Chapter Text
The last bell had barely finished when the lobby and parking lot swarmed with crowds of students, bringing the place alive.
Engines rumbled to life one after another, students spilling through the front doors in noisy waves, backpacks slung over shoulders as they cluttered toward waiting buses and cars. Somewhere across the lot, is someone bombarding heavy-bass music with the speaker turned far too loud, vibrations fitting itself through the cracks of the asphalt beneath everyone's feet.
Tim Drake adjusted the strap of his backpack and shouldered his way through the crowd with not much thoughts as he went for his car.
"Nice ride."
The voice was directed at him.
A girl, brunette, twirling her hair while sitting on top of a Viper beside his Monte Carlo.
He marinated the compliment in his head before he acknowledged, "It does the job."
The girl sneered. "What, delivering pizzas?" She quipped.
"Well, it's not the ride," Tim beamed as he shoved his backpack all the way deep into the passenger's seat.
"It's the rider." He quoted as he looked back to the girl—only this time what he saw was that she wasn't alone anymore.
Beside the red Viper stood a guy.
Blonde.
Broad shoulders.
Varsity jacket.
Barely masking a smile as he placed his bag over the hood, before glaring at his girlfriend. "What the hell was that?"
The brunette girl shook her head lightly with a coy smile. "What?"
The blond turned his head at Tim, clearly displeased about the interaction. "You talking to my girl?"
Crowds formed around them. "Oh shit, here we go." A muttering voice stood over the stack of noise.
"Yeah," Tim leaned over his car, "She complimented my ride."
The nosy crowd murmured in winces.
"Ou shii.."
"Bro said 'my ride..'"
"Fuh you mean ou shii??"
The enraged guy scoffed. "My grandma's Buick could smoke that piece of shit."
"Well, what about your daddy's Viper?"
The jock patted the red's hood, flashing a sly grin way too egoistical. "This beast's got five hundred horsepower and a Borla exhaust system. It does zero to sixty in like four-point-three seconds."
Stacks of "that's about right," "uh huh," and supportive hums filled the gaps in between each sentence.
Tim, unfazed, smiled. "Wow," he nodded. "You can read the brochure." He remarked, going in his driver's seat as the door banged shut. His engine started as it roared, driving off the spot around thick stacks of boos and whistles.
The same blond—Clay—furious, threw a football punchy enough to break through Tim's car window.
Gasps and shouts filled the tension in unison as the crowd surges toward the jock like he just stole the moon.
Shards of glass slit through Tim's cheek as he stopped the car. He hopped off his ride, turning his body back.
Everyone expected a fistfight.
Clay pointed towards his Monte Carlo. "You think you're funny?"
The dark-haired boy wiped the blood on his cheek. "Not particularly."
"Then prove that junk's faster."
He glanced at the broken window. "You're paying for that."
The jock laughed, "Beat me," He remarked, "Then I'll buy you a new windshield."
Tim stared at him. "... That's the dumbest insurance policy I've ever heard."
The blond smirked. "Scared?"
He sighed. "No," He looked at the broken glass again, then at the Viper. "Just trying to figure out explaining this to my guardian."
Someone in the crowd yelled: "Run it!"
Another: "Pink slips!"
Clay grinned, "Nah." He looked Tim up and down. "Not worth the Viper."
then,
"Five grand."
Silence paired the tension.
The parking lot emptied its way faster than the principal could have dreamed.
Not toward the buses.
Toward the industrial stretch a few miles from campus.
By the time Tim rolled in, headlights had already begun lining both sides of the abandoned road. Music thumped from open trunks, conversations overlapped along with the rumble of running engines, and folded bills crossed over hands faster than introductions ever did.
"Five on Clay."
"You're outta your mind. Drake's got this."
"Double or nothing?"
Tim rested both hands on the steering wheel as the cabin suddenly felt quieter. His cheek still stung where the glass had caught him.
He took one last glance of the Viper: Five hundred horsepower, rear-wheel drive, and heavy off the line.
Good. He'd seen worse.
The blond revved his Viper once. Twice.
The crowd answered louder each time.
He leaned out the window.
"Try to keep up."
A girl stepped between the two cars, arms raised overhead as the crowd fell strangely quiet—even the music seemed distant beneath the rumble of roaring engines.
Three fingers,
two,
one.
Both engines screamed as rear tires forced itself against the asphalt. Tim slammed into second and the Viper lunged ahead before he even cleared the intersection.
Clay cut across both lanes with no warning nor signs.
Tim's jaw tightened along with his grip on the steering wheel. Idiot.
"Stop the car!" The brunette, sitting next to Clay, warned in concern.
The cars became the dialogue between them through brake-checks, slips, and cuts.
Until it flashed yellow; the light changed.
Tim's foot stepped over the brake, Clay's didn't.
The world in Clay's head turned upside down as metal folded, glass exploded, with a touch of screams of horror topping the loud music.
---
The crash replayed through the industrial's security camera.
"Can I get a copy of that?" Tim—now sitting in the interrogation room—stared toward the screen like a teenage boy who just discovered pornography.
The man in the suit rubbed the frustration off his face. "You think this is a joke, huh?" He burst. "You see Ken and Barbie over there?" He pointed toward the troubled couple through the glass—patched and pathetic—sitting in the waiting room. "They're gonna walk out of here without a single slap on the wrist—mommy and daddy are too hooked up."
He tilted his head. "But I like screw ups like you," He added, supporting himself as he leaned over the table, still maintaining eye contact. "You know why? 'Cause you're one-hundred-percent guaranteed conviction."
Tim crossed his arms. "Where's my car?"
"Impounded."
His eyes widened in fury as he stood up. "You did what?"
"Sit down! You're done." The case worker persuaded, pointing a finger. "You understand me? You're done—and all before your eighteenth birthday—now sit down." He ran a hand over his greying hair and sighed before he gathered the scattered paperworks into a neat stack.
The door opened.
Bruce Wayne stepped inside, composed as ever, thought the faint twitches in his eyebrows betrayed the frustration he was trying to hide.
Tim looked everywhere but at him. "... Hi."
Bruce's eyes scanned the fresh cut right beneath his eye, along with the open wounds on his knuckles. "You need stitches."
The boy lifted his eyebrows, "I need new windshields."
The case worker pinched the bridge of his nose. "Mr. Wayne, thank you for coming."
Bruce took a seat across from Tim. "What are we looking at?"
The case worker slid a folder across the table. "Third reckless driving offense."
Bruce didn't touch it.
"This time," the man continued, "there was significant property damage, public endangerment, and dozens of witnesses."
He clicked on the remote: The security footage replayed—how the metal twisted, the Monte Carlo spinned, and how the Viper crashed into the guardrail.
The case worker switched the monitor off. "If this had gone even slightly differently," he paused, "he'd be dealing with felony charges."
The silence after that was a cherry on top.
Finally, "What are his options?" Bruce asked.
The case worker folded his hands. "If he remains in Gotham, I doubt it'd be his last appearance in juvy."
Tim looked up. "So?"
"He needs a different environment." Bruce nodded toward that, adjusting his position. "I've already made arrangements."
Tim frowned at that, "What arrangements?"
"You're leaving Gotham." Those words had more impact than the crash ever had.
"Excuse me?"
"You're transferring schools."
Tim's short laugh failed to sugarcoat it. "... You're serious."
"I am."
"Where?"
"Queens."
"... New York?"
"You'll be staying with an associate of mine."
Tim leaned back in disbelief. "You already decided?"
"I made the decision before I walked into this room."
"You didn't even ask!"
Bruce's expression softened—just slightly. "Because I already knew your answer."