Chapter Text
Dear Roy,
Shit has gone more sideways in Gotham than it usually does. You’ve probably heard the news by now. Rumors of my (second) death have been greatly exaggerated and all that. We had to dump our phones and get new documentation for ourselves. There was no way that anyone could have survived the disaster that happened at Wayne Manor—to all of Gotham really.
A lot has happened, none of it good. Typical. But what the news says and what actually happened are very different things in our world, so I wanted to tell you the basics; mostly so you don’t attend my second funeral. So here you go:
There was an alien invasion. That much is obvious. But this time we couldn’t fend them off before they took out the vast majority of the city’s infrastructure. Everything from the Diamond District to the East End were completely wiped out, most of Bristol too. Obviously the Batcave is still intact, but not much else survived. B has stayed behind to help evacuate any survivors along with the Birds of Prey and the rest of the Bats. Gotham—if anyone even bothers to rebuild it—is gone for now, and now I have other responsibilities.
What are those responsibilities you ask? Childcare, apparently. Shut up, I can hear your confused-ass laughter from here. What, you thought an alien invasion would take me out of the game? No, the Replacement and the Demon Brat both got themselves turned into children by a piece of alien technology. Before you ask, I don’t know how. Contrary to popular belief I don’t know everything, and investigating was the last of our problems.
Fact of the matter is, Bruce doesn’t have time to deal with two little kids, and I wouldn’t want him too anyway. Best we can tell Tim is like six, and the Demon is maybe three? Because Dick and I were slightly more injured than the rest, that means we’re on babysitting duty for the foreseeable future.
So where does that leave us? The middle of nowhere Ohio for some reason. Dick said he had a safe house in a small town once, and also said the people were nice and didn’t recognize famous people. We haven’t exactly figured out where we’re going yet; Goldie sold the place a few years back, but we’ll see what we can find. I have enough money stashed away that we should be able to get a good place.
Dickhead has to be my copilot on this because we have to use an actual, hard copy MAP. I barely knew they made those anymore. This state is already like walking into the 1800s.
I’ll write when I can,
Jason
It had been a long journey for everyone, and they had no contact with any of their people still remaining in Gotham. Even if they did have phones, Jason highly doubted they would have time to actually answer them. Their departure from Gotham had been quick, barely having enough time to pack any clothes or personal items that they could scavenge from the wreckage of the house. Everyone was required to have an emergency go-bag in the cave, and there had even been some workable childrens’ clothing because Alfred had used an old interrogation cell for storage. They had gotten lucky, all things considered. Everyone was still alive and they had clothes too; it was luckier than some of Gotham’s residents had gotten.
Jason didn’t want to think about it too hard.
He was driving because Dick had gotten a decent gash on his leg from some falling debris, and had lost a lot of blood before he was treated. Jason himself had dislocated his shoulder and sprained an ankle. People were supposed to drive with one foot anyway, and he had the advantage of having all of his blood. It was safer for the kiddos, you know?
The car they were in was one of the only salvageable things from the Wayne Manor’s garage. A dark gray Honda Civic sedan was unassuming and middle class. While it was a new model, the paint had been scratched and there was a small dent in the quarter panel which helped distance them from the Wayne name considerably. Had it killed Jason inside that it had been parked next to a then-destroyed Bugatti? Absolutely. Was it better that this was the car that survived the collapse? Sure.
After about seven hours of driving, two bathroom breaks, and a food run, they ended up at a small gas station in Mahoning County. Jason had never heard of it, but they needed gas, and Tim had expressed that he wanted to stretch his legs. He had never thought the boy would be this shy, as he had never been before, but it made his heart squeeze a bit when the kid was too polite. Children should whine and stomp and huff about minor inconveniences—Damian certainly had no problem with it—but Tim acted like he would be left at the side of the road for being too needy.
Jack and Janet Drake are dead, Jason thought, There is no need to hunt them down. You’ll give him the childhood none of you ever had.
“Can you walk in and pay for the gas?” Dick asked from the shotgun seat.
Jason gave him a quizzical look, but the man pointed towards a sign that said “discount for cash transactions.” He considered the sign briefly, but nodded in agreement. If they were going to play the part of normal Gotham refugees then they needed to act like they were on a budget. Tim and Damian were both old enough to have Gotham accents, but not so old that they could convincingly disguise them everyday. Plus, Jason spotted a mailbox off to the side of the building; he just had to hope the station sold stamps.
The place was small. It only had four gas pumps and one was reserved for “full service.” Jason had thought those types of services had gone out of style in the early ‘90s, but this place definitely had a retro vibe. As much as he wanted to be lazy, Jason also didn’t want some stranger looking into their car when they pumped the gas for them. Call it the paranoia of a born Gothamite.
As he walked in, the door let out a chime. Looking up, Jason spotted a string of bells hanging from one of the hinges. For someone who prided themselves on their silent movement, it was alarming to be caught off guard like that.
“What can I do fer ya, son?” A middle aged man with a beer gut greeted him at the register.
“I wanted to put sixty bucks on pump three.”—Jason handed over the cash—“And I was wondering if you sold any stamps here. I need to send a letter.”
“Yer one o’ them Gotham refugees ain’t ya?”
The man eyed him shrewdly and Jason bristled at the question. Gothamites didn’t ask questions and they didn’t answer them either; it was just the way it had always been. But Gotham didn’t exist anymore—not really—and at some point he’d have to get used to small town people.
“My brothers and I are looking for a good place to rebuild.” It was true enough, he supposed.
“I know ya didn’t ask me—”
No, Jason hadn’t.
“—But yer best bet, ‘n my good opinion, is either Wayne County someplace—”
Jason would rather die again then settle in “Wayne County,” thank you.
“—or Geauga County. My folks had a place in Burton when I was a youngin’. Always wanted to move back there myself, but I found a good woman out here and never left.”
Fascinating.
But Geauga County had a strange ring to it. By hearing the name, Jason would have no way of knowing how to spell it, but it was the best lead they had currently. Oh, the man was still talking.
“—chool districts are pretty good there for them kids ya got. Course it’s in the snow belt which is hard ‘n the winter months.”
Jason was pretty sure the man was talking to himself at this point, but he might as well ask this true wealth of knowledge in front of him about the place.
“What’s crime look like there? And what is a snow belt?”
The man barked a laugh at the second question.
“None a’ you East Coasters know nothing ‘bout real snow. Hell, out here we don’t get near as much neither. When the wind blows in from the lake, more snow falls in certain places. We call ’em the snow belt.”
It sounded like a hick version of a twilight zone opening. “It’s the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge. Welcome to the snow belt.”
Actually, it kind of sounded like country Gotham. Jason was kind of considering the place. Was that bad? Dick would probably be a better judge of normal; yeah, he’d ask Dick.
“That wasn’t my main concern out of the two questions.” Jason deadpanned.
“‘M sure it wasn’t, but you’ll learn better if ya go there. In any case, crime is almost nonexistent. Folks help one another out in those parts.”
The man passed him a stamp but, when Jason went to pay, he waved it away.
“On the house. You folks look like you could use a break.”
Jason thanked the man, and walked out—mindful of the bells this time. It still chimed gently, and he grit his teeth in frustration. Batman taught him how to punch a homicidal clown, and Jason had snuck up behind fucking Deathstroke. Why was it bells that got the better of him? He made a mental note to practice this gap in knowledge.
Once he had placed the envelope in the mailbox and filled up the gas tank, they pulled out of the station. Burton didn’t seem like such a bad place, and it was the only lead they really had. If worse came to worst, they could stay the night and move on, right?
As the road fanned out in front of them, cornfields on either side for as far as the eye could see, Jason wondered how this had become his life.