Chapter Text
Marinette had never imagined she would have to flee Paris—until it happened.
The final battle had come. Ladybug and Chat Noir had won. Hawk Moth, Gabriel Agreste, had lost.
The Miraculouses had been recovered, one by one, repaired with patience and devotion. Balance had returned.
Peace, like a fragile flower, blossomed once more in Paris.
For a few years, the city lived without shadows. Marinette and Adrien married in silence, far from the spotlight, with simple rings and intertwined hands that spoke of everything they had lived through. At last, they could simply be themselves. At last, Paris belonged to them.
Until it happened.
First came an attack. Silent. Lethal.
Then more. One by one, those who had once possessed the Miraculouses were killed, their bodies left as warnings in a sick game only understood by those who had been heroes of the miraculous. The murders continued until only four remained—four retired heroes who chose to vanish before they could be next.
Four retired heroes who chose to hide from the grasp of one man.
A demon.
Ra's Al Ghul.
A name that until then had only been whispered in the records of the ancient. A man who no longer seemed human, obsessed with immortality, the purification of the world, rebirth. A man who inspired fear even among the Ancients who knew the stories of the Temple of the Miraculous.
When Ra's discovered the secrets of the Miraculouses—those ancient artifacts capable of altering matter, soul, time, even death—he considered them sacred, yet legendary. A natural extension of the Lazarus Pits. The key to a perfect eternity. Something that did not exist—until he noticed it did. And then he wanted them.
And to obtain them, he began to hunt.
Not for the artifacts themselves, not at first.
He sought the Great Guardian. Marinette.
The one who held each jewel in her hands and the power to wield it.
It didn’t matter that she was no longer Ladybug. It didn’t matter that the temple was sealed, or that the Miraculouses were hidden beneath layers of magical seals. What she knew was valuable. And her very existence was a threat to his plan.
There was no safe place.
Not once their identities were discovered.
Not once Paris stopped being home and became a trap.
They had to flee. They were being hunted, tracked like animals, desired for the Miraculouses—or at least information about the Great Guardian. Information about Marinette.
The city, once their home, was now dangerous. There was nowhere they could stay safe. Not once their identities were uncovered. Not once Ra's Al Ghul learned who was behind the masks of Ladybug and Chat Noir.
Marinette lost her parents, her grandparents. Her family.
Adrien lost Natalie.
Paris was no longer safe.
And then there was nothing left. Only them.
Only the urgency to survive.
And they had to flee.
Not as heroes.
But as fugitives.
Changing their names, their faces, their stories.
They became Jack and Janet Drake, from a random city in the United States, south of New Jersey. They became archaeologists traveling the world in search of mystical artifacts and ancient relics, always moving, always running.
But more than that, they used it as a cover: a true search for the lost Miraculouses, those vaguely mentioned in the Grimoires, those once believed destroyed, hidden, or sealed.
A way to escape Ra's Al Ghul’s grasp.
The world believed Ladybug and Chat Noir were dead.
And in part, it was true.
Only their ghosts remained, hidden under borrowed names.
They settled temporarily in Gotham to avoid suspicion. Their house was next to a man, an orphan like them, whom they were confident wouldn’t bother or interfere. They mingled with high society, making sure people recognized the Drakes, the eccentric couple who loved traveling the world. They hid in plain sight, knowing that the best way to run was to present themselves to the world with new identities and appearances.
Gotham was the perfect city; a place already familiar with monsters, where they could blend into darker shadows. There, Marinette established a new headquarters: a fashion, science, and technology company called Drake Industries, yet another façade. But also a way to reclaim a piece of herself.
It was there they discovered it. A terrible yet wonderful piece of news.
Marinette was pregnant.
For a moment, they considered staying. Trying a life. Stopping the running. And they did, as soon as Marinette gave birth to their only child: Timothy Jackson Drake. They were happy for a few years. Four years.
Until they were no longer happy.
Ra's was near. Again. The League was tracking them, closing in.
And when the first warning arrived—a note from a friend who had stayed close—they had to start moving again. The archaeologist couple traveled once more, moving and protecting their son the best way they could: trying to keep their masks intact so no one would discover them. Not this time.
Timothy Jackson Drake, meanwhile, grew up in Gotham.
To the world and to his own eyes, he was simply the son of Jack and Janet Drake, a pair of eccentric archaeologists who spent more time in planes and remote jungles than at home. His house was filled with ancient maps, mislabeled figurines, artifacts vibrating with energy he couldn’t explain, and boxes he was never meant to open.
He spent more time with nannies, tutors claiming to be friends of his parents, and the occasional intermittent butler hired from afar.
His bodyguard, affectionately called Gorilla by his father, a man too old to continue working and completely mute, always watched over him and accompanied him.
His mother called every night, no matter where in the world she was. His father sent strange postcards with riddles instead of messages. And though he sometimes felt lonely, Tim never doubted their love. He felt it in the meticulous care with which they prepared his things, in the unwavering security surrounding their home, in the gifts he received—strange, ancient, priceless—and that always carried stories of adventures no other child had.
And even though his family was far away, Tim was brilliant.
Observant. Silent. Always watching from the shadows. He grew up developing a prodigious memory, an astonishing ability to connect patterns, details, gestures. He learned to read people like open books. Perhaps he did it because his parents had always seemed enigmas to him.
And Gotham—that cold, gothic city, torn between misery and power—shaped him.
At four, he saw Batman for the first time. Fear did not fill him. Fascination did.
At five, he heard the name whispered at dinner, as adults murmured about him like a myth. His parents encouraged his admiration for the vigilante, but said no more.
At seven, he watched him fight from a distant rooftop. He lost Gorila; the man had died of old age. Tim saw his father cry for the first time then.
At nine, he already knew who was under Batman’s cowl. His parents were spending less and less time at home.
At ten, he discovered Robin’s identity.
Not because anyone told him.
Because he deduced it.
By then, his parents only visited on birthdays and Christmas, occasionally on some other date. Sometimes a couple of his parents’ friends, a musician and a lawyer, would visit and spoil him for a few weeks before leaving.
At ten, Tim already knew the perfect balance between obsession and intelligence (both inherited from his mother, according to his father). The same combination that, years later, would make him stand out—not for strength, but for his mind. For his ability to see the whole board while others barely saw the move in front of them.
And when Jason Todd died, something changed in him. He didn’t just feel sorrow. He felt… an absence. A crack.
Tim was just a child, but his mind worked like a strategist’s. Batman was changing. More aggressive. More erratic. Tim observed. Compared recordings. Reconstructed patterns. Studied Dick Grayson, and understood what had to be done.
Batman needed Robin.
And he… he didn’t want to be Robin. Not at first. He just wanted to help. Just wanted to fix what was broken.
But Bruce Wayne was not easy to convince. Nor was Dick.
Then came the test. Gotham needed a new sidekick. Tim stepped forward.
He was trained by the best. He fought, bled, fell, and rose. And in the end, he succeeded. He became Robin—not the heir to a legacy of tragedy, but someone who chose the mantle with open eyes, gaining a new family in the process.
Things went as well as they could.
Until they didn’t.