Disclaimer: I do not own Robin. I do not own any other DCU character either. (I do, however, own the original characters portrayed in this fic.) I am making no financial gain from this fic, now or ever. No copyright infringement is intended. Have I disclaimed it all? Ah, not quite: Don't bother suing me, it'd be a right royal waste of time.

TWENTY

PART ONE

It wasn't the Bat's fault. Not really. Well, sure, if he hadn't betrayed the boy's identity, then said boy wouldn't have been rushing off so terribly upset that he neglected to take account of his surroundings. Or, more importantly, what was in those surroundings. But not even the world's greatest detective could have predicted what happened next.

Robin walked off, away from Batman, away from Spoiler, and then started to run. And ran and ran. Somewhere, burning dimly in the confused morass that was his brain, was the thought that if he ran far enough, he could outrun the betrayal. The comm in his ear buzzed. He'd turned it on, he recalled, as soon as he'd been in costume. From the sounds on the other end, the Bat had done the same. Dimly, he could hear Steph's -- the Spoiler's -- voice: "He was betrayed. By both of us." Such understanding. He'd hoped Steph would be understanding about his secrets, but not like this, not now that she'd so callously penetrated them. Her awareness of what she'd cost him came too late, at too high a price. He switched off the earpiece, switched off the Bat's explaination mid-phrase. . . Sometimes it ends well. Other times. . . Robin tasted bitter bile in his mouth.

Without realising it, Robin found himself on a rooftop in downtown Gotham. One of his favourite places, one where he used to take Spoiler to watch the city lights. Now, those lights seemed to mock him . . .betrayed . . . betrayed.

The uniformed thugs that leapt out from behind the chimneys and gargoyles were almost a welcome diversion.
Almost. Until they proved to be more than mere thugs. Until they got the upper hand.

EARLIER.

They'd been researching Robin for months. Ever since the Doctor had discovered there was some truth to the "Urban Myth" that was the Boy Wonder, he'd had his professional researchers, computer experts, strategists, psychologists and geographers tracking down this elusive being, this boy who looked . . . perfect.

He couldn't have had a better profile if I'd prayed for it! The Doctor contemplated the stolen data from DEO. When rescuing the mist girl's friends, Robin had stumbled over it, and with his usual native ingenuity, had sent a copy off to the JLA watchtower, another to the Oracle, and deleted the remaining copy. However, one of the Doctor's hackers had been able to intercept the message aimed at the Watchtower. Now, the Organisation, and by extension the Doctor, had excellent data on the group Young Justice.

In a way, it was Robin's own quick thinking that would be his downfall; the data he'd sent off in such a hurry had proved that the Boy Wonder did in fact exist, and also mentioned certain parameters that made him perfect for the Project: He was a teenager, nearly a child. Physically only above average, but so blindingly intelligent that he used what he had so cleverly that he was more capable than many who were stronger or more agile. Above all, he was pure human. No meta genes, no alien background, nothing that was likely to interfere with the complex procedures he'd be subjected to once the Doctor had him.

And I will have him, the Doctor thought, it's only a matter of time. So, with eighteen failures, and one possible successful subject in his hands, the Doctor turned the considerable researching abilities of the Organisation into tracking down one subject who might just be the key, one subject who could potentially be that most elusive of things; a success. One little bird had been marked as prey.

It had taken a while to track him down. Oh, the connection to the Batman was known, so Gotham was an almost certain bet, but how to find one boy in the chaos that was what was left of the city had proved a challenge even to the Organisation. In the end they'd given up trying to be "thorough" enough to discover his secret identity, and had merely settled for locating his favourite haunts.

When this had been accomplished, the Doctor, unwilling to underestimate Robin, had sent an entire squad of his best retrievalists. And then had settled back to wait, as patient as a serpent, for the rooftop to be visited.

Patterns are dangerous, Little Bird. I shall have to program that out of you, but for now it will be useful. For now it makes you mine.

Robin ducked and wove, deftly sidestepping a swipe aimed at his midsection and parrying with a kick to his attacker's head.

Hoo boy, I'm in trouble. These guys are good! He ducked under another's booted leg, and handspringing off a third's back, got enough height to take out a fourth and fifth with a scissoring kick.

Funny, it's like these guys were originally trained to cripple or kill, but they're not going all out. Why? do they need me alive? uninjured? Who would want me like that? The list was depressingly long; as well as the Bat's opponents, (all of whom would love a live juicy bait), Robin had made no few enemies of his own. Add to that the vendettas held against the previous two Robins . . . I guess the question is, which of the Rogue's gallery wouldn't want me dead by any means possible?

He backflipped away from yet another opponent, (was there no end to them?) and landed in a half-crouch, breathing heavily. He was outnumbered, outclassed, and smart enough to know it.

"Somebody. . . anybody. . . Help m-" he gasped into the comm, before a realisation struck him; Batman! He told Steph! Who else did he--? No, he wouldn't have. I think. So, who did Spoiler . . .

The thought, and the pause that accompanied it, proved to be his downfall; one fighter behind him grabbed and jerked his cape backwards, as another slammed him across the jaw. The Boy Wonder crumpled, noticing with surprise the sudden gentleness of the hands that caught him. The dark, gloved hands of his attackers were the last things he saw before blackness embraced him.

They'd returned to the cave, the Bat and the Spoiler, in brooding silence. They'd gotten out of the car, and walked to the computer, also in silence. Steph found it unnerving. The sudden crackling of the computer came as a relief to the fidgety girl, though the computer generated face was nearly as unnerving as the silence.

Later, on reflection, Steph noted she'd have preferred the silence to what followed . . .

"Batman, this is Oracle! Batman!" The woman's voice, shrill with fear, belied the calm, disinterested expression of the face on the screen.

"Batman here." Came the terse reply. Obviously, when this woman, whomever she was, was worried, the Bat was worried too. Or maybe he's just always like that. Terse. It's not like I really know him, Steph contemplated.

"Robin! is he with you? Is he okay?"

"What do you mean?"

"We just left hi--" The Bat and the Spoiler spoke at once. A look from the former and the latter subsided into shivering silence.

"I intercepted a transmission from him a few moments ago. His earpeice was offline so I couldn't reach him from my end. It's not much, but I'll play it."

The brief bite of sound, distorted though it was, sent chills down Batman's spine though his expression remained inscrutible.

"Somebody. . . Anybody. . .Help m-"

The Bat turned to the car, wasting no motions, and leapt inside.

"Get in." He said to Steph, who hastened to comply. This is great! He trusts me enough to take me! Heh, like he could stop me! Well, okay, maybe he could but still! She thought, elated. Or else. . . or else he simply doesn't trust me alone in his hideout, with all his cool gadgets. . . and his other secrets. Much as she hated to admit it, the latter seemed vastly more likely. She was distracted from her thoughts by a flashing light on one of the many computer screens on the dash.

"Eh? What's that?"

"A tracking device. It's in Robin's suit."

"Cool!"

There were, in fact, three such tracking devices, one in Robin's mask, another in his left boot, and a third in the black backing behind his "R" symbol. Batman (without informing either Robin or Oracle) had taken the liberty of installing them after a certain incident involving a giant tentacled seacreature that had resulted in Robin being "MIA" for over a day. Though in general he approved of the boy's abilities in taking independent action, there were limits.

The flash on the computer stayed comfortingly put, even as the batmobile roared up to the base of the building, even as the Bat, followed by a Spoiler who pointedly wouldn't stay put, charged up the fire stairs, and then swung onto the roof. Where both stopped abruptly, almost unable to take in the scene.

There was no one. No foe, no ally, no bodies. No Robin. Shreds of clothing lay about the rooftop, closer inspection proved them to be shreds of a certain redbreasted costume. Quickly, methodically, Batman worked to assess the scene, to find any clues, scant as they might have been. Who did this? where are they now? More importantly, where is Robin?

Spoiler simply stood, mouth hanging open, as the impact of what must have happened came crashing in upon her.

The retrievalists had been thorough. As soon as the bird was down, a nasty bruise already spreading across his face, they scanned him. The two transmitters secreted in his clothes were quickly discovered and efficiently discarded. On more detailed scanning, the third in his mask was also found, and this too removed. The scanning also revealed a wealth of crimefighting trinkets secreted in his belt and sleeves; these were recorded before being discarded.

"We're out of time. Let's go."

All stood to depart, one sparing the time to wrap the now nearly naked boy in a dark sleeve-blanket before slinging him over a burly shoulder.

"Out of here."

With a silent grace that belied the size of his figure, he and his compatriots melted into the shadows, scant minutes ahead of the arrival of the Bat.

There were no clues. Not 'no clues except an incredibly subtle one that only the Bat could decipher', not 'oh, the ripped clothes are actually cut and that's enough of a clue for the Bat to figure out what cut the costume right down to the make of the knife and then suddenly know exactly who gets supplies of said knife coz he's Batman.' No clues. At all.

Superficially, the costume had been ripped in a manner that suggested that Robin hadn't been resisting when it occurred, that it had been to expedite the removal of the apparel. There was nothing to indicate that the costume had been cut at all, let alone with a specific type of knife; the Kevlar tunic had been removed without damage. There were no fibres from another type of cloth in the tears that peppered the rest of the costume, or anywhere on the fabric, and no traces of the attackers' skin or blood on either the gauntlets or the boots.

As the night progressed, Batman grew grimmer. Spoiler had long since given up even pretending to be helpful and had silently sobbed herself to sleep in a corner of the cave. Already the Bat was beginning to regret her inclusion. Sighing inaudibly, he turned back to his task. With this little he couldn't even call in Nightwing or Azrael for action. He had nothing to go on. In despiration, he took a closer look at the rooftop. It had been, Steph had reluctantly confided, a location where many of their 'dates' had taken place, as Robin loved the city view. It was also not squarely in anyone's territory; the Penguin had put in a nominal claim, but mostly it served as a buffer between his turf and the Joker's (currently an Arkham resident).

His eyes blurred as he stared at the screen. He ignored them. Maybe I should call in Nightwing. Not for action, but for another set of eyes, another perspective. That is, if Oracle hasn't already done so. The former Batgirl, he knew, had been doing her own investigation, trying to track down anything unusual in the data stream. It was a phenomenally broad task, and thus far had been as fruitless as his own efforts.

"Oracle." Funny how his voice sounded so hoarse at the moment.

"Oracle here." Came the instant reply.

"Anything?"
"We've got nothing yet." The 'yet' was spoken firmly, with conviction. Babs was not going to give up. The Bat smiled thinly. Her phrase had told him something else.

"Send Nightwing over to the cave. He can have a look at these shreds and see what he makes of them."

"Understood. He's on his way." The voice betrayed no surprise. She'd deliberately used the oblique phrase to inform the Bat of the visitor who'd come tearing around to her clock-tower, desperate to know what had happened to his 'little brother'.

It was several weeks, weeks of failed investigation, weeks where Spoiler turned to the visiting Connor Hawke for comfort, weeks where Batman became increasingly grim, before Oracle's 'yet' became unspoken. Robin, the Boy Wonder was nowhere to be found.

MEANWHILE

Robin awoke, head and cheek pounding, in the dark. On further, tentative exploration, he discovered that it was not in fact dark. One eye was swollen shut - and he was lying face down on the other - in a dimly lit cell. Black eye at least. Maybe concussion, I guess, he thought muzzily. At least the bruise will distort my features, since my mask seems to be gone. Hn. Mask's gone. That should worry me a lot more than it does. Definitely concussed. Before he could gather his scattered wits, a door in the previously seamless wall opened and a figure was tossed in to land in a crumpled heap, the aperture sealing immediately.

With supreme effort, he crawled over to the slight form. At first, his questing fingers met a long plait of hair, still soft and beautiful, despite the layers of blood and grime. A Girl? Gently turning the figure over, he realised his initial impression was mistaken; the boy was small, whipcord muscles playing over what would otherwise have been a scrawny build. Aquiline features, angulated by a combination of malnutrition and genetics, were softened by their current slackly unconscious state. The other boy's high forehead was emphasised by the tight pulling back of his hair into the plait. The hair in and of itself was remarkable; thick, and as jet-black as Robin's own, it reached easily to the other boy's waist, brushing gently over a tattoo on the boy's bare shoulder; the mark reading simply "18".

Robin's inspection was interrupted by a low moan. His fellow prisoner shivered as if with cold, though sweat beaded his brow. A quick touch confirmed clammy, frigid skin. What the heck happened to him? He's freezing! That tanktop and shorts set wouldn't keep anyone warm. The boy moaned again, this time more faintly. It was that that decided the boy wonder. He's almost certainly a prisoner like me. Anyway, he's too out of it to be a threat, and I'm sure not going to let him die. With that, he pulled the other boy into his arms, sharing his warmth through his own tanktop and shorts. Clothing , he realised with a start, that was identical to the other's. Well, well, well, he thought, a uniform of sorts. The plot thickens. Still, maybe this means they're not going to kill me out of hand, or else why bother dressing me? With that he drifted off into an uneasy slumber. Or, more accurately, passed out again, his head still pounding.

Once again, Robin awoke. This time less concussed, though still stiff, sore, and acutely aware that someone was watching him. Cautiously he opened his eyes slightly, and then widened them involuntarily as he was met with a hazel gaze scant inches from his face. Reflexively he scooted backwards until he hit the wall.

"Calm. Please. I'll not hurt you. I want to thank you. For sharing your warmth and human touch. It was a kindness."
"Uh, no problem." Great Tim, just brilliant. Time to get coherent, get some answers, and get out of here. Not necessarily in that order, either. The other boy eyed him expectantly, though he remained unmoving as Robin slowly stretched and shifted into a crouch.

"Where am I? Who are you? What is happening?"

"To answer: First, I do not know. I was simply piloting my. . . craft . . . when I was shot down. I awoke here, a prisoner like yourself. Second I am Dehwhitt. NO!" He shook his head frantically, clutching it.

"NO! I, I'm not! That's who they want to make me! But I'm not! I'm Kaze. Mireba Kaze! Sixteenth successor to the Mireba budo, and tensai pilot!" He gasped, as if the statement caused him pain, and closed his eyes, his breath ragged. Robin cringed away. Hang on. . . Tensai? Genius? Oh my God. He's the prodigy pilot. The one in the Batcave's files of "people to watch". That Japanese kid from, like, an ancient line of Ninja. A fifteen year old boy who happens to have a hobby involving planes. He can fly anything currently in existence, even though he's not metahuman! I didn't even know he was missing. What the heck is he doing here? and with a person like him . . . what can our captors possibly want from us?What do they want from me? I'm hardly a prodigy at anything, I can't even get my partner to trust me enough not to blow my identity!

With a few deep breaths, and obvious effort, Kaze regained his composure. "Thirdly . . . again, I do not know. You are only the second fellow prisoner I've seen since I arrived. Our captors are . . . doing something strange. . . to our minds, to our bodies, but I do not know what. Now, who are you and why did you warm me?"

"I'm Robin. No last name. And because you might have died without my help." Robin replied simply. I'm gonna keep it simple. While Batman may have told the entire vigilante community about my secret ID, I'm kinda hoping I've retained some shreds of confidentiality in the world at large.

"First name only. Simple. A pseudonym I guess." Kaze held up a hand to forestall comment, "no, keep it that way. It's important you do so: If our captors don't know who you are, I think maybe they cannot do the strange things. Whatever you do, keep your identity secret!"

Robin could only stare, shocked. The "strange things" . . . From what I remember of the file, Mireba Kaze had no vigilante or hero secret ID. No alter-ego at all. . . Can my secret ID protect me? keep me mysterious enough to be safe? If so, from what? Oooh boy, this is too big. I've got to get us outta here and call in Batman or even the JLA.

Any further thought was negated by the fine mist of paralytic gas that sprayed into the room, followed by four large, gasmasked goons, two of whom grabbed the flaccid Robin and dragged him from the cell.

Whatever you do, keep your identity secret!

It was advice, Robin soon discovered, that was easier given than taken.

They had the Boy Wonder screaming. Oh, not at first. At first, the Doctor contemplated, they had tried "reason". Still, I must admit I did not expect reasoning with him to work. Perhaps I should have kept him in single confinement until after the first interrogation. But then we might have lost all hold on Dix-Huit, he was too close to becoming masterless. We lost Dix-Neuf because of that. I needed something to hold over him, over Dix-Huit who is our closest near-success. Something to control him, and Robin here may as well be it.

With a purely internal sigh, the Doctor turned away from the boy currently strapped to (and convulsing on) the table, and contemplated that first, crucial encounter. . .

Robin had been dragged unceremoniously into the room. Also unresistingly, though that was due to the paralytic gas, rather than any fear or hopelessness on the prisoner's part. He'd been strapped onto the table, and the Doctor had waited the requisite few minutes for the gas to wear off before approaching him.

"Your name." He'd demanded. It had echoed harshly in the room, despite the natural softness his accent accorded anything he said. He'd long since stopped trying to rid himself of the French lilt. In fact, his native tongue was what he'd used to rename - to number - his subjects, something none of his American compatriots had figured out. "Dewhitt" indeed. He'd have corrected the slurring, but the name was a potentially useful corruption of the subject's number, dix-huit.

The boy had been silent in the face of his command.

"I know who you are, Robin, Boy Wonder. Squire to the Batman."
"I figured you'd worked it out, what with the costume and all."

The doctor smiled, thin lipped, at that. It was a smile that held not amusement, but glee. With careless consideration he avoided the boy's tacit attempt to pump him for information. He was not going to reveal how he'd 'worked out' where to find Robin, 'costume and all.'
"A costume you are nolonger wearing. You are a . . . civilian . . . for the moment. With a civilian identity. Your name."

". . ."

"We may do this simply, or with difficulty. Your call."
. . .

The Doctor was jolted out of his reverie by the sudden cessation of screaming. The silence, after the sounds of agony preceding it, was as deafening as the cries had been. The Doctor flicked an eyebrow at one of his assistants, a man named Brown, standing near the table.

"He's passed out, Sir. Shall I revive him?"
"No, I think not. I do not wish to have him too run down when we begin the other procedures. And there is Dix-Huit to consider. Take him back to their cell."

The other man nodded, and readied a syringe. Just to make sure the boy was as unconscious as he seemed. The Doctor nodded to himself, pleased with his assistant's care. They'd lost Quatorze that way, when she'd tried to make a break for it, killing Brown's predecessor in the process before being mown down herself. This, no doubt, had a fair amount to do with the man's cautious attitude toward the subject.

"Before you take him, have photos taken of his face and start running them through the various Gotham schools' Year Book databases, student profiles, etc. Since he wont give us the information freely, I want other avenues of investigation pursued."
"We will do so, but his bruises will make it difficult."
The Doctor fixed a baleful eye on the technician who had spoken. A Mr. Debbit, if he recalled correctly. The man paled, and scurried off to a workstation, muttering about digital photo manipulation techniques.

Satisfied that all was under control, the Doctor went to his own "office"; a sealed bunker deep within the complex. There, after locking the voice activated safe-style door, he sat at his own computer. The computer was a marvel. One of a kind, it stood in lonely spendour. The isolation was quite complete; the Doctor risked no networking connection, nothing that might have allowed a curious hacker (of which he employed several of the best, to say nothing of outsiders) a peek into the system. It was this system he now booted up. Specifically, it was a program he himself had designed, based on data gleaned from numerous organisations and entities, some earthly, some not (one even including a certain green-ringed individual).

The data had been collected based upon the theory that there is no one place in the brain where memory or emotion is stored. Rather, there are places in the brain where neurons are activated in specific sequences and patterns to retrieve what was encoded in those patterns, namely memory, emotion . . . all patterns needed to enact higher neurological functions.

The data provided a precise map to the synaptic routes taken by memory formation and retrieval, by personality expression and alteration, and emotional impulses and responses. In short, a precise guide to how a person's mind was built. Oh, there were minor synaptic idiosyncrasies that were unique to certain individuals, but overall, the information showed precisely how various impressions were formed in a human mind. And how those experiences moulded that mind.

From that data, the Doctor had taken the next logical step. He'd worked out how to re-wire those synaptic paths with the precision of an engineer. That was what the programme he'd created was for. With it, it would be possible to re-write the personality of his subjects into exactly the creations he wanted. Other techniques, a combination of hypnotherapy and New Genesis-derived neurosurgery, would allow that rewiring to go beyond simple digital modelling into the organic. The Boy Wonder would be his, body and most importantly, soul.

There was one slight problem. What the doctor wanted to do was retain the skills, intellect and ability of his chosen subject, while replacing personality and memory. While this could be done with hypnosis and drugs, that was a crude technique, rather akin to simply bludgeoning the boy's mind to death. And about as likely to retain all his skills as that bludgeoning. So. What had to be done was removal, with the assistance of the functionally complete map, of certain synaptic pathways; the complete erasure, as if it had never been, of certain precise memories, hopes, aspirations, emotions. . .

To do so required at least rough knowledge of the types of pathways that should be there. The doctor had a good brief on the memory pathways that the vigilante experience was likely to have laid down, and the erasure here would have to be very precise; for in erasing a memory of swinging off a rope next to the Batman, the Doctor did not want to erase knowledge of how to swing off a rope. To be honest, however, these memories were less of a worry to the Doctor. My mapping for superheroics is good, especially for those who are mere humans. The experiences from that will be easily manipulated into what I want. The problem is the other aspect. The civilian identity. Did he have a girlfriend? that leaves a particular synaptic pattern. Did he love her or was it not really close? Was it a boyfriend? Did they fight a lot? Were there any romantic relationships at all, or is he still too young? Does he have living parents? Is Batman his parent? If not, how do his parents feel about him cavorting across a roof in spandex? If his parents are dead, what sort of impression did their dying leave on him? All these things will leave synaptic trails, will be components that drive his personality. To be thorough in erasing them, I must know what they are! To do that, I need to know everything I can about the boy's civilian identity. Starting with his name. With that I can research, and erase, his history.
And then, when the mind had been selectively wiped to a clean slate, the implantation of a new mind. A mind whose template already sat waiting in the computer in front of him; a set of synaptic patterns that would be painstakingly implemented one by one, by the Doctor.

Pain. Dull, throbbing aching pain. Robin moaned, his entire body hurt and he was cold. So very cold. Fingers brushed across his forehead, burning in their warmth. He almost flinched away. Almost, then warmth registered, and he leaned towards it. Arms, equally ablaze, folded around him, their heat penetrating to his bones, melting the ice that seemed to grip him. Safe. Robin slept, comforted in their embrace. And as he slept, Kaze gently held him, and softly crooned a song to keep away the nightmares.

The first time was the worst; the pain and cold so terrible Robin felt he could scream his life away, scream the pain into oblivion with it, except that his throat was so raw he could not even raise a whisper. It did not lighten after that torture session, but Robin became more inured to it. He achieved a fragile balance; his tolerance for pain and his personal resources sat in frail accord. As a result, his identity remained secret for nearly two weeks. Two weeks of daily or twice-daily "discussions" with the doctor and his crew. In this time he and Kaze became friends, and more. . . driven together by their mutual adversity, they became comrades. As Kaze comforted and supported Robin in his quest to give no information to their captors, so Robin held Kaze together, helped him fight against the demon encroaching on his mind, taking away his memories and self. A demon named Dewhitt.

He was fed enough to remain alive, no more, though Kaze seemed to be better nourished - he'd smuggled the Boy Wonder some bread once, at the end of their separate eating time, only to be discovered and severely beaten. The result was Robin refusing to allow his friend to make any further attempts at splitting their meals. In the end, the combination of fatigue, filth and hunger gnawed Robin's resources into crumbs. In the end, the Boy Wonder broke.

On the day, the Doctor had been feeling frustrated. No one, no one lasted two weeks. Not with this sort of abuse. The boy is going to be spectacular when he's mine! I will have his identity! He's too valuable not to do everything right with, even if some of this is because Dix-Huit's helping him resist. The searches through various databases that he'd initiated had been fruitless, initially due to the boy's injuries, and later due to alterations in his facial structure brought about by his treatment; while ID photos never look flattering, they still do not resemble people who are haggard with fatigue, pinched with pain, and gaunt from hunger.

"Who are you? who are you, boy?"

More torture. More screams.

"Who? What is your name?"

". . . Tim . . .othy . . . Dra. . .ke . . ." The Doctor had been thrilled to hear, gasped out in the hoarse remnants of a voice, the two words. Two little words that were the key to a life, key to a boy that had promptly passed out as soon as he'd spoken.

The Doctor had rallied his hackers, researchers, and information retrievalists. Within five minutes the Boy Wonder's identity had been confirmed. Within seven, all information held within the Gotham Department of Education's computer system had been retrieved, the original data purged from the system. By fifteen minutes, squads of retrievalists were en route to both Gotham Heights and Brentwood to obtain all paper files.

This was slightly trickier; while the Gotham Heights file could simply be removed, the Brentwood one would have to be replaced, as the file would be 'active' due to the boy's currently enrolled status. Presumably, the school would have also reported him missing to the police by this stage, and the officers would have wanted a look at the file as well. But private schools are private schools; the file would have stayed on-campus, as would any and all authorised copies. The doctor had prepared for this eventuality, and had had a bogus file created, with slightly altered (but, crucially, unrecognisable) ID photos in it. Three quarters of an hour later, the replacement file was in it's drawer, ready for the cops to peruse.

The Brentwood file proved to be invaluable; while the boy's father was living, he'd recently remarried. Then, not unreasonably, he'd taken a honeymoon with his new bride. Being wealthy, and held in high regard (and hence heavily sought after by large numbers of people, even when supposedly on holiday) he'd arranged for the honeymoon to be an eight week soujourn on a small carribean island, where he and his bride would burn their skin into a cancerous crisp during the two months of trysting. Though the island resort was charming in every way, in one aspect it was particularly perfect, both for the honeymooning couple and the Doctor. The island had no communications with the outside world. No-one could ring in or out (with the exception of an emergency radio the staff kept under lock and key.) Hence, no-one could bother the honeymooning couple to inform them that the troublesome child they'd left behind in a boarding school was anywhere but in said boarding school. The boy's father doesn't even know he's gone. A not insignificant boon, given how the man got Gotham reopened to retrieve the child. A two month 'grace' period! The Doctor had been beside himself with glee.

From the Brentwood file the boy's address had been obtained. Shortly thereafter, a fire caused by the spillage of a can of Zesti onto a CD player's power cord had damaged one wing of the house, incidentally completely destroying the room housing the CD player; a boy's bedroom. Since no-one had been in the house at the time, and hence no-one was hurt, the local Press was not particularly interested. The cause of the fire being determined as 'accidental', combined with a sensational bank robbery on the same day (foiled by a new, meaner Batman - a fluke, but one that nonetheless served the Doctor well) meant that the fire wasn't even reported by the Press. By evening, the Doctor had photographs and catalogues of everything in the room, copies of every bit of paper, and even a photo album of Tim Drake with a pretty black-haired girl, later identified as one Ariana Dzerjenko.

The picture is starting to come together, the Doctor mused, soon I will have all the pieces, all the parts I need to erase a soul!

The true wealth of information, however, came not from the boy's admission of his identity, but from his mentor. By a sheer miracle, two days after Robin broke, one of the Doctor's hackers managed to worm into the JLA Watchtower's computer system. From there, she'd piggy-backed a signal transmission to Gotham. Expecting to get into the outskirts of the very elusive Oracle's system, she'd been thrilled to find herself instead inside the mighty Crays. Though cut short, the foray into the Bat's system was extremely fruitful.

I'm lucky the Batman is so paranoid! A complete file on Robin, and on Tim Drake. This is one file I'll bet the boy never saw. . . Now this is interesting. Looks like he had a girlfriend after that Ariana girl. . . How priceless! A vigilante! Even better, the Doctor discovered, was a complete record in the Bat's own words of his final encounter with Robin, and the betrayal that had ensued. Perfect! The file could not be better if I'd emailed him and asked him to write it! Everything the boy's done, even from before he became Robin, is in here! Everything I need to erase him, in one convenient package.

In a way, this was the second time the Bat had failed the current Robin. Though the hacker's data download had been cut short partway through the details of Robin's various training efforts, it was complete enough to be the final nail in the coffin of Tim Drake, a.k.a Robin.

It was then that the Doctor began the erasure of TimDrake/Robin's mind. It was then that his latest subject, Vingt - Van to the Doctor's underlings - was born. Two days after the download from the Crays, when the Doctor had completed the tailored map of erasure for TimDrake/Robin's personality, the number "20" was tattooed onto the arm of a bedraggled, tattered boy. The war of minds and wills was about to be truly joined. The first skirmishes over identity were to be nothing compared to what followed.

The new marking on Robin's arm did not go unnoticed. Although now almost entirely Dewhitt, the other boy retained - or rather, had been allowed to retain - enough feelings of affection and friendship for Robin that this new change alarmed him. In fact, it alarmed him enough to put a certain plan into action. . .

Kaze/Dewhitt had awoken from another round of the Doctor's ministrations to find himself as usual, held and comforted by an equally worn and haggard Robin. This time however, the other boy was different.

"Hair . . .gets in my face. Batman hates long hair. I can't have it . . . rip it out." Robin had been clutching his head, pulling his hair even as he sheltered Kaze/Dewhitt. Firm hands reached up, stopped his clutching fingers. Robin raised his chin defiantly, only to meet a pair of intensely serious eyes.

"Robin . . .the mark on your shoulder - he knows your identity, doesn't he." It was a statement, not a question. The brutal torturing that the boy wonder had undergone had proven to both their satisfactions that, indeed, the 'strange things' the Doctor did could only be done when he knew a person's identity. They'd also proven that he'd stoop to new lows to obtain that identity.

"Can't have long hair . . . can't. Gets in the way. In my eyes. He knows. I told him. God help me, I told him." Robin looked away, suddenly unable to meet the other's gaze.

KazeDewhitt sighed softly. It was to be expected. No one can hold out forever. But the hair and his mentor's approval - that I can help with. Gently he patted away the other's hands, took the unruly strands and braided them into a short french plait. The boy wonder's hair had indeed grown, though not a huge length, and was only just grazing the boy's chin. It had been about time for a haircut when he'd been taken, and the interim had seen it lengthen to that 'irritating' stage.

"Ro-kun . . . tomodachi . . .I have few memories of my own left. Few things that are purely mine, Kaze's, and not placed in my head for the benefit of Dewhitt. One of those memories is my name. The other is my hair.

"My father was - I think - quite strict. I remember little about him except that he did not approve of a boy having long hair. I'm nolonger sure of the details, but I think I gained the right to my hair when I landed a plane we'd been traveling in, one that had malfunctioned. The pilot had panicked, but I brought the plane in to land. I think I may have had a little experience with planes at the time, but not much. He was . . . proud . . . of me. And when I told him later of my intention to continue growing my hair, he had not exploded as I expected, but nodded, and told me I'd earned it." KazeDewhitt took a deep breath, "Ro-kun, you've withstood weeks of pain. You've withstood it to protect yourself, and also the identity of someone else. Maybe several someones. You've earned the right to your hair. Keep it." Eyes wide, the other boy nodded.

"Listen to me. The alterations done to me go beyond merely my head; the Doctor is altering my body as well. I told you this before, but now the process seems more advanced. Somehow my reflexes are much faster, and there are certain . . . movements . . . that I know I did not know even from my Ninjitsu training, movements that now come as easily as breathing. I think as of my next . . . session . . . I will be Dewhitt only. All other memories purged, these other changes completed. Add to that the knowledge that he will start on you soon. . . " He paused, took a deep breath, and with a lightening fast movement punched Robin in the solar plexus. As the other boy crumpled onto his side, KazeDewhitt stood, facing the door through which soldiers and restrainers would soon boil. Already an alarm was sounding.

"Robin, you are too weak to travel at the moment. I am now strong enough - altered enough - to do this. So I will go alone, and bring back help. You must survive, Ro-kun. You must survive physically and most importantly, as yourself. In any way you can, survive until help comes. Survive until I get back."

Robin, incapacitated with pain, could only watch from the floor as his friend casually kicked down the door as it opened, paralytic gas spewing into the air. The other boy smiled at him gently, then his eyes hardened and with a battle yell he threw himself through the doorway at his opponents, expelling the held breath that protected him from the gas.

You must survive. You must survive as yourself. The words echoed through a head made dizzy by pain and fatigue. I must . . . survive as myself. As Robin, as Tim Drake. I will survive as myself. I will be here, in one form or another, when help comes. But I failed to resist the torture. I will be unable to resist whatever else the Doctor has planned for me in my current state. So, instead of fighting, I will run and I will hide. Slowly, painstakingly, Robin called upon his precious few remaining resources. What little strength he had that could be directed to resistance would now be rerouted into this, a last desperate gamble.

Lying on his side, paralysed by gas, Robin let his mind drift back, back to a technique the Rahul Lama had taught him. One he'd never expected to use or need. His breathing deepened and his eyes rolled back in his head as he released himself as an observer into the passages of his own mind.

He walked calmly through his own thoughts and feelings. Carefully, he selected certain memories, emotions. Both good and bad, he selected traits and other indefinable things, things that made up the core. That core was Tim/Robin. But there was little time and less space. He had to be very selective. As carefully as he could, he packed up himself, that inner nucleus, into as small a bundle as possible. Then he secreted the bundle of Self, and the Observer that had collected it, into a tiny pocket of his mind. There they remingled, became one again. TimRobin's essence.

Then, his core Self secure, he sealed it away. Sealed it into stasis.

When the guards arrived to take Robin - Van, as they already thought of him - to the Doctor for the first of many "trainings", they found him flaccid and unresisting, his eyes glazed. Crucially, the Doctor thought this a side effect of the torture, (after all, no-one had resisted that long before. There was no data on what would happen when someone did.) He did not look for that core and hence did not find it when he set about obtaining his primary goal. The essence of TimRobin watched, incapacitated, as his mind was erased. It watched, but it also survived.

MEANWHILE IN THE BATCAVE

Spoiler was in the cave when the Crays was hacked. Batman, of course, was with her. He spent a few precious seconds determining that, no, she hadn't been idly fiddling with the computer (despite getting growled at numerous times, Spoiler retained her inability to leave things alone when told to.) By that stage, the damage was done; most of Robin's file had been lifted, and all of Tim Drake's.

This, of course, prompted a flurry of activity. A rushed call to Oracle later, and the enigmatic computer genius was hot on the trail of the hacker. As the file on Robin had only been partly pulled, Batman went about discovering precisely which bits of information had been lifted. Spoiler was put to the task of confirming that, indeed, all of the Tim Drake file had been obtained by the hacker. This, not so incidentally, required her to read all of that file.

By the end of it, she knew as much about Tim Drake's civilian life as she knew about herself (a thought which she found no little disturbing.) What she found, she did not like.

He's . . . omigod. . . he's fourteen! I'm dating a fourteen-year-old! Sure, he's mature and all, but he's just a kid! Her own nearly-seventeen age flashed through her mind. Perturbed, she finished the task. The entire file was confirmed. That damn hacker, whoever they were, got all of it. She reported this to Batman, and then went to the training area to work off the knots that suddenly twisted her guts.

I . . . I don't feel the way I did about him before I knew. Before I found out his identity. Before the thrill of the mystery was gone. Is it that, though? or is it simply that he's been missing for two weeks? Her mind not in it, she half-heartedly went through a few of her exercises before calling it a night. Batman said nothing as she loaded herself into the sealed cabin that would travel through underground passageways and the Gotham sewers, before stopping near her house to offload her, then returning by remote control to the Batcave.
Outside the house, she reconsidered, and took to the rooftops once more. The thrill and tumble of the leaps and swings cleared her head and lifted her mood. Almost without thinking about it, she ended up on a highrise building in downtown Gotham. It was not the one she'd used to visit with Robin, but rather the one where she'd met the new Green Arrow, Connor, for the second time.

It had been after Robin had disappeared, and she'd been trailing around after the Bat. During a chase, she'd been unable to keep up (Batman, since Robin's abduction, had developed a single-minded ferocity when it came to hunting running crooks, and would slow down for no-one. At least, she thought it was a new development.) Winded and lost, she'd paused on a rooftop, only to discover she was not it's sole occupant. After the initial flurry of concern, she and Connor had reminesced about the gunrunning gang they'd busted and caught up on gossip in general. Spoiler had found Connor to be easy to talk to, and the reverse seemed true as well. They'd met several times since, to talk, though she'd never told him why Robin wasn't with her. He never asked, she comforted herself, probably doesn't even know we were - are! - a couple. We certainly weren't when he last visited. . .

She remembered the conversation she'd had with Robin at the time: "Just remember we're busting a gang of gunrunners, Steph. It's not a date."
"You really flatter yourself, don't you?"
"huh?"

" Maybe it's your new buddy I want to get next to."

Contemplating her present situation, the discoveries she'd made about Robin and then herself, she realised there was more truth in the comment than she'd ever thought at the time.

"Hey," the word startled her out of her reverie. Looking up, she saw Connor's smiling visage. Without a word, she burst into tears.

A hankerchief, a hug, and a short while later, they were sitting next to each other on a gargoyle.

"So, you know, now that I know who he is, like, without the mask, the mystery that attracted me is gone. Also, I've got Batman's approval now. He even said I could be better than Robin on like the physical vigilante stuff! I used to really want to impress him and Robin, but now I have, Robin's sort of . . . less important to me. And then he made me feel all guilty when I found out his ID, but I'm kinda getting less guilty and a bit mad at him for that. And . . . now I know . . . not only is the mystery gone, I kinda don't really think what the mystery hid is all that . . . appealing. Sounds horrible, doesn't it? I must really be a rotten person."

"No. No you're not. You're just at a crossroads, your life's taken a new turn onto a new path to explore, and now you've got more information with which to do it."

She mulled that over. Both the statement, and the sentiment that seemed bursting out from behind it. Then she kissed him.

"Wanna explore that future with me?"

His answer, though not precisely verbal, was definitely positive.

END PART ONE

NOTES:

-kun Japanese suffix for a male friend, usually one you know well. When Kaze refers to Robin as Ro-kun, he's calling him by a nickname. (Not unreasonably, since he knows "Robin" is a pseudonym, they're friends, and they're going through hell together, he wants something more familiar to call him.)

Tomodachi friend

Spoiler's age this I don't actually know for sure, but I'm postulating that she's over sixteen and nine months at least, otherwise her boyfriend would presumably have been charged with statutory rape of a minor when she fell pregnant. Even if this is incorrect in the DCU, in my little AU it isn't. So there. (Grin)

DIALOGUE AND SITUATION in the latter portion of this fic (namely the bit where Spoiler reminesces) has been quoted directly from Robin #25 (Dixon, Wieringo, Woch). Other situations, including the one that this fic is based upon, as well as the tentacled seamonster line, have bee