.5

Tim stood atop the Time-Warner Building, one more gargoyle on the Gotham skyline, his cape shifting and flowing with the night wind. He only ever took a little joy in looking like a badass—maybe a little more when he was with the Titans, and he dropped out of the ceiling with a plan and a good one-liner, and they all reacted with shock and awe. In Gotham, though, he was about a head shorter than anyone and generally in the same area code as his girlfriend. That would take the winds out of anyone's sails.

Steph's voice trilled from his cell-phone. It just

looked

bad, him holding a smartphone instead of some nifty little earpiece... "So are you done brooding or

what

? There's a new store opening at Lakecrest Mall, everything's going to be fifteen percent off. Cass is really excited."

"Cass isn't 'really excited' about anything."

"Not true! There's Halloween candy, Ariana Grande music..."

Tim sighed. "Listen, Steph, it's like I said. It's best if things stay professional. I can't operate worrying about someone, let alone two."

"Are you pushing-us-away-for-our-own-good again? God, that is so emo. I thought you were through your emo phase two emo phases ago!"

He raised his voice. "It's not a phase, Steph! I gotta go, Batman wants me to patrol with someone else."

"Just whatever you do, don't start to care about them in any way," Steph said bitterly. "Might lead to you having normal human interactions with someone."

"I have normal human interactions with plenty of people!" Tim protested. "Kon. Me and Kon do stuff all the time."

"Are you getting blowsies from him? Because I could take you being gay, it would actually explain a lot—"

"Goodbye, Steph."

"Bye Tim, I'll just be out on patrol myself, doing my duty while also having a valid emotional connection to you. So hard!"

He hung up, tucking the phone into his utility belt, switching to the OS in his visor to check for crimes in the area.

"That your girlfriend?" a voice came from behind him.

Tim swooped around, hand diving for his bo staff, when he saw it was the woman Batman had sent to him. Roxy Rocket, her ride hovering in the air with a muted jet wash he could now discern.

He ignored her question. "You're pretty stealthy for someone with rocket in your name."

"I set it to Quiet. Handy when you steal stuff. So you're Robin, huh? Thought you'd be shorter."

Didn't get that a lot.

"'Nother Robin. I'm Red Robin."

"Oh, there's more than one of you? Just like there are a couple Batgirls?"

"Yeah."

"So am I a Robin too or do I have to be a Batgirl? I could be Robin Rocket. Keep the alliteration thing going."

Tim could see impressing the seriousness of their job on her was not going to be done in thirty seconds. He checked his police scanner again. "Hostage situation on Fourth and Ninth. You up for that?"

"As long as we're not negotiating. I let Betsy here do the talking," Roxy said with a slap to her mount.

"It's Two-Face, so no, we're not negotiating. Follow my lead." Tim threw out a zip-line and took off, his swing dogged by Roxy following with a strangled thrust from her rocket.

"It okay if I give you a ride? Might be a little faster than the Tarzan thing."

Tim landed and, gritting his teeth, fired his grapple-gun again. "

I'm fine.

"

"Suit yourself. I'll go on ahead. Do some recon."

"Roxy, wait-!"

***

When Tim got to the crime scene, Roxy was waiting for him, parked on the neighboring rooftop. The flash of police lights surrounding the storefront came up to bathe her in red and blue. "What took you so long?"

Tim landed on an AC unit beside her, crouched. "If he'd seen you, he could've executed hostages."

"Well, he didn't, hot stuff. Besides, I'm another crook, remember? He'd probably just think I was doing a job nearby." Roxy chewed on the toothpick in her mouth, which did not much to endear her to Tim. "But don't lose the attitude, small-fry. I think it's kinda cute. Little Mormon schoolboy fantasy or something."

"I'm not a Mormon."

***

It was a simple deal. Two-Face was holed up in a jeweler's, the staff and customers held hostage while the police tried to negotiate him from twenty million down to two. Tim had a simple plan. He'd get into position, moving through the air ducts to where the hostages were grouped together. Roxy would burst in and cause a distraction. He'd free the hostages, then leave the mop-up to SWAT. No one dies.

It didn't go that well.

Tim was crawling through the ceiling when Roxy broke in over the communicator he'd given her. "Two-Face is flipping a coin. He says if it comes up heads, he's going to kill a hostage."

"He's posturing. Were those his exact words?"

"I'm going in."

"I am

in

the ceiling."

"Relax, I could take this guy by myself. His superpower is

having scars.

"

"Roxy, no—"

Distantly, he heard glass breaking.

Why did Gotham get the crazy women? The Teen Titans were full of smart, capable,

sane

women—and Ravager. Why couldn't

just one

of them have been born in Gotham...?

He triggered his staff, letting its expansion break open the air duct he was in. It came down through the ceiling, spilling him out in a hail of plaster, and he landed in an acrobatic crouch. Roxy was in the center of the store, riding her rocket like it was a bucking bronco. She threw off concussion grenades which pockmarked the store, sending double-masked goons flying, and breaking display cases with their shockwaves. Tim ignored them, making a beeline for the break room where the hostages were locked down. Some gun-toting thugs were in the way. He flung out a pair of discuses that brought them down, darting between their falling bodies to shove himself through the door.

Inside, three goons, armed with crowbars and baseball bats. Why was it only

some

henchmen carried guns? Was the economy getting so bad that even mooks couldn't afford to be strapped?

One swung at him. Tim blocked, feeling the reverberation trill up his arms, lanced out with a kick, then was ducking, dodging, as the other two charged in. He rolled across the room's cheap table, cape sweeping up empty soda cans, and landed—accidentally stepping on a cowering prisoner's hand. "Sorry," he said as he kicked the table into the two standing goons. He ricocheted a staff blow between them, then flipped the table with one hand to step in under it, getting close, finishing the pair off with one elbow, one punch. Same arm. The guy he'd kicked at the beginning was rallying, so Tim brought the staff down on his head. He stayed down this time.

"Everyone out!" Tim yelled, leading the hostages out the door. The two henchmen he'd felled with discs were staggering—he tossed a flashbang at their feet to further disorient them before landing two precision finger-strikes, sending them down. The hostages streamed out after them. They knew the score: keep low, move fast.

In the middle of the store, Roxy was a whirling dervish. She spun her rocket around, pumping the jet wash to send a mook flying, then rearing it up so a volley of gunfire from Two-Face only splashed off her heavily-armored undercarriage. Then she hit the afterburner and the rocket careened through the store, bouncing off a wall and crashing through a display case to send glass and jewels flying, knocking out the gunman who'd been taking cover behind it. She flew over Tim's head, laughing wildly, and he tossed smoke-pellets that he kinda hoped she'd inhale.

Twelve seconds to run to the door. One of those small eternities Tim got. He threw discs at anyone who breathed funny, but it was Roxy who took out Two-Face, side-swiping him with her rocket and crunching him against the wall. It wasn't that bad. The plaster wall gave more than his body, but a swipe of Roxy's boot KOed him. Tim hit the sidedoor, kicked it open, and SWAT was waiting to usher the hostages out.

He gave the building another sweep, checking for anyone still on their feet, but anyone not nursing a concussion had their hands up. He went to collar Roxy. Two-Face he handcuffed thoroughly.

"Why, Dent?" he asked, noticing the former DA's handsome face wasn't scarred, but tattooed down one side, piercings giving him horns. "I heard you took the deal. Got plastic surgery, got married—to two women, actually. Why go back when the therapy had finally taken?"

He held up his coin. "I was only using dollar bills. Then I saw this on the edge of a table. I didn't mean to flip it. I brushed it with my hand and it fell to the floor." He showed the scrawling marks he'd made on one side. "It landed heads up."

***

They were back on the rooftop—a dark, tall one made for skulking. Perfect vantage point to watch the cops leading Two-Face and his men away. Not that they were watching.

"You think one of his balls is normal and the other is scarred?" Roxy asked, giving her cycle a quick going-over with a spray-bottle and rag. The bullets hadn't dented it, but they had left some nasty stains.

Tim seethed inwardly. And, not so inwardly. "That was reckless and stupid. You could've gotten yourself—"

"Oh, can the responsibility speech. I got it from Steven Spielberg, I don't need it from you." Roxy took off her jacket, throwing it across the rocket's saddle. "That was

fun,

wasn't it? Charging into danger, dodging bullets, thrashing bad guys!

Fuck,

I am energized—better than cocaine!"

Tim's trained eyes tried to shy away from where her nipples pressed erectly through her tanktop. "This isn't some thrill ride."

"Oh, that's exactly what it is—don't play Batman, kiddo, you're too young for that. In fact, you look just ripe, barely legal, and all you're doing is parroting some middle-aged nonsense. What kind of nerd bullshit is that?" Roxy peeled off her flight cap in a waterfall of auburn hair. "Don't you feel alive! Don't you wanna fuck?"

"Wait, what?"