The Batman. This phrase causes hardened criminals to duck and hide, crime lords to flinch, and Public Relations to praise the drop in…well, petty crimes, at least.

Why is this? Batman can't see or fly through walls, isn't super fast, has no retractable claws or magic ring. He's never been dropped into a steaming vat of industrial waste, hasn't been exposed to off-the-charts levels of radiation, has no known mutant gene, isn't from another galaxy, hasn't been blessed by an ancient god, has a normal particle vibration rate, and hasn't been transformed by a mutant creature's bite (although sometimes I wonder about the bats…)

Yet he's survived countless traps, duels, and assassination attempts. He's been frozen, burnt, beaten, broken, stabbed, poisoned, and riddled with bullets. He's the person anyone could be if they dedicated their lives to being really athletic, really smart, and really scary. He's the best crimefighter in the world, and I'm lucky enough to be part of his Batclan.

My name is Timothy Drake, but to the Bat, I am Robin. I'm not The Robin, or even Robin 2.0, truth be told. I'm merely Robin the III, an uninspiring heir to the title. Third's for the best? Don't believe it.

I'm not the worst Robin, I guess. I mean there's no Robin 004, is there? But I know nothing about Jason Todd, Robin 2.0. Batman and Nightwing (The Robin, but he gave up the tights because of Batman's fear of child endangerment), the Oracle, and even Dr. Les never speak of him.

All I learned was from Alfred, and that was a note pinned to this journal. "Don't let your passions rule you, or you'll face a bitter end." I think Alfred was trying to tell me something, as this journal was lying on my pristine fluffed up pillow the day after Jason's anniversary. The day after I had demolished most of my room in a fit of rage at the distinct lack of information.

I put this journal away, thinking of Alfred's message but not writing in it until one day at the tower, when Kon-el told me that he journals, and that it really helped him deal with some issues. Kon is a lab creation, as much as I hate to call him that. He was made from two genetic fathers, total polar opposites. Lex Luthor and Superman. He has many powers that are like or mimic Superman's, and he has the genius brains of Lex Luthor. However, he has a hero complex and is often emotionally unstable. He's my best friend, at least in the comrades-at-saving-the-world sense.

When Kon told me he journals, he just looked at me. It was as if he knew. But, he couldn't have known, because if he did, he would have flipped and told someone – Starfire or Beast Boy or Cyborg or Alfred or even –

NO! I am definitely not going there, even in a journal. I am not thinking about what He would do if He found out. He's perfect, and I'm supposed to be perfect, too. He'd either kill me or make me leave and never come back. I'd rather He kill me, if it came to that.

Ha, it's ironic, really. The reason I started was to be perfect, like Him, and it became another thing that further separated me from my goal. I am Robin, but I am Tim Drake, too. And while Robin is a symbol, Drake is completely human. With the accompanying human weaknesses. Deceit, treachery, pride, fear, envy, lust, indecisiveness, every conceivable stain on humanity. I have known both sexes completely, and have thoroughly enjoyed it.

People have died due to my choices.

I have – twice – killed.

The Bat made me study Shakespeare when I got an A- in British Literature. He said that the Bard (Gah, that sounds like some new supervillian!) was an excellent study in human behavior. Right now, with me listing all of my worst features, it seems that I am turning into Malcolm, saying every reason why he shouldn't be king.

But, unfortunately, I am not Malcolm seeing if MacDuff is ready to kill me to preserve the country. I am an evil person, and I admit it. I needed to be punished, to be purified. But I couldn't ask for help, because no one knew. After all, superheroes' sidekicks aren't supposed to be evil.

So, one day after school I went as Drake to different pawnshops around town, not really sure what I was looking for. I was on the sixth dingy shop when I found Her.

I was about to leave the shop when my hand brushed against something that sent a jolt up my arm, then through my entire body. I stopped and picked the offending item up, examining it. It was a dagger, beautiful and elegant.

Her blade looked to be silver, but infinitely sharper and harder. Her hilt and scabbard where black pear, with vines of the same silver metal engraved in it, if that makes sense. When I looked closer at the decorative vines, I realized that they were actually tiny snakes, curled and contorted around strange symbols and a short poem. It said,

"My shame and sorrows know no bounds but those I set by blood. My soul's true mate is with me found in this fell brotherhood."

A little freaked out, I tried to set Her down, but – and I still can't describe it without being stunned – She wouldn't let me! Instead I found myself being drawn to the counter. The dingy owner of the shop told me the previous owner had claimed there was one other even remotely like it, ever made.

He didn't seem to believe it, though, and gave Her to me for $3.50, as if she was a common pocketknife.