Archie Goodwin International Airport sat on a high plateau, near the northwestern bend if the Gotham River. It was the eastern seaboard's third largest Hub, behind JFK and Metropolis. A plane landed and took off just about every minute. This put Goodwin's productivity slightly ahead of O'Hare.

Airport as successful as this one...what the hell's it doing in Gotham?

It takes me ten minutes to get from the Davenport Towers to a hangar half a mile away from airport grounds. Bruce had the hangar built as one of his mobile Batcaves. After Bane broke into the main cave and beat Batman within an inch of his life, we installed better security measures. Stronger ones, that kept out the people we didn't want in.

The satellite caves are more utilitarian. Fallout shelter thinking. Bruce built them as fall-backs, had them stocked with military-surplus rations and gear (not that we'd need any of that, but it was reassuring to have back-up) in the event that the main cave, and by extension Wayne Manor, were compromised.

Had I thought about it before leaving, I would have told Bart about the ancillary cave and to wait for me. But...I didn't.

Bruce would have.

Bruce thinks of everything.

Even through the suit and the helmet, I can feel the cool night wind slamming into my face—my entire body—while the Redbird cycle buzzes across Mooney Bridge. Goodwin International shines dimly in the distance. Chances being what they are, Bart's probably already there. Waiting at the front gate. In full costume. Conspicuous as hell. A walking freaking target.

Not a smart thing to do. We could've orchestrated an attack plan from the satellite cave. Nope. Bart probably strolled right in, signed a few autographs, and found something pointless to throw his attention on.

So I bite the bullet. Shift the bike down into first gear and roll right up to the baggage drop. A portly and disgruntled-looking meter maid stands in front of the revolving doors. I spot, her let out a sigh, and park the bike.

"Here goes nothing," I mutter to myself, and throw down the kickstand. The meter maid spots me instantly and starts walking towards the bike. She's unusually awestruck. Considering that incident a few months back with Darla's shooting, she shouldn't. Hell, half the damn country saw it.

"Hey, you can't park there," the meter maid says in that motherly tone admonishing me for obvious wrongdoing.

"Tow it," I say. It's interesting enough to me just to say things as Robin and gauge reactions. Most people don't know how to react when they see a kid wearing a red and green suit. Can't blame 'em though. They're sued to seeing people like Bruce Wayne and Lex Luthor in the public eye. Not Batman and Robin. We're the CSI. The nonentities. It's…better that way.

I push through the revolving doors, and quickly spot Bart. He's leaning against a Starbucks kiosk a few yards away, with a Styrofoam cup in one hand and the other hand sitting comfortably on his waist. He's trying—and failing—to sweet-talk the blonde waiting for her mocha. The situations reeks. First off, Bart was never much of a womanizer. He's been spending too much time with Conner. Secondly, and perhaps to my advantage, she's not interested.

No good way to do this. So I just start walking. Not bothering to make eye contact, I grab his free arm and haul him away from the blonde.

"Hey!" Bart protests as his coffee falls from his hand. "I paid for that!"

The blonde flashes us both a quick smile and walks away with her coffee.

"I think you can make back $2.50. Have we been through this?" I ask, rhetorically, whisking Bart into a nearby men's room. "Don't. Go. Public. Not unless you have to."

"I was on stakeout," he says innocently. "I swear, she came to me."

"And you ran with it."

"Sure. Wouldn't you?"

"Not when we have a job to do."

"Alright fair enough," Bart says dismissively. "What kept you?"

"65 miles per hour," I say. I take a knee and check the open spaces under the stall dividers for any potential "ears" in the restroom. Similarly, no one at the urinals. It's a little strange that we're all alone. Third largest hub and no one's using the facilities? A little strange. "We can't all travel supersonic."

"Sorry," Bart says humbly, crossing his arms and leaning up against the sink basin. "I forgot about the public thing."

"It's alright," I say. I reach around to the backside of my belt and pull out the video monitor I used to track Conner at the Davenport Towers.

"You found him yet?"

"Well, according to this he's down at the LexAir terminal."

"Great, let's go—"

"Just a second there, Professor. I'm more concerned with keeping a low profile."

"Sure," he says sarcastically. "Not like we didn't already attract enough attention to ourselves. What do you wanna do?"

I look up, stretching my arms. My heart rises in my chest and my bones ache. It's been a long time since I've actually stretched. My whole body is sore. From flying around as Robin, and outright lack of sleep. I don't sleep well anymore. Not since…Dad.

"You okay?" Bart asks plainly.

"Yeah," I say with a yawn. "I'm fine."

The ceiling. That's it. "Bart, how much do you weigh?"

"About a hundred and eight, why?"

"Did you ever play piggy-back or leapfrog as a kid?"

"No, Tim," he says acerbically. "I spent my childhood in Virtual Reality. Any leapfrogging I may have done was strictly mental."

"Fair enough. Jump on," I encourage as I take a knee.

Bart sneers at the idea at first, but eventually sighs and gives it a what-the-hell. He situates himself clumsily around my neck, inadvertently knocking the wind out of me while looking for purchase.

He's not exactly distributing his weight that well either.

"You weigh a little more than a hundred and eight," I say hatefully. "What's the deal?"

"I just wanted to impress you," Bart says pseudo-shamefully, and slides back the A/C grating above us. A moment later he's in the ductwork and extending a hand down to help me up.

"God, it smells like my gym locker up here," Bart whines.

"I'm almost afraid to ask what you keep in there. Maybe if you learned how to do laundry—"

"We can't all be boy wonders, can we?"

"You'll have that," I say. "Stay nimble."

"Oh. Yeah. Sure," Bart reassures himself. He uses humor as a defense mechanism. It allows him to step back from any situation and remove himself from it. Admirable, if he didn't do it so often. "Are we there yet?"

"You're like a child," I rebuke impatiently.

"No, I'm just…"

"What?"

"Nothing," Bart says distantly. "Nothing at all."

Finally, the tracer monitor gives me some feedback. "Alright. Screen says we should be right above the terminal."

"Great. So what do we do?"

Way to throw me for a loop, Bart. I think about it for a moment. And I'm suddenly glad Bart can't see behind the star-lite lenses; he can't see the concern in my eyes.

"Ah screw being quiet," I say grudgingly, and pull my bo-staff from its compartment on the backside of my belt. "Go ahead."

Bart crawls backward a foot or two, enough to expose the air vent leading to the main concourse, reaches a leg forward, and kicks the air vent through, down to the ground. He follows suit, landing in a crouch.

"Contact."

The voice comes from nowhere, and Bart's head snaps around, searching wildly for the source.

"What?"

"Kid Flash. Back for seconds."

The star-lite lenses embedded in my mask have magnifiers; a little bonus Bruce slipped in before the No Man's Land. They focus in on the floor, and a small circular disc—almost like an earbud headphone—rolling towards Bart. It slows to a stop a few inches in front of his foot.

Conner's earpiece communicator.

"Deathstroke," Bart says calmly.

"Good. Turn around. You deserve a fair fight."

Bart turns slowly, shakily. For the World's Fastest Boy, he's unnaturally frozen. He's afraid of getting shot again.

From my vantage point in the ductwork, I can only see Deathstroke from the neck down. He's carrying a broadsword in one hand, and a shotgun in the other. Bart's frozen with fear. He could separate Deathstroke's atoms if he got going fast enough. But that's not going to happen.

So it's up to me.

I land in a kneel, my bo-staff clutched tightly in my hands. Deathstroke isn't alone.

Zoom is standing next to Slade. And this is about as bad as it gets.

"IhelpedTheFlashbeeeeabetterhero," Zoom says in whispered anger. He sounds like a record skipping.

"MaaaaaybeIcanteachyoutoooRobinBoyyyyWonder."

Continued...
Author's Note: The folks at DC Comics actually came up with the idea of Goodwin Airport (maps used for the "Batman No Land's" event show the hub situated outside the city limits, and a few miles from Wayne Manor. Archie Goodwin was a writer/editor for DC and Marvel before his death in 1998, and perhaps most widely known for his adaptations of the Star Wars movie franchise to the comics.