Chapter Text
The young man, formerly named Jason Todd, worked profusely at the local corner store, battling the highs and lows of convenience shopping, the at-times rude customers, and the young children who asked him for a free lollipop—of which he happily obliged.
On a warm morning, the sun was happily out above the little store, heating him through the propped windows and the open door. He found himself at peace, remembering nothing of the past—only the current, everyday mechanics.
On a day like this, nothing was out of the ordinary: only a few lurking homeless people and the sparks of the outside cars—some driving illegally, others yelping at every movement of another vehicle. Tommy couldn’t help but smile at every inconvenience.
As he opened the store, someone unknown came in. An unusual customer—someone who reminded him of something but nothing. Inconceivable to him, yet conceivable to the person lurking. A young man with a brood of black hair that smoothed at the ends and teeth that jerked up whenever he smiled.
“Hello,” Tommy said, being handed the items to check. The young man only stared at him, finding Jason’s features reminiscent of someone he once knew—someone he lost—but older, rougher, and more palatable.
Feeling the weird tension, Tommy said, “Sir, are you alright?” Smiling after, his hands worked like muscle memory, checking out everything given: just one bottle of soda and a heavy bag of chips.
The man only nodded and shook his head aimlessly, as if the thoughts inside his mind controlled him instead. Finally realizing everything, he responded, “Yes, sorry.” Like a nervous jab, he clenched his teeth.
“I’ve never seen you here. New to town?” Tommy asked in an attempt to make small talk, smiling again as a natural response.
The man hesitated to respond, still thinking of something. But Tommy wasn’t one to pry, staying silent as he heard the last beep of the second item.
“Six dollars and seventy cents, sir.”
The man stood still, like he was in a trance—only observing Tommy’s face, as if it tickled him uncontrollably. But he shouldn’t be. In any case, Tommy felt uncomfortable. He felt odd. And he couldn’t help but want this conversation to be over. The man didn’t look homeless; he didn’t have clothes that dwarfed him or any features that seemed recognizable to Tommy.
“What’s your name?” the man asked, fidgeting inside his jacket, his head now facing the tiled flooring, the dust knocking at his shoes.
Tommy gladly responded, avoiding the thought of an unnecessary question: “Tommy.”
“Tommy?” the man whispered to himself, like a question and not a fact. But Tommy heard this and only chuckled.
“Yes, sir. What else could it be?” He awaited the cash, scanning the number once again to make sure he had given the correct information. “Well, since we’re talking, I shouldn’t be the only one to give a name. What’s yours, sir?”
The man hesitated, bringing his face into Tommy’s view. He looked at Tommy in confusion—narrowed eyes, pursed lips, but comfortable, well-adorned eyes. “Dick,” he let out, scrambling to find cash in his pocket, realizing he had no wallet on him.
“Dick?” Tommy whispered back. He repeated once more, “Six dollars, seventy cents.”
He raised one finger. “No, I know. Wait a moment, please.”
Tommy nodded slightly. He hummed to himself as he waited over a minute for the man to gather himself.
“Here,” Dick said, practically throwing random bits of change on the counter, the coins ringing continuously as the final one dropped. Tommy counted the cents in hand—six dollars—all the quarters sufficing, but he needed only a few more.
“Seventy cents, sir.”
Dick nodded. Finally having found a dollar bill, he slid it toward the man, who took it immediately. Tommy rummaged for thirty cents in the register, found the coins needed, and retrieved them for the man. He slid his hands to the bag next to him, flicking it in the air until it puffed up. He dropped the items inside, clenching the hold tight as he pushed it toward the man. But the man—Dick—didn’t move.
Tommy waited for anything more, but the man didn’t speak. He stayed there, planted, unable to move or speak. As if he had seen a ghost.
“Sir?”
The man beat him to it: “Do I know you?”
Tommy shook his head. “No. Well, I don’t know you. Maybe you’ve seen me around. I live ‘round here.”
“You do?” His eyes lit up. He squeezed his hand on the tie of the bag, slipping it down to his side, the weight dragging his arm downward.
“Yes. Live here with my pops.”
Pops? Dick shook his head, feeling the awkwardness engulf him. He stepped backward. “Sorry. I thought I knew you. You… just remind me of someone, is all.”
“Ah, I see. No worries, sir.” Tommy lifted his head to the side, seeing the line had tripled since the beginning of the encounter. Dick turned his side, feeling the people behind him slowly closing in.
“Sorry, I… I must leave then.”
As quickly as the encounter ended, Dick dramatically increased his speed, dashing outside as he heard Tommy’s final words: “Have a good day, sir!”
He breathed. A sudden burst of air left him—air he couldn’t hold onto while speaking to Jason, or his doppelgänger, a person who may not be him at all. But everything from his face, his outfit, his swooshed hair reminded him of Jason, the boy—his brother—he lost. He felt familiar. Like a familial bond had been placed between them, but only Dick could recognize it. He left the area, entering his car in a hurry, the bag sitting on his lap, swinging between his legs.
It can’t be.
He didn’t know me.
…
Tommy finished his shift, nothing different to him. He couldn’t stop thinking about the encounter, though. It was strange, yet magnetizing. But he felt nothing but discomfort. Refusing to think of it any longer, he entered the apartment. The burnt air felt heavy today—almost too charred and hot. It was almost like a blaze had come upon them, but his father could barely walk.
“Dad!” he yelled, shelving a few canned goods inside the pantry. After he finished, he walked to meet his father inside his bedroom, smoking up a storm.
A man of sixty-years, mostly bed-bound, with a beard longer than any follicle left on his head. But he was sweet and an even sweeter father. He had glasses stilted on his nose bridge, enough to give him the appearance of an older teacher.
“Did you cook something?”
“Yes. Burnt it.”
He whined, “Dad!” He paused, walking to his dad’s bedside. “What did the doctor say?”
“I remember: ‘Don’t walk unless necessary.’”
“I work only a street away. If you needed food, you could’ve called. The owner would have understood.”
His dad turned to face the blank wall, his legs burning in pain—aching through him like a field of fire. “I know. But I didn’t want to bother.”
Tommy sighed. “It’s fine. I’ll be back. I need to open the window. It smells like charcoal.”
Tommy turned to open the windows in every room of the apartment, particularly the ones in the kitchen. The air from outside cooled him down, enough to forget the internal coal smell that kept itching at his nostrils. He returned to his dad’s bed, carrying a cold bottle of water from the fridge.
“Here,” he said, placing the water at his side.
Although he refused to speak or think of it again—the strange interaction—he brought it up out of nowhere, feeling the words leave him unconsciously. “I had a strange talk today, Dad.”
“Oh, really? How so?” his dad said, bringing the water bottle to his face, opening it.
“A man came. He said his name was Dick. He acted like he’d seen a ghost.” He awaited a response before continuing, but nothing came from his father, who gulped down a few sips of water and almost seemed to choke. “He knows me… or someone like me.”
“Hmm… strange.”
“But I think it was nothing.”
“I guess so…” He peered at the remote on the TV stand. “Could you get that?”
Tommy nodded, giving it to him.
He left his dad to his own activities and lounged on the couch, watching videos on his phone. His mind still thought of the man.
It’s nothing, right? It must mean nothing.
And maybe it was nothing—but it was strange. They were strangers.
Dick said the same: they were strangers. Jason had died. It couldn’t be possible… but maybe it was? Did his baby brother, Jason, come back from the dead? If so, how could he not remember?
He shook his head every time it appeared—that question. It couldn’t be possible. They had buried him.
So he left it alone. Though at every family dinner, he couldn’t help but think. Just… maybe. In this world, anything could happen. So why couldn’t this happen? A resurrection?
Within those family dinners, Dick began an investigation—a small, smooth one. One that required him to genuinely stalk the young man. His life in particular. His father. Everything he could dive into.
But what came out of it? He would not say.
Maybe it was nothing after all.