Dream
There isn't a carousel near the lake in Robinson Park, but you can't tell Tim's mind that; his mental Gotham resembles no Gotham in existence, a ragged, overlapping collection of impressions from the city that was his home, the city he lives in, and the city he trains in. The music is tinkly and off-key, punctuated by distant gunfire. The sun is shining. Perhaps this is what passes for a nice day, in Tim's head standing behind a park bench where not-Bruce-Wayne is seated, overseeing those that would speak to him and ask for favors. Among those faceless waiting ones, they both know, are people who have different interests. These people need to be eliminated. Tim watches for them, secure in the odd and unspoken knowing that sometimes accompanies one's dreamscape the automatic sense of purpose as solid and reassuring as the knife he has hidden in the front pocket of his red hoodie.