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The smirk on Damian’s face.
The smirk on ROBIN’S face.
Tim felt like vomiting, and like punching Dick, and like ripping the costume off the little sadist. But mostly he felt grief. He’d lost so many people recently, one way or another. He wasn’t a speedster, like Bart had been. He couldn’t see through steel, like Kon had been able to do.
But he did think fast, and he did think clearly.
Alfred must have lovingly made that custom Robin suit, not like the hand-me-down Alfred had roughly basted him into when Tim rescued Batman and Nightwing from Two Face.
Alfred knew with every measurement he took of Damian, of every snip and stitch of kevlar, and didn’t respect Tim enough to warn him. Dick knew when he asked Alfred to put Damian in the colors and didn’t think to tell Tim.
Tim had lost them, too.
Dick had told people Tim was… whatever… hysterical? Unstable? Irrational? Tim had hoped he’d be able to talk Dick at least into shutting down the rumors, to explain that Tim was always, always, a reasoning being, that emotions didn’t make him wrong, that it was worth considering his words.
People respected Alfred, and took his silence as agreement, that Tim was just hysterical and wasting their time.
Without their support, no one in the Justice League would listen to him.
Tim felt the anger melt away to resigned acceptance. Dick wouldn’t change his mind. Maybe he was clinging to Damian as a last connection to Bruce, and desperate to bribe Damian into staying. Tim’s needs never mattered. Tim always put everything aside, could always be counted on to do what needed to be done, no matter the personal cost. Dick had probably expected that Tim would understand, would willingly give up the last thing he had. He might even offer to let Tim take on a different role, toss him a secondhand Nightwing costume, carelessly cut down to an uncomfortable fit and unrealistic expectation that he could do the flips and quips.
But it wasn’t just about what Tim was losing.
So Tim didn’t protest, didn’t scream or shout. He said, “Bruce used to talk sometimes about his Robins. He’d tell me how I failed in comparison. How I wasn’t as athletic as his first Robin, not as cheerful with the quips. How I wasn’t as tough as his second Robin, not as rough and tumble and able to talk to Crime Alley people as one of them. Not as fast, not as strong, not as anything. I had a late start. I wasn’t born to fighting, like Jason and Damian, or born to flying, like Dick. I was nine when he sent me overseas to learn from martial arts masters including Lady Shiva, to compensate for my lacking skills.”
Surprisingly, Dick didn’t interrupt him. Maybe not so surprising, it could sound like Tim was giving up, giving in.
“And he told me why they became Robin. His first wanted justice for his family. His second wanted family. They both cared about people. Technically, I had a family. They existed, they provided the necessities. I just wanted more than they could give. Not their fault, not really. I went out and I followed people, wanting the connection, even a second hand one.
“I watched Batman and Robin. Watched them watching over the people of Gotham, protecting, keeping the city safer, giving people hope. Then Jason was lost, and Batman was lost, and Gotham was losing. No one wanted me to be Robin. It was Dick’s, but he wouldn’t take it back. Couldn’t really, once he left. I became Robin because I couldn’t think of any other way to save Gotham from Batman, and Batman from himself. I became Robin because Gotham is my family to protect.
“Why does Damian want to be Robin?” Tim said before turning and leaving.
Tim considered his options. One of the perks of being Robin (act fast before word got around that he’d been fired) was the ability to get private interviews with Arkham inmates and even get them released on work-study provisions, provided they hadn’t killed anyone recently. Arkham, you know?
“You want us to do what?” Poison Ivy and Riddler gazed at Tim suspiciously.
“I want you to help me find Batman. All the heroes think he’s dead, and they think I’m losing it.” Tim leaned forward. “I want Ivy to use the cemetery trees to get the body out of ‘Batman’s’ grave, so I can examine it. And I want Nygma to help me riddle out what really happened.”
Ivy and Nygma exchanged glances. “Robin wants to become a villain?” Nygma asked.
Tim shrugged. “I’ve been replaced as Robin. I’m thinking to try out a new set of wings.”
Ivy smiled and clapped her hands. “Ooh! Why not an oriole! They’re good pollinators.”
Tim nodded. “Black head and back, orange belly. Yeah, I could go for an oriole costume.”
“We need a team name,” Nygma said, getting into the spirit of it. “How about Mockingbirds!”
Tim sighed. Maybe it would be easier to go around the world by himself gathering clues.