Chapter Text
Jon
Gotham thrummed. Jon felt the atmosphere change as soon as he entered the territory: electric, charged…alive. Nothing had been this exciting for a long while. Not much was, when you have superpowers. But here, in this cloistered godforsaken city, he wasn't Jon El. Here in Gotham, there were no superheroes. Not any more.
Jon checked the analogue watch his father, Kal-El, had gifted him on his last birthday. 11PM. Back home in Metropolis, the clubs and bars would be winding down before the curfew called everyone home.
There were no such restrictions in lawless Gotham. Here, the night was just beginning.
Feeling slightly self-conscious in his denim jacket, he attempted to melt into the throngs of people spilling out into the streets from the bars and clubs. It was harder than he expected.
Jon easily stood out in Gotham. He had stopped tracking his height at 6 feet, when he caught up to his father. He'd always been proud of that fact, but now he stood a head above the crowds of clubbers and they were staring at him.
Another thing that drew attention was his sheer … ordinariness. His toes curled inside his battered sneakers.
This is a great start.
In any other city, he might have assumed there was some sort of convention happening. Huge swathes of people dressed in similarly outlandish outfits and each behaving in the same wild manor. Leather. Fishnets. Spray painted jackets strategically held together with clothespins.
They constantly smashed into each other and flung obscenities and bottles at the gang of slightly differently dressed hooligans across the road.
Normally, Jon relied on being visible to do his work, but now it was a hindrance. He slunk lower into his denim jacket.
Someone shoulder checked him, pushing him into the road. His assailant's hair was shaved at the sides with a vivid green mohawk gelled out in flashy spikes. A crude red crescent was painted onto the back of his battered biker jacket.
Jokers. Jon gawked. Real life Joker gang members.
"Sorry, I-" Jon started, holding his hands upwards in a peaceful gesture.
"Fuck off, Green Bean." The Gothamite snarled, drawing a laugh from his similarly-dressed friends. Jon braced himself for a fight, but they pushed past him, heading for one of the many strip clubs on the street. He was already forgotten.
But he would be noticed again soon if he didn't get a change of clothes, judging by how outlandish everyone was dressed.
Gotham, I'm really here in Gotham, he thought in wonder again. Kon had spent a lot of time here before the war, but whether this was with his father's approval or even knowledge, he had never been certain of. That was a long time ago now.
I wish I could tell him I was here.
The whole street was lit up supernaturally like an artificial sun, draining Jon instead of empowering him. Almost every storefront was covered with bright, garish neon signs each competing for prominence.
Animated cocktail glasses and crude naked women danced and vied for his attention to invite him into their sordid private world.
Strip clubs, shady bars, casinos, sex shops… you didn't get this in Metropolis. Or at least the parts Kal-El had allowed his son to see.
It must have been raining slightly because his hair was starting to wilt under the fine drizzle that seemed to be permanent.
Extremely scantily clad women- and men, Jon noticed- writhed in one long window front draped with plush plum coloured curtains and seductively coloured lights. Jon pushed forwards, eyes pointed determinately forwards and expecting the rain to sizzle on his burning cheeks. No, he wasn't in Kansas anymore.
Gotham, however- he was actually IN Gotham!- was grimier than he expected. He needed to find somewhere to hunker down for the night, gain his bearings and calm down.
The fight with his father still rang in his head like a bell. Some things were said that could never be unsaid and needed to decompress somewhere beyond Superman's reach, where his eyes couldn't penetrate.
No, Jon only had himself to rely on now.
A couple of women passed him, collapsing into each other's arms in hysterical giggles and a smattering of flashy sequins despite the rain. Jon had never seen so much skin in public in one day. He felt his ears turn scarlet and didn't need superhearing to know they were laughing at him.
I don't need to tell my dad about this bit.
A blaring horn of a cab seemed to agree, and Jon pushed his way back onto the crowded sidewalk before he was run over.
More jeers, more stares. Jon could hardly remember the last time he was in such a crush of bodies and noise. It was all screams and shrieks and the ever-thumping music from at least twenty different establishments, all blending into one incomprehensible din.
Was every night in Gotham like this?
It hardly sounded like music, just a clash of frantic drums and screaming electric guitars. He had only been here an hour and already knew the Gothamites were a different kind of people. The sooner they were absorbed into the Regime, the better for everyone.
Then he heard the song in the distance, laughably familiar in the alien chaos. It cut through to him like a beacon and he followed it obediently to the dive bar down an alley, set aside from the main strip.
The alley was shrouded in darkness like a black hole, in stark contrast to the strip. Here, the street lights were extinguished, the bulbs above smashed so long ago the glass that must have littered the streets had been ground down into dust by the footfall.
Not that there was anybody here now, just the quieter, familiar music.
Madonna, Like a Prayer.
His mom had loved this song.
A single, unobtrusive neon sign hung above the door, flickering in heart's blood red:
'Last Rites'
Ominous. But as good a place as any to start.
The door was plastered with a stratum of old stickers, graffiti and fliers, but it opened and admitted him into the relative quietness of the bar.
The contrast to the street outside was its own bliss.
Jon had lived the past 11 years of his life with the gift of super hearing. In that time he had mastered filtering most of it out and honing what he needed like a doctor wielding a scalpel. Here in Gotham, with its power-dampening shielding, he was naked and unable to filter anything out. How could anyone ever stand the noise?
The door had opened almost silently, but every head of the dozen occupants snapped around to watch the new person dip his head slightly as he passed over the threshold.
Jon instantly blushed to his roots under the scrutiny, his heart hammering in his chest. He fought the urge to leave under the screaming sense that he was intruding.
"Are-are you open?" His rain-speckled glasses had slipped down his wet nose and he pushed them back further up, a nervous action that wasn't completely faked.
The few scruffy patrons returned reluctantly to their drinks, hidden in deep battered leather booths and scratched tables. A woman with long, blonde hair exchanged a glance with her similarly blonde partner, whose mustache twitched before taking a swig of his drink again, uninterested.
"Sure." Was the only response. It came from the only pool table on the far side of the bar. A green canopy light hung above the pool table, but its solitary working bulb flickered ominously over the speaker's face.
It was a man. He looked old, his face covered in deep lines and a starburst of white hair bursting over his black. He was wide in the shoulders and tall, taller than the pool cue he was holding like a spear as he glanced over the half-Kryptonian.
No, not Kryptonian. Not here. Just Jon.
Jon edged his way in, damp, unruly curls brushing the top of the doorframe and making him feel, absurdly, like he was entering an animal's hutch. Or a trap.
There was a long bar stretching the right side of the room, hosting a handful of old, mis-matched bar stools. Jon made his way over, not sure exactly what he was doing here but willing to gather the lay of the land, and maybe be pointed in the direction of a hotel somewhere at least.
The speaker tossed his cue onto the patched pool table, scattering the balls remaining. Jon's eyebrow was still raised when he took his place behind the bar.
"'s no fun playin’ on your own." He explained and Jon was surprised to see that, illuminated by the red neon sign behind the bar that the man wasn't old at all. What he had taken to be wrinkles were actually deep scars, cruelly criss-crossing his face and including one that looked horrifically like the letter 'J'.
J.
Jay.
Jon took it as the sign he needed and felt a rush of confidence.
The smattering of grey hair was actually pure white and styled well. Jon was still wondering if he had bleached it himself when the other man put his hand forward.
"The name's Jason. But most'a this lot calls me-"
"Asshole." Interjected the blonde woman as she and her presumed husband put their glasses on the bar.
"I never know when he's gonna be in. Maybe next time, yeah?" Jason called defensively after the pair as they left. The mustachioed man just winked and shrugged at Jason as they left.
"Fuck 'em." He muttered. "You here to see the doc too…?"
"Oh, er, Jon. It's just Jon." The name felt short on his tongue, diminished. It suited how he felt right now. "And I don't need a doctor, thanks."
Jason looked him up and down, as if to say "Give it time".
"Ok, so what you drinkin?"
"What do you have? Oh, uh, do you need to see my ID or..?"
Jason just smirked as Jon patted down his pockets for his wallet theatrically, knowing full well he’d purposefully left his ID at home.
"''fraid all I got is the hard stuff or coffee." He said 'coffee' like 'cawfee' and Jon knew with a guilty twist that his dad would have enjoyed that. "You'll have to go to someplace uptown if you want a proper beer."
"What's in the 'hard stuff'?"
"Homebrewed. You don't wanna know." Jason glanced over his face, seeming approving and forgetting ID business altogether. So it was that type of establishment.
"Coffee, thanks." Jason started pouring the filter cawfee into a chipped mug and Jon saw it sported a faded figure in teal blue, wielding two guns, one red and one yellow. "No 1 Condiment King Fan" was printed along the bottom, barely legible after all these years.
"Condiment King!" Jon said, "I remember reading about him."
"Huh. Yeah he was around, used to roll with the Gotham rogues whenever they'd let him."
Jon chuckled, gazing fondly at the faded image. "I always thought he was kinda lame."
"Sure. He was lame. But he was ours, ya know?"
"What ever happened to him? Is he still around?" Jon looked around conspiratorially. "Does he ever come in here?"
"CK took two lasers to the back of the head two days into the war."
"Oh."
"Yeah. There's a lot of that around here."
Jon glanced around for another subject. For the first time, he saw the walls and even ceiling were all decorated with Gotham superhero memorabilia.
He saw miniature plushies of Batman and different Robins. A thousand gaudy keyrings were stapled all over. One wall was covered with t-shirts each bearing a different Gotham superhero of the past.
Spoiler with her purple bike. Nightwing with that famous disco suit and mullet. He smiled.
The place was covered in countless posters, all remembering the heroes and even rogues of Gotham.
"Quite a collection," Jon said, honestly impressed. In his short time in the city, he'd seen a lot of gang presence and graffiti, but very little about the capes that somehow used to protect the city.
It made him ache, like he'd missed out on an important part of history, his family's history. Jon had been 10 when the war had broken out.
"You have a lot of Robins." Jon added, trying to count all the appearances but quickly losing his place. "Not many Batmans, though. I thought he was Gotham's whole deal?"
Jason nodded slowly, eyeing the walls with a strange look in his eye too.
"I guess he used to be. There's no capes anymore though. That big fucker in the sky put an end to that."
Jon squirmed. "I like it. It's…cool," he said lamely.
"I guess some people like to come here to reminisce." Jason watched him nurse his coffee while he poured himself a real drink. A few more patrons left with a nod to the barkeeper.
"How long have you been working here?" Jon asked, unconsciously chipping away at the decal of the mug with his nail.
"Work here? I own this place." Jason pulled back, affronted.
"Oh, sorry, I didn't-"
"It's fine. My brother gave me a loan to buy it. He's the good one." The words, despite the context, were bitterly spoken.
"Do you have a lot of family?"
"I guess I used to. Before the war split Gotham off from the rest of the world. It's one of those…don't know what you have til it's gone kind of things."
Jon sipped his drink. They were still heading into dangerous territory.
"Hey, do you know where I could get some work? I don't mind doing, you know, under the table stuff?"
Jason just stared at him. Then folded his huge, scarred arms.
"Nice kid like you should probably go back home to your family, yeah?"
Jon shook off the large paint fleck he'd accidentally chipped off his mug.
"It's a little more complicated than that…"
"You know, everyone says I'm not a people person, but even I can read an open book. So I'll tell you what you look like to me: a kid from a good home, wanted for nothing but now he's had a blowout with the old man and he's come to slum it with the plebs to prove a point." Jason re-filled both their cups. "If I had a dime for every kid like you that passed through Gotham."
"I-I-"
But Jon was spared further scrutiny.
"You missed Dinah. And the karaoke," Jason said and Jon frowned in confusion. He'd missed the slight breeze of the door and the brief din from outside getting louder.
"I'll live, I'm sure." Came the strained reply behind him.
The thrill of surprise ran through him. Nobody could sneak up behind him when he had his powers.
A young man slid onto the stool to his right, also dumping his backpack onto the counter and Jon couldn't help but stare.
He was at least part Arab, with dark hair that had grown out slightly into waves. His eyelashes were also dark, and long. They reminded him absurdly of Ma Kent's favourite cow and he had to remind himself to look away.
For a fleeting moment of madness, he wanted to reach out and brush them with his thumb to see if they were real. If he had his powers, he might have tried.
Luckily, the sound of surprise he made was ignored as Jason poured his guest a drink. It was the 'hard stuff' served in what looked like a recycled, label-less jelly jar but the man knocked it back all the same. Jason refilled it wordlessly.
"That bad?" Jason finally asked, raking around under the counter and bringing out a battered pack of Marlboros. He lit one for them both and the other took it with a grateful sigh.
"Isn't it always?" The voice was rough, strained. They seemed to share a familiar camaraderie and Jon racked his brain for something, anything to say.
"It's illegal to smoke indoors." He blurted out.
Oh my god.
The two men turned to stare openly at him and his flaming blush blush crept both over his cheeks and down his neck to meet somewhere in the middle.
"Not in Gotham." The stranger said evenly, watching him closely as if he were weighing him up.
"Damian, this is Don," Jason said, propping himself on one elbow and looking at Jon with a strange expression now.
"Jon," Jon said quickly. "I just- those will kill you one day, you know." Jon’s eyes darted around for somewhere to stare to escape their scrutiny.
"No. They won't," Damian replied, carefully deliberate. "How long have you been in Gotham, Jon?" His voice was smoother now, lubricated by the alcohol, and his dark green eyes bored into him despite the purple shadows ringing them.
Was it really that obvious that he was new here?
Jon held out his hand to shake, knowing already that it was done too late. Damian stared at it dumbly, then took it after a fraction of a second. The cigarette moved between his lips as he smiled wryly. Jon watched it with fascination.
"I only got here a couple of hours ago- uh, this side of town, I mean. Jason here was just pointing out how much of a runaway cliche I am. I'm looking for somewhere to stay, actually, if you have any recommendations?"
That caught their attention. Damian exchanged a glance with Jason as he let go of Jon's hand, fingers slipping away with the grace of a pianist.
"You would be safer going home, Jon. The gangs are clashing again tonight. Where do your parents live?" Damian's voice was strained, and carefully polite.
"I'm not sure anywhere is really safe anymore," Jon said, eyeing the Condiment King on his mug again.
Maybe it was his paranoia, but the two men seemed to stare him down as if they could smell the ozone from his laser eyes.
"Yeah well, that's what happens when a fucking super powered fascist took over the planet," Jason said, deadpan.
"Except Gotham." The new arrival said, carefully curbing the ash off his smoke.
"Except for Gotham." Jason agreed bitterly.
"Uh. Well. I had a fight with my dad, but it’s my, uh, boyfriend mostly. He's in the same college classes as me but he's just dropped off the radar. I'm worried about him."
It wasn't exactly a lie.
"So your boyfriend wants to slum it for a while, see how the other half live?" Jason took a drag of his cigarette. "And you followed him. Or did you have a fight with him, too?"
"He's-he's- we had a fight before he left…" Jon's blush was back.
"Ah." Jason didn't try to hide the look he gave Damian.
“Gotham’s an easy place to get lost in.” Damian supplied with a faraway look.
"I know but…I have to find him, make sure he's safe and bring him back. There's all these rumours about Gotham breaking down-"
Jason was balking but Damian was just…watching. The ash had grown long on his cigarette, and when Jon noticed it, Damian tapped it off into the bar's ceramic ashtray. It had a bat on it.
"You said you were looking for somewhere to stay," Damian said carefully. "Nothing is free, even in Gotham. Especially in Gotham."
"Oh, yeah. I have a bit of cash on me. Not too much, though. I guess I should have stolen my dad's credit card or something," he laughed, knowing full well that his father would have been alerted immediately to Jon’s location if he had used it.
"Dammit kid, you're not even worth robbing." Jason chuckled.
Damian nodded, raising his eyebrows in agreement. Jon watched him take a drag, then breathe out the smoke from his nose, shuddering in a restrained laugh. He rubbed his eyes.
"You can crash on the couch in the corner tonight after the last customer leaves, but you're on glass duty for the rest of the night. Welcome to the meat grinder, Don," Jason said with a smirk.
"Thanks. And it's still Jon, actually."
-
"And they called me 'Green Bean.'" Jon swirled the remaining mysterious clear liquid around the bottom of the glass jar before swallowing the rest whole with a grimace. It really was rough stuff.
Jason was over the other side of the room, sweeping after the last patrons had left. The jukebox had moved onto Kate Bush and he swept with a slight sway that was suspiciously similar to a dance. He was in a good mood.
At some point, Jon and Damian had moved over to a freed up couch. It was battered and sagging, but it would be the only bed he had tonight.
Damian, nursing his third drink, pinched at his eyes. "They called you that because you're tall and very obviously naive." He explained patiently. "Green."
Jon was on his fifth drink of the night. Normally, his Kryptonian biology meant he would metabolise alcohol pretty much as soon as he drank it. But now he was in Gotham, and things were very different.
"I'm not…I'm not so naive!" He frowned, grinning. He was replaying Damian's smile in his head. It had come and gone so quick he didn't know if he'd imagined it.
"Really. How old are you? 12?" Damian asked, amused. His elbow was propped up on the back of the couch and resting the side of his face against his fist as he regarded Jon. The top few buttons of his shirt had been loosened a few drinks ago.
"I'm the same age as you, I'm 21." Jon insisted, scandalised.
"You are two 12 year olds in a trench coat. And I'm 24." Damian retorted, rolling his eyes.
"Huh, you look younger." Truthfully, the other man looked very tired right now.
Damian rolled his drink around his glass, before sipping it. "I get that a lot."
"I feel like I've seen you somewhere before." Jon wondered aloud. "Your parents must be really pretty." It was a simple observation, but Jon couldn't look away from Damian's reaction.
What am I even saying? The thought bounced around his head as his vision spun.
Now it was Damian's turn to blush. Less obvious on his darker skin but definitely there.
"They're…generally regarded as such. I resemble my mother mostly. Or at least I did. I haven't seen her for 6 years."
"What? Why?" Jon leaned in, honestly interested. Damian stared at him.
"She was on the outside when Gotham got shut down. Along with my brothers and sister and friends." He downed the rest of the drink, forgetting to hide his wince. "I was splitting my studies between here and with her in Cairo. I was due to see her…"
"Damn that's really rough. Maybe you could-"
"Maybe I could make a break for it and get shot down as I ran?" Damian interrupted, coldly now. "The odd thing might slip by, but people can't usually just waltz in and out of places as they choose. Much less Gotham entirely." He wasn't looking at Jon, his mind lost somewhere else. “MY family especially is not exactly endeared to the Regime, anyway.”
"What's your mom's name?" Jon tried, leaning forward. What had he meant about his family?
"That's private." As if a shutter had been dropped, the light behind Damian's eyes dimmed. Jon hadn't even noticed how animated they had been during their conversation, but now it was …gone.
Jon just gazed at him, not understanding where he had offended him.
"What about your dad? Is your dad still around?"
Damian cocked his head, as if something Jon had said tickled him.
"I suppose. But he's not really the same person since 6 years ago. Don't you miss your parents, Jon?" Damian was rolling the glass jar in his hand distractedly.
Jon watched it, hypnotised.
"My parents weren't really on good terms from what I remember. She passed away when the war started."
"I’m sorry. That must be hard."
Jon swallowed. This was hard. He never thought he'd be talking about his mom tonight, especially with a stranger. But the more they spoke, the less Damian felt like a stranger. He really did have fascinating eyes. He felt like he should have recognised him from somewhere.
"Yeah. She calls sometimes, but it's hard, you know?" Jon looked up at him through his own eyelashes. Somehow they were sitting barely a foot apart on the couch. Behind them, Jason continued pretending that he wasn't eavesdropping.
Damian nodded. "You say you tracked your boyfriend here," he said simply, thoroughly dousing Jon's train of thought with ice water.
"Well I haven't seen him for a while now with no message, but, yeah.."
"You must be pretty close to follow him to the ends of the earth. But most people who try to hide in downtown Gotham don't want to be found." Damian's eyelashes were very long when he gazed back at him like that. Jon stared.
"He's…it's complicated." Jon really wasn't willing to untangle his feelings on his first night in Gotham, never mind pleasantly loosened up by the drink and in the presence of a handsome-
"What are you saying? That I should let him go?"
Damian shrugged, standing and shouldering the backpack he had brought with him. Jon hadn't even noticed him bringing it over.
"Yes. Maybe. Gotham is full of distractions. Maybe go find something. Someone. They say the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else."
It was said so offhandedly that Jon laughed out loud. Damian stared at him for another moment, as if trying to work something out. It was then Jon realised that Damian's hand was on the front door plate, preparing to push it open.
Damian raised a hand to Jason in a goodbye gesture. Still, he hesitated, still looking down at Jon.
"Well, good night, Jon. I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for." He suddenly looked so tired for some reason. And then he was gone.
"What am I looking for?" He said dumbly to the empty space. His thoughts spun as much as his vision.
"Wait- shit!" Jason seemed to take the words right out of his mouth and darted into the dingy, curtained door behind the bar. Before Jon realised what he was doing, Jason appeared again and followed Damian out of the front door with a wrapped package tucked under his arm.
Jon rubbed his eyes. This night had taken a turn. He wasn't even sure what time it was, but it felt like morning again. His head spun, still pleasantly buzzing with the alcohol. When he closed his eyes, he could see jerking images of the bar, the table, Damian's eyes…
He guessed he had about two weeks before his dad really started to panic, he’d never been away longer than that after a fight. Maybe he could enjoy his time here in Gotham a bit, see the sights and meet new people.
Get under someone, Damian had said.
He also wanted to see the famous Wayne Tower. His father said it had been rebuilt after the war with Bruce Wayne's private funds.
If he still had his flight powers, he would have gone to see the ominous Wayne Manor, too. The Wayne patriarch still lurked there, so they said, having disappeared at the same time as Gotham's superheroes. Jon wondered absently how long it would take to walk there, or if he could take a cab. He'd need money...
A muffled conversation was filtering through the door, some of the wood old and rotten at the bottom. He might not have super powers right now, but he might not need them, either.
The door opened quietly under his hand, just half an inch. Just enough to make out the words just on the other side…
"-and I told you I need time to think about it." Damian's voice, harsh. Worn out.
"That's something that's running out quickly, Little D."
"Don't call me that. I always hated being called that."
"You let Dick call you that."
"I tolerated Richard calling me that, there's a difference."
"Yeah I know, I'm sorry the wrong brother was stuck in this shitty hellhole when the walls came down. Believe me, I'd give anything to swap places with Dickface right now."
There was a charged silence between the two men. Beyond the alley, a few tires screeched but even the revellers seemed to have made their way home now.
"Look, I know where you're going right now. If Dick was here, he would have the right words to get you to stop doing what you're doing. But I don't, so just…sleep. You need sleep. Ok?"
Jon frowned, not able to make sense of it.
"I'll go home later. You need to stop worrying about me. It helps me sleep."
"It's dangerous, Damian. You don't think I know?"
"I'm not doing this tonight. And for your information I haven't been there for weeks now."
"…Fine. Whatever, do what you want. I'm not your dad."
"Jason. Wait. I'm fine, really."
"Yeah, you look fine. That's exactly what you look like."
Jon lurched back to the couch before Jason could catch him at the door. When the door opened again, there was the click of a lighter and the smell of cigarette smoke again.
Jon lay with his legs artfully sprawled, arm thrown over his eyes as if he were asleep.
"Bathroom's behind the bar, down the hallway. Don't piss on my couch. I've counted the drinks and don't bother robbing the cash register, there's nothing in there. There never is."
Jon didn't respond, only snored slightly.
"Ah, whatever. I don't care."
The lights switched off before he could reply and he stared into the darkness, wondering what sinister thing his new friends were getting themselves into.
It was windy. It made the ropes swing. That was one thing Jon remembered about that day.
Beside him, his father, Kal-El stood tall, towering over him in his striking black and white suit. Jon was 15 then, and starting to grow like a weed. He felt too big, like the world had shrunk around him. He looked up at his father, hardly believing that he would reach his height one day.
The suit was new, too. There were a lot of new things. He missed the old blue and red one. He wished his mother was here.
His eyes burned.
There were journalists and camera operators below them in the plaza before them. Kal-El and Jon-El stood together, the wooden construction behind them.
Kal-El placed a reassuring hand on his son's shoulder. Jon took the hint and pointed his irritated eyes forwards again. There was silence, but for the wind that whipped their hair and capes around them.
"Today," Kal-El started, and Jon could hear the collective intake of breath from the crowd, the uptake of nervous heartbeats. "We say goodbye to the crimes of the past. Today we say so long to the years of tears." He took a moment to scan the crowd, look directly into each person's eyes. Jon did, too, though they couldn’t meet his gaze. He rubbed his damp palms nervously on his new, red cape.
"For decades the people of this world have accused the superheroes of this world of inviting disaster after disaster over them. That every time a supervillain returned- more powerful, more vengeful, we have let you down."
He paused again, and the silence lay heavily. Jon resisted the urge to brush the curls from his eyes.
He stared down the lenses of the cameras, knowing his face wouldn’t be transmitted. His eyes burned on.
"Today is the start of a new era. No more pain. No more living in fear. Let us embark on this worthy endeavour to live in peace together, friends. I pledge my loyalty now to the people of this Earth that I will do my utmost to protect you. Completely. Permanently."
He turned slightly, taking his hand off Jon's shoulder, to glance at the execution site behind him.
For once, Lex Luthor had nothing to say. In fact, his bruised and battered face looked half dead already as he stood limply tied to the wooden post.
A shaking assistant checked over the cuffs around the former president's hands and shoulders, before nervously nodding at the Kryptonian.
Superman smiled reassuringly at the attendant, thumping him on his shoulder, before calmly and solemnly standing before Lex Luthor.
It wasn't drawn out. It didn't need to be. There was a brief flash of red light from Superman's eyes and Lex Luthor was no more.
The body stood upright for a moment, a new, black hole on his forehead smoked slightly. The mouth hung open, loose, as if screaming but no sound came out now.
Jon swallowed down the bile that rose from smelling the charred brain matter. The corpse that was Lex Luthor slumped forward and Kal-El turned back to the crowd, the body and the Hall of Justice firmly at his back.
The age of Superman had ended.
The age of the Regime has just begun.
Jon woke up to a wet slap. With a groan he pulled the rag off his face.
"I'll be nice and let you wipe down the bar. Then I'll let you go," Jason said without a hint or irony.
"Gee, thanks."
"You're welcome. See, I can be a nice guy."
Ignoring the thumping behind his eyes, Jon collected the drinking glasses he'd missed last night when he'd been distracted by his conversation with Damian. Distracted by Damian.
Damn it, Jon. Keep it together.
He started loading the glasses into the ancient dishwasher, but Jason appeared behind him.
"You'll have to hand wash them."
"Dishwasher broken?" Jon asked, peeking into the appliance door as if he had the smallest idea of how to fix it.
"Naw, there's no dishwasher detergent left in Gotham."
"Seriously?" Jon wheeled around, his face painted in disbelief. It was such a stupid effect of the siege of Gotham. "You don't make dishwasher detergent in Gotham?"
"Priority goes to general soap and antiseptic mostly, smart ass."
"But you- we- like, trade for stuff, right?"
"Sure, and the Regime sets the tariffs. You really are sheltered, aren't you? Do you even know what rationing means?"
Jon frowned. "Yeah, but there's other ways you can get stuff, right?"
Jason started the water in the sink. "How do you mean?" he said carefully.
"I guess I just assumed there's a black market or something…" Jason didn't answer, only threw a wet sponge at Jon, who caught it this time.
You don't have dishwasher detergent but you have cigarettes…
"I can live without dishwasher tablets, Green Bean." He said heavily, smirking at Jon's scowl at his use of the nickname. "If you want to see real hardship, you should go see what Damian's working with at the hospital."
"The hospital?" Something clicked into place suddenly. "Damian is the doctor you mentioned?"
"Yeah, I'm not surprised you weren't payin’ attention, too busy makin’ goo goo eyes at him-"
"-I wasn't-"
"-he's the best doctor Gotham has, even with half the experience. And that's all he's allowed to be right now. This damn city is drainin’ him dry." Jason muttered moodily, lighting up his first smoke of the day.
"It's that bad?" Jon asked, slowly beginning to wash the glasses.
"It is. And with the Joker gang kickin’ off against Two-Face again, it's only gonna to get worse. And soon."
Jason smoked. Jon washed.
"I wish there was a way I could help," Jon said eventually.
"I appreciate the sentiment, kid, but there's nuthin you can do." He thought for a moment. "I'm serious. Go see Damian at the Sacred Heart Hospital when you're done. He can check if your boyfriend has been admitted."
"My boyfriend?"
"Sure." Jason exhaled, obscuring the space between them with smoke. "The one you told my brother you were looking for while you hogged him all night."
"Hey, I wasn't-"
But Jason just laughed. "You think you're the first person in Gotham to moon over Doctor Wayne?"
"Wayne? As in Bruce Wayne?"
Jason reached round again to turn the tap off as the sink was in danger of overflowing.
"He's your brother…Bruce Wayne's your dad, too?" He shuffled through all the knowledge he had of the premier family of Gotham- not much, just the firm knowledge that his father refused to talk about the Wayne family. So much had happened in his absence…
"Kinda. It's complicated. Can't remember the last time I saw the old man." Jason shrugged.
"Why did-"
"You just finish washin’ those glasses, Jon, and keep your mind on your own troubles. The sooner you find your boyfriend, the sooner you can get the hell outta Dodge."
Jon did. Above him, a cracked red helmet loomed. Jon stared back.
Jason let him mop the floor, too, before kicking him out. The unmistakable thud of a deadlock snapped closed behind him.
Well, he had a thumping head, but a lot to think about. And a lead.
It was early morning now. The neon lights were extinguished and litter populated the streets instead of heaving bodies now. Who would clean it up? It would pile up like the bodies, too, he supposed.
He walked aimlessly around the city for most of the day, trying to get his bearings and discovering just how unfriendly the populace were to strangers.
Gotham was so different to Metropolis considering how close the two cities were. The whole city was dripping in repurposed Gothic architecture, blended with neon lights that gave it a surreal edge. But as much as he looked upwards to the roofs and fire escapes of the buildings there, he saw no traces of heroes.
He stopped asking for directions the third time a Gothamite gave him a look of broad distrust before scurrying past.
He was starting to get blisters on his feet for the first time since he was a child, but, eventually, he stumbled on his destination himself: The Sacred Heart Hospital.
The receptionist's name tag read 'Wendy'. The Kents' housekeeper back in Metropolis was called Wendy, and she was nice. This lady didn't seem like a Wendy.
"Listen, cupcake, if you're not here to be treated then you need to leave." She insisted again. But Jon had queued for the best part of an hour now. It was the busiest Jon had ever seen a waiting room, with no seats left. In fact, some of the floor was occupied, too, with people just hunkered down on the linoleum with sick children. A hundred pairs of eyes quietly watched him, the obvious stranger in their city, who reeked of alcohol, someone else’s cigarette smoke and yesterday's clothes.
"And like I said, I'm here to see Doctor Wayne. If you could just point me in the right direction and-" His annoyance amplified the throbbing in his head.
It happened quickly after that. Two men seized his arms from behind and moved him bodily towards the front doors again.
He thrashed and kicked, but it had exactly zero effect.
"I'm not skipping the queue! I just want to see Damian! I'm a friend!"
Ok, ‘friend’ was stretching the truth a little. But he didn't think 'I got drunk with him at a dodgy bar last night and, actually, he didn't even tell me who he was or that he was even a doctor' had the same effect.
He hit the sidewalk awkwardly, turning his ankle. That was a novelty, normally he was immovable by human hands.
"Assholes," he muttered as the security guards marched away again in their mis-matched uniforms. One stopped in his tracks, hearing him.
"You can tell Two-Face to get fucked, Doctor Wayne is under our protection." He growled before marching away and disappearing inside the hospital doors again.
"What's the Two-Face got to do with me?" He yelled, evidently in vain. What did he have to do with Damian?
Jon blew out the breath he had been holding. If he wasn't careful, he really would get hurt here.
The sun was high in the periwinkle spring sky and soon it would descend into the afternoon. The street outside of the Sacred Heart was busy with tired-faced citizens, all giving him a wide berth on the sidewalk, like a school of fish swimming around a dolphin. Or a shark.
Maybe he should keep moving, just strike out again. He'd hit the jackpot at The Last Rites, why shouldn't he get lucky again? Besides, he hadn’t exactly lied about wanting to find Jay.
Across the road, a movement caught his eye. A group of suited men, but the suits were…damaged. Or made to appear so, anyway, with one half of each man's suit tattered.
They were talking and slouching against the store wall behind them. Every now and then one of them made a movement, jerking their hand and a speck of silver caught the light. Flipping a coin.
Those must be the Two-Face gang! Jon couldn't dampen his excitement, not even when he thought of how disappointed his dad would be if he knew he was fanboying over Gotham's famous supervillains.
Not that he was a fan of Two Face, or the Penguin for that matter. It was just that this was a piece of history. There was no crime in the Regime, or none that his dad would admit to.
Here, it was just a part of the every day. It made it alive. It made it exciting.
Except right now, it was probably best to talk to Damian again. He needed to find Jay. He remembered the mysterious package Jason had ran to give Damian after he left the bar and wondered if he was keeping any other secrets.
Maybe it's smuggled dishwasher tablets. They are Waynes after all.
So he sat right there on the sidewalk, leaning against the wall of the hospital and waited. All things considered, he was one of the better dressed homeless people.
If he doesn't turn up, I really will be sleeping on the streets, he thought. He'd been stupid to leave as unprepared as he did. The anger had left him almost as soon as he'd entered Gotham, sapped away as effectively as Gotham's kryptonite satellite dome had sapped his powers.
The sun was much lower in the sky when he gave up.
He looked exhausted, he probably has a day off. I'm an idiot.
Across the street, where Dent's goons had been lurking, was a corner store. The goons were gone, but the shop attendant was no less hostile.
"I'll take a pack of cigarettes, please," he said, a small Hershey's bar and a can of Coke in his hand. The prices were eye-watering and the shelves half bare, but he supposed that was what happened in a shortage. The sooner Gotham joined the Regime, the better, he decided.
He smiled hopefully at the cashier, but the teenager looked at him like he'd grown another head.
"We…don't sell stuff like that anymore, mister. We haven't for 6 years." She stared at him again, not filling the awkward silence between them.
"Uh, would you, uh, know where I could get any? You know, under the table?" He raised an eyebrow.
"Mister, I…" But the girl's eyes slid past him to the door behind. There was a rusty slide as the doors opened automatically.
"I don't know nuthin' about no black market, mister," she said loudly, making sure the Dent gangsters behind him heard. There was a shuck! as one shook open his telescopic baton.
Jon didn't have his superpowers, but he did have long legs. He sprinted into the street again, away from the yells of the goons and the cashier's shout that he hadn't paid for his stuff.
He made it into the road between the store and the hospital doors when he saw it- a familiar black head in one of the upper windows, unmistakably Damian's even at this distance.
He raised a hand in recognition and greeting just as the car ploughed into him.
Jon's body vaulted over the hood of the car, his head cracking the windshield before spinning once in the air and meeting the tarmac with his face.
The sounds of Gotham thrummed around him as he ebbed in and out of consciousness. A pair of deft hands probed his head, checked his pulse and opened one eyelid.
The sun was behind his saviour's head, making it hard to focus his watery eyes. The doctor looked down at him through a pair of long eyelashes.
Jon smiled.
And faded out.