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Storm clouds roll over the San Francisco Bay with tumultuous thunder. Electricity crackles across the underbelly of the beast. A boiling point is being reached above the clouds. A perfect backdrop, if tonight followed the plan made in the recesses of a pit maddened mind.
As it stands, it's a bit annoying.
Robin is curled on the couch, nursing a cup of coffee that has long gone cold. There's a laptop open on the cushion beside him. His gaze is more focused on the sprawling windows in front of him. It's early morning, but at home, he'd be waking for school. Good thing it's summer break or he would be very late.
Lightning cuts across the sky. It illuminates the already dark lounge. The stark contrast is enough to blind side the eyes. To cover the sudden cut to the power grid. A storm surge. To an untrained eye.
Robin only breathes a sigh. He can tell that the AC cut off mid cycle. Its gentle hum is no longer discernible under the wind and thunder. A tiny shift of his head, knee jostling the mouse pad, and his mouse moves down. The taskbar reappears. No Wi-Fi.
The backup generators take exactly one minute and four seconds to kick on.
At the two minute mark, rain begins to pelt the windows and the sound of boots draws Robin's attention. He opens his mouth but is cut short as a loud clap of thunder shakes the building.
Robin holds up a finger and they wait for the thunder to subside enough for normal volume conversation. He gently sets his mug on the coffee table, eyes never leaving the masked man.
“That,” the finger tilts to point at the intruder, “was impressive.”
“Oh?” the modulated voice echoes.
Robin can see the red shine of the helmet, only highlighted further as lightning dances across the clouds. The man of the hour has arrived 3,000 miles away from his debut.
Red Hood.
“The timing was just,” he makes an ‘ok’ sign and gives a quiet tsk that forces his mouth into a half smirk. He adds a resounding clap for good measure.
The man bows, bending at the waist with one hand over his heart. A true showman.
Robin relaxes against the cushions. He rests an arm on the back of the couch. A move that outwardly appears casual.
“You've come a long way, Hood.”
“I did,” the man agrees.
“I would offer you a warm towel, but the power seems to be out."
Despite the muffling of the helmet, Hood’s snort can be heard across the room. He measures each step forward until he’s halved the distance. Not close enough to cause discomfort, but enough to be wary.
“I have a proposition for you.” His helmet suggests he’s watching the rain, but his body is still turned toward Robin.
“I’ve heard. Can’t say I’m interested.”
Without the AC, the humidity can be felt creeping in.
Hood clears his throat and turns toward Robin. Like this, he’s shadowed completely. His hands are still at his sides, but it takes only a slight move of the hand for the tables to turn.
“I’m not here to hurt you.”
“And I believe that because?” Robin tightens his hold on the couch. A move that is lost to the shadows. His other hand rests idly beside him, palm open to grab the bo staff he wedged between his lower back and the cushions.
Hood's entire frame lifts as if building an argument before he deflates. One hand rises to scratch the back of his neck, head tilting down with the movement. The other brushes back his jacket as if to rest on his hip, revealing a RSh-12. It's not a weapon he casually uses, unlike the customized dual handguns he keeps on his back waist, just below the Kris dagger. There are undoubtedly a number of weapons hidden on his person.
Robin launches over the back of the couch, extending his bo staff without thought. There are two exits. One leads to the stairwell which Hood just came from. The other is behind Robin, but it requires him to leave the safety the couch can only pretend to provide. Technically, there is a third option, but the windows are reinforced and unlikely to be of any help.
“I was being serious.” Hood lifts both hands, empty of any weaponry. “Just… Let’s talk. I’ll explain everything and answer all your questions.”
“You’ll tell me your real name?” Robin doesn’t relax his defensive stance.
“Sure.” It’s clear the kid doesn’t believe him. “Okay, why don’t we start with why you don’t believe me.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Hood. Maybe because you’re armed,” Robin snarks.
Hood nods and slowly makes his way to the kitchen. It forces Robin back, cornering him further. Slowly and in plain sight, Hood places his RSh-12 on the countertop. He tries to telegraph his movements but their only true light source is from the storm outside. Broken apart, he leaves the gun and makes his way toward the enormous TV. There are small stools that are used mainly as footrests. He picks one and sits.
“You expect me to believe that’s all you have?” Robin snorts. “I’ve seen you fight.”
The RSh-12 is powerful, but hardly ever used. It's the handguns and dagger that concern Robin the most.
It's a bit childish but Hood points at Robin staff, “you’re armed!”
Robin glances at his weapon and shrugs, “I’m not breaking and entering.”
“Neither am I,” Hood sighs and gestures to the couch before Robin can nitpick the words, “please.”
“Fine.” Robin rounds the couch, waiting until he’s sat before collapsing his staff. “Talk.”
“Thank you,” Hood says generously. Then, he straightens and folds his hands in his lap. “This proposition is simple. Previously, I’ve made threats against you to get under the Bat’s skin. Seeing as you are out here, it must be working.” There’s a smile in Hood’s voice, but Robin doesn’t even twitch. “But, I’ll stop."
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.” Hood brings his hands up, palms out. “You can follow your cases into the Alley. You can meet with your informants. All I ask is that you stay out of my affairs.”
He doesn’t even hesitate, “and turn my cheek to your killing and drug deals? No, thanks.”
“Adults are adults. They want to shoot up, let ‘em.” Hood waves a dismissive hand. “I have made it clear that I won’t tolerate anyone under 18. Hell, some even use in moderation.”
“And those that don’t?” At Hood’s questioning silence, Robin clarifies, “moderation.”
“A dead client isn’t a paying client, and I won’t tolerate any attempts to stop someone from going to rehab. Portions are controlled to prevent overdoses - not perfect, but it is what it is.” It’s clearly not selling Robin, but Hood would be more concerned if it did. “I’m watching out for my people in the Alley. Guiding the kids to shelter. Protecting the working girls.”
“Those girls don’t have a choice.”
There’s a shudder to Hood’s silhouette at the half-snarl. Robin tenses.
“I don’t tolerate that either.” Hood holds up a placating hand. “They can walk into that profession and walk out at any time.”
Robin settles a bit at the assurance.
“So,” Robin draws out the vowel before he clicks his tongue, “I’m supposed to believe you made all those threats to get under Batman’s skin and now, you want what? An alliance with the Bats?”
“Not the Bat. Not Nightwing. Just you.”
“Uh-huh. Just me.” Robin sighs, then laughs. “Cut the crap. You made it clear you wanted me dead.”
Hood is eerily silent for a moment before he slaps his hands on his knees and says, “you’re right. I need to be honest.”
Robin stiffens at the change in demeanor.
“Fine, fine.” Hood lifts his hand, aborting the motion almost immediately. “Yes, I wanted to cut the little cuckoo’s wings-” There’s a growl crawling in with every syllable until Hood stops. He holds up a finger. After a tense moment, he continues, “I’ve changed my mind.”
“Why?” Robin whispers the word, barely heard over the rain.
Hood nods, more to himself than Robin, and repeats, “I changed my mind.” He clasps his hands together, leaning forward on his elbows. “About a week ago, I came here. Slipped inside - I’ll tell you how later - easy and everything. A little recon mission. Staging the battleground, if you will.” He shakes his head. “I found your tablet.”
Robin is more taut than a bowstring ready to snap. The domino mask keeps any panic in his eyes hidden.
“But, I knew who you were before that, Timothy.”
It’s in the jaw that one can read the emotions of a Robin. Always in the jaw.
“I don’t want to hurt you anymore.” Hood reaches for the latches on his helmet.
Robin shoots up, a blur of blackened colors as he launches over the couch once more. His staff is extended before his feet touch the floor. When he stills, he watches in curious-horror as Hood’s face is revealed.
Lightning strikes the water before the Tower. The room is washed in stark white before it all fades back to dark hues of gray.
The helmet is set on the floor. A flashlight attached to the side is on and spotlights a face that should be six feet under.
“No.” He’s resolute as his staff spins to aim at the man. “Jason’s eyes were blue.”
There's something strange about Robin defending a dead boy with such conviction. They've never met before.
“And why might they not be anymore?”
The kid doesn’t miss a beat.
“Lazarus Pit.” A cursed name whispered into the dead air.
“You are a smart birdie, Timmy,” Jason grins and kicks his helmet with his boot to turn the light off.
Robin recoils as if hit.
“I’ll apologize for going through your stuff and I promise not to do it again.” Jason raises one hand up and the other goes to his heart. “Scout’s honor and all. Though,” he drops the showman bit, “I have to ask why your password is 35 characters long.”
“Security,” is the thoughtless answer.
“Obviously.” Jason smiles, a little fond, before he falls back into seriousness. “I don't know what's going on in the Manor or with Bruce, but… when I, uh, ran away-"
“We're not discussing that,” Robin snaps. He shifts, ready to strike.
“Alright, alright.” Jason raises his empty hands until Robin's shoulders drop by a fraction. “That was private. We won't discuss it.” He waits a moment before gesturing to the couch, “I swear I'm only here to talk.”
Robin shakes his head, “no, I'm not interested in any mind games.”
“I'm not asking you to take my side or turn against Bruce or the code. I'm not asking you to slip me info. I'm not asking you to agree with my choices.” Jason keeps his hands raised high. “Why don't we start over? Please.”
It's a tense moment before Robin stiffly nods.
“Thank you.” Jason clears his throat. “I was put in the Lazarus Pit a few years back - Talia.”
Robin nods, already expecting the answer. His stance relaxes further.
“Not a good time, admittedly.” Jason awkwardly scratches at his cheek, deciding to leave it there. “And yes, I made threats against you.” He stops as his eyes flare a neon green. It fades after a moment.
“The Pit…”
“I was angry to learn he'd taken another Robin. Very angry. You've become a, uh, sort of trigger, but! I don't want to hurt you,” it's bitter as it leaves his tongue, “anymore.”
“Do you have a choice?”
A fair question to ask.
Jason straightens, his entire face stony determination as he honestly answers, “yes.”
It's only fair Robin eyes him suspiciously.
“The Pit latches onto heightened emotion and when Talia told me about you, I was pretty fresh from the Pit and still struggling. So, even though I’m not angry with you anymore - never should have been,” he hastily adds, “it's still latched on. Nothing I can't stamp down.”
“And cleaning Gotham up the easy way?”
“All me.” Jason isn't going to cower behind lame excuses. “I'm not apologizing for it either. They're not innocent.”
“This isn't the wild, wild west, Jason.” The defensive stance drops entirely as he argues, “we have systems in place. We have courts and laws. We skirt the edges of those laws just enough to get the job done but not to lose the faith of those helping us. We can't make exceptions with things like murder.”
“Those courts are corrupt. And I'm not making exceptions.”
“One, you literally made an exception with me.” Jason's eyes flash green but Robin barrels on, “two, there are good people, hardworking people in those courts too. It may not be perfect, but it works. If we stop believing in the good in the city, we'll lose it entirely. You have to have restraint, discipline.” Robin breathes deep, hand clutching air as he searches for his words. “You can't just spray weed killer in a garden and expect the roses to live.”
Jason doesn't speak, eyes glowing eerily in the dark. It's only when they've dimmed to something almost normal that he releases a breath and his shoulders drop their tension.
“You're right.” He holds up his pointer finger. “I did plan to make an exception with you and that was wrong.” Robin gives a curt nod in understanding, but doesn't interrupt as Jason continues, holding up a second finger. “Secondly, fair point. I’m not doing it willy-nilly. I don't let my anger guide me.”
Despite the domino mask, Jason can feel the judgement and disbelief in those eyes.
“Since I came to Gotham,” he corrects. “The Pit does mess with my head.” Exhibit A stands before him. “But it was stronger in the beginning, harder to tell apart from myself. I can confidently say I walked into that room knowing I was going to kill them. I may have gotten a little angry-" massive understatement “-but, I planned it.”
Robin says nothing for a little bit. He works his jaw, gears turning at a rapid pace.
Jason decides to add on, “I understand why you want to work with the law.” Though not entirely constrained by it. Jason was Robin after all and he remembers the lessons. “But when it fails, sometimes you have to do more than hope it works the second time.” Jason straightens from where he’d been subconsciously leaning forward. “I've been thanked for it, by the people who suffered the most from a corrupt system.”
After some hesitation, Robin collapses his staff and eases the mask off.
Jason stays utterly still, even holding his breath as he waits.
“Do you ask?” Tim looks tired without the mask. His head is slightly bowed, but his eyes are focused on Jason.
The man is momentarily stunned by the question. He thinks over his last words but cannot find the connection.
Tim steps forward, one hand resting on the couch. Under normal circumstances, he'd be a shadow. Lightning lights up his features every few minutes and makes the pale skin glow. His eyes are the most unnerving. A translucent blue.
“Do you ask them, the victims, what they want?” Tim asks again.
Jason leans back a bit, forgetting he's on a stool. He doesn't flail but he does snap forward to compensate. For one horrid second, he's worried the reflex will startle Tim back into defense.
The boy only snorts before he rounds the couch, once more taking his seat. He pulls a little disc from his belt and sets it on the table. One press and it begins to whir. A soft yellow light dances from it, giving the room a calm aura.
“I like to watch the court proceedings of my cases. Making note of what could have been more useful. Observing how the trial is handled. So, no. I'm not hoping it works the second time. I'm going to make it work the second time.”
Jason’s seen the spitfire of the third Robin. Particularly against Rogues. He's never seen the determination of Timothy before. Only goofy grins and a puberty-awkward teen before the plane crash. He's still there, but dimmer.
“Last year, maybe,” Tim continues, “I helped this lady - domestic violence. Teresea, I think, but everyone called her Tess. It was… bad.” He licks his lips, eyes drifting to the light. They reflect in his eyes, warming the color there. “I remember her friend, or maybe a neighbor, was sitting with her as EMTs were finally being allowed in. I was keeping myself between them and… him, while cops did their thing.” He gives a little shrug. “She - the friend - was cursing him out. Wished the cops had shot him.” He glances up, catching Jason’s eye. “Tess said she was glad they didn’t.”
Jason makes a noise from the back of his throat. Surprise? Disbelief? It's hard to say.
“I asked her why. I'll never forget how bloody and bruised she was. Yet, she was so sure in her response.”
Jason expected nothing of what comes out next.
“That would have been too easy. An escape from his consequences. And as I watched the court proceedings - hers and others - I noticed a pattern. They didn't want the perps to get away with it. They wanted them to sit with it. To feel the cost - the loss of freedom, the pain, the humiliation. Maybe that's why they voted to get rid of the death penalty.” The last sentence is contemplative, like Tim never made that connection before.
Jason chews on the thought for a while. The sounds of the storm keeps them company until the man, not that many years older than Tim, lifts his head.
“I'll give it to you. You made an excellent point about… letting the victim's voice be heard.” Tim straightens at the win, a little smile ghosting his lips. Jason smiles back. “I'll make the effort to keep that in mind.”
“If we are calling a truce,” Tim works out each word methodically, “between you and me, then all right, I won't interfere with your gangs.”
“Gang,” Jason mutters the correction.
Tim rolls his eyes, “gang.”
“I'll make it clear Hood has a rule and he decided he can't be suggesting there's an exception to it.” Jason rolls this next part in his mouth for a moment, already knowing it may be a problem before he came to the Tower. “Batman won't stop and I don't expect Robin to not be right behind him.”
“Batman is unlikely to trust me around Crime Alley for a while - if ever.” The threats did work like Jason intended. “I doubt he'll bring me on his cases regarding you.”
A Robin case is his own only after Bat approval and frequent reports. A Batman case is a toss-up on whether or not Robin can join.
“Well, like I said, you can follow your cases into Crime Alley without fear of retribution from me. I can't say the same for Batman or Nightwing.”
Tim is clearly chewing on a bone and Jason can guess what he's about to ask.
“Why are you so confident that I won't tell them who you are?”
Undoubtedly, Jason cut the power to avoid any communication before he could properly speak with Tim. It was also to avoid being spotted on cameras without his helmet. This is a no brainer for the third Robin. But, it leaves a very large loose thread named Tim.
“Well, Timbo,” Jason slaps his knees and stands. “We’ll call it a leap of faith.” He goes to the counter and reassembles his gun.
“I think…” Tim calls after him. He doesn’t move to follow Jason, only watching from his seat. “I think it’d hurt them, especially Dick, if I said nothing.”
Jason doesn't respond. He simply re-holsters his gun and heads for the stairwell. Maybe the kid’s right. It would hurt the Big Bird to not know. It might even hurt the Baby Bird to hold the secret.
Yet, as Jason heads for the stairs, his mind replays what Tim said about Tess and a victim's voice. He hits the basement, undoing his work, and allowing the local grid to come back to life.
He's confident Tim won’t tell.
Choices.