Robin had been staring at the barrel of a gun. The gunman, a member of the North Street Serpents, had just pulled the trigger. And, the gun had just jammed. A shocked expression came over the Serpent's face. Robin seized the few moments he had, driving his knee hard into the man's crotch, then slid around behind him, reaching up and taking hold of the gunman's head with his feet, throwing the Serpent hard to the roof.
Batman appeared from beyond the roof ledge, leaping over Robin to face the rest of the gang. The six gang members pointed their weapons and fired. Batman dropped and rolled over to the Serpent who stood farthest to the left, sweeping his feet out from under him. Before that Serpent had even hit the ground, Batman had sprung to his feet and punched the next closest one hard in the jaw. Batman continued to work his way through the line, punching and kicking the remaining four to the ground. Not waiting for Batman's signal, Robin immediately set about tying up the Serpents.
Batman walked over to the one who had first fired his weapon, standing on the young man's chest and squatting, pushing all of his 210 pounds down over his heart. "How old are you?" Batman asked neutrally.
"I'm . . . I mean . . . nineteen."
Batman nodded grimly. "Nineteen," he repeated knowingly. "You and your friends are in possession of illegal assault weapons. That's a serious offense; in fact, you can go to prison just for that. But, I'm sure you've done so much more than that in your gang-banging career. I'll bet you'll be in Blackgate for . . . about ten years, even with a good lawyer, which I will see that you don't get . . ." The Serpent grimaced, his eyes beginning to tear. He began looking around the roof. "Unless . . ." Batman began, "Unless you can tell me a little about why you and your buddies are working with Black Mask."
"What . . . what the hell are you talking about?"
"Black Mask is in trouble, and he's gotten it into his head that I'm the one responsible; I'm sure he's told you the same thing. Most of his Falseface Society has been murdered, and he's going to need extra manpower if he wants to take on me. Enter, you."
The Serpent was quiet. "You don't want to spend ten years in Blackgate prison, do you? I understand they have some rather . . . different gangs in there as opposed to the ones you're used to."
The Serpent let out a whimper and began gasping for air; it was obvious that Batman was obstructing his ability to breathe, but the Dark Knight didn't seem to care, he continued to squat on the young man's chest. "Okay . . . Okay," the Serpent said, his voice barely audible. "Our leader, he told us all about how you're going after Black Mask."
"Who is your leader?"
"His name is Viper Tom . . . I mean, I--that's just what we call him. He never . . . told us his real . . . Christ! Christ! Get up!! I can't breathe!"
Batman nodded. "Yes, I know. Where can I find Viper Tom? He wouldn't be dense enough to hang out with the rest of his brethren at the old school on North Street . . . or, would he?"
The Serpent was silent, looking around him anxiously. "He would, wouldn't he?" Batman prodded. "He's been hiding in the most obvious place, hasn't he?"
After a few seconds, the sweating young man nodded once quickly, moistening his already sweaty lips with his tongue. "Thank you very much; I appreciate your help." Batman stood up and stepped off the young man's chest. "The police will be around to pick up you and your buddies in a few minutes. If you make a good impression, I just might see about that lawyer; reduce your sentence to maybe seven years."
Batman walked over to the edge of the roof, and Robin took his place beside the Serpent, tying him up. In a few minutes, the police had been contacted; Batman never had any intention of helping his reluctant informant with his newfound legal problems. Everyone on that rooftop deserved the harshest punishment coming to them.
The Batmobile left the alley and disappeared again into the depths of the city.
Avian Paradise Casino, Gotham City waterfront, 1:00 a.m.
Everyone knew the man as the Penguin, but he preferred his real name, Oswald Cobblepot. He sat in the penthouse that crowned his towering casino, quietly tapping the point of a letter opener into the blotter atop the surface of his desk.
Cobblepot was short and chubby. His jet-black hair was slicked back, meeting in a sharp widow's peak just above his forehead. His nose was elongated, and came almost to a point; this, along with his low, bird-like voice, had given him his nickname.
Most of his money had belonged to his wealthy parents; what Oswald did with it was totally his. The Penguin's parents had died when he was young, and Oswald had been bounced from foster home to foster home until he took up his inheritance at the age of 21. He had been involved in crime for years, but never in any large degree until he gained his father's money. With that, he had built his casino, and earned his respect and reputation among the underworld's elite as one of the best organizers and gang-leaders on the east coast. Even so, his operations were generally smaller in scale than those the likes of Black Mask were involved in.
He now meant to change that.
Oswald heard a knock at his door. "Yes, yes," he called after a moment. "Do come in." The door opened; light pushed its way into the darkened room. "You do realize the time?" Cobblepot asked, not bothering to look at who had entered his room.
"Yes sir, I know. But, you're normally up late, and--"
It was Groverton, the personal secretary of Cobblepot who handled most of the business affairs associated with the casino. "What is it, Groverton?"
"Mr. Ricon is here, sir. He says you asked to meet with him."
The Penguin nodded slowly, twisting the letter opener through the blotter and into the wood of the desk. "Before you send Mr. Ricon in here," Cobblepot began, "please ask him what time it is. Then, would you ask him how many hours have passed since six o'clock p.m." Groverton nodded and left the room. He returned several minutes later. "Mr. George Ricon," he announced. A tall, wiry man in his 60's walked into the room, his dark blue suit seeming to hang from his bony frame. Ricon walked up and sat down in front of Cobblepot's desk. "Your dentist must hate you, George," the Penguin observed.
Ricon looked to his left, then regarded the Penguin with suspicious curiosity. "My dentist?"
The Penguin left the letter opener standing in the hole he'd carved for it in the desk and leaned forward, folding his arms. "You made an appointment with me for six o'clock. It is now--" the Penguin threw his arm out to the side, forcing his sleeve up past his wrist. He glanced at his watch. "--one oh-three in the morning. The very, very early morning." Cobblepot looked at Ricon and shook his head. "Your dentist must hate you."
Ricon took a deep breath, coughed as a result, and looked annoyedly at the Penguin. "Look, I had some stuff that needed to be handled today, that's all. I'm sorry I got here so late, but, hey, at least I got here."
The Penguin shook his head regretfully, sighing with resignation. "It's really a terrible shame that I'm going to lose the services of such an experienced and efficient man as yourself." Cobblepot shook his head. "You really are quite good at what you do, Mr. Ricon. Do you know that neither of us are even suspected in the murder of the Rabbit? The same goes for those poor other masked fellows. I was hoping to utilize you in the extermination of Black Mask once the Batman had been eliminated, but I see now that I will have to find someone else."
An alarmed look spread over Ricon's face. "What are you talking about?"
"I thought you were a reliable gentleman, George. You have proven the contrary to me, and I cannot tolerate unreliability in my employees."
"Employee? Listen, I did one job for you; found a few people to take care of the Falseface Society, I'm sure as hell not your employee."
The Penguin nodded gravely. "Not anymore." All at once, he pulled a small Derringer from his vest pocket and shot Ricon in the head. Ricon was dead before he hit the floor. As if on cue, Groverton entered, standing with anticipation in the doorway. He raised his right eyebrow. Cobblepot pocketed his small gun and pointed at the lifeless body of George Ricon. "See to the disposal of that, Groverton."
The secretary nodded and left. The Penguin sat down and propped his feet up on his desk. Putting his hands behind his head, Cobblepot was asleep in a few minutes.
13123 North Street, 1:08 a.m.
Viper Tom hadn't been totally unafraid of the Falseface Society members that had visited him earlier in the evening, but he suspected that those members of the Serpents who had drawn their weapons had been motivated by a greater fear. Tom was the strong one; that's why he was the leader. That's why he would be the one remembered as he who killed the Batman.
The seven Serpents who had left to tend to the minor task of Batman's extermination hadn't returned yet; Tom told himself that meant they just hadn't found their target yet. Of course, it was possible that Batman had killed them before they even had a chance against him. Afterall, it seemed that Batman had disregarded the code that everyone assumed he had followed during his previous ten years of activity; now, the Batman killed. And, he had help.
But, why white tuxedoes? What did they have to do with the Batman? Viper Tom decided he would have to think about that the next time he had a quite moment. Tom glanced at the small leather pocketbook beside him. He picked it up, unzipped it the entire way around, and opened it up, revealing an empty syringe and two half-full vials of clear liquid.
Tom took the vial in one hand, filling the syringe one-fifth full with the clear liquid. He pulled the sleeve up over his right elbow, taking the syringe in his left hand. He held the needle up to the light, admiring it for a moment; he had done this hundreds of times before, and it had never lost its appeal, its forbidden power.
Viper Tom stared at the needle too long; he felt a heavy hand on his right shoulder. Startled, he dropped the syringe and stood. He took two large steps across the room and turned around to see Batman standing opposite him, most of the costumed man's body hidden beneath the dark blue folds of his cloak. Tom's face was sweaty, his mouth open slightly and trembling. Batman stood there, perfectly still. He said nothing at all.
"What the fuh-fuck are you doing here?" Tom asked, his voice shaky. "You're . . . you're . . . I sent 'em to kill you, man. You're supposed to be dead!" Tom's face contorted into an exaggerated portrait of rage. "You're dead!! You're fuckin' dead!!!"
Tom ran blindly towards Batman; the cowled man sidestepped him easily, kicking Tom high on the back as he ran past, sending the leader of the Serpents down hard to the floor. "Easy, Tom," Batman cautioned, positioning himself over the gang leader, who was crawling towards the wall.
"You're dead . . . you're dead . . . you're dead . . ." Tom kept repeating. "They killed you . . . they killed you . . . I told 'em to kill you . . . why didn't they kill you . . .?"
Batman listened to Tom's confused and frightened babbling for nearly a minute. "Quiet," he ordered firmly. Tom took a deep breath, backed up against the wall as far as he could, and closed his mouth. "Now," Batman began, "Why are you trying to kill me, Tom? The Serpents haven't been causing any problems since the last major bust. You've been beneath my notice for months, so why the sudden attention?"
Tom was quiet for a moment. Batman knelt down in front of the trembling man. Looking behind him, Batman saw the syringe on the floor. He reached for it, and took as well the small vial of clear liquid. He filled the syringe up with the liquid entirely, then held it out in front of him. "Heroin, Tom?" he asked, sounding as if he were very interested. "You don't sell this." Batman examined the needle closely. "I might be back to talk to you about your supplier when I don't have more important things to talk to you about." Batman took Tom's left arm, still holding onto the heroin-filled syringe. "I wonder what this much heroin, injected all at once, would do to someone. . . . What do you say, Tom? Want to find out?"
Tom's eyes fixed on the needle, his mouth opened and trembling again. "Um . . . no thanks, man. Just . . . just get out, all right? I mean, 'cause everyone's gonna be back around, like, right now. They'll hurt you bad, man, they don't give a shit. They'll hurt you bad."
Batman looked at Viper Tom curiously. "You seem so concerned for me, all of a sudden. Change of heart, Tom?"
"Just . . . just keep that needle away from me, man. Let go my arm!!"
"Who sent your people to kill me, Tom? It wasn't your idea; your not stupid. Was it Black Mask?"
Tom was silent, looking with wide-eyed fear straight into the solid white eyes of Batman.
"If it wasn't Black Mask, who was it?" Tom remained silent. "Answer me!!"
Tom still said nothing. Batman jerked Tom's left arm out straight and stuck the needle of the syringe into the largest of Tom's swollen veins. Batman's gloved thumb was poised over the syringe's plunger.
"Falseface!! It was Black Mask!! They were Falseface!!!"
"Which members of the Falseface society?"
"The Pig, and some Egyptian-looking guy, and . . . and . . . shit, I can't remember the other one!!"
"Try harder."
"I dunno, some old dead movie star. I don't know who the fuck he is!!"
Batman pulled the needle from Tom's arm and threw it to the floor. He stood from his kneeling position and walked towards the door. "I hope you prove to be helpful, Tom. I'd hate to have to come back here." Batman walked out the door.
Tom crawled over to the door and looked out; Batman was gone.
"Good," Tom said to himself as he crawled back inside the room, towards the syringe. "Asshole."
Tom picked up the needle and emptied four-fifths back into the vial.
Crowne Major Hotel, Gremlin Avenue, 1:21 a.m.
Black Mask had never had a permanent headquarters for his operations. Since much of the Falseface Society had been made up of well-known criminals, it seemed a good idea to vary their meeting places as often as possible. Black Mask himself, however, often had lesser-known members of the Society check him into hotels, so that he could punctuate his hiding and evading with a few days in the lap of luxury here and there.
Black Mask had tried to sleep, but had been unable. He now sat bathrobed on the long sofa in the center of the large sunken section of the spacious suite. The television was on, its sound low, almost muted. Black Mask watched the pictures move past his eyes, not paying attention to the story they were telling.
He had removed the black porcelain mask from his face; he was simply Roman Sionis now. The mask from which he derived his alter-ego had been the death mask of his father, its contours seared into his face by white hot flames, courtesy of an encounter with the Batman. Batman hadn't allowed Roman Sionis to die then, perhaps now he was looking to finish what he had started, by destroying all that had become Black Mask.
Roman Sionis reached for the remote control and clicked off the TV set. Standing, he walked towards the sliding glass doors, pulled them open, and stepped out onto the balcony. The city was even more active during the hours between sunset and sunrise than it seemed to be during the day; Sionis could see so many things. Cars moved down the streets quickly, and at intervals, not in the constant lines that cut through the streets during the day's rush hours. The sidewalks were practically empty of pedestrians, making the late-working prostitutes and the shivering, shiftless homeless seem all the more prevalent.
Roman Sionis' eyes caught two figures appear and disappear, shadows in the fog that had been clinging to the tops of buildings all night long. He saw capes trailing as the two shadows melted into the darkness of the city.
Batman and Robin.
Roman Sionis walked from the balcony to the center of the room, where there sat next to the couch an old-styled telephone, with elegant lines, an old-fashioned ivory handset, and a decidedly modern twelve-digit keypad in the center, whose incorporation had robbed the otherwise eye-catching device of a large degree of its charm. Roman picked up the phone, thought a moment, then dialed seven numbers.
"Hello," he said when someone on the other end picked up, "is this Edward Yardley?"
Treadmont Apartments, six blocks south of the Crowne Major Hotel, 1:47 a.m.
Batman dropped from the sky to the roof of the building. He kept low in a crouching position, his trained eyes surveying the dark rooftop with the aid of the night-vision equipment built into his cowl. He touched the side of his cowl, "See anything?"
"Nothing from up here," he heard Robin answer over the radio.
Batman stood and nodded. "All right," he said, "Come-on down. Everything's clear."
Robin swung out from the roof of the Kranz Building across the street, which stood several stories higher than Treadmont, allowing a total view of the rooftop. He touched down on the roof and stood beside Batman. "Did you meet with the leader of the Serpents?"
Batman nodded once, leaving his head in its bowed position at the end of the motion. "I did."
Robin didn't speak for a moment, then looked at Batman expectantly. "Yes? . . . And?"
Batman raised his head, looking out across the expanse of the city. "Viper Tom said Black Mask set the Serpents up to kill me . . . us."
Robin's jaw dropped open, but he caught himself and closed his mouth, inhaling suddenly. "If he got to the Serpents, he might be trying to get the support of the other street gangs."
Batman turned to face his partner fully. "The good thing about the gangs in Gotham is, even though there are a lot of them, there aren't but a few ones large enough to cause tremendous damage. Black Mask seems to already have the Serpents on his side, and with enthusiasm. Next, he'll either head over to Ascotte Avenue for the Bone-Eaters, or try to gather up as many freelancers as possible."
"Like the Penguin," Robin offered. "But, shouldn't we consider the Copperheads on Schenmacher, too?"
"The Copperheads are violent, but they aren't too big as far as numbers are concerned. And, they're very sloppy. Not good candidates for Black Mask's operation." Batman paused for a moment. "Still," he added, "Black Mask . . . I don't really know for sure just how desperate he is. He's just a hair away from losing control of the Gotham mob, and he's most likely willing to go to any lengths to keep it. He might lose his head."
Both Batman and Robin turned at the sound of a loud engine, growing louder as it approached. Robin walked towards the edge of the roof, saw an old 1970's Cadillac driving towards the Treadmont Building. It was driving on the wrong side of the road, seemed to be speeding up. Robin had a chance to look a little closer and saw that the back end of the car was loaded down, pushing down heavy on the rear wheels. "My God," he said, running towards Batman. "Come-on, there's something in the trunk!"
Instinctively, Batman pushed Robin ahead of him, and they both charged for the other side of the roof. They reached the opposite edge of the roof at the same time and leapt straight out. Just as they left the roof, the car collided with the front of the building. A fireball, pushed along by sheer explosive force, erupted from the back of the vehicle, traveling up along the front of the building, a tremendous invisible blast ripping along behind it, in all directions.
Robin had heard the explosion as he was jumping, and felt it now as he was falling. He had lost sight of Batman, and his instincts of self-preservation kicked in. He reached into his belt, removed a small grappling hook, a poly-fiber cord trailing behind it, and flung it at the first sturdy hold he could see, the guardrail of a tenth-story balcony on the outdated, crumbling brick Garrison Hotel. The force of the explosion washed over Robin, knocking his throw off target. The grappling hook, instead of latching onto the stronger top guardrail, took hold around one of the thinner, weaker supporting rails. Robin fell, holding onto the cord. The cord snapped taut, and instead of rebounding, Robin heard the guardrail that had been grabbed by the hook snap off of the balcony. Having only an instant before hitting the ground, Robin pivoted in the air. He collided with the ground, hard asphalt, his fall having been sufficiently slowed by the cord so that the only injury he suffered was a dislocation of the shoulder he landed on.
Sitting up, and clenching his teeth in pain, Robin took the shoulder with his left hand and snapped it quickly back into place. Moving his right arm several times to assure himself of its usefulness, Robin stood and looked around him. He was on an old deserted street that ran between the old Garrison Hotel and the back of the Treadmont building. He caught sight of Batman, who had managed to leap over to the roof of the building adjacent to the Garrison. The Dark Knight was staring strangely at the Treadmont.
Robin ran to the fire escape of the building and rushed up it to join Batman on the roof. As he was almost to the top, Robin rose above the plane of the Treadmont's roof and saw what Batman must have been looking at. The roof of the Treadmont Apartment Building was scorched over more than half of its roof, and it appeared on the far side that a section was missing.
Robin blinked in disbelief, then hurried to join Batman on the roof. Batman at first didn't seem to notice his young partner standing beside him. In a moment, he turned to Robin and said, "Is your shoulder okay?"
Robin nodded, rotating his right arm as if on cue. "Yeah. It's--it's fine."
Batman continued to stare at the roof of the Treadmont. The next instant, he was in motion, shooting a grappling hook and cord across the space between the two buildings. "Come-on, then," he said, taking hold of the cord and swinging across the street. Robin secured his own grappling hook and followed.
Gotham City Police Headquarters, 1:53 a.m.
Lieutenant Samuel Kitch had been asleep at his desk since eleven o'clock. In his years on the Gotham Police force, Kitch had learned to desensitize himself to the verbal clutter and continuous background noise that was to be found all over the GCPD Headquarters building.
Kitch was sleeping quietly, his head laid flat on his desk, his blonde hair ruffled and sticking up in the back, giving him the look of an overgrown kindergarten student having a very rough nap time. His office door was ajar, Kitch having never shut it all the way. A young female officer stepped cautiously into the office and knocked lightly on the door.
Kitch did not move.
"Lieutenant Kitch?" she called quietly.
No movement.
"Wake up, Sir!!"
Kitch's head popped up, and he looked around with confusion, like a groggy jack-in-the-box. He caught sight of the officer and eyed her curiously. "Yes, officer?"
She pointed to the phone on his desk. "Line two sir, it's Sergeant Yingley."
Kitch ran a hand through his hair and picked up the phone. He didn't seem to mind that the female officer hung around to see what the call was about. "Yes, Sergeant? . . . Oh my--" Kitch's face turned white, his expression suddenly drained. He was completely silent for a moment. "I see, I see. I'll, uh . . . I'll be there A-S-A-P. . . . Thank you, Sergeant." Kitch hung up the phone and stood up behind his desk. He walked to the door, grabbed his overcoat, and rushed out of the office.
"What is it, Lieutenant?" the young female officer who had woken him asked.
Kitch began pulling on his coat, still moving towards the stairs. "It's the Treadmont Building on Gremlin . . . someone . . . well, it looks like it might be Oklahoma City all over again."
The young officer was named Kelly Johnson; her mouth dropped open. As Kitch was starting down the stairs, she called after, "Fire department?"
"Already there, with more on the way." Kitch stopped for only a moment and turned to Officer Johnson. "Someone better call the Commissioner before someone else does. He'd want to hear it from one of us."
Kitch disappeared down the stairs. And, her hand trembling slightly, Officer Johnson picked up the phone.
Treadmont Apartments, 2:01 a.m.
The fire siren had been blaring for several minutes, but no one had arrived yet, save for the first few uniformed police. A large section in the front of the building was caved in, debris was scattered all up and down the street. People were beginning to appear in windows, standing in doors; a few brave souls started for the building, hoping to find survivors while there were still some to be found.
Batman and Robin were already inside. Despite the growing activity outside, inside, the Treadmont was filled with an eerie silence. There were no screams, no moans, no whimpers of either help or pain. Most of the lower five floors of the apartment building were caved in, totally destroyed. Reluctantly, but realizing that it would be time wasted, Batman was skipped those bottom floors in favor of the slightly better off upper floors of the building. Robin, who was smaller and more flexible than his older partner, opted to take his chances with the lower floors.
The first sound Robin heard was that of something metal falling, clattering against something else. He moved towards it, as fast as he could through the crumbling plaster, splintered wood, and twisted metal. About ten yards ahead of him, Robin could see a man in a tattered green robe with his arms wrapped around a fallen steel support. The man spotted Robin, but then seemed to ignore the boy wonder until the two were only a few feet apart.
"Help me," the man said with a groan, continuing to struggle to lift the steel beam. "Please, help me lift . . . this." The man let out another loud groan, then fell back away from the beam, a pained expression on his face. Robin positioned himself between the beam and a pile of crumbled plaster that had fallen from the ceilings and floors above, and knelt down to look beneath. All he could see was a human foot.
Robin looked up expectantly at the man who had been trying to move the beam. "His name is Tim, he lives down the hall from me. . . . I know his mother." Robin nodded, reaching into the back of his belt. He removed a one-inch diameter cylinder, six inches long. He held it out in front of him and snapped it once against the air. The cylinder expanded from a six inch metal rod to a five-foot staff. Robin placed one end of the staff between the bottom edge of the fallen steel support and another, smaller beam that was almost up against it. Using the smaller beam as a fulcrum, Robin wrapped both hands around the top of his staff and began pulling back, using every ounce of strength in his arms, back, and legs.
The beam lifted slightly, and Robin's face took on a strained expression. "Come over here and help me," he groaned, wrapping his left arm around the staff and leaning forward in an effort to find more leverage. The robed man moved around the beam and found a narrow path through the debris. "Here," Robin said, his voice strained, "take the top, push it towards the floor. Don't let up." The man took the top of the staff with both hands and leaned on it with all his weight. Robin positioned himself in front of the staff, gripped his hands between the other man's, and pulled back with everything he had.
The beam budged again. Robin lessened his force for a moment, then pushed forward all at once. The beam lurched upward nearly a foot. "Get something under that!" Robin yelled immediately. The robed man kept pressure against the staff, and began kicking at a pile of mangled metal. The contents of the pile slid under the beam, holding it almost in its current position. Robin instructed the robed man to hold onto the staff, while he ducked underneath to rescue the boy.
Robin took hold of the only part of the boy he could see at first, the foot, and pulled gently. The foot slid forward several inches, then stopped suddenly. The foot's owner yelled, and Robin cringed; it had been an inhuman scream, no emotion, just pure pain. "Can you hear me, pal?" Robin yelled down at the source of the yell. He got no response. "Okay, listen . . ." Robin looked back at the robed man.
"Tim," the man answered.
"Listen, Tim . . . I'm trying to help you, but you have to let me know if you can hear me, all right?" Robin still heard no response; it was possible the boy was in shock. He looked back at the robed man. "How old is little Tim, here?"
The man ran his hand nervously through his hair.
"I thought you said you knew him . . ."
The man nodded several times, an almost compulsive motion. "Yeah . . . I know--I mean, he's about ten."
"Sure?"
"Ten or eleven. Something like that. . . . I know his mother."
"So I heard. . . . Hey, Tim, man . . . listen, just--if you can hear me, wiggle your toes. Just wiggle your toes on your . . . on your right foot." Robin watched the young boy's foot intently . . . nothing. He sighed with frustration. "Okay, okay, Tim . . . maybe you can't move your toes . . . that might mean your leg's broken, so just try and move your foot a little." The boy's foot was motionless. "Come-on, Tim, man . . . anything. Just move it a little . . . just rotate your ankle a little." The foot was still motionless. Then it moved, or so Robin thought.
"I saw that," the robed man said. "I saw him move his foot, honestly."
Robin looked up at the robed man. "What's your name?"
"Me? Um . . . I'm Hank. Tyler. . . . Hank Tyler."
"Okay, Hank, I want you keep an eye on Tim's foot, because the last time it moved, I didn't notice it." Hank nodded. "Now, Tim, my man, if you can just move your foot a little for me, just one more time . . ." After a moment, the small foot moved again. Robin had seen it, and looked up at Hank, who nodded. Robin broke into a grin. "Okay, Tim. Good job, man. Now just hang on . . . I think your leg is broken, so you'll have to hang on 'til we can get this building off of you, okay?" Robin waited a moment. "Can you do that for me, pal?"
The foot moved again, more apparent than before.
Robin stood. He pointed at his staff, looking at Hank. "Hank, keep pressure on the staff, just in case that beam decides to fall. I think I heard the fire department outside. I'll find us some more help." Robin climbed over the pile of debris in front of him and started for the way he had come in.
Something told Robin to turn around, and just as he did, he heard the sickening sound of his staff snapping in half, and the beam collapsing. The boy trapped beneath it didn't even scream. Confused and sick looking, Hank turned to Robin, holding his half of the staff. "The . . . the pile of junk just flattened out . . . this thing snapped."
Robin was motionless for a moment that seemed like an eternity. He bit his lower lip, drawing blood, and punched the nearest piece debris.
He felt at least two of his knuckles break.
Kranz Building, 3:06 a.m.
Robin was already standing there when Batman stepped out of the air and onto the roof of the building. He approached his young partner silently, but when Robin heard Batman's footsteps, he wasn't startled. He didn't even seem to care that he was no longer alone on the roof.
"The kid died," Robin said quietly. "They haven't recovered his body yet. I guess they're too busy looking for survivors . . . it's still early to start hauling corpses out." Batman walked up and put a reassuring hand on his young partner's shoulder. "Please don't," Robin said softly. Batman dropped his arm to the side and stood beside Robin quietly. "The . . . uh . . . the kid's name was Tim," Robin said with soft anger. "Isn't that just perfect?"
Batman turned his gaze from Robin to the ruined Treadmont Building. "I'm sure you did all that you could have done, Robin." Batman opened his mouth to talk, then stifled himself. He was silent for a moment, then said, "Sometimes these things can't be avoided."
Robin smiled contemptuously, shaking his head and laughing with venom. "How much was in that car, Batman? Who drove the damn thing? Who set up all this? Who the hell knew we were here, anyway?!"
Batman turned back to Robin, putting his hand back on his shoulder. Robin shook his head again. "How much was in the car, Batman?"
Batman was reluctant to answer. "I heard the trunk, the back seat, and front passenger seat. Most likely plastic explosives . . ." Batman's voice trailed off, as Robin bowed his head.
"It had to be Black Mask . . . he had to have been watching. We were--we were on that roof for too long." Robin sobbed once softly, then inhaled loudly and squared his shoulders. "I want him taken down," Robin said, his voice as dark and cold as Batman had ever heard it, darker even than after Tim had learned of the death of his mother. "Do you hear me, Batman? I want to destroy him."
Batman took his hand from Robin's shoulder and walked away from the edge of the roof. He turned his head to the side and addressed his angry young partner. "I hope you know what you're saying, Robin . . . because, if whoever is really after Black Mask gets their way, you won't have a choice."
Robin turned for the first time away from the Treadmont Building and looked at Batman, not knowing what to think.