7622/A Chance to Ketchup

A Chance to Ketchup
Date of Scene:	31 August 2021
Location:	Sheldon Park - Bleake Island
Synopsis:	The Condiment King relishes his opportunity to hold up the local Batburger until it turns out he can't take the heat. TOTALLY UNRELATED: Red Robin and Anarky will both probably never eat mayonnaise again.
Cast of Characters:	Lonnie Machin, Tim Drake

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Lonnie Machin has posed:
For some reason, after having that sushi dinner, Tim decided to ask Gotham City's most famously anti-establishment terrorist if he'd like to swing by an open late fast-food place and grab takeout.

And for some reason, Lonnie said sure, why not, he hadn't eaten yet today.

Which is why they're in... Batburger. And Lonnie is trying to decide whether or not to jokerize his fries (ugh) when two guys in sausage suits come in carrying shotguns. "Everybody DOWN ON THE GROUND-" One of them shouts.

Tim Drake has posed:
    There's something about the deeply upsetting nature of Batburger's whole shtick that Tim finds just... fascinating. It's cringey in the way all theme restaurants are and it's also a hotbed for tourists who are completely oblivious to how serious the villainy situation in Gotham is. Basically, a prime people-watching spot. Suffice to say, Tim loves it.

    "He wants them Jokerized," Tim answers for Lonnie, having already placed his order for a Clayface Burger (so named because it looks like a real meat burger but it's actually a veggie burger... get it? get it???) with a side Poison Ivy salad, and he's in the process of strategizing several different plans for stealing Lonnie's fries when the door busts open.

    For a second, Tim just stands there, staring up at the backlit menu like he hasn't even noticed.

    And then he sighs. "Man, I really wanted some fries," he mutters, before he glances to Lonnie at his left. Pause. Eyebrow raise. Then he jumps over the counter, helpfully bodychecking (lightly!) the teenaged girl dressed up as Batgirl who was previously manning the register. He drags her down into cover.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie was about to ask if there were any spices being overfarmed leading to environmental destruction in the Smilex Seasoning, when Tim chimed in - then he just shrugged and went "Fine-" And then two guys in food costumes walked in and Tim's going over the counter and Lonnie quite sensibly hits the floor.
    The door strikes an ominous Shirley Walker-esque chord and then two more guys walk in, one wearing a hamburger costume and the other one in a burrito suit, and in walks the Condiment King, in his... pickle hat - though the massive futuristic assault cannon he's sporting connected to a tank on his back certainly seems like it means business. "All right everybody! Wallets out! Time to put some *special sauce* on daddy's burger!"

Tim Drake has posed:
    "Hi," Tim says, smiling politely at retail-Batgirl as he hunkers down behind the counter. His head is tilted to the side as he tries to get a bead on how many people have just come in. Briefly he contemplates the possibility of an Oktoberfest-themed villain, and he looks over at the girl next to him. "This isn't some sort of promotion for a new menu item, is it?"

    She shakes her head no, and though her lower lip is trembling with fear, she also abruptly looks away from Tim's face as she tucks a lock of hair behind one ear. Probably came loose when Tim basically tackled her down. Slowly, Tim turns to face forward, and he closes his eyes for a brief second. Listening to the sounds of additional hostiles entering and also silently cursing his life, and Lonnie in particular. Definitely Lonnie most of all.

    Oh, is that the Condiment King? Sounds like his voice.

    The girl, whose nametag reads Donna, blushes when he asks for her phone quietly and passes it over. He dials 911 and stares at her as he passes it back.

    Then he pulls out his own phone and texts Lonnie:

lol did he really say special sauce

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    The girl can't take her eyes off of Tim, of course - she's got those shiny anime eyes because she just got saved by the most GORGEOUS guy OMG the girls at the dining hall tomorrow are going to *fuh-lip*-
    Lonnie's phone isn't on silent. So instead of going *bzzzz* Zack de la Rocha shouts 'TURN THAT SHIT UP' and that's how Lonnie Machin ends up staring into the barrel of the Condiment King's gun.
    "Well look at YOU, swizzle stick." The Condiment King prods Lonnie with his gun. "Who're you texting?"
    Lonnie probably ought to shut up. But instead he sneers and says "Your partner-in-crime, the Hamburglar."
    The Condiment King thumbs a switch on his gun. "Let me give you something flavor neutral to counterbalance that spicy mouth." He gives a sadistic grin as he pulls the trigger.
    SPLRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTTTTT-
    A moment later, Lonnie blinks. "Mayonnaise. You covered me in *Mayonnaise*. AVOCADO MAYONNAISE."
    He starts to try to get to his feet, and he skids a little bit in it, unable to get his footing. The henchmen think this is hilarious. The customers think this is hilarious, at least until the Condiment King turns the weapon on them. "Okay! CASH AND CREDIT CARDS unless anybody else wants to be a *Hero Sandwich* Burger! Fries! Clean out the register."
    "...And get me some of those Bat-Pies. Make sure they're fresh."

Tim Drake has posed:
    There's a lot in Tim's life that he regrets. Typical for someone who overthinks most of the decisions in his life, both before and after he's made them. When he should have gone left instead of right, when he should have tried harder, moved faster, been smarter.

    What Tim regrets most of all, in this moment, is not being able to watch as the Condiment King covers Lonnie in his... secret sauce.

    Oh no. Tim bites his lip, struggling to keep his laughter in check.

    He's going to have to hack into Batburger's systems to get a copy of the security footage. It won't be the same, but it'll be something. And while he's contemplating this, he's taken Donna's phone back from her and slid it under the counter, wedged between two bins of those little sauce cups that they charge $0.50 for even though they last you, like, two nuggets and four french fries. Audio receiver out. He glances up to the cabinet where they keep the pies warm at the front of the counter.

    Now it's time to face the music.

    Is it really Tim's fault that Lonnie doesn't keep his phone on silent, though? He points Donna towards the back and gives her a little nudge to get moving, and while she shuffles away on her hands and knees he stands up.

    "Sorry, did you want the Two-Face pie with strawberries and cream, or the Scarecrow pumpkin pie? It's limited edition for fall."

    And then Tim chucks several of them over the counter at the Condiment King. They are indeed fresh. So fresh that they burn Tim a little just from touching them bare-handed, and he throws it with enough force that he's hoping for some splatting of boiling hot filling.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Batburger proudly boasts its 'Ace Chemical Deep-Fryer', hottest in the business, and so those pies are sizzling and not wrapped up as they go *splat splat* on the Condiment King's face, which causes him to go 'AGH' and slip in a puddle of mayonnaise - he falls on his back and depresses the trigger on his gun, which washes a *wave* of mayo over the entire restaurant - customers, henchmen, ceiling and wall.
    "Oh man, it got in my gun!"
    Which is when Lonnie kicks a slimy chair at another of the henchmen, bowling him over - and because of his hot dog suit, getting back up isn't going to happen.
    As all chaos breaks loose, Lonnie grabs a fistful of the triple-X 'I am Vengeance' Ghost Pepper hot sauce packets and rips them open with his teeth, before he crawls over to the Condiment King, and grapples with him, prying his jaw open.

Tim Drake has posed:
    When Tim scrambles back over the counter again, it isn't a smooth movement. In fact he nearly tumbles to the ground, slipping on a stray smear of mayonnaise, but he manages more thanks to lucky than anything to land on his feet.

    At least, that's how he's making it look. Gotta undersell the skills a little bit, here.

    ...the second time he slips on some mayo isn't pretend, and he stumbles. Tim's basically already fallen onto his knees (getting mayo all over his jeans, gross) when he collides with the other hot dog man. They both go down in a flailing sprawl of limbs that Tim manages to disguise a sharp kick out of his leg towards the guy in the burrito suit next to them.

    "There's something uncomfortably Freudian about this," Tim mutters as he tries to grapple away the hotdog's shotgun and punch him in the face at the same time.

    Tim feels something splat against the back of his neck. Oh god, is there mayo in his hair now?

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie *squirts* the hot sauce into the Condiment King's mouth - which causes him to cry out, choke and foam at the mouth. The mayonnaise spray from that gun is powerful enough to knock a man over, and the gun is bouncing all over everywhere - people are screaming and somebody kicked over a table to avoid being hit.
    Which is when good ol' Harvey Bullock (he was on his way to swing through the Batburger drive-through) shoulders open the door and says "GCPD everybody- AGHHFFFCHFFFFK-" As he gets blasted with mayonnaise.
    As he stands there and drips, he scowls and gets out his cuffs. "Awright I've had about enough of dis sh- SOMEBODY UNPLUG THAT GUN!"

Tim Drake has posed:
    Later, much later, this will be funny. And okay, it's a little funny now, but there are actual guns that fire bullets and not just ones loaded with mayo in play here, so that does suck some of the immediate humor out of the situation. Tim manages to pry the shotgun out of the hotdog's hands and slams its stock into its former wielder's nose before he rolls off.

    Enter well-timed GCPD officer. Tim breathes through his nose to avoid accidentally inhaling mayo and choking to death, which would make for a hilarious headline, and pulls off another oops-look-at-me-so-clumsy when he "tries" to stand, "slips" in mayo, and manages to slam his bodyweight into the still-standing burrito. Who tumbles towards Bullock. Cuff him first, please!

    And then Tim is on his feet for real, across the restaurant, grabbing hold of Lonnie by whatever grip on clothing he can manage through the spray of condiments.

    "Come on come on come on come on," he hisses with urgency as he starts dragging Lonnie towards the back.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie's All-Stars skid for traction on the floor, as Tim slides him out. "That sonuva, let me go, I'm gonna DILL HIS PICKLE-" They go back out through the kitchen and because there isn't a lot of traction on Lonnie, out to the dumpsters.
    Lonnie is completely covered in Mayonnaise. His clothes. His hair. He's soaked in it. He's gonna draw seagulls. And he's snorting fire. "HE SPRAYED ME WITH *MAYONNAISE*."

Tim Drake has posed:
    On the way out, Tim snags Donna's phone. Sorry Donna, but Tim's not going to leave his fingerprints behind on anywhere super obvious. It's already a crap-shoot in terms of evidence collecting, so he just has to bet on the GCPD hauling the Condiment King and his Cuisine Court away without giving too much thought to anything else that happened. He'll get it back to her anonymously.

    Or maybe he'll just buy her a new phone. This one's smeared with mayonnaise. Tim doesn't even know from where.

    "I know we're in a jam right now," snort, "But maybe we should just chili out."

    He flicks some of the mayo off of his hands and finds that he's somehow mostly avoided it. Aside for what he can feel on the back of his head, a little bit there on his collar, and... ugh, yeah, his jeans. He unzips his hoodie--typical college student, wearing one in August--and wordlessly offers it to Lonnie.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie looks at the hoodie - given that he's completely covered in one of the King's Sauces - it drips off him a little bit. Then... he opens his arms and wraps Tim in a BIG HUG. He leans in, forehead-to-forehead with him, and uses his hand to get Tim's hair all mayonnaise-y.
    "...I feel a little better now." He says, still eye-to-eye with Tim, arms around him, as he continues to smear the stuff through his hair.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim's face does a real funny thing when he realizes Lonnie's leaning in for a hug. First he's perplexed, and then his cheeks are red and he looks incredibly uncertain, and then the dawning realization hits. He moves straight to abject horror, even manages to get out a clipped "Wait--" before Lonnie gets his arms around.

    There's nothig he can do for a long moment but stand there and be a-SALT-ed hahahaha but no seriously this is gross. Tim's shoulders have bunched up in a hard cringe and his teeth are gritting through a grimace as he feels the disgusting squelch of Lonnie's fingers through his hair.

    He stares, and then he tips his head so he can thunk his forehead onto Lonnie's shoulders. Standing there, he starts to shake, which... is he crying?

    Thankfully, no, he's just laughing. Hysterically, hands digging into Lonnie's ribs as he cackles. "You're the worst!" he cries, and then abruptly he reels back, "Oh no it's in my MOUTH!" and he's leaning over the bracket of Lonnie's arm to spit mayo onto the ground.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "I hate avocado mayonnaise." Lonnie says, "I prefer it made with olive oil." He stands there, and then says, "I need a shower. And a laundry. Before this stuff starts to turn. And we can't call an uber, they'd never let us in."
    But then he's grinning. Big smile, real big - though he's still got Tim in that squishy embrace. "What the *heck* do we do?" He asks. "...Call Batman to come pick us up? 'Emergency Batman, Condiment King hosed us down with mayonnaise and we can't get a ride'"

Tim Drake has posed:
    "I'm never eating mayo again," Tim says, and there's a distinct touch of whine to his voice. He's not going to stand here and be serious and just take it, not when the actual Condiment King is the culprit, here. And especially not when they've left him and his crew behind for the GCPD to deal with.

    He wiggles back and forth a bit in Lonnie's hold until he manages to get an arm free, and he will be eternally grateful for whatever positive force in the universe made sure there was a nice expanse of un-sauced skin on the inside of his arm so that he can wipe his mouth against it. "Ugh."

    And since he has a hand free, he reaches up to SPLAT it atop the crown of Lonnie's head, encouraging some of the excess to trickle downwards. "Come on. I have a place we can crash... seven blocks away."

    Yep, they walkin'.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Great. Lonnie sets off, at a brisk walk, using his long stride to try to get there as soon as possible. Squish-squish-SQUISH-squish-squish-SQUISH-
    "...It's in my shoes, Tim. *It's in my shoes*."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim does his best to wipe himself off with what remains of his hoodie. A lot of Lonnie's mess has transferred in the hug, so it's not much. He stares down for a few seconds at their feet, or rather the mayo-lined footprints they're leaving behind.

    Well, more Lonnie than him, technically.

    "It sure is," Tim agrees, and his mouth twitches with restraint. "Let's just hope the paparazzi don't catch wind of this. They usually leave me alone on weekdays unless it's an exceptionally slow news days, which," he gestures loosely at their surroundings. They're in Gotham. When is it ever a slow news day?

    It's seven blocks away exactly, because Tim has an intricately detailed map of Gotham basically carved into the inside of his skull. He'll never know the city like his mentor, but he was born and raised here!

    The place is over a dry cleaners. Lonnie is probably just tall enough to pull down the fire escape for access, which Tim would have otherwise had to jump up and grab.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    He has to wipe his hands off on something though - Tim's sweatshirt, ugh. Otherwise he wouldn't be climbing that ladder. Up they go! Lonnie climbs the ladder and waits for Tim to open the window, before he slimes his way inside. "Shower." He says, squishing his way off toward it. "Where."
    He zeroes in on it, and makes a beeline toward it. The door slams. There's the sound of wet clothes getting thrown, probably at the wall.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim wedges the window open with only minor difficulty, and slides in through. It's a tiny studio apartment, run-down, with a kitchenette that is basically just the wall next to the bed. A bed opposite it, in the corner. Two doors side-by-side, one of which he points at for Lonnie's sake.

    And as soon as Lonnie's in there, Tim drops his ruined hoodie basically where he stands, kicks his shoes off on top of it, and then goes to the sink to try and clean himself off there as best he can.

    "Condiment King," he says to himself. Then he lets his forehead thump against the edge of the counter. More than once. Why is this his life.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie is in there a long time. Given the small size of the place, once the water turns off, he calls, "I HAD TO WASH MY HAIR *THREE TIMES*-" And he emerges, with his head wrapped up in a towel-turban and another one knotted around his waist. "Your turn. I'll just--" He looks around, "...Find something to wear." Yeah. His arms and legs are longer than Tim's.

Tim Drake has posed:
    "Closet," Tim says as he walks past Lonnie, into the bathroom. The door closes. At some point he'd realized how badly his jeans were soaked--in mayo, ugh ugh ugh--so he was just in his shorts and shirt as he scuttled across the apartment.

    In the closet, which requires a not-inconsiderable amount of force to pull open, are a handful of outfits hanging up. Mostly in Tim's size, yes, but it's Tim, so he has a couple options in other sizes. A go-bag in the bottom, on the floor. Some other random supplies, apocalypse prepper-style.

    From inside the bathroom, Tim screeches "OH MY GOD IT DOESN'T COME OUT!".

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "I THINK I STILL HAVE SOME IN MY EARS." Lonnie calls back. He looks for some stuff that'll fit. The pants? The pants are a loss, since both Dick AND Jason are shorter and stockier than him, the waists are too big for ol' yardstick. He finds a zip-up hoodie that'll fit, and a pair of briefs.
    Once his hair's dry enough, he ties it up in a loose bun, and tries to do the laundry. "What setting takes out mayonnaise-" He says, as he scowls at the washing machine.

Tim Drake has posed:
    There is no mayonnaise setting. It's one of those small, inefficient washer-dryer combos that most people i these sorts of living situations would be lucky to have, rather than having to lug things down to the laundromat below. But that would be risky for Tim to do if he, say, needed to get blood out of his undersuit or something, so.

    It takes Tim a similarly long time to shower. Mostly for the hair. He's only got the one towel around his waist so the ends of his hair drip-drip-drip across the floor as he comes out just long enough to grab some fresh clothes.

    A minute later, he sticks his head out of the door. He's still pulling on a shirt, but he's otherwise dressed. "...I really wanted those fries," he says.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie turns, and wrinkles his nose. "The last thing I want to look at right now is a sandwich." He looks down at himself, embarassed. "I couldn't find anything else that fit. I'll wait until my clothes are out of the washing machine." He pinches the bridge of his nose, and walks over to the couch before he folds himself up, his arm around his knees. "I think I feel a migraine coming on." He sits there and sulks. "...Mayonnaise."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim trudges out and finally towels his wet hair dry, scrubbing it against his scalp. "I can still smell it, it's in my nose," he says as he tosses the towel back into the bathroom, and then he pauses where he stands to press his hands against his face. Deep breaths.

    He backtracks into the bathroom for the first aid kit, and then comes back out, tossing a pill bottle of pain reliever Lonnie's way before he heads to the kitchenette.

    The cabinets of which are stocked, mostly with shelf-stable stuff. Canned goods. A few surplus MREs. There's fancy boxed water in the fridge because plastic bottles suck. He drops one next to Lonnie on the couch, keeps another from himself, and then whips the blanket off the twin bed. He chucks it over to Lonnie and then collapses down onto the mattress.

    "We should've gone through the drive-thru," is what he decides on saying, eventually.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    A couple of the pills go down Lonnie's throat. And then the water. And then he says, grimly, "Is it vain to be a little annoyed that I'm not popular enough that they named a menu item after me? I mean... Penguin Fish Fries, the Kids' meal with the Riddler Mystery Prize-" He grouses, "Why couldn't they have created an Anarkist Shake up the Status Quo or something." He looks over at Tim.
    "It was thoughtful of you. Thank you. It's - nice. Being invited out to places."

Tim Drake has posed:
    The box of water is mostly getting used as a makeshift ice pack, though there are actually a few of those wedged into the tiny freezer compartment of the fridge. Tim just didn't realize he needed one until he was horizontal, so he just exhales quietly and presses the cold water against his forehead. "The owners probably didn't want to encourage kids to get any funny ideas about protests or whatever political boogeyman that haunts their nightmares," he says, without responding directly to Lonnie's initial criticism. "Two-Face kidnaps a pair of famous twins and murders them, we come in and clean up the mess. You encourage regular people to organize, write petitions, vote against the interests of the rich? Terrifying."

    He lifts the water so he can turn his head and look over. "Why would they want to make a shake to commemorate that?"

    "...Chocolate. Maybe with some cinnamon or ginger, sort of like a Mexican hot chocolate? You know, for the whole shake-up-the-status-quo thing." Tim's hand lifts to rock back and forth in the air just before he presses the not-ice-pack back in place. He smiles weakly, and adds, "No problem. I appreciate that you don't seem to mind that I am a complete mess when I'm not pretending to know what I'm doing with my life. Hanging out with you is relaxing when we're not trying to beat each other up." He pauses. "Or when we don't run into criminals with terrible villainy shticks."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "I've held a few people hostage in my day and likely will again." Lonnie admits, "Though I suppose my pathology isn't as interesting as leaving riddles for the world's greatest detective or being obsessed with young, blond women named Alice-" Lonnie keeps his arms wrapped around his knees, and his bare toes curl into the couch cushion.
    He looks... vulnerable. Which is a way he's not accustomed to looking. "I'm really not used to people WANTING to be around me. I usually start in on Marx, Bakunin, Malatesta, Goldman and how Rand had the right idea but identified the wrong entities as the parasites- a parasite is never *starving*-" He stops, and snaps his mouth shut with a click.

Tim Drake has posed:
    "And I will rescue them if you do." Tim rubs at his face, swiping away condensation from the water that's started to drip down towards his temples. "Even if they're horrible people whose selfish, greedy actions are the cause of a lot of harm," he says after a lengthy moment, and then he sighs. Because he wouldn't be happy doing it. But he would anyway.

    The washer's spin cycle starts to hum in the background, and Tim tucks his legs up, feet flat against the mattress. "This is going to surprise you," he begins, and there's a healthy dose of sarcasm to his tone, "But when I first started as Robin I was incredibly uptight about everything. We've talked at length about my control issues, but believe me, I was even worse back then."

    His nose wrinkles. "Or, at least, I wasn't as good about hiding it as I am now."

    He sits up then, unconsciously mirroring Lonnie's position for a moment before he twists, letting his feet dangle off the side of the bed instead. "I'm happy to argue with you about Ayn Rand's terrible opinions about self-interest versus humanity's evolution as a communal creature." Then he holds up a hand. "Which is part of the point I'm trying to make here. I'm getting an engineering degree that I don't really care about because that's what's expected of me. I'm taking philosophy electives for *fun*."

    "What I'm trying to say is, sure, there was probably no chance for either of us to be friends back when we were teens. But then we grew up some, and now look at us getting along. People change, Lonnie. And I think your opinion of yourself *hasn't* changed since you were wearing a fake head and unleashing demon-whatever-kaiju onto amusement parks."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "That plan could've worked if you hadn't meddled. All I would've had to do is think up a more reliable way to expose the Eclipso-Entity to more reliable timed flashes of light." Lonnie glances up. "I wanted to test it." He clears his throat. "However as I've had time to reflect on it, I probably wouldn't have been happy with how things would've ended up, if it HAD worked." He scratches an ear, and then closes his eyes, squeezing them shut.
    "The engineering degree will be useful. You can't assume you'll have whatever army of gadgeteers are supplying the Batman at hand. I make as much of my own gear as possible."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim tucks one of his legs up underneath himself. "Mmhmm," he says, doing a terrible job at sounding like he's actually agreeing with Lonnie here. For a few moments, his head tilts downwards while he pokes at a bruise on his arm that he doesn't remember getting. "Basically, you found something shiny and wanted to play with it. Unless you thought the park was a suitably controllable test environment?" Both his eyebrows go up, and Tim's mouth thins as he tries not to smile.

    "I'd already had a pretty comprehensive education on manufacturing. The degree is just so that I can pretend to be a normal person with a job and a life." He covers the bruise with his palm, frowning at it thoughtfully. "Sometimes I wonder if it would have been better to do what you did. Disappear. Fake my death or something--it's not like it would be hard to pull off." He sniffs, then makes a face. The smell is still there, stuck in his nostrils. "But I don't think I was ever that committed. Or that brave. I guess the part of me that had never even considered becoming Robin was still kicking around."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "I thought, in my infinite wisdom, I could take something dark and oppressive and turn it toward light and liberation. Story of my life - good intentions... mixed outcome." Lonnie curls his toes again as he stares at his feet. "Or crazy?" He furrows his brow in a scowl. "I never knew my father. You've had two fathers who love you. I envy you that."
    "It doesn't matter what we think we want, what matters is what we do when we hear the call to action. 'There's a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, 'tis not to come. If it be not to come, it will be now. If it be not now, yet it will come-the readiness is all.'"
    "Shakespeare isn't an anarchist, but I read everything."

Tim Drake has posed:
    "You're not crazy." The way it comes out seems like it's an automatic response from Tim, though the way he tips his head at Lonnie as a follow-up is more authentic. The look on his face is hard to read, but then his brow pinches, and Tim's concern becomes more obvious. "My life has been slightly more complicated than that, but I'll admit it's probably a pointless distinction in the grand scheme of things. You've had a hard life, and I'm not going to pretend you haven't hurt people, or made mistakes. But I'm a pretty strong believer in rehabilitation over punishment, even if I'm pragmatic enough that I acknowledge that the risk is too great in some cases."

    He rests his cheek against his fist. "I don't count yours among those. Which, I'm not saying I'm trying to fix you, or--." Tim's breath huffs out of him all at once, like he's annoyed, though it's all self-incrimination. "Or at least, maybe I'm hopeful about being a good influence on you." The corner of his mouth quirks up just a touch. "And I guess I don't mind you being a little bit of a bad influence on me, in turn."

    The angle of his gaze drops away, and Tim turns his head, looking askance. "It's Gotham. Nothing to stop you from answering that call because it'll always be there. This city is great about second chances, and you're not crazy. So I trust you not to try the same thing twice, expecting different results." He holds up a finger. "Hold on. It's been a while for me."

    Tim bites the inside of his cheek as he narrows his eyes at nothing, then he offers up, "'Since no man of aught he leaves knows, what is't to leave betimes? Let be.'" He shrugs. "I prefer his comedies. Everything's already a tragedy."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie falls quiet. As his hair's dried, loose red strands fall out of that messy topknot to curl around his face.
    "I don't usually get into philosophical arguments with people while my pants are in the wash after I get shot with a mayonnaise cannon. I'm a little bit out of my depth here. I honestly - I don't know. I'm having... fun. Fun is something I thought I'd *sacrificed* in my life because it gets in the way of the mission."
    "Maybe I feel a little guilty about it. You're *interesting*. You're alternately easy to ruffle and impossible to perturb. Witty but deeply introverted. Extremely independent-minded yet very much in lockstep wth the Batman... it's fascinating to watch." His wrists drop down to his ankles.

Tim Drake has posed:
    In contrast, Tim's hair is starting to stick up everywhere. Apparently he didn't think hair gel was a necessary thing to stock in his safehouses. Tim's chin drops to rest against his knee. "You can't keep that up forever, though. Eventually you're going to work yourself into an early grave, and how is that any good for the mission?" He gestures at himself, eyes closed. "Trust me, I know the feeling. 'The more my prayer, the lesser is my grace.'"

    He rotates at the waist and flops dramatically back onto the bed. "Please, no," he groans, behind the shield of his arms which he folds over his face. "I'm not anywhere near that interesting."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie considers that, and then he gets up - he walks over and sits next to Tim, before assuming the same pose he had before - curled up in a sit, with his arms wrapped around his knees. He lets the silence hang there like a shroud, or Batman's cape, or a stylish red costume with a broad-brimmed hat.
    "Have you ever considered that all the people who disagree with that self-assessment might be right, and you might be wrong?" He says, finally.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim doesn't react too much to the dip of the mattress as Lonnie joins him, though he does subtly angle his body to make sure there's room, legs shifting. "What do you want me to say?" he asks, and he pulls his arms away, head tilted to peer upwards. "That I think I'm amazing? I know what my capabilities are and I'm not shy about admitting to them, but--." His hands ball into fists at his side. "It's a lot. For me to handle."
    He holds up both hands. "Either people say that sort of thing to Tim Wayne because they want something from a person I pretend to be, or they're saying it to Red Robin who, you have very thoroughly pointed out, isn't me either. How can they make an accurate assessment if they don't even know me?"

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie reaches out to push Tim over. "How would human beings make any connection with one another at all if they completely lacked the ability to do that? Doofus." He goes back to his sit. "Yes, you control what you show people. Congratulations. So does everybody else. You have crises of conscience, crises of faith - whoopie. So does everyone else."
    "You're showing me who you really are and I'm still here talking to you, and I'm a *fanatic*."

Tim Drake has posed:
    The squawk Tim lets out as he's pushed over turns into an annoyed groan once he's flat on his back. "Shut up," he says, and then he twists to dig his knees into Lonnie's back, pushing like Tim's trying to knock him off the bed. "It's not that simple. There are things about me that nobody knows, and it just... when people say things like that to me all I can think about is how they might react if they knew."

    He rolls away and throws an arm over his eyes again, though there's plenty of tension to read in the rest of his face, so he's not hiding much. "Yeah, sure, whatever you say," he replies on an exhale.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie simply - shifts how he's lying. Stupid tall, after all. He rolls onto his side.
    "I'm not your psychoanalyst." He decides, finally. "If you'd rather talk shop, we can do that. Otherwise I'd be sitting here reading a book - but my phone is covered with mayonnaise and I don't want to think about cleaning it off yet." He puts an arm over his eyes. "I don't think I'm getting a migraine, I think I'm just mad."

Tim Drake has posed:
    "That's not--" Tim starts, but he bites down on his tongue rather than finish that sentence. He exhales through his nose. "No, you're not." He rubs the heels of his palms into his eyesockets and takes a few deep breaths before he lets his arms fold over his midsection. Now he's just frowning at the ceiling.

    His head turns to consider Lonnie, next to him. "At the Condiment King?" he asks, and he sounds a little uncertain about it. "I was really looking forward to making fun of Batburger with you. It's just not the same when I do it alone and there's no one to laugh at my hilarious quips."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "He shot me with a mayonnaise gun." Lonnie mutters. "I got sauced. It was humiliating." He sulks, his brow furrowing again.
    "...Yeah," he says, his voice trailing off. He stares at a spider as it goes up the wall.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim sniffs, and then rubs at his nose, briefly contemplating how long it'll be before he stops smelling mayonnaise. "He called it his special sauce." He pauses. "He had to *know*, right? Like. How that sounds." Then Tim spends a little bit more time thinking about that assumption and eventually he makes a wounded noise, full of regret. "Oh no."

    He lifts his hands again to press against his eyeballs. "Lonnie, no, what have I done."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Ruined hamburgers for me for years yet to come?" Lonnie asks, his head tilting up a bit, as his eyebrows go up.
    "Listen, Condiment King is a weirdo, and I think there's been more than one. I SWEAR I heard Poison Ivy fed one to her mutant flytrap, who after he ate him ironically commented 'Needs mustard'."
    He rubs his temple. "That is so messed up."

Tim Drake has posed:
    "I'm not sure I'm willing to believe that there is more than one person in the *entire world* willing to dress up as the Condiment King," Tim says. His hands slide up from his face into his hair, which manages to rearrange it into something less of a nightmare mess.

    He's quiet for a long time, until Tim turns his head on the pillow to look over at Lonnie, expression serious. "Do you think she named it Audrey?" he asks. "I feel like Poison Ivy would be into musical theater." And then he blinks. "You're right. I'm completely numb to the reality of carnivorous plants large enough to eat humans. That *is* messed up."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "I heard she named it 'Frank'." Lonnie says, as he rolls over onto his back and puts his hand behind his head.
    On the plus side, I hear the oil and protein in mayonnaise is really good for your hair. Some people put it on overnight, they say it makes it sleek and shiny-" He breaks down into a snorting laugh, and then sighs. "What were you going on about, before."

Tim Drake has posed:
    The tilt of Tim's mouth suggests he's not particularly impressed with Ivy's naming choice. He definitely would have gone with Audrey. "Pretty sure you could achieve similar results with coconut oil or something," he says. "With the added benefit that you don't smell like *mayonnaise*."

    Tim pulls his legs back up and tugs on his sweatpants until they bunch up above his knees. Then his legs flop back down, shins exposed against the cool fabric of the sheets. "Before what?"

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "You were moaning that you'd-" He pauses, and then laughs again, brightly. "Oh, I get it. Right. Special sauce." He puts his hand over his eyes and says "That's gross. You're gross, Tim." But he's laughing at least, which signals a bump in his mood. "I should - get going once my clothes are dry. I mean Yap's on an auto-feeder but I don't like to leave him alone."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim's teeth sink into the inside of his cheek and all of the air in his lungs comes stuttering out through his nose. "Oh god," he groans, and then rolls over as he tucks his hands against his mouth. Faced away from Lonnie, his shoulders start shaking. His laughter turns hysterical, and then wheezy, and he eventually starts coughing a little bit, muffled into the cup of his palms. "Oh my god."

    It legitimately takes him a few moments to catch his breath.

    Eventually he flops over onto his back again, and his eyebrows draw together, though he blinks whatever expression that was about to be away. Instead, Tim reaches up to grab a handful of sleeve from Lonnie's borrowed hoodie, tugging on it lightly. "Okay. I had fun tonight too, you know." His eyes squeeze shut and he forces out the words, "Even when Condiment King was shooting us with his special sauce," without giving into the urge to laugh again. Mostly. Tim's jaw trembles a little bit with the effort.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie rolls enough to flop an arm over Tim's face. "Mayo in your hair, mayo in your eyes, the Condiment King's mayonnaise in your MOUTH-" He breaks down into a guffaw, until his breath is strained from the effort. "Unbelievable."
    "Listen." He turns his head to meet Tim's gaze. "This has been - fun. Thank you. No matter what the future holds... thanks."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Underneath the weight of Lonnie's arm, Tim allows himself one final snort of humor before he contains himself. "Eugh, don't remind me. That was disgusting." He tilts his head up, and then he's reaching, grabbhing hold of Lonnie's arm by the elbow. "Don't make it sound so final. I already told you that you're not going to be able to get rid of me." He lets go so he can poke Lonnie in the chest.

    "And don't take that as a challenge. You don't need to push everyone away for the sake of the mission. That's no way to live, even though I'm sure Yap does his best to keep you company."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "I think he's getting a little tired of me yammering on at him." Anarky admits. "You wouldn't think a dog could get bored listening to a person talk and yet-" He adopts an amused look, "I do go on."
    He clears his throat. "So uh. Do you happen to have any books hidden away here? Or should I just lie here awkwardly, until my clothes cycle through and out of the dryer?"

Tim Drake has posed:
    "Really? I hadn't noticed," Tim replies, with a wide grin. He sits up and scoots his way to the end of the bed so that he can climb off and go digging in the closet. So Lonnie gets an excellent view of Tim sliding open the false back, and the spare Red Robin costume and equipment stored there. "Hm, let's see."

    Eventually he leans back up from his crouch, a stack of books in his arms. Because hair gel? Unimportant. Books? Yes. "I have some Ursula K. Le Guin, and one of Schroedinger's books--I wrote some in the margins, if that bothers you--and," Tim starts to list as he flips through them. "Oh, I have the first book in the Heart of Stone series by Lydia Dietrich." He holds it up, distractedly. "It's set in Gotham."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie gives a flat stare. "...No Heidegger?" He stretches, and says "Well IF I MUST, give me the LeGuin-" He pauses, and then turns it over in his mind. "On second thought, I'll take the Lydia Dietrich. I haven't gotten around to reading that one yet." He holds out a hand for it, and sets to - he's a fast reader, lying back with the book in one hand, knee propped up. He turns pages with his thumb, and his eyes can visibly be seen flicking along the lines on the page.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim looks up from where he is on the floor. "No? It's not like I keep my whole library here, and Heidegger isn't exactly someone I turn to for leisure reading." His shoulders bump up lightly. "Mostly because of the whole Nazi thing," he says. He stacks his own choice--a biography about John Snow (the 19th century English physician, to clarify)--on top of the Dietrich book, and climbs back up onto the bed.

    Some elbowing in the side happens until Tim can comfortably curl up, his back against the wall, novel tucked perilously close to his face as he reads.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "You have to know the mind of your enemy in order to thwart him." Lonnie says, as he continues reading. He occasionally looks up over the book at tim, and then back to the book - then when the washing machine buzzes he gets up to change it, and drops back onto his side.
    Eventually the book drops onto his chest though - he's dozed off.

Tim Drake has posed:
    "Uh huh," Tim says without really acknowledging (or hearing) what Lonnie's saying. And the secret to reading with the book basically jammed up against his face is that every time he himself starts to drift off, it smacks him in the nose. So he stays awake, despite how often he finds his eyes drifting closed, and at some point the dryer probably shuts off.

    He'll wake Lonnie up eventually. Just a few more pages.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    This might cause a problem, because as he dozes, Lonnie shifts to make himself more comfortable - and he ends up snuggled up against Tim. He mumbles something about - Bakunin? - even in his sleep - but he doesn't wake up. Apparently not even gargoyle romance can shift his mind away from anarchistic dialogues.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim doesn't do anything except move his book up and out of the way, which means he has to crane his neck a little bit to keep reading, but that is indeed what he does. Of course, a side-effect of this is that he doesn't have it pressed up against his face any more, so when he drifts off the next time and his hands go slack, it doesn't drop against himself. He's out like a light.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Which means that when the alarm on the dryer goes off, they both doze right through it - and it isn't until the next morning that Lonnie wakes up to a beam of sunlight across his face. "Nuh- wha-?" And he realizes where he is, and that his arm's pinned. "...Uh-oh." He tugs, lightly.

Tim Drake has posed:
    At some point during the night, Tim has curled in on himself--and on top of Lonnie's arm--so that his face is mostly protected from the sunlight. So it isn't until something starts moving underneath him that Tim cracks an eye open, and finds himself staring at the side of Lonnie's head.

    He blinks once, twice, then tilts his head down to glance at his watch. Then he sighs out through his nose and rolls so he's flat on his stomach and buries his face in the pillow.

    He's honestly almost back asleep there for a second before he shoots up onto his hands and knees, and then Tim's sitting up all the way. "...Hi," he says. "I was going to wake you up." Which clearly didn't happen. He squints out the window. "Did I really sleep through the night?"

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Is that not something you're usually capable of doing?" Lonnie gives a one-armed stretch and a yawn, and pulls his arm out from under Tim. "Because it would look like you did. I mean, I'm a classic night-owl myself. But, you know - sleep is essential to healthy cognition."
    He gets up and pads over to the dryer, before he starts taking out his clothes. "Well, these seem no worse for wear." He shakes them out.

Tim Drake has posed:
    "Not really," Tim admits as he tucks himself back up into a ball, and he looks supremely skeptical about this whole morning thing that he finds himself faced with. "And I've been having nightmares again." His feet hit the bare floor with a thump and he heads into the bathroom while Lonnie's back is turned.

    When he stumbles back out, he still has his toothbrush in his mouth, and his hair is somewhat tamed. Eyes haven't decided to open any more than they were before, though. He sits at the end of the bed and glares out the window with as much anger as he can muster this early. Surprise surprise, a Bat is not a morning person.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie is dressed, in his ripped jeans and his Rage T-Shirt. Even his sneakers seem none the worse for wear. He rocks forward and back on his heels, and then says, "Well, you know what's good for you in the morning, right?" Coffee?
    "A jog! Come on. Let's go for a run. Five kilometers. Maybe six or seven." Uuuugh, he's got to be pulling Tim's leg, right?

Tim Drake has posed:
    The toothbrush comes out of his mouth long enough for Tim to lean slightly to the side and shoot an incredibly unimpressed look Lonnie's way, forehead scrunched. He doesn't say anything because he has a mouth full of toothpaste foam, but Tim also doesn't feel like he really *needs* to.

    He shoves the toothbrush back into his mouth and mumbles something that was probably unkind, before he stumbles back into the bathroom to rinse his mouth.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Oh come on you could do ten without batting an eye!" Lonnie calls, before he covers his mouth with a snort. "Listen - I should go. My dog, you know how it is-" He stops, with his hand on the doorknob.
    "I had a really... uh. Nice time. It was nice. We could do it again sometime?"

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim leans against the doorway of the bathroom, wiping his mouth on the back of his arm. "No," is all he says, grumbled, and then he rubs one knuckle into the corner of his eye.

    His hand goes back to sweep through the hair against the back of his neck and he looks away, eyes focused on the floor. "Me too," he says. "So... yeah. Sure." Tim clears his throat. "Bye, Lonnie."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie turns, and heads out - he shuts the door behind him, and it automatically locks with a click. A moment later he's walking down the sidewalk outside. He stops, for a moment, to look up at the building - then he's out of view. Presumably off to do anarchist things. Or just feed his dog.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim is no less than half an hour late to class, and he grimaces at the professor's unimpressed stare as he slinks into one of the back seats and slides as far down as he can physically go in his chair.