Post by Drake on Nov 7, 2014 23:51:13 GMT -5
It’s tough being a teenager. I mean, damn, that sounds so lame when you say it like that, but, well, there’s no other way to really say it. Adults certainly don’t believe it. They’re always going on about ‘taxes’ this and ‘work’ that, saying ‘you shouldn’t complain; it’s the prime of your life!’ Did they just forget? Did they forget all the torment and trouble, the angst of struggling through hormones and school and all the other things no one likes to talk about but everyone knows happen?
I’m smart. I get it. Being a teenager technically isn’t as bad as, say, enlisting to go to war or spending twelve-hour days doing nothing but typing out BS, but the hormones! The hormones, man! They make it bad! So bad! Every rejection, failure, stress, feeling, and problem in general are heightened to the extreme! If your parents get, like, divorced or something, it sucks worse than you can imagine…or, anyone could imagine, or whatever. If you break an ankle, suddenly it’s the most freaking depressing thing on Earth!
And then if you fight crime, witness a murder, or worse, see someone you love die, then you can bet it’ll hurt more than you can handle. Every ache, physical and mental, eats you up till you can’t take it anymore. Some really can’t take it. They go ahead and end it all as fast as they can through a bullet or a rope or…well, you get the point. That’s not to say I’m suicidal or anything. Hell, none of this is to say I’m depressed either, okay? I’m as happy as can be!
I mean, I’m a freaking superhero!
A shadow flew through the air, as if lighter than a feather. The moonlight glistened, exposing the shadow’s true form, that of a young adolescent. He was lanky, but fit, and dressed in a makeshift costume. He wore a gray athletic shirt marked with a blue bird logo, and a gray and blue mask to match. Black combat pants and boots, and similarly colored fingerless gloves finished off the look, making him appear bigger than he actually was.
The teen was out for blood. Quite literally, in fact. Some of his senses were hyper acute, including his hearing and smelling, if you could even call it that. The boy was gifted to say the least. Like a vampire bat, special sensors on his nose could pick up heat, or more specifically changes in it. That included a faster heart rate, when a person was perhaps jogging, or—potentially—being mugged…
The boy dropped down off the ledge of a building and into an alleyway, right behind a man forcing a woman against the wall, a knife to her throat.
“Good, don’t scream and this’ll all be over quick and easy,” the thug said.
“Please…” The woman looked at the teenage vigilante, “Help me.”
“No one’s here to help you.” The thug grinned, slowly moving his free hand towards the woman.
“I wouldn’t bet on that.”
The vigilante pulled the thug away and slammed him into the wall opposite the woman, causing him to drop his knife. Almost instantaneously, the game changed. The woman was off, free, and the criminal was now cowering in fear, too scared to talk.
“You feeling lucky, punk?” The vigilante growled in the deepest voice he could muster, beating the thug’s head against the wall. Not quite concussion worthy, but he was getting there.
“You—you—Oh God!—You’re Nightwing!” the thug stammered.
“I…” His concentration broken, the vigilante glanced away, and muttered in a much higher voice, “No, I’m not Nightwing. That’s the third time this week.”
“You’re a kid?” The thug was hurting, but he knew his chance out when he saw one, “You gotta be Redbird!” He tried to push back.
The vigilante sighed, before looking back and gripping the criminal’s arms tighter than the thug knew was humanly possible. There was a reason for that. The vigilante wasn’t quite human…
As the thug screamed, the vigilante spoke up, again as deep as possible, “’Does this logo look red? Jesus! My name’s Nightjay! Remember it!”
And with that, Nightjay slammed the thug once more against the wall, knocking him unconscious. He stepped back to examine his handiwork. Not bad, but it could be better. Almost two years on the job, and he still didn’t quite have the hang of it yet.
Nightjay reached into his pockets, looking for a bola or a rope to tie the thug up. He found nothing. Great. Just great! He couldn’t even remember a friggin’ rope to tie criminals up with. And if that wasn’t enough, his super hearing made things worse when he heard someone he recognized all too well behind him. No one’s heart sounded quite like this man’s…
“You gonna help out, or just stand there in the shadows, creeping on me?” Nightjay asked, still facing the unconscious thug.
“Oh, c’mon, kid.” A tall clean-cut man in a suit stepped out of the shadows, just a foot away from Nightjay. “Creeping’s my thing.”
Nightjay took a deep breath, aware he had no choice but to face the man in the suit. This was going to be fun….
Turning around, Nightjay said, “What do you want, Ryder?”
The older man grinned widely, exposing perfectly pristine white teeth, “That’s not how you address your uncle.”
“You’re not my uncle,” Nightjay retorted.
Jack frowned, “Kid…”
The vigilante sighed, “Fine, Uncle Jack, but you gotta call me by my name.”
“Which one? Nightjay or…?”
“Quit teasing him, Ryder.” The shadows seemed to speak for themselves. Nightjay shuddered. This wasn’t good at all. He was here. Why hadn’t Nightjay realized—either with his hearing or heat sense—that that good-for-nothing asshole was hanging right above him?
Jack Ryder, otherwise known as the Creeper, laughed maniacally, “You heard him, Aaron! HahahaHAHA!! Daddy’s home!”
The enormous beast above Nightjay leaped to the ground behind Ryder, and with horrifying bone crunches and fits of pain, changed from the giant Man-Bat back to an ordinary man of about fifty, with gray hair and even grayer eyes.
Kirk Langstrom took no time to pass Ryder and get into Nightjay’s face, furious, “What the hell were you thinking?”
“Dad, let me—“
“No! No, I will not tolerate this!”
“Tolerate this??” Nightjay exclaimed, almost ready to slug his father for the pretentiousness of the comment.
“Yes, Aaron, boy, you are thirteen years old, and you—you have a condition no less! Fighting crime?” Kirk seemed almost saddened as he said it. “It’s ludicrous. My lord, when your mother called me…”
“SHUT UP!” Aaron roared, “Shut up!”
Kirk was shocked into silence. Even Jack Ryder stopped smiling. They had never seen the boy so visibly angry, so obnoxiously ferocious.
“You can not tell me what to do! Not you!” Aaron Langstrom yelled, “After everything that happened; after you abandoned this city, abandoned…” Aaron’s expression broke. He stopped and stared weakly at the ground. “Abandoned Jason…”
As if a light bulb went off in his head, Kirk’s face lit up, “Jason! That’s it! You’re doing this because of Jason Todd? Nightjay! I should’ve known it the second I…”
“Stop!” Aaron demanded, “Stop scolding me! Don’t try to tell me—‘cause I know you want to—that I’m too young for this, or my condition makes it all too risky for me and everyone around me! Don’t try to explain to me that I’m just a stupid kid who doesn’t know my place! Don’t tell me to stand by like everyone else…like you!”
“So you think idolizing a teenage boy who died attempting to win an impossible war is a good idea? You think taking his name, and going out into the night to beat in the skull of every criminal you find means you’re living up to his memory?” Kirk clutched at his chest, aware if he got too angry, he’d lose control of the beast. He couldn’t let that happen. “You take after me all too much.”
“Except in the places that matter,” Aaron retorted.
“Ooh, harsh!” Ryder interjected. Kirk glared at him, shutting the showman up.
“I see you’re still struggling to control the change,” Aaron pointed towards Kirk’s clutched hand, “I haven’t had that trouble in over a year. My body is under my control…” Aaron took off his mask, exposing a pale but otherwise normal face and messy black-gray hair.
Kirk gasped, “Your—your metamorphosis…it’s…”
“Gone,” Aaron agreed, “No membrane under my arms, no hair around my body except, y’know, in all the places there should be hair. I’ve even got control of myself during the change. 100% of the time, no fail. I can speak; I can control my actions. Admittedly, you can too, but not all of the time. Not when you lose it. Doesn’t matter for me.”
“Incredible…” Kirk muttered, a sudden scientific curiosity resurgent in him, “I would love to examine your transformation, but…”
“Don’t even.” Aaron turned away. “I won’t be passive. I won’t make the mistakes you made. I won’t fail, like you failed Jason, like you failed…Mom…I’ll be better.”
And with that, Aaron Langstrom, Nightjay, took a deep breath and allowed his arms to crack and change until they were enormous black bat wings. The teenage boy took off into the night, already looking for another criminal to pummel.
“A hybrid transformation where only parts of his body metamorphose. Incredible…” Kirk whispered.
“Please. That’s the least incredible thing about your kid,” Ryder said. The thug began to stir. With a swift kick, Jack Ryder knocked him unconscious again.
“Whaddya wanna do with him?” Jack nudged the beaten criminal.
“What I’m afraid we’ll have to do to Aaron,” Kirk paused, before continuing harshly, “Tie him up.”
“That’ll stop him, Kirk. Sure of it,” Jack replied sarcastically, pulling a zip tie from out of his pocket. He quickly fastened the thug’s hands together with the zip tie, and looked back at Kirk. “Y’know, when Dick Dragon called us all back to the Haven, it wasn’t so we could pull some creepy Dursley shit with your son.”
“Ryder…”
“All I’m saying is Dick thinks it’s time to bring the gang back together. Maybe even more importantly, to train a new generation to take our place,” Jack said, “Ted thinks the man’s gone mad. I know mad. Dick ain’t mad. He’s just focused, driven. Something’s pushing him to right old wrongs, to be a better Outlaw. I’ve got a good guess what it is.”
Kirk didn’t really want to play Ryder’s game, but he silently agreed to go along with it for old times’ sake, “And what is that exactly?”
“Dick’s got a kid, Kirk. He’s gone soft. Maybe you should too.”
Richard Dragon a father? Kirk couldn’t dream it. But then again, maybe Jack Ryder was right. Maybe he needed to give his son a break. The boy wanted nothing more than to live up to his greatest idol, another teenager who’d saved his life…was that truly so wrong?
“Let’s go, Jack,” Kirk patted his old friend on the shoulder, “And see if you’re right after all.”
Ryder grinned, “The Dragon calls.”