Issue #4 – Superboy and Robin

For some reason, people who put on tights and beat up other people lead crazy lives. For some reason, occasionally the people these guys, even the so-called 'heroes,' beat up are their friends.

They do not necessarily want to hurt their friends. It is just one of those things that inevitably happens. Eventually. There is some natural law that says, given enough time, every costumed adventurer will beat up every other costumed adventurer at some point.

Tim Drake knew this. He knew that even Superman and Batman—yes, that Superman and the Batman—had fought on a couple of occasions, so he tried to rationalize, saying it was really only a matter of time before Superboy and Robin fought as well.

Though, Batman and Superman probably had not duked it out in Superman's mom's backyard.

And Tim was pretty sure Batman had not been barefoot, wearing a pair of athletic shorts and a faded t-shirt which read, 'Single and Ready to Mingle.'

And he was almost certain Superman had worn more than just a pair of boxer shorts with hula girls on them.

Tim's eyes darted around the yard. There was a rake against the house. He could probably reach it in time to drive it into Superboy's side. There were some trees not far away. He might be able to throw Superboy off with some aerial tactics. On the whole, the setting for their battle did not favor The Boy Wonder.

Don't get ahead of yourself, Tim thought. You don't even know there's going to be a fight yet.

He looked at the fire building in Conner's eyes, and he remembered Superboy had heat vision.

It doesn't hurt to be prepared.

"Tim, how could you?" Conner accused, balling his hand into a fist. The unshielded exposure to the Kryptonite made his knees buckle, and he felt like throwing up, but he sucked it up, refused to let Tim see that.

Tim saw it, though. Just like he had seen the mirror when they had played poker. He had pretended not to, though. He was good at pretending things. "Look, just calm down. I can—"

"Calm down? Calm down. You just buried the one thing that can kill me in my backyard! This is why I've been sick all day, isn't it? You had this," Conner threw his finger at the Kryptonite chunk lying in the dirt, "in your bag, didn't you?"

Tim bit his lip. "Yes," he said calmly. "I have. I buried it out here so it wouldn't hurt you anymore."

"But why would you even bring it at all?" Conner shouted.

"Just in case." Tim fingered something in his shorts pocket. "It's always good to be prepared."

Conner blinked as cold sweat dripped down his face. "It's always good to be prepared? Be prepared for what? To kill your friend?"

"Conner, take it easy. Some of us don't have superpowers so we have to rely on being prepared. We live strange lives. What if something happened and I had to take you down?"

"And why the hell would you need to do that?"

Even after all he had done, Tim's voice stayed calm. That made Conner angrier than anything because he realized he was not talking to Tim anymore; he was talking to Robin.

"Even Superman knows these things happen," Robin tried to explain. "He even gave Batman a chunk of Kryptonite—"

"Oh, wait, stop right there. Did you hear what you said? Superman gave Batman the Kryptonite. He gave it to him, as in Batman had his permission! Batman didn't just come to Superman's house when he's supposed to be hanging out with his friend and try to kill him!"

"I didn't try to kill you," Robin said. "I wish you would understand."

"You know what, Tim? You are just like Batman. No, wait, I take that back. You're worse. You're worse than Batman. You're a liar, you're a sneak, and you can't be trusted. You're paranoid, you're obsessive, and you can't trust people, not even someone who is supposed to be your friend, because deep down you know they can't trust you. I bet the Bat is proud, because he's raised you to be worse than he could ever be."

The air around Tim grew colder. "I am not like Batman."

"I trusted you, Tim! You're supposed to be my partner and my friend! And then…then you go and betray that trust by doing this!" Unlike that morning on the phone, Conner did not hold back as he slammed his fist into the ground. His tactile telekinesis kicked in, and it threw Robin into the air.

"Calm down, Conner!" Robin ordered. "Get a hold of yourself."

"Oh, what, do you think I'm out of my head? Do you think the kryptonite is affecting my brain?"

"It might be." Robin knew that sounded bad to say, but it sounded better than what he was thinking. Conner did sound out of his head. He did not sound like Superboy anymore. He did not sound anything like Superman either. He sounded different. He sounded scary.

He sounded like Luthor.

Superboy growled, and he charged Robin. The Kryptonite had slowed him down, and Robin easily dodged out of the way. Robin assumed a stance, and he landed three kicks and punch to Superboy's face and shoulders before the clone had recovered from the charge. Robin watched Conner's red face turn to him, took aim, and plunged his fist into Superboy's stomach.

It was a martial arts punch, the kind that could shatter concrete blocks. It did not shatter Superboy, but Robin had not held back at all, certain that he could not possibly hurt the clone of Superman. However, either the Kryptonite had a stronger effect than Robin had anticipated or he had hit the human side of Conner because Superboy doubled over, actually fell to his knees, and gasped for air.

Tim looked down at his friend gasping for air, and he was sure his stomach felt worse than Conner's.

Tim wanted to kneel down and help him, but he just stood there. His training told him that would put him within the enemy's grasp. He could not risk… What am I thinking? This isn't Slade or Two-Face. It's…Conner… Tim bent down and held out his hand. "Here, let me help you."

"Get off me!" Conner shouted, and he shoved Tim into the air. Tim flew across the yard, hit hard, and threw dirt into the air as he rolled for fifteen feet. He stood up, bloody and cut, and wished for the relative safety of Kevlar. Or at least a sturdy pair of jeans.

Robin knew there was no way to beat Superboy in a straight fight, especially when all of his equipment was hundreds of miles away on the East coast. He longed for his bo staff or even some smoke bombs as he watched Superboy take flight. Superboy barreled towards him, and Robin reached his hand into his pocket. At least he still had an ace up his sleeve.

Robin pulled out the deck of playing cards they had played poker with earlier. He took two cards in his hand, watched Superboy's face and fists hurtling closer, and he took aim and tossed the cards like ninja stars at the human projectile.

Each card struck Superboy in an eye. His hands flew over his face, and he crashed into the dirt, skidded, and Tim leapt into the air to dodge him. Superboy cried out in pain and anger. He blinked once, twice, three times. No matter how hard he tried, he could not make the world come back into focus, and his eyes watered.

Robin reminded himself that he could not beat Superboy, so he had to end the fight quickly. He could only think of one thing to do, and deep down, Tim Drake would rather let Superboy tear him apart. However, Robin knew it must be done. "I've got one shot at this," Tim muttered to himself as he took off his t-shirt. "Hey, Superboy," he said coldly. "I'm over here."

Superboy cursed him, took flight again, and charged even more recklessly this time. He could barely see, but he could make out the blurred shape of Tim only feet away.

Tim took a deep breath, waited for Conner to get close enough, and then he jumped into the air again. This time, in a fluid motion, he twisted himself around and landed on Conner's back. When he landed, Tim already had his t-shirt wrapped around Conner's throat.

Tim gripped the ends of the T-shirt tightly, ignored the sound of his friend gagging, and threw himself as hard as he could back and to the left. He steered Conner off course, and the two of them spiraled through the air and crashed to the ground. Both of their bodies skipped across the backyard like rag dolls thrown from a speeding semi.

For a long time, neither of them moved.

Tim reached up and rubbed his head. It ached like it had been split with a hammer. His back hurt too and so did his arms and chest. He could feel dirt stinging cuts all over his body. He pushed himself up, and he saw bright spots of blood shining on his dirt covered chest. He looked around, and he found Conner lying not far away.

Conner was still, as still as a corpse.

"Conner?" Tim called weakly. He stumbled over to him. "Are you okay?"

He made it to Conner, and his heart stopped. He wished he could become Robin again, detach himself from the situation, and not see what he had done. Instead, Tim was left to see it, and he choked on his own throat.

Conner was bloody, lying face down in the dirt, his head resting on the half buried chunk of Kryptonite. He looked pale. His skin felt cold, but he did not shiver. He did not move, no matter how hard Tim shook him. No matter how hard Tim pleaded and wished for him to move.

It had been Robin's plan all along to steer Superboy towards the Kryptonite, but now that Conner was not moving, Tim almost lost it. Tim bit his lip, swallowed hard, and blinked back something in his eyes that made them pink.

"Come on, man, we have to get you out of here," Tim said, shaking as he stooped down. He wrapped his arms around Conner and hoisted him onto his shoulder. He felt Conner's faint heart-beat against his back.

The kitchen light was on. The fight had woken up the Kents. They just stared in shock as the bloody Tim Drake carried the limp body of their adopted son into the house. Having their eyes on him felt worse than any of his cuts or bruises, and he carried Conner to the bedroom and laid him on the bed.

The Kents followed him, and Martha stooped over the bed and sounded like she might cry. Jonathan tried to stay calm, and he asked what had happened. Tim told them the whole story. He looked down the whole time, unable to look at the nice people he had hurt with his foolish actions, and his voice stayed quiet and weak, very unlike the voice anybody—Batman, the Titans, even Jack Drake—ever had heard from him.

When he finished, the Kents did not say anything. Martha cleaned up Conner and doctored his cuts. Jonathan just stared at the floor. At last he said, "I guess you better go get cleaned up yourself. Conner will be fine. He just needs to rest now. I suppose we'll talk about this more in the morning."

Tim nodded, and he went to the bathroom.

The Kents, knowing there was nothing more they could do, went back to their room. Tim, however, came back to Conner's room and watched his friend. What Jonathan had said, about Conner being alright, did not make him feel any better. He wished he could hear Conner say it. He wished he could hear Conner say anything. At that moment, Tim wished he could hear anybody say anything.

He suddenly felt so alone.

He fell on his knees in front of his suitcase, and he pulled out a small radio. It was the one Batman gave to all of his operatives, and it kept them in constant touch. Or it was supposed to. Tim turned it on, but a small red light told him it was getting no signal. Still, he pushed the button down, and weakly muttered, "Come in. Come in. Is there anybody out there?"

His voice got lost in the static, and no reply came. "Damn," Tim sighed, and he tossed the communicator back into his suitcase. When he did, he spotted something he had forgotten about.

Tim had told his father that he was visiting a friend, one from school who was visiting his dad in Kansas. Tim's heart sank. Yet another lie. But before he had left, his father had bought him a phone card, just in case he got homesick. Tim picked it up, and clutched it as he went to the kitchen. He punched in the numbers blindly, and he followed the automated operator's instructions. Then he found himself dialing his home phone number.

It rang five times before a sleepy Jack Drake mumbled, "Hello?"

Tim quickly slammed the phone down. He did not know what he had been thinking. He just needed to hear somebody's voice, somebody who would understand, somebody who…he just needed somebody he trusted. He sighed.

He glanced back at the doorway leading to Conner's room, and then he punched in another phone number. He also needed somebody who could trust him.

The device he called rang. And rang. And Tim realized that he was not even sure this would work.

In Blüdhaven, the sun was just about to come up, which meant it was almost quitting time at Dick Grayson's night job. At work, Dick Grayson—former Robin, Bruce Wayne's adopted son, and former leader of the Teen Titans—went by the name Nightwing. This shift, he had tracked down a group of gang members who had been selling heroin and other bad things to the people in his town. Nightwing had just dropped in on them—dramatically, the way Batman had taught him—when he noticed his communicator going off, and he had rolled his eyes. He was having a hard enough time looking threatening without chit-chatting too.

See, the gang was dressed as clowns. And they were not scary clowns like the murderous Joker of Gotham or Pennywise from It, but they were dressed like ridiculous clowns, like the kind that climb out of the tiny cars at the circus. They had to be the most pathetic criminals Nightwing had seen in a while. He clicked his communicator on. "This is Nightwing."

"Are you busy?" Tim asked.

Nightwing looked around. There were about twenty members of the gang surrounding him, and each of them brandished a weapon. "Not really," he said. "I can talk, Robin."

Tim sighed. Nightwing had called him Robin. He knew they could not use real names while they were on the job, but for some reason, Tim really wanted to talk to Dick and to have Dick talk to Tim right now.

"Something's happened," Tim said quietly.

"What's happened?" Nightwing asked, ducking a blow. The clown punched one of his buddies in the face, which caught him by surprise and allowed Nightwing to punch the clown in the gut.

"It doesn't matter. I'm sure you'll hear about it sooner or later. I just—I just kind of needed to talk to somebody right now."

Nightwing grabbed a clown by his hair and flung him across the room. "Hey, if you want to talk to somebody, I recommend Oracle. Or even Batgirl. I hear she's rather chatty these days. Or Batman. Try Batman. He's a great listener, very compassionate." Nightwing jumped to avoid a blast of seltzer water. Then he blinked at the clown who had shot it. "Did you just shoot seltzer water at me? Seriously, what did you think that would do?"

The clown just shrugged before Nightwing sighed and punched him in the face.

"I think talking to Batman right now would be a very bad idea."

"Oh, I see," Nightwing said, smiling. "This is one of those 'I did something behind the Bat's back' things, isn't it? You're going to be in a lot of trouble, but don't worry. I did it all the time, and I survived." Nightwing back flipped to avoid a rubber chicken.

"I wasn't really thinking about that." Tim sighed. "Look, I think you're really the one I should be talking to."

"Well, okay. What do you want to know? Is it about girls? Because all the ones I know usually try to kill me. Oh! Is it about Starfire? I told her it was a bad idea to sport that much cleavage around teenaged Earth boys…."

"Can you…can you be serious for a moment, please?"

Nightwing looked around at the bleeding clowns. There were still five standing, and they were in a huddle, trying to decide their next plan of action. "I can try."

Tim sighed.

It was the type of sigh that hurt Nightwing's chest, and it made his voice grow softer. "What's wrong, Tim? What's troubling you?"

"I just…do you think I'm too much like Batman?"