Hey guys! c: so, new story! (With a sucky title... *cough cough*)

Anyways yeah. This might look a bit familiar to some people? That's because it was an article in a Readers Digest magazine I saw, and thought might work out being a good story. Updates will be ridiculously slow, as always. xD

OH GUYS ALSO *Dances excitedly* I MADE A DAMIAN WAYNE/ROBIN ASK BLOG ON TUMBLRRR c: It would be really great if those of you who liked Damian Wayne, and had a tumblr went and followed me on there! Could y'also drop some questions... Maybe? I'd love you for eternity. The URL is ask-the-miniature-assassin. (I don't know if the hyphens appear, so if not put a hyphen between each of the words.

As always, I don't own the Batman franchise. Leave a review, maybe? Or a like? Follow?

The insistent ringing of his phone woke Dick, and sleepily he threw the bed covers off himself, stumbling in the general area of the kitchen. His cell phone was vibrating across the table, and was dangerously close to the edge when he snatched it up, fumbling with it and swiping his finger across the screen as he pressed it to his ear.

"H'llo?"

"Dick, someone's taken Tim. Ransom situation."

Dick was awake almost immediately, eyes wide as he dropped the mug he had been going to use to prepare coffee back onto the counter. "What!? Bruce, tell me you're kidding."

"I wish I was." Bruce replied grimly, and Dick sagged against the counter. "Alright... Have they contacted you yet? How much do they want?" He questioned, moving towards his bedroom to go get dressed. "Yes, they phoned me around midnight with a recording of Tim. I'll play it for you." There was a few clicking of keys on the other end, and then a crackling, tinny recording of the third Robin started playing.

"Bruce, drive down to the old abandoned Gas'n Go in the eastern part of Gotham, 9th street. Wait there for a call; they want you to deliver money without any tricks. Nine hundred thousand is what they want, and if you don't deliver it they will kill me. These people mean business."

The recording clicked off then, and Dick could hear Bruce sigh heavily on the other end.

"Bruce, I'm going to go get dressed and then drive over to the manor, alright? I'll be there in a sec." Without waiting for confirmation, Dick cut the call and put the phone down, grabbing a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt and pulling them on.

He was out the door and on his motorbike a few minutes later, wind tousling his long black hair as he raced through Bludhaven's streets. Bruce looked up from the Batcomputer as Dick drove through the secret entrance, parking beside the Batmobile and stepping off the motorbike.

"Here, Master Dick. I'm going to assume you didn't have time for a cup of coffee." Alfred had a tray resting on a table beside the Batcomputer, with a fresh pot of steaming coffee, sugar, cream, and cups resting on it. "Thanks, Al." Dick smiled tiredly, taking a proffered cup and taking a sip. "Figured out where the call is from yet, Bruce?"

Bruce shook his head, eyes still trained on the computer's screen. "No, whoever took him covered up their tracks well. There weren't any other voices or noises in the call, so I can't run a voice check with different police databases..." Sitting back, Bruce ran a hand over his face and yawned heavily.

"Master Bruce, you've been up since last night. Get some rest; you're not in any condition to find anyone in this state." Alfred chided him, pressing a button on the Batcomputer's keyboard and shutting the screen down. "This will all still be here when you wake again."

Dick was still amazed how Bruce didn't flip out whenever the elderly butler shut down his work. He knew Bruce got really pissed the one time Jason did it, because Bruce wasn't paying attention to a theory the kid had had. Alfred was the only one who could get away with it.

"Alright. Just four hours." Bruce agreed gruffly, pushing his chair away from the computer and standing. "Dick, could you go check on Damian? I haven't seen much of him this morning, not since the call."

Dick nodded, putting his coffee down and following Bruce up the stairs. "I wouldn't think he'd be too worried, seeing as how he doesn't like Tim that much." He mused. Bruce went into his own room, and Dick continued down the hall until he was in front of Damian's door.

"Little D?" He called, knocking on the door lightly. "You in here?"

He didn't get a reply, so he slowly and gently eased the door open, ducking suddenly as a dagger was thrown at his head. "Get out!"

He waited a second until he was sure he wouldn't be impaled by anymore weapons and stepped into the room. There was a lump of blankets on the bed, and after he let his eyes refocus in the dark room he could see them shifting slightly.

Crossing the room, he climbed onto the bed beside Damian, crossing his legs as he felt the younger stiffen slightly. "C'mon, Dami. Tim missing can't have bothered you that much. I mean, you'd be dancing circles around him, laughing about how he got caught."

"I don't dance." Damian growled, and Dick lifted his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. Still, you'd be pretty excited. Is it bugging you?"

Damian didn't answer, and it was silent for a few minutes before there was a quiet mew coming from the blankets Damian was bundled in.

"... Did you sneak kittens into the manor again?"

Dick dug through the blankets, pulling them off a protesting Damian and stopping once he had unearthed the small boy. There were eight tiny kittens resting on his chest, mewling pitifully as the cold air woke them.

Dick had to hold in his 'Awws' as one crawled up to Damian's neck, falling back asleep once it was tucked between the miniature assassin's neck and shoulder. "Don't tell Pennyworth, please?" Damian pleaded, his green eyes wide as he stared at Dick. "I found them on patrol two nights ago, left in a box in crime alley..."

Sighing, Dick nodded. "Yeah, you can keep them. They'll have it better here than back in Crime Alley, or an animal shelter. You know how to feed them properly? They look young enough to have been still drinking their mom's milk."

Damian nodded, and carefully detaching a kitten from his arm, pointed towards an open drawer on his desk. "There's a special type of formula for them that I got, and a dropper. Small feeding bottles, too, for when they're older."

Grinning down at his brother, Dick picked one of the kittens up gently, stroking its tiny head. "Have you picked names?"

"No, I'm waiting until they're older. They shall all receive names based on their characters."

"Only you, Dami, only you." Dick chuckled, cuddling the kitten against his chest. "But, back to the original topic. Bruce said you've been in your room for most of the morning."

Damian was quiet as he gently picked the kittens up, placing them in a drawer that was on the floor and under a heat lamp. "Drake was trained by Father, one of the best. He's gone against many of Grandfather's and Mother's assassins and he's fought Joker, Scarecrow, and the other villains in Gotham. He should have been easily able to take care of himself, in and out of costume. It's... Worrying, to think that someone was able to find where he lives, and was able to capture him. It was out of costume, because he called Father by his real name, and not Batman in the recording. It's just- concerning."

The last part was mumbled quietly, and Dick walked over, putting an arm around Damian's shoulders. "It's alright, we'll find him. Then you two can get back to your love-hate relationship."

Scowling at Dick's playful tone, Damian shrugged Dick's arm off.

Smiling, Dick got up and walked towards the door. "Come down for lunch, okay?"

"Yeah."

It was around eleven, when Tim was woken by someone pounding on the door of his apartment. He had gone to bed early, having been working hard for almost two days straight without sleep on trying to repair glitches in Wayne Enterprises' security system.

"I'm coming!" He called, pulling a t-shirt on and stumbling out of bed. He rubbed at his eyes tiredly, glancing at the clock and frowning. He had only just managed to fall asleep...

"Hello?" He opened the door, frowning as it revealed two men. One held a shotgun, and held it to Tim's chest, a grin slowly growing on his face.

"You're 'ta come with us. No funny tricks, either." One snarled, shoving Tim further inside the apartment. He briefly entertained the idea of going full-on ninja on their butts, but that was before the butt of the gun was rammed into his temple, causing his vision to blacken as he crumpled to the carpeted floor.

When he came too, he was face down on the floor, bound and gagged with duct tape. One of the men came up behind him, grabbing him by his long black hair and lifting his face up off the ground. "You're gonna come with us now, nice and easy." Tim's captor growled, dropping him and picking him up again by his shoulder.

The other one came out of the kitchen and after shoving the barrel of the gun against Tim's back, they started to bring him out of the apartment.

No one was out in the halls, which greatly annoyed Tim. Why was everyone out when he was trying to sneak back in after a night of vigilantism, and the one time he needs them to be out everyone just decides to stay inside? Rude.

One of the men hit him on the side of his head, sending him reeling into one of the hallways walls. When he was yanked back into a standing position, he glared at the man who shoved him, who just smirked. "Keep walkin'."

They led him out to a black pickup truck and one sat with him in the back seat while the other sat up front, starting up the engine.

As they pulled away from the curb, a blindfold was forced over his eyes, tied tightly behind his head. It was a relatively short ride, and after a bit the engine shut down. The duct tape across his mouth was ripped off suddenly, and Tim licked his dry lips.

"Alright, we want y' to tell Wayne this: drive down to the old abandoned Gas'n Go in the eastern part of Gotham, 9th street. Wait there for a call; we want him t'deliver money without any tricks. We want nine hundred thousand, and if he don't deliver it we'll kill ya." One of the men ordered, and Tim could hear the click of a recorder somewhere in front of him.

"Bruce, drive down to the old abandoned Gas'n Go in the eastern part of Gotham, 9th street. Wait there for a call; they want you to deliver money without any tricks. Nine hundred thousand is what they want, and if you don't deliver it they will kill me. These people mean business."

The recorder clicked again, and his second captor grunted. "Good enough. Bring 'im out."

A hand grabbed his shoulder roughly, and Tim could hear the door beside him open as he was yanked out roughly. The smell of garbage filled his nose, and he grimaced as he was shoved forwards, stumbling and falling into something wet. Crickets could be heard faintly in the distance, and there was a cold wind blowing against him, tossing his hair about.

The blindfold was taken off, and as he blinked and let his eyes readjust to the dim light, he could see that he was in one of the old garbage dumps.

He was shoved forwards again, and as they walked around a mound of old garbage he could see a hole in the ground, about five feet deep. Inside was a flimsy rectangle plywood box, 79 centimetres wide and 68 centimetres deep.

"No, no no-" His protests were cut off when one of the men lifted him, putting him in the box as he struggled wildly. A plastic bottle of water, and a loaf of bread were laid beside him, and the lid was shut after they cut the bonds on his wrists.

"We're starting to shovel dirt on; you better stay still unless you want to be suffocated!" One of them threatened, tamping on the box's lid. Four plastic tubes were pushed in through holes in the lid, and soon dirt was falling on top of the lid, shovelful by shovelful.

Tim swallowed hard, moving himself around so he was lying on his stomach instead. The sound of dirt raining onto the wooden lid slowly quietened, and soon it was almost dead silent save for his quiet breaths.

"Don't go anywhere!" One of the men shouted down a tube, startling Tim as they laughed, the noise growing faint.

This would not go over well, in any way.