Tonnage

The Doctor is IN.

>>

It takes a week before they are calling in specialists. He heals up fine, at least as far as the concussion went. Within six hours he is easily passing the cognition tests. They still aren't sure at that time how he survived at all, much less only suffering from such minor injuries. A few bones that look slightly cracked on the x-ray. Bad enough to sling, and take it easy for a while. But not to the point that a cast would be needed.

Even the cracks are gone within a few days. Not quite 'super' healing. But definitely advanced in some way if it can patch bone breaks, however minor, in less than a week.

The specialists are called in for two reasons. The first, and honestly the thing that worries them the most, is that they are positive he has some kind of spinal or neck injury that they can't find. Because he feels no pain.

Needles, little rubber hammers, and all the tests that can be ethically done to a sixteen-year-old are taken. The young man can sense heat and cold, and can differentiate between 'smooth' and 'fuzzy.' When it comes to pain? Discomfort? Irritation? There's nothing.

There are all kinds of theories about the appetite and weight as well. His last check-up, when he was getting his physical for sports for the year, put him at around a hundred and forty pounds. Currently, he weighs close to three hundred and looks like he weighs about two-fifty. He's also gained four inches in height.

The reason it takes a week to get the specialists is that two days after the request was sent out, they had to cancel and send for different specialists. Because they could no longer get needles through his skin. The pudge he now carries simply gives way a bit until they are pressing hard enough that the needle snaps off.

It's around the end of week two that somebody mentions what all this is costing, and that the insurance carried by the idiot that hit him has reached its cap payout.

Tom's parents are dead. Scarecrow attack over by the docks. Nobody is a hundred percent sure what happened, but they were pulled out of the water days later after having been drowned in their car on the bottom of the channel. He's been staying with his uncle for the last couple of years. Mother's brother. Working in the junkyard for a few hours a day to earn a paycheck so he had some spending money. He'd been on the phone with the older man a few times, but Louis hasn't had the opportunity to make it in. Half the crew is sick from a micro-dose of Joker's Smylex gas that wafted over the junkyard the day before he'd been hit. This might not be a huge problem, but the yard itself is a full block and straddles the unofficial border of Crime Alley. They need a full staff during the day and serious watchmen at night, or anything worth a damn walks out. Particularly once the sun goes down.

Louis keeps telling him to stay in the hospital and get it figured out when they talk. Saying not to worry about the money. That he'll handle it.

But Tom knows damn well how much this is gonna hurt his business, with the scrapyard barely making a profit due to the issues with the location. And so, against medical advice, he leaves.

But he has to deal with one more busybody before he gets out the door.

>>

Tom's Hospital Room. Tuesday, May the Second, 2:13 PM.

His door opens, and a few seconds later the steps stop outside his drawn curtain.

“Hello?” Tommy calls out, having finally convinced the doctors that he was seriously leaving a few minutes ago. He's having to put on clothes from a bin the hospital keeps that a nurse had kindly rooted around in for him. Mostly done now. Just messing with the hood.

“Tom? I am Doctor Leslie Thompkins. I was planning to come in tomorrow with this, but the staff here called me to let me know you were planning to leave AMA, so I made the time to come down here. May we talk?”

Tom is nodding as he grabs the curtain and pulls it open. He is still trying to settle his new girth in the sweatpants, shirt, and hoody he was given. His socks still fit, and the shoes will need to be replaced soon. They are starting to pinch pretty bad and while it doesn't hurt, he's pretty sure he'll burst out of them at some point. The doctor herself turns out to be an older lady, hair gone to gray and white. At that age where she either made some mistakes in her life that cost her some money, or she loves her job. Otherwise, she'd likely be retired by now.

“Sure Doctor Thompkins. But you aren't going to talk me out of leaving. I can't afford to stay in the hospital when I don't even feel bad. Besides, I have a lot of make-up work to do. I managed to skip fourth grade, don't plan on having to repeat junior year.”

The doctor looks at him, then looks at the clipboard she has in front of her. Her face becomes something that defines 'Confused Awe.'

“They had said that you were likely a meta of some sort, but when they said you were putting on some weight I had thought...”

Tom's face goes a bit red in embarrassment. “Um... Yeah. Not exactly a train to swole-ville. But there must be a lot of muscle under it because I can move around fine. I don't know, though. The dream guy didn't exactly have time to spell things out.”

Thompkins looks up at him, eyes narrowed. “What's this? What dream guy?”

Tom shakes his head. “Not sure, really. Had a dream the morning this happened. Sounded like some meta from another reality was having an existential crisis of some kind. Told me I wouldn't be pretty but I could take a hit. Honestly, about the time I realized something was actually, you know, happening? I was just happy I wasn't growing scales or something. This... Isn't great. But it isn't Croc, Grundy, or honestly even Joker bad. And the doctors I've seen so far have basically told me that this, whatever it is? Is pretty much the only reason I'm alive. So... Yeah. I'm not thrilled, but it kept me alive, and the guy that I think had it last gave his life for me. Kinda. Isn't easy to be too mad about it.” He offers a tentative smirk. “Talk to me in a few weeks though. Depending on how far this goes I might be less copacetic with things.”

“Have you told anybody else about the dream?”

Tom nods. “Yeah. They had some psychiatrist come in the next day and talk about the mind playing games to justify things after the fact and whatnot. I don't think they believed me. So I stopped bringing it up.” He scowls. “They kept giving me these looks of pity that were wearing on me.”

The doctor sits down in a visitor's chair, still looking at him but more curious now, rather than borderline suspicious. “Yes, I can see where that would be quite annoying. Did this person say anything that would give you an idea of how powerful you'll be?”

Tom shrugs as he stands there. “Just that he'd tackled some of the toughest people he knew of. How that translates to here I don't know. I mean, if he can say that, I am willing to bet there aren't any Kryptonians in their... Dimension?” He ends this with a half chuckle. Then he frowns, just a bit. It's the first time he's heard it since... Yeah. It's deeper than it was. Significantly. Probably his voice is on the whole, he's gained nearly two hundred pounds and four inches to put him at six foot two. And growing. Rapidly. But he's been using his voice all through this. Slow changes hiding in a backdrop of annoyance and more than a little fear, if he's honest.

Thompkins misses the frown, her own chuckle having caused her to cover her mouth with a hand. “I suppose that is a fair bet.” She lowers her hand and looks over to him. “Interesting. Okay, my original plan was to try and convince you to stay in the hospital. I have a backer that is willing to keep paying the bills until you are ready to be discharged.” She shrugs at his look. “It's a national charity that is in place to help metas. Part of the Wayne Foundation, set up after 'Bang Babies' became a thing. An initiative intended to keep them healthy, educated, and employable so fewer of them resort to crime. Most of the time it is intended for educational reasons. Some metas have vastly different requirements in a teaching environment. But your medical situation is definitely covered by the charter.”

Tom opens his mouth to speak, but Leslie cuts him off.

“Yes, I get not wanting to redo a year of school. I am willing to bet I can sort that out through the charity as well. But if you really are feeling alright, perhaps it would be worth it to simply make me your primary care physician and come in for weekly check-ups for a while? I can charge the charity, they'll be fine with it. Wouldn't be the first time.”

Tom's stomach grumbles loud and long in complaint, as it hasn't been given fuel for nearly two hours, and decides that this is unacceptable.

The doctor finds herself looking down and then up to the boy... No, this is a man she decides. Given what she knows of his history, he's probably been a man for a couple of years now. He's just starting to look the part is all.

Too many kids she knows have had to grow up entirely too young, in her opinion. Far too young. He's just another one on the pile of broken childhoods that she tries to keep alive, against their own wishes it seems at times. More's the pity.

Thumbing the door, Thompkins speaks while holding back another chuckle, the corners of her mouth going up slightly despite the effort.

“I'll tell you what. You sign on the bottom line and promise me that you'll get your uncle to as well, and I'll give you a lift home or wherever you want to go. And on the way, we'll stop by a buffet. How does that sound?”

His stomach gurgles again and he offers a smirk. “Excited about being kicked out of a buffet? Positive I can make it happen.”

She does laugh this time as she watches him sign the paper and then leads him to the door. “To be honest, I don't think I have ever been to the new one. Supposedly Chinese, but having eaten real Chinese food I'll admit to some skepticism. Can't be too bad though, they do a brisk business.”

>>

She is as good as her word, and two hours later they leave the buffet. Before the manager who is looking at their table in horror as the plates stack up can get around to kicking them out. After glancing at the clock on the dash, his phone destroyed in the accident, Tom turns to Leslie.

“Uncle Louis is working double shifts while a bunch of his people are getting treated for the Smylex that got released in Crime Alley a couple of weeks ago. So he'll be there until at least eight if you want to take me there so we can just get the rest of the paperwork done.”

Nodding along with that, Thompkins responds.
“Have to say, glad it isn't dark. Lived in Gotham my entire life, and have been in this neighborhood myself for a while now. But I try to be back to my home and clinic before night falls.” She hands him her cell phone. “Text him to let him know we're coming? I'm not hugely excited about seeing how well my short heels will deal with a scrapyard.”

Tom glances her way and takes the phone, punching the numbers and then letters required. “Yeah, I'd like to say it isn't that bad. But we'd both know I'm lying. Gotham is still home, though.”

Leslie shakes her head, a smile that speaks of fondness, exasperation, and repetition flitting across her face. “Yes, I've heard these sentiments before. As then, I can't come up with an argument. For all that I sometimes wish I could.”

A few minutes later as they pull into the yard's lot, Tom nods. “Thanks for the ride. And the food, again. I was pretty hungry. Just park in front of the office, good odds he's in there. As many hours as he's been putting in, he's probably dead on his feet this late in the day.”

She smoothly parks the old vehicle. The low rumble of the engine that pulls around all this Detroit steel dies down, and the two get out. They've barely made it to the front of the car when the door to the trailer being used as an office is thrown open and a barrel-chested older man with a shaved head and a full gray beard leans out.

“Lord have mercy, Tommy, is that you?!”

Tom looks down and he sighs. “Yeah, Uncle. It's me. They think the accident kicked something off and I guess I'm a meta-human now.”

“Did you get taller too? Sweet jeebus, kid. And this is normal for you now?”

Tom has made his way up the steps, and his uncle backs away from the door to let him in, followed by Leslie. He snorts in uncomfortable amusement. “The doctors say that whatever this is, it's speeding up if anything. And I'm so damn hungry all the time, too.”

Louis sits back down in the chair behind his desk and his two guests in the chairs that were once of the folding variety, but have since been reinforced with a welder. They don't close anymore, but it was a way to get junk that had been given to them back into service. Not unlike the bench seat scrounged from an old Continental that is set up against a wall as a couch. With one end in a corner and a pillow sitting there, it is pretty obvious what it gets used for. Old road signs and bits of Gotham memorabilia line the walls. Old bits of junk that may mean something to a person from Gotham. Of note, she can see mounted on a wall an older copy of the Scarecrow's hood as well as a motorcycle fender that has an easily recognizable bat symbol on it. There are other bits and pieces, all cleaned up and shiny. Most look like they had been boiled for some time.

A fair precaution, given what lines the walls. Particularly considering that pride of place directly behind his desk is a small shelf sticking out of the wall about six feet off the floor. On that shelf is an old fake flower. With a rubber or plastic tube that goes to a squeezable bulb after about two feet.

“So, you're gonna get bigger?”

Leslie decides that she's been ignored long enough. Mildly annoyed that she wasn't introduced already, but she doesn't take it personally. To say the poor kid has a lot on his mind would be an understatement.

“According to the specialists that worked with him there is currently no sign of things slowing down, as he said.” Her eyes roll just slightly toward her new patient. “I am Doctor Leslie Thompkins, and I am currently representing the Wayne Foundation. Particularly a program intended to help meta-humans.” She glances over to Tom and then hands over the clipboard that still holds the paperwork. “I am hoping I can convince you to make me Tom's primary physician. We don't know if he'll need more medical assistance or not, currently. But having some kind of baseline and somebody noting changes can only be a good thing.”

Louis's eyes squint a bit. “And what do you get out of this? Makes me a mite curious why I got a doctor here in my office playing ambulance chaser.”

Leslie shakes her head, offering a smile. “Well, the big thing honestly is that the going rate for medical care on meta-humans when their physiology is changed is a nice chunk of change. The fact that it's a rich man whose biggest 'issue' in a year seems to be which 'issue' of Playboy Bunny he wants to invite over for New Year's Eve just cements my willingness to take the man's money.”

She laughs with the old man about that, though her face gets serious again quickly. “In all honesty, there are better people for this. But their rates are more than the Foundation will pay for, and I have a history with the Foundation. Even if we have to call one in though, having current records that take into account changes will be invaluable to them, and I can easily do that at no cost to you.”

Louis nods, spins the clipboard around, and reads. Five minutes and three pages of single-space text later, he signs, spins it back around, and takes her card.

“Doctor Thompkins, I hope you don't think ill of me for saying it, because I'd do whatever it took if I had to. But this? This is a weight off my mind and bank account. No mistake.” He turns to his nephew. Ready to go home?”

Tom smiles and stands up. “Yeah, Uncle Lou. Let's go home.”

>>

Ten PM, Leslie Thompkins office. Same Day.

“You're slipping, I heard you come in.”
She swivels her chair around and sees Batman, gently closing the door he had just passed through.

“What did you find out?” The voice is low and sounds like the voice of a man who smokes while choking on gravel.

Leslie shakes her head. “He's a meta-human. That I can tell you just because we'll be using the Foundation to assist the poor kid while he is trying to deal with things.”

Batman's stern look seems to darken. Goes to open his mouth. Leslie talks right over him.

“Bruce, if you want to get all his details you'll need to do it your way. He isn't a villain, he isn't a rogue, and he hasn't done anything wrong. I have oaths aside from the one I made to you and your secret.”

She offers him a small smile. “Actually, he reminds me a lot of your kids. Particularly Richard. I'm assuming that you have done all the background work?”

The man in black nods thoughtfully. “Yes. His parents died during a rogue attack. Scarecrow, I believe it was. A few years ago.”

She flips back around to her desk, shutting down her computer for the evening. “He's a bright kid, Bruce. Had a real future before this. I am going to do my damnedest to see to it he still does, and I won't put up with any attempts to make it otherwise. Do you hear me? Do you understand?”

It's quiet for a few moments. Then Bruce speaks, his voice conciliatory.
“They came to me. They all wanted this, you know that.”

The screen on her computer darkens as she scoots her chair out and stands. Her eyes are screwed so tight in her effort to control her temper that he can barely make out the whites of them.

“We don't let people sign up for the military until they turn eighteen for a reason, Bruce. Until then there isn't a person on the planet that has any clue what they want. I'm going to bed, I'm exhausted. Try not to break any children tonight.”

The door to her home upstairs is opened and shut as Bruce stands there, looking something between sad and disgruntled, for a good few minutes. Then he leaves.

Rather than annoy the old doctor anymore this evening, he'll ask Oracle to get it off her machine remotely tomorrow.

Aside from Alfred and possibly Lucius, There is nobody on the planet he can afford to drive away less than Leslie Thompkins.

>>

Author's note:
Smylex was the name given to the gas The Joker uses back in the Tim Burton film in the eighties.
I'm old, sue me.