Chapter Text
Nightwing had said to meet him at nightfall but Tim was here early, on a rooftop, watching the sun set below Gotham's magnificent skyline. Soon it would be twilight, that strange limbo period between night and day, when criminals and other nocturnal creatures began their night's work. Dick should be here any minute, and then they could start the nightly patrol.
Looking down at the busy street, filled with people bustling here and there, something caught Tim's eye. A person stood on the ledge of the 15th floor of the building just across the street. Alarmed, Tim observed through his binoculars. The figure was indeed on the narrow ledge, their body pressed tight against the wall to avoid falling. They were tall, slender, and wore a hoodie that partially obscured their face; an adolescent perhaps? There were no signs of smoke or a fire. No one poking their heads out the windows. No balconies, either. As far as Tim could tell, the person appeared to be attempting suicide ( Why else would they be up there? ) Which meant he had to stop them.
Red Robin stood up and shot a grappling hook to a stone gargoyle on the other side of the street. Ziplining across, he felt humbled: whatever his own problems might be, it couldn’t possibly be as bad as whatever this guy was going through. Whatever could have led them out here, to their death. He landed on the wider part of the ledge, careful not to startle the would-be jumper, who pulled their hood closer against the wind.
“Hey,” Tim called. “Anything I can say to convince you not to jump?”
“As a matter of fact,” the person’s face stretched into a malevolent grin. “There is.”
Tim didn’t see the gas bomb in his hand until it was too late.
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He woke up slowly, his mind struggling to clear itself of whatever knockout gas had been used on him. The air felt stale and musty. He was immediately aware of rough hands supporting his weight and two men talking loudly.
“Kid’s heavy...where’d ya want ‘em, boss?” One of them asked.
“On the table there, easy does it,” the other replied in a mocking tone that made Tim’s skin crawl. “We wouldn’t want to damage the merchandise now, would we?”
Hearing the Joker’s voice was enough to throw Tim into action, gas or not. Instinctively he threw his legs apart, kicking one of the men in the shoulder. They dropped him in surprise, and he landed on his feet, ready to fight.
“The kid’s awake!” The goon shouted. “What do we do, boss?”
“What do you think I’m paying you for, idiot?” Joker scowled irritably. He reached into his sleeve and drew out a long, elegant cane. "Give our guest here a warm welcome!"
Tim tried to analyze the situation, but the gas residue was making his brain fuzzy and his movements sluggish. The Joker and his goon were armed, alert and ready to attack. Tim was still in uniform, but his belt, staff, and communicators were gone. The chances of beating these guys and escaping was about 75%.
“I like those odds,” Tim muttered to himself, lifting his fists.
He dodged the goon's first punch and retaliated with a solid fist to the gut. He saw the Joker's cane swing forward and jumped away. It's end glanced off the side of his head, slowing his reaction time.
In the few extra seconds it took for Tim to regain his balance, his foes suddenly rushed at him in a surprisingly coordinated attack. The Joker caught one arm, and the goon caught the other, and together the two men shoved the boy hard onto a metal operating table.
The cold steel on his skin sent Tim into fight or flight mode. He flailed and fought like a wild animal as the goon struggled to pin his wrists under the thick steel restraints.
In a rage Tim violently thrust out his legs and kicked the Joker in the face. There was an extremely satisfying crack as the clown's nose broke and blood spilled down his face.
As the Joker stumbled back in pain, the goon took the opportunity to quickly lock down Tim's left wrist under steel. The boy continued to fight and struggle and the goon was losing control, until--
"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Joker shouted.
Blood still streaming from his nose, the clown seized Tim's forehead and slammed the back of his head hard into the metal table. The blow sent echoes ringing through Tim's ears and doubled his vision. He lay there dazed for a few seconds, just enough time for the goon to trap his other wrist and ankles in the steel clasps. He could no longer move, although he continued to shake and tremble with helpless rage.
"Nice kick," Joker grinned, holding a handkerchief up to his bleeding nose. "Ten out of ten, at least. Going to cost you, but nice."
"I should have let you jump," Tim snarled.
“Could’ve, should’ve, but didn’t,” Joker sang cheerfully.
The goon checked to make sure the restraints were secure, and then disappeared into the shadows. A few moments of quiet gave Tim time to actually check out his current location. It appeared to be an old hospital, with low ceilings and bare fluorescent lights that no longer worked. The adrenaline from the fight had faded from his body, and he suddenly felt exhausted and achy. He realized with a sudden horror that he had just spent all his energy on a pointless fight. Weakly he attempted to pull at the steel bands trapping his wrists. They had no technology to hack, no mechanics to manipulate. Just solid, stainless steel. Superman could probably break them, but Tim was not Superman. He did, however, take grim satisfaction from the knowledge that Joker’s nose no longer sat right on his face. That will certainly not heal without a scar.
“But it got your attention, didn’t it?” The Joker was saying. “To be honest, I’m surprised I found you alone. There’s usually a Bat or some other such pest hanging around you. Did the little birdie fall from the nest~?"
“What’s your scheme this time?” Tim demanded. “Holding me for ransom? Laying a trap for Batman? When has that ever worked out for you?”
“Birdboy, you wound me!” Joker laid a hand on his heart dramatically. “What makes you think I’m after dear ‘ol Batsy? Aren’t I allowed to have a little mano a guano with my favorite bat brat? Why, after all we’ve been through together, we’re practically family!”
Tim glared at him, refusing to dignify that sentence with a response. As if this sadistic monster would even know the meaning of the word 'family'.
“Buuut, since you asked so nicely," Joker continued, approaching the table, "I’ll just say that I’ve been working on a nasty little chemical cocktail designed to break through the Bat’s immunizations. You wouldn’t mind testing the first batch, would you?”
"Batman will stop you," Tim warned through gritted teeth. "Just like he always does. He'll come for me and--"
"Oh, he most certainly will," Joker agreed. A pocket knife flicked open in his hand.
"So we had better get started, hm? Oh, don't look so serious, dear boy. Why don't we put a smile on that face?"
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SECURE COMMUNICATION LINE TRANSCRIPT: BATFAMILY
BATMAN: Oracle, report. Any sign of Red Robin?
ORACLE: Not yet. It's so strange; I haven't been able to trace his signal for almost three days now.
ROBIN: Tt. Drake can take care of himself, Father. We have more important things to worry about.
NIGHTWING: I've searched the entire street where we were supposed to meet up, but it doesn't look like Tim was ever even there. It's like he's vanished off the face of the earth.
RED HOOD: Don't blame yourself, Dick. Robin is right: If Red doesn't want to be found, he won't be.
BATMAN: I'm not so sure. Keep an eye out, Oracle. I'll ask Signal to do a citywide scan on his next patrol. Batman out.
END TRANSCRIPT
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“There now,” Joker stepped back to admire his handiwork. “Doesn’t it feel better when you’re wearing a smile? Hahaha.”
Tim wasn’t sure what to feel. He wondered why the Joker hadn’t murdered him yet.
He laughed because he wasn’t dead yet, and because there was nothing else to laugh at, and because the toxin flowing through his veins was tickling his insides and making him laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh and la
He laughed until his cheeks hurt, and then he was crying because his face was burning and he had no idea what the Joker had done to him, no idea how to make it stop ( Please please make it stop)
“W-w-w-” Tim stammered weakly. He was trying to ask “What did you do to me?” But his ravaged mouth couldn’t form the words fast enough.
“Ww-w-w,” Joker mocked him gleefully. “What’s wrong? Joker got your tongue? Hehehe! Are you asking why? Why this is happening? Why I am doing this? Why you ?”
The clown paced around the operating table, sometimes illuminated by the faint sliver of light from the doorway and sometimes in total darkness, like a disembodied voice from somewhere deep in Tim’s subconscious.
"The short answer is: because it's fun. The long answer? Well, I'll let you in on a little secret, sonny boy."
The Joker leaned in, so close Tim could smell poison on his breath.
"I'm dying," said the clown. "At least, that's what the docs at Arkham said. Turns out all those chemicals I've been playing with all these years are finally gonna do me in. It's the big C, son. Of course, after hearing the news I did what any reasonable man in such a position would do: slaughter all the doctors and escape from jail. Hehehehe!"
Tim's mind worked through the drug-induced fog, trying to understand. Was this some sort of trick? The clown's usual dramatics were shot through with desperation, a manic kind of fear. Was he really dying?
"Hearing a death sentence like that really makes you shift priorities," Joker continued, pacing again, his voice building to a crescendo. "I mean, what kind of world would this be without ME in it? That wouldn't do at all. I decided I needed an heir, a son, someone to inherit my legacy and carry on the name of JOKER! But who? Who can I mold and train to become the new Clown Prince of Crime?"
The Joker lifted up Tim's domino mask in front of his own eyes. "And then I remembered that good ol Batbrain always has a few extra brats running around. Surely he wouldn't mind if I borrowed one? Hahahaha."
Seeing his mask in Joker's hands made Tim writhe angrily against his restraints.
"Give...give that…" He managed to force out of his wounded lips.
"You know, I really thought it was going to be the Todd kid," Joker mused, ignoring Tim completely. "It made sense. He was Robin, and then he was dead (thanks to yours truly!) and then he was Red Hood, shooting up all the baddies and making Daddy Bat miserable. Surely he'd be the next Joker! But alas, it just wasn't in the cards. Dead Hood is all brawn and no brains. Absolutely no style , no class!"
"But you, sonny boy…" the clown crooned in a soft voice that made Tim flinch. "You're smarter than the rest. You've got that brilliant, orderly brain, why, just imagine if it was corrupted and set free like mine! The places we'd go, the things we'd do! Ah, Junior, you're my future. The perfect Joker to carry on my legacy."
"Go...to...hell," Tim hissed, ignoring the pain in his face.
"Oh, I most assuredly am," Joker agreed cheerfully. "I'm just taking you down with me."
The clown skipped into the shadows, where a large machine lay waiting just out of Tim's view. Thick coiled wires extended from the device and ended in large clamps attached to either end of the metal operating table that Tim was bound to.
"Now that you look the part," Joker said, "it's time to begin your training as the brand-spanking new Joker!"
He threw a switch and electric voltage raced through every nerve of Tim's body with a loud BZZZT. The boy screamed in pain, arching his back away from the table, as though trying to escape it.
"Sing for me, little birdie," Joker cooed. "It's music to my ears."