Warm Welcomes Finale: Burgers and Lies

===Crazy Quilt's===

 

Situated in the middle of Gotham's Fashion District, Paul Dekker's nightclub was host to a wide range of degenerate activities. The main dance floor was lit by a gaudy array of high-intensity strobe lights; seizure inducing shades of reds, blues and yellows bore down on the partying clientele. The Misfits, were treated to the best seats in the house; a balcony on the second floor that served as a sort of observation deck for the debauchery below. Wearing his best brown suit, Reardon worried he was a tad overdressed for the night ahead. The gang had been sorted into two smaller groups; the "grown-ups:" Gar, Chuck, Bridget, Ten and Kuttler, and the "boys:" Mayo, Joey, Blake and Sharpe, with both factions seated at separate, but close by, tables.

 

While the rest of the party looked through their menus, Kuttler refused to touch his until he had first put on a pair of thin surgical gloves.

 

"Sorry, is there a prostate exam we're keeping you from?" Gar glared at him, massaging his left temple with his hand.

 

Kuttler ignored him. "Siracha, Tabasco, jalepenos..." he read aloud the toppings of the house specialty; something that was dubbed "Crazy Fries."

 

"Oh, yeah," Joey turned his chair around. "Those are meant to be really good."

 

"Well, I have a sensitive stomach. And though it may be preferable to... this, I'd still rather not spend the rest of the evening on the toilet."

 

Arriving at perhaps the absolute worst time, a waitress appeared suddenly at Kuttler's side. “Are you folks ready to order?” she asked.

 

“Think so, yeah. Can we just have some sides for now?” Chuck asked, folding up his menu.

 

“Sure thing, honey," she beamed back.

 

Kuttler raised his forefinger to interrupt her. "Question: Do you have non-Crazy Fries?”

 

“If it’s not on the menu, we don’t sell 'em," the waitress answered.

 

“But you have normal fries. You must do, in order to “crazify” them," Kuttler countered.

 

“But we don’t sell them.”

 

Kuttler sighed, slumping down in his seat. “Two baskets of Crazy Fries it is then.”

 

At the other table, a pale woman in rabbit ears, stockings and a thong, slapped Blake's shoulder playfully. “C’mon, big boy, catch me if you can!” she teased.

 

With great self-restraint on his part, Blake resisted the urge to make an innuendo of his own, and swallowed. “Ma’am, pretty sure that if I chase you, the only thing I’ll be catching is an STD.”

 

The playful smile vanished from the woman's face, a scornful expression appearing in its place. "Jerk!" she hissed, hopping away towards the exit.

 

As she left, Mayo's eyes followed her "tail" in confusion. Joey nudged his side to get his attention, and shook his head.

 

“Proud of you man,” Sharpe patted his friend on the back.

 

“Stiiiiiiill kinda sexist, Tom," Joey observed.

 

“What’re you talking about? I turned down that prostitute!” Blake laughed back.

 

“Yeah, that wasn’t a prostitute, that was White Rabbit.”

 

...

 

Blake’s face fell. “White Rabbit? Jaina Hudson? That White Rabbit? Daughter of a Bollywood actress and a Gotham Socialite, turned to philanthropy and then to crime? Confusing motivations and even more confusing origins? That-"

 

“Yes, and for god’s sake, stop talking,” Kuttler turned around to shush them.

 

Sharpe shrugged. “That doesn’t track. Isn’t she, y’know-" he started, then stopped himself abruptly.

 

Joey sighed. “You can say it.”

 

“Not white?”

 

“It’s one of her powers,” Kuttler stated.

 

“She- She has white powers?” Mayo scratched his head.

 

Kuttler frowned. “Well, I wouldn’t quite call it that, no," he murmured.

 

"She was DTF and I just told her to GTFO..." Blake moaned regretfully.

 

“Hey. You were probably thinking of March Harriett. She’s a prostitute," Sharpe assured Blake.

 

At a nearby table, a man in a tan blazer was peaking over the top of his menu, glaring at the Misfits with contempt. “Do they have to yell everything?” Paul Strobe growled to his partner.

 

“It’s ok. It’s ok. Don’t let them spoil our evening,” Ned Creegan advised, running his hand across Strobe's back. He was wearing a cream-coloured woollen jumper over his distinctive red and black containment suit.

 

“I’m calm. I’m calm! I might fry Catman’s balls later, but that aside, I’m pretty fucking calm," Strobe complained.

 

“Eh. I hear he kinda likes that. Really likes that. Enough that it’s mentioned in his Find a Foe profile.”

 

“Uh huh. And why were you on Find a Foe, exactly?” Strobe snapped back.

 

“Reviewing my options," Creegan replied.

 

Strobe didn't laugh.

 

“I’m joking! C’mon, I’m clearly- Neutron wanted help setting up a profile. Things didn’t work out so well with his last girlfriend. He... well, he blew her up.”

 

“Christ... Metas date metas, why does no one get that? Keeps everyone happy, and for the most part, alive. That’s really just common sense.”

 

While staring out across the room, Joey noticed the duo, and pointed them out to the group. “Hey, isn’t that Bag o’ Bones over there?”

 

Sharpe snorted.

 

“What?” Joey raised an eyebrow.

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Just... Talk about a skeleton in the closet.”

 

“They’re looking at us," Strobe hissed.

 

“It’s fine. It’s fine. Just... smile and wave,” Creegan suggested, as he held Strobe's hand, in an attempt to soothe him.

 

“Smile and wave, are we the Penguins of Madagascar now?”

 

~-~

 

Once his sorrows had been successfully drowned, Blake slammed his glass onto the table. “Let’s hit the dance floor!” he shouted (much to Strobe's chagrin) and he staggered downstairs, tripping twice on the way down. The group looked at him cautiously, then followed after him. Hours passed and the Misfits got drunker still:

 

“And I call... I call this one the Catusi!” Blake confided in Joey, strutting back and forth with underserved confidence.

 

“You do NOT!” Joey giggled back. "You do NOT!"

 

“-So you have the mustard mash, and of course... The Ketchup Squirt!” At this, Mayo jumped on the floor, performing a perfect split.

 

Sharpe's lip twitched. “You’re a fucking legend.”

 

Meanwhile, Dekker approached the second table, addressing them in a singsong voice. Bridget avoided eye contact. "Gentlemen, lady, can I get you any more refreshments? Something stronger, hmm?" he winked suggestively.

 

"Oh, uh, Coke, please," Ten said politely.

 

Dekker smiled knowingly, then on cue, tossed a small bag of white powder onto the table.

 

Ten pursed his lips together. "I meant Cola."

 

Dekker's pale eyes darted across the table, then he snatched the baggie back and stuffed it up his sleeve.

 

=GCPD==

 

Chuck was standing by the admissions desk, waiting to receive his visitor pass. He was dressed in a beige suit, a pale blue shirt and a red and white striped tie. He was also hungover. Beside him, the radio on the desk blared: "You're listening to Sage Advice, with me, Vic Sage. Our next caller, is Michael from Bella Riviera, Louisiana. Mike, you're on with us now."

 

"Answer me this you faceless fuck, why don't you respond to any of my texts?"

 

"Brown, was it?" the desk sergeant asked, bringing Chuck back down to earth.

 

"Hell yea- Yes. Yeah, that's me," Chuck nodded, hanging the lanyard around his neck.

 

The sergeant pointed towards a narrow hallway on Chuck's left. "He's right past the holding cells. Wait for Detective Bullock, he's got the key. Oh, and try not to get lost."

 

"Got it," Chuck nodded, biting his lip to prevent another 'Hell Yeah' from slipping out.

 

He followed the sergeant's directions, walking towards the holding cells. He hesitated for a moment as he lingered outside Day’s. Julian was pale, (paler than usual that is) and was rocking back and forth on his bed, muttering the words “He said I was special,” over and over. No luck there, then.

 

The occupant in the opposite cell cleared his throat. “You won’t get anything out of him, he’s been replaying hits from The Exorcist all bloody week...”

 

Abner Krill was sitting on his bed too, but was much more relaxed. His hands were resting behind his head, and he had an amused smile on his face. “It is you, right? Kite-Man? The senpai to Jules’ yandere?"

 

"I don't know what either of those words mean."

 

Krill sneered, hopping down from his bed. "You lucky bugger. Didn’t really recognise ya without that piss-yellow ‘football’ helmet... Impressive stuff. The Royal, that is. Thought he’d never stop monologuing."

 

"Then I’ll direct my questions to you. When did Joker conta-"

 

“Uh uh,” Krill wagged his finger in Chuck's face. “First, you gotta do something for me-“

 

Chuck rolled his eyes. “If you think I’m getting you your belt, you’re out of your mind.”

 

“Who said anything about my belt? Listen, there’s a vending machine in the bullpen. Get me a packet of M&Ms, and then we’ll talk.”

 

“M&Ms?” Chuck's brow furrowed.

 

Krill leaned back. “Yah, I’ve got hypoglycemia, I’ve been making do with fruit cups and cheese sandwiches. Oh, and make sure you get chocolate, not peanuts. Higher sugar content.”

 

As Krill spoke, Chuck’s eyes were drawn to the cell on the Polka Dot Man’s right. A grey-haired man was pacing around his narrow confines, like a caged tiger. Every so often, the man would stop suddenly, if only to kick, punch or scream at the wall. Chuck had never actually seen Ted Carson without a mask, but the flash of his blue eyes told him everything he needed to know. The fourth cell, opposite him, was empty.

 

Chuck sighed, then dragged himself over to the vending machine. Chocolate, not peanut. He frowned at the prices; he knew for a fact they were cheaper at the grocers next door, but he didn't have a lot of options. He inserted the coins, retrieved the chocolate from the tray below and lastly, tossed the sweets through the bars of Krill's cell.

 

Krill wolfed down the candy hungrily, smacking his lips once he was done.

 

"Finished?" Chuck spoke. “What do you know about Joker?”

 

Krill’s face scrunched up, as though he was trying hard to remember, and then he finally answered: “Green hair, green eyes, pale skin, possibly bulimic.”

 

Chuck sighed again.

 

Krill chuckled. “C’mon, be real. Batman’s been here every night for the last week; If he couldn’t make me talk, what chance does the Kite-Man have? Thanks for the chocolate. Come back any time,” he waved Chuck off with chocolate covered fingers.

 

As Chuck was bemoaning the loss of the two dollars he'd donated in service of Krill's lunch, a hand took a hold of his shoulder. He turned around and was met with a man he had never seen before: he was a cop, a huge bear of a man even by GCPD standards, with scarred knuckles and a thick black beard. He leaned over, and spoke in a deep Boston accent: "Kite-Man? You have a minute?"

 

~-~

 

The lock clicked behind him. The cop had brought Chuck into a disused office, his, Chuck had to assume.

 

The cop lowered the blinds, then brought Chuck away from the door, and away from prying eyes. Something in the cop had changed; Chuck didn't catch on immediately, but then it hit him: the accent was gone.

 

"I know you're investigating Joker," the officer spoke.

 

Chuck was taken aback. "How? How could you possibly-"

 

Oh.

 

Chuck recognised that voice. Fake beard, stolen uniform, and extensive make-up aside, he knew that voice. That deep, authoritative tone that had lectured him a thousand times. The Batman's.

 

"I need you to stop. You know Walker. He has a fight or flight response, it’s instinctive; like a reflex. If he thinks he’s in danger-“

 

“But he is in danger, that’s the point-“

 

“If he thinks he's in danger-" Batman repeated. "He’s bound to do something irresponsible, reckless or self destructive.”

 

"I can't- I mean-" Chuck ran his hands through his hair. “Who else knows?” he asked.

 

"My people. Black Spider."

 

“Eric? Eric knows? Now, wait, what about Psycho Pirate? What about Zoom?"

 

“The Commissioner is aware of the situation. He’s doubled security around the lock-up. And I have people posted outside. But that will all be for nothing if Walker resolves to take Joker down himself, do you understand?"

 

"I-"

 

"Brown, I need to hear you say it."

 

A steely expression appeared on Chuck's face, as he released the latch on the door. "That uniform suits you," he stated coldly. He tensed up for a moment, bracing for a punch that never came.

 

He looked back over his shoulder, and frowned: Batman had vanished

 

~-~

 

Harvey Bullock’s key turned in the lock. He took a step forward and waggled an invasive flabby finger in Chuck’s face. “You got five minutes. We got an “UP” situation downtown," he warned.

 

“UP situation?” Chuck queried.

 

“Your pal Colonel Blimp’s got hostages at the Merchant’s Bank. And a hundred balloons tied to the roof.”

 

“He’s not my pal-“ Chuck sighed, but recognising that there was no point in arguing, walked past Bullock into the cramped room ahead. A small table was in the centre of the room, with two chairs on either side. A single stubbled occupant was handcuffed to one of the chairs.

 

“Hey, Drury. How are you holding up?” Chuck asked the man as he sat down at the opposite end of the table.

 

Drury, scratched his hairy cheek. His hair was lighter now, as it reverted to its’ natural orange colour, although now, his temples were on the verge of turning grey. “It ain’t so bad,” he answered. “The cops had their Christmas party the other day.”

 

“Oh, that sounds nice.”

 

“It was. Bullock brought me a piece a’ cake.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. He smooshed it into my face," Drury smiled meekly. "How about you, Chuck? How're you doing? How’re the boys?”

 

“Good. Great, honestly. We were actually out clubbing last night. Nothing fancy, but... it gave them something to do, y'know? Dekker’s treat, if you can believe that.”

 

Drury smirked. “Yeah, ok, I’d like to never hear those words together again please. ‘Dekker’s treats’ sounds like slang for rohypnol.”

 

Chuck smiled politely back.

 

"And Gar? I heard about that Franco shit... God. He and Jenna alright? Keeping their noses clean, I hope?"

 

"Yeah. Yeah, he's doing ok, I think."

 

"Good," Drury nodded. "Cause, I'd sure hate to think all this was for nothing," he grinned.

 

Chuck didn't laugh.

 

"Hey," Drury paused, his smile vanishing. "You alright?"

 

Chuck paused: he hated lying, but especially to Drury. After everything they’d been through and after everything he'd suffered. He swallowed, and a fake smile replaced his previously remorseful expression. “It's nothing.”

 

==S.T.A.R. Labs. Chicago Branch==

 

"Lunch!" The young intern entered the laboratory, laden with food. With the way the room suddenly exploded with excitement, you would think they had discovered a new element. A metal, cylindrical drum stood in the center of the room, held behind glass, having been donated by the Gotham City branch.

 

"Gimme gimme," one of the female scientists strutted over, grabbing their coffee and panini.

 

"Tell me you got my Gutbuster, kid," a portly man asked, rolling across the room on his spiny chair.

 

"You didn't..." a grey-haired co-worker sighed, as he grabbed his salad from the intern.

 

"Aw, let me have this, Greg," the portly man pleaded.

 

"Sorry, what's a Gutbuster?" another of his colleagues raised an eyebrow.

 

"Big Belly's finest, or worst, depending who you ask, Molly," Greg, the grey-haired scientist, explained.

 

"Only the single greatest burger this side of the continent," the heavy-set man declared as he peeled back the wrapper. "And, banned in 30 states."

 

"Well, c'mon, Larry, what's so special about this thing?" Molly asked.

 

"Three beef patties, four onion rings, six rashers of bacons, five cheese slices, all of it drizzled in gravy, and! And! Served in a deep fried brioche bun."

 

"Well, that's your five-a-day

sorted," Greg smirked.

 

"Jeez, you're sounding like a spokesperson," another scientist sipped her coffee.

 

"Hey, Kate, if they were paying me in Gutbusters, I'd hand in my two weeks right now. I'm telling you, when folks talk about the American Dream, this is what they mean!"

 

"The American Nightmare maybe. Vile," Kate shrugged.

 

"Hey, kid? Mattie? Some free advice; you looking to live until 30, never step inside another Big Belly Burger," Greg advised the intern.

 

Larry didn't mind. He'd been waiting weeks for this burger, and he wasn't going to let anyone stop him from enjoying it. And just he took a big squelchy, greasy bite of it... he choked.

 

"Larry?" Kate paused. "Lar?!"

 

The burger fell to the floor, its' diabetic toppings sliding off the patty. Larry clutched his chest, gasping for breath and then... a gloved hand ripped through his torso. Larry hit the ground with a lifeless thud.

 

Molly screamed. Kate rushed to Larry's side, but it was too late. She looked up, tears in her eyes, and then she saw it: a man in yellow.

 

The figure raised its' forearm, now glistening red with blood. A single distorted word escaped its' mouth: "Gutbusssssssssterrrrrrr."

 

An icy blast shot through the air, freezing the wall the monster had been standing in front of moment before. Greg, was holding a pink cold gun, one of the weapons their Central City branch had left them.

 

"I know what you are, you piece of shit! You're a speedster! We've got a catalogue of weapons in the basement tailor made for scum like you!"

 

"Scuuuuuuuuuuum like meeeeeeeeeeee?" a voice whispered. Greg's whole body shook, he couldn't tell where it had gone, but he knew it was still in the room. It had to be. A flash of yellow lightning vanished behind one of the office cubicles. There.

He raised the cold gun again and pulled the trigger. Only this time, the beam shot backwards. The blast encased his head in ice and as his brain began to freeze; he slipped backwards, he hit the floor and his skull broke apart into frozen chunks. The monster, had turned the gun around in the milliseconds after Greg had fired.

 

Mattie stepped towards the exit, pounding his fists against the metal door: They were locked in. They were locked in, and they were going to die. He hadn't even told Molly how he fel-

 

Two bloody hands took a hold of Mattie's head, and squeezed. The pressure built and built, it felt like his head was going to explode. And then it did. His skull burst open, the contents splattering across the door. His body, slid down the metal surface with a loud squeak.

 

"Molly, you need to get out of here," Kate begged.

 

"I can't- it's... It's locked us in-" she blubbed.

 

"I'll distract it, just-"

 

Kate's words were cut off by the cracking of her neck. Her body fell at Molly's feet.

 

The monster stepped forward, its red eyes staring curiously at the one survivor.

 

"Please don't-" Molly slid backwards, tears in her eyes. "Please, take whatever you want!"

 

A noise like a bee's buzzing exited the monster's mouth. Molly couldn't work out was it was doing at first, then she realised. It was shushing her. "You seeeeeeeee this massacre? You seeeeee these bodies? These corpses? Your colleagues, your friends killedbeforetheir tiiiiiiiiiiiime? Husbandsand wiiiiiiiiiiiiives. Mothersand faaaaaaaaaaathers. Sonsanddaughters. Peoplewhoare never cominghoooooooome. Remember it. Hold ontothis memooooooooory. Hold ontothe traaaaaaaaagedy."

 

It placed its' bloody hand on her shoulder and she flinched. "Itcanonly make you stroooooonger."

 

Molly closed her eyes, whimpering in fear: she could hear the breaking of glass; the whirring of the doors unlocking. When she finally opened her eyes, the monster was gone. And with it, the Cloudburst.

 

==GCPD==

 

Drury returned to his cell that night. Moonlight crept through the bars from outside, shining into his eyes as he tried to sleep. Just as he had finally settled, a voice called out to him from across the hall.

 

"Do you... Remember that other timeline? The one Bridget made?" the voice asked, not bothering to check if he was awake first.

 

The question caught Drury off guard. It was the first time Carson had said a word to him since they'd been arrested.

 

"Just flashes," Drury sat up, twiddling his thumbs awkwardly. "Odd images, faces I don't recognise, places I've never been to. The smell of... burning." As he spoke, an involuntary tear ran down his cheek. He didn't know why.

 

Carson swallowed. “Huh. 'Cause I do. I remember Charaxes using my suffering to goad my daughter into creating the alternate reality he'd use to make his escape. I remember my hand on the wheel, as I sought to take control of my 'Mothpoint' counterpart. And I remember you. As insufferable then as you are now. So, don’t you think you’re forgiven. That anything is forgiven. Soon as I’m free from these bars, you’re dead. You’re fucking dead.”

 

Drury rolled his eyes, and turned over in his bed.

 

"And then there's the name," Carson continued to goad him. "Why 'Killer' Moth?"

 

Drury didn't reply.

 

"You coulda called yourself anything. Been anyone... But it seems to me like you made your bed all those years ago. You'll always be scum."

 

 

Done