#this was meant to be me having fun drawing tim getting disguised

[pokeberry5]

nobody told me that alvin draper has a nose ring!! and earrings!! does this mean tim has a nose piercing?? 

(related doodles under the cut, feat. dick:)

[lgbtqforeverything]

Duke is the Queen of Skiddley Wiffers

It’s Duke Week!!!!!! Day 1’s theme is game night and yes, the title is a phineaas and ferb reference.

@duketectivecomics

The day was the second saturday of an even month of the year. And that meant it was the Official Bat-Boys Game Night™. Of course this was not to be confused with the Official Wayne Family Game Night™ or the Official Bat-Girls Game Night™ or even the Official Bat-Family Game Night™.

Duke had only been to a few since getting fostered by Bruce, but the routine seemed fairly simple and on brand for the family. Duke, Cullen, and Tim would show up together to Dick’s Blüdhaven apartment around seven o’clock. Dick would have already picked Damian up from school and brought him over that afternoon. When Luke was visiting, he would join them and thusly drive the trio over instead of Alfred.

 Once they had arrived, they would draw straws for who had to call Jason and convince him to come. A feat that changed in difficulty depending on who he was most pissed at at the time. Once that was done and they were all present, they moved on to the next challenge of the night: Choosing the game.

They all had certain ones that they preferred. Dick had over ten different kinds of Monopoly, Jason was favorable to Cards Against Humanity, Cullen to Pokémon Battles, Tim to Exploding Unicorns, and Damian to Uno. Duke had a favorite game of course, but he hadn’t brought it up to the other yet, as he was still slightly uncertain of the night’s procedure.  

Which is why when Dick asked what they wanted to play that night and Damian pulled Candyland out of his backpack, it seemed like a blessing in disguise. 

“Candyland”, Jason stated skeptically. “Ain’t that a little young for you demon brat?”

“Tt,” Damian scowled. “It was recommended to me by Kent, you imbecile. He practically forced me to bring it. I would never chose such a plebeian game myself.”

“Suuure”, Jason drawled in reply.

Damian bristled but before they could come to the first blows of the evening, Dick intervened.

“Well it looks like fun Dami!” He exclaimed while putting himself between the two. “Let’s set it up, ok?”

“Very well, Grayson”, was Damian’s terse response.

And so, the game was placed opon Dick’s rickety and unstable coffee table and they all gathered around to begin.

“It looks like each person has a character,” Tim explained from where he was reading the instructions, “and when you draw a card you move to the next nearest square with that color on it. Expect for when you get a double card, where you move to the second nearest square, or a character card, where you move to the square that the card represents.”

“Sounds pretty simple,” Cullen shrugged.

“Maybe we’ll even be able to make it all the way through this one with no problems!” Dick enthused.

His only response was skeptical stares from all of them.

“Yeah you’re probably right’, he sighed.

“Enough of dickwing being annoyed at our dysfunctionalness, let’s get this over with and play”, Jason said.

The game play was standard for a while, everyone just taking their turns and learning the game. But then on Duke’s fourth turn, it happened.  

Duke picked from the deck of cards, and lo and behold, drew out a card with a ice cream cone and a princess on it.

“How the hell did you get the first character card?” Jason accused upon seeing it.

“Good luck I guess”, Duke shrugged.

“I don’t know”, Cullen said. “Getting a card that puts him that close to the castle this early? It’s a bit suspicious.”

“It’s the first time we’re playing this, guys”, Dick said with a roll of his eyes. “Why don’t we give him the benefit of the doubt just this once?”

“Fine, but I’m watching you Glowstick”, Jason said threateningly.

Duke looked at him with a deadpan expression. “I’m terrified.”

Jason growled at him, but thankfully Damian took his turn then and Jason’s attention was redirected away from Duke.

Until a few turns later, when Duke became the first one to get to the castle and won the game.

Upon his amazing victory everyone groaned in annoyance, but Duke remained optimistic.

“We should play again”, He suggested with a seemingly sincere smile. “I’m sure that one of you will win this time.”

And because they were all proud bastards that didn’t know how to back down from a challenge, they agreed and the game began again.

And Duke won again. In almost the exact same way.

That time Tim was the one to encourage them to go again. He then spent the whole game carefully watching Duke, as he won. Again.

By then they were all getting more and more suspicious. See, once is dumb luck and twice is coincidence, but three times? Three times is cheating. And they all knew it.

So they played again, but this time someone else had to draw for Duke. The round took longer that time, but Duke was still the first to reach the castle. 

Then it happened again and again and again.

When Duke won for the eighth time, even with everyone conspiring against him and multiple handicaps, Cullen flipped the coffee table.

“Well that was entertaining”, Duke said calmly, looking down at the pieces and cards of the game now spread out on Dick’s floor.

He looked up to see everyone glaring at him. “What?”

“How the hell do you win a kid’s board game eight times in a row?!” Dick questioned hysterically.

“I don’t know”, Duke replied with a shrug. “I’ve just always won when playing Candyland.”

“Exactly how frequent is ‘always’?” Asked Tim.

“Uhhh, every time that I can remember, I guess.”

”And you didn’t think to tell us that before we wasted two hours playing with you?” Cullen accused.

Duke scoffed. “Why would I when it’s so much more fun seeing you guys gradually get more and more pissed off?”

Damian, of course, then screeched and tackled him.

As the two wrestled on the floor with Tim, Cullen and Jason cheering Damian on, Dick simply smiled and looked forward to the future banning of Candyland from game nights.

[nokomiss]

Happy 4th! I would love something with Dick and Tim having fun patrolling or working on a case together, maybe with a moment where they have to pull off a little acting for undercover/incognito reasons. Dick/Tim is my favorite but a brotherly dynamic would be great too if you are feeling that instead! Thanks for being open to prompts!

So the morning started out… weird. And by weird, that meant Tim was startled awake by Dick Grayson jumping on his bed while belting out an off-key rendition of “Blue Suede Shoes.”

“Go away,” Tim tried, shoving his face deeper under the pillow and pulling his legs up into the fetal position, attempting to keep from getting bounced on. 

Dick ignored him. “Rise and shine, time to fight crime!”

“Crime doesn’t happen at--” Tim blearily poked at his phone, “Eight-thirty in the morning.”

“Crime is always afoot, Timmers,” Dick replied. He hopped off the bed and poked Tim in the side. “Come on. We’ve got that thing you said you’d do with me. You and me! Incognito! It’s gonna be great.”

Tim had absolutely no memory of whatever mission Dick was claiming that he’d agreed to. “When, exactly, did I agree to this?” 

“Uh, four weeks ago,” Dick said. “When we were patrolling the East End. Remember? The night we rescued those puppies?”

Tim definitely remembered the puppies, they’d been adorable. And Dick had said something about---

He opened his eyes, and actually looked at Dick for the first time. He was wearing a spangled, fringed jumpsuit that wasn’t the infamous early Nightwing costume. It was white, with bell-bottoms and a plunging neckline, with a rhinestone-studded belt. His hair was in a pompadour. And he struck a pose, one hip out, head bowed, arm in the air.

Dangling from the arm in the air was another white sequined jumpsuit, this one featuring a cape with a bejeweled eagle on the back.  

“No,” Tim said, horror-struck, as he remembered with sudden clarity Dick mentioning a tip he’d gotten about a shipment of drugs being smuggled through at an upcoming Elvis convention, and Tim laughingly saying that he’d only go if there were costumes.

“Yes,” Dick said. “We pinky-swore, Tim, you can’t back out now.”

It was true; they had. Tim sighed and got out of bed, taking the jumpsuit from Dick. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“This is easily the best undercover gig I’ve ever had,” Dick confirmed. “Shake a leg, we don’t want to be late!”

Tim dressed quickly. The jumpsuit didn’t feel as weird as it ought, given what he wore out every night, and he kind of enjoyed the short cape.  Dick produced some shiny satin scarves to complete their ensembles -- blue for himself, red for Tim, which made him smile, and even big gold sunglasses.  After his hair had been fixed, he had to admit they both made pretty good Elvises; he doubted anyone would identify them as members of the Wayne family, at the very least.

On the ride to the convention hall -- a mid-sized one, Tim noticed, with minimal advertising, even though, as far as he knew, Elvis impersonation didn’t trigger any of Gotham’s major rogues -- Dick updated him on the case. He’d done a decent amount of footwork on it already. There was supposed to be a major shipment of newly produced narcotics coming in through the con somehow. The only solid name he had was Geezer, and Dick was unsure if that was a description or a name.

“So we’re going to stalk every geriatric Elvis we can find?” Tim said. 

“Stalk is such a negative word,” Dick said. He looked unfairly good as Elvis, and Tim was mildly concerned that they were going to draw unnecessary attention to themselves. Tim himself at least knew he wouldn’t; the jumpsuit he was wearing was too big, and made his lean frame look scrawny instead. It was the trick he’d used in high school to avoid looking too fit, but Dick had not chosen to go that route himself. 

 Tim planned on making fun of him for that.

Arriving at the convention center was a treat, as he and Dick fit in perfectly. Almost everyone in attendance was wearing Elvis costumes, the majority of which were white rhinestone-crusted ones similar to the ones they were wearing, with a few black leather outfits or gold suits mixed in for fun.  

They spent two solid hours moving through the crowds, listening to snippets of conversation and looking for suspicious body language.  They focused on the convention hall with its dozens of booths filled to the brim with Elvis merch.  They were the likeliest spot for surreptitious drug deals, though Dick’s information hinted at a much larger operation than just two-bit dealers.

In actuality most of the time was actually spent trying on ridiculous hats, posing with various other Elvises, at one point joining in on a giant karaoke flash mob to Jailhouse Rock despite not knowing the choreography (Dick hissed, “Just shake your pelvis, it’ll be fine” and lo and behold for once that advice was spot on) and in general having a grand time.

It was, actually, such a grand time that Tim started to become suspicious that this wasn’t actually a drug bust but actually just an outing to an Elvis convention.

“So why didn’t you bring the brat instead?” he asked as they got fried peanut butter, banana and bacon sandwiches. Now that he was thinking about the day critically, he was doubting everything. This was exactly the sort of dumb adventure that Dick would normally love to drag Damian to, under the guise of exposing him to quote-unquote culture.

Dick cast his eyes around and said, “I love Dami, don’t get me wrong, but some things are sacred.”

“Oh,” Tim said, “you didn’t want him to harsh your vibe by refusing to wear a jumpsuit.”

“Exactly,” Dick said, nodding. Several hours in and Tim still wanted to laugh when he really focused on what Dick looked like, especially since he’d truly taken to the role and was doing a lip snarl to punctuate nearly every sentence.

“But Jason would have eaten this up,” Tim pointed out. It was exactly the sort of over-the-top nonsense that Jason excelled at, despite denying the fact vehemently. “Or Cass. She would have been an incredible Elvis. She would have crushed Jailhouse Rock.”

“You wanna make this a family outing next time?” Dick’s whole face lit up. “Awww, baby bro!”

“Shut up,” Tim muttered. “There’s totally not a next time.”

“Crime never sleeps, Timmy, and look at how many shady individuals are here.” Dick pointed to a toddler taking a few wobbly steps then tripping over its bellbottoms. “I mean, by next year, there’s a crime lord in the making.”

“Not what I said!” Tim said, laughing. “I just wondered, you know, why me, out of everyone.”

Just like that, the laughter dropped from Dick’s eyes and he straightened up. For one brief second Tim could see how he managed to be a convincing Batman, and then Dick said, “Tim, you’re important to me, you know that, right? I knew this was going to actually be a fun mission for once, and I miss having fun with you.”

Oh. Tim knew logically that they hadn’t spent as much time together recently as they used to, especially as they used to back when he was Robin, but he hadn’t thought that Dick missed it as much as he did.

 “I’m glad,” he said, and didn’t duck away at all when Dick wrapped him up in a bear hug, then continued to lead the way with an arm draped over his shoulder. 

“There’s a panel starting soon about theories on Elvis’s current whereabouts, I bet there’ll be plenty of geezers there.”  Dick led the way to a room off the main convention floor.

Sure enough, given how dated the Elvis-is-alive theory was, most of the audience and the entire panel were decidedly geriatric.  The panelists presented theories that were in depth and crazy enough that Tim almost wanted to look into their veracity, even though he knew that if Elvis had truly not died, some superhero would have surely come across him by now and he would have heard about it. 

The audience was of far more interest. Several of the Elvises would get up, whisper to another, then disappear behind a curtain for a few minutes.  Tim elbowed Dick when he noticed, and Dick nodded.  They snuck around to the curtain, and peeked behind it.

Another Elvis, this time in statue form.

Tim shrugged, unsure as to why people were sneaking in to see a statue of Elvis when there were easily a dozen other animatronic ones at various points on the convention floor.  They approached slowly, but the statue was just that: a statue.

“Weird,” Tim said.

Dick shrugged and looked at it closely. “Pretty good likeness.” He poked it in the chest, randomly poking at various rhinestones, and there was a faint whirring sound from within the statue, and the rhinestone belt popped open like a quarter candy machine and dropped two pills onto the floor.

They stood for a moment, blinking at the revelation that they’d found a secret narcotic dispensing machine disguised as an Elvis statue. 

“Huh,” Tim said, “I’m gonna be honest with you here, I didn’t actually think this was a real mission.”

“I mean,” Dick said, “I can see why it would be outlandish. Guess we wait here and kick the ass of whoever comes to try to collect money from us?”

“What if it’s the old Elvises?” Tim said. “Is it morally okay to kick geriatric ass?”

“We can gently kick their ass, I guess?” Dick said. “Real delicate-like.”

It was a truly embarrassing moment to be a vigilante. The narcotic ring was masterminded by three guys in their eighties who probably had dealt to the King himself, and Dick and Tim had to very delicately immobilize their scooters and zip-tie them before alerting the police. They waited in the little anteroom making sure no one else stumbled across the drugs or dealers until they heard the approach of officers, then slipped out into the crowd just as the dance-off began.

Dick of course insisted they join in before leaving, and Tim had to admit he was glad; it was a sight to see.  

[obscuniverse]

Obscu listens to: The Magnus Archives - Episode 1 ‘Angler Fish’

@derinthescarletpescatarian​ has been ranting at me about this series for what feels like a million years so here I am. Also apparently I’m the world’s biggest stereotype. Let’s roll, shall we?

Oooh, I do like spooky violin. Can’t have a horror anything without spooky violin.

Okay can we pause and talk about the symbolism of having ‘Angler Fish’ be your first episode title? Fun Fact! As you may recall, the angler fish is what happens when you ask any child to draw any animal that they imagine has teeth, and the teeth come out all different sizes and directions but they’re definitely spikes, and then they get so caught up with the teeth that they rush the rest of the body so it looks like a particularly carnivorous poop? That’s the one. The part that’s particularly relevant is the the bit where they’re a bunch of glowing knobheads; that is, they have a fleshy forehead appendage where the end is colonised by bioluminescent bacteria, which they use as a lure for smaller, less coprotype prey. So we’ve got some strong lure imagery, and it’s the first episode, so on one hand this is literally the lure that the series is using to draw us, the readers, into consuming (or, if you know @derinthescarletpescatarian​, being consumed by) the series. Of course, it’s almost certainly referring to the content of the episode as well so I anticipate a protagonist (and possibly diverse other victims) to be _lured _into something bad for them.

Secondary Fun Fact! Anglerfish mating involve the male biting into the belly of the (several times larger in size) female and hanging on until their skin and blood vessels literally fuse together, with the anglerfish male being fed directly by nutrients from the blood of the female through their shared circulatory system. Will our protagonist bite off more than they can chew and become hopelessly, permanently enmeshed in something larger and more dangerous than they, so interwoven with it that they are unable to extricate themselves from it but also being given by it the means to survive? Will we the listeners? I guess we’ll just have to hit play because I’m only 36 seconds in. I do like the narrator’s voice though.

More spooky violin, can’t go wrong with that. Ooooh a crescendo. Hot fucking damn. Oh snap there was some sad tunelessness there!

Ohshit it’s a recorded diary! Every horror game I’ve ever played has prepared me for this moment.

Nothing spooky happens at a research institute named for strength or might in both Latin and Norse. Certainly not one that deals in esoterica. Okay, let’s see what Johnathan Sims (Simms?) gets up to at Swole Hogwarts.

What’s that? The previous Defense Against the Dark Arts Teacher Archivist is dead and you’ve been hired by Spooky French Dumbledore who is almost certainly a monster because of course he is to replace them? This will end only well and definitely not with a spiral into a mental breakdown culminating in some Here’s Johnny! shenanigans.

“There are very few genuine cases” and now that you’ve jinxed yourself every single genuine case in the world is going to be crawling out of the walls to say hello. You’d think after 4 years you would’ve learned not to say such things. It’s like watching D-Class personnel at the SCP foundation.

“When an investigation has gone as far as it can it goes to the archives” (emphasis mine). So you’re gonna be digging into a 200 years’ of spoopy cold cases that are gonna get real hot real quick. I’m down. 

Ahahahaha. Oh academia. Even in Swole Hogwarts you can’t get away from theorists vs practicalists.

86-91-G/H is definitely going to come up again. I can vividly picture the wild strewn-about room of someone driven mad by the haunting nature of their job. Or of my own office because of who I am as a person. I wonder which file ate Gertrude. I also wonder if the lack of use of modern electronics is a safety measure that Old Mate Johnny has unknowingly violated.

“I have secured the services of two redshirts, and you can tell because they’re unnamed researchers” “I don’t expect Martin to secretly be the highly skilled wizard/creature manipulating events form their apparent background doddering disguised as a silly fool in keeping with long fairy-tale tradition contribute anything except delays” Martin is definitely Snape. OOOooooOOOooooOOH, attempting to digitise T̵̨̛͚͉̫̩̰͍̓̽̽̍̓͑̓̾͌͗̂̈́̉ḫ̸͈̪̉̆̓̀͌̓͒̈̋̐͝ĕ̵͉̻̻ ̷̜͙̤͎͈̝̮̘̄̅̓̆̿̕͝R̴̪͑̍̒̍̾̅̐́͘͠͠ę̸̞̪͕̠͍͉̝̀̈́́͌̽ͅc̴̟̱͈̦̎̅̋̏͆̌̇͘͠͠o̶͚̞͕̲͒̋r̷̲̟̭͚̠̾͑́͋̓̈́̎͒̾̚d̴̩͓́͑̀͊̂̿͛i̴̗͈̣̟̻̯̼̘̞͕̋͜ͅņ̶̡͍͚͙̩͇̟̝̩̬͍͖̳̓g̷̯̬̙̱͚̏͂̔͐̉̇̾̋̓̎̈́͘s̷̢̫̗͙̱̻̳̞̩̐͛͂̍̑̐̊̚ have been met with significant spooky magical fuckery distortion. Fancy that.

The redshirts are named Tim and Sasha, and they will be doing some supplementary investigation suicidal monster hunting to fill in Blanks That No Man Was Meant To Fill. Maybe they’ll survive now that they have names, but they really should’ve saved the name for when one of them is mortally injured and the audience has to care enough about them for them to survive so you can reveal that they are in fact a person.

“I apologise to my eventual replacement after I am horribly eaten by/transformed into whatever is in 86-91-G/H any future researcher.”

Johnathan Sims is Niles Crane from Frasier and I will accept no word to the contrary.

Ah yes, the most esoteric and terrifying of eldritch phenomena; someone trying to bum a ciggy off you when you’re 80% scotch and 60% regret.

Ah, so “can I have a cigarette” with a human form ‘asking’ is the glowy knob on this ghost’s forehead. Completely without intonation because it’s just playing back a noise that attracts hammered people at night rather than understanding words that attract hammered people at night. Pretty sure I’ve seen this in an anime.

Apparently totally sloshed British students make better horror/urban fantasy protagonists than most movies would credit.

I take it back.

At least the spooky poopfish got some dinner.

I wonder if the missing student’s name also been John is a bit of tongue in cheek.

Oooh he’s created a “this is all bullshit” category into which he clearly intends to consign most of these. STOP PLAYING CHICKEN WITH THE UNFATHOMABLE HORRORS OF THE VOID BETWEEN THE STARS. Or, y’know, keep at it. This will not be hilarious and/or traumatic at all.

“Check out this photo of a spooky ghost if you run it through a sixth sense filter” That’s right Johnny, get beckoned.

I’m actually not 100% on this format but I’ll give it a few more tries.

[violetsmoak]

Philtatos [1/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20101543/chapters/47615902

Blanket Disclaimer

Summary: During a patrol where Red Hood and Red Robin cross paths, Jason is infected with the blood of the Eros, the ancient God of Love, who informs them that they must track down his missing bow and arrows, or Jason will go slowly mad with an obsessive desire--for Tim. Though overwhelmed by the sudden attention being paid to him, Tim sets to work trying to solve the case, before Jason succumbs to madness. In the meantime, Jason discovers that there's more than godlike powers at work here, as well as a legacy that reaches back through the sands of time. 

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

Beta Reader: None at the moment, but if anyone’s interested, message me through Tumblr.

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: #art #gods in disguise #wings

Canon-Compliance: Follows the New Earth continuity, with elements of New 52 (ie the ones that don’t completely contradict everything that happened pre-Flashpoint). Ignores Rebirth completely. So, up to about 2016 in terms of publication dates? Robins War happened, but Red Hood hasn’t met Artemis or Bizarro, and nothing bad has happened to Roy ffs! 

———————————————————————————————————–

“Of all the warehouses in all the towns in all the world, you grappled onto mine.”

Tim suppresses a groan at the faux amusement even a voice modulator can’t disguise and prepares for the likelihood that his careful planning is about to go to shit. It’s as irritating as the customary flutter in his stomach.

He shifts out of his crouch at the edge of the warehouse skylight and inclines his head to the right, taking in the familiar leather-clad figure and expressionless red helmet. He’s not sure how he didn’t sense the larger man approach or at least hear the tread of his boots.

Jason knows how to be quiet when he needs to be.

Quirks of being a Robin; the habit of creeping around like a living shadow doesn’t disappear, even years after the fact.

“This isn’t your warehouse,” Tim replies at last, careful to keep his tone neutral and not betraying his irritation. While he doubts his predecessor would try to take him out from behind (he’s 89% sure, at least), Red Hood has tried to kill him several times and in several ways in the past.

Jason acts as if he didn’t hear him.

“Might be time to go back to school, Timbers, if you can’t even recognize a Casablanca reference. I thought you’re supposed to be the cultured one.”

“Except for Star Wars, I prefer my movies to be from the post-John Hughes era.”

“Heathen.”

It’s hard to tell if Jason is shuddering in disgust, or in response to the biting November chill; either is possible. Leather isn’t known for its insulating properties.

On nights like this, Tim can’t help being way more in awe of former Robins. When he wore the colors, he had thermal warmers built into his suit—Dick and Jason used to do this job in short-pants.

“Anyway, I’d never buy land here,” Jason continues, a deceptive nonchalance in his tone putting Tim on edge. “It’s right in a flood zone. I dunno about you, but I had enough floods to last a lifetime.”

“Hood, what are you doing here?”

“Should ask you that. I thought you were in California or something. Team-building exercises with the other kiddy heroes or whatever it is you do.”

Tim ignores the way his heart jumps at the notion that Jason gave any attention to his whereabouts. “Business trip. What’s your excuse?”

“Missed the smell of smog and sewer. Needed to get my fix.”

Right, because I really expected him to tell me the actual truth.

“Uh-huh.”

The two former Robins size each other up for several seconds, and not for the first time, Tim curses the helmet hiding Jason’s face. He hates not being able to read people, but in his experience, not being able to read Jason has the potential to turn deadly.

“Are we done?” Tim prompts.

“Yeah, we’re good. Now make like a Bat and step off.” Jason’s reached into his side holsters—and yes, there are the modified M1911 pistols he favors. Tim’s awareness of his position between Jason and the skylight grows. “I’ve got a creep that needs to fear of Hood put in him.”

There is an implicit order to back off, but Tim squares his shoulders.

As if that’s ever worked on any of us.

He has no intention of relinquishing his case, and not just because he dislikes Jason’s style of justice. Tim gets sidelined enough by both Batmans and Robin whenever he’s in Gotham, he won’t knuckle under because Red Hood also demands it. Tim might be a bit in love with the guy, but he knows how to compartmentalize.   

His feelings are inconvenient, but he’s resigned himself to them. He can pinpoint the exact moment it started to happen.

(His childhood fascination with Robin doesn’t count, even if it was watching Jason bulldoze his path through petty criminals that made him breathless and giddy in a way watching Dick never had.)

Tim blames the waffles.

No, that’s not right; he blames himself for asking Jason to stay for the waffles.

And the talking.

Which led to the joking.

Which led to that one moment where Jason, with syrup all down his chin, laughed at one of Tim’s throway remarks. Laughed, not sneered or scoffed, but genuinely laughed. It was unguarded and untouched by bitterness, warm and rich and his smile was that cocky twist Tim could remember from so many years ago. Something in Tim’s chest pulled tight, his mouth going dry, and he felt lightheaded. 

He should have known at that exact moment, because that’s what happened with Steph, when he looked at her one day and realized, he liked her.

Except with Jason, Tim thought he was just recovering from his surprise that his predecessor agreed to stick around for a while. And that they were getting along and that Jason was laughing.

After that, it was a slow roll toward the inevitable that he unknowingly (totally knowingly) ignored. He’s always excelled at shielding himself from his own feelings—had to be. But every time they met each other on random patrols that crossed over, or amid the monthly major crisis involving the whole Family or when Tim ran into him at the manor visiting Alfred, that buoyant emotion returned, stronger each time.

Sometimes he lets himself imagine that Jason gravitates to him more than anyone else. It fills him with the same dizzy warmth as whenever Jason gives him a look—one of those conspiratorial ones like he and Tim are sharing a joke, except half the time Tim doesn’t know what the joke is and the other half he’s sure it’s him, because what moron falls for the guy that’s tried and almost succeeded in killing him more times than he likes to admit?

He keeps quiet about his feelings, though. It’s not as if it’s something that will ever pan out. It’s simiar to having a crush on a celebrity; fun, if a little sad, to dream about, but never serious. In private, he figures he has a better chance of a healthy relationship with Lynx than with Jason.

He’s accepted that and intends to go on with his life.

“I lose you somewhere there?”

Jason’s voice startles Tim out of his head—he realizes he’s been silent for about thirty seconds—and he gives himself a mental shake. “Just trying to figure out your angle. This isn’t really your…thing.”

“Shows what you know.”

Arguments with Jason are an exercise in futility and Tim refuses to justify his continued involvement in his own investigation—call if professional pride. Instead, he restructures his plan for apprehending his target, accounting for the new and often volatile presence of the Red Hood. He wasn’t looking for a team-up, but he’s pretty sure that’s what’s about to happen.

Tim sighs inwardly.

Just because he’s used to his plans imploding because of Jason, doesn’t mean he has to like it. As to why Jason’s here, it only takes a mental review of the case to figure it out.

“Bunny Vreeland?” he guesses.

“Got it in one.”

Tim nods, because given the specifics of this case, that would be the angle Jason focussed on.

A spate of burglaries have occurred across the city, resulting in Gotham’s elite families and institutions losing valuable pieces of art. Normally Tim would leave a case like this to the GCPD—it should be pretty open-shut, since every theft that’s occurred has been witnessed by the victim.

Except, none of the witnesses seem to be able to recall anything that happened. And somehow, the extant security footage has offered no answers either. As for museums and galleries, those meant to be on guard with security were discovered…doing other things. A lot of them were found in some rather compromising positions, both alone and when working with a partner.

(Tim suppresses a shudder. He could have gone his entire life without seeing the footage a sweat-stained, middle-aged rent-a-cop taking care of himself the Natural History Museum’s security office.)

None of the victims remember how they ended up that way.

That sort of thing, he’d normally suspect it involved Poison Ivy, but she always leaves spores or trails of toxin behind. Every crime scene so far has been clean of any trace evidence.

Whoever is cutting a swath through Gotham’s art collectors has a specific taste—paintings, sculptures and wood cuttings with decidedly risqué themes. Given the behavior of the witnesses and security personnel, it’s entirely conceivable that there’s a metahuman with some kind of… pheromone projection ability running around Gotham. That alone wouldn’t draw Jason’s attention. Except, the latest person to fall prey to the thief was a teenaged girl. And while the age of consent in New Jersey is sixteen, the consenter in question needs to remember giving it to be valid.

Hence Red Hood’s involvement. 

“That happened yesterday,” Tim points out. He’s not sure what is more annoying to him: the fact he’s been on this case for a week and Jason thinks he can show up and take it from him, or that Jason’s been looking into it for less than twenty-four hours and has already tracked down the suspect. “How did you figure out you should come here?”

Okay, so it’s probably the latter.

“It’s art, right? Whoever’s doing this need somewhere to store the pieces, even if it’s only waiting to sell them off. And it’d have to be somewhere easy to get in and out of without drawing attention. I kept an ear out for any property changing hands around here that was inside the theft radius.”

“I checked recent property purchases, though. There haven’t been any for the past two months.”

“Well, there wouldn’t be any records of it if it was a handshake deal—which this was,” Jason replies. “It might not be on the record, but this place is now under the ownership of a Steven Howard.” He tilts his head to one side, and Tim suspects he’s being smirked at. “Why, what overly complicated scheme did you come up with to find this guy?”

There’s that teasing again, although the amusement is more genuine this time. Tim hopes the cowl covers enough of his face to hide the flush in his cheeks.

“I used tonight’s WE charity auction to showcase several pieces remaining from my parents’ collection, specifically those that fit the tastes of our thief,” he explains. “It was a last-minute decision, but I know a certain reporter that’s more than happy to plaster my name across newspapers and social media everywhere.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“I was hoping to catch the guy in the act, but I got intercepted by a bunch of Lockheed Martin reps and couldn’t get away.”

“Probably for the best, or he’d have put the whammy on you, too.”

“Maybe.” He doesn’t say he would rather it had been him than the event organizer; the poor woman had been frazzled enough before succumbing to the wiles of the mystery thief. “I had a contingency if it happened.” Specifically, a taser in the sleeve of his suit. “Luckily, I left microtracers on the stolen pieces and used the GPS to find where they were taken.”

“How did you manage that? This guy’s been knocking out every electrical device he’s gone up against.”

“Devices that are turned on, yes. You don’t need a GPS to be turned on to trace it—”

His explanation trails off as the computer in his cowl alerts him to someone setting off the motion sensors he planted a half-hour earlier. The thief was gone by the time Tim arrived at this warehouse, but he knew he would be back.

Showtime.

The shipping area is surprisingly empty but based on the security-feeds he’s hacked into dozens of stolen relics—paintings, sculptures and photographs fill the office. The ones he used as bait—a series of Edo-period shunga—have been placed with some prominence in the middle of the room.

He adjusts the screens within his cowl, toggling through nine different enhanced vision modes before he settles on heat-vision. Since cameras don’t seem to pick up this thief, he’s hoping thermal radiation will be a better bet.

Leather shifts and out of the corner of his eye, he notices Jason crouch down beside him.

Looks like he’s fine with us teaming up, at least.

Out loud, he says, “Wait for my signal. We have to confirm before we engage.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” is the snarky reply.

Tim rolls his eyes and settles back into his observational position.

Jason doesn’t like silence, or at least that’s what Tim thinks because he can’t think of a single instance where they worked together that the older vigilante didn’t run his mouth. Even now, he only manages for several minutes of quiet, shifting his weight back and forth impatiently, before he asks, “So what’s your interest in this? Gotham’s elite getting duped isn’t really your thing anymore. The way I hear, you’re a lot more international these days.”

Tim’s eyes don’t leave the window.

“This is international. There were similar crimes committed in Boston last week, which stopped once the thefts started here in Gotham. Before Boston it was St. John’s, before that Dublin, London—as far as I can tell, it originated in Amsterdam.”

“What’s in Amsterdam?”

“Besides spider assassins and stroopwafel? Catwoman. Except it can’t be her because when the second spate of incidents started up in London, she was in Innsbruck casing the Swarovski exhibit.”

“Then how’d you get a beat on this guy? I got nothing from the security footage. It’s like most of it was erased or malfunctioned.”

“It wasn’t easy. Vague witness statements and enhancing whatever footage was available, which barely helped. By accident, I caught something reflected in a shop window and that was the most tangible evidence.”

“So the guy doesn’t show up on cameras, but still has a reflection. So not a vampire.”

“Not human, either, I think. Somehow, this guy made it from Dublin to St. John’s without being flagged by any checkpoint or even Customs. There are no flight manifests, commercial or charter, that include passengers of his description. Or line up with his times of disappearance. I’ve got a second-hand witness description of him in a Boston lounge at ten o’clock last Monday. Fifteen minutes later on the same day, someone saw him walking around the Wedgewood Museum here in Gotham.”

“That’s where the first theft took place.” Jason makes crosses his arms. “Even if he had access to a plane that travels Mach 1, he wouldn’t get here that fast. Meta?”

“It’s the only explanation that makes sense, since it looks like whatever his powers, he can turn them off and on at will. Probably only uses them when he’s committing the break-ins.”

“And the—wait. There he is.”

They both go silent and watch the suspect enter.

It’s a bit anticlimactic.

Steven Howard looks nothing like a suave master thief that can stir up lustful feelings in anyone. Slender, perhaps as tall as Tim but with a slighter build, dressed in skinny jeans, several layers of shirts and thick black gloves. His dirty blond hair is literally filthy, hanging in the mats that white people try to pass off as dreadlocks, and he’s wearing tinted shades. Inside. At night.

Jason is just as unimpressed.

“Are you kidding me?” he hisses. “This scrawny, pale douche wearing sunglasses at night? He looks like someone didn’t realize Woodstock is over.”

They continue to observe as Howard shuffles into the middle of the room, carrying a huge paper bad with what appears to be enough Batburger to feed twelve people.

“It seems consistent with the descriptions I have,” Tim says, doubtful. “He just… doesn’t seem the type.” Jason is already standing, ready to dive through the skylight and confront the guy, but Tim stops him, throwing an arm out in front of him. “If he’s a meta, we need to have some idea of his capabilities first.”

“Or we knock him out before he knows we’re there and figure that out later.”

“If you want to get hit with whatever pheromones he gives off, be my guest, I promise I won’t take any blackmail videos,” Tim says, and that at least makes Jason pause and reassess.

Below, Howard places the takeout on a pile of crates, and strolls over to the Japanese prints. He considers them carefully for several seconds, before shucking his gloves and reaching forward, stroking his hand across the surface. Then, he presses his forehead against it, fingers caressing the edges.  

“Clearly not concerned with artifact preservation.”

“That’s weird, right? Rich people don’t usually walk around feeling up pieces of art?”

“I don’t know, Hood, do you?”

“I’m not rich.”

“You steal literal fortunes from gangsters.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like I keep much of it. And I didn’t grow up with a silver spoon in my mouth like a few other people I could name.”

“Bite me.”

“Kinky.”

The other man is obviously being a smart-ass, but Tim still clenches his fist and hopes his cowl is low enough on his face to disguise the flood of color in his cheeks.

Down below, Howard straightens up and tugs his shirts off.

“What the hell?” Jason hisses. “We’d better not be out to watch this guy beat off in front of a painting!”

Before Tim can respond, the lights in the warehouse flicker, as if hit by a sudden power surge. Howard rolls his shoulders, like he’s warming up for exercise, and there’s an odd snap that echoes even this high up. 

Two enormous feathered appendages erupt from the man’s back, like something out of a video game, except this is real life. One minute there’s nothing occupying the space behind him, and a beat later feathers flare out to both sides, spanning almost the entire office.

“Holy shit. Are those… wings?”

“You mean you’re seeing them too? And here I figured I haven’t been getting enough sleep.”

“Knowing you, probably not.”

 “Still want to jump in without a plan?”

“Shut up.”

Tim’s fingers fly over the keyboard of his wrist computer, manually inputting characteristics since he can’t seem to capture the guy’s face on his device. “Whoever or whatever he is, he’s a complete ghost. He doesn’t show up on any of the usual databases. Which is surprising, because, wings?”

Jason shakes his head, slow as if trying to dispel disbelief. “One thing’s for sure, this is definitely our guy…”

There is a squeal of tires from behind them, and Tim’s head whips toward the loading dock below the warehouse. He fiddles with his wrist computer, tapping into satellite imagery to see from the angle he can’t. A half dozen black SUVs swerve into the lot and a wave of men pile out, dressed in black and carrying a varied assortment of firearms.

And there goes the rest of my plan…

⁂

Jason creeps to the edge of the warehouse roof to check out the new arrivals, cursing against the newest complication; Red Robin showing up on his patrol and skinny white boys with wings weren’t bad enough, now he’s got to deal with gangster too?

This was supposed to be an easy night. Break a few bones, shatter a kneecap or two, then go finish off that leftover pizza.

He suspects that whatever this is, it’s going to take up the rest of his patrol.

“Who is it?” Tim wants to know, no doubt fiddling with his fancy tech to, like, use satellite imagining figuring it out instead using his eyes.

Nerd.

“I’m seeing a lot of Kalashnikovs and Makarovs,” Jason replies, tapping his comm so he doesn’t need to shout and give away their position.

“Russian? Ivgene maybe?”

“Bratva, I think. Those guys’ve been trying to push into Gotham since Alex Kosov got arrested and the Odessa Mob started to flounder.”

“Hm. I think you’re right. I’m going over the list of theft vics again, and Ishmael Knyazev is on it.”

“Knyazev…why does that sound familiar—wait. Like Anatoly Knyazev? KGBeast?”

“His younger brother.”

“Shit.”

“I’m pretty sure those Degas’ down there in the warehouse belong to him.”

“Guess he holds a grudge…”

Down on the pavement, the men spread out, a bulky guy bearing some resemblance to Slade Wilson but without the muscles gives orders. He barks at his men to surround the building, ordering them to retrieve the paintings and whatever else appears valuable, and detain the thief for their boss to speak to.

Jason snorts, because he knows what constitutes a Russian mafia talking-to. Steven Howard, or whoever he is, is about to have a lot in common with a plucked turkey. Assuming he goes quietly, which Jason isn’t entirely sure of; they still don’t know what wing-boy is capable of.

As he returns to the skylight, he notes Tim already standing and doing a pat-down check of his equipment.

“If they’re here to address a grudge with this guy, we need to get down there before it gets ugly. I figure we have about four minutes before they infiltrate the place.”

“What happened to not just jumping in?”

“About two dozen Bratva members.”

“Yeah, so? What should we care?” Jason counters. “A bunch of scumbags tearing each other apart sounds like a night off to me. And if Feathers there takes a bullet or three, even better.”

Tim faces him dead-on then, and Jason can imagine the reproachful look beneath his stupid cowl. “Theft isn’t a capital offense.”

“Rape is.”

In his mind, anyway.

“Not according to New Jersey Law, and we don’t get to make that call. That’s what the courts are for, and that’s where this guy is going after I interrogate him.”

Jason huffs and narrows his eyes. “We really gonna have this discussion now, kid?”

Tim bristles and turns away.

“No,” he retorts, “because we don’t have time. I’m going in—with or without you.”

And without sparing another glance at him, Tim takes a running leap and jumps through the skylight to mitigate impending disaster.

Jason remains still for a beat, watching as Red Robin plummet through the air to the warehouse below, glass and metal exploding around him, and then curses.

Because, of course his replacement is going to make it his business. Jason’s perfectly content to let these low lives take each other out—death by mobster is a pretty karmic fate for a rapist, in his opinion.

Tim hits the ground several feet behind their mark, who whirls around and stares with wide eyes. The feathers in his giant wings puff up, and he bends into a defensive crouch, a snarl upon his lips.

“Who the—you! What are you doing here?” ‘Howard’ snaps, clenching his fists.

“Getting you out of here before you become a pincushion,” Red Robin growls, snapping a hand outward to grab at him. “And you’re going to answer some questions.”

“Don’t touch me—!”

“Then get moving, or we’re both—”

Apparently, Tim’s estimate was about three minutes off, because there are muffled explosions from the entrances of the warehouse and then the mobsters are piling in, shouting commands and threats, guns in hand.

“—in trouble.”

Several men fire warning shots into the air, some of which bury themselves in the frame of the portraits nearest Tim and Howard, who gives a growl and shoves away from Tim, stalking toward the incoming threat. His wings flare up in anger. “You brutes dare to—!”

But his approach startles the mobsters, who apparently weren’t expecting to encounter a shirtless winged man coming after them.

Easily startled and trigger-happy—never a good combination.

Tim’s leg snaps out, sweeping Steve’s feet out from under him, just in time to save him from the next wave of bullets ripping through the air where his head was. As Tim lands on the ground with one hand, he uses his other to throw a fistful of R-shuriken that embed themselves in the shoulder of the nearest mobster, who drops his gun with pained curses.

Ah, hell.

Jason leaps over the ruined frame of the skylight.

If anyone asks later, it’s because he doesn’t want to explain to Alfred why the poster child of the family got killed in a mob shoot-out on his watch.

(And yes, just Alfred, because while everyone else can go fuck themselves, the number one rule of the family is that you don’t upset the kindly old Englishman that puts up with literal batshit.)

But the reality is, he’s not about to let the only Bat he trusts become riddled with bullets.

Tim isn’t his family, or a friend—they don’t know each other well enough for that—but there’s always been a kind of certainty to him, so Jason knows exactly where he stands with the other vigilante. And that he can turn his back on him without having to worry about an incoming knife or a nerve-strike.

When they first met, he zeroed in on Tim because of lingering resentment and a burning desire for vengeance on his replacement, misdirected as that might have been. Now that he’s mostly over the madness of the Lazarus Pit and endured a few grudging family team-ups in the face of Gotham’s usual psychopaths, his tendency to cross paths with Red Robin feels like it’s motivated by something more complicated. There’s a connection between them, a shared experience of being the replacement that no one really wanted, constantly measured against the legacy of their predecessor and then cast aside with painful ease. They’re outsiders in the family, in a way that neither Dick nor Damian will ever be, and in his own screwed up way, Jason is a bit protective of the kid.

(Not that he intends ever to admit that.)

So yeah, going after Tim isn’t really a choice.

Can’t promise I won’t shoot that winged fucker for causing all this trouble, though.

As he lands in a heavy crouch, Jason notices Tim’s mouth part in surprise; he can’t help being insulted by that.

Sure, they’re relationship can at best be described as limbo, but the kid should know by now Jason no longer hates him with a fiery passion. If he must partner with any of the Bats, he sticks close by Tim, and not only because he has less trouble asking him for help than Dick or Bruce.

(Seriously, the last time he called in a favor with Dick, he couldn’t even get the word out.)

Tim, back on his feet now, sends another hapless gunman flying in Jason’s direction with a well-placed right hook; the guy’s eyes go wide at the sight of the Red Hood, who swings and backhands him into unconsciousness. As the body goes limp, Jason grabs the falling gun with one hand, and uses the other to prop the mobster up as a shield.

Shoving him out in front of him, Jason ducks behind the body to avoid the rain of bullets now coming at him courtesy of this guy’s buddies, carefully inching forward behind his human shield.

“No killing!” Red Robin snaps from across the room; he tosses a tiny device at two more guys, and as it explodes, a controlled concussive blast knocks them to the ground.

“I’m not killing anyone.”

“You’re not exactly preventing it!”

“Everyone’s a critic…”

Still, at the next opportune moment, he throws the man aside and shoots the guns out of the hands of the three shooters, before whirling around to kneecap the fourth that sneaks up from behind him.

One of the injured men tries to come at him again, this time with a knife, but Jason ducks the clumsy blow with ease, punching him in the gut and dragging him into a headlock as he doubles over. He swings him to the ground, takes another shot to hobble him, and then ducks as the two other mobsters crowd him.

Howard looks like he’s trying to inch away from the firefight, but he’s sent back to the ground with a well-placed tap from Red Robin’s bo staff.

“Don’t go flying off just yet,” Tim growls, then vaults over him and puts himself between the winged man and another cadre of mobsters, sweeping his cape in front of them both to shield them.

Must have upgraded it to be bulletproof since I last saw him…

Jason throws one arm up to catch a downward swing from his nearest opponent, twists his body to avoid his comrade, and then strikes the latter in the face, rolling and twisting the arm in his grasp to send the man backward. Both now on the floor, he downs them with two precise shots to the knees, and then stalks forward to finish another with a front-kick to the sternum.

Nine down—how many left?

There’s a lull in the gunfire, and Jason engages his helmet’s infrared system to find the remaining mobsters; they appear to be retreating for the moment, but the thermal readings suggest they aren’t going far.

“Got an exit strategy?” he prompts, backing toward Tim and their hapless charge, guns still primed to shoot.

“You seriously still need to ask?”

“Does it involve going up? Because I don’t think that’s going to work.”

Tim follows Jason’s gaze toward the skylight where the Slade lookalike is perched, disengaging the safety on what Jason recognizes almost too late as a Dragunov.

And ten to one the fucker’s primed with armor-piercing rounds!

There’s only time for Jason to get one person down and to safety, and between the winged bastard that caused all of this, and Tim, there’s no contest.

He vaults forward as the first shots thunder through the air, throwing himself at Tim as bullets careen into Howard. Jason doesn’t know if it hits him anywhere vital, but they do pierce through the thick wings, sending him to the ground in a crumpled heap.

Several of the same bullets plow into Jason’s shoulder when he can’t quite move out of the way in time. He feels blood blossoming across his skin—not the numbing, bone-deep ache of a major injury, but more of a graze—as he lands on Tim’s less than cushioning body.

“Christ, kid, eat a sandwich,” he growls, tightening his hold on the kid and rolling them both out of the path of fire. With an inelegant inchworm crawl that should embarrass anyone trained by Dick Grayson, he manages to get them over to a bunch of crates to provide cover.

It’s just in time, too, since another stray bullet glances across Jason’s helmet; this isn’t as lucky as the body armor. The screen shatters and his comm fizzles out from the force of the shot, and Jason snarls out a breathless oath at the pain and sudden disorientation.

There’s another dull roar, a second round of automatic fire, and this time its Tim knocking him out of its path, dragging them lower down behind the crates.

A beat later, Jason senses fingers scrabbling at the catches of his helmet—

“Ja—! Hood—you alrigh—?!”

And then the helmet is off, and Tim looms over him. He is surprisingly clear in Jason’s vision considering the hit he just took. The cowl hides his eyes, but the way his jaw clenches suggests worry.

Something shoots through Jason then, hitting him like a blow to the gut, as if someone snuck up behind him and sucker-punched him. But there’s no one near him except Tim, probably wouldn’t coldcock someone while he’s down.

For a moment, Jason imagines the entire world slows, and the roar of gunfire fades out, replaced by a puzzling whispering that drowns everything else out:

“—should e’er I go, will you go with me--?”

“—come back to me—”

“—I would that you would leave them all to perish—”

“—bury us together—”

There’s a harsh, swooping sensation in his stomach and Jason gasps for breath, the pain of the action refocussing him on his immediate surroundings. Sound returns, the echoing words bleeding into Red Robin’s voice in an eerie double timbre.

“Hood, answer me! Are you okay?!” Red Robin demands, and then lowers his voice into a hiss, “Jason!”

Physically shaking his head to clear it, Jason forces his concentration past the strange haze surrounding him and pushes the other vigilante away, pausing only briefly to assess that he hasn’t been shot too.

“Not cool, man, secret identity, remember?” he grumbles.

“You’re still wearing a mask,” Tim shoots back, but what would normally sound waspish for him sounds tense. “Or half of one at least.”

Jason grunts in response, digging into his pocket for the spare domino he keeps on hand, peels the backing off the adhesive strip and fixes it to his face. He peeks around the edge of the crates to study the sniper up high, while Tim cranes to check on their mark; Howard is still moving, shoulders and wings shifting like he’s trying to get up. They need to get him out of the line of fire, much as Jason would rather not, and stop the guy from bleeding out.

Another barrage of bullets demolishes the top edges of the crates.

“Police are on their way,” Tim tells him, flicking something on his wrist computer.

“Awesome. Just in time to identify our corpses.”

“As if you haven’t had worse,” Tim snorts, studying the projected display. “All the exits are covered; unfriendlies on our four, six and nine.”

“And the one up top.”

Another bullet embeds itself three inches from Jason’s head. He and Tim consider each other for a second, and the younger man digs another handful of gadgets from his bandolier. He juts his chin at the skylight, his meaning plain, and Jason nods.

Simple enough plan. Of course, it’d be nice if there was something to distract them a bit more. I really don’t want to get shot again just now—

Their buddy Howard decides that’s the optimal moment to try to get up again, pushing himself to his feet with a snarl. His wings unfurl with a whump sound, the blast of air rippling from them sending a few of the nearer mobsters staggering. It has the added effect of drawing their attention, and for a moment, there’s a lull in the amount of projectiles heading for Jason and Tim as the gunmen focus on the new threat.

“That’ll work.”

“Go!”

They burst out from behind the crates, Jason already shooting several rounds at the sniper up top, while Tim flings a handful of circular pods at the nearest enemies. This first wave of devices are knockout gas, which downs the two closest mobsters and makes Steve cough and stagger.

Jason’s target pulls back to avoid his attack, but isn’t fast enough, ends up taking a shot to the calf and staggering forward. He plummets to the ground, and there’s a familiar sound of bone cracking—Sorry, asshole, that sounded like a femur—and then Jason swings around to take out the trio sneaking up on them from behind.

Tim automatically ducks beneath his arms, neatly avoiding the barrage of bullets, and tosses another handful of gadgets; this time, upon contact, wires snap out and wrap around the attackers, making several overbalance while the others lose grip on their weapons. Jason’s clip is empty now, and so he drops his own guns, pulls out the modified grapple gun and fires; it punches through the shoulder of one guy, and Jason retracts it, pulling him forward and then downing him with a punch to the jaw.

Red Robin’s last device is something metallic that lands in the middle of the floor and vibrates with a startling intensity; Jason’s about to make a lewd joke, when his grapple is tugged out of his hands—along with every other metallic weapon nearby, which collect in a pile around the device.

“Really?” Jason grouses.

“Like you really need a weapon,” Tim shoots back; he’s already got his bo staff primed and ready—Must be made of some non-metallic polymer this time around—and sweeps the legs out from under some stragglers.

Jason decides to show his feelings on the matter by plowing forward and brawling with the remaining members of the mob. He doesn’t pull his punches, listening to the snap of forearms and crack of broken ankles and cries of pain.

And as suddenly as it started, it’s quiet again.

The warehouse is in ruins—along with quite a few of the relics.

Howard gapes around. “You animals. You absolute savages! You just…look at this!”

“Hope you have insurance,” Jason quips.

“Don’t really care if you don’t,” Tim adds, bringing out one of the remaining pods; he snaps it open before Steven can say anything, and rope wires explode outward to wrap around him, wings and all. “Now, let’s go have a conversation before the police show up.”

Grabbing hold of the guy by the front, he fires his grapple and flies upward; Jason stares after him for a bit longer than a blink, shakes his head. After tugging his grapple out of the pile of weapons (with more difficulty than he’d like), he follows.

Sirens scream in the distance, as he and Tim face down the winged man who is teetering a bit as he tries to keep balance.

“Well, that’s just rude,” he mutters, his pinched expression reminiscent of Damian’s permanently constipated look. “And a waste, really.”

He closes his eyes in concentration, and the wings vanish, causing Tim’s bindings to loosen. Both Tim and Jason leap forward to grab him in case he tries to make a run for it, but he sidesteps them with surprising ease.

“Knock it off, I’m not going anywhere,” he snaps before they can try again. “What’s the point, you just destroyed my pad.”

“You’d think you’d be more bothered about having been shot,” Tim deadpans, and then studies the shirtless man with a frown on his lips. “Or not.”

There isn’t a sign injury on him.

“I heal fast.”

“Good to know,” Jason says.

Without another word, he snaps head forward and headbutts the pasty-faced bastard. Who crumples to the ground once more.

“Hood!” Red Robin cries in protest and recrimination.

“What? It was that or a bullet.”

Red Robin pulls him backward and away from their detainee, mouth turning downward. Jason intends to mirror the expression right back—he isn’t in the mood for Tim’s bitch-face—but his vision falters a bit, tunneling a little as it settles on Tim’s form.

Okay, so that was a bad idea. If I didn’t have a concussion before…

“Man, you really shouldn’t have done that…” their winged detainee mumbles, picking himself back off the ground and glares at Jason through bleary, bloodshot eyes. “I mean, if you weren’t screwed before by the bullet, you definitely will be now.” His gaze flicks to Tim, and the corner of his mouth ticks up in a way Jason doesn’t like. “Probably quite literally.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Jason snaps, finger itching towards a trigger once again.

“That’s not important,” Tim interrupts. “I want to know who this guy is. Metas tend to avoid Gotham.”

“Well, darling, I’m not a meta.”

“Then what the hell are you? Because those wings ain’t human,” Jason growls. “And this is the only time we’ll ask nicely.”

The winged man draws himself up, somehow managing to loom despite the fact he’s perhaps an inch taller than Tim and narrows his eyes at them like he’s looking at vermin.

“I am Eros,” he says, lifting his chin, “the God of Love.”

⁂⁂⁂

Next Chapter

[allumetterouge]

Okay, so after four scratched stories, I've settled on something cute and fluffy and not complicated and multichaptered as @lexiconallie ‘s Christmas present. It's very late; thank you for your patience and I hope you like it!! <333

Also, thanks to @minchen0897 for saying she liked it and I trust her so now I actually feel like I might have written something nice once again <33

Dead Robins Society

Summary: It's Christmas Eve and Damian is perched on a roof instead of celebrating at home

[Read on AO3]

“Okay kid, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be back at the manor, celebrating?”

“I don’t like Christmas.” Damian shrugged as Jason sat down beside him on the roof top. “I have to be nice to everyone - including Drake.”

Jason knew a joke when he heard one. The little bean had been getting along with the family for quite some time now. He was a good kid but he did like teasing Jason. Rubbing his neck, Jason bit his lip to stop himself from smiling.

“Okay, fine,” Damian whined, not suppressing his own smile. “Tell me what you got him.”

Chuckling, he pushed his hands into his pockets, grabbing hold of the lighter inside. “Naa, you’re just gonna make fun of me.”

“Of course I will,” the kid amended. “It’s my prerogative as your younger brother, isn’t it?”

“Brother?” Jason grabbed the lighter tightly, glancing at the kid from the corner of his eyes.

Damian’s face was flushing, a faint dusting of red on his dark cheeks that wasn’t just from the cold. “You’ve been adopted into my family for years now, Todd. Get with the program.” After a beat, the kid huffed, straightening his spine and looking anywhere but Jason. "It has come to my attention that people give presents to those they care about during these holidays."

"Astute observation, bean bag. What gave it away, the noisy TV ads or Pennyworth asking for your wishes since the season started?"

Damian huffed, his breath a steamy cloud in the cold air. "You're obnoxious, Todd. I don't know why I made the effort."

With a jerk, Jason slipped the lighter from his jacket, trying to disguise his reaction as he patted his pockets down for cigarettes.

And, it really was strange. Jason wasn’t quite sure how to take that statement - Damian was thoughtful, of course. Damian wouldn’t just buy random things, instead, he’d take the time to find the perfect present. That’s what he had been trained for - Talia wouldn’t have it any other way. She had poignantly told Jason to make sure he knew his mark’s heart, their deepest desire. It was a thing an assassin more than often needed to know. So it really shouldn’t have come as such a surprise Damian had made an effort with his present. Deep down, Jason knew that wasn’t what had surprised him.

“Didn’t have to get me anything,” he grumbled, lighting his cigarette.

“That is true.” The kid fidgeted, producing a red envelope with Jason’s name on it in Damian’s ornate cursive. “But I wanted to. I’m not sure I got it right, though.”

The lump in Jason’s throat made it hard to answer, so he hid by taking a drag before even looking at the boy. People didn’t give him presents. It didn’t happen. Sure, once or twice, he’d been offered a freebie by some of the working girls he had saved, or got offered money by some asshole for this or that, like letting them live, and, sure, Alfred did buy some things, but they both knew Jason wouldn’t come to pick them up. By now, Jason was pretty sure the old butler was re-using last year’s gifts. And the gifts from the year before that and so on. Jason Todd didn’t get presents. Not present presents. Not the kind that actually counted.

Damian’s hands were shaking almost as much as his own when Jason put the burning cigarette aside and took the envelope. They would both blame it on the cold, of course, but they knew either would be telling a lie.

The envelope was light, not much more than a few pages inside tops - probably just a card. People did hand out cards around Christmas, right? They still did that, right?

Carefully, Jason pushed a finger under the seal. Because the pretentious little bean would not just use glue, oh no. It had to be a good, old-fashioned wax seal with his initials on it. Not wanting to break it, Jason pulled back, reaching instead for the knife he was carrying in his boot.

“Just rip it,” Damian scoffed, blowing on his hands to keep them warm. His eyes flitted between Jason and the letter, only to stare straight ahead when the kid noticed Jason grinning at him. “It’s just some thing. Nothing of value.”

The knife cut through the thick paper almost effortlessly, satisfying in a way little else was. Jason put the tool aside, keeping the envelope in his hands for a while, only marveling at it. Maybe it wasn’t anything expensive, maybe it was just a stupid Christmas card, but it was for him. The kid couldn’t know, couldn’t even fathom what that meant.

“It is to me.” His voice was low, getting swept away by the icy wind blowing and tugging at their clothes, but Damian understood.

“You haven’t even seen--” The accusation veering off into a shriek when he saw the first tear roll down Jason’s cheek. He could not tell if it was because of the sentiment - or the present itself as Jason had pulled the card out by now. Only a little bit, but it sure was enough to recognize the likeness of one Catherine Todd.

Damian hadn’t had too many pictures to work with, but he was still a little proud of that drawing. It was small, just a little charcoal on some good paper, but it did look like the woman he had only seen in a handful of newspaper clippings and mugshots.

“I... I hadn’t seen her in any of your safe houses. It... It wasn’t because you don’t want her around, do you?”

The kid sounded weird. Uncomfortable. Like he hadn’t just pulled out Jason’s heart with his bare hands. They both had their mommy issues alongside the obvious daddy issues. They both knew their mommies could’ve been better and maybe Jason should’ve hated Catherine. Maybe he shouldn’t even call the woman who had raised him his mother at all. She wasn’t actually biologically related to him, was she?

“Thank you.”

Damian blinked, not understanding the tone of his voice and Jason couldn’t blame him. He wouldn’t have understood the strange love-child of a croak and a whisper that left his throat either. Instead, he reached out, making sure the kid knew what he was doing before clutching Damian to his chest.

“Thank you,” he repeated, his face buried in the kid’s shoulder.

“It’s fine,” Damian said. “I’m glad you like it.”

Chuckling, Jason squeezed the boy a little, wiping his face with the ball of the hand still holding onto the envelope. He refused to let the brat go. Not right now, at least. Not completely.

“That why you were outside tonight?” Jason looked down at the kid who frowned at him in return. He probably hadn’t wanted Jason to see the tears and snot run over his own face, but hey, they were both giants messes and that should’ve been common knowledge, so Jason didn’t comment on it.

“Maybe I just don’t like Christmas.”

“Or maybe you just don’t like everyone pretending that they do.”

Sniffing, Damian leaned into his shoulder. “Or maybe I just plain don’t like Christmas, Todd. Don’t make this a big thing.”

But it was, right? Damian cared too much for all those assholes - including the biggest asshole, Jason himself. The little nugget cared and it was no secret.

“Wanna go back there and exchange the decorations for Halloween themed ones?”

“What?”

Whatever the little bean bag wanted, Jason would get it for him. And if that meant finding a way to keep the family from pretending and lying all night just because they were supposed to be ‘happy’ during the holidays, Jason would do just that.

“We could just fuck things up a little. Make it less serious, less... you know.”

Wiping his face with both hands, the kid turned to look at him. “You’re serious.”

“Like a heart attack.”

“You think if we take away the pretense for them to act all...” Damian waved his hand about, trying to convey his hatred for all the false cheer waiting at home.

“Christmas-y”

“That’s not even a word.”

“It so is.” Throwing his forgotten cigarette off the roof, Jason stood, motioning for the kid to follow. “D’you know Tim and the old man didn’t even celebrate before they got to know Dick? Christmas is not such a big deal as they make it out to be. They’re just looking for an excuse to make everyone else happy.”

“Yeah, well.” Damian straightened his jacket before looking up to frown at Jason again. “They should stop. It’s making me uncomfortable.”

Laughing, Jason tousled his hair. “They could definitely learn a thing or two from you. -- Care to teach them a lesson?”

“Are we really going to...”

“We’re gonna steal Christmas. It’s kinda tradition anyway.”

“How’s that tradition?” Damian grumbled as he followed Jason off the roof.

“Hatchling, have you never heard of the Grinch? We really need to get you more books.”

“Maybe I should put it on my wish list.”

“Maybe you should.”

[coralmccallum]

Sometimes the planets align and you are lucky enough to experience something magical – a once in a lifetime opportunity.

I experienced one such moment earlier this week thanks entirely to a special friend. (You know who you are)

Christmas came early and I was fortunate enough to find myself seated next to my friend in the SSE Hydro preparing to watch the Tim Burton’s The Nightmare Before Christmas 25th Anniversary concert. Not only that but Danny Elfman, the composer, was about to reprise his role as the singing voice of Jack Skellington alongside other original cast members.

Now, I appreciate that not all of you may be Tim Burton or Danny Elfman fans….oh…you don’t know what you’re missing!

Ok, I’ll calm the enthusiasm for a second.

For those of you who haven’t seen it, The Nightmare Before Christmas is an animated dark musical fantasy film conceived and produced by Tim Burton. The film is based on a poem written by Tim Burton when he worked as an animator for Disney

  It was late one fall in Halloweenland, And the air had quite a chill. Against the moon a skeleton sat, Alone upon a hill.

He was tall and thin with a bat bow tie; Jack Skellington was his name. He was tired and bored in Halloweenland – Everything was always the same.

“I’m sick of the scaring, the terror, the fright. I’m tired of being something that goes bump in the night. I’m bored with leering my horrible glances, And my feet hurt from dancing those skeleton dances. I don’t like graveyards, and I need something new. There must be more to life than just yelling, ‘Boo!'”

Then out from a grave, with a curl and a twist, Came a whimpering, whining, spectral mist.

It was a little ghost dog, with a faint little bark, And a jack-o’-lantern nose that glowed in the dark.

It was Jack’s dog, Zero, the best friend he had, But Jack hardly noticed, which made Zero sad.

All that night and through the next day, Jack wandered and walked. He was filled with dismay.

Then deep in the forest, just before night, Jack came upon an amazing sight.

Not twenty feet from the spot where he stood Were three massive doorways carved in wood.

He stood before them, completely in awe, His gaze transfixed by one special door.

Entranced and excited, with a slight sense of worry,

Jack opened the door to a white, windy flurry.

Jack didn’t know it, but he’d fallen down In the middle of a place called Christmas Town!

Immersed in the light, Jack was no longer haunted. He had finally found the feeling he wanted. And so that his friends wouldn’t think him a liar, He took the present filled stockings that hung by the fire. He took candy and toys that were stacked on the shelves, And a picture of Santa with all of his elves. He took lights and ornaments and the star from the tree, And from the Christmas Town sign, he took the big letter C.

He picked up everything that sparkled or glowed. He even picked up a handful of snow. He grabbed it all and without being seen, He took it all back to Halloween.

Back in Halloween, a group of Jack’s peers Stared in amazement at his Christmas souvenirs. For this wondrous vision none were prepared. Most were excited, though a few were quite scared!

For the next few days, while it lightninged and thundered, Jack sat alone and obsessively wondered. “Why is it they get to spread laughter and cheer While we stalk the graveyards, spreading panic and fear? Well, I could be Santa, and I could spread cheer! Why does he get to do it year after year?” Outraged by injustice, Jack thought and he thought. Then he got an idea. “Yes…yes…why not!”

In Christmas Town, Santa was making some toys When through the din he heard a soft noise. He answered the door, and to his surprise, He saw weird little creatures in strange disguise. They were altogether ugly and rather petite. As they opened their sacks, they yelled, “Trick or treat!” Then a confused Santa was shoved into a sack And taken to Halloween to see mastermind Jack.

In Halloween everyone gathered once more, For they’d never seen a Santa before And as they cautiously gazed at this strange old man, Jack related to Santa his masterful plan:

“My dear Mr. Claus, I think it’s a crime That you’ve got to be Santa all of the time! But now I will give presents, and I will spread cheer. We’re changing places I’m Santa this year. It is I who will say Merry Christmas to you! So you may lie in my coffin, creak doors, and yell, ‘Boo!’ And please, Mr. Claus, don’t think ill of my plan. For I’ll do the best Santa job that I can.”

And though Jack and his friends thought they’d do a good job, Their idea of Christmas was still quite macabre.

They were packed up and ready on Christmas Eve day When Jack hitched his reindeer to his sleek coffin sleigh. But on Christmas Eve, as they were about to begin, A Halloween fog slowly rolled in.

Jack said, “We can’t leave; this fog’s just too thick. There will be no Christmas, and I can’t be St. Nick.” Then a small glowing light pierced through the fog, What could it be?…It was Zero, Jack’s dog!

Jack said, “Zero, with your nose so bright, Won’t you guide my sleigh tonight?”

And to be so needed was Zero’s great dream, So he joyously flew to the head of the team.

And as the skeletal sleigh started its ghostly flight, Jack cackled, “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

‘Twas the nightmare before Christmas, and all though the house, Not a creature was peaceful, not even a mouse. The stockings all hung by the chimney with care, When opened that morning would cause quite a scare! The children, all nestled so snug in their beds, Would have nightmares of monsters and skeleton heads. The moon that hung over the new-fallen snow Cast an eerie pall over the city below, And Santa Claus’s laughter now sounded like groans, And the jingling bells like chattering bones. And what to their wondering eyes should appear, But a coffin sleigh with skeleton deer. And a skeletal driver so ugly and sick, They knew in a moment, this can’t be St. Nick!

From house to house, with a true sense of joy, Jack happily issued each present and toy. From rooftop to rooftop he jumped and he skipped, Leaving presents that seemed to be straight from a crypt! Unaware that the world was in panic and fear, Jack merrily spread his own brand of cheer.

He visited the house of Susie and Dave; They got a Gumby and Pokey From the grave. Then on to the home of Little Jane Neeman; She got a baby doll Possessed by a demon.

A monstrous train with tentacle tracks, A ghoulish puppet wielding an ax, A man-eating plant Disguised as a wreath, And a vampire teddy bear With very sharp teeth.

There were screams of terror, but Jack didn’t hear it, He was much too involved with his own Christmas spirit! Jack finally looked down from his dark, starry frights And saw the commotion, the noise, and the light. “Why, they’re celebrating, it looks like such fun! They’re thanking me for the good job that I’ve done.” But what he thought were fireworks meant as goodwill, Were bullets and missiles intended to kill. Then amidst the barrage of artillery fire, Jack urged Zero to go higher and higher. And away they all flew like the storm of a thistle, Until they were hit by a well guided missile. And as they fell on the cemetery, way out of sight, Was heard, “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”

Jack pulled himself up on a large stone cross, And from there he reviewed his incredible loss. “I thought I could be Santa, I had such belief…” Jack was confused and filled with great grief. Not knowing where to turn, he looked toward the sky, Then he slumped on the grave and he started to cry. And as Zero and Jack lay crumpled on the ground, They suddenly heard a familiar sound….

“My dear Jack,” said Santa, “I applaud your intent. I know wreaking such havoc was not what you meant. And so you are sad, and feeling quite blue, But taking over Christmas was the wrong thing to do. I hope you realize Halloween’s the right place for you. There’s a lot more, Jack, that I’d like to say, But now I must hurry, for it’s almost Christmas Day.” Then he jumped in his sleigh, and with a wink of an eye, He said, “Merry Christmas!”, and he bid them good-bye.

Back home, Jack was sad, but then, like a dream, Santa brought Christmas to the land of Halloween.

The END

  (credits to the owner Tim Burton – copy sourced via Google)

  I love Tim Burton films!

I love Danny Elfman music!

  This was sure to be a night to remember – and it was!

  Both my friend and I were a little unsure of what to expect…..

Below us the stage was prepared for the arrival of the Royal Scottish National Orchestra. There were three video screens above the vast stage.

It struck me that I was more accustomed to standing on the rail in front of the stage….not tonight though. This was an entirely seated event. Very civilised.

The show opened with the RSNO playing The Nightmare Before Christmas overture while the screen showed a selection of Tim Burton’s original drawings.

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To cut a long story short, we then watched the film but, when it reached a musical number, this was performed live on stage. Aside from the incredibly talented and animated Danny Elfman, we were entertained by Catherine O’Hara as Sally and Ken Page as Oogie Boogie plus five other vocalists who included comedian Greg Proops (remember him from Whose Line Is it Anyway?)

Like all theatrical performances, there was a short interval at an appropriate moment in the film.

Following the intermission, acclaimed violinist Sandy Cameron was invited on stage to perform the Elfman Violin Concerto. WOW! That’s all I can say…WOW!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=35jRufnM-Kg

(credits to the owner via YouTube)

When the film ended to rapturous applause, the various performers took their bows then Danny Elfman returned to the stage to treat us to one final number. He performed Oogie Boogie’s song as he’d originally envisaged it in a Cab Calloway style. This performance above all others showcases just what an outstandingly talented entertainer he truly is. Loved it!

  Sadly, all good things have to come to an end….

  How many sleeps till Sandy Claws comes?

  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ry7PcYtKPhA

(credits to the owner via You Tube)

  (images sourced via Google – credits to the owners)

  When The Planets Align…..The Nightmare Before Christmas Sometimes the planets align and you are lucky enough to experience something magical – a once in a lifetime opportunity.

[funface2]

How a joke about the milkman inspired Psychonauts' best level – PC Gamer

The Milkman Conspiracy started, as many great things do, in a Thai restaurant. Or maybe it didn’t. Tim Schafer can’t remember exactly. Somebody—perhaps him—came up with the phrase ‘I am the milkman, my milk is delicious’, and it may or may not have been during a Double Fine team meal. “I wish someone had said it at the restaurant, because their milk was delicious,” he says.

Either way, those eight words unified ideas that had been buzzing around his head for a conspiracy theory-themed Psychonauts level. It’s how most levels for the zany platformer started: Schafer brought the concept, the artists re-imagined it, the designers dreamt up the gameplay, and then the world builders and programmers brought it to life. So how did The Milkman Conspiracy go from a simple, silly phrase to one of the most beloved levels in a beloved game?

How did The Milkman Conspiracy go from a simple, silly phrase to one of the most beloved levels in a beloved game?

Schafer has always been fascinated by people who genuinely believed conspiracy theories, and wanted to know what was going on inside their heads. “I loved the movie Capricorn One when I was a kid, on faking the moon landing. Just the idea that someone would think [it was true] was so funny to me, in the same way some people think flat earthers are funny now, but I find it very sad, because it’s just a symptom of how scary and misleading the internet can be,” he says.

He drew up a chart of conspiracies and linked them all to a central character, Boyd. Some of the theories were famous, or taken from movies. Some were inspired by office chats, others by a homeless man named Doug, who lived on the streets nearby. “We’d pay him $10 a week to sweep our driveway,” Schafer says. “He had ups and downs. Certain days he thought the government was trying to do things with him, and some days he didn’t. It was interesting to talk to him… trying to get inside of his head was very inspirational for the level. I still see him around the neighbourhood.”

Psychonauts was an exercise in dealing with mental illness in a comic way—the team were conscious of never “punching down” and wanted players to empathise with the characters, Schafer says. For Boyd, that meant showing the problems he’d been wrestling with: Being fired from a string of jobs and having an alter-ego implanted in his mind by Psychonauts villain Oleander.

That alter-ego was, of course, the Milkman.

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Visually, Schafer imagined Boyd’s mind world as a giant spider’s web, with Boyd’s house at the centre. He also wanted it to give it a retro, ’50s spy vibe, and thought a suburban neighborhood would be the perfect setting: Relatively mundane on the surface, but hiding a dark secret. He gave the concept to his artists. 

Art director Scott Campbell tells me he wanted to emphasise paranoia, and he drew eyes and binoculars popping out of trashcans, mailboxes and bushes to make the player feel like they were being watched. He also came up with the G-Men, who kept an eye out for suspicious activities. 

“I based their outfits on the classic ’50s G-Men detectives in their overcoats and hats, reminiscent of the Spy vs Spy comics in Mad magazine and every single TV show from that time period,” he says. “I just loved that spies always wore those overcoats and people were supposed to not notice them in hotel lobbies or on park benches with their newspapers covering their faces, with just their eyes showing.”

Campbell says the team found it funny to simply give the G-Men a single object as a disguise, and have them act out what was clearly the wrong use for that object. It’s why you see G-Men using red stop signs to hammer in imaginary nails, or playing a bouquet of flowers like a guitar, and it’s the root of much of the level’s humour. 

Schafer recalls the initial magic of the level coming from a drawing by concept artist Peter Chan. “Suburbia is supposed to look mundane, but what if it was all just vaulted up against the sky? He had this drawing of the roads bent and twisted in the air, like [Boyd’s] thinking was twisting back on itself and illogical.

“And I was like, ‘woah’, the programmers were like, ‘woah’.”

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Schafer knew instantly that was the road to pursue, but he still had no idea what the gameplay would look like, so he brought in lead designer Erik Robson. Up until that point in the game, the team hadn’t used the player’s inventory much, and Robson was keen on an adventure game-style level where players combined items in their inventories to solve puzzles.

Those puzzles would be themed around the G-Men guarding certain areas, and the players would have to carry the right item to blend in. It fit well with Clairvoyance, a psychic power that let protagonist Raz see through the eyes of other characters, which had come from Schafer’s research into psychic abilities.

The trick, Robson tells me, was to make every possible item and Clairvoyance interaction entertaining, including failures. The team knew players would try to combine seemingly unconnected items, or try out their powers on inanimate objects, so they created a huge spreadsheet of every possible interaction, filling each box with a new idea.

“We know we have to have something fun for if I use the clairvoyance on the feather I’m holding, for example,” he says, “We knew those interactions would all be possible… it ends up being a situation where a bunch of creative people have to brainstorm and come up with fun solutions, and hopefully, that ends up being entertaining for a player.”

Sometimes those interactions would be simple: When used on a keypad, Raz is seen as a giant finger. But others would require more time and effort, and one of the brilliant things about Double Fine was that three designers were allowed to take three days to come up with the right concept.

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All the things that seem like antagonists, in the level, are… like an immune system trying to understand an alien body in its midst.

Designer Erik Robson

The Milkman Conspiracy ended up much larger than originally planned, partly because of the team’s relative gravity tech. The programmers came up with a way to flip gravity as you moved between the twisted, spiralling streets that Chan had drawn, and the camera would react in kind. It worked brilliantly, and the level naturally expanded as Robson took players off in different directions.

The sprawling design also fit into the theme, he says. “Broadly, the goal of every Psychonauts mind level was to express the personality of the character in whatever way possible. I think there was something appealing about it being an open-air maze. That’s a weird contradiction that seems consistent with Boyd: ‘I’m lost, but I can see everything. I see my goals, but I can’t suss out how I’m going to get there.'”

In the end, Robson feels Milkman sprawled too much. “There’s maybe two or three of those ambient houses when there should really only be one. As a level designer, my proclivity is to make things too big, so there might be a bit of guilt kicking in there.”

Robson also wishes the team could’ve better expressed Boyd’s inner turmoil throughout the level. The opening sequence, where the player uses Clairvoyance on Boyd and sees the conspiratorial scrawls he’s made on the walls of his house, is an example of when it worked, because it gave the player a sense of what was to come while revealing something about Boyd’s character, Robson says.

“All the things that seem like antagonists, in the level, are… like an immune system trying to understand an alien body in its midst. And that alien body is the what the Milkman represents, this thing that is there and buried, but he can’t get rid of, and he knows something bad is going to happen as a result. There are a bunch of things I think we did get, the sort of confusion and how nothing is quite what it seems, the open-air maze. But I think that would have been cool to kind of drive that emotional point home better.”

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Partly because of these niggles, Robson says he’s never thought of Milkman as a standout level. But he says it’s one of the funniest, and Schafer’s writing undoubtedly brings the whole thing together. Simply written down, the jokes—”The most pleasant sewers can be found in Paris, France”—have almost zero impact. But their deadpan delivery works so well in the context of the level, and the ultra-serious G-Men talking about how “rhubarb is a controversial pie flavor” as they try hopelessly to blend in with their given roles proves to be hilarious.

That was only possible because writing all the dialogue came last. After the designers and gameplay programmers had finished, Schafer would assess every piece of the level, and write dialogue based on all the work that came before. “That was the most solid foundation for the jokes to get layered on top,” Robson says. “Half of my memory of Milkman is playing it without any of that dialogue, so that stuff still almost feels like a sort of recent edition. And then after you’re done with the level, six or eight weeks later, this dialogue appears all of a sudden in the game.”

Schafer tells me he wanted Erik Wolpaw to write the dialogue, but Wolpaw ended up being too busy. “So I ended up writing all the G-Men dialogue myself and I’m so happy I did, because it was so fun,” he says. “It’s just that matter of fact, straight-laced: ‘Who was the milkman? What was the purpose of the goggles?’

“We just happened to be talking about pie a lot, about people thinking rhubarb can be dangerous if you cook it wrong. You can poison people. So it’s a very controversial variety of pie—being able to sneak stuff like that in was really fun. It was really relaxing to write in that flat tone. ‘My helicopter goes up and down.'” 

It’s those jokes that I, and many other players, remember best about The Milkman Conspiracy. But for Double Fine, it carries its own legacy: a reminder that “no one person makes a level”, Schafer says. “I didn’t think of the twisting roads, and I didn’t think of the way the G-Men functioned. But I still feel like the ideas that I cared about are in there, and each department got to contribute an essential part of the level. Any one piece of that, you took it away, and it’s not the same,” he says.

(Image credit: Double Fine)

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from Funface https://funface.net/best-jokes/how-a-joke-about-the-milkman-inspired-psychonauts-best-level-pc-gamer/

[funface2]

How a joke about the milkman inspired Psychonauts' best level – PC Gamer

The Milkman Conspiracy started, as many great things do, in a Thai restaurant. Or maybe it didn’t. Tim Schafer can’t remember exactly. Somebody—perhaps him—came up with the phrase ‘I am the milkman, my milk is delicious’, and it may or may not have been during a Double Fine team meal. “I wish someone had said it at the restaurant, because their milk was delicious,” he says.

Either way, those eight words unified ideas that had been buzzing around his head for a conspiracy theory-themed Psychonauts level. It’s how most levels for the zany platformer started: Schafer brought the concept, the artists re-imagined it, the designers dreamt up the gameplay, and then the world builders and programmers brought it to life. So how did The Milkman Conspiracy go from a simple, silly phrase to one of the most beloved levels in a beloved game?

How did The Milkman Conspiracy go from a simple, silly phrase to one of the most beloved levels in a beloved game?

Schafer has always been fascinated by people who genuinely believed conspiracy theories, and wanted to know what was going on inside their heads. “I loved the movie Capricorn One when I was a kid, on faking the moon landing. Just the idea that someone would think [it was true] was so funny to me, in the same way some people think flat earthers are funny now, but I find it very sad, because it’s just a symptom of how scary and misleading the internet can be,” he says.

He drew up a chart of conspiracies and linked them all to a central character, Boyd. Some of the theories were famous, or taken from movies. Some were inspired by office chats, others by a homeless man named Doug, who lived on the streets nearby. “We’d pay him $10 a week to sweep our driveway,” Schafer says. “He had ups and downs. Certain days he thought the government was trying to do things with him, and some days he didn’t. It was interesting to talk to him… trying to get inside of his head was very inspirational for the level. I still see him around the neighbourhood.”

Psychonauts was an exercise in dealing with mental illness in a comic way—the team were conscious of never “punching down” and wanted players to empathise with the characters, Schafer says. For Boyd, that meant showing the problems he’d been wrestling with: Being fired from a string of jobs and having an alter-ego implanted in his mind by Psychonauts villain Oleander.

That alter-ego was, of course, the Milkman.

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(Image credit: Double Fine)

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(Image credit: Double Fine)

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Visually, Schafer imagined Boyd’s mind world as a giant spider’s web, with Boyd’s house at the centre. He also wanted it to give it a retro, ’50s spy vibe, and thought a suburban neighborhood would be the perfect setting: Relatively mundane on the surface, but hiding a dark secret. He gave the concept to his artists. 

Art director Scott Campbell tells me he wanted to emphasise paranoia, and he drew eyes and binoculars popping out of trashcans, mailboxes and bushes to make the player feel like they were being watched. He also came up with the G-Men, who kept an eye out for suspicious activities. 

“I based their outfits on the classic ’50s G-Men detectives in their overcoats and hats, reminiscent of the Spy vs Spy comics in Mad magazine and every single TV show from that time period,” he says. “I just loved that spies always wore those overcoats and people were supposed to not notice them in hotel lobbies or on park benches with their newspapers covering their faces, with just their eyes showing.”

Campbell says the team found it funny to simply give the G-Men a single object as a disguise, and have them act out what was clearly the wrong use for that object. It’s why you see G-Men using red stop signs to hammer in imaginary nails, or playing a bouquet of flowers like a guitar, and it’s the root of much of the level’s humour. 

Schafer recalls the initial magic of the level coming from a drawing by concept artist Peter Chan. “Suburbia is supposed to look mundane, but what if it was all just vaulted up against the sky? He had this drawing of the roads bent and twisted in the air, like [Boyd’s] thinking was twisting back on itself and illogical.

“And I was like, ‘woah’, the programmers were like, ‘woah’.”

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Schafer knew instantly that was the road to pursue, but he still had no idea what the gameplay would look like, so he brought in lead designer Erik Robson. Up until that point in the game, the team hadn’t used the player’s inventory much, and Robson was keen on an adventure game-style level where players combined items in their inventories to solve puzzles.

Those puzzles would be themed around the G-Men guarding certain areas, and the players would have to carry the right item to blend in. It fit well with Clairvoyance, a psychic power that let protagonist Raz see through the eyes of other characters, which had come from Schafer’s research into psychic abilities.

The trick, Robson tells me, was to make every possible item and Clairvoyance interaction entertaining, including failures. The team knew players would try to combine seemingly unconnected items, or try out their powers on inanimate objects, so they created a huge spreadsheet of every possible interaction, filling each box with a new idea.

“We know we have to have something fun for if I use the clairvoyance on the feather I’m holding, for example,” he says, “We knew those interactions would all be possible… it ends up being a situation where a bunch of creative people have to brainstorm and come up with fun solutions, and hopefully, that ends up being entertaining for a player.”

Sometimes those interactions would be simple: When used on a keypad, Raz is seen as a giant finger. But others would require more time and effort, and one of the brilliant things about Double Fine was that three designers were allowed to take three days to come up with the right concept.

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All the things that seem like antagonists, in the level, are… like an immune system trying to understand an alien body in its midst.

Designer Erik Robson

The Milkman Conspiracy ended up much larger than originally planned, partly because of the team’s relative gravity tech. The programmers came up with a way to flip gravity as you moved between the twisted, spiralling streets that Chan had drawn, and the camera would react in kind. It worked brilliantly, and the level naturally expanded as Robson took players off in different directions.

The sprawling design also fit into the theme, he says. “Broadly, the goal of every Psychonauts mind level was to express the personality of the character in whatever way possible. I think there was something appealing about it being an open-air maze. That’s a weird contradiction that seems consistent with Boyd: ‘I’m lost, but I can see everything. I see my goals, but I can’t suss out how I’m going to get there.'”

In the end, Robson feels Milkman sprawled too much. “There’s maybe two or three of those ambient houses when there should really only be one. As a level designer, my proclivity is to make things too big, so there might be a bit of guilt kicking in there.”

Robson also wishes the team could’ve better expressed Boyd’s inner turmoil throughout the level. The opening sequence, where the player uses Clairvoyance on Boyd and sees the conspiratorial scrawls he’s made on the walls of his house, is an example of when it worked, because it gave the player a sense of what was to come while revealing something about Boyd’s character, Robson says.

“All the things that seem like antagonists, in the level, are… like an immune system trying to understand an alien body in its midst. And that alien body is the what the Milkman represents, this thing that is there and buried, but he can’t get rid of, and he knows something bad is going to happen as a result. There are a bunch of things I think we did get, the sort of confusion and how nothing is quite what it seems, the open-air maze. But I think that would have been cool to kind of drive that emotional point home better.”

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Partly because of these niggles, Robson says he’s never thought of Milkman as a standout level. But he says it’s one of the funniest, and Schafer’s writing undoubtedly brings the whole thing together. Simply written down, the jokes—”The most pleasant sewers can be found in Paris, France”—have almost zero impact. But their deadpan delivery works so well in the context of the level, and the ultra-serious G-Men talking about how “rhubarb is a controversial pie flavor” as they try hopelessly to blend in with their given roles proves to be hilarious.

That was only possible because writing all the dialogue came last. After the designers and gameplay programmers had finished, Schafer would assess every piece of the level, and write dialogue based on all the work that came before. “That was the most solid foundation for the jokes to get layered on top,” Robson says. “Half of my memory of Milkman is playing it without any of that dialogue, so that stuff still almost feels like a sort of recent edition. And then after you’re done with the level, six or eight weeks later, this dialogue appears all of a sudden in the game.”

Schafer tells me he wanted Erik Wolpaw to write the dialogue, but Wolpaw ended up being too busy. “So I ended up writing all the G-Men dialogue myself and I’m so happy I did, because it was so fun,” he says. “It’s just that matter of fact, straight-laced: ‘Who was the milkman? What was the purpose of the goggles?’

“We just happened to be talking about pie a lot, about people thinking rhubarb can be dangerous if you cook it wrong. You can poison people. So it’s a very controversial variety of pie—being able to sneak stuff like that in was really fun. It was really relaxing to write in that flat tone. ‘My helicopter goes up and down.'” 

It’s those jokes that I, and many other players, remember best about The Milkman Conspiracy. But for Double Fine, it carries its own legacy: a reminder that “no one person makes a level”, Schafer says. “I didn’t think of the twisting roads, and I didn’t think of the way the G-Men functioned. But I still feel like the ideas that I cared about are in there, and each department got to contribute an essential part of the level. Any one piece of that, you took it away, and it’s not the same,” he says.

(Image credit: Double Fine)

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Bài viết How a joke about the milkman inspired Psychonauts' best level – PC Gamer đã xuất hiện đầu tiên vào ngày Funface.

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