"Some mysteries bite and bark, and come to get you in the dark"

- Darkfall (Dean Koontz)

Fear. Fear is a hero's worst enemy. And the worst kind of fear for a midnight vigilante... is fear of the dark. The night belongs to crime. Those who commit it, and those who prevent it. Darkness covers criminal and vigilante alike, a cloak of blackness which acts as a shield to the rest of the world. Robin had never feared the dark. He was a creature of the night, as truly as owls and wolves, as surely as the criminals and even the moon itself. He had no reason to fear the dark.

In fact, fear had no place in him. He had learned the futile nature of fear when he was very young. Fear is that which paralyzes you, which impairs your judgment and prevents action. It is what prompts retreat or, worse, surrender, two things which are not, in the world of vigilantes, strictly options.

Robin had never believed in monsters in his closet, nor under his bed or outside his window. He had never trembled at the sound of thunder or howling trees. Neither man nor beast had power of fear over him. Any fear he had once possessed had gone in the years he spent serving as Batman's sidekick and whatever vestiges of it remained had been crushed in the years he'd worked as part of the Team.

This lack of fear did not make him incautious or fool-hardy, his determination to survive, his commitment to the mission prevented him from being reckless beyond what was acceptable. His caution was not, as in many people, brought on by fear. More by desire. The desire to live, the desire to continue, the desire to save lives, to stop crime, to see justice done. These were the things which drove him to consider most carefully his actions.

And yet... and yet... that was not enough to explain what was happening to him now.

It did not adequately explain his shaking, the sweat on his brow or the tension running between his shoulder blades. It did not sufficiently explain away the icy knot in his belly, his quick shallow breathing, or the rapid darting of his eyes as they searched the darkness in vain. Most of all, it did nothing to explain why he was hiding under a bed.

The wind howled outside, a sound which had never bothered him before. Yet now it masked other sounds, especially when taken in concert with the tree branches scratching at the window pane. A hard, ice-laden rain thrummed on the roof. The darkness outside was alive with nightmarish sounds, noises which had never before bothered Robin in any way, yet now each was alien and terrifying.

A clap of thunder, loud as the very voice of God, split the stormy night, drowning out all other sound for a split-second, then rolling away like a train, slowly receding back from whence it had come. An echo followed, in tandem with a flash of blinding white light, a streak of lightning slashing its way down from the sky to the ground below. It did nothing to illuminate the room, but everything to destroy Robin's night vision. The heavy smell of the storm hung in the air like dust, the tight oppressiveness of it clung to Robin like a tangled web.

Sight, sound, smell, taste, touch. Five senses, all of them rendered useless, thanks to the storm. But it was not even this which shook Robin to his core, leaving him weak and disoriented from sheer terror.

Robin knew every corner of the room, had memorized the location of every crack in the wallpaper, every nail in every floorboard. He could navigate the room from memory alone, though now the very thought of leaving the illusion of safety of his current location made Robin's skin crawl. This was not where he wanted to be, and he knew it. The trouble was, his own panic was preventing him from seeking a place of greater safety. Or, at least, that's what he kept telling himself.

The reality was much more grim. There was no safer place. There was nowhere he could run, nowhere he could hide. No place was safe from that which stalked him, there was no refuge from the presence that haunted his every step, his every breath.

His own revulsion at his dread tried to force choked whimpers out of him, but instinct bade him be silent. Yet, no matter how much he tried to control his rampant shivering, or how quiet he was, he knew his time of seclusion in this spot was doomed to be brief. But, try as he might, Robin was unable to think of anything else he could do. In fact, he could think of nothing at all except for the blackness stretched out before him like an infinite nothingness, a solid mass of empty space, a contradiction in terms which, by its very definition, must house something preternatural and beyond description.

There was a low creak beyond the door. Was it one of the stairs?. Or was it the wind, which was blowing hard enough to make the very foundations of the mansion groan?. Was it real?. Or was it imagined?. What should he do?.

His own indecision was strange to him, and perhaps more horrible than anything else. He had learned to depend on his own instincts, but now they had seemingly deserted him, leaving him naked in the dark, defenseless against the terror which sought to claim him body and soul.

Outside the storm vented its full rage on the world below, screaming out as though a terrible atrocity had been committed, a wrong which could never be made right. Inside, the mansion was deathly still, silent as though the very walls were breathless with anticipation.

Robin didn't dare move, didn't even breath. Every muscle strained, as though tensing up might help him to hear better. His eyes fixed on where he knew the door to be, even as another flash of lightning blasting in through the window shattered any attempt his vision was making at adjusting to the dark. Alone in the dark with tremulous alarm for company, he waited. Unblinking, unmoving save for his uncontrollable quivering, he waited.

A peal of thunder raked across the sky, rumbling so low that the windows rattled and the air vibrated so viciously that Robin felt rather than heard it. Screeching wind accompanied the thunder, the high-pitched skritch-skritch of the tree branches on the panes like nails on chalkboard. The thunder held the deafening low bass note, as though it were the voice of some beast, protesting being returned to the Hell which had so clearly spawned it.

This was no storm for rain enthusiasts. Even those who claimed love for the sound of rain tapping on the window would agree that this... this was terrifying. Even as the thunder refused to give up the spotlight, the sound of the rain changed. It became a much harder sound, unforgiving, unyielding. The rain slowly turned to ice. Instead of heavy water drops, nickel-sized chunks of hail fell from the heavens, plunging down to Earth, shattering and being shattered.

A crash, followed by renewed thunder and brilliant lightning, all of them blending together, jolted Robin so that he nearly broke paralysis and ran. But he caught himself. When the lightning faded, he saw that the door was open, a light was on in the hall. The hairs on his neck stood on end.

Being found was no longer merely imminent, it was inevitable. A shadow loomed in the doorway, as though to prevent light from entering. Reality fell in a crushing wave over Robin, and he was at last able to think, to move at will. His mind raced along with his pulse, but he resisted the urge to move. To expose himself now would mean suicide.

The figure in the door stood waiting like Death himself, knowing full well that there was no escape for Robin. Up until the moment the darkened, ghoulish eyes locked on the bed, Robin had not believed himself capable of being more afraid than he already was. Absurdly, a line from Alice in Wonderland ran through his mind "you can always have more, but you can never have any less".

It was a line which, in any other circumstance, would be thought humorous. But now it played in his head like a dirge. More anxiety, more fear. But never any less. The eyes of Death seeming to gaze through the bed right at him dispassionately, revealing in their crystal depths the inexorable nature of his fate. Suddenly the figure seemed to take flight, casting itself into the shadows, silent save for a soft flapping as of leathery wings beating the air. A vicious, cutting sound.

Robin looked to the door. If he broke cover now, he could make it. But then what?. Where would he go then?. There was no place he could go that the other could not follow, no place he could hide which the other could not find. The hunter knew him, as surely as he knew himself, if not more so. The shadowy figure was in his head, could predict his every action, anticipate his every breath.

But not running. Running wasn't in his training, or his blood. To run would be the one thing the hunter could not foresee. Leaving the mansion, that was another thing. For this was not just any house, this was Wayne Manor. Robin's home. His sanctuary. To leave it would be like a rabbit leaving its hole, or a fox abandoning its den. Surely even Death himself could not predict such an act.

Releasing the coils of tension, Robin exploded out from under the bed, just as the hunter kicked it up on end to look under it. Neither froze, there wasn't time. A flash of red, followed by a streak of black. Both went for the door. The caped figure was faster, but Robin was more agile. The figure reached the door, but Robin slid, diving under the hunter. He hit the ground on the other side running.

There was no cry of frustration, no roar of anger. With silent deliberation, the hunter turned to follow him, and Robin knew with a sort of strangled certainty that he could not escape. He had known before he bolted, that there was nowhere to run. He had known, since before he'd even gone into hiding, that there was no getting away from that which hunted him. It was over. All he could do now was prolong the inevitable, perhaps only by seconds.

Where he would normally hold out hope for a miracle, he knew there would be none to be found here. There would be no change of luck, no release, no reprieve. It would end here, and now. There was no other way for it to play out. And, in a way, he was glad. At least now, he was free from the uncertain fear which had been with him for so very long. At least now, he knew that the end was coming with the swiftness of the Devil himself on horseback.

Robin was on the second floor, and went right for the stairs. His pursuer overtook him almost at once, slamming him roughly into the railing of the landing. Robin bit back a cry of agonized fear as he felt his ribs give under the pressure. He slithered out of the other's grip, collapsing onto the floor and rolling away. Regaining his feet, he pelted down the hall. There was no way out in that direction.

Both Robin and his enemy moved silently, there was barely a sound even as they ran and what little noise they made was masked by the storm outside, beating on windows and doors as though it wanted to come in, to bring its wrath into their very hearts.

At the last second, at the very end of the hall, Robin knew he wouldn't turn back. Couldn't. He couldn't fight the one who chased him, much less win. There was but one option left for him to take. One choice left to make. He was going to die, he could do nothing else. Darting into the last room, Robin made a lunge for the window, leaping feet first into the pane.

Shattering glass tumbled out into the night, mixing seamlessly with driving hail. For a moment, Robin was suspended in the air, as if the roaring wind itself was enough to hold him off the ground. And then he fell, rolling in the air, preparing for a heavy landing. He knew that this particular window overlooked a garden, with a concrete pathway. That even rolling would do little to lessen his fall.

The ground rushed up at him greedily, as if eager for his blood. Robin hit the trembling ground and was unable to withhold a cry of pain as he felt his left shoulder crack against the concrete, followed by his head. He then tumbled downhill for several feet, and lay still. A dull thud behind him told the story: his enemy had followed him, with no more than a moment of thought.

He had not expected to survive the fall. But he had.

The instincts which had abandoned him now returned with a vengeance, forcing him to his feet, making him run, even though he felt that there was no cause for it. He shouldn't have survived the fall. But he had. He could count that as a miracle, one he must not squander. Whether he believed there was any hope for him or not, he could not linger here. Now he must run.

Robin knew he had but one chance to put distance between himself and his pursuer. The garden was fenced, with a wrought iron gate. It was primarily for decorative purposes, but the fence was high enough that it had to be climbed rather than jumped over. But there was a space between the bottom of the gate and the pathway, just big enough for Robin to slip through, too small for his pursuer.

Robin ran the maze of the garden from memory, never once straying from the trail even though he couldn't see it. Aside from the darkness, the heavy hail obscured his vision. Once it hit the ground, it made the path feel unfamiliar and strange, and the rain which had fallen was now frozen, making the ground treacherously slick. The hail fell harshly enough to bruise, and to cut.

Robin could sense his pursuer, feel himself being overtaken once again. He just needed a few more seconds. At last he reached the gate and dove under it. A hand caught one of his boots and attempted to drag him back. The grip was like a vise. As he was pulled roughly backward, Robin's injured shoulder caught on the bottom of the gate.

Robin cried out, perhaps for the first time, or the thousandth, he wasn't sure. Twisting, kicking, flailing madly, he broke free, staggered to his feet, and hit a stumbling run. He didn't look back, couldn't look back. For if he looked back, it would finally dawn on him. The horrible truth, the crushing weight of reality, a terrible realization, one he would be unable to live with.

For his home was no longer a sanctuary, his fortress had become a prison. Most devastating of all, his friend, his ally, his master, his adoptive father... had betrayed him.

Standing at the gate, glaring into the darkness, oblivious of the pelting hail and deaf to the rolling thunder, with eyes only for his prey, was Batman.

A/N: This flawed mess of a story came into existence because I required an outlet for my darker writing while I was writing things which were lighter and more fun. It was written in snippets over a period of months, with little thought for its coherency. It wasn't written with the intent that it see the light of day. But here it is, nevertheless. As with all my stories, it was written for the author's pleasure and is now being published for the reader's amusement.

The story is actually completely written, just not fully uploaded yet. There are 20 chapters in all, the last one being an epilogue. As a rule, I upload a chapter per day and will try to give warning via Author's Notes if something out of the ordinary is going to happen. You don't have to keep saying "please upload" in the reviews. It won't make this process go any faster, or any slower. Still, if it pleases you to say it, go right ahead, I won't stop you.

If "PRe" as a prefix to the story title means anything to you... yeah, you're pretty much right. I'll go ahead and slap AU on this just so nobody mugs me for technical inaccuracies, of which there are doubtless many.

If you find that you are not being entertained by this story in some way, please do feel free to stop at any time.

Heap praise or criticism upon it, whichever may suit you best.