Honestly? Tim should’ve seen this coming. No—really—he should have. The warnings weren’t subtle. He’d been told, more than once, to steer clear of the seedier parts of Gotham, especially since he didn’t exactly stack up to his predecessors when it came down to hand-to-hand combat. And with both Batman and Nightwing out of the city, that meant there was no safety net to catch Tim if he messed up.
And still, he went anyway.
Because following orders? That’s never been Tim’s strong suit.
Given his track record, it really isn't much surprise when you consider that he had been sneaking out since the age of nine years old, chasing shadows through alleyways just to catch a blurry photo of Batman and Robin in action. Not that his parents ever noticed. They were always gone—business trips, social functions, extended “research retreats” that stretched into months—all the above. It was to the point where Tim had spent most of his childhood learning how to take care of himself because, frankly, no one else was going to. He dressed himself, fed himself, got himself to school and back, kept the house from falling apart—all while pretending he was just another normal kid. He wasn’t. Not really.
That independence? It wasn’t just a trait—it was armor. The kind you build when you grow up knowing you can’t count on anyone to be there when things fall apart. So of course he ignored Batman’s orders. Of course he patrolled the city on his own. He’d been handling things alone for as long as he could remember.
And for the most part, it had worked out fine.
While Tim was making his usual rounds throughout the city, a group of large, not-so-friendly looking guys wound up getting the drop on him after he'd just made it about halfway through Old Gotham. Tim had taken a moment to stop in the middle of a lone street. In his defense? It only happened because he got distracted while checking his utility belt.
Before you judge, he'd actually gotten a cut on his arm midway through patrol. It wasn’t serious—just a shallow nick—but still, it made sense to at least try to keep dirt and grime out of it. In theory.
That’s why he was currently standing in full Boy Wonder gear, struggling to peel the backing off a Hello Kitty bandage.
Sure, it looked ridiculous, but infection wasn’t exactly part of the mission brief.
What wasn't in his plan, however, was the danger flying directly underneath his radar and sneaking up on him from all sides. Tim didn’t notice the men approaching until their low, mocking laughter finally caught his ears.
“Well, would ya lookie here, boys?” one of them drawled, dressed in the kind of cliché goon uniform you'd expect from someone working under a second-rate crime boss. “Looks like this little birdie flew the nest a bit too early.”
The edge in his voice made it clear: they weren’t here without ill intent.
Tim arched an eyebrow, slowly widening his stance and slipping the half-unwrapped Hello Kitty bandage into a pocket. No sudden movements—yet. But his posture had shifted: balanced, ready.
“You look lost, kid,” another chimed in. “Where’s the Bat? Huh? Don’t tell me he left you out here all on your own?”
The forced bravado in their voices made Tim want to roll his eyes. The whole “tough guy” act felt like something out of a low-budget crime drama. Still, he knew better than to get cocky. Just because he didn’t take them seriously didn’t mean the situation wasn’t serious. Especially if these guys actually suspected that Batman really was out of the picture.
In true Dick Grayson fashion, Tim tried to talk his way out of danger while quietly forming a plan of attack. Simultaneously Tim scolds himself mentally for making such a rookie mistake that got him landed in this mess in the first place.
Granted he still was a rookie….but that's besides the point!
Robin wasn’t just Batman’s shadow—he was a symbol in his own right. Tim knew this. So getting caught off guard, especially without the Dark Knight watching his back, was definitely a lesson he would be learning the hard way it seems. He should’ve known the target on his back wasn’t just front and center—when the threat comes from all sides, there’s no dodging the bullseye.
"Don’t you guys have, like, a jewelry store to rob or something? Why waste your time picking a fight with little ol’ me?"
He wore a grin, but there was no joy behind it. Still, the act served its purpose—if he stayed calm, maybe they’d think Batman was just around the corner instead of halfway across the globe.
One of the thugs sneered. "Didn’t you learn nothin’ from what happened to the last Boy Wonder? You must really want to go out with a bang. I’m sure the boss would be more than happy to—"
Tim cut him off mid-threat with a precise jab to the gut using his bo staff. Before the man could recover, Tim swept his legs out from under him. He hit the ground hard, curling onto his side with a groan, clutching his stomach.
The others stared, momentarily frozen.
"I’m not exactly a grammar expert," Tim said, twirling the staff, "but I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to use a double negative." The men growled and started closing in, clearly not happy with him. But of course Tim just kept on talking.
"Also, word of advice? Maybe don’t lecture people on topics you clearly don’t understand. Could come back to bite you."
He gave a casual shrug. "But what do I know? I’m just a kid."
Enraged, they lunge for him—grabbing, swinging, shouting. Their frustration builds with every miss as Tim stays just out of reach, spinning and striking with his bo staff, trading blows as fists fly. But the momentum shifts the moment he backs into a dead-end alley. He throws a quick glance around, scanning for an escape route.
A hard punch slams into his jaw—bare knuckles, full force. The world jerks sideways as Tim staggers back, staff raised in a blind block. It's ripped from his hands before he can reset his footing.
"You little fuckin’ shithead,” growls one of them. “I oughta break your hands for that.”
Tim scrambles for his grapple gun, fumbling with the grip as he aims at the rooftop above. He fires—and for a second, he’s airborne.
Thick hands clamp around his ankle and the back of his knee. He’s yanked down hard, the grapple slipping from his grasp as gravity takes over. His body hits the asphalt with a sickening crack, his head bouncing off the concrete. The impact rattles his brain, pain blooming sharp and immediate.
He groans, trying to push himself up—
A boot slams down into his back, crushing him to the ground like a bug.
“Not so graceful now, are ya?” the man sneers, laughter erupting around him.
Tim’s heart thunders in his chest. Okay. Maybe he’s not as good as he thought. But what do they expect from him?
Batman barely trains him any, if at all.
“I’m busy right now, Tim.”
“Stick to your solo drills, Tim.”
“We’ll go over it later, Tim.”
“Maybe tomorrow, Ja—Tim.”
Spoiler alert: Tomorrow never came.
And when their training did happen? Sparring sessions rarely lasted more than thirty, maybe forty minutes—before Bruce called it off. As if his mind were elsewhere. As if something—or someone—was pulling him away from the task of teaching Tim even the most basic techniques, the kind that could mean everything in a fight gone wrong.
To Tim, it felt like Bruce was running from something. And maybe he was. After all, Tim had a way of reminding him—consciously or not—of what he’d lost. So really, what else could be expected of him when his combat skills were still lagging behind in this world of vigilantism?
The man's boot pressed harder into Tim’s back, forcing a sharp cry from his lips as he squirmed beneath the weight, desperate to shake him off. It was pointless. He simply wasn’t strong enough.
With a low chuckle, the man seized Tim’s wrist and hauled him up, leaving his boots to barely skim the ground. A thick finger jabbed into his ribs, and Tim recoiled instinctively at the sharp discomfort while they all chuckled at the sight. His head spun terribly, vision flickering in and out as the voices around him continued in casual conversation, as if this were just another ordinary Thursday night.
Tim’s thoughts fought through the haze, calculating. While they were distracted by their own smug amusement, he slipped his free hand down to his utility belt and retrieved a Batarang, keeping it hidden tight against his thigh. He waited—silent, steady—then struck fast, slamming the weapon down onto the man’s wrist. The grip around his own wrist released instantly as the man cried out in pain and Tim dropped hard to the ground, dazed but free.
His mind was a jumbled mess, thoughts scattered and fuzzy, yet his hand found its way to the smoke pellets in another pocket of his belt. A wave of relief hit him when he finally grabbed them, and he wasted no time in tossing them just as the men lunged to grab him. The thick clouds of smoke exploded, swallowing everything in their path, blurring their vision and giving him a moment’s edge.
Tim grunted, pulling himself to his feet, then surged through the confusion, darting out of the alley. The men weren't far behind, their footsteps pounding the pavement, driven by a mix of desperation to escape the smoke and a twisted determination to capture him for their employer.
He stumbled and very nearly tripped over his own feet, barely catching himself, but there was no time to slow down. His head throbbed, pain pulsing in through his skull, and the warm, sticky trickle of blood down his neck was enough to tell him that his head injury was more severe than he'd initially thought, though he couldn’t focus long enough to assess it properly. The men’s shouts echoed behind him, curses and threats lost in the chase as they tore after him through the winding backstreets.
Tim pushed harder, heart racing, but the farther he ran, the more foreign everything felt. The winding maze of alleyways and side streets blurred into unfamiliar territory. He’d never ventured this far into Park Row before. Even during his countless patrols with Batman, this part of the city had always been a mystery.
Now, it was becoming a dangerous one.
Tim was now being hunted—chased down by a gang of pissed-off men. His bo staff? Missing. Grapple gun? Gone. And his utility belt? Carried only what he could fit—meaning not nearly enough.
He was so very fucked right now.
Utterly, totally, royally fucked. I mean how much more fucked can one be at this point?
Tim curses himself for being such a moron, making such amateur mistakes especially after he runs himself right into another dead end alleyway.
He spun, hoping—grasping—for even the faintest chance to escape another way. No dice. They were already there, blocking the only way out.
“End of the line, kiddo, you're coming with us,” one sneered, while another made a show of cracking his knuckles. “Either I beat your ass now, or I beat it on the way. Your call.”
Tim was too frantic, too consumed by the need to escape, to hear a word they were saying. His mind raced with useless thoughts. Nothing helpful enough to aid him in his escape, just brick walls and bodies closing.
Two of the goons seized his arms, locking him in place while a third cocks a fist back, ready to bring it right back down.
Tim shut his eyes tight, bracing for the hit.
Screams rang out. Bodies collapsing to the floor accented by fleshy ‘thuds’ against rough pavement. The hands gripping his arms slackened, not fully letting go, but trembling in their grip. Tim opened his eyes, just a sliver at first, still half expecting to be struck in the face.
The man who had been about to punch him was on the ground, writhing, blood pouring from his leg and shoulder. The others were down too—limp, sprawled across the cold concrete in unnatural positions. Still.
They were absolutely dead.
They had to be. There was no way they weren’t.
"Well, what’d we have here?"
The voice was smooth and cold, almost amused behind the modulator.
Everything went still. The air itself seemed to freeze.
Tim’s heart lurched forward because there, standing in the center of the downed men, gun in hand, was the Red Hood—Crime Alley’s most infamous ghost story made real. A name whispered with fear. A man who’d been carving a bloody reputation into Gotham’s underbelly since late last year.
Tim had half a mind to throw a jab at the two men who now looked seconds away from wetting themselves—especially considering they'd tried to kill him not long ago. And now? They couldn’t even pretend they could defend themselves. Still, something told him now wasn’t the time or place for jokes.
Red Hood didn’t waste a second. He stepped forward, instantly drawing everyone’s attention again. There was purpose in the way he moved—deliberate, focused. It felt like he was on a mission, and maybe he was. Who could say?
But his gaze landed heavily on Robin. On Tim.
Hood’s posture stiffened as he came close enough for Tim to make out more details in the helmet than he cared to. Something about the moment unsettled him. The way Hood looked at him—it wasn’t long, but it felt too precise, like he’d recognized something.
Then, as if a switch had flipped, Hood moved. One moment he was frozen, the next he was pulling the trigger—twice. The sharp cracks of gunfire echoed in the alley, blood splattering everywhere, a few warm droplets even hitting Tim. The two men crumpled lifeless to the ground, their weight no longer anchoring Tim in place.
Before he could process any of it, Red Hood was closing the gap, grabbing him by the back of his cape and hauling him out of the alley.
Tim staggered to keep up, being dragged more than led. From the tense set of Hood’s shoulders to the angry, audible breathing his helmet couldn’t quite muffle, Tim could tell—he was furious.
Whether that rage was aimed at Tim or not... he couldn’t determine for sure though he doesn't have to dwell on it for too much longer.
Tim’s boots screech across the pavement, heels digging in with everything he has—but it’s useless. Red Hood drags him like he's used to hauling around dead weight, one hand clamped around the back of his cape in a grip that feels more like a chokehold than a restraint. Every time Tim resists, he's met with a violent, spine-jarring yank that jerks him forward like a puppet on a string.
“Let go—!” Tim snaps, breath ragged. “What are you doing?!”
No answer. Not even a glance.
Just the harsh sound of footsteps as Hood deliberately hauls him down the deserted street. The lamps overhead flicker like dying candles, casting broken shadows across the cracked asphalt. The silence around them feels suffocating—no traffic, no sirens, nothing. Just the scrape of Tim’s boots and the unrelenting pull of a man who clearly doesn’t care how cruel he's being.
Then—without warning—Hood stops.
A heartbeat later, Tim’s body is yanked forward with such excessive force and thrown to the ground like trash. His knees slam down first, bone meeting concrete, hands splaying out as he tumbles—no time to catch himself before falling over on his side. He skids on raw skin, shoulder slamming the ground, cape tangling beneath him.
“What the hell is your problem?!” he spits after regaining his composure, whipping around—
There’s a gun in his face.
Close enough he can see the scratches on the barrel. Close enough he can hear the creak of Hood’s glove as his finger tightens on the trigger. Red Hood doesn’t say a word, nor does Tim dare to blink. Hood just stands there, silent, motionless, gun leveled with clinical precision.
Tim’s breath catches. His anger drains in an instant, replaced by a cold, coiled dread.
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I'll be posting on my ao3 at some point. Maybe I'll continue this.
