Flashback Chapter 6 From Tragedy

Dick flipped, landed on his hands, kicked. Rolled upright, left, right, high kick. Spin, punch. Vault, duck, sweep. He'd been watching Bruce train. And adapting the routines to his own ability and acrobatic style. When he had it perfect, he'd show Bruce. Hopefully, he'd be impressed.

At the roar of an approaching motorbike, he slipped from combat to floor routines; the flips and somersaults his dad had made him practise to build up strength, flexibility and grace for the heights. The bike pulled into the cave, and the rider dismounted, pulling of his helmet. Dick stopped flipping, turning to the brown-haired man. "Need help getting that dye out, Bruce?" he called.

"No, it just brushes out," Bruce replied, popping out yellowed contact lenses that turned his blue eyes green.

"How did it go?" Dick asked, bounding along behind him and standing on tip-toe to lean on the back of the Bat-computer's chair as Bruce sat down.

"It's confirmed." Bruce pulled up a file and started annotating. "The vat at Ace Chemical contains substances that bleach the skin and turn the hair green. The workers wear gas masks to prevent fume inhalation, because there's some evidence long term exposure can cause psychosis. No studies on the effect of prolonged immersion."

"So, Red Hood breaks into a chemical factory, runs into you, falls into a vat, crawls out the Joker. Month later, hijacks a news studio's transmission to announce his upcoming crimes." He flicked his eyes over to the left screen, showing two dead bodies, their faces stuck in rictus grins. "Henry Claridge. Time release poison, Claridge Diamond replaced with glass. Jay Wilde. Double exposure poison, Ronkers Ruby stolen."

"It's a distraction," Bruce grunted. "Not after the jewels, testing his poisons."

"How can you tell?"

"He's using different methods. The first worked fine; practically impossible to guard against. Why change it when attacking the second man?"

Before Dick could reply, the right hand screen beeped. A program had flagged up an interruption to the news channel. A chalk-white man, with green hair and a fixed grin, was speaking.

"Judge Lake has…irritated me, a time or two. He will suffer for it. And Bruce Wayne shall lose his fine Van Derm pearls, and his life."

The screen returned to the news, and Dick swore in his native Romani. Bruce shot him a disapproving look- he'd been learning the language and Dick now was much more familiar than he'd care to admit on what dish soap tasted like. Oops. "Be fair, Bruce," the boy said. "You gotta admit, this is just a bit of a problem."

Harvey Bullock finished examining the pearls, handing them back to their owner. "Well, they're not fakes, he grunted. "Why are they called 'Van Derm'?"

"They were my great-great-great-grandmother's," Wayne said quietly, "She was Van Derm before she married into the Waynes."

Bullock raised an eyebrow, but before he could comment, a young voice echoed through the manor. "BruceBruceBruceBruceBruce!" The study door banged open, and a black haired cyclone swept in, resolving itself into a little kid as he jumped at Wayne. "Bruce, I finished my homework," he announced cheerfully, hanging from the billionaire's neck. "Can I go play now?"

"That's great, Dick," Wayne said. "But you know the rules, and I'm busy." The boy pouted, and after a moment Wayne gave in. "Fine. If you can find a cop who isn't busy guarding the entrances, and is willing to spot you, you may play."

"Yay!" The kid, Dick, jumped down off Wayne, and quickly looked around. "How many are there, not guarding entrances?"

"Just me and Montoya," Bullock told him, gesturing to his rookie partner.

Dick immediately went over to Montoya, looking up at her pleadingly. "Would you spot me, Ms Montoya? Please?"

Even Bullock had to admit those eyes were utterly adorable. Very hard to say no to that level of pleading cuteness. "Okay, then," Montoya sighed. Dick's face lit up in a grin, and he grabbed her arm, leading her away.

"Don't give her a heart attack," Wayne told him, getting a quick laugh in response before the kid vanished.

"I'm missing something," Bullock mused, looking at the door.

"Yes." Wayne crossed to a safe, carefully stowing the pearls. "You see, when Dick says 'playing'-"

A quick shriek cut him off. Bullock started at the sound.

"-he means playing on the trapeze. Twenty feet up with no net."

"You let him do that?"

"Only when supervised. He's a circus kid; been doing it since he could walk."

Bullock shook his head. The tabloids didn't give a very realistic idea of how the out-of-the-blue adoption actually worked. The two common rumours, unloved charity case or illicit underage lover, were both belied by their simple, spontaneous interaction. Now it was Bullock's job to see the kid wasn't orphaned twice.

The clock struck ten; the time the attack was scheduled. There was a flash, and a bang; Wayne cried out as though stung. Bullock couldn't see anything; the flash had blinded him. He heard a dull whumph, a cackle of maniacal laughter, and Wayne wheezing, starting to chortle. Bullock stumbled around, and when he could see again, it was to the sight of Wayne on the floor, and the safe blown open.

The butler entered, closely followed by the boy and Montoya. Still dazed, Bullock could only watch the old guy inject Wayne with something.

And sigh with relief when the billionaire breathed normally.

Dick ran down the passage to the cave. Bruce was safe; the anti-toxin was working in combination with his own immunities. They had an excuse for having it prepared, and Alfred had made arrangements so that when Bruce came round, he could slip away and suit up.

Dick had his own plans.

He ran towards one of the storage rooms, one he'd been spending some time on recently. He quickly pulled off his shirt and sweatpants, half his new outfit already in place. He quickly grabbed a belt, cape and domino mask, slipped on boots and gloves and started pulling out a spray-painted red motorbike. Returning to the main room, suited and equipped, he stuck a portable tracker-receiver to the handlebar and tuned it to the tracer they'd tricked Joker into stealing.

Heading for Judge Lake's.

He jump-started the bike. It roared into life as he rode out. "Little Robin's time to fly," he muttered, his smile spreading across his face once again.

AN: Duh-duh-DUH! Tune in next week for the conclusion to what I call the Saga of Epic Awesomeness! Or, when I'm feeling less silly, the Origin of Robin.

Now, I believe that last week I was in a bit of a snit regards feedback. Sorry. While feedback does make the wheels go round, I probably could have phrased it a little more delicately. And thanks to night-batfamily, Glimare (again) and bindsy for reviewing (BTW, bindsy, Jay will turn up, just not yet). I hope all you wonderful, wonderful readers will be nice enough to leave me a review this week.

As always, please check out my other works; some of them seem pretty popular, some not so. Maybe try something new today. Who knows; you might just like it.

See you next week.

Katara