Sweet Sibling Catchup Time

October 31, 2014: Tim and Damian catch up.

// Auxiliary Batcave //

One of Batman's alternate headquarters.



Mood Music:

Tim Drake should be resting. Instead he's multi-tasking. Old habits die hard. Tucked away in the auxiliary batcave, he sits at one of the computer consoles, with three windows open at once. Tim has, admittedly seen better days. The busted lip, black eye, and bruising all down his side are a far cry from his usually just barely bruised self. He'd been beyond bested. And, consequently, beyond beat up.

But that doesn't mean he can't do what Tim Drake does best: investigate. So three windows are opened on the screen in front of him. The first is his insurance company. In a way it's relieving that Tim 'crashed' the car he's been driving for so long at least he has a reason for why it's so beat up. The insurance adjuster had asked why it looked like it caught fire to which Tim acted confused and claimed concussion and the conversation ended. The adjuster seemed satisfied enough that there was no further story to discuss.

The second taps into the information he can find on the man in the mask. He'd cross-referenced the files he could get his hands on, searching for information on the very large, very angry fellow who had, essentially taken him out.

In the last window, Tim scrolls through footage from that night to try to track anything that indicates where the trafficking ring wound up.

A soft blue light begins to blink to let Tim know that there's another person in the auxiliary Batcave, but that the person has entered the proper passcodes to gain entrance. In the long trip from the surface to the inner sanctum, Damian al Ghul is riding his BMX, spraypainted black, in to do some investigation of his own.

As the bike approaches, Damian notices some of the lights are on. His thin muscles up by his neck tense a bit as, for a moment, he's not sure who might be in the cave with him. But as he turns the corner he realizes that he has nothing to worry about. It's Drake. Only Drake.

As he skids to a stop and lets the black performance bike clang on the ground, Ibn al Xu'ffasch is smiling and nearly almost giddy. "Your face. What did you run into?" Perhaps he's just a bit sad it wasn't his fist."

The blue light warrants an arch of tim's eyebrows, but at the entrance of Damian, Tim goes back to his typing, letting his investigations continue. "A bus, it would seem," he mutters as his eyes train on the screen once more. With a few more taps of the keys he's pulling up security footage around the chemical plant. To no avail. It's why Oracle had been running blind.

He frowns. Dead end. It's only then that his eyebrows arch skeptically, "Why are you on a BMX bike? Little inefficient, isn't it?" His lips hitch up on one side, but it's not a smile. No, there's no smiling today. "Can't imagine it'd be a comfortable ride in old-Robin's kevlar either…" He shrugs. To each their own.

"It's temporary. Unfortunately my father seems to have given your childish squeals some credence. It says more about him than it does about me, sadly," Damian replies. "I figure what happened to you must have been karma."

He reaches down to open a black panel that is, in actuality, a black refrigerator, and produces a green apple. Between munches, he adds, "The press said it was your inability to control your vehicle. Irony, right? Does your girlfriend know about this Harley Quinn? Maybe you'll have the balls to tell her yourself this time."

Tim rolls his eyes. "Harley blew up the car." There's a long pause. "Because she thinks I have a clown fetish," he continues in his work at the computer. Evidently Damian either isn't phasing him at this moment or he's too engrossed in what he's doing. His fingers tap a little faster on the keys as something piques his attention in the research window. He leans forward to squint at the screen. His eyes haven't been working as well as they ought. "I just… crashed it after…" to have a reason to be under a doctor's care.

"And there's sincerely nothing to tell," he states. "She hammed it up for the cameras because she's… well, Harley."

With a quiet sigh he blows up the picture he found in an overseas newspaper. "Gotcha," he mutters quietly. He squints at the photo, "Slovakian." He cringes. "Sometimes the best tools on the internet are the ones available to all." He opens a fourth window, this one to google. "Come on google translate~" he virtually sings to himself.

"What are you working on?" Damian asks, taking interest on Tim's work. He munches the apple offhandedly as he gazes at Drake's work. "Slovakian?" Damian folds his arms over his chest and the apple is hidden out by his back and arm. "What have you gotten yourself into, Drake?"

It's no secret he's been frozen out of everything over the past few weeks. Going after smalltime fools was losing its luster.

And as Damian gets closer, Tim closes down all of his windows with three button clicks (evidently this is a move he's mastered — probably from his life with Jack Drake) and casts 'the Other Robin' a sidelong stare. Distrust abounds.

"Well. Since you believe so much in karma, consider this karma. I'm working on… something of my own." It's not quite the truth, but it's not a lie either. Tim has been working on this. But not alone. He scratches the back of his head only to lower his hand and cringe, the vague memory of Bane bashing his head against the brick wall three times is both there and not. It's a strange thing to be concussed.

Which is actually a reminder that maybe Damian should know something of the fellow that so royally handed Tim his own ass. With a long breath he lets his fingers fall to his lap. "Investigating a new threat to Gotham. Look. I don't know what any of it means, but my face and the rest of me," because Damian can't see the rest, "was a message. To Batman."

"Tt," Damian says as he stands and stares at Tim askance. "A message. I imagine that is part of the concern with our line of work as sidekicks. Or whatever we are called. What is this monster like? What vendetta could have have against father? You've never seen him before?"

"He's… big." There's a long pause as Tim shakes his head. "And immune. I tried smoke. I tried gas. I tried the staff. Nothing." His hands drop to his lap and he shakes his head. "I don't know anything about his vendetta. But he wants to wage a war. Spoke of soldiers. Or… something." Tim shakes his head again. Memory is fallible. "I called for backup, but my signal was dead. Static. And the only reason I didn't leave — " his eyes narrow and he shakes his head. "A month ago, along with some other people I didn't know at the time, I happened upon an operation at North Point by the docks. They were transporting people in crates. They were hooked up to machines that were harvesting… something."

"It was the same that night," with Bane. "But they were kids. I couldn't leave. Based on what we'd seen at the docks, I didn't think it was likely — " he pinches the bridge of his nose and lets the thought fade into the ether. "Look. I've been doing this sidekick thing for awhile. I don't know this guy. We hadn't faced off before. But he's gunning for Gotham and Batman."

Damian touches his chin as he begins to think. "Harvesting. There are several things he could be doing. Making money upon the black market. Stealing the blood of metahumans, or perhaps even using them as some sort of fuel source. Tell me, what was the source of his power? Did he just seem naturally invulnerable? Was there technology of some sort?"

"Just… trained maybe. I don't know," Tim finally admits. "My face was too busy meeting his fist to pay that much attention." Or to remember. "He's big, like a foot taller than me. Obviously muscular. It's possible he had some kind of training or equipment." There's a pause. "A mask. He wore a mask. Which is what I was looking into when you rode in on your," he smirks just a little, "bike."

"Looking into," Damian repeats slowly. "You were looking into his mask? Did you obtain a piece of it?" As if he just remembered it, he pulls the apple back out from behind his back and starts munching on it again. "As impressive as training is, I'm not sure it could prevent damage from what you say you were doing. Assuming you were using the proper techniques."

Tim eyes Damian for several long moments before shaking his head. "It's kind of a long story. I'm looking into anything I can find out about it. I don't have a name. I don't have much to go on besides hunches and empty ideas. But. I have to start somewhere. And I'd rather go to Bruce with something than nothing." Besides his face and other bruising, that is.

"I have the time," Damian says, assuming that Tim is just dodging the questions at this point. "What did this beast say to you when he was attacking you? What were the details of that conversation?" Finished with the apple core, Damian tosses it in an empty canister. "What did Harley Quinn have to do with any of this?"

Tim is being sketchy on the details. "I'd rather not discuss it until I know more," he finally states. "Plus karma. You thought my face was because I spoke to Bruce about you. Not because some large dude is gunning for the Batman. For the record, I walked in on him talking to Alfred about revoking your access. All I did was drink a protein shake," and get in trouble for dating Spoiler; Tim conveniently leaves the last bit out.

The back of his hand rubs at his cheek absently and he twists the chair around to watch Damian. "Quinn had nothing to do with this. She just blew up my car the day before. Convenient, really. Easier to give Tim Drake a few days rest without anyone asking if I joined Fight Club." He smirks, "Not that I could talk about that anyways."

"No, I thought your face was because of the car accident you were said to have gotten into. Some teammate." Damian spits out an appleseed towards Tim. "Nothing about you is convenient, Drake. See you around." And with that, Damian descends the short stairwell and moves toward his BMX.

"Good," Tim corrects, after flicking the (gross) appleseed off his shoulder. "Because that's what people are supposed to believe!" Because Tim Drake needs his reasons and excuses as much as Robin does. "It's Wayne!" he calls back as he shakes his head, twisting back to the screen. With a few taps of the keys, he's recalling the windows he'd had opened earlier.

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