Chapter Text
Bruce and Alfred are in Russia on business when it happens.
It’s 9:14am in Moscow when Gotham goes dark. All signals cut off abruptly, as if the city simply dropped off the face of the earth. For all Bruce knows, it has.
He gets an error message when he calls home. Oracle doesn’t pick up, doesn’t send him a warning or an explanation. There’s nothing.
They’re all there. Every single one of his kids is in Gotham right now.
By 9:41 Bruce is at Ostafyevo Airport, readying the jet for takeoff, and the news is reporting a shield of some kind encircling the city. No word yet on whether it’s technological in nature or mystical, but either way nothing’s getting in or out.
When the shield falls at 10:05 and communications come back online, he and Alfred are already in the air, heading east as fast as they can. Oracle calls moments later.
Not immediately. She waits before she contacts him. That’s how he knows the news is going to be bad. Very bad.
After the call, she sends him files. Audio recordings from the comms and video footage from the boys’ masks. She’s synced them up so that he can see everything unfold from all their perspectives at once. He sets the jet to autopilot, watches all the files at once, calls the Justice League, and then watches each file individually, one by one.
He’s about to replay all the videos at once when Alfred puts a hand on his shoulder and says, “It seems we have a visitor, sir.” He already has his own oxygen mask in place.
At an altitude of 40,000 feet, that can only mean one person.
“I came as soon as I heard,” Clark says once they’ve depressurized the cabin just long enough to get him inside. He motions toward the television screen, “Are these the files Oracle sent us? I haven’t had a chance to watch them yet.”
Bruce doesn’t answer. Just hits play again.
The screen is split into four different feeds. Dick and Damian at the top, Jason and Tim at the bottom. The time stamps in the corner are synced up.
Damian and Dick are wrapping up a mugging in an alleyway on the Eastside, Jason’s on the other side of the city, mid-brawl, and Tim’s tucked away in an air vent, staring down at a room full of thugs and humming quietly to himself.
Barbara opens up a shared comm line just after 2:00am and announces, “It’s that time again, folks,” in an overly chipper voice.
Dick’s securing the restraints on the last of the muggers and chimes in, perfectly in sync, when Barbara singsongs, “Roll call!”
The feed from Jason’s camera is a mess of motion and noise, but he still manages to make his snort of disdain audible over the din.
“That’s Red Hood accounted for,” Barbara chirps. “How’s your raid going?”
“Fan-fucking-tastic, O.”
“Red Robin?”
Tim’s voice comes out low and bored, “Present.”
It’s Barbara’s turn to snort. “Way to sound enthused, Red.”
“Stakeout,” he explains, voice just barely audible. Barbara rarely monitors the video feeds in real time unless there’s a pressing reason to do so. Most of the time she keeps a map showing the location of their trackers in the corner of her screen while she works on her own projects and monitors the audio on their comms.
“What, are you in the building with them?” Jason asks.
Them looks to be the ragtag remnants of Gotham’s latest mob war attempting to broker some kind of peace long enough to conspire against the city’s vigilantes. The meeting’s attendees are less interesting than the fact that Jason already knows exactly who Tim’s watching. The last time Bruce asked, Dick didn’t know what Tim was working on, and Red Robin’s a few days behind on making his reports.
“Vents,” Tim says.
“Ugh, what a waste of time. Look, ditch that and go to the wharfs. I need you to check something for me.”
“Why?”
“‘Cause my intel sucks and I’m bagging nothing but peons here. If a deal’s going down tonight, it must be happening somewhere else. I hit the Narrows, you take the wharfs.”
“Negative.”
“C’mon—”
“Yeah, c’mon,” Dick cuts in. “Team Red team up. It sounds fun.”
“Do not call us that,” Tim says, at the same time Jason growls, “Fuck off, N.”
Bruce knows that Dick’s been cautiously optimistic about Tim and Jason working together. They’ve talked about it a few times in between discussions about Damian and his progress.
In theory, it sounds like a good idea. Both boys work independently more often than not, but their cases occasionally overlap even if the territory they’ve staked out in Gotham does not. Red Hood’s been stable now for more than a year, and Red Robin’s been getting more ambitious in his operations within the city. Most of the time, he calls Black Bat when he needs backup, but he and Red Hood have been cooperating more in recent months.
In practice, it means that Bruce doesn’t always know what the two of them are up to at any given time. Keeping track of Jason’s activities as the Red Hood had already been difficult enough. His knowledge of Bruce’s methods made it easy for him to cover his tracks. When Tim began working with him, Bruce expected things to get easier. He assumed that Tim would start offering intel on the Red Hood’s operations. Instead, Tim was always tight-lipped every time Bruce asked. Enough so that he was beginning to think it was a problem until Dick intervened and explained that Tim’s reticence was likely the only reason Jason agreed to work with him. If Red Robin started making regular reports on his activities, their alliance would likely fall apart.
Oracle is the same way. Now that she and Hood have brokered some kind of agreement, she gives him the same support she gives every other member of the team—but she doesn’t report back to Bruce unless it’s absolutely necessary.
He still doesn’t like it, but this fragile peace they’ve managed to build is more than he hoped for before he was lost in the time stream. And the two of them seem to get along well enough. On the audio they’re still arguing, but there’s no malice in it.
Barbara sighs and raises her voice to say, “Robin?”
“Currently occupied,” Dick answers, and Bruce can hear the smile in his voice. “But I have a visual on him.”
Damian’s screen is centered on two young women huddled against a dirty alley wall, their arms wrapped around each other. The would-be victims of the muggers Dick and Damian just dispatched. On Dick’s screen, Damian’s a small figure on the other end of the alleyway. He’s standing ramrod straight, and his face is serious while he speaks. Bruce knows that if he’d been there, standing next to Dick, his oldest son would have leaned over to him and whispered, “Adorable,” with absolute glee.
“—old are you?” one of the girls asks.
“Irrelevant,” Damian says. His tone is matter-of-fact. A few months ago he would have answered impatiently, if at all. A year ago he would have taken the question as an insult and probably castigated the questioner for the presumption.
He’s more patient now. Of all the changes that took place in the year Bruce was gone, this transformation was the one that surprised him the most when he returned. Jason and Tim’s alliance is, as far as he can tell, built primarily on shared professional interest. But the warmth between Dick and Damian is something altogether different. A brotherly bond that seemed impossible back when Damian was new to the family and still clinging to his status as the blood son.
On the audio, Barbara says, “That’s everyone then. Assuming you’re good, Nightwing.”
“Always,” he says.
“Arm’s not bothering you?”
“Nah, I’m going easy on it. Letting Robin do most of the heavy lifting.”
Damian, in a sign of maturity far beyond what Bruce would have expected of him, continues his conversation with the two women without comment. Jason laughs and says, “You’re just getting lazy in your old age.”
“Har har, very funny,” Dick says. “O, you can let B know that the city hasn’t burned down in his absence, but that it’s still going to the dogs. The kids these days have no respect.”
“What makes you think he’s gonna call?” Barbara asks, but there’s a laugh in her voice.
“Because he always calls,” Tim whispers. “And he’ll be up by now. He has a meeting in less than an hour. Also, tell him not to step on Red Star’s toes if at all possible. We kind of owe him.”
“He’s not gonna be doing any of that stuff while he’s gone,” Dick says with conviction.
“He better not,” Barbara says.
On the plane, Clark looks at him. “Broken ribs,” Bruce tells him, before he can break out the X-ray vision. Hurt in the same fight that injured Dick’s arm. It’s the only reason he let Tim bully him into this particular trip. That, and because Tim insisted that Bruce had to go because Tim wasn’t welcome in Russia at the moment. For reasons he hadn’t gone into at the time.
Tim has a habit of doing that. Skirting around things with a vague promise to discuss it later.
Bruce is only just now realizing that it’s been nearly a year since he returned from his journey through time and so far “later” still hasn’t come.
Jason’s screen is a blur of motion now. He’s on his bike, speeding down the sidewalk instead of the street for some reason. Still complaining. “Seriously. Double-R. I promise what you’re doing now can’t be half as interesting as helping me track down these asshats.”
Tim sighs. “I’ll look into running them down tomorrow, all right?”
“Fine,” Jason grouses. “Go back to napping or whatever the fuck it is you do. Honestly, I don’t know why I even—”
This is, by rights, where Barbara should have started the files. The moment when the night turns. Bruce isn’t sure why she left in the preceding minutes. It’s possible she was just in a hurry. If he thought that she meant it as a kindness—showing him all of his boys together and, however briefly, well—he would have rebuked her. But if she did so deliberately, he suspects she has some other motive than kindness in mind. One that would have been difficult for him to trace on a good day. As it is now, his mind is speeding forward, analyzing all the information at his disposal, but his chest feels weighed down, constricted, his dread like a block of ice that won’t budge.
Damian’s screen shifts with whiplash speed, reacting to a sudden presence just outside of the alleyway, batarang in hand, ready to fight. No hesitation between registering the threat and responding to it. He places himself between the women and the hulk of metal hovering four feet above the street. Dick’s by his side in seconds. Says “Oracle,” in a tone more suited to Batman than to Nightwing.
Jason’s rant cuts off mid-sentence, and he slams on his breaks. Tim’s camera goes perfectly still for just a moment and then he’s retreating through the vents as quickly and quietly as he can. In the resulting silence, Barbara’s rapidfire typing is the loudest sound on the shared commline.
“What is that?” Clark says at the same time Damian bites out a terse, “Identify yourself.”
It looks more like a vehicle than a robot. A shining chrome pyramid, bigger than a motorcycle but smaller than a car, its edges and corners rounded. It floats in the air as if gravity has no hold on it. No whir of an engine, no displacement of air, nothing to show what’s keeping it stationary four feet above the ground.
“Greetings, Robin of Earth,” the pyramid says in a flat electronic voice.
“Who are you?” Damian demands.
“Who we are is irrelevant.”
Oracle’s voice is calm and controlled. “Red Hood is heading your way. Red Robin’s extracting himself from his stakeout. Batgirl and Black Bat are suiting up now. Hood’s the closest. ETA twelve minutes.”
“Ten,” Jason says, tearing around a corner. “The girls are gonna hate having their movie night crashed. What’s got Big Bird all excited?”
“Working on that,” Oracle says. “Looks like some nasty new tech.”
“Too cowardly to share your name?” Damian spits out. He’s moving, slowly edging to the side. Trying to draw the thing’s attention away from the alleyway and the two women within it. Damian doesn’t look back to check on them. He knows that Dick is moving in tandem with him, taking his place, motioning for the women to retreat, risking a glance to confirm that they have.
“We have been sent to retrieve you.”
“Retrieve?” Dick says, trying to get the thing’s attention. It doesn’t respond.
“I’ve got it,” Oracle says. “Real name unknown, referred to in the JLA files as the Tetrahedra. Bounty hunters from, you guessed it, outer space. Legally entitled to operate in various sectors of the galaxy. And known to do so illegally elsewhere when it suits them.”
Over the comm, Tim says, “Tetrahedra,” in his quiet oh shit voice at the exact same time Jason says, “Are you guys being attacked by a geometry problem?”
“Everything I’m getting here screams Do Not Engage,” Barbara says.
“You have been accused of crimes by the honorable Bezneetan,” the pyramid says.
“Who?” Damian says.
“What did they just say?” Tim asks.
“You will be returned to the honorable Bezneetan,” the pyramid says, “so that he may enact what justice he judges appropriate.”
Damian lets out one of his tiny tt noises, clearly unimpressed. “And what justice would that be?”
“You will be put on trial,” the pyramid says, “and when you are found guilty, our employer will rip off your limbs one by one.”
“What the fuck,” Hood says into the comm line. Damian sneers. He and Dick make eye contact. Not so much as a nod, but they’re wearing the same determined expression, though they likely don’t know it.
Tim says, a little out of breath, “Who did they say?”
“Come with us peacefully,” the pyramid says, “and we will do your fellow citizens no harm. You have ten seconds to comply.”
“Don’t engage,” Oracle says. “These things are packing some serious firepower. I think we need to call in—”
Everything happens at once. The pyramid moves. Damian goes low, ducking beneath it, slapping on an explosive charge that detonates seconds later. As far as Bruce can tell, the only effect of this is that the Tetrahedra’s momentum changes. It doesn’t appear to turn, but the direction of its movement reverses to follow Damian.
“We’ve lost communications,” Oracle says. Her voice is still calm but there’s an edge to it now.
“I can still hear you,” Jason says. He’s yelling over the roar of his bike now.
“We’ve been cut off. I can’t get through to anyone outside of the city,” Barbara says. “It’s like they just dropped a Faraday cage on top of Gotham. Nothing’s getting in or going out.”
Four panels in the pyramid open and long, spindly mechanical arms emerge. Damian has a batarang in one hand and his grappling hook in the other and he looks supremely annoyed when Dick catches his eye and grimaces at him. But he shoots the grappling hook and zips up to a nearby rooftop, away from the alleyway and the streets and potential bystanders. Dick jams an escrima stick into the aperture where the Tetrahedra’s claw-machine arms are coming from and hits stun. It has no effect and the pyramid pays him no mind as it rapidly floats up toward Damian. Dick takes a half second to check that the women in the alley are fine—as well as the thugs he tied up—and then takes off after them. By the time he reaches the rooftop Damian is dodging arms and jamming his sword into the base of one of the robot’s arms. There’s a screech of metal and then Damian dances out of the way, looking furious, with only the sword hilt and a short length of broken blade still in his hand.
“I’m working on getting around this communications blockade,” Oracle says. “And this is not the kind of thing that’s going to go unnoticed for long. B probably already knows. And the League as well. So the name of the game, right now, is keep away. Stop fighting and get away from those things. Red Robin, are you all right? Your tracker’s not moving anymore.”
Tim’s touched down on a rooftop and is looking out across the dark expanse of the city.
“Did they say Bezneetan?” Tim asks.
Barbara, frustration leaking into her voice, says, “Yes, something like that, but I’m not finding anyone by that name in our databases or the League’s.”
The video on Tim’s screen goes black.
In the airplane, Clark jerks a little, surprised, looking away from the screens where Damian and Dick are scrambling across a rooftop.
“I’ve heard of him,” Tim says. “Head of a mid-grade mercenary outfit that went under about four years ago. No word of them since. Also definitely from off-world.”
“No shit,” Jason says. “We already figured that much out.”
“What’s wrong with his camera?” Clark asks, staring at the fourth of the screen that’s now blank.
Bruce can’t find the words to explain. Alfred answers for him. “He turned it off.”
Tim’s voice is impatient. “Off-world means a ship. That’s likely the source of the shielding. O, can you get me access to the drones?”
“Priorities,” Dick says. He and Damian are retreating rapidly, using their knowledge of the city to stay one step ahead. They’re less than a minute away from one of Jason’s safehouses. The one where he keeps enough explosive materials to level a building.
“The girls and I can handle finding the ship,” Oracle says. “Stay on route. You’re closer.”
“The girls have the car. They’ll have a better chance of outrunning this thing. I only have my glider. Leave the ship to me. Red Robin out.”
“Red—”
“Just leave him to it. I’ll be there soo—” Jason’s voice cuts off abruptly, but the noise coming from Dick and Damian’s comms is loud enough no one else on the comm line seems to notice when it happens.
Bruce leans forward, turns down the volume on Dick and Damian, knowing Clark will still be able to hear it anyway, and ramps up the volume on the audio they recovered from Jason’s helmet.
“Whatever you’re about to ask me, the answer’s no,” Jason growls. “If you can’t say it on the open channel, I don’t think I want to hear it.”
“Listen,” Tim says, “I need you to do something when you catch up to them.”
“I just fucking said—”
“Listen,” Tim says again, voice even but emphatic. “This is not a fight we can win outright. I’ve heard of these guys. They got into it with Lobo years ago.”
“So fucking what?”
“So they’re still around hunting down bounties. Which means they survived that fight. If we keep engaging with them, we won’t.”
Jason lets out a wordless growl of frustration. “If this is supposed to be a pep talk, it sucks ass. What’s the plan if it’s not fighting? Give the kid up and wave goodbye? B’ll fucking love that.”
“Giving them what they want is generally the only way to get rid of them, yes.”
“Jesus fuck. Are you saying we give them the brat?”
Jason sounds furious. Tim, when he answers, is still calm. “No. I’m working on another solution, but I need enough time to find that ship and get to it.”
“Then what—”
“Buy me that time. Just play keep away for as long as possible.”
There’s an audible explosion, and Jason starts swearing. “Those fuckers just used my C4.”
“It won’t be enough,” Tim says. “Focus.”
It’s not. Dick and Damian are already tentatively optimistic, but Barbara’s ordering the girls to go faster and she’s right to do it. The mangled, superheated metal heaped on the rooftop begins rapidly reconfiguring itself. By the time it’s reconstructed—still glowing red-hot—two more of its kind have floated down from the sky to join it.
Dick grabs Damian by his hood and hurls him over the edge of the roof, ignoring his squawk of indignation, and follows just behind him.
Jason’s still speeding toward them, exasperated. “I don’t see why you couldn’t tell me all this on the open line. That’s basically the plan already—”
“If you get caught,” Tim says, “don’t fight them. Just give them Robin.”
“No fucking way.” Jason’s voice is ice now.
“They don’t target civilians or bystanders. They get in, find their target, and get out. Minimal fuss, minimal damage. They’ve cut us off from the rest of the world because they know Earth’s full of metahumans, and metahumans mean a messy fight. They’ll only attack you if you’re actively hindering them. It’s one of the reasons they’re legally authorized to operate in some sectors of the galaxy. The second you stop getting in their way, you’ll stop being a target to them.”
“If they take the kid—”
“They will do exactly what they said. Take him, alive, to their employer. That gives us time to get him back. If you fight them, you will lose. And they won’t go out of their way to kill you, but they also have no reason to keep you alive if you get in the way. The bounty’s not on your head.”
“There’s no way N agrees to this.”
“I know. You’ll need to incapacitate him first and then make a run for it with Robin. Nightwing’s already injured, he shouldn’t be in this fight at all. Actually incapacitate them both. Robin won’t leave Nightwing willingly and won’t believe me if I tell him that N’s safe the second he’s no longer a threat.”
“But I’m supposed to believe you?”
“You know I wouldn’t put him in danger.”
“And how exactly am I supposed to drop them both? And avoid the murdery mathematical concept at the same time?”
“Figure something out. They trust you enough to expect you to help in an emergency. They won’t see this coming. Find your opening and take it.” There’s a long beat of silence. Then Tim’s voice, softer this time. Apologetic. “I know this is a big ask. I know. But I promise it will work. I just need time and I can take care of the ship. Get Robin, keep him away from those things long enough to get him to the girls, and everything will be fine.”
“This plan hinges pretty solidly on you,” Jason says after another beat of silence. “How exactly are you going to bring down that ship by yourself? Assuming it even exists, which we haven’t actually established. I mean—”
“Does it matter?” Tim snaps, patience abruptly gone. “I’ll take care of it. Just trust me this one time. I’ll owe you. I’ll never ask you for anything else ever again. Just—”
“Jeez, all right, I’m coming up on them now.”
“Okay,” Tim says, calm again. Relieved. “Okay. And remember, if you have to choose between fighting them or giving up Robin, just let him go.”
“I’m not—”
“If they try to leave the city with him, I’ll be in a position to intercept him. He won’t be leaving on that ship, I promise.”
“The ship we haven’t even found yet.”
“Nearly got that one figured out. Trust me. And get Robin away from them now. Red Robin out.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Jason says. Then, back on the open comms, “Cavalry’s here, boys.” And he’s roaring around the corner, gun already in hand.
He manages it. Stuns Dick with his own escrima stick, grapples Damian onto his bike—gets a knife to his leg in the process—and is roaring away while Dick’s still swearing into his comms and Barbara’s asking him what the hell he’s doing and Damian is shrieking in outrage and betrayal and only quiets when Jason says, “They’re after you, not him, dipshit.”
“They’re fine,” Barbara tells Dick. “Hood is getting them to the girls. I’m still working on this damned shield, but Red Robin reported a hit on the ship. A literal hit. One of the drones went down over midtown.”
“So what’s the plan?”
“Not sure. Red Robin stopped off at a safehouse after he deployed the drones. Hasn’t moved in a couple of minutes and isn’t taking my calls. I think he’s working out what do to about this ship.”
“Whatever it is, he better figure it out quick,” Dick says. He’s only just now managed to drag himself up off the street, his breathing still a little shaky from the stunning. “Keep calling him. I’m going after the others.”
“Bad idea,” Barbara says.
“Gonna talk me out of it?”
“Worse idea.” There’s a hitch in her breath, barely perceptible, as the other two screens abruptly blur into a tumble of motion and the audio feed is nothing but the crash and screech of metal hitting pavement. “The motorcycle just crashed.”
“Are they—”
“The girls are two minutes away.”
“—fucking go.” Jay’s voice, rough and a little slurred. On Damian’s screen, his helmet is half-shattered, pieces of red scattered on the ground beside him. His own camera’s already mostly obscured by blood, and it’s not looking at Damian. It’s looking at the things behind him.
“I will not. They came here for me. And that’s exactly what they’re going to get.”
“For fuck’s sake, kid—”
“We’re almost there,” Stephanie breaks in. “Hang tight, guys. The actual cavalry is now officially—”
“Wait. Robin, wait.” Jay’s voice, sharp. “I can see it.”
“What?” Stephanie says.
“The fucking ship. And these things have just...stopped.”
Jay’s camera is fully obscured now, but Damian’s swings upward, toward the night sky. There are lights there, just above midtown. Three bright white lines hovering just below the Gotham smog.
Then his view cuts back down to the pyramids. They hover motionless for another moment. Then—
“They’re leaving!”
“Did we scare them off?” Stephanie asks. Jason starts laughing. It sounds painful.
“Highly unlikely,” Damian says. “It seems Red Robin has proven himself useful for once. That, or the Justice League has intervened and driven them away.”
“That almost sounded like a compliment,” Stephanie says. Predictably, she gets only a small tt in response.
“Everybody okay?” Dick asks.
“Yeah, yeah, just peachy.”
“Ignore Red Hood,” Damian says. “He’s severely injured himself due to his abysmal driving skills.”
“First off, fuck you, that thing hit us. Secondly, you ride a motorcycle, you don’t drive it. And thirdly—”
“Come on, cowboy,” Stephanie says. “No more riding tonight.”
“I’m good,” Jason says.
“What, are you going to walk home? Like that? Sorry, dude, but your bike’s done for. You’re coming with us.”
“Agreed,” Cass says.
“I’m fine—”
“I’m heading over there now.” Dick’s up on a rooftop, ready to jump.
“Wait,” Barbara says.
“What?”
“Just wait a minute. I can’t—” There’s a pause. Then, “Communications are back online. And the ship’s leaving.”
“Cowards,” Damian says.
“The fuck did you do to piss off that Beelzebub guy anyway?” Jason asks.
“I did nothing. I’ve never heard of this Bezneetan before. Perhaps he’s an enemy of my grandfather’s. Or—”
“Whatever, like I even care. Hey, Red, how’d you scare that thing off?” The rest of the comm line goes quiet, clearly expecting an answer. “Red Robin, hellooooo. I’m talking to you. I followed your fucking plan, the least you can do is answer me.”
“What plan?” Damian asks, sounding suddenly furious. “You and Red Robin were conspiring behind our backs?”
“Yeah, to save you and N from your own stupidity.”
“And yet you are the one now lying injured on the side of the street like a—”
Dick’s voice cuts through the comm. His Batman voice. “Red Robin, respond.”
“What’s wrong?” Stephanie asks. “Why isn’t he answering?”
Barbara answers. “We haven’t been able to get him on the comms in over ten minutes. His tracker has him at the safehouse on Mortimer Avenue.”
“Heading there now,” Dick says. “Red Robin, if you can hear us, respond.”
“Maybe whatever he did to the ship knocked out his comms?” Stephanie suggests. There’s hope in her voice, but it’s being beaten out by dread.
“On my way,” Cassandra says. When Damian’s camera whips around to look for her, she’s already gone.
“I’m en route. Stay with the others,” Dick says.
“You’re hurt,” Cassandra answers. “If there’s a threat, you’ll need me.”
Dick doesn’t argue with that. He’s not far from the safehouse, but Cassandra still beats him to it. He finds her sitting on the floor in the space between the ratty couch and the coffee table, her legs pulled up to her chest.
“Where is he?” he asks.
On the comms, Stephanie says, “Black Bat, did you find him? Is he there?”
On the camera, Cassandra doesn’t move.
“He’s not here,” Dick says.
“Oh fuck. Oh fuck.”
“Batgirl, calm down,” Barbara says. “We don’t know—”
“Four years,” Stephanie says. “He said this Bezneetan guy hasn’t been heard from in four years.”
“And that has you indulging in hysterics?” Damian says, voice filled with contempt.
“Shit,” Jason says, realization coloring his voice.
“What?” Damian’s voice is going childishly high now. A clear sign that he’s frustrated and anxious and struggling to cover it.
“You weren’t Robin four years ago,” Stephanie says. “He was.”
Dick’s joined Cassandra on the floor beside the coffee table. She’s still not moving but his focus isn’t on her anymore. It’s on the bundle sitting on the table.
It’s the Red Robin uniform, neatly folded. And on top of it is a note.
Sorry. I have a plan. Please trust me. Do not follow.