Tonnage

Sorrow, Pain, Hope, and Promise.

>>

He worked for the morning, learned a bunch about basic first aid for the afternoon, and is now making his way to Engine 14 and whatever it is that they do to make things right in their heads. Tom is still having trouble with things if he's honest. Not breaking the bones of homicidal lunatics. That he's cool with, Batman is welcome to his opinion but his way of doing things got Tom's parents killed.

The bastards can learn to wipe with their offhand as far as he's concerned. All of them he can get away with doing it too.

No, it's the dead he found. Plus the knowledge that if he sticks to his guns and goes with search and rescue rather than being some 'Wish-dot-com' version of a ground-bound Kryptonian, he's likely to see more bodies. More than the heroes do, on average. Often in worse condition. Generally in places where the local heroes or police were simply unable to perform the rescue, due to a lack of training or the appropriate equipment. Or as in most cases, both.

He shakes his head as the building comes into view. His crew, the shift he started with, are on their day off. But they are all dressed in their uniforms. They are carrying all their gear. Tom notes that Captain Harkin isn't with them. This particular group is just the men and women who went to the Asylum with him in the truck. That were at the fire.

Gelcoat looks over when a passing car honks at him. He gets that a lot these days. He supposes it's better than the police getting called because people are scared of him, but maybe not by as much as he'd like. Being left alone is the one thing they could do for him. But they never will, that is becoming abundantly clear. She looks up at the towering teen and speaks when he's close enough to hear without her having to raise her voice.

“Hey, Tom. Glad you could make it. There's kind of a tradition where the first time for a new probie is a surprise unless they know to ask somebody chatty the right questions. But usually, the people we get are over eighteen and have already taken a year or two of classes. So...” She looks around to the other four that work the engine for that shift. “We decided that we wanted to give you an out. What we are about to do, Tom... It helps us. But we are seasoned, and it isn't for everybody. So once you see what is going on, if it makes things worse in any way? You can simply leave. That is the one iron-clad rule when we do this. There is no shame in anything said or done tonight, as long as it is sincere. And while we don't bother to hide from the public, nothing that happens tonight will ever be brought up by any of us again. Not to each other. Not the next time we do it. This is just to let it out. Before the maniacs in this town go on a rampage and we have to do it again. Do you understand?”

Tom looks over her head and sees the somber look on all of their faces. Whatever is about to happen, it isn't going to be fun.

“I can try. I won't promise to stay, but I can come along and try it out.”

She pats his arm with obvious motherly kinds of affection. “We know, Tom. Follow along, we have a spot for this. Fortunately, I don't think anybody is going to deny you entry due to your age, but just so we're clear, you get soda. Don't ask for anything else, don't put the poor bastard behind the counter in that position.”

Tom nods. “A bar then?”

She shrugs. “A place we can go where the owner was one of us and understands. Can you drink in your suit?”

He nods. “Yeah, but I have to fill the tank with something. I have a straw. Right now it's full of bottled water I put in and sealed yesterday. It's even chilled. I'm good with the water though, if you think I should be in my suit. I ate before I came anyway.”

She nods, but her face isn't thrilled. “We need to get you a... a dress uniform for stuff like this. But yeah, for now, if you could change into it? You can sit on the brick facing of the fireplace. It'll hold you fine and they won't have a fire going this time of year anyway.”

Tom starts moving towards the firehouse. “This isn't going to be dangerous, is it?”

She shakes her head, raising a hand to wave it in a negative fashion as well. “No, but we've found that being in the uniform helps. It's a commonality thing. Solidarity. In the uniform, we're all the same. Been through the same kinds of things. Seen all the same things. It sounds crazy, I know. But Tom? It's a fair bet that this first time, you won't want anybody to see your face anyway.”

Tom stops at the doors for a second. Then he moves on to get ready.

>>

Lace is the first through the doors of McCallen's. A pub that has somehow managed to hang on in Crime Alley through the worst of things. About a block from the firehouse. It's an old-school kind of place on the inside. The outside is a brick nightmare of patchwork and dings from the insanity of the last hundred years. But the inside is all warm old woods, darkened with age and use. Sturdy tables, and a few booths. Dim overhead lighting and a couple of pool tables against the far wall. The fire crew makes their way to the back, where there is a larger table next to the fire pit that still has the chairs on it with a note that simply says, 'Reserved.'

The chairs are swung down and placed upright, and while the five take their seats, Tom finds himself stooping to make sure the single ceiling fan doesn't break on him as he sits down on the ring around the fireplace. An older man, probably close to his uncle's age, comes over. He's bald, and he walks with a limp. His right leg. The same side that shows his face looks like it had been partially melted, like wax.

“That time again, is it?” He looks at Tom. “New blood?”

Burns shakes his head. “No, not really. Not yet. But he was the first in Gotham Point.”

The man winces and turns to Tom. “I see. I've heard you're young despite your size, friend. But you're welcome to stay. I sell food, it's allowed. But I can't offer you any alcohol, no matter how much you've earned it.”

Tom nods, then realizes that in the dim light there is no way that will be seen. “That's fine, Sir. I'm not really a fan anyway. Tastes terrible.”

The man laughs and pats Tom on the arm. “That it does, my boy. That it does.” Then he makes his way around the table taking orders. Finally, before he leaves, he turns back to address the table as a whole. “Standard? Or do you want me to close up, make it a private party? I'll have a full house in about an hour otherwise.” He twitches his chin towards Tom.

They all share a look, and Lace speaks. Her hat has been removed, and her dark scalp shines like an eight-ball in the light of the one lamp on the wall to the side of the table. “No shame. If they want to stay and hear it, that's fine.”

The old man nods and comes back a minute later with five beers of various stripes and a glass of dark liquid that Tom is assuming is a soda. He places it on the table in front of the meta uncertainly but doesn't tarry. Pipes shakes his head.

“Okay, Burns. Let's get this started. It's going to be a long night if we don't.”

The man nods, shaking his head in what Tom can only call an emotional display of sorrow that is being hidden as best as the man is able. He pulls out a folder from inside his coat and lays it on the table. Opens it. Removes a printed piece of paper, and places it on the table. The picture is of a young woman. It looks like a driver's license photo.

“This was Kim Delaney. She was twenty-four years old. She was doing well in her third attempt at college. The first two having been blown by deaths in the family. She is survived by her four-year-old daughter Dannie who was being cared for by a friend on the sixth floor while she was studying. She had no other family we could find. She lived on the first floor of the building that Firefly burned. She was found deceased. Asphyxiation is listed as the cause of death. She will be remembered, as will her killer. The arsonist and murderer known as Firefly.”

Tom's eyes are going wider and wider as this goes on, but little could have prepared him for what happened next. The man raises his ax and slams the handle on the table with both hands while holding the head above him. “We are witnesses to this woman, and we each wield an ax.”

The rest of them use this time to slam their ax handles on the table. “The axes we wield are more than a tool. The axes we wield save lives. They can do it in many ways. My ax thirsts for the murderer of this woman.”

He then slowly passes the thick folder to Putter and pulls out a good-sized tin. Lights a birthday candle from it, and sets it into a small indent in the lid of the upturned tin. Then pushes the lid into the middle of the table. Putter speaks next.

“This was Alex Hanes. He was thirty-four years old...”

>>

It goes around the table. Sometimes the people reading the one they get can't help the tears that fall. Sometimes they can barely get the words out.

Sometimes it is blatantly obvious that the person who got that page was the one to find the crumpled, burned, lifeless body. Hidden in the smoke and the steam. The water and soot. They manage to recognize the person, and sometimes. Just a few times. They look at the picture and don't even try. They put it on the bottom and grab the next one instead. As the candles burn down, they are removed to make room for more. They go through so many over the course of the evening.

They bypass Tom, for which he is grateful. He's not sure he's ready for this. But little by little, he is feeling better. He didn't kill these people. Firefly did. With every repetition, it gets more clear to him. He is not at fault. They are not at fault. They did their job. They did it for people who couldn't save themselves from a maniac who likes to murder people with fire. Some, they couldn't save. But they didn't kill them. Firefly did.

Tom knows without even asking that any one of these people would do the time for a second with their ax and Firefly's neck. They won't hunt him. They save people. But Firefly had best hope he's never still there when they arrive. Because saving people can take many forms. Tom isn't sure he's ready for the neck.

But the guy only needs one limb.

There are starts and stops. Tears. Complaints from other patrons.

That stops when Tom has had enough and slowly stands, so the entire place can see him more clearly. He doesn't say anything. He just reaches into his now mostly empty bag and pulls out his own massive ax.

In the end, they are finally done at half past eleven. Somewhere in there they'd ordered food and there was a short break or two. For the most part, they make good time, it's just there are so many. They hadn't had an opportunity to do this for a while, with so many buildings going up lately. So there are five buildings to do. Five that had killed. Though none of the others come anywhere near the Gotham Point, between the other four they manage to double the number to just under a hundred people that have been lost in the last six months that Engine 14 was dispatched to.

By the time they are done and walking back to the station, Tom has run out of tears. But there is a weight lifted.

It counterbalances the thirst of his ax.

>>

Author's note:
I am not a licensed anything. But frankly, I don't see a standard therapist's practices really doing all that much here anyway. The Gotham emergency services are more or less living the equivalent of a war that doesn't end, and when people are pushed to that point, they find a way.

Or I would imagine they don't last long.

If anybody out there reading this ever did this job, even in a non-Gotham capacity?

Thank you.