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JOE BROWN | SAN FRANCISCO | JUNE 9 | 21:01 PDT
Superman and retro Green Lantern are on the news. Joe catches a glimpse of their faces on the overhead TV, the scrolling headline reading, “Capitol City saved by JL-JS team up.” Another no-name punk getting his ass handed to him, another happy ending. Makes for pretty ordinary news, but after that horrible Philadelphia explosion a few nights ago, it never hurts to hear a classic campy villain story.
Tuning out of the broadcast, he turns his attention back to the runaway next to him. Kid’s nearly done inhaling his basket of tenders and fries by now. Poor thing must’ve been starving; probably hasn’t had anything food since hitting the streets. Plus, something tells Joe that the kid’s not local. Maybe fresh off the boat, or first gen immigrant, based on his choppy English. Coherent enough, but it’s clear he hasn’t been immersed with the language all that much. Made convincing him to stop by Tang’s a bit of a tall order. And it didn’t help that the kid seems extremely distrusting to begin with… not that Joe blames him, of course. That nasty burn scar on his face had to come from somewhere.
Waiting for his guest to finish off the last fry, Joe finally speaks up. “So… you said your name was…?”
“… I’m Shoto,” the runaway answers. His tone is flat. Tired. Flavored with classic teen angst and haunted by something much heavier. He slowly wipes his hands off with a paper napkin, keeping his head low and striking eyes off of Joe. “I… have to thank you for this, sir. For the food and helping me… back there.”
Joe simply lets out a dismissive sound at the notion. “Ahh, It’s nothin’, kid. Just how we roll around here. When someone’s in need, we give ‘em the classic Haight Street hospitality.” Then, he leans back in his seat with a curious look. “Though, while we’re talking about it, that ice thing…”
Shoto clearly bristles, sharp gaze finding Joe’s as he snaps, “do you have a problem with it?”
“Would I save your sorry butt from those good for nothin’ halfwitted thugs if I did?” A teasing smile plays at Joe’s lips when the runaway blinks owlishly, and as a courtesy, he follows up with something more simplistic. “No, kid. I don’t have a problem with it. Be one hell of a hypocrite if I did.”
“Hypocrite,” Shoto echoes. At first, Joe wonders if he’s just taking a new word for a test drive, but then his face lights up with recognition. “Then… you’re like me? You’re also a… another one?”
Joe quirks a humorous brow. “You mean a mutant?” At that, his guest conspiratorially scans the empty restaurant, causing him to chuckle. “Relax, it doesn’t matter what you are at Tang’s. We’re like family here, and family doesn’t judge.”
The poor thing gets a sheepish look on his face after relaxing. “It’s not good to call ourselves that word. Where I’m from, I mean.” He taps his thumb and pointer together as he seems to mentally peruse his English. “It’s… rough. Vulgar.”
“I see,” Joe muses. “Then what do you call yourselves over there?”
“… It’s complicated.”
Ah. So politics.
The conversation lulls, giving Joe a moment to actually really look at Shoto. He’s just like any other teen you’d see around here: punkish band tee, awkward baby fat, loud statement hair… hell, even the scar checks out (Joe’s got his own fair share of cuts and burns from these streets, after all). Only thing that really stands out is the bougie Nike’s. While not Joe’s style, shoes like those have started many a scuffle amongst Haight Street teens. You don’t usually find them on the feet of first gens… if that’s what Shoto is, anyway. Clocking this kid’s deal might not be as straightforward as Joe initially thought.
Well, nothing a little smooth-talking can’t slowly iron out, right? “Pretty far from home, then, aren’t you? What brings you ‘round Haight Street?”
“That’s… also complicated,” says Shoto. And, seemingly too honest for his own good, he adds on a quiet, “I’d rather not talk about it.”
As expected, the full story’s off the table for now. But that’s fine by Joe. At least he’s made significant progress tonight. How he managed to get the kid from feral, hissing alleycat to vaguely relaxed, skeptical kitten (under an hour, no less) is beyond him. He can’t tell if that’s a testament to his people skills or how hungry Shoto must’ve been.
“We don’t have to,” Joe reassures him. “As long as you’re not in any trouble.”
Slowly, Shoto shakes his head. “No trouble,” he nearly whispers. “Just…”
“... Tired?”
“... Tired.”
Tired of what, Joe can’t say for sure. But it doesn’t take Batman to draw up some likely suspects: complicated politics, complicated homelife, complicated everything… Whatever the case, Joe lets out a sympathetic hum anyway. “Believe me, I get it. It’s hard for,” mutants, “people like us. But like I said, at Tang’s, we’re family. And family doesn’t judge.”
Shoto blinks. Once, then twice, then his eyes glaze over. A spiteful notch forms in his brow, mouth pressing into a tight line as he thinks about something. He’s breaking it down; compartmentalizing. The longer he thinks, the darker his face gets, his scornful gaze nearly burning a hole through the diner counter.
Then, bitterly, he mutters, “but family does judge.”
Joe finds himself shaking his head. Not disapprovingly, but to his own thoughts; this kid really wears his story on his sleeve, doesn’t he? “Maybe some do. But not this one.” A soft, teasing smile crosses his face. “And if you wanna be a Haight Street regular, you’ve gotta learn how we roll.”
“Howy-roll,” Shoto mimics flatly.
“Yeah! Y’know!” Joe gestures vaguely. “When in Rome?”
Again, Shoto blinks once, then twice. “We are…?”
That startles a laugh out of Joe. “No, kid,” he manages through chuckles. “This is San Francisco.”
“Oh.” Shoto cocks his head to the side. “This area… belongs to the airport?”
“Airpor– oh, you mean SFO? No, kid, the airport’s named after…” as Joe begins to explain, something catches his eye on the overhead TV; a familiar face. One that every mutant across the US would recognize. Trailing off, he has half the mind to apologize for leaving Shoto hanging, but the scrolling text manages to make itself priority number one.
And what he reads hits him like a shock of ice.
TIM DRAKE | GOTHAM CITY | JUNE 10 | 01:01 EDT
Sue Dibny had been found dead in her apartment.
… And, at the moment, that’s all Tim knows.
He didn’t want to assume the worst. Could’ve been a health complication, could’ve been an accident. But he can’t deny that the worst is a very real possibility, especially with Ralph Dibny’s identity being public. While it’s a dreadful, horrible evil to imagine… someone could’ve done it. Someone could’ve killed Sue Dibny.
And, again. At the moment, Tim only knows one truth and one truth alone: Sue Dibny had been found dead in her apartment. He’s not gonna make assumptions — don’t hazard a guess if you don’t know at all — but that doesn’t stop him from theorizing. There’s at least a dozen criminals that would kill Sue Dibny just to spite Elongated Man, and then dozens more that would do it just to spite the hero community as a whole. That’s the harsh reality of this job. When the bad guys can’t hurt you, they’ll hurt the ones you love.
(Suddenly, he feels the phantom weight of his father’s arm around his shoulder. Remembers how it felt weird, borderline foreign, yet right all the same. He’s never had someone worry over him like this before. Never had anyone stay up until midnight, then ask the harrowing question, “anyone shoot at you tonight?” Criminals shoot at Robin all the time; that’s normal. Tim’s comfort zone, even. But what isn’t is wondering if criminals ever itch to shoot at Robin’s family.)
Before he can go down that rabbit hole any further, he’s brought back up by the sound of his landline ringing. He startles, then sends a curious glance to his alarm clock. One in the morning; way too late for it to be something normal. Maybe it was Dick? Or Alfred? Did Peter hear the news and wanted to compare notes?
He picks up the call on ring number three. “Hello?”
“Hey, Timmy! It’s Bobby.”
Tim can’t help but lightly smack his own forehead in mock, oh, duh. Of course it would be Bobby. Word of Sue Dibny’s death has probably spread through every hero team like wildfire by now, and if the thinly veiled apprehension in Bobby’s tone is anything to go by, the Titans are all in the loop, too. Fiddling with the phone cord, he shifts himself in a more comfortable position and stares at the ceiling.
“Well, look who it is,” he teases, trying to keep the energy lighthearted despite everything. “For a second there, I thought you totally forgot about me.”
He can hear Bobby heave a dramatic sigh on the other end. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. But, hey, in my defense, summer courses have been totally kicking my ass, man. I barely get enough free time as it is.” There’s a faint ding of an elevator in the background — the Titan’s elevator — which Tim elects to ignore. As always. “Well, I finally have some time to myself, so figured I’d finally check up on you.”
Tim can’t help but quirk a brow. “At one in the morning?”
“You’re up, aren’t you?”
… Touché.
Fortunately, before Tim can scramble for an excuse, Bobby makes one up for him with a noise of smugness. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Playing that stupid skateboarding game, aren’t you? Toby Hawk?”
“Tony,” Tim corrects. “And it’s not stupid. It’s pioneering some pretty cool stuff in the gaming industry. With a solid soundtrack, too.”
“Addict.” Bobby lets out a breathy chuckle, lingering weariness in his tone. It’s immediately obvious that the Titans know more about what happened to Sue Dibny than the public currently does, and whatever (or whoever) got her, it’s enough to leave Bobby rattled. Rattled enough to check on his little brother at one in the morning.
And Tim gets it. He really does. It’s every hero’s worst nightmare to have a loved one caught in the crossfire of duty, and with the Mutant Registration Act still being debated in Congress, that nightmare could very well become a reality for Bobby. If Sue Dibny genuinely was killed solely because she’s Elongated Man’s wife – or, god, for even being a little sympathetic towards the mutant cause… Tim didn’t even think of that – then what happens when the anti-mutant mob knows who Iceman’s family is? And yeah, Tim’s Robin, and Robin can handle himself, but Bobby doesn’t know that. As far as he’s concerned, Tim Drake is just your average sixteen year-old who stays up too late playing Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater. How’s a kid like that supposed to fight off hate groups?
A short pause settles in the call, then Tim speaks up. “Hey, when’s the next time you think you’ll come down to Gotham? Feels like I haven’t seen your ugly mug in forever.”
Bobby scoffs. “Hey, what’s stopping YOU from coming up HERE? You know, where there’s no killer clown statistic or a fear toxin forecast?”
“Oh, what, are we suddenly gonna pretend like Manhattan’s any better?” Tim quirks a playful brow, though he knows Bobby can’t see it. “Didn’t you guys just have a giant rhino man screw over your entire subway system?”
“… Point taken,” grumbles Bobby. “Well, whatever, man. I’d love to drop by, but… it’s just college, you know? These summer courses are no joke, so… I doubt I’ll be home any time soon.”
“… Bummer.”
“Yeah. Bummer.”
The awkward silence that follows makes Tim purse his lips together. College. Right. That’s why he can’t come home. Totally has nothing to do with Dad… if Bobby even thinks of Jack Drake as his dad anymore. He certainly doesn’t consider Dana his stepmom, that’s for sure. Tim still remembers how livid Bobby was when he found out about the wedding, how he absolutely tore into his father for not even giving him a heads up. Come to think of it, that was probably the last time Bobby and Dad spoke to each other. A full year ago…
(It’s times like these where Tim can’t help but wonder if their family was broken beyond repair. Would Jack and Robert Drake ever be father and son again? Would they ever put the past aside so they can stand to be in the same room as each other, catching up on all of the years they’ve missed? Is it really nothing more than wishful thinking to have a family again, Dana included?)
Bobby’s sigh breaks him away from his thoughts. “Welp. Like I said, just wanted to check up on you. I’ll leave you to your stupid game, alright? Try not to stay up too late, dingus.”
“Just ten more minutes,” Tim promises.
“Uh-huh. Sure. Night, Timmers.”
“Night, Bobby.”
And there goes the call.
For several moments, Tim doesn’t move from his spot on his bed. He continues to stare up at the ceiling, that annoying dial tone grating at his ear drum. Bobby was quick to hang up. Too quick. The conversation was dipping into touchy territory (Tim’s mouth sours at the thought; is the idea of being under the same roof as their father really that bad?), but Bobby never wraps up a call over something like that. If he’s truly bothered, he’ll just brute force another topic into the conversation and go from there.
Something must’ve come up with the Sue Dibny investigation.
Tim won’t deny it for one second: he hates being in the dark. Yeah, it’s macabre. Insensitive, even. But he has to know what happened to Sue Dibny. His detective intuition has been firing off ever since he saw the news, potential theories brewing in the far corners of his mind. Something horrible happened to Sue Dibny and he wants in on the loop.
But not tonight, he reminds himself. His thoughts wander to poor Dad, who’s still watching the TV downstairs, no doubt waiting for any updates on the Sue Dibny story. It’d be cruel to leave again tonight when he knows Dad’s already worried sick over the what-if’s. He at least owes it to his old man to stay for once.
(Besides, considering how late it is, Bruce would probably send him straight back home anyway. And god only knows what Alfred would do.)
So, when Tim finally slots his phone back into its mount, he rolls back over on his bed. He doesn’t go for his closet, where his costume is hanging up, or think about Sue Dibny’s untimely demise. No; all he does is close his eyes, keeping an ear out when his father finally goes to bed.
Sue Dibny had been found dead in her apartment. And for tonight, that’s all Tim knows.
TONY STARK | MANHATTEN | JUNE 10 | 01:47 EDT
A heart attack isn’t the most ideal thing to have at this hour… not that he thinks Bruce cares at all. But he’ll note it anyway for the record.
He’s still clutching his chest from the fright, half-crouched in front of his work table as he tries to will his soul back into his body. The bionicle arm he’d been working on was now strewn across the floor — no doubt needing a secondary repair after its treacherous, impromptu descent — while his tools are scattered all over the place. Bruce sure did a number on him; he can’t remember the last time his arc reactor felt like it just went through a full Windows 97 reset.
In front of him, the mass of shadows speaks; “I need you to get in contact with The Endeavor Agency.”
“… Hello to you too, Bruce,” is all Tony can grit out for a couple of seconds. When he’s sure he’s not going into cardiac arrest, he finally bends down to pick up the poor arm he accidentally dropped. “The Endeavor Agency? What do you need that prick for?”
“Pyrotechnical investigation.” There’s a small pause, long enough for Tony to raise a brow before Bruce continues. “Sue Dibny was found murdered tonight with third degree burns over her body.”
Now both of Tony’s brows are raised. “Holy shit…”
The Dark Knight gives a solemn, curt nod, which surprises Tony. Usually, Bruce doesn’t entertain his injections, especially on the job. Then again, Tony supposes the matter at hand was a bit different. Personal, even. While Tony himself hadn’t known much about Dibny beyond her socialite persona, he’s well aware of how close she was to the Justice League. Hell, if he remembers correctly, she’d been an honorary member. For someone so beloved to go out like this… well… that’s just brutal. Downright diabolical.
After another small pause (one that Tony assumes is meant for the horrible news to fully sink in), Bruce is back in business mode. “The Endeavor Agency specializes in pyrotechnical mutations. It’d be helpful to have a second opinion from experts in the field.”
“… Right,” Tony agrees. He then gestures with the bionicle arm at Bruce. “Except one problem: Enji Todoroki’s a prick.”
“Tony—”
“Hey, now, don’t give me that tone. I’m not saying I won’t try to ring him up. I will, honest.” The arm in his grasp is held up in a placating gesture as he explains himself. “But listen. Enji’s not too fond of the League. Or Western capes in general, really. Hell, he barely tolerates me as it…”
He trails off when Bruce’s pearlescent lenses narrow at him. Right. Get to the point.
“Look,” he begins, “what I’m trying to say is, I don’t think Endeavor will be helping the Justice League any time soon. Again, I’ll ring him up, but… no guarantees he’ll say yes. I’m his business partner, not his best pal.”
Fortunately, Bruce seems satisfied enough with this answer. “All I ask is that you try.”
Tony lets out a prolonged breath of air, his attention drifting back over to his work station. He puts the bionicle arm down on the table and starts reorganizing his tools. “Alright, well, I’m gonna turn my back now and let you do that dumbass disappearing act you like so much. Honestly, I’m not even sure how you managed to get in again, but… whatever. Can’t wait to review the security footage to see how you pulled it off this time. That sound cool?”
There’s no response in return.
“… Yeah, goodbye to you too, Bruce.”
The bionicle arm is repaired in no time flat, and when Tony steps away to relieve the kinks in his spine, he makes a note of the current time. Nearly two in the morning… that’s, what, three in the afternoon Tokyo time? He can’t remember off the top of his head what hours at The Endeavor Agency look like, but he’s gonna hazard a guess that they’re probably still on the clock right about now.
While scrounging around for his Motorola (lost somewhere under all of the bits and bobbles around his lab, no doubt), he can’t help but let his thoughts wander to Sue Dibny. Third degree burns… What a horrible way to go. Again, he hadn’t known her on a personal level, but he’s shared small talk with her before at a fundraiser or two. From what he could tell, she was a nice gal. Whoever did this to her must’ve been one evil son of a bitch.
He finally finds the flip phone under a pile of repulsor batteries. There’s a moment where he has to stare at the display screen, mentally preparing himself for the Herculean task before him. Is calling Enji Todoroki his favorite thing to do in the world? Absolutely not. But a woman is dead right now, and The Endeavor Agency could very well be the League’s best bet for solid answers. So, even if he really, really, really doesn’t want to, he’ll put on his big boy pants and dial the flaming jackass’ number.
For Bruce. For the League.
For Sue Dibny.
… Now all that’s left is to hope Enji’s heart grew three sizes since the last time Tony saw him.