head, sporting an innocent smile. “You'll learn when you're older.” She snaps her goggles from her head to her eyes. What is that supposed to mean?

Leaving it at that, she makes her escape, with a fast paced gait.

At the entrance of the training arena is Dick, in his costume. He must have been here for a while. That look on his face… He looks like he just saw a dead body, for some reason.

She passed him by, and looked back at me and Dick. “Toodles!” Ms. Kyle scratches her totally real cat ears, and scampers off. Ya know, she really is committed to the bit of BEING The Catwoman. Why doesn't Mr. Wayne make weird screeching noises and eat insects?

Dick whispers quietly under his breath, sounding tortured. “I did not need to hear that.”

Maybe Dick knows what Ms. Kyle meant. “Hey Dick, why did Ms. Kyle say-” 

“I'm not explaining this to you.” And he just rudely walks away. I don't even know why he came down here.

💛

In the deep, dark lair of the Batman… is a table.

On that table, there are seven glass bottles in a line. Sort of like a shooting range. Except Mr. Wayne doesn't have the guts to have that sort of thing in his house.

Batman hands me the Batarang. I feel the steel alloy in my hand, letting the shape of the throwing weapon imprint itself into my brain. He's been giving a lesson about all kinds of projectiles and such. 

I don't get why. He should know what I'm about.

“Of course, I don't expect you to understand it immediately, so-” 

While Mr. Wayne was lecturing me, I had already worked out where to throw it, the intensity, the trajectory, everything.

I throw the Batarang fiercely, and the boomerang swerves to hit and destroy all seven glass bottles on one trip. Finally, the Batarang returned to my hand. I catch it with finesse. I smile to myself.

Batman hums quietly.

💛

“Rise and shine, Master Clover. No one is more deserving of a rest, but the American education system welcomes you with open arms.”

No. Not now. Not like this. I can see the light of the hallway through my eyelids. Maybe if I pretend to be asleep, he'll leave me alone for a little while longer. Toby snoozes softly, curling into me.

…It's quiet. My plan is workin’! 

“Master Clover?” Mr. Pennyworth says quietly, sounding closer to me. Just gotta hold out a little while longer.

…?

“HOOOOONK”

GAH! I cover my ears in pain, my heart beats against my chest. What in the good name of-

“HOOOOONK”

“Will you be arising now, sir?” Is that an air horn he's holding? What an evil thing to do to somebody. I hear Toby barking like nobody's business, running off into the hallway. Y'know, over my ears ringing.

“Alright, alright! I'll- I'm up, you old… sunnava…” I muttered incoherently, getting my Gotham Academy uniform from the closet and heading to the bathroom to change.

“I'm fortunate to hear that.” Mr. Pennyworth says with a smug air about him.

After getting dressed, I look at myself in the mirror.

Look at me.

I've never been to a school with a uniform until now. A whole suit and tie and everything. No cowboy hat in sight, my hair is combed. How will people know they're talking to a cowboy? I tried talking sense to Mr. Pennyworth, but he was completely unreasonable.

Despicable. I look domesticated.

Before long, I washed my hair, brushed my teeth, and all the other necessary morning routine tasks and headed downstairs for breakfast.

As I enter the kitchen, I'm served the sight of Damian cradling Toby in his arms like he's the most precious thing in the world. And his plate of vegan food is conspicuously empty, with dog slobber all over it.

I sat down next to him, giving the dog a suspicious look. Toby looks at me innocently, his tongue hanging and happy to receive all the affection from Damian. “He's the most handsome pomeranian I've ever seen…”

“Little mutt absorbing my croissants…” I hear Jason grumble as he washes his plate in the sink. There's all sorts of crumbs on the table. I can take a guess as to what happened here. 

Environmental storytelling at its finest.

“No. Whining.” Cass bops Jason on the head with a sponge.

“What's good, Clover?” Duke pats me on the shoulder, before sitting down on the opposing seat from me. “Nice uniform. Excited to head back to school?” 

He says it so earnestly and good-naturedly that it disgusts me. Maybe this is how Flowey feels all the time. 

“Eh. Guess not.” Duke grimaces at my expression I give him and thanks Mr. Pennyworth for handing him his food. Mr. Pennyworth does the same for me.

“Eat up, sir. You have a long day ahead of you.” I guess I do… I mentally prepare myself for the day ahead. I pray before I eat the hash browns and sausages. I'm gonna need all the help I can get.

💛

The ride in Mr. Pennyworth’s limo is quiet. Damian didn't want to leave Toby behind so he's been fussy since we both got in the car. Not to mention that he's mad about ‘being tied down’ by having to help me on my first day. I didn't wanna go in the first place, and Damian is certainly not helping things.

It's not even seven and I'm already hopin’ to drop out.

I look out the window, seeing the perfectly attended gardens and lawns. It's not a very long drive to the academy. In fact, Mr. Wayne's estate is so large it's basically right next to it. 

Mr. Wayne lives in the very posh, rich part of Gotham. Very far away from downtown, on the mainland. Gotham Academy is some kind of boarding school for rich kids. During the ride, I'm flooded with memories of my life before I jumped down Mt. Ebott. Spending most of the school day alone, the teachers not really noticing me, getting into fights, sleeping the day away.

I wasn't gonna amount to much anyway, so why bother? The Nirvana playing in my ears puts my feelings pretty succinctly. Never was one for ‘emo’ music, but the constant exposure in the Wayne household changed my mind.

“I like it, I'm not gonna crack. I miss you, I'm not gonna crack…”

I don't understand why Mr. Wayne and Mr. Pennyworth are both so adamant about this. Don't they get how bad it is, just being in the building? I don't wanna deal with this.

Mr. Pennyworth finally pulls up to the school, silently cussing out other parents in the drop off lane.

“Farewell, sirs. May your education prove fruitful.” Mister looks behind at both of us sitting in the back seat of the limo. “I am to be understood that there will be no fighting, yes?” 

“Yes, Pennyworth.” 

“Sure,” I say blankly, putting my earbuds away.

“Now, kindly get your bottoms from the seats.” 

I grab my backpack and open the limo door, and step into the entrance of my new school. I look up and study the building. The place looks like everything else in this town: moody and gothic. I blankly adjust my watch.

“Stay focused, Eastwood. We don't have all day.” Damian pulls on my sleeves, dragging me inside the building and onto the homeroom.

Oh yeah. We both share all the same classes.

I sigh.

💛 

So much work…

I hunker down onto my disturbingly high quality school chair, pouring over the Algebra sheet and considering jumping out of the window right next to me. I'll probably live.

My first day I get here, they already had a whole avalanche of work for me to do. No mercy, just immediate pain. I mean, it is already nearly the end of the school year, but geez louise.

What isn't helping is all the people chatting it up around me. Woulda thought a prissy private school like this would be more “””””””proper””””””, but the teacher seems to not really care what we get up to, just staring at her phone.

I check my watch. It's only 10:23, and the clock isn't getting any faster.

‘Practice Problem 5: If tanθ = ½, find the exact values of the five remaining trig functions.’

…How is this helping me fight injustice and fulfilling God's mission to me? Cause I can't think of a single way how solving math problems helps me.

Maybe that's just my excuse for being a dumbass. I groan quietly, trying to soldier on. I draw the dumb triangle with my pen, hoping the answer will naturally come to me. An annoying beep on my watch indicates my stress levels are up.

I feel someone's eyes on me. I turn my head to the student sitting next to yours truly.

She stares intensely at me and my paper, without any real attempt to disguise her big ol’ eyes. Granted, most of her face is covered by her long black hair, but still.

“Howdy.”

The girl spasms, and quickly looks away, staring down at her feet, holding the hem of her skirt. “sorry sorry!” 

“Don't be. Didja need somethin’?” 

She looks back at me, shocked. “it's just you looked like you were having a hard time and i saw that and i was thinking about how you could do the problem right kinda sounds weird when i say it like that sorry.” 

Huh. She talks very fast, and monotone. “That would be underselling it. I don't got a damn clue what I'm doin’.” 

“yeah……. would you like help sorry im not calling you dumb or anything it's just-” She seems to have a confidence problem, so I decide to cut her off.

“Truly? Shoot, I'd appreciate that. And I ain't sensitive, I know I'm dumb as a brick, sometimes.” Most of the time.

“And by the looks of it, you got the smarts to back it up, smarty pants.” I looked at her sheet, the small handwriting and neat presentation a long way from my chicken scratches.

“wow really omigosh seriously do you mean that or are you pranking me like charlie did on new years when she said i could come to her party then all her friends laughed at me and i cried myself to sleep?” 

That's kinda depressing. “Uh, it's bad religion to say whatcha don't mean, rambler.” 

I'm a new student near the end of the year, and there weren't many open seats left. The only one was the seat next to her, and as I sat down I could practically feel the pitying looks sent my way. 

From the looks of her, she's constantly slumped over and trying to make herself invisible, with her hair hiding her face and even wearing those strange gloves.

Hmm… Maybe this could boost her confidence?

“oh okay um. you know the three sides of the right triangle right?” 

Opposite, adjacent, hippopotamus. “Yup.”

“well remember sohcahtoa?” 

I do not. I shake my head.

“i guess not so you have the functions sine cosine and tangent.”

She draws a S, a C, and a T on the side of my paper. “sin is the opposite value divided by the adjacent value. cosine is adjacent divided by the hypotenuse. tangent is opposite over adjacent. then you have cosecant secant and cotangent which is all of those but the side values are flipped.” 

Eventually, the girl helps me figure my way through the problem, and the whole sheet after that.

It's way easier than I thought it was. Now I feel like a whiner, moaning and groaning for something that's not that serious. In fact, it was kinda fun? Maybe it's just because I had someone helping me. And I actually tried to pay attention.

“and now you map the functions on the coordinate plane by-” 

Unfortunately for the little math wizard, the bell rang while she was putting some sense into me. Kids start to pack their bags and head onto their next period.

“oh…” She curls into herself, disappointed and scared slightly, looking at me like I'm about to vanish from thin air.

“I guess that's all the time we got today.” I pack up my bags as well, getting out of my seat and stopping to meet her sad eyes. “What's wrong, friend?” 

“friend????” She stares at me, utterly shocked, her mood changes instantly. “i'm your friend?” 

“I- If that suits you, sure.” 

“wow!” For the first time all period, she gives me a very shy smile, holding her hand to her cheek. It's a good look on her. “you're the first person to talk to me ever… i thought you were just talking to me so you could finish your algebra paperwork.”

I grimace at the idea of it. “Well that wouldn't be a very respectable way to treat someone, would it?”

“i… guess not. um… well thank you for letting me talk to you and be your friend.” 

“Likewise, pardner. Ya know, me and math have never seen eye to eye, but you helped me see I just wasn't looking at it from the right angle.” I smile at her, feeling proud of the double pun.

She looks at me blankly. Guess she didn't get it. Nevertheless, she plays with her hair and looks off to the side, seeming flustered at my words.

Damian, standing right behind us, clears his throat. “Eastwood, I don't want to earn a tardy because you were busy fraternizing with girls.” 

I roll my eyes at his judgey, demeaning attitude. Everybody is the problem but him. Ignoring Mr. Son-of-the-Bat for a moment, I serve the lonely girl a big smile. “If ya wanna talk again, you can call me Clover. It was nice meeting ya…” 

“mary chu.” 

“Right, well, it was nice to meet Chu!” I wink at Mary and flash her finger guns. She… blushes? Must have embarrassed her in some way. I've been told I'm a so-called ‘cornball’ by Steph, and sometimes Duke, almost exclusively.

Damian scoffs, dragging me by the handle of my backpack. “Are you deaf? Come on, you street urchin.”

I wave to Mary as she sits on her wooden desk, still blushing and sitting almost perfectly still. Is she gonna get to the next class anytime soon?

💛 

“Why don'tcha introduce yourself, and give us your four favorite books!” Mrs. Nguyen says with her very strong Minnesota accent, smiling a bit too wide for my liking.

As I stand up front and am forced to do this unthinkable ceremony, I look upon the crowd of students before me. I see Damian somewhere in the middle, an unreadable expression on his face.

Some of the kids here have a bored-out-of-their-skulls expression painted on them, with others looking on politely, and others looking at me like they know me already. I hate being famous.

I also hate speaking to crowds. Four of my favorite books? I can't even think of one right now!

“Howdy. I'm… Clover. Clover Eastwood.” I remember the surname I made up with my… ‘older brother.’ It's strange to have it be legal.

“Uh. I like… All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy.” He's a great author. Pretty violent, though. I didn't like how the movie tried to soften the book’s edges and try to make it some romance story between John and Alejandra. That was only one part of a greater-! 

…I'm getting sidetracked. “Lonesome Dove, by uh… what's his name…” I snap my fingers, trying for the life of me to remember.

“Larry McMurtry!” A brown haired girl sitting next to Damian blurts out cheerfully. The whole of the class looks in her direction.

“Thank you, Skylar! But don't interrupt, yah?” Mrs. Nguyen kindly but sternly reminds her. 

Skylar giggles, “Sorry.” Damian side eyes her.

Mrs. Nguyen compels me to continue. I struggled for a moment. I can't exactly tell these people that I've been reading the history of an underground race of magic people, surely. Then I remembered. “I also like the Book of Five Rings by Miyamoto Musashi…” 

Damian gives me a smirk.

“And the Holy Bible.” Because of course.

After remarking that I have a ‘very developed reading palette’, she sits me down on the table with Damian and that Skylar girl, and announces the plans for today.

“I'm soooo pumped by the submissions from the Pride & Prejudice project.” That one book Jason rambles on about all the time? I thought that was a book for teenage girls. “And don'tcha kno’, I thought we might do yet another group assignment!”

Muffled sounds of barely disguised anguish bounce off the English class’ walls. I don't even have to look at the sorry sunnava gun to know Damian's making that one face at the teacher. The ‘kubrick stare,’ as Timmy Drake dubbed it. I assume it's his equivalent of Chara’s creepy face, except HIS face doesn't melt like an ice cube in the sun. I still have no idea how that kid does that.

Come to think of it, Damian reminds me of Chara in some other ways… They both talk like they're perpetually stuck in a meeting. It makes sense to me when Mr. Wayne or Ms. Toriel talk like that, cuz they're adults, but why do they? Maybe they just want to be grown up.

There's also the common factor of them hating most human beings on the planet - or at least acting like it.

I'm getting too stuck in my own head. Again, I'm blaming Martlet for this. Or the… YEARS spent floating in a dark void with no corporal form.

“You're sitting with your partners at your tables. If you don't like your partners or know that you can't work as a group, I humbly suggest ya get up from your seat.” 

While the rest of the class hurriedly goes to their preferred seats, all three of the musketeers at this table sit still. I don't know anyone, Damian doesn't like anyone (or they don't like him), and Skylar is vibrating in her seat with excitement.

Eventually, the class is ordered by their groups and the teacher gives us the lay of the next few weeks.

“You're gonna be making… you guessed it, a poster. You'll be in charge of reading The Great Gatsby, and you'll have to connect the themes of the novel to five current events.” 

Loving God in Heaven. So much work… How can this woman be so cheery giving us so much torture! Probably because she's not the one who has to do it.

“I'll have to ask Father to borrow a copy from the library…” Damian mutters to himself. He then turns to me, already in his bossy mood, whispering. “Listen up, Eastwood. I will not be repeating myself.” 

“My grades will not take a hit due to the machinations of a pauper in over their head. You will do exactly as told in this assignment, and WILL NOT, under any circumstances, cause my grades to fall EVEN A SINGLE DIGIT lower than before you got your beggar hands involved, or there will be severe, unalterable consequences to your mental and physical health. Do I make myself clear?” 

I roll my eyes. “...Crystal. Now git yer hands off me, ya weenie.” 

It's incredible. He can go on whole monologues, using similes and metaphors I've never even heard before, but the moment I call him somethin' like ‘goofy’ or ‘doofus’, things change. “I- Seriously!? WEENIE???” 

“Aren't we supposed to be doing the project?” Skylar asks, wearing a concerned expression. I guess someone unfamiliar with our dynamic might see it as unhealthy. And… yeah. “Were you threatening to-” 

Damian lets out a long suffering sigh, cutting her off, “Silence. Have either of you read the novel?”

I shake my head. What do I care what rich people in those days get up to? Skylar responds, “Um. I watched the movie when my parents were asleep.” 

Damian rolls his eyes, “That is not an adequate substitute. Of course, I'll have to lead the charge on a project once more.” 

‘Lead the charge,’ he says. “Okay, Colonel Roosevelt.” Damian flicks me on the forehead for my troubles. While I'm nursing the wound, Damian reaches inside his bag and pulls out a journal, flipping through a few pages.

“I've already written many notes on The Great Gatsby a few years ago. Grandfather loves it. He…  insisted I studied every word.” 

In the middle of flipping through his massive journal, Skylar gasps, putting her hands to her mouth, in a very dramatic way.

Damian looks at her stupid. “What is it? Why are you gasping for air like a dying fish?” 

What an analogy. Would Moray be offended? Probably not.

“Hey-! Don't touch-” Damian squeaks, Skylar flipping a couple pages to the left, and she looks on in amazement.

“Wooow…. That's so pretty…” 

In Damian's notebook, is a sketch.

The moon rests high, its light shining on all below it. The rain comes down on the water's surface. On the midnight water, many yachts and ships of an older age drive against the current, their lights settling along the bay with the moonlight. In the far distance, however, was a bright light, brighter than all others, sketched with a green colored pencil.

In the foreground is a man's hand. It's soft, bearing many rings, and manicured by a higher society enraptured by wealth and little else. He reaches across the bay for that green light at the end of the dock, but he cannot possibly reach for it.

“That’s Daisy's light! From the movie! This is so gorgeous. You drew this, right?” I was reminded of Cooper's kid by that name. I wonder how she's going?

Damian stares, shocked for a moment, before recovering, blushing all over. “I- Of course I did.” 

“That's somethin’ else, pardner.” I never knew Damian was so talented with a pencil. Kanako loves to send me her drawings, and I always like to see them. They're all drawn in that… chibi style, she called it. Chara sends me art too, sometimes. Flowey does as well. But he has no talent for it. He says he doesn't have the hands for drawing, but Kanako got along with Dalv’s help.

But Damian’s depiction is nearly photorealistic. When did he get the time to learn how to do this? Skylar decides to be a gentlelady and asks him for me. “Who taught you?” 

“No one did. I taught myself.”

“How in the world did you get so good at it!” 

“I am unparalleled in all that I essay.”

“Golly! You're so talented.” I flinch at the word ‘golly.’ I think it's at that moment I realized just how weird of a person I am.

Damian looks off to the side, seemingly denying something inside himself. “I did not need you to tell me that. I know my excellence.”

Strangely, like water off a duck's back, she completely ignores these boasts from him, “I like to draw too! Ya wanna see?” 

Damian scoffs, seemingly forgetting that we were supposed to be doing a project. “Do as you please. It makes no difference to me.” Exodus 12:16: Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor.

“By the way, I'm Skylar Greene! I'm a part of the art club. Nice to meet you.” She flashes him with a big smile.

“I am Damian Wayne…” He trails off, seeming completely lost.

Skylar then looks behind Damian, where I sit. “Hi!!! You have good tastes in books, by the by.”

Oh! I was kinda busy watching this entire interaction go down. Damian being… the way he is… although often suffocating, can be entertainment in its own right. “Much appreciated, pardner.” 

The rest of the period is Skylar showing us her art, with me making occasional comments and Damian hardly saying anything, only showing her his sketches from his so-called ‘War Journal.’

At the end of the period, Damian doesn't drag me as hard to the next class.

We made absolutely no progress on the assignment.

💛 

I think I got off easy. Lunch is just after PE! I would not like it to be the other way around.

Gym class was… honestly a walk in the park. Back when I was in Ebott, the only real athletic thing I really did was run a whole lot. But the Coach said I did just almost as good as Damian. Which, considering he's been a superhero for years and received training from his culty pawpaw Ra’s Al Ghul from the moment he was born, is really saying something.

Anyway, Damian dragged me to lunch. I was genuinely concerned over the quality of the food. I mean, no mold, no microwaved slop, actual cooked food in school. I didn't even want to eat it at first. Is this how rich kids eat everyday? AT SCHOOL!? Well, the tradeoff is you have to pay for it. Mr. Wayne gave me a debit card to pay for stuff.

Rich kids really do live life on easy mode… wait.

Am I a rich kid now!?!?! I nearly fainted at the possibility, but I reminded myself that I wasn't born rich so it doesn't count.

Damian dragged me outside, where the picnic tables were. He said he didn't want me to wander off and embarrass myself, thus bringing dishonor to him by association.

I'm only Mr. Wayne's ward. I'm not his brother or anything. I didn't understand the logic behind that.

Anyway, while we were eating, Mary decided to show her face to me again. Apparently she was in PE with me and Damian, but wasn't brave enough to talk to me. Weirdly enough, she didn't have any food with her. Must be a quick eater.

Mary didn't know what to do with me. Just looking around aimlessly as Damian and I sat quietly, both of us doing classwork or reading. Eventually, After I was done eating, I felt I had neglected her for long enough and invited her to solve a rubik's cube.

“Ya see? This is a daisy cross.” I point to the yellow spot, surrounded by white blocks.

“this is too hard…” She trembles, her hand holding the cube. 

“It might seem that way at first. But if I can do it, then you definitely can.” I instructed her, “Think of the blocks as cars!” 

Suddenly, Mary looks behind me. “eep!” She curls in on herself, leaning against me and seemingly trying to hide herself, and drops the cube on the table.

I scratch my head at her antics. I look beside me to see what she's so worried about.

A group of boys, and some girls, came to our table. They were laughing to themselves about something or another, before stopping at the end of where Mary, Damian and I sat.

“Heyyy…” The frontrunner of the horde said, flipping her red hair out her face, looking like she and her little posse were about to collapse into a laughing fit at any moment.

“Hi there. How're you?” I say as polite as can be. I nearly tip my hat that I don't have.

“I'm goooood, thanks for asking…. I'm Charlie. Oh! Urm…” The girl, Charlie, angles her head, trying to get a good look at Mary. “Heyyyyy Bloody Mary.”

Her and her friends chuckle, hiding their mouths behind their hands. “oh….” Mary immediately froze, hiding her gloved hands and burying her face in my shoulder.

That doesn't seem like a nice nickname. My brow furrows.

“You.” Charlie pointed at me. “You're the new kid, Clover Eastwood, righttttt?” She dragged her words out, her voice naisily.

Her friends covered their hands. I looked her straight in the eye and said, “You lookin' for me?” 

“Yeah. Ummm. I just wanted to like, you know, be nice and say hiii.” The redhead shushed her friends, before asking, “Weren't you, like, homeless or something?” 

I blinked. What? The immediate switch confused me. “Yup.”

Charlie and her posse react strangely. Instead of something like mockery, or some pity, they act weirdly shocked, like Mr. Wayne didn't tell the whole world I was already. They looked at me like people look at car crash wrecks, or wild animals. “That's um. Wowww.” Redhead had a strange half smile on her face. “That's like, so sad.” 

“Not really.”

“That's so real though. Like, sleeping on the street. I can't even… You're so real for that. But, you totally live with Bruce Wayne, so I guess it's okay. I wish I could live with Tim Drake.”

Her posse titters at that, they whisper to themselves about how cute ‘Timmy’ is.

Tim? Really? Of all people!? Now I REALLY don't like these people!

“Stay away from him.” I don't like how she looks at me, like some attraction at a museum. I sighed before responding, “Is there a reason y'all came over here?”

They nearly lose their minds over the use of yall; I hear her friends repeat the word, snickering. “Hmmm. No. That's it. Thank youuuuu.” She walked off then, her posse in tow.

…I hum disconcertingly.

I shrugged my shoulders, and turned to Mary. “Odd. Well, let's get back to the-”

She was still leaning against me, not showing her face. Like an animal too scared to come out of its hole. I felt worried. “What’s wrong?’ 

“that was charlie. and her friends. the ones who laughed at me.”

Oh! Those were the kids she told about in algebra. I guess… Mary's reaction makes sense. I feel something buzz in my SOUL. “Aw, well, who cares what they think?” 

“everyone.”

I gave a deadpan stare. I hardly think everyone on the planet genuinely gives a rat’s ass what some kids in New Jersey do. “Well, I don't. Didja wanna get back to the Rubik's?” I’d much rather get back to doing that.

“what if people start spreading rumors about you? or. um… i can't think of anything else. but don't you get it? no one will want to talk to you. you'll be alone.” 

I sighed, feeling tired. “Look, friend. You don't gotta worry about me. I've been through much worse than some mean words and… weird QNAs from spoiled rich kids.” And honestly, Damian or Flowey would probably say more damning things about me than these kids ever could. I'm tempted to look at the other side of the table, until I remember that Damian had to go to the bathroom. He's probably off in that art club Skylar talked about. Little hypocrite. ‘Fraternizing with girls’ he says…

“i don't know...” Mary said, looking filled with anxiety, shuddering.

I remembered what Mary told me this morning. I pictured her, laying in bed, thinking about all those people laughing at her. 

I was filled with justified anger. I start rubbing her back.

“Look, Mary. I’m new to this school, so I don't really know how kids are here. But if you're so worried about it, then you tell me when you start having problems with… people like that messing with ya.” 

Mary rubs her hands together anxiously, still not moving. “okay.”

“...Do ya wanna go back to the puzzle?” 

She shakes her head no.

For the rest of lunch, she stays like that.

💛 

The last period of the day, here I come…

Turns out Damian and I don't share ALL periods. 7th period being some odd exception.

I walk to the class, looking at the doors of the 1st floor and looking for room 623. Spanish class. I wish I knew more of that language. Every cool cowboy knows English AND Spanish! But I don't. When I saw my schedule, I was honestly pretty excited.

But as I was, I heard something familiar.

“Bittersweet… You're gonna be the death of me… I don't want you, but I need you, I love and hate you at the very same~” 

I recognize that voice!

I immediately turned around, nearly causing some kid to bump into me. I considered excusing myself, but I rudely thought that I had more important things to do.

I turned the corner, and walked down the hallway, before turning the corner again.

The sight before me astounded me. It was Notorious Overlord! Except, instead of homeless garb, he was wearing a janitor’s uniform. He wore headphones, sweeping some trash up and rolling a trash bin around.

I'll be a monkey's uncle. It's him! “Overlord?”

He turns around, his one eye nearly popping out of its sockets. His other eye is covered by an eye patch, now. He chews on something, probably sunflower seeds, waltzing up to me. “Is that you, son? Lookatcha. Where's yer hat?”

“Don't remind me, man. It's back at Mr. Wayne's house.” 

Overlord does a double take, “Bruce Wayne! Nuh uh!” He laughs a bit, in an old man sort of way. *We're both movin’ up, Clover. Look at me. I got myself a job.” 

“Apparently so, Overlord.” I smiled looking at him.

He holds a hand up, tutting. “That's my street name. This ain't the streets, kid. This is a goddamn private school.” He points to his ID, hanging around his neck.

‘Kenneth Brooks Jr.’

“You can call me Kenny.” He waves me away. “Now get your ass to class!” 

Oh! “Thanks for reminding me, Kenny!” I hear the attendance bell ring, and I run to the door. Hopefully the teacher will be lenient.

💛 

I have to admit to myself. I was… maybe overblowing things.

I had a great day at school. Some parts were hard, but I asked the teachers (and my classmates) some questions and that helped me along just fine.

And I met some new people. Like Mary, or Skylar. They were nice. I even reunited with other people, like Overl- Uh, Kenny. And Mrs. Washington! She teaches the Spanish class.

Though it was weird. The entire day, people would constantly stare at me, and I could tell they recognized me. All these strangers, talking about me, but I know nothing about them. I'm not just some weird kid with the accent, I'm… Clover Eastwood, my full government name. And that name actually means something to anyone. It's so surreal.

…I thought school would be like it was before. Way back when. I start to consider things. How much have I changed?

Damian tuts to himself, as we both sit on the bench, waiting for Mr. Pennyworth. “Tt. Pennyworth’s late.” He checks the time on his phone.

That reminds me to do the same. I check my watch and… Wow! It's been almost fifteen minutes since the bell rang. I don't think it takes fifteen minutes to walk to the manor, let alone drive. For once, Damian isn't just being a stinker.

Regardless, I say nothing. Mr. Pennyworth is the one with the car, and I'm riding in it. I take this opportunity to listen to more Nirvana on my phone. 

Still though, this ain't like him. 

“Clover…” 

My eyes bug out of my skull.

“Come hither, child of God… Come hither to me…”

I get up out of my seat.

“Go forth unto the water fountain, northwest of here, near the cemetery on Finger Hill…” 

I pick up my backpack, and shrug it onto my shoulders. I check my smart watch, and see I'm moving in the northwest direction on the compass app.

“Where in the world are you going?” Damian calls to me, looking at me stupid.

“Bring your brother alongside you…” 

I do as instructed. I ran it back, before snatching his collar and dragging him with me. “Get your stinking hands off me you-” 

“SHUT UP AND COME ON!” 

Damian, shocked at my volume, shuts his trap for once in his life as he follows me, no dragging required.

We both walk together, our footsteps making their impressions upon the ground. Damian follows after me, complaining idly about having to walk home.

I ignored this.

Finally, after a few minutes of walking, I see the Gotham Cemetery, the largest in the city. This is where Mr. Wayne's parents are buried. Damian and I give the place the once over. But this isn't the place. There's a water fountain around here.

After another few minutes of searching, behold, I finally found it. A great water fountain is before me. It's more a lake, with how large it is. A great stream rises from the center, the water droplets hitting the surface and making an impression, reverberating.

Time paused. All at once, the whole world turned grey, and all the activity of the world ceased. 

Damian makes a sound from his throat, but says nothing. He gases upon a critter crawling on the floor, frozen in time. Finally, something within him snaps, and he walks up to me, and grabs my shoulder. “What is the meaning of this?” 

Suddenly, from the center of the fountain, a bright light manifests itself under the pond. The light swims, for a moment, before rising out of it.

The water enveloping the light does not scatter from it. The sphere of water floats from the midst of the foundation, and over to Damian and I.

Damian's expression is guarded. I remove my dress shoes, and place them aside on the grass.

I kneel down.

“You are familiar with this thing.” Damian remarks, looking at the water of Life. “Who is behind this! I demand that you-” 

“I AM THAT I AM.” 

Damian startles back.

“I AM THE GOD OF YOUR ANCESTORS, DAMIAN. YOU WILL HEED MY WORD.” 

Damian looks at me, and analyzes my expression. I nod to him.

At that, Damian slowly and awkwardly kneels down beside me.

“We haven't spoken in a while, Lord.” I say to Him, feeling a calm go over me.

“NAY, WE HAVEN'T.”

A beat of silence. I made a fist with the grass before asking,  “Why did ya call me here, God? Is there something you need to tell me?” 

“I WANTED TO ASK YOU HOW BRUCE WAYNE WAS TREATING YOU.”

…What?

I don't understand. Regardless, I answered him. “Um. Mr. Wayne's a good guy. He's teaching me how to fight crime. I've been learning Shotokan karate! I'm struggling with some things about it though…” I'm more of a weapons sort of guy. Martial arts is hard.

“THAT IS NOT WHAT I ASKED.” 

I blink. I glance down at the floor.

“ARE YOU TREATED WELL, IN THAT MANOR? I WANTED TO KNOW HOW YOU FELT.” 

“Allah?” Damian interrupts, shooting me a look. “I don't see the point of this. Eastwood is treated far better than they deserve.”

“OH?” 

“The fact they are allowed inside is an indictment of Father's sensibilities. Not to mention… Nevermind.” Damian trails off, still talking trash, even in front of God.

I can't let this attack stand. “That's rich. Everyone babies you, cuz you blow up at every little thing and they have to be all sensitive around you!” I don't know why God asked me to bring this little bastard along with me.

My response eggs Damian on further. He looks back to God. “Allah, are you punishing me, by allowing them to stink up my home with their presence? I must understand the point of all this.” 

“ALL THAT I DO HAS A PURPOSE. WHY DO YOU CURSE YOUR SIBLING?” 

…That provokes a reaction out of both of us!

“You must be joking!”

“Sibling!?”

We both speak at once.

Damian sputters, clenching a fist. “Truly, you do not mean this, Lord? ME-” He points to himself.

“-Related to that?” Then, he points at me. I've got to admit. Just the thought of THAT boy being related to me is… unthinkable, honestly.

“ARE YOU UNWORTHY OF BEING A PROPHET’S BROTHER?” 

“I have no idea what to say to you, Lord.” Damian shudders in quiet fury, for a moment. “THEM? A prophet! Of anything. Ridiculous! First they are afforded the unearned honor of fighting alongside father and the rest of the family, and now they are…” 

Damian laughs sardonically. I'm watching, and I say nothing in response to his derision. “Surely you jest. I plead-”

“SILENCE!” 

The ball of light goes red, and His voice reverberates, a sonic disturbance in the air. 

I cover my ears, not quite feeling used to God's outbursts yet. Although, I'm a long way from being flash banged by the pure anger of Him. Like with Martlet…

“EVERYWHERE YOU ROAM, YOU ACT DISHONORABLY AGAINST THOSE TO WHOM YOU SPEAK. YOU JUDGE THEM, BELITTLE THEM, AND CALL THEM INTO QUESTION. DO YOU THINK YOURSELF WORTHY OF THIS ROLE? ARE YOU BETTER THAN CLOVER? THAN TIM DRAKE? THAN JASON TODD? I ASK YOU EARNESTLY.”

Damian's tears quietly fall to the floor.

“YOU SHALL HONOR THY FAMILY. CLOVER PLAYS A ROLE I HAVE SET OUT BEFORE THEM, SO SHALL YOU. I KNEW THEY WOULD BE IN THIS WORLD THE MOMENT THEIR MOTHER CONCEIVED OF THEM. YOUR ACCEPTANCE IS OF NO CONSEQUENCE TO MY PLAN, SON OF ISHMAEL.” 

Finally, the red light fades from the Ball of Water. I can only assume He feels a kind of pity staring at the absolute state of Damian, trying and failing to hide his crying.

“Oh, Damian…”

Suddenly, Damian disappears.

“Whoa! What happened?” 

“I WILL SPEAK TO HIM, AS I SPEAK TO YOU. SEPARATELY. I REFUSE TO LISTEN TO THE DISCORD AND CONFLICT.” 

“Alrighty then.” I don't know how I expected this talk with God to go, but not like this. I clear my throat. “Uh. What were we talkin' about again?” 

“I ASKED YOU OF YOUR TIME WITH THE BAT-FAMILY.” 

“Oh! Well, they're very nice people. I'm learning things I never thought I could. I like to spend time with Dick, Jason, Steph, Duke, Cass, all of ‘em. Even Damian, sometimes. But… I know why you brought me here, to this world. I do my best with the training. But… I don't know if I'm strong enough to do what they can. I'm not made of tough enough material, I suppose-” 

“IS THAT WHAT YOU THINK. THAT I HAD BROUGHT YOU TO THIS WORLD, FOR THE SOLE PURPOSE OF MAKING WAR ON CRIME?”

I pause. “Well. Yeah? I figured that. Am I wrong?” 

The Lord sighs. “YOU ARE STUBBORN. A DOUBLE-EDGED QUALITY. I HAD NOT ONLY BROUGHT YOU TO GOTHAM FOR THAT PURPOSE.”

“Wha… Then why? Why am I… placed in such a privileged position? Living it up with Mr. Wayne, and his big house. There has to be a reason.”

“HAVE YOU NOT CONSIDERED THAT I BROUGHT YOU HERE TO ENJOY THE BOUNTY OF THIS PLACE?” 

No. I had not considered that. It seemed wrong. That I got that, and so many across the world didn't. That I left my home behind to live like this. Look at my uniform! I look like a dork.

“BUT IF IT EASES YOUR SPIRIT, THEN KNOW I HAD BROUGHT YOU TO THIS HIGH POSITION FOR OTHER REASONS.” 

The Lord sheds the water from the Ball of Water, and exposes the bare Light for what it was. Finally, he speaks.

“Prophet, ye forget thy duty, thy consecrated role. Are you not my messenger, the one who speaks for me in this world?” 

“Isn't that what I'm doing? Helping as many as I can? That's what the training is for!” That's what I thought. Is there more I have to do?

“Bruce Wayne and his methods have done good for Gotham, and the world. The Justice League is a righteous organization. But the material, mortal good is worthless to a world that is spiritually dead. His mission is flawed, Bruce Wayne has forsaken me. How can the evil of the world be vanquished through the flimsy hands of mortal men? It cannot.” 

I… I never thought of it that way. I mean… In the long run… what'll happen after Mr. Wayne stops being Batman? Will the world be a better place? Hopefully. But will it STAY justified? I don't know.

“Have you been reading my Book, child?” 

I nod. I've been held up by training, but I've read everyday.

“When the children of Israel were spread to the winds, when I punished them for their injustice, I used Babylon to wipe the northern and southern kingdoms from the earth. Though the upper classes and priests were in captivity among the gentiles, they persisted. In their exile, they learned, they heard of my vengeance against their corrupt kingdom, and kept their faith in Me.”

Spoilers.

“You shall do the same. You will nurse at the breasts of celebrity. You shall use Bruce Wayne's resources to spread the faith to the masses, like mustard seeds.” 

I… Nurse at the breasts!? I blush at His wording. “That's a very visceral image, Lord.”

I shake my head. “I don't… I'm not sure. I've never been good with crowds. And from what I've seen, ya know, online, I don't think people will take what I have to say seriously. I'm just Mr. Wayne's vanity project to them. I can't even speak to these people! How can I follow in the footsteps of Elijah or Samuel, or anyone else! I don't have the smarts for it.” 

“Don't you? I know your capability. Time and space are enslaved to me. Let thee apprehension guide thy deed. My love for you is as boundless as the stratosphere. Have FAITH.” 

“If you need to speak to me, pray at your bedside. I will respond.”

At that, my world turned black.

💛

“Some glad morning, when this life is over…” 

I hum the lyrics of the tune, walking past the Torii gate, and watching the strange dog guardian statues at both sides of me. The cedar trees blow in the wind.

I walk along the approach, watching the other tourists and Japanese people walk the same path as me. They're probably wondering why some TEENAGER is walking by themselves, which as a TEENAGER, I'm totally allowed to.

It's my birthday, Saint Patrick's day. Kind of ironic, now that I think about it. Since I have… Scotch Irish DNA, I think it was.

Anyway. I'm officially thirteen!!!! Now NOBODY can call me a kid. I'm so giddy about it, I can sing. So I do.

“...I'll fly away.” 

I'm in Japan. I'm even wearing a comfy black kimono and everything! It's early in the morning, people had a whole lot of those Torii gates in the markets and such.

Mr. Wayne said I could do or get literally whatever I wanted for my birthday.

I remember the day well.

…

I was training with Dick. He insisted he should reach me gymnastics for the day instead of Mr. Wayne. He seemed like a total circus freak (flattery) so I agreed.

Past tense. I agreed.

“I dunno Dick…” I gazed up at the parallel bars which stood over me. Their wooden forms intimidated me. This is next level Olympic medal material!

I got some things down, like hand standing, a… semi-alright grip, stamina… But this requires a combination of skills. I wasn't sure if I had it in me yet.

“Hey, never said you would get it all at once. Let's just see where this will get you, yeah? I believe in you.” Dick encouraged, wearing his all black gymnastics leotard.

It uh… It reveals a lot of his legs. I elected to wear tight pants as well.

I sigh, remembering what God said about ‘letting apprehension guide thy deed.’ I caked my hands in chalk. I thought it was weird at first, but after the first few times busting your head on the floor trying to do some crazy stunt, you start to listen to the guy who knows what he's doing.

I jump up to grab the bars, and pull myself up, trying to keep my core tight. I lift my legs up in front of me, doing what Dick called a L hold. Next, I swing my legs back and forward, back and forward, before flipping in the air and only nearly grabbing the bars again, finally doing a handstand.

I feel pride soar through me, and I look down at the ground…

Something within me falters, as does my grip.

I fall to the floor in half a second, before a hero comes to my aid, catching me using his hips.

His HIPS.

I hold on to Dick for a moment, catching my breath.

“Holy mother! Guess Jaybird was right! I'm gonna have to use this maneuver more often.” 

Feeling the dismay at my failure, I look down at the mat below me, and the dumb chalk all over my hands.

“Aw, what's wrong?” 

I look at Dick stupid. “I failed.” I reminded him, my words bitter, wiping the sweat from my brow.

“Says who? I thought you did pretty great. In fact, ya might be even better than me at your age…” He teases.

I gasp at the very thought. “No shot?” 

“Nope. Sorry.” Nightwing pops out. I deflate at his trickery. “I was basically raised from birth to be a circus freak. But! Ya did alright for a kid who basically just started. You're a quick learner.” 

I slump. Hn. I guess. 

“We should get outta here, huh?” He loudly claps me on the back. I wince.

Dick and I, after getting dressed like relatively normal people, came out of the acrobatics training center of the Batcave, and we both saw the rest of the family training, lifting, and other such things. I can hear Nirvana playing on the loudspeaker.

Mr. Pennyworth stands beside the both of us, holding two protein shakes on a literal silver platter. 

“Thanks Alfie!” 

“That's quite hospitable of you, Mr. Pennyworth.” 

We both take a long gulp of the shake, and I'm relieved to finally gulp down a source of liquid after hours of training.

I shuffle over to Jason and Tim. Jason is doing bench presses, with Tim spotting for him. 

“You look weird from this angle, Timmy Turner. Usually you're way down here.” Jason grunts, lifting the barbell.

“Call me that again and the bar dropping will be the least of your concerns.” Tim’s face is neutral, and he keeps his hands near the bar.

Jason pauses as he holds the bar in the air. I feel some genuine unease go through his heart, and he makes a weird facial expression. Though that might just be him lifting. “Point taken.”

Look at that… 900 pounds! I wish I could be that strong. “Yer a real powerhouse, Jason…” 

“No pain no gain…” 

I tried to follow that advice, but then I couldn't move. S’ probably God's way of telling me I ain't built for that life.

“Clover.” 

I glance behind me, to find Mr. Wayne. He's in his business suit, with Damian behind him, eating a chocolate ice cream cone. He seems satisfied. Mr. Wayne probably knew Damian would throw a fit about something, so he appeased Damian before doing something for me.

“Yeah, mister?” I look up, giving him my full attention. 

“What…. would you like…  for your birthday?”

I tilt my head. “It's my birthday?” 

“In a few days, yes.’ Mr. Wayne confirms for me.

“Oh.” I feel heat flush to my face, and I scratch my neck nervously. I forgot. “I guess that's kinda dumb of me.”

“YAH!” Cass breaks around fifteen concrete blocks with her bare hands. Good Lord. “Everyone here… we all forget our birthdays. We are all dumb.” 

Oh. Well then… Hm. I just got a whole bunch of Christmas gifts, and honestly they're been pretty great. I've got Kanako's watch on right now, and I've been reading from the History book, and playing on the harmonica, and all the rest of it…

“Stephanie! What should I ask for?” I hollar over to her on the pull up bar.

“1000 bitcoin.” She exhales, pulling her chin above the bar.

Tim sticks his nose into the discussion. “I don't think it's wise to advise them to get into a volatile market like that. Stocks, or ESPECIALLY bonds, on the other hand-”

“What do you know, geek?” Steph inhaled as she lowered back whilst clowning on Timmy.

He gawks at the audacity, balling his fists. “I'm a CEO for God's sake, you know how many hours I spend thinking about this shit!?” Yeah. He's always complaining about meetings and stuff. The only person he likes in Waynecorp is Mr. Lucius Fox.

“Hey!” Jason grunts, seemingly feeling woozy. “Camera boy, you're slacking on spotter duty. Aren't you supposed to be the stalker or something?” 

“Y'all be quiet! I just thought up somethin’.”

Besides, I already have enough gold in my wallet. Money is no object to me. Can't believe I would ever say that and have it be true.

“Mr. Wayne, I wanna go to Japan.” I announce.

Mr. Wayne gains a hint of surprise on his face, but it disappears. “Are you certain?” I nod to the affirmative.

Mr. Wayne sits still for a moment, collecting himself. He hums, then responds professionally, “Consider it done.”

Mr. Wayne then takes his leave, Damian following him. He's been less fussy around everyone lately. Probably “cause what God told him. I haven't asked.

“I didn't know you were a filthy weeb.” Dick ruffles my dirty hair. I haven't showered. Look at me, caring about being clean. I've changed in ways I'm not comfortable with.

I look at Dick strange, not being familiar with that term. “Whuh?” I slurred my speech.

Dick looks at me weird, and chuckles to himself. “Can't believe someone your age doesn't know this. What century are you from? But uh, it's someone who likes anime. And Japan. But mostly people who like anime. Ya know, like Duke.” 

I've never even watched anime before. Frisk is always going on about it… I'm more into westerns, obviously. But I've really liked reading all about the samurai and watching movies like Seven Samurai. I heard there were anime with gun-swords in them, which sounds amazing. I wish I had a gun sword.

“I ain't a weeb. I only watch action anime with strong dudes beating each other up with cool powers, which is very manly. So it doesn't count.” Duke emerges from the shadows, holding some kind of book.

“I saw you watching… um, what was… Tokyo Mew Mew?” Cass tells the entire room.

“You said you wouldn't tell anyone!” Duke says in anguish, letting the quiet snickering of the cave melt his confidence. 

…

So yeah. That was a good day.

I walk to the… Temizuya. I've tried to learn the lingo. It's basically a water fountain where you go to wash your hands before entering the shrine proper.

I thought about this. Would doing the ritual stuff be blasphemy? Would I be cheating on God, and my covenant to Him? I thought about it, and I decided it was okay. From what I heard most Japanese people aren't religious anyway and they just go here for tradition’s sake. And well, when in Rome… or Kyoto, as the case may be.

I take the scooper thingamajig and pour some water on my left hand, just like I read online. I do the same for the right, then rinse my mouth. I wash my hands in the stream, even though I already did that back in the hotel. I guess it never hurts to be more clean.

I move on then, to the second gate. I look up at the red giant, and take a gander at it. It's familiar.

I bow before it. I was tempted to tip my hat, but I left it in the hotel. Apparently it was rude to wear one. The best way I thought of it was that I was in someone else's house, except the house in the whole country of Japan. Ya gotta follow the house rules and show some respect.

I walk around aimlessly, the big shrine grounds feasting me a sight I've never seen before. These beautiful red buildings…

I followed the gates and the stairs, further back, where apparently the most important part of the Fushimi Inari shrine was.

I walked through a veritable domino of gates. Apparently they were donated by a buncha rich people. There's writing on the poles, but I haven't learned enough Japanese to know what it means.

I must have been walking for hours…

Unfortunately, or fortunately, I got lost. I was on a path in the middle of the woods, and I didn't know where I was. I heard the birds chirping, the wind rustling the grove, and I basked in the light of the sun. These bamboo trees… they're so tall! And pretty. I was secluded to myself. I felt at peace for the first time in a while. No reading, no training, no worrying about my covenant, no nightmares, no letters, nothing. Just peace.

I think Japan might officially be better than New Jersey. Though I guess I've only been here for a day and a half. Wasn't there some superhero training school somewhere in Tokyo? I'm pretty sure I heard that. I guess if Japan was so perfect they wouldn't need all that.

Anyway, I eventually got back on the main path. I feel like I've been climbing a mountain! Wait, I have. Is that my destiny in life, climbing mountains and getting lost? 

Ignoring that part of my brain, I climbed further and further, past the endless gates and stone steps.

Finally, I reached the summit of Mt. Inari.

I looked at the city before me, and the buildings laid across the landscape beyond me, the city of Kyoto. Quite the view, I'll say. 

I explored the top of the shrine complex. There were many fascinating sights, such as the strange candle things which reminded me of a menorah. As well as the dragon-dog water fountains that looked like they were drooling. 

But the most fascinating thing to me… were the fox statues. 

They wore red scarfs. They stood tall, and proud. Dedicated. Determined.

I read a bit on the folklore of this place. This shrine is dedicated to the Shinto god (or was it the spirit? I dunno) of rice, Inari Okami. Foxes, apparently, are her messengers in this world.

The Japanese call foxes by another name: Kistune.

Kistune are known to be tricksters, they fool people using their shape shifting powers to mess with people or manipulate them. But they can also be guardians, good friends… even- even lovers. 

Ahem. They also have multiple tails.

I… needless to say, It sounded familiar. I felt a deep need to go to this place. I adjusted my watch idly.

This whole shrine is thousands of years old. It's so strange, this concoction of different emotions. Familiarity, exoticism, the passage of time…

I wonder what Kanako would think. Or Ceroba, for that matter.

Suddenly, while I'm staring at the fox statue for an embarrassingly long time, my phone buzzed. 

I see the surprised faces of the multiple people around. Me, including those doing the prayer at the front. Look at me, disturbing such a site. I sheepishly pull out my phone out of my pocket, quickly trying to quiet it down.

‘WITCH’

It's Stephanie. Oh boy. I quickly swipe up.

“Where the hell are you!?” 

Uh, It's Jason. “Keep yer voice down, ya hoodlum. This is a very sacred place I'm in right now. You're being very disrespectful,” I yell-whisper through the phone, not even stopping to question why Jason has Stephanie's phone in the first place. I look around me at the mostly Japanese crowd at the top of Mt. Inari. 

“ME!?” Has he been listening? I'm sure the other hotel guests aren't big fans of his volume. “Answer the question, Clover. Before I rat you out to Alf.”

My stomach drops. “You wouldn't.”

The silence on the line tells me otherwise. I sigh, confessing my sins. “I'm… I'm in the shrine… At the top of the shrine, actually.” 

“I…” Jason grunts in frustration, sounding a little like Mr. Wayne. “You went on the train, paid for it… I did way worse shit at your age. And you're not even half as bad as Damian. But why didn't you just wait for everybody else? It's early as shit ya know.” He whines, exasperated.

“I dunno. I really wanted to go. So I did.” Besides, I can do it myself. I'm a fully fledged teenager now anyway.

“Hah. Listen to you, sounding exactly like me. You must have been really neglected, to even fuckin’ think of doing all this. I thought you were supposed to be normal, compared to the little demon.” He sounds strangely proud of me.

I guess it's pretty true. I shrug my shoulders, and shuffle my feet in my sandals.

I hear a scuffle on the phone. “Watch your mouth, Todd.” That must be Damian.

“The only thing I'm watching is a little imp failing to intimidate me. Try graduating middle school and maybe you could-”

I hear choking on the line, and the phone drops on the bed. Damian must be strangling him.

Good Lord. What is wrong with these people? Maybe too many blows to the head during crime fighting.

“Hey, is this my phone?” The witch says, stealing back her phone and assumedly not intervening in Jason's second murder. “Hey, Clover Schlover. Am I still on your phone as ‘witch’ in all caps? If so, I take that as a compliment.”

I hung up on the witch. It might seem rude, but that whole family stresses me out. Anyway, she deserves it.

Back to staring at old statues of foxes. My favorite pastime.

Maybe I should learn Japanese.

💛

I had another idea for a birthday gift.

“Are you VERY sure?” Mr. Wayne almost pleads with me, still holding his phone in his hands.

“You owe me, mister.”

Mr. Wayne considered things for a moment, a pregnant pause. He was probably thinking over the ramifications of me asking him to send this tweet.

He shrugs it off. “It’s your decision.” Mr. Wayne presses post.

I look at the app, and I see the post I worked so hard for.

Bruce Thomas Wayne ✔️ @brucewayne

Clover wanted to send a message to the world

Attached is a picture of me, standing close to the frame, very well lit, stone-faced. I remember that photoshoot. I have a black T-shirt on. It has my very serious message printed in bold white. My hands are behind my back.

‘FOLLOW GOD’

I smile, proud of my efforts. Look at all the people giving it attention, within, like, milliseconds!

Mr. Wayne pats me on the back.

💛 

Chapter Text

💛 

It's been a few months since I started, but I've reached a point where Mr. Wayne finally feels comfortable discussing my ‘powers’; My SOUL, the source of my ‘metahuman abilities.’

I think he has some weird philosophical objections. Something about… being the best I can be, and not using my powers as some kinda ‘crutch.’ Almost none of the Bat-Family have powers.

Well except Duke and I. Jason might have some weird residual effects from being resurrected… Mr. Wayne's eased up over the years, apparently.

Mr. Wayne hates feeling like he doesn't know something. It may be an ego thing, but it's probably his paranoia. Witnessing the death of your family so young, powerless to stop it… you try to take that power back.

I'm standing here waiting for Mr. Wayne. I'm wearing a Karate Gi, because honestly I have no idea what else to wear. I feel uneasy. I take in the ambience of this damp, musty cave deep underground… Smells like bat manure.

I hear the crack of a can off to the side. Duke takes a loud sip from his coke, lounging in his lawn chair, wiping some stray liquid from his black fraternity jacket. He looks back at me. “What?”

My contemplation interrupted, I nodded to the ice chest next to him, “Can ya pass me a coke, please?”

Duke leans in his chair to look inside, and reports, “Uh, there's no Coke, but we got DP.” That's what Duke calls Dr. Pepper.

I squeeze my hands, gesturing for him to toss it. He does, and the can does some sick moves in the air.

I catch the cold and wet can, and lay it against my face for a second. I sigh and aim a relaxed smile, saying, “Thanks for the coke, Duke.” This cave is really damp.

Duke chuckles in a weirdly affronted manner, gesturing, “Okay, that's not what it's called.”

I stare at the carbonated beverage in my hand, unsure if Duke is having some kind of episode. I show him the can, pointing at it.

“That's Dr. Pepper. I don't think we're seein’ the same thing. I would suggest some glasses.”

I balk. What's his problem? “No need for insults.”

“Then why’re you calling it a Coke, Clover? It's illogical!” Duke is getting strangely aggravated over this.

“I don't know! Because that's what I call it. What's all the fuss?”

“Uh, I think… where Clover is from, all sodas are just called cokes.” Tim Tim taps on the top of his can of Arizona Iced Tea before sipping on it.

Duke leans back into his chair, still confused, kicking his feet up on the ice chest. “Huh. Ooooh. Not gonna hold, I forgot about that.” 

“Coca Cola was founded in Atlanta, so they kinda dominated in the south. So any soda would just be called a coke because it was so ubiquitous.” 

Huh. I didn't know that. Duke pauses, but shakes his head again, “See, its still stupid.”

“Yup.”

LORD have MERCY. I'm living with smartasses! I roll my eyes. What was even the point of that exchange? I crack open the can and-

It's gone. I turn around and see Batman holding it, clad in his suit. He blends in with the shadowy environment of the Batcave. Just like he likes it. “No soda during training.” 

“Aw, but I'm sick of Gatorade and water, Mr. Wayne…” I whine.

“Maybe another time. It's not very healthy anyways.” The billionaire hides his hands in his cape, and the coke vanishes under it. Sometimes Mr. Wayne just makes things disappear somehow. Like, for example, his whole body. He has to have magic or something.

My anxiety regarding the topic of today's training regiment resurfaces. There's a brief pause, and my lips make a flat line.

“You’re nervous.”

“No! It's just… well yeah. it's just a sore spot for me, Mr. Wayne.” My stone-face immediately crumbles, and I rub my arm, the memories flashing before me.

Everytime I've taken my SOUL from my body, something terrible has happened.

Batman's intense and mysterious cowl softens. “This line of work is one full of challenges, challenges that can break us… I want you to be as prepared as possible for those challenges, to refine yourself and your abilities. If you feel uncomfortable, then good. That is just one more hurdle that you are strong enough to overcome… That I will be here for.”

…I look up at him, and his almost cold blue eyes. Mr. Wayne always seems to have it all figured out. I feel like I'm constantly doubting myself and my decisions. I wish I was more like him. I nod, “Alright, Mr. Wayne. I trust you.”

I feel the two watching me. “What’re y'all training for?” Duke asks.

“Weren’t you listening when Bruce told us?” Tim chastised, taking his tie off.

“No,” Duke says, barely having to think about it, responding like the answer was obvious.

“Man… me neither.” He threw the tie to the ground carelessly.

They both laugh. Mr. Wayne rolls his eyes and I fail to hide my amusement.

“How accustomed are you with your powers?” Mr. Wayne gets straight to the point, some ice in his voice from the other two's nonsense.

The question gets me back on track. “I'm great with it! I'm a bonafide pro when it comes to magic.” As good as a human can be. I mean, I'm a little rusty, haven't been in an ENCOUNTER since I… y'know.

Mr. Wayne starts at that. “Hm. I've never seen you practice magic.” Oh yeah, there's that magician lady Mr. Wayne works with. I can't do any spells or anything. That would be cool, though.

“Well, I can only use it if I bring out my SOUL.”

Mr. Wayne doesn't flinch, or even seem to doubt me... Suppose he's familiar with the concept. Of SOULs, that is. I mean… who isn't? “Let's see it.”

“Alright, Hold on…” I force my eyes closed, and clench my fists. I find myself in the past.

Scouting a mountain, and jumping down a pit, holding a vendetta against those who would hurt the innocent.

Ending my life for the first friends I ever made, hoping for the best. Arrogant, so sure of myself.

The beauty of His creation, His eternal throne, His messengers and promises to me, and mine to Him. His Love, I can still feel it.

Meeting a dark reflection of my own skin, murderous and bitter. Vengeful and unforgiving. Arrogant, and so sure of himself.

Nihilism and apathy, rolled into an esoteric nightmare of a plant, watching everything.

And finally, a crime-filled city that needs help.

I open my eyes.

💛 

In my very hands, I have manifested the culmination of my spirit, the very precious gift I received from my birth: My SOUL. The radiance is unfaltering, and despite all I've seen, uncorrupted. I feel at ease at the sight of the golden heart shaped object.

I tear my gaze from my SOUL, and turn to the others.

Batman stares at me, unflinching, his coul hiding much, and his stoicism hiding even more. Really, he's probably used to stuff like this. Fightin’... Aliens and stuff.

Duke scoots his seat closer, captivated by the sight. He shudders before saying, “Damn. Look at that light. I've never seen ghosts like that before.” He combs through his short curly black hair.

“I've never seen anything like it… no matter where I look, it looks the same from every direction. How'd you make it look like that?” Tim asks, intrigued.

That gets my attention. I turn back and look at Tim weird for his question, still holding my essence.

Tim gives an unsure look at the raised eyebrows from Duke and I. “What?”

“They were born like that, genius. They're a meta.” 

“Oh.”

Yeah. “It's my SOUL. It's how everyones looks!” 

I think I start to lose Duke at this point. “I can't uh, pull cartoon hearts out my chest.” He gestures to my two dimensional SOUL.

Wasn’t sure SOULs existed either until, like, a few months ago. I'm not too sure how the laws of nature work in this world, so either Duke hasn't seen one before or my SOUL is just different from everyone else's. But that's not too relevant right now, so I simply pointed out knowingly, “Maybe you just haven't tried hard enough yet.” 

Duke raises an eyebrow, and Tim nods like I said something reasonable. Neither pry further.

“Ahem.” Batman tears my focus away from the two observers, and I stand at attention. He barely tries to hide his unmitigated curiosity itching in his gaze.

Well…! Gah. I'm bein’ awfully yellow bellied. Heh. I need to loosen up. Whenever I take this guy out of its cage bad things tend to go down.

But… maybe this time will break the norm. Whatever the case, I need to get over it.

Wordlessly, I aim my SOUL remotely, and launch a small pellet of SOUL magic out of it. The shot connects with a punching bag stand, and it gets knocked to the floor roughly with a thud. The magic vanishes into the air like yellow incense. No smell, though. Imagine if it did have a smell, my magic. I would hope it would smell nice, like vanilla. Knowing my luck, it would probably be lemon flavored, citrus-like.

That line of thought really gets the gears turning. I tear my gaze to my SOUL. Compulsively, I bring it closer to my mouth and lick it like a popsicle.

OH GOD. A violent shuddering goes through my whole body, and I'm assaulted with a strange feeling I've never felt before. A strange tingling in my nerves and specifically my… nether regions.

On everything I love I will never attempt that again. It didn't even have any flavor…! Or, I guess that means I didn't have any flavor, since I am my SOUL and all. Am I a cannibal now? Would it be cannibalism to consume your own flesh? Probably.

I refuse to let this take up valuable mental real estate!

“Eugh! What was even the point of that? That's freaky as fuck bro,” Duke spasms, looking on with disappointment and disgust. Tim laughs into his hands.

“I was experimenting. It was very scientific.” I pointedly avoided their gazes. I can't even justify what I did to myself, let alone them. I spit out the phantom taste from my mouth.

Batman sighs gravely as he ignores the debacle. “How did you shoot that pellet?” 

Relieved to find an escape from my shame, I respond while dusting my Gi, “I… It's tough to explain. But I just kinda… think it, and the SOUL follows my directions. Kinda like how your brain sends signals to your neurons to move your arms and stuff. But the neurons are magical. I don't know, I'm not a SOUL expert.” I've learned a lot off Flowey’s memories, but it's hard to remember  everything.

“I assume that's how you moved your soul to… I won't deign to dignify what you did.” I can tell Mr. Wayne was really disappointed in me when I did that. I wonder how the folks at home would feel.

“Yup.” I show off a bit, moving my SOUL around the cave, the brightness bouncing off the Steel floors of the Batcave.

“So you're basically a walking gun?” Tim smiles impishly, smiling at Mr. Wayne. Wow! I guess I would be when my SOULs free. Batman grumbles at the idea, stroking his chin and ignoring the jab. 

“How large can you make the shot?” 

“Um. Can you pick the punching bag up off the floor.” 

“Boys?” Batman calls Tim and Duke.

In no time at all and without any complaints, they do as such. Mr. Wayne thanks them.

They both stand next to the object. “Alright, take your shot.”

I don't bother to tell them to get out of the way. I'm not gonna hit them anyhow. I got good aim!

I charge up my SOUL, focusing my shot at the punching bag. I hold my breath for a sweet second, the loud humming bouncing off my essence.

Until, I finally let it explode out, and the Justice Burst Shot forms a kind of fireball shape, and the impact on the bag is so great it falls to the floor, skidding, and falls off the edge of the platform, hurling down into the Batcaves depths, never to be seen again.

“Yeehaw,” I respond modestly.

“There goes another bag…” Duke bemoans.

“Yeah,” Any anxiety I felt before vanishes at my pride, and I look to Batman, (secretly looking to see if he was impressed) “Everything I do with my SOUL is based on my intentions, and how I'm feeling. If I wanted to, I could charge my magic up, and fire off my Super Justice Beam!” 

“What is this ‘Super Justice Beam’ like?”

…My face falls, and I respond very seriously, “ I don't think you would want that mister.” Cooper’s evisceration of Asgore proves that to me.

“Why not?” 

“If I fired that blast in here, I'd punch a big hole in the Batcave walls and cause a collapse, destroying half of the cave and all of the equipment therein. Then you'd probably bury me alive or something. Eye for an eye, and all that.” 

Batman stares at me. I don't know how he feels about what I just said. 

“Huh. So it's like… on some Kamehameha type shit,” Duke seems unbothered, at least. In fact, he seems excited.

“Exactly!” I wish I could fire the beams out of my hands like Goku does. I wouldn't have to leave my SOUL vulnerable or nothin’. I can't believe I hadn't seen DBZ before Duke put me onto it. My Review: Pure. Unadulterated. Cinema. If only it had cowboys in it.

“Hm. We can look further into this ability later… Is there anything else you'd like to share?” Batman takes a loud sip of my Dr. Pepper he swiped off of me.

I silently glared at him, before responding, “Well, I can CHECK people. It's sorta like… seeing other people's SOULS, in a roundabout way. I sense their magic, and learn information from them. Like… their health, their defense, their strength, things like that.”

“So… Their stats? Like in an RPG?” Tim suddenly butts his nose in, his hand on his chin, looking fascinated. Duke nods, looking back at me, expecting.

“I… I never thought about it like that.” I don't play many video games, so it probably wouldn'tve occured to me. “Pretty much.”

“Why don't you try this ability?” Batman suggests.

Suddenly reminded of what I am actually doing, I remember all the times that bringing my SOUL out of my fleshy cage has gone wrong. Suddenly, bile entered my throat and I stood still for a moment.

Despite my unease, my SOUL light does not flicker or falter. 

I look up into Mr. Wayne's eyes, past the cowl.

The only way I could've gone this far is by pushing myself. Not falling into fear that I couldn't do it, or that I would just fail, as I have before. I'm acting like a baby. I'm scared, just cuz of things that happened months ago. I need to get over it. I need to cowboy up. Joshua 1:9!

I silently slap my cheeks, and whisper it to myself.

“Alright. I-I’ll do it.” My bravery fills my spirit, and I promise I will not fall to fear. Mr. Wayne has that effect on me, I guess. “I… Who should I CHECK?” 

“We volunteer to be test subjects.” Tim raises his hands, eager with a sly smile.

Duke flips his head over to the insomniac sitting next to him. “‘We’ is actually crazy.”

“I wanna know my stats. Don't you?”

“Nope,” Duke responds resolutely. Tim then strangely nods his head towards me, and Duke stares into my SOUL. Well, he stares into my face, to be more accurate. I don't really understand whatever internal battle he has going on, but he relents soon enough. “Fine! But just to help them out. Y'know, I'm generous.”

Batman scratches his five o'clock shadow. “You can start with whoever you feel comfortable with then.”

I take a gander at the three vigilantes before me.

My eyes find Mister Wayne. It's strange doing this out of a magic encounter. I study him intently, focusing my magic towards him, and finally…

💛 

HP 20/20

ATK 50

DEF 50

LV 1

‘The hero this city deserves.’

We share the same trait. Of course we would!

Of course, Mr. Wayne doesn't have any blood on his hands - or the will to spill it. Mr. Wayne's number one house rule: No killing people. He's made me literally swear to not kill people, by oath. I'm sure I told him that I was opposed to murder beforehand, but a second time didn't hurt.

“Did you do it?”

“Yeah. Haven't done that in a while.”

“I felt something... I assume that was your… check ability.” I nod my head at Mr. Wayne's assumption. “Hm. And what did it tell you?”

I told him his… stats, as Tim called it, and he hummed. I've learned that just telling Mr. Wayne something is just as good as tattooing it on his forehead so he'll never forget.

“Okay. When you're ready, try Duke and Tim.”

I arbitrarily immediately focus my gaze on Duke.

“Okay. You can… scan me or whatever, but don't tell me any fun facts. I don't wanna know. I'm just here for moral support.” I can kinda get that. I mean, basically having your essential qualities checked by another person might be really invasive. Nevertheless…

💙 

HP 24/24

ATK 30

DEF 30

LV 2

This guy can make light of any situation.

That's not really true, but it's a good pun.

“Ah! Don't wanna hear it.” 

Sheesh. Alrighty then. “Ease up, I said I wouldn't, pardner!” Did I? I'm pretty sure I did.

I slightly shaken Duke's LV, but remind myself that LV isn't necessarily a measure of the amount of people you've killed, just your capacity to commit. Actions aren't thoughts, after all. Or something like that. Honestly I'm not too sure how it works.

With little else to do, my attention finally finds Tim, sitting, sure of himself. “Hit me.”

I take a good look at him. Still wearing his suit from his meeting. Really try to take every detail of him into consideration…

🩵 

HP 28/28

ATK 37

DEF 29

LV 3

Things could be better.

…something doesn't sit right with me.

Something about Tim. I don't know what it is, but something's wrong. I don't know what it is. There's something in the air, in his… SOUL.

I feel… a compulsive need. I feel something within him. I… I'm needed. I need to do something. Tim NEEDS me. He needs my help.

I feel a light buzzing in my ear. I need to do this. If I don't do this… I don't know. Something bad might happen. To him. I can't let that happen. It's not right. He doesn't deserve it.

I keep looking. Keep going. I keep staring at him. I need to go further. I refuse to tear my gaze away. I can't stop my SOUL from looking deeper.

I keep looking.

I keep looking.

I keep looking.

I keep looking.

And… the world fades to white.

…

🩵

He's in a lab.

It's very advanced. There are test tubes, filled with anomalous green materials I don't recognize or possibly understand. The air is stifling, filled with the noxious odor of strange biological material not kept under control by any AC.

There's little safety procedures being followed. This is a clandestine operation to be sure.

To the right of him, multiple terminals line the tables; their bright - nauseatingly so - screens showing genetic profiles and tables showcasing DNA code. Several vials and switches are laid on the dashboard.

His head is laid against the smooth glass. He's frustrated. He seethes silently, in this dark lab, illuminated by the green of these strange test chambers.  He looks down at the floor. His cape flows to his feet, and he silently prays to nothing in particular for things to work out this time.

“TRIAL NINETY-EIGHT CONCLUDED.” The even, robotic voice announced at the terminal, the whirring of the machines finally ending.

He holds his breath expecting the worst, clenching his fist. Eventually, it comes.

“PROTEIN LINK FAILURE: INCOMPATIBLE UPLINK DESTINATION IN BIOLOGICAL PROFILE.”

Despite the continued failure, he still waits to accept the diagnosis from the cold intelligence.

“KRYPTONIAN PHYSICAL DRIVE CORRUPTION DETECTED AT THIRD LEVEL STATION. STABILIZER CORE RECOMMENDED.”

“Recommended, huh?” He parrots, frustrated.

“TOTAL HUMAN GENE BREAKDOWN DETECTED AT LEVEL ONE. UNKNOWN SOURCE DISTURBANCE.”

Despite it all, this alert sets him off. “Oh, fuck off!” He slams the glass, the green material inside sloshing around.

He cradles his head, pacing back and forth between the terminal and the chamber. He huffs, the air in the basement can't be doing him any good.

“Level one!? I calibrated it FLAWLESSLY, and now there's an infection in the first stage!?” His nostrils flare, he grits his teeth.

He mutters under his breath, trying desperately to understand where he went wrong, doing equations in his head, blueprints running through his mind.

Eventually, he tired out. He collapsed onto the terminal chair, looking over the diagnostics. He scribbles a few formulas, jots down a few notes for the next go.

Exhaustion creeps at his bones. In a fit of routine, he pitifully grabs at some kind of recording device instead of continuing to work. He plugged the cord into the port on the terminal, and the device powers to life.

He pressed a few buttons, and finally hit play.

“Entry number seventeen of the Krypto-Terran reproduction project.” It sounds rehearsed, “This is Robin speaking.”

“I thought this project would've concluded at this point in development, but… every step forward is three steps back.”

He looks morose at the screen, silently studying the data.

“I have everything I need. I have the right genetic code, the figures figured out, the technology… but it doesn't matter. It won't work.”

He nearly crushed the recorder.

“Nothing will. I don't know why. I have all the pieces in place, but they won't come together.”

He takes a deep breath before continuing. 

“I… I don't know what to do.” Hopeless.

“Too many attempts. I'm nearly in the triple digits now. I don't know how much longer I can keep this project up. I'm already running at a loss. And nothing's even coming of it.”

“I'm the only one who knows about this. Anyone else… They would just try to stop me anyway. Then… If I stop, then what has all this work been for?” 

A sense of sorrow fills his voice as he spirals further.

“Nothing makes sense anymore.” His voice breaks, he falls silent. The lab is too quiet. He's thinking too much.

“All I want is my best friend in the world back in my life. That's all I need right now. I just want Connor back. Please…” 

His next words are barely audible. He suppresed a shuddering breath and unplugged the recorder from the terminal, walking to the test chamber.

“That… fuckin’... Earth Prime…” 

His forehead finally finds the glass again. He looks at the red… thing floating in the green liquid.

“Why…?” 

“Everyone keeps dying. I'm always too late. I'm never there.” 

“Steph… Dad.”

He's incoherent. I don't know what he's talking about.

“What the hell is wrong with me…”

His breathing starts to get shallow. He doesn't talk for a while, staring blank at the red thing in the chamber. He's ruminating on the past.

“Connor. Shit.” Again, his voice breaks. Everything is breaking. Including the recorder he dropped on the floor. After weeks of work, he finally made a new discovery.  “I l-loved him.” 

In a fit of passion, he suddenly threw the massive chamber, it fell to the floor of the basement. The liquid makes a pool, damaging the technology around it.

He launches several shurikens at random terminals across the room, destroying weeks worth of work in an instant. Sparks fly out of the screens.

He punches screens, kicks over priceless technology, and throws what amounts to a tantrum.

After looking at the mess he made, he picks up some of the green liquid, and keeps it in his hand. Finally, he makes a fist. He opens his mouth to scream, but nothing comes out.

He slumps down on the floor, exhausted.  He holds a shard of glass from the chamber. He's lost and confused, and feels lonely.

He makes a decision.

…

“Tim?” 

He's hurt.

…

Suddenly, I'm thrown out of that memory.

I gasp, but no sound leaves my mouth. I stand there, tense, feeling dread and a thumping sensation in my chest.

Mr. Wayne holds me close, shaking me. “Clover? What happened.” He demands, gritting his teeth. He's worried sick.

“He was gonna…” I mutter, before stopping myself from saying anything more.

He was gonna end it. I saw blood. I saw his blonde friend… from Young Justice, I don't know her name. She stopped him. I feel sick. I hug myself.

LORD give me peace. Why… That vision was so visceral. Not like Flowey's, or Cooper's… more like Ceroba’s.

“Tim? You alright? Ya need water, coffee?” Duke holds tight to his shoulder, holding the coffee cup to his nose like he’s a cartoon character. Tim is silent. He's kneeling down on the floor, panting.

“...get off of me.” 

“What? Tim, you almost passed out-”

“I said don't touch me, Duke!” 

He launches himself off the floor of the Batcave, pushing Duke. Luckily for him, the push was limp, and the weight was absorbed, and he did not fall, though some coffee slipped out of the cup and onto Duke’s jacket. Duke stares back at him, bewildered, concerned, and slightly offended.

Tim looks at all three of us for a brief moment. For some reason I can't even fathom, his guilty gaze lingers on me for a moment.

“I need to go.” He speedwalks out of the cave, leaving the three of us down here.

Batman longily gazes at Tim’s retreat. He scowls, hiding his guilt and worry. He seems to be considering going after him…

But he decides against it. His cowl finds Duke, and he gives him a meaningful nod.

Duke translates the gesture into action. “I'll go get Alfred…” Flummoxed, and unsure of what else to do with himself, he hurries off to that task, leaving us both alone.

Mr. Wayne does not let me go. He continues to stare off into the Batcaves entrance, breathing labored. He takes a moment to take the cold, lonely ambiance in.

Finally, he looks down at me, and I consider what I had seen. The blood, the blurry vision, the experiments, all of it reminded me of things I'd rather forget. I don't wanna think about it. I cover my ears, and close my eyes shut. I hold close to Mr. Wayne, and bury my face in his cape.

“...Can you tell me what happened?”

I don't wanna talk. I barely heard him. I don't respond.

“...Okay,” All I can hear in his voice is guilt.

We stay like that for a long time.

💛 

I feel terrible.

I haven't told anybody. They all know something happened, but they don't ask. Mr. Wayne indefinitely paused any more training with my ‘powers.’

Even Damian is leaving me alone, not letting out nearly as many jabs. Jason is uncharacteristically behaved while watching Love Island with me. Steph tries, and fails, to cheer me up by letting me watch her torture her little guys in the Sims. I don't know what's wrong with her.

Mr. Pennyworth is the only one I've talked to about this. Aside from God, obviously.

But I don't deserve that. This isn't about me. This is about Tim.

I was stupid. I didn't know what I was doing, and I hurt my friend because I wasn't careful enough with my magic. 

Tim wasn't trying to hurt me. This wasn't a last ditch effort to save my life. I invaded his privacy in the grossest way possible for no reason other than my own stupidity.

Making him relive those awful memories, forcing myself into a part of his mind I had no place in. Maybe Flowey is right. I am an idiot.

God said I needed to just go up to him and talk, but I don't know how. He isn't even in the house that much, always pouring himself into vigilantism and his position at WayneCorp… or his boyfriend, I guess.

But even when he is here, I freeze up. All I can see is that memory of that basement. A reminder of my insult to him.

He has raised no complaints about how I've invaded his home, and this is how I repay him.

I can't talk to him on the phone. That's not a good apology. That's not how a cowboy resolves issues, from a distance so it hurts less. A real cowboy confronts their problems fearlessly, because they know it's the right thing to do.

…but I can't. The next best thing is to write an apology letter. I’m good at that, at least. Mr. Pennyworth helped me bake that pie recipe Frisk gave to me as well, just to be sure. But when I went to his room while Tim was out, the click of his door reminded me that it was locked.

Determined to end this situation, I dig into my dimensional bag and pull out a bobby pin, laying the pie on the floor for a moment.

I bent the pin into a ninety degree angle, and removed the rubber piece. Then I bent the straight end. I take out another pin and bend that one as well.

Before long, I had delicately picked the lock of the door, and a small click sounded in the hallway. I looked around to see if the coast was clear, and behold, the hallway was empty.

Picking up Ms. Toriel’s recipe and my stamped letter off the floor, I opened the door. I hesitated, before reminding myself of my role in… this.

The room is dark and empty. I see his setup, where his PC is. I walk over to place the pie on his desk overflowing with dishes and neon energy drinks, and idle there for a moment, appraising the interior, and considering Tim’s heart rate.

But suddenly, as I hear a strange beep sound off in the corner, I'm hoisted up in the air!

What in sam hill? I'm caught in a snare, suspended above the floor. The net is a little big though. My legs caught in the net. I shake myself, before realizing the futility of it, looking down at the height.

Was I caught in a booby trap? Did Tim trap his own room?

“A-ha! I knew it!” Tim suddenly jumps out of his bed, apparently having been covered in blankets this entire time, seeming proud of his efforts. But when he sees me, that energy goes away like leaves in fall.

“Clover?” His covers fall to the floor.

“...H-Howdy.” I stumble over my words, still acting like a little baby.

“Um. Sup’. Thought you were Damian. You… you need something?” 

Suddenly, his eyes find the letter I have in my hand. Luckily it hasn't been creased by the commotion of me being caught up in a snare like a wild animal.

I gave it to him. He accepts, and opens it.

His eyes scan the length of the paper, taking it in. As he reads, his awkward expression fades into something else I can't decipher.

He moves to his desk, and turns on his PC to light up the room a little better; He sees the gift I made for him: a butterscotch pie with a heart with whipped cream on the top.

Finally, he looks up at me, shoving the letter in his drawer. “Clover…” 

“I'm so sorry.” I interrupt, my voice shaky. “I had no right to do that to you. I didn't mean to hurt you. I breached your trust.” 

“Look cowboy, you're being very thoughtful, but it's not that big of a deal-”

“No! It is!” I persist, shaking my binds. “I- I- There's n-no excuse for it, no justification, none of that! That was an awful memory I made you relive, and-and-” 

“Clover-” 

I need to get this off my chest. “I didn't know what I was doin’, I was acting like a damn fool, and you got hurt cuz of me, and that's evil! I know God is looking down at me and judging me for what I've done, but-!” 

“SHUT UP!... please.” 

I gulp down my next few words. Tim sighs, looking tired already. He sips some tea Mr. Pennyworth brought him earlier, rubbing his temples.

“Let me talk. Okay? Cool beans. I'm gonna talk now.” 

Tim takes a break to collect his thoughts, resting his arms on the net, where I'm caught up in. I look down, and see his thoughtful eyes.

“Did you mean to?”

I'm caught off guard by the question. “W-What?”

“Did you mean to read my memories? Did you make a conscious effort to delve into my SOUL - in all caps for whatever reason - to read my memories?”

I don't really choose when to read people's memories. It just happens, in the heat of the moment, my magic just reacts spontaneously - involuntarily - in certain moments, I suppose. Exactly like remotely navigating my SOUL.

But so what? “Intentions don't matter when the outcome is the same.”

Tim interjects, “Counterpoint: you're 13 years old.”

Despite the grievous nature of my offense, I can't help but be annoyed by his response, feeling belittled and babied. I answered him, scoffing, “Ain’t I culpable for my actions?” No matter what anyone else says, good or bad, the buck is passed nowhere. It's like Flowey said: yellow is the color of consequence.

He pauses a brief moment, his hand on his hip. “Girl, It is NOT that serious,” Tim sighs.

…I'm not even sure how to respond. Is HE serious? Was that a joke? Why do so many in this house have an irreverent, snarky disposition towards such serious topics? It's beginning to grate on my nerves.

“Is it okay if I call you girl? I don't know how comfortable you are with gendered terms.”

“Y’all are too much...” I place a cool hand to my forehead.

Tim laughs softly. “Look, Clover. This catholic guilt thing you have going on is unhealthy, and unproductive. Not every mistake has to be a massive THING that proves how shitty of a person you are. Shit happens. Life goes on. Besides, I volunteered!”

…Maybe. Perhaps I'm making this more about myself than Tim’s well being, with my whole guilty conscience. But it still doesn't sit right with me.

“I don't know. I just… It was really upsetting. That was an awful scene… and you had to relive it.” My breathing gets shallow, and I shut my eyes.

Tim takes a moment to respond. His gaze is perceptive, and patient. Almost like Mr. Wayne, Tim is good at making it seem like he's reading your mind. Or maybe I look so pitiful that he wouldn't even need to. A question is bubbling in his throat, before being released to the world. “Are you okay?”

I shake my head. “This ain't about me.”

“Yeah, well, it was from a pretty atrocious part of my life. I wasn't thinking straight. Heh.” A self deprecating chuckle is aired out. 

Another bout of silence. His gaze bored into mine. I squirmed, looking away. I don't like how he looks at me, like I don't even have to say anything for him to tell what's wrong with me, and why I'm really so affected by this whole affair.

“If you're not feeling well, you know you can tell me, right? I mean, I'm not obligated to listen. But it would make me feel better about accidentally showing you the worst day of my life. One of the worst.”

I nod, acknowledging. I need to move on from that. I see no benefit to doing so.

Tim reaches back in his drawer, reading some of it again. I spent a lot of time on that one. I asked Star for some help. He made a pretty good apology to the Feisty Four after he pushed them all away… well, he didn't get to say it because he was crying so loud, but it was pretty good either way!

Tim looks back up at me. “You don't have to worry about me, kid. That was years ago. It's almost a blur now. Lab testing in a dingy basement to clone my dead friend… who I was crushing hard on… not my finest hour. But I'm not in that lab. I'm here, in the manor, with all of you. And somehow all of the people that were dead are alive again. Except my dad, but… Yeah.”

Everytime someone in this family tells me about their life, I learn something horrible.

“We don't really talk about our problems, this family. We just kinda… move on from them. We're here for each other, but… There's always something new to deal with. Comes with the territory of what we do. The fact you came to talk to me says you're better than literally everyone else that lives in this house in that regard. You'll be fine.”

“A-Alrighty.” I'm not sure how true that is. Regardless, I'm tired and want to go train or something. That's when I remembered the predicament I've gotten myself into, hanging above the floor. I look down at the floor, and see the drop. Why did Tim do this? In his own room? How in the world am I gonna get out of this thing?

Tim cuts a piece of the pie placed on the table and takes a bite. His face immediately lights up, and gorges the rest of it down in seconds. “Woah. That's…” He swallows it down like a civilized person. “What is this?”

“That's… butterscotch cinnamon pie. Friend gave me the recipe, said I was ‘legally required to eat it.’ Mr. Pennyworth helped me make it.” From Flowey’s memories, I apparently adored the treat when I was living with Ms. Toriel.

“Well, whatever it is… we're even now. That's the best pie I've ever had. This shit could end wars,” He leaps praise on the treat, immediately grabbing for another slice like a raccoon.

“I’m sure it could. Can you- uh…” I kick my leg, shaking the entire trap with me inside.

“Humh?” Tim looks back at me, and startles. “Oh shit. Do you need help?” He says, his mouth full.

“...Please.”

“...Let me finish this pie first. And yes, I do mean the whole pan.”

Eventually, Tim cut me down with a knife. It was a steep drop. He let me have a single slice. He was completely right. I woulda done the same.

💛 

I blocked the katana coming rapidly towards my face, and Damian makes an evil smirk; he revels in my struggling. He pressed his advantage, pushing his weight against me. I hold myself together, grunting.

I'm not an expert at sword fighting. But for my first try in a real duel, I say I'm good enough to the point where I don't have a massive gash in my stomach.

After weeks of preparation… reading, practicing, praying, studying… It's now time for Damian and I’s sword fight to the death. Damian repudiated fighting in the manor - didn't want to have my dirty corpse in his house, he said. So we went off to the local sword fighting academy in Gotham University. We were high profile enough for them to just… let us inside. Rich people are just allowed to do whatever they want, huh?

I'm a fledgling amateur who doesn't really know what they're doing. But heck, I gotta try. For my honor’s sake! Though I'd wager I'd be doing much better with my big iron.

“Hey, watch it guys. Don't get too close to the faces.” 

“Shhhhh!”

“No distractions, Grayson.” 

Dick's our referee. He thinks he can regulate us. He mutters, impotent, sitting on the crappy little plastic chair. It was the only blue one and apparently that was worth the discomfort of a seat that's much too small for him.

Mr. Daring-young-man-on-the-flying-trapeze is quickly forgotten. Damian pulls away and slashes at my feet, attempting to cut me down. Thanks to my gymnastics training, I launch myself high into the air to avoid the fate of having no legs, like Babs…. Wait, she does have legs, she just can't use them. I'm gonna stop thinking stupid things now.

Damian is quick on his feet, as I hit the ground he stabs at my sides, and I dodge the attack. As I'm so good at. Hell, dodging’s practically my main super power.

This fight has dragging on for a while now. Damian, restless, makes a flurry of attacks to finally cut me down, but I don't give up. I duck, dodge, and maneuver myself around his katana, and hang onto mine with a desperate grip. And I do it all without injury. Didn't even break a sweat!

That's a lie. I'm sweating profusely right now; this is stressful and I don't want to get cut. This almost compares to my fight with Ceroba. Almost. I mean, I haven't died even once!

After what feels like long enough for Damian to tire himself out, I finally got myself the chance to party one of his weaker slashes.

Feeling good about myself for the first time in a few minutes, I decided to be sneaky and snake-like. A measly stab at his stomach, but also a feint.

Damian grunts, furrowing his brow and wiping some dirt off the fencing outfit. I don't know why he insisted we wear it when neither of us have sabers in our hands. I think he just likes the uniforms.

I follow my feint with my real response to his harassment, my true riposte. I aimed a chop at his legs, and behold, I had aimed my sword precisely to slice open his uniform, but not his skin. I smile.

The edge of competition runs deep in Damian. From the moment he met Mr. Wayne. He tried to kill Tim because he believed he ought to fight for his right to the Robin title. He was ten years old and Tim was like 15, so Tim won of course, but he came close.

Now that I think of it, I've heard stories of nearly every member of the family beating the sense out of each other. They're surprisingly functional for how dysfunctional they are.

Anyway, Damian suddenly front flipped over my head, turned around, and rapidly slashed at me again from my rear.

Where did this sudden burst of energy come from!? I evade his hits, but I'm getting tired. Unlike monster ENCOUNTERs, Damian won't be courteous and wait his turn, allowing me to chomp on uncooked ramen noodles or something.

I grit my teeth. 

I parry a succession of strikes from Damian, and I can't handle it anymore. Damian brute force knocked the iron sword - which I had to sharpen, even bought a sharpening stone and everything - out of my hand and onto the wood tile floor, from the mat we had ourselves on. I'm disarmed!

Damian, frustrated and filled with some relief that this was seemingly finally over, smiled. “You're done, you flea-ridden animal.” 

After that comment? Nuh uh. Damian stabs at my chest, and I duck his assault.

“Cease this. I've bested you!” Like a dance, I swerve and let the passion of basic human instinct to live take over me. I flip, twirl, somersault, and everything else. At this point, avoiding attacks physically is almost as natural as avoiding bullet patterns with my SOUL. 

“My blood boils! Admit defeat and… nggh! Just let me win already!” Damian seethes, sounding like the kid he really is, some tears forming at the end of his vision.

‘Winning,’ by his metric, is me laying dead on the floor with my throat slit. Not today. Maybe tomorrow. I am filled with DETERMINATION. and fear.

Dick looks disheveled from the tension of watching me and Damian swing swords at each other. He rises from his chair and does a hand gesture for a technical foul, saying that the match is over. Would it count as a foul for murdering the other players on the court? Wonder what the state of the game would be today if they allowed that little rule in.

Damian does not let up, he is so determined to strike me down he almost slices Dick’s wrist.

Dick, sick of it, swipes his katana out of his distracted hand before he can make any more attempts on my life. Damian glances at his empty, calloused hand, confused.

“It's done.” Dick sternly warns. “You won, Damian. Isn't that enough for you?” That is actually the stupidest question ever. It's Damian, of course it's never enough!

Damian puffs his cheeks, his cheeks red from the exercise of combat. “Of course not! This is mortal combat; If my opponent is alive I've achieved nothing.”

Dick meets him square in the eye. “In normal people land, when you disarm a SPARRING partner of their weapon, you win. Congratulations.” He snarks, throwing the sword off to the side and sassily placing his hands on his hips. 

Normal people don't spar, but that's kinda beside the point.

Rebellion lives on in Damian for a moment. Until suddenly, he widens his eyes somehow, and brings his hands together, like he's begging. He aims his head down, and looks up at Damian, doing his best impression of a puppy dog, or of Oliver Twist or somethin’.

Dick makes a show of looking away, distinguished, “That won't work on me anymore!”

Damian curses, but relents, brooding.

I wipe the sweat with some towels, getting my two senses in, “I agreed to his terms: a fight to the death,” I recall the specific verse… 

“If a man vow a vow unto the LORD, or swear an oath to bind his SOUL with a bond; he shall not break his word, he shall do according to all that proceedeth out of his mouth. Numbers, chapter 30 verse 2.”

“See!?” Damian points to me, validated. It might seem that I have no dignity, backing up an argument that supports my death, but I've done it before so it's not too jarring. Besides, I could've outlasted him. Worked with Flowey!

Dick squeezes his nose bridge.

“Use the religion card, will ya?” Dick makes an unbelieving smile, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “I can't believe you two. Well, I can believe Damian but… Don't kill each other, end of story!… Great. I'm officially turning into dad.”

“Come on. Both of you, grab your gear. The fight was a tie, apparently, because you’re both still alive!” 

As Damian and I grabbed our gear and bags and followed Dick to the limo, we gave each other knowing looks in the hallways of the university.

‘Rematch,’ He signed to me, his hands swift.

I made a thumbs up.

“I can see you two!”

“So?”

“No one cares, Grayson.” 

The former boy wonder sighs a defeated sigh.

💛 

“UNO!” Barbara slams a +4 card on the coffee table, and some cards fall to the floor.

“Oh my gosh!!! How do you always win!?” Steph cries, throwing her cards across the floor and making a mess of things.

“You must’ve pulled that +4 out of your asschecks or something!” Steph seethes.

Cass simply stares at her depressing megadeck of cards in abject defeat.

“Don’t be so salty, girl. You played great!… y’know, around the same level as chimpanzees,” She taunts, pushing up her glasses and flashing a teasing grin.

The witch immediately does a fake, wild cackle before glaring at her. “You're SO funny, bitch. REMATCH!”

“I tap out.” Cass announced softly, like she always does. She's the epitome of ‘speak softly and carry a big stick.’ Unless it's UNO, apparently.

Steph picked up her cards for her. “Don't worry, Cassie. I'll avenge you.” 

“You don't even stand a chance.” Some prime villain dialogue Barbara is spitting, lounging back in her wheelchair. Before long, Babs starts shuffling the cards.

Cass, instead, turns her attention to me. I've just been sitting here the whole time. There's too much room in this house, so I didn't know where to sit. Steph invited me to spectate their UNO matches in the living room.

Cass stares at my notebook. It has all my name ideas.

“What is this?” She asks.

“Superhero code names I've been cooking up.”

“Can I see?”

I lean the notebook towards her. Cass feasts her eyes on my ingenious code names. I analyze her reaction keenly.

The page lists my greatest hits:

.

.

Justice the Kid

Gun Hat (Street name)

Revolver

Deputy Sunset

The Righteous One

Cowboy McCoolFace (BEST ONE)

Dead Eye 

Snipe

No Name

Clover (no one would guess I would go with my real name!!)

She is not very encouraging. “Bad. They are… all bad. No good ones.” She throws the paper on the couch.

“Aw, come on! What makes ya say that?” 

“Should not… have to say this. Can't use… real name.” 

I grumble. I thought it was clever. “Well, what kinda codename is Orphan, then? Ms. Know-it-all.”

Cassie’s face becomes reminiscent, she quietly says, “Orphan was… My biological father’s. He… was bad. He's gone. Don't want to be him. I take that name… because I am- No.  I was his daughter. But that does not mean I can't… be good. I fight… I redeem that name.”

Oh.

“I don't got nothin’ like that.” I remark, discouraged. I'm fresh out of ideas.

“Search your mind… Inspirations. You will find a name. Good names. Promise.” 

I rummage through my mind for some good ideas, my hand on my chin.

I search deep in my memory…

…

I remember the Dark Ruins. I felt so lost. But strangely hopeful. I fought the monsters, but then I befriended them. I didn't know how to feel yet. I was taking this new world in.

One of the first monsters I met. Decibat. He liked some peace and quiet. All I had to do was respect that. I'm a fan of peace and quiet as well, so I did.

That title Decibat crowned me with… And there were also those strange masked angels with flaming swords.

I'm a sentinel; A Soldier of Justice.

…

A big smile forms on my face. 

“The Sentinel of Silence. That's my superhero name.” 

Cass thinks for a moment, before nodding in approval. 

“Thanks!” I unconsciously give her a hug, not catching the look of surprise she gives me. I ran off to report to Mr. Wayne about these developments, hollarin’ behind me, “How fun playing Yu-Gi-Oh or whatever y'all were doin’!”

💛

It's hard to settle when you know you could have more.

I mean. I don't hate using my toy gun. It's nostalgic, in a way. But I'd rather use my wild revolver. Ya know. A REAL gun… kinda. I explained to Mr. Wayne how it differed from a normal firearm, using magic and being similar to a cap gun, though more deadly. But he's a racist towards guns; They're all the same to him. He doesn't know that I have my guns locked in my Dimensional boxes through the smart watch Kanako gave me on Christmas. She really is a lifesaver.

Jason said he'd bring me to a shooting range on Tuesday while Mr. Wayne was busy. Until then, I'm stuck with kid gloves.

I pull the (fake) hammer back. One by one, I empty the entire cylinder, each chamber filled with pebbles I found lying on the floor of the Dark Ruins. Of course, the red solo cups I've set up against the chain link fence didn't stand a chance against my marksmanship.

…I'm getting stir crazy. All work and no gun makes Clover a dull cowboy.

From out of nowhere, up in the sky, a boy lands on the ground, his impact leaving a gust of air in his wake, causing the cups to scatter around the tennis court. His running shoes loudly scrape against the asphalt.

“Oops! Sorry. Didn't mean to knock that over. I'll clean that up.” 

Then, almost instantaneously, he picks up all twenty cups of the ground, and neatly stacks them next to me on the bench, bringing them to me like a dog with a stick.

“I already knocked 'em over, friend.” 

“Oh.” He smiled, sheepish. He ruffles his curly black hair. “It doesn't hurt to help you pick them up anyway, right?” 

“Suppose it doesn't. Thanks.” 

“You're welcome. My name's Jon. What's yours?” 

“Clover. I heard of you. Yer Damians only friend.” That's all I really know about him as a person. Son of the Bat told me that before he went and joined that art club. “The fact he has any is staggering to me.”

“...Damian said we were friends? Wow! That's an upgrade from associate.” He laughs, doing a small impression of him, then quickly forgets that.

 “Anyway, you might have heard about me. My mom's THE Lois Lane. She won a pull lester prize. I don't know what that is, but she's really smart.” He boasts, proud of his mama… I think he means the Pulitzer prize. Lois Lane, I think I read an article by her.

“And uh…” He leans in super close, right up to me, whispering like it's the biggest secret in the world. “My dad's Superman.” Ya know, which it is.

“I heard.” The Man of Steel from Metropolis. Not gonna lie, it's kinda eerie to have a person that powerful standing right in front of you. “Pleasure to be acquainted with ya, pardner.” I gestured for a handshake, not really thinking about what I was doing. 

“Nice to meet you too.” Alarmed for half a second, I silently waited for my arm to come clean off. Jon meets me with a… a very vigorous handshake a little kid gives. Very excited, shaking all the way up and down, really using the whole arm.

But… by the time it's over. I take a good look at my hand. It's completely fine. Just like how I left it.  I didn't know what I expected out of Jon. But I didn't expect a little bundle of energy.

“DAMIAN!” Jon hollers. Goodnight Irene! That is loud.

The game of tennis does not stop for people who can fly around the globe in a few minutes. “What?” Damian answers, not bothering to raise his voice. 

Jon can hear him. “CAN I PLAY?’

“No.” Damian narrowly hits the ball with his racket, making a crack sound.

Jon gasps in despair. “WHY NOT!” Jon makes his own racket.

“You are terrible at tennis.”

“SO? IT'LL BE FUN. BESIDES, I'M SUPERBOY, I CAN DO ANYTHING!”

“Being a Kryptonian does not equate to being adept at sports.” 

Jon whines, much like a dog. Come to think of it, Jon is kind of a dog taken human shape. “FINE. THEN I'LL JUST SIT ON THE BENCH, AND WATCH. AND CRITICIZE, LIKE YOU DO TO ME!” 

“The yelling is not necessary. I am right here.” Damian closes his eyes for a brief second, letting some annoyance pass him by. Once again, the tennis ball is thrown by Mr. Pennyworth's racket to his side. He lost.

Damian slumps a bit. “Tt.”

“Jolly good show, Master Damian. I am the victor. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some errands to run.” Mr. Pennyworth says, surprisingly fit, and striding towards the manor proper.

That butler always says that. But I'm starting to believe that he's not always running off to do errands when he says he's off to do errands.

Damian comes up to Jon and I. “Good job sabotaging my game. Now what do you want?” 

“Hop on Fortnite. Dad bought me the newest skins.”

Damian gives him a thousand yard stare. “Did you seriously fly all the way across the Delaware bay just to convince me to take part in childish diversions? Infantile.”

Jon rolls his eyes, “You're a kid too!”

Damian has a brief moment of clarity, maybe some self awareness, before relapsing. “...Roblox is more fun.” 

“That game’s for babies. I'm sick of playing on obbies!”

“Your father wears underwear over his pants.” 

“So does yours!” 

Damian is fond of arguing with everyone, it seems. “Can you two shut up?” I mumbled.

“This doesn't concern you, Eastwood!” 

“Um, Is that your new sibling?” Jon finally asks, his curious blue eyes finding mine.

“No. They're my personal servant father picked up off the streets.” 

“There's not enough money in the world for me to pick up after your nasty ass.” Damian is actually obsessive about cleanliness, but that doesn't make for a good insult. I think time around the bat family has honed my insult repertoire. Martlet would be proud!

“Clearly, Father has lost all standards. Nevertheless, I don't want to play video games.” He mutters, like a brat. Damian was moody all day. Skylar was out sick and he got into his feelings about it. When he's like this he likes to be alone with his animals. So emotional… I roll my eyes. “I am going to the barn.” 

Jon squeals. “Can I ride on Goliath!? Come on, I'm your best friend, ya gotta let me!’ 

“Regretfully, you are. Come along, then.” 

💛 

It isn't fair.

Damian is allowed to keep DEMONS in the estate. But God forbid, a measly gun? Ohhh no! That's too far. Your second amendment rights don't extend to my property! Mr. Wayne has strange priorities. How that boy thinks he isn't given special treatment dumbfounds me.

Laying on the grass, my hat draped over my eyes, I see Damian and Jon riding Goliath in the corner of my eye. Damian looks content for once, and Jon is laughing like all his dreams have come true. The ground rumbles slightly as the big red bat plays in the flower grounds. Mr. Pennyworth's gonna get mad that all of the plants got crushed.

…Heh. Look at em. Reminds me of that tape I heard. Of Chujin getting fired because one of Axis’ predecessors shot up the King's flowers.

…Never really liked plants anyway.

The man-bat demon looks up at his owner, riding Damian around. Jon hangs off the beast's chains, like a monkey on vines.

I'm bored. I'm gonna practice my harmonica skills.

Reaching into my dimensional wallet and pulling out my harmonica, I take a good look at it. It's so nice looking… that blue finish on the wood. And the yellow heart on the cover plate. Martlet put a lot of effort into this.

I miss her. I miss everyone.

To quell these feelings, I gotta do a song!

But what tune should I play…

“Some broken hearts never mend…”

Nah. I've done that one enough already.

“There is a house in New Orleans, they called the Rising Sun…” 

Good song, but no. I wanna do something original, a tune I haven't performed before.

I reminisce to when I was just revived, and I saw the angels in their choir, singing a tune. That song they played. It's always eluded me. I try to remember how it goes.

I bring the harmonica to my lips, and try to replicate it from memory.

I play that song. It reminds me… strangely, of Flowey. Being brought back to life so many times by him, and not even knowing it.

The notes play into the wind, and my memories are too powerful for me to continue playing.

I place the harmonica back in my wallet.

I lay back down on the grass, feeling at peace.

…

I'm suddenly inundated with the sound of… horse nickering in my ear? It's a deep sound.

I get my hat out of my eyes, and-

Mother of God! That's a whole horse! The horse sticks its muzzle in my face. I got my lackadaisical self off the grass, staring in reverence as I scanned this animal.

Her coat is all black. I don't know specific horse breeds, but I know she's pretty young, and from what I see, she is a she. The filly has a strong stance, she looks almost to be showing off or flexing, standing before me.

Her hair is black as well, glistening under the sun. Strange enough, she's equipped to the nines. A whole fitted saddle on her, secured around her torso. She even has a bridle on! 

Where did this… beautiful animal come from? 

I approach her carefully, though she seems less than threatened by my presence. “Howdy, little miss. Look at you…”

I hover my hand near her shoulder, unsure of myself. Contrary to any expectation I had, she immediately moves closer to me, nudging me and making little noises. She… likes me? I thought it took a whole lot more than that to get a horse to tolerate you. Maybe she's just affectionate.

“Oh! Heh.” I respond in kind, brushing her hair and rubbing her flank. “Do you belong to someone else? I didn't know Mr. Wayne had horses.”

If Mr. Wayne kept this majestic animal from me, I'm doing terrible things to him.

After a round of practical cuddling, the horse takes a step away from me, like she has something important to show. She gestures behind her.

“Hey, what's the matter? Heh, ‘hay.’ Pardon the pun.”

She bristles at my joke. No appreciation for comedy in this house.

The filly lets out a neigh, but it's an annoyed neigh. She has an attitude about her. She turns to the side, seemingly gesturing to her saddle, impatient.

“Is something irritating you?”

HARK! FOR THY FATHER SPEAKS. THIS IS MY REWARD FOR YOUR LOYALTY IN ME, AND THE ADORABLE LITTLE PORTRAIT YOU POSTED ON SOCIAL MEDIA. 

Adorable? I groan.

THIS HORSE IS YOURS. NAME HER, AS SHE BE AN EXTENSION OF THYSELF.

Wha- She's MINE?

I launch myself towards the powerful horse, hugging her neck and nudging her. I breathe in the earthy smell of her… it's so comforting. Gah! I can barely stand to stare at her, I'm so excited! “I always wanted a horse.”

From some of my earliest memories, memories I couldn't recollect or understand, I was riding on a horse in a strange ranch I can't remember for the life of me.

“Look at you! Yer incredible. Aintcha?” I leap some more praise on her, and she makes a whinny sound, which I think is a good sign. Look at those strong legs… and that tail.

I don't know if I really deserve this. But I ain't gonna look a gift horse in the mouth.

“I wanna ride you! Can I?” 

Again, she gestures to the saddle with her head. She seems antsy.

Hm… how to mount the horse? This isn't a movie, I can't just jump on top of the poor girl! I lead the girl by the reigns towards a small rock, where I can properly mount her. I climbed on top of the thing, and lined her up. I - hopefully gently - mounted her and had my legs in the stirrups.

“Giddy up.” Look at me! I'm sitting on a horse. I pet her, feeling so proud. Something primordial within me swells, like a part of my SOUL is eased. Is this that self-actualization thing I heard about from Tim? If so, it feels pretty great.

I don't really know what I'm doing. Starlo’s told me a little from his training when he first got to the surface, and I try to remember his diatribe. I've also watched a lot of videos and guides (western movies) over the years.

From what I know, riding a horse takes a lot of physical power. Horses are strong as all get out, and expect a lot from you. I've gotten a bit stronger the last few months… training does wonders!

I keep the right position, kneeling almost. I squeeze my legs, and the girl walks off, and I relax. She walks around in this flat stretch of grass, I just so happened to be chillin’ beside.

For almost an hour, all I did was ride around with my horse. This MIGHT BE… one of the best times of my whole life. I was so happy with myself. This only certifies my true blue cowboy status. Now NO ONE can deny it. Got me a horse an’ everything!

So I'm steering her around, having the time of my life. As you do.

But as I run her a little faster, I suddenly realize I'm leading her to jump over a fence gate nearby, nowhere near the little clearing I had to ride her around.

I don't think she's grown enough to do that! But she doesn't care, she does what she wants.

My heart nearly flies out of my chest when she jumps an impossible height above the fence, higher than she should be capable of.

My hold of her reigns faltered and I fell off her.

While I'm in the middle of my journey to the cold hard ground - considering my very poor judgement skills - something caught me in the air like I was a football.

“Careful!” 

I feel buff arms covered up by a suit jacket holding my torso. I look down at the ground, to what was supposed to be my doom. I'm floating.

I look up to find Superman - or Clark, as everyone in the house called him - with a friendly expression on his face. He has short curly hair and a dorky pair of glasses, and a farmer's tan. He kinda reminds me of Starlo. Except way more muscular. Sorry Star.

“You almost fell there. Are you okay?” He asks, genuinely concerned, floating down to the ground. He sets me down gently, and I hear the powerful footsteps of my horse coming towards me, and she nudges my face, almost apologizing. I'm miffed at my noble steed for a moment, but as I look at her face I can't keep it up. I run my hands through her hair, accepting the apology.

Sometimes I swear animals have SOULS just as people do. I checked, and their ‘souls’ are kinda… weak. Kinda like Flowey, in that they have strong physical forms but very very weak SOULs. (Despite Flowey’s claims that he himself has absolutely no SOUL whatsoever.)

I comfort her, and look up at the man who saved me from broken limbs.

“I'm mighty fine, thanks to yer efforts.” I'm embarrassed at my failure, but it's not his fault, so I don't complain to him.

“Good to hear.” He smiles wide, before his attention is enraptured by the beautiful animal next to me. His breath is caught in his throat for a second. “Is that- I didn't know Brucie kept horses in his manor.” 

“He didn't, I don't think. I played a special song on my harmonica and she just… asserted herself.” Did she… hear my song? And come rushing to me? Like in a fairy tale. Gotta say, God really outdid Himself with this one.

“Wow! Can… Can I pet her? If it's alright with you.” He giggles, giddy to just lay eyes on her, buzzing with excitement. He acts like Jon. Which makes sense, because he's his pa and all.

“Go ahead.” 

But before he can, she startles back, letting out a squeal. She stands still, untrusting of him.

“Ope. I spooked her.” He isn't bothered that much.

What's wrong? “She was all fine cuddling up with me! That's Superman, ya know. He ain't gonna do ya dirty. Promise.” I reprimand her behavior, playing with her pretty hair. She lowers her head, her aggressive attitude disappearing.

She looks at me like I'm crazy.

“She only trusts you.” 

I aim the reporter a confused stare.

“Horses get attached, kid! It's nothing personal to me. She just might not trust people… except you, obviously. Maybe you have a bond with her.”

Wow… I never thought I would share a bond with a horse! My eyes sparkle with wonder. “Well, Mr. Kents a nice guy. He saves people from collapsing skyscrapers and downed airplanes. He ain't gonna hurt you.”

The horse looks back at Mr. Kent. 

Mr. Kent blushes, and responds modestly, “Oh, I just don't want people to get hurt, y'know?” Confident that she has a little faith in him, he goes for it again.

…She wearily leans into his touch, letting out a few contented sighs.

Mr. Kent really gets into it. While he is, I start to wonder. “You're a natural, mister.” 

“Ma would have my head if I wasn't. When I was growing up, back in Smallville… I could tell my darkest secrets to the horses on the ranch! I trust them, obviously, but sometimes other people can get a little exhausting, even for a guy like me. My happiest memories are feeding the horses out in Kansas.”

Kansas? I absentmindedly remarked, “I thought you were from outer space or somethin’ of that nature.” I scratch my head.

Oops. Just blurted that one out. Is that racist to say? Mr. Kent doesn't seem offended, careful with the horse’s tail. “Yes, I was born on Krypton. But my home is Earth.”

“…Hmm. Oh uh, I didn't mean nothing by that, it's just, never met an alien before. Sorry.” Shame creeping into my words, I hid my eyes behind my hat and glanced away from the awkward situation.

“You hum just like Bruce! How cute is that?” He brings his hands to his mouth, gushing.

My thought process is disrupted. What!? No I don't… now that he mentions it, I have been developing a habit of it…I mean, I just did it. gah!

“Leave me alone,” I blush, suddenly forgetting the tension that existed before.

Mr. Kent, who might not be as nice as I thought, chuckles heartily. “Sorry, sorry. Not a nice feeling to be compared to others, I know. It's just… You're a mystery to me. Bruce doesn't like to gossip or talk about himself… or anything, really.”

“He hasn't told you a thing about me?”

“Nope.”

Mr. Wayne named Mr. Kent his most trusted associate, and still... I have to admit, I sorta appreciate that habit of his. I'm not a fan of being gossiped about.

“Hm.” There I go, humming like Mr. Wayne. I need to stomp that down. “I’m Clover.”

Mr. Kent tilts his head. “Huh?”

“That's my name. Clover Eastwood.”

Mr. Kent stares at me. Then, he chuckles lightly. He likes to laugh a lot. He's a happy-go-lucky kinda guy. “He's told me your name, at least! Well, my name's Clark. Nice to meet you.”

“Pleasure meeting yours.”

For a while, me and Mr. Kent takes turns petting and giving affection to this majestic animal. She has forgotten her mistrust of him, and looks to be enjoying herself a little too much.

“This beautiful ebony coat…” I overhear Mr. Kent mumble softly as he does his thing.

This little comment unlocked a memory. 

I would watch old VHS tapes of Lone Ranger episodes until they decayed into bits of useless tape, when I very very young. It was… very formative. Cowboy stories gave me a sense of hope… when it seemed like nobody truly cared. Sitting in front of old CRTs and trying to get some rest after a long day of taking care of the youngins while Mr. Yeager was off drunk somewhere…

In the show, Tonto christened the Lone Ranger’s stallion Silver, so named cuz of his complexion.

Ebony.

💛

“It was very nice meeting you, Mr. Kent.”

“Same to you, Clover! If you need any help with Ebony or learning to ride, give me a call.”

“Be seein’ you.” I give the man of steel finger guns and a wink.

He responds in kind. His version is a little clunky, cuz though he's a country boy, he's not a cowboy. Two related but ultimately separate species of person. Starlo is very insistent on this.

“Clark.” Mr. Wayne suddenly appears before Mr. Kent and Jon can leave. Well, Jon's talking Damian’s ear off about something or another, so I don't think he's eager to get home.

“Oh! Mornin’, Bruce. How are ya?” Mr. Kent is excited to see him, and gives him a big smile and a wave.

“What's your game here?” Mr. Wayne sounds bothered by something. A glare, intensified by dark circles under his eyes, is accompanied with a growly, accusatory tone.

Mr. Kent, like his skin, seems impervious to Mr. Wayne's attacks. He laughs gently, “I didn't bring any games along with me.” 

“What're you having for dinner tonight? Just curious.”

Mr. Kent’s eyebrows raise at the question, and he considered for a moment, “Well, Lois’ parents are coming over. Hopefully bulgogi is on the menu tonight.”

Mr. Wayne stares blankly at him. Clark gives Mr. Wayne an accompanying gaze filled with confusion. He adjusts his glasses, clarifying pointlessly, “Uh. It's delicious. It's a Korean barbequed-”

“I know what bulgogi is, Clark.”

Mr. Wayne continues to stare at Mr. Kent, so close their chests are almost touching, which isn't saying much because they're both super jacked. 

Strange energy between the two of them. I give Damian a look, and we both stare at each other, confused. Jon stares and smiles like a golden retriever.

“...You're such a silly goose, Bruce! Nice seeing you, old friend.”

They both leave the house. Damian goes off to do his homework. “Father confuses me, sometimes.”

Something something, pots and kettles.

Mr. Wayne watched the door close bitterly.

…

Mr. Wayne swerved over to me. “I saw you riding that horse with Clark.”

Huh? Oh yeah!

Thinking about the horse got me excited again. “Yeah! It was terrific. Her name's Ebony. I was thinking that I could ride her on the streets of Gotham, like you ride in the Batmobile. Wouldn't that be swell, Mr. Wayne?”

“...Yes.” He barely seemed to register my request, but I'm gonna keep him to it. Regardless…

That just made my day! I threw my hat into the air, jumping up and down like a cheerleader. “Hoo-wee! I could catch criminals with my lasso, and she could do a rearing pose, and I’d look so cool. Ebony is so passionate and expressive, and feisty! Mr. Kent gave me his phone number if I needed tips about grooming or any other horse care techniques. He's a nice fella.”

Mr. Wayne looks gutted by my response, his hand retreating into his coat pocket. “I- I'm glad you like Clark. He's a good friend of mine.”

I thought he was his most trusted associate?

“You are looking positively green with envy, Master Bruce.” Mr. Pennyworth points out, dusting some expensive case filled with trophies nearby. The little cat named after him hangs off of his suit, and the butler is seemingly unbothered.

“It's not fair, Alfred. Every time someone new comes around, he visits and suddenly becomes their favorite! He must be doing it on purpose.” Mr. Wayne has never seemed bothered by petty things like this. Hm.

“You're my favorite superhero, Mr. Wayne.” 

“I- Really?”

I nod seriously. “I know so, sir.”

Mr. Wayne comes up to me, and pats me on the shoulder. He tries to hide a smile of his. “You don't have to say that.”

Mr. Pennyworth looks on. I think I heard him complain vaguely about another animal to take care of while feeding his namesake some Meow Mix.

💛 

“Wouldja look at that…”

“I know right?” 

Jason finally found the time to bring me out to a indoor shooting range. He has a little facility in his warehouse where we won't be disturbed. I was already shaking with excitement at all the cool swords and weapons in his room, let alone what I see before me now.

Look at this pegboard… This wall is crawling with guns! I study the modified M16s and AKs, and other automatic weapons. “Nice! Uzis…”

“A bit outdated, but I like them.”

I also take a gander at the magazines hung up next to their accompanying Hi-Capas, Jericho 941s, and Desert Eagles. I hesitate to touch them. They're all so beautiful… He even has a Benelli M4!

“This is elite, I'll say. You got a real arsenal.” I can only dream of having something like this…

Various rags, bore brushes, and other cleaning utensils for the good name of gun maintenance are on the table below the pegboard, on standby. On the floor are two crates. One, I can already see, is full of ammo: .22s, 5.56s, .357 mags, the works.

But the crate next to it intrigued me. “What's that one filled with?” I pointed it out.

“Explosives.”

“Wow…” An amazed grin grows on my face, and I can only think of all the time spent away from my favorite weapon. I laugh a little, and say, “Mr. Wayne would hate everything about this.”

“Yup.” Jason revels in that. “Why do you think I have so many?”

“None of this is illegal, right?” 

I look behind me, and see the other Jason trembling as he takes in the beauty before him.

I finally got to talk to the skinnyboy, after months of school, training, and other stuff. When Jason 2 came over, he was in another big fight with his gambling buddy. Before I could interject, Jason 1 stormed out. So… I figured this would be a fun way to spend the day!

I look at him suspicious. “Whatre you, a fed?”

“What? N-No!” Jason A. (A. standing for Ahmad) mumbles, stepping back and nearly hitting a lightbulb hanging above.

“Then don't worry your head over it. C’mon, it'll be heaps of fun.” I gesture for him to come and join me, scrolling through my smartwatch to open the dimensional boxes and pulling out my super shotgun. If I brought my bag Mr. Wayne would suspect something.

“Well, I'll be upstairs working.” Jason T. carefully hid his less than legal activities outside of Jason A’s view. Besides the guns, of course. “Don't break anything. Besides the targets, obviously.” He winks, and moves on upstairs. The other Jason stares after him, strangely entranced by something.

“God look at those beefy thighs…” 

I considered shooting him.

Anyways, Jason A. and I spent the next hour shooting. I felt like I was gonna pass out from how exhilarating it was to finally use my guns after MONTHS of feeling neutered. Star’s gift worked like a charm. The powerful punch of a shotgun is something else. I almost felt like the recoil was hurling me back. The little men on the shooting targets at the end of the range were eviscerated! I kept my aim sure and true, and held my breath as I released the trigger, the paper target falling to the floor. Gonna have to clean that up.

I blow out some of the smoke leaving my Super Shotgun. I breathe it in, and there's nothing like the smell of burning! I take off my ear muffs. “There's nothin’ like it!” 

I listen for a second. I don't hear anything. Getting worried, I leave my little cubicle thingy to check up on Jason.

He's… just holding the dinky little glock, incorrectly might I add, staring straight ahead like a petrified animal. I look at the target, and there's not a single hole in it. He's literally just been standing here doing nothing. It's slightly concerning. “Not to yer tastes, huh?”

The tension leaves Jason’s body. “No… It's too loud, too intense. I'm not really macho like that, I guess.” He takes off the muffs, leaving them on the little cubicle table.

Macho? Now what does that have to do with anything? I don't voice this confusion. I hate asking so many darn questions.

I sigh, trying to put myself in his shoes. “Well… s’not fer everybody. I suppose it was rude to do something only I would care about. What’re you feelin’?”

“...” 

💛 

Elizabeth (or Bell, as he calls herself) has her feet glued to the forest floor, the cold Washington air blowing through her jacket. “I know what you are.” She says it very breathily, like every single other line in the movie so far. Is that just how she talks?

Edward is very weird. That's all I have to say about him. I lean back into Jason T.’s  brown coach, letting the cushions envelop me.

“Iconic. Gosh I haven't watched Twilight in years… movies haven't aged that well honestly.”

“Strange ideas about vampires, this franchise.” Dalv doesn't shine like a gem in the sun! He gets really sick, and needs to lather on sunscreen! And sometimes catches on fire. I find it offensive.

If Jason A. was paying more attention, he would have caught onto what I said. The Starbucks barista leans in to see the screen better, and I sigh.

I agreed to watch all of these god forsaken movies. I refuse to admit I'm kinda getting into it.

While we're watching, the other Jason walked out of the bathroom, idling near the TV. “Twilight, huh?” 

“Yup.”

Jason T. stands there for a moment, watching with us, before getting bored. “This movie sucks.” He then turns around and farts, showing a middle finger.

I wince. “Ew!! You're demented!” I threw a rubber ball as he retreated back into his work station, laughing like a prick. Jason A. looks on in horror and confusion.

💛 

It is the holy days.

Just a week ago, God called me to bed and laid down a couple rules for me.

First, He said that he didn't like that I was eating things like bacon, pork, ham, cheeseburgers, shrimp, lobster, none of that. He said it was ‘abominable.’ He didn't really elaborate on... WHY that is the case, he just insisted those foods were nasty. Maybe God just finds them icky.

Less strange, he also said that eating meat from animals that were tortured was forbidden, as well as meat with too much blood in it. 

God had said that I was to partake in a few holidays, such as Passover. The holiday celebrates freedom of the Hebrews from slavery in Egypt.

When I told Mr. Wayne of this development, he seemed a bit surprised. Cause, y'know. I'm not Hebrew.

I actually didn't know that Mr. Wayne was a Hebrew, or at least on his mother's side. Mr. Wayne is not a religious man, at all. But Kate Kane, as I have learned, is his cousin on his mother's side. Yeah! She's into 'Reform Judaism.' He said that he could set up something.

So we went to the theater mansion, and watched a movie called The Prince of Egypt. Now that I think of it, I swear Kanako mentioned the movie.

It was a great movie… Um, I remember… my eyes waterin’ at the part where the first born of Egypt were… yeah. Some eye water might have contaminated my egg tortilla. There were some inaccuracies, but it was a good movie.

Anyhow, It was fun to get to know Kate a little better. I glanced at the dog tags hanging around her neck. Apparently she was in the military, but they kicked her out. I don't really understand why. Imagine having a superhero fighting FOR the military… Actually, that's probably a horrible idea.

After the movie, Kate said that a lot of her people didn't understand the message of the story and that they treated others like how the Egyptians treated them back then. I didn't really understand, but I suppose she would know better than I would.

Anyway, I'm looking forward to Easter.

💛 

“Hah! Pussy.” 

The video plays off of Mrs. Washington’s phone. The video is filmed from behind my head. I didn't know someone was recording. She holds it firm, her expression: unimpressed. The afternoon sun beams into through the window, a golden haze hitting the wooden decor of the headmaster’s office.

The eponymous headmaster watches the footage gravely, sweat pouring profusely down his face. He looks at the concerned, but calm air emanating off Mr. Wayne… and the steam coming out of the lady's ears, the little brat in the video’s mama.

“Mngh.” Nick, the little bastard.  He had been bothering me nonstop in Spanish. I think Mrs. Washington forced him to move away from his friend group so he decided picking on me would keep him occupied.

“Whatcha gonna do about it? Ha ha.” 

I was trying to do my Spanish assignment, and at first it was nothing. He tried to make conversation with me, and I was tired at the end of the day, and maybe I was a bit rude and dismissive of him. But when I responded in that way, he must have taken it as some sort of challenge and made it his mission to piss me off for real.

Usually I try to keep my temper in check. If people are rude to me I either ignore them or throw the same energy back at them, but the former strategy wasn't working, because he could see how bothered I was getting, and that amused him.

The video drags on a bit more after that, more of Nick's routine of shoving me, calling me names, etc.

During Nick's ‘roast session’, however, he said something strange. 

He poked me in the side of my head, and I pushed his hand away from me. “Piss off.” 

“Try cutting off your pony-tail, fag- oh shit.” It seemed that he didn't mean for that one to slip out.

Now, before this incident I was not exactly familiar with ‘fag’, though I may have heard it once or twice? I don't remember. Did a little research, and apparently fag is British slang for a cigarette. Maybe he was calling me skinny? What does cigarettes have to do with having a ponytail? I'm not familiar with this universe's slang.

At that, the mother's expression shifts slightly; She hides a bare fragment of embarrassment. Stubbornly, she only looks more determined.

Apparently fag is a right nasty word, because Mr. Wayne’s easy-going persona is wiped from his face. The headmaster had his head in his hands. He must be worried about losing funding him. Mrs. Washington only shakes her head.

“Yo…” The girl recording the video says, and she is not alone in her feelings. The other kids in class gasped, and Nick’s expression changed. He looks around, worried about all the looks he's getting. Mrs Washington had gone to the bathroom, and during the break Nick had gotten brave.

In the video, I looked about, perplexed both over this new word and my nearby classmates’ reactions to it. I simply shaked my head and whispered, “What the hell does ‘fag’ mean?” Perhaps Nick took this as pressing him.

Nick looks backed into a corner, figuratively. “Wait, I didn't mean… uh, I meant that... Shit…” Floundering, he pulled one extra trick from his sleeve. He quickly changed gears, reforming the “self assured asshat” expression he wore at the start of the video. He wears it well. 

He looked to his friends for approval, who were laughing quietly in the back and said, “Why're you so mad, huh? It's just a word. All you Wayne kids are so sensitive. Did he touch you or something? I bet that's why he adopts so many of you.”

Most of the class was giving the attention Nick wanted so bad, and I could hear their amusement at the scene in the background. I think I can hear his dumb friends laughing in the background of the video.

In the present moment, I sit down quietly on the chair, steaming mad as a bull, gnashing my teeth but trying to compose myself. The headmaster isn't taking the scene well.

In the video, I did not react. I gave him the most intense stare I could. “...Excuse you?”

Nick does a little laugh, sounding like a seal being choked. “Oh, so you're the exception. Maybe he thinks you're too ugly to molest.”

Before Sherlock could go any further with that ingenious deduction, I dropped the worksheet and suddenly jumped out of my seat and tackled him to the floor, catching him by surprise.

The camera girl gets out of her seat to record me beating down on him. An equal amount of force each punch, with sure strikes to the facial area, just like how Mr. Wayne taught me. Nick attempted to hit back or tear my hand from his collar, but I kept hanging above him, dispensing Justice to his stupid face, careful to use just enough force to make it hurt without going far enough as to break anything.

The classroom erupts into chaos, and the video ends abruptly for whatever reason. I would think that the camera girl would try to get the ending.

The headmaster’s office is as quiet as a funeral. Mrs. Washington, the teacher who separated us, puts her phone back in her designer purse. Staring at both of us. She reports, “After I returned to class, I found Clover standin’ over Nickolas. They said they…  ‘roughed em up.’” She does finger quotes.

Nick's face is swollen slightly, and marked with several bruises around his nose and black eyes acting as an underliner. He looks down at the floor, sullen. Despite the UNFORGIVABLE things he accused Mr. Wayne of… I flinch as I look at what I did to his face. His mother is seething with fury.

“I reported it to the front office. They both came along peacefully. And here we are.”

“...Uhm. Thank you, that'll be all, Mrs. Washington.” 

With that, the Spanish teacher grabs her purse and walks out of the headmasters office. I whisper a quick apology to her for causing a ruckus in her class.

“Don't sweat it, hon.” She whispered, closing the door behind her.

The silence can only live for so long.

“I'm suing.” The lady announced to the world.

“Hey! Hey now, that's… completely unnecessary. Uh, let's not make any rash decisions… that could get me fired and GA’s funding cut into ribbons.” This headmaster, with his people pleasing nature and conciliatory tone, reminds me of Asgore. 

The lady grumbles before he continues. “Now, we can all agree that at least… SOME blame can be placed on both parties here, so why don't we-” 

“WHAT DID YOU SAY ABOUT MY MUCHACHITO!?” She screeches, holding Nick's head against her like a bear would her cub. 

“Mrs. Alvarez, please…” The headmaster's pitiful attempt at easing the situation also reminds me of Asgore.

“No! This school and its favoritism for Bruce Wayne and his money has gone far enough. I want real justice for my son.” The mother cries out emotionally, eyes swelling with… crocodile tears, it seems like.

“Your son hurled slurs… at my ward. Either he takes after you or you haven't done enough. Playing victim won't get you far.” Mr. Wayne grits his teeth, his steely gaze tightened. His usual public persona is forgotten.

Mrs. Alvarez sqwacks. “Playing-? LOOK at my son's face, yanqui! He's not hateful! He's just a little boy who said the wrong thing. Don't talk to ME about parenting.”

“Mom, stop… they didn't-” Nick attempted to speak up, but got quieted down by his mother with a strong hush.

“Not now, mijo.” 

Mr. Wayne looks at Nick's messed up face and gains resolve. “Clover will be punished for what they've done.” He aims a pointed look at me, and I look away in shame and intimidation. “And I will pay for Nicholas's recovery or any fees.”

“What punishment? A couple of weeks with no video games? Please. Money can't finesse you out of this one, Wayne. No, I won't rest until that angry little boy is out of this school.” The woman gave me an icy cold glare only an angry mother could give, holding Nick's head against her lovingly.

Mr. Wayne's sharp gaze hardens, and he states plainly, “Clover will not have THEIR future stolen from them.”

Isn't the headmaster supposed to be doing something? The man's eyes bulge out of his sockets at the rapidly escalating situation. He waves his hands in the air, trying to get both adults' attention. 

“H-Hey, hey! Look, let's not get ahead of ourselves… either of you… please. N-Now, we don't want this to snowball out of control or anything… so why don't we make it fair? Clover and Nicholas will each receive two-week, out of school suspensions, and we can just… pretend this never happened! Sounds good, yeah?” 

…Silence.

“...So my son will be rewarded for having his face brutalized during class time with a permanent mark on his record?” 

The large man wrings his hands together. “Ya know… when you say it like that…”

“I WON'T REST UNTIL MY BOY GETS THE JUSTICE SORELY NEEDED IN THIS MORALLY BANKRUPT CITY. I hope you have good lawyers, because I will strip this school down to its foundations!” Mrs. Alvarez grabs Nick's hand and storms out, swearing revenge.

“It's always the Wayne kids, isn't it…” The headmaster mutters, and Mr. Wayne sighs. I sat there, not knowing what to do with myself.

💛 

Mr. Wayne sits beside me in the back seat of Mr. Pennyworth's limo. From pretty much the moment we entered the car, he began to lecture me.

“I did not train you so you can unleash your anger on civilians. I wanted you to channel that spirit you have into worthwhile endeavors. Not this.” He gesticulated fiercely, desperate to get his point across to me. I cross my arms, tired of this conversation.

“That's stupid, Mr. Wayne! Didn't you hear the things he said? I couldn't let that stand. I have more honor than that.” I finally reply, furrowing my brow.

Mr. Wayne slightly grimaces and leans in, trying to get a good look at me. A sympathetic expression grows, and he says delicately, “I… I know that word… and the effects it has… of marginalizing, and making people feel small, and alien. But…you can't-” 

“What are you talkin’ about? What word?” I interrupted, demanding an explanation, forgetting that aspect of this whole situation.

“I- Y'know. That word. The F-word.” Mr. Wayne explains, uncomfortably and clumsily.

“Fuck?”

“Language, sir!” Mr. Pennyworth pipes up in the driver's seat, and I hastily apologize.

“No. The other one… that I'm not allowed to say.” He responds sheepishly, looking away from me.

“...oh. Fag?” 

He nods, uncomfortable, and Mr. Pennyworth does not chastise me this time. Is fag really that offensive of a word? I mean, cigarettes aren't that bad. There's a whole lotta propaganda out there about how smoking is bad for you, but Clint Eastwood always had a blunt in his mouth and he's a badass! Pssh. ‘Cancer’. Yeah right. Cancer from being so cool, maybe.

But I digress. I scoff at Mr. Wayne's foolishness, crossing my arms again. “I'm ain't talking about some lame name-calling, mister. I… Those awful things he said about you!” 

Mr. Wayne whispers gently, perplexed over the course this conversation is going. “Me…?”

“Yes!” I clench my eyes shut, my anger finally being let out. “That boy accused you of the most heinous things, in front of the whole class. He… he…” I start shaking. The thought of Mr. Wayne, the man who houses me, feeds me, trains me, protects me, nourishes me, and guides me, being accused of such atrocities…

“What was I supposed to do, huh!? Just take that? No! Cowboys don't let people badmouth the people they care about, EVER! Besides, it wasn't like I was tryna kill him, I made sure to not overdo it, like ya taught me!” Shamefully, my heart rate on the smartwatch beeps, undercutting my spiel, and Mr. Wayne takes my hand, and squeezes it. I squeeze back. 

For a moment, the limo is silent, before Mr. Wayne gathers his thoughts.

“Clover. I'm a public figure. That means that people will believe and say whatever they want about me, because they don't know me. And well, I am a billionaire, so it's not exactly…” He sighs, trying to lay it out for me. “It's unimportant what they think. What matters is what I do, not the image I give to the world. Not even when I'm wearing the mask.”

“So what, people can say you're a savage right in my face, and I'm just supposed to stand there and take it?” I bitterly look out the window, staring at the skyscrapers of the Gotham skyline. Mr. Pennyworth must be taking the scenic route.

“This isn't what I trained you for Clover. You know that. These skills are meant for criminals… not bullies.”

…He's right.

I looked back at Mr. Wayne and I couldn't meet his eyes. “I… I just- It's not right.” I said, small tears left at the edges of my vision. Maybe I am too sensitive.

Mr. Wayne hums, holding me close.

I was grounded for the first time in my life.

💛 

“Oy. Hands off, sir.”

I fiddle with the collar of my suit, much more constrictive than I thought it would be. “It's too tight, Mr. Pennyworth…” 

“You'll be accustomed, master Clover. Now, come along…” 

There's a first time for everything. And as punishment for punching that Nick kid in school, Mr. Wayne said I HAD to come along with him at some gala. Frankly, I don't really know what a gala is. Sounds like a sea creature or something.

But I don't have a suit. Which I needed, because of course I had to… can't just wear what I want. Mr. Pennyworth insisted on a ‘bespoke’ suit, made special for me. So he brought me to a tailor.

The bald man - who seemed to be quite friendly with Mr. Pennyworth - had to measure me. Mr. Pennyworth explained that they were good buddies in his MI6 days. So on top of being a butler, Mr. Pennyworth used to be James Bond or something.

Anyway, the tailor measured my chest, and the man gave me a 30 inch black suit jacket. Lots of talk of ‘curvature’ and ‘silhouettes’. Shoulder lengths, a flat lapel, seams… at a certain point I just zoned out.

Mr. Pennyworth brought me to a mirror, and I looked at what has become of me. I wear a navy merino suit, with accompanying dress pants. Mr. Pennyworth got me dress shoes that matched my ‘chestnut’ colored hair. Yeah, chestnut, that's what he called it. Far as I knew, my hair was just brown, but that's nice to know, I suppose. I check out my watch through the glass, and I feel strange.

I tear my gaze from my clothes, and stare at my face. My resting face is the same as it ever is… my “unthinking, dead-eyed and gormless” expression, as Mr. Resting-bitch-face (Damian) calls it. My face is marked with the vestiges of two slashes to my cheek. I tell people it was a stray cat.

Despite the suit, despite my fancy room, the fancy watch, the limo I took to get here, the prestigious academy I attend… It's still me.

“Not enjoying yourself, sir?” Though my face doesn't change much, Mr. Pennyworth can tell. He's an actor; he's trained to notice slight tells in expression and body language and such.

“M’ fine, mister,” I mumbled, lost in my own mind.

Mr. Pennyworth's lidded eyes tell the tale of a man who is simply done. “I have half a mind to eradicate the word ‘fine’ from the English vernacular.”

“W-What?”

The secret agent sighs, “Master Clover… Why, in the name of the Lord, are you giving puppy-dog eyes in the mirror?”

I balk at such a description! “Wha- Puppy-dog! Excuse you, mister, I don't give off… I'm incapable of that.”

“Would you like photographic evidence?”

I scoff, crossing my arms, feeling the fine material of the suit, admittedly soothing me. I always like smooth-to-the-touch fabrics… “I was probably squinting, lookin’... Cool and stuff, like a cowboy. Y'know, which I am.” 

After a beat, Mr. Pennyworth simply chuckles like a gentleman. “As you say, sir.” He sighs, like I'm just a strange character. He looks down at me, and wraps his hand around my shoulder. “My word… you have come quite a ways, haven't you?”

“Yeah.”

“I don't even need to remind you to bathe anymore. You're positively glowing, sir.” 

Mr. Pennyworth smirks, but when he sees my expression in the mirror, his tune changes. “Oh, forgive me. Was that insensitive? I simply meant to poke fun… have I been a bully?”

“Naw. It's just…” I struggle to let out how I really feel… but the tailor guy isn't here right now. It's only me and Mr. Pennyworth… and God, but that's neither here nor there.

“I feel like I'm playing a character. This…” I gesture to my suit, “...Isn't really who I am. It's inauthentic to me.” 

Mr. Pennyworth scratches his chin, mentioning, “Well, if this isn't how you wish to… present, I believe is the term, then… would you prefer to go to a dress tailor instead?’

“No, I…” Now that knocked me off my train of thought. I shake my head flabbergasted, “Wha- Mr. Pennyworth, if I feel out of my element wearing a three-piece suit, I sure ain't gonna feel at ease wearing some pillowy, flowin' dress!” 

Mr. Pennyworth stares blankly as I continue rambling. “...I don't think you'd be very accommodating anyway. I mean, not that I would… but if I WAS to get one… it’d have like, a corset or somethin’. With a long skirt, and high collar, maybe some gloves or something, like Annie Oakley. And a cowgirl hat, obviously… B-but y'know, you probably wouldn't even let me wear that. Probably some dumb fancy black dress.”

Mr. Pennyworth continues staring. I stir in place, my confidence eroding. “What?”

“Oh, nothing. It is just nice to see you bonding with Master Jason and Miss Stephanie over reality television, sir.”

…I only then realize what I have just said. I blush furiously, scratching my nape. “...cowboys don't wear dresses. This is getting off topic! Whether or not I wear… that, I'm not like any of those other people that walk in that… event thingy. I'm ain't established, I'm just some nobody from Texas who likes guns. I don't even know why I have to wear a fancy shmancy little number anyhow. What's the point in it all?” 

Mr. Pennyworth crouches down, and starts fixing my suit jacket, and tying my tie into a knot. “Master Clover, frankly, all the pomp and circumstance behind events like these serve only for appearances. The suits, the glamour… it's all simply procedure. If Bruce were to leave you at home during the gala event, his first since he took you in, it would seem that he is ashamed of you. Indeed, if he were to allow you to wear whatever you pleased, he would be lambasted for indulging you. Ultimately having more attention on himself.”

I feel overwhelmed, and almost discouraged. Is this the world that Mr. Wayne and the family lives in? Constantly fretting over how people perceive them? Sounds exhausting. “So… I'm basically… if I go out to that event no one suspects...” I trail off, doing the mental math.

Mr. Pennyworth nods. 

I sigh. “Well, alright then. Guess I can't complain too much.” Despite my distaste, I suck it up. For Mr. Wayne. Maybe I'll learn something. And hey, school wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. I burp a little in my mouth.

💛 

After a few weeks in the making… it's here.

I'm resting my head on the table, thinking of the drive over here.

…

Damian sat beside me in the sleek limo, a deep scowl etched into his genetic makeup, wincing at his cologne and grumbling to himself about the ‘vile and parasitic vultures’ he has to make small talk with. 

My stomach twisted. I did not know what to expect.

“Tt. Stop messing with that. Mr. Pennyworth isn't going to be here all night to fix your tie for you.” He swatted my hand, condescending.

The hostile banter, ironically, made me feel more at ease. “Stop actin’ like you know how to tie one.” I look out the window, admiring the sight of Wayne Tower in the distance.

Damian scoffs, and plays it off. “That's why I reminded you. You are lucky I am here. You are naive and foolish, and would be eaten alive without me.” Yeah, all that ‘wonderful’ advice on how to avoid people without making a scene. Frankly, the way rich people use roundabout ways to communicate is just not my style.

A lot of things just aren't my style either, like this… library. Libraries aren't this majestic, last I checked. I've tried to get over the idea of feeling dirty, like I hardly deserve this lifestyle Mr. Wayne has thrusted upon me. But sometimes - like right now - seeing the… unnecessary opulence. It's almost disturbing. I don't know if God appreciates such vanity. I know Mr. Wayne isn't like that, but it makes me feel icky. And no one around me seems to notice or care! Don't they see how… expensive this place looks? What's even the point?

The event is celebrating the opening of a library. It commemorates the death of an actor guy… Conroy, his name was. It's named after him. Heard he was a good guy. Don't know anything about him. Mr. Wayne, I mean, THE WAYNE FOUNDATION donated some money, so Mr. Wayne's prepared a speech for tonight.

It's not the biggest thing in the world… but it kinda is.

I'm resting my head on the table, and while I'm trying to ease my mind, I feel someone flick my right ear.

“Mhm? Wha?” 

I can feel and hear the snickering, amused looks, and exasperation from others at the table. I look to the left to see Steph, smiling. “Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey.”

“‘S’ not… jus’ restin’ mah eyes…” I slurred my speech, rubbing my eyes.

“Sit up now.” Mr. Wayne gently says, and I do, fixing the napkin on my lap. Mr. Wayne sits beside me on the big table, where everyone I'm familiar with sits.

“Trust me, you don't want to end up on the front of a magazine cover, like Tim.” Dick says, pushing some hair out of his face.

Tim secretly shoots him the middle finger while speaking to Mrs. Lane about some political issue or another.

Jon sits across from me, and chuckles at the situation. Damian scoffs, critiquing my ‘etiquette’ under his breath, but not caring enough to really chastise me. Jon gleefully shows him something on his phone, and Dami looks very unimpressed.

Just in time, the waiters came over and took our salad plates, and replaced them with our first course meals. I looked at the grub on the plate in confused fascination.

I discreetly tap Steph on the shoulder. “Psst. Hey. What is this?” 

“Spinach, feta soufflés, grapes, and hazelnuts.” She says, grimacing at her own plate. Reluctantly, she starts eating.

I glance down again at my fine silver plate. There's such a tiny amount of food for such a big plate. Why do rich people pay so much for so little? Regardless of my continued bafflement towards upper class culture, I got the appropriate utensil from the arsenal I had sitting on the table for whatever reason, and ate it in no time at all. Foods food, and I'm not one to complain about having something to eat. Well, except for the soufflé, but that's God commandment so it doesn't count.

“The food's not going anywhere.’ Dick laughs, swallowing down some of the soufflé. 

I blush, wiping my face. “Sorry.”

After I'm done eating, I sit, diligent and patient for the next course.

…

This is really boring. Why do people go to these events? Well, other than charity stuff or to network or whatever. Damian is a real crybaby.

Dick's telling stories around the table, and the people I'm not so familiar with laugh particularly hard at the one where he did a circus trick on a chandelier and it crashed to the floor and Mr. Wayne had to pay for it. Mr. Wayne looks less enthusiastic about the story.

Damian and Jon were busy viewing the intricate lore of Roblox horror games. Jon looks petrified.

Steph and Cass trade compliments about each other's dresses, and talk about the movie they saw the other day.

I glance over at Mr. Wayne, but quickly look away.

“Well, when you're me, things work a little differently, know what I mean?” And these guests laugh.

The “Brucie Wayne” mode has always made me deeply uncomfortable. It's just not how he acts usually. Like a demon is unleashed from within, the way he seemingly laps up attention and his body language loosens, like he's forgotten everything about himself. That ‘charming’ smile. Just the way that someone could change so drastically right in front of your eyes. It sorta… reminds me of Flowey. It makes me look at Mr. Wayne differently. I don't know how to feel.

I retreated to drinking some water from the glass, when I suddenly felt the tell-tale signs of a urinary emergency.

“Excuse me,” I get up from my seat, and leave the napkin on my chair. But before I could go the restroom, Mr. Wayne stops me. “What happened? Do you want to leave?” Thankfully, he sounds normal.

“Oh, I'm just tryna go to the restroom, mister.”

Mr. Wayne hums, and scans the gala. Finally he says, “...Don't wander too far, chum.” 

I nod. “Of course, sir.” 

“Remember my warnings!” Damian calls before I leave, referring to his rambling in the limo.

“Damian, the advice isn't necessary.” Mr. Wayne sighs, exasperated, messing with his watch. Some of the non-familiars look worried.

Damian places a hand on his chest, offended. “Oh, so I am cordial with Eastwood for once and suddenly that is an issue as well? Is my counsel not effective? I am constantly under attack in this family.”

With that, I went off to relieve myself, wondering why there was a fire alarm on the wall. How would a fire start in a library? That's probably a stupid question.

…I came to realize I haven't a clue where the restrooms could be. I can feel the eyes of the rich people on me as I wander around, looking for directions. They recognize me. So uncomfortable… In a crowd of voices, it's easy to imagine they're talking about you. Even if it's not BAD, the idea of people I don't know and haven't met having a discussion about me specifically weirds me out on a primordial level. What in God's name do you have to talk about!?

Damian's warnings seem pertinent now. I mean, Damian isn't one to make things up. I gotta keep myself guarded around this… opulent place. I crane my neck to see the grand windows above me, and I am blinded by the bright lights, reminding me of the glaring flash photography of my entrance here. The red velvet curtains decorating the walls envelope the library in a shroud of self satisfaction.

The perimeter is where all the tables are, while the center contains all the rich people chatting with their champagne and such. I believe the term is ‘mingling.’

Anyway, I haven't a clue where I was. I accidentally bumped into a woman, who was getting up from her table. She quickly turned to me, surprised.

“Apologies, ma’am- Ms. Vale!” I stared at her, stunned, dusting off my suit.

“Oh, it's you again! How’ve you been?” She placed an affectionate hand on my head, titling hers.

“Um. Well, I can only say that I never imagined myself stepping foot in a place like this. And sorry for running off on ya like that.” 

“Don't be too intimidated.” My face scrunches at that. Me? Intimidated? “And don't be sorry. But, now that I have you… How's life with THE Bruce Wayne? He adopts kids like old cat ladies, doesn't he? I imagine he spoils you rotten.”

Didn't know I had been roped into an impromptu interview. I need to take a leak! I tap my foot, trying to find a way out of this convo. “I guess.” 

“Mhhm. Bruce needs to spoil me again…” Her gaze lingered at Mr. Wayne's profile off to the side. Her voice was strangely husky?

“Uhhh…” 

“Oh! I almost forgot, is there anything… weird, at his house, that you've noticed?” Her weird mood is forgotten.

I stare at her blankly, scratching the back of my head. “I don't… uh, whaddya refer to?” 

The reporter's eyes bore into mine, she expectantly prods further, “No… batarangs, grapple hooks, batmobile in the driveway… shark repellent?” 

Oh. Mr. Wayne prepped me for times like this.

A small smile forms on my face, and a few chuckles leave my mouth. “Heh heh, I'm sorry Ms. Vale, but the idea of ol’ dandy Mr. Wayne wearing kevlar and stompin’ out drug dealers is the goofiest thing I ever heard. You gotta be mad as a march hare.” I shake my head in fake incredulity.

“Humph. Well, thank you anyway.” Some spirit left her, and I bid her farewell.

I looked around for a server, and I saw one in the center, wearing a tuxedo, handing out hors devours to the esteemed guests mingling about. He pointed me to an entryway behind me, and so I ventured through the crowd of tables in search of relief.

I made my way across the sea of fancy suits and dresses, feeling like I was inside of a pack of playing cards.

I'm stopped along my path by a group of kids standing around near the entryway, imitating their parents.

A blonde boy, looking like he just stepped out of a tanning salon, swoops in on me like a crow, giving me an almost nauseating smile. “Whoa, haha! What's the hold up?” He wraps a hand around my shoulders, and some of his friends give me the once-over.

“Excuse me, I was just-” 

“Yeah, that's great. You're Clover, right? Your name gets around! I'm Mark Davenport.” Does it? He shakes my hand, and I feel obligated to return it.

“We can see that your busy, but I thought I would be nice enough to introduce you to some new friends at your first gala. I know you're not really accustomed to this life yet.”

I don't really know what's going on. I dumbly nod my head. “Ok…?” 

Mark pushed me around like I was in a conveyor belt, introducing me to the faces of these rich kids who wouldn't have even spared a look at me just a year ago. It might seem a little rude, but I was barely paying attention. I really needed to use the restroom, and all this time being wasted was testing my bladder Patience.

“Hi, super nice to meet you!  I've seen you from the news footage, and I think you clean up VERY well~!” Do I take that as a compliment, or a veiled insult? I'm not trained to look for the signs!

Another one of them introduces himself. “And I'd like to say, I support you. Clover is a cute name choice.” I blink, confused. Name choice?

The rest of them seize upon the opportunity to proclaim a similar sentiment.

“Oh, yeah.”

“I would love to be an ally for you.”

“Definitely.”

“The chauffeur who drove us here sounded kinda gay, I think.”

…I don't… What? Despite their attempts to… include me? I feel like they're just pointing out how much I don't fit in here.

“So, now that I've introduced you to all your new friends… what's your first gala been like?”

Please for the love of God just let me go take a piss. Words fail me, and I'm only capable of making a sour expression.

One of them, rolling their eyes, takes this as an excuse to vent/make herself seem relatable?

“Ugh! I know, right? My parents force me to go to these parties to try and network with Damian. I swear that kid wants to behead me or something. That's his culture, I think.” 

Despite the blue blood’s personality - for lack of a better word to describe Damian’s way about traversing the world - I clenched my hand, feeling oddly offended for a reason I couldn't articulate. I  looked her in the eye, and said, “What is that supposed to mean?”

The girl falters for a moment. But before that can go anywhere, Mark gets my attention again. “Speaking of your new family…” That title gets under my skin, and distracts me from what I had gotten worked up over.

“Since we're friends now, how about we get accustomed sometime? My dad has been trying to reach Bruce Wayne for a while. Whaddya say?” 

Tired of this rigamarole and exhausted, I said, “Look, y'all seem very hospitable, but I need to see a man about a horse. Peace be upon all y’all.”

Mark tenses, before slickly winking. “Are you sure? Hold on, there's one last person who hasn't introduced herself!”

Goodnight Irene. “Well, let me see ‘em, so I can go.” 

Mark fished through this small crowd, and pulled out-

Mary?

“Yeah, her parents sort of pawned her off to us and tried to make us her friend. Heh. DEFINITELY not judging, you know how some people just can't-”

She interrupts him, shocked to see me. “clover?”

My tune changed immediately. I hadn't seen Mary in weeks! I rushed up to her, ignoring the sycophants around me, and I embraced her. “Hey, pardner!”

I appraised her wardrobe, and she wore a long sleeve dress, off-white and covering down to her knees, with black gloves covering her hands. Her hair still covered her left eye. “Aren't you gussied up?”

“y-you too,” She mutters, not one for compliments. Mary stared at me very intensely.  “very strong grip,” She whispers. 

Oh. I must be making her feel uncomfortable again. She isn't so good with physical stuff. I released her, and she looked like she was grabbed by a ghost. “Sorry, pardner. I'll let up.” 

“no it's okay be as forceful as you want.” She avoids direct eye contact with me, having a strangely crooked smile on her.

…As long as she's happy. “Whatever you say, friend.” 

Mark looks at me like I've grown a second head, butting his head into our conversation. “Wow, Clover. How did you make friends with… her, of all people???” I can feel their judgmental stares.

“Oh, I met her at school. She helps in algebra, and I help her in gym class. She's a good friend.” Mary looks slightly shocked, for whatever reason.

“That's… nice of you.” One of the other kids says, awkwardly stepping away from us.

A rumbling within my internal functions reminds me why I got up from my chair in the first place. “Look, I gotta go take a piss. Mary, I'll talk to ya after I'm done.” I announced frankly, ignoring any other calls to keep in touch.

💛 

After I was done with my business, the servors…. served us a few more courses, and after a few people spoke on-stage, Mr. Wayne gave a short speech about the actor, and how much he did for the community. I didn't pay much attention.

After that, the string quartet started playing, and Cass hastily got out of her seat and went to dance.

I got up as well, because I was tired of just sitting down all day. I wish I could've brought my earbuds and listened to some music, but Mr. Pennyworth said that was rude.

So I got up as well, and linked back up with Mary. Now, I love to dance, but the kinda music they had playin’ wasn't the sort you got really passionate about. No, the art of dance in this instance is more for the sake of making yourself look cultured than anything else.

Mr. Pennyworth put me through personalized ballroom dance lessons before the gala, but I didn't get it down right. Cass is really graceful, as I can see from across the floor.

Mary is very experienced, however; She says her parents have her taking dancing lessons, and if her instructors don't hear less than perfect they get very ornery with her.

Anyway, Mary lead me at first, and I was careful not to stomp on her feet. While she taught me, we talked about general things. She thought that the reason that I wasn't in school for the past few weeks was because I didn't want to be around her anymore. That was just nonsensical to me. I clarified things for her.

Mary is a smart cookie, and really passionate… but she just isn't a very talkative person unless she's explaining something. So when she was done, she simply looked away from me, looking flustered at the physical contact waltzing required, and let me lead her instead. I must make her so uncomfortable. So to ease her anxiety, I spent the time explaining cowboy lore to her.

“The Oscar went to MIDNIGHT COWBOY over Butch Cassidy and the Sundance kid! Utter nonsense! I mean, it's not the most historically accurate movie, but Midnight Cowboy isn't even about cowboys! Hell, it's in New York. Now I don't speak for no one else, but I just can't trust the Oscars to be objective.”

Mary stared down at the floor, not able to look me in the eye. “You alright, Mary?” 

“huh oh…. yeah i’m ok.” She startled at her name, looking up, seemingly lost in thought.

I reversed some other people's way. “Well. Alright. If ya wanna say something, don't be a stranger. Anyway, I don't think they died in Bolivia or nothin’. They were too cool to-”

“clover why do you talk to me?” 

Hushed for a second, I responded warily, “Uh-”

“not that i don't like it i'm just saying that… no one else does.”

I mulled over it, and said, “I dunno. Because I feel like it? Yer smart, charming to be around…. And you treat me like a normal person.”

She stares intensely at me. Then, she flicks her hair to hide her face, saying with an even smaller voice. “you're just saying that to make me feel good.” 

“Maybe. Or maybe I said it cuz it's true.” I give her sage advice.

“if so…… then how come everyone at school hates me and wishes i dropped out.” 

I sigh. “How can they hate you, Mary? They don't KNOW you. You need to take that step so they can get to like all these things about you that I see.” 

For almost the first time, Mary starts… looking mad. “that's easy for you to say.” 

“Whaddya mean?” 

Mary's grip on my hand tightens, and her movements get a little haphazard. “because you're polite, kind, approachable… non-judgemental, and you're athletic, and you don't hide your face, and you're not obsessed with weird horror movies, and…” She relaxes, her frustration, as brief as it was, gone.

“and you're not me. i can't talk to people. it's too much. there's always… can't handle it. my heart beats really fast i can't focus. you don't get it, because you're naive and don't see what everyone else sees. all they see is a normal kid hanging around a freak.” 

“You ain't a freak!” I catch myself, hurriedly hushing myself when I see the other dancer's eyes on us. Slightly embarrassed, I continued, “I… I don't get why you think I'm some kinda… social butterfly. And I mean, you're the only one who thinks I'm normal. Everyone else only looks my way because I'm Bruce Wayne's kid.” I roll my eyes.

I continue, choosing my words deliberately, “Back in… Texas, I was just like you.”

Mary looks at me shocked, assuredly confounded over the idea. For some reason. “oh.”

Honestly… it's part of the reason I like to hang around Mary. I can't stand the idea of someone being like that. Feeling so alone in the world. I stare off into space, thinking of all that transpired before and since I jumped down that mountain. Mary stares at me, sad.

“Look, Mary. I wasn't tryna say that change is easy and you should just get better, and some other platitudes. I've seen how grim things can be. But… God is the ultimate author of life. There will always be genuine people who will accept you.”

I've seen it happen. Dalv ran away to the Ruins when it seemed the world could only hurt him. But time proved him wrong. Justice always reigns supreme in the end, after all.

Mary, again, just stares at me. I was worried that she needed some more convincing. But I then feel a force crash into my chest, and there's Mary, hugging me.

“.......i was walking in the hallway yesterday and I noticed a flyer for a horror movie club.” Mary says, cautious hope in her voice, staring up at me.

“See? That's a start.”

Suddenly, the lights flickered for a moment. Small murmurs of confusion can be heard throughout the vicinity. Mary doesn't seem to notice. “The hell was that?” I whispered.

Then, sequentially, the lights were cut in total. Screams and cries of surprise fill the air, and I can't see much. Some take out their phones to turn on their flashlights.

Mary looks up, confused. It's darker than dark, I can't even see her face. “what's going on?”

“Power must’ve gone off…” Or it was cut.

We both sat there, flummoxed in the darkness. Confusion is being to give way to unease in the crowd.

I faintly hear Cass’ voice, calling out to me. “Clover. Where are you?” Even when she hollers, her voice is not very loud.

I called back to her, and I saw her phone's flashlight approach me. “Come. We should be… with everyone.” Her eyes found Mary’s, and she analyzed her for a moment.

“You okay? Where… are your parents?” 

“ummm…….. they left me with a group of kids then left and said they would come back later.” Mary, put on the spot, begins to let some more unease enter her voice as things unfold.

Cassie and I share a look. Her face is filled with silent disgust. “Later? That is-” Cass bites her tongue, and offers a hand to her.

“You… Come with us. Please.” 

She, not being argumentative, followed me as Cass took my hand back to the group.

Navigating our way through the darkness, we finally found our way back to familiar faces. Well, as familiar as they could be in the dark. 

“It's dark in here…” I hear Jon say absent mindedly, tapping his fingers on the table.

“What gave you that idea, genius?” Damian grumbles impotently, scoffing at Jon’s shrug. Dami grits his teeth, saying, “Of course, it just had to be today!”

“Do you really think it was just an outage?” I hear Ms. Lane ask Mr. Kent. 

Mr. Kent sighs. “Not likely, hun.” Mrs. Lane - Is it Ms. Or Mrs? I guess it doesn't matter - furrows her brow; She expected as much, but she ain't happy about it.

“There you are, Cass.” He gestures to all three of us, and Cass explains Mary's situation to him. After the debriefing, he turns his seat to her, standing behind me. He clears his throat and addresses her. “Hello. You’re a friend of Clover’s, right?” 

She stalls for a moment, and stares at me. I smile back reassuringly. She warily responds, “yeah. um sorry for bothering you my parents aren't here so i don't really know what else to do.” 

“Oh, don't worry! Your welcome here.” Mr. Wayne smiles and flashes her an OK symbol. I hate when he acts like this.

Damian scoffs, “She is in more danger associating with us. Any criminal looking for easy riches will be attracted to Father like a magnet to a fridge.” His voice cut through other people's conversations.

That thought must have not occurred to her, because Mary's eyes dilated in fear. “w-what? criminal? are we getting robbed?”

“Damian!” Multiple people at the table reprimanded at once. Mr. Wayne gave him an intense glare, and Dami squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, pretending it didn't affect him.

The billionaire just sighs, “Please sit down. We're not gonna let anything happen to you.”

“t-thank you, m-mr. wayne.” A storm of anxiety slashes in her eyes, she shakily sits on the chair with me, shoulder to shoulder.

But as we both sat down, the lights came back on again. The soft roar of the gala attendees picked up once again, they had no idea what was going on.

But the others had explained some history to me. Apparently, it's not uncommon for any criminals or villains to ambush a party Mr. Wayne was attending or holding for some ransom money. During such occasions, ‘designated superheroes’ would stay home and arrive at the scene of the crime; everyone else would pretend they were hapless, thankful, rich idiots, and no one would suspect anything.

I wasn't really worried over the idea, but now that Mary’s here… well, I'm a bit uneasy. Jason and Duke should be here any second.

My thoughts are interrupted with a loud gunshot heard near the entrance.

Off in the distance, his visage blurry but distinctive, is Two-Face, or Harvey Dent, the former district attorney. This is the first I've seen him, face-two-face.

We're the unlucky ones; This side of the room has front row seats to the ugly side of his face. It looks scarred and disfigured, like God perfectly manipulated events so that only the right side of him was hit by an explosion; It's fleshy and his eye looks crazed. But I've seen the left side on the Bat computer, he actually looks quite normal, even handsome.

Everything about him is two-sided. From his car, to his suit, to the silver dollar in his pocket he uses to figure whose judgement reigns supreme: Harvey Dent or his other persona Big Bad Harv. He suffers from severe Dissociative Identity Disorder, and I would feel bad for him if he wasn't a mob boss and an unrepentant murderer.

The screams of panic and fear from the gala attendees bounce off the walls, and Two-Face hushes the crowd, shooting another bullet into the glass ceiling. “ORDER, ORDER!” He succeeds, his strange distorted voice booming, leading his cabal of thugs into the gala, all of them holding bags.

“We haven't been to one of these parties in ages. I hope you all missed us. Now… As long as you comply with our authority, no one will be shot, otherwise… well, chance will decide what becomes of you.” He stormed into the crowd, flashing his Smith & Wesson and silver dollar.

“Shut up,” Dick scowls, handing a five to a grinning Stephanie. 

“I didn't say anything,” Steph gleefully whispers.

Really?

The superheroes at the table seem unbothered, with only token attempts to seem like they're normal people scared for their lives; They're inconvenienced more than anything. I mean, it's understandable that the Jon and Mr. Kent would feel that way when any bullet would ricochet off them.

But Mary's shaking and fear make that feeling hard to relate to right now. I put my hand around her to calm her down. “i was born in gotham…… but ive never....” Perks of being born in a rich neighborhood, though I'm not gonna say that to her. Hell, being rich might not even be a guarantee of anything, as far as this city's concerned.

“Please don’t let yer fear hamstring you…” I try to assure her.

I look through my dimensional wallet through my watch, and find my Big Iron just in case I need it.

Eventually though, they can't stay away forever. A lone thug waltzes up to us, and nearly gasps behind his two sided ski mask. “Oh shit! Uh, Boss, they're over here!” 

Two-Face hurriedly rushes over, and the attendees cower as he approaches, and I can see a couple of people crying. “Ah. Here he is. Pretty Boy.” 

A look of guilt passes on Mr. Wayne's face, they used to be good friends. “Don't hurt anyone, Harvey. I'll do whatever you want, just please don't-” 

Harvey interrupts him, seething. “OVERRULED. We don't need to hear that shit. Now… all rise,” He announced to the table, in the manner that a judge would.

The table sits still for a moment, unsure of what to do.

“I said get up off your seats! Get to the wall! In a line!”

Fearfully, (or not so fearfully) everyone complies and we line up against the wall, and some thugs begin accosting some people further down the line. On the wall behind me, I again noticed that fire alarm hanging on the wall. I take good notice of it. My eye finds Mr. Wayne, but his knowing eye had already found mine.

Two-Face watches Mr. Wayne closely. “Having fun, pretty boy? I bet you wish you could do something, huh?” He whispers, delighting in the feeling of power over him. The way he delivered that…. Does he…

“...You know this isn't fair, Harvey.” 

“We disagree. How unfair can chance be?” 

Eventually, his hired thugs progress down the line to us. “I'll take it from here. Now…” 

The thugs continued to rob people, but before they did Two-Face demanded they call heads or tails. If it's heads, they go free, if it's tails, they get their riches stolen.

Steph, Cass, Dick, and Tim just played along with no fight, as did the Kents. They just wanna get this over with. Those who weren't trained to deal with situations like this are barely able to give the robbers the goods, they're shaking so hard. I even saw a man with liquid running down his leg… poor guy. Even if he could easily replace whatever it is.

But next up in line, would be Mary.

Two-Face flips his coin in the air, and Mary's almost hyperventilating at this point. My nerves eat at me. I hear a small beep from my watch. He slams the coin on his scarred left hand. “Call it.” 

Mary stared at him like she's seen her own ghost; Her fear stopped any movement.

“Come on. Call it, kid. I can't call it for you. Wouldn't be fair.”

“w-what?” 

“What do you mean, ‘what’? Call it!” His voice begins to rise, and my nerves do as well. I begin to watch his movements very carefully.

“ummmm im sorry I don't i'm okay please don't-” She continues blubbering and shaking in her skin, her voice breathless.

“Come on, kid, hurry it up. Are ya deaf? You don't speak English? What're you, Chinese? You look Chinese.” Why that's relevant is beyond me.

After a moment of listening to her terrified mumbling, he gets tired of waiting. “Oh fuck this, you're taking too long!”

Two-Face grabs the thugs' smith and wesson, and aims it at her. “HEADS OR TAILS! IT'S NOT COMPLICATED.”

At that moment, I considered my options.

My first, impulsive, lizard brain response was to immediately pull out my Big Iron from my smartwatch and unload on him, straight at the legs. There aren't as many vital organs in all that meat and flesh. It's what came naturally to me. It seems like what he deserves. He'll live.

I then considered - historically - where that approach has gotten me.

Just in the last few weeks alone. First with Tim's memory, then getting grounded due to getting into a fight at school? Mr. Wayne has been on me about being impulsive. Hell, it's why I'm even here in the first place. Agreeing with my gut might not be very smart or wise. Heck, it might just get unwanted attention on Mr. Wayne, pulling out a gun like that.

My mind running a million miles a minute, worried over my friend's immediate safety, a brilliant idea came to me. I quickly pulled the fire alarm behind me.

A frankly obnoxious buzzing noise emanated through the gala, and water started spraying down from the ceiling. Two-Face and his thugs began losing the crowd, and the entire gala erupted into a screaming frenzy, and everyone was trying to reach the door and escape this hell.

People on our side of the room began to run as well, and things got chaotic. Two-Face hastily let go of Mary, and looked on in confusion and anger, uselessly barking out orders to people who weren't listening. After a moment, he found a pulled fire alarm right behind me. Two-Face’s… faces contort, I can only focus on his left side, and I can't figure out the expression. He seems to balk, however, at my audacity. “You’ve got some balls to pull that shit in my court.” He grabs me by the collar, looking as mad as he ever got.

Taking the initiative, I pushed him back and quickly swiped the gun from his hand. I didn't bother to pay attention to him as I grabbed Mary's hand and ran in a random direction.

💛 

“and um at the end of the movie carrie is like the prom queen now but then she gets covered in pigs blood in front of everyone and they start laughing at her so then she uses her powers to lock the doors and starts a fire and kills everyone and then she kills her mom because she thought carrie was possessed and um yeah. oh yeah then carrie dies too it's sad.” 

“...Huh.” 

After I pulled the fire alarm, I ran off with Mary. I could barely escape the chaos with my sanity intact, the shoving and pushing wet crowd nearly trampling, and crushing the both of us, and I nearly lost her at one point. When I found a random closet in the back where all the books were, it took me and Mary ten whole minutes to still our breathing, Mary especially.

But after we both calmed down, I decided to hole up in there with her, with my gun pointed at the door just in case any of Two-Face’s goons try to hide in here too.

For a while, I saw nothing. The lights were kept off, and we said nothing in fear of being discovered. In that dark, where nothing was said and I could only hear both of us heaving from the stress, I was reminded of the years where I spent every waking moment as a floating consciousness suspended in a void of space.

I do not like the dark much. The more I think about that time in my life...

But after time seemed to crawl ever so slowly and nothing was heard from outside, the fear gave way to boredom. I felt bad about stealing all the air in our conversation earlier, so I asked her about the horror movies she said she was into.

And uh. Yeah. I turned on the flashlight so we could see each other, (and so the dark wouldn't disturb me anymore) and my expression from Mary's rambling about the movie must've scared her. Well, the expression I have all the time.

She stopped being so expressive, and retreated herself into her mass of hair. “sorry i just really like that movie it's cathartic and kinda scary but you probably think i wanna hurt people or that im creepy or weird.” 

I take a moment to register all of what she just said, scratching my head with the Smith & Wesson like a jackass, “Nah, I mean. It's just a movie, pardner. I just thought the ending was sad, y'know? Carrie dies!” Not to mention all that stuff about Carrie’s mama thinking God acts in such a… un-God way.

She reveals her face to me again, and she slowly smiles. “yeah. a lot of people say the books ending is better but i like the movie's better because she killed all the bullies at school and her mom and none of the innocent people and that's probably more realistic but it makes me feel bad… i probably sound like a freak.”

“Hm. And why's that?” Again, with this freak thing.

“well I was reading the book at school and someone said that only school shooters liked carrie.” 

What? King Jesus. So many judgy ass people in this world. “I watch movies about bandits and murders, and I'm not one of ‘em, right?”

“no.”

“Well, there ya go.” 

But nothing lasts forever, and before long, I heard heavy footsteps approaching the door, before a loud knocking bounced off the walls. I grab the Smith & Wesson, remembering the job I signed up for, and aim it back at the door, quickly turning off the flashlight. We both fell silent immediately.

There's a knocking again. They try to open the door, and the knob jiggles. I keep my aim true.

…

“Is there somebody in there? Hello?” 

Oh thank God. It's Duke. I breathe a sigh of relief, getting off the floor of this closet, happy that I could no longer be tempted by the open bottles of mysterious chemicals. I also stealthily hid the Smith & Wesson in my dimensional box. If I want to start an arsenal that could rival Jason's, I need to keep all I can get!

I quickly move to unlock the door, and there he is, in his yellow armor, his iron cowl hiding a surprised, wet face. “Oh! Greetings… citizen. Citizens.” He stiffly greets us. I turn back, and Mary is speechless. Guess she's never met a superhero before.

“Is that the last of them? If so I'm fucking off back home.” The tell-tale sounds of Jason's accent,  foul-mouth, and massive frame huddle over to the closet, and he narrows his slit eyes at me behind his red dome. “Oh shit. It's you again. Hey ya little bastard.” 

“Howdy to you too,” Isn't he in a mood?

“how do you know the red Hood…” Mary's fear has transformed into incredulity.

“Well, I used to be homeless, so I met him when I was hanging out on the street.” I turned to Duke, finally getting to see his armor for the first time. It looks nice. “Never met you before.”

“Hey. I'm the… Signal.”

Why is he introducing himself? He's just making this more awkward. “Well, howdy, The Signal.” 

“That's not how you say it.”

“Oh. Sorry, Signal.”

…

“.....is it over?” Mary asks, unsure of herself.

Red Hood, previously in a bad mood, seemed to soften when he noticed Mary. “We just finished taking care of the Two-Face's goons, so you don't have anything to worry about, okay?”

Mary quietly nods, seeming to be at ease.

Duke snickers. "Snrk. Goons, huh?"

“SHUT THE FUCK UP MAN!" Jason hollars, getting all in his face, the wrath of his hot breath contained within the mask and saving Duke's face.

He sighs, "Come on, let's get this over with, I'm soaked,” said Jason, storming off back into the main foyer.

“...Damn, alright. Well, the coast is clear,” Duke reports, returning to the entrance as well. If I were a normal person, I don't think leaving Mary and I to our own devices would be a very good idea.

Silently, I looked at Mary. I reached my hand out to her, and she took it. We followed them.

💛 

Yesterday was quite the exhausting series of events.

By the time we emerged from the janitors closet, Two-Face and his entourage had all been knocked unconscious, beaten into submission, and surrendered. All thanks to the help of Jason and Duke. Oh sorry, I mean, Red Hood and Signal.

For nearly two hours, time was spent calming down the gala attendees, as well as carting off the thugs to Black gate, and Two-Face back to Arkham Asylum. Mary got picked up by her parents.

After we all went back home, I completely swore off ever going to those things again. There wasn't anything good about the experience that couldn't be had in other places. Mr. Wayne seemed proud of me, though… that felt nice.

Uh anyway, today's the Lord's day and I'm supposed to receive my mail today. So I went deep into the garden, where none would see me summon a flying whale with a bell.

The holy bell rang into the early morning, the birds chirping, and the sun barely rising.

The Angel Whale summoned into place, his pink luminous figure coming into view. 

“Through rain or hail, with angel wing,

You'll get your mail, by grace of the King!”

I gasped! “Are you doin’ rhymes again!?”

“Sure am, buddy. I kinda missed doing them, so I'm bringing ‘em back.” 

I can't think of better news! “Well, I'm not complaining,” At least there's some good news to speak of.

I reached into the basket and retrieved my mail, seeing the names of my friends. I pour through them like playing cards: Martlet, Dalv, Kanako, Frisk, Slurpy, URGENT…

What? Who's this? Is this a prank? One of these sealed letters isn't marked with a name I recognize, only with URGENT written all over the front of it in sharpie.

This hasn't happened before. I've never received… spam mail from the heavens! 

“Hey, friend.” I gestured to the anomaly. “What's this about? Who sent this one?” 

“Huh? Oh, couldn't tell you. Sorry.”

…

“You can't tell me or you won't tell me?” 

“His plan is unknowable, Its complexity will grow,

Hearts have to trust what humans can’t know.”

“Don't be cute with me!” 

“Look, I'm not gonna give you a straight answer and you're going to have to accept it. I don't make the rules, cowboy. Sorry.” 

I sigh, assuming that God threw it in. At this point, I consider my mail SACRED, but whatever. “Thanks, Mail Whale.” 

And again, he left.

I stared endlessly at the offending letter, unsure of its intention and unsure why I had it in the first place…

…

I decided to open it then and there.

The letter went as such:

FOUND YOU

ENJOY YOURSELF LAST NIGHT?

SORRY TO CRASH YOUR PARTY

TWO FACE ACCEPTED A HEAVY SUM

DONT GET TOO COMFORTABLE

…

It's a typical ransom note. The letters are taken from magazines and other sources. It's almost cliche… but there's no ransom. And how would they send it through God? If it was from anywhere else I would find it weird that someone would take notice of me at all, but… I don't know.

Who… Who found me? Were they looking for me? Did they… lose me?

I think I overheard Jason and Duke talking about Two-Face admitting that someone paid him to rob the gala, although he wouldn't - perhaps couldn't - admit who the culprit was.

I gauge my surroundings, and all I see is empty green shrubbery and trees, coated orange as the sun rises. I see the manor in the distance, where there's safety in numbers. I feel isolated… and yet not. I can no longer hear the birds. I feel a deep dread in my chest.

…

I walked back to the manor, tearing up the note and leaving its remains to the floor, carrying the other letters back to the house. It was probably just a stupid prank from Flowey.

💛

I take a deep breath.

One.

Two.

Another.

Three.

Four.

…

It's showtime.

I take a few trepid, but calculating steps from off the cliff, landing gracefully on the bat cave floor, catching the family who lived in the manor by surprise after a long night. At long last, just like them, I also had my own costume.

Mr. Wayne gave it to me a few days ago. My ‘exam’ isn't ready yet, but he said that he thought that, after the gala, that I had ‘proven’ something and was ready to receive the suit at least.

Honestly, it wasn't what I was expecting.

I was expecting… Well, cowboys! A cowboy superhero outfit! But that's not what Mr. Wayne had in mind. He said the disguise would be too obvious, cuz I had already appeared on live TV wearing cowboy clothes and it would point towards me being… yeah. Yet again, that dumb interview is continuing to bite me in the ass.

But… not gonna lie, I began to warm up to the look.

It was still Western. It just wasn't a cowboy. It was Zorro, basically.

Instead of a ten gallon, I wore a dark navy blue tricorn hat, with a distinct yellow feather sticking out of it. The entire suit had a pretty unified color scheme, I would say.

I received what amounted to Zorro's bandana mask. It can even cover up my mouth if the situation calls for it. Though, when I actually go out into the field the mask will be modified to have a hud, which includes X-Ray, Sonar, forensics… a whole bunch of other things. It would also protect me from getting bonked on the head.

My shirt didn't seem very protective, only being a button up with yellow buttons, but then I learned that practically the whole suit was made of carbon fiber, with the shirt reinforced with a light kevlar vest subtly hidden underneath. On my chest, where a badge would be, would be my shirkien star, deceptively bright yellow like a sheriff badge. I would use it to disarm enemies without using a gun.

The coolest part to me, though, was my two utility belts. Like a Texan ranger! A bat symbol emblazoned on each belt, with accompanying two holsters which holstered my two guns. Yeah, guns.

Well, one of them isn't a gun. It's just a normal grapple gun. That ain't too crazy.  Mr. Wayne doesn't want me to have a gun, period. But… he is willing to compromise.

A blunderbuss. Yes, a blunderbuss, like I was a goddam vampire hunter. Okay, it's not actually a blunderbuss, just like how my Big Iron isn't actually a 44 magnum. It just… looks like one. Mr. Wayne's reasoning was that he didn't want normal people to get scared that I was carrying a pistol, so he substituted it with… this, so people wouldn't be as intimidated. Hell, he even has the courtesy to say it would make me ‘unassuming' and ‘give me a tactical edge.’

I didn't buy that at all. But I had to admit, the blunderbuss is nice. Oh, and I had to load it with friendliness pellets… whatever calms Mr. Wayne down.

I had pretty standard pants, steel toed boots, and long sleeved gloves, all reinforced with kevlar and other armor hooey.

But what really tied the disguise together, what really made me seem the Sentinel of Silence, was the cape.

The cape… was a vampire cloak, to be frank, with a high collar and everything. The cape helps hide my body. On the outside, the cape would be as navy blue as everything else, but on the inside was yellow. It even had a buckle to tie the collar together.

With the cape, I seemed less like Northstar like I was expecting… and more like Dalv. Or maybe some kind of cross between the two.

Suffice to say, it grew on me a lot.

The lot of them stared me down, probably unsure if I was a hallucination after hours of bodily trauma being inflicted upon them.

I raised my cape, revealing more of my suit. Despite my attempts to stay cool and stoic, a big goofy smile flashes across my face, pride coursing through my veins. I said, “Hey, everybody!” 

The next few minutes were spent appraising, critiquing - whatever you wanna call it - my costume.

Duke, Steph and Tim generally had nice things to say. Cass wasn't in a talkative mood, but she gave me a thumbs-up. Damian said my cape looked ‘acceptable.’

But after a moment, the novelty began to fade, and I really considered what I would be doing. Going out each night, and fighting crime… along with, like, ten other people. I've had this on my mind before.

Cass noticed this, and she prompted me, “What's wrong?” 

“Oh, well… It's just… I'm already joining such a large group to fight crime… but I don't know how much I can really add. I mean, yer all such talented, strong, courageous people, and there's so many of y'all, so I just can't imagine what I could add. I mean, I have to imagine that crime in Gotham isn't THAT bad where I could actually be USEFUL, right?” 

For a moment, there was no reaction. It seemed like they were all actually considering my words. Then, they all burst into laughter. Hell, I saw Mr. Wayne approach, and he even had a smile on his face!

“Yeah, no. Shits crazy out here,” Duke pat me on the back, wiping a tear from his eye.

“That's the stupidest thing you've ever said. And that's saying a lot,” was Damian’s response.

Alrighty then.

💛

Chapter Text

💛 

“What was that?”

The enforcer grunts, his predatory eyes penetrating his surroundings, pulling on his surgical mask. Hanging on the beams over him menacingly, I watched in delight as he glanced up, blind to my presence.

But he is not dim. I… We've been doing this for a very long time. Even when I'm not there… They still fear me.

He has not seen his comrades disappear into the darkness. But his instincts must be alarming him. He coolly wipes his jacket, observing and searching for his colleagues, subtly fear stricken. I've got one of them tied up and unconscious up here.

The two cooks, adorned in hazmat suits, paused in their labor. Neither of the cowards look confident that they can continue working safely, uneasily hovering above their product and glancing at each other with apprehension. The tell tale smell of ammonia coats the walls of the filthy lab.

In the vents, the other enforcer rests peacefully…

The enforcer frantically searches the shadows, his trembling hands steady the grip of his Glock, his voice also trembles as he commandeered the cook’s attention, “What? Get back to work!” 

Now I strike.

I landed on the filth laden floor, standing at breathing distance, taking him off guard. The cooks clambered over themselves to run past the door and escape my judgement, knocking over stray needles, lab equipment, and crushing insects beneath their boots. The others will be quick to enforce their own judgement.

His eyes dilated, fear stabbing him. He reflexively pulled his gun from his waist, aiming the cannon of death at me, gritting his teeth and failing to cloak his fear with anger.

But before he can squeeze the trigger, a star shuriken preemptively whizzes from the dark and slices his hand, scarring the coward and forcing him to double over, dropping his weapon.

From behind him, a lasso catches its target, forcing him to the ground. Prone on his back and taken by surprise, he glanced up as he heard someone else's gun cock.

The Sentinel of Silence stands over him, holding their pistol up.

The enforcer panted, “For the love of God, another g-”

But before his jaw could stop moving, Sentinel quickly twisted their side arm upside down and swung the grip across his face, knocking him out.

Not too hard, though. The perfect equilibrium of force to stop the threat but not cause unnecessary harm. Small pride courses through me.

They pause, briefly, taking a small sniff of the air. I can barely parse out a word passing from their muffled lips. 

“...familiar.”

…That's an interrogation for when we get home.

The operation is done. The entire facility should be taken care of. Any stragglers should be easy pickings.

Their boots glided quietly to the door, but before they could join the rest of the group, I stopped them. They turned their head, the feather bobbing with their head movement. They subtly tilt their head, curious. I spoke earnestly, “Well done.” 

They say nothing for a moment. They’ve been mute for the entire raid. They told me that they wanted to speak less on the job; They wanted to embody their persona.

I don't doubt their earnestness. But that's not the whole story. Whenever they're stressed or confronted with certain subjects, well… They're very hush. Must have picked up selective mutism as a habit in the foster care system. I've seen Cass teaching them ASL…

Their featureless mask hides every facial movement, but what I said must've mattered to them. Some tension is relieved from their body language, and they look away, flustered.

Their voice weakly croaks, “...Thanks, mister.” 

And that's that.

The night is still young.

💛

When I got home last night, just as I was removing my bandana-mask and freeing my hair from captivity, Mr. Wayne suddenly came growling at me, all aggressive! Something related to that drug lab we busted. He seemed worried.

At first I was confused, cause these nights tend’ta drag, so the finer details slip my mind. But then… When I got a whiff of that drug lab, it smelled REAL familiar. Like, the kinda smell that immediately transports you to an exact moment in time. That distinctive cat pee smell, it always eluded me. But no longer!

Guess Mr. Daniels was arrested for possessing ‘rock candy’ after all. I thought I was just misremembering things.

💛

My cape fluttered in the chilly wind…

I've never done this before, nesting on the gargoyles... I say that like this is any sort of desire I held. I ain't like these goths I hang ‘round all day! Regardless, it's surprisingly comfortable. I don't even feel like I'm gonna fall!

This view… nesting is the right word. I feel like a hawk watching her eggs. Everything seems so small from up here. All of these people, in one place. Despite the crowdiness… The harsh shadows and flashing lights… It makes me feel small, in a weirdly nice way. I guess that's the magic of city life.

It is a dark and gritty night in Gotham. The brave and bold towers of chrome and marble blend into the night sky, the pale moonlight bouncing off the fine material, sparkling like stars. Below us, the traffic flows continuously, rustling endlessly as a thicket of continuously shifting mass of steel and fluorescence.

…Honestly it's not that different from the daytime. We're just up when all the normal folks’re having their beauty sleep.

Batman perches himself on the gargoyle’s back, monitoring the streets alongside Robin and I. His cape flows off its back, keeping it warm. Robin stands tall on the head of the gargoyle, probably trying to show off.

But the ambience of a bustling city, muted slightly by the night, slowly ended. The bright yellow signal formed like a new moon on the horizon.

Justice is desperately needed.

Batman wordlessly gestures, and he jumps off the gargoyle statue, extending his arms so his cape can catch the air and descend him down to the street floor.

Robin and I follow him.

💛

Quick on our feet, Robin, Batman and I grappled and swung our way towards the Gotham PD rooftop, where the signal was born. Uh, not Duke, but the Bat-signal. Duke works during the day.

Mr. Gordon was leaning on the rails, lighting a cigarette and scratching his moustache. He wore a khaki trench coat, uncaring that the rails were getting them wet. The humdrum of Commissioner work has gotten to him. He looks like some noir detective or something.

He took a steady puff, and looked up, seeming both surprised and not by our sudden appearance. I assume at this point he's gotten used to Batman’s antics.

But he probably didn't expect to see me. Or maybe he did? I can't read his guarded expression exactly.

Mr. Gordon adjusted his glasses, subtly raising his brow behind his cheaters. He shimmied up to all of us, cigarette still in hand. He sized me up, took second glances at Robin, before silently dragging his questioning face to Batman.

Robin, exasperated, inquired, "Commissioner. Did you take this occasion as an excuse to ogle or did you actually have something to report?”

Batman stood, staring down Mr. Gordon, neglecting to chew out Damian for his rudeness. Maybe he agreed?

Finally, he said, “Another kid, huh? Similar age, looks like.” Spoken like he was gently treading lake water. Everything in my SOUL screams at me to fight this label, but I manage to control myself. I'm a teenager for God's sake.

“Indeed. What's the occasion?” Batman’s voice is chipped, not bothering to engage in the topic. I think I'm beginning to see that Mr. Wayne is not very different from Damian, though he is slightly more sassy. This has clearly been a ‘thing’ going on for years.

Mr. Gordon doesn't even bother fighting the issue. He seems tired. His ginger hair is graying, and he’s slumped over.

“Joker’s gang is stirring up trouble in the Narrows,” he drably reports.

“...Still no signs of him?” 

Mr. Gordon shakes his head, wistfully saying, “Almost a year now. I'm beginning to think that sonofabitch may actually be dead.” 

“Tt. How foolish,” Robin mutters. Damian’s discipline astounds me. Holding in a jab at someone’s expense? Maybe that talk with God did him some good.

“He’ll return. And he'll make a big show of it. You know how he is,” Batman grunts, staring at the building across from them alongside Mr. Gordon.

“...It's wishful thinking,” Then, Mr. Gordon stands up a little straighter, resiliently states, “But I'm not done waiting. I can be patient. We'll get that clown… then maybe I can take things easy.”

He coughs a little. Batman pats his back reassuringly, and Mr. Gordon nods acknowledging.

“Okay, I'm done. I'm not gonna let you vanish in the middle of our conversation and make an ass out of me.”

He walks to the door, but before then he stops at my feet, quickly greeting me, “Oh, excuse my rudeness. To who do I owe the pleasure?” 

I studied him for a minute, contemplative.

I'm not too sure about working with the police. They've never done anything for me or anyone I knew way back when. Hell, they even made the whole situation with Ms. Catherine worse!

But Mr. Wayne trusts Mr. Gordon. Maybe he's not so bad.

Mr. Gordon hovers in place, waiting. I removed my tricorn hat, and bowed slightly, regarding him with an acknowledging look. Surprised but no offense taken, he reciprocates with a salute.

“You don't talk much, do ya son?” 

I like to say as little as possible when I go out at night. If I'm honest… I'm kinda mimicking Cooper and his off-putting demeanor. I’m not too sure why I do it, but it feels right.

“They're the Sentinel of Silence,” Batman grunts.

“Oh.” He looks back at me. He seems confused about something, but then thinks better than voicing his thoughts, shrugging his shoulders. I silently gravitate back, closer to Mr. Wayne. Mr. Gordon peers down, stomping on his cigarette, putting it out.

Mr. Gordon looks up and says, “I guess I’ll…” He trails off, finding that his three costume wearing allies have seemingly vanished. I heard him as we ran off to the Narrows.

“Bastard,” He chuckled. I guess he's not wrong.

💛