You don't think about it.

It's not that it doesn't cross your mind, it's just that you don't dwell on it. Every night that you put on the mask, every time that you jump into action from the rooftop above, each time your run to aid the screams that rise from the city below - it slips into your head.

This could be the night.

One of a hundred different things could happen tonight that keeps you from returning with the morning. A rouge's gallery villain enables a brilliant scheme you finally can't crack. Your mad dash from the ticking bomb just isn't fast enough. One lucky shot from some faceless dealer misses the kevlar.

There is always a chance. If you think about it to much, you realize your odds for returning night after night are not good - they never have been. But this doesn't help you in your goal. This keeps you from doing what you feel deep down inside you were meant to do.

So you don't think about it.

Instead you focus on your training, your abilities. You remember how to kick out just right on the downswing to bring you up over the ledge. landing silently on the roof. It's the the duck and jab that follow the roundhouse kick you just planted on the abusive father's left cheek. It's the fact that while you spin and weave past the strung-out junkie with a semi-automatic, you're drawing his fire away from your teammate who is coming up from behind to take him out.

Those are the thoughts that drive you, that keep you balanced. Your motives are pure, your deeds are good, your friends are loyal. Good guys win. Cheaters never prosper.

These are the rules.

But these rules don't prepare you for when things go wrong. Really wrong. Yeah, there are times the bullets stray too close; there are cuts that need stitching, ribs that need wrapping. There are even the times you vaguely remember being carried through mobs by one of your trusted partners when you've been in over your head.

These times make you think.

You ponder what just happened. You dwell on the thought longer, allow it to lurk in the back of your mind. What if that had been it? My God, how close had I come? And you think you know what your reaction would have been. No regrets -you fought the good fight. People were helped, lives were saved. The world is a little better, a little safer because of what you had done. You knew the risks and embraced them. In your soul you had done what you knew you were meant to do, and in that moment before the end you have that sense peace of accomplishment.

This is the mental speech you have prepared for your last moments. You believe yourself ready for the time that the odds catch up to you. But that isn't enough; something was left unprepared and now you find yourself completely devastated by the result.

You were ready for your life to be threatened.

Granted, it didn't just give way - the decel cable is much stronger and more secure than that. But it is under a lot of tension when in mid-swing. With the city high-strung from recent threats by the Joker, cops are out in full force. They really meant best, they just didn't know any better. Seeing dark figures flying through the sky, a rookie new to the city and unfamiliar with the fear and confusion Gotham's breed of villains bring to the mix, it would seem logical to aim and yell warning to the unidentified figures speeding through the air.

Of course, being shaken up like he was, he might not realize that you can't hear a shout thirty feet in the air. Having given fair verbal warning, a warning shot is acceptable - just to show that you are serious, of course. Not meant to injure, just to gain attention.

Eventually the odds do catch up to you.

The warning shot with no particular target found one. The high-strung zipline snapped quite easily with such a luckily placed shot - the odds of hitting such a target on purpose are immense; this is not a possibility that crosses your mind.

At least, not until it happens.

The horror of what happened doesn't sink in right away. I was ahead of him. We had been on our way to the lead Oracle had given us, hoping to nail the Joker before he could make good on this threats. I took the lead so I could draw attention to myself, away from my teammate. I heard the shot as it echoed off the surrounding buildings, and I looked down, trying to locate the source, thinking of the innocents around us and hoping no hostages were being taken.

Thinking of others, that's what I do.

But I wasn't fast enough, I didn't realize quick enough - I finally turned back to look behind me, and I froze. I wasn't prepared. All my worry, all my planning, all my moments lying in the cave laid up for days had been for naught. One of our own was in trouble, and none of my mental preparation for my moment made me ready for what happened.

If he had just called out.

Yelled. Screamed. Anything that could have drawn my attention a moment sooner. But Gotham Knights don't panic and call out for help when in trouble, they have been trained to get themselves out of it. There has been practice. There have been drills. Nothing surprises us. So when falling, you do not panic, you think. You clear your mind and come up with the solution to your problems. There always is one. There has to be. I was taught there is an answer for every problem.

Tonight I learned otherwise.

For there I was, hurriedly gathering myself and shifting my direction mid-swing as I watched Tim plummet to the city below. Good God, he was falling so fast - he had been at the bottom of his swing when it snapped, and that built up speed virtually flung him downward. He was trying to do something, searching through his belt - or was that fumbling - but his speed was so great, I wasn't catching up to him.

So I let go.

Falling, I pressed my arms to my sides and held my legs together, streamlining my body, trying to increase my speed. I watched Tim below me - he still hadn't called out, still working on something. He must have lost the launcher, he couldn't send out another line, but what could he have in his belt that would save him?

My speed had increased greatly, and it seemed that I would be able to catch up to Tim's flailing form. I held one arm out and launched another decel line at a high perch, reaching out to Tim with my other hand. I was only mere inches away, but the ground was deadly close - I had my doubts that my plan would even work at this point. My fingers grazed his cape and I strained with every fiber in my being. My hear froze when I heard the metallic as the line took hold.

No Damnit! Not yet! It's too soon!

I closed my eyes, focused, and thrust my arm out with all my remaining strength, grabbing at whatever I could get a hold of. I felt a fire spread throughout my shoulder and chest as the decel line grew taunt, and I held on for dear life with the launcher in one hand and Tim's cape in the other. I let out a painful growl as my shoulder separated, but my body numbed when I realized why.

I heard a thud.

I don't know what it sounded like, I think my mind had blocked it out - but I know now there must have been one. I just didn't want to remember, didn't want to believe...I started to pull up Tim's cape, and it was too light. Too damn light. The second tug on my arm had been his cape separating from his costume.

I still had the launcher in my grip, and once it had grown taunt it swung me hard into the building it was attached to. Grunting, the pain shooting through my arm and hand let the launcher go and I fell the remaining 8 feet to the sidewalk below.

If I don't move, if I don't acknowledge it, it didn't happen.

I so wanted to believe that. With much protest from my body, I slowly sat up and opened my eyes. My hand still held Tim's cape in a death grip - my fingers had lost feeling the hold was so tight.

I can't. I won't. Don't make me look.

My heart screamed, it couldn't even bear the thought, much less the reality. But my calm, rational mind took over. I had to look. I must look. I raised my head, and for the first time took in the dark mass that lay on the cement, an island surrounded by a growing read sea. My stomach bottomed out. I wanted to throw up. The grief and guilt started eating at me. But I shut down; bottled my heart, letting my cool and collected mind call my moves.

With much effort, I righted myself, getting to my feet. I slowly started walking over to the still form, one arm dangling at my side, the other dragging Tim's cape along in my death grip, still in silent denial. My mind remained in control as I stood over hiim, his blood begining to cover my boots. My mind remained in control, my thoughts detached from the situation as I looked him over, observing something clutched tightly in his hand. My mind remained in control as I forced my hand to let Tim's cape go and reach for the item. It was a note, stained with blood that had seeped into it. It had a handwritten name on it. My heart burst. I fell to my knees, my tears falling freely as I read it.

Dad. That was the name. It was a note from Tim to his father, kept in his belt, saved for this moment.

Tim had thought about this moment like I had, like we all do. He had prepared. He had summed up his thoughts and feelings, his explinations and apologies, all into this letter. He had tucked it away in his belt, and that was what he had searched frantically for in the end. He wanted to make sure if something happened to him, he would still be able to apologize for the lies and half-truths, the disappearances, the blatent disregard for his father's orders.

All the good he had done - all his selfless acts - and he spent his last moments apologizing.

My mind reeling, I wanted to curl into a ball. I almost did. It was the feeling of warmth soaking my pants - Tim's life bleeding from him - that brought me to my senses. Choking back another bought of tears, I took his cape and laid it over his body.

Distant shouts from the police grew louder as they pinpointed this location. I wondered, did they realize what happened, what one of Gotham's finest just did? Was the shooter reprimanded? Or did they even know about the tragic turn of events that had transpired?

I stood up and numbly headed towards the nearest building. Bracing myself, I slammed my shoulder against the wall and let out cry. Part in pain, part in insufferable grief. I collapsed against the wall, my arm throbbing with pain, my heart aching in my chest. The police were drawing nearer.

I looked back up at what had been Tim lying on the street. If I stay here, they find me. If I leave, they find Tim; the whole world knows then, his father finds out the hard way. Tim prepared for this moment. His father's thoughts and opinions ment a lot to him. Tim would not want him to find out from the police, from the news, not knowing the whole truth. He had spent his last moments making sure that wouldn't happen.

When he had pulled that note out, he knew that I would find it and know what he wanted. He was right. I stuffed the note in a pocket and gathered Tim's limp form in my arms.

Robin would disappear tonight.

Not to protect the secret. I tightened my grip on the boy, my brother, in my arms. The secret could go to hell tonight. No, Robin would disappear. His body would be delivered to the cave. The family doctor would confirm his condition, and Tim's father would be given the chance to grieve his loss in private. I steeled myself, struggling against the overwhelming grief growing inside me. Tonight is not over yet.

I have a note to deliver.