Bounce

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

Meh I’ll just wait to see if Webby decides to stick with Cap. Soldier would be a “villain” for a while so if I can’t play her like that there’s no reason to do so

@HenryJonesJr

As an alternative, you could always pick up with her Walking the Line or such, and use flashbacks or the present narrative to detail her past as a villain.

That's pretty much what I've done with Toyboy.

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

B L U D H A V E N

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^{1013 Parkthorne Avenue}

The small child-like shadow was a flurry of motion and energy.

Bounding from rooftop to rooftop, the doll seemed a whirling dervish as he flipped and jumped and vaulted over to the top of the Parkthorne Avenue brownstone. He continued, cartwheeling into a backflip as he arrived at the skylight that offered a view into the renovated apartment suite below.

Opening the pane, the youthful Pinocchio dropped into the loft that overlooked the sitting room. Below, the back of the sofa was toward him, facing the entertainment center that was framed by bookshelves that ran floor to ceiling. The shelves were adorned with a variety of ornaments. Honors and awards bestowed upon his public persona by the state of New Jersey, various police organizations, and different charities. The picture that these icons painted of a career law enforcement officer seemed in stark contrast to the posters on either side of the room. Vintage advertisements for Haley’s Circus, prominently displaying artistic renditions of the Flying Graysons.

The coffee table was a glass case shadowbox filled with a variety of colorful circus memoralbilia. Not the least of which was a faded, black and white photograph of a young boy atop the flying trapeze. It lay near the folded newspaper, its paper yellowing, with the headline proclaiming Accident Closes Curtain on Haley’s Gotham Show.

Crossing from out of the sitting room, the boy stepped into a hallway featuring another bookshelf that was recessed into the wall. Stretched up on his toes, the doll reached for a large, leatherbound copy of Black’s Law Dictionary, 9th Edition. As the pulled on the tome, there was a muted clicking sound, after which a section of the bookshelf swung away to reveal a false wall. Behind which was the secret room that held mementos of Dick Grayson’s other life.

Stepping inside of Grayson’s own version of the Bat Bunker, the boy removed the domino mask from his face. Pulling the gloves off, Toyboy bent down to lay those out at his feet. The cape came next, folded up in his arms before he set that aside and then tugged off the boots. Changing out of the tunic and trousers, the doll changed back into the t-shirt and mesh shorts that Dick had brought for him to wear when the two had left S.T.A.R. Labs.

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It really wouldn’t have been fair to say that it was late by the time that Dick had gotten home. Strictly speaking, it was early. Most people with respectable jobs were going to work by this hour.

Dick placed his back to the door to his home as he closed it, and was amazed that his legs weren’t giving out from under him. He’d called the mayor, but had left the press conference for Mack and the New Jersey State Detectives to handle. Cissy’s research and the preliminary statements from the kids had been enough for Anton Schott to be named a person of interest, but it was still too early in the investigation for the word suspect to get thrown around haphazardly in front of reporters.

They’d gotten thirteen of the kids back. It was still not enough. It hadn’t been all fifteen, and at least two of the thirteen that they’d brought back were going to require extensive rehabilitation for the physical mutilations that they’d suffered at the Dollmaker’s hands. But still, they had thirteen kids who were alive and safe. It might not be a resounding victory, but it was close enough that Dick would still celebrate for the moment.

The media, the law suits, and the public outrage could all follow tomorrow. For right now, Dick was going to sleep soundly knowing that there were thirteen families reunited.

As Dick pushed off of the door, the sounds coming from the sitting room prompted the haggard detective to wander into the sitting room. He found Toyboy stretched out on the floor, his head propped up on his elbows and his legs idly kicking at the air, as the doll stared up at the television watching Power Rangers Go on Cartoon Network.

Making his way over, the man sat on the edge of the couch. “Have any trouble finding your way?”

Rolling over, Toyboy flipped around so that he was now sitting cross-legged, facing toward Dick as he answered, “No, sir.”

Yes, sir. No, sir. Mister Grayson. Schott had obviously been rather particular with how he’d programmed Toyboy to respond toward adults. Gesturing back toward the loft, Dick offered, “We can set up the loft as your own room, if you like.”

It seemed strange that Dick would be contemplating sharing the large apartment with someone else. Then, when he’d thought about it, it was strange that Dick would think it strange. After all, that had been part of the reason why they’d remodeled.

For his part, Toyboy looked from Dick to the loft and then back. After another moment, the doll asked, “Are there any kids here that I can play with?”

It should have been a simple question with a simple yes-or-no answer.

If only anything in either of their lives was ever so simple. “Your prime directive again?” Dick remarked. It was a non-answer, and the vacant, expectant look that the doll was giving him made clear that his usual avoidance tactics probably were not going to work on a robot. “I’ll need time to think about that,” Dick finally offered candidly. “Unless there’s an expansion pack that turns you into a teenager, people are going to start asking questions after a while once you go public.”

Go public. Why was he only now considering the implications of that statement? Had he imagined pulling Toyboy off the shelf and then returning him to the cold storage locker at S.T.A.R. Labs when this was through?

Even if he did consider it now, the fact that Anton Schott remained at large made Dick dismiss the idea outright. Blüdhaven needed a Batman of its own, and Dick couldn’t be that anymore. But, what that meant was, he’d need some way to explain who this kid was that was living with him.

Deal with that problem first. Then figure out what to do about the Peter Pan issue. “Toyboy’s not exactly a name,” Dick remarked, leaning forward as he asked, “Did Winslow have another name for you?”

The stoic expression of the cherubic doll just shook its head. “He never named me. He would just say boy and I was expected to answer,” the automaton stated in a matter-of-fact tone.

At first Dick started to nod, then he paused for a moment and considered what the doll had said. Toyboy wasn’t a person. He was a calculator on two legs. If he used a particular word, it was deliberate. Which meant, Schott had never named Toyboy at all.

As if to confirm, Dick posed, “So, Toyboy was..?”

“An identity that I devised from his use of the Toyman persona,” the doll answered with a nod. “Toyman and his sidekick, Toyboy.”

The image that Dick had in his mind to that point of Toyboy playing happily in the Toyman’s shadow was starting to crack even further. “And Anton? He called you boy as well?”

Another nod. “Even on the few occasions that he was able to sneak me into a school field trip, birthday party, or sleepover, the other children thought it strange but otherwise accepted that my name was boy.”

The deferential tone. Nothing given him, not even a name. And Dick was positive that Toyboy had referred to Schott as master at least once. It was all starting to come together for him now. Winslow Schott hadn’t been Gepetto, he’d been Mangiafuoco. Regarding his creation as a puppet and nothing more. A tool for various uses. “Something to think about, then,” Dick uttered, rousing himsef from where his sleep-addled brain was apt to lead him down this rabbit hole. “Like Toyboy, Robin’s an identity, but it’s not a name. You should have a name of your own, to reflect who you are as a person.”

The doll’s head cocked to one side. The otherwise stoic expression blinked, as though the computer within was having difficulty in processing that statement. When he finally spoke, Toyboy said, “But I’m not a person, Mister Grayson.”

A weak smile tugged at the lines of Dick’s face. “On that, we may agree to disagree.” With that, Dick rose back to his feet. He had a bed to get to...

He made it only a few steps before he heard: “Mister Grayson, may I have a glass of water?”

Turning back around, Dick was questioning what he’d thought he’d heard. “Say what, now?”

Rising up from the floor, the child-sized nuclear reactor said, “My coolant levels are a little low.”

The moment that he’d witnessed Toyboy puking up a wet mess on the floor of S.T.A.R. Labs flashed back to memory. Hadn’t Sarah said that it had probably been coolant? “You were shut down for twenty years,” Dick remarked, as much to himself as to the doll.

Ushering the boy toward the kitchen, the man added, “We should probably have Sarah take a look at you to make sure that everything’s in working order.”

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

Redacted.

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

G O T H A M C O U N T Y

---

^{Gotham Corridor Self Storage}

The Gotham County Sheriff looked like he was having a bad day.

Steven “Shotgun” Smith had been a detective on the Gotham City police force. He hadn’t been the best cop, but he hadn’t been the worst either. His departure from the force had come amid an internal affairs scandal that had implicated Smith in several excessive force incidents that may or may not have been racially motivated. Even still, the next county election, Smith had popped back up and somehow come out with a win even with the skeletons in the closet waving to the crowd.

Now it wasn’t that Smith had his deputies turning a blind eye to what was happening out in the county, but the man seemed to be picking and choosing who he arrested and what sort of activities he cracked down on.

At worst, Smith was on the take. That would explain some rather strange campaign financing that had taken place during the county elections. Especially the last round, in which Smith had been unopposed.

At best, the man was just being a pragmatist. Trying to maintain public order without inciting a gang war or pissing the mafia off to the point that eliminating Smith became their desired objective.

Which was the truth? Honestly, Dick wasn’t sure. If he’d been a betting man, he’d have opted for the former and said that Smith was in the pockets of the Black Cullens, but several arrests -- while minor bit players in the organized crime drama that took place outside of Gotham proper -- had been just enough to make Dick question his assumptions even while still questioning Smith’s loyalties.

As Dick’s police cruiser rolled up on the derelict storage center, he could see Smith giving Chambers the business.

“Look, I don’t care where these kids are from. You can get your ass back to Bludhaven and the fuck outta my...”

“Steven.”

Dick’s voice wasn’t raised, but the was enough to ensure that he’d be heard. Both Smith and Chambers’ heads turned, as both Dick and another man got out of the car. Making his way toward the pair, Dick gestured to the figure who’d been riding shotgun with him. “This is Mack Flannagan.”

Smith squared off toward the approaching pair. “Like I give a fuck,” the sheriff tossed back at the former Boy Wonder. “Like I told the lady, get the fuck outta here.”

Mack pulled out his credentials. Holding up his badge, the man simply replied, “New Jersey State Detectives.”

Smith’s reaction was viceral, his already ruddy face turning a heated violet as his mouth fell open, before he seemed to think twice about speaking again.

Putting away the badge, Mack continued. “We’re assisting Bludhaven with this investigation. Given that the scope now exceeds their jurisdiction, the state will be taking it from here.” With that, the state detective merely walked on past the slack-jawed county sheriff.

Casually kicking his head to one side, Dick merely offered Smith a shrug as he followed suit. Chambers fell into step beside him, as the two peace officers ducked under police tape and entered the crime scene. “You sure took your sweet time getting here,” the lieutenant hissed under her breath.

“You’re going to a party, always a solid plan to bring a friend,” Dick deadpanned in answer. Cold sapphire eyes moved to survey the scene. Abandoned storage units, ambulances, and police lights. Amid which, there was a herd of baby humans wrapped in blankets with an assortment of uniformed officers. That much bothered Dick.

He knew what that was like. To be at your lowest point. To be at your most vulnerable. With only the cold comfort of a uniform and a badge looking down on you. “Someone wake up Child Protective Services and tell them to get some social workers out here now,” Dick snapped, a tad more forcefully than he’d intended. That was when he saw the most memorable icon of his childhood.

An EMT wheeling a gurney with a sheet draped over a body.

He felt the blood drain away from his face. “Were we too late?” the man asked. He couldn’t help the emotion that was riding on that question.

Chamber seemed oblivious to how her reply cut straight to the bone. “Understatement,” the woman answered, crossing her arms in front of her chest. Then, gesturing to indicate the cluster of kids, offered, “We’ve got thirteen of the fifteen kids who’ve gone missing over the last month. There were three more, as well. We’re still working to ID them, but we’re pretty sure one’s a kid missing from Camden since March.”

Dick was hardly listening, barely able to hear anything as he seemed almost a robot himself, cutting a path straight toward where the gurney with the sheet over it was out beside the ambulance. They were waiting to load it in, as they had three more gurneys coming out of the open storage unit, each with a kid on it.

Two looked as though they had some kind of prosthesis in place of their hands or arms. Dick realized he was grinding his teeth, forcing himself to take a breath. “How bad is it in there?” the man asked finally.

He could see Chambers shiver at the question. “You have to see it to believe it,” the woman remarked, her voice thick with emotion. She paused a moment, the mask of composure restored as she added, “Hell’s right under our feet. Old Cold War bomb shelter.”

Dick gave a nod. Then he felt the lieutenant’s hand on his arm. “Commissioner, whoever did this, he...”

Her mask was slipping. Placing his hand over her’s, Dick merely turned and gave a curt nod. “I’ll take it from here,” the man offered. Gesturing toward the EMTs, the commissioner said, “See if you can ID what hospital they’re taking the kids to.” He needed to get his head back into the game. There was yet more work to be done. “Then get me a list of who all we have with training in juvenile interviews.”

As Chambers went off to do as he’d said, the last survivor of the Flying Graysons looked out at the Circus of Horrors for the modern age and braced himself to go in.

And in he went. He saw the cages. He saw the chains. He saw the tables converted into some version of a Texas Chainsaw Massacre operating table, blood stains and discarded limbs that were being bagged and tagged.

Stagnant blood had a particular odor to it. If there was a Hell, he was sure that this was how it smelled.

He pulled a handkerchief from out of his pocket, holding it over his nose as he did the best he could to mask the partial limp from the bum knee but there was no hiding the tears slipping down his face as he emerged from out of Anton Schott’s toy shop of terrors.

Coming out of the storage unit, Dick stepped off to the side. He stared up at the night’s sky for a long moment. Wiped the edges of his eyes and then put the handkerchief away.

Then his hand stuck out into the abyssal darkness of the shadows along the wall of another storage unit.

There was a cherubic echo of juvenile giggling, as Dick casually tousled hair of the doll. A strained, weak smile tugged at the deep lines on Dick’s weathered face. “You did good, kid.”

The faint outline of Toyboy’s face was visible in the dim lighting on this side of the storage center. Looking up at the commissioner, the costumed Toy Wonder asked, “You’re not angry?”

Dick’s hand was still resting atop the boy’s head. At the question, Dick did a double take. Another time, another place, he might have laughed. Instead, the man dropped down to one knee in order to get down on the doll’s eye level. “Why would I be angry?” Dick asked, moving his hand to the child-like robot’s shoulder.

“I disobeyed you,” the doll remarked candidly. “Your instructions were to observe and report, not to intervene.”

The man’s hand squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “I’m not angry,” Dick offered softly.

Footsteps. Sliding his hand away, Dick turned his head as he realized that someone was coming this way. Probably Chambers. With more effort than should have been called for, Dick rose back to his feet. “Can you find your own way back to the apartment?” the man asked, his back now to the shadow.

“Yes, sir.”

“Make yourself at home,” Dick offered quietly, adding “I might not be back for awhile,” even as he started moving to meet Cissy as she came around the corner.

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

Entertaining the notion of staying in the current thread for a moment, I feel like if we go with Option #1, in which our IC has just shy of 300 posts (and some of which are really no longer in continuity per se) then we're going to need some solid summaries in the vein of "last time, on Absolute..." along with a clear (read: hyperlinked) jumping in point for new players.

"Click here for the Season 2 opening post" or some such.

Otherwise, I feel like jumping in as a new player in a game with 300 posts would be off-putting. We'd have to build into the marketing what we do to be open/accommodating to new players.

In that vein, regardless of whether a new or old thread, perhaps having each player write up a synopsis of their character, along with their post catalog so that people have links if they want to learn more about Character X.

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

Option #2.

Edit: I ran an X-Men RPG for 10 years. It died a slow death, because it was focused on a core group that slowly dwindled until there were fewer and fewer of us. Instead of making 10 posts a day, we were satisfied that 1 post in 10 months was victory, but it wasn't the RP that we'd joined back in 2005.

A core group is important, yes. But without new players the people in the core group just dwindle away over time. And, yes, most of the new players will leave. If you get 3 and keep 1, that's what you want. Because that 1 can step in to fill the void created by the number of people we started with who didn't finish with us.

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

G O T H A M C O U N T Y

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^{Abandoned Farmstead}

The former Boy Wonder managed to hobble his way across the open yard, pressing his back against the side of the barn.

Reaching down with his left hand, the weathered acrobat probed the knee cap. Pain shot through the joint as he tried to massage the tension there. He was going to have a hell of a time moving around with that leg, which was part of what had prompted him to give up the Nightwing identity in the first place.

Peering out from around the side of the structure, Dick surveyed the farmstead. Across, in the farm house proper, he could see lights on. Silhouettes in the windows suggested that a handful of people were mulling about, throwing back drinks. Probably the higher ups of the pecking order. The barn that Dick was scouting was the meth lab.

As Dick crept down the side of the barn, he stayed out of sight of a guy who stepped out for a smoke. The generator supplying power was out the back. The alarm started from within the moment that the generator cut out. The doors to the barn came rolling open, as voices inside complained of the darkness within.

The smoker was the first to arrive at the generator, followed shortly after by a handful of others stepping out to check on the power. Meanwhile, a shadow passed unnoticed from the rooftop overhead.

Edging out from the ledge of the roof, the grizzled acrobat looked around the dimly lit inside of the barn. Rows of tables for cooking up product were juxtaposed by the side where the product was packaged for distribution.

Reaching down to his belt, Dick withdrew a batarang. Unfolding the weapon, he depressed a button in the center to activate the small explosive charge set there. Most of the people had filtered from out of the barn, drifting along the peripheral. It gave him the perfect opportunity to hit the lab itself.

It was a hook shot. Flying in through the top loft, arcing down toward one of the center tables. The batarang gave a flashbang as it struck the table. It wasn’t meant to be a powerful charge, but the spark was enough to set off the volatile chemicals around it.

The fireball blew out both ends of the barn, sending men diving for the dirt as loud curses howled through the air.

Several went running for the cars, where they discovered their friends unconscious and the tires slashed.

The fire ought to get the local sheriff’s attention, but just in case Dick decided to force fate a bit. Flipping open his burner phone, the man dialed 9-1-1 and then casually dropped the phone into the bushes.

The rest ought to take care of itself.

Dick just hoped that Toyboy could take care of himself until Dick could figure just how the hell he was going to get out of here on a bum leg. Let alone navigate a different route back to the main road, so that he could get back to the highway and venture down to the storage facility.

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Gotham Corridor Self Storage
Bludhaven, New Jersey | Present Day

“Psychopath!”

The doll-faced man staggered away from the black-and-red costumed child before him. The short cape framed the boy’s slight frame as he squared off with the much larger figure that was still framed against the door frame behind him.

Anton Schott turned. The camera lens irises holding the reflected image of the man pivoting on his back foot as he prepared to make his retreat. Toyboy’s hand flew to the utility belt that encircled his wait. That much of the Robin outfit was actually vintage, being the same belt that Dick had worn as the original Boy Wonder.

The doll drew the grapple gun from the compact holster that was attached to the belt. With a single, smooth motion, Toyboy leveled the launcher and pulled the trigger. The line whipped outward, striking against Schott’s leg as he brought it down to take that first step. As the grapple wrapped around the man’s legs, he stumbled.

Seizing hold on the line with his free hand, the doll pulled back on the grapple line. The coiled line around Schott’s legs snapped taut. His body weight still shifting forward with the momentum of his halted flight, the self-proclaimed Dollmaker went down hard to the floor.

A feral screech cut through the air, as the torch-armed girl came barreling at Toyboy with everything that she had. The girl’s body slammed into the costumed doll, taking him back a step. As she jumped onto his back, the two other doll-faced boys followed suit.

The grapple line and attached launcher gun went sliding across the floor as it fell from the doll’s grip. His hands were otherwise occupied, fumbling to steady him as the four children spilled onto the floor, with the Toy Wonder pinned beneath a dogpile.

Retracting a hand to the utility belt, the doll used two fingers to fish out a gas capsule. Squeezing that between his thumb and forefinger, a sharp hiss gave the only warning before a haze of white-ash smoke shot out from the pile of children, slowly dissipating away. The three small forms went limp almost immediately, allowing Toyboy the freedom of being able to gently push them off.

When he’d picked himself back up from the floor, Schott was gone.

Toyboy debated pursuing him. A momentary calculus that arrived at its answer in less than a second, but for a robot it was nonetheless a rather lengthy debate. In the end, the children in the cages took priority.

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“Nine One One.”

“...hello?”

“Hello. Are you okay, sweetie?”

“No.”

“Are there any adults there with you?”

“No, but we’re worried that the bad man might come back again.”

“Who is ‘we’, sweetie? Are there other kids there with you?”

“Yeah, we were all on the school bus together when the bad man came.”

“Sweetie, where you do go to school?”

“Bludhaven Elementary. We’re in the fifth grade.”

“Sweetie, I’m sending some police officers to you. Can you describe where you are? What’s the room like?”

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“All Units, be advised, possible hostage situation at the Gotham Corridor Self Storage. All available units proceed to Interstate Twelve. Repeat, all available units proceed to Interstate Twelve. Missing Bludhaven Elementary students are on the line with dispatch and report the scene is clear, but that suspect may be nearby.”

Dick labored to sit in the driver’s seat. His lower back was killing him, his left knee had locked up on him, and his elbow had never forgiven him for throwing that batarang without properly warming up first. As the adrenaline faded from his body, the old man found himself winded just making the trip back to the car.

He’d reclined the seat and just lay there to try and catch his breath, when the call came over the radio.

Chambers called his personal cell almost the same moment.

“What? And the kids called it in?” Dick uttered, feigning surprise.

It was actually easy to do. He’d told Toyboy to observe and then report back. If the doll had actually cracked the case and then thrown wide the gates, more power to him.

Another time, another life, Dick Grayson might never have doubted that Toyboy could have done it. But there was too much of Bruce in him now. He doubted everything. And everyone. Which made being proven wrong satisfying for the notion that his concerns hadn’t been justified.

“Take control of the scene,” Dick uttered, trying to keep the wince out of his voice as he popped his seat back to the usual position and then started the cruiser. “I’ll be there shortly.”

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

Marvelous... uh... that is, Wonder...

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

G O T H A M C O U N T Y

---

^{Abandoned Farmstead}

The tourists visiting the old farmstead piled out of some expensive rides. Cadillac Escalades. Lincoln Navigators. Even a Porche Macan. It was a lot of money to be out in the unincorporated parts of Gotham County. Especially a zip code where the median income was below the national poverty line.

Shrugging off his duster, the former Boy Wonder stalked through the corn as he wound his way to a strategic vantage point from which to observe the group arrive and then disembark their vehicles.

This was most likely a pick up. The bulk of the groupies were straggling inside of the farmstead. They’d likely be back with their arms full of high flammable product.

For the last twenty years, Dick’s Nightwing suit had remained unchanged. He’d experimented with red iconography once upon a time, but it hadn’t stuck. The bird symbol emblazoned across the chest was in the same muted shade of blue. One thing was different though, as the trousers had clearly shrunk. Maybe it was the wash. Or the spandex just hadn’t held up over time. Whatever the case may have been, Dick’s lower half was dressed in a pair of comfortable sweatpants.

They may not have been the most stylish thing that Nightwing could have worn, but Dick was certain that he’d never had a costume that was this comfortable.

Removing the glasses that he wore for driving at night, the man pressed a domino mask against his face. As it slid into place, the eye slits became faintly illuminated as the lens took over, supplying a HUD interface that also corrected for Dick’s aging vision.

He’d definitely have to pop an Advil later.

He burst from out of the cornfield without a single sound. His movements were not the lithe, acrobat finesse of his youthful years. Now, he moved more like Bruce had. Float like a butterfly, sting like a Batman.

He took down the first goon with a single hit, ducking and weaving as the confusion allowed him time in which to take the second with a two-hit combo. The third managed to clear his gun from out of the waistband of his jeans, but it slipped to the ground with the safety still on as Dick’s fist connected with the man’s face.

“Arghhh,” the Nightwing growled under his breath. As he stepped into that last punch, he tried to flex his knee and felt the joint lock up on him. Arthritic pain shot up his leg, radiating at the hip even as Dick’s shoulder began to ache.

He was officially too old for this.

Leaving the goons on the ground, Dick started to move across the yard toward the barn. As he did, he pulled out his burner phone and tried to dial Toyboy again.

Caller not available.

Just what was that robot up to?

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Gotham Corridor Self Storage
Bludhaven, New Jersey | Present Day

The Toy Wonder took another step back.

Anton Schott, face obscured behind the head of a porcelain doll that he was wearing as a mask, continued to loom over the red-and-black attired Robin. “I’ve done everything in my power to help the little one’s survive in this sad, cruel world,” the man declared, arms outstretched as though to indicate the rows of kennel-like cages in which children were huddled and dirty.

Now fully illuminated, the interior of the room told a very different story. Table tops and tools bore the evidence of blood stains. Parts of bodies were visible in trash cans.

“Survive?” the doll tossed back at his former master and confidant. Taking a step forward, the young-looking Robin at last stopped his retreat and instead stood his ground as he angrily answered, “There are dying children in these cages!”

“Some had to sacrifice so that others could live,” Anton barked, gesturing wildly. His hand grabbed hold of a length of chain that was dangling from the ceiling. Slowly, the man pulled on the chain. Toyboy could hear the sound of a pulley system, his eyes glancing up and then to the side as he tried to determine the mechanism at work.

“As children they are helpless. But, as dolls no one can ever hurt them again.”

From the corners of the room, shadows were starting to emerge. Small, thin silhouettes that revealed themselves to be feral children as they came into view.

They had the same mask, wearing the blissful expression of a porcelain doll over their faces. Some still had all their fingers and toes. Others had their limbs replaced with weapons.

“Not even you!”

Schott’s taunt was almost lost, the man’s voice drowned out by the sound of two buzz-saws whirling to life. A boy charged at the doll. His forearms had been amputated at the elbow, replaced with mitre saws in place of his hands. The feral child was snapping and spitting at the Toyboy, as he slashed at the doll with broad sweeps of his arm.

There was a rush of air. From the corner of his peripheral vision, Toyboy was aware of a girl whose left forearm had been replaced with an oxy-acetylene torch. Aiming that out at Robin, the hiss of compressed gas heralded the flame.

Lashing out with his leg, Toyboy kicked the Saw-Boy in the chest with sufficient force to lift the child off his feet and knock him several feet through the air. The stream of flames shot out at him the next second, as the Toy Wonder took shelter behind the nomex cape.

He pulled a batarang from the utility with his free hand. Logic processors were compiling data, composing an actionable sequence that would adequately address the present threat. He needed to sever the oxygen line on the Torch-Girl’s arm. The batarang should be sufficient for the task, though the trajectory of attack would require fifteen-pounds-per-square-inch of force with a thirty degree angle of attack.

There were also two more feral children circling around to advance behind him. As he threw the batarang, the pivot motion would supply leverage from which he could cartwheel out of the line of attack, pushing one child into the other.

It was a design that took Toyboy precisely 0.485 seconds to compose.

Sliding on his back foot, the doll dropped his cape and then stepped through into the motion of tossing the batarang. The wing tip bounced harmlessly off the metal of the girl’s arm, but the rubber tube was pinched and ruptured, prompting her shrill yelp as the torch blossomed out in a fireball.

Stepping with the motion of the flow, Toyboy’s body followed through into a cartwheel that took him off center, two feral children colliding in the spot where Robin had been just a moment earlier. Shoving the two of them off to the side, Toyboy’s attention was distracted by the return of Saw-Boy.

Reaching up with his left hand, Toyboy grabbed hold of the boy’s mitre saw arm. The pair struggled for a moment, before Toyboy had his right hand on the boy’s other arm as well.

Pulling the Saw-Boy toward him, Toyboy pitched forward so that their foreheads connected. The Saw-Boy went limp as he was stunned, guided down to the floor as the doll turned his attention back to the son of his creator.

“Psychopath,” the boy snapped, in an uncharacteristic bout of anger.

This time, it was Anton Schott who took a step back.