Nightwing #28: Twisted Logic, Bleeding Hearts

I have to keep remembering that I asked for this. This was my idea, every step of the way. Nobody forced me to trespass on Bruce’s property. Nobody dared me to go exploring and stumble on the cave. In fact, Alfred and Bruce did everything they could to get rid of me…

“Concentrate,” Dick ordered, breaking into Tim’s reverie. Tim blinked, then quickly raised his bo staff to block Dick’s escrima thrust. The wood was slippery in his hands. He managed the block—barely—but the blow jarred him enough to knock him out of his combat stance. He tried to recover in time to counter the next blow, but the fire-hardened rattan stick slipped through his guard to clip his rib cage. He winced. Balancing the staff properly was a lot harder than it looked from watching martial arts movies or mytube video clips.

Dick stepped back and relaxed his grip on the sticks. “You okay?”

Tim rubbed his side gingerly. “I’m fine.”

“Sure?”

He nodded quickly. “Yeah. Sure, I’m sure.”

Dick tossed both escrima into the air, crossed his arms, and caught them easily. He uncrossed his arms again and slipped back into a fighting posture. “Again,” he snapped.

Bruce didn’t want me doing this. Sure, Alfred started teaching me the basics behind his back, but I knew better. I could’ve quit anytime. Instead, I jumped at the chance.

This time, the block felt like it should have. The escrima glanced off of the staff. Dick had been following a pattern with the thrusts: high, middle, low, middle, high, middle, low… which meant, Tim thought to himself, that as soon as the older youth judged that Tim had moved from comfort to complacency, he was sure to change the routine. Probably… now! Tim raised the staff to counter the high block he knew was coming and…

“Aaaagh!” The stick caught him a few inches below his left knee—exactly where Tim would have blocked it if he’d stuck to the drill. He fell to the mat, clutching his shin.

“Tim!” Dick was bending over him an instant later. “Are you alright? I thought for sure you’d stop that one.”

Tim took a deep breath. “I’m fine. I thought you…” he shook his head. “Nothing.”

Dick wasn’t stupid. “This is a standard practice drill,” he said quietly. “I’m trying to teach you how to do this, not trip you up.” He held out a hand to help the youth to his feet. Tim got up, but his leg buckled as soon as he tried to put weight on it.

“I’m okay,” Tim repeated as Dick started probing the injury. He tried not to flinch. This would have to happen right after we’d exchanged the foam-padded weapons for standard ones. At least Dick wasn’t using his ironwood sticks like he does on patrol!

A moment later, the elder youth nodded. “You’re going to have a bruise, and you’ll probably be sore for a few days, but it’s not serious.” He shook his head and strode over to the medical bay. A moment later, he was peering into the small freezer with a frown. Where IS it? It’s supposed to be—hold on… I remember… I used it the other night. I took it upstairs and… and it’s probably lying on my desk—at room temperature. Blast!

“Alfred,” he spoke into the intercom, “could you bring down a cold compress, please?”

As Alfred acknowledged the request, Dick turned back to Tim. “Looks like combat practice is over for now. Let’s go over some of Bruce’s case notes. What can you tell me about Mad Hatter’s standard MO?

I have to keep remembering that I asked for this, Tim thought glumly. ALL of it.

The two shabbily dressed thugs stalked into the alley toward a prone form. “Rent’s due!” one crowed. “No sleeping in our alley for free, now, Pops. Now pay up or…” He thwacked a baseball bat menacingly against the palm of his hand. His companion followed suit with a doubled-over length of chain.

The figure on the ground didn’t stir.

The men advanced. “Ground’s sticky,” the second thug remarked. “Hey, Pops, what’d’ja do? Drop a whole bottle of booze?”

The first shook his head. “It don’t smell like booze, here,” he said, as he wrinkled his nose.

The smell hit the second man an instant later. He retched. “Well it stinks of something else, then! Like Pops here couldn’t make it to the bathroom,” he gasped. He turned to his companion. “I’m not getting any closer. Let’s just leave him for now.”

In answer, the other man adjusted his grip on the baseball bat. “When he pays the rent, we leave him. Just hold your nose and come on!”

“But…”

“Now!”

They walked another few steps. The figure on the ground remained motionless.

“Um… Mal,” the thug with the chain said, “he’s dead.”

Mal hesitated for a moment. Then he shrugged. “So, we roll him over and see if he’s got anything he don’t need no more.” He beckoned to his companion. “C’mon, help me.” He put his hand down on the man’s chest.

It sank several inches without meeting resistance. Cold moisture seeped upwards through the fabric. “What the f---?” He looked down with mounting horror at the depression around his hand, and the pooling liquid. Then he screamed.

“CHRIS! GET OUT OF HERE! NOW! RUN!”

The two men lurched madly out of the alley, rubber-soled shoes squelching through congealed blood and other malodorous material they did their best not to analyze.

Once out on the street, they looked at each other. “He… had no… his heart was… my hand was where it… but it wasn’t there…” Mal stuttered. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Chris doubled over and promptly was.

He came home to find that Tim had moved one of the ergonomic armchairs away from its normal spot at the computer console and into the middle of the training region. He was sitting there, maneuvering his bo staff through the upper body motions of a pattern dance.

Dick’s eyes flickered over to the target range. A dozen R-shaped throwing knives were clustered at the center of the target. Seven had landed in the white zone, while the remaining five were in the black. He forced a smile. “You’ve been busy.”

Tim grinned wearily. “I was doing the regular drill until my leg started hurting again. I thought maybe it wouldn’t feel as bad if I got my arms aching to keep it company,” he said. “I think it worked. At least the pain’s gone.”

“Good,” Dick said. “Keep alternating hot and cold compresses for the next day or so.”

He turned to the computer and called up the necessary file. “By the way,” he added, “it is easier in the suit. Especially with that particular cape. I think most of the underworld is convinced I’m Bruce back from the dead.” If only… He’d insisted that Alfred only stitch up the deeper rents for ballast, while leaving the edges slashed and frayed. It added to the mythos.

“How about the commissioner?”

Dick chuckled. “You wouldn’t believe how relieved he was when Batman turned up! I just told him that I appreciated his sending the cape back with Nightwing.” His expression turned thoughtful. “He didn’t seem suspicious about it, from what I could see.”

Tim brightened at that. “Cool. So, when do you think I can try going out again?” He asked. “This weekend?”

Dick was only half-listening. “Probably not,” he said. “You’ve still got a ways to go.”

“All the more reason I need the experience,” Tim said. “I did okay the other night, didn’t I?”

“That’s not the point.” The file was open now and just as horrific as Dick remembered. He’d hoped that in the intervening years, the words would have lost their power to shock him. They hadn’t. What kind of sick son of a… He hesitated. Bruce had tried to shield him from this at first. It was only when Dick had insisted, that his mentor had shown him the file. Except that, instead of discussing the matter with him, Bruce had simply told him to read it and left to patrol. Dick had absorbed the file’s contents on his own.

He paused, torn between the desire to protect his new partner from certain harsh realities, and the realization that Tim would discover these things for himself sooner rather than later. “It’s too dangerous, right now,” he said finally. “Put the staff down and come here. I need you to read this over.”

Tim obeyed curiously. “Cornelius Stirk?” He asked. “Never heard of him.”

“Yeah, he’s a few years before your time,” Dick nodded. “Keep reading.”

“Okay,” Tim complied. “Hmmm… so he’s a metahuman. Low-level empathy,” he said thoughtfully. “He can’t actually make you feel something but he can encourage you to. It sounds a lot like hypnosis. Ok, that can be a disadvantage for us… but it doesn’t explain why Bruce has him lumped in with the most dangerou-oh… my… G—”As Tim read the words on the monitor his expression shifted from concern to disgust to raw horror. “He…” Tim spoke finally. “He scares his victims to death, carves out their hearts and… and eats them?”

“Now you know why I want you to sit this one out,” Dick said quietly. “You’re not ready to face him yet. And Stirk has to be stopped fast.” He sighed. “So it looks like I’m handling this one solo.”

Tim gave a slight nod. He turned back to the dossier. His jaw dropped. “He scares them to death because he thinks that stress hormones… make the hearts taste better? I think I want to puke.”

“So did the punks who found one of his victims tonight.” Dick’s voice was grim. “Read over the file. Learn it. Because I might need your help behind the scenes before all this is done. And I haven’t faced Stirk before,” he admitted. “That could cost me when I finally do meet up with him.” He forced a smile. “You said you wanted to watch my back. Do it. But do it from the cave.”

Tim allowed himself a brief answering smile, but it was obvious that his thoughts were still on the dossier.

The next few weeks seemed to fly by. Dividing his time between New York and Gotham was taking its toll. Luckily, the Titans had become enough of a team by now that they had learned to anticipate one another’s actions and react accordingly. Had they still been looking to Dick to guide their every move, things could have gone very wrong, very fast.

Six more bodies bearing the earmarks of Stirk’s handiwork surfaced. Each one was another reminder that Batman had left behind large boots to fill. He had to stop the man somehow. And he would have to do so without Robin’s backup.

Two nights later, Tim was sitting in his room and trying to come up with a mnemonic to help him memorize the symptoms of Spanish fly poisoning. Vomiting, collapse, skin irritations… hmmm… ‘very clever… um… sparrows? Nah. Very clever scholars infer… Okay, that’s actually not so bad. What’s the next symptom? He looked at the text again and groaned. How am I supposed to work in ‘blister formation on the mucous membranes’? Argh! And ewww!

Dick strode into the room without knocking. “Get dressed,” he ordered as he tossed the Kevlar-Nomex suit and tights at Tim.

Tim caught them one-handed without thinking about it. He then lifted his other hand to pluck the mask and gloves out of mid-air.

Dick set the boots down just inside the room.

“You mean it?” Tim asked excitedly.

“Stirk’s not the only problem in Gotham right now,” Dick said tersely. “Word on the street is that a smuggling ring is trying to move a shipment of exotic animal parts into the country and using Gotham as their main port of entry. If my source is good, the Zhen Heu will be making a clandestine arrival at the Dixon Docks. I want you to intercept it and make sure the cargo gets turned over to the authorities.”

Tim’s eyes lit up. “Well, alright!”

“Don’t get too carried away,” Dick warned. “And remember, you’re not out there alone.” He handed Tim a small radio. “Keep that in your belt. The first frequency is me. The second is the manor. Alfred’s usually listening. The third is the Teen Titans. You shouldn’t need to contact them, but if it’s an emergency do it. The fourth is police band. It’s ‘ears only’ unless I say otherwise.” He took a deep breath. “The fifth frequency will get you through to the Justice League. Don’t use it.” At Tim’s double-take, Dick clarified. “If it’s big enough for them to get involved, they’ll be in Gotham before you know they need to be.”

Tim nodded his comprehension. “What about you?”

“Robbinsville. Stirk’s about due to dump another body.”

But Dixon Docks was in the southwest corner of the city. And Robbinsville was nearly forty-five minutes northeast of it. “Shouldn’t I be backing you…”

“Too dangerous. Show me how well you handle the smugglers, and I’ll think about it for next time.” He closed the door before Tim could protest further. He had enough doubts plaguing him already without the boy adding more fuel to the fire.

Stopping the shipment had been easier than Tim had thought. He’d barely had to show himself. The smugglers hadn’t been expecting trouble. A few flash-bang grenades and throwing knives, and most had been relieved to surrender to the Gotham Harbor patrol vessel that had swung by to investigate the sound-and-light show. Their contacts at the dock had tried to run for it—until a few blows of a bo staff had changed their mind.

Afterwards, Tim checked his watch in disbelief. The entire incident—from the boat’s arrival at the pier to the arrest of the last suspect—had taken a grand total of twenty-seven minutes. Not even a half-hour, Tim thought to himself. But it had been a long twenty-seven minutes.

“Mission accomplished, Batman,” he said into the communicator. “How about you?”

There was no answer.

“Robin to Batman, come in Batman.”

No answer.

Keep calm, Tim told himself. If he’s in the middle of a fight, he’s not exactly going to tell whoever he’s fighting with to hang on a minute so he can respond. Or he could be underground or some other place where the signal can’t get through. There’s no reason to panic.

Dick was fine. He could handle himself. He was Batman, after all.

Bruce was Batman. Dad was with the DEO. They could handle themselves, too. Until the one time they couldn’t.


He was letting his imagination run away from him. Dick was fine. He might be on the roof of GCPD, right now. Maybe he was in the middle of a car chase and didn’t want to have a conversation—not even if the phone was on hands-free.

Maybe he’s in trouble.

And maybe Tim was panicking because he’d already lost too many people in too short a time and didn’t want to add another name to the list. He ducked into a secluded area of the port before he punched the frequency for the manor.

“Alfred, this is Robin. Has Batman checked in? Okay, thanks. Yeah, I’m okay. I just can’t raise him. Look, if he calls in, tell him I stopped the shipment and I’ll meet him at the north end of the Sprang Bridge—unless he tells me differently.” The bridge spanned the Sprang River between Robbinsville and Coventry. It was far enough from Stirk’s known dumping grounds that Dick shouldn’t feel the need to warn him off, yet close enough that he might be of some use if Dick did need his help.

“Thanks,” he said, in response both to Alfred’s congratulations on taking down the smugglers, and to his promise to relay the message. He switched off the communicator.

He found it soon enough. After ascertaining that Batman was nowhere in sight, he took to the rooftops to look for suspicious activity—heck, any activity.

“Batman?” He whispered into the communicator again. He didn’t expect an answer, and didn’t receive one.

He moved more carefully now. Stirk was around. Batman had warned him not to come here. He couldn’t afford any mistakes.

He found the body, still half-buried under fertilizer bags. Someone had been trying to shift them, it seemed. Why would they have stopped? At first, he tried not to look at the victim’s torso. Then he took a deep breath. The stench made him recoil and he fumbled for his breathing filter. As he slipped it on, he noticed an identical one lying on the ground nearby.

His heart began to pound as he stooped to pick it up. In the light of the nearby street lamp, he could see the faint outline of a bat insignia etched into the fabric. He examined the ground carefully.

He was kneeling down, and then something happened. He fell? No. There were signs of a struggle—he recognized them, now that he knew what to look for. Dick had to have been taken by surprise. Taken… where?

He dashed to the loading ramp. On the ground below, he could see wheel treads, but not from a car or a bike. It looked like a cart of some sort. There was a puddle on the ground that looked like blood. And going by the imprint of the wheels, the cart hadn’t gone away empty. Unless I’m misreading and the lighter trail is the fresher one. Maybe somebody was delivering something here. He looked back at the corpse. Or delivering someone!


Great. So either someone had come with an empty cart and left with a full one, come with the body and left with Batman, or dropped off the body and gone. If he was reading the signs right, that somebody was Stirk. And he might have Dick. Was it time to call the Titans, now?

Tim considered the idea, then rejected it. Dick was Batman. He was probably freeing himself this very second. He’d be fine.

But Tim was going to follow the tire tracks, anyway. Just in case.