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Everything smelled of copper—like spare pennies left at the bottom of an old wallet. It was somewhat nauseating, that metallic smell, but the teen’s stomach didn’t feel too great to begin with as it was. Not after the lucky shot some bulk of a man managed to land on him. Straight in the stomach, right as he was coming up from a cartwheel and so hard it knocked the wind right out of him in a single, shaky gasp. He must have crumpled like a piece of paper right then and there because the last thing he remembered as he gripped his sides from the dirty warehouse floor was taking another hit to the face.

And then it was lights out, just like that. He wasn’t sure if it was a pipe or a fist or a boot, but whatever it was, it did its job too well. Opening his eyes, Robin quickly took in his surroundings, but it was proving to be a difficult task. Clearly his vision didn’t want to function properly at the moment, not after that hit. Everything blurred and swayed, fidgeting about and then darkening as his heavy eyelids closed and opened just as fast. If he had a concussion, the last thing he needed was to doze off, especially in his current situation. Deductions were in order though.
They were still by the docks, thank god, because hidden beneath that tinny smell was the scent of salty sea air. A window was also open somewhere, judging by the draft he felt from his upper left side. Abruptly Robin’s head dropped forward, his dark hair creating a curtain around his pale face before he jerked back up again. None of that. Not now. He had to focus, which was easier said than done at this point. His arms, he found, were bound behind his back with…

He moved his arms, feeling the ache in his shoulder where the butt of that stupid rifle had first nailed him up on the roof. To be fair, it was his fault, but admitting that was half the battle. The clatter of metal met his ears at the motion. Chains. Thick heavy ones. Figures as much. His legs weren’t bound, but he wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon, not like this. His backpack was also missing, what a plus. Resting his head back against the beam behind him (and ultimately supporting him), the Boy Wonder let out a sigh.

And the worst part of it all was the fact that the awful coopery smell wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon because it was currently caked around his nose in the form of dried blood. It must have started bleeding after the hit he took to the face. He could only imagine what a mess he must look like at the moment and hoped it would be an easy fix or could be cleverly concealed. Makeup could work wonders, but it was no miracle when it came to a broken nose or a black eye.

With a sharp exhale, the teen leaned forward and fell onto his right side, landing quietly against the grimy concrete flooring. He needed a shower after this. A long one. Maybe he’d even have to burn his makeshift uniform and make another because, wow, talk about wallowing in filth. Lifting himself up onto his knees, he relaxed his shoulders best he could with his current injury and slipped one foot after the other through the loop the chains and his arms made. It was tedious; working his bound hands under his legs and around his knees, especially since he had to keep stopping because every time he leaned forward too far, his head would start swimming, causing him to almost fall flat on his face. Now that he had his hands in front of him, it would be easier to get s**t done. “Charming,” he exhaled, examining the two locks that held the chains against his arms. How dangerous did they think he was? “I guess my reputation eludes me,” he murmured, rising up on unsteady legs while using the beam for support once more.

He tried to inhale deeply with his nose instead of his mouth, but the sensation racked him with a fit of coughing due to the smell of the dried blood still there. Which, entail, alerted the thugs. Perfect. Robin raised his chained hands in mock surrender as they approached from a room off to the side with a slam of the door. Five guys, just as before. Two held guns; a glock by the look of it, but he was no expert when it came to calibers, and that rifle his shoulder had gotten so acquainted with earlier. The rest had makeshift weapons that could still do some damage; brass knuckles, a lead pipe, and…

Robin lowered his hands. “…That’s my bat,” he pointed out, glaring at the man who had filched the teen’s only weapon. That was low, even for a criminal. “Shut up, kid. Where’s the real Bat?” the man with the rifle asked, jerking said weapon at him. Robin lazily shrugged his shoulders. “You’ll have to be a bit more specific. Gotham has a handful of folks running around with Bat in their name—”
He heard the pipe hit his arm before he even saw the man swing it or felt the sting it delivered. The blow was hard, but clearly slugger there was holding back. It nonetheless knocked him off his already unsteady feet and sent him stumbling to the floor. “Quit playing games or you won’t be getting up from the next hit you take. I’m gonna ask one more time; where’s the damn Bat?”

“Do I look like his babysitter?” There was agitation in his voice as he spat out the rhetorical question. One day his mouth was probably going to get him killed. Today could very well be that day. He rose to his feet with a groan, trying to ignore the burst of pain erupting in his arm from that cheap shot he'd just taken. “Obviously he’s not here, unless he is and he's getting some sick kick out of watching me get thrashed,” Robin said, rubbing at the dried blood under his nose. “This is sort of a solo situation. It’s just me.” He felt the need to elaborate on solo, in case their thick skulls didn’t get what he meant the first time.

“I heard you saying something up on the roof. Who the hell were you talking to?”

Oh. Well that explains how the rifleman found him so quickly. “I, uh...I was singing?” It elicited laughter out of the men; that was good at least. It was when they didn’t laugh that he had to worry. The rifleman looked back to one of the other goons. “You sure this punk is Robin? He ain’t even wearing one of those fancy uniforms,” he pointed out, motioning with his gun to all of the teen that stood unsteadily before them. “Yeah, it’s gotta be him. He’s got the ‘R’ and everything. I even heard two guys down in the bowery talkin’ about how they got their asses kicked by a Robin that later tied them up while singin’ in French.”

Attempting to sing in French. He only knew a handful of the lyrics to the song.

“But I thought Robin was some little kid.”

Was was the keyword. But they were right; Graham’s predecessor did look much younger than himself.

“You guys have no imagination,” Robin tutted before swinging his bound hands at the man holding the glock. The heavy chains collided against his face with such a gut wrenching sound that even the teen had to wince in sympathy. The gun skittered out of his grip, but none of the others made a grab for it. Their vociferous shouts of vulgar rage showed that they were too preoccupied with wanting to “blow the head off that b***h" instead.

The rifleman acted first, firing as soon as the other thug fell. Robin was ready for that. Hell, he was ready for all of this as soon as he had distracted them with noting his patrol habit of singing. It gave him all the time he needed to gauge how cheap their weapons were, who seemed the most on edge and who didn’t (hint hint, it was the other gunman), and whether or not the chains would shatter when hit by a bullet yet were thick enough to protect his hands.
Another hint; they were. The bullet destroyed a link in the chain and ricocheted off before it could do anymore damage. He didn’t shrug off the heavy bindings right away however—no, they would prove useful in his next move. The rifleman looked stunned, and just as his index finger was about to find the trigger, Robin’s chained hands found him first. He slid left, moving out of range of the muzzle, and slammed down onto the weapon and then up into the guy’s chin with a force that actually sent the teen reeling back.
Okay, putting too much of what he didn’t currently have into that hit was a mistake, but he remedied it by kicking the rifle away once it was on the ground with the man that had been holding it. Brass knuckles lunged next, but bending low and sweeping at his feet with a hasty kick had him airborne for a second that all but ended in a swift collision with the metal beam Robin had grown fond of supporting himself on. The clangor it made was impressive, but the thief that stole his bat was stepping up to the plate.

Shucking off the chains, Robin actually ran to meet him. Once he had enough momentum, he planted his hands on the ground and did a half turn that sent him up into the air with two full flips. Gymnastics really did pay off in the long run.

Gravity acted fast as he came soaring down, sticking a perfect landing directly onto the man’s chest. The weight and sudden impact forced the man to crash down onto his back. The hit the floor delivered to his head had him out cold in an instant, doing most of the dirty work for the Boy Wonder. “Four,” Robin breathed as he climbed off the unconscious man’s chest. As he moved away from the body, he was sure to nab his bat out of the thug’s loose grip. His breathing was erratic and his limbs ached like no other, but there was still work to do. “Now where’s bachelor number five…” he murmured, glancing all around him. The metal pipe he’d been holding lay abandoned on the floor and a door in the far corner of the warehouse that they had emerged from earlier was flung ajar.

Rubbing at his nose again, Robin slowly wandered to the door. He was in no rush now, and, to be fair, this was probably as fast as his body could go at the moment.
The open door led into a small office area where a few couches and chairs were strewn about. A computer monitor kept track of the six security cameras strewn throughout the building, and besides a shaded lamp in one corner, the only other light came from a TV stuck on muted static. Robin quirked a brow at that and, with a shrug, progressed farther into the room. All and all, if he could describe the office as a given color, it’d definitely be a putrid shade of brown. The office was fairly barren of hiding spots, but the guy apparently didn’t think about taking cover somewhere, seeing as he was huddled up beside the lamp, covering his head with his arms as if Robin were some big burly man with the intent to slap him. Compared to the others, he didn’t seem like much of a threat; he was scrawnier and lankier than the rest, but he was still significantly taller than the masked teen.

Peeking out from the shield he made with his arms, the moment he spotted the figure in the doorway, he immediately started quivering. “Please don’t hurt me! I got a kid at home I have to feed, and I ain’t paid enough to…to…”
“Hey, hey,” Robin interjected, raising one of his hands in an attempt to show the other he meant no harm. “So long as you don’t hurt me, I won’t hurt you.” What the hell was he doing? Usually he’d tackle the jerk to the ground and demand answers from him, but then again, he’d never had a thug actually cower like this before him. “Look, I’m just here for answers, okay? The sooner I get them, the sooner I leave. I take it you’re not the leader of this little ragtag team?”
The man shook his head nervously. “I’m not. James, the guy with the rifle, he…He was in charge.” And now he was unconscious on the floor. Fantastic. “I don’t know much about what’s going on. I was just promised money for moving some cargo.” Robin furrowed his brow, half tempted to let out of a noise of frustration. Great, another potential dead end. “The… The guys that paid us gave James a file to read. Like a brief.” The man pointed a quaking finger to the computer monitor unit. “He kept it in there and wouldn’t let no one read it.”

Robin stared at the desk drawer in question before staring back at the man. This could be a trap, but it could also be a big break if what this guy was saying held true. The drawer in question was unlocked, and Robin was sure to not turn his back on the man as he opened it tentatively. He kept a vigilant watch on the thug to try and gauge his reaction; if he freaked out and tried to run then clearly the drawer had some type of rigged explosion or booby trap.
The man stayed and the drawer opened smoother than butter. Inside, to his surprise, was his plain black backpack which, after a quick check, it still held his cord and butterfly knife. However, after removing it, he found a manila file folder underneath it with a packet of papers safely tucked within, just as the thug had said. As the criminal blubbered in the corner, Robin stowed the folder and his bat into the bag, but fished out the cord instead. Sliding the backpack on with a cringe, he approached the shaking man. “I promised I wasn’t going to hurt you, but I’m gonna need you to sit tight till the cops arrive,” He confessed, pulling the cord taut in his gloved hands.

--------


Once outside, Robin stretched his hands above his head with a groan. That could have gone way smoother, but he ended up getting what he wanted in the end. Or so he hoped, since he didn’t have the chance to actually look through the file in question. He’d have to save that for the morning, even though it was already four a.m. Thank god it wasn’t a school night. The idea of waking up sore and groggy in two hours just didn’t sound appealing to him at the moment. Another good thing was the fact that his mother was out studying marine mammals in Alaska, so he wouldn’t have to worry about sneaking into the apartment as he usually did on nights he went on patrol while staying with her. Speaking of the apartment, it was going to be a long trek back, so there was no use hanging around the docks any longer.

Sticking primarily to the shadows, Robin tugged up his hood as he worked his way from the sea air to the smoke of the city, singing “Music of the Night,” underneath his breath as he went despite the fact that that very quirk had gotten him in trouble in the first place. Old habits really did die hard.