Chapter Text
Timothy gasps as he jolts awake.
He forgoes the typical sleep-to-wake cycle, opting instead for a more dramatic awakening from unconsciousness.
One second he’s supine; the next he’s sitting ramrod straight, the movement so sudden and violent that it causes his silk sheets to slip off the side of his bed and land in a heap on the floor.
For a moment he doesn’t know where he is— or perhaps more accurately, he doesn’t remember where he’s not. His mind is caught in this in-between place where there is both nothing and everything at the same time.
He is somehow both everywhere and nowhere.
There is nothing: no ceiling above him, no mattress beneath his body, no weight of blankets tangled around his legs, no familiar chill of the early morning air against his face.
There is nothing but an endless, shapeless expanse of sensation, memories and impressions colliding together without rhyme or reason, creating a blurry picture of everything.
A hallway.
The feeling of living.
Someone laughing. Someone crying.
Rain against a car windshield.
A name.
Fire. Smoke.
The feeling of dying.
Thoughts race through his mind like little bullet trains speeding along a bumpy track, moving so fast it’s impossible to catch any of them.
Each memory is a photograph thrown haphazardly in the air, pictures visible for only the briefest fraction of a second before another comes to replace it.
Timothy presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, willing the images to fade.
He blinks rapidly, and the room snaps into existence—or maybe he snaps into existence.
The first thing his mind registers is the vaulted ceiling. It is so far up that, from his place in bed, it appears distorted for several disorienting seconds.
Pale morning sunlight filters through the tall arched windows on the far side of the room.
The heavy, emerald and gold curtains have been left drawn. Shadows from the mullions stretch across the ceiling and opposite wall in long, angular strips that break the stone into strange geometric shapes.
Like this, it’s easy to pretend that the light seeping into his room is natural. Like he’s still above ground basking under a real sun and a real blue sky peppered with clouds.
The second thing that registers is the corner of silk still caught beneath his heel.
The mattress beneath him is warm from his body heat, the indentation of his sleeping form still carved and visible beneath the rumpled fitted sheet.
Timothy smacks his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
The taste of the dream still lingers.
Dream is a kind word for what his subconscious likes to taunt him with while he rests.
Nightmare is a more appropriate term.
An image rooted in a reality that was once his. A reality that was so painful, so traumatic that his waking mind has forgotten. A reality that only his subconscious remembers and likes to taunt him with.
A reality that haunts his rest, stirring up events he can’t recall and people he doesn’t know.
It’s just a dream. It can’t hurt him here; it doesn’t exist. The thought is less calming than it should be. Reality is less calming than it should be.
The room is silent.
Not truly silent; silence doesn’t exist in Eth Alth'eban1, let alone The Qasr.
The low, distant murmur of several voices carries through the stone corridors. Somewhere far below in the lower levels of The Qasr, a door closes with a heavy wooden thud.
The League is awake; the League is always awake.
He lowers his hand from his face, and for several painfully silent seconds, he simply sits there, willing his heart rate to go down.
Timothy presses a trembling hand to his chest, feeling as it rises and falls rapidly. Each breath is laboured and catches somewhere between his ribs, preventing his lungs from getting the air.
He takes one breath and then another and then another. None of his gulps of air make it fully down into his lungs, not properly anyway. Air enters, air leaves, and somehow, he’s still breathless. Somehow, he’s not breathing.
His fingers curl into his palms, blunt nails cutting into his hardened skin.
He hates waking like this.
He hates dreaming more.
Dreaming reminds him that his life exists in two parts: before and after.
Before he was rescued from a burning building in Paris and after. Before his salvation and after it. Before he was loved and after. Before, when his life was nothing but pain, and after.
He swivels, planting his feet firmly on the ground and rises out of bed. Sleep will not return to him, not tonight at least; what's the point in wishing it will?
Cold stone greets his feet, causing a chill to travel up through his soles and into his head. He curls his toes into the floor, feeling the minute variations in the ancient stone beneath them.
Ever graceful, as he always tries to be, he glides over to his wardrobe, his bare feet silent against the stone.
The wardrobe stands pressed against the far wall, a delicate piece of dark wood that is certainly much older than he. Two brass handles sit on the centre edges of the two massive decorative double doors. They groan as he tugs one of the doors open.
Inside, everything is carefully arranged by colour, garment and use.
Shirts hang in the top two rows, trousers occupy the middle section and robes and longer tunics hang farther toward the back.
He reaches for a set of black training garb.
Timothy catches the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head, fabric dragging across his hair. The shirt is made from a lightweight material designed specifically to move with the body. A second skin of sorts.
He takes a moment to regard himself in the adjacent mirror.
His hair is wild from sleep, ends sticking up at odd angles. The crown of his head is a rat's nest from all his tossing and turning, white strands more noticeably displaced in the dark. His hair is almost at his waist now. Long, silky and stripped like a skunk. He smooths it back and ties it in a long ponytail.
He drifts towards the door, pushes it open and steps into the corridor.
Torches line the hall, casting flickering orange and yellow light and illuminating the worn stone.
It’s quiet. It’s always quiet in the private areas of ‘Eth Alth'eban. It’s quieter at night when the important residences are sleeping. Only the private areas rest; the rest of the city is surely awake.
‘Eth Alth'eban is an old place, older than most of the people who occupy it.
The city is carved into the hidden parts of the Arabian Peninsula desert. Some parts are carved into the sides of canyons, others hidden in plain sight. Most of the city is buried underground, all but the entrances and a few safe houses.
From the surface, there is almost nothing to see—only sand.
Endless, golden-brown sand stretching beneath a merciless sun. A normal desert landscape broken occasionally by the jagged mouth of a canyon or a cluster of rocks as old as time itself.
It looks like nothing because ‘Eth Alth'eban was never meant to be found by outsiders.
Timothy has lived here for as long as he can remember. ‘Eth Alth'eban is the only home he’s ever known. The only home he wants to know.
He makes his way along the corridor, dragging his hand along the rough stone wall, trying to shake what remains of his horrid dream. Maybe if he walks long enough he can outwalk his past.
The corridor eventually opens into one of the large underground passageways which links buildings together. The ceiling disappears into darkness, supported by thick stone pillars carved with familiar League insignias.
Here, the air is cooler—staler.
A faint current drafts through the passageway, carrying the dry scent of stone and oil, undoubtedly from the braziers burning somewhere just beyond the pillars.
He keeps walking.
Somewhere above him, something metallic clangs twice in rapid succession, followed by a burst of muffled conversation.
The passageway ascends sharply, opening into a covered hall adjacent to one of the central training courtyards.
A pair of guards stand on either side of the hall, weapons at rest. They bow, silent reverence oozing off them as though Timothy were a god. To them, he might as well be.
Several League members move across the tiled floor, all dressed in dark uniforms and green shoes. Two are sparring in the centre, wooden training blades striking in sharp, rhythmic cracks.
He observes them for no longer than a minute before continuing.
He passes under another arch and sharply turns into a narrower corridor.
These walls are decorated with tapestries so old their original designs have become practically impossible to discern. Just blobs of colour on more blobs of colour.
At the end of the corridor, an enormous wooden door stands open, revealing the training hall beyond.
The hall is massive, larger than the few buildings he’s visited on trips outside.
Stone floors stretch beneath his feet, polished from generations of use. Weapon racks line the walls, targets hang at various distances, wooden dummies wait for use.
He steps inside, the door groaning behind him as the heavy wooden panels settle back into their frame with a dull, resonant thud.
For once, the hall is empty, leaving him alone to his thoughts without the presence of prying eyes.
There is nothing but him and the weapons.
Timothy crosses the room.
His footsteps echo as he approaches the nearest rack.
Rows of wooden staves, practice swords and training knives greet him like they’re old friends. In some ways, the ones that matter, they are more than that.
He reaches for a pair of short blades. Their smooth handles feel familiar in his grip.
He spins the blades around, testing their weight before striking.
Wood cracks against the nearest dummy so hard it causes the entire thing to shudder on its weighted base.
He strikes again.
And again.
And again.
Graceful but deadly.
Crack.
The left blade comes down on the shoulder.
Crack.
The right blade against the ribs.
He moves around the dummy in a tight circle, the wooden blades whistling as they cut through the air.
Behind him, his ponytail flutters like a dark war flag.
He tosses the blades to the side and grabs a wooden bo staff from the rack. This weapon feels more familiar in his hands. Holding it feels right—like coming home after a rainstorm.
His breathing synchronizes with his movement.
In.
Crack.
Out.
The weapon is an extension of his body. Another arm that feels like it’s always been there.
Timothy lets himself settle into the feeling of being nothing more than a weapon. The staff is him, and he is the staff, and they are both equally deadly.
The staff whistles through the air.
His feet slide across the stone with practiced precision. He ducks imaginary strikes and twirls around the stationary object in the dance known as battle.
Time passes around him.
Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years—it does not matter.
All that matters is him and the fight.
Until—
“Timothy.”
A soft voice cuts through his rhythm.
He tries to ignore it, electing to wipe the staff back around and land a blow to the face.
“Your presence has been requested in the centre hall.”
“Now?”
He doesn’t turn to face the woman speaking.
“Yes.”
Timothy tosses the staff to the ground.
“Fine,” he huffs. “Lead the way.”
· · ─────── ·1· ─────── · ·
The centre hall of The Qasr is a grand, audacious thing.
It’s the sort of room defined to intimidate, not impress, although it does both.
The chamber stretches several stories upward, its vast domed ceiling disappearing into the shadows overhead. Massive stone columns the size of ancient trees rise from the polished floor, each one carved with intricate patterns depicting battles, serpents and flowers.
Large green-and-gold banners hang between the columns, fluttering gently as air currents catch their edges.
Timothy’s footsteps echo as he enters.
The woman who summoned him walks several paces behind him, her posture straight. She doesn’t speak again; she likely isn’t allowed to.
The hall isn’t empty.
Several high-ranking League members line the outer edges of the chamber, standing in small clusters near the pillars. They speak in hushed voices, stopping to bow when they notice his presence.
Timothy pays them no mind.
He is accustomed to the stares of reverence that accompany him.
At the far end of the chamber, atop a rising set of black stone steps, sits Ra’s al Ghul himself.
The Demon’s Head wears dark robes layered beneath a long green cloak, the fabric falling neatly around his toned body. Silver threads catch the torchlight whenever he moves. One hand rests casually against the arm of the ornate chair upon which he sits.
He looks troubled.
Ra’s al Ghul does not often look troubled. Troubled is not an emotion befitting a face or being as grand as his.
Timothy slows as he approaches the bottom of the stairs, dipping into a low bow.
“Master.”
Ra’s lifts his gaze, studying him with his all-knowing stare.
He says nothing as he gestures towards the empty space beside him, beckoning him forward.
Timothy does not hesitate. He rushes forward with as much grace as he can muster, desperate for the comfort only his master can provide. The stone is cold under his bare feet.
Ra’s watches him as he approaches, his expression softening into something kinder. Something reserved only for him. The acknowledgement and clear favouritism make his heart swell.
He stops at the top, shuffling around to arrange himself so that he is to the right of Ra’s, his arms tucked neatly behind his back.
They fit comfortably together: warrior and weapon.
Standing beside his master fills him with a sense of purpose. It reminds him that he is something to someone and his life isn’t meaningless.
He longs to ask why he’s been summoned when they agreed to meet in the afternoon to go over his new assignment.
But then again, a sword doesn’t question the motions of the hand which wields it, and so he too asks nothing.
Timothy scans the room, searching for a probable cause for this impromptu meeting.
He studies the crowd, taking note of the way several members observe him with expressions akin to fear. Some mask it better, looking ever so slightly uneasy and nothing more. Others are wide-eyed and trembling.
He understands; he really does.
Or at least, on a logical level, he understands. He’s become rather apathetic towards the woes of life and the troubles of others.
Their fear isn’t misplaced.
Timothy is a being worth fearing. A living, breathing weapon of mass destruction, marked white from the Lazarus Pit and red from the blood of his fallen enemies. He is Mŏrs, riding gracefully into battle upon his pale horse.
He hears the whispers that follow him wherever he goes.
Even now, in the presence of their lord, they whisper about him. Telling each other tales of his brutality.
Ra’s rises slowly, and the whispers die out entirely.
His robes drag along the polished stone with a soft shushing sound.
Timothy remains motionless where he stands beside the throne. His eyes follow his master without conscious thought, tracking every movement.
“The League has existed for centuries,” Ra’s says, his voice carrying effortlessly through the enormous chamber. “It has stood tall in the face of adversity and survived through the rise and fall of empires.”
Several members of the audience nod approvingly.
“For centuries, our enemies have attempted to dismantle, to destroy, what I have built. Kings have tried; Generals have tried. Governments have tried. They have all failed.”
Ra’s gaze sweeps across the room.
“But enemies from without are not the only threat to our mission.” Ra’s pauses. “We too must weather the attacks orchestrated by those whom we once called friends.”
Timothy’s hands twitch behind his back.
Ra’s turns to face a pair of upper-ranking guards, a firm frown resting on his face.
“Bring in the traitors,” he announces.
The doors at the far end of the hall swing inward with a slow, reluctant groan.
Everyone’s attention snaps toward the five figures marched into the chamber.
Their hands are bound behind their backs, and their exposed skin has been beaten black and blue. It bears the marks of whips, batons and fists alike. Their hands are bowed, and they all wear matching looks of terror.
He recognizes one of the traitors. A weapons specialist who trained in the western courtyard. A quiet, disciplined man who was exceptionally good with a long sword.
Timothy recalls watching him spar several weeks ago. He remembers thinking that he was talented but that his footwork was sloppy. Apparently, his judgment was equally poor.
The guards force the five into a line in front of the stairs.
“Five members of my league have betrayed me and sworn loyalty to my traitorous daughter. Each thought themselves clever enough to conceal their treachery.”
Ra’s lets the words hang in the air.
“The punishment for such actions has, and always will be, death.”
The word is mundane to his ears.
Timothy knows death. He has seen death. He has caused death. He has watched people die screaming, watched people die quietly. He has watched men beg, bargain, threaten and pray in their final moments.
Death is not frightening; it is simply the inevitable conclusion of every life.
He will kiss death again today. Will wield the ornate ceremonial blade used for executions again and bring it down upon his fellow man, for that is what is wished of him.
His gaze settles on the five prisoners.
He doesn’t look upon them with disgust or pity, for he feels neither. He feels nothing for the people in front of him.
“Timothy. Their sentence is in your hands.”
“Yes, Master.”
He reaches for the ceremonial blade resting on a velvet-lined table beside Ra’s throne.
The weapon is beautiful in the way all dangerous things are beautiful. The hilt is wrapped in dark leather that has been worn smooth by generations of hands. The pommel bears the League’s insignia. The blade itself catches the light in a thin gold line.
Timothy closes his fingers around it.
The weight is familiar. He has held this blade many times. Has ended many a life with it.
He knows how it feels in his hand. Knows how it moves and how it cuts. Knows how it feels to drag the sharp side through human skin.
He takes a step down the stairs, and then another, and another until he is standing in front of the first man.
The man is young, the youngest of the prisoners. He has light blonde hair, undoubtedly bleached, and tanned skin. He looks up when he senses Timothy’s presence.
Timothy expects fear, and the man delivers.
The man’s face is wild and desperate. His lips form the word ‘please’ over and over again as he begs for his life. Begs for salvation from a being which knows nothing but destruction.
He feels nothing as he drags the blade across the man’s neck, cleanly slicing through.
He thinks of nothing but the feeling of a warm knife slicing through butter as he watches the man’s body collapse on the ground.
He doesn’t flinch when the woman beside the corpse lets out a strangled cry before resuming her prayers.
Timothy turns to face the second prisoner.
She is older, perhaps in his thirties or forties.
Age is difficult to determine beneath the fear etched across her face. Fear ages everyone, and she is no exception. Her dark hair has come loose from whatever had once held it in place.
She stares at him as though she is trying to memorize his face. Or perhaps she is searching for something human in his cold gaze.
There is nothing there for her to find.
“I swear to you I didn’t betray him.” She cries.
His expression doesn’t change.
“Please. I was threatened. You don’t understand. They have my family.” The woman shakes her head frantically.
Timothy pauses, though not out of sympathy.
Sympathy is something distant and unfamiliar to him. It’s like a language he once heard spoken, maybe even once spoke himself, but he has long since forgotten.
Something about the word family catches against the inside of his mind. It stirs up a feeling, a memory.
A young man’s laughter.
A hand resting in his hair.
The memory dissipates before he can grasp it. His face remains blank as he raises the sword. Ignoring her final plea, Timothy brings it down.
The third prisoner is a man whom he also recognizes. He’s a physician who once was assigned to the lower medical chambers.
He had treated Timothy once after a particularly bad training accident. He remembers waking beneath white sheets, remembers the man patiently explaining what it was he was doing as he stitched his wounds closed.
He remembers getting something sweet afterward: a piece of honeycomb.
The physician looks up, and their eyes meet.
A strange sensation settles over his chest. It’s not guilt; he doesn’t think he is capable of feeling guilty anymore.
When the blade comes down and the sentence is finished, he doesn’t look back.
Timothy looks down at the blade. His reflection stares back at him from the polished metal, and for a moment, he doesn’t recognize the person looking back.
He doesn’t let himself dwell on that thought for long, and he raises the blade one last time, taking out the two final traitors.
· · ─────── ·1· ─────── · ·
The next time Timothy sees Ra’s is in the afternoon, as previously arranged.
Ra’s al Ghul’s massive stone hands cup around the artificial sun, which has not moved any further west, for it only possesses the ability to dim or brighten. The underground city doesn’t measure the passage of time by sun position.
His semantic memory tells him that the sun is supposed to move east-west and peak in the centre at noon.
His episodic reminds tells him the only sun he remembers experiencing in the magical one in the palms of his master.
The distinction makes him feel strange, and so he tries his best not to think about it.
Presently, Timothy sits across from Ra’s at a majlis table in The Qasr’s official tea room.
Ra’s al Ghul’s private quarters, tea room included, are one of the few places that he feels truly comfortable in. It is in the sole presence of his master that he feels most at ease.
The tea room is also one of the most peaceful places in the city.
It is beautiful, but not in the way the rest of the city is.
‘Eth Alth'ebanis is beautiful in the way that all dangerous things are. Beautiful in the same way tigers or poisonous flowers are. Beautiful like the ocean during a storm.
The tea room is beautiful in the way that delicate things are.
Its walls are a muted cream, broken by tasteful tapestries and oil lamp sconces. Tall windows overlook one of the non-training gardens.
A golden teapot rests in the centre of the table upon a heated stone. Steam curls lazily from its spout, smelling faintly of bergamot.
Timothy curls both hands around his cup, absorbing the heat that soaks through the glass and into his palms.
Ra’s sits across from him, one ankle resting over his knee.
“You appear troubled, Timothy,” he observes.
He lowers his gaze to the amber water in his cup.
“I had another nightmare,” he admits.
“Tell me about it.”
“There is nothing to tell.”
Ra’s says nothing, just fixes him with a knowing stare.
His master reaches out and tucks a loose strand of white hair behind his ear.
Timothy closes his eyes and lets that warm feeling that he associates with being safe wash over him. He leans into his master’s touch and sighs.
“It is just a feeling.”
He looks down at the floor; his shadow looks back.
“A feeling? From before?”
“I suppose. I do not know what I was dreaming about, but I remember feeling hurt. Emotionally hurt, like my very soul was being crushed”
“Life before was not kind to you. You needn’t strain to remember all your suffering.” Ra’s says quietly. “You are safe here.”
His master is correct; he is safe here. He’s protected from the memory of his previous life—a life filled with nothing but suffering. A life where his family hated him, hurt him and abandoned him in Paris in the hopes of his death.
‘Eth Alth'eban is safe. Separate from the rest of the world. A world filled with suffering. A world that his master will make better. A world that he will make better.
Ra’s studies him for several seconds before producing a tablet.
The device is absurdly modern, sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the antique surroundings.
It reminds him of those movies where the protagonist gets sent several centuries into the past, and everyone is wowed by the existence of their cellular phone.
The tablet is thin and entirely devoid of any noticeable buttons.
Ra’s sets it on the table, sliding it over to him with a faint smile.
“Your next assignment.”
Timothy straightens.
The motion of unlocking the device is familiar, and he wonders if he once had a tablet just like this one.
The screen displays an image of a middle-aged man.
He has thick black hair that has been carefully gelled back from his forehead in a style that, for some reason, Timothy knows is associated with wealth. It frames the face in a way that makes the viewer's eyes drift towards the centre of his face.
Time has been kind to him.
His skin is mostly devoid of any marks save for a faint crease between his decently thick brows.
The man’s jaw is broad and clean-shaven, his cheekbones tastefully pronounced, his nose straight and slightly aquiline.
His blue eyes are undoubtedly the most memorable thing about him.
Beneath the photograph is a name:
BRUCE T. WAYNE - THE BATMAN
The name means nothing to him; he doesn’t know it, and yet something inside him moves. He wouldn’t describe the feeling as recognition. It’s more like the sensation of standing at the edge of a cliff in complete darkness and somehow still knowing there’s a drop in front.
“He is familiar,” he whispers.
Ra’s folds his hands together atop the table.
“Mr. Wayne is a billionaire; you have likely seen his photo in a magazine before.”
He nods, supposing that his Master’s explanation is correct. While he doesn’t exactly know who Timothy was in his life before, he is fairly certain he didn’t move in the same groups as a man such as Mr. Wayne.
“Your mission is to retrieve this man from the time stream. Unharmed.”
“Retrieve him,” he repeats.
Timothy mulls the word around in his brain.
Retrieve is not a task often assigned to him, which makes this mission assignment odd. It’s even stranger still once you consider that said man is not a member of the League. There is no reason for his Master to desire to save him.
“He is an outsider.”
“Indeed. But he is a formidable foe and the sire of my grandson. Should he perish, it shall be to my hand.”
Ra’s watches him carefully.
“Your team will accompany you, as per usual.”
Timothy nods, attention remaining fixed on the photo displayed in front of him. Somewhere buried beneath his training, something painfully human stirs.
A feeling of longing. Of needing to be beside this man which he does not know. A feeling of wanting that is so unfamiliar it scares him more than his weapons ever could.
“When do I leave?”
Ra’s smiles. This time, it is not kind, nor is it soft. It is something wicked.
“Tomorrow.”
· · ─────── ·1· ─────── · ·
The air hums—a slow vibration that tickles the hairs on his arms.
It drones along, in tune with the car engine, which rattles quietly with each bump they go over. A loose something rattles in the glove box in front of him.
Timothy sits in the passenger seat, left knee drawn slightly upward, the length of his hair gathered over his shoulder.
His hair has grown to the point where it is inconveniently long.
Still, he refuses to cut it because Ra’s tells him long hair suits him, and his Master’s opinion is worth any inconvenience.
He separates it into three clean sections and begins braiding it.
Beside him, Zeddmore softly hums as he drives. The tune is unfamiliar, but then again, so many things are unfamiliar to him. He has long since discovered that there are many things he no longer recognizes.
“You sure, and I mean absolutely sure we were supposed to enter through back there?” Z asks whoever in the back seat is holding the navigation tablet.
It’s probably not Prudence, considering he can hear her unload and reload her gun continuously.
“That’s what it said,” Owens replies, voice nonchalant.
“I’m not saying that it’s not what you think it says.”
“What’s that suppose’ mean?” Owens fires back.
“It means,” Pru cuts in, “that he thinks you’re fucking stupid.”
Timothy groans. “You three are truly not the most pleasant of company at times.”
He finishes his braid off with a small, practiced knot and then gathers the length of it into his fist. He twists it a few times, then tucks it neatly beneath the collar of his armour.
The braid disappears beneath the high collar of his armour, leaving only a few wisps of white hair escaping around his temples.
He then retrieves his mask and secures it on his face, covering all his identifying features. He flips the voice modulator on and rests his head against the window of the passenger door.
The vehicle bumps over another invisible irregularity in the road.
Or what he supposes was once the road when they first entered the time stream.
From the back seat comes a quiet snort, causing him to glance over his shoulder.
Prudence is sitting beside Owens, one boot planted against the car mat, her matching guns resting loosely across her thighs. Owens has the navigation tablet balanced on one leg, his brow furrowed as he studies the constantly shifting map.
Neither looks particularly concerned, probably because they’re both insane.
They continue to bump along for what he suspects is ten minutes before Zeddmore brings the car to a sudden, extremely abrupt stop.
“We’re here.” Z gruffs out.
Timothy ignores the forming sounds of argument, choosing to kick open the car door and step outside.
It takes less than a second for him to locate the figure standing several yards away. Even so, his soul recognizes him long before his mind does.
Time itself seems to ripple beneath every step he takes. The world around him forms and reforms as he gets closer to his target.
Bruce turns his head toward him, his blue eyes meeting Timothy’s mask. There’s no recognition in them, and he doesn’t know why that hurts so much. He doesn’t understand the sudden ache in his chest or why his eyes burn.
“Who are you?” Bruce asks as he takes one step forward.
Behind him, a car door slams and Zeddmore, Owens and Prudence all begin to approach.
Bruce’s attention snaps towards them. He clearly recognizes the League insignia hanging from Z’s neck, and his stance shifts to one of defence.
“League,” Bruce says, voice flat. “Ra’s sent you.”
“Yes,” he replies, voice robotic from the modulator.
Bruce’s jaw tightens.
“Then we are done talking. I have nothing to say to you.”
The man pounces.
He is faster than Timothy expected but still too slow to touch him. He steps aside as Bruce lunges for him, the man’s hand sweeping through the empty air where Timothy’s collar had been just a second prior.
In response, Timothy whips out his tranquillizer and fires several darts into Bruce’s leg.
For one second, nothing happens; then the drug takes effect, and the man drops into an unconscious heap.
· · ─────── ·1· ─────── · ·
Footnotes
1. 'Eth Alth'eban is the League of Assassins’ main base of operations. It is an underground city: return to text