Chapter Text
The world bends easily for those who watch and wait. It’s all in the timing—when to talk, when to listen, when to quietly set things in motion.
Most never notice the quiet observer in the corner, nor sense the gentle tightening of his invisible threads until it's too late. Like birds, they watch out for potential prey or danger below but rarely notice the silent wings above, making them the next prey.
This particular bird is young, bright, and fiercely intelligent. It darts from perch to perch, unaware of the eyes that track its every move. It moves through the world with a brilliance that’s impossible to ignore, and I find myself drawn to the challenge it presents. It isn’t harm I seek, and I am not interested in clipping its wings, nor in crushing that restless mind. No, I wish to guide it, to shape its flight, to raise it as my own. After all, what is a cage if not a place to nurture rare and remarkable creatures until they are ready to soar on command?
And every bird, no matter how quick, must one day land- and when it does, I will be waiting, fascinated and ready.
And up here now, the waiting would finally be over.
The ledge beneath his boots was narrow, but he stood as still as the gargoyles lining some of the roofs, cloak barely stirring in the subtle night wind. The city below stretched endlessly—a jungle of concrete and steel, traffic— even at this time of night— yet his attention was fixed on rooftops several blocks away.
A new hunting ground. But familiar prey.
Behind him, the shadows shifted.
Black shapes crouched behind vents, water towers, and chimneys. Silent. Patient. Utterly loyal. From his perch, he let a gloved finger drum softly against the hilt of a concealed blade at his side—a rhythm measured and unhurried. The gesture was as calculated as a metronome, betraying no haste, only discipline. It was an echo of the violence he commanded: ready to be unleashed, but never wasted.
They had been here for hours. None of them complained.
They knew better.
After all, time meant very little to him. Empires rose and fell in the space he had drawn breath. Cities burned, kingdoms vanished, and bloodlines ended. These days, he rarely found himself truly enjoying something.
But the boy…
The boy had proven frustratingly elusive. Which only stoked his desire. And indeed, he had fun playing their little games, and now it was time for his most creative move yet. He was quite proud of it.
His fingers folded behind his back as his gaze traced the skyline.
He had tried breaking his resolve. Forcing him into dangerous situations. Interrogating him. To see if he truly had the mind and determination of a successor.
And to his delight, the boy endured everything that was thrown at him with remarkable perseverance. The boy’s mind deserved respect, so he had addressed him as an equal, not a tool. He spoke of legacy, of futures, of a world festering beneath Gotham’s decay. He had offered him purpose. A throne. An empire. And the boy had refused.
His mouth curved slightly. His Loyalty to this speck of dirt calling itself a city was admirable. Predictable. A flaw, but an understandable one, as it seems to run in the family.
Then came gifts.
Information. Opportunities. Resources no mortal organisation could rival. A test, perhaps, to see if curiosity could sway him where ideology could not. But the boy had shown no interest other than completing his own little quest.
Threats had followed. Calculated ones. Never crude and never empty. Still, the boy had remained unmoved. He had endured far worse than intimidation after all. The man’s eyes narrowed slightly. He certainly lasted longer than any adult he had broken before. Even under pain. Even under isolation. Even when the body screamed for surrender, he had still clung to the shadow of the Bat like scripture.
He exhaled softly at the remembrance.
Extraordinary.
Truly extraordinary.
Which was why he refused to abandon the pursuit. Most people misunderstood obsession. They believed it was madness. In truth, it was clarity. When something of true value appeared in the world, one did not discard it simply because it resisted. One refined the approach.
His gaze lowered briefly to the object resting within his gloved hand.
It was small. No larger than a pocket watch, constructed of black metal and dark glass. Delicate wires coiled below the surface, almost resembling veins.
It was elegant. And hopefully precise.
Within the device, a dim light pulsed slowly.
Waiting.
Blood would be necessary to properly activate it. The DNA ensuring the machine would affect only its intended subject.
No accidental victims.
No wasted potential.
Some of his scientists had questioned the ethics. So he had them removed. He had no patience or use for their overcaution.
The device hummed faintly within his palm.
There were dangers, of course. Cells would forget not just years but entire memories, twisting intellect or unravelling identity. There were risks of catastrophic failure, mutations, and even death. What might awaken in the regress of mind and flesh was uncertain. Some would call it monstrous. Others might deem it blasphemy. But progress was never gentle, and the potential reward outweighed any misgivings.
In simpler terms-
A second beginning.
The boy had proven impossible to break as he was. Too stubborn. Too formed by the wrong morals. Too loyal to the wrong people.
But a child?
Children were like clay. Children learned. Children adapted to the world presented to them.
And this time, the boy would grow under his guidance. Under his philosophy. Under his hand. Truly a more… elegant solution than torture. One that promised more permanent success than threats.
He closed his hand slowly around the device. “Positions,” he murmured. The word was barely louder than the wind. Yet around him, the shadows shifted. They darted over the rooftops, spreading like ink on parchment.
He had studied the paths and rooftops the little bird preferred. Had spent the last two nights just watching, looking almost gleefully forward to when he would finally hold him in his hand again. Today would be the last and final day.
His gaze returned to the skyline.
He remembered the first time he had truly seen the boy.
Not as a nuisance. Not as an enemy. But as a possibility.
It had been during the Bat’s absence. When they had all believed the Dark Knight gone. Well, everyone but one. The boy had been persistent. When not even his own family had wanted to believe him. When he had lost not just his mentor but also his title and the trust of his so-called family.
But the boy…
The boy had not broken.
Instead, he had searched for the impossible. Studied what others dismissed. Pieced together fragments of time, myth, and physics with a master strategist’s precision. And in the end, he had been correct.
A mind like that was truly worth admiration. Even his own daughter lacked that particular brilliance.
It would be wasteful to allow such a mind to rot under the Bat’s narrow morality. Gotham was a city in perpetual decay, a world squandering its potential through weak traditions and false compassion. Like a cancer poisoning the planet. He did not crave its chaos for its own sake. Order and purpose, guided by strength, could lift humanity beyond its weaknesses. He saw an age when vision reshaped the broken, and the strong made the world their own. The boy's intellect was too rare to be lost to self-imposed limits.
A soft tap sounded through the comm bead in his ear.
“Movement,” one of the assassins whispered. But he did not answer. His eyes had already found it.
The shadow crossed between buildings three blocks away.
Not falling. Gliding. Cape caught the wind for half a second before folding tight again.
His bird had finally arrived.
At last. His fingers tightened slightly around the device. On the distant rooftop, the figure landed lightly beside a rusted antenna. Cloak settling. For the briefest instant, the boy tensed, searching rooftops and alleyways. Head turning as sharp eyes scanned the skyline.
Clever boy.
Always cautious.
Always thinking.
A small smile formed beneath the shadow of his hood.
Tonight would be different. Tonight, the bird would finally be caught.
And this time-
He would finally take what belonged to him.
---
Tim knew something was wrong the second he landed.
The rooftop felt… off.
It wasn’t a sound. Gotham’s rooftops were always kind of noisy if you listened just closely enough- humming electrical boxes, distant traffic, rattling vents- by far not as loud as the streets down below, but still.
But this was different. It wasn’t the absence of sound. It was more of a feeling. Like the sense of being watched. Unease settled in his stomach. His boots touched down beside a rusted antenna, and he immediately straightened, scanning the skyline and surrounding rooftops.
Nothing.
The fog drifted lazily between buildings, softening the harsh neon glow of Gotham below. Empty ledges. Silent water towers. Dark windows. But the unease didn’t leave him, and he had learnt to trust his instincts.
One hand moved to hover over his bo.
“Careful,” a voice came smoothly from behind him. “You might hurt someone.”
Ice ran down Tim’s spine.
No.
He spun. A figure stepped forward from the shadow of a ventilation unit, as if he had always been there, cloak shifting softly in the wind. He probably had.
Tim’s stomach dropped.
Great.
Him.
Ra’s al Ghul regarded him calmly, hands folded behind his back, as if they were merely meeting for tea rather than standing in the middle of a probably unavoidable ambush.
“My Beloved.”
Tim physically fought the urge to recoil. That- endearment- always made his skin crawl. “Yeah,” Tim said dryly, shifting into a defensive stance. “Still not into pet names.”
The man tilted his head slightly, almost amused. “You persist in resisting what is inevitable.”
“Funny,” Tim shot back. “I was about to say the same thing.”
Ra’s stood there, silently studying him. He felt as if he was cut open and being dissected by his glance alone. God, he wanted to swipe that stupid, creepy smile off of his stupid, creepy face. Tim let his eyes sweep across their surroundings. Even if he couldn't see anything out of place, he knew better— his time with the League had taught him that. Ra’s assassins were there, silent as the wind, probably just waiting for a signal. Ra’s never played games without a safety net.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the subtle shift of shadows. There it was. Ambush confirmed. Tim tapped the distress signal hidden in his gauntlet. One silent press. The Bat-family alert would already be going out.
But Ra’s caught the subtle movement. Of course he did, creepy bastard. He didn’t even look surprised.
Ra’s’ voice cut through the night, low and smooth. “You’re cautious, Detective. That’s good. Too many birds trust the empty sky.”
Tim kept his distance, mind mapping escape routes, calculating angles. One wrong step and they’ll close in. “What do you want Ra’s?” He grit out.
“Do you know why the falcon circles before it dives, young Detective?”
Tim’s eyes narrowed, his mind racing through every possible outcome of this situation. Well, maybe he could stall him a little bit if he played into his ominous dialogue “To study its prey. To choose the perfect moment.”
Ra’s smiled, a thin, knowing curve. “Precisely. The falcon is patient. It observes, learns, and waits for the moment when resistance is useless. Only then does it strike.”
Tim shifted his weight, every muscle tense. “I’m not your prey.”
“Not prey,” Ra’s echoed softly, almost amused. “No, you’re something rarer. It would be a tragedy to let such potential go untended.”
Tim felt cold seep into his bones. “If you want me to join you, you’re wasting your time. Again. I won’t.”
Ra’s let the silence stretch, eyes never leaving Tim’s. “Want is such a fragile thing. I offered you a place at my side once, and you refused. But the world changes, Timothy, and now, whether you wish it or not, you will take your place. The falcon’s wings may beat against the wind, but the sky is not his to choose.”
Tim’s fists clenched. “You can’t force me.”
Ra’s stepped forward, barely perceptible, but the threat was there—coiled and certain. “Choice is a luxury, my boy. Some lessons must be learned, whether the student is willing or not. And you have so much left to learn.”
The words hung between them—promise and warning, invitation and threat. Tim felt the noose tighten, the circle close. But he stood his ground, grip tightening on his bo, eyes locked on Ra’s, refusing to look away, waiting for him to make the first move and attack.
Instead, he raised one hand. A small, almost lazy flick of his fingers. Two figures detached from the darkness.
Assassins.
They moved like ghosts across the rooftop, curved blades catching a faint glint of moonlight as they approached.
As expected Ra’s wouldn't do the dirty work himself. Tim exhaled slowly.
Then they attacked.
The first came fast — a sweeping strike meant to force him backwards. He swerved under it, cape flaring as he pivoted and drove his elbow hard into the assassin’s ribs. The man staggered. Tim followed with a kick to the knee and a sharp strike to the throat. The assassin went down.
The second attacker closed the distance immediately, blade flashing. Tim blocked with his staff, metal ringing sharply as it caught the strike. He twisted, forcing the weapon aside, and spun the staff in a tight arc toward the assassin’s wrist-
He caught movement behind him but -
Too late. Pain sliced across his upper arm. “Nngh!” He hissed. A blade had cut deep through the fabric of his suit. He jumped back instinctively, staff snapping into guard position.
A third assassin stood where just empty rooftop had been seconds earlier.
He spared a glance down at his arm. Blood was already soaking through his sleeve, but he had worse. He swirled his staff again and took on a new fighting stance, but-
The assassins didn’t press the attack. Instead, they stepped back. All three of them. Tim blinked. “What the hell?” What the fuck was this?
The one who cut him approached Ra’s and knelt, offering up the knife like some kind of holy relic.
God, these people had some serious problems.
Blood was still glistening along the blade's edge. His blood. His confusion deepened as the man accepted it with one hand, and just then, his gaze fell on the thing he held in his other. Something small. It looked like some kind of device, or almost like a pocket watch.
Ra’s shot him an almost smug look as he held the blade over it, and a single drop of his blood slid onto the device. The light along its surface started to pulsate. Then the man turned a small dial.
Tim frowned. This could not be good. “…what the hell is that supposed to-”
But before he could further react— Light erupted from the device. A narrow beam shot across the rooftop and struck him square in the chest.
He flinched back. Instinctively raising his staff in front of him to shield himself.
But-
Nothing happened. No explosion. No burning. No shock. Just the faint warmth of the beam before it faded. The rooftop went quiet again. Tim blinked.
“…seriously?”
That was it?
Behind the hooded man, the assassins watched him with clinical interest. Tim shifted uneasily. His arm throbbed from the cut, but otherwise he seemed—
Pain hit him like a truck.
His knees almost buckled. “—Ahrgh!” It felt like something inside his body had twisted the wrong way. His muscles spasmed violently, and his vision blurred as a wave of nausea crashed through him.
What the hell—
His heart pounded wildly. His limbs felt… strange. Wrong.
The assassins stepped forward. But Tim didn’t wait. Smoke pellets hit the ground. The rooftop vanished in a thick grey cloud of fog. And by the time the assassins rushed forward—
Red Robin was gone.
---
Tim ran.
Or tried to.
The city blurred around him as he vaulted across rooftops and fire escapes, his breath coming faster than it should have. Something was very wrong. Something was very, very wrong.
His body felt like it didn’t belong to him. His balance was off. His limbs felt weak. His heartbeat hammered in his ears.
What the everloving frick did that thing do to him???
Behind him, he could hear the distant movement of pursuers. They were following. Of course they were. Tim ducked down an alley and slid behind a rusted ventilation pipe, fighting another wave of dizziness.
Focus.
Move.
Don’t stop.
He started running again.
---
Several rooftops away—
Two figures landed hard.
“We’re almost where Red started his signal, but he seems to be moving now,” Red Hood said, scanning the area. Nightwing crouched beside him. They didn't need to wait long before movement below abruptly caught their eyes. Three dark figures were moving across the street. Their attire way to familiar. League assassins.
And they were clearly searching for something. Or someone.
“Guess we just found the reason for his distress signal,” Nightwing whispered grimly. Red Hood glowered dangerously at them. “Seems so. Come on, let’s find Red before they do.” But before they could, one of the assassins halted and looked in their direction. They crouched lower, fearing they had been seen, getting ready to defend themselves - but the assassin just touched his ear, or more probably a comm.
“We detected the others.”
They couldn’t hear the voice that answered from their position.
“My lord” The assassin hesitated. “We haven’t found him yet, but he can not have gone far.”
Nightwing stiffened slightly at the tone.
“Yes, my lord, of course.” The transmission ended. Moments later, the assassins vanished into the shadows. Red Hood frowned. “…I don’t like that.” Nightwing was already moving. “Me neither. We need to find him.”
---
Tim stumbled and just barely caught himself, one hand scraping against the rough brick as he careened into an alley before collapsing almost completely against the wall. His chest heaved with ragged gasps. The pain had gotten worse. It felt like his bones were grinding against themselves.
What the hell was happening to him?
He couldn't hear his pursuers anymore, but to be fair, his ears were kind of ringing - so that wasn’t really saying anything. He tried to steady his thoughts, running through drills—slow your breathing, count the seconds, listen for footsteps. But shame gnawed at him. He’d let himself be cornered. He’d underestimated Ra’s. He’d walked right into the trap.
He squeezed his eyes shut. For a moment, hope flickered—Would someone come? Bruce? Dick? Anyone? But the thought faded as quickly as it came. He didn’t know if anyone even realised how much trouble he was in. He didn’t know if rescue was coming at all.
You got yourself into this. Now get yourself out. The mantra steadied him, even as his hands shook. He couldn’t count on anyone swooping in. Not this time. He had to man up—had to find a way out, no matter how impossible it seemed.
He forced himself down the alley, vision swimming. He needed to hide. Fast. But his nearest safehouse was still too far; at this rate, he wouldn't be able to reach it in time for— well, he didn't know, but whatever this was, it couldn't be good. He couldn't run any further. He needed somewhere to hide until he got himself under control and rode out whatever was happening to him.
His gaze swept through the empty alley and landed on the dumpster. He stared at it. Sighed. “… aww man, come on.”
Another wave of pain nearly dropped him to his knees. Tim groaned and dragged himself toward it. “Okay,” he muttered hoarsely. He shoved the lid open. “Guess this’ll do.” And pulled himself inside.