Tonnage

A Bloody Good Clothier

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Monday, Noon.

It's the first time he's been off the lot for anything aside from his medical appointments for almost a month. He has a few hundred dollars in his pocket. Since he hasn't been able to spend his pay it has been adding up for a while. So he's brought along significantly more cash than he might have been able to otherwise.

Unfortunately, the tailor that Leslie has directed him to isn't in Crime Alley. It's in Old Gotham. Where the old money has roots that delve deep, and the new money with hangers-on attempts to eke out some goodwill from the tycoons that own much of the city. At least, officially. The Rogues might take offense to some of these ownership claims.

He'll have to walk it. It's only a mile or two, really. Three at most. The problem isn't the distance. The problem is that Croc destroyed his poncho, and given that he is getting clothes today it seems just dumb to wreck anything else just to make it to the shop. So he uses a few stitches to get the poncho to at least 'not falling apart' levels of structural integrity and wears that ridiculous tarp raincoat he made over it. It only reaches down to mid-thigh now. But that should be good enough to get there, and he'll be wearing something else home.

Then he begins his walk. Within a couple of blocks of the yard, there are no problems. Of course, that is largely because there are very few people. Even ignoring that it is Crime Alley, people don't generally love living next door to a scrapyard if they can help it. And in Crime Alley itself, Tom is mostly left alone. He's been out and about, going to his appointments with Leslie for more than a month. Even those who haven't seen him before have heard of him.

The giant of the scrapyard, who sent Killer Croc back to the nuthouse. He isn't sure who talked about it, the bats or his Uncle's security people. But either way, it's out now.

For all kinds of reasons, things start to go downhill for him once he forges his way into the more affluent areas of town. He's four blocks or so from the tailor when the stares, looks of disgust or suspicion, and general feeling of hostility are punctuated by the 'WEEYOO!' of a police cruiser running their siren for a second and then pulling up beside him.

“If I can ask you to stop for a minute, we need to have a talk.”
The officer is getting out of his car as he speaks, and Tom is doing the same thing that has been done by all people who have ever been stopped by the police since policing was a thing. He spends the time that the officer is walking around his car trying to figure out what, if anything, he's done wrong recently. All he can figure is that someone narc'd the Croc thing to the cops, but why would they stop him in the street for that anyway? Last he checked, Croc was a bad guy and the spandex wearers were the ones that turned him in, right?

The man is walking with an easy saunter, but he does have his hand on the grip of his service revolver.
“Sir, my name is Officer Mitchell, and I'll need to see your identification. We've had some complaints phoned into the department.”

Tom is looking more confused by the second. “But I didn't do anything. I was just walking to the tailor. I finally have a chance to get real clothes since my... Growth spurt.”

The cop shrugs. “Unfortunately, the complaint was made. So I need to take down the particulars.” He glances around for a moment and then turns back to Tom with a smirk. “Please note that when these hyper-sensitive Karens are involved, taking down notes of the particulars is about all I do. But, I do need to do that.”

Relief floods through Tommy, and then horror fills in immediately after.

He still has his school identification, a state-issued identification, and a social security card. What he hasn't got is a picture on the identification that looks anything like him anymore.

He pulls it out of the pocket of the sweat-shorts anyway, options being somewhat lacking. Doing so given what he is wearing is a two-minute long trial in humiliation, irritation, and shame as more and more people stop to stare at the spectacle.

Finally, with enormous fingers that are easily, even contemptuously, capable of crushing steel drink cans into sad little balls of metal, he ever-so-gently nudges his ID out and daintily hands it over.

The officer raises his eyebrows quite a bit as he peruses the piece of plastic. “This was issued less than a year ago, and it claims you weigh less than my niece.”

Tom kinda expected this one and doesn't know what to say. So for the sake of maybe getting this over with, he says the truth. Just in a whisper.

“I'm... I got hit by a van and it... I'm a meta now. I guess. I grew a lot in the last month or so. It finally stopped, and the Wayne Foundation is sending me to get new clothes since I won't outgrow them tomorrow.” There is a small sigh, and then an almost sub-vocalized mutter that the officer barely catches. “Hopefully...”

The man nods thoughtfully, then motions for Tom to stay. “Sit tight for a minute, I am going to run the identification, standard procedure when we have an ID that doesn't match the face. Then I think I'll escort you to your appointment. Assuming the owner of the ID isn't listed as missing I'll give you the benefit of the doubt on that one. If you have an appointment like you say, that will easily be enough for me to chalk this one up to Karens be Karens. But you really should sort out how to get an updated identification as soon as possible, Tom. Walking around with your face not matching the ID is going to cause you problems if you are called to explain something and it isn't just a nuisance complaint like this was.” His face goes to a more relaxed expression. “Wait a tic, and we'll get you on your way.”

Tom stands there while the officer gets back into his car and scans the ID into some computer he has in there. He seems to spend some small amount of time on a radio or phone. And then he comes back out and hands Tom his ID back.

“Checks out so far. I'd offer you a lift, but...”

Tom reverses the procedure to put his identification away, and there is some open laughter in the now rather significant crowd as he does so. The cop looks around, seemingly annoyed at the interruption but unwilling to go after somebody for just laughing on a sidewalk.

“Yeah, I get it. Worried about the car. I can walk it. It's fine.”

The cop gets back in his car and motions Tommy to go.

Most of the mob continues with their day once he is moving again. There are a few that are curious enough to follow at a discrete distance. Tom ducks his head down and speeds up some. Finally, when he is about to enter the shop, he waves at the cop who smiles and drives off.
He has to duck to get in the doors, but that is pretty standard for him these days. The place is nice. Mostly finished suits and dresses hang on racks, just waiting for the final fitting and customization. There is a dizzying array of colors, though it must be added that it is still Gotham. Black and dark gray are the most common colors to be seen among all these clothes. There are a few employees he can see, but no other customers.

He supposes that makes sense. Once they had good measurements, he'd been told they would fast-track a couple of outfits while he was here so he had something to wear home, but that the rest of his new wardrobe of seven or so outfits would be delivered.

In all, this place is a lot to take in for a kid from Crime Alley. It has old, polished wood. Actual sitting areas, with comfortable lounge chairs and tables, so that their customers can be comfortable while they get their new threads. There are even playing cards and a cart with drinks and snacks available.

He decides he is extremely grateful that he'll never need to know what this is going to cost.

“You must be young Thomas. I, of course, am Guisepp.” This comes from a smiling, but somewhat surprised-looking older gentleman. He has a hint of an Italian accent, second-generation American most likely. Remembering that the name of the establishment is 'Guisepp's Custom Threads' causes a slight smile and nod to be forthcoming from the young meta.

“Yup, that's me.” There is a pause as he looks around all the finery of the shop. “Um. I was told that you'd be making some clothes for me today. I'm here from the Wayne Foundation?”

The older gentleman offers a soft smile. “Indeed we are, Mr. Thomas. Everything has been prepaid for one suit, two sets of running or workout clothes, two sets of casual clothes, a single set of sleepwear, and a single outfit to be determined by you. Although Leslie sent ahead a recommendation for some manner of coverall. It seems you work in a rather dirty environment.” He flips the paper over and continues. “The other notes include her hinting at your... Well, your size, sir. And the fact that they would cover the cost for any egregious amounts of materials used. The last note I have here is to make everything as though it needed to survive combat.” He laughs. “At first I thought I was being used to outfit the civilian identity of a hero or villain.”

He sighs after though. “Though I can see now that this wasn't the case. I assume there is some kind of meta-gene at action here?”

Tom nods. Staying silent seems a better idea than anything else as the rest of the employees begin to gather and they look at this insane-looking guy that came in wearing a tarp and appears as if he is the size of a small house.

The next three hours are a whirlwind. Measuring tapes flash around him, wielded by this small army of dedicated clothiers. A set of casual clothes, as well as a set of coveralls for work, are produced at breakneck speed. Plus they are of materials that make Tom think they either received some special shipments from the foundation, or they may actually be designed for heroes or rogues. It probably isn't really a bulletproof or even resistant material, but it is extremely tough and looks like it would be hard-wearing.

The coverall becomes a set of bib overalls and another shirt since he was given the option and that gets him a third casual shirt. He had just managed to finally get it, the shirt, and some underwear on and is standing around making small talk with one of these clothing designers. One who is getting handy with the pins getting something ready to run through a machine. Unfortunately, that is when the front doors are thrown open and two men with assault rifles charge in followed by a haphazard formation of crooks that are packing shotguns or knives. They all have pistols on their sides, nice-looking clothes for someone from the Gotham underworld, and black masks on their faces. There are ten in total.

All the employees stop what they are doing, their eyes going wide.

Tom just closes his eyes. He can feel the headache coming on already.

“Everybody Freeze!” Then the self-appointed leader points his rifle at Tom. “My boss wants a word and we have a truck outside. Get in it.”

Tom looks outside. Yeah, there's an old moving van out there. Probably rented. Huh.

“No.”

Tom turns back to the owner. “Just send the rest when it's done. I'll get out of here.”

While he is doing that, the rest of them have fanned around and are pointing guns all over the place. “You'll get in the damn truck, if you don't the cops'll be picking the brains of your favorite shop's employees out of the walls with fukkin' tweezers. Do you get what I am telling you, you fat fuck!?”

Tom turns back to the man, his expression one of just exhaustion. This last month and a half. It just never seems to bloody end, goes on forever.

“Not a hero.”

The man, even through his stupid mask, looks a bit startled at that response. “What?”

Tom looks down at his brand new clothes, some of the finest he's ever worn and the only things close to real clothes he's worn in a month. They're gonna get ruined in whatever these morons are about to make happen, and the knowledge of it makes him want to rage quit the whole damn world.

“I'm not a hero. If you shoot anybody while I'm here I'll break off your right arm at the elbow to stop it happening again. I'm not going with you, and I probably won't be able to stop you shooting somebody without a lot of training that I don't have. But I can make sure you only do it once.”

There is a lot of blinking going on for a few seconds. Then the guy in charge, who must really be afraid of his boss, lowers his rifle and shoots one of the seamstresses who was working on his first suit ever. Her scream is loud, horrified, terrified, and short. Because when Tommy lunges forward, grabs the guy's upper arm in his right hand and his lower arm in his left, then jerks, there is a split second of near silence after the 'pop' and then shredding sound of first the joint, and then the flesh giving up. The leader of this particular group of Black Mask thugs screams, and slipping some on his own blood starts staggering toward the door while trying to snivel out some kind of order to the rest of the men.

Tom takes shotgun blasts twice to the gut, but when they realize that it isn't hurting him and that the buckshot gets spit back at them from his body at around half the speed, the lot of them begin sprinting toward the doors.

Tom reaches over to a rack for some kind of wool coat that is waiting to be snapped up and finished, tears off a sleeve, and wraps it around the woman's leg. Then follows it with his hand, which he squeezes. The woman screams in pain, there is almost no chance the bone wasn't shattered by the bullet. But at least it isn't bleeding anymore. He can hear at least three people on phones and sirens in the distance. So he sits down on the floor next to this wounded woman, idly plays with the holes in his new shirt and bib overalls with his free hand, and cries.

It just doesn't stop. Why won't it stop?!

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Author's note:
We'll deal with Jim's take on the whole situation next I think.

Take care.