Issues #7 Faux-DC Presents: "When Robins Fall":  Identity Crisis By Steve Swartz

"Don't move, man, or I swear, I'll shoot!" Robin kneeled on the ground, his staff a few yards away. He groped for it but one of the Scorpions kicked it farther out of his reach. He looked up and into the muzzle of a gun. He quickly looked down at the ground. When he first became Robin, he thought of it as a kind of game. A kind of game where the heroes always win, the villains always lose. But this time would prove Tim Drake, alias the third Robin, wrong. Dusk was here and nightfall was approaching. Robin knew that he didn't have a prayer. Yet still he hoped. But what was he hoping for? A miracle? Miracles don't just happen like that! Or do they? Robin heard a low rustling in the trees. He looked, not too conspicuously, toward his right. A figure suddenly jumped down, silently, and landed on Wolf's head. Wolf fell to the ground, Nightwing atop him. The Scorpions looked on in awe, apparently forgetting Robin for the time being. But this was what Nightwing wanted. A distraction, so Robin would have just enough time to spring into action. Robin grabbed his staff, flicked it out, and charged. With a start, the four Scorpions turned around. "Bad choice," Nightwing said, as he charged into the bunch in a football run. "Then again, if you had turned toward me, Robin would have probably taken you guys down." Nightwing stood over the four laying in a heap. One began to get up. "Oh, so you want more?" Robin asked as he attempted to plunge his staff into the Scorpion's back. The Scorpion, Killer, feinted left. Robin missed im by a clean seven inches. Killer grabbed one end of the staff and yanked it from Robin's grip. Nightwing leapt over the frightened Robin's head. His leg shot out, catching Killer in his neck. Killer crumpled to the ground, unconsious. "Whew," Nightwing said, brushing off his hands and looking at the gang members. Then he turned to look at Robin. "What did you do to get them mad at you?" he asked. Robin was silent. A part of him wanted to tell him everything over a couple burgers and fries (after all, Nightwing WAS the original Robin), but still another part of him just wanted to keep it to himself. The latter won. "Batman told me that there was some gang war over drugs here," Robin said. "They've nicknamed it 'Crack Alley'. So I came down here to break up the fight..." "And they ended up almost breaking you up?" Nightwing asked. He didn't expect an answer. He looked away. "Batman may be strange sometimes, but I know that he would NEVER send you here by yourself. What gives?" He looked at Robin once again. Robin looked sheepish. "Well, actually...I kind of told him I wanted to be on my own. My own man. Like you did." He looked admirably at Nightwing. "So he...let me go." "Like I did?" Nightwing asked increduously. "There were problems that just couldn't be resolved between us. That's why I quit. Besides, I was twenty years old, and I didn't want to be anyone's kid sidekick. You're only sixteen!" He looked into Tim's eyes. "Take my advice. Never, NEVER go against Batman's orders. Haven't you learned that by now?" "Only sixteen?" Robin repeated. "That's all Batman says to me! He constantly reminds me that I'm 'just a kid'. What am I supposed to do to convince you both that I'm NOT a KID?!" "Burton here." "Batman to see you. Bring the A/J files." The receptionist smiled at the darkly-clad Batman. Gordon was on another call, so he'd been forced to enter the front of the building. And had to wait until the receptionist noticed his hulking form lurking in front of the desk. She was pretty, with pretty green eyes. 'Green, like Elisha's,' Batman thought, recalling his short-lived fling with Elisha Matthews*, who had turned out to be one of Two-Face's confederates. Sue Shmidt looked into his eyes. "Officer Burton's coming with those reports you wanted," she said, noticing Batman's muscular torso. Suddenly she looked back at her paperwork and blushed, embarrased. Did Batman notice her looking at him like that? She hoped not. She was saved by Officer Burton, who entered the waiting room bearing the Joker's Arkham files. "Here ya go, Mister Batman," Burton said. He dumped the thick folders into Batman's waiting arms. "This'll put ya right to sleep. But I wouldn't read 'em just before bed, if'n I were you. Give ya nightmares." Burton seemed to have a slight Southern accent, from around the Georgia area. He tipped his hat. "See ya 'round." He pressed the button to hail the elevator. The elevator stopped at the ground level, and Burton walked in, then turned around and faced Batman. He saluted. The doors closed, obscuring Burton from Batman's view. Batman carried his paraphernalia to the Batmobile, threw it into the passenger seat, started the car, and pressed the button labeled "Auto Pilot". The Batmobile slowly entered traffic as Batman looked over the files that Officer Burton had given him. Noticing a photo section, he turned to those first. He squinted and moved the photo close to his face. His eyelids flickered. What was this? He looked harder. He noticed a figure clad in a skin-tight costume assisting the Arkham inmates in escaping. The figure looked to be about Tim's height; yet Batman knew that the figure in the picture couldn't be Tim. "Could it?" Batman asked himself. "No," he said. "It couldn't be." * As in Elisha Matthews, Bruce Wayne's girlfriend (for a day or so) - Steve Tim Drake entered the foyer of his lavish home in a huff. He slammed the front door, dropping his jacket on the floor. "Hmmpf," he said as he kicked it to the opposite wall. It landed on the floor, ten feet below the painting of his mother hanging on the wall. It was a beatiful portrait of his mother, painted when she was a young woman. But it was not this that Tim was concerned about. "Tim?" his father called from his bedroom. Tim pretended he didn't hear. He jogged up the stairs to the second floor and entered his messy room. There were clothes on the floor, and some of them really smelled like they had spent a couple years in Tim's gym locker. He kicked the pile of clothes, stepping on CD cases and comic books in the process. He flopped down onto his bed, tears streaming down his face. "I don't even know who I am anymore!" he cried to the empty room, his words echoing. "Who am I? Who...am I?" The Batmobile zoomed down Fifth Street. The driver's eyes were small, white slits in his mask, seemingly illuminated by their own means. These were actually special lenses designed by the Batman himself to prevent people from seeing his eyes, and criminals from blinding him. They had always worked almost flawlessly. Until now. A flare of light erupted from a car zooming up Fifth Street on the opposite side of the road. In the dark dawn, it was difficult to make out the plates, or even the make and model of the car. So these Batman could not discern as it passed, blinding him temporarily. "Aah!" Batman shouted, removing his hands from the steering wheel to block his eyes from the intense beam. The car passed him; the Batmobile spun out of control. This and the fact that the car that had just passed Batman's had hit the far back driver's side did not help the car's regaining of control. It suddenly swerved sharply and, with a screech of tires, tipped over and rolled into a ditch. A small fire erupted in the engine. And the Batman lay unconsious. BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! Tim Drake sat up in bed. His hair was a mess; he looked like he was something that the cat had dragged in. He rubbed his eyes sleepily, then yawned and stretched. He pressed a button on his alarm clock; the sound of the alarm ceased. It was five in the morning. He looked out his window. Dark, but getting slightly lighter...dawn. He slowly got out of bed and hurriedly dressed. He dashed down the stairs to make himself breakfast. As soon as he hit the first level, however, he stopped short. His father was quite a ladies' man; after all, looks (sort of, anyway) coupled with money was a sure sign of feminine attraction. And Tim's father was no exception to the rule. So it was no small wonder that he had had one of his girlfriends spend the night. "Hello, Tim," Alexis Blake said to him as she bent over the table to place a hot, steaming plate of eggs and bacon on it. "This is for you," she said sweetly. She gestured to the steaming plate. "Uh...thanks," Tim said, rather suspiciously. What was going on here? None of his father's girlfriends had ever prepared breakfast for him, let alone any other meal. Something was up here... He smelled the scent of the crisp bacon and immediately pushed all of his previous thoughts out of his head. He picked a slice up, clasped in his forefinger and thumb, and brought it to his mouth. CRUNCH! It was rather good. He sipped his orange juice. Soon after, his father sauntered down the stairs, wearing nothing but his royal blue bathrobe and matching slippers. "Hi, Son," he said to Tim. To Alexis, he said, "Hello, sweetheart." He kissed her, put his arm around her shoulders and looked at Tim. "Tim," he said, beaming at him, "Alexis and I have an announcement we'd like to make. "We're getting married." Batman's assailants exited their car, slamming the doors behind them. One had a small acetylene torch; one had gasoline; one had a fuse. Like a well-oiled machine, they laid the fuse out, poured the gasoline over it, and lit the fuse. It burned rapidly. Meanwhile, in the car, Batman was stirring. He felt his nose with his right hand. It was intact, but bleeding. He held his head back as far as he could (which wasn't much, considering he was upside-down and was about as far back in the seat as possible) and pinched the bridge. Almost immediately, the bleeding stopped. He attempted to move, but the attempt was futile. All of a sudden he heard the screech of tires burning rubber, and smelled smoke. Moments later, the car erupted in flames, and Batman with it. "You're getting married?" Tim asked in disbelief. "Yep," his father said, and kissed Alexis on the cheek again. "In two months next Saturday. I hope you'll attend." "Um, yeah, sure," Tim said. He had a feeling that Alexis was bad news. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something about her seemed suspicious. He tore into the scrambled eggs and shoveled a forkful into his mouth. "Great!" Tim's father said. He then began talking with Alexis in hushed tones. It didn't matter, anyway. Tim's mind was a million miles away. Suddenly, he knew what he had to do. He dashed up the stairs, entered his room and found his Robin costume, still in the hiding place he had left it at the night before. Grabbing a duffel bag from his closet, he dumped the Robin outfit in, then threw clothes enough to lapst him a week or two. He needed all this, you see, for he planned a small vacation for himself. He needed to find himself, to be his own man. Take the risks. Zipping up the bag, he turned to see Alexis in the doorway. "Going somewhere, Tim?" she asked him. "Planning to," Tim said. He didn't want to tell this strange woman anything. He hefted the bag onto his shoulder, left his room and descended down the stairway, back turned to his father's new fiance. "Dad," he said, "I'm going away for a while." Turning to face his son, Jack Drake spoke. "Really. I don't recall having gave you permission." "Dad, come on. I'm talking about going to Washington, D.C. to visit Uncle Harold. I called him a couple weeks ago, and he seemed to like the idea." "Why am I always the last to know?" Tim's father asked. "I don't know," Tim said. "I guess I thought that he'd tell you." Hope this works, Tim thought to himself, because if it doesn't... "Well, go ahead...do you have a plane ticket and everything already too, or do you need one of those?" Sheepishly, Tim told his father that he did indeed require a plane ticket. So much for being his own man! Batman was sealed in the car. Smoke seeped in through openings in the Batmobile almost microscopic in size. The car was rapidly filling up with the thick, grey substance. Batman coughed as he attempted to reach his comm unit. He pressed the button. It whirred to life. His finger brushed the button to the Police Department. "Help," Batman managed to choke out before he blacked out from the lack of oxygen. Just moments later, Robin was speeding toward the Gotham International Airport. The top of the Redbird was down, and he was enjoying the wind as it swept through his hair. He turned the radio on to his favorite station. He was singing along to the music when he smelled the smoke. Stopping the car to investigate, Robin found tire tracks on the road. He sniffed further down, toward the road. Must've been the burnt rubber from the tires, he thought, staring at the tire tracks. He climbed back into the Redbird and sped off, not knowing that Batman was lying helpless just fifty yards away. Bat-Signals Send all correspondence to Steve777@adelphia.net, subject: Bat-Signals. NEXT ISSUE: Robin in Washington, D.C.? Batman lying close to death in a ditch? Who are Batman's assailants? Are they tied in with the gang members that Robin and Nightwing fought? Will Batman die? (Of course not, but read it anyway!) Read