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minthysugamon · 4 years

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Barell of a Gun (Hitman! Jimin x Reader)

(Warnings: This one is pretty dark. Please don't read if you feel uncomfortable at the mentions of Paid Murder,Gambling,Uncomfortable Situations and Kidnapping. This doesn't depict Jimin's real personality. It's only a work of fiction. Please don't associate Jimin with this after you read it,he isn't like that in real life. IT IS ONLY A WORK OF FICTION BASED ON A JAMES BOND-AGENT 47 TYPE OF CONDUCTING LINE)

Word count: 2045

As soon as night has fallen,he started to get ready. Pen,check. Knives,check. 9mm,check. Everything was going perfectly. Park Jimin never paid attention to the victim. At least,he never let his emotions rule over the goal he had in front of him. And that goal was the 1,000,000$ he will get after he eliminated the person in the portfolio. It's a well paid price,and until he does the job without being noticed,it's worth it. He never accorded time to his emotions. It's a rational job,find the person,eliminate them,get paid. Nothing really hard. He prefers to say eliminate because killing would make his targets look like victims,whilst most of them are just rotten people.

"Agent 91,welcome. Please type in the password to unlock." His computer displayed the following words. He typed it in once. Doesn't work. The fourth time,same thing happened. "Fuck. Not again. I don't have time for this shit right now." Jimin was starting to get agitated. The fifth time,he just scanned his retina,hoping it would work. And it did. Thankfully. Because if it hadn't,the whole fuck-up would've cost him a lot of money and primarily his life,probably.

While sitting in the car,you had some Depeche Mode song your brother was blasting earlier in his room,stuck on repeat in your head. It was called Barrel of a Gun or something,the guitar riff was kinda cool so it stuck to your neurones. The ride to the casino was accompanied by an awkward silence,your date for the night has chosen some pompous place to dine at and now wanted to go gamble some money away. He was the son of some rich politician at your school,of course he would do something like that. "Did you like the meal?" The guy placed a hand on your knee,not as if you had asked,but for the moment you didn't do anything. "Yes,i liked it,even thought the wine was a little bit dry for my taste." He simply smirked and rolled up the partition in the back of the Limousine before his hand has made its way higher up on your thigh. "Well..if it can comfort you,i know that something won't be as dry as the wine tonight." Breaking point. You took his hand into yours and simply smiled. "Jacques,listen. I appreciate your gestures and all,but please,please,pretty please,don't ever fucking touch me again without me consenting to it." You heard a pop coming from the bone of his hand,not realising you were literally almost breaking it so you had let it go.

Jimin had stepped into the grand hall of the Casino of Monte Carlo,getting the casual verifications done. He stood at the roulette table,and since he had some time to kill,he didn't mind gambling away some thousands. The main point was to blend in,not to be outstanding. "Mesdames,Messieurs,Faites-vos jeux." He had forgotten how wonderful the french language sounds...as wonderful as a cat choking on some plastic wrap. His bet was put on the number 3,his lucky number. Not that he was superstitious,but it always brought him chance,so...why not this time? "Les Jeux sont faits." As soon as the roulette started spinning,he looked around himself and finally saw his target. But it wasn't planned that he will have company.

Sitting besides Jacques while he was playing a hand,needless to say,it was more than just boring. You never wanted to go home as much as you did now. Plus,the high-heels were killing your feet,it was a plus reason for you to just get up and leave. But you didn't. Simply because he was already kind enough to take you on a date,so,you had nothing more to do than just sit beside him and observe. Jacques wasn't good at Poker,even if he liked to think the opposite,and his loss was already over 100,000€. If he were a simple man,he would already be indebted,but it wasn't the case. The game only started to be interesting when another man sat down at the table and joined the party.

"May i?" Jimin asked with a small smile on his lips. He knew his target was beside him,it will be easier to calculate his every moves. But he didn't realise it will be harder since you were in the frame too. As soon as the game started,he saw that the guy wasn't good at playing,only bluffing,so,he took this to his advantage and told himself he will use the "I'm just tryna help you bro" card later. Jimin's eyes were mostly on you though,and he didn't calculate his emotions,but he would've been lying if he said you weren't beautiful.

You were looking at the cards in Jacques's hands. Seeing the 3 others on the table,he was already fucked,but of course,he had to bluff. "50,bet" echoed from the man beside you and everyone folded. Except one. The new player at the table. "Oh...i see you play with big amounts...let me make it more interesting then. Calling 1600." The black haired man's proposition made you jump a little bit. It wasn't only 1600€,but 1,600,000. "So..? What do you think? Reasonable proposition,no? Or...are you scared of losing?" The guy smirked and your partner stood up. "I'm going for a smoke. Pause the game." "Man,it isn't such a bad proposition,but okay...let's say 1,400,000 to save your honor." He followed Jacques to the balcony. Which was a pretty bad idea knowing how he can get when he's angry,you knew how out of hand the situation could get,he was the same at Uni. Anger Issues was his middle name.

Jimin was only trying to provoke the poor guy. Poor...let's not say that. He was the kid of an asshole that got rich by scamming poor people. Let alone,the father was a politician. The only way for Jimin to attain his final target was to hurt him. Not that he had to,but it was more effective this way. "Stop fucking following me. I have enough of your gimmicks. I saw how you were looking at him. You're on a date with me,not him." The hitman simply laughed. "Oh..you thought your little girlfriend came after you? Believe me,she has better things to do. Now,if you excuse me..." Gun cocked. Silencer already on. And fire. The bullet went straight through the younger one's head,in between the eyes. "Bull's eye. Good." As the body of the guy has fallen,Jimin started to wipe his silencer and put the pistol away. Too bad the girl was at the balcony as he did it.

"What the fuck have you done? WHO THE FU-" You screamed at him,but the scream hadn't live to its full potential as the guy from the table had silenced you with a hit to your head. You woke up five hours later,tied to a chair,in a living room in some old ass apartment,still propably in southern France. "Rise and shine babygirl,you're safe now. My name is...you have no buisness knowing it,but call me 91. Or Jay. Whatever suits you." As you looked around you,you saw nothing you could recognise. Only the feeling of the rag on your mouth was prominent,with the bounds around your wrists and legs. "I guess i should take off the gag...but can i trust you to not scream?" You nodded,already planning to get away somehow. As Jay took off the gag you inhaled and tried to scream but he had his hand in front of your mouth. "I should've killed you when i had the chance. I didn't need any kind of witnesses. But here i am,trying to plan out something so you don't talk. Now. Stop screaming or i'll send a bullet flying through your brain. Also..what's your name again?" He knew it of course...but wanted to hear it as he took off his hand of your mouth and looked at you. "Wasn't that your initial plan? And my name is (Y/n)." The sass in your words left him surprised enough to smile and unload his gun. "Wow,getting sassy i see. I like it." "Why did you kill him? Was it because he was involved in some shady buisness?" You talked way more than you should have. And Jimin liked that. More information means more time...which means a better approach towards the target. "What do i look like? A social justice warrior? Honey,i get paid for shit like this. But now,my only problem is you. What should i do with you? You weren't in the frame. And now you are here,bound to a chair...don't get me wrong,i like the view,but you shouldn't have wandered away from that goddamn table yesterday." You simply lowered your head and looked at his hands. He was fidgeting. Unable to decide what he should do. "You should probably kill me then. I mean,if i am too much to handle,and since you know i'll be talking as soon as i get out of here,you should just choke me to death...quick and effective." He smiled and took your chin with two fingers so you were looking into his eyes. "Let me think about it. But i already know i won't kill you...in the end,you're truly innocent so..there would be no fun in that." "So...you're pretty much a social justice warrior then" He let your chin go and stood up to walk around the apartment.

Jimin knew killing you would've made too much mess,plus,cleaning the whole appartment after it would have taken too much time. Plus...he kinda started to like you. You were the type of girl he could settle with. So he went with plan B...or more like,he wanted to go with plan b which was about to let you go and threaten you to not talk. But as soon as he heard footsteps coming towards the apartment,Jimin changed his mind and chose Plan C. "You'll be coming with me. We have to get away. I already lost more than 3 hours with you getting in my way."

You were quickly untied and he secured a gun around your thigh. "You know how to use one? Just in case,to be safe." Why on earth would he give you a gun? "I could kill you right now if i wanted." "Yeah,i know,but you don't want to. That's the positive point. Now open the window and get out." God knows why you obeyed him,but it was almost automatic. Did you like the rush of the situation? Maybe yes. Maybe it was simply because you were scared...maybe it was because you kind of liked the way the whole situation turned out. He was following you as soon as he cleared the area,and unlocked his car. "Get in. I'll be here soon. No more than 2 minutes." "Huh? Where the fuck are you going?" "Getting my shit and then i'll be here." And with that,he was already on his way.

No more than two minutes after,he was back with his suitcase and the briefcase containing some papers,his pc and most importantly,the money. "Buckle the belt. We'll be on the road for 10 to 15 hours..." "Where are we going?" He simply smiled and turned the engine on. "Let that be a surprise..." "So...you're pretty much kidnapping me,right?"

He chuckled and looked into the rear-view mirror. "It's better than the barrel of a gun against your head at least. And...you'll see,it won't be as bad as you think."

Was this really the life you were about to live? Probably. Was it safe? Probably not,but did you have any other choice? No. But...little did you know,it wasn't as bad as it seemed.

(Y'all,i'm sorry if it is bad...i really wanted something different but in the end idk...it doesn't seem good to me...i let you all be the judge)

#bts #bts scenarios #bts au #jimin au #bts jimin #park jimin #jimin #jimin x reader #bts hitman au #hitman au #bts imagines #bts scenario

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chwpromoblog · 6 years

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CAMDEN CLAYMORE. college freshman; eighteen. booboo stewart. OPEN.

and, as chris chambers once said:

"It’s what everyone thinks of my family in this town. It’s what they think of me. I’m just one of those low-life Chambers kids."

BEFORE THE PARTY;

Born on the wrong side of the tracks into a house barely big enough for one person, let alone a family of as big as his, Camden Claymore was branded with a bad reputation from the get go. Camden was born third to a gambler for a father and his mother- an alcoholic that came complete with a whole list of other problems. Given their parents inability to care for their children, the Claymore brothers had learned to defend one another from a young age. In fact, the brothers were quite notorious around Rosewood. They had been deemed nuisances and troubled. These were words Camden had often heard thrown in his direction. But if only they knew that what they stole was often the only meal they got that day, they committed these crimes so that they wouldn’t starve. But he differed from his brothers in that, he didn’t celebrate his bad behavior. It was a simply a means to an end. He especially didn’t relish in it, given what’d occurred to his eldest brother. Sid had gone down the Greaser route and because of his Greaser background, he’d was stabbed to death in a brawl over drugs with a rival gang member. His second oldest brother, ‘Ace’ was a proud high school dropout. One that followed in Sid’s footsteps and joined the Greasers. So given his family's bad reputation, people didn’t think highly of him. Although if you stopped to talk to him, you’d come to realize that he couldn’t have been more different than the Claymores that had preceded him.

Camden was intelligent. In fact, he was one of the brightest students in his class. So why was it that he wasn’t as praised as some of his fellow peers? His pride stopped him from allowing a spotlight to be placed on him. So often, his teacher assumed that he wouldn’t amount to much. They looked at him and they saw this dirty kid from the other side of the tracks. He might have known the answer to a problem, but they’d pass him over because they assumed he’d say something idiotic. They saw him and they just saw what his last name had been turned into. He could recount moments where he was unfairly judged off of the top of his head with ease. Let’s say there was ever money missing from the school cafeteria, Camden would find himself automatically blamed for it and suspended for a week. So often he wanted to fight these suspensions, but it wasn’t like he had parents that gave a shit. They saw these as opportunities to leave the youngest Claymore siblings in his care as they enjoyed betting away the little money they had. So Camden just accepted his fate; always thinking of how much worse things could have been. He could have been expelled for a crime he didn’t commit, forced to do this every day. With that, his suspensions suddenly didn’t seem as bad as they seemed before.

Eventually, the school board caught onto what was happening in his home so his suspensions became in-school ones. It was during one of these that he’d met Gregory LaChance. He had been assigned his tutor, but it eventually turned to Camden becoming his tutor. Greg sucked at Calculus, in fact he sucked at anything that wasn’t writing. And seeing people for who they really were. He was the first to see what it was that Camden so badly wanted the rest of Rosewood to see. He wasn’t some idiot thug. He was intelligent without having to cheat off of someone or pay someone to take his tests for him, he got these things on his own. From that moment on, Greg had become his best friend. He had helped him integrate himself into the student body more. It was because of Greg that he joined the Young Explorers. Sure, it was a group full of wimps wearing stupid outfits to hang out in the woods but those wimps apperciated his survival skills. It was the first time Camden ha ever been praised. This club had also given him friends to call his own, actually his best friends. They provided him a break from the craziness back home, Camden doing the same for them. You see, while they might have seemed extremely different, his best friends all knew a little something about wanting nothing to do with your family.

So they became their own little makeshift family.

Devonte would often bring them food from back home, serving him extra. He would let the others know it was because Camden was a member of the wrestling team, he needed food but they both knew why that was. Trevor would provide him with laughs, and he was so thankful for those laughs. Camden, for so long, had lived with this seriousness due to his background but Trevor caused him to forget all about that and just laugh. As for Greg, he did so much for him. From offering him his brother’s old clothes to giving him a place to sleep when things back home became too much for him, he didn’t know what he would have done without Greg.

For that reason, he’d kept his feelings towards him to himself. Camden had recently come to the conclusion that he liked... guys. One that he had actually shared with his best friends which they’d taken very well. Of course, Trevor made the crude joke every once in awhile but they accepted him as he was. But how had he come to this conclusion?

Because he knew that how he felt about Greg was the way the guys around him felt about members of the opposite sex. But he’d only felt it for members of his same sex and now... Gregory LaChance. But he knew that bringing this up to his best friend would only complicate matters, especially as he dealt with the recent death of his brother and what Ace had done to his family.

The oldest Claymore siblings often butted heads. They seemed to have wanted different things for their family. Camden was interested in bringing his family up from the slums. He wanted to set an example for his three younger brothers and their baby sister, they could be so much more than the world they were being raised in. Meanwhile, Ace wanted them to be a part of this chaotic world. He wanted to raise four little Greasers in training. Their different opinions on this subject would often drive the brothers to throw punches at one another. Or as Ace had done following their last major blowout, destroy the memorium put together in the memory of Greg’s brother. This had not only gotten him suspended once again as both brothers had been on the scene, but it had also made the LaChance's hate his family and him.

Rightfully so.

This event had caused Greg to become distant from him. Somethin Camden hadn’t been prepared for. He and Greg had been two peas in a pod as of lately, so to lose his biggest support system had been hard on him. He tried talking to his best friend time and time again, but it eventually finally sank in. His brother had crossed a line, so he would have to give Greg his space. It would be the best thing for him. But Camden couldn’t deny that he had been happy when Greg had returned to their dorm for the Young Explorers weekly high stakes card. It was like everything was back to normal again, that was until Devonte came running into the room running his mouth about a dead body.

DURING THE PARTY;

Camden knew that he’d have to step up to the plate when it came to this trip, that he’d have to keep the boys from doing something stupid. That he’d have to keep Greg from losing more of himself than he already had. Part of him thought that the trip was going to be a great idea, that it would give them some time to bond. But on the other hand he knew it wasn’t going to be the best thing for his best friend, seeing a dead body after what had happened to his brother? That was a recipe for disaster. Camden was smart enough to know that chances were that Greg wasn’t going to be able to handle it, but he wasn’t going to turn around and put a stop to this whole trip. He had an inkling that it was going to be the only thing that was going to stop the small riff tearing their group apart from going any bigger.

And he was right; he spent the whole trip trying to make sure that the boys didn’t do something too stupid. Camden didn’t let his usual pessimism slip through. He was just glad that the four of them were acting like best friends again, like they were acting like the family that they’d been since they’d first met back in Rosewood Academy.

Actually seeing the dead body was a turning point though, it was like every bone in his body had frozen upon seeing the dead boy. It seemed that it was as if seeing the body had hit home more for him than it had for Greg, it broke Camden’s heart so much that he had to walk away. His heart was pumping in his chest so hard that he didn’t even realize his brother Ace and Devonte’s brother pull up. He didn’t hear his brother’s slew of curse words; he didn’t notice him until he felt his brother’s arms around him and a blade against his neck. It was as if everything went in slow motion from that moment, though he couldn’t have been prouder of his best friend when he saw Greg fire the gun Camden had brought along at Ace’s feet. Granted Greg missed, but Camden knew all too well know that his best friend was back.

alternate faceclaims and prompts.

#booboo stewart #stand by me #roleplay #rpg #rp #bio rp #original rp

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iphoenixrising · 7 years

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Batfam Justice is blind AU

This was kind of a brainstorm session with @satire-please when we were starting to think about something new. And I just really got into it. Thing Red Robin series right after Bruce takes on the mantle of the Bat again after being lost in time.

Getting B back from time, proving his partner, his mentor was still alive, pulling him back where he needed to be, was thanks enough for the hell he went through to achieve that goal.

The hug he gets at the top of the Wallstone Apartments the first night B is back in the cowl is just that much more poignant. It’s the first time he’s been hugged in a while considering how he and Dick left off with the whole yeah maybe a trip to Arkham and not to fight crime thing (with a little you don’t need that tunic anymore, amirite? thrown in). He’d been working on his own for a little more than a year and a half before the Batman, the OG, finally caught up with him.

“I just wanted to say thank-you,” B had blocked his escape, knowing full well what he was trying to do, “for not giving up on me.”

Red laughs a little, a very not funny haha because of how careful that tone is, and really, he’d expected B to keep Damian as his Robin. What other outcome could there have been? It’s fine at this juncture because Damian was apparently right all along, he was just riff raff playing at being part of the Robin legacy.

The Pretender

The Replacement

Hood apparently had it nailed down too.

And the new net array in his cowl gives him the details when the constantly working radar wave comes back; B is moving closer to him, the sound of his footsteps almost silent (and is to the mass majority of people, would have once upon a time been to him too even after all his years as Robin), and Red has barely a moment to take a step back—

But B already has him held tightly, pulling him against the familiar feel of the Bat symbol on his chest.

And God does he wants to fight it, just scrabble and lash out, throw his adopted Father across the roof top, to get away from this comfort, this meaningful moment that he hasn’t had in so long, has given up on ever having again. It’s a punishment, really, to have this just once and probably never again.

But he just stays still, not moving until B finally unwinds his arms, and Red can just feel that chin tipping down and those eyes narrowing behind the whiteouts.

“What happened, Tim?”

His chest lifts in a hard inhale because no, it doesn’t really matter now, does it? He’s not a Bat anymore, not since he lost the cape—Damian and Dick made sure he was fully aware.

“Nothing,” he lies easily, already pulling the modified grapple from the back of his utility belt. “I’m glad you’re back to you, that…that everything is getting back to normal,” and his voice goes a little hoarse, but he just pushes right through it, forcing himself to talk over the sound of his own chest cracking open again for those wounds to bleed, “and you’ve got a Robin to keep you on the right course, full circle and shit. I’m glad—“

But hands grips his bicep in a hold tight enough that it hurts even though the armor—the fallback for when one of the Bats was in a panic attack or if the Batman got just too much worry for one of his own in trouble.

“What. Happened?” And B’s voice is low, low and small, and very un-Batman like that Red jerks, tries to step back because, well, World’s Greatest Detective and all, but the hands on his arms aren’t letting him go anywhere.

“It doesn’t matter,” is all he can get out, “you’re back and you’re safe and you’re Batman again. It doesn’t matter—“ because I’m not your responsibility anymore. I’m not a Bat anymore.

“Jesus, Tim—“

“No, it’s fine. I’m good now,” he keeps himself shock still, carefully tilting his head up so B thinks he’s actually looking.

“I’m calling Dick right now if you don’t start talking to me.”

And the automatic flinch isn’t missed, the dead tone, all of it tells B more than he realistically wants to, “Dick doesn’t have anything to say, you know.”

“Oh? He won’t tell me why your room is empty,” and that tone is a whole lot of angry Batman, one that he really doesn’t need to face right about now. “He won’t talk about where you were for the last year while I was gone. Damian won’t either. Want to tell me why?”

“…they don’t know where I was,” he admits quietly, trying to step back again. “B…Bruce. I—“ he turns his head away, sighs deeply, “a lot of things happened, okay? He made Damian his Robin and I left to look for clues you were still alive. That’s it. I…got an apartment in the city and moved most of my things there when the JLA brought back a body in a Batsuit.”

Lies. He got the apartment after Damian came out in his own version of the Robin tunic—just totally springing it on him, no warning whatsoever. He hadn’t thought Dick could be so fucking cruel until then.

B is silent for a long moment, barely making a noise (and, at one time, he would have said Bat-stillness meaning no movement, not even breathing, but with his hearing advanced, he can pick it out).

“You’re coming home with me,” is the no-nonsense command, but in the time he’s been Red Robin, Red, trying to get himself back on his feet, he hasn’t taken orders from anyone—not even Dick.

“Nope,” he denies gently, “I’m not going back to the Manor.” Don’t you understand, Drake? I am the blooded son, and the legacy is, always has been, mine. You have no place here any longer.

This time, he puts real feeling into jerking his arm back, lip curling up in an automatic sneer; the old pain should have been worn away by now, should have been easier to deal with—

Apparently not.

“Tim,” and B steps right in his path again, blocking him, “Tim—“

“It’s better this way, okay?” He interrupts loudly, “it’s the way it should have gone down, B. Damian was right, Jason was right, and I never—“ he shuts himself up before he says something even more damaging, but dammit, he’s always been able to tell Bruce anything and he’s back now. All of it hurt for so long, holding it all in, but... but things are different now, aren’t they?

He fires the grapple to shut himself up, first finger out to the line of raised dots, allowing him to count how many feet go out until the grapple hooks tight.

“But thank-you,” is hoarse until the thing catches on something substantial to hold his weight, “for everything, Bruce.”

And a press of a button jerks him away from the Dark Knight who is yelling into the darkness after him.

And he’s fine. It’s not like he’s missing a limb or something, but in some ways this is probably worse.

Months ago, in the deserts of Iraq, the attack by the Wanderer left him in the hand of the League of Assassins.

“Timothy,” is a familiar voice when all he can see is darkness.

“Ra’s?” And he feels like absolute ass. Fighting bad guys in the desert on the hunt for clues Bruce is still alive (and you Dick can get fucked, seriously).

“Do not panic, Detective. You are currently in the heart of the Cradle.”

Still, complete dark.

“What happened?” He asks instantly before the realization sets in because the last thing he remembers is seeing that glowing, fiery blade coming right at his face.

And then nothing.

He flinches, his skin tingling because he can feel Ra’s hand getting closer to his own, and those cold fingers wrapping around his wrist.

Red turns his head toward the direction where he knows Ra’s is standing and with a whole bunch of ninjas at his back, but still, not even a hint of light.

“I’m afraid your eyes have been…damaged.”

And no, he’s not feeling panic rise because, well, League of Assassins and shit, but because Ra’s al Ghul never, ever sounds… hesitant.

The sinking feeling isn’t getting any better.

Permanent blindness is better than other alternatives. You know, like dead.

He had taken time to acclimate, re-train himself, even vanished to find Shiva for a week of owfuck to get himself somewhat ready to take on the League’s mortal enemies, the Council of Spiders. Within the four weeks it took him to get accustomed to using his other enhanced senses, Ra’s had already argued with his own people that regardless of his new ‘handicap,’ the Detective is an exceptional specimen.

The crux, though, is how Ra’s didn’t expect him to be able to beat the Council as he is now as well as take down the League’s systems completely. But, well, Bat, and very few things can hold down a Bat.

Take into account that he’s developed a synthetic radar system for the cowl; a little something inspired by Daredevil and Marvel comics. Only his version works in real life.

The aftermath, being kicked out a window, of Dick as Batman saving his ass from death by pavement, hadn’t been part of the plan. He was under the impression Dick agreed with Damian, the former third Robin had played his part, done his duty, and it was time for him to be out. Coming to with the sounds of bats in his ears and an achingly familiar cold, dampness seeping into his bones had been a pretty fucked up surprise.

Luckily, no one else had been down while he fumbled off the gurney, panicked still, only blind for a few weeks and without his developed tech to give him awareness of his surroundings. Still, he’d managed to find the suit close enough on a medical table and get it on, almost running to get to some kind of vehicle before anyone could see him, could tell him to GTFO.

Nope, he didn’t need Alfred to have to be the one.

The radar net in his cowl was slightly damaged during the fight with Ra’s (who’s an asshole because now he knows where the weaknesses are, but still, WE is in his hands and he’s emancipated, so no need to report to anything to Dick), so getting on the spare Ducati is a righteous pain in the ass.

“Tim? Timmy?!” He heard the call echoed back, Dick’s voice making his chest go dangerously tight, but he fires the Ducati and takes off into the night.

From then on, he’s hit Gotham running, making sure never to stay after a fight, never to let the Bats get close enough to tell he’s a different man now, keep the comm on mute, make sure they don’t find you. He dodges every attempt of the new Batman and his team to talk and instead goes back to the task at hand, finding the real Batman, proving to everyone (except the Titans) that he isn’t crazy.

Bruce isn’t someone who gives up once he’s been told no.

Ask Alfred, he’ll vouch and probably get into a storytelling mood.

And he very pointedly pulls the feed of the rooftop meeting with Red Robin so Dick and Damian can watch after patrol the same evening.

Dick spots it immediately, something very not right in the way Tim moves, the way he tenses, the way he tracks. Damian stares with arms crossed over his chest, feigning boredom, but quirks a brow when Drake claims, “Damian is right, Jason is right” and wonders what he had indeed been correct about.

And after a few months of his two sons dancing around the “what happened with Tim?” question, they finally give B the down and dirty deets.

“At the time,” Damian admits slowly, “I was…cruel, Father. I cannot explain why, for there are multiple reasons. Suffice to say, I told Drake on numerous occasions he no longer belonged in the Manor, and the legacy of Robin belonged to me as my birthright. I also made attempts to cause him harm, of which he had no other alternative except to defend himself,” and he remembers almost shoring through Drake’s grapple with shame. The vigilante, his predecessor, the adopted brother that saved Father, brought him back, was right all along, proved himself to be the real “true son.”

Damian has had time to come to grips with the iniquitous nature of his actions. Perhaps, if Father could convince Drake to indeed come back, he could have the time to try making amends, to show him gratitude for returning his Father, for never giving up, for being the better Robin.

That is, if Drake would even allow him the opportunity.

Dick, arms tight around himself, sighs with genuine exhaustion, and B feels a pang of guilt for the burdens he’d put on his oldest son. It hurts even more when Dick starts talking, spilling the words out as fast as he can, trying to get the worst over with as quickly as possible—the same tendency from his boyhood.

“I did it wrong,” the eldest admits without hesitation, “I made the right choices for the right reasons. Dami needed the tunic, and Tim…Tim didn’t need me as a mentor the way Dami did,” and he completely ignores the chuff from the ten-year-old because they both know it’s true, “but I tried to convince him to get professional help when he thought you were alive. I thought…I thought he might be having a breakdown. All those deaths, and then you, too? I couldn’t see past everything else to even consider he might be right. To make it worse, I just gave Dami a new Robin costume without telling Tim until the last minute; he had to find out the hard way.”

And it haunts him, the way Tim Drake had said on the recorded feed Jason was right because Dick is well-aware of the Red Hood’s grudge against the boy that took up the mantle after him—the boy he claimed was only a replacement, never a real part of the family, just a stand-in until the next Robin came.

Tim hadn’t believed Jason’s bullshit before now (or had he?), and Dick takes the blame for it directly on his shoulders.

After the two of them have said their pieces, B sends them both upstairs for the night and hits up the showers, grabs a cup of coffee, and starts doing research.

Red hasn’t seen the Titans since the whole come to Gotham and save some nice people, do me a solid here, debacle. Sure, Kon has texted and called, hoping for a break in the vigilante’s schedule, but Red…can’t face them yet, not without necessity riding him.

And it sucks, to keep moving on his own, to keep figuring out new ways to fight the same kind of criminals he always has, how to keep one step ahead of the game.

It’s been hard, but like he did the first time around, when he was that kind of Robin, he’s going to do what he needs to do, he’s not going to give up. Living some normal life as a blind person isn’t an option (well, the blind thing, yes, but the normal person, nope), so he keeps moving, keeps creating, burns the shit out of himself when he attempts to make something that will allow him to hack again, a pad with grooves that shift as the web page does. Next is to figure out DOS.

So when he’s not on the move, when he needs to hide, he goes back to the Perch in Gotham, down under the first floor into the basement with his workshop, set-up right after he bought the place and started moving things in, setting everything up to be a proverbial HQ before he went off to Europe in hopes of finding clues his mentor (father) was still alive. It had been a good idea to get a place away from the Manor, the Cave, away from all things Wayne and Bat since he wasn’t Robin anymore, couldn’t depend on their tolerance of him in their home.

It all worked out just fine anyway.

The Gotham Perch was mostly self-sustaining, nothing to trigger indications of his presence unless he was upstairs working rather than down here. The cot in the corner (exactly seven steps from his work bench) is plenty for when he can’t possibly work anymore.

While he’s treating another burn from using a soldering tool, his phone rings again, and he feels the vibrations through his workbench.

“Call from Clone Boy.”

“Ignore,” he responds, trying to wrap the bandages around his palm where it hurts like hell.

“Text received.”

He sighs, “read it.”

“Dude. Nightwing and Batman are tearing shit up looking for you. They’ve been to the Tower three times in the last week alone. Maybe you should come out of fucking exile and talk to someone. Like me, you asshole.”

“Compose text,” he replies, and the phone gives a chime. “If they need intel, they know my email. Don’t worry about it, probably just some data or analysis. You know, Bats and shit. Send.”

Another chime, just pitched slightly higher.

He goes back to work, determined to make the tools he’s going to need to really get his game back.

But the Bats don’t need intel, don’t need a detective, don’t need a replacement. Whatever they want is apparently important because they’ve got O looking for any trace of him over every feed she can access, and continually trying to hack his phone for his location. The thing rings over and over from Dick’s number, only one message left in all those instances: “Tim. Call me or I’m going to kick up the search a notch.”

He doesn’t.

Instead, he takes off, goes out of Gotham for a few days to have some levity time, test out his gadgets. The radar pulses eliminate the need for a cane (bonus) and give him a pretty good idea of perception—as in, how far his punches and kick should reach so he knocks someone out rather than kills them. The ‘hack pad’ as he’s come to call it is also a definite win for the home team. He can reach over and feel the screen in front of him shifting, the pad forming braille under his fingers.

But it’s not until he’s back on the streets, going back to his roots for the hundredth time since he was blinded, that someone gets him with a crowbar across the cowl, knocking the radar out and almost taking him down for the count in the process. He gives a good punch back before dropping to his knees at the wave of nausea hitting, making him gag for a moment, bo in hand, sweeping out to find obstacles, get his directional bearings, and make sure the baddies are down for the count.

He fumbles in his utility belt for a moment, looking for modified zip ties when the nearly-silent sound of shadows spreading catches his attention, and Red is up on his feet, fighting the waves of sickness threatening, the push of unconsciousness.

“Nice job, Baby Bird,” N’s voice is warm and affections, and who knows why the fuck that is.

Instead of replying, he snarls, upper lip curling in a sneer, he already has his modified grapple, ready to fly—

“Please wait,” and the edge of desperation to N’s voice makes him back right up against the alleyway wall, free hand automatically slapping on it, grounding himself, getting his footing again. “God, Tim, please just—just five minutes, that’s all I’m asking.”

And because he feels like ass right about now since—

—Xavier is going to be a fucking awful companion for the next forty-eight hours, he just breaks a little.

“What the fuck do you want?” Is tired, a weariness that goes down to the soul. “Am I supposed to be out of Gotham, too? Just out of the Bats, out of the Manor not good enough for you or your partner? Fucking fine, just fine, give me forty-eight hours and I’ll be—“

But the concussion, lack of sleep, malfunctioning radar array, all of it gives N the perfect chance to get way too close for comfort—and he doesn’t feel the heat of Dick’s body through the Nightwing suit, hear the silent steps, the soft snaps of interrupted air signaling movement until it’s too late to run.

He fired the grapple as his knees give out, just in time for N to catch him in one arm, wrestle the grapple out of his hand to retract it.

“You’re hurt,” N is saying against his temple, “so, lemme just get you somewhere safe and we can talk, Timmy. Just talk.”

“Nothing to say,” he replies with conviction, swallowing back a mouthful of bile. “And no, I’ve got my own back now, thanks. Tell me what the hell you want so I can be on my way.” He pushes, both palms against Dick’s chest, making the older vigilante take a step back.

The hurt noise coming from deep in N’s chest is really just not his fucking concern.

“Timmy,” is breathed out, not like the last time when they were arguing about Tim getting, you know, fired when Dick was beyond done with him, only talking to him with exasperation and annoyance. And yeah, oh yeah he remembers.

“Five minutes, remember? I have bad guys to tie up.”

He feels Dick moving, choosing to stay right where he is so he doesn’t just hurl everywhere. Xavier needs a minute to calm it the fuck down.

“Damian and I—“

Well that’s not a good start.

“—we’d like it if you came to the Manor.”

He straightens, biting out a “for what?” while a litany of escaped bad guys passes through his brain pan.

N finishes fast, probably still fresh with patrol only a few hours in, “for dinner,” he responds softly.

“Why the fuck—“ is what he starts to say, thinking something along the lines of why the fuck would you do that to me? I already got the message, but he straightens too fast and the blood throbs in his head, drowning out everything else while his knees buckle, and he’s—

Out.

Coming to with bats echoing in his ears (yet again) causes the same kind of utter fucking panic it did the time before this.

There’s a whole lot of cranial owfuck this time as he jerks to awareness, throwing himself up on the medical gurney, hands already going for his face even as he registers air ruffling his hair. A bandage is around his forehead, tape at his temple, stitches at the back of his skull, neat enough to be Alfred’s.

Fuck.

His chest is bare, but he still has the Red Robin tights and boot, gloves and gauntlets missing. He swings his legs around, hand already outstretched, looking for something, anything—

Round, metal.

Bo. The specially made one.

Perfect.

A flick of his wrist and it extends out. Throwing his legs over the side of the gurney—

Footsteps make him freeze for literally a second and then move because he’s fast,

Batman, however, is faster.

Hands on his shoulders, turning him, making him dizzier, throwing off his directional sense without the radar array plus riding a righteous concussion, and B is gripping his biceps tight enough to fucking hurt.

“Tim,” comes out hoarse and deep, from far down in B’s chest.

“Bruce,” he responds dully, already pretty sure what’s going to happen here. “At least let me get suited up, then I’ll be out of your Cave—“ out of your city.

One hand comes off his bicep and tilts his face up. Ah, well, there’s that too.

He feels the disruption in the air by his face as gloved fingers wave a few inches from his eyes (c’mon, really now?) and reaches up to snatch at B’s gloved hand.

“Your eyes. Tim, my God—“

“Yeah, I know.” And he did. Ra’s told him not long after he came to in darkness, his eye color was a faded, washed thing, pale with pupils that didn’t dilate anymore.

He feels B’s chest stutter and the hand in his grip moves gently, slowly, the palm of the glove leathery against the side of his face and whatever scars might be there from the initial blinding. He’s not really sure, hadn’t thought to ask, and sure as hell hadn’t touched his eyes since that first day in the dark.

“When?” And just because he can hear it, the thick, watery quality of B’s normally smooth tone when he’s not normally surrounded by the criminal element, his own eyes begin to sting and heat.

He swallows hard because B doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t need to know the truth. “Bruce—“

“Tell me, Tim.”

And something wet drips on his nose, sliding down the bridge, and he lets out a shaky breath because B already suspects, so anything less would just be insulting.

Lowering his head so B doesn’t have to look into his dead eyes when he drops the proverbial bomb, the words come haltingly, painfully drug out of some deep, dark place twisting in his soul—the place where things he mourns are put until he actually has the time to give in, to scream, to punch and kick and bleed.

“Iraq,” and he has to swallow to make his voice stop breaking, “I went to—to find a cave where there was a sign, proof you were alive. I was ambushed by someone named the Widower, a member of the Council of Spiders.”

He expects Bruce to choke out an apology, an ‘I’m so sorry that happened’ because he’s Batman, and he’d never want anything bad to happen to his (former) Robins (even those that never should have been, right Dami?).

What he doesn’t expect is for Bruce to just grip him, pull him into a hard, inescapable embrace while the older vigilante breaks down and fucking cries. He cries like he has to relive his parents’ death all over again. Like he has to bury Jason Todd, his partner and friend, in the cold, unforgiving earth. He cries like he’s in real pain.

And Tim, Red, stands there, every muscle shaking uncontrollably, head aching because Xavier just need to be less of a pain in the ass, riding the ‘that’s an owfuck from a few days ago’ train, and… being held on his feet by unbreakable hold, depending on someone else’s strength.

And the cut of too-long hair at the right side of his head is damp, Bruce’s hand grips the back of his neck tight, the other around his back to desperately hold on.

“I missed you, Tim, I missed you. I’m so, so sorry this happened. I’m sorry it happened because of me. Tim, I’m sorry—“ is the litany wept against his hair and face.

He babbles back the usual, “not your fault, you idiot. Seriously, you were lost in time, how is it your fault? It is what it is. I’m dealing with it, I’m alive right now.”

And B just keeps talking, keep listening while he lifts one of his Robins up against the Bat-symbol on his chest and sits himself on the abandoned gurney with Tim held tight in his lap. He notices when the face tilts down purposely or moves to the side, Tim trying to spare him from looking.

But B does, he stares into the washed out violet-blue that used to be expressive, used to be vibrantly colorful. There are a few scars below each eye, some to the sides, one across the bridge of his nose, and of course, once they calm down, once Tim can breathe a little and eat and the concussion is gone, they can ask the more in-depth questions, get an idea how the injury was made, try anything and everything to counteract the effects, to give him his sight back.

It's a futile hope, but one B can’t release until he’s exhausted all options.

And in the niche above the walkway down to the Cave, a divet in the outcropping of rock is Damian’s proverbial safe place. At times he will bring a book and snacks, perhaps just his iPod for musical distraction, sometimes his wrist computer to watch Netflix.

When Grayson came to the Cave, carrying an unconscious and injured Red Robin on the front of his Ducati, Damian held on to the fervent hope that things could be different this time. He was not wavering between his old life and new any longer, and perhaps, if Drake would only give them a chance—

Father had sent him back from patrol two hours before, an order to complete his homework and go to bed for school the next day; the Batman still out when Grayson pulled up, Alfred already taking the limp body from him with certain hands. He had thrown himself in with them, already prepping the gurney, preparing gloves for Pennyworth, tying his apron around his back while the butler scrubbed up. Of course, it had taken the three of them some time to find the hidden catches and traps to check the blood flow from the back of Drake’s skull; however, no gray matter, no cerebral fluid, a bad knock and nothing more. The eldest of the Bats had begun a rudimentary testing, blood pressure, temperature, heart rate, pupil dilation, the usual.

Whatever he had found during the exam, gave him pause enough that Grayson demanded to know what is it?

“Master Damian, to bed. You have school in the morning. Master Dick, shower and eat.”

“Alfred—!”

“Dick,” and both vigilantes had flinched back, away from the warning in that tone.

Damian finally gave in, returning to the Manor to hurry through his assignments while Grayson angrily did the same. His niche, however, was accessible through a vent, and thus he was in place by the time the Batmobile returned home for the night and Father dove out of it, throwing his cowl off, eyes all for the full medical gurney in the corner.

Once Drake returned to consciousness and the youngest Bat overheard their conversation, understood what had happened, why and where, his chest seizes, and his eyes get hot and damp. Both hands jammed over his mouth, Damian Wayne cannot stop the stream of tears filling and spilling over when all those implications hit home.

Iraq, blinded while looking for Father, trying to return him home. Blinded and still warring with the League of Assassin’s most deadly of foes. Refusing to burden anyone with this knowledge as the Titans would have at least told him if they’d have known.

And just as Father cries, so does he, a terrible feeling of pain and regret, that he had scorned this young man, had been crucial in seeing him gone without bothering to look for his worth. Damian holds his hands over his mouth while his chest stutters on choked breaths.

#so new thing #all for satire #blind!Tim au #I literally know nothing and the tech is just made up #tim drake #dick grayson #bruce wayne #damian wayne #alfred pennyworth #I cried so it's your turn #lol

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projectalbum · 6 years

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R U Talkin’ I.R.S. R.E.M. RE: ME? 183. “Murmur - Deluxe Edition,” 184. “Reckoning,” 185. “Fables of the Reconstruction,” 186. “Lifes Rich Pageant,” 187. “Dead Letter Office," 188. “Document” by R.E.M.

If you’ve been following this blog with any regularity, you may have noticed how often references to R.E.M. weave their way into my appraisals of other artists. That’s because the band has become a bit of a Rosetta Stone for my musical taste: eclectic, ever-evolving, beautifully melodic, with evocative (or downright inscrutable) lyrics. I delved into their decades-long catalogue- piecemeal and out of chronology in the pre-Spotify days- at the exact point in my adolescence when I was forming what that taste would be. And now I must ask the question that has so ignited the public's curiosity: When did I first hear of the band R.E.M.?

My answer, at long last, is… "Hmm, not sure." As recounted in my entry on Barenaked Ladies (or “BNL,” as befitting such an essential band): during a high school trip through Europe, a bus ride from Ireland to Wales was scored by an all-over-the-map mixtape.* I was definitely already familiar with “It’s the End of the World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)” when it popped up. And I remember, sitting there as misty green hills moved past the window, that it sparked a web of associations: I likely thought of “Losing My Religion,” probably “The One I Love.” After watching a Comedy Central documentary on Andy Kaufman, I became briefly obsessed, and my mom helpfully told me that there was a song written about him, titled “Man on the Moon.” She pulled Automatic for the People, the only R.E.M. release she owned, off the shelf and played that track for me. I think I liked it, but I didn’t go further than that.

So, sitting on that tour bus, I figured that when we reached the London leg of our whirlwind trip, I would use my personal pilgrimage to Virgin Megastore (remember those?) to pick up a greatest hits collection. And I did, getting the recently released In Time: The Best of R.E.M. I loved it so much, I barely noticed that half the songs I knew, including the one that had inspired the purchase, were nowhere to be found.

As I later learned, that compilation was put out by Warner Bros Records, and as such was solely focused on the songs the band recorded while under contract to that label. And it’s true, several of their biggest hits came out of those first few WB releases. But wither “The One I Love?” Well, before they signed that lucrative deal, R.E.M. made their bones putting out arty, jangly, pastorally pretty rock music under the banner of I.R.S. Records.

It’s been awhile since I first heard their debut full-length Murmur (#183), but after the slicker, weirder, string-flavored tunes I was used to, hearing the upfront immediacy of the young-and-hungry band, playing as a tight group over a chasm of reverb, was a bit revelatory. Recorded at the now-defunct Reflection Sound Studios in Charlotte, NC (a liner note discovery that filled me with no small amount of regional pride), Don Dixon and Mitch Easter's production makes the jangle rock dreamy and beguiling while avoiding cheesy 80’s pitfalls. It’s all killer, no filler (I even love “We Walk,” all bouncy repetition and ever-climbing arpeggios)— right now, I’d say the earnest “Talk About The Passion” and the almost hiccupy hook of “Catapult” rank as my favorite moments, but that changes and shifts unpredictably.

The sonic muscle of Reckoning (#184) is cleaner, with opener “Harborcoat” immediately shaking loose the spooky cobwebs of Murmur. Again, the immediacy surprised me when I first heard it: I was hearing the version of the band that tore the roof off of tiny venues in sleepy college towns throughout the South. For a time, it was the comparative lack of the fussy arrangements and earnest, soaring melodies I’d come to expect from my R.E.M. that dismissed this album to a dusty gray corner in my mind. But the mark of a Favorite Band means that you can return to their work at different times in your life and find that while the music stayed the same, you’re hearing it with different ears. There’s not a weak link in 10 tracks, and songs that I’d once had trouble even recalling became new favorites: "So. Central Rain,” with its ringing Rickenbacker guitar line, melodic bass, and keening chorus (“I’m sorry”) is a fan favorite for a reason, and “Camera,” which recalls a departed friend of the band’s, builds to a shattering chorus. And of course, the one straight-up, tear-in-your-beer country rocker in their catalogue, “(Don’t Go Back To) Rockville."

I remember driving to night classes in my first year of community college, listening to my newly-purchased disc of Fables of the Reconstruction (#185). Now this was immediately my speed, with the spooky, menacing, string quartet-inflected “Feeling Gravity’s Pull” and incantatory “Maps and Legends" leading the pack. The band had a lousy experience recording it, and they badmouth the way the songs were mixed, but to me the thick-as-kudzu production is a big part of this album’s hallucinatory power. I love the surreal, umber and burnished gold and chartreuse cover art as well: though the layout looks a little too cluttered on the CD, I bought the vinyl record from a second-hand store just to frame it, with the “Reconstruction of the Fables” ear-box side facing out from my wall.

Not every track does it for me. “Can’t Get There from Here” is fun but a little too affected in its whimsy, and “Auctioneer (Another Engine),” already a bit monotone, is the track most hampered by sludgy sound. But sandwiched in-between are “Green Grow the Rushes” and “Kohoutek,” glimpses of the environmentally-conscious, culturally-sensitive side of Michael Stripe and Co that led directly into their follow-up, Lifes Rich Pageant (#186). They expand the promise of those two tracks with “Fall On Me” and “Cuyahoga,” to devastatingly pretty effect.

Where Fables was a nighttime drive down an inky-dark American highway, Pageant is a wide-eyed survey of virgin prairie, a longing to return to unspoiled harmonic existence. “Let’s put our heads together / Let’s start a new country up,” the natives of “Cuyahoga” resolve over the ashy remains of the river bend. "What you want and what you need, there's the key / Your adventure for today, what do you do / Between the horns of the day?” Stipe exhorts his listeners in “I Believe,” and the Southern beach rock behind the words pushes you to make your move. “We are young despite the years / We are concern / We are hope despite the times,” he belts out over furious riffs and annihilated drums in “These Days," Mike Mills calling out affirmation in his backup vocal.

Right down to the absurdist sea shanty “Swan Swan H” and infectiously fun cover “Superman” that close it out, it’s hard to find a more consistent document of the band’s strengths. And now, damn, I want that to be a crackerjack segue to discussion of their next studio album, but months before that final I.R.S. release, there was Dead Letter Office (#187). A collection of occasionally rather sloppy outtakes and covers of varying reverence, the main draw here is the inclusion of their debut EP Chronic Town (on the CD, anyway. I notice that Spotify separates those songs from the DLO tracks). The angular menace of “Wolves, Lower” and the subtle, melodic magic of “Gardening At Night” (Stripe’s almost unintelligible lyrics are Exhibit A for his early-years shyness) are justifiable fan favorites to this day— not bad for the first batch of songs from such a prolific group. A must.

Buying Document (#188) finally gave me easy access to “It’s The End of the World...” and “The One I Love” (rather than, you know, waiting to hear one or the other on the radio). It also meant first experiencing one of my favorite opening salvos on record: “Finest Worksong.” It sounds HUGE, to borrow an oft-accurate phrase from notable actor/R.E.M. podcaster Adam Scott. Bill Berry’s thundercrack drums echo as if recorded in a cavernous factory where the overlords have been overthrown, while Peter Buck’s guitar chugs and drones, a dramatic change from the nimble arpeggios that made up previous records. It, and the songs that follow— “Welcome to the Occupation” ("Listen to the buyer still / Listen to the Congress / Where we propagate confusion”), “Exhuming McCarthy” ("Vested interest, united ties / Landed gentry, rationalize / Look who bought the myth / By Jingo, buy America”), “Disturbance at the Heron House”— make the album, at 31 years old, feel like a queasy reflection of our current milieu. No one feels fine right now.

Luckily, the music is still driving, fun, singable, varied in its grooves and moods. “Fireplace,” coming right after the twofer of the most famous singles, provided me such an unexpected thrill with a rare appearance by sinuous be-bop saxophone, such a different color for this band. Sax in 80’s songs is usually an utterly cheeseball affair, but this is a dark, weird tune, and is nowhere near that register of power balladry. “Lightnin’ Hopkins” is just as unique, with a metalhead rolling drum beat and Stipe acting like a throat-shredded street preacher over echoey chain-gang backup howls.

This band takes up a whole shelf in my house, so hold on tight for several more comprehensive and encyclopedic write-ups.

*It’s been over a year since I wrote that entry, and I recently realized my memory is jumbled up. I now have a clear recollection that the songs from BNL’s Everything For Everyone were repeating in my head ON THAT VERY TRIP! So I was already a fan.

#michael stipe #peter buck #mike mills #bill berry #murmur #the one i love #lifes rich pageant #rock #music blog #album art #album cover #cd cover #cd collection #cd #document #r.e.m.

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chwpromoblog · 6 years

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