The restraints are padded, reinforced steel, as stainless and shining as the table the clone's laid out on. Tim is humming along with quiet music as he prepares a blood sample for testing — nothing recognizable, but catchy nonetheless. He finishes the test, then picks up a syringe. He leans over 'Reilly', an anemic shadow falling across the young ( Read more... )

"What're you doing back here?" Ibn asks nonchalantly, both boots propped on the edge of the computer console in precisely the way he knows his father never did ( Read more... )

In one of the computer-lined warrens he calls headquarters, Tim is asleep in a pair of the black boxer briefs on a mattress. It's not at all alluring, given that he's heavily bandaged, bruised technicolor in many places, and wearing an eyepatch. His right arm is in a heavy cast and his breathing is labored. There are discarded bloody bandages on ( Read more... )

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"Bruce? We have to talk."

"Yes, I imagine we do."

I lift my heavy heart up solemnly ( Read more... )