Tonnage

Meat-Bag.

>>

The rest of his clothes arrived two days later, along with an extra plain white T-shirt signed by the staff of the shop. It was packed with a thank you card for his quick thinking with the seamstress who got shot. It seems that the surgeons who worked on her to put her leg back together had credited his holding the limb still until paramedics arrived for why she will likely only need a cast and maybe a few months of physical therapy once the bone knits, rather than potentially losing the use of the limb. Stopping the blood loss kept her alive. But keeping her or anybody else from making things worse helped in a lot of ways that Tom hadn't even known about when he did it.

Feels good, though. Doesn't quite make the nightmares of tearing a man apart go away. But it feels good.

His new helm is finished, and the air can he'll need in the event of a gas attack is attached to an old backpack frame that got reinforced and armored up a bit. Just enough to keep normal bullets from screwing up the tank or hose. People are working for Lou who have done maintenance on military equipment when they were in, and with the skills they learned when they were out they can kludge their way along in producing a dizzying array of products as long as you aren't too concerned with aesthetics. The issue is that the old scrapyard doesn't have any metal that could qualify as 'armor grade' in stock. So it's debatable how much protection it will offer, but the attempt has been made.

It made Lou happy, anyway.

He does find out a possible personal weakness as he is learning about welding from his uncle, though. Nothing has yet to hurt him through any kind of bludgeoning or cutting effects, but he does manage to burn himself when he isn't paying close enough attention. Not badly. Even against a cutting torch, his physical form is unbelievably stout. But there is redness and a blister that resulted from something like fifteen seconds of having the torch blasting against his bare thigh when he wasn't paying attention. They are both mostly gone by the next morning, but it is a shock in some ways to find out that he isn't invulnerable given what he's been through the last week.

As soon as Doc Thompkins heard about it, he had to sit through a forty-minute lecture on how and why to check his own body for damage. Even to the point of her getting a full-length mirror for him so he can check areas that he can't easily see, as a medical expense. Why?

Because while he had seen the redness and the blister, there had been no pain. The possibility that he could be grievously hurt and not even know it puts the old woman into a panicked frenzy.

It is once again Friday evening and Lou has already gone back to the yard office while he tries to sort out some other kind of living arrangement. While he doesn't like his nephew living in the yard without him... He's spent forty years spending nearly sixty hours a week on average in this place. The idea of living there full-time is abhorrent to him.

He looked upset as he explained this to Tom, but his nephew just laughed and told him to get on with it between full-pound burgers that he ate like sliders.

It seems that skipping lunch isn't the best idea ever for someone like... Well, him.

But it is around dusk on the Friday after all the stupid got started that he hears from the Bats again. Sorta.

>>

Tom's Place. Friday, 7:20 PM.

Tom has a radio tuned to the local rock station doing their six-hour long 'Far-Out-Friday' programming. Gives him something to listen to while he fiddles around with a big roll of fireproof material. According to his uncle, it's the same kind of thing they make a fireman's outfit out of. Louis is making him put together another poncho, this time with arm guards, out of this stuff. Partly for safety since now they know he can be hurt. But also, Tom suspects, as a kind of tongue-in-cheek punishment for being so stupid as to mistakenly point a torch at his leg for any amount of time at all. Granted, it didn't hurt him all that bad and he recovered quickly. But to Lou, it's the kind of thing that betrays an attitude that needs to get rubbed out quickly before something bad happens.

So, he's failing horribly in singing along with 'In-A-Gadda-da-Vida' (He takes some solace in the fact that it's doubtful anybody else has ever done any better.) when he hears a loud snort from the entrance to his tent. Looking up, he can see what looks to be a twelve or thirteen-year-old boy in a rather brightly colored costume.

“Your situational awareness is abysmal, and I'm not sure what you are singing but I think you should probably stop that as well. For the good of mankind.”

Tom puts down the sheers he is using and shuts off his radio while standing up from his seat. A metal bench they had put together out of a bunch of old scraps from building tear-downs. Mostly steel beams and such that have been repurposed so he could use the workbench he has against one tent wall. The tent and container combo isn't a huge amount of space for someone his size, but he consoles himself in the fact that it's still more than he'll likely have after he moves into the trailer they are supposed to haul into the shop to work on starting next week.

“Robin? What are you doing here?” He glances at his alarm clock on the table. “The yard is only open for another forty minutes, did you... did you need a hand finding something?”

The pint-sized hero in front of him rolls his eyes. “I've already found who I was looking for, and I doubt sincerely that there is anything here aside from yourself that would interest me in any way.”

Tom is looking just a touch nervous now. He doesn't think he's in danger, but he also can't think of a good reason for a hero to be looking for him.

Oh. Well, there was that. But he'd already... cops...

“Well, if you aren't here to look for something in the yard, what are you here for?”

Robin's eyes seem to be searching for something, and after a few moments, he sighs. Then nods, as though a decision has been made.

“I am here to present you with an offer. I apologize for coming here to make a deal in good faith while wearing a mask, I have been overruled on exposing my true identity to you. But no restrictions were placed on me meeting you in my uniform as Robin.”

He reaches into a pocket and pulls out a roll of bills, then tosses it onto the table where it rolls until it bumps into his phone. “That is five hundred dollars. You may keep that regardless, for the inconvenience of having me show up at your... Home. Without notifying you prior. But my reason for being here was to ask if you would be willing to spar with me once or twice a week for similar amounts.”

He pauses for a moment, and his lips are forced into a small frown. “I feel honor bound to tell you that for the services of one with your abilities, this is a paltry sum of money. But I am unfortunately cash... lite at the moment, at least personally. My investments are doing well, but I am loathe to remove my money from them while they are going up, and...”

Tom breaks in, confused but laughing softly anyway. “Dude, you don't have to explain. I understand being cash-poor.”

The child's eyes flash. “I am not poor. I am simply letting my money grow without...”

Tom holds his right hand up in a 'calm down' kind of way and smiles. “Sorry. Bad choice of words. But sparring? I mean, I don't know a whole lot about fighting. I'm not sure what you could learn from me.”

Robin snorts derisively. “With very few exceptions none of you high-end, strong metas can fight well. Grandfather used to call it the travesty of those given everything and needing to earn nothing. But since sparring with you will give me at least some experience in a controlled environment fighting against someone of enhanced strength and resilience, I am willing to ignore how badly you have neglected your training for these purposes.”

He looks intrigued for a moment, then shakes his head. “It is possible that I may be able to teach you something as well, aside from how to deal with a smaller, faster, and more highly skilled opponent. Though I make no promises on that score. I think it likely that our fighting styles will be so far removed from each other that opportunities for me to pass much along aside from how to react to attacks will be uncommon.”

Tom looks around a touch nervously. “You know I got attacked by some thugs from Black Mask a few days ago, right? It might not be the best idea to be around me right now.”

Robin blinks. His face then twists into a look of irritation and he speaks through clenched teeth. “I am going to choose to not take offense to that, but I would... Appreciate it... If you would refrain from implying that I am a coward that could be dissuaded from his plans by the threat of an attack by common thugs.”

Tom sits back down, and can't help but notice that he is still a few feet taller than this kid. “That isn't quite what I meant, but okay. Where would you want to do this? I really shouldn't be fighting in the yard unless I have to. Not much here is worth a lot of money, but it's money we need. You know?”

Robin shakes his head. “No, I don't know. I've never been in a position where my next meal was coming to me by way of selling rust to the less fortunate. As for a place to spar, there are any number of abandoned buildings within only a few blocks. We merely have to find one that is structurally sound and yet unoccupied. Most places in Gotham that might be difficult, but not in Crime Alley. I found two on the way here.”

Tom looks down. If the kid is serious, this would be between two and four thousand dollars a month extra. It might not make or break them, but it would be nice to have, for sure. But there's a problem.

“I don't think I can spar.” At Robin's look, he elaborates. “What I mean is, I don't have enough control yet to be sure I wouldn't hurt you. Pretty badly. The last time I got in any kind of fight...”

“You removed the appendage that was misbehaving and then saved the one whose life it was threatening. More to the point though, you saved the woman's life by being able to control your strength. Honestly, I most likely wouldn't have made the offer if it weren't for that. While I doubt you would hit me in a true fight as I expect you to be quite slow in comparison to me, spars are about learning and so mistakes will be made. But I believe that you have the control to not hurt me egregiously.”

Tom mutters under his breath. “Well, that makes one of us.”

Robin seems to have heard it. “It is a risk I am willing to take.”

Tom looks over at the roll of cash, and then back at this tiny little person with so much pride that the kid almost takes up more room in the tent than he does, somehow. He doesn't want to make the decision based on the money, since so many people are pulling for him, and technically, at least right now? He doesn't need it.

But it'd be nice to have, and it's honest work, right?

Right?

“Okay, if you're sure. But let me change into my overalls first. I don't have a lot of clothes, so if some is going to get damaged I'd rather it was the bit that I don't care too much how many times I have to patch it.”

>>

Damian can't decide if he is impressed or annoyed when ten-thirty rolls around and they are sitting down for a moment on a concrete floor. Leaning against a wall. He catching his breath and Tom trying to figure out how to tie off the strap on his bib overalls. The material is extremely tough, but it wasn't rated to be used as a handle by a hundred and ten pound tween that was trying to clock him upside the head with a boot.

“I... Was... Right...” He stops for a moment and takes a deep breath. “You are slower than I am by a fair amount. But in all honesty, you both moved faster and were more dangerous than I would have thought, even if I suspect that much of that 'skill' is a combination of instinct and...” He glances at Tom for a moment and then shrugs. “The fact that you are so large that getting clear of everything you throw out is difficult.”

Tom looks over, looking a bit annoyed himself. Not so much about the overalls, he'd worn them for just this reason. More because:

“We sparred for almost three hours and I never touched you once. How can you call that dangerous?”

Robin rolls his eyes. “And I hit you hundreds, perhaps thousands of times, and as hard as I would hit any thug on the street.” He gives Tom an exasperated look. “Did you even notice!?”

Tom thinks about that for a split second and then smirks. “Yeah, I guess. Kinda.”

Robin is heaving himself to his feet and no doubt getting ready for another barb of some kind when the two of them hear a scream from somewhere North of their position, most likely within a block given that it is reaching them clearly through an old brick wall. The crime fighter immediately begins running in that direction while fiddling with something on his wrist.

“Oracle, I have what sounds like an assault of some kind just north of my current position.”

He yells back as he picks up speed. “Are you coming?”

Tom just looks at this lunatic that seems to be made of mostly piss and iron, and starts following him. “Do you need help or something?”

The voice comes back again as Robin leaps through a ground-floor window that the glass has been missing on for decades, most likely.

“Come or not, but do not insult me again!”

>>

Robin makes his way to the sound of screaming by way of a grapple to a roof, which is obviously not an option for Tom. He decides to make his way through the building rather than around it, just for speed's sake. Besides, just after his parents died he explored some of this when he could get away and so he knows that there is a loading dock on the other side of this warehouse that the locks had been worthless on for probably decades, and this side has a big hole in the building where a drunk put his Pinto through the corrugated steel. He can hear the fighting, and it is too many people to just be a mugger. There has to be at least two or three people involved.

Well, two or three aside from Robin, anyway. How that kid can move that fast and make so little noise he honestly isn't sure. Witchcraft, maybe.

Through the dirty, ground-floor windows he can barely make out the flash that accompanies a gunshot and then the choking cry of somebody.

Somebody where Robin is. He's not sure who got shot, but he knows that Robin doesn't carry a gun.

That narrows it down some.

So he pulls a Kool-Aid man right through the closed loading bay doors and into the alley with a bellow. More than a bellow, a warcry that echoes through the surrounding area with power and intent in spades. Making a glorious counterpoint to the screeching of tortured metal grinding against the aged asphalt.

The lightbulb above that doorway that was somehow still working and drawing power after all these years finally gives it up, plunging his half of the alley into darkness.

Looking down it, he can see three thugs with familiar masks on, two armed with bats, and one with nails through it. The third is holding a pistol. They are all three now staring at him dumbfounded. Behind them, peering from behind an old dumpster, he can see Robin, who, after hearing Tom flashes a quick grin and then slides back behind the dumpster where Tom can hear someone mewling in pain. He starts walking forward.

“Unless you are looking to be called 'lefty” for the rest of your life, you should point those somewhere else.”

The crook with the gun glances behind him and then looks back to Tom. There is a short pause. Then he speaks.

“I thought I'd heard you weren't a hero?”

Tom smirks as he strolls up to about ten feet from them. Looks down at them. And then leans forward just a bit.

“I'm not on a patrol, moron. I live a block from here and you are beating people up where it is keeping me awake.” He leans forward just a bit more.

“Go home, little person. Before I see what you did to some poor schmuck before I got here.”

Even behind the mask, the thug looks uncertain. “We can just go?”

Tom shrugs, snorting. “Not a cop, either.” He points behind himself to the far end of the alley from where Robin is no doubt trying to keep some poor person alive.

“He owes us money. Black Mask won't like you getting into his business.”

Tom is starting to get annoyed. He is trying to be nice, and somehow he knows exactly how Fred would handle this. The bastard had better start appreciating just how nice he's being pretty damn quick.

“That is not my problem. Sleep is my problem. I am guessing since Robin is already here that very soon if you don't get lost, a Bat infestation is going to be your problem as well. Make your choice, but you're done here tonight. I can't let you murder people on my front porch.” He leans forward just a touch more as a thought occurs to him.

“I need you to keep your organization out of the immediate vicinity of my place. What you do elsewhere I don't care.” He pauses for a moment and then hopes this moron can catch and yet not see through the most blatant attempt at truth used as misdirection ever as he whispers the next bit.

“I am not interested in dealing with the cops again, thanks.”

The eyes behind the thug's mask widen, and then he almost seems to relax a bit. Heroes are unpredictable, dangerous, and most likely to result in a prison sentence when encountered. But this? He can understand this. This puts him on waters he knows, that he can at least attempt to navigate.

“The boss won't like you moving into his territory.”

Tom rolls his eyes and points behind himself again. “The family has owned that salvage yard for forty years. Blow me.”

Then he shoves past them, knocking two of them to the ground as they are too dumb to get out of the way. But when Mister Pistol leaves, they all do.

Sticking his head around the dumpster, he can see a Robin trying to patch up a guy who has that look as though things had recently gone wrong. Hair that was probably professionally cut a month ago, and nice clothes that have seen better days. Also, of course:

He's leaking heavily from his side where it seems he was hit through the love handles. Not immediately lethal, but he'd bleed out before too long without the pressure wrap that Robin was putting on him. The boy wonder barely offers a glance at him in his work, though he is smirking when he does so.

“I don't agree with letting them go, but your wordplay was decent. I don't think it will get them to leave you alone, but I wouldn't be shocked if some attempt was made at making amends now that they believe you have something to hide. Criminals tend to prefer their own kind to deal with. Less risky for them.”

He gives another pull on the bandage to a groaning whimper from the victim, then he stands and leads Tom off a bit for some privacy as he lowers his voice.

“I won't be able to hide your involvement, not with the witness. Assuming he is with it enough to remember anything when the sedatives and painkillers I've given him have worn off. Regardless, if you are asked about this situation, I would appreciate it if you didn't involve our sparring in the discussion.” He looks... Not ashamed, precisely. Uneasy, maybe? Hard to tell behind the mask, Tom decides as Robin continues. “While I wasn't told I couldn't ask for your assistance in training, nor was I forthcoming to the rest that I was going to do so, hoping that if they could see that it was working before...”

Tom breaks in here. “Forgiveness versus permission, I get it.”

“I do not require permission!”

This is punctuated by the sound of a motorcycle that must be just screaming along the roads and heading this way making a corner that causes the rumbling roar of it to become almost deafening in comparison to moments earlier.

Robin's head turns just slightly towards the sound, and then motions to Tom. “Go, I'll be fine. Assistance is seconds away.”

Tom nods, offers a fist bump that is stared at for a good three seconds before it is responded to in a manner that has more in common with playing patty-cakes than anything else, and then turns to leave.

“Tom!”

“Yeah?” That motorcycle is getting loud, so he doesn't turn around or stop.

“Monday at eight?”

Robin can't see the grin, but he can see the giant thumbs-up as Tom disappears around the corner. He sighs, then whispers.

“Remember, Oracle, we have a deal. I always leave my voice, tracker, and vitals on, you don't tell Father. Or S, that would be the last thing I need.”

“Speaking of that, why are you so bent on this? If you want this kind of training, S would help you out anytime."

“Because he is a Kryptonian, of course. What point would there be to bothering? That's ignoring the sheer humiliation factor, which I will not.”

A sigh that speaks of fondness cut through with worry and exasperation comes across the line. “I know that isn't why, you know.”

“You are insufferable sometimes, did you know that?”

“It's come up before, as it happens. Talk.”

There is silence for a few seconds. Then a disgruntled sound. Then:
“Because he has no one. I know what that is like, and I don't want the first friend he has, the one that will determine what he does with this, to be someone unsavory.”

He can almost feel the smugness. It's suffocating.

“You can just admit you think he's a nice guy and might need a friend. It's okay.”

“Don't tell anyone. We had a deal!”

“We'll talk later, Robin. Hood is five seconds away.”