Chapter Text
Gotham was under siege. Not by vice and madness, its usual combatants, but by a threat extraterrestrial in origin. The Reach, or, as they claimed, ‘rouge allies’ of the Reach, were invading. Particularly brutally this time. Massive warships were targeting every city protected by a member of the Justice League. So far only the smaller scouting crafts had arrived, but it was just a matter of time. Most members of the Justice League had handed off protection of their city to non-League members and were currently in space, battling the mothership. Batman had given them his strategies, but chose to stay behind. He was not at his most effective in space. And more importantly, Gotham needed him. She was strong. She would not cow. But she did bleed.
The entire east side was blazing crimson. From the Cave, Red Robin had managed to hack into two of the scouting ships mainframes and peacefully disarm them. The third ship had initiated its self-destruct and sent itself purposefully crashing into the city. Red Hood had already been in the sector when the attack hit. He was fine, but elected to stay back to evacuate survivors. Oracle’s drones were managing the fire. Batman, Nightwing and Robin were en route to scavenge the crashed ship.
They approached the ship with caution. It was a gory scene. The scouting ship had cracked open on impacting, revealing dark crimson colored technology sparking vivid white electricity of some kind. It did not seem to be a spaceship in the traditional sense of a vessel meant to transport beings from one destination to another. There was no discernable steering or operating system. It appeared to be an organism itself. Sluggishly, metal tubes uncurled from the center of the wreck. It looked like a beating heart ripped from a chest, vessels and arteries included.
“Robin, stay back,” said Batman. “I need you to monitor the surroundings.”
Robin tensed up, ready to refute.
“Listen to the boss, bud,” soothed Nightwing. “We’ve never seen a ship like this before. We need your sharp eyes watching our backs.”
It was a rare moment where Nightwing and Batman agreed on Robin’s field deployments, which spoke to the severity of the situation. Batman wondered how long Nightwing’s support would last once he realized that Batman was about to deliver him the same order.
He never got a chance. All at once Robin shouted and a metal vessel pinned Batman to the ground. The vessel elongated and sharpened itself until it was the shape of a syringe. It pierced through his suit with surgical precision. Batman had finally gained enough sense to struggle but everything happened much too quickly. The syringe retracted up into the air and from its tip a metal scarab, no larger than the circumference of a wristwatch, emerged. It descended down upon him again and Batman felt the scarab bite. The pain was worse than any stab wound, any freeze ray, any bullet he had ever felt. It thundered. The last thing he heard was Nightwing screaming “B!” before his head was filled with chiming.
What do you want? What do you want? What do you want?
The soft music pulled him away from the pain, like gentle tides carrying him out to sea. Bruce drifted. He was dazed, lethargic. All he could do was listen to this strange bell of a voice, chiming all around him.
What do you want? What do you want? What do you want?
Robin, with brutal efficiency, ripped the bug off before the creature’s legs could properly latch. He tossed it in the air and Nightwing quickly snatched it shut into an evidence bag. The bug was gone, but the mark was still there, pounding loudly in Bruce’s ears. Singing, so much singing.
What do you want?
Batman let out an inhuman howl and then collapsed.
Bruce returned to consciousness slowly, without the presence of mind to analyze his surroundings. He blinked until the blurry blotches of black and white in front of him became Alfred.
“It is good to see your eyes, Master Bruce.” The man smiled, though Bruce still couldn’t make out the details of it.
“Alfred.” It was both a question and a reassurance.
“You’re alright, dear boy. Everything has been taken care of.” There was a gentleness to his tone that Bruce hadn’t heard since his childhood.
“The Reach?”
“Galactic Toast,” said a voice that was surely Dick, though Bruce couldn’t see the man himself from his position. The room was still too blurry.
But that was good news. It should be a relief. But Bruce didn’t feel relieved. His pulse hummed. There had been music. A chiming, lilting music. It returned to Bruce in a rush.
“The bite?”
“Taken care of,” said Tim. He was standing much further from Bruce’s bed than Alfred. He knew how much Bruce hated being crowded at times like this. Always a considerate boy. “The ship’s last line of defense. Some sort of mind control. But don’t worry, Robin stopped it in time. It needed to properly latch into your nervous system in order to work.”
Bruce had a dozen follow up questions on the tip of his tongue. Tim preempted him.
“We kept you sedated for two weeks while we ran our own tests. Both on you and the specimen. Then, we consulted with no less than five experts on Reach technology and three actual aliens.”
Bruce opened his mouth.
“And,” Tim continued on, completely unfazed. “We had you inspected by three practitioners of the mystic arts and two telepaths. I have the reports all on file. You can look them over once Alfred gives the okay. But you're clear, Bruce. Trust us. We’ve been thorough.”
Tim leaned forward on the tips of his toes. “How do you feel?”
“The same,” said Bruce, roughly. Something ached in him to admit it, but he wasn’t sure why.
“Thank goodness,” said Tim, some of his stiffness leaving him as he ran a hand through his hair. “You really had us worried there, Bruce.”
“Speak for yourself, Drake,” snapped Damian. “I was never concerned. It would take more than a mere insect to defeat Father.” The boy was standing to the left of Bruce, almost behind the medical bed. His arms were crossed, a haughty tilt to his chin. The gesture was defensive and Bruce knew instantly he had, indeed, worried the boy. He wanted to reach up and reassure his son with touch (words had always been lacking between them) but he found that his hand was occupied.
Dick had clasped both his hands around Bruce’s, holding on as if in prayer. He was kneeling at Bruce’s bedside, which is how he had escaped Bruce’s notice before.
“No more getting bit by strange things, okay?” said Dick as he lightly squeezed Bruce’s hands. “You’re already half vampire. Adding alien werewolf to that is just excessive.”
Bruce regarded him with a cold look, but the slight twitch of his lips betrayed him. He was rewarded with Dick’s absolutely beaming smile. Dick had many smiles, but only this one remained unchanged from his boyhood, brimming with an adoration reserved only for Bruce. All his. And for just a second, Bruce felt quiet again. Anchored.
More slowly than he would have liked, but faster than Alfred’s recommendations, Bruce returned to his duties. He buried himself in his work: clueless CEO, the swift hand of justice, father. But no matter what mask he hid behind, the music returned. It always returned. During charity galas, quiet evenings with Damian, even during raids on Black Mask’s warehouses. It haunted him. Hung around his neck at all times, a thick weight heavier than any kevlar cape. That question — echoing everywhere. What do you want? What do you want?
This, he would tell himself, as he hung three armed drug traffickers from the rafters. Gotham safe. But the voice would press on, press deeper. What do you want? With fear, he realized it was no longer the lilting music of the bite, but his own voice, deep and low. Full of gravel. Full of greed.
It was easier to ignore around his family, at first. Dick was especially apt at getting it to quiet. And given the crisis that had just been averted, even Jason was willing to spend more time beside him, though only in uniform. But it wasn’t enough. Bruce could busy his hands, but his mind always travelled back. Alone in his bed, he was helpless to do anything but listen. A sailor, adrift at sea, already claimed by some far-off siren.
What do you want?
Gotham. Bruce admitted, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The voice didn’t bother asking what his plans were. He already had them. Had always had them. Bruce knew, even as a young child, that there was something dark in him. It ached so sweetly in his guts. Ignoring it was fruitless; it had to be fed. So Bruce fed it. All his worst impulses, all his darkest desires. He had schematics for them. Plans on plans on plan. He told himself that they were for defense or for strategy. Lies, all lies. It was all in preparation for this. For the day he finally admitted that he did not belong to Gotham, but Gotham belonged to him.
What else is yours?
Bruce shuddered. It was as if he had emerged from the ocean and taken his first gulp of air. A tremor of pleasure rushed through him. He had never let himself think so candidly before. So much. So much belonged to Bruce. It was just a question of where to start.
Another lie. He knew what was to come first. He had earned Gotham, and he would claim her, but there was something else that belonged to him even more intrinsically. Something that had been his since its birth. Something created to be his. Bruce closed his eyes and saw a canary yellow cape, flickering in the wind.
He smiled. Robin. His Robins. His soldiers; his loyal, loyal sons. There was nothing that belonged to Bruce more than those four boys. No matter how they denied it. Dick had tried to escape from him before. Be it the Titans or Blüdhaven, he always returned. Would even wear the cowl, if Bruce placed it on him. And Jason. Tantrum after tantrum, his son never stopped wearing his symbol, the red bat a brand on his chest. They were his. Forever. It was only proper for Robin to rule Gotham at his side.
But which one to take first? Which to best serve him at this stage of his plans? All of his sons were devoted. Tim was loyal to the mission, to Bruce’s and Dick’s tutelage, but not to the men themselves should they stray from those teachings. A potential complication. Jason was loyal only to love, which is what made him so dangerous. Too risky to approach first. Damian was similar, love tempered by duty. Too young, though, for what Bruce needed right now. Dick had learned all the lessons of his brothers well. He had proved it during his tenure as Batman. In Bruce’s absence, he had devoted himself to both Bruce’s mission, his duties, his loves. Because Dick was loyal to Bruce, before and above all else.
His eldest. His pride and joy. Best beloved. There was a time that admission would have guilted him. But now his past reasonings seemed so far away. He felt no shame. A king had no reason to hide who held his favor. Dick had earned it, time and time again.
And yet. Bruce wasn’t quite the same man Dick had sworn fealty to, anymore. He realized that. Dick would see the change, would take it to mean that he should stay loyal to the past Bruce, not understanding that this had always been Bruce’s true self. He had every confidence that he could educate his son, but it would take time. He had always been a stubborn child. Until more pieces were in play, Dick would need to remain in the dark. The thought did burden Bruce, briefly. It could easily be years until he had Dick by his side again. But it wouldn’t be forever. A small sacrifice, in the scheme of things.
Perhaps he had the wrong approach. All of his sons were his. If claiming them was but a matter of time, his focus needed to be on ensuring he had time. Defensive stratagems. Bruce could defeat anyone with enough time to plan. Therefore, his biggest threat was someone who could detect his plans. A skilled observer, attuned to Bruce’s own pattern of thinking.
Bruce rose from his bed and descended to the Cave.
Tim. Tim must be convinced first.
His next moves required much patience. He spent as much time in the Cave as before, but his mind was no longer occupied by Batman’s mission. Batman had always been a stopgap, a band aid on a terminal patient. Bruce’s vision had expanded. For now, Bruce’s task was to carry on as normal. To return to his previous state as a bound and begging waste of a man. To deny the truth of his sweet freedom. But Bruce had always exceeded at control.
It helped that there was so much to study. His goals had shifted so drastically, in many ways, he needed to relearn his sons. He poured over old training logs and case files. He examined them, searching for weakness in places he never had reason to look before. Every interaction with them was an opportunity for more information. Bruce did as he had always done; he planned. It was a father’s job to push his sons into the roles they were meant to take in this world. They needed to be prepared for life besides him. For life as princes of Gotham.
With Damian, the path was simple. Talia, to her credit, had already done most of the work for him. Bruce simply had to keep the boy’s training on track. For Gotham to truly be his, all threats to her must be eliminated. That included the League of Assassins. But why dispose of the League in its entirety, when he had such a perfect heir for the role? Grooming Damian for his birthright would be no hard task. True, Bruce would have to be mindful not to reveal himself too early, not to push the boy to question the teachings Bruce himself no longer believed in until the proper time. But his youngest son adored him so. He was eager to accept Bruce’s offers of more intense, personalized training. That was enough for now.
He had to fight his instincts with Dick. The situation required that Dick remain unsuspicious. His eldest knew him better than anyone, except perhaps Alfred. Part of him wanted to push his son far away until he was ready to be claimed. Avoid the risk. Bruce could fabricate a falling out easily enough; he was intimately familiar with the boy’s psychological weak points. But there was always the chance that Dick would see through the bait and start probing. Or worse, that he would genuinely take the rebuke to heart, and it would be that much harder to sway him to his side when the time came. He needed to keep Dick close while also keeping him at arm’s length.
The solution was laughably simple when he finally deduced it. Less team-ups between Batman and Nightwing, more lunch outings with Dick Grayson and Bruce Wayne. Dick had always felt more secure in his relationship with Batman than his relationship with Bruce Wayne. Bruce still had a few Christmas cards signed to Batman from Robin. He had thought it merely a cute reflection of a childish worldview at the time, but now he knew that it spoke to a deeper insecurity on Dick’s part. An easily exploitable one. Nightwing would notice right away when something was off with Batman, especially as Bruce’s plans progressed, but Dick wouldn’t notice as quickly outside of the uniforms. So far, his son had been too excited about their new time together to pay much attention to anything else.
The question of Jason had less forthright answers. Bruce focused on maintaining the current status quo until he found the correct approach.
Then there was Tim. Nothing could truly progress until Tim was properly placed. Bruce started with his most obvious weaknesses. There had always been a gentleness to Tim. A boy who wanted so very much to do good in the world, wanted to be that good for Bruce and Gotham. But that light had dimmed over the years, after a childhood of loss. Of course, some of that goodness remained, but Bruce suspected it was mainly inertia. Nothing to be threatened by. Nothing he couldn’t extinguish.
The true threat was the boy’s obsessive nature, which rivaled Bruce’s own. It was this shared trait that made Tim an excellent detective and an impediment to Bruce’s progress. While it was true that Barbara could detect Bruce’s moves easier than he was altogether comfortable with, she had her own team to look after. She would not look until Bruce gave her a reason to look. But Tim, Tim was always searching. And watching Batman was the boy’s oldest habit.
Bruce concluded early on that preventing Tim from discovering his plans was futile. What must be controlled was the circumstances in which Tim ‘discovered’ him. How much information and when. He could allow for Tim to ascertain some truths, but only Tim, no one else.
Tim, to his credit, was dutiful. He would not want to burden his friends or allies with his suspicions. Given that both Jason and Damian had tried to kill him, he would not turn to them either. In another time, he might have turned to Dick. Tim used to idolize his big brother. But then Dick had made Damian Robin, and they had never recovered their previous closeness, despite how much they both tried to pretend otherwise. No, Bruce was confident that Tim would take his accusations to him first before anyone else.
A confrontation was unavoidable. The concern, then, was ensuring that Tim would be amenable to Bruce’s plans when the boy approached him. Which meant that Tim could not be whole for their confrontation. Bruce must break him ahead of time.
Above him, the bats stirred.
In some ways, plotting to break Tim felt like the most natural thing in the world. He had broken Jason without ever intending to, and pushed Dick to the brink time and time again. While this time Bruce approached it with more intentionality, the craft of it all remained the same. Encourage Tim’s desire for his approval, then refuse it to him at every turn. Engineer situations that forced Tim into failure and watched as the boy punished himself for it.
Bruce started small. Incrementally, he granted Tim more and more power at Wayne Enterprises. There was nothing suspicious about that in and of itself; Tim had always been the obvious choice to succeed him as CEO. Bruce gave him more meetings to sit in on, more reports to read, more budgets to approve. He kept the pressure high but the stakes low. As he anticipated, Tim isolated himself. The boy’s stresses were centered on his civilian persona which automatically alienated him from the Titans. He was too ashamed to ask for Bruce’s help and did not trust Dick to provide the appropriate business acumen. Dick could have provided the necessary emotional support, but Tim always forgot his own emotional needs until it was too late. A frog treading water in a pot destined to boil.
The first significant crack in Tim came about six months later, in one of Wayne Tower’s many elegant meeting rooms. The Wayne Foundation, at Tim’s behest, had plans to invest in Gotham City Community College through the creation of a dual trade school program. The college, already very reasonably priced, would be able to offer reduced tuition on a sliding scale of need through The Wayne Foundation’s grant. That part of the deal was already set. And a rather commonplace use of The Wayne Foundation’s funds. Tim’s truly innovative idea was to convince WayneTech and its subsidiaries to offer automatic paid internships to all students enrolled in the program. According to Tim, to educate low-income students, a viable career path had to be made for them. Otherwise, those most underserved would never have access to education. What eighteen-year-old working two jobs to feed their siblings can justify going to college? What good is a diploma without real world connections? Tim put his heart and soul into the project proposal. At various points both Bruce, Dick, Damian, Alfred (cat and butler) had all served as practice audience board members. For Tim, this was his first chance to do good as Timothy Drake-Wayne. It mattered to his heart.
The board detested the idea. Just as Bruce knew they would when he had first started having fireside conversations with Tim on education reform. Tim argued logically, then passionately, then logically again with a hint of threat. But the board remained unmoved, especially as Bruce himself remained silent. Perhaps he could have convinced them, or convinced Lucius to convince them. But he had told Tim that it was his fight alone. After all, if he were to take over the company, he needed to learn how to sway the board on his own.
When the board finally filed out the meeting room, Tim looked threadbare. Bruce had already seen symptoms of sleep deprivation in him, the thinning of his hair and the ever-present bruises under his eyes, but they were not yet bad enough to affect his performance in the field, so Bruce had no reason to comment on them. But they were present. A poison, corroding Tim from the inside out.
Bruce gave the boy a reassuring shoulder squeeze. “You’ll find another way,” he said, deliberating assigning all the responsibility to Tim.
“Yeah,” said Tim, barely audible, averting Bruce’s gaze. His eyes were clouded, intense but unfocused.
“It’s been a long day. Let’s go home,” Bruce told him. Tim had, for all intents and purposes, moved back into the manor. He couldn’t fulfil his responsibilities to Wayne Enterprises from Titans Towers. Bruce kept his arm firm around the boy’s shoulder and ushered him out of the room. Tim seemed to grow smaller with each step.
For months, Tim continued on like this, tittering on the precipice. His mental fortitude never improved by any margin, but it never worsened, either. Soon it became clear to Bruce that Tim’s responsibilities to Wayne Enterprises alone could not break him. He would need one more push.
With Tim, Bruce had been desperate not to repeat the mistakes he made with Jason. He had wanted Tim to maintain his innocence in whatever ways were possible given their work as vigilantes. Tim had been amenable, seeing it as his purpose to pull Bruce from darkness. But Bruce was darkness. There was nothing to save him from. Tim acting as a beacon of light served no use to him.
Bruce needed to stop shielding the boy from the truth. Gotham was wretched and desperate. She needed Bruce to rule. Tim had always been his most reasonable child. Once he saw the truth, he would join Bruce. He just needed exposure. To be shown what had been kept from him as Robin.
Patrol was the obvious solution, but patrolling with Red Robin and Robin together was an impossible task. There was always too much competition, too much bad blood. Damian was still insecure about his role in Bruce’s life. Any perceived favoring of Tim would cost him Damian; Tim’s return to the manor had been fraught enough. He needed to send Damian away without sending him away. Bruce began to encourage weekend visits to Blüdhaven. Dick took it as a gesture of goodwill, an acknowledgment of the bond the pair had crafted in his absence. Damian took it as a boon for his successes in training. Both assumptions had their usefulness, but the crowning achievement was the time it left him with Tim. While Dick and Damian were off the field every other weekend, Batman and Red Robin patrolled the skies.
The true tragedy was that Bruce had to engineer very little. He merely focused their energies on cases more often left to Gordan or Red Hood. But Gotham did all the work. In three months, Red Robin and Batman encountered no less than four human trafficking rings, two of which focused primarily on children. Eighteen cases of domestic violence so severe either the victims died, or were left permanently disabled. This included children. Tim reacted most strongly to the cases of children. Batman and Red Robin had been tracking a missing person’s case. Twenty-two-year-old mom Angelica Carter. They found her dead in the bedroom of an ex-coworker, stabbed twice and then asphyxiated. Her assailant dead from a methamphetamine overdose in the next room. Her baby dead from neglect, still strapped into its carrier. Red Robin remained calm and clear headed while they gathered evidence. He had only cried once they’d returned to the Cave.
Cynicism wrapped itself like a shroud around Tim. His posture changed slightly. His jokes took on a crueler edge. He maintained his pushes for social reform at Wayne Enterprises, but the hope had gone out of his voice. Dick had noticed it enough to mention it to Bruce at one of their lunches. He brought it up to Bruce as a joke about the humor of kids these days (as if Dick, being all of twenty-four, were not still a kid himself) but Bruce heard the real concern there.
But Tim persisted. Warping, yes, but he did not break.
And then Gotham blessed them. A terrorist attack at Wayne Tower. Five white supremacists stormed the lobby with assault rifles. They were quickly subdued by security, but not before twelve people were killed and at least twenty-two injured. The terrorists were a relatively new and unconnected cell called Valiant Sons. It annoyed Bruce how easily they had been able to radicalize a former Wayne Enterprises security guard into helping them. But, for Gotham’s standards, it had been a relatively small mass shooting. They never made it past the lobby. Both Bruce and Tim hadn’t even been in the office that day. Bruce never imagined this would be the scenario that broke Tim.
Then again, it had been under Tim’s guidance that Wayne Enterprises had spearheaded more and more diversity and inclusion initiatives. It was Tim that had made Wayne Enterprises a target for white supremacists. Bruce could see how, to Tim, the Valiant Sons were villains entirely of his own making.
Tim pursued the cell relentlessly. His sleep, already eroding, stopped entirely. He barely ate. He existed only in the shadows of the Cave, the Clocktower, and Wayne Tower. Dick was beside himself with worry, but there was a huge territory war among Blüdhaven’s gangs at the moment. He couldn’t leave. Over the phone, Bruce gave his eldest plenty of assurances that he would speak to Tim in his stead. Sweet lies, of course. Bruce was proud of Tim, of what he was accomplishing. He had no desire to stop the boy.
Barely a week after the shooting, Red Robin delivered to the Cave three well founded tips on the location of the Valiant Son’s primary base and armory. Nightwing was still busy fighting back the gang war, and Red Hood’s own case work, coincidentally, had taken him to Blüdhaven. Bruce was never quite sure where Jason and Dick stood with each other, but those were concerns for another time.
At the moment, Red Robin was giving them the mission brief. The Cave monitors shone bright with location schematics and blurry pictures of suspects.
“I have it on good authority that the Valiant Sons’ are expecting, or have already gotten, a massive influx of new weapons. This on top of their already massive armory. More guns mostly, but a concerning amount of grenades. Maybe even an RPG. They plan to divvy up the armory and start new cells in Coast City and Baltimore by week’s end,” said Red Robin. “We need confirmation of their location tonight so we can strike tomorrow.” For how much Batman knew this case weighed Red Robin, his tone revealed little emotion.
“Why wait?” said Robin.
“We need to be smart about this,” replied Red Robin. “They have too much ammo for us to face them head on.”
“Maybe for you.” But Robin’s scorn was half-hearted, signaling his acceptance of the plan.
Red Robin continued on. “Batman, I need you to stake out the docks. We haven’t confirmed if the weapons have arrived yet. Robin, I need you to trail Mike Blair. If the shipment’s already been picked up, he’s my first bet to get the handoff. Follow him wherever he goes. I’ll be investigating some leads about their weapons dealer at Tricorner Yards.”
Batman nodded his agreement.
Robin looked up at him. “You would trust me to operate alone?”
“This is a reconnaissance mission only, Robin. You use your comm the moment you get confirmation and wait for instructions.”
“Right,” said Red Robin. “It’s a stakeout. As soon as one of us sees something, we call it in, and then head back here for our next move.”
Robin looked at them both discerningly. “I get the car.” Despite everything, Robin was still a thirteen-year-old boy.
He left in the Batmobile, buckled in on the passenger’s side. The car, much to Robin’s chagrin, was on autopilot. Both Batman and Red Robin took off on their cycles, Red Robin towards Tricorner and Batman towards the harbor. They both detoured. Red Robin was the first to head off his path and turn towards the Financial District. As Red Robin flew down the city streets, Batman followed unseen, his red bird’s dark shadow.
Bruce knew his son. Tim had already solved the case and merely wanted Batman and Robin out of his way. But the question was ‘for what’? What did Red Robin intend to do away from Batman’s prying eyes? Anticipation, like rich champagne, bubbled up inside him.
At home in the shadows, Batman watched as Red Robin scaled up the Vertex Credit Union’s modest sized office building. He artfully opened the window and dove in, just a brief flutter of his cape visible to the untrained eye. Batman waited patiently. Soon, two figures appeared on the roof: Red Robin and a well kempt young man with blonde hair.
Red Robin’s interrogation techniques had changed drastically over the years. He had never possessed the natural air of intimidation that radiated off of Batman (or the current Robin, on occasion). As Robin, he had attempted to follow in Nightwing’s footsteps, mocking his enemies until he annoyed them to brashness. But he had always been just a little too reserved, a little too self-effacing, to pull it off convincingly. With the Titans, he focused more on overwhelming his opponents with well executed observations. Now there was a coldness to him. A cruelty. Batman could see it in how Red Robin moved. He circled his captive, every inch of him a bird of prey. Each strike of his bo staff was dealt with precision, meant to hurt, not incapacitate.
The man had been doubled over on the ground for a long while before Red Robin withdrew his staff. Methodically, he bound the man’s legs. First with rope, then with the length of his grappling hook. They were clearly conversing, but it was cumbersome to read lips from this distance, and Batman could learn just as much from watching their bodies.
After all, the action of Red Robin dragging the man by his hair to the edge of the roof spoke for itself. Suddenly, he saw a vivid image of Jason in the Robin suit, watching Felipe Garzonas’ body fall to the ground. The look on Red Robin’s face was near identical.
It was not a crime of passion. The man dangled from the edge for over seven minutes. They had ceased arguing with each other for at least two minutes. Then, slowly, deliberately, Red Robin loosened his grip. The man dropped six stories. At the last second, Red Robin jerked the grappling hook tight enough to spare the man death. But, even from Batman’s vantage point, it was clear the man’s injuries were gruesome. Red Robin breathed heavily, as if trying to hold back a scream. Where he had been cold and detached, now he looked frenzied. Batman was not at all convinced the boy’s intent behind his intervention had been mercy.
“Batman,” announced a voice from the comm in Batman’s ear. “Target sighted and hand off confirmed. Rendezvous to the Cave in progress.”
“Acknowledged, Robin.”
Batman faded back into the night. His body thrummed with satisfaction. He had seen everything worth seeing.
Tim was finally ready.
The next day, they raided the Valiant Sons’ armory and captured all but one of its known members. It was a perfectly executed mission. Gordan specifically was thankful to have so many guns off the streets in one swoop. Red Robin did not take it as a victory. Back at the Cave, Tim tore his cowl off and he continued muttering about the case, citing the likelihood that the Valiant Sons’ would receive very little prison time, and the prison time they did receive would just radicalize them more. Damian called him a whiner, in not so many words, and went to bed.
Bruce hung up his cowl and gauntlets. Then, he directed Tim’s attention to the Cave’s monitors. James Spenser, the man Red Robin had nearly murdered yesterday, smiled down at them.
“I had the computer run some facial recognition data on the missing members. Turns out a Mr. James Spenser fell from his office in the middle of the night yesterday. Survived. But his wounds are severe. Doctors aren’t sure when or if he’ll regain consciousness.”
Bruce waited for Tim’s reaction. He expected some fumbling at least, maybe even a broken grief-stricken confession followed by a plea for forgiveness. Or perhaps he would hide behind his pride, as Jason had, and defend his actions. But Tim merely blinked up at the picture curiously.
“A dissenter, maybe?” said Tim. “The timing is suspicious.”
What an excellent little liar he had raised. It was hard to smother down his glee, but Bruce did, and leveled Tim a scrutinizing look. The boy didn’t budge.
After that, Bruce’s work felt playful again. The weeks went by quickly. He started to make in-roads on his plans for Gotham, leaving Tim a trail of meticulously crafted clues, much like the logic puzzles he used to arrange for Robin training. Tim had consistently excelled at them. He was always at his most joyous after solving a mystery. Bruce knew, in time, Tim would deduce the entire scope of Bruce’s manipulations, not just the small puzzle he was using to ensnare the boy now. But he trusted his son’s ability to see the bigger picture, to appreciate the beauty of the game. They had always been similar, in that regard.
Tim, the clever boy, confronted Bruce even sooner than he had anticipated. It barely took two months. Bruce had been sitting alone at the Cave’s console. His company was only the chittering of the bats. Now that the major disputes in Blüdhaven had been settled, Damian had resumed his weekend visitations with Dick. Alfred had long since retired to his quarters for the night. Bruce enjoyed his solitude and updated his files on The Court of Owls. Things were progressing very smoothly on that end.
In the distance, he heard Tim’s light footsteps coming down the stairs.
“Just you, tonight?” Tim asked, a forced levity apparent in his voice. “Alfred didn’t greet me at the door. And since I’ve been back home for at least a half hour and there have been zero attempts at my life, I take it Damian isn’t here, either?”
Tim already knew the answer. “With Dick,” said Bruce, not bothering to look up.
Behind him, Tim took in a long inhale, then sighed. “Bruce, I need to talk to you.”
Bruce, slowly, turned his chair to face his son. He could have played coy, drawn out the confrontation a little longer, but it was clear in Tim’s voice that he had solved the puzzle.
For now, there was no joy on the boy’s face. Tim’s dark hair lay limp and unwashed. His cheekbones were hollowed out and the skin beneath his eyes, always a bit dark, was now a deep purple. He looked like a corpse. A distorted facsimile of the young man he had been, just months ago. The beginnings of a new person entirely.
Bruce nodded, encouraging the boy to go on.
Tim fumbled with drawstrings of his black sweater. Bruce was unaccustomed to seeing him in casual clothes recently. Tim rarely lounged around the manor; he was always in work mode, wearing one form of suit or another. In dark wash jeans and tennis shoes, he, for once, looked every one of his seventeen years.
“I know you’ve been looking into The Court of Owls,” said Tim.
Bruce arched a brow. A weak first move. “Yes?” he said. “We have two confirmed assassinations on our hands. It’s Batman’s job to investigate.”
“But you’re not just investigating, are you?” said Tim, in a rush of bravery that left him as quickly as it came. “I mean - the murders. They don’t make sense. Theo Galavan and Julia Wycliffe were both old money with close ties to the Court. I’ve poured over everything about those two and I can’t find a single thing they did to warrant a death sentence. The Court isn’t acting like itself.”
“No,” agreed Bruce. “If you have a hypothesis, I’d like to hear it.”
Tim cringed. His fingers left his sweater and started to pull at the skin of his wrist. He noticed what he was doing almost immediately and took another deep breath to steady himself, forcing his hands into fists.
“If The Court is behaving erratically, then it would make sense that some part of their status quo has changed. Either internally or externally. All evidence points to the Galavans having served on the court for generations. My guess is that we are in the middle of some coup and Galavan and Wycliffe had to be taken out. But that doesn’t fit either. If a coup had taken place, the new powers would have just killed the old guard and been done with it. But we keep running into assassination plots, far outside The Court’s normal hit list.”
Tim’s had not returned to fidgeting, but his eyes had glazed over even more. He eventually closed them. The boy was prone to using deduction as a form of disassociation. He would recite facts and observations to escape from his own inner turmoil. It allowed him a clear-headedness that none of his other sons possessed. Dick said it came at a terrible cost, but Bruce only saw its benefits.
“So, I thought it must be more like a civil war. But, if that was true, then the first thing both sides would be after is control of the Talons. Red Hood and I interrogated a Talon. He knew nothing about any schism. Whatever is happening, it’s not system wide. It’s just affecting upper management.”
Bruce had been aware of the Talon the boys had encountered. The plan had been for a brief encounter, not a capture. An unfortunate incident, and the Talon had been severely reprimanded, but nothing to worry too much over. The Talon had eventually escaped before the boys got too far along. Just another crumb for Tim.
Tim continued. “But if this was as simple as in-Court violence over leadership, why the new hit list? If it was a civil war, the Talon would have known about it. Then, I figured it out. Just because this isn’t a coup from inside the ranks, doesn’t mean it’s not a hostile takeover.”
Tim looked tattered. He opened his eyes and they were bloodshot.
“Bruce, I know it’s you.”
Bruce allowed Tim his moment, allowed the accusation to echo off the cave walls. Then, very slowly, Bruce drew his hands to his chin.
“What do you know, Tim?” said Bruce, the very picture of a patient father.
“Don’t,” snapped Tim, with an unexpected amount of fire. His body seemed to awaken from a slumber and his hands lashed out. “Don’t. Please. Don’t treat me like I’m stupid.”
“No one has more faith in your intelligence than me.” Bruce truly meant those words and said them earnestly.
Tim scoffed. A harsh ugly sound. “You shouldn’t. I still can’t figure out why you are trying to take over The Court of Owls.”
Bruce was well passed ‘trying’. “Tim, tell me,” he said, keeping his voice smooth. Enticing, not demanding. More Bruce than Batman. “What is it you’re after? What do you want?”
Tim looked incredulous. Truly, utterly, baffled. “What sort of question is that?”
Bruce inclined his head. The only one that matters, he thought, but did not voice it.
“Perhaps it’s my turn to share some theories,” said Bruce, as he clicked on the computer, without breaking his gaze on Tim. Behind him, James Spenser’s smiling face appeared on the screen. Bruce couldn’t see the picture of course, but he could see the shock reflected in Tim’s eyes.
Bruce rose from his chair. He stood at his full height, posture impeccable but relaxed. He did not approach Tim. The boy drew back anyway.
“I think you want the wicked to be punished,” said Bruce. “Tim. You wanted this man to suffer.”
Tim swallowed. “I-I made a mistake. I let my anger get the best of me. I know that. But I didn’t break our rule.” Bruce noted, with delight, that Tim made no mention of having regrets.
A trace of that delight gleamed in Bruce’s eyes. “This isn’t an admonishment, Tim. What you did was just. This is the work we should be doing.”
“What?” Tim’s voice reached a new octave of confusion.
“James Spenser was the orchestrator. He was the one that pushed his friends’ angry ramblings into bloodshed. He’ll never hurt anyone again now. Because of you.”
“That’s. That’s.” Tim stuttered, a tonearm in search for the grove of a record and failing. “That’s the exact opposite of what you taught me, Bruce. That’s not what Batman is.”
“Batman is...” Bruce deliberated on the right words, “limited. Gotham needs a knight, but a knight only has so many moves. The Court’s resources, meanwhile, are extraordinary.” Bruce couldn’t hide the greed in his honeyed tone any longer. “With that power, just consider what new possibilities we would have. What possibilities Gotham would have.”
Finally, the true scope of Bruce’s plans dawned on Tim. Confusion turned into a wide-eyed horror then a deep, quivering fear. Then, for just a moment, Bruce saw something that had been lost to Tim for quite some time now. Hope. It quickly faded into disgust and Tim shook his head violently. He swallowed loudly and all emotion drained from his face. He stared at Bruce unblinkingly for a long time. When he spoke, his voice was cracked and hoarse.
“Dick won’t agree to this.” An obvious deflection. Bruce had to bite down a smirk. It was clear that Tim had no rebuttals of his own to offer. In his guilt, the boy was trying to hide behind his first idol. His big brother. Bruce felt the victory tingle on his skin. He held back. In spite of Tim’s transparent and weak protest, this was still a conversation with having.
“Not right away,” replied Bruce.
“How long will you wait for him?” Tim tried his best to maintain an even voice, but Bruce heard the anxiety there, the fear for Dick’s safety. Old wounds aside, Tim did truly love his brother. It was sweet to receive confirmation of that. Bruce’s family should enjoy each other as he enjoyed them.
“However long it takes.” And that was the truth. Nothing would tear Bruce from his family ever again.
“What if I say no?” There was a frenzy creeping up in Tim’s voice. His fists were rapidly clenching and unclenching, as if he were trying to hold on to something, only to find nothing there. “What if I tell you this is wrong and we shouldn’t do it?”
Bruce looked down at him, entirely unmovable. “Will you say no?”
Tim recoiled, face flinching as if slapped. His long hair fell over his eyes on both sides, two dark curtains. He screwed his eyes tightly shut. His head was bowed so low it looked almost broken.
Bruce moved away from the console. He approached Tim with a caution born out of pity, not fear. He carefully brushed the left lock of hair out of the boy’s face and cupped his chin with his right hand, slowly raising the boy’s head to meet Bruce’s eyes.
“Tim,” he said, not unkindly. “When something doesn’t work, what do we do?”
“Reapproach. Adapt,” Tim recited. His eyes were still squeezed shut.
“Correct. Then answer me honestly. The way we’ve been operating, has it been effective? Has Gotham improved?”
Tim’s face crumbled. “No.” He looked well and truly shattered now. But Bruce was not deterred. This was good for Tim. Now he could be remade solely in Bruce’s image, freed from Dick’s sentimentality. More conniving. More ruthless.
Bruce pulled his son into his arms. “Robin,” he said. “We will do it together.”
Tim collapsed into the embrace. Affection for the boy surged through Bruce. Tim had never been the partner he wanted, but always the one he needed. His boy made several croaked sounds, trying so bravely to regulate his breathing and hide his sobbing. He gripped his son tighter.
Tim clung to him, as if Bruce alone could deliver him.