stuff of legends !!

-- there's the deed to his old home finally safe, tucked away in the saddlebag of his bike. One last round, for old times sale, before he heads back to New York or maybe out West to clear his head.

Zitkas trunk is heavy on his shoulder, thoughts swirling about a life on the road and then the roots he's ripped up again and again. He could stay with the circus, could travel with them for a season or two. Get back to the spotlight.

He's gotten too much of a knack for saving people to let himself cool his heels on the limelight swelter.

Speaking of- there's a baby crying, some girl with harsh eyes and an attempt at a soft touch, bouncing the kid in her arms. The ages don't quite match up and, yeah he's always been too good at saving people, hasn't he?

It's a soft hum, gently wrapped fingers around Zitkas trunk. "You're not really supposed to be back here." There's a question hidden in there:

Seen plenty of runaways crawl back to the pen or backstage, offering strong arms or animal handling skills in exchange for a chance to *get away*. (Hell, that's how Pa ended up joining and meeting Ma, wasn't it? Some train hopper who snuck past Zeb the Strongman and impressed him with the wit and knot tying skills)

"It's okay though, I own the place now so I'll make an exception." He's in a good mood. Or, actually a horrible mood but it's the thing, shoving it down, make someone else smile and wonder and that can become his own happiness, right?

Of course she gets caught.

Of course she bolts up to her feet, eyes wide and pleading because she knows what happens when people do something wrong. They get in big trouble, the kind that puts them in bad places.

"I'm sorry, Mister," She's quick to offer an apology, stumbling to pick up her bag with a free hand. The other supports baby Preston, now balanced on her hip. "Real sorry. I'll get goin' now-"

But the man isn't yelling nor is he shooing her away. He makes an exception that causes her to slow and then stop in her tracks. Hazel eyes look to him, softening, but suspicious, as if checking if he actually means it.

"...thank you," She offers quietly. "I jus'... wanted t'take my brother somewhere... nice for a bit."

Gaze trails from the stranger's kind face to Zitka and immediately, the difference is night and day. A sense of wonder paints across her rabbiteen features. She nods before she can reply verbally.

"It's good that you're taking care of your brother." He looks up at Zitka. "The circus is meant for kids of all ages, right?" His dad's hand on his shoulder, his words out of Dick's mouth: "Don't forget to be a kid yourself, right?"

(how many times had he offered those same words to Terra to Titans and other kids he'd saved? It's a weather work platitude but no less heartfelt.)

She eyes him like Jason had when he'd first offered the costume. Waiting for the dollar on a fishing line yanked away. Too much responsibility at too young an age.

He wants to offer to hold Preston, let her pet Zitka better but it's not his place, is it?

"I can hold him, if you want to pet her better. I-- I have a little brother." Present tense, evading questions before they're asked. Something about the ghosts around feel superstitious, like if he talks about Jason it'll doom Preston somehow.

"Oh. Uh. My name's Dick Grayson. I used to be part of the trapeze act, the Flying Graysons. Now I'm the owner. I can getcha something from the concession stand later, my treat." He grins. Too eager, can hear Jason grumbling at his shoulder: you're gonna scare her off, no ones that nice.

Influence of the McCulloch-Pitts model of neural activity on the design of electronic digital computer architecture.

“Let’s make it twelve, shall we?”

As the ethereal voice sounded, Patrick’s lifeless body fell to the ground. In the reflection he’d failed to account for, one might have seen the light die in his eyes. But there was no terror on that face, was there, at the end? No; only something like a quiet resignation. And if the one left behind knew what to look for – the only living person in the room now, it would seem – they might have seen the light instead retreat from its corporeal form, feathery-thin strands of energy floating through the air.

He'd only just met the man, some guy who's helped claw the boy-wonder turned boy-zombie free from the thin cardboard box he'd been shoved into. He'd spent a good while trying to kick at the limestone facade with his name on it, trying to free himself--

Then someone pulled it free. Yanked the box a bit free from the mausoleum, let it gently bump agianst the marble floor.

And the impact had the mausoleum door slam shut.

And-- and-- and, fuck! Christ! Jason ran for the door and, the echo reverberated around the cold stone. Cut off the man's last gasp, that little bit of magic leaving his mouth. An inverse, of sorts, of the boy suddenly thrust back into life.

Who the fuck was this guy. What the fuck was he doing back here-- Tired not to stare at the names etched next to him: Sheila Heywood, Dolores Doe, Martha Wayne.

The body on the floor. The first aid instincts kicked in-- you can't stop rendering aid unless the scene becomes unsafe or there's conditions incompatible with life.

He laced his fingers, one, two, three, four-- fifteen compressions and two breaths. The air went in. More magic seemed to leak out.

He tried for three cycles, the other man's chest slightly caved in from all of his efforts--

just the way he'd looked as the concussive blast had him struggle and suck in ashen air--

He snarled. Stood up. Tired for the door again. It budged, just slightly. Enough to give him some hope.

He hollered into the air. "Get back here! Fuckin, peice of shit, motherfucker!" He huffed, kicked the body gently-- the leg flopped oddly.

Tried to hold onto his lunch. Kept seeing his own corpse filtered over the one flopped on the floor before him.

Sure, he had more air but, what the fuck was he supposed to do with it?

He shut his eyes, tried to calm his breathing and yeah, sure, conserve some air.

Ran his hands through his hair, paced around the body. What the fuck, why did he keep getting ito these situations.

You'll see me tonight in your dream.

You look something special today.

From now on, we're friends of one minute.

How long have we known each other?

I've got to find some place else to live.

I've told you many times that I never steal!

Do you think it's so easy to do so?

I've never promised to go home with you.

You're nosy, aren't you?

Why did you come with me then?

I know you won't even call me, you don't even memorize my number!

Do you want to take advantage from me?

I've heard once that there was a kind of bird with no legs, it only could fly, and when it got tired, it slept in the wind.

Have you ever made me happy after so many years?

I didn't say it before because I don't want you to leave.

You will forget about me as well.

Don't fall in love with me.

I'd like to take back my stuff, I'm not good for you.

Why are you so attentive to me?

I don't like marriage like the others do.

I won't know whom I love most 'till the end of my life.

If one comes & says that you are [his/hers/theirs, should I give up?

Don't ever come back once you step out!

Why do you treat me like this?

Many trouble will be solved after a good sleep.

I thought that I would be okay, I always tell myself.

I'll hate myself if I go back again, I don't want to hate myself.

If you really can't live without [him/her/them], why don't you tell [him/her/them]?

[He/She/They] would remember me forever for that very minute.

I won't force you if you don't like to go.

I won't dessert you.

Don't you know that you are giving me an excuse to hate you?

I do it because I want to protect you.

You spoiled yourself for these years &. put all the responsibility on me, you want a revenge.

It's boring to stay in one place for a long time.

I have told you to leave first, now you are tailing me!

If you could fly, you wouldn't have to be here.

What do you want to see the most when you die?

I never know which person is my true love.

A friend of mine always wants to challenge my memory.

Actually, we know each other for a short period of time only.

Even if I can see [him/her/them], maybe [he/she/they] can't recognise me.

She's going insane. Currently, in the corner parallel to the camera, sat with her knees to her chest. The back of her head hits the wall again and again — a soft thumpthumpthump her sole companion.

Well.

Aside from one other person.

Violet has to assume someone is on camera duty, at least for most of the day. Maybe a live feed?

Standing, she strides across the room to grab her case-less pillow and chuck it as hard as she can in the direction of her ceaseless watcher.

‟ Hey! ” She has no idea if there are microphones, too, but she tries shouting. There is nothing she needs — she's just bored out of her skull. ‟ I'm hungry! ”

Liar.

Her face scrunches up, disgruntled at the lack of immediate response.

‟ If someone doesn't come down here, I'll — ” She whirls around, pouting. There is so little for her to do. ‟ I'll gouge my eyes out! Or somethin'! ”

And can you blame him? Look at all he's accomplished with dear old dad put of the way!

There's still that nagging at the back of his skull. Still that grating, pleading voice of his old friend telling him he doesn't have to be like his father.

Ah well. Bygones and all that! Right? What does a past matter. He's left Smallvile, left the shit factory and spaceships behind.

At least, mentally. He's still in Smallville but the Kents have decided to shun him and he's content to pretend it doesn't ache.

There's more meteor freaks popping up after the second shower. And Lex had changed tactics: paying them off. It was easier to keep morale up. For a time, anyway. Get them complacent. Well-fed and happy. Maybe a few calls to loved ones to quell suspicions.

Then you about face. See how they respond under stress. Every good experiment needs variables. And this one was simple:

See if she'll use her abilities to escape. Or, try to.

He'd come in to the security room for updates: a wide wall of blue screens, showing every cell in this place. This was the newest one. p331-046. Or, #046.

"The new one. Has she made any escape attempts?" Ms. Brahma the ever present eye in the sky, clicks over to her screen.

Ah. She's throwing a tantrum. Lex grins at the display.

Lex holds out a hand, Ms. Bramha passes over the microphone.

The microphone cackles to life in her sparse room. -- There's a sharp pain and flash as he remembers Lionel speaking over a microphone: this is for your own good, Lex, as Lex had tasted a rubber gag and then a bitter metallic electric shock-- He clears his throat, speaks into the mic: