Fic: T&B steampunk AU

[lirillith]

Title:  Necessity Knows No Law
Fandom:  Tiger & Bunny
Characters: Barnaby, Saito, Kotetsu, cameo appearances by many others
Word count:  3,000 words
Rating: PG
Warnings: Nada
Summary: Barnaby Brooks Jr. is only casually interested in the new technology, developed by engineers like his parents, that's rapidly transforming Stern Bild and the rest of the world; all he wants is to solve his parents' murder.  To that end, with assistance from his guardian, he joins the ranks of the masked, costumed crime-fighters who've captured the public's imagination despite the way they operate on the edges of the law. 
Notes:  A Tiger & Bunny steampunk AU, written for trope_bingo.  A very different setup for the present-day heroes and a somewhat different background for superheroics in general (and for Albert Maverick’s business empire.)

****

The goggles were thick, with burnished-brass rims and extended, wing-like earpieces of tinted glass with clockwork innards, and Barnaby surveyed them skeptically. "I need my spectacles, you realize," he said. "I don't see how I can wear these over them." Truthfully, he wasn't sure what they were meant to accomplish. Goggles were all the rage lately, since aviators and the drivers of automobiles sported them of necessity and everyone else wanted to resemble those dashing figures, and he supposed that was reason enough. The costumed adventurers who dominated the radio and were beginning to appear in newsreels at theaters needed to keep up with the times, which meant discarding their military-surplus jackets and union suits in favor of dusters and goggles, steam-powered armor and jet-packs.

"The goggles will correct your vision and even enhance it," the mechanic said, and Barnaby leaned in closer to be sure he could hear. The man was barely audible, but his voice wasn't truly a whisper, just very, very quiet. "Mr. Maverick gave me your optical prescription along with your other information. You'd need something to keep spectacles on your head anyway."

"True." He removed his glasses, folding them up carefully and tucking them into one of the pockets of his waistcoat. The straps of the goggles weren't adjusted properly yet, but when he held them up to his eyes, he could see that the mechanic had not exaggerated - his vision was as sharp as ever it was with his glasses, and although his peripheral vision was somewhat impeded by the depth of the goggles, it was no worse than the way his spectacles failed to correct his peripheral vision; just newer. He'd grow accustomed to it. He bent his knees, awkwardly, to let the much-shorter man help adjust the straps and buckles. "I don't understand what the ear-pieces are meant to do," he said.

"They're the controls," the mechanic said, and Barnaby was surprised to hear his voice normally despite the glass-and-metal contraptions over his ears. "Put your hand on the right ear—" For the next ten minutes, Barnaby followed Dr. Saito through a brisk tutorial on the controls of the goggles — which could be used both to examine minute details and distant objects — and the rest of his equipment, from the controls of the apparatus on his back that would help to power his jumps, to the surprisingly light metal gaiters he'd be wearing over his lower legs.

"It's not a full flight-pack like the Wind Wizard uses," Saito explained. "If it was, you'd need to carry a much larger power-pack. But if you activate it on your jumps it will give you significantly more altitude and let you make gentler landings."

 

The business of costumed adventurers — Good Samaritans, masked vigilantes, heroes — was an odd hybrid of lawlessness and frontier justice, a creation almost unique to Stern Bild. The idea of private citizens taking it upon themselves to apprehend lawbreakers was a distinctly western concept, born of the lawlessness and sparse, scattered, sometimes corrupt law enforcement of the frontier, imported to the city via dime novels and radio serials. The use of masks and colorful costumes was an innovation created by the authors of those dime novels, Barnaby was almost certain, but it was also memorable and attention-getting, and in a frequently-anonymous city, that held a certain appeal for some citizens.

And of course, in a busy, anonymous city, where mere crime was too commonplace to occasion much comment, quirks and noteworthy oddities — like masks and costumes — made the news. Those who embraced such questionably legal pursuits were motivated by competing desires to be known and applauded by the masses while evading recognition by the authorities. And those who broadcast and published the news sought out these brightly-costumed thrill-seekers to report their exploits. Dime novels had been supplanted by radio broadcasts, and occasional lucky newsreel footage, and many of these adventurers had transformed their pseudonyms into, effectively, stage names or public personas; the Wind Wizard, allegedly an aviator in the last war, was particularly popular, and there was talk of legalizing such exploits.

Barnaby had considered waiting until the rumored bill in the legislature had materialized, but dismissed the idea quickly. His parents had gone unavenged for twenty years, and that was twenty years too long. If his own identity was uncovered — as it very well might be once he'd apprehended his parents' killer — and he was imprisoned, so be it. This was a higher mission.

He'd done his best to familiarize himself with the other costumed vigilantes active in the city. The Wind Wizard was the highest-profile, in the literal sense as well — he could fly, the only such extraordinary individual, to Barnaby's knowledge, who had that ability. But he did make use of a device to assist in his flight, so it was unclear how much was the result of his own power and how much of his technology. His costume had elements both of military dress uniform and the now-fashionable dusters, and was clearly customized to his needs, unlike many of the other adventurers' more improvised apparel. He wore a leather flight helmet and goggles that Barnaby had always taken for the standard-issue versions worn by pilots, though now he suspected the goggles had been customized like the versions the mechanic had demonstrated to him. It was easy to determine that he, like Barnaby, had some money — and powerful friends — at his disposal.

So, it seemed, did the Crimson Flame, a flamboyant personage of African descent who operated an equally flamboyant and truly impressive automobile which seemed to aid him in his endeavors far more than his flame powers, which he appeared to use largely for show. He always appeared in what would have been flawless morning or evening dress had it not been customized to crimson, orange, and flame-yellow in every particular, and he concealed his identity with a bird-like mask and a top hat. Barnaby had met the man once, by chance, in costume; very gentlemanly, albeit with somewhat effeminate manners that betrayed his true identity to anyone who knew society well.

Then there was the Snow Queen, who dressed like an opera-dancer and was rumored to be one of the opera's young sopranos. She had an elaborate riding cycle which seemed to operate with her powers, and cunningly designed guns, which raised all manner of questions about her reputation; surely anyone with the resources to fund such elaborate vigilante equipment for a young woman could find a way to launch her into a more respectable life. But perhaps she had a powerful motivation like his. She might be carrying out some vendetta or mission of her own incompatible with polite society. There had been no hint of it in her interviews on the radio or with the press, but then, he had no intention of baring his soul to the city, either.

Those three had been the most welcoming of publicity and the most inclined to seek out attention. Many of the others operated on a more catch-as-catch-can basis. There was the Dragon Girl, a young woman reported to be Chinese who used acrobatics and electrical powers. She looked to be no more than a child, though appearances could be deceiving, and shied away from attention. The costume seemed to be little more than mundane Chinese garb — possibly boys' clothes, considering the trousers, though Barnaby was no expert — and a mask. There was the Sandstorm, rumored to be an outlaw or escaped prisoner, and his partner, the Changeling; El Toro, a seemingly-bulletproof Spaniard who dressed rather like a bullfighter, at least until his bulletproof status was put to the test and his clothing paid the price; and the Wild Tiger, a ragged-looking fellow in a bowler hat, domino mask, and what appeared to be a chimney-sweep's garb.

These, and any other irregularly-appearing crime fighters, operated in what seemed to be a loose confederacy, occasionally banding together, occasionally in clear competition. Their rivalries and alliances didn't matter to Barnaby; he just needed to know their strengths and weaknesses so he could take them into account. His own goal was only tangentially related to theirs; publicity mattered little to him, though in deference to Mr. Maverick's wishes, he would willingly seek it out, and he had no illusions that he could, with acrobatics and fisticuffs, eliminate or even truly threaten the criminal element of the city. All he sought to do was gain information from it. If not for Mr. Maverick's suggestions and assistance, he might well have sought another avenue to investigate the murder that had shattered his world; journalism or law, perhaps.

But his guardian and mentor had the resources and connections to outfit him as a costumed vigilante and a plan — albeit one of dubious legality — to turn the endeavor to a profit. And to Barnaby, the means were less important than the ends. If contriving to chase criminals in view of a newsreel crew would help Mr. Maverick to turn a profit, and in some small way repay him for all he'd done for Barnaby, then Barnaby would do so gladly. If apprehending those criminals helped him to earn the goodwill of the police and the courts, and helped him to learn more about an investigation whose conclusion had, Barnaby knew, been suspiciously abrupt, he would arrest every criminal he could lay hands on, beating the other would-be heroes to the punch. And if he could save a few lives in the process, preventing anyone else from experiencing what he had, so much the better; that was an opportunity law or reporting were unlikely to offer.

 

 

But he'd never expected the first life he saved to be that of Wild Tiger, the costumed ragamuffin one might have expected to be able to fend for himself. On closer inspection, the man was older than his clothing might have suggested, though his tenure in the news should, perhaps, have been a clear indicator. His inability to avoid a fall after his powers had expired did not improve Barnaby's impression of his capabilities; neither did the man's attempt to lecture Barnaby afterwards.

"You mean you don't even have a hero name?" the man demanded, his eyes widening and jaw dropping in exaggerated surprise. "You don't have anything to make yourself stand out?"

"I don't believe I need more than this," Barnaby said, gesturing to his own costume. He was noticeably better-tailored and more polished in his garb than all save the most prominent adventurers, and he'd match his own appearance against any of theirs. "Why should I? I'll leave it to the radio announcers to come up with an appellation. They have more experience."

"No they don't! You just tell them what you want 'em to call you. Look, there's one over there." Skidding on the Snow Queen's ice, Wild Tiger slid to a wobbly stop in front of Barnaby and gestured at a red-haired man in his shirtsleeves, making his unsteady way across the ice towards them. Barnaby's own boots were cleated; now he had some idea why. "If you don't they'll just get sick of calling you the Mystery Man and come up with something for you, like they did for El Toro. God knows what they'll come up with for you. Bunny or something."

Barnaby stopped dead, affronted. "Bunny?"

"Yeah, 'cause of your ears."

"These are the controls of my goggles!"

"Like they'll know that? You can't tell by looking!"

"My name is not Bunny! My name is none of your concern, but it's not Bunny!"

"Don't tell me, tell them!"

 

Barnaby did no such thing — he departed with a leap that, he flattered himself, was at least as impressive as it felt — but that was destined to be just the first of many run-ins with Wild Tiger. Their powers were, as far as Barnaby could determine, nearly identical, and they seemed to have eerily similar approaches to crime and to combating it. Sometimes this materialized to their detriment, as when Wild Tiger's one gadget, a grappling hook, entangled both of them, or when they collided in mid-air because they both jumped at the same target. Other times, it worked well, as when one of those fleeting collaborations between vigilantes enabled the two of them to evacuate a building that had been targeted by bombers. Barnaby could tell that the older man considered his meddling well-meant; unfortunately, it was also maddening.

None of the other adventurers were quite so obnoxious. The Changeling was quiet and elusive, but at one point Barnaby recognized the face of a young man he'd known at university.  As there was no reason for the Changeling to adopt Ivan Karelin's identity, however briefly, Barnaby could only assume they were one and the same, and further, that the Changeling's partner was likely a disgraced fellow-student by the name of Edward Keddy.  Barnaby had no intention of giving either of the young men up to the law; the incident that had seen Keddy discharged from their school had been, by all accounts, a tragic accident. 

The Snow Queen seemed, based on his limited acquaintance with her, to be a frivolous, immature girl without any higher goal than fame — or perhaps infamy, judging by her manner of dress — but essentially harmless. The Wind Wizard seemed almost simple-minded, but he was good-natured and good-hearted, attributing his involvement in this line of work to a desire to promote justice, and he was undeniably effective. The Crimson Flame kept mum about his motives and attempted to flirt with Barnaby, much to Barnaby's discomfiture, but Barnaby could identify a sharp intelligence behind the facade. The Changeling was quiet and elusive, but at one point Barnaby recognized the face of a young man he'd known at university; as there was no reason for the Changeling to adopt Ivan Karelin's identity, however briefly, Barnaby could only assume they were one and the same.

And each of them, in conversation with Barnaby, mentioned Tiger's meddling ways. "He showed up at a bar where I was singing!" the Snow Queen complained, without an ounce of self-consciousness about her bare shoulders or the fact that she was singing in an establishment no young, unmarried lady would enter unaccompanied, if at all. "He is very helpful!" the Wind Wizard said earnestly. "Very, very helpful!" The Crimson Flame was more circumspect: "He means well."

"Just ignore him if he's too much of a pain in the ass," El Toro advised. Barnaby was beginning to learn that the rules of genteel society did not apply amongst the masked fraternity he had joined.

He was, further, beginning to suspect that the others associated him with Wild Tiger, perhaps thanks to that dramatic rescue, or perhaps because Wild Tiger was taking a notable interest in him; regardless of the reason, it both confirmed Barnaby's fears and wore on his nerves. And true to Tiger's warning, the radio announcers had wearied of calling him a mystery man, though they had yet to settle on his pseudonym; they'd attempted "the Leaper," "the man in goggles," and most alarmingly, "the Jackrabbit," which was so close to Tiger's warning that Barnaby developed dark suspicions about the extent of the man's meddling.

"I didn't have a damn thing to do with that," Tiger protested when confronted. "If I did I'd have told him to call you Bunny. I'm just a psychic, that's all."

Amongst their extraordinary kind, this wasn't so outlandish a claim as it might have seemed in another setting. "Really?"

"Nah. I wish. You gonna come up with a name on your own now?"

"Of course not!" he snapped. He'd been trying, without success.

The turning point came when he and Tiger clashed over a criminal. There was no real reason beyond pride and competitiveness to wish to claim credit for individual petty criminals; dramatic feats like the Snow Queen freezing the harbor waters or the Wind Wizard saving passengers who'd fallen from a zeppelin captured the public's imagination more than arrests ever could. Barnaby initially intended to let the older man, who put great stock in such things, apprehend their target, but then he spotted the mark on the man's neck. A stylized Ouroboros symbol, the snake impaled by a blade; the symbol he recognized from the hand of the man who'd shot his parents twenty years before. When he approached the criminal with questions, Tiger objected, and in the midst of their dispute, the man managed to raise his gun to his temple and pull the trigger.

"How could you!?" Barnaby roared, turning on Tiger in a fury, even as the other man stood, staring in shock at the dying criminal. "I lost my chance because of you!"

He'd be told, later, that he'd tried to choke Tiger, that only the Crimson Flame's interference had stopped him; he had no memory of it. He just remembered, in the aftermath, after the police had been summoned, the body covered, and after the Crimson Flame had departed, Tiger turning to him with a sad smile and pulling off his domino mask for the first time. "Hey, Bunny," he said. "I'll buy you a drink."

Barnaby didn't have it in him to object to the name, question the unmasking, or ask whether they should change, as Tiger led him, on foot, through alleyways, under pipework, and finally through an unmarked doorway that looked just like any number of others they'd passed.

"Hey, Ben," Tiger greeted the portly, dark-skinned man behind the bar; the bartender lifted a hand to Tiger in greeting. Barnaby pushed his goggles up on his forehead, trading them in for the spare pair of spectacles he always kept on hand, so as to better survey the room. Someone who strongly resembled an unmasked El Toro was drinking at the end of the bar, and he raised his hand in wordless salute as well. Barnaby recognized a few other occasional adventurers, including Ivan Karelin, who tried to shrink into his booth at the sight of Barnaby; if he'd had the strength after the evening he had, he would have tried to smile kindly at his old schoolmate.

He'd been standing, numb, near the doorway, for some time; he only realized it when Tiger approached him, two heavy glass mugs containing dark beer in each hand. "Let's go sit in the back," Tiger said, and Barnaby followed him wordlessly.

"So tell me," Tiger prompted. He looked both older and younger without his hat and mask; weary lines underscored his eyes, but his hair was in a fashionable and youthful style. "Your chance at what?"