RP log: Jason & Lonnie
Jul. 4th, 2006 04:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
evilbeejSide scene, Gotham, after Jason goes to talk to Lilith Clay. Starring Anarky.
Back in Gotham City, where it's nighttime even in the daytime, the shortish redhead who left a day ago to talk to a telepathic psychic who he figured could help him -- he's back. He's back with a spring in his step, and as he gets off the bus at the stop closest to Jackson's place, he swings himself out of the door and starts whistling as he heads down the sidewalk.
It isn't really fair to do this to him - But then again, just springing the trap would be hypocritical. No, this has to be handled the honest way - and the honest way is to be upfront and truthful. So when Jason goes walking past another tall redhead who'd look like somebody behind the counter in a record store if not for the muscles and the copy of "Thus Spake Zarathustra" he's reading, that redhead gets up and then, after tucking his book under his arm, coughs lightly. "...Jason. Jason Todd. I need to talk to you. Please."
The kid spins on his heel, backpedalling a couple of paces and homing in on the source of the voice in the night. His own tone is pleasant and neutral, not overly suspicious, but he's not getting any closer and his eyes are bright and sharp, watching the other redhead. "What can I help you with?"
Lonnie Machin holds up the pendant around his neck, displaying the Anarchy symbol. A small declaration of identity though it may be, it should, perhaps, suffice. "I have an offer to make you." He looks around and then frowns, before he sticks his hands in his pockets. "But I won't make it here. You never know who might be listening!"
"Omen thought the universe might be," says Jason drily, sticking his hands in his pockets. "Where do you want to go to talk?"
"Omen thinks a lot of things," Lonnie says, drily. "But very rarely does she deal in hard fact. Unfortunately, she's often right. I know a place." He gestures. "Follow me."
An hour later, they're sitting in the bowels of the basement of the Heavy Heavy club - a sleazy wannabe CBGB that got wrecked during the big one, and whose owners sank into the mire of No Man's Land and never turned back up. The club itself is almost skeletal, hanging open up above - but down here, aside from the musty dampness, it's quiet and peaceful. "I was actually able to buy this place without drawing any attention to myself. Quite a feat - this was the site of my first outing as Anarky."
"Sentimental of you," observes Jason a bit dubiously, picking his way around the basement and eyeing the support structure. "Bolthole?" he asks, one hand on a lolly-column and glancing back at Lonnie. "You're big into patterns, huh? Symmetry and cross-referencing. Lot of order for a guy calling himself Anarky." There's nothing malicious in the tone, just a little curious.
"That's because I'm an *actual* Anarchist. I don't believe in chaos or the destruction of society, or the reduction of human beings to a 'primal' state. I simply believe that I don't need to follow any moral authority except for my own educated conscience. I don't need to be led, and I don't want to be." Lonnie looks up from where he's sitting in an old wooden chair, one hand wrapped around a knee. "But when people think of Anarchy, they think of chaos, and that makes them afraid. When dealing with my enemies, that's to my advantage."
He looks up and around. "I was... twelve. It seems like forever ago. I'd decided that here was where I was going to make my mark as a vigilante - When I read a complaint about the... clientele of this club in the paper, I made a point of stopping by. I ran into a man named Johnny Vomit - a nobody grunge rocker who sang about heroin and sold it, too." He clenches one hand into a fist, as he recalls. "So I fed him what I thought was the people's justice."
"Fifty thousand volts of it."
"Christ," says Jason softly, stopping with his knuckles against the column, looking at Lonnie.
"It's not a lot, really. The taser I carry now is far more powerful. But fifty thousand volts is enough, when applied for long enough. People survive being struck by lightning because they're only caught in the bolt for a fraction of a second." Lonnie looks down, and then shrugs it off. "I wound up coming into conflict with Batman, and Robin. Several times. It was entirely ideological, but they won and I lost. And eventually I figured out why. The revolution as it were has to be fought with a very specific array of tools, and murder isn't one of them."
"Anyway, back to my deal." His own eyes are unwavering. "I have a way to preserve you here -- to add you to this timeline after reality recovers from whoever's been tampering with it. The only catch is, I'll have to effectively die to implement it. Before you turn me down, let me explain why I'm willing to do it."
"I... how do you say this? I come from diseased stock. The *most* diseased stock."
"No," says Jason flatly, without hesitation. "I don't have to die. No one has to die."
"Really?" Lonnie says, a faintly surprised look on his face. "...At least you heard me out that far. Hm. Whatever you're thinking, you do know that I'm offering you a guaranteed shot at survival?"
"Really," Jason says firmly, coming back over and turning a chair around so he can straddle it, facing Lonnie. "And I was assuming you were. I didn't /know/ you were, but I was assuming. But it's okay -- I have the details, and as soon as I get back, I'm going to work on the whole thing with Batman. I'm not going to avoid it -- she's my *mother* -- but I'm not gonna die, and I'm not gonna let her die, and I'm not gonna make Batman go through what he went through in your history."
Lonnie Machin lets out a soft 'hmmph'. "For your sake, I hope that things work out the way you want." He looks up and then says, with something of a bitter tinge to his voice, "Madness hangs over everything I do, you know. It flows in my veins. All the things I've done... everything I've tried to accomplish, I wonder if they're just signs of what I come from breeding true."
"The reason I offered was because you were - A you was murdered by the Joker. Dear old "dad"."
"I don't care!" The answer's fierce and low, and Jason's leaning against the chair back, one hand outstretched to thump against the dusty surface of a table. "You're not the Joker. And sure, madness runs in families, but you have *friends*, even if you think you don't. I saw. You're watching, and they're watching, and you'd be missed, and you're important, and you're not gonna throw your life away. And this *isn't* my future; the me that died didn't know he was going to. Even if I hadn't had that explained to me, Lonnie, *I wasn't gonna die anyway*. I was working on a plan that would let me fake it, let other events take their course."
"You think I don't know that!? ...I just... I thought that maybe if I could undo one of the evil things he'd done, even if it cost me everything, then it would be worth it." Lonnie actually looks away. "...All I've ever had are good intentions that spiralled out of my control and turned into a wreck. All I ever wanted to do was save the world. But how can I do *anything* worthwhile when I'm drawing intellect from a poisoned well of thought?!"
Jason Todd looks taken aback, and it transforms to 'amazedly disgusted' after a couple of seconds' worth of staring. "I can't believe you just said that with a straight face. Are you sure you don't want to start wearing goth makeup and calling yourself the Crow? Because -- oh my god. Do you need me to punch you in the face or something?"
"Is that your solution to everything?" Lonnie asks, looking up. "You know, violence causes more problems than it solves."
"No, it's just the most cathartic solution to everything. I *have* learned - mostly - when /not/ to. But seriously, you sound more like you want penance for the sins of the father than you want a classless, authority-free civilisation where everyone can live in peace and without fear," says Jason flatly, sitting straighter, crossing his arms over the back of the chair.
"...I'd like both," Lonnie says, somewhat glumly. "But I highly doubt I'm ever going to get either. So what do I do? I can't quit now, can I?"
"You can. But I wouldn't. You're brilliant, Lonnie. Just shift your focus. Go legit, take the spotlight. Find people you can trust to run the business side of things so you can focus on fixing the world. Find good persuaders, get them to do the talking to other people for you, convince other people your way of doing things is better. Write a lot. I saw the stuff you write on the interweb, or whatever it is. Write more. And when you need the catharsis, go out and punch people in the face while wearing a mask."
Lonnie Machin looks up, faintly taken aback. "...You read my writing?"
"I spent almost a week in the library with the microfiches before the nice lady there asked me what I was looking for, and showed me how to find it on the computer. After that, I went searching for stuff about all of you, everyone I'd met," confesses Jason, a little sheepishly. He stands up. "But, yeah. I did. I do. I will until I go back. Come on, man, let's get out of here, go get coffee like normal people."
"As long as we get it from an independently owned place and not from Starbucks." Lonnie says before he gets up. He looks... better. As open and friendly as obsessive geniuses get. Which isn't very, but baby steps, baby steps. "...Would you do me a favor?" He says, somewhat glumly. "If you survive... keep an eye on me. Wait for a night where Batman goes out to crash a drug deal at the Heavy Heavy club. I'll be in the alley, waiting for Vomit."
"You got it. On both counts. Is Moe's 24 Hour Eatery still around?" asks Jason over his shoulder, taking the steps two at a time, heading for the night and the coffee.
Back in Gotham City, where it's nighttime even in the daytime, the shortish redhead who left a day ago to talk to a telepathic psychic who he figured could help him -- he's back. He's back with a spring in his step, and as he gets off the bus at the stop closest to Jackson's place, he swings himself out of the door and starts whistling as he heads down the sidewalk.
It isn't really fair to do this to him - But then again, just springing the trap would be hypocritical. No, this has to be handled the honest way - and the honest way is to be upfront and truthful. So when Jason goes walking past another tall redhead who'd look like somebody behind the counter in a record store if not for the muscles and the copy of "Thus Spake Zarathustra" he's reading, that redhead gets up and then, after tucking his book under his arm, coughs lightly. "...Jason. Jason Todd. I need to talk to you. Please."
The kid spins on his heel, backpedalling a couple of paces and homing in on the source of the voice in the night. His own tone is pleasant and neutral, not overly suspicious, but he's not getting any closer and his eyes are bright and sharp, watching the other redhead. "What can I help you with?"
Lonnie Machin holds up the pendant around his neck, displaying the Anarchy symbol. A small declaration of identity though it may be, it should, perhaps, suffice. "I have an offer to make you." He looks around and then frowns, before he sticks his hands in his pockets. "But I won't make it here. You never know who might be listening!"
"Omen thought the universe might be," says Jason drily, sticking his hands in his pockets. "Where do you want to go to talk?"
"Omen thinks a lot of things," Lonnie says, drily. "But very rarely does she deal in hard fact. Unfortunately, she's often right. I know a place." He gestures. "Follow me."
An hour later, they're sitting in the bowels of the basement of the Heavy Heavy club - a sleazy wannabe CBGB that got wrecked during the big one, and whose owners sank into the mire of No Man's Land and never turned back up. The club itself is almost skeletal, hanging open up above - but down here, aside from the musty dampness, it's quiet and peaceful. "I was actually able to buy this place without drawing any attention to myself. Quite a feat - this was the site of my first outing as Anarky."
"Sentimental of you," observes Jason a bit dubiously, picking his way around the basement and eyeing the support structure. "Bolthole?" he asks, one hand on a lolly-column and glancing back at Lonnie. "You're big into patterns, huh? Symmetry and cross-referencing. Lot of order for a guy calling himself Anarky." There's nothing malicious in the tone, just a little curious.
"That's because I'm an *actual* Anarchist. I don't believe in chaos or the destruction of society, or the reduction of human beings to a 'primal' state. I simply believe that I don't need to follow any moral authority except for my own educated conscience. I don't need to be led, and I don't want to be." Lonnie looks up from where he's sitting in an old wooden chair, one hand wrapped around a knee. "But when people think of Anarchy, they think of chaos, and that makes them afraid. When dealing with my enemies, that's to my advantage."
He looks up and around. "I was... twelve. It seems like forever ago. I'd decided that here was where I was going to make my mark as a vigilante - When I read a complaint about the... clientele of this club in the paper, I made a point of stopping by. I ran into a man named Johnny Vomit - a nobody grunge rocker who sang about heroin and sold it, too." He clenches one hand into a fist, as he recalls. "So I fed him what I thought was the people's justice."
"Fifty thousand volts of it."
"Christ," says Jason softly, stopping with his knuckles against the column, looking at Lonnie.
"It's not a lot, really. The taser I carry now is far more powerful. But fifty thousand volts is enough, when applied for long enough. People survive being struck by lightning because they're only caught in the bolt for a fraction of a second." Lonnie looks down, and then shrugs it off. "I wound up coming into conflict with Batman, and Robin. Several times. It was entirely ideological, but they won and I lost. And eventually I figured out why. The revolution as it were has to be fought with a very specific array of tools, and murder isn't one of them."
"Anyway, back to my deal." His own eyes are unwavering. "I have a way to preserve you here -- to add you to this timeline after reality recovers from whoever's been tampering with it. The only catch is, I'll have to effectively die to implement it. Before you turn me down, let me explain why I'm willing to do it."
"I... how do you say this? I come from diseased stock. The *most* diseased stock."
"No," says Jason flatly, without hesitation. "I don't have to die. No one has to die."
"Really?" Lonnie says, a faintly surprised look on his face. "...At least you heard me out that far. Hm. Whatever you're thinking, you do know that I'm offering you a guaranteed shot at survival?"
"Really," Jason says firmly, coming back over and turning a chair around so he can straddle it, facing Lonnie. "And I was assuming you were. I didn't /know/ you were, but I was assuming. But it's okay -- I have the details, and as soon as I get back, I'm going to work on the whole thing with Batman. I'm not going to avoid it -- she's my *mother* -- but I'm not gonna die, and I'm not gonna let her die, and I'm not gonna make Batman go through what he went through in your history."
Lonnie Machin lets out a soft 'hmmph'. "For your sake, I hope that things work out the way you want." He looks up and then says, with something of a bitter tinge to his voice, "Madness hangs over everything I do, you know. It flows in my veins. All the things I've done... everything I've tried to accomplish, I wonder if they're just signs of what I come from breeding true."
"The reason I offered was because you were - A you was murdered by the Joker. Dear old "dad"."
"I don't care!" The answer's fierce and low, and Jason's leaning against the chair back, one hand outstretched to thump against the dusty surface of a table. "You're not the Joker. And sure, madness runs in families, but you have *friends*, even if you think you don't. I saw. You're watching, and they're watching, and you'd be missed, and you're important, and you're not gonna throw your life away. And this *isn't* my future; the me that died didn't know he was going to. Even if I hadn't had that explained to me, Lonnie, *I wasn't gonna die anyway*. I was working on a plan that would let me fake it, let other events take their course."
"You think I don't know that!? ...I just... I thought that maybe if I could undo one of the evil things he'd done, even if it cost me everything, then it would be worth it." Lonnie actually looks away. "...All I've ever had are good intentions that spiralled out of my control and turned into a wreck. All I ever wanted to do was save the world. But how can I do *anything* worthwhile when I'm drawing intellect from a poisoned well of thought?!"
Jason Todd looks taken aback, and it transforms to 'amazedly disgusted' after a couple of seconds' worth of staring. "I can't believe you just said that with a straight face. Are you sure you don't want to start wearing goth makeup and calling yourself the Crow? Because -- oh my god. Do you need me to punch you in the face or something?"
"Is that your solution to everything?" Lonnie asks, looking up. "You know, violence causes more problems than it solves."
"No, it's just the most cathartic solution to everything. I *have* learned - mostly - when /not/ to. But seriously, you sound more like you want penance for the sins of the father than you want a classless, authority-free civilisation where everyone can live in peace and without fear," says Jason flatly, sitting straighter, crossing his arms over the back of the chair.
"...I'd like both," Lonnie says, somewhat glumly. "But I highly doubt I'm ever going to get either. So what do I do? I can't quit now, can I?"
"You can. But I wouldn't. You're brilliant, Lonnie. Just shift your focus. Go legit, take the spotlight. Find people you can trust to run the business side of things so you can focus on fixing the world. Find good persuaders, get them to do the talking to other people for you, convince other people your way of doing things is better. Write a lot. I saw the stuff you write on the interweb, or whatever it is. Write more. And when you need the catharsis, go out and punch people in the face while wearing a mask."
Lonnie Machin looks up, faintly taken aback. "...You read my writing?"
"I spent almost a week in the library with the microfiches before the nice lady there asked me what I was looking for, and showed me how to find it on the computer. After that, I went searching for stuff about all of you, everyone I'd met," confesses Jason, a little sheepishly. He stands up. "But, yeah. I did. I do. I will until I go back. Come on, man, let's get out of here, go get coffee like normal people."
"As long as we get it from an independently owned place and not from Starbucks." Lonnie says before he gets up. He looks... better. As open and friendly as obsessive geniuses get. Which isn't very, but baby steps, baby steps. "...Would you do me a favor?" He says, somewhat glumly. "If you survive... keep an eye on me. Wait for a night where Batman goes out to crash a drug deal at the Heavy Heavy club. I'll be in the alley, waiting for Vomit."
"You got it. On both counts. Is Moe's 24 Hour Eatery still around?" asks Jason over his shoulder, taking the steps two at a time, heading for the night and the coffee.
