timdrake1x1-blog

[timdrake1x1-blog]

stephbrown1x1:

Stephanie winced, the barb about her shortcomings hitting as hard as it had when she was sixteen and bright-eyed and inept. It had felt like moving mountains to earn the respect and trust of Barbara and Cass, even Bruce, but she’d done that. If she could move that mountain, she could at least scale this one.

Fast, so fast, she managed to get her gauntlet up in time to deflect the brunt of his knife swipe. He was as fast as Cassie, swirling around her faster than she could keep up. She heard the swish of the knife in the air behind her and tensed up, ready for an attack. 

“How about just Tim? The boy who loved me.” The boy with kind eyes and breathtaking adventures. The one who kissed her dizzy on rooftops, but only if she made the first move, because he was shy and sweet. He used Boy Wonder like it was disgusting, but she felt the phrase with a rush of nostalgia and heartache. 

He leaped over, acrobatic like Dick, lightning fast like Cassandra, and she didn’t have time to dodge. Steph felt the knives scrape at her body armor, bruising if they hadn’t actually drawn blood. She cried out, nearly falling forward, but her stubbornness won out, keeping upright with her staff and her benediction. 

“No!” She shouted back, leaping over his swipe and stamping hard on his elbow joint when she came down. “They did this to you, TIm. This is not you.” He was laughing, high and terrifying, like the Joker. That was what finally made her stumble backwards, eyes wide with fear. 

He could kill her. He would.

A moment hung between, heavy in the air. She looked at him, and let her staff drop to the ground, the clatter ringing out. “Let us help you. Please, Tim, we can help. You don’t have to do this. We can protect you from the League…it’s - it doesn’t have to be like this.” 

Delicious. Her pain was wonderful to him -- the honey in his tea, the absolute last piece of watermelon at the family picnics he’d only half-imagined. If only he could savor this moment forever, take a bite and keep biting and biting until she was nothing but a core. But, then, he could, couldn’t he? The mission was to destroy her, to destroy the Family. He could do that from within as easily as from the outside.

And Stephanie could be the murder weapon. Dear, sweet, naïve Stephanie. They’d never see it coming. No matter what they’d told her, Timothy knew. Bruce thought of his “partners” as inferior. Hell, he’d let Jason die, hadn’t he? It hadn’t stuck, and wasn’t that just too bad for poor Brucie. Too bad, and yet... Todd was full of rage, wasn’t he? He could use that, too. He could use all of them, and then... Then, he could wipe them from the face of Gotham.

But first, to act. Stephanie had dropped her staff after a mediocre attempt at the joint of his elbow. She was vulnerable, and this building -- like so many in Gotham -- had alcoves everywhere. That meant eyes everywhere, if you were a bird. But for Timothy, it meant any number of set pieces for his master stroke. He dove at her, pushing with just enough force to careen them both over the side of the building. “Grapple behind us, now!” he instructed, gripping tight to her, and hoping that her skill with the grappling hook wasn’t quite as dismal as the rest of her skills.

It worked. They ended up in the alcove, and he paused. A minute to catch his breath, and a minute for her to wonder why he hadn’t let her fall to her death. “Steph,” he said, voice soft, leaning back into the embrace of a forgotten gargoyle. “I’m sorry. That took longer than I thought it would.” He slipped a hand to his belt, tried to feign inelegance in his fumbling for the chemical he used to remove his mask. A show of intimacy, a face she hadn’t seen unmasked in years. “They’re everywhere. Hell, they’re probably looking for us now. I missed your arm, right?” A big show of it. Timothy approached her like one might approach a cattle that you loved, as opposed to one that was ripe for the slaughter.

“Doesn’t look too bad to me, but I could be wrong. Babs’ll fix you up, I’m sure. I--” He paused, choked back fake emotion. “I’m so, so sorry. I’m trying, Steph, I’m trying to take them out. But they started to suspect, and I had to do something. So I went after you. I needed to talk to you, and I needed them to think I was working towards the mission. Look, I just--” Timothy stepped forward, took her in his arms, pulled her tight to him. “You’re alive.”

[timdrake1x1-blog]

stephbrown1x1:

“Alvin Draper?” Steph repeated with a crinkle of her nose, trailing after him into the foyer. “That’s not your real name,” she said easily -- it was so clearly a fake name! “But I’ll still call you Alvin, ‘cus that’s my favorite chipmunk.” She flashed him a smile and re-situated her camera under her arm. “I’m Steph.”

She was looking around the entryway with bright eyes, thinking of all the great shots she could get while he tried to explain himself. Her attention caught at ‘ghosts’, and then really caught at ‘bust ghosts’. She turned to look at him, an incredulously skeptical look painting her face. 

“Bust ghosts. Like… Ghostbusters? You’re missing the jumpsuit.” The disbelief dripped from her voice, but he didn’t seem phased by how crazy he sounded which was… something? Maybe not something good though, she thought, as she regarded him taking stock of the environment. “I’ll bite, guy, but I think maybe you escaped Arkham today or something and there’s probably people looking for you.”

Steph hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, despite her better judgment. He was throwing around stuff like dying here and even if he was crazy, that kind of gave a girl pause. But after he was already halfway up the stairs, a gust of wind rushed behind her, making her jump, and she hurried to catch up with him. Her decision was made. 

Stephanie Brown did not believe in ghosts.

“St-student film,” she told him as she huffed her way behind him on the long staircase. “This place is a gold mine of a location, and I can’t exactly afford my own studio and art department to create a fake spooky haunted manor.” 

As she talked, she attached her mic to her camera, clicking everything on and making sure it was working. This crazy Draper guy was giving her a whole new idea for her film, and she turned her camera on his back, switching to the night vision filter.

“So, what exactly are you looking for here?”

“Ghosts.” It was trite, and he’d probably said it too quickly, but there wasn’t much Tim could tell her. He’d been silent as she’d rambled on, taking notes of the layout and of her history. Nothing said of note, though the comment about Arkham had made him grimace. “Haunts. Spooks. I investigate it. If I find one, or more, I take 'em down.” A pause, and then, “Quickly.”

He walked toward one of the largest bedrooms -- he imagined it might have belonged to Bruce, eventually. “Do you have anything to protect yourself with?” The candles in the entryway were suspicious, but the Manor was quiet. There might be someone living here. Tim remembered something about caves running underneath the manor, but who’d have enough resources to do anything that massive? It crossed his mind that the ghosts would have plenty of space down there, but he was only scouting. Technically.

“Follow me,” he said, pushing the door open and immediately coming face-to-face with a grand picture of, presumably, Martha and Thomas Wayne. He couldn’t tell, due to the copious amount of blood leaking from the wall and onto the floor. Ghastly smiles had been slashed onto their faces, their eyes marked with X’s. “Actually,” Tim said, “We should... maybe not... go in there.” He tried to turn, but he was glued to the spot. Fortunately, it wasn’t a compulsion. There was just something about it. He stepped forward, arm out to stop Steph from following him.

As he got closer, the portrait seemed to grow more dilapidated, gruesome, torn to shreds. He brought his free hand up as he stepped, waiting for something to stop him, steeling himself for a possession -- anything, really, that would show him that this wasn’t real. But the eyes were easiest to trick. He stood in front of the picture with eyes closed, reaching up to the wall, and feeling... nothing. No blood. It wasn’t real. He opened his eyes, and his hand appeared covered in blood, but as he pulled his hand away the blood faded. Visual illusions, but no actual manifestation. Great.

“You can see this, right?” Tim said, lifting his hand to show Steph and noticing, for the first time, that she’d been recording his every movement. He felt a momentary stab of anger, but squashed it. He’d have done the same, he knew. It could prove useful, even. “Illusion. Come touch it for yourself if you don’t believe me. Either this is the work of some extraordinarily elaborate tech, or something’s here.” He left out the third option, that they were being pumped full of a hallucinogen. He didn’t want to worry her, after all.

Old Haunts || Tim & Steph

[timdrake1x1-blog]

stephbrown1x1:

“No, Tim.” Steph stressed his name as much as he stressed her new title, trying to break through to anything left inside him that wasn’t like this. She was breathing heavy, already having dodged a barrage of bolts that had left nicks and slices on her suit. But she wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t give up. Wouldn’t let the cold not-Tim in front of her break her down.

She almost stepped back as he pulled out a knife and got closer, but wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Only eyed it warily and tightened her grip on her bo staff, ready to move to defend herself. Her head shook as he tried to scare her off.

“You can’t get rid of me that easy. Can’t even stay dead, remember?” Her lips quirked with an almost smile, but the situation was so tense she thought she might throw up instead. He took another step and she tensed, ready for a strike. “You’ll have to kill me, Tim, because I won’t let you keep going. Think you can?”

“Oh, but you should have stayed dead, Batgirl.” She’d always been weak, and his words were always knives for her. Even in times of sweetness, there’d been moments of cutting edges made just for her. Off-hand remarks about her capabilities. Not that Timothy had been the only one to sneer at her. “How’s Barbara? And... Cassandra. How did you ever convince them that you were enough for that suit?”

“I’m not sure who you’re referring to when you talk about Tim, Stephanie Brown.” He lunged forward swiping with the knife towards her arm, and circled behind her. Timothy popped another balisong from his belt, narrowing his eyes at her and the staff. Inelegant. A reminder. Not nearly enough to stop him. “Tim Wayne? The pretty boy who could have led Batm-- or, sorry, Bruce’s company into the future? Tim Drake? The boy who was too scared to stop his own parents from being murdered? Robin? The Boy Wonder?”

He went for her back, this time, with both of knives, flipping up and over Stephanie, his benediction soft. Firm. “The House of al Ghul keeps me, the League of Assassin’s molds me. I am theirs, and they are mine to command. Could you see it, even then, Brown? The monster you see when you look at me? Cardinal?” He aimed a swipe at her legs. “Could only a monster kill you? Does it scare you to think that this might be what I’ve always been?” Cardinal laughed, hysteria seeping in. His calm broken by her stupidity, his laughter was high, malicious, dangerous.

[timdrake1x1-blog]

Years From Now...

“Get out of my way, Batgirl.” Timothy lowered the crossbow, tossing it angrily to the side. “Or don’t you remember?” He laughed, with ice. His mask nudged against his skin, the crinkle between his eyes pressing the edges into him. 

Timothy pulled the balisong off his belt, the feel of the knife in his hands refreshing. “I took down Spoiler. I can take you down as easily.” He stepped forward, the wind slicing through the air and tension between them. Stephanie wasn’t supposed to be here. The last time he had checked, she’d been dead -- started a gang war of all things. Careless. Reckless. She should’ve stayed dead. But she wasn’t the target. “Go. Now.” Another step. 

[timdrake1x1-blog]

Tim watched the girl twist to see him, wincing as her equipment smacked inelegantly off the steps. It probably wasn’t broken. The Union could pay for it, even, and especially if they needed to wipe her memory clean. The process had always made him uncomfortable, but appearances were everything… or at least something.

He started to lean down to pick up her mic, but she had beat him to it. There was a pause where her face glanced up at him, angry. She couldn’t be much younger than him, or much older. Typical. College-aged kids coming to “haunted” mansion with video cameras were old news. Clichés like that were there for a reason. In fact, they were pushed to Hollywood by the Union to try and keep otherwise innocent kids from dying. Painfully.

“You oughta wear a bell on a collar, dude. It’s creepy enough out here without you jumping out at people.” Tim snorted. Fair enough. Her eyes went from angry to distant, suspicious, all at once. “Who are you?” It was refreshing, in a way, not to be recognized. He couldn’t walk through Wayne Entertainment or the Union without all eyes turning to him. Timothy Drake was the youngest (active) Buster on staff, and one of the youngest full-time employees at WE. Names (and faces) got around.

“Alvin Draper,” he said, offhand, moving around her to push the door open. He got the sense that the girl wasn’t going to go home -- they never did. So, instead he told her the truth. They never believed it. “I’m… You could call me an exorcist. I hunt ghosts, and then I bust ghosts.” He paused, thinking, and waiting for the moment of realization that usually came from mentioning his title. Busters. It was pretty cool, but cheesy. Tim liked cheesy. Everyone at the Union other than him (and Harper and, occasionally, Cass) thought the name detracted from the “seriousness of their task.”

He stepped farther into the main entryway, taking note of the distinct lack of dust and the candles placed at odd intervals around the room. If Tim didn’t know any better, he’d think that someone was living here. “I take it,” he said back to the girl, “that you want some footage? Student film? Art project? Dare? We’ve heard it all. I’m going to give you this chance to turn back.” He touched his hand to the edge of the long stairway. “Otherwise, stick close to me and try not to die.” He waited briefly for a response, then started up the stairs.

Old Haunts || Tim & Steph

[timdrake1x1-blog]

Now… Do I get the magical girl flick with the robots or the one with the faceless space dragons? It’s been a while since I’ve done my research. - Tim Drake in Batman Eternal #43

[timdrake1x1-blog]

Old Haunts || Tim & Steph

Wayne Manor sat outside the city, surrounded by imposing gates and thick forests. It was… well, Tim wouldn’t call it “stereotypical” -- after all, the place had chosen bats as their go-to gimmick, and haunted bats were a bit more creative than some of the stories he’d heard. But Wayne Manor did have a certain sort of feel. Hell, it might even be haunted. By ghost bats? Not likely. By someone darker than that?

Well, that was the job, right? Go in. Take some pictures, record some footage and audio clips, really talk up the place. “Viewers,” the host would say, Tim’s camera running smoothly, “truly this place ranks as one of the top haunts in America, dare I say the world!” It was cheesy, but test audiences ate it up. Tim had looked at the data, had seen the ratings from the episodes that had already aired. They were doing well.

They’d waited to do Wayne Manor, knowing that, if ratings had begun to sag, they could always use it as their trump card. No one had been let in since Bruce Wayne had moved out. Tim had met his boss two, maybe three, times. He was a bit more stoic, one-on-one. Why they’d chosen Tim to pitch the episode to Bruce, he’d never know. They were both from Gotham, sure, but what did that matter? Maybe Bruce had… known -- but that was crazy, right? No way Bruce would see through Tim like that. He was just Bruce Wayne, CEO of Wayne Entertainment. Smart enough to help keep the company afloat, but there was absolutely nothing in Tim’s files to suggest he might be anything more than that.

He stood outside the gates of Wayne Manor, his motorcycle hidden in the brush. He wasn’t a looter, and he didn’t need the police poking their noses around on the off-chance someone reported a bike parked outside the gates. Commissioner Gordon had been informed, he was sure, that someone from the Union would be coming around, but that would have been all he was told. Not the time, not that Tim would be vaulting over the gates. Fortunately for Tim, he’d trained for this since even before his mother had died. She and his father had given him the best, and Tim had strived to be better than that. He wrapped his hands around the cool metal and tugged himself up, his legs coming up and his body falling forward as he vaulted. It was simple, if more of a pain when the spikes on top of the gate were threatening to skewer him, but he was there.

The rest of the walk was a breeze, keeping to the trees and shadows. They’d sent someone yesterday to scope out the location, and to make sure that any cameras were disabled. The power had been cut far away enough that any crew Wayne called -- if he called one -- wouldn’t have the chance to catch him. It’d been Harper, if Tim remembered right. The downside was that there’d be no lights, but sight wasn’t the most important of his senses, when it came to this.

What he didn’t expect was the blonde girl standing at his end point, fiddling with the knob. Had the Union sent another Buster? Why wouldn’t they have told him? He walked silently up, waiting until she’d jimmied the door open to speak.

“That would have been much easier if you had brought a lock pick.” He held his hand against a flare, ready to act if necessary.