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Mina was exhausted . She’d learned that word from the ladies who worked the corner near her. They said it meant when you were so tired you could feel it in your bones. Well, her bones sure did hurt. She’d spent half an hour yesterday running from stupid Killer Croc, who’d decided for no reason that what he really needed for lunch was a tiny 10-year-old.
Mina was just looking for a (relatively) safe place to sleep when she saw a kid wearing an oversized black sweatshirt walking down the street towards her. Their hood was pulled way up and tightened a little, the way kids who didn’t want to be spotted did. The sweatshirt had something printed on it. As the other kid came into the pool of light from the streetlamp in front of her, Mina was able to read it.
It was a shitty pun.
A cartoon orange slice, with the words “oranges make me peel good” printed in block letters above it. Mina thought they could have done way better, but she figured maybe it was the only one they could afford.
That thought was proven wrong when the kid opened their mouth.
“Do you want an orange?”
What.
Was this kid insane? Were they seriously walking around Crime Alley in the middle of the night just to offer oranges to people?
Mina looked at the brightly-colored fruit being held out to her.
Yes. Yes they were.
Mina, however, was not. She took the orange, thanked the weird kid, and bolted. Safe in her hideout, she looked over every inch of the orange and checked that there wasn’t anything weird about it.
When she tore it open and took a bite, the juice tasted like sunlight.
Mina found herself hoping she’d run into the kid again, despite the fact that they were clearly bananas.
Oranges?
…whatever.
Patience was just about out of it.
He’d spent the entire day looking for work that was even vaguely legal, with no luck. With a little sister to support now that their dad had up and left, he’d rather not risk getting arrested or killed in stupid gang bullshit.
Kicking over a trash can made him feel a little better, until he heard a startled squeak from behind him.
…huh. Patience thought Mina was fucking with him when she told him last week about a weird kid in a punny orange sweatshirt. But sure enough, there was the kid, just as his sister’s friend had described.
They held out an orange. “Want an orange?”
What Patience wanted was answers .
“Who are you? Why are you doing this?”
Leaning down, he tried to gauge the kid’s height. Unless this kid was one hell of a late bloomer, they couldn’t be more than 10.
“How old are you?”
The kid stiffened.
“I’m just helping. That’s all. Oranges are magic. They make you feel better. Do you want one or not?”
Patience revised his age estimate down to 8. That, or rich. Kids on the street didn’t stay that innocent for long.
On the other hand, Mina had mentioned that the orange was delicious.
Ah, what the hell. Honor would be thrilled if he brought home fresh fruit. They hadn’t been able to afford any kind of produce in months.
“Can I have one for my kid sister too?”
The kid lit up.
“Sure!”
Digging in the pocket of the sweatshirt, they brought out one massive orange and two smaller ones that brought back a vague memory from Patience’s early childhood of digging down to the toe of a Christmas stocking for the sweet treat.
Honor had never gotten Christmas oranges. Their dad was too busy drinking his paychecks away by that point.
Patience was ready to choose, but the kid handed him all three. “One for sharing, and one for each of you!” By the time he recovered, the kid was gone.
Patience found himself wondering just how many oranges this kid had given out.
Just a few more, and he’d be at a hundred oranges gifted to Crime Alley residents! Tim had been surprised by how many people accepted the One True Fruit, but he supposed even suspicion wouldn’t keep these folks from refusing food. He’d have to re-run the numbers, though. He only bought 50 pounds of larger oranges, and 5 pounds of the little ones, expecting to have a lot of refusals. Instead, almost everybody he talked to accepted an orange, and by the end of the week people almost seemed to recognize him. Tim had no idea why - it wasn’t like he was a particularly interesting kid, after all - but he was glad for it.
Clearly, the magic of oranges was in play here. Pretty much everybody who accepted an orange was really nice about it, and the only people who refused oranges were jerks.
Huh. Tim may have just invented a useful litmus test for new people in his life.
It was a shame he couldn’t use it on his classmates, though he had a pretty good idea of which of those were jerks.
Speaking of jerks…
Tim was running from some goons - Penguin’s, perhaps? - rather slower than usual. He’d gotten pretty good at freerunning in his time following Batman and Robin, but the Orange Harness (patent definitely not pending, Tim was absolutely self-aware enough to realize that was a product with a market of one) weighed him down a lot . He’d taken a vest his parents got him in the world’s worst color (puce) and stitched a ton of orange-sized pockets onto it (Tim’s fingers were sore for days from all the needle-pricks.) using fabric from the end of a guest bedroom sheet.
(Tim had a bet going with himself on how many years it would take for someone to notice. Smart money was on at least three.)
After the first night, Tim added velcro to the top of the pockets. He’d lost ten oranges to a tuck-and-roll that the oranges decided to take as a suggestion. They kept rolling right out of the pockets and off the edge of a fifteen-story building.
Rude.
Anyways, now Tim had awesome pockets all over him that could hold up to six large oranges as well as ten small, in little pockets that lined the bottom. He’d cut a hole in the lining of his sweatshirt pocket - he loved it so much, it was absolutely perfect for his Mission - so he could reach the oranges without having to take anything off. Tim was glad for his habit of buying oversized clothes, which let him hide so many oranges without any obvious sign.
He also carried a stiff-sided backpack hidden under the back of the sweatshirt that he stocked with a bunch more oranges. Tim just loved pulling oranges out of nowhere so much . He restocked the front pockets away from prying eyes, so he could make the Orange Experience more magical.
Where was he?
Oh right, running from goons. The extra weight on his body - over 10 pounds of oranges strapped to his torso in various ways - slowed him down a lot more than he’d expected. Tim made a mental note to do more cardio exercise. And maybe some strength training too.
On the upside, Tim was going to be so ready for an anime moment someday. He could hardly wait.
Time to work smarter, not harder. Tim eeled his way down a narrow alley and slipped into a hole in the brick he knew was there, hidden in shadow. Once inside the building, he climbed up a shelf and perched on the top. (Even after all these years of Batman, they still never looked up.)
The goons must have gotten bored, because they wandered off without even finding his little escape hatch.
Awesome.
Tim patted himself on the back for being so smart. Then, a voice from across the room made him start and almost fall off the shelf.
“Did you just pat yourself on the back? ”
“Did you just pat yourself on the back? ”
Jason was absolutely appalled. This kid was tiny - which was saying something, cause Jason was no giant himself - and seemed to have no self-preservation instincts to speak of, given whose goons he’d somehow pissed off.
Then he saw the front of the kid’s sweatshirt.
Oh fuck, it was the Oranges Kid! He hadn’t given a name to anyone, but Jason heard from the ladies on his favorite corner that he’d gotten nicknamed Zesty when someone asked if he liked orange zest too, not just the fruit, and he’d misheard and thought they asked if he liked orange Zesti .
Apparently, orange Zesti was the drink of the devils, in that it tasted absolutely nothing like the heavenly perfection of an orange .
So, Zesty.
“Hey, kid. What are you even doing in here?”
Jason had a pretty good guess, but hey. He was curious how the kid would explain himself.
“Not to worry, everything’s fine!”
“...not what I asked, Little Zest Boy.”
And was that a Bristol accent? What the hell was a Bristol brat doing, running around distributing citrus?
The kid was climbing down the shelf now, somewhat awkwardly. Jason hurried over to help him, but he was too late. Orange Boy landed with a puff of dust and a frankly adorable wheeze before Jason was halfway across the room.
Jason spent the next ten minutes interrogating the kid, but he was way too good at avoiding questions. Bristol he may be, but the kid definitely had some street in him. It was the feisty attitude, Jason decided. Lil’ Cutie sure was a punk. Jason hadn’t gotten sassed that hard by a shrimp since the last time he went to school, months ago now.
He left the meeting with two oranges and a determination to hunt the kid down again and try to wring more answers out of him.
Had Jason been paying more attention to his surroundings and less to the mystery of Clementine, he might not have chosen the Batmobile to steal tires from.
Jason never stopped watching for that slight figure in a goofy sweatshirt on patrol. A few times, he thought he saw the boy, but by the time he checked it out there was never any sign.
He hoped Zesty was alright. Jason had liked the kid.