Note: Thanks for all the feed back! However, I would like to remind everyone that most everything in these stories (down to the color in Robin's eyes) is from the comics, and what's not from the comics is from Batman the Animated Series – good stuff, all.
Chapter 1: What's in a name
It was Tuesday afternoon, which only meant one thing.
"Grocery shopping," Robin said seriously.
He was standing in front of the TV, notepad in hand, blocking the soap opera Starfire and Beast Boy were watching and Raven and Cyborg were pretending to ignore.
"Dude, can't it wait?" Beast Boy protested. "Holton was just about to propose to Roxanna, or, actually, Rebecca, Roxanna's evil twin, because Roxanna was kidnapped by Gypsies and who are actually mercenaries hired by Roxanna's step father, Gregor, so that he'll inherit her fortune! I gotta see what happens next!"
"Yes, it is quite suspenseful," Starfire agreed. "Could we not wait?"
"We've been putting this off all day," Robin said. "If someone doesn't go to the store, we won't eat tonight."
"We could order out Pizza," Beast Boy suggested.
"Oh, meat-lovers!" Cyborg yelled.
"Veggie!" Beast Boy said.
"Banana Peanut Butter!" Starfire suggested.
"Short-term solution," Robin said dismissively. "Unless, you to drink tap water and eat canned carrots for breakfast . . . "
"But, dude," Beast Boy pleaded. "The show."
"Yes," Starfire said. "I am at the very precipice of my chair!"
"It's just a soap opera," Robin said. "It'll be on again tomorrow and nothing will have happened."
"But, the proposal is happening now!" Starfire said, craning her neck to look over Robin at the drama unfolding behind him.
"Oh, please," Raven said with a sigh of discussed as she closed her book. "Rebecca's going to accept the proposal and their engagement will stretch out for at least a year. Holton will almost find out it's not really Roxanna about a million times, while Roxanna will continue to be held by Gypsies and she'll probably end up pregnant by one. She'll never figure out that Gregor was the one who had her kidnapped even though she overhears him talking to them every single day. When she finally escapes, she'll crash the wedding the second after Holton says 'I do.'" Everyone stared at her, amazed." Unphased, she turned to Robin, "I want plumbs, if there are any ripe ones."
"Right," Robin said after a second. He lifted his pad and wrote down her request. "Ripe plumbs."
As soon as Raven started the list, the others chimed in. Starfire wanted mint jelly, beets, cauliflower and Thai noodles. Cyborg wanted hamburgers, hot-dogs, lunch meat, and beef jerky. Beast boy wanted veggie-burgers, tofu, not-wurst, soy milk and bean sprouts. Raven just wanted plumbs, and only if they were ripe.
"All right," Robin said, skimming the list. "I'm gonna add, milk, orange juice, bread, butter, coffee, sugar, cooking oil, vegetables, frozen or canned, and, ah, anything else that catches my eye."
"Dude, you're grocery list always sounds like a grown ups," Beast Boy said, shaking his head sadly.
"This coming from the guy who wanted bean-sprouts," Cyborg scoffed.
"Bean sprouts are the food of the future," Beast Boy responded with total confidence. "If you're not on the wagon, you'll be left behind."
"This list is pretty long," Robin said, ignoring his friends banter. "Cyborg, will you drive?"
"Sure, but we're strapping the bean-spouts on the top."
"You do and you--" Beast Boy started. But he was interrupted by Starfire's loud gasp.
"No!"
"Star, what is it?!" Robin asked urgently.
"Rebecca has accepted Holton's proposal!" Starfire exclaimed.
"No way!" Beast Boy said, forgetting about his bean sprouts and turning to the soap opera where a thin girl with an angular face was smiling wickedly as overdramatic music played in the background. The show cut to commercial.
"Raven," Starfire said seriously, turning to the other girl. "How did you know this would occur?"
Raven meet Starfire's gaze for a second, then turned to look at Robin, "Can I come too?" she asked.
"Sure," he said. "Let's get going."
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Robin had connections. It never occurred to anyone to wonder how or why he was so well connected. It seemed natural, almost as if it were a part of his powers - like the way Raven floated when she meditated and Cyborg's ability to pug into, and hack, any computer.
Robin instructed Cyborg to drive into new china town in the Richmond district and park in an alleyway off of 19th street, near California, behind a small, family owned, grocers. Robin got out of the car confidently and rang a doorbell next to the service entrance.
"Do you always come here for groceries?" Raven asked.
"Yeah," Robin answered.
"I'm not to hot on this neighborhood," Cyborg said. "Couldn't we try some uptown store sometime?"
"No," Robin said, without explanation.
Before Cyborg could protest, the door opened by a young black man wearing a green apron. "Can I help -" he started, but once he saw Robin in the doorway, his demeanor changed. He seemed suddenly overjoyed; as if Robin were his long-lost best friend and they were being reunited after many years. "Hey! Robin! Saw you on the news, man, like, every night. You keep busy, don't you?"
"Hey Thomas," Robin responded warmly, "just doing our job."
"Man, Gramp's will be so glad to see you! Every night, when he sees you on the news, he gets really freaked out, you know, like the story's gonna end with you guys getting killed or something. I tried to explain that if that happened, they wouldn't just show it on the ten o'clock news, you know, they'd break into prime-time for a story like that. But you know how old men worry."
"You can tell him, we're doing great. A little hungry, though."
"'Course, yeah," Thomas said, hitting his forehead with the heel of his hand. "You got a list?"
Robin held it out.
"I'll get on this," he said. "And if there ain't nobody in the store, I'll send the old-man back. He'll be so happy to see you."
"Thanks Thomas," Robin said.
The boy disappeared back into the grocery store, leaving Robin, Cyborg and Raven alone in the alley.
"Dude," Cyborg said, glaring at the windows of the apartment building on the other side of the alley, looking for people who might think about scratching his car. "Why do we always have to come here?"
"Because Mr. Hooper is a nice guy," Robin said. "Come on, Cyborg, support you're neighborhood businessman."
"This ain't my neighborhood."
"Where did you meet Mr. Hooper?" Raven asked.
"Gotham," Robin said. "It's a long story."
"We had a long list," Cyborg said. "We got time."
"All right," Robin said, as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, about two years ago, Mr. Hooper had a shop, a lot like this one, in Gotham on a run-down, low rent street called Park Row. A Gotham Business leader named Rolan Dagget wanted to redevelop the place, but in doing so, he would muscle out all the current residents, most of whom were too poor to go anywhere else."
"So he came to San Francisco?" Cyborg asked.
"Well, that's how the story ends," Robin said.
"What happens in the middle?" Raven asked.
"Some detective work, a runaway trolley, and a lot of explosions."
"That sounds like most of your stories," Cyborg said.
"I could tell you one about an elephant named Tilly if you like," Robin offered. "No explosions or detective work, just a lot of peanuts."
"Maybe another time," Cyborg said.
"Was Tilly a part of the Haly Brother's Circus?" a harsh voice said from behind a dumpster. In less time than it took most people to breath, Robin had jumped over the car, onto the dumpster, and pulled a thin, wiry man out from his hiding place. He threw the man onto the lid of the dumpster, with a loud thud, and kneeled on his chest. Even though he was a good 6 inches taller than Robin, he was clearly no match to the boy, physically. He didn't bother to struggle or get away, he stayed still and trusted that the young hero wouldn't overly abuse an unarmed, apparently unthreatening, man.
"Who are you?!" Robin demanded, with more violence than seemed absolutely necessary.
"I'm a photojournalist," the man said. He looked like a reporter, wearing jeans, a white t-shirt and a tweed sports coat. He was white, with watery brown eyes covered in thick glasses, thinning blond hair, and a nasally voice. "I was going to do a story on you."
"Were you?" Robin asked between gritted teeth.
"Hey, hey," Cyborg said, grabbing Robins shoulder and trying to pull him off the unarmed journalist. Robin didn't budge. "You can get put in prison for assaulting the paparazzi, happens to celebs all the time."
"I'm not paparazzi," the man said. "I'm a photographer, free-lance, and I've got a great story."
"What kind of story?" Raven asked, stepping closer to the confrontation.
The photographer laughed nervously, "You'll find out when it's published." He turned and looked at Robin, adding, "if it's published."
"What do you want?" Robin asked.
"Even a writer has to eat, you know?" the photographer answered, "gotta make a living somehow."
Robin didn't say anything, but if looks could kill, the Boy Wonder would have committed murder at that moment.
"Look, I can see you have questions, but this isn't the time and place, now, is it?"
"No," Robin said, releasing his grip on the photographer's sports jacket and standing up.
The photographer sat up slowly, his eyes on Robin. "I'm gonna put my hands in my pocket," he said. "I'm not going for a gun or anything, I'm just gonna pull out one of my cards."
"I already have one of your cards," Robin said, displaying the small business card he'd palmed. "And, if you'd had a gun, you wouldn't anymore."
The photographer laughed, "I see why they started calling you the Boy Wonder." He scooted to the edge of the dumpster and slid off it awkwardly. He obviously wasn't a man used to any type of physical activity more complicated than walking. "Thanks, kids," he said as he backed out of the alley. "It was a thrill to meet you all in person." He pointed to Robin, who was still perched atop the dumpster, "I'm sure I'll be hearing from you soon."
Robin didn't answer. The photographer slipped around the corner and disappeared.
"That was kinda weird," Cyborg commented. Turning to Robin, he said, "Mind if I ask you why you were so freaked out?"
"Yes," Robin said tersely. He stepped backwards, to the edge of the dumpster, and jumped, flipping backwards and landing solidly and gracefully on his feet.
"And he lands the dismount!" Thomas's voice said, accompanied with a small round of applause. Robin, Cyborg and Raven all turned to see Thomas and Mr. Hooper standing in the doorway with several boxes of groceries on the ground.
"Was that man botherin' you?" Mr. Hooper asked Robin. The old man looked almost as angry as Robin himself.
"Do you know him?" Robin asked.
"I've seen him around," Hooper said. "If he was botherin' you, I'll see too it that he never comes near this store again. We don't serve no one who ain't your friend."
"I appreciate the sentiment," Robin said. He was looking down the alley, to where the photographer had disappeared. "Let me know if he shows up again."
"You bet," Thomas said. "We'll keep our eyes open."
"Thanks," Robin said, as he picked up a grocery box. Cyborg opened the trunk of his car for Robin to put the box in. Thomas carried a box over as well, while Raven picked up the rest with her magic and levitated them to the car.
"After all you've done, it's our pleasure," Mr. Hooper said. "You just take care of yourself."
"Will do," Robin said as he closed the trunk. "I'll see you next week."
"Always a pleasure," Mr. Hooper said as Robin, Raven and Cyborg got into the car.
"Shouldn't we pay?" Raven asked.
"It's taken care of," Robin said. His voice was distant and cold, he was obviously still thinking about that photographer.
They drove for a while in silence. Robin starred at the business card he'd taken. It had a name, Emil Cook, an address, C 2300 Clement Street, only four blocks away from Mr. Hopper's Grocry store, and a phone number, 415-355-2687, Robin was pretty sure that was a cell number. The man wasn't from San Francisco originally, he had an east coast accent - Not sharp enough to be from New York, or any of it's burrows, nor strong enough to be from Boston or Philadelphia , nor slack enough to be from Metropolis or any place further north - It was a Gotham accent. Mr. Cook had probably grown up on the northeast side, near the wharf.
"So, Robin," Cyborg said, trying to sound confident as he broke the silence, instead, he just sounded intrusive. "Why'd you go all psycho on that guy?"
"He was spying on us," Robin said.
"He's a reporter, that's what they do."
"No," Robin said. "He's not a reporter."
"What is he then?"
Robin didn't answer.
"Robin?" Cyborg prompted. "You know, it's rude to ignore a question."
"I know," Robin answered.
Cyborg waited, but the boy wonder didn't say anything more.
"Ooooh-kaaaaay," Cyborg said, sucking a breath in between his teeth. "I guess you're just going to be rude then."
"Guess so," Robin answered. No one said anything for the rest of the ride home.
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Raven went to her room at ten thirty, after the news. Starfire and Cyborg stayed up to watch the monolog on the late night show, but upon seeing the guests were a boring author and an old actor neither of them liked, they went off to bed. Beast Boy stayed up to watch the Midnight-Horror-Freak-Show. No one noticed when Robin slipped off around eleven-twenty.
San Francisco is not a town that never sleeps. In the tourist districts, like the Fisherman's Warf and Pier 39, there was action to the wee-hours. But the Richmond neighborhood closed around ten, when its average, working class, citizens went to bed. Only a few people were on the street, and none of them noticed a boy running across the rooftops. No one seemed to see him open the top window of 2300 Clement St. and crawl into a run-down flat in the attic of a run-down row house. No one was home, which was fortunate for Robin. He now had the time he needed to discover what, exactly, Emil Cook knew.
The place was a dump. Even if Cook had bothered to keep it clean, it wouldn't have made much difference. The faucet leaked, plaster was falling off the walls, the floor was uneven, and the paint, which Robin was sure had a lead base, was pealing everywhere. As far as personal effects went, Cook didn't seem to have much. There were no pictures on the walls of family or friends, no albums of newspaper clippings, not even a collection of novels that might give Robin an idea about the guy's psyche. His clothes were all nondescript - stuff bought from chain department stores. The refrigerator was empty with the exception of a few cans of beer and a bottle of cheep bourbon. The cabinets had few dishes, and even fewer food items. The guy seemed to live off Ramen Noodles and alcohol.
Finally, when the nearby church bell struck one, Robin found what he was looking for, a laptop computer and a digital camera. They were in a footlocker buried under a pile of putrid laundry - an effective hiding spot, if he'd ever seen one. No thief would be willing to dig through that mound of soiled t-shirts and ripe undergarments, no matter how great the pay-off. Robin, however, didn't have the luxury of being disgusted. Once the computer was on, Robin had no trouble finding out what Cook's plan was. Nor did he have any trouble erasing all information about Dick Grayson, The Haley Brother's Circus, and Bruce Wayne. But wiping the hard drive didn't make him feel any better, Cook still knew, and the information he had was public domain, things pieced together from newspapers, telephone books and the Wayne Corp. website. It would only take a few hours of work to re-create the files he had, if he hadn't hidden a backup already. But while the back-up information was frightening in how much it revealed about Dick Grayson and his personal life, it didn't answer the most important question of all - how Cook knew.
There was a creak on the stairs leading to the door. Robin thought about hiding his presence, but realized it would be pointless. From the sounds of the footfall, Cook was drunk, and, if properly intimidated, likely to spill all he knew. Robin stepped into the shadows and waited.
It took Cook almost five minutes to open his door. He was very drunk, and the lock was very bad. When he did stumble in, he didn't bother to take his keys out of the lock. Robin was forced to wonder if dirty laundry was the only security system this man had.
Cook stumbled over to the refrigerator and opened it up, pulling out the bottle of bourbon. As he fumbled to unscrew the top, Robin made his move.
"I think you've had enough," the Boy Wonder said, stepping out of the shadows and grabbing the bottle away from him.
Cook looked at the green-gloved hand in front of him for a second, then, as the realization of what had just happened finally made it to his brain, he started to laugh.
"What's so funny?" Robin demanded.
"You," Cook chuckled. "What you doin' Grayson?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Robin lied.
"If you didn't know what I was talkin' about, you wouldn't be here," Cook continued. "You showed your hand this afternoon."
"You were spying on us, I'd have done the same to anyone."
"Right," Cook said, still chuckling. "And would you have hunted anybody down? Would you have broken into anybody's apartment? Would you have erased anybody's computer?"
Robin didn't answer.
"You're only proving my point for me, Grayson, you're only making me surer and surererer," he slurred.
"You're drunk," Robin said.
"Maybe, but then, I'm a journalist, I can be drunk 90% of the time and still uncover the truth," he giggled. "That's why I love this job."
"If you're a journalist, why aren't you working for a paper?"
"I was," Cook said, suddenly turning bitter. "But the damn Times fired me. Said I was unethical - just 'cause I took a picture of a drowning kid."
"Why didn't you try to help him?"
"What, are you on their side?!" Cook asked. "Damn it, I'm the press, the fifth estate, I don't interfere, I document."
"You're interfering with me," Robin said.
"Yeah, well, I need money and you got it."
"Why do you think I have money?"
"Stop it, already, will ya?" Cook demanded. "I got 'nuff of a headache as it is, don't need you bein' all double-meaningy with me."
"I'm not being . . . there's no double meaning in what I said," Robin insisted. "I want to know why you think I'm this Grayson person."
"'Cause you are."
"But I'm not."
"I seen ya kid, without your mask on."
"When?"
"At that art thing, while back. When ya locked up Alicia Silvers."
Again, Robin was speechless.
"I got a photo," Cook continued. "Actually, I got a lot a them. I was hopin' to sell one to some tabloid or something, ya know, Teen Titans in Action, but it turns out, most of the papers were already covering the show and had their own people there."
"How unfortunate for you," Robin said dryly.
"But then I realized, I have a bunch of pictures of you with you're mask on, and then one or two of you with your mask off. With a little work on photo-shop I got this . . ." he pulled a piece of paper out of his breast pocket. It had four grainy, black and white pictures on it. Two smaller ones, which were at the top of the page, were of Robin from the Art expo, one was a regular shot, him with his mask on, and the other was from a similar angle, only he had his mask off while the rest of his face was covered in purple goo. A larger picture underneath them was an obviously a compilation, and under that was a clear picture of Dick Grayson - the resemblance was undeniable.
"This isn't me," Robin said, trying to sound convincing and unafraid.
"We both know it is," Cook said. "It would have been a better argument to say that this pic isn't Richard Grayson, but, then, we both know it's him too."
"How did you make the connection between me and Grayson?"
"Ugh," Cook sighed. "Do I look like an idiot?"
"Do you really want me to answer that question?"
"You look exactly alike!" Cook said. "I probably wouldn't a noticed 'cept that picture on the bottom was the last one I had published."
"Why would you publish a picture of him?" Robin asked, baffled. The way the picture was cropped, it was impossible for him to tell when or where it was taken.
"I covered that opening of the Wayne-Tech factory in Santa Cruz. He was there, or, you were there - you probably remember."
"I'm keeping this," Robin said, tucking the paper into his cape.
"Fine, I got lots and lots of copies," Cook said. "Not here, of course, but, you know, around."
"So, what's your game?" Robin said.
"Blackmail is pretty much it."
"I pay up and you're information goes away?"
"That's usually the way it works," Cook shrugged.
"And if I don't pay? You sell the information to the highest bidding media outlet?"
"Media outlet?" Cook scoffed. "News orgs don't pay squat, not for this kind of info."
"You'd sell it to one of our enemies," Robin said. A sickening sense of dread was starting to settle in the pit of his stomach. It was hard to breath, and even harder to keep from grabbing Cook by the collar and throwing him out his third story window.
"No one here in 'Frisco seems like a good buyer," Cook commented. "But back in Gotham, Poison-Ivy, Two Face, hell, the Joker, they've all got the cash to set me up real good."
"They wouldn't deal straight, you know that," Robin said. "They'd kill you the second you told them the name."
"Yeah, maybe, but, by then they'd have your name," Cook said. "And they'd know all about Bruce Wayne, Harry Haley, Alfred Pennyworth, Lesley Tompkins, need I go on?"
"What do you want?"
"Right now, a million dollars sounds damn good."
"I don't have that kind of money," Robin said flatly. He didn't feel like mentioning he'd never pay a blackmailer on principle. He wanted to see the type of man Cook was first.
"Sure you do. You're Bruce Wayne's kid."
"Bruce Wayne may have millions to spare. But I don't have that kind of money."
"You could get it."
"Could I?"
"Ask Wayne," Cook suggested. "He'd probably give it to you. But I wouldn't tell him what you needed it for, though, that man's dumber than a post. You think I'm untrustworthy . . . Hell, you could probably steal it from the dunce's wallet. Or rob a bank, if you needed to," Cook said with a shrug. "You're the Boy Wonder, you'll figure it out."
"What if I figured that the safest thing to do would be to eliminate you?" Robin asked, hoping he could turn the blackmailer's game around on him and scare Cook into silence.
"Come on," Cook laughed, slapping Robin's shoulder. "You wouldn't."
"Maybe, to protect innocent people, I would."
"Nah," Cook said. "You wouldn't. You're one of those unskewpooless -- "
"Unscrupulous?" Robin asked.
"Yeah, Unsckrewpooless ethical guys."
"Unscrupulously ethical?" Robin asked, glancing out the window. "That's a way to put it."
"Look, I know that a mil won't be easy to get. I'll give you a week."
"A week?" Robin scoffed.
"On Sunday night, or, no, morning - one a.m., I'll expect to see you, you as Dick Grayson, mild mannered millionaire's boy, sittin' in a booth at Mel's dinner down the street with a backpack full of unmarked bills, got it?"
"One a.m.," Robin said. "That might be past Dick Grayson's bed time."
"Doesn't seem to be bothering you tonight."
"What happens if he doesn't show?"
"Then everyone Dick Grayson loves will be free game for the highest Robin-hating bidder."
To Be Continued . . .