There was something special about city streets at night.
Atlanta was better lit than Gotham, and the air was clearer, and the traffic was worse, but the basic concept remained the same.
That feeling of standing at the bottom of the world, looking up. The sensation of feeling simultaneously insignificant and feeling like a part of something huge and enormous and thriving.
Tim loved it. He'd always loved it.
And of course, there was something heartrendingly familiar about wandering a looming cityscape at dusk in jeans and sneakers with a camera around his neck, his cheeks rosy from the cold. No parents, no big empty house to swallow him. It was the only kind of alone that Tim had ever craved as a kid, the only kind he'd actively seek out. Because he wasn't alone; no matter how well the shadows obscured him from sight, there was nowhere the thrum and pulse of a city alive could not be found.
Finding it now, feeling the city's heart beat through the soles of his shoes? Feeling her breath, thick with laughter and conversation and cigarette smoke, whistling through his hair?
It loosened something that sat painful and heavy in Tim's chest. It felt like he could breathe for the first time in days.
He still had another four hours before LTR-49-1060 departed from the Greenspire Depot, with a respectable cargo consisting of various farm equipment, twelve tons of chickenfeed, and Timothy Jackson Drake.
It was the easiest thing in the world to raise his camera and snap a photo of a stray cat perched imperiously on the head of a statue.
Easier still, to swing himself up on to a fire escape, with the excuse of having a better sense of direction from a bird's eye view.
Whatever else the city had done to him, Atlanta had a beautiful skyline, and old habits die hard. Tim spent the hours scaling buildings, vaulting rooftops, and finally seeing the city. Collecting little snapshots of what made this place special. After an hour, he was flushed with exertion instead of cold, and barely even noticed his missing coat. He even stopped a purse-snatcher or two. It was the most fun he'd had since he'd gotten here.
So fun, in fact, that he lost track of time.
Tim flew down the grassy hillside, swearing up a blue streak that would make Kon blush. He hurled himself bodily into the side of a moving train, plastering himself to the aluminum siding using only his fingertips, years of training, and spite. Hooking a hand over the heavy metal door, he tugged with all his strength, creating a gap just large enough to swing himself inside.
Tim rolled to absorb the impact and came to a stop lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. He let himself rest there, panting, before a sharp bubble of laughter burst out of him, an aftershock of stress and adrenaline and the knowledge of how ridiculous this whole situation was.
He was train-hopping back to Gotham. And not even as Robin! Maybe he should have picked up a little stick and a bandana, to complete the look. Tim smothered his amusement and checked over his stuff, making sure nothing had gotten broken when he'd pancaked into the side of a train like Wile E. Coyote—and Tim lost it again.
It would be about two hours to his next connection. The train car didn't have windows, and Tim, of course, didn't have his phone; so, he propped the door halfway open and amused himself by trying to snap pictures of the scenery as it flew by.
He didn't have a lot of luck, but got a few okay shots of distant buildings and mountains.
The wind whistled through the car, but Tim had nestled himself between two enormous piles of sacked chicken feed to protect against the chill. As the city faded, miles of field and forest stretched out before him.
His hands shook around the camera, and his pictures grew blurrier and less frequent, until at last he found himself staring into the night soaring past him, motionless save for his own harsh trembling.
Tim wasn't stupid; he knew this was big. This wasn't the sort of thing people could just do and get away with, even rich people. Even if it was just Tim, who hadn't felt like anyone's kid in years.
He put the camera down. His hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Climbing to his feet, he stumbled coltishly toward the open door and curled his hands around the frame, letting the harsh wind slap against his face and yank at his clothes. Letting his toes peek out over the edge.
"My dad's a bad person," Tim whispered into the night, and then, even softer, "I don't deserve this."
He tensed instinctively, but nothing happened. The train rattled around him, the night remained empty and enormous, and the words hung in the air, unchallenged, before being snatched away by the wind.
He said it again, louder.
He screamed it into the night, and it was like something inside of him cracked savagely in half because suddenly Tim was crying and he couldn't stop.
He was angry, maybe the angriest he'd ever been. Angry at his mother, for forgetting him, for dying on him. Angry at Bruce and Dick, for not finding him out before it got this far, no matter how hard Tim had worked to keep his tumultuous relationship with his father a secret. For letting another Robin get eaten alive by their civilian identity.
When the rage eventually ran dry, the tears did not.
On the rare occasions that Tim cried, he preferred to do so quickly and discreetly. Handle it like a black eye; annoying and painful and a little embarrassing, but easy to forget about once it was over and done with. Better to lie and obfuscate than to say something and have no one care.
But now? Great, heaving sobs dragged themselves from his chest, audible over even the roar of the train, and he couldn't stop it if he tried. And part of him was glad. He didn't want to be quiet, he didn't want to fade. Even if his dad had forgotten him, or pretended to out of anger, Tim didn't just stop existing. And he didn't just exist in some nebulous somewhere, as a concept; he was here, right now, and he could feel the wind cutting his face and the rusty metal under his hands and he was here.
He didn't cease to exist when people stopped caring about him.
He was a person.
He hadn't deserved this. He'd never deserved any of it.
Tim didn't know how long he'd cried before finally uncurling his stiff, frozen fingers from the metal siding and collapsing back into his burlap alcove. He felt utterly exhausted, but also oddly...light. Giddy, even.
Did he even have to go back to Gotham? The thought came to him unbidden. A hoarse, disbelieving laugh bubbled out of his mouth.
No one knew where he was. Not his dad, not his team, not even Batman. What if he just stayed here? In this funny in-between place, this twilight with Timothy Jackson Drake on one horizon and Robin III on the other. Here, he wasn't either one of them; he wasn't crushed under the weight of two lives' worth of secrets and responsibilities.
Here, he could exist in his purest form: A boy holding a camera with no one looking out for him but himself. It felt good, to admit that, to trust it. It felt honest.
Tim laughed. Took a few more pictures. Chewed another stick of gum.
Rationally, Tim knew he couldn't sit in a boxcar filled with chickenfeed forever. But it was nice to pretend.
By the time he'd crossed the border into North Carolina, Tim had come back to his own head a little, and spent the remainder of the ride simmering with low-level embarrassment. Nevertheless, he couldn't bring himself to regret his lapse. It sounded backwards, but crying had made him feel better, and besides, nobody knew but him.
As it reached Charlotte, the train chugged more and more slowly, and Tim took the chance to slip out of his little box before it came to a complete stop. He checked his watch: 2:30am. Perfect. He had just over two hours to get across town to the East Gotterby Station to catch the...Tim shuffled his notes, looking for the right printout...the 710-WFD-RCM on Southern Washington-Virginia line. He, alongside a staggeringly large shipment of house paint, would be departing at exactly 4:45am.
That would get him as far as Baltimore.
Tim hadn't eaten since his half-finished soup at the bistro, which might as well have been a lifetime ago. Distinctly lacking in funds, he consulted his map and decided to cut through an apple orchard on his way across town. Tim amassed a small collection of fruit in a sack he'd repurposed from some spare burlap commandeered from the chicken train. He snacked as he walked, whistling between bites.
The apples were a little ripe, but delicious and fresh and sun-warmed in a way that seemed to transfer directly from the crisp flesh right to the center of his chest. Even at night, the orchard was beautiful. There was a half-moon nesting overhead, illuminating a cloudless, glittering sky. Tim wandered around, taking in the view, and even snapped a few pictures before he caught himself and checked the time. He was not going to do this again.
Sheepishly, he cut his foraging short and continued on his way, aiming to catch his ride before it left without him this time. The small sack of apples bounced warmly against his hip, and he promised to send an anonymous donation to cover what he'd stolen.
The novel approach of getting somewhere on time required sneaking past security, but that didn't pose any real challenge. He was Robin, not a drunk teenager or a century-confused highwayman.
Tim quickly situated himself in an unlocked car and settled in for the ride. It wasn't as charming or as cozy as the chicken train, but it was fairly clean, and there were some bulk shipments of tarp off to one side that offered a comfortable place to lean. Tucking himself amid the stiff pillars of fabric, he was pleased to find a good spot, hidden from the entrance, with a soft place to curl up and space enough for his little collection of belongings. This would be the longest stretch of his journey, clocking in at six hours, and it was likely to be his only chance to get some rest before he reached Bludhaven.
Setting a little alarm on his watch, Tim nestled into his nook and allowed his aching eyes to drift shut. The ka-thunk ka-thunk signalled the beginning of their departure, and he let the steady rhythm of the locomotive rock him into comfortable lethargy.
The scream of ripping metal jolted Tim from a dead sleep.
He opened his eyes just in time to see a pair of grappling bodies crash into the middle of the floor. Heart pounding, still half-asleep, Tim struggled to get his bearings, freezing in place as the battle swung perilously close to his hiding spot.
The sight of that familiar red helmet gleaming in the moonlight snapped him into wakefulness like a blast of ice-water to the face. It was a particularly unfriendly shade of red, one that Tim hadn't seen in almost six months. Not since the owner had infiltrated one of the most secure bases on the planet and beaten Tim half to death with his own gear.
Jason Todd.
All at once, sensation flooded him, lighting him up to the tips of his fingers and toes. It was like Tim had been slammed back into his own body from a great height; as if he'd been disconnected, somehow, ever since he stepped out of that library in Atlanta. In an instant, every messy thing that was Tim Drake snapped closed along the lines that formed the sharp, uniform angles of Robin.
It wasn't that Red Hood didn't scare him; this was just a familiar fear, one that made his feet quick and his mind sharp. Tim had won and lost a thousand fights against creeps in stupid hats in the past four years.
He knew how to play this game.
First things first, Robin. Get the lay of the land.
Jason's opponent was dressed in dark clothing and moved with the distinct, casual deadliness of your typical league-affiliated merc-for-hire. A jagged section of the roof had been peeled back, from the state of it, meaning either one or both of them was sporting some kind of enhancement.
They exchanged blows almost too fast for Tim's eyes to follow. A casual observer might call them evenly matched, but he recognized the flashy chatter and misdirection that was all Robin intermixed with a brutal efficiency that he'd felt firsthand.
For whatever reason, Hood was toying with the guy. Dodging blows that clawed holes in the metal siding ( bingo, super-strength ) a hair slower than he could have, leaving openings that became broken fingers when taken, dancing out of the way with a delicate spin or flip before planting a steel-plated boot almost through the guy's ribcage. The dance was mesmerising.
It didn't help that Weird Guy didn't seem to have a good grasp on his newfound strength, punches flying wide and balance thrown off by more than just Hood's flashy footwork. A real greenhorn, then. He couldn't have had his powers more than a few days, and was both more and less dangerous as a result.
Reconnaissance complete. Tim had two options: stay and hide, or make a break for it.
The door of the boxcar rattled invitingly where he'd left it unlatched, winking at a rocky hillside. Tim grimaced. He'd probably survive the fall, but his camera almost certainly would not. His papers would be useless. He'd have to find another library to plot a new way home, and his current itinerary (he rifled through his papers, glanced at his watch) put him somewhere depressingly Appalachian.
Paint cans began to explode around the car as gunfire started up, and Tim heaved a regretful sigh. He really, really liked this camera. Pulling a quick, silent somersault over to the door, he peered out at the sheer drop and rolled his shoulders back in preparation. After a moment of hesitation, he wrenched the door open.
Behind him, the gunfire cut off sharply. Tim glanced back nervously, but he hadn't been spotted; Weird Guy had gotten in a lucky hit, and when super strength was involved, one hit was usually all it took. Hood was pinned to the ground by the back of his neck, with a knee digging into his kidneys. His captor leaned down, hissing something into Jason's ear that made his whole body go rigid.
The thing about Robin's combat style was that it was designed with the expectation that (and had proven most effective when) you weren't fighting alone. Someone to catch you when you took a leap of faith, someone to cover you when you drew fire.
This wasn't Tim's problem. Bruce and Dick could lament about the boy he used to be all day long, but that didn't make Jason his long-lost greatest regret. As far as he was concerned, Jason was just some guy who sucked; end of story. It wasn't like he'd drop everything to help Tim if he was in trouble.
Weird Guy had moved on, had hooked his fingers under the edge of the helmet and was trying to yank it off without unlatching it first. Jason's neck was wrenched sideways with every tug. With the way things were going, he'd rip his head off along with the stupid helmet.
Tim didn't have so much as a batarang on him. What was he supposed to do against a guy Red Hood couldn't handle?
He glanced longingly at the cliffside one last time before swearing and retreating back to a more defensible position, keeping eyes on Jason and Weird Guy.
Slipping small and unobtrusive between gaps of standing tarps, Tim waited until a particularly savage ka-thunk shook the boxcar before, with an almighty shove, sending a third of the heavy material toppling onto the two men. The noise was tremendous, starting a chain reaction that sent paint cans clattering from the shelves en masse.
Weird Guy took the brunt of of the heavy fabric to the head and spine with a startled squawk, and Jason took advantage of his momentary distraction to brace and flip him straight through the open door and down the side of the mountain. His fading yells, either too garbled or too not-English for Tim to understand, ended before impact could occur.
Tim shivered. Maybe it was better he hadn't gone for it.
Jason slammed the door shut with a rattling scrape and braced himself against the metal, panting. Tim scuttled back into his little alcove and hugged his apple sack to his chest.
There. Situation handled. Threat neutralized. Now all he had to do was wait for Red Hood to scram, and he was golden. Still on track to Baltimore, even. So, Tim waited. But there was no scrape of steel, no click of weapons being sheathed. The seconds ticked by with no change, until a sharp bang echoed through the car. Tim peered around a corner of the tarp concealing him, curiosity winning out over caution.
Jason had stumbled away from the door and fallen to his knees. His breathing was thick and audible as he wrestled to get his now misshapen helmet off. Tim watched with a kind of morbid fascination as Hood basically clawed at the thing until it released, and held his breath when he hurled it into the opposite wall with a deafening bang.
Hood immediately curled in on himself, burying his fingers in his own hair, taking gulping breaths, rubbing his neck, rocking back and forth gently; obviously trying to self-soothe. Tim looked away, uncomfortable intruding on such a private moment.
So what if Hood was wigging out a little after a bad fight. It happened to all of them at some point or another. The plan didn't need to change. Jason was going to clear out sooner or later, he reasoned. All Tim had to do was keep quiet and wait him out.
The relative silence of the train car was cut by the sharp, shrill beep of Tim's watch.
In the space of a breath, the tarp concealing him was ripped aside and Jason Todd was looming over him, eyes red, breathing ragged. Tim knew the exact moment Jason recognized him, because his eyes picked up a familiar, hateful sheen, glowing steadily in the shadows.
"Replacement," Jason snarled, "What the fuck are you doing here?"