Several hours later, Tony sat aboard a train leaving Gotham.
He had already delivered every cure.
Gotham Children’s Hospital had lost fifty-seven customers that day, and as far as Tony was concerned, it served the bastards right.
They charged outrageous prices to families who could barely afford to keep food on the table, much less pay for years of treatments.
Insurance was supposed to cover a good chunk of it, especially since they were kids.
There were more protections for children, more programs, but the system was rotten.
The mayor had promised half of Gotham that he would fix the system if they elected him.
Promises weren’t worth shit.
The moment the bastard got his ass into office, all that talk about helping families disappeared faster than smoke in the wind.
Nearly half of the families on Tony’s list worked at factories owned by LexCorp, so their health insurance came through a company that—surprise, surprise—was also owned by LexCorp.
And LexCorp sucked.
That bald bastard Luthor cared about two things: filling his pockets and proving to the entire world that he was better than Superman.
Which was fucking ridiculous.
The man—alien, whatever—could fly, shoot fire from his eyes, and bounce bullets off his chest.
Luthor’s obsession with Superman was probably something as sick and childish as the Joker’s with Batman.
The insurance companies sucked even more than their owner—they were a fucking scam.
The workers couldn’t switch providers because their coverage was tied to their jobs, and quitting was not an option.
Quit and they lost their insurance.
Lose their insurance and they couldn’t afford their kids’ treatments.
Finding job in Gotham was not easy, so they stayed.
Several of the other families weren’t much better off.
Some worked under the table for one syndicate or another.
Others worked for whatever lunatic in a colorful costume happened to control their neighborhood that month.
And none came with health insurance.
For years, those families had poured nearly everything they earned into keeping their children alive.
Their savings vanished, their houses were mortgaged, and credit cards were maxed out.
Debts piled higher and higher, all because the alternative was watching their kid die.
Not anymore.
Tony leaned back against his seat and looked out the window as Gotham slowly disappeared behind him.
Fifty-seven kids were home, and they were healthy.
Their parents could worry about the debts tomorrow.
Today, they could just hold their kids.
Tony did not consider himself a good man.
How could he, given his line of work?
But that didn’t mean he could ignore the suffering of people close to him.
Becoming a father had softened him, some might say.
Ever since his little girl was born, Tony had spent what felt like half his life in hospitals with Chiara.
He had gotten to know the parents of other sick kids along the way.
Sat beside them in waiting rooms, shared shitty hospital coffee with them, and watched them receive good news, bad news, and the kind of news no parent should ever have to hear.
Money wasn’t something Tony lacked.
His work paid damn well, so when he saw one of those families struggling, he tried to help.
Most wouldn’t take it.
They had their pride, and Tony respected that.
They would max out another credit card or borrow from the bank before owing money to a friend.
Most only accepted his help when they had nowhere else to turn.
Probably for the best.
Owing money was one of the fastest ways Tony knew to ruin a friendship.
The cures were another story.
Pride didn’t mean shit when someone put a cure for your dying child in your hands.
Tony could only hope they also took the money he put in each bag, and they listened to his advice to get the hell out of Gotham for a while (he gave each family 20K, enough to start anew somewhere else).
Their kids might no longer be in danger from their illnesses, but that didn’t mean they were safe.
***
Tony had abandoned his usual suits in favor of blue jeans, a plain jacket, and a cheap shirt.
A cap covered most of his head, while sunglasses concealed his eyes.
Beneath the cap, he wore a reddish-brown wig he had bought that morning.
He felt ridiculous.
He looked like some suburban dad on his way to spend a weekend fishing, but at least nobody would recognize him easily.
Still, Tony was considering whether he could dispose of the wig in the train’s bathroom when the train stopped at another station, and several passengers entered.
“Nice wig.”
Tony’s head shot up.
“The reddish brown really makes your eyes pop.”
The newcomer wore a blue hood over a matching cap, but neither did much to hide the domino mask covering his eyes.
He was around Tony’s height, perhaps a bit taller, although considerably younger and in much better shape.
He huffed.
It’s been a few years since he’d last seen the kid in person, but he was hard to forget.
Tony should not have been surprised they had found him this quickly.
“Leave your spandex at home, Boy Wonder?”
The young man placed one hand over his chest.
“I haven’t been Robin for a couple of years, you know.”
“Yeah, I know.
The new one’s much better.”
“Hey.” Nightwing pretended to be wounded by his words.
“My little bird is all right, but saying he’s better than me to my face is a little rude.”
“The kid just breaks your nose.
You’d make three cheesy jokes and do a bunch of pirouettes while you were at it.”
“No one appreciates art or humor nowadays.”
Tony leaned back in his seat.
“Cut the bullshit.
What does the Bat want?”
Nightwing glanced toward the other passengers.
No one appeared interested in them, although Tony doubted that meant much.
With the Bats, nothing was ever as simple as it appeared.
“I don’t work for Batman.”
Tony raised an eyebrow above his sunglasses.
“You captured Scarecrow together last month.”
“That was just a team-up.
Heroes work together all the time.”
“Sure, sure.” Tony waved one hand.
“Whatever you say, Boy Wonder.”
Nightwing sighed.
“What do you want?” Tony asked.
“The cures.” The humor disappeared from Nightwing’s face.
“Where did you get them?”
Tony stared at him.
“I ain’t telling you shit.”
“A lot of people could be saved by medicine like that.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“Then help me find the source.”
“No.”
Nightwing leaned forward.
“Why?”
“Because the second the government or one of the costumed freaks finds out who made them, that person’s life is over.”
“That isn’t necessarily true.”
Tony gave him a flat look.
“It is, and you know it.”
Nightwing did not answer right away, and Tony continued before he could offer any argument.
“People find out someone can cure cancer, every government in the world will want them.
Every rich bastard with one foot in the grave will want them.
Every criminal will want them.
They’ll be watched, followed, threatened, kidnapped, or locked in some laboratory for the rest of their life.”
“I could protect them.”
Tony scoffed.
“You’re good, kid.
You and the rest of the Bats.
But you’re still human, and there’s only a handful of you.
You can’t protect someone from every government, company, crime family and lunatic on the planet.”
“We’ve protected people from worse.” Nightwing straightened.
“And it wouldn’t only be us.
Heroes work together, remember?
They’d have the protection of the League.”
“Forever?”
That silenced him.
“You gonna sit outside their house for the next fifty years?” Tony continued.
“Watch everyone they meet?
Stop every government agent, assassin, billionaire, alien, and freak who decides they deserve a miracle cure more than the next guy?”
Nightwing’s jaw tightened.
“No,” Tony said.
“You couldn’t.
Not even your League could.
Maybe you could hide them somewhere.
Put them in some secret bunker nobody knows about, surround the place with superheroes, fancy computers, magic—whatever the hell you people use.”
Tony shook his head.
“But even then, there’s no guarantee some lunatic wouldn’t eventually find them.
And suppose nobody ever does.
What then?
They spend the rest of their life hiding behind steel doors because stepping outside is too dangerous?”
He looked Nightwing directly in the eye.
“That ain’t living, kid.
That’s just another kind of prison.
Only difference is you’d be calling it protection.”
Nightwing clenched his jaw.
Tony was not wrong.
Someone like that would become a target the moment their existence became known, and not even the entire League could guarantee their safety every second of every day.
Not unless they hid them away in some bunker where nobody could reach them.
And, as Tony had said, that wasn’t a life.
“How did you find out this quickly anyway?
It’s only been a couple of hours since I gave them those cures.”
“People talk.
I happened to be nearby when I heard a kid telling someone that her friend had walked out of the hospital completely healthy a few days ago after spending most of her life sick.” Nightwing shrugged.
“That got my attention, so I did a little digging.
Turns out her dad is one of Falcone’s lieutenants—or former lieutenant now, I guess.”
Nightwing looked at him with a raised eyebrow and Tony huffed.
“Confidential info, kid.”
Nightwing gave him a small smile.
Tony’s eyes narrowed.
“So what are you planning to do with this information, Nightwing?”
Nightwing stared at him for several seconds before leaning back.
Every instinct told him that keeping something this important secret was wrong.
Countless people could benefit from those cures.
People were dying every day from illnesses that someone out there could cure as easily as handing over a bottle.
But Tony was right about what would happen if that person became known.
Fifty-seven miraculous recoveries—fifty-eight, Nightwing corrected as he looked at Tony—would cause a stir.
Doctors would ask questions and reporters would dig.
Someone would inevitably suggest a metahuman was responsible, and more than a few interested parties would start looking.
But if nothing else happened, eventually the trail would go cold.
People would assume the mysterious metahuman had left Gotham, gone into hiding, or died.
But if the cures kept appearing?
Nightwing could promise Tony that he would keep the secret.
He could even keep it from Batman and the rest of the League.
He could try to contact whoever was responsible himself and arrange for the cures to be distributed discreetly but it wouldn’t matter.
Keeping the fact that hundreds—and eventually thousands—of people were being miraculously healed of their illnesses a secret was impossible.
Soon governments would start looking, followed by corporations, criminal organizations, and more.
And it wouldn’t stop there—not only the healer would become a target, but so would those who had been healed.
Several of them would likely end up in government labs, experimented on in an attempt to reproduce the miracle.
Healing any disease in the world may sound like the most wonderful gift, but in this world, it is a curse for both those who possess the gift and those who are healed.
The train continued moving beneath them, carrying Tony farther from Gotham with every passing moment.
Finally, Nightwing sighed.
“Good luck, Tony.”
Tony frowned—that had been easier than expected.
Nightwing pointed past his shoulder.
“Oh, look.
A distraction!”
Tony turned his head before his brain caught up with the words.
Behind him was nothing except several rows of seats and a few passengers.
Tony looked back, and the seat across from him was empty.
He glanced down the aisle, but Nightwing was gone.
He sighed and shook his head.
“Bats,” he muttered.
***
NOTE: And so, Tony is out of the story for a while and Dick has officially made his debut!
In case it wasn’t clear enough, Dick first found out about the cures while investigating Falcone’s people for a case.
He discovered that Chiara, the daughter of one of Falcone’s lieutenants—Tony—had been miraculously cured of her disease.
Naturally, that caught his attention, so he started keeping an eye on Tony.
Anyway, Tony will be gone for quite some time now, so I’m curious: what are your thoughts on him so far?
Did you like him?