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Chapter Text

《 These events cannot be forestalled. Would you like to switch experiences? 》

Tim's first instinct had been to scream. His second was to grab his phone to make a call, except his phone wasn't there because of course it wasn't. Time travel doesn't mix well with modern technology, as it turned out. It had only taken several broken devices piled up in the corner and just as many sleepless nights to figure that out. And now, apparently it didn't even matter because all he had to show for his efforts was a stupid error message and a blank in his memory.

This is the first time the error message had ever shown up in physical form, however. The usual deal is he drops into a new timeline, figures out something's off, and gets out before any non-reversible damage is caused. Easy, right? Except for this time. The mission had gone well enough considering he hadn't found a way to change the timeline as was intended, but then the world went black and he had woken up here, in a dark void of a room with no visible exits.

(Okay. It's fine. Everything's fine. I just have to get out of here somehow and then patch this glitch. The glitch that feels oddly more purposeful than buggy. Yeah… definitely gonna need more caffeine. Sorry Alfred, It's necessary.)

The words floating in front of his head waver, almost as if the sign is trying to get his attention.

(Impossible, by the way. Words don't just hover midair. I must be hallucinating or something.)

《 Failure to respond within five minutes generates an automatic decision. Selecting new reality now. 》

Tim squinted as the sentence disappears, replaced by a countdown set to five minutes. Reaching a hand towards the hanging graphics, he stumbled forward as it passed through instead of making contact.

"How even? Last I checked, I was in the time stream, not a giant computer!"

Voicing his frustration aloud doesn't do much to soothe his mind as he paced back and forth across the seeming void of a floor. His voice echoed strangely, bouncing back in a way that makes whatever room he's in sound too large and oddly small at the same time. The only light he had to see by was the ominous ticking clock in the center, slowly making its way down to zero.

(What did it mean by new reality? A new timeline or planet? This doesn't seem like the usual work of aliens, but I wouldn't put anything past the supernatural.)

The glowing screen made a little ding as the counter finished, his head turning instinctively at the sound. He staggered backwards at the words blinking their way across the screen, heart rate quickening as he scrambled for purchase.

(No no no NO absolutely not i can't-I can't do this. I need to find a way out of here right now, before-) His train of thought is cut off by the floor opening up underneath where he's standing as the message glitches at the same moment, dimming the letters one by one. The words still hang in the air for a split second as the boy's scream fades into total silence.

《 Selection complete. Exchanging fates with Jason Todd. 》

Chapter Text

The last thing he remembers is pain. Bright, blinding, all consuming pain. A void of lucid green, taunting him every time he tried to scream and ended up gasping for air. Even after firm hands pulled him from the liquid, he could still feel it on his skin, burning hot enough to freeze, battering him relentlessly. The last, and the first thing he felt when he awoke, sputtering, from his nightmare of brilliant green light. His head felt it was spitting in two as he tried to sit up, only to fall back at the sharp burst of pain that followed. A hand steadies his back, a welcome barrier between him and cold stone.

"Ah, good, you're awake. His honor will be most pleased," a rough voice close to his face intones, fabric rustling as the speaker moves away from him. The hand disappears from his back along with the speaker, meaning he's now fully prone on the floor, body slowly absorbing the coldness of the stone beneath him.

"He still needs to recover properly. Tell him if you must, though make it clear he will not be receiving visitors currently." The person responding was female, that much was clear, and with a strangely familiar lilt to the voice as well. He couldn't quite place it, though it reminded him of a sense of desperate fear.

The original voice didn't respond, though he got the sense that they were nodding. He could hear a door sliding open a few feet away, footsteps echoing sharply down through a corridor.

"Can you understand me?" The question is asked of him in a businesslike tone, clearly expecting an affirmative answer.

He tries to open his eyes through a fresh wave of pain, nodding slightly as best he could despite it. The woman speaking inhales deeply, as if trying to muster her nerves before she speaks once more.

"Alright. Your name is Tim Drake. You're sixteen years old, and you're supposed to be dead."

Honestly, the most surprising thing about the news she delivered isn't that he didn't know his own name, or even his age. It's that "…I'm not dead?" A part of him was still hoping that this was the afterlife, though the throbbing in his skull dashed those hopes fast enough.

Now that his eyes are open, he can see her features are sharp as she laughs softly, a mocking sound that grated at his ears. "Of course not. Do you really think he'd let you die so easily?"

Tim doesn't know who this he is, (most likely the same guy that other one called his honor, if consistent is anything to be expected around here) and he's not too keen to find out. Anyone with an interest in him personally is usually sinister and not someone he'd like to meet.

"Who-" His voice cracks before he can finish his sentence, a sharp spike of pain through his throat.

The woman sighs, grabbing his face though he winces from the contact. She holds a cup to his lips, forcing him to drink. (God I hope they wouldn't try to poison me with this. Horribly inefficient way to do so, anyway.) He sips balefully, glaring at her as best he can.

She tsks, turning his head from side to side, seemingly looking for something and not finding it on his facial expression. "None of that. I won't tolerate disrespect while I'm saving your life."

He coughs, pushing the cup out of the way as he doubles over. "I didn't need saving. I'd rather die than be here with this pain." He didn't think the words through before saying them, but he suddenly knows it's true. He doesn't want this pain.

She watches him carefully as he reaches for the water once more, sorrowful eyes betraying her neutral expression as she studies his face.

Throat mercifully working now, he tries again. "Who is this he you keep mentioning?"

She shifts on her knees, answering slowly as if not sure of her ability to do so. "You'll find out soon enough. He'll introduce himself, I'm sure. Once you're a little more recovered."

"Recovered from what exactly?" he inquires, tilting his head.

She looks away at the door, getting to her feet definitively. "We're done here. Rest up and don't try anything irrational."

"Wait!" His hand shoots out involuntarily, making her pause and look down at him, raising an eyebrow.

He takes a deep breath, trying to remember what she had said earlier. "You know my name. What's yours?" (Even if she's just doing this under orders, she could be a possible ally. I still don't know what's going on, but I bet she does.)

The left side of her mouth quirks up into a half smile as she seemingly debates whether to answer or not. "Talia. You can call me Talia." With that, she turns to walk out, the door clicking behind her.

Tim flops back onto the stone floor, taking the opportunity to explore the room around him. It seems to be a mostly rock cavern of sorts, clearly man made by the way the stone is carved out. There's faded blood splattered on the wall near where he's sitting, causing a chill down his spine. (Where am I exactly? This isn't Gotham, that's for sure.)

"Sixteen. Sixteen years old." He tries the words hesitantly, and can't help but feeling like they don't fit. (I don't feel sixteen. I can't remember my birthday. Though, I can't remember…any of my birthdays.) It's an odd feeling, like the knowledge is right there but just out of his grasp at the same time. It's at the edge of his vision, taunting him.

(Why can't I remember? What happened to me?)

He takes a breath, thinking over the conversation hoping for a clue. He pauses for a minute before sitting upright with a jerk, ignoring the flare of pain.

"I'm sorry did she say I'm supposed to be dead?"

Chapter Text

Five-something hours later, (Man, would it kill them to put a clock in here or something?) he still doesn't have any answers, scrambling down a long hallway after his very fast walking guide. "So, uh, where are you taking me exactly? Is this like a campus tour or..."

His guide doesn't bother to look back or respond, just speeds up as if trying to get away from him. Tim sighs and follows, resigning himself to a quiet hike. They've passed multiple other people at this point, everyone dressed in what looked to be all black uniforms of sort. (Almost looked like armor, but that's ridiculous. Who wears armor just causally around?)

Chuckling softly at the idea and failing to pay attention, he nearly crashes into the person leading him, not noticing they had come to a halt. They turn to glare at him, effectively shushing his noise of surprise at the unexpected contact.

Tim raises his hands in a placating manner, trying to appear remorseful. "Sorry, my bad. Wasn't looking ahead of me." (Why is this guy so uptight? It was a simple mistake!)

"This is one of the training rooms. You'll be expected to utilize the tools within to hone your senses for the next hour. Understood?"

"Training? Like a workout? You gotta give me something to work with here, oka-" His words are cut off by the guide shoving him inside a doorway, causing him to almost fall.

"Hey! You can't just…" The words die in his throat as he manages to get a look at the room he's in, mouth hanging open as he gapes. He seems to be standing inside a large cavern with no ceiling in sight. Hunting targets adorn the walls in a straight line, various weapons sticking out of the ones in back. He gets the sense that whoever threw them had good aim, as most are embedded deep into the thick fabric.

"I suppose he expects me to train you?" A stiff, childlike voice comes from the corner. Tim turns to see a black haired child, hardly more than nine or ten, standing with his arms crossed, legs planted firmly on the ground. (Did someone's kid get in here? I don't even know where here IS, but it definitely doesn't seem like a place for a child.)

The kid tilts his head, looking him up and down with a derisive expression. "Answer, or I'll have to assume you're a threat to get rid of."

Tim laughs nervously, glancing around at the door hoping for an exit only to see no handle or knob in sight. (How did that guy open it, then?) "Look, I don't know who you are, buddy. Someone just said 'your training starts now' and shoved me in here. i have no idea what I'm supposed to be doing. Do your parents even know where you are?"

He wasn't expecting the shwing of metal, or for a blade to hit the wall besides his head a moment later. He jumps back, clutching his ear protectively. The child he'd assumed lost suddenly looks a lot more dangerous, swinging a sword by his side expertly with a fierce glare.

"How dare you. I am Damian Al Ghul, heir to the throne of the League of Assassins. I am not a lost child to be rescued."

Tim stares at him, trying to decide if he's kidding. (He has a SWORD how is that legal? How is he strong enough to hold that thing? It looks like a katana, I thought you weren't supposed to be able to throw those!)

He clears his throat, taking a step back from the blade firmly lodged into the target next to him. "Sorry, what is a league of assassins again, and how am I connected to that?"

The kid-Damian?-turns on his heel, scoffing loudly. "Are you completely incompetent? This is the lair of the League. How could you be here and not possibly know that?"

"Well, no one's really bothered to tell me what's going on. I just went where I was directed. Sorry, i didn't mean…to upset you?"

The boy huffs impatiently, giving Tim the impression of a small angry cat. Adorably fussy with sharp claws. He smiles slightly at the thought, hiding it behind his hand when Damian shoots him a suspicious glare.

"I'll be taking my leave now. Try not to die here, it'll be terribly messy if I'm blamed for any incidents with you left alone."

He pushes past Tim, resting a palm on the seemingly exit less door and waiting. The door swings open under his hand, clicking closed once more as he strides out. Tim watches him go in fascination before turning back to the now empty room.

"Okay, well. Looks like it's time to go stab things for an hour. Nothing better to do, I guess."

Chapter Text

It turned out that there were rules to wielding a sharp object, (honestly, who would have guessed) regulations, and a lot of other things Tim really didn't want to pay attention to. (It's a sword. How hard could it possibly be?) Very hard, apparently. Finding one he could grip comfortably wasn't even half of it, he had to check his balance for each one. And he really didn't want to talk about how loud he had yelped when the heavy weighted blade he was holding slipped and nearly sliced through his left leg, narrowly avoiding a grievous injury by jumping back just in time.

Frankly, it was embarrassing that a ten year old had better control over these things than he did, and he refused to let that remain the case. That kid was far too cocky for his own good, and Tim intended to put him in his place by showing him up at his own game…as soon as he figured out how to toss the cold steel in a way that actually moved it towards the other wall instead of clanging onto the floor a step from where he stood.

He kept trying to mimic the movement the kid had made, flinging it from different positions, directions, even spinning it like a discus. (Hey, who knew that sharp metal wasn't meant to be treated like a round object? Certainly not me.) Eventually, after many struggles, he had a rhythm going, throwing his weapon into the target area from a further distance each time.

He sighed; crossing the distance from the rocks to the wall as his blade clattered to the ground again, missing the actual target by a good meter or two. Grumbling quietly to himself, he picked up the sword again reluctantly.

"You'd think they'd make these things less small, but noooo. Force me to hit ridiculously tiny sacks of cloth and wound my pride, is that their idea of fun around here?" Silence answered him, as it had for the past half hour. The only noise besides himself was the faint sound of water dripping far away in the rock. It was almost peaceful, being left to his own thoughts and musings. He could mutter to himself all he wanted about how this was annoying; he never wanted to hear metal falling again, wasn't it weird how everything here was so quiet, and why was that stupid drip getting louder now that he was standing next to the opposite wall to the door?

"Oh my god, shut up already," he groaned, resting his head against his arm braced on the wall. The water splashed distantly as if in protest, and he could see little beads of water forming on the rock next to him. (Okay, seriously. Who's in charge of maintenance around here? If you're going to build rooms out of stone, make sure there's no springs or underground rivers around! Basic knowledge here!)

The constant water stream was making his head hurt in a way that made his anger rise to the surface, bright and blinding. Dizzy from the sudden blood flow , he clutched at his forehead with his free hand, blade tumbling back to the ground with a clunk as he stumbled away from the rock. He needed it to not. He needed everything to be less noise. "Stop it. Shut up. Please just stop being SO LOUD." His voice rose with the words, as he covered his ears in an attempt to block the gurgling noise of water flowing outside of the room. It didn't help, the tension in his head intensifying with every step he took. It was like pressure building up in a can, his mind fuzzy with pain and rage.

Water pooled on the floor, slowly making its way through the cracks of the foundation. It felt like it was taunting him, proving a point by finding a way inside to bother him. He glared at the ever growing puddle angrily ; stepping over it in one firm step and punching into the hard surface with all his might, shattering the fissured rock beneath his fist as he hit it again and again, unrelenting until the source of his temper was crumbled on the floor in small stones and pebbles. Rock slowly fell from the mouth of the gaping wound he had created in the wall as he stepped back, holding his split and bleeding knuckles.

The water didn't lessen as he'd hoped, instead pouring steadily from the hole he'd created. The sight made the tension in his mind worse, anger that had fades flaring up again. The water just wouldn't stop, flowing and flowing just like-

Brilliant green bubbles, crowding his face as he floated motionless, time seeming to suspend itself with his breath. Water falling nearby, the sound causing him to twitch as his brain registered. Pain. Splitting his brain in two as it racked through his body forcefully. Wanting to get away, kicking wildly at the liquid uselessly. Colliding with the floor before struggling back to the surface, gasping for air as a sharp inhale stole his senses away. Being pushed back under, clawing at the arm that held him there.

Tim took a deep breath, opening his eyes to stare at the damage he had caused with one simple fit of rage. (It's fine I'm fine it was just a dream. Just my imagination. That's it. I'm fine. Everything's fine.)

He bent down to grab his blade with a shaky exhale, flinching slightly when the water lapped at his fingertips. (It's just water. It won't harm me. It's fine. Okay. It'll be okay.)

Bracing himself with the feel of cold steel in his hands once more, he crossed the room, taking another deep breath and assuming a throwing stance.

(Just one more time. That's all I need.)

Chapter Text

By day twelve he'd fallen into a routine. Wake up; get fed a breakfast that feels more suitable for an irritable pet than an actual human, ask as many questions as he can to annoy his guide first thing in the morning, get thrown into whatever torturous 'training' they've deemed fit for him that day, and try not to die. (It's surprisingly easy to almost die accidentally around here, how have these people never heard of OSHA safety regulations?)

Either by mistake or design, he still hadn't found out the names of anyone besides that weird kid and the lady that first woke him up. (You'd think I'd have run into more people around here by now, this building can't possibly be that big…) Not that he wanted anyone's company. His silent escort may not have been much of a confidant, but at least they didn't seem to actually care what Tim was doing when he was left alone.

Well, most of the time at least. He had tried to sneak a peek into an open door as they passed it on their way to another 'training' session and been forcefully pulled away with a yank that told him not to try that again. All he had managed to get a glimpse of was a row of black leather armor in various sizes because someone moved in front of the door frame to block his vision.(Honestly, if they didn't want me looking into rooms, they should've closed the doors. What's so special about that armor anyway?)

Despite not talking much, the one seemingly in charge of taking him places managed to convey their emotions well enough through baleful glares and skeptical eyebrow raises, somehow always succeeding in making Tim feel as chastened as a small child caught raiding the snack cupboard. He tried his best to make small talk and crack jokes in hope of forcing a laugh to no avail—It was like talking to a brick wall that was judging you and ignoring you at the same time.

And it wasn't like there was anyone else around to talk to. People practically scattered out of his path when he was walking through the halls, almost as if they were scared of him. Now that was ridiculous. Afraid? Of him? It would be like being scared of a puppy. A very sarcastic puppy, of course, but a cute one! (Or, well, I'd like to think I'm cute. Hot? I don't even know anymore, it's not like they have mirrors. Best I can do is a hazy puddle of water.)

Slashing at targets with assorted weapons got old on like, day two, and now he was bored out of his mind. At least they had relocated the weapons room to one with no leaking water after seeing the result of his outburst last time. They didn't even appear surprised, much to his own bafflement. It was like they were expecting something like it to happen, which was strange considering he hadn't done anything to make them think he would. (I'm not a violent person, what the hell did I do to make them assume I'd destroy their weird armory in the first place?)

At least no one tried to speak to him in here, he muses, retrieving a sharp edged star from the wall it was firmly lodged in. (Besides, well-) His train of thought was cut off by the door sliding open behind him, the telltale whisper of metal on stone alerting him to who it was. (-Speak of the devil. Just who I didn't want to see.)

"Still failing to produce proper aim, I see," Tim could practically hear the sneer in the haughty tone despite him being out of the other's sight, knowing that if he turned around he'd be met with cool indifference barely concealing disdain.

"What do you need, Damian?" The boy huffed in displeasure at the familiar use of his name, Tim turning to look at him as he crossed his arms to lean against the wall.

"You are far below me, Drake. Do not pretend to be on the same level by using my first name, I know your tricks."

Tim squinted at him, unsure of weather he was kidding or not. "You literally introduced yourself to me with your first name, so if you didn't want me to know it, it's a bit late for that. Also, I wasn't trying to be 'on the same level' or whatever you said, I was trying to be hostile."

He gestured at the target next to him with the throwing star still in his hand. "Because, y'know, you're kinda interrupting my peace and quiet."

Damian scoffed, glancing at the wall which spoke of many missed projectiles with jagged tears in several places across the fabric.

"I suppose your peace and quiet consists of brutally attacking everything but the actual mannequins?"

Tim raised an eyebrow, pushing the hair falling across his eyes out of the way. "I refuse to feel insulted by someone who looks like a kids show protagonist. Keep scowling like that, someone might think you're not a perfect ray of purity and sunshine."

The younger boy just looked confused at his words, head tilting in a way that kinda reminded him of a cat. A very small, aggressive cat.

Tim laughed at his expression, a small flare of satisfaction at having stumped the cocky kid's usually quick witted comebacks. "Don't tell me you've never heard of sarcasm?"

Damian frowned harder at that, glaring at Tim as if he'd like to use him as one of the targets. "Of course I have. I simply see no need to resort to such uselessly two-faced language. Unlike yourself, an Al Ghul always speaks their mind in a clear and concise manner."

"Are all of your relatives as insufferable as you are? That would explain some things, I'm sure."

For a minute, Damian looked like he wanted to attack him, visibly holding himself back from crossing the few feet between them. "Do not speak of my family in such a way. You are on thin ice, Drake. If I weren't under direct orders not to-"

Tim tuned the rest of his speech out, focusing on something he hadn't realized before. "Wait, how do you know my last name?" (I barely know my last name, for fucks sake. Where did he learn that?)

The younger blinked, cut off mid-rant. "I overheard my mother talking about you to one of the assistants. Do you expect yourself not to be known, while causing scenes left and right?"

"Scenes? What scenes? The wall wasn't even my fault! It was that stupid leak…"

Damian sighed, shaking his head while clicking his tongue. "You should be most grateful you're still here at this point, I have no idea what they were thinking allowing you to train by yourself. You can't even hit an single goal correctly."

"And I'm supposed to believe you can?" Tim's incredulous tone bounces off the walls.

Now Damian is the one to look righteous, straightening up and puffing out his chest like a small pelican. "Yes. You are. Are you forgetting that you're a mere trainee, while I have striven for the title of heir my entire life? I have been personally instructed by some of the greate-"

Tim waves his hand dismissively, not wanting to hear a repeat of what he'd listened to all week from the smaller boy. (Does he ever just shut up? man, he really is unbearable.)

Damian shut his mouth with an angry snap once he realized Tim wasn't paying attention. He huffed, marching over to the weapons rack and selecting a katana. (If anything, this kid can be counted on to be predictable. At least when it comes to sharp objects.)

"I am only going to explain this once, so you better be concentrating this time."

Tim raises his hands innocently, trying to muster a naive look. "I'm always paying attention, I swear! Who wouldn't want to hear your soothing voice all the time?"

He shot the older boy a suspicious stare, clearly attempting to figure out whether Tim was messing with him or not. Tim blinked demurely. Damian glared back harder, apparently having decided he was being sincere. (Like hell I was. Not my fault this idiot has never heard of nuance in his entire life.)

Damian held the blade out towards him, blade first. Tim glanced at him, and then back at it. "Do you want me to take it from you, or…"

"I am clearly showing you proper wrist position! If you weren't such a complete imbecile you would have realized that."

"Okay, okay! Sorry. Never can tell with you." He muttered the last bit under his breath, not willing to take the chance of the shorter trying to stab him if he heard. He certainly was within distance for it.

Damian sighed, evidently wanting to be done with this. "You hold like this, and then flick. It is one of the most basic skills for one to possess."

"For someone raised in an armory, maybe. Some of us are normal."

He scowled, trusting the sword at Tim impatiently. "Just—try it. You are getting on my nerves."

Tim grinned, taking the sword from him and measuring the weight of it in his hand. "Aw, you're telling me I wasn't on them already? Such a shame. This thing is heavy, dude, seriously how do you 'flick' this without tearing your wrist out?"

"Toss from the forearm, not your actual wrist. It's a turn of phrase. Ever heard of them?"

He barked a laugh unexpectedly, almost dropping the katana out of surprise. "So you can be funny! I thought all you knew how to do was glower and talk like a robot."

Damian evidently didn't find his jab funny, turning to the targets and gesturing impatiently instead of rising to the bait. (Huh. He's usually more hot headed than this. Is he tired out from arguing or something?)

"Well, here goes nothing." He follows the directions from earlier, throwing the blade with all the force he can muster. It thuds into the lower half of the target, handle still trembling.

Tim cheers internally, turning to the younger boy to thank him for the advice. To his surprise and slight disappointment, Damian is already two steps outside the room, door shutting softly with a click.

"…Ok then. Win for me on both counts. He's gone, and I know how to impale things from a distance."

He glances at the exit once more before going to retrieve the sword from the target, ignoring the voice inside him that wants to chase Damian down to thank him. (We're not friends. And I don't want to be. So…why does he remind me of someone?)

Chapter Text

He was falling, a weightless feeling, freezing wind slicing through his outfit as rain pelted him. He could still feel the stinging where small hands had shoved him, toppling him over the edge of a roof that neither of them should've been on. He had trusted him. Believed that he really wanted to make amends. He was such a fool, never should have fallen for such obvious deceit.

Of course an invitation to hide from the horrid weather on a secluded rooftop was a trap in hindsight, especially from someone who had tried to murder him multiple times before. But Tim had listened to the voice in his head that insisted Damian was trying to change, that he just wanted to bond. The voice that reminded him he had always wanted a younger brother-someone to guide through life and shelter from the worst of it. It was now abundantly clear that was never going to happen. He had made a horrible decision, as it had resulted in this. Him plunging to probable death as his would-be killer watched from above.

He felt like he was watching the scene from an outside perspective; seeing his body drop three stories down, twisting in an effort to catch onto a ledge, stone crumbling to pieces beneath his searching fingers. He really was going to die here, then. Cold, soaked, and alone, all because he had been a gullible idiot. God, he really was such an idiot, wasn't he? Letting a known assassin lure him out here. Turning his back on him. He wanted that to be on his headstone.

"Tim Drake, died from stupidity and familial yearning." Yeah right. He'd be lucky to have a headstone, at the rate he'd gotten himself pushed away from everyone else. Or-really, at the rate Damian had pushed everyone away from him. Claiming he wasn't really a part of the family. Making it clear he wasn't welcome. Not that he was welcome in the first place. He really had forced his way into the role of sidekick, hadn't he. Not a single person considered him someone to love, and boy, wasn't that something? Not a single person.

His thoughts were racing as he seemed to fall in slow-mo, time stopping even as his heart quickened. Like liquid amber, trapping him midair. As he came to that realization, time started again, resuming the same swift speed as before. He watched from above as his body landed on the harsh pavement with a sickening crack, feeling the impact reverberate through his bones from afar. It was an odd feeling, being disconnected from his physical self but also linked to every stabbing pain experienced.

He was frozen, unable to move as Damian landed next to his-corpse? Was he dead? He didn't feel very dead yet, but he knew for a fact that a fall from such heights could snap his neck easily, and was near fatal in the best scenarios. It was probably what the little demon had counted on in the first place, he never did anything by halves after all.

The leather clad boy crouched by Tim's still head, hand hovering over his face as if hesitant to touch him. He would be too if he had just pushed someone off a ledge, he supposed, gazing down at his broken body. The kid didn't seem very distraught by his actions, methodically checking Tim's pulse points and breathing with the practiced air of someone who'd done this countless times. He probably had, being a literal assassin and all. You just couldn't train the reflexes out of someone raised from birth with the intent to kill.

Damian paused, seemingly coming to a decision and pushing himself to his feet. He looked down at Tim's motionless form on the rain soaked concrete expressionless. "You shouldn't have tried to take a place that wasn't yours, Drake. I did tell you it was going to be your downfall someday."

With that, he spun on his head and strode off silently, wind ruffling through his hair as he went. Tim stared after him and then back down at his figure on the ground. At least he was still alive, if being non corporeal was anything to go by. He wondered how Damian was planning to tell the family of his supposed death, if at all. He hoped he wouldn't. He wanted them to at least think him somewhat competent in his last moments, and the brat was sure to inform them he had tripped over a branch or something equally as stupid. He knew Jason would get a laugh out of that one. The great Tim Drake, tripped off a building. He'd have a field day, practically.

He felt a sharp tug on his chest, almost as if he was being pulled by a string. With a sharp pop, he fell back into his body, mind thudding into place as if it had never moved. Pain radiated throughout his body in waves as he lay there, sirens far off in the distance.

Tim woke with a start, jerking upright and immediately touching his face to make sure he was really there. (Safe. Not on the ground. I'm not hurt.) He settles back with a sigh, swinging his legs off the mattress onto cold stone. Stumbling to the opposite wall, he rests his head on his arm, sighing softly at the rough feeling of the wall. His eyes open with a snap at the realization that bolts through him as he mules over his dream. (Memory. It was a memory. But that means…Damian tried to kill me.)

Chapter Text

It was stupid to trust dreams. That's what Tim told himself, pacing up and down the length between his bed and the door. Dreams were fickle things, meant to confuse and bewilder. His were, anyway. Filled with people he'd never met and events that were practically impossible, so it was…plausible that this one had been the same. (Dreams don't feel so real. No. Shut up.) He argued with himself, walking back and forth across cool stone, unable to reach a decision.

(I know what I felt, and it was a memory) The treacherous part of his brain whispered. The part that wanted to hunt down the kid and take revenge. Revenge for something that (probably did) definitely didn't happen.

After all, the only thing he remembered was seeing the kids face and then the sensation of falling and hitting the ground with a sharp crack. The rest of it was fuzzy, names and voices shrouded in white fog. The only he was sure of? It was definitely Damian in his dream, not just any kid with a katana and permanent scowl.

It had just felt so real. So visceral. The wind whipping through his hair. The loud smack as he hit the pavement. The pure anger at Damian and detachment at the whole situation. And he was angry, wasn't he? Angry at himself. Angry at his memories. Angry at the kid. But he was going to make him pay. The rational part of his mind wanted to reason with the vengeful voice (he's just a kid after all,) but he had never been one to listen to the voices in his head after all.

So when he found himself wrenching open his door to surprise and a loud squawk from the guard posted outside his door, he wasn't prepared. It was as if he was shoved aside in his own mind, forced to take a backseat to the whims of his anger. (And that damn voice. Does it ever stop?)

Anger spread slowly throughout his entire being, burning so hot it froze him to the core, causing him to shudder despite the moderate temperature of the hallway. The corridor was bathed in a sickeningly light green, glaring and bright against his still sleep fogged brain. He ignored the lookout now chasing after him, steps quickening down the hallway as he attempted to catch up to no avail. They wouldn't be able to stop him anyway, or what he wanted to do. (Find the kid. Consequences come later. After you've talked to him extracted revenge.)

The voice of reason in his head was oddly silent now, though usually so loud and persistent he had no choice but to listen. Any other time, it would have been concerning, the way his thoughts were all but taken over by thoughts of blood and violence and vengeance. The way his hands itched to touch chill metal, to swing at flesh and hear the macabre smack of it landing, skin sliced open and painted crimson red. But now? Now it just made sense. Complete sense. Why would he ever deny himself this fury, if it meant getting what he truly wanted? (Why would you ever deny yourself the pleasure of violence?)

It was like stepping through thick honey, each step deliberate though unsteady. The green light was overwhelmingly bright now, pressing in on all sides. If he didn't know any better he would say it was almost like tight pressure, wound up inside his mind and recoiling with every step he took. (Light doesn't feel like pressure, it's just light. Don't be stupid.)

He didn't know what he was planning to do when he got there. He hadn't really considered anything beyond what his conscious wanted him to do. (Blood pain murder REVENGE.) It was those persistent words that prompted him to finally twist the door handle, hesitating for a moment, torn between giving in to his urges or taking back control and just walking away. (Hah. As if you ever had a choice. You know what you need to do.)

When the handle gave way with a soft click, he half fell, half stumbled into the training room where a part of him hoped Damian wasn't waiting. Wasn't staring at him wordlessly with derisiveness before he took a step back at the look on the older boy's face, expression revealing his intentions before his actions could.

"Drake. What is the meaning of this?" His voice cracked slightly, betraying his slight fear as his back hit the wall opposite to where he was standing. He looked like…he was being hunted. And in a way, he was. (Remember why you're here.)

The scared look on the kid's face made Tim pause, green mist clearing slightly as he took a step forward, hand extending outwards toward the other in a placating gesture. Damian slightly unfurled from the wall at that, posture less tense now that he looked like he wasn't going to hurt him. "Look, I-"

Before he could finish his sentence, the suffocating green fog slammed back down on his vision, causing him to sway backwards before catching himself mid fall and taking another step. The kid's eyes widened at that, hand tensing on the handle of the sword at his hip.

"Come forward another inch and I will ensure you will never walk again," Damian threatened, hands trembling even as his voice was strong. Tim had no doubt he would back up the threat, but it was no concern to him now. (You're far stronger than him take him down now before he can fight back get his throat-)

The voices in his mind were cut off when the door was thrown open with a loud crack, familar black clad features stepping through the opening, worry and fear stark on her face. "What have you done," she whispered, gaze flickering between the boy cowering on the opposite wall to Tim's opposing figure.

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion then, as Damian moved for the door and the woman with a cry of "Mother!". Tim lunged at him, catching the edge of his sleeve and shoving him to the ground, using the katana he'd unsheathed from the boy's side in mere seconds to impale the thick fabric to the rubber mat. "Move and he dies," he snapped at the woman, who's hand was now covering a deadly looking weapon of her own.

Her voice was calm despite her obvious terror, hands holding steady as she crossed the room in one swift stride to press the cool metal against the edge of his throat. "I believe you're mistaken about who holds the power in this situation."

The boy shifted beneath him, trying and failing to wrest the blade from Tim's grasp. He tightened his hold, twisting it in an effort to make him behave. The thin trickle of blood running down his neck was enough to make him reconsider, though the murderous voice wasn't at all pleased. (What are you DOING kill him already he's right in front of you, she can't kill you as fast as you can kill him-)

Damian stilled beneath him, breath slowing as if he could hear the thoughts warring inside of his mind. Tim looked down at him, breathing evenly in tune with the smaller boy. The fog was lesser now, allowing him to actually think. (I….What am I doing? I don't want to hurt him. He's so young…) Oblivious to his inter turmoil, the younger blinked up at him impatiently, seemingly waiting for something.

The cold blade pressed harder against his vein, and he realized what he was waiting for. Very carefully, he took his hands off the sword twisting the boy's outfit into the mat, raising them slowly so she could see. The pressure at his throat didn't lesson, but it did stop increasing force.

"Get up," The woman's harsh voice commanded, prodding at him to rise to his feet, watching her face for any changes in expression as he did so. He looked down at the boy next to foot, who was looking at him like he'd gone crazy. (Did I go crazy? I don't think there's any other way to describe it.)

Tim offered his hand, retracting it when it became clear the smaller wasn't going to take it. The kid instead choosing to struggle up himself and launch himself into the waiting arms of the familiar seeming woman, who was using her unoccupied arm to point her long handled dagger at him still.

She lowered it slightly at the bewildered look on his face, confusion at the whole situation taking over any lingering anger he had left. He dropped to his knees, ignoring the sharp spike of pain as he hit the mats roughly. "I'm sorry. I don't-I don't know what happened." His voice cracked slightly as he said this, clearing his throat to continue. "I just- it felt so real.I'm sorry. I didn't mean-"

She sighed as she sheathed her blade, watching him watch her do so. The boy at her side seemed indignant at that, face twisting in worry as he looked up at her. "Mother, he clearly is compromised, we cannot trust he will not try to attack one of us again!" The emotion in his words was more than Tim had ever heard from him in his few short weeks there. (He sounds…young. Like a kid. He really is just a kid.I can't believe I…oh my god. I was going to…) The thought practically made him ill, stomach turning at the realization.

"Damian. Go back to your room. I'll deal with this." he started to protest before she shushed him with a look, causing him to nod and quietly head out the still open doorway. She surveyed the scene, Tim glancing away from her hesitantly. "Trust me, I never meant-" she cut him off by raising her hand, crossing over to where he knelt.

She took a breath before speaking once more, words coming out clipped and precise. "I think it's time you met the Demon's Head. Get up and follow me, no questions." He nodded mutely, rising and dusting his clothes off at the same time. Anxiety rose in his chest, along with the sharp taste of bile. (Just who is this demon's head, and what does he have to do with me?)

Chapter Text

Her clipped heels echoed off the corridor walls, and Tim had to scramble to catch up behind her. Despite her order for no questions, he couldn't help but blurt out the question swirling around in his head.

"Is he gonna kick me out?" He really wouldn't mind it, at this point. All the secrecy and mysterious headaches were starting to make him feel fed up with all of it. He was ready to leave, it didn't matter that he couldn't remember anything important. He would find his way. (Honestly, it was probably more likely the guy would just kill him instead of letting him leave. He was trying not to think about it too hard.)

He wasn't sure if she had heard him, but he didn't dare repeat the question. He had tried to attack -to hurt- her son. And god, wasn't he stupid for not noticing sooner. They had the same cold, neutral expression, same intense green eyes, same air of cool indifference. In retrospect, it was obvious, but he hadn't realized until they were next to each other in front of him. Until Damian had called her his mother in that shaking, terrified tone. (The tone that Tim had caused.)

Come to think of it, the kid had referred to himself as an heir more than once over their training sessions. Which meant that he was probably related to this "demon's head" as well. (Shit.) Yep, Tim was definitely screwed. How was he supposed to face this guy? (Hey, so, I just tried to murder a twelve year old kid that may or may not be a relative of yours, please don't hate me?) God, that sounded about as shitty as he felt right now. Evil green voice or not, there was no excuse for going after a child. In response to a nightmare, no less. What kind of fuck-up did that?! (An asshole, probably.)

Lost in thought, he barely avoided slamming straight into the older woman's shoulder, glancing up just in time to avoid the collision. She had stopped in front of a set of giant double doors, odd patterns carved ornately into the stone. "We're here," she announced, twisting around to stare him down. "I expect you to talk with the utmost respect, understood?"

(Jeez, she sounded exactly like what he imagined his mother would've.) "Yes ma'am. Message received." She gave a curt nod and turned to go, not bothering to look back at him. He supposed that was fair. She didn't know nor care for him, after all. (He would've appreciated at least a farewell before she left to deal him with a random man by himself, though.)

He hesitated before lifting the heavy carved knocker and letting it fall against the stone. No answer. He repeated the movement four times before he heard a distinct rumbling noise, almost as if rock was being dragged against the ground. Startling, he leapt back as the stone doors seemingly dragged themselves open with a rough crunching sound. "You can enter," a low voice that came from deep within intoned.

Tim's head whipped up from where he was staring at the stone. "Hello?" He stepped inside the room cautiously, hand drifting unconsciously to where his weapon usually sat at his hip. The space seemed to be more of a cavern than an actual room, the ceiling stretched impossibly high above him while the corners were wreathed in shadows that almost looked like they were twisting as he moved further in.

A tall shape disconnecting itself from the far wall caught his eye, resolving into more of a humanoid as it (he?) came closer. "Welcome, small dragon. Do you know who I am?" The man was now standing directly in front of him, looking down at him with a cool, emotionless face that looked horribly familiar. (So that's where Damian got it from…)

He glanced up at the realization that he'd been asked a question, stumbling over his words in an effort to give a quick answer. "No, I don't. Someone said something about a demon's head, but your face looks pretty human to me."

The man peered at him for a moment longer before tilting his head back in a loud cackle. "It seems your sense of humor has not been impacted, then. Good." (Excuse him? He wasn't even trying to be funny. Not this time, at least.)

"So I'm assuming you're the big man in charge, then?" He ventured, glancing at the decorated seat behind him. He hadn't noticed it before, having been too distracted staring at the ceiling. The seat (throne?) was elaborate in its design, carvings swirling across the surface in every direction. It looked fancy, almost reverent. He kinda wanted to touch it, but didn't dare move until the man in front of him did.

"I suppose you would word it that way. I am Ra's Al Ghul, also known as the Demon's Head. I am the sole leader of the League of Assassins, of which you are currently residing in the lair of. And you, little dragon, are going to be my heir."

Tim gaped at him, unable to form a response. Ra's simply sighed and steered him towards a cushion on the floor near the throne, motioning for him to sit. He waited for Tim to fold himself awkwardly on the floor before he smoothly sat down on the throne, leaning forward and pressing his fingers together. "I expect you'll have questions once you finish processing the new information."

Tim nodded, adjusting his seat on the floor then beginning. "I thought I was here because I threatened Damian? How am I supposed to be your heir if you already have one? And what do you mean by little dragon?"

The man- Ra's- sighed once more in an annoyed manner. (Well, if he didn't want questions, he shouldn't have prompted him then.) "If my weakling of a grandson cannot handle even a simple attempt on his life at this point, then that is entirely on him. He was under orders to be cautious around you, after all. And he is in no way fit to be my heir." He scoffed, leaning back to produce a glass tumbler seemingly out of nowhere and filling it with a mysterious liquid before gulping the entire thing down in one. (Gross.)

"The boy has been taught that my position is his birthright by his foolish mother, and I saw no reason to stop her. It had given him an incentive to train harder until now."

"Until now..?" Tim echoed curiously, leaning forward despite himself. Ra's speared him with a single glance over his glass, eyes beady in a way that made him uncomfortable.

"Now that you're here, I see no reason to continue to lie to the child. He is far too softhearted to take my place, despite his attempts to seem otherwise."

(Damian? Softhearted? He wanted to laugh at that.) "What makes you think I'll agree to be your heir in the first place? What if I refuse?"

Ra's tilted his head in a motion that reminded him of an owl (a probably evil owl) before slowly standing up. Tim did the same, not wanting to appear small. "Why would you want to do that? I'm offering you a perfect deal here. All we have to do is shake on it."

Tim shook his head, watching the man as he slowly circled, fingers still loosely gripping his glass. He may not remember much, but he knew that no proper deal was decided just by shaking hands. (That was it. He didn't trust this guy.) "I don't even know you. Why should I?"

Ra's smiled, lips drawn far too tight to be genuine. "But I know all about you, dear boy. Timothy Drake, sixteen years of age. Died age thirteen under the alias of Robin, despite being trained by some of Gotham's finest, if you could call them that." He sneered, taking another sip from his drink while closely watching Tim's reaction.

Tim refused to give it. "And what makes you think any of that makes me fit to be your heir? I don't even recall dying, let alone the past sixteen years of my life. I'm no use to you." He turned towards the still open door, intending on getting the hell out of here before the guy tried…well anything. (He really didn't like the look in the man's eyes. It made him feel like prey, something to be hunted.)

Ra's made no attempt to stop him until he was about two steps from the entrance, when a large hand closed down over his shoulder. "You may not agree now, but you will eventually. Think on it, small dragon." He let go with a odd smile. stepping back and watching him leave.

Tim didn't bother looking back as he left, dusting off his shoulder as he went.