Tonnage

Rumors and Facts.

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“You wanted to see me, Uncle Lou?”

The old man looks up from his desk and rubs his right hand against his bald head distractedly with his fingers separated. The kind of habit one would develop when they had hair, and that he has never kicked since he went bald. His nephew is at the door. Looking him in the eye despite the fact that he is standing on the ground outside the trailer.

He doesn't come in the trailer anymore. The floor made some rather ominous popping sounds the last time he did. They don't think it'll actually collapse... But it isn't worth the risk.

Which reminds him, the guys said they finished his stainless steel toilet. He hadn't broken any of the facilities yet, but since they only have three working crappers on the whole lot, losing one would hurt. He'll have to get somebody on that. Swap it out in the facilities closest to his new home.

Lou stands and makes his way around his desk to the door. “Yeah, kid. Follow me and listen, I have no idea how long we have.” He takes the steps two at a time and then starts walking purposefully to the garage.

“First, I shouldn't have to hear from the night crew that you threw down with Killer Croc, okay? That is a reason for calling me at home. Second, I'd rather have insurance assholes crawling up my ass than get a colonoscopy from the Bats. So if it happens again, let those crazies handle it as much as you can.”

“But Lou, Jerry, he...”

Lou shakes his head. “Don't stress too much, Tom. You'll never hear me scold anybody for saving a life. But maybe once that is done, we don't decide to dictate terms to the local spandex brigade? Please? For reasons of my stress and blood pressure levels?”

Lou steps ahead into the shop. It's a fair-sized warehouse that predates the salvage yard, being the only building here that was salvageable when he purchased the land. It covers about an eighth of the effective block and a half that the yard covers, given that the street layout didn't make a nice rectangle here. Massive double doors on one end, and a closed-off room with a heavily locked door that is the halfhearted attempt by Lou to secure some of the slightly more expensive and easily moved items, or things that have a high enough content of a given metal to be worth melting back down into ingots.

Amazing how much copper, brass, and bronze can go for at the right purity levels if you can sell it as an ingot. Never mind the occasional bit of something more expensive that makes its way here.

Lou passes that room by and heads over to the metalworking station. They have a few sets of various types of welders and cutters, with all the abrasives and tanks of liquids and gasses under pressure to go with it. And sitting on the center of the workbench is a pile of parts, a few boxes of things Lou picked up while he was out for lunch, and one of his collectibles that he must have pulled off of whatever wall it was stuck on for however long.

It's an old deep-sea diving helmet. Probably from the First World War, maybe the interwar period. It's big and heavy. Largely made of copper and brass, with stamped lettering on it that claims it is a US Navy issue model.

“I need to get you trained up for fabrication as soon as possible, so we can get to work on something better for you to live in. Also thinking it might not be a terrible idea to sort out some kind of vehicle for you. Tempted to use an old diesel rig for it. We have enough of the old money sinks that we should be able to put one together that will work well for you. Then we'll put together a reinforced trailer into a home for you that's mobile. So you aren't stuck in this lot forever just by default.”

Tom makes his way to the workbench and pokes the diving helm. “Why'd you dig this out?”

“Two reasons. First, none of our welding hoods are going to fit on your noggin, but we can add something to bring down the brightness to this. I intend, over the summer, to move you past whatever they taught you in metal shop so we can get your new home put together by October.”

“The other reason? And why the rush, Uncle Lou?”

The old man sits on a stool by the bench and motions his nephew to sit on the workbench itself. It's held engine blocks for super-heavy bulldozers in the past. It'll hold him. He hangs his head for a minute and collects his thoughts. Tom is a little concerned.

“Uncle?”

Lou looks up. “I don't want you getting upset here, because it isn't your fault. But kid... I've lived here my whole life. Lived in Gotham, or within a twenty-minute drive of it. And nobody I have ever even heard of has managed to get back out of the fighting and skulduggery once they've been brought into it. I honestly figured this would happen eventually given the way you were going, but I thought we'd have more time.”

“Don't worry Lou, I don't plan on running around with spandex on. Can you even imagine how it'd look?” Tom tries a smile, but it is a sad, anemic thing that dies quickly.

Lou shakes his head. “That's nice. Going to tell Croc that when he comes back? Or any of the rest when they come around? All those freaks talk to each other, you know.” He glances back to the helmet. “By making the glass that allows you to weld with the thing a removable, exterior piece, we can set you up with a couple of air tanks to wear on your back. Some basic elastic to maintain a positive pressure, and straps to keep it secure on you. We'll swap the original glass plate out for something bulletproof. Maybe reinforce it a bit with steel, since you won't be diving in it. I'll feel a hell of a lot better if you keep it handy once we're done. I already lost my sister to these goddamned freaks and since the doc says that they can't get anything through your skin, not even chemicals that are supposed to go right through it? This should mean that when that asshole Scarecrow finds out you're alive and one of his leftovers, you won't end up on the bottom of the channel too. They really should put all those assholes to death. Crazy that they don't.”

Tom has a moment of realization about the situation. His uncle isn't putting together this helmet and an armored, rolling, house because he thinks it'll keep Tom alive. He's doing it because he's grasping at straws, hoping some idea he's had will do it.

Lou is scared. Scared for Tom, mostly. A bit for himself. But mostly he's just trying to do whatever it takes to make go away the dread that he'll be the last in his family after Tom runs afoul of something that can kill him.

Once he realizes just what is going on, Tom nods. He isn't sure that his uncle's concerns are quite that serious. But he'd do anything for Uncle Lou. “Okay. What do I need to do?”

>>

Barbara Gordon has gone by a few different names over the years. But currently, the one that is important is Daughter.

“Hey, Dad. I'm on my lunch break down at the bistro at the end of the block. The one that sells all the funky soaps and candles?”

There is a pause. “You mean that goth place? What was it called again, 'Black Hat Happy' or something?” Jim can practically feel his daughter's eye roll at that. It makes him grin.

“Sure, Dad. We'll go with that.” Her voice gets much more chipper. “So what's up?”

“Are you in a place where you can talk?” He sounds a touch more serious than he might be if they were discussing vacation destinations.

“Not really. Can I call you back from my office in ten or fifteen minutes?”

There is a pause. Then, “Make it three hours. Between things right now, I need to go do a few vehicle inspections soon. Been hearing bad things about some of the force working in Crime Alley and the docks, and it's all time sensitive.”

“Is that a secret?” This is her oh-so-tactful way of asking if she is allowed to pass this along.

“It won't be after this evening, one way or another. Talk to you after a while.”

>>

Tim makes his way down to the Batcave in the early afternoon to see Steph and Cass already there doing the same thing he was planning to do.

Go over last night's footage with a fine-tooth comb.

Steph nudges Cass, who is currently the one at the controls. “Pause there and enhance.”

Tim Clears his throat.

They both look over to him, and Cass merely smiles and gets out of the seat.

He smirks. There are members of his family that can beat him. It's close. But letting your ego get to the point it kills you is something that Batman beats into their training early to avoid at all costs. So he knows that while none of them could take him lightly, he is at best middle of the pack in a straight fight amongst their number.

But everybody has their place to shine, and Tim Drake slides into his. He takes about twenty seconds to figure out where they are in their investigation, realizes that they have already missed crucial context and actions, and starts over.

“Did we check the refrigerator?”

Steph looks at him confused. “Check it for what?”

He doesn't look up, typing away. “Make and model. Whether or not it was empty would be nice too.”

Cass signs with her hands in the way she does. 'It was empty. I know not the model.”

Tim nods absently and tries to get the make off the video, but the only time the thing is on screen it is spinning while being flung. “Well, it's old. Really old. Probably a two-prong plug, with an old style of coolant system built into it. I am going to guess it's a minimum of two hundred pounds, and he flung it fifteen feet where it hit a thousand-pound-plus man. Then didn't touch the ground for another ten feet, and took Croc with it at least that far.”

He does some quick math and then blinks. “That... That is a lot of force.”

Steph snorts and half-laughs. “You should have been there to see it live. That guy is a plus-size force of nature. Move the video up to when Croc leaps at him and take a look. Tommy Tonnage here just flat-out doesn't care what Croc is doing. Haven't seen anybody short of the Kryptonians that are quite that unconcerned with being clawed to death by a maniac.”

Cass signs to her with a disappointed look on her face. 'Tommy Tonnage?'

Steph just points at the screen. “You watch that and tell me I'm wrong. This guy is a beast, that fight went from 'growl, snarl, hiss' to a nose plant and a concussion within ten seconds. When are we going to get some of the happy space people to come down and introduce him to the League?”

The voice from the stairs is annoyed but stern. “We're not. And we have a meeting this evening. I expect everybody to be here for it, please send out the word.”

Tim goes to dig out his phone but Cass beats him to it. Tim goes back to the video he is dissecting, and hands off his half-page of scribbled notes to Bruce as he gets close enough.

Steph decides that her curiosity can't wait. “Can we get a sneak preview of the meeting? Since we're here being all useful and everything?”

Bruce offers her a quiet smile and shakes his head. “I still need to get some facts myself. But the gist of the meeting will be how we deal with Tom.”

The three look at him, confused. Cass is the one to stand and begin signing quickly.
'Why would we need to deal with Tom? What has Tom done?'

Bruce shakes his head. “Not that kind of deal with. With what he's done, he's put himself on the map. Like myself, the commissioner, or the mayor. He's more likely than most to need assistance because of this, and I'd heard that at least two of you were angling with Leslie and Oracle to help with his tailoring issues out of costume.” He winces slightly because he knows this is going to go over like a fart in a car.

“You can't.” He raises his hand in a 'stop' gesture when all three of them become agitated. “It's not because of him. It's because of you.”

Well, that shut them up.

“Specifically, because the likelihood is that if you befriend him out of costume, he'll see you enough on patrol to recognize you in costume. I've checked his records. Leslie was right, he is a smart kid. Tested IQ of a hundred and forty-two in the fourth grade with universally good scores through elementary and middle school, all while living in Crime Alley. His parents dying in a Scarecrow rampage two years ago caused his grades to take a hit, but he recovered with them until his meta-gene kicked in. Not super-genius level maybe. But plenty smart enough to see through your disguises, given enough time.”

They all try to talk again, and Bruce breaks in. “We'll talk about it tonight. For now, let's continue with what you are doing. I told Oracle I'd have something for her soon. Jim knows something is up based on Croc's interrogation and I'd rather have facts than guesses when I talk to him.”

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Arkham Asylum. Cellblock C. 5:40 PM.

“Croc, old boy! So nice to see you back! Ha Ha! Oh my gosh, Croc! Did you experience some police brutality!?” Joker is getting moved back to his cell after an attempt at therapy, but the guards here know better than to go out of their way to antagonize prisoners. A few minutes for chit-chat as they walk him back in his metal rig is allowed. The option tends to be a prison riot after a while.

Croc's face is a mass of bandages. He'd managed to not get any bones broken but it was a near thing, and the pressure from some of those hits had split the skin between the ground and the skull. He had blood pouring off of his face when he finally did manage to stand.

“Wasn't cops.”

“Oh ho! So you came across Mister Batsy then.” He gets a very serious look on his face that lasts basically until the end of his next sentence before he breaks out into gales of laughter. “And what did you do to make poor Mr. Batsy so upset, did you scratch his car, or maybe damage his very last feeling?”

“Wasn't Bats either. Some new guy. Fat fuck. In the scrapyard. Trying to get away and...” He stops for a second, realizing how bad the story makes him look. “I'll get him next time.”

Joker smiles wide, in that way he does when something is interesting to him. “Really now, Croc. You just let some guy beat on your face? Is there a punchline coming?”

The four guards start pushing his standing rig down the hall again.

“Screw you, clown! Tackling that asshole was like trying to tackle a house! I'd like to see you do any better!”

“Oh ho! Now that, Crocky-boy, sounds like a challenge!” He cranes his neck around to look at the guards. “I don't suppose you fine gentlemen could be convinced to allow me to pop out and say hello to dear Croc's new friend, would you? I'd so like to make his day!”

The guards are good. So they don't respond. But Joker laughs anyway, as he spreads the tale of the scrapyard hero that smacked around Croc and sent him home to everybody they pass.

Word from the outside is gold in here, and while knowledge is power and he doesn't like sharing power... He does like sharing a laugh and Croc looking like he face-checked a supersonic cheese grater is just too much fun to keep to himself.

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Author's note:

Here we go, folks. Blood is in the water.