Robin #3: Detention - Part Three
Split-Second Decision
By
Ten minutes and counting.
Seems like a long time when I'm in the middle of physics, but that's not the case here. Now, I've got ten minutes to get from point 'A' (a professor's office on the lower floor, west wing) to point 'B' (the headmaster's office). Sounds easy enough, right? Well, it's not. Firstly, Brentwood was constructed in pieces, meaning that there are hallways that lead into dead-ends where the construction crew was too lazy to knock down a wall. Secondly, any major corridor is bound to lead into a community room of some sort, possibly even the main foyer. Large open spaces aren't the ideal place for me to be running through, too many opportunities for ambush and not enough places to hide. Unfortunately, you don't get a whole lot of choice when you're forced to take as direct a route as possible.
I take a few seconds to gather my resources and set things in motion. If nothing more, I need some sort of failsafe to bring in the troops, and I know just the thing.
Coming out of the office, I take a quick turn down a hallway that heads toward the center of the school. It's a deathtrap waiting to happen, but I figure it's the only bet I have. It takes me only seconds before I'm at the end of the thin corridor, looking out over the bottom half of the main foyer. Looks abandoned, but would you really stick your snipers on the ground level? I wouldn't either, and I'm sure the Penguin's not stupid enough to let me take the upper stories and totally dodge his henchmen along the way.
There's no time like the present, I think, and then I jump forward, somersaulting into the center of the room. Immediately, I hear the shuffle of feet and the clinking of heavy machinery on the approach from the east and the west. Shunting my momentum to the right, I spring up the stairs, taking two at a time and trying to position myself between the gunmen as quickly as possible. Trying my best to speak through my heaving breath, I call out, "Hey guys, hold up and let's think about this. You want to take your luck, hope that those automatics have good enough aim that you can hit me but not hit your friend? That's not really the way to get into the Penguin's good graces, is it?"
They pause to think about it, but I don't notice any softening of their grips. They're angry, and I can understand why. In one form or another, I've already downed four of their guys. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that I'm dangerous. The silence is enough to know that they're at least considering my words, but that's also time that's coming off my clock. Picking up the pace, I suggest, "How about we play this the easy way? The Penguin's looking for a quick hit in the wallet, and if you bring me upstairs to him, it stands to reason that your cut of the dough is going to be bigger. Think about it. Dead kid? No money. Live kid. Quite a bit more money than if I'm dead."
Ahh, the voice of reason. I keep my eyes on both of them, wary that one will try something stupid. Can't give them too much credit, they are, after all, henchmen. Carefully, the inch toward me, weapons held high and close to their bodies. They're not offering me an inch of leniency. I feel the muzzle of the gun press into my back, between my shoulders blades, and I flinch. Henchman number one pushes me forward with his gun, guiding me past his buddy as we walk back toward the east wing. From behind me, I hear the scratch of a radio opening its transmission and then henchmen number two says, "Hey boss, we're bringing the kid upstairs now. Yeah, two guns trained on him, he's not gonna give us any trouble. Are you, little guy?"
"No, no. No trouble from me," I answer back, trying to bite back the sarcasm in my voice. They're your street-market variety thug, probably some of his last remaining clue following the re-opening of Gotham. Makes more sense that his crew left him when they didn't have to depend on him to survive. That's the trouble with commodities. Everything's good until you no longer have the strangehold on the market. "We still on a timer here, fellas? I don't want him to kill anyone while he's waiting for me to make an appearance."
"Just shut up, kid," Henchman one says with another nudge to my back. This guy's really getting on my nerves quickly.
"But what about it? If he didn't say everything was cool, then you guys still stand to lose out on a lot of money, and then there's no point in bringing me up to see him. Hell, you could off me right here, and it wouldn't make a bit of difference," I spout back, indignant as ever. If nothing else, I can try to create a little controversy, see if that will get me anywhere.
And it does. Henchman number two stops in his tracks and fires the radio back to life. We keep moving, so I can't hear what's being said. I'm pretty sure that he's not too keen on having accessory to murder added to his record, so I hope he's doing the right thing.
And then it's there, my moment to act. We're rounding the corner ahead of the guy with the radio, and that's all the time I need. It was a mistake to keep the weapon so close. I use it like a spindle, rotating my body around it, the weight of my body making it impossible for the gunman to bring his weapon to an aiming point. My left fist collides full-force with the left side of his cheek, back-handed, and blood sprays through the air. He staggers backwards, crashing into a wall, and I press my advantage as far as I can. I drop the flat of my foot into the underside of his right elbow, forcing him to release the gun in surprise. Kicking off of him, I vault forward, seize the gun, and bring it to bear on his form. Slowly, I bring my finger to my lips and indicate that he needs to be quiet.
His partner takes the corner unaware, with the radio down at his side, gripped tight in his left hand. The first thing he sees is the feet of his downed friend, and then his eyes vault upward, searching for me. Unfortunately, he sees the fast approach of the blunt end of an automatic weapon, instead. My aim is true, and he catches the impact flush against the bridge of his nose, sending him into a direct collapse. Moments before the second pistol-whipping, I turn back toward henchman number one, smile down at him and say, "I'm kinda sorry about this, but I can't just leave you sitting here awake. And go figure, I left my duct tape in my footlocker."
As I walk away, I pick the radio up from the floor. There's no point in me taking any chances with how long these two will stay unconscious. I don't know how much time I have left, if any, but I'm hoping that the Penguin's called off the stalemate with the assurance that I was in custody. Otherwise, I'm up the creek without a utility belt.
The remaining distance blurs by, and for a second, I kinda feel like the Flash - well, maybe in his old costume anyway - just without the super-speed. Stopping outside the door to catch my breath, I think about how odd it is to be holding myself back from going in. Heck, most of the time I see this door, it's in a moment of anxiety over whether or not I'm going to be expelled. Today, expulsion doesn't seem like that bad of an idea, although I'd rather not do it in a body bag.
Tossing the gun and radio under the secretary's desk, I tentatively turn the doorknob and enter the room, hands held high and prostrating myself before the Penguin. Pleading for mercy and pretending to be out of breath, I beg, "I'm here. I'm here. Please, don't kill anyone."
I barely have any time to react before the handled-end of his umbrella is swinging into the soft of my stomach. Coughing and wheezing, I collapse to my knees, trying to find my breath. He hovers above me without a care in the world, and I realize that despite his supposed sophistication, Cobblepot is nothing more than a brute with a good suit and some business sense. Leaning forward, he speaks directly into my ear, saying, "You've given me quite the worry, brat. You're lucky I haven't had you killed yet, but that doesn't mean I have to send you back in one piece."
"Whole package," I begin, spitting phlegm onto the floor. "is worth more than bits and pieces. I would hope that you would understand that."
"And what do you know about business, kid?"
"I know that damaged goods never sell," I reply, shifting into total b.s. mode. "It's the baseball card premise. Everyone knows that the cards with the lowest print runs always jump in value, because everyone's looking for them. Supply and demand. But at the same time, if you get your hands on one of those rare cards and it's bent this way and that, you don't have anything more than what you paid for the pack. Got my drift?"
The Penguin pauses for a second, and I know that he's thinking it over. But then the scowl returns to his face, and he barks, "Watch who you're trying to manipulate, kid. I've been playing this game a lot longer than you. Money's is power. You can never get enough of either, but I'm one of those people who know where to cut and run."
He twists the curved handle of his umbrella, and I hear a mechanism release with a loud click. Too soon, the daylight is filtering through the window and reflecting off the long of the blade, as he tosses the cloth portion to the side. Backing up, I ask, "I don't suppose there's any way we can talk this out? Maybe negotiate a better deal? I've got a piggy bank upstairs."
"I'm through playing games," he says, lunging forward with a swipe of the blade, and I find myself amazed at how fast he moves for a man of his stature. The cut barely misses the soft of my stomach as I jump backwards, colliding with the closed door and rolling around to the left, trying to give myself more room to play with. I reach down to search for blood, finding only ripped cloth. Angered, he takes another quick jab, yelling, "Stand still."
"Put down the sword, then," I shout back, moving around the room and trying to pretend like I couldn't disarm him in three seconds flat. Finally, I end up behind the headmaster's desk, which at least gives me something to put between us. "Hey, I know that you had certain plans, and that I've been kinda a pain-in-the-butt with those plans, but you're crazy if you think I'm just gonna stand here while you run me through."
He takes a few plaintive swipes through the air, trying to reach me through the obstruction, to no luck. But Cobblepot isn't a patient man, and he's clearly not in the mood to toy around with me any further. He backpedals a few steps and yanks the Headmaster up by the front of his shirt, brandishing the tip of the sword just inches from the Headmaster's throat. "Make your choice, brat. He's not worth anything to me, so I'm not afraid to leave him bleeding on the floor."
"C'mon, you don't want to kill anyone. Trust me, the dry cleaning bills are murder."
"Just keep pressing your luck, kid."
"What's it going to take for you to admit that you can't win this?"
"Baah. The cards are always stacked in my favor," he replies, pressing the blade down slightly and drawing a stitch of blood.
I'm frantic, and there's not a lot of time to make a decision. It's sorta like those moments when you have to tell a lie, right on the spot, and still pass it off as the truth. No time to think, just action and nothing else. Staring him down, I move as fast as I can and grab a paperweight from the desk, slinging it forward within the same motion. It's heavy and awkward, doesn't fly as well as a bat-a-rang, but you gotta work with what you have. Time slows to a grind and then the paperweight strikes the Penguin's swordhand, the sharp impact forcing him to drop the blade. Vaulting on top of the desk, I thrust myself into the air, driving a kick into the Penguin's belly as the Headmaster separates himself from his attacker. My foot lands hard, and we both tumble forward.
The Penguin lies there for a second, his breath coming in rasps and sputters as I climb to my feet. Throwing a fast glance over my shoulder, I motion to the computer and shout out, "Type Alt-F13 now!" Then I turn my attentions back to Cobblepot. Leaning down, I whisper, "Next time, you'll learn that the easy way is never the right way."
In what seems like moments later, the Gotham police are there, wrapping up the bad guys and hauling them off to holding until an arraignment could be scheduled. They arrived on time, alerted by the morse code beacon I had preprogrammed into the headmaster's computer. From there, I'm guessing that Oracle arranged the shut-down. I watch from a distance, not wanting to be recognized as a hero more than I have to be. It wasn't a decision I ever wanted to make, didn't want to make my life as Robin seem too much like my life as Tim Drake, but sometimes, these things can't be helped.
As we're standing at the corner of the assembly, Alfred points out two cops stuffing the Penguin into a squad car by himself, no handcuffs. And before I can do anything about it, the car is off and gone, probably taking the Penguin someplace where he can lie low until the heat dies down. I shake my head and ask, "Does it ever get any better, Alfred?"
"Sometimes, Master Timothy," he responds, slipping into that fatherly voice of his. "it is not always about whether it gets better, but more that it doesn't get worse."
"I suppose. It's just that you and Bruce have been doing this for ages, and these guys keep coming around like nothing's ever happened. You'd think they would have learned by now."
"Perhaps, but I believe that the best is still to come, sir. As long as we stand vigilant, the prospect of good is still within sight."
As Alfred and I are talking, every now and then, there's a pat on my back or a "Good job, Tim" or a hushed word of thanks from someone that I don't know. Then my dad pulls up in the town car, and I know that there's a grounding coming. Scuffing my feet against the pavement and putting on my best innocent face, I make my way to the car and say, "Now, before you start in on me about keeping my head in the books and out of trouble, I want you to know that..."
And that's when Jack Drake surprises me, wrapping me in a hug that's so tight I almost forget to breathe. The words dry in my mouth before I'm able to complete my excuse. After a minute or two, he pulls back and says, "No need to explain things, Tim. You were just doing what you thought was right. I'm not mad. I'm just glad that you're safe. Let's get you home."
"But Dad, what about Brentwood? I still have classes and stuff tomorrow."
"That can wait. The school board is closing down the school for the next few months, until they can reassess the security protocals and reassure the parents that their children will be safe as students. I don't think a lot of your friends will be returning, anyway. Too many folks are sure that public school is just as safe as private school now."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
And with that, I'm closing another chapter on my life, and getting back to what I know best: Gotham City. No more snotty, pretentious rich kids. No more overbearing teachers who are watching me twenty-four-seven. Just back to good old days of trying to balance my schoolwork and my nighttime prowling activities. Oh yes, life is going to be good again.
Next Issue: Tim returns to Gotham Heights, but things have changed since he left and the reopening of Gotham. There's a new class of students in his old school, some familiar faces, and a whole bunch of new problems. But first, there's a bout of chaos on its way.
Well folks, this is the long-awaited conclusion to the first arc. Yeah, it's not as flashy as y'all might have expected, but hey...Tim's just a normal guy, right? It's Robin that's the special one. Expect to see some more flashy theatrics in future issues as we begin to explore Tim as a character as well as a player in his new/old environment.
This issue also brings to a close my experimentation with first person story-telling. Why? Well, I had originally planned just to use it to tell this story because I wanted a sense of inner thought and immediacy that wouldn't fit quite right in third person. Also, in the coming issues, I'll be exploring some of the supporting cast, and it's easier to do that in third person.
As always, would love to hear your opinions,
Michael
footsteps_of_the_ghost@yahoo.com