15 Contagious Insomnia

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Was he planning to snap his own neck? If escape was impossible, at least he needed to send a warning to the Bat family, leave them some clues.

Tim quietly fumbled beneath himself, trying to send a message through the wrist communicator. Yet another hand gripped his wrist, rendering him immobile.

The assailant behind him radiated intense heat. Tim's heart pounded wildly. He struck backward with his elbow, landing heavily between the ribs, but the man remained unmoved.

Yet the focus of the attack wasn’t the elbow strike itself, but the grenade sliding out from the arm armor, pressed close with the motion of the blow.

At such close range, Tim couldn't avoid getting injured by the blast.

Still, he felt a powerful force fling him away. By the time the shockwave reached him, its strength had greatly diminished, merely pushing him farther off. He landed almost unscathed and twisted sharply to face his attacker—but the place where the attack originated was empty.

Tim activated a scan. Apart from the workers on the ground and the smugglers bound in heaps, no other figures appeared.

...Wait, the number of bound smugglers had increased.

Was this the work of the assailant?

Tim ceased scanning and abandoned the idea of calling for backup. His sweat-soaked clothes chilled in the sea breeze, but Red Robin paid no mind. Stepping on the shoulder of one smuggler, he began interrogations.

Red Robin’s interrogation methods were trained by Batman himself. Common gang thugs rarely lasted more than ten seconds, let alone these migrants who only sought to earn money. Before Tim exerted much pressure, the smuggler was already sobbing, confessing that they were recruited by someone promising two hundred dollars a day with room and board, plus allowances for their families. They knew nothing about the job details or who the employer was.

“So you dared to come to Gotham like this?” Tim chuckled with disbelief.

The smuggler was even more agitated than him: “What?? This is Gotham??”

Tim was speechless and turned to question a worker. The man cooperated fully, spilling everything he knew without any coercion. Tim held little hope, and sure enough, the worker didn’t know who the employer was. All transactions were in cash, and none had seen the employer’s face.

Perfect—this was so Gotham.

Tim contacted the Gotham Police Department to arrange for all these people to be sent back to their countries, while he set off to track the smugglers who had fled.

Peter lay in the driver’s seat of the Yellowjacket, breathing slowly.

The grenade had exploded almost on him. He had no time to dodge and had to push Red Robin away to prevent serious injury to someone without bodily enhancements.

He admitted he had underestimated them. Because Gotham’s vigilantes weren’t enhanced or mutated, he had thought he could easily overpower them. Red Robin’s strike today made him reconsider their strength and wits.

The Yellowjacket sped down the road, racing toward the hospital like a bolt of lightning. Peter reached out to steady the steering wheel: “I’m fine, Bee. I have regenerative abilities. Just take me back to Wayne Manor.”

He possessed healing factors. Though not like Batsy who could regrow a head, ordinary wounds and even lost limbs could slowly mend on their own.

“Really? But I’m worried,” came a gentle voice from the radio.

Peter’s heart warmed. “I’m really okay. You can scan me, Bee. I promise no bones are broken.”

The Yellowjacket’s mechanical voice completed the scan. Indeed, there were no broken bones—just fractures and internal bleeding.

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The Yellowjacket tried to drive more roughly to give Peter some pain, but eventually relented, slowing down and choosing smoother roads.

Peter keenly sensed the Autobot’s kindness and smiled, caressing the steering wheel. “You’re too gentle, friend.”

Returning the way he came, climbing over the fence back to Wayne Manor, Peter hesitated at the garage.

The car showed no sign of unlocking for him, and Peter didn’t want to leave evidence of sneaking in late at night.

After a moment’s hesitation, he took out his phone and dialed Jason’s number.

Jason was currently entangled in a fight with the Joker’s gang. After nearly freeing their master last time, these loyal dogs had gone mad, causing trouble all over Gotham.

Feeling the vibration on his wrist, Jason initially thought it was Bruce warning him again not to escalate things and nearly cut the call off. But seeing the caller ID was Peter Parker, he paused momentarily.

The Joker’s gang caught this brief hesitation and threw a flying knife at him. Jason angled his gun barrel to block it; the spinning knife’s hilt struck the barrel, deflecting its flight into another gang member’s neck.

“That wasn’t me,” Jason muttered to himself, firing. Two shots shattered a knee, another broke a right hand. As the victim screamed, Jason stomped on his mouth, muffling the cries.

He answered the call with a voice that betrayed no hint of the violence just wrought: “What is it?”

“Uh, Jason? You’re still awake, great.”

Jason listened to the gunfire and screams outside without emotion. “I’m playing a shooting game.”

“What game? Is it fun? I like those too, like Resident Evil. That counts as a shooter, right?”

Jason cut him off, steering the conversation back: “You didn’t call this late just to talk games, did you?”

“Well...yeah,” Peter stammered, “Can you help me open the garage door?”

Loud banging came from outside—the Joker gang’s reinforcements were arriving. Jason switched the comms to Alfred’s private channel. “Alfred, open the garage.”

Alfred replied with a questioning tone.

Despite his doubts, the loyal butler didn’t waste time demanding reports from the vigilantes on patrol and immediately opened the garage remotely. Jason switched back to Peter. “Is it open?”

“Yes! Thanks!”

Jason lay in wait behind the door. “Where have you been?”

“Um...” Peter hesitated, having forgotten to come up with an excuse.

“Tell me your whereabouts tomorrow,” Jason said coldly. “Now I’m going to sleep. You should get some rest, too.”

After hanging up, just as the Joker gang burst in, the Red Hood rained down a storm of ammunition.

Peter held the phone, now dead from the busy signal. The Yellowjacket drove itself into the garage. Peter asked uncertainly, “Bee, do you think he’s mad?”

The Yellowjacket chirped a few times. How could it understand human moods?

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The car parked, and Peter got out. A sharp pain from his wound made him grimace briefly, but he endured it and leaned against the Yellowjacket’s window. “Let’s go to school together tomorrow! Get some good rest.”

The Yellowjacket’s headlights flickered in response.

Peter carefully slipped back into Wayne Manor, pondering how to avoid drawing attention when traveling with Yellowjacket in the future. The Wayne garage was under surveillance. Frequent late-night entries and exits in a car would definitely raise suspicion.

Today, he could excuse it by saying he was taking a new car for a spin. But that excuse wouldn’t work again.

Maybe he could ask Yellowjacket to interfere with the manor’s surveillance?

Since he returned early with injuries, not yet past one o’clock, Peter planned to add a voice changer to his costume first.

The red-and-blue suit was handmade by him. Holding it on his lap, Peter gently touched the two lenses.

He took out the nano-fiber Spider suit he had sealed away, removed the voice changer, leaving the other key components untouched, and sewed it onto his plain costume.

The Spider suit represented power, but Peter knew what he needed most now was not strength.

After finishing, Peter fell asleep quickly, letting his healing factor work through the night.

He had planned to leave early the next morning for class, avoiding the Wayne family who loved their sleep, so as not to be grilled by Jason about his secret nighttime activities.

Unexpectedly, due to exhaustion and injury, he woke up at seven. It took nearly an hour to drive from Wayne Manor to Gotham University. He hurriedly got up, dressed, stuffed the costume with the voice changer into his bag, grabbed his keys, and dashed downstairs.

If lucky, he could still find breakfast in the dining hall... Thinking this, Peter stopped in his tracks at the atrium.

At the long table in the open dining area sat Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim, and Alfred, all turning their heads toward his footsteps.

Each bore dark circles under their eyes, exchanging glances.

Peter cautiously asked, “Uh... good morning, everyone. Didn’t sleep well?”

In truth, the Waynes had just spent the night fighting crime, came back not long ago, changed clothes, and started reviewing the night’s events.

Bruce casually dismissed Peter’s question: “Inherited insomnia.”

Peter: “...Oh. Then I’ll head to school now.”

He took a few steps away but suddenly wondered: Among these four young men, three were adopted by Mr. Wayne, right?

Could Wayne family insomnia be contagious through the air?

Peter scratched his head, shrugged off the unproductive thought, and walked out with a light step.