Shadows Of Gotham

It was an unusually quiet night in Gotham — a rare thing — when Robin, otherwise known as Timothy Drake, dropped silently into a muggy alleyway.
He popped another M&M into his mouth as he landed, ignoring the voice of Alfred Pennyworth echoing sternly in his mind about sugar intake and "diminished athletic performance."

Tim rolled his eyes at the memory and shoved the half-empty candy pack into his utility belt. He had heard shouting a few minutes ago — sharp and panicked — but now the alley was eerily still. Worth checking out.

He twirled his staff into a ready position and moved deeper into the shadows, boots silent against the cracked pavement.

The smell of rot and hot garbage pressed close, thick in the humid air. His nose wrinkled.

As he stepped carefully around an overturned trash can, something caught his eye — a faint glimmer on the ground.
A small pile of ash... sparkling gold under the flickering alley light.

Tim slowed, frowning deeply. Gotham had its fair share of weirdness, but gold dust wasn't exactly normal street grime.

"What the hell is that?" he muttered under his breath.

He crouched, tapping a gloved finger lightly against the sparkling remains. Warm. Recently disturbed. Every instinct screamed that this was not something to ignore.

He straightened, gaze sweeping the darkened space. His guard almost dropped — the alley looked empty — when a slumped figure by a dumpster snagged his attention.

Tim froze, muscles tense, instincts flaring to full alert.

Moonlight slanted between the buildings, cutting a harsh line across the alley — just enough to illuminate her.

A girl, no older than fourteen, collapsed in a heap of bloodied limbs and torn clothes. Dark stains bloomed across her side. Bruises marred every inch of visible skin. A jagged scar ran from her left eyebrow down across her cheek, almost to her chin.

For a heartbeat, Tim couldn't move.

Then training kicked in. He sprinted forward, kneeling beside her and carefully lifting her limp body into his arms. She was frighteningly light. Too light.

He pressed two fingers to the side of her neck, feeling for a pulse.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Then—faint—there it was. Barely a flutter.

He exhaled shakily and tapped his comm.

"Oracle, you reading me?"

Adjusting his grip, he scanned the alley once more, muscles taut for any movement. But it was dead silent. Whoever — or whatever — had done this was long gone.

A few seconds later, Barbara's voice crackled into his ear. "Loud and clear. You alright, Robin?"

"I'm fine," Tim said quickly, glancing down at the girl. "But I need the infirmary prepped. Now. I've got a kid here—she's bad. Stab wound, multiple bruises, possibly internal bleeding."

He shifted her weight to one arm and eyed the staff he'd dropped earlier. No way was he leaving that behind. He tried kicking it up with his boot like a soccer ball.

It bounced off the dumpster with a loud clang and clattered to the ground again.

Tim winced.
Smooth.

Before Barbara could respond, Jason's voice cut across the comms, full of dry amusement. "You ever heard of hospitals, Timmy? Heard they're all the rage these days."

Tim scowled. "And here I thought you'd be too busy making friends with the Gotham drug lords tonight, Jason."

Balancing the girl more securely, he bent, grabbed the muddy staff, and clipped it to his belt. Jason's laughter — smug and unapologetic — crackled over the line.