Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

        Over the span of four years Lonnie had worked thirty jobs. A cashier at Batburger, a glorified coffee runner at Wayne Inc, an IT guy at LexCom, a truck driver for Lexazon, and so on and so forth. Right he works three jobs; a driver for WayneEats, a paperboy for WayneNews, and an electrician for LExEnergy, which he is currently being fired from.

"You forged your qualifications! You've never been certified to work near anything with a charge! I should report you to the police for not only putting yourself in danger but your entire crew! I bet you dont even know how a circut board works!"

Lonnie had forged his qualifications, that is undeniable, a fake graduation from a generic Lex Tech school, complete with posting photos of himself edited into the very real photos of a post-grad barhop incase they checked his public-facing social media. He learned whatever generic blue-collar lingo he needed to know, and if he wasnt sure what he needed he mumbled until someone else figured out the problem. Really, he shouldve expected to be fired sooner-- considering on his first day he almost stepped on a live wire with steel-toed boots.

It had been a desperate move to apply, electricians made good money, and he needed money more than anything else in the world, or rather his mother did. They had always been poor, but since her diagnosis the pressure of medical bills and life-long debt that she couldn’t afford had slowly been tightening the noose around his neck. So, he did the only logical thing: work enough for both of them.

"Are you even old enough to be here?" his boss barked, head cocking closer, taunting him, "Do I need to call your parents to pick you up? When you said you dropped out of Highschool I thought you meant you dropped out a few years ago."

He had dropped out a few years ago, when he was fifteen. He needed to work, more than he could afford to waste time at school. He was a child-genius, so its not like he couldn’t catch up when his mother was safe.

"Ill see myself out." Is all Lonnie grits out, despite the overwhelming urge to punch his former boss. "I expect my final paycheck to arrive in the next weeks."

"Are you out of your fucking mind?" His boss had always been brash, and kind of annoying. Despite most of his workers being close to poor, he always chain smoked the kind of cigars that used to be smuggled in the country during the Red Scare. Fancy cubans. They smell like burnt chocolate, and Lonnies nose crinkles as his boss stamps out the spent butt of the third one this conversation. "Im not paying an under qualified kid for work he didn't do."

"I worked sixty hours!" Lonnie spins around so fast chunks of his sweaty pulled back hair fall out of the hair tie. His hands slam on the desk, the engraved crystal bowl holding the cigars ashes jumps up at the strike. "Sixty hours of work you praised."

"That was before I knew you were an unqualified lying brat." His boss huffs, grabbing his cigar cutter unbothered, movements slow and even as he cuts the tip off a cigar, putting it in his mouth holding a mini-blowtorch to the end, rolling it with his lips to get the thing evenly smoldering. He smacks his lips, small whisps of smoke curling around him, before tapping it against the crystal ashtray with unbothered slowness. "If you try to take me to court over your wages, I’ll counter sue with falsified documents, reckless endangerment, and a dozen other charges that my lawyer can think of."

Lonnies shoulders shake with barely contained rage, fingertips pressing into the wood. Part of him wishes he could claw through it, leave a mark on the fancy oak, the other half of him knows he'd be slapped with another bill he cant afford. How much would it cost? 600 dollars? 600 dollars that would be wasted on this greedy pig, instead of saving his mother.

"The law says you have to pay me, even if you fire me halfway through a paycheck cycle."

"Oh so now you care about the law." his boss pulls the cigar out of his mouth, letting the smoke waft through the space. He doesnt make a point to blow it in Lonnies face, hes not that malicious, but his lips curl upward, and Lonnie knows hes pinned.

"Fuck you." Is the closest thing to revenge he can manage. Despite how his hands shake, he knows he cant swing. Lawsuit, lawsuit, lawsuit, chants at the back of his mind for every action he wants to take. He can practically feel the money drain from his bank account even trying to do anything.

"Get out of my office." His boss grunts, turning, giving his back to Lonnie as if he doesnt even care. As if he doesnt know just whats at stake for Lonnie.

Lawsuit. Lawsuit. Lasuit. Money. Money. Money.

Insults rage in his mind from childish to tantrums to curse words to violence. But he cant do anything. Instead, he takes a deep breath, pries his hands from the corner of his boss's desk and glares at his back.

"Chop chop boy." his boss tuts, pulling up the blinds to look into the parking lot. They aren't even expecting any clients to come into the office, he’s looking out there for the show, or maybe just so he can laugh and watch Lonnie get on his bike while the rest of the workers drive their lifted trucks. Lonnie takes a half step back, before grabbing the ash tray, made of fancy crystal, engraved with shapes and patterns, stuffing it under his shirt and fleeing. He isnt sure exactly why he took the ash tray, despite having a fancy name its worth barely twenty dollars. But it feels good. Good to inconvience his chain smoking boss, make him fumble for a moment as he looks for somewhere to stuff his cigars.

As he runs he keeps a hand on his hip, the ash tray wedged between the too-big waist of his pants and his too small shirt, hoping the width of his palm can hide the obvious shape underneath. His coworklers, former coworkers, barely noticed. Barely nod as he passes through the common area, cheap coffee bubbling in the microwave, while the cracking of energy drinks seem to almost synchronize. Instead, he rushes out the front door. For half a moment he fumbles with the lock on his bike, 8-6-4-7, his single hand shakes to much, adrenaline pounding through his system from the minor theft.

As he tugs the lock off he shoves his prize into the small basket at the front of his bike. At one point it was a bright pink with ribbons, meant for girls no older than ten. It had been free, neighbors giving away junk before moving. The only thing he kept was the basket, he spray painted the rest, and the bike shone with the kind of rough smoothness that only spray paint could achieve. He glances over his shoulder, half expecting his boss to run out, red in the face with ash on his shirt, but theres nothing. No dramatic chase. No screaming or cursing, he just kicks up on his bike, and pedals down the street.

The road is quiet. LexEnergy has an office outside of Gotham, partially because they struggled to get through the Wayne monopoly in the heart of the city, and mostly because land was cheaper. Lex had been encroaching on the Wayne owned city of Gotham for a while now, and Lonnie knew it was only a few years before monopoly meets monopoly, and who knows how it'd end. Lonnie hums a song he had heard mindlessly playing on his coworkers radio, just to have something to fill the silence. Theres a river somewhere out of his view, the distant hum of moving water needed for however energy plants work. Other than that its just him, the trees, and the clicking of the playing cards he stuck in the spokes of his bike. He told himself it sounded like a motorcycle, prevented cars from running him off the road, but mostly it was just so he could have some noise to focus on.

Something to focus on besides his pounding heart. His sweaty hands, and the way he couldn't seem to even think. All he could do was exist, legs moving on instinct alone, balance perfected over the years as he swerves to avoid each pothole. He cant afford a new bike, much less another hospital bill. It’s easier to swerve than it is to gamble against gravity.

"Damn it." He huffs as the bike jerks slightly, either hitting a new pothole (They seem to double every day) or just hitting a big rock. He repeats the word again, voice cracking. Than again as his vision blurs. He kicks his boots onto the ground, dragging his heels to stop the bike as he swipes at his face. "Damn it!" He repeats, hitting the handle of the bike. It doesnt do anything, he doesnt feel better, but hitting something somehow felt right. Felt like what he was supposed to do in a situation like this. "Its okay." He tries to soothe himself, resting his elbow on the bar, face buried in his hands. "I've got the newspaper job, and--and the eats job." he sniffles, tears burning hot streaks down his face, "Fuck fuck fuck." he tries to repeat the soothing facts again. He has two more jobs, he can find another third. But none would pay as much, and he was being stiffed out of a paycheck. He’s barely making enough to cover the interest from his mother’s last years of treatments, and the next one is even more expensive. "Fuck." his voice breaks, shoulders shaking, legs weak. He wants to collapse, to roll off the side of the road and disappear into the forest forever, but he cant. She needs him.

He wishes that thought was enough to get him moving. That thinking of his mother would be enough for him to pick himself up, ignore the ache in his bones that should've been saved for someone much older, and keep going. But it's not. Hes tired. His hands ache, his back has a twinge that he hasn't shaken since he was sixteen, and he just lost the only good paying job he ever had. The only one that could make a dent in the debt theyre drowning in.

"Fuck." he croaks again, hand raising as if to hit the bike once more before it drops. What good would it do?

Losing (one of) his jobs meant he had more time than usual. Instead of getting off of work at 7pm, to deliver food until 10, to wake up at 3-- he now has six hours of free time. Hell, he isnt sure when he last was in the afternoon sun. Any joy he would have felt at the prospect of a day off is weighted down by worry. Would he have to pick up more hours as a delivery driver? Or would he be better off looking for a new job? He just doesnt know.

He wipes his face again, sniffling, ears warm, cheeks puffy, and eyes feeling like they were swollen shut from just how many tears he had poured out. He flicks his hand to dry it off, kicking his weight back to try and stop his legs from shaking, sitting on the way too small seat, knees nearly to his chest. He can make a few hundred dollars on good days, holidays, or just in places where college kids don't want to get their own food--but in Gotham delivery driving is dangerous. One of the easiest ways to get hit by any number of robberies. His mother would worry sick knowing he was out late-- much less just the extent he had gone for her.

She didnt know anything. She didnt know he dropped out. She didnt know he worked three jobs. She didnt know he was the 'anonymous donor' paying for her treatments. Everyone else thought it was Bruce Wayne. Why wouldn't they? He had just donated a whole new wing to the hospital-- why wouldnt he pay for the people in it too? But the years of endless work, the pain, the hurt, was all worth it. Last month the doctors had told them about a new treatment, experimental but so far incredibly effective. He had seen the expected bill, more than it cost to buy a house, and knew he would work day and night to pay for it. His mother had hesitated, said she could never afford it—so Lonnie ramped up his working hours to try and soothe her. Deep down he wishes Bruce Wayne had paid for it-- what else would he do with the money? Buy a fifth yacht?

The buzzing of his phone snapped him out of his trance, the dripping train of thought of what he would do if he had that much money--heal every sick person, save the world, fix world hunger, end wars, pay for vaccinations, and then some.

It was the hospital, the same extension his mother always called on whenever she wanted company. She didn’t call often, mostly because there were few hours of the day where Lonnie was able to be by her side and wasn’t. The photo is from when they both were younger, grainy from his cheap track phone. Her hair was longer than, fuller, bright ginger curls that he swore held the very sunlight—but chemo had taken even that from her. He doesn’t want to look at his own visage, purposely cropped to hide his face, back when it was chubby cheeked, smiling so wide that his one dimple was on full display. He found out about the diagnosis only a few weeks after this photo was taken. He shakes the memory from his head, the low tone she had spoken in, the promise that she would always be in his heart even if she wasn’t really here. As if she had already given up.

”Hey Ma,” he clears his throat, hiding the croak of dread that seemed to creep up whenever he remembered too much. “What are you calling me for? Don’t you have the group crochet until two?”

“Well, the group can do without me for a few minutes,” His mother, Greta (Though he would never call her by her first name) sighs, which sends a bolt of worry through him. It’s barely noon, she thinks he’s at school, why would she call if it’s not serious? Had something gone wrong? Is she okay? “I was wondering if you’d come by, since I saw on the high-schools calendar that you’ve got a half day today!” The tension drops immediately from his shoulders, and he takes a sobering breath, pushing the mic of his track phone away so she doesn’t hear the obvious tells of anxiety.

“Of course Ma,” He says as calmly as he can, biting the inside of his cheek. Its okay, she just thought he had a half day. “Just picking up some ice cream, the store is super busy”

”Lonnie,” His mother scolds softly, voice too tender to hold any weight, “You know they’ve got me on a new diet for this treatment, you’re a horrible influence.”

“I just,” his voice breaks, heavy from the loss of the job, of the fear, of the debt, “I just wanna see you smile Mom.”

“I always smile when I see you sweetheart,” her voice somehow gets even more tender, in the way that it had only gotten since the diagnosis. As if in every moment she was trying to paint the worst years of his life with something positive, giving him as many good memories as possible. He hates how it works, how it almost doesn’t make him scared. How he almost can pretend it’s normal, that he really did leave school from a half-day, and he’s biking to get his mom ice cream. But reality comes back when she coughs, an ugly hack that rattles through her lungs, her body getting weaker and weaker. He’s not sure if it’s the cancer or the chemo killing her. He just knows that he’s putting more trust in the experimental treatment than anything else in the world. Even if his mother refused to talk about it, trying to shield him from the ugly truth.

“I love you mom.”

“Love you too, Lonnie. Now get here before the ice cream melts.”

He huffs out a small laugh, kicking his bike up again, hanging up and peddling to the store, the cost of a pint is nothing compared to his mother’s smile. 

Chapter Text

        The kind of ice cream that Lonnie's mom likes is the fancy stuff-- the six dollars for less than a pint, kind of stuff. The kind that has silly puns based off of whatever Bruce Wayne flub had happened most recently. (Most recently, being his fall in a chocolate fountain at a gala, so it was called "fountain tumble" featuring bruce wayne shaped candies half dipped in chocolate). However he reached for the classes "Jokerified" candy, loaded with every topping the company made, and dyed a neon green. Lonnie is certain that its morally reprehensible to name a candy after a known terrorist--though the company promises to donate all proceeds to the victims-- but his mom loves it, so he buys it regardless.

The bike to the hospital is easy, the hospital is the fanciest (and most expensive) on this side of the country. The roads are all paved, and the rich never seem to be affected by whatever villain is attacking the city. He remembers vaguely one week the bank nearby had been bombed, but repairs had been finished within a month. He doesnt think about the rest of the city, some having never been rebuilt, even years later. Though the roads are smooth, the ice cream melting, and he is eager to go. He feels an unscratchable itch beneath his skin, maybe from losing the job, maybe because his mom hadn’t been getting better— but he needs to see her now.

"Lonnie Machin, checking in to visit room 539." by the time he's locked up his bike the ice cream is mushy, and some drips into the plastic bag. The receptionists don’t recognize him (too many faces passing through too many different shifts) but they know the floor his mother is on. In his head Lonnie calls floor 5 the terminal floor-- the floor only houses patients that they don't expect to get better. The floor seems to have a million different codes every hour, as patients die, the families scream for help, and the doctors respect the DNR's marked by metal bracelets. A part of him thinks the families are childish for crying while their loved one has a "Do not resuscitate" order. After-all it means whoever is sick has given up, and wants no medical help should they be dead or dying. Part of him knows why they do it anyways.

"Of course Lonnie, here you go." The receptionist gives him a nametag that he clips on with practices ease. Today they were cute paper stars, a poor effort to maintain morale. "Just go down the hall and--"

"I know the way, thanks." He brushes past, taking the shortcut through the cafeteria to an elevator he thinks only the workers know about, but it spits him directly behind his mothers room. The deeper into he goes, the less he can smell. The scent of faded flowers that fill the rooms are swallowed by the antiseptic, and the sting of the bleach based cleaner. He stops smelling outside and smells the decaying insides of the patients. The Terminal Floor smells the worst. Families cant bring in flowers because of the possible respiratory distress, so there is nothing to overcome the suffocating rot besides the occasional coffee forgotten by overwhelmed student nurses.

That and the sticky sweetness of the ice cream.

He doesn’t go right to his mom, instead slipping into a side room meant as a “break room” for the families. A way to hide from the sickness, to drink coffee or lay down during long overnight stays. Now it’s empty, and he shoves the ice cream in the freezer to let it re-harden. He can see the door to his mothers room from here, and grits his teeth. She shouldnt be on the Terminal Floor. She should be on the 'getting better’ floor…even if she hadn’t really been getting better at all. She should be on the floor where people had hope. And flowers. His mother loves flowers. He hates that he cant bring her any. When she first was moved here he printed out photos of bouquets, and he hopes they bring some comfort.

"Fuck." He hisses, pressing a palm to his eye as he feels the stinging of tears, "No no no, I cant cry." he tries to convince himself, slapping the linoleum countertop. "Not here, not in front of her." He would never consider his mom weak by any standard. She had raised him alone. Worked two jobs to support him, and saved up nearly enough to buy a house (The funds of which had since been repurposed for medical expenses), he knew every day was a struggle in the hospital, but she still tried to be optimistic. She wouldn't break because someone was crying--she would break because it was him crying for her. He was the only one who hadn’t quite lost that delusional hope of recovery, and to see him accept it, he was sure, would be too much to bear. So Lonnie stuffed the emotions deep in his chest, taking a stuttering breath and holding it until black dots swam in his vision, but at least it cleared up his tears.

The ice cream is half re-frozen now, kind of creamy, and kind of a brick of jokerized toppings. He shuffles around for a spoon, hoping the metal isn't too cold for his ever-shivering mom. A side effect of the chemo, the doctors said. Keep it together. Keep it together. Don't think about that.

“Hey Ma.” He bumps the door open with his hip, moving slowly into her space. It’s quiet here, no beeping of monitors he had grown familiar with. She is sitting in a lounge chair facing a window, a rolling IV stand with four different drips barely an arms reach from her. Her recognizes the names of various pain medicines, but the print is too small to really read. “I snuck ice cream in.” He waggles the pint with a weak smile, watching the fuzzy expressions on her face sharpen. She had been reacting slower to everything lately. She used to be impossibly smart, quick witted, able to crack a joke before Lonnie would even comprehend the setup (He knows he got his brains from her) but now? Now it took her a solid fifteen seconds of looking at him, the skin where her eyebrows one were twisting together as if she couldn’t quite remember who was standing in front of her. Than, after a pause, Lonnie holding the ice cream and biting back tears, biting back the pain at the fact his mother barely recognized him (Though he can barely recognize her. She had never looked so gaunt until the treatment) Finally, she smiled. Hazy and slow. It was comforting in an odd way to see her expression tick up, to see how she earned the crows feet and smile lines, but it hurt to see how many frown lines she had gotten in just a few months, how the skin seemed to be both too tight for her bones, and hanging off where soft fat used to pad her expressions.

”Lonnie, honey.” She raises one hand, reaching for him, and he rushes over. She sounds exhausted, as if even speaking is too much. Her hand is cold, shaking almost constantly. He wraps it around his shoulder anyways, kneeling in front of her, pressing the ice cream into her lap like an offering at church.

“Hey Ma.” He repeats, voice soft, broken. The two of them are both exhausted, Lonnie feels a headache from crying and stress, and his mother barely seems to be there anymore. “The doctors just finished their rounds, you got a few minutes for the ice cream before they come back.”

”Oh sweetheart,” She coos, running a shaking, freezing hand through his hair. He feels ten years old again, like he crawled into her lap after a nightmare. But he can’t open his eyes. He knows who he sees wont be the same woman he remembers. Not really. “You got my favorite flavor.”

“Of course Mama,” He says weakly, pressing his face into her stomach. He can feel lumps and bumps of whatever else they had stuck her with. Something to drain her stomach, something to make the chemo easier maybe, but beneath the metal and machine, it’s still his mother. “Wanted to surprise you.”

“You shouldn’t worry so much about me.” She says softly. Her hand stills in his hair, and he doesn’t care that his knees ache from the linoleum, or how the chill of her fingers makes him want to shiver, he wouldn’t want to be anywhere but here. “You shouldn’t worry, you should be getting ready for college. Have you chosen where you want to go yet?” Lonnie swallows thickly, shaking his head.

”No Ma, too…too worried to think about that.” It feels like chalk. He had been too busy working, badgering doctors for answers they never gave— he hadn’t even graduated high school. He barely finished freshman year. “Wanna take care of you first.”

”Lonnie.” His mother sighs, a tone in her voice making the hairs on his neck stand up. Defeat.

“Ma you’re gonna get better.” He tries to promise, lifting his head, her hand slows its gentle raking through his knotted curls. “You’re gonna, the new treatment, the doctors said——“

“Lonnie, im not doing the new treatment.” She cuts him off, and he sees the tears shining in her eyes. Everything spins to a stop. Her room had been quiet. Why weren’t they monitoring her heart rate? Why wasn’t she on observation? Then he sees it, following the trail of her arm— a metal bracelet. DNR: Do not resuscitate.

Shes choosing to die.

“No Ma.” He begs immediately, eyes widening as he looks at her again, “Mama no, no, no, please.” He isn’t sure what he’s begging for; don’t give up. Dont die. Don’t leave me alone. “Please, they said it would work! They said it would fix you!” He desperately grabs her wrist, hand covering the metal bracelet he had seen sticking out of so many covered beds, wheeled off in silence that only followed the dead. “You have to!” His voice cracks, the tears he had tried to stop bubbling up to the surface with a vengeance, “Why wont you!”

She cups his cheek, hand shaking as she holds him, cold and painfully comforting.

“Lonnie you have to understand, I…I’m hurting baby.” She uses the same voice she did when he was five. When she would step on something and explain to him why he needed to pick up his toys. “And…and we don’t have the money for it.”

”But insurance!” He cut her off, cracked voice, snot dripping down his face, he holds onto her tight, burying his face in her stomach, “And the donations from Bruce Wayne!” His chest shakes, thoughts racing. He has to convince her, convince the doctors. Even if she wont want it—someone will have to want to help her!

“I know they weren’t from Bruce Wayne sweetheart.” She says finally, rubbing small circles on his back. It feels wrong, she’s dying, and she’s the one comforting him. He should be comforting her, rallying her to keep fighting. “Insurance said they wouldn’t cover such an experimental treatment. And even if I did survive, I know you’d spend a lifetime dragging me out of debt and I can’t do that to you.”

“Ma, no please I’d do it, please—I want to, please don’t do this.” He begs, weakly trying to shake some sense into her, but she isn’t listening. “I’ll get the real Bruce Wayne to pay for it!” He argues, “Ill— ill go to his office every day and—“

“Lonnie” She cuts him off, shaking her head softly, “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time sweetheart. I chose to do this. I chose to be on hospice. I’m going to keep fighting to see you graduate but…but you have to be ready for this, okay?” She pets his hair back and he shakes his head, pressing her hand against his face, trying to hold her there.

”Please Mamma don’t do this.” He cries, “Please I can’t— I can’t do this without you. Its all been for you, please I can’t—Ill get the money“

“Lonnie, my sweet boy.” She cuts him off, pushing her weak body forward to press a cold kiss to his forehead. “Please. I just want my last days to be peaceful, don’t stress about me. I’ll always be here.” She presses a palm to his chest, above his heart, and he swears the chill makes his pulse stop. He sniffles weakly, feeling the snot bubble in the back of his nose, drip down into his mouth, and he shakes his head again. It’s a cheesy gesture, a promise to always be with him in memory, and it makes him want to puke.

”I don’t wanna remember you I want you to be here—“ he tries.

”Lonnie Machin.” She says, and it makes his head perk up, tears trail down her face too, but she’s so much more composed. It’s enough to jolt Lonnie into an odd calm. If she’s calm, he can be too—he can be strong for her. He shouldn’t be being comforted, he should be helping her. He sniffles one last time, and his mother cradles his face, cradles her baby boy. “I will always love you. I always have, always willl. I will be here as long as I can. I will make as many good memories as we can. But I can’t have you living your life working to pay off my medical debts. It wouldn’t be fair to you.”

”But, but I can find—“ She shushes him once more, kissing his forehead.

”I don’t want to argue.” She says softly, her words final. “I’ve made my choice. I want you by my side until I’m gone.”

“Of course mamma.” He chokes out past the lump in his throat, trying to force the tears down as she pulls away, grabbing the melted ice cream from her lap and offering him a spoonful, the first bite, as if she hadn’t just shattered him.

Chapter Text

        Lonnie had only left his mother’s room for one reason: to call his boss at WayneNews and say he wouldn’t be able to work today, or maybe the next day, or maybe the next week. His boss asked why. He said family emergency. His boss said that wasn’t specific enough. He said his mother was dying. His boss said he only gets a week off, and he would have to pay for whatever papers weren’t delivered today. To make the point even more clear Lonnies boss drove to the hospital (spending more on gas than he would lose by having Lonnie miss a day) and dropping off the large bundle of today’s newspapers, before leaving in a huff. Lonnie took one newspaper, and left the rest for whoever wanted them. Money didn’t matter anymore. Money felt meaningless to him now.

“Bringing Health Back to Gotham: International Healthcare Company Initiative Next Week!” He skims the headlining article bitterly. A bunch of healthcare big-wigs were coming to Gotham to tote on about how many people they helped. Gotham city is an anomoly in every sense of the word. Because of the villains it’s one of the cheapest cities to live in, and one of the most expensive—all depending on location.

Insurance companies even managed to make it more confusing with their “group packages” meaning that the average gothamite can choose to be covered from a random bundle of villains (Lonnie is on the Poison Ivy, Joker, and Two-Face package, which sucked because he was once mugged by a Penguin grunt, and therefore on his own). Some opted for their own strength to protect them, which ended in last months headlines of Joker getting shot by a random civilian (who was than brutalized past comprehension) or others ate the two-thousand dollar monthly fee to be covered by every villain.

The rent is either pennies a month, or hundreds of thousands of dollars depending how close you got to the telltale Wayne tower. He lived on the pennies side of it. This led to the odd stray-bullet grazing him, but if it taught him one thing: it’s how to tie stitches. But those who live in the millions? He’s sure that somehow they’ve managed to soundproof the very air, to keep out the ‘riff raff’ of the poorer areas. They don’t hear the gunshots, and if they do, they don’t care. Than there’s the Bruce Waynes of Gotham, living on glorified private islands with an assessed value more than most people could make in ten lifetimes.

So he’s not too surprised that a big wig Corporation meeting is happening here. After-all, which wanna be millionaire wont cosy up to Bruce Wayne? (Bruce Wayne who owns WayneHealth, a rare and generous insurance he, and his mother, was denied because ‘there wasn’t enough money to go around’ while Wayne trashed suits that costed more than his mothers medical bills twice over) On top of the fact that Bruce Wayne seems to own all of Gotham, despite what the mayor insists is a ‘citizens city’.

The meeting next week is obviously a bunch of rich CEO’s coming together to compare wallet sizes, kneel down to Bruce Wayne, beg for more money, and try to get more social acclaim. It makes him want to vomit. They dare to come here after denying his mother health? After telling her that her life isn’t worth their money? The photo on the cover is ten people in front of a private jet, each man indistinguishable from the man next to him. (Oh, ones bald, so there’s one distinguishing feature). White, but tan enough to brag about a trip to some ‘ethnic country’, teeth so sparkly they practically burned through the image, wrinkles smoothed down by Botox they would deny. Right in the middle of all of them is Bruce Wayne, and suddenly every man seems like a poor copy of the unmistakable nepo-baby. The sub-header: Wayne Dedicates Events to his failed jab at medical school. The article claims the meeting will bring wealth to Gotham, both in the business prospects and with how much the individuals plan on spending to impress Wayne.

He tells himself not to, but he grabs his phone, pulling up WayneSearch—the default on any phone now-a-days.

“CEO net worth”

“How much does a CEO make in a year?”

”Who chooses a CEO’s salary?”

”Are CEO’s elected?”

”What is a board of directors?”

“What is a shareholder?”

“How much money does Bruce Wayne have?”

413. That doesn’t seem like such a big number, until he saw billion. Bruce Wayne, according to the first search result, has 413 billion dollars at his disposal. Sure, it’s covering half a dozen companies, and his parents trust fund, but four hundred and thirteen billion dollars? His mother’s treatment would barely be worth a penny to him. All of a sudden Bruce Waynes charities feel small—sure he donated half a million dollars to make a new hospital wing: that’s like him giving ten dollars to charity. To Bruce Wayne that’s nothing. His mother’s treatment? Pocket change. What would Bruce even do with all that money? He surely couldn’t spend it all. He certainly wasn’t going to donate it.

After a long while of staring at the photo in the news, of Bruce Wayne standing with the generic white men, he slides his phone in his pocket and rubs the tension between his brows. He doesn’t even know when he sat down, maybe collapsed is a better word, watching a few people walk into the hospital, the same photo planted in their hands. Slowly he crumples the paper, feeling each dent, watching it distort Bruce Waynes face.

His mother is dying because she is too poor to live—and Bruce Wayne has four hundred and thirteen billion dollars.

He sighs deeply, dropping the paper into his lap, unable to look at it anymore. He cant think like this. It’s not Bruce Wayne’s fault the insurance company said no—they aren’t on WayneHealthcare. Still, how can someone like him exist while Lonnie has been too poor to even eat? How can Bruce Wayne exist, while his mother is too poor to be allowed to live?

He wants to puke. Still, he swallows his anger and throws the newspaper in the garbage, going back to his mothers room.

***

”Lonnie sweetheart, you shouldn’t be sleeping here, you should be in home, in bed.” His mother huffs, smiling despite her tone, as she notices the makeshift pillow and blanket in her hospital rooms recliner. “You’ll get a crick in your neck!”

“I can handle a little crick, im young and spry still.” He joked, immediately moving to sit beside her. “How are you doing Mama?” He wasn’t crying, right now at least. Sometimes he would go hours without crying, thinking he finally managed to control his emotions, other times she would smile, taking too much effort just to seem happy, and he would sob all over again. Right now was the first one, he felt okay, his mom seemed to be more lively. Some part of him hoped that somehow she was getting better, that even without the chemo she was healthier. She was more energized, she was more present. She could get over this.

“I’m actually doing really good today sweetheart.” She laughed as if it surprised her, her hands were warm when she cupped his cheek. They didn’t shake. The child in him hoped, dreamed—she could come home. She could get through this. “I think it’s because you’ve been here.”

”I’ll always be here mama.” He whispers, leaning into her hand. His mother smiles, stays there, just watching. He doesn’t care about the hunger in his gut, or the pain in his neck, back, and everywhere else, he just stays perfectly still. It almost felt like normal. Like back when he crawled into her room, scared of a bad dream. He wanted to wake up now.

“Hi Ms. Machin!” A nurse knocked on the ever-propped door. Greta’s head lifts to see her, a nurse they both recognized, a nice, vaguely southern woman who had a perm that she denied ever getting.

“Hello Dotty,” Lonnie smiles with his mother, eyes shining with hope as Dotty looks her over. He watches in shock as his mother pushes herself up to sit, breath catching in his throat. She hadnt been able to do that for weeks! She had been relying on the mechanical bed to sit up, the help of the nurses to transfer. He looks over at Dotty with a wide smile, tears pooling in his eyes. He wants to cheer “don’t you see, she’s getting better!”

Dotty looks horrified.

“You seem energetic today.” She swallows thickly, rushing to help support Greta, put pillows behind her back. Her words are tense, just a fraction more nervous than when she walked in, carefully smoothed over with professional calm. Why is she nervous? Lonnie wants to shake her and yell, why isn’t this something to celebrate? “Lonnie can I talk to you for a moment?” Dotty looks to him, the slightest twist of her brows betraying her professional facade, “Just some paperwork before I get your mom’s vitals and such.”

“You can say it here.” He says, grabbing his mom’s hand, when had he started shaking? He doesn’t want to leave her alone. He’s scared if he turns his back for even a moment she will vanish, and he doesn’t want her to be alone when the inevitable comes. “I don’t want to—“

”You can go Lonnie.” His mother has a weak smile, still holding his hand more firmly than she had in a long, long time. She looks to Dotty, a twitch of brows, the drop of a smile. What do they know? What aren’t they telling him? Lonnie hates letting go, hates how his mother folds her hand back in her lap and looks out the window, too calm to be genuine. Why aren’t they happy? They should be dancing with joy, his mother is getting stronger. ”Lonnie,” His mother says, gently cupping his cheek again, hand warm and comforting. She has a look in her eyes, the look of someone who knows more than she says, and the smile of a mother. “I love you, never forget that—okay?”

“Okay.” He says, numbly standing, but she tugs him back down with strength that surprises both of them.

”Promise me.” She says, “Promise me you’ll remember my love for you.”

”I promise Mama,” he says, hand holding hers to his face for a moment, the interaction is odd, and he looks to Dotty as if to somehow get answers, but she’s chewing on her lip. “I promise I know you love me.”

He doesn’t push himself up, so much as he just floats out of the room, back into the small break room he had used a hundred times before. The nurse pauses, pouring a cold cup of coffee for him and passing it over.

”Sit down.” Dotty says softly, not asking. Lonnie bites his lip—this isn’t good. This doesn’t sound good, what is going on? He obeys, all but collapsing into the seat. Lonnie hadn't even realized how tired he was, how much everything hurt, until his body finally could relax. Dotty looks worried, lip chewed nervously as she glances back at the door. “Is there anyone else who needs to say goodbyes?”

“What are you talking about?” Lonnie fumbles, tripping over his words before he even realizes he’s said them “She—she’s getting better! She sat up on her own!”

Dotty shakes her head, and he sees the tears in her eyes, not personal, not really, but the tears of someone who knows what happens next. Who has seen death a hundred times and recognizes its face.

“Shes got a few hours left at most, Lonnie. This is what we call terminal lucidity— I’ve seen it a hundred times. The patient gets better, seems like a miraculous recovery, than they…theyre gone.”

“No, you cant…that’s not—“ He stands up, the coffee slipping from his hands and splashing across the floor, “Youre wrong!” He yells, voice cracking. “Shes going to be okay!” The words catch in his throat, struggling to push out around the lump that had formed, “Shes getting better.” He gets weaker, “Shes has to.” He sniffles, burying his face in his hands as if to hide from Dotty—from the truth. The nurse steps forward slowly, placing a hesitant hand on his back.

”I can make any calls, just give me the numbers.”

”No there’s, no one.” He croaks. He never knew his father, he has no siblings, no aunts or uncles, and his mother hadn't spoken to friends since the diagnosis. He thinks she’s already dead in their eyes. “You cant do this,” He sobs, turning to hug the nurse as tight as possible, “Shes has to get better.” He begs, knowing the nurse had done everything. Gods though, he was angry. He wanted to punch a wall, to find whatever god decided his mother deserved this and kill them. “Please, she has to.”

“I’m sorry.” Dotty says softly, returning the hug, “But she loves you a lot.”

He’s gotten sick of hearing that phrase, of hearing how much his mother loves him—as if he doesn’t love her a million times more.

“I gotta see her.” He pulls back suddenly. Something in his gut tugged, a call of something unknown. A call to go home to her. He turns and charges to her room, blinded by tears. His shoulder slams into the door as he navigates by memory alone to kneel next to her, and collapses in a heap at his mother’s side. She’s silent, and he rubs at his face trying to clear his vision, but finds more tears replace any he wipes away. He feels for her blindly—why hasn’t his mother reached for him? He tugs the edge of her loose hospital shirt until he links their hands together.

His breathing stops. Her hand is cold. Not the chill of a cool night, not the chill of holding ice cream—frozen and stiff.

His eyes fly wide open, his mother is still, eyes shut, chest slumped in a way that is unnatural. He can’t even pretend she is asleep, this is something else entirely. Her fully empty lungs look caved in, muscles completely relaxed, head sunken down as if her shoulders are trying to swallow her neck. He jerks his hand back, it doesn’t reach for him.

”Mama?” He yells so loud it startles him, leaping up, shaking her shoulders. Cold. Cold cold cold. “Mama!” He yells again, voice breaking. “Please somebody—nurse! Please!”

Dotty runs in, and immediately recognizes the slump of someone who has died, who waited to die alone so her son wouldn’t see it.

“Oh god Lonnie.” She gasps, putting a hand on the boys shoulder, who shakes it off, holding his mother, sobbing. Shes freezing. The arms that once moved to hold him on instinct are now completely still, already stiffening slowly. It makes him sob harder, pulling himself closer as if his body heat could somehow warm her corpse back to life.

“Please, you have to help her! Youre a nurse!” He begs, tears dripping down, splattering against the metal bracelet. DNR. “Please.”

“Lonnie I’m sorry.” Dotty says, putting a hand out when more nurses run up, worried about a violent patient. “Lonnie, I’ll…. I’ll give you time.”

He doesn’t want time, he wants his mom. He wants her better, eating the shitty Jokerized Ice Cream. He wants her to see him graduate—even if he had long since dropped out. What was it all for? Dropping out, working so many jobs— just for her to die? Why couldn’t she get better—why did the insurance deny the treatment? How dare they?

He sobs apologies into her stomach, shoulders shaking until two nurses guide him out into the waiting room. They stand guard as he watches in the gap through the door as Dotty pulls the sheet up, covering his mother’s face. Then, even as he begs and pleads, they pull the bed away, his mother nothing more than a covered shell and her metal bracelet. 

Chapter Text

             Lonnie truly wasn’t even sure how he got home. He doesn’t remember it. Doesn’t remember fumbling for the lock on his bike, kicking up, keeping balance, and peddling the miles back. He just remembers the cold. Her freezing hand. How she hadn’t moved, how she had been slumped in on herself. Even when he was sitting inside his childhood apartment, his mind was still in the hospital room.

The apartment is small; three rooms with the cost-free Gotham ambiance of round-the-clock gunshots. There is his bedroom, his mother’s bedroom, and the ‘everything else’ room. (Not counting the bathroom) He doesn’t want to look at the two doors to the bedrooms, for some reason the thought makes his stomach churn. Not out of any form of disgust— the apartment is basically sparkling, he had kept in clean (and barely stepped foot inside it) in hopes of making his mother smile when she got home. It felt like a waste of time now. Like looking at the cleanliness was just another reminder of time he wasted. The hour he spent cleaning—could he have been by her side? Would that hour have changed anything? Made her more likely to survive through the power of hope?

What’s the use of it anymore?

He had kicked his shoes randomly into the corner, the heavy boots cracked from overuse, splattering dried mud on the cream carpet. Hours of work getting the stained carpet back to new, ruined by his emotions. He’s not even sure what emotion he’s feeling. Somehow, he feels almost calm. Or at least, like every emotion had been sucked out of him. Part of him wishes he was angry, punching walls and demanding an answer, but he doesn’t feel like moving. The only question in his mind is: Why keep trying?

The ‘everything room’ is simple. A fridge, oven and microwave shoved into a corner with a small chunk of counter space, a faded couch they call Big Red (It was their old neighbors who moved out, and the couch was too big to get through the apartments stairwell. He has no idea how they got it up here in the first place) and an old box TV from the 90s that was so big it just rested on the floor and still reached Lonnie’s shoulders. Than the coffee table, small, unassuming. One of the legs is just plywood that he screwed on when the original leg broke, but it held up when feet were kicked on it, which is its only purpose. Other than that, the apartment is bare. They used to have posters, sticky notes, reminders of when to take which medicine, but since his mother had been in-patient they all fell away.

It feels emptier somehow. Gutted. The air hasn’t changed, there’s still the same bullet holes patched with caulk, the same movies on the TV, the same faded red dye seeping from the couch—but something is different. He swears the apartment is mourning too. Like it’s trying to hug him with the plywood doors and drywall casings. He doesn’t feel comforted.

“I can’t do this.” He mumbles weakly, collapsing into the red couch. He had only cried for twenty minutes when he was ushered out of the Terminal Floor into a different section of the hospital. Than the numbness had set in. He wanted to feel angry, he wanted to be able to yell at the nurses, curse the doctors, but they had done everything they could. Everything insurance let them do. He wanted to say he wasn’t blindsided, that he was ready for her to die—but he wasn’t. And without anger, without the sadness—there’s just nothing. He just sits on the couch, and does nothing. Feels nothing. Thinks nothing. Part of him isn’t sure he’s even breathing. How long had he been here? Weeks? Years?

Hunger stabs at his gut, but he knows the fridge is empty, plus he’s broke from his job refusing his last paycheck. When was the last time he ate? Probably the ice cream with his mother…it’s dark out now. How many hours had it been? He’ll have to go to whatever food shelter is closest. He doesn’t want to go now though, he doesn’t want to see the world, but can’t stay sitting here. He forces his numb legs off the coffee table, patting his knees to shake the dull ache from them. The kind of pain only 40 year old blue-collar workers usually complain about, felt by the teen. He reaches for the nearest thing, anything to keep his mind busy, and finds a rubber-banded stack of mail that he doesn’t remember grabbing from the mail room. He just needs to do something, something besides rot. Don’t think of her rotting, don’t think of her—

College pamphlets, spam, advertisements, coupons—a bill. His heart drops familiarity, rubbing his face as he slices open the landlords letter. He knows what’s in it, the hopelessness, but reads it anyways.

”Dear Valued Tennant,

I write to tell you that your year-long lease will expire come July 1st, to renew your lease please contact me in my office, or listed phone number. If you do not wish to renew your lease your apartment must be vempty by the provided date, otherwise all remaining items will be rehoused.”

Short and perfectly informal. The landlord doesn’t even know Greta’s name.

Lonnie sighs, rubbing between his eyebrows. He’s underage, he doesn’t even know if he can lease an apartment. Some part of Lonnie is convinced that this apartment is a Penguin money-laundering front. They are on Penguins turf afterall, and the rent is so cheap it has to be criminal. Still, the cheap rent doesn’t mean anything if he doesn’t have a place to live. Though, if it is a front for a crime scene, maybe they’d be willing to let him live here anyways as long as he can pay bills? It’s a gamble based on a pipe dream, but it’s better than considering homelessness. He throws the letter on the stack of ‘things i need to do’ paperwork, next to a business card from a mortician and a medical bill with six figures. He tries to find comfort in the fact that he doesn’t have to pay the bill anymore. (The nurses said you can’t inherit debt). It’s easier said than done. Lonnie knows he would spend his entire life working backbreaking jobs if it meant bringing her back, but she had made her choice. OR rather, had been forced into choosing death.

“I should pick up smoking.” He sighs, forcing himself to his feet unsteadily. He isn’t moving very fast, every movement feels like it has to be intentional, or it just wont happen. “Or drinking.” He pauses, remembering for a moment the fact that he can’t buy either cigarettes or alcohol. “I’d never be caught dead vaping.” He chuckles to himself, shaking his head as he grabs his keys, aimlessly leaving his apartment. He can’t stay there anymore. Too heavy. Too suffocating, too…too much of her there.

His stomach pains tell him where to go. He hadn’t been to the food pantry in years. When he was young, and his mother was the only one who worked, they would go on a bi-weekly basis, receiving the kindness of whatever questionable denominational church would give them. The Catholic Churches tended to give more fish and bread—especially during lent. The Lutheran churches tended to have big group dinners with casseroles and soda, the Baptist’s had weekly feasts every Sunday. Homemade delicacies that had his mouth watering just thinking about it. Of course there are also a dozen WayneShelters, serving the spiritual child of a reheated grade school lunch. He doesn’t go to those very often, even if they’re on every third street corner. Lonnie himself isn’t a religious man, he considers himself too married to science for it, but their kindness helped (Even the backhanded compliments didn’t sour the taste of whatever food they gave). At one point he hoped to work at the food pantries, minus the Bible thumping. He used to wish to be able to help people, to give them he food and support they needed— he wasn’t sure he could do that anymore. Who was worth helping anyways?

He knows the rules of living in Gotham. Don’t walk around after dark. Always have a weapon on you. If you get cornered punch and kick and bite and scream and hope that someone stronger comes to save you. Despite this, he is alone, at night, no weapon, and deathly silent. Part of him hopes he gets mugged. Part of him hopes they shoot. He scans alleys for shifty figures, comically draped in big hoodies and swimming in shadows. He sees one alley with a man peering out, a glint of a silver gun muzzle. He doesn’t avoid it. He doesn’t even really feel fear when he’s dragged deeper by the collar of his red shirt. He doesn’t feel much of anything. Just tired. He wonders what his mother would think if she knew what he was doing.

“Ya’know da drill.” The man has a thick Gotham accent, pressing the cold metal into Lonnies jaw. His hands don’t move. His wallet is in his back left pocket, the wallet chain keeping it pick-pocket proof. He knows he should grab it, throw it down the alley and run when the robber is distracted, but he doesn’t move. The barrel digs deeper. He still doesn’t move. Theres the faintest clicking as the mans finger taps against the trigger. He doesn’t move. “You hear me kid? I don’t want to paint the sidewalk red but i will.” Lonnie still doesn’t want to move. He just watches the man, his mind a thousand miles away.

”Do it.” He challenges.

“Wha—?” The man takes a half step back, the gun still digging into Lonnies jaw, pointed up, the bullet would splatter his brain, surely.

“I said, do it.” Lonnie challenges. He doesn’t feel brave. He doesn’t feel scared. He doesn’t feel anything, even as he pushes his voice out like the world’s most suicidal motivational speaker.

“Kid do you know wh—woah WOAH!” The man is torn away suddenly, a random gunshot shattering the bricks only inches form Lonnies face. The gun drops with a metallic clank as the man is yanked into the sky by something unseen. Lonnies ears ring, loudly. Echoing in an endless drone as suddenly he remembers he can breathe and cold air rushes in, his head suddenly too clear now that its not focused on the cold press of steel. He coughs, some primal body reaction even though his windpipe was never closed, and he leans even more heavily against the brick knowing it’s the only thing holding him up. He can’t see what happens, much less hear it over the high pitched whine, he imagines there’s arguing, pleading, the crack of fist meeting face before the man drops, dangling from a gargoyle from a rope around his leg. Knocked out, the gun landing directly under him with a thud Lonnie can feel through the soles of his boots.

One of the vigilantes had saved him, and based on the silent theatrics, Batman himself. Lonnie should feel honored. Should feel excited. Should feel scared. Batman is a hero by all means. Protecting the innocent, stopping robbers, putting the bad guys in jail. He should be whopping and cheering, yelling thanks. Lonnie had been held at gunpoint, his heart should be pounding, or his hands shaking, or his life flashing before his eyes but—nothing. Part of him recognizes the whiplash of the whole scene, and he wants to laugh like it’s just a show he’s watching and not his own life. He just pushes off the wall and looks at the gun for a moment, before reaching for it. The ringing in his ear silences as he holds the heavy metal—and it is heavy. Heavier than they seem to make it in movies, but not so heavy that he can’t lift it. He twists it left and right, there’s supposed to be a safety somewhere. He finds it just a bit past where his thumb naturally rests, and he switches it down. He tests the gun, squeezing the trigger, and is pleased when it physically can’t fire. He looks up, past the gargoyle, half expecting the see the bat-shillouette that a fanboy would usually pay to see, but finds nothing. He supposes its for the better; if Batman saw him steal a gun he would be upside down just like the mugger.

“Thanks, Bat.” He mumbles, tallying the fact that the Bat just saved him from getting killed in the back of his mind, with the other useless facts like how much coffee he had for breakfast, and how he hasn’t eaten in a day and a half. “Always looking out for the little guy, right?”

He looks at the gun, still a little nervous, squeezing the trigger again just to test that the safety really works. No shots fire, though his ears still ring lowly. Than, he hesitantly tucks it into the waistband of his pants, trying to hide the obvious shape with the drape of his too-big clothes. He doesn’t think he needs a gun— but he’s in Gotham. Every gothamite needs a gun. Batman wont strike twice, or however that saying goes. Or maybe he enjoys the fact that he feels something when the heavy machine is pressed against his side. His pulse picks up, his hands shake. Maybe it’s fear, maybe it’s rage, but it’s something.

He thinks it’s probably bad luck to bring a gun into a church. If he believed in god, he would half expecting to burst into flames the moment he stepped past the threshold. He’s at a Catholic Church now, or he supposes the right word is cathedral. Large and ancient, one of the first things that was built in Gotham—and still nearly one of the tallest.  Its large spire still manages to peak out over a lot of buildings in the Gotham skylines, and despite the odd repair is still completely original.

The food pantry is in the basement. Where the walls crowd close and the stained glass eyes of god can’t follow him. The cathedral is mostly empty, the odd nun mills about, but most are guiding the lost souls to the steep and narrow staircase. As he hops down into the ‘meal room’ he hears the nuns mention a wheelchair, and needing Fathers help transporting the man. Lonnie doesn’t stay, he just steps into the room which has two tables: a narrow one where nuns dish out food, and the giant one where the hungry can eat.

Theres a nun standing in front of a large pot of soup, next to her one of the priests (Father something or other) hands her trays with pre-portioned salads, and a waiting bowl. The room is boiling, given that there’s no ventilation and the dozens of bodies cramming in. Lonnie shuffles in line, smiles and nods, takes the gruel, and sits down. Clam chowder, probably. It’s white and a little too viscous to be pleasant, but it’s free. He stirs halfheartedly with a spoon as conversations pick up, regulars chatting about their lives. How are the kids? How’s school? Have you heard back from the job yet? It all means nothing to Lonnie. He’s not a regular here. Somehow even among the most desperate ranks of society he feels alone. Behind it all is a radio playing a news report; useless topics of whatever sports team had just played, to celebrity gossip, to the odd remark about an upcoming segment related to the Healthcare Summit. Lonnie sits awkwardly at the end of the table, leg tense like he’s half considering running away—because he is. He stirs the soup idly, the back of his mind preparing an excuse if someone asks why he hasn’t eaten yet. Despite the stabbing pain in his gut that beats in tune with his heart, he can’t find it in himself to eat.

Maybe its because of the cold metal pressing against his abdomen, maybe it’s the fear that the safety will tick off and he will shoot himself in the foot, or maybe he just isn’t hungry.

“I’ve seen you here before.” A voice to his right startles him, his hand jerking without real direction, the spoon plopping onto the table and spreading a glob of soup onto his lap.

“What?” Lonnie looks to his right, a man in a wheelchair all but throwing his tray onto the table next to Lonnie, pushing himself forward so they’re shoulder to shoulder. Lonnies eyes instinctively rake over him, snapping back up to his face the moment he sees the tied end of his pants showing his legs end at  upper thigh— the man is a double-amputee. If the man saw his gawking, or cared, he doesn’t show any emotion on his face. He reaches around to a bag hooked on the back of his wheelchair, grabbing a plastic water bottle that has defiantly seen better days. The plastic is cracked like it had been crumpled and unfolded, no brand tagging, and barely screwed shut. He takes a deep swig before hiding the bottle between his legs like it’s a crime— Lonnie is certain that it isn’t filled with water.

“You were here a few months ago, with a lady.”

“How do you remember that?”

“I got a mind like a steel trap.“ The man taps a finger to his temple, rolling the clam chowder over with a smile, taking a spoonful , blowing on it while never breaking eye contact with Lonnie. “And you got the look of someone who lost something.”

All air in Lonnies lungs seems to leave and he breaks the stare off to look at his own, mostly cold, soup.

“Is it that obvious?”

”You look like I did.” The mystery man doesn’t elaborate, continuing to eat. Lonnie doesn’t really ask, “The thousand yard stare, doesn’t matter if the death is in the Middle East, or back home, it shows in the eyes.”

“Thank you for your service.” Lonnie says almost on instinct, like blessing someone who sneezes or thanking someone who holds the door open.

“Theres no thanks in what happened.” The man seethes. Lonnie watches the shift behind his eyes, a hardness forming over the brown— like ice over stone. “No thanks in all that killing.” He takes another long drag of the ‘water bottle’ “Never join the military kid, no matter how desperate you are.”

“I wasn’t planning to.” Lonnie mumbles, not feeling unsafe with the veteran, but certainly not feeling comfortable.

“They’ll spit you out, kill your friends, and leave you for dead once you get home.” The man sighs, his finger running along his neck until he grabs a chain with dog tags. Lonnie doesn’t know much about military, but he sees maybe 5 tags linked on one chain. Four of them look gnarled, metal melted and reformed, the names barely visible, only one is in decent condition. The man runs his thumb over the tags absently, and Lonnie takes a bite of the soup even as it feels wrong to eat it— his body trying to convince him that its oil and spikes going down, he stomachs it though.  A long silence passes before the man continues “But we ain’t here to talk about me.” The man finally concludes the thought from a few minutes ago, resting one elbow on the table and looking at Lonnie. Looking more closely than he had ever been examined by anyone but a doctor. Lonnie doesn’t want to talk about himself, so he takes the biggest bite of soup he can manageable, vaguely pointing to his mouth to try and get more time to think of something else to say.

He’s saved by the radio, the host talking about the healthcare meeting, which makes nearly everyone in the room groan and roll their eyes.

“What a load of bullshit.” A mother all but hisses, mouthing the last word so her son wouldn’t hear it.

“What a load of bullshit!” The vertan agrees, the mother quickly clapping her hands over the young child’s ears with a glare.

“There are children here!”

“Sorry sorry!” The man waves a hand, taking another swig from the water bottle. “What a load of bullshit.” He repeats quieter to Lonnie, who nods in genuine agreement for once. “The only reason I’m here is ‘cuz of those damn CEOs, I serve my country for three deployments, and when I lose my foot from a IED—they slap me with more bills than even Bruce Wayne could afford!”

“A load of bullshit,” Lonnie agrees, voice low. Seething. His problems suddenly feel bigger; it wasn’t just his mom that suffered. This guy did too! “How can you be so calm about it?” Sure the man isn’t calm but he’s not outright angry beyond the rant. “Thinking about them makes me want to…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, because really—he isn’t sure what he wants to do. He just knows its something ugly and bloody and heavy as the gun at his hip.

“What else can I do?” The man shrugs, lifting the bowl to his lips and swallowing the last mouthful of clam chowder. “Being a war hero only matters when you’re being recruited or when you’re dead—no one gives a shit about us when we’re back. Easier to drown us in debt and hope we become another part of the thirty-four percent.”

“Thirty four percent?” Lonnie echoes, and the man  just makes the gesture of holding a gun to his head. “Oh.”

“Those parasites in charge don’t want us alive, they want us to die in the Middle East to keep the fight going. To keep ‘spreading the greatness of the US’— what a joke.” The man takes another swig. Lonnie feels out of his depth, just nodding along politely as he keeps stuffing his mouth with clam chowder so the man doesn't expect a response. His minds lingers on the word parasites, because that’s what the CEO is, isn’t he? Aren’t they all? They take and they take and they take and what do they give in return? What good do the Bruce Wayne’s of the world give, that couldn’t be done without them? “When we don’t die they fuck us over so bad we try to kill ourselves. Make us homeless, make us turn to—too drinks and drugs.” He shakes his head, clearly rambling about thoughts much older than Lonnie. “Those damn parasites want us all dead so they can get all that richer.” He gestures to his leg, “I wasn’t supposed to get it amputated this high you know— the IED only blew off my foot! But when my insurance bounced they saved the better treatment for the richer solider.” The people at the table don’t seem to pay him any mind, either because they had already heard the story, or because they weren’t listening. “The IED took my foot, the healthcare system took my legs.” He finishes his rant by slamming the bowl onto the tray, taking a deep breath. He pauses, looking at Lonnie, and he realizes that this was his turn to vent and be angry. So he takes a deep breath and manages his best, though its just the weak whisper of a scared boy.

“My mom was denied coverage for the treatment that would’ve saved her and now she’s…” Lonnie doesn’t know what to say beyond sharing his own wounds, and the man lays a heavy hand between his shoulders, patting twice. It doesn’t soothe the rage that bubbles up, because that’s the truth, isn’t it? Cancer didn’t kill Lonnies mom—the treatment would’ve saved her. The insurance company killed her. By saying no—they fucking killed her. His hand tightens on the spoon until he feels the metal digging lines into his palm, but he doesn’t let go. They’re the reason she’s dead. Those…those parasites!

”It’s okay kid.” The veteran promises, even if Lonnie feels like laughing at the idea. Nothing is okay. He’s next to a man who lost his legs from a preventable amputation and his mom died because they were poor. How is that okay? “It’s just the lot in some of our lives. We can’t go about getting retribution for every wrong doing, can we? Save the vigilante shit for Batman, or however many sidekicks he’s got now.” Lonnie doesn’t respond, he just looks at his cold clam chowder and swallows back the urge to vomit everything he just ate. “You can call me Legs.” The man offers after a long silence.

Lonnie doesn’t know weather to laugh, or give up and finally puke.

”Legs?”

“My old call sign—a military nickname— trust me, got it way before all of this.”

“That’s kinda fucked up.” Is all Lonnie can manage, pushing the tray of food away from him.

”Ain’t that the story of my life.”

Lonnie doesn’t respond, standing slowly, taking his empty tray to the nun again, handing it over to be cleaned by some other church volunteer. He heard the squeaking of Leg’s wheelchair pull up next to him, the thing is old and needs repairs desperately—but Lonnie assumes the homelessness puts a damper on mobility aid maitinence. Whatever Legs wants to say is drowned out by the radio once more.

”—and to herald in the Healthcare Summit, Bruce Wayne is hosting an exclusive ball to bring Gothams elites in contact with those who keep us safe and healthy. I wish I could give you the scoop on the itinerary— but all we know is next week Bruce Wayne is almost certain to have another dip in the chocolate fountain.” The man laughs like a golf announcer, each ‘ha’ being separately pronounced.

Something ignites in Lonnie, all of his rage finding a target. Not the doctors, not the nurses— the CEO’s who run the whole show. The parasites who take all of the money while leaving those too poor to profit off of, to die. The gun at his hip doesn’t feel like a crime anymore, it feels like a plan. A way to get vengeance on the ones who killed his mom. A plan that even Batman would be proud of— because what’s more ‘looking out for the little guy’ than getting back at those who take and take until the poor are left to die?

Lonnie felt something burning in his chest now— but be it rage or hope he wasn’t sure. 

Chapter Text

        “Good Morning Gotham! Today we have an exclusive look into Bruce Wayne’s upcoming Gala!” The news plays idly in the apartment’s background, a noise Lonnie hoped would drown out his numbness, but it seemed to do the opposite. Still, he lifted his eyes, the news anchors disappear from sight as the TV flips to shows Bruce Waynes last gala. “That’s right! It seems that Mr. Wayne is having this newest Healthcare Summit Ball be a masquerade—to show how the CEO’s help the faceless many. I think that’s such an adorable sentiment, don’t you?” The anchor turns to their co-host, who laughs in an obviously practiced way.

“That I do. Though I’m more eager to see Mr. Wayne in a mask, I think his stylist will make him look downright delectable.” The woman makes a point of showing an image of Bruce post-chocolate fountain dip (from the last Gala) and Lonnie feels like vomiting. They continue talking about the galas, and how ‘yummy’ Bruce Wayne looked, but Lonnies head dropped as he thought. He knows what he wants to do. He wants to get even. To avenge his mother. To do an action he can’t even stomach naming. Slowly he looks back at the newspaper, tracing the same Botox-faces until he sees the CEO of his mothers insurance; UnityCo. A non-descript white man who looks like a poor copy of Bruce Wayne. If all of these men are wearing masks, he isn’t certain he would be able to tell them apart. Each one is six feet tall (And if they aren’t, they wore heel lifters until they were). Each one with thinning blonde-brown hair and pale eyes. To test, he puts his thumb over the bridge of the men’s noses, as if trying to memorize their jawline. It feels good, in a way, to be able to crush the cause of all his problems with his thumb, even if it’s just a fantasy. “And remember folks to stay safe! Gotham PD is reporting increased criminal activity as everyone from street thugs to big guns try to attack the wealthy CEO’s! If you’re a bat-spotter though, this week seems to be your chance! Sightings have increased for each of the beloved, or in some cases scorned, vigilantes! They’ve been working overtime to try and stop cases before they start, but don’t they always?”

Bills have piled up on the uneven coffee table. Lonnie stopped reading them. The red ‘due soon’ notice, the underlined ‘important billing information inside’, and any other way that the debtors have tried to get his non-existent savings. The hospital still sent bills that were for a dead woman, the landlord had mailed a letter about the upcoming end-of-lease, and somehow his dead mother was still getting spam mail. Lonnie is sitting on the couch, head in his hands as he ignores the day-old mug of coffee he had been trying to convince himself to drink.

He still has a few days of paid leave from his newspaper job, so he has some income. One month of paychecks could cover maybe a week of groceries. He knew his mother wouldn’t leave anything to him—that’s like trying to get water from a desert. He would need to go to a food pantry again, some of them would give groceries rather than just daily meals, and he can’t imagine mustering the energy to get food there twice a day. He could just get the raw goods, and hide form the world like he wants to. Though, he also can’t imagine moving anywhere right now. He doesn’t want to move. He’d much rather sit in the same spot until the couch absorbed him and he became an inanimate piece of furniture without fear, worry, or money. Some part of his brain isn’t awake yet, or maybe it fell asleep. Or maybe it died with her. Maybe he should’ve—

Knock knock knock.

No one ever knocks in Gotham, so the noise is jarring enough to make him lunge to his feet, reaching for the nearest weapon (which this time happens to be a bunch of coupons that were in the mailroom, bound by a rubber band. It’s neither threatening nor useful, but he prefers it over nothing) Lonnie half expects to hear the yell of “Gotham PD, open up!” announcing his arrest. Occasionally he would hear it when his neighbors apartments got raided; drug dens, prostitutes, or whatever things his neighbors got up to. A jolted part of his brain wonders if the cops know he’s an unsupervised child—not legally allowed to lease an apartment—who needs to be jailed. Instead, the knocking comes again. A robber? No. They wouldn’t knock. Batman, knocking on his door, injured and needing help and a new sidekick? No, that’s just a fantasy that wont ever come true.

“Hi, Mr. Machin? This is Jeff, your landlord!” Lonnie creeps to the door, coupon bundle still brandished as he looks through the small peephole. He never actually met his landlord, but the guy on the other side of the door looks like he imagines a landlord to look like. He’s a tall just-under-middle-age white man, the kind who would put six foot on his dating profile even though he isn’t quite that tall— broad shoulders but not quite buff, and a fresh haircut that reminds him of the GothamU frat boys. As Lonnie examines the man ‘Jeff’ makes a dramatic look to his watch, which has the smooth sleek-ish design that looks like it costs more than the entire building. From just a glance he knows everything he wants to know about Jeff: he doesn’t like him.

Still, he needs to hope that Jeff is secretly a crime lord (or working for one) because they only care about money, not the law. (And would than let a minor rent) Though, he figures landlords are only one step down from being Penguin wanna-bes. Or, maybe he can just pay Jeff and say his mom is out? Save the crime lord for plan B? He doesn’t know. He never had to worry too much about the paperwork side of things (he only brought the lease notice to his mom to sign when she was in the hospital) but now he’s in the deep end, while also not being old enough to do anything about it.

“Jeff, sorry about the wait.” Lonnie swings the door open, hoping his smile is charming, rather than exhausted. “My mom is….busy. I can get you the check for the rent though!” he’s already backpedaling into the apartment, looking for a checkbook somewhere, or to use one of his mom’s old credit card that’s near its spending limit.

“Yeah…about that kid.” Jeff doesn’t waste any time, not even faking a grimace as he looks in the apartment with obvious discomfort. Okay, it’s not that messy—Lonnie thinks Jeff is being dramatic. “I saw the obituary.” Lonnie freezes, hand hovering over a small wad of tens, fives, and ones that he hoped was equal to the rent. (A measly hundred-fifty dollars a month; Gotham is pennies when you don’t care about safety). “You can’t keep renting here without an adult signing the lease.”

”I’m seventeen!” He fires back immediately, dropping the money to spin around, “Just let me stay here for a few more months, and I’ll be eighteen and Ill pay twice the rent you’re charging—you just have to wait.”

“Lonnie, sorry kid, but I can’t do that. You want crime, live in Penguins houses. I’m a moral landlord.” He presses a hand to his chest and Lonnie wants to punch him. Part of him wants to reach for the gun, and the logical part of him shivers at the fact he even thought such a violent thing.

“You’re gonna kick an orphan kid out?” Lonnie bites, half wanting to laugh. Orphan. What a ridiculous word. For a while he thought it was reserved for 18th century chimney sweeps. Something that was left in the past— not staring him down. Not him. But here he is. An orphan. Soon to be a homeless orphan.

“I called a social worker about you” Jeff says finally. “You're gonna go into the system, get housing and food until you’re eighteen, than—I don’t really know what happens after that.”

Lonnie’s anger returns, and his finger itches to punch, kick, bite—anything. Still, he knows Jeff is the type to sue, and Lonnie is the type to lose.

“You did what?” He feels too calm for how rattled he is. For once, he isn’t numb. He’s pissed off. He steps to the door, slow and deliberate—a good few inches shorter than Jeff the Landlord, but whatever is in his eyes makes Jeff step back. “You called social security on me?”

”An agent will be here tommorow. Kid, we want to help.” Jeff reaches a hand out to pat his shoulder, and Lonnie’s hand moves on instinct, grabbing his bicep and squeezing as hard as he can, hoping it would hurt him. Jeff doesn’t seem angry, or even shocked at his aggression. “You’re not being shipped away to jail, they’re going to help you get settled, safe and…not living like this.”

“Get out.” Lonnie’s other hand shoves his chest, as hard as he can. Jeff does stumble back, not as strong as his stature suggests. “Get the fuck out!”

Jeff‘s hands raise in peace, mouth opening to say something, but Lonnie slams the door shut.

Social security. His landlord called fucking social security on him. He’s gonna go to a random shelter, a random home, because of a man who looked like every business major who was part of Greek life. He was going to lose everything because of a man named Jeff. He can’t stay. He can’t go to whatever house the agent would take him too. If he’s taken in by social security they wouldn’t let him work his jobs, they might not even let him keep his money. He doesn’t know exactly how the foster system works— but he knows it fucks kids up. He knows that going in a few months shy of 18 will make him lose everything, not get adopted, and lose any ties to this city that he has. Hell, he might not even stay in this city.

He has to run. He knows he can’t stay here—can’t risk the unknown that fucking Jeff doomed him too.

So, he finds his old backpack. The one that only saw a few months of high school before everything collapsed and he dropped out. First, he put his money in, as deep as it could go so no pickpocket can get it. Than, clothes built for Gotham winter. (Far off, but deadly) Clean underwear, a pair of socks. A reusable water bottle slots in the side, a few tools from his electrician days. He throws any important paperwork in too. Birth certificate, a drivers license he never used. He wishes he had a sleeping bag, but instead he stuffs in more shirts and as much food in that can fit, until the bag is bulging outward and barely zips closed. Than, for the first time since his mother died, does he go into her room.

Its simple. A plain bed with old sheets, a dresser with a small mirror. He bites his lip and grabs her jewelry drawer, dumping it into his go-bag. He tries to convince himself that it’s for sentiment, and not because some of the jewelry looks like real gold which he could sell. He would put some of her clothes in, if they still smelled like her, but she hadn’t been in this room for years. There were no notes, or cute trinkets, or remnants of hobbies here, because she spent her whole life working. All that he had of her were valuables he would probably have to sell for less than they are worth.

He feels sick just thinking about it.

Stil, he changes into clothes for the current Gotham summer, a tank top, his heavy work jacket to protect him from the sun, lightweight pants, and heavy boots. He looks ready to go back to the electrician job. The memory of the job has the spark of irritation burn into something bigger. That electrician gig—his boss who refused him a paycheck—who is part of the reason he’s now homeless. Lonnie hates him. He wishes he could’ve done something more damaging than steal a cheap ash-tray. It had been forgotten on his coffee table, but Lonnie picks it up, tosses it in the air to feel the weight of it, to feel the bite of the engravings dig into his palms. He paces slightly, hand running through his hair, trying to muster the courage to leave his home for the last time. Angry, hurt, and scared. It’s barely a conscious choice when he throws it. He doesn’t scream in anger, or curse the sky— he’s dead silent as he lobs it at the door. He hopes the landlord cuts himself cleaning it. He hopes that his old boss somehow feels the shattering in his soul. It felt right, but not rewarding, to watch it shatter against the wall. He wants to hurt, to destroy, and to get revenge. The sharp cracking of glass feels almost like freedom as he looks at his home for the last time; the couch, the old TV, before grabbing the one thing he was too scared to until now: the gun.

It’s cold against his hip as he stuffs it into his pants, the shape hidden by the layers of clothing that are both too warm for the season, but needed nonetheless.

He tries to tell himself that he needs the weapon; the plan. It’s Gotham after all, no self respecting Gothamite would be found without a gun. He needs it to stay safe. To get revenge. He thinks of the men he had seen on the newspaper. The ones who killed his mom. The ones he wants to squash under his thumb. The parasites. He grits his teeth as he thinks about them, the smiling face, the Botox that cost more than his rent, the denial of care that killed her. He hates them. The kind of hatred that bubbles over into mindless violence. The kind of hatred that leads to something dangerous, and unfixable. He wants them to break. He wants them to die.

Bruce Wayne is throwing a masquerade. All the easier for him. They wont see him coming. A cornerstone costume shop, a generic gold mask. A gun at his hip. Hatred and a plan to act on it. A brief stop to the store, a short purchase, before going to the only place that wouldn’t kick him out.

He’s at the steps of the church now, his bike locked up to his left, looking at the purchase he swore would fix his problems. A golden mask of a mans face. He isn’t sure who the mask is moulded after. He’s not sure it matters. It’s a cheap plastic that he could shatter just by squeezing his fingers together too tight, and its only binding is an elastic strap he’s certain will snap. Bruce Wayne is throwing a masquerade. He’ll need a mask to fit in. He needs a mask to… to…the gun is heavy on his hips. He needs the gun too. He needs to gun. He needs the violence. He needs to hold onto the one thing he has felt since watching her die. It doesn’t matter if he can stomach the idea of what he will do. He will help people. He’s always heard revenge is a fruitless endeavor—seen it in movies a hundred times. He thinks its bullshit, because when Lonnie thinks of the body of the CEO who killed his mother, bleeding, dying, alone and scared like she was—he feels a joy that he knows is sick. He doesn’t want to kill the CEO, not really. Even feeling the weight of the gun at his hip sends his emotions spiraling from fear to sickness. He knows he wants the CEO to die. He knows no one else will do it. He doesn’t know if he has it in him to kill. He’s going to find out the hard way.

The mask cost him five dollars. The clerk had laughed as he bought it, saying that ever since Bruce Wayne announced a masquerade, the demand for masks have quadrupled. Said some-fifty people had bought the same mask as he did that same day. Everyone wants to pretend to be a part of that world. Everyone from colleges to house parties are donned in masks and fake silks, trying to pretend for even a moment they had a fraction of the money needed to go to a Bruce Wayne gala. Lonnie hates them. How many billions did this party cost? How many times over could his mother have been saved?

He doesn’t really have a plan on what to do. Batman would probably be close, protecting the civilians and party go-ers from potential evils. He’s certain Batman will be watching; protecting all civilians, regardless of wealth. For once, he hopes Batman fails in protecting just one civilian; his victim. He knows Batman is the world’s greatest detective; he once heard that Batman stopped Two Face from bombing a bridge just by a single footprint. Is it true? He isn’t sure, but he knows if Batman ends up on the case, he would be caught.

In his mind it’s simple, really. The CEO’s always make a big scene, limousines pulling up to the door as paparazzi stay behind the gates. The paparazzi always dress as if they hope to sneak through—donned in cheap versions of whatever the theme is. He would just walk up, aim, shoot, and run. Then he would hide until the news broke and the world rejoiced.

”Good thing you’re here kid.” He recognizes Legs’ voice, his body jerking up uncertainly. The mans wheelchair is stopped right in front of Lonnie, the rests for his non-existent feet bumping Lonnie’s shin. “I need help to get downstairs, you go get one o’ the nuns or priests or whatever.” Legs isn’t really looking at Lonnie, rather his eyes skirt around the empty streets. The church is flanked by high buildings, nestled in a somewhat decent part of Gotham. Decent enough that Lonnie could sit on its steps without worry of being shot (At least until the sun goes down). Legs looks down a side street, than his head whips around to the right, eyebrows furrowed, before he sighs and rubs a hand over his face, massaging between his brows as if he has a headache. In the dark of the afternoon, Lonnie almost doesn’t realize that his skin is wrong. Red spiderweb designs branch out across his neck and jaw, curling around the sunken edges of his face. The pattern is almost lost under the flushing of Leg’s cheeks and nose, his whole face either sunburnt or…something else. Lonnie would assume this was caused by some weird bruise, if Leg’s eyes weren’t a bit too yellow, the beds of his nails a similar shade. Leg’s looks sick, irritated, sober, and underfed.

Lonnie’s first thought is that Legs needs to go to a hospital. His second thought is that the homeless veteran can’t afford it.

“Kid?” Legs’ voice ticks up in irritation. His hand is shaking a bit, calloused and dirty from pushing the wheels of his chair without any push ring. Lonnie doesn’t smell any alcohol on Legs—he’s probably in some sort of withdrawal. “The nun?” Legs prompts, and Lonnie moves numbly, trotting down the steps, following the smell of food.

”Can I get a hand getting Legs down here?” The nun serving the soup looks at him warily. “He looks sick…im worried about him.”

“Of course, my child.” The nun sets the soup ladle down, walking briskly in front of Lonnie. She doesn’t speak, she just steps behind Legs and pushes his chair in the direction of the stairs without asking, which causes immediate anger.

”Hey! Get your damn hands off my chair!” He barks, hands grabbing the wheels to forcefully brake the movement, “I can push myself! Hell I’ll throw myself down the stairs before I let someone push me where I don’t wanna go!”

“Sir you need to calm down.” The nun scolds, pulling away from the handles of his chair like they scalded him, “We wont be able to help if you act like this.”

Lonnie can feel the undertone of her clipped words: keep yelling and we wont feed you.

“Than get! Go!” Legs waves a hand angrily, the upper half of his body lurching with how animatedly he tries to shove the nun away, “No one touches my damn chair to push me around!” The nun listens, and leaves with a barely muffled scoff. The moment she’s gone Legs takes a deep breath, looking at Lonnie. “Sorry kid.” He sighs, rubbing between his brows again. Lonnie doesn’t know much about withdrawal, but he knows Legs either needs a hospital, or a monitored cleanse. “Someone pushin’ my chair is like someone shoving you to where they wanna go its—it’s rude!” He raises his voice as if the nun could still hear him, before sighing again. “Everyone’s been high strung. Can’t even get a damn drink around here anymore without the cops showing up.” Lonnie nods as if it makes sense, as if he can understand something so far beyond his understanding. He just nods, says ‘yeah’ when it feels appropriate, and doesn’t realize that Legs hasn’t spoken, until he says ‘yeah’ to nothing at all. “You all right kid?” Legs asks, and Lonnie echoes the same word. “Don’t bullshit me.”

It isn’t said with venom, despite how the crassness would imply. It’s said weakly, like Legs feels defeated for him, before even knowing what went wrong.

“I’m…I’m homeless now.” Somehow saying it, makes it feel more real. Makes it sink in that everything he grew up knowing; his mother, his home, his creature comforts—are all gone. He will never see them again. The landlord will sell any valuables, his childhood gutted and dispersed, or worse, thrown in the nearest dump. “I’m homeless now.” He repeats, weaker. The numbness doesn’t feel empty now, but heavy. The nothing he feels isn’t nothing anymore. It’s crushing, and it’s coiling, and he doesn’t know what it is. “I’m…” He sniffles, tears dripping down his cheeks that he quickly scrubs away, shoulders shaking, “I miss my mom.”

Legs doesn’t say anything for a while, but after a long pause, Lonnie feels a heavy hand rest between his shoulders, awkwardly rubbing as if he were a dog. It’s a failed attempt at comfort, but Lonnie curls into it regardless.

“I’m sorry kid.” Legs is rubbing between his brows again, maybe hungover, maybe trying not to cry. “God, fuck— you’re too young for all this.” He pats his back twice, rubs a circle, switches direction, and pats twice again. “What happened?”

”The insurance…” Lonnie sniffles, the weight crushing down on his shoulders, “She had cancer.” He tries to explain, the tears don’t stop but he tries to force words past the lump in his throat, “They wouldn’t pay for her treatment and…yeah.” He rubs his eyes again, even if it doesn’t really do anything to dry him. “And the landlord wouldn’t rent to a kid.”

Pat pat. Circle. Switch. Pat Pat.

“Fuck kid.” Is all Legs can manage. Lonnie feels the hand curl into a tight fist before it returns to Legs’ lap, nearly shaking. “Damn them.” His anger is palpable but subdued, for the sake of his own throbbing head.  “Damn those damn parasites.”

Lonnie sniffs once, nodding. The weight doesn’t lighten, but it slips off his shoulders down his spine, curling across his stomach until it finds its home in the gun at his hips.

“Damn them all.” He agrees. 

Chapter Text

        Lonnie learned fast where it’s acceptable to sleep in Gotham. He had first tried bus stops, hoping that the shelter could keep him out of any rain or harsh winds, but instead of finding a long bench (uncomfortable, but better than concrete) he found a purposeful armrest in the center of it—not comfortable enough for people to use, but enough of an obstacle to prevent people like him from sleeping there. The homeless shelters were full by the time he got there, already bursting beyond capacity. Inside he could see people in more haggard states than him snoring on glorified barracks. It looked like some people with young children were forced to share a twin bed, and somehow Lonnie felt guilty for even showing up. They seemed to be more desperate than him, and he felt like he was simply wasting resources by needing them.

His final blind guess was sleeping in Gotham park. He knew the mosquitoes would be bad, and he ended up needing to sleep in the grass because each of the benches had those useless, but obviously malicious, armrests to make laying down impossible. He just tugged up his dull red coat and curled up small, covering his face, trying to get some rest.

It’s one of the worst nights of his life. In the morning he feels itchy in the gaps he couldn’t cover, and a bike-cop cycling through the mist yelled at him, assuming he was just a rowdy teen sleeping off a hangover. Still, he counts it as a win. At the very least, he’s alive another day.

The grass is covered in a thin layer of dew that had soaked into his shorts, leaving an uncomfortable squishiness that he can’t change out of (considering the cop is bike-ing in circles nearby, keeping a watchful eye that he doesn’t do anything too rowdy). Lonnie tries to smooth the discomfort out as he stands, his joints ache and a knot has stubbornly formed at the joint of his neck and right shoulder. He moves unsurely, smoothing his pants, rubbing his shoulder, trying to duck lower as if the cop would forget he’s there the moment he’s out of sight. He’s not sure any of his actions do anything, but he’s standing, his clothes are covered in dew, and he’s somehow exhausted after sleeping eight hours.

The first thing he hears as he grabs his bike, slinging himself onto it, is music. Bright loud music that thunders through his bones and rattles for miles. Then he hears cheering, partying— reminding him sharply that the gala is today. His plan is today. He brings a win to the people today.

Gotham Park is nestled in the nicer area of the city; probably why there had been no Poison Ivy attack overnight. Or maybe she’s in jail. He can never keep up. It’s not like Arkham Asylum (Or wherever they end up) actually keeps them there for long. But music and partying seems excessive, even for Gotham. At most they would get a small parade during the major holidays—none of which are today.

It’s easy enough to see what’s going on because Gotham Park is directly in the path of whatever parade is going on. As he gets closer he sees the odd Gothamite meandering about, some with chairs, some just trying to get out of the way. There are a series of convertibles, each dressed up in some way. The first has a large banner that reads: Summit Masquerade Parade! (Followed by a logo of whatever insurance company CEO was sitting in the passenger seat) Which to Lonnie feels like a mouthful. The one after has balloons, the one after that is donned in bright ribbons. Each car is a convertible, and he sees the various healthcare CEO’s sitting and waving, like they were some sort of royalty. It feels tacky. All of the cars are booming the same music, and none of the Gothamites seem to be singing along. This is the business hub of Gotham. Sure, some clap politely, but most are just trying to get to work. The people in the cars don’t seem to notice.

”Are they doing a pre-masquerade parade?” Lonnie mumbles to himself, heard by a stranger who is wearing an ill-fitting suit and looking worriedly at his watch.

“Of course they are.” The stranger mumbles, words fast “The thing is gonna take an hour, and they’ve shut down like half the major roads, and the subway is still down from the last Freeze attack. Gotham, am I right?”

“So they’re going to Wayne manor?”

”Kinda, I think they’re doing a tour of all of Gotham? Try to get everyone excited? The masquerade isn’t until later.”

“Right.” Lonnie nods to himself. He doesn’t know why the rich people are touting about the city—it just seems like asking for trouble. He glances up to the rooftops and sees not one, but two vigilantes. He can barely see their outfits from here. He sees purple, and red; which could mean anything. Lonnie doesn’t really know the vigilantes in Gotham. Sure he knows Batman (Who doesn’t) but he isn’t one of the ‘vigilante hunters’ who spend their nights trying to catch a glimpse of whatever costumed teenager is trying their best. Frankly, he is too busy for it. He knows there’s a Robin, and that there are a ton of former-robins who have done their own thing since stopping being robin. There are hundreds of Reddit threads trying to track which former robin became which vigilante—but he hasn’t ever read any of them. (Those same Reddit threads also have half a dozen conspiracy theories about who Batman is—with one determined man trying to decipher the identity solely based on Batman’s well-endowed butt. He isn’t any closer to figuring it out than anyone else is). Still, he watches as the two mystery vigilantes keep a close eye on the crowd. One sees that they’ve been spotted, and the two dart off to another roof, probably following the parade to ensure no overzealous criminal tries anything.

Lonnie figures he should go, after all he has a lot of planning to do (And a long bike ride to get to Wayne manor). Besides, he has no real desire to watch millionaires tout around the city, calling to each impoverished corner. It feels pointless, nothing more than stroking their ego. The average Gothamite can’t even afford going—why flaunt the fact that they can’t? He supposes it’s the kind of ego only someone like that could manage. The kind of ego and greed he is going to curb.

So, he kicks up again and begins his bike ride to Wayne Manor.

Bruce Wayne is a name everyone in Gotham knows. I mean, how couldn’t they? Half of the buildings in Gotham are either named after him (from his various companies) or have wings dedicated to him (Like hospitals, schools, opera halls, and so on). He’s old money. Ancient money, even. Rumor has it that his great-great-great-great-great-and than some-grandparents were millionaires who left the old world to build a better life in America. The Waynes and the Cobblepots and the Elliots—the three richest families in the history of the world—basically built the US’s east coast. Though each of the families called Gotham home. Lonnie has no idea where the current surviving Cobblepot and Elliot heirs are, but everyone knows about the last Wayne. (Though according to the tabloids it’s pretty likely that Bruce Wayne has anywhere from one to seven children who are being homeschooled away from the rest of the world in an eccentric way only billionaires can manage). Apparently women see him as charming, but between falling in chocolate fountains twice a month and the fact that he has more money than most countries, Lonnie can’t see why he’s such a heartthrob.

Lonnie suspects that Bruce Wayne is nowhere near as incompetent as he tries to make himself out to be. First, because he finds it hard to believe that anyone with a pulse could be that dumb, and secondly because Bruce Wayne was almost a doctor, like his father. It’s the kind of fun fact someone stumbles on in a Buzzfeed Article, right alongside the fact that he has never dyed his hair, and that he was expelled from a prep high school for starting fights. Though of course, nothing is completely confirmed. Theres just a few spotted tales of med-students swearing up and down that there was a suspiciously young student among them, who looks suspiciously like Bruce Wayne. Either that, or random groups of people want the vague Bruce Wayne clout—like the group of Tibetan tourists who swear that they saw a young Bruce Wayne training at a monastery. Lonnie figures that his public image team scrubbed any reference to his studies at Med School because it would clash with whatever image he’s trying to present to the world.

Though that’s another thing Lonnie doesn’t get: Why would Bruce Wayne— smarter than he seems— want the world to think he’s a bumbling idiot? Because Bruce goes to extensive lengths to seem stupid. The kind of stupid, smiling idiot who interviewers surprise with puppies during their shows. Not ill intentioned, not particularly smart— just a polite voice and a butt that everyone swears has to be plastic surgery. Lonnie figures Bruce, as a the head of nearly a dozen companies, would want to be seen as smart and cunning—not the opposite. The stupid charade only seems to hurt his potential business ventures (based on the rumors, at least). So what would make him so determined to appear incompetent?

No one knows. Those kind of theories though, are reserved for the Reddit threads. Right between the guy comparing peoples butts to figure out Batman, and those who claim that Gotham isn’t real and we all just live in a Scarecrow chemical nightmare. “Bruce Wayne is actually pretending to be stupid” is a fringe theory that no one benefits from thinking about. At least the butt guy is funny.

Wayne Manor is only open to the public on very rare occasions. (And by saying public, of course, its just the rich people) Given the size of the grounds, Lonnie assumes that there has to be some sort of butler team; gardeners, chefs, cleaners, the works. However they probably are shut up by NDA’s so tight that no lawyer could even find out what kind of window-cleaner the Wayne Manor uses. The Manor is on a glorified Island. It’s kind of connected to the continental US, but completely isolated by sheer cliffs and dense forests. There is only one way to get in, and that’s the road from Gotham City. Of course, there are two security checkpoints; one where the road meets the mainland, and one where the road meets the island.

Lonnie’s bike ride took a few hours, between dodging the parade, hiding from the vigilantes, and the sheer crowds of Gotham. By noon he is close-ish to the Wayne Manor Gate (A landmark tourists usually take photos at). Of course, the road is blocked off, and the side streets are packed with paparazzi. How is he supposed to get a clear shot from here?

The crowd is overwhelming. He hears the chattering of various news anchors talking about the masquerade, the roar of crowds already half drunk trying to party away in the streets, and the masks— every single person is wearing a masquerade mask. He counts nearly thirty wearing the exact same five dollar plastic mask as him. The golden mould of a strangers face is everywhere, blending with the scantily clad bodies in the summer heat and the hundreds of other guests. Here, he would blend into the crowd, here he could become nothing. Here he will do something big.

He stows his bike and bags in an alley about a mile away. It’s not safe, but he throws a few trash bags over them in hopes that no one finds and steals his last few belongings. Than he slips his golden mask on, tugging the red hoodie over his hair. Even though it’s a brutal Gotham summer, he knows he should hide himself. He has bright orange hair and freckles on nearly every inch of skin— if anyone sees that they could point him out in a lineup easily. His costume isn’t much: a red hood tugged over his face, the bright gold mask, and dark jeans. He’s not particularly tall or short, has an average build that could be masculine or feminine with the heavy coat, and is wearing a mask. Nondescript.

His heart is pounding as he stuffs the final part of his plan into his waistband: the gun. He’s going to do it. He grits his teeth and shoves his hands in his pockets to hide the shaking. The drumming of blood in his ears almost drowns out the loud music. The cheap party music you hear in every frat, the crowd seeming to have amassed into a single organism. Strangers are drunk together, cameras are recording the crazy crowds, and he slips right in. The metal is the only cold thing about him, the summer heat seems suffocating with the plastic mask and heavy hood. If someone thinks his outfit is strange they don’t ask, which is probably for the best. His throat is so dry he isn’t sure he could speak.

He just holds onto the rage and shoves his way through the crowds.

This is the kind of party he wishes he could participate in. The jumping, the fun—he should be here with his freshly graduated high school friends, sneaking shooters of cheap alcohol—but instead he’s an orphan who dropped out, and lost everything. How different would the world be if billionaires didn’t exist? If they gave their money to the poor, his mother would’ve gotten treatment and he would’ve been here partying. Instead, he is homeless now. It’s not their fault exactly, they didn’t cause this on purpose. But he knows that he’s not the only one who lost so much because of them. So this isn’t just for his mother; it’s for his lost childhood, for every person at the soup kitchen, for Legs—and whoever the fuck else can’t afford to live.

He stays deathly still as the party continues. He feels like a tiger in the reeds, shuffling closer to his prey. Never directly at the front, but close enough he will be able to shove himself forward when he needs to. As the sun starts to set the crowd starts to smell like sweat and bile, the occasional person squatting to piss instead of leaving the group. It feels like a frat party spilled out onto the street. It’s like the crowd, just for a moment, forgot about everything wrong with Gotham. Like they didn’t fear a random attack from whatever villain wanted to kill them. Why aren’t they angry too? Why are they celebrating the very people who make their life harder? Do they not realize that they are having their future stolen from them for the sake of profit? What would they do if they knew? Would they rage? Charge Wayne Manor and take over?

The sun has set for a while now, though it’s still swelteringly hot. Lonnie’s head feels fuzzy, he hasn’t eaten anything today. He hasn’t been able to. Then he heard the music shift. Theres a loud yell from someone when the speaker dies, and the same parade music from this morning grows closer. The cars emerge from the dense Gotham streets, bright and colorful, still donned in banners and balloons, and some of the CEO’s are throwing cheap masks into the crowd (As if they weren’t already wearing the costumes). Most of the CEO’s are still sitting on the passenger seat and waving, there are a few security guards making sure no one hops the barricades, but for the most part the party seems to liven. Hands are thrown in the air and Lonnie pushes himself closer, getting a good look at each of the guests of honor.

The first car isn’t the right one, the man is bald. Even with the mask he knows that not the man who killed his mother. The second he’s a bit less sure, lifting his hand to cover the mans top half of his head. The jaw isn’t right. He ducks under a cheap masks that nearly hits him in his head as the people behind him fight for it. It’s the third car that he knows holds the right man. He has a smile that shines too white, the veneers looking almost painful. Lonnie shoves himself closer, wanting to make sure that this is the right man. The man who killed his mother— the images from the newspaper coming to mind: a perfect match.

He knows what he has to do. He knows he has to do it. For his mother. The hatred he feels wells stronger; like an ember hitting kindling it explodes outwards. He can do it.

He feels disconnected from his body, like he’s watching a video game cutscene, rather than actually doing anything. His hand shakes as he dips it into his waistband. The gun is cold and heavy. He clicks the safety off, and tugs it from his pocket. He lines up the shot—hell he doesn’t even know if he’s a good enough shot for this— the thought almost makes him laugh. Then, his fingers twitch, the bang is deafening and the gun recoils so strongly it nearly knocks him in the jaw. His eyes widen as he watches the CEO collapse like a puppet whose strings were cut, but he knows between the moment the gun shot and the moment he fell, he watched an explosion of red and coils of meat that nearly look like spaghetti had splattered from the CEO’s head across the opposite side of the crowd. He stumbles back, clicking the safety back on and stuffing the gun in his pocket. The crowd is screaming, running—most don’t even seem to know where the gunshot had come from, he picks up his feet to follow the scattering masses. One of the cars skids to a stop, the other two try to drive forward, there’s crashing metal at the collision, and Lonnie turns and runs.

He did it. He actually did it!