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Tim knew the Drakes weren’t really his parents. He knew that.
He just liked to pretend.
His aquarium was set up as the centerpiece of the ballroom in Drake Manor, the piece de resistance, the showstopper. They had replaced an ancient chandelier to put it in, even.
Mother said Tim was a much better decoration.
Before the Drakes had bought the Manor, he had lived in an aquarium that took up one wall of their livingroom, back in the old brownstone. He had liked that. His old aquarium had had fronds of kelp, sand at the bottom, even some shells. It had only been about two feet in depth from the wall, but it covered that whole wall! It went from the ceiling to the floor and spanned fourteen feet across.
A showpiece aquarium.
The new one showed Tim off even better, though, the Drakes said. It was in the center of the room. Cylindrical. Floor to ceiling, again, and about eight feet in diameter. It didn’t have any kelp in it though, or shells, or sand or gravel.
Just Tim and the water.
“The better for everyone to see you, dear,” Mom had said.
And that was fine! Tim knew what he was for. He had been trained his entire life to be the perfectly obedient son. He was the most well-behaved mer in the world. Dad bragged about it constantly.
“I could tell him to do anything, and he’d do it,” he boasted. “Almost human-level intelligence, I tell you.”
“Anything?” another man waggled his eyebrows, and the crowd of them laughed. Including Dad, though his smile was strained.
“Don’t be gross,” Dad had said. His eyes slid over to Tim, and Tim perked up. “I’m not into animals.”
A comment which resulted in more crowing and laughter, now directed at that first other man.
The conversation circled over to politics after that, somehow.
Bruce felt sick.
There had been rumors for years that the Drakes kept exotic pets, but he had never expected to find a merchild in a bare tank in the center of their ballroom, brazenly on display. The child was the focal point of the gala. Humans crowded around his tank, ooh’ing and ahh’ing, surrounding the kid from all angles.
The child, nauseatingly, did not react at all in the way Bruce would have expected. No, he was perfectly silent instead. Docile. Just swam in circles, over and over, and hovered near the glass when people beckoned him close.
He didn’t even flinch when they tapped the glass.
At one point, a woman twirled her fingers, and the child obediently spun in a slow circle in the water, fins flaring out as he did so.
“What a well-trained little pet,” Mrs. Anderson cooed. “What’s his name?”
“We call him Timothy,” Janet Drake said.
“How long have you had him?” Bruce forced himself to ask.
“Oh, since birth, nearly. We bought him as just a little guppy. From a reputable breeder, you see.”
“Really?” he said, letting his eyes widening. “I didn’t know there were such things. You’ll have to give me your contacts, Janet, I would love to have one of my own.”
“I’m afraid I can’t just give out his name to anybody, Brucie. You understand,” she demurred.
“But Janet, it’s me,” he said.
“Sorry.” She smiled, taking a sip from her flute of champagne.
Bruce pouted.
This was not a gala. Not a soiree or any sort of reputable event. This was a closed door, invitation-only after party following the real gala that had ended hours ago.
All the press had long since left. Every phone had been rounded up and placed into a Faraday cage of a briefcase as the last photographer left and the party moved “to a more comfortable location.”
The uber-wealthy were semi openly doing drugs, making deals, heading off into backgrounds, and-- of course-- stroking their hosts’ egos by complimenting the décor.
Including their captive merchild.
Bruce was not an idiot. He was half-mer himself, a secret more sacred than his identity as Batman. He knew that merfolk were regarded as non-sapient animals. They had no human rights. They had no metahuman rights. The Metahuman Rights Act of 1993 had been written specifically to exclude them, in fact.
They had the same rights as any other animal.
But owning a merchild was illegal the same way owning a pet tiger was illegal.
So Bruce had options, here, for bringing the Drakes down. In theory. In practice, any mer found in captivity would promptly be taken to Luthor’s wildlife sanctuary.
They called his head scientist the Joker, for God’s sake.
Bruce wouldn’t forget what that man had done to Barbara and Jason. God knows they never would. They would both hold the scars-- literally-- for the rest of their lives.
Babs couldn’t swim the way she used to. Not anymore. She had invented a device to keep her somewhat ambulatory in the water, and she used a wheelchair on land.
A harpoon to the stomach isn’t something you just recover from. Especially if it hits your spine.
Not to mention the open secret that was the tragedy of Harley Quinn, Joker’s research assistant. Wife. Captive. Selkie.
Bruce had silently vowed to find her sealskin and free her one day, he just-- other emergencies kept taking priority.
Like this one, currently.
Tim swam in small circles in his tank. He looked at Bruce curiously.
Bruce allowed a partial transformation, just enough for his eyes to switch to slit pupils. Tim’s own eyes widened in response.
“Oh, I think he likes you! How sweet,” Miss Wellington said.
Batman broke into Drake Manor in the dead of night the very next day.
He disabled their security with ease and strode upstairs, into a utility access closet. It was the room directly above Tim’s tank, and the only way to gain entry to it, even for cleaning purposes.
He swiftly closed the closet door behind himself and dropped the body bag he had been carrying beside him. He went to the wheel on the wall and turned it, the ceiling of the tank slowly retracting.
Tim stared up at him with wide eyes. Batman crouched down by the floor.
“Hello, Tim. I’m here to rescue you.”
The child said nothing.
A horrible suspicion settled in his chest.
“...You can speak. It’s alright.”
Tim eyed him suspiciously, at that.
Bruce accepted this, compartmentalized it into a box in the back of his mind, and removed his cowl. He pulled his partial transformation again, manifesting slit pupils and fins for ears.
Tim gasped.
“I’m going to get you out of here,” Bruce said.
“Why?”
His heart broke.
“Because children shouldn’t live in empty tanks all alone,” he said. “You deserve more than this.”
“Like what?”
“Like a river. A pond. A pod.”
Now Tim looked doubtful.
“I could show you. Would you come with me?”
“Why?”
“So I can help you.”
“But why?”
“Because I’m Batman. Helping people is what I do.”
Tim considered this.
“Alright. How are you going to move me?”
Bruce dragged the water-filled body bag closer. “In this.”