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“I’d like to protest,” Tim said. “This is a violation of our Eighth Amendment rights as American citizens.”
Damian and Bruce both stared at him incredulously. Tim, however, had his CEO-face on. Calm, straight, and serious.
“I admit,” he went on, waving an arm. “This looks pretty bad...”
“Looks pretty bad?” Bruce interrupted, raising an eyebrow. “Tim, the entire batcave is neon colored. And all that paint is still wet.”
“Well, yes,” Tim allowed. “As I said, it looks pretty bad. It is, without doubt, a mess.”
Damian snorted.
“However, you have to admit it’s a harmless mess.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “The batmobile isn’t exactly driveable right now,” he pointed out. “And I would hate to be someone rushing in to use the batcomputer.”
Tim waved that away. “It’s daytime, Alfred’s not letting anyone take the batmobile out, and besides, if you needed it, I know you have at least ten or so older models in a separate part of the cave. As for the batcomputer, the system is accessible by a lot of other devices—including your phone. So, apart from the slipping hazard, relatively harmless.”
Bruce shook his head. “And your point is?”
“Well, you know that our family is...unusual. And our frustrations tend to be released physically, quite often. And considering the training each of us has gotten, a physical altercation has the potential to cause actual, even severe bodily harm. Thus, if you forced both of us to remain in the Batcave, together, while we are already at odds, doing physical labor that is both tiring, time-taking, and potentially frustrating, you are exposing both of us to the risk of extreme injury.”
He paused. “I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a possible death sentence, but if one of us was yelling for Alfred and there was quite a large new red stain amongst all the neon—well. It’s not too farfetched.
So. The crime? Splattering paint over the Batcave.”
“I wouldn’t quite call it a splatter, Tim.”
“Well, coated and covered are rather exaggerated. Anyways, we got paint all over the batcave—it's annoying, yes, but no one was actually hurt by it. And beyond the confinement that I know is coming, because you’ll ground Damian and Robin and Red Robin—or try to, anyways—our punishment is physical labor with high risk of severe bodily injury, possibly requiring hospitalization--”
Bruce opened his mouth, but Damian interjected, “Oh, come on Father, you saw what happened last time Drake and Todd sparred, and that was an accident.”
“Thus,” Tim went on smoothly, “Taking into account the severity—or lack of—of the crime, our punishment would be construed as ‘cruel and unusual’.”
There was a moment of silence.
The corner of Bruce’s lips lifted, and he shook his head. “Nice try, Tim. Now, I want this place clean by the end of the day—or else Robin and Red Robin are grounded for two weeks instead of one.”
“You can’t ground me,” Tim reminded him as he headed up the stairs. “I don’t even live here anymore.”
“Don’t try me, Tim.”
Damian crossed his arms and snorted. “Well, Drake, the attempt was...admirable, I suppose. Although thoroughly ridiculous.”
“Well, it was better than yours,” Tim shot back. “Oh wait—you didn’t even try.”
“Tt.”
Both of them glanced around. It was true that 'coated' and 'covered' weren’t quite the right words—there were still...gaps...in the paint. And it was true that the paint was splattered—splatter upon splatter of neon green, pink, blue and yellow paint overlapping each other.
“Plan B?” Damian said, finally.
Tim nodded. “I’ve got the cameras, you set up Batcleaner 9.6.”