Bounce

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

G O T H A M C I T Y

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^{Highway 204 Northbound}

The vanity plate on the back was REDBIRD.

For day to day commuting for work, Dick had an unmarked police version of a Chevrolet Impala. For personal trips, he had something far less practical.

His feet alternated pressure on the pedals, as he eased back on the gas and engaged the clutch. His right hand smoothly guided the transmission, manually guiding the gearshift. Then he let off the clutch and opened it up as he hit the foot of Trigate Bridge into Gotham.

“What about Freddy?” the man asked, letting off the gas and shifting the car into neutral. Inertia carried them, coasting along as the pair headed into the more clustered nature of traffic inside the city. They were continuing the line the discussion from yesterday, about Toyboy having a name of his own.

Toyboy was perched up against the passenger window like a puppy. “The killer from Nightmare on Elm Street?” the doll uttered in reply, which seemed to be his answer.

Every name that Dick came up with seemed to be a serial killer or theatrical psychopath. “How about...” the man began, pausing as he navigated from out of the left lane and into position for the ramp that would put them on Plumber Street. “...Damian?”

“The kid from the Omen?” To be honest, until Toyboy had said the name of the film, Dick had completely forgotten about that one. Son of the Devil? Psychotic little bastard? Yeah, Dick could understand when Toyboy’s final answer was, “Pass.”

Returning his hand to the gearshift, Dick downshifted into third and then let the car coast in neutral along the contour of the ramp before he engaged the gear and gave the engine some gas again. “There’s always Winslow,” the man deadpanned with a wry grin.

“Ugh,” Toyboy uttered. “Hard pass.”

The lines on Dick’s face shifted as he flashed a smile. It seemed a rare occasion now. Another trait that he’d picked up from Bruce, perhaps.

Turning off of Plumber, Dick pointed the car down West 47th. In the distance, the S.T.A.R. Labs building could be seen up ahead.

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“He asked for a drink of water?”

It had been awhile since Dick had been inside of Dr. Charles lab space. It was certainly an improvement over the cold storage area where they’d pulled Toyboy from out of the mortuary-style closet. Examining a Picasso print on the wall, Dick casually answered, “Said his coolant levels were low.” Turning back toward the interior of the room, the man stepped over to where Toyboy was seated on a counter top. Placing a hand on the doll’s back, he added, “Now, I’ve never had a robot before, so I wasn’t sure how often I should bring him in for an oil change.”

An eyebrow slipped up high on Sarah’s brow. “Interesting,” the woman remarked, before shifting attention from Dick to the child-like simulacrum. “So you have self-awareness of your own diagnostics?”

“Isn’t it like when the ‘check engine’ light comes on?”

“That’s a sensor,” Sarah offered in reply, giving a shake of her head. “Binary function. On or off. The car doesn’t tell you which sensor or what, specifically, to check.” Crossing her arms, she took a deep breath before she said, “This is a level of artificial intelligence we can’t pull off in 2019. Schott did this in 1980?”

“‘82 or ‘84, ma’am,” Toyboy noted. When both adults looked down at him, he gave a shrug and said, “I was kinda a work in progress for awhile.”

Sarah just blinked. Then a second time. A shake of her head, and the woman said, “All right, get his shirt off and I’ll see if I can find the computer cart.”

Immediately, Toyboy raised his arms up. Dick reached over to pull the shirt off and then set it down behind him. The half-naked doll waited there, until Sarah returned, wheeling in the same computer cart that they’d used from earlier. Two coaxial cables and a slew of thinner wires came out. Sarah handed the first coaxial cable to Toyboy, for connecting to the naval port. The second she passed to Dick.

Running a hand up along the nape of the doll’s neck, the man’s fingers found the port concealed in the hair and plugged the coaxial cable into the base of the boy’s skull. As they did, Sarah had an old laptop out and was starting to pull up a MS DOS window.

“Looks like one of his recirculating pumps is off-line,” the woman noted after another moment. Opening a second window, she typed a series of commands. Then paused to review the return before adding, “And total volume is below nominal.”

Dick was definitely not going to claim to be an expert in nuclear reactors generally. Horton Cell ones even less so. “So what, does he just cycle water around in there?”

Stepping away from the computer cart for a moment, Sarah sat down at her normal workstation and pulled up her files on Toyboy. The flatscreen television on the wall suddenly lit up, as Sarah displayed a photo of Toyboy’s body, with several wire diagrams overlaid. “It’s an interesting concept. Schott basically copied the pathways of the body,” Sarah commented, as the wire diagram highlighted in a variety of colors to denote the different identified components. “You probably don’t notice that Toyboy’s not breathing, because he does respirate. As the coolant loops filter through the lungs, there’s a gas exchange that vents through a sinus cavity to the mouth and nose. It gives Toyboy the illusion of having warm, moist breath.”

Standing up, the woman stepped over toward the screen and motioned with her hand to indicate the yellow colored diagram. “The primary coolant loop is a double helix originating in the abdomen, with the stomach divided into storage tanks that are retained and cycled through what you might call his intestines.”

Indicating the blue component next, she continued. “His heart is where the reactor is located,” she noted, indicating a mechanical organ that was precisely where Dick would have imagined a heart to have been. “Two chambers, a right ventricle and a left ventricle, housing the Horton Cells, though Schott appears to have made a major design flaw here.”

Dick looked from the illustrated schematic over to the woman. “Why do you say that?”

“The physical construct restricts Toyboy’s maximum power output,” Sarah remarked, pointing to the mechanical heart. Then, she offered, “My guess is that Schott just didn’t have any experience in reactor design. If he had full access to his Horton Cells, you could probably run all of Gotham City off him.”

Dick gave a slight laugh at that thought. “He doesn’t seem hindered much by that flaw,” the man remarked dryly.

Now it was Sarah’s turn to shrug. “I’ll need to get a team together to look at that pump,” the woman remarked, with a glance over to Dick. “The issue could be mechanical, electrical, software, firmware...” Turning back toward where Toyboy was sitting patiently atop the counter, with the laptop and cables plugged into him, the woman remarked, “I’d say it might take us some time to get it fixed, but I’d be talking years. If not decades.”

Dick did a double take at that announcement. “Sarah, I’m too old to be Nightwing and we’ve got a serial child killer on the loose,” the man uttered bluntly. “Toyboy’s the one who found those thirteen kids under the storage center and fought off their kidnapper. I’d like to have him back out there this week.”

A sigh. “Dick, Toyboy’s amazing by modern standards. But he’s not operating off modern standards. He’s running 1980’s era technology,” Sarah remarked, turning to face the man as she continued. “Even if we do manage to get his coolant system fully functional again, I’m not sure we’re going to be able to keep doing this.”

Motioning to the computer cart and the admittedly dated HP laptop on it, she commented, “This is the only laptop we have that still has a version of DOS on it. We should have thrown it away five or seven years ago, but Cindy in the cybernetics lab likes the autoCAD program on it because it’s what she used to compose her doctoral thesis, but if this laptop shits the bed or gets replaced…”

“Would it ever be possible to get Toyboy running modern software?”

“Dick, Toyboy shouldn't be possible at all,” Sarah countered, a tad more passionately than he’d expected. “The technology of 1982 didn’t have the capability to do what Schott wanted it to do, so he created his own programming language. In an era where an operating system would have been about a hundred lines of code, if that, Toyboy’s composed of millions of lines that we don’t understand, let alone begin to decipher.”

This time it was Dick who gave a heavy sigh. Glancing up at the ceiling, for a moment it was clear that the man was debating what he was about to do next. Then, finally, he reaching inside of his coat and pulled out a small case. Opening the case, he produced an SD card in the palm of his hand.

Sarah just had a quizzical look on her face. “What’s that?”

“The Rosetta Stone,” Dick stated dryly, holding it out for her to take. “If there’s something not there, I can go through what I have in storage and see if there’s a blueprint of schematic that I hadn’t scanned.”

Taking the SD card with the fingers of both hands, Sarah Charles just stared at the small chip, as though still having trouble digesting the reality of what Dick had just handed her. “You’ve had this the whole time.”

It wasn’t a question.

“We spent ten years trying to reverse engineer Toyboy and you had the master files the whole time?” the woman barked, looking up at Dick with nothing shy of hell’s own fury.

Dick just gave a shrug. Stepping back over to Toyboy, he ruffled the doll’s hair as he passed toward the door. “Read the notes about Toyboy’s heart,” the man offered cryptically, as he stood by the exit.

“I think you’ll find something there.”

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

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^{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...