Twenty

by Nikoru-chan

PART FOUR now posted! After Batman and Spoiler have betrayed his trust, the third Robin is kidnapped. By whom? and why? PLEASE C&C

2. Part Two

Disclaimer: I do not own Robin. I do not own any other DCU character either. (I do, however, own the original characters portrayed in this fic.) I am making no financial gain from this fic, now or ever. No copyright infringement is intended. Have I disclaimed it all? Ah, not quite: Don't bother suing me, it'd be a right royal waste of time.

TWENTY

PART TWO

NINE MONTHS LATER

It was night, and the lab was quiet. Through the vidscreens connected to surface cameras, a full moon could be seen hanging in the air, gravid with promise. A fine night, the Doctor thought, a fine night for the birth of a dream. Turning away from the screens, his attention reverted to the thing in front of him.

The thing itself seemed hardly worthy of the Doctor's gleeful perusal. It was the living body of a boy. Small, no more than fourteen or fifteen, at first glance it was completely unremarkable.

On second glance, it was a good deal more than that.

Though criss-crossed with healing - nearly vanished - scars, the slim frame was not scrawny. The build was rather that of a dancer or acrobat, though the callouses on the hands showed a distinct comfort and long familiarity with many weapons. The figure also sported a stunning mane of long black hair, currently tied up in a high ponytail, a few strands falling into parted bangs over the boy's forehead. Attached to the forehead, and numerous points along the spine, were several surgical leads. Leads where reprogramming and re-routing had finished laying a new mind, and new reflexes. Leads that were about to be detached.

Following the debacles that had resulted in the loss of dix-huit and dix-neuf, the Doctor had decided that vingt would be . . . "completed" . . . under sedation, rendering him unable to attempt escape until he was fully programmed, at which point the idea would never enter his mind.

This night, under the moon, that glowing orb on his monitors, the Doctor had finished the programming. Tonight then, would truly be the first awakening of his completed project. Tonight would be the birth of number 20. Vingt. Van. The pinnacle of my achievements!

With the flick of a switch, the leads detached, cauterising their wound entry-points behind them. With a further extension of the his fingers, the Doctor shut off the IV line supplying the boy - my weapon! - with nutrients and sedatives. Then, he settled back to wait, his impatient anticipation showing in every line of his body.

After what seemed like an eternity to the Doctor, the figure on the table in front of him twitched. He breath caught as slowly, ever so slowly, a stunning pair of ice-blue eyes opened and gazed upon the world around them with frigid calculation.

Chortling with glee, the doctor sat back, running a few diagnostic tests. The results made his smile widen toothily. The 'birth' had been a complete success.

"Welcome, Van. Welcome to life."

The figure pulled himself off the table with fluid grace. Then, lightening-quick, he knelt on the floor, head bowed in servitude to his master.

The doctor contemplated this for several long moments, then considered measuringly the thought that occurred to him. Before I can convince them that we are the best, me as designer, you as product, you'll need to prove the truth of that statement. You also need a final test. We can do both at once, though. I know just what we will do to impress them. . .

"Van, I have a mission for you. Code One-Five-Eight." One-Five-Eight. An assassination.

"Acknowledged." The voice, soft and icy, did not waver in the slightest.

"The details are as follows . . ."

He never really knew why he got them. Hunches, that is. But he did know that when he did, they were usually accurate and he'd ignore them at his peril. He used them, of course. Any extra tool was welcome in his unending crusade against crime.

With a shrug, Batman obeyed his gut instinct and pulled the bullet-proof mask and cape down from their spot in the armament room. Normally he preferred the lighter fabrics for his head, light enough to enable easy movement. Tonight though, his gut was telling him differently. Another shrug, this time to wriggle his ears comfortably into the stiff cowl, and the Bat was ready for the night's patrol.

He'd been very solitary after Tim had disappeared. Or at least, he'd tried to be. Tried to shut himself off from the world in much the same way he'd done after Jason had been murdered. But this time, they wouldn't let him. Whenever he went out, Batgirl went with him, her silent presence soothing and competent. On the rare occaisions she was not around, Nightwing would be up from Bludhaven to keep him company, and Oracle kept a constant check, her radio presence, though often silent, as helpful as any physical being. Then there was the Spoiler.

She'd taken up huge amounts of his time. Time for training, babysitting, and teaching. If the Bat wasn't convinced she'd continue vigilante-ing even without his instruction, he'd have given up on her ages ago. Oh, she was competent physically. Not a patch on Batgirl or Nightwing, but then, who was? Certainly, she'd blossomed under his tutelage, at least in this regard. She was very nearly as good as Robin, and improving every day. She might even be better than the Boy Wonder by this stage; without the two of them together it was hard to be sure. Her detective skills, however, left a lot to be desired. Put bluntly, they were abysmal.

Before the boy had vanished, Batman had begun to take for granted Robin's ability to act independently, to investigate and to extract himself from unpleasant situations without direct supervision. Most importantly, the boy was able to do it successfully, both by himself and with the cavalry he would call in if needed. Spoiler didn't even seem to be aware that cavalry could be called in. She'd gotten herself into more scrapes than could be counted, and remained blythely unaware of how to get herself out of them. Invariably, Batman, Batgirl, Nightwing, or the visiting Connor Hawke would do it for her, though she always helped with the roundhouse punch-up part. This had worked out largely because her independant investigating skills were . . . below mediocre. There was no major crime she'd stumble onto that the Bat or Oracle wouldn't already know a lot about, and hence nowhere she could go to "investigate" without them knowing where to find her.

In desperation, Batman had forbidden her to go out independently. When she'd disobeyed him as he knew she would, he'd arranged for Connor to tag along. Purely in an advisory capacity. Really. The boy's in lust or love with her, the Bat considered, of course I'm going to use it for what it's worth! Especially since he's been 'just visiting' Gotham for nearly ten months.

Tonight though, was different. Tonight they'd be going out en masse. Batman, Batgirl, Nightwing and Spoiler. It would be almost like old times. The only thing missing was Robin. Batman felt a sharp stab in his chest as he thought of his absent protege. You are missed, partner. Sorely missed. I will find you and bring you back. I swear it. But until I can, I'll not let this city crumble.

Without a word he exited the armory and climbed into The Car. Nightwing and Batgirl would meet him on the roof of the AMA skyscraper, along with Spoiler. The Bat just hoped he could get there before she aggravated his ward too much; the frosty reception Spoiler had gotten with Alfred was nothing compared to her introduction to Nightwing. While the Bat's disregard of Robin's ID had incensed Nightwing, the girl's incompetence had further alienated his ward, to the extent that any interaction between the two was barely civil. Certainly not the warm friendship Nightwing had shared with the third Robin.

At least we're talking again now. Those first three months after Robin went missing, and Nightwing blamed me and the girl were hellish. Thought our newly patched relationship was beyond repair for sure that time. Now . . . Now he's focussing on finding Robin and keeping Bludhaven safe. Helping me in Gotham too, though some of that is because Spoiler keeps needing to be bailed out.

Silently, the Car glided to a halt, a block away from the meeting place. By foot, rubble from the earthquake meant the route was tortuous and would take hours to navigate. By de-cell line, it was mere moments before he landed silently on the concrete railing of his destination's roof.

"You're late." Nightwing said, without turning around from the vantage point he'd been using to monitor the city, the immediate surrounds, and more recently the Bat's progress towards his current location. Batgirl waved a hello; though now able to speak, she still had something of a poverty of words. Spoiler, as usual, startled to see her mentor suddenly appear out of nowhere. Although he'd not attempted to disguise his presence on the rooftop, she'd not noticed his arrival.

Somebody else, however, had.

Two rooftops over and up, a slight figure swathed in black carefully adjusted a rifle on it's stand. The figure, only of small height and light build, was dressed in loose dark clothes, a sort of modern Ninja garb. An outfit that allowed a great deal of mobility with minimum impediment. The outfit also hid the rifleman's hair and face, leaving only a slit of skin and eyes free from the dark fabric.

Carefully, the sniper attached and adjusted a nightscope to the rifle. He did this entirely by feel, his eyes never moving from the plateau in front of him, never wavering from the shadow of the Bat. Seconds later, the sight was mounted and adjusted to it's known zero point.

Batman, followed by his 'family', readied a cable and prepared to swing out over the city.

The sniper took calm, careful aim. The world narrowed to himself and his target, bracketed in crosshairs.

The Bat stepped onto the ledge of the roof.

Gently, the figure squeezed the trigger as the Bat was about to leap. Watched as the Bat crumpled, saved only from spinning off into space (and to his death) by the rapid synchrony of Nightwing and Batgirl, who got him down to a lower, closer rooftop and behind a stairwell.

Despite the knowledge that his headshot had been accurate, the figure did not assume the Batman was dead. He would not assume anything. He would check. Carefully and quickly, he disassembled the gun and sight, his hands steady, his breathing and pulse unraised. He'd almost finished by the time Batgirl was upon him. Then, he had other things to think about.

The Bat was not, in fact, dead. Though unconscious and badly concussed, the bulletproof cowl had spread the impact of the round enough to deflect the killing shot. He'd wake up with a bad headache, but he'd wake up.

Batgirl, having ascertained this, went off to make sure the same could not be said of his would-be assassin.

She'd found his location by a combination of instinct and luck, the same things that ended up saving the sniper from her initial silent attack; seeing her gone from the tableau in front of him and sensing her presence behind him, he'd spun, flinging up the rifle stock and barrel to deflect her first blow. It was not a futile attempt; the gun, though now totalled, bought him enough time to flip into a loose-limbed fighting stance. Then the real combat began.

Dizzyingly fast, their fists and feet formed a blur of attack and counterattack, strikes flowing so quickly it was impossible to tell where one started and another finished. They fought bitterly, both knowing that even even in the unlikely event that this proved not to be a deathmatch, it would nonetheless maim at least one of them. One . . . the other . . . even both would die.

They seemed evenly matched as well, the sniper slightly faster and more flexible, Batgirl slightly more fluid. No difference significant enough to win the day for one or the other. In the end, it was the intervention of the Spoiler that determined the outcome. She'd seen the two combatants sillhouetted against the clouds, and had flung out a de-cell and swung up to the rooftop where they battled. Then, with a despirate gamble, she'd dived in, trying to get one of her trademarked uppercuts landed on the sniper's jaw.

She never had a chance. With a strike so rapid it seemed almost deceptively lazy, the sniper blocked her fist and clipped her across the cheek, snapping her head back and sending her spinning to the ground, dazed.

Her intervention allowed the sniper to disengage from Batgirl, and fling himself off the roof. Batgirl quickly checked Spoiler's pulse. Finding it reassuringly steady, she too leapt off the roof, intent on catching her foe.

Landing some three floors down on the roof where the Bat and Nightwing were, she saw no sign of Batman's assailant. But he had to come here! There's nowhere else! Swiftly she moved to Nightwing's side, noted worriedly the slack surprise vying with tight-lipped concern on his features.

"What?" The word was layered with meaning in a manner Batgirl had long ago learned.
"I stood up to defend Batman but he didn't even come near me. He looked at me, about to attack. Then he cocked his head as if listening to something and ran to the other side of the roof, and . . .he . . he did it. That guy. He pulled off the Flying Grayson's quadruple summersault! He even did it with our special variation, not the one that that French pair use! I didn't want to leave Batman in case there were more like him, though there doesn't seem to be. Whoever he is, he's seen that summersault before. But so have a couple thousand circus-goers."

"Later." Though she had a feeling his information would prove crucial, Batgirl also had priorities. Between the two of them they got both Batman and the now groggily aware Spoiler back to the Cave for medical care.

'Later' came as soon as the two injured were settled, when Nightwing contacted Oracle with the information they'd discovered. Twenty minutes of intense discussion later, the three conscious members of the Bat-family were convinced of two things. One, someone wanted the Bat dead. Wanted it very badly. Two, more uniquely, whoever "someone" was, they knew enough about the Bat-family's capabilities to choose their assailant very, very carefully; both the sniper's combative ability and acrobatic skills had attested to that. Further, there had been no warning, no elaborate trap or hostage situation. Most unusual. Though most of the Gotham underworld wanted the first, there were very few who could truthfully say the second. As for the other observation, the lack of florid dramatics in the situation more or less ruled out all of the Bat's more frequent opponents as the instigator of the attack.

That left the idea of a new player. Not something any of the Bat-gang was thrilled to think about.

"That sniper could have been acting on his own," Nightwing mused, "but I doubt it. Not when he stopped his attack after seeming to listen to something. I bet he had a transmitter on under his hood and someone told him to back off."

"By 'someone' you mean the person behind this." Oracle stated. It was not a question.

"Hn."

As it turned out, Nightwing was correct on both counts; on the other side of the city, the sniper knelt in front of the 'someone' and proceeded to give his report.

ELSEWHERE IN THE CITY

". . . I obeyed your orders and returned, making sure I was not followed. End of report."

The Doctor frowned. The assassination should have gone off without a hitch. Probably had. But until the Bat's death could be confirmed, all bets were off. (While a head shot was almost certainly fatal, the Doctor knew from his research that the Batman had a nasty habit of surviving almost certainly fatal things with depressing regularity.) Then, though he wanted Batman dead to prove his product's competence, losing said product to the Bat's followers was not in his game plan. Nor was having his prize badly injured. It was, the Doctor was fully aware, as much luck as anything else that the encounter with the Batgirl had ended in a draw, rather than mutual destruction. Having Vingt take on both Nightwing and Batgirl (who would have been hot on his heels) at the same time would have been futile. Hence the order to withdraw.

This is what I get for starting with pure humans rather than Metas. Not that I had an option. No, that isn't really fair. My programming and rebuilding is so superior that Vingt could take on a Meta and wipe the floor with them, but Batgirl is similarly superb! What a wonder she would have been if I'd gotten to her a few years ago! I doubt even I could have improved on her skill, but she would have been magnificent serving me. A perfect killing machine, as remorseless as Vingt.

"Very well. I suspect as do you that the Bat yet lives. I also suspect he will resurface within a few days." He paused,Vingt remained in front of him, silent and immobile.

"The mission profile is still active. Next time, though, there will be a change of tactics: Rather than allowing you to determine your own methods and contacting you by remote, I shall accompany you and supervise you directly." Vingt did not react to the implied slur, did not stir at all. The Doctor was pleased.

"Will I be responsible for your safety?"
"No, I'll take care of myself, though of course if the need arises my wellbeing remains your priority. Validation code eight-zero."
"New orders confirmed."

It was in fact nearly a week before Batman resurfaced. Vingt's analysis of his physical features and movements confirmed it to be the same man as the one he'd shot and not some double.

He did not resurface for a routine patrol; those had been covered by Batgirl and Nightwing while Batman recuperated more fully from his concussion. This was less of a problem than it might have been; all of Gotham's resident nasties were by some miracle actually in Arkham, Ras Al Ghul hadn't been seen for six months, none of the art galleries currently had any exhibitions worth stealing, and there were no particularly brutal or baffling crimes that the GCPD needed 'special' help to solve. Nothing, except the ongoing mystery of Robin's kidnapping, and the newer mystery of Batman's attempted assassination. Both of these were 'in-family' concerns.

So, what brought the mostly-healed Batman out of his cave was a different issue all together; Gotham had a visitor. A loud, brash, teenaged visitor who, missing his friend and team mate Robin a good deal more than he cared to admit, had come to see his other Bat-friend for an update on the Boy Wonder's case. Yes folks (as he more or less announced as blatantly as he could), Superboy was in town!

Shortly thereafter, Superboy was ready to slink out of town, proverbial tail between his legs. Batman, little thrilled about having Superpowered visitors in "his" city at the best of times, had even less patience when they came with an overt "Yoo-Hoo! Villains! Here I am, come get me! I dare you!" manner. Gotham had enough problems without inviting in a superpowered villain looking for a challenge.

Batgirl, told off for encouraging him by giving him updates on the Robin kidnapping at all, was also ready to scuttle off (in the opposite direction). Though not out of the city, she was certainly ready to get back to her patrol.

It was luck - and hunches - that made them both turn back halfway. Something in the air, something situational, hadn't been quite right.

I'll just check, they both decided, simultaneously.

Another rooftop. Another fight. A stunning sense of deja-vu. Batman, though still groggy from his injury, was currently more than holding his own against the two squads of Retrievalists brought along to ensure the Doctor's safety. This time, it was Nightwing and the assassin that battled.

This time, the would-be killer was taking no chances. This time, Vingt was attacking from close quarters.

This time, the Bat would die.

At least, that was the Doctor's plan. Nightwing amongst others had different ideas.

Delivering a punishing kick to Nightwing's middriff, Vingt reached for the handgun at his waist, determined to drop Nightwing with a well-placed shot before going for his primary target, the Bat. He was sure from the way the other vigilante moved that his costume was not heavily armoured, and even if it does stop the bullet, he'll be out of action long enough for me to accomplish my mission, and do so before my Master loses too many retrievalists.

He'd just raised the trigger when a hunch of his own caused him to fling himself backwards.The batarang aimed at his hand struck instead the barrel of his gun with enough force to send it spinning away to the rooftop, several meters distant. In the next instant he was fighting with every fibre of concentration in his being against a furious Batgirl.

Of the melee on the rooftop, theirs was the only even match; Batman, now with the assistance of Nightwing, was easily mopping the floor with the retrievalists. The Doctor, seeing his bodyguard force rapidly being eroded by the Dynamic Duo, was giving serious consideration to a discrete escape (it being the better part of valour). Once I'm away I can always give a radio retreat order to Vingt.

He had, in fact, reached the edge of the rooftop, foot on the ledge, when Spoiler noticed what he was doing.

"Hey! He's getting away! Or not!" With a flick of her wrist, she spun a batarang and rope towards him. With perfect pitch and glide they struck, wrapping around his ankles, stopping him from running. Unfortunately, they also hindered his balance rather substantially. With a shriek, the Doctor toppled from the edge of the roof towards the ground some thirteen stories down.

He never got there. Swooping up from below was a suddenly very welcome superpowered visitor.

"Going somewhere?" Superboy cracked a grin.

"Er, yes, young man. If you would kindly deposit me on the main street I'd be very grateful."

" 'Fraid not. See, you're wearing batropes," he gestured at the line around the Doctor's ankles, "an' that means I hang onto you and give you to the gang that owns 'em." With that he landed on the rooftop, holding the Doctor's wrists as securely as bands of steel.

He was just in time to witness it all: Batman and Nightwing emerged battered but triumphant from their fight, the bodies of injured and unconscious retrievalists strewn around them. Batgirl was still fighting with Vingt, but this time Batman had enough sense to keep Spoiler from interfering.

Then, once again, the unexpected happened; Vingt, seeing his master caught, detached a small blue globe from his belt and flung it at Superboy. The whining shriek of a killing-level energy charge sundered the night as the ball struck, discharging its force into a screaming Superboy. The doctor, protected from the current in his insulated "workwear", twisted free, ready to call a retreat and wait for a better day. As Superboy writhed on the ground, Batgirl, hand flailing but determined to take advantage of the fleeting distraction, grabbed hold of the assassin's cowl and mask. And ripped it off. Superboy forgot his pain, forgot the sheer effort it had taken to survive the charge that would have killed a normal human, and forced himself to his feet.

There was a gasp from all assembled as the long, dark ponytail fluttered free from the confining hood to whip in the wind. And then the assassin, Vingt, looked up. His face was expressionless, but his eyes . . . his eyes were like blue ice, narrowed and lethal.

"R. . . Robin. . .?"

The Doctor was not sure who'd uttered the name. Vingt's expression showed no change, no recognition at the word, but the Doctor knew. The game is up. Even if you kill the Batman, even if we get away, they'll know it's you. And they'll come and get you, they'll hunt us down. I'm sorry Vingt, but it's time to cut my losses. A heartbeat later Vingt resumed his attack. A heartbeat after that, Superboy restrained the now-immobile Doctor again.

"Code Two!" The Doctor yelled, his voice cracking.

"Confirm." Vingt was as cold as ever, not even showing the strain of the intense fight.

"What? What're you . . .?" Superboy was puzzled. Suddenly, Batman looked up from where he too was watching the combat.

"Superboy! Cover his mouth!"
"Huh? Whu -" He was hurting, and hurting made him slow.
"Gamma! Confirmation Gamma!" The Doctor yelled.

"Acknowledged." Again the voice was inflectionless. He's . . . he's perfect. My perfect weapon. The Doctor turned his gaze away with pained pride, knowing what was about to happen. Au Revoir, my Vingt. No, I'm afraid it's goodbye.

Vingt, taking advantage of Batgirl's surprise at the recent revelation, landed a good punch on her. She steeled herself for his follow up, but it never came. An instant later - an instant too late - his body language revealed what he was going to do.

Batman and Nightwing saw it too, also too late.

Vingt dove for his handgun, brought it up. . . He's gonna kill this dude!?That's what that "Gamma" crap means!? Superboy prepared to shield his prisoner. Despite being hurt and weakened, he knew he had to. Even if it cost him in pain. He couldn't let Robin - couldn't let his friend - murder someone.

The hand holding the gun didn't even pause as it swept it's aim past the Doctor, past the Bat. It halted with the barrel resting against Vingt's temple.

With a small smile that only Superboy - facing him - saw, Vingt gently pulled the trigger.

He was not aware of screaming. Nor was he aware of flinging his prisoner to one side. Without thinking Superboy dove for the ground the minute Robin's finger tightened. Oh please, please, let me make it in time! Please! His hands hit the ground at the same instant that a shower of blood blossomed from the side of his friend's head. Looking up, he saw, as if caught in a still photo, Robin begin to crumple, blood streaming from his forehead. So red, so very, very red.

He took forever to fall, the moment held in eerie silence. Time stopped.

Then, as the bleeding body hit the ground, time started again. Superboy resumed breathing. Without even looking, he could tell the Bat had moved, was running for the boy, Nightwing hot on his heels. Suddenly, sound returned with the Spoiler's screaming sobs. I . . .I . . . oh, please, let it have worked!

It was then he heard the second-most-wonderful sound in the world. The sound of a chunk of plaster detaching from the fretwork of the next building over and falling to the ground. It had been knocked asunder by the ricocheting bullet.

Without knowing how he got there, he was suddenly at Robin's side, impervious to the blood that coated the figure, Superboy dropped his head to his friend's chest. That was when he heard the first-most-wonderful sound in the world. A heartbeat. Faint but constant. A beat. Then, overlying it, the sound of a breath.

"He's concussed. Out cold. But it's just a flesh wound. Scalp wounds always bleed a lot and look worse than they are." Superboy looked up, surprised. It was the most words he'd ever heard Batman utter in a single sentence. I did it! Thank god for Knockout's training! I did it! I used my tactile telekinesis (TM) to make Robin bulletproof! And. . . hey wow. . . I did it without even touching him! Just the ground he was on.

The Bat looked up, catching his gaze, and his next statment caused Superboy to pinch himself.

"Thankyou." There was a wealth of relief and gratitude in the normally forbidding voice. Somehow, Superboy found his own tongue.

"He's my friend." He said simply. Then, without asking, he carefully gathered the body of his team mate into his arms. He's so small! Superboy noticed irrelevantly. Somehow, whenever he was conscious and co-ordinating Young Justice, Robin seemed so competent, so sure. Seeing Robin looking so frail and lost in his arms was more than a little disconcerting.

Carefully, Superboy used his telekinesis to keep the other boy's head carefully braced, and then to stop the blood that was still pouring from the ugly-looking scalp wound. Never been so glad for my little bag of supertricks as I am today.

"I'll get him home." With that, he flew slowly, carefully towards the Cave. Thankfully, he still remembered the way, for all that it had been a long time since the one and only time he'd been there. Come to think of it, having all the world's grown-ups disappear seemed suddenly a lot less scary than it had at the time. A lot less scary than watching a friend shoot himself in the head.

"You're home, Robin, you're home."

That was when he noticed his burden's breathing, increasingly irregular for the past few seconds, had stopped.

Inside Vingt's head, the hibernating TimRobin stirred, and wakened. It watched impassively - it had to, there was no connection to current emotions in it's tiny refuge - the explosion of pain that followed Vingt's suicide attempt. Then, TimRobin became interested. The walls around it were weakening as Vingt continued the self-destruct sequence the Doctor's words had ordered. If Vingt weakens enough, if before we die he just weakens enough, I can get my body back and survive, just like I promised! Hope flared, and TimRobin knew by that that the walls to be very thin now, the connection to his feelings almost established.

Then Vingt, knocked into a stupor by the concussion, rallied. He could not force the superhero carrying him to drop him, he'd read the dossier on Superboy and knew that his tactile telekinesis would prevent it, but he still had one ace in his sleeve.

One of the techniques he'd been programmed in was overriding the body's instincts. One of those instincts is to breathe. He would complete his mission. He would stop his breathing, and then use control of his own vagal nerve to slow his heart. By the time he was too weak to retain control of both of those, he'd also be too close to dead to be revived. TimRobin screamed in impotent rage as Vingt set his plan in action.

Then, TimRobin stopped raging and went back to watching. Vingt's plan had been implemented without the knowledge that TimRobin existed. There was still a chance that he could turn the situation around. But Vingt wasn't weakening fast enough, and any moment Superboy would notice there was a problem and try to save his body. If that happened while Vingt was still in control . . . I'll be back where I started, only the next time he tries to kill us both he'll make sure he succeeds.

The walls were thinning, Vingt's grip on mind and body was weakening, but so was TimRobin. For all that he was a concept-personality bundle, his hiding place in the brain was as vulnerable to hypoxia as anywhere else. Come on, come on!

As Vingt began to slip away, Superboy began a despirate telekinetic CPR. Seeing his chances of survival intact recede, TimRobin readied everything for a last despirate gamble. I must survive. Somehow, in some form, I must survive! With that the bundle that was TimRobin gathered itself and flung itself at the dying Vingt, despirate to break through the other personality, break back into existance.

TimRobin and Vingt collided in the mind and body that both sought dominance over. One despirate to die, one despirate to survive. Both shattered into tiny fragments with the impact, both broken beyond hope of individual repair.

Suddenly, from nowhere but everywhere, Kaze's voice sounded, as true and clear as a bell "don't give up! You must survive!"

Silence.

Slowly, carefully, a tiny fragment of TimRobin, a fragment glowing with "survive" reached out tendrils to the fragments around it. Fragments of TimRobin . . . and fragments of Vingt. It was indiscriminate, and it bound them together. It wanted to survive. It was a mind and it would survive by any means possible.

Somehow, neurological pathways in the brain were reactivated, reformed and even blazed anew. TimRobinVingt came into existance, a new birth. A new person. A survivor.

In the Cave, Batman smilingly took the paddles off Robin's chest. The boy looked terrible; old whip scars marred the skin of his torso, which was also now burned from the cardiac rescusitation machine. His nose was bleeding, from where a nasogastric tube had been passed, and his mouth was jammed open by an intubation tube connected to a ventilation machine.

But he was alive, and the ECG tracing on the monitors indicated he was going to stay that way, thanks in no small part to Superboy's quick thinking and application of telekinetic first aid when the boy had first stopped breathing, and then gone into cardiac arrest.

"Someone will stay with him all the time until he wakes up. We will roster. A concussion should not cause cardiac arrest." Nightwing, Batgirl, and surprisingly Superboy nodded. They would watch for any signs of a further arrest, and if necessary, they would bring him back again. Spoiler looked uncomfortable. With the barest moment of hesitation, Batman pulled out a set of restraints from a drawer and efficiently shackled the small form to the medibed. Nobody objected. After all, nobody really know who - or what - would wake up.

Alfred, summoned back to the Cave by Nightwing (via Oracle when he was driving back after depositing a securely bound Doctor with the police), settled down to take first watch. Batman looked as if he might argue, but a sharp glance from the elderly butler quieted him. With a small smile he herded Spoiler towards her transport home. She still used the sealed cabin, as she remained one of the 'uninitiated' when it came to Batman's true ID.

While Batman was escorting Spoiler out, Nightwing turned to the figure on the medical bed. So small and still, he could see the marks of torture and abuse that Batman had noticed earlier. With a growing cold rage, he noted the amount of weight the boy had lost, despite the wiry development of muscle. He's pretty strong now, but those scars . . . he looks like he's been through Hell. Probably has, with that kind of brainwashing. If I'd seen this . . . physical stuff . . . before . . . I might have been tempted to 'restrain' that bastard doctor a little harder before giving him to the cops!

Pushing his anger down, Nightwing turned his attention to the boy's face. Thinner than it had been, and distorted by the bandage on one side, it looked surprisingly peaceful. Gently, Nightwing ran his fingers through the long dark hair splayed across the pillow.

"I missed you, Little Brother. It's good to have you back."

Batman's return signalled Spoiler's departure, so Nightwing made his way over to one of several beds tucked into a corner of the cave, crawled into it, and was asleep within moments. Superboy, Batgirl, and finally Batman followed suit. Of them all, only Batgirl got as far as removing one boot before sleep claimed her.

He awoke. His first thought was I am alive! His second, Why does that surprise me? Cracking open recalcitrant eyelids, the first thing he saw was a large rocky spear, pointed directly at his face. Before he could panic and attempt to fling himself out of it's path, he realised it was in fact a stalactite, and was going nowhere.

Carefully, gently, he twisted his head to the side to see more of his surroundings. A man, young, with black hair and a mask came into view. Familiar yet unfamiliar, recognised as friend yet opponent. Confusing. He tried to sit up, only to find he could not move. Dimly, he registered restraints on his arms and legs, holding him to the bed he was lying on.

"Welcome back," the man sitting next to him said. He seriously considered replying, but then settled for falling asleep again.

The second time he awoke, it was a girl next to him. Several years younger than the man had been, she was blonde and, he supposed, fairly attractive. She was also fidgeting.

"Oh! Wow! You're awake, Tim! Er. . . sorry. . . Should I call you Robin? I mean, you don't have your mask on or anything but if you, like, want me to I can." He looked at her. He didn't know her, he was sure, yet felt instinctively that he did not trust her. At some stage he knew he had known her, trusted her. But something had happened, somehow she'd betrayed that trust. The thought was not comforting. Tim? Robin? Is one of those my name? He found he liked the sound of the second better. Faintly, a memory of another young voice, this one boyish, though roughened by strain, calling him "Robin". The boy the voice had belonged to had . . . had what? Maddeningly, the memory slipped away. Present time first, he decided finally.

"Where am I?"

The girl, who had until then been keeping up a constant stream of incessant chatter, suddenly stopped, speechless.

"Wait here. I'll, uh, I'll, like . . . go get someone." She all but fled. Moments later she returned, with several "someones" in tow. Robin (for he had decided to use that name) felt distinctly threated, not least because he had just discovered he remained bound to the bed.

Somewhere in his scattered unconsciousness, restraints stirred a very unpleasant memory. The girl and her compatriots approached. Robin felt something akin to fear; Trapped! Tied! Can't move and he's coming! Hurts! Hurts! The memory surfaced, gripping Robin in a tight clench, leaving him gasping and terrified. Sobbing, he fought the restraints, ripping bloody gashes into his wrists and ankles. Fresh marks to match the older restraint scars already there.

One of the figures, the man from earlier a (tiny) cool, dispassionate part of him observed, noticed his distress and hurried forward, snapping free the ties and holding him close. The others gasped, as if expecting the figure on the bed to attack, to attempt escape. . .

He almost did, but . . .

"Robin, Robin, it's okay . . . shhhhhh. . . it's okay, little brother. . . shhh. Nobody's going to hurt you. You're safe." Gently he held him. Nightwing. This is Nightwing. This is Dick. He is my friend, like an elder brother to me. The thought popped into his head, and the sense of familiarity that accompanied it soothed the crying boy. Slowly, his terrified sobs eased.

When he looked up again, his sky-blue eyes peering from the safe comfort of his 'brother's' arms, the blond girl was gone, but the two other men were standing there. One, a butler from the look of his dress, was holding out a handkercheif. Hesitantly, he took it.

"Th - thank you. Alphonse? no. No, it's Alfred."

"I apologise, young sir, for restraining you. We had no way of knowing in what, er, frame of mind you would be when you awoke. We considered it a lesser of two evils, though now I wonder," he eyed the scars on the boy's chest contemplatively. Then, shaking himself, sat down with a first-aid kit and proceeded to deal with the wounds the boy's struggles had opened on his wrists, noting the scarring there from previous restraining, Those scars would have been left by rope and pain. He was tied down and tortured. The poor boy, no wonder he was so scared. Carefully, the butler tended Robin's wounds, managing to do so without forcing him from the shelter of his brother's arms.

The Bat had been silent the whole time. Watching, evaluating. Robin watched and evaluated right back. As far as he could tell, he had greatly admired this man. Something akin to hero-worship, I think. But this man had, like the girl, betrayed him. Robin had, and still would, trust him with his physical wellbeing, though he shredded my life.

"Robin," finally, Batman spoke. "Spoiler said you asked where you were. What do you remember?"

Robin contemplated for a moment. I must give a proper answer. Within limits. This person is one who can take away my right to the Robin persona, and just at the moment I need that. It is all I have. No, it is all I am. He wasn't completely sure where this sudden insight came from, but nonetheless trusted it. A fragment of memory, I guess. Thinking hard, Robin was rewarded for his concentration when several more memories coalesced in his mind.

"You are . . . Batman? Yes, Batman. He is Nightwing. The other man is Alfred. He is my friend. He was your butler, but you drove him away, so he helped me, both as a butler and as a confidante. You are also Bruce Wayne. Nightwing is Dick Grayson. There is another. A woman. She is Oracle, and . . . Barbara? Yes, Barbara Gordon. I am Robin. And I'm tired. Don't tie me up again." Satisfied that the Bat now knew that Robin knew too much to be . . . retired . . . out of hand, he allowed himself to fall back into a deep, healing sleep.

The next few weeks were difficult ones. Robin's physical injuries healed quickly, his mind slowly. Sitting at the mighty Crays, he discovered that nomatter what he'd lost or had damaged in his mind, his hacking skills remained (had become via implant?) absolutely superb. In twenty minutes of his first day out of bed, he'd hacked into the Crays' personnel files (something he was pretty sure he'd never even thought of doing . . . before). There, he spent the rest of the day re-familiarising himself with every member of the Bat family, the JLA, the Titans and Young Justice. Including himself. Robin III. Timothy Drake.

Except he wasn't, anymore. Looking at the file was like looking into a fractured mirror; parts matched exceptionally well. Parts didn't. Timothy Drake, Robin decided, was dead. He died at the hands of the Doctor nearly ten months ago. I'm not him. Not anymore.

But he wasn't Vingt either. That much Robin figured out on the second day out of bed, when he realised that some of his memories could not be from his time in the Cave. Memories of harsh trainings and abuse, of screaming on a torture table, and of the Doctor. Always the Doctor. Going into his mind to take things away. And to put things in. Memories of the implantation of martial arts, fighting techniques, weaponry skills. Them memories of the intensely painful spinal and perepheral reprogramming, needed to implant the reflexes to carry out the newly created martial abilities present in his head. Memories of the physical training that accompanied it, of forcing his body to be fast enough, supple enough, strong enough to follow the directions of his carefully sculpted mind.

That was when he started looking elsewhere. That was when he discovered the hack into the Crays that had occurred nearly ten months ago now. With a skill not even Oracle could boast he patiently re-created the path the hacker had taken. It took him eight minutes. Then he started hacking. Hacking into the Doctor's own network.

Or what was left of it. At the time Robin hacked in, Someone or something had destroyed the entire facility, killing everyone in it. Slicing into the security cameras' circuit, Robin caught a brief glimpse of a small boy, not unlike himself in build, but with a hip-length braid of hair. The figure stirred memories, but before Robin could get a good shot of the other boy's face, the camera was smashed. Rapidly downloading what he could of the organisation's semi-destroyed files, Robin ruminated on the boy he had seen. There's something familiar. . . he couldn't place it. But somehow, he felt a kinship for the other. It wasn't the mass destruction he was perpetuating (though that didn't bother the new Robin to the extent that Batman, had he known, probably would have liked) it was something else. Those hands, slender and dealing such unbeleivable punishment, had delivered comfort as well.

With a snort, Robin shoved a lock of his shoulderlength hair out of the way behind his ear; though Batman had said he would arrange for the removal of the "20" tattoo, nothing yet had been said of his hair.

The memory was suddenly, vividly clear.

"Wear your hair with pride. You've earned it." Kaze. That boy is Kaze! Unconsciously, Robin lifted his hands to his head, and twisted the unruly locks into a neat plait, the same style that Kaze had tied it into when there was so much less of it, so very long ago. The memory was gone, leaving Robin with a name, a face, and a recollection of friendship, other memories hanging tantalisingly just out of his grasp.

As more time passed, Robin continued to wear the braid. Batman said nothing.

Batman said nothing, that is, until shortly before Robin's return to patrol in Gotham. The Bat had been monitoring the boy, watching as more memories clicked into place. Watching as the boy became both more like his old self . . . and less.

The boy's skills - both physical and mental - were better than ever, of that there was no doubt. But his ethics? Batman ruminated on this for some time. He was not about to unleash another former assassin upon Gotham, even if this was a former assassin who'd never killed anyone. Watching Robin spar with Batgirl (friendly matchs now) the blantant double-standard of this did not occur to him.

The night before Robin's reactivation, Batman left on patrol. As he was climbing into the Batmobile, watched as always by Robin, he commented in an off-hand manner to Alfred, "Oh, and Alfred, would you pull out a fresh suit for Robin please?"

The quick intake of breath from the boy, followed by the shy smile, convinced him he'd made the right decision. The boy needed this, needed it as much as Dick ever had, way back in the days after his parents' death. The energy and training he had needed to be channeled constructively. Or else it would flare up and consume him, along with whoever else happened to get in the way.

Dispelling the disquieting images that idea conjured up, Batman added, almost as an afterthought, "and see to it his hair's cut back too, we can't have a long-haired Robin."

Roaring off into the dark, he did not see the tableau left behind him, did not see as Robin's shy smile melted into a shocked, white-faced expression of horror.

"No."
"Master Robin, Master Bruce left instructions to -"

"No. Not my hair. He can't have my hair."

"Young sir, if I may, the master's instructions were quite specific. For you to resume your role as Robin, your hair must -"

There was a soft click as Robin removed his mask (the only part of his costume he currently wore) and set it on the table. Alfred took a step back at the look of bleak misery in the boy's eyes. Forlorn and lost, Alfred knew how much of the boy's healing had depended upon being Robin. He also knew what the removal of the mask meant. He'd. . . He'd give up being Robin over it. Over his hair.

Silence.

"Very well then, young sir." He turned away, apparently oblivious to the silent tears rolling unchecked from the boy's eyes, and walked off. . .

And returned moments later with a black wig from the Bat's extensive disguise room.

"I believe this one should fit, young sir, and we can cut it appropriately." The boy simply looked at him, blankly, for an instant, the tears still trickling. Then, slowly and a little unsurely, he smiled. A genuine, grateful smile that lit the room. Alfred felt his heart lift. He's finally back with us. At last. He's healed enough that there's something he's willing to fight tooth and nail for. Blast it if I won't help him with everything I've got, even if it is only for hair.

The Batman returned early the next morning to a fully costumed Robin, his hair neatly cut into it's old, short style. He arrived just in time to see Alfred sweeping up the ends of hair from the floor, apparently the aftermath of a haircut. He arrived too late to see Alfred teach Robin how to bind his hair flat under the wig, and apply the special glue so that the wig would not lift off easily, either from pulling or from water. Too late to see Robin tuck the jar of glue solvent very carefully away.

The next night, they went on patrol together. Batman and Robin were back in business.

END PART TWO

NOTES:

1.Many thanks to E.B., for the tutorial on the merits of various firearms. While in the end I did not opt to use 'brand-name' weaponry, our discussion was most useful for me to get clear in my head precisely what I needed (from a story-telling POV) from the armaments. Any errors in accurate depiction of these guns are entirely my fault.

2. No, I have never seen an issue of any comic where Superboy uses his Tactile Telekinesis (TM) in either of the two manners I had him use it here (if anyone has, please let me know). However, both the bullet-proofing through touching the ground the subject is touching and the CPR seem logical extensions of the technique.

3. As always, respectful homage is intended, copyright infringement is not.