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Batman and Robin perch on the edge of the rooftop, each holding a pair of binoculars and peering at a nearby apartment building. The sound of helicopters fills the air as officers shout on the street below. There’s nothing the cops can do—make a move, any move at all, and the eight hostages die. That’s why Batman and Robin are here.
“Explain the situation, Robin,” Bruce orders.
Dick rolls his eyes. Bruce doesn’t need to act like Dick’s still twelve. “Unknown number of gunmen entered the building between 19:42 and 20:03. At 20:03, they pulled the fire alarm and forced all but eight residents to vacate the building. Gunmen claim to represent a Gotham-centered nihilist-militant group.” Which isn’t the strangest combination of philosophies Dick has seen, but is certainly up there. That’s why he says claim to represent rather than represent.
“They’re smart,” Bruce says. “And they’re not in this for the money. That makes them dangerous.” He grimaces. “The visible gunmen are on floor seventeen, at the top, but the hostages are a few floors down, on fifteen. There’ll be others, below them.” He shakes his head.
Dick nods seriously and doesn’t call the situation a ‘sandwich of death’. He thinks it, but he doesn’t say it. “You go in west, I go in east, and we fight our way down together. Two of us, it’ll be a piece of cake.”
Bruce grunts. “The SWAT team will enter on the roof. I’ll go through the west window. You’re going to get the hostages out.”
Dick pauses for a moment and blinks. “But—”
“No.”
“We don’t know how many are below. We don’t even know what floor they’re on. You shouldn’t go into that blind. Not without a partner.”
“No, Robin,” Bruce says firmly. “This is not up for discussion.”
Dick clenches his fists. Five years as Robin, and Bruce still doesn’t trust him with anything. He’s almost an adult, but his mentor won’t even let him tackle a few gunmen with supervision. Instead, he’s on hostage duty. Again. “I can handle it.”
“The priority is getting the hostages out,” Bruce responds, words clipped. “They’re only waiting so they can do it on the roof where the news cameras will see. I’m putting you on the most important part.” It’s platitudes, all of it. If Bruce was really that concerned, he’d focus on the hostages himself. Dick opens his mouth to speak. “Is that understood, Robin?” Dick’s not winning this argument, and every second he wastes increases the risk to the civilians. Bruce has got him in a bind. Defeated, Dick nods, and Bruce gives his shoulder a short squeeze. “Fifteenth floor window. Crash in, and make sure to shield yourself. Protect the hostages until I get there, and we’ll take them out through the stairwell.”
With that, Bruce fires his grappling gun and swings towards the fourteenth floor. Dick shakes his head and shoots his own grapple to catch the top of the building, swinging in a steep arc and detaching his hook just in time to crash through the window. He pulls his cape around his body to shield himself from the worst of the debris, but a few of the glass shards still make their way into the flesh of his legs. Stupid. He should’ve timed that better.
The room that he entered is quiet, which isn’t a good sign. That means the hostages aren’t there, and thus there’s more time for someone the gunmen to hurt them. Dick bursts out of the apartment he entered, into a long hallway with door after door. He pauses for a second, unsure of where to do now.
And then, there’s a single gunshot.
Immediately, Dick takes off like a bullet, rushing towards the noise. He reaches Apartment 1503 and crashes in the door with a single kick, shielding himself from the splinters with his glass-covered cape.
When Dick sees the scene before him, his heart stops.
There’s blood everywhere, soaking into the carpeting, pooling on the kitchen tile, staining the walls a horrific shade of scarlet. Seven bodies lie splayed across the room, each riddled with bullet holes. And above the eighth hostage, a little girl who couldn’t be more than ten, stands a man with a smoking gun, a black Kevlar vest, and his face completely exposed.
All the better for Dick to cave it in.
Dick launches himself at the gunman, unleashing a furious scream that startles his enemy just enough to keep him from taking another shot at the girl. The man reacts quickly, though, dodging Dick’s initial attack and firing off several rounds. Dick dodges, slamming a kick into the man’s wrist and forcing him to drop the gun. Before Dick can press his advantage, though, the man grabs a knife from somewhere on his vest and slashes it at Dick, taking him by surprise.
Dick flips away, keeping himself between the gun and the man, but when he aims a kick at his enemy’s side he slips on one of the puddles of blood, sliding to the floor. When Dick regains his bearings, the man has the gun once more.
Dick’s eyes widen. He feels adrenaline shoot through his veins as his heart races and the moment shrinks into slow-motion. Everything blurs as he charges forwards. Duck. Punch. Dodge. Counter. A blow hits Dick in the chest but he ignores it, striking relentlessly until the man, at last, falls.
Pointless. This was all so pointless. The exact point these men were trying to prove. Pull everyone in, only to reveal that the people they're trying to save are already dead.
Time dilates.
Dick finds himself halfway across the room, kneeling in front of the girl. There’s a hole in her shoulder. There’s a hole in her shoulder. Dick can see the blood leaking out, staining her light blue shirt and sticking to her dark, curly brown hair and mingling with the blood already covering the room. He failed. He was supposed to save them. Instead, he arrived just in time to watch a child dying right before his eyes.
No. Not dying. Not if Dick can help it. She’s still alive, and a bullet to the shoulder doesn’t have to be fatal. Not if Dick can get her medical attention.
There’s no time to wait for Batman. He has to move, now.
“Hey,” Dick says, voice soft. “You with me?” He pulls a field dressing from his utility belt and presses it to the bullet’s entry wound.
The girl’s eyes flutter and she twitches, coughing. She moves like she’s about to try to sit up and Dick stops her with a hand on her uninjured shoulder.
“Okay, good. I’m going to get you out of here, alright?”
The girl nods weakly. “Hurts,” she says, voice thin.
“I know,” Dick whispers. “I know. It’s gonna be okay, though.”
The girl’s gaze flickers to the massacre behind Dick. Guilt wrenches his heart. He doesn’t know if it’s going to be okay. No—he knows. He knows it’s not. He knows that seven people are dead, and there could very easily be an eighth. “Don’t look. Keep your eyes on me, okay? I need you to stay with me.”
“’kay.”
Dick can hear muffled sounds of gunfire and screams from below. There won’t be a safe route down until the SWAT team clears it, and that’s not any going to be time soon. Dick can climb to the roof, but he feels oddly weak and exhausted—he doesn’t think he can make it up three flights of stairs like this, not quickly enough to save the girl. There’s only one other option—the grappling gun. If Dick does it right, maybe he can save her.
Gently, Dick turns the girl slightly, just enough to see that there’s no exit wound. He can’t cover the entry wound while holding her, though.
“What’s your name?” Dick asks when he sees the girl’s eyes flickering shut again.
Her eyes open, a brownish-hazel. “Abby,” she whispers. Dick notices that her cheeks are wet with tears, but she’s not crying anymore. Abby’s been stuck here for hours. She’s watched the other hostages die. And now—and now—
Dick forces himself to breathe, ignoring the pain that shoots through his chest. “Abby. That’s a pretty name.” Abby smiles weakly. “I need you to put pressure right here on your shoulder, okay?” He moves Abby’s hands so that they’re resting against the field dressing. “Can you do that for me?”
Abby whimpers and shakes her head.
“I know, it hurts. But please. This will help.” Abby presses down on her wound with barely any strength. It’s probably the best she can do, though, and it’ll have to be enough. “Great. You’re being really helpful. I’m gonna pick you up now.” Slowly, Dick lifts her. She’s so light, a slip of a child, and yet he staggers. Abby whimpers again. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
As quickly as he can without jostling her, Dick carries Abby out the door and into the hallway. His mind spins, and he struggles to remember which way he came from. This should be easy. And yet, his vision swims and his legs threaten to give out on him.
Abby shifts, curling towards Dick’s chest and reminding him of the child he has to save. Focus, Robin, he orders himself, hearing the words in Batman’s voice.
Down the hallway and to the left is the door that Dick haphazardly threw open earlier. He rushes to his entry point, only noticing when he reaches the window because of the crunching sounds the glass shards make beneath his pixie boots.
Abby’s eyes shut again, one hand falling away from the field dressing and hanging limply.
“C’mon, Abby,” Dick says. “You gotta stay with me.” Abby’s eyes open, and she reaches up, fingers spreading across Dick’s cheek. Dick feels the slick blood from her palm dripping down his face. Nauseous, Dick guides her hands back to the wound. “Pressure, remember? You’re doing really well.”
No time to lose. Dick carefully maneuvers himself and Abby out the window. The girl’s eyes shut again, and her breathing stutters. Dick fires the grappling hook and pushes off from the building wall and swings, hoping he timed this right. The hook latches on a protruding section of the apartment building’s wall and the cord screeches, smoke rising from the friction as Dick slows to a stop. With his elbow, Dick carefully presses one of the grappling gun’s buttons and nearly sighs in relief as the cord starts to slowly lengthen, bringing him to the ground. When Dick’s feet hit the pavement he unlatches the gun and races towards the emergency services, ignoring the guns trained on him.
When Dick reaches the nearest ambulance, he passes Abby off to an EMT, heart pounding. Was he fast enough for her, at least? Or did he fail yet another of the hostages?
Dick’s vision swims and he nearly topples over. The EMTs swarm around him, but Dick pushes them away. “Not me,” he hears himself saying. “Not me, she’s hurt, you need to help her.”
“We’ve got her,” one of the EMTs says. “We’ve got her.”
“Help her,” Dick pleads. “You need to—you need—”
“She’s in an ambulance,” the EMT says. “Let’s worry about you. You’re covered in blood.”
Dick shakes his head. He’s covered in the blood of the people he failed and the little girl he carried out. “It’s not my blood,” he protests. “I’m fine. You need to—you’ve gotta—”
Dick is, vaguely, aware that he’s not being rational. But his thoughts are tunnelling and as he crashes from the adrenaline, he can feel a terrible pain hitting him in his chest. “He’s bleeding,” an EMT reports. “GSW to the chest, but I can’t see exactly—”
“’m fine,” he says. “Fine. I’m—” Dick’s legs buckle. Someone catches him. The pain is in full force now, spreading through his chest like he’s been cracked open.
Someone presses something against his chest. Dick screams. Static consumes him.
And then, there’s a hand on his shoulder. “—got you,” Bruce is saying. “The bullet didn’t get far. He’s got armor. He’ll be alright.” Someone responds, but it’s not important. Dick leans against his mentor as the man helps him to his feet. “You did well, Robin.”
“They’re dead,” Dick whispers. “They’re—I—”
“You did well,” Bruce repeats. He helps Dick stand. Everything is sort of fuzzy, like Dick is watching himself from above. Everything, that is, except Bruce’s warm arm around Dick’s shoulders.
Dick takes a step. Then another.
“Let’s go home, Robin.”
Dick’s barely awake, but something in him relaxes. It’s going to be okay.