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Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

_{I'm not a grammar Nazi, I swear...}

@Retired

Hider

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

_{[ Prev ] “FEAT OF CLAY, Part II” [ Next ]}

G O T H A M C I T Y

---

^{S.T.A.R. Labs}

Coming here was starting to feel like visiting a friend in the hospital.

The cybernetics lab resembled a surgical suite. All white walls, white tile, and a flood of lighting. A flat table was the centerpiece of the room, atop which the body of the doll was laid out. The illusion of his humanity had been cast aside. The left side of his face was missing, exposing metal plating and a series of blinking lights infused by a host of optic fiber. Most of his chest and torso was a gaping chasm, through which the mechanical anatomy was visible. Even still, someone had tucked a stuffed animal under the crook of the doll’s arm. A stuffed penguin that was supposed to be Tux, whom Dick had learned was a mascot associated with the Linux operating system.

Monitors overhead displayed a cascade of compiling code, as well as a variety of graphs that Dick couldn’t discern any meaning from.

“We’re getting close.”

Sarah Charles’ voice. Dick turned to glance off to his right and saw that the woman had stepped into the lab behind him. “Now I understand why he used DOS for the monokernal architecture,” the woman remarked, though what she said sailed straight over Dick’s head. More so when she cryptically declared, “Toyboy is the kernal level. There’s no user level.”

Not understanding, but taking that as a sign that progress was being made. Dick merely gave a nod as he half-heartedly uttered, “Of course.”

Not to be dissuaded by her guest’s lack of appreciation for proper operating system design, Sarah pointed up to one of the monitors, displaying a cascade of code, as she continued. “Now that we understand the language that Schott developed, we’re replicating the processes and the architecture, but moving him to a UNIX-like kernal that will mimic Linux close enough to be compatible with some off-the-shelf options for expanding his capabilities.”

All right, now Dick was able to start picking up what Sarah was putting down. By moving Toyboy to modern software, it put contemporary applications on the proverbial table. “We’ve also installed a second CPU for better task switching, and created a microkernal operating within a virtual drive running Tails. If this works, it’ll mask Toyboy’s internet connection through the Tor network, while protecting the host drive by isolated the executable file permissions within a partition of file structure that’s enclosed in ramdisk memory..”

Should he be getting college credit in computer science for having stayed awake through all of that? “I’m just going to nod and pretend I understand at least part of that,” Dick deadpanned glibly. And trust that it would be difficult to trace. Sarah’s work with secure computing and telecommunications was a large part of his success as Nightwing in the modern era. Bruce’s tactics and techniques for remaining hidden in the era of the 1970s had steadily eroded across the 1980s with the emergence of new technologies.

“I finally read the notes about the heart.”

Glancing over at the woman, Dick just inclined his head to indicate that he was listening. “I think I was hesitating because I was afraid when I did, I’d realize you were right,” Sarah admitted candidly. “Remember when we pulled Toyboy out of storage and I said that Schott must have been a right bastard to have used Horton Cells? You said ‘I think he’d agree.’”

Something like that, anyway. At the nod from Dick, the woman continued. “All this time, I’d thought that you were talking about Toyboy,” she admitted. Then paused, before saying, “But you were talking about Schott.”

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BLÜDHAVEN POLICE DEPARTMENT
Later that day

“Most of what was in the apartment is coming up empty, though preliminary lab analysis of hair samples confirms that Schott was there.”

Cissy Chambers was running Dick through the status of their major open cases. The search for the man wanted for fifteen separate counts of kidnapping, two counts of child murder, and three aggravated assault charges being at the top of the list.

“You said that the name ‘Michael Jarret’ rang a bell, so I looked into it,” the lieutenant noted. Flipping a brown folder down onto Dick’s desk, the woman continued as Dick started to read. He’d only just laid eyes on it when the recollection of his conversation with Toyboy about the 1996 case came back to mind.

“He was one of Schott’s classmates. Survived Hinkley Creek and then took his own life a few years later,” Cissy noted.

“Schott stole his identity,” Dick uttered gruffly. Laying the folder on his desk, the man just stared down at it for a moment. “My god. What if..?” he began, the thought seemingly stopped there. Instead, Dick looked up and said, “See what you can find on Jarret’s suicide.”

Reaching out with one hand, Cissy flipped several pages in the file. When she’d stopped, Dick realized that what he’d just asked for was right in front of him.

And it was only a single page. Half a page even. “There was a note and the ME didn’t ask for an autopsy, so they just closed the case file the same day that the body was found,” Cissy noted, her tone matching the scowl on Dick’s face. “But I agree that its suspicious in light of current events.”

“One more...” Dick uttered cryptically. He was quiet a moment, before he looked up and explained, “There’s another survivor who died by suicide. Check into it.”

The lieutenant gave a nod, retrieving the folder from off of Dick’s desk and replacing it with another from the stack in her arms. “That leaves the pawn shop case,” she offered, prefacing the brief to come. Dick flipped open the folder as she continued. “I asked Dolph for a preliminary report on the pawn shop case, but he says they’re coming up empty.”

“What about the forensics?” Dick asked, even as he thumbed over to the section of the file that contained the CSI notations.

“Dave’s team went over the cash register. There’s a clear impression of a hand, but no fingerprints. Only thing they came back with was some mud.”

The man raised an eyebrow, but continued on. “We get the footage from the store?”

Cissy gave a nod. “It’s on the sharedrive.”

Setting the folder down, Dick shifted his posture as he turned toward the workstation on his desk. Logging in, he pulled up the reports database and then glanced over for the referenced investigation number. Then, pulling up the media files associated with the case call number, brought up the video file.

On the computer monitor, a man who could have been Boris Karloff’s ugly twin stormed into the store. And, sure enough, grabbed the cash register and proceeded to crack it like an egg with his bare hands.

The stony face was distinctive to start with, but what stuck out to Dick most of all were the eyes. There was something about those eyes. “How does someone get a face like that?” the man blurted aloud.

“We already ran the image,” Cissy said, chiming in from over Dick’s shoulder. “Cross-referenced against DMV, FBI, and Department of State. Whoever he is, he’s off the...”

The phone ringing on Dick’s desk interrupted them.

Reaching over, Dick swiped the handset. “Grayson,” the man uttered. As he did, Cissy stepped back around toward the front of the office. “Uh huh,” Dick remarked, cradling the handset between his head and shoulder, freeing his hands to fumble for a pen and paper. “Twelfth and Farnam? Tell them that Lieutenant Chambers and I are en route.”

Cissy was obviously curious as he hung up the phone. Standing from the desk, Dick reached over and pulled on his usual, sable-colored trench coat. “Jewelry store robbery,” he offered, tossing a pair of car keys at her.

“Description matches our pawn shop case.”

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

_{[ Prev ] “FEAT OF CLAY, Part I” [ Next ]}

B L U D H A V E N

---

^{12801 12th Street Northwest}

“Two-Eighty-One. Robbery in progress. Pawn shop. MLK and Dodge.”

Another day, another series of random criminal acts, senseless violence, or just plain malfeasance on the part of humanity. Which, he supposed he should be grateful for, being that crime was something of job security for him.

“This is Unit Twelve, en route.”

Throwing the bulletproof vest over his head, Dick casually looked over at Cissy Chambers even as he fastened the vest to his torso. “Who’s in unit twelve?”

Chambers was in uniform, already in S.W.A.T. gear and checking the load out of the Glock 22 police pistol that she carried. It was a standard sidearm, carried by more than half the police organizations in the United States. Still, the .40 caliber pistol looked unusually large in the woman’s deceptively delicate hands. “Harrison and Dolph,” Cissy answered, tossing a look his way as she racked the slide back to load a round into the chamber.

Then she looked away again, dropping the magazine and loading another round in.

The Glock 22 was the Bludhaven Police standard issue for everyone who had graduated from the police academy. Every uniform cop carried the .40 caliber, though plains clothes detectives tended to have more leeway. Particularly as they often favored sub-compacts that were more readily concealed. Among BPD, that would be a Glock 19 or a Sig P229.

Dick carried the Sig, chambered .357. Like Cissy, he racked the slide and then dropped the magazine. As he fumbled about to find what he’d done with that spare bullet, Dick candidly remarked, “Double check the evidence room against their reports when they get back.”

Chambered gave what sounded like a nervous laugh. The kind of sound that made clear that the woman wasn’t certain just how she was supposed to react to a statement like that.

Sliding the magazine back into the grip, Dick gave the base of the pistol a quick slap to check that it was snugly locked in place, then just turned to level a stern look over at the lieutenant.

Cissy’s head cocked to one side. “You’re serious?” she blurted aloud.

“You tell me how Harrison’s leasing a Porche Macan with a baby on the way and paying child support on the last kid. All on a corporal’s salary,” Dick stated, in a matter-of-fact tone that seemed to leave no room for debate.

Returning the pistol to the underarm holster that he wore, Dick grabbed a black jacket that had yellow piping and the word POLICE emblazoned across the back. Throwing that on, the man adjusted the radio that was on his belt, clipping a mic up on the left shoulder and then looping an earpiece around his right ear. Finally, he switched frequencies and said, “All right, this is Grayson, we got eyes?”

“Hostetler. I’m across the street with visual. No lights or movement inside.”

It had been forty-two days since they’d pulled the thirteen kids out of the cages underneath the old Gotham Corridor Self-Storage. In that time, Anton Schott had gone from person of interest to official suspect. A CrimeStoppers tip had turned up, indicating that Schott might have taken up residence in these apartments.

The property manager had identified Schott’s photo as a resident went by the name Michael Jarret. It was a name that Dick hadn’t been able to place immediately, but he knew that he’d seen or heard it somewhere recently. If Toyboy was here, Dick probably could have gotten that answer in less than a minute. But, this was Dick’s other job. And so he’d just have to make do for the time being.

Schott, or Jarret, hadn’t been seen of late. He was never a punctual resident, but he’d missed this month’s rent payment.

Dick was worried that Schott had already fled. But sitting on the apartment wasn’t likely to tell them anything if that was the case. Toggling the radio again, Dick made the call. “Take down the door.”

From the stairwell, Dick could hear the S.W.A.T. make their move. Voices shouted, echoing in the night as a loud crash could be heard. Through the earpiece, Dick could clearly make out the words. “We’re in.”

At that point, Dick and Chambers were both on the move. Guns drawn, the commissioner and the lieutenant moved up the stairwell, passing quickly down the hall and then through the open door.

The S.W.A.T. team had posted inside. There was no one home.

Turning around, Dick did a slow turn to survey the interior of the apartment. It looked like it had been ransacked. Drawers yanked out of cabinets, then overturned and left discarded on the floor.

If Anton Schott had been here, he was long gone now. Grinding his teeth as he returned his pistol to it’s holster, concealed by the jacket that he wore. Then, planting his hands on his hips, Dick just stood back and watched as his officers did their job. Cordoned off the scene. The forensics team was on their way up, to start bagging and tagging whatever might turn up of interest.

Chambers had gloves on, picking through the trash for anything that might be of value.

Maybe something would turn up. Right now, it looked like they had nothing. “Shit,” Dick swore under his breath.

“Commissioner,” a voice called out. Dick looked up to see one of the S.W.A.T. officers. “Dispatch is calling you.”

A grunt and a nod of acknowledgement would have to pass as his thanks for now. Switching frequencies again, Dick tapped the mic on his shoulder and said, “Grayson. Go.”

“Commissioner, unit twelve is asking for you to stop by the scene of the two-eighty-one at MLK and Dodge.”

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Earl’s Pawn Shop was a staple of the southwest corner of Bludhaven’s so-called Old Town district. It was catty-corner from the Sunoco gas station that was frequently referred to by Bludhaven Police as the Stop ‘n Rob.

A robbery in this neighborhood was just another day of the week.

Dick’s unmarked cruiser pulled up near the doors. As he exited the car, the first thing that he took note of was the doors to the shop. They appeared to be the industry standard. Heavy, metal frame. Safety glass with metal bar reinforcement.

The doors were off their hinges, as though a tank had come barreling through. Except, to get the doors and frame like that, it would have had to have hit them from the inside heading outward. Not from the position of someone trying to break inside.

It had his curiosity at least. Strolling in through the doors, he quickly spotted Dolph. In the dark blue Bludhaven uniform, talking to a woman who was presumably someone to do with the complaint.

So where was Harrison? As he glanced around the inside of the shop, he only saw the one uniform. As Dolph broke away from the witness, Dick called out and said, “All right, you wanted me here. What do you got?”

“To hear the witness tell it, Commissioner, we’ve got a larceny,” the young officer remarked. Dolph had graduated from the academy last year, but was easily one of the more promising of the recruits that Dick had on the force at present.

Made it a damn shame that he’d drawn Harrison as a partner. Eventually, either Dolph was going to dime out his partner or would fall prey to the all-too-common practice of following the bad example. Just which path the young Dolph was headed down, Dick wasn’t certain yet. “But it doesn’t make any sense,” the officer complained, seemingly at a loss.

“A larceny? Not a robbery?” Dick asked in a neutral tone. The complaint had come in about a robbery, which the state of the entrance would certainly suggest some force was used. “So the suspect wasn’t armed? What did he do, wait for an open register, grab the cash and go?”

Taking a half-step back, Dolph pivoted at the waist just enough to beckon Dick’s attention over to two hunks of twisted, wrought metal that were lying atop a counter. It was a moment before it clicked that the heavy, reinforced metal frame had been, at one time, a cash register. “Commissioner, the lady there says that a man did that with his bare hands.”

Dick’s frown deepened. The register. The doors. Could they be dealing with a metahuman? “They got video?” Dick asked, glancing back up at Dolph.

“Harrison’s seeing if he can figure out how to either run or record the tapes,” the officer answered with a nod. Then a shrug as he added, “Apparently, no one’s actually had to review the footage since it was installed.”

Dick gave a barely perceptible nod. “And the lady?” he asked, inclining his head to indicate the woman that Dolph had been speaking with when he’d come in.

“General Manager. She’s the one who called it in,” Dolph answered succinctly. “Says she saw the whole thing.”

“Got it,” Dick answered shortly. Then gave another nod as he said, “Get back out to the car and call over to the precinct. Tell them I want a forensic team to go over that register. See if Mister Big Hands left us some fingerprints.”

While Dolph hurried from out of the store, Dick ventured further inside. Strolling up on where the woman seemed to be trying to order a display, he simply asked,“You Earl?”

“Earl’s been dead since ‘Ninety-Two,” the woman offered in reply. By her voice, Dick was guessing she wasn’t a Jersey local. Transplant more likely. Somewhere in the South. “You a detective or something?”

“Or something,” the man quipped back in reply, even as he flipped his credentials out for her to inspect. “Dick Grayson. BPD.”

Flipping the badge case closed again, Dick tucked it away as he continued. “I know that you’ve had to do this a couple of times already, but would you mind talking me through what you saw again?”

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

<Snipped quote by DocTachyon>

Damn, these holidays really have me slipping.

Although I did consider dropping samples on secondary apps.

@Lord Wraith

This is blatant favoritism.

@Retired

@Lord Wraith Villain! Verily, thine offense against thy players shall not go unopposed!

Ye, look upon mine visage and dispair

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

G O T H A M C I T Y

---

^{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

---

^{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.