Subject: [OTL]: [Robin] In the Blood [6:11] Date: Wed, 18 Jul 2001 08:14:25 -0700 (PDT) From: D Benway In The Blood [6:11] Wednesday, May 30 drawn from the vein by Benway This story borrows some Bat-characters from DC for not-for-profit use. This story is not recommended for sensitive or innocent readers. __________________________________________________________________ Without Waynecorp's man with the sperm, my most important lead is gone. Still, I have a list of names. Some of them are easy to track down, others impossible. There are 35,233 Smiths in Gotham, and two of them are on my list. I go through 564 before giving up. Annabelle Lynch-Morton is much easier to find, but she and her infant daughter were eaten by Killer Croc sixteen years ago. In the end, I come up with seven names, all kids my age, who match the info on the list. Two have websites, one has a picture. I recognize my hair, on a girl. It's almost the same haircut. She's a runaway, missing for two months. I find Morris Erb's family website, but it has no mention of a son Dylan. Another trip to the Gazette turns up a picture in the Neighbourhoods section of a 6-year-old Dylan Erb and his father Morris skating on the river in Winter. It could have been a picture of me in my old snowsuit. I phone Morris Erb from a payphone at the docks. When I ask for his son, he hangs up on me. I'm not about to give up on Dylan. I know he's my brother, and I'm sure someone here at Brentwood knows where he is. I ask around, and every person I can find tells me that the only person who might know is one of the last people I want to talk to. Gregory (never Greg) Brady is someone I'm sure sells hash and ecstasy, but he's been sly enough not to leave any evidence where I or anyone else could find it. He's rumored to have deflowered his oldest stepsister, while his brother is said to have had an affair with his stepmother. There was supposed to be a third brother who had set their house in LA on fire, and I found him listed in the California prison records. He was sent to San Quentin for life at the age of 11 because the housekeeper went up with the house. His father and stepmother are divorced. I send him an e-mail message, and he sends one back, telling me to come to his room. His room is one of those that the cool people hang out in. He has a huge collection of 60s and 70s vinyl that he plays as loudly as he can get away with, and he's provided cover for my footsteps across the roof more than once without knowing it. His brother, known as Bradykinin for his viciousness on the rugby field, gives me a nasty look as I go in. Drake, says Gregory from his bed. Stick up the butt Drake. You want to know about Dylan? Yeah, I say. You think he's your long lost brother? says Gregory. The 250 pound rugby forward everyone calls Pittsburgh giggles hysterically at this, then returns his attention to the patterns of light dancing across the ceiling. Gregory's got something rigged up with lenses and candles on a turntable. Close the fucking door, says Bradykinin. The room reeks of hash. You got a lot in common with him? says Gregory. Hope not, says Pittsburgh. If you do, we'll have to kill you. Don't know him, I say. Heard you've seen him. Hey, hey, says Gregory. Peace. No need to get hostile. Siddown. You need one of these. He hands me a joint. I stare at it. Never seen one of these before, huh? says Bradykinin. No, I say. This is a lie. I've seen them fly from mouths I've just slugged. I once dumped 4 tons of hash into Gotham Harbor, which Bruce had to retrieve with a sub before any one else could. He told me he burned it in a cement kiln. You want something from me, I want something from you, says Gregory. Pittsburgh starts to giggle again. I look at the joint. I don't need to do this. There are five other names on the list, but I have no idea what they look like. I do know what Dylan looks like, and I can't find any trace of him. It's not easy to disappear as completely as Dylan has. We're going to party, says Gregory. I'm going to help you become a little less tight-assed. Oh. I said. I'm staring at the joint as he attaches a roach clip. This entire situation is ridiculous. I could take these shits down, but it would put the mask at risk. I could make them tell me, if I had my mask on. My other mask, that is. Bradykinin lights up the joint and passes it to me. I suck on the end. It's worse than getting a lungful of campfire smoke. I can't hold back the cough, and I drop the joint. Bradykinin catches it before it hits the floor. Shit, says Bradykinin, shaking his burnt hand. Let's try this again, says Gregory. Suck it in and hold it down. Three times, on my count. Bradykinin lights the joint again, and gives it to me. I've faced down Shiva Woosan. I've faced down Ras al Ghul. I've faced down the Joker. I take the joint and do as I'm told. It burns. That's right, just like that, says Gregory. Pittsburgh's sitting up, and leering at me. Bradykinin's sitting on a stool, eyes darting from me to the door, back and forth. I watch him for a long time. The motion of his eyes isn't quite periodic. Man, he's lost it, says Pittsburgh. I don't like the way he's looking at me, says Bradykinin. I wake up in my bed, more or less, with Buzz standing over me, looking down at me. I wonder why I'm all damp in front. I pass out. I wake up again. Here, says Buzz, yanking me over to one side. I throw up. I pass out. I wake up again. The light is on. I have one fucking killer headache. I pass out. Someone is shaking me. I throw them off, then fall out of bed. Oh shit, I say, looking at Buzz's feet, unable to move. You going to be sick again? Buzz says. Sick? I say. Been sick? I show myself that I am by throwing up again, at least not on myself this time. It feels very odd, not really like retching, more like an internal shrug. Oh man, says Buzz. Did something stupid, I say. You are so fucking lucky I found you before anyone else did, he says. Found me? I say. In the quad, he says. You were running the sundial in your underwear, screaming I am Superman at the top of your lungs. You're the first person I see back here after 5 hours on the plane. I thought I'd left all that shit back in LA. You picked one weird time to let it all hang out, man. Oh God, I say. The whole house heard you, he says. I got you inside with Garth's help. He took off when you puked the first time. Oh God, I say, then puke again, a bit more vigorously. Alfred, I say. Where's Alfred? He left you a note, says Buzz. He said he `had to attend to a matter involving Ms. Stephanie'. Looks like he left an hour before I got here. Oh fuck, I say. Steph called too, he says. I told her you were out. She told me to tell you to call her before asking any more questions. Oh shit, I say. What else was I been saying? Outside. Before. You said you were Superman, Batman, Robin, and Wonder Woman, he says. Wonder Woman, I say. I start giggling. I can't stop, even though it's driving the pain through my head. Oh man, he says. What, I say, finally choking the giggling off. There's nothing funny about it, he says. They'd have your butt for this if they catch you, and you'll lose that MIT scholarship. They gave me a joint, I say. Told me not to be such a tight-ass. Who? he says. Bradys, I say. And you smoked it? he says. Are you fucking nuts? Those guys are evil. They laced it with something. That's how they got Dylan thrown out. You know Dylan Erb? I say. Sure, he says. You know where he is? I say. Yeah, he says. Oh shit, I say. [next: Friday, June 1]