He buffed the Batmobile's bumper in slow, deliberate gestures. Chamois cloth flashed up and down the chrome. I observed from the swivel chair in the terminal of the cave, knees up, chest down. Fluorescents buzzed overhead. "Master Dick should have Batman back soon," Alfred stated nonchalantly, eyes never leaving the window. Even, unruffled, British, was his tone.
I was wiser than what he thought was going on. I clasped my jeans firmly. Those comic panels flashed in my mind—Nightwing and Batman lying crushed beneath rubble due to the cunning of Two-Face. They would not walk in tonight without my help. Alfred's buffing stopped; he noticed my silence. "Something is wrong, Master Tim?" He didn't glance up from the shiny bonnet of the Batmobile.
The words poured out of my mouth before I could hesitate. "Alfred. Dick and Bruce won't make it back tonight. Two-Face dropped the warehouse on them." His swiping hands went still. I recognized the flash of hesitation in his shoulders, the clenching of his jaw. He was more aware of Gotham's anarchy than any human being. "They're going to need help now, not three hours from now."
Silence hung thick. The cave's damp chill seeped into my bones. Alfred finally turned, his eyes sharp as shards of ice. "And you propose?" The question was a blade.
I didn't blink. "The Robin suit. Mine." His face didn't shift, but I could see the math going on in his eyes—the trust versus the rules. And then, barely perceptible, he nodded once. "Very well. The locker is yours."
I sprang up from the chair, legs stiff from sitting for so long. The uniform was more substantial than I recalled slipping it on—tough kevlar, reinforced seams, the smell of ozone from the humid air in the cave clinging to it. Alfred set the domino mask in front of me in silence. His hand shuddered once.
"We need transportation," I stated, fastening the utility belt. The cave was filled with the far-off drop of water.
With a sweeping look that lingered on the too-loose fit in the shoulders, Alfred declared, "Master Timothy, the biometrics of the Batmobile—"
"won't recognize me. I know." I intercepted, already heading for the vintage Rolls-Royce parked in the darkness. Its chrome grille shone like the grin of a predator. "But you do know how to drive."
He didn't debate. Keys clinked in his rock-steady hand when he climbed into the driver's seat. The engine hummed to life, a smooth growl that thrummed the cave floor. I climbed in alongside on the passenger side, gloved hands holding the dashboard as we roared up the ramp. Gotham's rain-slick streets whirled past the front windshield. Alfred drove like he was possessed—quiet, efficient, carving through alleys Batman would've thought too small.
We slid to a stop half a block from the dilapidated textile mill. Headlights went dead. Through the torrent, I made out Two-Face's silhouette against the neon flutter of a pawn shop sign. He towered on the loading dock, Harvey Dent's ravaged face contorted in a snarl of victory. His coin shone silver in the darkness. And then the low *whump*, more felt than heard. The mill's boarded-over windows erupted orange. Fire rumbled from the roof, and with it, a rolling cloud of dust and debris that consumed the dock in its entirety. Two-Face disappeared into the smoke.
Alfred's knuckles went white holding the steering wheel. He let out a guttural, raw growl from his chest—raw, unadulterated anger. He went for the door handle. "Bruce! Richard!" His voice creaked like old leather.
I took his arm. "Alfred, wait." My tone was flat and calm. The explosion bursted behind my eyes, but I shoved past it—the comic panel etched in living colors: Nightwing covering Batman, the hardened sub-basement roof holding only long enough. "They're not dead. They're trapped. Trapped, not dead. Two-Face always underestimates." Alfred was frozen, staring at me, his breathing in jerky gasps. The fire flickered in his wide, frightened eyes. "Trust me," I pleaded, the tone of Darkseid's absoluteness threading through my own words. "We dig them out."
Rain stuck my hair underneath the domino mask as I jammed the car door open. The street smelled of puddled asphalt, burning lumber, and cordite. Two-Face stood backlit by the fire, twenty paces away on the broken loading dock. He turned, coin flipping high. It reflected the firelight—scuffed silver shimmering before he plucked it from the air. His good eye compressed; the injured side contorted in some macabre grimace. "Robin?" He growled, disbelieving. "Where in the devil have you been hiding?" He advanced, mismatched shoes crunching on broken glass. "Thought the Bat put you out to pasture. Or did the clown at last—"
My stomach clenched. Jason's laugh echoed in my memory—sharp, defiant, then silenced. The image of the crowbar, the warehouse, the detonator. I didn't flinch. Didn't speak. My hand dropped to my utility belt, fingers curling around a batarang. The rain hissed where it hit the mill's burning skeleton. Two-Face's smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of unease at my silence. He raised his coin again, thumb poised. "Heads, I finish the Bat and his birdie. Tails." He trailed off, studying me. "Tails, I finish you first." The coin arced upward, spinning.
It never landed. I moved, not like Robin—there was nothing athletic or showy in it. Darkseid's cold conviction ran through my limbs, a tide of primal impulse older even than Gotham itself. I blurred—a bob and weave faster even than Harvey's quick eyes could see. My forearm struck his wrist, and the coin went flying to the mud. His outcry was cut short when my knee burst up, thudding sickly into his ribcage. He stumbled, gasping for air. He never had the chance to find it when I spun, my boot's heel impacting off his temple. Reinforced kevlar met bone in a sick thud. He crumpled like soggy cardboard, hitting face-first in a puddle, unconscious before the splash had even died down.
I towered over him, drawing slow, even breaths. Rainwater ran down my mask. The battle hadn't taken more than ten seconds. Darkseid's whisper spun in my mind, content and ancient: *Weakness defined him. Always.* I tuned it out, facing the fallen part of the mill where smoke churned thickest. Alfred was even now crawling through charred beams, calling out the name of Bruce and Dick, his voice hoarse to the din of the flames. Two-Face was forgotten in the mud behind me, broken monument to erring arrogance.
Alfred scraped at the piece of concrete with his hands, desperation granting him a temporary strength. "Here!" I yelled above the pounding rain, my gaze fixed on the reinforced steel doorframe emblazoned in my mind from the comic page. "The sub-basement door!" With all our force, we battled past twisted rebar and broken brick fragments. My loaned gloves tore on the rough edges, but the kevlar underneath them didn't budge. Alfred was surprisingly strong; motivated by fear, he heaved rubble that I could not displace alone. Just when we cleared the hatch, I heard an ominous groaning from below, muffled and low. Hope flared up in me, hard and fast.
The hatch creaked open. Smoke and grime filled the air. Nightwing was first out, coughing harshly, one arm thrown protectively across Batman's limp form. Bruce was awake, just, blood streaming his cowl from a wound above his temple. Dick's domino mask was broken, revealing an inflamed, relieved eye. "Alfred?" Dick croaked, wincing against the rain. "How did you—?" He spotted me. Atop the Robin uniform. The yellow 'R' in stark relief across the red. His relief died in mid-halt, turned to numb resignation.
Bruce's head was lifted, eyes, underneath the cowl, fixed on me with forceful observation. There was no mercy, no thanks—only cold, intense anger that I felt physically. His jaw was set fast, the jerking muscle along the stained leather. "You." The one-word statement was like a low snarl, heavy with hurt and worse. "Out of that suit." Water from the rain streamed off his chin, splatting on black surface. Dick winced, holding tighter on Bruce's shoulder. "Batman—"
"He shouldn't be here," Bruce broke in, his voice tense but unshakeable. "He shouldn't be wearing that." He struggled to stand alone, winced as pressure pushed against hurt leg. Dick supported him. Guilt hovered in the smoky area: Jason. The ghost of the previous Robin killed the air between us.
Alfred stepped forward, positioning himself firmly between Batman's wrath and me. The rain clung to his silver strands, plastering them to his forehead. "With respect, Master Bruce," he began, his voice slicing through the deluge with remarkable clarity, "Master Timothy's presence wasn't one of presumption. It was a necessity." He gestured sharply toward Two-Face's crumpled form lying in the mud. "Observe." Bruce's glare flickered from the unconscious villain to Alfred, skepticism etched on his features. "While you were trapped," Alfred continued, his tone crisp and clinical, "he confronted Two-Face alone. Disarmed him. Neutralized the threat in seconds. Efficiently. Without hesitation." He paused, allowing the image to settle— the broken coin dealer, the untouched Robin. "He anticipated the collapse. He orchestrated the rescue. He acted as Robin should."
Dick adjusted his weight, supporting Bruce's weight, a hoarse whisper leaving his lips. He looked at Bruce, his own eyes unyielding, despite the pain and weariness etched in his face. "Alfred's right, Bruce," he stated, the tone gruff but determined. "Look at him." He nodded in my direction, the rain streaming down, streaking the filth on my loaned suit. "He didn't just wander in. He knew. He knew precisely where we were stuck. He foresaw Two-Face's move." Dick drew an uncertain breath, pain flitting from him. "He knew us, Bruce. Knew Dick Grayson. Knew Bruce Wayne." The implications settled bitterly in the rain, stark against the snapping of dying flames. "He knew who we are behind the masks. Before tonight."
Bruce froze in place. The fury within him did not dissipate, but it splintered, giving way to a more profound and chilling shock. His eyes snapped back to me, penetrating through the rain and the veil of my domino mask. The realization struck him like a physical blow – I was not merely a reckless kid donning a dead boy's suit; I had also intruded upon the most sacred of secrets. "How?" The word emerged as a low, dangerous growl, aimed exclusively at me. Alfred tensed beside him, but Dick gently squeezed Bruce's arm, a silent plea for momentary restraint to ground them both. "Doesn't matter how right now," Dick urged, his voice imbued with urgency that cut through Bruce's escalating suspicion. "He saved us. He is Robin tonight." He glanced at me, a flicker of hard-won trust shining in his swollen eye. "That's what matters."
Bruce did not look away from me. His jaw worked, the shadow of the cowl intensifying the pain and disbelief etched in the lines of his face. The rain stuck his cape to his back, rendering him less legend and more of a hurt, and angry man. "No," he spat, the word like broken bone, harsh. "It matters everything. Who are you?" His voice broke, hoarse with ghosts that filled the air between us – Jason's laugh, Jason's blood. "Your name," he repeated, demanding, "Tell me your name."
The air was heavy with an oppressive insistence, thick with distrust. Alfred moved imperceptibly nearer to me, his tweed coat and silent determination serving like a shield. Dick gripped Bruce's arm tighter, his gaze fixed on mine, urging me wordlessly to proceed with caution. The cold, hard certainty of Darkseid's impending presence twisted in my stomach, a low, persistent murmur urging me to revolt, but I suppressed it. This was not about power, but about trust, flimsy though it was. I met Bruce's intense stare, my tone level and bare and unadorned beneath the torrential downpour. "Tim Drake." Simple. Direct. No codename, no frills—just the name my parents gave me, held out like it was the key to a lock I was not even sure would open.