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On a scale of one to ten, Tim thinks, today began at a solid four and a half. Now it’s at point-eight-one and dropping rapidly.
Tim’s fingers fly over the keyboard as he curses, wondering what sent the Tower into lockdown. On another day, maybe he’d have enjoyed the challenge. On another day, maybe he’d have welcomed a distraction.
But no. Today, all he wants to do is take a very hot, very long shower, scroll through social media until his brain melts out of his ears, and drink enough coffee to achieve transcendence across parallel dimensions.
He does not want to deal with this bullshit.
Cameras are down, which is just so fantastic. Truly, the cherry on top of this massively irritating sundae. Tim types for another few seconds, fingers pounding down more and more aggressively, before letting out a quiet scream of frustration.
He whips the chair around, standing up in a single jerky movement. He can’t be positive, but he suspects a short somewhere in the building. Which means – oh joy – that he now gets to spend several hours inspecting wiring.
Lovely.
Tim arches his back, nodding curtly when he hears his spine pop, and heads for the door. His footsteps echo in the spacious hallways of the Tower, and it isn’t until he’s got his hand on the doorknob that he thinks: wait a minute, I’m in socks.
And also – correct Tim if he’s wrong, which he rarely is – he’s not in the hallway. How the hell would his footsteps be echoing in the hallway?
Okay, great. Somebody else is in the tower, and Tim thinks his teammates would have let him know ahead of time if they planned on being here today. The massive irritation that today is rapidly becoming is now an upgraded threat.
Tim growls, deep in his throat, and turns back to the monitor to grab his bo.
-
Forget a point-eight-one. Today is now a negative three and it is plummeting.
Tim is not fragile. He may be short (though he is not tiny, whatever Dick may say about it), but if Batman’s true superpower is wealth, then Tim’s is his immeasurable well of stubborn spite. The criminals of Gotham are wary of him, not just because of his skill with the bo or his razor-sharp mind, but because once Tim puts his mind to something, he will accomplish it, come hell or high water.
Tim is not a fool, either. He’s become aware, at some point in the last ten minutes, that this is a fight he is going to lose. But damn him if he isn’t going to make Red Hood work for it. Because, and this is important:
Tim is pissed.
Tim has a bullet through his thigh and a graze from a second bullet in his upper arm. He’s pretty sure his wrist is broken. There’s a salty, metallic tang on his lips, and he’s only vaguely aware that it’s because his nose is bleeding copiously.
And of course, because he’s a rogue and rogues are allergic to simply getting down to business and punching the everlasting shit out of their opponent, the Red Hood is monologuing.
Monologuing.
Most days, Tim can tolerate an extended monologue. Even prefers it, sometimes, because it makes it that much funnier when he stops the rogue in question. He can always see the exact moment that they realize they might have had a chance if they’d only learned how to shut up for more than two consecutive minutes.
But today, Tim is over it.
He’s honestly tuning Red Hood out.
“– you can’t be that good,” Red Hood scoffs, and Tim growls even as he dodges another punch. “Batman let you find him.”
Never mind, Tim is paying full attention now.
Tim hisses, eyes narrowing. He is going to eviscerate this pathetic excuse for a rogue. He may not win this fight, but he’ll get Hood back for this or so help him. He will crawl out of his grave and torment the man from beyond the veil, if necessary.
Red Hood is actually forced to shut up and pay attention for the next few minutes. Tim is pissed off, full of adrenaline, and high on teenage angst, and he makes sure Hood knows it.
Alas, all good things come to an end. Tim’s backed into a corner eventually, pinned down with a knife at his throat, and he’s beginning to consider how he’ll work out coming back from the dead when two things happen.
The first thing that happens is that a massive rift opens up in the ceiling, accompanied by a sound not dissimilar to marbles in a blender. Through it, Tim can see the never-ending abyss.
The second thing that happens is that two large, blurry objects come shooting through the rip in space-time, crashing into Hood and Tim. Hood loses his knife, cursing up a storm, and Tim takes this as an opportunity to strategically reposition himself and grab his bo from where it’s lying, abandoned, in a corner.
Everything hurts, and he will probably totally lose control of his body once he comes off of this massive adrenaline high, but whatever.
The two large, blurry objects – which Tim now sees are two people – seem to recover quickly from their cosmic crash-landing. Tim assesses them warily, though he doesn’t lose track of Hood.
The party crashers are both men, one a great deal shorter than the average and the other a great deal taller. They both have the lean, muscled physique of trained fighters. The shorter one is armed with a bo staff (Tim takes a split second to be jealous of the bo staff, it’s a very nice bo staff), the taller one with nothing at all. They’re dressed in civvies, and they both look rather singed.
“Well,” the taller one says, hands on his hips. “That could have gone better.”
The shorter one groans, patting out a smoldering patch on the sleeve of his hoodie. It’s difficult for Tim to see his face, because the hood of the hoodie is falling over it, but Tim thinks he sees dark hair and a flash of blue eyes.
“If we ever go back to that dimension, I’m roasting them on Yelp,” the shorter man grumbles. “Or whatever the dimensional equivalent is.”
The taller man laughs, slugging the shorter man gently in the shoulder. Tim notices, with some interest, that the taller man’s canines are long and sharp. His hair is fire engine red, which Tim might think an interesting fashion choice, but the man’s eyes are also red, so it’s probably natural. (Or, at least, not intentional.)
Hood coughs awkwardly. At least, that’s what Tim thinks he does. It’s hard to tell, because the voice modulator in his helmet just makes it sound like vicious static.
“Are you two quite done?” Hood inquires. Without context, or in the plain black and white of printed text, he would sound quite civil. The truth is that he sounds anything but.
The red-haired man’s eyes snap over to Hood. “Ah, sorry about that.”
The short man looks around, seeming to see his surroundings for the first time, and stills. “Ah, shit.”
The red-haired man gives his companion a sharp look. “What?”
The short man drags a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath. Tim can’t hear it especially well, but he thinks that if he ever repeated it, his debt to Alfred’s swear jar might be comparable to the national debt of America.
That doesn’t stop Tim from memorizing the phrase anyway, just in case a situation occurs where his desire to express his feelings accurately trumps his aversion to paying off his debt to Alfred’s swear jar for centuries.
The short man flips his hood back, turns to Red Hood, and frowns at him. “Jason, you idiot.”
Tim’s jaw hits the floor.
“Wait, Jason?” Red-haired guy looks at Hood appraisingly. “That’s your brother?”
Nope, error, this does not compute. Tim shakes his head, wondering if maybe he’s already dead and having a wild trip through the afterlife.
Red Hood doesn’t seem to know what to make of it, either. The sound he makes is vaguely reminiscent of a mechanized parrot under extreme duress.
“What the hell, Tim?” Red-haired guy turns to the shorter man – Tim? Older Tim? Alternate dimension Tim? What-the-hell Tim? – and throws his hands into the air. “You told me you guys were tight!”
“Well, we are now!” other-Tim says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Figures that this universe would be behind mine, temporally speaking.” He sighs, gesturing grandly. “Voila, Dark. The beginning of my relationship with my older brother.”
“You’re sure we’re talking about the same brother?” Dark says, glaring at Hood. “The one you won’t shut up about?”
“Yes, that one.”
“And you met when he beat you to a bloody pulp?”
“Yes. Well, technically, we met at a couple of galas before he died and I stalked him and our dad with a camera for four years – ”
Red Hood – Jason – makes a strangled noise. Tim mimics it.
“ – but that doesn’t really count.”
Red-haired guy (did other-Tim call him Dark? What a weird name) stares at other-Tim. “Your family is so glitching weird, man.”
“Like you’re one to talk.”
Dark laughs, a harsh bark of sound. “Fair point.” He claps his hands together. “So, do we beat up this virus before or after we take your mini-me to the hospital?”
Other-Tim rolls his eyes. “I’m not letting you murder my brother.”
“He’s not your brother, though.”
“Dumbass,” other-Tim says, rolling his eyes with a grin. “You know what I mean. Mini-me’s brother.”
“I am NOT – ” Red Hood begins, right as Tim shrieks “OVER MY DEAD BODY!”
“That can be arranged,” Hood hisses, and Tim yowls at him.
“Ugh, I forgot how feral I was at this age,” other-Tim complains, marching over to Tim.
“You’re still glitching unhinged, man,” Dark says, watching with some amusement as other-Tim expertly scruffs Tim and begins dragging him in the direction of the medbay. Tim screeches and curses, but other-Tim is now the only person in this universe that can match Tim for stubbornness.
“Hey!” Dark calls, as they reach the stairs. “How badly am I beating this cursor up?” The red-haired man is glaring at Hood, who seems to be in a similar mental state to Tim: namely, buffering.
Other-Tim sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “Just tie him up, will you? Beating him senseless won’t accomplish anything in the long run.”
“Man, you’re no fun sometimes.”
“I seem to recall you saying the exact opposite when we blew up that oil tanker,” other-Tim drawls, seemingly unfazed by Tim’s increasingly devious attempts to get loose. “C’mon, squirt, you’re going to bleed out if you don’t watch it.”
“No,” Tim hisses, scratching and biting. “I need revenge.”
“You need therapy,” other-Tim says flatly, and Dark cackles in the background. “You’re probably not going to get it, but the fact remains.”
The door to the medbay slides shut behind them, and Tim is forced to endure medical care while Dark takes care of Hood. Tim is seething, glowering at other-Tim even as one eye slowly swells shut thanks to the lucky punch Hood – Jason – got in earlier. Other-Tim just smirks at him.
“I will make you regret this,” Tim snarls.
“Mm-hmm,” other-Tim says, wrapping Tim’s wrist expertly. He’s got Tim pinned down, somehow, so that Tim can’t move. “Sure, you are.”
“I mean it,” Tim says. “I will make you rue the day you crossed me. I’ll make you wish you were never born. I will switch all your coffee to decaf, and when you beg me for mercy, suffering in unspeakable pain, I will laugh.”
Other-Tim just rolls his eyes.
Once Tim has been thoroughly humiliated (“I basically just saved you from dying from blood loss, brat, you’re welcome”), other-Tim hauls him to his feet. Tim tries to elbow other-Tim in the throat and make a break for the door, but other-Tim just hums and nerve-strikes him.
Tim folds, flopping over like a dead fish. Other-Tim pats him on the head, giving him a smug smile, and hauls his limp ass out of the medbay.
The Red Hood is sitting in the middle of the hall, trussed up like a turkey. Dark got his helmet off, somehow, and Tim is surprised to note a streak of white in the hair above Jason’s forehead.
Jason is glowering at Dark. If looks could kill, the red-haired man would most likely be roasting to death, but as it is, he just looks bored.
“Finally,” Dark says, getting to his feet and flashing other-Tim a smile. “What took you so long?”
Other-Tim makes an expressive noise, holding Tim out in front of him like he’s a damned kitten. Dark coos.
“Aw, you used to be so cute! Look at him, he’s so tiny and murdery!”
If looks could kill, Dark would be dismembered limb by limb. As it is, he just grins when Tim glares at him.
“We should take him with us,” Dark says, ruffling Tim’s hair. Tim growls at him in the back of his throat, wishing he had enough control over his body to snap at Dark’s fingers.
“Absolutely not,” other-Tim says. “Do you know how much work teenagers are?” He sets Tim down, propping him up against the wall so that he’s not flopping all over the place like a rag doll.
“Aww, c’mon,” Dark coaxes. “I’d feed him and water him and take him for walks and everything!”
Tim hisses.
“No,” other-Tim says. “Besides, he needs to stay here so that he can bond with this dumbass.” He raps his knuckles on Jason’s head, pulling his hand back just in time to avoid losing a couple fingers to Jason’s teeth.
…Tim still hates Red Hood’s guts, but he might be willing hate him ten percent less if he manages to get a good nip in. These two horrible people would deserve it.
Dark sighs. “Fine. I guess it would be tricky to stay ahead of ‘em with a third person in tow.”
Other-Tim makes finger-guns in Dark’s direction, which, ew. So cringe. “Exactly.” He pivots, strolling in the direction of the monitor room. “I’m going to go override Hood’s lockdown. B should be here ten, fifteen minutes after that, so I think we’re good to leave as soon as I’m done.”
What? No! Tim has to exact horrible revenge on his alternate self! Other-Tim can’t leave yet, Tim hasn’t perfected dimensional travel! If Other-Tim leaves, Tim will have no way to make him suffer.
Dark glances at Tim, then at Hood. “Well. You two behave yourselves, I guess. I still think it’s weird that you two are apparently going to be best buds, but…” He shrugs. “Although now that I think about it, I tried to kill all three of my brothers the first time I met them and we get along great, so maybe that’s just how people interact. I dunno.”
Jason snarls at Dark, who clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Manners, strange feral child.”
Tim hisses. Dark rolls his eyes. “That goes for you, too.”
Tim slides his gaze over to Jason, doing his desperate best to communicate with his eyes. Clearly, the only sane person here – besides Tim himself – is Jason. At least he, too, sees just how intolerable these two interdimensional meddlers are.
Forget revenge on Jason. If Jason will help Tim exact revenge on his annoying future alternate, Tim will not only not coat the inside of his helmet in superglue, he will even begrudgingly admit that maybe he still kinda sorta wishes that he could be friends with his Robin.
Tim isn’t sure if Jason understands the depth of emotion that Tim is trying to communicate – and perhaps blinking in Morse code isn’t helping – but Jason does keep struggling against his restraints, so hope remains.
“All right,” other-Tim says, striding back into the room. “Lockdown’s lifted. Let’s get out of here.”
“Finally. This dimension tastes weird, man,” Dark complains.
“I’m sorry, you can taste dimensions now?” other-Tim says as the two begin walking towards the Zeta tubes. Tim’s eyes widen, and he strains with all his might, but all his limbs are noodles. He nearly bursts a blood vessel, and the net result is that he twitches his left forefinger.
Jason starts struggling more violently.
Yes, Tim thinks. Escape. Tackle them. Don’t let them go until I’m back to normal, and then we can bond over causing them misery, and see who’s smug then!
“Not really taste them,” Dark says thoughtfully, his voice getting fainter as the two men turn the corner. “But they’ve got a flavor, y’know?”
Other-Tim sounds amused. “No, I don’t.”
Tim hears the whine of the Zeta tubes powering up.
“I should really introduce you to my Jason sometime,” other-Tim says. “I think you’d get along like a house on fire.”
“Is he going to try to kill you?”
“What? No!” Other-Tim sounds scandalized. “We only do loving murder attempts now.”
“What.”
“Hey, did I mention his girlfriend is from your universe? I think I would have mentioned that, it seems like it’d be the kind of thing I’d mention.”
“What – no, you most definitely did not mention that. What do you mean, his girlfriend is from my universe – ”
There’s a brief burst of static as the Zeta tubes activate, and then Dark and other-Tim are gone.
Tim heaves a long, protracted sigh, glaring at Jason. Good job, idiot. They got away.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Jason snaps. “The whole murder thing is still very much on the table once I get out of these.”
Tim rolls his eyes. Jason sticks his tongue out at him.
By the time Dick and B get to the Tower, ten minutes later, Tim’s mouth is fully functional, even if the rest of him is lagging behind, and he and Jason are arguing over the best way to kill the Joker.