Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Shikamaru supposes this is his life now. 

Ever since he found himself waking up in the pubescent body of a child in a universe wholly unlike his own, he’s had to make his own consolations. 

He was an elite ninja once, in a world comparatively technologically behind in comparison to this alien dimension, that he seems to have occupied for what seems like more than one and a half decades of time now. Born originally from the nara clan, known for their lethargic habits, extreme intellect, and the deer, he likes to think that he had been a decent enough clan heir. 

Of course, and there was the war, because why wouldn’t there be. And soon, with time, Shikamaru found himself dying, at the hands of dark creatures he couldn’t possibly find a way to defend himself from, late into his thirties, with years of useless experience behind him, and a devastated family in his wake. 

Well, he went out like a proper man, he thinks Shikaku would be proud, but not without the underlying note of resignation from a life filled with violence and turmoil under an authoritarian utilitarian military regime. 

If you could see me now. He thinks with an edge of sardonism, as he swims in the covers of his sheets, in the Drake manor (which he supposes is his as much as the Nara grounds were), unable to sleep, as it was revealed through the heavy curtains of the room that it was still not yet sunrise. He groaned as he swung his legs over the soft cushions of the overly large bed(which was, still, something he must get attuned to, versus the harder tatami mats he used to routinely sleep on, at home). 

How troublesome, he commiserates, 

He pads his way into the similarly spacious bathroom, and rubs his eyes. In the reflection, there is a young man, unfamiliar in many ways still, staring back at him. Similarities notwithstanding, it was a drastically different look that he had in his past life. 

While Shikamaru used to possess sharp jagged hair which always stood up in stiff chunks, and only could be tamed in the infamous Nara-ponytail; his new body(the boy, being someone unimpressively named Timothy Drake) had a head of soft inky hair, which fell on his neck and shoulders in layers, not unlike the features of a certain red-eyed clan. He’s long since given up on replicating the old Nara hairstyle ever since he came to be acquainted with these new features of his, and nowadays just lets the hair half-hazardously hang in a mullet-esque style, occasionally tying the small section of it up in the mockery of a tidy-up. 

As Shikamaru resumes to brush his teeth, one of the most eye-catching(truly, Shikamaru is appalled at the juvenile-ness of his own humor) features on this body, he notes, were the body’s eyes. Which were such a shade of blue, so light, they could have been taken for ice. And alongside Shikamaru’s own perpetual blank stare, it pulled off quite a rather uncanny image.  

His eyes before were dark brown, so he would be lying if he weren’t knocked off kilter, slightly, at the first time he ever gazed in a mirror when he first had arrived. 

He finished his morning regimen and found himself in the kitchen. Stirring miso paste with a sieve into a simple soup, adding some chopped tofu and ripped up seaweed, and garnishing with a sprinkle of green onion. Nearby he loaded a bowl with steaming white rice, and he shifted to take some leftover mackerel out from the fridge. Nearby he pours out a cup of hot green tea. 

Honestly, if it wasn’t for the ever droning voice of Shikamaru’s mother in his head to tell him to eat healthier, he might have just grabbed some handfuls of dry cereal and be done with it, no matter how lackluster the taste. The conveniences of this world were not lost to him, and take-out (plus online shopping, including groceries) was amongst one of the pleasures he could indulge in. 

Itadakimasu. He murmured, and he ate. 

Right about now, as the sunrise’s warm glow began to stream into the windows of the mansion, his neighbors— an unnecessarily complicated brood of people who spent half their life moonlighting as vigilantes to cope with all their unresolved issues— should be starting to wake. Alfred, the overworked man, would likely already have been up hours prior. The youngest wayne, Damian, right about now would be stalking down for breakfast, ever the abiding overachiever that he was.  

After that, there would be Grayson, ever since he temporarily moved back as of recently. Around the same time, the head of the house, ever the family man: Bruce (Or Batman), would emerge. 

Lastly, Todd stumbles down the stairs. The large man is still slightly awkward in the family dynamics, albeit for different reasons than everyone else. 

The Batclan(or they deemed themselves, as they seemed to share the same animal-forward naming conventions), while unconventional, is unabatingly warm. And Shikamaru is more than glad for it. 

This world, despite all its granular failings and pieces of darkness, manages to remain a soft one. 

-------

“Drake!” there’s a pounding at his door, accompanying the ringing of the doorbell as his peaceful morning is disrupted. There’s only one voice that can manage to possess discontent, begrudging appraisal and prissiness all in one such a fashion. 

He opens the door, exasperated. 

“So troublesome,” he complained, “Now, what is it, brat?”

The demon child, aka: Damian Wayne, straightens himself.

“I humbly request your assistance on my math homework!” he states, as the tips of his ears redden rapidly, clearly, he was still unused to asking for help. 

“Can’t Grayson handle that sort of thing?”

“He babytalks me.”

Shikamaru (or he supposed, he was now Timothy Drake) sighed. 

“Come in, I guess. Just please promise me that Grayson and Todd will not come kicking down my door in jealousy any moment now.”

“The actions of those two plebians are unfortunately out of my control.” Damien looks possibly more haughty. 

“Fair enough.” 

They work on math practice for the better part of the morning. Shikamaru, while a genius, was not taught many things back then when he was apart of the academy, so as he works through the topics with Damien, he’s being taught entirely new knowledge.

To be fair, most of the math they did learnt (or from the little of whatever Shikamaru managed to absorb and still remember through all his hours of napping in class) was for “How to throw your Kunai better!” or “The Angles of using Ninja wire!”. Conceptual mathematics was so far off the table that he suspected the average shinobi likely didn’t even know how to calculate basic arithmetics. 

“Hold on, why are you learning trigonometry?” he inquired, after a moment, “Aren’t you not in highschool yet?” 

Damian perks up at the acknowledgement, “Of course I learn ahead, I couldn’t possibly be stuck with those fools from my grade forever, now would I?”

Shikamaru shrugs. “Depends on how you see it. You don’t need to rush ahead if you don’t want to.” 

Damian flushes, “I have to make father proud.”

“Bruce would be proud of you for just being alive.” 

“I- !” Damian opens his mouth to retort, but Shikamaru beats him to the punch. 

“Argue however you like, but Bruce loves his children, even if he’s not good at expressing it.” 

Damian shuts his mouth with an audible click, and turns back to the worksheet, face screwing up with a contemplative edge. 

He seems to be coming here more and more often as of recent. Shikamaru considers, what could be the reason? 

But he thinks the other boy’s current abrasiveness is a welcome change to when Shikamaru first met him, back in that dreaded lair. Damian had been so quiet back then, so… complacent, in the way that an abused animal was. The place reminded him too much of Root for comfort, and he might have lost his temper. 

Well… he kind of turned the entire base of operations for the League of assassins to smoking smithereens and proceeded to run out with the boy in hand, but not after dispatching Ra with a similar technique to how he took out Hidan. The gross man who reminded him far too much of Danzo and Orochimaru was probably drowning in that beloved green tartarus liquid of his, his body chopped into miniscule pieces on the curtesy of a well placed trap. 

Shikamaru still shudders at some of the comments he remembered Ra saying. They were creepy, e specially when noting his current physical age(which was very much underage). 

Anyhow, it wasn’t his finest or most well-planned out decision, but seeing as Damian was a lot more content nowadays, he regrets nothing.

“I think you got that question incorrect” he said, pointing to a calculation on Damian’s sheet. Damian scrounged up his face as he viciously erased the calculations and tried again. 

Damian is a little like Sai, Shikamaru remarks silently. He tends to take things quite literally, and struggles to be a normal person, as someone who was previously groomed to be a perfect obedient soldier. 

There’s a lull in the conversation as they both work on their things, during this time, Shikamaru pondered. I owe it to my friends to at least try. 

Chapter Text

Dick technically meets Tim Drake for the first time, when he’s 10, on the night when his old life ended and his new life began. 

To be fair, it wasn’t that good of a first impression, as he was more preoccupied with the literal murder of his parents. So any other memories that he deemed insignificant, including the memory of just another adoring small child, went into the back corners of his mind to collect dust. 

Only years later when Timothy handed him the photograph of him with his parents from that night, with an unreadable expression on his face, would his memory be jolted. 

But no, the first time Dick really meets Tim is in the space of his apartment in Bludhaven. He was 21, exhausted, hair greasy, dark eyebags, and still trying to come to terms with his complicated feelings revolving the death of his replacement who was also his could-have-been, or should-have-been younger brother. 

It’s 2am when his doorbell rings. Dick thinks it’s a troll at first, and he moves to grab his spare escrima sticks as he peaks at the surveillance set up. 

And for everything that he expects, a skinny 12 years old boy is none of them. For a moment he thinks it’s another one of those hallucinations that he always insists to everyone else that he doesn’t get, but after a few moments, the boy isn’t disappearing, and he seems to also say something. 

“-me in, I don’t mean any harm, Nightwing.” 

Dick stills. How does the civilian know his identity? And for a moment he’s unsure of what to do, but then he decides after telling that the child is genuine. Fuck it, what harm can a civiian child do? Opens his door, and lets the kid inside. 

Years later, Dick would joke that if he never opened the door that night, maybe his life would be a lot more peaceful. And Timothy would reply, “the door wouldn’t have held me off anyways, I know many ways to break past a conventional lock.” with his now-usual cryptid tone and that was that. 

Really, Dick, and Bruce alongside everyone else owes a lot to the kid, and every year they learn more and less about him. 

On first impressions, the boy is polite. Once invited in, he takes off his shoes as if it was an automatic habit. To a more-untrained eye, perhaps the boy would have seemed ordinary, if rather laidback. However, Dick was and is still a vigilante well-practiced in body language and psychology, so he notices the boy’s near-imperceivable categorizing of every nearby exit and entry way in the room, alongside his registration of all items in the surroundings that could be used as improvised weapons. 

It’s a slightly concerning habit for an assumingly-12 years old civilian to have, but then again, Dick was Robin when he was even younger and he tried to kill a man before that, so he supposes he can’t talk. 

Dick is still holding his escrima stick in his hand loosely despite the kid making no move to attack him as he asks, 

“How do you know I’m Nightwing? “

At this, the kid casts him the flattest, more judgemental look Dick has seen in the past few weeks. For the seconds that Dick holds his gaze, Dick sees that the child’s eyes are startling blue, a shade so light it could be ice, the near-white of his irises portraying no emotion but the void. 

He’s taken back for a moment, then offended; as the kid sighs and raises his head to the ceiling—as if to say “ugh, seriously?”—and then outloud, says the same exact thing. 

“Tell me, how many people in the world know how to perform the quadruple somersault in the past decade?” 

Dick is caught off guard by the question,  

“10? As far as I remember, including myself. I haven’t checked.” 

“Okay, and how many people in Gotham knew how to perform the quadruple somersault?” 

“Uh, one, me, before I left for here.” the realization starts to dawn uncomfortably. 

“Right. And how many Robins knew how to perform the quadruple somersault? Don’t lie, I have pictures.” 

Dick, in his sleep deprived state pauses, then it clicks. 

“.... oh.” 

“Yeah. Do I need to spell it out for you? Nightwing, Batman, consequently your whole brood was easy after that,” the boy rolls his eyes. 

This kid is a genius, probably on par, if not definitely better than Bruce. Dick thinks. He puts away the escrima stick, no point in it now, and slumps onto a chair. Oh god, all these years of being careful, all for naught.  

“As far as I know, this information is not privy to anyone else. Don’t worry your pretty head about it, I’ve kept it secret for years now, far too troublesome to snitch now. ” the boy continues, as if he didn’t just drop the bombshell of a century on Dick.

“You may call me Deer. And I’m actually here to discuss the problem of Batman.” 

Ah, nuke. 

—---

Dick moves into the kitchen to make both “Deer” and him some drinks, and to calm down his own racing heart. Deer has also been ushered into a seat at the table, his sitting posture is just as poor and slouched as his standing one, but there’s an undercurrent of tensed calculative energy to everything that he does, and Dick has a sense that this would be a common occurrence with the mysterious boy.

“Would you like some water? Tea? Hot chocolate always makes me feel better.” he said, in lieu of being a good host. 

“Whatever you’re having,” the boy answers. Dick’s own tastebuds have never grown up with him, so he makes a quick hot chocolate on the stove with some spare hot chocolate mix(the very type that Alfred abhors) and hot milk, and loads his own cup with whipped cream, since he doesn’t plan on sleeping anyways. 

“Here’s the hot chocolate, it’s not as good as what Al- makes, but it’s still good. “ 

“Thanks.” the kids saids, accepting the cup but not drinking it. 

Dick sits across from him at the little square table. He then realises astutely how similar the set up is to a police interrogation room, and feels bad for a moment. But the kid doesn’t seem to mind. 

“So, what’s the issue with the ol-Batman?” he says with a friendliness that he doesn’t feel. 

“He’s violent and he’s causing more issues for Gotham than he’s fixing.” Deer answers straight to the point, cupping the chipped mug in his hands. His body is entirely unnaturally still and wholly unreadable, unlike Dick’s legs, which have started to shake from underneath the table due to a nervous tic that he never quite got rid of.

“Really? And how is that my problem?” 

“Because you’re his last living son, and he needs you there. You need each other because you’re both grieving.”

Dick runs a frantic hand through his locks of hair and tries not to meet the boy’s affrontive gaze.

“I’m not sure how I would help.” Now bitterly, he adds, “I did run away, and he didn’t even contact me after that.” 

“But you’re still family. Besides, Gotham needs a protector, now more than ever, with its Batman gone rogue.” Deer cuts in, and reaching from seemingly nowhere, he brought out a thick stack of folders.  

He lays out a series of grizzly photographs and reports across the table, all of which leave nothing for the imagination. 

“Lissa Nelson, age 22. Crimes: petty theft. He shattered her right collarbone and her fourth and fifth ribs, and caused severe internal bleeding from the severe bruising. She was just a young mother who was trying to get by, and he didn’t stop hitting her after she pleaded for her life. “ 

Dick is struck silent from horror. The photographs are stark and bloody, the people looking gruesome, with pictures from both the night of the injury and hospital reports amongst others. 

“She might suffer permanent damage from this, and for someone like her, she wouldn’t be able to afford the treatment she might need for it, and not to mention the child she still has at home to raise. 

Deer continues, in that same flat tone which betrays no emotion, as he pretends to not notice Dick falling apart right in front of him, the nausea which rises more and more in him at the capacity for mindless violence that his own father is shown to be capable of. 

“James T Simon, age 35, Crimes: meth addict, purse robbery. He wanted to get more money to buy drugs, but with the extent of his injuries, you would think he had killed Batman’s kid or something. He nearly died if not for the ambulance which arrived just on time.” the boy explains, like he’s talking about the weather and not the fate of a city.  

“Here’s Amy Thompson, and Daniela Lee, and Brian Kirrington; I can go on. But whatever it is that Bruce is doing to cope, it’s not working. And he needs intervention before he drags the rest of Gotham down with him.” 

After a moment, Deer states damningly, 

“He needs therapy. You both need therapy. Throwing yourself into work or unfocused violence  isn’t the answer.” Then he mutters lowly, nearly too low for Dick to hear “Not that I would know.”. 

The boy leaves the files with Dick on the table, the giant pile stacked inches tall of incriminating evidence against a man who was once the savior of a city, now an foreboding omen, and stands up to leave. His hot chocolate has now cooled, and sits untouched on the table. 

“Sort through it however you like, I have my own copies of everything. But if you don’t do anything, which I know you wouldn’t, I’m leaking all your identities to Commissioner Gordon and being done with it. I will be contacting the watchtower as well if this doesn’t work.“ 

The kid spares him another slight glance, 

“Oh, and Grayson? I’m pretty sure Batman nearly killed himself in a botched attempt for revenge, so go check up on him before you get another dead parent, yeah?” 

Finding his voice, amongst the tension-filled room, for a second Dick cries out, “Wait!” 

Deer twists around, turning to face him fully, 

“I have so many questions. How do you know my address? How did you get all these files? Why do you care so much? Who are you?” 

Deer grins, a tiny show of teeth: expression sharp and cold on his young face, his eyes blank and revealing nothing. 

“I have my ways, Gotham is my city too, after all. ” 

Then the boy swivels, puts on his shoes, and disappears into the shadows of the night. Dick runs over to the windows to watch Deer leave, yet the kid is nowhere to be found. And he’s left in his empty apartment once more. 

—--

The next morning, Dick would wake up and think it was all a dream. But then he would stroll into his kitchen, with the mug of untouched hot chocolate on the wooden countertop and the giant stack of files on the table, and it would all come flooding back. 

For a moment, he hesitates. Then he picks up his phone and goes to dial a number that he hasn’t called in a long time.

Chapter Text

Timothy Drake wasn’t always Shikamaru. 

Sometimes he wondered out of morbid curiosity what Timothy’s life would have been like without his interference, but after seeing the state of Batman and his more eccentric neighbors, Shikamaru decided it was for the best that he had at least someone more mentally mature to handle all… that.  

For the former approximate 9 or 10 years of his new life, he was decidedly mostly confused. Occasionally memories of another life would flash through his mind, quicker than lightning, each too disjointed to be computed beyond the aftereffects of mild trauma and migraines. 

Eventually it all clicked when he was ten, when all the memories suddenly made sense and his identity as Shikamaru was officially established in his mind, but it did take some effort to get there.  

The first flashback, or “vision” appeared when he was four, playing in his room with a new puzzle. Janet and Jack had been whispering, some spaces away, about their child being a “genius” and to get his “IQ tested soon”. For a moment their voices had blended in with a pair of different parents, on wholly similar topics. With Yoshino complaining about his laziness and his potential as someone who was born possibly even more intelligent than his father. 

That had made him pause for a moment, but he quickly went back to his game, odd flashback notwithstanding. 

The flashbacks (or “visions” he deemed them) increased in quantity drastically as he grew, and they weren’t always peaceful, as the life of a shinobi was unsurprisingly a brutal one. Many times the images he would see would turn into debilitating migraines and cause him nightmares.

Timothy had tried to tell his maid about his visions at some point when he was six and scared after another night terror. But after it was quickly dismissed as the overactive imagination of a child, he had stopped trying to be believed and took the mystery as just another secret he would have to keep to himself for the indefinite future. It was a lonely and deeply terrifying ordeal, especially for a child, but he made do. 

Say what you would like about his character, but at some point around being eight years old, he was pretty much desensitized entirely. His parents had worried a little when their tearful child had one day suddenly stopped crying at doctor’s visits and altogether, but they just chalked it up to his blossoming “maturity”; unknowing that the maturity was the side effects from watching people die in more and more gruesome ways until the blood starts to just look like paint. 

So with all of that said, he took his first life when he was nine. Looking back on it, it was pretty anticlimactic. 

—---

Timothy’s parents wouldn’t come back until next week. They were on another dig, somewhere in the Philippines, they said. 

“Timothy, you’re old enough to take care of yourself at night! Call us if you have any issues.” Janet had exclaimed, pinching his cheeks. 

“My little man, all grown up, we’ll be back before you know it.” Jack followed, swinging on his brown coat and hefting his briefcase by his side. 

Not soon after, the door of the family estate slammed shut and there wouldn’t be any adults in Tim’s vicinity for the next few weeks, beyond the routine cleaning from the maids in the day. 

It was a fine first few weeks, mind you. Tim ate the meals that were prepared for him by the nannies, he read, he watched TV but not too much, he practiced his instruments on occasion and he went to school. He finished his assignments early and was regularly praised by his teachers.

Then, on a Thursday night, when Tim was just in the middle of reading a new book series on the couch, there was a sudden human disturbance in the house, indicated by the ever so faint clicks from the front door’s lock being picked.

Tim knew his parents hadn’t called in any maids for the nights, nor his parents would be back so early without informing him, so logically, the disturbance could only be robbers; of which wasn’t uncommon in a city such as Gotham. But he had yet to have an encounter with them personally in his 9 years of age. 

The Drakes were an affluent new money family, so it made perfect sense for them to be the targets of robbers, who would think the estate was ahem free real estate in the family’s absence. Unknownst to them about the youngest resident’s existence. 

Tim panics, because these are unsanctioned adults in his house, which should have been safe. Then another voice, another set of images flashes through his mind. 

“ When you notice an enemy-nin coming, prepare to ambush, and don’t let them get to you first, don’t let them know you know about them.” the voice of another man Asuma-sensei? said, presence comforting and steady, 

Tim in another less scared position might document down the vision as another part of the larger mystery to be unraveled, but now isn’t the time. With his deft smaller body, Tim crawls silently down from the couch, and runs to duck behind a nearby banister of a wall corner, so he can see the thieves at the door without them seeing him. 

He observes 2 figures, dressed in black—

“In the theatre, we shinobi are depicted as dressed in black by civilians who don’t know any better, but black often makes you stand out more, not less. Never wear black unless you are in the cover of the night, or if you are a Nara.” 

Shikamaru takes a good survey of his surroundings, noting any escapes or exits and also the layout of the house. The living room where he was, of the Drake mansion is directly connected to both the private stairwell to the upper floor, and also the kitchen, alongside to the lobby of the house where the entrance to the grand stairs were. 

He sneaks into the kitchen first to get his hands on something to defend himself, but most of the larger knives were unwieldy or placed too high for him to reach very quickly, instead, Tim grips onto a fruit knife, and gets out as soundlessly as he can. 

Unfortunately, the clatter from the kitchen alerts the strangers in the empty house, 

“I thought the Drakes were away on a dig?! What the fuck!” 

“I don’t know, is it an animal or somethun’?” 

“Look! It’s a fuckin’ KID!” 

There’s a thumping of boots, as the robbers run towards where he was from the path through the living room. With only another exit in mind, Tim weaves through a tight wall corner and up the private stairwell with a speed that was supernatural for a child to where he might get the advantage of higher ground.

He peaks through the gaps from the poles of the railing, and hears two voices from the kitchen. 

We’re secure, for now. Shikamaru thinks, mind running as quick as lightning, These people are stronger and larger than me, and I didn’t have enough time to prepare any traps. Crap, I should evade them for now, and think of a way to deal with them. 

“Hey, are you sure you saw a kid? I don’t see any kids here.”, then there’s a loud bang sound from a gun being fired. Tim flinches. 

“I’m very sure! There was just a flash of a kid there, but it fuckin disappeared! We can’t have any witnesses!” 

“Ugh, fine, there ain’t anything valuable in here, let’s roll out.” 

Tim sighs in relief, The coast is clear, for now. I need somewhere better to hide. 

But he can’t just hide in a room, so noticing the large white pedestals with century old vases decorating each side of the stairs, he gets an idea. 

With shoves backed by more strength than he has, he somehow knocks over the large marble stands upon the stairway. There’s the ear-grating sound of ancient china shattering, as glittering shards of ceramic dots over the wood and velvet carpeting. It should trip up the thieves to buy me some time. 

The sound of porcelain shattering alerts the men, as the thumping of running reverberates throughout the manor. There’s a shout, then a loud crash.

“The kid is here! Kill him!”

The vase and pedestal were doing their job, but not enough. The men’s heavy boots absorb the impact easily, and they hurdle over the blocks of broken white pedestals with little to no exertion. Shikamaru is running out of options, he doesn’t want to die here! Not again! 

Tim scrams, knocking down anything around him, like curtains or chairs and tables or cabinets; anything to impede the men. He twists through a series of corridors and rooms as the sounds of gunshots are rapidly approaching, 

“How is the kid so fast! Get him! We can’t secure the goods in peace if the kid reports us!”

“Well speed it up, or we aren’t getting the kid OR the goods!” 

Timothy’s body is 9 years old, it can’t handle this much exertion, and his stamina pool is weak compared to the grown adults. He can’t run forever, every time he throws something onto the ground as an obstacle is a bit of valuable energy that’s depleted. 

Shikamaru notices his surroundings, Shit, dead end. This was the master’s bedroom, Timothy just led the thieves right to him.

With no time, he scurries up the banisters of the grand bed, just as a hand grazes the back of his shirt and the bang of a gun sounds out. The dust from the hole blasted in the drywall rains down on both of them.

How stupid, he’s obscuring his own sight.  

One of the men, the faster one who caught up first, attempts to grab him by the ankles; Shikamaru doesn’t give him that chance. Holding onto the cloth of the canopy with one hand, he drops down, wraps his legs around the man koala style and loops the fabric around the man’s neck and face in the attempt of an improvised garrotte. 

He secures the fabric and yanks hard, using chakra to retain his balance and to sustain his strength. After the man is knocked out cold, Shikamaru takes no pause and slits the man’s throat with the fruit knife, whose thin blade promptly breaks on him—being something not intended to be used for manslaughter in the first place. 

Always make sure a downed enemy is dead. When at a disadvantage, one less enemy means one more second you get to live. He hears his sensei’s voice saying, 

Shikamaru picks up the dropped gun with hesitance, but any weapon was better than none, even as there were no more bullets in the canister. 

A voice echoes down from the corridor, searching for a companion that would no longer be of assistance for the crime that he wouldn’t give them the chance to commit. Shikamaru twists his fingers together in the familiar shapes of:

Rat, boar, dog…

The other man doesn’t even get to speak before he’s suddenly glued to the ground by his own shadow, then shot in the head by his own gun. He hadn’t even crossed the doorway before he was dead, an expression of shock permanently etched onto his ugly face.  

Shikamaru puts down the gun, now its use was expended and walks out from the crime scene. He will take care of that later, and he waits. 

Outside, there’s the characteristic squeak of the front door being opened again. A shout from someone else, likely their getaway driver. 

“Where are you two? “ then a crunch, “How did you fuckers cause this much of a mess?! Boss is gonna be so mad.” 

He can hear the third person walking up the stairs, but their steps are more apprehensive than angry. 

Tim ducks behind the doorway, and sees the person, probably the smallest out of all the robbers, climb up the stairs. As the person starts to look around the upper floor, Tim runs back into the master bedroom and hides under the bed.

From his viewpoint, he can only see the ground, alongside the two fresh corpses, which had started to turn blue unpleasantly. The blood was slowly seeping into the carpet as a puddle on the floor, and some of it caught on Tim’s sleeve. 

Then, in the far distance, he can see a set of feet, which stops. 

“Wha- What the fuck?! W-Who?! HOW?!” 

The person’s voice gains slight volume as their tone takes on notes of hysteria. Then the feet abruptly turn around, and runs. 

As the sound of stamping feet fades from where Tim was, he eventually hears the thump of the front door slamming, and the revving of the engine of a car outside. 

They’re gone, they’re finally gone. 

Tim finally lets his tensed body calm down as he crawls out. The adrenaline fades as exhaustion sets in to the limbs of the pubescent boy who wasn’t used to such extraneous activity. 

What about the bodies? What should I do?

And there’s a flash of someone’s head, and a forest. 

Bury them. 

He has to dispose of the bodies before his parents come back. With the fabric ripped from the canopy, he wrapped both bodies up methodically (almost like their own funeral shrouds). Then, with most of his strength, he shoves the windows open, exposing the darkness of night and the family garden below. 

He squeezed both bodies out through the gap of the window, hearing a wet thump as they fell onto the damp grass and pavement stones. 

Suddenly, the door bell rings. 

He freezes like a deer in the headlights. 

Who’s there? 

With uncertainty, he pads his way down, feeling acutely aware of the blood and dust covering his person. There’s bruises and tiny cuts all over him from tripping over his own hallways. 

The door opens and the Butler, Pennyworth, from Wayne manor (that’s Agent A, his mind supplies) stands ever stoic at the doorstep; although his picture of perfect composure was ruined by the shock barely hidden in his eyes as he takes in the ravaged scene of the Drake family mansion. 

“What just happened here, master Drake?” 

Shikamaru’s expression shuttered over, quick as a flash,

“Nothing.” 

He shuts the door and locks it. No one needs to know what happened, least of all Batman. 

He goes down to the gardener’s old shed, collects for himself a shovel alongside a wheelbarrow and gloves, and Tim gets to work.

Chapter Text

Barbara puts on some tea in the kitchen, some sort of black tea that her father received from a colleague but ended up giving to her, since he was more of a coffee person. 

In both cups, she poured the tea, dropping a sugar cube in each, since kids usually liked tea sweet from her knowledge, adding some milk into only her mug. 

Barbara puts the two cups on the table, pushing one mug in front of the kid. The room that they were inside, in the clocktower, was devoid of any spots for installing any hearing devices, and every corner and surface was bugged to absolute high heaven by Barbara’s own system, that she can proudly say not even the Batman himself can bypass. She also had an alarm attached to herself that she had access to, which would alert back-up the moment he even tries to threaten her. 

She might have felt guilty for placing a 13 year old in an pseudo interrogation room often served for criminals, but with the limited knowledge she had on him, she had a strong feeling that she might not get anything useful from him if he didn't want her to, either way. 

The kid, whose head of dark hair was currently a mop on the table, languidly raised his head. It was the tilt, in the slow ease of someone who already knew they won, that he did this, which immediately raised Barbara’s hackles. 

His gaze pierced into hers, head on. And she suddenly understood why Dick, while on the call, had described it as so disarming. 

On the surface, his irises were a shade of light icy blue, in such a light shade it could almost be taken for grey. Perhaps almost alike to a foggy winter sky if she was a poet(which she wasn’t). But it wasn’t the color that made Barbara’s mouth run dry, no, it was just the emptiness; almost akin to peering into the void. For a second, she could have sworn those were the eyes of someone who had already died.  

His eyes drifted from the mug in front of him to the wall, as he surveyed the room in a way, which was so subtle that anyone with less training wouldn’t have noticed. He didn’t touch the tea, but instead, his hands stilled from where they were fidgeting. 

“Since you probably already know who I am, I won’t bother to introduce myself. But you should already know what I’m here for.” He started with a yawn, his posture shifting up, into still a slouch, but a slightly more upright one. 

“Yes, Timothy Drake, correct? “ 

He shrugged, 

“And you’re Barbara Gordon, daughter of Commissioner Gordon.” 

“You graduated early and were accepted with full scholarship into some of the best honor programs for gifted children in the world. So what are you doing here?” she asked, an inquiry she and Dick both had kept to themselves for weeks now. 

They initially suspected him to have someone operating behind him, using him as a diversion tactic and cover. But with the way he acts and positions himself, he seemed to know fully well what he was doing. Gifted children weren’t a very good diversion tactic to stay under radar, anyways. 

“Same answer, Gotham is my city too. And programs are too troublesome.” he stated dryly, stretching his neck as he leaned back on his chair, 

“Since you already know what business I have, how about this, ” he leaned forward, the front legs of the chair hitting the concrete floor with a clunk. 

“Don’t you think it’s time we do something about the clown?” 

Her body stilled. Visions of that night flashed through her mind, quicker than lightning. Phantom pain ran through her legs like a shiver.  

“What?” 

—----

Dick calls her on a Friday morning, when she had just woken up from her cot situated in the watchtower, after running the night shift the day before in her role as Oracle. At first she thinks it’s a buttdial, so she lets him hang up himself, but the phone doesn’t stop ringing. 

Out of curiosity, she picks up. 

“Hey, Babs?” he said, through the audio crackling through the speaker of her untraceable phone. His tone was sheepish, but there was an underlying tone of determination there, that she hadn’t heard in him for a long time. She was about to immediately hang up after answering, but her finger stills. 

As if Dick could tell she was about to hang up, he cries out, “Don’t leave yet, it’s important.” 

“What is it?” 

“Uh.. I think we should do something about… the current situation in Gotham” 

She scooched into her wheelchair, her phone left on the bedside table, before she picked it up again. With the way he said it, she realized that it might be more serious. 

“Sure, give me 10 minutes.” 

“Okay!” he replied, with that sort of forced cheerfulness he always got in his voice when he was nervous and trying to hide it. And she hung up. 

—----

Right at the 10 minutes mark, after getting herself a basic breakfast on the table, and having gotten dressed, the phone rings again. Barbara, this time, picks up the moment the call dials in. 

“Hey.” She greets, from Dick’s end, she hears a rustling of something like files or paperwork. 

“Uh yeah. So, I think we have to do something about Bruce.”, his voice sounded like he didn’t get enough sleep.

At the mention of Batman, she frowns, recalling the violent tendencies he had recently been reported to be indulging in, more and more. Of course, she had her own projects with Birds of Prey, amongst them also grieving the youngest Robin in her personal way, so she hadn’t had much time to catch up. Yet from Dick’s tone, it didn’t sound at all pleasant. 

“Hold on, I thought you didn’t want to talk to him anymore?” Barbara inquired, 

She could almost hear the grimace from his end. 

“Eh… well, it’s really really bad, Babs. I think we might have to step in.” 

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Let me send you some of the stuff, careful, it’s pretty graphic.” Dick said, as there were the noises of rummaging from his end. 

Barbara holds her breath, then the breath-out is suddenly stuck in her throat. 

Oh god. Oh god. If there was anything she expected, it wasn’t that. 

From the files she could see, the images were so much worse than anything she imagined. Batman, the kind-hearted man she knew who protected Gotham was no more. In its place, the injuries, the photos, the reports— they were the work of a violent, rapid, uncontrolled animal.

Petty criminals beat up like they are on death row, hospital report after report of “Permanent damage”, “internal bleeding”, “Brain hemorrhage". The most striking one, which made her blood run cold, was a report on a young woman whose state was described as “Permanent mobile disability: patient will have to rely on a wheelchair for the rest of her life.”. 

“Barbara.. Are you still there?” Dick asks, his tone soft. 

She’s shocked silent, then she starts to unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth. 

“Dick… what did you just show me?” Barbara whispered, 

“This is what Batman is doing in the last few months.” he stated grimly,  “Gotham is our city, we have to do something. And I don’t think, with the state of my relationship with him, that I alone would be enough.” 

Barbara’s knuckles have gone white as she grips her phone, fury bleeding red into her vision. She slightly loosened her hand as she started to hear creaking from the phone screen. 

He promised my father he’ll protect people and take care of me! I followed him as Batgirl because I admired what he stood for. And now he’s doing that to other people, with no regard for restraint, for what’s right. How.. Could he do this? How DARE HE.

She seethes, as she feels her fingers itching for a baton, or anything to swing at. 

Dick, at her apparent lack of words, speaks again, his tone carrying a note of hesitant hope,  

“So, are you with me? Maybe get him into therapy? Or at least get him off the streets before he does any more damage?” 

 Barbara grits her teeth and grinds out her answer, 

“If he doesn’t answer for what he’s doing, in this fucking temper tantrum, I’m taking the evidence to my father myself. “ 

“Let’s get the Bat out of Gotham.” Dick answered, tone like the voice of a man who knew he was approaching his execution date. 

Barbara finds it funny, in a sort of ironic way, that this is the way they reconcile again. 

“Oh, on another note, can you investigate this kid for me?” Dick asks, 

“Sure, what did he look like?” 

“Dark hair, light blue eyes– 

Chapter Text

One question lingered on the back of almost everyone’s mind in Gotham, amongst the coming weeks of city-wide celebration.  

Who was the savior who alleviated the city from one of its largest tormentors? 

Who killed the Joker? 

But nobody had an answer, and the ones who did, kept quiet. 

Was it for revenge? Was it for justice? Or was it just simply divine retribution? No matter what, to everyone, it was fair. 

The Joker is dead. 

—----

The head of the Joker shows up at precisely noon, on a clear summer’s day. The decapitated head is encased in an glass jar whose lid is tightly sealed. Placed upon the stone and cement tiles of the paving for the center of the city, it’s not placed upon a pedestal, it simply turns up there— like an unequivocal statement, in which the death of the Joker could almost seem insignificant or mundane in the way the killer treated it. Crowds of people gather to see for themselves, in the flesh, for the evidence that their nightmare is gone, permanently. 

In a frantic pace, the police had quickly confiscated the jar from the masses, of whom were rather eager to shatter the jar and tear apart the half-rotten flesh with their hands—fueled by a vindication from a lifetime of pent up resentment and site. The authorities quickly issued an official statement to the public, about how the murderer has yet to be found, and how —whoever the convict was—, they were efficient and left no trace behind. 

It’s all the talk of the town. There’s a parade, pulled together last minute by the carnivals and organizers of the city. Decked out in the colors of red, green, and yellow. A symbol of hope that the Joker took away, now also finally laid to rest. 

Every corner of the city is overladen with people crying, screaming, laughing. Women who are strangers to each other hug and sob in relief, men embrace children who aren’t theirs. Businesses are either closed, or offering ludicrous discounts, because it was hard to care on such a glorious day. 

“The Joker, legal name Jack Napier, was found dead, his head cut off from his body, placed in the city square in a jar, culprit still unidentified—” the newscaster lady droned, before cutting herself off, “What the fuck! I should be in the streets right now, the Joker is dead, he killed my sister, what more is there to say?” before the announcement abruptly cut off. 

“He murdered my father, now he is finally avenged.” a man sobbed into the microphone in a street interview, 

“Goodness, this was karmic retribution” a grandma said, eyes dry because she no longer gave a fuck in her old age. 

“I was going to break into Arkham to shoot him myself at this rate. Glad someone took the initiative.” a mother spoke into the camera, her arms around her child just out of frame. 

The high spirits didn’t go unnoticed, as news traveled as far as metropolis alongside affecting the nearby Bludhaven. 

Superman found a small smile on his face as he read the newspaper, perhaps it was time his friend started to heal. 

Dick grasps the edge of his bathroom sink and his unbridled cries are drowned out by the sound of the water faucet. 

Barbara, knuckles white around the arms of her wheelchair, stares into the blackness of the TV screen 17 minutes after the announcement had cut off. Gazing into the static, her younger self stares back and Batgirl grins victoriously. 

In the back, the new contact named “deer” sits inconspicuously on her phone. She does nothing. This was for her .  

Alfred pauses in his dusting of Jason’s memorial. It was time it happened, the clown has been allowed to fester for far too long. 

Bruce crumbles in the old bedroom of his son, his too-large body curled up with the blanket of a boy who was taken too early. 

And in the distance, in some unnamed alley, a wandering boy, more scar tissue than mind, who has lived to sixteen against all odds, fate and the universe, gazes into the confetti and balloons—rejoicement filling the air—, sees the colors, and feels a strong sense of deja vu ring deep in the shallow breaths  of his chest. 

-------

According to the shinobi code, a shinobi should adapt their mindset to be able to “look underneath the underneath” in any situation. 

As a Nara, and a natural born genius, this mindset was pretty much Shikamaru’s baseline. So when it was revealed that the billionaire Bruce Wayne’s adopted son, Jason Todd, was dead due to a tragic personal incident at the same time as Robin’s mysterious demise at the hands of the Joker, (to the public, anyways); and 5 months later, Superboy Prime punched reality hard enough to reset some parts of the universe(Shikamaru thought it was an unwelcome interruption to his dinner.). He had immediately started to feel suspicious.

It was mostly by accident(and partly Shikamaru’s fault for being nosy), to be honest, when he had his own instincts confirmed in the worst way possible. 

When he had fully came into his identity at the physical age of 10, he didn’t completely loose all of his memories as Timothy Drake. Although with his new adult state of mind, much of the memories were quickly recontextualized. Amongst those, were Timothy’s theories for the identity of Batman, Robin, and subsequently the rest of the man’s brood. Shikamaru had gone to investigate for himself, in order to reconfirm the theory, and Timothy’s arguments was right on the dot for each and every one. 

From what he knew, Bruce Wayne held the mantle of Batman, and his adopted son, Dick Grayson served as the first Robin, and Jason Todd was the second. Barbara held the title of Batgirl until she was ambushed by the Joker and forced into a wheelchair, donning the title of the all-seeing Oracle instead. 

With a little more investigative work, he was quick to figure out the Justice League. Although Timothy Drake had already done much of the work for him by being an sociopathically obsessive little stalker. Superman as Clark Kent was quick to piece out—along with Diana, Hal Jordan, Oliver Queen—, the others following close behind. Shikamaru could keep digging, and he would, as this was his universe now, but for now, anymore would not be of his current priority; it would simply be too bothersome if he gets in trouble(not that he would let himself get caught, in the first place).

Honestly, with every bit of insanity he has experienced in his two lifetimes, he shouldn’t be surprised by the dead coming back to life. This world of superheros, metas, villains and vigilantes was eccentric enough already, anything else was just embellishment. He doesn’t want to hear it. 

What was all to say, in the months after Jason Todd’s death, and the weeks after dispatching the Joker, Shikamaru had decided to visit the gravesite himself. It was more of a “respect the dead” thing, as he considered Jason(or Robin), still, an admirable figure; with what he stood for especially in the old Timothy Drake’s eyes. 

Plus, he would like to think that Jason would be ecstatic at the idea of his murderer being brutally executed in his name by his ex-biggest fan. (In all fairness, Shikamaru was planning on killing the clown either way, Jason’s whole debacle with Batman just sped up the process, significantly .) With all due respect, who wouldn’t be ecstatic at their death being avenged anyways? As a shinobi, avenging someone’s death was practically one rite of passage(getting murdered was the other). 

However, when he came upon Jason’s headstone carrying joss sticks, the gravesite’s dirt showed the characteristic signs of being disturbed. With some additional observation (and a little digging, with the aid of chakra), he discovered the casket to contain no body, scratch marks decorating its inside, likely already a few weeks old. Someone, most definitely Jason, had awoken from the dead and dug their way out.  

(Don’t ask him why he his first instinct was to dig up a dead kid’s grave, it was just a hunch .) 

That was the moment Shikamaru knew, he had made a terrible mistake. Of course he got himself involved with whatever that was. Unfortunately, he was in too deep now, as he was already attached to the living hellscape that was the city of Gotham, and clearly, the impact of Jason’s death was a magnitudinous thing to behold. 

So, with the possibility of an alive Jason somewhere? Begrudgingly, Shikamaru knew very well what he had to do. 

But first, he’s going to need some intel.

Chapter Text

Damian doesn’t have many people he respects, or even dare say admire. However, out of those very few numbers, Timothy Drake, unequivocally takes one of its top spots. 

Timothy Drake, despite his lazy habits, lack of ambition, and his propensity to let others underestimate him, was probably the most dangerous individual that Damian had the pleasure of knowing. Possessing a mind that not even the most intelligent of beings could match, alongside an arsenal of seemingly unending skills mixed with borderline-meta powers, Drake was someone who could take over the world easily if he so desired. 

Damian meets Drake for the first time when he is nine, in the deepest bowels of Nanda Parat. But it wasn’t Drake who was introduced to him first, but instead, a ruthless assassin donning a red and white mask painted to look like a deer. 

Timothy Jackson Drake drops into his life with all the vehemence of an avenging angel, and his existence properly starts from there. 

—-----

It’s 11:59pm, and there is a stranger intruding into Damian’s room. 

Upon first glance, the stranger’s outfit is tactically sound, made to be loose enough for unimpeded movement but also tight enough to not get grabbed. On their sleeve, Damian can faintly spot an embroidered symbol: a circle with a some diagonal curving lines and straight lines cutting through it. Their hand clutches a kunai in a way that Damian could tell they were an expert in wielding it. 

Mother trained me for this, he thinks at first, this is another one of their tests to see if I am worthy. 

On what he is made to be worthy of? He is not yet sure. 

Damian unsheaths his katana to take down this unknown foe. He’s been told that his blade work is sharp and fast, so this will not be a long fight, especially with the small statue of the intruder—revealing the other was probably a few years older than himself, and not yet an experienced adult(of whom, he has also defeated many of.). 

However, with a sharp movement, the intruder blocks his downwards slash. Then, with a lazy flourish, Damian finds himself abruptly disarmed. His blade skeetering across the expensive rug on the floor. 

Damian knows he can not fail with the expectant tone of his mother’s voice in his head, so he places distance in between himself and the assailant, taking out a set of shuriken, aiming to slit their throat.  

But the intruder deflects all of them. They were blocked? Damian thinks with astonishment. 

Using his other hand, he takes out a dagger, and meets his assailant again in close range combat. He is getting desperate now, as his stamina is visibly more drained than the stranger’s, and the stranger was taller with longer reach than him, still. 

As they clash, Damian quickly understands how truly outmatched he was. Every single attempt he makes is effortlessly parried, as if it was just a dance to them. For a second, Damian’s foot slips as he’s getting more agitated, and he stumbles forward.  

Taking advantage of Damian’s slip-up, the stranger quickly knocks him off his feet with a fluid kick and points the glinting edge of Damian’s own disarmed katana at his throat. His heart hammers in his chest uncontrollably as he looks down the blade of his own weapon, now turned against him. 

There is no way mother sent them, right? 

Sure, Talia often pit him against stronger, bigger, and faster opponents to test him, but even she knows that there are limits, despite her constant insistence on breaking them. 

She wouldn’t place me in a battle where I am so significantly outmatched. She wouldn’t leave me, would she?

He frantically thinks. But as the seconds pass by, he can tell his mother is not coming for him, and his resolve wavers. 

Damian is now completely under the mercy of an unknown foe, and he knows that he’s about to die. 

Assassins have no use for mercy. It’s either you kill your prey, or your prey comes back to rip you apart. His teacher’s voice supplements unhelpfully in his head. 

With a jerk, he tilts his head up to meet the gaze of his attacker through the mask with defiance. Because while he is going to be executed for his failure, he will not go out showing weakness like a coward. 

The glint of the blade descends upon him in a deadly arc as he forces his head to be held high, then, it suddenly stops. Against everything he’s been taught, he is… spared?

The figure drops down into a squat, stolen weapon clattering down besides him.

“You’re Damian Al Ghul, or more accurately, Damian Wayne, correct?”, they ask in a lazy drawl, 

“What do you want with me?” 

The figure tilts their head, 

“Children shouldn’t be trained to become mindless soldiers.” they continue, a dark intensity bleeding into their voice, “You should have flinched.” 

Which wasn’t really a proper answer, and only brought up more confusion. 

But before Damian can retort, the other person who can’t be older than a teenager, picks him up with an ease that someone of their statue shouldn’t possess. Damian finds himself seized in a bridal style carry. The masked assassin then jumps out the window, human cargo and all, with superhuman agility, shattering the glass around them into glittering shards. 

Damian doesn’t struggle; whatever they want to do with him, he deserves it. Afterall, he did lose. 

A few moments later, what once was the League of Shadows erupts into flames, the complex crumbling upon itself, detonated from the inside. Damian’s ears ring from the force of the explosion, but he doesn’t dare move an inch. 

—----

It’s been a couple months since Damian was moved into the Wayne Manor. He’s still unused to how soft everything around him is. Most of the time, the only expectations he’s given is to make friends, go to school, and be happy. It’s preposterous how much of a downgrade it was, for him, the heir to the throne of Al Ghul’s kingdom, to now this, the youngest son of the Wayne family and an average civilian . 

Damian’s life nowadays are nothing like his time back then with the League. Before, his days consisted solely of training which was borderline torture and private tutors who he was expected to execute at the end of the day. In contrast to now, when he could watch television and pursue audacious things like hobbies. 

Maybe he would be more forgiving if Bruce was more like what he expected. Yet his father hasn’t even picked back up the mantle of Batman; the only redeemable trait that he seems to possess. If Damian had been offered the place of Robin by his side, perhaps he could have condoned Bruce’s existence, yet the man insists on giving him a normal “childhood” first, as though he was a child at all. 

Talia, his mother, till this point has been completely unreachable, despite all the methods they tried. It seems like she has given him up for good, although Damian can’t begin to imagine why she would deliberately hire someone to destroy her father’s legacy, then disappear without a trace right afterwards. And it seems unlike her to trust a random mercenary with her only son, especially one with such an undecipherable agenda. 

Alongside the rest of the Wayne family connections, Damian had tried to track down the enigmatic mercenary who was able to take down his centuries old immortal grandfather, yet to no avail, the trail went cold within the first few searches. It seems that the dear mask assassin just… didn’t exist to the rest of the world. 

His complaints and upmost humiliation notwithstanding, he hates to admit how he is starting to get accustomed to this softer life. Dare he say, even start enjoying it and feel grateful towards the masked assassin’s actions. Alfred is a tolerable form of company as one of the only sensible individuals in the household, and father—disregarding his questionable decisions—, lets him keep pets. (last time he checked, all the pets were still alive, so he may rest a little easier knowing that they will likely not be weaponized against him.) 

Even his new “siblings” of whom he had to share a father figure with, were not all beyond hopeless; an admission for Damian that was like pulling teeth. 

Jason Todd, the second son who came back from the dead against all circumstances, was returned mysteriously to the family about a year ago. Despite not being the blood son like Damian was, he was handled with the same level of doting and possessiveness. When asked, Richard seemed insistent on assuring him that “Bruce loves all his children equally”, which was a foreign concept as odd as any. He was educated in the matters of literature, and Damian considered it too much of a hassle to dispose of him. 

Richard, the eldest “son” of the household did not reside in the Wayne manor; instead occupying a measly box in another city named Bludhaven. He was enthusiastic and bright at the times when he visits, and he was also the first Robin—a feat which Damian begrudgingly found notable. Richard always insists on being called “Dick”, a plebian name, and Damian supposes the human incarnation of sunshine which was the man, was not the most insufferable person he knew, although Richard certainly gets close at times, with his awful propensity for hugs. 

Out of everything, the biggest mystery to Damian was the boy next door. 

—----

Drake is someone who comes and goes as he pleases, including into the Wayne manor, mostly to interact with Alfred as per the rare occasion. They have a sort of incomprehensible contemplative bond that consists of drinking tea in passive aggressive silence. Not even Bruce has managed to get a handle on Drake, and that was how good he was at being evasive. So for months, Damian manages to miss Timothy’s presence in the manor every time. Before he finally sees him, on a saturday evening. 

At a first glance, Timothy Drake was the very epitome of looking ordinary. He appeared to be the type of teenager who would attend parties to smoke cigarettes on the curb or skateboard in abandoned parks: with his pierced ears, shaggy hair, poor posture, and lackadaisical attitude. 

His icy blue eyes held a sort of emptiness, almost like staring into TV static. Damian tears his stare away, some deep-buried animalistic instinct inside himself screaming, almost as if it recognized a predator and was telling Damian to run. 

How? Why does he have the energy of an assassin? 

Then, on Drake’s necklace, he spots it. A simple charm that could be easily passed over for how inconspicuous it was; sterling silver in color and strung on a black cord: a circle with a diagonal line cutting through its center. He suddenly remembers, during his investigation, he had searched up the odd circular symbol and nothing conductive had came up. 

It may be just a hunch, but, Could Drake be connected to the person in the dear mask? 

What?

Chapter Text

Kon assumes Timothy Drake is a bat on the first time they meet, not even 2 years ago, when he witnesses Timothy Drake escape from his own restraints and tears through his captors like tissue paper.

He wasn’t completely wrong, per se to his initial assumption. But it’s a little more complicated than that. As Timothy’s friend and a frequent taker of his advice, he knows better; Drake has too many skeletons in his closet (or more accurately, he has too many skeletons that you can’t prove are his) to ever truly belong.

Honestly, if Kon were told by Drake to dispose of a body, he would do it without hesitation. The rest of the Young Justice team is unanimously united on this consensus. Timothy’s greatest asset is his mind, so whenever he comes to a decision, his friends will follow him, even if it’s into hell. Of course, this is also because nobody wants to be on Tim’s bad side, he could be very intimidating if he desires to be. (Kon’s seen tapes of meetings between Drake Industries and Luthor Corp, it’s a fucking bloodbath.) 

On another note, Secret has a suspicion that Young Justice’s main benefactor getting changed recently probably has something to do with Timothy Drake. Not that she can find evidence for the fact. Rich people are so perplexing sometimes. 

 —----

Kon loathes these types of missions.

It’s always some obnoxious, out-of-touch millionaire or billionaire whose big mouth and excessive flaunting of unethically gained wealth from their daddy and mommy that gets themselves into a pickle. (In Kon’s honest opinion, however, if someone is willing to drive into a notoriously crime ridden part of town with a porsche, wearing Louis Vuitton, that’s all on them.) And because apparently Young Justice is a team of heroes, and “heroes should save people”, so now they have to chase down whatever brats got snatched so they get good “street cred” while they knock down a couple 2-bit thugs.

The last time they had to rescue some rich-ass kidnapping victim, instead of gratitude, they were slapped with a lawsuit. Because ha, ha, ha, it was seemingly their fault that her Chanel suit got ripped up in the ensuing tussle. Luckily(and aggravatingly), the Justice League pitched in last second to get the case (which had rapidly grew out of control) off their back. And Kon thinks he’s had enough of arrogant, helpless rich people for a lifetime. 

But… surveying the scene of the warehouse right now, his jaw probably dropped onto the floor in shock. Out of everything, he didn’t expect this. 

Instead of finding a feebly stirring young man, tied up to a chair in an obnoxiously expensive outfit, screaming out their lungs in terror about this or that; the warehouse was littered with bodies . Actual. Dead. Bodies ; that were currently still warm, pools of scarlet slowly leaking out from where they laid. 

According to Kon’s personal observations, they likely hadn’t even gotten the opportunity to raise their weapons before they were ruthlessly cut down. Some of the corpses still having their guns with their safeties popped off, bullets all inside the canisters. Another few corpses looked like it was just about to strike with knives, but were maimed or paralyzed. 

The ugly metal chair which was present in the ransom video they were sent, was disparagedly empty of the supposed victim it had once been bound to; the ropes cleanly cut apart. 

On the side, Kon could see Secret’s face turn slightly green at the grizzly crime scene surrounding them. While Kon had a harder stomach for these sorts of things, it wasn’t exactly a sight for sore eyes— the glassy unseeing gaze of the thug who had their neck slit, lying in a pool of their own blood. 

“What the heck, what happened?!” Impulse exclaimed from his side, a bright flash of red as he ran ahead with his super speed to check on the bodies. 

Did someone get here before us? Kon wonders, but no, nobody else had taken the case. Additionally, in this area, vigilantes that operated were few and far in between; and even then, many wouldn’t have any particularly good reason to save some random young CEO upstart. 

“Hold on, let me check it out first.” Kon states, at this Arrowette makes a face, 

“Stop running ahead with everything on your own,” 

“What? Worried about little ol’ me? You shouldn’t have~” he deflects, 

From the corner of his vision, he sees Secret roll her eyes in faux annoyance. 

He walks up to one of the few bodies near the entry way, and nudges them with his boot carelessly to wake them up. Just in case, he beckons over Wondergirl to tie the man up with some spare rope. 

The thug, upon opening his eyes, screams.  His scream is bloodcurdling and shrill, in the way that he just-saw-something-that-will-psychologically-haunt-him-till-the-last-of-his-days-and-into-his-next-life . Secret and Wondergirl both’s hands jump to cover their ears, Kon tries and fails to contain his flinch. 

“We’re just here for answers. “ he states, keeping his voice calm, while taking his sunglasses off to look the man in the eye, “Did you see where that Drake kid went, and what caused all of…. This? “ he gestured to their surroundings with his sunglasses. 

“You’ll be facing justice whether you like it or not, so we suggest you fess up, whatever it is. “

Wondergirl said, crouching down to make eye contact with the thug. Impulse darts back, and surveys the scene, 

“Yeah.. you’re not running away from this.” he states bluntly, as the man rapidly pales. Kon slightly snickers at the man’s horrified look. 

“W-we thought we would just kick him around, like anotha' one of those rich boys, but h-h-he was a fucking monster!” the criminal shrieks, starting to hyperventilate. He grabs on to Kon’s leg, eyes darting around the room warily, and Kon resists the urge to punt him because he knows the thug would actually die at that. 

“Can’t you see? He’s still here, waiting in the shadows, he’s here to make me pay for all my crimes, I’ll atone, I swear I will. Just get me out of here!” and with a slump, he faints dead.   

“That was pretty useless, if you ask me.” Arrowette calls from another spot in the room, 

“Yeah, yeah, let’s get moving.” Kon responds, lightly kicking the downed man, thoroughly creeped out. Secret nods behind him.  

—----

Where is he? Kon inquires with frustration in the space of his own head. They've been wandering around for almost 15 minutes now. Every minute they waste is a minute where the civilian could be placed in more danger. 

Arrowette has peeled off from the group, opting to climb up into the rafters for a better vantage point. Impulse runs ahead of the group, being too jittery to walk at a normal pace. Secret stays nearby Kon, alongside Wondergirl. 

Sifting through his eidetic memory, Kon attempts to look up the profile of the person they were supposed to protect. 

Timothy Jackson Drake, recently stepped up as the CEO of Drake Industries after the temporary stand-in CEOs that were allocated into the role after Jack Drake’s unfortunate incident, were killed in an accident with muggers. Currently age 15, race of mixed asian and caucasian descent.  

Kon blanches in his mind as a sudden thought hits him.  

Surely the kidnappers hadn’t made their move yet… right? Timothy Drake is the same age as some of the people on my team, and he doesn’t have any powers. They wouldn’t murder a civilian kid…… at least not this soon, would they?

“There, I see him!” Arrowette calls down, pointing towards a scuffle off in a shaded corner of the warehouse. Kon turns to look. Then he proceeds to nearly have a heart attack as he witnesses Drake drive a blade inches deep into the collarbone of one of his captors and without-a-pause, perform some acrobatic moves that should be impossible with the laws of physics.  

Secret shrinks slightly as she watches the fight. Cassie on Kon’s left looks at the civilian in disbelief, likely mirroring Kon’s own face. Impulse — now on Kon’s right— ‘s jaw was nearly on the floor. With his super hearing, Kon can discern Arrowette’s breath hitching sharply. 

“There you are.” Drake says suddenly, breaking up the awkward silence as he turns around. Kon’s eyes are immediately assaulted with the sheer bloodiness of it all . 

Timothy’s cream cashmere sweater, which would cost an average person a fortune, is smeared with speckles of bloodspray on its front. His jeans are coated with similar splatters of gore; the once-white sneakers on his feet steeped in crimson slick. In his hand, is loosely gripped a dirtied blade, although its shape was unconventional from typical hand knives.

Despite the cognitive dissonance, Kon knows it has to be the Drake Heir; he matched the physical profile perfectly. 

“He has a weird energy, “ Secret whispers as she cups her hands around Kon’s ears. On the side, Wondergirl nods slightly in agreement. “There’s no way he’s just a regular civilian.” 

Then Kon makes the mistake of meeting the boy’s eyes, as Drake steps towards the small group. And Drake’s eyes in that moment are… blank. There’s nothing there, almost akin to staring into a blackhole, so deep no light can reach its inside. 

I’m not touching that with a ten foot pole. Kon shakes off a phantom shiver. 

All at once, Timothy’s demeanor changes, so subtly Kon almost misses it. His posture slumps slightly into something more timid, his blank expression is covered with a mild expression of fear. And it’s not a highly efficient killer, but just a civilian kid again. He doesn’t even bother wiping off his hands before shoving them into his pockets, casually as you please, before meandering back to his original spot of capture, plopping himself on the chair while slipping his wrists back into the ropes that are very obviously severed. 

More than anything, underneath his facade of normalcy, this monstrous boy looks… bored . With the way he unconcernedly sprawls himself over the hard metal chair, you wouldn’t know the chair was extremely uncomfortable. 

“Are you here to rescue me? ” he said nonchalantly, his tone flat to the point of blandness. It's apparent that he already knows the answer. Impulse is the first to speak, as Kon unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth,

“We are team Young Justice?? And, uh, we were sent here to save you… although it seems like you already took care of it.” 

Kon cracks a grin that he doesn’t really feel, and winks in an exaggerated way, 

“Superboy, at your service!” 

“Impulse, your local speedster!”

“Ugh, Arrowette. Since we’re doing this.”

“Wondergirl.” 

“I’m Secret!” Secret gives a slightly hesitant wave. 

Upon first impressions, Timothy Drake couldn’t be taller than 5’7. His limbs were dainty and slender, his skin pale and unblemished. Even his hair, which had been scruffed up, was at the length where it tapered down to about his collarbones in black, feathery layers. His ears were also pierced with simple studs, adding onto the overall outfit. He looked exactly like any other teen with too much money to spend—perhaps the type you would find smoking cigarettes on the curb during a party, or sleeping in class—, not someone who could take out men 3 times larger than him without breaking a sweat. 

“Y’know, if you told us beforehand you would be breaking out, we wouldn’t have bothered.” Kon sighs in an exaggerated manner, “But oh well. How did you defeat them, anyways?” 

“They underestimated me.” Drake replied, tilting his head slightly, 

Sarcastically, Kon thinks back to the other teen’s guise,  gee, I wonder why they would do that. 

“Are… you alright?” Secret asked, clearly unsure of what to say. 

The kid casts a dry look as he slowly stands up, stretches leisurely, and fucking yawns. YAWNS . As if his life wasn’t just threatened! (To be honest, from what Kon saw, he would hesitate to say if Timothy Drake’s life could have ever been threatened, with how efficiently and effortlessly he took care of himself.). 

Arrowette, hopping down from her spot, admonishes Tim with a sweeping glance. 

“Hey, pretty boy, why didn’t you just not get kidnapped? I mean, we all saw the damage you can do. You could have left at any moment.” 

Drake levels his gaze at Arrowette, then he looks away,  

“Too troublesome. The time with my head in a sack was quite comfortable, I even fell asleep.” 

At this, the entire team was shocked silent. There was only one thing on all of their minds, 

That’s it? He was too lazy so he had to bother us?! The audacity of this kid . 

Kon sighs and tries to smile without twitching at all the unexpected turn of events of the day. 

“Alright, dear civilian, we got a vehicle so you’re coming with us back to the city. Hell, fall asleep on the way if we care. It’s going to be faster than walking, we can guarantee that. ” 

 —----

They are outside the warehouse complex, and Kon goes to retrieve the team’s ride. He opens the side of the mobile, and climbs himself into the driver’s seat. The rest of the team piles in behind him.  

As they drive, Drake starts to doze off again. 

“It’s hard to imagine he was the one that slit the throat of his own kidnappers.” Secret remarks, cooing.

“Yeah, I mean... he’s a nepo baby, it doesn’t get more sheltered than that.” Arrowette comments. 

Wondergirl hums, “Fair. I’m just curious for where he got that training, because as far as I know, no civies’ facilities teaches skills for assasination… or whatever those magic acrobatics were.”

From the backseat, Impulse shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. We finished our mission, now we can get this over with. I’m craving pizza!” 

There’s a lull in the conversation. 

“Wait!” Secret suddenly exclaimed, “Could it be that he’s one of the Bats? Like a Bat gone rogue?” 

Kon pauses in consideration from the front, 

That could actually make sense.

“Maybe, it could be possible. Or, he could be just another hypercompetent civilian.” he points out, outloud. 

Wondergirl scoffs, 

“I’ll bet my lasso he’s at least affiliated with them.” 

…

“I’m not going to take that bet.” 

“Wise choice.” 

Chapter Text

“Father. I want to move out.” Damian announces on one morning. Alfred, from the kitchen, places down the dish he was putting away onto the countertop with a gentle clink. Bruce nearly spits out his coffee, but manages to contain the spill in time. Jason cackles, from where he’s eating a slice of toast on the couch. 

“What?” Bruce asks in bewilderment as he dabs at himself with a napkin. 

Damian stares forward, completely serious. 

“I have recognized that my training is not adequate to belong in this household. I will seek a competent enough teacher to train me, then I’ll make my return once I have surpassed them all.”

Bruce’s eyes soften as he coughs awkwardly, “Damian, I didn’t realise you felt that way.”

“That’s because I hid my weakness. I plan to find the warrior who nobly and mistakenly rescued me to make him take me back to Nanda Parbat, where I will resume my training. Do not worry, for I will not fail.” Damian states, his body and stance both rigid. On his back, is a rucksack, and he’s dressed in his old league clothing—now seeing it—,has gotten slightly too short for him. 

“Oh my god this is fucking hilarious, I have to text Dick about this” Jason heckles from the couch, where his toast and book lies forgotten. Bruce casts him a look then turns back to Damian.

“Dami, Damian, how many times do I have to say this. You are my son, so I will support you, always. You will never ever be a failure in this household. And you will not be going back to Nanda Parbat, that is final.” Bruce states, sounding very tired. Alfred at this point steps out from the kitchen, patting his hands dry with a towel.

“Young master, I would suggest giving this topic a rest for your father. And personally, I think you should stay for longer before you make such a rash decision. Afterall, I believe Alfred the cat would miss you dearly.” 

Damian turns his head to the side, the tips of his ears red, and tuts. Then with a huff, he sneaks back up the stairs. 

After casting the staircase a lingering look, Alfred turns to Bruce, “Bruce, you must understand that Damian is having a hard time adjusting, especially as he was taken from his home by force.” 

Bruce sips his coffee and sighs,

“I know that, but he still refuses to acknowledge that the league’s actions in his childhood were wrong. What should I do with him?”

“Love him, support him, I presume. One day he’ll come around. You know, he is just like you in a lot of ways.” then Alfred’s eyes gain a slight twinkle, 

Bruce groans, “Don’t remind me. I might go bald one day and it would be because of this family.” 

At this, Jason appears at the table, plate in one hand, phone in the other, then he looks up, 

“Old man, I don’t think you’ll rock the whole bald look. Alfred can pull it off, but you? “ then he bursts into cackles again. 

“Oh, by the way, Dickhead’s coming this afternoon to visit.” He said, still laughing. Then he vanished up the stairs as well, as silent as a ghost. 

Bruce slumps. 

“I love all my boys so much, but they are such a handful.” Alfred does not offer him condolences, patting his shoulder placatingly in silence. 

“May I remind you, sir, It was your choice to take them in.” 

“I know, Alfred. I don’t regret that.” 

—----

Jason, instead of entering his room, knocks on Damian’s bedroom door. 

“Hey! Demon brat, open up!” he yells, pounding on the mahogany. After a few moments, the door creaks open.

“What are doing here?” Damian said with an admonishing gaze, behind him, Jason can just about see some of the things from the duffle, scattered across the floor. 

“Just here to talk, about your little… announcement this morning.” Damian tuts, then tries to slam the door. But Jason is faster, and sticks his foot in between the crack. 

“Hey! You little shit, hear me out first.” 

“If this is to convince me to stay, I’ve made up my mind.” Damian said, hand twisting on the doorknob.

“No, but I have information you want. On Deer.” 

Damian beckons Jason in, shutting the door. 

“Go on.” 

“But I want you to consider this first, before making any rash decisions.” 

Damian folds his arms, sitting on his desk chair, 

“I’m listening.” 

“Deer would never take you back to the league.” Jason states, Damian’s frown deepens. “Deer also likes to play games.”

“And what am I supposed to do with that information?” 

“Oh, and Deer is likely closer than than you think. Occam’s razor and all that.” 

“Stop speaking in riddles, Todd. You said you had information.” 

Jason shrugs, from where he has sat himself on the floor. Then he casts his sight to the side, where he spots a corkboard with a map of the globe spread out, various spots marked with string and neat annotations— hung up on the wall like something from a movie, and he smirks. 

“So you were looking for him.” he commented, like the cat that got the cream. 

Damian doesn’t deem him an answer, but his expression says everything for him.

“Hey, it’s your business,” Jason raises his hands in a mock surrender, “but have you considered that you’re overcomplicating it?” 

Damian scoffs, crossing his arms in front of his chest, uncaring if it makes him look petulant.  

“Please, even someone as enigmatic as Deer would surely leave a trail. My theory is that he was trained up in the league, so I shall search for him from there, or go towards Paris to inquire information from the esteemed Lady Shiva.” 

Jason leans back, propping up his elbow on his knee, grin not fading. 

Damian turns to him, brows furrowing,

“You know something, don’t you? Well? I declare you give me the intel you have withheld!”

“Whatever you say, mini Bruce. Dickbird is dropping by pretty soon, anyways. I’m sure he’ll be overjoyed to tell you everything.” Then Jason’s laidback stance suddenly shifts into something serious, the smirk dropping off his face. 

“But before we can trust you, you must swear that none of this gets to Bruce.” 

Damian casts him a half-bewildered, half-flat stare.

“What? You are not making sense.”

Jason sighs, 

“My history with him is too complicated, and I can’t help but be distrustful of you due to your league heritage. To be straightforward, if Bruce gets word, we’re all fucked because when he gets obsessed about something, nothing else matters.”

Jason’s gaze is intense as he levels it at Damian, the cerulean blue of his irises meeting bright green. 

“If this gets out, you will lose your father.” 

Damian seems like he’s about to defend Bruce, or ask further questions before his jaw locks up and his posture becomes solemn. 

“I will take this to my grave.” 

Jason nods once, standing up. Damian suddenly can tell why mother wanted to recruit him into the league. Upon first glance,  Jason may seem like nothing special, but there is more than what meets the eye with the older man. 

“Good. If you go back on your promise. All of us will blame you when things fall apart.”

Damian declines his head stiffly. This is only another test. I will not fail.  

“I don’t go back on my word.” he states out loud, 

“We’ll hold you to that.” Jason responded, and the door shuts behind him with a soft click. 

Damian stares at the doorframe, his thoughts like a storm in his head. 

What does Grayson have to do about Deer? And why is father not permitted to know?

—----

“You have to be playing a practical joke.” Damian said in disbelief, his eyes searching the three others in the room, “Todd? Grayson? Even you, Gordon, I didn’t expect for you to be pulled along as well.” 

Barbara shakes her head, “I am telling you, even if it’s difficult to believe. But Drake is indeed Deer, in fact he has enlisted me a couple time to cover up his traces.” 

Damian’s gaze darts to the other two men in the room, desperate. Jason from his place on a chair is snickering, while Dick’s face is wholly unreadable. 

“Damian- I know it’s sudden but-” Dick exclaimed,

“Do you have any proof?” he interrupts. 

“Agaim, no, unfortunately, Deer is very careful. He refused to let me keep anything.” Barbara sighs, having already known that convincing the boy alone would be a monumental task.

“It’s Bruce he’s trying to hide from, I think it’s fair.” Jason interjects as he gets up and stretches, his spine popping loudly.  “Nobody wants to be sent to prison, it’s the very fucking least we can do for him.”

“Jason is right, Bruce is a kind man, but he’s also very stubborn. Drake is rightfully cautious with the amount of skeletons in his closet.” Dick notes, 

Jason snaps, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Look, we’ve been at this for nearly two fucking hours now. The brat won’t believe us no matter what. There’s no point.” then he casts a look at Damian, “if you don’t believe us, fine. Go ask Drake himself.” 

“Perhaps I will. “ Damian exclaims, as he trudges out the door. 

Dick gets up from his place and hurries over to where Jason was also in the process of leaving. 

“Yeah, but what if Deer wants nothing to do with us? We cause him enough trouble as it is. Now springing Damian upon him?”

Barbara starts to look thoughtful, tapping her fingers absentmindedly on the armrest of her wheelchair. 

“No, I think this is something that Damian has to figure out himself.” then her expression turns sly, 

“It’s time he thought twice about underestimating someone.” 

Chapter Text

Lois finds the concept of Superman fascinating, but more than anything, she finds a special interest in his acquaintances, the superhero type or otherwise.

This is why when sees a teenage boy with dark hair, blue eyes, dressed in a baggy jacket and jeans, enter the kent farm from the zeta tube, call it a reporter’s hunch, that she’s intrigued. 

His full name is Timothy Jackson Drake. She recognizes him from the papers: he’s the current CEO of Drake Industries after a tragic incident involving his parents both getting murdered consecutively in under a year, and the replacement CEO retiring after that.  The tragedy of Tim Drake’s situation became all the talk of the news: everyone yammering to get an interview with the orphaned teenager. Although the hype around the topic has died down in recent times(and from Tim Drake dodging every camera and microphone like a pro), as Drake industries thrived more than ever under his leadership. The company, from what she’s heard, has been taken in a complete different direction, but it seems to be a good decision, as stocks were rising to an all time high and public trust maintained consistently strong. 

Lois knows a coworker of hers had covered the tumultuous history of the Drake Industries in recent years, but she hadn’t personally written anything on it, as she was more focused on another story at the time. And it always left a bad taste in her mouth to gossip about teenagers, especially those experiencing trauma, anyways. It always felt wrong for her to capitalize off someone else’s pain, especially in a profession such as hers, where it was commonplace to prey upon vulnerable individuals for an “easy” story. (She’s seen Vicky Vale’s work, and one word: Yikes.) Not to mention how cheap and shallow it was to write for those gossip columns; Lois believes she has higher aspirations, thank you very much. 

But now, the question is, why is Timothy Drake, teenage genius, enigma to the press, and CEO of Drake Industries using the zeta tubes to get onto the Kent farm? 

As if he read her mind, he casually meanders over.

“I’m here to pick up Damian.” he states, his hands still tucked in his pockets. “I’m his neighbor, Bruce sent me.” 

“Oh, he just arrived a couple hours ago. Although I’m not sure if you can get him to leave.” she answers, “He’s with Jon, with the cows.”

“Thanks. I’m not in a rush.” then as he says this, then his stance slightly shifts, “Is Superman here?” 

Lois frowns, “What are your intentions?”

Timothy sighs, then looks up at the sky. 

“I would rather be cloud watching. “ he mutters, before replying, “I know someone affiliated with hin. I would like to speak with him. In private regarding matters for the league.“

As Lois raises a skeptical eyebrow, the boy’s posture hunches over more, as he takes a deep sigh. 

“So troublesome. But can I get an audience with Clark Kent?” 

“You know?” she asks, in slight shock. 

“It’s not that difficult to find out. Do you know where he is?” 

“He’s away on a mission for the aforementioned League at the moment. It’s just me, alongside the Kent Family.” Lois said, not seeing the teen as too much of a threat. “Would you like to sit as you wait for him to come back? Or you can pick up Damian and I’ll relay whatever message you have.”

“I don’t mind waiting.” He said as he sat himself on the grass. “The view is nice.” 

Lois slightly laughs, “Of course it is, I’ve seen Gotham. Take as much time as you want. “

The teen lowers himself so he’s laying fully on the grass, face towards the sky.

“Thanks.”

Seeing as the teen is occupied, Lois goes inside the house for some lemonade and comes out, tray in hand. Then she sits herself down near the kid, 

“So why did Bruce send his neighbor to pick up Damian? Doesn’t he has other sons?” 

Timothy slowly turns his head in her direction, seeing her unrepentant gaze, he slightly sits up.

“Damian got into… a little bit of an altercation with them, today. I was the only one not apart of it.” 

Lois passes him a glass of lemonade. Timothy silently takes it. 

“Oh? So why did you agree?” 

Timothy sighs as he swirls the glass with his hands, not unlike he was nursing alcohol.

“They wouldn’t stop bothering me about it, plus I was intrigued about Superman.” 

He looks at Lois fully, his stare like an icy chasm. 

“You do know Superman keeps things from you, right? He’s more secretive than he lets on.” 

Lois feels her expression turn rueful, 

“Of course. But there’s not much I can do about it.” then she lets out a small bitter laugh, “I’m just a civilian. He always says he’s protecting me. As if I haven’t done my fair share of rescuing him too.” 

She can sense Timothy’s gaze with something like understanding. 

“A lot of men are like that, he probably doesn’t want to burden you.” he said, after a moment of silence, his voice soft, his eyes not meeting hers. 

If Lois didn’t know any better, she would think he was speaking from experience. 

“But the more he doesn’t say, the more I worry.” Lois exhales, 

“For some topics, he’s like a stone wall. I can’t seem to get through to him at all.” with embarrassment, she feels herself start to tear up from the frustration. “He saves so many people every day, but I just wish he would let us take some of that weight off. He’s such a kind man and I fear his own empathy is going to bring him his own downfall.” 

Timothy is silent next to her, but he passes over a handkerchief. The teen’s expression is thoughtful. 

“We got married because he promised we would be a team, as equals in the relationship. We have a son, you probably know him: Jon, Damian’s best friend. Sometimes when Clark sees us, it’s like he holds himself back from being apart of it.” 

Lois blows her nose nosily into the handkerchief. 

“Our dynamic doesn’t feel equal at all right now. Especially in the past year, he just seems to be hiding something from me! I don’t pry, but damn it, am I tempted!”

Lois dabs at the corners of her eyes. She’s always been an angry crier, rare as her tears were; Clark was usually the more emotional one. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t unload that on you, I don’t know what came over me.” 

Timothy puts down his lemonade on the tray, the liquid untouched. His tone isn’t judgemental. 

“It’s fine, you seemed to need it.” 

“Still.” 

The teen doesn’t speak anymore as he lifts his gaze towards the clouds. The feathery strands of his dark hair blown by the wind, obscuring his face. 

—-----

Superman enters his house to find a stranger in his living room. 

From the back, the teen resembles a younger Dick grayson, but as he turns around, Superman finds that he didn’t recognize the boy at all. The boy’s jacket seems to be woven from a special material, as Superman is unable to see past it with his X-ray vision, although he spots a small blade concealed in the soles of the boy’s sneakers. 

“I’m Timothy Drake.” they introduced, “And I’m here to speak on the topic of your clone.” 

His breath hitches. 

“How did you-, what?” 

“Kon? Superboy? I’m sure you heard of him.” 

Clark feels off kilter, suddenly. 

“I don’t know what you mean?” he said, plastering on a charming smile but feeling internally unsteady.

“You do. Clark Kent.” 

His fake smile drops. 

“How did you know my identity?” 

The boy shrugs, folding one of his legs up as other leg dangles akimbo. 

“It wasn’t that hard.” 

His eyes meet Clark’s, the ice blue of his eyes similar to staring death in the face. 

“I’m here to suggest that you stop treating Kon so poorly. It’s cruel and it’s abusive. Ignore him if you must, but he is not Lex Luthor, and it isn’t his fault that he was created.” 

Timothy pauses, still staring into Clark’s soul. 

Clark feels for a moment, as if he was under the examined side of his own x-ray vision, but only Timothy’s gaze is penetrating far past his bones. 

“What do you want me to do?” he exclaims, feeling weary. 

“It was your choice as Superman to let Luthor keep living, was it not?” Timothy continues in the same flat tone of voice, 

“I understand your issues with him. Lex Luthor’s actions against your autonomy and culture are absolutely deplorable.”, he pronounce the last half with an surprising amount of venom, “But it’s either you mentor him, or let him go.” 

Clark swallows, pushing down his anger and indignance. The atmosphere of the living room has been made almost claustrophobic, and he resists the urge to tug on his collar like a scolded child. 

“Or look at it this way, Kent. Your own turmoil with the clone is costing you your relationship with your family, and it’s going to cost you your reputation as a hero too.” Timothy pulls something out from his pocket, and starts to toss it casually.

Oh hell, is that a knife? Clark thinks, catching a glint of green on the blade. 

“Afterall,” his tossing stops, “What will Bruce think? What will Nightwing think? What will Lane think? Calling a child a monster isn’t certainly setting an good example, now is it?” 

Clark’s lips feel dry, and he doesn’t know how to react. The thing is, he knows logically that Kon is a child. But he’s also Lex Luthor. He’s unpredictable and has the potential to unleash devastating destruction. He might have a team now, but who knows what will happen next? 

“Give my words a thought; Lane is outside waiting, and I would suggest actually communicating with your partner about these things.”, almost faster than he can blink, he finds the blade lodged mere centimeters from where his head was, sunk inches deep into the wall. Distantly, Superman feels a warm drip of blood pool down from his cheek. 

Timothy stands up, 

“Good talk, Clark Kent.” 

He slips outside, like a shadow, and disappears. 

—----

Jon and Damian are with the cows, as they witness the sun starting to set. 

“You wanna stay over tonight?” Jon asks, 

“Fa-Bruce would want me to go back.” Damian mutters, 

“But what do you wanna do?” Jon inquires, ever patient. 

Damian considers it, his brows furrowing, but he doesn’t deem Jon an immediate reply. In the distance, a figure walks up in a leisurely pace. 

“Hey Damian, hello Jon. “ the figure says with a careless sort of tone. 

Damian gets up from where he was sitting, his posture turning into something more formal. Jon suddenly remembers Damian telling him about the enigmatic teen before, he does respect Timothy Drake a lot, doesn’t he? 

“Drake.” Damian greets, not bowing, but doing something close to one with his head. 

“Your father wanted me to pick you up.”

“And, if I don’t want to leave?” his tone grows slightly defensive. The other figure stares him down wordlessly, with something going unsaid between the two of them. 

Jon watches the exchange with curiosity. Timothy Drake is pretty different from how I imagined him, he seems pretty… Chill actually. Huh. 

“I wouldn’t force you. It’s too troublesome to try.” Timothy shrugs, “Stay however long you like. I had some business with Superman anyways.” 

Then Timothy just turns around and starts to walk away? And Damian follows him? 

As he’s leaving, Damian casts Jon a look, his hand hovering in the approximate of a wave. 

“Goodbye Jon, thank you for hosting me.” 

Jon waves back, still slightly confused. 

“See ya! Come by anytime.” 

Seems like they got it. He thinks, Damian will be fine. I know it.

Chapter Text

Jason is revived in a  haze of green. Sure, physically he had already been technically revived, however now he is finally revived as the Jason Todd; he feels his memories snap into place like a rubber band. Suddenly everything is clear—like knocking off the dust on the cover of a book, or putting on the right prescription glasses for the first time—, it’s both enlightening yet also disorientating. 

Having your memories from the past 17 or so years slammed into your head all at once will make anyone feel like they’re going insane—

-being betrayed, and bashed, over and over, the crowbar digging into his body, the blood, the cracked ribs the screaming for a dad that won’t get there in time, the rage coating his bloody vision red, the sound of the timer of a bomb, red the rED TURN INTO THE GREEN- 

And it’s over as soon as it began, with something sharp being jabbed into the side of his neck. 

“-go home, soldier.” 

There’s a voice, young? 

Jason passes out. 

The next moment, Jason is waking up in his father’s arms, as his dad sobs into his shoulder. He’s hooked up to multiple machines, he’s in the cave, and there’s a fresh streak of white in his hair. 

Who saved him? 

And why? 

—---- 

In the time immediately after Jason just came back to the manor (and came back from the dead, long story), Dick’s presence was a constant, hovering and fretting over him like a mama-bird. However, Dick’s tenure in the Wayne manor didn’t stay, as he cracked not long after a couple weeks in, leaving Jason alone once more. 

Jason wouldn’t say he missed Dick all that much, in fact, he was kind of glad if not a bit jealous of him. At least Dick had somewhere to escape to, away from his father’s cursed legacy. Jason was locked down in this damn city, this damn family, to this damned house — reminded everyday of all the things he missed. 

Okay, it’s not that he’s ungrateful about Bruce saving a place in the manor and the family for him, but often, now he’s come back, it just feels suffocating, like a tree whose roots have outgrown the size of its planter. He’s like a puzzle piece that no longer fits into the puzzle, he’s mismatched. 

Sometimes he observes his family in secret, and he can’t discern the people they’ve turned into. Jason supposes he can say the same for them, who stare through him instead of looking at him and facing the person he’s become. 

Perhaps it is his fault, that their grief for his death has irreversibly eroded them past the point of recognition. It's his fault that things turned out like this with no way back. 

He really tries to love his father, y’know? He really tried to get used to Dick’s helicoptering and Alfred’s barely held-together stoicism. He tried to get used to this Bruce, who’s more like shattered glass than a human, nothing like the warm strong presence Jason remembered him as. 

One night, he snooped onto the bat-computer and he looks up what Bruce has done in his absence. His heart abruptly freezes over and shatters at the report upon report of violent brutality. It was so absurd compared with Jason’s image of him that he just started to laugh hysterically. What even are we, anymore? He had thought in between the heaving breaths.  Alfred had ushered him to bed afterwards, and he didn’t sleep a wink for the rest of the night. 

It’s stifling to be expected to act like someone he’s not. Jason can tell that his family has noticed this, but no one is willing to breach the topic and sever the tentative dynamic they’ve built. He understands why. Nobody wants to confront the fact that the old Jason Todd is dead, especially not right after he just came back. 

Afterall, who can bear mourning somebody twice?

The new Jason Todd wanted the autograph of the person who killed the Joker, would rather shoot himself in the leg than wear the Robin costume, and needs a cane to walk any long distances because his body was permanently disfigured by a fucking clown. He has a fear of small spaces, and the dark, and there’s a perpetual phantom feeling of dirt underneath his nails no matter how hard he scrubs. This new Jason Todd wants to go home, but where is home anymore?

And perhaps all those feelings, pent up, thrumming underneath his skin, is what accumulates to him running away from home for the first time since coming back, during the night of his 19th birthday. 

He didn’t even have a good reason for it; at the time, he just felt the desperate need to leave. The cake tasted fine, the new books looked good on his bookshelf, but it just all felt so normal— too normal, too fake. As if they were pretending that he never died, and he got to graduate from high school, and that he wasn’t memorialized as a soldier first and a son second. Dick was there, laughing along to the birthday song as though he wasn’t downright hostile to Jason when they were younger, and Jason felt something inside himself snap.  

He doesn’t get very far out the door, perhaps a couple blocks down in Bristol, wandering blindly because he didn't think to grab his cane beforehand, when he first meets Timothy Drake. 

Jason’s first impressions of Timothy Drake, is that he’s very hard to read, and from the corner of his eye, there was something almost familiar to the teen.

Where do I recognize him from? Why do I get that feeling from him?

Anyone would be hard to read in the dark, nevertheless.

—----

Timothy’s first act is to extend an offer for him to stay in the Drake Manor for refuge. Jason couldn’t scurry back to the manor with his tail between his legs; realising that the only other option he has is the alleyways, he accepts.

Jason crashes at Tim’s place for the first time that night. 

Then he does it again, and again. Whenever the manor feels smothering, Jason just… walks a couple blocks down, and makes himself at home within the Drake’s residence. Most of the time while he’s there, they just spend it in comfortable silence. Sometimes, selfishly, Jason doesn’t want to leave. He feels free in Drake's presence, unshackled from his and his family’s complicated baggage. He can just be… a guy, instead of the dead soldier, or the failed brother, or the son who came-back-wrong. Hell, Jason Todd could shank someone in the back and Timothy Drake would just complain about the bloodstains as he helps him hide the body. 

Bruce would lecture him about being the family disappointment and breaking the “rules” if he ever did that. 

Looking back at it, perhaps Jason should have been more observant, or more careful, so the later realization wouldn’t have come as such a shock. In Drake’s own words, “I wasn’t even purposely hiding it, I expected you to find out on your own accord at some point, I was acting pretty suspicious.”. 

In his defense, he was more occupied with investigating the whole being-a-zombie thing, alongside looking for the person who killed all those members of the league to help him come home (he would only learn how ironic it is, much later). 

Despite having been catatonic for the majority of that faithful day, Jason thinks he is lucky that his mind still retained some clues, the hazy memories trickling in slowly and gradually. 

—----

Visions of the harrowing journey there in the first place flash through his befuddled mind, mixing with the memories of his time from before. He has plenty of time to contemplate these disjointed images in the while he spent recuperating in the infirmary of the cave. 

From the bits and pieces, for a majority of it, there’s assassins chasing him and another person. He remembers them dressed in dark clothing, with the intent to kill whoever is with him, and to capture him alive. The person saving him had a deer mask on, so Jason couldn't see their face. 

There’s a woman who leads the group’s onslaught. She has green eyes, when she gets too close, her throat is slit with an arching spray of blood. 

Jason remembers watching the boy who kills all their pursuers without much of a second thought, and remembering seeing the crimson pool beneath his feet, and it felt wrong, wrong, wrong. 

The boy is who finds Jason first, when he’s wandering through the streets of Crime Alley. 

“Your name is Jason Todd. Come, let’s get you home.” the boy stated, extending a hand. 

At some point during their journey, Jason remembers some of the assailants getting too close, and his own body moves, switching into the stances of well practiced feints, jabs and patterns. 

Of course, he didn't know why he had those abilities either. 

The two of them don’t stop running for the entire time. The boy seems to know Jason, although he is frustrated that he can’t recognize his own savior at all. He tries to ask, but his own body doesn’t cooperate, and his jaw locks up on him. 

He stumbles, and the boy catches him, as if it was simply easy to hold up someone a head taller than you. 

They’re diving through the pathways of the sewers at some point, the shadowy assassins just keep coming in these swathes of deadly figures. And his guide, his rescuer always dispatches them with an efficiency that was terrifying, slicing through the groups like butter on a hot knife. The tunnels underground are dark, yet the other figure in the deer mask navigates it with no issue. 

In the distant part of his mind, he feels a sort of smothered horror which dawns on him that someone would so efficiently and thoughtlessly commit such acts of violence for him. (and even more buried under the confusion, is a bitterness, because Bruce would never do that for him, despite being his father. ) 

Jason, back when he was Robin, never killed. So in some capacity, he should tell the masked boy to stop, to be gentler or merciful. But he doesn’t (and later on, while he’s in his hospital bed, he wonders if he regrets it.), instead, all he feels is relief as he knows, they can’t come back for him. 

For a second, Jason swears there was a girl too. She was a whole smudge of silence and shadow, maneuvering around the assassins with a graceful precision. 

Jason doesn’t even know if she’s real or not, as far as he knows, she disappeared as quickly as she appeared. Leaving a trail of groaning, unconscious, bruised, but never dead bodies in her wake. And he doesn’t know what to think, (except for some tiny voice in his head, crying out in relief that another kid will not shed blood in his name)

Then, the rest of it was a blur. Literally. The next thing he knew, his veins were pumped with electric green, and he may have screamed. 

Three shadows in one night, isn’t that funny? The  boy who moved through the shadows like they were his to command, the girl made out of them, and the organization who spilled blood in the name of them. Ha! If Jason wasn’t busy coming to terms with being alive first, he might even call it foreshadowing. But he wasn’t Dick; he wouldn’t stoop so low. 

Chapter Text

Dick stares at the batsuit. It’s an intricately crafted piece: seamlessly lined panels of bulletproof kevlar with top of the line military technology integrated in each of the custom built gadgets. The suit has come a long way since he was first Robin, the shape having gotten streamlined but also improved after each alteration and new amount of experience that Bruce gathered. 

He thought, maybe he would be fine. But staring at the suit in person now, no matter how impressive it is, Dick only feels like he wants to throw up as torrents of grief washes over him anew. Sure, he was able to shove it down earlier in order to be the force of stability Damian still needs, Jason still needs. He smiles, acts like things will be okay even though they are so far from being okay. Is this just Dick’s life now? 

Bruce is gone, not even that long after he  took up the duties of Batman again. Dead, his body nowhere to be found. They all knew the mantle was a goddamn curse, but the man was persistent. Insisting that it was his responsibility, as the originator of the title, so it was his burden to bear. Gotham had rapidly degraded after Batman’s absence, no matter how much Bruce’s own philanthropist efforts helped—the people need a symbol to look up to, at the end of the day. 

Yet Bruce is-was a man. He was only mortal, no matter the image of an impregnable incarnation of justice he tried to project himself as. So when he died, his legacy inevitably fell to his children; a pair of shoes that outgrown the man who was the first to wear it, now poorly fit onto the feet of his first-born son. 

The thing is, Dick has always been an angry person. Before his parents died, they called him their “little Robin”, they told him he had a “heart of gold”. But after their death, Dick has always felt this rage crawling inside him, staining his insides black, filling up his heart with all this burning anger with nowhere to go. Perhaps he had a big heart, but his trauma broke it, and now the only thing he desires to do is to break something. 

And looking at the suit, perfectly ironed, unwrinkled, slick piece of interlacing kevlar and spandex. Dick wants to strangle Bruce for placing their city, their home, his family in this situation. He wants to scream, and maybe cry, and maybe rot away in some dark corner. But he can’t collapse now, there is too much work to do. 

So he focuses on the anger that he’s always harboured since he can remember, and holds on to it like a lifeline. There are five stages of grief, and Dick feels like he is experiencing it all at once. But he only lets himself feel the rage, because he’s always been good at processing rage. Rage is simple — all he needs to do is to stuff it down, over and over again, until something breaks, that thing being him. 

Bruce. If you knew the mantle of Batman was such a curse upon whoever bore it. Why would you die?  Why must you be reminded of your own mortality now? Why?! WHY?! You still have children who need your guidance. Why does it always have to be me to fix your mistakes? 

And Dick stares at the display for who knows how long, with all consuming grief drowning his mind and rage boiling his body.

Until.. A note? 

Something snaps him out of his spiraling: there’s a sliver of white paper in one of the crevices of the suit. 

Then, a shock runs through him

Deer. 

Because there’s nobody else he knows who can break into the batcave, into the literal bat inventory, leave a note, close up the case, alert no alarms, and get out again without leaving a single trace. The Bat’s security is probably some of the best on the planet, outfitted so not even aliens can cross it if they aren’t explicitly given permission. Even the suits themselves are fitted with countless alarms, cameras and all around surveillance. 

If there was one person who could do the impossible, such as circumventing and outmaneuvering the world’s best security system — that would be Deer. 

With some sort of fog in his brain, Dick types in the passcode to the plexiglass case and pries open the lid. 

He takes out the note.

Grayson, 

I will make this right. You may not trust me, you may not believe me. And that doesn’t matter. Take care of the rest of your family. Bruce will be back, I will make sure of it. I will return in due time… and if I don’t, trust that I’m okay. 

And it’s not signed with anything, but Deer’s now signature mark: the circle with a diagonal slash. 

And Dick sees this note, and he feels relief, and hope. Because if anyone can fix it, it’s Deer. The person who brought Jason back from the dead, the person who wrestled Damian from the arms of the League, the person who saved Bruce when he was spiralling. 

And of course, when Dick’s life and world was falling apart, Deer would be so blase about it. God… Deer is such a good kid. Could Dick even call him a kid? Deer is more mature than most of the family, almost all of the time. And he even speaks like an old man. 

Dick is holding the enforced fabric of the suit in one hand, the note in another, his knuckles almost white from how hard he’s clenching, and he starts to laugh. First a little snort, then that descends into utter maniacal laughter like a hyena. He finds that once the floodgates are open, he can’t stop.

He’s been under so much stress this last month, pulled taut from every angle. There is nothing holding him together now. 

The batcave is soundproofed, nobody can hear what he’s doing. And he’s just mad. Utterly insane. He’s laughing until he’s crumbled on the floor and half buried in the fabric  of the suit, and then he starts to cry. His own cackling just collapses and he bursts into tears. And they keep coming. 

Tears are running down his face faster than he can count. All his carefully constructed masks, the stuffed down emotions, are pouring out not the dam has been broken. And he’s distantly aware that he’s going into hysteria, that this is a panic attack, that he should stop. But he can’t. His hands are fisted into the material of a uniform that was never meant to be his and the concealer he’s wearing to cover up his dark circles starts to melt. He’s so fucking tired and angry and sad. 

He just wants his father. He just wants his parents. He just wants a hug and someone to tell him that they’ll take things from here.

FUCK! He lost his parents when he was a child, then Bruce took him in, and now he’s losing his parents all over again. 

In a flash, horror runs through his mind like cold water.

What am I thinking? 

Bruce is dead. 

This is… a suicide mission. 

Deer is sending themselves onto a fucking suicide mission looking for a man who’s dead. And Dick is going to lose him too, and it would be too late. 

Dick knows he can’t catch up to Deer if Dear truly doesn’t want him to. He hasn’t even gotten to thank Deer properly for all the things he has done (no one in the family has), and now he’s running off, throwing himself into yet another impossible task, all for a brood that isn’t even his in the first place, and will never have the chance to be. 

Oh god. Timothy Drake is fucking sixteen. He will never graduate. Even if he doesn’t want to attend high school, he will never get the chance again. He hasn’t even said a proper farewell to the rest of his other friends. Young Justice will have to mourn a member again, and this one might never come back. 

From the letter, it seems that Timothy Drake might not want to come back. 

Oh god. 

He just loses it, over and over again, scrubbing his face raw as he heaves into the cold chest plate of a man who will never embrace him again. Who will not see his biological son grow up, who won’t see the men and women his children has became. 

Nobody’s future is set in stone? Well, Bruce’s future is set alright, set six feet below and plunked with a fancy marble headstone. 

After the news of Bruce’s death, Dick had read the man’s contingencies — because if there was something that Bruce was, it was paranoid. Bruce had made clear instructions for himself to be cremated and for his ashes to be destroyed. 

Now, Dick feels wrung out. They didn’t have a body to cremate or to perform an autopsy on. There is no closure offered in this situation, none of his father’s endless contingencies would have ever been able to account for any of this.  

After an eternity of breaking down, over and over again, Dick crawls up from the cold floor, and drops the now crumpled suit behind him. From the corner of his vision, he can see Damian, trying to hide the fact that he’s been attempting to eavesdrop.

Dick plasters on a grin and goes to greet the newest Robin. Damian is eleven and in need of guidance from a father who foolishly died. Dick is the only adult in his life currently willing to take him. Jason is off on a murder spree and nobody is reeling him back. Timothy’s name is already written on the ledger of death. Barbara was busy with Birds of Prey alongside taking care of her ward. So what will Dick do but take the risk of entering the unknown? 

That’s the least he can do. 

Chapter Text

Just a fair warning, don't panic! This fic will not be discontinued. I still have more I want to cover in this au for the future.

But anyways, I'm currently at a loss at what to write next for this au, so I'm placing it on hiatus until future notice or until I get more inspiration. Writer's block is just very.... eh. I'll be working on other projects in the meantime.

Please comment what you would be interested in reading for this au! I'm actively looking for some inspiration so I do appreciate prompts, even if it's not guaranteed that I would accept every single one of them.

Thank you for reading! It's still unbelievable that this lump of misshapen brain worms managed to reach 1k kudos, hahahaha.

ciao!~ (and happy early halloween or whatever)