"Well I could call out when the going gets tough, the things that we've learnt are no longer enough." Transmission, Joy Division

Cyborg was woken by the sudden sound of beeping beside his charger. He stretched slightly, his joints stiff and clunky. He thought of the shiny new medal he'd seen on his last trip to the hardware store with longing, imagining himself sleek and new, slimmer, agile, less…blue.

The red blinking of his communicator ripped him from his thoughts. The tower was silent, his teammates presumably sleeping soundly in their rooms. Except for Robin. Robin was…out. It wasn't official, it never was; no one had even acknowledged the existence of the kid's midnight escapades even though they were painfully obvious to anyone who didn't go to sleep until after one in the morning. That is to say, all of them.

So Cyborg was quick to respond, expecting some sort Slade-related emergency-the only reason Robin would conceivably call for…anything. Anything at all.

Instead, he got a message.

It wasn't Jim Gordon's idea to intersect all radio transmissions sent towards the Batcave.

The last mayor, his term so quick Jim couldn't even be bothered to remember his name, thought it best to be able to catch any potential action by Batman's affiliates in order to, quote, "be on the top of their (being the Gotham Police Department) game." Considering two thirds of the uniforms were corrupt-including, no doubt, the aforementioned mayor-this was indeed convenient for everyone who wasn't Batman.

But there Jim was, listening to static become words, urgent, small little words spoken by a weak yet determined voice pushing on through a dying signal. Shaking the radio, shifting it this way and that in an attempt to make the voice stronger, more prominent. He could hear it, just barely, the familiar drawl of a man-no, a boy-losing blood.

Jim waved his arm out behind him, beckoning one of the burgeoning officers towards the bulky tape recorder. "Someone record this."

As soon as the hiss of the recorder was through, Jim snatched it in his hand and made towards the roof.

Batman was a shadow beneath the overwhelming beam of the Bat-signal, leaping onto the roof of the police station and into a crouch, rising swiftly before the Commissioner Gordon.

Before he could say a word, Gordon tossed the recording towards Batman. "We intersected this message from your radio."

One thin eyebrow was raised in response.

"Hello, Alfred."

"Why Superman, do what do I owe the pleasure?"

"We've received a…signal. It was sent from one of the Titan's communicators. We were able to nullify the static enough to produce a transcript."

"It's processing now."

"We can't be sure how legitimate it is-is Batman there?"

"I'm afraid he's on patrol for the remainder of the evening-"

(…)

"Oh, my."

The first thing Robin saw was grey. Dark, deep gray, glistening off the dull gleam a single light bulb produced. He was in a room, with four walls and a door and a chair (which he was not sitting in.) Like an interrogation room. Like a prison.

His communicator is still in his belt. He does not consider this luck, for anyone smart enough to successfully apprehend a multiple-martial arts champion would only leave something so crucial purposely. It was a taunt. It was a joke.

And he knew.

Not where he was, not who he was with or how he got there, in that prison. But he knew.

He reached his tied hands towards his belt.

This is Robin. Please respond.

Calling all Titans. East. West.

Please come in.

Calling the Watch Tower.

Calling Batcave.

Please respond.

Please.

In a place called Jump City, where the crime was trivial and the streets were clean, there were allies. Not menacing as were it's neighbors. Well lit, rather barren allies. In one of these allies, beside a compacted motorcycle and dented, bird shaped chip of metal, was a card.

On the card, below the purple J, were the blood-red words;

Isn't

this

funny?

A/N Well, we'll see where this goes.