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Chapter Text

Janet Drake had a well known reputation of striking down her opposition with a ruthlessness that terrified the upper-class of Gotham, but this was not what initially drew Nemesis to Janet. Yes, the way she tore people down with a vengeance was admirable, but it was the way that Janet controlled the fates of others with such precision and finality, changing people’s entire futures with ease that sealed the deal.

Timothy Jackson Drake was born as heir to Jack Drake and son to Nemesis on a humid day in July. It took the baby demigod an hour to open his eyes and if anyone bothered to look closely, they would see his tiny fist clutched onto a wisp of shadow like it was a lifeline. Alas, like many things about Tim Drake, this was unobserved.

—

Tim Drake’s differences continued to be unnoticed by the adults around him, though to be fair, Tim also didn’t see his eccentricities. They didn’t notice his more opaque shadow, his too black hair that lacked an undertone, and most of all, they didn’t notice the way darkness draped over him like a security blanket.

That isn’t to say that Tim was unobservant- far from it, actually. He observed his parents’ prolonged absences from Drake Manor and the odd housekeeper they hired. He observed the flying Grayson’s deaths and the orphan they left behind. He observed that same orphan perform a quadruple somersault, though this time it was performed as Robin. Tim observed enough to quickly connect the Bats’ identities at the ripe age of seven and grabbed his camera to follow them into the night, the unnoticed wisps of shadows trailing after him ever so faithfully.

—

Tim, now a stubborn twelve year old, crept to the edge of a dilapidated building, camera already up to his eye in anticipation. Two-Face had been planning something for a few weeks now- stocking up on explosives, hiring more goons and the like- but it wasn’t known what he was planning and the Bats needed information on the specifics. Hence, Tim currently stood on top of a building in Park Row, camera in hand and hoping to take a photo of Batman and Robin staking out mid-level gang members.

Tim eyed the building opposite of him where Robin had chosen to make his nest, no Batman to be seen. This was likely to be a simple reconnaissance mission, no bowling needed just yet, and with Batman staking out a different pair of mid-level gangsters. Tim crouched down lower on the rooftop and took a photo of the lone Robin. This was a mistake. Either the movement caught Jason’s notice or he somehow heard the shutter of the camera, but whatever it was, Jason’s eyes soon glanced up in Tim’s direction. Tim held his breath and slowly lowered his camera. Jason’s eyes swept the building’s roof, the gangsters leaving the alleyway as he did so, but it seemed that he somehow didn’t notice Tim crouched down with his camera.

When Jason’s attention returned to the departing gang members, Tim released his held breath. And promptly collapsed to his knees as an odd fatigue overwhelmed him. Robin’s attention immediately snapped back up to Tim’s rooftop and they made eye contact. Tim shakely stood back up, limbs heavy, and began to back up to the fire escape. If Tim could get down the fire escape quickly enough, then maybe, maybe, he could get away without being interrogated- the sound of a grapple gun firing cut off his thoughts.

Robin now stood on the edge of the building, a smile on his face that he reserves for crime alley kids.

“Hey kid, what’re you doing out so late?” Jason gently asked. Tim tried to angle his face away from the light and shift his camera more to his back because Tim did not want Jason to recognize him when they sat next to each other in French class on Monday.

“I was just looking at the skyline, Mr. Robin.” Tim answered innocently, a false crime alley accent in his words. Jason’s face softened a bit. Tim stuffed a hand into his hoodie pocket and palmed his homemade smoke bombs.

“Well, if you want a free snack or a shelter from the wind, the Wayne Foundation has centers running 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. It’s all anonymous too, so you don’t have to worry about CPS knocking on your door. I’ll even walk you there.” Tim paused a moment before responding.

“I’ll go home without a fight if you don’t follow me like a creep, Mr. Robin.” Jason’s face spasmed a bit at the unexpected response as Tim had a minor moral crisis over calling Robin a creep.

“I am not a creep! I am your local kid vigilante!” Jason gasped in mock offense, hand clutched over his heart dramatically. Well in for a penny, out for a pound I guess.

“You are literally wearing short shorts and trying to find out where a child lives.” Tim began to walk towards the fire escape, still talking over his shoulder. “And let's not forget about the time when Batman used to wear his underwear on the outside of his pants.” Jason snorted before he started to follow Tim down the fire escape with practiced ease.

“But it’s part of the brand of Robin. I am legally required to wear these, but Batman’s costume choice was all him so feel free to keep making fun of him for that.” Jason retorted as they made their way down the alleyway. At this point, Tim had given up on trying to hide his camera from him as Jason was sure to have spotted it and the false crime alley accent by now. Tim could only hope that Jason didn’t recognize his face and realize that quiet kid Tim Drake from school was the same kid who called Robin a creep.

“No way would the Robin short shorts be legally required under OSHA. It leaves the skin way too exposed for harm- I get the fact that you need mobility, but come on, man. Your legs have zero protection against knives, bullets, fires, chemicals, and everything else dangerous in Gotham. You don’t need to be fully swimming in kevlar like Batman, but at least wear pants and long sleeves when you’re crime fighting.” Tim ranted, now waving his hands around to emphasize his point as Jason grinned at his exasperation. When Tim finished his rant, he shoved his hands back in his hoodie pocket and looked at Jason, daring him to defend himself.

“Ah, but I never said that it was legally required under OSHA. The Robin costume is legally required to have short shorts under the rule of cool- which states that coolness takes precedence over practicality.” Jason smirked at the look on Tim’s face as they passed by a bus stop. Tim stopped in his tracks and turned to face Jason, Tim’s back to the bus stop.

“But the Robin costume isn’t cool.” Tim deadpanned as he heard a bus pull up to the stop. When Jason gasped in mock offense, Tim threw down a smoke bomb and immediately sprinted for the bus. Tim heard Jason begin to cough from the unexpected smoke as he shoved a 20 dollar bill into the surprised bus driver’s hand. Tim made his way to the back on the empty bus and sat down low in a seat, his hands only mildly shaking. Then Tim began to slightly freak out over what happened.

Holy crap Robin talked to me. I joked with him, he offered to walk me home, I lied to him, I gave him unsolicited costume advice, I insulted his costume, I called him a creep, I insulted Batman’s old costume, I threw a smoke bomb at Robin- holy shit I’m going to be thrown in Arkham. There’s no way Jason didn’t recognize me- we are literally neighbors and sit next to each other in French class. He’s going to tell Batman who I am and I’m going to end up being roommates with the Joker.

Tim’s crisis was interrupted by the sound of the bus doors closing and the feeling of the bus moving. He gathered the courage to peek out the window. And there was the lone Robin on the sidewalk, looking around with an annoyed expression and black smoke still around him. Tim took a picture. He smiled shakily at his consolation prize as he rode the bus all the way back to Bristol and his mausoleum of a house.

Chapter Text

Tim practically collapsed in his bed when he arrived home. His daring escape from Robin left his eyes heavy and legs weak; his usually cold bed felt heavenly compared to the gritty streets of Gotham. He didn’t even bother to take off his street clothes or brush his teeth—only caring enough to take off the hoodie that held a lone smoke bomb, tossing it onto the growing pile of clothes on his bedroom floor. Sighing, his head hit the pillow, and, thankfully, sleep came easily—more or less.

He tossed and turned, fighting off demons that only his subconscious could understand, but ultimately his sleep was dreamless. His waking was less than pleasant—his eyes gunked over from sleeping too long, his stomach so empty that he felt like he could eat a horse, his body tired as if it had run a marathon without him. And the pulsing pain behind his eyes was not helping matters.

Tim groaned and rolled over to look at his alarm clock. 1:17 pm was plastered onto the screen in an irritating red. Once again Tim groaned as he laboriously got to his feet, bemoaning the loss of the school day.

He made his way downstairs and began fixing himself breakfast from the stash of instant ramen he hid from his parents and Ms. Mac. He would have to hide the Styrofoam cup in the trash because Ms. Mac always comes home at three o’clock on Mondays to do the general housekeeping and ensure that Tim hadn’t died in a ditch somewhere. It would be a valid assumption for her to make. While the water began to boil in the kettle, he went to where his laptop was left charging on the coffee table and opened it up.

Leisurely, he logged into his father’s personal email and composed an email excusing Tim from his absence, citing a stomach bug because no one wants to hear the details of a stomach bug.

With a soft click, Tim heard the kettle come to a stop, prompting him to stand. With greater than average concentration, he poured the boiling water into the ramen cup, careful not to accidentally burn himself. While he waited for the noodles to cook, he finalized the email and sent it to Gotham Academy’s attendance office.

Tim had no business being in Gotham Academy. He was twelve and got a C in English last year—and even then, he had had to cheat by sneaking in a small device that would quietly read aloud the text it was pointed at. And yet he was a freshman. At Gotham Academy. Gotta love the power of rich parents and being good at math.

Tim ate his noodles and contemplated his life. And his current situation. Mostly his current situation. Jason saw his face last night. Robin saw his face last night. He was so extremely, royally screwed. Maybe he could just never go to school again. Right, school. That still exists. Hastily, Tim sent his teachers an email requesting whatever work he missed that day. He could knock out his math work easily and cheese his English essay by just using speech to text. The most time consuming would be French- there was a test on conjugations coming up and they still made his head spin. At least his pronunciation was impeccable. Tim threw out his ramen cup and buried it in the trash—Ms. Mac would be there soon, and he knows that she would give him “The Stare” if she saw him eating instant ramen. So, to placate her Tim opened a bag of veggie straws (clearly the healthier option, considering that practically no one reads the ingredients list) to munch on and got to work.

Tim called out his usual greeting when he heard Ms. Mac enter the manor—right on time, as always. She stayed silent. He heard her set her purse down in the entrance foyer. Tim stopped typing on his laptop. A sinister silence rang through the manor.

“Ms. Mac? Is everything okay?” He questioned. He heard Ms. Mac take a deep breath of air—there was something hungry in the sound.

“Oh yes, everything is perfect,” her voice coming closer to a purr than human speech. The hair on Tim’s arms rose. He slowly stood up, ready. Ready for what? He didn’t know. All he knew was that his instincts were going haywire. He began to make his slow descent toward the foyer, poking his head around the corner. There stood Ms. Mac, grinning from ear to ear. It took Tim a moment to process beyond that. With unnatural ease, her clothes sloughed off, only to be replaced by feathers, her arms becoming broad powerful wings and the nails on what used to be human hands becoming darkened claws.

They made eye contact.

Her pupils consumed the whites of her eyes.

Tim booked it.

He sprinted through the hallways, socked feet pounding into the tiled floor, the sound of it becoming the background symphony to the fight for his life. Tim knew deep down in his marrow that he would not survive whatever was happening on brawn alone—he would have to be smart about it. He stuck to the hallways that were cluttered with his parents’ life’s work despite knowing they’d probably send him to the windowless upper attic if anything got damaged. But Tim could survive a week or two in there—if he could survive Ms. Mac.

Tim could hear her lumbering after him through the artifact laden hallway, but he didn’t dare turn around to see how close she really was. He could smell her—the scent of rotting entrails violated his nose as he took in short quick breaths. Her sinewy body crashed into him, pain coursing through his body as he felt something rake across his left shoulder. His body, alight with agony, crashed to the ground. A shriek echoed through the manor—Tim couldn’t even begin to guess who it belonged to. As he went down, his hands scrambled against the wall for purchase. He grabbed onto a wooden pole that was on display, hands slick with his own blood as he gripped it with all the strength his twelve-year-old body could muster.

Ms. Mac held onto his leg like a vice-like grip, but the blood from Tim’s wound prevented her from getting a proper grip as Tim kicked and flailed. He rammed the end of the spear once, twice, three times into Ms. Mac. Her grip loosened and Tim scrambled to properly stand up, struggling to find purchase on the tile that had quickly turned wet and slippery from his blood.

His shoulder was practically on fire as he repeatedly swung the pole overhead and into her body. Her wings audibly cracked each time the pole made contact. Tim thought he could hear her ribs snap under his brutal onslaught. If she even had ribs or bones.

Slowly, her movements ceased. Slowly, she stopped moving. Slowly, her grip on life weakened. Tim stood there breathing heavily, his now ruined shirt sticking to his back from blood. There was no way in hell that he wasn’t going to need stitches. The pole clattered to the ground, the only sound in the once again desolate manor besides his pounding heart. Tim numbly looked at it. It wasn’t a pole like Tim thought it was—it was a spear. Tim picked it up again and approached Ms. Mac’s body. She turned her head to look at him—he plunged the spear through her skull as soon as they made eye contact. And yet, brain matter didn’t come out like he expected—she just simply dissolved into dust.

He dropped the spear again and backed away, his ragged breaths now the only sounds flowing through of the manor. He stepped away from where he had crammed himself against the wall—his parents wouldn’t like paying a cleaning company on top of paying for all the artifacts that were destroyed in Ms. Mac’s. . . outburst? Attack? Whatever it was.

Holy shit. He just killed Ms. Mac. He needed to do something. He needed to get help, he thought as the blood from his shoulder dripped onto the floor.

Cold began to slither through his veins and his breaths became raspier, darkness began to encroach on his vision as he made his way through the wrecked halls. He began to mentally tally the damage caused by his actions—the fifty-thousand-dollar vase from the Ming dynasty was in shard on the floor. The thirteen-thousand-dollar cuneiform tablet that had witnessed more than four-thousand years of history was now pebbles. The Greek coin collection was, thankfully, okay.

With a deep breath, he stepped onto the cold kitchen tile with socked feet, walking over to the counter that housed the landline. He hesitated. He just killed someone. But it was in self-defense. But there was no body. There was no evidence. They would think he was crazy. His legs wobbled and refused to support his weight for a moment longer. As Tim laid there, a pool of blood forming around him, all he could think about was how annoyed his parents would be at paying for his funeral.

Chapter Text

Tim came back to the world spitting and sputtering at the bad taste intruding on his tongue. He lurched forward, heaving in dramatic breaths as he turned to his side and his stomach attempted to purge itself to no avail. The inside of his mouth tasted as if sawdust and the concept of decomposition had a baby and left the afterbirth in his mouth. A surprised laugh from Tim’s side sent him scrambling away, his heart jackrabbiting inside his chest.

There sat his French teacher—Mr. Doe—grinning from ear to ear as if Tim being soaked in his own blood was the funniest thing on earth. His prosthetic leg was to the side of him, and his knee was under him—both on the precipice of Tim’s pool of blood. Tim stared at him. His shoulder was no longer burning.

“Buck up kiddo, we have a train to catch,” Mr. Doe said as if he actually belonged in Tim’s house and began to reattach his leg. Tim took a generous step back.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Tim stated, trying to keep the shakiness out of his words. He moved closer to the landline he had previously failed to reach, only for a blade to soar into the phone, shattering it—no, not a blade—it was a long feather.

“Bad idea to go anywhere near technology right now, kid.”

Tim stared at him incredulously; eyebrows raised in disbelief.

“Very bad idea-” Mr. Doe reaffirmed, “-As soon as you send out a virtual message, half of the monsters in Gotham would flock to us and be more than happy to tear the both of us apart. Which still might happen, considering the amount of blood here, but don’t worry about that—I know some guys. Here, eat this flower. It’ll help prevent something like this from happening.”

Mr. Doe stood up, leg now properly reattached, and reached up to his head where—for some reason—a flower crown sat. He plucked a small purple flower that vaguely resembled a snake gourd flower and held it out to Tim—of which Tim stared at with skepticism plastered clear as day on his face.

“You want me to eat a flower. That will protect me from monsters. Sure, because that makes sense—wait, how did you get into my house?” Tim’s confidence wavered as he took another, even more generous, step back.

“The harpy left the front door unlocked. C’mon, kid—this flower won’t bite—I checked. Besides, the last train leaves Gotham in less than an hour.”

Tim tentatively took the flower, raised it to his mouth slowly, and sniffed it—it smelled like cherries somehow. Tim stared at Mr. Doe. Mr. Doe stared back. Tim evaluated his options and reevaluated them—none of them were good. He rolled the flower between his fingers, trying to determine if the mysterious plant would somehow melt his skin off. Nothing happened. Tim looked back up at Mr. Doe. At his encouraging look, he put the entire flower into his mouth. Tasting like the sour cherries that Ms. Mac occasionally bought from the farmers’ market, Tim’s entire face puckered. Mr. Doe nodded at his reaction and tossed a traffic cone orange T-shirt at Tim’s face.

“Good. Put that on and go grab whatever you used to kill the harpy. Of course you snobs would just happen to have celestial bronze laying around. Because we all know that’s normal,” sarcasm laced his voice as he spoke.

Peeling the shirt off his face, Tim walked down the hallway where he had originally fled, the usually pristine corridor now littered with Tim’s failure to protect his parents’ work. As soon as he was out of Mr. Doe’s sight, he discarded his bloodied shirt and tossed it behind him, putting on the generic camp T-shirt and not even bothering to examine the icon on the front. It was greatly oversized, nearly coming down to Tim’s knees, but in a situation like this he really had no other options (his closet be damned, there was no way he was tracking this much blood through the manor).

Tim arrived at the site of Ms. Mac’s death. He didn’t know why he expected her corpse to somehow be there, but he was nonetheless grateful that he wouldn’t have to stare down the consequences of that particular action. There was a feather where she used to be—it looked to be the same exact type that Mr. Doe used to prevent Tim from making a decision that would have otherwise doomed them both. Apparently. He still didn’t know how much he believed that particular idea. But alas, Tim picked it up...and immediately cut his fingers trying to do so. But still he held on to it, attempting to inspect the object in his hand. It was a big feather—almost as big as Tim’s forearm. Tim didn’t know shit about birds besides robins so consequently he didn’t know shit about this feather. Inspection failed.

Carefully pocketing the feather so that he wouldn’t contribute even more blood to the mess that was the floor, he grabbed the bloodied and dusted spear. He made his way back to the kitchen where Mr. Doe was undoubtedly waiting for him.

On second thought—Mr. Doe could wait a bit longer, so Tim took a mild detour to the guest bathroom to wash the blood and dust off his miraculously still breathing body.

Stopping in the middle of the bathroom entryway, he was struck dumb by what he saw in the mirror. Half of his face was encrusted with blood from where he was lying down in a pool of it. It was in his hair. It was in his eyelashes. It was under his nail beds. An incredulous laugh bubbled out of his chest that quickly turned into a sob as the gravity of what just happened finally hit Tim.

A hand grasped his shoulder, causing Tim to whirl around and level the spear at his attacker’s heart. It was Mr. Doe. Sweet Mr. Doe who had been extra forgiving on Tim’s homework whenever he made a simple spelling mistake. Kind Mr. Doe who listened to Tim’s babbling whenever Tim ate his lunch in the classroom to avoid the bullies. Gentle Mr. Doe who helped Tim bandage a nasty scrape he got on his arm that was on the verge of infection. Mr. Doe who had never been anything but kind to Tim and often gave him flower crowns woven by his own two hands.

But that was also Ms. Mac.

Ms. Mac who definitely knew about the instant ramen but never commented on it. Ms. Mac who always had candy in her purse and would give Tim a piece whenever she came by to do her job. Ms. Mac who hadn’t hesitated in attempting to kill Tim.

Tim kept the spear leveled at John Doe’s heart, tears carving through the blood that had long since dried on his face and a sob threatening to burst free from his mouth. They made eye contact. Mr. Doe’s face looked ever so kind and understanding, and yet Tim didn’t trust it for a second.

Mr. Doe slowly put his hands up in a surrendering gesture. He didn’t look threatening whatsoever—with his salt and pepper hair that at this point was more salt than pepper and with the flower crown that Tim knew Mr. Doe had made himself rested gently upon his head. Which had horns. Mr. Doe was not human. Tim’s breaths became more rapid—he had no fucking idea what to do. His hands holding the spear were visibly shaking as he refused to back down.

“What are you?” Tim shrilly questioned.

“A French teacher who had the misfortune of being Gotham’s one and only Satyr who was intended to die 20 years ago,” he deadpanned, like that was supposed to make sense.

“Why do you want to kill me?”

“I don’t want to kill you, Tim. I want to help you get on a train that leaves Gotham in less than forty minutes. C’mon, let’s go. I have some strawberries in my bag if you’re hungry.”

Tim kept the spear leveled at his chest, “I don’t trust you.”

“That’s okay. I’m not that threatening. You can easily run me through with that spear and I wouldn’t be able to put up that much of a fight. I’m an old man, Tim. You could take me.”

Tim cautiously lowered his spear. Mr. Doe slowly approached Tim and wrapped his arms around Tim. After a moment, Tim melted into it and began to sob into Mr. Doe’s chest.

“Where are you going to take me?” Tim questioned, muffled by his own snot and Mr. Doe’s flannel.

“A place called Camp Half-Blood.”

And to Tim, those words sounded like a promise.