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Tim Drake never intended to be Robin. In fact, Tim never intended to be alive for the next Robin's debut.
He thinks this rather ironic now.
Given the situation.
The red, yellow and green sits uncomfortably against his chest.
The shadows shy away from the colours and the way Tim moves, now. Uncertain that Tim is trying to hide.
To be fair, he usually isn't trying to hide. Not these days.
But the armour sits like silk against his skin. Like the lining of a coffin.
Sometimes, it makes Tim's skin crawl.
But this is what he is now.
He may not have sold his soul to a demon.
But he sold his humanity anyway.
After all, Robin isn't a child. Can't be a child.
Can barely be human.
And Tim is Robin now. So he swallows his hysterical laughter.
He trains with Bruce. Trains with Lady Shiva. Trains with healers and fighters and assassins and masters. And he doesn't say a word about demons.
Robin may not be allowed to be human. But Robin also isn't allowed to be not-human.
No metas in Gotham. No magic in Gotham.
So Tim doesn't say a word.
And the shadows watch quietly.
Sometimes, Tim swears he sees yellow eyes and the glint of a single monocle.
Other times, Tim reaches for something in the shadows, knowing that it isn't there. Help. A hand. And sometimes, he gets it.
Not from Bruce. But from the Shadows themselves. Helping him up when he's broken down and beaten. Numbing his pain when he should be beyond thinking.
And Tim goes on. He thanks the shadows because he's polite. And sometimes, he sees the gleam of sharp yellow teeth as an answer.
Most of the time, Tim just moves how he can. When he can.
And his first night out alone, the silence is deafening.
There's a black sky above him, no stars visible through the smog. It reminds him of another city so clearly that he hums.
Not a tune in particular. But almost like white noise. Static.
The grittiness of an old radio.
It soothes him.
And the shadows waver.
He grins at them.
Gives a wave.
And jumps off the roof.
The shadows engulf him mid-swing, in the darkness of an alley where a mugger had decided to take advantage of a person walking home at night.
And despite the red, green and yellow, the shadows cling just the slightest bit.
Alastor hadn't wanted his soul.
He'd wanted Bruce's instead.
Maybe he's hoping that Tim would give him others
But Robin doesn't kill. So he leaves the mugger tied to the pole in the lightest part of the alley and the shadows stretch into a smile.
Malice and amusement and something sharp. Something inhuman all the into one.
Alastor must be amused.
Tim smiles back out of the view of the victim.
And he moves on.
He doesn't kill a single person.
Alastor doesn't seem to mind.
In fact, he seems to find the humiliation much better, grinning when Tim ties two gang members to a streetlight by their midriffts and leaves them there to be spotted as a warning to the others that would try anything tonight.
And Tim wonders.
Alastor already has souls. Probably more than he needs, as an Overlord.
He's heard whispers at night about Alastor taking other Overlords, keeping them alive as a message, not that they could be killed anyway. He knows that Alastor is powerful. And had resources. And has souls. Even of other Overlords.
Maybe that's why he didn't want Tim's.
What's another soul when you have thousands?
But, Hell must be boring when everyone's scared of you. And Tim isn't scared of him. But Tim's life must be like watching a soap opera.
Entertainment.
So he continues to swing.
Continues to patrol.
Continues to tie baddies to poles and to each-other and plant traps that toe the line of lethal.
Continues to watch the shadows smile at him.