Chapter Text
Tim was pulling a bullet out of his side when he got the phone call.
He grimaced, dropping the tiny metal casing onto the hotel nightstand with a clatter. The surface was littered with bloody bandages, an odd handful of his throwing discs, and a hastily-scribbled note of some potential leads alongside his loudly-buzzing phone.
The caller ID read Davud Hasanović - Tim's contact in Madrid who was supposed to meet him at the museum hours ago. The one who had blown him off and left him for dead, completely at the mercy of the hired thugs that had mysteriously been present at what should have been a quiet night at the Anthropology exhibit.
If nothing else, Tim had to admire the balls on this guy.
Pressing the closest clean-ish bandages to the still-bleeding wound, Tim grabbed his cellphone and answered, snapping into the receiver. "You have about five seconds to give me an explanation - and if I don't like it, I'm gonna track you down and make you give me one I do like."
"Wow!" That was definitely not Davud. Tim listened to the woman on the other end of the line laugh, mind already racing with the possibilities. Instinctively, he glanced around, looking for signs of an ambush. "Do you answer all your calls like that, or am I just special?"
"Ba- Oracle?"
"Guilty as charged."
Later, Tim would wish that he had hung up right then and there. He would've been in the right - Barbara hacking into his encrypted phone was a serious dick move, especially considering she knew damn well that Tim didn't want to talk to any of them right now.
But instead, because he was a champion of making bad decisions, he stayed on the line. "I'm fine, O. You can tell Dick that I still haven't gone completely off the deep end." Tim leaned over, grabbing his first-aid kit from where it lay next to him. He flipped it open with more force than necessary, the contents rattling loudly. "So thanks for the check-in, but it's all peachy over here. Okay?"
"Well, I'm glad to hear that you're doing so fantastic, but that's not actually why I'm calling." Babs was silent for a moment, and Tim could hear the clack of keys in the background. "We need you back in Gotham."
"No." Tim said immediately - again, he should have hung up in that moment, but instead he put her on speaker. Setting the phone down, he pulled out the saline wash, letting out a quiet hiss as he began to clean his wound. "Whatever intervention you have planned, I'm not going."
"Can you get your head out of your ass for a second?" Barbara sighed loudly. "It's not about you. Seriously. There's a huge riot at Arkham, and the new Dynamic Duo are ocupado chasing a perp halfway across Jersey."
Tim scoffed. "Then get the Birds on it."
"They're already there."
"So why the hell are you calling me?"
"Because it's bad, Tim. The whole island is locked down, and the inmates are armed to the teeth. They've got hundreds of hostages." Babs was silent for a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer. "I promise I wouldn't be calling if I didn't think we really needed all hands on deck."
Tim groaned - half from her words, half from the sharp sting of the needle cutting into his flesh. "Then get Supergirl on the line or something, Babs! Call in the League! But I'm not going."
He still wasn't entirely convinced that this wasn't some kind of half-baked attempt to reign him in. There almost certainly was a real riot, but it also sounded like a great excuse to get him out of Europe, away from his mission. The mission.
Finding Bruce was the only thing that really mattered to him right now. The idea of it was all that kept him going.
Babs was silent, and Tim could practically hear the gears of her mind turning. "Alright. Look. If you come back, I'll get you into contact with the real Hasanović."
Tim straightened, immediately regretting it as a sharp stab of pain cut into the soft flesh of his stomach. "The real Hasanović?"
"Yeah. You know, that one were trying to set up a meeting with?" Babs made a noise in the back of her throat, and Tim could hear the distinct clack of her keyboard. "It seems like he's been off the grid for… oh… about four years. No idea who was posing as him, but I can promise that wasn't your guy."
Tim gritted his teeth. "And you couldn't just get me in contact right now?"
"Nope." Babs replied. "I think Bruce can wait a few days, but those hundreds of hostages at Arkham definitely can't."
Finishing his stitches with a tight knot, Tim cut the thread. He stared at his bloody fingers for a moment, contemplating the offer.
If he were being honest with himself, he could really use the help. He had hit a serious snag in his investigations, and without Hasanović, he was dead in the water. He was damn good at tracking people down and hacking his way into closed systems, but he had to admit that Oracle was better. If there was anyone on Earth who could do it, it was her.
"Just so you know, I went ahead and bought your ticket for the next flight to Gotham." Babs said. "It leaves in an hour, so I would suggest you get packing."
"Gee, thanks." Tim muttered. "You're always so considerate."
"You're welcome." Babs sounded entirely too cheerful. "I've sent you some in-flight entertainment, too. Nice fat mission report for you to flip through."
Tim sighed, forcing himself to his feet. This wasn't going to be fun - the bullet wound wasn't deep, but it didn't feel particularly nice either. Plus he was currently running on about… three and a half hours of sleep. Hopefully he would be able to catch some shut-eye on the plane.
"Hey, Tim?" Babs called. Tim raised an eyebrow - he was a little surprised she was still on the line.
"Yeah?"
"For what it's worth, I don't think you're crazy. About Bruce, I mean."
"You don't think he's dead?"
"No, he's definitely dead. But if there was anyone who could prove that he wasn't…" Babs trailed off. Tim opened his mouth, but he found himself strangely at a loss for words. All he could do was stare at the phone.
Babs cleared her throat. "See you in eight hours, alright?"
And with that, the line went dead.
While he had been abroad, Tim had found himself strangely homesick for Gotham. There was something about the near-constant smog, the harsh, craggy skyline, the way the shadows seemed deeper than anywhere else in the world. It was a disgusting, putrid blight on the East Coast, and Tim had missed it like he would miss an arm.
One thing he hadn't missed, though, was the propensity for everything to go to complete shit.
The scene around him was beyond chaotic. He was standing in the main entrance hall of Arkham, a crowd of staff clamoring as they rushed out of the building. The only light in the dark hallway came from the spotlights of police choppers, the harsh, blinding light shining in through the iron bars of the large, Gothic windows.
There were a few GCPD officers attempting to corral the crowd, though there were far too few to for them to be effective. Tim was trying to help, but it was all he could do to not get trampled by panicked civilians.
As frustrating as it was, Tim couldn't really blame them for being so freaked. Huntress had just gotten confirmation that there were bombs all over the island, with no clear indication of when they were set to go off. Tim should probably also be scared of getting blown to chunks, but if he were being honest with himself, he was too tired to be properly frightened.
He had lost track of how much time he had been at Arkham - the process of re-securing the island had been grueling. Even having the Birds of Prey and GCPD as backup, it felt like their gains had been measured in inches over the multi-hour siege.
The inmates were all sat fat and happy in armored vans at this point, getting shipped off to Blackgate. Tim, meanwhile, was worse for wear - his stitches had torn no less than three times, and he was 90% sure he was sporting a fresh pair of broken ribs, courtesy of Killer Croc slamming him into the wall. He hadn't had time to properly check. In fact, if he hadn't been worried about bleeding out, he wouldn't have bothered to re-stitch his wounds.
At least it was almost over. Tim couldn't find it in himself to mourn the loss of the asylum - having all the inmates shoved into Blackgate would create some serious logistical problems, but having this place scrubbed from the map might be a good thing in the long run. There was something wrong with the asylum, though Tim couldn't quite put his finger on it.
"Excuse me! Excuse me, please!"
Tim glanced around, trying to find the source of the voice. After a moment, he spotted someone pushing through the crowd, waving their arms wildly.
It took Tim a second to recognize the man. It was Jeremiah Arkham, the director of the asylum. His pale, gaunt face was alight with panic, and he was rushing toward Tim on unsteady feet. As he called out to Tim, his voice was shrill. "Dr. Mid-Nite!"
Tim forced himself to take a deep breath - something he immediately regretted as pain shot through his side. "What's wrong, Dr. Arkham?"
Arkham stumbled to a stop, seemingly out of breath despite the fact he had only been lightly jogging. His glasses were in serious danger of falling off his face. "You've got to help me, the police aren't listening, they aren't listening and there are people in danger-"
"Dr. Arkham, calm down!" Tim grabbed Arkham's shoulder, tugging him away from the crowd. It was still loud in the enclosed space, but at least Tim wasn't shouting to be heard. "What's going on?"
Arkham swallowed heavily, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "There are - huff - there are still patients trapped in the asylum. They're going to be left behind."
Tim's brow furrowed. "All the wings have been evacuated already - are you absolutely sure?"
"They aren't in any of the standard holding cells, they're in-" Arkham seemed to hesitate for a moment, and Tim noted the nervous way he tugged on his earlobe. "It's not… it isn't listed in any of the official directories. I suppose you could call it a special unit, fully isolated from the rest of the asylum. The guards call it the hole."
Great. Just great. Tim could practically feel the pressure building behind his eyes.
He must've given something away on his face, because Arkham's face fell. "Please! These patients aren't like the others. They aren't violent or dangerous at all. They just - they're just different. You're a hero, aren't you? You've got to save them."
Going back into the asylum was practically suicide. There was no indication of exactly when the bombs would go off, and while Oracle was working on disabling them remotely, there was no guarantee that she would succeed.
Bruce would have done it.
That's what got to Tim the most - he knew that Bruce wouldn't have even hesitated. As long as there was a chance to save someone's life, he would always, always try.
Tim gritted his teeth. "Where is this 'hole'?"
Arkham's face lit up. He reached forward as if to grab Tim's hand, but seemed to think better of it. "Thank you, thank you. It's past the Penitentiary - on the ground floor, there's a staircase that leads down. Bottom floor will lead you right to it, the code to get in is 1089."
"And the inmates?" Tim noted that Arkham seemed to frown at the word inmate. "You said they weren't dangerous, but… is there anything I need to know about them? How many are there?"
"Only four." By this point, the crowd was thinning, most of the staff having successfully left the building. Arkham glanced over his shoulder, voice growing frantic. "Just tell them I've sent you, they should come quietly. They trust me implicitly."
With every passing second, Tim grew less certain of this whole thing. If there were only four inmates, why did they need their own special holding area? What wasn't Arkham telling him? The whole thing stank of something fishy - but if people were genuinely in danger, it didn't really matter.
"Fine. Now go - stick with the police."
Arkham's head bobbed wildly. "Okay - okay, yes." As he began to walk away, he called over his shoulder - "Thank you, Dr. Mid-Nite!"
"It's Red Robin." Tim mumbled to himself. He watched as Arkham scurried away, joining the last of the staff as they exited the building.
Taking a deep breath, he tapped the side of his head, activating his comms. "Oracle - all the staff have been evacuated."
"Good work." Babs sounded about as exhausted as he felt, but there was a warm undercurrent of relief in her words. "Ride with them. I'm having you meet Huntress at the bridge checkpoint - you two will double-check that all the inmates are accounted for."
Tim couldn't help it - he laughed. "Actually, it's funny that you mention that…"
Instantly, Babs' tone hardened. "What do you mean?"
"There are apparently some people who got left behind." Tim took one last look at the exit, letting the finality of what he was about to do sink in. "Special cases, not in any of the normal wings. I've got to go back for them."
"What? Where? Tim, you can't go back - we have no idea when the bombs are going off. We'll just have to do a search once I've got them disarmed."
Tim turned, breaking into a sprint as he began to run deeper into the building. With every footfall, pain shot through his side - he forced himself to ignore it, focusing on mapping out the best route in his mind. "You know as well as I do that there's no guarantee you'll be able to disarm them at all."
"Which is all the more reason you need to leave!"
"Sorry, O. It's just part of the job." He blinked, and was shocked to find that his eyes were going foggy, unshed tears starting to blur his vision. "If I don't make it, do me a favor - crack open all my case notes. I'd give you the passwords, but I'm sure you don't need 'em."
He hoped that Babs really would look into his case files. It would be a damn shame to have all his investigations go to waste - maybe once he was dead, the others would start taking him a little more seriously.
Maybe that wasn't fair of him to think, but considering that he was about to die, he figured he was allowed a couple of unfair thoughts.
"Tim-"
"Go ahead and give Hasanović a call too. He's gonna be a real help if you can get hold of him."
"Tim-"
"And tell Dick that I-" Tim throat seized up, the words getting tangled up inside him. "… Just - just tell him that I said bye."
"Tim, listen to me for the love of god-"
"Red Robin out." Tim said, turning off his comms. He was left with only the sound of his pounding footsteps for company, the sounds echoing through the empty halls as he ran towards the heart of Arkham.