Izurich
PapaOso
Eviledd1984
DocTachyon
anothered
GubGar
Alby47
Simple Unicycle
Knight 7
He’d have preferred to just ride the bus.
The problem was, living way out in the goddamn county, there wasn’t a school bus from the plebian dregs of the city that came out to stately Wayne Manor.
Most of the lifestyles of the rich and snobbish types sent their kids to board at Gotham Academy – if they could get in – or Brentwood Academy over in Crest Hills if they couldn’t. But Jason was from the Gotham City public schools. And, between arrests and changing foster homes, he’d rotated around and his grades reflected it. Not that his grades were all that great to begin with. But, hey, who was he supposed to be trying to impress?
Willis “The Score” Todd had asked to see his son’s report card exactly zero times.
Had his dad even finished high school? Jason had the impression in his mind of his dad just being a thug his whole life. Moving from one boss to the next. First shaking down kids for candy on the elementary school playground, then probably graduating to hookers and blow in high school. Which, was pretty much all that his dad ever seemed to want.
Hookers and blow in high school. Yeah, now that he thought about it, that was probably right given how old Jason was compared to his parents.
How was that for a superhero origin story?
With a sigh, the boy got out of the Bentley. Alfred didn’t wish him a good day, Master Jason. But, Jason wasn’t offering the butler any pleasantries either. Instead, the man just pulled away as the door shut behind the boy, leaving him staring up at his prison during the week.
It was called Dillon Academy. A charter school. Probably the only place that Bruce could get Jason accepted, especially after his arrest for selling on school grounds that had prompted his last round with juvenile detention.
Well, that wasn’t entirely accurate. If Bruce just cut a large enough check, Brentwood Academy would have been glad to cash it. And then they wouldn’t even have to put up with Jason in the mansion.
Seriously, Jason had caught Alfred counting the silver candlesticks to make sure the street trash hadn’t stolen anything.
...so why didn’t Bruce just ship his ass off to Brentwood?
Throwing the backpack up onto his left shoulder, the boy just gave another sigh as he put his head down and headed toward the doors.
Of course, if Bruce did ever send him to a boarding school, who would Alfred scowl at with such obvious disapproval?
A pair of dirty Vans stepped into the hallway. They were about the only personality he was allowed. A pair of navy trousers, white shirt, and a gray sweater with the school’s crest on the left side of the chest. A navy tie hung loose from the open collar. It’d be safe that way until Mister Hinkley in third period. Then he’d be told to straighten that tie, young man!
Wasn’t there some Roman philosopher dead dude who wrote about the levels of Hell? That’s what school was like. And it didn’t matter if it was public, charter, or probably anywhere else. There were the middle schoolers – Dillon called them junior high schoolers – and there were the high schoolers. And within those categories, you had the usual preps, jocks, freaks, and geeks.
Jason occupied the freak tier. So, not the bottom rung of the social ladder, but also not very far from it.
It suited him fine. Half these kids thought they were better than him. The other half probably were. A charter in the middle of Gotham, Dillon drew its students from all walks of life. Those who wanted to be there. And then the kids like Jason, the ones the public schools didn’t even want.
For them, Dillon was either a second chance or the last stop before prison.
The problem was, living way out in the goddamn county, there wasn’t a school bus from the plebian dregs of the city that came out to stately Wayne Manor.
Most of the lifestyles of the rich and snobbish types sent their kids to board at Gotham Academy – if they could get in – or Brentwood Academy over in Crest Hills if they couldn’t. But Jason was from the Gotham City public schools. And, between arrests and changing foster homes, he’d rotated around and his grades reflected it. Not that his grades were all that great to begin with. But, hey, who was he supposed to be trying to impress?
Willis “The Score” Todd had asked to see his son’s report card exactly zero times.
Had his dad even finished high school? Jason had the impression in his mind of his dad just being a thug his whole life. Moving from one boss to the next. First shaking down kids for candy on the elementary school playground, then probably graduating to hookers and blow in high school. Which, was pretty much all that his dad ever seemed to want.
Hookers and blow in high school. Yeah, now that he thought about it, that was probably right given how old Jason was compared to his parents.
How was that for a superhero origin story?
With a sigh, the boy got out of the Bentley. Alfred didn’t wish him a good day, Master Jason. But, Jason wasn’t offering the butler any pleasantries either. Instead, the man just pulled away as the door shut behind the boy, leaving him staring up at his prison during the week.
It was called Dillon Academy. A charter school. Probably the only place that Bruce could get Jason accepted, especially after his arrest for selling on school grounds that had prompted his last round with juvenile detention.
Well, that wasn’t entirely accurate. If Bruce just cut a large enough check, Brentwood Academy would have been glad to cash it. And then they wouldn’t even have to put up with Jason in the mansion.
Seriously, Jason had caught Alfred counting the silver candlesticks to make sure the street trash hadn’t stolen anything.
...so why didn’t Bruce just ship his ass off to Brentwood?
Throwing the backpack up onto his left shoulder, the boy just gave another sigh as he put his head down and headed toward the doors.
Of course, if Bruce did ever send him to a boarding school, who would Alfred scowl at with such obvious disapproval?
A pair of dirty Vans stepped into the hallway. They were about the only personality he was allowed. A pair of navy trousers, white shirt, and a gray sweater with the school’s crest on the left side of the chest. A navy tie hung loose from the open collar. It’d be safe that way until Mister Hinkley in third period. Then he’d be told to straighten that tie, young man!
Wasn’t there some Roman philosopher dead dude who wrote about the levels of Hell? That’s what school was like. And it didn’t matter if it was public, charter, or probably anywhere else. There were the middle schoolers – Dillon called them junior high schoolers – and there were the high schoolers. And within those categories, you had the usual preps, jocks, freaks, and geeks.
Jason occupied the freak tier. So, not the bottom rung of the social ladder, but also not very far from it.
It suited him fine. Half these kids thought they were better than him. The other half probably were. A charter in the middle of Gotham, Dillon drew its students from all walks of life. Those who wanted to be there. And then the kids like Jason, the ones the public schools didn’t even want.
For them, Dillon was either a second chance or the last stop before prison.
What the hell was salisbury steak?
That shit was like a bun-less hamburger, lying shriveled and naked on a school tray, with some brown liquid sprinkled over it. And that gravy was sus as hell.
Probably that unpronounceable Wor-chur... or watercest-shire... however the hell that shit was said.
When he’d lived on the street, Jason had dug his dinner out of the dumpster behind the Denny’s in Brideshead. Or the East End Golden Corral. And that shit had looked more appealing than what was in front of him.
He poked at the yellowish-white lump that he thought was supposed to be mashed potatoes. Which also had the same brown sauce slopped over it.
He knew he shouldn’t complain. It was food. He knew better than anyone what it was like to go without. But living with Bruce, he didn’t have that problem. And Alfred was maybe, sorta, a kinda okay cook.
Honestly, Alfred and he had gotten off on the wrong foot because apparently the butler came through and picked up their clothes to do laundry. And Jason had a habit of stuffing biscuits and other bits of food into his pockets. Because street kid.
Apparently, that didn’t go over well in the wash.
Stabbing a fork into the congealed mash, the boy swirled the potatoes and gravy around on the tray absently. A glance up at the clock at least affirmed that the school day was halfway over. Now he just needed to survive two more classes and then it was coast until the last bell rang – because Jason had P.E. for his last period.
...which also saved him from having to shower at school. For this year, anyway. Assuming Alfred didn’t kill him before the start of the next school year, then Jason would probably be schlepping through a mid-period gym schedule.
The low point of anyone’s day.
“Jason Todd.”
You ever hear a voice and just automatically know it's a cop? Is it a tone thing? Or is it just that most people who say both his first and last name together like that are cops. Or judges. Judges definitely do that, too.
Turning his head, the boy glanced behind him to see – yep – one of Gotham City PD’s finest. The local school resource officer. Officer Montoya.
A hand reached out, taking him by the arm and bringing him up out of his seat slightly. “You’re coming with me.”
Note: What she didn’t just say was ‘you’re under arrest.’ Which, honestly, might be the first time a cop had ever said Jason’s name and then not also said he was under arrest.
And, for that matter, why were they even here? Not only was Jason clean, but he was living his best boring life. “Wait, what’d I do?” the boy blurted aloud, as the pieces started to come together as to what was happening.
Before he’d even realized what had just happened, Jason found himself being slammed down against the top of the table. And, for that matter, his lunch tray.
The side of his face planted into the mashed potato mush, as he felt his arms being twisted as the cop moved to handcuff him. "Wrong answer," the voice over him announced.
“Seriously!?” Flecks of potato and gravy shot out as the boy protested from his rather ignoble position, before being hauled up to his feet and dragged toward the door to the cafeteria.
This was just... a day in the life of Jason Todd.
Except this time, he was certain of one thing that hadn’t been true any other time: This was some bullshit.
That shit was like a bun-less hamburger, lying shriveled and naked on a school tray, with some brown liquid sprinkled over it. And that gravy was sus as hell.
Probably that unpronounceable Wor-chur... or watercest-shire... however the hell that shit was said.
When he’d lived on the street, Jason had dug his dinner out of the dumpster behind the Denny’s in Brideshead. Or the East End Golden Corral. And that shit had looked more appealing than what was in front of him.
He poked at the yellowish-white lump that he thought was supposed to be mashed potatoes. Which also had the same brown sauce slopped over it.
He knew he shouldn’t complain. It was food. He knew better than anyone what it was like to go without. But living with Bruce, he didn’t have that problem. And Alfred was maybe, sorta, a kinda okay cook.
Honestly, Alfred and he had gotten off on the wrong foot because apparently the butler came through and picked up their clothes to do laundry. And Jason had a habit of stuffing biscuits and other bits of food into his pockets. Because street kid.
Apparently, that didn’t go over well in the wash.
Stabbing a fork into the congealed mash, the boy swirled the potatoes and gravy around on the tray absently. A glance up at the clock at least affirmed that the school day was halfway over. Now he just needed to survive two more classes and then it was coast until the last bell rang – because Jason had P.E. for his last period.
...which also saved him from having to shower at school. For this year, anyway. Assuming Alfred didn’t kill him before the start of the next school year, then Jason would probably be schlepping through a mid-period gym schedule.
The low point of anyone’s day.
“Jason Todd.”
You ever hear a voice and just automatically know it's a cop? Is it a tone thing? Or is it just that most people who say both his first and last name together like that are cops. Or judges. Judges definitely do that, too.
Turning his head, the boy glanced behind him to see – yep – one of Gotham City PD’s finest. The local school resource officer. Officer Montoya.
A hand reached out, taking him by the arm and bringing him up out of his seat slightly. “You’re coming with me.”
Note: What she didn’t just say was ‘you’re under arrest.’ Which, honestly, might be the first time a cop had ever said Jason’s name and then not also said he was under arrest.
And, for that matter, why were they even here? Not only was Jason clean, but he was living his best boring life. “Wait, what’d I do?” the boy blurted aloud, as the pieces started to come together as to what was happening.
Before he’d even realized what had just happened, Jason found himself being slammed down against the top of the table. And, for that matter, his lunch tray.
The side of his face planted into the mashed potato mush, as he felt his arms being twisted as the cop moved to handcuff him. "Wrong answer," the voice over him announced.
“Seriously!?” Flecks of potato and gravy shot out as the boy protested from his rather ignoble position, before being hauled up to his feet and dragged toward the door to the cafeteria.
This was just... a day in the life of Jason Todd.
Except this time, he was certain of one thing that hadn’t been true any other time: This was some bullshit.
