ROBIN and all related characters, names and indicia are TM & © DC Comics 2004. Story by Chuck Dixon, novella adaptation by Ice Spectre.

Rated PG

"TRIUMPH OVER TRAGEDY" - A Pact With Russian Seals

The Joker was dressed head to toe in medical greens, with a stethoscope around his neck, rubber gloves on his hands, and protective green booties over his shoes.

"Look at our guest now, gentlemen!" The Joker cackled. Pellinger was seated before a mound of massive computer equipment hooked together shoddily and piled on top of itself. There were at least twenty monitors, most of smaller size, and one large on in the middle. He looked like he was in some sort of trance. He sat, perfectly still except for his fingers, which flew over the keyboard, like a zombie in front of the elaborate system. His face was slack and his eyes wide and staring. A thin string of saliva slipped from the corner of his mouth. His shoulders were hunched and his neck was craned.

"And you laughed when I suggested he was going to be the most dangerous man in Gotham!" The Joker picked up a syringe and a bottle of liquid to fill it with.

"He looks kinda weird, Joker," one man narrowed his eyes at Pellinger.

"He looks sick," another agreed.

"Au contraire!" The Joker shot the air bubbles up through the needle of the syringe, "I've been medicating him. Trying to get him to loosen up, let his hair down. Make him want to par-tay!"

The Joker rolled up Pellinger's sleeve. Pellinger made no reaction to this whatsoever. "The good doctor is going to give us the keys to the city, aren't you, Doc?"

"Uh-huh... Uh-huh... Uh-huh..." Pellinger looked half dead.

"Excellent! He's soooo cooperative!"

The words in my American History book are growing fuzzy. My teacher's voice is getting distant, like he's speaking a foreign language in another room. My head is drooping but I can't stop it. I prop my head up with my hand, but my eyelids flutter closed. I was out too much this weekend. Even when I did have a chance to sleep, I was so worried that I couldn't.

"And so the United States and Russia entered into diplomatic negotiations for the first time since the purchase of the Alaska territory..."

My teacher's words aren't getting through to me. I'm too tired even to make an effort to understand. My eyes are closed. I can't get them open...

"This resulted in a pact between the two nations concerning wildlife in the Bering Strait." His voice is getting louder. I can't acknowledge that. I can't sit up straight. I can't open my eyes. I can't I can't I can't I can't....

"What sort of wildlife did the pact of 1898 concern, Timothy Drake?" his pointer whistles down through the air towards my desktop. WWHHAACK!!!

Whoa! I'm awake! I'm awake!

"Whuh?" is the best I can manage.

"Shall I repeat the question?" Uh-oh. He's mad. But there's nothing I can do. I didn't hear the question. "What sort of wildlife is the subject of the Russo-American Pact of 1898?

The what? Wildlife? Bears? No, most likely something of importance. Perhaps something that may be at risk of endangerment or extinction. "Ummm... Uh..."

"Well???"

Oh boy. Um... What in the world is Ives doing? Ives sits one row over and two seats in front of me. Mr. Simmons is facing the back of the room, facing me, and Ives is behind him, gesticulating wildly. He's clapping the backs of his hands together. He looks ridiculous. He looks like a...

"Seal? Seals?"

"Are you asking me or telling me, Mister Drake?"

I hate when they say that. "Seals." I answer in no uncertain terms.

"Precisely. A treaty signed to restrict the hunting of seals off the coast of the Aleutian Islands..."

I exhale in relief and run my fingers through my hair. Ives gives me a thumbs-up. I return the gesture, unable to smile at it yet.

Lunch period. I can see Ives across the crowded cafeteria. We have a table we usually sit at, and Ives is there first. I sit next to him and start to unpack the lunch Alfred made for me.

"You saved my life, Ives!"

"You shoulda seen your face, Drake! You looked like you woke up to a nightmare!"

"Great imitation of a seal, by the way," I pull the lid off a Tupperware container.

"I could have done better, but I left my beachball at home today," Ives is really a great guy. It's a shame more people don't give him a chance to show it.

"What is that stuff you're eating?" Ives looks over from his school-bought lunch tray of mystery meat, mashed potatoes and gravy, peas, and a carton of milk to my home-packed lunch.

"Just some leftovers," I don't want to have this conversation.

"I mean, what is it?" Ives insists.

Fine. He wanted to know, and I know what conversation is going to start. "It's... It's just some fish and..." Oh, what the heck. "It's trout dijon over wild rice with a garnish of capers. Alfred made one helping too many and--"

"What the heck are you doing at Gotham Heights, Master Tim?"

Great. Here we go again with the rich-brat-at-poor-urchin-school talk.

"What do you mean?" I know perfectly well what he means.

"Your butler sends you to school with a bag lunch that isn't exactly a P.B. and J. sandwich. The clothes you have on cost more than my whole closet!"

"So?" I'm feeling defensive. My mother's dead. My father's in a coma. Bruce is gone. The Joker's loose. And I'm spending sorely needed sleep-time on rooftops in tights. And Ives thinks I'm lucky because I have an expensive red sweater on, and trout dijon for lunch. Poor... deluded... child. But he's just ragging on me.

"So, why aren't you packed away to one of those fancy boarding schools like the rest of the rich brats?"

You mean the ones whose parents don't care enough or have enough time for them? "Been there, Ives, old chum!" I say, imitating a lock-jawed upper-class accent. And I have been there, too. I hated it. "Mister Wayne thought Gotham Heights would be more... broadening."

"Ha!" Ives jabs me in the shoulder with his fork. Mercifully, it was not my healing right shoulder this time. "Well, Mister Wayne better get you some No-Doz! We start the Industrial Revolution next week in History, and I do a lousy imitation of a cotton gin!"

"Yeah," I sigh, staring at my leftovers. "I have to cut out these late nights. As soon as I take care of this little problem I have."

Little, HAH.

Responses to Reviews:

Evil Ballon – Thank you for being my review number two, then! I will try to keep updating quickly until the whole story is up. If I am VERY lucky, this week! I am glad you are enjoying it!

GhostNinja85 – Greg Rucka adapted "No Man's Land" Can you believe I have not read it? ...I am woefully lax, my most recent adaptation purchase was "Knightfall" – I must catch up. And I am very flattered that you make the comparison! Is this a quick enough updated I hope?

Susie82 – Thanks for the review again! Yes, the Tim/Robin duality was a little bit of a struggle, seemingly so much easier to portray in art than in words. There are times in the story where I felt I contrived it too blatently, but then, I suppose you are right, perhaps Tim contrives it too! (i.e., deep husky voice) I increased the Alfred stage-time, as I love that character! I did omit a bit of the information given to the readers of the comic, simply because I could not find a reason why they would be present to witness that information, but most of it I left in. I figure, most of the readers of this story have read the comic already, so I won't be spoiling any surprises!