Chapter Text
A layer of acrid smog had bonded with the Gotham skyline in holy matrimony, its thick veil obscuring the moon and stars; a recent rain had further eroded the city's gaping potholes, leaving shiny, rainbow puddles and a layer of grit on the roads; and the air felt sticky with humidity and a distinct sense of unease.
In other words, it was a perfect night for photography.
Tim had approached that night of Batwatching with his usual routine, the beaming light of the Batsignal cutting through the smog to shine brighter than the moon, an artificial beacon of hope and a promise of some excellent shots. But despite the ambiance serving all the elements of a typical Gotham night, Tim still hadn't found a trace of Batman and Robin. He'd calculated their route for the evening, and his calculations had never led him astray before. Therefore, there was only one conclusion to be drawn: their patrol had deviated from plan. But why?
It was just as Tim came to this realization that the city's emergency alarms began to blare through the streets. Tim nearly fell off the ledge of a rooftop in surprise, heart pounding in his chest.
"This is a Level-Three City Emergency! This is not a drill! Seek shelter indoors immediately!" a recorded voice pleaded with the citizens on repeat.
Most would have heeded the warning; Tim had always been a curious cat.
A Level-Three Emergency included problems ranging from questionably-toxic air quality to full-scale domestic terrorism. The screeching, teeth-rattling alarms were annoying, but not concerning enough to induce panic.
Still, as a rationally-minded person, he deliberated for a moment while he took stock of his resources. His phone held a decent charge, so he could call for help if need be. His thermos was still half-filled with hot coffee—a potential weapon, although his pepper spray would have been better for that; he'd used it on a mugger a couple of weeks before and the poor guy had actually cried.
As he audited his belongings, Tim sipped some coffee to keep his mind alert and decided to stay at it for a little while longer. It really was a beautiful night, and the trek from his family's silent mansion to downtown Gotham was a bother. He didn't want to go home with nothing to show for it.
As he jumped across rooftops in search of his heroes, Tim noted that the streets truly were dead. With the emergency alarms constantly polluting the air with noise, the city seemed silent, and it was only through visual input that Tim was able to take stock of his surroundings—and his eyes told him that even the petty criminals had stayed in. Even after schlepping to the seedier neighborhoods of the city, Tim had seen nothing more than a couple homeless people peering around corners before running to whatever buildings they'd been squatting in. And still, no sign of Batman and Robin.
Breathless from sprinting halfway across the city, Tim paused to catch his breath beside a rooftop water tower. It had seemed like a safe bet—he'd gotten a few pictures by this particular water tower over the years—but luck was not on his side. Batman and Robin weren't around… But it was wrong for Tim to assume that he was alone.
"Well, hello," a voice spoke from the shadows.
Tim jumped upright, the breath that he'd just caught fluttering free.
A familiar face stepped into the light with a smug look and a wink. "What's the one thing you can lose without ever noticing it's gone?"
Oh. That explained it: there had been an Arkham breakout. That certainly did count as a Level-Three Emergency.
Tim puzzled over the riddle for a moment. "Sanity," he answered, and the Riddler tipped his hat in his direction. "But I wouldn't say it's the only thing. I broke a vase last year and swept it up before my parents got home. I moved a plant there instead, and they were none the wiser."
"Very clever," Riddler unenthusiastically praised, spinning his cane in one hand, "but you've forgotten the most important one."
"And what's that?" Tim asked, fingers gripping the straps of his backpack while his toes flexed in his sneakers, preparing to bolt.
The Riddler looked him in the eye as he answered: "Your life." He let the sinister declaration hang in the air for a moment before looking away dismissively. "You're better off scurrying home. The streets are running wild with jokers even crazier than me."
A stone of nausea settled in his gut. "Do you have any more advice?" He wasn't sure how advisable it was to trust in the Riddler's counsel, but it wasn't like Tim had many options.
A distant police siren began to cry in the neighboring streets, adding to the cacophony. The Riddler tilted his head before stepping back into the shadows. He hesitated only to deliver a quick parting tip: "Go to the first police station you see and don't quit bangin' on the door 'til they let you in."
"…Thanks," Tim responded, because he wasn't one to forgo basic politeness even around convicted killers.
"What's available to all, but only the most humble ever have?"
Manners.
When Tim opened his mouth to answer, he saw that the Riddler had disappeared.
At first, Tim truly intended to do as the Riddler said. Although the police were out of the question, seeing as they would have had many questions that he would not have been able to answer without revealing that his parents were gallivanting across the globe and he had no nanny to speak of, he angled himself back towards Bristol, supposing that the spirit of the Riddler's message had been to get off the streets.
But as he passed through Little Odessa, he ducked out of view when a cop car came racing down the street and peered over the edge of the rooftop just in time to watch that car fly backwards, end-over-end, landing upside-down. The metal screech as it slid down the road spiked through the air, audible even over the sirens which had become less urgent-warning and more white-noise by that point.
The officer who crawled out of the car immediately booked it on foot back in the direction he'd come from.
Obviously, this was a good omen.
His flimsy intent to return empty-handed to his equally-empty house forgotten, torn clean through like the paper-thin membrane of an eggshell, Tim roof-hopped a couple of buildings over until he had a visual of what had managed to scare the GCPD away. It was even better than he could have hoped.
Tim raised his camera, zoomed to the limits of its lens, breathing out slowly as he pressed down the shutter. Click. Tim pumped a fist in celebration. Batman had released his Batarang with perfect timing, nailing Killer Croc right in the eye and gifting Tim an excellent pose at once.
A second click captured the moment Killer Croc lashed out in return, sharp claws falling just short of tattering Gotham’s beloved hero to gore. Before he could make a second swipe, a figure draped in flashy reds and yellows stole the stage, flipping onto the scene from above and drawing the camera towards him with magnetic attraction.
A grin spread across Tim’s face as he captured the fight, only growing wider as Nightwing eventually arrived on scene. Although the new Robin had quickly hooked his loyalty, Tim knew he would always look up to the man who'd pioneered the role as the Dark Knight's hope. And besides, alongside being just as flashy as he had been as Robin, Nightwing also kicked serious ass.
Killer Croc quickly caught on that he was hopelessly outnumbered and promptly curbstomped the sewer grate until he made a hole large enough to squeeze through.
After a quick discussion between the three heroes, Batman and Robin followed Killer Croc into the sewer while Nightwing swung down the street, in search of whatever other threats were haunting the city that night.
Tim's camera followed Nightwing until he swung around a corner and out of sight.
Ecstatic about the unique shots he'd managed—this had been his first Killer Croc encounter! What luck!—Tim unpacked his thermos and settled down a couple feet back from the edge of the rooftop to play back what he'd gotten.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” a voice suddenly spoke from behind him, and it was only Tim’s youth and clean bill of health that kept his heart from going into full-blown cardiac arrest. Instinctively, he scrambled to his feet and spun around, thermos still clutched in one hand and his camera smacking hard against his chest, saved from shattering on the ground by the strap that tethered it to his neck. “It seems the Caped Crusader has a fanboy.”
Following the accusation was a high-pitched, growling giggle that caused Tim’s instincts to white out in a warning even louder than the emergency sirens. The giggle rapidly rose to a laugh, which rose to a cackle. Meanwhile, Tim grew stiller and stiller, cursing his knees for locking up like a deer trying to camouflage itself from a truck.
The Joker stepped out from the shadows, dressed in a black-and-white-striped Arkham jumper and twirling a crowbar in his hands like a baton. “What’s wrong, Kiddo? Bat got your tongue? Hoo-hoo!”
Tim managed a waddling step backwards, with the same grace and effectiveness as an infant giraffe.
The Joker cooed at him like he found him pathetically adorable. "There, there, no need to make that scared face." He took a matching step forward. As Tim made another step back, his heel brushed against the ledge of the rooftop. The Joker grinned, baring his full set of yellow teeth. "I just want to chat about our shared interest. I'm sure you've learned oodles of titillating information, following Batman the way you do."
"I don't," Tim denied, taking quick glances around them and over the Joker's shoulders. Nightwing was nowhere in sight, but the rooftops looked shortly-spaced in the direction he'd gone… "I was just in the area, I swear."
The Joker chuckled. "Bristol's at the other end of the rainbow, Shrimp Boat. Pull the other one!"
Tim gulped, hands shaking. He'd been trying to smooth over his accent to something more neutral, but the Joker was more perceptive than he would've thought.
"Well, you see," Tim started—then he threw all of the coffee in his thermos into the Joker's face. The thermos itself came after, and though he'd instantly turned to bolt, he heard the metal BONG of it hitting its mark.
"You punk!" the Joker cried. His voice came far too close for comfort even several rooftops later. "Some waiter you are! Where's the milk and sugar?!"
Tim threw himself across the gaps between rooftops, less careful than he normally would have been as he heard the hollow ring of the Joker's crowbar whiffing through the air just behind him. If his cries for help rose above the emergency sirens, there was nothing to show for it.
With a well-timed throw, the Joker's crowbar snapped against Tim's knee, bringing him down. He transitioned his momentum into a roll and jumped back up immediately, but he'd been injured, and his knee buckled beneath his weight. A limping jog wasn't enough to outrun the Joker.
Cornered, Tim fumbled in his pocket and spun around to make his last stand.
The Joker received a blast of pepper spray directly to the face.
The mugger from the other week had fallen to his knees, choking and gasping on the spray; the Joker only coughed out laughs, tears streaming down his pale-white face as he prowled forward.
So that was it, then.
Tim stumbled back, tripping onto the ground. He crawled backward, heart racing, lungs stuttering.
"Naughty little boys like you," the Joker growled between giggles, "ought to be taught a lesson." He raised his crowbar gleefully. "I guess I'll have to step in, if your momma and pops are failing you."
Tim's palms scraped the edge of the rooftop. Looking behind himself showed a multi-story drop straight down. Death by fall or death by beating?
Tim didn't have to make a decision; before the crowbar could strike down, a blur of black and blue crashed directly into the Joker, sending him sprawling onto his back.
Nightwing saved his life.
Tim's hands itched for his camera. When he raised it and peered through the viewfinder, he discovered that the lens had shattered in the bedlam. He snapped a single shot that probably amounted to nothing more than wasted space on the memory card then settled for memorizing this moment: Dick Grayson taking down his almost-murderer with quick quips and hard hits.
He took a moment to recover from what, at the time, had been the scariest moment in his life. Eventually, he gained the courage to slip away, watching Nightwing incapacitate the Joker then turn his head in search of the victim—in search of Tim.
Tim stayed hidden until Nightwing gave up, staying with the Joker until a squad car pulled onto the scene.
It wasn't until he watched the Joker get loaded into the back of the police car that Tim was able to draw a full breath. He watched Nightwing follow the car in the direction of Arkham, personally overseeing the transport.
A relieved laugh barked out of Tim's chest. He quickly silenced himself; it was too soon for mood-inappropriate laughter. He shifted his focus to how he was supposed to get home.
Since the city was as good as under attack, the buses had been shut down. And he knew it was a long-shot, but when he called the cab company, they actually laughed at him before hanging up. So for transportation, Tim had his Chucks and one-and-a-half working legs. Without further ado, he limped westward.
He had never felt more comfortable than he did as he collapsed into bed, the blankets feeling like some kind of forcefield against the dangers of the world.
It had been an intense night, but it was over now. Oh well. It was as they said: all's well that ends well.
Months Later…
It had taken hours of sawing with a butter knife—spread out over the course of a week—to flay open the outer shell of the machine, exposing a tangled mess of wires and plugs. Tim spent a long while staring at the disturbing attempt at electrical work, following the twisting paths of each wire until he could make sense of it all. Once he figured out what he was looking at, he didn't hesitate to stick his hands into its guts, strategically untangling and pulling out specific wires.
The tremor that never seemed to leave his hands—currently worsened by his nerves—made slow work of it. He hated this thing and would've loved nothing more than to wield the butter knife like a machete and hack away—but too big of a change in the electrical output would have been suspicious. Small alterations would have to do.
He was hardly convincing himself.
As a thin wire slipped from his shaking fingers once again, he would have cursed, except none of the swears allowed in this house would have been strong enough to withstand the weight of his frustration. "Aw, beans!" simply didn't pack a punch that was worth the squeeze.
He looked up, surveying the entrance to make sure he was still alone. A hundred Tims stared back at him from the mismatching mirrors scattered across the walls and ceiling. They all smirked and winked at him before he turned back to his work. He had time. He had this.
Above his beating heart, the phonograph continued to spin a torturous, neverending loop of the same lullaby, equally scratchy and catchy, and frankly an ill-fitting soundtrack for a moment like this, when the clock's ticking was akin to a bomb counting towards detonation.
The wire finally pulled free with a victorious cheer. He snatched a couple of plugs out of their sockets before piecing the machine back together, ensuring that nothing looked out of the ordinary.
He retreated to his corner on the opposite end of the room as he twisted the wire, searching for an imperfection in the outer shell. Eventually he found a weakened spot and set to ripping it apart. He had three fingernails left—five if he counted the ones on his broken fingers, which he didn't—and he was determined to use them wisely.
Tiny chunks of rubber were plucked away, scattering onto the floor. The floor was already so dirty that it didn't matter where they fell; what was a little extra debris in the grand scheme of things?
Tim laughed as he pulled the copper wire free from the casing, grinning around the hand that he pressed against his mouth to muffle the sound.
The sound of the chain lock at the top of the staircase coming undone caused the smile to fall off his face. He grabbed his bed—a half-limp beanbag chair which had clearly been rescued from a dumpster and was filled with a mystery substance that Tim could have sleuthed out, but he chose to blissfully ignore the clues at his disposal in efforts to salvage the little peaceful rest he was able to manage these days—and snatched it away from the wall, revealing an air vent. He quickly shoved his wire and butterknife through the grates.
As the entry door squealed open, Tim tossed his bed back in front of the vent and limped over to his workbench, collapsing onto his milk-crate chair just in time.
"Daddy's home!" a sing-songy voice called while tap shoes rhythmically danced down the stairs.
"Welcome home, Pops," Tim dutifully said, biting the inside of his cheek to keep his distaste from showing. "How was work?"
"It was hard work today, Junior," Joker said with a wistful sigh. He swung a plastic bag around as he added, "But somebody has to bring home the bacon!"
The bag landed on the table, opening enough for Tim to catch a peek: loose fried rice, jellybeans, and some concerning mystery meat. It looked like he'd gone dumpster diving again.
"Yum," Tim said, trying to sound like he meant it.
Joker cackled. He pulled out another milk crate and sat across from Tim, clasping his hands together and resting his chin on top. "Show me what you've been working on."
Tim held up a clip-on bow tie. He'd sat in on enough of his parents' meetings before that he had mastered the art of the elevator pitch, so it was with wholehearted conviction that he described the device.
"It seems like an ordinary bow tie. Batman will think so, too."
Joker sat forward, interest glimmering in his eyes.
"But what he won't know is that there is a secret water chamber in the back. And then—blam!" A thin spurt of water sprayed from the center of the bow tie in an arc, misting over the table.
Joker stared at him, face deadly serious. "That…is—" He grinned and cackled. "—genius! How do you come up with this stuff, JJ?"
"I was taught by the best," Tim said, shoulders falling down in relief.
"That you were…which is why I'm going to give you a tip: put acid inside instead!"
Tim choked, coughing a couple times. He recovered his composure to diplomatically reason, "We would need metal tubing, in that case; the plastic would melt."
"Perfect, you can make it like that."
Tim sighed through his nose. "I'll add it to the grocery list."
Joker clapped his hands together. "What about your other project?" He waggled his eyebrows, letting out a drawn-out string of low chuckles.
Tim cleared his throat. "It's almost finished… It just needs some finishing touches."
With an exaggerated pout, Joker whined, "That's what you said last week! You're not pulling my leg, are you?"
"Never," Tim swore. "I'm just getting…stage fright. I want to make sure it's perfect before you use it."
Joker leaned forward, rifling through the bag to find a radioactive-green jellybean. He crushed it between his teeth with an overly-forceful bite, a wild glint appearing in his eyes as he stared at Tim.
Tim swallowed, feeling like he was next on the chopping block once the jellybean was swallowed. "Let me show you," he offered, desperate to keep control as he could feel it slipping through his fingers. "And you can give me pointers. Since you're so good at this stuff."
With an indulgent nod, Joker flipped his greasy hair out of his eyes while making a rolling motion with one hand. "Make it fast. The moon's playing peek-a-boo."
Tim had to glance around the room to find the device. He could have sworn that he'd last left it by his workbench, but now it was at the far end of the room, where Joker liked to play Tim's least favorite games, and where Tim had just been playing Handyman.
Even rushing under the pressure of Joker's watching eye, the trek across the room took twice as long as it should have: Tim's knee still twinged even a full year after Joker had hit him with that crowbar, although his main concern was his opposite ankle—the foot was turned inward at an unnatural angle, healed all wrong after a separate injury, and every step caused lines of white-hot pain to spike up his leg.
Joker giggled as Tim limped across the room. This was certainly why the project had been moved so far away; he loved to watch Tim struggle to walk after what he'd done to him—he thought it was the funniest thing in the world.
As he passed his "school chair," Tim was careful to keep his posture neutral and his eyes away from the small imperfection he'd left in the bottom corner. As long as he didn't acknowledge it, his intervention would fly under the radar.
The device he was looking for was beside the phonograph. Once he retrieved it, Tim retreated from the "Playroom" as quickly as possible; this place gave him the creeps, and even just the sight of the alphabet-patterned and copper-stained carpet beneath his feet was enough to make him start breaking out in a cold sweat.
"Here it is," Tim announced as he dropped it onto the table with a metal bang. He pointed to different parts quickly as he explained, "The toxin goes in this chamber here. Then the explosives wrap around. Once it detonates, the toxin is spread through the air."
Tim swallowed his nerves as Joker stared at what would soon be a homemade bomb. It felt like crossing a line that he would maybe never come back from. Assisting in domestic terrorism wasn't Tim's first career choice.
But the Joker was crazy, not stupid, evident by the way he picked apart the build with his eyes, reaching in to rearrange wires even as his eyes had already moved on, the process of building a bomb second-nature to him. "I've never been able to add my toxin to a bigger bomb like this," he pointed out. "It gets burnt up before it can do anything."
Tim steadied his breathing as Joker's eyes trailed over the most important parts of his build—the vulnerabilities he'd added to mitigate the fallout. Joker's eyes were drawn to the brighter plastics on the other side, bright greens and pinks that Tim had strategically added with hopes of keeping his attention away from the actual mechanics.
"It's all about the inner-chamber," Tim bullshitted with confidence. "It's metal on the outside and plastic on the inside."
Joker hummed undecidedly. "Won't the plastic just melt?"
Tim nodded. "Yes, that's the point. When the plastic casing melts, the toxin will trickle deeper into the machine, where it will be safe from the explosive."
The logic didn't check out, but he was banking on Joker taking his word for it.
"Just make sure there's a big bang," Joker said after a long pause, miming an explosion with his white-gloved hands and grinning at his own imagination. "How much more dynamite do you think we'll need?"
"What we have is perfect," Tim insisted quickly. He spared a wary glance at the loose TNT that he'd unfortunately been sleeping next to for the better part of a month now.
Joker cackled, and Tim went deathly still as one of those gloved hands landed on top of his head to ruffle his hair. "Don't worry!" Each word was punctuated by a broad laugh followed by a gasping inhale. "It's perfectly safe!"
Tim nodded with a tight smile. The imagined danger of being blown up in his sleep was nothing compared to the real danger that had become his daily life. He forced out a half-hearted chuckle.
After gathering his composure, Joker patted the seat beside him. "Come sit with me."
Tim rounded the table on shaking legs. He sat on the crate beside Joker and let himself be pulled close to his side.
Wrapping his arm around the back of Tim's shoulders, Joker gestured with his other hand as he said, "Daddy and Mommy were talking lately."
"About what?" Tim asked, trying to steady the tremble in his voice. Joker and Harley's ideas were rarely good news for him.
"It's fun having a son," Joker said. He gestured to the bomb as he added, "We get to have so much fun together!"
Joker's hand tightened on Tim's shoulder as a moment of silence stretched on. "Y-yeah," Tim belatedly agreed.
"Well… We were thinking it's about time to start trying for another!"
"Another?" He was hesitant to ask for clarification; the last thing he wanted was to give him ideas. "You mean like a…brother or sister?"
"Just like that! Picture if we had two JJs running around." Joker tapped the bomb indicatively. "We'd have twice the fun! What do you think, Junior?"
Tim wasn't sure why Joker was suddenly bringing this up now; that first night, there had been four other kids here, too. Over the course of a couple days, that number had been slowly whittled down to one. Why hadn't he given those other kids a chance, if he'd wanted more than one child to torture all along? He supposed it was all moot; it's not like the Joker was known for his logical reasoning and foresight.
He imagined how nice it would have been to not be the only sane one around. Plus, if there was another kid here, they would have shared half of Joker's attention and "games." The idea of it caused sudden desperation to surge in his chest. When he forcefully swallowed it back down, he was left with the familiar hollow dread that had been slowly eroding away his chest cavity as weeks turned to months in this cellar.
"I've always been an only child," he politely declined. "I don't think I want to share."
Joker stared at him for a silent moment before screaming cackling laughs into his ear. He wrapped a hand around Tim's neck to stabilize himself.
Tim's heart raced as Joker's thumb pressed down on his pulse-point. He pushed a nervous laugh out of his throat before Joker decided to force it out of him.
The cool glass of the window quelled the fire that seemed to constantly flame inside him. With each deep and orderly breath, Jason felt sparks kicking up, eager to ignite. He watched the buildings blur past instead, catalogued them coming closer and closer together as they passed through the well-to-do neighborhood of Bristol to the slightly-less-rich suburbs.
Normally, old-school jazz hyped Jason up before school; today, Bruce was driving him to save Alfred the trip, since he was on his way in to the office anyways—so it was only an uncomfortable silence that hung heavy in the air. It was one of Bruce's tactics, Jason knew: make the atmosphere so awkward and inhospitable that Jason would feel the need to fill it himself. He needed to update his tricks; Jason wasn't falling for it and let the discomfort envelope them both.
Bruce cleared his throat as Gotham Academy came into view. "I know that last night was…unsatisfying," he said. When Jason glanced over, he saw that Bruce was facing forward, looking out the windshield as he joined the drop-off line that extended out of the school driveway. "Half of our job is about being patient. We will take down Garzonas, but only if we wait for the right time and do it together."
"Yeah. You know best. I get it." Jason couldn't help that his words were clipped close enough to nick the skin. Bruce had already served him this same bullshit on the way home from patrol the night before. Jason was not hungry for the leftovers.
The line crept forward.
After an intentional deep breath, Bruce said, "You haven't been acting like yourself lately." His voice was flat, making the note as though it were an objective fact from one of their cases. "Alfred is worried, too."
"What, so you're talking about me behind my back now?" Jason fired back. Tension rocketed his shoulders up to his ears. "Making plans for how to handle the out-of-control street rat?"
"Alfred is worried about your emotional state. With how reckless you've been lately, I feel the same." His intense delivery suddenly broke, tone turning hesitant. "What's happening inside your head, Jay?"
Jason swallowed, turning to stare out the window. He was tempted to tuck-and-roll, but the manicured lawn had turned to mud after last night's rain. The threat of Alfred's lecture should he have muddied his school shoes was enough to keep Jason in his seat. "It's just not fair," he said, taking them back to Garzonas. "The longer we wait around twiddling our thumbs, the longer she has to live in fear of her assaulter."
"You're talking about Gloria," Bruce noted.
Jason nodded curtly. Her cries still haunted him almost a full week later: her pleas for help, followed by her devastation after Garzonas had been let out of the precinct scot-free. Every night that they waited to take down Garzonas was another night that she had to live in fear. Bruce didn't seem to get it.
"We will nab him, Jay." Bruce's sugar-spun promise was spoken with certainty and it glided in one ear and out the other. "But you need to trust me."
Jason huffed, grumbling, "Trust is a two-way street."
"I do trust you," Bruce said earnestly. "We wouldn't patrol together otherwise. Speaking of, will you come out with me tonight?"
His claim went entirely counter to the months-worth of evidence that had been piling up like dogshit landmines—but even more damning was the smooth deflection which might have worked on Jason when he'd first come to the manor, but he was too aware of obvious tactics like that by now; Bruce had taught him most of them personally.
"Of course." Jason attempted a cocky smirk but settled for a weak dupe. "Gotham needs its Robin."
They pulled up in front of the doors. A mutual hesitation wavered in the air.
"I better go," Jason said eventually. "Don't want to be late."
Just as he touched the door handle, Bruce's hand fell onto his shoulder. Jason looked up to meet Bruce's eyes.
"Jay…be safe," Bruce said, voice heavy.
Jason lifted an eyebrow, though his concern was revealed in his weak smirk. "It's just school, B. I'll be fine."
Bruce nodded, holding the eye contact.
Jason nodded back before turning away to open the door. He raised his hand in goodbye as Bruce slowly drove away.
The line of cars driving away went even slower than the line going in—the school driveway was filled with other helicopter parents. So was the life of the modern Gothamite.
The sensory overload of the high school's hallways was a welcome change of pace. It was the kind of discomfort that Jason thrived in, turning on his mental white noise machine as he centered his brain on the mission—traveling to English class—and danced around cliques and groups of teens with all the grace his Robin training had provided him.
After sliding into his seat, he cracked open the book they'd been reading for this unit. His bookmark was already a quarter-inch from the end, but he dutifully opened up to the second chapter to reread the assigned section before the bell rang.
Gotham Academy was stricter than the public schools Jason had grown up attending, but it was still full of spoiled rich kids. All of them had been handed a college app-worthy education on a silver platter. They didn't understand the struggle of street kids who had to give up what was often the only safe place available to them for fear of being found by Social Services. Even after the bell rang and class began, his peers continued to whisper and pass notes to one another.
It was only midway through roll-call, when his teacher's tongue hesitated on T, that the classroom fell into eerie silence. Even the kids shooting spitballs respectfully paused until a shuddering breath gave their teacher the strength to move on to the Vs.
Timothy Drake.
The kid had blent in so well that he'd looped back around to standing out among his other classmates. He'd been unusually young for a high schooler and small for his age. He'd never raised his hand but had always had an answer when called on. He'd sat in the back, as though that would have made his frequent absences to go unnoticed. Timothy Drake, it seemed, had been a serial skipper.
It hadn't been until the second week that Timothy hadn't turned up for class that Jason had realized something was wrong. He'd spent five consecutive English classes mentally mocking the kid for fumbling a top-tier high school education (and skipping out on Jason's personal favorite subject), unaware that the Drakes had been among the victims of the Joker's latest attack.
The playhouse downtown had gone up in flames during a matinee performance of Annie, a bomb detonating halfway through Act II and making orphans of dozens of children instantly. It would have been ironic if it hadn't been calculated.
It had taken days for the city to sort through the wreckage. An additional tragedy wasn't noticed until nearly a week after the attack: five children were unaccounted for, their bodies not among the victims excavated from the disaster site.
One of the children was found shortly after this news was delivered to the press. His body had been brutalized both pre- and post-mortem, and deep cuts drew a jagged grin across his cheeks.
Now, months after the attack, additional victims were still turning up, and Bruce grew antsier with every day that the Joker remained at large. Even as he obsessed over the case, he refused to bring Jason along on some of his investigations. It was as if he didn't trust Jason not to mess up the investigation. It was bullshit.
Now, Timothy's name went unspoken, only uttered by Batman late in the night, when another night of searching turned up nothing and his hope well was running dry, and he sat at the computer for hours, staring at the same facts and lists of victims that he'd reviewed a hundred times.
And Jason obediently sat on the sidelines when all the arguing in the world couldn't change Batman's mind. At the end of the day, Bruce would be Bruce—the self-reliant, overly-paranoid man who took Jason in and gave him everything except for what he needed the most.
But if Bruce wanted to shut Jason out, then Jason could play the same game. And he had a secret ace hidden up his sleeve: a mom he'd never known about until he saw her name in waterwashed ink on his birth certificate.