The first thing I did once on the streets was look for the time. I found a tall apartment building, used stacked trash cans to raise myself up enough to catch the rungs of the fire escape, and climbed up to the top. On the roof, I could see the great clock of Gotham City Hall: 1:20am.

I had about six hours of darkness left. When morning came, I needed to be off the streets of Gotham. Too many adults getting to work, police starting shifts, kids waiting for the bus – all people who might spot me. I didn't mind being spotted as a superhero, but I couldn't risk anyone getting hurt because they stopped to watch.

So by 7am at the latest, I needed to be in the manor. That meant leaving the city by 6:30.

I would need a ride them. I couldn't risk riding on the top of the bus or someone else's car; I needed wheels that I could control.

That meant leaving the Riddler to the end. He had the van parked somewhere, and Selina had arranged him to wait until we got Bruce out. Riddler would be my ride home.

I looked down onto the street. Escapees from Arkham darted from shadows into the glow of the streetlights, most wearing the white garb of the prison and barefoot. One stopped to howl up at the sky, a lone screech of confusion.

I went down the fire escape, but on the third floor, a woman had her window open and gave a short cry when she saw me.

I was geared and masked, so I put my hands up in reassurance. "Don't worry – I'm here to help. There's been a breakout at Arkham."

The woman, whose tousled hair and worn pajamas made her look exhausted, stared at me. "I thought they . . . took the Batman."

"I broke him out," I told her. "He's safe now and the police are rounding up criminals."

"You? You're just a kid."

"I'm his partner. I'm Robin."

"Oh," the woman stayed motionless with her hand on the sill of the window. "That's nice. I always thought it was sad that he had work to alone."

"I'll tell him you said that. Lock the window, hide somewhere with your phone, and don't come out until you hear the news that all is safe."

Below on the street came the sound of glass shattering and howls of rage.

"Be safe," I told the woman. And then I flipped off the balcony.

I caught the rails of the balcony below and then flipped down to the street.

An escapee saw me, and he yelled out, "The circus is here. The circus is here!"

At least seven escapees, a few running, one digging through the trash, and another breaking the glass out of the front of a small hardware store.

Several months ago, Bruce had rigged up a system to test my reflexes. He had arranged a corner of the cave with traps, wire triggers, and boxes full of ordinary items like kitchen spoons, a textbook, a lighter, a computer screen, and so on.

After failing the traps twice, Bruce had given me the following advice:

"The problem with developing gear to assist in protecting the city is that you come to rely on the gear. When I first started, I carried so much with me that I was exhausted after toting it for an hour. I pared down to essentials, but I used stuff I find on patrol all the time. I've thrown trash cans to knock guns out of hands, I've grabbed a tablecloth to tie up a suspect, I've even bent spoons to jab into walls crevices and use as grips to climb. Being a superhero means adapting. Always."

He had gone on to say other helpful things, but I didn't have time to remember them now as an escapee charged at me.

"Die, die!" he screamed.

I whirled and kicked him in the side.

He sprawled on the concrete, but he looked at me and screamed at me, baring meth-broken teeth.

Adaption it was.

I vaulted into the broken window of the hardware store, grabbed a pack of bungee cords meant to tie down luggage on a car, and ran after the escapee. Two minutes later, I had him bound to a streetlamp with tightly-stretched cords, spitting and swearing at me as I went back into the store.

I found a bag and tossed items in it: rope, bungee cords, carabineer clips, and 3-foot metal pipes that I could use a fighting batons. I stopped by a small fridge that held sodas and waters for sale; I grabbed a red sports-drink and gulped it down. The cold, sweet taste was the best thing I could imagine, and once I drained it, I grabbed another to toss in the bag.

For the next hour, I caught escapees and rigged them up on streetlamps.

When I was about eight, an older boy named Taylor in the circus troop had told me about Nero in ancient Rome who had tied Christians up on street posts and lit them on fire each night to brighten the streets. I had had nightmares for two nights until I told Mom what he had said.

I remembered sitting on her lap and crying, "It's awful. I just don't see how people can be so mean to each other."

"It was mean," Mom had agreed. "People have been mean to others since there were people. But this is the important part – you get to choose if you are kind or mean to others. You get to decided how you treat someone. Taylor was trying to scare you, and that was mean. When you have the chance to act and scare or help someone else, you get to decide what you will do. You can remember this talk and you can be kind."

So, even though I was here, five years later, tying escapees to street posts, I was quick and efficient. I didn't threaten the escapees; I just twisted their wrists until they gave in to lessen the pain, and I secured them to the posts as fast as possible. Tying up a body taller than me really required only three spots for binding: a rope around the ankles, a rope to tie the wrists back around the post, and a bungee cord looped around the post and neck, loose enough to keep from choking the escapee but snug enough to keep them erect.

Two escapees were actually asleep in their bondage as I finished securing up the fourteenth guy. Two female escapees had tried to attack me so they were tied up as well.

I was headed back to the store when I heard a cackle of manic laughter that made the hair stand up on the back of my neck.

The Joker was at the end of street. He looked around at the escapees tied to the posts and screamed with delighted glee. He reached in his waistcoat and pulled out a knife.

I grabbed the two metal poles, and I went in the middle of the street.

"Hey, Freak Face!" I yelled at him. "Let's play!"

Joker stared at me as a twisted smile distorted his scarred face. He ran towards me, knife outstretched.

I waited, that pocket of movement pulling close, almost perfect, almost there . . .

I could see the colors of his eyes—white around green around black pupils—when I swung.

The end of the metal pipe caught him across the face and knocked him back. He stumbled in dazed pain, and I whacked him on the side of the neck, then on the back of the knee.

The Joker fell to the ground, and the knife skittered on the asphalt. I kicked it away before approaching him.

He managed to roll over and crawl as I stalked him. "Wait," he wheezed. "I'll get you things. I'll pay you."

In the coldness of the dark street, flanked by bound bodies, I repeated the same words he had told me weeks ago when he had kidnapped and tortured me up in that towe, "I don't want money—I want to play."

I cracked the pipe down on his back, not hard enough to break bones, but definitely to bruise. I was fine with bruising the clown that had terrorized the city for so long.

Insane laughter and howls of pain filled the street. I used the distraction to loop a rope around his right foot. I pulled it tight, clipped the other end of the rope to a carabineer clip which I then clipped onto the end of the grappling gun. I shot the gun up, aiming over the top of the streetlight.

The rope and hook went over the metal expanse of the streetlight which hung about fifteen feet overheard, and with nothing to catch, the hook clattered to the street.

After whacking the Joker again, I ran to grab the end of the rope. I unhooked the clip and strung the rope through several clips.

I was pretty strong, but I didn't think then that I could drag the Joker up with the rope looped over the metal arch of the streetlight. I needed the weight distributed over a pulley system.

I clipped the various clips on the length of the rope to places that could hold weight: one to a metal grate in the street, the next up on an iron frame, and the final to another grate.

I took one of my metal fighting poles, threaded it through the hole at the end of the rope, looped it over my shoulder, and began pulling it tight with slow, steady steps.

The rope went taunt, but because it was looped over the streetlight, down through a clip in the grate, up through a clip up on the iron frame, and down through another clip, I could manage the weight.

I heard swearing, and I looked back to see the Joker dangling upside-down with his head about two feet from the ground. I reached another metal door frame, the kind that held an awning over the doorway. I used all my strength to slip the pole through a long slit in the metal and then turned it so that the pole caught against the metal structure. I checked to make sure the loop of the rope was in the center of the caught metal pole and wouldn't slip off.

The Joker thrashed from the rope, his head now about six feet from the ground. Knives and razors slipped from his pockets and clattered to the street beneath him.

"What the hell?" a surprised voice said behind me.

I turned to see a female police officer with her gun drawn, eyes up on the Joker above.

"Officer," I nodded. "You're just in time. I've been securing prisoners for you."

Her gaze went up the street to the various tied-up bodies but came back to the still-moving Joker in the air.

"Commissioner Gordon would want to know you got the Joker," I said quietly.

She grabbed at her radio. "This is Officer Flects. Joker has been apprehended. I repeat, Joker has been apprehended!"

I disappeared into the shadows with my bag.

After stopping to gulp down the other sports-drink, I went to find Two Face.

He was flipping his coin on a darkened street, and when he got the positive side, he shot out a streetlight.

All right, what I did next wasn't exactly the nicest thing in the world to do. But, I wasn't Batman, and I should be allowed to have some fun.

I got a line secured between the buildings via grappling gun, and when he looked ready to toss the coin, I swung out across the street. I saw the coin flashing as it went up, and I sailed by, grabbing the coin at the top of its ascent, and swung away.

I have seen men act irrationally before—in moments of rage, fear, jealousy, even frustration—but I have never seen a grown man throw a temper-tantrum like Two Face did.

He yelled and shot wildly with the gun before crumpling to the ground. He lay on his back, feet kicking the asphalt, both sides of his face enraged while screaming, "Give it back! Give it back. We want it back! We hate you. Give it baaaaack!"

Lights were coming on in windows overhead so I crouched in the dark shadows and called, "Fine, give me the gun and you get the coin."

Like a two-year-old throwing a pacifier in anger, he chucked the gun in my direction. It clattered to a halt, and I kicked it into the alley before tossing him the coin.

I had seen the Lord of the Rings films before, and Two Face might have well been Gollum with his ring, muttering "My precious" by the way he fawned over that coin. He stroked it and check it and cradled it and pressed it to his good cheek in adoration.

I grabbed a cord to tie him up, but he looked up at me in rage.

"You tried to steal my coin!"

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small gun. (Seriously, where do these guys hide all their weapons?)

"Wait," I froze as he turned the gun on me. "You have to consult the coin first. Otherwise, why have it?"

He sneered, not bothering to get off the ground, and flipped the coin up in the air.

The moment his eyes went up to follow the coin, I flung my remaining metal pole at him and dove to the side.

The pole hit the gun, but a shot rang out over my head. I spun into a cartwheel kick and hit the gun out of Two Face's hand. I grabbed the coin again and faced him.

"You see this?" I held his coin up. "You move and I'll swallow this. I will swallow your coin and you will never see this again."

He glanced for the gun, but I opened my mouth and held the coin over my tongue.

"No, no!" Two Face waved frenzied hands to stop me. "Just give me the coin, and I'll leave."

"Here," I tossed him the cord. "Tie your feet up. I'll come tie your hands, and then I will give you the coin."

A few minutes later, Two Face was bound and staring up at me. "My coin, I need my coin."

"Fine," I dropped the coin into his trapped hands, "I did promise."

At his surprised look, I explained, "I'm one of the good guys."

"You were working with Catwoman."

"To help Batman escape."

"Oh, right," Two Face nodded. "She always has a thing for him." He twitched to one side. "No, she deserves better than that rodent." Twitched the other side, "She deserves punishment. We're going to kill her."

"Hey," I kicked at his feet, "she had nothing to do with this."

Confusion registered on both sides of his face. "She got the van, tricked us into attacking Arkham, and -"

"I got her to do all that. I . . . blackmailed her into helping me. I wanted to save Batman because I'm his partner."

"Ugh, he likes kids now?"

"No, asshole," I kicked his feet again. "Partner in crime fighting."

"Oh, good, though we were afraid Catwoman had hooked up with a kid."

"So, you were willing to shoot me, but you draw the line at adults dating me?"

"We have to have to have some morals." To one side, "No, we don't. We would sell him to the highest bidder." To the other side, "He's just a kid!"

I left him arguing with himself, and I climbed to the top of the highest building nearby.

It was almost 4, and any activity I noticed were police already apprehending escapees.

A wave of exhaustion swept over me. It was time to wrap up the night.

I found the van four streets over with Riddler asleep at the wheel, slumped back in the driver's seat with his mouth opened. I yanked the door open.

"What?" he jerked awake.

"I need a ride," I said.

He looked down at me and gleeful malice filled his eyes when he realized I was alone. "Oh, I'm about rip you apart!"

I stepped back and tried not to smile while he struggled with the seatbelt and almost fell out of the van. Once on his feet, he squared off, clenching his hands into fists and moving back and forth like a boxer about to strike.

For a minute, I thought about lashing out at him and proceeding to beat him down. I knew I could do it, knew I could wipe the street with his face, and leave him broken, and bleeding –

"I'm tired, Riddler," my voice was even and straightforward. "I fought my way into Arkham to rescue Batman, got us out, captured Joker and Two Face, and now I'm done."

"You're lying!"

"Not lying," I gave him a half-smile. "I'm ready to call this a night. So, here's deal. Give me the van and I'll let you go free."

"I'm not scared of you. Stupid kid!"

"You want to go back to Arkham? Police are everywhere. I just have to stop you long enough and they'll pick you up. Do you think Dr. Strange is going to be kinder to prisoners now that he's lost the Batman?"

Color slowly drained from Riddler's face as he unclenched his fists. "But . . . if I go free, won't Joker and Two Face think I betrayed them?"

"I told Two Face I blackmailed Catwoman into helping me. He'll just think I blackmailed you, too. Are you actually saying you can't out-trick the Joker? You design traps to catch the Batman. What's the clown going to do? His chaos is no match for your brains."

"I'm the Riddler," he nodded. "I can trick anyone. But I don't want to give up to a kid."

"What about a kid with a riddle?"

". . . go on."

"He dresses as a bat, falls in love with a cat, fights with a clown, flies in the dark, and strikes fear into the blackest hearts. What is he scared of?"

"Death?"

"No," I rounded him and grabbed the van door.

"Pain? Loneliness? Old age?"

"Nope," I swung into the van. The keys were in the ignition, and I started the engine. I rolled the window down and shut the door.

"Imprisonment? Chaos?" Riddler was almost hanging on the van door. "He is scared of bullets and poison?"

"Sorry," I put the gear into drive as I stretched down to reach the pedals, "not correct."

"You can't just leave me hanging. What is the Batman scared of?"

"Bats. And maybe fatherhood. But who can blame him? 'Til we meet again, dummy."

As I drove off, I heard Riddler yelling at me, insisting that it wasn't a proper riddle and I was going to pay for that. In the rearview mirror, I saw a police car turn onto the street and Riddler ran for cover.

I drove carefully to the manor, ducking my head down when cars passed and staying under the speed limit. I got the car to the woods below the manor and used the secret path to the entrance of the cave. My limbs felt cold and numb as I stumbled around in the brush, but I found the keypad and entered the correct code: the date that Bruce's parents had been killed.

The cold of the cave hit my face, and the sound of falling water reached my ears as I went up a flight of stair to the medical section.

Lights were on, and Alfred was injected something into an IV bag. The bag had two lines running from it, and one went to Selina who was sitting in a chair and wrapped in a robe and the other, I saw as I came closer, went to Bruce who was laying on medical cot, covered with blankets.

"Thank God," Alfred said when he saw me. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

"I'm just tired," I stepped around him to approach the cot.

Bruce's eyes were closed, and I looked at Selina.

"He'll be okay," she said as she adjusted the flow of her IV. "We're getting morphine, steroids, and other fun stuff in the drip."

"And you are to settle down and take it," Alfred told her in a voice that allowed for no argument, and she leaned back in the chair.

Bruce's eyes fluttered open, and I froze as he studied me.

"Hey," he finally spoke. "You made it back."

Tears pressed at the corners of my eyes at his familiar tone. "I did."

"You rescued me."

"I did. Selina helped. But I stayed behind to back sure no one else got hurt. I stopped prisoners from escaping. I even got the Joker and Two Face caught and taken back to Arkham."

His eyes slid shut, but I heard him say, "That's my boy."

Tears came then, but I was so tired I couldn't feel them. Alfred was helping me out of my costume and then I was on the other cot. He pushed my cot against Bruce's, and I laid down while Alfred covered me up.

"If you feel faint, I'll hook you up to the IV," Alfred told me.

"I'm fine," I turned to watch Bruce.

Alfred went to Selina, insisting that he check her wrist. It was red and swollen, but she argued it wasn't broken.

A screen was on against one wall, and reporters were on the dark streets with the far horizon beginning to brighten behind them.

One reporter was saying, "As dawn approaches, the police tell us that most escapees from Arkham have been apprenhended, including its most dangerous criminals. The Batman has disappeared, but cameras have spotted a young masked hero working to keep the city safe. He wears green and red, and according to witnesses, he has been seen fighting Bane, Killer Croc, Joker, and Two Face and has survived. Does the arrival of this new hero signal the beginning of a better, safer Gotham?"

Bruce suddenly twitched and looked at me again. "Are you still there?"

"I'm here," I nodded into the pillow.

"I was all alone for so long. I couldn't remember who I was . . . but it was lonely and cold." He let out a heavy breath. "Don't leave me."

"I won't. Go to sleep now."

He immediately relaxed, and my last aware thought was that he could rest finally because we were all there to watch over him. All of us—guardians of his city.

The End