Chapter Text
The invasion of Titans Tower by the weird guy in the adult-size Robin suit had been… less than optimal. Tim wasn’t denying that.
But Bruce taking Robin away from him in response?
Tim thought that was a bit much, personally.
Like, yeah, sure, he probably shouldn’t be running around the rooftops of Gotham with a probably-only-semi-moderate concussion and a couple fractured bones, but confiscating the Robin suit so that he couldn’t?
Excessive.
So maybe Tim had snuck into the cave while Bruce was out trying to find out more about this “Red Hood” guy and maybe he’d taken one of his Robin suits and maybe he’d meticulously gone over it and cut out all of the trackers and then maybe he’d hidden it in one of the hidden compartments in his duffle bag and taken it with him when he’d had to trudge back to his house next door.
Okay, maybe he hadn’t trudged, because Alfred had driven him over, since “next door” in that part of Bristol actually meant close to a mile away.
Tim knew that Bruce expected him to go join his parents on their trip in Malaysia — at least, Tim thought it was Malaysia, but he could be wrong, since they usually never bothered to tell him if their trip took them on detours into other countries — and that the only reason Bruce was letting him out of Wayne Manor was because he thought Tim would be safer where the Red Hood couldn’t find him.
Tim had to admit that Bruce wasn’t wrong. An archeological dig site in the middle of nowhere, the only form of communication a satellite phone that only sometimes worked? Probably the last place anyone would think to look for him.
However, no communications also meant no internet, which meant that Tim wouldn’t be able to hack into the Tower security cameras and try to figure out who, exactly, the Red Hood was, and why he hated Tim so much.
So, yeah, that wasn’t happening.
Tim had no problem pretending that it was, though, because that meant that Bruce wasn’t fluctuating between hovering over him constantly and flitting off to Titans Tower to try and figure out more about the Red Hood. Tim, who was apparently not allowed to go back to the Tower or go on the Batcomputer (although that was mostly because of the concussion) on pain of having his dessert privileges revoked by Alfred, was left staring up at the ceiling while his mind kicked into overdrive.
Except Bruce always came back before Tim could come up with anything that might be a clue to Red Hood’s identity, and resumed his hovering.
Tim was aware of the fact that this was probably because the last time someone wearing a Robin suit had been beaten that badly, Bruce had ended up losing a son. That, however, did not make his concern any less stifling.
To be fair, though, Tim had a tendency to consider any amount of concern from adults as ‘too much.’ It was nice to know that Bruce and Alfred cared about his well-being, at least in as far as it affected his capabilities as Robin.
But, on the whole, Tim wasn’t displeased to be getting away from the Manor and its occupants’ overwhelming concern.
But not at the cost of giving up the Robin suit, obviously, since he was currently swinging around the rooftops of Gotham wearing it.
Tim wasn’t an idiot - he knew he wasn’t supposed to be out, given his injuries. But he’d been going stir-crazy, so he was being careful of his various braces and bandages, and he was taking the easiest possible route that didn’t also coincide with any of Batman’s, even if Batman probably wasn’t actually in town at that particular point in time. And it wasn’t like Tim was going out looking for trouble or anything; he was just going to put a stop to any small-time robberies or muggings or whatever that just happened to cross his path.
…Like the drug deal going down in the alley below him, for example.
Now, usually, Tim’s process for dealing with low-level drug deals was this: get eyes on both the drugs and whatever was being traded for them, take pictures of the exchange for proof if necessary, wait for the buyer to leave if they weren’t obviously gang affiliated or intending to sell them to others, then jump down into the alleyway, knock the dealer out, tie them up, and call the police.
Usually, however, Tim didn’t have a concussion, bruised and/or broken ribs, a twisted ankle, and various other minor injuries. That meant that his usual plan was out.
…He was going to have to improvise.
Tim crept down the rusty fire escape on the side of the building, blending into the shadows as much was possible in a suit that looked like it took its inspiration from a traffic light - which was more than one would think, thanks to some tips Dick had given him when he’d first been starting out. Some had been extremely helpful; others…had not, mostly because Tim was not yet capable of the contortions required to make use of them.
…He was working on it, but he doubted he’d ever manage to be as good as Dick Grayson.
The fire escape did not, unfortunately, reach all the way to street-level, but Tim was able to get close enough that the conversation was audible, so he turned on one of his short-term recording devices in case they said anything important and counted it as a win.
Both the participants were dressed entirely in black - one in a trench-coat and a fedora, and the other a plain black raincoat - which wasn’t entirely abnormal attire for those in Gotham, but something about it made the hair on the back of Tim’s neck stand on end.
Interestingly, neither of them displayed any gang affiliations - and, in Gotham CIty, those were usually quite obvious, given all her villains with a flair for the dramatic and the goons that often followed in suit - which meant that this was potentially someone from out of town testing the waters. Or maybe that somebody had managed to anonymously steal from one of the big names, and needed to find some dupe to take it off their hands before they were found out.
…Or, alternatively, just that they were so low on the hierarchies that they didn’t merit uniforms, which was way less interesting.
Unfortunately for Tim, most of the evidence seemed to be pointing towards the last option. Everything about the deal going on down below him seemed to scream stereotypical drug deal.
Seriously, these guys didn’t have a single ounce of creativity between them.
For example:
“You got the stuff?” asked the more nervous of the two, eyes darting around the rooftops, like he’d be able to see a Bat before they pounced. A native Gothamite, almost certainly, but not the sharpest batarang in the armory.
The stockier of the two - the one in the fedora - rolled his eyes. “Sure, if you’ve got the cash.”
The nervous one glanced around above himself one last time, then opened the briefcase he was holding. Tim absently tapped the side of his domino mask, capturing the image of a literal briefcase full of cash being offered as payment for probably-drugs in the middle of a dingy alleyway.
Could this encounter get any more cliche?
Fedora Guy shifted slightly, turning to take something out of the inner pocket of his jacket, which changed his position enough for Tim to see that he was wearing sunglasses.
At night.
In Gotham.
…Apparently the deal could get more cliche.
Was it really cliche, or just a commitment to an aesthetic? Tim wondered, watching as Fedora Guy withdrew a small case from his pocket and opened it, displaying an arrangement of a dozen or so small pills to Nervous Guy. Steph would know the answer, he was sure.
Too bad she wasn’t around to ask.
Tim tapped his mask again, taking another picture, this time idly zooming in on the drugs to see if he could recognize them. They were in pill form, in the rounded off cylinder shape that always managed to remind him of the little tubes that those expanding sponge things he’d seen on a late night infomercial came in - not that that was relevant, really. The pills were split down the middle, red on one side and white on the other, and there seemed to be a small engraving on the side that Tim couldn’t quite make out from his vantage point. The almost otherworldly zoom capabilities of his domino didn’t matter much when the pills were being held at exactly the wrong angle. If he’d had access to the Batcomputer, it probably could’ve synthesized a 3D replica of the pill, including the engraving. But, alas, Tim was doing his best to stay off of Batman’s radar, which meant no visits to the Batcave.
Besides, there was a much easier course of action.
Tim carefully shifted onto his stomach, minding his ribs, and near-silently slipped off of the fire escape onto the ground below. He winced as his landing jarred his bad ankle, but ignored the momentary pain to peer out from behind a pile of trash bags and miscellaneous detruis towards the deal.
The skittish man examined the pills carefully, even going as far as to pick one up and lift it towards the scant moonlight that managed to make it through Gotham’s thick layers of smog, which meant that Tim and his quick reflexes were just barely able to snap a picture of the drug before it was returned to the case. Once he got to a decent computer, he’d be able to upload the photo and enhance it until the writing was clear.
Fedora Guy closed the case with a sharp and final-sounding snick. “Satisfied?” he asked dryly.
The nervous man’s eyes flitted around the rooftops one more time before he nodded, just once. “And they’ll do…what they were advertised to do?”
Fedora Guy chuckled. It wasn’t a nice chuckle. “Yes. One little pill, and you can make anyone problematic… disintegrate.”
The nervous man flinched, so clearly that meant something more than Tim realized. Code, perhaps?
“And it won’t leave any evidence?” the nervous man asked insistently.
Fedora Guy stared at him blankly - he seemed almost bored. “Not a speck of DNA. Whoever you want to get rid of will be more likely to be listed as a missing person than dead, if you use it right.”
Okay, so not code.
Extremely literal.
Good to know.
Also definitely not something Tim could allow to hit the streets of Gotham. Although most of the A-list villains tended to be more… theatrical with any murders they had planned, he was sure that some of them - the Penguin, at the very least - would jump at the chance of making their problems disappear permanently, to say nothing of Gotham’s corrupt politicians or police officers. There was most assuredly a market for anything that could make that happen.
Tim shifted his weight slightly, readying himself to leap into action, but before he could move further, something crashed into the back of his head and he fell to the ground, the world spinning around him. There was a sharp pinch to his neck, and suddenly he couldn’t even twitch a muscle.
Alfred (and therefore Bruce by extension) didn’t like it when he swore, but he had a feeling that they would agree that it was warranted in this particular situation.
Fuck.
He really shouldn’t have been patrolling if his concussion was bad enough to keep him from tracking his immediate surroundings.
Tim watched, unable to move, as a man with long, shining silver hair stepped out from behind him, not deigning him with another glance as he fixed his gaze unerringly upon the skittish man, who turned approximately the same color as the milk that had been in the back of the fridge at Drake Manor for five months and counting.
“Was this the little birdie you mentioned?” the long-haired man asked, wearing a slash of a grin that would’ve made the Joker cry copyright infringement.
Fedora Guy jumped, but didn’t seem all that surprised to see him. ”A-aniki!” he greeted the long-haired man, practically snapping to attention.
Japanese for ‘older brother,’ often used in the context of the yakuza to refer to superiors, Tim’s brain found fit to inform him.
Shut up and help me get out of here, Tim told his brain.
You are currently experiencing symptoms of a severe and/or compounded concussion, his brain informed him, as if he weren’t already stunningly aware of that particular piece of information.
“You forgot to completely secure the area again,” the long-haired man said, stalking towards the other two men. Tim rankled at being ignored, but he had to admit that he probably wasn’t too much of a threat to them when he a) couldn’t move and b) was seeing double.
“S-sorry, aniki.”
“This is the second time, Vodka. Do better, or I’ll have to kill you.” He said it like that would be a somewhat regrettable outcome, but not one that he’d bother avoiding if it came to it.
What a great guy, thought Tim, because apparently not even a concussion and possible paralysis was enough to stop him from being sarcastic. Or self-deprecating, apparently, because his next thought was, this is why the Red Hood called you ‘Pretender.’ You should be focusing on trying to get out of this situation, not on making quips!
Which was true, even though Tim couldn’t really see a way out of it. He couldn’t even reach his panic button (which he had left in the suit, just in case; it wasn’t connected to a tracker but Bruce could triangulate the signal if necessary), much less any of his weapons. Unless the possibly-yakuza just straight-up forgot he was there, which didn’t seem particularly likely, he was screwed.
If it had been Dick or Jason, they would’ve been able to get out of this mess, Tim thought, watching uselessly as the long-haired man took over the transaction and Vodka or whatever his name was did his best to fade into the background. Hell, they probably wouldn’t have gotten into it in the first place.
“Now, you, whatever your name is.” The long-haired man waved a hand vaguely towards the nervous man, who, predictably, jumped and tried to stammer out an apology that the long-haired man cut off with a sharp gesture. “Are you doubting our product?”
The nervous man blanched. “N-no, sir! Not at all!” He hesitated for a moment, then seemed to find a spine for a single second. “It’s just - my employer - ”
The long-haired man snorted. “Right.”
The nervous man quailed, but managed to stand his ground.
“Then…” The long-haired man’s gaze shifted back to Tim, and a shudder ran down Tim’s spine. “Why don’t we have a… demonstration, let’s say.”
Fuck.
Tim redoubled his efforts to get away as the long-haired man approached him - casual and leisurely, like he had all the time in the world. And he did, too, because for all the effort Tim was putting in to moving his hand to the panic button less than two inches away from his hand’s current position, he only managed to succeed in making his pinky twitch before the long-haired man yanked his head up by his hair - ouch - and forced one of the red and white pills into his mouth, covering his nose and mouth and cutting off his air supply until he was forced to swallow it down.
If I ever get the chance to redesign my Robin suit, I’m giving it a cowl, was the last thing Tim thought before the pill dissolved in his system and everything turned to piercing white-hot pain.