Dead Boys
The dark Clocktower was silent. It would be, Tim or no Tim—a Bat moved soundlessly when they wanted.
Except—there. Dust. The smallest trickle out of the corner of his eye, sprinkling down from the rafters.
"Tim?" he called. "I know you're there. Come down? Please?"
Nothing. The dust settled and no more followed.
"Tim, I just want to see you. I need to know you're okay."
Somewhere from the dark came a giggle. Soft and menacing, like the tinkling of shattered glass.
"There's no one here by that name." The voice was raspy, breathy. From disuse, he hoped, and not some underlying issue. Images of torture flitted through Bruce's mind. Blood gushing from Tim's split throat. Tim screaming and screaming until his vocal chords were too damaged to make a sound, his face twisted in silent agony.
"Okay, then," Bruce said calmly. "To whom am I speaking?"
"You came here for a dead boy," the voice said, ignoring the question. "'Two dead boys got up to fight…'"
'"Back to back, they faced each other,'" Bruce continued the poem. He wasn't sure where Tim was going with this, but he'd play along.
'"Drew their swords and shot each other—'
"BANG!"
Bruce startled as Tim burst into his space, completely opposite of where his voice had been coming from. His bloodshot eyes were blown wide and Bruce could see every tiny vein from this close up. His pupils were so large they ate up the blue.
"Junior shot Daddy and now they're two. Dead. Boys."
Tim's face spasmed in pain and an aborted cackle erupted out of him. He slapped his hand over his mouth before the sound made it far, but his shoulders still shook and his cheeks spread beneath his palm. His red eyes watered.
"Tim—"
"DON'T CALL ME THAT!" Tim shrieked, yanking his hand from his mouth. He launched himself at Bruce, clawing at his face before Bruce could react. His jagged nails raked down Bruce's face and one of them snagged on his lower eyelid tearing it open and coming just shy of nicking the eyeball behind it.
Bruce cursed, blinking blood from his eye, and grabbed hold of Tim, flipping them over so that he was laying his entire weight on the boy, trapping him between his mass and the rotting floorboards.
"Dead, dead, dead!" Tim cried, still clawing at Bruce, clawing at the floor—anything he could hook his nails into.
"Here lies little Timmy Drake!"