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Chapter Text

Dick was sure that, under any other circumstance, he would have considered Commissioner Gordon to be a perfectly kind and caring man. It was hard for him to dislike people. His parents had taught him to be kind and caring to everyone he met. 

Except his parents were already buried six feet under in a cemetery already filled with so many dead bodies that their headstones scraped against other, nameless people’s. They could not tell him to be nicer to Commissioner Gordon, because they had died a month ago, and dead people’s words have no meaning. 

That’s what the boys in juvie said, at least. 

But now he was in a police car with Commissioner Gordon, head propped up against the window, watching the dreary Gotham scenery make way to well-maintained, plush forestry. The old man attempted to make conversation with Dick, talking about his daughter being friends with the third oldest son of his new guardian, but Dick simply ignored him.

Eventually, Commissioner Gordon gave up, sensing his dour mood. He turned and started to drive up a road so nice that Dick wasn’t sure it could even be considered part of Gotham. 

After a few minutes, the car came to a stop at an intimidating set of wrought iron gates with the initials “WM” engraved at the center. 

“Well,” Commissioner Gordon said, parking the car. “This is where I’ll leave you, kiddo.”

Dick didn’t reply. 

“Alfred should be out any second to walk you inside,” he continued, stepping out of the car. “He’s Mr. Wayne’s butler. And, yours too, now.” He opened the back door to let Dick out. 

“Correct, Commissioner Gordon,” a posh, British voice said. Dick turned and met the eyes of an old man dressed in a well-fitted suit. This was Alfred, then. “Thank you for driving him. Master Richard, would you like to follow me inside?” He held a gloved hand out to Dick, who simply stared at it. 

“Not much of a talker,” Commissioner Gordon said. “Like Miss Cain.”

“I see,” Alfred said, dropping his hand. Instead, he simply smiled down at Dick, tilting his body towards the manor. He took one step, then peaked back at Dick.

Knowing there was truly nowhere else for him to go, Dick followed.

They walked through a perfectly groomed garden, complete with bushes cut into animals or other complex designs (such as Batman or Wonder Woman), then arrived at the front doors of Wayne Manor, which was just as grand as Dick expected. They were a beautiful dark oak wood with gold embellishments (probably real, judging by the rest of the place). Dick, who had an acrobat’s build, had to fully tilt his head backwards to barely see the top of the manor itself. 

Alfred led him inside, revealing an empty foyer area full of multiple very expensive-looking statues and artwork, with a crystal chandelier dangling in the middle, tantalizingly. 

“If you wouldn’t mind, Master Richard, Wayne Manor is a shoes-off household.” Alfred gestured to an extremely large shoe rack that was completely empty. 

Dick leaned down and shucked off the ratty shoes they gave to him in juvie, setting them down onto the shoe rack. Next to the grandeur of Wayne Manor, he was sure he must’ve looked just as out-of-place as his shoes. They hadn’t even let him shower before heading to the home of a man Dick couldn’t recall meeting.

“This is the foyer,” Alfred said, walking inward. Dick trailed behind, trying to ignore the feeling of his big toe poking through his sock. “Through that door is the kitchen, which I would advise you to only enter under my supervision, and the dining room. Past that is the living room, the family room, and then the library. Behind those is the ballroom. There are also various offices, which again, I would advise that you ask each person’s permission before entering.” 

Alfred led them up a staircase, slowing his gait to allow for Dick to climb up. “The second floor is the bedrooms, as well as the second floor of the library. Additionally, there are a few lounges.” He stopped at a door halfway through the East Wing, which had a small nameplate already on it reading “Richard.”

“Here is your bedroom, Master Richard,” Alfred said, opening the door. Inside was a room five times the size of his family’s tent back at Haley’s. Alfred gestured for him to move inside, then pointed at a door. “That’s the attached bathroom, which has both a shower and a bathtub. This,” he bent down and pointed at a small red button at the bottom of the bedside table, “is the panic button, should you, goodness forbid, find yourself in any trouble.” 

Alfred straightened back up, smiling down at Dick, who was still standing awkwardly at the center of the room. Sensing that the man was looking for some kind of response, he nodded brusquely. “I’m sure it has been a long few weeks for you, Master Richard. I shall leave you to it. Dinner will be in an hour or so. I’ll come up and escort you to the dining room.”

As he went to leave, Dick opened his mouth for the first time since sitting down in Commissioner Gordon’s car. “Where’s Mr. Wayne, Mr. Pennyworth?” he asked, voice raspy from the lack of use. 

Alfred paused, face carefully blank. “I am afraid Master Bruce got caught up at work,” he said. “However, I do believe Master Timothy and Master Duke shall be home just in time to welcome you. Master Bruce should be back by morning to properly meet you. And you may call me Alfred, Master Richard.”

But when Alfred leads him to the dining room just an hour later, Dick finds the long table set for one. He wants to ask Alfred to sit with him, but his throat closes up before he can. Dinner is eaten in silence, save for the clinking sounds of Dick’s utensils. 

It is the same the next day.

And the next.

On his fourth day at the Manor, while sitting at the empty dining table for breakfast, Dick finally met Timothy Drake-Wayne, the third oldest. The one that was friends with Commissioner Gordon’s daughter, Dick noted. 

He came in looking like he just got off of multiple all-nighters, with messy hair and eye bags the color of his dark navy suit. He headed straight to the coffee machine in the corner, pouring himself a cup and sipping from it before Alfred let out a loud cough.

“Master Timothy,” Alfred said, voice laced with disapproval. “I trust that you shall properly introduce yourself to your new brother, as you said you would four days ago?”

“Oh,” the other boy said, eyes roaming to where Dick was sitting, eyes wide. “Huh.” Alfred raised a single eyebrow. “Richard, right? I’m Tim—” He cut off, staring at the mug of tea sitting next to Dick. “That’s Jason’s.”

Jason Todd. The dead one.

“Master Timothy—”

“Are there no other mugs, Alfred? You had to… ” Timothy took a deep breath, not looking at Dick. “Whatever.”

“Will you be staying for breakfast?”

“No,” he said, already moving out the door. “I’ve still got to catch up on some work. I won’t be home for lunch or dinner, either.” And without a glance back, he left. 

“I apologize for him, Master Richard,” Alfred said. “For all of them, I suppose. These last few months… It has been hard on the family.”

Dick, who could hear the sheer betrayal in Timothy’s voice, simply nodded. He didn’t take another sip of his tea after that, and requested that he drink only water at meals from then on.

He met Damian Al Ghul-Wayne, the oldest and only biological child, and Duke Thomas-Wayne, the second oldest, that night. 

“Grayson,” Damian said, sitting down across from him. He inclined his head in greeting.

“Richard, right?” Duke said, giving the first non-Alfred smile Dick’s gotten since arriving at the Manor. “I’m Duke, it’s nice to meet you. Don’t take Damian’s last name thing personally, he refers to everyone by their last names.”

Dick hummed, staring down at his plate of Quwarmah Al Dajaj, rice, and salad. It was the first non-European dish he had been served so far, and he could tell that his nearly nonexistent appetite was finally being tempted.  

“How are you liking the Manor so far?” Duke asked, spooning some chicken and salad on pita bread. “I know it can get pretty lonely here by yourself, though I’m sure Damian could say more about that.” Duke looked at said man, who stayed silent. Duke coughed.

“It’s fine,” Dick said quietly. “Mr. Pennyworth’s here, so.”

“The glue holding us all together,” Duke joked. 

“Not Mr. Wayne?” Dick asked, and immediately regretted it. Both Damian and Duke stilled, sharing a look with each other. In the corner, Dick heard Alfred suck in a breath.

“Father has been rather busy these last few days,” Damian said, dabbing at the corner of his mouth. He ate like a prince, Dick noted, all perfect manors and no noise when the knife and fork slid through perfectly cooked tofu. “Although, he said he would be back for dinner tomorrow to officially meet you.”

“Wait, he hasn’t… ” Duke trailed off, biting his lip. “Well, it has been a rough week. Months.” It was the same sentiment Alfred had shared the day before. “Anyway, Richard, have you found a favorite spot in the Manor yet? I really like the balcony in the West Wing, third floor.”

Dinner went by quickly after that, with Duke leading most of the conversation and Damian and Dick occasionally replying. He seemed used to it, though, and waved kindly to Dick when he and Damian headed back to their apartment in downtown Gotham. 

The next night and most of the next day was filled with worry over finally meeting the elusive man that had deigned to take him in. After that first lonely dinner, Dick almost expected him to flake again, but when Dick sat down for dinner that night, he finally arrived, one minute after dinner was set to start.

“Apologies, Alfred,” he said. “I got caught up.”

The first thing Dick noticed was that his voice was a lot deeper than he thought it would be, raspy in ways that implied it was scarcely used. The next was that he was a lot bulkier than photos implied; Dick knew a well-trained body when he saw one. The third was that he was favoring his right side, just barely.

“Welcome home, Master Bruce,” Alfred said, pulling out the chair at the head of the table. “Although I believe that apology belongs to Master Richard, not me.” 

Mr. Wayne sat down, eyes finally finding Dick’s. “My apologies, Richard.”

“Are you hurt?” Dick asked. “You’re limping.” Mr. Wayne paused, mouth parted slightly.

“Just a small sprain from walking wrong,” he said. “You’re rather observant, Richard.”

Dick just nodded. He had been doing a lot of that lately.

“Tonight is a roast chicken with rosemary potatoes, sauteed carrots, kale salad, and apple pie a la mode for dessert,” Alfred said, setting down the plates in front of them. Dick waited for Mr. Wayne to take a bite of food before digging in himself.

They ate in silence for a bit. Mr. Wayne’s table manners, while not quite the same princelike grace as Damian’s, were just as posh. Dick could feel how tense his hands were, trying to keep his knife from clinking against the expensive porcelain. “It’s been a few days since you moved in, correct? How are you feeling?” 

“It’s been fine,” Dick said, eyes trained on his chicken. Mr. Wayne’s eyes seemed to bore into him, and Dick was certain that if he looked up, he would be met with a judgemental stare. “Mr. Pennyworth has been very kind.”

“That’s good,” he said. Dick was quickly coming to the end of his plate. Would they eat dessert together, as well? “You’ve met Tim, Damian, and Duke?”

“Yes, Sir,” Dick answered. 

“I hope they were kind. I know Damian and Tim can be a little… ” Mr. Wayne sighed. “Have you given any thought on what you want to do?”

“Sorry?” Dick asked, taken aback by the topic change. 

“Summer technically ends next week,” Mr. Wayne said. “I was thinking… Right now, the Manor is rather empty. It’s rare for anyone other than Alfred or myself to be home, and I have found myself busier than ever as of late. As such, I think a boarding school would be best, so that you won’t be alone in the Manor.”

Dick was glad that he had set down his utensils, or else they would have clattered against the table. “A boarding school?”

“It’s a very well-regarded one. I know many people who attended and had nothing but good things to say about it.”

Just a moment ago, the food in Dick’s stomach had been the best thing about the conversation. Now, he was scared he was about to vomit it up all over the nice tablecloth. 

“I’ve already sent in all the forms,” he continued, setting his napkin on the table. He stood up, clearly heading out. “I’ll have Alfred help you pack up. Their new student orientation is in two days, so you’ll be flying out tomorrow night.” And, just like Tim, Mr. Wayne left without a glance back at him. 

After a moment, Alfred took away Dick’s empty plate, replacing it with a bowl full of still-steaming apple pie and vanilla ice cream. The portion was quite a bit bigger than any of the other desserts Alfred had served him.

“Excuse me a moment, Master Richard,” he said, glancing at where Mr. Wayne had exited. “I need to speak with Master Bruce.”

He left. Dick took a few large bites of his dessert, waited a minute, then followed.

While the Manor was certainly larger than any house Dick had been in before, five days of being stuck in it had let him quickly memorize which room was which. Dick crept toward the room he knew was Mr. Wayne’s office, which had the muffled sounds of an argument well in-progress.

“But a boarding school, Master Bruce?” 

“It’s safer than Gotham,” he says. Dick can almost imagine his stoic, unkind face as he says it.

“It is halfway across the globe.”

“It’s an international school, so they speak English in the classes.”

“That is not the point, Master Bruce. You took Master Richard in to give him a home, just like you took all of your other children in.”

“I took him in to protect him.” 

“And you shall do that halfway across the globe?”

“He is safer there than here, Alfred. I will not allow him to stay here, where it’s still so unsafe, not after… ” 

“You are still his guardian, Master Bruce. You have a responsibility to him.”

“They were all against me taking him in. And tonight, he noticed the limp… I can’t let him stay, Alfred.”

Alfred must have said something in response, but Dick had heard enough. As quietly as he could, he slipped away, walking as though he was on a tightrope: carefully, delicately, with as little noise as possible. 

Evidently, whatever argument Alfred had made in his stead was ineffective in the face of Bruce Wayne’s… everything, as the very next morning Dick was once again packing up his small set of belongings (mostly stuff that Alfred had bought for him) and was set to fly off to Beijing, China that night. 

Dick hadn’t even lasted a whole week.

-

Boarding school was everything Dick hated. The days were long, filled with back-to-back classes then followed up with mandatory extracurriculars. By the time Dick had any time to himself, it was already dark out, and he was stuck inside his tiny dorm room.

Despite the fact that Wayne Manor was so, so empty, and Alfred was busy enough with his own duties that he could only spare a few hours with him at a time, and that the Wayne family didn’t even want him around, Dick still found himself missing it. His teachers were unsympathetic to his troubles with reading English, simply assigning him more work when it was clear he wasn’t understanding the material. He was placed in a dorm room with three other boys who seemed intent on ignoring his presence. Everyone around him was either too caught up in their own lives to care about the weird new kid or too impatient to help him acclimate.

As such, it was only two weeks into the new school that he was given his first detention. He had been restless in class, unused to the long period of inactivity, and was told off multiple times for “making too much noise.” His English teacher threatened to call his guardian, which momentarily solved the problem, but Dick couldn’t help himself. He felt like his insides were going to explode if he didn’t move.

The principal’s office wasn’t all that different from the other rooms at school. However, Dick would quickly become well-acquainted with its insides, as it seemed that, for as much as Dick hated boarding school, boarding school hated him even more. 

What’s worse was that every call back to his guardian was answered by Alfred, who never got angry at Dick. He would simply sigh and apologize for his behavior, as though it was his fault instead of Mr. Wayne’s that Dick was halfway across the globe and causing trouble. At first, his disappointment was enough of a deterrent to get Dick to force his way through classes and boring extracurriculars for a day or two, but after the third or fourth unanswered call, the boarding school realized that calling home would do him no good.

And so, Dick was acquisitioned to help clean up the classrooms after school, cutting into his “free time.” At least his Mandarin was improving, as the cleaning staff only spoke minimal English.

Truthfully, he couldn’t have cared less, if not for the fact that his new duties quickly reached the ears of his classmates. After the news dropped, it seemed like it was the goal of the whole school to make as much of a mess as possible. Even during class, when Dick wasn’t assigned to clean, people would leave behind their trash or spill their drinks and then ask him to clean it up. 

Once winter break rolled around, Dick was ready for the comfort of having his own room again. The boys in his dorm had begun to threaten Dick if he didn’t clean their room by himself, so he was ready to be in the solace of a place that, if not friendly, was at least not openly harmful.

Except, just a few days before break, Mr. Wayne called him for the first time in months. 

“I’m sorry, Richard,” he said, voice pitched low. If he wasn’t a celebrity, Dick wasn’t sure he would even remember what his face looked like. “This is our first Christmas without… I mean, I don’t think the Manor would be a very exciting place to be. I already discussed with Principal Chang about having you stay over the break, as an exception. You could also invite some friends to stay with you as well.”

His words, while delivered softly, left no room for disagreement, and neither did they imply that Mr. Wayne had heard anything about his disciplinary troubles. 

Dick went to nod, before realizing it was a phone call. “Sure,” he said, feeling the sympathetic eyes of the principal’s receptionist on him. Her name was Mrs. Zhou, and she was perhaps the only person at the school who didn’t outright ignore or hate him. 

“I knew you’d understand,” Mr. Wayne said, and Dick felt a twinge of hatred swell in him. “I’ll have Alfred ship your presents to the dorm, of course, but I think that, unfortunately, Christmas Day will be a bit… ”

“What about New Year’s?” Dick asked, feeling much smaller than his four feet, nine and a half inches. “Can I… ”

“We’ll be a bit busy with the New Year’s Gala,” Mr. Wayne said. “But I’ll see what we can do.”

Who’s we, Dick wondered. The other four of your kids who didn’t want me around? Or you and Alfred? 

“Alright,” Dick said. “Bye.”

“Goodbye, Richard,” Mr. Wayne said, then hung up.

At least during the break he was able to finally escape his cleaning duties and his peer’s harassment. Principal Change seemed to have grown a heart after talking with Mr. Wayne, and even helped Dick make up an excuse about why he was staying later as everyone else left campus. Mr. Wayne sent him an even more sizable allowance (there were more zeros than Dick knew what to do with) for the break, but all Dick did was sit in his dorm and eat shitty convenience store food.

Christmas Day, Mrs. Zhou surprised him with a cake and a takeout container full of homemade food. She had to get home to her own family, but wished him a Merry Christmas. Alfred’s own text came a few minutes afterwards.

He ended up calling Alfred for half an hour on New Year’s Day, between the butler’s preparations for the big Wayne Gala. A few times Dick would catch glimpses or sounds of other people, but nobody else showed up for the call.

The rest of the school year went similarly to the first half. Spring break was spent roaming the streets of Beijing, buying whatever caught his eye. He ended up spending tens of thousands of yuan, but no text came from Mr. Wayne or Alfred to limit his spending.

By the time the school year was wrapping up, Dick was half expecting Mr. Wayne found a way to keep him at the school for the summer, but no call came. He sped through his exams, wanting out of school as quickly as possible. 

But, just three days before break, Jeremy Truden (the kid who found out about his cleaning punishments and subsequently leaked it to the school) made a comment about his parents. It must have been innocuous, just a passing observation of his lack of them, but Dick, having been through nine straight months of bullying, snapped.

At least he got out of school early. 

His next stint at Wayne Manor lasted a whole two weeks, this time. Once again, Alfred was the main person he saw, and the old butler seemed content with ignoring the fact that he got at least three calls a week regarding Dick’s behavior. 

But on his eighth day back, he did get to meet Cassandra Cain, the last of Mr. Wayne’s children. She was back from her own break, and took one look at him before immediately exiting. 

Somehow, it was better than Tim’s introduction.

His next school, this time in Cyprus, turned out to be year-round. There were four breaks spread out through the year, each two weeks long, but no extended leave. 

This time, it took a month for him to reach full delinquent status. But not even the cool delinquent status. No, he was the bullyable, not smart rough to even sit through one fifty minute class, type of delinquent. 

He lasted for about six months before Dick was riding back to Gotham, bags packed. He spent two tense days at home with an injured Mr. Wayne (“Worksite accident,” he said, “For our new building.”), a cautious Cass (who only stared at him, then proceeded to avoid him every chance she got), and a disappointed Alfred.

Then it was Japan, which quickly devolved into more… physical forms of bullying. Tacks in his shoes, throwing out his stuff, taking only his desk out of the classroom… 

It took him only three months to crack again. 

After that it was Brazil (five months), Lagos (four months), Latvia (two months), Saudi Arabia (three months)… 

No matter where he went, there seemed to be an endless stream of uncaring adults and hateful children. 

It was just a few hours after landing back in Gotham, bag still unpacked, and halfway through an awkward dessert with Damian, Tim, and Mr. Wayne, that his guardian drops the news. 

“This one may be your last chance,” Mr. Wayne said. “There’s only so many strings I can pull.”

Then don’t pull them, Dick thought. Let me go back to Haley’s. Let me reunite with my family.

Let me fly again.

“He means don’t fuck it up,” Tim said, arms crossed. 

“Language, Master Timothy.”

“Just… try, okay?” Mr. Wayne said, rubbing his index and thumb over the bridge of his nose. It had only been three years since Dick had arrived, yet his wrinkles were far more pronounced than they were before, and small strands of grey were peaking through his once thick black mane.

“Okay,” Dick said. “I’ll try.”

And try he did. Two months in, his teacher’s first report back to Mr. Wayne was that Dick Grayson was “a model student: quiet, studious, and attentive, but could stand to be a bit more outgoing with other students. A bit of a loner, and is behind on a few classes, so remedial lessons may be required.”

Three months after his remedial lessons start, Dick Grayson packs a bag (two sets of clothes, toiletries, flashlight, and a wad of cash), and disappears. 

A month later, an investigation from local authorities comes up blank. A rebellious rich delinquent running away, they state. Unfortunate, but explainable. 

A secondary, much less local investigation finds only a short ten second clip of Richard Grayson being taken off the street by Deathstroke the Terminator. No other information is found. 

In Gotham, the press finds out about Richard Grayson’s disappearance. Bruce Wayne refuses to comment. A small stuffed elephant named Zitka sits on an empty bed in Wayne Manor, awaiting its owner.

One week later, Batman runs into a new crime lord calling himself Red Hood. 

Chapter Text

Slade Wilson reminded Dick of Mr. Wayne. Although, perhaps it should be Mr. Wayne who reminded Dick of Slade Wilson, as within a single week of being in Slade’s—guardianship? Company? Acquaintance? Dick never did pay much attention during English class—he had already spent more time with him than he ever had with Mr. Wayne. 

Regardless, Slade was brusque and to the point. His words were said with the same type of conviction that Mr. Wayne’s were, although the expectation that Dick would follow said words were more outright stated than Mr. Wayne’s fake offers of alternative options. 

He also had less of a tendency to give false platitudes like Mr. Wayne, but he still had at least some awareness of Dick’s younger age. Maybe it was the fact that their first meeting occurred when Slade killed a man directly on top of him and caused Dick to fall into an intense panic attack? 

Or the fact that it happened the very next day. And then three days after that. 

Or that Dick was the only person Deathstroke had seen in the last six months, as a manhunt to arrest him from the Justice League itself had kept him out of the public eye. 

Who knows, really. 

“You’re twenty seconds faster than last week,” Slade said. Dick shut down the urge to flinch, but the mercenary’s smirk implied he knew that Dick wanted to.

“Thanks,” he said, setting the rifle back into its case. 

“I’ve got a job,” Slade said.

“Justice League no longer on your ass?”

“They’ve got a bigger problem right now,” Slade said.  “None of your business. Pack enough for a week. No more, no less.”

“Yes, Sir,” Dick said, ignoring the glare he got for his lip.

“Don’t fuck it up,” he replied, reminiscent of the last words Tim said to him before Dick ran away.

“I won’t,” he promised. 

And he didn’t. Their client, a stereotypical mob boss-looking man, seemed hesitant to allow Deathstroke’s new companion to tag along, but having a short, gangly sixteen-year-old on the job made reconnaissance and infiltration a lot quicker. 

He got nicked by a stray shot from some no-name goon and was forced through even more training afterward. Slade went on two jobs before bringing Dick along for the second time, this time with a matching outfit to his own.

“Seriously?” he asked, lifting the garish orange-and-black outfit in front of him. 

“Just put it on, kid,” Slade said. “You’ve got five minutes before we head out.”

Dick scoffed as he left, before staring down at the outfit in his hands.

The material was far different, far thicker and heavier than any leotard could afford to be. There was padding and plate armor to vital areas, and despite how it looked, it was no less than twenty-five separate pieces. 

Despite the fact that it was clearly made for fighting, Dick couldn’t see it as anything other than a glorified costume. 

It had been… five years, since he had put on a costume. Not since that night. Except this time, he would be the one doing the killing. Not Tony Zucco.

At least the colors were different.

“What’s the job?” Dick asked, sliding into the passenger seat of Slade’s questionably obtained SUV. 

“Jump City,” Slade said, pulling out of the driveway. “I owe a small favor.”

Landing in San Francisco just a year after he accepted Slade’s offer was… strange. The streets were the same, the air the same, even his old boarding school was the same. Dick made sure to keep a mask on at all times (either his Renegade mask or a medical one) whenever he was out in public, but he would be especially careful in the location where he originally disappeared.

“It seems that the Junior Justice League is causing a few problems for our client,” Slade said. “We’re here to keep them out of their hair.”

“Babysitting duty?” Dick wrinkled his nose. 

“I said I owed a small favor, didn’t I? Besides, I have a personal interest in their little team.” Dick side-eyed his mentor. 

“How long?”

“Just a couple of days,” Slade said. “Enough time for them to finish up.” Even though he wanted to know, Dick knew better than to ask how “they” were.

“By Junior Justice League, you mean the Teen Titans.” Slade nodded. 

“Their roster has certainly updated over the years, but their incompetence and dependence on the Justice League remains.”

“Right,” 

“I suppose it’ll be good practice for you. You haven’t encountered a speedster yet, have you?” Dick shook his head. “Here’s the trick: they may run fast, but they usually punch before they think.”

And so, Dick was stuck playing lookout for their nameless client while Slade patrolled the area. His fingers itched to scroll on his phone, but Dick wasn’t about to get his ass beaten by Slade for slacking on the job just for some distraction. 

Two hours in, he was bored.

Three hours in, he was ready to go home. Slade wasn’t answering any questions about what he was supposed to be doing, only telling him to stay put.

Six hours in, he had decided that he should at least be allowed to pace his lookout area. Of course, it was just as he resolved himself to move that a strange flicker appeared in the corner of his eyes.

Invisibility. 

Dick pretended as though he hadn’t seen anything, leaning back in his chair. As the flicker started to move towards the “goods,” which Slade was presumably guarding, he grabbed his gun and held it up.

“Don’t move,” he said, mask scrambling his voice. He felt a slight breeze—

Dick jumped back, pushing a leg out. A red and orange blur tripped over his foot, presumably in an attempt to disarm him. Moving fast, Dick brought the but of his gun against the speedster’s neck, then unclasped a set of handcuffs over his wrists. 

From what Slade’s file had said, Kid Flash hadn’t yet figured out how to speed through solid objects.

Dick pushed his gun against Kid Flash’s temple. “Show yourselves,” he said. “All of you.” 

After a moment, the invisibility dropped, revealing a mix of sidekicks and full heroes: Raven, Miss Martian, Spoiler, Cardinal, Superboy, and Zatanna. 

“A full roster,” Dick said, but internally he was panicking. This was supposed to be a job against the sidekicks, not full-on League members like Spoiler or Cardinal. 

Not to mention the fact that Gotham capes were all the more dangerous. 

“We don’t want to fight,” Miss Martian said, holding her hands up. She was the one responsible for the invisibility, then. “We just—”

A small batarang sliced clean through Dick’s gun. Kid Flash took the opportunity to kick at Dick, who dodged, but not before being tripped by a wire from Spoiler. “Slade!” he yelled, rolling over to avoid a punch from Superboy. “A little help here?”

No answer. Dick unsheathes his short swords, blocking a batarang to the face from Cardinal. “Slade!”

“I’m afraid I’m quite busy myself,” he finally answers. “It seems Cardinal and Spoiler aren’t the only bats here tonight.”

Was Batman there? This job was certainly turning out to be worth quite a bit more than “a small favor.” 

“Azarath Metrion—” Dick slammed his foot against Raven’s torso, cutting off her incantation. He blinked, and suddenly he was tied up in rope, with a smug-looking Kid Flash in front of him. 

“You know, putting someone in cuffs isn’t what I’d call a greeting,” he quipped, hands on his hips. 

“You’ve never met my mentor,” Dick said. He heard a disappointed sigh from Slade on the other end of their comm, so he must not be as overwhelmed as him. “Though, I guess the Junior Justice League doesn’t get to deal with the big leagues all that much, huh?”

“Junior—” Kid Flash scoffed. “We’re the Teen Titans!”

“Oh, sorry,” he said. “The Kiddie League.”

“You—”

“Kid Flash,” Cardinal said, voice similarly scrambled, although much less so than Dick’s. Kid Flash stopped his comment, glaring down at Dick before turning to his team. “Miss Martian and Superboy, watch Renegade. We’ll join Hood inside.”

And the other left, leaving Dick with Kid Flash, Miss Martian, and Superboy. It was already shown that Dick could outmaneuver Kid Flash but, being so tied up and without the element of surprise, it was unlikely that he could get past him again. Superboy was likely there as a muscle threat, while Miss Martian seemed a little too green (pun intended) to be allowed inside. 

However, Dick noted that all three of them were the ones who seemed less comfortable with fighting. Kid Flash could’ve knocked Dick out, but he only tied him up. Superboy (the new one, not the one that Dick grew up with) seemed more inclined to his namesake’s gentle approach. Miss Martian had tried to talk him down instead of using her powers.

He could work with that.

“Come here often?” Dick asked, leaning back as much as the ropes would allow. He could tell that Kid Flash enjoyed banter, and would take full advantage. 

“Oh, yeah, I love hanging around sketchy abandoned buildings,” Kid Flash answered. 

“KF, should you be… ” Miss Martian trailed off, eyes darting between the two of them. 

“What’s he gonna do? I got all of his weapons,” he said. 

“Are you certain?” Superboy asked. “Because—”

“Surely there’s gotta be a code against harassment,” Dick said. The three sidekicks all tilted their heads. “I mean, some of those knives were in pretty salacious spots.”

“Wait—” Kid Flash said, flushing. “I didn’t do anything weird, dude, promise!”

“What the hell are you doing,” Slade whispered. Dick could just barely make out the sound of various explosions and expletives. He’d have to hurry up.

“Is there a crisis hotline for being molested by a cape?” he asked, tilting his head. 

“Renegade, if you feel like Kid Flash touched you wrong… ” Superboy said, eyebrows furrowed. 

“I swear to god I did not—” Kid Flash’s objections were cut off by a wall of ice separating the two of them. Dick quickly took off the ropes holding him as Killer Frost and Rag Doll fell onto the wall, cushioning them.

Immediately, a series of gunshots flew toward Killer Frost, nicking her. Wait, who—

“Take the medallion!” Killer Frost shouted, tossing a rather average-looking golden medallion toward Rag Doll. She screamed as a bullet tore through her now-empty hand.

“Renegade, get the medallion to the transport!” Slade said. Immediately after, he crashed through the wall, pursued by both Spoiler and Cardinal. Raven and Zatanna quickly followed, Mordru pursuing them. 

It seemed their job was quickly devolving into chaos.

Dick hid behind the ice wall, quickly checking over which weapons Kid Flash had missed. Four throwing knives and one brass knuckle. Truthfully, Dick was impressed he managed to find so many of his hidden knives.

He slipped the brass knuckle onto his left hand and then surveyed the room for a way to get the medallion from Rag Doll, who wasn’t known to be the most mentally stable person. His eyes caught on a small ladder leading toward the ceiling.

Perfect.

Dick sprinted toward the ladder, ducking between magic spells, bullets, and fists. He scrambled up the ladder and looped his feet onto the bars hanging above the room. He swung toward where Rag Doll was, waiting for a good moment to drop down, grab the medallion, and run.

As he waited, it was becoming clear that the villains were at a disadvantage. While Slade was taking on four heroes by himself (Cardinal, Spoiler, Miss Martian, and Superboy), Killer Frost, Rag Doll, and Mordru were slowly losing ground. 

Soon enough, things got desperate.

Rag Doll held a dagger directly against Kid Flash’s exposed neck. A thin strip of blood started to trickle down. “Nobody moves, or the sidekick gets it!” he screamed, and the fighting stopped. 

All of the heroes held their hands up. 

“You don’t want to do that, Rag Doll,” Cardinal said, voice soft. “You’re a thief, not a killer.”

“Who says I can’t be both?”

“You were a good man, once,” Spoiler said. “Look, we’ll back off if you just step away from Kid Flash, okay?” She took a step forward, but Rag Doll’s knife started to shake. 

“Don’t!” he yelled. “I’ll do it, I’ll fucking do it!”

“We believe you,” Miss Martian says. “We just want to make sure that—”

A bright green sheen appeared nearby, the unmistakable evidence of Green Lantern’s presence. From his vantage point, Dick could see that only he and Rag Doll noticed the new hero’s presence. 

He saw Rag Doll’s hand tighten, his lips tense, the knife steadying, ready to—

Dick reaches into his shoe and throws.

The throwing knife hit Rag Doll straight in the temple, as perfect a shot as any apprentice of Deathstroke should have. He fell, both the knife and medallion slipping from his limp fingers… 

Straight into the hands of the Red Hood.

“Nice shot, kid,” Red Hood said.

“Grab him before—” But, with a dramatic turn, Red Hood made off with the medallion as the backup superheroes descended upon the remaining villains.

“Move, Renegade,” Slade ordered, sprinting out the emergency exits.

Dick followed, but not before taking one last look at where the villain lay, dead. His first kill.

After the job, Dick gets subjected to nonstop training for a week. A punishment for ruining the job. His bruises have bruises, he can barely walk, and he was more pain than flesh.

But Slade still brought him to his next job. “Red Hood was right,” he said. “It was a nice shot. Even if it did cost us the medallion.”

Dick didn’t bother asking what the big deal with the medallion was.

Life with Slade continues on like that. They go on jobs, get paid, Dick keeps his head covered as much as possible to avoid prying eyes. He meets Slade’s children on a job, runs into a few more Junior Justice League members, and does whatever it takes to get the money, which slowly goes from a zero percent cut to a whole 30:70 split. 

A year and a half after his disappearance, Bruce Wayne’s wayward ward is finally given a funeral. Clark Kent from the Daily Planet calls it a somber, personal event, and sends his condolences. Vicki Vale from the Gotham Gazette questions why both Jason Todd and Richard Grayson died so soon after each other, and at nearly the same age.

Three years pass just like that. He spends his nineteenth birthday on his very first solo job. As his shot hits directly between the eyes of a child molester, he realizes he’s forgotten what his parents’ faces look like.

Then, on the same day seven years ago that Richard Grayson arrived at the gates of Wayne Manor, Slade Wilson gets a call about a job in Beijing, China, for two million dollars. 

They’re up in the air that night. 

-

It would be easy to say that the streets of Beijing were less large and confusing than they had been when he was twelve, but he would be lying. If anything, the number of people seemed to have multiplied, creating a rush of bodies that had Dick in a constantly alert state. 

After working together for three years, Slade had finally started to allow Dick small freedoms on their jobs. He didn’t care where Dick went in their free time, so long as he showed up when it was time to work.

So Dick found himself wandering from street to street, buying whatever caught his fancy. It was startlingly reminiscent of his first Christmas without parents. 

Eventually, he finds himself at a small funeral home. Maybe the world had a sense of humor, sending him here when he was willingly thinking about his parents for the first time in years. 

Luckily, he didn’t stand out in his all-black, semi-casual ensemble (Slade had heartily objected to his preference for hoodies and joggers). Various people littered the halls, which smelled of incense. Altars for the deceased lined the walls, and Dick internally sent a small prayer for each person he passed.

He hadn’t been to his own parents’ graves since the funeral. 

Dick turned to leave, realizing he had been gone for far longer than he was planning. 

“Richard? Is that you?” Dick wanted to tense, but his body was too well-trained at that point to do so. Nonetheless, he already knew that Slade was quickly making an escape route in case things went south. 

He turne and met the eyes of a middle-aged woman in black clothing. She looked as though she had aged much more than the six years since he had seen her. 

It was Mrs. Zhou, the receptionist from his very first boarding school. She was gripping a small urn. A child’s urn. Behind her was a small photo of a smiling girl, Yu Ming Zhou, no older than ten. 

“Mrs. Zhou,” Dick said, short of breath.

“Richard, how are you?” she asked, stepping closer to him. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“I’m good, Mrs. Zhou,” he said, carefully scanning his surroundings. It didn’t seem like anyone else in the area had noticed him, but that could also mean that he simply didn’t notice them. He wouldn’t put it past people to use a person from Richard Grayson’s school days to trip him up. “I’m… sorry for your loss.” Despite hating the words, Dick wasn’t sure what else to say.

“Thank you,” she said, looking down at the urn. Her eyes were dry, which made Dick think she probably wasn’t a spy. Most of them would’ve given at least a single tear in sorrow. “You’re staying safe yourself, right?” Dick nodded. There was no way to explain to her how he was probably one of the safest people in a room at any given time.

“Don’t worry, I haven’t been in detention in a whole three years,” he joked. Mrs. Zhou cracked a small smile. 

“That’s good to hear. Although, I wouldn’t say you had much business being there in the first place.” Dick paused. 

“Thanks, Mrs. Zhou,” he said. “Thanks.” She looked up at him, eyes soft.

“Of course, Richard. Is there a reason you’re here?” she asked. Her hand came up to her neck, fidgeting with her necklace. “If you’re free, I would love to—”

Dick blinked. He lifted a hand to his cheek, fingers coming back a startling crimson. 

Mrs. Zhou fell to the floor, a clean bullet hole directly in the center of her forehead. Her mouth was still open.

Around him, Dick could feel panic erupt, as people realized what just occurred. He could hear people search for the source of the shot, but Dick already knew who it was.

His head swiveled upward, locking onto a window across the street, already deserted. He could feel his heart beating in his chest. 

In the rush of people trying to leave, Dick noticed a few who hadn’t been in the funeral home before the shot went off.

He shot a hand out, stopping the stranger from touching Mrs. Zhou’s cooling body. “You shouldn’t touch a crime scene,” he said in Mandarin. The wrist under his hands was cold. Inhumanely cold. 

Dick ducked under a bat to the face, twisting around and kicking his assailant in the face. The wrist he was holding tried to escape his grip, but Dick held tight. 

Three other people, cloaked fully in black, appeared. Instead of immediately engaging with Dick, they all went for Mrs. Zhou’s corpse.

And, despite knowing that this must’ve been the job that Slade came to Beijing for, Dick couldn’t let them.

They fought brutally. Dick, despite his experience, was clearly no match. His only saving grace was the tight enclosed space they were in, which made it difficult for his bulkier opponents to properly corner him. 

Of course, the fact that Dick hadn’t bothered to bring a gun along with him certainly didn’t help matters. He was limited to hand-to-hand and the small knives he always kept on his person. 

Dick took a brutal punch to the gut, winding him. Another one hit his face, then grappled him. His vision went blurry for a second. Through the blur, he saw one of them return back to Mrs. Zhou. 

Dick bit the person grappling him and tossed him toward the kneeling attacker. They collided, tumbling backwards. 

They crashed against the wall. The force caused an incense burner to upend.

The altar erupted in flames. Joss paper burnt away in seconds, and the photo of Yu Ming Zhou fell to the floor, quickly turning to ash.

“No!” Dick yelled. The young face of Yu Ming Zhou stood stark in his mind as the attackers leapt forward, back to Mrs. Zhou’s body. Somebody—

Through the torrent of flames, a circular shape made of murky purple started to form. It swirled unnaturally and hurt to look too long at. 

A sneaker-clad foot stepped out of it, followed by the swing of a massive sword. All of the flames in the hall went out, leaving behind small trails of smoke.

Dick looked up and met startlingly green eyes. “You’re not dead,” they state. They dodged a punch from the first man who got over their shock and looked around, taking in the scene. Their eyes hardened when they saw Mrs. Zhou.

Quickly, they brought the brunt of their sword against one of the attacker’s necks. A burst of purple light erupted and the attacker fell to the floor. 

Well, Dick wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

With a second pair of hands (and a sword), they made easy work of protecting Mrs. Zhou’s dead body. Dick could feel the adrenaline quickly leaving his body, but the mysterious portal person was still present, so he couldn’t afford to sit down quite yet.

Dick watched the person close their eyes, head lowered slightly. Praying, then. 

He waited for them to finish before interrogating. 

“Who are you?” Dick asked. The person hummed.

“Did you know her?” they asked, nodding to Mrs. Zhou. Dick nodded. “She’s my aunt. Name’s Xanthe.”

“Huh,” Dick said. “Thanks for the assist, I guess.”

“Thanks for not letting them desecrate my aunt’s corpse,” Xanthe said. “Based on your actions, you don’t know what they were doing here, right?”

“Not quite,” Dick said. “But I know who has some answers.”

“Well, lead the way,” Xanthe said, moving to leave. Dick put out an arm. 

“No,” he said. “I’ll handle it. If he sees a hero come in, he’ll shoot.” Xanthe lifted an eyebrow.

“Not quite a hero. I’ll give you a few minutes, but after that I’m following, got it?” Dick nodded.

He made his way back to the posh hotel Slade had them stay at, not even bothering to pretend like he and Xanthe weren’t together. It was highly likely Slade already saw them fight the attackers together, after all.

He had Xanthe stand outside in the hall. “Holler if you need help,” they whispered. Dick didn’t bother telling them that if he needed help it was probably too late to alert anyone.

Dick looked at the door, took a deep breath, then entered.

Surprisingly, Slade was out of his Deathstroke suit, sitting on an armchair and sipping what was probably a glass of whiskey worth hundreds of dollars. By his side was his favorite handgun, sitting innocently on the table.

Dick was momentarily caught off guard, and stood in the doorway, arms limp.

“Shut the door, kid,” Slade said, leaning back. Dick did so, but didn’t take his eyes off of Slade.

“Since when do you take hits on grieving women?” he asked, walking over to sit across from him. He went to pour himself a glass of whiskey, but Slade glared. “What, I can kill a man but I can’t drink? I’m legal in China.”

“We’ve got a job in a few hours,” Slade said. “I need you sober.”

“Are you going to explain why you killed her?” Dick grabbed Slade’s gun off the table, turning it over in his hand. Slade didn’t even twitch.

“It was a personal job.”

“What, did she break your heart?” He lifted the gun, aiming it at Slade. “Boo-hoo.”

“I remember when you were scared to even touch a gun, let alone point it at anything,” Slade said. He leaned forward, the barrel of the gun pressing against his forehead. “You shook like a little bird. And now look at you, threatening your own mentor.”

“Why did you kill her, Slade?” 

“You know I don’t kill for free.”

“Did you know the people trying to rob her dead body?”

“All I was paid for was the bullet through the head. Anything after wasn’t my business, and I know you know better than to ask about a client’s information. You’re already on thin ice for bringing someone else back here.” Dick sneered at him.

“Who’s to say they’re not my own client?” he asked. “Maybe they put a hit out on you. Asked for a bullet through the head.”

“You wouldn’t,” Slade said. “You need me, Richard Grayson.” 

And Slade was right. He wasn’t going to.

At least, not until Slade insinuated Dick needed him.

“Dick,” he said. Slade lifted an eyebrow.

“Reduced to juvenile insults, now?”

“No,” he said, finger steadying on the trigger. “My name. It’s Dick, not Richard.”

He shot Slade directly in his remaining eye. 

-

“What are you doing after this?” Xanthe asked, dropping down to sit next to him. Their sword, still slightly glowing, leaned against the wall of the dim sum place. No other patrons seemed to notice it in the restaurant. 

“Not sure,” Dick said. “I’ve been with Slade for… three years now.”

“And you’re not sure what to do now that he’s set you loose?”

Dick hummed. He dropped a dumpling into his mouth, chewing slowly. “I guess.”

“You’ve gotta have something you want to do. You could travel the world, do some soul-searching?”

“I’ve done enough traveling for my whole life, I think,” Dick said. 

“Well, if it’s not a place, what about a person?” 

“Nah,” he said. “There’s not really… Are you seriously doing person, place, and — ”

“Thing? Is there something you want to get?”

Zitka, Dick thought. 

It was childish. Dick was nineteen, for god’s sake. He was trained by the world’s greatest mercenary. He had killed men with guns, knives, and his bare hands. It was childish to own a stuffed animal at eleven years old, let alone nineteen. 

But he wanted her back. 

“Maybe,” he said. Xanthe smiled. 

“Well, there you go,” they said, stealing a dumpling. “It’s a start, at least.”

It all started in Gotham, didn’t it?

Chapter Text

In theory, breaking into Wayne Manor should be a piece of cake. Dick had always been far better at infiltration and reconnaissance than Slade, and had certainly broken into far more secure locations.

Or, well, presumably more secure locations. 

In practice, a simple scan of the area made Dick realize that Wayne Industries’ sponsorship of the Justice League wasn’t without its own benefits. The place was more secure than any other location, save for perhaps the Justice League Headquarters itself.

Maybe that was why Slade had always avoided the city like the plague. Not that Dick ever complained. 

Dick was tempted to ask Xanthe to portal him in and out, but then realized he’d need to explain why, exactly, he needed to enter a billionaire’s extremely secure manor, and thought better of it.

Besides, they had already given him a lift to Gotham, and Dick didn’t like to owe favors.

It looked like this was going to be a longer mission than expected. 

Well, if he was going to hang around, might as well make himself comfortable. If there was one thing both Slade and Bruce had taught Dick, it was that living in comfort never hurt anyone.

A quick few hours spent on his laptop created Peter Redde, twenty two-years-old, a Bludhaven resident fresh out of college. Dick wasn’t about to go living in the Bat’s hometown, just stealing in it, after all. 

Just fourteen hours after landing back on the East Coast, Dick had a new apartment, motorcycle, and wardrobe, all initially paid for by money stolen from LexCorp. He was tempted to use Wayne Industries money, but no amount of amusement was worth possibly getting his cover blown.

However, one thing he wasn’t expecting were nosy neighbors who seemed aghast at the concept of Peter Redde not having any concrete plans for his future.

“Peter, dear, do you have a minute?” Mrs. Murti asked, waving over at Dick. Unfortunately, the groceries he was holding indicated he was clearly heading into his apartment rather than out of it, so he had no way out of rejecting her request to enter.

Inside was an apartment straight out of an Ikea set, as that had been where Dick ordered all of his furniture to be bought from. He set down the bags of groceries, opening up mostly empty cabinets to grab a glass. “Water, Mrs. Murti?”

“Yes, thank you,” she said. “And call me Suzanne.”

“I’m afraid I’ve only got tap.”

“That’s quite alright, I’ve certainly had worse in my body.” She winked at him, and Dick smiled awkwardly back.

“What’s wrong, Mrs. Murti?” She sighed at his refusal to use her first name. 

“Well, I know you only just moved back to Haven from college, but I was thinking… ” She reached into her purse and produced a worn flyer, clearly ripped off of a wall. “The local gymnastics academy is hiring, and I know you mentioned to Joanne that you used to do some!”

It seemed gossipping old ladies were still a thing in a crime capital like Bludhaven.

“Oh, I wasn’t all that good,” he said. “I definitely couldn’t teach any classes.”

“It would only be for ages five through eight,” she continued, ignoring Dick’s comment. “The last girl they had working there only knew how to cartwheel! They’re a little desperate.”

“I actually already have a job.”

“Well, they’re only asking for a thrice a week commitment for three hours each, and all during the afternoon. Besides, it would be a great way to reintegrate yourself to the Haven.” She thrust the flyer at Dick. “Just give it a thought, hm?”

“Sure,” he said.

“And I’ll check in to see how your first day goes!”

The next morning, Dick found himself staring up at a rusty sign reading “Bludhaven Youth Gymnastics Academy.” He resisted the urge to run his fingers through his hair.

“Are you Peter?” a voice asked. Dick looked down, meeting eyes with a harried-looking thirty-year-old woman. She was dressed in a threadbare leotard with hair in a bun that looked like it was tight five hours ago. “Mrs. Murti mentioned you’d be stopping by. I’m Hailey, the head instructor. Well, only instructor, right now.”

“Hailey,” Dick said, mouth dry. “Nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you too.” She walked into the gymnastics center, Dick following. 

Inside held only a small handful of gymnastics equipment, crammed into a space too small to fit them. There was a foam pit probably teeming with bacteria, two balance beams, a small trampoline section, and a sad-looking floor. 

“I know Mrs. Murti probably strong-armed you into applying,” Hailey said, leading them into a small makeshift office in the corner of the room. On the walls were various thank-you letters and drawings, presumably from the children attending classes. “She’s been pestering anyone who knows about coming down.”

“It was no problem,” Dick said. Hailey raised an eyebrow.

“I didn’t say it was.” She shuffled through a few papers on her desk, producing a small packet. “This is the employee handbook with all of the onboarding details. Your shifts would be for the Monday, Wednesday, and Friday ages five to eight after school classes, from 4pm to 7pm every week, excluding major holidays.” She thrust the packet towards him.

“Right,” Dick said, turning the pages over. “Isn’t there supposed to be an interview?”

“I’m kind of desperate right now, if you can’t tell,” she said. “So long as your background check comes back clean enough to work with kids, you’re good to start teaching next Monday.”

“What if I had never done gymnastics?”

“Does it look like we’re a place of high pedigree?” she asked. “So long as you keep them from cracking their heads open, just following the outlined lesson plans should be enough. The kids you’re teaching shouldn’t be doing anything past cartwheels.” Hailey sat down at her desk, tugging a large stack of paperwork toward herself.

“So, that’s it? I’ve got the job?”

“After you pass the background check, yeah.” Dick blinked at her, then looked back down at the pamphlet. On the front page was a colorful cartoon of a young girl dressed in a leotard, smiling wide as she was mid-cartwheel. He looked back up at the bleak interior.

“I’ll see you Monday, then.”

-

When Red Hood revealed his identity, Bruce’s first thought, horrifically, had been one of irony; after all, how often had he looked at Richard and guiltily wished it had been Jason sitting there, instead? 

And now he had Jason back, and Richard Grayson was lost at the hands of Deathstroke the Terminator. His guilty wish had come true. 

But suddenly Deathstroke’s little apprentice was sticking his nose into Gotham City, a place not even his mentor was willing to risk taking a job in. 

Was it hubris? A desire to prove himself as more capable than Deathstroke? 

Or, Bruce thought to himself, replaying the security footage of an orange-and-black blur moving through Crime Alley, Maybe it’s personal.

“Oracle,” he said, pulling up the file they had on Renegade. “Any more news?”

“Not about his location. At the very least I can say he’s not in Gotham, since nobody’s seen him since three nights ago.”

“You said ‘not about his location.’”

“As of eighteen days ago, Slade Wilson has been put into a medically induced coma due to a bullet through the head,” Barbara said. 

“It was Renegade?”

“Earlier that day, The Envoy and someone matching the description of Renegade were spotted fighting together in a funeral home in Beijing, China.” Bruce’s hands halted on the keyboard. It felt like the world was giving him constant reminders of his mistakes. “According to Black Bat, Renegade shot Deathstroke because he killed a woman in front of him.” 

A photo of a kind-looking woman showed up on the computer. “Haoyu Zhou? Was she related to The Envoy?”

“She was their aunt,” Barbara said. “She was at the funeral home to pay respects to her late daughter, who was murdered in a home robbery gone wrong.” 

Another photo appeared, this time of the woman and a young daughter smiling at the camera. Bruce’s heart clenched at the thought of both of them being dead. “Batman, do you notice where they’re at in the photo?”

He looked closer. They were standing in front of a school building. A familiar school building. “Beijing International,” he whispered. 

“I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but… ” 

One last photo appeared, this time of a disciplinary report. At the top of the report was a nervous Richard Grayson smiling for his school ID photo, followed by various comments on detentions, after school cleaning duties, and complaints from teachers. 

At the bottom was the signature of the principal and his receptionist, Haoyu Zhou.

“Black Bat has worked with The Envoy before, correct?”

“Yes, alongside Constantine.”

“Have her contact them then report back to me.”

“Got it.” Bruce went back to studying the case file, but didn’t hear Barbara leave the channel. 

“Oracle, is there anything else?”

A pause. “No, nothing. Good night.”

“Good night,” he said. 

He stayed up for another three hours, going over every single report he had on Deathstroke and Renegade since the latter’s introduction to the world. Most of them were cursory, taken from local police reports or other hero’s personal records (which were far less detailed than what Bruce required of his own partners), but a few had worthwhile information.

Two years ago, Kid Flash fought with Renegade in Central City while Flash handled Slade Wilson. This was a few months after their meeting in San Francisco. Renegade’s voice modulator had ceased to work after a hit from Kid Flash, revealing a “young, clear voice.” 

A year and two months ago, Beast Boy was saved from a death blow by a stray shot from Renegade during an attempted jewel heist. But security footage revealed that the angle of the bullet couldn’t have been a mistake.

Four months ago, Wonder Girl returned from an undercover mission involving The Society. While the details had clearly been redacted on any non-physical files, 

Maybe his break from Deathstroke wasn’t all out of the blue after all.

“B, you need to see this,” Barbara said, voice hushed. It was a regular call rather than a comm, meaning she must’ve found something while outside her house.

Unlike the previous evidence, the video Barbara sent over took a few moments to load. When it finally did load in, his eyes narrowed.

In front of him was a grainy vertical video captured from an older phone. Barbara had clearly already enhanced it as well as slowed it down, allowing Bruce full access to see a figure dressed in a tight, lightly armored black turtleneck undersuit, with a dark red, green, and yellow accented jacket.

A domino mask covered the person’s eyes, but no disguise could cover up the expert way he took down Philo Zeiss. 

The timestamp of the video revealed it was from fifteen days ago, a whole six days before Bruce had any record of Renegade being in Gotham, and three days after he had shot his mentor in the head.

Perhaps the anniversary had rattled the family more than expected, if even Tim had overlooked this.

“Who took the video?”

“A street kid from the Alley,” Barbara said. “Zeiss was helping out a human trafficking ring.”

Bruce’s lip curled in disgust. “Renegade stopped it, then?”

“Right under our noses. I wouldn’t have even found this if… ”

“If what?”

“B, don’t freak out.” Bruce sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Contrary to my children’s belief, I am a lot more mentally stable than that. What is it, Oracle?” He heard Barbara take a deep breath.

“I wouldn’t have found this if I didn’t have alerts set up for anything to do with the Grayson family.” 

Maybe Barbara’s warning had merit.

“How—”

“Zeiss’ boss was operating out of a building just a few feet away from Gotham Public Cemetery. I usually go over the alerts weekly, but I got a little… distracted. My apologies.”

“You’re fine, Oracle.”

“Do you need me to call Cardinal or Black Bat to come over? I can tell you haven’t gotten any sleep since we talked earlier today.”

“No need,” Bruce said. “I’m going to bed now.”

“I’ll check with Agent A to make sure you’re telling the truth,” Barbara said. “Just… take care of yourself, alright? I know it’s been a tough few weeks. We all worry.”

“I know,” Bruce said. He clicked off the files, standing up for the first time in hours. His bones cracked menacingly, a reminder of how old he was getting. “No need to have Agent A threaten me.”

“Oh, I’d just have Signal or Black Bat give you puppy eyes,” she said, then clicked off the call before Bruce could reply.

She really was a bit too much like his other children.

-

Duke smiled at Sarah, squeezing between the rush of people in the kitchen. A few of them knocked shoulders with him in greeting. “Duke! What are you doing here?”

“Not happy to see me?” he asked. He slid an apron on, tightening it behind his back. 

“No, of course not. God knows we could use all the help we can get.” Duke nodded, thinking of the long line of people waiting outside the soup kitchen. There was still a whole hour before they were set to open for the night.

“That’s what Keegan said, although he was referring to the five Ikea-sized bags of groceries I brought.”

“That certainly also helps. It’s good you stopped by, though. We have a new kid helping us out tonight.”

“Really?” Sarah nodded. 

“This one seems a lot tougher than poor Jenny. He’s from Bludhaven, you know,” she said. “Said he used to work in one there before it lost funding.”

“Sounds like a good kid.”

“He was sweet during the interview, talking all about how excited he was to help out. He should be helping set up the tables, I can introduce you after we finish up here,” she said. 

It took almost four hours for them to finish up in the back. A recent attack from Scarecrow had tainted quite a few of their food stock, so the kitchen was more than understocked for the number of hungry mouths waiting to be fed. 

Duke couldn’t help out at the kitchen as much as he wanted. While he was Gotham’s daytime hero, most nights he also helped out his family, which meant that nighttime soup kitchens couldn’t rely on him always showing up. Additionally, his day job as a children’s crisis worker kept him far from free. 

Lately, though, it seemed like things were winding down. In Gotham terms that could be bad, but Duke knew better than to worry himself over it. If none of his family had noticed anything was wrong, Duke sure as hell wasn’t going to be the person to figure out why their rogue gallery was suspiciously quiet.

“That should last us the rest of the night,” Sarah said, putting her hands on her hips. “Thanks for the extra pair of hands, Duke.”

“Of course, Sarah, you know I love helping out.”

“I think Dave and Pike can handle things here. Do you want to go see if the front needs help?” Duke nodded. 

They made their way to the front of house, where the long line of people still hadn’t abated even three hours into service. It was to be expected, of course, but Duke wished that it wasn’t the case.

Sarah led them over to the serving station, where a young man with a high grade medical mask was dishing out mashed potatoes and roasted vegetables. While he appeared a lot less talkative than the volunteer next to him, Katy, he still inclined his head to acknowledge every person he served.

As they grew closer, the little alarm bells that Bruce and Damian had painstakingly created in his mind started to ring. 

First, the new volunteer definitely recognized Duke. It could be from a newspaper, of course, but he wasn’t nearly as famous as Damian or Tim, preferring to stay out of the public eye. Duke’s eyes were trained to sense when someone was actively suppressing their urge to tense, which meant the man knew Duke personally, or at least well enough to recognize him on sight.

Second, he wasn’t from Bludhaven or Gotham like Sarah said. There was no evidence of a gas mask on his person, no Wayne Industries provided EpiPen for possible allergic reactions to Rogue-created chemicals. 

Third, his serving station was far too clean for a busy soup kitchen. There were no small drops of mashed potato on the counter, no splashes of butter onto his apron from the roasted vegetables. His movements were clean and precise, portioning out perfect amounts every time.

And fourth, he had a handgun and at least six knives hidden under his shirt and loose jeans.

“Duke, this is Peter,” Sarah said. “Peter, this is Duke, one of our occasional volunteers. He’s not on the roster since he’s busy as a children’s crisis counselor.” She gestured between them. Duke was intensely glad that Damian had made him suffer through so many acting drills.

“It’s nice to see a new face around here,” he said, holding a hand out. 

“Nice to be here,” Peter said. “I’d shake your hand, but these gloves probably aren’t the cleanest.”

“Have you had your break yet, Peter?” Sarah asked. 

“Not quite. It’s been a little busy.”

“I’ll take over,” she said, shooing Peter with her hand when he tried to stay. “You and Duke go take a small rest.”

“Sarah, I can—”

“Oh, hush, I’m not that old,” she said. “Now, go!”

Knowing better than to argue with a headstrong older woman, Duke walked to a table in the back reserved for staff. 

Peter followed, sitting down casually. Duke couldn’t tell if it was forced or not. 

Does he know my identity? Or was it Duke Thomas he was wary of?

“Sarah said you grew up in Blud.”

“We call it Haven, actually,” Peter said. “Something, something, silver linings, you know?”

“Oh, I didn’t know,” Duke said. “Sorry.”

“All good.”

“What brings you over to Gotham, then? A full hour commute every day to help out in a soup kitchen isn’t for the faint of heart.”

“Just some family business,” he said, tapping his fingers on the table. “How’d you meet Sarah?”

“My mom and dad used to help out here. I spent a lot of afternoons at this table, finishing up homework or working on school projects.”

“They sound nice.” Duke nodded, smiling.

“They were.” Peter’s eyes met Duke’s, a look of understanding passing between them. Thankfully, Peter didn’t offer any condolences.

“How’s being a crisis counselor?” he asked. “I can’t imagine it’s a very relaxing job anywhere, let alone in Gotham.”

“It’s difficult, definitely. Exhausting at times. Devastating, to be sure. But… ” Duke smiled. “On the good days, it feels like I’m truly making a difference.”

“I’m sure you are,” Peter said. “The world could really use more people like that.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Peter. Most people in their twenties would be more interested in partying on a Friday night than volunteering at a soup kitchen.”

“I’ve always been a bit different than my peers,” he said. Duke tried to hide his interest.

“That can be good and bad.”

“In my experience, it was usually bad. Though… I guess it did help me in the end.” Peter was really starting to sound like a rogue in the making. 

“Well, you know. Something, something, silver linings,” Duke said. Peter snorted.

“Right.” They sat in silence for a few moments, before Sarah called them back in to help out with a new rush of people. 

“I hope to see you around more, Peter,” Duke said, standing back up. “We should talk more.”

“We should, Duke.” Peter’s eyes narrowed, insinuating a smile, but Duke had a feeling his lips were perfectly flat underneath his medical mask. “We really should.”

-

Jason hated teaming up with Damian, even more so than working with Bruce. 

While Bruce and Duke’s guilt kept them from saying anything to go against him, Tim or Cass were definitely his favorite of his siblings. Tim had taken to shoving new gadgets and prototype weapons at Jason and Cass enjoyed training with Jason, usually leaving him on his ass but still pleasantly happy with their time spent together.

Damian, though? It was like he and Bruce had traded places. When Jason had been Sparrow, it was always Damian who was pushing Bruce to let Jason push himself, to become better.

Now, Damian seemed to hate having Jason leave his sight for even a second while on patrol, let alone during an actual mission. Tonight was no different.

“Hood, follow my lead,” Damian said, crouching down. 

“Jesus Christ, I’m not fifteen,” he whispered. But he still crouched down next to Damian. “So, what’s the deal?” Jason could almost see the disapproval on Damian’s face through his mask.

“You didn’t read the case file?”

“Not all of us are on B’s payroll still.”

“Oracle sent them over.”

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, Umbra.” 

“We are investigating the remnants of a child trafficking ring,” Damian said. Jason’s heart dropped.

“Remnants?”

“You need to check in more often.” Jason scowled at Damian’s tone. “Renegade has been spotted in Gotham. He took down the ring a couple of weeks ago, but there may still be a few stragglers.”

“He’s in Gotham and Batman hasn’t chased him out yet?” Damian didn’t answer, just started to grapple down toward the warehouse they were staking out. “Wait, he doesn’t know where he is, does he?” 

Damian kept silent. Jason cackled.

“Umbra, Hood, I trust you’re paying attention to what, exactly, you’re looking for?” Bruce’s dry voice entered their comm line, and Jason fought the urge to groan out loud.

He may have died at fifteen, but he wasn’t actually still a teenager.

“We’re heading in now,” Damian said. They slipped through a small window at the top of the warehouse, slinking along the rafters. 

Inside had clearly been trashed to hell. Various bullet holes littered the walls and evidence of a sword cutting through metal was on every single cage.

Cages. For the children, presumably. 

Jason bit his lip, fighting the rising anger in him. If his face wasn’t covered by his mask he was sure Damian would’ve seen his eyes flash green.

“He was definitely there,” Tim said. “Umbra, could you move closer to the bullet holes? Renegade seems to have less of a love for guns than his mentor. Hood, try and see if the cage locks were picked or forced open.”

“What are we, a sitcom special?” Jason murmured, but did as he was told. 

A close examination of the warehouse revealed that Renegade had used only swords while taking down the trafficking ring. Damian scanned for any possible DNA evidence, but neither of them were surprised when it came up negative.

They were just finishing up their investigation when they heard metallic clutter outside, followed shortly by a whispered reprimand. 

Someone was there.

“Oracle,” Damian whispered, turning toward the sound. He gestured for Jason to watch his back.

“On it,” she said. After a second, “Oh. It’s a couple of kids.”

Damian and Jason exchanged a glance, lowering their stances but still alert. It wouldn’t be the first time a criminal used kids as bait.

They slowly walked over to the source of the noise, climbing up to a small window to look down. 

Below them, peeking into the warehouse through a short window, was a group of three kids, all dressed in clothes that looked new. Their faces, though, revealed the fact that they were Alley kids. 

Jason put a hand out to Damian, signaling that he would take the lead. He silently dropped down behind the kids, leaning down so that he was the same eye level. “Whatcha looking at?”

The three kids screamed. The shortest one, with a mane of dark red hair, swung a fist out towards his crotch area, while the tallest, with gangly arms and glasses, produced a small taser and pointed it shakily at Jason’s chest.

The middle one, with two short pigtails, just kept screaming.

“What’re your names?” he asked, taking off the red shell to reveal his domino-masked face. “I’m Red Hood, and this is Umbra.” Beside him, Damian dropped down as well and also lowered his hood. 

None of the kids answered, instead trading glances between each other. Redhead pushed Pigtails behind them, while Glasses didn’t lower the taser. 

“Forgive Hood’s flair for the dramatic,” Damian said, voice lighter and higher than his usual gruff Umbra persona. Jason remembered him using the same tone when he was caught trying to take tire number three from Batman’s car. “We just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Pigtails snuck under Redhead’s arms, standing at the front of the group. “It’s Red Hood, guys!” she said. “Come on.”

Redhead glared at Glasses, while Pigtails sent puppy eyes towards her. Jason already knew who was going to win out even before Glasses lowered the taser. 

“So, what were three kids doing out so late at night?” Jason asked, leaning against the wall. 

“Nothing,” Redhead said.

“Just walking,” Glasses said.

“Trying to find Robin,” Pigtails said. Her two compatriots glared at her. “What, it’s true!”

“We need to work on your lying skills,” Glasses murmured. 

“Robin?” Damian asked. The three kids all nodded.

“Mhm! He’s the one who took down the dudes in here,” Pigtails said, pointing at the warehouse. Her words caused a stir on the other side of their comms, but Jason muted it before it could get distracting.

“Was he dressed in a red, green, and yellow jacket?” Damian asked. The three kids nodded again. 

“We’ve been calling him Robin,” Redhead said. “You know, like Robin Hood?”

“He reminded us of you,” Glasses said, nodding to Jason. “He’s been leaving food out every night, just across the street.” They all pointed toward Gotham Public Cemetery. “Said he stole it from the rich.”

Was Renegade playing as a wannabe vigilante, then? Or more of an anti-hero, Jason thought, thinking back to his proficiency with guns.

He wouldn’t say no to another gun-wielding anti-hero pushing against Bruce’s moral code, he supposed.

“Did he say anything to you three?” 

“Just that he was gonna bring us food,” Redhead said. 

“What time does he drop the food off?” Jason asked. “Or does it appear randomly?”

“It’s usually between ten and eleven,” Glasses said. 

“Seven and eleven,” Damian repeated. 

“Is he not one of Batman’s sidekicks, then?”  Glasses asked. “We thought he was with you.”

Jason reached into his coat, taking out small slips of cardstock printed with a number. He handed it to Glasses, who seemed like the de facto leader of their little group. “If you run into Robin again, call this number,” he said. “We just wanna have a quick chat.”

Chapter Text

As a child, Tim grew up following ( not stalking) Batman and Shadow’s activities through a viewfinder, a welcome distraction from the cold and empty interior of the Drake Manor. Then came Signal, Gotham’s first daytime hero, and Tim became even more enamored with saving lives after realizing that Signal got braces the exact same day as Duke Thomas, Bruce Wayne’s new foster son.

So, he highly respected anyone who took on the responsibility of saving lives, let alone anyone who kept with it for more than a few years.

Unfortunately, John Constantine was not one of those people.

At least Xanthe was nice.

“Well, we kind of owe him a favor,” Xanthe said. They were sitting in a small Vietnamese coffeeshop in Chinatown, one of his favorites, with Tim still decked out in his Cardinal uniform.

“What kind of favor?” Cass asked. Xanthe and Constantine looked away.

“Can’t really say,” Constantine said.

“It would kind of defeat the purpose.”

“Is there anything you can say to help us track him?” Tim asked. He sipped on his coffee, relishing the smooth and strong taste. While Alfred’s coffee was to die for, he had taken to making every other pot decaf in an attempt to reduce their caffeine intake.

“Ever considered someone might steal your coffee cup for a DNA test?” Constantine asked, nodding to Tim’s coffee. Tim raised an eyebrow.

“You think Batman hasn’t thought of that? We clean the lid before throwing any cups out.”

“What if you wipe your lips on a napkin?” Xanthe asked.

“We burn it.” They stared at Tim, who took another sip. “Anyway, if neither of you will help, then I’ll be going.”

“Didn’t say we couldn’t help,” Constantine said. Xanthe side-eyed him as he slid over a small coin. “Just that we won’t help you hurt him.”

Ugh. If all of the Bats disliked magic, then magic users were close behind.

Tim lifted the coin up, squinting at the engravings. It looked like an ordinary plastic coin, about the size of a dime but with the thickness of a quarter. It had a small engraving of a heart with a checkered pattern on both sides.

“Thanks,” Tim said. Constantine nodded.

“If that’s helpful, then if you could maybe keep my name out of your report to Batsy, that would be—”

Tim was already gone. 

That night, he and Bruce did quick tests on the coin to make sure it was non-magical. While Tim doubted Constantine would give him something unstable or dangerous, they could never really be sure unless they tested it themselves. It came back negative, and it was made of ordinary PVC plastic.

A quick image search of the coin online brought up nothing but children’s toy sets. The checkered heart didn’t pull up any known logos in their system. 

Tim knew that, for all of Constantine’s faults, he wouldn’t lead them on some random goose chase. The small plastic coin had some significance to their case. It would just take a while to crack, and Tim loved a good mystery.

It also helped and didn’t help that Robin was suddenly everywhere and nowhere at once. If Deathstroke reveled in the reveal that he had slipped under heroes’ noses, then Robin preferred a flashy announcement that he was there and Gotham’s vigilantes couldn’t do anything about it.

He must have heard about Damian and Jason’s talk with the three Alley kids, since the stakeout they did outside of the food drop-off area yielded no results. It seemed Robin enlisted Xanthe’s help with transporting the food, since all that they saw was a small magic circle teleporting food in and out.

Or maybe Xanthe had told Robin about their little talk. Hm.

At the very least, his presence was making waves around Gotham. People believed Robin was the newest member of their vigilantes, since Batman hadn’t kicked him out yet. And Bruce’s pride wouldn’t let him openly admit to others that he didn’t approve of Robin, since it would imply he couldn’t chase him out himself, so the rest of them were left pretending like they didn’t know a mercenary-turned-vigilante was gallivanting around their city.

Well, swinging and flipping around their city, since Robin seemed unable to do anything without flair and two more flips than necessary.

“New Vigilante, Robin, Dismantles Drug Ring In The Bowery, Leaves Criminals Hanging.”

“Gotham’s Newest Cape Flips Over Firefly And Mothman Team-Up.”

“Red Hood vs. Robin Hood: Who Is Crime Alley’s Favorite Anti-Hero? Survey Results Inside.”

The Gotham news circuit hadn’t had anything this exciting happen since Red Hood beheaded the local druglords. It helped that everyone was intent on knowing about their latest caped crusader, even if his methods tended to be more lethal than not.

Somehow, Robin managed to evade their efforts to capture, likely due to the fact that they would only run into each other when a more pressing matter was at hand.

Such as that Friday night, when their Arkham Asylum Breakout alarm started to blare.

“Umbra, handle Scarecrow,” Bruce said, climbing into the car. “Black Bat and Signal, Two-Face and Freeze. Cardinal and Spoiler, Mad Hatter. I’ll take on Joker. Hood… ”

Tim didn’t need to see Jason’s face to tell he was rolling his eyes. “You’re lucky I want to be on civilian duty,” he said, clicking his comm off and leaving on his motorcycle before Bruce could reply.

“Freeze and Two-Face are about to hit Chinatown. Madhatter just passed Burlow and Phillips and seems to be heading straight for Lady Gotham. I’m trying to find Joker’s whereabouts,” Barbara said. 

Damian and Tim mounted their own motorcycles while Cass and Duke slid into the backseat of the car. 

“I’ll meet you there, Card,” Steph chimed in, the faint telltale sounds of her grappling through the sky in the background. 

They all took off. 

-

Gotham City was in shambles. 

Of course, an outsider wouldn’t know it, because all of Gotham’s residents were still walking the streets like normal. Their normal being, of course, hurriedly rushing through the streets with their heads down, pretending like they don’t know anybody and nobody knows them.

Steph ran from rooftop to rooftop, jumping past two restaurant owners refusing to close shop even during an Arkham breakout, an unhappy college student trying to find an Uber ride home with the transit lines down, and a group of kids using the chaos to sneak a few candy bars from an unsuspecting bodega. 

She grappled onto a nearby news helicopter, which Barbara informed her was heading straight to Lady Gotham Island. 

“ETA one minute,” she said, spotting Cardinal already mid-fight with a cackling Mad Hatter. A young blonde girl was dressed in a cheap-looking blue dress, tied up on the top of Lady Gotham’s raised hand. 

Steph quietly landed above the girl, making sure to telegraph her movements as she slowly climbed down toward her. “Hey, I’m Spoiler. Let’s get you out of these things, hm?”

Tears were streaming down the girl’s face. She seemed too scared to try and speak, just shivering in her thin dress and bindings. 

Steph worked quickly, keeping an eye on Cardinal and Mad Hatter’s hat. The ropes were reinforced with some kind of metal, which scratched against the girl’s exposed skin and resisted her knife. 

“If you could move a little faster, Spoiler, that would be great!” Tim shouted, followed by a loud crashing sound. Steph pushed down her instinct to reply back, smiling toward the girl as she undid the last knot.

“Hey, there we go,” she said. The girl clutched onto Steph’s body, staring down at the ground hundreds of feet below. Her body was wracked with hiccups. “I’ve got you, you’re okay.”

As quickly as she dared, Steph started to grapple down Lady Gotham, making sure to keep a tight grip on the girl. Once on the ground, she handed her over to one of the nearby rescue boats, which were circling Gotham’s waters. 

“Stay safe, okay?” she said, before rushing off towards Tim, who was already apprehending the Mad Hatter. 

“Mad Hatter’s been secured,” Tim said, nodding to Steph. 

“Good timing, because The Riddle just showed up in the Narrows,” Barbara said. 

“Got it,” they both said, moving to Tim’s motorcycle. They hopped on, riding back toward land. 

“Dibs on riddle duty,” Steph said. Tim snorted.

“The last time you were on riddle duty, you just punched Riddler’s lights out.”

“And? It worked, didn’t it?” Tim had no response to that. 

Arriving at the Narrows, Tim came to an abrupt stop when they noticed the Riddler’s question marks all graffitied onto the walls of a small dance studio. 

“I don’t like how quiet he’s being,” she said, kneeling down to stare at one of the question marks. It was professionally printed, rather than spray painted, implying that this breakout had been fully pre-planned long enough for the Riddler’s men to set decals out around the Narrows.

Tim lifted up his wrist, his watch scanning for heat signatures inside the dance studio. “Did one of you already pick up Riddler’s riddle?” Tim asked. “This should be the spot, but… ” When the rest of the Bats replied negatively, they both exchanged glances.

Climbing up to the roof, the two of them took windows on opposite walls, preparing to crash through. “I only saw one heat signature, but there might be more underground,” Tim said. “Let’s go.”

They both kicked through the windows, sending shards of glass tumbling down. “Riddler!” Steph yelled, swinging off a support beam onto the ground. “Keep your hands—” She paused. Both her and Tim looked down at the tied up form of Edward Nygma, unconscious, gagged, and bound in a colorful dance ribbon. 

“A trap?” she asked, twisting around. 

“But why use the Riddler as bait, if all of Gotham is under attack?” Tim asked. “No, I think someone got to him before us. Or even before he could start his own hunt.” He kicked the Riddler, who didn’t even stir.

“Strange,” Steph said. “But I won’t complain about another set of hands helping out tonight. Even if they end up being morally grey.” 

“Spoiler,” Tim said, and she could tell he was rolling his eyes. She sent a cheeky grin his way before grappling back up to the roof. 

“I’ll head over to help Red Hood with civilian watch,” she said, climbing back out. “Oracle, does—” Her nose scrunched up, and an orange haze reached her eyes.

Smoke. 

Gotham was on fire.

“Oracle, what—”

“Firefly’s heading directly to your positions, Spoiler, Cardinal!” 

Shit.

“Black Bat and Signal, are you able to head over?”

“Negative, we’re still held up in Chinatown.”

“Umbra? Hood?”

“Scarecrow’s new strain has penetrated the first responders’ gas masks,” Damian said. “I am afraid we both must help with first aid and toxin response.”

“Batman?”

“Joker seems to know something about Firefly’s plan. Oracle, are you sure he’s on his way to the Narrows?”

“Give me a—”

It was only due to her years of training that Steph avoided being clobbered by a massive swing of a baton straight toward her neck. She released her grip on her grappling hook, flipping backward. She reached into her belt for her backup, lifted it up—

Click.

Her eyes widened. She barreled towards the ground, the sound of Firefly’s laughing the background soundtrack to her impending death. 

“Spoiler!” Tim yelled. 

She closed her eyes. She always told Bruce that if she died, she’d go out doing something heroic. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I—” 

She grunted, the wind knocked out of her. An arm encircled her, gripping her tightly. Steph and her mysterious savior hit the ground hard, rolling so many times they almost slipped over the opposite edge.

“That’s gonna be a killer bruise,” she moaned, face down. She tasted a little bit of blood, which could be from the fall or from an earlier injury.

“Better than being dead,” her savior drawled, separating from her. Steph took a quick moment to appraise him: a red, yellow, and green armored jacket with a bodysuit (likely reinforced Lycra, since Kevlar couldn’t be that thin and form-fitting) underneath. Twin escrima sticks were strapped to his back. The blank eyes of a domino mask stared back at her.

A new cape, then.

“Very true,” she said. She lifted herself up, biting down a groan of pain. She offered a hand up. “I’m Spoiler.” Her comm exploded in noise, which she muted silently.

“Nice to officially meet you. I like the costume change.” Steph was confused for a moment, before remembering that she used to rock an all-purple outfit. 

“Thanks.” They nodded to each other, before turning both leaping off the roof, toward where Firefly was still wreaking havoc. 

Steph clicked her comm back on. “Spoiler, status update,” Bruce said. 

“I’m all good. A new vigilante saved me,” she said. Said vigilante tilted his head at her.

“You go left, I’ll go right?” he asked. Steph nodded, and they both started off.

“A new cape?” Duke asked. “Is it Robin?”

Steph didn’t have time to answer his question, as Firefly realized that she hadn’t, in fact, fallen to her death, and she also suddenly had backup that was distinctly non-Bat. She just barely rolled away from a new wall of flame.

She took out her backup backup grapple gun, aiming it at Firefly’s wingpack. It pierced the metal and likely through Firefly as well, who let out a grunt, tilting backwards. Steph dug her heels in, pulling against the wingpack, but her feet were quickly slipping toward the edge of the roof.

To her right, Robin(?) sprinted between rooftops like he was born doing so. He climbed up onto a flagpole then jumped off, hands outstretched, and grabbed onto the grappling line. His added weight and momentum brought Firefly crashing down to earth.

Steph retracted her grappling hook, jumping over to the next rooftop as Firefly ditched his wingpack and started to engage in hand-to-hand with Robin. Despite the heavy landing, it seemed like he was still in good enough shape.

“A new bird joins the flock?” Firefly quipped, swinging out with his batons. Robin swiftly moved between the hits, sweeping a leg out to try and trip the villain up.

“Not quite,” he said, rolling to avoid a downward swing. He reached into his jacket, producing two thin escrima sticks which crackled with electricity. 

Steph creeped off to the side, eyes glued to the display in front of her. While Firefly wasn’t known for his hand-to-hand skills, his fight with Robin made him look like a ten-year-old who put the wrong shoe on each foot. The new vigilante was graceful and quick-footed, flipping away more often than he would simply dodge, making his movements flow almost like a gymnastics routine.

It was over quickly, without Steph having to step in. A triple somersault-aided kick to the gut sent Firefly rolling away, cursing at Robin.

“You piece of shit!” he screamed, clutching his stomach.

“You know, I’m more accustomed to being called a dick,” Robin said, then jammed his escrima sticks straight into the gut of the Firefly, who doubled over in pain. A jab to the back of the head knocked him out cold.

“Sick sticks,” Steph said, leaning against a small electrical box. “Where’d you get them?”

Robin paused. “They were a gift,” he said, tucking them back into his jacket. Even though she knew where they were stashed, Steph still couldn’t quite make out their outline due to the jacket’s bulk.

“Everything good, Spoiler?” Barbara asked. 

“All good,” she said. “Firefly’s been taken care of.”

“I’m en route to your position,” Damian said. “Everyone else has been secured.”

“Sounds good,” Steph said, side-eyeing Robin, who was tying Firefly up with zip ties. “I’ve got Robin with me, too.”

“And that’s my cue to leave,” Robin said, straightening up. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Spoiler, but—”

For any Gothamite, the sound of Batman’s car was unmistakable. While there was a stealthier way to drive up, after an Arkham outbreak they tended to rev the engine a little louder than normal, as though to signal to the rest of Gotham that the battles were over.

“Wait!” Steph said. “Are you sure you don’t wanna meet the rest of the team? You’re skilled, and I wouldn’t mind putting in a good word to Umbra.”

“That’s quite alright,” he said, already rushing over to the edge. But a dark figure had already ascended to the rooftop, followed by Tim’s tell-tale uniform.

“Robin,” Damian said, in the tone he only used when speaking to flight risks. “I see we’ve finally found a chance to meet.”

“Yeah, super great to meet all of you,” he said, taking a step backwards, tensing when Tim and Damian took up opposite sides to him. 

“Thanks for saving Spoiler earlier,” Tim said. Steph realized they must be doing a good-vigilante bad-vigilante schtick. “If you need some patching up, you can come with us for a debrief.”

“I didn’t take any bad hits,” Robin replied. 

“It never hurts to get it professionally checked out,” Tim said.

“Not quite in the mood to be interrogated by seven Bats.”

“It would only be six,” Steph chimed in. None of them turned to look at her. Rude.

“As much as I love doing maths, I’ve gotta run,” he said. “Left the oven on, I think.”

“Cardinal is being kind by offering. I’m demanding, ” Damian said, quickly reaching a hand out. Robin bent backward into a back walkover, hands gripping onto an off-guard Tim’s shoulders, and then flipping down the fire escape onto the street.

“Oh, come on,” Steph muttered, jumping after an enraged Damian and disgruntled Tim. 

Robin was attempting his escape on foot, which probably would have worked if Duke wasn’t in the car, ready to peel out as soon as they made it back. “Follow him,” Damian ordered.

The car was deceptively skilled at maneuvering through the narrow alleys and streets of Gotham. Soon enough, they had caught up to Robin, who was grappling between buildings.

“Just come back with us for a minute!” Steph yelled. “We promise to be nice!”

Robin rudely didn’t answer, just flipped onto another rooftop.

“Wouldn’t this be easier up there?” she asked. 

“He has proved to be rather evasive on Gotham’s rooftops, despite his relative newness,” Damian said, which was code for “ We’ve tried that and I’m embarrassed to say he was better than five natives at navigating Gotham’s rooftops.”

“We just wanna talk,” Tim said. 

“Then why chase me with the batmobile?” Robin asked. “Not exactly my idea of a good first impression.”

“Your preference for inane chatter is unbecoming of someone who wants to be a vigilante,” Umbra said. “Cease and halt.”

It was a true testament to how much Damian had grown into becoming an older brother in the past couple of decades, since Steph vividly remembered being called an “incompetent, childish whelp” when she had attempted small talk on their first patrol together.

How time flies.

“Just because you’re using formal language doesn’t mean I’ll listen!” Robin yelled, jumping down off a rooftop. As they rounded the corner, they came to a stop in front of the fear toxin pop-up med tents spread across the whole street. 

“Oracle, do you have eyes on him?” Tim asked. 

“Negative,” Barbara answered. “Cameras are down on Newton and King, and there’s too many people with masks on to get a good read from afar.”

“Damnit,” Damian said. They sat there for a moment, staring out at the crowd as though Robin would be stupid enough to appear just to send a message.

“Let’s get back to the cave,” Duke said, pulling back out onto the streets. “Alfred said he’d make French toast tomorrow.”

In classic Bat fashion, Steph ended up in for a debrief and case report that took a few hours. She internally cursed at the fact that she didn’t bounce like Jason did, and instead let herself be lured back to the Manor with the promise of breakfast from Alfred in the morning.

However, it did make her realize that she was woefully behind on the current Bat ongoings.

“Wait, so the new guy used to be Deathstroke’s sidekick?” she asked. Without looking up from their screens, everyone else in the cave nodded. “Was nobody going to tell me this?”

“That’s what you get for not checking the case logs,” Tim said. Steph rolled her eyes, slumping down into a rolling chair. So much more comfortable than the crappy one she had in her apartment.

“Not all of us live and breathe vigilantism. Some people have actual lives.” She didn’t need to look over to know that Tim was rolling his eyes. “Besides, I’ve been out of Gotham for awhile.”

“Spoiler, hook up your camera SD,” Bruce ordered. She popped the small card out of her suit, flicking it into his open hand. 

He took the card and inserted it into the computer, skipping forward to their conversation after he saved her from plummeting to her death. They watched his nimble journey on Gotham’s rooftops, his gravity-defying leap towards the grappling line, and his entrancing fight style.

“His fighting style has changed since he was with Wilson,” Damian said. “Much less contained, although still with the kind of precision I expect Deathstroke demanded.”

“It is a little… ” Duke watched as Robin performed a side aerial into a back handspring to avoid a simple baton strike. “Flamboyant?”

“Excessive,” Cass signed. “But controlled. Skilled.”

“You know, I’m more accustomed to being called a dick.”

Tim narrowed his eyes. “That means something.”

“You’re right,” Steph said. “He could’ve easily used a different word.”

“Renegade never cursed,” Tim said, typing quickly. “And Robin hasn’t been recorded doing so either.”

“An inside joke, then,” Duke said. “Maybe Slade used to call him a dick? Or someone else he knew.”

“Could Dick be his name?” Steph asked.

“It would be old-fashioned. Judging by Robin’s age, I think it’s unlikely his parents would have named him Dick. Richard, perhaps,” Damian said. They all paused. 

Oof. 

Steph pushed down her urge to wince, noticing how everyone else in the room was valiantly trying to avoid eye contact with each other. 

Duke, the most emotionally stable out of all of them, broke the silence. “Richard isn’t that uncommon of a name. Mark it down, Tim.”

“No need,” Tim said.

“B, you’re being real quiet,” Duke said. “Any opinions?” 

“It’s a theory,” he grunted out, which was about as much of a willingness to talk about his deceased ward.

He skipped ahead, and the rest of the Bats graciously let him.

“Well, I always loved doing maths.”

“Maths?” Duke hummed. “He’s non-American, then. Or at least grew up in a location that says maths instead of math.”

“His accent is northeastern American,” Tim stated. “He probably grew up in an immigrant household.”

“Or went to school internationally,” Cass signed.

Steph noted how Bruce seemed to tense and then nod. She was sure that the rest of them had also picked up on it, but Bruce didn’t seem keen on letting them in on whatever troubled him about Cass’ statement. 

“Then why chase me with the batmobile? Not exactly my idea of a good first impression.”

“Batmobile?” Duke snorted. “What is he, five?”

“Or he just has a sense of humor,” Tim said.

“Maybe he’s a clone,” Steph said. “I mean, his first sighting was three years ago, right? Entirely plausible.”

“Somehow I doubt that Slade Wilson would bother cloning someone,” Duke said. “I feel like his track record with children is, like, negative five.”

“All the more reason he would want a clone,” Steph said.

“No way! He’s been on the outs with Luthor for a while now.”

“Was he ‘on the outs’ three to four years ago?” Duke narrowed his eyes, then started typing rapidly on the computer. For once he was glad that they kept a full log of the relations between rogues, as a quick search revealed that Slade Wilson was still on good terms with Luthor four years ago.

“Maybe Robin was a defective clone,” Tim murmured. “And Slade was pissed about it. I mean, he’s not exactly built like him.”

“Who could he be a clone of? He’s not exactly built like anybody else.”

“A clone is unlikely,” Damian said. “There are very few people capable of cloning, all of which would put a high price on such services. And Slade Wilson never takes a favor, only gives them.”

“You never know… ” Tim mumbled. Damian sent an unimpressed look, then tapped his back to make him sit up straighter. “I’ll still put it in the case file as a possibility.”

Maybe mentioning cloning around Tim was a bad idea.

“He said ‘first impression,’” Bruce cut in. “Which means he doesn’t know that we know he was once Renegade.”

“He did say that he liked my new uniform,” Steph said.

“Did he let anything else slip that we missed?”

“Let’s see… ” She moved over to the computer, skimming backwards in the recording. The car chase, Damian and Tim showing up, Robin zip-tying Firefly… 

Wait. “Why did Robin zip tie Firefly, but used ribbon to tie up the Riddler?” she asked, skimming back to her and Tim’s entrance into the Riddler’s set-up and zooming in on his tied-up form. The knots were form-perfect, definitely well-done, but it would have been quicker and easier to use zip ties instead.

“His typical M.O. is to use zip ties,” Tim said. “Deathstroke also preferred to use them. It’s unlikely that he had a shortage of them, too.”

“So he wanted to use the ribbon,” she said. 

“And I bet you anything that the Riddler’s riddle had something to do with it. It makes sense, doesn’t it?” Tim started to pace, nodding his head. “Robin probably found it funny to use it against him. That’s his kind of humor. This is great, Steph, I’ll go and—” Bruce held out a hand.

“No. You have a meeting in approximately four hours. Go upstairs and get some sleep.” Tim opened his mouth to refuse, but everyone else in the cave gave him identical glares.

“Fine, fine.” Tim lifted himself from his seat, back cracking a concerning amount of times. “Night, everyone.” He sluggishly made his way toward the elevator.

Damian sighed. “Duke and I can go check it out, then.”

“No, not you two either,” Bruce said. “You’ve been pulling all-nighters to cover for our absences.” Damian and Duke shared a look. Based on previous moments like that, Steph knew the two of them would just keep arguing that the other deserved sleep more, and also knew that they both knew the argument would simply waste time.

“Fine,” Damian said.

“I won’t complain.”

“Anything you need me for, B?” she asked, internally hoping she would also get to leave. Bruce paused, then shook his head.

“Have a good night, Spoiler. Tell Alfred I’ll be taking the car to Arkham, to speak to Nygma,” Bruce said. Cass raised her hand.

“B-A-T-M-O-B-I-L-E,” she signed.

“What?” Bruce asked. Cass signed out the word again, signed “bat” and “car” separately, then pointed directly at the aforementioned vehicle. “Batmobile?”

“Batmobile,” she repeated, frowning.

“You heard the woman,” Duke said, clapping Bruce on the shoulder. “It’s called the batmobile now.”