Author Note: Okay, time for one more update. I have Chapter 7 half-way done, so hopefully this will be met with a few less delays than usual. By the way, this chapter makes reference to the Batman-Beyond-Hush comic series, so minor spoilers for that. No need to have read that to understand this chapter, but if your a BB fan and you're NOT reading the Beyond comics, I'd rectify that right away. Very fun stuff!

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I don't own any characters mentioned in this story. The rights belong to DC comics, Bob Kane, etc.

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Darkness Cannot Drive Part 6/? (Chapter 5)

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Years ago, he had to learn to block out that uncomfortable itch on the back of his neck when people walked up behind him—had to learn to force down the urge to spin backwards and force them into an arm-lock, to kick their legs out from under them, to volley them over to Batman for the final blow. After all, now he is in the "real world," and has the beer-belly to show for it he realizes, and workers have to come up behind him all the time on the satellite field.

But sometimes that itch is stronger, more real than the circuitry lying out before him. Like that day he found the "New Boy" perched above his head. Like now... someone is watching him like a trained hawk, burrowing holes with their eyes. Something...

"Hey, Drake! Someone here to see you!"

Bingo. "I'm a bit busy here. Tell whoever it is that they can wait."

"Uh, okay—but it's the boss' errand boy..."

Tim Drake freezes and pulls his safety mask off as he turns around. For some reason, in the back of his mind he is expecting to see the cowl, with its shadowed face and white eyes. Instead, Terry McGinnis stands behind him with bright blue eyes, a fake smile, and two cups of coffee.

"The boss send you to pick my brain?" Drake grins as if it's a joke and not shameful clawing for information. He's used to dealing with Bats, but not during broad daylight, and not when the Bat in question is seemingly playing hooky from high school.

"Something like that," Terry half shrugs, clearly favoring his left arm. "I brought a bribe." He gestures to the coffee, smirking.

Drake nods, understanding. "I guess I can take a short break. Come on in to my office."

The walk across the fields is silent, with Terry's smile looking more and more forced by the second. When they are finally inside Drake's workstation, and Drake has gestured that security is up and running, Terry's smirk finally morphs fully into the scowl that had been hiding there. "I need your help."

"I gathered. I also assume that the old man knows nothing about this. You being out of uniform and all."

"Yeah, that's right."

"Hm." Drake sips his coffee and studies Terry quietly. "What happened to your arm?"

Terry winces. "Broke it. Last week. I'm off-duty until it heals." The kid sighs and rubs his eyelids. Drake would guess that the kid's barely been getting four hours of sleep a night since he's become Batman, but this looks like something more. He knows the feeling—the case you just can't crack. That villain that's just good enough...

Terry looks up. "Is there any reason for the old man to not have a file on someone? Someone from the old days. Like, someone big."

Tim cocks his head. Well, this is different... "No. Bruce has files on everyone, big or small. He had files on Arkham inmates' little old aunties, not to mention thorough files on every League member and every player in Gotham. Anything you need to know, he should have. He was... thorough in that way."

Terry snorts. "You mean obsessive."

Tim Drake shrugs. "You're talking to the kettle here, kid. Calling the pot black would just be redundant." He looks over Terry quickly, trying to guess before asking. No bite marks, so not Killer Croc. No burns or major magic scars visible. Joker, Bane, Freeze, and Ra's are all already out of the picture... "Okay, I give up. Who can't you find information on?"

"Someone named Jason. The Red Hood."

Tim Drake feels himself tensing, memories of youth creeping into his muscles like an electric spasm. "Oh. Well. I guess Bruce would hide those files, now wouldn't he?" Drake shakes his head. "Fucking hell. Is he the one out patrolling?"

"Yeah."

Drake winces. "Holy shit... now that's... wow. I can't believe Bruce is allowing that. Jesus. He still look not a day over twenty five?"

"Something like that."

Tim snorts. "Lucky bastard. Never say gifts go to the most deserving. Though I suppose he put in his dues. Ancient evils and the league of assassins... Jason never played it clean or safe. I suppose you get something for that. Though blessing or a curse, hell if I know. I wouldn't want to keep fighting like that. Not for, God, must be going on forty years... takes a special kind of person to have that much drive for the fight. That much passion to try and change the world. And that much anger." Tim shakes his head, eyes glassed over. "Someone like Bruce, I suppose."

Terry stays silent, but his eyes have narrowed. Waiting.

Drake shakes himself out of his memory, forcing a small smirk. "Okay, trust me, there is a file on Jason. Like I said, Bruce has a file on everyone. But there are a few files that are... sensitive enough information that he's set up a computer trap, a kind of firewall, to keep anyone but him out. You have to enter a personal pass-code first, then give voice recognition, and then you can get into the files. Basically, you're not in unless Batman wants you in."

Terry groans. "Slag it! And since Wayne seems to think that sharing information with me is a Blackgate level crime..." Terry's arm swings, like he wants to punch something, but the damaged bone holds him back as he winces noticeably. "And I don't suppose you can give me much more information than 'it's complicated,' right?"

Drake raises an eyebrow. Ah, those were probably Babs words, ever one to stay out of conflict with Bruce if she could.

"Actually, I can do quite a bit better than that." Drake flicks a switch on his personal computer, making the processor speed up and excess programs temporarily shut down. "I helped set up the BatCave's security system, kid. Which means, I can get you access to those files. But the old big bad Bat is going to know I was there, which means I'm going to get hell for it, and I'm not going to lie for you 'cause Bruce is already watching every move I make in case I ever morph back into a host for the Joker. So, basically..." Drake looks at Terry, eyes sharp—Robin eyes. "Is it worth it?"

Terry is silent a moment. "Yes."

Drake nods, a grim smile on his face. "Okay then. Just give me a second."

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Max chews on a handful of popcorn thoughtfully as she flips through her Advanced Biochemistry textbook, trying desperately not too appear as bored with her work as she is. It's only been five minutes, she realizes, but she asks again, "Any luck there, Terry?"

"Hnhmm."

God, she would give anything for Terry to let her take a look at the Bat-Computer files—just the coding even! But Terry said Tim Drake is pretty firm that they're sensitive info, which meant that Terry still has to at least clear it before bringing his trusty non-sidekick in.

But Terry's fingers stopped moving on the keys a few minutes ago. Now, he's just staring, a bit wide-eyed and strange, at the notebook screen.

"Ter? What's up?" Max doesn't wait for an answer before she slides across the couch and looks over her best-friend's shoulder. There are photographs displayed on the screen—only medium to poor quality, like something taken back when film was still in use, but still clear enough to make out. In each picture is the same boy, about 13 or 14, with wavy black hair and blue eyes. In one picture he's wearing a PIXIES tee-shirt and ripped jeans, glaring at the camera as if it had personally insulted him. In another, he's grinning a smug, shit-eating grin and flipping the camera off. Another is a candid shot, catching the boy looking at a music pamphlet with a soft, wistful look, while chewing on the side of a ballpoint pen. "Is that... is that the Red Hood?"

"Yeah," Terry breaths. "Almost fifty years ago."

"Huh. Looks like a bratty kid. Who was he, anyway?"

Terry's eyes don't leave the screen and Max wonders for a moment if something's wrong, if Terry's been hit with some sort of spell or hypnotized or something. But instead he finally answers, almost reverently— "He was Robin."

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Jason grins at the satisfying crunch of broken bone as the Jokerz member howls in pain, clutching his shoulder. This is his sixth bust of the night and his blood is roaring and he's just fucking getting started. A sidekick to the knee of another grease-painted thug—another loud cracking noise. The rest of the group bolts, a few of them cradling arms with severed ligaments or faces with shallow, but bloody cuts.

But no one dead—for whatever else Bruce can say about him, Jason keeps his word. Until the kid gets better anyway.

He flicks on his helmet's radio, tuning through police channels for useful information. He's high on Gotham violence and is sure there's plenty more out there, waiting. His radio gives a beep, a crackle...

[Hey, how's the old city?]

Jason tenses, growling under his breath. "Where did you come from?"

[Around.]

"Hm. Taking lessons from Babs or something?"

[Hey, I don't need to be Oracle to hack into a radio transmission. Besides, you're using police frequencies and I used to be a policeman. Not exactly mysticism here, Todd. ]

Jason snorts into the receiver, shooting his grappling line over to the nearest rooftop. "Okay, fine. So what do you want?"

[Just checking up. Got a call from Tim. Heard you were visiting him. And patrolling no less.]

"Yeah. Just until the new brat heals. You met him yet?"

[Yes. He's... not terrible. Gave a Cadmus Nightwing-clone a decent run around anyway.]

Jason rolls his eyes and nearly misses a T-gang looting an electronics shop. Hallelujah. "I'll take that praise with a truck load of salt. Cadmus isn't exactly known for their bug-less experiments."

[Jason—]

" Hold on a sec!" He makes the bust as loud as possible for his "brother's" benefit. Knife slashes, arm breaking, glass smashing— the works. By the time everyone is unconscious, Jason is breathing hard and there is silence on his radio. "Dick? Dickie-bird?"

[ I'm here.]

"Oh. Thought old age had made you squeamish or something."

[ He's not going to thank you, you know.]

Jason is silent a moment. "Yeah? Who's that?"

[Bruce. He's stubborn and set in his ways. I know you're trying to help the kid out in your own way, but he's not going to see it that way. Gotham is his territory, always will be. To him, you're—]

"Just some trespassing vigilante?"

[ No. I was just saying...]

"I got over the Bat-issues awhile ago, Dick. No need to hand hold." Jason grits his teeth and shoots his grapple gun out again—he needs to be flying for this conversation. The air was always one of the few places he could usually control his temper. Something about the wind.

"UGH!"A blast of wind, or something, hits Jason like a brick and he falls onto the familiar embrace of rooftop concrete. "What the fuck..."

[ Jason! Jason, are you okay? What happened? ]

Jason coughs. "I don't know. Something hit me and..." A shrill, screaming sound rips through the air and Jason feels the same invisible brick wall slam into his chest. His radio hisses and cracks, fading in and out.

[HSSSST... I'll get Ti... HSSSST ... he's got... HSSSSS... and he'll know... HSSST... just stay... HSSST...]

Jason swallows a mouthful of blood and groans. "What...?"

A white, robot-like creature is walking toward him, a large blue orb rotating where a face should be. "Interesting. You're not the Batman."

"Gee," Jason wheezes, "what was your first clue?"

The white metal head tilts sideways and Jason is hit with another invisible blast. His ears are ringing for some reason, like they did after a loud concert when he was a kid.

"Okay, enough of the magic tricks!" Jason grabs two shuriken from a strap on his leg and hurls them at the thing in front of him. Another high pitch scream rings through the air, and the metal stars fall to the ground in paper-like pieces.

"Oh, no magic I assure you. Just science."

Jason growls and charges forward, knife in hand, but an invisible blast sends his weapon skittering across the roof and over the side.

"No, certainly not the Batman," the voice from the white metal clucks. "But interesting. Well then, let's see what you're made of."

Another blast, sharper than the rest and slightly angled, rips forward and Jason barely even has time to register the sound of his shattering helmet as he falls and his bare head hits the concrete with a deafening crack.

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TO BE CONTINUED...