Chapter Text
1.
Gotham is a mother. All cities are, but Gotham is a particularly psychotic mother, shielding her children in her shadows by holding them in gutters and rotten docks while her throat sparkles with city lights like diamonds and her hair flows with sewage water and pearls. Her crown jewel is the Batman. The precious stones that glitter around his onyx center are the Joker, the Wayne Tower, crime alley, and the industrial center. Gotham is at once startlingly wealthy and horrendously poor.
Unlike most of Gotham’s children, Robin was adopted. His parents fell from a great height and splat, adoption complete. Of course there was the custody battle as Hayley’s Circus tried to reclaim the Grayson boy but Gotham was too powerful, too set. She already claimed the boy as hers.
There was no Bruce Wayne to rescue him and so Gotham claimed him.
…
Winter set in Gotham like all other seasons – wet, bitter, and miserable. Ice hung off bushes like patterned lace and the snow fell in large flurries that melted as soon as they touched Robin’s skin. The boy stuck out his tongue to catch a drifting flake. The snow didn’t stick but melted as soon as it touched pavement in wet circles like raindrops. Robin wished it were rain because maybe it wouldn’t be so cold. The cold made his fingers stiff. If it were raining there would be more people with fewer coats and bulky jackets between him and their money. “Today is not a good day for this,” Robin rubbed his hands hard and blew on them.
“Its never a good day for this,” said Chris Does, called Bluebell for reasons known only to him, as he flicked some snow off his sleeve and scowled at the almost empty street. Bluebell was sixteen and lanky with elbows that were too sharp and legs that were too long. His fiery red hair was hidden beneath a cap pulled low over his eyes so if someone spotted him they’d only see a slender white boy in a too big coat and raggedy green gloves. “Damn it. The Tithe is due tomorrow.”
“Swearing not going to help anything,” Robin pushed off the wall and buried his hands in his pockets. One of them had a hole into the lining where he pushed random stuff he didn’t want to lose. “Maybe if we head closer to the Mall we’ll get something.”
“Yeah, something. Nothing like a knife in the ribs for Christmas. The Brickams claimed that spot last week.”
“Really?” Robin’s eyebrows furrowed and he leaned back against the wall. “I heard they already got the grocery on 9th.”
Bluebell spat on the ground. “Real greedy bastards, the lot of them. Charlie tried to snitch some from their plot and they broke her fingers. She had a hard time keeping the kids from starving until her hand healed. The Kains helped her out a bit and I gave her some of my stash.”
“Mmm,” Robin blew on his fingers to hide his smile. “I’m sure you did.”
Bluebell’s face flushed in angry splotches. “It wasn’t anything like that, Rob! God, get your mind out of the gutter. Charlie’d break me in half if I so much as tried to hold her hand.” He sounded proud. Robin just hummed in the most assuming way he could and pretended to ignore Bluebell’s steadily reddening ears.
Fact was the Tithe was creeping steadily closer and everyone was a few dollars short and every hour nearer to a day late. Robin closed his eyes and slid down onto his heels as a cold breeze kicked the snow into a tizzy. There was the rent on the room at the Quillia, the Tithe, and then there were his kids. Bobby, and Randy, and Mix, and Kitten, and Snaps, and Mark, and the other half a dozen pickpockets and street kids Robin took under his wing over the years. Half of them with siblings or parents to take care of. The other half used whatever dollars they got to stay alive. None of them could pay the Tithe.
Charlie announced her arrival with a scuff of too-big combat boots. The pint-sized girl stopped beside him and fished out a piece of ABC gum from behind her ear. “’Sup, Robin. Blue. Any luck?”
“Like a crook in the Batfry,” Bluebell eyed her suspiciously. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Not long.” Charlie blew a bubble and eyed him right back.
When Charlie was eight some creep tried to grab her. She kicked, bit, and scratched him until in desperation the kidnapper grabbed her by her long brown hair and dragged her. Charlie got away through the timely intervention of some cops but luck like that didn’t happen in Gotham twice. She took her mother’s scissors to her hair and kept it in jagged short tuffs ever since.
The three of them watched the street for another half hour, occasionally standing or stomping their feet to get warm, but all the pedestrians were safely away in their houses. In the meantime, the sky darkened and Gotham’s bipolar whims shifted steadily toward dangerous. The three children exchanged looks and mutually agreed to go home. “Fuck this,” Charlie said quietly. “The lot of us is gonna have to hide on Saturday.”
“And Sunday. And Monday. A whole week of Mondays.” Bluebell’s hands clenched tight. “Fucking gangs and their fucking tithe.”
“At least it’s the Red Crows,” Robin said quietly. “The Scorps are likely to kill anyone who doesn’t pay up.” He closed his eyes. He breathed deep. “I’ll take responsibility for the little ones; if I say they’re a collective they’ll just go after me.”
Bluebell and Charlie exchanged an alarmed look. Charlie reached out and grabbed his sleeve. Her fingers were red and cracked from the cold. “Rob, no. The Reds already have it out for you ‘cause you quit running. If you go back like this they’ll tie you.”
“What other choice do I have?” Robin pushed her hand away gently. “Kitten and Snaps are eight. Mark’s ten. You really want to see them beaten up ‘cause they can’t spare fifty-four dollars?”
Charlie’s lips thinned and her eyes dropped. After a moment her fingers twisted into her shirt as she nodded to herself and lifted her chin. “I’ll claim them.”
The boys immediately protested.
“You’re already paying for Clive and Randy,” Bluebell said. “Plus your other girls. At thirty dollars to an extra head you’re already paying around three fifty and you already got a mark because you couldn’t pay for Clive last time. I’ve got twelve kids so I owe four hundred and change and I’m still thirty bucks short.” He ran a gloved hand through his hair. “I can’t take anymore. Robin… can you even afford three more? This isn’t like when you were a runner. They’re damned vicious on everyone who’s not one of them.”
Robin’s lips twisted as he thought. “It’s cold,” he said in lieu of answering. “I need to go talk to my kids before they head in for the night.” He grabbed the rung of a fire escape. The metal bit into his hands but he ignored it in favor of scrabbling up to the first deck.
“Robin, wait.” Bluebell stood below him. “I’ll try and scrounge up a little extra to help you out. Charlie and I… we’ll figure something out.”
Robin crouched down and smiled. “Just worry about your own kids, Blue. I was practically family with the Reds way back when.”
Charlie joined Bluebell below. “That’s what worries me, Robin. What if they’re still holding a grudge?” Charlie’s eyes were large in her small face, lipid against cheekbones that had been starved into model like beauty. In the glow of the streetlight she looked young and scared.
Robin lay down on his stomach and grabbed her hand through the railing. “Then I’ll go to Leslie’s and get a patch for a some broken ribs.” He smiled brightly. “Don’t you know, Charlie? A Robin always flies on top. Gotta go. Be safe, ‘kay?”
Bluebell snorted and tugged Charlie away. “We should be the ones saying that. Be careful not to slip on those icy roofs, circus boy.”
“If we find a pile of bones on the pavement we’ll leave some roses,” Charlie sniffed, and the boys politely pretended it was because of snootiness.
…
Marshal Brüsh, a German man with an eye for opportunity and a hand for crime, established the Gotham Tithe in 1934. He balanced the books for the Waltz family when their completely law abiding and reputable company established itself in Gotham. Brüsh noticed the swath of pickpockets and street urchins flooding the streets during the Great Depression and began thinking up ways to make a profit. Before this time the Waltz family like many other families either forcibly indoctrinated or killed the urchins who clogged up their neighborhood.
These actions were done less from a sense of inhumanity and cruelty but an inclination to view street urchins as security threats for their notorious predilection to bribery and cheap loyalty. They often broke into mansions and stole the fine silver and stray wine bottles. On one memorable occasion, they made off with the plans for a raid on the Docks, which at that time were firmly in the hands of the French Gang, the Marquis.
Brüsh quickly formulated a plan to put the street children to good use. After discussing it with the head of the Waltz family, Brüsh went to the gangs and Families of Gotham and proposed a Tithe, twice per year, on all children earning money from the streets through cons, pick pocketing, prostitution, errand running, or pigeon runs.
The Tithe was originally set to two dollars and ten cents a person per year, which at that time had the equivalent purchasing value of fifty four dollars dollars. The money was turned over to whichever gang owned or claimed the territory where the children worked. Only those who worked with a specific gang as loyal and faithful comrades were spared Tithing.
The punishment for defiance was swift and brutal.
Immediately, the number of children working the streets dropped. Few children could afford the two-dollar tax even once per year, much less twice. Children quickly picked gangs and territories to offer their loyalty. The gangs and families received loyal workers and money and the street children who could not afford the tithe left or were beaten into submission.
It was genius.
As inflation continued, the gangs raised the price with the buying value. Two dollars became six. Six became eleven. Eleven became twenty. Twenty became twenty-six. And eventually, twenty-six became fifty-four.
The rule of the Tithe went like this – two dollars (inflated to fifty-four dollars) per head. An exception was given if the children came from the same family, in which case it was two dollars for the first head, and forty cents per additional head (which was eventually lifted up to thirty dollars). In the manner of street children, the natural inclination and practicality of banding together for food, shelter, warmth and protection naturally flowed into a concept of “claiming” each other.
Robin, through his natural leadership, affable personality, and compassion gained a large brood of children through a variety of circumstance. Robin was, as Charlie put it, incapable of indifference. Bluebell phrased it less eloquently, saying that “Rob is a fuckin’ bleeding heart who can’t keep his damned nose out of anyone’s wretched business long enough for them to sort it out for them-fuckin’-selves.”
In total, Robin had nineteen kids. Six of them were orphans, eight of them had single parents, and three of them had both parents but were struggling to make ends meet. Seven of these were pickpockets, four of them worked as pigeons, three of them were shoe shiners, one worked illegally at a restaurant, and five were prostitutes. All of them were under fourteen. The youngest was six.
The snow got thicker as Robin scrambled his way across Gotham. The residents of lower Gotham were more than accustomed to the small lithe boy who slid down their rooftops, swung into their homes via the balcony rails and dashed out their front door into the neighbors, where he jumped and slid down a railing onto someone else’s porch.
“Robin,” One mother said, wrangling her children out of their coats. “Would you mind taking some brownies to B12 for me? You can have one as a tip.”
Robin chirped his thanks and grabbed the platter on the table with one hand while he stuffed a brownie in his mouth with the other. “Is that all?”
“Hm…,” the woman said. “Could you also tell Mr. Graham – he’s in C19 – that we’d love to have him for dinner on Tuesday.”
“Sure thing,” Robin said, backing out the door. He paused for a second to check the apartment number then scurried on, shouting a “Have a Merry Christmas!” over his shoulder.
The woman “mmhm’ed,” already focused on cleaning snot from her daughter’s face. Robin grinned and waved at her son instead, who shyly wiggled his fingers back. Robin dropped the brownies off with the harried single father at B12 and used the man’s fire escape to scramble his way up to C19, where the Mr. Graham accepted the invitation with joyful thanks and quickly rushed to brush his hair. Robin watched the drama in amusement but continued on. The night was growing darker.
He was still laughing a little at B11’s little drama with C19 and B12 when he felt a gentle tug on his coat lining followed by a drop in weight. The pure shock of someone picking his pocket (or rather, cutting a small hole into his coat to let his collection drop out), much less on the slippery rooftops of Gotham, made him stiffen. His jerk gave him away and the thief booked it to the nearest fire escape wallet in hand.
Robin sprang forward and snagged the kid’s knees. The kid fell but tucked his roll so that he flipped over and kicked Robin in the gut. The kid fought like a wild cat, biting, scratching, clawing, and pinching but never screaming, his lips pressed into a fine white line. Robin pressed down all of his teenage weight to pin him but the kid just fought harder until eventually, with a timed bite to Robin’s hand and a heel to his jaw, the brat squirmed free and jumped from the roof onto the house below.
Robin groaned for a moment, his bruises and gravel burn flared into a dull ache. The realization that the stolen wallet had most of his Tithe money bloomed to the forefront of his mind as panic iced his gut. “Shit.” He breathed, wide eyed. “Shit, shit, shit.” He scrambled up and darted to the edge of the rooftop in time to see the kid jump into the Gotham river. “Shit.”
…
Pierre Bourdieu, a French anthropologist, socialist and philosopher, theorized that there were three types of capital in the world: social, cultural and economic.
Social capital is based on whom you know and how you can use your connections.
Cultural capital is your habitus, or what you know instinctively, such as how to make ends meet on the street or which fork to use first or how to greet someone in different situations.
Economic is what you have of value.
Bourdieu theorized that one form of capital could be exchanged for another. You can use your economic capital, for example, to go to college and get social capital. Or, your can use who you know (social capital) to get a well paying job (economic capital). He went on to say that the wealthy are rich in economic and cultural capital, but the poor are wealthy in social capital.
In situations where money is scarce, the poor band together.
…
Runners had a dangerous job.
The other name for runners is pigeons.
…
When the circus lost custody of him Robin moved from his parent’s trailer with its bright posters and the ceramic elephant on the dresser to a room that was huge and lonely and empty. He could stand in the middle of the room and stretch out as far as he could and not touch either wall. He missed his dad’s heavy breathing and the glint of his mom’s eyes twinkling at him from behind the curtain when she lay down after a long day. His extended family hugged him long and hard, their faces harsh and grim as they looked at the social workers that glared back with equal ferocity, their eyes lingering with disproval on the other circus brats.
Lost in a big city and passed from foster home to foster home, it was easy for Robin to fall in with kids just as misplaced as he was. They banded together in the hallways of dirty apartment complexes, used their shoes for goal posts as they kicked coke cans down the streets, and talked with admiration of the older boys in their neighborhood.
“Alan got taken in by the Vixens,” one of them would say, hushed so that the adults couldn’t hear them. “I heard he got into a rumble down by the bridge. Manny says’ he’s got a big scar down his arm now.”
The boys ooh’ed and all wished they had a big scar to show off. “Didja hear about Joe?” another would say, bouncing on the concrete steps that led up to the apartment.
“Which one?”
“The bald one.”
“With the lip ring?”
“No, the black one.”
“Oh. What about him?”
“Rumor has it he left his gang and joined some kind of afterschool program. His neighbor told me he’s moving away ‘cause his mom don’t want him to be in a gang.”
The boys hissed. “Chicken,” one spat.
“But it’s his mom,” another said cautiously. The other kids rolled their eyes and sighed, shooting each other exasperated looks that spoke clearly of their friend’s naiveté. They quickly set about correcting him with their nine-year-old wisdom.
“Hey, birdbrain, don’t you know the gangs are family around here? They got our backs. Keep us from the tithe. There’s no one tougher than a banger. Who’s got your back if the Black’s come for a rumble? Not the cops, that’s for sure. Heck, the some of the Blacks jumped my brother last year and it sure weren’t my old man who got them back. The Crows took care of the punks real quick and they haven’t messed with the kids on the yard since.”
“Yeah,” the cautious boy said, reassured. “The Crows are the only real men around here.”
“That’s for sure. I’d never leave my gang cause of a sissy school thing. We don’t need traitors like him around here anyhow.” The boys murmured in agreement and ran off to play cops and robbers, but in this game the robbers always won and the cops stayed dead.
…
Robin swallowed to wet his mouth and tried to stand taller. Bobby’s brother was the newest vice-captain of the Red Crows and Bobby was showing him off to his friends. Aaron was tall with strong hands that were bruised on the knuckles and a soft voice, charisma flowing from every pore. He was everything Robin wanted to be. “And this is Robin,” Bobby introduced him. “Well, not actually, but Robin’s better than his real name.”
Aaron looks at Robin with renewed interest. The tattoo climbing up his neck stretched as his head tilted. It was the picture of a Crow breaking through a bloody thorn patch. “You’re the little circus boy, right? The one that’s always flipping over the rooftops.”
Robin flushed, pleased that Aaron Roz recognized him. Rumor had it that when Aaron was fourteen he walked up to Two-Face and told him to get off the Crows turf before he broke his kneecaps. True or not, it launched Aaron to instant fame. “Yeah, that’s me.”
“Is it true you can get across the Bridge in ten minutes?” Aaron crouched down in front of him, eyes intent and smile friendly. His teeth were white and straight except for the gap where someone knocked out his molar in a rumble. “I have a bet with some friends and they said you couldn’t do it.”
Robin looked Aaron right in the eye and said, “I can do it in seven.”
Aaron laughed and waved it off as a childish boast. “Hey, no need to brag. No honor involved, it was just a bet.”
“I can do it in seven,” Robin repeated with his chin up. “Or I owe you the next Tithe.”
The boys around him fell silent. Aaron’s eyes were sharp as he draped an arm around Robin’s shoulder and pulled him close. “Listen, Rob, you look like a good kid so I’m gonna give you some advice. Here in the streets a man’s word is all he’s got and if you give it, you keep it. So if you tell me that you can do it in seven, I believe you. I really do. So tell you what – I’m gonna bet on you. I’m gonna go up to my friends, introduce you and say, “Pals, this here is my friend Robin, and he can make it across the river in seven minutes.”’
He paused and waved his hand. “No Tithe, just forget about that. Just you and me, kid, against those boys over there.” He paused and his tone changed and his hand tightened on Robin’s shoulder. “But here’s the thing – a man who can’t keep his word is nothing. Are you nothing, Robin?”
“Seven minutes or nothing.” Robin repeated. “And I start from the Batfry.”
…
The Batfry was a tall clock tower set in the middle of Crime Alley, so named because the Batman liked to use it as his roost on quiet nights, or so said the no few criminals who tried to use it for a hideaway and woke up to find themselves in jail. It was also twenty-four minutes away from the River by foot and seventeen minutes away by car.
Robin made it in six minutes and fifty-one seconds by rooftop.
When he landed on the other side, out of breath, bleeding from a scrape on his knee, parched and flushed, Aaron clapped him on the shoulder, tugged him close and said, “You and me are gonna have a really good run, kid.”
It was warm in Aaron’s sunlight when the teen dragged him up to the other vice-captains, ruffled a hand through his hair and crowed, “See! I told you this little Robin could fly!”
Robin felt warm all the way to his toes.
…
Runners that carried outside a gang were called Pigeons, after the carrier pigeons used in World War II. They had an equally high a death rate. More Runners die a year in Gotham than the death count of the Gotham Police Force, brought down by rival gangs working to intercept enemy messages or druggies haggling for a little free coke. In the time Robin spent as a runner he was shot at three times and was grazed once. The bullet hit the bricks beside him and blew off shrapnel that sliced Robin’s face. He has a small hairline scar on his cheek, just under his cheekbone.
Runners are also called Pigeons because for all that Gotham knows the Great Wars are still ongoing. The soldiers just got younger and their territories smaller.
…
Robin sat on the rooftop and stared in silence down at the gloom of Gotham. In the distance Wayne Towers stood like a beacon of hope and mockery. If he stretched out his hand, Robin could close his fist around the Tower. He grinned and pretended it was a syringe he plunged into his arm. His dreams – of someday getting out of here – his daydreams – of walking into that Tower and amazing them all with how brilliant and classy and talented he was – were as real as the daydreams of a heroin addict.
The giggle that broke out surprised him. He clamped a hand down on his mouth but the giggles wormed their way out like sobs. He gave up and laughed, letting his head fall back. “God,” he said through his giggles. “God, how is this fair?” There was no answer and he wasn’t expecting one. Robin laughed out the hysteria until the trembles shaking his body stopped hurting then pushed himself to his feet and started picking his way home.
The sun had long since slipped beyond the bay and Gotham was decked out in her lights, the blinking of traffic lights a staccato off beat to the jazz that floated up from one of the apartments. Robin saw a man – dark skinned, curly hair cropped short, mustache peppered with grey, his dock suit sweat stained and dirty – fold himself into the arms of a woman – her skin was chocolate, her hair tied back by a vibrant headscarf, her mouth dropping in an open smile. The man folded himself into her, buried his face in the nape of her neck as she slowly rocked in a circle. In the distance, sirens wailed and a fog light lit the polluted sky with the sign of the Bat.
He swung down into Crime Alley by a gutter pipe and nonchalantly blended in with the night crowed. He kept his fingers to himself. The girl he wanted to see was standing on one of the corners in a mini-skirt and fishnet stockings despite the cold. Her only concession to the snow was a shawl that hung off her shoulders so the line of a bra she didn’t need was clearly visible. A man stopped to touch her but she saw Robin and waved him off.
“Rob!” she said. She didn’t move toward him, but given her footwear Robin didn’t blame her.
“Hey Snaps,” Robin said. He crouched down and pulled the shawl up around her shoulders. “What are you doing out here? I thought Bill said you didn’t have to work the nights anymore.
“Uhg,” Snaps sniffed. “He an’ Joyce are goin’ at it with the drink again so the lot of us decided to get out before they tried to tie us.” Robin shrugged out of his coat and wrapped it around her. “And then Mike was like – well, if we’re gonna be out here anyway we might as well get some jobs, since it might keep us warm and –“
“Why didn’t you go stay with Helen?” Robin said. He bent down and picked her up. She was small for eleven so his coat covered most of her legs when she sat in his arms.
“Selena’s girls were getting roughed up by some of the Family, so she told us not to come over tonight.” Robin carried her into one of the hotels that lined the street. The man at the desk leered at her but blanched when Robin glared back. He set her down on one of the couches and knelt in front of her so that he could pick up her legs and rub warmth back into them. “Mike said the family was gonna try an’ take her down, which is just stupid ‘cause everyone knows Selena is the best protector in Crime Alley. I was talking to one of Helen’s friends yesterday and she said that if Selena knew about Bill I’d be out of here before you…” the girl drifted off, her gaze on something just over Robin’s shoulder.
Robin turned and looked around but the room was empty. He turned back and snapped his fingers under her nose. The girl jerked back into focus and grinned at him. “…can say figidiwumpsa. Isn’t that a funny word? One of the guys who bought me taught it to me. He showed me a picture of his daughter. She’s a little younger than me and…” Snaps blinked. “Hey Rob, it’s been a while. Why haven’t you been coming by? I told you about figidiwumpsa, right? Some guy I met taught me. He was just passing by.”
Robin nodded and kept rubbing the blood back into her feet. “Snaps, you said your mom was still living with Ryan, right?”
“My mom?” Snaps’ eyes focused over his shoulder. “Mom, mom, mom… That’s a funny word. You mean Ma’am?”
Robin nodded without looking up. “Yeah. Is she still making you work for Ryan?”
Snaps pulled her feet away from his hands and tucked her knees under her chin. She looked through him. Robin didn’t snap his fingers under her nose until her knuckles were white and there were bruises forming under her grip. “Ma’am.” She repeated softly. “Ma’am says I should be grateful Bill lets us stay. Her. Us. Bill says that Ma’am still owes him fifty grand for the loan he gave her when she had me. I asked him what fifty grand was and he said it was more than I’d make in my life but that didn’t really answer my question so I asked one of the guys who visit me and they said—“
Robin stopped her with a finger on her mouth. “That’s okay, Snaps. I get it.” His fingers slid down and brushed some hair away from her mouth. Snaps was a chubby girl. She ate at McDonalds every day for lunch and dinner because it was cheap and easy. Her eyes were big and brown. She had track marks up and down her elbow. For a moment Robin let himself imagine what she could look like in a week. In a week her cheek would be busted, maybe some of her teeth loose. She’d walk with a limp and bruised ribs.
Unless he cut someone loose he didn’t have enough to pay her Tithe and her mother wouldn’t shell out a dime. Neither would Brooke’s pimp, or Mark and Alan’s parents, or Kate’s. Vinnie was going to be fourteen soon – she’d be able to get a real job since her pimp was weak when fists were aimed his way. Also, Rob was pretty sure Vinnie had a small stash saved up for Just In Case.
“Rob?” Robin snapped back into the present. Snaps leaned up and pressed her forehead to his. “Who’s Batman?”
“What?” his voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again. “What, Snaps?”
“Batman.” She said simply. “Ryan was talking about him today. He seemed really scared and he made me come in for a whole day.”
“He’s…” Robin leaned back and scrubbed his face. “He’s a good guy. He protects Gotham from bad guys like the Joker and…” Snaps blinked away. Robin stopped, snapped his fingers under her nose, and tried again. “You know when the clown guy tried to hurt a lot of people? Well, Batman stops people like that. He stops people who try to hurt each other.”
Snaps nodded thoughtfully and said, “So are you Batman?”
“Me?”
“Uh-hu.”
The muscle in Robin’s jaw jumped. “No,” he rasped. “No, Snaps. I’m not Batman.”
…
The Red Crows headquarters was a small office off 11th and Darcy. If not for the beer bottles on the parking lot and the large gangbangers glaring at anyone wandering too close it seemed perfectly reputable. Robin leaned against one of the cars in the lot and waited. A few of the guards eyed him, but Robin stared back with nonchalant distain whenever one made a move toward him.
Aaron hadn’t changed in the last six years. His hair was a little longer and shaved in jagged lines that resembled cornrows. His eyes were still strong and even from a distance Robin felt the pull to fall in line. Usually this was the part where he walked away. This was the part where Aaron looked up and Robin was gone, scared of the pull to a place and circumstance once called home. This time he stayed and watched Aaron’s face brighten.
“Rob?” The older boy said, pausing midstride. Robin pushed off the car and nodded with a smile.
“Hey. It’s been a while.”
Aaron tucked his hands into his jeans, carefully blank, but Robin could read his glee in the sideward twitch of his mouth. “A while is when you don’t come to school for a month or you go for Christmas vacation. ‘A while’ isn’t two years where you fall off the grid.”
“You knew where I was,” Robin said.
Aaron paused and then grinned smugly. He clapped an arm around Robin’s shoulder and laughed as he started walking them toward the office building. “That’s true. How’s the pick pocketing gig? Is it the noble path you were looking when you left us?”
Robin’s smile remained steady. “Naturally. But I have to speak to you, Aaron.”
“Sure,” Aaron nodded, hand waving as they easily bypassed the guards.
“In private.” Robin clarified.
Aaron’s smile faded and he opened a door into a small lounge that was filled with teens doping up. “Are you going to make my life difficult, little bird?” he said as he thumbed a finger over his shoulder. The people lounging around immediately got up and left.
Robin took a deep breath and shrugged off Aaron’s arm. For a moment he stood unchained, the smoke of the room heady, before the weight settled across his shoulder. Robin squeezed his eyes shut and let his hand tighten into a fist. He ran through his options, thought about running, and once again came to the conclusion that this was the only way. “I can’t make the Tithe.”
In the silence his ears started ringing. He took a deep breath.
Aaron hit like a Mack truck. Robin flowed with the blow. His legs gave out. Aaron’s kick caught him as he was falling and sent him crashing into the wall. “I’m sorry,” Aaron said sweetly, still smiling. “I thought I heard you say you couldn’t make the Tithe, but that’s ridiculous.” He walked over to Robin’s crumpled form and pressed a foot down on Robin’s chest. “Care to correct me?” Robin coughed weakly and tried to roll away, but Aaron pressed down firmly, leaned down and slapped him across the face. “Robin? Answer me, Robin.”
Robin’s hands scrambled at Aaron’s boot, trying to push it off, a stone faced Aaron to pressed down harder. “I don’t…” Robin gasped. “…have the money.”
“Now that’s gotta be a lie. Are you trying to sticker me, Robs? Everyone knows the Robbing Robin is gold.” Aaron’s mouth twisted into something very ugly. In one smooth motion he stepped of Robin, picked him up and slammed him into the wall. “Are you trying to sticker me?” He swung the younger boy and let crash into the table. Cocaine, beer and cards flew into the air and fluttered down around the groaning boy. Robin wrapped a protective arm around his ribs and spat out a mouthful of blood.
“It’s the truth,” he said. “I… I have…Some kid picked me then jumped off into the goddamn Gotham River. Do you think I’d be here if I had any other choice.” He tried so hard, so goddamn hard, to leave the gangs behind. He’d bought his way out; let them persecute him as a traitor, enduring beatings without fighting back, paid every Tithe faithfully. He’d run errands for two years, called in favors, made Aaron stand up against the Captain so that the Captain would let Robin go without killing him.
“After everything you did, everything I did you’re just calling it quits? Just like that?”
Robin pushed himself up and snarled, “Do you think I’d be here if I had any other choice?”
Aaron laughed and kicked him again. “All this. All this for nothing. For a couple of kids, let’s be real, right? Are gonna be dead in a gutter soon. Robin, I gave up being the captain’s right hand for you to be free, not for you to run around for a few years and then come back to the nest.”
Robin laughed despite his ribs. “Liar,” he gasped. “Liar. You let me go because you knew I’d owe you. You always knew I’d end up here.”
Aaron scowled at him then broke into a wide grin. “Well, well, the birdbrain finally learned something about how the streets work. Will you look at that!”
Robin spit out some more blood and rolled onto his hands and knees. “How do you want to play this, Aaron?”
“Oh,” Aaron said as he sat down on a nearby couch and crossed his legs. “I think this is going right where I want it. Let me savor the moment, huh? I finally clipped the Robin’s wings.” His leg flashed out and knocked Robin’s arms out from under him. The boy fell hard on his side. The breath fled in a pained gasp as Robin curled up to protect his ribs. “Do you know how many people have tried to do that since you joined the gang?”
Robin glared at him. “And look at that,” he said bitterly. “The one guy who was supposed to protect me is the one who broke my wings. What happened to the vice-captain who protected his own?”
“You’re not one of mine anymore, Rob,” Aaron shrugged. “You left, remember? And I took the heat for it. Sure, I knew you’d be back – you can’t help yourself. None of us can. I mean, for most of us its cause the gang’s the best family we’d ever known, but you…You it’s because you’re a fucking bleeding heart.”
“Now that you’ve got me, what are you going to do with me?”
“I have plans for a runner that’s not directly tied to the gang,” Aaron said calmly. “I intend to use you until you dry up and fall over, Rob. There are no second chances from here. You belong to the Red Crows. And you belong to me.”
…
Robin’s ribs hurt too much to climb onto the rooftops, his back and legs ached with every step and from the heat around his eyes he knew he must look like a raccoon but he’d done it. He made sure that the Reds wouldn’t touch any of his kids. Not if there were nineteen of them. Not if there were thirty. As long as he was loyal and alive the kids were safe.
He limped his way to Bluebell’s lurking grounds and collapsed onto some bags of trash. It took Blue all of a minute to find him. “Fuck it all,” he breathed, his hands hovering over his friend because he was too scared to touch him. “Robin, what did you do?”
Robin grinned up at his friend, punch drunk and said, “Guess what, Blue? I’m Batman.”