The Justice League had finally given the go ahead to officially form the Young Justice. Not that any of them were going to stop regardless of having permission. Since the Justice League had opened up their slots for more than the original six earlier that year, Batman thought it would be a good opportunity to use the Young Justice to help reach out and recruit some other heroes without drawing too much attention by going themselves. With protégés of most of the originals in the roster it was a solid plan.

They had been told about their newest "assignment" (if you could even call it that) earlier that day and they would be leaving in the morning. They were supposed to go meet a duo in Illinois (it was their base of operation even though they'd worked in other place). Phantom has been in the vigilante/hero scene for almost 10 years now, and Red Huntress started a few months after him.

Their names were well known, Dick had known of them even before he became Robin. But despite their national (maybe even International fame) little was actually known about the duo and the rumored Team Phantom that alluded to there being more than just the two. Dick had been a big fan of Phantom, and modeled a lot of his moves off of the super-powered hero.

Batman told them that they had already reached out the Phantom (Red Huntress had deferred them to him, and refused to speak with them afterwords) and he agreed to meet the YJ team and mentor them for a designated amount of time. There had been rumors in certain forums that the JLA had reached out to Phantom to be one of the original members of the league but he had turned them down. When Kid Flash had brought it up during the meeting, Batman refused to confirm or deny (which was proof enough).

The plan was for the YJ would stay in Amity Park for 15 days and learn from them, they would check in after that to see weather their stay should be extended. Specifically citing that their legendary teamwork would be incredibly beneficial to learn from to strengthen them as a team. The other plan, and equally as important, was to warm them up to joining the JLA ranks since a direct invitation hadn't been received favorably.

All that was thrown in the window when, three days in, the YJ, Phantom and Red Huntress get portaled to an unknown destination, with strange and unknown life(?) forms, with no supplies, no working communicators, and worst of all, no way back.

thinking about. theatre. drama. tragedy. books. IDK BUT THAT SORTA VIBE

Bruce likes to catalog his thoughts into neat little folders, bits of shorthand that can help him call up the vast compendiums of knowledge in his mind.  Here are a few.

Book and Bottle -

Bruce always thinks of his mother like a book.  The best kind of book, unassuming cover, worn just enough on the edges.  A book that didn't look like much on the outside.  Faded, you know, maybe a little used up looking, like the way even as a little boy he could see the deep creases in his mother's face, so like the deep creases in the binding of a used book.  

But its the inside that really counts.  And the inside is beautiful.  Bruce always thinks the pages smell beautiful, that special kind of book dust. Books always have secrets between the pages, and his mother was like that.  She looked worn but then you came close and she smelled like those little blue flowers that grew just outside the house, and she had secrets in her pockets.  Sometimes it was those little hard candies from the five cent bin at the store, and sometimes it was a shiny, flat stone that's good for skipping, or a little coil of wire she found somewhere that Bruce might like to use on one of his little creations.

When he was hurt, his mother would pull out her first aid book, the tears standing in her eyes but never spilling over, and point out things to Bruce on the pages.  How to tie a sling with a triangle of fabric.  How to set a broken finger and what kind of plants to break open and put on a burn.  She told him all of it, asking him to look down at the pages while she put the ointment on the place where his father had whacked him with the belt again.  Or she would make him learn the muscles, and repeat them back from head to toe while she stitched up whatever gash his father had left on him, again, again, again.

And when times were better, his mother would take him by the hand and lead him out by the lake that was a few minutes car ride away, and they would sit in the shade and she would read him poems and ask what he thought of them.  He was a little kid, Bruce didn't think much of poems, but he loved the way his mother read them, and was so enraptured he'd steal her books away to read them over and over by himself until he thought they made sense.  And she would laugh, and laugh, and smile there by the lake with her little book of poems in her hand.

His mother was plain on the outside but beautiful on the inside and Bruce loves her so fiercely it hurts.  He doesn't even blame her for all the ways she couldn't protect him, he didn't then and he doesn't now. His mother is every one of his favorite books, but most of all it's the book of Emily Dickinson poems she loved.  Bruce pressed a few of those little blue flowers between the pages.  It was long gone now, lost to him forever when he'd had to start running.  But he thinks of that book, and it's the image of his mother, laughing.

When Bruce thinks of his father, he thinks of a bottle.  Nothing fancy or special, just those plain dark brown bottle of the cheap beer, whatever was on sale.  They are uniform and ugly, color of shit.  There was nothing solid about them either.  They looked sturdy enough but they fell to pieces at the least bit of pressure, turning into sharp little slivers that cut you to ribbons but made you feel stupid about it too because it was just some fucking cheap ass glass.  There's something angry about them too, or maybe that was just what Bruce thought.  Thin neck and wide bottom, and the way his father would stand them up in rows like an army standing at attention, ready to be used when his old man got his ire up and started tossing them around like the little grenades they were.

His father acted strong, but he was weak too.  Everyone could smell the stench of it on him too, like the stench that having all of those bottles around gave the house that sick old booze smell.  And he fell to pieces over and over again, and he got those little slivers of his broken self sharpened into shivs and he stabbed them both over and over and over again, but it never made him any stronger.  His father was just like every other ugly, mean drunk, and Bruce hated him all the more for it.  He still sees his father in every one of those bottles and it turns his stomach every time.

But what he hates his father for the most, in his deepest heart, in every nightmare he ever had, was how sometimes he didn't hate him at all.  When he got good and drunk, halfway between sober and mean, that little middling ground where he was just dopey, and if he decided to stay there,  he'd show Bruce how light refracted through the bottles, playing over them with a candle, or he'd make the empty bottles into air horns and Bruce remembers how delighted he'd been the first time he'd heard it, and the kind of strange love that had bubbled up in his chest.  One time, just once, but oh God it's the thing Bruce thinks about the most... One time his father had taken his hand and pulled him out back, sneaking, and they'd picked wild flowers in big bunches, setting them up in his father's old beer bottles and lined the whole kitchen with them while his mother was napping.  His mother had been so pleased when she woke up, so surprised, she had color on her cheeks, and was smiling so bright it made her look so much younger.  And his father had smiled too.  At her.  Bright and young.

That's what haunts Bruce at night, and still does.  That smile on his father's face, because he'd seemed so human.  So human and so in love.  His father shouldn't get to be both that and the monster he was.  Not at the same time.  That, more than the abuse, even more, in some ways, than the fact that he killed her, is what keeps the rage burning deep and hot in Bruce's gut.

( the night he kills her, when Bruce can't look at the blood spreading on the floor anymore, he looks up and sees that his mother wedged one of her romance novels between the beer bottles lining the kitchen window, the flowers inside them wilting, shedding petals like tears )

Beaker -

Bruce learned very quickly that he couldn't trust his emotions.  Every one of them but pain seemed so fleeting, so he only truly trusted things when they hurt.  He didn't know there was anything he could trust as much as he trusted the pain that seemed stitched into every part of him.  The scars on his flesh and the ones on his heart were the only things that ever felt real.

But that was before he found science.  That was before Mr. Koats stood before his class and showed them that matter could not be created or destroyed, that it could change shape and property, but it was always there.  There was water vapor in the air and sometimes it came down as rain, and sometimes it came down as snow, but it was always there, little bundles of hydrogen and oxygen, bound together by even smaller particles called electrons.

He found that he could trust math, that numbers were immutable, numbers didn't change they were just affected by things, you could add and subtract and multiply, but 2 was always 2 and 524 was always 524 and pi was always pi, always always forever.  You could manipulate numbers in any way you wanted, but when you looked at them they were what they were every single time.  

Bruce read every book he could get his hands on, poured himself into every one of them, every flavor of science he could.  It was all real, and solid.  They were facts and figures and proof and experiments all towards finding something essential, something that was true, period.  Real truth.  Something that could really be trusted.  Fact through and through and though.

No matter how he felt, no matter how much he wanted to cry or rage, no matter how much he thought about ending everything, himself, those guys in the playground that always smashed his glasses, the whole school, the whole world...  No matter what thoughts drifted past his troubled mind, two hydrogens and one oxygen made water, and 6 was 6 was 6, and human bodies ran on ATP produced by millions of mitochondria in millions of cells, and someday, if he was clever, he would find something deep in all of these little tiny things, these true things, that made up the world and find a way to make it better.

And if he could make the world better, then maybe he wouldn't have to feel anything anymore, and honestly, that's what Bruce wanted more than anything.

Bandage -

When he came to, Bruce felt a raw, dull ache at the roof of his mouth, and he felt more helpless than he'd ever felt in his whole life.  And he'd made a business of being helpless.  "You won't even let me die," he muttered to himself over and over again in those minutes.  The ache was there, but there wouldn't be a scar.  Or blood, or anything.  Just the reminder of the ache, like some phantom limb pain of the harm that should be there but shouldn't.

Bruce never really knew what the Other Guy was up to, not clearly, but he could feel it when he woke up.  The things that should hurt.  Not that the Other Guy really got injured, but Bruce could feel the pressure from where bullets had hit and gone flying off, could feel that very rare times when something actually cut that thick flesh of his.  The first time that had happen, he'd actually felt like he was bleeding somewhere and scrambled for something to staunch the flow.  But he'd looked and there was nothing. Just normal, natural flesh.

It wasn't like he did it on purpose, but he'd notice that the little minor cuts and scrapes and bruises he'd get before the Other Guy came out were just miraculously gone when Bruce was himself again.  All brand new.  He wondered if the Other Guy ever thought about that.  How nothing that happened to them ever seemed to last. It was like a big cosmic reset button, and Bruce would be lying if he didn't play fast and lose with it for awhile, and he'd always been half in the grave with a death wish anyway.  ( yes mom I'm coming home, no dad I'll never turn into you never never never can't do it if I'm dead )

What doesn't change though.  The things that stay.  Bruce still has scars, the old ones.  The ones that turned white and ropy and smooth, every single one of them a relic from his father.  No matter how many other things are wiped away, even death. Even death is wiped away and these things stay and stay, and it's that thought that bring Bruce closer to the edge more than once, even after that night when the bullet didn't work.  He's been marked for life with these, these have been saved for him, for some reason, and Bruce can't think it's anything more than to just bring him more pain and rage, just enough to keep that Other Guy living strong in the recesses of his mind.

( Betty used to touch them and ask, wanting to know what each one was and Bruce would pretend he didn't hear her until she insisted and he told her.  He always felt dirty after, even after she kissed the scar and told him it was all okay now because it really wasn't. Natasha won't ask.  Bruce knows she won't, because she has her own scars and he won't ask about hers either.  Sometimes it's enough to just be broken together.  Sometimes that's everything. )

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