Chapter Text
“It’s always the quiet ones.”
Tim kept his eyes shut, his body limp, and his ears open. His breathing stayed even and apparently automatic, even as he strained to make out what was happening.
“Aw, Puddin’, it’s not every day someone just drops in on us! Maybe we could practice having guests?”
There was someone else here? Here?
“And here I was thinking the best term was ‘party crasher.’ But, you know, waste not, want not.”
sh*t.
A snorting giggle answered from somewhere nearby. Too close—the damp chill on Tim’s face let him feel the air shift as Harley Quinn moved. Tim stayed still despite the sound, unable to forget the too-tight straps around his wrists and ankles even if he tried. If Harley or the Joker saw him move and realized he was awake, they’d want him to participate, and he never knew what that meant.
Only that it always, always hurt.
After, limp in his restraints, Tim ticked off the list in his head in quiet despair.
Joker Venom, in large and small doses throughout the day. Intravenous, gaseous, in his water if the clowns decided to force him to participate in being poisoned. Each carefully calculated not to kill Tim, but each left him giggling uncontrollably for—
Tim didn’t remember. He never remembered the details now—it was safer not to. Even knowing it was a comforting lie he told himself didn’t make it less effective.
Going away in his head made it easier.
He blamed the generator, and the Joker’s liberal hand with the switch, and Harley’s morphine, and the time he lost because of it all. So much time, gone.
And it took longer and longer to think like himself afterward. To remind himself his body was real and there and his. Not just as Robin, but as Tim, and sometimes a third option. Something Harley whispered furtively in his ear when Tim was too exhausted to struggle, unable to dislodge her hands from his face or his hair. When he couldn’t even jerk his head away and instead stayed, held still and forced to listen.
Junior.
Tim needed every hard-win scrap of fight left in him to claw back from that.
Sometimes, it slipped from his grasp.
Sometimes, all Tim could do was scream. Or laugh, given what they were feeding him now. It was all the same in the end.
He hadn’t given up hoping Bruce would find and save him. But by the time he did, maybe he’d find something in Tim’s place that was pale and cackling and unrecognizable. He kept hearing Harley talk about his complexion, like she got to have opinions, like it didn’t mean pain. Deconstructing who he was to make a version Harley called “Junior” and didn’t want to die the entire time. He could feel it happening.
And now there was someone else trapped in hell with him. He’d counted the breathing and heard metal scraping against concrete. Harley must have dragged in a new victim.
Tim needed to do something. Anything.
Then the Joker yowled in pain, jolting Tim’s wavering awareness back to the present. A second later, a ringing slap echoed through the room and bounced off barren walls, not drowning out Harley’s offended shriek or the muffled swearing still in the Joker’s voice.
And then, someone growled, “f*ck you.”
Tim cracked one eye open, heart pounding against his ribs. He waited until his vision adjusted to the brightness, then risked craning his neck a little when it became clear both of his captors were distracted.
Harley had done a thorough job; chaining their new victim at the wrists, elbows, knees, and ankles to a support pillar and a backup generator was overkill for most people. Definitely for any civilian. The woman on the ground wasn’t in any hero costume Tim recognized, but she glared up at the Joker and Harley like a wolverine in workout clothes, one-eyed due to a bruised and swollen face. Tim was on her blinded side, which also gave him a wavering view of glass shards jammed into her upper back and the blood staining her shirt.
“Someone needs to teach you manners, and soon,” said Harley, even as she fussed over the Joker’s injury.
Tim’s fellow captive spat on the floor. Blood dripped from her hair. The chains rattled as she tried to shift her weight.
Part of Tim wanted to lurch up and distract the Joker and Harley from someone who still had the energy to escape. He wasn’t sure he could run, but if he could give her a chance—
But there was blood on the Joker’s white glove in a reddening semicircle, and Tim didn’t think the slap had split her lip. She hadn’t drawn first blood, but even being chained up hadn’t stopped her from biting back. Literally.
They’d never let her go. Not alive.
The Joker, one hand still in Harley’s grip as she made noises about rabies and sepsis, reached into his coat with the other and drew a slim black pistol. With the stranger still hissing defiance, he knelt down far enough to jam the barrel under her jaw—
“Sorry, Toots, but that little stunt’s going to cost you. But hell, maybe you wanted something closed-casket.”
Through a mouthful of spit and blood, Tim’s fellow captive rasped, “Better make it count, clown.”
“Or what?” snapped Harley, her Brooklyn accent sharpening in her anger.
And then—
“Robin?” asked an accented voice, familiar enough to cut through the fog.
With the sound of a gunshot and the Joker’s laughter in his ears, Tim woke up. For a long moment, eyes shut, he just tried to focus on his pulse thundering through his head. Which, given his headache, wasn’t ideal. But it grounded him well enough to get feeling back into his hands, and to clench both fists tightly enough to go numb again. Then he flexed his toes and ankles, drawing them toward his chest until he could wrap his arms around them.
“Robin.”
Tim opened his eyes.
Glancing around, Tim realized he was still on the Watchtower, like the last five times. In a space hospital room, on a bed that didn’t have security straps or alligator clips, under an actual blanket. Unlike his dream, Tim didn’t quake inside his own skin from cold and fear and residual pain—actually, he was a little overheated. He briefly grimaced up at the bed’s other occupant, as though she was to blame for that.
Genbu—Kei, apparently—blinked back at him from the foot of the bed. She didn’t quite smile, as though she’d lost the instinct for it, but she did raise her good hand with an awkward wave. “Um, good morning?”
In space, who could tell? Still, Tim felt heavy and sticky in a way that meant he’d slept too long. If he didn’t also feel frayed, with fatigue like training weights on his limbs, maybe he’d do something about that. As it was now, with the broken glass sensation still lining his throat, Tim just nodded back at Kei and tried to settle back into his own skin.
In, out, timing his breaths while Kei muttered to herself about screen time and concussions.
It hadn’t happened like that.
Not their first meeting, at least. Tim was sure of that, because if anybody attacked the Joker outright in the first few moments, he would react with Joker Venom before being touched. If he could. And even the Joker couldn’t miss a stationary target.
And while the Joker had threatened Kei with a gun, it was his speargun and she’d been too dazed to quip. The hissing, feral version who bit the hand that goaded her was—later. It happened after she spotted him, peering out of her uninjured eye, and said, “Robin? Oh, f*cking f*ck.”
Which was…probably apt, given their situation at the time, but Tim was going to jot that down as a unique reaction to meeting a Bat in costume. At least, for someone not hired as a goon for the night.
Tim rubbed his forehead, skipping his eyes because of the mask. Which he probably needed to take off now. The longer he kept it on, the more irritated his skin would be when he finally got rid of the glue. Maybe it was contributing to his inability to sleep. On the other end of things, his nightmares were usually nebulous, distorted images he didn’t remember later; half-imagination and half-memory and all fear.
Crane was probably laughing it up, wherever he was now.
While Tim tried to think, Kei had turned her attention back to the tablet computer, poking the screen at its lowest possible light setting. Her hair was a bushy mess of cowlicks held back by a plastic headband. Her arm was still in a sling, like earlier, but she had curled the Superman blanket around her shoulders. She looked cozy, despite the bloody memories trapped in Tim’s head.
Someone had clearly been by, dropping off a meal tray and that accessory. There was still a sealed plastic container with soup and a spoon to one side, with only the empty plate indicating Kei had already eaten.
“How long was I out?” That was what Tim meant to say, at least. Half the syllables were croaked and a third actually intelligible.
“Not long. Maybe an hour?” Even if Kei easily understood him, she still sounded uncertain. She pointed at the tablet’s screen. “Isobu got bored of the movie.”
Shorter than last time. Tim hadn’t asked for the time when Dick or Barbara were the ones staying with him, but he suspected he hadn’t exactly slept earlier, and this might count instead. There was a difference between being asleep and being unconscious.
“An’ you?” Tim asked, shuffling to sit up a little higher against the pillows. He waved away Kei’s offered help, since she still only had one arm to work with and he didn’t want her to bother.
“Fifteen minutes, but I’ve been” —she wobbled one hand in the air— “sort of meditating. But I didn’t leave. Like I promised.”
Tim nodded his thanks, sinking deeper into the pillows and not quite sure how to relax again. Even though Tim rubbed his eyes a few times, briefly letting her out of sight on technicality, the sound of Kei’s quiet fussing was strangely soothing.
It was a little wild to think that Kei still remembered that, between the beatings and the drugs. Tim was almost able to grasp the memory, hearing his own voice pleading not to be left behind even as his training and every lingering heroic instinct demanded a fellow prisoner run. To save herself. When Tim’s nerves weren’t lit up in agony, it hurt worse to watch others suffer.
That was probably why the Joker hadn’t killed her. Just made Tim watch as he did it slowly, over hours. Tim barely remembered some of what happened, because both of the clowns swapped between tormenting Kei and tormenting Tim, using them both against each other because it was funny. The distorted sound of Kei’s fury rang in Tim’s ears almost as much as his own screams. More clearly, in some ways—when the electrodes came out, Tim lost time. Too much time, only to come back to his own body as his muscles twitched uncontrollably in the aftershocks. To Kei writhing on the floor as Joker Venom fought her weird biology for minutes at a time.
“HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Look at her go! I should have thought of it sooner!”
“Glad you thought of it now, Puddin’!”
Tim flinched away from the memory, warped as it was. Those voices stripped him to the bone even like this. For—a while there, exact time unknown—he’d been sure that might be it. No future. No life without being turned into a monster. Just endless, echoing laughter.
But then a switch flipped, all of Kei’s magic turned back on for thirty seconds of bloody terror, and here they were.
Alive.
Mostly in one piece.
Something to be grateful for, no matter what.
Kei looked tired, but not like a clown supervillain hit her with a baseball bat whenever she snarled defiance and tried to get his attention off Tim. Some of her hair seemed glued to her skin by either stress or sweat, and the sling around her arm kept her movements restricted, which had to be a little uncomfortable. Still, the bags under her yellow eyes were nothing compared to the mask of blood from before, muddying all her features into something right out of the red maw of a nature documentary gone wrong.
No, now she was just a fellow patient. But Tim knew anything that tried to hurt him would deal with her first. Unbound, in a straight fight. Kei and her inner demon and everything they could bring to bear. That thought steadied some of his lingering nervousness.
One step down, a hundred to go.
Meanwhile, Kei tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. After a second, she frowned, yanked the headband free, then made sure to wear it in a way that guaranteed no hair touched her face while she messed with the tablet. It somehow made her look even more mundane and harmless. Just another person, bothered by minor details and fussing over them.
Tim didn’t doubt for a moment that the care Kei took was genuine. Same thing with her mumbling and general goofines. It was all weirdly endearing.
After a second, Kei looked up out of the corner of her eye and spotted him staring. “Robin? Need something?”
Do you know where everyone went? But as he tried to make the words, all he managed was a croaked, “D’you…?” Even that much left him hating his wrecked voice.
Kei picked up a cup of slightly-melted ice chips and set them on the blanket next to Tim’s foot.
That wasn’t quite what Tim meant, but he’d take it. Using his own hands was—grounding, maybe? He didn’t see those white gloves or Harley’s cuffs if he used his own hands and fed himself. The sticky dread in his stomach was easier to ignore that way. Controlling the circ*mstances mattered.
Kei tucked her legs up into a neat crisscross on the mattress, shuffling a little to face him. She tilted her head to one side with an assessing gaze trained on Tim, like she expected something else out of his reaction. Hell if Tim knew what. “I guess you’re feeling better?”
Tim nodded, the next question probably clear in his expression already.
“Okay, so, status update: Batman’s on the Watchtower. He stopped by to get a look at your chart. Then Batman got called to talk to Mr. J’onzz, but that might be over now,” Kei said, while Tim ate his ice chips. Her instincts were good, then. “Batgirl said she and Nightwing have Gotham for the night, if…I mean, I don’t think anybody is gonna try something tonight, but just in case. I think he’s waiting on the buzzer, you know?”
“B’zzer?”
Kei pointed at the little bat-shaped device she’d been given what felt like ages ago. But it was probably only an hour. Instead of pressing the panic button until it clicked, Kei unpinned it from her shirt and handed it to Tim. Her actual expression didn’t change much—Tim was starting to realize that she had a resting judgy face—but her shoulders relaxed a little once Tim pinched it between his fingers. Like she was glad to have the option out of her hands.
Giving up a device like this felt wrong after everything they’d been through. Feeling the panic button’s weight between his fingers, Tim stared past Kei’s shoulder and wondered, Did you ever expect anyone to save you?
It didn’t feel like it.
Not with the way Kei had snapped from confusion to throwing herself into the pyre, again and again, like her goals narrowed to protecting Tim at the expense of everything else. At no point had Kei made an effort to escape, except in the sense that she’d broken through her restraints eventually, and then commenced her revenge. Something in her said the correct move was to whirl around and shred the people pulling the tiger’s tail. She’d only called Bruce for Tim’s sake, and as far as he knew, Kei hadn’t really tried to contact anyone else since.
Maybe she didn’t have anybody.
The thought settled uncomfortably even now, when they were safe. Tim had trusted someone to save him—or at least show up— and look where that got him. It was a miracle he’d survived the clowns’ unrestricted attention with his mind mostly intact.
Instead of trying to explain any of those feelings and fighting his throat the whole way, Tim shook his head and pressed the button down until it clicked, tapping out a quick code to send a message straight to Bruce’s cowl. Or the closest receiver. Same difference.
While Tim did trust Kei—literally with his life—a part of him still wanted Bruce to rush down the hall, burst into the room, and half-crush him in a hug.
That part won out.
“I’m sure he’ll come running.” Kei said it with a quiet conviction more solid than stone. Like there wasn’t a doubt in her mind at all, despite what they’d just survived.
It made Tim want to rub his eyes again, before Kei could catch him crying. Again. Last time, she’d been so damp with blood that Tim could pretend she hadn’t noticed. No such luck now. He’d have to just hide, but what was the point? The only person he was fooling was himself.
Part of what died, Tim thought, was that easy certainty. He still wanted Bruce to show up, but that wish was a feral, frantic creature taking up space in his chest. It shredded his insides on that operating table, under the Joker’s laughter and Harley’s gleeful anticipation. The actual faith that he’d be saved—it died there. Quietly slipped away into some forgotten corner and succumbed.
He didn’t know if he could build it up again.
The Joker might not have stripped Tim’s name from him, but he was still ruined. Broken. He’d find pieces of himself in the wreckage forever, smashed into unsalvageable shards.
Cutting through the silence, Kei broke off from her own musings with, “By the way. Um. If you want, later, I can probably heal you. A little.”
The words took a moment to sink in. It was like the jerk of a grapple gun, but in Tim’s head.
Kei watched him, looking slightly anxious for a response. Which probably meant her heart rate was through the roof.
Tim made an inquisitive noise, because talking hadn’t hurt less since he woke up the first time. After a couple of seconds, Tim raised both hands and carefully signed, “You didn’t mention that before. Why?”
Kei gave him a brief look of blank incomprehension—okay, so maybe foreign magicians wouldn’t know ASL—then pointed at her own neck and went on, “I mean, first I’ll have to use a diagnosis…spell, but I don’t think there’s any structural damage. Just stress and swelling. Again, only if you want me to.”
Tim glanced around the room, pointed at a couple of monitors, then at Kei, then at himself. Then he tapped his wrist as though trying to remind someone their watch existed.
Clearly, charades worked better than ASL, because Kei said, “Oh. Yeah, I can do it now.”
Rather than crawl up the mattress, Kei hopped off the bed and into her cheap paper slippers, shuffling toward Tim and getting the footwear secure at the same time. Once standing beside him, she reached out and put her palm flat against the junction between his shoulder and neck, above the edge of the hospital gown. Standing there, Kei let out a breath and closed her eyes as the fingers of her off hand twisted into signs Tim didn’t recognize.
Tim gripped her good hand with his, maybe a little too tight. He was just imagining the tingling sensation looping around his throat, wasn’t he? Searching for any possible distraction, he asked haltingly, “M’gic…?”
Of course, he’d seen Kei’s spells before. Even putting aside the literal inner demon, she did shields. She controlled water. Healing could fall under that very broad umbrella, but he definitely hadn’t been in a state of mind to memorize her chanting, in Latin or Japanese or anything. How did she do it?
“I trained in first aid,” Kei said, not quite explaining what Tim wanted to know. “This is…an extension of that.” She huffed. “Arguably, I’m not good for much else right now. Might as well help where I can.”
Cool. Didn’t answer all of Tim’s questions. He wiggled his fingers demonstratively and pointed at Kei’s other hand.
“Oh. Hand seals. They’re memory aids, I guess? About how to move your magic around to form the best results,” was her reply, though it was the kind of clunky chain of afterthoughts that Tim realized was just how she talked when nervous. “Not strictly necessary, except for some rituals, but that’s a level of mastery most people don’t get to. Or want. Or need. Sorry, I’m not explaining this well.”
“S’fine.” Ow.
Still, it looked like a completely different kind of magic than the kind Jason Blood used when Klarion kidnapped Etrigan, so Tim made a mental note to copy the gestures later and see if anything happened. Making that one magic circle with the blue powder had worked, even if Mr. Blood was the one powering it, so maybe this could too. It paid to be prepared for anything.
If only Tim had remembered that sooner, maybe he wouldn’t be here now.
“There’s one that requires forty-four hand seals if you do it the long way,” Kei said, like Tim had asked for clarification. Which was probably fine. It only felt a little like being trapped by one of the neighbor grannies from his childhood, when he and his dad still lived in an apartment with a landlord aware of it. “Some are longer, most are shorter. Though that one I can do in two.”
Tim made an impressed noise, trying to avoid the sorest spot in his throat. He mostly succeeded.
Kei ducked her head, gaze darting away as she mumbled, “Anyway. I’ll do my best.”
Even though having her lean over while injured was awkward and felt wrong to demand, Tim fought the impulse to cling. His recall of the moment Kei ripped him off the table was nightmarish and distorted by pain, but he did remember her hands. Her heartbeat under his ear. Warmth, even as he shivered and shuddered inside a borrowed jacket like a beaten dog. The anxious flutter of her voice as she thought out loud to keep herself on track and fought to tend to his wounds.
So maybe he clung a little. But only gently, and only until Kei pulled away with her spell complete and started muttering under her breath again. He did keep their fingers interlocked, though.
“…not exactly standard…but would it be…? No way to know…”
It didn’t count as much insight into Kei’s thoughts, except as unnecessary confirmation that she second-guessed herself a lot, but Tim still decided against interrupting. She could get stuck in one gear and decide not to help him.
Eventually, Kei sighed and shifted so she was just sitting on the edge of the bed, no longer touching Tim but looking at him with furrowed eyebrows.
After a couple of seconds, Tim held out his hand and was gratified to find her reaching back on what had to be reflex. With his other hand, Tim tapped the side of his neck and made a “talk to me” gesture at Kei.
Kei obliged. “I’m not an expert on poisons, so we’ll just…not. You have a doctor and an IV line. But the other stuff—burns, swelling, any cuts—those, I can fix.” Kei peered at him, any impatience either nonexistent or suppressed. “Do you want me to?”
Tim suddenly wanted nothing more than his voice back. He nodded quickly, pressing Kei’s palm to his neck like that would give him his voice back faster. Adjusting immediately, her thumb and fingers formed a V under his jaw with a feather-light touch. He was sure Kei felt the “uh-huh” locked in his throat, and if she didn’t, Tim figured body language sufficed.
Kei’s mouth quirked into a smile that only lasted a second. “Guess that answers that.” Then Kei closed her eyes—which had dulled to dark brown as soon as she talked about healing—and started channeling her magic into him.
This time the prickling lined Tim’s entire neck, then a wave of gentle numbness through his skin almost like aloe. As he swallowed without pain for the first time in hours, the cooling sensation swept down to his collarbones and shoulders and back, soothing tension out of him one muscle group at a time. With his hand on Kei’s, keeping it in place, Tim leaned back against the pillows with his eyes drooping behind his mask. A deep sigh escaped him as exhaustion rolled in like the tide.
If he peered out from under his eyelashes and unfocused his eyes a little, Tim could make out a faint glow reflecting off Kei’s. Like city stars, looking directly at it made the light vanish. Maybe that would mean something if he asked later.
Healing magic that felt like this was worth learning, if he could. Even if there was a cost, he’d pay it. It would be worth it.
“Looks good so far,” Kei said as the feeling started to recede. She leaned over him, more so as he laid back down, but her attention was stuck fast to her healing spell. It was no more intrusive than Alfred’s medical attentions—arguably less so, given that Alfred used needles when needed. “Just to be safe, try saying something.”
Tim couldn’t pass up an easy quip like that, no matter how tired he was. “Something.” And while there was a residual ache in the back of his throat, it was no worse than the rasp from a winter cold. Tim could deal with that, easy.
It was nothing compared to getting his voice back. If he wasn’t still sore as hell everywhere else, he might’ve jumped for joy. Done a cartwheel, maybe, or a frontflip, depending on what he could still manage.
Seeming unsurprised by the sass, Kei rolled her eyes. Tim thought he saw a gleam of gold in them before it disappeared midway through Kei’s next sentences. “Sure. Fine. Any concerns?”
“Cold.” It wasn’t so bad, though. Sort of like if he’d brushed his teeth or drank mint tea.
Kei blinked at him. Then: “Oh. Well, my strongest element is water, so maybe that makes sense…?” She shook her head though as if to dislodge the tangent. “No, I mean—uh, does it still hurt anywhere?”
“The back.” Tim ran his finger along the hollow under his Adam’s apple, guiding Kei’s eyes and her power at once. His left hand slid down to rest against his chest, curled loosely around his blanket. His right lingered on Kei’s hand. “Not serious.”
“Stay awake, Robin. I’ll need the feedback.” As she said that, the tingling sensation faded to nearly nothing as her power pulled back ahead of her physical self. “I’m almost done.”
“Done with what?”
Tim’s eyes snapped open wide again to see Bruce sweeping into the room like a wrathful shadow.
Feeling like a bug under a magnifying glass, Kei refrained from tugging out of Robin’s grip mostly because she was sure Batman would explode if she moved. If anyone moved, really. Specifically, if Kei shifted and Robin’s death-grip on her hand took him a fraction of an inch out of Batman’s too-careful fussing range, there would be an incident. So, Kei leaned away as far as she could without overextending her arm, breathed out through her nose, and waited. All while pretending not to hear a word being said.
At least Batman wasn’t going to punch Kei in the head for (apparently) strangling his protégé? She wasn’t ready enough for that to guarantee nobody would break any bones.
He would have failed.
That includes the outcome where he breaks his hand on my face.
As if to punctuate this, Robin let her go once Batman enfolded him in a careful hug, mostly because otherwise he couldn’t use both arms to reciprocate.
While not as big as animation and stylization made him in her memory, Kei had to assume being enveloped in Batman’s arms and cape was a little like being bear-hugged by a literal bear. Teenager or not, Robin half-disappeared into that darkness and didn’t look like he cared if he vanished completely. Not that Kei could blame him, given all the blankets she’d been dragging around for the past few hours. It was just probably warmer than a cloth nest.
Thus reassured, Kei retreated to the other end of the bed, snatched up the tablet, and dropped herself into one of the pleather-lined visitor chairs. Starting up a game of Solitaire (and losing) seemed a better use of her talents at the moment.
Overall, Kei didn’t know how well she dealt with other people’s minefields. Didn’t know if she could really give herself a grade, except maybe a passing score in “being conveniently huggable.” Hers, at least, were clearly marked. She hadn’t truly blown up at anyone who didn’t deserve it in years.
But even Kei had to admit that “deserved it” was a load-bearing concept here.
Those who make themselves our enemies will not have time for regret, Isobu rumbled from their shared headspace.
And Isobu, of course, didn’t care one f*cking bit about proportionate response. Or about playing with his food. The time between “the Joker realizing he’d made a fatal mistake” and “the Joker’s exciting new career as a crime scene photo” likely lasted seconds.
Kei still told him, Okay, Killer, no need for that.
For now.
Viewed with a bit more distance—such as an hour to reflect—Kei’s utter inability to just run away from the situation would likely qualify as a trauma reaction. While familiar with the concept of repressed memories, Kei believed in them only as far as shinobi shenanigans and Isobu’s recent party trick were concerned. Even then, it was a close thing. Having a fight-or-flight instinct locked to “freeze” was an excellent way to get herself killed later if she didn’t find a way to address it.
Like, say, a session with her therapist. Whenever that happened.
She instead poked cautiously at the little knot of envy building in her chest.
Sensei would be here, if he could. If he had the slightest idea where Kei had ended up after going home alive and well. Only, given the whole situation thus far, “missing student on a space station” didn’t seem like a puzzle even a space-time ninjutsu genius was just going to realize was the correct answer. Shinobi didn’t really do rocketry. Or outer space. But if they did understand all the relevant concepts, Kei thought, Sensei and the rest would’ve shown up for her like they did after Sorayama.
It’d taken a lot of pain and careful conversation to make Kei believe again, so she didn’t want to lose it now because someone out there was f*cking with her again.
Still, that rational breakdown didn’t mean much in the face of reality. Which was that, ultimately, Kei was homesick as hell and kind of wanted a hug. Just not from these people. Sort of a problem squared, which equaled a bit of well-earned moping time. It was just that she didn’t have any real privacy to really brood about it.
Maybe it was best to try and count her blessings instead.
Well, she still had all her limbs. Even if one of them couldn’t channel chakra, Kei could still fight with the other three at her non-Isobu baseline. The muscle tone was still there. Without his direct intervention, Kei’s personal chakra capacity had expanded enough over the last four years to make up somewhere between two and five normal shinobi at the peak of their training. It hadn’t had a choice. But the point was that, sling be damned, she could take care of herself if something went wrong.
Also, despite being in space, she was pretty sure nothing around here particularly wanted her dead. Anything that did would almost certainly be trying to kill the Justice League as a whole, which gave her an angle of attack if needed. Worth considering that nobody ever expected the good ol’ magical ninja attack in this setting. Because, well, why?
Then again, maybe she could just find a playlist of pratfall videos on the tablet and not think about anything—
“—Genbu,” said Batman. There was a thread of impatience to it, like he’d called her fake name more than once before she checked back in.
Could’ve just thrown the ice cup at my head. Same result. Kei paused for long enough to grab that reflexively bitter thought by the scruff and hurl it out of the queue. In the end, she just blinked back to attention and said, “Sorry, what?”
“I still had a few questions for you.”
It was a strange sentence to come out of a man still keeping one bulky arm around his dozing teenage…son? Apprentice? Whatever. Their chosen terminology wasn’t really Kei’s business, despite her meta-knowledge stockpile sitting mostly unused.
At least Robin had managed to relax enough to rest again. Healing was exhausting for medic-nin and patient alike, especially if the latter was chakra-null and on at least three different IV drugs. Kei hadn’t really expected him to take her up on the offer, out of either an abundance of caution or just, well, trauma.
But here they were. Fifteen minutes later, according to the clock on her tablet, because Kei could zone out like a champ.
Batman still wore his full costume, cowl and all, but he’d taken one of his gloves off so Robin could grip his hand. Built like a bipedal bank vault, he took up two thirds of the hospital bed to Robin’s barely-a-third, sitting atop the blanket and acting as a defensive bulwark. Not against Kei— the angle was wrong, for a start—but maybe against the entire rest of the universe. Batman was the kind of man who’d fight anybody given enough incentive and prep time, regardless of power shortfalls, if it was the right thing to do, and Kei imagined this situation got on every single one of his control freak nerves.
Not that she could blame him. If someone grabbed one of her friends or family—
Kei stomped on that thought, too. The offenders in question were all dead and thus not an ongoing concern. Like clowns. “Okay. I’ll try to answer them.”
Though his cowl hid at least half his face, Kei still spotted the concern in Batman’s frown. This time. “How long have you known how to use healing magic?”
Oh, that was a reasonable question. “About ten years now. It was my first career choice.”
Until Yamaguchi-sensei realized he didn’t want to keep an apprentice who’d be out of the village all the time, learning how to kill under the tutelage of the up-and-coming Yellow Flash. Kei didn’t know if he and Sensei ever discussed it. If they had, Sensei’s politeness and Yamaguchi-sensei’s pride probably kept the conflict well away from prying eyes. No matter what happened, Kei left to join Team Minato like a puppy plucked from a litter, and Rin was picked up as the new student in her place. And, eventually, Rin was the one Yamaguchi-sensei designated as his heir.
Honestly, Kei didn’t have any hard feelings about it. Rin was better off pursuing her passion in medicine than the cut-short life that awaited her around the other bend. And Kei, in her humble opinion, was a more effective jinchūriki than Rin would’ve been.
“We never recorded your age on the intake forms.”
No, they hadn’t. It was probably a privacy concern among superheroes. “I’m eighteen. Or, well, my birthday was in July and I don’t think the calendars line up. It doesn’t really matter.”
Batman, unable to pry these thoughts loose from Kei’s brain, did not jolt in alarm. He did bring one hand up to examine Robin’s neck, as though Kei would have somehow f*cked up such a basic first aid-tier ninjutsu. Rin would have wrestled Kei to the ground and forced her through remedial lessons if she ever thought Kei was getting that rusty.
“‘M fine, B,” Robin mumbled, leaning heavily against him.
Batman looked down and made a neutral acknowledging noise, but turned his attention back to Kei immediately afterward. “You started healing at eight.”
“Two years into the apprenticeship,” Kei said, outwardly unaffected. Even at the time, she’d known that the entire situation was abnormal, but hell if she hadn’t learned a lot at Yamaguchi-sensei’s beck and call. It still helped her now. “My people really believe in early education opportunities, at least with magic.”
That statement was one of the most incredibly misleading things she’d ever said about Konoha’s corner of the broader shinobi system. Out loud, anyway.
Hell, a jōnin could pull a specific genin out of the pack at any age, as long as they met the minimum rank threshold and everyone agreed the older ninja had something worthwhile to teach. While that explained Sensei’s longstanding guardianship over Kakashi—despite being only a decade apart in age—it also led to situations like Anko’s. Of course Orochimaru didn’t bother picking out any teammates for her, when all he cared about were his experiments.
Yet one more reason to be glad for the snake Sannin’s abrupt decapitation a year ago. Kei’s sternum still pulsed with phantom pain sometimes, long after the Kusanagi stab wound healed in every physical sense.
The whole idea of prepubescent medics clearly didn’t sit well with Batman under the circ*mstances. Not that Kei could blame him. But, sticking to that topic like a dog with a bone, he asked, “Why would your people make a healer carry a powerful spirit like yours?”
Oh, like that condemnation wasn’t loud and clear in the subtext.
“They didn’t.” Kei set her tablet on the bed and held up her right hand in a lecturing position she rarely used. It didn’t work on her students, for one thing. “First, I was caught up in an enemy plot and they needed a vessel for Isobu.” One finger went up. “And I was out there because I was a part of a combat unit.” Another finger. “Because I was transferred out of my medical apprenticeship to make up a new team when war broke out.” A third finger. “And that was because I graduated at the top of my class, probably because my family’s legacy is basically a small dojo.” A fourth. “The enemy didn’t need me alive anyway. I just survived because help arrived in time.” Kei dropped her hand and added, “And there’s no way to split Isobu and me without killing me, so this is just how we are now.”
Batman was staring at her. Hopefully it wasn’t a bad kind of stare, but Kei needed more practice reading the man to be sure. And better control of her temper.
“No wonder you hesitated,” Robin said, having roused amid Kei’s spiel. Maybe she shouldn’t have been so snippy. He sat up, still in Batman’s grasp, and tilted his head as he studied her. His hand came up to touch his neck. “Still, thanks. For this, and for…”
For stopping them, Kei guessed. No matter what form that took.
“I know,” Kei replied aloud, surprising herself with the genuine feeling in her voice. And then ruined that by immediately tripping over it. “It’s not—I mean, I didn’t—” Kei slammed her teeth down on the sentence to kill it and start over. She settled for, “I guess I was in the right place at the right time.”
Ugh. Heroes used clichés like that. Kei couldn’t think of herself that way without wincing.
“Guess so.” Robin elbowed his mentor in order to get some more space. It hit kevlar and maybe an armor plate, so Batman didn’t budge.
An instinct trained into her by Konoha’s forests blared a useless warning to seek the high ground and get away from any impending confrontation, but Kei still didn’t move from her new spot. Sure, she could climb with one arm, but half the Watchtower’s contingent could fly and easily find her. Knowing that didn’t make the urge go away.
He cleared his throat and said, “You know who we are, don’t you?”
Kei nodded. And definitely noticed the way Batman’s free hand twitched, half-concealed by his cape. “But, um, I’ll stick to T and B?”
Robin had an entirely reasonable concern: “How?”
A reasonable excuse would be to blame—well, to blame the dead clowns again. To lie and try to make Robin believe he’d broken under torture, and she’d just been the only one to survive learning a lot of secret identities at once. And if Kei had been anyone else, or at least a more convincing liar, she might have gone with it. Sure, it’d make Robin feel like absolute sh*t, but it would preserve Kei’s secrets a little longer. Totally an even trade.
Instead, Kei rested her palm over Isobu’s seal on her chest. “Isobu helped me work it out.” By keeping me alive. She locked her gaze on Batman. “I already told Mr. J’onzz we’re good at that kind of thing. Working out hunches and stuff.”
One hardly expects the dead to tell tales.
And both the Bats present were local celebrities in Gotham. Any two-bit thug with decent eyesight could put two and two together as long as the masks came off in plain view. There had to be a few villains who’d worked that out besides the assassin cult, right?
“I thought I must have…” Robin trailed off, looking sick to his stomach.
“I mean, if you did tell me, I don’t remember it.” True enough. At the current rate of recall, Isobu would be sitting on that pile of memories like Smaug until they both croaked. Kei couldn’t even lodge a complaint, because the administrator privileges were definitely in his hands. Might as well just paper the entire thing over with a bunch of censor bars and give up on the mystery. “Sorry.”
That black hole of an explanation didn’t make Robin happy, but he just sighed and let it all drift into silence against Batman’s side. Kei had no idea how used the kid was to that kind of disappointment, but felt just a little worse for adding to it.
Not that there was a shortage of “worse” to contribute to. There was still that f*cking film reel somewhere in existence. Given the abrupt deaths of the sing-song camerawoman and the show’s vile host, the footage was probably unedited and thus made up hours of evidence of deliberate dehumanization and torture. Kei’s rattled skull let her skip over the obvious option of just torching the damn thing into scraps of celluloid and explosive residue. Like somehow knowing just how terrible the Joker and Harley Quinn behaved would save Kei’s own situation from scrutiny. It was some vestigial instinct born entirely of her shinobi training. Distract, disarm, disengage.
Hah. Mission failed.
In her occasionally-callous heart of hearts, Kei hoped Batman hadn’t forced himself to watch all of it. Investigating was important, yes, but there were some things a parent should never have to see. A would-be snuff film starring one’s own child was damn near the top of the list.
Batman said into the uncomfortable silence, “Genbu, what do you plan to do next?”
“…I mean, I can’t do much.” Kei glanced away again. Another major dose of Isobu’s chakra—well beyond this fizzy minimum—could probably kill her in this unstable state. “Before this, I was already supposed to be in outpatient care.” She waved at her left arm, which was still as incapable of channeling chakra as it had been months ago. “I mean, this means indefinite, long-term medical leave. Shorter-term…I don’t know. Existing in space and waiting to see what happens next?”
“If you had your choice of options, then.”
“I’d be at home, safe and sound, but basically doing the same thing.” Presumably, there was some evidence of whatever phenomenon had dumped Kei here, but no one had said anything useful yet.
“And after recovery, assuming it worked as intended, you’d go back to fighting. Not to your former medical career.” Something about the way Batman said “career” annoyed Kei, but she didn’t interrupt. “You clearly have a rare talent. Why not focus on that?”
Kei’s harsh laugh surprised all of them. With her voice half-muffled by her palm, Kei muttered, “You say it like it’s so easy.”
“It could be.”
It can’t, and it never f*cking will be. Not as long as Kei and Isobu were stuck together and known, publicly, as a jinchūriki and her bijū. The Sorayama Incident had proved that. She’d retire when she was dead.
Rather than voice any of that ugliness, Kei tried to focus on Isobu’s chakra brushing against hers, either as an admonition or a reminder of his support. Kei chose to take it as well-intentioned either way. Once she felt calm enough to talk again, she said, “It’s, um, not something I want to discuss now. Sorry.”
“Then…” Robin glanced from her to Batman, though he had a bad angle on the latter unless the point was to mostly see chiseled jawline. “Kei, are you up for a different topic?”
“...Sure.” There couldn’t be many worse ones. Seemed like decent odds.
“We’re headed back to Gotham. And you don’t have anywhere to stay, other than the Watchtower, so…”
“I could,” Kei muttered, trying to head off the offer she could suddenly see looming over the horizon like a thunderstorm. “I could stay here. It’s not a big deal. I have a room and everything.”
“You have a cell. Kei,” Robin said, “please don’t—”
“Robin,” Batman said in a warning tone. He must have told Robin all the fun details about Kei’s existence up here, and perhaps now would regret it.
“B, come on, you know she’d be best off with us!” With a surge of energy coming from who knew where, Robin elbowed him again, reaching toward Kei palm-up in a clear offer. “If your people come looking for you, doesn’t it make sense to stay closer to where you first showed up? Or we can all work on it together.”
What was she supposed to do? “I…I don’t…”
Being in space was quite a change from spending time in the local Hellmouth. Also known as “Gotham City, New Jersey, USA.” Weird sh*t happened there as long as it could either be considered a crime, a mystery, or appropriately Gothic. Sooner or later, something would definitely turn up. The only question was whether following them home like a stray dog would make a difference in the unseen timetable. The Justice League could still offer consultation if she was back on Earth, and she had no real intention of pulling a Shawshank Redemption and tunneling her way out of their custody. Not too many things would really change, other than the view outside the windows.
And then there was Robin, despite his brave face. If anyone needed evidence that his recovery was sped along by her presence, his obvious attachment could be exhibit A.
“Kei,” Robin pleaded, as though he didn’t know using her real name offered him leverage when paired with his obvious distress. As though he was ignorant of how much Kei had been a goddamn doormat her entire second life.
Batman wasn’t actually countermanding him.
Aren’t you supposed to only pick up kids who already go out and punch injustice in the face? Kei thought, incredulous. I’m not even a child!
Was “Batgirl” not recruited—?
Not the point! And Kei didn’t remember the finer details of Barbara Gordon becoming Batgirl here, anyway, so Isobu’s opinion was irrelevant.
It is an example that clearly counteracts your more absurd arguments.
I can’t do this rang all the way down to Kei’s spine. She stood up, sending the chair wobbling back onto its rear legs with the force. She set the tablet aside with entirely too much care, feeling the glass and metal creak in her fingers.
Maybe both Bats saw something in her expression or her body language that signaled that this was a bad time for this conversation, too. They let her have the last resentful silence, despite Robin’s alarmed expression and turned their attention inward. Soon, Batman was back to focusing on his son, who needed him even if nobody was articulating care aloud.
And Robin still asked, “Think about it?”
Kei felt—ridiculous. Deflated somehow. Exhausted and strung out and inexplicably caged, despite the room lacking an actual door . But she nodded, even with every nerve screaming at her to run.
“You’ll think about it, or…?”
Kei rasped, “When you’re discharged, we’ll see.”
And after a while, Kei made a vague excuse about needing the bathroom and slipped out.
“Agent A, prepare a guest room. Just for one.”
“Very good, sir. When should I expect your arrival?”
“...Whenever Robin manages to convince her to come down from the ceiling and onto the teleporter.”
“Oh dear.”
