Tonnage

The Gala

>>

“You need me to what?! Why am I only hearing about it now?”

Tom is sitting in his seat at the clinic. A special one for him that Leslie had made, Tom is pretty sure it started life as one of those tool chests that you see in high-end auto-shops. Leslie offers a sympathetic look, but it mutates into a smirk before long.

“It's your own fault, you know. I've managed to keep you out of the spotlight so far, but I got a call on Tuesday from some of the Wayne Foundation bigwigs wanting to know why this kid they are hearing so much about isn't on the guest list.”

Tom is rubbing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. “But the Wayne Gala? Like, at their house? I mean, I do need some more clothes, but I still have the suit. So I have the duds for it I guess, but why in the world would you or Mr. Wayne want me there? Probably break something on accident by leaning on it. Like a piano, or the dog or whatever.”

“Not at Wayne's place, this year. They booked out the Gotham Grand for the event, though you and I won't be staying for the evening. We just have to show up for the talking portions of the event, then we can escape. I promise it won't be that bad. And Tom, if you need things that are related to your condition you should let me know. The Foundation is there to help with things like that.”

Tom grimaces. “Yeah, I might not have to worry about that too much longer.”

Doctor Thompkins gives him an odd look. “Why ever would you say that?”

Tom sighs. “So, theoretically if I found a way to make a few thousand dollars a week doing something under the table, could that hurt my benefits?”

Leslie's eyes flash. “That would depend on the legality of the activity, I'm sure. Did... Tom, did any of those lunatics get to you? To your uncle?”

“What? No! No, Doc. Nothing like that. I've been... Sparring with the younger Bats for five hundred bucks a head for the last week or two, and I'm thinking about looking into buying one of those old warehouses and making a studio for me and a gym for me and anybody else interested. On an invite basis.”

He looks down at the floor. “The world isn't really built for me, so if I want friends, I better have a place they can come to. Can't trust that they'll be able to put me up for a weekend, you know?”

Leslie is saddened by where the conversation is going, and she reaches out to place a hand on his. “Oh, Tom. Things will get better, I promise. And no, your admittance to the program is not predicated on your financial situation. That part of the foundation is simply dedicated to giving metas who are either willing to or are forced to go public the best possible chance.”

“You say it'll get better at the same time you're telling me that I'm going to have to haul my enormous ass onto a stage in front of the high society of Gotham, and the only one there I'll even know is you.”

Leslie regains some of the twinkle in her eyes. “You won't be as alone there as you think, Tom. And we won't have to stay long anyway.”

Tom waves goodbye as he makes his way to the door, puzzling over her statement as he goes.

He never took the suit out of the plastic it was delivered in, so checking that before heading out to the warehouse for an evening of getting beaten down is needed. About an hour of prep first, though. He's decided that barbecuing up some burgers is the way to go this evening.

>>

It wouldn't be fair to say that he's disappointed. That wouldn't be right. But he was a little surprised when only Spoiler showed up. She speaks as he stands up from his normal position, reading by the steps.

“Just me tonight. Some things came up and with Penguin still at large, it was decided that it would just be me and, if you are willing, a friend.”

Tom looks unconcerned as he holds down the button to turn off his phone. “Sure, That's fine. Who are they?”

A voice from the doorway, young in presentation, but deeper than average in tone. “Me. I was Robin. A long time ago. These days I mostly stay out of the way of the Bats but we're on good terms and they thought I might be able to teach you something.”

A man steps around the corner. He's wearing armor. Obvious armor that is padded. Intended for him to get thrown around in it. He's wearing a domino mask under a skullcap which handily hides his hair. Short of athletes, people for whom being in shape and combat-ready is a way of life? Tom legitimately can't remember seeing anybody that was quite this ready to throw down.

“I can't afford to pay you to learn, Sir. And I really do need the money.”

The new guy startles, then looks up at Tom and laughs. “It's fine, Tom. I can pay the buy-in. But I've butt heads with some pretty heavy traffic in the past and might have something to pass along.”

Spoiler breaks in here. “We do keep busy, Tom, and the criminals are not generally willing to conform to our schedules. But generally speaking, the training we've been doing with you has been good fun, a great workout, and honestly good training. We don't run into people in your weight class often, but when we do?”

There is silence for a moment, and the new guy nods somberly. “Mess up once, and you're done. Broken back, say. It's been a problem in the past. Any experience we can get against an opponent like you is probably going to save lives and pay dividends down the road.” He looks back up at Tom. “Call me Jason, big guy. Let's get started.

>>

“By all rights, I should be the one there, I am the one that originally procured his assistance!”

Bruce sighs down to his temperamental son and shakes his head. “You are my son, so you'll have duties. Same reason the rest are here, there is no time to recover from a badly placed bruise between now and then. Now one more time everybody. At the Gala tomorrow:”

What follows is a two-hour description of what they hope to have happen tomorrow, followed by Bruce imparting to them one last piece of intel about the next day.

“Finally, we weren't going to do this to him, but when he stopped that armored car he let his existence out of the bag to the shareholders, and they'll want Tom there tomorrow. Try not to interact with him out of costume too much if you can. You are all welcome to a plus one or two if you'd like as a buffer between yourselves and him, but try not to out yourself to him.”

At their looks, he just shakes his head. “It's easier to do than you think when you start spending time around people both in costume and out.”

>>

Unlike everybody else coming to the event, he has to get dropped off by his uncle. Fortunately, none of the police or security attending were willing to ticket the man for getting Tom to the event in the back of a pickup.

He doesn't see anybody he knows immediately, and rather than even walk toward the doorway full of curious people he pulls out his phone and calls Leslie. She answers on the third ring.

“Tom, are you here? I'm over by the punch bowl near the stage.”

He doesn't say anything for a second. “There are a lot of people looking at me, Leslie. Standing in the doorway and looking at me.”

He can actually hear her eyes rolling. It's kind of amazing.

“Tom, I'm not any more thrilled to be here than you are. Get in here and choke on a dry finger sandwich with me.”

“Fine.”

He turns to his uncle. “Yeah, she's here. Are you really going to make me take it?”

His uncle jerks a thumb into the back seat where his massive canvas bag sits. “Take it. Hopefully, you don't need it.”

Tom sighs and leverages the thing out of the back of the truck. “You're gonna get me arrested hauling this around everywhere.”

His uncle doesn't even look at him. “They gave you less than a day's notice for this. Less than a day. I'm not paranoid, but you don't have to be in a situation like this to look at something a bit cross-eyed. Hopefully, you won't need it. Take it, and I'll be back to get you about eleven, about a half hour after you call, or at some point after it makes the news.”

“What makes the news?”

“Still waiting to find out. Have fun, Tom.”

Tom grins and shakes his head as his uncle pulls away. Throwing the bag up on his shoulder, he makes his way to the doors.

At least he doesn't have to duck for these.

>>

When he makes it to the table she is at, he can see that she isn't alone. The person he least wanted to deal with is right there with her. Of course, if he doesn't know that he has an alternate source of income, maybe he won't get cut off from the medical help.

“You must be Tom. I'm Bruce Wayne, call me Bruce. I hear you are thinking of investing in the city?”

Or, maybe he'll already know. Isn't that lovely?

“Um... Yes sir. I was thinking I might buy one of the old buildings there and set it up as a place to live and a gym for... Well, me, but also anybody else that wants to use it I guess.”

The billionaire nods thoughtfully. “I can see the appeal, particularly if you decide to stay with the family business. Keep everything close, where you can keep an eye on it. I'll poke around a little and see what I find. It's entirely possible that I, or Wayne Enterprises, own any number of them and they are just dragging us down with the yearly taxes right now. If I can get it off my plate and help you out at the same time, where's the harm?” The man looks curiously at Tom. “What's in the bag?”

Right then someone that looks like an aid comes headed his way like a missile. “Bruce, the Queens are here.” Bruce's face goes through a few permutations, and it settles on a sigh.

“Sorry, Tom. I'll have to go deal with this, and right after that, I'll be on the stage. But take care, and if you have any concerns feel free to pass them through Leslie here.”

>>

It's almost an hour later that he feels it. A little hand that curled around his finger again. Looking down, he can see the same little girl, this time crying. So he does the only thing he can think of and picks the young thing up, placing her on his lap where she immediately does her level best to hug him to death while she's sobbing. Leslie is talking with somebody he doesn't know in the loud, crowded room, but he needs to get somebody else on this before he gets in trouble, somehow. He doesn't know how, but this just feels like a bad position for a meta like him to be in.

And that's when the lights go out.

>>

It's just too much for one little person! Daddy and Ollie and some other guy were arguing in a back room and they kept getting louder and finally, when she couldn't take anymore she slipped away. Looked for somebody she knew. Somebody her daddy had told her was on the 'good list' and that she should go to if she was ever scared and alone.

Well, this maybe doesn't count as scared or alone, but it really feels like it. That should mean something in her book.

The tears she had been holding back since the third 'Not now, princess' are cresting the rise and beginning to fall down her face when she sees him. How could she not? He's huge and soft and speaks kindly. He'll watch her while she waits. So she grabs his finger, and she ends up in his lap. That is where the plan fails, though. That's when the lights go out and she can hear a mean man talking to people.

“Gothamites! People. Of. Gotham! Cream of the cesspool, your wallets, please. Purses, watches, cuff links, phones, if it's shiny or expensive we want it, and whether or not you die if we find you holding out, that's a matter of chance. Fifty-fifty shot. Try to trick me, it's the best chance you could hope for. Now, I'll leave you all in the capable hands of my crew. Ta-ta for now.”

The lights flood back on to the eye-searing levels used for cleaning, rather than the more modest level for casual dining.

Leslie is left blinking, wondering two things. First, how did she end up holding this little moppet, and second, how in the hell did Tom manage to make it through the employee entrance to the kitchen while the lights out here were off, and carrying that bag, without her noticing? The villain is a distraction, yes. And the dozen or so heavily armed thugs that are shaking everybody down starting on the far side of the room is a worse one. But even still.

>>

Tom's mind is a blur. Went for hooks and laces instead of snaps or buttons. Added twelve seconds, but is much more secure. All the tanks are full. The armored housing they sit in is a two-inch thick steel plate. The shoulder-mounted lights and cameras are working. The speakers they built into it go with the microphones on the go-pros and give him more than a muffled voice. And that much more than a muffled voice steps back out into the room. Eight feet with a metal head, metal fists, an enormous metal ax, a giant metal pack, and rubbery black cloth for days.

“I am not a hero!” Is blasted out into the room. “That means, just like last time, if you people hurt anybody here I am removing limbs. I do not have the skill to stop you. But I can make regret the defining characteristic of the rest of your natural life if you push me. Now leave.”

Four of them shoot at him, and it all devolves from there.