'Suing tech support,' Jason typed sullenly, scrunching his nose when the text idled by a roving circle. Forty minutes for one stupid conversation. He might as well call Dick.
'Not sharing :)
It took him a moment to place the context. Really? That particular conversation was twelve minutes and thirty-two texts old. Was Dick just getting his replies? Jason rapped a coarser response, wondering how many profanities he could space out before the circus freak finally sent back a scandalized emoticon. 'It's my unbirthday. If I get there and the peppermint melts are gone somebody's getting a bullet in the —'
Harsh buzzing under his fingers disrupted the expletive, and he nearly tossed his phone as Kesha's Timber blared in the near-silent apartment. What the frick, did the Replacement change his ringtone again?
"What?" Jason barked, swiping without a second thought. Oh, that kid was getting it now. (Unless Dick put him up to this in retaliation for Jason's text hiatus. He'd chew Tim out for getting involved and then kill his older brother.)
"Jason?" Chattering teeth, pitched voice, rain drumming against hard plastic.
Jason sat up, plugging one ear as the speaker buzzed. "Wait, you're still out?" What kind of obsessive despot let the kid patrol in a thunderstorm?
"...Sorry to… need… backup…."
"What the heck are you calling me for?" Because Red Robin wouldn't. Ever. Not unless the entire Bat Clan was occupied and he was dying or possibly wandering through the manor with an empty coffee pot.
"... Vince Ave… "
"You're breaking up, little bird," Jason said, switching the phone to his other hand as he fumbled with his jacket. "Give me landmarks. What happened?"
"... Just say this is long overdue …." a distant growl intoned.
Freezing with one boot yanked on, Jason hiked the phone's volume to full-blast. "What's going on over there, Tim?" he said carefully. He could almost place the voice. Freeze? Two Face? Not quite, but it was someone they'd run into before….
"Jason, just stop!"
"... wrong with me, Replacement!"
He tripped up, one hand on the door, flashbacks lancing in vivid color. Replacement, ribs cracking under his fists, blood running down a sharp edge… Not anymore, never again, it's buried in the past….
The tinned voice trailed over the line with a sneered, "... the Bat would save you…."
Swiping to his messages, Jason sent out a rapid page to the team. Not that it would do any good. If the average sending time right now was twelve minutes to a text (and he'd already bombarded Dick with thirteen profanities), there wouldn't be any backup for nearly three hours. Hopefully Oracle could get through to them faster and track the Replacement's phone. If Tim had called Jason, however, he clearly didn't expect help from another source.
At least Jason had an address.
Latching on his helmet, the Red Hood slipped out the window and grappled to the nearest roof, cursing the downpour that immediately soaked through his jacket. ETA to Vince avenue was ten minutes in this kind of weather.
He'd make it in six.
The kid was right where he belonged. Curled in a wet lump in a soiled alley, limp hands crooked beside a torn cowl, ribcage heaving with each uneven breath. The next idler unfortunate enough to be caught in this storm would probably link the battered visage to a member of the Wayne household, but that wasn't Hood's problem.
He flexed his hands agitatedly and tossed the staff aside. Eight years of playing this game, of choosing a hunt and making the kill, and the anger burned unabated. Perhaps there was some truth in Bruce's rants about revenge. (Or perhaps this wasn't quite enough. He did leave the kid breathing, after all.)
Shrugging, Hood plucked out a gun and leveled it at the Replacement's head. Clean kill or slow? Maybe if he took out the kid's ankles and moved up, that would satisfy the last green threads in his vision. If not, there were other universes, each with their own unwanted Robins. He had time.
The click of a gun's safety behind him told him otherwise.
"You must be the other me," Hood huffed, tilting his firearm imperceptibly to the left. Headshot it was, then. He wasn't losing his kill to the competition, paltry as it might be.
Other Red didn't take the bait. His breathing was coarse but controlled — anxiety playing into the League's training. He was too young to risk Hood's odds, but that didn't mean he wouldn't put a bullet in his brain if Hood pulled the trigger first.
Hood would very much like to live tonight, and he'd made the foolhardy choice of dropping his helmet for theatrics. Lunging for the opposite wall, he dodged the first round of bullets and aimed for the weak points in his alternate's armor. Hands, joints, neck. Kevlar couldn't protect every inch of skin.
Dropping his gun with a curse, Red clutched his elbow as blood spurted between his fingers. Never take on a seasoned shooter in a gunfight, especially on slick terrain —
Immediately Hood was reminded how dastardly he was on the streets, as Red took advantage of said grime and dropped into a messy slide, barreling into his legs. The gun flew against the wall and fists and feet swiped to pummel Hood's exposed face. The upstart had skinnier arms and a lame wing, however, and it only took one twist to put him back in the muck where he belonged.
Smoke pellets burst in Hood's face and he hacked, nostrils seared and throat stinging. Red slithered out from beneath him, a switchblade whipping in his arching fist. Grabbing his wrist in both hands, Hood pressed down, twisting, and dropped to ram his shoulder into the bloodied elbow. Red howled, planting steel-toed boots into Hood's abdomen while still clinging to the knife.
"What do you have to prove?" Hood snarled, shifting to wrap a leg around the upstart's throat. "You think protecting the underminer will secure your place? There's no future where the Bat won't leave you. Sooner or later they'll all turn away."
The knife was in his possession, bearing down on a glass-coated eyepiece. How many stabs would it take to shatter that fragile covering?
"They're not dead yet," Red jibed, his voice curling with disdain. "And you ditched your helmet."
Because that was somehow relevant, seeing as the upstart was about to have a startling change of view. "You could be more than their puppet," Hood chided. "You could ruin the Court; the League, even. You would exchange it for children in capes?"
Gurgling, dropping one hand from the knife to bat at the leg wrapped around his throat, Red rasped out, "Least... I got... backup."
Too late Hood honed in on the helmet itself. The com lines that the Replacement had neglected. A universe where quite possibly, the Red Hood wasn't the unreachable prodigal.
Pain blossomed in his shoulder and he cursed, fingers curling around a black batarang. Backup had indeed arrived. Red lunged upright with a snarl, burying the knife to the hilt in the thigh crushing his throat. Howling, Hood yanked away, staggering under the sudden assault of the Batman's fists, fumbling for the device he'd stolen off the first Replacement.
The fool who was certain they could save Batman from the past.
The first bloodied cape to decorate an abandoned cave.
The last child to wear the Robin uniform.
There was no backup in the universe to which Hood fled. No one left to remember. All had fallen to ash as the Red Hood symbol glared in a smoke-filled sky.
He wouldn't be the last martyr, thwarted by the Batman of another world. He would retreat for now. Bide his time and lick his wounds, until the need for blood overwhelmed all survival instincts. Until his hands ached with the need to see the last flutters of life still under his fingers. Until every remnant of Batman's legacy was dead, in every universe, and the last bullet in the chamber seemed like a welcome friend.
Perhaps then, he would find peace.
(30 minutes earlier…)
Rain painted the windows, spilling from the backed-up gutter in sheets and swamping the manor grounds. The power was riding on generators, and there was simply too much empty space to keep the entire manor running. Bruce called the night and shut down the computers, quelling Damian's grumbles with a plaid comforter on the couch and a cup of cider from Alfred. They used to see these nights more often, when the old wiring system gave out at the first gust of wind and the generators were wasted on television. First Dick, and then Jason started to anticipate storms, stockpiling sweets and flannels and books in the sitting room, where the fire invited cozy shadows and Bruce would read until the thunder dulled to a rumble and heavy eyelids closed.
This was Damian's first traditional thunderstorm. He sniffed derisively at the cider but sipped tentatively, stiffly curled into his father's side as though he expected him to move the instant he twitched wrong. Taking a thoughtful swallow from his own mug, Bruce vowed to make time for more stay-home nights. Once Dick grew up those moments stretched too far between, neglected until the the opportunity was passed. The kids shouldn't have to wait for sick days or holidays or thunderstorms to share a quiet evening together. Now that he thought about it, he couldn't recall a single storm night spent with Tim.
Where was the boy tonight? Home, Bruce hoped, though the association was a bitter weight in his chest. Things hadn't settled right after his "death." First there was the emancipation and the new apartment, and then the argument over Boomerang. Tim didn't see fit to keep his family in the know-how these days. He stuck around for patrol and holiday entertainment, taking Jason's place as the drifter. Shunning the doors that were always open; the room that still waited for his return.
Tim wouldn't have wasted his time in this rain, Bruce rationalized as another clap of thunder shook the house. Damian flinched against him and stilled just as quickly, waiting for a chiding remark. Sighing, Bruce tucked the boy closer under his arm, brushing a hand across dark hair. This wasn't the League. A child could afford to shy around nature's violent purge.
"Todd is not responding to his texts," Damian grumbled, scowling at the kitchen where Dick's chatter was accompanied by a coughing fit and the spray of crumbs. Good thing they were already well-stocked in baked goods. The typical holiday larceny was running Bludhaven's police force ragged, and Dick looked like he was running on fumes. Tonight, at least, Officer Grayson could ignore his phone. Not even the crime lords would be out in this storm.
Bruce hoped that Tim was staying home.
Damian tutted and jabbed his keyboard, chopping out a snappy retort. Seconds later Dick cackled.
"Master Dick," Alfred chastened, "You will find the conversation far more engaging if you speak to your brother in person."
"It's a four-way text, Alfred," Dick responded, strolling from the kitchen with a devious smirk and a handful of peppermint melts. "Jay and Tim are the ones missing the fun."
"It is a two-way conversation, as Drake is refusing to communicate and Todd is still referring to children's games," Damian corrected.
"Rainbow Road could bring Batman to his knees," Dick insisted, scrolling through the conversation. "Wait, he's still talking about it?"
"When he chooses to respond," Damian confirmed. "He is exceedingly lax in his ripostes tonight. He may as well disconnect his line."
"Must be the power surges," Dick said, flopping dramatically onto the couch on Bruce's other side. "I'm not saving him any cookies."
"Did Tim tell you if he was skipping patrol?" Bruce cut in, gripping the mug more forcefully than was warranted for lukewarm cider dregs.
"Nah, nobody tells me anything anymore," Dick grumbled, flitting through texts as though hoping he'd missed a comment from his little brother.
"Drake is not stupid enough to be caught in this mess," Damian reassured him snappishly. He tilted his head in acknowledgment. "Although I have overestimated his perspicacity before."
"Use your basic dictionary, Dami," Dick said languidly. "And don't insult your brother."
"I'm calling him," Bruce decided, the phone already pressed to his ear.
"Perhaps he is finally succumbing to fatigue and withdrawal," Damian said tartly.
"Aw, see you do care!" Dick cooed.
"I merely insinuated that his habits are detrimental to patrol and one day he will imperil — "
"Voicemail," Bruce said gruffly, hanging up and sending a rapid text.
"As I said, he has likely collapsed from an overexposure to caffeinated —"
"Not the time, Dami," Dick said quietly, picking up on Bruce's concern. His thumbs blurred a sequence, no doubt mimicking the check-in.
Bruce's sigh of relief was an understatement when a brief "sorry fine here" flashed under the line-up of 'Call me now's.'
"He's fine," Bruce said, tucking the phone away with a small measure of reassurance. He would feel better if all four kids were here, safe and dry and secure, but he would accept the small blessings.
"Of course he's fine," Dick grumbled, folding his arms in a huff. "He could break his leg and he'd be fine."
"Give him space," Bruce intoned. It worked with Jason. Tim just needed a little more time.
"Todd is adamant that Alfred's cookies remain unmolested," Damian updated blandly, rolling his eyes.
"That conversation is like, fifteen minutes old," Dick snorted. "Seriously, Bruce, buy him a new phone. At this rate he'll get a Christmas invitation by New Year's."
"It's the service," Bruce guessed, gratefully handing off his now cold cider and accepting the refill from Alfred. "The storm probably took out a few towers."
"Damian's line works fine," Dick argued.
"You are sitting right next to me, Grayson."
"Actually, Bruce is separating us but we can fix that."
"Keep your Cercopithecidaen hands away from me!"
It took a brief Google search to translate the monkey reference and Bruce groaned. "I said no circus jokes, Damian."
"It makes no difference if it refers to a zoo or a flashing tent," Damian hissed, bundling defensively into Bruce's side.
"I don't get it," Dick whined. "At least tell me if it's funny."
"It's not even a proper word," Bruce reassured him.
"Todd is still ranting about food," Damian grumbled, diverting his brother to a safer topic.
"Still?" Dick ranted, quarrel forgotten. "I asked him three times if he was planning to crash here for the night."
"He won't drive in this weather," Bruce stated. Flooding gutters, unseen ditches, headlight glares — Jason would never drive blind for a family get-together. He would bunker down, at least; stay inside with a questionable radiator and three layers of Alfred's Christmas sweaters.
Tim, on the other hand...
'How fine is fine?' Bruce texted idly.
He startled when his phone buzzed before he could hit send. Perturbed, he shushed Dick and swiped to accept. "Barbara?"
Eight words chilled his heart and sent him lunging from the couch, barreling for the clock as Dick and Damian followed, demanding answers. Apprehension plunged into the dreadful certainty that he knew something was wrong, and why didn't he follow his gut instinct before everything fell apart?
"Bruce, what's going on?" Dick hollered, catching his arm as he clattered down the staircase. Damian was already assembling the Robin costume. Good; he'd need them all on hand tonight.
Grimly Bruce repeated Oracle's message: "Hood called for backup. Red Robin is down."
Bruce expected fear toxin. Explosives. Unstable structures. Jason didn't call for backup, even if he was cornered and bleeding out. He wouldn't bring attention to himself... unless one of the Robins was involved.
Time had swept old grievances aside, grudgingly as they were released, and Jason was more likely to call in a passive remark from Damian that implied the kid wasn't getting enough bonding time with his dad. He'd taken up Dick's mantle in shadowing his brothers, even if the Hood method implied cynical badgering and fond cuffs to the head. If Red Robin was down, Hood would already be involved. On a freezing night with electric cables sizzling from downed poles and residual oil slicking the streets. Even the night-vision in his helmet would be hampered. The call for help only confirmed that he knew he couldn't win this fight alone.
There was a scant handful of villains whom the Hood never tangled with single-handed. Any one of them could blow the entire block without qualms.
Bruce took the next lunge without pause, moss scraping perilously under his boot. Every minute lost was a step closer to another gravestone. Every block stretched beyond him with blind foreboding; uncharted tunnels in Gotham's belly, cradling a crooked smile and a crowbar.
Not this time.
He heard the scuffle before he found it. Gunshots and ravings and a metallic holler. Jason. Bruce dropped carelessly, releasing the brunt of the collision in a roll, and drew a batarang.
He hesitated.
How?
There were two of them. Crimson mask and red helmet, buckling in the mud, clad with nearly identical jackets and rabid snarls. The bulkier one had the upper hand, but the smaller fought like a scrapping coyote, switchblade flashing inches from his eyepiece, still managing to grip the other's white hair and yank back, trying to turn the knife on his opponent.
"Hood!" Bruce shouted.
Neither wrestler acknowledged him; either they were consumed with rancor or deaf from the storm. The knife plunged down again, scraping chrome, and a snatching threat whispered above the storm.
"You could ruin the Court; the League!" the helmetless one swore. "You would exchange it for children in capes?"
The helmet dropped back, lilting towards Bruce, and rigid shoulders slumped just enough. Relief. Expectation of rescue. Jason!
The black batarang sunk deep into the impostor's shoulder and Batman charged, flinging the assailant from his son. Green eyes flashed with murder in an unrecognizable, twisted face. A clone; a doppelgänger; a mimicry of the Red Hood — Bruce didn't have time to even guess. The assailant snarled and ducked away from him, fumbling for something in his belt. Green flashed from a device, swarming the man, blinding Bruce even through the night goggles — and he was gone.
No trace. Not a flicker of ash or smoke.
Who even had access to that technology?
"B!" Jason groaned behind him, gingerly rolling upright and rubbing his neck. "Gotta check…" the rasp ended in a choked cough before he flung off the helmet, gasping against the wind. "Robin!"
Bruce whirled, scanning the alley. There was a staff on the ground. A shattered phone. Another device that looked like Jason's model. A scrunched up hood.
"Tim!" Already crouched over the crumpled Robin, Dick gently drew him up, checking for a pulse. "Come on, look at me. It's gonna be..." He drew his hand back suddenly, frantic eyes latching onto Bruce. The blue fingers of the glove were soiled black. "We gotta get him to Leslie now ."
"Another Hood," Jason said, grimacing as his throat whistled in turn. "Don't know where…." Talking was clearly too much. He hunched over, catching his breath, and slapped Bruce's hand away. "Don't… Tim first…."
"I'll take him," Bruce decided, nudging Dick aside and nodding at Jason. "Take him home."
The manor had adequate equipment for a scuffle. Doctor Leslie would already have her hands full.
"Robin, go with B," Dick ordered, stooping to loop Jason's arm around his neck. "Just in case that thing comes back."
"I… did not see it," Damian admitted, shame-faced. "I fell behind."
Jason spluttered and cleared his throat, batting Dick's hand away when he tried to shush him. "If ya see me… shoot 'em," he croaked.
"You're up for Leslie's next if we don't get the swelling down in your throat," Dick warned. He called over his shoulder, "We'll catch up with you, Bruce."
There would be time. Too much of it. Hours of waiting, praying, wondering, snatching for the first teaser of favorable news. Fury welled in Bruce's chest as he briefly patted down Tim's neck and spine. X-rays would reveal the full extent of the damage. Two ribs jutted under his hand, the right arm was crooked, and the same knee angled wrong. The bruises across the jaw were purpleing already, deep lines that matched the indents across the boy's arms and back. He'd been beaten with his own staff. Cornered and stomped down, helpless before a monster.
Just like Jason.
A breathless whimper turned into a keen, plaintive and terrified. Gently Bruce hushed the boy, tucking his arms under the fragile spine, closing his ears to the tremulous yelps as he lifted. Tim shuddered, lisping soundless pleas, face turned into Bruce's shoulder.
"It's all right, chum," Bruce whispered. "You're safe. It's over."
Lies proclaimed to soothe a son's wounded heart. Empty condolences to help a young man sleep. Until the bastard claiming Jason's face was uncovered and vanquished, Bruce would never consider his children safe again.