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It all started with a dandelion.
A single bright, happy yellow flower had sprouted up between the stones in the walkway to the front door of Drake Manor. Timothy Drake, who was approximately 7.5 years old at the time, was instantly charmed and intrigued.
After all, his parents' perfectly-manicured lawn had never, in his few years of life, seen such a perky little novelty. Nor had their home, for that matter: aside from a certain handful of the antiquities they had collected, and a couple of paintings, the place leaned heavily into pristine whites and Neutral Greige Aesthetic. Any accent colors tended to be either warm reds or cool icy tones, depending on the room.
Such a bright yellow was, in other words, a novel surprise to young Timothy. Let alone in the cracks between stonework in his front lawn.
Of course, his father —a fiercely opinionated man raised in the suburbs— didn't see it the way Tim did.
In fact, he was quite disgruntled at the sight of it, immediately proclaiming that he'd have to instruct "the gardener" to "put some poison down."
Tim was... taken aback at this. At such an aggressive stance taken on such an innocuous-looking flower.
Being the curious kind (even by kid standards), he had asked: "Why?"
Jack Drake had rolled his eyes, and scoffed: "Because it's a useless, noxious little weed! Let one of those set up shop in your yard, and you'll never see the end of them, trust me."
Timothy knew better than to argue further in the moment; he did not, however, simply 'trust' his father's word on it, because thanks to his mother's dry commentary, he was aware his father didn't always know everything.
He was rewarded for his diligence, as Jack Drake had, turns out, gotten several things... incorrect.
For one, Timothy looked up the phrase 'noxious weed', which does in fact have a specific definition, which dandelions do not, in fact, meet.
True, an individual dandelion's leafs could —being that they grew low to the ground and spread out to maximize photosynthesis— block sunlight to grass growing immediately next to/under it (which, logically, shouldn't even be a problem on a walkway clear of grass to begin with, he noted), but.
'Noxious' Weed? No.
Objectively, a solid no.
To be a 'Noxious Weed' by botanical definition, dandelions would have to be both:
- damaging to the environment
- 'aggressive'
The second term, in botanical context, refers to a species that actively pushes out other species.
Which dandelions do not really do, aside from maybe the tiny patch immediately under their isolated leafs. They just kind of...exist, as it turns out.
And as for 'damaging the environment': they also don't do that. Quite the opposite, as many things liked to munch on their leaf, stem or blossoms, including some important pollinators. And in terms of that latter, oh!
Dandelions could bloom at points in the year when other flowering plants didn't; this meant it could function as a valuable stopgap for native pollinators so they didn't, you know, starve.
'Noxious little weed' his foot.
Speaking of metaphorical feet, he also learned that dandelions were notoriously hardy perennials (that is: a plant that returns year after year as opposed to dying off after one, he learned), but especially so due to their 'taproots', which plunge deep underground to reach extra water and nutrients.
This meant that an additional benefit of their presence was that even after they had flowered and released their seeds, their leafs and stems could nonetheless bring up nutrients and (even during drought) moisture otherwise locked deep in the soil, outside the reach of other plants and animals.
So. They seemed to play extremely well with the broader environment. Valuable to it, even.
That said, he also learned they have a tendency to pop up in 'unexpected' places due to their seed distribution system, and this meant many lawn-keepers considered it a 'weed' in the sense of being unwanted in those areas.
So, sure, it could waft its scattered way in where it wasn't planned to be.
And then, in a kernel of truth buried in his father's statement, they could indeed be difficult to eliminate; even a small piece of the root left behind could regenerate the plant, after all.
But it was not a Noxious weed, is the point.
And as for 'useless'...
Well, as previously alluded to, that was its own massive rabbit hole of research, as dandelions are 100% edible, from taproot to tip —grazing animals like cows or deer sometimes even liked to eat the blossoms themselves, a weirdly cute mental image—and the plant had a history of being used by humans for both food and its medicinal (diuretic) properties, going back literally thousands of years.
They were considered so useful that they had apparently been deliberately brought over to the Americas by European colonists; and while he was used to hearing mention of imported species causing problems when brought overseas, he couldn't help but notice that dandelions were listed as 'naturalized' —not 'invasive'. Probably because of the aforementioned ways in which they could serve the local ecosystem.
Dandelions were honestly just out there, living their lives, playing surprisingly nice with native species, and...occasionally annoying a human who had one happen to poke through their (generally non-native, and of very little use other than decorative; it was here Timothy learned the term 'monoculture') lawn.
Just out there living its life, a potentially crucial at times piece of the 'food web'.
And his father wanted to pour poison on it.
Wanted to inflict the death penalty, for the crime of existing in the wrong place at the wrong time, on a flower that had no choice in where it could sprout.
...hang on, if it could kill a notoriously hardy dandelion, exactly how toxic was the stuff he wanted to use?
Good question.
Tim paid close attention when his father's order of weed killer arrived; he read the packaging, the Materials Safety Data. And what he found alarmed him.
He learned another new word that day:
Carcinogen.
Worse yet, to his great concern, the warnings it carried —and the further information he could find online about quite a hefty class action lawsuit— indicated it was a carcinogen to mammals.
As in: squirrels and chipmunks, cats and dogs, and... humans.
Like their gardener. Mr Martinez.
This, he decided, was an unacceptable combination of circumstances.
This called for... a PowerPoint.
🌱
Tim spent all night on his presentation. He cited all his sources, he included info graphics and thematically appropriate clip art to render data more digestible, and he even followed Professional guidelines on how to structure his presentation for maximally efficient persuasion without losing any key points.
His parents agreed to view it with him the next evening, and it was clear by the end of the presentation that exactly none of it had landed.
"That was a very good PowerPoint, darling," his mother cooed.
"Very impressive," his father said...while also clearly trying not to laugh.
Considering they were talking about killing something, with a chemical that could also kill other things including their gardener, Tim didn't see what was so amusing. But he held his tongue, because something in both of their tones suggested that wasn't the end of it.
"But?" he prompted.
"But I'm afraid you wasted your time, sport," his father said, ruffling his hair exactly the wrong way. "We'll still be getting rid of the sucker."
"But why?" he asked, feeling a flicker of hope begin to extinguish itself.
His dad huffed. "A man's lawn is part of his castle, Timmy! One can't just let weeds overrun it, it's the principle of the thing."
"People do judge families by the state of their estate," his mother added gently. "Especially highly visible things, like lawns. It wouldn't do to have it in disarray."
Disarray. Like a single actually natural thing in it would be akin to chopping up the whole lawn.
"But —" he sputtered, and clung to his last hope: "The carcinogens!"
His dad snorted, though he grinned and ruffled Tim's hair (ineptly) again. "Well, at least we know you'll ace the SATs some day, picking up ten dollar words like that! But don't you worry, kiddo, the gardener'll have the right clothes on for it, he'll be fine!"
Will he, though? Tim thought, and: 'The Gardener' —do you even remember his actual name?
Timothy, in that moment, had a realization. He felt that last flicker of hope go out like a blown match. It was replaced by a strange mix of a quiet sort of panic, and a faint frission of anger, both of which he knew better than to 'let out' in the moment. Because neither had ever served him well before with them, so why would they now?
His thoughts spiraled, though:
Will the squirrels be 'fine'? Will the people or fish whose groundwater or rivers it ends up in be 'fine'? Because the data says the opposite. The data says you don't and shouldn't need to do this, let alone like that.
It seemed his parents weren't planning on listening to the data, though.
"It's sweet that you care, dear," his mother added, with (to her credit) genuine warmth, though it was of little comfort when used to dismiss his entire set of concerns, without actually, genuinely, addressing them.
From tone alone, he could hear the 'but' coming before she even said it aloud, and sure enough:
"But you needn't bother yourself with such trivial things," she said, giving him a gentle shoulder pat. "You'll understand better, as you get older - there's so many much more important things to focus on, that it's just not worth burning yourself out over."
His father chuckled, adding: "No kidding! Wait'll you have to worry about mortgages or insurance policies or fighting with members of he Board! Trust me, sport, you should just sit back and enjoy childhood while you still can."
It was then, as his mother nodded in agreement, that he for the first time truly Processed a painful truth:
It didn't matter.
His opinion —well-informed, rational, 'sweet' as it was— would never matter to them, because his father had already made up his mind, and his mother had gone along with it, and would continue to do so.
And that was that.
🌱
The next day, Timothy had to swallow his urge to cry as Mr. Martinez —definitely not wearing sufficient Personal Protective Equipment— sprayed weedkiller along the walkway.
Which made him feel...
Well. He was seven.
So despite being precocious, he could not at the time put into words what he felt.
It was only much, much later —years, really— that he would be finally be able to articulate it:
That as he watched an innocent, ecologically useful little flower get sprayed with a known carcinogen for the crime of existing, he too felt like something in him —something equally bright and hopeful— had died along with it.
🌱
The thing about killing a bright, hopeful part of a passionate young person, is that passion doesn't actually need to be based on hope.
At least, not in the traditional sense.
Because the thing about Not Listening to a very smart, very young person who has Done the Research and feels Certain in their knowledge that you were Wrong, is it does not stop them from feeling very Certain that you were, in fact, Wrong.
What it does, is turn trust and faith, into spite.
And outside of love? Spite is the most powerful of motivators.
Especially when the very smart young person in question is quite convinced that said spite is not of the Petty variety, but rather based in valid Outrage over an Injustice. Which Timothy Drake very much was.
And in the case of Timothy Drake, he took after his mother in one key set of traits: a sense of optimism, and the basis for said optimism being an even stronger sense that if things aren't the way you think they should be, well then you just need to be very clever, and make them.
Optimism does not need to rely on others to exist; the most resilient and effective optimists, are not blindly trusting, but rather spitefully ambitious.
🌱
The next time he spotted a dandelion on Drake grounds, it was in a less conspicuous spot, and he kept his mouth shut as it budded, then bloomed, then went to seed.
Dandelions, he had learned, have a famously specific way of spreading themselves: its many seeds are attached by a thin stem to a tiny puff of fluffy fibers, referred to as a pappus; the pappus is perfect for catching the wind, and floating to seeds to their new home when finally released from the head of the former flower.
So Tim carefully, surreptitiously observed the plant until it had a full head of fluff.
Then he picked it, by gently snapping the stem — knowing full well of course that the rest of it would survive due to the taproot.
He then took his fluffy prize to the edge of the ridiculously big, monoculture lawn...and blew, with all the force his little 7 year old lungs could manage.
He watched, and grinned, as the literal seeds of his rebellion scattered absolutely everywhere.
Then he went to the garden shed, took a portion of leftover cement mix from whatever last Project his parents had decided to inflict on their staff, prepped it, and cheerfully poured it into the tank, nozzle, and hose of the weedkiller.
🌱
Because he had carefully cleaned up after himself, it was weeks before they noticed the sabotage of the sprayer. By then, the dandelions were already cheerfully sprouting along the lawn.
He had already learned the hard lesson that truth alone couldn't sway his parents; therefore, he had taught himself how to lie. Had researched, even, the common 'tells', and conditioned himself out of them.
Convincingly, as it turned out; despite a crystal clear motive, he was not suspected of the "vandalism".
(Needless to say, this did nothing to improve the dubious impression of his parents; if you can be outsmarted by someone not even in double digit ages over something so blatant, how can you ever call yourself an authority figure?)
This was only the beginning, of course.
From seeds, spring roots, after all.
And at this point, Timothy was setting down taproots.
🌱
Timothy Drake signed up to receive several academic journals related to the field of botany.
So when Dr. Pamela Isley, botanist, wrote passionately on the necessity of preserving the Wild Thorny Rose —the world's only poisonous to mammals rose species, a fascinating novelty in a Genus typically considered so nontoxic it could often be eaten by humans— Timothy Drake took notice.
He also took cuttings, since it was within Gotham City limits.
So when palms were predictably greased to ignore what was clearly a rare and critically endangered species, and ground broke on a new prison regardless of environmental concerns, Dr. Isley was not the only one to preserve the species.
🌱
A few years later, this turned out to be a good thing for both the rose species in question, and the newly dubbed 'Poison Ivy', as without Timothy Drake preserving it, the last specimen would have been lost, due to the fire that started during her fight with Batman.
Now granted, trying to kill the district attorney had been a bit much, in his opinion, but Tim could empathize with her overall motives.
He also could acknowledge the beautiful poetic justice of using the toxin from the Wild Thorny Rose itself to do it; as Dent didn't actually die, he felt a little less guilt over being amused at that part.
He also felt very little guilt over tricking the staff at Arkham with his earnest puppy eyes, carefully constructed lies about 'research for a school project', and a time-delayed version of the toxin.
Considering both their longstanding corruption and abusive practices, they kind of deserved to suffer a little.
Also, he was very careful to ensure none of those doses he administered would be lethal.
Which! He felt he deserved some credit for, as it had been a pain in the posterior to achieve, since he had to research all of their relative body weights and medical history regarding both known allergies and current medications, in order to ensure no weird interactions or outright anaphalaxis occurred. But he was determined to be ethical about this, darn it.
And also, the lower the body count, the better. Both for the PR to sway any potential sympathizers, and severity of sentencing were they to get caught again.
(He didn't plan to get caught, of course; but if there was one thing he had learned from the record of Batman repeatedly outmanuevering his rogues, it was the importance of planning for the unplanned, of plans being flexible)
Dr. Isley seemed just as surprised to see him as the staff had. Actually, more so, since the guards started dropping behind him about 30 seconds after they had been finally introduced.
Tim made a face; it had actually taken longer to convince them to get close to her cell than he'd anticipated, even with a couple of cash bribes, so the time delay wasn't ideal.
Still, he'd planned for this possibility.
"Step back please, Dr. Isley," he said, as he took the thermos and the "lunch" he had brought with him, and combined them.
The "lunch" was a sandwich that included bamboo shoots, the guard who had examined its contents was too ignorant to realize one needed to cook bamboo in order for a human to eat it, and the thermos included a very effective fertilizer/growth stimulant mix that he had carefully made sure he could survive taking a few sips of, to prove to the guards it was allegedly just a weird flavor of tea (turned out bribes alone had been enough to let him bring in an unknown liquid, which was... both concerning in general, and weirdly disappointing, but hey, worked out for him, since he didn't have to waste any of it).
Bamboo can grow very rapidly under normal, ideal circumstances. Something like a foot per day.
The "tea" he'd brought, ensured it would be abnormally ideal circumstances.
"A shame they'll cut it down after we leave," he sighed, as the stalks shot up between them and the hallway from which other guards would no doubt be flooding in. "But don't worry, Dr Isley, I've got other cuttings from that one in a couple of places, at least one of which they're not likely to find. Oh —I meant it about standing back, Dr; I'm about to shatter the glass. I wouldn't want you to get cut."
It was only seconds after he had used a device he had smuggled in via his "pens" to break the glass, that he was surprised to feel a warm pair of hands on either side of his face.
"Precious seedling," she cooed. "Where did you come from?"
He almost forgot himself, because Dr Isley was actually touching him, very pretty, and very pleased with him, none of which he was fully used to nor prepared for.
The sound of alarm klaxons going off, however, brought him back to his senses, and he gave her a playful smile.
"From the wind," he said. "For now... call me Taproot."
She got the reference instantly, judging from her responding grin.
"Well, then we should scatter, shouldn't we?" she purred.
"Yes," he said, a buzzy, excited joy rising in his chest. "We should."
This would be the sprouting of a beautiful friendship.