[center][img]http://baku-panda.org/images/absolute_robin.png[/img][/center][COLOR=steelblue][INDENT][B][SUP][SUB][H3]G O T H A M    C O U N T Y[/H3][/SUB][/SUP][/B][/INDENT][hr][/COLOR][INDENT][INDENT][sup][color=goldenrod]Abandoned Farmstead[/color][/sup][/INDENT][/INDENT]
The tourists visiting the old farmstead piled out of some expensive rides. Cadillac Escalades. Lincoln Navigators. Even a Porche Macan. It was a lot of money to be out in the unincorporated parts of Gotham County. Especially a zip code where the median income was below the national poverty line.

Shrugging off his duster, the former Boy Wonder stalked through the corn as he wound his way to a strategic vantage point from which to observe the group arrive and then disembark their vehicles.

This was most likely a pick up. The bulk of the groupies were straggling inside of the farmstead. They’d likely be back with their arms full of high flammable product.

For the last twenty years, Dick’s Nightwing suit had remained unchanged. He’d experimented with red iconography once upon a time, but it hadn’t stuck. The bird symbol emblazoned across the chest was in the same muted shade of blue. One thing was different though, as the trousers had clearly shrunk. Maybe it was the wash. Or the spandex just hadn’t held up over time. Whatever the case may have been, Dick’s lower half was dressed in a pair of comfortable sweatpants.

They may not have been the most stylish thing that Nightwing could have worn, but Dick was certain that he’d never had a costume that was this comfortable.

Removing the glasses that he wore for driving at night, the man pressed a domino mask against his face. As it slid into place, the eye slits became faintly illuminated as the lens took over, supplying a HUD interface that also corrected for Dick’s aging vision.

He’d definitely have to pop an Advil later.

He burst from out of the cornfield without a single sound. His movements were not the lithe, acrobat finesse of his youthful years. Now, he moved more like Bruce had. Float like a butterfly, sting like a Batman.

He took down the first goon with a single hit, ducking and weaving as the confusion allowed him time in which to take the second with a two-hit combo. The third managed to clear his gun from out of the waistband of his jeans, but it slipped to the ground with the safety still on as Dick’s fist connected with the man’s face.

[color=#9fc5e8]“[i]Arghhh[/i],”[/color] the Nightwing growled under his breath. As he stepped into that last punch, he tried to flex his knee and felt the joint lock up on him. Arthritic pain shot up his leg, radiating at the hip even as Dick’s shoulder began to ache.

He was officially too old for this.

Leaving the goons on the ground, Dick started to move across the yard toward the barn. As he did, he pulled out his burner phone and tried to dial Toyboy again.

Caller not available. 

Just what was that robot up to?

[center][color=black]+ - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - +[/color][/center][b][color=#9fc5e8]Gotham Corridor Self Storage[/color][/b]
[color=#9fc5e8]Bludhaven, New Jersey | [i]Present Day[/i][/color]

The Toy Wonder took another step back.

Anton Schott, face obscured behind the head of a porcelain doll that he was wearing as a mask, continued to loom over the red-and-black attired Robin. “I’ve done everything in my power to help the little one’s survive in this [b]sad[/b], [i]cruel[/i] world,” the man declared, arms outstretched as though to indicate the rows of kennel-like cages in which children were huddled and dirty.

Now fully illuminated, the interior of the room told a very different story. Table tops and tools bore the evidence of blood stains. Parts of bodies were visible in trash cans. 

[color=#ffd700]“Survive?” [/color]the doll tossed back at his former master and confidant. Taking a step forward, the young-looking Robin at last stopped his retreat and instead stood his ground as he angrily answered, [color=#ffd700]“There are [i]dying children[/i] in these cages!”[/color]

“Some had to [b]sacrifice[/b] so that others could live,” Anton barked, gesturing wildly. His hand grabbed hold of a length of chain that was dangling from the ceiling. Slowly, the man pulled on the chain. Toyboy could hear the sound of a pulley system, his eyes glancing up and then to the side as he tried to determine the mechanism at work.

“As [i]children[/i] they are helpless. But, as [b]dolls[/b] no one can ever hurt them again.”

From the corners of the room, shadows were starting to emerge. Small, thin silhouettes that revealed themselves to be feral children as they came into view.

They had the same mask, wearing the blissful expression of a porcelain doll over their faces. Some still had all their fingers and toes. Others had their limbs replaced with weapons. 

“Not even [b][i]you![/i][/b]”

Schott’s taunt was almost lost, the man’s voice drowned out by the sound of two buzz-saws whirling to life. A boy charged at the doll. His forearms had been amputated at the elbow, replaced with mitre saws in place of his hands. The feral child was snapping and spitting at the Toyboy, as he slashed at the doll with broad sweeps of his arm.

There was a rush of air. From the corner of his peripheral vision, Toyboy was aware of a girl whose left forearm had been replaced with an oxy-acetylene torch. Aiming that out at Robin, the hiss of compressed gas heralded the flame.

Lashing out with his leg, Toyboy kicked the Saw-Boy in the chest with sufficient force to lift the child off his feet and knock him several feet through the air. The stream of flames shot out at him the next second, as the Toy Wonder took shelter behind the nomex cape.

He pulled a batarang from the utility with his free hand. Logic processors were compiling data, composing an actionable sequence that would adequately address the present threat. He needed to sever the oxygen line on the Torch-Girl’s arm. The batarang should be sufficient for the task, though the trajectory of attack would require fifteen-pounds-per-square-inch of force with a thirty degree angle of attack.

There were also two more feral children circling around to advance behind him. As he threw the batarang, the pivot motion would supply leverage from which he could cartwheel out of the line of attack, pushing one child into the other. 

It was a design that took Toyboy precisely 0.485 seconds to compose.

Sliding on his back foot, the doll dropped his cape and then stepped through into the motion of tossing the batarang. The wing tip bounced harmlessly off the metal of the girl’s arm, but the rubber tube was pinched and ruptured, prompting her shrill yelp as the torch blossomed out in a fireball.

Stepping with the motion of the flow, Toyboy’s body followed through into a cartwheel that took him off center, two feral children colliding in the spot where Robin had been just a moment earlier. Shoving the two of them off to the side, Toyboy’s attention was distracted by the return of Saw-Boy.

Reaching up with his left hand, Toyboy grabbed hold of the boy’s mitre saw arm. The pair struggled for a moment, before Toyboy had his right hand on the boy’s other arm as well. 

Pulling the Saw-Boy toward him, Toyboy pitched forward so that their foreheads connected. The Saw-Boy went limp as he was stunned, guided down to the floor as the doll turned his attention back to the son of his creator.

[b][i][color=#ffd700]“Psychopath,”[/color][/i][/b] the boy snapped, in an uncharacteristic bout of anger.

This time, it was Anton Schott who took a step back.