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Bruce told himself it was a stopgap measure, something temporary that he would get rid of as soon as possible. It was just that, well, with Robin gone at the same time as Jason Todd, there was an identity risk. It wouldn’t be easy to put it together; he’d been very careful to ensure that, but it would be easier than it should be. All someone would need to do was notice Robin was missing and when, and, suddenly, the candidates would be narrowed down from every kid in the city to every dead kid from April to June. That was too close.
A simple solution was to have Robin be seen after Jason died. “Simple.” Well, simple if one happened to have a clone running around ready to take up the cape. UnFortunately for Bruce, he had just that.
Doctor Hugo Strange had tried to ruin his life a few years back and, among other things, created mandroid versions of himself, Batman, and Robin. Jason had taken out his double with a bag of stolen valuables, but they’d kept the defunct thing in the cave. Bruce could study Strange’s technology, and it was a slightly more macabre trophy to be kept alongside the T-Rex. It hadn’t been hard to get it working again. Harder to reprogram it to stop trying to kill Bruce, but doable. He’d gotten assistance from Lucius and Barabara though they hadn’t known what the project was at the time.
This was the project: keep Robin sightings coming for a year, by the end of which any connection to be drawn between its disappearance and Jason’s death would be completely lost.
Alfred did not approve. Neither did Barbara. Dick actively tried to stop him several times before he was convinced of the logic behind it. Bruce needed to keep reminding himself of the logic behind it when, every night, he had to look at his side and see, for a split second, Jason, only to lose him immediately after.
His programming was too good, was the problem. Bruce trained it on hours of recordings and footage and reaction styles. It needed to be a good mimic for the charade to be kept up.
“Alright, champ! Where to next?” Robin asked cheerfully. It had Jason’s voice. Painstakingly replicated to immediate regret.
“We’re done for the night.”
“Aw, come on, Bruce! One more round. I’m all pumped up!” Robin punched at the air for emphasis.
“You shouldn’t call me that.”
Robin rolled its eyes.
Before it could add anything, Bruce said, “Command code: 5587. Commence shut down and charge sequence.”
Robin dropped Jason’s movement style and walked stiffly over to the charging port near the Bat-Computer, plugged itself in, and shut down. It didn’t look as much like Jason when it did that because it was completely still where Jason was a flurry of movement. And yet.
Bruce peeled off the cowl and went to the Bat-Computer to review case files. Out of the corner of his eye, he could almost pretend it was more than a robot charging. When he went to bed, he brushed a hand lightly over its hair. The texture was wrong, but he did it every night.
~~~
It was an unlucky hit, that was all. An unlucky hit at the wrong time to set off a string of dominos.
If, for example, Bruce had noticed the goon swinging a baseball bat towards Robin while the robot was otherwise occupied with other henchman, he could have caught it or deflected it with a batarang. If he known Vicki Vale was nearby wanting to capture the latest gang war for Picture News, he could have left Robin on the charging station or paid extra care to avoid suspicion. If only one had been noticed, he could have done damage control.
But it only took two unnoticed details and one unlucky hit over the course of five unfortunate seconds for everything to go wrong.
The goon’s baseball bat connected with Robin’s shoulder with a crunch-clang! The whole arm went flying along with bolts and wires.
“Robin!” Bruce called. Because that was what Batman was supposed to say when Robin was hurt. (Because, for a split second, all he saw was Robin getting hurt.)
Robin was nonplussed. It spun around, grabbed its arm off the floor, and swatted the goon in the face with it. “Oh, I’m sorry! Let me give you a hand!”
But after the offending goon went down, the stress on Robin’s systems from the limb loss began to catch up with it. It was programmed to preserve itself by finding Bruce, shutting down, and recharging itself until repairs could be made. It swayed on its feet. “I need service, Batman.” It stumbled in Bruce’s direction, dropping the Jason movement style. “Systems. Failure.”
The other henchmen were distracted by the robot, so Bruce took the opportunity to knock them out. “Command code: 0574,” he told Robin.
It nodded and walked stiffly towards the batmobile. Bruce tied up the henchmen with notes and followed it. He wasn’t sure what he hated more: when it acted like Jason or when it didn’t. Either way, it would be best to return it to the Cave quickly and get its repairs started.
He would not find out about the photos until the headline ran the next day: Batman And Robin Replaced By Robots? It was paired with photos of J—Robin’s smashed up parts and stiff gait and quotes of it saying, “Systems. Failure.” It asked if maybe the famed crimefighter hadn’t himself been replaced with a stainless steel stand-in along with his partner.
That boded poorly. He would need to prove that Batman was truly present in Gotham before chaos erupted. And he would need to find a way to disprove Robin being a robot. That would prove the more challenging.
~~~
Rumors spread. Newspapers sold.
In McSurley’s Bar, the home of warm beer and bad company, a freelance henchman bragged about breaking the Boy Wonder and insisted Batman was just as breakable. “They’re machines, man!” he told Profile over a champaign flute. “Gotham’s protectors are nothin’ but machines!”
Profile smiled and bought him another drink. The information broker would have a lot of business over the next few days with this twist.
The rumor of Gotham’s weakness led, broadly, to one thing: a free for all.
~~~
Jason awoke in darkness. He pulled stale air into his lungs, and it hurt. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision, but there was nothing. Nothing to see. Was he blind? He—Where was he? He tried to sit up, pushing through the pain in his chest at the motion, but he only made it a few inches before his head smashed against something. Ow.
Heart pounding, Jason felt around himself. Walls. Walls all around him, close, tight. The warehouse. It was going to blow up, and he was trapped in – in a box? In a crate maybe? Where was his mom? Was she ok? He had to get out. He had to.
His first attempt at calling for help came out as a strangled scream. His whole body hurt so much. It hurt to scream. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to be. He had to try again. “BATMAANNN!?!?” he called out. He had no idea how long he’d been out. The clock had been almost to zero – Or, had it hit zero? He didn’t have time, and he didn’t know how much he’d lost. Surely Bruce was close. He wanted nothing more than to be blinded by light as Bruce ripped the lid off the box he was trapped in.
There was no answer to his call. Not from Bruce nor his mom. Nor the Joker. That last one was for the best. Calm. He had to stay calm. He had tools, and he knew how to use them. He was Robin. He could fight his way outta a literal paper bag, no problem.
He reached for his utility belt. It wasn’t there. But more than that, he felt fabric, woven fabric. The Robin outfit was all knits except for the cape. That didn’t make sense. Were those pants? He reached into the pockets of the mystery pants, ignoring the implications of time lost and clothes added and removed when he wasn’t there, and he focused on the task of Get Out Of The Box. Nothing in the pockets. No utility belt. Not enough air. Not enough air. Hurt to breathe. Not enough air. Stay calm!
Every trap contained its own escape. He just … needed to find it. Easy as shortbread pie with half the butter. Ok. No utility belt, but the pants had a regular one holding them up. That was a tool. He had achieved tool.
He pulled the belt off and ripped through the fabric(?) lining the box and began chipping away at the wood. Soon the chips turned to a crack, and a crack was enough to wedge his fingers in and pull.
He was expecting light. He got dirt instead. Fear bounced around his chest alongside his wheezing lungs, but he pushed past it. He kept pulling and ripping, and dirt kept raining down. He was buried, but he was alive, dang it, and he was getting out if he needed to claw his own way up.
He did.
Need to claw his own way up, that is. The dirt was cold and wet, the farther he went. He felt like a writhing worm or the sort of crab that buried itself in the sand. It was on his face, in his mouth, sneaking under his eyelids, burrowing into his nailbeds, filling his mystery-pant pockets. If he thought breathing hurt, not breathing hurt a whole lot more.
Then, finally, the surface. A hand broke free of the ground, and he twisted and writhed and climbed to meet it. When his head broke free, he wanted to stop and breathe and cough, but he couldn’t let himself rest. Rain was washing down on him, and he hauled himself up into the storm.
He coughed and blinked in the light, dimmed by clouds though it was. Where was he? It looked like a cemetery, but that didn’t make sense; he was—
Lightning flashed, illuminating the gravestone. “HERE LIES JASON TODD,” it read. A massive stone angel stood above it, and the rain was already filling the hole he had climbed out of with muddy water. His heart stuttered in its place. That wasn’t—It wasn’t right. It couldn’t be right. He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t dead.
He remembered the timer hitting zero.
Maybe he was dead. Maybe he died, and this was … What?
The dead didn’t wake up. He couldn’t be dead. Being dead wouldn’t hurt like this. It couldn’t. It didn’t before.
Before?
It was less like a memory and more like a … half-recollected dream. The kind you got when you woke up and felt you were in the middle of something but didn’t know what or why. He had been somewhere else, and it hadn’t hurt.
He had to focus. He would find Bruce, and then everything would make sense. Good plan. Easy plan. He didn’t know where he was, but he could find someone. People were everywhere. And it, inexplicably, smelled like Gotham. There were distant shouts that he couldn’t make out but sounded like they were in English. Revving motorcycles too. Maybe he was closer than he thought.
Jason tried to focus through the pounding in his head and general complaining from his entire body, and he set out walking towards the noise. Just a little farther.
~~~
Gotham was in chaos. Bruce was trying his best to do damage control, but his best wasn’t good enough. Gangs and costumed rogues alike had taken the rumor of the Dynamic Duo being replaced by machines as a goddamn invitation. And, despite the lie of it all, Bruce was only one man. And the chaos was overwhelming.
In an attempt to have any reinforcements at all, Bruce repaired and upgraded Robin. It fought alongside him through the throng of bottom feeders swarming to the whalefall of Gotham. The soundscape of the city became smashing glass, revving engines, shouts, and taunts.
When Robin got grabbed by devil-masked motorcyclist, Bruce nearly dove into the path of a bullet to get him back. But it wasn’t him. It was just a machine. A machine. That was all. He couldn’t sacrifice the tiny chance this city had for a – a memory!
Robin still screamed his name as it was driven off. That was a part of its programming. Just a machine. Just a machine.
Bruce laid into the next goon he saw with the fury of a sun.
~~~
Every step was a task. Every single one. They all bled together, and, oh, Jason was bleeding too. That made sense. The blood was getting all over the white button down that somebody had dressed him in when he wasn’t looking, and it wasn’t a good look. Or, hey, maybe it was. Pop of color.
More like plop of color, he thought as blood plopped from somewhere onto the ground.
Another step. Another. Another. If he stopped, he wouldn’t be able to start again, so he kept going. A lot of time was passing, but it wasn’t paying him any mind, so he returned the favor. Step. Dead. Step. Dead. Step. Step. Step.
HERE LIES JASON TODD.
If he was dead, was this Hell? Was that why it hurt? He thought about failing to save Gloria. He thought about choking Ivy and every strike he made against henchmen and criminals. He thought about Filipe. He thought about his mom, his real mom and his new ones. He thought about Nocturna and Catherine and Sheila and how he failed every one of them. Was he in Hell for failing them? Was he supposed to save them?
Step. Step. Step.
One foot. In front of. The other.
The noise was louder, and the world was lit by headlights and fire. Jason’s eyes were blurry. It hurt to look, but he was excited to see people.
He was not excited for long.
Four motorcyclists revved engines, pointed in different directions. At the center, someone was tied up. They were dressed in red and yellow and green, and their hands and feet were tied to the motorcycles. The figure looked up, right at Jason. “Robin!” Jason’s own voice called, nearly inaudible against the sound of engines. And then someone shouted something, and the engines roared louder.
Jason watched as his own body was ripped apart, limbs flying North, South, East, and West while his torso and head stayed behind in the center of the grotesque compass rose. His body. The Robin costume was still on, and it was only missing the gloves and the boots because they were taken away, and there was no blood, but he had been ripped apart, drawn and quartered, torn asunder right in front of himself, screaming for his own help.
He only managed to drag his eyes away from his body when he heard a shout, of “Hey, look, boys!” in his direction. The motorcyclists had devil’s horns and twisted faces. And they’d seen him.
He ran.
~~~
Hell had come to Gotham, and Bruce was barely holding it back. If he could survive the night, the world would realize the Batman was far from gone, and they would return to the scared little holes they came from. Survive the night. Hold the line. His resolve needed to be ironclad.
It was tested when he found Robin.
It had never been more clearly a machine, bolts and wires and paneling spilling from its shoulders and hips instead of viscera. Its face wasn’t twisted in pain. But seeing it still ripped Bruce’s heart in half. Jason was lying there, broken, gone again.
He knelt over him and brushed those wrong curls out of its face. Beyond repair. It was, like so many things, beyond repair.
Its eyes opened slowly. “Batman…”
“I’m here."
It smiled at Bruce. “You came for me.”
“Of course I did,” Bruce said, throat tight. He wasn’t sure why he was humoring this, the machine, his own game of pretend. But he had to. “I’ll always come for you, chum.”
“Where did I go?”
“Hmm?” Bruce hummed in question, sure the robot had started to break itself down. He continued his light finger-combing of its hair, unable to stop himself.
“Not me, the other Robin. Where did I go?”
Bruce’s hand stilled. “The other Robin?”
“Yes, the other Robin. I don’t know where he ran off to…” It closed its eyes. “You should come for him too. Ok?”
Bruce swallowed. “Ok, chum, I’ll come for him too.” He hesitated. “Where did you see him go?”
“I’m…not…sure…”
“That’s alright.” He ran his hand one last time through its hair. “You did well. Command code: 5587.”
Bruce let his hand linger on Robin’s head. It was just a machine, maybe, but it was so much more too. If nothing else, it had done good, much more than anything made by Dr. Strange could have been expected to. It was far from Jason, but its breaking meant the end of the game of pretend he had allowed himself to play for too long. Jason was gone. Robin was no more. There was only Bruce, Batman, and the hounds of Hell nipping at Gotham’s gates.
He left the robot behind, and he turned back towards the fray.
~~~
Jason was running. Those things, those demons, they were chasing him, and they were going to get him because this was Hell, and wasn’t that how this worked? But even if it was, Jason had no interest in making it easy for them. He knew Gotham in the dark and the rain. He knew it with his eyes blurry and head pounding. He knew it with cracked ribs and liquid in his lungs. Even in Hell, he could find his way in his city.
As he ran, he spotted something that gave him a flash of hope: a shadow with long ears. Bruce. He was fighting against four or five demons, and he was – No. That wasn’t right. He couldn’t be losing. He was Batman. Five guys was nothing!
Yeah, and this is Hell, remember? He had to remind himself. He was dead and in Hell, and the good guys lost there.
But Jason was Robin. He wasn’t going to take that lying down. He launched himself at one of the demons attacking Bruce, feeling bones shift inside himself as he locked his legs around its torso, covered its eyes, and rode it like a bronco. It bucked like one, but Jason held on. He slammed an elbow into his neck, and it went down, landing heavily on top of him. Jason gasped for breath. His chest was on fire.
He just needed some rotten eggs to simulate the brimstone, and then he’d be cooking.
His head hurt. His chest hurt. His legs hurt. His toenails hurt. Here lies Jason Todd.
He shoved the demon off of him, and went after the next one. He wasn’t taking this lying down. Not ever.
~~~
Bruce was flagging, but he couldn’t let it show. He needed to be strong. More than that, he needed everyone to think, to know he was strong. The Batman was in Gotham, and he was its protector. He was as sure and unstoppable as the night itself.
But he was just a man. And there were so many to fight. He just had to make it to the dawn. That was the show of strength he needed.
He was struggling to fend off a mob of devil-masked thugs when one dropped from the fight. Then two. He knocked out one of his own and looked to see—
“Robin?!”
The momentary distraction earned him a punch to the gut, but he sent the man flying a second later. The pain did nothing to dispel the vision of Jason. Jason, not Robin, not even in costume, was going after Bruce’s attackers with verve. Verve, but not invulnerably.
The thug knocked Jason back, and, when he landed, he wasn’t moving. It didn’t make sense. None of this made any sense at all.
Bruce whirled on the thug and had him knocked out in seconds. He ran to Jason’s side, lifting his head gently with one gauntlet. “Jay?”
Jason turned his face into Bruce’s hand, his face scrunching up. “B-Bruce?”
Bruce sucked in a breath. This wasn’t possible. It wasn’t. “Yes, son, it’s me.”
“Is this…Hell?” Jason’s voice sounded small, but it was him. It was him.
“No! Jay, no.” In a moment, maybe of madness, Bruce yanked his cowl back and cupped Jason’s cheek with his free hand. “You…” He was so real. “You’re here. You’re with me, and everything is going to be alright.” If Jason was really there, Bruce was going to make everything be alright.
Jason blinked at him. “Am I dead?”
Bruce had no idea what the answer to that question was anymore, so he didn’t answer it. “You’re here. That’s all that matters.”
“I think I’m dead.”
“If I say, Command code: 5587, does that mean anything to you?”
Jason’s face scrunched up again. “What? No. Are you ok?”
Bruce smiled, a real, genuine smile. “I’m perfect. Don’t worry about me.”
“Somebody’s gotta worry, Bruce. And it’s kinda my job.”
The chuckle was unexpected, but Bruce couldn’t hold it in. “Is that so?”
“Mmm hmm. Robin job description in big bold letters. It’s in my contract.”
“In that case, I’m giving you a vacation.”
“Will you –” Jason coughed, and there was blood on his lips. “Will you take one too? Ya look like you could use one.”
“We’ll see.” He had to sacrifice the hand cupping Jason’s cheek to feel along his chest for injuries. And injuries were there to be found. Jason needed medical help, and he needed it now. He looked out into the street, expecting to be jumped again after the brief respite, but the street had cleared. Not only that, it was lighter. Dawn had broken, and Gotham was still standing.
Jason reached out a hand, and Bruce grasped it in his own. “Can we go home now?”
“Soon, Jay.” Bruce gathered up Jason in his arms and began to walk in the direction of the Batmobile to get him to Leslie. “Really soon.”