welcome to the justice lounge

Bruce wakes up suddenly, without starting, without a nightmare, just opens his eyes, his hand still curled around Ollie’s waist, and stares out at the windowless windows of his bedroom, where they have taped up opaque plastic to keep the birds from flying in. Kate is tucked, on Oliver’s side, not Bruce’s.

Bruce rises up, slowly, attempting not to disturb his partners.

Ollie stirs anyhow, rolling over into the empty space Bruce has left. “Where you going?” His voice is lower than usual, sleep-burred, worn through from crying and not-crying.

Bruce glances over at Kate, and moves back over to the bed, pushing a knee against the matters as he leans over and kisses the other man, gently, softly. He pushes his fingers through his hair, his lips nearly caressing the archer’s.

Ollie returns the kiss, instinctively, but he also starts sitting up, struggling to come fully away. “I’ll come with you.”

Bruce voice is rough, much in the same way the other man’s is. “Don’t wake her up. She needs the rest.”

Ollie pauses, staring at Bruce. “Boy,” he says dryly, “the estimation you two have for my ability to come in out of the fucking rain is staggering. I /was/ planning to kick her awake and drag her into the kitchen to cook me some eggs, but okay, since you say she needs rest, I’ll let her sleep.”

Bruce arches his eyebrows at Oliver, blinking, but turns and moves with Oliver, into the bathroom, waiting for the door to close before he begins. “..you both become hyperaware during times of crisis, and I didn’t want us talking to wake her up.” He looks over at Ollie, frowning, and moves his hand to the man’s neck, setting his hand there, leaning back against the sink. “That’s all I meant, Ollie.”

( days that follow )

Bruce spits the back part of his molar out, into the sink of his ensuite bathroom, rinsing his mouth out with the chlorhexidine. He doesn’t bother to check the tooth, but looks into his reflection for a split second longer than he normally would, watching the blue of his gaze.

Ollie says from the doorway, “You’re not gonna get any answers that way. Or any assurance.” He unfolds his arms and moves into the bathroom, peering into the sink at the broken piece of tooth. “Certainly won’t grow that back.”

Bruce brings his gaze to Oliver, in the mirror. Night and day, something decides, as he looks at the picture they make, standing so close to each other, the clash of their coloring almost stark to Bruce’s eyes. Quietly, the song begins to play, pitch-perfect and even tempo, as he watches Oliver for another few moments. Then, he turns, and spits the mouthwash out, a swirling mess of red streaks, aura tinged yellow that he promptly turns the tap on to wash away.

"What was it," Ollie asks, the question flat. "What part of your body gave out this time and made you smash yourself up." His voice rises, a little, but for once Ollie’s cognizant that there’s others here, the /kids/, and he keeps it to a boiling hiss when he asks, "And how much of yourself do you intend to destroy before this is all over?"

Bruce looks back up at the other man through the mirror, and it’s dirtier than Bruce would normally ever permit, speckled towards the bottom with water spots. He leans his hands against the counter, two of ten fingers bandaged at the ends, knuckles bruised. When he speaks, his voice is dangerously low. “Did you see him?”

Ollie shakes his head. He’s looking a little banged up, but it’s nothing special, nothing more than they usually look like after doing hard patrols a few nights running or hell, after fucking all night. “Saw signs of him but not an actual sighting,” Ollie reports. “Strange graffiti everywhere, some of it over the Batman ones that’ve sprung up. Disjointed words. ‘It’s not pork’ seems to be a favourite.” He grimaces. “Fucking lunacy.”

"No," Bruce says, his voice cutting across talking about him, about the Joker. His chest rises up, hitches hard like they had been accelerating and had suddenly stopped. It catches, rises, like he might start— He clenches his fist against the edge of the sink. Bruce grits his teeth. “No, did you see Tim.”

Ollie stares at the other man. “No,” he says. “I haven’t been back here long enough. And I thought I’d give him some room.” He watches Bruce in the mirror instead of the actual, meat-and-bone man next to him, as if the reflective version can be read more easily. Will reveal whatever intense labyrinthine thoughts are percolating in his mind. Ollie takes a breath, releases it slow. “How is he.”

( a morning after )

Bruce hasn’t stopped moving. There’s a part of him that wants to thank Oliver for making him sleep those few, precious hours the night Tim had been taken, because he hasn’t had the luxury since then. Even still, there isn’t time, to stop, to send the message. Night’s fallen, and Bruce half jumps off the elevator as he moves to the first aid kit, his teeth grit. Blood is dripping down the outside of the armor on his arm, but he doesn’t pause to strip the gauntlet, shoulder piece off. He looks down, at the tray, passing over the prefilled syringes, because he knows Alfred better, by this point.. he knows Alfred better than he knows himself. So he fills a syringe and pushes it into his arm, right under his armpit, his expression going slack as he depresses the plunger.

Bruce exhales, and pulls the needle back, flicking the top off and into the orange sharps container on the medical tray. Then, with more calm than he had had, he pulls the pieces Kevlar-Nomex blend back, to look at where his arm’s been gored. Bruce pulls out a piece of metal before binding his arm, and moves over to his computer screen, still winding an entire roll of gauze over and over his bicep.

Jason is still passed out in his arm chair near the bar, the alcohol in his system making him sleep more deeply than usual. He starts slowly coming to at the sound of footsteps moving about the penthouse, though he keeps his eyes tightly shut, already feeling a hangover start to take shape. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he blearily looks around, stilling when he spots Bruce. Good he’s back. Then he notices the gauze on his arm. Swearing under his breath, Jason pushes himself up and out of the chair, despite the wave of nausea that threatens to send him back down as he approaches Bruce and the computer. “The hell happened to you?”

Bruce ’s voice is rough: “Gave a bear hug to some barbed wire on my way down a fence.” He hasn’t bothered to clean his arm, and has dripped blood from where he had been standing, all the way back to the computer.

( roll over for anyone )

It’s only somewhere before mid-day that Talia wakes, and when she does, it isn’t the groggy, post-coital blur of thoughts and emotions: it is a clear, sharp awareness that slices the tendrils of sleep still curled around her. She sits up, her eyes moving to the thick, ballistic glass of the window, blinking a few times. Something is wrong.

Jason has always been a light sleeper, and blinks awake, slightly disoriented when he feels the bed shift as Talia sits up. It takes a moment to register where he is and why… and why he’s not alone, having expected to wake up to an empty bed. He leans up on one elbow, watching her, brow furrowing. “Something up?” he asks, voice low, still heavy with sleep. He’s still too drained to feel much anything else, and a bit shaken by the odd dream that he can barely remember now. Idly, he reaches for the talisman, only to find it missing, still tucked away in the pocket of his jacket.

Talia sits up, unaware of her nakedness, her brow furrowed. She seems unaware, even of what has happened here between them, the hairs on her arms and legs standing upright as she exhales. “Something’s not.. right,” she states, pushing a hand over her hair, smoothing it over the patches that are missing, even as she breathes, evenly, eyes narrowing as she looks out of the window, and then, back at Jason. There is no artifice here, no notes of deception. “Do you hear anything?” And there it is: the lack of sound from the city outside. No traffic. No horns. No airplanes overhead.

Jason frowns, following her gaze towards the window. Slowly, he shakes his head. “There’s nothing.” And as he tries to listen for any noise outside, it strikes him just how odd the quiet is. He picks safe houses in uncrowded areas, but there’s never nothing, there’s always a few cars passing by, or even a helicopter over head. Pushing himself up, he swings his legs over the side of the bed, grabbing a pair of sweatpants from a chest of drawers as he gets up and moves closer to the window, pulling them on as he stares at the silent world outside. It takes him a second to notice it, then his eyes slowly drift up, and up. “Holy shit.”

( light up, light up )

Kate stirs, in bed alone, back in LA—where she’s collapsed after trying to keep up with the hellish news out of Gotham most of the night before—and out of her dream. She’s woken up with her heart pounding, full-blown anxiety attack kind of panic, and she doesn’t know why. There is one thing she does know, though, certain in the twisting of her gut and ache of her chest. She has to end it.

Rosario is a perpetual early riser, and moves around the living room and kitchen near silently. She is dressed already. In the time she’s been here, she’s seen noticed the adjustment in trends amongst women, her own daughter’s preference in wearing pants, but retains her sense of self and has, with Kate’s assistance, outfitted herself with more becoming, tailored dresses than the self-sewn blue one she had shown up in.

Kate takes a few minutes, the dream coming back to her in waves—Kate, despite herself and the training she’s had to be a skeptic, takes these things seriously—and she wills herself to something approaching calmer. Calm enough at least to get up and get a cup of coffee, and if her hands are trembling a little, so be it. It’s a cool day, and she wraps her bathrobe around her tightly, sips the coffee while it’s too hot, burns her tongue.

Rosario approaches Kate from behind, smoothing her hand against the younger woman’s back. Her Spanish is quiet, a soft smile on her face. “Are you hungry?”

( family reunion )

kyle:

They’re getting closer.

I can feel it. When something as resinous as the yellow fear entity seeps into your pores, into your body, sometimes I wonder if you can ever wash it out completely. The Yellow Lanterns - or something - is coming to Earth. Coming back. Coming from? I dunno how to explain it, and it’s driving me nuts. Like smelling something you know but you can’t place. I don’t like it.

John’s doing border patrol of the outer perimeter of the sector with ‘Wog, Guy’s on Oa training the newest batch of troops and Hal’s doing some top secret thing that he won’t even tell the rest us.

I know I won’t hesitate to do whatever it takes to stop the Yellow Lanterns from creating havoc on Earth again, but.

Maybe that’s what’s freaking me out.

She needs to speak with Arthur. There is much to tell him, information on the suspicious figure at the docks, Oliver’s and Kyle’s intel on the matter and what their plans are from this day forth. But what’s more, she needs to speak with Arthur to find her inner peace. Calm down. Suppress this anger, frustration,energy that has nestled deep within her. Mera wishes to blame her visit to the surface world, but can’t lie to herself. Even when in the familiar surroundings of Atlantis she felt restless lately.

It hasn’t decreased the slightest since her arrival at the Watchtower and has started to make her tense. This lack of control is eerily familiar. The Queen gazes out towards the planet, observing its vast amount of oceans. Blue flashes red. A split second is all it takes and it leaves her heart racing, thundering against her chest. She’s aware of the cold sweat gathered on her brow which she dabs with the back of her hand.

( what will be )

"So you think you’re ready for the big leagues?"

It’s almost a ridiculous question, because Ollie asking it at this juncture — when he and Tim are just about to go out onto the stairs of the Central City Public Library to sell a story to the assembled press about the strength of the Queen and Wayne empires separately and together — makes it completely rhetorical. If one of them pulled out now, it would only ignite speculation and make things worse. So far they’d done a few small, polite, softball interviews that allowed them to reassure the public of the solvency of their businesses; this would be nothing like that. No pre-planned questions, no press pool stocked with friendly faces.

Grinning at Tim, Ollie bounced on the toes of his sneakers (he’d opted for a more dressed-down look for the Midwest, appeal to their sensibilities) and swung his arms back and forth. “You’ll see,” he promises. “You’ll be glad we’re doing our first no-holds-barred interview in front of a live crowd instead of in a sterile, cramped television studio. There’s nothing like having a conversation in the fresh air, addressing a throng in front of a hallowed public service building to get the blood and the brainmeats pumping, Tim.”

They could hear the reporters outside, in fact, chatting with each other and issuing challenges, comparing notes. The banks of photographers were nothing to sneer at, either, or the various video cameras from the stations. Central City had turned out in force for this. “There’s a lot riding on us making a good impression,” Ollie intones, watching Tim closely.

Unlike Ollie, Tim’s dressed properly from head to toe in a three piece suit with shiny black shoes and a red tie he’s currently caressing into perfection. In stead of eager he looks calm and collected, familiar with the watchful eyes and eager reporters awaiting them in the next room. He hears them also, their rumours and accusations, their preparation of the attempts to lure them out of their comfort zone. Tim won’t let them, isn’t certain what to expect but he knows what pieces of information he’s willing to share or not. Nothing too harmful and enough good words towards Queen Industries.

( and press the meat )

5:56pm, West Harlow - BREAKING NEWS - Unverified reports are now coming through emergency channels of an immediate lockdown at West Mercy Hospital in West Harlow. The nature of the lockdown is currently unknown but it is suspected that there may be a hostage situation taking place somewhere inside the hospital. The names of any potential hostages have not been released. The only information is coming from the nurses’ emergency protocol stations, civilian phones, and EMT radios on-site. Please provide any further information to the GCPD Hotline: *5656

6:14pm, West Harlow - GNN LIVE - We have now verified that an individual claiming to be the Black Mask and a crew of ten followers have occupied the Neo-Natal Ward on the eighth floor of the hospital. So far there have been five unconfirmed injuries to hospital workers and two - no, three deaths by gunshot. There has been no direct contact from the perpetrators with the authorities and no demands have been made. GCPD and SWAT are working tirelessly to prevent any further harm to innocent people. Please, if you’ve received any texts, videos or phone calls from anyone inside West Mercy, please contact the GCPD Hotline: *5656

6:32pm, West Harlow - GNN LIVE - Dr. Evelin Chen-McDougal is confirmed as one of the victims of the hostage-shooting situation at West Mercy Hospital. We do not at this time know whether the doctor is still alive. The leader of the gang, believed to be Arkham Asylum inmate Black Mask, is claiming possession of - oh god - of the newborns at West Mercy, stating that since the Asylum has been reopened he needs a new set of patients to repopulate. GNN has gotten a hold of a recorded voice message sent to Commissioner Gordon, and we will be the first to let the public hear this madman’s demands. Joining us now are two opinions on this current situation - West Mercy Hospital legal representative Petra Gupta, and former Arkham psychiatrist Dr. Kristoff Achtemichuk, who once worked with Jeremiah Arkham himself ten years ago. Stay tuned to GNN for all breaking news as this West Mercy lockdown continues.

( convergences )

Cass presses Tim’s apartment buzzer, and follows it up with a text, [Txt] Let me in. It was either this or climbing up the fire escape, but it felt odd climbing up in the middle of the day.

"So it’s just you and me for now," Tim says sitting down on his couch in his new apartment while keeping a close eye on Ferdinand who’s climbing on all the new furniture, like mapping out his new territory. He’s a curious, cunning and fast creature, prone to bend the rules a little from time to time, Tim’s noticed. "Don’t knock anything over," he warns his pet, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. Nowadays it seems he’s only capable of talking to his ferret. How sad. His eyes glance to the door upon the sound of his buzzer and then to the ringtone of none other than Cass. With his phone in hand, he walks to the door, opening it while reading her text. "I didn’t tell you my new address yet," he states, curious to find her here.

"You’re not the only detective." Cass rolls her eyes. She shifts her grocery bag of goodies between her hands as she explains, "Bai’s been here. I live with Bai. It’s not hard." Peering over Tim’s shoulder she asks, "Where’s Ferdinand."

"Of course," is all he says in return. Tim steps to the side, more curious about his pet’s current location than what Cass brought along. He motions for her to come in, moving into the living area with his hands on his hips, eyes searching for any tiny bit of movement. It’s quiet. "Ferdinand, get out," Tim demands to no avail, sighing and rolling his head back into his neck.

Cass flashes a small grin at Ferdinand’s disobedience, “Troublemaker…” she murmurs. Sitting down in the middle of the living area, she sets out a few jingly toys she’d purchased with the ferret in mind. “Ferdinand, hello?” Cass paws at a few of the toys, making a little noise to entice Ferdinand to surface.

( and sooner still )

The caller ID on the cell phone's screen reads [UNKNOWN NUMBER] and rings twice before hanging up. Seventeen seconds later, it rings again.

Ollie’s accustomed to unknown numbers occasionally ringing through on his cell phone — he’s gotten some interesting conversations out of it — so he doesn’t think anything of the call. The second time he manages to catch it, since he hadn’t put his phone down yet from the first time, and he answers with an unembellished but convivial, “Yello?”

"Heuh—" He begins and then cracks, as the voice on the other end clears his throat, and then tries again, talking low. "Hey, Mr. Arrow, it’s Alaba—It’s Jamal, do you remember me."

It’s been almost three months since the young man had approached Oliver in the park, before what would be called the Parade of Tears, but since then, his voice has dropped, considerably, losing some of the telltale timbre of youth.

It takes a moment for Ollie to dredge his memory — he’s got a good head for voices, faces, that kind of thing, not so much names — but he places the kid’s voice, all right. “Yeah, I do. I’ve gone kinda public since then, you mighta noticed. That’s what made me easy to track down?” He doesn’t give the kid a chance to answer, instead asking, “What can I help you with, Jamal?”

"You took care of my mom and brother," he begins, and doesn’t allow Ollie to answer, he continues. "You made sure they were alright."

On the other end, the kid takes a hasty breath. “Word went out last night to a coupla of the neighborhood crews, lookin’ for soldiers.. Somethin’ big’s comin’ into the port and they want like a.. a.. you know that thing where the cops make traffic stop so they can get by?”

"A roadblock, yeah." Ollie frowns as he shifts to his laptop and pulls up a map of the port, scanning the major transport routes leading out to the rest of the city. "You got any intel on when this is supposed to be going down? Who’s rounding up the crews?"

Who /could/ round up the crews, is the bigger question; they’re notoriously territorial and not known for their high cooperation skills. It would have to be somebody with clout. With a shit ton of clout.

There’s a noise, which is undoubtedly the boy shaking his head, which he realizes Ollie can’t see, and he says: “Nah. Someone said it was Mooney’s boys out of the Bowery, but then someone else said Falcone.. But they don’t pay as well as this job is.” He pauses. “They’re payin’ out fifty grand a head for who shows up, a hundred if you come armed.”

Letting out a low whistle, Ollie reroutes the phone call to a frequency that he knows is monitored by the Crays. “That sure as hell ain’t walkin’ around money,” he agrees. “Listen, you gonna be in any danger for giving me a heads-up on this? Because I can give you someplace to lie low if you need it.”

"Nah," he says again, and adds. "I stole the phone off some tie’n’suit’s gym bag and I’m gonna burn it in a quick minute.." The boy continues, and pauses again. "You took care of my mom and brother. They wrote me, from where they’re at.. I figured I owe’d you one more."

There’s another shuffling noise. “..I dunno if you know him like that, but.. Batman’s not dead, right? Lotta guys say you capes’ve been coverin’ up, that he’s really dead, that he died in the parade.”

This time, Ollie let Jamal’s thankfulness sink in; it was rare that he stuck around for it, when he was working, and negative voices always tended to bray louder than grateful ones. “Glad I could keep ‘em safe for you,” he said, gruffly. “You better keep yourself safe for them, capisce?”

He’d started pulling up shipping manifests when Jamal asked his question, and Ollie sat up straight, transfixed. “Is that what they’re saying?” he asks, voice getting a little louder. “Shit. I shoulda known that. Listen, Jamal — if I level with you on what really happened to Batman, will you keep it quiet and do something for me?”

"Yeah?" He asks as if he is genuinely concerned, and maybe he is; it wouldn’t be the first time a Gothamite expressed an earnest understanding of the city’s vigilante. Probably wouldn’t be the last. But Alabama hears the note of childishness in how he says it and he clears his throat. "Yeah, man, whatever, you know I’m down."

"Good man," Ollie says, and then he briefly, succinctly, tells Jamal what he wants him to do in Gotham City when it comes to the Batman. He doesn’t give suggestions on how to carry out the task; it needs to be raw, genuine, as individualized as the denizens of the city itself. And then he tells Alabama what the kid needs to know. That Batman, as always, made it through the carnage. That he’s still their guardian, their protector, their avenger. The young man doesn’t say much in response, perhaps not trusting himself to sound cool and detached enough, but that’s fine. Ollie disconnects the call and blocks the number.

Soon, Gotham City would start showing its colours. And for much less than fifty grand a head, a hundred if you’re armed.

---

new town.
aparo expressway.
la colombe.
amerigold columbus bridge.
sugarbaker and west alder.
gotham city limits.
deiji.
the street clinic.