Galas were stupid. Really. Galas were absolutely, downright, honest-to-god stupid. Rich old grandpas — fossils, in your humble opinion — chatting up other rich old grandpas in hopes of... what, exactly?

You didn't care much — you'd rather stay out of the semantics of old business-doing men and their wives, trying to marry off their prissy, idiotic children.

And did you really need to be around them? No, probably not. In fact, you should've been on lookout (despite the fact that you weren't on home turf). Your dad used to be Blue Beetle — you could handle something worse than spilled wine. There wasn't some rule that said you could only practice vigilantism in your own city, was there? No.

You really needed an excuse to get out of there. Hell, you were practically beelining the exit, avoiding the old, traditional couples who probably wanted to marry their kids off to you because you were Theodore 'Ted' Kord's kid — you were rich rich.

As if God was sending another hindrance your way, you stumbled against someone on your way out, your backs hitting each other dead-center in the crowd.

"Sorry—" you murmured in unison with the guy, whirling around to apologize—

"Kord?" "Drake?"

Tim Drake AKA Red Robin, fellow vigilante. You stared at each other. It was long, painful, and awkward.

"Didn't think I'd see you here," he chuckled stiffly, finally breaking the silence. Frankly, you hadn't, either, but plans changed. Tim ran a hand through his hair — and judging from how tousled it was, it wasn't the first time so far. Nervous habit, you guessed.

"You don't... usually... come to these things— uh, are you leaving, too?" he asked, clearly catching your yearning glances toward the elevator down the eighteen-story penthouse you were trapped in. "I'm ditching. Trying to. Personal reasons. You'd know."

In layman's terms — patrol, same as you, but neither of you could say so in public — identity. Almost like fate had pushed you two together — escaping the same gala at the same time for the same reason.