Chapter Text
Tim never feels more alive than when he’s ensconced in the shadows of a gargoyle three stories above Gotham’s cracked, well-loved pavement.
Gotham isn’t the most traditionally pretty city. From his perch, he can clearly see several uncomfortably large rats skittering between overflowing dumpsters. Puddles on the street shine with oil, but they also glow with a kaleidoscope of colors thanks to the light from storefronts’ neon signs. Laughter echoes from an open apartment window down the street. There’s a certain beauty to Gotham, if you care to look.
Tim checks his camera and finds that the long exposure photograph of the neon puddles has finished. He picks his camera up from its perch-- close enough to the ledge to be able to actually see the puddles but far enough that he won’t accidentally knock it over the edge-- and hums as he examines the photo. The puddles seem to almost glow from within as the reflections of the few passersby out at this hour streak through the water like ink.
Pleased, Tim sits back against the cool stone of the gargoyle and flips through his photos from earlier that night. He’d managed to get some good pictures of potential arms smugglers arguing behind shipping containers at the docks. Even better, the hood of one of the smugglers’ coats had slipped just enough for Tim to snap a few pictures of one of Vasily Kosov’s right hand men.
In the past few weeks, he’s spotted a few of the less-corrupt police sniffing around an arms smuggling operation at the docks. On one or two nights, he’d even caught flickers of green and black capes across the dock, but that may have been Tim’s imagination. Finding out that the Odessa mob is tangled up in the whole operation might just be the clue that Commissioner Gordon-- and therefore the Bats-- need to crack the whole case wide open.
Something blurry moves at the edge of his field of vision and Tim jolts upright. He has just enough time to bring up his camera to snap a few shots of Robin merrily swinging between the buildings with his grappling hook, Batman following close behind.
Catching a glimpse of the Bats is Tim’s favorite part of the night. Tim’s hiding spot in the shadows beneath the stone gargoyle isn’t nearly as cold as it looks. From his perch, he can hear the muffled conversations and sirens that form the heartbeat of the city.
A moment later and Batman and Robin are gone, vanished behind the concrete shell of a parking garage. Guess it’s time to call it a night.
Tim scrambles down onto the roof and begins the familiar trek back to Drake Manor. Climbing into bed sounds absolutely heavenly right now, but he has more pressing matters to attend to.
Tim flips open his laptop and sets up his usual network of proxy servers with a few clicks. He uploads today’s batch of photos to his computer and wastes no time in opening up his secret gmail account so he can start typing up an email to Commissioner Gordon.
Well, the email account isn’t a complete secret since the GCPD knows about it, but whatever. Tomato, tomahto.
To: James Gordon <[email protected]>
From: Gotham’s Shadow <[email protected]>
September 19th, 1:03 AM (just now)
Subject: Lead on arms smuggling at the docks
Dear Commissioner Gordon,
I hope that this missive finds you well. I heard that the GCPD has been working on an arms smuggling case at the docks for the past few weeks. Tonight, I spotted one of Vasily Kosov’s people talking with some individuals guarding a new shipment. Please see the photographs attached here. It seems unlikely that one of Vasily Kosov’s men would be bold enough to go behind his back, so the whole Odessa mob must be involved.
I would not be surprised if the Escabedo Cartel also had connections to the smuggling operation, given their relationship with the Odessa mob. Perhaps the arms are being used by the cartel to guard their drug warehouses? It seems suspicious that they would suddenly need more security; I would recommend looking into any potential threats to the Escabedo’s warehouses.
I hope that this information is of use to you. Take care.
Best regards,
Gotham’s Shadow
Attached:
09-05_docks_surveillance1.png
09-05_docks_surveillance2.png
09-05_docks_surveillance3.png
09-05_docks_Odessa1.png
09-05_docks_Odessa2.png
He sends the email and carefully places his closed laptop on his nightstand before much less carefully flopping face first into bed. He brushed his teeth before going out so he probably doesn’t need to get up to do it again, right?
His musings on dental hygiene evaporate within seconds of his head hitting the pillow and Tim conks out.
The next few days pass in a blur of classes and homework. It’s reaching the point in the semester where the students have learned enough that Gotham Academy’s teachers can actually start to give them real tests. Tim crams his studying into the hours between when he gets home from his biweekly gymnastics and self-defense classes and when he leaves for his nightly patrol.
He alternates between staking out the Escabedo Cartel’s warehouses and the docks. To his delight, he spots a few GCPD officers hunched over in hiding spots a safe distance away from the shipping containers containing what are likely smuggled firearms. Their faces are vaguely familiar, so he’s pretty sure that Gordon sent some of his half-decent cops.
It’s been years since Tim first started sending his photographs and analysis to the GCPD, but it still sends a thrill of excitement through him whenever he sees that Commissioner Gordon actually followed his advice.
They listened. Tim called and they listened.
During the day, it feels like Tim is constantly balancing between being deemed too old to act childish and too young to have opinions that actually matter. His job is to go to school, get good grades, and keep his parents happy.
But at night? When Tim is behind a camera, when he sends evidence to the GCPD, they listen. And when Tim sees Nightwing cracking jokes as he and Robin chat with some of the local homeless kids, it doesn’t matter that Tim is a short thirteen-year-old whose voice always picks the most embarrassing times to crack. Tim can help.
And when Tim sits down at his computer to dissect vigilantism and the ways in which multiple institutions have failed everyone in the criminal justice system, it feels like he can actually do something. Two years ago, he started writing LinkedIn articles under the pseudonym Jeffrey Anderson.
At first, his critiques went largely unnoticed, but Tim kept trying. He read what felt like every single article under the sun about increasing your LinkedIn audience. He edited his articles more carefully to make sure that they were of the highest possible quality before posting them. He created puppet accounts on various social media websites to jump-start discussions of his articles.
Like all avalanches, it started with a single stone. One of his articles went viral in Gotham overnight. His profile doesn’t explicitly say where he’s from, but he talks about Batman enough that he’s not entirely surprised. Besides, like calls to like. The blood of the city flows through all of their veins.
Now, the local news station occasionally discusses his latest article. He’s written a few opinion pieces for the Gotham Gazette that he proudly cross-listed on Jeffrey Anderson’s LinkedIn page. Tim thought about printing out the articles and hanging them on his wall, but that might be a little too arrogant of him.
Besides, what would happen if his parents came home early and saw the articles? They usually weren’t home early, of course, but Tim would rather not risk it. He didn’t want to risk their scrutiny, let alone another talk about how he should be focusing on building his resume for college instead of childish nonsense.
On Friday, Tim squints at his working title for his latest article. Vigilantes’ role in reducing recidivism rates theoretically could work as a title, but he’s technically suggesting ways for vigilantes to reduce recidivism rates rather than analyzing their current work. Does that even make sense? It’s short and snappy, but is it accurate enough? Is it even grammatically correct?
What is a language if not bits of individual grammatical rules that float around like pocket lint?
Tim closes his laptop and drops his head atop it with a quiet thud. Fridays are supposed to be happy days! He has two whole days of no school, leaving him free to stay out later watching the Bats and then sleep in. Plus, Nightwing usually comes over from Blüdhaven on weekends, leading to all sorts of fun shenanigans with Robin and Batman.
With a groan, Tim pries himself off his computer and trudges into the kitchen to make some macaroni and cheese. Boxed mac n’ cheese will fix all of his problems.
When he’s done eating, Tim drags himself back to his room to change into his gear for the night. Most nights, his uniform consists of plain black clothes that he can move in easily but aren’t too fancy or eye-catching. He also shrugs on a black backpack with two water bottles, a portable cell phone charger, his camera, a small first aid kit, an emergency gas mask (this is Gotham, after all), some emergency cash, a flashlight, a pair of gloves and a scarf (hey, the rooftops can be fairly cold and windy even in September), and a whole bunch of granola bars just in case he or one of the homeless kids he occasionally chats with gets hungry. He pats his pocket, checking that his Swiss army knife is still tucked safely away in his pocket.
September’s night air is still in that perfect zone between not too chilly and not too hot. The city’s smog isn’t even that bad today, either. From his hiding place atop an apartment building in the East End, Tim can nearly see the stars. It’s nice. Pleasant, even. The smattering of visible stars twinkles merrily as if welcoming him with open arms.
This, Tim thinks, is where he’s meant to be. A child of Gotham wrapped up in arms made of smog and starlight.
He keeps an eye out for any suspicious activity on the streets below, but the night is largely quiet. There are a few drug deals in some of the nearby alleys, but Tim leaves them alone. Low-level drug dealers are merely symptoms of the city’s overarching drug problem, not the cause. It would be far more helpful if he spotted a known affiliate of one of Gotham’s crime families, but it seems like nobody is bothering to show their face today.
Tim sits back and tries to let himself enjoy the peace and quiet, but he feels-- unproductive. Idleness doesn’t sit well with him; it never has. It’s not that he’s not a patient person or anything. He’s mature and besides, he’s spent practically a million hours sitting on cold, uncomfortable surfaces as he waited for the perfect photo opportunity.
But right now? Right now, he’s in the beating heart of the city and it feels empty. Wrong. The air feels all weird, like the city is holding its breath as it waits for something. The question is, what is it waiting for?
Time drags its feet until, finally, Tim has his answer.
The building that he chose to perch on tonight doesn’t offer the best vantage point, but it’s a good hiding spot. It’s sandwiched by a taller building on one side and a shorter one on the other. Still, Tim can see into the alleyways directly next to him and he can glimpse the tops of the surrounding alleyways. He can hear pretty well, too. Certainly well enough to hear the grating noise of metal on metal and the barest hint of a solid thump, like a garbage bag hitting the pavement.
The sound is suspicious as hell. Who takes their trash out at this hour? It’s pushing one in the morning.
If Tim was a normal person, he would probably mind his own damn business and ignore the noise. Then again, if Tim was a normal person, he’d probably be asleep in his bed at Drake Manor.
Instead, Tim picks himself off the cold rooftop and, taking care to stay low and out of sight, drops down onto the shorter rooftop to his right. From there, reaching the source of the noise is only a matter of a short leap between the rooftops. Tim carefully stows his camera away in his backpack first to keep it out of the way-- he has the money to buy another camera if he wants to, but he likes this camera. It’s his camera and he doesn’t want to accidentally break it! He takes a running start and jumps onto the next rooftop, rolling forward to soften his landing.
Tim would like to thank his gymnastics instructor, Ms. Pemberly, for helping him learn how to somersault without cracking his head open on the ground. Going to her gymnastics classes twice a week is among the best decisions that he’s ever made.
His landing is quiet enough that Tim is fairly pleased with himself as he creeps forward to the edge of the roof to peer into the alleyway below.
The alley cuts between ramshackle apartments and is lined with a few dumpsters. At one point, it was lit by two main lights, one on each adjacent building. However, the light on the building across from Tim sports a large crack across it, casting half of the alley in partial darkness. A rickety fire escape hugs the wall next to the working light but, like most things in the East End, it looks like it’s about one good kick from falling apart.
The most eye-catching thing in the alley, however, is the motionless black-clad figure sprawled atop a dumpster. Emblazoned across their chest is an achingly familiar blue bird.
Nightwing.
At the other end of the alley, three other people exchange looks and slowly approach the dumpster. Their faces are all unfamiliar, but Tim catches the glint of a gun in the hands of the person in the middle. From what he can tell, their clothes don’t look outrageously expensive. The man on the right has a tattoo on his forearm that looks vaguely like something that he’s seen on a few of Maroni’s men, but it’s hard to tell. Just to be safe, he quietly pulls his camera out from his backpack and takes a picture. He takes care to lay on his stomach, pressing himself as close to the rooftop as possible to keep out of sight.
Luckily, they don’t seem to notice the glint of his camera lens. Tim leans back and pushes his backpack away from the edge of the roof. It nearly knocks over a couple of empty beer bottles, but Tim manages to still them before they could make any noise.
(Was someone drinking on a rooftop? That seems irresponsible.)
“Well, well, well,” crows the person in the middle as they saunter closer to the dumpster. “Looks like we have a downed birdie on our doorstep. I think someone fell out of the nest.”
Tim frowns. Why do they sound like a B-list villain from some action movie? Have some originality.
“Remember the time Batman blew up the warehouse with all of our stash in it?” The woman on the left pulls out a switchblade. Oh fuck. “Because I sure do.”
Fuck fuck fuck.
Tim casts about for something-- anything-- to do. He could throw the beer bottles down, but that would maybe distract them for a few seconds. Given Nightwing’s current condition, Tim doubts that he’d be able to take advantage of the distraction and escape. What he needs is to scare them.
His eyes drift to the emergency light and the rickety fire escape.
Below, the trio advances towards Nightwing. They move slowly, smiling as they savor the moment. Tim shifts so he’s sitting up on the rooftop with his feet dangling over the ledge. Luckily, the light is close enough to the roof-- ostensibly for it to be repaired or replaced, not that anything in the East End or Crime Alley is ever repaired-- for him to touch it.
“Here, little birdie,” the man on the right, the one with the tattoo, calls.
Tim shifts his weight and draws his hoodie further down. Hands gripping the edge of the roof, he takes a deep breath and slams his heel into the emergency light.
It shatters beautifully, raining glass onto the ground below as the alley is plunged into darkness.
“Shit,” says one of the people below. “What the--”
Tim kicks the fire escape and the bolts attaching it to the building creak dangerously. Another well-placed kick is all it takes to send the entire structure crashing down in front of the trio, blocking them from reaching Nightwing. The fire escape hits the ground with a clang that’s quickly followed by a chorus of shrieking and swearing.
“Oh, fuck no. I’m not dealing with this shit,” someone below announces. They sound out of breath. “Fuck this, I’m out.”
“Wait, we need to--” another voice calls as the fire escape groans.
Tim can faintly see one of the people pulling the other out from under the fire escape. He sucks in a breath, but it looks like the other person is able to stand on their own two feet, albeit unsteadily. Good, no serious injuries.
“Wait for us!” One of the pair calls as they hobble out of the alley.
Tim leans back, pulling his legs up and pressing himself against the rooftop. He waits for the footsteps to head away before he pulls his backpack on and peers over the edge of the alley. It’s empty save for a few dumpsters, the fire escape, and Nightwing’s body.
The roof is maybe two or three stories high. Tim might be able to climb down, but the drainage pipe on the edge of the alley looks like a much more attractive option. He checks his gloves-- it would be bad to leave his fingerprints everywhere, after all-- and wastes no time in shimmying down the side of the building, clinging to the pipe with all of his strength. He’s careful to keep his camera from clanging against the pipe. Its lens cap is securely attached, but he doesn’t want to risk scratching anything.
His landing isn’t the best but he doesn’t break his camera or twist an ankle or anything, so Tim counts it as a win. He creeps towards the dumpster where Nightwing is lying and sighs in relief when he sees the rise and fall of the vigilante’s chest. Good, he isn’t dead. The two holes in the side of his suit don’t look good, though. Neither does the slowly spreading pool of blood that’s dampening the garbage around him.
“Um, hi” He begins and awkwardly tugs his hood down. Hopefully, it’ll cover his face enough to keep him from being recognized, either by Nightwing or whatever cameras are likely embedded in his suit. Taking care to warp his words into a thick Gotham accent, he adds, “I’m here to help. Are you awake?”
Nightwing grunts.
“Okay, that’s probably a good thing. Uh. Did you already call for help?”
Another grunt. This one sounds vaguely affirmative.
“Good, great,” he says, nodding. At least he doesn’t have to figure out a way to get Nightwing back to the rest of the Bats. “I don’t exactly know a lot about taking care of bullet wounds and I’d rather not get electrocuted by your suit while trying to stop the bleeding, so… I guess I’m going to go?”
Nightwing’s arms twitch and he weakly tries to push himself up, groaning.
“I don’t know if moving is a good idea,” Tim tries, but Nightwing only grunts in response.
Halfway through, he seems to give up and lays back down. The white-out lenses in his suit prevent Tim from seeing exactly where he’s looking, but something tells Tim that Nightwing’s eyes are fixed on him.
“Don’t worry, I’ll stay until I see that Batman or Robin has come to get you. I’ll stay out of sight, though.” Tim turns and starts to walk towards the other building’s remaining fire escape before he hesitates. He looks over his shoulder and surely enough, Nightwing is still looking straight at him. “Um. Sorry that I couldn’t help more. You do good work,” he offers meekly before turning tail and scurrying up the fire escape. His camera swings about, bumping against his chest with every step.
Heart pounding, Tim flattens himself against the roof and settles in to wait for the cavalry to arrive. He just met Nightwing. Nightwing! He also probably sounded like a complete idiot and he really hopes that Nightwing didn’t realize how young he is. Shadows can hide a lot and he tried to make his voice sound deeper than it actually is, but there’s only so much that he can do.
He clutches his camera protectively and tries to even out his breathing. If he could see his hands, he’d bet that his knuckles are white. Soon enough, the telltale rumble of the Batmobile roars in the distance and Tim sighs in relief.
Tim waits until the rumble halts just outside the alley before he army crawls away from the edge of the roof. He can just barely hear a deep voice call, “Nightwing?” as Tim books it out of there.
He sprints across rooftops, feet flying over the concrete, and doesn’t begin to slow until he reaches the edge of the city. Tim makes the rest of the trip with only the sound of his heartbeat to keep him company as the ever-present buzz of the city fades into the distance.
His heart continues to pound as he slips into the oppressively silent Drake Manor. It keeps pounding even as he stares at his bedroom ceiling, replaying the events of the night, until sleep finally claims him.
Monday rolls around, ushering in yet another week of school. Tim has a history quiz that he forgets about until fifteen minutes before class. He spends the last part of his English class skimming through his history notes. All things considered, the quiz goes okay. Still, Tim is all too eager to leave class and head to the library for lunch. He nearly misses seeing Jason Todd-- Batman’s current Robin-- as they pass each other in the hallway.
Jason has dark circles under his eyes and his mouth is set in a grim line. He doesn’t seem to notice Tim as they walk by each other, but that’s unsurprising. It’s unlikely that Jason even realizes that Tim exists.
The mass of students swarming towards the cafeteria whisks Jason away. In the blink of an eye, he’s gone.
That night, Tim glares at his laptop like it personally offended him.
It’s Their City Too: An Analysis of Personal Attacks on Vigilantes
Jeffrey Anderson, September 25th 20XX
Vigilantes represent more than just individuals in capes. They simultaneously exist both as citizens of their city and as a manifestation of the city itself. Therefore, opportunistic attacks on vigilantes not only assault the masked individual, but also the city itself. However, these attacks are only symptoms of the illness. At some point, the individuals who attack vigilantes were harmed in some way by the systems of oppression maintained by the city. In turn, they target a manifestation of the city itself: vigilantes. As a result, the cycle of violence propagates itself…
He frowns, staring at his cursor as it gently blinks at the end of his latest sentence.
...but vigilantes occupy a dual role as both citizens and protectors. They are part of the city too. Do they not deserve the same security and happiness that they offer to their cities?
Tim thinks of the two bullet holes in Nightwing’s torso, of the concern soaking Batman’s voice as he called out for his son. He thinks of the grim weariness on Jason’s face. He thinks of the photographs buried deep in his closet of Robin and Nightwing grinning as they shout jokes to each other, of Batman smiling and shaking his head at their antics. Of Batman standing on a rooftop overlooking the city, of the stars bleeding into his silhouette.
He hits save on the document and closes it. Writing about attacks so soon after his encounter with Nightwing seems like it would be asking for trouble.
His knees crack when he stands up to get ready for his usual night out on the town. With one of the Bats injured, he’ll need to step up his surveillance game until Nightwing is back in commission. After all, there’s work to be done.