It was a quiet night. At least, for Gotham, anyway. There was the occasional whine of a siren, and the usual scuffle here and there, but the city seemed willing to actually sleep for the night for a change. Tim wasn't complaining, but it would have been nice if it had given them warning. He would have liked to do the same.

He dropped to a lower roof, running across the base of a billboard and firing his grappling gun at a building across the street. It was a clear night, perfect weather for practicing aerial maneuvers. A shadow glided past several feet overhead, and Tim glanced up, grinning. There was Dick, right on cue.

Tim hauled himself up onto the rooftop, still watching Dick soar. It was still one of his favorite parts of patrolling with his predecessor: seeing him fly through the air with the greatest of ease, not a care in the world. It was amazing to think about, the idea of being above it all like that. It was part of why Tim preferred the rooftop to his tricked out motorcycle: He felt free, unburdened by the oppressive buildings surrounding him.

Plus, he noted as he ran toward a scream in the distance, he didn't have to circumnavigate the labyrinth of streets that pretended to make a hint of sense.

It was only a block away. A man was being held at gunpoint, presently emptying out his pockets. "You better hope no one heard that," the figure in front of him was saying.

Tim chuckled. That sucker wished.

He silently jumped down the fire escape, maneuvering himself just above and slightly to the side of the would-be mugger.

Jump down, kick the gun out of his hand, uppercut him, make sure he's down.

The robber shouted in surprise as he suddenly found his hand throbbing. However, he had no time to react before his face exploded in similar pain.

Make sure the victim is all right, get the mugger to the authorities.

He turned around. "Are you okay?" he asked the man. In response, he nodded dumbly. Tim grabbed the man's phone from his mugger's pocket. "Call the police. Tell them what happened." He cuffed the mugger, noting his unkempt but not unpleasant appearance. If he had to guess, he'd just fallen into rough times and realized how far he'd be willing to go to make ends meet.

He checked to make sure the cuffs were secure as the victim hung up the phone. "Do you want me to stay with you until the cops come?" Tim asked in a kind tone.

The man looked at his would-be robber. "I-I think I'm good. Thanks, Robin."

Tim nodded, smiling warmly at the man. "Glad to be of service." He fired his grappling hook and took off into the night.

The ringing of a bank alarm a couple of blocks away caught his attention. Most banks in Gotham had switched to silent alarms by now, but apparently, these hapless thieves had managed to pick the loudest one in the district. Chuckling, he swung off to stop the idiots before they hurt someone.

It didn't take long. They hadn't even gotten into the safe when he snuck inside and knocked out their single man on lookout. After that, it was just a matter of not forgetting to duck occasionally.

The police arrived two minutes later, not completely surprised to see them already handcuffed together, two of them crying.

Not thirty seconds after the police cars had pulled away, Tim watched a pair of unruly teenagers smash in the window of a car and ride away on their skateboards. Shaking his head, he took off after them.

So much for a quiet night. He'd hardly handed them over to the nearest cop (who was very understanding and quietly reassured Tim that he would give the two a severe talking-to on the way to the precinct) before he watched two men stumble out of an alley, carrying heavy boxes of what looked like stolen valuables. He talked to them and was reassured that they were just moving their stereo, TV, and BlueTooth speakers for a party, and as far-fetched as the story sounded, their alibis checked out. He did, however, plant a tracker on them, just in case. Then he was running off to save a little girl's cat, which had (in the middle of the night, for some reason) decided to get stuck on top of a lamp-post. He soon found himself running from problem to crime to robbery endlessly. It was nothing new, but he had been hoping it wouldn't happen tonight for once. All illusions of a quiet patrol had dissolved into what had suddenly become a chaos-filled night.

"Robin, where are you?" Dick's voice asked in his ear after several hours.

"Oh, I'm just" --he dodged under a trash can lid-- "living the dream."

"Same here, but it's been three hours. Where are you so I can check up on you?"

"I've got this. It's just the stupid people tonight, apparently." The rest of the can slammed into the wall right next to him. "Though some of them are still kind of big."

"Robin," Dick said in a warning tone.

"I'm by the World Cinema," Tim answered, chuckling.

"Fine. I'll be there in a" --CRASH-- minute."

"From the sounds of it, I might have moved on by the time you get here."

"You've got your loud alarming noises, I've got mine."

"Oh, look, a carjacking. Look, I'll tell you where I am once you can actually come. How's that sound?"

"In a-- unh-- minute. This guy's a little-- yaAAAAHHH!"

"How're you holding up, there, birdie?"

"Just terrific. Now shut up and save that innocent person's car."

And he did. Once he took care of the 'roided up guy throwing trash cans every which way, he vanquished another pair of idiots doing a bad job of a crime they never would have gotten away with even if Robin hadn't intervened. Another bland memory to add to the nonexistent scrapbook.

When he heard another scream coming from another dark alley another block farther from home, he wasn't proud to admit that he groaned in annoyance. Even his adrenaline was realizing that all of these idiots were completely incompetent and had decided to stop kicking in a half-hour ago. He cased the situation and wasn't surprised to see a woman on her knees, pleading for mercy from a man holding a gun to her head.

Get the gun out of his hand, make sure the victim is clear, roundhouse kick him, punch him to make sure he stays down.

His foot slammed into the man's hand. If he hadn't been completely numbed to idiots, he would have been shocked when the man went flying backward into the alley. When he didn't move, he turned to the woman. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"Better now that you're here," she answered, accepting his proffered hand. She leaned in to whisper in his ear. "Not-so-Bird-Boy."

He recoiled. He knew that nickname. He knew that voice that definitely did not belong to a pretty young woman. But an arm was wrapped around him now, pinning him against who he knew was neither a damsel nor in distress.

"Let me go!" he demanded.

"I think not," the voice said softly as its owner inserted a needle into the soft skin of Tim's neck. "You still haven't seen what I have in store for you!"

Get out of his grip. Fight the drugs. Get him off you. Punch him. Get away, get away, get away!

But it was too late. His vision was already getting even darker than the cloudy Gotham night. He lost control of his muscles and slumped forward into the inescapable clutches of the Joker.

xXx

The first thought that crossed Tim's mind was how uncomfortable he was. His face and bare chest were pressed against a cold metal surface, and his arms were extended straight out to either side of him. His elbows bent around the edge of the surface so he was almost hugging it. He could feel more cold metal digging into his wrists as he shifted, trying to get himself situated in a way that didn't make everything quite so uncomfortable. It took him a moment to realize that his legs were pinned down, his feet hanging off the edge similarly to his arms.

And then he realized how big of a problem that was.

His eyes opened. He tried to look around, but his neck was also pinned to the surface, so he could only see what was next to him where his head was turned. It was bland: white brick walls. He could see what looked like a metal cabinet in the edges of his vision, but it was impossible to get a clear view. All he could hear was the buzz of the electric lights overhead.

He laid there for several minutes. He tried to get off the handcuffs that kept him in his frigid embrace with the table, but he could barely move his hands at all because of the awkward positioning. All he could figure out was that he was firmly secured to whatever the heck it was that he was on, and that it was starting to get really cold.

He tried not to wonder what the Joker had planned. It couldn't be anything good; of that, he was sure.

A door behind him slammed open. "Are you awake yet, Not-Quite-Birdie?" He swallowed hard and tried not to let his fear show. "I hope so. I wouldn't want you to miss this." There was the tinny clatter of metal on metal. "I can't wait to see what you think of my latest project."

He was panicking a little, he'd admit. He never knew when to retort and when to keep defiantly silent. Bruce always chose the latter. Dick usually went with the former. Tim liked to consider himself a happy medium, but that always left the question of when to do which.

"Oh, goodness me, I've forgotten the most important part!" The door slammed open again, and it was once again quiet. Minutes of agonizing eternity oozed by as Tim fidgeted uselessly with the cuffs, attempting to not let his imagination run too wildly. He had no idea what Joker was doing or why. He couldn't get out as far as he knew, and there was no way of telling when Bruce or Dick would find him. If Joker wanted him dead, he could very well not make it, and that terrified him.

The doors slammed open deafeningly, and he couldn't help but flinch at the noise. If Joker didn't kill him, the tension would. "We can't have our project soar without his wings," the clown cackled delightedly as the sound of a cart with poorly maintained wheels stopped next to the table.

Tim was terrified, and he was sure Joker knew it. He was just toying with him.

"Sorry about your view, but I couldn't find a setup that let you see that also kept you from squirming too much. But I guess you can't have your cake and eat it too." He laughed again, that chilling inhuman laugh. There was more clattering of metal. "What's your favorite kind of cake? I'm particularly fond of Devil's Food."

Don't answer that. Don't play his game. There's no winning if you play.

"Oh, come now, Robin, you're normally so chatty. Don't tell me the cat's got your tongue," he giggled.

"Sorry, I was just thinking about all the WD-40 you'd need to fix those squeaky wheels you've got," Tim said finally.

Part of him screamed at him for speaking. Part of him rejoiced for the hint of confidence he'd found in the (low-quality, he'd admit) retort.

Joker roared with laughter, but it seemed forced. "I was wondering if you'd gone mute for a minute there!" He slapped Tim's bare shoulder amicably, and Tim was certain he'd only laughed so he could do that and see him flinch. The lunatic probably enjoyed it.

"Not quite." Now two parts of him were screaming. He was talking, and he wasn't even saying anything worthwhile. But a third part was proud that he'd managed to keep a level tone.

"Well, let's get this over with." The clinking again.

"What are you doing?" he asked reluctantly. He dreaded the answer.

"Why, your surgery, of course!" Joker laughed as if it was obvious.

A sharp agony pierced the muscle next to his right shoulder blade. Tim inhaled sharply and gritted his teeth. Joker was cutting. Deep.

It spread down his back. He barely held back a groan as the psychopath slid the tool down until he reached the base of his ribs.

"Isn't that just splendid!" Joker exclaimed, probably admiring his handiwork. "Just beautiful!"

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Keep it steady. Breathe. He clutched the handcuffs tightly, gritting his teeth and trying to think through the agony.

"Now the other side."

No. Please, no. Make it stop. Any attempt at a complete thought was heaved out the window in favor of silent, useless pleading.

By his left scapula, it seemed Joker forgot about his steady, even hand from the other side. As much as it hurt the first time, it felt like Joker was hacking away at his flesh, cutting much deeper. Tim couldn't keep a small noise of agony from escaping his throat.

"We wouldn't want it getting infected, now, would we?" Tim had no idea what fluid he dumped over the wounds, but it was worse than anything he had ever felt. The pain tripled as the liquid washed over the lacerations, dripping off his back onto the table. His breath hitched, and a small noise like a sob sprang from his lips. "Just think, soon you'll be just like the rest of the little bats!"

A pale face inserted itself between Tim and the wall he was using to try and distract himself from the pain. He had no choice but to stare at the green hair, the unnaturally stretched smile, the cold grinning eyes.

"You'll be Batsy's pride and joy!"