001

[asinisterkid]

Who: Jason Todd and YOU!
Broadcast: Fleetwide
Action: The Marsiva
When: A few hours before the shuffle.

[ The broadcast begins with a close-up of a man's face, brow furrowed, head tossing slightly in the throes of some flavor of bad dream. His mouth shapes words that could be no and Mom. When he starts to move more energetically, the camera zooms out and pans down, giving the audience a good view of the thrashing and -- yep, that's actual fighting, pure muscle memory and surprisingly good technique, given that he's unconscious. Probably a good thing this guy's sleeping alone, because anyone in bed with him would be being beaten pretty badly right about now. By the look on his face, though, the fight he's dreaming about is one he's losing, no matter how good he might be.

There's a sharp indrawn breath when he wakes up, but besides that, the biggest clue is that he goes perfectly still for a moment. Then he takes inventory, eyes still closed, flexing his ankle to test for the feel of the boot knife, stretching and moving in ways that would let him locate weapons by feel, rather than just reaching for what he should have on him and letting anyone watching know just where he hides the goodies.

...Nothing. He opens his eyes, reaches for the ones that would be less obvious -- nope, even the garrote wire's gone. Whoever searched him was thorough.

Though somehow his jacket's back, and in one piece. Huh.

He sits up, looks around for a minute, and then speaks to the empty air. ]

...Hey, Bats, if this was your idea, consider me incredibly unamused.

[ Or, wait, no, that's not right, there's something... he knows something... ]

Wait, I'm in space?

Comments

[tothefly]

"That's a surprisingly optimistic way of looking at human history." She looks at him keenly, green eyes unblinking for a long moment. "There's a lot of blood in ancient art. Blood and bones and innocent lives." She shrugs just a little, looking towards the window, and when she glances back at him that slightly odd look is gone, replaced by something light, almost amused. "I've always been more interested in what's inside people's heads than what's buried in the past, but that's just my opinion."

She doesn't buy that grin and shrug for a second, but it's none of her business what he's trying to hide, yet. "Sounds like a busy life, all that globetrotting. Is that what you were doing when they grabbed you? Working?" A subtle reminder of how he'd made his debut. Although maybe he didn't know just how long that comm was broadcasting.

[asinisterkid]

"Scratch deep enough, and there's blood in everything. Only these days most of the blood that feeds Western culture and allows for the creation of art is imported from the exploitable Third World country du jour, and we use nicer words than 'slavery' to describe what happens... But hey, if you don't have to see the corpses, no harm, right?" He shrugs a little. "But now I just sound like an angry college socialist." He laughs a little. Angry, yes. Socialist... well, he can sympathize, at least. He's not capitalism's biggest fan. But the college part is where the funny comes in, considering he never lived to finish high school.

...It's possible he has a slightly warped definition of 'funny'.

"I'm not trying to change the world," he continues. "Just maybe help some people survive it. Sometimes a little bit of beauty helps." Or a reminder that the rich bastards who could commission the beautiful things can die and be forgotten, but the beauty remains.

And the way she asks that question, it's enough to make him wonder just how obvious the nightmare he woke up from was, and how much she might've seen.

...Shit.

"Yeah, working. I was back home by then, but I had a chance to learn the hard way not to mix personal connections in with work. Got kind of messy, in the interpersonal sense." Also in the blood and explosions sense, but he's riding this euphemism as far as it'll take him.

[tothefly]

He doesn't sound angry, really, at least not right now. Passionate, maybe. Determined, dedicated. They're qualities she could find admirable, pointed in the right direction. And she certainly can't argue with his sentiment. The world is much better off without a lot of those particular rich bastards. She's done enough work for them. Now, she's just hoping maybe she'll be able to deal with enough of them to balance the scales. Good at least, that the owner doesn't influence the art. They can contribute at least one good thing to the world when they die.

"Trust me, I know socialists," is her amused rebuttal, a glint in her eyes as she smiles. "You don't sound like a socialist. Sounds like you care how many bodies you step on, while you're off making the world a better place." It's also something she can sympathize with. Like his admission, regarding work and play. Or work and history.

"Sounds like a bad breakup," is her only comment to the latter, looking him over again with interest. Mostly professional. A little personal. "Does that mean you're back on the market? The viewers will love that." Irony, a hint of something wry and acerbic there. She's not a fan of being watched on any terms but her own.

[asinisterkid]

"See, now you're making me sound like some kind of hero." There's a hint of bitterness on the last word, a very faint shadow of pain, but he's masking that with everything he's got. "Sorry, my strength is as the strength of... one, because it's been a long damn time since my heart was pure."

Some might question just how long a time it could've been, given how young he is. But then, Natasha looks pretty young, herself, and there are depths there he's not even close to plumbing.

"And, so far as that goes, I wasn't off the market. The recent mess was... an old mentor, sometime partner. And not even in the fun sense... though if he'd been interested, I'd have hit that in a hot second." That much is nothing but the truth, though what it says about him, he's not sure he wants to know. But then, he thinks maybe it was the same way with Dick. Maybe you can't be Robin without falling in love with Batman a little.

Or maybe he's just really, really fucked up. Not that this little mental tangent is doing him any good right now.

"The folks at home are welcome to speculate about my tragic past and/or hidden heartbreak. Not like I can stop 'em." There's a twist to his mouth that says he would if he could, though. Possibly with a brick.

Of course, since he can't, he's just going to have to be really entertaining.

[tothefly]

She shakes her head just slightly at that, not missing the taste of bitterness in his words. Maybe she notices because she can sympathize. She's past the point in her life where she hated what she could have been, what she was, at least for the most part, but she remembers. "Heroics imply some sort of naïvete," she says, not so much shrugging as twitching one shoulder a fraction. "You don't strike me as the hero. Just someone who might do what needs doing. Whatever you want to call that. Either way," and here she smiles just a little, "Galahad was a hypocrite. In my experience, anyone who claims to live a perfect, pious, virtuous life is only trying to hide whatever horrible things they've done."

Experience ages people more than the sheer passage of time. She knows that better than most. She doesn't look at a face like his and think too young to know better, she thinks old enough to have an idea. Old enough to understand that it's always a bad idea, being involved with someone who plays that role in your life, young enough to want to do it anyway. He's probably close to twenty, maybe a couple years either direction. And looking about as enthusiastic about being watched as she's been feeling. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm sure they appreciate good old-fashioned violence as much as they do a sordid love triangle." It's as much comfort as it is acknowledgement for him of just how much she'd seen of his debut.