Chapter 14


True to his word, Jason kept a much better pace following their brief respite from the tropical storm. Tim was aware that the man was surely overcompensating based on the strain of Jason's gait and his lilting halts after particularly long periods. Still, he did not feel that any words of concern would go over well if spoken aloud. So, he said nothing.

What they did talk about, however, was curious. Compared to before, short spans of silence more often became punctuated with lengthier discussions on planning, aligning stealth strategies, and arguing on the best vantage points that their respective experiences made them privy to. Mild arguments aside, Jason took Tim's direction surprisingly well.

Had they still been twelve and fifteen, Jason would have never let a younger teammate take the lead. And even if he had, the boy's pride would have prevented the team from functioning properly. Tim recalled some of said disastrous missions that'd been witnessed from the sidelines. Eventually, things got so bad that leadership had to adjust so that Jason was always on squads with Dick Grayson, who he listened to with surprising deference.

Part of Tim wondered if Jason's newfound teamwork was due to some personal maturing he'd undergone in the years he'd been away… But that seemed unlikely.

No… rather than that, Jason was acting strangely.

It was nothing overt. Frankly, the mission had gone much better than what Tim had hoped for. Already they were nearing their target destination at a respectable clip, without killing each other in the process, and all limbs somewhat intact.

But there was something odd in how Jason carried himself; a slight edge in his voice, a jitteriness in his movements, an overwhelming urge to keep pace despite his apparent injury. And at some point, it occurred to Tim that it wasn't sudden collegiality that made Jason listen to him… it was desperation.

Jason mentioned he had stakes in this retrieval mission, but until that moment, Tim hadn't realized exactly how much. Tim wondered what Talia held over him to keep Jason on so tight a leash that the man would work with someone from his childhood with whom he'd shared a less-than-friendly relationship. But for the life of him, Tim couldn't fathom what it could be. Either way, Jason was cooperating with him, and that was enough for him not to question it further… for now.

If Tim were being honest with himself, which he rarely was, he would have also admitted that the atmosphere between them had shifted since the cave. Sure, Jason was apt to say a snarky thing or two, and Tim was just as happy to bicker right back at him, but in truth, their spats had lost some of their bite. Beyond their mutual goal, their unspoken truce made in the cave seemed to last. And while Tim knew it could only be temporary, he was glad for it. Because with it, Jason opened up to him a bit, offering little snapshots of his life over the last seven years that Tim hadn't realized he'd been ravenous for.

"Papa Ra's hated coming to this island," Jason said suddenly after navigating a particularly tricky length of terrain, "always blamed it on the lawlessness of the gang activity. Honestly though? I just think being anywhere near Bane drove him nuts."

"He lets you call him that?" Tim asked incredulously, narrowing entirely on the wrong part of that statement but unable to focus on anything else.

"Who? Ra's? Fuck no," Jason chuckled sardonically, "The old man would slit my throat in my sleep if he ever heard me say that."

And that's how their conversations went as afternoon turned to evening and evening turned to night. Jason was surprisingly a talker. Of course, anything he said was cloaked in evasive statements and vague memories, but once he got going, the man seemed more than happy to fill the silence - like he'd been alone with his own thoughts for company for so long and was glad to have someone else listen. And Tim? He listened, soaking up every word like he'd been starved of them for years.

Tim's gut roiled with conflicting emotions. Jason had all but confirmed Tim's theory that, despite the impossibility, he was very much alive. He was the very same boy with whom Tim had shared a heated argument in their final moments. An argument ended with hateful words spoken that young Tim had wished a thousand times over that he could take back, particularly during the darkest nights in the aftermath. And some part of him was desperate to regress back to that twelve-year-old boy in the presence of his greatest and most envied idol... if only to make up for it.

But Tim wasn't twelve years old anymore, and in his time as a seasoned vigilante, he'd seen how people changed over the span of a year, let alone seven. So, like he did with any unwanted emotion, thought, or memory, he buried it. He tucked that childish part of him deep in his mind with practiced efficiency. He convinced himself that it was better this way, to focus on the mission at hand, and to lean into logic rather than annoying emotions. Because emotions got you into trouble. They always had.

That's where Tim found himself as he and Jason hid in a small alcove overlooking the Shadows headquarters. It was the same one Batman had used two years prior when he'd listened in on Deathstroke's comments on the abducted princess Tara Markov's whereabouts.

The League of Shadow's headquarters was situated in a massive cave on the side of the Santa Prisca volcano. Everything about the place was threatening, from the severe concrete architecture surrounded by a lake dotted with underwater bombs to the massive cavern that yawned around it like an open mouth, aptly shrouding the building in shadows.

"So run this by me again," Jason muttered, his large frame bent awkwardly in the low-ceilinged space of their alcove, "The lead suspect is Deathstroke because he… what, might have a vendetta against Ra's?"

"Yes and no," Tim's head bobbed, "Slade had been the Light's enforcer for years, and we've suspected he's gotten a promotion by now to a full-fledged member. His ambitions always extended beyond being just hired muscle, and maybe now he's acting in that capacity."

"So, it's like I suspected. The Light's the one lashing out because Ra's al Ghul won't rejoin their little clambake," Jason muttered as he readjusted his position. His body brushed lightly against Tim's before settling in their separate spaces. Tim couldn't believe that only twenty-four hours ago, he would have shied from the proximity, expecting ill intent. Amazing how a near-death experience and a heart-to-heart could soften some of the edges of his mistrust.

Jason continued, "But that doesn't explain why it'd be Deathstroke to carry out the dirty work. The transition of the Shadow's had been smooth, and if anything, he was grateful that Ra's awarded the League to him. Why would he be so willing to lash out against a prior ally. Why not let one of the other goons do it?"

Tim frowned. That's what he was hung up on too. What was the motive? All these suspicions so far had led to no reasonable theory. He was acting on gut feeling alone. But Jason was still waiting on an answer, counting on him to give a neat and tidy hypothesis… and Tim would have rather choked than admit out loud that he didn't have one.

When Tim didn't answer, Jason looked at him heavily. His mask might have blocked his facial expressions, but his body language made his frustrations perfectly clear. "Well, your little suspicion had better be right because it's my ass on the line."

"I never claimed that this would be where the weapon was hidden," Tim hissed as he glared at the other man, resentful of Jason's suddenly caustic tone. "I distinctly remember mentioning that I just wanted to do a recon mission."

Both stared at each other for a moment before Jason marginally deflated, throwing his hands up in what Tim quickly learned was his signal of surrender. "Stand down, Robin… I just," Jason's voice was quiet as he looked down at the building, "I just have a lot riding on this."

"You've made that crystal clear." Tim didn't like to be reminded of that, and it only made the guilt twist deeper in his gut like a knife. But did he have any choice? No matter how much it mattered to Jason, could Tim let him return a notably deadly weapon back to the hands of Ra's al Ghul?

Never.

After that, they both decided to drop the subject, shifting to discuss their entry strategy. Jason's strategist skills were quickly becoming an asset. The way he spoke made it easy to remember why he'd been so valued on the team back when he was a member of Young Justice. His mind was sharp, and he had a knack for thinking outside the box… when he wasn't being a hothead, that is.

"See those vents down below," he said as he pointed. Sure, enough, on the back side of the headquarters were massive fans built into the walls. "Most of those lead to dead ends or spit you out closer to a volcano sill than you'd like to be. But that one," he gestured to the furthest one, "that'll take you nearly anywhere you want to go throughout the whole facility. Keeps the volcanic vog circulating out of the building and prevents a whole hoard of assassins from getting choked out on carbon monoxide. My mask has a filter, but you'll need a respirator."

"Got it," said Tim, immediately reaching for the belt at his waist.

Tim could practically hear Jason's eyes rolling, "You fucking bats and your utility belts." Tim didn't deign him with a response as he strapped the black mask over his face. "Anyways, you still got that amulet? I can't tell if you're wearing it or not."

Tim startled. Yes, he was still wearing it underneath his stealth suit. He'd forgotten. No wonder none of Jason's men had paid him any mind back out on the boat. They wouldn't have recognized him in the first place. He nodded, mentally chastising himself for his error.

"Good. If we do happen to get spotted, that'll keep their guards low. Better two rival assassins infiltrating than someone on the Justice League."

"I'm not on the Justice League."

"Close enough. You're Robin." Jason replied, not hiding the acid with which he used Tim's alias.

Tim had no response to that. Instead, his attention shifted to the saber on Jason's back. "Hold on," he said, grabbing hold of Jason's wrist before the other man could grapple down. The red eye of Jason's mask glared at Tim's hand scathingly, so Tim promptly let go. "Before we go, I think we need to establish some ground rules."

"Ground rules?"

"Just one," Tim said decisively, "No killing."

"Ha!" The laugh that came from Jason's mask was distorted and mechanical, "You might have your set of moral codes, Birdie, but I go by a different sort."

"Doesn't matter," Tim argued. "You want my help? You play by my rules." He hoped that Jason could tell how serious he was about this. Once upon a time, the other man had been held to the same rigid standard, and he had known how non-negotiable it was. But then again, that was a long time ago. And the man before him was an assassin, not a Robin.

Jason took a second to consider, looking at Tim's fixed expression as he did so. "Fine. The sheath'll stay on," he said, referring to the sheath of his sword, "But anything beyond that is no guarantees."

"I'll hold you to that," Tim answered, knowing that was as good as he would get.

"Yeah, yeah… you Bats and your fucking hero complexes," Jason muttered under his breath.

Tim was silent. A conflicting emotion once again rising to the surface, this one closely resembling something like… jealousy.

Honestly, there had been many nights when Tim had lain awake thinking about this moral code. The one rule that Bruce Wayne held himself and all his little protégés to. Dick Grayson lived by that moral code. Even at his worst, he held onto it like a lifeline, telling Tim that their abstention from killing was what set them apart from villains, what kept them on a righteous path.

But despite all those animated lectures, Tim never internalized the philosophy his earliest predecessor lived by. Don't get him wrong, it wasn't that Tim wanted to exact punishment on the world's worst villains… he had no desire to act as jury, judge, and executioner. It was more so that he just didn't care, and that bland indifference was what scared him. That was what kept him awake at night.

He never voiced this aloud, obviously. His teammates saw him as the straight and narrow Robin, the rigid Robin. Of course, they'd also think he was rigid on this ideology. And Tim never corrected them because, as far as he was concerned, when he was in his suit and wearing that blazing gold R, he lived and breathed by the moral code that Bruce Wayne set and Dick Grayson glorified. He had to. Because any deviation would only set him further apart from the blazing Boy Wonder Tim had initially joined the team for and so much closer to… well… someone else.

"Earth to Robin," Jason repeated, breaking Tim out of his thoughts. His hand waved inches in front of Tim's face. "You all there, birdbrain?"

"Knock it off," Tim sighed, halfheartedly batting Jason's hand away. "I'm just thinking. When we get in there, it'll be harder to communicate. You got any comms that I can link to?" At Jason's nod, Tim linked them, blinking as Jason's name now floated over his shoulder, a perk of the augmented vision from his mask. "We'll stick together. Neither goes on ahead without the other." Until absolutely necessary, he thought but didn't say out loud.

With nothing left to say and their tacit agreement hanging in the air, they both aimed their grappling hooks toward the cavern ceiling. After their last check to ensure the coast was clear, they swung to the massive fans.

On the headquarters' roof, the wind from the metal fans whipped at Tim's cheeks. The sulfuric smell from the volcanic conduit underground was already intolerable, even though the respirator was firmly sealed over his nose and mouth. Thankfully it would muffle Tim's voice to the degree that allowed for near-silent communication between the two, protecting them from unwanted listeners. Jason's mask also had a silencing feature, so when he spoke, it was directly into Tim's ear.

"I'll take point," Jason's gravelly voice reverberated in an oddly jarring sensation that Tim didn't quite know what to make of. "I have a general idea of the direction we're headed, and can keep us away from the volcano sills."

"Sounds like you've been sneaking around here before. What? Ra's doesn't trust the Shadow's new leader?" Tim commented snidely.

Jason huffed in a not-quite laugh, "Ra's lives by the 'Keep your friends close. And your enemies' closer mindset. Slade just so happens to dabble between both."

"Fair enough," Tim responded in his own half-laugh. "Okay, you take lead. I'll keep an eye on the heat signatures of anyone patrolling below the vents.

"Good luck seeing anything," Jason said as he jumped over the vent threshold, easily avoiding the propeller's lazy circulation. Tim followed close behind. "It's hot as balls down there."

Ten minutes in, Tim could definitively tell that Jason's comment wasn't exaggerated. Even with his suit's heat-dampening modalities, Tim's skin prickled uncomfortably underneath the fabric. Jason, for the matter, didn't seem to be faring much better. His curled hair started sticking to his forehead under his hood, which he'd eventually thrown back with a slew of cuss words.

Thankfully Tim's vision sensors were intelligent enough to filter environmental heat from humans. Already the two had had to stop a few times when the League's agents passed underneath. They probably would have been fine, but Jason didn't want to chance losing their position to augmented hearing. Once again, Tim was surprised by Jason's caution, his maturity with age finally allowing the genius he'd always possessed to really shine.

"Up aheads a warehouse. Deathstroke hangs around there, most often to check up on inventory." Jason's voice sounded in Tim's ears as they rounded one of the many sharp corners of the vent system. The conduit was just large enough that they could navigate through at a crouch and durable enough that Tim didn't have to worry that one wrong step would send him crashing to the floor below. Not for the first time, Tim wondered just how often Jason had navigated these vents, an observant shadow hidden within a realm of shadows.

"Seems awful bureaucratic for someone who'd rather be out in the action," Tim answered, hissing as his glove caught on an exceptionally sharp edge of the duct system's corner.

"Oh, the guy hates his life," Jason laughed, more a chortle given his hushed voice, "Don't think the business behind running a League was something he anticipated."

Sure enough, soon Tim's heat vision registered a sizeable open space occupied by a single person, their heat signature dimming and brightening as they milled around large objects that Tim couldn't yet make out. He watched as Jason gingerly stepped around a large grille in the duct system, the light from the room below casting slits of light on the vent walls. Silently, Jason nodded to him as he kneeled at the grille's edge. Tim stepped closer and also kneeled, careful that he would be out of view to anyone who happened to look up.

Below, an agent of the League of Shadow's carried a digital ledger as he navigated between massive crates littering the warehouse floor. His features were masked by his dark clothes and black mask. Still, his body language gave him away, his finger moving minutely as he walked, counting the wooden boxes as he went by.

"Any idea what those are?" Tim asked, even more quietly now that they weren't alone.

"Some are weapons, I'd figure," Jason's voice was pensive, "But I've never seen that sheer size of inventory circulated through here before. That's enough to equip the entire league and then some."

"Huh." Tim watched as the agent circled the last of the stacks before walking through large mechanical doors that hissed as they opened and closed behind him, never once looking up from the digital ledger in his hand.

"Want to get a closer look?" Jason offered, the flash of his mask's red eye staring down at Tim in the darkness.

"Can we?"

Tim couldn't see his face, but he knew the other man was smirking behind his mask. With a creak, Jason hefted the far edge of the vent grille, setting it askew just large enough so that both their bodies could fit through. Clearly, the removable opening had been manufactured after the vent's initial installation, and Tim had no doubts as to who was responsible.

The jump down was just close enough that the two could manage it unassisted if they wanted but seeming to anticipate that they might need a quick getaway, Jason secured a grappling hook from his waist to the vent's edge. The thick rope tumbled below them, hitting the warehouse floor with a quiet slap.

"After you," Jason said grandly as he held out his arm, mimicking a gentleman opening a door.

Tim huffed as he rolled his eyes. His slight smile must have been hidden by his respirator, but Tim was sure it was apparent in his voice, "You're impossible," he said as he jumped.

The landing was hard on Tim's knees, but nothing he wasn't used to as he ducked into a roll. The warehouse floor was white and pristine, the epoxy floor dotted with bright reflections from the overhead fluorescent lights. Tim was already on his way towards one of the large wooden crates innocuously labeled "produce" when he felt the slight breeze of Jason jumping down behind him.

"Those utility belts still got wedges in them?" Jason asked as he approached the crate that Tim was currently planted in front of. He crowded beside Tim as he reached his fingers around the lip of one of the wooden crates. Nodding, Tim pulled a portable wedge out of his belt. The trick was to pry the box lid so they could get a good look without damaging the structure. At least enough that it wouldn't be noticeable to future inspectors. Jason seemed of a similar mind, and once Tim had jimmied the box open enough, Jason pulled the rest open with a grunt.

The taller man whistled. "Well, that's more than I thought it'd be."

Tim would also have been impressed if he weren't so concerned. Inside the wooden crate was a pile of haphazardly stacked assault rifles. M16s, AK47s, Mac-10s, RPDs, and that was only naming a few, all crowded in a deadly heap. Tim quickly did a mental count. Each box seemed to carry around twenty rifles. Multiply that by the number of crates in each stack and then the number of stacks throughout the whole warehouse and…

"This is about-"

"Seven thousand and two hundred assault rifles in one warehouse?" Jason interrupted.

"Or just enough to supply a small army," Tim finished. His eyes tracked to one of the smaller stacks of crates along the room's periphery, which undoubtedly carried the ammo. "What dealer would Slade be working with to get this kind of supply?"

Jason crouched as he reached his hand into the open crate, his gloves tracing along the barrel of a particularly dinged-up AK47 in a way that was almost… affectionate. "I would say Lex Luthor based on the amount alone, but providing used weaponry isn't his style. No matter who it is, there's no way this kind of secondhand supply had been delivered overnight. This dealer has been collecting this store for a while."

Tim hummed in agreement, his face pinched in thought. Lex Luthor was well known to the Justice League, but the Shadows now had an arms dealer outside of the Light? That was disconcerting in itself.

"Not to mention that guns aren't usually the shadow's M.O. Their training schtick is usually based around swords and knives and assassin shit and whatnot."

"Like yours?"

Jason harrumphed. "I'd trade for one of these if I could," he grumbled, digging out a small pistol from the pile and giving one affectionate swipe of his fingers against the textured grip. "Either way, this kinda' supply is bad news in the hands of Deathstroke," he stated before returning the gun to the crate.

Tim agreed. Anything that induced such a shift in the modus operandi of a well-established organization like the League of Shadows spelled trouble. He had no doubt in his mind that the League was gearing up for war.

But the question was, against whom?


A/N: We made it! New chapter done and uploaded, and just in time for the holidays. Take care everyone!