Chapter Text
Connor stares at the screen to his left that carries three program windows with accompanied sound waves. The top window represented Oracle, the woman who fed intel to his brothers, and the other two belonged to his brothers who’d already left the cave. If he listened close enough, he could hear the hum of their motorbikes through their comms, but any background noise was majorly thwarted by their shared conversation. Connor was only a listener as they discussed Batman’s whereabouts. Apparently, within the last twenty four hours, Batman alongside a few of his vigilante accomplices had yet to report to the cave. It was a great cause of concern. Jason was the one to express his assumption that they were missing, and that their disappearances weren’t intentional.
Connor was interested in the exposed worry Jason held in his voice. He’d noticed a change in Jason ever since they got stuck out in a snowstorm, and one of those changes included a quelling of temper. Connor isn’t sure what prompted it, it probably had something to do with his apology, but it leads Connor to believe that he didn’t know Jason. Jason had more parts to him than Connor’s first impression. Connor still wasn’t happy with Jason, which was an entirely different moral dilemma that Connor was suffering through, but he could appreciate Jason’s concern for their family.
Connor’s attention floats away from the batcomputer as Alfred leans forward to communicate something to Oracle. His eyes drift to his left where he had heard the sound of panting. Titus sits at attention with a long tongue lolling out of his mouth, and Connor stares blankly at him as he tries to think about how he’d managed to find his way to the cave when Connor hadn’t seen him earlier. Titus licks his chops, leans his head forward, and rests it on Connor’s leg.
Connor’s hand automatically smooths over the top of Titus’ skull. He pets the great dane as he tunes back into his sibling’s communication channels.
“What do you see?” Oracle asks.
Jason responds, “Looks like the building is surrounded by Bane’s bunch.”
Connor hears two pings. He catches two additions to the communication voice wave programs, on the left screen he’d been staring at, in his peripheral vision.
“Spoiler, reporting in,” Stephanie’s voice filters in.
“Orphan. Reporting,” a feminine voice Connor has never heard joins.
“I’ve taken a position on the east building,” Damian says.
“Don’t do anything,” Jason warns him, “we’ll have to act as a team.”
“Just like the good old days,” Stephanie chirps.
“I’m fully capable of handling a bunch of brainless buffoons, myself,” Damian insists.
“Except, with the venom variant,” Oracle dryly remarks, “they aren’t exactly brainless. We’ve been having a difficult time just handling a squad of them. How many do you see?”
“Twelve on the north,” Stephanie says.
“Fifteen,” Jason mumbles, “south.”
“Twenty,” Damian reports.
“You were planning on taking down twenty by yourself-?” Jason hisses.
“Fifteen,” Orphan answers, quietly. "West."
“There has to be something big going on here,” Oracle says with a tinge of dread in her voice.
“Stay where you are, Damian, I’m coming to you,” Jason says. “Someone ought to keep an eye on you.”
“As I said. I am perfectly-”
“Capable, yeah, sure, ” Jason grumbles, “I don’t think B is going to let me live it down if I let you do something stupid."
“Why don’t we all convene on the same spot?” Stephanie suggests. “We’ll do better if we work together.”
“How can I prove myself if I do not have the opportunity to show my physical skill?” Damian complains.
“What’s the point of proving yourself if you’re dead?” Jason comments sarcastically.
“Todd-”
“It’s Red Hood-”
“I am not one to pointlessly throw my life away,” Damian jabs.
Jason growls, “Kid. Really not the time.”
“Dami- Uh- Kiddo,” Oracle interjects, “that’s a low blow.”
“I would not have to resort to such menial tactics if you all would simply let me-”
“Children,” Alfred scolds.
“Kiddo? Is that what we’re calling the baby now?” Stephanie laughs in amusement.
Connor listens to Damian throw out a spit of curses, insults, and angry noises.
Connor pats Titus’ head as the group starts forming a plan. Spoiler was going to throw down a smoke grenade to draw attention, Damian was to be a distraction sweeping across rooftops, and Jason and Orphan were going to use Damian’s taunting as a cover to slip into the building's top floor through a window.
Connor can only imagine what was going on as Jason gave Spoiler the signal to initiate the plan. Connor can’t hear the grenade hit the ground, but he can hear the sound of alarm escaping several surprised enemies.
Connor then hears Damian shout out, “You pathetic venom pumped dolts! You are all menaces to actual intelligence. Pretenders!”
“You tell them, kiddo,” Stephanie cackles.
Damian retorts by saying, “Not a kid!”
Connor would have to disagree.
Regardless, Alfred’s worried grunt alerts Connor to a new problem, and suddenly he realizes that the comms that were supposed to represent Jason and Orphan were no longer online. Alfred doesn’t say anything about it, not when Oracle seemed to catch on, too. She curses out loud.
“The tracker for Batman went offline. I think there’s a signal blocker. Red Hood and Orphan. Can you hear me?”
No answer.
Oracle swears. “Damn it. It’s affecting the comm lines.”
“I’m sure they’re fine,” Stephanie says, “Red Hood has Orphan on his back. They won’t go down easy.”
“No,” Oracle agrees, “but I’m starting to think this might be a trap after all. It might be best if we call in for back up-”
Connor freezes as the entire batcomputer fizzes out like static. The monitors flash different colors - Oracle’s voice fades in alarm - and Alfred take startled step back.
“Ah-”
Connor stands up from his chair.
“There you are.”
Connor stares into the face of a man.
Connor isn’t one to forget a face.
Micheal Shields didn’t look anything like Connor last remembered him. What had been thin, lackluster, arms were now covered with defined muscles. He had a trench coat instead of the white scientist one Connor had recalled him wearing during several visits. He also had untamed facial hair. He had a fuzzy brown beard attatched to his hair with wicked bushy side burns.
“RK800,” Micheal drawls, his voice baritone, and slow, “it took me a while, I must admit, to figure out why we could not extract you from your current location.” He pauses. “Wayne Manor. Interesting choice, I must say.”
“Who are you?” Alfred asks, hostile.
“Me? Some call me Micheal Shields, others RA9, but I digress. It seems I was not wrong in assuming that Batman’s funding man, Mr. Wayne himself, would house Connor while I was away.”
“RA9?” Connor says.
He hears voices run through his head. He hears deviants calling out for their god, RA9, and for freedom from captvitiy. He sees the markings in the shower. It’d been in the first house he’d investigated, the dark forboding black scratches on soaked tile, where the deviant who had written such things hid in the attic. He remembers the wooden idol.
RA9.
The shared mass hallucination of an android creator.
It doesn’t make any sense. Micheal Shields is most certainly a human, he resembles no android Connor has ever seen before, and he certainly doesn’t take on the appearance of any model created by Cyberlife. The deviants were all under the impression that RA9 was like them, that they were created in his image, and Connor didn’t see how that’d be the case with Micheal Shields.
“Yes, I’m something of a god, you see,” Micheal Shields smiles sardonically, sticking his hands into the pockets of his coat, “because only gods can create life from nothing.”
Micheal Shields certainly seemed to have a bit of an ego.
“Regardless,” Micheal hums, “let’s cease talking of me. Here’s what I want. Gotham city will never see Batman, Nightwing, or Red Robin ever again until Mr. Wayne delivers the RK800 to me.”
Alfred’s jaw tightens. Titus whines.
“You have twenty four hours to arrive to the location I provide-”
A map pops up on the screen. Connor sees a red pin in the spot provided. It wasn’t the building that Connor had seen his siblings discuss.
“-if the RK800 does not show up-” Micheal says, speaking about Connor as if he were a thing, and Connor doesn’t know why it hurts so bad, “then rest assured Gotham won’t be seeing their resident heroes ever again.”
The screen flickers black.
Connor, in his sickly, feverish, state presses his lips together.