Chapter Text
The problem with moving is stuff. Bao has never considered himself to be someone who has a lot of stuff, he has a tiny apartment after all, but now he’s realized that you fit far, far more in a little one-bed-one-bath than you think you can. He has shirts he lost under the TV stand months ago. He has trinkets he barely remembers buying. A completely non-functioning game controller that he never bothered throwing out.
In the end, he decides a lot of it can be either thrown out or donated. Surely Ghost-Maker has dishes and cutlery, after all, and all of Bao’s comes from the dollar store anyways.
The guy is rich, right? Bao hasn’t ever lived with rich people before. His aunt and uncle, who have been paying his rent since his parents died, are wealthy, but not the way Ghost-Maker is.
He and his parents had just been... comfortable. That’s how he remembers it, at least. He had only been twelve—surely his mom and dad had worried about bills and the mortgage from time to time—but those conversations had been undoubtedly reserved for the little round dinner table only after Bao had been coaxed into turning off the game console and getting in bed.
It had been such a strange adjustment: thirteen years old and dictating his own bedtime. Not a responsibility he would have personally chosen to give to his younger self. He’s older now, of course, and staying up ‘til the dark morning hours takes less of a toll on him.
His apartment is naked and unfriendly now. There’s a sort of hostility to the bare walls, stripped of their character and lined only by the two-cube cardboard boxes stacked along the walls. His mattress is stripped; the bed frame is disassembled.
He’s said his goodbyes, too, not that there were many. Actually, sweet old Mrs. Nguyen and her daughter were the only ones he could think of who would want to know he’s leaving—she’s taken care of him here and there, and he hopes he’s repaid her enough by going on grocery shopping trips for her and picking up her medication when her daughter can’t. It’s easier to figure out how to say goodbye as Bao than as Clownhunter. The Narrows, the people here—they like him far more than any individual person does, even if they don’t know who he is. But he’s their protector, the person who stepped up for them when Batman and the cops wouldn’t; how can he<\i>, Clownhunter, tell them he’s leaving? How can he bear to leave at all?
Well, it isn’t as though it’s a life sentence. He just needs training. He’ll come back.
His buzzer goes off at a quarter past one PM.
—
The hired movers are a pair of middle-aged men, one grizzled with salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a low ponytail and the other apparently freshly-shaven and wearing a red t-shirt. The first one is pleasant and greets Bao with a handshake and an introduction, whereas the second is passably polite and nothing more.
“the, uh—guy who hired you isn’t here?” Bao asks.
“Nope. He did wire some extra money, though, told us to give it to you in cash so you can get a ride over there as well...” the ponytail guy reaches into his pocket and hands Bao a folded handful of bills, enough for a generous tip. Bao takes it after a moment’s hesitation, unsure of how to feel about the fact that Ghost-Maker didn’t show up himself. Disappointed? Relieved?
Let down?
At least he had the foresight to provide Bao with money for a cab. If he thinks about it for three seconds, it makes sense that the vigilante wouldn’t want to park his fancy jet right in the middle of the Narrows and spend forty five minutes loading all of Bao’s sh*t onto it.
“where are you bringing this?” Bao asks, hopefully, latching onto any possible clue as to where the hell his mentorship will take place.
Red-shirt-guy gives him a bit of a weird look, already working on sidling past him and into the apartment. As if it’s an afterthought, Bao steps aside to let him through the door.
“Shouldn’t you know that, kid?”
Bao scrambles for an answer and lands, lamely, on “uh... it’s a weird situation.”
Apparently they’ve dealt with weird situations. The first mover lets himself in as well, shrugging as he does so. “Fair ‘nough. Makes sense, actually, since it’s a weird request, too—we’re going to some address in the Narrows’ industrial sector.”
“i thought those buildings were mostly abandoned.” Bao puzzles over this.
“So did I, but a job’s a job. Mind stepping aside so we can get at your bed frame?”
—
The movers know what they’re doing. Everything Bao owns—everything he’s made for himself here in this apartment—is packed away neatly within the hour. Bao watches the blocky van peel away, feeling a bit like he’s watching his entire existence be carted away before his very eyes.
But that’s silly. It isn’t going anywhere he isn’t.
The cab shows up mere minutes later, and Bao gets inside after hesitating for only a moment, not wanting to waste the driver’s time by dawdling outside and staring up at the apartment facade. It’s stupid to be sentimental over a building, but he’s been here since he was twelve—since his aunt and uncle dumped him here.
But it isn’t like he’s made any notable good memories here, either. No one else has ever been inside his unit except the maintenance guy, a year ago when his plumbing was busted. He hasn’t done much inside those sh*tty peeling walls besides play video games, wake up from nightmares, and, on one defining night, tie a batarang to an old baseball bat. Why is there such an ache in his chest now, at the thought of leaving for good?
Gotham is warm this time of year, but not warm enough to justify how the cab driver cranks the air conditioning until Bao’s fingertips feel clumsier than usual. By the time they’re amidst the run-down, boarded up industrial sector, surrounded by plain white warehouses and weather-beaten bay doors, Bao is relieved to step outside into the sunlight, give the driver the entire wad of bills, and watch him leave.
The movers are here too, standing outside their parked van and looking at each other with ”Huh, weird, I don’t know” expressions. Bao approaches them.
“this is the place?”
“Apparently.” Ponytail guy looks up at the building they’ve arrived at—plain, large; expansive gravel parking lot. The sun is high in the sky.
Surely Ghost-Maker doesn’t operate out of some random warehouse in the middle of the Narrows, right?
The answer to Bao’s unasked question comes in the form of the high-pitched engine-shriek, not nearly loud or rumbling enough to be running on gasoline. Down the road, the sun glints bright, violent white off of something moving fast
“Damn,” Ponytail guy says mildly, and out of spite Bao determines right then and there that he’s *not* speaking for both of them. It’s Gotham<\i>, who hasn’t seen a fancy, high-tech vigilante car? He will not be impressed.
The Ghost-Maker himself steps out. The fibreglass of his helmet glints; his long white cape licks and flutters against the gravel. Bao’s bones feel weird and cold—the last few times he faced down Ghost-Maker, Batman was there with him, not that he’s ever been pleased about that. But the protection sure was nice.
“Holy sh*t.” It might be the first time Bao has heard the second mover speak all afternoon, his eyes huge and round as he ogles Ghost-Maker in a frankly embarrassing way. “You didn’t say—he didn’t say anything about—”
Bao shrugs. “sorry. like i said, uh, weird situation. honestly didn’t expect him to show up in the costume, though.”
The truth is, he’s been hoping this would be his chance to find out who Ghost-Maker actually is. Apparently not.
“Thank you, gentleman. I’ll take it from here.” Ghost-Maker strides forward in a few long, loping paces, holding out a gloved hand expectantly. The two men look at each other, expressions blank and dumb.
“Uh... You’ll what?”
“Your keys?” The vigilante makes an impatient gesture with his open hand, but his voice stays level. “The boxes won’t fit in the ghostracer. I’ll take the van.”
“We could just... bring the boxes wherever you’re going?”
Bao almost admires their resolve. Ghost-Maker sighs through the helmet, as though he’s dealing with children.
“Do you think I had you meet me all the way out here just for fun? I’ll take the van, thank you, and I’ll return it safe and sound before the day is up.”
They crumble. “Sure, okay. Whatever you say, Mr. Ghost—um...”
“Maker.”
“Mr. Ghost-Maker.”
“This city is awful.” Ghost-Maker snatches the keys and stalks away. “Hurry up, Bao.”
It’s the first time he’s addressed him. Bao actually embarrasses himself with the way his reflexes stutter in surprise, making him hover uncertainly for a moment before he hurries after the vigilante in what is practically a single, fast twitch of movement.
“uh—” He glances over his shoulder at the sleek white vehicle, the one he called the ghostracer. Is he really okay with just leaving it here, in the open?
Bao’s internal oscillation between anxiety, surprise, and a frankly stressful fight-or-flight reaction keeps him from saying much as he follows, though luckily he doesn’t have to worry about keeping up with the much taller adult’s long strides; he’s fine with staying outside of Ghost-Maker’s immediate reach. If the vigilante hadn’t drugged and kidnapped him with the intent to kill that one time, maybe Bao would’ve laughed at the sight of him folding his powerful form, dressed in that sharp, intimidating white costume, into something as mundane as a dusty, dented moving van. Instead, though, he just climbs into the passenger seat after a moment of trepidation.
Ghost-Maker does not attempt to run him through on a sword the moment they’re alone in the vehicle, so Bao peers out the window at the two perplexed hired movers and ventures a question.
“you’re just gonna leave ‘em here?”
A gloved hand shifts the vehicle out of park. Bao wonders how different it feels compared to that expensive supercar.
“Believe me, Clownhunter, I paid them enough to justify inconveniencing them a little.”
“...cool.” What else is he supposed to say in response to that?
Tires crunch over gravel, then bump up onto the cracked pavement street. “why the hell did you come in your suit, anyways?”
The shiny helmet doesn’t even twitch in his direction. Bao gets the feeling that it’s not because Ghost-Maker thinks it’s important to keep his eyes on the road.
“Your alternative being...?”
Bao can’t resist being just a little bitey. Not the smartest thing to do if you’re alone in a car with the guy, probably, but he just doesn’t like him. Hasn’t ever been given a good reason to, either. “uh, showing up in normal clothes? like a normal person?”
The man responds with a short, disgusted scoff—not a very big reaction at all, as though Bao isn’t worth getting genuinely annoyed over.
The whole situation feels vaguely surreal. Sure, Bao is Clownhunter; guardian of the Narrows and killer of paint-faced goons, but he’s not and has never intended on being one of Gotham’s vigilante in crowd. He doesn’t collaborate. Doesn’t go on missions. Doesn’t know the names or secret identities of anyone in Batman’s little family of freaks.
He’s just some high schooler with a baseball bat, doing what needed to be done. And he’s always been fine with that.
But now he’s sitting next to a real, honest-to-f*ck vigilante, the kind of caped crime fighter who uses real weapons and serious tech and a face shield that isn’t made out of a repurposed skateboard helmet.
It’s weird. And after the irrational animal worry that he’s been lured here to be drugged and kidnapped and killed (successfully, this time) passes, it’s also awkward. Bao hadn’t had the foresight to predict that, but Ghost-Maker doesn’t bother saying anything else to him, and Bao isn’t about to start making small talk with this dude he kind of hates.
That leaves them to sit in silence as they leave the industrial sector behind. sh*tty apartment complexes box them in as they drive through the Narrows, occasionally braking for a heedless stray dog or cat that bolts headlong across the street. The situation becomes so dire, the tension between them so thick and pulpy, that Bao almost gives in the urge to lean forward and hit the stereo button, just so there’s something in the vehicle besides their own silence.
Gotham smears past the windows, a f*cked up finger-painting of dingy alleys, little local storefronts tucked between apartment facades, streetlights and dumpsters plastered thick with stickers and flyers, and buildings making valiant last stands with smashed-in windows boarded over by cardboard or splintering plywood. Graffiti becomes billboards; spray-painted grinning clown faces on shop windows become advertisem*nts for casinos and clothing boutiques. The Narrows slither away into the rearview. The only look back that Bao allows himself is in the side mirror, so Ghost-Maker won’t notice the way he suddenly, desperately wants to linger.
He doesn’t want to leave the Narrows.
Of course, these parts of Gotham aren’t clean, either. They’re just better at hiding the state of decay behind bright, glittery high rises and luxury strip malls. Gotham is an injured animal that refuses to lay down and die, and there isn’t a neighbourhood or district exempt from that.
They arrive at a building that leers above every other one on the block, a gleaming glass expanse that reaches up for the dense smog.
“you live here?” Bao can’t help but ask, as Ghost-Maker manoeuvres the van down into a gated parking garage below the building.
“Occasionally. Grab a box.”
The moment they take the elevator up, it becomes even harder for Bao to commit to not being impressed. The interior is... nicer than anywhere he’s been, in his life. Nice in a weird way. It’s all shiny chrome and white and icy blue, a pristine, gleaming environment. There’s another car here, identical to the first, at least to his untrained eyes.
There’s also—
“sh*t.” Bao startles reflexively as a giant, scaly head swings in his direction, accompanied by the faint squeak of mechanical hinges. The massive jaw opens to reveal a row of sharp white teeth, each larger than his hand, and after just a second of lag a recorded roar shoots out of its throat, guttural and loud enough to make his bones tremble.
“you have a dinosaur,” he says dumbly. He scrambles to adjust his hold on the cardboard box in his hands, which had nearly slipped out in his moment of surprise.
Ghost-Maker waves a hand dismissively and stalks past it. Bao follows, craning his neck to watch the animatronic as he passes underneath it.
“A spinosaurus.”
Bao looks around more critically, taking in what he sees. A gleaming stand of monitors, hibernating screens showing little ghost icons. That second car. A wall of sparkling glass display cases, each showcasing intimidating white and black suits, all showing slight variations in design, all with little accents of LED blue. Bao glances up at the high ceiling, then back down at the line of suits.
“ohhh. it’s like a batcave.”
The faceless helmet finally shifts in his direction. “Well. It’s really not, on account of the Batcave being specific to Batman, but—you know what, never mind. All that matters is that it’s better than any Batcave, having been specifically designed for that purpose.”
“that’s kind of weird.”
“It’s—” for the first time, Bao thinks he hears something beyond the vague, distanced irritation Ghost-Maker has worn since he first came speeding up in that supercar. This irritation feels a little more genuine. “Look. Just follow me, and I’ll show you where you’ll be staying.”
The room is just a room. Clean. Painfully white. Smooth, glassy grey floor that he instantly wishes was carpet—Bao experiences a vivid premonition of himself walking into the room a bit too quickly with socks on and doing a comical banana-peel-slip and hitting the ground. Probably cracking his skull open and bleeding all over the place. Just like that, no more Clownhunter. The Joker and his crazy girlfriend and his goons’ hard work, all outdone by a single shiny floor.
Embarrassing.
It’s a lot bigger than the bedroom in his apartment, too. And he’s got a hell of a view. One entire wall is practically just windows, nearly a floor to ceiling expanse that looks out on a sun-gleaming city. Bao has seen the Narrows from a vantage point like this—but never these parts of Gotham. It’s sort of pretty from here, where you can’t see the festering wound that it really is.
“I’ll help move the boxes out of the van, but past that point, I’ll leave the unpacking to you. I have business to attend to—including returning that van to its rightful owners and getting my racer back.”
“sure,” Bao says absently, walking up to the windows so he can try to peer down at the street below.
This feels weird. He feels weird.
“Icon will show you around.” With that, Ghost-Maker disappears, cape swishing faintly behind him. Bao looks up, attention snagged, but by that point the vigilante is already gone.
Who is Icon?
