Chapter 7- Robin
It had been a long, long time since Robin had last done something even close to what he now faced.
All the villains from Jump City were a different brand than those of Gotham. A lot of them were bigger, non-human, and ridiculously destructive. Most of all of them had fairly complicated motives that necessitated that the team clearly investigate and understand things first, then take appropriate action to take them down. Their tactics were normally pretty easy to deal with but a tall order in just how hard the fighting was.
Robin and all of the Teen Titans got their asses kicked a LOT.
But they also always won in the end even if they lost the initial battle, or several battles. So it wasn't too much of a problem unless it was something as catastrophic as enslaving the human race or similar annoyances.
The issue in dealing with Gotham criminals was that every one of them didn't make things so black and white to deal with. A lot of them liked to take hostages, usually had so many members you had to take their organizations down systematically, and finding information on them was hard. Gotham was, after all, a really big city with well over 5 million inhabitants. That meant quite a few sources to check out, lower rung underbosses to interrogate, and in general required a lot more patience than things took in Jump City.
Robin had learned, through many stern lectures and a lot of painful heartache, how to deal with criminals in Gotham. It was also why as soon as they were ready to start the operation that Robin didn't falter, didn't doubt himself. He knew how to do this. He had learned it all like the back of his own hand, and even though a hostage situation like this hadn't come up in years, the reflexes were still there. He knew the priorities, he knew the tactics he needed to use to save those passengers' lives.
The glass canopy slid back into the rear of the jet with a hiss of released pressurized air, faster than they could blink.
Robin's trigger finger squeezed on instinct. Two full sized, rifle-like grappling guns designed for this exact kind of situation coughed over the roar of the world around them. The jumbo jet's four gigantic engines screamed with so much din the Bat Jet's own thrust wasn't even traceable behind them. The air tore at his face, so strong his mask would've been torn off if he hadn't already strapped the full sized oxygen mask over his face.
Not even an instant after he fired he felt contact and stood up straight as an arrow. The harness yanked him so violently if he hadn't already threated to cut off the circulation in his thighs tightening down the nylon straps then he would've probably hurt himself.
In a way no man should ever have to experience.
Batman flipped upside down right beside him, both of them landing in a deep squat on the gigantic aircraft's underbelly. The cold of such high altitude air blasting over him felt like standing in a wind tunnel inside of a factory sized deep freezer. It made him shiver roughly and breathe shallow in his clear face mask, however his movements didn't slow in the slightest.
In a flash both of them removed hand sized cutting saws. The metal of the blades was so sharp and hard it only took them a minute to cut out a big enough hole for themselves, working together. The piece tore free as they both jumped out to either side, startling Robin so much he tried to shout as it spun away into the darkness behind them.
If one of them took a hit from that piece of metal that would have been game over. No respawns.
He steeled his nerves as Batman led the way into the hole, shooting a regular grappling hook inside to pull himself through the powerful air current. Robin followed suit without any hesitation, his grace practiced to an art form, shadowing his father.
They landed in the dark, cramped, and incredibly loud section of the forward wheel well still clinging on to their grappling hooks to prevent being sucked through the hole. The jet's gigantic wheels were easily bigger than he was tall, folded neatly to one side against his back. Their size was unnerving, especially in the deep darkness of the space.
Batman tossed a small ball at the edge of the opening. With a tiny pop a big splatter of very dense red foam expanded all over the cut section, shutting off the roar of the air flow with a heavy splat sound on the metal. The moment it did the two of them crouched down, both already pretty winded just by how much strength it took to get on the plane.
Robin was sweating despite that freezing cold.
A light flicked on, illuminating his father's scowling face surveying their surroundings through his own matching oxygen mask. As they both discarded their harnesses and grappling hooks he gave one quick nod to Robin, then pulled out that miniature saw once again, taking the one Robin had been holding as well.
There was one guard in the galley at the bottom of the aircraft's nose, sitting alone. He sat in a fancy recliner smoking a big Cuban cigar, watching a very nice 60 inch plasma screen T.V against the far wall as he occasionally sipped on a glass of some fancy wine. His gun, the old favorite bully AK-47, was out of easy reach on a nearby pool table that wasn't in use.
He really wasn't expecting a section of the floor to blast open like a grenade just went off underneath it. The force was so strong the thing almost hit the ceiling, prompting the full grown man to squeal and flip his leather seat clean over in alarm. He landed hard and hit his head, stunning him as he tried to make for his gun. His glass shattered and liquid splattered all over him as a strong arm caught him around the throat, squeezing until his temple vein bulged to the surface. Arms and legs thrashed wildly for anything they could reach.
A punch to the solar plexus shot out whatever air he had in rush and he slacked in the grip within seconds.
Robin let him fall as Batman followed him through the entry hole from below. He picked up the assault rifle with steady hands and dissembled it just enough to pull out a very important spring before throwing the pieces casually across the room.
He gave Robin a rare, impressed smirk before returning to his usual scowl.
Time to move.
Batman had taught Robin a very specific set of rules for engaging enemies that covered a very wide set of situations. They all pretty much boiled down to whether or not there was time to spare and whether there were hostages in play, and since there were in this case, that made things very specific. Rule number one for dealing with hostages was always to attempt to deal with all hostiles quietly, before they have a chance to either gang up and try to kill you or before they decide to get cute and execute an innocent to be spiteful.
That being said, the two of them were still in good shape. The sound of popping the piece of floor up wasn't loud, it was just a very startling thing to see and because the plane was a private flight the very heavy soundproofing between the rooms made it pretty ideal for moving tactically.
So that moved to rule number two and ultimately, the entire reason the two of them had a fight in the first place: follow the leader.
Batman never let him go first into any situation where he was present. He drilled their teamwork into Robin's head until it was automatic, so sharp and responsive it was comparable to pressing a button on a keyboard and seeing a character appear on a word document from a computer screen. The two of them decided long, long ago that no matter what their personal issues were they would never compromise their teamwork during a mission by changing up the routine. Robin was always responsive to Batman's movements and signals; he was always his support, his second set of eyes for hidden dangers, and his backup when the going got rough.
Years before it would have driven him crazy, made him angry to have to always be the sidekick rather than lead the way himself. He used to argue so much after their missions for it and only ever faced the same brick wall that was his father's position on the matter every single time.
Now though? Robin didn't realize how much he missed being the supporter. He didn't have the option of being last into a scenario with the Titans; as their leader, Robin had to lead from the front. He had to call the shots and think about the best way to coordinate their strengths to deal with a problem while at the same time consider all the dangers. He was really used to acting that way.
But old habits died hard and Robin remembered how to watch his father's back.
Which was great because as soon as he opened the door into the next room, Batman took flight. Without the slightest pause the intimidating man dived into the air, summersaulting so his cape fluttered loudly, startling his prey. The gunman in old army fatigues flinched when he should've raised his gun to fire. So when that barrel did flip up Batman gracefully kicked it to one side as he completed his front flip, breaking the guy's nose with his other foot.
Robin went low and spun his own leg in a wide circle, catching the second guard in the far corner right in the ankles.
The man careened backwards so fast he slammed his head into some very pretty wooden molding on the wall, cracking it quite badly. Probably gave him a concussion too as he slumped to the floor, a big nasty of a serrated combat knife slipping from his fingers.
Batman's trust in Robin was still so great that he didn't even turn around. He just took off running as his own gunman landed unconscious on the floor.
Three bad guys down, seven to go, he remembered.
The two of them split up. Robin ran past a very expensive looking empty bar with a big granite counter top, across a well-lit dance floor to a set of stairs around the center of the plane, while his father flashed around one side, crouching down to creep in the shadows thrown off by what seemed like a rotating disco ball back there. No music was playing though.
Robin's heart was racing nonetheless as he pulled out a trio of boomerangs from his utility belt.
At the top he peeked over the landing and saw what he figured from the heat scan earlier. The hijackers rounded up the fifty something passengers and put them all on the upper deck, which apparently functioned as the aircraft's main eating area. Men and women in their late thirties sat in expensive tuxedos and lavish dresses on the floor by a massive twenty seater hibachi grill, complete with a very pale looking chef in a white apron and red puffy hat amongst them. The three gunmen were walking around the outside of the group of hostages, all three carrying a gun of their choice.
One sported another AK47, a much larger one toted a very ridiculous looking pump action shotgun, and the last one, who was smoking and watching the cockpit from across the room, was carrying a really, really nasty pistol in a custom chest harness. It was a Makarov, one of the most iconic handguns in the world.
Robin took a deep breath to calm the feverish beating of his heart, sidestepped out of the landing into the passageway, and lunged forward like an Olympic gymnast.
He spun in midair, turning over like cannonball blasted out into the wild blue, and snapped his right arm out with as much force as he had. All three men cried out in pain after a brief whistling sound. Robin meanwhile landed on the edge of the bar, bounced up, and caught the first enemy with a beautiful scissor kick over the neck. He rolled his shoulders and bucked, upside down, throwing all his weight diagonally towards the floor as the gunmen continued to yell.
The move threw the guy to the floor, hard. Robin's body flipped right side up again as the thug went horizontal, smashing his face against gorgeous dark tile so hard blood splattered across its surface. Robin kicked the shotgun away as the other man's rifle clattered to the floor, a nasty bruise puckering the back of his hand so he couldn't hold it anymore. In a rage, the man bellowed like a wild animal, charging at him like a six foot six, two hundred and fifty pound buffalo with his remaining good hand spread out in front of his face.
Robin caught his arm, crouched down and pulled the massive weight over his upper back. The Judo throw was as simple and clean as it could get.
Despite his significantly smaller size, Robin threw the man a solid ten feet across the room. He landed badly part of the way on the handrail for the stairs, snapping most if not all of his ribs on one side with an ugly wet crack before he slammed down to the lower level, with all the grace of dropped refrigerator. He felt the thud of the huge opponent hitting the floor below, even from all the way on the second story.
Robin turned with another boomerang at the ready when someone decided to get brave at the worst possible moment.
One of the youngest men of the terrified hostages lunged to his feet with surprising speed as the last gunmen went to awkwardly draw his pistol with his uninjured hand, blocking Robin's throwing angle. The two stumbled into one another with a collection of snarls and grunts.
Robin took off at a dead sprint for the tussle right went gunfire erupted downstairs, echoing through the cabin in a rush.
"Heads down!" he shouted at the hostages.
Right as he did the 9mm went off. Two flashes went off into the cockpit as Robin got in range and made short work of the tangle. With one hand he shoved the pistol down hard onto a coffee table as he shoulder checked the young guy clean off his feet. With his other hand, Robin slammed a chop onto the man's wrist, spamming his hand wide open and sending the pistol sliding safely to a cranny on the other side of a leather sofa..
That was about when the gunfire downstairs cut off and Robin realized this thug had some training.
He slapped Robin hard across the face, trying to stun him as he simultaneously threw an offhand jab and threw a knee for Robin's crotch. The man was a big fella, full of power, but he wasn't anywhere near as fast as Robin and definitely nowhere near as practiced as he was, either.
The tip of the elbow is one of the hardest parts of the human body. It's also small and therefore ideal for concentrating a lot of force to a very small area, which in turn results in much more damage than a thrown fist or head-butt, for example. Most people think that if you hit someone hard enough with that and send them sprawling back, it makes for a lot of damage dealt.
Most people don't understand real damage is more deceptive than that.
Real damage comes from hitting a person in such a way that it sends a shock down their body; it dents the targeted area and doesn't transfer so much energy to pushing them back. Instead, blows like that compress the target area very deeply, causing sometimes catastrophic damage that can cause broken bones, concussions, and even internal bleeding.
Robin knew this well, which was why the guy had no chance at all.
He side stepped twice in quick succession making a snake-like movement to avoid his knee, swung his elbow in across his chest, and broke the man's chin with a jolt that made Robin's body rebound slightly. The Somali pirate crumpled without as much as a squeak, knocked out cold before he even landed in a heap.
"Is anyone hurt?" Robin called. "Check each other! Look at the person next to you all over for gunshot wounds right now! Everyone stay where you are and you'll be just fine."
"He's hit! Oh my God-" At the sound of the woman's voice, Robin turned and groaned a little to himself as the worst possible person to get hurt winced audibly in pain.
It was the PIC or Pilot In Command, the older gentleman in his early fifties who was responsible for everything that happened on the aircraft and who had the single most responsibility in controlling it. The graying haired man's face blanched and sweat glistened on his neck as he clutched a bright red part of his shoulder, his whole body trembling as he tried to fight the sensations.
"Is anyone a Doctor or EMT? Any medical training at all here?"
A sharp dressed man in his early forties slowly stood from beside a window, his eyes covered by small circular glasses. "Yes…I am a family practitioner. I can help him."
"Good. Help me get him out of the seat. You," Robin pointed to the largest, most muscular man on the floor. "Keep watch on these thugs. Bind their hands behind their backs with something strong and watch them. If they move, tell me but do not under any circumstances try to stop them. I will deal with that."
As the passengers started to comply he looked to the cockpit and sighed to himself. The Flight Management Computer, the single most useful piece of technology on the entire aircraft, had taken a direct hit to the face. The thing was completely dead, shattered into oblivion alongside some other switch panel that wasn't nearly as critical. Robin jumped over the seat to where the older man had just sat, ignoring the blood that was staining his shoulder as he put the man's headset on.
Buh Bye autopilot, auto landings…pretty much automated everything. He was going to have to fly this thing the old fashioned way.
"Flight controls are secure. What does-"
The explosion that rocked the jet was so strong that some of the people by the walls fell over. Robin fell into a mess of pointy switches that hurt like hell, narrowly avoiding a blow to his head against the window beside his seat.
Alarms started blaring all over the place. The cockpit's red night lighting was flaring left and right, different sounds blasting at his face as the aircraft suddenly lurched violently to the right. Robin immediately dialed the four throttles that controlled the engines back, his hands flying over the controls as the other pilot cursed and started to furiously flip switches, double check the dials, and work to get the plane back under control.
"How long have you flown this thing?" Robin asked, as the artificial horizon indicated they were leaning over and diving way more than he preferred.
"First day!" the young guy yelled, his voice cracking.
"I'm taking lead controls then. Call up ATC, tell them what's going on. We've lost both engines on the right wing and are not gonna make it to the airport! We'll have to make an emergency landing!"
The guy cursed venomously again but did as he was told, speaking nervously to the radar controllers over the frequency. Robin pressed the comlink in his ear meant for Batman as he fought the huge thing for control, barely managing to keep it level as the altimeter continuously showed them dropping.
"Flight controls are secure but we've lost two engines, the PIC is injured, and the FMC is dead so I'm having to muscle this thing the old fashioned way," he gritted out, watching the clouds wisp away as the lights of the city got closer and closer. "What's your status?"
It took him a minute or so to respond, and when he did Robin's heart dropped in his chest.
"I'm sorry, Robin. There was one more. He got me pretty good…" His father coughed wetly. He had internal bleeding on some level, probably from lung damage. "The bomb took out two of the engines with debris when I tossed it out of the nose hole. Fourteen are wounded down here with me, not life threatening."
Son of a bitch.
"Doctor! Get downstairs right now! More people need you!" Robin barked. As he did the broken FMC sputtered, sending some shocks over his exposed forearm that burned his skin. Robin grit his teeth as he looked ahead of their flight path, calculating how far they might be able to make it before they'd have to set it down somewhere.
At this point, between the two of them, Robin and the rookie pilot had already shut off the fuel supply to the two downed engines, shut off the electrical flow to them, and activated the fire extinguishers built inside to make sure there wasn't a danger of fire. But the custom 747 was still just too heavy with all the extra interior decoration and amenities built into it to stay at altitude.
Robin thought of every possible location to try and lower it down, but he just couldn't alter its present course. He was having to use too much of the rudder to keep it going straight ahead, so it would be nearly impossible to try to turn it to a large field on the outskirts of the city. He was going to have to put it down in the river right in the center of downtown. Somehow, they'd have to fit the airplane's one hundred and ninety-six foot wingspan into a river that was only about three hundred feet wide, likely with a nasty crosswind thanks to the storm that continued to shake them with turbulence every few minutes.
All Robin could think about as he got on the phone with Commissioner Gordon was hold long Raven would be willing to hug him after all of this was over. Because if she let him, he wanted to be embraced with her all night long.
