Author's Note:I haven't been as diligent with giving my readers appropriate warnings while posting here as I was on Ao3, but I want to make it very clear that most of the headspaces here are very unhealthy. Both, the ones that Jason inhabits and those that Tim does, are dangerously self-flagellant regarding things well beyond their control. If you resonate with either of their perspectives, PLEASE speak to someone about how you feel.

Chapter Eighteen: Rule #18 – Admit When You're Wrong

Tim is not usually wrong.

He's aware that sometimes he doesn't guess correctly, but that's usually when it's a guess – when whatever information he's working with is notably incomplete. Sometimes he doesn't understand a situation, or its framework, and at times like that he can't even manage to fathom a guess. He knows that happens, knows that he's not always entirely right or perfectly prepared.

But he's not usually flat out wrong.

Tim can't actually recall a moment when he felt like he'd really messed up.

A moment prior to the current one, at least.

Because he has definitely messed up now.

Oh, sweet Science, has he messed up now...

He'd thought he had more time.

The box that Spoiler had found was problem enough. The box that she had found and then posted a geo-tagged picture of on twitter; the box that she knew was not supposed to be where it was and had accordingly alerted the authorities about it… that box probably had a few cases of the new drug inside it – that was Tim's current hypothesis, at least – and on its own, the box was dangerous. Not to be touched or messed with.

That was the main worry that had consumed Tim when he'd set out to find Spoiler – that she'd get hurt without any means of knowing how to stay safe. He'd sent Spoiler a direct message through her twitter about it, but he'd done that before and none of the messages had even been registered as 'read'. Since he couldn't contact her, he had to get to her before she decided to poke at the crate, before she decided to investigate what it held. That Tim knew of, not a single person had survived exposure to the new drug.

Tim doesn't know how much exposure constituted a fatal dose, but he'd left his bedroom with a firm refusal to let Spoiler become one of those casualties.

He'd made it all the way to the donut shop where he usually met Spoiler before he realized that she probably wouldn't be there.

That was her usual half-way point in patrol.

But she was at least two hours away from being mid-way through if she was following her normal patrol route. By now, Tim thought it was likely that she'd left the warehouse where she'd found the box, but he could work backwards through her usual route from the donut shop towards where she'd tagged the box and hopefully run across her as she patrolled.

He'd left his bike in the parking lot and his backpack on the roof.

For two reasons: first, to travel light and quick across the rooftops of the denser construction in northwest Robbinsville, and second, to let Spoiler know he'd been there if she got to this point in her patrol without having crossed his path.

Hopefully, she'd wait for him to get back before moving on, because he had to talk to her tonight – before she could find another box and get more boldly investigative about it.

He had spent the half hour afterwards jogging across the rooftops of mid-rise apartment buildings – scouting for another silhouette against the gloomy backdrop of the night's cloudy sky. There were only a few minutes when he wasn't actively on the rooftops – when the alleyways he could cross via fire escape or a simple, daring step ran into a wider street and he had to climb all the way down to ground level before crossing and climbing all the way back up.

He'd gotten really good at that kind of transition over the years, so there wasn't too much time he missed when he couldn't possibly have spotted Spoiler, but still… it was enough. And since she didn't have the kind of grapple guns that effortlessly carried the Bats across Gotham, there was plenty of time while Spoiler too had to descend to street level herself.

Tim didn't find Spoiler before he made it to the warehouse where she'd tagged the box for GCPD's narcotics team. They likely wouldn't be able to get out here for another few hours, but Tim didn't think that would be too much of a problem.

From what his program made it look like, the boxes usually sat unattended for at least a few hours at a stretch before they were disturbed by the Tolovis.

So Tim hadn't hesitated when he considered jumping right onto the warehouse's roof to peek inside just in case Spoiler had decided to stick around until GCPD showed up. It's something she would do. She hasn't posted anything else on twitter or even his camera's limited connectivity would've pinged an alert, but since he'd apparently left his phone in his back pack, Tim can't be sure that she's not sending emails to GCPD every five minutes to complain about their slow reaction times.

Tim had just stepped onto a catwalk inside the warehouse – having crept through an open window that he could access easily by hanging onto the edge of the roof and curling over the side of the wall. The window was probably less than two feet from the ceiling and the catwalk inside the window was about three feet below it. So Tim could stand up easily, but almost anyone else would have to crouch.

What Tim failed to realize was that even someone who would have to crouch uncomfortably on the catwalk would consider the cramped conditions a worthy sacrifice for the advantage of a high angle for surveilling the warehouse below. He failed to realize that just because conditions were tight it did not eliminate the possibility of a large person being able to move with great stealth. He failed to realize he was not alone.

A shadow made of thick muscle and sinew like steel had him by the scruff before Tim even managed to realize the figure was there – had him held aloft by a single hand on his collar, dangling over the three story abyss to the warehouse floor before Tim could yelp at the realization he wasn't alone.

The figure holding him captive maintained his grip effortlessly as Tim went limp with terror – manouevering to the catwalk's primary ladder and then sliding down its rails with reckless speed to land hard on the warehouse floor.

"Ross," the brute holding Tim shouts, as if the boom of his landing wasn't enough to alert whoever else was in the warehouse to the fact that something attention-worthy was occurring.

It was in those thirteen seconds of waiting for Ross – Tavian Ross, Tim assumed and was swiftly proven correct – that Tim realized he had severely misjudged some variable.

He'd messed up, and now he is in deep trouble.

Tim is still dangling with his toes over a foot off the ground – his captor proving to have utterly inhuman reserves of strength and stamina – when Tavian Ross ambles into view within the dim warehouse.

He's a terrifying sight – rugged and hulking, with dark, angry eyes and hair cropped so close to his skull Tim can't tell its color. Tim knows it's brown because it was longer in the picture he took with Rwen Tolovi, but the current ambiguity feels more even imtimidating, more militant and aggressive, than the cutting grin he'd worn after Honduras.

He's not smiling now.

Tavian Ross doesn't speak when he arrives. He simply shifts his posture, like he's settling in to wait, and gives the man holding Tim a look.

"I told you," Tim's captor growls, "It's not just the Tolovis looking into this."

"That is a child," Ross points out with a sardonic sigh.

"A child with a camera."

Tim flinches, pulling up his knees instinctively to curl around his camera case like it's a teddy bear that will somehow magically save him from the monsters. It had been automatic for him to take it out of his back pack when he'd ditched the rest of his stuff at the donut shop – he hadn't even realized it was with him until shortly before he slipped into the warehouse.

Ross lets his eyes flick over Tim's shape – taking in a thousand different data points with a keen gaze that makes Tim think of Jason's skillful evaluation. Which is troubling, because Jason is like the one person Tim had met who hadn't immediately underestimated him.

It was cool when Jason did it, exciting and validating.

When Ross is looking at him like he might see the same things Jason had… it's not a good feeling at all. It's terrifying.

Especially as the guy holding Tim aloft goes on, "It's a child with a camera who chose to sneak in through a third story window instead of poking around like a normal kid by coming through the open door. If it was just local kids and curiosity, they would use the door."

Those are fair points, Tim has to admit.

And certainly things to think about for the next time he winds up faced with the problem of a warehouse to investigate… which is not something he should be thinking about now, seeing as it's very unlikely he'll face a similar problem in the future if these drug lords decide to kill him in the next few minutes.

The man holding Tim drops him and Tim's knees fail to hold his weight as it hits them.

He falls hard to the concrete floor, still more or less curled around his camera.

Ross sighs. "Well, he's too young to be one of ours, and too old to be clean if he's one of the Syndicate's... He might possibly be one of Tolovi's, though… or one of the Tsingani Vipers. We'll take him back to Obscura and investigate him further once the Serum is secure."

Tim closes his eyes – squeezing them shut as tight as they'll go – and pictures the warehouse blueprints. Tim knows the location of the nearest exit, he knows that the next building over has an active alarm and that it's an auxilary storage facility owned by one of the wealthy corporations that will actually prompt a swift police response.

And he knows that the statistics say cooperating with a group of happenstantial kidnappers like this only delays the moment when they'll kill him; that if he allows them to move him off-site, his odds of survival drop to less than one percent – that his best option is to make an attempt to escape.

To run like a bat out of hell.

Tim counts five new goons stepping out of the shadows as the whole group's attention shifts starkly to the white crate that had drawn Spoiler's attention amid the dark shadows of steel beams and lumber stacks.

It's as the goons begin to lift the crate that Tim pushes everything he has into sprinting for the door. He knows almost immediately that it's not going to work.

Tim gets further than he thought he would, managing to dodge the hand that snatches at his shoulder and miraculously avoiding a collision with the concrete beneath his sneakers as his second dodge sends him tripping over a low stack of hardwood flooring.

But then a hand wraps around the hood of his coat and he steps hard on his own shoelaces as his momentum shifts. A few dark crates are knocked around – their contents must be something extremely light for Tim's wild flailing to affect the containers – and one of Tim's high tops is flung into the shadows, but that is the grand finale of Tim's pitiful escape attempt.

After that he's toted back to the group without his feet touching the ground.

Then he's carried outside and shoved into the back of an SUV.

Tim can't see out of any of the windows – they've all been completely blacked out – so he can't confirm that they're moving quickly, but between the feel of the inertia when they slow or take a corner and the sound of the engine reving, Tim thinks they're going fast.

Possibly fast enough to make it all the way to Chinatown during the short ride.

Tim can't confirm that either, because the car doesn't stop outside the venue of their destination. Instead it pulls straight into a small underground parking area. When Tim is carried out of the van he sees that the lot is tiny, and secured by a steel door – it's secure enough that it's probably an area meant for staff parking and deliveries and VIP arrivals in the middle of a relatively bad neighborhood. Even if Tim could somehow get his feet back on the ground, he's never going to make it out that door on his own.

Still being held aloft – at arm's length no less, and by one hand – Tim is ferried by the goon to what seems to be an empty supply closet. It's a square little room well below the night club's floor – but not so far removed that Tim can't tell it is a night club. Tim can almost touch two opposite walls with his outstretched arms, his fingertips are just an inch or two shy of brushing the black painted concrete. The door is also painted black, but it's a heavy metallic structure and it's bolted from the outside.

There's a single unshielded light bulb high above his head.

He almost thinks it would be easier to sit here in his failure if it were dark.

Almost.

Tim leans his back against the wall and sinks to the floor.

Curls up around his knees.

Wonders if anyone is ever going to figure out what happened to him, if anyone will ever realize what a stupid series of mistakes he'd made to land himself in the position…

Tim puts his forehead on his knees and stares blankly at his camera.

Thinks about the capes he's captured with it.

Spoiler might figure out that something's wrong, because his stuff is still waiting abandoned at her usual rest-point donut shop, but she doesn't have much to go off of… And she doesn't know anything about him really, he might be friendly with her, but he's still just slightly less than totally random in terms of by-chance civilian acquaintances.

Robin will be worried. Jason will probably be the first person who knows him to show up somewhere he's supposed to be and think that something's wrong. But that likely won't be for a while, a couple days at least.

Jason will tell Dick and they'll investigate, probably. They may even bring it to Batman once they link it to the Tolovi drug case. Batman barely knows Tim's alive, but he'll still give the case a thorough enough look to solve it.

His parents will be informed eventually.

Probably by Mrs. Simz who will notice his absence in… well, it's Wednesday night, she'll be concerned if he's not home on Thursday evening, but it's likely she won't really raise the alarm until he's gone Saturday – seeing as he still officially spends Fridays with his chess club.

Mrs. Simz will worry.

Tim feels bad about that one.

He takes heart in the fact that Batman will probably have his case mostly solved by the time Mrs. Simz realizes something's wrong.

She'll have answers almost as soon as she has questions.

Tim hopes that Mrs. Simz isn't the one who has to make the phone call to his parents.

She will definitely call them, it's her job to report in on any problems relating to Tim, but Tim hopes she won't be the first call – the one that informs them. She'd likely be fired on the spot for lying, sued for it too most likely – because his parents will never believe the first person who calls to tell them their son was kidnapped and murdered by drug dealers.

They probably won't believe it until they're required to come identify his body… if GCPD even needs to do that any more… or if there's even a body for them to find.

Instead of going down that rabbit hole, Tim goes back to thinking about Mrs. Simz.

She probably will be fired.

But maybe she won't be sued for libel.

But still…

Drakes do not get murdered in Chinatown by drug dealers.

The fact that Timothy was able to engage in such salacious activities so as to get himself murdered is something that clearly couldn't be his own doing. She'll be in trouble for not controlling him better. But she might not be in legal trouble for it…

Though… Tim's parents won't grieve in any conventional ways. It would be uncouth.

They'll sue.

They'll sue Mrs. Simz.

They'll sue Gotham City, GCPD, and probably Obscura's management, too.

They might even sue the national government, with multiple suits: the NSA and CIA and Homeland for hiding GHOST to start with, and then GHOST for allowing operatives like the Tolovis and Tavian Ross to exist at all.

The Drake lawyers will do a lot of damage.

It's actually very satisfying to consider how much shit the government is going to have to deal with because of this mess. It might honestly be enough to make a significant dent in the city's crime statistics, possibly even the nation's.

He'll probably do more for the actual cause of the caped crusade as a martyr than he ever could have as an active, boots-on-the-roof participant…

Maybe that will make it worth it.

He still feels bad for Mrs. Simz, though.

Suddenly, he thinks about the plausibility of writing a note to exonerate her. And to point detectives – and vigilantes – in the right direction, to deliver the info he'd gathered for them in the lead-up to his idiotic miscalcuations.

He usually keeps a small notepad and a pencil or two tucked into his camera case – so he could take notes on something he saw while out stalking Batman and Robin, and take those notes in a hiding place where a backlit screen would give his position away.

Digging through his bag, Tim spots something he doesn't recognize.

It's a light tan little circle with a clear gel contour thing on it, and it stands out starkly against the black fabric. It's not his.

Cautiously picking it up, Tim see that it's a wireless earpiece. Not exactly the most sophisticated version of tech like that, but it's still pretty advanced to be anything but government or Bat tech – and he's pretty sure it's not government.

Looking closer, Tim sees there's a tiny pneumatic actuator clipped onto the edge of the flesh-colored base for the earpiece. It's a pre-sync wireless actuator, essentially a remote button-presser like the kind used to set off back yard fireworks displays.

And it's been triggered.

The switch is attached to the power button on the earpiece.

A power button currently in the on position.

Tim carefully unclips the actuator and gingerly finagles the gel contour into his ear.

There's no sound on the other end – not even stray bits of background noise.

The silence helps Tim keep the vicious flare of hope in his chest from setting his lungs on fire as he forces out a whisper.

"Robin?"

The response is immediate.

Half a second after his whisper, Tim's ear is assaulted by the roar of an engine. And then Jason's voice is whisper-shouting over the din, "Hey, baby bird, you doin' alright?"

Tim's brain has stuttered to a halt. "I, um-"

His throat is tight and hot and… he thinks he might almost want to cry. Hope is a very painful thing, and so is guilt, and Tim isn't entirely sure how to deal with either – but in order for his hope to actually have any valid meaning, Tim has to admit his guilt.

Because this is his fault.

Before he can force any words out, Jason's voice is asking, "Are you alone? Able to talk?"

Tim can't make his voice work.

And that worries Jason, prompts him to add, "If not, just stay quiet, baby bird, it's just good to hear from you at all."

He sounds relieved. Very relieved.

Relieved like he's already gotten really worked up with worry. Like he knows Tim's in trouble, like he already knows how badly Tim screwed up. Which doesn't make Tim's words come any easier, but it forces the apology out with more immediacy.

"I, um, I think... I think I messed up," Tim admits.

Fresh guilt sinks into his stomach as he says it.

"It's okay, Tim," Jason promises immediately – sounding like he really means it. "We're comin' for ya. I'm using the earbud to find you and I'm already getting' close. Just give me another ten minutes."

That vicious breed of hope claws at Tim's throat again.

Jason's coming for him.

Robin is on his way.

Tim forces his brain to switch over from guilty wallowing to helping Jason accomplish the mission laid out in front of him.

"It's not the Raven," Tim warns, adding, "It's not the Tolovis. They brought me to a different night club. I think it's called 'Obscura'."

"Obscura, got it," Jason relays.

Tim sighs. It feels good to know that Jason has the information, but he wishes he could offer up something more – not just more intel, but more useful intel.

He tries thinking over his encounter, trying to discern what about it would be useful.

Before he figures out something to say Jason is talking again, asking with a mission-focused calm and Robin's well-honed soothing, "So, it's not the Tolovis?"

"Mm-hm," Tim replies, unable to resist the urge to shake his head even though Jason can't see the gesture. "It's some people working with the organization that the Tolovis separated from – GHOST. The only name I know is involved is Tavian Ross. I think he's the leader. There's at least six guys here besides him, but I don't know if that's it."

"GHOST. Tavian Ross, and six cronies," Jason repeats, adding, "That's a pretty good rundown, Timmers. You're doin' fine."

No.

It's a decent rundown, not a good one – just the bare minimum.

It's a decent rundown of a terrible situation that Tim should never have been stupid enough to get himself stuck in… This is his fault, and he doesn't even have enough information to make a rescue attempt even kinda safe for the capes doing the would-be rescuing.

Eventually, Tim manages to force himself to say, "I'm sorry I screwed up."

Jason breathes out carefully, but forcefully enough for Tim to hear it over the roar of whatever engine he's using to cross Gotham.

"We are gonna have to talk about how you keep running off alone," Jason tells him, heavy and serious, but not accusing. "Why the fuck did you go off tonight? What happened?"

"Spoiler," Tim breathes.

Then he realizes that it sounds like he's blaming her and he hurries to elaborate, "It was Spoiler – it's not her fault, should couldn't know, but... I figured out what the Tolovis were after and... and Spoiler found a box, labeled like the ones the Tolovis have been stealing. I don't... I don't have any way to contact her, but I had to try... It was- , I thought – I thought I had more time. Usually, there's GHOST activity, and then the Tolovis arrive a few hours later, and then GHOST comes back... I miss-timed it, or miss-read it, or something... I'm sorry."

"We'll get you out of this, baby bird," Jason promises again.

That guilt kicks Tim in the stomach again.

They wouldn't have to get him out of this if he hadn't been so stupid.

His idiocy is risking their lives.

Tim doesn't think Jason's gonna blame him for it, but Tim knows he should.

After a stretch of silence on the air waves, Jason asks quietly, "Why didn't you come to us?" As Tim pulls in enough air to squash the guilt and let him respond, he hears a muttered addition to the question, "Why didn't you come to me?"

The air gets stuck in Tim's lungs.

If he lets any of it out, the guilt will break him in half.

Eventually, the pressure starts to equalize and Tim manages to promise, "I was going to."

It's a weak defence. Stupid, useless, unable to affect anything – but at least it's true.

"I was going to; I was," Tim swears earnestly. "I'd just figured out enough concrete details to make it worth telling you and I was going to hand it off tonight. I've still got the flash drive with me... I don't think my system's as secure as the Cave's so I didn't wanna send it wireless. I was gonna give it to you or Nightwing when you went through Coventry on patrol."

Jason sighs.

"Kid, your system is like the third most secure system on the fucking planet," Jason huffs, probably working very hard to keep from sounding pissed in an attempt to keep Tim as calm as he currently is. Tim's just a dumb kid, after all, he needs to be managed carefully or he'll panic and screw up again and blow the mission meant to rescue him.

"I'm sorry."

The apology just aggravates the wound.

"Shit, kid, it's okay. We'll talk about it later, just be safe until I get there, alright?"

Yeah.

Jason is definitely pissed.

And Tim is definitely useless.

But he's probably not so stupid that he can't manage to stay small and quiet and wait for the Bats to get here and get him out. "Okay."

There's a beat of something Tim can't quite interpret.

"I'm almost there, Timbo, just another few blocks," Jason promises.

Hope and dread and guilt and fear and some kind of ridiculously happy excitement zip in and out of Tim's conscious awareness.

Then suddenly, there's a burst of static and Jason curses.

"Robin?"

"It's okay, baby bird," Jason vows immediately, rushing out his words. "I might have to go off coms for a second here, but I'll be right back, and all us Bats are coming for you, alright?"

"Okay," Tim replies, but he meets static in a way that makes him think Jason's already gone and can't hear him.

Tim sighs.

Loneliness descends on him – swift and painfully unexpected.

Tim knows he has no right to feel like that and tries to squash the ridiculous sentiment.

Doesn't quite manage it.

Curls tight around his knees and listens to the static, trying to convince himself that the static itself – the fact that Jason stuck an earpiece in his camera bag to start with – means he's not entirely unwanted, even if he is being intentionally excluded from whatever conversation Jason's got going on at the moment.

It's fine.

It is.

And Tim's fine.

Really.

But then the static crackles and Jason's voice is back inside his ear and the relief that claws at Tim's lungs and throat and at the back of his eyes is absurd, ridiculous, but it's also utterly undeniable. "Hey, T."

It seems like Jason wants a response, but Tim can't make even a single one of the myriad of muscles involved with producing his voice respond in any way.

After a moment of silence, Jason prompts, "You still there, baby bird?"

Of course, Jason thinks something's happened. He can't see Tim to know otherwise, so Tim has to make his voice work.

"Robin," he manages to croak.

And then there's a shuffling sound outside, boots.

"I think they're coming back," Tim whispers, almost pleased with himself for being able to warn Jason with a clear statement that he might not be able to respond if Jason asks another question. Tim does not want to worry Jason… at least not any more than absolutely necessary considering the fact that he'd gotten himself stupidly involved in this to begin with.

Though… It doesn't seem like Jason understands the warning, exactly.

He seems to think it's just Tim starting to panic.

"I'm almost there, baby bird," Jason promises, "Just hold on a bit longer for me."

Tim doesn't quite manage to verbalize a response before the handle on his closet jiggles and Tim has to force his words to silence.

The goon who'd caught Tim on the catwalk swings the door open – a dark scowl on his face as his gaze skims over Tim's curled up figure.

"Get up," the goon demands.

Tim scrambles to comply, clutching tightly to his camera bag.

That heavy hand finds Tim's scruff again and the goon hauls Tim out of the closet. The good drags Tim up a narrow flight of stairs, to the night club's main floor, and then up another one to a wrap-around balcony that overlooks the floor packed with oblivious patrons.

Then Tim's towed up one more flight of stairs, passed a pair of bouncers, and into a VIP lounge that's lofted above writhing masses.

Tavian Ross is seated at a table in the center of the loft. He's surrounded by others – all in black coats that make Tim think they're all active agents, or at least GHOST affiliated.

Tavian Ross looks over at Tim vaguely, but other than a disinterested flick of his gaze across Tim's figure and a nod to the goon holding Tim's scruff, he doesn't react. He simply carries on his conversation with the young goon seated directly to his right – leaning close so he doesn't have to shout over the deafening boom of the EDM that's blasting through Tim's body and vibrating down to his bones.

It's an odd sensation.

One Tim never would've imagined could be enjoyable – especially considering the surrounding circumstances – but one that he finds is… strangely… exhilarating. Either despite the circumstances, or perhaps because of them… the music is both calming and energizing.

The goon who dragged him here deposits him on the floor by the loft's railing – so he can't even pretend escape is possible unless he wants to make the three story drop over the rail.

Tim might've considered that option – that 90 percent certainly unsurvivable option – if he didn't have Jason in his ear making promises about how the Bats are almost there and that everything is going to be alright… if Tim did take that out… Jason will probably feel guilty about, and he'll likely fret over how Tim hadn't trusted him enough to wait to be saved.

There's a moment or two of static and shuffling that Tim can't interpret, but Jason's voice is nearly constant in his ear – spilling out the exact kind of reassurances that Tim needs, demonstrating Robin's almost magical ability to know exactly what to say. It doesn't just keep Tim calm on a psychological level, it does something physiological to him, too.

The music helps too, somehow, and between the music thumming in his bones and Jason's reassurances in his ear, Tim manages to calm his breathing, relax his muscles, unclench his jaw, and even ease the pressure that's stuck behind his ribs, weighing on his heart and lungs.

And then Jason's saying, "I'm here, baby bird, just walked in the door. Now, I'm gonna need your help for this bit, so guide me to ya, alright?"

Tim carefully does not react.

Slides around inch by inch to get a good view of the floor below.

He spots Jason by the bar faster than he would've thought he could manage in such a sizeable crowd, especially considering that Jason his not sporting his characteristic Robin mask.

But… Tim can't pick out any of the other Bats in the crowd.

Jason can't… he can't be alone here, can he?

Either Jason is somehow able to read Tim's question in his silence or Tim muttered it aloud – with the pound of the music and the com in his ear, it's actually rather difficult for Tim to tell whether the words in his head are staying entirely internal.

"Those Bats you love are in costume and staging for an infiltration," Jason promises.

Soothed, albeit rather concerned that Jason might just be saying that to keep him calm, Tim keeps his voice low and says, "I can see you. I'm in the VIP loft on the, um… south side of the building. Ross is here, with at least two associates and four goons. I don't know where the others are, or why they brought me up here, but… I think Ross is waiting for something."

Jason's head turns upwards, gaze scanning the dim shadows behind the first layer of lights and lasers for any sign of Tim – freezes when he spots his ghostly face between the bars of the loft's railing. He shoots a smirk Tim's way.

"Well, whatever he's expecting, I'll put good money down on betting that he's not expecting us," Jason tells Tim with a cocky confidence that Tim wants to believe in.

He knows Jason's too smart to think that so securely, not with the Tolovis' records being on the Bats' radar. But he still hopes that Jason's statement is only half bluster.

Tim can almost convince himself of it as he watches Jason move easily through the ebb and flow of the tidal waves of shifting bodies – effortlessly harnessing the energy of the music to slide unopposed through the passive human barricade.

It's… mesmerizing to watch.

A shark cutting effortlessly through a school of fish.

Jason's moving at a good clip and he makes it to the staircase of the first loft before the current song transitions into a new one. He's rounded the east wall and is approaching the second staircase that will take him up to where Tim is being held when he's blocked by the bouncer positioned at the bottom of the staircase.

"I have business with the kid you've got upstairs," Jason informs the bouncer, his voice ringing clear in Tim's ear – sending a thrill through Tim even though he's not the one those words are directed at. It's still the Robin voice – and one of Tim's favorite variations of it, to boot – it's the brashly confident version, the one meant to antagonize a mugger into forgetting about their victim. This one is Jason-specific, drastically different from the chattery distraction Dick used to employ in the same kind of situation.

There's some reply from the bouncer while Tim's musing over the differences between Dick's Robin and Jason's own unique version, but Tim can't hear it well enough to parse it.

He can guess that the answer is something along the lines of 'doesn't matter, you can't go up', but the exact words don't matter since Jason has no intention whatsoever of obeying the sentiment. He makes to push passed the boucer, who grabs at his shoulder – which opens him up to Jason's twisting grab of his wrist, with a disabiling kick to the back that almost certainly dislocates the bouncer's shoulder.

Tim winces.

Both with an automatic sympathy for the bouncer, and for the certainty that Jason's just gotten himself benched for being overly brutal – Batman has been trying to curb Jason's street-kid destructiveness, to mitigate the instinct Jason's honed to hurt his targets. Whether it's a drive for vengeance or some sort of street-schooled sense of needing to hit hard enough to keep them down to get away… Jason's sent more people to the hospital in each one of his two years as Robin than Dick did cumulatively in five.

It's a quick move on Jason's part, a brilliant show of his instincts and his training with Batman working perfectly in sync.

There's another bouncer at the top of the stairs.

Tim doesn't see how Jason gets passed this one, but there's a few pointed grunts of exertion that hint at a very similar encounter to the one below.

There must've been a goon Tim hadn't seen waiting in the wings, because there's a third interaction – the gunts of a tussle coming though the com – before Jason appears at the edge of the loft. His arrival does not immediately draw the attention of Tavian Ross, but it does put the goon who'd been Tim's babysitter on edge.

It's that goon who gives Ross a look and finally makes him notice Jason.

Jason isn't trying to get the boss's attention. He's fixated on Tim.

He refuses to do anything until he's caught Tim's eye – and until after Tim retuns the careful nod he gives. Once Tim nods, and even manages to generate a shaky smile of welcome greeting, Jason turns his attention to Tavian Ross.

He eyes the drug lord with only a slight tension in his stance, and a deeply unimpressed look in his eye – one that Tim knows is pure bluff only because he's been stalking Jason on the streets with Batman for over two years now and he's seen how Jason works a typical thug over for information while he's mostly trying to buy time.

"So, Rossie," Jason drawls. "You got somethin' of mine."

Tavian Ross runs his eyes over Jason with a small frown and a growing furrow on his forehead. He looks less than unimpressed. He looks confused.

A lion being hassled by a sparrow.

"And what would that be?" Ross asks, tenting his fingers beneath his chin.

Jason jerks his chin in Tim's direction. "Him."

Ross arches an eyebrow. "We picked him up in a warehouse on the otherside of town, in the midst of breaking and entering," Ross counters, "And he was after some valuable merchandise of ours – merchandise we'd rather he not tell anyone about."

With a snort, Jason, responds. "Everybody fuckin' knows about your god damn drugs. I don't give a shit about that crap, or your little government conspiracy. I want the kid."

At this, Ross's eyes narrow.

"Why?" Jason frowns.

"Why what?"

"Why do you want him, if you know what else we have?"

The goon that's been babysitting Tim has been drifting towards Jason – which has not escaped Jason's notice – and as the goon starts to flank him, Jason is forced to take a step back to keep the goon in view while keeping his direct attention on Ross.

"Why the fuck do you care?"

"It's significant," Ross replies.

The baby sitter tacks on, "If it's true."

Jason's arms are still crossed over his chest, but his weight is leaned back on his heels – not quite defensive, but certainly strained and uneasy. He clearly feels the rising tension in the room, dislikes the way Ross and the baby sitter have so effectively flanked him. Jason definitely knows that he couldn't win a fight against either of them without substantial back-up, and there's no possibility of winning against both on his own – let alone against the other goons gathered in the area, who all have their eyes glued on Jason.

"What the fuck do you even want with the kid anyway?"

Ross huffs, and indulges, "He's a witness, and also a bargaining chip. I would even be willing to trade him to you, honestly, but you don't have anything I want."

Uncrossing his arms as the babysitter gets another step closer to him, Jason shoves his thumbs into his pockets – a slightly more fight ready stance, while still playing at the image of being cool and nonchalant. "And how do you know I don't have something interesting on offer?"

"Because I don't even know who you are," Ross drones, indulgence already wearing thin as he goes on, "Which means that you're clearly not a relevant player on our particular chess board."

Jason's teeth grind together as he fight the urge to snap back with some sort of probably-unhelpful vitriol. He barely gets a chance to settle, and doesn't get one to give Ross a more carefully considered retort, before a shadow appears at his back that sends Tim's stomach plummeting through the floor.

It's Rwen Tolovi.

"He's with me," the criminally violent former government operative explains easily with a cuttingly amused smile at the others' darkening expressions. "Aren't you, Robin?"

Oh, frack.

Tim isn't entirely certain how he manages to maintain consciousness, so much blood has drained away from his face – from his skull, and from the delicate brain matter inside it – because, oh, frack this can't possibly be good.

Because Rwen Tolovi knows that Jason is Robin.

And because Rwen Tolovi is declaring a tie between Robin and the Blackbirds.

This cannot end well.