I can relate to @Retired. COVID finally caught up to me and kicked my ass this week. But I'm still making tiny progress toward a post.
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Done with travel (for at least the next 2 weeks) and somewhat caught up on sleep. Jason post should be tomorrow-ish.
"I was alerted by your sound of distress. Please state the nature of the emergency."
Character Name
Exploratory Protoplasmic Matrix (Prototype), build beta-0.8
Matrix (shortened form) | Superboy (name used by media reporting)
Matrix (shortened form) | Superboy (name used by media reporting)
Age
~400 years (constructed c. 17th Century CE)
Attributes & Abilities
A sentient machine, Matrix's physical body is a mixture of sunstone and organic circuitry suspended within a protoplasmic gel. It's primary ability is telekinesis. Generating telekinetic fields, the matrix can compress and expand its physical matter in order to achieve the likeness of having a solid body. Similarly, the matrix can simulate the appearance of having super strength, invulnerability, and flight through the tactile application of these telekinetic fields. By bending lightwaves, the Matrix can also achieve invisibility in both the visual and electromagnetic spectrum. Matrix can extend or expand these telekinetic fields around others. Combining this ability with silicon magnetics, the matrix can also generate holograms to display information graphics or provide visual overlays. Finally, owing to the mechanical nature of its sensors, the matrix demonstrates perception over a more broad range of the electromagnetic spectrum than Superman is able, though does not have as acute auditory perception.
A programmable shape-shifter, the physical attributes and appearance are both extremely variable. The matrix's natural form is a viscous liquid, purple with bits of gold (sunstone). By increasing the internal volume of gas, such as air, and decreasing its molecular density, the Matrix can expand its volume of mass. Similarly, by reducing its internal volume and increasing the molecular density, the Matrix can shrink (compress) its volume of mass. This level of molecular control allows the Matrix to replicate texture and color, simulating hair, skin, eyes, and clothing. As such, the Matrix is capable of serving as a body double for Clark Kent (Superman), though its selected default form is defined as more compact, non-threatening, huggable appearance. To Matrix, gender is merely a matter of minor physical variation in shape. Due to the law of the conservation of matter, while Matrix's height is variable, its weight remains the same.
In terms of limitations, as a true telekinetic, the Matrix cannot replicate heat vision or frost breath. As a machine, Matrix has no ability to process organic matter into caloric energy. Instead, its internal sunstone draws on solar rays to power it. While capable of processing visual, auditory, and tactile input, the matrix has no sense of smell. Designed for space exploration, the matrix can survive and function in extremes of temperature and vacuum. Its primary weakness is fatigue from sustained power output. If its telekinetic fields are overwhelmed, resulting damage to the protoplasm may trigger a restart of critical systems.
A programmable shape-shifter, the physical attributes and appearance are both extremely variable. The matrix's natural form is a viscous liquid, purple with bits of gold (sunstone). By increasing the internal volume of gas, such as air, and decreasing its molecular density, the Matrix can expand its volume of mass. Similarly, by reducing its internal volume and increasing the molecular density, the Matrix can shrink (compress) its volume of mass. This level of molecular control allows the Matrix to replicate texture and color, simulating hair, skin, eyes, and clothing. As such, the Matrix is capable of serving as a body double for Clark Kent (Superman), though its selected default form is defined as more compact, non-threatening, huggable appearance. To Matrix, gender is merely a matter of minor physical variation in shape. Due to the law of the conservation of matter, while Matrix's height is variable, its weight remains the same.
In terms of limitations, as a true telekinetic, the Matrix cannot replicate heat vision or frost breath. As a machine, Matrix has no ability to process organic matter into caloric energy. Instead, its internal sunstone draws on solar rays to power it. While capable of processing visual, auditory, and tactile input, the matrix has no sense of smell. Designed for space exploration, the matrix can survive and function in extremes of temperature and vacuum. Its primary weakness is fatigue from sustained power output. If its telekinetic fields are overwhelmed, resulting damage to the protoplasm may trigger a restart of critical systems.
Character Synopsis
Once a great empire of the stars, Krypton's wars nearly destroyed them. The people of Krypton managed to rebuild their society from near collapse, though, in the midst of their dark age, they lost much of the historical and scientific data regarding the world they had been just centuries before. History became legend and legend became folktale. Then, amid a scientific renaissance, a man named Var-El set out to try and prove that life existed beyond Krypton, including proof of the lost colonies. After much study, he found several astrological objects with the potential to be the fabled colonies of Daxam or Rokyn. Pioneering a method of fold space, Var-El devised a mechanism for interstellar transportation but the means to transport a ship was beyond the physical capabilities of Krypton as it was then. So, instead, he devised a probe capable of traversing this fold space -- a techno-organic computer -- capable of enduring the journey, cataloging the planet, and transmitting its findings back to Krypton. Its ability to mask itself from visual light was a safeguard against contaminating a society or culture before it could be understood. However, in the case of extraterrestrial contact, the probe was programmed to assume a non-threatening appearance.
This matrix arrived at the astronomical coordinates for object Y-217 sometime in Earth's 17th Century. After completing its survey of the world, to include the indigenous species, the matrix concluded that the planet was not one of the lost colonies. After settling upon an undisturbed area in the northern arctic region, the matrix transmitted its findings and awaited instructions. It would lose the signal to Krypton a few centuries later, after which the probe shut down.
Centuries past before the matrix was re-activated, though not by a signal from across the stars. A young man named Clark Kent had fought his way across the continent of North America, holding onto a green piece of sunstone memory crystal and chasing a fleeting feeling it was leading him somewhere that would connect him to his home. When Clark threw the crystal away, giving into frustration, the matrix guided the crystal to itself, raising a lattice of sunstone from out of the permafrost to create the place encoded within the crystal -- a Fortress of Solitude. Adopting the role of the fortress' mainframe, the matrix worked on establishing a Kryptonian interface while Clark learned of his true origins as Kal-El, and then grew into the role of Superman.
Three years passed, during which time the matrix had built out the crystalline mainframe to where it could operate independently. Constructing a maintenance drone -- designation: Kelex -- the probe extracted itself from the Fortress and awaited Kal-El's return, with the expectation that it may be returned to its primary objective of exploration or scientific research. Instead, the Matrix was deployed to the Kent Farm to watch over Kal-El's adoptive family. An unseen protector, at least until two years ago. Initially used as a stand-in or body double, posing as either Clark Kent or Superman depending on the circumstances, over time the matrix proved a useful ally and as a means for Superman to be in two places at once.
The media phenomenon of Superboy didn't appear until a year ago, when Superman struggled in a fight with a villain named Metallo and the matrix appeared to fight at Kal-El's side. Since then, an interview and article by Lois Lane revealed to the world that Superboy is a machine -- a surviving piece of Krypton's technology -- and not an actual Kryptonian or the son of Superman that some had presumed.
Though based out of the barn loft at the Kent Farm in Smallville, Kansas, the matrix often ventures around North America while Superman or the members of the Justice League focus on threats elsewhere around the globe or even off-world. To date, his most challenging nemesis has been Eradicator, a more advanced Kryptonian Protoplasmic Matrix sent to prepare Earth for conquest by an enigmatic authority known only as Zod...
This matrix arrived at the astronomical coordinates for object Y-217 sometime in Earth's 17th Century. After completing its survey of the world, to include the indigenous species, the matrix concluded that the planet was not one of the lost colonies. After settling upon an undisturbed area in the northern arctic region, the matrix transmitted its findings and awaited instructions. It would lose the signal to Krypton a few centuries later, after which the probe shut down.
Centuries past before the matrix was re-activated, though not by a signal from across the stars. A young man named Clark Kent had fought his way across the continent of North America, holding onto a green piece of sunstone memory crystal and chasing a fleeting feeling it was leading him somewhere that would connect him to his home. When Clark threw the crystal away, giving into frustration, the matrix guided the crystal to itself, raising a lattice of sunstone from out of the permafrost to create the place encoded within the crystal -- a Fortress of Solitude. Adopting the role of the fortress' mainframe, the matrix worked on establishing a Kryptonian interface while Clark learned of his true origins as Kal-El, and then grew into the role of Superman.
Three years passed, during which time the matrix had built out the crystalline mainframe to where it could operate independently. Constructing a maintenance drone -- designation: Kelex -- the probe extracted itself from the Fortress and awaited Kal-El's return, with the expectation that it may be returned to its primary objective of exploration or scientific research. Instead, the Matrix was deployed to the Kent Farm to watch over Kal-El's adoptive family. An unseen protector, at least until two years ago. Initially used as a stand-in or body double, posing as either Clark Kent or Superman depending on the circumstances, over time the matrix proved a useful ally and as a means for Superman to be in two places at once.
The media phenomenon of Superboy didn't appear until a year ago, when Superman struggled in a fight with a villain named Metallo and the matrix appeared to fight at Kal-El's side. Since then, an interview and article by Lois Lane revealed to the world that Superboy is a machine -- a surviving piece of Krypton's technology -- and not an actual Kryptonian or the son of Superman that some had presumed.
Though based out of the barn loft at the Kent Farm in Smallville, Kansas, the matrix often ventures around North America while Superman or the members of the Justice League focus on threats elsewhere around the globe or even off-world. To date, his most challenging nemesis has been Eradicator, a more advanced Kryptonian Protoplasmic Matrix sent to prepare Earth for conquest by an enigmatic authority known only as Zod...
Was hoping to get another Jason post in between flights, but it'll have to wait until I'm back at the end of the week.
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.
I just post my stuff, then correct the typos after the fact and hope nobody notices.
Wheeeeeeee new Batman means even more villains brought to the table hehehe
@Bounce I wanted to express my admiration for your Jason posts in particular for how well they offset what my Batman posts lack, i.e. the actual day-to-day life of Bruce and Alfred. Where my Batman is 'the vigilante' and indulges in the theatre of the Dark Knight, I adore how well your Jason posts balance Jason's activity as Robin and his reality of being an adopted boy in school with caretakers he remains at-odds with. You accomplish what I cannot and it makes me happy.
It makes me, writing Batman, feel like I'm actively neglecting Jason, my ward, which just serves to fuel the character writing further. Love it.
Thanks!
I'll make sure Alfred sends Bruce the bill for the child support in the next post
The sound of a grown man backhanding a woman was unmistakable.
The arguing. The shouting. The immutable clap-snap. Then the sobbing. More shouting. Sometimes pleading.
Why did you make me do that?
When he’d been smaller, Jason would hide under the table when his old man and Catherine would argue. Then he’d hide in his room. Except sometimes his dad would stumble into his room, drunk and angry.
Sometimes he knew why he was getting beat. Teacher sent a note home? That’s a beating. One of the guy’s in the bar said his son was acting like a sissy boy? You better believe that’s a beating.
Other times, Jason had no idea. There probably was no reason. Willis Todd was just drunk and angry and wanted to take it out on someone. And that ‘someone’ was going to be either Catherine or Jason.
So Jason hid in the closet.
His dad would come up. Flip the bed mattress. Kick things around. But stumble out after awhile for a victim that would give him what he wanted. A reaction. Unless, that is, he was so drunk that when he’d tried to flip the matress, he’d just wind up on his ass and passed out.
That happened a few times.
So, Jason avoided being at home as much as he could. And, when he was home, closeted himself to just stay out of his dad’s way.
That’s what home was like.
Walking on eggshells, wondering what was going to set Willis Todd off. And then hiding in the closet, waiting for the drunken storm to blow over.
The arguing. The shouting. The immutable clap-snap. Then the sobbing. More shouting. Sometimes pleading.
Why did you make me do that?
When he’d been smaller, Jason would hide under the table when his old man and Catherine would argue. Then he’d hide in his room. Except sometimes his dad would stumble into his room, drunk and angry.
Sometimes he knew why he was getting beat. Teacher sent a note home? That’s a beating. One of the guy’s in the bar said his son was acting like a sissy boy? You better believe that’s a beating.
Other times, Jason had no idea. There probably was no reason. Willis Todd was just drunk and angry and wanted to take it out on someone. And that ‘someone’ was going to be either Catherine or Jason.
So Jason hid in the closet.
His dad would come up. Flip the bed mattress. Kick things around. But stumble out after awhile for a victim that would give him what he wanted. A reaction. Unless, that is, he was so drunk that when he’d tried to flip the matress, he’d just wind up on his ass and passed out.
That happened a few times.
So, Jason avoided being at home as much as he could. And, when he was home, closeted himself to just stay out of his dad’s way.
That’s what home was like.
Walking on eggshells, wondering what was going to set Willis Todd off. And then hiding in the closet, waiting for the drunken storm to blow over.
The photos lined the hallways.
Family portraits. Candid snaps that presented a foreign landscape. Smiling faces. People who seemed to genuinely be happy together.
A large oil panting of a man and a woman, with a little kid that he guessed was Bruce at the man’s knee.
Jason looked at the faces of the woman and the kid. He didn’t see any fear. No bruises or marks that were explained away as having fallen down again.
Man, what was that like?
“Dinner is served.”
The announcement sent a shiver down the boy’s spine, which he masked by running a hand through his still damp hair. He’d taken a shower when they’d returned back to the mansion, changing into a pair of boxer shorts and a Jurassic World t-shirt that was too large for him.
It had belonged to Dick, along with the room that Jason now occupied.
Making his way down the hall, the boy passed by the vaulted dining room. Its massive table shrouded in silence and shadows.
Did it ever even get used?
Jason and Alfred ate in one corner of the kitchen. A math textbook open, as the Boy Wonder propped an elbow against the table and scribbled away at his homework between bites of crusty bread and some kind of pale greenish-white soup.
It was a bit like eating a bowl of snot, but, hey, the bread by itself was better than just about anything Jason had ever put in his mouth.
Folding his newspaper down, the butler peered over at the boy. The elbow obviously caught the man’s ire, but the mouthful of soup the boy took seemed to make up for it. “I must say, Master Jason, I’m impressed. The first time I served vichyssois to Master Bruce, he spit it back out because it was cold.”
Blinking, the boy’s large blue eyes just stared back blankly at the butler.
Really? He could think of lots of reasons the soup wasn’t very appealing. But he’d learned the hard way that beggars couldn’t be choosers. Besides, the flavor wasn’t all bad. It was more just how it looked.
He looked down at the soup. Stabbing the viscous contents with his spoon, the boy swirled it around as he said, “Catherine would just open a can of Spaghetti-Ohs, drop a spoon into it, and hand it to me.”
Setting the spoon down, the boy reached over, tearing off another hunk of bread and popping that into his mouth – ignoring the mess of crumbs he was making – as he turned his attention back his math homework.
Alfred didn’t say anything after that.
The Wayne house was good for that. There was a lot that was left unsaid in this home.
“Tonight on WGCL News at Ten: The search for a lost boy in Gotham ends in tragedy tonight...”
There was a small television on in the background.
Turning his head, Jason peered over to watch for a bit. So the kid that had been missing was dead?
Did Bruce know?
Was that why they hadn’t heard from him? Was he on the trail of the kidnapper?
“...now to weather...”
“They didn’t say anything about the body outlines in Crime Alley,” the boy uttered.
Alfred’s newspaper rustled slightly, as he man’s voice uttered from behind the pages, “Body outlines?”
“Yeah, someone had drawn out the outline of two bodies, just like in those old crime movies,” the boy offered, pausing to tear off another piece of bread before he added, “But there wasn’t any crime scene tape or nothin’!”
Alfred folded the paper down on the table. Mid-bite, Jason paused, the hair standing up on his neck.
He had the distinct impression that he’d just said something wrong. Like with his old man, when there was that moment before he’d just go off.
“I see,” Alfred remarked finally, giving the boy a smile that was utterly fake.
Yeah, he’d definitely said something wrong.
“Well, tomorrow is a school day,” Alfred noted.
That was pretty much Alfred for ‘go to your room.’
“Can I wait up for Bruce?” the boy asked. Seriously, did Bruce Wayne even live here anymore? “I haven’t seen him, like, all week I think.”
“Not tonight,” Alfred answered flatly, rising from the kitchen table and lifting the now-empty bowl away. “To bed, Master Jason.”
With that, the butler gave a wave of the remote and clicked off the television.
Closing the textbook, the boy scooped up his homework and made his way out of the kitchen and into the labyrinthian abode. Up the winding stairs, down the hallway to the left. All the while, walking underneath the passage of the life of Bruce Wayne’s happy childhood.
He dropped the text and the loose papers down on top of the open backpack that was by the door to the room.
Alfred had made the bed up again.
He didn’t know why the butler bothered. Grabbing a few pillows, the boy tucked one under an arm as he peeled a bedsheet from off the bed, then turned and made his way to the closet.
It was bigger than the one he’d had back home.
Dropping the pillows and bed sheet onto the floor, the boy left to go brush his teeth. He returned a minute later, closing the door to the closet behind him as he curled up on the floor and wrapped himself in the bedsheet.
This felt almost like home.
There wasn’t enough noise. He used to fall asleep to the sound of Gotham traffic. Police sirens and gunshots.
Wayne Manor was quiet AF. Which was fitting in a lot of ways. It looked like a home. But it was really a tomb.
Family portraits. Candid snaps that presented a foreign landscape. Smiling faces. People who seemed to genuinely be happy together.
A large oil panting of a man and a woman, with a little kid that he guessed was Bruce at the man’s knee.
Jason looked at the faces of the woman and the kid. He didn’t see any fear. No bruises or marks that were explained away as having fallen down again.
Man, what was that like?
“Dinner is served.”
The announcement sent a shiver down the boy’s spine, which he masked by running a hand through his still damp hair. He’d taken a shower when they’d returned back to the mansion, changing into a pair of boxer shorts and a Jurassic World t-shirt that was too large for him.
It had belonged to Dick, along with the room that Jason now occupied.
Making his way down the hall, the boy passed by the vaulted dining room. Its massive table shrouded in silence and shadows.
Did it ever even get used?
Jason and Alfred ate in one corner of the kitchen. A math textbook open, as the Boy Wonder propped an elbow against the table and scribbled away at his homework between bites of crusty bread and some kind of pale greenish-white soup.
It was a bit like eating a bowl of snot, but, hey, the bread by itself was better than just about anything Jason had ever put in his mouth.
Folding his newspaper down, the butler peered over at the boy. The elbow obviously caught the man’s ire, but the mouthful of soup the boy took seemed to make up for it. “I must say, Master Jason, I’m impressed. The first time I served vichyssois to Master Bruce, he spit it back out because it was cold.”
Blinking, the boy’s large blue eyes just stared back blankly at the butler.
Really? He could think of lots of reasons the soup wasn’t very appealing. But he’d learned the hard way that beggars couldn’t be choosers. Besides, the flavor wasn’t all bad. It was more just how it looked.
He looked down at the soup. Stabbing the viscous contents with his spoon, the boy swirled it around as he said, “Catherine would just open a can of Spaghetti-Ohs, drop a spoon into it, and hand it to me.”
Setting the spoon down, the boy reached over, tearing off another hunk of bread and popping that into his mouth – ignoring the mess of crumbs he was making – as he turned his attention back his math homework.
Alfred didn’t say anything after that.
The Wayne house was good for that. There was a lot that was left unsaid in this home.
“Tonight on WGCL News at Ten: The search for a lost boy in Gotham ends in tragedy tonight...”
There was a small television on in the background.
Turning his head, Jason peered over to watch for a bit. So the kid that had been missing was dead?
Did Bruce know?
Was that why they hadn’t heard from him? Was he on the trail of the kidnapper?
“...now to weather...”
“They didn’t say anything about the body outlines in Crime Alley,” the boy uttered.
Alfred’s newspaper rustled slightly, as he man’s voice uttered from behind the pages, “Body outlines?”
“Yeah, someone had drawn out the outline of two bodies, just like in those old crime movies,” the boy offered, pausing to tear off another piece of bread before he added, “But there wasn’t any crime scene tape or nothin’!”
Alfred folded the paper down on the table. Mid-bite, Jason paused, the hair standing up on his neck.
He had the distinct impression that he’d just said something wrong. Like with his old man, when there was that moment before he’d just go off.
“I see,” Alfred remarked finally, giving the boy a smile that was utterly fake.
Yeah, he’d definitely said something wrong.
“Well, tomorrow is a school day,” Alfred noted.
That was pretty much Alfred for ‘go to your room.’
“Can I wait up for Bruce?” the boy asked. Seriously, did Bruce Wayne even live here anymore? “I haven’t seen him, like, all week I think.”
“Not tonight,” Alfred answered flatly, rising from the kitchen table and lifting the now-empty bowl away. “To bed, Master Jason.”
With that, the butler gave a wave of the remote and clicked off the television.
Closing the textbook, the boy scooped up his homework and made his way out of the kitchen and into the labyrinthian abode. Up the winding stairs, down the hallway to the left. All the while, walking underneath the passage of the life of Bruce Wayne’s happy childhood.
He dropped the text and the loose papers down on top of the open backpack that was by the door to the room.
Alfred had made the bed up again.
He didn’t know why the butler bothered. Grabbing a few pillows, the boy tucked one under an arm as he peeled a bedsheet from off the bed, then turned and made his way to the closet.
It was bigger than the one he’d had back home.
Dropping the pillows and bed sheet onto the floor, the boy left to go brush his teeth. He returned a minute later, closing the door to the closet behind him as he curled up on the floor and wrapped himself in the bedsheet.
This felt almost like home.
There wasn’t enough noise. He used to fall asleep to the sound of Gotham traffic. Police sirens and gunshots.
Wayne Manor was quiet AF. Which was fitting in a lot of ways. It looked like a home. But it was really a tomb.
Looks like we need a 3 year warranty plan on these Robins.
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