Hey guys! First of all, how has no one written a Gotham/Batman crossover yet? I find that kind of hard to believe, so I went and wrote one myself! Anyways, here you go.

Disclaimer: Sadly, no, I don't own Batman or any spinoff a including Gotham.


Dick was angry because Damian was a stubborn jerk and Jason was an ass. That said, he was also very, very confused.

It started like any other day in Gotham: Dick was in town, and Bruce had his hands full. Instead of enjoying a relaxing day at the Manor like planned, the acrobat willingly stepped in to lend a hand. Donning the Nightwing suit, Dick took off to downtown Gotham, where the streets were filled with trash and trashy people alike.

A scientist at the Gotham Labroatory snapped when the city cut its funding of his project, or so Dick was told. The briefing was, well, brief, and Bruce was trying to track Harley Quinn before she did something stupid like blow up a hospital. It wasn't hard to catch the devolving lunatic; he was strutting down the street, gun swinging and a wild look in his eyes. People screamed once they saw the weapon and took off for cover. Saying he "snapped" was a understatement—he was full on mental. No doubt his next stop would be Arkham.

"Sir," Dick said in a calming voice as he dropped from the rooftops to the streets. He held a hand out placatingly. "Put the gun down, and we can talk."

The man swung around to face his confronter. The middle-aged scientist's glasses were askew, his hair was unkept and untidy, and his clothes were a rumpled mess. The look in his eyes told Nightwing that this man would only be stopped with a bullet. Dick Grayson didn't accept that.

"They stopped funding!" cried the man wildly, pointing the gun accusingly at Dick's chest. He held it like someone who's never held a gun before, and never dreamed of it until the past day or so: hands shaky, eyes flickering between it and its possible target, pale and sweaty face. "It's all gone! All my notes—all my work. Years of my life down the drain!"

Reason with him. Get on his level. Sympathize. "That must be hard for you, seeing all your work gone to waste—"

A maniacal laugh suddenly bubbled out from deep within the man's chest. "For waste? No, I got what I needed. They'll just be sorry they ever crossed me!"

Not good. "Sir, I—"

The scientist suddenly reeled backwards, clutching his shoulder. The white business suit was staining with crimson as the man darted into an alleyway. Dick's eyes scanned the rooftops for the sniper. He didn't have to look long.

A figure leapt out of the fourth story window, eyes surveying for the injured maniac. Squaring his shoulders, Dick angrily strode over to the man. "You didn't have to shoot."

"You didn't have to talk," Jason shot back, his voice muffled through this signature red helmet. "Shooting's always easier."

"Easy isn't always right," Dick growled. Jason was his brother, but he was abrasive at best. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

If Dick could see under the red hood, he was sure Jason was rolling his eyes. "You think you're special, Dickie? Bruce called whoever was available to do the job. And if you don't mind, I wanna finish it." Dick watched his brother storm past. Part of him was shocked Bruce would call Jason, but if a lunatic was left roaming Gotham, things would be worse than Jason on duty. He grabbed the weapon-clad man by the shoulder.

"Don't shoot him, please."

Jason sighed. "Fine. Sheesh. I was aiming for his arm, anyway."

As if things couldn't get worse, a gun shot rang out from the alley the man disappeared into. The duo took off, and quickly skidded to a halt when they saw what was before them. The man hadn't shot himself, which was a relief, but was instead shooting at the Red Robin.

"Great," Jason muttered darkly under his breath, unholstering his handgun. "We're getting the whole group together. One big happy reunion."

Within seconds, Tim had the man's gun skidding across the stone pavement, and the man was flung into the wall. He slumped to the ground, unconscious. Wiping his hands confidently, Tim turned to face his brothers. "Took you long enough."

"Show off," Dick murmured fondly. "Look's like we're all in town."

"Not all of us," came a voice with enough anger to rival Jaso Todd. The three didn't even need to turn to know who the voice belonged to. "You always get all the fun."

Dick gave a carefree laugh. "Aren't you suppose to be grounded, Damian?"

The youngest shrugged. "Aren't you suppose to be in Blüdhaven? And what's he doing here?" According to Damian, Jason didn't even deserve to be spoken of. Jason's snarky remark was cut short when a scuttling sound came from behind the group. The four turned and eyed up the bleeding, weary scientist. He had a small, handheld device in his hand—no doubt what his project was. And he just pressed the big fat red button on top. Mesmerized, the Robins watched as the device glowed. The slow light began to fade, then return to its eerie brightness. Before Dick could even blink, the man hurled the device at the four. It exploded mid-air, and the world dissolved into white light.

Dick was angry because Damian was a stubborn jerk and Jason was an ass. That said, he was also very, very confused.

His head pounded as he lifted it from the cold ground. He blearily eyed the scientist, who now looked most definitely dead; he likely bled out. But that would take time. . . . How long were they out? A quick glance showed Dick his three brothers, each stirring in their unwanted sleep.

Most alarmingly: it was dark. They'd likely been here hours. Bruce would have a fit when they got back. Dick looked upwards, through the narrow alley, to the establishment across the street. It was—blue? He could've sworn it was painted a dark green. And it was definitely not a laundromat. The alley didn't give much view to the outside world, but something deep down told Dick that this wasn't Gotham. At least, not theirs.

And that was when the ringing in Dick's ears faded, and he realized there was a figure kneeling besides him. It took a moment to see him in the darkness; Dick took in the pale skin, dark hair, and black, tailored coat. The kid couldn't have been older than twelve, if that.

"What?" Dick asked, rather stupidly. The ringing from whatever the hell that thing had been was making it hard to hear.

"I asked what happened," the boy stated calmly. Dick blinked. The calmness and control in such a young person's eyes unnerved him.

"I would tell you if I had any clue." Dick tried to raise himself from the ground, and managed to prop himself on his elbows. He caught the stranger eyeing his crime-fighting suit and supposed it looked a bit odd. How to explain this? He had absolutely no idea.

"I, uh, gotta get home."

The boy nodded quickly. "Of course. And your friends?"

"My brothers," Dick corrected quietly. Jason moaned, a hand moving to clutch his forehead.

"You're hurt. Gotham General isn't too far away." Dick turned back to the concerned boy. He appreciated the concern, but a gut feeling said they shouldn't be out in public—especially in uniform. Besides, they'd faced much worse than this and survived.

"No," he stated firmly. Then, much calmer, "No hospitals."

A knowing look suddenly came into the boy's eyes. "You work outside the law. Like a vigilante of sorts?"

Dick laughed, more to himself than out loud. They didn't call Bruce "The Caped Crusader" for nothing.

"Yeah, you could say that. You're a pretty smart kid."

This made the corner of the kid's mouth flick upwards ever so briefly. The he was back to business: "Your name?"

Dick bit his tongue. It was a simple, innocent question. But it was one he didn't feel like sharing to some random kid, no matter how nice or how damn familiar he looked. Dick slowly shook his head. "Doesn't matter."

Another understanding nod. Then, the boy extended a hand. He had an air of formality as he did this gesture, as if trained. Probably some Gotham aristocrat. "If you were wondering, my name is Bruce. Bruce—"

"Wayne?" Dick's breath hitched. It was less than impossible. It was damn near crazy. Bruce was a grown man, his father. And yet here he was, staring into young but familiar eyes, and it somehow made sense. Dick did know an alien that could fly and shoot lasers out of his eyes. Sometimes crazy was more explainable than reality. "What the hell was that nut-job scientist working on?"