Warm Welcomes #1: Old Flames

== My Alibi==

 

"Hey, folks," a new, squeaky voiced arrival swung the door open and lumbered down the steps.

 

The short man’s entrance was met with an enthusiastic "Jumbo!" from the bar patrons.

Smiling at the welcome, Jumbo trotted across the bustling bar and sat down beside James Carter at his usual stool by the counter. Carter slackened the strap of his hefty mail bag and slapped his friend across the back.

 

Without missing a beat, Leonard Fiasco manoeuvred past the Turtle, and slid a glass of the Ant-Man’s favourite beer his way.

As he did so, his eyes met with waitress Celia Smith who blushed and quickly looked down.

 

"Oh, Len, what are we doing?" she asked him.

 

Fiasco’s jaw slackened. The question had caught him by surprise. Something was wrong. He kept wiping the counter, his hand stuck in a clockwise motion. My Alibi was burned to the ground. Carson and Carter were dead. Turtle was currently a baby. Celia Smith ditched him for Bruce Wayne back in junior high. And... And... And... There was a ringing in his head like there was an audience just beyond the north wall. A north wall, which for some strange reason, his eyes would wander past. Like something was there that didn’t want to be seen.

 

"End the simulation."

 

==Arkham Asylum==

 

Crane’s gnarled hand grasped the armrest of his wheelchair, a curled lip concealed behind layers of stitched burlap. As they observed Fiasco, a variation of the Cheers theme began playing. Billings grinned at Crane proudly, but catching his eye, swallowed, and turned the cassette off.

 

"There’s... There was a good bit coming up," he assured Scarecrow.

 

Crane looked at him, his lip curled. "I think you misunderstand the assignment, Mr Billings. They are supposed to believe in the simulation."

 

"He did-"

 

"Oh? Reminding Fiasco of Carson’s death?"

 

"He fit the archetype-" Billings began.

 

"I don’t want an archetype. I don’t want tropes. Or clichés. I want an authentic glimpse into a better life. One we can tear down and destroy this man utterly. Run the simulation again. No Jumbo Carson. And no... wooden Indian in the doorway."

 

"Hey, I never met this Smith girl, she could look like Shelley Long-"

 

"Enough. Run the simulation again."

 

It wasn’t a suggestion, but a command. That much was clear. And Dellbert Billings had been in this business long enough to know when it was time to argue, and when it was time to shut up.

 

"No matter," Crane’s nose wrinkled, smelling the liquor on Billings’ breath. "How is our other subject?" he asked.

 

Billings breathed a sigh of relief. Good. Crane didn't intend to kill him just this yet. "Let me show you-"

 

As he took hold of the handles of the wheelchair, Crane slapped his hand away. So much for that goodwill...

 

"I am no helpless babe, Mr Billings. I do not require your assistance," he scowled, gripping the wheels himself, and trundling forwards.

 

"Uh, see, Joker was insistent, Scarecrow. Didn’t want you, uh, 'Trundling off the edge of a cliff.'"

 

"I would be so lucky..." Crane mused, as his arms slumped down to his sides, allowing Billings to cart him off in the direction of the second observation room: Jeremiah Arkham was standing in the center, the cramped cell transformed into a sprawling auditorium. He was on stage, accepting a Nobel Prize for his strides in bettering the world's understanding of Mental Health, in curing all the sick and unhinged that had plagued this city for all these years. And he was smiling, blissfully unaware of the two monsters observing him from behind the glass. No, he didn't have the capacity to fight the simulation; his weeks of torture at the clown's hand had made sure of that.

 

"See? Fine," Billings spoke, taking another swig from his hip flask.

 

"A pity."

 

"I don't know about that, he’s a valuable hostage," Billings shrugged. "No matter how things turn out, the cops aren’t gonna risk one of their own."

 

"One of their own? The fascist fools in the police department wave their badges and guns around in the air, begging to be taken seriously. But Jeremiah Arkham is, was, different. His family’s legacy was tarnished by a mad dog and a doctor stricken by the same madness he had built this institution to tame. So, when he graduated medical school, he aimed to do what Amadeus could not, what Sharp, Young, Cavendish and all the other supposed academics failed to do: To tame the untameable. Not for profit, but for the greater good. And look... Just look at what that has cost him. His freedom. His sanity, perhaps. The pity, Mr Billings, is that he failed. Failed to resist your illusions when a lowly bartender, a parasite, a lowlife with a gimmick saw through your mind games. Gotham grinds most into the ground, but none fare worse than the idealists who actually delude themselves into believing that they can make a difference. It consumed Dent. It consumed Grange. And so too will it consume Doctor Jeremiah Arkham."

 

A crackle of lightning signified Zoom's arrival, standing between the two men, his red eyes darting between them. "The Joooooker wantsto seeeeeeee you," he raised an arm at Scarecrow.

 

"Oh, very well..." Crane resigned himself. "We wouldn't want to disappoint him..."

 

===Gotham City===

 

Garfield Lynns rang the doorbell and took a step back, ushering his companions to stand behind him in case things got ugly. There was a faint tapping of footsteps from within, and then the handle turned; a tall, red-haired woman had answered the bell; she had a glass of wine in one hand and was dressed in a stretched-out t-shirt which came to a rest at her knees and read 'This Mom is on Fire.'

 

"Oh," her nose crinkled, as she looked down at the group shuffling by the porch. "I thought you were dead."

 

"Hey, Clair. Missed you," Gar spoke. Behind him, Needham nodded politely while Joey dragged his feet across the ground, avoiding eye contact. Jenna picked at a freckle on the bottom of her elbow.

 

"Well, that sucks all the fun out of teasing you. Come in," she replied, ushering Gar inside and rolling her eyes at the sorry-looking lot trailing behind him. "Josie’s upstairs, I just put her to bed ten minutes ago."

 

"Alright, good," Gar nodded. As Jenna stepped forward, Clair placed her arm across the doorframe, blocking her way.

 

"Jenna," she said coldly, her orange eyes fixed on her. The glass of wine in her other hand bubbled.

 

"Clair," Jenna answered equally stiffly, standing on her tip-toes to match Volcana's height.

 

"Let her through, Clair," Gar called back tiredly.

 

Clair ignored him at first, her eyes shining with an amber glow, but ultimately, she relented, moving her slender arm aside.

 

Jenna slid past her cautiously and caught up with Gar, resting her head on his shoulder and muttering in his ear. "That woman is a sociopath by the way. You do know that right?"

 

"I am aware," Gar smiled softly. "How do you think I got these?" he asked, gesturing to the dry patches of cracked, burnt skin across his face and scalp.

 

"She didn’t…" Jenna gasped. She looked back; Clair was waving at her, taunting her.

 

"She did. I was all fixed up until Clair Selton came back into my life."

 

"I mean, I know Drury said, but I thought-"

 

"He’s being overdramatic, dear. It was all very consensual," Clair rolled her eyes at her.

 

As Joey climbed up the steps, he turned back to face Needham.

 

"You not coming?" he asked, perturbed.

 

"Nah, I should probably check in with Bats... Someone needs to explain... that," Needham stated. "Don't worry, I’ll let Brown know you’re safe. Or safe enough," he gestured to the doorway.

 

Joey nodded back, and followed the rest of the group inside.

 

Shortly afterwards, the trio were escorted into the living room. As they settled down on the suspiciously up-market furniture, Gar frowned, noting a still-attached price tag, and a sticker which read 'Display Only.' Jenna, tapped his knee affectionately, and rose to her feet. “I'll be right back," she promised, although there was a peculiar unease to her words. "I just need to hit the shower.”

 

"It’s upstairs," Clair gestured.

 

As she departed, Joey took her place at Gar's side, nudging his friend's ribs playfully (and forgetting that he had broken them not so long ago). "Psst, Gar, that sounds like your cue."

 

"Huh?" Gar grunted in response.

 

"Look, I’m no Blake, but seems to me like 'Hit the shower' is girl talk for, y’know, an invitation."

 

"Rigger… She’s hitting the shower, to wash off the blood of her last boyfriend."

 

Joey's playful smile faded. "Oh. I thought those were freckles."

 

"In her hair?"

 

~-~

 

The Misfits approached the Waterworks: a foreboding structure of rusted metal pipes and stone arches overlooking the Gotham Reservoir. The other members of the party kept their distance, while Sharpe marched towards the entrance and chapped the golden, dragon-shaped door knocker against the tall wooden door. There was a sound of shuffling from within, then the door creaked open, revealing the fearsome, hooded visage of Shiro Ito. The doctor was holding a wax candle, which sat on a round metal tray, illuminating his reptilian eyes.

 

"Montgomery?" Ito answered, his eyes softening as he recognised his late-night caller. “What brings you by so late? If you are looking for Cynthia, then I am afraid to say that she is in her room, no doubt gossiping with her friends; you know how children are... I was just about to watch my programme on the television.”

 

"Yeah, Doc, I figured," Sharpe nodded. In actuality, looking for ‘Cynthia’ was the last thing he wanted to do. "Thing is, my friends and I need a place to crash. Normally, you know, I’d just take them to my place, which is pretty bitchin’ by the way, but it’s only got the two bedrooms, and after the night I’ve had, I really don’t feel like sharing a duvet with Condom King."

 

"Montgomery, you know how I feel about your profanity…" Ito chided him.

 

"Shit, yeah, I forgot," Sharpe swore, already taking a crumpled dollar bill out of his pocket. "To make matters worse, a friend of mine, Blake; maybe you’ll remember him; he was the guy possessed by King of Cats before Gramps. And if you don’t, then you probably have Alzheimer’s. Which is fine and all, you are a hundred and y’look great on it, scales and all! But it’s probably worth mentioning at your next physical."

 

"You are rambling, Montgomery."

 

"Right- Anyway, he got stabbed. Another friend of mine, more an associate, acquaintance, to be honest, also got stabbed. What’re the odds? Well, pretty high given our line of work, I guess... You’ve met him too, I think. He’s called Ten. Cause of his fingers. ‘Course, most people have ten fingers but his are freakier... ahem Basically, I’d really appreciate it if you could help a guy out."

 

Ito mulled over Sharpe’s request, then looked down. "Montgomery, what happened to your trousers?" he asked, gesturing to his ripped jeans.

 

Sharpe’s brow furrowed. "My pants? That’s just the style!"

 

"No no no," Ito shook his head. "This won’t do at all. Please, allow me to stitch them for you."

 

The Dragon King placed his arm around Sharpe’s back, and before he could utter a single word of protest, he was escorted inside, the door closing behind them.

 

The minutes passed, and although the rest of the Misfits continued to wait patiently, Chuck was more skeptical, wondering if perhaps Sharpe had abandoned them, having been led astray by the Dragon King’s promises of freshly baked muffins and a warm bubblebath. A further two minutes later however, his fears were disproven, as the door opened once again, and Sharpe called out to them:

 

"It’s cool, you can come in!" he assured them, standing in the doorway, his cheeks a deep red. Incidentally, he wasn't wearing any pants, exposing his white underpants adorned with red and black suits.

 

Not privy to Ito's earlier offer, the Misfits approached the entrance tentatively, as their minds ran wild with speculation. Initially silent, Mayo addressed the elephant in the room with his usual tact. "Chancer, where are your pants?"

 

"Hey, let's not judge him," Blake determined, sticking up for his friend. "Who hasn't greased a few palms here and there?"

 

"Somehow, I doubt that his palms were the only things greased," Kuttler murmured dryly, as the group entered the building.

 

==Arkham Asylum==

 

"Among the suspects arrested tonight was former Gotham mayor, Drury Walker. In addition to tonight’s skirmish, Walker faces charges for his attack on the GCPD earlier this summer. Additionally, Abner Krill, for his complacency in the Arkham City disaster, and Ted Carson for the shootout in Gotham General have also been apprehended, alongside the notorious Calendar Man, who is believed to be the mastermind behind the attack.

 

Walker, known by some as The Killer Moth, is reportedly cooperating with authorities to-"

 

A boxing glove attached to a metal spring smashed through the TV screen, then retracted into the barrel of The Joker’s oversized gag gun.

 

"No," the clown stated, an uncharacteristic scowl stretching across his pale face. "The story can’t end like this: Not yet. There are so many loose threads! Incomplete character arcs! And it won’t. Not if I (and our readers) have anything to say about it!"

 

"Bah!" Crane scoffed, no stranger to the clown's odd tangents. "I grow tired of these games, Joker. You know as well as I that Zolomon could eliminate every one of those Misfits in one swoop. And yet, you sacrificed my Fearless formula so, what? The Calendar Man could feel included? Well now, we have no formula, no Polka Dot Man and not an ounce of progress made on your little pet project. Now, is the time to act.

Think! We have an opportunity here, to bring this city to its knees, and you are squandering it all over an irrational infatuation with Killer Moth! Have you considered the avenues that Billings’ illusion technology can open? The new wave of nightmares that we can craft for our victims?"

 

A fresh smile broke across the clown's face, as he strutted over to his wheelchair-bound accomplice.

 

"Tut tut tut... You’re still so narrow minded, Johnny Boy. Fear this, fear that... It's rather like you're fearful of trying something new!" Joker teased, tussling Crane's hat playfully.

 

"Theeeeeeee prooooofesssssssooooor hasavalid point," Zoom interjected, his arms folded.

 

"Thank you," Crane nodded appreciatively.

 

"ButIhave noooooo interest inconquestor reeeeeeeevenge. Walker isthe taaaaaaaarget. Andright nooooooow Waaaaaaaalker isonthe edge. Hecanbe moooooooulded intothis wooooooorld’s greatest heeeeeeeero oritsvilest villain, buttheother Misfits are a distraaaaaaaaction fromthat goaaaaaaaal. Andthatgoal caaaaaan onlybe birthed from traaaaaaagedy."

 

~-~

 

"Excuse me, Doctor Ito," Chuck asked. "Is there a toilet?"

 

"Of course," Ito nodded, pointing his wooden spoon in the direction of the farthest hallway. "Third door down."

 

At the ISA headquarters, Thomas Blake was watching the news broadcast on the Dragon King's television; an old, unsightly thing that didn't seem to have been replaced since the 1960s. Behind him, Mayo was helping Ito stir a pot of sauce on the equally outdated stovetop.

As Julian's mugshot appeared on the screen, he raised his glass, as though to honour his old friend. "Notorious..." he repeated glumly. "You finally got your wish, didn't you Jules..."

He took a gulp of his drink, and immediately spat it out, drenching the table in crimson liquid. “Dude, is this blood?!” he glared at Ito. All eyes were on the Dragon King now, who shrugged dismissively:

 

"You said you were thirsty."

 

"Not for blood!" Blake countered.

 

"Ah. My Cynthia is a fussy eater too."

 

~-~

 

"In other news, four bodies were recovered from a Sionis Industries facility in South Gotham. Commissioner James Gordon held a press conference earlier today."

 

"It is believed that this particular warehouse was being used as a staging area for a rival gang working to take over the False Face Society. Of the four bodies recovered tonight, three were high profile inmates at Blackgate Penitentiary. The fourth, a man we have identified as Henry Ferris, is believed to have been the ringleader of this attempted coup. It is our suspicion that the Black Mask, the current head of the Society, uncovered Ferris’ scheme and sent a hit squad to eliminate him."

 

"Here, I made you some tea," Clair announced, placing down a tray of three steaming mugs on the coffee table beside Gar and Joey.

 

Wise to Volcana's tricks, Gar swatted Joey’s hand away. “Don’t drink it, Rigger," he warned before tilting his head towards Clair. "Did you heat it with your hands again?" he asked, throwing her an accusative glare.

 

"Maybe," was Clair's response.

 

"You know that burns the ceramics. And our insides… Just use a kettle."

 

"The kettle takes too long," she shrugged.

 

"Like thirty seconds at most," Gar began to argue, only to be struck by a sudden realisation. "You don’t heat the showers yourself, do you?"

 

"Gar, do I really strike you as the kind of person that would mutilate your current girlfriend?" Clair teased.

 

Gar looked at her askance.

 

"Yes…?" Joey asked. "Absolutely, yes."

 

"Lord, I’m kidding," Clair pouted. "I’m not a monster."

 

==ISA Headquarters==

 

Chuck opened the second door, and as he stepped through, it was as though he had been transported to another world, and in some respects, he had been; the room seemed to go on for miles and miles and the walls were all painted in hues of greys. It was like Kansas, from the Wizard of Oz film; all swirling shadows and black masses, and it felt like he was being watched by a thousand eyes.

 

"Good evening," a voice spoke from the darkness. It was surprisingly eloquent; the accent was English, but old English, like a nobleman's or a duke's, or an aristocrat's. Its' owner, was standing several yards away, denoted by the slight glint from their sunglasses and the hint of a tall top hat. They appeared to be holding a white cup and saucer; the only things not caked in darkness.

 

"I was... looking for the toilet," Chuck spoke, the words finally finding him.

 

"Third door on the right. Thank you kindly," the voice instructed him. "It wouldn't do to get lost. Not in this dreadful place."

 

~-~

 

Blake wiped his mouth, and looked up from the table: Ito’s daughter, Cindy Burman, was awake now, and with her were three other girls her age, all dressed in baggy clothing that could almost be mistaken for prison uniforms, if not for their bright pink colouring.

 

"Speak of the Devil-Child," Sharpe sniggered.

 

"Cynthia? You should be sleeping," Ito stated, cocking his head to one side.

 

"Urgh, don’t we have any food in this house?" the girl complained, ignoring her father’s queries, as she opened the cupboard beside him and started raking through it.

 

"There is a carton of ice cream in the freezer," Ito relented.

 

"What, where you keep the severed heads?"

 

"I am well organised, Cynthia. The risk of cross contamination is minimal."

 

"You’re embarrassing me!" the girl squealed petulantly. "Let's go, gang, I'll order us a pizza since daddy clearly doesn't care if I starve!" Cindy exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air in protest, and kicking the trashcan on her way out.

 

"Ahh, teenagers," Ito spoke wistfully. "To be seventeen again..."

 

"Uh, dude, I don’t think those girls are here willingly," Blake tapped Sharpe on the shoulder, leaning in closely so that Ito would not overhear them.

 

"Nah, come on!" he snorted. "It’s Ito, he’s cool."

 

"Is he... Is he going to turn them into lizards?" Bridget asked, as she too looked over at the girls with increasing concern.

 

"Dragons, babe. And only if they force his hand," Sharpe shrugged.

 

Not convinced, Blake raised his shirt up, and ran his finger across his fully healed knife wound. "Yeah, well, I don’t think my skin’s supposed to turn green like that."

 

Kuttler, rolled his eyes, clearly irritated by the Misfits' irreverent attitude. "Very well, if no one else will ask it, then I will: What do you intend to do with her?" he asked. The Misfits each turned to look at Bridget, who sat isolated at the end of the table.

 

"She saved my life," Ten vouched for her. "I would have bled out in those service tunnels if not for her."

 

"Yeah, but no offense, Ten, you’ll latch onto anyone who can stop you bleeding for a while," Sharpe countered.

 

"I actually take quite a bit of offense to that."

 

"And when next you’re stabbed, I’ll have you indebted to me with some gauze and a couple of bandages."

 

"Don’t worry," Bridget shook her head. "I’m not staying long. I... can’t. I have to pick up a few things from Uncle Jacob, after that I’m leaving town. For good." But even so, she sounded unsure.

 

"Where will you go?" Mayo asked.

 

"Doesn't matter. I just... need to be away from this city for a while. Away from the Carsons and Walkers of the world."

 

Ten scraped his chair along the floor and placed it at her side. "Perhaps it’s not my place... Perhaps, god forbid, Chancer is right, and I do just have a dependency, a complex, but you did save me. And when you defied your father, when you kept that virus out of his reach, even if it was just for a moment, I believe you saved us all."

 

Bridget scoffed, dismissing Reardon's revisionist account. "I didn’t save anyone... Hayden messed with my mind, took the vial."

 

"And moments before, Julian Day dug an axe into my shoulder and took that same vial from me. At the end of the day, he was stopped, and you helped. You want to know why I have faith in you? Because faith... Faith is all I am. And I believe it’s all part of a bigger picture. His picture. You might not think that’s the case, but you did make a difference tonight. In fact, I believe you still can. If you stay with us, if you put up with us: it’s going to be hard, it’s going to be, quite frankly exasperating, but it will be worth it in the end."

 

He offered Bridget a prosthetic hand. His mouth was dry in anticipation, worried about what she might say or do. But after a moment's hesitation, after weighing her options, she took it, and shook it firmly. It wasn't just a gesture, no, she understood Ten's offer and what it represented; it was a way to clear the board, and finally do something right. And just like that, all those past grievances; the fights... The Arkham Moth, the Society, Chronos... it was all settled with a handshake.

 

Chuck re-entered, a phone in his hand, and perhaps a little paler than he had been when he had left. "That was Eric; Gar and Joey got Jenna. They're all safe; they'll be staying at Volcana's for the time being. Did I miss something-?"

 

"That's funny. Thought you said they were safe," Sharpe smirked.

Done