DC/GW fusion
By Timi
Part II
Robin was then hurled into another existence. He found it odd to be born and he found it even stranger that he was this new person. According to everything that he knew, he should be some sort of soul piggy-back riding in someone else's consciousness. That was not the case, he even looked the same. As he grew the same blue eyes stared out of the same pale face. He even hand the same unruly mop of hair defied his brush every morning. The beginning of his life was wonderful. Two lovely parents, raised him and comforted him. He was given everything that would matter. He had a home, loving parents, friends. He was still an only child, but he decided to enjoy himself.
Over the years Robin started to fade, and Tim Drake came further into the foreground. He saw no reason to train or practice. His parents, of course, involved him in after-school activities, such as gymnastics, and martial arts. But other than for class, he saw no reason to push his training, as he had done when he was Robin.
One day when he was five, a strange old man came up to the playground and watched him as he played. Robin's, or Roptes', as he was known in that world, ball went toward the man, and Roptes followed. The ball stopped at the man's feet, but the old man made no move to pick it up. Roptes approached and retrieved his ball. He, however, did not walk away after picking it up, he instead looked at the man and said
"Why did you do this?"
"Do you like it here?" was the only response.
Roptes hesitated, and asked "How do I get home?"
"You will get back to your world when you complete this life. Do you like it here?"
Knowing it could get the real answer from him anyway, Roptes decided to answer honestly
"I am indifferent, I like this world as much as my own."
The man seemed to be somewhat dissatisfied with Roptes'  response, but all he said was "Good."
The creature that had sent Robin to this world then stood and walked away. Roptes watched him for a little while then his mother call his name.
"Never talk to strangers!" She cried, grabbing his hand and roughly pulling him away. He was treated to a lecture from both his mother and his father, and being only five, he took it to heart. Not to mention he knew better, but how could one explain another life to his parents? He started school and he also continued with his training in gymnastics and the martial arts. His teachers noticed an that he had an aptitude for both, and they constantly gave him more advanced exercises. He turned six and seven and still his life was idyllic.
Then one day he kept seeing the creature. He saw it as a girl off in the distance walking into a store on his way to school. he saw it again driving by his school during recess. He tried, unsuccessfully, to catch up with it, but every time he did, it turned out to be someone else. He was getting justifiably jumpy and nervous, so he decided to skip his class afterschool and go directly to his house. The walk wouldn?t be long, and from there he could call his teachers and give them some excuse. He tried to convince himself that everything was fine. He was not seeing the creature, everythingwas normal. But the feeling would not go away.
After his last class he ignored all his classmates, grabbed his books and ran all the way home. He reached his home and he stopped dead. His instincts screamed at him to go slowly, carefully, because everything was not right. His parents would not leave the door unlocked, nor would they leave it ajar. He circled the house and found an open window. He dropped is backpack behind the bushes that obscured the window and climbed into the house. Knowing he could usually find his mother in the den, he headed in that direction. He passed by the kitchen and heard a noise. It was his father's voice. He knew it was his father's turn to work all day, so the fact that his father was home made the alarms in his mind ring even louder.
He peeked into the open door and saw his parents tied to the kitchen chairs. Both their hands were bleeding from the finger tips, and Roptes saw that their fingernails had been pulled off. Both of them were bleeding from superficial wounds, and they had several broken bones, and still they kept their heads up, defiant and proud. They were angled away from the kitchen door, so they didn?t see him looking into the room. It was only luck that the person questioning them had his back turned toward the door at the time. He turned and spoke again.
"Where is he? Where is the one referred to as Mister M?"
Roptes had met him once. One night when he was supposed to be asleep he heard his parents downstairs. Thinking they could tuck him in a second time he crept down the stairs, but stopped short when he got to the living room. There was a strange man in there, and he was talking to his parents. Roptes was going to go back to bed when his name was called by the person he didn't know. He turned around guiltily and looked at the man, and then at his parents. Indeed his parents wore reproachful looks on their faces, the man, however, looked happy. He beckoned Roptes to him and commended his ability to walk quietly through the house. The man introduced himself and after a couple of minutes of conversation, he sent Roptes back to bed.
The interrogator turned toward the door and Roptes hid himself again. He heard the unmistakable sound of flesh hitting flesh, and he heard the little whimper of protest that his father made. When Roptes looked back around the corner his mother had her head to the side, as if just struck. Roptes heard someone coming down the hallway, and knew he had to hide. However, since he was in the doorway, the only place he could go was into the kitchen.
With mounting anxiety he timed his run. When the interrogator turned his back Roptes made his way to the sink. Under the sink was a cabinet, in which were was a lot of empty space. It was one of his favorite hiding places. Directly under the sink there were slits. Once in the cupboard one could see out the slits. Methodically, Roptes opened the cupboard door and slipped inside. He had successfully made it in without the person in the hall, or the interrogator seeing him. He, however, could see everything.
The interrogation lasted forever. At each slap each hit, he wanted to jump out of the cupboard and hurt the man that was hurting his parents. The only thing keeping him from doing so was hearing that his parents were alive only as long as he was not there. Apparently he would be used as a pawn to make his parents tell them what information they wanted. Roptes knew his parents loved him, he wondered if it was enough to make his parents tell their secret.
The minutes passed like days, and Roptes never saw an opportunity to save his parents. It was when he was supposed to be home from his classes that the interrogator was distracted enough for Roptes to make his move. A lesser ranked uniformed person went up to the interrogator and told him that Roptes was not on his way home, and that he hadn?t been in class. The interrogator dragged the lesser official over to the door and they discussed in hushed tones what exactly he meant, and why hadn?t anyone told him before. Roptes slid out of the cupboard and found one of the sharp cutting knives his parents were always warning him not to touch. His parents finally saw him and their eyes begged him to escape, to flee. But he would not do so until they were able to come with him.
Quickly he slipped the knife through his parent's bonds and their arms were soon free. However, before he could move on to the ropes that bound their legs to the chair, he felt a heavy hand drag him away from his parents. In his surprise he dropped the knife and found himself lifted into the air by his hair. He grabbed at the hand that held him, that hurt him, and tried to get it to let go, but he was too weak. For his efforts he was rewarded by a sharp shake that nearly broke his neck. The interrogator then twisted his arm behind his back, and kept on twisting until Roptes gave a cry of pain. He saw a muscle twitch in his father's jaw, and he saw his mother pick up the knife.
"Tell me what I want to know."
In unison his parents leapt forward, his mother brandishing the knife, his father ready to rip the interrogator's head from his neck. Roptes was shoved toward his parents. His father caught him and pushed him toward the back door, and told him to run. Roptes obeyed without hesitating, thinking that his parents would follow.
Almost immediately he remembered that their legs were still tied to the chairs. He turned back to help them only to see them executed by a gun fired point blank into their faces. For a shocked moment Roptes watched them as they fell to the ground. He saw the interrogator's gun slowly point toward him, but before it could be aimed properly, he was out the door and in the street running as fast as he could.
He didn't allow himself to cry. He couldn't have that luxury at this time. Those soldiers would still be after him, and he needed to escape. He listened to their footsteps; from what he remembered as Robin, they were chasing him half-heartedly. He could escape easily, but only if he paid attention to his surroundings, and didn't waste his energy on crying. He was shorter and younger than they. If he made a mistake, he was dead.
He ducked into a crowded street and lost himself in it. He then went into a store and watched as the soldiers crashed clumsily through the crowd, coming toward him, closer, closer, and finally passing the store. Roptes sighed brokenly and leaned against a display and just stood there. He wasn't sure how long he stood there, but eventually a salesclerk approached him and asked if he was lost. Shaking his head no, not trusting himself to talk, he pushed himself off the display, still not crying.
The next three days were a blur to Roptes. It was a mix of hunger, fear, running and fitful sleep interrupted by dreams of his parents from this life and the other. He still hadn't mourned for his parents. He walked in a daze of depression and survival lust. Most of the time he wandered the downtown streets with other older homeless people. The ones that were elderly treated him nicely and gave him food. However, he never stayed too long with any of them.
Nearly a week later he found that he had wandered back to his house. It was as if nothing had happened. The door was closed, there was no mail that piled up in the mailbox, nor were there any newspapers piled in front of the door. Roptes stood there looking at it. Though it had only been a few days, he looked as if he had aged several years. Slowly he approached the door, automatically reaching for the key he wore around his neck. Just the feel of the chain reminded him of his father. It was the chain that used to hold his father's dogtags. When Roptes turned seven and had the added responsibility of walking home, his father had presented him with this gift. His father had thrown away the tags, sending a silent message that Roptes had not understood at the time.
He slipped the chain from his neck and fitted the key into the lock. The door eased open without the squeak it always made, which immediately flashed Roptes a warning signal. The signal was amplified by his condition, and Roptes was about to bolt, but the condition of the house caught his eye. All his things, the furniture, the wall coverings, everything, was gone. Furthermore, the walls had been repainted to indicate that nothing had ever rested against them at all. Breathing shallowly Roptes walked the length of the lower level, trying to find something, anything that would indicate that he had in fact existed. He found nothing.
He climbed to the upper story and walked through each of the rooms, leaving his last. He felt nothing as he walked through his parent?s bedroom. There was nothing there. It was just a room, like any other. Hesitating to go to his room, afraid that there too, he would find nothing that would confirm his existence, he walked into the bathroom and took a shower, trying to take off a weeks worth of dust and dirt. It was unsatisfying, there was no soap, no shampoo, and at the end there was no towel. Roptes dressed again in unrecognizable school clothes as water dripped from his hair andalready damp clothing.
Finally he walked into his room. As he opened the door he had a giddy flash of everything being as it used to be. Over in the corner, by the window, was his bed complete with sheets and was nicely turned down, inviting him to sleep. His desk was cluttered by the parts of the model he was currently putting together. His bookshelves were filled with his models. His bookshelves were also filled with books. Ones that he liked when he was five. Ones that his parents said he should read, ones that were his favorites. But when he opened the door all the way, he found that his room was as empty as the rest of the house.
He sagged against the doorway and crumpled to his knees. Slowly, hoping, he crawled over to the set of shelves and drawers that were built into the wall. He pulled out the lowest drawer, lifting it up than down to unhook it from the rollers. Looking at it he carefully put it down and stared for a minute, hesitating to look into the empty space. Hoping that his "special things"  had been spared. He reached into the dark cavity and felt around the cool interior. His hand then encountered something that skid. He grabbed it and pulled out the flat tin box that his mother had given to him. Swallowing he opened it slowly, lifting the white lid carefully, thinking that it would be empty. That it was placed there to tease and confuse him.
It was not. It still contained everything he had placed inside. There was a picture of his parents when there were young, around 19, and had not yet realized that they would be married in five years. They were standing in a group of their friends on opposite sides of the group staring, smiling at the camera. There were feathers inside, and rocks. There were buttons and a broken watch his mother told him he could play with. Inside were all the things that he had thought were special. If he had known, if he had even suspected, this box would have been filled with photos of their times together, filled with more important things than just buttons and feathers. But it was the only thing that was left, and so the box and everything in it was precious.
Carefully he placed everything back in the box and he lowered it to the floor. He was kneeling on the floor and his hands were placed on either side of the box when he noticed tears falling onto the box. Finally he allowed himself to cry. He leaned forward until his head touched the box and then he dropped to his side. His arms wrapped themselves protectively around himself, as if trying to keep himself together because he felt if he let go the grief would tear out of him and leave him bleeding on the ground.
He cried for a long time. By the time he stopped the sun was setting and he was laying on his side staring at it out of the window. He wanted to stay there forever. But already his hunger was reasserting itself and he knew he should move on, lest the interrogator come back and kill him too. He pushed himself off the floor, exhausted from crying so much. He shakily ran a hand through his messy, now dry hair. He bent down to pick up the box.
"What are you doing here?" He heard a male voice demand angrily.
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