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Jason Tood is dead
Robin is dead.
Batman is losing his mind with violence.
Bruce Wayne is drowning in his grief.
Tim doesn't know what to do with this. Doesn't know how to fix this.
Doesn't think he can.
But, he knows someone who would be able to.
He just needs to get his attention.
-
Tim looks over a city of doom and gloom. He looks over a city of humans. He looks over a city with blue skies and separated districts. He looks over a city of Batman and Robin. But there's no Robin.
He looks over a city of doom and gloom and remembers a city of demons. Of black skies and jumbled buildings.
He doesn't know any arcane spells.
Doesn't even know how he ended up in Hell the first time.
But Tim's smart. And he's obsessive.
He'd come home to a cut on his hand and shadows that occasionally warped beyond what is considered natural.
He'd researched.
He'd found a couple things.
1) Hell's denizens are strange. They're protective of their own. They value the living, but they're almost envious of the chance they have. They value hierarchy and power but every day in hell is chaos. They're contradictions in and of themselves
2) Most of Hell's power hierarchy runs on souls. Souls sold and souls gambled. Souls collected. That's where Overlords come in. Owners of souls en-masse. Alastor is an Overlord. Tim knows.
3) There are no portals to hell. There are artifacts that can take you back and forth. Create portals. Like the scroll. There seems to also be a book out there somewhere. But they aren't common. And nobody knows how they're made cause they're made in Hell by Hell's denizens.
And 4) Names hold a certain amount of power in hell. Your reputation is based on your name. How certain demons treat you is based on your reputation and thus your name. It gains a power of its own. A name. But they're freely given between demons. But between demons and magic-users, things are different. The power is imbalanced. A demon is a soul. And what is a soul but a collection of what you are. And what is a name, but a summary of your soul. So a demon can be summoned by a magic practitioner with a name. But Tim isn't Zatanna. He isn't magic.
But Alasor is. He has the scroll. He has power.
Tim's willing to bet that, if Tim asks, Alastor’ll come. After all, there has to be a reason the shadows follow him, cling to him, hide him.
Tim isn't sure it's Alastor hiding him or the scroll or just a side-effect of his time in Hell, wandering as far as he did.
But he knows enough. The shadows are Alastor's domain, it's where he found the station, hidden in the blackness. Names have power and Tim knows Alastor's name.
He just hopes it's enough.
He takes a breath and starts walking. Finds the nearest shadowed alley and closes his eyes.
Forward.
Walking.
Forward.
Walking.
There should have been an end to the alley by now, or a road, but everything's gone silent.
Tim starts to whisper to himself as he walks.
"Alastor, the Radio Demon" he repeats, trying to remind himself why he's walking endlessly.
Giving himself a goal.
Giving a purpose and a guide.
Walking
Whispering
Forward.
And then, a sudden stop as his face slams into something. Not a building, the thing he walks into has too much give for that.
And Tim's eyes open immediately, shooting upward as he stumbles to keep his footing.
A red button-down shirt.
Black lapels.
A red and black old-timey mic.
Tim looks up to see a wide, sharp, yellow smile and he grins.
"Alastor" he says, relief and something else tangling his vocal cords.
And Alastor smiles back at him.
"Tim, it is very good to see you again, however unusual it may be" he greets, holding out a hand.
Tim doesn't bother, the relief in his chest driving him to fall into Alastor's chest.
He freezes once Alastor does.
"Child?" Alastor's voice is questioning, almost wary or worried. Tim's fairly certain that's his imagination "What bothers you so?"
And Tim tries. He really does. He tries not to cry. His parents tell him it's unbecoming of the Drake heir.
But his friend is dead. His hero died in pain and alone. And his other hero is driving himself into a grave after him.
His eyes burn. But his lips stay closed. No tears escape and neither do any sobs.
Alastor doesn't pull away, laying one hand on Tim's shoulder as if indecisive of pushing Tim off or cradling him closer.
"I want to make a deal" Tim says, his voice shaking almost beyond comprehension.
Alastor stills.
"Child?"
"My friend. His name is Jason. He died. Alone and in pain and he didn't even have anyone there to hold his hand. And his father is killing himself over it. So. I want Jason back"
His voice shakes. He knows what he's doing. He's read enough about Overlords and their powers and their dealings to know the gravity of his request. Of his offer.
He knows exactly what he's doing. And that's what makes it so much worse. Most mortals have no idea what they're getting into. But Tim knows. He doesn't have to specify what he's offering.
"Not power? Not infinite possibility? You just wish me to return another Child to the land of the living?" Alastor asks, his voice flatter than Tim's ever heard it.
No cheer tinting his voice. Tim's willing to bet that if he looks up, there won't be a smile on his lips.
But Tim nods.
"And you're willing to bargain your soul in exchange? For this boy and his father?"
Tim thought he'd been pretty clear but apparently he wasn't. Alastor hadn't said no, however, so Tim keeps his head down like a good Child.
He nods again.
"And if I ask for something else?"
Tim's breath halts in his lungs.
He'd offered his soul. He'd done what he was supposed to. So why isn't Alastor pushing him away and holding out a hand?
But he swallows, remembering his mother's advise.
"What would you want in exchange?" He asks, voice cloggy and thick with repressed tears, almost smothered by Alastor's jacket.
Alastor takes a moment to think. "You are a young child. Still a ways from your mortal end. And still quite innocent. Heaven does not appreciate when we take one of their own from them with paperwork, surely you understand?"
Tim nods, though he's fairly certain it's rhetorical.
And Alastor continues "But this father of Jason. It sounds like he is rather far from the Heavenly virtues himself. And also driving himself into an early grave in his grief.
A common story in Hell.
So, what of this deal.
I will bring this Jason back, if it is within my power.
And in exchange, you allow me to simply, end the father early. Take his soul from the mortal world and take it as my own"
Tim's eyes widen.
He didn't know you could bargain someone else's soul.
But could he?
To bring back Jason, to bring back Robin. Could he sacrifice Bruce? Could he sacrifice Batman?
Gotham needs a Batman. And Batman needs a Robin. What would a Gotham with Robin but no Batman look like?
Would Nightwing come back?
Would they destroy themselves in their grief as well?
No. Tim has no right to bargain Batman to a demon.
He shakes his head against Alastor's chest.
And hears a laugh from above him.
"I think it's rather better that way. I cannot bring people back from the dead, Child" he admits and Tim's knees go weak.
He almost collapses, if it weren't for Alastor's hands holding him steady by his shoulders.
"Then why ask?" Tim demands.
Why make him think about it? Weigh Jason's life against Bruce's like an unsteady scale.
Alastor doesn't laugh, but Tim can hear the smile in his voice.
"Because, Child. A soul is a soul, but you are a child nonetheless. I may be a demon. And I may be a monster. But I will not take the soul of a child in exchange for another. After all, where's the fun in that?"
Tim almost buckles in a combined wave of relief and devastation.
Jason's dead. Jason is apparently staying dead if even Alastor can't bring him back.
And Tim's still here.
And Bruce is still out committing a slow suicide.
The problems are still there. Still around.
No easy solution in sight.
"Now it's time to go home, Child. Find somewhere safe and get some rest. We will have a discussion when you are older and not as naive"
The words are faint. Far away.
But there's a tugging on his arm, his wrist. And Tim follows.
His body feels far away.
He can barely hear the clopping of hooves or shoes across tile.
He can barely see colours around him, blurry and undefined.
He doesn't hear Alastor give a greeting. Doesn't see the grim nods he offers before stepping back into the shadows that line the walls of Drake manor.
Tim doesn't see his childhood home around him.
Doesn't see the shadows shift and watch him, a faint red glow to the scar where, once, he'd had a cut that touched an old scroll. The same hand that had once shook Alastor's.
He sees nothing for a while.
And when he comes back to himself, the shadows retract. The glow on his hand fades.
He has a plan.
Gotham needs Batman.
Batman needs a Robin.
Bludhaven has a Nightwing.
And Tim has blackmail.
He's still far enough away from himself that he doesn't notice the shadow peering over his shoulder as he prepares and the laughter that sounds in empty halls as the shadow draws him deeper.