Disclaimers: No one here is mine.
Spoilers: None, really. Refers to the events of JLA 108,
but not in an especially serious way.
Summary: "Fathers *suck*."
Ratings Note/Warnings: Harmless, except for how it's not.
Author's Note: I... it's Mary's fault. Mary's.
The assignment is a simple one. If his employer were anyone
but who he is, Tim would be tempted to think he was being
eased into the work. However, since his employer *is* who
Well. The assignment is a simple one because it's what the
man needs to have done. The fact that it's an insult to
his abilities, intellect, and training is just one of the
many reasons why Tim is going to have to kill him, one day.
When the time is right.
When it's safe.
For now, the blond is approximately eighteen seconds from
walking directly into Tim's line of sight. Twelve, if Tim
wishes to make it painful.
That wasn't in the directive.
Tim waits and --
Curses. Internally. The blond has been joined by a blonde,
and while there was nothing in the directive about
avoiding collateral damage... he waits.
After a moment, he smiles.
There's nothing in the directive about not letting someone
else perform the task for him, after all.
And the blonde apparently has no compunctions at all about
making it painful. Perhaps she lacks access to the sort
of equipment he has...? It's a marvelous excuse to introduce
Tim waits until the kicking -- it's really quite reminiscent
of his and Owl-Man's last trip to London -- has achieved its
desired purpose and moved into gratuity and then swings down.
The blonde spins on him like an animal, snarling and poised
for the attack. She smells like blood. She -- would have
been -- too slow to avoid a killing blow.
"Hello," he says, and checks to make sure he's still smiling.
She narrows her eyes, stares at him for a long moment, and
then snorts. There's blood in her hair. "Fathers *suck*,"
"I really am forced to agree. Call me Robin."
"Maybe," she says, and eyes the guns on his hips. And the
knives in his belt. And the rifle slung across his back.
Tim lets his gaze stray, slowly and deliberately, to the
body between them. "Issues, much?"
He shrugs, and checks to make sure he's still smiling. He
"So..." The pose she slips into would be more effective
if she didn't seem half-starved. And only partially
recovered from a beating.
It's still quite effective. "Yes?"
"Do you *share* your toys, Robin?"
Not in the way she means, no, but... "Maybe," he says,
"Call me Spoiler." The cast of her eyes suggest that this
is more of an order than an invitation.
There was nothing in the directive about making friends,