Sorry for the wait! Hope you all enjoy~
I do whatever suits my mood, a boy picking out enemies and fighting
No hopes for the future, I waited to be drawn in a dream
And yet I fear the future, hating tomorrow, wishing towards the past
There's no longer anything I can do, so I shout out
"Tomorrow, tomorrow, please, don't come"
-Orangestar, "Night Sky Patrol of Tomorrow"
Then.
Outside the loft, Tim wasted no time in lighting up another cigarette, taking in slow drawls as he let the decaying darkness further fill his lungs' capacity. Eroding, eating away at his contaminated heart's cavity even more; corroding an already corrupted spirit down to its very core.
He stuffed his palms in his pockets as he strolled sullenly down the street, ambling aimlessly through sidewinding lanes and alleyways without any particular purpose in mind. He just needed to get away – from his own thoughts and dreams and desires. …They kept persistently pursuing him wherever he went though, no matter how hard he tried to make the memories – madness – go away.
Dick was right to be worried. As much as he hated to admit it, he felt as if his brain was about to burst, break into a billion bits at any moment. Overload and short-circuit. Like his blackened, burning chest was going to blow up – throw up into a nearby trashbin.
Inhaling a final puff, he discarded the stick of toxic smoke with a flick, putting out its worn butt with the heel of his sole. Cruelly crushing ambition underfoot until smote, snuffing out any lingering flames of hope within his hellbound soul. Firmly extinguishing the last flickering bold sparks, diminishing gold. Expiring remnants of aspiration through thick clouds of coughing exhale – ruined respiration.
A grave autumn chill gusted through the passage, rolling littered newspapers about the gutters. Drawing his hood up against the draft, he took off at a brisk jog – before breaking into a run. Fleeing from shadows and whispers, spurred on by sinister smiles and sickening snickers. Just to see how far he could go before he had to quit.
Eventually exhaustion caught up with him, and he paused to catch his breath. Stopping, he stooped low enough to drip cold sweat from his face to the floor, panting heavily. Bent over with both hands relying on weedy knees for support, winded and wheezing.
He could still hear laughter, voices. Louder than before. Too loud. Too many. Many…?
It took a minute for him to realize he didn't recognize the choral pitch. The bullying bellows were too braying, too brash to be him. …And they were coming from around the corner.
Tiptoeing forward, he pressed his back to the wall, sidling along the edge to peer round the bend – and balked at what he saw.
Jokerz. A bunch of them, ganging up on a girl. That girl. That sweet, stupid, stubborn girl.
He stood frozen, knowing what the situation spelled. Years ago he wouldn't have hesitated to leap straight into the fray, to another's rescue without even thinking. After all, there was no way he could just stand by when someone was in trouble right before him… Right?
His legs were quaking though. He could deal with an earthquake, that at least he could handle. But this- this was different. Disasters caused damage. People caused pain.
He could turn around and walk away. No one would know. No one would blame him. Be a "standard" bystander by simply calling the police, let the proper authorities take care of it. …If there was even anything left to take care of by the time they arrived.
So you're just going to run away?
The voice wasn't his own. It wasn't Joker's either.
He rotated to see a young girl standing right next to him; smooth raven bob-cut framed perfectly around a pretty porcelain doll-face with rosy cherub cheeks, and shining almond eyes tilted up, shimmering with a child's wonder. A familiar raggedy red sweater and yellow top (colors he himself used to wear with pride) and short black skirt – too short for this kind of weather, let alone someone her age (he chides himself for just realizing this now). …The choked collar imprisoning around her neck – as if evidence of belonging to someone else, body shackled to another's.
"Annie…"
She smiled.
What happened to the brave Robin I used to know? I bet he'd be out there heroing and kicking butt right now.
He shook his head.
"I can't."
Sure you can. You've done it before. You protected me from those bikers, remember?
He swallowed.
"But in the end, I still couldn't save you."
She reached out to touch his hand, but he couldn't feel anything. She wasn't real, after all.
You tried your best. That counts for something at least. The fact you cared when no one else did, made me feel like I was someone who mattered when I didn't even know my own name – that meant more to me than anything. Just your kindness alone was enough.
Denying, he attempted to avert away.
"I'm not that kind of person anymore."
The corners of her mouth faded, settling into a slight frown.
So then what- You're going to completely ignore this? What if that girl gets hurt?
He couldn't say, that he was the one afraid of getting hurt – again. She let go in disappointment, expression buried by the lowered shade of her bangs.
Coward.
He blinked, and she was gone.
"Annie…? Annie wait, please don't go!"
Silly, I'm still here.
Her lilting cadence giggled from somewhere high above him. Alarmed, his anxious glance darted, flitting frantically about the dim space- and spotted her sitting on the edge of a fire escape balcony, swinging her slim legs (bare save for the sloe soles of her boots) between the bars. He watched in growing horror as she slowly ascended and climbed up on top of the railing, balancing on one toe with outstretched arms as she teetered treacherously on the narrow beam. Losing purchase on her previously precarious perch.
"Annie, what are you doing?" he hissed, "That's dangerous. Get down from there this instant."
Like a bird about to take flight, she spread wings wide.
Catch me, Robin.
She was going to fall. She was too far, he couldn't catch her in time. Not without grapples or stolen grace. She trusted him. Why? He had to move. He couldn't. He was too scared. …Of what?
Move, damnit.
He dove, just barely making the mark. However she merely ghosted through him, coasting carefree as she alighted with a twirl.
See? You do still care.
He clenched his knuckles, scraping dirt from the sidewalk.
"You tricked me."
She knelt beside him, hugging her knees with a half-apologetic grin.
It worked though, didn't it, Robin?
He curled his fingers further, nails digging, dragging through the filth. Impressing it into his own befouled flesh.
"I'm not Robin anymore. You shouldn't call me that."
Inclining forward, her pure lips parted, lightly planting an affectionate peck on his unsuspecting cheek. Though he still couldn't physically sense the gesture, the innocent adolescent kiss sent a warm, tingling charge through his spine.
You'll always be a hero to me, Robin. No matter what you think or say. No matter what he says. I'm… really glad I got to meet you, even if it was only for a short time.
He gulped as she brushed a palm over his rapidly beating breast, measuring understandable conflict and confusion – but also the courage she knew still existed somewhere deep down.
You want to help her, don't you? So go. Be her hero, like you were for me. It'll be all right this time, I promise.
Her words convinced. Even though the primarily rational part of him – prevailing logic – had to consider it an empty platitude given the speaker's imaginary status… His conscience buoyed, emboldened by it. While still somewhat unsteady, he wobbled to his feet and advanced to check on the current circumstances.
One of the thugs – clearly the leader – had moved forward and was looming with a leering sneer over his prey, who glared back defiantly.
"Hey, you're pretty cute, missy. Want to play with us?"
He hungrily lunged a rude paw towards her.
Please don't do anything dumb, Tim thought (though he wasn't exactly sure whom the statement was directed more towards at this stage).
Her immediate knee-jerk response was to slap the jerk in the face. Tim mentally cheered and facepalmed at the time.
The brute simply rubbed at the bruise with an unaffected smirk.
"Feisty, eh? I kinda like that. Come on, whaddya say?"
He grabbed at the offending hand, but the victim only followed up with an even severer strike using her free fist.
"…Okay, now you're starting to get on my nerves," he growled as he spit blood, smearing scarlet across white with the back of his gloved hand. "You've just made a big mistake, girlie."
His posse began to encroach, humming eagerness like a low swarm of cicadas. Glee gleaming from their visages and weapons as they tapped the bludgeons against their gauntlets, drumming metrically.
Tim bit his bottom lip, every deeply ingrained instinct in him screaming to back away. But he felt a mild breeze push against his back, small angel's song murmuring softly over his shoulder, deterring devil's advocate.
Go. You can do this, Robin.
He steeled himself, and stepped out from the shadows.
"Leave her alone."
The gang all revolved towards the interruption, and guffawed at the scrawny sight.
"What's this? Some kind of joke? You know who you're messing with, kid?"
He noted their target brighten in relief at an unexpected savior. Admiring audacious act with attentive appreciation – anticipation – obviously grateful for the temporary distraction. He reasserted himself, endeavoring to reassure, put on a brave front.
"A bunch of circus freaks?"
Admittedly not his best counter-quip, but he was sorely out of practice, and he couldn't really think straight right now, with so much fight-or-flight adrenaline pumping through veins, thumping thunderous in his ears. The group scoffed and elbowed each other, only slightly slighted by such scornful disdain – especially coming from what appeared to be someone almost half their size, despite likely similar age. To these evolutionary spawn gone wrong, who operated on principle of "survival of the fittest", a pipsqueak so puny and weak had no right to speak. (Although how they expected to be taken seriously in those ridiculous outfits in the first place was anyone's guess.)
"Maybe you missed the memo, but see this?" The hulking head of the pack pointed at his grotesque pallor. "This means we're Jokerz. You know? As in the 'Clown Prince of Crime'? Since he seems to have either up and left this hole or finally kicked the bucket for good, we've taken over the 'mission' in his absence. We're here to carry on his legacy. You're looking at his heirs, the new kings and queens, true rulers of Gotham. We run this town."
Surprisingly, it was Steph's turn to roll her eyes and retort:
"If you ask me, all you inherited is his terrible fashion sense."
The dominant whirled around, wrenching her wrist. "Watch it," he snarled. "Shut your mouth, wench."
"Hey! Let her go."
Tim snapped, but the boss blatantly ignored the order with a derisive chuckle.
"See? Our motto's the same as his creed: Cause all sorts of random chaos and destruction, murder and mayhem for kicks, just 'cuz we can. 'Cuz it's schway. Am I right, guys?"
Hardly able to contain hilarity over recounting his own (supposed) list of horrible deeds, the rippling mirth ripped through the ringleader's ribcage and into his throat, radiating out as his rabble audience roused in agreement. Laughing lurid like loons.
"There you have it. We don't listen to no one else tell us what to do. Like him, we take what we want, when we want."
Tim tsked at the sorry excuse, equally unimpressed by such cheap imitations who used his most hated villain's – tormenter's – name as a crutch. Hiding behind someone else's shadow. He muttered under his breath:
"You have no idea what Joker's like."
"What was that, shorty?"
"I said get lost."
The crowd erupted into raucous amusement again, hooting and hollering.
"This coming from a wimpy shrimp who looks like he's about to piss his pants? Why don't you run on home and cry to Mommy and Daddy, you runty little brat?"
Tim's fist tautened. He tried his hardest to conceal terrified trembling as he took a step forward to determinedly meet the other's gaze.
"I'm warning you."
"Ooh, I'm so scared." The menace mocked as he clutched his captive tighter, causing her to cringe, though she resisted crying out. "What are you gonna do about it, squirt?"
"This."
A startlingly strong force launched into the aggressor's gut, and he swiftly relinquished his hold as he doubled over in discomfort. Tim quickly turned to the released hostage.
"Run," he told her. "I'll hold 'em off."
Stephanie stared at him, unmoving. Why wasn't she listening?
His opponent groaned as he got to his feet, gripping his ribs.
"Why you snotnosed punk." He grimaced, fumbling for his pouch to whip out a knife, steel flashing as he swung wildly at Tim (who briefly wished he still had his own). Before either of them knew it though, Tim had used that trick Bruce once taught him to disarm a larger foe and knocked him back down. The heap winced in writhing agony, but staunchly staggered up again, putting up daisy dukes.
"That tears it. It's on now." He turned towards the mob of stunned onlookers, barking. "Well, what are you waiting for? Get that dreg!"
They fell upon him, but he dodged and weaved like water, muscles reacting before his mind, remembering all those old moves he used to drill every day until they became but basic reflex – half-improvising on the fly. One by one, he took them out with ease, dropping like flies. "Small fry," Batman used to call them. "Focus on the alpha. Once he's down, the others will follow." (But Batman would never let him go up against the real big bads by himself. Not yet. Batman knew best.)
It was almost frightening, how effortless the rhythm was to slip back into. Privately, he might have even dared say he was starting to enjoy it a bit, feel that former rush of exhilaration from a fulfilling punch or kick. …And maybe that scared him most of all.
All of a sudden, the fight was disrupted by a shout ringing out, snapping him to attention:
"Hey, look out! Behind you!"
He turned, like a trance, and saw a female Joker raising a crowbar high above her head, cackling upon catching quarry unawares. And just like that, he's abruptly back in that dead-end alley with Harley and her oversized hammer, and he can't move, can't think, can't breathe. It all goes entirely blank as the mallet comes crashing down in slow-motion-
"In this line of work, one slip is too many."
He felt arms around his waist as someone tackled him from behind, heaving desperately out of harm's away. The metal managed to graze his temple, making him dizzy and nauseous, but he was still conscious. He heard a loud crack coming from around his abdomen as he landed on the ground face-down and separated from the other lump, rolling away on automatic impulse. At first he thought maybe he'd broken something, but when he touched at the tender part through the cloth he realized it was Dick's CD that had fractured. Shit. He'd forgotten all about it. He'd have to apologize to Dick later, when this was all over. …Because it would be over soon, one way or another. It had to be. He couldn't take much more of this.
Before he could rise though, the remaining number of adversaries descended, dogpiling on him, pinning every single one of his limbs. As much as he squirmed and strained to escape, he was effectively outnumbered. Couldn't move an inch. They held him down securely as the top cur approached, brandishing the blade he'd managed to retrieve during the scuffle. He yanked harshly at Tim's hair, drawing the tip close to his quivering lips.
"I'm going to carve a great big smile onto your fucking face, pretty boy. Teach you a lesson; no one makes a fool out of me. Then I'll have some fun with your bitch while you watch, before I cut you both up."
This was it, Tim thought. He had failed. He was going to die. He was going to die. Before he could even get a chance to say sorry to Dick or Barbara or Bruce. He'd never get to go home – to his soft, safe bed and games and comic books and precious action figure collection (that his once boasting pride pretended he was getting too old for) – to be with his family, listen to Dick's lame puns and spar with Barbara and spin around in the old man's chair and eat Alfred's warm, homemade cookies fresh-baked from the oven again. Never get to fly once more beside them, see their smiles or the sun or the beautiful symbol in the night sky as they soared together through the stars, that used to fill him with hope, such hope…
Then, without warning, as if in answer to his prayer: a lucky break – or rather brick – torpedoed square at his assailant's jaw with pinpoint accuracy, propelling him back as he yelped and yowled in anguish, dropping the knife. Tim twisted his neck to see Stephanie in a prominent post-thrown stance, readying another projectile from a convenient pile neighboring one of the dilapidated buildings.
Holy crap.
"Who are you calling a bitch, huh? Why don't you try picking on someone your own size?" She glowered fiercely at the rest. "Who else wants a piece of this?"
His subduers – now practically sitting ducks – instantly relented and scurried out of the way, scrambling to safety.
"Yeah you'd better run."
Tim wasn't done though. Accumulated anger and aggression swelled in his stomach as he jumped on his would-be attacker, seizing opportunity and collar as he wailed on him in retaliation – retribution. Seeing nothing but red and ashen gray, seething rage. He pounded repeatedly, relentlessly – pummeling to a bloody pulp – flecks of pale paint mixed with crimson pain staining his skin with each contact. No matter how many times he slammed his berserk fist into that horrid face though, it wouldn't stop laughing. Goading him to hit harder. And maybe he's laughing too. He can't tell anymore. All he knows is it feels so damn satisfying to lay into him, every single second a blow connected, for all the times the evil bastard threw the goddamn switch-
"Hey, stop! You're gonna kill him!"
His hand halted as he felt slender fingers wrap around his wrist – gentle, not too forceful – but urgent. Insistent.
"As much as I totally agree he deserves worse, I think he's had enough."
Tim blinked and looked down, gradually registering the moaning, mangled mess beneath him. He hastily liberated the lapel, and the battered creature crawled miserably away, wounded and whimpering (no longer simpering). A few loitering loyal stragglers hurried to help him up.
"Dude, let's get out of here. This guy's insane."
Licking injuries, they pathetically limped away with tails between their legs, casting petrified peeks over their shoulders. Tim hunched in on himself as he sank to his hands and knees in slumped defeat, shuddering numbly with shame and regret. Tentatively, Stephanie extended towards him.
"Are you… okay?"
Funny, normally it was supposed to be the other way around. He was the one who should typically be asking that kind of question.
"I'm fine."
Like hell you are.
"You don't look fine."
He was shaking all over. He felt like he was going to be ill. He honestly never thought he'd be doing anything like this again. Ever.
"I said I'm all right. Just… leave me alone."
He grit his teeth, scarcely stabilizing as he elevated. He didn't get very far before he stumbled though, leaning against a proximate barrier as a brace, struggling to remain standing even with the aid of a stanchion. Stephanie creased her brow in increasing concern, clasping his hand.
"Come on."
She declared as she began resolutely pulling along, leading in a decisive direction. Tim was too tired to even protest at this point, so he sluggishly – robotically – followed her coaxing tug, trailing obediently after like a trained, tame pet. Utterly drained and devoid of emotion.
"Where are we going?"
He inquired with cautious curiosity, weary but still wary.
Without missing a beat, she replied:
"My house."
Leaving the old me behind,
The moon sets, and the sun rises
But that night was different from all the others
When you took my hand...
P.S. Happy Annieversary~