Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Tim pulls Jason aside before he and Cass head out. There's some kind of argument going on because Damian wants to come with Tim and Dick. Well, really just Dick. Tim honestly doesn't know why it's a whole fight. Dick's obviously gonna acquiesce to the little demon. He always does.

It's unnerving to see Jason in Nightwing's uniform. He does a convincing impression, but his build is closer to a wrestler than a gymnast, and the way he moves keeps triggering an overwhelming wave of wrongness that Tim just can't explain. He feels safe with Jason at this point. He does. But despite that, Tim's body seems to keep insisting that he's standing before a wolf in sheep's clothing. It's irritating.

“Yeah?” Jason says, stopping as Tim waves him over. He's adjusting his uniform for like the fortieth time. 

“You need to stop doing that. You're going to give yourself away,” Tim says.

“Look, this suit is so far up my ass crack, it's practically crawling out my nose,” Jason says, adjusting the suit again. “Maybe if Dick didn't like to be crammed into his suits tighter than turkey stuffing on Thanksgiving, I wouldn't be having this problem.”

Tim wrinkles his nose at the imagery. “Okay, first of all, ew. Second of all, you can't kill Zucco.”

“Hearing an awful lot of orders there, Birdie," Jason mutters. “And why do you just immediately assume I'm gonna kill Zucco?” 

Tim levels him with an unimpressed look. 

“...I asked Dick and he said no.”

“Names while in the suit,” Tim reminds Jason, a wave of relief running through him. 

That's good. This is good. It's okay if Zucco is dead when they get there, that's probably why they're all dragging their feet. It's fucked, but no one really wants to save that asshole. But if Dick lets Tony Zucco die? He’d never recover. 

“Okay,” Tim says after a second. He braces himself for Jason's reaction. “How about a question instead of an order. Are you going to freeze again like you did at Mask’s?” 

It's not a nice thing to ask, but Jason freezing at Black Mask's could have gotten them all killed. It can't happen again. Not if he's going to be out in the field.

It's weird being able to see Jason's face when he's in gear. He's so emotive. That's probably why he clings to the helmet so tightly. Shock, frustration, and shame flit across his face like a snapshot before his expression goes very blank, like he's thinking, or even the way he does sometimes before he gets really, really angry. 

Tim's expecting some kind of big blow-up reaction, but Jason just shakes his head very seriously. “I don't know,” he admits softly. “Not with Zucco…” Jason trails off. 

He seems to catch himself and grins. “Don't you worry your little head. I'm ready and rearing to kick some ass. I'm less likely to freeze again than that ice cream Dickwing left in his trunk all last summer.”

Okay. Sure. That was convincing. Tim looks off to the side. He asked what he came over to ask. This conversation can be over now. 

Tim swallows, debating if he wants to ask the real question he's been swishing around for the last hour and a half. Is it worth it? Does he want to know the answer?

“Do you-” Tim pauses and starts again. “Do you think they're going after everyone who hurt us?”

Jason snorts, adjusting the suit again. “God, I fucking hope so. If we're lucky this guy will drown Condiment King in his own mustard. I'll shake their damn hand if I never have to clean ketchup  and mayo out of my jacket again.”

Tim goes through the motions of a laugh, but everything in him feels weirdly distant and flat, like the sharp edge of his reality has been sanded down. He almost feels like he's been floating since Bruce disappeared, an unmoored ship with no safe harbor. It got worse watching Steph at Black Mask’s. It feels a lot like that year when Bruce was missing, and Bart and Kon and Steph were dead, and everyone thought Tim had gone insane. Of course, it could just be that he's nearing hour fifty-three with no sleep.

This case definitely isn't funny, though. Tim is pretty sure he doesn't really want to see Ra’s, or the Widower, or even Captain Boomerang dragged out and tortured. He doesn't want to watch his family relive the ways they've been hurt. 

…Maybe Tim does want to see Boomerang dead actually, but he already made that choice a year ago and it sucked. Batman was side-eying him for weeks. Bruce would never look at Tim the same if he let that happen on purpose. But overall, Tim can't really bring himself to take any pleasure in the rogues' fates, nor be as upset as he probably should. As much as the others seem to be. He just feels numb.

Jason, though. Jason's probably enjoying this. He doesn't worry about little things like playing judge, jury, and executioner.

“Even if you're included in that list?”  Tim blurts out before he can catch himself.

He doesn't even know why he says it. It wasn't like Titan's Tower was actually that bad? It's kind of funny even, in retrospect. Hard to be traumatized when your undead childhood hero beats you almost to death while wearing second-hand pixie boots and green underwear. It was melodramatic and inconvenient and ridiculous, but Tim's had worse.

He's probably just digging for any sort of reaction at this point. Tim didn't come over here to pick a fight with Jason, but he's a little curious what it would take to start one. How much has Jason really changed? How much would it take for Jason to try to hit him? Morbid curiosity definitely feels better than helplessness.

Jason doesn't rise to the bait, but a muscle jumps in his temple. “Yeah, well. I'd probably deserve it like all the rest of them.” He smiles wryly. “Doesn't mean I'm gonna just roll over and let it happen.”

Tim keeps his voice low and flat. “What about Damian, would he deserve it?” 

Jason raises an eyebrow. “Whoa, what bee got in your bonnet, Red? He's just a kid, I don't know if it's up to me to decide that.”

Typical. Jason will decide for everyone else in Gotham what's right or wrong, though. Didn't seem to care about Tim being a kid when Jason came after him. He's always been a massive hypocrite. “Now that's a good impression of Nightwing,” Tim says under his breath.

It's not like Tim even wants either of them to get hurt. He likes Jason. He even likes Damian, as frustrating as the brat is. Tim forgave both of them and let all the attempted murders and maimings go a long time ago. He doesn't know why he's pressing the issue. 

Maybe it's because Jason looks like Nightwing right now, but Tim isn't even mad at Nightwing. He's over it.  There isn't any reason for him to prod at this.

His voice is detached, almost clinical in the way that he knows will piss Jason off more than yelling. “You’re loving this.”

Jason goes very still.

“If I didn't know any better,” Tim says, the accusation cool and quiet and unmistakably venomous, “I'd say this was your handiwork. You'd love to see the rogues taken down like this. Right? Batman out of the way, free to kill to your hearts content?” 

Make this make sense.

“I bet it's your fucking wet dream to walk in and see the Joker strung up like Sionis was.”

Hit me. Fight me. Give me an excuse.

Jason just watches him through Dick's mask.

Tim could just hit first. That's always an option. Jason’d probably hit back.

“Sure,” Jason says mildly after a beat. He crosses his arms, shifting to give Tim the entirety of his attention. “But not at the expense of Dick. Or Steph. Or Damian. Or any of you. Maybe once, but not anymore.” 

Tim glares at him, opening his mouth to retort, then closing it again.

Fuck. He doesn't have a good counter to that. 

He deflates, all at once the fight leaves him with an exhale. Tim didn't even notice it had snuck up on him. He's tired. He's really, really tired.

Tim swallows and breaks eye contact, voice hoarse. “The one time I want you to be an asshole, and you can't even give me that much.” 

“Sorry, Baby Bird,” Jason huffs out with a laugh. “I live to disappoint, just ask B.”

Yeah, Tim isn't dealing with the complicated emotions that brings up.

He glances guiltily off to the side, then back to Jason. I almost killed Captain Boomerang once. The words sit on his lips, a confession. Bruce never looked at me the same but sometimes I think I'd let it happen if I got the chance again. He swallows down the admission. 

Jason is watching him with a strange expression on his face, but he doesn't press the issue. 

Tim is suddenly very grateful this didn't turn into a fight. What is he doing? There's work to be done. This isn't about him. Steph and Dick and Damian are all actually going through something terrible. Bruce is missing. Tim's just being dramatic. 

His face heats. He's acting like a little kid. Worse than a kid actually, Tim never lost it this badly at galas or important business functions when he was younger. Mom and Jack trained him better than that. When they were around anyway. He shouldn't be making this about him. He just needs a nap. Like a cranky toddler.

Tim schools his face into a blank mask. “Sorry, didn't mean to snap. I just came over to ask about Zucco.”

“It's cool,” says Jason after a beat. “Hey, kid-”

Dick interrupts from across the roof, “RR, you ready?” he gestures at Damian next to him. “We're gonna head out.” 

Of course.

Tim turns suddenly to look at Jason. “Oh! I almost forgot, take this with you.”

He fishes a palm-sized plastic case out of his pocket. Inside is a device he cobbled together with a modified Rasberry Pi and antenna. “See if you can get within thirty meters of someone getting active orders through Hatter’s tech. I think I might be able to track the signal.” 

“Bossy,” Jason mutters, but he holds out his hand anyway to take it. He inspects the device, then slips it into Nightwing's utility belt with a nod.

Tim smiles, slightly more real this time. “Well, it's not like I was sitting around twiddling my thumbs or smoking while Dick and Babs were arguing.”

Jason scowls. “I know you didn't just imply-”

Tim doesn't stick around for the rest of the rant, he just whispers “Maybe you should just try calming the fuck down,” and dodges Jason's halfhearted shove. 

They both have places to be. It's time to go on the offensive.

Cass wraps her in a crushing hug before Steph leaves. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes, and she stutters in a ragged inhale, like her lungs are caught on barbed wire. Oh. 

There's something so wonderful about Cass knowing what Steph needs before she does. There's no need for words between them, and Steph wouldn't have wanted them anyway. Tim tried to speak to her about Mask on their way to the Clocktower but Steph had brushed him off with a laugh. She didn't really know how to answer the question “are you okay?” today.

Cass doesn't ask. She doesn't need to. She just holds on tight until Steph lets go. 

Duke is standing awkwardly off to the side, trying not to interrupt the hug sesh. But when Steph catches his eye, he gives her a soft smile. “Looks like Robin is ditching us for better company,” he says wryly.

Steph snorts, unsuccessfully pretending that she hadn't just been about to cry. Duke’s nice enough not to mention it. “His loss, you ready to go party in the Bowery?”

“Born ready,” Duke says with a smile.

Cass grabs her hand, giving it a parting squeeze, and then sashays across the roof to hop the ledge with Hood- er, Nightwing.

Steph and Duke take the motorbikes Oracle has in a storage unit nearby, ‘cause Babs is thoughtful like that. Also, Steph's arms are already tired from running around all night, and her leg is still sore from the bullet graze, so the rest from grappling is a bit of a relief. 

The minute they wheel their bikes into Park Row, Steph is on high alert. There's obviously something wrong in the Bowery.

Steph likes to think that she knows the area pretty well, all things considered. So when she tells Duke that something is off, she appreciates that he actually listens. He knows the place pretty well too, after all. 

There's a hush in the streets. The urchins aren't pickpocketing or digging through dumpsters. There's no drunk guys singing from the curbs, no arguing couples yelling from windows of rundown apartments or uncomfortably loud moaning and gasping from any alleys or thin-walled motels. It's silent.

Maybe most concerning, that one ‘psychic’ lady who sits in a shopping cart at the corner of Park Row and yells about people letting her read the soles of their feet doesn’t even screech at them when they swing by. Apparently ‘Granny Eunice the Shopping Cart Psychic’ is pretty legit. Steph knew a girl whose uncle’s friend’s older brother said she'd accurately predicted that he'd get a job, walk in on his girlfriend cheating, and almost get hit by a car all in one week. He’d said the old lady had taken pictures of his feet with a disposable camera and tried to sell them, though, so Steph hadn't tried to get her fortune read. She's almost positive those pictures would end up on the Internet somewhere and she’d never hear the end of it. Bruce would lecture her for hours if matching feet studied by creeps online was how Spoiler and Stephanie Brown got connected.

But still. That lady was literally always screeching. Maybe she's asleep? No. Steph sees the glint of her eyes as she watches them pass. Spooky.

Steph wonders if she could convince Duke to get his foot-fortune read. She'd be willing to bet money that she could get Tim to do it, if she told him it was for a case.

It's not hard to find the fire, with the smoke still billowing dark and oily into the night. It's an old apartment building. Condemned now, but Steph would recognize it anywhere. It's the apartment complex they'd lived in when she was little, before Cluemaster left her and her mom to be a third-rate wannabe Riddler. She doesn't let herself react to the smoldering shell of it. Doesn't want to give anyone the satisfaction. Dear ol dad’s still in prison, and safe when she checked yesterday, anyways. 

This is just a place. And today is just a day. A bad day, sure. But Stephanie Brown has had plenty of those and come out the other side swinging.

The cramped four story building is burnt to a crisp, windows shattered and walls blackened from heat and smoke. They're lucky it didn't spread to either of the apartments it was squished between. Fire trucks surround the front of it, spraying water hard enough that Steph thinks the flimsy drywall and plywood might just collapse out from underneath itself. It wasn't exactly up to code, even ten years ago. Good riddance, honestly. It's not like the building is full of happy memories. She just hopes no one was squatting inside the rotten old structure.

This had better not be a sign of things to come. Steph’s had enough reminders of shitty moments in her past today, with Mask and everything. Wow, wait. Was that really today? It feels like a lifetime ago.

The last thing she wants to worry about is someone going after her dad just because he's a villain who “hurt her,” assuming that's what they were attempting with Mask. She doesn't need some strange freak to fight her battles. Especially like that. And while Steph doesn't want Arthur Brown dead, she doesn't really want to interact with the asshole either. So she'd asked Barbara to keep an eye on him when shit started kicking off.

Duke runs back over from where he was talking to the firefighters. His yellow suit is backlit by the dying blaze behind him, and there's a thin sheen of sweat gathering above his lip from the heat. She's glad she's partnered with Duke tonight. The kid’s not gonna hem and haw about her emotional state or try to “protect her”. She loves Tim, she really does. But sometimes she just wants to hit him with a brick (again) when he's hovering. Things feel a little lighter without Broodywing or Red Worrywart side-eying her. Hood and Cass at least are being kinda normal tonight. Damian is definitely not okay, but that doesn't really feel like a Stephanie problem. There's like, four or five other people that are closer to the brat than her. And everyone is freaked about Bruce. 

Well. Steph isn't too freaked. He's Batman. He'll be okay. Of course she wants Bruce to be safe, but Steph's life doesn't orbit around him like everyone else's seems to. She isn't falling apart without him. So she's doing better than Dick and Tim on that front at least. That's a win.

Duke gestures towards the fire, coughing a little at the heavy smoke. It's mostly out at this point, but it probably isn't structurally sound or cool enough for them to enter yet. “They're getting the fire under control,” he says. “Fire marshal thinks it was started with some kind of accelerant. They found one body.”

They wait another hour or so, talking with eyewitnesses, and watching the steady thrum of activity through the scene.

At one point, after speaking to a homeless man who had been at the corner nearby when the fire lit up- he didn't see shit, of course -Duke had yawned so big that Steph thought about just sticking her hand in his mouth. She didn't, of course, because Steph is nice like that. But she definitely thought about it.

“Man, I'm ready for tonight to be over,” he says, stretching his neck side to side. 

“Tell me about it. You still gonna do afternoon patrol tomorrow?”

Duke hesitates. “Maybe? If I can take a nap first. At least it's a Friday.” He pauses, then adds, “I guess technically it's Saturday at this point. No school.”

Steph blinks. Saturday already? She'd lost track. Today definitely gave Tuesday vibes. All shitty days do.

“Well, if you do, I'll come with ya.” She thinks for a second. “So long as it's after like one in the afternoon ‘cause I need to sleep in,” Steph amends.

No one should patrol alone right now. 

Duke smiles slyly. “You're as bad as Nightwing.”

Steph gasps theatrically. “You take that back right now!” 

He laughs, bright and unmistakably tired, but real. It feels like a breath of fresh air in this soot-choked night.

The firefighters clear them to enter the apartment building fifteen minutes later. Steph's honestly relieved that it looks nothing like what she remembers. The cheap, crispy furniture is all different, and the fire has transformed it enough that the stained wall paper and gray scratchy carpets are all but unrecognizable. 

It's still sweltering in here, and they're wearing gasmasks to filter out any latent smoke or floating asbestos and lead paint particles. But the smell of wet, burnt drywall is suffocating even through the bat-grade gear. It's making her eyes water.

Steph’s heart sinks with each step as the firefighter leads her and Signal down the hall towards the corpse. Apartment 1A, 1B, 1C, 1D, fuck. They stop at 1D. 

Steph braces herself. Of course it's her old apartment. Why wouldn't it be? The door's already open, and she lets Duke and the firefighter go in first. She hears Duke's voice ring through the smoke-stained doorway, filtering strangely through the mouth piece. “Uh, I guess we're moving from personal attacks to irony.”

His head peaks back out. “Spoiler? You coming?”

Duke doesn't know this is her old place, but he does know who her dad is, and isn't tiptoeing around this, so it's probably not him. Especially since Arthur is still at Blackgate. But still. This feels like a message.

Steph steps into the room. Her eyes widen at the charred husk in front of her. He still has all his gear, unmistakable even in this state. No wonder the fire grew so quickly. Accelerant would be accurate.

Well. Good news is, it's definitely not her dad. But bad news, aside from the dead guy, holy fuck is that a message.

The building starts to creak around them, dust and bits of ceiling raining down.

The firefighter startles. “We might want to leave. We must have missed something,” she says. “It was stable, but that's not a good sign.”

Duke's eyes go wide through the lenses of his mask as the groaning ceiling starts to warp. “Go. Go!”

The adrenaline rush is a relief after the insanity of today. It's felt like there was too much waiting and not enough doing. Spoiler grabs the firefighter’s arm, ushering her towards the door. “There anyone else in here right now?” 

“Uh, no. We spent the last hour making sure it was safe, and I think you were the last we brought throu-” 

“Good! Run.”

They sprint towards the door. When Duke shouts “beam’s gonna fall!” Steph doesn't hesitate. She shoves the firefighter hard towards Signal. Seconds later, the thing tumbles down, bringing ashes and clouds of soot down in its wake. Steph skids to a halt, and the beam misses her by inches. Duke’s precognition probably just saved her life. He's way better than a shopping cart psychic.

More rubble falls, blocking Steph’s exit. But she's pretty sure the firefighter and Duke are safe on the other side.

“Spoiler! You good?” Duke shouts through to her. A ripple of relief eases through her shoulders.

“Yeah! There's a back way. I'll go ‘round. You both okay?”  

“Yes! Be careful!”

She thinks maybe this is when she'd normally make a quip about how awesome she is, or how she's always careful, but Steph's eyes catch on the light fixtures in the hall. It's a weird thing to notice, but they're the exact same as she remembers. She used to think they looked like a boob. They still kinda do. The reminder that she used to live in this building is chilling even in the heat. But it's just a place.

“You too,” Steph calls. She knows she’s hesitated long enough. “Now go!”

She runs back towards her old apartment. There was one window in there that was big enough for people to climb through. Her mom had pushed a dresser up against it so baby Steph could reach in case of an emergency. That dresser is long gone, but the window should still be there.

Steph hears another crash behind her, as more of the building comes down. She grins despite herself. Man, she loves the rush of a death-defying moment. Nothing makes her feel so alive. So out of her head and in her body. Everything simplifies and narrows into survival. Steph was made for this, the adrenaline, the saving people, the cool looking eggplant outfit. She was made to be a hero.

Another deafening crack sounds from above as a wall shudders. Steph runs past Firefly’s body, bound with chains and the metal “Fire cleanses Gotham” sign stabbed into his stomach. She skids into her old room. Yep. Window is still there. She can reach it no problem now, and the glass is already broken. Steph will just need to clear it a bit. She glances haphazardly around the room for a blanket to throw over the jagged frame. 

She freezes. What the hell? 

There's a cheap crib in the corner, where Stephanie’s old bean bag chair used to be. And in that crib is a tiny decorative bird cage. 

It's not empty. And it's not burnt. The poor thing inside probably died from smoke inhalation, like a canary in a coal mine. 

The building groans, snapping her out of her stupor. Steph snatches the blanket from the crib, and the cage on top of it. She doesn't know why she grabs the thing, before the building comes down and she sprints to safety. Message or not, it just feels wrong to leave it.

The little corpse of the robin.

Damian eyes the rooftops and back alleys warily as they swing through Gotham. It's quiet. Too quiet for these wretched streets. 

When they get to the warehouse, they can barely approach even with gas masks. The cloud of fear toxin hangs heavy and noxious in the air. There isn't much they can do until it is ventilated, so they wait. 

Richard is twitchy. Timothy is ignoring them both, typing on his wrist holo whenever they stand still. Oracle is mostly quiet in their ear.

The hazardous waste removal team is working dutifully on dispersing and neutralizing the gas. The toxin is a particularly potent strain, and they need to be careful. A dock worker already died of cardiac arrest from walking nearby an hour earlier, but not before running into the streets and causing a major pileup.

A woman in heavy HAZMAT gear approaches, looking grim. Timothy looks up. Dick puts his hand on Damian's shoulder. 

She sighs heavily. “It's a deadly strain. Seems to bypass even previous exposure immunity. Terrible way to go, but I can't say I'm not a little relieved.” 

“Relieved?” asks Red Robin.

“See for yourself,” the woman replies. “It should have cleared up enough that your gas masks will handle it, but double check that they're at least CBR, Olive, and HEPA grade. Trust me.” 

Of course they are. Father only provides the best.

They enter the scene, and Damian feels anything but relief.

The warehouse is lit with floodlights, enunciating the sharp edges and shadows of its cargo. The place is divided in sharp relief. Light, and dark. Clean air, and poison. Death, and its source. Clouds of the pale gas still linger close to the ground, heavier than the air. It almost has a strange pinkish hue in this light.

Damian feels the hair on his forearms stand up at the knowledge of what this chemical would do if he inhaled it. He's been dosed with Fear before, and it is never pleasant. This strain almost feels slightly acidic on his flesh, definitely an irritant. His skin crawls. The hazardous waste worker assured him that skin contact shouldn't be harmful, except for a possible slight increase in paranoia. Surely they can be trusted in this matter.

Red Robin is taking a sample of the gas, running it through his field diagnostics kit attached to his wrist holo. Richard, wearing Hood’s abysmally designed gear, is investigating the body. 

If the cops were in here instead of Gotham Hazardous Waste Control, they likely would not let Hood get so close, but the workers here seem to have no such qualms. The GCPD mongrels assigned do not seem willing to even approach the warehouse. They linger at the perimeters of the crime scene, the cowards. Damian notes their names and badge numbers so that Gordon might dismiss them and hire better subordinates.

Damian inches closer to Richard. “I thought Crane was immune to his own toxins, due to extensive exposure.”

The body is curled in on himself like a dead spider, eyes wide and bulging. Jonathan Crane has never looked so afraid.

“Obviously not all of his own toxins,” Timothy says condescendingly, walking up behind them.

Damian bristles. He clearly knows that. Of course Timothy is undermining him in front of Richard. He always doubts Damian's competence. “I do not recall inviting your opinions,” Damian responds tartly.

“Well I don't recall you being invited on this investigation.”

“Yeah? I don't recall you being invited into this fam-”

“Please,” Richard bites out, his voice made harsher and harder by Hood’s modulator. “Can we please focus on this investigation instead of bickering today? For once?”

Timothy and Damian both fall silent, cowed by Richard's tone. 

Damian tries not to say it. He really does. But this isn't his fault.

“… he started it,” Damian mutters under his breath.

Richard's head snaps like a whip towards Damian. 

“Yeah, that's mature,” Timothy says snidely. 

“He did!”

“Out,” Richard snaps. “Both of you wait outside. If you can't figure out how to behave professionally on a case, maybe you should go home.”

“Okay, father,” Damian says mutinously. 

Everyone freezes like Damian just pulled a pin on a grenade and threw it at Richard. 

There is a long uncomfortable beat. Timothy chuckles awkwardly. “Wow. You just got dad-zoned.”

“I said out,” Richard enunciates each word like he wants to hit something. Like his patience is just a hair away from dissolving into nothing. “Wait outside, and not. Another. Word.”

Damian makes sure to shoulder-check Timothy as he stomps towards the door. Someday he'll be taller than him due to Father and Mother's superior heights, but as is, Damian knows he can still throw Timothy off balance at chest level. Timothy makes an indignant noise and steps on Damian's cape, likely leaving a disgusting boot print on the pristine fabric. 

Damian stumbles, turning imploringly towards Richard, but he just snaps his finger, and points at the door. 

This is all Drake's fault.

They sit on the curb outside, removing their gas masks with a huff. Damian’s arms are crossed and he taps his foot impatiently. Anger, frustration, and shame roil unchecked in his gut. Timothy is back to ignoring Damian, tapping away on his wrist holo. He seems unbothered about being sent to timeout like a child. 

The holo beeps, lighting up with a new result from the field diagnostics sample, a chemical compound. Three, actually.

Timothy's face twists with confusion.

Damian doesn't want to speak to him, but his curiosity wins out. “What?” 

“Grapefruit.” 

“Tt. If you are stubborn enough to only speak in nonsense, then you are being childishly immature, let me see!” Damian reaches for Timothy's wrist.

“No, I'm not speaking nonse- geez stop grabbing! Why is everything always a fight with you? Look, look, I'm showing you!” Timothy turns the holo so Damian can better view the three chemical models next to several formulae.

Damian frowns. “C21H24O5? That is not a normal addition to fear toxin,” he says. Asks, if he is being honest with himself.

Timothy shakes his head. “Nope. This strain is heavily inundated with grapefruit extract. That's why it was potent enough to kill Crane. And why our suits smell like cleaning spray.”

Damian does not want to admit his own ignorance, but he doesn't quite understand what a fruit might have to do with toxicity. Luckily, Timothy loves the sound of his own voice.

“You know how people aren't supposed to eat grapefruit with most kinds of medications, especially SSRIs?” Timothy zooms in on one of the chemical compounds, almost sounding excited.

Damian nods for lack of a better response. He vaguely remembers Alfred purging the kitchens of grapefruit after Father ate one while starting medications for his high blood pressure. Damian rotates the chemical compound, noting how it combines with the fear toxin on Timothy's screen.

“Grapefruit contains furanocoumarins,” Timothy explains. “They bind and neutralize a digestive enzyme called CYPA4 which prevents certain medications and toxins from being absorbed directly into the bloodstream. Eating grapefruit can cause failure for medication to absorb, or more relevant for this situation, the neutralization of that enzyme can cause buildup beyond what a body can process, leading to overdoses. It's especially common with psychiatric medications, but I also can't eat it because of my antibiotics. The grapefruit might have prevented Crane’s body from processing the toxins like it usually would have, leading to more than even he could handle in his system.”

“Crane was a psychologist,” Damian says thoughtfully. “He likely would have known of these interactions and might have been experimenting with the possible increases in potency. Perhaps his death was an accident?” Damian does not really believe that. He doubts Timothy does either.

“Yeah, maybe,” Timothy says, trailing off. “I don't think it would have been so fast of an effect though. He was just laying there. He must have known-” Timothy doesn't finish the thought. He just starts typing rapidly.

Damian observes him, his temper cooling. He does not understand why Timothy makes him feel so defensive. 

He is very competent, though Damian would not admit it to his face. And he can even, occasionally, be pleasant to spend time with. 

Damian and Timothy usually play videogames together Fridays before patrol. It started a few months ago after Timothy became grievously ill due to his lack of spleen and presumably poor hygiene. He had been wrapped in blankets and hogging all of the entertainment consoles in the most comfortable living room of the manor for nearly two weeks. Alfred had been keeping him there for observation.

But when Damian eventually wandered in, Timothy had just wordlessly handed him a controller and they'd started playing. The next week, though no longer ill, he had already been in there when Damian arrived home from school. Thus the unspoken tradition started. Fridays, Timothy was always there, and they always played videogames. It didn't matter what they played, so long as they did. Sometimes Duke joined them. Sometimes Cassandra watched. But Timothy was always waiting when Damian got home from school, with snacks and ‘trash talk’ and stories about annoying people at Wayne Enterprises.

That did not happen today, Damian realizes with an odd pang.

He isn't sure if Timothy would have continued the tradition anyway, even if Father hadn't been missing. He'd been very upset that Damian had ruined his new project earlier this week. It had been an accident, but Damian probably could have reacted with less hostility to the accusation that it had been an intentional mishap. He’d never apologized. He'd never even explained himself. And Richard had taken Damian’s side, which was all that seemed to matter at the time.

“Red Robin,” Damian starts gravely. He must convey his sincerity. Timothy continues to tap away at his wrist. “Last week, when I used your birdarangs without your permission-”

“They weren't just birdarangs, Robin.” 

“I understand. You were upset that I touched your possessions.”

“I was upset because that was months of work down the drain.” Timothy corrects. His tone does not change at all. He is typing still, not even gracing Damian with his attention.

Damian’s shoulders rise up around his ears. Why is talking to Timothy so hard. He is trying to apologize, but Timothy always acts like Damian is plotting against him. Like he's still an assassin at the whims of his grandfather, a killer. An honorless thug. Drake will likely never accept him. This is proof.

“They looked the same,” Damian says, gritting his teeth.

“They were on a workbench, next to a microscope.”

“You are always just leaving your possessions around!”

“Well, I won't be making that mistake again. I'll be keeping my R&D at The Nest from now on.”

Damian is standing now. “Good! At least it will keep your clutter out of the Batcave! Did you even deactivate the stupid microtrackers when I asked you to?”

Timothy finally looks at him. He has to look up, for once, to meet Damian’s eyes from his seat on the curb. 

“No,” Timothy says patronizingly, like Damian is stupid. “The data from them tracking you is still useful. It’ll save me weeks of catchup. They'll work their way out of your bloodstream in a week or two. Besides, how did you even cut yourself on the thing? Didn't B train you on proper weapons handling? Didn't Ra’s?”

“Tt. Your abysmal weapon design unbalanced it.”

“It was balanced just fine, maybe you need to work on your throws.”

Damian grabs for the front of Timothy's suit, but Timothy catches his wrist, holding it in one hand. Damian leans in close, eyes narrowed.

“You will deactivate those trackers at once.”

Timothy studies Damian, tilting his head curiously. “Do I hear an ‘or else’ in there, Robin? Got something to hide?”

Damian’s fist is moving before his mind even catches up. He doesn't think he even expected to make contact. He expected Timothy to dodge. There was time to dodge. Why didn't he dodge?

The overhand jab hits Timothy hard across the jaw, snapping his head to the right. 

They both just breath hard for a moment, stunned. 

Timothy touches his split lip with his tongue, tasting the blood.

“I-,” Damian starts to say.

But then the bo staff hits Damian's right foot, knocking him back. Damian does a back hand-spring to regain his balance, but Timothy is already there when he lands, aiming a vicious kick towards Damian's stomach. He takes the hit, just to see how serious Timothy is about this fight, and immediately regrets it. He feels the air whoosh out of him.

Okay, a real fight then. Damian grins, and it is all teeth.The guilt is already replacing itself with indignant fury. If Drake wants a fight, it would be his pleasure to oblige. 

Damian blocks the next swipe of the staff with his katana, drawing it with a satisfying shing and feinting to the left. Drake calls his bluff, dodging into Damian’s guard and nailing him in the solar plexus with one end of the staff. Damian doubles over at the hit, gasping, but the desire for blood is stronger than any temporary stun.

Damian grasps the bo before it can be pulled back, his knee finding Drake's crotch on instinct. It collides with a satisfying oof. The cup in his suit likely prevents any permanent damage, but clearly not all based on his wheeze of pain. It is like music. Damian smirks at the sound. 

Damian takes a quick step backwards, his vision clearing. “That will teach you to-”

Drake recovers quickly, running at Damian with a series of rapid strikes from his staff. Damian parries the first three, but falls for a feint. Drake smacks him with two rapid hits across his jaw and chest. He reels and stumbles backwards, his head knocking loudly against the concrete of the warehouse wall.

Damian sees stars.

“Shit. Robin, are you okay? I didn't mean to-”

“Are you two kidding me?” Hood’s modulator, but unmistakably Richards' intonation. He sounds angry. “I leave you alone together for five minutes, and you're fighting? Today? Now? Again?” 

“It was- I. He hit me first, I was just-”  Drake stutters.

“You’re old enough to know better! I can't believe you. With everything else going on? Back up.” Red Hood's helmet swims into focus, gentle hands feeling around the back of Damian's head. “Robin, do you know where you are?”

Damian blinks as his vision begins to clear, displaying the scuffs on Hood’s helmet in harsh detail. The mask studies him, and Damian can almost imagine Richard's disappointment and cloying concern oozing out from beneath. “Tt, I am not so addled. We are in Newtown, at a warehouse.” 

Richard nods, clearly relieved. Drake lets out a loud breath, sulking behind him. “Is he concussed?” he asks, obviously judging Damian for even taking a hit in the first place. 

“I don't think so,” Richard says, fingers still gently prodding Damian's head, “but I'll check his eyes when we get somewhere less public. Do you feel dizzy or nauseous, baby bat?”

Damian blinks again, shaking his head. “Crane?”

The modulator does something weird. It takes Damian a long moment to realize it's a sigh.

“We'll know more after the M.E.’s taken a look, but they're pretty sure he died of cardiac arrest from the toxin. I found some ligature marks on his wrists and ankles, and we found a note in his mouth. He was held captive first.”

“It was grapefruit extract,” Damian blurts. He needs to contribute something to this investigation, to prove his worth besides just picking fights. Richard is already so frustrated with Damian.

Behind Richard, Drake's mouth forms a thin line, but he just listens. Guilt creeps in, worming through Damian's gut, but he pushes forward. “Furanocoumarins in the gas. That is what increased its potency.” 

Richard nods thoughtfully. “Makes sense, the warehouse was full of citrus shipments and we found some gas synthesis equipment. Good work.”

“The note?” Timothy prompts impatiently.

“Right. I got some photos, but the note said ‘Even if you steel yourself against fear…it is undeniable.’ -the late Jonathan Crane.” The modulator adds an uncomfortable reverberation to the words, and Damian shivers despite himself. Richard continues, “Scarecrow finally learned his own lesson today, it seems. He and the Bat both use fear as a tool, but I was the sole winner. If only he could have appreciated the truth of his statement through his own screams.”

They all sit with the words.

Oracle's voice crackles over the comms, interrupting the silence. “I don't know what the situation is over there, based on vitals, some kind of fight, but if everyone is uninjured then I've got a few more reports for you to look into. Tonight is a long way from over. Pick up the pace.”

Richard tries to rub his temples, but is obviously stopped by the helmet. Damian pushes to his feet. Timothy eyes him warily.

“Send us the coordinates,” Richard mutters tiredly.

Barbara sits in the Clocktower, cataloguing the reports that have rolled in over the course of the night. The bats have scattered to every corner of Gotham, and at each location, they’ve found bodies.

CASEFILE 31387

SUBSECTION D: Rogue and Violent Offender Casualties 

Eduardo Flamingo, aka The Flamingo 

Status: Deceased.

Cause of Death: Five bullet wounds to chest and spine, signs of torture.

Location: Defunct office building owned by shell corporation of Roman Sionis (see footnote 127).

Primary Notable Connections: Killed in similar fashion to previous attack against Robin (V) two years prior. Guarded by Black Mask's men and two missing civilian minors from Erithacus list (see subsection C). Wearing Batman's cowl when found (subsection B), bat symbol carved into chest.

Roman Sionis, aka Black Mask

Status: Deceased.

Cause of Death: Torture and arterial exsanguination via cordless power drill.

Location: Newtown and Diamond Luxury Apartments. 

Connections: Killed by Slade Wilson (see Threat File 213). Cause of death identical to medical reports and testament on near death of Spoiler (Casefile 4673). Sionis was visited by Batman before death. Bomb and note left with crime scene (subsection B).

Antonio Zucco

Status: Deceased. 

Cause Of Death: Impact injuries due to falling from trapeze wire at Blackgate prison.

Location: Roof of Blackgate Penitentiary.

Connections: Obvious connections to Grayson murders (see casefile 563). Two missing teens (subsec C) found at crime scene. Two civilian deaths, one injury (subsec J).

Garfield Lynns, aka Firefly

Status: Deceased.

Cause of Death: Burning, smoke inhalation, blood loss from stab wound caused by metal sign post. 

Location/possible connections: Spoiler’s old apartment building in the Bowery (address included in footnote 368). Note found (subsec B). Dead bird T. migratorius recovered from scene. One civilian injury (subsec J).

Jonathan Crane, aka Scarecrow

Status: Deceased.

Cause: Cardiac arrest due to potent strain of fear toxin modified with furanocoumarins, signs of restraint and note in mouth (subsec B).

Location: Newtown (address in footnote 421).

Connections: Warehouse identified as one that Robin (II) used to squat at as a kid. Note found (subsec B). One civilian casualty (subsec J).

Waylon Jones, aka Killer croc

Status: Deceased. 

Cause: Decapitation, with several shattered bones (subsec B).

Location: Halfway out of a grate near Gotham sewerage (coordinates in footnote 503).

Connections: Unknown. Note found (subsec B).

Peyton Riley, aka The ventriloquist (II) 

Status: Deceased. 

Cause: Hanging from wires with her puppet Scarface positioned to be holding the rope at the top as if it is pulling strings.

Location: Coventry Central Bridge (coordinates in footnote 623).

Connections: Unknown. Note found.

Barbara's eyes burn. Her note-taking is getting sloppier as the night goes on, fielding reports and questions from her team, the GCPD, concerned civilians, and her contacts out in Gotham.  She's exhausted.

Barbara’s trying her best to track the activity of rogues and major players still out on the streets. She's trying her best to keep an eye on the movements and actions of her teams. She's trying her best not to miss anything. She doesn't know if she's succeeding.

Oracle is supposed to be all knowing, all seeing, all encompassing. Sometimes, Barbara Gordon is Oracle in every possible way. Tonight is not one of those nights. Tonight feels like she is playing catch amongst a field of bouncing pingpong balls, and they're always just out of her grasp. She's not even letting herself think about the consequences of her argument with Dick. She is just glad he didn't witness Zucco fall. Barbara can't quite regret her actions if they led to his being elsewhere, and there's no time for regret anyway.

Her algorithm pings for the twenty-eighth time in the last hour. There's a mugging near Grant Park, a car accident on New Trigate Bridge, and several tiplines saying Two Face and Penguin are alive, and exchanging fire in the east side of Gotham. Dad and his team are still doing damage control out at Blackgate, and some kind of riot has started. Barbara directs the mugging towards Spoiler who is one block away. She pings an ambulance and emergency service towards the bridge, and reaches out to Red Hood and Robin about covert observation of Dent and Cobblepot. She coordinates with SWAT, diverting one of their teams from a robbery Black Bat already handled towards the situation at Blackgate Isle. Nightwing reports that he's done getting stitched up with Leslie and ready to keep fighting. Leslie messages Oracle separately to strongly disagree.

Her algorithm pings again.

Barbara sends Red Robin towards a report of a body washed up in Gotham Harbor. Spoiler is dispatched to stop an active robbery at a Jewelry store in Miller square as soon as she's done with the mugging. Signal reports back from the body found in Robbinsville. Barbara adds another note to Casefile 31387-D.

Victor Zsasz

Status: Deceased.

COD: Stab wounds and slices to chest, leg, and throat. (evidence will be entered in subsec B).

Location: Robbinsville (coordinates to be added later from Signal’s suit records).

Connections: Unknown. Note found. 

Her algorithm pings again. And on it goes.

Harley Quinn texts Barbara around 4:00 in the morning.

Harley : Heya babes, wanted to letcha know, me an Ives are goin to ground. Word round town is Tall Dark and Batty’s gone off the deep end ands is killin folk now. Everyone's freaked! Ivy is real nervous bout her plants n shit so we're gonna take an impromptu vacay! If he goes after mistah J, tell him to aim for the dick! Xoxo 💋🔪🫀

Oracle: Wait, do you know if anyone’s seen evidence of Batman committing these crimes?

Harley: Read 4:06 am.

Oracle: Harley, your read receipts are on. I know you saw this.

Harley: … Harley is typing…

Harley: Read 4:08 am.

Harley: … Harley is typing…

Harley: Maaaaaybe. It's kinda complicated? 👁️👄👁️💅

Oracle: Complicated how?

Harley: Somethin I heard from a friend of a friend. Oh! Ivy’s home! We gotta get movin! Love ya! Good luck! ❤️‍🔥🐯🥰

Oracle: Harley, if you have any information I'd really appreciate it .

Error code 2107- The number you are trying to reach is no longer in service.

Of course.

Barbara briefly considers tracking her down and turning every stoplight she comes across to red to express her displeasure, but it's not like Harley cares about traffic laws, and escalating with her is almost always a terrible idea. She sighs, instead shooting out a quick message to the other Birds of Prey currently in Gotham. Canary’s out of town, but Huntress is willing to suit up and provide some back-up. Barbara messages Batwing and Batwoman as well. Luke is luckily back in Gotham for the weekend and Barbara is hoping he, Kate, and Helena can provide a little relief so the others can get some sleep. But they just get swept into the chaos.

At 5:00 am, Barbara hears movement right behind her and nearly smacks Selina Kyle in the face with a high-density polycarbonate baton. Selina dodges it like she's made of liquid shadow. If it were anyone other than Catwoman, Barbara probably would have broken their jaw.

Catwoman studies her carefully, leaning against the desk. She's suited up and tense, but she doesn't look tired, not like Barbara knows she probably looks. 

“Want to tell me what's going on tonight?” Selina says after several seconds of just studying her. “Where's Bruce?”

Oracle has no answers for her. Not really.

Barbara heaves a sigh, pulling yet another energy drink out from her mini fridge. It's the last one. She'll need to restock tomorrow. She does not offer it to Selina. Barbara needs it more than she does. “What have you heard?”

“Only that something strange is going on with Batman, and someone is cutting a bloody trail through Gotham's rogues.”

Barbara's algorithm pings again. Oracle turns her wheelchair back to the monitors and gets to work. She sends Black Bat to coordinate with GCPD about several trucks that were stolen during the EMP blackouts and contacts Robin to search for a runaway child near the area of the shootout. She messages a contact at Gotham's non-emergency line about reports of a damaged stop sign leaning dangerously into an intersection. Nightwing sends her information about a possible illegal shipment arriving tomorrow for the Maroni family. He's already found trouble somehow. Barbara makes a note in the database. And sends a message to his HUD.

‘Go home, Nightwing. You have a bullet wound. Leslie's orders.’

On a street security camera, she watches Jason flip her off.

“That about covers it,” Barbara responds dully.

“Busy night?” Selina asks, her smooth voice lacking its usual playful lilt. She's worried. Makes sense. She definitely should be.

Red Robin’s comm line clicks to active. 

Barbara holds up a finger to Selina, switching the line to her headset. His voice filters through. “Hey O, body is pretty unidentifiable, at least two weeks in the harbor will do that to a person. I'm sending it to forensics for an autopsy.”

Barbara’s algorithm pings again. “Great, I got another situation coming in hot for you, some kind of fight at a duplex in Coventry. The GCPD report says, and I quote, ‘sounds like bat stuff.’ Sending coordinates.”

Red Robin’s laugh is dry and humorless. “They're so helpful.”

“Always.” She clicks the line off, turning her chair to face Selina. 

“Gotham's usually crazy, but it's like everyone everywhere is acting up. I don't know how much of this is part of some sinister plot and how much is just Gotham being…”

“Gotham?” Selina asks.

Barbara snorts. “Pretty much.”

Selina looks at the map, her mouth twisting slightly at the influx of notifications.

“So he really is missing.”

“Afraid so.”

Selina leans forward, placing a hand on the desk. She's all fluid grace when she moves. It's almost like Cass in some ways. Like it's a dance. 

“There's no sign of the Joker, Bane, Strange, the Riddler, or any other heavy hitters besides Dent and Cobblepot?”

Barbara shakes her head. “I can send you the list of those who are confirmed dead. About half of those rogues were killed in generalized ironic ways. The other half were oddly personalized towards us. Including our civilian IDs. We're all just trying to keep up at this point, while we wait for the other shoe to drop.”

Selina clicks to the map of Gotham, her head tilting. “That doesn't sound like you. Waiting.” 

She zooms in on the all pinned cases from the evening, and then back out. “This mystery perpetrator has been very busy.”

Agreed. The whole thing is a shit show.

Barbara glances irritably back at the map Selina is studying, taking a swig from her energy drink. Her eyes widen. She nearly spits it back out.

“Wait,” Barbara chokes. “Back up for a second.”

Selina obliges, and Barbara rolls over to stare at the screen. All evening, the incidents flooding in from the long and bloody night have scrolled heavily across her map, Barbara's vision blurring from exhaustion. But now, with company and a moment to breathe, the picture of Gotham forms into something clearer before her eyes. 

Barbara gasps, then she laughs incredulously. 

What a way to send a message. Wow, does she want this person off the playing field.

Selina looks at it, then back to her. “You've got something?” Her smile is proud and unmistakably sharp.

Oracle looks at the chaos that has been wrought in her city. It's been a long night, but she thinks maybe she sees the end. That is her job, afterall.

She clicks her headset to the general line.

“Everyone finish up and meet at the cave. Batwoman, Huntress, and Batwing will continue to cover Gotham. I think I've got something.” 

Red Robin chips in. “Me too. I have a lead.”

Oracle smiles, and she starts to draw lines across that bloody, scarred map.

Time to stop reacting. Time to make a plan.