Tonnage

The Morning After.

>>

Tim Drake wakes up early the next morning. He's still tired, but even after they've been put in a real cast broken bones still hurt like heck for a while.

Then they itch. It's kind of a bad scene all around, really.

But he collects his crutches and begins the trek toward the service elevator, not interested in taking the stairs on a freshly broken leg if there are other options.

He makes it to the kitchen only to find that Alfred has beaten him there, where he is dutifully putting together pastries and has three cans of frozen orange juice out on the counter.

Normally Tim does a lot better, but crutches aren't exactly stealthy and the older gentleman most likely heard the elevator anyway.

“Good morning, Alfred. Early start today?”

Alfred glances over his shoulder, a gentle smile creasing his lips. “Late, in truth. Master Wayne left a message for me that we were having visitors for brunch and I decided to make an event of it. Or at least as much of one as I am able within the time constraints. If you wish to eat before ten, you'll be forced to subsist on something quick. Would you like me to get you something?”

Shaking his head while grinning, Tim sets up his tablet and starts doing some research on the server here. Both to find out what he missed last night and hopefully to discover where Bruce had to run off in such a hurry.

“Maybe something to nibble on. I can wait for the meal, but something to sate the demon and a glass of milk would be nice. I probably need the calcium.” The last is added on a bit wryly.

It seems the tracker the girls used failed at some point, but that wasn't exactly unexpected. While they are 'waterproof' there is a significant difference between dropping something in a tub and taking it down a few hundred feet so you can run an auction in peace. That of course is ignoring the fact that those trackers only have a five-mile range at best anyway.

But that isn't even the real problem. Double-checking their video and searching a few places, he is suddenly very concerned. Because that submarine wasn't some toy put together to check out wrecks with bored billionaires, it's a Soviet-era attack sub. The only saving grace is that it isn't a ballistic missile carrier. This is a boat entirely dedicated to pissing off the United States, probably built in the eighties. He'd need better and more video to lock it down, but a bit of thought later and he gets Babs on the coms.

R. Robin: Hey, Oracle? I know it isn't exactly normal, but can you check and see if the US Navy has tracked any Russian submarines to Gotham? Or leaving? That's how Penguin and his 'customers' left and unless he's done something to change what the thing sounds like significantly, I'd think they might have heard something.

A few minutes pass. Tim cringes a little when he remembers the time.

Oracle: It's seven AM. I'm usually not even awake for another hour. Why aren't you resting? I don't know if you noticed, but you broke your leg and nearly drowned in an explosion yesterday.

R. Robin: Ha. Ha. Sorry. Just hurts. Mostly my leg, but the explosion wasn't exactly kind even without that. I'll take some painkillers after the meeting that you know B is going to call today.

Oracle: Yes, he got back in late last night and sent a message. I guess it's a brunch. I'll check it and let you know what I find once I log into the meeting. Can't make it in today, I'll have to be remote.

R. Robin: Something going on?

Oracle: Nothing serious. I need to be at work for a co-worker's birthday party. I'll take an extended break in my office, the soundproofing there is good enough for this.

“Tim. I heard you'd been hurt while I was away, how are you feeling?”

Tim looks up from his tablet to see a concerned-looking Bruce Wayne walking into the room.

R. Robin: B just walked in. Talk to you later, I'm about to get grilled.

Oracle: Grilled? Sounds delicious. Get better soon.

He turns to B. “Better than last night, that's for sure. Sore though.”

Bruce nods. “Yes, even if they don't catch you directly explosives can take it out of a person for a while after one throws you around. I watched the footage when I got back last night.” He sighs. “I wish I had something to teach you in this one, but based on the footage you didn't take any risks I wouldn't have. It was a trap more designed to be difficult to spot and avoid than it was to be deadly. He used the bare minimum of explosives to achieve what he wanted, chose a location where the terrain would do most of the work for him, and had an almost perfect getaway already in place.”

Then Bruce's eyes close in irritation. “Technically, he had the paperwork filed for the demolition and you were, according to the law, trespassing. We'll get him. But we can't get him for this, his prep work on it puts him out of reach of the legal system.”

They drop into a conversation about the more important bits of last night's fiasco and are still chatting about things an hour later when Damian makes his appearance.

“Good morning Tim, Alfred. Father, how was your trip?”

Bruce looks up from his tablet, on which he is reading the news reports from last night.

“Things went as well as they ever do. Anytime boom tubes are involved, my primary goal is shutting it down and getting back to Gotham. I do not like those things. But we'll have some company later. A few members of the League wanted to chat with the heroes that have spent the most time with Tom.”

Damian looks scandalized. “Why? He saved us last night, things had gone very badly to the point he arrived.”

Tim shrugs. “He's not wrong. Without Tom showing up, I have to believe that they'd have gotten me out. A good winch could probably do what Tom did to get me loose. But I give it a fifty-fifty shot the girls would have died.”

Bruce nods, his mouth a grim line. “I agree." Then his face relaxes into a smile. You'd need a PHD in whatever Joker is to spot it, but it's a smile.
"They are not here for any kind of nefarious reason.” He sets his tablet down. “On missions, we can get chatty sometimes. When we're in transit or waiting for something to happen, somebody to arrive so we can get going. That kind of thing. Tom came up. Nobody plans to try to force him into anything, but given that he is trying to be a decent human being combined with what we know of his abilities, there have been some questions as to what he might be willing to do. Dumping somebody like him into any number of disaster areas would do much to take the danger in the area down. In particular, I mentioned just how resistant to heat he was and that he brings his own air supply, and J'onzz wanted to know if he would be available for transport to areas that were experiencing forest or large building fires. Then hurricanes were brought up.” He rolls his eyes. “Flash wanted to know if he could survive a category five tornado by sticking himself to the ground and waiting it out.”

Damian raises an eyebrow. “Based on what I've seen, I believe he could probably survive such a tornado while naked and playing on a trampoline. He would likely be thrown around, but I've no doubt he would survive. The video of that armored car crash would be proof enough I would think.”

Bruce nods. “I'm inclined to agree, assuming his breathing wasn't obstructed by the high winds. But anyway, J'onzz, Clark, and Diana were interested enough to make the time for brunch, and Spoiler has been sent a message to be here by nine.”

Alfred sweeps by and collects the various plates in one hand while refilling a few coffee cups with the other as they collectively chat about what possibilities there are for Tom.

>>

The Clinic. 9:27 AM.

Unaware that he is the subject of more than one conversation, Tom makes his way into Thompkins' clinic for his Friday check-up looking irritated. This had been a frustrating morning already. He'd found out that it wasn't just the housing and light, the damn camera wasn't just a little damaged, the whole thing had died a horrible death as well. This means that he has to replace a few hundred dollars worth of gear with money that he technically has, but wasn't planning to spend on replacements.

Maybe the Bats will have an idea. Assuming he sees them tonight. Maybe he'll send a text to Orphan and double-check. He'd like to make sure everybody is all right anyway. By the time he was out of the water, they were all gone. He assumes chasing the criminals that had just bombed them.

“Tom? Are you okay?”

He looks up from where he's been standing just inside the doorway for most of a minute, and blushes.

“Yes, Dr. Thompkins. I'm fine. Just annoyed.” He manages a half-smirk. “I keep managing to be tougher than whatever I am wearing, and it's starting to get expensive.”

Leslie motions him to sit. “Do you need more money for clothes, Tom? I'll admit that there have been a few eyebrows raised at the cost, but none at the type or number of items.”

As he is sitting down, Tom shakes his head. “No, it's not real clothes. Did you hear about a building exploding last night?”

She nods, her suspicions concerning where the clothing had been destroyed are likely to be confirmed, it seems. “Yes. Were you involved in that?”

He nods. “Only after. I had to do some diving to get people loose.” He stops for a moment, and he looks very trepidatious. “Doc? Can I ask you a favor?”

“What did you need?”

He leans forward. “So, you've worked in Crime Alley for a long time and the villains here have been doing all sorts of horrible things with chemicals since Gotham was founded, near as I can tell. Well, my uncle has run that scrapyard for a long time too, and his regular doctor told him that he has had enough of these chemicals in his body at this point that he's a prime candidate for organ failure if he gets hit again even by a small dose. So I was wondering if you knew any way to like, clean that stuff out of him and let him heal some? He's talking about having to leave for a while, and that's cool. But I'd like him to be able to come back, you know?”

Leslie sighs. “I assume you are talking about the Joker and Scarecrow's contributions to our lovely city?”

Tom nods. “Yeah, I guess he had a close call with a damaged freeze gun that made its way to the scrapyard too. Nothing got damaged on that one though except a couple of lunches that happened to be left on the same table.”

She stands and starts leading him to the examination room. “The good news is that the human body is pretty decent at getting rid of these chemicals if it has enough time. The bad news is that it can never quite get rid of all of it and so the damage it causes heals very slowly. If your uncle has been dosed too many times, I can see that being an issue. But I'll tell you what. We take most insurance companies, have him call me and make an appointment. I'll take some samples and run the tests. Until those are done, I can't offer more. But we can try, Tom.”

Looking more relieved than Leslie really likes, he smiles, nods, and takes off his shirt.

Leslie wishes with all her heart that she is likely to have better news for him once the tests are done. The scarecrow formula is horrific, both to experience and what it can do to the body. But he doesn't fiddle with his formula too much. It isn't generally meant to kill, though it certainly can with high enough doses. Mostly it is only to terrorize. So the fact somebody can get an antidote for it later doesn't matter much to him. But the Joker changes his formula regularly. Some of the earliest formulae used a few extremely caustic chemicals to get the reaction he wanted. If Louis had been hit with multiple iterations of Smylex that never got treated properly by somebody who knew what these gasses were all about? She can easily see him being in horrific condition at this point, regardless of his age. Adding that factor in makes him a miracle.

She keeps her bedside manner though, and an hour later she sends him on his way.

>>

Somewhere In Gotham. 10 AM.

“I'm sorry, I can't have heard you right. You're saying someone blew off his ass? Croc's ass?”

Black Mask is standing in the doorway of the room Croc uses when he's on-site, his expression impossible to see due to his horrifically intense facial scarring. However, the tone of incredulity makes his opinion easy to determine. The doctor that has been seeing to the injured thug is shaking his head in wonder as they both stare at the massive scaled man and the gel that has been slathered all over his hindquarters. The man himself is beyond sleep, the doctor has knocked him out and intends to keep him that way for a few days if he can.

“Croc presented with extreme damage to his epidermis on his buttocks and the back of his right thigh. The thigh portion contained a fairly large puncture wound. Like he'd been stabbed with a large pen or something. But with the second-degree burns over all of it and the skin for an inch or two all around it that has been knocked loose, I think I can tell you what happened. My guess is that Croc was stabbed with a torch of some kind, then 'inflated' before he was popped from the inside with fire.”

He motions to his patient. “He'll definitely carry a scar for life, and I wouldn't be shocked if it takes some physical therapy equivalent to get full mobility back. This will be an enormous amount of scar tissue on a portion of the anatomy that needs to be able to stretch fairly far. But he'll mostly recover, in time.”

Black Mask shuts the door. “How long?”

The doctor shrugs. “Any normal person, I'd say he'd be in and out of surgery for a few months and then a few more to recover enough to take care of themselves. Recovered enough to hold a job? Maybe a year. Of course, the tissues on a normal person would have most likely taken a lot more damage, too. Croc heals fairly fast, so I'm guessing a month, two at the outside. I may be able to bring that down a bit more with the treatments I've started, but his healing ability is pretty strong. I doubt I'd lower the time frame more than twenty, maybe twenty-five percent.”

Black Mask nods, then leaves his employee in the hall. He goes to his office. Then he laughs for about ten minutes and makes a phone call.

“What do you need? Problem with your purchases? All auctions are final!”

“My new toys are fine, Cobblepot. Normally I would not do this, but you are tangentially involved and might have information for me. Croc was supposed to be watching the building where I had believed the auction would be taking place. I had a button that would send a signal that I was fine or needed assistance. I sent the all-clear twice, once as I got into your submarine and once when the explosion took place. My man just showed up missing half of his ass. Did you have any surveillance on the venue? He's out cold and I would like to know what happened.”

At first, there is just startled laughter that lasts nearly a minute.

Once the chuckles have ceased Penguin takes a deep breath. “No. I didn't want me own toys destroyed, or any evidence it was a setup. Noticed they aren't pulling bodies out of the drink, which ruined me whole day. But aside from that I couldn't tell you. Talk to one of your paid-for policemen, anything that could tear into Croc that bad probably got reported on. And let me know what happened. Color me curious, if I got something horrid living next to me new acquisition, let your luggage know when he recovers I'll pay him to get rid of it. I want me lounge back, and I'm not willing to half-arse it. Get back to the old times, when we could get together and cheat at cards without the damn Bat showing up with a horde of brats brainwashed into pissing me off!”

Black Mask shakes his head, lightly chuckling.
“I'll do that, though if what happened is what I suspect I'm not sure he'll go for it. The third time might charm somebody, but I'm not willing to entertain it working in this instance. His call though. He's an employee, not a slave. Say, Cobblepot. I did have one more thing to bring up.”

“Oh? And what might that be?”

Black Mask's voice gets far more serious. “This submarine of yours, are you able to get in and out of international waters?”

There is Penguin's disjointed laughter for a moment, then his response. “Wasn't sure who would be the first to realize the significance of that little bauble of mine, but indeed me boat is capable. Not fast, but it can get most anywhere and back without trouble. Amazing what a different engine and prop will do to all those poor Navy boys trying to run her down. It doesn't need to be silent, just needs to sound like something else. I take it you are interested in availing yourself of me services then?”

“Cobblepot, let's see if I can turn that frown upside down. I can't give you dead bats, but we can make a hell of a lot of filthy, filthy money.”

“I'm listening. Amaze me.”