This is my first attempt at fanfiction, so I'm not really sure what I'm doing. I guess people usually include disclaimers, so here goes: I don't own any of this stuff, or I'd be writing comic scripts, not fanfic.

A Night in the Life

Chapter One

He woke in darkness with a headache like a knife through the temple. He tensed, found himself pinned down. The goons in the alley—no, that was over. And if they took him down, what about—

"Robin!" His voice came out harsher than usual.

"Present."

He let out a long, slow breath. Dick was alive. That was enough to pull him up out of the fog of pain and snap him back into focus. He located the heavy swish of Kevlar-laced cloth and the familiar breathing pattern, tense but steady, about fifteen feet to his right.

"Welcome back," said Robin. "I was starting to get worried, there." The usual bright tone, edged with sarcasm and hardly a whisper of worry. Batman never would have thought to use laughter to hide fear. But for Dick, it worked.

"I'm fine," he lied. "You?"

"Fine, of course." Tension piled up under the flippant answer, but not panic or pain. They had a moment, at least.

Bruce relaxed, stretched out his senses, took quick stock of the situation. A fringe of rough cloth pressed against his cheeks. A blindfold, over the cowl. As if that could keep him in the dark. He smelled blood, tasted it at the corner of his mouth. He felt smooth metal under his back, still cool—he hadn't been here long. His cape was gone. So was the familiar pressure of his belt. He tried flicking his wrist to slide the spare lock picks into his palm, but found his hands encased in metal. Well caught.

Too well caught. This wasn't Petra's style. And she didn't know the tricks up his gloves; she couldn't know to immobilise his hands. She had help.

He turned his focus outward. Musty air, tinged with the smells of mildew and rust and salt. A drip echoed to his left, ten or twelve feet away. Distant traffic murmured behind him, barely audible. More than enough clues. He knew where he was, more or less.

"Still there?" called Robin.

"Yes. Report."

"Thought you'd never ask. We're in a warehouse near the docks. Can't be more specific; I was blindfolded and couldn't hear much over the truck engine. We drove for about ten minutes, been here about the same."

That confirmed his guess of location. "Our hosts?"

"Petra and seven goons that I saw. I guess we took out the rest, huh? They all left a few minutes ago. She said something about checking in; I guess she's not a solo act any more."

"We're alone?" He couldn't hear anyone else, but that was no guarantee.

"I'm sure there are cameras." This time the tension almost broke through the cheery tone. "We know Petra likes to watch."

He felt suddenly cold. Of course. Dick matched the profile of Petra's victims. Young, dark-haired Caucasian males in military and law enforcement. Dead on the floors of seven crime scenes, impaled bodies crumpled in their blood. And the eighth—never! He had to fight, tear free, and—

Stop. He slowed his breathing, fought down the fury and fear and closed them away behind cold bars. His voice came out hard and sharp this time: "Describe your status."

"Petra's usual setup." Robin broke off, and Bruce heard him draw a deep breath before continuing in the same casual tone. "I'm facing the wall, tied between two vertical beams with my arms and legs spread. Ordinary rope, but I can't get at it. And one really sharp crystal growing out of the wall awfully fast."

Damn meta. Point and think, and crystals started growing in whatever shape she liked. Could have been a gift. Instead she liked aiming at people's chests, then watching the crystal grow through skin and flesh until it pierced the heart. Never again. Not Dick, not anyone.

"At this rate I've got about four minutes left," said Dick. "Now would be the time for you to play escape artist."

Bruce twisted against his bonds. Metal clasped his throat and ankles as well as his hands. He couldn't move, couldn't reach for anything, couldn't even raise his head. He strained until the lock's edge dug into his throat and cut off his breath and bursts of colour exploded through his head. No give, no obvious weakness.

He fell back, gasping for air. Well caught indeed. He clenched his teeth. It made his head throb harder. Not useful. He exhaled slowly and forced his body to relax again. Possibilities raced through his mind and faded, useless. He was sure he could escape eventually, but not soon enough. He'd already lost nearly a minute trying to break free. Robin could cut his bonds with his lock picks, but not fast enough. In the end he knew there was only one option. Everything in him snarled in protest, but what choice was there?

"I can't get free," Bruce said. "Not in time."

Dick whistled. "Impressive." His voice stayed light and casual, but Batman could hear the fear building underneath. "Nice job, Petra! It's been, oh, a good three months since we've been in such a tight spot. Your crystals make pretty inventive death traps, too. Let's call it a seven out of ten."

"Robin."

The boy fell silent.

"Activate cowl radio," Bruce whispered. It beeped its reply. "There's a way out," he murmured. Maybe. Batman could do it. But Robin . . . Robin was trained by the best. Robin was almost a grown man. He could do it. "It won't be easy and it won't be fun."