Well at least one of them still believes there's a puzzle to work out despite the crap enfolding the cardboard pieces; Tim tried to ditch the trash in the dumpster.

But he's weaker in his resolve than he ever wanted to be.

So it's a hangdog silence when Bruce returns. Tim hadn't tried to disappear into the old floorboards like a roach. He looks at the floor and only the floor, and he shows off the cut and its clean but lazy red drip.

"Look Ma, no gangrene," he mumbles. And he's a sorry sight, because Tim's drowning in guilt. We put 'em in their holes- who the hell says that about the dead.

Tim scrubs at his face.

Focus.

B gave him some good... crumbs of...

"Robin stays at Lakeside," he says. Reports. Whatever. "Some people were gifted telepathy. From the Aurora. But it's not enough, because the gift isn't... I don't know how to word it."

Fucking tired, Bruce. He's fucking tired.

(Bitch more about it, Drake.)

"The communication needs to be more accessible. And trustworthy. Which you can't get if you need to rely on one or two people and... he-says, she-says. Bruce, if we had had half of a working warning system we wouldn't have gotten our asses kicked and"

(Timothy Drake and getting to the point, a divorced concept. It was a bad divorce. There were kids involved. And Derpy. Derpy didn't deserve-)

"We need a Bat signal."

Yes. He's serious.