Live Like Animals

by MarmaLeye

Summary:

Oh, he'd build it. Restore .̶-̵ ̷-̶.̴-̷.̶ ̶.̷.̴.̸.̸ ̵.̷ ̴.̷-̷.̸ ̶-̵-̴-̸ ̵-̴.̴.̷

U-H-V-W-R-H__D-F-K-H-U----......

Right. Just like she wanted him to.

It'd be everything she wanted. And more.

Here goes nothing.

For all.

Chapter 1

.̶-̵ ̷-̶.̴-̷.̶ ̶.̷.̴.̸.̸ ̵.̷ ̴.̷-̷.̸ ̶-̵-̴-̸ ̵-̴.̴.̷

Madness.

Yes…

That’s what this was. This…buzzing this…hunger.

Distorted, humanoid metal digging into his skin. Pairs of twisted hands, containers for broken hearts, a cruel imitation of the life they once...Lifting him. Up and up and toward—

The Frenzy.

Red boiling behind his ruby eyes. Glazed and distant. They darted wildly, his outward attempt to regrasp at reality. How he would like to, despite the red.

Seeping in and distorting–

Were they sacrificing him or glorifying this? Or perhaps, trying to save him from the same twisted mess that they…or rather some of them had completely–

Raising him up and up and toward—

Desperate whispers clung to his ears, pouring into his chest like sand. That should make him feel heavy. His chest felt tight, seized in a bear trap. And yet, he also felt like he was floating through this cold air.  Up and towards-

The Frenzy.

He could see the cosmos ahead of him. A scarlet swirl of nebula woven with golden strands and flecked with beautiful stars. It’s them, all of them—

Was this it then? The vision she claimed? This…beauty?

He reached his hand toward the brightest star, there in the center. It felt so close, so warm. His left arm, the one that once bore such corruption…it was swallowed in starlight. There it is, the answer.

How could he have such clarity in this? Was this moment an escape? A glimpse at the light he had lacked for so long?

Ah, no, of course, that’s it.

This is what she’d want, wouldn’t she?

His vision of beauty began melting, the reds swirling rapidly again, turning into beasts of smoke that lunged at him, twisting themselves into his breathing corpse. The starlight flashed like strobe lights, sending knives into his eyes, rushing around and taunting–!

This is wrong. This isn’t beauty. 

Running raging running raging hot and agonizing fight fight against that sting of fight figHT FIGHT... ..- .-. .--. .- ... …FIGHT-.. . .- - ....FIGHT FIGHT—!

His body jerked against their spell.

He twisted sharply, scraping against the metal limbs and hands that scrambled to regrasp him. He couldn’t allow that. He had to stop-he had to get–get off you’re wrong you’re all falling right into–

The red and white sparked aggressively. Every minute movement screamed into his cranium. He tore at the extensions of that, ripping hollow parts away and scattering them across the cold, dark space. 

Their ghastly screams fell on deaf ears. All he could hear was the whistle, like a tea kettle, steady and high. It teased in time to the rapid snare created by his heart. Red clouded his eyes. Muddy red fluid flung across the room, dancing itself into his vision. It didn’t smell like blood. Didn’t taste like it either. Bitter. It wasn’t warm, it wasn't alive. 

He tore and tore and tore. Things still moved. They can’t. It hurts his head, his eyes, his mind where was his mind his mind his head his—

Someone was laughing. Maybe. The sound was barely audible above the ringing, the sound frantic, desperate and maniacal. Enraged. 

Metal spikes shot out from the floor, inches away from his side. He rolled around them, heading toward the one who’d cast that spell. Close the gap. Take off the arms. The source–

More.

Over there.

A knife to a breathless neck, featureless face with hollow sockets rolling backward with the force. Metal against stone as they fell. 

Too far gone. False imitations. Stop moving please.

Shred shred shred shred it—

There. There.

No there. 

The red gas poured from his open wounds, seeping through his mouth and nose. His red vision swam and jerked. Every twitching movement he saw screamed out, jittered with aggressive white flashes. He needed it to stop stop stop it now–

He rushed toward the moving targets. Tear them apart. Stop them. 

A bell rang.

The sound was high, crisp and melodious. 3 chimes from the small handheld metal instrument put the whole world on pause. 

Tim halted. His breathing was rapid and thready. The adrenaline slowly faded, leaving him alone to make sense of this…mess, coming into view. His gaseous blood misted the room in red, coating his tongue like old dust, the bitter taste mingling with the sour, burning one from.... He stood hunched, like an animal ready to pounce at a moment's notice.

His eyes were wide, glowing, as they caught pieces of the horrific mess in front of them. Pieces of them, their metal vessels. Scattered. Some pieces were twisted and broken, leaking muddy red fluids from the joints. 

That would explain the burning on his tongue. 

Tim turned, slowly, wide eyes searching for the source of the ring. Relief peeked through the storm of guilt and horror.

Siphon.

Assistant to the Herald of Hysteria herself, Madam Ichoria. Siphon’s tall, haunting form, with empty sockets in a featureless face, could make it into anyone’s nightmare. Yet, he only saw kindness in that twisted form cursed to her. 

Siphon stood tall, like she always did, her long, simple cloak dragged behind her. The thick woven fabric was frayed and torn in some parts. Markings of the Madam, once as bright as her blood, were faded in their places. Her grey hood rested atop her metal, mannequin-esque head. The winding ivy pattern on her pale white, wood-textured face looked like cracks in Tim’s jittered red vision. Her blood orange eye became stained red as well. 

“Clean-up simulation complete. You defeated all enemies. Good work Key,” she stated plainly. One of her impossibly slender limbs held a lanturn, her insectoid fingers wrapped around the handle. Tim’s rapid breathing grew steady at the sight of the bright blue light. 

Siphon’s one visible eye eased into a soft look, her other three arms emerged from under her cloak, pushing around at the wreckage of discarded parts at her feet. She hummed.

“Well, one things for sure. I won’t be bored this week,” her voice grew playfully sharp at the end.

“Whu–what did I-?”

Tim stumbled, gripping his head. No no no—it's happened again. The frenzy, the necros taking…worming into his mind. His eyes caught on the scattered parts of the others, their bodies may be hollow but the pain they can still feel…What did he do, what did he—?

A laugh sounded from one of the others, lying on the ground. 

“Relax Key, Siphon will fix us,” the echoed voice of a boy, one who’d been barely younger than Tim, smoothed by his heavy French accent, sounded from a metal body nearby.

His mannequin-like body of biomechanical material was more masculine, its shape well-defined and healthy compared to many of the sickly anatomy of many of the others. No, his vessel’s build and height were like a skinner version of Dick.

No, don’t think of them. You can’t miss them.

“Brittle,” Tim gasped out. His wide eyes narrowed into a grimace. Both of Brittle’s arms had been torn off by Tim in the frenzy. Brittle nodded and stood, rather ungracefully. His simple, brown clothing was stained with the blood-red oil produced from the joints of his mechanical body. 

“It’s not as bad as last time. Look! You left me with my legs,” he lifted one up, laughing as he nearly tipped over. “It’s funny that it even hurts at all”, he said, shrugging his shoulder sockets as if his wounds were just a harmless scrape.

Brittle always had a way of lightening the mood, even amidst the wreckage. Tim remembered the first time they met, how he had been one of the few to ground him. One of the few who still held true to himself. He dared to believe that Tim’s plan could work, and still clung to the hope that it would. 

“It is phantom pain. That body is attached to your soul, after all,” Siphon found one of Brittle’s arms among the mess. Her gentle touch contrasted with the sharpness of her metal limbs, built to slice and dissect. Her kindness, a duality to her surgical vessel. 

“See? It’s all in our heads!” Brittle moved his body, as if to gesture to himself with missing arms. 

“And yet I have much to repair,” Siphon sighed, looking around at the others, who were either making efforts to get back up, or get into comfortable positions. Many remained silent, cautiously eying Tim, making sure it was over.

“Oh no, now you’ll have to do your job,” Brittle snarked. Siphon glared, long, sharp fingers wrapping around Brittle’s discarded arm, metal scraping against metal.

“Which, er-you do a great job at,” Brittle added with a nervous chuckle. Tim cast his eyes to the ground. How could he stay so happy, in all this? He’d been just as tortured as all of them, if not more so, being around for…how long had he said? 87 years?

He heard Siphon huff, her long fingers relaxing against Brittle’s arm. Mechanical clicking sounds resounded in the stone room as she tilted her head, beckoning Brittle. Tim watched him slouch, and like a grumpy teen, he trudged over to her.

Siphon brought his arm up to the socket, holding onto his shoulder with another one of her spidery hands. With her third hand, she searched her long cloak, until it emerged with some bolts. Like a practiced mechanic, she reattached his arm in a few swift motions. The moving parts groaned and clicked together as Brittle flexed and tested his movement. 

“We’ve all experienced her insanity before, Key,” Siphon muttered, her gentle voice low and quiet. “We are offspring of her magic, and thus it will occur…naturally. No use feeling guilty about it.”

Tim returned to looking at the floor, eyes catching on fluid and scattered metal. The youth in her haunted, echoed voice, worn by the horror she’d seen here, never ceased to disturb him. She had only been…was only 14. Brought into a new, nightmarish existence by her. It made his blood boil with hatred, with all she takes…Those lost to the madness.

“But…the swarm…” Tim muttered.

“Don’t,” Brittle warned, his voice sharp and sudden. Tim withdrew inward, willing himself to stay still and small. Right. Don’t talk about them. Twisted beyond saving. Lost completely. Siphon sighed.

“That’s enough boys. I believe you’ve all met your time for today. Ruse?” Siphon called. Ruse lowered herself from that cave’s ceiling, placing a pair of snake-like extensions on the ground gently, then another. How long had she been up there?

Tim’s stomach couldn’t help twist at the sight of her legs, broken off at the ankle. A wound Siphon was forbidden from healing. So young…one mistake…how could Madam Ichoria be so cruel?

“Yes miss?” Ruse asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m taking Brittle and the others to the bay. Take Key back to his room, he needs rest,” she states, gathering more of the others…parts with her lower pair of arms. 

“I don’t-” Tim started.

“He needs rest,” Brittle shot back, glaring at Tim before nodding at Ruse, his one eye holding an insistent gaze. Ruse nodded in return.

“C’mon silly,” Ruse said, the gentle French phrase felt sympathetic, paired with the hand on his shoulder. He sighed.

They weren’t calling him weak. No. 

They were protecting him from her, again.

Why?

Did a plan really deserve such kindness?

With a half-baked plan ….with so many…holes?

He didn’t think so.

But they wouldn’t take no for an answer now.

So, with a resigned huff, he followed Ruse.

.--. .-.. . .- ... . / -.. --- -. .----. - / --. --- .-.-.-

 

“A zombie?” Bruce echoed, failing to keep the doubt from seeping into his tired voice.

“Yea, that’s one word for it. Zombie, undead, etemmu, take your pick. That’s usually what we call someone who’s been raised from the dead,” Zatanna replied. She leaned against the console, arms crossed. Bruce turned back to the computer, which showed one of the only things they’ve managed to recover. Security footage of yesterday. Tim “restoring” the artifact. Tim being brought back to life. Tim and Ruse leaving, after gassing them.

Barbara’s typing slowed, before continuing. It’d taken her hours to recover what they had, after she and the girls had taken care of the aftermath of Tim’s blood gas. Bruce shoved the horrible, red-tinted visions out of his mind. His kids…being taken by whatever monster had gotten to Tim…no, it was just a side-effect of the gas. It wasn’t going to happen. 

He was going to figure this out. He was going to get his son back.

Barbara had found Tim’s back door. Hidden in plain sight, but it gave him access to everything. Comms. Locations. Casework. No wonder he’d stayed three steps ahead of them. She did a thorough sweep, to make sure he didn’t have another in, but…what did it matter? He’d completely killed the mainframe. And he’d done the same to the backup system, only an hour after he’d left. 

But, even despite the circumstances, he trusted Barbara to get some part of it back. And in the meantime, they would protect and rely on the incredible system she’d built. 

“So it’s the work of…necromancy?” Damian held his hand up to his chin, his eyes still on the screen. Zatana nodded.

“It has to be. Those symbols, right there,” she gestured toward the clip of Tim and the artifact, “that’s Necrospeach. It’s a type of language, used by a certain group of necromancers. They deal heavily in dark magic-”

“Isn’t all necromancy dark magic?” Jason interrupted.

“That’s complicated. It’s got a lot of spells and variety to offer. It can be used to tell the future, or solve crime, it can even heal people. But, it is the magic of death, and the nature of the dead is…unstable at best. Al Ghul’s Lazarus Pit is a good example.”

Jason nods curtly, his gaze shooting down to the floor. Zatanna spares him a sympathetic glance, then looks at the ground herself. 

“It’s…strange though,” Zatanna begins. 

“What’s strange?” Damian asks.

“If what you told me, about the way he was brought back, again, is true…well and with all I’m seeing here…it just doesn’t add up,” she mutters.

“What do you mean?” Bruce turns away from the monitors, fully facing Zatanna. She meets his gaze, holding it for a moment, before sighing. She lets her arms fall to her side.

“Necromancy performed with blood isn’t uncommon, sure. But that’s to perform the spell. If your theory, that the necromancer is using their own blood as fuel for those they bring back from the dead, is true…” she trails off, turning back to the screen. 
 
Bruce leans forward. 

“That “artifact” you had is the Amertrexz. It’s essentially an amplifier for magic. It can boost the power of spells, expand their reach, prolong the effects, you name it,” she states, frowning.

“Is it alive?” Bruce blurted. Zatanna’s gaze wandered to meet his, brows furrowing. Then, her eyes returned back to the screen. 

“I mean…not technically, no. Think of it more like, uh, a robot. It was made by ancient magicians, to amply certain kinds of magic. It follows the will of its creators, but that’s it, it doesn’t really live, or think for itself, and it can’t die either.”

“They said they wanted to “restore it to their cause”. And it screamed when T-when he did whatever that was,” Dick said, gesturing up to the footage of Tim, Ruse, and the Amertrexz. 

Yeah, and that’s another odd piece of this puzzle. They shouldn’t have been able to do that. It looks like they changed its function entirely. That strand of Necrospeach. It’s…ancient. I’m not fluent by any means, I mean, there’s hardly any ways to learn Necrospeach, especially a dialect that old,” Zatanna rants, pushing herself forward to begin pacing. “But, from what I can make out, their spell is trying to convince it to “restore…Archon”? I’m not exactly sure on that one,” she trailed off, sighing. Bruce narrowed his eyes.

Archon. That was a Greek word, meaning “ruler”. Ruler of what? A ruler of death, of darkness? Would that device give this “ruler” more power? Or would it make it possible to cast a spell to bring them back? Bruce leaned forward to begin asking, but a sharp inhale from Zatanna cut him off. 

“I have a theory about what’s going on,” she began. “It looks like Tim and this Ruse character are byproducts of an experimental branch of necromancy. It looks like they’re mixing biomechanics with their blood. I’m guessing that Ruse there…” she gestures to the screen, “is an earlier experiment. Her body is a construct, and trapping a soul in something like that would be much easier than doing that,” her hand moves toward Tim. 

“The handiwork on Ruse’s body is skilled, but Tim’s biomechanics are more complex, more organic. I’m guessing that both of them require the necromancer’s blood as fuel, but it looks like Tim’s…body reacted differently. Looks like he’s able to channel the necromancer’s magic, that or it gave him unique powers of his own,” she finishes, leaning back onto the computer’s console.

Silence fell over the room as each bat mulled the theory in their heads. Each with their own thoughts, theories, assumptions, conclusions. 

“Unfortunately, I can’t confirm anything with what we’ve got. Nor do I have any idea on what they’re trying to do here. It’d be best for me to see either Tim or Ruse in person, or for you to get more information on their plan,” Zatanna said with an apologetic look. 

“Could you track down this necromancer if we gave you a blood sample?” Barbara pulled out a vial from a container near the batcomputer. A vial full of Tim’s blood that they’d taken just after he’d died in their interrogation room. 

Zatanna carefully took the vial with a gloved hand. Her eyes narrowed as she tilted it back and forth, studying the odd metallic shimmer to it, and the occasional flicker of neon red. 

“Well, I wouldn’t be able to track the Necromancer with this, no. But this should help me see what kind of necromancy we’re dealing with, specifically. Give me some time to study this and those clips of yours, I’ll see what I can do,” she slips the vial into a pocket, patting it and giving them a nod. 

“Thank you, Zatanna. We’ll see if we can get you more to work with,” Bruce said, managing a small, tired smile as a ‘thank you’. 

“Good luck,” she said, sincerely, smiling and turning to leave.

They all stood in tense silence as she left, each pondering the new information they’d been given about Tim’s…condition. Jason was the first to stand, with a deep sigh. He mumbled something about finding Alfred, before heading upstairs. Dick was soon to follow, ruffling Damians’ hair on his way out. Barbara and Father continued talking, working on the batcomputer.

Damian watched them from afar, mind still lost in recent events. Tim’s cold, dead-eyed smirk still lingered in Damian’s mind. The way he hadn’t even flinched, when he’d pushed the button that sent the needle straight into his vein, and into his neck. That glare…Tim had said he didn’t hate him…

A buzz from his watch pulled him out of those memories. Damian shot Father and Gordon a quick glance, before ducking away silently.

Damian made his way upstairs, slipping his way past those gathered in the kitchen and living room. He made it up to his room, wasting no time in slipping on his suit. A few taps on the system in the gloves of his suit pulled up what he needed. A blinking red light, on the go, about 20 minutes East.

Damian slipped out of his window, carefully running out into the dark embrace of Gotham’s night. 

-.-- --- ..- / .... .- ...- . / -. --- / .. -.. . .- / - .... . / .-.. . -. --. - .... ... / .. .----. .-.. .-.. / --. ---

“You know I would prefer to converse in person, little one.”

Her smooth voice bled through the line, coated in rosy spines. Like wasps buzzing in his ear. Tim found himself drawing inwards, his biomechanical fingers digging into his palm as he pressed that fist into his side. He pushed back with his feet, pressing his back firmly into the side of his bed. The rough carpet scraped against his legs as he moved, a sensation that was unpleasant but…comforting. He was here.

He pressed the phone into the side of his face with his right hand. It was a cheap phone, with a specialized VPN. He had been just as careful with this as he had with all his other tech. He’d temporarily cut everything off too. Shut his backdoor to the bat’s communications, He had no doubt that Ba-...Oracle would be scouring for it now. 

He wasn’t worried. He’d left them with little resources. A carefully built database, a wonderful system…stolen and left dead at his hands. 

They may hate him, but they’ll be fine. 

Please. Please just let Ruse be okay.

“I’m…sorry for the delay, Madam. I thought it best to gather the most resources I could for us. For the grand device,” Tim responded. Silence. Listless pondering upon his words.

Don’t bring it up. Don’t ask. Don’t put them in danger.

Don’t be selfish, not again. 

This is all on you now.

“Yes…I suppose you have done wonderfully. Up until recent,” her words clipped into a bite. Tim winced. A reminder of his slip-up, something that should have never happened. “You know I demand the truth of you, Key. Your deeds do not match your words, at least not completely.”

Tim’s skin crawled. The truth. For one who demands it so frequently, she receives little of it. But he’ll have to feed her parts of it, at least for now.

Keep her glass full, so her camera eyes do not find and dissect him. 

Find her undoing.

“I-”

“I do believe you promised this quest would not become personal, did you not? Your request to prolong your stay only arouses suspicion,” she hissed. He could hear her smile, the image of her ungodly amount of humanoid teeth within, framed by thin lips blacker than night, surfacing within his mind's eye. 

Her sick smile when she took, and took, and took—

And yet it was nothing to her. No…she wanted much, much more. 

The grave wasn’t enough for her anymore.

Don’t think about the twisted shells that had been friends…fallen at her hands…

“It hasn’t,” Tim shot back.

He quickly composed himself, taking a steady inhale. She wouldn’t allow him not to explain.

“I…it was my mistake, Madam. I thought I could gather one more morsel before returning. They caught me at my lowest, and refused to listen despite my insistence,” Tim couldn’t withhold the irritation from his voice.

He was being completely truthful, as much as he hated to admit it. He wanted to put the blame on Bruce, on Dick. But he couldn’t. He hadn’t been paying enough attention. He’d gotten cocky. 

He could’ve run. They probably would’ve been fine.

But…he couldn’t shake it, despite all that had changed for him…the love he had for them.

That bomb he’d set, he didn’t–he never wanted it to hurt them. He’d already done enough hurt…trying to make a threatening show as a warning, scare them away from him by hanging death over someone he once called a brother. 

His fingers scratched against the carpet, short and rough. He needed something to grab hold of, steady himself into this conversation. Pull away from the bullet he fired into Jason’s leg.

Focus.

His free hand found his crewneck sweater, hanging loose on his thin, ruined body. Overrun with her corruption. The soft fabric was only to cover that, it didn’t do much to keep him warm. The cold air of his heatless apartment battled against the blistering warmth of his pale skin.

But by trying to run back and disarm that bomb, he’d gotten himself caught. And, he didn’t know…just…being on the other side. He had been for a while. Just, facing Bruce and Dick, his biggest mentors on this other side he’d been made a part of. To see the disappointment and confused hurt in the faces of those he loved. Those who’d lost so much. 

The family he hurt again. The one he kept hurting.

You’re a curse Tim, to anyone who dares get close, you–

It stung more than her poison. Burned him more than her ichor. 

“I see. Your emotions still interrupt your success Timothy,” she hummed. Tim scowled down at the ground. He wanted her to be wrong. He wanted that statement to be wrong. But he couldn’t find any evidence that would prove her wrong.

“But I can’t risk losing that brilliant mind of yours, not yet. You followed through on the parameters I set for Miss Ruse’s request to revive you, however-”

“The idea to continue the gathering was mine, not hers,” Tim quickly interrupted.

There was a long pause. An icy chill ran into Tim’s sweater, scraping against his spine. Just…let him–

No no no no no. Please– I can’t–

I can’t lose another friend. 

Tim gulped, trying to quell the anxious fire in his throat. His cheeks and chest burned with the heat of his toxic blood. His ears rang in his fearful anticipation. If he were there, he’d take any punishment, any new twisted experiment she’d test on him, if it meant—

“Interesting,” she hummed, “Well, I am pleased to see you so devoted. The fact that you restored the Amertrexz on your own was a pleasant surprise as well. I must admit, I had my…reservations,” her tone stooped, voice catching on every part of that last word. She paused, before clarifying. “On letting you return to Gotham. But I have seen the merits of your work. It is above satisfactory.”

Tim let out a soundless exhale, letting the tension rise off of his body like smoke from an overturned log in a fire pit. He released his nails from their place in his left shoulder, a deep piercing pain he hadn’t noticed until now.

“I will promote Ruse then, since she provided you with the means to complete the gathering. And it will be completed, yes?” her voice became dangerously low. And yet, he could hear that dangerously eager grin, the one that almost never left her face. The one that stayed, especially in her most violent of times. Her hysteria. Tim nodded.

“I won’t let you down. I’ll succeed, through any means necessary,” his eyes flickered up to the space in front of him, a shattered mirror. He glared, red eyes glowing in the darkness. Windows to the darkness dwelling within his twisted form. Parasite.

“For all.”

A hum echoed through the line and into his bedroom.

“Wonderful.”

.-.. . .- ...- . / -- . / -... . .-.-.- / .-- .... .. .-.. . / - .... . .-. . .----. ... / ... - .. .-.. .-.. / - .. -- . .-.-.-

Chapter 2: Dancing Around The Light

Summary:

His glare was final.

Damian couldn’t see any hints of a bluff.

He wanted to push, but not at the barrel of a gun. Pointed by someone who felt darkly certain.

With a final, defiant glare, Damian turned and disappeared out of the window and off into the night.

The night hadn’t yielded much. Frustration and tension had been thicker than fog, filling every inch of the manor and the cave.

An echoed female voice followed the lights reflecting off the stone of the cave's wall.

“In other news, the series of high-profile robberies that left several of Gotham’s largest corporations stripped of sensitive data have come to a sudden halt. For the past three weeks, not a single reported incident has matched the trademark pattern authorities had been scrambling to address. This abrupt pause raises questions: has the mysterious culprit finally been apprehended, or have they simply gone underground?”

Another voice echoes through the cave. A suave, masculine voice. Bruce runs a hand through his hair.

“Some are already speculating that the Batman or his allies may have intervened, though there’s been no official confirmation. Without any news from GCPD, others have suggested the suspect may be regrouping—or worse—planning something larger. For Gotham’s corporate sector, the silence is far from reassuring.”

The first voice doesn’t miss a beat, picking up right where the second anchor had left off. As usual. Rehearsed. Always out of the way of these sort of things. Blissfully unaware of the damage beyond the “robberies”.

“Especially since investigators still have no clear description of the perpetrator. Not a single witness. Only the effects left behind: ruined networks, stolen data, and employees found unconscious with unusual respiratory symptoms. Theories range from a sophisticated hacking operation to…well…something much stranger.”

The male anchor’s tone switched to something more casual as he spoke. Bruce scrubbed his eyes and tried to focus on his work.

“In Gotham, stranger is usually the safer bet. I can’t say that the private security companies seem unhappy. They’re reporting record sales with offices scrambling to reinforce their defenses. Fear, it seems, has become this “ghost robber’s” most effective weapon.”

The other anchor chuckles before she responds.

“That’s true Mark. Well, whether this pause marks the end of the so-called ‘ghost’ attacks or just the calm before another wave remains yet to be seen. For now, officials are urging businesses to—”

The screen went black with a sharp click. The silence that followed was heavier than any words the anchors could have offered.

Bruce sat rigid in the chair, fingers curled against the armrest, staring at the reflection of his own grim, unmasked outline on the now-dark monitor. His mind replayed the same truths he’d been circling for a week:

Tim was alive.

Tim was changed.

And now, Tim had slipped away. Disappeared.

Gone.

Again.

The boy he had mourned, the partner he had buried in his heart, had come back as something twisted, bound with what was apparently an unusual version of necromancy. The memory of that day still sat like glass in his chest—shock, relief, horror, all colliding at once.

When the mask had fallen off, to reveal his son’s face.

The way Tim had acted during the interrogations. Frantic. Unstable.

His heart…stopped. Dead again.

Only to be brought back to life by that thing. Ruse. With that glowing red substance.

He had seen Tim’s face, heard his voice, but it hadn’t been his son. Not entirely.

And now there were no leads. No trail. The Batcomputer—years of information, failsafes, contingency upon contingency—lay in ruins, hollowed out by the very person who had poured hours…no, years of work into its system.

Bruce exhaled through his nose, the sound sharp in the cavern’s stillness. No leads. No direction. He’s ahead of us, again.

A sudden rush of wind stirred the edges of his cape, followed by a bright voice echoing against stone.

“Whoa, still creepy as ever in here,” Bart said, zipping to a stop near the central platform, goggles pushed up as he peered around.

Ah right. Tim was ahead of them. So Bruce needed outside help to get back in the game. A fresh perspective that he and his family couldn’t get. Not in this grief. No. He needed people other than them who knew Tim. Who had been close to him. Who could work past technology and tracking.

Kon landed just behind him with a faint thud, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, expression skeptical.

“Don’t break anything,” he commented to Bart, before turning to Bruce. “Hey Bats! You dragged us all the way out here for what, exactly?”

Cassie descended last, golden lasso at her hip catching the cave’s dim light. She walked with more patience than the boys, but even her tone carried a curious edge. She stood next to Kon.

“Batman” she greeted. Bruce turned in his chair, shadows cutting across his face, and let his gaze sweep over the three of them. Young heroes. Tim’s team. His friends. They didn’t know yet.

“Good job getting here quickly,” he said, simply.

“… You didn’t exactly explain why this was urgent,” Cassie says, folding her arms.

“Right. You’re here,” he said, voice low but steady, “because this concerns all of you. You all deserve to know. And because… we don’t have any way to catch him.”

The weight in his words, rare and deliberate, drew the room taut with silence. Even Bart went still.

Bruce’s jaw tightened as he stood, cape brushing the stone floor.

“It’s about Tim.”

 

-.-- --- ..- / .... .- ...- . / -. --- / .. -.. . .- / - .... . / .-.. . -. --. - .... ... / .. .----. -.. / --. ---

 

Steam rose gently off the streets, climbing, lazy and sloppy. Like drunk clouds of eels, casting long shadows in the setting sun. It curled past Damian as he moved. Silently. Careless of his caution. He could feel the cold of the alleyway’s asphalt through his boots. Stinging, intrusive.

His eyes, whitened by his domino, scanned the alleyway. More translucent billows rose from the steam grates ahead. Nothing moved behind the sluggish veils. There wasn’t a soul in sight. No straggling hoodlum. No passed-out drunkard. His gaze returned to the tracking display on his wrist.

Drake was in the next building. A dull apartment complex, one of the many concrete duplicates across the city. Plain. Not the absolute worst Gotham had to offer, but a far cry from Gotham’s best. A far cry from what Drake…Timothy’s life had been before. He tapped his fingers into the screen of his suit, swapping to a dynamic view of the device’s location.

Fifth floor. Third room. The tracker was still.

Hopefully, that meant Drake was not aware of Damian’s approach. He’d removed his own tracking devices from his suit prior to this escapade as precautionary measures. Barbara had reassured them that Drake was out of what remained of their system, but one couldn’t be too careful. Drake could still be tracking them.

Besides, he hadn’t told anyone about this…personal mission. He didn’t need any intrusions. A crowd would only ruin his chances.

He grabs hold of a rusted pipe running along the outside of the building, using it as leverage to hoist himself onto other outcrops of the apartment complex. A grapple would be too loud, and unnecessary given the short distance. He begins his climb, slowly, testing each available point for noise.

He fears what he may find in this place. Drake, no, Timothy…had shown…many points of concern during his short duration at the cave. His mental state was most certainly compromised. Perhaps Drake had turned to substances to alleviate the obvious toll…many do. Or would he find a cramped space of insanity? Boards full of tacks and red yarn. Messages written on the wall.  

Damian suspected, and hoped, the toxicity of his odd blood produced the majority of affect on hallucinations or emotions. Because Damian had seen clarity in Drake’s eyes during their discussion. The way he spoke. Sincerity. It…it wasn’t faked. Damian was sure of it.

He finally makes it to the window of the apartment. He wedged his fingers into the narrow gap between the dirty sill and windowpane. He pushed up, gently, testing the gap. Plastic scraped against a metal track as the window moved up. Unlocked. He could hear the sound of the news through the opening, speaking over what may be a badly-tuned radio, rather than a TV.

Damian narrowed his eyes. Drake was a careful individual. Even more so now. Drake shouldn’t know about the tracking device, Damian’s placement of it had been perfect. Discreet.

Considering that he hadn’t destroyed it, meant he probably hadn’t found it. But even still, the window being unlocked was a red flag. Perhaps Drake’s compromised mental state was to blame. For this and…. Never mind. Either way, an open window was one less thing to worry about. He pushes it up, slowly, cautiously, until there’s enough space for him to crawl through.

Thin, pale drapes flutter over him, rising with the breeze brought in by the gap. His shadow falls against the ghostly sheets of fabric, shifting along with their movement like watery ghost duplicates. His eyes scanned the shoddy kitchen, bathed in the lingering light of Gotham’s sunset.

The apartment was in a…better state than what he had been preparing himself for.

A small, round table sat in the center. Plastic and cheap, held up by collapsible metal legs, with nothing but a stained sheet of paper and empty mug atop it. The countertops were probably particleboard, covered in a chipped and peeling blue speckled contact paper.

An old coffee pot stood next to a dingy white microwave, near the far end of the counter, both plugged into a dusty outlet. An old fridge next. A water-stained sink set itself into the counters, near the corner to Damian’s left. It was empty, no dishes in sight.

The cabinets and drawers of the kitchen looked as if they’d been a nice periwinkle, in a life long forgotten. They were faded and sunbleached, now a light gray tinted with a phantom of the original color. The wood was chipped, scuffed, well-used. The floor was a speckled white linoleum, warped, raised in some parts, blackened and stained near the baseboards.

The radio that Damian had heard was perched atop a counter by what must be the front entrance, a scuffed door placed in a narrow hall just off the kitchen that stretched the opposite direction as well. The radio looked old, not antique but not modern, like something you could pick up at a thrift store.

A woman’s voice, narrating the silence of Gotham’s mysterious large-corporate attacker, spoke over static. Her report cut into the news station’s jingle as she announced they’d be moving on to the weather. Damian’s eyes moved back to examining the rest of what he could see. A mostly-closed door sat on the wall opposite to him, on the far left. It was the same blue as the countertops, worn, barely hanging to its place on rusted hinges. Damian guessed it to be a bedroom. Drake’s bedroom.

Another door, the same color, sat on the other end of the opposite wall. It was open enough to reveal scuffed wooden shelves, mostly barren from what Damian could see. It was a closet, or a pantry. So, within sight he has a bedroom, a closet or pantry, the kitchen, and a hall that must lead to the rest of the apartment. And, no Drake in sight. He could have left that…watch…that Damian placed the tracker in here. Unlikely, but possible.

Damian lowers himself to the ground.

He turns, examining the window-bearing wall he’d entered from. It was cracked and mostly barren, save a few papers stuck to its surface by tacks, and small smudges of what can only be dried blood. Damian crouched low, stepping carefully to make as little noise as possible. He needed to get a look at whatever Drake had tacked up.

The papers were not only stained, but creased, like they had been stuffed in a pocket during one of Drake’s missions, then hung up afterwards. Each of the three papers were…not what Damian had expected. He thought he’d see routes, plans, spreadsheets, or anything about the companies Drake had torn through. Or, nonsensical notes talking about “water wasps” or whatever else Drake had mentioned during the interviews that each of them had reviewed. But..they were informational pieces, on artifacts.

The paper in the center was an article, titled “Mysterious Greek Artifact”,  that bore the image of the Amertrexz, circled recklessly with red ink. And next to it, also in red ink:

“NOT LIKE US”.

The other two were also articles appearing to be from some kind of archeologist journal or paper. The one to the left, titled “Acheron’s Spiral”, and the right titled “Dig Site in Parga Uncovers Curious Ruins”. These other papers also bore notes in red ink, written no doubt by Drake.

On the one regarding the spiral, it stated: “They lost it. How could they lose it?” near the top of the page. Damian skimmed over the text near it, trying to decipher if that phrase was connected to something in the article, or something Drake was referencing outside the article.

After a second, he saw it. The artifact had been found by Jack and Janet Drake during one of their archeology expeditions. They’d taken it back to Gotham. The author questioned the ethics of doing so…so on and so forth. Damian’s eyes were drawn down to the next note. Near the bottom of the page, near a section of text regarding the artifact being sold, Drake wrote: “Sold to who??”

Damian narrowed his eyes, continuing on to the rightmost article. Over the title was a haphazardly scribbled “JUST WHAT WE NEEDED”. Several words in the article were underlined and circled. The location within Parga. Dates. Times. The suspected use of the former ruins, next to which bore the single word “NO”. It was underlined with aggressive abandon.

But there was something else that caught his eye.

Near the lower righthand corner of the page, Damian could see another paper protruding from its hiding space. Different color, texture, condition. It looked old and worn….like an ancient manuscript. He reached for it.

“You break in just to read?” came a voice from behind him. Clear, despite the slight rasp in it.

Damian whipped around.

The sun had nearly set, casting long, dark shadows across the unlit kitchen. Within those shadows, a scrawny figure barely taller than Damian. Barefoot. A mug in hand. Steam rising to blur his face. Then—red eyes.

Drake.

He leaned back against the wall opposite to Damian. Eyes framed by bruised circles narrowed. Long hair hanging loosely around his pale, almost gray face. Mug in his left hand, the right in the pocket of his sweatpants. The left sleeve of his loose cotton sweater had rolled itself back, revealing the crimson, biomechanical arm and hand. His “watch” was on that wrist, and Damian’s stomach twisted at the memory.

He looked…awful. Tired. Worn. Like a corpse barely holding onto life.

“Well?” Drake asked, raising a brow. The glow of his red eyes, stark against the growing shadows of nightfall, flickered out with a blink. Damian found himself glaring back.

“It’s not much of a break-in if you don’t lock your windows”.

Silence stretched after the statement, like a long rest after a verse. A verse of half-hearted insult. Finally, Drake raised his brows and took a sip of…well, whatever was in the mug. Damian couldn’t smell coffee. Or any sort of tea.

“Your security system is damaged, you should look into getting it repaired,” Damian tried, watching Drake with apprehensive tension as he flicked on a light and casually made his way across the kitchen toward the table. The overhead light was dim, humming with LED strain. The plastic casing was cracked. Drake pulled out the folding metal chair and sat down, pushing away the empty mug and paper atop the table with a grumble so he could set his current mug down.

“I don’t have a system here,” he finally replied. Simply. Damian's face fell into a concerned scowl.

“Why not?” he asked. Drake shrugged and took another sip of his hot drink.

“Makes life more interesting,” a casual response as he set down his mug again and flipped over his left wrist, so he could see the face resting on the inner side of his arm. Damian felt something in his stomach switch to a boil. He took a step forward.

“This is Gotham. And as of recently, you’ve been the center of news. With this and the trouble you’ve undoubtedly caused with other criminals around the city, you’d be a target of interest for a wide variety of dangerous individuals,” he moved closer to the table when Drake’s eyes left him to fidget with the watch on his wrist. Drake’s eyes returned with a raised glare at the approach, and Damian glared back, hands now on the table. “We both know a security system should be your top priority.”

Drake pushed a button, and the sound of mechanical retreat scraping against biomechanical flesh echoed across the dingy kitchen.

Damian’s glare sharpened as the watch was detached from Drake’s wrist, watching Drake set it down on the table, then lean back in his chair. The watch let out a single mechanical beep, before the screen flashed into another format that Damian didn’t care to investigate.

“Well, Robin,” the name was spat, harshly, “before you decided to visit, no one knew I was here. My “security” is that I don’t let anyone know where I go.”

And as soon as he finished, he reached for the mug, tilting it back for another drink. Damian still couldn’t tell what it was. Most heated drinks produce an aroma of some kind, even if it were an alcoholic beverage. Drake reaches into his right pocket again, with his hand still made of flesh. Something small was retrieved, clutched between two fingers. It was passed to the left hand, then held up so Damian could see it.

The tracking device.

“You put this in my watch, didn’t you?”

The question came low, glowing eyes staring right into Damian’s. Damian didn’t reply, trying to hold his glare. He didn’t need to respond. It wasn’t a question, because the answer was obvious to both of them.

With a single motion, Drake crushed the device between his two fingers.

Damian watches the scraps fall to the table, then hears his wrist monitor make the short noise of error, before returning his gaze to Drake’s. Those red eyes were still bearing into him. Watching him. Analyzing.

And for a second, Drake’s pupils turn white.

But then it was gone, as quick as it had happened.

It must’ve been a trick of the light.

There was a soft exhale. Drake leaned forward for his drink again, and pulled the paper that had been pushed aside back toward him. Damian shifted, uncomfortable with the sudden shift from tension back into casualty. He leaned forward slightly when Drake set his drink down.

“That’s not coffee,” Damian stated into the silence.

“It’s decaf,” Drake replied, with a lazy wave of his hand.

“It’s water,” Damian sharply clarified.

Drake only huffed in response, the corner of his lip twitching. Damian blinked, and waited. Waited for Drake to look back up. Question him more. Demand he leave. But his eyes stayed on the paper before him. 

Damian tsked and pushed himself away from the table. If Drake wasn’t going to give him the time of day, then Damian was going to have a look around.

He began with the overhead cupboards, staring with the ones above the sink. Mostly barren, save a few extra plain white mugs. A single plate in another. An unopened, small bag of coffee grounds in another. Mostly nothing.

Then, the cupboards under the countertop. The same results. A bottle of bleach in one. A scuffed pan in another. A discarded unused sponge. A few utensils in a pullout drawer. The fridge told the same story. A half-empty jar of pickles. A jar of jam. A moldy block of cheese.  Damian scowled at the feeling of unease in his chest and moved to the door that may be a closet or a pantry. He ignored Drake’s gaze on his back as he moved.

He opened the door and looked inside of what had to be a pantry. A barren one, just like all the other cupboards and drawers in this shabby place. A bottle of honey on one shelf. A few cans of…soup, probably, among other things. A box of saltine crackers. A few granola bars, scattered across a shelf alongside a few cups of instant noodles. Damian pulled one of the mystery cans. 

Green beans. Expired by two years.

“This is pathetic,” Damian blurted, setting the can down. Drake huffed.

“First, my security system, and now my kitchen? What, do you want to inspect the rest of the house?” He said, eyes still on the paper.

“No. Your lack of…anything is ridiculous,” Damian retorted, shutting the door and turning to Drake. Drake, with his back to him, shrugged.

“I’m not a food bank. I might have some…I dunno, beans or something, if you’re hungry,” Drake finished his water and set the empty white mug aside, next to the other empty mug.

“They are expired,” Damian said, crossing his arms. Drake only hummed, placing his head in his left hand. The boil in Damian’s stomach did not ease.

“Drake, what…how are you sustaining yourself?” he asked, trying not to let his concern seep into his words. The sappy concern the others had shown him in their interrogations only seemed to push Drake away. Drake paused his reading to turn his head back to Damian. His eyes narrowed before he responded.

“Now you’re going after my health?”

“Answer my question,” Damian replied gruffly. Drake blinked back. Then, he shook his head and turned back toward the table. His head returned to rest in his left hand.

“I’m a walking corpse, Robin. Food isn’t really something I need much of anymore,” he said, as if Damian should’ve known it already. “Must’ve been spending too much time with Agent A or something,” Drake muttered, picking the paper up to go back to it. The knot in Damian’s chest grew tighter.

“Why won’t you let us help you?” Damian says before he can stop himself, sharper than he intends. Drake pauses, and Damian can see him go still.

For a moment, neither of them move. Neither of them breathe. It seems Drake was just as caught off guard as Damian himself. But…no. No more dancing around it. If Damian could bring out sincerity and answers before, then he could do it again. Perhaps…he could use his unexpected vulnerability…as a weapon against Drake’s walls.

“I…we still don’t know why you’re here. How you’ve managed to return, and by what means you were…revived is still unknown to us. I don’t know why you’re doing what you’re doing, or why you’re insistent to work without our assistance,” Damian began, standing firmly in his place behind Drake. He watched tension seep into Drake’s form. His fingers tightened in his hair. Damian took a step to the side, following the curve of the table slowly.

“You’re after something. Or a few things. That much is obvious. You’re working for someone,” Damian said, watching Drake’s face as soon as it came into view. Drake’s glowing eyes were down, glued to the paper, but his face moved into a scowl.

“You may not be…willing…to share their identity, but I don’t see a reason for you not to allow us to assist you.”

Silence stretched with the shadows of nightfall that warred with the dim kitchen light. Drake’s fingers were curled tight in his long hair, and his head remained down. Finally, he spoke.

“Why’d they send you here?”

Damian’s scowl fell short. They? Drake believed that…the others had sent him? As in chosen him and sent him to talk to Drake. Did his words of sincerity sound like some sort of rehearsed message to him?

“No one sent me. I placed that tracker in your device without anyone knowing, and traveled here in secret. They don’t know I’m here,” Damian said, putting his hands to his hips. Drake paused again, then looked up. His glowing red eyes scanned Damian’s face, searching.

There it was again, a brief flash of white over his pupils.

That…no that wasn’t just a trick of the light.

“Then why are you here? What do you want?” Drake asked, voice low. Damian swallowed.

Why was he here? He’d come with the intent to get answers. To build a better profile of Drake. For father, for the others. But…that is what he’d told himself. Now, here, he finds that the mourning in his heart has seized control of his mission. He wants Drake to come home. He wants Drake to heal. He wants Drake to…to…no. Damian wants another chance. To be better. To be a brother.

But how…how does he say that without Drake looking at it like a trap? Drake…Drake had only known his disdain, his arrogance, his thorns. Would he accept Damian’s change now, long overdue?

Damian inhales.

“I want…to extend…an offer. Come back to the cave. You help us rebuild our database. And we’ll assist you. I’m certain we can find the answers to whatever it is you’re-”

But Damian stops short. Something in Drake notably shifted. A blink and his fingers relaxing. His expression has dropped from suspicious focus to something of melancholic disappointment. Tim moves back, slowly, then stands.

“You want truth?” Drake said, his voice quiet. Damian stilled.

“I didn’t want to come back. To Gotham. It wasn’t my…” he shakes his head, “...my assignment is here despite that.”

He reaches down and pulls something out of his pocket, the left one. Before Damian can try and guess what it is, Drake tosses it to him.

He manages to catch the small object before it connects with his head. It’s small. Rectangular. A looped chord dangled from it. A flashdrive.

Damian narrows his eyes, preparing to ask what the contents are, but the unmistakable click of a gun stops him cold.

Drake has a pistol.

Pointed at Damian’s head.

“I’m only going to say this one more time. The last thing I want to do is to hurt you…any of you. But I won’t let any of you get in my way again. Got it?” Drake says, red eyes staring daggers through Damian’s wide, whited-out eyes.

“Leave”, Drake says, motioning the gun slightly toward the window, but keeping it still pointed at Damian. Damian can feel his heart racing, but stays. He isn’t done. Drake…he had shot Todd, but it had been non-lethal. Surely he wouldn’t…

Drake’s eyes narrow, and his finger tightens a fraction against the trigger.

“You can fix your own system with that. Leave, now, or you won’t be making it home,” Drake growled, taking a step closer.

Then, his eyes flashed. But not just the pupil turning white. No. His sclera and pupil flashed red, and his irises turned a glowing white.

With a blink, it was gone. But Drake looked…there was a flash of fear in his steel-strong anger. Damian narrowed his eyes, and Drake’s brows pulled tighter as the gun lazy aim steadied to focus to his forehead.

His glare was final.

Damian couldn’t see any hints of a bluff.

He wanted to push, but not at the barrel of a gun. Pointed by someone who felt darkly certain.

With a final, defiant glare, Damian turned and disappeared out of Drake’s window and off into the night.


.. / .-- --- -. .----. - / .-.. . - / -.-- --- ..- / ..- -. -.. . .-. ... - .- -. -..

Faces danced around him.

Not human.

He hadn’t known them when they were human.

Masks. Imitations of wood. Steel. Porcelain. All made from her material.

Her magic of madness.

Their glowing eyes within the empty sockets bore into him from where they stood above him. He could hear their metallic limbs scraping against the gray floors of wherever they were.

It’s all a dream it’s only a dream it’s all-

L-P    V-R     V-R-U-U-B

“Water wasp. Water wasp.”

“Don’t fly too far away from home-” is their reply.

That song.

That damned song pleASE STOP DON’T SING THAT SONG.

But they don’t stop.

They only grow louder.

More of them arrive. Eyes filled with red.

“You’ll drown there”

Tim wants to shout back, but his mouth won’t open.

I know I know I know I know-

“Up in the air, dear,”

I’m trying, please!

One steps out of the blurred crowd. Four long, insectoid arms reach out from a ghostly shadow of a long cloak, a cloak marked with phantom markings of red. Patterns of ivy crawl up a white mask. She reaches for him.

Tears well and flow from Tim’s eyes.

Please, don’t finish. Don’t join them, please. Don’t go. Not again. You weren’t supposed to go you weren’t supposed to—

Silence.

Static fizzed in the hundreds of hollowed sockets, red tangled with white. But they were staring. Watching. Encircling Tim.

I don’t want to be this, please.

I’m not the one you should-

I just needed more time. You all said that it-

Siphon leans forward, face just inches from his. He can feel the coolness radiating off her “skin”.

Her eyes, too, burned static like the others.

She finishes the tune.

“Return…to the depths below.”

.--. .-.. . .- ... . / ... .- -.-- / -.-- --- ..- .----. .-.. .-.. / ..-. --- .-. --. .. ...- . / -- . / --- -. . / -.. .- -.--

Notes:

Hey all! Hope you've been doing good! I'm back!

Sorry for the long absence. My mental health has been at an all time low, and life's busy-ness put me into survival mode. But anyways, I'm back and hopefully will be able to continue on all my little stories!

The tune of the "water wasp" song near the end is to the tune of the music in the end of "Wax Cylinder Sonata" by Dirt Poor Robins (which was one of the first songs that inspired this AU)! Anyways, hope you enjoyed, and stay safe out there!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 4 of Water Wasps