Archive of Our Own

Crack.

The flash of silver breaks the air as it comes down.

Crack.

Blood dribbles down Tim’s stomach, oozing from his back.

Crack.

He wants to scream — but he’s bound to silence by the bronze circlet he wears. But even if he could, who would he call out for?

His parents are already here.

“Are you interested?” he hears his father ask the man who holds the whip.

“Indeed. Both items are very good for disciplinary action,” the man says, his voice a thin, pitchy thing. Tim hears him sniff pompously, the way only a rich person can.

“I would like to see item number three now,” a woman says from somewhere else in the room — reminding Tim that he has an audience. “It’s a golden chalice, isn’t it? What does it do?”

“The final item,” Jack announces, “is a treasure of myth, written about in books and mapped for centuries. But it was only obtained by my wife and I this past year, during a perilous journey to the lost city of legend, El Dorado.”

Gasps and murmurs ensue from the audience.

“Anyone who drinks from it will be met with visions of their worst nightmares. It’s essentially hell in a cup. And now,” Tim hears his father pause dramatically, the audience captive on his every word, “we will demonstrate.”

Tim’s stomach churns in dread as footsteps close in on him. He smells his mother’s perfume as she lowers her lips to his ear. A glittering goblet of gold is pushed in front of him. Water sloshes from the sides.

“You’re being a brilliant demonstration subject for the clients, baby. Now we have one more. Drink.”

No. No.

Yet he can’t do anything but do as he’s told.

The water tastes bitter.

His eyes begin to sting.

His mouth turns dry.

And then the hushed silence of the awaiting audience is broken by a rough, mechanized laugh.

“Aren’t you going to put on a show for them, Replacement?”

Tim knows he’s hallucinating before he squints into the darkness around him. He knows it’s not real. And yet, his heart clenches in terror.

Sitting in the front row is the Red Hood.

Tim closes his eyes and waits for whatever decides to end him first — imagination or reality. Because either way, he’s a goner.

~

12 HOURS EARLIER

“One dark roast, please. Grande.”

Tim’s coffee order is always the same. But the barista is new — a tall redhead in a baseball cap and a brown apron, his tattoos peeking out under the sleeves of his polo shirt. He raises his eyebrows as he taps in Tim’s order on the tablet in front of him.

“Any cream, sugar, milk?”

Tim looks up from his phone in alarm. What, and ruin his drink?

“No thanks,” he says.

The barista shakes his head incredulously, but gets to work fixing up the drink. “Your tastebuds.”

As Robin, Tim’s gotten his fair share of looks — of both awe and disgust, from fans and criminals respectively — and as Tim, he’s used to being ignored — but never has his coffee order been sassed. Even so, it doesn’t dampen his spirits. It’s Friday, which is already reason enough to be cheerful. Plus, the sun is shining down in Gotham, which never happens. But the most important thing is in his hands.

Tim glances down at his phone again, where, as of fifteen minutes ago, the Drake family group chat — usually dead, because of his parents’ busy careers — officially came back to life.

Because his parents are flying into Gotham tonight.

And here Tim thought that the most exciting news of the month would be that O'Shaughnessy's is starting to stuff their pizza crusts with cheese. So basically he’s way too bouncy today to not sass back.

“Are you sure you want to be judging your customers’ orders?” Tim asks innocently. “Isn’t that, like, bad for business?”

The barista scoffs. “Aren’t you, like, a baby?”

Oh, so it's going to be like that, is it? Well, he’s not Robin for nothing.

“Ah, sorry. Didn’t realize I was talking to a literal fossil. My parents are going to be so proud. They’re archaeologists.”

The barista trips slightly as he turns with Tim’s drink, spilling half of it over.

“Fuckity fuck fuck,” he sings loudly. From a booth within earshot, someone snorts. The barista glares at Tim. “That was stupid. Wait a second, you calling me old, pipsqueak?”

“You’re not exactly fresh from the bakery,” Tim says matter-of-factly. “Can I have that coffee now? Sans your judgment?”

“I’m not even thirty yet, you brat!”

There’s a couple of full-bodied laughs now. Tim looks over his shoulder to see a guy and a girl, both older than him, sitting at a nearby booth and casually listening in. He can’t see the face of the guy, but the girl has curly, flame-like pink hair. Her shoulders are shaking, like she’s desperately trying to hold in more of her laughter, but can’t. They almost seem like they know the red-haired, tatted-up barista. Friends of his, maybe?

“That wasn’t the burn you think it was,” the barista says, pointing a finger at Tim. “You’re not slick, kid.”

It’s funny, but Tim winces at the spilled coffee on the barista’s hand, and the newly-forming redness. “Oh, man, did that — are you okay?”

“What?” the barista asks, then looks at his hand, unperturbed.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you spill that. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s fine, kid,” the barista says, his voice a couple degrees warmer than before, and sets a new cup of coffee on the counter. “You didn’t make me spill anything. I just tripped.”

Tim nods at him disbelieving. “Sure, sure.”

“Alright, I’m starting to not like you. Name for the order?”

Tim hands the barista a few crumpled bills. “But you already gave me my coffee?”

“Yeah, but now I know there’s a little shit who comes here,” the barista replies with a grin. “You want your name to be Little Shit? I can call you that. That nickname’s available.”

“Yeah, thanks, but that won’t be necessary, Mister…” Picking up his coffee, Tim finds the barista’s name tag on his apron. The print is small, but in neat Times New Roman font, and it stops Tim in his tracks.

HI, MY NAME IS Roy Harper.

Tim’s stomach drops like an anvil hitting concrete. Or, more fittingly, plunges like an arrow into its target.

He’s read the files.

He knows that name.

Heck, he’s highlighted it in red, as in Red Hood’s allies.

With that context, Tim knows that the girl with curly pink hair in the booth far back is Koriand’r, the Tamaranean princess — and across from her —

Muscles bulge from underneath a dark hoodie, sleeves intentionally ripped off at the seam. The hood is pulled up, hiding the hair and the telltale streak of white.

The Red Hood.

Tim can’t even flinch as he stares at his coffee, too paralyzed with an emotion he usually knows how to ward off in the face of danger.

Fear.

Because one year ago, that guy sitting at that booth not three steps away from Tim tried to kill him.

Tim’s coffee is no longer in his hand. He doesn’t remember dropping it, but it’s all over the floor. That’s not good. He needs to help clean that up. He needs to —

A hand on his shoulder brings a wave of sound crashing down on him. Music from the speakers, the hum of a refrigerator. Rapid and worried voices.

“—kid, are you okay? Fuckity fuck fuck he’s not answering. You think he’s seizing?”

“That is not what a seizure looks like on my planet, Roy Harper.”

“Yeah,” a terribly familiar voice rumbles out, “That’s not what a seizure looks like here, either.”

Red Hood is too close — and Tim’s reminded of that horrible day a year ago, as he lay at the bottom of the stairs, something very wrong with the angles of his arms and legs. Can’t believe the Bat replaced me with the likes of you, he heard Hood say from somewhere close by. I thought you’d last a little longer, to be honest.

Red Hood’s starting to say something else to Roy and Koriand’r, or maybe to him, but Tim doesn’t need any more help getting out from under the cold paralyzing claws of terror.

The door jingles as he flees.

~

“So dinner tonight is a two-in-one thing, baby,” Janet says later that night as she does her hair in the master bathroom.

Tim smiles at his mother, hoping she can’t tell he’s distracted. He’s overjoyed that his parents are home — their house became lively the moment they arrived a few hours ago — but his spirits are taking a minute to get back on their feet still. Running into Red Hood has shaken him more than he’d like to admit.

Plus, he spilled an entire coffee and couldn’t even apologize about it.

Mortifying.

It’s not that Tim doesn’t recognize that the Red Hood’s no longer at odds with the rest of the bats. He understands that it’s a miracle, that Jason Todd is back from the dead. And he understands that it’s another miracle that as of late, Hood’s been more cooperative than vengeful. He’s no longer attempting to kill them whenever they cross paths during patrol. That makes Bruce happy, and Tim’s happy to see Bruce happy.

But outside of crime-fighting, Tim has no interest in engaging with Red Hood. Last year, when the crime lord broke into Titans Tower, eyes glowing bright green, he made his feelings about Tim as Robin very clear. Pit-induced or not, being made into your childhood hero’s personal piñata is something that stays with you. Even if aforementioned childhood hero sends you a pitiful attempt of an apology months after the fact. Tim still has the ridiculous basket of chocolate and fruits with a neatly handwritten message.

Sorry for breaking your bones. Not my best work. -J

Up until he read that, Tim didn’t know there was a way an apology could sound like a threat.

Unless, of course, it wasn’t really an apology, and just a way for the bats to resume deifying Jason again, full halo and wings included. Which has worked. Tim doesn’t have the heart to point out the obvious, though. That their Jason Todd might be back, but Red Hood won’t hesitate to break Tim’s arms and legs and toss him down a flight of stairs out of spite.

He’s done it before.

But Tim forces himself to stop thinking about Jason Todd. He won’t let that ruin his dinner with his parents. They’re going someplace fancy. He’d have been happy ordering pizza — seriously, O'Shaughnessy's is doing stuffed crust, and they need to get in on that — but he’s happy to go along to get along. His parents are the ones who need a break from their busy jobs.

So he straightens his stupid bow-tie and smooths down his dress shirt.

“Two-in-one?” he asks his mother.

“I told your father to set it up differently, but he wants to be efficient,” Janet says as she puts in her earrings — two giant diamonds that match with her midnight blue, diamond-studded evening gown. She rolls her eyes and smiles at Tim’s reflection. “We’re meeting with some very important clients who are interested in buying from our artifact collection of archaic treasures.”

“Meeting? But I thought we were doing dinner?”

“We are! That’s why it’s a two-in-one,” Janet says. “Meeting and a dinner.”

“Sounds… cool.”

Tim can’t stop his heart from sinking slightly. He watches in silence as his mother spritzes herself with perfume around her neck.

“My thoughts exactly, baby. I mean, your father and I aren’t very hungry, since we ate on the plane. But you can grab whatever you like from the Iceberg Lounge bar. Mostly they serve booze and chips, but ever since management changed after that Penguin guy went to jail, they do have mozzarella sticks. That’s pretty delicious, right?”

Tim nods, but he must be making a face, because Jack, dressed in a tuxedo, walks into the bathroom and frowns at him. “Try to be more grateful, boy. Our schedules are busy, and we’d like you to see the business.”

“Oh, stop hounding the boy, Jack,” Janet chides softly. “If he’s not grateful that we’re taking time out of our schedules for him, he doesn’t have to come with us.”

Tim shakes his head guiltily. Even if he won’t have his parents all to himself, it’s still been ages since his parents have had a free moment. He looks between his beautiful mom and his business-savvy dad, and feels like his whole world is in his grasp right now.

“No, I’m grateful, I am,” Tim almost cuts his tongue at the speed at which he blurts it. “I just — I love that you’re here. I love you guys. I — I’m sorry, I want to go.”

Jack and Janet both let out sighs of relief at Tim’s words. But before Tim can ponder on why exactly his parents would want him to tag along beyond just their much-needed family time, Janet’s moving in, pulling Tim into a side-hug. Her elegant fingers stroke through his hair, gelling it up.

So Tim leans into her touch and lets himself not worry about it.

~

In his father’s rush ushering them all to the limo, Tim doesn’t realize he’s forgotten his phone in his room until they’re more than halfway there.

“Shoot,” Tim says as the limo pulls into the nightlife hub of Gotham, where neon lights light up the buildings and traffic blurs by.

“Tim, we’re on a schedule,” Jack says. “Besides, you won’t need it. This is what we need.”

He points to the large rectangular case that’s been on the limo floor the whole time. It’s where Janet has perched her glass of wine, which she’s deftly pouring more into. Her eyes sparkle with pride as she looks at the large case.

“A box,” Tim states.

“It’s not just a box, baby,” Janet laughs. She raises three fingers. “It’s holding the three most priceless and rare artifacts from our collection. We’ve personally led the dig sites, excavating from locations that were thought forever lost to mankind. Our potential buyer is a group of individuals with a grand sum of money, and they’re interested in these three in particular items due to their… special properties. It’ll be quite a show, Timmy baby. You’re in for a treat.”

“Did you dig up jewelry or something?” Tim guesses.

“Almost. Well, one of them could be,” Janet says. “They do more than just look pretty, though.”

“You’ll see when we get there,” Jack says, casting Janet a warning glance.

Janet shrugs, but she falls silent all the same. Now Tim knows they’re keeping something from him. He doesn’t mind, though he is growing more curious by the second. He’s not aware of any financial issues they’ve been facing, since his parents’ archeology business has always done well, but he’s never seen his parents this jubilant before. Whatever’s in the case must be worth lot of money.

The limo slows to a stop, and Tim looks out the window. He can already hear music.

Glittering pristinely against the bay is the Iceberg Lounge. Its triangular silhouette is colossal this close up — normally Tim only ever sees it from a distance, when he’s swooping through Gotham like a bird. Now, on the ground, he sees it’s a lot like the galas he’s used to, except louder. Jazzier. Looser. People are flocking in by the pair or group through the doors, all dressed up.

Jack and Janet exchange excited looks as they exit the limo with the artifact case. Tim follows them as they lead the way.

The Iceberg Lounge is full of amicable chatter and laughter, live music being played from the back and blasting through the speakers. People laugh together at the tables, and others lean against the bar, already tipsy. Slightly sheer privacy curtains are pulled around a few tables. The lights oscillate from blue to purple, thrumming in beat with the nightlife of Gotham. It’s a little like a regular nightclub in East Side — Tim’s hauled Steph out of one, once after she snuck in to get free mini quiches because hello, they were probably not just free mini quiches — except here there’s less smoky mosh pits and drug-dealing disc jockeys. Plus, everyone here seems like they’re made of money.

Okay, so it’s nothing like a regular nightclub in East Side. It’s the Iceberg Lounge.

“We’re going up the stairs,” Janet says to Tim, gripping his shoulder tightly to steer him to the side of the lounge. “Remember not to slouch.”

They take the stairs up and turn into a dark hallway. Up here, with the music farther away, it’s quiet.

The carpeted floor turns to hardwood at some point as they make turns through the barely-used second floor. Tim’s fought Penguin and his henchmen a few times in the Iceberg Lounge, but he never had to go this far into the place. When they reach a wall at the end of a hallway, Tim thinks they’re lost. But then Jack presses his palm flat against the intricate wallpaper, and pushes the wall open.

Like a door.

What the hell kind of meeting are they going to that requires a secret passageway in the wall?

The moment the secret wall shuts behind them, lights flicker on, revealing lanterns on either side of the narrow passageway.

A door awaits them when they reach the far end.

“This is our meeting room.” Jack looks at Tim firmly. “Be on your best behavior, alright son? That means no sass, no backtalk. And the clients wanted to remain anonymous. Respect that. We want this deal to go through.”

Anonymous? Tim is already having a hard time understanding the secret room thing.

“Uh, how is the payment going through if we don’t know their names?” he asks.

“Cash.”

“Great. Cool.” Tim says, nodding. “I love that we’re all pretending this is normal.”

Jack looks annoyed. “Put a pin in that mouth, now, son.”

“Just be quiet, baby,” Janet whispers. “And do what we tell you to, okay?”

Before Tim can agree, Jack knocks. A silent moment passes before a voice, stringy and nasal, comes from the other side.

“Who is it?”

“None other than a friend with some meager tokens to offer,” Jack replies.

It must be some kind of passcode, because there’s a pause, a jingle of keys, and the scraping sound of a lock clicking open. The door swings open, revealing a short man dressed impeccably in black and white, his bowtie at a perfect 180 degree angle.

A round white mask covers his face. When he sees Jack, Janet, and the artifact case, he steps back to let them all in.

It’s a private showroom of some kind, painted black from floor to ceiling. Scarlet drapes hang from the walls. Well-dressed people sit in soft cushioned chairs around glass tables set with tea. And in the center of it all, is a slightly-raised platform. Most confusing, however, is how dim the lighting is. As the door behind them closes with a heavy click of an automatic lock and Tim’s eyes adjust, he can see that everyone in the room is looking at them.

Masked people.

“Apologies for being late,” Jack says.

“Not at all. We’re the ones who’re early,” a woman says from the front row of cushioned seats. She’s clearly an older woman, judging from her dressing style and thready voice. “Are the goods here?”

“Of course,” Jack says.

Everything is objectively creepy about the situation. But the masks are what’s bugging Tim the most. He can’t help but stare, taking in the roundness of each one that covers the upper halves of their faces. There’s a circular hole for each eye and an ever-so-slight beak for the nose — unmistakably owlish.

And then it clicks for Tim.

Rich anonymous clients.

Secret back room.

Wearing owl masks.

Oh, shit.

Do his parents even know what they’ve walked into?

Tim doesn’t really hear his father speaking over the alarm bells going off in his head. He sort of watches, dumbstruck, as everyone leans into Jack’s words, listening as he sets the artifact case on the table. He’s making some grand speech about how amazing the items they’re about to see are.

“It’s my understanding that you want items of the magical, disciplinary variety, is that right?”

Many of the owl-masks mouths’ curl in sync, smiling creepily.

Magical disciplinary variety, Tim thinks, trying to unpack the words. What does that mean?

“Yes, something with a little sting to it,” the old woman says, a laugh in her voice. Then she grows serious. “We’ve done extensive research into your company, Mr. and Mrs. Drake. And we’re very impressed with the items you’ve been able to procure.”

Janet preens. Jack leans forward to flip open the brass buckles on the artifact case. Then he lifts the lid.

And inside, resting on purple silk in their own compartment, are three sparkling items.

The first is a bronze circular piece of jewelry with a glassy pendant in the center. The second compartment holds a long, silver rope, curled up like a snake. Finally, the third item rests on its side on the purple silk. It’s perhaps the most beautiful item of all — a golden cup, decorated with hundreds of tiny rubies and sapphires and emeralds and diamonds, even on the inside.

Everyone leans forward in curiosity. Some even put down their teacups.

“What do they do?” someone asks.

Janet picks up the bronze piece first. All eyes in the room go to her as she presents it. “This head circlet is dated to be from around 9000 B.C.E., found in an deep-sea excavation in the Atlantic, west of the Strait of Gibraltar. It’s imbued with ancient magic that outlived its manufacturers and its homeland of Atlantis. Most likely it was used on servants, to inspire obedience.”

“Now I’d like to see that,” the old woman says.

Janet’s smile is swift. “We’d be happy to give you a demonstration. Timmy?”

An uneasy feeling passes through Tim. The circlet looks harmless enough, but if it’s all the same, he doesn’t want to be some kind of test subject for some freaky magic show, in front of the Court of Owls, no less.

“I’d rather n—,” Tim bites off his last word as his father, standing by him, pinches him hard in the arm.

Tim considers his options. He can’t escape, since the door behind them is locked. And he can’t fight everyone here and reveal his Robin training. But on the plus side, no one’s life is at stake.

“Do as your mother says,” Jack murmurs into Tim’s ear. “Or we’ll be very disappointed in you.”

Tim hates the idea of disappointing anyone, most of all his parents. But if being Robin has taught him anything, it’s that he’s got to draw the line for himself somewhere.

“Dad, I don’t want to do this.”

The words make Jack’s expression harden.

“It doesn’t matter what you want. This is why we brought you here,” Jack hisses. “For demonstration, so we can get paid.”

Then Jack’s hands clamp on Tim’s shoulders — why does everyone want to grab his shoulders today — and roughly pushes him forward, where Janet awaits with the bronze circlet.

“No,” Tim says, as everyone simply watches. “I said I don’t —”

He’s pinched by his father again, hard enough to leave a bruise. His mother steps in front of him, and the cool and tight metal is slid over his forehead. Then it’s tightened, clasps snapping shut.

What the hell? Tim feels a spark of anger. His fingers reach up to the circlet, but Janet pushes his hands down.

“If you give him an order now,” Janet says, turning her head to the audience, “he will be forced to obey.”

What?

The old woman tilts her masked head. It feels like the temperature in the room drops below freezing.

“Kiss my hand.”

It’s such a ridiculous, out-of-nowhere request Tim almost laughs. But in the next moment, his body is moving on its own.

His balance is fixed as he walks. He bends at the waist until his lips touch the back of the old woman’s awaiting hand.

And then the control over Tim’s body leaves him like a bad muscle twitch. He stumbles backward with a gasp, hands going up to the tight circlet, trying to find the clasps to take it off, panicking all the while. He has to obey any order given to him — what does that mean, though? What if someone — what if he’s told to kill someone —

“Do not remove the circlet,” his mother orders.

The words are like iron chains that shackle Tim’s arms to his sides. Panic flares in his chest as a few of the owl-masked people step closer, watching with interest. Tim rears back. What the actual hell? Tim looks at his parents, frightened now. They don’t look like they’re listening to him.

“Mom, Dad, please, take it off,” Tim pleads. He looks into his mother’s eyes. “Please.”

“Speak,” says one owl-masked man standing close to Tim, “Only when you’re spoken to, boy.”

Every command makes Tim’s head hurt a little.

“Touch your nose,” someone else orders with a snicker. Tim’s hand shoots up to lightly touch his nose before he pulls it away, feeling betrayed by his limb.

Tim looks to his parents, but they’re not even looking at him. They’re watching the owl-masked people and exchanging glances, as if trying to figure out if the sale is going to happen or not. Tim feels a rush of frustration.

“Don’t look at them, look at us.”

Tim’s head snaps to look away from his parents and at the old woman who seems to be the main spokesperson of the group. He glares at her.

Screw this stupid deal! Why aren’t his parents listening to him? Maybe it’s the Court of Owls. Maybe they did something to his parents. A mind trick, or — or some kind of hypnotism, because his parents wouldn’t do this. They wouldn’t strip him of his freedom and let other people hurt him.

“Go eat shit,” he says in response to the old woman.

“Timothy Jackson Drake,” Janet hisses. “You will keep that mouth shut.”

“My deepest apologies for the boy’s mouth,” Jack says with a forced laugh. “Can we move on to the next item? I think you’ll find it to be more… effective of a tool.”

Tim feels sick, thinking about the circlet being used on anyone. To strip someone of their free will, to make them bend to commands. How can his parents possibly condone that? Tim can’t even open his mouth to ask. But then again, his parents are condoning this.

Why are they letting this happen to him?

It doesn’t make sense — Tim doesn’t remember doing anything wrong.

Janet unrolls the second item — the silver coil, and Tim’s heart drops.

“This item is from a remote island of valleys in the Pacific, off the coast of East Asia, in a place called Shangri-La. When I first saw it, I thought it was made within the decade, the silver is in such good condition. But upon further study, evidence shows it’s been around for at least a century,” Janet says proudly. “Allow me to show its main function. Timmy, please remove your shirt. This might sting a little but it’s all for demonstration, baby.”

It’s a whip.

Of course it’s going to sting.

And not just a bit. But Tim’s arms move on their own. When he drops his shirt to the ground, his freedom of movement comes back — and he darts backwards, out of everyone’s reach.

“He’s skirmish, isn’t he?” someone laughs.

Janet sighs. “Tim, come over here.”

To his horror, control seizes Tim and he’s forced to endure as his body walks back to his mother.

“Turn around.”

Tim can’t even try to fight it. It’s like someone’s stepping into his body and moving it for him. The moment his back is turned, what comes next is the sound of the air splitting.

And then, the sound of the whip cracking on Tim’s back. Crack.

Tim screams — or tries to, at least. His mouth is clamped shut by his father’s orders. From around him, he can hear awed murmurs.

“Wow,” an owl-mask says. “Look at that.”

“It cuts like a knife,” an owl-masked man says, voice full of interest.

“Enhanced with magic to perfect the weapon, elegant whips like these were most often used by nobility, on children during punishment,” Janet says.

On children? Feeling blood trickling down his abdomen, Tim wonders how anyone could inflict this on children. The Court of Owls probably don’t have a problem with it — but normal, decent people? Tim curls over his stomach, wincing as the wound begins to sting. He needs help. He needs to get out of here. He doesn’t have his phone, but — maybe there’s another way. He needs to just think of something, a plan —

Crack.

Tim screams in his mind, falling to his hands and knees as the cold, thin silver cuts through his skin again.

“Oh, it’s very light!” the old woman notes. “I appreciate the craftsmanship. Does anyone else want to try it out?”

Tim’s stomach drops in horror as the owl-masks begin to line up.

It begins.

Crack.

Crack.

Crack.

Tim loses track of time.

And his parents just watch.

“I’d like the see item number three now,” the old woman says a while later. “It’s a golden chalice, isn’t it? What does it do?”

No more, Tim thinks from where he lies on the floor, his muscles twitching in agony.

However, Jack launches into presenting the third item excitedly as Janet pulls it from its compartment in the artifact case to show it off. Lying in his pool of blood, Tim listens intently to his father’s words, trying to find the secret code in them. Maybe there’s a message that his parents are giving him, a way to escape. An explanation. Maybe they would never hurt him. Maybe this is all a big misunderstanding.

But then his head is being tilted back so he can drink water from the fear-inducing magical chalice of gold. Then his brain — against his will — concocts a terrifying visage of the Red Hood.

~

CURRENTLY

“So here we are,” Hood sneers. “It’s like Batman taught you nothing. Oh, wait. That makes sense. He didn’t even choose you.”

The Red Hood before him isn’t real — Tim can taste the toxicity in his mouth. And around the wavering edges of Hood, he can see the shadowy remnants of reality, where his parents and the owl-masks are watching him squirm and shudder. But it’s still bone-chilling to hear Hood’s voice.

“Poor little Timmy. All alone, surrounded by the enemy.”

Tim feels a streak of anger. His parent don’t count as an enemy.

Do they?

Something new begins to form in the space next to Hood. Tim feels a horrible premonition — and then he’s looking at the money-hungry faces of Jack and Janet. Hood chuckles darkly.

“They didn’t need to make you drink something to witness your worst nightmare. You’re already living it, aren’t you, Pretender.”

It’s true — right now his parents are just as terrifying as the Red Hood. It’s so strange that it’s funny. Muted laughter wracks his shoulders.

“He’s going hysterical,” he hears the old woman say.

Janet says, “He’ll be fine. I do hope the demonstrations were adequate for you.”

Slowly, the hallucinations fade from Tim’s vision. There’s some chatter now among the owl-masks, interest piqued about the artifacts. Above it all, he can hear his parents’ voices, deep in conversation with the owl-masked old woman, talking about how many zeros they want tacked on the end of the price.

“So, do we have a deal?” Jack asks.

Slowly, and very slowly, Tim stands up. Weirdly, no one stops him. No orders, whips, or chalice of craziness. Most of the owl-masks in the room don’t even seem to be interested in him, really. Tim feels a sense of dread, however, when he looks at his parents. Their backs are to him. They wouldn’t even care if Tim left right now, would they? The door is open from when someone left to go to the bathroom. Except — Tim’s still wearing the circlet.

The moment his parents take it off his head, they’ll be packing all the artifacts up to hand over to the Court of Owls. He can’t let that happen. These torture devices are going to be used on innocent people to shape them — on top of being genetically modified — into Talons. He’d like to take everyone in this room out — but he’s Tim Drake right now, a bleeding Tim Drake at that, and he has to think of a better plan.

So with the bronze circlet already on his head, Tim casually picks up the silver whip and loops it around his waist like a belt, the golden chalice tied in.

And then he runs.

The clamor only begins the moment he pulls open the door of the room. The owl-masks might be rich and creepy, but they’re not fast. And neither are his parents. Tim can get past them.

“Tim!” Janet exclaims.

“Sto—,” Jack begins to order.

The order would make Tim stop. But he pulls the door shut faster than his father can finish the command.

The door locks with a click, muffling the would-be words that would have done him in. As he turns and runs out the narrow secret passageway, Tim’s heart pounds, knowing he’s only bought himself about thirty seconds of a headstart.

Well, he did want his parents’ attention.

Now he’s got it.

And it’s terrifying.

~

Tim runs down the halls of the Iceberg Lounge. There’s not many people on the second floor, which is good for him, since he’s not exactly keen on being ordered to stop. All he wants right now is to put distance between himself and the owl-masks. And he’d like to keep away from his parents for now, too. They don’t seem to care that these are torture devices that will be used on real, innocent people.

From down the hallway, he hears heavy footsteps charging towards him, and a screech. “TIMOTHY! THIS IS A MATTER OF HUNDREDS OF MILLIONS OF DOLLARS! STOP RIGHT — ”

Tim clamps his hands over his ears, muffling his mother’s voice out, until all he can hear is the rapid-fire thumping of his heart. He’s never made her this mad before. Making a new turn, he comes to the end of a hallway with only one door. Stairs! Bringing one hand down from his ear to throw it open, he’s crushed to see a storage closet.

“Over here! This way!” he hears his father shout, much too close for comfort.

There’s no time to find the stairs. Tim shuts himself inside the closet. There’s no lock, so he shuffles as far back as he can, behind the shelves of cleaning solvents and mops. If only he had his phone. He could just text Bruce or Dick for help. Hood from his hallucinations earlier was right to laugh at him. This is a really stupid way for a Robin to be captured. His back hits a wall. Wincing in pain, Tim adjusts so that whatever’s on the wall behind him — a metal grate, from the looks of it — doesn’t scrape at his wounds.

Tim blinks, staring at the metal grate in the dark closet room, illuminated by only a crack of light coming from under the door. His fingers find the edges of the grate. And then he tugs. The grate opens. It’s a vent.

And it’s just big enough for him.

Tim crawls in, the smell of dust greeting him, and closes the grate. It’s a different kind of dark in the closed, metal space. He stares into the abyss beyond, the footsteps in the hall growing closer. Tim doesn’t know the ventilation system, but anywhere is better than staying here, where he could easily hear his mother say, come out Timmy baby, and he would have to obey.

So he begins to crawl.

By the time he hears a faint rattle of a doorknob behind him, and the sound of someone throwing the closet door open, he’s already reached the end of the pathway in the vent, where it turns left. Even so, Tim doesn’t slow down. They’ll probably not be able to guess that he went into the vent, but he’s not safe until he gets the circlet off. And even, then, maybe still not. How is he supposed to go home? He defied his parents. Does he even have a proper escape plan after this?

Tim’s breath hitches on his spiraling thoughts, and he pauses to calm down. He still could change his mind, go back.

But… he doesn’t want to go back to his parents. He doesn’t want his mother to grab his shoulder, or his father to pinch him. And deep down, despite all the self-doubt, he knows he shouldn’t. It’s not like all the other times when they’ve scolded or punished him to keep him in line. They went too far tonight.

And besides, he’s never been this frightened of his parents before.

As he reaches the end of the vent pathway, Tim raises his head to find the next turn. But there isn’t a turn, right or left.

There’s a drop.

Tim squirms, staring down the dark hole of unknowable depth. On the plus side, he can hear faint music and chatter from it. There’s no point in stalling. He scoots forward enough to bring his feet forward, then pushes himself off the edge.

Thud.

Tim winces as he recovers from the landing, his head spinning from the impact. But the music is louder now. Louder than that is running water, and clinking of glasses. He hears a female voice first, coming from an opening in the vent ahead of him.

“I’m sensing you are upset.”

Someone scoffs. “It’s shallow as hell here. I remember why I hated it so much when I lived with Oliver. Just listen to them. ‘Oh, wow, we thought you were dead, Mr. Todd. What a relief it was just a mix-up! Now will you let us make out with your wallet?’”

A bright laugh follows. “Goodness, they do sound like that! Do more!”

Tim crawls forward to take a peek. Through the metal grate, he can see the kitchen, where the food gets prepped. It’s mostly empty, save for two people: a tall girl with big pink hair and golden skin balancing on a barstool, and a redhead with tattoos on his arms, rinsing champagne glasses over the sink.

No way.

Koriand’r of Tamaran and Roy Harper.

What are they doing here? Does Roy Harper just bartend everywhere in Gotham now?

“I’m not your royal clown, princess.” Roy grumpily wipes down another glass with a dishtowel before pausing in consideration. “But, then again, I’d probably do anything you want. So. I don’t know why I’m arguing.”

There’s a clamor from somewhere past the kitchen doors, from the bar. Koriand’r jumps up, literally flying a foot into the air.

“Chaos has ensued,” she breathes out.

Roy snorts. “Relax, Kori. It’s the same in Star City. You don’t get between rich people and their martinis on a Friday night.”

Koriand’r’s eyes narrow. “If it’s all the same, I will go see that peace and order is restored in your workplace.”

“Now who’s being funny? It’s martinis.”

The Tamaranean princess still makes for the door, waving to Roy before leaving.

For a moment, it’s just Roy in the kitchen, and Tim gets an idea. Roy seemed… nonlethal, if nothing else, back in the coffee shop. And Tim needs someone to take the cursed circlet off his forehead. So he grazes his finger pads over the edges of the metal grate, looking for a way to open it from the inside. When it becomes clear that it wasn’t designed for vent-crawlers escaping their parents with their extremely valuable torture devices, Tim shifts in position, and readies his foot to kick the grate out by sheer force.

At the same moment, Roy glances back at the door that Koriand’r just left from with concern, sets down his dishtowel resignedly, and then takes off after her.

No! Tim needs him!

And Tim can’t just roam around down there, where his parents might find him. Besides, what if someone tells him to do something he doesn’t want to? But then — is he just going to live in the vents of the Iceberg Lounge forever? Tim swallows thickly, trying not to freak out. Minutes pass as he crawls past more metal grates leading into various parts of the nightclub. Music pumps through the speakers. Laughter fills the air.

And then, miracles of miracles — Tim sees someone he knows.

There, in the corner of the lounge that’s blocked by a privacy curtain, wearing a suit, his feet kicked up to be on the table, is Jason Todd. Notably, there’s no socialites around him. In fact, Jason’s doing the exact opposite of socializing. In his hands is a book.

He’s reading.

Of course Jason’s here — Roy and Koriand’r are. Tim should have put it together earlier. But even so, staring at the crime lord through the metal rungs of the grate, he feels surprised. It’s never occurred to Tim that Jason must have spent some part of his teenage years developing a gala persona, just like Bruce.

Down below, Jason’s shoulders stiffen, as if he can sense a pair of eyes on him. As he looks around, gaze sweeping around the private table, Tim’s heartrate spikes. But then Jason goes back to his book.

Ask him for help, an intrusive thought in Tim’s mind says.

Tim gets goosebumps. He can’t ask Jason Todd for anything, he doesn’t want to die, thank you very much. Even during missions in which they need Hood’s intel, Tim always leaves the direct communication bits to Oracle.

But there’s nowhere else he can go.

So taking a deep inhale, Tim kicks open the grate. It crashes down. He pulls himself through and tumbles onto the soft sofa cushion that curves around the table. As the dust and debris settle, Tim lifts his head to see a gun being pointed at him.

Jason’s eyes are glowing green.

And now Tim’s paralyzed in fear.

“Looks like I have a baby stalker,” Jason notes dryly, looming above Tim, gun in one hand and book in the other. “And here I thought we were making peace.”

Tim can’t think of a single nonverbal way to plead for his life, so for a full second, he just waits for the hurt to come. But then Jason’s lowering his gun, eyes trailing over Tim’s disheveled state, the artifacts he’s wearing, and the vent on the upper wall that he came in from.

“So,” Jason drawls, as if this is a normal occurrence. “What was the objective of the spy mission, Pretender?”

Tim flinches at the nickname.

“Not going to say, are you?” Jason snarls. He steps closer to Tim and grabs him by the chin. “Maybe you need an easier question. Don’t you have somewhere else to be this late at night? Like in bed? Or did you run out of dead kids’ homes to invade?”

Jason’s fingers are cold. Tim squirms, but he can’t open his mouth to answer. But he can’t keep testing Jason’s patience, either. He has to tell the older boy about the Court of Owls. The artifacts. He needs to ask for — for help, to hide from his parents —

With every last crumb of his courage, Tim grabs onto Jason’s arm. It’s the only thing he can think of.

“The fuck?” Jason tries to pull away, but Tim holds on for dear life.

And then, without letting go of Jason’s arm he’s locked into a hug, he starts to draw out letters onto Jason’s skin, over his wrist. O-W-L-S, he spells determinedly. He and Steph have played this game with Dick tons of times, to get on his nerves. There’s a chance Jason might figure it out, too — but when Tim looks up, Jason’s scowling.

“Let go.”

Tim’s body complies immediately. He lets go. His heart wrenches.

“Sorry to disappoint, Replacement, but I’m not up to anything. And I’m definitely not in the mood to babysit a silly little bird who tried to spy on me from inside the walls,” Jason says coldly. “So go away. Shoo.”

Another order.

Tim’s body turns completely around, his legs ready to march him out past the curtain, out of Jason’s sight. His heart sinks like a rock. He thought he’d get hurt, but this is worse. The circlet around his forehead pulses painfully as Tim tries to wrench his body free of the magic.

Jason inhales sharply.

“Wait.”

Tim stops moving. He waits.

“Who the fuck whipped you?”

Oh, the wounds on his back. They must have bled through his white shirt by now. Tim tries to look over his shoulder at Jason. He points to himself, and then cups his hands and brings them up to his eyes. Owls.

Jason examines Tim. “You can’t talk.”

Yes. Tim nods so fast he almost pulls a muscle. It’s progress — but clearly they all need to learn sign language, because this is ridiculous.

Jason squints at the circlet Tim’s wearing, then draws in closer. Tim tries not to be scared. His mind flashes to last year, when the power went out in Titans Tower that fateful day.

Jason grabs onto the side of Tim’s head. Tim doesn’t think his heart is beating. Is his heart not beating? Is that possible, to just die from fright? Is he dead right now?

But then the clasps snap open, and the circlet’s pulled off.

Tim feels his body returning to him, his free will, everything. Finally. The words tumble out of him, pouring out past his lips like water he’s held in his mouth the entire time.

“The Court of Owls is in the Iceberg Lounge,” Tim rushes to say, meeting Jason’s blue-green eyes. “They have plans to indoctrinate new Talons, so they wanted magical artifacts from my parents to use on them and I didn’t — I didn’t know they were going to — to — well, it doesn’t matter. They’re looking for me.”

Jason’s eyes are wide. “What?”

“Mom and Dad,” Tim rushes to explain, throwing the artifacts on the table. “They made a deal with the Owls. There’s a secret room on the second floor. I don’t — please don’t let them find me. I know I already owe you, but please, Jason? I’ll make it worth your while.”

Jason looks shocked beyond words — at which part, Tim’s not sure. Slowly, his expression starts to look murderous. Tim steps backward in trepidation, but not too far. Sure he wants to keep his bones intact, but Jason’s the only person who can help hide him.

Just then, the curtain flies open, revealing Koriand’r, whose eyes are sparkling with extraterrestrial energy, a smile on her face.

“I just punched many people,” she announces. Then her eyes fall on Tim. “Oh, my! A bleeding child.” A beat later, her eyes widen, looking from Tim to Jason. “Oh! It’s your bleeding child. Little brother of Jason Todd, it’s so nice to meet you.”

~

Tim sits on a cold bench outside, watching the red and blue lights spinning on top of the GCPD cars on the street. Down behind the bench, Gotham Bay is pitch black, like a void he can hide in if he just slides down the grassy incline that leads to it. Tim considers it, tugging the ends of his sleeves. It would definitely be easier than watching his parents get escorted to the police cars in cuffs.

He watches as his mother scans the small crowd that has formed outside the Iceberg Lounge, still perfectly composed. Her eyes find his.

“The artifacts,” Janet calls out, as the police rush her into the back of the car. She fights against them, only to speak to Tim. Tim prepares himself for the yelling, for the cursing, for the I hate you. Or maybe, an I love you. But instead, she says, “Keep the artifacts safe, okay? Legally they’re still ours. Keep them safe, baby,” before getting into the back of the police car with Jack, the door slamming shut after her.

And that’s it.

There’s nothing else.

No words of comfort, no apology.

To his parents, the artifacts are still more important than he’ll ever be. Tim stares at the artifact case being loaded into the GCPD’s containment unit vehicle. He’s glad Commissioner Gordon’s taking them off his hands. He doesn’t care about keeping them for his mother.

“The entire thing seems fishy — I’ll give you that,” Commissioner Gordon said to him earlier, before Tim resigned himself to this bench atop the void. “But right now all I can pin on them is going in direct opposition of Gotham’s magical artifact selling and trading policy. The Court of Owls… will be a harder case.”

There was a commotion, apparently, caused by the owl-masks and his parents in their pursuit of him on the first floor. From what Tim can guess, it caused something of a small stampede that took over the main lounge area, causing more than a few fights to break out due to the pushing and shoving. In the mess, the Court of Owls shed their masks and disappeared before the chaos was ended by mainly Koriand’r — though who exactly she punched, Tim’s not sure.

Grass crunches under someone’s sneakers.

“Sorry about your parents, kid.” It’s Roy. He sounds less sassy than he usually does. “You… okay?”

“They’re rich,” Tim responds flatly, without looking at Roy — or Koriand’r and Jason, who both stand nearby. “They won’t be locked up for long. Or at all. House arrest, at most.”

Because he’s not going to be able to bring himself to press charges against them for human experimentation.

“That is good news?” Koriand’r asks hopefully.

Something hot pricks at Tim’s eyes. They were just supposed to have dinner together. He was dumb, to ever think that he was as special to his parents as the lost treasures they’re always looking for.

A few feet away, Roy mutters to Jason.

“Talk to him.”

“Shut up. I can’t just talk to him.”

“Oh, you and Kori can hang out wherever I have a part-time gig and talk my ears off until I get fired, but you can’t talk to the kid?”

“Hm.”

“Try,” Koriand’r encourages. “He is your little brother.”

“We’re not brothers,” Jason and Tim say at the same time.

Tim startles a little, casting a glance over to the trio. Jason looks fiercely annoyed as Roy prods at him even more. The redhead shoots Tim a wink.

“He’s your little shit, then.”

Tim bristles. “I’ve got a name.”

This only makes Roy perk up even more. It’s almost painful to watch him read the room so incorrectly, egging everyone on, but somehow Tim has a feeling Roy knows exactly what he’s doing. And to make things worse, Koriand’r’s smiling with sparkling hope in her eyes, casting a glance between Jason and Tim as if something great’s about to happen. It’s eerie.

“Yeah, we’ve heard about you!” Roy claps Jason on the shoulder. “See, talking’s not hard. Introductions are a great place to start. Jason, introduce us.”

Tim holds his breath in anticipation of Roy getting elbowed in the gut by the crime lord for all his pushing, but Jason just scowls. “You’ve met him.”

“The coffee shop doesn’t count, he was scared out of his mind. Thanks to you.”

“The fuck did I do?”

“Not give him a good enough apology, apparently.”

“I sent a gift basket! What’s wrong with that?”

“What, that’s it? You just sent him one gift basket after breaking his bones?”

“Right, that is not a good apology, Jason Todd.”

As the older kids bicker, the GCPD car engines start up, getting Tim’s attention. They drive away, leaving the street empty. It feels like Tim’s first day of kindergarten, watching his mother drive away after dropping him off. He was on the verge of crying back then, too. The cold night air bites at his cheeks and his back stings like hell, but he doesn’t feel like moving to somewhere warmer.

He doesn’t notice when the bickering’s stopped, though.

“Hey, Tim,” Jason says, stepping and kneeling into Tim’s field of vision. “Don’t look over there. Look at us, baby bird.”

Tim’s not used to Jason’s soft voice. Numbly, he looks into Jason’s blue eyes.

Jason jabs a thumb in the direction of the others. “The redhead who won’t shut up is Roy. And you know Kori, right, Timmers? She’s pretty cool. You know who they are?”

“Y-your team.”

“Yeah.” Jason pulls off his suit jacket and drapes it over Tim’s shoulders. “And my friends.”

“Oh, you did not just friendzone us, what the fuck — ”

Jason steamrolls over Roy’s spluttering, not taking his eyes off Tim. “You’re safe. We’ve going to find the Court of Owls. They’ll never be able to touch a single strand of your hair again, baby bird.”

“Indeed,” Kori says gently. “You do not have to worry, Tim Drake. Jason Todd is very capable of shooting people dead.”

Oh, Tim knows. And somehow, even though it doesn’t make his parents love him, he feels the tiniest bit better. His nod turns into a yawn. Jason ruffles Tim’s hair. And then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he turns around, offering his back.

“Come on, I’ll carry you home.”

Carry? Like… piggy back? But it’s the last word that Tim trips on.

“Home?” he echoes.

“It’s late, our apartment’s not far, you need get your injuries looked at,” Jason lists, his eyes expressionless as he looks over his shoulder at Tim.

Tim feels like he’s in an alternate universe as he cautiously climbs onto Jason’s back, the suit jacket cloaking over both of them, spreading warmth. He presses his cheek to Jason’s shoulder as the older boy starts to trudge down the street. Tim can hear Roy and Kori following behind them, but at enough of a distance to give them nothing but time to talk.

“Thought you hated me,” Tim mumbles.

Jason snorts. “Didn’t you get the stupid gift basket, Replacement?”

“Yes, I got the stupid gift basket. It sounded like a threat. I thought it was a threat.”

“Well, it wasn’t.” There’s something quiet in Jason’s tone. Remorse, maybe.

Tim can work with remorse. He taps his knuckles on Jason’s head.

“What a great thing to know months after the fact.”

“I can still drop you, you know.”

But Jason doesn’t drop him. The Red Hood, who doesn’t seem as terrifying as he once was, carries Tim all the way home. They fall into a peaceful rhythm, one composed of Roy and Kori bickering behind them and the stars twinkling above them — which appear to Tim, ironically, like bronze, silver, and gold treasures against the night sky.