"Traya! You're here!"
Traya pulled her helmet off of her head and hung it on her motorcycle's handlebars. Kara Zor-El swooped down from where she'd been worrying a hole in the sky. She hovered in front of Traya, fluttering her hands nervously.
"You called," Traya said. She'd been surprised when she'd gotten the frantic half-intelligible phone-call. Kara was still figuring out phones even after two years. Traya couldn't blame her though, must have been like going back into the stone age and learning how to make fire.
Kara didn't bother to ease Traya in. "Robin won't come out of his room!"
"Oh, really?" Traya tried not to act surprised. Damian had mentioned something to this effect last time the Titans had a bitching session. Something about Jason becoming more and more irritable. Traya had thought he was just growing up, but maybe there was more to it.
Alright, time to get out her therapy persona.
"He won't even come out for ice cream! Ice cream!"
"Did someone say 'ice cream'?" someone shouted, followed by a cloud of dust. Impulse materialized by Traya's side. She only jumped a little bit.
"Hello, Wally."
"Hi Traya!" Wally turned to Kara. "So, are we going?" he asked again.
"Go ahead," Traya said. "I'll talk to him."
"Thanks, Traya."
"Sure thing."
Traya trudged through the overgrown lawns of the abandoned hotel that Young Justice had decided to house themselves in. They'd redone the inside to the best of their abilities (and superpowers), which had mostly consisted of making giant holes in walls and hanging up streamers and fairy lights. Traya said hello to Princess Koriand'r as she flew down the hall (Kara had texted her to come join the ice cream run). Traya came to a stop at the door that had been plastered with caution tape and a giant R symbol. Traya knocked.
"Go away, Wally!" Jason snapped.
"It's not Wally," Traya said, voice kind and as unintrusive as possible. "May I come in?"
Despite her best efforts, Traya still heard the 'oh shit' silence of a slightly terrified teenager. Traya bit back a sigh and leaned against the doorjamb.
"Do I have a choice?" Jason asked, voice strained.
Oh dear. It was worse than she'd thought.
"Of course, you do."
Traya waited. She was surprised it only took him thirty seconds to grudgingly open the door.
The inside of Jason's room was surprisingly neat. Books were lined up on his windowsill in lieu of a shelf. Though extra boots and gadgets were scattered around the room there were no clothes. His bed was kinda made.
Traya sat in his computer chair. Jason sat perched on the edge of his bed, as if he were ready to bolt. He still wore his entire costume.
"You're in costume." The others had been too, but they were going out.
Jason scowled. "So?"
Traya shrugged. "Just curious." She knew the others knew his secret identity—they'd found out after that horrible de-aging mess. (Traya almost shuddered remembering it. She'd been one of the few of the Titans to get zapped back to teenagehood and she did not miss it. She'd been a terror as a child.) But Kara had called him Robin, and here he was, still quite on purpose in his Robin uniform. She was more than a little curious.
Jason shrugged back, but in that way angsty teenagers did. Like it took effort.
"Why're you here?" he asked, suspicious.
"I wanted ice cream, and was in town." Jason huffed in disbelief. Traya smiled to let him know that the blatant lie was for his benefit. "Supergirl said that you weren't in the mood. I mean, really, who isn't in the mood for ice cream?"
Jason narrowed his eyes. "Damian didn't send you?"
"Why would Damian send me?" Damian never sent anyone, Jason should know that by now. All of his friends just did things and let him thank them later.
"Kara, then."
Traya flicked her fingers. "I wanted ice cream."
"Uh-huh. So, what? Because I'm not hungry this one time, I need the Superhero Shrink?"
Traya wrinkled her nose. "Is that what they call me? That's not catchy at all."
Jason rolled his eyes. "So?"
"So?"
"So, why are you here?"
"I'm concerned, kid. Is that so bad?"
Jason shoved himself to his feet, which had shifted into a classic guard position. He crossed his arms.
"I'm fine," he gritted through his teeth. "What do you have to be concerned about?"
"You're pulling away from your team. You're not talking to the other Bats." Traya counted out the red flags on her fingers. "You've been disappearing for hours at a time before patro-"
Jason stiffened. "How do you know that?"
Traya sighed. "Concerned, kid. Again, I'm concerned."
Jason clutched his arms tighter. Traya was losing him.
"I was afraid this would happen," she said.
Jason's gaze snapped to hers again. "What?" he asked, still tightly-wound.
Traya didn't want to guess. She wanted Jason to tell her. Generally, when heroes withdrew from their friends either: they were turning evil/being impersonated by someone evil/being whammied by magic or poison of some type; they were losing touch with why they fought the good fight; they were dealing with non-cape issues; or, and this was most common, they were simply outgrowing their place in the hero-world currently. It happened more often than one might think. Change was one of the things that kept heroes from losing their minds—team ups with new people, fighting new villains, or stretching their skills in some new, fun way were all essential. Variety was the spice of life, and sometimes, even best friends (especially ones that had gone on sometimes month long missions alone halfway across the universe and somehow, because they always did, involved slime) needed some time away from one another.
Either way, guessing wrong would lose all the credibility that Traya had built up as someone who could understand him. After all, wasn't that what all teenagers wanted? To be simply understood without having to explain? She had.
Traya gave Jason a knowing look even though she very much didn't, and hoped he'd just admit it.
Sometimes bluffing worked.
Jason sighed and collapsed onto his bed.
Gotcha.
"It's not that I don't like them-" Jason said quickly. Ah, so yes, Jason was getting older. But he wasn't just short with his teammates, he was also short with the Bats (not that anyone could blame him for that). "Because I do. They're all very nice, and really, I do love them as friends but…"
"But you feel like you're outgrowing Robin."
Jason looked struck.
Traya backtracked. Maybe he hadn't gotten there yet. "You know, here. It's not as uncommon as you think, wanting to join a new team. Everyone needs a change every now and then. And you are the oldest of them. Besides…" this wasn't a lie, which was why Traya hedged around saying it. This was a little too close to the truth. Especially after–well, two years ago her Tower had been a little… empty. And Jason was next on the list.
Damian was against it. That was the reason she hadn't brought it up to anyone but her own friends before now. But it wasn't Damian's life. It was Jason's. And he deserved to choose himself.
"Besides…?" Jason asked.
"Besides, the Tower's been a little lonely lately."
Jason stared at her, mouth slightly open. Traya let him process. Slowly, he almost whispered, "You mean… you want me to be a Titan?"
"Teen Titan." Traya let her voice tease a little bit. "Don't get your hopes up."
"For real?"
"Don't tell me your answer yet," Traya said, hands up. Maybe she shouldn't have started with offering this. "Think about it for a little. Get back to me in a week, okay? This would be a big step. Maybe take a week or two off. No patrol, no mask, nothing. I can back you up if you need someone to bully the Big Guy." Traya wasn't afraid of Uncle Bruce. Hadn't been since he sang her a lullaby when her dad was in one of his dismembered phases when she was young.
"No, thanks," Jason said absently. Clearly too busy mulling over her offer. Good, Bats were so much less obstinate when they were distracted.
"Good." Traya stood and dusted her pants. "Ice cream? I find it always helps advice go down."
"Uh huh…"
"Awesome." Traya held open the door, and followed Jason out. Her work here was done.
Or at least, until Damian found out what she'd done. But she could manage him. She wasn't any more afraid of Nightwing than the Big Bad Bat himself.
One of Jason Todd's favorite parts of being Robin was the bike. True (if he were being honest with himself), all of it was magical, but the bike… that was just icing on the cake. Redbird was gorgeous. Even with all her mods, she ran as smooth as any bike should. Plus, well, red. Red was cool.
Unfortunately, one of the downsides to the bike was that it was so very clearly Robin's. The extra bulk of the turbo mods and the weapons and food caches made it clear—especially to anyone from Gotham—to whom the bike belonged. Which meant, unfortunately, that he couldn't bring it with him.
Jason skittered into the Batcave. He'd timed it well, Bruce was out. Steph sat at her controls, an earbud in so she could watch the latest episode of Make It Wayne (since Bruce had banned the show except for when he had to actually film it, hypocrite). Jason tried to park quietly. Kinda. Redbird could do quiet, but Jason didn't know if anyone had ever actually used the muffler. After all, what was the point of a bitchin' bike without everyone from a mile around hearing you ride on it?
"Hey Jason," Steph said absently, eyes glued to her screens.
"Hey Steph."
"No patrol tonight?"
"Nah, gonna do some homework."
"Nerd."
"Isn't that what the Bat is supposed to promote? Stay in school, don't do drugs, crime bad, got milk?"
Steph snorted. "Nerd," she repeated. Jason rolled his eyes. "Have fun."
Jason headed straight for his room and started packing.
Traya had said earlier—when she had so rudely stuck her nose where it had no business being—that he might need a week off.
Jason hadn't wanted to admit it. Not then, but… being Robin was hard sometimes. All things were hard sometimes, and Jason should know that. Should be able to just… deal with it.
"Master Jason, will you be coming to dinner?"
Jason jumped and spun. "Jeez, Alfred, warn a guy."
Alfred stood at the threshold to Jason's room patiently. Jason sighed and sat back on his heels, stopping packing. Alfred's eyes didn't drift down, didn't stare accusingly at the duffle at Jason's feet. But Jason felt his awareness, like an itch that wouldn't go away.
"Uh, yeah. I'll have dinner. But uh," Jason glanced down at his duffle. Clearly in front of him and half full.
"Shall I pack it to go?" Alfred asked, not unkindly.
Jason winced anyway. "I'm–I'm sorry, Alfie, I just-"
"No need to apologize, Master Jason, you are not the first of the family to need some time away from the Manor. Will you stay at the Hotel?"
No, Jason couldn't go there. He needed to get away. Away, away. The Tower wouldn't do either, not that he even knew if he could go in. Traya had only said maybe.
"No. I'll be… around." Jason paused, then added into the disappointed silence, "Safe. And safe."
"If you say so."
"I promise." Because he felt a little guilty.
"You will not be joining Master Bruce then?"
"No. I–Not tonight." Last conversation he'd had with Bruce was a fight. All of their conversations seemed to be fights nowadays. They hadn't patrolled together in almost a month now. Patrolled, yes, but together? Not since… it had been an accident. Really, it had. Jason hadn't realized he'd broken the man's arm until it was too late. Until the snap and the scream raised hairs on his arms. The man had been an abusive shit. Jason hadn't minded. Not until Bruce had started yelling.
"I see." Alfred was quiet. "Shall I inform Master Bruce that you're at the Hotel?"
"Would you?" Jason couldn't hide his shock.
Alfred touched the side of his nose solemnly. "I won't tell if you won't."
Maybe it wasn't so bad here.
"Thanks, Alfred."
"Don't forget, school tomorrow."
"Yes, sir."
"I'll leave the soup on, then."
"I'll be down in a few." Jason shoved a spare pair of underwear into his bag and hesitated before adding a batarang and bypassing his mask. He wouldn't need or want it. Not tonight. The weapon was just for insurance.
He jogged down for dinner and stuffed his mouth so quickly that Alfred had to loom over his shoulder to make sure he didn't. Jason finished up and stood, mumbling his farewells. But before he could slink off, Alfred held out a wrapped bundle.
"What's this?"
"Tomorrow's breakfast and lunch."
Oh. Right. Jason had forgotten.
Jason blinked away the stinging behind his eyes. He slid the food into his bag.
"Thanks, Alfred."
"Anytime, young Master. Don't stay out too late."
Considering (even on school nights) Jason tended to patrol until at least two in the morning, that was rich. But Jason caught the gist—if his little crisis of faith ended up making him late for school, there would be hell to pay.
It was nice to have someone to care about him.
Jason motored off into the night.
Being a Streetkid™ in Gotham was one of the highest risk jobs in the country. Life expectancy was short—despite everything Bruce tried to do to help, there were only two things that could happen when you lived on the street: either you died young, or you lived long enough to move to Bludhaven. Even when shelters and homes for the kids popped up, they tended to catch the Gotham Rot and within weeks, or months, or (in the worst cases) days, they lost whatever good they thought they had come in with.
After Jason had lost his mom, he'd been approached by ten different gangs and henchmen hunters within the first year of squatting in Crime Alley. Yeah, it was Crime Alley but still. There was on the nose and there was on the nose.
Jason pulled his bike into a garage and took the bus down to the closest station to Crime Alley (public transport wouldn't go all the way there). The brisk three block walk helped him cool off. It wasn't so late in Jason's opinion, but the streets were empty of anyone who actually had a home to go to. Jason knew that somewhere in the city, B was gallivanting around, saving damsels in distress. Here, you couldn't tell. Crime Alley looked the same as ever. It always did. The Monarch Theater shone, a full remodel nestled within a street of rundown buildings. Next to it, a remodeled free housing apartment (not far from Cass' own, if Jason remembered correctly) dubbed "The Tim Drake-Wayne Housing for All" project. Two years had passed, but Bruce still hadn't changed the name.
B didn't talk about that night. Bruce didn't talk a lot (when he wasn't being 'Brucie') but never about that night. He'd never even gone to see him in jail. Not that Jason had either, but he knew Steph went once a month or so. Alfred sent care packages and Damian went whenever the damage from their last argument had blown over, only for him to come back fuming and proclaiming (again) that he would never go to see Tim again.
The mythical Timothy Drake-Wayne. Back from the dead for so short a time, and now completely off-limits. It was almost like nothing had changed.
But it had. Bruce had gotten… worse. Jason remembered when he'd first joined as Robin. Remembered how after Robin disappeared and before he met Bruce there were stories, things whispered by criminals only when they were sure they couldn't be overheard. About how the Batman had gone to the Iceberg Lounge just to stir up trouble. How he'd strung up some Mafia boys after their daughters' ballet recitals and the guys never walked right again.
At the time, Jason had found that comforting. There were plenty of scary things in Gotham—people poisoning the water supply; the breakouts from Arkham as Christmas presents; the kids you didn't fuck with at school because who knew who they might go home crying to, super-villain, mobster, or henchman. There was always a reason to be afraid in Gotham.
But the Batman… the Batman was scarier, and that helped Jason sleep.
Knowing that there was someone out there watching his back (at least, while his Dad had been alive, before his life had gone to hell), knowing there was someone out there just as angry and ready to use it…
But now… but now. "I can't believe you, Jason," and "what is wrong with you, Jason," and "don't you ever do that again, or I swear to God Jason I will rip that cape off your back and find someone who can control themselves!" Jason hadn't responded kindly to that particular threat. He'd been grounded for two weeks.
And Traya wanted to know what the fuck was wrong.
It hadn't been his fault, not really. It had been an accident. And so what if he punched a little harder when the scumbags they were hunting sold kiddie porn? So what if they screamed a little louder? They deserved it more than a guy just trying to feed his family and going about it the wrong way.
Though the streets were clear of people who had homes, everyone else was awake and alive. Roaming across the Narrows, congregated at street corners. Jason stuffed his hands into his ratty hoodie and kept his face down. You'd be surprised how many people in Gotham had dark hair and pale eyes. Tabloids joked that Bruce had to be all of their real dads for them to look so similar, but even though Jason Todd-Wayne was now a name that flooded the socialite papers, Jason passed by unrecognized. Sure, he got the stink-eye, but everyone did if they were new around here.
Jason hadn't meant to go somewhere, he'd just meant to get out of the Manor, but he only realized when he saw the kids that his feet had carried him home. Or, to one of his homes. His old squat—where Bruce had first found him—was in use. The things he'd left behind—books, CDs, candy bar wrappers—were gone. He was surprised.
"Stay back!"
Someone was living here. He hadn't even realized. Jason held up his hands at the nine-year old kid who held out a knife towards him. His sister was curled up on their bed (what had once been Jason's bed, he could even see it had the same stains) in the corner. Her hand inched towards a bat. Not bad for a couple of kids.
"Sorry," Jason said, "didn't know anyone was living here."
"We don't have anything to give you! Stay away!" the kid cried. His hand shook around the knife.
Jason nodded to his sister. "You should try for the bat next time," he advised them. "Less likely to hurt yourself using it."
The kid blanched. "Hu-hurt? I'm not going to hurt myself!"
Jason kept himself from rolling his eyes and relaxed himself. He could disarm them easy. "What're you reading?"
The girl looked down at her lap. Her hand tightened around the bat.
Jason kept his arms up—more for them than himself. "Just curious."
"How did you get in here?" the boy asked, not lowering the blade. "I hid the doorway."
Why would he do that?
"I used to live here," Jason said. Memories came back with every second here. He remembered curling up, shivering, during the rough nights. Debating if he would need to burn his books. His textbooks had gone first. Then, when he'd realized that he could boost tires and get a little cash for them, he'd done that. He'd had to steal the tire iron to do it. Hadn't even known how to use one but it wasn't rocket science.
The girl shifted the book to show him the title.
Fairy Tales and Ghost Stories of Gotham. That had been one of his. His mom had read it to him as a kid.
Jason's chest ached as he remembered it. Most mothers sang their children to sleep with promises of all the things they'd give them, Gotham mothers sang of secret societies and ghosts. What was that lullaby Catherine used to hum to him? (Albeit horribly off-key.) He always got the Christmas song confused with it when he was little.
They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed. Speak not a word of them, or they'll send a Talon for your head.
The girl's eyes widened. "Our dad used to sing that to us," she whispered. "I can't find the stories in here." She tapped the book.
No, not all Gotham legends made it in. Not even the Batman.
Jason sat next to her. Her brother relaxed but kept the knife in his hand. Gently, he took the book from her and flipped to his favorite story.
The page opened up with a giant golden eagle on a purple banner, fluttering in the wind. Under the picture, plastered on in obnoxiously fake-roman font were the words: THE MYSTERY OF THE IX HISPANIA
"Once upon a time, there was a group of adventurers. They were the strongest and smartest of their peoples, and they lived at the height of the Roman Empire."
As he read, the children drew closer to him, curled into themselves. They listed with rapt attention that almost made Jason feel like these were just any kids and he was in a library at the end of story-time or something.
Jason had always loved this story the most because he'd liked to imagine himself as one of those adventurers. The strongest and smartest people in the world, all joining together and exploring. Some kids grew up dreaming of leaving Gotham. Now, Jason couldn't imagine ever doing it.
"Of course, stories of the Ninth Legion are only that. And though Gotham boasts the infamous Ninth Legion socialite club, we'll leave it up to you if the members are really the cohort's descendants or if they just bought their way in. For there's no way to track a thing like that, which means, dear reader, that the Eagle could even belong to you." Sprinkled were illustrations and grainy photos to help illustrate the cryptography of Gotham. Here, they'd plastered a picture of the current (when the book was published) members of the Ninth Legion club.
Jason had to do a double-take. He'd stared at this picture for hours as a kid, and never realized.
In the caption, from left to right, each of the members was named, and one of them, second row all the way on the right, was Jack Drake. He looked like a taller, gray-er haired version of Tim.
Jason laughed. He couldn't help himself. He wondered if Tim knew about this. Probably did. Hell, seeing it now, with the amount of urban legends in Gotham that were actually true, Jason wouldn't be surprised if next week someone claimed to be the heir to the Eagle and tried to break into Tim's prison cell for information. Not that Jason would ever be allowed near Tim again. Maybe Bruce would let him fend for himself, that would be a sight to see. Not Bruce being an ass, but Steph reaming him out for it.
"What's so funny?"
Jason calmed himself. "Just… all the times I read this, I never realized that I know one of them." He pointed to a random person (didn't need to tell these random kids too much about himself).
The brother's gaze shot up to Jason. "This used to be yours?"
Jason nodded.
Both kids flinched.
"Sorry," the girl murmured, glancing anxiously around. "It's the only one left. We had to burn the others."
"It's fine," Jason said, and realized that it was true, "I'd have done the same thing, if I were you."
A crash outside sent the boy to his feet. The girl grabbed Jason and pushed him behind her tiny body, bat at the ready. Jason was about to ask what was happening when three teenagers barreled into the squat.
Jason didn't recognize any of them, which was good because then they probably didn't recognize him. They all looked around his age.
"Get out!" The boy cried, shaking knife up again.
"Hey," one of the teenagers said, grinning at his friends. "Look, kid's got a knife."
"We don't have anything for you! It's all gone."
"Who are they?" Jason whispered to the girl.
She elbowed him. "Later," she hissed.
But he'd already drawn their attention. Jason carefully put down the book. If it was the last one these kids had he didn't want to rip it accidentally.
"And who is this?" one asked, prowling towards Jason.
Jason stood, unhurried, and straightened his sweatshirt.
"I think the better question is who are you?"
"Don't–!" The girl cried, and tried to grab Jason's hand but one of the teenagers loudly stomped at her and she screamed and raised the bat in terror. The teenagers laughed.
"'Sokay, girlie," the first one who'd spoken said. "We're not here for you. Everyone knows new tenants pay first rent."
"He doesn't live here!" the boy said, before thinking better of it. If Jason had been him, he'd have let the strange kid who just popped up out of nowhere and read him a bedtime story get shanked, if he hadn't had to pay protection money. But Jason had never had to pay protection money. Not here.
"Since when do kids pay rent in Crime Alley?" It was one of Crime Alley's few redeeming qualities. You could squat without paying to the gangs.
The teenagers laughed. They began circling Jason. He started counting weak points. One of these kids had a gun hanging pointing at his junk, and the other two would have knives (at the very least). They'd be skilled enough, if they lasted this long. But the one who'd spoken first had a slight limp in his left leg, probably tripped over something or rolled an ankle recently. Another kept wrinkling his nose and sniffing loudly, his bloodshot eyes unfocused. He'd have delayed reaction time, but the irritability might make him aggressive.
"You must not have been here recently. Everyone pays for air. Even in Crime Alley."
"Especially, in Crime Alley," one of his friends added.
They were right. Jason hadn't been here recently. He hadn't been back without his mask in three years.
Not these kids. Jason would make sure of that. These kids were paid for from now on.
"Not here," Jason said. "Take your shit somewhere else."
"Or what?"
"Or I'll make you."
"We don't need your help!" the boy snapped, but his sister grabbed his arm and tugged.
"If he wants the shit beaten out of him, let him."
"I'm only going to ask you nicely, once," Jason said.
"Shit, man, well of course we'll leave you alone!" the one with the gun said, gesturing widely and rolling his eyes. "Why, all we want is to be asked politely." His hand drifted to his waistband and went for the gun.
Dumb idea, dude. Really, stupid idea.
"Bit-Yow!"
Jason went for his hand, kicking at the guy's weak ankle. He went down, cradling his leg and Jason held the gun up, making sure the safety was on.
"Careful," he said. "You could hurt someone with this if you aren't careful."
"Shut the fuck up, man!" One of his friends snarled and dove for him, knife out. It was a much larger knife than Jason had anticipated, but he dodged it cleanly and the siblings scattered as his momentum carried him towards them. The punk went sprawling.
Jason tossed the gun to the girl. "Keep this safe," he said. He turned to the last kid. "Well?"
"Aren't you slick," the other guy sneered at him. "What're you, Batman or some shit?"
"Or some shit," Jason agreed.
He jumped when the now gunless-guy on the floor went for him. The guy behind him drew his own knife (proper switchblade this time, like Jason had expected) and Jason punched him in the face, bending his armed wrist backward. The guy shrieked and his knife dropped to the floor. Jason kicked it into a corner so he wouldn't step on it if this got worse.
He turned back to the gunless-guy and instead got the dude with the Crocodile Dundee knife. Jason ducked under a slash and dodged a kick from the gunless-guy on the floor. He flipped My-Knife-Is-Compensation guy and the dude went down, crashing into the third one. He heard a yelp and a scream. Jason glanced back just to make sure no one was dead, and noticed that the big blade had cut the third guy. There was blood but he would li–
Jason hissed as the gunless-guy came up and socked him in the eye. Jason had been distracted making sure the other dudes were okay. He had tried to be helpful.
He'd done things the fair way. He'd done things the kind way.
Now, he got to be angry. It felt so good to be angry.
He spun around, kicking the teen's crotch, then taking him out by grabbing his head and acquainting it with his kneecap. The smack! sound definitely paid him back for the lucky shot. Jason would be nursing that for a day or two, with no way to explain it. He just have to keep avoiding Bruce. That was fine.
"When I said leave them alone," Jason said, "I meant it."
"Man, what the fuck? You a ninja or something?"
"Stay back, you crazy bastard!"
"Stay away. I'm going to be coming back, and don't think I won't ask around."
"Fuck you, man!"
"Yeah, asshole!"
Like these jerks hadn't just stormed into someone else's home and tried to rob these kids. Jason let the bleeding one take his knife back but the gun was his now. They dragged their friend out and Jason watched them go. He'd have to look into this.
"Ow!" Jason yelped when the sister stormed up to him and kicked him in the shins. Kid had cajones, but yowch.
"Great! Now we have to clean this mess up! They're going to come back you know, and you're not going to be here! You're not Batman! What are we going to do? They didn't care about us before. They'd come and threaten us, and we'd give enough of a fight that we weren't wimps but we'd give in eventually so they'd leave us alone!"
"I know how it works," Jason snapped, rubbing his leg. She tried to kick him again and he grabbed her and held her at arms length. She was short enough that she couldn't reach him after that.
"You, get out! Don't come back! You've caused enough trouble, and take your book with you!"
"You think I would just leave you here?" Jason demanded. "You think I would do that?"
"Why not?" The brother said, bat raised to back up his sister. "Everyone else does!"
"We aren't going to a shelter! You can't make us!"
"I know all that," Jason said. "Will you two calm down? I know! I'm not going to just leave, and I'm not going to call CPS. Remember, I used to live here too."
"Yeah, like a million years ago."
Okay, that was uncalled for.
"So, what are you going to do?"
"Well, if you stop trying to attack me, I'll show you how to make sure those assholes stay off your back."
The girl stopped wriggling. She stared at him skeptically.
"Like what you just did?"
"No. What I just did takes years of training. Something much quicker." Jason took the gun from her limp hands. "But you have to make me a promise. You'll never use this in anything other than self-defense. You won't go out and join a gang, and you won't use this to go out and rob people, okay? I can give you addresses of some food shelters, and social workers–" both kids flinched, "but that's up to you. Okay?"
The siblings exchanged glances.
"And what do you get out of it?" the brother asked.
"Not see two little kids become part of the Dead Gotham Street Kid statistic."
The siblings looked uncomfortable, but they both nodded.
"Okay," Jason said. His hands began taking apart the gun. It was a Glock 10 MM. "This part of the gun is called the barrel."
Cassandra Cain had had a very long night. Catwoman had run her ragged, playing cat and mouse around the city all night. Batman had been busy doing… other things, and hadn't taken the bait, which left it up to her. She arrived home later than usual. Her apartment smelled of lemon-fresh, Alfred must have come by to clean up and do her laundry today. She would have to thank him later. Had made a point of it ever since he told her that he was doing it. How had she supposed to have known?
Cass took a shower, spent extra long in it because she was extra sweaty. She downed a couple bottles of Gatorade and was ready to sleep. She and Steph had reading practice in the morning (or in a few hours since it was technically already morning. Cass could see the glow of sunrise outside her window already reaching up into the dusky clouds).
Cass shut the blackout curtains and pulled open her door, only realizing when she was about to lay down on him that he was there. There was a lump on her bed. In the dark, Cass could barely see him. She squinted and made out the form of her brother. Jason. He was curled up, shoes off (good, or she would have been mad) but other than that, still in his civvies.
Cass sighed, and gently pulled the blanket over him. She tucked him in, and his tense face relaxed. She kissed his forehead. He snored loudly at her. He'd be waking up soon. She sent a quick message to Alfred, just in case he didn't know where Jason had ended up. Cass took a snack to the couch, ate it, and pulled out her extra blanket.
Tomorrow would be a busy day.
Tim wasn't expecting Jodie (nor her four person—four person!—entourage), and that was what worried him. Of all the possibilities for why he might be getting a surprise visit, none were appealing. In most of them, someone had died.
"Hey, Jodie, what's shaking?" Tim asked. Her friends were armed to the teeth.
Jodie ignored Tim as she always did. "Tim Drake-Wayne, please stand back."
Tim took a few steps back and raised his hands over his head so she could cuff him. They were leaving his cell, that much was certain. Jodie entered Tim's cell and her guard raised their weapons.
"Okay, but I don't put out until the second date," Tim said.
"Very funny," Jodie said dryly. Though she didn't tighten the cuffs too much so maybe she really had laughed (internally, at least).
"So? Where are we going?" Tim asked when she nudged him forward.
"You're just full of jokes today, aren't you?" Jodie asked. The guards fell into step around Tim as they walked. Tim wasn't brought out of his cell much anymore. He only knew the way to the cafeteria and back. And they weren't going that way.
"Huh? What do you mean?"
"Throw me another knee-slapper."
Double huh?
"Seriously."
Tim could hear Jodie's incredulity in her voice. Her friends seemed surprised too.
"Seriously?"
"Uh… yeah. What is going on?"
"I can't tell if you're joking or not."
"I'm not."
They turned down a hall full of normal cells. Tim heard no jeering. No insults. The prisoners watched him like hawks. Or chained prey animals, in the enclosure next to a tiger.
Why were they going down here?
"I know something before you, will wonders never cease," Jodie murmured. "Last time's the charm."
Last time?
"Jodie, you're very sexy and mysterious, but have mercy."
"Congrats, Wayne. It's release day."
Tim was so rarely surprised anymore.
"What?"
Tim had gotten the twenty-five part of the twenty-five to life sentence. The judge hadn't been eager to give him any—he'd killed the Joker, after all—but Tim had pled guilty, so he hadn't had a choice. Tim had served two years. That wasn't a call for 'good behavior' by anyone's standards.
Jodie grimaced.
"You really didn't know about this?"
"No. Are you sure?" Tim had been ready. He had accepted his fate. The consequences of his actions.
"From the Warden's mouth."
Whoever had done this had more power than Amanda Waller herself (she'd been the leader of the 'imprison Tim Drake' gang).
A worrying thought came to Tim.
"Not… I mean…" he could barely bring himself to say it, "Bruce–"
"There's no press outside, so I doubt it."
No press? "None at all?"
"Not a single one."
That meant that whomever had pulled these strings one, hadn't wanted anyone to know; two, really hadn't wanted anyone to know and had the power to make it so; and three, had done it recently enough that there wasn't a leak. The rich and powerful worked fast, apparently.
Please don't be the Legion of Doom, Tim thought, 'cuz there's no way I'm joining them.
Tim was being released. Tim was getting out.
Tim was going to take that head-start and hope that his enemies hadn't found out about this yet. He didn't want to kill anyone else and land himself back in here.
His clothes—the bloodied, red hoodie, sweatpants, and ratty sneakers—were shoved into his hands. His body had changed in jail—a little pudgy here, a few new scars there—but he could squeeze himself into them. Tim was left to change in a bathroom, guards outside his door. As Tim pulled the hoodie over his head and his fingers brushed against something that definitely hadn't been there two years ago.
A sharp, white business card. When turned this way or that, Tim could just see the shiny, stylistic ovals that might have been some type of bird. His… apparent 'benefactor' (Tim hesitated to even call them that) no doubt. On the back, a time and place but no date. Hm, they must have expected Tim to come running. He didn't want to give them that satisfaction but no one just sprung Tim Drake of all people from jail for something good or easy.
Tim had always run into trouble. That was why he'd become Robin.
The guards and Jodie walked him all the way to the door.
"Guess this is goodbye, huh, Jodie?" Tim asked, as they stood, waiting for the gate to roll open.
Jodie still wasn't amused. Two years and not one smile. Bruce would like her.
"Don't let me see you again."
Tim pretended to stumble back, hand to his chest. Aw… come on, Jodes…
Jodie sighed something that was half exasperated, half don't-tell-anyone-but-I-laughed. Tim would take it.
"Goodbye, Tim Wayne."
Tim turned back to the open gates. To the open world in front of him.
There was nothing awaiting him. No one there—not the bird-people, not his family, not his friends. And no black and white Dodge Monaco.
Tim walked to the bus stop and waited for one to come by. He was unsure of how he was going to pay, but another family climbed on when he did, and upon seeing his cash-less state, splurged on a ticket for him.
"Where are you off to?" the dad asked.
A good question.
"I don't know," Tim said.
But their stop had come up. "Well, good luck," the dad told him, herding his children off.
"Next Stop," the bus said as it righted itself and headed back onto the highway, "Metropolis Central Station."
Tim sat back and settled in as the sparkling city came closer. The person sitting next to him was listening to a playlist on their phone, She Caught the Katy bled from their earbuds.
Why not, Tim thought. He had all the time in the world.