Chapter Text
It actually didn’t start with the gun, at least not the one pointed at his head.
Really, technically, it started about three years ago, when Tim was thirteen-ish. Honestly he didn’t think saving one dude would spiral so wildly out of control, all he did was swoop in and stop some poor civilian, real down on his luck, from being gunned down by an armed mugger, gave him a brief pep talk— he was real down on his luck— and then dipped out. Pretty average night for Robin all things considered.
Apparently, though, the dude he saved didn’t think it was so average because he went and founded a whole cult about it. Which. Like, major overreaction on his part, but the cult itself was pretty chill, yes, Tim kept tabs on his cult, sue him. Mostly they seemed to help people out, “It’s what Robin would want us to do.”, and spray paint hate about the ‘new Robin’, which was mean but not particularly harmful. They were also pretty small as far as cults went, a rough hundred or so members in total. Really, they weren’t a problem. Hell, Batman hadn’t clocked them as a problem, and if there was trouble Batman would know. Anyways, Tim was pretty damn sure the cult wasn’t going to be a problem.
Apparently Tim was wrong. I know, shocking. But it happens sometimes he is, believe it (or not in his cults case) a mere mortal too.
The guy— Tim decided to call him cultist number one— had a gun. A nice one too, some sort of vintage revolver type with gold plating and intricate engravings— one of which said ‘I make the king’ in Latin if he read correctly— all in all it was the type of gun his parents would have wanted to display in their living room, or maybe the hallways depending on whether or not it was actually vintage or just a replica. So. A really nice gun, very fancy. It was however very loaded as well, and being pointed at him which made it a little difficult to appreciate its craftsmanship. The gun pointed at his face was pretty alarming, honestly. But, what was even more alarming was the fact that Tim wasn’t wearing his mask— or his suit for that matter, he was just in an entirely different outfit than he went out in which was really weird and disturbing so he wasn’t going to think about that one too hard— his face was full on naked, the cultists could see his eyes and the bridge of his nose, the whole shabang. They could see his face, they knew his identity. Batman was going to kill him. Not literally, of course, that would be against his code, but something equivalent to killing was definitely going to happen when he got out of this one. Tim’s hands shook a bit at the thought. Subconsciously he ran his tongue over the inside of his cheek, he could still taste the sting from the last time he’d fucked up– and even that mistake (arguably a pretty big one) wasn’t nearly as bad as being seen without his mask while on ‘the job’. He was so dead meat. Like not even funny kind of dead meat.
“Robin.” cultist number one said it all grand and grave, with the reverence of a man on his knees, arms spread out wide in front of him. “We the Bullets of Hope,” Is that what they called themselves, “Fight, breathe, and live for you.” he motioned broadly to the dense ring of other cultists all draped in long white cape-cloak things, very cult-y. The other cultists all murmured their agreement enthusiastically, a few even clapped. In all honesty Tim found this whole ordeal to be deeply unsettling. He’d dealt with his fair share of cults before– He lived in Gotham, there were a lot of cults– but none of those had been founded specifically around him. Being deified was, for a lack of better term, spooky. It sounds great and all right up until you're cuffed to the pavement in a– was he in a sewer? It looked like a sewer, smelled like one too beyond the thick stench of incense– with a weird cult-y circle drawn around you. That’s about when Tim at least decided that being an object of worship was objectively not fun. And that’s not even mentioning the surprise wardrobe change, which, yes, Tim was still super weirded out by, and trying his best to ignore.
“–This world is undeserving of you, Robin…” Oh shit cultist number was monologuing. Get it together Drake. A monologue was arguably the best window for escape when captured, and like a complete novice he’d zoned out. He needed to get his ducks in a row and pick the damn locks on the cuffs currently keeping him pinned to the center of the weird cult circle.
“ …as you delivered us– whether it be from death, desperation, fear, or a purposeless existence– we now will deliver you too!” Tim listened with half an ear as cultist number one rambled on about whatever the fuck weird cult-y things, as he ran his fingers the best he could over the cuffs looking for the lock, they were too tight for him to slip out of, even if he dislocated his thumb. He didn’t have his lock picks on him, he didn’t have his suit on him. Fuck you too cultists. But. He was Robin, he was Timothy fucking Drake he’d figure something out, he always did.
“...searched far and wide…”
Okay.
What did he have? He had a heavy golden necklace, the thick, pendantless kind that reminded him of those multi-functional tiara’s that worked as necklaces and belts too. He had a heavy length of fairly expensive, if the weight and fine weave were to be believed, crimson fabric wrapped around his elbows and waist. He had two small gold pins attaching the draping of red fabric to the loose white tunic he was wearing. Both the tunic and its matching pair of similarly loose– whichever bastard dressed him had awful taste, by the way– white, pants were hemmed so, he had a few lengths of sewing thread. Tim also had some type of paint (he really hoped it was paint, because if there was literally any other liquid on his face he was going to be forcibly removing someone’s walking privilege) smeared over his eyes, in a poor facade of a mask. But he couldn’t really use that to pick locks, primarily because he couldn’t reach it until his hands were out of the cuffs, either way the it-better-be-paint wasn’t going to be much help for the actual lock picking part of his plan.
In total, he didn’t have much. He’d worked with less in tighter places, but he’d also worked with more, like way more, and, honestly ‘more’ was his preferred working condition. But until he managed to manifest the ability to magically summon supplies he’d just have to suck it up and stop being a bitch. And pick the damn locks.
Focus.
Ducks in a row, Drake.
“...benefactor, devoted to our cause…” Damn. Cultist number one was still monologuing, he had a lot to say about his evil cult leader plans, good for him (and Tim).
Tim shifted, shimmy-ing his arms to see if he could knock one of the pins loose, it looked like a safety pin from what he could see, and those could be popped open pretty easily if the fabric was weighing down on them enough, and the crimson drapery was plenty heavy, especially compared to the thin material used for the tunic. He could see the pin coming loose, he was so close.
“...we, the Bullets of Hope, wish to repay you for saving us by saving you…”
Tim went still, two of the white cloaked cultists walked up on either side of him, both holding knives.
“...Today will be our day of reckoning!” Cultist number one threw his hands up in the air, his followers cheering in response, “We will commit the final act of devotion to you, our Robin!” Tim jerked his shoulder, hard, finally knocking the pin loose, it tumbled across the circle. He could reach it, but he had to contort his hand in a way that was distinctly uncomfortable, not fun. This whole thing was majorly un-fun. Tim was so done, just, entirely fucking done.
He’d only just been able to get the pin, not grab it necessarily because he couldn’t physically do that, he did however manage to stab the point of it deep enough into his finger that he could draw it back into his grasp. He didn’t get the chance though because the two knife wielding cultists chose that exact moment to plunge their blades into the soft underside of his elbows, and drag their knives in a straight line down to the tips of his middle fingers.
It hurt like a motherfucker. The arched sewer ceiling above Tim went all silver confetti on him, sort of like when he stood up too fast, except but with pain this time. Fantastic. Exactly what he wanted, he got out of his spinny chair this morning and thought ‘damn, I hope I get my arms carved open by cultists today!’
This was fine.
He was fine.
Fucking ducks, Drake. Line em’ up.
Pick. The. Locks.
And he was trying, dammit, but his hands, freshly sliced and diced, kept twitching and the quickly amounting blood on his fingers and in his palms was making it really, really hard to actually get the pin out of his finger.
A third cultist emerged from the crowd and handed another knife– why did they have so many knives? Did everyone have one? Did they come complimentary with membership?– to cultist number one. Cultist number one then held up his hands, gun clutched in his right, knife in his left. To which, his followers all responded by swishing their cloaks aside in an impressive show of synchronization, and held up their own guns. They were all different types, each member clearly having brought their own personal weapon– Gotham. No one was stupid enough to not have a gun. Or at the very least some other type of weapon.
Tim fumbled for the pin. Finally managing to unsheath it from his finger. Fucking ow, by the way, he ended up having to leverage it out, which in turn left his fingernail clinging on for its life, pried half way from its place in his nail bed.
He looked up from his hand just in time to see cultist number one pull the trigger on his gun. Something warm and heavy fell on his arm, the pin jostled out of his blood-slick fist. He peeled his gaze from cultist number one to see cultist number two– one of the ones that had slit open his arms– laying still and dead on top of his outstretched arm. It almost looked like he was cradling her.
Another shot. He felt cultist number three fall lifelessly onto his other arm, he could feel the guy's blood coating his arm, and mixing with his own.
Cultist number two stared blank eyed at Tim, her face pale and slack where it lay inches from his own.
A third weight, no gun shot, this time.
Tim looked up at cultist number one, where he now sat, straddled over Tim. Cultist number one raised the hand holding his gun to his head and smiled down at Tim.
“Don’t–” Tim croaked, opening his mouth to say more only for cultist number one to run his knife over Tim’s throat, slicing it open rather unceremoniously.
“May our blood, blaze your path to heaven.” he said, loud enough for it to echo across the area.
“May our blood, blaze your path to heaven!” the other cultists repeated, all raising their own guns to their heads. Tim choked on his own blood, trying desperately to stop them or reason with them or something. But all he could do was rasp and wheeze, in a way that would make his mother wrinkle her nose in polite revulsion.
Bang.
A hundred gunshots rang in Tim’s ears, a kind of blindingly, searing pain he wasn’t ready for. The sound made his head hurt like Bane had just hit him over the head with a block of cement– over and over and over and over again. He didn’t even feel cultist number one’s body fall limp on top of him, he just kind of heard the hollow knock of his skull against Tim’s chin. One more sound in the cacophony hammering into his ears. He was so fucking dizzy, and everything hurt so, so much he– he couldn’t.
He just–
Tim fell into the soft impenetrable silence of nothing. His vision blacking out completely, his mind clocking out from a long day’s work of processing pain and losing blood.
Even if he was Timothy fucking Drake, Robin III, he was still bound to the limits of his corporeal form to a certain extent, and his body decided that this was the extent. No more. Come back later. Time for sleep now.