#4 - Raising the Stakes

#4 - Raising the Stakes



The large iron gates creaked as they swung open. A familiar sound for Dick Grayson. Though what was now an inviting, nostalgic sound once, long ago, frightened him. It was on a dark, overcast day not so unlike this that Dick first arrived at Wayne Manor.

It was another two minute drive up to the manor itself. The road wound this way and that. Dick smiled as more memories came unbidden. He'd almost wiped out on his motorcycle a couple times on this road when he was first learning to ride.

As Dick rolled to a stop, the front door opened to reveal a familiar face. No matter the baggage this place had for him, the sight of Alfred Pennyworth was always a welcome one.

"Good morning, Master Richard."

Dick smiled at the sight of the older man. "Hey Alfred. Long time." He took off his helmet and hung it from his motorcycle's handle as he got off.

"Indeed." Alfred said with a calm, even face. The man was classically trained in service. He almost never let his emotions show. "Too long."

Running a hand through his dark black hair, vainly trying to fix what the helmet had ruined, Dick couldn't help but notice Alfred's current state. He seemed smaller than he remembered, somehow. As if some of the life had been drained from him. His hair was far more gray than it had been, including his mustache. He could also swear there'd been more of it atop his head than there was now.

Trying not to let his concern show on his face, Dick instead walked over and embraced his old friend. For a moment the hug wasn't returned. Only for a moment. Despite Alfred's stoic nature, for Dick he was like an old friend, mentor, confidant, and grandfather all rolled into one.

"You should have come sooner," Alfred chided, all emotion gone now that the hug had ended. "You can ignore my voicemails, but I know Ms. Gordon has told you repeatedly that your place is here."

"Not anymore, Alfred." Dick sighed as they entered. The manor was warm and large, yet not as large as he remembered. A consequence of growing up, he assumed. Nothing looked the same to an adult as it does to a thirteen year old boy. "Perhaps it never was."

"Rubbish," Alfred spat, upset at such nonsense. "Whatever foolishness came between you and Master Bruce, you were always welcome here. And now..."

Dick turned to look back at Alfred, unused to the man running out of words. If there was one thing Alfred could be counted on, it was to speak his mind. He never held back, even with Bruce. Dick always admired how easily Alfred could say what needed to be said, without any fear of what Bruce would think or do. Even if what needed to be said was what no one wanted to hear.

"Now, what?"

Alfred sighed. His shoulders slumped. Dick could see that the very qualities he'd once admired were no longer present. This was no longer the strong, fiercely loyal man he once was. This was a man defeated.

"Now...now that Master Bruce is gone, you are his sole heir. This is yours now."

Dick turned to look away, unable to meet Alfred's eyes. He wasn't ready for this. It's not why he came back to Gotham and it's not why he was here now. He never wanted this. The manor, the cave, the money or the controlling shares in Wayne Enterprises. Dick wasn't a businessman. He wasn't a Wayne. He was just a lost circus performer who had his world taken from him, only to awaken to an even darker world of vigilantism.

When he threw Robin away, he'd had every opportunity to move past this life. Yet here he was. With a new costume and a new name, all of his choosing. Or was it? Did he have any more choice now than he had then? Did any of them? Did Jason?

"I can't deal with that right now, Alfred." Dick shook off his mile long stare and began walking toward the study and the secret entrance to the Bat-Cave. "I'll deal with it when and if the board has him declared dead. It wouldn't be the first time."

Alfred scoffed, quickly following after Dick. "Yes and I had a hell of a time keeping the vultures at bay when he was off gallivanting around the globe, letting the world believe he was dead. But you're the one who has to deal with it this time."

"It's not my problem," Dick said, louder and more forcefully than he intended. "I've got enough trouble cleaning up the other messes Bruce left."

Feeling around the grandfather clock in Bruce's study, Dick pushed the hidden panel, causing a small red light to shine from the center of the clock. Placing his eye up to it, the retinal scan accepted him and the clock suddenly slid out of the way, revealing the stairs down to the cave.

"Gotham City will survive. It always has. But the people need their hero. I know it's not what you wanted, Master Richard, but..."

"Not what I wanted?" Dick laughed. They reached the bottom of the stairs and the lights began to illuminate the large cavern. "It's the LAST thing I want! I have had this fight with Babs and I'm not-"

GRAYSON, RICHARD RETINAL SCAN ACCEPTED.

"What the hell?" Dick whispered as the super computer at the center of the cave came to life, it's computerized voice echoing off into the distance.

EXECUTING PROGRAM: PRODIGAL

The giant computer monitor flickered on, revealing the face of Bruce Wayne. In the video he was sitting in the very chair in front of the computer now. Dick looked back at Alfred who just shook his head, obviously as surprised as he was.

"Dick. If you're hearing this now, it's because I have been unable to access the computer manually or remotely in at least a months time. If that's true, well, I'm either cut off from everyone and everything...or I'm dead."



Jason Todd awoke to the sound of sirens. Typical for this area of Gotham. He rolled over on his twin size bed and placed his feet on the cold hardwood floor. "Bed" was generous. It was more like a prison bunk. The mattress was so thin and worn it was barely better than sleeping on the floor. Didn't matter. Not anymore. Jason slept in fits. Had for years. Since...

After rubbing the sleep from his eyes he turned his right forearm over to check the bandage on it. Nightwing's batarang hadn't gone in that deep. Most of the blood on the bandage was dried up. It hurt like a bitch but Jason had learned to deal with such things a long time ago.

He checked his left arm, just above the elbow, where Sugar had sliced him. That cut was much shallower. It had already started to scab. Probably wouldn't even scar. Not that it mattered. His body was already covered in scars.

He checked his phone for the time before rising to his feet. Ten fifty-three in the morning. He'd only gotten about four hours of sleep. Not bad for him. Scratching idly at his boxers, Jason walked three paces to his "kitchen" and turned on his coffee maker.

Coffee was the only vice he allowed himself anymore. Other than his bed and his coffee pot, his tiny, single room apartment was spartan. A small wooden table and is three locked trunks with all his Red Hood gear was the only other things in the room.

When the coffee maker finally sputtered to a stop, Jason grabbed the pot and drank from it. The black coffee stung a bit as it went down. He liked it that way.

Walking over to the wall he contemplated the picture of Cobblepot hanging there, a dagger still sticking out of his forehead. Other pictures were pinned around it, men and women in Cobblepots employ, just a small part of the intricate web that was Gotham's underbelly.

Placing his coffee pot on the table, Jason opened a folder and took out three more pictures. He placed them on the wall to the right of Cobblepot. Sugar, Spice, and in the center of this new section of the web, Two-Face.

The picture was from very far away. The villain had a fedora on that concealed most of his head in the shot, though the red and black flesh of the left side of his jaw stood out. Jason was surprised he was able to get the picture at all. Dent had gone so far underground after his last escape from Arkham it'd been almost a year since anyone had heard from him.

Yet there he was. Like a bad penny, he always turned up. No, not a penny. A cancer. A cancer that kept coming back to destroy Gotham and it's citizens, no matter how many times Batman beat it into remission.

That was the heart of Jason's mission. Batman's way didn't work. It never worked. Jason learned that lesson the hard way. It was time to cut out the infected flesh. To cure this city, permanently.

Jason's eyes turned toward another section of pictures. Nightwing, Robin, Barbara Gordon, Alfred Pennyworth, and in the center a hole where Batman should be.

Closing his eyes, Jason thought back to last night. He tried to remember where his gun's sights had pointed before Nightwing's batarang screwed up his aim. Was he aiming for Nightwing's body, where he knew his armor would have protected him, or had he been aiming at his head? In the heat of the moment, he couldn't be sure.

Though the most damning thing of all, Jason wasn't sure he cared.



Tim was at the table eating a microwaved Hungry Man dinner when Jack Drake came in through the door. His father looked a bit worn out to Tim. Must have been a bad day.

"Hey Dad."

"Good evening, Tim," Jack said in a low, even voice.

"How was work?" The tone of Tim's question was cautious, like someone ready to pull their hand back as they reached for an unknown dog.

Jack sighed. He tossed his coat and briefcase on the table and went for the refrigerator. Tim heard the telltale pop of a cork and soon Jack came back out with a half drunk glass of red wine.

"Work was...work."

"That good, huh?"

"We're still working through the shipments for the Genoshan exhibit," Jack breathed before downing the rest of his glass. "It'd be a lot of work no matter what but we're under so much extra scrutiny. Not to mention the protests."

"Mmm." Tim finished the last bit of what was generously called barbecue ribs.

He'd only barely followed the news about the Genoshan exhibit at the Gotham Natural History Museum. Most of what he knew he'd just picked up from his father talking about it. The recent talks between the US and Genosha was apparently a hot button issue right now. Some saw the travelling exhibit as an olive branch between the nations, others saw it as the US Government endorsing mistreatment of mutants.

"Anyway," Jack whispered as he stared at his wine glass for a few seconds. Then his eyes shot up, like a man waking from a dream, and he got up to go back in the kitchen. "How was school?"

Tim sighed softly. "It's Sunday, Dad."

"Oh yeah." When Jack came back out he had another glass of wine and a platter of crackers and cheese. "So what'd you do today?"

"Just hung out. Not much else I could do."

Jack looked up, as if hit by sudden realization. "You didn't go anywhere? You stayed home?"

"Yes, Dad. I swear."

"Mmm hmm," Jack hummed as he chewed. "And you didn't go hang out with Ronnie again?"

"No."

"You know, I called Ronnie's parents today," Jack said without looking over at Tim.

"You what?!"

Jack looked up and had a slight curve to his lips. "Oh calm down. I asked to speak to Ronnie. Wanted to get his side of the story."

"And?"

"And...he said that you came over to help him fix his parent's computer after his friend spilt beer on it."

Tim held back his sigh of relief. He did his best to remain completely passive. Immediately after lying to his father and using Ronnie as an excuse, he messaged him using his neighbor's WiFi to make him complicit in his lie. Thank goodness Ronnie got it straight. Though Tim isn't sure if he should be proud of himself for planning ahead, or ashamed that he was able to weave a web of lies so convincingly.

"You didn't...rat him out?"

Jack chuckled a bit at that. "Tim...I was your age once. I know what it's like. Ronnie's parents are away for the night so he wants to throw a party, I get it. I'm glad you were smart enough not to go. And I'm also...part of me is proud that you were a good friend to him. So no, I didn't tell his parents. Let Ronnie have this one."

It was like a punch to the gut, his Dad being proud of his lie. "So am I-"

"Still grounded? Absolutely! Like I said, I was a teenage boy once. You do the crime, you do the time."

Tim couldn't argue with that logic.

"Two weeks."

"Huh?"

"Two weeks and you'll be free," Jack explained as he got up to clean up his crackers and cheese. "And if you ever have to sneak out for...altruistic reasons...you had better be honest up front, got it?"

"Yes, Dad."

Two weeks? That's a lot better than Tim was expecting. No mention of Tim almost hitting him. Maybe he'd decided to block that out? Selective parental memory.

Still, as good as this whole thing went, Tim felt like shit. Maybe it was time to hang it up. Maybe he wasn't cut out for this life. He wasn't an orphan like Bruce, Dick, or...Jason. He still had his Dad. He still had a chance at a life. A life without Robin.



*RING*

Despite having a Bluetooth earpiece, Dick can barely hear his phone ring over the roar of his motorcycle's engine. Looking down at the display on his bike he can see it's Barbara calling. He lets it ring a few more times before finally giving in and pushing the button to answer.

"Not really a good time, Babs."

"No kidding. Sounds like you're talking through a lawnmower. What's all that noise?"

"I'm driving."

"Okay. I don't want to distract you, but can you tell me what's going on? Alfred called and-"

"I don't want to talk about it, thanks."

Dick cut a sharp corner as the long, winding roads of the Bristol Township where Wayne Manor is located quickly transitioned into the busy city streets of the lower East Site.

"He told me about the video."

Gritting his teeth at the memory, and Alfred's eager efficiency at sharing the information with Barbara, Dick replied, "I don't care about what Bruce wants. If I did I'd never have left in the first place."

There was a long pause before Barbara spoke again. "So can you tell me what else is going on?"

"What do you mean?" Dick asked as he came to a stop at a red light.

"Alfred said you were looking up files on Jason. Asking questions about when it happened, how it happened, so forth. Why the sudden interest? What's going on?"

It had been an awkward conversation. In truth Dick hadn't known Jason very well. They interacted a couple times, but it was soured by Dick's feelings of betrayal at Bruce giving someone else his Robin identity. Not to mention the general tension between Dick and Bruce at the time. Looking back, Dick realized how shitty he was to Jason for things he had no hand in.

So the sudden questioning about Jason, especially after Bruce's video bombshell, must have really confounded Alfred. No wonder he went to Barbara with it. Still, he wasn't ready to deal with Barbara right now.

"It's a long story. I'll call you later."

Ending the call, Dick sped off, letting the roar of the engine drown out all the noise around him. Shame it wasn't enough to drown out his thoughts.



Sunday was always a slow night at Mooney's. At least it was for everyone who wasn't a full time member of Cobblepot's network. Then you can be expected to work nights, weekends, and even major holidays.

The Red Hood watched the place from across the street and two buildings down. He took note of the comings and goings for a good half hour. Not much foot traffic. He had a relative idea of how many people were inside. It was still pretty early in the evening. A safe bet would be to give it another half hour or so to get a better idea of what might be waiting for him inside. Frankly, though, he was just too bored.

The blonde on stage was singing some kind of sad song when the front door bouncer was sent flying across the floor and into the bar. The Red Hood couldn't quite make out what it was before she turned to screaming.

A quick glance told him four men across the club got up and drew weapons, including the bartender. The Red Hood slid behind the far end of the bar and, on his knees, leaned over and fired two shots at the bartender. He was out for information tonight, not blood, so he hit the bartender in one kneecap and the other thigh, sending him to the floor.

Reaction times finally caught up and bullets started spraying into his end of the bar. Grabbing a nearby bottle, the Red Hood quickly turned it into a crude Molotov Cocktail and lobbed it high over the bar.

He risked peaking up long enough to shoot the bottle, causing it to rain fire down through the air. It didn't actually hurt anyone, but the panic and natural fear of fire allowed him to move out from behind the bar and put down another two of the shooters.

A large, unarmed man suddenly ran up on his left, letting out a battle cry as he went. The Red Hood effortlessly side stepped the lumbering fellow, wrapped his arm around the man's neck from behind, and using the man's own momentum, pulled him in to a chokehold from behind.

It positioned the large man perfectly to be a human shield as the last shooter returned fire. Three bullets ripped into the large man's body before the Red Hood dropped him and hit the remaining shooter with two bullets in the side.

All in all, the violence lasted for only a little over a minute. Now all that remained was a couple fleeing patrons and the cries of the injured. The Red Hood quickly moved about, disarming all the men of their guns, ending on the bartender.

"Where is Penguin?" he demanded, stepping down on the bartender's shredded knee cap.

"I-I-I don't know!" the crying man managed to say between screams of pain.

"Wrong answer."

Another gun shot exploded the man's right hand into pieces. His screams turned into shrieks and he began to hyperventilate.

"Anyone else have a better answer?"

The Red Hood moved toward another shooter laying in a booth with blood oozing out his side. He grabbed a fistful of oily brown hair and lifted him up, placing the barrel of his pistol behind the man's head.

"Where is Penguin?"

"I don't-I-I-I don-"

Another gunshot followed by shrieking. This time the bullet tore through the oily haired man's left elbow, shattering bone and cartilage.

"I can do this all day!"

That was, in fact, a lie. He only had another minute or two before either the police or more of Penguin's men would arrive. He stalked over to another of the shooters, the last one that he hit in the side, who immediately started talking.

"T-T-Two-Face's got him!" The man's gray slacks started to darken as he pissed himself. "No one knows where! N-No one's heard from either of them since last night! I swear!"

The Red Hood didn't say a word. He simply started to raise his pistol, causing the man to start begging incoherently, when he heard sirens and the squealing of tires. Holstering his gun, the Red Hood cursed and ran into the back toward the rear exit.

Two-Face, huh? It looked like he had toyed with Penguin too long. Now he had two to deal with. No matter. They'd all bleed just the same.

-To Be Continued-