Gotham's architecture is surprisingly daring in its use of skylights. Tim doesn't know of any other city so crime-ridden that is willing to make their priceless artifacts so easily seen. While it makes things easier on Red X, considering Gotham doesn't even really have sunlight, he can't help but question why glass rooftops are a thing.
"My, my," a sensual and seductive voice purrs behind Red X, "what have we here? A small kitten, nosing about where it shouldn't?"
The screwdriver remains steady where it is wedging up a glass windowpane even as Catwoman places a high heel against his wrist in warning.
"It's rude to ignore a lady," Catwoman says.
"You're dramatic as always," Red X replies.
The relationship between them is a vague one: not quite mentor and student but not friends either. Red X and Catwoman do their utmost best to ignore each other, but at the same time, there's no hesitation to swap friendly advice and gossip.
"I came to give a warning. Let this one go and take the night off."
Red X's wrist is freed from the bottom of Catwoman's shoe, and the eyes of his mask narrow.
"Trying to take the prize for yourself?"
"No, not this time," she tells him with thin lips.
"What's happened?" Red X asks, lowering the screwdriver immediately.
"The Bat," Catwoman says, voice dark and raw. "If he catches you, you might wind up dead in a ditch somewhere."
"I'm overjoyed to know you care." Despite the sarcasm, Red X is already putting the glass panel back into place.
Either Catwoman is lying to him and wants his mark without having to fight for it, or Batman is on his way. No matter which, he's done for the night. Red X values his life more than a lousy set of jewels.
"We both know you haven't even made it past puberty," Catwoman snorts.
"I can neither confirm nor deny that." It will be a relief once his voice stops cracking on every other vowel out of his mouth.
Catwoman rolls her eyes behind her goggles, and Red X points a grappling gun in the direction of home. Neither of them mentions how tight his suit has gotten around his shoulders.
"Batman is on the warpath, and he happens to be in this neck of the neighborhood. Don't get caught, little kitty."
And like that, they're both gone.
Jason Todd is dead. Everyone who reads the newspaper knows that, but Jason Todd is not Robin. In the streets of Gotham, the Boy Wonder is alive and well. If that were true, Red X wouldn't be watching Batman pound a thug headfirst into a wall several times without stopping.
"You're going to kill him," Red X says, jumping down from the top of a shipping container.
"I know what I'm doing," Batman growls back at him.
Red X looks from the shadowed wraith that barely looks human to the unconscious man that it grips. In the slit of light shining down, he can see clothes, worn and threadbare, dyed an alarming shade of red.
"I don't think you do, or you'd know you're about to be taken in by Gordon." Red X glares up at Batman with hands on his hips. "I already called him. He'll be here in a few minutes."
The unconscious thug drops to the ground with a sickening thud. With his cape shrouding him like a veil, Batman looks away from the man he's nearly killed. Red X feels frustrated and stung by the action.
"Go home, take the cowl off, and let yourself cry. Hurting others will only make your own pain worse."
He knows that Batman won't take the advice to heart, as far gone as he is. Still, Tim Drake is not a quitter, and he won't let this grief-stricken shell of a man stain the name Jason died for.
"Talk to someone before you need to be locked up yourself," Red X tells him.
Figure things out before I have to put you in Arkham myself, Red X doesn't say.
Red X slinks away to his motorcycle hidden in the shadows of the dock. He doesn't look back to see if Batman is gone or not. He doesn't want to see just how much the man no longer cares.
("Don't meet your heroes for they are but men, fallible and imperfect.")
Red X's hideouts are as secure as money and assassin contracts can guarantee. He does, however, leave himself available for appointments made by those in the know. For these meetings, he has what he likes to call "The Office."
"I know Mistah J overdid it this time, but I—"
Harley screams into the stomach of a homemade Killer Croc plush toy. The giant doll is at odds against the bright pink couch with its heart-shaped pillows.
"You still love him," Red X says gently while doodling X-shaped weapons on a clipboard.
The black and red skull chair he sits on is just as glaring against the neutral colors of the walls and carpeting as the pink couch. A sleek, black desk and coffee table made purely of ice do nothing for the décor either.
The wall of lasers that separates Red X from his clients is probably the most jarring thing though.
"I do! I really do!" Harley howls, black tears running down her face.
"But?"
"But he killed Robin," Harley says sadly, squishing the Killer Croc plush until her knuckles turn white.
"He killed Robin," Red X nods.
"He was just a kid! He wasn't doin' nothin'!" Harley sobs. "I'll never be able to make bird and baseball jokes with him again!"
He finishes the blueprint of his theoretical helicopter while waiting for the crying to taper off into pitiful sniffles. It's fun to see how many "X's" he can fit into his designs without sacrificing performance.
"You're mourning the death of Robin as well as your love for Joker."
"I just, I don't know what to do. I can't stay with him, but what am I beside Harley Quinn? What am I?"
Red X taps the end of his pencil against clipboard thoughtfully. Dr. Harleen Quinzel: former psychiatrist, henchwoman of Joker, confused bisexual, clinically insane, and capable of diagnosing herself. Should he answer truthfully or lie?
"Only you can answer that question," he lies, "and you don't have to answer it any time soon. Take some time to step back and figure out what you enjoy doing. Discover what you want in life."
He's read those exact words on a back of a pamphlet for a tourist company before; he's sure of it.
"You're right. I just gotta go on vacation for a bit. Get my pep back." Harley takes out a rag with Joker's face on it and blows her nose loudly. "I think I'll go hang out with Red for a bit. Pam-Red, not You-Red," she clarifies.
Harley gives the Killer Croc plush one last hug before digging through her pockets. A gold necklace and a matching pair of earrings are tossed into a cup on the coffee table labeled "Meeting Fee."
"My door's open anytime you need to talk," Red X says. "I mean it. Please use the door next time instead of blowing up my wall."
"Heh, you got it X-boy."
He waits until she's gone before hitting the button underneath his desk. The recording of today's session stops and is forwarded to his laptop. If he were a therapist or Harley's friend, this would be a breach of trust.
Good thing he's a Gotham Rogue and not a therapist. As for trust, well, there's no one in this city who gives that out.
"Stop leaving your counseling files everywhere."
A thumb drive is thrown down onto cement and crushed beneath a boot. It takes everything Red X has not to tense up at the sudden threat looming behind him.
"Only if you stop breaking people's arms for petty theft," Red X says.
In the reflection on the skyscraper across from him, the only thing he can see of Batman is the white lenses of his cowl.
"They choose to fight back."
"Of course, they do. They've got nothing left to lose," he sneers.
The poverty, the indifference, the anger and need to survive—he shouldn't have to remind Batman of why crime exists in the first place. That Gotham needs someone to be treating the cause, not the symptoms.
"Get out of my city."
The wraith behind him vanishes, and Red X decides it's time to bring out the big guns. Pulling out his communicator, he opens the emergency channel and speaks,
"I need a ride to Jump City."
The first Robin grew up to be Nightwing. Not everyone knows that, but Tim isn't everyone. He can still remember the day the Graysons fell to their deaths; can still remember how they flew so high it was like magic.
That day at the circus was the first time he laid eyes on the boy that would be his hero.
"He needs you." Tim Drake stands at the gate leading to the Titan's Tower with a backpack on his shoulders and a cap on his head. "It's bad, really bad. It's going to end with someone dying."
White lenses stare at him pleading through chain link fencing. The black, padded suit stands out like a sore thumb against the tall white, building in the background. A blow of breath is all it takes for hope to die.
"I'm sorry, kid, but I'm needed here. Go home."
Nightwing walks away, and Tim presses his arm against his eyes. He is not going to cry.
("Never meet your heroes. Who said that?" Tim tilts his head.
"Research it." Mr. Dosletter doesn't look up from where he's cleaning an assault rifle. Tim pouts at the lack of attention.
"I did. I can't find anything on it."
"Perhaps the sentiment has been around since the dawn of time.")
Tim Drake does not go back to Gotham. Instead, he takes a cab to a hotel, pulls a suit out of his backpack, and opens his communicator.
Tim can't make Nightwing go see Batman, but Red X can team up with Deathstroke to ruin the Teen Titans' day. Just a day, he tells himself. A little bit of revenge, a few villains that need robbing, and then it's back to Gotham.
Red X makes the mistake of going against Nightwing and winning. Of leaving the Titans' hoodwinked and bamboozled without doing anything more than stealing what's already stolen. Of laughing as he's chased around Jump City with non-murderous rage.
("Get back here!" Beast Boy roars in the form of a lion. "It's not a spinoff! It's one of the greatest musicals out there!"
"How dare you blasphemy my ears with terribly done remixes!" Cyborg cries, the tires of his car screeching to make a point.
Red X cackles as the civilians take a polite step out of the way of his motorcycle.)
Going against Nightwing and the Teen Titans feels like stepping back in time. He has fun, so much fun, pulling the rug from underneath everyone at the last second. His bruises feel earned in a way they haven't in a long time.
He almost doesn't want to leave. If it weren't for his parents return, he might would have stayed to see how many colors he can make Nightwing's face change into.
"I'm catching my flight out of here," Red X says sadly, which is a lie because he's driving home on his motorcycle, "I know you'll miss me, so here's something to remember me by."
Red X rests his head against Nightwing's shoulder and holds a phone up. The sound of a shutter goes off, and then he's holding up his fingers in a V-shape for the next click.
"Should I make this one your wallpaper, or this one?"
"Hm hmm!"
"You're right. This one shows off both our good sides."
Nightwing's glare is positively burning through his mask. He's thankful the gag around his mouth keeps him from saying the usual "I'll get you, Red X, if it's the last thing I do" spiel. It'd make taking pictures that much harder otherwise.
"It's a good thing selfies only need the shoulder up. The ropes make you look like a caterpillar," Red X says cheerfully, and Nightwing slumps over, too drained to remain angry.
Red X catches sight of Starfire flying towards them with green lasers for eyes and decides to book it.
His arrival in Gotham heralds the beginning of, well, something. He's not entirely sure why the former Batgirl is waiting for him in The Office, but he picks up a clipboard and waits her out.
Barbara Gordon keeps her hands folded in her lap and stares at him without a hint of expression. One inch forward and her wheelchair will hit the lasers.
"Batman is out of control," she eventually says.
"Yes, he is."
"No, you don't understand. I think he's going to kill the Joker," Barbara tells him.
"And?" Red X tilts his head.
He's pretty sure killing the Joker is a good thing. There's not a single reason to keep him alive other than something even worse might take his place.
"And that will ruin everything my father and I have suffered for," Barbara snarls. "Batman will show the world that killing is the only solution!"
Red X begins sketching out a vague diagram of the Wayne manor. He puts smiley faces where he knows the windows to be. A caricature of Alfred is placed at the main doors.
"You're the only one who can talk to him right now. Stop him, please," Barbara sighs, head bowed and red hair spilling around her face.
"You're asking a lot."
"I know, I know, I'm sorry. Here." Barbara takes out a thick wad of cash. "Selina said this would cover the fee."
It's pure desperation that brings the woman once known as Batgirl into a den of criminals to beg for help. There's no doubt that Barbara Gordon knows she's begging a kid to take down Batman.
He holds up a hand.
"No payment this time. I'll do this one for free."
("Heroes are only human. Weak, fallible." Deathstroke slides the gun around his shoulder. "If they aren't, they are monsters."
"But that means heroes can get back up," Tim argues. "They can grow beyond their image and become something better."
"Ever the optimist.")