Note: Hey all, thanks so much for the reviews! I really appreciate every one. Someone mentioned in one of them that s/he always thought Robin on TT was Tim Drake. I wasn't sure for a while. He does wear Tim's costume (thank goodness) and is much cooler than Dick tends to be, but I'm convinced he's supposed to be Dick Grayson, and I'll tell you why. Of the two them, only one was in the Teen Titans, dated Starfire, could ever conceivably refer to Batman as his father, and (the clincher) have Nosyarg Kcid as a DNA buddy. All right, that was my rant, here's the story . . .
Chapter 4:
Dick Grayson cut an unimpressive figure as he rode the last bus of the night through San Francisco's streets to New China Town. He was wearing baggy black cargo pants and a plain red sweater to ward of the mid-November chill and hide the Kevlar vest. His watch was digital and looked cheap, but in fact, it had a global tracking chip that transmitted directly to a satellite which sent signals to Cyborg's navigational computer and one of the computers in the Batcave, which Alfred had promised to monitor until Dick could contact him. He also carried a yellow backpack filled with bills. Granted, they were counterfeits; Batman had confiscated them earlier in the month from Two-Face. He doubted Emil Cook would notice that the piles of $20s were printed on a hemp- cotton mix instead of linen-cotton, and that the serial numbers, while non-repetitive, were also one composed entirely of even numbers - Two-Face hated odds. Sewn into the lining of the backpack was a series of high-tech surveillance devices. A super microphone; a live-feed infrared camera; and a high-definition, pressure activated camera hidden in a zipper pull were all part of his unassuming back pack. Plus there was another tracking chip, in case Dick got separated from his bag. He was covered on all angles and Cook had no hope of pulling this off. Still, Dick was nervous.
He got off at 3rd street and walked a half a block to Mel's Diner. It was a 50's style diner open twenty-four hours a day and with free parking for customers. In San Francisco, that combination was golden. When Dick walked in at 12:35, no one looked at him. Eventually a waitress noticed him and took him to a booth next to a window. He ordered coffee and waited.
There were no signs of his friends outside. He couldn't see Starfire's eyes glowing through the haze or the headlights of passing cars reflecting off of Cyborg's polished body. He didn't see any green birds or dogs or rats, and he couldn't feel the electricity that filled the air whenever Raven muttered her mantra and gathered her power. As far as Dick Grayson could tell, he was alone.
Emil Cook entered the dinner at twenty-to one. He was drunk again, but not as bad as last time. Instead of coming over to Dick, he walked up to the juke box and popped in two quarters. He made his selection and smiled wickedly as he approached Dick's booth. The juke box started playing "Rockin' Robin."
"I bet you love this song," Cook said as he slid into the bench seat next to Dick, who scooted over as far as he could. He wanted to have as little physical contact with his blackmailer as possible.
"Not really," Dick said dryly, and then, as if it just occurred to him, added, "Oh, wait, I get it, because you think I'm Robin."
"You are Robin," Cook said casually.
"In point-of-fact I'm not," Dick said solidly.
"Then how come you've got a back-pack full of cash for me?"
"Because, you'll tell everyone I am Robin, regardless of the truth, and everyone I love will be in danger."
"Sure, fine, whatever," Cook sighed. "Can I see the money?"
Robin handed over the backpack. Cook unzipped it and looked in side. "Nice," he said, pulling out a pile of fake twenties, "Very nice."
He put the counterfeits back into the backpack, zipped it up, and threw it over his shoulder as he got up from the booth. "You've ponnied up pretty well," Cook said. "'Course, I'll have to count it all."
"Of course," Dick said coldly.
"And not here."
Dick didn't respond, he just stared at his stupid blackmailer with his intense blue eyes. Cook tried to meet his gaze, but couldn't. He laughed nervously. "Come on, kid."
"Come on, where?"
"Back to my place," Cook said. "I'll count my cash and you can collect my information."
"I don't trust you," Dick said coolly.
"What am I gonna do?" Cook scoffed. "You're the goose that laid the golden egg."
"They killed that goose," Dick replied.
"Come on," Cook said. "We'll get back to my place, I'll give you everything I got on you, maybe have a drink, and you'll be home by two. Scouts honor."
"Fine," Dick answered. His voice sounded annoyed and a little afraid, but, in truth, he was cautiously relieved. This had been in the plan from the beginning. Cook would lead him somewhere secluded and the Titans would pounce, freeing Dick Grayson, taking back the counterfeit money, and handing the sleaze-bag over to the police.
They exited the little diner and started walking across the small parking lot. As they approached the exit driveway, a large, dark van pulled into it, and Dick realized that Cook wasn't as dumb as he looked; he was dumber. He'd played both sides, blackmailing Dick Grayson while he sold Robin to the highest bidder. Dick wasn't anxious to see who that would be. He reached for his wrist to push the panic button. It would take the Titans about a minute to appear, and Dick was pretty sure he could buy them that time by struggling and putting up a fight. But before he could push the button, someone opened the door of the car behind him and reached out, trying to grab his neck.
Dick was too concerned about not being kidnapped and murdered to worry about not being a skilled fighter. If anyone asked, he could say he learned his tricks in the circus - very few people would know how impossible that claim would be. He ducked right as the hidden henchman lunged at him, and pivoted, kicking Cook's feet out from under him. He arched his back, so that the henchman stumbled over him and right onto Cook. Then Dick started running. He pushed his watch, alerting the Titans, but a second later something hit him in the back, knocking him down. He opened his eyes and they seemed to catch on fire. He closed them quickly, and the fire got worse. Dick sucked a breath in through gritted teeth and immediately started coughing - the air was full of a thick, burning gas. If the heaviness of the air in his lungs and the amount of pain in his eyes was any indication, he was in the middle of a cloud of orthochlorobenzalmalononitrile gas. Batman used to use a similar substance, until Wayne Tech produced a much stronger, non-toxic gas from red peppers. Continued exposure to orthochlorobenzalmalononitrile could cause permanent lunge and eye damage - he had to get out of there as soon as possible.
Trying to ignore that he couldn't see or breathe; Dick pushed himself up and started sprinting. He could remember the layout of the parking lot perfectly, only ten yards away was a pickup truck, parked right at the edge of the lot. He could jump onto the bed, the roof of the cab. From there, he should be able to reach the streetlight, if he jumped his highest. Once on the light, he should be out of the orthochlorobenzalmalononitrile cloud, and able to open his eyes. By then, the Titans should be there, and just starting to fight. His kept his ears strained for sounds of pursuit, moving cars, and unwelcome civilians. Batman had trained him to fight sightless, how to fight while in pain, how to fight without air, how to fight without weapons, and how to fight multiple assailants stronger than he. Dick knew everything he needed to know to win this battle. But then something else hit him on the back with enough force to push him back to the ground and knock the wind out of him. He couldn't not-take-a-breath, and he started coughing painfully; but he wasn't going to let that slow him down. However, when he tried to get up, he discovered a poly fiber net surrounded him. Through his coughing, without opening his eyes, his fingers quickly and calmly searched for the edge of the net. It would only take him a bout 4 seconds to find it, and then another one to throw it off, leaving him 34 seconds more to stall for time, and the Titans would be there to rescue him. But, right as his deft fingers found the edge, something hit him hard on the back of the neck. Sparks exploded in front of his closed eyes and his entire body shuddered. He slumped forward gasping for breath and coughing incessantly at the same time.
Don't lose consciousness, he ordered himself desperately, stall for time, keep fighting. He tried to push himself up onto his elbows, but another hard blow, this one to his head, knocked him back down. The coughing kept him awake as two bulky men grabbed him, and carried him to the dark van. But then, when they threw him against the wall, the pain and the coughing and everything else faded away.
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"The question I have is this, Dick Grayson told me he was always Robin, and yet, it would seem, given the present circumstances, that he is not Robin."
"Well . . ."
"So, can he be Robin and not Robin at the same time? Is it the cape and boots and mask that are Robin, and not the boy inside them? If Dick Grayson were to decide not to be Robin anymore, could someone else be Robin?"
"I don't know."
"Would you be Robin?"
"I have enough on my plate just being myself."
"But you are not really yourself are you? Or are you like Dick Grayson and always two people or, perhaps, sometimes three?"
"Uhhh . . ."
"Just ignore her," Raven advised. "She'll wind herself down eventually."
"My confusion has nothing to do with winding," Starfire said. "I simply wish to know. . ."
"Uh-oh," Cyborg interrupted as he started the car. "The emergency signal went off. Something's going down."
"But it is not time yet!" Starfire said worriedly. "He is still in the Mel's Diner."
"He's dealing with a blackmailer," Raven said, "a greedy coward. That kind of man will do anything."
"We're only a block away, Star," Cyborg said. "We'll be there in plenty of time to save him."
"Yeah," Beast Boy chimed in. "Besides, this is Robin we're talking about. He's probably already beat up the bad guys."
"But, his signal," Star continued.
"Just a precaution," Cyborg suggested.
"Probably used it so we wouldn't feel left out," Beast Boy said.
Starfire looked over her shoulder at her teammates sitting beside her in the back seat, and then to Raven and Cyborg in front. They all seemed unconcerned. She tried to feel that way too. But when they reached the parking lot of Mel's Dinner and found nothing there but a cloud of tear gas and tire tracks, she couldn't help but be overwhelmed with worry and despair.
"We are too late!" she said. "He called for us and we did not come!"
"Calm down," Raven said. "Cyborg can still track him."
"Umm," Cyborg said. "Actually, no, I can't."
"You can't?" Beast Boy asked.
"I've lost the signal. There must be something blocking his transmissions."
"What about the money?" the fifth Titan asked. "Can you still track that?"
"No, they're both just . . . gone."
"What does that mean?" Starfire asked desperately.
"Wherever Dick Grayson is," Raven said, "He's alone."
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Dick woke up vomiting. He tried to breath, but choked on the vomit. Quickly he rolled onto his side, coughing the disgusting, acidic mess out of his mouth and gasping for breath. He tried to crawl onto his hands and knees, but his hands were bound behind him and his head felt like it was going to explode every time he moved it. Even though his eyes were closed, they felt like they were on fire and breathing was like rubbing barbed wire against his lungs. Another bout of nausea hit him, and he vomited again, but it didn't make him feel any better, if anything, it made the burning in his throat feel worse.
"Ugh," A heavy male voice said. "That's the second time the kid's done that."
"It's a side effect of my gas," a nasal and dreadfully familiar voice answered. "It'll wear off."
"But he's makin' a mess," the heavy voice continued. "An I don't wanna clean it up."
"Clean it up or not, it makes no difference," the nasal voice said. "We have our bird, a fine catch, even if the plumage is ruffled."
Dick ignored the pain, so sharp and strong it made him want to vomit a third time, as he opened his eyes. With some effort, he forced them to focus and discovered that ears hadn't lied to him. In the dark van's tinted windows he could see the small, but unmistakable reflection of Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot, otherwise known as The Penguin.
Cobblepot was sitting in the passenger seat, talking to a thug, the one who'd gotten out of the parked car. Another thug was sitting behind the driver on a bench seat along with Cook, who looked nervous and out of place with such hardened criminals. Dick himself was thrown in the back of the van like so much cargo. Next to him was a pile of heavy-duty radio equipment, which he recognized as scramblers. The tracer on his watch and in the backpack, which Cook was holding protectively, would be absolutely useless. He had to depend on the deductive powers of The Titans to find him. He started to work on plans for escape.
"So, now that we got 'im, what are we going to do with 'im boss?" the thug who was driving asked.
"I have many a plan for our little feathered, or, perhaps, de-feathered friend," the Penguin said with a wicked chuckle. "I'd like to see what, exactly, it would take to make this caged bird sing."
"You want him to sing for you?" the thug asked. "Why, he got some kinda great voice or somthin'?"
"No you dolt!" the Penguin said angrily. "Sing like a stool pigeon!"
"I ain't never heard a pigeon sing? Do they got great voices?"
"Gauhhh!" the Penguin squawked in frustration. "I plan to entice him to tell me who the Batman really is!"
"He won't even admit he's Robin," Cook said. "How you gonna get him to tell you that?"
"Oh," the Penguin chortled. "I have my ways."
Dick didn't know what ways those might be. Any types of bribery, brainwashing or simple torture, he was sure he could withstand. Even if the Penguin used crueler tactics, such as threatening or even harming his friends and family, Dick knew he'd be able to keep his mouth shut; because everyone had a better chance of surviving if Bruce was unsuspected and able to save them all. But there were certain forms of interrogation Dick wasn't sure he'd be able to resist: truth serums, computers that monitored brain waves, and telepathic interrogators. He could not take that kind of risk.
They didn't know he was conscious, which meant he would have time. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, forcing the pain into the back part of his mind and collecting his thoughts very carefully. His hands were bound with handcuffs, the heavy, expensive, hard to pick, kind. He twisted his wrists, so that his right hand could reach the cuff of the left arm of his sweater, where he'd sewn a small pewter hook specially made for picking handcuff locks. In less than 30 seconds, his hands were free. That was the easy part.
The simplest, and probably likeliest to succeed, escape plan was to throw open the back doors of the van and jump out. From the feel of the road, they were driving through the city, and not terribly fast. The worse case scenario would be that he'd fall in front of a car, which would hurt, but it would also cause a crash, drawing the attention of the police and, hopefully, the Titans. More likely, he'd be able to jump over any cars that were heading towards him, possibly onto a streetlight or overhanging fire escape. The biggest problems with those escape plans was that they also allowed the Penguin and Cook to escape. True, they'd be able to track them down, but the spontaneity of a Titan attack was key to Dick's plan, and the slightest hints of production and improbability might end up proving Cook's assertion, not debunking it.
He could also manufacture the means of his rescue by disabling the scrambler, but that would take time, and probably draw unwanted attention. If it were simply a matter of kicking the delicate equipment and breaking it, he would have done it in a heartbeat. But they were in plastic casing an inch thick, and there was no way to subtly position himself in a place where he'd have the leverage to break the casing. The other option, trying to turn it off, would also betray the fact he was awake. He couldn't do it without sitting up and looking at the dials, and the second he did that, he'd probably be hit on the head again.
As he tried to think of another option, the van turned sharply, pulled into a dark garage, and stopped.
"Where are we?" Cook asked.
"The nest," the Penguin answered. "Bring the boy."
This was it, Dick realized, his best chance. He could take all four of them down in a fair fight. All he had to do was ignore the pain in his eyes and lungs and the back of his head, and he'd be fine. He lay perfectly still, waiting for the door to open and the action to start.
"Now, use caution," Dick heard the Penguin say. "Our little birds wings may be clipped, but his beak is still sharp."
The door opened slowly and Dick didn't move.
"Looks harmless enough," one of the thugs said.
"Looks can be deceiving," Dick said as he sprang to his feet.
"Auggh!" the Penguin squawked. "The hawk has shrugged his hood!"
"For the last time," Dick said as he threw himself at the Penguin. Physically, Cobblepot was the least dangerous--even Cook would put up a better fight. But his umbrella had all sorts of tricks, like orthochlorobenzalmalononitrile gas and poly fiber nets. It was the most dangerous thing in the room.
He grabbed the Penguin's well-muffled neck with his left and the umbrella with his right. The two crashed onto the ground, the Penguin Gasping, Dick breathing painfully through clenched teeth. "I'm not Robin!"
"Be that as it may," the Penguin spat. "Your goose is still cooked."
Suddenly, all of Dick's muscles tensed as extreme pain, like a continues splash of ice-cold water, and a hundred-thousand little pin-pricks in his flesh, and a consuming fire, and someone pulling on him as if he were elastic, all wrapped up in one, surged through his body. He couldn't move, he couldn't blink, and he couldn't breathe. He knew that he was being electrocuted, and he even managed to figure out that the Penguin's umbrella was the conductor – but he couldn't let it go. After what felt like hours, but was only seconds, the pain stop, and Dick collapsed on top of Cobblepot.
"Impertinent hatchling," the Penguin muttered, throwing the dazed Dick off of him and standing up. "Hawk, Falcon," he said, turning to his henchmen. "Take this infant upstairs and see that he's properly caged."
"Sure thing boss," one of them said, grabbing Dick's shoulders and pulling him up. Dick was too weak to stand and walk, the thugs dragged him along. He was semi-conscious, alert enough to know he was in trouble but there was no way he could have fought.
To Be Continued . . .