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Tim Drake never meant to become a supervillain.
Really, it was just a logical progression of events.
First, his parents died, leaving him an orphan. Their money got tangled up in legal battles and shady business dealings, which meant he was left with approximately $3.76 in liquid assets and a growing mountain of student debt.
Second, Gotham University’s doctoral program was brutal, and funding for grad students was basically a myth. His stipend barely covered rent in Crime Alley.
Third—and possibly most importantly—his dissertation committee consisted of Dr. Pamela Isley, Dr. Jonathan Crane, and Dr. Victor Fries. Yes, those Dr. Isley, Crane, and Fries.
So when Dr. Crane leaned across the table during one of their meetings and casually said, “If you need extra credit, I do know a way…” Tim really should’ve run. Instead, he had sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and muttered, “I’ll get my coat.”
And that was how he ended up here—standing on the rooftop of Gotham BioTech in a stolen lab coat, hacking into their database for his “villainous” doctoral research, while the city’s most annoying vigilantes attempted to talk him out of crime.
“This isn’t you,” Nightwing pleaded from across the rooftop. He had his hands on his hips, all heroic and frustratingly handsome, with that infuriating older-brother energy. “There’s good in you.”
Tim, currently going by Wraith (because it sounded cool and vaguely menacing in a grad-student-trying-to-be-scary kind of way), let out a slow, tired breath. “I really think all that’s in me at this point is ramen, Red Bull, and spite.”
“No,” Red Hood interjected. “You are definitely, one hundred percent fueled by spite. The ramen is just a side effect.”
“Not the point, Hood,” Spoiler muttered.
“Okay, but I feel like it is?”
Robin—Damian, Tim was pretty sure—narrowed his eyes at him, scowling. “What happened to you that could turn you to the dark side?” His voice was dramatic, full of that League of Assassins righteousness. “What could corrupt a mind as sharp as yours?”
Tim deadpanned, “I failed.”
A tense silence followed. The Bats looked at each other, exchanging their signature we’re-going-to-psychoanalyze-this-guy-later glances.
Nightwing took a step forward, gentler this time. “What did you fail? Yourself? Your family? Your lover?”
Tim let the moment stretch, then sighed. “…No. Developmental Biology.”
Another silence.
“…I have to know,” Spoiler finally said. “Was it the coursework or the professor?”
Tim tilted his head. “Both. Dr. Langstrom is insane, and I say that as someone whose committee includes Scarecrow.”
“Yeah, that tracks,” Red Hood muttered.
There was a rustle behind him. Tim instinctively spun on his heel, preparing for a counterattack—only to find Batman himself standing there, looming like a disappointed father figure Tim absolutely did not have time for.
“Wraith,” Batman said, voice deep and grave, like he was about to say something profound. “Come with us.”
Tim sighed. “Look, I appreciate the intervention, but I have about six hours to finish this heist-slash-research-project before I have to TA a bunch of freshmen who don’t know how to use a microscope. Can we just…table this?”
“Come with us,” Batman repeated.
“…You’re not gonna let this go, huh?”
“No.”
Tim groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Fine. But if I fail my dissertation because of this, I am absolutely blaming all of you.”
Red Hood slung an arm around his shoulder. “Buddy, that’s fair. But if it helps, you’re definitely one of us now.”
Tim wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or deeply concerned.
Tim wasn’t sure how, exactly, he had let the Batclan drag him away from his totally justified crime spree—er, academic endeavor, but now he was sitting in the Batcave, in sweatpants, eating what was possibly the best homemade Alfredo pasta he’d ever had.
Alfred Pennyworth, it turned out, was a culinary genius. Tim had barely managed to change out of his stolen lab coat before the man had placed a steaming plate of food in front of him, along with a pointed remark about “the tragically malnourished state of Gotham’s graduate students.”
“I feel like this is a bribe,” Tim muttered, shoveling another bite into his mouth.
“Not a bribe,” Nightwing said with a grin. “More of a—”
“A recruitment tactic,” Batman interrupted, sitting across from Tim with all the patience of a man who had spent too many years wrangling feral children. “We don’t want you as an enemy.”
Tim swallowed. “That’s funny, because I don’t actually want to be a villain.”
“So why work for them?”
Tim sighed, gesturing vaguely with his fork. “You know what pays worse than crime? Academia.”
There was a chorus of sympathetic noises from the table. Apparently, even the Batfamily understood that grad school was its own circle of hell.
“I mean, what was I supposed to do?” Tim continued, waving his fork around for emphasis. “Dr. Crane tells me I can get extra credit by doing some light industrial espionage, Dr. Isley is offering funding if I promise to denounce Big Pharma, and Dr. Fries literally froze the last guy who rejected his research grant. And I’m broke.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Red Hood cut in, holding up a hand. “Are you telling me you didn’t even choose villainy? You got forced into it for extra credit?”
Tim shrugged. “Welcome to grad school.”
“That’s the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard,” Spoiler muttered.
Damian, of all people, looked the most personally offended. “You mean to say you have no actual ambitions of villainy?”
Tim scoffed. “I mean, it’d be nice, but have you seen the villain job market? There’s no health insurance, everyone has an archnemesis, and the work-life balance is awful.”
Batman, very seriously, asked, “And you’d rather teach undergraduates than commit crimes?”
Tim exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. “No, but I need a degree before I can be a proper mad scientist. If I don’t finish my PhD, all I am is a henchman.”
Red Hood choked on his drink. “I’m sorry, are you saying you’d be more okay with villainy if you had a doctorate?”
“…Yes?”
Nightwing let out a wheeze. “So this isn’t about morality, it’s about qualifications?”
Tim nodded solemnly. “If I’m going to take over the world, I want it to be Dr. Wraith, PhD doing it. Not some dropout with an inferiority complex.”
There was a long, long pause.
Then, inexplicably, Batman said, “You could work for us.”
Tim blinked. “What.”
“We have resources,” Batman continued. “Funding. A research lab. And we pay better than the Gotham University grad program.”
Tim narrowed his eyes. “And in exchange?”
“You stop committing crimes,” Batman said evenly.
Tim considered it. On one hand, he’d already done so much work getting into villainy. On the other hand…
He glanced at Alfred, who had already prepared a second plate of pasta for him.
“…Do I still get free food?”
Alfred raised an eyebrow. “So long as you do not get blood on my floors, Master Drake.”
Tim sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Fine. But if I get roped into any vigilante nonsense, I want hazard pay.”
Nightwing grinned. “Welcome to the family.”
Tim groaned.
Somehow, he had the sinking suspicion that he had just made a huge mistake.